#she was right big time not that i was capable of it then. but i lived on and eventually her advice became possible to implement

[eggsaladstain]

the more i think about what the writers did with rumi/jinu the more insane i get because it's SO good

they're not lovers, they're foils for each other, they're two sides of the same coin

jinu was an ordinary boy who made a deal with a demon to become extraordinary, while rumi was extraordinary from birth due to her half human/half demon heritage and her mother's legacy as a hunter

jinu's shame is internal because his patterns were the result of his one desperate choice, while rumi's shame is external and taught to her by celine despite her patterns not being her choice at all

jinu becomes a demon because of his deal with gwi-ma, and it's gwi-ma who constantly reminds him that he'll never escape who he is, while rumi becomes a hunter and member of huntr/x because of celine, and it's celine who constantly reminds her to hide her patterns and who she really is

jinu doesn't see himself as anything other than a demon and wants to be free of his memories of his family, and thus his humanity, while rumi refuses to acknowledge the demon side of her and wants to be free of her patterns, and thus, a fundamental piece of her own heritage

their connection, then, is inevitable

jinu sees rumi, who is free of gwi-ma's voice in her ear, as the version of himself he'd do anything to be, but he also sees her as the living proof that demons are capable of being loved and can feel more than misery

rumi sees jinu, who steals souls and is bound to gwi-ma, as the version of herself that she's terrified to become if the patterns consume her, but she also sees in him the proof that demons aren't evil and mindless like she's been led to believe

with each other, they feel seen for the first time, and they can see the good in each other that they can't see in themselves, and it feels like they might be able to help each other, like they might be able to save each other, but in the end, they can't get past their individual traumas

jinu betrays rumi because he can't let go of his own shame, because he is so afraid of a future where his family's voices continue to echo in his head that he can't even imagine a different future with a girl who makes the voices go quiet

rumi walks right into jinu's trap because she's afraid of being rejected for who she really is, because she can't see the truth through her own fears

they let their worst instincts get the best of them and they failed each other, and despite singing about being free together, they ended up choosing their own familiar fears over the uncertainty that comes with freedom

the theme of freedom is a big part of their relationship - the freedom they feel to be themselves around each other, the freedom they are both trying to achieve by working together - and i see jinu's sacrifice as the culmination of their relationship, not the end of it

because freedom, to jinu, is freedom from his guilt and shame and pain, as well as the freedom to make his own choices

jinu's choice to sacrifice himself, to give his soul to rumi, is the first real choice he makes that isn't driven by desperation or fear but by love, it's the first real choice he makes to run towards something rather than away from something, and in choosing rumi, he is finally able to be free and at peace

rumi is the first person who looks at jinu and sees hope and not just a demon and jinu is the first person who knows the truth about rumi and says she's not a mistake, and they both believed in each other when they couldn't believe in themselves, they were only able to believe in themselves because they did it for each other first

no, they're not lovers, but the love was there

[everlong0girl]

𝐒𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

fluff/slight intimacy

warnings: smooching, touching, age gap(20s/50s), no use of y/n

Joel being a vanilla king

I’ve been thinking about him lately like crazy and i had to write one with sweet game Joel. Idc if its not gonna get much likes, i just miss my cowboy/ !english is not my first language!

A young woman, hurt and scared of the world she grew up in. Never even got to get a taste of the normality of the world before this hell. You came to Jackson about a few months ago. You were given a home and community, people, but never would you dared to hope you’d find something even more than that. Tonight he invited you to dinner, hoping himself that it wouldn’t be just that.

The sun had just set and the last rays went right below the horizon. It was dark.

You sat on the old wooden chair on his porch after you two ate two hearty bowls of stew he made just for you, hoping you’d like his cooking and show he was capable.

Now with the bowls empty, he took his guitar and began strumming some idle tunes before asking. “Got a song in mind?”

You just sat there and looked. Growing up trying mostly to stay alive, there was no time for you to enjoy the simplicity and the beauty of listening to music. Nor did you know many. The last time you heard music while outside Jackson was a few years ago, when you ran into a music shop with someone you were with. You just shrugged and said. “I don’t know much songs..” Your voice soft and kind of embarrassed since he seemed to love music oh so much.

As he began playing some song that first came to mind, you interrupted. “I do know that one song..i think it goes like, The world was on fire..” you sung slightly, trailing off as you didn’t remember the rest, and just hummed some broken notes of what your mind could bring back. That was the song you heard back at the ran down music store a few years back, and it staid with you.

He nodded along as you hummed and he said. “I know that one..it’s a classic, Wicked Game..” his rough southern accent making emphasis on the name of the song as if you’d remember it better.

So he began strumming it, his rough fingers, both from playing and from holding a gun, making soft sound of the song, as a big wave of nostalgia hit you. You said. “You’re really talented with that thing..”

He just smiled, his short beard framing his lips as he hummed along. And he said. “Well..more than twenty years of playin’, it does make you good sweetheart.”

That just reminded you how older he was. But you never minded, since he gave you that feeling of safety and in a way, fatherly sense..but if it was anything more, it’d be weird..right?

Eventually you stood up and picked up the two bowls, wanting to take them inside and wash them. As he asked. “Want to go on inside? It’s gettin’ cold for sure..”

Nodding you went inside first. It was September after all.

He sat down on the couch, his voice could be heard trough the room, as he said. “You don’t have to do that, i can take care of the dishes..”

You said. “You cooked, might as well help out..”

He just continued playing the song as you were in the kitchen washing up what was left, a completely domestic scene.

And eventually you came over and sat down by him. Asking. “Why’d you stop?”

“You don’t want me to?” he simply asked back. As he thought maybe you’d get to talk more now that you were inside. But you just shook your head and said. “You’re too good to stop.” a small smile on your mouth.

As he played some more, you leaned your temple against his shoulder and closed your eyes. Feeling the material of his casual but worn out button up shirt against the skin of your face. And he didn’t dare hope for anything, but he could have sworn he just felt something that had become foreign to him at this point.

You were young, it wasn’t right. He was a sad broken old man and you were oh so kind. But then he stopped. Putting the guitar down against the coffee table and looking at you, silent.

You opened your eyes and looked over, asking. “Whats wrong?” but he only looked at you. He knew if he did something, he might ruin things or he could make them a hundred times better. Or he could say nothing and regret them for the rest of his miserable life. He’s had enough.

His hand went up to your own and took it into his, as he said..”Y’know..i’ve been thinkin’ about sum stuff..”

“What kind of stuff?” you asked.

And he looked at you, and said..”Im gettin’ older..and i don’t wanna ruin anythin’ between us but i just can’t..i can’t stop thinkin’ bout you.”

You just stared. You secretly hoped for something, and yet now that it actually happened, you didn’t know what to do.

He continued. “Im sorry..i don’t know what i’m talkin’ bout..Im tired..” Hating for being so sudden with all this, and breaking a perfectly serene moment.

But you stopped him and said..”No..no no no..what do you mean? Talk to me.”

He just shook his head and said. “Im talkin’ nonsense honey..m’sorry..”

Shaking your head you said. “No..it’s not nonsense..It’s real.” As if trying to convince both him and yourself, still a bit shocked this was actually happening.

His head cocked just to the side to look at you, as if angling it a bit subconsciously. And you tried to say something next, but stopped. His face coming up in yours as you could feel his peppery beard gently against your lips.

He smelled like a sweet mix of musk, wood and sweat. It was the most inviting thing you ever smelled. Until he kissed you. Immediately tasting the skin, and the stew you had eaten maybe twenty minutes or half an hour ago.

But then he pulled away, his back straightening up rigid and you looking and blinking at him, as if unaware of what just happened.

His hand came up over his eyes as he muttered a small curse, and you didn’t see his eyes tear up. And he said. “Jesus Christ..what am i doin’.”

“What are you doing?” You asked back from what he said, continuing. “Are you doing something wrong? No..Let yourself feel it..”

As he knew you kissed him back when he initiated it. Meaning you must at least feel something.

And then he looked at you and said. “Im lovin’ you..thats what i’m doin’..And i can’t cus..i ain’t right for you..” he was a stubborn man. Looking at him, you could see it even if you didn’t know him. But you did. These past few months completely and utterly saved you. Saying. “Please look at me. Tell me you don’t wanna be with me..” You said almost daringly.

And he did. He looked at you straight in the face, but instead of saying anything, he just kissed you again. His slightly dry lips colliding with yours as you melted. Your hands going up to cup his hairy jaw, and kiss him back, as his hands went to your ribs and gently held you. Not holding you in place, or dragging you to him. Just holding you.

Until you pulled away and looked at him, a small string of saliva connecting you still until it snapped. And he said. “I want to. I want you, But I’m so scared dove..”

A big strong man like him admitting he was “scared” was the sexiest thing you’d ever heard in your life. As you just pulled him back in, and slowly you both leaned back on the couch. Your head against the old leather armrest, as he was all up in your space, his beard scratching at your neck as he gently held up your thigh to hook it around his straight waist.

He was flat out against you, as you felt that small about of pudge he had on his belly, reminding you he was human. A simple man who bared his heart to you.

His strong arms holding above you just enough not to suffocate you with his weight.

As you ran your fingers through his hair, the short and slightly messy dark black strands mixed up with white and grayish bending around your hands. You whispered. “I love you, you sweet sweet man..”

And he shot back huskily. “Im sweet when i ought to be baby. Js’ for you..”

One of his hands went down a bit while he gently ground his hips against your jeans, subconsciously and in a way desperately. Just the small contact against your jeans made him let out soft shameless noises. It had been so long since he had this kind of intimacy, and he was now older. Not as virile as he once was back in the day, but still managed to show you he wanted you no matter that.

You heard the soft sounds against your ear, letting out gentle gasps yourself along with hums. Not knowing if you should just let him in now, or wait for some time to just settle into this new relationship of yours.

His fingers going to unbuckle his old leather belt, when you stopped him. You decided. Whispering. “Hey..hey..Calm down, let’s not get ahead of ourselves when we just figured this out..”

“Baby..” was all he muttered. His tone soft and slightly hopeful you’d give in. He’d never do anything against your word and both of you knew that, but he was oh so touch starved.

Not wanting to go too far when you just got together. There was no shame in waiting.

Hearing your silence he just gently sighed into your neck and his hand went up again to brush your hair back blindly. As he said with a soft muffled tone. “Alright..okay..as you say, that’ll be..i’m sure i can wait, i’ve got plenty more left in me honey..”

He slowly let himself fall by you on the couch, smushing you against the backrest of the couch, and him. His arm going around your waist and pulling you close, tangling his legs with yours as his fingers idly went over your ribcage. He said.

“At least stay the night..”

“Stay every night..”

“You asking me to live here?” You asked quietly and in a way jokingly.

He just grunted in agreement and kissed your cheek with a long deep inhale against your skin.

[tarnishedxknight]

Xenos nodded along with what Wanda was saying, for she had the basic sense of things. "Yes, exactly," he said. "But... who is to say... we are... always r-right? Maybe... we have made... big mistakes... at times," he admitted. The Occuria were far from infallible. Humes may think them to be gods, but Xenos knew they were simply beings like any other. The only difference was that they were immortal and aware of the cycle of time. Other than that, they were capable of making mistakes just like any other races.

He smiled as she said he wasn't alone. Yes, it appeared that he wasn't anymore. Wanda wanted to stay with him and help him, and that counted for so much in his opinion. It was more than anyone else had done for him since he was originally captured and imprisoned over six centuries ago. Maybe it wasn't the same as having several of his kin inside his mind at all times, but this new friendship with Wanda was its own thing entirely. Maybe he could heal his loneliness in a different way with her, simply by spending time with her. It was a lovely thought.

Once again he was nodding along with her words, his eyes welling up, as she said he was very much a living being. He was. He was. And it made his heart ache in a good way to hear someone kind say so. "Hope so. Hope... they listen," he whispered. Xenos wasn't sure at all about that, though. The Archadian Empire was often cruel, and maybe slavery was something that happened frequently within it. He didn't know anymore, being out of the loop with regard to omniscient information for so many centuries. Wanda seemed optimistic, though, and that gave him hope.

It was tempting to lie next to Wanda in the bed, but even after she'd given him permission to do so, Xenos hesitated. Was that too forward? Would he be invading her space too much? Given how open and honest she'd been with him thus far, he supposed she wouldn't be offering if it was really something that was going to bother her. "Do not mind?" he asked just to be sure before he got up and went to the bed. "Thank you," he said. It was much softer than the chair, and he'd much rather be close to Wanda. He laid down nearby, careful not to crowd her, and was quiet as she rested. The silence of the night, the softness of the bed, and the sounds of Wanda's breathing put Xenos in a very peaceful place in his mind.

Unfortunately, it was too nice. He was going to fall asleep if he stayed here, and the point was to keep watch. "Have to move back," he said to Wanda apologetically as he unintentionally jostled her getting out of the bed. "Going to sleep... if I stay," he admitted. "Must keep watch."

- - - - -

Xenos' heart began to beat wildly the moment he heard Gabranth's voice. The man sounded stern and unforgiving, and indeed the Judge Magisters of Archadia were known for as much. He nodded as she told him to stay there and let her greet Gabranth first. Doing just that, Xenos did remain vigilant and alert, though, just in case things escalated quickly. He was not about to be captured again.

Gabranth waited patiently for Wanda to come to the door, but when she did, he noticed the way she barely opened it. What she said next only added to his suspicion. "I came alone, my lady," he said. "Why do you ask? Is there a problem?" Was it just that she'd just woken up and didn't quite feel decent yet to receive anyone, or was there something else going on here...?

"Who are you? I do not believe we have met." (for Xenos because reasons)

It had been Gabranth's duty to show the Emperor's new sage around the palace and the capital city, helping to familiarize her with important locations she may need to know during her stay. If she was to assist His Eminence with war strategies and grant him advice on what direction to take the Empire in the future, she would need to know what was going on there. Thus, one of the stops on their tour was the Draklor Laboratory.

The Laboratory was a massive seventy-floor building within which all sorts of research important to the Empire was conducted. Everything from airship design, to weapons development, and magical pursuits were studied there, and at some of the topmost floors were the offices and lab of Dr. Cidolfus Demen Bunansa, known by most as Dr. Cid. He was not only the head researcher of Draklor Laboratory, he was also the chief writer of science, technology, and magical policies for the Archadian Imperial Army, which funded the Laboratory. Dr. Cid was also one of Vayne Solidor's main go-tos for secret nethicite research serving the prince's agenda.

Gabranth took Wanda up to Dr. Cid's offices, but the man was not there. This was typical, for Cid was always something of a free spirit, and he often went out in search of materials for his experiments. He took Wanda on to see Cid's laboratory anyway, explaining to her that this was where the Empire was attempting to safely study the effects of nethicite. Even as he said it, though, he scarcely believed his own words. Cid was anything but safe. If rumors were true, and Gabranth had at least some evidence in support of them, then Cid's might was slowly beginning to slip. Regardless, Gabranth gave Wanda a superficial look at the lab, for she mostly just needed to know where it was, in case she needed to talk to Cid at some point, and not so much its intricate inner workings.

When she seemed to stop by a rather ornate looking set of double doors - doors with a strong magical ward for a locking system - Gabranth was soon tasked with explaining that, no, Cid did not experiment on living beings. His research was mostly chemical, magical, and technological. He wondered why Wanda would fixate on the doors and ask such a question, but none of his spies or his own reconnaissance had indicated that Cid was experimenting with live creatures. "It may be a storage room for nethicite or other highly dangerous magical components," he explained, feeling the Mist within him stirring, and not just because of the magical lock on the doors. In his mind, that was the only explanation that made sense.

Oh, but there was a living being inside the room, and he was quite tortured, frightened, and sad. His emotion was so thick and heavy, it came off him in waves to one who was even mildly empathetic like Wanda. Even through a magically locked door, the imprisoned and enslaved being Xenos gave off a heartbreaking and desperate amount of suffering that permeated the room and even beyond it. His magical power also branched out into his surrounding environment, even magically bound such as he was.

When Wanda returned later without Gabranth, that same energy and emotion was apparent the moment she got within the near vicinity of the doors. For someone with magic as unique and versatile as Wanda, the magical locking glyph placed on the door was certainly no match. Once the doors were unlocked and opened, a sorrowful sight met her eyes.

The room was bare, sterile, with no sign of warmth or kindness. A marble floor, two pillars made of a different type of stone, and a man kneeling between them, slumped where he sat, a mess of chains tethering him to the pillars. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only a pair of linen pants and a tattered cloak, the hood of which was draped over his head. His wrists were shackled, connected to chains that were rooted in the stone pillars on either side of him. Those shackles were then also chained to a third shackle around his neck. Small glowing glyphs of warding, suppression, and control glowed on each of the shackles.

When Wanda entered the room, Xenos slowly lifted his head, feeling her presence even if he hadn't heard her first. Her magic was significant, he could feel it, but he didn't know who she was. Was she here to hurt him? Probably. Everyone else here was. He shakily rose to his feet and backed away slowly, until the chains pulled taut and he couldn't go any further. Trembling and a bit folded in on himself, Xenos stood there, clearly afraid of Wanda.

He was very lean, probably too thin for a man of his height. And there was an unnatural blackness to his hands and feet, continuing up his arms and likely his legs too if they could've been seen under his pants, until it brightened into a bronze skin tone. Red glowing eyes could be seen peeking from underneath his hood.

Her question, though... was strange. Usually people just came in and started ordering him around, inflicting pain with magic if he did not comply. They didn't usually want to chat with him, or ask his identity. Did she not know who he was? Was she not told? If she didn't know, then why was she here? Maybe she wasn't here to hurt him after all.

Xenos slowly moved to one of the pillars, his left arm being harshly pulled in the direction of the other pillar by the short chain even as his right hand softly touched the pillar before him. He huddled against the stone, partially obscuring himself with it, feeling safer when he wasn't standing entirely out in the open. "Xenos..." he answered her, his voice a raspy whisper from lack of use. "I... am Xenos..."

[serenabenson]

getting wine drunk on cheap prosecco to cope with the existential whatever during the three-state-and-three-country half-sibling "so we need to strategize about care for our father with dementia" facetime meeting but as one of the daughters of the third and final wife (in the birth order i'm the second youngest) no one expects anything else from me anyway and thank GOD for that type vibe tn

[isolatednights]

"actions," she murmured, not even acknowledging that she'd only spoken part of the phrase aloud ( actions speak louder than words ). "ooh - like a big game of hide and seek? d'know if you'd find me. weren't good at it so far," she quips with a little, sleepy smile. "'m not great at it anyways. would've found me eventually because i wanted to be found - just never had someone try that hard at chasing me."

unsatisfied that he's not provided the hand she'd all but demanded with her wiggling fingers, eyes squint open to look at the disheartened expression before reaching forward to snatch the hand she'd so desired. lacing their fingers together, she drags their combined digits toward her chest to cradle there with a satisfied hum. "mmm, scared like - like everything you're saying is good. right, you know? and if the words and actions line up then it'd be really, really easy to love you. it should take time, right? like - months or years to love someone like that? but you're my person. so what if its not that long? what if its like - hours? or days? like - what if i already love you a little bit, right, and that's why i avoided you and that's why i'm scared?" she's rambling now - fueled by a mix of alcohol and the call for sleep.

"nothing wrong with that. anyone who expects others to be entirely there a hundred percent of the time is just deluding themselves." he notes with a shrug. "none of what we're experiencing now is what we expected when we woke up. don't think anyone would blame you for spending time away. to recharge. this is... it's a whole other type of ballgame, isn't it?" knowing they would die long before they were capable of breathing fresh air and feeling real sun against their skin - rather than that which had been scrubbed or artificially created. "well... i doubt honesty is what everyone always wants to hear. i'm sure there are instances that white lies are easier - better - maybe. but think about what our future looks like. we can all dream about what it might be, but we need someone to keep us grounded."

"there's an area of the ship somewhere that simulates that sort of thing, so if you're craving a rainstorm..." silas shoots her a grin in return. "oh no - i hate when people talk during movies." he hesitates for a moment before flopping back in the grass. "as long as you don't mind that i sometimes talk too much."

"that's the liquor talkin'," he remarks with a sigh. all of this would've been left unspoken - if at all - between them had it not been for the state he'd found her in earlier. "you can ramble. talk nonsense about your life, or how you feel about the particular shade of gray they used for the walls - whatever you want." there's no comment on his looks. asher isn't going to touch that with a ten foot pole. he knows that on the surface, he might be appealing, but beneath he's littered with scars, physical and not.

glancing down at her with a hint of amusement, his attention doesn't take long to shift back toward the path he's taking them. leading them up the last few sets of stairs, down a hall and finally into a sprawling and blissfully empty medical bay. "think it would very much be the other way around sweetheart," he remarks, picking one of the many cots to gently set her down into. "let's get you set up with an iv bag for some fluids and some pain medication for that headache you're bound to have in the morning and we'll talk about whether or not i'll get into bed with you. so be a good girl and stay right here, alright?"

"true but what a great thing it is that i don't want to, problem solved. "oh n' you can try this whole avoidin' me thing you've been doing but uh, it wouldn't work for long. i'd go through the whole ship, room by room floor by floor." his brows raise up though, even in this state he was listening to every word. "scared you? why's that scare you? like.. like that i'm scary or?" for a few moments cade looked so disheartened at the idea that he was scary, he'd had that thrown at him a lot of times on earth, that he looked like he'd be cruel.

"yeah.. yeah exactly that.. i found it hard, to try and keep that act up so i hid, a lot of the time. especially when i was younger, i couldn't.." she made a noise, a 'hmph' of sorts. "i don't think i was ever cut out for people... i was better with animals, better on my own. i didn't have any ties, when they asked me to do this, when they approached me like they did everyone else, nothing to leave behind." her shoulders shrugged. "the recharging thing though, i still do it... i go off, i find quiet places, even on here i'm doing it. i find it so.. difficult." she mumbled, and she didn't know why she was telling him this, maybe because she hoped that he seemingly understood, that he'd continue to understand. "that ide though, just being myself.. well nobody ever liked it before, why would they now? i'm a bit too.. honest."

eris tilted her head back, picturing what he described. "outdoor pictures? i never got to do those outdoor movie things before, never one in my area, so that sounds nice.. i mean hey, at least we know it wont rain." she started to smirk again, moving to sip the hot chocolate that brought her far more joy than she could admit. "i think i'd like that and- but.. you won't... if i don't talk much?" her eyes squinting, that judgmental look, trying to determine what he was really thinking, whether he'd lie for her ease.

"then, well?" she hums softly, shifting her head to angle to the scent of him, she liked that.. his scent, the warmth, the comfort of strong arms cradling her. it felt very safe, maybe she should've told him that too. "then, well, say you'd stay." oh, the wine was talking.. and yet weren't her drunken words just sober thoughts that she was too scared to say? "say you'd stay, that i could ramble, tell you such nonsense about my life or anything... and that'd be perfectly fine. tell me that i could tell you how stupidly handsome you are, god stupidly stupidly handsome, it's not even fair you're so..."

her hand moved, stroking along his cheek, this dreamy little smile on her lips. "no dutch courage would've been enough if we were on earth, i'd have adored you silently you know that? you'd be that.. what did they call it, one that got away?" then came the little stroppy thought, the more stubborn side with the pout she only showed when she'd drank. "i'm only sleeping in the bed if you sleep in the bed. it's always cold here. and yes that is my excuse and i'm sticking to it."

[theskyexists]

Ok looked at all the vampire f/f books listed on sappfic.com or whatever and. Thats not a lot comparatively and also I had an idea! Who wants to read the one scene i already wrote for it

[paralyziingfears]

[  ....  ]                 negan  was  always  amused  by  faith.  she  had  proven  to  be  a  valuable  asset  not  only  to  the  saviors  and  his  community,  but  to  him  as  a  leader.  he  could  envision  faith  sitting  by  his  side  at  his  throne,  taking  over  whatever  communities  they  may  come  across  in  pursuit  of  gaining  as  much  power  as  they  were  able  to  have.  that's  what  this  is  all  about;  power.  he  laughed,  ❝  i  believe  you,  for  now,  anyway.  but,  gotta  tell  ya,  faith,  i'm  not  big  on  my  main  people  keepin'  secrets  from  me.  sooner  or  later,  ya  gotta  tell  me  where  you  got  all  that  strength.  ain't  no  way  you  just  learned  that  on  the  streets.  impressive,  but  ya  got  a  man  curious  'bout  ya  now  ...  ❞  he  tells  her,  his  smirk  never  faltering  despite  the  words  spilling  from  his  lips.  he  continued  to  stay  slumped  back  even  as  @thewiickedones  tosses  a  radio  into  his  lap  unexpectedly.  a  single  brow  raises  in  intrigue,  pondering  what  she  could  possibly  mean  by  those  words.  ❝  real  test  ?  darlin',  this  was  the  test.  i  know  it  ain't  much  for  you  'cause  you  happen  to  be  wonder  fuckin'  woman,  but  that  was  the  goddamn  test  ❞  he  insisted,  chuckling  along  with  his  words.

his  head  cocks  to  the  side,  finally  leaning  forward  in  his  seat  with  his  elbows  resting  atop  his  knees.  his  hands  come  together  to  tap  his  index  fingers  together,  studying  her.  ❝  yeah   —   real  people  are  the  challenge,  faithy,  can  never  forget  that.  but,  they're  also  a  resource  ❞  he  explained,  but  still  hungry  to  know  where  exactly  she  was  going  with  this.  ❝  m'  sure  you've  heard  of  rick's  group.  they've  been  givin'  me  a  hard  time  with  cooperatin'.  my  next  move  is  to  teach  em'  another  lesson  in  respect  and  order.  hopefully  it'll  stick  this  time  'cause  i  really  don't  like  killin'  people  when  i  don't  have  t'.  get  my  point  ?  ❞  he  finished.  a  soft  chuckle  emits  from  negan's  lips,  beginning  to  get  up  from  his  seat  and  waltzing  over  to  her.  he  leaned  in,  hands  gripping  each  arm  of  the  seat  she  sat  upon,  now  only  mere  inches  away  from  her  face.  ❝  hmmm  ...  ❞  he  hummed,  eyes  looming  into  hers  and  matching  her  bloodthirsty  gaze.  ❝  you  tellin'  me  you  want  t'  get  your  hands  dirty,  faith  ?  ❞  he  asked,  voice  husk  and  deep,  impressed  by  her  desire  to  prove  herself  to  him.  she  really  didn't  need  to,  not  anymore.  she's  done  enough  to  show  him  exactly  what's  she  capable  of  doing  and  he  couldn't  be  more  proud.  ❝  don't  worry.  you're  gonna  be  right  by  my  side  when  we  pay  ricky  dicky  do  da  and  his  people  a  little  visit.  you're  just  the  person  i  need  for  the  job.  ❞

《✧》   ━━       Faith   shrugged,   a   mischievous   glint   in   her   eye.   ❝   I   could   tell   you,   but   where’s   the   fun   in   that   ?   ❞   She   wiped   the   blade   on   her   shirt,   smearing   it   redder.   ❝   Let’s   just   say   I’m   a   fast   learner.   Didn’t   have   much   of   a   choice   growing   up   the   way   I   did.   ❞   She   rarely   discussed   her   unique   abilities,   as   sharing   such   personal   information   required   a   deep   level   of   trust.   In   today's   world,   people   would   readily   exploit   her   talents   for   their   own   gain.   She   leaned   back   and   crossed   her   legs,   looking   at   him   with   something   akin   to   amusement.   ❝   Maybe   I   was   just   born   for   this   shit.   ❞   she   added.   She   grabbed   a   rag   to   clean   the   blood   spray   from   her   face.   Faith   then   reached   into   her   jacket   pocket,   pulling   out   a   small   radio,   and   tossed   it   onto   Negan's   lap.   ❝   Why   don’t   we   move   on   to   the   real   test   ?   ❞   she   suggested,   raising   an   eyebrow.   With   a    chuckle   she   tossed   the   rag   aside.

