Just A Cowgirl

Jacaerys felt the bite of the arrows like a brand, pulsing like another denominator of what was to come, to swallow him whole. One in his neck, one near his heart, and others in places he couldn’t name, but remembered your hands and mouth touching countless times before.

The Gods were cruel to punish him right where your sweetness had been, where your love had touched and imprinted itself onto him, now stained by sharp steel and blood.

He hopes you’ll have it in your heart to forgive him, for he cannot do so for himself. The more the world feels like a distant memory, the more his heart aches, its beating slowing, as if trying to mimic the syllables of your name one last time before it inevitably stops. One last call out to you, willing to see if you would answer, even if he knows that to be impossible.

Would you cry, he wonders, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. Would you curse him? Would you hate him? Would you damn every moment you’ve spent together, turning it into poison and ash?

Jacaerys would not fault you if you did, but his chest feels hollow at the prospect of causing such vile emotions to bloom in your tender heart, most of all towards him.

You are his most precious jewel, and losing his life is one thing, but knowing that means losing you as well? It tears at him more than those arrows have.

He thinks of his mother, who was so delighted knowing he had found someone to love, and someone to be loved by in return, truthfully and wholeheartedly. You two were meant to have a Valyrian wedding in a few moons, as it is custom, and he had been ardently awaiting to see how beautiful you would look in traditional garments. Trying to imagine it now, just as he had many times before, feels like another arrow aimed straight at his heart, plunging deep. Now, he will never get to teach you how to recite the vows in High Valyrian, won’t get to see the sparkle of joy in your eyes when you’re face to face, exchanging them, binding your destinies together for all eternity, even in death.

Death. Jacaerys supposes that if he dies without binding his soul to yours before his ancestors, he won’t have any pieces of himself that he knows will certainly be kept in the sanctity of your heart.

But maybe it is better this way, for you will not have to carry such a heavy burden ensnared in the crevices of your chest, reminding you of all you’ve lost; of all he’s made you lose.

It might seem callous of him to think so, but the thought of you mourning him brings warmth to his veins, even through the chill of the sea. Knowing you have loved him enough to let tears fall from those pretty eyes of yours makes the inevitable hurt a little less.

Someone had cared for him and felt strongly enough to weep at his departure. That, in itself, is a gift. One of the many you had given him. You yourself have been the greatest one, blessing his days and easing his worries with nothing but a look, a word, a kiss. It had come like breathing to you, and he had never felt like he was out of air until now.

The sea is seldom merciful, and no matter how much he tries to beg the Gods to spare him, Jacaerys knows this time it might be in vain.

But how can he not beg? How can he not plead? If not with his voice, then with the remaining beatings of his heart, with the last vestiges of the memories he has of you.

He wishes he would’ve said I love you more often, for it seems like he had been scarce in his vocalization of it. Now, every day doesn’t feel like enough, because no matter how hard he tries, his throat is clogged with water and the words he means to say, if only for the last time. He would’ve hoped it enough to ease the grievances he knows you would feel upon hearing of his demise.

Jacaerys wonders if you would eventually surrender yourself to another. If there would come a day where another man would sweep you off your feet, chipping away at all the parts of Jace burrowed deep in your flesh and blood. The thought makes him want to weep. You forgetting him, replacing the memories you have of him with those of another, as if painting anew on an old canvas one has no use of anymore.

If his promise would’ve rung true, Jace would be by your side now, celebrating the victory at the Gullet, hugging his mother, then you so tight it would’ve knocked the air out of you both. He would’ve twirled you around while laughing, leaning in to press a multitude of kisses onto every patch of skin he could reach, knowing it’ll make you laugh, cheeks flushed, looking at him like he’s your whole world.

May that be the last thing he wishes for before the sea takes him. May your face be the last thing on his mind before there is nothing but darkness, engulfing every bit of light that was you. May he always remember you, even when buried beneath the sea and the sand, wishing for nothing than to hear your voice saying his name one last time, your gaze softening upon looking at him, and maybe, if the Gods allow him one last mercy, the feel of your soft lips upon his own.

He knows he is not worthy, for if he were, Jacaerys would’ve held onto his promise to come back to you, to his mother, to the Realm. But he couldn’t. The Gods were ever cruel and took from him the very essence of his being, cursed to wait for his impending doom.

And wait, he had. Was it another punishment to still feel like he was hanging on but never sinking deep enough? To will him to replay every single memory of you and imagine thousands of others? To feel so close but so far away from the object of all his affections and desires?

Jacaerys would know you anywhere, he thinks. Even blind, hard of hearing, or sinking into nothingness, he would not fail to know you are close.

So why does it feel like you are? Is this another cruel trick before the ancestors welcome him to them? He swears he can feel the soft lilt of your voice somewhere in his vicinity, and it makes him want to move, to lean towards it and taste it. Make sure it’s real.

Please let it be real. To the Old Gods and the New, let it be real. Don’t dangle such hope in front of him only to take it away, for it would feel like getting speared with arrows again and again and—

“I shall watch him,” your voice sounded, just as sweet and lovely as he remembered, but also tired, croaky at the edges. What had happened? Why were you — “You need rest, my queen. Let me, for now.”

My Queen? Mother?

The sounds were a bit muted, but he could hear footsteps, then the creaking hinges of a door, followed by a thud.

A long, hitched sigh followed, the one people do when they try not to let it show they were hurting, right before the tears inevitably fall.

Were you crying? He couldn’t bear when you were. That pretty face he loved so much, marred by tears, undid him every time.

Jacaerys had to see, had to make sure you were okay, that nothing had befallen you too, that the Gods had been merciful to an angel such as you.

He was struggling. His body was not responding the way it should, barely able to feel his hands and feet properly. But that didn’t matter now, for he only needed his eyes to will open so he could glimpse you, even if it was all a cruel fiction of his imagination, probably allowing him one more wish before taking him to the depths forever.

Please.

Please let him see his wife. His lady. His love.

Please.

One last time is all he asks.

If the Gods had ever looked down upon him and smiled, let them look down and smile once more. Grant him this one mercy. Just this once. Only this once.

He knows he’s begging, but what is there to do other than implore with all the strength left in him for one last look at you? In case he is to meet his end soon, let the sight of you be what he goes down feasting upon.

Blessed be The Mother, for I beg for one last mercy, for I shall gaze upon the one I hold most dear before my death and meet my end with a settled heart—

Jacaerys wonders if you are wearing one of your soft gowns, the ones he loves most, for you look like a Fae from the library tomes you so love. Would you still wear the necklace he had given you, or have you thrown it away in a fit of grief and anger because of his recklessness? He wouldn’t fault you for it. Just wished he could give you another to atone for his many sins, for how much sorrow he must’ve brought you.

But he is wrong.

You are wearing the pendant. Your fingers are wrapped around it, settled at the base of your throat, holding so tight your hand shakes, lips pressed to it, murmuring to yourself, eyes closed in prayer.

Are you praying for him to come back to you, just as he was? The thought makes warmth bloom beneath his ribs, licking upwards towards his chest, weaving until it finds his heart, willing it to beat faster. Even so close to dying, he supposes, you still manage to affect him just the same.

If this is but a dream, he hopes he never wakes up. Because standing here, looking at you, just as beautiful as the day he lost you, brings him more peace than any prayer he could’ve uttered. You are so pretty. His pretty girl. Always, always so very pretty. Even now, looking worn out, expression pinched, and hands shaking.

He wants to see your eyes, at least once, before he can't do so again.

"M-may you look at me, my love? For I want to—"

Jacaerys is startled from finishing his sentence by the loud gasp you let out, body jumping beside him, startled and alert, like a doe sensing hunters on its tail. Your eyes are so, so wide with disbelief, watching him with the sort of bewilderment one would when seeing a creature unknown or some oddity come to life. Why were you looking at him like that? If this were but a dream, then why—

"Jace," you whisper, shaky and soft, like a petal swept by the wind, hands trembling so hard the pendant slips through your fingers. "Jace," he hears you repeat, as if the sound of his name in your mouth is something foreign you have to taste again. "Gods, Jace!" Your voice cracks along the syllables of his name, before moving closer, gazing at him with those pretty eyes he near plead to see, now teary and wide, sweeping over him as if checking to see if he's whole. He knows he isn't, for the battle must've left him with more than grievances and a hollowness in his chest that could only be filled if he still had a chance to live.

Your movements are shaky and hesitant, wanting to reach for him but shackled by a fear he does not know yet. Why won't you touch him? He can tell you want nothing more than to feel him beneath your palms, and yet you waver. Why? If this is to be the last mercy before his death, why is he imagining his beloved faltering instead of pressing close, so close and grasping at him like the air one needs to breathe?

Jacaerys tries to lift a hand, grimacing when his body again does not count him as its master, and makes it hard to move properly, feeling a sharp pain lance through his forearm, pulling a hiss from between his teeth. One to which you react instantly, shaking your head as you plead with him not to move, cradling his hand between both of yours, letting Jace feel the softness of your skin again. "No, no, my love, do not move," you sniffle, blinking back those stubborn tears lining your pretty eyelashes. "Please, you must rest. The Maesters said you are not to tire yourself any further."

The Maesters? What ever could you mean?

Blinking his eyes rapidly to dwindle the fog clinging to his vision, Jacaerys's breath catches when your own room comes into view, surrounding both of you. He supposes his imagination could not help but want to remember you in the place where you felt most at ease, the one where you shared your first kiss, first bedding, and many, many other milestones that now feel like a vice around his heart, squeezing tight. Will this be the last time he gets to pine for what once was and for what could never be again?

"H-how do you feel?" Your voice shakes again, snapping him out of his reverie, gaze finding its way back to yours, feeling himself melt just at the sight of you anew. Gods, you couldn't be more gorgeous. "You had been asleep for half of a fortnight. We didn't know if you would ever wake—"

And oh, his heart shatters into pieces when your words trail off into hiccuped sobs, soft chin wobbling, not being able to hold the weight of your grief and sorrow. His sweet wife was crying beside him because of his own foolishness, and there was no punishment severe enough for his transgressions. He could be put to the sword, and it would never erase the guilt in his chest at making you shed even a tear.

It takes him but a few moments to rear his mind from blame to the words you spoke, eyes widening in bewilderment as he registers the information you bestowed upon him. "Asleep?"

His voice is rough and unpolished from disuse, and he's watching you like you brought both salvation and perdition to his door.

But you only nod, squeezing his hand tighter, bringing it up to your mouth to press warm lips upon his skin, feverish and lingering, before cradling the back of his hand against your tear-streaked, warm cheek. "Yes, my love," you confirm, tone lightening with pure relief. "The Gods were watching over you, breathing life into you anew, just like we prayed for."

Breathing life back into you.

Does that mean—

But he cannot hope yet. What if this is nothing but another trickery? The cruelest way to tear his heart asunder by making him believe he escaped from the unforgiving claws of the sea and is now granted another chance at spending a lifetime with you?

Jacaerys can feel a lump form in his throat, near choking him, his lashes dampening rapidly. "Do not forsake me, please," he pleads, willing his hand to clutch at your fingers again, with what little strength he has. "I cannot bear knowing this is but a dream." It is hard to speak as his chest heaves, blubbering like a child as he begs for a miracle from you, who he now hopes is all flesh and bones and not smoke and ash in front of him.

Your expression pinches, studying him carefully, as you so often used to do with your tomes and books in the low candlelight before bed, thumbing each page as you uncovered the secrets written through the dried ink. He feels like one now, as your eyes narrow, before those soft lips part in a round shape, understanding dawning on you.

"Oh, my sweet prince," you whisper, voice damp from your tears, but then the sweetest sound of all accompanies the wetness of your eyes.

A laugh.

Amidst all this confusion, all this befuddling turmoil between dream and reality, you laugh as if a weight has been lifted off your shoulders, and your mouth dared to form the shape of happiness again.

You turn your head to press a fervent kiss to his hand before moving closer, cradling his face between your palms. Thumbs soften the traces of tears onto his own pale cheeks from being under slumber for so long, willing to see a flush to them soon. "I am flesh and bone, not a mere mirage," you assure, another soft, disbelieving laugh tinkling between you, as if the mere thought of him believing this to be a play of the mind is ridiculous. "The Gods brought you back to me, just as I wished for, my love."

Gods, he thought he'll never get to hear that sound fall from your lips again. It makes his vision blur with tears, lips trembling as he chokes back from babbling again like a babe, but eager to quiet the ghosts of his mind that insist this is a delusion.

"P-prove it to me," he hiccups wetly, no longer preoccupied with how weak he must look, nothing like a prince and all like a man at the end of his hope, begging you to pull him towards salvation. "Please, ñuha jorrāeliarzy," his tongue wraps around the endearment like it never forgot it, full of longing and desperation. "Show me I still have you, for I cannot bear the thought of losing you again—"

He feels his heart breaking and mending itself back together over and over, waiting for you to grant him this one certainty in his hopelessness.

And Gods, you do.

Your lips are on his before he can blubber another supplication, palms tilting him the way you want to as you slot your mouths together so, so tenderly, like two wings of a butterfly touching while they flutter.

He feels it. He tastes it. Your tears, his tears, your promise, his desperation.

Jacaerys wishes he were stronger, for his body is weakened by the tragedy that befell him, not being able to grasp you as fiercely as he would if his limbs had not forsaken him. He can only will his fingers to brush against the folds of your skirts onto the bed, curling into the material until his hand shakes with the ardent want of closeness; of wanting to do more but being cursed into only hoping.

"You have me," you whisper against his mouth, branding the truth on his lips as you continue kissing him. He can feel you smiling into it, and it is unbecoming of him how that only makes him weep harder, his own tears trailing down your cheeks and chin now, too, from how close your faces are pressed together, smushed in your eagerness to prove what he so feared was nothing but a cruel twist of his mind. "And I have you, dārilaros ñuha."

Gods, your tongue tangles around the words so clumsily, no matter how many times he had patiently taught you the right way before, and still, he would never trade it for the world. Jacaerys wants to hear it a thousand times more, and then tenfold that, for the rest of his days.

He's overwhelmed. All the hopelessness he felt before, thinking he would never get to hear the sound of your voice, taste the sweetness of your lips, feel the warmth of your love. And now you are offering him all of those and more, and he feels like he cannot breathe if you dare stop for even a moment.

"Avy jorrāelan, " he sobs, trembling lips barely able to return the soft kisses you so kindly confer to him still. "Avy jorrāelan. Always," the words tumble from his mouth, choked and utterly devout. "Not a moment went by when I did not plead with the Gods to bring me back to you. I curse the sea for trying to wrench me from your side. For its greed and its cruelty, for—"

But you silence him with a firmer press of lips, swallowing the last of his blubbering with the sweetness of your mouth, tasting salt and love and life. You exhale shakily, drawing back so your gazes meet, lips brushing, leaning to nuzzle your noses together as you whisper, voice fervent with conviction. "No more talk of misfortune," you say, nudging his cheek in reprimand with the tip of your nose. "Let me rejoice in having you again."

