x Reader Repository

As he traverses deeper into the facility, battling monsters and madness, he keeps coming across your documents and your notes, picking up vital information with words of encouragement stuck to them.

You don’t have to rush!

He finds himself seeking out what you’ve left behind. Initially, it’s because your papers have been the most useful, but on this solo, self-appointed, suicidal mission, he can’t help but also cling to this connection. Everything fell apart so quickly. His team is gone, his home is gone, his world is gone. There’s nothing left, especially not down here. Nothing but your words.

You did great!

Take it easy every once in a while!

It wasn’t your fault! You did your best!

He keeps that last note. Whenever he’s secured a location to rest, he reads it again and again, taking care not to get blood and grime on it. It keeps him sane, or so he thinks.

After he routes power to the servers that host the organization’s research journals, Kyle searches for yours first. The logs are mostly professional, but you have casual entries mixed in as well—notes to yourself that you probably thought no one else would see. They give him a more candid picture of what you’re like. He reads them all, even the ones unrelated to the world-ending event, taking longer than he should when there are monstrosities lumbering outside the barricaded door to this office.

He risks a detour to where the personnel files are stored. It’s worth it to know the names and faces of the people who destroyed the world, that’s all. When he comes across yours, it has a photo of you. He keeps that too, stashing it with your note. The rest he commits to memory.

Level by level, Kyle descends. He’s still pursuing salvation from the nightmare that was unleashed here, but he’s also chasing your ghost. Your notes continue showing up all the way down. He already knew this from your file, but you had a surprisingly high clearance level. He tells himself that you didn’t know what you were signing up for when you joined the research team here. You didn’t know what sinister plots were being carried out, or even if you did, you probably couldn’t just walk away without consequences.

By the time he reaches the lowest floor, what little hope he started with has run out. He’s found no magic cure for this plague of monsters, no secret weakness revealed. All the information he’s come across indicates that the worst case scenario has come to fruition and this disaster is irreversible. He shifts from searching for a panacea to searching for a way to burn everything here to the ground.

There’s only one sealed section of the facility left. He almost doesn’t bother, but maybe what he’s looking for is just behind that door. (Don’t give up! It’s hard work, but it’ll pay off in the end!) When he manages to open it, it reveals a bunker with survivors.

And you are one of them.

He almost can’t believe it. Out of the hundreds of people who worked here, you managed to be among the half a dozen that made it to this safe room. Since Kyle still has his SAS gear on, your fellow survivors think he’s here to rescue them, as if there was anywhere safe left to take them to. They seem flippantly dismissive of the fact that their actions set humanity on a crash course to annihilation.

You know better, though, warily shrinking back to the edge of the bunker, and Kyle feels a swell of pride. You can recognize that it’s not a savior that’s arrived, but a judge, jury, and executioner.

The rest of the room is a mix of top level executives and researchers. In a previous life, he would have seen this as an opportunity to interrogate them for more information. But that Kyle is long dead, so they’ll meet the same fate. He shoots the others before they can even try to defend themselves. You scream in despair, but Kyle is numb to screaming by now.

Y/n - who had been known as Angel to the family since she was a teen usually did too. But the pool had finally been cleaned for summer, and she'd promised herself she'd use it at least once. Their bedroom was warm despite the air conditioner humming in the window. Angel stood in front of the mirror in her new black one-piece swimsuit, turning slightly. Then turning again - and again. Her fingers tugged at the fabric near her stomach.

Outside, she could already hear the girls Craig brought around - pretty, tanned, loud, effortless. In her mind - nothing like her. She knew Andrew never cared. Hell, sometimes he was almost annoyingly blunt about it. He liked holding her. Said she was soft. Comfortable - warm.

But looking at her reflection now, all she could see was the softness that spilled over the swimwear's edge, the way the fabric strained slightly across her stomach. The girls outside probably wore bikinis that showed off lean muscles and flat stomachs. She didn't have that. She had curves. And Andrew fucking loved it. Andrew would probably live between those thighs if she let him.

