Jellibabie🩵

He slowly descends the stairs, adjusting his cuffs as he reaches you.

You’re already looking at him, smiling softly. “Ready?”

His arm settles around your waist, drawing you closer. He notices the faint tiredness in your eyes, the way you’re carrying yourself a little differently tonight. Until he figures out what’s wrong, he keeps you close (even though he always keeps you close).

“You look beautiful.”

You say nothing for a moment, far too flustered to answer. Then your eyes droop, and you lean into him for support.

“Darling.” His hands steady your waist. “What’s wrong? Do you want to skip the gala?”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’m just tired.”

Bruce studies you for another moment. He knows you well enough to know when something is wrong.

But he also knows you well enough to trust you when you tell him you’re fine.

So he nods, though the uneasiness in the back of his mind refuses to disappear.

It seems all of his worries were for nothing, because you’re now charming donors and guests with your smiles and sweet words.

Still, Bruce doesn’t move his hand from your waist. Even when he has to shake someone’s hand, he does it with the other.

Everyone is called to the end of the large space, where a podium and neat rows of chairs are arranged. The man in charge of the event comes up and begins his speech.

Bruce is halfway through wondering why he even bothers with these things when he notices you shift. He looks at you, but you’re fast asleep.

Your head lolls to the side, your face serene. Bruce sighs. You’re going to wake up with neck pain if you stay in that position. He gently shakes your shoulder, whispering your name.

Your eyes flutter open. “Hmm, Bruce?”

“Let’s go home, darling.” He takes off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders.

His gaze is so tender, you want to lean into his warmth and sleep again. But he takes your hand and guides you out.

Luckily, you two are at the end of the row, so you don’t bother anyone while leaving. Unluckily, you’re in the first row and the Waynes. Everybody notices you leaving. Including a camera that has been snapping pictures this whole time.

You’re still sleeping by the time Bruce is having breakfast. Alfred raises an eyebrow when he notices your absence.

“She was tired last night,” Bruce supplies.

Alfred chuckles. “I’m sure she was.”

Before Bruce can ask any questions, he hands him the morning papers.

On the front of absolutely all of them (including the Daily Planet, somehow) is your sleeping face from last night. Bruce’s frown deepens as he reads the headlines.

TOO GOOD FOR GOTHAM? MRS. WAYNE FALLS ASLEEP AT A CHARITY GALA

BRUCE WAYNE OVERWORKS HIS WIFE?

It’s clear who wears the pants in this marriage, and it’s clearly not Mr. Wayne! Mrs. Wayne is known for her philanthropic work and extensive involvement in the company. Has her house husband allowed her to become overworked? Read here to know more!

And from a lowbrow gossip magazine (Bruce likes to keep track of what is being said about his family. He does not indulge in gossip):

MRS. WAYNE FALLS ASLEEP AT GALA. REASON? SHE’S PREGNANT.

Bruce’s eyes widen. Do people even believe these ridiculous lies? He sighs. Some do. He continues reading the bold header:

AND THE BABY IS NOT HER HUSBAND’S, BUT BATMAN’S!

At that, Bruce snorts.

“That sound is so juvenile, Father.”

Bruce meets the judgmental stare of his teenage son. “Good morning, Damian.”

He simply sits down in his usual place, but frowns when he sees your empty seat. “Pennyworth.”

“Yes, Master Damian?”

“We have to set the full table. The others are coming.” He begins cutting into his meal.

“What do you mean, the others, Damian?” Bruce sips his coffee.

Damian glares at him. “There was a discussion in the group chat.”

He raises a brow. “I didn’t get any notifications.”

His lips curl. “Exactly.” A pause. “Anyways, after the worrying news of Mother fainting, we thought we might have breakfast together.”

Bruce pinches his nose. “She fell asleep. She didn’t faint.”

Damian picks up the newspaper with the BRUCE WAYNE OVERWORKS HIS WIFE? header. “I hate this type of literature, but I do have to agree on one thing. You are terrible at taking care of Mother.”

After dropping that bomb, he goes back to eating. Bruce swallows his coffee and immediately pours himself more.

And because peace can’t ever last long, the main door opens, and loud voices approach the dining room.

“I’ve already researched all of the probable causes and—”

“Nerd.”

“Guys, let’s not.”

The doors open, and Bruce sighs into his coffee. Alfred is just looking more amused by the second as he finishes setting the last porcelain cup.

“Good morning.”

Everyone greets Bruce, mindlessly taking their places. A minute later, Cass and Duke slip inside.

Ah, finally, rational people.

“I think Mother should go to the doctor,” Damian states.

Jason grabs a piece of toast. “I think it’s something far more serious.”

Dick pours the milk into his cereal. “She’s been overworking. You know how she is— she never stops.”

Their voices interlay into different tones, reasonings, and theories. But Bruce is just getting more and more worried by the second. Was it truly that serious? He was worried, but you always tell him he worries too much. Did he not worry enough when he actually had to worry? Or were the others overreacting because it was their mother?

He knew he should’ve called the doctors. He’d accompany you as soon as you woke up.

“And what about just asking her?” Duke suggests.

All eyes snap to him. There’s a beat of silence. Then another.

Tim blinks slowly. “Why would we do that?”

Duke sighs. “Forget I said anything.”

The doors open once again, and everyone turns towards the source of this whole situation.

You blink, still sleepy. “Good morning.” You yawn.

A chorus of good mornings follows. But nobody dares move, as if they’re scared you’ll shatter.

You rub your eyes and sit down. You pour yourself some orange juice, oblivious to the complete silence and the staring from around the table.

You pick up one of the papers and flip through it. You laugh, and Bruce realizes it’s the trashy gossip magazine.

You look at them. “What’s going on?”

“You fainted last night,” Damian bluntly says.

You freeze for a second before smiling. “I fell asleep.” You look at the others. “Any theories why?”

They immediately launch into their individual explanations. You catch Bruce’s eye and wink. (His stupid chest does something.) What game are you playing?

“Nope.” You serve yourself some eggs. “Nobody has guessed it.”

That’s probably the worst thing you can say to a group of hyper-competitive vigilantes. Immediately, their voices grow louder, and so does the proportion of their theories.

You laugh at Jason’s poisoning theory. “I’m pregnant.”

Complete and utter silence. You can only hear the faint chirp of a bird somewhere in the gardens.

Bruce is the first to react. He immediately gets up and (extremely gently) pulls you to your feet. He rests a large hand on your stomach.

“We’re going to have a baby.”

You smile and place another hand on top of his. “We are.”

Then Dick makes a strangled noise. “You’re—” He looks at Bruce then you. “You’re having a baby.”

Bruce’s mouth twitches. “That is generally what pregnant means.”

Jason slowly lowers his toast. “With him?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jason.”

He raises his hands. “I’m happy for you. I’m just processing.”

Tim is still staring at you. “I’m going to create a document—a document and a spreadsheet—”

Damian hasn’t said anything. He’s staring at you with unnerving intensity. “How long have you known?”

“Since last night,” you say softly.

“And you did not inform Father?”

You slowly shake your head and give Bruce a sheepish smile. “I was genuinely that tired.”

Bruce rubs the skin of your hand in reassurance.

Damian’s eyes drop to your stomach. “How far along?”

“Very early.”

He nods. “You will need to cut all strenuous activity.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.” A pause. “Who will train the child?”

Bruce immediately shakes his head. “Nobody.”

“I did not say combat.”

“You were absolutely thinking combat.”

Jason snorts. “This kid hasn’t even been born, and we’re already arguing over its training.”

“I’m not training the baby,” Bruce says firmly.

Damian looks offended.

You smile at him. “You’ll get to teach them basic self-defense.”

He inflates a little at that.

Across the table, Cass quietly approaches you. She places a hand against your stomach and smiles.“Congratulations on the baby.”

You smile back, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Cass looks at Bruce, then at you again. “I’m happy for you both.”

Bruce’s expression softens. “Thanks.”

Duke finally seems to recover. “So... congratulations!”

Everyone looks at him. “What?”

You laugh. “Thank you.”

Alfred clears his throat. Everyone falls silent. He calmly sets another cup of tea on the table.

“Master Bruce,” he then says, looking at you.

You both look at him.

“Yes, Alfred?”

“Congratulations.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling and looking a little too emotional for his usual self.

Both you and Bruce thank him, but the latter does something unlike himself— he suddenly hugs Alfred. It’s very short and slightly stiff, but he means it with his entire heart.

Alfred’s gaze moves toward you, then your stomach, and then briefly toward the increasingly chaotic table.

“I will get to preparing the nursery.”

Jason laughs. Dick groans. Tim immediately starts talking about nursery safety. Damian begins arguing about room placement. Duke looks increasingly concerned. Cass is still smiling.

And you lean back in your chair, laughing as Bruce reaches beneath the table and takes your hand.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. For all the noise, he looks pretty peaceful.

“We’re going to have a baby,” he murmurs again.

You squeeze his hand. “We are.”

A week later, you and Bruce are having breakfast. On a small notebook, several names are written in your pretty handwriting. Underneath them are plans for the baby’s nursery (courtesy of Bruce’s five-a.m. research after patrol).

Then Alfred brings the papers. You two already know what to expect, given that, for some reason, Gotham is obsessed with everything Wayne, and the news just came out yesterday.