Jacaerys had always been weak to your whims, never one to deny you anything, least of all when spoken with such longing, such relief, bodies close and shaking with lingering grief and solace alike.

He nods, gathering strength enough to nuzzle you back, eyes fluttering at the feeling, to which you shakily let out another one of those honeyed laughs as you whisper. "But do not think I shall forgive you for trapping me in mine own chambers before rushing to battle with such recklessness."

Oh.

In the midst of all this, he forgot the events that led him to this whole predicament. Closing his mother's door, then yours, vowing to come back in the end, no matter the cost.

"But I have—"

"Coming back in such a state is hardly enough for me to count this as you honoring your vow," you say, eyes narrowing, even teary and full of adoration as they were. And he couldn't find it in himself to feel anything, but the fullness of his chest as it filled with so much love for you, it damn near burst open. "We shall discuss more of this when you've healed properly."

"Yes, my lady," he whispers, having the gall to look a bit sheepish, but alas, a small smile curls at his lips, the normalcy of your reprimand willing his senses into solace.

You harrumph, trying to show displeasure, but he knows there is too much relief blooming between you two now, softening even this attempt at being stern.

He makes an effort to tilt his chin up until his lips brush your tear-streaked, warm cheek, kissing it softly, not moving for a very, very long time.

"I'm sorry," is pressed against the damp skin, and he knows it'll take time and an exuberant amount of grovelling to will you to forgive him, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

Now that he has escaped death's grasp, he has a lifetime ahead of him to try to gain your favour.

And Gods, what a fortunate way to live out the rest of his days.

tag list: @silkaurum @oldtowrs @mademoisellepetite @dreamgirlevill @0nlybitt3r4may @rhaenyras-crown @ghostlybfgf @pinkdoeweirdo

ñuha jorrāeliarzy — my love

dārilaros ñuha — my prince

Logan Howlett:

Logan’s been offering to help a lot lately, and it worries you. Because there are other people all around the mansion that are eager to help. To lend out their services and have for the past nine months as you weathered the storm alone.

And considering that he had strolled out the door after your one-night stand for reasons unknown—missed the birth of your child—sauntered back into your life a few weeks after the birth—

Well, your expectations were low. Quite low, in fact.

But the way that he stands on the balcony of your room that overlooks the expansive lawn as you watch, your child sleeping in sturdy bassinet beside you—

It’s a reaffirmation of something. A reclaiming of territory, if you will. There’s no other way to describe the way that he leans against the banister of the patio, sans shirt. How it lets you see the fine hair that coats the flex of those impressive muscles.

The way that those jeans have sunken quite low on the v of those powerful hips, framing mouthwatering thighs. Those hands that held you that fateful night clutch in tight knuckling over the railing.

Not to speak of the way that he’s allowed his eyes to rivet you to the spot, expression neutral—no. That’s too sedate for Logan. It’s restrained.

“Y’should let me move into your room with you.” He states in gruff manner—you don’t resist the way your eyebrows jump up your head. This isn’t the proposal that you expected.

“Why? You can come find me anytime,” You return, crossing a leg primly over the other. He makes a grumbling that settles low in his chest.

“How else’m I gonna help take care of ‘em?” He asks, nodding his head in the direction of your—his—slumbering child. And now you don’t resist the disbelieving chuckle that breaks free—though his expression remains stolid. Grows more steadfast at this.

“Didn’t picture you for the child-rearing type,” You respond back with glib humor as you angle a glance down your baby.

“‘S our kid.” He returns in such stark manner, though you don’t look up until he says, “Gonna take care’a you both.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” You return back with cavalier ease as you lean back against the back of your chair. He crosses to you with such alacrity that you’re almost stolen of breath—all you can do is watch him lean down to cage you in with the grasp of his hands, letting you breathe in his scent. Apprasise the stare of those wanting, determined eyes.

“Don’t make a habit of keepin’ secrets from me, darlin’,” He huffs through gritted teeth. “‘F you told me you were pregnant—I woulda come back.”

“On hands and knees?” You ask, still choosing to take refuge in audacity. You’re rewarded with a taut smirk—there’s a reason why he chose you, after all.

“Don’t think I’ll have to beg,” He says, and his hand is familiar pressure as it drapes up your arm. Taking you close as his breath issues in short chuff against your lips.

“Then you’ll have to get back into my good graces somehow,” You return with playful cant. From the way that he chuckles against your mouth, the way that he leans over you—it’s clear he understands exactly how he’ll do it, with great relish.

Lobo:

Honestly, given his track record, you’re surprised that he’s stuck around for so long. Stuck around is also doing a lot of heavy lifting—he’s been waltzing in and out of your apartment as he pleases to check in on you. And ‘check in on you’ is also another phrase with loose interpretation. He’s been sauntering into your shared space to admire the swell of your belly. To press the spread of those massive fingers over it to feel your baby kicking from within.

“Got a fighter in there,” He grins down at you with those eyes that seem to cut through you in such iridescent quality. Those teeth make a ravenous display as he looks down at you.

“Guess they get that from their dad.” He chuckles throatily at the compliment that he pays himself.

“And what do they get from me?” You ask wryly as you look up at him, crossing your arms over your chest. When his eyes drift down to admire the way that your arms push your chest in more appealing display, you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“Think I’m a better shower that I am a teller, babe,” He leers as he leans in to press his arms around you, bringing you close. You’re not surprised as you feel the claw of his hands against the curve of your ass—though you are disappointed for the way that you lean into it. For the way that you let a smothered groan eke out against the inside of your lips.

“Why don’t we get in more practice for number two?” He asks you, as his touch wanders further down, igniting desires that are hampered by your belly.

“Hear that it’s good to relieve pain from gettin’ knocked up,” Lobo tacks on for good measure.

“And who knocked me up?” You ask with a dubious look. But your hands, as they drift up the plane of his chest, are telling a different story.

“You mean, who’s gonna knock you up again?” He asks. You barely have enough time to laugh before he takes another kiss from you, the heat of his mouth giving way to another one that ignites between your legs.

Hal Jordan:

“She looks just like you,” Hal says as the two of you lie on the bed, with her in between you, demarcating both union and divide. The summation of something beautiful but emblematic of what has fallen apart.

“She’s got my eyes,” You comment, running the pad of your finger down the velvet-soft apple of her cheek, shifting on your elbow to look at her sleeping form. She took her nap at opportune time, so you had to put her down on the bed. It’s a bed that used to house a different pair than you and she, but try not to think about it. Much

And when Hal sidled on the other side of her to join you both, you didn’t stop him. Even if you should have. But how could you deny a father who looks at his newborn daughter the way that a blind man regards the sky for the first time?

A man draws his eyes up to look at you with a desire communicated beyond the space of verbalization.

“You should let me come back, angel,” He says softly, that familiar siren’s croon that’s seduced you so many times before. You purse your lips, and make the first good decision you can: you rise in slow, careful meter from the bed to avoid waking your daughter.

“You can’t commit to anything, Hal,” You respond with a firmness that is already eroding from the inside-out. To your dread, knowing what it means for you—you hear his easy tread approaching from behind.

“I have two reasons to commit,” He explains with a casual surety that has you turning round to him. To look at the caramelized eyes that are so easy to wear down your willpower, the crooked smile that leaves your gaze loitering on its winsome quality.

“For how long?” You ask, as his hand knuckles at the full of your chin, giving you cause to share the intensity of that stare. The way he communicates volumes that he’ll never say.

“As long as you want me, honey,” He murmurs against the full of your lips—but not crossing the meridian to you. Putting the ball in your court.

“I’m yours.” He continues, his voice ambered honey as it makes frisson down your spine, “Always.”

You should say no. But Hal’s mouth as it presses against the seam of your lips, as his tongue makes entry into the wet heat of yours is oh-so-convincing.

And you let him back in.

Matt Murdock:

“We should get them christened when they’re born.” Matt announces as he paces through the entryway. He’s been taking measured regard of you reclining in pregnant repose on the couch, his eyes darting around the details his perception affords.

But you have different reply prepared in your arsenal as you lean on the couch’s arm.

“Aren’t those for couples that are together?” You inquire casually—without malice, but good humor —“—Instead of ones making children out of wedlock?”

There's a beat of silence that endures as he crosses the room to you. Whatever retort he formulates, you’re unaware until he says it as he stands before you.

“Who says that I won’t make an honest person out of you?” He asks, letting his finger brush against the ridge of your knuckles, hand balled up in defense.

“Think I would have seen a ring on my finger already, Murdock.” You return with good cheer: not that you care, truly.

He’s the one with the Catholic sensibilities, after all—but you can’t resist the chance to rib him. Don’t they have a strict code of morals to adhere to? Though you suppose vigilantism also breaks several of those codas.

“Maybe I’m waiting for the opportune time.” He says, and you shrug with intention to play the game. Perhaps he can tell from the upward tick of your heart for he squares his shoulders, fights a smirk taking root on his expression.

“Maybe you’re just trying to string me along.” You hum, leaning sidelong in the chair to ease the way the baby’s turned in your belly. Kid leans to one side rather than walk the straight-and-narrow. How fitting.

“String you along for what?” Matt asks with dubious, breathy laughter at the very notion.

“The tax benefits, I’m assuming.” You provide him with cavalier shrug, though you feel a smile mirroring his making way.

Matt schools himself directly in front of you, taking bended knee. Though, of course, he lacks the other accessory that would make this moment perfect.

“You assume wrong. I love you—”—And even a cynic couldn’t doubt the verity to his words—“—I want you to live with me—but I’m—”

Words falter, fade, before the most mollifying alternative is provided—“—A liability.”

An excuse that you’ve heard in multitudinous rendition; it almost takes concerted effort to resist rolling your eyes. But the way that he looks up at you with such despondency does while away at any anger you might rightfully feel.

“That pretty face won’t save you from everything.” You take aim with your hand to press against his jaw. His own meets yours halfway to guide it to the finish line.

“Here I thought it was my excellent cross-examination skills.” He smiles, letting the syllables hum through the grasp of your fingers.

“That wasn’t what got me pregnant, Murdock.” You can only supply dryly. He laughs, a note of pure clarity.

“No—”—He admits, and his eyes shine as they stare in the direction you lie before him—“—Maybe it was me saying I love you.”

“And do you still?” You ask, cocking your eyebrow though he’s unaware of the minutiae your face makes.

“Always.” He says with utmost sincerity, though he has yet to commit the ultimate act of doing so. So you settle for second-best.

“Prove it then.” You say, and let your legs tick wider to allow him entrance if he wants. And from the way that his Adam’s apple bobs with tight swallow—he does.

“As you wish.” He says with roguish smirk. Those broad hands spread the ample flesh of your thighs apart so he can make his way to the promised land.

It’s not enough—but for now, it’ll do.

Bullseye:

He’s a very present baby daddy, you’ll give him that. You don’t know if you’ve ever had the chance to get out of his sight, once. You don’t know if you’ve escaped the press of his fingers, once. He’s always got to have a hand on you—always has to keep a grasp on you to avoid you from moving out of reach.

“I’ll be fine,” You reassure him as he keeps a hand over the swell of your ass, his fingers sinking in with proprietary clutch. “I’m not going to break.”

“Don’t want you gettin’ away,” Is all he gives you in measured reply. From anyone else, it could be interpreted as innocent, loving response. But not with him: it’s a promise. A threat if you try to test it.

But you don’t want to. In fact, you ejoy way that he gravitates around you, as though he is caught in rotational orbit. The way that he soothes those fingers that are so used to killing in measured way to roll the pain from your back, your shoulders—

You’re surprised, genuinely. The way that he lets his hand rest idly on your stomach when you both retire to bed—a reassurance of safety. Of protection.

You think it might be compensatory, because he has to still work. Someone’s gotta provide while you’re out on leave—he doesn’t make you feel bad for it, surprisingly.

But when he comes back in the early hours of the morning as the shadows still cling to your room, marking everything in dim obscurity—he’s starved. You find yourself awakened by the crude grasp of hands that are pushing your legs apart, by a rough tongue that laps at you, groaning with a necessity to taste you.

You have to clutch into the sheets as he works the cruel pump of his fingers into you. As he summons salacious, obscene noises from you that fill the electric air of the room. As he fucks you into the bed until the sun makes perpetual ascent above the horizon, illuminating that wild cant to his eyes.

He takes his fill, leaving you to carefully hold your belly as you gasp for air on the bed. But he’s quick to lunge across the sheets, to press his mouth against your pulse and suck a bruise into the skin. To take deep breath of his scent commemorated on your collarbone.

To grunt into your skin, “Mine. You’re never leaving.”

A threat if you test it. But you don’t want to. You love him too much. So all you do is let him take his handfuls of you as you smile.

“Never. I promise,” You say—and receive a rugged snarl from your weapon of choice, held close in the span of your arms.

dividers and banners made by me :)

anyways, lmk if i should do a best baby daddy version lmao

taglist: @colonelfish @just-peachy-babe @thescrawler @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @bestmannequin2018 @cassiecasluciluce @mortisetspei @lettucel0ver @paankhaleyaaar @lala131lsjsl @infinictus @bozosprout @bubbletae7 @inkievoid @moonchxrm @suqariiswiieet @dianaenjoyer @charliiflugel @clownstheyreeverywhere @yoru-ichi @plasticeel @vixen-dc @leonieies @timetothirst @luvmailing @spanishshipper @plasticeel @astronomicalwanderlust @inkievoid @luvmailing @xerorizz @pixie2k5 @sweetmourninglamb111 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @newangelle @st4rctic @planetevermore @redbeanbnnuy @bubbletae7 @ficcharsimpsblog @incantatrxs @unicvnthlle @lillycore @pixie2k5 @vixen-dc @lj-to-lz

-

He sits as close to you as possible in every briefing. He laughs way too hard at your jokes, and even at some of your comments that aren’t meant to be funny. He stares at you with his ‘cartoon heart eyes’ every time you enter the room, and looks like a sad puppy every time you leave it.

It gets annoying fast. And you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to notice.

You don’t get irritated with him, like everyone else does. For a while, each and every member of the team wonders what your breaking point is going to be. If one day you’ll snap when he rambles to you about anything and everything under the sun, and he’ll end up with a bullet between his eyes before he can finish telling you a new random fact about owls.

And yet, you don’t break. In fact, you don’t even seem like you’re humoring him. You listen when he talks like you’re actually interested in what he has to say. Laugh with him when no one else does. You smile when he enters the room, and you even have inside jokes with him that make him laugh like an absolute lunatic.

And yet, despite how painfully obvious it is to everyone else, you still don’t seem to notice his crush.

-

Chris hits his breaking point when he borrows Adrian’s phone, trying to look up directions to the new meeting spot after his own gets smashed in a fight.

“Okay, dude. We gotta talk about this shit.”

“What?” Adrian looks genuinely confused, turning to him with a completely innocent expression.

“First of all, your phone passcode is her birthday.”