❝   Those   little   groups   of   yours   ?   More   of   a   challenge   than   these   guys   ?   ❞   Faith   nodded   at   the   walkers   still   pawing   at   the   RV.   Faith   watched   him   closely.   She   knew   there   were   layers   beneath   that   confident   exterior—he   wasn't   just   another   power-hungry   leader.   He   was   always   watching,   always   assessing   who   could   be   shaped   into   a   perfect   soldier,   always   crafting   power   plays   to   ensure   survivors   remained   under   his   thumb.   His   fascination   with   her   abilities   was   palpable,   and   that   could   either   be   a   ticket   to   the   top   or   a   dangerous   liability.   Faith   held   his   gaze,   unflinching.   Her   fingers   danced   over   the   handle   of   the   axe   like   it   was   an   old   friend,   and   she   relished   the   feel   of   its   heft.   ❝   I’m   most   happy   wherever   I   can   do   the   most   damage.   ❞   Faith   replied   dryly,   a   smile   lingering   on   the   corner   of   her   mouth.   She   was   sharp   enough   to   know   she   was   a   means   to   an   end   for   him,   but   what   he   didn't   realize   yet   was   that   the   feeling   might   end   up   mutual.   Her   eyes   darted   past   him,   scanning   the   remaining   walkers   who   had   started   to   lose   interest   and   meander   away   from   the   vehicle.

[eddiesfaerie]

who you let in

Summary: Jack has a soft spot. He didn't expect you to be the one to find it. (6.9k words) read on ao3 here

Pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

Warnings: NSFW, porn with plot (the storyteller within me can't help it), unspecified age gap, hurt/comfort for both of them LOL, canon typical gore? medical stuff? idk, panic attacks, trauma, angst, power dynamics (reader's a med student), suicidal ideation, Jack being flustered, oral (m receiving because he needs it), big dick Jack, fingering, rushed sex despite how long this fic is i'm sorry, unprotected PIV sex, Jack's sort of a soft dom, semi-public sex, praise kink, competency kink, lots of fleshy bodily words in here to describe lust idk

AAAAA i just spent all day writing this yes i'm embarrassed <3 also haven't posted my writing in like actual years at this point.... anyways be nice to me

It’s unlike you, Jack thinks to himself, to look so out of it. 

GSW to the chest. A young girl in her early twenties maybe. She’s lost a lot of blood. Her blonde hair somehow already matted with it, so much so that she could pass as a natural brunette. It’s gone dark with oxygen and coagulation. 

Your team huddles around her, as do the other units around the dozens and dozens of gurneys being brought in one after the other, unrelenting and without promise to end soon. 

All protocols you’ve learned in the last year are out the window. Disregarded for the mass casualty event that was PittFest. None of the residents had ever seen anything like this, you’d never seen anything like this. This was the most action you’d ever witnessed and suddenly you felt like there was a balloon in your own chest, compressing air flow or blood flow or something to your head. 

All the blood, the smell of metal inescapable no matter which section of the ER you were suddenly rushed to. 

Your knees go weak, they shake, your hands shake. Everything’s wrong- 

“She’s going white Abbot pull her out.” 

You hear your attending huff from right behind you before his hand finds your bicep, curling around it and pulling you from where you leaned over the patient. You can hardly protest, your mind elsewhere and your feet blindly follow Dr Abbot who leads you to the family room. 

“Robby I need you to cover over on the GSW to the chest for a sec.” He calls over, his voice ringing in your ears, your mind trying to focus on one single thing but everything’s registering all at once. His hand on your arm, all the beeping, the cries of agony, tubes being intubated and balloons being puffed into chests. It all seems a lot further away when Abbot closes the door. 

You never thought you were particularly his favourite. You’re much younger and typically too upbeat. You clash naturally, he’s not drawn to you and you’re not drawn to him.

Dr Abbot is unafraid of correcting you in front of your peers. After a year now of him being your attending you’ve become familiar with his ways but that doesn’t mean you’re any more appreciative of the public humiliations.

There’s something about these older ex military men, the ones who joined too young and have been in the system ever since, climbing up and up the ranks, hardening at each level to a point where disassociation is expected. Hold it in, hold it together. There’s is no I in team. All for one and one for all. All that bullshit. 

Dr Abbot wasn’t really that guy to a T but hell was he uncrackable, unshakeable, hard as stone. No doubt it’s helped him here in the ER, you’ve never seen someone as laser focused and capable as Dr Abbot. It’s almost effortless for him, it seems. Like he doesn’t have to think twice about anything. His confidence is unmatched and you’d always admired that, no matter how much you thought he disliked you. So yeah it was kind of surprising when he was the one to pull you away for a time out. 

Jack never meant to become so attuned to you. He didn’t do it on purpose. He blames it on being your attending for a while now, he’s worked with you the closet over this past year and he knows how you work, how you operate. He didn’t mean to but it happened. He feels like he can read you like an open book, you wear your emotions on your sleeve, on your face. You’ve never been one to conceal how you were feeling, unlike him. So when you stopped talking, stopped making little remarks and little jokes, nearly frozen and clearly dissociating, he knew what was happening long before the resident called for you to be pulled out. He wanted to give you a moment to bounce back as you usually do. 

Dr Abbot closes the curtain to the family room, shutting the door. He turns around and finds you still awkwardly standing there, eyes far off, elsewhere. He had expected you to take a seat immediately, he doesn’t know what you’re still doing up considering how close you look to collapsing. 

“S-sorry I don’t know what’s happening, I-” You stammer, embarrassed yet not in control of whatever’s taking over your mind and body. 

“Hey, hey stay with me, kid. Don’t go to that place.”

Abbot puts his hand softly on the middle of your back, guiding you to the chair. You sit down reluctantly, unable to move your body in a coordinated way for some reason. He kneels in front of you, groaning as he goes down and his knees cracking. 

“Listen, don’t tell anyone but I’ve had my fair share of panic attacks, okay?”

“Is that- is that what’s happening?” You ask dumbly, squeezing your eyes shut. You suddenly feel dizzy. Not enough oxygen to the brain.

“How does your chest feel? Can you breathe?” 

“I feel like I can’t.” 

“Then yeah, that’s what’s happening.” 

Your lip wobbles despite how much you’re still trying to hold it together, that much Abbot can tell. You’re fighting like hell against this panic attack which might only threaten to make things worse. He grabs your hand in his, squeezing lightly. You’re barely able to return it. 

“What are five things you can see?”

“W-What?” You sniffle.

“Tell me five things you can see, come on.” He squeezes your hand again, reassuringly. 

You try to take a deep breath but your diaphragm spasms and it comes in all shaky, causing you to hiccup like a child. 

“Y-you.”

Against all odds, Dr Abbot smiles. Incredibly small but you see it. 

“That’s right. What else?”

You try to take a deep breath again. “Uh, the paintings on the wall.”

Abbot nods. You continue. 

“The curtains. The chairs. The door.”

“Good. That’s good. What about four things you can touch?”

“Your hand.” You say most obviously, since he’s still holding your clammy hand in his. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so shaken up. 

Dr Abbot squeezes your hand again and this time you squeeze back, a silent thank you of sorts. 

“Um, my scrubs, my hair on my neck, the wind from the fan.” 

“Okay, now three things you can hear.” 

“Your voice.” Dr Abbot chuckles, like he was expecting it. 

“Sure.” He nods.

“You’re breathing.” You take a deep breath now, as if it reminded you. Abbot breathes deeply with you. 

You try to motion lazily to the door, “The doctors outside, I can hear them talking.”

“That’s right, and they’re being pretty loud, aren't they?” He tries to joke, to lighten the mood. 

You nod your head, yeah. 

“What about two things you can smell?”

You go to open your mouth but Abbot cuts you off again. 

“And don’t say me, we’re about an hour into this shift and I know I’m not smelling too pretty right now.” 

You laugh, you actually giggle a bit, albeit a bit breathless, your body still trying to catch up to your more relaxed mind. Jack smiles. 

“I can smell metal and disinfectant.” 

“Okay and one thing you can taste.” 

Your cheeks burn a bit. You know it doesn’t mean anything but when you started each sentence with something relating to him… You can’t help but think. 

“My stale gum.” 

Jack chuckles a bit, shaking his head. What were you doing with mouth in your gum. It’s not allowed on shift but everything had started so suddenly you hadn’t had a moment to toss it and you got scared on choking on it if you swallowed it. 

Abbot clicks his tongue at you in disapproval, holding out his open hand near your mouth. You look at him confused, but he just gestures to his outreached hand. 

“Spit it out, let’s go get you a new one, hmm?” 

Your face burns again, but you do what he says for some reason. 

Because he asked. 

He closes his palm around your gum for a moment before easily tossing it into the trash can in the corner of the room. 

Dr Abbot stands back up, knees cracking again. He helps you up, holding your elbows in each of his hands. You’re still a little wobbly, weak in the knees from your body’s sudden breakdown. You haven’t yet regained all your strength. 

You try to steady yourself, your hands gripping his forearms, trying to concentrate on the strength of him holding you up. 

You suddenly feel oddly close to him. Not just physically seeing as how close you two are standing but in the air, it feels like something’s shifted, like something’s irreparably been changed between you two. He’s just seen you at your most vulnerable, talked you through your first panic attack and even admitted to having experienced them himself. How many people in the ER can say they know that much about Dr Jack Abbot. 

Maybe you’re just over analyzing what’s transpired. 

“How you feeling?” His voice sounds out and you realize you had your eyes squeezed shut, when you open them Jack’s peering down at you, trying to give you the softest look he can muster. 

“I’m okay.” 

“Yeah? You don’t have to be.” You shake your head no. 

“No, no I’m good. Promise.”

“I’ve got my best med student back?”

You can’t help but look at him quizzically, laughing a little. 

“I don’t think I’m your best med student but sure, I’m back.” 

“Come on, take the compliment.” He quips and it surprises you. You didn’t think he’d press your objections. 

“I actually thought you-” Hated me, you want to say.

“I know.”

Oh. 

“I know I’m hard on you. But I only do it because I know you can take it. I think it makes you better.”

Your lips go into a hard line, you nod. Right….

“I mean, it doesn’t hurt to be told I’m doing good every now and then. I do think I’m tough, you’re right, but I don’t know… I like this side of you.” You admit before you can stop yourself. 

Now it’s Jack’s turn to blush. His cheeks go red in that boyish way and it blossoms all the way to the tips of his ears. Your heart leaps a bit. 

If you weren’t back to yourself before, you were now. You’re suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing even though you’ve both let go of each other. It was sobering. 

“Alright kid, as long as you don’t tell anyone.” He winks. 

You burn. 

“Promise.”

/

Things did, in fact, change after that.

Dr Abbot pulls you for huddles, just you and him now for feedback, no longer doing it in front of the other med students, doctors or attendees.

You stand closer to him, he stands closer to you in general. 

He’s not afraid to grab your hand and stop you from doing something. Or start something. The amount of times he’s guided you through a procedure you’d never done before with his steady hadn’t engulfing yours, guiding a blade smoothly through a patients skin or a thin tube through an incredibly small incision. 

You wondered if anyone noticed. If anyone had become attune to the fact that you followed each other around like each other’s shadows. Never one without the other. You could see Princess and Perlah whispering to each other whenever you stood close to Dr Abbot, you couldn’t help but smile at the fact that at least someone noticed how he’d picked you as his favourite and warmed up to you. It made you feel special, all girlish and giggly even though it absolutely shouldn’t. 

A new unusual sound had started to fill the ER. Jack Abbot’s laughter, even quiet giggles fuelled by none other than you. Not even Robby, once his rival now best friend in the ER, could get that sound out of him as often as you do. 

Jack gets you sandwiches, juice boxes from the cafeteria when you look particularly out of it or if the moment granted a quick escape for food. He’d find a chocolate bar or anything to perk you up on days where you weren’t doing so hot, or had a particularly anguishing patient. Death was inescapable in the ER, everyone knew that but not everyone handled it well, it didn’t matter how well versed or experienced you were in the medical industry. 

Not even Jack himself. 

The night shift was now coming to a close, meaning the clock was close to striking 7am. That awkward time before the day shift shows up and the night team goes home to sleep through the day, all to start again in 12 hours. 

It was weird working in the off hours, you felt like a vampire or a bat, you thought to yourself as you climbed the steps to the roof, trying to find Jack. You knew him well now, and you know where he goes to run away when he can’t handle the weight of the shift anymore. 

You open the door, it creaked open annoyingly loud, announcing you rather ungraciously. 

Jack drops his head low at the sound of the door opening. He knew it was you coming to find him. He leans back against the railing behind him. 

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, calling out to you without turning his head. The wind carries the sound of his voice to you. 

The sun is threatening to come up over the city line, light only beginning to spill upwards into the sky, painting the clouds all pretty shades of light blue, pink and orange. You struggle to take in the beauty due to the night that just transpired. 

The vet hit and run. It was a hard one on Jack. He’d known guys like that in the military. They seemed untouchable, surviving tour after tour. It was never easy to watch one go, especially the ones that made it home and get taken out in some seemingly avoidable way. 

Some church bell tolls in the distance. You approach him, unsure how to answer what you’re doing up here. Checking on you, wanting to make sure you’re okay, everyone’s worried but the reality was no one batted an eye at him escaping after spending the last two hours coding this guy into the system. This was how Jack operated. Disassociate, dissociate until he couldn’t anymore and his feet carried him up to the roof. Contemplating. 

So you don’t say anything, you just stand behind him. 

Jack’s skin looks golden up here. The light passing through his curls, catching the greys. Your heart tightens. 

“It’s always a rough way to end the night.” You offer, unsure of what else to say. 

“I must’ve had a reason at one time to keep coming back but… I can’t think of it right now.” Jack grips onto the railing, leaning forward and looking down below him. 

You instinctively reach out to him, your hand going for his bicep, it’s closest to you. Despite the cool early morning air, his skin was still hot to the touch, still coming down from what had just gone down in the ER room. 

“Jack…” You can’t help but sigh, silently pleading with him to stop. 

His head turns, dark eyes meeting yours. God he looks so sad, a man worn down. 

And you realize you’ve never called him by just his name. Just Jack. 

“D-Dr Abbot, I mean- sorry.” 

He doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t particularly care right now. And the way you said it makes his heart tight like your hand is on his arm. Palms clammy with being so high up and so close to a ledge. You never liked heights and you hate that he’s always flirted with them. 

He clicks his tongue, sighing before crouching down and reeling himself back over to your side of the railing. You sigh in relief, you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath. 

Jack is completely distraught. He looks wrecked, broken. 

Your hand still on his arm, he comes to face you, standing so close but you can’t find it in you to step away from him, not when he’s like this. 

Jack drops his forehead to your shoulder, you try not to freeze up at the sudden extreme closeness.

“Are you okay?” You ask dumbly, voice gone quiet because of how close he is. Your lips ghost over the shell of his ear, plush flesh on soft cartilage. Jack shivers, turning his head slightly and his nose pushes into your neck. 

What else is there to say to such a quiet man, lost in his own solitude of reflection. 

“No.” He says simply, plainly. 

Your heart aches for him. 

Your hand is still on his arm, you flatten it and trail it up to his shoulder, squeezing him there. 

He presses himself closer to you. You hold your breath, your heart threatening to leap up out of your throat. You swear he must feel it beating through his own chest. You think you can feel his. 

He trails his nose along your neck, up your ear. You can feel that subtle white beard that carves the angles of his face so sharply, so perfectly, colour so soft and white it nearly blends into his skin seamlessly. They catch at your skin in that scratchy way and its almost too much. 

His hands, they move and suddenly they’re on your waist, sliding around the circumference of you until he’s enveloped you in his strong arms. You can feel how sturdy he is, how solid and strong from years of exertion and force and yet you feel like you could blow away at any moment. This cannot be real. You can smell his hair, the remnants of his cologne peaking through the smell of antiseptic and disinfectant. You can smell him. 

He knows this shouldn’t really be happening. You both do. You’re both very much aware of that fact. Even though its just a hug its just a hug. Jack had been aware of it ever since that day in the family room when he first worried about you. Because that’s what friends do… they worry about each other, right? Friends….

Jack lets his nose travel higher, along your hairline behind your ear, relishing in the closeness of  another living, breathing human being. Warm flesh against flesh, closeness of muscles and organs. Hearts, beating. When was the last time this happened? When was the last time he let his walls down like this? You both wondered. 

“I’m sorry.” He offers lamely, voice quiet and matching yours. He tries to pull away from you but his body doesn’t get the memo, he stills clings to you. He’s afraid of what would happen if he were to let go now. Surely he’d crumble into nothing off this roof. 

He moves his head, nose against your cheek as your hands move to his chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt in your palms. You don’t want him away either. You need him close, suddenly very close. Despite your breathlessness at the closeness, you think you’d stop breathing if he were to pull away now. You wouldn’t bear it. 

You shake your head no, “Don’t be.” You reassure him, voice still quiet. 

Something posses you and you nudge your nose with his, Jack sighs loudly, arms tightening around you and you sigh too. Your mouth opens in an innocent way, trying to get more oxygen to your brain. But you can feel his breath on yours, feel it fanning against your lips and you lean closer, pushing your nose into his again and he has to use every iota of strength within him to not lunge into you. 

This shouldn’t be happening, he reiterates to himself. All the alarms are going off in his head. He shouldn’t be touching you like this, he shouldn’t have grabbed you, you shouldn’t be letting him. You could both get in serious trouble for this. 

But you fist at his shirt, hands trembling against his chest, feeling him, muscles under supple flesh. Your lips part, small breath fanning against his lips and he breaks. He’s just a man. 

Jack presses his open mouth to yours, and you let him again for a reason he doesn’t quite understand. It’s sloppy in a desperate way, passionate and sad. You could cry if you weren’t so wrapped up in the feel of being completely encompassed by him, his soft lips on yours. 

You open your mouth wider, your hands moving from his chest to wrap your arms completely around his neck, hauling his body into yours as if you couldn’t get any closer. You wanted to meld into him. Bone fusing to bone. You let your tongue poke out and suddenly he’s right there with you, his tongue going as far into your mouth as it possibly can, trying to get to every inch of you. Jack whines and you burn at the pathetic sound. A grown man, whimpering for you. Your knees threaten to buckle. 

His body flush with yours, you can’t help but feel how his body reacts to you. Hard and solid against your hip, your leg as your bodies writhe against the other, pleading to get closer. 

“Jack,” you whimper into his mouth, unsure, testing. 

Jack lets his lips travel to the corner of your mouth, kissing every inch of you that he possibly can, your teeth as you say his name, your cheek, earlobe, the spot underneath your ear. 

“Tell me to stop.” He groans, hands moving back to their spot on your waist, trailing down to your hips where he grinds you against him, making that aching part of him known. 

You whimper again, eyes threatening to roll into the back of your head like the sun threatens to come over that edge and catch you both where you ought not to be. 

“I don’t want you to stop.” You admit, face burning even though you’re both as debauched and pathetic sounding as the other.

Boldly, you let one hand travel down from his neck, down his body to softly touch in between his legs, feeling where he’s hard, aching between his legs. He groans again, this time absolutely pained, his forehead dropping to yours. 

“W-We shouldn’t be doing this.” He admits, like you both don’t know that already. He’s practically begging you to give him a reason to stop this now, even though he knows he’s already too far gone to do anything at this point. You’re too warm, too welcoming and soft and willing. Salvation. 

“Especially not here.” You manage to laugh a little. Suddenly you pull away from Jack and he thinks that’s it, you’re calling it. His instincts propel him to check his watch to check the time. T.O.D. Time of death. He’s being dramatic. 

You pull him to the opening of the stairwell, creaking open that squeaky door once again and you lightly press him against the wall furthest away from the stairs.

It’s an enclosed space, a room up on the roof. You have to open another door to get to the stairs which lead all the way down to the ER, blocked by another set of doors. If someone were to go into the stairway, you’d hear them from a mile away. At least that’s what you hoped.

Jack let’s you move him, lets you press your body against his and kiss his tanned, freckled neck. Your hand finds its spot on his crotch, feeling him through his pants. God he hasn’t gone down an inch. He feels huge, painfully hard. You can’t believe you’re feeling him like this. You can’t believe The Jack Abbot is letting this happen, you can’t believe he wants it. With you. 

“Can I?” You ask, already lowering yourself to your knees. 

Jack just looks at you in complete and utter disbelief, mouth agape as he watches you get down on your knees, pressing your face to his clothed dick, kissing him through the fabric. Kill me now, he thinks. If anyone were to find you both like this… 

He feels like a dirty old man as you pull his cock from his pants, watching it spring up and slap his belly with wide eyes, like you need it, like you’re suddenly starving. 

His cock is huge. You don’t know what you expected but it wasn’t this. You try not to look frightened by it, by the prospect of shoving it into your mouth and hopefully, your cunt. 

He’s your attendee, you try not to think about that. Try not to think about how you’re his subordinate and he’s so much older than you, experienced, well versed. This is all completely wrong, incredibly fucked up but fuck if it doesn’t turn the both of you on just a little more in the worst way. 

His dick is hot in your hand, skin like silk and you salivate at the pure sight of it. You look up at him, his face flushed all the way up to his ears and down to what you can see of his chest poking out through the small v in his shirt. Skin on fire. 

You give him a sort of inquisitive look and he realizes he never answered you. You looking up at him with those big, needy eyes. He can only bring himself to nod his head, at a lost for words. 

You smile up at him, hand already gliding up and down his thick length. Jack hisses at the near foreign sensation, in this moment he can’t bring himself to remember the last time this happened, let alone a time when it wasn’t his own hand. Yours is much smaller, more delicate than his, you can barely wrap it around the entirety of him and suddenly he feels dizzy. 

You lean forward, kissing the tip of him and he squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, they open and close into fists at his sides. God does he want to touch you, to have you let him take what he wants but he’s afraid. Afraid of over stepping, afraid of scaring you. 

Suddenly you’re opening your mouth and kissing at the head of him, licking at his slit, collecting whatever’s pooled there and humming to yourself at the taste. You’re worried you’ll become addicted to this.

More of him slides into your mouth, all the way until he’s hitting the back of your throat. Suddenly his hands are flying to the side of your head, holding you there. His eyes open and he looks down at you, eyes intense, mouth set into a hardline like he’s barely hanging by a thread. You make eye contact with him and he groans, loud. You’ve only ever seen him like this leaned over a patient, intense focus, blinders on to anything except the task at hand. But this time its you. Your pussy throbs. 

Jack let’s himself thrust into your mouth a couple of times, eyes squeezed shut again, head leaned back against the wall behind him in complete surrender to you and your mouth. He says your name so broken, like its the only thing he can remember, the only thing keeping him grounded. 

You wonder if he’ll let you fuck him. 

A few more thrusts and suddenly Jack is pulling you off of him, looking back down at you again and hauling you back up to your feet. You give him the saddest eyes and he swears his heart breaks. 

“I’m- I was gonna cum if you kept that up.” He sort of laughs to himself. Jack’s never felt more out of practice than he does now, pants down around his ankles, cock heavy and begging still in your hand, and a young, pretty girl looking at him with wet eyes, hungry for him. 

What did he do in a past life to deserve this? 

“That was kind of the idea.” You smile, bitting your lip and your hand continues to move up and down on his aching length. 

Back face to face now, Jack can’t believe he has you like this, lips plump and swollen with exertion and slick with spit. Your eyes are dark with greed, hunger for something else. He never though this would happen, not between the two of you. Not that he ever explicitly thought about it but there were moments of weakness. Moments where he let his mind wander as he held your hand in his, guiding you through a procedure, noticing your body and its proximity, its warmth, that girlish smell you carry around you. You’ve always been intoxicating, a temptation just begging to be indulged in. Had he mentioned how wrong he thought all of this was?

“Jack?” You ask, pulling him out of this thoughts. 

“Hmmm?” He basically slurs, distracted by the continuous movements of your hand on his cock, it was on the verge of turning painful. 

“I asked you if you’re gonna fuck me.” You ask, devilish grin plastered on your face like you’re the cat who got the fucking cream. Or is at least trying to.

Jack lets out a broken laugh, voice cracking from your particularly harsh grip on him. 

“Is that- Is that what you came up to the roof for?” He jokes but suddenly you think he’s being serious. 

You worry thats all you thought of him, of this. A quick fuck, a need for release, a need to forget what happened tonight. 

“No, Jack that’s not- I swear-” You struggle to find your words. 

Jack smiles at you, it alleviates some of your worries. His hand moves and finds the waist band of your pants, he shoves it down until he’s cupping your sex. You gasp, his hand hot, feeling your hotter core and whats embarrassingly seeped out of you ever since you pulled him from the railing. 

Jack clicks his tongue at you, like he always does. 

“Yeah, I bet you want me to fuck you, alright. You’re soaking for it.” 

Oh fuck. 

You whimper, leaning easy into his touch, letting him feel you. 

“Fuck, baby.” He groans, his fingers gliding easy through your glossy folds, playing around in the mess you made. Its embarrassing. So much so that you almost miss him calling you baby. 

Jack doesn’t fight the temptation long, no matter how much he wants to tease you about it. His two fingers find your hole and push in steadily, afraid to hurt you. You gasp, body falling into his, letting him hold you with his other arm. Your hand on his cock stutters but is determined to keep pleasuring him. 

You moan when he pushes his fingers all the way in, crooking them to press up against that spongey spot inside of you, your eyes nearly rolling into the back of your head. 

“Fuck-” You choke, head heavy on his shoulder, your lips grazing his neck as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you, switching it up between that and toying with that fucking spot inside of you. 

“Jack, I’m-”

“Oh I bet you are.” He chides and you burn. 

This could have been so humiliating if you chose it to be. How quickly you folded for him, how badly and desperately you needed him. As if he hadn’t folded just as quickly, if not faster, for you. 

Suddenly his fingers are ripped from your core and he’s ripping your pants down along with your underwear. You step out of them quickly, letting him manhandle you around to get you were you wants you. 

“Look at you listening to me so easily now.” Jack remarks, turning you around and pushing you up against the wall. 

“I always listen to you.” You admit, voice breathless and breaking and sounding completely debauched. 