IT’S A WAYNE! MR. & MRS. WAYNE ARE EXPECTING

The billionaire philanthropist and his beautiful wife announced today that they are expecting a child. Gotham simply cannot stop talking about it!

WHO IS BABY WAYNE?

Gotham’s newest—and smallest (so small, in fact, it’s a bean)—member of the Wayne dynasty is already the city’s biggest story.

WHY A NEW WAYNE IS LIKELY TO SHIFT THE STOCK MARKET

(Why was the Gotham Economist turning into a gossip magazine?)

And, of course, yours and Bruce’s favourite magazine:

THE WAYNES ARE JUST ONE PLAYER SHORT FROM THEIR DREAM OF HAVING THEIR OWN SOCCER TEAM.

The haters will say Bruce Wayne has a terrible pull-out game and a Family Guy complex.

You actually laugh at that while Bruce purses his lips.

But actually, his dream has always been to have his very own soccer team! Why buy one when you can make one? (And honestly, I would too if I had Mrs. Wayne as my wife.) Congratulations to Mr. & Mrs. Wayne! We all know that baby is going to have some absolutely insane genes.

“She’s going to be lucky to have you as a mother,” Bruce says softly.

“She?”

He nods. “I just know it.”

You laugh and flip the page, where a photoshopped baby appears wearing a Batman cowl with a pink bow and a pink pacifier. The caption? Mrs Wayne’s secret baby with Batman.

dick looks confused and baffled almost immediately. “that old thing? babe, it has a massive stain on the shade and every time i plug it into the wall it sparks. that means it’s going to explode soon. explode! doesn’t your life matter to you?” he was dramatic but he was also right, you’d had that lamp for years. 

“it still works. that’s all that matters, i don’t need a new one.” you stand your ground and instead of his shoulders slumping, dick’s shoulders roll back and his chest puffs out in confidence. you wanted that lamp, he’d be damned if he left it there for another boyfriend to buy for his girlfriend! besides, he knew you’d brush it off and say you can come back for it another time but what if it wasn’t there another time?

he keeps ahold of the lamp and follows you as you turn into the next aisle. you hear the rattling, stopping to whirl around. a raised eyebrow, “dick. i told you. i don’t need another lamp. the one i have is fine. i’ll get a new one until—“

“until that one blows up your entire apartment complex into smithereens?” dick finishes your sentence. you were going to say 'until it stops working' but he wouldn’t be dick if he didn’t take things to another level. “i’m getting it for you. it’s exactly what you’ve been wanting.” he continues, moving towards the cart to put the lamp inside. 

“stop, i said i didn’t need it— dick, seriously, i have a lamp already,” he quickly cuts off your voice with a sharp look he gives you. very rarely do you see him get like this, you go quiet and sigh. already feeling the hints of vulnerability creeping up between you, it still made you anxious.

“why do you do that?”

“do what?”

“not let me buy you what you want.” 

there’s a silence after his words. swallowing the lump in your throat, suddenly feeling unhealed wounds begin to open. pressing your lips together and looking away to avoid his gaze, you shake your head and shrug. your voice comes out quiet in effort to hold back the tears you knew would soon form. “because i don’t need this stuff.”

“it’s not about what you need, it’s about what you want.” dick’s volume is gentle but his tone is serious. the one he gives you when he wanted you to just hear him. to understand him and where he was coming from. you owed him that, he always listened to you in ways you never felt so seen. 

“you have everything you need. a roof over your head, water, food, and a boyfriend who is here to give you everything you want and more.” he explained, adding the last part for some comedic relief, a smirk tugging at his lips. “it’s okay to want. it’s okay to want to update your decor, to want another pair of shoes, to want to be spoiled. baby, that’s what i am here for. i want you to be happy, i want you to never worry about price tags or if you have enough space for your new purchase. that’s for me to worry about and fuck, am i the happiest when i swipe my card and you have nothing but bags full of stuff you couldn’t help but get.” 

You packed two nights before your morning flight. You taped a checklist to the wall of your shared bedroom with Jason weeks ago, every now and then seeing new checkmarks beside each needed item. His in red pen and yours in green. You made that checklist because you’ve spent enough years with people in your ear asking what they needed to bring the night before or the morning of after telling them a bunch of times. Verbally. Through text messages during the week. Shared notes the second the trip was planned. Somehow it never stuck to everyone else but you. 

Now, on the drive to the airport. You gazed  out the window, the passing buildings, people walking along the sidewalks. Your mind was only on one thing.

Beautiful and tropical Costa Rica.

The beaches of Guanacaste called your name. The excitement of finding tiny lizards and frogs in your hotel room made your heart beat. Exploring the vibrant city of San José made your leg twitch as you imagined just being there.

The daydreaming was cut short when the car pulled off towards Terminal 3. Ready to take the bags like you always did every trip, you got out of the car with a sigh and rounded the back to the trunk and the sight made you pause.

Jason had gotten out quicker than you did and already had all the bags and suitcases. He caught you staring at him from the corner of his eye like he’d grown two heads as his arm rose to shut the trunk.

“What is it?” He asked, the thud of the trunk shutting brought you back to reality. 

“The.. bags..” was all you could managed to say, lifting your hand to point at him warily. Oh no. You must’ve died before your trip! 

“Yeah? What about them? I got them all.” Jason raised an eyebrow, jerking his chin behind you at the terminal. “Let’s get moving, baby.” 

You turned around and headed towards the terminal, entering through the automatic sliding doors. The airport. Where everyone came during their first day on earth after going to the grocery store and amusement park. 

All sorts of people walked by. Families with a crying baby and a bad toddler. Couples where the girl pushed the large and heavy suitcases while her boyfriend followed behind her on his phone. Elders who were just as overwhelmed that they’d stop in the middle of human traffic. 

Looking around for the airline, you walked straight towards the checkin kiosks before Jason called out to you.

“Hey! Where you going? TSA is that way.”

Turning around to look at him, you felt like you were slipping into a coma. “W..what? Yeah, I know. I just.. don’t you need to check in?”

“What? No, I checked in on my phone. They let you check in 24 hours before your flight, ya know?”

Before you could even try to register that he already checked in and you didn’t have to help him do everything he could’ve done a day before made you lightheaded. You stepped into the airport and you haven’t felt stressed within the last three minutes. 

You haven’t felt stressed within the last four months of this trip being planned and booked! 

You followed behind him towards security which was the ultimate test. Sure, he’d been good leading up to this moment but there was no way that Jason happened to be perfect at traveling.. right? At some point, he’d piss you off. 

Your eyes lingered on his arm, the way it was stretched out holding the handles of the suitcases together to make them flow along the floor easily. How he had placed your carry on bag on top of the suitcase and how he had his backpack as a carry on hanging onto both shoulders so it wouldn’t bother him! 

It all happened so quickly and.. easily. He had your passports together and ready in his hand, letting you know to pull out your boarding pass as the two of you approached the TSA agent. 

Now standing in line for the security checkpoint, you stood beside him anxiously. He noticed, of course. He always did.

“Nervous?” He asked with his charming yet teasing grin. 

You shake your head, taking in a deep breath and straightening your back. “No, of course not. Are you? Going through TSA is serious. Don’t hold up the line, okay? Put the carry ons first, then our personal items. Take off your belt, remember that. Anything metal should be off and in the basket. Make sure you have anything in your pockets.”

Jason nodded, impressed. “You can be a TSA agent. You’re mean like them too.”

You give him a playful glare before you both step up to the empty spots. You take your personal items bag to help him take off the load and swiftly follow the rules of TSA. Shoes off. Nothing in pockets. Electronics stay in bags now (thank god.)

But then you see him, effortlessly lifting the suitcases and pushing them forward when the agent says so. His hands dig into his pockets, quickly work his belt, and takes off his shoes because they’re above the ankle. How did he even know about that rule? You’d forgotten to tell him and he still.. knew.

You walk through the detector first. Perfect. Nothing was flagged and you watch Jason, waiting for him to have forgotten something in his pocket or for the TSA to yell at him to come back and separate his belongings into different trays.

Nothing. He walks through and meets up with you on the other side as you two wait for your bags. Even then, he has you wait as he grabs them. He’s out of peoples ways, putting the trays onto the stack rather than being the person who just leaves them there and causes congestion. He even helps an elderly lady with her too heavy bag. 

“Alright,” he sighs as he comes over to you with all your combined bags. He looks above you at the screen of departing flights. 

“Gate 3C. Agh, we got a shit ton of time. Let’s get you something to eat, hm? And before you ask— yes, I’m sure.” He grins, lifting his hand to gently pat your cheek lovingly.

“I’d never make a trip like this hell for you. I’m only here to make sure you have a good time, pretty baby.” Jason brings you into his side as you begin to walk through duty free stores and restaurants. As he hauls all the bags, he makes sure he still has a way to touch you and hold you close. 

After eating at some restaurant you both agreed to, Jason makes sure you both are at the gate at least an hour to thirty minutes before boarding for your peace of mind. He’s sitting beside you, reading a book he picked up from the bookstore by your gate, his leg bouncing and his arm draped over the back of your chair.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, giving you a sideways glance with a smirk before closing his book, keeping his spot with his thumb in between the pages. He lifts his head and turns to see you better. “What’s going through your mind? Talk to me,” he tells you softly. 

“Nothing, I..” what could you say right now? You’d just been thinking about what amazing things you must’ve done in your past life to finally deserve the perfect travel companion. Something you’ve been wishing for but was always cursed with people who still needed help to wipe their ass. 