Adrian is immediately on the defensive, pink tinging his cheeks as he grips the steering wheel and looks directly out the front window.

“I-what? No, it’s not! It’s a random combination of numbers. If it’s her birthday that’s a total coincidence. Who even is the she in question, anyway? Like I said, I have no idea what mysterious birthday you’re talking about.”

“Your screensaver is her face.”

“My screensaver is a picture of the whole team, because we’re all friends! If my phone maybe zoomed in on a particular person’s face, I have no control over that! I’m a crime fighter, not a master of technology.”

Chris does not let up, and Adrian looks like he’d be less tortured if his pinky toe was cut off again.

“Okay, then why did you Google her name like, twenty times?”

“For research. She’s part of the team! Who says I don’t Google all of you, in case someone - other than you, of course. You’re my best friend and so I know you’re not - is compromised somehow?”

“Dude, just admit you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything bad!”

“It’s fine, man. She’s like, a solid ten. If you want some advice, bro to bro, I can give it to you.”

Chris is Adrian’s best friend - well, outside of you now, of course - and he does hook up with lots of people.

So, against anyone’s better judgement, Adrian takes his first bit of seduction advice.

-

The briefing the next day is weird.

Very weird.

When Adrian sits down, he doesn’t sit next to you. In fact, he sits across from you, eyes boring into the side of your head when you aren’t looking and darting away immediately when you seem to feel the weight of his gaze on you. When the meeting breaks, and everyone begins to grab their various weapons and get their shit together to load up the van, he sidles up to you in a way that’s so purposefully casual it draws the attention of the rest of the team.

He leans against the counter on one elbow, looking at you through his glasses from the side.

“Sup.” And that word does not sound right coming from Adrian Chase. It especially sounds off with how much deeper he seems to be trying to make his voice.

Your brows furrow, and you continue to load your gun as you glance over at him. “Sup.” You mimic, just as purposefully low, and offer him a familiar little smile.

That seems to disarm him, just a little. Just enough to make him seem impossibly more awkward as he collects himself and continues. 

“I was uh…I was just thinking about how I went out last night. There was a girl with an awesome ass at the bar. Totally top-tier. She was super hot.”

Your confusion is palpable. Some of the team cringes behind your back. Neither you nor Adrian notice. “…Okay.”

“I mean, you could be hot too. If you did your…hair different.”

“Thank you?”

“I mean, not that your hair isn’t great. And your shampoo smells nice. Not that I’ve like, smelled it or anything. It’s- you wear a lot of shampoo.”

“I wear a lot of shampoo?” You repeat, finally cocking your head to the side and looking him fully up and down, taking in everything from his stance to the odd way he’s trying to speak to you. “Are you okay? Did you drink weird milk again?”

“Huh? No! I just…you know, I was just saying you… smell, you know?” he trails off, looking a little lost, and you nod slowly like you think he might be on drugs.

“Okay, thanks… I’m gonna start loading up the van.” You offer him an awkward smile, pick up a gun, and make your way out the door.

He deflates so much, so quickly, that he looks like a popped balloon.

“Dude.” Chris says, sympathy and horror coating his tone. “What the fuck was that?”

“You said to neg her!”

“First of all, if you took Smith’s advice this whole situation is gonna get ten fucking times more annoying.” Harcourt snaps, rolling her eyes and holstering her own gun. “Second of all, who the fuck thinks negging works?”

“Hey, I’ve hooked up with a shit ton of people. If you do it right and not like whatever the fuck that was-“ Chris starts, only for Harcourt to hold up her hand and cut off the end of his sentence.

“She’s not some dumbass at the dive bar, you fucking frat boy.”

Adrian doesn’t seem to be very invested in the argument that follows. He looks two seconds away from bursting out the door and trying the ‘negging’ thing again, like he might be able to get it right with practice. Peacemaker himself gave him the advice, after all. It should work if he just does it right, right?

“Just be yourself.” Adebayo chimes in, a softer voice cutting against the sharp tones in the room. “She seems to like you plenty as yourself. Not…whatever that was.”

“It was negging. It’s when you insult someone to make them-“

“I know what negging is.” She stops him with a helpless shake of her head. “I mean don’t do that.”

He frowns. Looks toward the door again like his eyes might be able to find you through it. “What should I do instead?”

“Be yourself.” She repeats, emphatic. “If she likes you, she’s gonna like you a lot less if you keep insulting her. Or…trying to. I couldn’t really follow what you were doing there.”

And so, now with better judgement, Adrian takes his second bit of seduction advice.

-

You fall asleep on him in the van. It happens slowly, beginning with your eyes drifting shut to the rocking and bumping of the vehicle and ending with your head thunking onto his shoulder.

He freezes. Completely, totally freezes. He tries to catch the attention of the rest of the team, but they’re all too distracted either drifting off themselves or taking stock of their own wounds.

And then, slowly, like you might vanish if he jostles you too much, he leans his body back against the wall. You go with him, still peacefully asleep with your bloody cheek resting against his shoulder and your body so, so close to his.

Okay, step two.

Though patience has never really been his forte, he manages to move his arm with the slow precision that only stems from the years of training and practice that made him such a skilled killer. In what feels like an eternity, that arm is finally wrapped around you, and he positions you to lie more comfortably against his side, pulling your body closer to his and trying not to vibrate from the feeling of your warmth seeping into his skin.

You don’t wake. You mumble something in your sleep, your own mask off and resting beside you, and turn your head into him with a sigh.

You’re so warm. Still covered in blood and dirt and grime but still so, so unbelievably pretty. Actually, you’re always prettier than usual after a fight. Exhausted and full of adrenaline just like how he gets. Your smile is always brighter. Your eyes hold the same excitement as his own. Shit, he almost wants to wake you up just so he can look at your eyes, though he wouldn’t dream of risking losing this moment.

His hand comes up, and his fingers glide through your hair like he’s mesmerized by the feeling of it - which he is. You hum in response to the feeling, still sleeping as your body melts a little bit more into his, and he feels like every nerve inside of him is on fire.

And then, like a bit of a creep, he turns his head into your hair and inhales. You smell so nice. Like sweetness and spice and blood and dirt. He wants to touch you all over. He wants to pull you all the way into his lap and wake you up by kissing you. Like, everywhere. He wants to study you in more ways than just all of the endless staring he’s been doing over the last few weeks. Like the way you might feel against him, with more than just your head and side pressed against his body. Or the noises you might make when he-

A throat clears.

When Adrian looks up, everyone is looking at him.

“Are you…sniffing her?” Leota asks, nose scrunched up in an expression he doesn’t understand. Whatever. He doesn’t understand a lot of expressions. But he understands yours. And when he doesn’t, you usually explain it to him. It’s one of the many, many things he likes about you.

“Do you have a boner right now?” Chris asks, and that expression might be disgust, though he doesn’t really understand why. Chris has seen you, right? You’re probably the hottest person Adrian’s ever seen. How is he not supposed to get a boner when you’re pressed up against him and he can feel your soft breath against his neck? And now you’re moving, snuggling a little more into his side, and he couldn’t help his grin if he wanted to as he turns to press his nose into your hair again.

“Fucking weirdo.” Harcourt mumbles, and Adrian couldn’t care less.

-

He decides to - finally - ask you out. He comes up with at least ten different plans, and keeps asking for advice about every single detail until the rest of the team is minutes away from punching him if he says another word about it.

And, in the end, he doesn’t follow a single one of those carefully detailed plans. He doesn’t even come close.

This battle was rough. Chaotic and violent and seeming to last for hours until everyone is drenched in blood and covered in bruises and limping their way back to each other to regroup.

You just blew a group of butterflies up with a grenade. You didn’t move back far enough to keep the blood and guts off of you. In fact, you’re still wiping it from your face, grinning like a fucking maniac as you pull your nearly-ruined mask from your face and take in the scene before you.

Adrian is already making his way towards you like a man hypnotized. His own mask is off. His hair is damp with sweat. His face is almost as bloody as yours.

“Holy shit! Did you see that?” You ask, eyes wild as you turn to him. “That was awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect that to-“

He grabs you. One bloody hand fists in your hair, the other wraps around your waist, and he yanks you into him and kisses you so hard the force of it would knock you backward if he weren’t crushing you to him so tightly.

The 11th Street Kids watch, awed. You make a muffled noise of surprise, eyes going wide as his mouth moves against yours.

And then you wrap your arms around his neck, and you kiss him right back.

For a while, no one speaks. Your hands tangle in Adrian’s hair, and his other hand drops to join the first around your waist. He lifts you off of your feet. You wrap your legs around his waist. He groans shamelessly, and presses you up against the nearest tree so hard it almost looks like it hurts. You don’t seem to notice, stabilizing yourself with one hand gripping at his back while you pull at his hair and draw a noise from him that echoes through the forest.

“This is getting gross.” Economos says, and cringes as Adrian’s hands start to rip at your tactical gear.

“They are covered in blood.”

“Does anyone wanna stop them before they fuck in the middle of the woods?”

“I’m not going anywhere near that.”

Armor is beginning to come off, crashing to the ground as cloth rips and Adrian starts to mumble incoherent - and probably wildly inappropriate - nonsense into your mouth and against your skin, kissing and biting his way down your throat.

“Okay, you know what? They can figure out how to get home. My eyes are starting to burn.”

Hours later, you do find your way home, breathless and grinning and covered in new marks from a very different type of battle.

There is a quiet truth within the halls of the X-Mansion, an unspoken affliction that one of their own carries quietly. Something old as time, something older than mutation, that is using Remy LeBeau as a host. Somewhere deep beneath his easy grin and Cajun charm something ancient still feeds.

At first, Remy used to blame exhaustion. Then stress. Then the way the mansion has been too quiet lately — no danger, no distractions, no touch. That deep, quiet ache beneath his ribs, not physical, not exactly, was all too present lately. Remy would dismiss the ache time and time again until the Professor helped him pin point it in his ancestry. The same ache that used to vanish after a night spent tangled in laughter and warmth and whispered promises he never meant to keep.

He hadn’t noticed how long it had been. No stolen glances. No fleeting encounters. No one drawn into his orbit close enough for the quiet exchange that always left both parties breathless and oddly lighter. And now nothing inside him seemed to ignite.

His incubi nature doesn’t replace his mutation. It fuels it. Each charged object, each explosive burst of pink light was backed by vitality. Each impossible feat of kinetic manipulation was drawn from the same well. A well replenished not by rest, but by connection and closeness. By the quiet surrender of vital warmth shared in moments that left hearts racing. This transfer of energy was never stolen as some myths claimed, never forced. Just exchanged.

Now, it’s been months.

Months since Remy last fed and recharged himself. His kinetic energy is dimmer and dimmer by the day, taking more toll from him than when he is at full charge.

Usually he has time between sexual trysts before his kinetic energy begins to deplete. Given that he has been jet-setting around on the Blackbird with little time between missions for a recharge, he feels it more now than ever. His cards fizzle faintly, it takes more effort from him to charge larger objects, he feels drained, and it’s almost humiliating for him to be in such need.

Cursing his incubi bloodlines, Remy rolls out of bed a little after dawn and heads down the staircase to the kitchen hoping to sate his hunger with a snack or a drink. As he pours himself a glass of water, he hears a light yawn behind him and turns to see you. You’re dressed for your pre-class jog, but still very much waking up as you rub your eye.

“Mornin’.” You say, offering him a sleepy smile as you lean into him and greet him with a side hug while grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet.

“Mornin’, petite.” He says, handing you the mug you’re reaching for and you thank him. “Sleep well?”

You look over, noting the tension in his shoulders and the restlessness of his eyes. “Better than you, it seems. You look tired.” You say casually as you pour coffee from the pot into your mug.

“Tired’s too polite for what Gambit is right now.” He smirks tiredly while you grin and offer to make extra of your own breakfast to which he nods appreciatively as he watches you move with cat-like enthusiasm around the kitchen.

The friendship the two of you share has always been comfortable, uncomplicated, and honest. There is a mutual attraction, of course, biology wouldn’t be doing its job without a little sexual tension. But now with you standing in front of him while his main source of energy is drained, Remy realizes something unsettling. Your presence doesn’t just feel pleasant, right now it feels steady and charged. He chalks it up to his current state of being, he only feels like this because he knows he needs to feed and you just happen to smell really nice and look so pretty with your hair tied up and your tight leggings.

Is nothin’, surely, Remy tells himself as he takes the plate you hand him and sits across from you at the island.

Being good friends, you noticed how dim he seemed lately, however. You noticed how he had started looking at you — almost like he wanted to ask you something constantly, but just didn’t know how. Or couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Rem?” You ask one evening when he’s in the greenhouse with you helping you pick out herbs for dinner.

Remy gives you that charming grin, but you can tell it’s a little forced. “You worryin’ ‘bout Gambit, cherie?” He asks with a smirk. “Mighty sweet of you.”

“I’m serious,” You laugh softly, turning to him and crossing your arms over your chest. “You don’t seem like yourself. I just want to make sure you’re good.”

He hesitates just a moment. “Is jus’ biology,” He says with a deflecting wink. “Nothin’ for you to worry ‘bout.”

At that you scoff a little. “Of course I’m going to worry, Remy. You’re my friend, and it’s clear you haven’t been yourself.” You pause, not wanting to come off pushy and take a step closer to him. “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

Remy says your name with a small, nearly defeated laugh and shakes his head. “Is too complicated.”

“Rem, we’re actual mutants. Complicated is wired in us, come on.”

After a moment, he lets out a small sigh and nods like he’s convinced himself it’s better to have this conversation than to keep you in the dark. “I ain’t fed in a lil while, cherie,” He says with a small shrug as he hands you a small bushel of fresh rosemary. “Gambit’s energy gettin’ too low to charge.”

“Fed?” You ask curiously and then it clicks. Right, you think, He’s part incubi. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Remy smirks.

You know, everyone knows, everyone just has enough decency and respect towards Remy to not bring it up in everyday conversation. But now your friend is slowly dimming and it’s because he hasn’t had the sexual encounter required to keep himself charged. And if the Gambit can’t charge anything, that’s dangerous for himself and others in the field.

“Well,” You begin, busying yourself with the parsley and trying to sound more casual than you feel about this topic. “Have you made some calls? You know, find yourself a hot date.”

“Shoulda few weeks back,” Remy sighs, rubbing a gloved hand over his face with mild relief now that everything is out in the open between the two of you. “‘Fraid Gambit might take too much now.”

And then, just because you’re the kind of person — helpful and empathic — you ask. “What if I helped?”

Dinner that night is normal. Jean and Scott wrangle the younger students into the dining room, Logan barks at Bobby and Pietro for goofing around in the kitchen while he’s trying to hand out bowls of his hearty soup. Ororo is easily guiding the teens in from the rec room for mealtime.

