phie

“So, we can confirm that…” Your heart was pounding out of your chest and your hands were definitely clammy right now; making a mental note to apologise to George later as his hand enveloped your profusely sweating ones.

“We had to go with Mandi.” PK announced. 

The room was uncomfortably quiet, a few light gasps ringing around the room but on some level, everyone expected it. You let out a deep breath, body relaxing onto George’s as his hand that was stroking your hair, brought your head close to him and pressed a kiss on your hairline. You could hear him mumble a soft, “Thank fuck.” but you chose to ignore it and let your eyes drift to Mandi who pointed at the two men in front of you.

“Snakes! Snakes! That’s wild, you know.” Mandi shook her head. You understood of her friendship between Whitney, PK and herself; so, seeing her eliminated took you by surprise.

Despite the occasional tiffs with Mandi, you stood up and out of George’s embrace to wrap Mandi into a comforting hug. “I’m so sorry.” You said to her, leaning back and seeing her shake her head. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.” She peered over your shoulder to glare at PK.

She held your shoulders and grinned at you, “If anything, I’m sorry for how mean I’ve been to you during my time here,” You opened your mouth to protest, “No, seriously. You have to win, babes.” You smiled at her gesture and wrapped her in another farewell hug.

Mandi walked towards the bedrooms and turned to everyone as they apologised to her, “I am shocked, but don’t worry. I’m all good. I’m a big girl. I’m good.” You winced at her attempt to act cool, trailing behind the group and staying with Patrice, Cinna and George at the back as Mandi packed her stuff.

George had a blue party hat in his hand and stood behind you as his hands sneaked around your face to snap the party hat on your head. You blinked in surprise at the sudden action, hands reaching up to feel the hat as George adjusted it to sit pretty on top of your head. 

You turned around to see him staring at you with a cheeky smile. Sucking your teeth to supress a smile, you shook your head and flicked the elastic of his own matching hat which made him flinch as he laughed. “Not the time for a party, George.” You said through a light laugh. 

George grinned, “It suits you.” You pulled a quizical face and shoved his shoulder slightly. He wrapped his hands around your waist and lifted you up to settle you next to him so he could reach Patrice; the pair of you laughing as he did so.

George’s hand rested on Patrice’s shoulder and politely asked him, “You alright?”

Patrice sighed heavily, “It’s tough. You know, I like to play tough and everything. But when you send someone home, you know…” You and Cinna made eye contact and nodded sympathetically as she finished the sentence for him, “It’s sad.”

“I’m trying to be fair.” George nodded at Patrice, “Yeah, that makes sense.” 

Patrice continued, “We had Milli. We had Farah. PK brought up Y/N quite a bit.” 

Your eyebrows shot up and your eyes widened at the mention of your name. George wrapped an arm around your waist and used the free one to snatch the hat he previously put on his head, “Yeah, this feels wrong now.” He laughed and yanked off his own.

George tightened his grip on your waist and brought up the thing that was nagging at him, “Wait, you said PK mentioned Y/N, was she a serious option to be eliminated for you?”

Patrice nodded at you. Furrowing your brows, you spoke up “Like, tell us on a percentage, what were the chances of me going home tonight?” You bit on your lip in curiosity.

Patrice screwed up his face and calculated in his head, waving his arms around he said, “Maybe, 70% or 80%.” His face seemed apologetic and it was obvious that he wasn’t the one opting for your departure.

Your mouth dropped open at the numbers he provided, “Fuck off… you’re kidding, right?” An awkward smile etched onto your face. George’s face was one of shock, a sick feeling brewing in his stomach at the image of you leaving this house right now instead of Mandi.

“PK wanted her gone?” He pulled your body closer to his as Patrice nodded. George licked his lips and patted your waist with his finger, “I’ll be right back.” He walked off with certainty.

Cinna watched George stride off, glancing at you with a smug smirk on her face. “Little boyfriend defending you, Y/N?” She winked at you. You laughed and shook your head, kicking her shin as you left the room, “Shut up, Cinna!” Her laugh could be heard from the hallway, calling back to her “Come on, let’s say goodbye to Mandi!”

Her skips echoed behind you and her arm linked with yours as the group guided Mandi towards the exit. Mandi was loudly expressing her distaste towards PK, “I’m gonna fucking do him like that.”

You walked over to where Whitney was trying to consolidate the girl, “Come on, Mandi.” You joined in and brushed your hand against her shoulder to urge her out the door, “Mandi, leave it. It’s fine.”

Mandi shook her head, “Think I’m scared of PK?” You opened your mouth to spew out pointless facts to protect PK and Mandi’s dignity, despite PK advocates to vote you out. Mandi interrupted you.

“Y/N, don’t fucking trust anyone. I’m being serious.” You shook your head, “Mandi, I’m fine. Please, just can we leave you on a good note--" "Don’t even trust George.”

You froze, “What?” Mandi placed her hands on your shoulders, “It’s all a game to them, they’ll do anything to win.” You protested, “Mandi, I’m sure me and George are fine, he wouldn’t do that.” “I didn’t think PK would but here we are.” She caught you offguard because… she was right. PK said he wouldn’t vote her out but here you were seeing her out the door with her suitcases; and a banana covered Milli lurking in the background. “I’m just looking out for you, Y/N. Please. Just think about it.”

You swallowed and nodded slowly, peering over your shoulder to see George hovering near PK, waiting to pull him for a much needed chat revolving around yourself.

Mandi took a deep breath, “Anyway, guys. I love you.” She waved and disappeared through the door you entered a couple days ago. As the door closed, you made eye contact with her and she nodded at you, reminding you of her comments and what the game was really about.

You stood there for a moment and let everyone else leave before yourself, staring at the door still. A hand on your shoulder took you out of your thoughts, “What did she say to you?” Milli said softly, just the two of you in the room now.

You shook your head, “Nothing. It was just… nothing.” You sighed and sent her a weak smile. She understood you didn’t want to talk about it right now and let herself be patient, making sure to ask you the same question again later when the chaos had died down. Milli grabbed your wrist lightly, “Come on, let’s go back.” You let her pull you out the room.

time skip!

“They’re not strong enough to take them down now. I reckon if one of them goes, the other will too. So, my logic was that we wait it out a bit and then vote her out in the later stages, then two strong competitors are gone in one hit.” PK whispered to Jason and DDG in the bathroom.

DDG nodded along, “Yeah, let’s be honest; he isn’t staying if she goes.” The small group all murmured in agreement. Quickly dispersing as they heard footsteps approach the room. Jason poked his head out, “It’s George. It’s George. It’s good.”

George loitered around the bathrooms, Whitney cutting in front of him before he could defend your honour. “I’m not mad at you.” She started, “The gag is that I heard Patrice say that you wanted Y/N out too, but opted for Mandi. What’s that about?”

PK put on a smile and shook his head, “I didn’t say that.” Whitney squinted her eyes at him, “Since we’re all talking shit, what’s big? That’s all I know.” Was the final thing she said before she strutted out the bathroom, leaving space for George to slip in.

George propped his arm up against the door of the bathroom and leaned against it, eyes fixed on PK. “So, why did you want Y/N out?” He demanded and shrugged his shoulders.

PK’s eyes widened at the new presence in the room and Jason flicked his head between the two in a stare off. “I didn’t do that, brother.” PK started. “No, you know you did.” George cut him off.

PK showed nonchalance, “I think you’ve got this all wrong.” He laughed it off and looked towards Jason for him to join in, Jason held an awkward face and rather sided with George for the moment.

George licked his lips and shook his head, “No, I know what happened. You wanted Y/N out because she’s a threat to you and you’re only in here for one reason.” He told PK straight, leaving no room for interruption.

PK opened his mouth to respond immediately before he shut it, deliberating his response. He cleared his throat and stared at a stern face George, “Aren’t you in here for the same reason as all of us?”

George remained silent and let PK continue, “I mean we all want that money right?” Jason beside them nodded while George stayed unmoved, “How would me voting out Y/N affect this in any way? It just makes our route to the final that much easier.” He gestured with his hands.

George sighed, “Come on, man. It’s Y/N. On any level do you really think I’m gonna be alright with people wanting her out--”

“But she gets in the way of your chances of winning. Am I right?”

The man stayed silent because he was partially right. George had a little chance of winning now you were in the house, due to him being willing to risk everything for you. Taking the hits for you in challenges or defending you in house chats, throwing himself under the bus in the process as he sided with you. He didn’t form alliances because he only wanted to stay with you in the house and protect you, and vice versa.

PK patted George on the shoulder, “It’s a game we all have to play. There are tactics to this, George.” He furrowed his brows, “Don’t let people get in your way of winning this, much like me.”

It was awkwardly quiet in the bathroom as George let PK’s words settle in his mind, unsure whether to take his advice at the time or to completely ignore it to benefit not only himself, but you. Everything he’s done in this house so far has been for you, so what harm would there be if he stopped this?

To break the tension; Jason exclaimed, “Whitney is a fucking rat.”

time skip!

“We didn’t do the minute of silence for Mandi?” PK questioned as he entered the room. 

You were led on the sofa between George’s legs as your back rested against his chest, his chin comfy on your shoulder and his hands fiddled with the hem of your t-shirt, your hands were settled on top of his large ones.

Whitney stood up with a cup of beverage in her hand, “I’m not doing a minute of silence, man. That’s a piss take.” She defended her friend who was no longer in the house. PK gestured for her to leave the room, tension brewing in the room. “Get out then. We wanna do it.”

“I’m literally not. That’s a piss take.” She squirmed in PK’s embrace. “Cause Mandi was a good vibe.” She responded to Patrices question.

George handed you his harmonica for you to play with, noticing your bored face and eyes glassy from staring into space.

“We’re not gonna act like Mandi was Dylan.” Whitney said, leaning on her chair.

You felt George behind you tense up, hands tightening on your shirt that you were sure would leave creases you would need to iron out. “What the fuck does that mean? That’s mean.” His brows were furrowed and he adjusted you slightly as he sat up to become involved with the conversation.

Whitney looked at George, “It’s not a mean thing to say.” George gestured with his arms, “It is. What do you mean ‘we’re not gonna act like Mandi was a Dylan?’”

You nodded along with George’s defence. Whitney waved her hands around, “Let me clear this mean girl narrative up.”

You squinted your eyes and tilted your head, “Whitney, the way you said it was bad.” You tried to reason with her and let her get an understanding of how rude she came across in the moment. 

Whitney pointed and shook her head rapidly at you, “Oh, Y/N, fuck off! Just suck George’s cock right here, it would make it less obvious, babes.”