“When we get to the hotel room,” you breathe, keeping your voice soft and personal. He raises an eyebrow in interest. “I’m going to fuck you. All night.” 

“What happened?”

“Boss was just being a dick all day.” You turn to give a real smile, eyes crinkling, “Good thing my drug dealers got a soft spot for me though, huh?”

“Who told you that?” He smirks.

Your mouth drops in surprise, smacking his shoulder playfully.

“That’s mean.”

“You’re my favorite client, you know that.”

That makes you smile, head rolling onto the back of the couch and he decides he likes making you do that. He goes to get you water, and when he comes back your eyes are closed.

He lets you sleep.

The next time he sees you, you’re leaving the club, and when you recognize his car you jog over with an excited smile on your lips. You’ve got this little black dress on that makes it awfully hard to focus on anything else besides the curve of your hips.

“Simon! What are you doing here?”

“Bird? The hell you doing out here?”

“I went out with my friend.” You point to a man standing close by.

His jaw tenses, “Get in.”

“Huh?”

“Get in the car, bird. I’m not arguing.” He’s already climbing out of the driver's seat to open the passenger door for you.

“I’m not gonna leave him, Simon!” You say, but you let him guide you into the car anyway.

“He’s a big boy. He’ll survive.”

When he gets to your house you turn to him with a mischievous smile, “Were you jealous?”

“Of who?”

“Don’t play dumb!”

“Just making sure you’re safe s’all.” He shrugs casually.

You lean across the center console, “It’s okay. I’m not interested in him.”

“Good.”

That makes you smile bigger, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt, “You gonna come in and smoke with me?”

“Course I am.”

You drag him inside giggling, stumbling a little over your high heels. You waste no time changing, pulling the dress over your head as you walk down the hallway, giving him a glimpse of your lacy covered ass before you disappear into your room.

You come back out in an oversized shirt and shorts. “Proper smoking fit now.”

“Could’ve stayed in the dress for me.”

You frown, “Was getting uncomfy.”

“Like you like this more anyways.”

That makes you smile shyly, sitting next to him on your couch. He’s already lit a joint, it’s pink, and the sight of his big hands around it makes you giggle.

“Couldn’t even wait for me to start?”

“C’mere.” He grunts, pulling you on to his lap.

It’s the first time you’ve been there since you begged to ride him. The memory makes him chub in his jeans.

He takes a big inhale before gripping your chin, dragging you to his mouth, and exhales the smoke into your mouth. You writhe in his lap in surprise, fingers fisting his shirt, but you inhale as much as you can.

“Let me try.” You murmur.

He places the joint in your lips. You inhale deeply before leaning forward and blowing the smoke into his mouth.

The two of you take turns shotgunning the smoke into each other’s mouth. The pause between each inhale gets longer and longer, the both of you keeping your lips close, not kissing, just there. Breaths fanning over each other’s faces, your body becoming heavier and heavier on his thighs.

You smell like tequila, and there’s a part of him who knows he shouldn’t be doing this when you’re drunk, but you’re so fucking pretty in his lap, eyes lidded and edges stained red, lips parted to take shaky breaths.

“‘s all gone.” He says, holding the tip.

“Yeah.” You whisper, but your eyes stay focused on his lips.

The corner of his mouth twitches, “That’s not a good idea. You’re drunk.”

“But you’re high now too, aren’t you? Evens it out.”

He chuckles, “I need more than just one j to be high, pretty.”

You frown.

“You were on a date anyway. Don’t think you want this.”

Your frown deepens, “Wasn’t a date. He’s just a friend.”

He hums, ignoring the irritation pulsing at his temples, fingers smoothing along your hips.

“Just a kiss?” You murmur, “Hold me over til I’m sober.”

He tuts his tongue, but he pulls you down anyway because he’s a man after all, he can only resist so much. You smile against his lips, eyes fluttering shut and tugging him closer to you.

It’s slow, the both of your lips are a little numb from smoking, and the taste of the strawberry paper he buys for you has left a fruity taste in your mouths. His fingers tingle where they’re at your hips and there’s a pressure in his head from smoking.

He can’t stop himself from deepening the kiss when you taste like that and sound so sweet against him. You let him lick into your mouth, and your hips start to grind along his hardened length in his jeans.

You gasp against his lips every so often, filling your lungs with air before diving back in. He’s strong, god he’s strong because he manages to pull away, your lips stained a darker color, and you blink at him sadly when he stops your hips. All he can think about is how wet you probably are, just ruining your lacy panties, but he slides you off him anyway.

“Should drink some water, and go to bed.” He says.

Your brows crease, pout on your lips, but you nod anyway.

You text him in the middle of the night two weeks later.

‘You up?’

‘For you.’

‘I think I’m greening out andd I’m rlly scared can you pls come pick me up?’

‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t knowww.’

‘Send me your location.’

You’re at some random party, and you give him a wobbly smile when you see him. That same friend at your side.

“Hi.”

“Hi, bird. Let’s go.”

You nod, your hands shaking when you lace your fingers with his and he drags you through the crowd. He takes you to his, helps you change into some of his clothes, and presses a glass of water to your lips. You chug it like you’re parched, barely saving any room to breathe.

“You’re gonna stress me out.”

You laugh quietly, “Sorry.”

“Gotta be careful smoking too much when you’re not somewhere you’re familiar with.” He sits you down on his bed.

“I know. It just kinda happened.”

“How you feeling?”

“Better with you.”

That makes his teeth show.

“You want me to put music on?”

You shake your head, “Just want to lay with you.”

He invites you over for a smoke session a few days later. You roll the joint between your thumbs nervously.

“If you don’t wanna smoke we don’t have to. Just thought since it’s kinda our thing now.”

You smile big, “Our thing?”

“Mmhh.” He hums with a nod.

“That’s not what I was thinking about.” You murmur quietly.

“What’s it then?”

“You sleep with a lot of your clients?”

He chokes on the smoke he’s inhaled, coughing so much that tears well in his eyes.

“What?”

“Um, well. Have you fucked any of your other clients?” You bite at your bottom lip.

“Jesus, bird. No.” He coughs.

“Are you lying?” You squint.

“Never lie to you.”

“Okay.”

You smoke in silence after that. Your feet rest on his lap the entire time as you lean against the armrest. He runs his fingers along your ankles and up your calves. It’s innocent at first, but then you nudge your toes on the bulge in his sweats and he raises his brows at you.

You shrug, a devilish smirk on your lips.

“Accident.”

But then your legs fall open a little, your pretty thighs parting slightly for him. It’s an invitation, an awfully tempting one. It all happens so fast, he almost doesn’t even realize he’s nosing along the wet patch of your underwear and placing your legs on his shoulders until you squeak in surprise.

Your panties come off easy and he beelines straight to the source. He kisses along your thighs, your breath getting faster with each approaching kiss. His thumb finds your clit first, just soft strokes while his breath fans over your vagina.

He licks one flat swipe along your clit and your back arches. He dips lower and fucking groans into your pussy when he gets a real taste, eyes closed like he’s got sugar melting between his teeth and not you filling his senses.

When he returns to your clit, your toes curl against his back, and your head falls back. You’ve got one hand stifling your moans and he’d make you take it off and sing for him, but he’s more concerned with laving at your swollen clit than anything else.

You cry out when he takes the bead between his lips and sucks softly. Your mouth forms an o and the look you give him is so cute that he smiles into your pussy. Furrowed brows and big beady eyes, lashes wet at the edges like the stimulation was becoming too much.

You don’t try to pull away though, instead, you arch deeper into him, hand curling around the back of his head and pushing him closer to your clit. His big hands find your hips when you start to grind on his face messily, and it takes everything in him not to buck his own into his couch because he’s sure you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever fucked.

His nose bumps along your clit with each thrust, and his face is drenched in juices down to his chin. He hopes the smell fucking sticks, hopes he can taste you on his tongue later tonight when you’re not there.

You finish with his name on your lips and your thighs squeezing around his head tight. He licks it all up, lapping eagerly at your walls while your legs slowly relax, falling open onto his shoulders, and twitching with each lick.

When he comes up, your chest is heaving, like you were the one down there suffocated by your thighs and pussy. There’s this dopey smile on your lips and he can’t help but smile back, leaning down to kiss you with your arousal all over his face.

You don’t even scrunch your nose, you lick right into his mouth hungrily.

“You’re fucking perfect.” He grunts between sloppy kisses, hands fumbling with his sweats.

He feels you smile, “You’re the one who just ate me out.”

You make a surprised noise when his head slips into your entrance, hands clambering to your shoulders. He slides right in, your pussy nice and lax from your orgasm. He rests his forehead against yours when he bottoms out. Your nails dig into his shoulders, eyes squeezed shut, and mouth popped open in pleasure.

“Fuckkk,” He drawls, “She feels so good.”

You whine, nodding against his forehead.

He starts with shallow thrusts, fucking into you just deep enough for you to get used to the stretch. When you start to impatiently arch into him for more, he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and leans forward.

The new angle makes you moan loudly, the pace Simon sets is more brutal.

“Been fucking stressing me out all month, you know that?” He grits his teeth.

You shake your head, but he wasn’t really looking for a response.

“Can’t just fucking stay home, can you? Always gotta get yourself into some trouble, don’t you?” His fingers dig into the flesh of your thigh.