You and Remy, however, are both quiet. Quieter than usual for either of you. Not in a bad way, just pensive. Your face is warm and your hands anxiously tremble whenever you pick up your spoon. While Remy can’t stop trailing you with his dimly glowing eyes, his mind wondering curiously about tonight. All through dinner, the conversation in the greenhouse plays on repeat in your mind.

“You ain’t gotta help Remy, cherie.” He had said, though his eyes didn’t shift off of you not one fraction.

“I hate seeing you walking around so dull, Rem, it can’t possibly end well.” You rationalize, more for yourself than him. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, let me just…help a friend out.”

Remy had chuckled. “Mighty kind friend you are, petite.”

And you had rolled your eyes before saying, “Tonight, yeah? Meet in my room after dinner.”

Your room is familiar to him in the way that most of the mansion is familiar — he’s been in and out of it enough times over the years to know the layout without thinking. The stack of books and small gathering of coffee mugs on your nightstand. The window you leave cracked regardless of season. The way it smells like you, something warm and faintly herbal that he’s never examined too closely until now. You close the door behind him and turn to face him with that expression you get when you’ve decided something and aren’t second-guessing it.

“So…” You say, a bashful tint on your cheeks as you watch him take us space in your bedroom with a very different energy than usual.

“So,” Remy agrees, extending a hand out to you in a very gentlemanly fashion. You laugh a little, which breaks whatever formality was threatening to form, and then you close the distance as he tugs you into him for a kiss. It’s easy the way things between the two of you have always been easy. He threads a hand into your hair and you make a small sound against his mouth that sharpens his attention considerably. He can feel you smile against his lips. “Something funny, cherie?”

“Mm-mm,” You hum, still smiling smugly, and you kiss him again before he can respond to that. “No.”

Remy walks you back toward the bed with his hands at your waist and you go without resistance, pulling him down with you when the backs of your knees meet the mattress. He carefully settles his weight over you and you look up at him in the low light from your bedside lamp, your hair fanned out beneath you, a bright and curious glint in your wide eyes. His eyes, dim for weeks, are already beginning to warm at the edges, you notice.

“There you are.” You say quietly, your fingers brushing along his sharp jaw as you smile affectionately up at him. Remy kisses you before he can think too hard about how that landed.

There is no rushing, no desperation to reach the fun part. You both take your time with it, unhurried in the way that familiarity allows, trading kisses that grow progressively less casual while your fingers work at the collar of his shirt and his mouth finds your jaw, your throat, the soft place beneath your ear that makes your breath hitch and your chin tip back. Remy takes his gloves off because bare hands matter here in a way they don’t always and he feels your breath catch slightly at the deliberateness of it.

“Remy.” You moan softly.

“Cherie.” He praises reverently. He works your jeans and underwear down your legs with patience that seems to genuinely surprise you. He slowly presses his mouth to your hip, kissing the inside of your knee, and you watch him the entire time with that particular feline attention — sharp and a little amused and underneath it something that is neither of those things.

“You don’t have to make a whole production of it.” You tease in an attempt to remind yourself this isn’t a big deal, even if it’s starting to feel like it is, even though your voice has lost some of its usual certainty.

“Non,” He agrees, and looks up at you from between your thighs, thumbs brushing gently over your soft lips and parting them gently, “but Gambit gonna anyway.”

You laugh softly, and then his mouth finds your warm center and the laugh dissolves into a shaky inhale. The sound you make goes through him like a current finding ground, his kinetic charge pulses in waves within his bones. He knows immediately that this is different, that you are different. He can sense it the way he senses latent energy in objects, that particular aliveness and willingness to charge.

And what you’re feeling is genuine and warm and directed entirely at him. Your arousal is tricking through your folds as his tongue flattens against you, it feeds him differently than anyone he can recall. Richer and more specifically tailored to him definitely having to do with the bond you share.

Remy’s already charging back up and he could stop here if he wanted to, if you asked him to, but he doesn’t stop. You try to muffle yourself with the back of your hand and he pulls it away from your mouth with a firm patience, pressing it flat against the mattress instead.

“Non,” He says against your mound, his tongue flicking teasingly at your sensitive bud. “Let Gambit hear you.”

“You’re terrible.” You breathe, your back arching as he passes his tongue over your slit, searching a little deeper for that sweetness that fuels him.

“Oui.” He agrees, and gets back to work.

You give up on quiet after that. Your free hand finds his hair, your thighs bracket his shoulders, and he can feel the tension building in your loins, the small involuntary tremors of your legs, the way your breathing changes register with him in a way he doesn’t usually pay attention with someone else.

When your first orgasm crescendos to its peak, you says his name in a way you’ve never said it before, drawn out and unguarded, and your nails catch against his shoulder with an unconscious sharpness that he doesn’t think you notice, but he notices. His tongue burrows deeper, circling slowly as he drinks you in and feels his energy refilling slowly. A soft groan escapes him and he keeps going.

“Tu es parfait, si bon pour moi.” He murmurs, his hands subtly sending a charge through your skin as he refuels.

He takes you through the second release with more deliberate attention, learning what undoes you specifically and applying it with focused patience. You whine he focuses on your clit, sucking softly on the bud until your legs threaten to close out the sensation. You’re warm and restless and completely present and he is — for perhaps the first time in longer than he’d like to admit — entirely present too. Not performing, not managing the encounter from a careful distance…just here.

By your third orgasm, he’s lapping like a man no longer dying of thirst, but rather possessed by hunger, holding your thighs wide open to fight against your impulse to close them. You’re laughing breathlessly, helplessly, between the moans you can’t quiet, one arm flung over your eyes, your whole body flushed and trembling.

“Remy - okay, Remy, I’m - can’t, please - mercy!” He chuckles and presses one last unhurried kiss to the inside of your thigh before letting up. He looks back up to find you staring at the ceiling with the expression of a person who has been completely taken apart and is taking stock of the damage.

Remy’s been fully recharged for a little while now, but he doesn’t regret going overboard when you look this soft and happy. He settles beside you on the bed and you turn your head to look at him, your hair a disaster, your expression open in a way you probably aren’t aware of. His eyes are fully warm again, properly his, the dullness entirely gone.

“Merci, cherie,” He says, and means it in more ways than he’ll name. “Owe you my life.”

You exhale a breath that’s almost a laugh and look back up at the ceiling, loose and wrung out and completely unbothered. “Any time.” You say offhandedly like it costs you nothing.

Remy looks at you for a moment longer than he should, the low light illuminating your dewy skin, the warmth of your vitality still sitting in him like a coal, the careless generosity of those two words, and then he looks away. His arm wraps easily around you and you sigh softly as you rest your head on his chest to catch your breath.

Any time.

He’s going to have to think very carefully about that.

To be fully honest, she still wasn’t sure what Adrian even saw in her. When he first tried (awkwardly) showing that he was interested in her by speaking loudly about things they both enjoyed, complimenting the weirdest things about her, and just…always hanging around. 

She kicked herself for weeks, he was attractive and he did make her smile, but the 11th Street Kids felt so…real and permanent. She’d never forgive herself if she slept with him and then he ditched her and she just had to pretend like everything is normal. 

But at least so far, it hadn’t been like that…he had been sweet. He brought her flowers, held doors open, and followed her around like a lost puppy. 

Unfortunately it didn’t stop the fear of the other shoe dropping. 

She really tried to keep it in and away, trying to enjoy her time with Adrian, but when they were alone and just spending time together one on one it was hard to let those thoughts sit. 

Tonight was no exception. She had invited Adrian over for dinner and they had been taking turns showing each other movies that they liked. She was sprawled out on the couch, her legs in Adrian’s lap as he rubbed her calves absentmindedly, humming softly as he focused on the movie. Tonight it was her pick on movie and Adrian’s pick for dinner. 

And it didn’t take long before she started to regret her choice of 10 Things I Hate About You the moment the similarities began to arise in her mind. 

“They’re so dumb,” Adrian complained halfway through the movie and she paused it, looking over at him. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, they clearly like each other! Plus he’s getting money and he can use that to spoil her, as he should,” he said firmly and she let out an awkward laugh.

“I mean…this is a real fear people have,” she said gently. 

“That someone is paying their partner to date them?” he asked, tilting his head as he looked at her.

“Not just paying, just that there’s an ulterior motive.”

“That’s fucking dumb,” he said with a huff. 

“It’s a real fear,” she said firmly, feeling her nerves raise. 

“It shouldn’t be.” 

“I mean, I’m shocked you haven’t left me for someone better,” she said, trying to keep her tone light and teasing but there was an edge to it that he seemed to pick up immediately as his brow furrowed. “This is a fear I have, just like the movie,” she said, trying to get him to see her point. 

“What?” he said, face dropping. 

“I mean, Adrian come on! You’re strong, handsome, and kick ass at your job. You’re like a million leagues ahead of me! I’m still surprised you even approached me first and wanted more than just like a little fling.” 

She watched her words hit him as he shuffled on the couch, pausing the movie. First moving her legs off his lap staring forward before looking over at her, his mouth opening and closing as he tilted his head frowning. Then he stood up and started to pace, pausing so often to look at her and point and then keep walking.

“What is happening right now?”

“I’m sorry, I’m trying to think of a polite way to ask if you’re the dumbest person alive,” he said, stopping in front of her.

“I’m sorry, what?” she asked, eyebrows raised and panic took over his face as he shook his head. 

“No! No, sorry! I don’t mean it like that! You’re not dumb that’s the point,” he said, watching her closely. “You’re like…oh my god you don’t even realize that I’m the reacher and you’re the settler!”

“What are you talking about?” 

“You! Holy shit, you’re smart, you’re beautiful, you’re so fucking badass. Like I still don’t fully understand why the hell you even give me the time of day!” he said, sounding genuinely upset that she wasn’t seeing what he was saying. “You’re just…like I told Chris the day we met that you fucking walked out of my brain! You’re literally my dream girl come to life but better because you’re real and you like me!” 

She watched him as he finished, his chest heaving hard as she sat on the edge of the couch. Adrian’s hands fidgeting and pulling at his hair, his whole body seemed in distress. When she didn’t say anything Adrian kept going. 

“I love you, you’re amazing and gorgeous and literally deserve someone way better than me and I’m just now realizing that is the first time I’ve said I love you and we’ve only been seeing each other for a few months,” Adrian rambling, eyes wide behind his glasses as she blinked at him, finally standing up. She took a step towards him and he took a step back. 

“You love me?” she repeated, voice soft and face neutral as his eyes seemed to search for any sign of discomfort. 

“I do,” he said finally after a beat, his words soft and gentle. “I really do. You’re amazing and it…it hurts me to think that you don’t see what I see and I’ll do anything to get you to see it.” 

“Adrian…” she said gently, her nerves melting as she cupped his cheek and kissed his other cheek. “I love you too.” 

“Really?” he asked, sounding like an excited puppy being told their favorite words. 

“Yes, I do,” she repeated. “I really do love you.”

“That’s good, really good because that was going to be really awkward if you didn’t!” he said laughing brightly as he swept her off her feet as she squealed, her arms flying around his neck as he spun her and peppered her face with kisses. “I can’t believe you think I’m hot! And you thought I was hotter than you!” he said laughing hard as if it was the most ridiculous thought on the planet. 

“Okay, you doofus, put me down. We still have to finish the movie,” she said, slapping his back gently as he sat her down, moving them back on the couch, this time much closer. 

“I will, only because I love you and you’re beautiful,” he said. “And I’ll start the movie again because I love you and you’re awesome.”

“Is this going to be every day now?” 

The others had gone out hours ago—all off on some mission that didn’t require a second vigilante or the person Adrian Chase currently could not stop staring at. You.

You were sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, lazily scrolling through your phone while the dim lamplight flickered across the peeling walls of the safehouse. The air smelt faintly of gun oil, stale pizza, and whatever cheap air freshener Harcourt had pretended not to buy.

Adrian sat on the opposite end of the couch, a little too upright, his mask sitting crooked on the coffee table beside a half-empty can of coke. He drummed his fingers against his knee like someone who’d never been left alone with their crush before—because, well, he hadn’t.

He cleared his throat once. Then again. Then again, louder.

Nothing from you.

“So, uh,” he started, voice a little too bright, “did you know that jumping spiders do little dances to impress mates. Like, actual dances. With their legs and everything.” He mimed an awkward eight-legged wiggle. “And they’re really good at sneaking! Are you good at sneaking? You seem like you’d be good at sneaking. You’re quiet. Like—” He squinted. “—really quiet.”

Still nothing. Just a faint hum of acknowledgement as you scrolled.

Adrian smiled nervously, like a kid trying to fill a silence that wasn’t asking to be filled. “I mean, that’s cool. Being quiet. People like that are mysterious. You’re probably mysterious. Do you have secrets? You totally do. Everyone does. Mine’s that I once cried during Shrek 2. Donkey’s friendship arc really got me.”

You glanced up then—just for a second—and he brightened immediately, grinning as if that brief flicker of eye contact had powered him back on.

“Yeah, you laughed, I saw it!” he said, pointing triumphantly. “See? You get it! You’ve got great taste. I can tell. You’re, like, the kind of person who doesn’t need to talk a lot to make an impact, you know? Like, if you do say something, it’s probably really smart or funny or both, and then everyone’s like, ‘Wow, what a legend.’ Meanwhile I’m just over here talking about tactical capes for ten minutes straight.”

You gave a faint smile, just enough to make him light up again.

“Okay, okay, hear me out,” Adrian said, scooting forward slightly. “Tactical. Cape. It’s like a regular cape, but with utility. Hidden knives, smoke bombs, maybe a snack pocket. Because, like, fighting crime burns calories, and no one ever thinks about mid-battle hunger. I could keep a granola bar in there. Or a Pop-Tart. Pop-Tarts are top-tier fuel for justice.”

You huffed a soft laugh through your nose. Adrian heard it like a victory fanfare.

He leaned back, more relaxed now, rambling freely. “I’ve been thinking about new gadgets, too. Maybe something like Batarangs, but sharper. Vigilant-er. Or a grappling hook that doubles as a taser! Oh, and I saw this video once about a guy who made armour out of carbon fibre—actually, you’d love it. You seem like you’d appreciate cool tech stuff. Do you?”

You looked up again, meeting his gaze briefly. You didn’t answer, but there was a softness in your expression, something patient. He smiled faintly, words stumbling to a slower rhythm now.

“I like that you listen,” he said quietly. “Most people don’t. They tell me to shut up. Which, you know, fair, because I talk a lot. But you don’t. You just… listen. And I guess that’s kinda—nice.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks a little pink beneath the warm light. “I don’t really know how to be quiet around people I like. I just start talking and… keep going.” He chuckled nervously, then looked at you again. “It’s weird, right? The more I like someone, the more words fall out of me like a busted vending machine.”

You tilted your head slightly, eyes flicking up from your phone. There was the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. “People you like, huh?”

Adrian froze.