You feel him step in to your space, you arch your back instinctively and Jack basically purrs all soft for you. You feel the head of his cock at your entrance, threatening your folds. You whimper, shiver. You try to push into him but his hand flies to your neck, holding you still where you are. 

He leans over your back, rucking your shirt up with the hand that was holding his dick. He hadn’t meant for this to happen like this, all dirty and rushed and in his fucking workplace. He thinks about the rest of you, hidden under your scrubs, how he’d kiss every inch. Maybe that was for another time. Hopefully. 

“I know you do.” He praises, kissing the back of your neck and pushing into cunt in the same breath. You both groan way too loudly, pure relief coming over the both of you. 

Jack breaches you slowly, he knows he’s big. He’s not even being any type of way about it, he just knows its a lot from past…. flings. But God do you take him like a champ. You push your hips back into his, needing him to fill you completely you’re fucking whimpering for it. 

But Jack’s still got his hold on you, pinning you down so he can work you onto his cock slowly, at his own pace. He’s in control here. 

You both moan again once he reaches the end of you, fully seated in your velvety pussy. His head falls onto your back, his arms wrapping around you to hold you to him, anything to get closer. You scramble to gain purchase on anything, the wall, his strong arms, anything. You feel dizzy, you feel full, you feel drunk. 

“Always so good for me. Such a good girl” He moans, hips pulling back to just thrust back in punishingly. It punches a moan out from your gut. 

You nod your head, unable to speak. I try to be good, I try to be.

Jack doesn’t wait, this has to be quick anyways, you both have been gone for far too long, he’s suddenly reminded that the day shift will be showing up in a matter of minutes and God knows Robby will be looking for him up here. His dick throbs at the thought of being caught balls deep inside of you, his little med student. 

He pulls you back by the ass to meet his hips, pumping himself in and out of your creamy pussy at a brutal pace, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head. He says your name, you’ve never heard him say a name quite like that and it breaks you. 

“I-Is this good?” He asks, trying to be sexy but it comes out broken, desperate and pathetic.

You nod your head frantically again, trying to turn your head to look at him and Jack’s heart soars at the sight. Your pupils blown black, eyes big and watery from the feel of his cock filling you up to the absolute brim, hair matted to your sweaty forehead. He wants to lick the sweat from you. Next time, next time. 

Jack leans closer, kissing you on the open mouth and you moan debauchedly into him. As he moved closer to you to keep kissing you it pushed his cock that much further into you, his hips grinding into your ass and his cock into the absolute end of you. You can barely keep yourself standing, you’re thankful for Jack’s strength keeping you up, you could’ve had both feet off the ground and you’d have no idea. 

His cock pummels into you, moan after moan being punched from your chest, your gut, the deepest part of you. 

You whimper into his mouth at his sweet kisses in contrast with his harsh thrusts, it was enough to make your head spin, your pussy clench, threatening to burst. 

“Tell me it’s good, need you to say it for me.” 

“S-So good, Jack. You feel-”

“Yeah?” 

You cry, you think a lone tear falls from your eye and maybe Jack kisses it away or licks it but his cock doesn’t stop and suddenly you’re cumming, completely surrendering your body to his. You shudder and twitch and your pussy squeezes his dick so tight he nearly sees stars, it takes everything in him to not blow his load inside of you in that instant. 

That would be bad, that would be really bad, that would be messy and irresponsible and fuck he’s not wearing a condom how could you both have been so stupid and drunk off each other to not grab a condom. It’s not like you have them in your scrubs but theres a dispenser in the bathroom and - 

“Jack please,” You beg, voice so small and worn out. Your hand reaches out behind you, grabbing for him and suddenly he’s pulled back to the very real reality where he is fucking the shit out of you and he’s about to cum about it. 

“Please what?” He asks, needing to hear you say it. 

“Need you- need you to cum for me. Please Jack.” 

Fuck, he doesn’t want this to be over, he needs this to go on forever, needs you to suddenly be his salvation, he’s not quite sure how he’s gone on this long without you but he knows he can’t go forward without it. 

Jack’s body tenses, his cock somehow gets impossibly harder, you feel it thicken inside of you and you moan again, another orgasm threatening to rip through you. 

But suddenly he’s pulling himself out of your greedy hole, his voice breaking as he spills himself onto the concrete floor beneath the both of you. Your cunt pulses, desperate to have him fill you again. Before you can protest his fingers lunge up into your abused hole again and he grating at that spot inside of you, the one that has you seeing stars. 

“Need another one, yeah?”

“Jack- fuck!” It complete takes over you. 

Somehow without having to even tell him, he felt the way your pussy spasmed and cried around him right before he pulled out, he knew you were close to cumming again. And ever the gentleman he is, he’s going to give you another one. 

He’s unrelenting, just like he was with his cock. His two fingers crook up against that spot again and suddenly you’re seeing stars. 

Jack’s arm wraps around the front of your shoulders, hauling your back straight against his chest, holding your trembling body to his. You can feel his slowly softening cock against your lower back, cum still dripping from it onto your ass. 

“Do it, please.” He begs of you this time, the muscles in both arms trembling from his own orgasm. 

Jack feels your pussy spasm again, feels the way your chest quickens its breathes, the way your feet nearly kick out from under you with the strength of it all and your cumming on his hand, your eyes going black and blind from the force of it. 

You slump back against him, letting him hold you once again. Jack wraps both his arms around you, swinging you around so that his back is pressed against the wall so he can lean on something. You both try to catch your breath, clinging to each other with leftover desperation. 

Greedily, he lets a hand swipe through your abused folds, collecting what you’ve given him. You whimper, leaning your head back to hide it in his neck, embarrassed. 

“Jack,” you whine in a pathetic attempt at protesting. 

He clicks his tongue at you, “Let me.” He tells you, plainly. 

His fingers linger, scooping up what he can and bringing it to his lips. He licks everything, groaning at the taste and letting his eyes close. You whine, pushing your face further into his neck, smelling him. He smells manly, like sweat, cologne and sex. You let it envelop you. 

Jack holds you like that for as long as he humanly can. Before the thoughts of getting caught inevitably come crashing down upon him again. 

“We have to move, kid. Can’t stay like this forever.” He tells you in a sad tone. You press a final kiss to his neck, breathing him in before pulling away. 

“I know.” 

You both pull yourselves back together. Jack puts his own pants back on as he watches you pull your underwear on slowly. Mindlessly, he reaches for your pants and holds them out for you. You put your hands on his shoulders while you step into them. 

“Thank you.” You tell him, voice gone quiet again, like you already have to be hush hush about this. 

Jack kisses the top of your head sweetly. You wonder what’s to come after this. You look up at him and he gives you that slick side smile you’ve only seen him throw Robby or Dana. 

“Didn’t know you could make noises like that.” He smiles and you push him back against the wall you were both just fucking up against, your face absolutely burning. This motherfucker likes making fun of you. 

“Jack I swear to God-”

He grabs you and kisses you again, holding your face to his. You let him kiss you, fighting the want to just melt back into him and stay here. 

Jack pulls away first. His anxiety getting the best of him. 

“Can I drive you home?” He asks, unsure of what else to say. He needs to get you out of the workplace and have a normal fucking conversation with you that doesn’t revolve around grief and dying kids and elderly on life support. 

And besides he knows you take the bus. 

“Yes please.” 

/

okayyy i literally had to cut it short because this shit was getting too long LOL, i had a full final act outlined but maybe that could be a shorter part two if anyone's interested..... lmk <3

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (3) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 3 (9.8k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence (this part contains graphic depictions of gore + murder + minor character death), military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2

The mirror betrays you. There’s someone staring back, but it isn’t you. You don’t recognize her. Whoever is there, she’s a traitor. A liar. She stole what used to be your body, and now you can only stare back as she lifts her hands to your face and touches your skin.

It’s warm. Your cheeks are warm to the touch, skin bouncy and firm. When you pull on the apples of your cheeks, they bounce right back, elastic almost. You’re glowing, too. Your skin has never looked so soft, so smooth.

Something’s different.

You bring your hands up and cup your own breasts. When you squeeze, you shudder, realizing how sensitive you are. They ache a little, feel heavier than normal. Your bra feels a little tight, too. Your hands drop and grip the sink firm, and you swallow hard before turning to face the door.

Your body is telling you something. It’s trying to talk to you. It’s natural, you know it is, and it is inevitable, and you shouldn’t hate your omega for it because she can’t help it, but you do. It’s what’s happening to you because you’re off your meds. Your hormones are firing like they never have before, and the voice in your head is starting to talk to you in a way that sounds way too appealing. She’s starting to sound right. You like the way she’s talking to you, especially after…

You haven’t spoken to him yet. You haven’t talked about it. It’s only been a few days, but you don’t think you can sleep next to him for one more night and pretend like you don’t know what it’s like for him to be dick-deep inside of you and satiating the shrill insanity that lives under your skin.

So big. So capable. Isn’t he so strong? I bet he tastes good. Let’s find out.

You open the bathroom door slowly. Simon is sitting there on the bed, phone in his hand. He’s typing, eyes narrowed in thought, and you make the door creak so he knows you’ve come out.

“Everythin’ olright in there?” Simon asks. He doesn’t look up from his phone. You decide to be mean, because you can be. You want to be.

Fuck off, you tell her, try to. All she wants to do is get Simon on his back on that bed.

Can we just suck his dick already? It’s right there.

“What do you care?” You mumble. You go to the closet to pick out something to wear. It’s a Sunday, which means there won’t be much to do today besides relax and eat. Johnny invited you to Mass, which you promptly declined, and you didn’t much feel like spending time with Captain Price or finding out which beta would be underneath Gaz tonight (more than one, would be your guess, but it could’ve been another alpha, too, he doesn’t seem to care as long as he can devour something whole).

You don’t turn around to see Simon’s reaction. Maybe he doesn’t react at all. You grab a pair of jeans and drop your sleep shorts. Ever since Simon had taken you on a roof, you decided it was no use trying to change in the bathroom anymore–he’d seen everything, anyways. You step into the jeans and pull them up, jumping a little to get them over your hips, and just as you’re about to adjust the waist, you feel him come up behind you.

Simon grips both sides of your jeans and hikes them up around your middle. You suck in a breath as he slides his hands around, zipping them up, deft fingers finding the button and fastening them. You huff as he keeps walking, forcing your front flat against the closet doors until he can press his chest up against you from behind.

Remember how good he felt? Let’s do it again. Take them off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss. Your omega purrs. She softens your insides. You grip the closet, irritated, but you can’t help the way you bend at the hip and push back into him. He snarls as he puts his hands on your hips, holding you there. You can feel her, pushing against you. It’s getting harder every day to shove her backwards–there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to.

Is that part me? Or are we drifting together?

“Wot does it look like?” Simon murmurs. “I smell you.”

Yes, yes, yes, let him. Take it off. Take them off. Let him have it.

“What did I say before?” You let your arms fall, and you smack his hands off of you. You turn around to glare up at him, grinding your teeth. “Boundaries, Simon. You need to ask for permission.”

“I don’t have to do anythin’,” Simon bites back. “I said some things before, too, didn’t I? Y’r mine.”

Oh, that’s how he wants it to be. You can see it in his eyes, the way his alpha is feeding him lies. Feeding into his ego. He’s got tendrils that are choking him from the inside-out, trying to tell him to be the bigger species, the more dominant figure. Your omega wants to let him, but that isn’t you. Fuck submission–it’s just not your style. You’re a taker, not a giver, and your omega will need to learn that the hard way.

You lean up on your toes, pressing your forehead to his. You meet his alpha in the middle, not backing down. You can be nasty, too. You can be dangerous. You might not have his build nor his strength, but omegas have teeth, and they are sharp.

“Then you better sleep with one fucking eye open, Simon. Cause I’ll kill you if you put your hands on me without asking.”

You make sure you hit him on your way around him. You open the drawers of the dresser angrily, ripping a shirt out. You slip your pajama shirt off, tossing it onto the floor, and you fit your bra straps over your shoulder before turning around. Simon is still staring like a dog–eyes watery and intense, staring right at your tits, and you grab a pillow off the bed and throw it at him.

“Oh my god!” You cry, and he sucks on his teeth under the mask.

“Mmm…” He puts a hand over his chest, rubbing there. If he didn’t have it on, you have a feeling he’d a smug grin on his stupid face. “My mate is fuckin’ naked, wot you want me to do, look away?”

“Yes, exactly, you pig,” you mumble, clasping your bra and fixing it to cover yourself before slipping your t-shirt on. You frown as you pick up a clip to tie up your hair. “And we’re not mates.”

“Tha’ right?”

“That’s right,” you say curtly. You turn to give him a hard stare as you slip your boots on. “As far as anyone else can tell, I’m not claimed.” You run a few fingers over your scent gland. Soft. Unmarked. Pulsing.

It’s like you’re taunting him. He snarls a little at that, something low and territorial under the mask.

“Tha’ wot you want? Me to claim you?”

“No,” you stand on your toes, faces barely touching. The air in the room is humid and thick, curling, competing scents making you a little dizzy. “I want you to drop dead.”

It’s half of a lie. It would be funny, you think, to see Simon eat a bullet or catch on fire and perish in a frenzy of equal pain and misery, but you know Kate would just do it all over again to you. There are no shortage of alphas at her disposal. With a swipe of her signature, she can have you moved halfway across the world again, and you’d like to not end up on the CIA’s bad side because you keep spending all their money on flights and bribes to get you some kind of mate that will tolerate an indifferent omega such as yourself.

An unruly one. A terrible one. A decisive one.

You don’t really want Simon dead. Better the beast you know than the one you don’t, and from the time you’ve spent with Simon, he is all bark, no bite.

For now.

Meals are always awkward. You feel like all you and Simon do is snap at each other lately. Call each other names. Spit nasty insults. Maybe it isn’t fair to be angry with Simon; you have a feeling he didn’t have much of a choice, same as you, but it doesn’t matter, because nothing really changes in his life the way it changes in yours.

Simon isn’t the one that loses himself. Simon isn’t the one that has to wear a brand on himself, a permanent reminder of his submission. Simon isn’t the one that has to succumb to things he can’t control about himself–the heats that last for days, the ones that will burn you from the inside out until it gets that nasty fill that your omega was born for.

Ruts just aren’t the same, you don’t believe it. They can swallow them down. Save them for later. It isn’t a comfortable thing to do, but if an alpha is missing their omega, they can satiate themselves with a lazy hand or a soft mouth until they get what they’re searching for.

Omegas aren’t offered the same luxury. If you don’t get what your omega feeds off of, she might kill you–and you don’t need to be reminded that you and your omega aren’t exactly on great terms.

The boys are quiet at breakfast. John has secluded himself in his office for the day, but Simon’s sergeants are pretty quiet for how much they usually babble. They are, however, shoving their faces in with food in a matter that makes you scowl.

They’re dogs, really. Johnny looks positively famished. He’s got his cheeks pillowed with eggs and toast, and you look away from Gaz as he tips his head back to wash down a mouthful of ham with coffee.

You jump when you feel a fist hit the table. It rattles the trays, and Johnny’s orange juice splatters a little outside of the cup. Simon is back from the kitchen, sliding your own tray in front of you. Your mouth waters a little at the smell of the freshly baked croissant and moka pot of coffee that waits for you, and the sergeants grumble a little as they look up at their lieutenant.

“Would you both fuckin’ eat with y’r fuckin’ mouths closed?” Simon snaps. “Bloody rats eat more proper than you lot.”

“What’s the matter, LT?” Johnny gulps down his food, wiping his mouth with a wet thumb. He smiles at you with teeth, and you pick up your fork to busy yourself. You can see feel his crazy eyes on you, trained on your face. He licks over his teeth as he does. “Want us to be proper gentlemen around yer bonnie girl?” He wiggles his tongue at you. “What’s proper about knotting a pretty little omega like tha’, aye? Can smell ‘er from ‘ere…Smell like taffy.”

Simon takes a seat on the bench next to Johnny. You stare wide-eyed as Simon cocks his head to the side. Your eyes water a little as you see Simon slide a big hand up Johnny’s neck. He leans into it, clearly comfortable (you’re going to try and forget this observation), but his face contorts from contentment to sheer pain as Simon wraps his gloved fingers into the curls of his mohawk and pulls. Johnny’s neck snaps back at a hard angle, making him hiss and kick his legs out. They bang against the table, shaking it, and Gaz looks down at his plate as Simon tugs Johnny close to him.

“You listen ‘ere, Sergeant. I’ll say this once, and I won’t repeat it,” Simon growls. “If I hear you say one more word about my mate’s cunt, I’ll rip your throat out with my own teeth. Don’t care ‘ow many times you’ve covered me or saved my arse on the field. My rank is her rank, so from now on, I want you to drop y’r eyes when she looks at you, and I want you to say, yes, ma’am, and nothin’ else, you ‘ear that?” Johnny grits his teeth as Simon shakes his head violently, holding him firm. “And if I hear about it when I’m not around, I’ll let her cut y’r dick off, yeah? Or maybe I’ll let her shoot you in the head again. And trust me, mate, she won’t miss–”

“Simon,” you interrupt gently. Simon’s face turns, and you meet his eyes. You shake your head a little. “It’s…it’s okay. Johnny’s just a huge flirt, and it came out wrong. Didn’t it, Johnny?”

Simon closes his fist, letting out a sharp breath. His eyes are a little darker than you’re used to. You’re not sure he’ll listen to you, but when you see his fingers start to loosen, you relax a little. You don’t understand why he’s defending you, anyways, but maybe Simon has some twisted moral code when it comes to insulting his mate.

That only he gets to, and no one else.

“Yeah–” Johnny spits, and when Simon lets him go roughly, Johnny just laughs a little. His cheeks are rosy, and he tries to shake it off, but you can tell by the way he averts his eyes and the smell that wafts from him–Johnny is terrified of his lieutenant.

Simon stands, making the table rattle again. Johnny’s cup spills over the edge, and your cutlery falls to the floor as he makes his way out of the mess hall, throwing the doors open and letting them slam shut behind him. You scoff, rolling your eyes, and you swipe Gaz’s fork from his tray before continuing to eat.

“What the fuck is his problem?” You stab your sausage with the fork, cutting it angrily, and Johnny clears his throat. His rubs the back of his neck, rolling it out carefully.

“Yer serious?” Johnny scoffs. “Fuckin’ big man is in love with ye.”

Not me. He’s in love with…her.

“He’s just mad because he thinks he’s the only one entitled to say anything derogatory to me,” you explain. “He’s such an asshole, I swear. So are you, Johnny, by the way–I’m not gonna wet your dick for you, go flirt with someone else.”

Gaz snorts, shaking his head, and you pour him a little more coffee from the pot Simon left for you and some for yourself.

“Kind of sweet, innit?” Gaz murmurs. “He cares about you, you know.”

“Yeah?” You raise a brow. “Has a real funny way of showing it. You don’t see him when we’re alone. He’s mean. I don’t know what goes on in your heads, but your kind jump to conclusions. And you assume. And you’re too aggressive.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Gaz asks. He turns to look at you, shrugging. “That’s how we’re made.”

“I try everyday to be anything but how I’m made,” you say lowly.

It’s a lousy excuse, especially for an operative like him. Kyle and Johnny are no strangers to aversion or high-stakes. There is combat, and then there is what this team does. You’ve peeked at the papers on Simon’s desk. You’ve read the files you have no clearance to read. For the air-headedness that Simon radiates, he’s excellent at writing post-op reports, with fine detail. He doesn’t miss anything. This team isn’t something like SWAT–they don’t carry big guns for show and break down suburban houses. They hit foreign targets without a trace and eliminate threats before they blink. They are in and out of a building in thirty minutes, and they leave no man behind and no target alive. Each of them are experts in their own subject, and even with Johnny’s big, disgusting mouth, you cannot deny what makes him special.

He could make an explosive out of regular kitchen supplies; maybe even out of the toiletries you keep in a go-bag. His affection for chemistry is as equal to that of a good, protein-rich meal. Kyle is no different–you’ve seen him just for fun program an auto-correct feature into John’s laptop that replaced every word that he typed that started with a vowel to shitfucker. You saw him do it remotely. Over Bluetooth. With a Blackberry.

These aren’t just operators. These aren’t just idiot, self-engorged, misogynistic and animalistic men that panted and waited for orders like lovesick puppies, they are much too intelligent and way too self-aware. You won’t take that’s how we’re made as an excuse–it’s beneath them, if you’re being honest, and it’s infuriating. They aren’t a normal pack, and they never will be, and so you need them to stop using stereotypical excuses as reason for them being just like the rest.

It is conscious. It’s disgusting. It’s exactly as you thought it would be.

“Well maybe if ye tried that less, tried just being what ye are…things would be easier for ye,” Johnny mutters, picking up his overturned cup and sighing sharply through his nose. You drop your fork and lean forward on your elbows.

Oh, alright. If Johnny wants to play rank, then you can play rank.

“You know, you both have a lot of nerve,” you say lowly. “I would start being very fucking nice to me from now on. Simon and I may not get along, and maybe we never will. But he sure as shit won’t stand aside if tuck my tail between my legs and blame one of you for something you didn’t do.”

“Thought you said he hated you?” Gaz mocks. “Thought you said he was mean?”

You stand up and shove your tray towards them, starting to walk. You lean over to murmur in Gaz’s ear.

“He is,” you threaten. “But he’s still an alpha, my alpha, and pussy talks, Gaz. You’d know. You’ve been drooling for it since I sat down. I can smell you, too.”

You pat Gaz’s cheek a bit too roughly, and he snarls a little. You smile to yourself as you make your way out, and down the hall, you see a familiar shadow disappear around the corner into the darkness. You cross your arms over your chest, sighing, and then you start towards it.

When you round the corner, he’s standing right there. Leaned against the wall, big arms crossed over his chest. His face twitches under the mask. You move to stand in front of him so you can get his eyes.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t want to babysit me, you can’t seem to leave me alone.”

“I have others to answer to if something happens to you.”

“Don’t act like you care what other people think. Especially your superiors.” You roll your eyes. You don’t have much more time to talk to him. Or berate him, you were still deciding. A shadow comes up next to you, and when you turn, Captain Price is staring at you both, nodding his head behind him.

“I need to have a word. With both of you.”

You give Simon a look, but he doesn’t give one back. He merely slips a hand down your back and puts you in front of him, ushering you to walk. You’ve never been reprimanded by a superior, not because of a mission or anything of stake, so you can’t help the feeling that overcomes you–something of failure.

Had you done something wrong? Surely you had.

John’s office is bigger than Simon’s, but just as messy. Messier. There’s a pretty beta secretary out in front of it, and she smiles at you and waves. She’s too cute–too sweet. She probably puts sugar in John’s tea to make him smile or draws little smiley faces on messages from missed calls. You pity her and wish you were her all the same. When she notices your solemn face, she shrinks and dips her head, picking up her pen and continuing to fill out some forms.

John waits for both you and Simon to sit before shutting his office door behind him. He sucks on his teeth before tossing his hat onto his desk, nodding towards the two creaky seats in front of him.

“Sit.”

“Rather stand,” Simon counters, but one hard look from his captain, and Simon is begrudgingly taking a seat. The metal creaks under his weight, and you take a seat next to him. John sits on his desk in front of you both, and he looks at Simon before ending on you.

The scents in the air are driving you insane. You take a breath to try and keep your eyes from watering, but it’s difficult.

“You know, Kit, our team isn’t known for…following the rules,” John begins. “But I was assured that…if anything went wrong, that my lieutenant here would be responsible. He vouched for you.”

You fold your hands in your lap. You prepare yourself for the beratement. You sit up a little straighter, squaring your shoulders. The neutral expression your face falls into seems to irk your captain. He scrunches his nose a bit, smoothing a palm over the papers in front of him. He’s trying to establish his air of dominance, but it’s increasingly easy to stare him back down when your alpha sits right beside you.

There’s comfort in his presence, and your omega feeds on it.

“I saw you shoot. Got a good eye for those kinds of things, I’ll admit,” John nods. “And you did well in training. Followed Simon. His orders. Saw you clearin’ rooms like you’ve been on this team for years.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Blue, but empty. “He was right. Fast learner. You know your place.” You narrow your eyes at that, and he hums. “But it doesn’t change what this is. What you are.”

You’re surprised at the way your omega curls in your gut. Angry. There’s an alpha insulting you, but this one isn’t yours. She warms your hands, and you dig your nails into your chair to keep her calm. She wants to bite, and she’s confident with Simon at her side.

“An asset?” You try talking instead.

“A liability.” John leans forward. “You put my men in danger. Going into heat like that.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. It’s alienation. You are an outsider. Not part of his pack. John draws a circle around himself, and you are not included in it, and the sentiment leaks into his words like a flood, and it hits you through the chest. Your lip trembles just slightly, but you swallow down the rejection, keeping it close. Your omega whimpers–an alpha, though it is not your own, is isolating you, and it hurts her.

“She didn’t–” Simon is interrupted by John’s laughter.

“You were off comms for 15 minutes and 37 seconds, an amount of time that during an op is fucking critical and could’ve blown the entire operation!” John snaps. “I told you to be fucking careful, I told you both to take precautions, and you failed me. I can understand you–” He points at you, and omega lingers unsaid, “but you, Simon? You–”

“It wasn’t his fault, it was mine,” you interrupt. “I should’ve known.”

“He’s your alpha, it’s his fuckin’ job,” John clarifies. “But Simon has more than one job, and on that day, it was keeping the target in his sight and waiting for my fuckin’ say.”

“Don’t reprimand him for making the call,” you tell him. “I’m the one who misread what I was feeling. I’m the one who distracted him from what he was doing. I’m the one who was projecting so badly, he had to help. It’s me. I screwed up. I’m just as much of your team as they are, so hold me accountable, not Simon.”

“You are not on my team, you are my problem.”

She wails. She grips your heart in both hands and hangs on, crying, wailing, begging you to say something to make him approve of you. She so desperately wants to be included in Simon’s pack, and it aches inside to be pushed away. You dig your nails in further, and you don’t realize how much your scent is flaring. Simon gets one whiff of it and snarls. His hands close into fists.

You goin’ to let tha’ wanker talk to your mate tha’ way? You goin’ to let another alpha walk all over her? He’s challenging you, tha’s wot this is, innit?

“Choose y’r next words wisely, Captain.” Simon finally speaks, and his tone rattles you. His voice dips low, and you can hear his alpha soaking into his words, and the bitterness in the air has to be him deciding whether or not today would be a good day to stand up to his captain.

“Tha’ right, Simon?” John murmurs. “Is that an order?”

Simon stands. Immediately, the humidity in the room expands, and you nearly choke from the sting of their scents in the air. Simon is much larger than John. He’s so much bigger, so much wider. You stand, too, and when Simon feels your hand along his bicep, his shoulders loosen just an inch.

Your omega may beg for approval and inclusion, but even she stands down when you remind her of the importance of pack bonds. You are not mated, and Simon has his own to keep, so you must appease. It hurts to do it, but you know you will thank yourself later.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” you say softly. “I-It won’t happen again. I swear…I promise.” Your eyes water, and you try to hold in the cough you’re holding. “First time…and the last time.”