You whimper at his tone, “It’s not on purpose.”

“Asking if I sleep with other girls, like you aren’t smoking with other men.”

His hips slam into you hard at the end of his sentence, like he’s emphasizing his words.

“They fuck you like this? Huh?”

You shake your head again, “No! No, just you Simon.”

He’s not even sure where that came from when you guys have only fucked once, you’re not his, but you’re wrapped around him, pressing kisses against his neck because you think he’s mad and how can he not be jealous?

“You all mine?” He whispers, hips stuttering with his strength to not finish.

“Yes, yes, god, yes.”

hold for seven.

You told yourself, and your therapist, that you were fine. Of course you were fine. How could you not be fine?

out for eight.

Since moving to the apartment building you'd fallen into the habit of waiting as long as possible before doing laundry. Once you reached the point of no return, like tonight, you would drag down weeks of laundry and hole up in one of the corners of the dreary laundry room and wash the endless piles of clothes, spending most of the time grumbling to yourself about the fact that you never left the apartment how could you possible have so much dirty laundry.

Tonight was no different. You were probably close to a heat judging by the way you had tore everything off your bed, including the pillows to get a deep clean. Or by the way your nose scrunched up when you entered the dingy laundry room. This wasn't a luxury building, it didn't cater to making omegas feel comfortable, it barely met most of the standards for safety and well being. Then again, you were likely one of three unbonded omegas based on the neighbors you had met. The other two you had met were bonded, older, and perfectly happy with their packs on one of the pack floors. Those flats had in-unit washer dryers.

Once your first load was started you hopped up onto the washer, letting the warmth of the machine bleed into you. It was cold down here, the rickety heating struggled enough on the upper floors, but down here it was always non existent.

Logically, you knew that you should probably pull something of your own out of the dirty pile and throw it on until there was something clean and dry to wear. But logic didn't always win out against omega instincts, especially this close to a heat.

Especially, when you had spotted a particularly comfy looking sweatshirt on top of the lost and found pile.

It should bother you that that specific article of clothing was touching other articles of clothing, all with unknown levels of cleanliness. It did bother you, the logical you that worries about things like scabies, or crusted over mystery messes. But your instincts are going to win out logic because you can't stop thinking about it.

It would look perfect in your nest.

The thought doesn't surprise you, it does disgust you because you don't know who's sweatshirt it is, or where its been, or if it will even smell good. It could stink, but your omega is already so locked on you can't help the way you slip off the machine, taking measured slow steps towards the offending pile of lost clothes.

What if the owner comes back and sees me wearing it?

That is enough to give you pause, hand already reaching out to pick it up. Your gaze flicks to the door, its closed, its been closed, and only once have you ever seen anyone down here when you have done laundry this late at night. John. He was an alpha by the looks of him, but he must have been on scent blockers, even with your keen senses you hadn't picked up a hint of his scent, not from him or the pile of monochrome clothes he had been tossing into the machine.

It wasn't uncommon, many industries relied on industrial strength scent blockers, suppressants, the works in order to work at peak capacity. Doctors, teachers, soldiers. You couldn't imagine the man with his broad shoulders, stack of muscles and carefully shaved mohawk being a teacher or a doctor, but then you didn't like to make assumptions. Enough people made assumptions about you based on your designation.

After that first run in you had never seen him in the laundry room again, but you did see him from time to time, leaving the building, standing in the mail room taking out an obscene amount of envelopes, slinking back into the building late in the night smelling of booze. No matter how rough he looked he always had a bright smile for you.

You can't take it anymore, you snatch up the sweatshirt, bringing it to your nose and taking a sniff.

in for four.

hold.

If you weren't going into a heat before the scent on this sweatshirt was sending you over the edge. You could not do something as embarrassing as slick in the basement laundry room over someone's dirty abandoned sweatshirt.

Fuck.

There was no way you were leaving this behind now that you had gotten a whiff of the scent. It was a surprise you hadn't zeroed in on it the moment you stepped foot in the room, but there were so many conflicting scents here, it had been just one in a million. But now, pressing it to your face, god, nothing has ever smelled better.

You would ignore the obvious implication that whoever's sweatshirt this was was a scent match.

The reality though was that in all the months you had lived here you had not once gotten a whiff of someone who smelled even remotely like this. Like leather, like smoke, like salty sea air. It is hard to ignore the image it creates, a bonfire on a beach, the sun already dropped below the horizon, skin pressed against a warm body, fresh sea air clinging to their skin so heavily you could taste the salt as you lap it from their neck. A purr rumbling in their chest as you nuzzle their scent gland.

a fantasy.

Scent matches were the things of romance novels, soulmates, alphas who fought for omegas and provided and were shitty people and shitty alphas. It didn't work that way in real life, there wasn't some made for you alpha out there who would take one sniff of you and then sweep you off your feet.

You haven't always been this jaded, but you were now and even as you press the worn sweatshirt to your face you know it doesn't matter. Whoever this alpha is they aren't going to change anything about your life, even if you are scent matches. However, you could cling to this stolen piece of clothing and dream a little while you finish the rest of your laundry. Over time, the scent would fade and you would be left with someone's stolen sweatshirt tucked carefully into the corner of your nest.

It's a familiar disappointment. A familiar existence. An existence you tell yourself you are fine with. That you are over what happened with your last alpha. That you don't need anyone else. No alphas, no betas, no omegas. You are fine. This is fine.

stop. breathe.

in for 4.

****************

"They cannae ban me from base," the Scot grumbles from the sofa.

Simon doesn't respond. They've already had this fight, hell, Price has already had this fight and if the fury of their captain had not been enough to shut up Johnny then there was nothing Simon could do.

"They can, and they 'ave. So shut it and get back in the bed," Simon all but growled.

It wasn't uncommon for the two to battle for dominance, an alpha alpha pairing was rarer but not unheard of, neither of them willing to fully submit to the other. The only time Johnny submitted fully was in bed, and that was out of the question in his current state.

"Ah dinnae like the bed," he says with a deep frown, thick brows knit together as he glares up at the other alpha.

"F'r fucks sake why not?"

"Disnae smell right."

Simon fights back another sigh. This thing between them is new, its delicate, a tenuous thing threatened on all ends because of their careers, their designations, society, the lack of claiming bites, the lack of official paperwork. But most importantly, neither of them really know how to go about this properly. An omega would know what Johnny needs, would have scent marked the whole goddamn flat the first time they came here. But Simon wasn't an omega, he rarely felt like a proper alpha, none of those protective instincts he heard people talk about.

maybe he should call price.

"Need me t' scent them?"

Johnny considers the question, twisting his body to look into the darkened bedroom. Simon knows he could better elevate his injured knee if he was in the bed. His sorry excuse for a sofa is barely big enough for the two of them sitting, forget stretched out knee up on pillows.

"It smells stale," he murmurs, not meeting Simon's eyes.

Simon knows he hates this, being injured is bad enough, admitting he needs help, admitting that the stale smell left from months of disuse is messing with his instincts? Instincts typically buried beneath industrial strength suppressants?

Simon doesn't need a bond to know it is killing Johnny.

"I'll do the wash if ye promise t' sleep in the bed tonight."

Johnny nods eagerly, his scent warming. Its a rare moment for Simon to even be able to scent him. Neither of them needed their scent blockers while they were on leave, but typically they were prepared to be called back to the field, most leaves cut short by a late night phone call from Price. But this time Johnny had a minimum of 6 weeks before he could even attempt physio and Price had convinced anyone who mattered that the two of them were a package deal. So begrudgingly, Simon is taking some long overdue leave.

Simon is not used to the domesticity that comes from being with Johnny. Years of circling around each other, attraction and camaraderie keeping them close and than an op gone too long, a supply drop missed and the two had scented each other for the first time.

scent match

The word bounces around Simon's head as he drags Johnny's bedding down to the basement. The building is not the fanciest, a far cry from what either of them could actually afford and yet not surprising to Simon considering they spent very little time off base and Johnny at least had family to go home to even if the lot of them were betas and civilians who struggled to understand Johnny.

Simon had never considered it a possibility that he would have a scent match, for a multitude of reasons, first and foremost being the fact that he had always assumed he would die in the field. Couldn't expect someone like him to meet a scent match when he had spent his whole adult life drowning in scent blockers and suppressants. The odds of finding a match in the military, let alone on his team, was so astronomically small and yet, here he was, doing the laundry of his mate.

The laundry is blessedly empty and while Simon could make the trek back up to the flat but he thinks that maybe he needs some time alone to sort through his own thoughts.

And he is alone for a while, the hum of the washer working over the sheets lulling him into a trance, he muses that it must be what it feels like to mediate. The only time he feels this kind of peace is when he is in a blind, hidden from view with a sniper scope up to his eye, every thought, every feeling focused on the crosshair. Only now, that focus is on the endless spinning of the machine, the clear front of the machine a window into a technicolor of fabric.

The sound of the door opening comes as a surprise, his defenses down as he tries to distract himself from his tumultuous thoughts.

Simon doesn't turn right away, despite years of military training screaming at him to turn, to assess the situation, to make a plan of attack, to protect himself.

But its hard to talk himself off that ledge, the tension bleeding through him, ice in his veins as he wars with himself not to turn around. There's only one set of footsteps, dragging what must be a laundry bag. He can easily handle one assailant. No problem.