Your mouth dropped open and you heard Milli gasp from across the room, “What the fuck?” You cursed, face screwed up in offence. Whitney just rolled her eyes, “No, Whitney. Tell me. What the fuck is that meant to mean?”

She groaned and walked closer to the pair of you sitting on the sofa together, “Come on, Y/N. You back everything George does, with no personality might I add, and get away with it because everyone thinks you’re shagging outside of this house!”

George sat up and pulled your body closer to his, “Whitney, why have you dragged her into this?” He started, “This was literally between you and me.”

Whitney ignored him and you defended yourself, “I back George because he’s one of the only people in here who hasn’t done anything wrong!” You shrug as if it’s common sense.

Whitney opened her mouth to speak again but George cut in, referring to their previous dispute. “What do you mean ‘run that mean girl thing’? What do you mean by that?” He gestured with a hand that wasn’t gripping tight onto you.

“Everyone said they wanted to vote Dylan out because Dylan didn’t add to the vibe.” She stated her case.

“You can word it better than, ‘Don’t say Mandi’s a Dylan.’” George rolled his eyes, “And you didn’t need to rip into Y/N when she did fuck all wrong.” You shuffled into George’s embrace more as he defended you after Whitney’s outburst.

Whitney pointed at you, “I do apologise to you, Y/N. It was in the moment and I didn’t mean to say stuff like that.” You hummed in response, still offended by her words but wishing to keep your facade to yourself, she didn’t need to know it still hurt you and rather pretended it didn’t happen.

You sighed and stood up from the sofa, “Fucking hell, I’m getting ready for bed.” Some of the group bid you good nights and Milli hopped up to join you. She linked arms with you and whispered into your ear, “That was such a weird thing to say about you.” She gossiped.

As you walked away, you heard George call your name. Stopping in your tracks, you turned around to see him still laying down on the sofa, “I’ll get your drink sorted for the night and get the bed set up, that sound good?” 

Your heart fluttered as you remembered you would now be sharing a bed with him for the foreseeable future. Smiling, you said, “Sounds perfect, Georgie.” He smiled back and swiftly stood up with the water bottle you had left behind.

Turning back to Milli, she saw your blushing cheeks and laughed at you. “I better not find a used condom in the morning.” You shoved her with a shocked noise, “Milli!”

time skip!

You had dried off your hair after the evening shower, wrapped up in comfy branded clothes to act as your nightwear. Passing the hairdryer to Cinna, and offering her some of the products you brought in with you to her, you left the room and into the bedrooms.

Walking around the corner, you saw George laid in your shared bed with the duvet pulled up to his chest and the harmonica resting in his hands, playing sweet (you wouldn’t necessarily call it that) melodies.

“What the fuck?” You laughed at the sight of him curled up but refusing to give up the harmonica. Walking towards the bed, you shook your head. “Are you serenading me into bed?” 

George nodded quickly and played more sounds on the harmonica as you lifted the duvet and slotted yourself in the bed next to him. You fluff your pillow and lay down, shoulder to shoulder to him due to the minimal space despite the double bed. George titled his head to look at you, “It worked, no?” 

Rolling your eyes, you snatched the harmonica out of his hands and placed it in your bedside table, hearing the complaints of George next to you as his hands reached out to reclaim his prized possession. Swatting his hands away, you said “No harmonica’s at bedtime.”

George smirked at you and shuffled himself closer to you, his arms sneaking around your waist. “Little Y/N is jealous of my harmonica,” You laughed and half-heartedly pushed at his arms as he teased you, “Don’t worry, love. You’re the only thing I plan on putting my lips on tonight.”

“Excuse me?” You heard PK shout as he entered the room, catching you and George in an uncomfortable situation as his arms were slung around you, leaning his body weight on you that he was practically on top of you; and the inclusion of his innuendo he had just said out loud to the entire room with entering people.

You gasped and slapped George on the chest, “Oh my God!” You laughed at PK and Milli’s wild facial expressions as they stood frozen at the doorway. Milli pointed at you, “I was only joking about the condom thing!”

Your eyes widened, “Milli!” you said through gritted teeth and gestured subtly with your head at George, who laid there with a smug smile. “What condom thing?” He nudged you with his shoulder. “Nothing!” You quickly shut the conversation down.

Everyone began to settle down and doze off in their beds as the lights dimmed. You laid on your back and stared at the ceiling as George was laid on his side facing you, one of his hands brushing against the side of your waist.

George’s whispered voice broke you out of your daze, “Do you feel like something’s changed between us since being here?”

You turned your head to face him, “What do you mean?”

George took a deep breath and shuffled himself closer to you, “Like… without our friends or anyone interrupting us, do you feel like something’s changed in our friendship or…?” He trailed off.

You turned to lean on your side and came face to face with George, feeling like the only two people in the room despite it being filled with people you didn’t even know a couple days ago. Nodding, you admitted. “Yes.”

Silence engulfed the room for a moment as the pair of you stared at each other, trying to find the line you were teetering on which could determine your friendship; or lack thereof.

“I like this. Just us.” George whispered, flickering his eyes between your gaze and your lips. 

You nodded, “I don’t wanna leave this place.” George swallowed and let you finish, “Because I’m scared of what will happen to us outside of here.” Your admission stayed in the air for a moment, George’s eyes softening at you. He bit his lip in nervousness and tucked a stray hair behind your ear. “When we leave this place… I don’t wanna be your friend.” He started.

“I think being your friend would kill me because I want to be so much more than that.” His hand cupped your cheek.

Your heart was beating out of your chest as you smiled softly at him. You lifted your hand to rest it on top of the one that was holding your face, twisting your head to press a kiss onto his palm.

He smiled at you with pink dusted cheeks, rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You stared at each other for a while before slowly nodding at each other; a mental communication that the feeling was mutual and that you’d see what endevours this house would take you to.

George turned to lean on his back, pulling you with him as he positioned your head against his chest, a strong arm wrapped around your back. You cuddled into his figure, entangling your legs with his as your smile grew wider at the new feeling; one you wished you had been doing this entire time.

George leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Goodnight, beautiful.” He whispered. Your heart fluttered at the action and you fell asleep to the sound of his heart beating against your ear, and the soft brush of his thumb on the skin of your back. 

time skip!

After waking up in George’s arms, he had refused to let you go or out of his sight, mind foggy with a lavender haze. Neither of you had forgotten your chat last night, and to everyone’s displeasure, had become all the more attached to each other as you basked in your mutual feelings.

George had you sit upright on the couch with him sitting on the floor and between your legs, your hands running through his hair every now and then as he requested a massage from you.

Your hands knead into his shoulders, with the occasional leaning down to whisper some joke into his ear, causing him to laugh and tilt his head back into you. His hands were settled on your thighs and drew patterns into the material that covered you.

“Can the girls please go to Room 19.”

You groaned and looked over at Milli who had stood up and had her hand outstretched to help you up. “Come on, Y/N. You can leave your boyfriend for one minute.” You mocked a laugh and stood up off the couch. As you rose, George held your hand and pressed a soft kiss against the back of it, wishing you good luck as you departed the room. Cinna nudged you as the group of girls left, “What are the odds that George is already complaining to the boys about how much he misses you?” Milli, who was standing on the other side of you, laughed and high-fived the American.

Entering Room 19, you sat shoulder to shoulder with Milli and Farah was perched on the arm of the chair, leaning on you slightly in case of falling off the sofa. 

“Girls… It's challenge time. Please go to the Challenge Arena.” You all froze and waited for further instructions but received none. “What, just the girls?” Whitney asked on behalf of all of you. “Yes.” The voice confirmed.

“Fuck off.” Milli said, looking around at all the girls. “Yeah, I heard you loud and clear.” Whitney finished as you all headed towards the Challenge Arena.

You walked in to be greeted with six chairs in a circle, Josh and Harry standing behind them with wicked smiles etched across their faces. “What is this?” Mya asked, all of you standing in a line with arms linked.

Sitting in your seat, Josh demanded, “Everyone put their blindfolds on.” You did as requested and slowly placed the headphones on, not before you caught a glare from Whitney.

You let the music fill the silence as you sit with your leg bouncing up and down from nerves. You just had to hope that no one would pick you because you were far from ready to leave just yet. 

Feeling a tap on your shoulder, you took the blindfold and headphones off and immediately looked at your glow stick as it remained a neutral white colour. You let out a sigh of relief and peered over to see that Mya had been the one selected for elimination. “Who the fuck? No, don’t piss me off.” Farah exclaimed.

“Knew it was gonna be me first.” She sighed, you felt for her as whoever had picked her, had put her in a really uncomfortable situation. “It’s now your time to try and work out who voted for you.” Josh said.

Mya went through everyone and asked why they would vote for her. Reaching you, the statement held its own, “I wouldn’t pick you, Mya. I feel like recently we’ve bonded and I don’t wanna see you go.” Mya nodded at you with a smile, making you feel somewhat calmer in this awkward circumstance.

Mya pointed at Milli, “Milli. But now I’m second guessing.” You winced for Milli, feeling awful as you saw her betrayed face and her shaking head. You wanted to reach out and offer a hand for her, but you realised this would be breaking the rules and put you in an easy position to be voted out.

“Mya, you have guessed… incorrectly.” Josh confirmed. You all sighed as she was guided to the elimination bench per Josh’s request. 

Putting your blindfold and headphones back on, you awaited the next round. Understanding that you clearly hadn’t been picked to eliminate someone, you bit your lip and awaited your fate.

A tap on your shoulder caused you to take your blindfold off, instinctively looking over to your glow stick. This time it was beaming a deep red colour.

Your heart dropped as you muttered curses under your breath. You heard Milli and Cinna gasp in the circle, and Farah’s hands covered her mouth in shock. Rolling your head back, you rubbed your eyes and groaned.

Josh and Harry watched on awkwardly, a sick feeling in their stomach as they watched your fate in the hands of others, wishing they could pretend that round never happened.

Harry cleared his throat, “Y/N, as you can see, your light is red.” You nodded and hummed. “Who do you think has betrayed you?”

You pointed at Milli, “I know it wouldn’t be you.” She smiled gratefully at you, especially after the last round. You squint your eyes at Cinna, “I’m like 90% sure you wouldn’t pick me.”

Peering over at Farah, you were about to make a point before she interrupted you. “Y/N, I would never pick you. You know how I’m like your biggest fan and I don’t wanna ruin your George love story; so please trust me, I didn’t pick you.”

You chuckled as Harry and Josh laughed with each other. Trusting Farah’s words, you moved on to the next. “That only leaves one person, Y/N.” Josh said as you stared at Whitney.