“Oh—uh—yeah! Like… like, you know, people in general,” he said quickly, words tripping over each other in a frantic stampede. “Friends. Teammates. Uh, colleagues. People with… good moral compasses. And cool hair. Not that your hair isn’t—wait—”

He winced, realising he was digging himself deeper, hands flailing helplessly. “I mean, your hair is great! Not that I look at your hair, like, a lot. I mean, sometimes. Not in a creepy way! Just in a… observational way? Like—scientific!”

He was unraveling fast. You set your phone down, eyes glinting with amusement. “So you like my hair?”  

He stared at you, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open. His face went redder, if that was even possible. “I—uh—no! I mean yes! Not like that—well, not not like that—oh my god—” He buried his face in his hands with a groan. 

You laughed softly, a quiet, melodic sound that sent colour rushing up his neck.

“Oh my god, I sound like a lunatic,” he muttered, half to himself. “Why am I still talking? Stop talking, Adrian. Stop—talking—Adrian.” He actually smacked himself lightly on the side of his head for emphasis, groaning.

You only stared back at him, perfectly calm, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You’re cute when you panic, you know that?”

“I just meant,” he said in a rush, hands flapping like he could physically wave the embarrassment away, “that you’re—uh—you’re nice to be around! Yeah! That’s all I meant. You’re quiet, and calm, and not a jerk! And sometimes you smile at me, which is… kind of the best thing ever, honestly—wait, that sounded weird again—”

You let him flounder for another moment, quietly amused, until you leaned back with an innocent expression. “So… you like me?”

His brain short-circuited. There was a beat of silence where his mouth opened, closed, and opened again like a confused goldfish.

“I—uh—what? No! I mean—yes! Wait, no! I mean—” He pressed both hands to his face, muffling a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a squeak. “Oh my god. I’m so bad at this. Forget I said anything. Just, uh, delete that from your memory. Men in Black style. Flashy thing and everything.”

You couldn’t help it; you laughed—properly this time, shoulders shaking.

Adrian peeked through his fingers, expression mortified but also faintly hopeful behind his slightly crooked glasses. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? You think I’m an idiot, don’t you?”

You shrugged lightly, smile still lingering.

He sighed dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “Great. Fantastic. Adrian Chase, master vigilante, feared by criminals, brought down by one quiet person with a nice smile. Classic.”

Your chuckle softened into something gentler, and his shoulders loosened a little. You didn’t speak, just watched him ramble, his words tumbling out in anxious bursts. The more he talked, the more flustered he got—cheeks flushed, glasses sliding down his nose, hair sticking up from where he’d run his hands through it too many times.

And yet… there was something oddly magnetic about him like this.

His glasses had slipped a little to one side, catching the light. They framed the warmth in his eyes—eyes that, despite his nervous fumbling, held nothing but sincerity. His words might have been tangled, but his feelings weren’t.

You found yourself smiling without meaning to.

He noticed immediately. “Oh god, now you’re smiling. Is that good? Bad? Are you laughing with me or at me? Because I can handle either, honestly, I just—well, actually, I’d prefer ‘with.’”

You gave a small shrug, the tiniest nod—as if to say, with. He let out a long, shaky breath, like he’d just defused a bomb. “Okay. Cool. Yeah. With is good. With is great. I can do ‘with.’”

A moment passed. His rambling slowed, the energy around him softening. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter—almost shy. “So… yeah. That’s me. The guy who can’t shut up around people he likes. Wait! Not like-like —”

You tilted your head, feigning a frown. “So you don’t like me?”

Adrian’s entire body went rigid. “What? No—I mean—yes! Wait—not no yes, but yes yes! I do—like you—but I didn’t mean to say it like that, because it sounds, you know, serious. And not that I wouldn’t be serious if you wanted serious—oh my god, stop talking, Adrian.”

He physically winced, clapping a hand over his mouth. His other hand waved frantically as though he could swat his own words out of the air before they reached you.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying hard not to laugh. He looked so hopelessly frazzled—his glasses sliding further down his nose, eyes wide and bright and completely out of his depth.

“Okay, uh,” he continued weakly, voice muffled through his hand, “just to clarify, I absolutely like you. Probably too much. Like, it’s getting medically concerning. I think about you a lot, which isn’t creepy—well, maybe a little creepy, but in a cute way?”

You stood. Adrian blinked up at you, mid-rant, tracking your movement like a confused cat. His head tilted to one side, brows furrowed as you crossed the short distance between you. “Wait, are you—are you leaving? Please don’t leave. I swear I can be less weird if given, like, a five-minute reset. I just need to—”

You stopped right in front of him. He looked up, words dying instantly in his throat. Without saying anything, you reached down and adjusted his crooked glasses, straightening them gently on the bridge of his nose. His breath caught—sharp, soft. The world seemed to freeze around that small touch.

His voice came out barely above a whisper. “Oh.”

You smiled faintly, your hand lingering for a second longer than necessary before you lowered it. Then, with quiet confidence, you moved—settling yourself down onto his lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Adrian went absolutely still. Every muscle in his body locked up like someone had hit the emergency brakes.

His eyes darted between your face and the wall and back again. “Uh. Okay. Cool. Yep. This is—wow. This is happening. You’re—you’re sitting on me. That’s new. Not bad-new! Great-new! Like—best-day-ever-new!”

You didn’t say anything. You just watched him, amused, while he tried very hard to keep breathing normally.

His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure where they were allowed to go. “Is this—are we—do I—should I—”

You leaned in slightly, just enough for him to swallow his next half-formed sentence. He blinked, looking at you like he was trying to solve a riddle written in an alien language.

“Adrian,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He blinked rapidly. “Yeah?”

“Breathe,” you smiled, gently cupping his jaw.

“Oh. Right.” He took a quick inhale, a little too fast, coughing once before exhaling. “Okay. Breathing. I’m breathing. Definitely not dying of happiness. Nope. Totally fine.”

Your hand fell from his jaw and brushed his shoulder, and his entire face went a shade deeper. You could feel the nervous energy humming beneath his skin—the kind that made him fidget and ramble, but now it was channeled into stillness, anticipation.

For once, he wasn’t talking.

You smiled, tilting your head. “You were saying something about liking me?”

He made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh. “Yeah, I, uh… I still do. Like, like-like. Just—just to clarify. In case that wasn’t obvious by, you know…” 

He gestures vaguely at the entire situation and you laughed quietly—the kind of soft, genuine laugh that made him melt.

He grinned helplessly, eyes shining behind those now perfectly straightened glasses.

“I… have absolutely no idea what to do with my hands,” he admitted, voice small.

You reached down, taking one of them in yours, resting it against your knee. He looked at it like it was a miracle. Then, after a beat, he looked back at your face, his grin returning—softer now, still a little shaky.

“Just so you’re aware,” you whispered, leaning in just a fraction, close enough that your lips brushed against his ear. “I like you too. Like-like.”

Your confession hit him like a flashbang. His mouth fell open—no words, no jokes, not even a nervous laugh. Just shock. You pulled back and saw how his pupils were dilated, how his breath stuttered, and how, for once, Adrian Chase—the man who could talk through gunfire, chaos, and a nuclear countdown—was completely, utterly speechless.

You tilted your head, amused by the silence. “What’s wrong? Did I just break Vigilante?”

He blinked twice, a quiet, breathless laugh finally escaping him. “I—uh—no, I’m fine. Totally fine. Just—wow. You—uh—wow.”

You smiled. “You say that a lot.”

“Yeah, but—” He shook his head, a dazed grin spreading across his face. “This time I actually mean it. Wow.”

He looked at you for a long moment, wonder softening every sharp edge in him. Then, almost timidly, he whispered, “You really mean that?”

You nodded. “Every word.”

Adrian let out a shaky breath, his laugh breaking halfway through it — part disbelief, part joy. “Okay. Cool. Great. Totally normal reaction. I’m just gonna sit here and, uh, internally combust for a bit.”

You smiled and rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper. “You talk too much,” you teased.

He grinned, dazed and glowing. “Yeah,” he breathed, “but apparently you don’t mind.”

You smiled and leaned closer. “Hmm, I suppose not,” you whispered, placing your hand at the base of his neck, gently scratching there.

Adrian shivered slightly at your touch, eyes widening as he caught your gaze. Your lips hovered for a moment before connecting with his.

His hands froze midair, unsure where to go, and then settled tentatively on your waist as if trying to anchor himself to the reality of the moment.

When you pulled back just slightly, your forehead resting against his, he let out a breathless laugh, cheeks flushed. “You just kissed me.”

“Did I?” you feigned shock, tilting your head, eyes wide as if the idea were utterly scandalous.

Adrian’s entire body froze. His hands hung awkwardly in the air for a second before settling back on your waist, almost as if holding you in place might stop the world from spinning. “Uh… well… yeah! I mean—wow—yes! You did! That’s… I don’t—”

You pressed a finger lightly to his lips again, cutting off his panicked ramble. “I’m messing with you, you dork,” you whispered, a small teasing smile tugging at your lips.

“Right,” Adrian mumbled behind your hand. “I knew… I knew that.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head and letting your hand fall from his mouth and onto his shoulders before leaning back in and connecting your lips once again.

This time, Adrian didn’t just pause to savour it—he leaned into it with way too much enthusiasm, tangling his fingers in your hair as if he was afraid you might vanish. You gently tilt his head back, deepening the kiss. 

His tongue slid tentatively against yours, and he made a soft, muffled noise of delight against your lips. Your body shuddered, allowing him to explore and taste every inch of your mouth. 

Adrian’s hands moved down to your sides, holding you just a little too firmly, his mind racing faster than his mouth ever could. He instinctively pulled you closer causing you to grind down, feeling his cock throb against your core through the layer of his jeans.

You pulled back from the kiss, a heavenly moan eliciting from your lips. Adrian dropped his head onto your chest, slowly losing himself to the pleasure. One of your hands settled on the back of his head as the other gripped the couch behind him. 

His palms hesitantly glide up and down your thighs, gripping them ever so slightly. The both of you wanted more, neededmore. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension building between you like a storm about to break. Your body begged for it as his thighs trembled while you circled your hips.

“I’m so turned on right now,” he mentioned breathlessly, his lips moving up to graze your neck.

“That’s kind of the point, Adrian,” you rasped, grinding down onto his crotch again.

No matter how good the friction felt—it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. You huff, pulling back and getting to your feet. Adrian stared up at you, furrowing his brows and wondering if he had done something wrong.

Before he has a chance to open his mouth, you take a hold of his hand and head to your room. He stumbled a little, his mind a mix of disoriented surprise and genuine anticipation. Adrian gave you a sidelong glance as you led him inside and locked the door behind him. 

“Why are we in here?” he asked, his gaze settling on you once you stepped in front of him once again.

“Sex, Adrian,” you deadpanned, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t particularly fancy anyone catching us in the act, do you?”

Adrian froze, completely taken off guard. His face flushed a bright red, the colour spreading over his ears and neck. He stumbled over his words, his brain short-circuiting for a good few seconds.

“W-what?” he finally managed to croak out, his voice a little higher-pitched than usual. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” you whispered, going on your tip toes to brush your lips against his ear.

You trail a finger down his chest, feeling the contours of his abs before settling on the waistband of his boxers. You slowly pull at them before allowing them to snap back at his body.

Adrian let out a small, weak groan. His heart hammered against his ribcage, his breathing shallow. You grin, pulling his top up slightly and exposing his slight happy trail. Adrian gulped, trying to regain his composure. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, a mixture of uncertainty and overwhelming desire. 

“Take this off,” you murmured, gently tugging at his top.

His breath hitched at your command and the need to feel more of you, to be skin against skin, won out. His fingers curled around the hem of his top, and he tugged it off in a swift, nervous movement. 

His chest rose and fell with each laboured breath, the muscles under his skin shifting with every movement. His heart beat faster under your gaze, anticipation mixing in his eyes.

Adrian’s breath hitched as your hand rested on his chest, his skin burning under your fingertips. He swallowed, the muscles in his chest tensing beneath your hand. His eyes were wide and unblinking, fixated on your face. 

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from you, trapped in the intensity of the moment. His own hand unclenched from his side and moved higher, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the underside of your breast. 

“Watch it,” you teased.

His fingers halted immediately, his cheeks flushed scarlet. He swallowed, his throat bobbing with the movement. He tried to maintain a façade of aloof assurance, but the rising colour on his face and the slight quiver in his voice betrayed him.

“I—er—” he started to say but his voice caught in his throat. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, but his fingers flexed involuntarily again, his touch still lingering too close to your breast.

“I’m joking,” you laughed softly, running your hand over his shoulders. 

A puff of breath escaped him, half a sigh and half a nervous laugh. His shoulders relaxed under your touch, the roughness of his skin contrasting with your soft fingers. 

Adrian could feel the warmth spreading from the places you touched, the goosebumps erupting where you absentmindedly trailed your fingers across his skin.

His hand on your waist inched up a little more, the tips of his fingers grazing the underside of your breast again.

“You can touch me, you know?” you smiled, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.

A shiver ran down his spine at your words, heat spreading across his face. He gulped, the sound loud and audible in the silence between you. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, his fingers twitching against your skin as his hand moved higher, his thumb now grazing the nipple underneath your shirt.

He swallowed, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.

"You... you mean it?" he asked, his voice a whisper, his body stilled with hesitation and hope.

You nodded and his hand moved again, fingers grazing over your nipple intentionally this time. He couldn't tear his eyes away from your face, his breath hitching as he watched your reaction to his touch.

His fingers closed around you, squeezing your flesh slightly. His eyes darkened with desire, his heart pounding in his chest.

"God, you're gorgeous," he murmured, his voice rough with a mix of awe and yearning.

"You're not too bad yourself, handsome,” you panted, arching your back into his hand.

Adrian’s heart raced, his whole body feeling taut with anticipation. He couldn't believe this was happening, that you were allowing him to touch you like this. But he couldn't resist the temptation, not when you were offering yourself to him. His fingers flexed again, this time squeezing your breast more firmly. His eyes locked onto yours, a mix of awe and hunger in his gaze.

His breath hitched as your fingers brushed against the waistband of his sweatpants once again, his eyes widening in surprise. His grip on your breast tightened reflexively, squeezing your flesh between his fingers.

His heart raced, his body tense as he tried to hold back the rush of desire that swelled within him. You smile at his reaction, your hand moving to gently palm him. His body tensed under your touch, his eyes closing involuntarily as he fought off the urge to roll his hips into your hand. He bit back a groan, his fingers clinging to your breast like a lifeline.

"F-fuck..." he hissed, his voice a rasp. He tried to steady his breathing, but it was difficult with your hand palming him through his jeans. He felt himself growing harder under your touch, his heart pounding in his chest at a dizzying pace.

"Someone's excited," you purred.

Adrian was lost for words, his eyes dark and dazed with want. He swallowed, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. His brain couldn't conjure up a coherent response, his mind fuzzy with the mix of nervousness and desire. All he could manage was a small nod, admitting to the truth in your words.

You chuckle, undoing the drawstring and sinking down onto your knees. You pulled down his sweatpants and boxers in one go. His cock springs free, the head already slick with precum. He’s bigger than you expected, much bigger.