He doesn't realize he is holding his breath until he inhales deeply, trying to center himself before turning and trying to act like a normal bloody person.

Had he not already experienced scenting Johnny for the first time he would think he was dying in this moment.

bergamot, a sweet orange cake in the summer, asphalt baked beneath the sun.

Simon never had a happy summer as a child, he doesn't know what it feels like to think back fondly on that time, to feel nostalgia over summers that seemed to last forever, but as the scent invades his senses he believes he knows what it might feel like in this moment. He thinks he might understand the magic of those memories.

The moment is broken though when the footsteps stop and the person, with the second most delectable scent he has every smelled, takes a deep breath and sneezes. The sound is wet, a pathetic whimper follows it, a sound that has him grinding his teeth as he turns to face whoever it is threatening to turn his whole world on its side.

****************

The last thing you want to be doing at this very moment is laundry. The stuffy old alpha doctor at the clinic had barely even looked at you before writing it off as "a summer cold" and letting you know there was not much they could do for you even though you were on day five of thinking your head was going to explode from the pressure. You couldn't even smell how gross and sweaty and likely foul your sheets and clothes were, but the thought of what it might smell like was enough to have you dragging your ass down to the laundry room.

You did feel a bit bad that you are subjecting the rest of the building to your illness, but you had no choice and there is never anyone down there at night anyway.

Your laundry had been packed in a daze. Your feet dragging as you shuffle down the stairs to the basement, luckily not crossing paths with another person.

should have showered, you think, deciding clean pyjamas were not eneough.

Your thoughts come to a halt when you step into the laundry room. There is an alpha, because there is no way the monstrosity of a man is anything but an alpha, standing frozen in place next to the machines you usually use. He's tense and when he finally takes a breath, his fists clench at his sides, back straightening. You can only imagine how terrible you probably smell to him, there's no other logical reason for the response.

You frown, picking up your sweatshirt and giving it a sniff. You don't really feel well enough to worry what the strange giant of a man thinks of you in this moment.

All the sniff does is mess with your sinuses, the breath catching in your throat as you breath, the tickle in your nose hard to ignore. When you sneeze it feels like your brain is rattling around in your head and you can't help the whimper.

You rub the sleeve of the sweatshirt you're wearing beneath your nose, hoping you aren't a snotty mess on top of everything else.

"Sorry," you mumble turning away.

You decide the sweatshirt is probably dirty now too, pulling it off and dumping it into the wash with the rest of the clothes. You try and fail to ignore the way the man is staring. The alpha. You don't recognize him, but then again the building is big enough that you don't know everyone here.

It irks you though, as an omega you usually rely on scents to get you through the world. Sure, its a pain to be attacked by a barrage of what everyone is feeling, but in moments like this, if you could scent him you could get a better read on him. Because right now, as you dump detergent into two of the machines, peering to the side, its hard to tell what he is thinking but its harder to ignore the way he is staring.

maybe he's a germaphobe and that's why he's down here so late.

It's a realistic enough assumption, better than jumping to the worst which is that those glares are menacing in a threatening way and not just in a you were a menace to his peace of mind way.

"Sorry about the sniffling and sneezing, I really thought no one would be down here."

Your words are no more than a whisper that scratch against your raw throat. You really shouldn't be here, you should be in bed, but even the thought of being in the dirty excuse of a nest you had been burrowed into for days makes your skin crawl.

You're not sure if he even hears the words, his body still stiff and now that you have no distraction to hold your attention you turn to him.

Then you take a step back. His honeyed gaze tracking your every move. If you had been well, or in better control of your instincts, you might have reacted differently. You aren't even sure what it is you are doing, but your heart is pounding and something close to fear crawls down your spine.

"I can just—" you start but he cuts you off.

"Not a problem. Can't help it, yeah?"

You nod but you aren't sure what it is you are agreeing to.

"I haven't seen you around before, did you just move in?"

You should just shut up. You should set a timer on your phone and make the exhausting journey back to your flat, back to your empty nest and come back when the wash is done. But you can't look away from this man, this alpha.

"Stayin' with a…friend."

"Oh," you perk up a bit, as much as you can in your condition, "maybe I know them. What's their name?"

You might hide out in your apartment, not quite ready to face the outside. Maybe a bit broken by circumstances and fate and an alpha who had promised you the world. And maybe the obsessive need to know everyone had been a result of that distrust the world had bred into you, but over time it had become something else and now your neighbors, even some from the pack floors were your world, your little sliver of life.

So odds are, if this man is staying with someone here then you know them.

It is hard to not try and guess who it is as he stands there, seeming to digest the question like it isn't the most straightforward thing. It is straightforward to you, even when your head has that distinct stuffy feeling like the only thing between your ears was cotton.

Maybe it's Olive, the omega from 2B. She's a firecracker, a personal trainer at the gym who has on more than one occasion hit on you when you have run into each other in the mail room.

Or maybe Theo, the beta who lives next door to you. He has no shortage of friends who visit. The last time you had chatted with him he had let slip he was being courted by a pack, maybe this was one of them? It had been quiet through the walls since Theo had started getting courted but that didn't mean someone from the pack hadn't been over?

Maybe one of the alphas? There are a handful of unbonded ones in the building.

"Stayin' with John."

"John with the dog or John with the stupid hair?"

The alpha lets out a bark of a laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his scarred face breaks into a grin that is far more feral then you typically saw in polite company.

"Johnny's goin' t'love that."

Johnny.

Johnny.

Johnny.

The name wraps itself up in what is left of your thoughts. It fits him because of course it does.

"He's back?" you ask, you haven't really ever spoken with him, but you have noticed him enough, noticed enough about him to figure out he travels for work, is away for long stretches and when he is here it's sporadic, unpredictable. You have spoken to him enough to know he isn't from the area, the accent hard to miss.

"Aye, on bedrest, fucked up 'is knee."

You try and fail to hold back a cough as you go to answer, instead the sound that comes out is a wheeze, a hacking cough follows.

The alpha all but glares at you as you try to regain control of your body, curling in on yourself as you breathe deeply.

in for four.

The familiar fear that you have done something wrong, something unbecoming of an omega catches you off guard. You can't hold back the whine that slips from your lips.

"Seems like you should be the one in bed though," he says, tense again but making no move to leave. "Got someone who could finish that for you?" he asks, waving a hand at the laundry that continues to spin at your side.

You almost laugh. John, Johnny, has this man, and this man has him. And you have you, yourself, and no one else. And you would laugh if you knew you could have without it feeling like you have swallowed glass.

"Just me," you say, voice rougher than before.

Maybe you should go lay down.

****************

Johnny is restless. He hates being injured, but its worse this time with Simon here, Ghost, his scent match.

The Ghost is his scent match.

his mate.

Johnny hasn't fully come to terms with that reality yet. Price had taken it in stride, hadn't even bothered to pretend to be surprised when it happened. He actually had the audacity to already have the paperwork prepared for them to be an official pack, only thing left was a bonding bite between the two of them.

It is Johnny who is stalling, Johnny who clams up every time the two of them move in a direction that feels anything like intimacy. He can't explain it, even when Gaz poked and prodded for information, wrongly assuming it was Simon who was dragging his feet.

It isn't Simon, it's him. It's him and his stupid secret.

With Simon out of the flat he can spiral about it. The bed hadn't really smelled that bad, it had been an excuse, a gentle encouragement to get Simon out of his hair for a bit. The other alpha had been hovering and Johnny knows he should appreciate, he is so very lucky to be scent matched to someone like Simon, someone who can understand the fucked up mess that is Johnny's mind, Johnny's life.

But there is one small problem, that could have remained a small problem had he not gotten injured.

Johnny is still lost in his thoughts when the door to the flat bangs open, Simon stumbling in, his face a twist of emotions, anger the easiest to read.

Simon has always been hard to read, between the lack of scents in the military, the mask that was firmly in place when they were on base, and the closed off nature of the other alpha. But here, without suppressants coursing through their veins, scent blockers left unpacked, Johnny doesn't even need to see Simon's face to know something was wrong.

Very wrong.

"Are you okay?"

Simon's shoulders heave as he takes in a deep breath.

"Why didn't you tell me," he says accusingly, his stare heavy.

Johnny swallows, the edge of anger turning Simon's scent to wildfire, something untameable. Its almost enough to burn out everything else, but not enough to cover up the slightest tang of oranges.

"Ah dinnae ken, ah mean, ah did, but it dinnae mean anythin'."

"The omega doesn't know?"

"Ah wasnae sure, dropped a scarf runnin' out the building one day. Ah was on the way tae base, picked it up thinkin' ah could return it. Fuck, Simon, ah was at the end of a dose, didnae even ken what it was at first. Never smelled anythin' like that til," he trails off, looking over at Simon who is still at the door, fists clenching and unclenching.

"And you didn't say anythin'? There's leave for this kinda thin'."

"Leave? Tae dae what? Pack up with a random omega who's name ah didnae even ken?"

"'ow long?"

"Aboot six months," Johnny says, the confession almost a whisper.

"Fer fucks sake," Simon growls, stalking across the sparse living room, dropping down to his knees next to the sofa. "Why didn't you say anythin'?"

"Say what? Ah meet a nice omega, a civvie who disnae ken aboot the blood on mah 'ands?"

Simon doesn't respond, instead he reaches out a hand and cups Johnny's face. His skin is warm, fingers and palm calloused and rough. Johnny's hands are no different. These aren't the types of hands that get omegas to come home to, these are the hands of killers.