Whitney sat there with her head shaking. “Fuck.” You mumbled. “I’m gonna go with Whitney just because I feel like I’m the least close with you here.” “You’re wrong.” She stated.

You winced as she kept the mantra that you were wrong. Josh interrupted her spat and asked you, “Y/N, is that your final answer?” You nodded, “Yes. I’ll lock in Whitney.” You sighed as you realised you couldn’t take back your answer, peering over at the elimination bench and willing that you wouldn’t have to sit there.

Harry spoke up, “We can confirm that you were… correct.” 

Your eyes widened as everyone snapped their heads over to Whitney’s direction. Mya, who was sitting on the bench, smiled over at you and sent you a wink of encouragement.

“This means, Y/N. That you are safe and may continue through to the next round.” Josh said with a smile. “Fucking hell.” You mumbled, hands rubbing on your face as you tried to wear away the stress.

During the final round, you again, were not selected to vote anyone out. You sat patiently and begged that you wouldn’t be chosen again just for the sake of your sanity. Stripping your blindfold off, you saw Farah had been selected.

After picking Milli again, and shaking your head at her hurt facial expressions with the way they were painting her in the house, Farah discovered she was incorrect and the panel of eliminated contestants had been filled.

“Congratulations Cinna, Whitney, Milli and Y/N. You have survived Lights Out and you are the final four remaining. You must now choose one player that you want to eliminate.”

Everyone gasped and rolled their eyes in horror, the power being in your hands.

Cinna started, “I’m trying to think of who I think needs it more and who wants it more and who, if I was at the end and they were there, I would be like “They need the money, and they deserve it.” You all nodded along as she continued her argument.

You tilted your head to see Farah holding back tears and clinging onto Mya who bounced her leg up and down. You felt awful for the girls, especially since you could have easily been in that situation but luckily guessed right.

Milli spoke up, “And I feel like this would change Farah’s life massively.” Cinna nodded, “I mean, one of them was wearing Van Cleef.” You snorted a laugh, realising this was not the time for jokes or chuckles, catching a shake of Mya’s head in the distance.

“We need an answer from all of you, please.” Josh said with certainty, looking over all of you.

Cinna started, “I’m picking Mya because I really wanna see Farah win.” You could see her try and play it off in the background, but the hurt was evident. Whitney was next, “I’ve just bonded with Mya. I couldn’t do that. I’m gonna pick Farah.” You nodded at her explanation, avoiding eye contact as your mind continuously reminded you of her voting you out; and the digs she made at you the day before.

After an explanation, Milli said, “So that’s why I’m picking Mya.” You winced, assuming it was over. There was a silence as you all looked at each other, most of the eyes falling onto you.

Cinna pointed at you, “Wait, what’s gonna happen because we already have a deciding vote?” You furrowed your brows and agreed. Harry looked down at you, “Y/N…” He started.

“Oh God.” You whispered, hands shaking as you dreaded what he was about to say.

“Because you guessed correctly, you are the deciding vote. Whoever you choose, they will be eliminated from Inside.” Your eyes widened. “If you choose to vote Mya, she will leave the house due to majority votes, but if you pick Farah, she will leave the house due to your superior vote as you won this challenge.”

Your mouth dropped open as you hid your face from everyone, them all looking at you with immense sympathy as this was single handedly the worst position you’ve ever been in.

“Fuck me.” You groaned. Harry looked around the room and leaned in close to your ear, “You realise George isn’t here, right?”

You threw your arms up in shock as everyone let out shocked laughter, turning to him, you exclaimed, “Not the time!” He laughed and moved back to his original position, Josh fist bumping him in approval of the joke.

You sighed, “This is fucking awful. But, I think I’ve made my decision.” Everyone leaned forward in their chairs to listen intently to you.

“I’m going off who contributes more, who is less likely to cost us money in challenges and who I believe is in a better position to win this entire thing.” Everyone nodded along, “You both know that I love you, and this is such a weird and horrendous situation, and please know that I wish I had a choice to keep you both here.” They smiled at you, making a mental promise that they wouldn’t curse you out for making this decision.

“So with that, I’ve decided to pick… Mya.” You cringed, looking over at her sad face.

“Okay, Mya. Unfortunately, you have been eliminated.” Harry said, “However, unlike before, you’ll not be going home immediately. So, you’re all free to go back inside.”

You stood up feeling guilty as Mya hung her head low. Milli wrapped you in a hug, pulling you out the room before you got overwhelmed and began crying. You knew it was coming, but you didn’t want the crew or Josh and Harry to see you cry.

Milli hid your face from the crew, whispering, “It’s alright, it’s alright.” You entered the bedrooms and sat on your double bed, knees clutched into your chest and your head resting on your knees.

Milli sat next to you and brushed your knee, “Do you want me to get George?” She whispered. The nod of your head a good enough answer for her as she jogged out the room, still holding a close eye on you.

You sat there still, rethinking and reimagining everything that had just happened. Not only had at least two people been willing to vote you out, someone had actively gone for you and ripped into your personality, but you had also been one guess away from packing your bags and departing from this house; leaving everyone behind, all your new friends, your new place, your new normal. Your George.

Milli walked slowly back into the room, “He’s not here.” Your head shot up and your mind instantly skipped to the worse scenario; one in which he had been voted out. Seeing your horror stricken face, Milli reassured you, “All the boys are gone, I think they’re doing the challenge we just did.”

Your body visibly relaxed causing you to fall back onto the bed and stare aimlessly at the ceiling. Your mind raced with endless dreads and doubts, “What if George is voted out?” You whispered.

Hearing this, Milli copied your position on the bed and laid next to you, “What did you say?” She asked.

“What if George leaves today, like that’s the last time I’ve seen him in the house?” Your voice broke as your cheeks were stained with previously shed tears. “Y/N, he wouldn’t have been voted out, I’m sure of it.” Milli tried to reassure you.

You bit your lip, “But it’s not definite.” Milli watched you holding back more tears, unsure of how to comfort you fully as the power was far from in her hands. All you had to do was trust the other guys in this house, but they had no obligation to keep him in.

A long silence filled the room for a moment, the other girls debriefing elsewhere and leaving you and Milli with some privacy, well the most they could provide in this new house.

“He was never just a friend to you, was he?” Milli looked over at you with a sympathetic smile etched across her face. You swallowed and held eye contact with her before nodding slowly and looking back at the ceiling.

You sighed and covered your face with your hands, “It’s literally stupid--” “Y/N, your feelings are never stupid.” Milli cuts you off, not allowing you to tear yourself and your love life down.

Milli continued, “Y/N, George is so down bad for you.” She laughed lightly, “Hell, you two were each other's first kiss, you haven’t been able to keep your hands off each other the whole time we’ve been in here, and everyone with eyes can see that.” She nudged you which caused a smile to slowly creep on your face.

“Friends don’t look at each other the way you and George do.” She said, grinning at you as heat spread across your cheeks and you fiddled with your hands.

“He said something to me last night.” You mumbled, seeing her lean forward to catch the gossip. She scrunched up her face slightly, “Oh, God. Don’t talk to me about George and your’s sex life!”

“Milli! No!” You gasped, sitting up and swatting her in the shoulder as she laughed loudly. “It’s not that! It was something about what we’d be like outside of this place.” You smiled seeing her eyes widen and she immediately shot up, “Tell me now.”

You licked your lips, “He was like ‘When we leave, I don’t wanna be your friend.’” “What the fuck--” She gasped. “Milli, let me finish!”

“He then said, ‘I think being your friend would kill me because I want to be so much more than that.’” You said with a smile and suppressed a laugh as Milli’s mouth dropped open and her hands gripped yours.

You both sat in silence for a couple seconds before the two of you broke out into screams and squeals, your cheeks red and her laughter echoing the room. “Fuck off! No fucking way he said that!” You nodded wildy, “Y/N, that’s fucking insane!” You laughed at Milli’s excited response.

She grabbed both your shoulders and shook you, “I give you and George full permission to shag tonight because--” “Milli!” You shouted, pushing her away with furious pink cheeks. She giggled and sprinted towards the bedside table, pulling out the packet of condoms, “The Sidemen have literally planned ahead so they know it’s coming too!”

You groaned and threw the duvet over your head in embarrassment, “Oh, my God. I can’t believe my friends and family are gonna see this.” Milli yanked the duvet off your head and yanked you up the talk to the other girls, not without constantly reminding you of George’s late night whispering as she tried to replicate his voice.

time skip!

Hearing the boys walk back in, you leaped to your feet in an instant and called out, “Who?” The other girls followed suit, and Farah gripped your hand in comfort as both of you dreaded George’s fate.

“It was me.” Patrice said, raising both of his hands. You felt sorry for him obviously, but your priorities were elsewhere.

“Oh, fucking hell.” You muttered as you sprinted over to George, his eyes finding you immediately and taking long strides towards you.

You saw him sigh in relief, “Thank fuck.” He mumered and crashed into your body with intensity, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a desperate hug. Your arms tightened around his shoulders and tangled into his mullet, head nuzzled into his neck and pressing feather light kisses onto the exposed skin. George lifted you up in the hug which caused you to wrap your legs around his waist, his strong grip never faltering as the pair of you muttered reassuring words to each other.

Cinna started to walk over to you to comfort you as she missed out on doing earlier. Just as she was about to tap your shoulder, Milli stopped her and whispered, “Just leave them.” Cinna nodded in understanding and smiled as George relaxed in your hold and the tears that stained your cheeks had dried off onto his hoodie.

“I thought it was gonna be you.” You heard George whisper, pulling back but still held up by him, you muttered, “It nearly was.”

His face dropped, “What?” You unwrapped your legs from his waist, still clinging to his hoodie, “Let’s go talk.” He obeyed without a second thought, leaving everyone in the main area to have some privacy.

Pulling him into the gym, you shut the door behind you to keep the moment between yourselves. George’s hand slipped into yours and he pulled you close, “What happened?”

You swallowed and held eye contact, “I was picked to be eliminated.” George’s eyes widened and his grip tightened. “But I guessed right.” “Who the fuck was it?” He said, eyes darting across your face and out the window where he could still see everyone.

You shook your head and looked down, “No, no, no.” His hands cupped the sides of your faces and tilted your head up so you remained looking at him, his thumb brushing across your pink tinted cheeks. “Just tell me.” He whispered.

You sighed, “It was Whitney.” George’s jaw clenched and he made a move to leave the room and confront her, but you yanked him back with a tight grip on his wrist. “No, please. I don’t wanna cause more drama than there already is.” George turned to see your eyes filling with unshed tears, his heart dropping as a frown slowly crept onto your face. “Please don’t cry, beautiful.” He whispered, pulling you back into a hug and a hand rubbing up and down your back.