Simon’s task force is a unique group. Four alphas–a lot of ego and fighting dominance in one bunch. It’s normally not done. They like to have a nice mix of betas and alphas to keep groups balanced, but Kate needed an exceptional group, so she built one. Four alphas in one pack is not common, but it works–and she has the stats to prove it.

You wonder if she knew what would happen when she threw you into the mix. How each of them might react when an omega tried to slip in between them. If Kyle would try to sink his teeth in. If Johnny would pass out from panting so fucking hard. If John would let his resolve slip for just long enough to blur the lines between a commanding officer and his subordinate.

Maybe Simon reacted just as she expected. That he would see what was meant just for him and pull her apart so he could slip under her ribs and stay right there. You have not been claimed, and yet–it is truth. They know it, Simon knows it, you know it, and so does your omega.

Simon paces in his room. A slow pace, but paces, and you observe him from your place on the bed as he breathes deeply. His alpha is leaking through the cracks, and you can smell his anger. It fumes, makes your nose curl. It’s a bitter scent. Your omega purrs in your chest–she wants to soothe him.

We will do no such thing. Shut the fuck up.

“You need to let me handle things when we get cornered like tha’.”

“I’m a big girl, Simon,” you say softly. “And it was my mistake.”

“It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Simon explains. “I’m your alpha.”

“I don’t care,” you shake your head. “You don’t speak for me.”

“No, I speak for us both,” Simon points a finger at you, coming closer. “For you and for me, and you need to understand tha’.”

You glare up at him. In all the time you’ve spent with him, he’s still letting his alpha bleed when he’s angry. You need to understand nothing–Simon needs to learn. He needs to learn that the omega they write about in textbooks isn’t reality. You fight your omega tooth and nail for control, and you are still on top for now. Simon needs to learn this. He needs to learn that you are not easily influenced by command. You may smell like an omega. You may keen like an omega.

But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I submit like an omega.

“Fuck you.”

Don’t talk like that…you know you want to.

“Ya already ‘ave, kitty,” Simon spits. “Would you like to go again?”

“I know this is hard for you to get through your thick head,” you whisper. “But just because I fucked you doesn’t mean anything. What happened between us was clinical. Your dick is medicine, and there was nothing I could do, and that is where this ends. You can tell yourself over and over again that you are my mate…that you’re my hero, that you saved me, but maybe next time, I’ll just let my omega kill me. The thought of you inside of me ever again makes me physically fucking sick.”

You’re a bad liar.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say lowly. He leans closer, until his face is nearly against yours. “You’re a pathetic, insecure, waste of space. I will never be your mate, and I pity every omega that might come after me, that has the unfortunate mistake of thinking you could claim them with any sense at all. You use and you abuse, and you have your head so far up your ass, I don’t think you know what’s real and what isn’t.”

Simon stares. You stare back. Your chest heaves, and so does his, and you keep your eyes on each other as you stare back and forth. His eyes are so dark. Beautiful, but so dark, it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s not long that you notice his lashes fade to blonde at the end of them. His skin, where it bleeds from the eye-black he wears to the pale color of his face, has freckles scattered around the eyes. You can see the raised, white line of a scar that is just peeking from under the mask.

Isn’t he so pretty?

“On your knees,” Simon murmurs.

It’s whiplash. One moment, your entire body is buzzing. Angry, fiery–you can feel it shaking you. You hate him with ever fiber, want to smack the smug look you know he wears under that mask. You hate the power that he has over you and how much he relishes in it. The next moment, in a few slow words, it vanishes.

Like it was never even there at all.

“Excuse me?” You breathe.

“On your knees. Lose the pants. ‘n y’r knickers.”

“What makes you–”

“Won’t ask again.”

We need this. We need this. We need this.

It’s just that easy. For all the resolve that it feels like you have, maybe you really have none. You blink, but then he hears the sound of you toeing off your boots. They hit the floor, and then your cargos are falling on top of them, and then you’re turning over, sliding along the warm sheets of his bed until you’re lying on your tummy, ass up, and you’re closing your eyes as his gloved hands push your panties down your thighs until they’re around your knees.

You don’t really know who’s doing it. You’re afraid to think about it too hard, because you know that it just might be you.

He eats nasty. All tongue. He spreads your ass with big palms, and you gurgle when he kisses your folds with tongue. Your brain starts to fog, and you relax easily. He kisses soft and slow, but wet. You fist the blankets, pushing back, and he slides a thumb down to smooth over your puffy clit very gently. He hisses when he sees your hole flex in response, a drop of slick falling onto his palm.

“Kitty, why didn’t ya just say so?” Simon asks, stupid and fascinated by you. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted y’r pretty pussy kissed, hmm?”

“Because I hate you–” You whine, and Simon slips his tongue inside of you. You babble, your mouth dropping open, and he hums as he gets a taste of you before pulling back, smacking his lips. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, and his alpha howls. He’s never spoken to him this way, not really. The only time his alpha has ever really come to the forefront like this was the times he thought he was close to death; but Simon’s never been this close to life, either.

“I know,” he coos. “I know ya do. But this isn’t personal, is it?” He uses his thumbs to open you up, growling when he sees your hole pucker a little. A dribble of slick falls, and he catches it with his tongue, swallowing it down. “How’d ya put it, luv? ‘s medicine?”

“Your dick is medicine.”

“My mouth, too, I reckon.”

“Shut the fuck up, and eat me, baby,” you whimper, and he opens his mouth wide and licks with a thick tongue. He presses his mouth to your cunt and eats, bobbing his head as he alternates between slobbering licks and eager sucking. His tongue slides between your folds occasionally before slipping into you, and you curl your toes every time he brushes against your clit. His thumb will sometimes circle it, or his tongue will suck softly, but he never stays there too long. Simon likes to tease. He likes to make you a little desperate, likes to get you soft and drippy and dizzy, and then he gives in a little. He gives you two fingers, gloved still, and you push back against his face with gentle grinds as he fucks you softly with his hand. It’s agony and relief all at once.

“Like tha’?” He asks. He sounds amused. You hope his hard cock gets pinched by his zipper.

“Mmm–” You try. You arch your back, getting up onto your elbows, and Simon uses his free hand to give one side of your ass a nice smack, jiggling it gently before kissing where he hit. You giggle at that, soft and airy.

“Answer me, omega.”

“Fucking love it,” you gasp. “Big fingers–”

Simon laughs at that. You can smell his ego, but you don’t have it in you to say something smart. It’s true. Even with his hand, he fucks good, hitting deep. His mouth did wonders, and you’re dripping along his hand. His glove is soaked, and his forearm is wet, and when you glance down at the sheets, they are damp and dark with the mess you made. Simon doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in to eat more, pulling his fingers out so he can use his mouth again, tongue deep as he sucks and hinges that big jaw to get a mouthful of you and groan. You taste good–nice and sweet, thick juices wetting his chin, and he squeezes your ass in appreciation when you throw it back and smother him. He likes this. Likes the lack of air, the wet pussy, the soft whines. He’s content here, and he doesn’t seem like he wants to move anytime soon, and he doesn’t complain. He just opens his mouth and swirls and tongue and fuck–your clit is in his mouth, and you’re crying.

It’s too kind. An alpha kneeling for their mate. Taking pleasure in their pleasure. It’s not unheard of, but it’s…unorthodox. It confuses you. Your omega cries with happiness, but she’s confused, too. She doesn’t expect pleasure just for pleasure–but she wants it, she wants more of it, she’s digging her nails into your skin to try and get you to convince Simon to give you more, more, more.

“Give it to me,” Simon murmurs. “‘s olright. Give it to me.”

“Simon–”

“Mhm,” he nods, cocking his head and taking your clit into his mouth again. “Give it ‘ere.”

Your orgasm hits hard, but it’s nice and slow. Your thighs shake, but Simon sinks into you, breathing out through his nose as he delicately laps at your clit. He doesn’t stop, swallowing as you come into his mouth, keeping the pace to make sure your orgasm fizzles just as good as it hit you.

You sink to your tummy when he pulls away. Your knees give out, and he slips your panties completely off, and you flop onto the dry side of the bed. You start to cry. Not tears of relief, but tears of pain. Of what is inevitable. Of the hard truth that you loathe more than anything.

Simon can never force you. You will always want him, you think. There will always be something in the back of your mind that aches for him, and you try and you try and you try to fight it off, but you want him so viscerally, it cuts you deep where you’ll never notice it.

“Say wotever you want about me,” Simon mutters. “Tell yourself wotever you want that helps you sleep at night, hate me oll you want. But I take care of wot’s mine.” He strokes your hair out of your eyes, leaning down, and you cry harder. You clutch a pillow, hug it tight, and your eyes flutter open as you look at him. His mask is still hiked up just under his nose, and you can see half his face. Scars that cut across him like paintbrush strokes, adding texture and depth where there shouldn’t be.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” you whisper. “You have no idea what it’s like for every single part of yourself to betray what you want. You don’t get it. Y-You don’t understand, you never will. You will always have the upper hand, and y-you will never know what it’s like to not have a choice.”

Simon continues to brush through your hair with his fingers. Soothing you gently, coaxing you into a headspace that feels like white noise. You whine, and Simon comes closer. He presses his mouth to your forehead, soft, gentle, his scent close enough that your beating heart slows down considerably just in response.

“No, I won’t,” Simon agrees. “But that’s what you are. You’re an omega.”

He says it like it’s so simple. Like it explains everything in the entire world. Being an omega is the simplest answer he could ever give, and it explains every variable, every nuance, every quirk that makes you you. It explains every time you sink to your knees for him. It explains how easily you let him fuck you on a rooftop in a foreign country. It explains how even though you hate him with every fiber of your being, there is somehow no one else you want standing over you now.

“I’m still me.”

“No,” Simon shakes his head. “You cannot change wot you are. You’re fighting her, and you will lose.”

You wonder, for just a second, if Simon is speaking from experience. Have there been times when his alpha takes over? Does it take control? Are there times when he looks in the mirror, too, and doesn’t know who is staring back?

“I hate her, too,” you spit. “I hate her, and I hate you.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his terrible face. The first one you’ve ever seen. You hate the urge you have to lean forward and kiss it.

“She is you.”

“Then I hate me. I hate myself.”

Simon changes the sheets silently. He picks you up and moves you when he has to–two big, burly arms picking you up like you’re a feather. You cling to his neck, studying him, and you find yourself not being able to look away. He’s so capable. He’s so independent. He’s so reactive to your needs, it infuriates you, how could one man be so in tune with you, more than yourself?

He drapes all new blankets over you. He turns out most of the lights, except for the low glow of the yellow lamp on his desk. He tucks you in, making sure you’re warm, and then he bends down to say something to you, in your ear.

“Dunno wot you think,” he tells you, “but there will be no omega after you.” His voice drops low, and when you close your eyes, you hear his alpha. Threatening, affirmative, exact. “You are mine. I’ll not ‘ave another. The sooner you accept tha’, the easier things’ll be for you.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Eat a dick.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Much prefer y’r cunt, kitty.”

Simon’s protection is instinctual. It’s not really a choice, it’s subconscious. He watches you braid your hair in your room, observes as you tuck it behind your ears and tie it off your face. He hovers as you gear up. Watches you buckle your belt, strap your tact vest, adjust your helmet. He comes over after you’ve laced your boots, tugging on your vest to make sure it’s secure and fastening your helmet for you. You let him as you clip your watch on, closing your eyes as he smooths a thumb across your cheek and turns you towards the door.

It’s a long flight. You fall asleep, your face smushed against his arm, and when you wake up, Simon is still sitting there, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. John smokes, Gaz has a folded up little book in his hand with what seems like sudoku pages, and Johnny is twirling what looks like a fidget spinner in one hand. You blink awake, but it’s dark out, pitch-black.

That’s the job. Dark, where you can use night as cover. Stealth. You and Simon have been tasked with clearing out one building on your own. Several stories, possible targets inside, presumed armed and dangerous. You were given the clear to eliminate any threats on sight–the op is capture or kill, and John made that very clear in a small room that reeked of his authority.

The bird drops you a few kilometers from where your target building lies. You flip the night-vision down, flicking it on, and you stick to Simon like glue as you follow him silently through empty streets. You’re somewhere in Eastern Europe, somewhere cold and unfeeling and just on the border of Russia. You aren’t privy to any more details; all you know is that your mission is to be Simon’s cover, and you have the face of your target memorized and burned into the back of your eyes.

You spot your target building at the end of the block. The streetlight flickers, and it looks like a low-income apartment building. It’s very small, dilapidated, with a peeling entrance door that has the window broken, hastily patched up with duct tape. It’s no trouble for Simon to stick the scope of his rifle through the duct table and shred the remaining glass to pieces, putting his hand through the window and unlocking the door easily.

The first few floors are clear. Simon always enters a room first, with you in quick succession. You are silent, touch and go, soft taps on shoulders that the both of you can read immediately. You’re in tune with him. When he steps left, so do you. When he turns, you cover, when he sweeps up, you sweep down. It’s a dance, a very well coordinated one, and it lets Simon breathe easier when he realizes how well you’ve adapted to each other over a short period of time.

Just a few weeks, and you are two sides of each other.

Simon swallows down the prideful purr in his chest. Now isn’t the time to get distracted.

When you make your way to the top floor, just below the roof, your chest starts to feel warm. You pause at the top of the stairs as Simon keeps his rifle trained at the first door in front of him. You swallow hard, widening your stance to keep yourself upright. You shake your head, trying to toss the jitters off of you. Your throat hurts as the saliva goes down.

Simon clears the room with you shuffling close behind. You blink rapidly when you see two of Simon, and he whips around suddenly. You can see him through your night vision stiffening in front of you. Shoulders tensing, fingers gripping his rifle tighter. You pause as he comes close to you, and your eyes water when he lifts one hand from his gun to cup your face gently.

You know what he’s asking. You nod shakily, and he taps his wrist with two fingers.

Give me two minutes, is what he’s saying to you.

You don’t get two minutes.

The door behind you slams open. Two men breach inside, and they come at you with a force too strong, and you go flying towards the far wall. Your back hits it hard, and you collapse onto the ground. Your whole body aches, and you know there will an array of nasty bruises under the skin. Your helmet took the brunt of the hit, but you still feel dizzy as it falls off your head, clattering to the ground. You cough, scrambling for your rifle that is a few feet away from you now, and Simon drops one of them with a few easy bullets, but the second man uses his dead companion as cover, throwing the body at Simon until he can lunge at him.

Simon swipes the blade out of his boot and goes for his weak spots. He manages to get him under the arm, across his thigh, but Simon is wearing a lot of gear, and with the weight of a dead alpha getting tossed at him again, he gets moved backwards enough to lose his footing, and then it happens.

The man’s gun fires, and it goes straight for Simon’s head. A flash of light that seals some sick sort of fate that you know can’t be yours. It’s not you that screams in response.

It is your omega.

You launch yourself at him. In your daze, your omega finds clarity, and she seizes her moment. You slip the blade out of its place in your thigh holster, and you toss a nearby chair at him to incapacitate his gun. It gets trapped underneath it, enough time for you to jump and land on him from behind.

He’s an alpha. Physically, you should be no match for him given your size differences, but something else is taking over. Your nails don’t just grab, they pierce his skin. Digging it, shredding flesh, and you bring your blade down over and over again against his chest. He screams in pain, trying to wriggle you off. You lock your ankles around his middle, keeping your hand coming, tearing with your nails and slicing with your knife, but he manages to get an arm underneath you and throw you off.

You hit the ground again roughly, but it doesn’t stop your omega. She gets right back up, but he tackles you. He uses his weight to pin you down, and the knife rings as it slides across the room, but your omega doesn’t let it stop her. He got too close, and she will make sure he regrets it.

He went for your mate, and she cannot have that. She won’t survive without him. Unclaimed, but she doesn’t care–Simon is hers, and she won’t let him go without something all-encompassing and violent. He’ll have to pry Simon out of her dead hands. You feel like you’re watching from the sidelines. You’re not yourself. It’s the first time that you don’t really care.

You scream, leaning up, and he doesn’t get a moment to think before you sink your teeth into the plush of his scent gland and rip it clean out.

Fuck. There’s blood gushing everywhere, spurting from where you’ve severed the gland. The gland is precious, anatomically–it provides most of the oxygen to the brain, and it’s what seals the bond. While it can’t be marked the same way an omega’s can, an alpha can’t survive without it. You’re finding out just how precious it is as you watch an alpha cough and sputter once he realizes what’s happening to him.

He crawls off of you, trying to use his hand to put pressure to his neck, but it’s no use. He leans against the wall and chokes, blood filling his mouth, and you spit out the flesh from between your teeth as you watch him gurgle and kick his feet out. He reaches out for you, pleading in his eyes, but you feel no mercy. There’s tears coming down his face now, and you watch with a scowl as the blood spills between his fingers instead of bringing his brain precious life.

Good fucking riddance.

You turn over once you’re satisfied he won’t get up. You see Simon still sprawled on his back behind you, and you scramble to get to him. You grab his helmet and throw it off, and you start to cry, feeling around and realizing there’s something sticky oozing and pooling onto your fingers. You can’t see very well in the dark, but you put pressure anyways, unsure of what you’re dealing with. Your heartbeat is loud, and it echoes in your ears.

“No–No!” You gasp. You grab Simon’s radio, hands shaking as you press down onto the button.

“Bravo-6, d-do you c-copy?” You cry. “Bravo-6, answer–please–”

“Kit?” John’s voice comes out surprised, low. “What happened?”

“Si–Ghost–” You sob, “W-We need a medevac! Medevac–top floor–”

Your hands continue to shake as you reach for the bottom of his mask and rip it off. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without the mask, but you need to know. You need to know.

His face–it is a little ugly. The eye-black is smeared across his freckles, bleeding across his face from the sweat. He has scars everywhere; they criss-cross along his cheek, cut his lips, but you ignore that as you lean down and put your ear to his mouth.

His breaths come shallow and slow.

You cry with relief, feeling around with your fingers. When all you feel is blood, you pick up his helmet and cry harder when you notice the side of the helmet has been grazed, and the bullet casing lies near his head.

He had missed.

He missed.

You cup his face, tapping his cheeks gently, trying to wake him up.

“Simon?” You whisper, sniffling. “Simon, wake up. Please wake up. Please–”

You can’t carry him. Even if you tried to get your omega to help you, you aren’t physically strong enough to pick him up and carry him out. He’s too big and too heavy, and you wouldn’t be useful anyways; you’d be without cover trying to haul his ass to a bird that’s just too far away.

“Simon–”

He coughs. You gasp, wrapping an arm under him and trying to sit him up. He’s so much heavier with all of his gear on, but you do it anyways, lifting him up and laying his head in your lap. You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, and you cup the back of his neck.

“I thought he killed you–” You sob. Simon hums, his eyes opening and closing, and you smooth a few fingers down his cheek, relieved to hear him breathe. In and out, in and out, low and slow as he blinks away the spots in his vision.

Your eyes meet. It’s not a look you were expecting. You expected him to be angry, but he’s not. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You must look a sight, you think. There must be blood on your face, staining your teeth, but all of your senses are dulled as you try and read him.

Your hands shake as you brush a bit of dust off his face. Your fingers are trembling, but it’s grounding to touch him and see him blink those dark eyes up at you. God, he’s not ugly, no, he’s gorgeous. He’s so beautiful. He’ll never be prettier than the way he is now. Raw and vulnerable–Simon is most himself here, you think, stuck in the in-between of an operation. This is where he must feel everything the most. You open your mouth to say something else, to ask him if he’s okay, but then his face scrunches when he finally realizes where you are.

“On the door,” Simon mutters. “Get y’r gun on the fuckin’ door.”

“Simon–”

“Now!”

You scramble to reach for the handgun in your thigh holster, turning to get up on your knees and cover the door. You will your hands to stop shaking, gripping the handle of the gun tight to keep them steady. You can hear Simon getting himself together behind you. Shuffling onto his feet, picking up his rifle and his helmet. When you look over your shoulder for just a second, you notice his mask is back on.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, east building clear,” Simon rasps. He shoves his way past you, rattling you a little, and you stare at his back, defeated, as he clears the rest of the floor before making his way up the last flight of stairs. You hear your captain responding on comms, but you’re not paying enough attention. Simon slams the roof door shut once its behind you, and you wipe your eyes as Simon gets situated for overwatch as you cover the door.

“Simon, are you–”

“I don’t want to hear another word outta you unless we got contact on this fuckin’ roof,” Simon interrupts.

“I saved your ass!” You cry. “I did that! He would’ve killed you, you fucking asshole, so for once in your life, can you just look at me and say a fucking thank you?!”

Maybe Simon’s right. If you fight your omega, maybe you will lose. She might just kill you. You know she can. You’ve seen it happen before. Omegas that didn’t listen, losing themselves to the insanity of their inner struggle. It’s a violent end. It’s like they electrocute from the inside-out. Their minds betray them, and they let it take over, and with no alpha to soothe them, they’re just gone. If they drift too far, you can’t get yourself back.

Use me. I know what to do. I can get him back.

You do the only other thing you can try; you let your omega do the talking. The sweet, syrupy voice. The soft lilt. The edge that glides, doesn’t cut, the one that will hit his ear just right and hopefully get his alpha tick-tick-ticking inside of his head. The one that didn’t work on Kate–but Kate was not your mate. Kate never responded to you at all, not the way Simon does, and Kate has never tasted your cunt. Her alpha doesn’t know what she’s missing.

I can do it. Let me in.

“Please, Simon,” you beg. You see his fingers twitch as he adjusts the scope on his rifle. They falter, adjusting it just a few degrees too far. Simon doesn’t make mistakes, but then again he’s never had his omega purring in his ear like that. “Please.”

You make your way to him, curling a hand around his bicep. You tug him closer, trying to get him to look at you. He resists, but it’s a pathetic kind of resistance. The kind that you can overpower with just another firm tug. You can sense it, his hesitance, and your omega giggles in your head.

I have him. I can do it. Don’t worry.

“John was right,” Simon breathes. “You’re a problem. A liability.”

A liability because he doesn’t belong to anyone but you, maybe. He’s John’s liability. Not yours. Simon may be a part of their pack, but they should’ve picked up a fucking book when they knew you were coming. Submissiveness might be an inherent “trait” of your kind, but you realize now that is just a lie that alphas tell omegas to keep them quiet.

To keep them soft. To keep them begging. It’s probably something that your kind have learned over time, so distinct that you inherit it from someone that came before you, but you’re convinced that this kind of obedience and docility can be unlearned. It can be used.

If an omega cries, it would be stupid for an alpha to ignore it. It’s in their DNA–with just a soft whine, you can make Simon drop that rifle and bend you over any surface. They say it is for your sake. They say it is because omegas must be serviced or else they will succumb to themselves, but that isn’t what this is, and that’s not why omegas aren’t allowed in the field.

They’re not allowed because you can make Simon defy orders; because John can tell Simon something, and you can tell him something else, and you’re almost certain you know which way Simon will lean.

“Please just look at me, Simon,” you whisper. “Please.”

You cradle his face when he finally does. Your palms touch his wet mask, likely soaked with his own blood. You stand on your toes and draw his face closer to yours.

Fuck them for making you feel small. Fuck them for making you feel less than. Fuck anyone that ever made you feel like you were anything but in control, including her. If she just explained what she could do, this could’ve been a lot easier. If she just told you what she was capable of, you could’ve worked together. You could’ve given her what she wanted, and she could’ve given you what you wanted, and it could’ve been so much simpler.

“Gonna get me fuckin’ killed,” Simon growls. You start to cry again. Not because what he’s saying hurts you, but because he’s still bleeding, and all you can see when you close your eyes is that gun firing right at his head.

This is your ticket. This is your way out. Fuck Kate for making you believe that all you were meant for was being in his bed. You’re so close–aren’t you? You didn’t realize how close you were, but now you do, and you know exactly what to do.

You’re going to make them very, very sorry. You’re going to make them regret ever letting you inside. Your divisive, spitfire nature was not your line of defense. It was the indication of the future you always dreamed of, the future that is one bite-mark away from being tangible. You can taste it, like you taste what Simon wants in the air.

I can do it. I can help you. Let me in.

There was never a reason to be afraid. If anything, they should’ve been afraid of you.

You kiss him. It’s not a proper kiss, because his face is still covered, but you kiss Simon anyways. His cheeks warm, and his lips part, and you kiss him softly over and over as you take his face into your hands. When his arm slides around your waist, your omega is comfortable letting your knees buckle.

She knows already that Simon will catch you.

NEXT

[inwithrin]

ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡ abby + dumbification 

thinking about abby who doesn’t even realize she’s turned you into a dumb pretty girl. it wasn’t on purpose—she’s just so capable, so gentle, and strong. that before you knew it, you stopped lifting a finger around her.

cw: dumbification, fingering (r!receiving), soft dom!abby, slight choking. this was my demons telling me i should write more smut ... (,,¬﹏¬,,)

at first, abby doesn’t mean to coddle you. she opens doors without thinking, reaches across the car to buckle your seatbelt, drapes her jacket over your shoulders when it’s even slightly cold, she carries your purse, holds your hand when you cross a busy street, opens your water bottles, and watches you with that small frown when you even try to do anything yourself.

it starts slow. innocent.

it’s instinct. at least, that’s what she tells herself. but somewhere along the way, something shifts. she starts noticing how easily you let her do things, and then it hits her—hard. you’re too pretty to be doing anything on your own. too soft, too sweet, too delicate to be struggling with stubborn zippers or heavy doors. it almost makes her angry, seeing you lift a finger when she’s right there.

“you really can’t help yourself, huh?” you tease one day, laughing as she lifts you off the counter like you weigh nothing.

“you shouldn’t have to do anything,” abby mutters, brushing your hair behind your ear. “not when i’m here.”

you raise a brow. “even things i’m perfectly capable of doing?”

she grins. “especially those, baby.”

and it only gets worse from there.

she starts cutting your food for you when you're not paying attention. holds your chin so you drink water. gets grumpy when you won’t let her help you into your coat. she doesn’t even let you put on your shoes anymore. 

abby knows you could do it all yourself—but she’ll never let you. because if you’re gonna be this pretty and helpless around her, she’s gonna ruin you for anyone else ever trying to treat you like anything less than a princess. 

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

you’re standing in the hallway, struggling to drag a box full of your spring clothes that’s too heavy for you. it’s not even that big, but it’s the kind of thing abby could carry with one arm without even thinking about it, but you’re trying anyway.

she watches from the doorway for a second, silent—thinking about how you look cute like that, trying so hard to do something she could do for you. but then you glance up at her—wide, pretty eyes. your lip caught between your teeth. breath coming a little faster from the effort.

“baby,” she says, voice low.

you tilt your head. “yeah?”

she walks up to you. “what are you doing?”

you give her a shy look, like you know exactly how this is going to end up. “i’m just trying to move this box.”