She couldn't help the insecurity that lingered - the one that made her wonder if he ever wished she was different. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her swimsuit again - tugging it down slightly. Then back up. Her brow furrowed as she stared at her reflection.

After another long look in the mirror, her confidence cracked. Without thinking she reached into their closet for one of Andrew's flannels hanging and pulled it on. By the time she buttoned it halfway, the swimsuit underneath might as well not have existed. The pool could wait. She curled up on the perfectly made bed instead.

Andrew come home from a long day of dealing with his brothers' shit to find the house louder than usual. He muttered to himself as he walked past the backyard, taking in the scene. Lots of half-naked girls, lots of beer and drugs, lots of loud music. It was what guys like Craig and Daren lived for. Andrew? Not so much. And amongst the chaos he didn't see her outside like she talked about. The only thing that wouldn't have disgusted him about this party would be her.

He headed straight for their bedroom, needing to escape the noise before he started throwing people over the fence. He pushed the door open, the air conditioning hitting him like a relief. He needed the quiet of their bedroom - their sanctuary away from the chaotic Cody energy that permeated the rest of the house. She was just about to doze off - her eyes feeling heavy from staying still too long. Andrew pushed the door open, expecting to find her maybe changing, or perhaps waiting by the window to join the circus outside.

Instead, he found the bed occupied. His angel - his fucking weakness. He stopped and his gaze dropped to the flannel. Then to her face. “You didn't go out”

She looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t feel like it”

He stepped closer, the noise from the backyard fading into background static compared to the sight of her curled up in his flannel, hair piled on top of her head, looking all sorts of cute and vulnerable. He sat on the edge of the bed.

The sounds of the party filtered through the window. Andrew wasn't good at this part - never had been. He studied her for a long moment with those intense, unsettling eyes that always felt like they saw too much. Then he said, plain and simple. “You're beautiful”

She looked down. “Andrew -”

His hand found her bare thigh, calloused fingers pressing into the skin exposed beneath his flannel. He didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't need to. He already knew. Knew the way she got when things got too loud, too crowded, too many eyes.

“no,” His voice was steady and intensely calm. He leaned over, kissing her temple, then the corner of her mouth. “You are”

“It's not that -”

“You think I say things I don't mean?” That made her pause. Because no. Andrew Cody lied about plenty of things when survival called for it, but not this - not with her.

He reached over and touched the sleeve of the flannel. “You're gonna burn up in this”

She laughed weakly. “I'm fine”

“Take it off. It's ninety degrees out” He said firmly. His gaze drifted up to her face, expecting an argument. But he didn't want one - not tonight.

Then something softened in his expression. “You don't gotta go out there,” He looked toward the backyard before his eyes came back to hers. “I don't wanna be out there either, but don't hide from me”

The words hit harder than she expected.

Not because they were poetic - Andrew didn't do poetic. He did honest and sometimes that mattered more. He watched the realization sink in, his thumb brushing gently over her knee. He wasn't a man of grand speeches or flowery declarations, but his loyalty was absolute. If he said she didn't need to hide, he meant it.

“Come on” He nudged her leg gently, his voice low but commanding. “flannel off. Show me the swimsuit”

“you've seen it”

“Not on you” He replied simply. He leaned back, watching her expectantly. His gaze was intense, challenging. It dared her to cover up when he'd seen every inch of her.

The flannel slipped from her shoulders easily under his scrutiny. Then it was gone, pooling around her waist. And there she was. The black one-piece swimsuit hugged her curves, the way it was supposed to. The way Andrew loved it. His eyes traveled down then back up, slow and appreciative. No judgment. Just pure, unfiltered wanting. “You're perfect”

The black swimsuit hugged her curves perfectly, accentuating every dip and swell. He could see the way it kissed her hips, how it accentuated her waist. He swallowed hard. He reached out suddenly, pulling her close by the waist possessively.