“Why do people want me out?” Your voice broke. You shook your head in George’s chest, feeling horrible as this was not the first time people had been willing to see your departure. “I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.” George sighed and twirled your hair in his hands.

Pulling back from his chest, your lip trembled. “Why the fuck is it always me?” He brushed stray hairs behind your ear and crouched down slightly to be at the same level as you.

“Y/N, I’m not gonna let this happen to you. They just see you as a threat and not a real person, they don’t understand that what they’re doing to you is hurting you right now.” You nodded at his words, “If I’m honest… I don’t know what I’ll do if you leave this house.”

His face inched closer to yours, feeling his breath against your face. His words resonated with you and caused you to lean in closer to him. Your nose brushed his, George’s head tilted to the side and his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer to him.

Just as your lips were about to brush, the gym door swung open. “Hey, we’re saying our goodbyes to Mya and Patrice now. You coming?”

You snapped your faces away from each other, hands falling off each other’s figure and standing awkwardly at the other side of the room. DDG put his hands in the air, “Look if you wanna do all that; I wouldn’t do it where a camera can see the whole room.” He shrugged and left with a laugh as you and George were both blushing furiously.

Biting your lip, you looked over at him as he stared at the floor. “Let’s go?” You said quietly. He nodded and opened the door for you, following behind you a comfortable few steps away.

time skip!

Just after you had bidded farewell to Mya and Patrice, you laid on the couch with your legs propped up on George’s lap. His hand rested on your shin and he nudged you, “Hey, are we gonna talk about… you know, later?” You licked your lips and fiddled with your fingers. “Yeah, we’ll talk about it.” George smiled at you, one in which you reciprocated.

“George, please come to Room 19.” The loud speaker requested. George’s eyes flickered between the group, “A large phallus.” You laughed at him and shook your head at his antics, watching as he left the room.

Soon after George was called, you were too and entered the familiar room. The chair had two pictures on them, both facing downwards so the contains were hidden.

Flicking the pictures up, it showed one of Patrice and one of Mya. “You have the opportunity to save one of them from elimination. Please hold up the photo of the Insider you would like to save.”

You rolled your eyes, “Fucking hell, give me a break.” Your eyes flicked between the two pictures, shaking your head as you found someone’s fate lying in your hands once again.

“I can’t screw Mya over twice…” You muttered. “I’m the one who got her eliminated and I’m not doing that shit again.” You decided your answer pretty quickly, choosing not to dwell on the options for too long and feel the immense guilt you felt earlier; it felt like ripping a bandaid off, quick and painless.

Holding up a picture of Mya, you turned it to face the camera. “I’m saving Mya because I feel like I’ll throw up if she actually left because of my lucky guess.”

Just as you left Room 19, you realised that you were the last one in there. Turning the corner, you crashed straight into Mya.

You gasped and flung your arms around her, “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry I voted you out, I didn’t mean it--” “Stop, babe! I’m back, it’s all good!” She smiled and the pair of you jumped around in circles in excitement, the squeals clearly catching the attention of the other Insiders.

As they reunited, you drifted towards George and pulled him into a side hug. He pressed a kiss onto the side of your head and the pair of you fell into usual sync.

time skip!

“I’m sorry.” Jason apologised profusely for giving into the temptation; this being an opportunity to play in the Sidemen Charity Match. You sat on the stool and watched George throw darts at the dart board.

“George, you’re playing in that, right?” You asked. He turned around and nodded, “You bet your sweet ass I am.” You laughed and shook your head.

“You would look sexy in a football kit.” You muttered, hoping he wouldn’t hear as you verbalised your internal thoughts. 

His head whipped around, “What did you say, Y/N?”

Your eyes widened, “Nothing! Nothing!” He squinted his eyes suspiciously, wondering whether or not to pester you but decided to let you off for once.

The price noise saved you from exposing your words, but watching the prize fund dropping significantly didn’t help your case. “That’s not bad.” Milli said, trying to reassure and gaslight you all into thinking you weren’t reckless spenders.

Later, you fell onto the double bed and hugged the pillow tight to your chest, “What a day.” You grumbled. George fell next to you and toyed with the ends of the pillow case, “Yeah… What a day.”

You stared at each other for a moment. George broke the silence, “So… Did you wanna talk about earlier?” He sounded nervous and his lip was trapped between his teeth.

You nodded slowly, “Yeah…” You wound your hand into his, making the first move. Building up the courage, you said. “I wouldn’t have regretted it if we hadn’t gotten interrupted.” George’s eyes widened and a smile stretched across his face, “Me neither.” He shuffled his body closer to yours in the bed, “I kind of regret that we didn’t do it.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, feeling this close to him and his admission that he wishes he kissed you. Your body tilted to fit into his, leaning into his lips just before the world (or the Sidemen) decided to ruin the moment, again.

“Please head to the Challenge Arena!” You heard Farah shout from the living room, reading out the message presented on the television.

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me--” George groaned loudly, throwing his head back onto the pillow and slapping his hands to his forehead. You laughed at him and reciprocated the same frustration, “Come on, Georgie.”

Your hand hoisted him up and he wrapped his arms around you from behind, waddling behind you as you strode towards the Challenge Arena. His tired face was nuzzled in your neck, “I swear if we get interrupted one more time.” His breath tickled your neck, chuckling at him and putting your hand back to tangle in his hair. “Patient, George. Patient.”

fecking hell that was alot lmao love u alllll xxx

Worse than that though—it’s a reminder of what he’s done, just as much an evidence of him losing control of himself as his cum-stained hoodie still neatly folded and hidden behind a couch cushion until he’s able to bury it between his other dirty laundry.

He hasn’t thought about it before, but when the door to his bedroom creaks open, announcing that you’re awake, Simon becomes all too aware of the heavy, gut-wrenching knot of guilt now lodged in his intestines. How the bloody hell is he supposed to look you in the eyes after what he’s done?

When the sound of your bare feet padding along the floor reaches his ears, Simon doesn’t know what to do, how to behave, and he quietly curses Price, curses the brass, and curses the whole bloody universe again for continuously putting him in situations out of his control and comfort zone. He didn’t ask for any of this, doesn’t want to end up treating you like everyone else previously has—though he certainly didn’t ask for you like they obviously did.

“Good morning, Simon,” you chirp entering the kitchen, your voice still husky from sleep in a way that makes his hackles raise like a mutt’s.

Lifting his tea up to his lips, he mutters a gruff mornin’ into the black ceramic mug, not bothering to face you yet. He clucks his tongue, suddenly feeling like he owes you an explanation. “Didn’t ah–Didn’t know if ya eat breakfast, so I… didn’t make any.” Bloody Christ, Simon thinks, I just sound fucking daft at this point.

“I do like to eat breakfast,” you reply with a soft chuckle and he nearly jumps like a skittish kitten when your arm comes around him to rest low on his hip, your warm palm pressing lightly to urge him to move aside, away from the stove—your touch scorching his skin even through the fabric of his sweatpants.

Simon moves stiffly like a robot, grip tightening around his mug while he grits his teeth and wills his blood from rushing south again. So goddamn sensitive, he bites the tip of his tongue, afraid he might groan if he doesn’t stop himself.

“How did you sleep?” you ask casually enough to pull his mind out of the gutter as he finally manages to look at you while you continue talking. “I slept fine, but your bed is… oof… something else.” As if to emphasize your slight discomfort, you lift your arms and clasp them together above your head, stretching thoroughly with a yawn while your sleepshirt—still his bloody shirt—rides up high, exposing the front of your white cotton panties—and just like that, he loses control again, glances down, and gets a full view of the thin fabric perfectly moulding itself to your mound.

Simon curses under his breath, and right then, he fears he might faint from how fast his blood is rushing down to his cock. He grits his teeth, slams his mug down on the counter hard enough to make you flinch, causing you lower your arms at once while your ears flatten at the loud noise.

“Yeah, it’s… shite,” he rumbles in reply, furiously ignoring the questioning look in your doe-eyes, the furrow of your brows coming from the fear that you might have done something wrong again—it makes his mind cloud with anger and disappointment at himself, but it’s not enough to quench the throbbing arousal building deep in his gut.

“…‘scuse me,“ he mutters gruffly, already pushing past and fleeing from the kitchen before you can begin to say another word to him, though he can feel your eyes staring at his back as he retreats, internally cursing his cock currently straining in his pants again.

Shame seems to follow him throughout the day—whenever he catches sight of you, it turns out, and the flat that seemed perfect while he was alone, seems even smaller now that you’re here. There is nowhere to hide. You’ve marked your territory too well at this point, he figures, when he walks into his bedroom and finds your scent clinging to his bed sheets.

Subtle yet sweet like candied fruits with a hint of your natural musk—and his pupils blow like a shark catching a whiff of fresh blood in the depths of the ocean.

A shiver goes through the entirety of his spine, the phantom sensation pooling at his tailbone—uncomfortably familiar whenever he gets particularly excited or agitated—and a horrific reminder of what he is and which abhorred parts of him you bring forward so easily.

Eventually, he picks up his pillow and glances over his shoulder, guilt already clawing inside his chest while he listens to you still cooking breakfast in the kitchen, blissfully unaware of his degeneracy, before he takes a cautious sniff, then buries his nose deeper into the soft fabric before he finally smushes his whole face into it with a low, guttural groan.

His cock throbs harder in his briefs, painfully sensitive now, and his fingers twitch with restraint, digging harder into his pillow as if short from ripping it apart, when he feels the meagre excuse of a knot at the base of his shaft begin to swell, too.

Synapses start firing in his brain and something ancient awakens in himself—a primal instinct that urges him to possess, and protect, and claim you. It makes his gums and canines itch with the need to bite, makes him snarl into the pillow while his mouth starts to salivate, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the tiny, still normal part inside his brain screams at him to get a bloody grip!

It’s your melodic voice cutting through the fog in his brain that drags him out of his pathetic frenzy. He drops the pillow haphazardly, cheeks flushing and shoulders heaving as he tries to control his ragged breathing.

“Simon? Breakfast is ready if you’d like some,” you call out again, all soft and unsure, causing Simon to hate himself even more fiercely.

Simon enters the kitchen with his mask of stoicism fixed in place and his boner gone once more, though the scent of you, all warm and sleepy, keeps lingering in his nostrils, taunting him. It mixes with the mouth-watering aroma of a proper English breakfast and a fresh mug of tea next to the perfectly arranged plate—for him. You’ve cooked for him, again. He didn’t ask for this, didn’t have to, and you did it anyway.