“why are you doing it when i’m right here?” abby asks.

you shrug, playfully. “i didn’t wanna bother you, abs.”

abby lets out a short, quiet laugh. “bother me? you don’t bother me, sweetheart.”

her eyes never leave yours. you blink up at her again, and abby sighs at the sight of those pretty lashes fluttering, lips parted like you might ask for help but just can’t bring yourself to. 

she grabs the box effortlessly, pushes it aside like it weighs nothing, and then her hands are on your hips. “you don’t lift shit when i’m around,” she whispers, forehead pressed to yours now. “you know that, right?”

you nod, breath hitching. "i know."

“say it,” she almost sounds like she’s pleading.

“i don’t lift shit when you’re around,” you repeat with a little smile.

her lips crash into yours—hot, hungry, still laced with that frustration from seeing you strain without her. her hands are rough on your hips, guiding you back against the wall, like she needs you pinned there to calm herself down.

“next time you need something,” she murmurs, dragging her lips down your jaw, “you call for me. you ask. you use that pretty mouth for something useful.”

your knees go weak. she catches you before you can even stumble. “yes, abs.”

“told you,” she breathes, kissing your pulse point. “too fucking pretty to be lifting anything but your skirt for me.”

you barely have time to catch your breath before she scoops you up. “hey—”

“shh,” she murmurs, already carrying you down the hall. her arms are firm around you, one under your thighs, the other across your back, and you’re helpless in her hold. “you’ve done enough for today.”

you huff a quiet laugh, still dazed. “i barely did anything!"

“exactly,” she says, glancing at you with a grin. “and even that was too much.”

you bury your face in her neck, trying to hide the way your cheeks burn. she’s so warm, skin flushed from the kiss and the way she needs to take care of you. every step toward the bedroom is deliberate. 

“abs…” you whisper, fingers gripping the collar of her shirt.

she kicks the door open with her foot and sets you down on the bed—gently, but her hands don’t leave you, though. she hovers over you, crowding you in with that look again. hungry. reverent. possessive.

“my princess,” she whispers as she presses a kiss on the shell of your ear.

you tremble under her, thighs pressing together instinctively. she notices—of course she notices.

“my pretty doll,” abby mutters, trailing her hand slowly down your stomach, over your hips. “you try so hard to be helpful,” she says, kissing your neck now. “but i don’t want your help, baby. i want you pretty for me, spoiled, and mine. that’s it”

your eyes flutter shut, biting your lip.

“and you are, aren’t you?” she asks. 

“mhm,” you hum.

abby smirks against your skin, voice dropping even lower. “good. now let me remind you what you should be doing with those pretty hands… you should be grabbing my shoulders, my hands—pulling my hair, even—but not lifting boxes.”

you nod under her, already breathless, pupils wide and shining. abby just watches you for a second like she can’t believe how sweet you are.

“lay back,” she says softly.

you do, instantly, pliant as anything, arms falling to your sides like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment ever since you tried carrying that box. abby's big hands drag along your waist, your ribs, your thighs. she kisses your forehead, your temple, the inside of your wrist—like you’re something to be worshipped, not rushed.

“i fucking love when you do that,” she mutters against your shoulder, her braid tickling your skin. “looking up at me all helpless like that. all soft and needy, like you don’t even know how to ask for what you want.”

your breath stutters. your thighs twitch under her. “abby, please—”

“what do you want, baby?” she asks.

“you,” you whisper.

she smiles, but it’s crooked. “yeah? want me to take care of you?”

you nod again, and it’s immediate—automatic. her palm slides up your chest and gently wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there.

“so dumb,” she murmurs. “my dumb baby.”

your back arches into her, chasing the heat of her body. she groans, thumb brushing the skin of your neck while her other hand slips between your thighs, fingers ghosting over your soaked underwear.

“look at that,” she says, grinning against your cheek. “you don’t need to think. you just need me.”

you whimper, hips tilting into her hand. “i do need you, abs—”

“i’ll do everything for you,” she whispers. “fuck you how you need. take care of you. think for you. all you have to do is lie here, look pretty, and let me make you feel good. you don’t have to do anything more.”

you only hum in response, utterly gone by the sound of her voice.

“words, sweetheart,” she says, lips at your ear now.

“yes—please, abby,” you whisper. “please.”

she kisses you like she’s angry and in love all at once. her hand on your throat is still gentle. her body is pressing you down into the mattress like she wants to sink you into the bed. abby pulls your panties down slowly—two thick fingers slipping through your wetness, spreading you open with practiced care, but not really giving you anything, causing you to whine.

“already so wet for me, huh?” she says, dragging her fingers just barely where you need them. “you’re so good. so easy. i barely even have to try.”

you moan, hips rocking up, and her fingers slip in—thick and perfect, pressing deep with a slow curl that makes you cry out. “fuck, abs.”

she always fucks you with control and patience. every thrust is firm, fingers reaching places no one else ever could. her thumb rests on your clit, circling slowly and carefully. 

“that’s it, baby,” she coos. “don’t think. just feel.”

your mouth falls open. your hands grip her arm, and her palm tightens around your throat.

“you’re mine, yeah?” she asks.

“yes—yes, abby,” you utter in response. “i’m all yours—all yours.”

she groans, biting gently along your shoulder, as you start to clench around her fingers. you’re getting close, every part of you wound tight, eyes glassy and unfocused.

“let go, doll,” she whispers. “so dumb and pretty—just for me.”

abby’s fingers don’t stop—ever. each movement is deliberate, calculated, but it’s too much for you. her thumb presses harder on your clit, swirling just the right way, while she holds you still under her. every time you try to squirm or lift your hips, she pins you down with ease, barely needing to put any pressure on you to stop your movements.

“shh,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss you softly, gently—even if you can’t kiss back properly. “i’ve got you, baby. you can take it.”

your legs are shaking now, that familiar tension already coiling tighter and tighter in your stomach, but she’s not letting you get away with it. not yet. not until you beg her.

“i wanna cum, abs—” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut, and she doesn’t let up. 

she presses deeper inside you, fingers moving relentlessly, her grip on your throat firm and steady as she watches your reactions closely. “open your eyes,” she orders softly.

you do, and she’s there—right above you, eyes dark with adoration. “wanna cum, please, please, please—”

“you’re gonna come for me, right?” she asks, voice a low rasp that makes your heart race even faster. “gonna be a good little baby and let me make you come?”

“yes,” you whisper, voice shaky, utterly helpless under her touch. “please, abby.”

“good girl,” she praises, and the words hit you like a shockwave. “such a sweet little thing for me.”

her fingers start moving faster, her palm pressing harder against your clit, and this time, she doesn’t give you the chance to breathe. the overstimulation crashes over you in waves, but it’s all too much in the best way. you cum—shaking, crying out, your back arching, your whole body trembling under the force of it. your hands fly to her wrist, clutching her desperately as your hips try to escape the intensity of it all, but she holds you down—right where she wants you.

“that’s it,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek gently while you writhe underneath her. “so fucking beautiful. so good for me.”

your mind is fuzzy, your body still tingling from the orgasm. you try to catch your breath, but she’s not done. not yet.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 25: June 2024 - Part 6

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet. Soft. Safe.

It always felt that way here — a small haven away from the noise of circuits and media storms, from the sharp edges of being forgotten and the new weight of suddenly being seen. The window let in filtered afternoon light, and Simone’s office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

Belle sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn’t yet touched.

Simone sat across from her with her notebook closed, eyes kind, waiting.

“I think the worst part,” Belle said softly, after a long pause, “is that I didn’t expect it to feel so loud.”

Simone tilted her head slightly. “The public knowing?”

Belle nodded. “It was quiet for so long. Just ours. Just… safe. But now—one photo, and suddenly everyone’s watching.”

“Does it feel like a loss of control?” Simone asked gently.

“Yes. And no.” Belle looked down at her mug. “I wanted people to know. Eventually. I chose to walk into the paddock. I chose to kiss him. I posted the photo. It wasn’t an accident. But now everyone has an opinion. People I’ve never met are dissecting my life like it’s a press release.”

Simone let the silence settle for a moment, then asked, “What grounded you when it started to feel overwhelming?”

Belle smiled faintly. “Max. He always knows when I’m spiraling — even before I do. He’ll just take my hand or touch my back and everything feels quieter.”

There was a pause.

“I told Arthur,” Belle said, voice softer now.

Simone’s brows lifted slightly. “How did that feel?”

“Better than I expected,” Belle admitted. “He didn’t defend Charles. He didn’t make excuses. He just showed up. And he listened.”

“That’s progress,” Simone said gently.

Belle nodded. “But it’s only him. I haven’t spoken to anyone else.”

“Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know.”

Simone didn’t press her. Just waited.

“I think part of me still wants them to reach out. To say sorry without being prompted. To see me on their own. Not because they’re embarrassed or because the media caught on. Just… because they miss me.” Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.

Simone’s tone was careful, but warm. “It’s okay to want that.”

���I know. I just don’t know if they’re capable of it.”

“And if they’re not?” Simone asked gently.

Belle looked up. “Then I move forward without them.”

Another pause.

“Can I offer a thought?” Simone asked.

Belle nodded.

“If you do choose to let them in again — not now, not even soon, but eventually — it might be helpful to bring those conversations into a neutral space. Somewhere safe.”

Belle’s gaze flicked toward her. “Like here?”

Simone gave a small smile. “Like family therapy. With boundaries. With someone to help hold the structure while you explore whether rebuilding is even possible.”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want to excuse what they did,” she said. “Or pretend everything’s fine because I married someone famous and suddenly they care.”

“I would never ask you to,” Simone replied gently. “You’ve already built a life. A marriage. Soon a family of your own. The question is whether you want to let them try to earn a place in it.”

Belle’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked them clear. “I think I might be open to the idea.”

“That’s enough for today.”

Belle let out a slow breath.

And for the first time since the Parc Fermé kiss and the global chaos that followed, the silence in her chest didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like peace.

***

It started with a dress.

Just a simple, pale blue linen one — a favorite of hers. Soft. Easy. Forgiving in the waist. She’d worn it to coffee with Emilie two weeks ago and felt fine in it. Pretty, even.

Now, it wouldn’t zip.

Belle stood in the center of the bedroom, barefoot on the rug, hair still damp from the shower, the zipper stuck halfway up her back as she twisted and strained and tried not to cry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flood of hormones and tears and shouting. It was quiet.

A soft, sharp ache of realization.

Her body had changed overnight.

She turned slowly toward the mirror. Pressed a hand to her stomach. What had once been the faintest suggestion now had shape. Curve. Weight. Not enough to scream pregnant to the world, but more than enough to make her clothes sit wrong. To make her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

The zipper finally gave up entirely, and Belle stepped out of the dress with more frustration than grace.

She tried another — a black cotton shift. Still no. Then a flowy skirt — fine at the hips, but suddenly too snug at the waist. A button-down she’d always liked? The buttons across her chest strained so badly it looked like they were preparing for launch.

One by one, the pieces fell to the floor around her.

When she finally dropped into the edge of the bed, she was surrounded by the soft wreckage of what used to fit. A fabric battlefield. Her hands rested on her knees, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She hadn’t expected to feel sad.

This was supposed to be beautiful — the beginning of something. The miracle. The glow.

But all she could think was: Nothing fits anymore.

And Max wasn’t there.

He’d left for the race two days ago — a back-to-back weekend with media, meetings, track walks. He’d kissed her forehead before leaving, pressed a palm gently over her belly, whispered something about texting her after every session.

But he wasn’t here.

Not now, when her body had changed without warning and she didn’t know how to dress it. Not now, when she just wanted someone to look at her and say, you’re still you.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it without hope — then saw his name.

Max: Morning, Schatje. I just got out of briefing. I miss you. How’s our co-pilot today?

Belle’s throat tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second before she typed back.

Belle: I miss you too. Co-Pilot seems to be growing faster than expected. Nothing fits. At all. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a puffed pastry with a heart rate.

The reply came almost instantly.

Max: That is the most adorable description of pregnancy I’ve ever heard. And also: please stop being mean to my wife. You’re beautiful. You’re growing our baby. I’m buying you stretchy things. All the stretchy things.

Belle let out a quiet, helpless laugh — one that cracked right through the tightness in her chest.

Another message came in:

Max: Also I demand a photo. Even if you’re in my hoodie with no pants. Especially then, actually.

Belle shook her head, smiling through the sting in her eyes.

She stood, padded over to the wardrobe again, and pulled out one of Max’s hoodies. It swallowed her whole, but it didn’t pinch. It didn’t judge. It just fit — in the way that mattered.

She took the photo. Hair damp. No makeup. Hoodie halfway down her thighs. The bump was there. Soft. Round. Theirs.

She sent it to him with one line:

Belle: This is what “nothing fits” looks like.

A minute passed.

Then Max replied:

Max: That’s my favorite person with my favorite future inside her. Perfect. P.S. I’m coming home the second this race is over.

And somehow, in that moment, even with her body unfamiliar and her closet defeated…

Belle didn’t feel alone anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Slightly odd question. Do you remember what you wore when you were trying to hide your pregnancies?

Victoria: Hahaha Has the bump arrived?

Belle: It ambushed me. Overnight. I woke up and suddenly nothing zips and my jeans are threatening to report me to the authorities.

Victoria: God, I remember that phase. I once cried in a Zara changing room because a wrap dress betrayed me. So yes. I remember it well.

Victoria: Okay. Hiding-the-bump tips from a three-time pro:

Flowy dresses

Button-downs + high-waisted trousers unbuttoned and safety pinned

Distracting accessories (big earrings = nobody’s looking at your belly)

Never underestimate a good scarf

Belle: You’re terrifyingly prepared. I love you.

Victoria: We all cope in our own ways. Mine is emotional support designer handbag. Also. You’re glowing.

Belle: I’m sweating and panicked.

Victoria: That’s pregnancy, darling. And when in doubt, steal Max’s clothes, throw on lipstick, and pretend you’re doing it on purpose.

Belle: I’m texting you before every outfit now.

Victoria: I expect nothing less.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Everything I own has turned against me. I just tried on five dresses. None of them fit. One popped a button and hit me in the face.

Emilie: i’m sorry but this is the funniest tragedy i’ve ever read

Belle: I’m going to have to start wearing Max’s hoodies exclusively. Like some sort of tiny, emotionally unstable Formula 1 driver.

Emilie: you say that like it’s not THE aesthetic of the season also: pls send a pic immediately

Belle: No makeup. Wet hair. Hoodie down to my knees. I look like if depression bought a scented candle.

Emilie: okay that’s going in your baby book "week 16: mother described herself as a sad candle in sportswear" you’re glowing, aren't you?

Belle: No. I’m sweating and mildly offended by cotton. But thank you.

Emilie: you are perfect and your body is doing literal magic and i will be there tomorrow with snacks, tissues, and an emergency haul of ethically-sourced maternity leggings

Belle: I don’t deserve you.

Emilie: no but you’re stuck with me anyway

***

The house was glowing.

Not literally — though the late afternoon sun poured golden light through the open shutters like a blessing — but in the way old homes do when they’ve been cared for. When someone’s loved them back into themselves.

Belle stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, as Daniel and Jules stepped inside.

“Mon Dieu,” Daniel breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Jules let out a soft, stunned sound and turned in a slow circle, eyes catching every detail — the reclaimed beams overhead, the soft plaster walls in a mineral-washed hue, the original tile floor gently cleaned and sealed instead of replaced.

“I can’t believe this is the same house,” Jules said.

“I can,” Daniel murmured. “Because she did it.”

Belle smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s almost done. A few details left — hardware, window treatments, the stone for the kitchen counters is coming Tuesday.”

“Don’t rush,” Jules said. “We’d sleep on the floor if we had to.”

“No need,” Belle said, leading them deeper into the space. “The guest room is fully dressed. Just in case.”

They passed through the arch into the main living room. The old fireplace had been restored, the stone gently cleaned but still mottled with history. Belle had designed built-in shelves on either side — painted in a soft green-grey that picked up the light without swallowing it — and filled them with old books and ceramics she’d sourced from local artisans.

“Belle,” Daniel said softly. “This is… art.”

She smiled at that. Not flustered. Just pleased.

They moved into the kitchen, where Belle had reimagined the space entirely without losing a single antique tile. A large farmhouse sink had been inset into a custom cabinet she’d designed herself, and the walls were finished in limewash — textured, tactile, alive.

The wide French doors at the back opened onto the courtyard. Once crumbling, it was now a soft, green heart of the home. The old fig tree remained, but Belle had added lavender, herbs, and climbing jasmine that was already threatening to devour the wall.

Jules stepped outside. “You saved the soul of this place.”

“I didn’t want to change it,” Belle said. “Just… listen to it.”

Daniel glanced over at her, smiling. “It’s rare. What you do. Most people walk into old houses and want to erase the past. You made it feel like time had layered into the house instead of over it.”

Belle blinked. Something caught behind her ribs — not pride, exactly, but something deeper. Recognition.

“It’s the first full project I did under my name,” she said quietly. “No firm. No partners. Just me.”

“And it shows,” Daniel said. “There’s nothing generic here. Every choice feels personal. Considered.”

“There are still a few finishing touches. Light fixtures in the guest room, and one of the shutters needs repair. But everything else is… as planned,” Belle explained.

Jules looked around again — eyes slightly glassy now. “It’s more than we imagined.”

Daniel stepped beside Belle and nudged her gently. “You didn’t just design this. You gave it a soul.”

Belle swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat.

“I just listened,” she said. “To what the house wanted to be. And to what you needed it to hold.”

“You do realize this is what great designers say when they’re being modest,” Daniel said dryly.

But Jules only smiled and took Belle’s hands in his. “You made us a home.”

And somehow, that landed more than any award ever could.

As they sat down at the table with lemonade and cheese and fresh bread Jules had insisted on bringing from their favorite bakery, Belle let herself relax into the moment.

The laughter was easy. The compliments genuine. There was no shadow of someone else’s name over her work, no sense of borrowed validation.

Just sunlight, and two clients-turned-friends, and a house that now breathed.

And for the first time in her career, Belle didn’t feel like she was working to prove anything.

She had already done it.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: wanna tell me what the actual FUCK that was between max and lando????

Belle: Define “that.”

Emilie: THE AGGRESSIVE WHEEL-TO-WHEEL “ARE WE ENEMIES NOW” SLAP FIGHT THE DEATH STARES THE POST-RACE NON-HANDSHAKE I’M SORRY, IS THE BRO MANCE DEAD??

Belle: Ah. That.

Emilie: YES. THAT. YOUR HUSBAND WENT FULL FINAL BOSS MODE AND LANDO LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ABOUT TO BITE HIM

Belle: They’ll talk. Eventually.

Emilie: ARE THEY BREAKING UP DO I NEED TO GET THE DIVORCE LAWYERS DO I GET YOU IN THE CUSTODY BATTLE DOES LANDO GET VISITATION WITH THE BABY

Belle: 😂 You are so dramatic. And yes, obviously. 

Emilie: you joke but i’m FUMING i just spent six months convincing myself they were soft-launch brothers-in-arms and now max overtakes like that and lando’s giving “you were supposed to love me” after the race

Belle: It’s called racing, Em.

Emilie: it’s called betrayal he made him crash he gave him a puncture he RUINED HIM i’ve read enemies-to-lovers with less sexual tension than that post-race stare

Belle: Do you want me to ask Max for his side?

Emilie: no

Belle:For the record: Max says he “defended hard” And Lando “should’ve backed out sooner.” He also muttered something about “this is why I don’t have friends.”

Emilie: tell him that’s the most dramatic thing he’s said since “I’m not here to make friends” in 2015

Belle: He is the drama

Emilie: and you married him god i’m proud of you

Belle: Would you and Lando like to come for dinner tomorrow?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME??

Belle: Max is sulking. Lando is brooding. You’re screaming in all caps. I’m fixing it.

Emilie: YOU THINK A CHICKEN PARM IS GONNA FIX A BROKEN BROMANCE

Belle: Yes. That and a homemade lemon tart. Also, you’re bringing wine.

Emilie: oh my god you’re staging a peace summit this is monaco-based diplomacy you’re literally brokering a ceasefire

Belle: We’ve avoided a Red Bull–McLaren cold war so far. I’d like to keep it that way. Also Max gets weird when Lando’s mad at him.

Emilie: i’m bringing rosé and a truce playlist

Belle: Perfect. Tomorrow. 7 PM. We’re serving forgiveness with a side of grilled vegetables.

Emilie: you’re a queen a legend a domestic diplomat

Belle: Good. See you tomorrow. Also, if they refuse to make eye contact, we’re putting on a two-player Mario Kart match and leaving the room.

Emilie: excellent. passive-aggressive gaming therapy. you’re a genius

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Congratulations on the podium 🧡 You were phenomenal today. Clean, calm, clinical. (And you looked very smug on the podium. It suited you.)

Oscar: Thank you 😊 It’s always nice when Max and Lando are too busy crashing into each other to notice I exist.

Belle: Speaking of which... Care to tell me what that was?

Oscar: Which part? The wheel-to-wheel drama? The parc ferme tension? The complete emotional collapse of an F1 friendship?

Belle: All of it. I’m trying to prep for tomorrow’s “spaghetti and feelings” dinner.

Oscar: I’d recommend garlic bread. And helmets.

Belle: Are they talking?

Oscar: Define “talking.” Max said “he’ll get over it.” Lando said “he can bite me.” So, no.

Belle: Excellent. Nothing like emotional maturity from two men who drive at 300km/h for a living.

Oscar: Incredible athletes. Emotionally 14.

Belle: We’ve having dinner tomorrow. I’m staging a ceasefire over lemon tart.

Oscar: Bold of you Godspeed Let me know if I need to be on standby for emotional support 

Belle: You might. If they refuse to speak, they’re playing Mario Kart until one of them cries.

Oscar: So, normal Verstappen conflict resolution. Got it 👍

Belle: Exactly.

***

Belle pulled the lemon tart out of the fridge at exactly 6:58 PM.

It was perfect. Glazed, golden, topped with thin slices of candied lemon and just enough powdered sugar to look effortless without trying too hard. Not unlike her strategy for this entire dinner.

She heard Max pacing somewhere near the front hallway again. That made lap four. Five, if she counted the loop past the cat bowls.

“Max,” she called gently. “It’s dinner. Not an FIA hearing.”

“They’re late,” he muttered, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Max crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Maybe we should cancel.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Because Lando didn’t arrive early to apologize like a teenager with flowers and a mixtape?”

Max looked away. Belle handed him the salad tongs.

“Go toss the greens and remember you’re a grown man with three world championship titles and a mortgage,” she said sweetly.

He muttered something in Dutch and obeyed.

The buzzer rang at 7:03.

Belle opened the door to find Emilie in her best peacekeeping sundress, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand and a smug smile on her face. Lando trailed behind her, suspiciously quiet, clutching a bakery box like it was a bomb.

“We brought peach galette,” Emilie announced. “And emotional tension.”

Belle stepped aside. “We already have both.”

Dinner began civilly enough.

The pasta was well-timed. The wine poured freely. The cats were temporarily bribed into not launching themselves onto the table.

Max and Lando, however, exchanged exactly four words in the first twenty minutes:

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Water?” “Sure.”

The eye contact was brief. The fork clinking was aggressive.

Belle and Emilie carried the conversation like diplomats on a sinking cruise ship. They talked about weather, Monaco construction permits, the absurdity of a $400 baby monitor Belle had returned on principle. They laughed. They smiled.

The boys sulked.

At one point, Max stabbed a roasted carrot like it had insulted his ancestors. Lando sighed in a way that could've shattered glass.

Belle met Emilie’s gaze across the table.

Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay,” Belle said, standing up. “Dessert in a bit. But first—living room.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Belle said, already walking, “I’m not hosting a three-course cold war.”

Emilie followed with the wine glasses. “We’re resolving this like adults.”

“In Mario Kart,” Belle added.

Max groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m married to you. I’ve never been more serious.”

Lando slumped onto the couch. “This is ridiculous.”

Belle handed him a controller. “And yet you’re already holding the remote.”

Max hesitated—just long enough for Belle to raise an eyebrow. “Afraid to lose?”

He sat down next to Lando like she’d physically shoved him. “I’ve beaten him in real life. I’ll survive Rainbow Road.”

“Your funeral,” Lando muttered.

By the second race, Max had stopped muttering under his breath.

By the fourth, he and Lando were arguing about blue shell etiquette.

By the sixth, Belle and Emilie had abandoned the couch entirely and were watching from the kitchen doorway, with Emilie sipping rosé and Belle snacking on lemon tart, like it was theatre.

“I give it ten more minutes before they forget they were mad,” Emilie whispered.

“Seven,” Belle said, just as Lando shouted, “That’s what you get for punting me off in Austria!”

Max howled. “YOU STARTED IT.”

Belle smiled. “And… there it is.”

By the time dessert hit the table, Lando was retelling the story of Max drunk in a night club and accidentally running into a wall while sneezing. Max was defending himself with increasing indignation. Emilie was crying with laughter. And Belle?

Belle sat back in her chair, hand resting gently over her stomach, watching her husband finally laugh again.

And she thought — this is what peacekeeping looks like.

A lemon tart. A glass of wine. A video game and a well-timed eye roll.

And love.

Always, love.

***

Max hadn’t meant to wake up early.

The apartment was still hushed in the pale-blue light of morning, curtains shifting faintly with the breeze from the balcony doors. Monaco always felt quieter before eight — like even the yachts were still asleep.

He stretched, one arm blindly reaching for Belle’s side of the bed.

Empty.

The faint sound of running water met his ears, and then the rustle of a drawer, a closet door sliding open.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

What he saw stopped him completely.

Belle stood in front of the mirror in the closet, turned slightly sideways, her back to the door. She was barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his white tank tops — the thin kind she always stole from his drawer without asking.

And her bump — their bump — was there. Real. Rounded. Glowing in the soft morning light.

Max felt something in his chest shift.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Watched the way she ran her fingers over her stomach, gently, reverently, like she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Like it had finally hit her, too.

Belle caught his reflection in the mirror and startled. “God, Max—say something before you scare me to death.”

But she didn’t move to hide.

Didn’t reach for a robe or yank down the hem of the tank top.

And Max… Max couldn’t look away.

“I didn’t know it was like this already,” he said quietly.

Belle turned toward him, one hand resting low on her belly. “It kind of… popped overnight.”

He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When he stopped in front of her, his hands came up automatically — one to her cheek, the other hovering just above her bump.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Belle nodded, her eyes warm.

He placed his hand against her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive.

A small intake of breath escaped him — almost a laugh, but softer. “You’re really in there,” he murmured.

Belle smiled, tired and radiant all at once. “Surprise.”

He kissed her, slow and steady, his hand never leaving her stomach.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little rougher. “How long until you can’t hide it anymore?”

She exhaled. “A few weeks, maybe. Less if they keeps growing like this.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Do you want to keep hiding it?”

Belle leaned into his chest, resting her forehead there. “I don’t know. Part of me likes having it just for us. But… part of me wants to stop hiding. Stop pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.”

Max nodded slowly. “We don’t have to post anything. Not unless you want to.”

She looked up at him. “Would you be okay with the media knowing? With the fans knowing?”

“I’m okay with them knowing we’re building a life together,” he said simply. “They’ll say things. They always do. But they don’t get to have this. Only see it. And only what we give them.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “What if they say I’m just—what if they think this is why we got married? That it wasn’t about us?”