His hands settled on her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above where the swimsuit ended. He looked her over again, his gaze hot and approving. “You're so fucking pretty” He murmured, leaning down to press his face into the valley of her breasts. He inhaled deeply. She always smelled good.

He nuzzled into her cleavage, lips pressing soft kisses to the swell of her breasts. His hands slid down to grip her ass, pulling her flush against him. He loved the way she felt - all softness and warmth. He growled softly against her skin before leaning back, taking in the full view again. “I won't make you go out,” His eyes lingered on her hips, her thighs. He knew exactly what those curves felt like under his hands, the way they fit perfectly against him. “Okay?”

“Okay” she says softly, her fingers brushing through the curls at the neap of his neck.

He shivered at the gentle touch, his eyes closing briefly before meeting hers again. He loved these quiet moments - the softness in her gaze, the way her fingers played with his hair. It was a stark contrast to the harsh world outside their door.

~~~~~~~~(.......)~~~~~~~~

By nighttime, the party had finally died down and the house settled, but sleep wouldn't come. She slipped outside and sat near the pool, feet dangling in the water. Moonlight reflected across the surface.

She barely heard Andrew approach. He stood behind her for a second then sat beside her. Neither of them spoke - he wasn't good at filling silence. Mostly because he didn't think silence needed fixing. After a while he looked at the water and then, without warning, stood and she blinked up at him confused.

Without a word, he slipped off his shirt and tossed it aside, revealing the hard lines of his torso. His hands went to his belt next, unbuckling it slowly. He pushed his jeans down his legs, stepping out of them. His black boxers were next - they were plain, straight to the point. Just like him.

“what are you doing?”

He looked at her, his face illuminated by the moonlight. “You wanted to swim,” he said simply before diving into the pool. The water splashed around him as he surfaced a few feet away.

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back. “So get in” it was simple to him - she wanted something, so she should have it.

“Andy, someone could see” She glanced toward the house automatically. Most of the lights had been turned off inside. Only a couple lamps glowed through the still windows. No movement. No voices. Just quiet.

“They're all passed out drunk or high. No one's coming out here” He assured her. his arms moving slowly as he tread water. He drifted closer through the water until he was right in front of her. Andrew reached up and rested his hands on the edge beside her thighs, steadying himself between her legs.

He looked up at her, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. He was so close now, his jaw clenching as he kept eye contact. He hips his head down, pressing a kiss to her knee. His lips lingered there for a moment before he kissed his way up her leg. He didn't ask permission - he didn't have to. He knew she'd let him kiss her like this. And he knew she liked it. So he kept going, pressing soft kisses to her inner knee, to the inside of her thighs. She gasped softly as his head slipped under the sundress she had changed into a few hours prior.

“Andrew” her hands went to his damp hair as he positioned her legs over his shoulders.

He hummed against her skin, his hands gripping her thighs possessively. He loved when she said his name like that - all soft and surprised. He kissed higher, his face burying between her legs. He nuzzled into her, inhaling her scent deeply. Fuck, she smelled good.

He tugged her panties off and threw them towards the pile of clothes. Then his tongue darted out, licking a slow stripe up her center. She tasted even better than she smelled. He groaned against her, the vibration making her shudder. He hooked his arms under her thighs, pulling her legs further over his shoulders and spreading them wider.

He loved how she had full thighs, a round ass, and soft hips. He liked that she wasn't skinny - that she had a real woman's body. He spread her legs wider, his tongue flat against her clit this time. He pressed hard, dragging his tongue slow and firm.

“Andrew, please” she gasped.

He loved when she begged. Loved that he was the only one who got to hear that needy little voice of hers. Those little voices that could keep Craig and Daren up some nights.

He did it again, pressing his tongue flat against her and dragging it slow, applying just the right amount of pressure. She whimpered and he smiled against her, the corners of his mouth lifting. The slow drags of his tongue that had her gripping his hair tighter and tighter. He didn't mind. It only made him want to keep going. He pushed his tongue inside her instead of continuing the slow drag. She cried out softly, biting her bottom lip to stifle the sound.