When he sees you standing in front of the sink, scrubbing a pan in soapy dishwater, still only clad in his shirt while the morning sunshine peaks through the kitchen window and casts you in a soft, golden glow, it’s a vision of unfamiliar domesticity that makes his chest feel tight and his mouth go dry with emotions he dares not to name.

The chair scrapes over the floor as he pulls it back before taking a seat and staring down at the plate. His stomach growls on cue and Simon’s eyes flicker up to glance at your back again, noticing how your tail lifts the tattered shirt up, exposing your rear to him without a single care in the world—as if he wasn’t just a stranger to you, but a man you trust already.

And in this moment, Simon Riley makes a secret vow to himself.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it genuinely, and he expects you to turn around, to flash one of your warm smiles at him, but you don’t though the light wagging of your white tail is telling enough.

Catastrophe strikes, when Simon returns home from the base gym in the early evening, secretly hoping for another homemade dinner, but finding his flat eerily quiet and cold instead.

The sun has already set and the temperature along with it. His thick hoodie clings to him like a second skin despite the sweaty tac shirt he’s wearing underneath, and with his balaclava still securely in place, he lets his gym bag drop to the ground, leaving it by the front door after locking it behind him.

His footsteps are measured and silent as he stalks into his living room—only to find it empty with a heavy sigh.

Did you leave while he was gone? No, highly unlikely. You know that’s against the rules, against the bloody hybrid law, actually. Simon shakes the thoughts from his head, ignores the tiniest flutter of panic in his chest and decides to simply call out your name instead—like a big boy.

“Since when are ya hidin’ from me?” he quips uncharacteristically, having pictured you greeting him with a wagging tail and sparkling eyes when his mind had slipped again on his short walk from the gym to the apartment complex, though he’s reluctant to even admit it to himself.

When he finally finds you, Simon freezes in the doorway to his bedroom, blood running cold with a whole-body shiver while his eyes widen comically behind the safety of his mask at the sight that greets him.

He’s been through hell and back multiple times, has witnessed—and done—the most horrific shite in both his military career and cursed childhood, and yet none of it could’ve prepared him for this.

You, sitting at the end of his bed right across from him, clutching his  painfully obvious cum-stained hoodie from last night against your quivering chest like it’s something precious instead of his despicable dirt, fat crocodile tears shimmering in your eyes as they flicker up to meet his.

For once in his life, since crawling out of his own grave, Simon Riley is too stunned to speak.

Why? Why? Why?! Why are you doing this to me?

“Simon,” you sniffle pathetically, sitting there clad in your pretty white knit dress. “Simon, do you–do you h-hate me?”

All air rushes from his lungs with a harsh exhale as if punched in the chest at the sound of your meek voice asking him this. Hate you? Bloody hell, he really should.

However, his mouth merely opens and then closes with something akin to a choked complaint, though it’s muffled by the black cloth covering his face. He’s thankful for it as he feels the searing heat of embarrassment creep up and settle on his cheekbones.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses under his breath before lunging forward in a fit of panic to snatch his hoodie out of your grip while his heart thumps violently against his ribcage. “Gimme that!”

You let out a high-pitched whine and duck your head submissively as he towers over you briefly, but Simon ignores your reaction in favour of his own quick retreat—not a Special Forces soldier but a coward falling back in this very moment as he swiftly turns to leave again, get as much space as he can; clutching the fabric tightly so he won’t end up punching a wall on his way out—and potentially scare you even worse.

Shame sinks and settles deep into his bones along with the freezing cold engulfing his flushed body once he steps out into the darkness, leaving the apartment complex behind him after throwing the wretched fabric into the nearby rubbish skip next to the large building.

Rucking his balaclava up over his nose, he puts a cigarette between his cracked lips and lights it methodically before taking a greedy drag on his way over to HQ—your file now safely tucked under his left arm.

You remember one of the first things you were told in training, a dead medic is no use to anyone. You remember once during a training exercise you ignored Price’s order to fall back, instead you ran into the field to pull someone out. 

It was the angriest you’d seen Price get. He screamed at you in front of everyone, chewed you out with the entire platoon watching. That was the night he told you he loved you, they all did. You’d never seen them get so emotional before, especially over a training exercise. 

‘You’re not allowed to put yourself in danger like we do. You need to keep us alive, and we’ll keep you alive.’ You remember John saying that, the way he apologised for screaming at you even though he was in the right. The sex that night was amazing. 

It makes you smile thinking about them. You’ve been thinking about them alot when you’re not being tortured. You have to assume they’re not coming for you, that's what you were taught. If you’re ever captured; don’t talk, don’t trade, don’t let them break you. Not that you have a choice over the last part, it’s all a test of willpower. 

You wonder how long it will be before they break you. You can handle the waterboarding to some extent, these people are evil though, terrorists, the worst of the worst. They don’t care about human rights, they’re not answering to any UN or even their own countries' laws. These people could do whatever they wanted to you and there is nothing you can do.

You secretly hope they’re coming for you, you’d like to imagine Simon and John tearing up buildings to find you, breaking the rules and hunting down every last person who laid a finger on you. They’re soldiers though, they have orders to follow, other people’s lives are at stake not just yours. 

You’re a liability now. They have no way of knowing what’s happening to you, if you’ve talked or where you are. You hope they know deep down you’ll keep your mouth shut. You’ll keep them safe, even if it is from a distance. 

The door to your room opens and you stand. A man walks in and grips your arm tight. You’ve stopped struggling, there’s no point. He walks you past the room you’re usually taken to, it makes your stomach drop. Somethings wrong, something’s changed. Maybe this is it and they’re going to kill you. 

You hear a woman scream, you dig your heels into the ground. The man says something in Arabic then continues to drag you along. This is bad, there is no way this ends well. You can still hear the woman screaming. Maybe they have someone else they’re torturing. He stops you outside a door and knocks. 

A few seconds later it opens. A man is standing there, he looks young, even with the beard, he’s the only person you’ve seen without his face covered. You hear a woman groan, he moves to the side and you see a woman bent over a table with another woman rubbing her back. 

You’re still taking in the scene when the man in front of you says something then pulls you into the room. The door is closed behind you, you look at him confused. 

“Do you know how to deliver a baby?” He asks, you recognise the accent. He’s the person who patched up your arm. 

“Do I look like I know how to deliver a baby?” 

“No, but you’re a woman and a medic.” He says “She’s Khaled's wife. If this baby dies he’ll kill me.” 

“Great, he's not going to like it if I kill her.” You scoff. This can’t be happening. 

“You’re dead anyway.” He says, it’s like a knife to the heart. Now you want to help even less. The other woman rubbing her back asks something in Arabic. 

“She’s been in labor for 13 hours, I think something is wrong, she’s not progressing.” The man asks. 

“Then take her to a hospital. I don’t know how to do this, I don’t even know where to start.” You say holding your hands up. The woman screams again and it makes your head ring. You look round the room, there’s a bed and some basic supplies but not much. 

The man goes over to a book he has laid out on the bed and brings it over. To your surprise it’s in english. 

“This is all I have, I’ve done everything so far.” You scan over the book and turn the page, you see diagrams of anatomy and pictures of a vaginal birth. You try to think of anything you know that could help. You’ve seen documentaries, you’ve learnt some things, you close your eyes for a second pinching the bridge of your nose. 

“Okay. Get her on the bed.” You say looking over at her. The man orders the women around, as she moves you see supplies on the table. You go over looking for gloves.

“Do you have anything sterile?” You ask, turning to look at him. He shakes his head.

“My bag, you must have taken it when you kidnapped me. It has sterile supplies in it.”

“We’ve used it already.” He says.

“All of it?” You ask shocked. There were enough supplies in there to last at least a week. 

“We needed the supplies.” He says. You sigh pulling on some gloves. What you have will just need to do. You go over to the bed and he follows, the woman's laid back hair is stuck to her face as her friend grips her hand and whispers at her in arabic. 

You let the adrenaline calm you, you ground yourself before you sit on the end of the bad. She looks down at you and grits her teeth through the contraction. Shit, you should be counting them right the time between them. You don’t have a watch you start counting in your head. 

“Do you know how far apart the contractions are?” You ask. He asks the woman who replies. 

“2 minutes sometimes 5 minutes.” He says. That’s good right? Means she might be ready to push soon.

“Has she had a baby before?” You ask. 

“This is her 6th.” 

“6th?” You turn back to look at him. You’re not sure what to do with that info though, Does that make her more or less of a high risk. At least she probably knows what to do by now, she probably knows more than you. 

“Can you ask her to pull her legs up. I need to check internally.” He talks and she nods, her friend helping her get comfortable - well as comfortable as she can be. You’re not sure you’ll be able to tell how dilated she is, it’s more to check if everything feels right. Although, you’re not sure what the vagina of a woman in labor is supposed to feel like. 

You smile at her, you have to be confident, she needs to have faith in you. You’re trying to be as gentle as you can, you doubt she’s had any pain relief. You don’t envy her right now, going through labor for 13 hours like this, in this heat, you do feel sorry for her. 

“I can feel the head.” You say, it gives you a boost of confidence. “Can you ask her if she’s had any urges to push?” 

You look over at her as she nods. You pull your hand out, you look down at blood on your fingers, your stomach sinks. 

“Is that bad?” The man asks looking over.

“I don’t think it’s fresh. It could be normal, she is pushing a baby out.” You say taking the gloves off. You walk over to the table to grab a towel and he joins you.

“What should we be worried about?” He asks in a low voice even though you don’t think the women can speak English. We, there's no we, it makes a lump form in your throat.

“Hemorrhage. I’m assuming you don’t have blood.” You say, he shakes his head. So that's a death sentence. 

“The cord could wrap around the baby's neck.” He says. That could be happening right now and you have no way of knowing. You turn back to look at her. There’s no way to monitor the baby right now, you have no idea if it’s in distress and that could be why the labor is taking so long. 

“If she’s having urges to push, maybe she could try?” You say. 

“What if that makes things worse?” 

“I don’t know you’re not exactly set up for a cesarean.” You say. He sighs, you can tell he’s nervous. You should be nervous but you think the surge of adrenaline is keeping you going. Besides, what's the worst that could happen to you? They kill you? They’re probably planning on that anyway. 

There’s a knock at the door and the man goes over to answer it. You watch him out of the corner of your eye hearing him talk. You look back down at the tools. You pick up another pair of gloves and a towel and go back over to the bed. 

You lay the towel out and pull the gloves on as the door closes and he comes back over to you.