Johnny and Simon are meant for each other, made for each. But you, an omega with a kind face, and a soft smile every time you crossed paths? You are too good for the likes of them.

"But—"

"Nae, disnae matter that the omega is a scent match. I cannae be what they need, you cannae be what they need."

Simon doesn't respond right away, he studies Johnny, the too intense stare makes Johnny look away. He almost wishes Simon would put the mask back on so he doesn't have to see all of the emotions playing out across his face.

"You are a good man, John MacTavish, and if you wanted that omega down in the basement, you would make them the happiest omega around. And if this is fate, or whatever bullshit people think scent matches are then it won't matter that you and I are gone all the time, or 'ave blood on our 'ands, or are the most boneheaded alphas that omega has ever met because if it is meant to be then it will work out. We can make it work out. Together."

"Who are ye, and what 'ave ye done with my Simon?"

"Your Simon? More like my Johnny," he growls out, leaning forward to capture Johnny's lips in a searing kiss.

It's not their first kiss, their first kiss had been all instinct, the overwhelming coming together of two forces of nature. All the others since, the stolen moments together, the attempts at bonding, Johnny had had this secret, this worry looming over him because he knew that for as strong as he was in the field, how long he spent training, no amount of physical strength would make him enough of an alpha to care for an omega properly. Not the way an omega would deserve.

With Simon at his side in the field the 141 was unstoppable, maybe they could be unstoppable as a pack?

"Keep kissin' me like that and we are goin' to 'ave tae move this tae the bedroom." Johnny's smirk is met with a deep frown.

"The doctor said—"

"Och, ah dinnae care what the doctor said. Ah want ye more than ah can even say."

Simon chuckles, "yer an insatiable slag."

Johnny laughs, yanking Simon back in close. If not for the twinge of pain from his braced knee he would have pulled the alpha down the rest of the way.

"Ah can smell them," he murmurs into Simon's neck.

"Poor 'mega's sick, down there sneezin' an coughin'."

"What?" Johnny sputters, pushing back on Simon until he can see his face again. "Why're ye up 'ere then?" Johnny asks, distress clear on his face.

"'ad to know if you knew. Y'want the 'mega?"

There aren't words to describe the way he wants you. It isn't all instincts either, even though your scent had lingered in his mind for far longer than it had on the scarf, especially after he got his dose of military-grade suppressants. But it didn't matter, in the same way nothing had tamped down Simon's scent, the only thing that had been able to block out the memory of your scent was the shock at smelling Simon for the first time.

"Still dinnae think we're good fer them, but ah havnae stopped thinkin' aboot them."

Simon hums in response, falling back on his ankles. Simon kneeling at his side doing something unholy to the Scot.

"Not sure I'm the best one to approach an omega who didn't realize we were scent matches," says, looking unsure of himself.

"Disnae matter, y' said if it's meant tae be than it'll work oot. Goan and get our omega.

****************

As soon as the door closes behind the alpha you let out a long sigh, body sagging against the machine. When that isn't enough you let your body slide down the machine until you come to a rest on the cold floor. As an omega you are familiar with fevers, even more familiar with dealing with them as you ride out heats alone.

in for 4.

You try to steady your breathing, focusing on the warmth behind you, the rumbling of the machine not too unlike that of a purring alpha or omega. You let your eyes close, a familiar fantasy awaiting you. You imagine its your bonfire alpha wrapping you in his warm embrace, purring as you suffer through this never ending cold.

You should set an alarm. You're not certain you can handle the alpha coming back and finding you sleeping on the grimy basement floor. He probably already thinks that you are a mess of an omega. Can't even keep your nest clean. Can't take care of yourself. A sorry excuse for an omega.

You hear the door open, it feels far too soon for John's alpha to be back to switch out his loads. Great, another neighbor who will see you at your lowest, really just your luck.

You're so caught up in your spiralling thoughts that you don't hear them approaching, you don't realize they are speaking to you until the back of a hand is pressing against your sticky forehead.

"Christ, you're burin' up."

It is John's alpha. Had you dozed off? Maybe more time had passed than you thought.

"Just a cold," you murmur already missing the warmth from his hand when he pulls it away.

The whine that escapes you is embarrassing but has the desired effect when his hand returns, this time cupping the side of your face. You lean into the firm pressure, not at all bothered by the rough skin, or the sharp inhale from the man whose hand you are currently pressing into.

This is arguably a new low for you, so you might as well fully commit to this nightmare.

"You need water, and rest, and maybe a trip to A&E."

"Doc says its nothin'."

He lets out a huff, knees cracking as he bends down next to you. His arms are warm as they wrap around you, hugging you close to his chest as he stands. You nuzzle in close to his neck, cold nose rubbing against where you know his scent glands would be. Its incredibly rude but he doesn't move you. You let out a whine when you can't smell anything, stuffy sinuses keeping his scent from you.

"What flat are you in?" his voice rumbles through his chest.

"The one with the flower pot," you mumble back.

You aren't fully sure this isn't a dream, for a moment you are so sure, so certain you smell the scent from the sweatshirt, but then, that doesn't make sense because John's alpha wasn't here. But he's here now and he's taking you to your flat, and then everything will be fine.

You're certain you've overdone it the next time you can piece together enough words to resemble a thought. You knew you were sick, you knew your own body but you had let that waste of a doctor gaslight you into gaslighting yourself that it wasn't that bad. But it was, it was bad enough that you were having a fever dream, one where you could just make out that people were talking to you, but not what they were saying.

"Back with us, bonnie?"

You peel your eyes open. Its dark in your room, as it should be given the hour, only, it isn't your room because you painted your wall the first chance you got, and your bed has four posts that you carefully hang curtains from to create a nest, with fairy lights threaded through it. Your room also does not have a stupidly handsome alpha with blue eyes and a grown out mohawk.

"John?" your voice is barely a whisper, it hurts more than ever to speak.

"Aye, gave us a bit of a scare."

"Us?" you rasp, but you already know the answer.

"Aye, Simon's grabbin' yer last load from the machine."

You know how you should react, you're an unbonded omega who is beyond sick currently tucked into the bed of an alpha you barely know. The alpha part is an assumption, you faintly remember Simon purring so you had been correct there and while the scarred alpha from the basement has given you a whole new understanding of the meaning brick shithouse, John has always been bigger than the average man.

You close your eyes, pulling the blanket over your face. It's hard enough to think without seeing John, propping himself against the doorway, blue eyes bright with humor, a brace attached to his left leg, holding the knee straight.

"How'd I get here?"

"What was that? Cannae hear ye?"

You peer out from beneath the throw, glaring at John.

"Simon went down tae check on ye, dinnae sit right with us, leavin' ye down there alone. Ye were in a right state."

You think if you laugh the way you want to you'll regret it, but a right state is an understatement. How could you have been so dumb? What if someone else had found you? Someone not so pretty and kind and, fuck are you thinking this or saying it out loud?

The door opening interrupts your thoughts.

"For fuck's sake Johnny, told you to stay on the bloody couch."

The alpha stops in the doorway, dropping the laundry bag you know is yours and with an ease that is surprising despite his size picks up John. John gives out a chirp of surprise, arms scrambling to hold onto the alpha before he is unceremoniously dropped onto the bed next to you.

"Ye great oaf, cannae just be pickin' me up like that. Coulda jostled my knee."

"Tell you t'stay on the couch," he grumbles before turning to you. "How you feelin'? Need anythin'."

"Am I dreaming?"

That would explain the odd calm you felt despite your circumstances, only you typically don't have a pounding headache in your dreams. If it is a dream then it wouldn't be a problem if you rolled over and nuzzled into the alpha next to you.

"If yer dreamin', then ahm dreaming, bonnie," John says, closing the distance between the two of you and breathing in deeply.

"Fuck, ye smell so good bonnie," he says against your skin before he is being pulled away by his mohawk. "Shit!"

"No manners, this one. Sorry about 'im." The other alpha, Simon, holds John for a moment longer before dropping him to the bed.

"You need something warmer t' wear," he adds, moving towards your discarded laundry bag.

Its presumptuous of him. Neither of these alphas seem to know how to properly interact with an omega. His hands rummage through the bag, you fight down a growl that turns into a whine when the item he pulls out in the sweatshirt.

"Mine," the word is out before you can stop yourself.

The alpha looks up shocked, pale face flushing as he holds up the sweatshirt, you scramble out of the bed, legs shaking as you cross the room to snatch the sweatshirt away from the man who is a complete stranger, not that you really know John either.

Your heart is racing, lungs struggling to keep up. You feel lightheaded, but the adrenaline pumping through your body as you glaring up at the alpha like you could actually do something to someone his size.

There is nothing for you to do but pull the sweatshirt on over your head, its oversized, previously belonging to someone much larger than you.

"Bonnie, where did ye get that sweatshirt?"

You don't turn to look at John, instincts driving you hard to not turn your back on the alpha in front of you. Instead, you take a step back and then another until your back is against the wall and you can see both men. Simon with his wide eyes and John with his wide grin, a grin that looks very out of place.

You feel lightheaded, this is too much, you need to be in your flat, in your nest. You should grab your bag and hightail it out of here.

"It's mine," you repeat.

"Nae goin' tae try and take it, just wonderin' if ye ken who's sweatshirt it is."