“They can think whatever they want,” Max said firmly. “But I know. You know. And this baby—” he pressed his hand gently to her stomach again, “—will grow up knowing they were born from love. Not gossip.”

Belle nodded, slow and quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think…” She paused. “I think when it feels right, I want to share it. I just want to do it our way. Not through a headline. Not through some PR leak. Just… something honest. Something small.”

Max smiled. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned into him again, and he held her there — the two of them wrapped in early morning quiet, one heartbeat becoming three.

***

He didn’t mean to play for hours.

But his hands moved without thought, without permission — soft notes tumbling out one after another, half-finished melodies bleeding into each other, no structure, no rhythm. Just the ache in his chest, transposed into minor keys.

Charles stared at the keys without really seeing them.

Everything since the Spanish Grand Prix had felt like that. Blurred. Half-lit. Shame washing over him in waves until it was hard to tell what day it was.

Fred’s voice still rang in his head.

"He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters."

It should’ve made him angry. Months ago, maybe it would have. But now?

Now it just made him tired.

The front door clicked open quietly.

Charles didn’t stop playing.

Alexandra stepped into the room, keys in hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She paused just beyond the piano, watching him. Listening.

He shifted into something sadder without realizing it.

She said nothing for a long time. Just let him play.

Finally: “That’s new.”

Charles nodded, fingers barely brushing the keys. “I didn’t write it down. I won’t remember it.”

Alexandra sat on the armrest of the couch across from him. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Alexandra watched him a beat longer. Then: “You haven’t said anything since Fred tore into you.”

“He was right.”

That surprised her.

Charles didn’t look up. “He was right about everything. About Belle. About Max. About me.”

Alexandra folded her arms, softening slightly. “Charles—”

“I forgot her birthday,” he said, voice flat. “I forgot where she lived. I didn’t know she moved. I didn’t know she quit her job. And I found out she was married with the rest of the world.”

A pause.

“I used to be the person she told everything to.”

His voice cracked on used to.

Alexandra shifted closer. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” His hands stilled. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“I forgot how to act like her brother.”

It wasn’t said for sympathy. It was just… fact.

He pressed a key. Dissonant. Hollow.

Alexandra exhaled. “You know what I think?”

Charles didn’t answer, but his silence invited it.

“I think you’re not upset she married Max,” she said gently. “You’re upset she didn’t tell you. Because it forced you to realize how far away you let her drift.”

That landed deep.

Charles looked at the keys like they might offer him absolution.

“She stopped waiting for me,” he said, barely a whisper.

“She had to stop,” Alexandra replied. “You never showed up.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Charles admitted.

“You can’t,” Alexandra said, standing. “Not completely. But you can start by owning that it’s not about you. Not her silence. Not her love. Not Max. You don’t get to demand a place in her life just because you regret not earning it before.”

That hurt more than Fred’s words.

Because it was the truth.

Alexandra stepped forward and kissed the top of his head, just briefly.

“Let her choose if you belong,” she said softly. “But maybe, for once, don’t try to race your way back in.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

Charles sat at the piano, still and quiet, and let the silence press in around him like a tide.

He looked down at his hands.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure they knew how to fix anything anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Arthur Leclerc

Arthur: hey just wanted to check in how are you?

Belle: Hi That’s a surprise A nice one

Arthur: yeah well i figured it was my turn to show up you always did that for me even when i didn’t deserve it

Arthur: so you okay?

Belle: I’m good. Quiet days. Work. Sleep. Max. He’s home this week, which helps. I’ve been reading again.

Arthur: you always read when you feel safe i remember that

Belle: I do. Books are still better than people sometimes.

Arthur: not going to argue there i just wanted you to know i think about you a lot even when i don’t say anything

Belle: I know. I think about you too.

Arthur: and I’m sorry for forgetting the little things for thinking you’d always be there whether I showed up or not I hate that it took losing you to notice how much I missed

Belle: You didn’t lose me. You just stopped looking. But you’re here now. That counts for something.

Arthur: thanks for giving me the chance to do better i won’t waste it

Belle: I hope you don’t. Because I missed my little brother.

Arthur: still here still annoying just a bit slower to grow up

Belle: You’re getting there One awkward text at a time

Arthur: baby steps

Belle: 😉

***

They were sitting at the dining table, Belle with her laptop open and a very stubborn government website loading at glacial speed. The overhead lights were low, the cats were asleep on the windowsill, and the apple tart from dinner was reduced to a pair of crumbs and a fork that Max kept stealing bites with.

“I need to go to the town hall next week,” Belle said, frowning at her screen. “It’s ridiculous how many steps it takes to change a last name. I have to book an appointment just to show them I’m legally married.”

Max looked up from where he was balancing a spoon on his finger. “Want me to come with you?”

She smiled. “I think I can survive bureaucracy alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re pregnant and emotionally allergic to slow websites.”

“Barely showing and mildly inconvenienced is not the same thing,” Belle replied, nudging his foot under the table.

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair. “We should change your credit card too. It still says Leclerc.”

She groaned. “One paperwork nightmare at a time.”

Max tilted his head, thoughtful now. “And we should probably set up a meeting with our lawyers.”

Belle paused mid-keystroke. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just to go over everything.”

“Max,” she said gently. “What kind of everything?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers were still playing with the fork, but his gaze had drifted — focused, serious in that quiet way he got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“I want to make sure things are in place,” he said eventually. “For you. For the baby. If something happens to me.”

Belle’s heart pulled.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” she said softly.

“If something happens to me — if I crash or something stupid happens off-track — I want everything set up. No grey areas. No questions.”

Belle set the mug she was holding down carefully on the table and turned fully toward him.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Max said, managing a half-smile. “But I also know how this works. I’ve seen it happen to other drivers. One second, you’re invincible. The next…” He trailed off. “I don’t want you or the baby in limbo if the worst happens.”

She reached out slowly, threading her fingers through his. “You think about that?”

“Every time I get in the car now,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. But it’s there. You changed the way I calculate risk.”

“I’m not planning to die,” he added, a wry smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m just planning in case. I want to make sure you’re protected. That the house is in your name too. That there’s no confusion. That if I can’t speak for myself, you can. Not my father. Not my mother. You.”

Belle sat very still.

Not because she was scared. But because it hit her, suddenly and all at once, how much he was already carrying — not just the weight of fame and expectation and fatherhood, but this fierce, unspoken drive to shield her from the storm.

“I married you because I love you,” Max said. “But I also married you because you’re my person. And I want to make sure you’re not left sorting through a legal mess if the worst ever happens.”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let’s make the appointment.”

Max exhaled — a little like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

And Belle, looking at the man who had been so many things to the world — champion, rival, myth — realized that this version of him, the one quietly planning a will while stealing bites of lemon tart, was the one she loved most.

The one who knew the risks. And stayed anyway.

The one who chose her. And kept choosing her.

Even in the fine print.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Lorenzo: We need to get ahead of this before she cuts us out completely. We’ve let it go on too long.

Charles: What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? I said I wanted to talk to her. She doesn’t answer.

Arthur: Because she’s not ready. You don’t get to demand a timeline for forgiveness.

Pascale: I sent her a long message last week. I said I missed her. She didn’t even react to it.

Arthur: Because she’s hurt. Because for years, we made her feel like she didn’t matter until she disappeared.

Charles: I’m trying to make it right.

Arthur: You’re trying to make it comfortable for you. Not better for her.

Lorenzo: Okay, enough. We need to approach this like adults. Arthur, you said she talked to you?

Arthur: Yeah. Because I apologized without making excuses. Because I didn’t act like she owed me anything.

Charles: So what, we just do nothing? Sit around and hope she decides to forgive us?

Arthur: Or we ask her what she needs instead of assuming we know best. Maybe try that.

Pascale: If she’d just sit down with us—if we could talk properly—I know we could fix it.

Charles: She won’t even look at me in the paddock.

Arthur: You yelled about her being married like the whole grid personally betrayed you.

Charles: Well it felt like that.

Pascale: Can we not assign blame? We all made mistakes. I sent a message. She didn’t respond.

Lorenzo: Because your message said, “I meant to text you, but I sent it to Charles instead.” Which we all know is a lie.

Pascale: It was a white lie. I didn’t want her to feel worse.

Lorenzo: She didn’t need you to protect her feelings, Maman. She needed you to show up. That’s what none of us did.

Charles: I’m trying. But every time I think about texting her, I hear Fred’s voice telling me I don’t deserve to.

Arthur: That’s because he’s right.

Pascale: So what do we do? Invite her to dinner? Send another letter?

Charles: I could try calling again.

Lorenzo: No. No more performing care. She’s not stupid. She sees through all of it.

Pascale: We have to fix this. She’s our family.

Isabelle:  You could start by remembering I’m in this group chat.

Isabelle:  I’ve seen every message. Every strategy. Every “how do we make her forgive us” as if forgiveness is a button to push, not something earned.

Isabelle: Arthur apologized. He listened. He didn’t make excuses. That’s why I’m speaking to him. Not because he said the right thing. Because he meant it.

Isabelle: The rest of you? You keep asking how to fix me. You never once asked what I need.

Isabelle: So here it is: If you want a relationship with me again, we start with family therapy. With a neutral third party. No justifications. No guilt-tripping. No “but we’re your family.” Just honesty. Hard conversations. Boundaries.

Isabelle: You want me back? You come sit in a room and prove it. Not with flowers or dinners. With work.

Isabelle: I am not your emotional support sibling. I’m not your afterthought. And I’m not going to pretend this didn’t hurt just because it’s inconvenient for you.

Isabelle: Therapy. Or nothing.

Arthur: …I told you.

Lorenzo: Family therapy it is.

***

[pathologicalreid]

put a bow on it | s.r.

in which Spencer is in charge of doing both of your daughters hair in the morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: twin dad!spencer AND girl dad!spencer. twin jealousy. word count: 1.5k a/n: twin dad!spencer!!!! a pathologicalreid first!! this one goes out to arya because she let me ramble about this idea lolololol

The pout that was being reflected in the mirror reminded him of you. At another time, he would’ve found it cute, adorable even, that one of your daughters had adopted your mannerisms, but right now, he was running late. 

He’d spent hours over the past week assuring you that you didn’t need to move your appointment this morning and he was more than capable of getting the girls off to school on his own. Breakfast was easy enough—they liked his french toast more than yours anyway—and the girls were old enough to lay their own outfits out the night before, but what he hadn’t anticipated was what happened after their teeth were brushed and he was handed two combs. 

It was something you enjoyed, individualizing the girls’ hair every day before school, but aside from a classic ponytail, he wasn’t well versed in styling their hair. Naturally, a ponytail wasn’t going to cut it today. 

“I wanted mommy to curl it,” June insisted, pointing at the curling iron that was neatly hung away from the reach of tiny hands. She’d been the first to scowl at the offer of a ponytail, insisting that her hair had to be done precisely the way she wanted it. 

Eyeing the hot tool warily, Spencer quickly tried to put together an excuse that the five year old would accept, but he came up empty. “I don’t think I should use something hot until mommy shows me how to use it,” he tried to explain. 

As if on cue, June tilted her head to the side curiously and asked, “Why not?” 

Admittedly, he had walked right into that one, but he sighed and scrambled for the answer, “Because you might get hurt.”

Big, brown eyes stared up at him, waiting for further explanation to satisfy her inquisitive nature, but instead of it coming from him, it came from her twin, standing on the other side of the counter. “It’s like the stove,” Edie offered, trying to climb up on the bathroom counter and frowning when Spencer gently tugged her down. 

Realization flooded June’s eyes, “Oh, you need an adult to use the curler.” She rattled off the answer that made sense to her. 

With both girls standing on their respective stepstools—engraved with their names and bedazzled by Aunt Penelope—Spencer took a deep breath. “Exactly,” He conceded. “So, what do you want me to do with your hair?”

“Braids, please!” Edith piped up with her request, but those were outside of Spencer’s skillset. You’d been teaching him how to braid the girls’ hair, but it was difficult to find the time and to get to stay still. Fruit snack bribery only got you so far. 

June looked pensively in the mirror, shrugging off her frustration about the curling iron and looking up at Spencer, “Can you do a half-pony?” 

“I can’t, but I appreciate your manners,” he responded to Edith first before turning to June, “Can you show me what a half-pony is?” He asked, making a note of the hairstyle jargon that he was getting a crash course on. 

June nodded happily, pulling strands of her hair back from her face and gathering them at the back of her head in her little fingers, “And then you do a bow.” 

He frowned slightly, “A bow?”

Junie beamed, “Yeah, a matchy bow.”

Spencer was familiar with the tote filled with bows that you’d invested in over the years, he was convinced they had a bow for every outfit. “Can you pick a bow?” He moved the tote on the counter in front of her, hoping to solve the issue of needing a matching bow by having her choose one on her own. He turned his attention to Edith, who had traded expressions with her twin and now bore a pout. “What’s wrong, honey?” 

“I wanted braids,” Edie explained, dragging her fingers down each side of her head to show that she wanted french braids. Disappointed tears welled in her eyes, and the fact that Spencer couldn’t fix the issue broke his heart. 

He frowned slightly, “Hey, no tears,” he cooed. “What if I try to do little braids?” His offer was a carefully calculated plan, using words that he’d heard you use before when talking about the girls’ hair. These weren’t french braids, little braids would start at the base of her neck and go to the ends of her hair. 

Woefully, Edith nodded, fiddling with the cuff of her sweater while she eyed the bows her sister was deliberating on. “Can I have a bow too?” 

“You can have two if you’d like,” Spencer proposed, “One for each braid.” He accepted the bow that June was holding out for him and slid the tote over to Edith. 

June gaped at his offer, “I want two bows!” 

Somewhere, he had misstepped, “She gets two bows because she wants two braids, you only wanted one pony.” He was fairly certain he was approaching pigtail territory, and his almost never turned out even. 

“I want two!” June exclaimed, waiting a moment before speaking up again, “Please.” 

Spencer nodded reassuringly, “Okay, but no more changes,” he told her, knowing she was already on her third hairstyle of the day. 

She nodded happily at his compromise, producing the matching bow that she had already fished out of the tote for him. June teetered on the balls of her feet excitedly at the prospect of getting pigtails while he sprayed her hair with detangler, just barely starting to comb her hair back for the pigtails when she flinched away from him. 

His heart jumped for a moment, fearful that he’d pulled too hard on her head, but he relaxed when she spoke up, “That’s not how mommy does it.” 

No, he supposed it’s not how you would do it, but then again, you would’ve been able to curl her hair the way she wanted, avoiding the realm of pigtails entirely. “Trust me on this,” he tried to reassure her despite his rapidly dwindling confidence. 

June put her head back in place, letting him brush her hair back before parting it down the middle. He glanced up at the mirror, watching Edith as she took her own brush in her hands and started raking it through her hair. “I’ll do yours in a minute, Edie,” he told her, not wanting her to feel like she had to do it on her own. 

“She always goes first,” Edith whined, slightly out of character for your bashful daughter. Spencer frowned slightly, not realizing her had conformed to the general order of things. 

“Cuz I’m older,” June countered pointedly, glancing up at her father to gauge his reaction to her claim, but Spencer remained stone faced. Both of you had decided to refrain from revealing which twin is older, and it’s saved you from dozens of arguments along the way. 

Spencer hummed, wrapping the first elastic around June’s hair, “I’ll let mommy know, and you can go first tomorrow.” 

Junie huffed at his dedication to keeping the secret, but her scowl turned into a grin when she saw her hair. A golden rush of victory led to a sigh of relief from him, clipping her bows to her pigtails while she bounced in excitement. He had a sneaking feeling she didn’t act this way when you did her hair, meaning all of this joy was solely for him. 

When it was Edie’s turn, Spencer still combed through her hair, even though she had done most of it on her own. She fiddled with the peeling laminate of the bathroom counter while he braided her hair, talking himself through the process—left, center, right, center—and hoping he wouldn’t get them mixed up. 

June was unable to stand still any longer, so Spencer told her she could go watch cartoons until it was time to leave. “Is she older?” Edith mumbled slightly. 

Spencer shrugged, tying off her braid with a bow that previously belonged to a doll, “Does it matter?”

She sighed in a way that only a five year old could, “Guess not.”

“You’re still twins, you were born on the same day,” Spencer tried to explain in a way she would accept. 

“Is that why we have the same birthday?” She asked, fumbling through her words—birfday. 

He hummed a confirmation, “Yeah, because your birthday is the day you were born.” He tied off the second braid before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. 

She was quiet for a moment, he thought she was pondering birthdays, so he was surprised when she whispered, “Daddy?” 

“Yeah, baby?” He responded. 

Pointing at her hair, Edith gave him a sympathetic look while silently showing him the huge chunk of hair that had been left out of the braids.

“I think mommy’s gonna have to give me another braiding lesson,” he told her, unraveling the braid so he could try it again. 

Edie nodded mournfully, “I think so too.”

[gf2bellamy]

So you know that one scene where Rossi comes to an briefing session in a tux because the bau got summoned last minute? Could I please request fem!reader coming to an evening meeting all dressed up because she was at a party and didn’t have time to change when she was called? And Spencer is a complete blushing mess because his crush looks so pretty?

distracted — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader wearing a dress, mention of nice perfume a/n: thank you for your request !!! i hope you like this <3

The elevator doors slid shut with a soft chime, sealing you in as you let out an exasperated sigh. You glanced down at yourself, smoothing out the fabric of your dress as if that would make it any less noticeable. The deep color clung to your frame in a way your usual work attire never did, the hem brushing just above your knees, heels clicking softly against the floor.

This was not how you had expected your night to go. 

You had been at a party, actually enjoying yourself for once, when your phone buzzed in your clutch. Hotch’s name had flashed across the screen, and just like that, the night had taken a turn.

Now, instead of sipping a drink and making polite small talk, you were about to walk into the BAU’s conference room—filled with your very serious, very observant coworkers—wearing something completely out of character. 

You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as the elevator dinged at your floor. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a dress. It was just your team. It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen you outside of work before. 

But still, the moment you stepped out into the hallway, you found yourself walking a little slower. You reached the door to the conference room and hesitated for only a second before pushing it open. 

The room fell momentarily silent. Then— 

A low whistle. 

“Damn, sweetheart, you clean up nice.” Derek Morgan’s voice was laced with amusement, a slow grin spreading across his face as he leaned back in his chair. 

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight back the small, amused smile tugging at your lips. “Don’t get used to it,” you shot back, making your way toward an empty seat. 

Across the table, Spencer Reid had gone very still, his usual rambling tendencies seemingly failing him for once. His gaze flickered over you quickly before he looked away, ears tinged a faint shade of pink. 

Garcia beamed at you, practically bouncing in her seat as she showered you with compliments. “Oh, my God, look at you! I mean, I always knew you were gorgeous, but this? This is next level, honey.” 

You laughed, shaking your head as you took the empty seat beside Spencer. 

He wished you hadn’t. 

It was bad enough seeing you walk through that door, looking like something straight out of a dream. But now, you were close—so close that the faint scent of your perfume drifted toward him, wrapping around his senses like a spell.

Not only did you look like an absolute angel, but you smelled incredible too. His brain, usually brimming with facts and statistics, felt utterly useless. 

He had barely managed to keep his jaw from going slack when you first walked in. Breathtaking didn’t even begin to describe you. Now, as you sat beside him, chatting with Garcia, he could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, spreading to his ears. He prayed no one noticed. 

You were still waiting for Rossi and Emily to arrive, which gave you time to talk and settle in. Meanwhile, Spencer remained frozen, struggling to process anything beyond the fact that you were right there, looking like this, smelling like this, existing like this. 

He was just staring. 

His usual encyclopedic mind—capable of recalling thousands of facts in perfect detail—had never felt this empty before. 

Spencer’s brain was so empty, so utterly useless in this moment, that he failed to notice the way Derek was watching him. Normally, Spencer noticed everything—the smallest change in body language, the slightest shift in someone’s tone—but right now? Right now, all he could focus on was you. 

Derek, on the other hand, was very much aware. 

Leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, Derek observed the entire scene with growing amusement. He had always known Spencer had it bad for you.

The lingering glances, the way he got just a little more awkward when you were around, the way his usually rapid-fire explanations slowed whenever you asked him a question—yeah, Spencer was a goner. 

But this? This was something else entirely. 

Derek’s grin widened as he watched Spencer sit there, frozen, eyes locked on you like he was seeing a miracle unfold before him. He didn’t even seem to realize he was staring.

Priceless. 

Derek waited, just to see if Spencer would snap out of it on his own. He didn’t. So, with a barely concealed smirk, he leaned in slightly and murmured, “You good, Pretty Boy?” 

Spencer blinked. 

It was as if someone had flipped a switch in his brain. His entire body stiffened, and he finally tore his gaze away from you, only to find Derek smirking at him like a Cheshire cat. 

Spencer cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “Man, I knew you had it bad, but this?” He let out a low whistle. “This is next-level, kid.” 

Spencer’s ears burned a deep shade of red. He quickly averted his gaze, desperately hoping you hadn’t overheard any of that. 

Derek laughed loudly, shaking his head again. 

You turned around at the sound of Derek’s laughter, narrowing your eyes playfully. “What are you two talking about?” 

Your gaze flicked between them, curiosity piqued. Derek was grinning, while  Spencer was completely avoiding your eyes. 

His head snapped forward, suddenly very interested in the open case file on the table. His fingers fidgeted with the pages, but you could see the way his ears were burning, the telltale sign that he was flustered. 

Derek, of course, looked far too pleased with himself. 

“Oh, nothing,” Derek drawled, dragging out the words just enough to make it clear he was absolutely up to something. “Just discussing some… observations.” 

You raised an eyebrow, shifting your focus back to Spencer, who still refused to look at you. “Spence?” 

His shoulders tensed at the sound of his nickname, and for a brief second, he looked like he was contemplating whether he could somehow phase through the chair and disappear entirely. When he finally turned toward you, his expression was carefully neutral—too neutral. 

“Yes?” His voice was just a little too high. 

You squinted at him, suspicion creeping in. “Are you okay?” 

Derek chuckled under his breath, clearly enjoying every second of this. 

Spencer cleared his throat, straightening up like that would somehow help him regain his composure. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Completely fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?” 

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. He was fidgeting, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the table. His face was still a little flushed. 

Weird. 

“…Okay,” you said slowly, still unconvinced but willing to let it go.

As Derek and Garcia launched into their own conversation, their voices fading into the background, you turned your full attention to Spencer.

“Hey,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Is that a new cardigan?” 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard—not just by the question, but by the way you scooted closer, closing the already minimal space between you. 

His brain short-circuited. 

Not only had you noticed something as small as a new cardigan—a detail most people wouldn’t give a second thought—but you were also now sitting impossibly close. He could feel the warmth radiating off you, smell that same perfume that had been distracting him all night. 

“Oh—uh, yeah,” he stammered, fingers twitching slightly against the fabric. “I got it last week.” 

You hummed in approval, reaching out to touch the sleeve lightly. “I like it. It suits you.” 

Spencer was practically spinning at this point. 

His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was fairly certain that if he tried to speak again, the words would come out as a complete mess.

All because you had noticed him. Noticed something about him. Complimented him. And were now sitting so close he could barely think straight.  

His crush had most definitely just gotten worse. 

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ climax 2.0 ] | sylus

— summary: he takes you to a safe house. reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. you get the feeling there’s more to his words than what floats at surface level. — cw: reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, profanity, sexual tension, minor character deaths, mentions of blood & violence, terms of endearment, self-deprecating thoughts, a sprinkle of romance, self-indulgent, unhinged moment, mdni — notes: special thanks to @alfredosaws for helping me write this. thank you so much for reading! — now playing: i follow rivers - lykke li

Silly woman. Getting your hopes up for nothing. Still...

He’s yet to set you down—Sylus. Your enigma of a boss, cradling you in his arms like an offering to be bestowed on an altar. Long fingers crooked under your knees, a possessive arm swept under your back.

You’re not hurt—he saw to that when he safely lured you to the ground with his Evol. So why does he insist on carrying you like you are?

You try not to get caught up in how he smells—petrichor during the spring. The leftover carbon of spent bullets. Suede and the freshly-broken skin of a clementine. 

How he feels—strong yet firm, honed from years of boxing and a past you know little of. Tender despite the violence he’s capable of. Big and comforting, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer on the coldest days of the season. 

How he breathes—even, as his heart thrums a steady tempo against your chest. Soothing like ocean waves rolling over your feet, lulling you into tranquility. 

Tch. Since when did you become so poetic?

You’ve long since traded the cacophony of bullets ricocheting off his Evol—of Nikolai’s men shouting obscenities, bleeding malice and vitriol as they spit orders—for the serenity of the night.

Passersby mill about on the moon-laden streets. Couples laugh, bundling together to ward off the night’s chill. An occasional drunkard stumbles down the sidewalk. Sylus effortlessly sidesteps them, refusing to let you walk on your own despite the perturbed looks he garners. You try not to dig too deep into things. And yet…

He’s carried you like this for at least a mile through the city’s heart. Past historic buildings jaded by time, under twinkling string lights, hung over shopping centers and outdoor cafes bordering the street. 

It’s something of a dream. Something like a romantic film, but you don’t feel like you deserve to be its star.

He’s made no move to set you down. You’ve also made no effort to untwine your arms from around his neck. Instead, you study the flexing tendons in his throat. The bob of his Adam’s apple when he chuckles something murky and guttural after he catches you staring. You look away with bashfulness creeping beneath your skin, only to repeat the ritual all over again. 

It feels like old times—a memory far off when he carried you like this once before after you led him on a hunt through the docks. After you took down one of the most prominent human trafficking rings in the underworld, and after he thought he would lose you forever. 

You’re sure you were heavy then—he spent most of the night searching for you, reducing anyone who got in his way to ash and bone. He was exhausted, violet bags hanging beneath his eyes, blood speckling his collar. Yet he still held you so tenderly. Walked you towards the horizon, clutching you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. 

You’re sure you’re heavy now.

And he shouldn’t be holding you like this. Despite how delightful it feels, a voice admonishes you from the deepest regions of your mind for getting too comfortable. 

He’s not yours. This isn’t right. 

She might be gone, swept up in the mountains playing escort, but you can’t help feeling like you’re betraying the hunter. You’ve already crossed her so many times in your mind before. 

You squirm a bit. His gaze slides to you. Scarlet eyes gleam beneath the tawny lights like multifaceted rubies. His brows lift slightly, and the beginnings of a smile prod his lips. 

You clear the phlegm from your throat, tamping down the hot flush rising from your chest to stain your neck and cheeks. He’s effortlessly beautiful, like something spawned from a Rembrandt painting. 

“You can put me down now,” you urge, your voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself.”

He looks forward, wearing a full-bodied smile. “I know.” He continues walking like you didn’t speak, making no effort to let you go. 

You give him a deadpan look. Try again, a little more insistent this time. “Sylus.”

“Yes?” he returns, humored, patient. 

“I said you can put me down.”

“I know.”