“Have you ever done CPR on a baby before?” You ask him. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.

“Only in practice.” You turn looking up at him confused. “I’m a doctor, well I was training to be one.” 

“You should be doing this, not me.” You scoff shaking your head

“I wanted to be a neurologist.” He says, you sigh, you don’t care, you’re mad he didn’t tell you. 

“Do you have something to clamp the cord with?” You ask looking over at him, he goes over to the table and comes back with an actual clamp. You take it from him and place it on the bed. The woman groans again and you look over at her.  

“Tell her we’re going to try pushing, after the next contraction.” You say getting yourself comfortable and moving her legs so they’re apart. You feel awkward all of a sudden, this is definitely not something you thought you would ever be doing, especially not here of all places, as a fucking hostage. 

You look down-holyfuckingshit. There’s the head. 

“Push, push, tell her to push.” You call as you move your body to get your hands into position. You’re not really sure what you're going to do. Support the head right? Don’t let it fall out of your hands. You’re shaking as she pushes and the head comes out. You see eyes, a nose and mouth. 

The lips are slightly blue, it makes you hold your breath. 

“Tell her keep going, she’s doing great.” You say. You need her to keep going, you need to get this baby out. As soon as the shoulders are through the rest is easy, it just flops out. You look up at her and smile as you reach over for the clamp. 

“I need another clamp.” You say, you place the baby on a towel. 

Why is it not crying? It should be crying. 

You wipe its face, nose and eyes. Cry dammit, you’ve never wanted to hear a baby cry more than anything. 

“Here.” He says handing you another clamp. You turn the baby on its side and start rubbing his back. You’ve seen people do this on TV before. 

“Come on, come on baby.” You mumble. When it cries you almost start too. You roll it on its back as its crying rings in your ears. You take the clamp out his hand. He has the scissors too, you nod at him. 

The woman is shuffling on the bed, she’s asking something. “She wants to know the sex.” the man asks. 

“B-boy. It’s a boy.” The words catch in your throat the adrenaline is wearing off now, you swallow hard you need to keep it together. Your hands shake as you cut the cord. The other woman has moved over to you holding her hands out. You nod, wrapping the baby and handing it to her.

You hear a knock on the door and the doctor leaves you. Or you guess he’s not really a doctor. You look back down between her legs. You’re not sure what to do now, you’ll have to wait for the after birth right? 

She’s not bleeding out though, that’s a good thing. You’re taking your gloves off looking over at the woman stroking her baby's head. You let yourself smile, holy shit you just delivered a baby. Johnny would love to hear about that. Your smile fades as you remember where you are. 

“They want to take you back.” The doctor says as he comes over to you. You nod looking at the person standing at the door. As you get up the woman calls out for you saying something in Arabic. You look over at the doctor. 

“She says thank you. And she hopes you have a safe journey home.” He looks away from you. You turn and smile at her nodding your head. 

“Congratulations.” You say and go over to the door. 

“Oh by the way.” You say turning back to him. “The placenta, when it comes, make sure it’s complete.” 

“How will I know if it’s complete?” He asks. 

“Maybe there’ll be something in the book.” You say shrugging. He nods as the man in the door reaches out, gripping your arm and pulling you out. 

___

The door to your cell opens. You watch as the doctor comes in carrying a plate of food and a bottle of water. Suddenly your stomach grumbles and your lips smack together as you realise how dry your mouth is. 

He sets them down on the slab of concrete you think is supposed to be a bed. You look over on the plate, there’s flatbread and what looks like hummus. You don’t care what it is, you’re so hungry you’ll eat anything. 

You look back over at him, if you eat you’re breaking down your defences, gathering your strength just so they can torture you more. You are so hungry though, the weaker you get the more likely you are to give up intel you know you shouldn’t. 

“It’s not poisoned or anything.” He says you look over at him, you hadn't even thought about that. 

“How’s the baby?” 

“Good, they’re both good.” He says leaning against the door. 

“Where did you study?” You ask. 

“America, Princeton university.” He says. 

“Fuck me, and you chose to come here?” You scoff. He doesn’t reply, pressing his lips together. 

“You should eat, you might not get another chance. They won’t leave the plate in here.” He says nodding at the food.

“What? I deliver your leader's son and I get some hummus?” You spit at him, you want the food less now. 

“Better than letting you starve.” He says. Starvation would be a pretty horrible way to die. You shuffle over to the plate, opening the water bottle first and trying not to drink it down so fast. You can’t help it though, you don’t even care that it’s warm, it feels like you haven’t had a drink in weeks. 

When you’re done you put it back down letting out  breath. You pick up one of the flatbreads and pull some off dipping it into the hummus. 

“Why’d you leave America?” You ask. 

“I couldn’t stand it. I thought it was the way to a better life. Then I saw all the abominations, I had to leave.” He says, you raise an eyebrow at him. 

“Why are you here fighting in a war that isn’t yours to fight?” He asks, theres hostility in his voice. 

“You keep blowing shit up in our country.” You say as you dip more bread. 

“You’re special forces or something aren’t you?” It makes you stop chewing, you look up at him. 

“I’m a medic.” You say.

“No ones ever lasted through torture the way you do. Most of them give up after a few hours, or a day.” He says. So it’s been longer than a day, you don’t know if you should be glad or not. It’s been over 24 hours and they still haven't come. 

You look down at the food, suddenly it’s sitting heavy in your stomach. You remember the feeling of ingesting all the water and the feeling of it coming back out when your stomach’s full. You put the bread down and push the plate away. 

“My name is Sayyid.” He says bending down to pick up the plate. 

"I'm not going to tell you my name." You say. He nods pressing his lips together.

"Good luck" He says, nodding and leaving the room. You don't need luck, you need to get the hell out of here.

___

The car ride went in silence. No witty remarks from Johnny. There’s no filling the deafening silence, the only noise is coming from the engine and the wheels turning on the dirt roads. 

48 hours that's how much time Lawell could realistically buy them, if Shepherd was going to send shadows after them they have to move quick. Ghost pulls the car up to the building. 

This is the closest they can get to the next town without being spotted, there's an al-qatala base there. That’s where they’ll get intel, that's where they’ll find out where you are. It’s too late now though, the journey to get here was long. 

“Gaz, Soap clear the place, we’ll wait here.” Price says as Ghost turns the engine off. There’s no reply, just the sound of doors opening and closing. Price watches them walk round the car and over to the front door. The building will be empty, as soon as they’ve confirmed that though, they can hide the car. 

“I shouldn't have put her at the back.” Price says as he watches Gaz and Soap enter the building. 

“It was the right call.” Ghost replies. Price sighs, yeah it was, he didn’t expect things to go so wrong though. Ghost's hand lands on his thigh, he looks over at him. He can see the softness in his eyes. 

“We’ll get her back, John.” 

“I know, I just hope we’re not too late.” 

Simon doesn’t question it this time when you ask him if you can take a shower, at least you’ve already stopped asking for permission to use the guest bathroom to relief yourself, but knowing the only shower is in the en-suite bathroom to his bedroom, makes him bristle. 

It’s not like has anything physical to hide from anyone, quite the contrary. There are no old family pictures to study, nothing to snoop for between his sparse wardrobe. He’s already taken off his mask in front of you, deciding it doesn’t matter if someone as simple-hearted as you sees his mug or not. 

So, he lets you use his bathroom, because he has no other choice and he’s not going to send you to the communal showers at the base gym, knowing he’d have to at least take you there as your… handler; making sure no one bothers you and all that shite. 

The grip around the bottle tightens as he thinks about the soldiers coming and going to that gym, thinks about the ones who would definitely attempt to chat you up, charm you. A vein in his temple throbs and Simon takes a drink of beer to soothe the sudden churning in his stomach. 

Some time passes. His beer bottle, now emptied, rests on the coffee table along with his socked feet crossed at his ankles. His team, Man United, is winning 3:0 against Newcastle, the faint smell of food is still lingering in the flat comfortingly, his belly is full, and his head is pleasantly—and surprisingly—quiet, so Simon allows himself to sink further into the couch cushions, his arms crossed in front of his chest self-soothingly while his head tips back against the headrest. 

It feels oddly relaxing, this whole new atmosphere, no matter how mundane it might be, it's big to someone as awkward as him, and even the knowledge about having another person inside his flat, albeit demi-human, isn’t too terrible. A strange comfort lies there—knowing he isn’t alone right now. Perhaps this isn’t going to be so bad, perhaps he can work with it all, with you. He’s managed worse before. 

There’s some faint commotion eventually; the shower turning off, doors opening and closing softly, followed by the pussyfooting of you walking down the hallway towards the living room. 

Simon is too distracted by the added match time and too relaxed on top of that, when you finally flop down on the couch next to him; flooding his nose with a pleasant whiff of warm shower steam and some fruity body wash or shampoo which you definitely didn’t find in his shower but brought along with you instead, and only when something is suddenly gently placed on his thigh, he realizes the state of undress you’re in, and he does a double-take while his heart drops into his stomach at once. 

With your back slightly angled towards him, you’re towelling off your hair, only draped in one of his larger towels that clings to your body—casual as ever while his eyes widen and his first instinct kicks in to scoot over to the other end of the couch. His eyes flicker down to the floor as the object drops onto the carpet—a rather fancy looking hairbrush with black bristles and a polished, wooden handle. 

Peeking over your shoulder, you shoot him a puzzled yet amused look. “Are you alright, Simon?” 

That question alone pisses him off for some reason, makes him even more flustered, and you have the audacity to giggle at his reaction. His eyes drink you in briefly—involuntarily—and he catches the way your tail rucks up the towel, sopping wet white fur lightly dripping on the leather while the curve of your bare ass cheek peeks out; all supple and plump and—fucking hell—is that a birthmark? 

He swallows thickly; his heart begins thudding so hard, he can feel it in his throat while a sudden jolt of arousal, a sensation he long thought dormant, goes straight to his groin, causing him to jump into action. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask delicately, brows furrowing in a way of genuine concern for him that makes his chest feel tight. “You don’t… want to brush my hair? Groom my fur?” 

His breath rushes out of his lungs with a humourless laugh. “Whot? N-No! ‘course not! Why the bloody hell would I want to do that?” He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to regain composure and will away the pulsing warmth continuously gathering in his lower belly. 

“Oh.” Your dog ears droop as you clutch the towel around your chest, shifting in your seat to face him directly, gazing up at him with those bright doe-eyes that can probably disarm any other man while Simon has taken a few measured steps backwards to create some distance as if you’re a king cobra about to strike. 