“You… you don’t have to…” Adrian stuttered, his eyes clouded with residual desire. 

"Do what?" you raised a brow, running your tongue up his cock.

He let out a strangled moan, his eyes closing again. His body trembled as your tongue traced a path up his cock, his breathing quickening with anticipation. He tried to articulate his thoughts, but his mind was a fuzzy mess of pleasure.

“T-that…” he gasped, tilting his head back when you took his tip into your mouth.

His hands clenched at his sides, trying to ground himself.

He swallowed, trying to find his voice as he whispered, "You... you're really doing this."

"Hm,” you hummed, pulling from his cock with a wet ‘pop’. “You're a lucky boy, aren't you?"

Adrian's mind was a dizzying haze of need, his heart pounding like a drum inside his chest. He tried to form a coherent thought but all he could manage was a rasp.

"Please..." he whispered, his voice roughened with want.

"Please what?" you taunted, your hand slowly stroking him up and down.

His voice was a rasp, rough and low as he managed to stammer out, "Please... just..."

He swallowed, unable to put into words the things he needed you to do to him. His eyes pleaded with you, silently begging you to understand his unspoken pleas.

"I need words, Adrian,” your thumb ran over his slit, collecting some precum and smearing it over his cock.

He struggled to find his voice, his mind a blurry mess of desire. His eyes searched yours, trying to find the elusive words he needed. His breath hitched as he managed to whisper, "I need your mouth."

The words were out, the barrier broken. Adrian could see the satisfaction in your eyes, the hunger that matched his own. One of his hands tangled in your hair, gently guiding you as you took him in your mouth once again. 

"You're killing me," he rasped, his words a mix of longing and need. "It feels so good."

Your tongue moved to his tip, swirling it in your mouth causing Adrian to moan softly. His head rolled back as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him, leaving him breathless and trembling.

You took more of him into your mouth and Adrian’s eyes widened. He tilted his head back down and watched you bob up and down. Adrian felt as though every nerve in his body was on fire as the tension in him built.

“Don’t stop,” Adrian moaned, his voice rough with yearning. “F… fuck…”

You gagged slightly, feeling his tip hit the back of your throat. Adrian’s eyes widened with worry but you just hummed around him, the vibrations making goosebumps rise on his skin. 

He tried to form words, but all that came out was a string of uneven breaths mixed with hushed gasps. "Oh... God... please..."

You sucked harshly and Adrian let out a guttural moan. His grip on your hair tightened, his hand trembling with anticipation.

His eyes rolled back in his head, his mind a blur of unbridled pleasure. His whole body tensed. His eyes flickered open, locking onto yours as he tried to form words, his voice a strained rasp.

"Oh... oh God... I'm..." He gasped, his hazel eyes pleading.

His body trembled, his words catching in his throat as he fought to keep control. He tried to pull you off him, but his grip was unsteady, his whole body tension-laden and on edge.

It was as if something snapped inside Adrian, the tension coiled deep in his core exploded in a wave that sent white-hot pleasure coursing through his entire body. His release spurted down your throat, the taste salty yet satisfying.

After swallowing every last drop that he had to offer you, you pulled back, kissing his tip with swollen lips and standing with a smug smile. 

Adrian felt completely boneless, every muscle in his body felt like jelly. He was spent, his body undone from the pleasure you had bought him. 

“You okay there, space cadet?” you whispered teasingly as you adjusted his glasses.

Adrian gulped, nodding dumbly in response as he didn’t trust his words.

“Good,” you murmured, slowly pulling him over to your bed.

You crawled on the bed, leaning back against the pillows and noticing Adrian staring at you—his gaze hungry yet nervous.

“Are you sure everything is okay?” you wondered, tilting your head.

Adrian’s heart thumped furiously against his ribcage, a shiver running down his spine at your words. His eyes darkened with a mix of nerves and excitement as he swallowed hard.

“Can I…” he stuttered, clearing his throat before starting again. “Can I make you feel good?”

“Of course you can,” you chuckled, gesturing him over.

He settled down onto the bed and you pulled him over you. For a moment, he froze—his weight balanced carefully on his hands, hovering above you like he was afraid to get too close. His breath came in shallow bursts, eyes flicking between yours as if waiting for permission to breathe.

Your hands slid gently to his shoulders, grounding him. “Hey,” you hummed, “it’s just me.”

Something softened in him then. The tension in his jaw eased; the tremor in his breath steadied. Slowly, cautiously, Adrian leaned in—his forehead brushing yours before his lips found you in a tentative kiss.

It wasn’t practiced or smooth; it was unsure, sweet, and full of quiet longing. The kind of kiss that said I’ve wanted this for so long, but I don’t want to ruin it by wanting too much.

You smiled against his mouth, feeling his nervousness melt into something gentler. One of his hands came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing along your skin like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and a little dazed. “I, uh… that was… wow,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion.

You laughed softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “You’re allowed to do that again, you know.”

A small, crooked grin tugged at his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, nodding.

He let out a shaky breath—part relief, part disbelief—and leaned down again, slower this time, his lips finding yours once more. 

The second kiss lingered longer than the first, a little deeper, a little braver. Adrian’s fingers trembled where they brushed your jaw, his thumb tracing slow, uncertain lines across your skin. The closeness made his heart race—every exhale caught between you, every tiny movement magnified until the world felt impossibly small.

You felt him start to relax, his lips moving with more confidence now, though his breath still hitched whenever your hands found their way to his shoulders. The tension between you grew, not in haste but in warmth—like a match catching slowly, carefully, before the flame took hold.

You shifted beneath him, and his breath stuttered again. His body went still, hands hovering as though the wrong move might shatter the moment. “Wait,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and uncertain. “Is this—am I going too fast?”

You opened your eyes to find him staring down at you, worry etched into his features. For all his bravado, for all the sharp edges that came with the name Vigilante, this was Adrian—unmasked, terrified of doing something wrong.

“Adrian,” you said, reaching up and cupping his jaw. “Your cock was in my mouth five minutes ago, if anything you’re going too slow.”

A deep blush creeped up the back of Adrian’s neck at your words and you chuckled softly at the look of pure shock on his face. You sit up on your elbows, nipping his jaw teasingly. You keep your eyes on his and slowly pull your top over your head.

His gaze drops from your eyes to your breasts and he has to bite the inside of his cheek from letting out a groan. You lean back into the pillows, taking a hold of his hand and placing it on the valley of your breasts. 

“No bra?” he whispered weakly, staring at you in awe.

“No bra,” you repeated, your voice carrying a teasing lilt.

Adrian gulped, moving his hand and cupping your breast. You tilt your head back in pleasure, moaning softly. He alternated between each breast, giving them his utmost attention. 

As amazing as his hands felt on your breasts, you needed more. Slowly, you reached your hand up and curled your fingers around his wrist. Adrian paused what he was doing and furrowed his brows.

You paid his confusion no mind as you slid his hand down your body and into your panties. He froze when his fingers came into contact with your core. 

“You either move your fingers right now or I’ll do it myself,” you huffed, bucking your hips into his hand.

Your words seemed to snap Adrian out of whatever trance he was in and he gently trailed his index finger through your folds, gathering your slick before plunging his finger deep inside you.

You let out a lewd moan, tilting your head back. Your reaction seemed to spur something inside Adrian and he repeated the action again—this time with two fingers. 

As Adrian pumped his fingers in and out of you, his lips trailed kisses down over your jaw, down your neck, across your collarbone, over your breasts and further down your stomach before pausing at your pubis. 

Adrian tilted his gaze up to you and you locked eyes with him, giving him a small nod of approval. He let out a small grin, slowly undoing the button of your jeans and pulling them down with your panties. 

His gaze roamed hungrily over your body. The sight of you, bare and vulnerable, was enough to make his breath catch in his throat and heart race. He threw your clothes into some corner of the room before reaching his hands out to touch your hips, gripping them tightly as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. 

"You're so damn beautiful," Adrian whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "So perfect."

He goes to take off his glasses but you stop him, your hand catching his wrist mid-motion.

“No…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Leave them on.”

Adrian nodded, taking a deep breath to try and calm the nerves that were fluttering in his stomach. He ran his hands up and down your thighs, his touch gentle and reverent. He leaned down, his breath hot against your skin as he slowly kissed his way up your sensitive inner thigh.

Shivering at the feeling, you watched as he slowly moved to your core. He licked a long stripe up your slit, locking his mouth around your clit and sucking.

“Fuck,” you choked out, your fingers coming to his hair.

He continued to suck and lick, his movements slow and deliberate. His need to make you feel good grew even more at the sound of your moans.

He pulled back for a moment, looking up at you, his mouth wet and shining in the low light.

"Am I… am I doing good?"

You laughed a little at his eagerness to please and the way his mouth glistened with your slick, “mm-hmm, so good.”

Adrian felt a rush of pride, knowing that he was doing what you liked. He dived back in, his tongue flicking out against you as he continued to pleasure you with his mouth.

He was determined to make you feel good. Your head was thrown back now, your fingers tangled in his hair. His glasses fogged up from his breath as he continued to please you. 

One of his hands splayed over your stomach, holding you down, as the other stroked his cock. 

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, "I.... I can't get enough of you."

You whimpered slightly at his words, pressing his head down into your cunt, needing to feel his tongue again.

Adrian’s breath hitched in his chest as he felt you pushing his head back down, his mind clouded with desire. He buried his face in you, licking and sucking, as he tried to give you as much pleasure as he could. 

Your fingers tugged at his hair, your head thrown back against your pillow. Your body arched and your legs trembled and despite every cell in your body protesting, you pushed his head away and pulled him up so you could kiss him.

Adrian hummed against your lips, his tongue sliding into your mouth so you could taste yourself.

“Why’d you pull me away?” he asked, pulling back from the kiss to nip and suck at your neck.

“I need you inside me,” you panted, your nails scratching down his back.

Adrian’s eyes widen when he feels your hand slide between your bodies and line him up, rubbing the head along your wet folds. You’re soaked. Arousal slicked your thighs as you finally aligned him with your entrance. 

Unable to control himself, Adrian snapped his hips forward and immediately thrust into you. The intrusion makes you gasp but you gladly take every inch of him, slowly accommodating to his size. 

“A little warning next time would be nice,” you groaned softly as your eyes fluttered shut.

“M’sorry,” Adrian rasped, his head lolling onto your shoulder. “I couldn’t wait… you—fuck—you feel incredible.”

The feeling of his breath tickling your neck and the way he was deep inside you made your brain go blank. When Adrian finally moved, your hips rolled in time with his thrusts, feeling every inch and ridge drag inside you. 

The sounds the two of you made were completely unholy. It was wet and obscene as skin slapped skin. Adrian gathered you up gently, your knees folded up toward your chest. The stretch burned in a perfect way. He was nestled so deep inside you it was almost impossible to form a single syllable. 

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” Adrian murmured, his voice full of aching intensity. 

He braced one hand beside your head—the other, warm and slightly calloused, splayed over your stomach to keep you in place. Your nails dug uselessly into the hard muscle of his shoulders. 

He doesn’t flinch, in fact, he welcomes the pain. He kept you there—folded open, your body twitching under the weight of him. The length and thickness of him sinks through you—the drag of every thrust giving your belly the faintest swell each time he bottoms himself out.

“I'm not gonna... I'm not gonna last," he gasped, his words hushed. "I need... I need you to..."

You managed a weak, “Adrian…” before he rolled his hip deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made your vision blur. 

Another moan escaped you and it encouraged him to keep going. He leaned closer, his forehead touching yours. The hand on your stomach pressed down lightly, feeling the way he was filling you up. 

His thumb found your clit, rubbing in slow, taut circles and it's enough to send you over the edge. You moan his name, clenching around him as you finally reach your high.

Adrian’s hips stuttered and he followed your release a few thrusts later, whimpering your name into your ear as he pumped his cum deep inside you. He let out half a moan and half a chuckle as he looked down and watched as both yours and his release leaked out of you and around his cock.

After a few seconds, Adrian pulled out of you and flopped onto the bed beside you. His shoulder nudged yours and you hummed softly in response. His chest rose and fell quickly, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to breathe properly again. His glasses were slightly askew, fogged at the corners, but he hadn’t moved to fix them yet.

You turned your head toward him, smiling lazily. “You okay?”

He blinked, as if your voice had pulled him back to Earth. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, totally. I’m… good. Great. Fantastic, even.”

The words tumbled out too fast, too loud, and he immediately winced. “Sorry, I just—wow, that sounded weird. I didn’t mean like fantastic in a braggy way, I meant in a ‘holy crap, that just happened’ kind of way.”

You laughed quietly, the sound making his face turn a deeper shade of pink. “Adrian,” you said gently, “breathe.”

He did—one big, exaggerated inhale, then a shaky exhale that made you laugh again. He grinned sheepishly. “Okay. Breathing. Nailed it.”

For a moment, he just stared at you—hair mussed, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tiny post-smile that always gave him away. His hand moved hesitantly, brushing a thumb along your cheek, tracing the outline of your jaw like he was committing it to memory.

“You’re looking at me like I’m gonna disappear,” you murmured.

He swallowed, his voice quieter now. “Just making sure you’re real.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something big—something that scared him—then closing again. He just sighed, tucking you closer instead, his nose brushing your hair.

He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, still blushing, still grinning to himself like he couldn’t quite believe his luck. And then, after a pause, you felt his chest shake with a quiet laugh.

“So…” he murmured, tilting his head so he could look down at you with that mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “You have a thing for my glasses, huh?”

You hummed with a shrug, smirking. “Maybe.”

It was past 3 A.M. and you were still on Harcourt’s rooftop. It had been a surprise when she called you, inviting you to a party—and even more surprising when she said it would be at her place.

You never thought Emilia would let any human being into her house, but here you were, holding your fourth beer, sitting on a beach chair while listening to Chris tell yet another story about his disastrous missions.

The alcohol was already kicking in, making you feel lighter, more relaxed. You were usually always on alert, ready in case something happened. It had been a while since you allowed yourself to have fun. But after the success of Project Butterfly, you deserved a break with your friends.

— And that’s when this idiot showed up and almost shot me — Chris pointed at Adrian, making everyone burst into laughter.

— I thought you were one of the dealers with that ridiculous shirt — Adrian laughed, making everyone laugh even harder.

He was sitting next to you, like he always did since you met. No one really understood how two people with such different personalities became friends—and honestly, neither did you. But you liked Adrian’s company. His talkative nature, the way he made you feel more comfortable than anyone else. You thought it was cute how his glasses were always dirty, his messy hair, the way his eyes closed when he smiled—just like now. Yes, you had a crush on Adrian Chase. And no, you were not going to tell him.

You were afraid he wouldn’t feel the same and that it would ruin what you had. It wasn’t worth the risk. So you pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the conversation. The music blasted loudly around you as everyone switched between drinking and talking. That’s when a random electronic song from Leota’s playlist started playing.