You sigh, exasperated after a few moments spent glaring at his side profile. His devastatingly attractive profile. That sloped nose. Those heart-shaped lips. Those pretty, grey-fringed lashes. 

“Aren’t you afraid of someone seeing us like this?” You gesture to your conjoined bodies with a nod. “People might get the wrong idea.” 

You might get the wrong idea.

He huffs a laugh like you’ve said the most absurd thing. “When have I ever been concerned with how others perceive me?” Those softened eyes flick back to you, something cold prickling low in your belly at the weight they carry. At how his voice dips like he’s drawing you into a secret. “Since when have you?”

Your lips twitch. He poses a fair argument. You’ve never cared much about how people view you, save for Sylus and the twins. More recently, Ms. Hunter. 

Guilt twists in your throat. Burns like ash. “Sylus…”

“Am I making you uncomfortable? Because if I am, I’d be happy to set you down.” There’s a beguiled edge to his voice. A challenge. A plea. Almost like he wants you to say, ‘No.’

Surely, you’re being delusional.

Regardless, you blanch. And it’s comical how quickly you shake your head, eliciting a thick, low purl of laughter from your savior. Your argument dies in the back of your throat. The drape of your arms around his shoulders slackens. But you still don’t let go. You don’t want to let go. 

You decide she’ll have to be upset with you—Ms. Hunter. Decide to be a little selfish, but only for a little while. You’re growing too comfortable with the sharp click of his heels against the cobblestone. With how he lightly jostles you in his arms after each measured step. You could fall asleep like this, ushered to dreamland by the source of your fantasies and suffering. 

After some time spent wordless, Sylus slows to a stop. When you glance at him, he nods at something ahead, finally setting you down. You’re bereft of the warmth and safety his body provides as he helps steady you. Smoothing out your dress, you take in your new surroundings. 

A structure stretches before you, much like the ones you passed before, only the upkeep is better. Three stories of dark, historic brick and an awning dotted with sepia-toned lights loom overhead. The building's name scrolls on a marquee sign in its center, blaring through the frosty haze of the night. It reminds you of an old movie theater, repurposed for something more upscale. 

You turn quizzical eyes to Sylus. “A restaurant?” Come to think of it, you are a little famished. Murder always manages to stir your appetite. 

Sylus pushes back the tails of his suit jacket, shoving his hands into his pockets. Exhales slow. The spotlights highlight his smile as he looks between you and the entrance. “Not hungry?”

“Yeah, but…it’s a little short notice, isn’t it? Don’t you normally need a reservation to get into places like this? Will they even let us in?”

With a huff caught in his throat, Sylus brushes past you, bounding up the few steps to tug the door open. A swell of noise spills outside, the soft stroke of piano keys, the clatter of cutlery against plates. The savory scent of cooked meat and sautéed vegetables assaults your senses. Your stomach growls. You pat it placatingly, casting Sylus a wary look.

“They should,” he says with a shrug, patiently waiting for you to enter. “I own the place.” His eyes shine with playfulness, posture lax.

You scoff. Of course. He owns half the city. It makes him more attractive, knowing he can buy anything at the drop of a hat. 

“Wow. That’s awfully Bruce Wayne of you, don’t you think?” you mock, stepping up into the restaurant, guided by your fingers wrapped around his forearm.

“Wait,” you start, inadvertently tucking into his side. “Why are you hungry? I’m the one who did all the heavy lifting.”

Sylus shrugs again, feigning innocence as you clear the restaurant's entryway. “Watching you work always makes me peckish.”

You whack his broad chest, rolling your eyes. Can’t help smiling. Giggling. Letting your defenses waver.

The air between you feels lighter, reminiscent of times spent carelessly flirting when the line between employer and subordinate blurred beyond recognition.

—

It’s lively inside, but not overwhelmingly so. 

Colorful conversation brightens the atmosphere around you. Patrons of new and old money, dressed in designer clothing, sip expensive wine. Prattle on about their reckless ventures, about fickle things you can’t be bothered to entertain. 

It’s a high-brow restaurant, with the gentle croon of live music and light fixtures dangling overhead to simulate candlelight. The interior is Art Deco inspired. Jaw-droppingly beautiful. You’ve found yourself eyeing the bar more than once, impressed by the expansive shelves housing vintage wine and spirits, stretching towards a yawning, stained-glass ceiling. 

Had you not known better, you would’ve thought you were on a date and not lying low while ornery men tore the city apart looking for you. But that’s not the case. 

At least, you don’t think it is. 

You bite down on your fork, bleeding warmth, ignoring the scarlet eyes boring into your face for the umpteenth time.

You’re tucked away in one of the restaurant's corners with your boss, seated at a booth, shying away from the spotlight. Away from the prying eyes of the other patrons, though that doesn’t stop the occasional gaze from wandering over you. Curious clients raise their wine glasses at you with tense smiles, scrutinizing the pair of you as if you’re celebrities. 

You do stand out, still donned in your attire from the banquet. And Sylus commands attention wherever he goes, standing a good foot over most of the populous, his hair a riotous shock of white. 

Also more perplexing is that he hasn’t booked the place out. He prefers solitude, the comfortable quiet. And yet, he’s brought you here, surrounded by people, treating you like something to be shown off, and you're lightheaded from the whiplash he’s giving you.

He’s been nothing short of a gentleman. Pulled your chair out for you, ordered on your behalf, ensnared you in idle conversation. Kept your champagne glass full when your waiter was out of earshot, even lauded you for another successful kill. It’s all so uncharacteristic of him, and you can’t help feeling like he’s building up to something big. 

It’s grown quiet between you since your meals arrived, and your thoughts have crept in, robbing you of any bliss you began to experience. 

You’ve caught your boss watching you several times. And he’s never appeared guilty, shamelessly peering into your eyes, smiling, slowly ticking away at your resolve. 

Your skin prickles with warmth as you push around the vegetables on your plate. The meal is lovely. Savory, but your appetite’s abandoned you. Something’s off. You’ve sensed it for the better part of the night. Sylus is being more attentive than usual, and it’s unsettling. 

What’s his angle? Have you offended him? Is he keeping an eye on you, afraid you’ll run away? Will tonight be the night he lays you off?

You decide to confront him, having had enough of this ambiguity. This farce he’s put up. You clear your throat, smoothing out the napkin on your lap. Set your fork down, gaze hesitantly sliding to him across the table as you attempt to make light of your situation.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that? Is there something on my face?”

Sylus’ eyes crinkle with a quiet mirth. A soft youthfulness as he props his elbows on the table, twining his long fingers together. A grin blooms behind his fists. You hold your breath.

“Has anyone ever told you how adorable you are while you eat?”

You choke on your spittle. Violently pat your chest to dislodge it, reaching for your flute of champagne to wet your throat as tears form. Adorable isn’t something you’d use to describe yourself. And adorable isn’t something you’d ever imagine Sylus classifying you as, either.   

“Maybe you should lay off the champagne,” you cough, the burn in your esophagus subsiding. 

He isn’t much of a drinker, so you suspect he’s spewing nonsense because he’s tipsy. You set your glass down, snatching the bottle of bubbly from the table’s center. It’ll be safer on your side, out of reach, where your boss can’t use it as an excuse to utter more absurd things. 

Sylus’ brows knit, mock hurt descending onto his face. “What? Am I not allowed to compliment you?”

You cough again, bringing the bottle to your lips. Drink straight from the source, crisp liquid drizzling down the sides of your mouth. How ladylike.

Maybe you should stop drinking. You’re starting to hear things, your daydreams coming to fruition. This isn’t happening. Your boss isn’t pouting at you like a child, calling you cute, and making you feel things that should be buried beneath the Earth’s crust. He’s typically stingy with his compliments unless given to a specific person. So why suddenly aim them at you? 

The bubbly’s got your head a little fuzzy. That, coupled with the adrenaline slowly seeping into your veins, emboldens you to get to the heart of his strangeness. You decide to poke the proverbial bear. 

“What’s your problem?” you prod, setting the bottle down with a definitive thunk. You fix him with a look, one of tight lips and furrowed brows. 

Sylus chuckles, seemingly in disbelief at your brazenness. He’s fucking with you. He has to be. Maybe he’s trying to get a rise out of you, sensing how vulnerable you’ve felt throughout the night. How vulnerable you’ve been the past few months. 

“Whatever do you mean, sweetheart?”

You ignore how the term of endearment tingles in your skin. It feels more weighted than usual tonight. Everything’s heavier tonight. 

You sigh, looking at your lap with a forlorn smile. Toy with a loose thread on your napkin, steeling yourself for this unavoidable conversation.

The champagne’s got your tongue a little loose, and the people surrounding you give you a boost of courage—witnesses in case Sylus decides to kill you. 

“You’ve been really nice to me all night.” You sound mousy, contrasting the crass asshole you were moments ago. “It’s kind of…weird.”

A silver brow lifts. Sylus adjusts in his chair, leaning closer to hear you better, the faint note of his cologne wafting off his skin. Threatening to derail you. To change your mind.

“Have I not been kind to you before?” He momentarily scrutinizes the lacquered wood of the tabletop, seemingly lost in thought. Gazes back at you, inspecting your face.

You swallow against the sandy grit of your throat, powering past your nerves, an anxious titter on your tongue. You toy with your necklace, dizzy. “No. No, you have. Just…not like this.”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Sylus wordlessly encourages you to continue, watching your mouth, your eyes.

“I mean, the gala. Rescuing me from Nikolai’s goons. Carrying me. Dinner. The compliments. I don’t get you, Sylus. One minute, you’re pushing me away. You’re ignoring me, and then the next, you’re…confusing the hell out of me.”

The words are out before you can contain them. Silence stretches between you, stiff like a bowstring drawn back. You can’t look at him now, feeling so small and stupid beneath the blistering weight of his stare. 

You’re disbelieving that he could be so kind. Romantic. Considerate, treating you like something closer than a subordinate. Like he doesn’t have someone else occupying his mind, and you’re wondering if he’s playing some twisted game with your emotions tonight, using you to fill the gap the hunter left while out saving the world. 

“Am I truly that difficult to understand?” he replies, his voice gritty yet soft. 

Something pinches in your chest at the fragility of his tone. You want nothing more than for the world to open up and swallow you whole. 

You flinch when the flat sides of his nails graze your temple. He briefly stops before tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. Then, his fingertips blister down your cheek. He tilts your head back, cupping your chin, coaxing you to look at him. And you do, reluctantly, a warm film of something wet washing over your sight. 

He studies you with a reverence you don’t deserve. A look you haven’t been subjected to in a very long time, yet it still manages to constrict your heart. Still makes your stomach jump like you’re descending downhill, and your lips part slightly, quivering. 

Time slows to a crawl around you, the world seemingly carving out a pocket of space for only the two of you to exist. The sights and sounds of the restaurant fade into obscurity. You’re focused solely on the scarlet wash of his eyes, how they shift back and forth, studying your features, searching. Seeking answers your mouth refuses to utter. 

“If I’ve made myself anything less than transparent, I apologize.” The sincerity there, the quiet vulnerability, it makes you sick because you’re undeserving of it. You feel like you’re taking part in a naughty secret. Witnessing a side of him usually reserved for the hunter. “But I assure you, I’m not as mysterious as you think.”

You snort despite the moment. Despite your pulse thudding in your eardrums, a trickle of optimism seeping through you like molten liquid. You don that arrogant, playful front as if rolling over and showing him your belly will be viewed as a sign of weakness. He could still very well be screwing with you. Getting your hopes up to shatter them like waves breaking against the rocks.

“Yeah, right. And I’m the Queen of England,” you retort, rolling your eyes.

Sylus shrugs, resigned. Still, he doesn’t relinquish your gaze, the soft curl of his fingers around your face. Instead, he grows more tender, his irises twinkling a youthful shade beneath the ambient lighting as he leans closer. His voice is wispy like he’s murmuring something confidential. 

“You don’t have to believe me. But I am no liar, sweetheart. You know that.”

With that, he releases your chin, fingers slowly dragging over your face, leaving a searing path in their wake. You breathe again, unaware you weren’t, as if released from a spell. You watch him take up his champagne flute, slender fingers curling around its stem, and he stirs its fizzy contents. 

You’re jealous of that damn glass, still feeling those ruinous digits burning themselves into your skin.

He decides to shift gears. You’re thankful because you need time to process things. To get your heart rate down from the sky. 

“Besides, you looked like you could use a break. I figured tonight would be a good time for some morale boosting.”

You snort again, sipping from your own flute to assuage a flare of anger. “Me? A break? Morale boost? Yeah, sure.” 

Taking a breather with your boss, playing around on a date like you didn’t just murder someone? Was he serious? And is that all this was? A figurative pizza party to say, ‘Thank you’ for being an obedient little pet? 

You knew you were an idiot, getting your hopes up for nothing. 

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I’m not as much of a slave driver as you think,” he says, parting the tumultuous sea of your thoughts.

“Really? Luke and Kieran might say otherwise.” There’s more vitriol in your voice than you intend to let out. But you’re deflecting, protecting yourself. 

Your chest tightens when Sylus looks down, idly twisting the glass stem between his fingers. His gaze softens, and something in his voice shifts. “Can’t I just spend some time alone with you? Show you how much I appreciate you for being loyal to me all these years?” 

You stiffen, feeling like someone’s thrust a knife into your gut and twisted it. You must not have heard him right. For a moment, he sounded exposed. Wounded. And for a moment, you feel bad for doubting his intentions. 

You’re about to pursue it when your waiter reappears. He’s all smiles and professionalism as he sets two martini glasses on your table, crystalline liquid swirling ominously inside.

You look up at him with quirked brows. He stands in good form, folding his hands together behind his back. 

“Courtesy of the couple over there,” says your waiter, gesturing over his shoulder with a nod. 

You peer behind him. A middle-aged man and a younger-looking woman dressed in eccentric textures smile and wave enthusiastically at you. You lift your glass to them in a quiet toast, pasting on a smile. The gesture is sweet, but what’s the occasion?

“They said, drinks for the lovely couple, and congratulations on celebrating your anniversary.”

You sputter, sending drops of your martini flying every which way. 

Sylus laughs at your plight, taking up a glass for himself and lifting it in appreciation towards the couple. You glare at him as he sips. 

“Happy Anniversary, darling,” Sylus teases. Winks for added effect. He laughs a wealthy man’s laugh while you choke. 

You contemplate correcting the generous couple, but the martini is delicious. And Sylus doesn’t seem affected by it. 

And maybe it feels good pretending that, just for a moment, he’s yours and yours alone.

—

Someone had a sweet tooth following dinner.

That someone, of course, being you. 

The dessert menu at the restaurant looked appetizing. But you had a craving for something cold. Soft-serve. Besides, you were growing uncomfortable the more that couple ordered you drinks. At one point, they’d been so bold as to stop by your table on their way out. 

They kept ogling you. Winking, laughing drunkenly, spewing out their hotel room number upstairs. When they left, you leaned over the table, cupping your hand around your mouth.

“I think they’re swingers,” you whispered to Sylus. 

He laughed, sitting back. Raised his glass to you, a brow tilting up to match the cant of his lips. “Wanna go find out?”

“Hell no! I’m a one-partner kinda gal.”

You didn’t miss how his gaze shifted. Darkened into something you couldn’t quite place. 

You find yourselves in a 1950s-inspired diner— a modest hole-in-the-wall joint with retro decor and bright lights. Only a couple of other diners inhabit the restaurant. You’re nursing a milkshake, courtesy of your boss, buzzing like a child who’s gotten everything they wanted. 

He teased you about your cravings—only you’d want ice cream when it’s cold out. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, humoring you after you wore him down with those puppy eyes and your fingers buried in his sleeves.

He entertained you further by playing the claw machine in the corner at your behest. Watching a man so big, feared, and elusive fiddle with such a garish machine—you felt honored.

You cheered him on, the sleeves of his jacket draped over your shoulders, puddling around your elbows. After several attempts, he was successful, sheepishly shoving a purple koala bear into your hands. Your face burned hot, and your cheeks ached from smiling and laughing. 

It feels like a dream. The ideal date. And for a moment, you forget that Sylus is your boss. That he could never be yours and that you’re anything but a killer. 

You fiddle with the jukebox, earning curious glances from the diner’s other customers. They’re whispering things, eyeing you warily. You ignore them, queuing up a song. And you’re dancing, silly at first, but muscle memory kicks in. Soon, you’re moving your hips, smoothing over the contours of your body, spurred by Sylus observing you from his place atop a stool. 

You wish he would smile more—an authentic smile, unhindered by sarcasm or smugness. He’s much more handsome like this. 

You think about all the times he’s smiled this way for the hunter, and you stumble in your steps. You flash him a smile when it looks like he’ll get up to help you. Carry on dancing, doing one of the things you do best.

You pretend you’re at Lux, and he makes you feel like you’re on a stage just for him, your nerves flaring at his attention. There’s a gleam in his eyes as he leans back on the countertop on his elbow, watching you with muted appreciation. How long has it been since you’ve danced for him?

So swept up by the music, you hardly register the diner slowly emptying. Not even the servers seem to be bustling about anymore. You get an ominous prickling sensation on the back of your neck, the fine hairs there standing stiff. You stop. 

You exchange a look with Sylus. He raises a brow, tapping his temple. “Keep going,” he rasps, doting, coaxing. Entranced.

He has whatever’s about to transpire under control. You trust him fully. The Bonnie to his Clyde. 

The wispy tendrils of his Evol materialize around the diner’s interior to form a barrier, tossing the restaurant into a misty haze of red and black. It’s reminiscent of hellfire, and you feel like Lilith taking part in a sacrilegious waltz. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off you, attentive as you continue to dance. And you smile, putting on a damn good show as Nikolai’s men funnel in, their cries of agony tempered by the music spilling from the jukebox and your laughter coloring the air as Sylus rends flesh from bone with his Evol. 

—

He takes you to a safe house as the night reaches its peak. 

He reasoned it was the safest option while his men tied up whatever loose ends remained from your mission. Like dining and holding hands out in public didn’t warrant an ambush. 

Someone snitched. Saw that familiar riot of white, those brawny shoulders. Heard that gritty voice mixed with your distinct laughter and sent Nikolai’s men to finish you off. Sylus picked them off while you danced unhindered, but there was no telling how many stragglers were left, ducking into the shadows, creeping along the historic brick walls. 

Again, he insists on carrying you as you break through the door of a quaint, quiet home perched on a hilltop. Secured by his biometrics. Bordered by evergreens and the calming symphony of the forest. Isolated, like him. Hidden from invasive questions, from prying eyes. 

You’re tired. The night’s adrenaline sloughed off, leaving you tenuous and agreeable, which is why you don’t put up much of a fight as Sylus walks you through the foyer, smiling down at you like you’re his precious bounty. It’s infectious. Your lips tug, too, though a little less enthused. You blink slowly. Breathe evenly, lulled by the mollifying thump of his heart against your cheek. 

He drops your stilettos on the hardwood floor halfway to the living room. Deposits you on a dark leather settee, fixing your dress over your legs and his jacket around your shoulders. Draws back. Your chest tightens. You don’t know what hits you when your fingers close around the pleated sleeve of his button-up, eyes beseeching when he looks at you from over his shoulder. 

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to.

Don’t leave. Stay.

You don’t want the dream to end. Not yet.

He chuckles low, all smooth like whisky poured into a glass. Softened, scarlet eyes pan in through the low light, his silhouette haloed by amber. He lifts your legs to settle onto the upholstery beside you. Pulls your feet onto his lap. They’re irritated. Rubbed raw from being strapped to too-tall heels all night, running and gunning like you had no limitations.

He sensed your discomfort. Always such a gentleman.

Large, sweltering hands close around your feet, kneading through pressure and knots of tension. Knuckles at the balls of your feet. You exhale slowly, pleased. Thankful. The attention’s nice. There’s a small voice wading through the murky sea of your mind, telling you this is wrong. That you don’t deserve it, his tenderness. 

You’re getting pretty fucking sick of your conscience. It’s just a foot rub. It’s not like you’re kissing him. 

“You’re good at this,” you note offhandedly. 

“My hands are more useful than you think.”

Something dark threads through his voice. Something cheeky. You ignore how your stomach flips, your mind sparkling with impure ideas. 

Drowsiness sweeps in around the corners, bordering your vision like a vignette. He’s masterful with his hands. You wouldn’t expect anything less from the king of the underworld. You doze off, shepherded through the inkiness by the faraway tick of a clock. By trees rustling beyond the massive window, the moon dragging itself to the center of the sky, cloth moving as Sylus rubs over your calves. 

You stir when he shifts. When he moves to get up and lay your legs on the couch. That feeling returns. That ache. The call of loneliness. Your sleepiness abandons you, making way for cold fright. You stumble from the settee. Rush to stand at full height, gripping his shirt at the crooks of his elbows, halting him.

Your mouth opens. Heart thundering. You don’t know what to say—what you were thinking. His gaze is unyielding, studying your face like the slow flicker of a flame. Silver brows knot. Peach lips fall slightly open. He’s waiting for something. Asking for something. 

You’re on autopilot when you cautiously angle yourself closer. Your gaze falls to his mouth, and he mirrors you, cradling your elbows as if he’s afraid to break you. You’ll blame it on the bubbly you consumed later. On the spell he somehow cast over the night, enthralling you with his chivalry. 

You tug, and he meets you halfway. Not like you have to put in much effort. He’s already leaning down. Eyes already half-moons, breath already shaky. 

He tenses when your lips meet. Shoulders drop once the initial shock peters, and then he’s kissing you with those full, molten lips. He draws you closer, hands splayed possessively at the small of your back. Thumbs cruising over the meat of your hips. Up and down your sides. Wherever he touches, you burn.

You exhale through your nose, and your arms snake around his neck. Fingers sift through the fine hairs at his nape.

He teases your mouth open with his tongue. Sighs something anguished when you grant him entry, licking into your mouth. Pulls you impossibly closer. He’s rigid and warm against you. Gathers your cheek in his palm, angling your head back. He kisses greedy. Selfish. Plunders your mouth, milking the sweetest little sounds from your body. Sounds you didn’t think yourself capable of making.

You kiss and kiss until your lips are chaffed. And even then, you don’t stop. He’s ravenous, moving against you like he’s waited eons to do this. Like he’s fought a war with himself and lost. You’re his Gettysburg. His Kryptonite.

You’ll feel sorry for yourself tomorrow. Blame it on the air, charged with something heady, your inhibitions and common sense thrown to the wolves.

It’s just a kiss. He’s your boss. And tonight, he’s been something of a friend. A dream. Friends kiss all the time, right?

So why do you feel so guilty?

— tags: @emneedshelp, @reiofsuns2001, @crazy-ink-artist, @vonev, @subliminalwish, @ikiru-wa, @inkonparchment, @regandoesthings, @szired, @alyyylog, @leekingsman, @beewilko, @an-ever-angry-bi, @abbylee0710, @sunnyf4lls, @himiko-omikami, @midiplier, @ari-shipping-stuff, @karespocketboyfriends, @glamouroki, @babygirl-panda19, @im-in-different-universe, @sillyfreakfanparty, @lunebulous, @vilehrs-blog (sorry if i missed anyone.)

climax | masterlist | falling action

[mallory524]

the thunderbolts when you’re sick

tags- fluff, you’re sick, medicine, comfort, implied teammates to lovers, everyone lives together post-thunderbolts

notes- i am sick and this is how I’m coping. i want to make more of these so gimme ideas!

Yelena

Yelena knows you’re sick before you do. She notices that you’re coughing and sneezing throughout the day, you’re burning up every time you touch, and you’re sleeping a lot more than usual. One afternoon, you wake up on the couch to see Yelena sitting next to you with a carton of orange juice and a bunch of medicine. “You’re taking some of this” “Yelena, I’m not-” “DO NOT give me that. I know you’re sick and I think you know it now, too”. You may not be the most cooperative patient in the world, but Yelena does not care. She will keep bugging you to take your medication, rest, and eat healthy until the day when you finally feel better.

Bucky

Bucky knows you. He is not going to listen to a second of the old “I’m fine / I’m not sick / I can still do whatever I always do” routine. Bucky uses those kinds of phrases for everything, so he knows exactly what you’re doing. (Super soldiers can’t get sick, but if he could, that’s just how he would act, too). He makes sure the Thunderbolts leave for missions while you’re still asleep so that you don’t have the chance to try to convince Bucky you’re fine. Everyone goes along with this plan because they all know you’re in no condition to get back out there yet. Every time, without fail, Bucky leaves a little note letting you know where he is, when he thinks they’ll be back, and that he loves you.

Ava

Ava isn’t too perceptive when it comes to this sort of thing. She doesn’t pay attention to the little indicators that you’re coming down with something... at first. The day you’re on a mission and she has to slow down so you can catch up, it’s like she finally sees. The weary look in your eyes, the messy hair, the old clothes, the overall drowsiness, it all adds up. She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before. After that, Ava doesn’t want you going on any missions for a while, or even leaving the tower for that matter. She doesn’t want you to think it’s because she doesn’t believe in you or something. She’s just worried. She can’t stop imagining you trying to fight someone, and your opponent taking advantage of your weakened state and seriously injuring you. Plus: if you ever say you’re achy or sore, her heart will break, because she remembers what it’s like to be in constant pain.

John

You told John that you weren’t feeling good, and he told you to take some medicine and a nap. The next day, he walks into the living room and sees you curled up in a chair, fast asleep. He gently sets the back of his hand against your forehead, and he can feel that you're burning up. Now he feels awful because you’re clearly a lot worse off than he thought, and he had dismissed you. Careful to not wake you up, he carefully wraps a big, soft blanket around you, and walks out the door to buy some cold and flu medicine. For the rest of the time that you’re sick, he makes you soup, does your laundry, sits next to you on the couch and lets you fall asleep on his shoulder, anything you want. He can’t even pretend to be annoyed. You’ve been there for him time and time again, and he’s going to be there for you now.

Alexei

Alexei is caring to the point of being over the top. He will try to make you whatever food you want to eat. (The key word being "try"... some food is burnt). He will sit on the couch and watch whatever tv show or movie you want to watch. He will carry you to your room because, “I am strong! How can I, in good conscience, make you walk to your room on your own when you are so ill?” You want to remind him that you’re perfectly capable of walking from one room to another, but it’s so nice and you are feeling pretty weak right now so maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world… The rest of the Thunderbolts are starting to get annoyed, though. They think you’re being pampered too much, and that you’ll never even try to get better and rejoin the team. They’re probably just jealous that they still have to walk places.

Bob

Bob’s really worried about you. You tell him that he doesn’t have to fuss over you, that you’ll be fine, and that you’ll just stay in your room until you’re better. His heart breaks because you’re starting to sound like him every time he’s ever gotten sick. You deserve to be fussed over. He makes you tea, he regularly takes your temperature, and he proudly tells you one morning that he folded your laundry for you. Plus, the man is bulletproof and more powerful than all the Avengers combined; I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say he probably doesn’t get sick anymore. It’s so nice that you can just cuddle up and not worry about getting him sick, too.

[somanyideassolittletime]

Hints.