Still trying to get a grip on himself, Simon takes a deep breath before inquiring: “Seriously, lass, why–why would you even ask me that?” And as soon as the question is out, he can practically see the invisible question mark appear above your head in the way you tut, fiddle with the hem of the towel just above your knees, blinking slowly as you process his words. 

“I mean–” you give a small shrug, “I just… assumed you’d want to do it like–” 

Like the previous wankers who owned you, Simon fills in the gap in his head, jaw clenching and fists balling tightly in anger. 

Then you flash him a sugary smile, which only makes it all worse. “They wanted to brush my hair and fur for me. Ryan always said it calms him down.” 

“And I assume they dressed ya, too? Bought ya all this shite they wanted you to wear?” Simon brings forward through clenched teeth, knowing the answer to that already. His arousal is replaced by a hot ball of fury that coils in his guts and simmers through his veins. If he could only get his hands on them, he’d break them in half in a heartbeat. 

Your lips part with a silent gasp, damp furry ears twitching atop your head nervously. “Simon, are you… Are you mad at me?” 

His face twists into a grimace at that. Of course not! How could he ever be mad at you for something you clearly had no control over? He shakes his head, swallows the angry bile rising in his throat. 

“No, ‘m not mad at you,” he rumbles, dragging his rough palm over his face to keep his eyes from wandering along the curve of your bare shoulders as you continue to sit on his couch in a simple towel. “I’m gonna take a shower. You stay here,” he adds gruffly, keeping his darkened eyes averted as he gazes down the hallway towards his bedroom, “–and get dressed.” 

The bathroom door shuts with force, causing the glass shower cabin to rattle and the remaining steam from your previous shower to swirl around him. His hand is trembling with adrenaline as he locks the door swiftly; his breathing choppier now that he’s alone. 

Fucking hell, why is his heart beating so fast? 

It’s nothing and it certainly means nothing, Simon keeps telling himself as he turns on the shower and twists the handle until the temperature turns cold. Nothing he can’t handle. He’s Ghost—he has defeated death more times than he can count. 

He can handle a bloody hard-on, but—oh god—it smells like you in here, like you’ve marked your territory, the dog that you are, and force him to deal with it now. 

Stuck in his paranoia, Simon checks the lock on the door again before he begins shedding his clothes and dropping them half-heartedly on the tiled bathroom floor. His breathing becomes more ragged the more skin he reveals and by the time he pulls his boxer briefs down, he almost feels dizzy now that all the blood has rushed to his groin. 

His chest heaves as he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth when his throbbing cock is freed; bobbing with its hefty weight and stiffness, making his stomach churn hotly with pleasurable sensations with every step when he moves to enter the shower cabin. 

The icy shower spray hits his flushed skin, and he bites back and swallows a low groan. A violent shudder wrecks through his body, pebbling his skin with gooseflesh and making him all too aware of all his scars littering and criss-crossing his body as the raised flesh tightens and tingles with phantom pain. 

Resting his head on the cold shower wall, Simon lets his eyes squeeze shut and exhales a shuddering breath while the water rains down on him mercilessly, cooling down the heat in his veins and the urge simmering in his loins; his hands clench and unclench at his side, struggling not to reach out and touch himself—struggling not to cave and submit to his most primal urges. 

He feels like he’s losing it—this precarious yet perfected control he’s been leaning on since everything has fallen apart around him for the first time—and he cannot let that happen. 

His eyes flutter open when the image of you sneaks into his eye, torturing him. “Fuckin’ h–hell,” he mutters under his breath as he watches his cock twitch tauntingly. 

The cold shower helps, but Simon can still feel himself reeling internally; his mind a disastrous frenzy while he gets dressed in a hurry, eager to cover himself up as he fears the slightest gust of wind over his skin might tip him over the edge this time. He goes as far and holds his breath in his bedroom before deeming it useless—you’ve already left your scent everywhere, and he can’t escape. 

When emerges from his bedroom, dressed in a black hoodie and an old pair of sweats, he finds you sitting on the couch, wearing the shirt he’d given you in a fit of generosity, grooming your damp tail with the brush he’d previously dropped like a landmine. 

“You’re sleepin’ in m’bed tonight,” Simon announces like giving an order, though he’s scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m takin’ the couch.” And before you can open your mouth to speak, he already interjects: “Don’t ask, jus’… do as I say, lass.” 

It’s easier than he expected it to be until he remembers that’s what you do—following your nature. Following orders, obeying, and submitting. He can’t say he hates it that much right now, though his own thoughts disgust him. In the back of his mind, Simon even hopes you would ask him why, perhaps even argue with him about his sudden change of mind, but you don’t, and he is grateful for your blind obedience in this moment. 

And there it is again, that look you’ve already shot him once last night and a second time when he left you at Price’s office; jutting your bottom lip out like that, literally giving him puppy eyes while your ears droop along with your bloody tail. The picture of vulnerable and sadness, as if he’d just kicked you out onto the streets. 

“We can share the bed,” you remark softly, though it sounds more like half a question. “I don’t mind.” 

“Aye, but I do.” Simon objects swiftly, then clears his throat awkwardly. 

It doesn’t take too long for Simon’s self-control to snap at last once you retire to his bedroom. 

As soon as he settles down on the couch for one of those restless nights when the TV must keep running and sleep won’t come to him until the first rays of dawn peek through the cracks of these old curtains. 

And now, he is keeping his eyes trained on the telly, the ceiling, the fucking dust collecting on the drapes covering the window—anywhere but the pathetic sight of his weeping prick currently grasped in his hand; pre-cum drooling from his ruddy tip and mixing with his spit while he squeezes his shaft harshly, pulling back his foreskin until his back arches with something like a choked whine, and tiny electroshocks of pleasure running up and down his spine, making his toes feel numb and his chest feel tight like he has been put in a straitjacket. 

Always so rough with himself, though he can’t even mind the callouses on his hand as he fists his cock faster, feeling his heavy balls draw up tight already, almost painfully. “Fuck–oh fuck–” he huffs through clenched teeth, nostrils flaring and jaw locking up with the effort to keep his ugly gob shut; not wanting anyone to hear him engaging in his wretched urges. 

The volume of the TV, currently playing some random old spaghetti western, is turned low enough to keep his trained ears aware of his surroundings, though loud enough to drown out any compromising noises escaping him that you could potentially hear. 

He pumps his cock from root to tip, twisting his wrist and swiping his thumb over his piss slit, eyes rolling at the sensation while his mind goes to war again—torn between slowing down and drawing this guilty pleasure out or simply giving up and getting it over with. 

The decision is taken from him when he slips up. 

And he thinks about the curve of your rear, the suppleness of your flesh; imagines himself licking those renegade droplets of shower water off your ass cheek while groping the other, feeling your skin under his starved tongue, hearing you squeak then purr his name, glancing at him with those pretty doe-eyes of yours— “Simon.” 

“Oh, fu–mmpf–!” He shoves his other fist between his teeth right when he comes, muffles his deep groan of pleasure while he bites down hard on his knuckles, eyes rolling back into his skull as the pleasure seizes his body violently, too intensely, pulling him right under the surface as his cum shoots from his tip in thick, white ropes, spilling so far up his torso that it lands on his black hoodie obscenely. 

His massive body shudders, his chest is heaving as he keeps fucking his fist, hips bucking off the couch cushion, muscles twitching and quaking to a point of discomfort—a point he feels too vulnerable, where shame and guilt can kick in quickly; sweep him away into the darkest corners of his mind—the ones he feels weakest at, powerless. 

The door slams shut behind you with more force than necessary, making the surrounding windows tremble in their frames, and then the room is filled with thick, accumulating tension as you feel Captain Price’s piercing glare on the back of your skull, his tangy scent surrounding the space, making you bristle like an animal caught in a trap. 

His voice is sharp and jagged, a combat knife slicing through heavy silence when he snaps at you: “You wanna explain that little stunt you pulled earlier, Sergeant?” 

“Oi–!” You huff, rolling your aching shoulders underneath your heavy tac gear as you turn to face him on wobbly knees; swiftly pulling your black balaclava off in one smooth motion and taking a greedy breath while tucking the fabric into an empty pocket of your cargo pants; revealing your dishevelled hair along with a thin, bleeding cut on your right cheekbone. 

“We finished the mission successfully, innit?” You counter briskly like the bloody smartass you are, though you usually never dare to adopt a tone like this with Price, not even in the privacy of twosomeness, and you gulp a gasp of air, eyes widening as you realize your mistake. 

This isn't John, your packmate and friend, but Price, your alpha superior. 

Price’s steel blue eyes darken another shade as he steps forward with a grim frown, tilting his head slightly, the look almost murderous. He stops in front of you, tips of your chunky boots touching now, before he grabs your chin with his gloved hand, lifting your bruised face up towards him. 

“You almost got yourself bloody killed, you goddamn fool!” He snarls, eyes scanning over the cut on your cheek before he lets go of you roughly. “You weren’t supposed to get that close; do you understand me? Never!” 

You tut, scrunching your nose in a small snarl like a disobedient pup baring its baby teeth at his rough manhandling, glaring at him with bloodshot eyes while your supple omega skin pounds and burns around the cut, irritated and raw. 

“Sir, I took those fuckers out efficiently, giving you and Gaz the necessary time to take out the main target–” you explain, trying to stay calm though your voice keeps wavering, “Call me a fool all you want, but you know I’m right, Captain.” 

Price growls at you as you continue to talk back to him; eyes hardening and turning to a shade of navy blue while his jaw clenches so tightly, you’re surprised it didn’t break yet. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, trying to calm himself down as his alpha pheromones turn too heady and aggressive, causing your gut to clench and your throat to tighten as you hold back a submissive whine. 

“That wasn’t part of the bloody plan, and you know it, Sergeant! Shouldn’t you be better at following orders by now? Ya could’ve gotten yourself–” He stops mid-sentence, his buff chest deflates with a rushed exhale, lids narrowing and zeroing in on the gnarly cut and bruises on your face once more. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath and the roughness in his voice makes you shiver in your boots before he reaches up with both hands to cup your face this time, gentler and tenderly; thick thumb lightly brushing away coagulated blood, making you wince and flinch, and melt simultaneously. 

“That needs to be taken care of, dove,” he says much quieter, his anger now replaced with worry as his frown softens and the wrinkle between his brows smoothens out. 

A tingling sensation spreads over your face, making it feel hot beneath his touch, like someone tugging on your hair so tightly, your skin is pulled taut while the tips of daggers are wrenched into your eye sockets, prodding at your brain and scraping inside your skull. The sudden pain makes you dizzy and sway.  