— Dance battle! — Economos shouted, getting up. He was definitely the drunkest one there.He moved to the center and Leota followed. You and the others laughed as they gave their all with moves only they understood. Then Leota came over and grabbed your hands, pulling you up as everyone cheered behind you.

You started dancing along to the beat, laughing at their chaotic moves. You looked back at the others, calling them over. Emilia shook her head with a laugh, while Chris quickly got up. Adrian stayed seated, laughing at Chris. So you went to him.

Maybe it was the alcohol, but you liked the idea. You smiled at Adrian, taking his hands and pulling him up. He looked surprised, but didn’t resist. He set his beer down and got up, awkwardly moving his shoulders to the rhythm—which made you laugh. He started dancing in a goofy way, and you burst out laughing.

Adrian smiled proudly. He loved seeing you laugh like that. Actually… he loved everything you did.It was getting harder and harder for him to hide how in love he was with you. Chris had told him countless times to stop being an idiot and just confess, but Adrian was sure you wouldn’t feel the same. And he couldn’t handle losing your friendship. So he kept it to himself—even though he was terrible at keeping secrets. But tonight… he couldn’t take his eyes off you.He didn’t know if it was the beer, but everything about you seemed to glow. His heart raced the moment you arrived, and he barely tried to hide how completely gone he was for you.

The song ended, and soon a reggaeton beat started playing—your favorite. You looked at Leota.

— You killed it, girl! — you said, and she raised her beer in thanks. You closed your eyes and started moving to the rhythm, your hips swaying in a way that completely mesmerized Adrian. He looked at you like you were a goddess.

Your movements were effortless, hypnotic. Everything else around him disappeared. His focus was entirely on you, the most perfect person he had ever seen. You opened your eyes and caught him staring. But instead of getting shy like you usually would…you let the alcohol take over.

Still dancing, you turned your back to him and pressed your hips against his. Adrian froze. Completely. Panic set in as he started to sweat, unsure what to do. You noticed how tense he got and gently took his hands, placing them on your waist. One on each side. You had never been this close before. And it made him nervous. But he didn’t want to move away.

So he gathered what little courage he had left and let you guide him. He would do anything you asked. You kept moving, and he followed, holding your waist tightly, almost afraid to let go. You felt his uneven breathing against your neck, and in a bold moment, you reached back, sliding your hand into his hair. You had been wanting to do that ever since he cut it and this was the perfect excuse.

A shiver ran down Adrian’s spine at your touch. He had always wondered what it would feel like. He didn’t usually like being touched… but you were the exception. He wanted you to touch him. He didn’t want you to ever stop.

When you tugged lightly at his hair, his breath hitched. In response, he tightened his grip on your waist, and you let out a soft gasp. His hands were strong. Skilled. And you couldn’t help but wonder what else they could do.

Unfortunately, the song ended. You turned to face him. He looked completely dazed and confused. Adrian opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the sound of Economos vomiting near Emilia’s plants.

— Fuck, Economos! — she exclaimed, rushing over. You turned back to Adrian, and he gave you a small smile before heading over to help. He and Chris took Economos inside while Emilia held the door open.

You sighed and exchanged a knowing look with Leota before helping clean up the mess.

* * *

About half an hour later, everything was clean. You and Leota went inside, finding Emilia washing dishes while Chris dried them.

— Where’s Economos? — Leota asked.

— Bathroom. Adrian’s helping him throw up — Chris replied.

You decided to check on them. You knocked and heard a response before entering. Adrian was sitting shirtless, wearing what you assumed was Harcourt’s robe, on the cabinet in front of the mirror. Economos was passed out in the bathtub.

You only noticed Adrian was shirtless the second time you looked.

— Where’s your shirt?— Economos threw up on it. Figured I’d take it off — he said casually.

You couldn’t help but notice his arms, his toned torso, the scars scattered across his skin, reminders of missions. You knew he was fit, but not that fit.

— Is he okay? — you asked, trying not to stare again.Adrian let out a short laugh, running a hand through his damp hair.

— Yeah… I mean, relatively. He’ll survive. I think.

You nodded. But didn’t leave. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable like before. It was different, heavy, charged.

You leaned lightly against the door, arms crossed, trying to look casua, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. To the way his chest rose slowly. To the water still trailing down his neck. To the way he was looking at you… without looking away this time.

— You were… different out there — Adrian said quietly.

For someone so talkative, that meant a lot. You raised an eyebrow.

— Different how?

He hesitated. For the first time in a long time, Adrian Chase didn’t know what to say.

— You know — he muttered.

But he didn’t look away. You stepped closer. Then closer again. Slowly. Like you were testing how far you could go before everything broke.

— What about you? — you said, stopping in front of him. — You were different too.

Now it was impossible to ignore. The proximity. The heat. The silence between you. Adrian swallowed hard.

— I’ve always been like this with you.

It came out faster than he meant. More honest, too. Your heart started racing. Because now…there was no going back.

— Then why didn’t you ever do anything?

Your voice was low. Almost a challenge. He let out a nervous laugh.

— Because I’m not completely stupid.

You tilted your head.

— Debatable.

That made him smile. And then, you moved.

No overthinking. No planning. No giving him time to run.

You cupped his face.

Not playful.

Not teasing.

Firm.

Certain.

Adrian froze. Completely. Like his brain shut off for a full second.

— If you won’t do anything… I will — you whispered.

And he didn’t stop you.

The kiss started hesitant.

Like a question.

But it only lasted a second.

Because then everything they had been holding back crashed all at once. His hand went straight to your waist, pulling you closer without realizing the strength behind it. You let out a soft breath against his lips, and that was enough to break whatever control was left.

It was different, not just desire. It was built-up tension. Weeks. Months. Maybe since the beginning. He pressed you lightly against the wall, still like he was afraid of doing something wrong… even though he clearly didn’t want to stop.You grabbed the collar of his robe, pulling him back when he tried to pull away for a second.

— Don’t stop now — you whispered. And that was it for him.

Adrian let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh.

— Wasn’t planning to.

Black ops work tends to attract a particular type—Alphas and Betas. You’re a bit of an odd one out as an Omega, but you’ve determinedly proven yourself capable of the work time and time again. Still, you’ve never actually been out in the field. You’re a medic, and you stay behind at headquarters, ready to help when the team gets back from missions, fixing Emilia’s shoddy emergency-med work that keeps them alive en-route to you.

“That is not how you pack a fucking bullet wound, Emilia,” you have said countless times. Or “Jesus Christ, how many times, Adrian, have I told you to leave the knife in after you get stabbed?” Or “What kind of drug did you accidentally inhale? If I was in the field with you, maybe I would have seen it and been able to tell—”

And you are itching to get out there and help. You’ve been begging for months. Even if all you do is stay in the van with John, you can do more, be there for the team more effectively, if you are out there in the field with them instead of waiting at the Checkmate office or whatever temporary HQ has been set up for long-distance missions.

Still, Chris and Emilia have been reluctant to let you—as the only Omega of the group, they tend to baby you, maybe a bit too much. But you’ve been there through it all—the butterflies, the alternate universes, standing on the sidelines as quiet, caring support for the others. 

Being a good friend to Chris when he desperately needed one, after he got out of prison. Reminding John of his value when he’s feeling unimportant. Helping nurse Em back to health after Coverdale Ranch. Standing by Ads when her relationship with Keeya was falling to pieces. Comforting Adrian when Chris made the dumbass decision to fuck off to Nazi land. Welcoming Fleury, Bordeaux, and Judomaster into the pack with open arms and managing everyone’s emotions as the group adjusted to the three new Betas added into the mix.

But you’re more than a caretaker, and you’re ready to prove it.

“I am not a child,” you insist when Chris tries to bench you, yet again. “I have just as much training as the rest of you. I can handle a gun. I can handle myself. I am a professional, and I am qualified.”

“We need you here.”

“John gets to go with you all the time!” you cry. “He might be a Beta, but he’s a bigger pussy than I am!”

“Hey!” John protests.

“Sorry,” you mutter, not sounding at all sorry.

“She deserves to go,” Adrian cuts in, from a few desks away. “She’s worked just as hard on this as the rest of us. You can’t keep treating her like glass because she’s an Omega. I know you have this weird Alpha need to like, take care of her or whatever, but she’s also more than capable of taking care of herself. She takes care of the rest of us all the time.”

You’re grateful to have someone on your side. Adrian is your best friend, and he never lets anyone give you shit for your designation. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d said something vague about his shitty Alpha brother and not wanting to be like him. 

If he was an Alpha, he’d be the perfect one, in your eyes. He never gave a shit about social convention, he understood you better than maybe anyone else in the world. You catch yourself wishing some days that things were different.

Emilia sighs. “It’s not that. You know we respect you. You also know that your designation makes you a target.”

“So we’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrian says. “She’s not going to go out there alone. If we’re watching her back, and you know we will be—”

“Fine!” Chris says, giving in. “You can come on the mission tomorrow. But Adrian stays with you the whole time.”

“Gladly,” Adrian agrees.

“Thank you,” you say delightedly. You hug Adrian, and he laughs.

He hates it when anyone else touches him, but—he’s never minded it from you. You smell nice. He takes the opportunity as you wrap your arms around him to quietly tuck his head into your neck and inhale, right where your comforting scent is the strongest. He hopes it lingers, for the rest of the day. On his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.

Adrian might be a little bit in love with you. A lot a bit in love with you, actually. But that doesn’t matter. He’s never had a shot with you anyway. He’s not an Alpha, he can’t give you what you need.

But he can give you this. He can watch your back so you have the chance to go out in the field with the rest of the pack, like you’ve always wanted.

“No problem,” he says, trying his best to pretend that everything is okay. That it doesn’t kill him a little bit inside when you let go, step back, move back to your desk.

He watches you and swallows hard, and tries really, really hard not to be consumed with irrational jealousy. 

Jealous of whatever Alpha, one day, will get to keep you to himself.

Jealous of his alternate self, who he spends every day trying not to think about. Who you will never meet, thank god, because—he was an Alpha. And he would have been able to be with you, in a way Adrian never can be. Maybe—maybe he was. He had a mark. Right there, high on his neck. Adrian hadn’t been able to stop looking at it, couldn’t help but wonder. The question had been on the tip of his tongue the entire night, but he kept deflecting—talking about Pokemon and cloud-men and shag carpeting, skirting around the question he really wanted to ask, because he was too afraid. Because if it was you—if the only thing keeping him from you is his fucking designation—

He snaps himself out of the thought. It’s never happening, not for him. All he can do is take advantage of the time he has with you now, before some asshole Alpha steals you away to another pack. So he pastes on a smile, saunters up behind you, and taps you playfully on the shoulder.

“Better go practice your aim,” he teases. “Make sure you’re 100% field ready—”

“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, but you start walking in the direction of the weapons room anyway. “Come with me?”

He follows you with a smile on his face. He always will.

Everything goes sideways fast. Your informant fucked you all over. It’s an ambush.

Adrian has heard pained or panicked shouts from everyone—Chris, Harcourt, Ads, Economos. He ignores them all, because he was given a prerogative from his Alphas. To protect you. 

“Stay here,” he tells you, hands on your shoulders, pushing you behind him, away from the danger. “Stay here, stay low, stay behind me. Do you hear me?” You nod, eyes wide as you look up into his visor.

“Okay,” you agree, cocking your gun. “I’ll do what I can from a distance—”

“No, don’t waste your ammo,” Adrian says. He hands you his guns, instead, and draws his machete. “In case—if they get closer, you need to defen—”

“I got it,” you assure him, accepting the weapons. “Go, Ade, I’ll be okay.”

So he stays focused, takes out as many attackers as he can, slashes out with his machete, chopping off limbs, sending blood spraying through the air while you shoot from higher ground, just behind him. He doesn’t stray far, keeping you in earshot, no more than a quick sprint out of reach.

There’s some part of him that feels sickly satisfied, like he always does, as the bodies hit the ground. There are dozens of them. Far too many. Whoever sent them here is going to die, he decides. Whoever put his pack at risk like this, whoever put you at risk like this.

Even still, this is what he’s good at. The killing. It’s what he enjoys. He’s smiling under his Vigilante mask as he looks at one of the last assholes in his vicinity and slashes out. The guy gets off a couple shots, but they fly wide, missing him. Adrian laughs as he shoves his blade through the guy’s neck.

Adrian looks back at you to check in, to crack a joke about how of course your first field mission goes right off the rails, and—you’re not where you’re supposed to be. You’re not where he left you. His eyes dart around frantically until they land on you, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling only lasts a moment. You look at him, in that split second, frozen with shock. 

Then he sees the blood soaking through your uniform. He watches you go pale, a hand pressed a wound he’s too far away to see clearly, and you hit the ground. His blood runs cold. He can smell your blood on the air—your scent, familiar, but also wrong. Tinged salty and metallic, thick, like he can taste it on his tongue.

The transformation happens in an instant. 

Adrian goes fucking ballistic. 

Something takes over him. Something vicious, and aggressive, and panicked, and he yells your name, but you don’t answer him. Two more people try to corner Adrian, and he doesn’t even bother with a weapon. He just snaps their necks. Then he races to you, bolts as fast as he can, his heart pounding harder than it ever has.

His vision is already tinged red by the Vigilante visor, but it goes even redder with rage when he sees you slumped on the ground, lifeless. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he rips his mask off. It feels hard to breathe in it, suddenly, as he looks down at you, strangled by the strongest fear he’s ever felt. His hands reach frantically for your face, and he says your name over and over again, interspersed with pleas, as he tugs you into his lap.

No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be moving you. He needs a medic, he needs you, but—he curses. Goddamnit, fuck, what would you tell him to do, what have you trained him to do when the others get shot—

“Put pressure on it,” he tells himself out loud, but even as he does it, his voice is shaking, his hands are shaking, because he never, ever, thought he would have to use this knowledge on you. “God, please, wake up, look at me, please—”

“Adrian,” says a voice behind him, and he turns and bares his teeth, brandishing his machete defensively.

“It’s me!” Emilia says, holding her hands up. “It’s me!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian logically knows—it’s Harcourt. Harcourt isn’t going to hurt you. But even as he lowers his weapon, something feels bad. Wrong. And when she reaches for you, to assess your injuries—

“Don’t fucking touch her,” Adrian snarls, gloved fingers digging into your skin, shielding you from the threat that his body is telling him is right there.

“What?” Emilia says, completely caught off guard.

Adrian turns back to you, tense with fear and worry. His hands press harder against the places you’re bleeding from—your shoulder, your side near your ribs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood even as it soaks into his gloves. “Come on, wake up, look at me—”

You blink awake only briefly, your eyes unfocused, but you say his name, very softly, and your weak fingers clutch at the buckles on the front of his uniform. The possessive feeling roars back up Adrian’s throat times a thousand, drowning out everything else. All he knows is protect and need and mine.