You don't know, you tried, for weeks after finding it to find the owner. The name on the back was the only clue, but no one in the building shared it. Not first or last name. No one came looking for it and more importantly no one had smelled near as nice as the sweatshirt.

You pull the collar up to your nose and take in a deep breath, still nothing, not even the faint smell left behind from a fresh wash in the building's machines.

"Did ye meet my mate?" John asks, pushing himself up on the bed so that he is resting against the wall.

"Not really."

Fuck, you were tired. So tired.

"Well, bonnie, this is my mate, Simon Riley."

You turned to the giant of a man.

Simon Riley.

Riley.

Riley.

You don't have the energy to fight your instincts, to argue that logically this doesn't make sense, its too convenient, its too much of a coincidence. Instead you stalk forward, pulling up on your tippy toes to try to scent the man that John claims is named Simon Riley. Riley like the name emblazoned on the back of the sweatshirt.

You breathe deeply, desperate to catch even a hint of the scent that has haunted you for months. Instead your left dizzy, legs like jello as you step back. The giant of a man grabbing your arm gently as you sway.

"Let's get you into bed, yeah?"

You don't fight him on it, giving into the instincts that are telling you that you should roll around in the bed and make sure it smells just like you.

"Want me t' kick Johnny out? You need t' rest and you can do it 'ere, but if you want I'll take you to your flat, just wasn't sure what you meant by the one with the flower pot."

You also don't know what you could have meant by that.

"I should go back, I don't want to be a bother."

You force yourself to say the words even though everything in you is screaming that this is the alpha that smells like a bonfire on the beach, that if only you could scent you would be wrapped up in the warm embrace of smoke and salt.

You want to breathe him in and never let it go.

****************

Simon's certain it was only adrenaline holding you up as he guides you into the bed. He gets his confirmation from the droop of your eyes as you burrow down beneath the blankets, fresh from the wash and still a hint of warmth in them. He passes you the bottle of water he had set out earlier, you drink from it lazily before drifting off.

Johnny watches you raptly, fingers twitching at his side as he stops himself from reaching across the bed to touch you. Simon knows John means nothing untoward by it, that his instincts are riding him hard to offer you comfort however he can. Simon knows this because he feels the same way, instinct driving him to bundle you up in his arms, hold you close.

"We should let them rest," he says making no move to leave the side of the bed where he hovers over you.

"Aye," Johnny agrees making no moves of his own.

They stay like that longer than reasonable, long enough that Johnny falls asleep himself, body twisted in a way that Simon knows can't be comfortable and likely to leave him with a crick in his neck.

With a sigh, Simon moves to Johnny's side of the bed, maneuvering him until his knee is properly elevated and tucked beneath his own blanket. Simon considers if it would be odd to continue his vigil over his two mates, but decides that he should make himself useful.

Simon doesn't know what to do to make an omega comfortable in a domestic capacity, he doesn't know from personal experience either, his father had not been the type of alpha to offer comfort or care. The only thing he knew was what he had been trained to do. In their line of work they often crossed paths with omegas in distress, they had to be prepared to assist, to act.

You weren't in distress but you were in need, in need of care, in need of someone else to look out for you while you were ill.

In need of something Simon wasn't sure he knew he could give, despite his words to Johnny earlier.

He'll need to get groceries, Johnny and him had been living off takeaway but if they convinced you to stay they would need more than cheesy toast and chinese. Even if you don't stay, Simon can't live off scraps for six weeks. He's not much of a cook, he's not sure if Johnny is.

Bloody hell, the two of them barely know how to live with each other, how to be mates. And now this?

He expects to feel the usual discomfort at the unknown, he is nothing if not a creature of habit, but the apartment is warm with your scent and Johnny's. Yours' sweet on his tongue, even with the burnt taste of sickness while Johnny's is fresh and tart, a summer breeze through tall grass, tart dark berries on his tongue.

The way he would feast on the two of you.

Johnny has a single tinned soup. Simon warms it for you on the stove, testing the temperature with his finger before waking you up.

You had shifted in your sleep, your body gravitating towards Johnny who needed the rest as well. When he wakes you he watches the moment you come to, eyes wide with confusion before you wake up the rest of the way. He helps you sit, letting you feed yourself even though he has the strongest urge to do it himself, to hold the spoon in his steady hands and watch you as your lips wrap around the spoon.

Instead he busies himself with putting away Johnny's clothes. The Scot is a perfectionist in the field, but at home his space is chaotic. Simon tries not to focus on the way socks are with pants, or that boxers are haphazardly shoved wherever there seems to be free space.

"You don't need to take care of me," you say when he takes the bowl away.

Your eyes are already heavy, he forces you to drink water anyway, not happy with how warm you still feel.

"I don't but I want to."

"Why?" you ask, your eyes already closed, hand already reaching out for where Johnny lays on the bed.

He knows you won't remember asking, you won't remember him answering but he says it anyway, "because you smell like something I never dared to dream of. Because Johnny wants you and I would give him the world. Because I think there is a version of this where we can make you the happiest omega in the world."

Simon thinks its a properly romantic thing to say even if you weren't awake to hear it. He thinks about it more as he putters around Johnny's flat, cleaning and organizing the kitchen. He watches a video on his phone about how to properly stock a pantry. He feels like an idiot looking it up, but the video has thousands of views so he must not be the only one who didn't know.

At some point Johnny wakes up with a gasp of pain. Simon brings him his painkillers, he has days left of the good stuff, its been less than 48 hours since he was discharged and subsequently kicked off base by Price. It feels like a lifetime as Simon watches his mate chug down water before dropping back down into the bed, the pain written across his face in the way his lips twist into a grimace, brow knit together. He doesn't even make a move to get closer to you.

You appear only once. Eyes bleary with sleep, the arms of the sweatshirt dangling further than your finger tips, your feet bare against the wooden floors. You mumble something before disappearing into the bathroom.

It was late when he brought you here, even later now that he can't avoid sleep any longer. He changes into clean shorts, forgoing a shirt. Its already warm in the flat and as he hovers next to the bed he knows it will be warmer once he convinces himself that slipping in next to you is the right move.

"C'mere," you mumble.

He had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed you rolling over, pulling the blanket from your side to expose the empty space on the bed created by you curling in next to Johnny. It will be a tight fit, maybe not ideal in the long run, but in this moment Simon doesn't know if there is a long run, in his line of work he never knows if there will even be another day at the end of this one, so he slips in next to you.

You are demanding in your sleep, pulling his arm over your waist, forcing him to press his chest to your back. Close enough now that he can feel the tremor of a purr rattling around your chest. He tucks his face in close to your neck, nuzzling your scent gland, letting his own scent soak into your skin hoping it will be enough to chase away the sickness that clings to you.

Simon lets himself drift, the warm press of your skin against his, your purr, Johnny's heavy breathing, all of it is a comfort he's never known before.

He's not sure if its a dream, or his own last thoughts before sleep pulls him under but he pictures your face, overcome with something he doesn't know how to describe when you finally scent him, scent Johnny. In the dream you don't know about their jobs, about their pasts or their futures, you just know that the three of you were destined for each other.

so he kinda just plays along, “er yeah. fuckin’ hate them.”

he leans his forearms on the bar, licking across his bottom lip, trying to gain context cues to what you mean. you, who’s maybe on the edge of tipsy with your two drinks you had previously for some confidence, stare at the veins in his arm. how thick they look, how his plain black t-shirt sucks on his bicep. you’d love to suck on his bicep and—

then you realise you were staring. darting up to his face with round eyes then away, looking forward. you’re a little nervous now, overwhelmed with the shitty conversations you just had and now you’ve got yourself in a conversation with a stupidly sexy man.

“how come i didn’t get to speak to you? i would have dotted your name down on the card.”

bakugou takes advantage of the fact you’re not looking at him, that you’re cutely chewing down on your lip as you stare into your drink and notices the sign by the door.

27+ Speed Dating 8pm-9pm

what the hell are you doing in fucking speed dating events?

should he lie? say he came late or something? and why such a random age limit?

“gonna be honest, sweetheart, i’m here with those idiots in the corner. didn’t come for the dating thing,” he nods a thanks to the bartender as his beer slides along the bar. “apparently i’m not even old enough to attend.”

he doesn’t move though, instead he slightly leans on the top to face you. bakugou watches as another wave of embarrassment settles through you.

“oh, shit. sorry, i just assumed…,” that’s what you get for being brave. one night away from your kid and you’ve wasted it. then you blink in a mixture of shock and disgust at yourself, “wait, how old are you? you’re not one of those kids that look double their age with all the gmos and preservatives are you?”

bakugou chuckles, it starts deep in his chest and rises up out of his mouth. it’s an attractive laugh, it’s even more attractive when he takes a swig of his beer and licks the foam off his top lip.

“i’m twenty five, but don’t worry i’m into older women.”

heat blooms under your skin. you feel as if your body has been set on fire. you have the urge to grab the ice cube in your glass and press it to your forehead.

you fight it, especially when he smirks at your reaction. you scoff under your breath, “that makes me sound like a cougar. you’re only four years younger than me.”

you flick your eyes onto the man and he’s already staring back at you. you won’t lie, you love how his attention feels. his ruby eyes are beautiful, specks of burnt orange swimming in them as he keeps his focus on your face. occasionally on your lips and one glance at your top but nothing inappropriate. he licks along his teeth, pretends like he’s confident talking to gorgeous women at bars. he’s just as new to this as you are.