He pushed his tongue deeper, fucking her with it. It was messy and wet and he was completely unashamed. He could feel her clenching around his tongue, her thighs trembling against his shoulders. He pulled back only to lick a circle around her clit before sucking it into his mouth.

His hand gripped her waist now, fingers digging into her soft flesh as his free hand palmed himself in the pool. “Andrew... Andy I need to come. P-please” she said softly and breathlessly.

He groaned against her. He loved how polite she was about her pleasure. Like she was asking for a favor instead of demanding like most women he'd been with. He spread her legs wider, his shoulders pushing them apart. He sucked her clit hard, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive nub.

“shit, there it is,” he muttered against her, feeling her tighten and squirm. He stroked himself faster watching her come undone - her thighs trembling, breasts bouncing slightly underneath her bunched up sundress. “come on, Angel”

He kept sucking and licking, drawing out her orgasm. He could feel her juices coating his tongue and chin, but he didn't care. He loved the taste of her. As she came down from her high, he gave her clit one last soft kiss before pulling back slightly. “Take the dress off and get your ass in the water” Andrew's voice always had an edge to it, but it always seemed softer when it came to her.

She lifted the dress over her head quickly, revealing her naked body to him completely. He bit his lip, watching her breasts bounce as she climbed into the pool. Her body was fucking gorgeous - all soft curves and womanly shapes that made his mouth water.

She moved over to him, water swirling around her thighs. When she reached him, he grabbed her hips and pulled her against him, their bodies pressing together. His hardness pressed against her stomach, the tip dragging along her skin with the water.

“I've been hard since you put on that swimsuit earlier” he admitted quietly, his mouth near her ear, making her shiver.

He kissed along her jaw, his hands sliding from her hips to her ass, gripping the soft flesh possessively. He pulled her even closer, grinding his cock against her stomach. The water around them made everything feel weightless, but his touch was solid and real. It anchored her.

He pushed against her, turning them so she was pressed against the pool's edge now. His eyes held hers captive as he lifted her slightly, positioning himself at her entrance. The water helped ease the way as he slowly pushed inside her. They both groaned in sync and her nails nipped into his broad shoulders. His forehead rested against hers as he filled her completely. Their breaths mingled, their bodies connected intimately under the moonlight reflecting off the pool water.

He swallowed hard, watching her tits bounce slightly with the movement. He pulled out slowly before snapping his hips forward again, making her breasts bounce more. His hands went to her waist, holding her still as he set a slow, deep pace. He wasn't in a hurry. He wanted to enjoy this.

“A-Andy,” her breath hitched as her fingers gripped his soaking curls. “D-don't stop. You feel so good”

He leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss as he continued to move inside her. His tongue pushed into her mouth, mimicking the slow thrusts of his hips. He loved the way she tasted, the way she felt against him. He loved that it was just them out here, no one else existed. Just Andrew and his Angel.

He pulled back from the kiss to look at her face as he kept thrusting slowly. He wanted to see the look on her face as he filled her completely. He reached between them, finding her clit and circling it with his thumb in time with his thrusts. Her mouth fell open in a silent O as he hit a particularly deep spot inside her. “You're so fucking pretty, angel. You know that?”

He watched her face as he continued his slow, deep thrusts. Her eyes were half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushed. She was absolutely beautiful. He kept circling her clit with his thumb, feeling her getting closer and closer to another orgasm.

“Andy, I need to come” she whined, nails scratching at his back as her hips rutted uncontrollably.

He nodded, pressing his thumb down harder on her clit as he picked up the pace slightly, still keeping it deep and slow. He wanted to feel her come all over his cock. His other hand gripped her hip tightly as he watched her face contort with pleasure. “Come for me, angel”