Time slows down for you, crawling along like thick tar, though, it merely takes seconds. 

With fluttering lashes, your eyes flicker up to stare blankly at his ruggedly handsome, dirty face; pain and adrenaline lowering your inhibitions and qualms, all reason melting from your brain and running out of your ears in an instant as you catch another whiff of his alpha scent. 

Cold bones covered in rich dark chocolate, wrapped in ripe tobacco leaves and presented to you. 

“Sergeant?” 

Swallowing down a mouthful of foamy saliva, your black pupils dilate as your wide doe-eyes flit down to stare at his lips as John speaks up again, and in a moment of weakness, your omega instincts manage to slither from your grasp despite the strong suppressants you take religiously and you reach out to clutch and curl your gloved fingers into the front of his tac vest to pull him to your level for a rash, first kiss. 

John freezes the second your soft lips connect with his; initial clumsiness balanced by raw fervency make his chest rumble with a pleased growl, and he finds himself kissing you back for a second, fingers carding through your hair and cupping the back of your neck, applying some pressure; sighing as he finally gets that ardently longing taste of you before his brain screeches to a halt; duty and regulations forcing him to act and contain his alpha nature, to be the reasonable one again. 

He pulls back with a sharp curse, lips smacking and stealing another peck before a string of saliva connects his bottom lip to yours. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He breathes harshly, uncurling his mammoth hands from you reluctantly before stepping backwards, running a hand through his short, brown hair in frustration. “Bloody Christ, Sergeant,” he huffs, “–you’re not... We’re not supposed to–What are we doing here, huh?” 

The feeling of his lips on yours, the taste of him melting on your tongue like hard candy, bursting on your tastebuds, and his beard scratching your sensitive skin, was enough to distract you from the throbbing pain and fuzziness in your head momentarily, though now it’s hitting you again full force. 

Inhaling a sharp breath through clenched teeth, your eyes widen as you stammer for an answer: “I–I–I’m–” you stutter, heart now hammering in your throat as your ears start ringing. “I’m sorry! I–I don’t know–ah!” 

You wince as you pinch the bridge of your nose harshly, and John can merely stare and watch you struggle to speak while his heartrate increases, strong muscle slamming into his ribcage underneath his layers of gear and clothing; both thoughts and emotions all over the place uncharacteristically after you’d kissed him without so much than a friendly premonition. 

Then, he steps forward again, pushing your hips back against the sturdy table behind you, large hands grasping the front of your tac vest more desperate than he’d like to admit. “You’re sorry?” He repeats in disbelief. “You kiss your superior just like that and you’re bloody sorry, Sergeant?” 

“Y-Yes, sir. I–ah... Fuck,” you curse and groan, squeezing your eyes shut as the splitting headache worsens; barely registering the way John has grabbed you by the shoulders now. “Please–” you whine, unable to keep the pathetic sound concealed this time while you reach out to get a hold of his strong forearms, finding purchase against the table as you lean back.  

As soon as your soft whine is torn from your delicate throat, alarm bells go off inside the Captain’s head as he ignores the pleasant shudder running down his spine and focuses on the need to protect and take care of you blossoming behind his ribcage instead.  

“How are you feeling?” He asks, eyes filled with worry as he witnesses you practically falling apart in front of him and not knowing why is driving him mad already. “Jesus, you look like you’re gonna pass out any second now, dove.”  

Wrapping an arm tightly around your waist despite the bulky gear covering both your bodies, John pulls your smaller frame as close as he can get you; securing you against him. “Let me help you, okay? I’m taking you to the medbay. Just breathe for me and calm down. We can’t risk you getting sick–” 

You feel even weaker in the knees now, but you manage to loop your arms around his neck somehow while you take eager little sniffs of his calming scent at this proximity, and as soon as John notices you trying to seek out his comfort, he swiftly unzips his combat jacket and tugs at the tight collar of his compression shirt to expose more of his scent to you, mumbling to himself. “Damn it, honey, why is my life never easy with you?”  

A pleasant tingle runs down the length of his spine when the tip of your nose grazes along the curve of his neck cutely, narrowly missing his sensitive scent gland as you breathe in his scent, and John’s jaw clenches while his mind short-circuits at the featherlight contact. He should be able to resist it, being an experienced SAS Captain and all that, but he’s slowly realizing how powerless he is when you’re all submissive and vulnerable for him like this. 

“Hit my head... pretty badly when–when I grappled and–an' took out that ah... one bloke,” you explain in a muttered murmur while John hums affirmingly and starts leading you out of the briefing room, down the long hallway towards the nearest elevator, making you lean heavily against him with his arm curled around your waist below your vest. His jaw is clenched tightly, his face set in a frown once more as he tries to keep his simmering anger at bay. 

Given the chance, he’d rip that fellow apart with his bare hands. 

Pulled away from his violent thoughts, his attention shifts again when the bright fluorescent lights along the ceiling crackle and switch on automatically, filling the eerie silence inside the building at this hour, and causing you to groan pitifully as you squeeze your eyes shut immediately. “Ouch... Please, make them stop!” You mewl before twisting and turning your face to bury into his shoulder for protection like a lost, helpless kitten, and John feels something else stir in his chest, something heavy and warm that slows him down. 

“You hit your head, and you didn’t tell anyone?” He hisses, though it’s lacking harshness, and he gently pushes his hand into your hair, along the side of your head until his fingers shield over your temple as he tries to block out some of the light. “Fuck me, Sergeant, you’re too bloody stubborn, ya muppet.” 

He’s never truly witnessed you acting like an omega; always too guarded, too stoic and professional; constantly drugged up with military issued suppressants and scent blockers while the knowledge about that has always sort of peeved your alpha teammates, including John himself, leaving them worried and itching to order having you to throw them away recklessly, make you go natural, knowing each of them would more than willingly take care of you. 

Almost subconsciously, John leans in and sniffs your hair; catching a slight whiff of your scent, though it’s still heavily suppressed, and he swallows down the rumble in his chest, ignoring the flutter in his stomach as he thinks back on that kiss. “And we’re gonna have a long discussion about that kiss, too, when you stop being so bloody delirious.” 

With another breathy whine of pain, you practically curl into his side, holding on tightly despite his cussing and scolding; despite him being your superior. “Don’t cuss at me,” you whimper, nuzzling your face into his shoulder as he keeps guiding you towards the elevator that will take you down to the medbay. “I’m sorry... for the kiss, John.” 

John croons lowly in his chest as you apologize, trying to soothe your pain and distress. He hates that he can’t smell you, which means he can’t read you properly; it's like trying to read the most interesting novella through a veil. And he hates your apology, too, not wanting to hear it.  

He huffs sharply as he adjusts his grip around your waist, stopping in front of the closed elevator doors before pushing the button for it with his free hand. “Don’t talk back to me, you little brat.” John straightens and grumbles half-heartedly, trying to keep his professional demeanour up here out in the open around HQ, though the smallest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when your soft snicker reaches his ears. 

The elevator doors open with the faintest gust of wind, and he catches another whiff of your scent, though– 

His heart drops into a pit as he freezes, pupils dilating instantly.  

A bouquet of wildflowers, resting on a pile of fresh white linens, surrounded by an assortment of candied fruits; succulent, soft, and utterly saccharine.  

John is not the type of person to sneak through your house, he’s not the type of person to worry about not making noise. Whoever closed the door is walking through your house in silence. There’s no heavy drop of a duffle bag, no bounce of kicked off boots. No clank of keys in the bowl by the door. 

It’s so silent you can hear your own heartbeat picking up in your chest. 

Maybe it was the wind, maybe you forgot to close a window? Then you hear the creek on the steps, the pause in the intruder's stride. This is an old house with old floors. 

John told you want to do, he prepped you for this exact situation but somehow in the panic of the moment your mind is drawing a blank. Maybe you should pretend to be asleep, maybe then they will leave you alone. 

No, something tells you to move. You grab your phone slipping off your bed onto the floor. In the basement there’s a storm room, although living in the UK you don’t have much use for it, John refurbished it to a panic room. He keeps his ‘not-so-legal’ weapons in there, only you and him know the code. 

You’re forgetting everything he taught you, all you can think about is making sure you don’t lose your phone and making it to the garage. You pull yourself up to your feet, your hands are shaking as you make it to the door. You crack it open holding your breath. 

“I think we need to go up a floor.” 

“Ugh, it’s going to be a pain to get her out of here.”

It’s two people, and they’re clearly after you. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You wait until you hear them start up the next flight before sneaking down to the ground floor. You can feel tears well up in your eyes. 

This can’t be happening, why are people after you? What did John do? 

You make it into the kitchen, closing the door behind you. You make sure to hold the handle down so there is no audible click before you let it go. Maybe you should run, just call the police. John told you not to though. Call John, get to the safe room.

It takes you two attempts to open the contacts app on your phone. Your hands are shaking, your fingers feel numb. Eventually you manage to click on his number bringing the phone up to your ear as the call rings out. You make it over to the backdoor that leads into the garage. 

“Come on, come on, John pick up.” You whisper hearing the shake in your voice, as you fumble for the back door key on the rack. It feels like you’re making too much noise. 

The call goes to the answerphone. “Fuck, John.” Frustration boils in you, why is he not picking up?

You find the key. The frustration is replaced with relief as you fumble pressing it into the keyhole. 

You dial his number again as you go into the garage, you can see the false wall of tools John hid the door behind. You’re rushing towards it as you pull the facade back revealing the slim door, into the meter-by-meter room. 

“Hey!” You turn seeing a figure in the dark you don’t recognise.

You forgot to lock the kitchen door. 

You throw yourself into the space. It’s too late someone grabs your arm. You scream and fight as they pull you back. Your body falls to the floor, you drop the phone. 

“NO!” you scream as a hand claps round your mouth. There’s another person now they’re shouting at each other, at you. You kick, and flail as hands grip you, fingers digging into your skin. Tears stream down your face, you feel a sharp slap across your cheek. 

The hand leaves your mouth and you scream as loud as you can. Even in your ears the scream sounds foreign. It’s real fear, you’re screaming for your life.

A wet rag is placed over your nose and mouth. It smells rancid, after a few breaths your head starts to swim. The second pair of hands grip your ankles. Suddenly you don’t have the strength to fight. Adrenaline pulses through you, you try to dig your heels into the ground. 

For a second you free one of your legs slamming your foot flat on the ground.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” 

An arm comes round your neck squeezing tight. You can’t breathe, you can't suck in air. Your head swims, your body goes limp. You try to squirm but it's no use. Your last though is of John, you hope you haven't let him down.