Pairings: Jack Abbot x Fem!Attending!Reader

Summary : 4 Times Shen Hinted to Jack about you, only for you to beat him to it .

Warnings: fluff, Jack is yearning hard, slow-ish burn, language, grammar inaccuracies (maybe? idk), Shen being a lil shit. Not beta read. 

Author’s note: this is my first time writing a fic, sooooo might be shitty, but I can’t stop thinking of this trope so I decided to take matters into my own hands. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jack has always noticed you. He notices that you always spend just a little bit more time with peds patients, he notices that you always indulge in small talks from your coworkers, he notices which nurses you are closest with, he notices almost everything about you.

He was well aware of how close you and Shen are—from seeing both of you for the first time ever, seeing the two of you whispering, thinking “these two are either way too stupid or just way too capable,” which he later proved was indeed the latter. Both you and Shen have the honor of being nicknamed ‘dumb and dumber’ due to how much you bicker with each other. It came with the territory of being best friends since med school. 

He was glad to have you both under his guidance; the two of you seemed to be able to work autonomously, and his weight has been lighter ever since ‘dumb and dumber’ started working with him. 

He knows that you always carpool with him every time you both are on the same schedule, knows that you are the one who introduced Shen to his current girlfriend, and knows that you and Shen tell each other about everything. He also knows that the care you two have for each other is nothing more than a sibling bond.

What Jack doesn't notice about you? How much you are actually in love with him.

What Jack doesn't know? Shen is so tired of seeing both of you pining for each other.

Both of you always held the same admiration for each other, and the caring nature you both have somehow multiplied when either one of you is on the receiving end of said nature. But Jack, being Jack, brushed it off as you being in your usual caring nature. Which was true, to some extent, you have always been caring for others. And you, being you, always brushed it off as Jack being a good senior. 

For others, though, it was as plain as day that you both are in love with each other, and since Shen was basically your body double, he often gets asked about the two of you which pisses him off to no end. 

(‘You can’t put a bet when you know what’s going on,’ Perlah once argued with him. Earning a nod of approval from others. 

‘I know nothing, all I know is that she’s got a big crush on someone. I don’t even know if it’s Abbot,” Shen reasons. 

‘The moment she tells you anything, anything at all, you be a man and back off from this.’ Princess points at him. 

‘Yeah, yeah, you guys know I’m a good sport.’ )

| one

After finishing up a GSW case on a police officer, Jack walked out of the room, eyes scanning for you—a habit he realized he's been doing way too much of. 

When his eyes found your figure, he watched as you were talking to an officer, friends of the patient he just finished up on, no doubt.

Now he knew that you had been asked out many times before this, but he had only heard it in passing, on gossip, on jokes that usually involve you cutting in with a laugh and a mocking tone of “yeah right as if”. Now that he has had the chance to see it in action, he doesn't know how to feel.

The officer you were talking to was smiling, with his hands on his vest, a straight posture, and chest slightly puffed. He could easily pass as the poster boy of the force, like he just came out of a police TV show you and Shen liked so much. He knew it because he once overheard you and Shen talking about it, and he arrived home, searched all of his subscriptions to watch one of the episodes. 

He tried to tear his gaze away. Really tried. But he couldn't, he was curious about what that boy could possibly be talking about with you.

Even from afar, without hearing what you two were talking about, he can confirm that the officer was definitely asking you out, with how much machismo he's exuding while offering his name card.

But he knows you better, he can see that you look awkward, like you just indulge him in a conversation out of respect and common courtesy, not out of interest.

Deciding that he could not see another minute of this, he decided to approach you but not even a step later that Shen stepped beside him and snorted.

“Jesus, she could probably make a yellow page by now if she doesn't throw those cards away.”

“What?”

“He's too young for her. She's too smart for him.” He commented as if it were obvious.

“He probably is the same age as you, man, and he seems…nice,” Jack argued, though he did find a slight comfort in Shen’s comment.

“Trust me. The moment he stepped away, she’ll throw that card.”

“And how are you so sure?”

“You.” He said it casually.

“What?” He croaked out.

Shen sighed, patted his shoulder, and walked away from him.

wanting to search for some truth in Shen’s words, he stayed in his spot, still looking at you.

True to Shen’s word, the moment the officer stepped away far enough from you, you walked over to the nearest trash bin and smoothly threw the card away.

He's not sure what he's supposed to be feeling now. Happy that you declined that guy's offer? Or sad that you didn't get a good night out with a guy that seemed nice.

But somehow his mind kept repeating what Shen told him. Looking for any reason—one that didn't give him any hope.

He must've zoned out for a while because you suddenly appeared in front of him, “Jack. Hey. Are you good?” Waving your hand in front of his face.

He's gotten you to call him Jack when it's just the two of you. Courtesy to one time you were looking for him on the rooftop, and you jokingly said, “Do I get to call you Jack now that I just walked an ungodly amount of stairs just to search you? Because I really just used the stairs.” Upon hearing his name uttered by you, he said yes, to please call him Jack.

He shook his head and searched for your eyes. “Yeah. No, I'm good. He seemed nice,” he pointed his chin towards the officer from earlier. Now standing in the ambulance bay, looking at his phone.

“Not my type,” you replied with ease. Because it was the truth, you never wanted to put anyone you decided to go on a date with, only for you to spend the entire time wishing it was Jack. 

“You never seem to be hit on by your type, huh?” He commented. Because that’s what’s been bothering him, why is it that you never even got interested in the slightest with anyone who came across interested with you? 

You smirked at that. “What would you know about my type now?”

“What is it then?”

Before you could reply, your name got called away, and you stepped away from him before saying, “Just wait and see, Dr. Abbot.”

| two

It was unusually cold tonight in the ER, and the city was raining for the entire day. Hell, the weather even got everyone who always swore by iced coffee switching it up to hot ones now.

Jack was glad for the weather, it meant that fewer people would come to the ER unless it was something like life-threatening injuries or one requiring immediate treatment.

A small part of him deep down also likes nights like this because it usually meant he got to spend more small moments with you. Not that he would ever admit it out loud sober.

Tonight, it seems fate has a different plan. It's been two hours into the shift, and he hasn't even said hi to you. He noticed that you keep moving around, busying yourself with everything.

Jack was charting on his station, looking up once in a while, looking at you talking to patients, when Shen approached him. Seeing this as his moment to ask about you, he cut to the chase.

“What's going on with her?” He nodded to your figure.

“Was gonna talk to you about it.”

Hearing that, Jack straightened up and looked at Shen, urging him to continue.

“This cold bothers you?” Shen started.

“You came to me to ask ‘bout the fuckin weather?”

“2 hours no contact and it’s grumpy Abbot today, huh?”

“No. And no.” He answered, not liking what Shen was trying to insinuate at him.

“You got a jacket lying around?”

“In my locker. What for?”

“She won't admit it, but she's cold as hell. Been moving around like she got the fuckin zoomies to manage it” he explained.

“Where's her jacket?” Jack asked, since he knew you always brought your jacket every day.

“We ran late today. Was gonna give me my jacket, but why should I when you're here,”

“What do you mean?” Jack knew what he meant, but he'd have to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

“Jacket. Give. To. Her. Okay?.” Shen mockingly said, emphasizing every word he said, miming an act of giving a Jacket and pointing to your figure. 

“Yeah, okay.” He mutters under his breath just loud enough.

Before he left his station, he called for Shen again.

“Thanks for telling me.”

Shen laughed at him and waved his hand dismissively.

Jack decided to walk over to you and intervene before you even move to another bed again.

“Come with me.” He touched your exposed elbow to gain your attention, now finally close enough to see goosebumps from the cold.

“Okay. Yeah.” You nodded at him

He leads both of you to the lockers, you following him on his side.

He stopped in front of his locker, pressing his code on the keypad, and opened the door.

You were dead curious about what stuff he had in his locker, that you forgot to ask yourself why he brought you here. So you tiptoed to get a good look inside his locker over his shoulder.

Realizing this, Jack chuckled and stepped away from his locker and let you get a good look inside. “Hope you're not expecting anything.”

His locker is filled with things you could expect: a toiletries pouch, a black t-shirt, a cargo, and a jacket. All neatly placed inside. Seeing that you already got a good look inside, he reached over his locker, extended his arm in front of you, and snatched his jacket.

You looked at him curiously, wondering where this going, why is Jack bringing you here, is he just flaunting that he got a jacket??

He handed his jacket over to you. “Wear it. Before you replaced the Iceman in X-Men” you smiled at his reference and took his jacket in your hand, softly saying thanks out of habit to him, undoing the zipper.

“You finally watched it?” You said as you started to put your arms in the sleeves.

“I liked cyclops,” he shrugged, taking in your figure in his jacket. The jacket fit perfectly. Like it was meant to be worn by you only. His stomach churned because that Jacket was, in all seriousness, his favorite jacket, and seeing you in it might just made his entire day. 

“’ Course you liked the simp,” you commented, receiving a ‘hey’ from him.

You snuggled into his jacket and frowned. “Smells like Tide Pods”

“You know I do wash my clothes, right?”

“You got your cologne there?” You asked him, pointing at his locker with your chin.

“That pouch,” he nodded and pointed at his toiletries pouch.

He was going to ask a follow-up question when you reached inside his locker and took out his pouch, unzipped it, and rummaged through it. So he decided that watching you was better than asking you.

You seemed to have found his cologne when you pushed the pouch into his hand, urging him to hold on to it, and sprayed his cologne on his jacket.

Thank god I wasn't lured by those apple watches. Would've given me notifications on irregular heartbeat by now.

You took the pouch, put his cologne inside, zipped it, put it back inside his locker, and rubbed your nose on the jacket to smell it again.

Jack couldn't form a proper sentence—the best he can do is croak out a “why?”

You shrugged as if it was no big deal—it was, you were just good at schooling your expressions.

“You smelled nice. I don't want to wear your jacket if it doesn't smell like you.”

Fuck

“5578? You should've closed your hand over the keypad before punching it in. Now I’m gonna steal your cologne when you're not looking,” you thought that your earlier statement was too bold. So you tried to change the topic.

“Be my guest.” He challenged.

You walked past him, saying, “I will, Jack, I will,” and muttered a thank you once again, but fell on deaf ears as his tactile, visual, and olfactory senses were overwhelmed by you in his jacket, smelling like him, patting at his shoulder.

| three

Jack arrived in ED 15 minutes before his shift change that night. He did the usual— putting his bag down, greeting Dana, and asking her where he could find Robby. Dana answered that he was in the break room, with Shen last time she saw Robby.

He entered the room, finding eye contact with Robby, who was sitting at the table with Shen, eating donuts. Both of them muffled a ‘hey’ to him, pushing the leftover donut in the box to him.

He muttered a ‘no thanks’ and went to the coffee machine to nurse himself a glass before perching himself on the edge of the counter.

Shen spoke up first. “It's her day off”.

Jack, who was sipping on his coffee, stopped mid-motion and searched for Robby’s eyes, who, as it turns out, is smiling smugly at him.

“So?” He replied coyly.

“Just a heads up, though I don’t recall John saying a name,” Robby replied.

Shen muttered something under his breath—just enough to be heard. “He's gonna be insufferable tonight.”

Robby laughed, “Best of luck to you, John.”

“Aren’t you two sweet now?” Jack grumbled to nobody in the room. 

Deciding that it was time to torture Jack further, Robby asked Shen in a tone Jack knew all too well. “How’s your girl?”

Shen smiled at him, even from behind, Jack could see him breathing out a sigh of contentment every time someone brought his girl up. 

“She’s doing great, kept asking me to find Y/n a guy so we can double date, I mean it’s not even my problem, whoever she’s got her eyes on doesn’t have the balls. She got me a girl for God's sake, why can’t she find herself a guy?” He shrugged and twisted his head to look at Jack. “Abbot, you gonna eat this or can I claim it?”.

Jack hated where this conversation was going – not that he was actively joining, he was already mulling over the idea of surviving this shift without having something to look forward to. Though he couldn’t ignore the pang of fear when Shen looked over at him, he felt like a kid getting caught stealing by their parents at that moment. 

“Go ahead,” hearing thi,s Shen muttered a ‘nice’ and reached over, taking another donut which was probably rationed for Jack. 

He was munching on his donut when he started again, eyes looking back at Robby. “You know I asked her out after 3 months liking her, one hint from Y/n and I was like, you know what? Fuck it. Thank god she was right.” 

“3 months? Didn’t peg you for someone to wait that long.” Robby mused back. 

“Exactly, man, I was miserable for three months. Can’t imagine pining for someone for 4 years and not making a move. Owe it to y/n though, if she didn’t make that hint, I would’ve been still single and miserable.” Shen was fucking with him. He was sure of it. Because he realized it long time ago that Shen has been hinting at him about you. From always giving a heads up on where you are, to giving hints about you that he didn’t ask for himself. And he was glad, in a sense, he could know more about you, but now that Shen has sussed him out that he is indeed screwed over, he kept on hinting to him. 

And Robby? He laughed, knowing where this was headed. He looked over to Jack, who stood still, perched on the edge, unmoving, pretending to enjoy his cup of coffee – but he knew Jack, Jack was listening intently to Shen, and that the coffee was not so good that you could enjoy it. So he decided to join in more. 

“Hey, maybe some guys just like playing the long game.” 

“Yeah, way too long of a game, more like. What if the girl’s starting to lose hope and decides that you’re not worth it anymore, huh?” Shen was so fed up with whatever is going on with Jack and you that he was dropping hints like flies.

The thing was, you never explicitly told him who it was, but Shen knew you too well – he knew what your type was, knew when you were serious about someone you’d dated or not, and he knew that a certain Jack Abbot was checking every box in your mental list. 

Shen was reminiscing about a certain memory now, both of you were 4 years younger, fresh out of med school, stepping for the very first time on this exact floor. He remembered you talking his ear off in the car, worrying about your attending. Scared that your attending will be a close-minded drill sergeant. Your words, not his. 

He remembered the two of you introducing yourselves to Robby and hearing happy squeals from you because “thank god he's nice,” only for Robby to say that he is not your attending. But when the two of you finally got introduced to your attending, Shen elbows you and leaned over, whispering “oh you’re definitely fucked now, Wishing on that drill sergeant now huh”. He would’ve continued teasing you if it weren’t for Abbot’s “you two hear me now, kid?” cutting the joke train he’s been holding on forever. 

“Well, I'm going to pee now.” He said, pushing his chair while standing up from the chair. He turned his back, pointing at Jack with his finger. “Hope that didn’t go over your head.” he walked away, leaving two men – one smirking his ass off and one suddenly interested in contemplating his life choices. 

Robby was going to say something when Jack cut him off. “What the hell did you say to Shen man?” He was irritated now. Robby lifts his hands in a mock surrender at him. 

“Didn’t say anything, man. You do realize that your girl’s close with him, right?” he tried to reason. 

“I only confide in you man, now Shen’s as bad as you in fuckin with me over it” 

“Well, if it's any consolation, maybe she talked to Shen about you?” Robby was trying to get his point across now. “And listen to Shen, he just told you that she’s starting to believe that you don’t feel the same.” 

“How do you even know that she’s talking about me, huh?” 

“Jack, as much as I love you brother, I gotta say this, you’re fucking stupid in this case for your own good.” Robby stands up, walking closer to Jack, pointing his finger at his shoulder, and says, “Just tell her. For everyone’s sake here, okay?” and that big betting money I put on you to say it to her first. Robby would’ve said. 

He left the room, leaving Jack still perched as the last 5 minutes, unmoving, and deep in thought. 

| four

Jack was on his way to see the improvement of the kid currently held in Trauma 2 when his stride was stopped by Jeremy, the new intern. “Hey, Dr. Abbot, can I have a minute?”

“Yeah, what is it?” he said curtly. 

“Got multiple lacerations and a fracture. I was supposed to be with Dr. Ellis, but she is currently overseeing other patients, so if you can assist me, maybe. If you got a minute, of course.” Jeremy, like any other person who worked under Jack for the first time, is always timid every time he talks to him. Something Jack is not proud of, actually, he’s a gruff man, sure, but scary? One conversation with him and everyone would realize that he is a yapper himself. 

“I gotta go check the drowning case earlier for a sec, you can ask Dr. L/n or Dr. Shen, I saw them charting earlier,” he explained to him. 

Jeremy nods, “Oh okay, I’ll ask one of them. Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” Before he can move, however, Shen walks over to Jack and asks him about the seizing patient he was assigned to. Jack sighs, looks over to Jeremy, and says, “Guess Dr. L/n is with you,” before he walks with Shen to Trauma 1. 

After a few trips in between cases with Shen, Jack finds himself and Shen in front of the nurse's station, telling Bridget that some of the beds are okay to be discharged when Shen asks. “Hey, Bridget, who’s in South 12?”. Jack steps a few steps backwards to search the board, his eyes scanning over it. 

South 10

South 11

South 12, - multiple lacerations, fracture. 

“Y/n is. With the new kid.” Jack answered him. “Holy shit.” realizing that Jack and Bridget are looking at him waiting he continues “sorry, it’s just I know the guy, Aaron, he’s her ex.” 

“Damn, he’s cute,” Bridget says pointedly. Though she was telling the truth, she also wanted to see how Jack would react. 

Jack felt weird in his stomach. For the first time in forever, he felt green. Like something was eating him alive. he was your man for some times in your life. He gets to spend mornings with you. He got to date you. He gets to call you- his thought was cut off by Shen saying that he’s going to go over there to say hi. 

“Between you and me, that kid got no chance of ever getting her back,” Bridget says. Jack huffs and says that he’s going to go see who can move to free up some beds, looking more sour as the second passes. 

Jack promised himself that he wouldn’t care about what’s going on behind the South 12 curtain, but somehow his feet have a mind of their own because now, he finds himself in South 11, not necessarily doing anything, and he was suddenly interested in the sleeping form of the patient occupying the bed though his ears were trained on the next curtain. 

“Okay, you’re done for now. Just gotta wait for ortho to be cleared so you can go upstairs,” he hears your voice, characteristically soft. Followed by Jeremy’s voice saying goodbye, and a curtain being opened. 

“Thanks, seriously, didn’t know you both worked here,” he hears an unfamiliar voice. 

“No problem, man. Thanks for letting that kid work on you.” Shen replied then with a familiarity. 

“Nah, with y/n watching him like a hawk, I’ll trust him with my life.” Aaron, albeit high from the pain meds registered to him still talked with a lilt to his voice.

Realizing that you’re done with Aaron, you excused yourself, “Well, I’m going now. Shen, you wanna-” your voice was cut off by Aaron’s hand shooting up, catching your wrist, “Actually, can we talk for a bit?” 

Jack clenched his jaw, he didn’t like where this was going. 

“Ookay, I’ll leave you both to it,” Shen speaks up, opening the curtain. Earning a glare from you. 

“What is it now?” you start, your eyes darting everywhere, only to find Jack’s familiar boots in the next bed, giving you comfort you didn’t know you needed. 

“I’m sorry, okay? All these years, I kept on wondering where we went wrong.” You sigh, “Aaron, what went wrong was… everything, and between you and me, parting ways was the best. We've got to focus on ourselves, and it worked. Besides, we were young back then, we didn’t know any better.” 

“You could’ve replied to my texts. You owe me that, at least.” 

“Last I recall, we have nothing going on anymore-” Aaron cuts you to it. “You’ve found someone. That’s why you’ve been ignoring my texts, why you can pretend that what we had back then was nothing.” 

“Being together was a mistake, Aar, we both know that.” You try to reason with him. Not wanting to give his opinion as an answer, because honestly, you didn’t even know whether you had a chance with the man who has your heart or not.

Jack realized that he wasn’t supposed to hear any further, he felt like shit now that he’s heard something very personal. So he decided to leave. 

You look at Jack’s boot leaving and suddenly feel less comfortable now that you are alone with your ex. 

Jack finds himself in the ambulance bay, his feelings brewing in his stomach as firm as ever. He was feeling everything all at once now – guilt, jealousy, and most prominently, yearning. 

“He made a mistake, a big one, she’s been holding off dating because she knows no one is ever gonna replace you, sure as hell not gonna come back to him.” He doesn’t realize that Shen was behind him until his words sink in. 

“I don’t even know what to say to her, how are you even so sure that she feels what I feel?” For once, Jack listened to his heart and asked Shen the big question he’s been itching to know for the longest time. 

“Look, I know her, okay? I know she never explicitly told me that it was you, but I know that whatever it is you’re feeling, she feels the same.” Shen never speaks to him in such a manner; he realizes it was almost comforting to him. 

Jack doesn’t have an answer to that, so he stayed silent. Hoping an ambulance would come in – just to take his mind off of things he’s been thinking. Shen understands him, he doesn’t expect an answer from Jack, so they both stay silent. 

+1

Jack woke up on his day off with a call from you, not that he knew it was you who called him that morning. He was awake on the second ring, annoyed but still reaching for his phone on the nightstand to check the caller ID. Upon realizing that it was you who called, he shot up from his position and mentally prepared himself for your voice.

“Jack, are u up?”

He knows that you have seen better days— your voice is strained, tired, and almost giving up.

“Hey, yeah, I’m up now. What's wrong?”

He hears your chuckles and he realizes that this is a good way to wake up.

“Nothing’s wrong, listen- do you wanna maybe get some breakfast with me? Oh wait, you just woke up, never mind, I’ll-”

“I would love to. where are you thinking? I’ll come and get you from the hospital” He cuts you off. Scared that you've decided that he shouldn't go out.

“The diner near your place, I’m walking there currently. I’ll order your usual.”

The diner was a one-time occurrence, after both of you worked the day shift, and with two cans of beer in his system, you offered to drive him with a waffle as a bribe on the way home.

Before he can ask why you were walking alone in the cold, you cut off the call, leaving him practically jumping from his bed to brush his teeth and change his clothes.

Jack was walking to the front door of the diner when he saw you from the glass window, sitting in one booth, head tilted backward, and arms crossed with two coffee mugs and a plate of waffles on the table. His heart stopped the moment he realized that you were wearing his jacket—the one you keep on telling him you were planning to give back, but it never seemed to land on his locker ever again.

He walked to the booth, muttering your name, and he must have looked like he just woke up because you smiled— that loopy smile that always leaves him frozen. “Good morning. You definitely raised the standards for ‘I just woke up’ look”.

“Well, aren’t you cozy in that jacket?” He jested, “Always wear this one if you’re not working.” You replied with a small smile, looking at his eye. 

He smiled bashfully and was going to sit across from you when you held his hand and said, “Sit beside me, please,” and he obeyed. He sits beside you, shoulder almost touching, when you put your head on his shoulder. He went stiff for a while, before slightly leaning his position backward so you could be more comfortable.

“I'll give you this jacket back,” you speak first, your voice slightly muffled by his shoulder. he laughed, and moving his head slightly to the left to press a kiss on your hairline. You took it as a chance to put your arms around his waist, snuggling into him further as he put his arm around you, rubbing it in a soothing motion.

“Keep it.” You kissed his shoulder, the intimacy of this moment isn't lost on him, to ground himself, he decided to lift his mug and carefully take a sip of his coffee with his free hand.

“You want to talk about it?” He started, earning a simple nod against his arm and listening attentively on you talking about the shitty shift you just had—one where you lost a boy, and having to talk to his girlfriend who cried on you saying how she never got the chance to tell him she love him was just too much for you. So you made up your mind that moment to tell Jack as soon as you can.

“Jack.” You called out to him, and he hummed at you, hands still moving up and down your back. You continued. “You know I love you, right?.” His hand stopped at that, and you straightened up, hands falling on his thigh, looking at his eyes now.

He couldn't say anything— his heart beating too hard for his liking, his mind went blank, he was sure he'd never felt peace and adrenaline at the same time.

So he looked down, seeing your hands on his thigh, taking it on his own and lifting it to his lips to press a kiss on it.

He breathed deeply. “Fuck. I love you so much, I don't think it's healthy.” His voice was still breathy, from the adrenaline or the fact that he just woke up 10 minutes ago, he never knew.

“Good. 'Means I got custody of this jacket and its owner now” going back to the same comfortable position you were in earlier, and he laughed softly, with a crooked smile, he whispers, “You already have my heart, You can have any of my jackets, honey.”

“But you have to eat first, and after that you can raid my closet and take anything you want, okay?”

“Will you kiss me now?”

He leaned in and kissed you softly—not a hurried kiss, not even a hungry one, it was a genuine soft kiss with years of yearning over each other, pining over one another with nothing but pure love. He kissed you like he meant it, like how you are meant to be kissed—with nothing but love.

The next day, you weren’t even walking together to the ER, but somehow, everybody knew. Robby was talking with Shen, Dana with Bridget, when you joined in to greet everyone, followed by Jack, who put his bag on his station, not even acknowledging the gossip circle.

You were going to say something when Shen beats you to it, “shhhhh before you say anything, who said it first?” Now this caught Jack's attention, who joined in with a smirk on his face. 

“She did,” Jack said with a smile. Looking at you now. Dana and Bridget were high-fiving with a ‘yes’. While Robby and Shen quietly muttered a ‘fuck’.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck, I was so close to that 300,” Shen said exasperatedly. Rubbing his face. 

“What the fuck, you bet on me John?” you asked him. 

“Eh, we all did. Though I technically bet against you.” 

You turned to Robby, “You?” he shakes his head and juts his chin out to Jack beside you. 

“Before you ask, we both bet that you would be the first to say it,” Dana said cheerfully, thinking of ways she’s going to spend the money. 

Shen looks over to Jack before saying, “what the fuck, man. I even gave you hints.” Jack only shrugged his shoulders, “Sorry, man, I wasn’t even expecting it.” 

“That’s what you get for playing dirty, John.” Dana shoved his shoulder. 

“Told you the girl’s fierce. Never underestimate a woman in love.” Bridget commented on Shen and Robby. 

Jack nudged your shoulder, looking at you, smiling fondly before saying, “Yeah, my girl’s fierce.” 

Your face turned red at that comment. “Though, you deserve to lose that you got so little faith in me you fucker.” You pointed at Shen. who replied with a “whatever”.

Shen walked over to Jack and put his hand on his shoulder, “Thank you for lightening my burden, now she’s your burden.” you mock hurt at the comment, though the smile on your face says otherwise. 

“Gladly. Though you gotta walk me step by step later.” Jack nudged your shoulder once more, you shoved him back as retaliation, “Hey! I’m not the one eavesdropping when I’m talking to my ex.” 

Jack was frozen, his ears burning red, when everybody laughed at him. 

“While Jack could’ve given me the win, I’m happy for you both, truly,” Robby said earnestly. 

Jack leans down, whispering to you, “You should tell Shen he’s not gonna get free coffee anymore now that you’re driving with me.” You whispered back to him, “Nah, he’s a big boy, he’ll understand.” 

Your whispers were responded to with sighs and grunts from the others, who decided to leave both of you alone. With Dana walking away, smiling hard, and says, “Keep it PG now, you two.”

You both smiled at each other before parting ways. You turned over to look at him from a distance and mouthed ‘I love you,’ and Jack, who meets your eyes with his stare – now softer than ever – mouthed back ‘love you more.’. 

And that was enough, for now.