She came with a soft cry, her head falling back, wet hair sticking to her neck and cheeks. Her walls clamped down around him and he groaned loudly, his pace faltering for a moment. She was so fucking tight. He kissed her exposed throat as he continued thrusting through her orgasm, milking every last wave out of her body. He could feel her legs trembling around him, hear her soft whimpers and cries. It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. He kept kissing her neck, her jaw, her cheeks as he continued to move inside her.

“I need you,” she shuddered, catching her breath. “Come Inside me. Please, baby”

That soft plea was the only permission he needed. His hips snapped forward harder, losing that careful rhythm as his own climax took over. He buried his face in her neck, groaning her name against her wet skin as he spilled inside her. His hips jerked shallowly, filling her completely as he held her tight against the pool edge.

After a moment, he pulled back enough to look at her face. Her cheeks were flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright. She looked thoroughly fucked and he loved it. He leaned in and kissed her softly, slowly, savoring the taste of her mouth. When he pulled back, he smiled against her lips. “Don't ever change, angel,” he murmured. “love you just like this”

“love you too” she smiled softly with exhaustion in her eyes as she pushed some of his wet curls back.

He smiled back slightly, leaning into her touch. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close as he slowly pulled out of her. He groaned softly at the loss, but just held her tighter. He rested his chin on top of her head, listening to the sound of the pool water lapping against the sides of the pool as he held her.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, just holding each other. The moonlight reflected off the water, casting a soft glow over them. He could feel her breathing even out, her body relaxing against his. She was exhausted, and he didn't blame her. He'd worn her out good.

“Let's get you inside” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

He lifted her effortlessly, water dripping off them both as he climbed out of the pool. He grabbed her towel, wrapping it around her shivering form before grabbing one for himself. He kept an arm securely around her waist, guiding her back toward the house, the night air cool against their heated skin.

Once inside, he dried her off gently, taking extra care with her curves. He knew she was exhausted, so he simply threw on a pair of low-slung sweatpants while she pulled on one of his oversized shirts that barely covered her thighs. He guided her to the bed, pulling her close. He spooned her from behind, pulling her close as he draped the blanket over her hip. He nuzzled his face into her neck, inhaling deeply before pressing a soft kiss there. His arm wrapped around her waist possessively, pulling her even closer.

“Sleep, angel” His voice was warm and comforting, filled with affection. He knew she was completely spent and he loved it. He loved knowing he'd worn her out, that he'd made her legs shake and her voice hoarse.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence, military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving), allusions to poly!141, this part contains minor physical assault against reader (not by simon) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2 ⏤ PART 3

You make a deal with the devil.

Simon was right, as much as you don’t want to admit it. You cannot fight your omega. She is stupid, and she is careless, but she controls some of the parts of you that you have never been able to reach. She can kill you with it. You’ve heard of these kinds of things, the places omegas can take you—a spiral so far into yourself, that the only protection your brain has for itself is to turn off.

Brain-dead. No signal. In an effort to conserve life, it turns itself off, but it doesn’t think about the fact that there will be no one there to turn itself back on. In the fight to save itself, it self-destructs, and there is nothing to do but cut the cord.

She can do that to you, if she really wanted to. Feral enough, she can tie a noose around your neck and pull it, and you will have no choice but to fall into yourself. You cannot fight her, but you cannot love her either; so you make a deal.

If she sweetens her scent to Simon’s pack, you will let Simon in. You won’t fight the ticking timer in your head. You’ll let yourself relax. You’ll give her the control to let herself indulge, since you never have before, and all she has to do is make sure every one of those alphas are at your heel. She needs to be good—she can’t half-ass this kind of thing. You need a leash around each of their necks, and you need it to cut off their oxygen when you pull on it. If someone gets loose, you’ll find a way to suffocate her for good. You swear it, promise it, tell her you’re going to drown her even if it drowns you, too—