“They’re all dead,” Chris says behind him, breathless, and Adrian tenses up again without knowing why. “I think John’s arm is fucked up, we need her to set it—” Then Chris’s eyes land on you. “Oh, fuck—she doesn’t look good, we gotta get her out of here—”

Adrian sees Chris’s arms reach for you, and he growls, something deep and primal and uncontrollable. A sound he has never made. A sound he shouldn’t be able to make. Chris freezes, bristles, looks at Adrian.

“What the fuck was that?” Chris says, more confused than angered by the intensity emanating off of Adrian in waves.

Then Chris takes in the whole scene. The way Adrian’s clutch on you is so tight it might leave bruises. The way he hunches over you protectively. The way he snarls when Chris looks at you for a moment too long.

Chris pauses. He inhales. His eyes go wide, and he takes a giant step back.

“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “Adrian—”

“Whoa, what the fuck is going on?” Ads says, confused as hell. John stumbles up behind her, also looking confused, nursing a wound of his own on his arm. They both look worried when they see you unconscious on the ground.

“You smell it?” Chris asks Emilia, and her brow furrows. She sniffs the air, and her mouth falls open.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Oh my god. Is he—”

“Ads, I need you to run to the van and get me a tranq dart,” Chris says, voice low. “Now.” She does as he asks without asking any questions.

“Adrian,” Emilia says softly, trying again to approach, even slower, calmer. “I need you to let me look at her injuries. I’m not going to hurt her.” She pauses and thinks, tries to rephrase into the particular words he needs to hear right now. “I’m not going to take her from you.”

But it’s no use. He’s too far gone for logic. When Emilia reaches forward, he panics.

“No,” Adrian says desperately. “No, no—she’s mine—”

His eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with such animal fear and rage and need that it’s clouding every other feeling. He’s vibrating, shaking, breathing hot and heavy, on the verge of falling over entirely into animal instinct, of going completely feral.

“Please, let me help—” Emilia says, trying to gentle her voice and approach again slowly, and Adrian snaps.

“Get the fuck away from her!” he shouts. “Don’t—”

As soon as Ads returns and hands Chris the tranquilizer gun, he shoots. The dart hits Adrian right in the neck, and everything goes dark.

When you wake up, blinking blearily, Adebayo’s face comes into your field of vision. When you turn your head to the side, Emilia is sitting at your bedside, holding your hand.

“Hey,” she says, sounding a little relieved. “We were worried about you.”

“What—”

“You got shot. Like, three times,” Emilia says. You look around. You’re in the Checkmate infirmary, hooked up to a couple IVs. Blood, some other fluids. There are a few dull aches in your side, your shoulder, but they don’t hurt nearly as bad as they should. They must have given you the good painkillers.

Your brain still feels a little foggy, though. You try to remember what happened, and it comes back in snapshots. The ambush. The pain. Adrian shouting for you.

Clarity washes over you in an instant, and you sit up in bed, wincing as the movement irritates your injuries in a way even the painkillers can’t mask. “Fuck—”

“What is it, what do you need?” Emilia asks. “Stay down, I’ll get it—”

“Adrian,” you say. You don’t know why, but something inside you wants him, right now, more than anything or anyone else. “Where is Adrian? He was—”

Emilia and Adebayo exchange a look. You glance between them worriedly.

“Is he okay?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, your heart sinking. You got hurt, you weren’t there to take care of him if he got hurt. 

“He’s going to be,” Emilia says. “He’s…sick.”

You frown, unimpressed. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to my face, please. Adrian has a healing factor. He doesn’t get sick.”

Adebayo sighs. “She’s gonna find out eventually, Em. There’s no point.”

“Find out what?” you demand, starting to get panicky. “If there’s something wrong with Adrian, I want to know, and I want to know now. He’s my best friend, if something happened to him—it’s my fucking job to take care of the pack, and he—”

“While you were unconscious,” Emilia says, “something…unexpected happened.”

“Stop being cryptic and just fucking tell me.”

“Adrian presented,” Ads interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. You jerk back from her like you’ve been slapped.

“Adrian…presented?” you say slowly, your heart pounding against your chest, a pit of dread forming in your stomach. “What do you—”

“He’s spent his entire life thinking he’s a Beta,” Emilia says. “Hell. We all thought he was a Beta.”

“What do you mean? He’s not?”

“Not anymore,” Ads says. “He’s an Alpha.”

You look between the two women in front of you again and let the information sink in. You lay back against the pillows slowly, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet nervously. Because this is the kind of thing that could change everything. And the fact that they’re so reluctant to tell you the whole story tells you that it already has.

“Adrian is an Alpha,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“John and I looked into it. Delayed presentation affects less than 1% of the population,” Adebayo continues. “It’s incredibly rare. Usually triggered by the presence of a compatible genetic mate, or a traumatic circumstance.”

Compatible genetic mate. Traumatic circumstance.

“Traumatic circumstance,” you say, a little frantic. “Did he—is he hurt—”

“He’s not hurt,” Emilia says. “All of us got a little banged up. You got the worst of it. When it was over, by the time we got to you, he was freaking the fuck out, radiating Alpha pheromones in waves like I have never seen.”

“You’re telling me Adrian’s life changed overnight because I got shot? Not because of his own traumatic injury, but because of mine?”

The girls are quiet.

“It’s probably more complicated than that,” Ads says softly. “It might be…a little bit of the other thing, too. That’s what me and John are theorizing, anyway. He said—while you were unconscious, he said—you were his.”

A compatible genetic mate. You swallow as you absorb the implication of her words.

“Is he?” you ask, afraid to raise your voice. Afraid to hope. To make it real. “Is he mine, Em?”

“Listen—” Emilia starts.

“Is he mine, Em?” you repeat, your throat tight. “Is Adrian my Alpha?”

Emilia stares at you.

“I think so,” she says softly. “That’s what triggered it. You were hurt, and you’re his, and something inside him recognized that you needed him. He was—he was a mess. He probably still is. When you got hurt, if Chris wasn’t there to keep him in check, bring him back from the brink, he might have gone feral. As it is, we had to tranquilize him so I could treat your injuries. He wouldn’t let either of us get anywhere near you.”

You’re quiet for a minute, feeling strangely guilty. That you’re the cause of all this trouble, throwing the pack dynamics out of whack. But there’s no going back, now, and there’s some part of you that hopes—maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the best thing. Because haven’t you thought a million times that you’d wished Adrian was an Alpha? That he could be yours?

If Adrian is yours, though—why isn’t he here? Does he not want you in return? But then you think—if Adrian just presented, for the first time—

“He’s in rut, isn’t he?” you whisper worriedly.

“He is,” Emilia says hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to admit it.

It hurts you, a terrible pang in your stomach, to think about Adrian suffering, confused, alone.

“I want to see him.”

“You are in no condition,” Emilia says, “to be near an Alpha going through his first ever rut. Adrian needs time to adjust to his new reality. Introducing an Omega into the equation when he’s already volatile is not a good idea. And you are hurt. You need to heal.”

“He needs me,” you say, your throat tight. You think you might cry. “If it’s true, if he’s mine. I need to be there for him.”

“Chris is with him,” Ads says, reaching for your hand and squeezing. “Adrian will be okay, but—he’s wild and unpredictable right now. You got shot. Multiple times. If you went over there, and he ended up hurting you worse, imagine how guilty he would feel.”

“He would never hurt me,” you say, and you know, in your heart, that it’s true.

“You can believe that all you want. I’m not willing to risk it. After he’s…over the hill,” Emilia says, “then you can see him.” 

It’s firm. It’s final. And—she is your pack Alpha. What she says goes.

“Can I at least talk to him?” you ask, quiet and nervous. “Please?”

“Let me talk to Chris,” Emilia says. “See how he’s doing. And then maybe we can arrange that. For now, you focus on getting better. You scared the shit out of us. All of us. So let us take care of you, okay?”

You nod, and she squeezes your hand. But you bite your lip and think about how the one person who you really wish was here to take care of you is the one you’re not allowed to see right now.

When Adrian wakes up, he’s sweating buckets, half-naked, strapped down to a mattress in…he looks around. Chris’s old trailer? There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut, and his head is pounding, and god, why is everything so bright and loud?

“What the fuck,” he pants.

“You’re awake,” Chris says. “Good. Sorry I had to tranq you, bro, but you were acting a little crazy.”

“You—what?” Adrian says, bewildered, still a little out of it, trying to blink away the haze of whatever Chris apparently drugged him with.

Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembers what happened. He remembers you, bleeding out in his arms, and the pain in his gut intensifies tenfold, and just the thought of you makes him crazy with want. He needs you. He doesn’t know why, but he does. Instantly, he starts pulling at the restraints.

“Where is she Chris get me the fuck out of here I am not fucking around I will fucking kill you I need her is she hurt—”

“Calm down,” Chris says in his Alpha command voice. Then he remembers it won’t work now. He softens his voice and tries again. “Hey, calm down, Adrian. She’s okay. I promise you, she’s okay.”

Adrian looks at him, still squirming, but present enough to be puzzled, because Chris’s command did not do a damn thing. And a little bit pissed, because he hates it when his best friend uses his Alpha voice on him, like he’s a fucking kindergartender.

“Where is she?” Adrian repeats, low and growling, a command of his own, fueled by the extra power of his recent presentation, the lingering feral energy he can’t contain, and—it works. It shouldn’t, but it works.

“She’s with Emilia and Ads, at her apartment,” Chris says, the words spilling out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes are wide, his mouth dangling open. “Did you just fucking—use your Alpha voice on me?”

Adrian pauses tugging at his restraints to look at Chris like he’s insane. Because he is. “Use my what? I—dude, why the fuck am I tied to the bed? Why did you bring me here?”

“Because you’re in rut,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t trust you not to go chasing after her. You are out of control right now. And I brought you here because I figured you wouldn’t want your mom around for this.”

Adrian flushes a furious red color. “I am not in rut. I’m a Beta. You know I am.”

“I thought I did,” Chris says. “I believe you thought that too. And then yesterday happened. And you are in rut, and you are an Alpha.”

“I’m not a fucking Alpha!”

“It happens,” Chris says. “People present late in life.”

“I am thirty-four! I would know—”

But even as he says it, he cuts himself off. Because he remembers—his alternate self was an Alpha. So maybe, just maybe, he is too. He just didn’t know.

And selfishly, he thinks…maybe, just maybe, this is his chance. To have you. To love you, the way he’s always wanted.

“You’ve always been a late bloomer, Thimble.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Adrian says, but he swallows roughly. At least, he tries to. His mouth is too dry. “Can you fucking untie me please? God, I’m so fucking thirsty. And itchy, and uncomfortable, and horny, Jesus Christ—”

“Yeah,” Chris says. “Because you’re in rut, Adrian. Your first one. Historically, the worst one you will ever experience. So if I untie you, you have to promise me that you will not run after her. I will tranquilize you again. I know you want her. Hell, she probably wants you. But she’s hurt. She’s in no shape to help you through this.”

“You said she was okay,” Adrian says, panicky. “How—how bad is it?” His breath feels short, his hands are shaking. A terrible, awful guilt sinks in his stomach, adding to the pile of a dozen other terrible sensations he’s feeling right now. “It’s—it’s my fault, I was supposed to protect her. I convinced you to let her go on the mission in the first place. Fuck, Chris, is she okay I need her please—”

“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “I wanted you to be in better shape before—but—goddamnit.” He pulls out his phone and dials while Adrian practically hyperventilates in front of him, trying desperately to yank himself out of the ties holding him down. He tries to bite at the ropes with his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining, but he can’t reach them.

“Emilia,” Chris says. “Put her on the phone.” A pause. “Yeah. I know we said we were gonna wait. But he’s freaking the fuck out. He needs to talk to her.”

“Please,” Adrian says. He tries to get up, but he’s still tied down. “Please, please, I need—”

Chris puts the phone on speaker.

“Adrian?” Your voice rings through the room, and Adrian whimpers audibly at the sound. He closes his eyes and throws his head back roughly against the pillows, trying to take a few settling breaths. You’re alive. You’re well enough to talk to him, at least. 

It should make him feel better, but it sends another bolt of agony through him. God, he’s so fucking hard. He wants you so bad. He wants to scent you, he wants to fuck you, he wants, he wants, he wants.

“If I untie you, are you gonna flip?” Chris asks him. Adrian takes a deep breath.

“No,” he says, chest heaving. “Please, just let me talk to her, Chris. Please.”

“You have him tied up?” you cry. “He’s not a fucking animal, Chris!”

“He was borderline,” Chris says seriously. “You were unconscious. You didn’t see how close to feral he got.”

“Untie him,” you demand, and Adrian’s heart skips a beat, hearing you so fiercely defending him.

Chris cuts the ropes, and Adrian instantly reaches for the phone.

“No funny business,” Chris orders, holding it just out of reach, and Adrian starts begging.

“Please give me the phone please let me talk to her please Chris I promise I won’t do anything I just need to talk to her—”

Chris tosses him the phone. Adrian snatches it out of the air, takes the call off speaker, and brings it right up to his ear. When he says your name, it’s shaky, nervous, but also a little bit relieved.

“Adrian,” you say, and half the tension leaves his body, just hearing you say his name, all soft and concerned. Then it roars back as another bolt of pain shoots through him, because—god, he wants you so bad, and he can’t have you right now. A pained noise escapes him, and you must hear it, because you ask worriedly, “Talk to me, Adrian, are you okay?”

“Am I—” He cuts himself off and laughs humorlessly, hissing through the pain. “Am I okay? You—you got shot. I saw you go down, you were—you were bleeding out in my arms. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” you assure him. “All patched up, at least. It hurts like a bitch. But I can take painkillers for that. You…you can’t. If what they’re saying is true. Are you really…”

Adrian rubs a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, he’s so hot, but even as he thinks it, he shivers.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and he feels like he might cry, he’s so overwhelmed. “It hurts.”

“What’s happening is your body wants you to find something to knot and breed,” Chris says bluntly. “So your sex drive is through the roof. For the next four days, at least, you’re going to be an irritable, horny asshole, and probably feel generally like shit. It’s gonna suck ass, because you don’t have an Omega or a bonded partner to help you through it. Headaches, feverish, dehydrated, oversensitive. This is basic high school sex ed, dude, you should know this.”

“I never paid attention to any of that Alpha shit, because I thought it didn’t apply to me,” Adrian says hoarsely. “How—why is this happening?”

“It’s my fault,” you say, your voice soft and regretful. 

“No,” Adrian says, because he hates the thought that you’re blaming yourself for this. “It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” you say, sniffling, and Adrian thinks you might be crying. It breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry. Ads said—she said that late presentation can be triggered by compatible genetic mates and traumatic events, and I got hurt, and it was just—both, at the same time—”

“Mates?” Adrian croaks. “Are you saying—”

But before he even asks, he knows. He remembers the way he felt, holding you in his arms. He feels it again now, his lungs constricting, knuckles going white, pupils dilating as a wave of it washes over him. Possession. Want. Need.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

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