“hey, i never said cougar. i’m a big boy, i don’t need a mommy.” then he waves for the bartender, “d’you want another drink?”

he points at your single melting ice cube in your glass.

you’re shocked at how thrilling talking to this man is. after boring, uninspired and one offensive conversation about you being a single mother at the speed dating table, this one is fun and you actually find the guy attractive.

“i have a child by the way. i am an actual mother,” you blurt, then sigh at yourself, “not that you’re interested in anything more or even like me like that but just so it’s out there.”

you’ve been in situations where guys are into you and then back off at the fact you’re got a kid at home. then you get guys like today blaming you for not being with the baby or the baby’s father. you’re exhausted.

bakugou raises an eyebrow, “hold on sweetheart, drink first and then you can tell me whatever you want. including your name.”

your flush isn’t letting up. when you were younger you were so much better at flirting, talking to random men on nights out but after focusing on your kid and work, you’ve seemed to have lost it.

you ramble off your choice of drink to the bartender and then you introduce yourself, “yn, 29. i grew up around here. that’s what we said at the speed dating thing.” you point your thumb behind you at the now empty tables and the few couples awkwardly getting to know each other.

“alright. katsuki, 25. i grew up a city over but i live here now.”

“oi kacchan! you comin’ back to us or what?” another blonde guy in the corner table shouts and you watch as katsuki grits his jaw. you don’t see the look he gives them but they all laugh, settling back into their seats.

“sorry about them. fuckin’ idiots,” you notice the faint blush on his cheeks, looking down at the brown liquid of his beer.

seeing him blush is cute but you feel the urge to ignore it just to talk to him more, “what do you do for work?”

that has him looking up again, tilting his head. that gets his confidence up. standing straighter, his chest puffing out slightly, “i’m a hero. been one since i was sixteen.”

you gasp, “wow that’s crazy! you’re so brave fighting villains all the time. maybe you could deal with all the annoying people in my life.”

he smirks and from this angle, his gold cased canine catches the dim light of the bar, “unless they’re tryin’ to kill ya, i can’t help there sweetheart. though i could bend my morals for you.”

he’s smooth with it, bakugou’s impressed himself with this one, even when you lightly giggle, “shush. my son’s favourite hero is deku. i don’t know if you know him but he’s always watching his videos online.”

you think you said something wrong when bakugou scrunches his nose, “the fuck? not dynamight?”

you frown, “which one is that? sorry i’m terrible with heroes.”

bakugou forces his jaw not to drop. obviously not everyone knows about heroes but to know deku and not him? like they don’t work together all the time?

“you must have seen him. blonde hair, explosions?” he blurts, pointing to his own hair and he even holds out a palm, letting it crackle between you.

“oh yes! my son thinks he’s loud, always shouting. he’s with deku, isn’t he?” you reply and then everything connects. you blink a few times and bakugou watches the realisation in real time, “you’re dynamight? wow.”

bakugou chuckles again, wiping his face with his hand, “tell your son, i only shout because nobody listens. you gotta be brave to tell people how it is.”

you smile, “he’s gonna think i’m lying if i tell him i met you.”

bakugou notices you’re not starstruck or anything, if anything you’re genuinely excited to tell your son this little story. he wonders if the kid has the same eyes as you, hair colour. if the fathers in the picture.

“how old is he?”

“nine. i had him when i was twenty.”

bakugou imagines you pregnant, waddling around, needing breathers when out in the supermarket with your hand on your stomach.

“must be a cute kid if he looks anythin’ like you.”

he’s taking cheap shots here, he’s talented in many things but flirting with pretty mothers isn’t one of them.

you roll your eyes, “he’s alright.” you joke but you catch yourself, “i mean he’s my whole world. always comes first for me.”

bakugou nods, he gets it. he works with children a lot either at hospitals or schools. little ones running at his feet. their parents always have the same glowy look in their eye, the same one you have currently.

“what’s work for you?”

“i’m an animator. freelance but i do work for lots of studios, if they need extra hands or specific scenes they’ll message me in.”

bakugou doesn’t get shocked often but he does here. he doesn’t know what he was expecting you to say but not that. “that’s fuckin’ sick, what the hell?”

the conversation drags you both to a two seater table in the corner. your knee in between his, chairs so close you can feel his breath on your face when he talks.

he tells you he texted his friends that he’s gonna sit with you when you worry you just took him away from them, “they don’t give a fuck. probably laughin’ at me for even talkin’ to you.”

“why would they laugh!?”

bakugou takes a gulp. he’s not sure how much he should admit to him being a loser when it comes to women. sure they come onto him but he never does anything back.

“i don’t really talk to women. especially ones that look like you.”

alcohol has fully saturated your blood at this point, “looking like that,” you point at his chest, “with a mouth like that,” bakugou licks his bottom lip as a reflex, “i don’t understand why you wouldn’t.”

he loves the praise and also the distraction from his terrible skills, “like what? more words, sweetheart.”

his smirk makes your panties wet, you’re going to have fun choosing a toy out of your drawer tonight.

“you look like you belong in a boys anime but girls watch and write fanfiction about you.”

it’s probably the best compliment bakugou’s ever received.

“pretty face,” you continue, sipping your drink, “great body and you can actually hold a conversation. rare nowadays.”

bakugou grunts, a satisfied one that makes him lean over the table. “i dunno what the fuck you were doing at a speed dating event.”

“just wanted to meet new people, get out there.” you reply innocently, full of hope that makes bakugou want to look after you. treat you kindly and wrap his arms around you. but then you’re looking at him with these watery eyes, shifting your bare thighs in this tiny skirt, nudging your knee with his.

he is so fucked.

“forgive me for being so forward but i need to take you out or home. whatever you want i’ll give it to you.”

you run through the options in your head. he’s asking if you just want sex or want to date. your mouth dries up and you’re immediately taking another sip of your drink.

“oh, i’m, err looking to date?” you respond, tilting your head. forcing yourself to not focus on his lips. how tempting it would be to press yours against his. that would be the only reason why you say your next words, “but i’d have sex with you too.”

with glowing signs from both parties, bakugou slides his hand on your jaw, the first touch of the night and then kisses you. it’s only a peck that quickly becomes more. a groan and he angles his head, nipping your bottom lip so you open up. you’re almost crawling into his lap when you suck on his tongue. you take control of the kiss, no matter how badly bakugou wants to. it’s a little messy, very needy and when you part, you need to wipe the spit from your mouth.

“oh god,” you whisper.

“d’you still have a thing with the father? your kids father?” bakugou mumbles against your lips. it’s not the right time to ask but he’s not about to ask to date you if the man is. fuck it, maybe he can, prove he’s the better choice.

your eyes widen, “no, no!”

“good.”

after spending another hour of conversation and making out, bakugou slides his phone over to you.

“i’m gonna take you out.”

you like the forwardness. you don’t see it with many people nowadays, “okay. i don’t like fish and my bladder is too weak for rollercoasters.” you wince, too much drinking for tonight, “ignore that i said that.”

“fuck rollercoasters. my whole life in a teenagers hands. fuck that.”

He immediately rolls up his tinted windows and lay you down in the backseat, spreading your legs open slowly and lowering your pants, eventually taking them off and tossing them somewhere followed by your panties short after, making you feel bare and embarrassed.

"Nothin's wrong with you, luv. Blokes these days just don't know how to treat a woman right, hm?"

He kisses your knee and spreads your legs wider when you try to close them because you started feeling exposed, suddenly shy under his gaze, but don't worry he'll take good care of you.

"Just relax for me sweetheart, yeahh just like that" he drags the syllable, eyes hooded with need and lip bitten between his teeth.

He starts by making you relax, kissing your hand, knee, calf; wherever his lips can reach, while rubbing slow deliberate circles on your aching clit.

After getting you all needy, relaxed and soft for him he'll press a finger in your waiting cunt, the length stretching you and making you squeeze him only to get a tut and a "need you to relax for me, luv"

And when you finally relax again he'll start moving his finger, the squelching sounds of your dripping cunt filling the small space only for him to add another when you least expect it, but the pain is nowhere to be found, replaced by pleasure and lust.

Simon thrusts his fingers in and out of you and just when you start to feel the coil in your stomach, indicating your approaching orgasm, he'll press his palm over the surface of your lower abdomen- right on top of your uterus- making you squeal and squirm a bit, receiving a light tap on the soft flesh;

"need you to stay still for me, sweetheart."

His voice is gruff and his breath starts quickening along with his fingers, his palm on your abdomen applying the perfect pressure, and just when you're about to cum, he'll curl his fingers just right to hit the spongy spot you can't reach by yourself making you arch your back and press harder on his palm;

"W-wait, Simon! F-feel like peeing-"

"That's the point, sweetheart. Let go for me" he pants above you, barely holding himself together.

And just like that, your jaw goes slack and your juices squirt all over his palm, his pace not slowing one bit. Simon would finger you through your orgasm, and when you get down from your high, he'll take out his fingers and slap your pussy making you moan.

Simon brings his hands to his mouth and licks his fingers clean, maintaining eye contact while doing so. And in a moment of embarrassment you avert your gaze only for it to land on his crotch, an evident dark patch coating his bulge

"See what you do to me, luv? Without any touch." he chuckles sweetly and kisses your forehead