I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

Eager little thing, she is. Sweet as honey, but deadly like poison. She’s a carnivorous plant, and ever since you stopped taking your meds, her roots have grown into you—attaching to your veins, tainting your blood, weaving itself into your brain stem like a cancerous cell. You won’t let her take it all. If she gives you a little, you’ll give, too, and that is how the balance can be kept.

You’ll make a man-eater out of her. You think she’ll prefer the taste, and perhaps it will dull the sharpness of her teeth when they sink back into you again.

She lets go of you for now. When you feel her teeth pull back from behind your eyes, you’re gasping for breath, and there is a great weight hanging over your back. You’re dragging someone along with you, leaving behind a trail of blood and hard bootprints, and you can feel the adrenaline that’s been keeping you going slowly start to melt away. You have a pounding headache. There’s something in your mouth that tastes rotten. There’s something that you’re carrying that you’re going to drop any moment as your muscles give out on you.

You smell him before anything else. The stench of him hits your nose so hard that you flinch. You cough, spit dripping from your mouth, and you breathe a mouthful of his pain and his anger. It stings, his scent, but your omega recognizes him enough that you find it in yourself to keep your feet going as you hold him up with a heavy arm around your shoulders.

“Kitty.”

“It’s…I-I got it, Simon. Just hold onto me. We’re almost there.”

Your eyes water with relief when you see Johnny’s terrible hair and Gaz’s dark eyes. Their faces fall in tandem, and you cry with exhaustion when Gaz slings Simon’s other arm around him and grunts as he takes the excruciating weight off of you. You fall, your knees giving out, but just before you hit the ground, Johnny’s got his big arms around your waist, and he’s pulling you back onto your feet. You dig your nails into his forearms, finding your footing, and you lean back against him as you watch Gaz get Simon onto his back so he look at the blood that still wets his mask.

You don’t really remember making it back to the plane. Every time you blinked, the setting was new. Your nose buried in Johnny’s neck—shhh, it’s alright, bonnie, he’s right here, we’re here. Your hands finding Simon’s, squeezing, not stopping to cry until he squeezed back. The whir of a helicopter. The gravel beneath your feet, kicking up with all the boots, dust in your nose. A ramp closing behind you, and then the constant whir of the jet engine. Johnny drags you to sit, and you can still taste blood in your mouth.

Who’s the man-eater?

When you open your mouth and reach in, you pick out something stringy from between your teeth. With a tremble to your bottom lip, you realize it’s flesh. Viscera and muscle, blood and skin, flooded into the crooks of your mouth and notched between your molars, against your gums. Your vision goes blurry, and you realize it’s just more tears when they fall warm and salty down your face. You taste old pennies as it carries blood from between your lips as they come down your cheeks, and you lean forward to spit, splattering wet saliva and dark pink onto the floor of the plane. You cough, wiping your face with the back of your hand, but then your hands shake when you realize they are covered in blood. You look down and see much of the same—your shirt, your jacket, your tact vest, the entire front of your body has splatters of dark red.

“Oh—God—”

You feel sick. It’s all coming up, all of it, you ate something foul, and now you need to be rid of it—

“None o’tha’ now.”

You sob, jerking your head to the voice in front of you. Knelt down, Captain Price is bending to meet your eyes. Your hands tremble, and you shake your head, but he just kisses his teeth and reaches into his vest to retrieve a rag. He unravels it, reaching for your hand, and you give it to him easily as he draws you closer so he can wipe at your face. He uses a canteen to get it wet, and when he wipes your face again, the rag is soaked in red.

You’ve killed before, in some sense, but never in this way. Everything you have ever done in the service has always been tactical and removed—firing a weapon from hundreds of yards away, clicking a button and watching some screen as you blew a building to dust. Even a phone call, you think you made once, and although you weren’t pulling any triggers, the location you gave them would end up on some list somewhere. You never felt good about it, but you didn’t see the aftermath, not up close. You kept your hands physically clean, and in that way, you told yourself that it was acceptable. That you were good.

Forgivable.

It is the first time you see yourself as animal. Sharp teeth, a static mind, driven by aggression and the feeling of a threat. Someone stepped into your space, challenged your territory, and now that your omega has her teeth in you, you couldn’t stop her.

You killed a man.

But he tried to kill mine.

“I did that—” You hiss, and the agony on your face is palpable. It’s in your scent, and it clouds the small plane. You can see the scrunch of John’s face when it hits him head-on, and he shakes his head when you keep talking. Rambling. Babbling about I killed him, I killed him, what did I do—?

“Look at me, Kit,” John says. He says it with his chest, and your omega freezes when she hears the only thing she really understands. You blink, bottom lip still wobbling, but you quiet. When you meet John’s eyes, all you can read is his frustration. He looks tired. He looks doubtful. He looks worried. “What did you do?”

“I killed him.”

“That’s right,” John murmurs. “And if you hadn’t, he would’ve killed you.”

His explanation is clinical and matter-of-fact. You aren’t speaking to a man, not a normal one—you’re speaking to Captain John Price, who has enough confirmed kills to make any immediate superior nervous. The only reason John Price is not a rank higher is because that means sitting at a desk, and that just wouldn’t do for a man like this. Not for one this hungry. Not for one with eyes like that and hands that fidget the way they do. There is no way this man understands you; what you have done is what he does before breakfast. Licks his fingers afterwards even, just to savor the way it tastes.

You shake your head, “I mauled him. L-Like an animal, I—”

“You survived,” John explains. He tilts his head to the side, and he sucks you right in. “What the fuck did you think this was, Kit, hmm? Think we don’t get our hands dirty? Think the shit we do is easy, tha’ it? No—look at me.” Your eyes are wild. There’s something terrible going on in your head, and you can’t shake it. Something awful is happening to you. The you that you know is trying to understand how easy it was to do such a horrible thing. The other part of you, the one you’ve been ignoring your whole life, will sleep just fine knowing her mate is alive and well. John snarls a little, and your trembling hands find his vest and hold onto it for stability. You try to ignore the fact that the broadness of his chest dwarfs your hands, but your omega notices.

Your hands curl there, latching on, and while your omega knows this isn’t your alpha, she sighs a little at the feeling of him anyways. Stability, authority, the way he takes control—he feeds her well. Even if you cannot do what’s necessary, she can, and John and his alpha know this feeling well. It’s why he’s still alive. It’s why he’s still here.

Justified murder. Sanctioned killers. The lesser evil. Joining their pack means you are one of them now—does that mean swallowing these half-truths, too?

“You did what you were trained to do. You were backed into a corner, and you used every last weapon you had. You saved yourself, and you saved Simon, and you did exactly what a soldier is supposed to do. Repeat after me—Look at me, Kit! Keep your fuckin’ eyes on me, and repeat after me—I did what I was trained to do.”

You dig your nails into the flesh under his shirt. It barely gives, and John doesn’t flinch. Your eyes on his are so intense. This is a man that has been in your place often, for longer. He wears his experience in his eyes and in the careful movements he makes in the field. There is no hesitance when John Price makes a decision. He’s fought too hard and seen too much to ever do anything with half his heart, half his mind. The lines on his face tell a story—he isn’t this old because he hides, he’s this old because he knows exactly what to do and when to do it. He wears his alpha like armor, and they work together, in parallel, to get each other home.

Your fingers shake a little less when you feel his thick hands resting on your thighs, tugging you just that much closer.

“Say it. That’s a fucking order,” John says again. His scent is warm. It softens your insides. His eyes will never give you the forgiveness you seek, but they will forgive you anyways, and maybe that’s all you really want. Maybe it’s all you really need.

Tell me what I’ve done isn’t wrong. Absolve me. Put your teeth to my neck and tell me that everything I’ve done was going to happen anyways.

“I…” Your voice falters. Your foreheads touch, just for a moment, and your breath comes out with barely even a stutter. “I-I did what…I did what I was trained t-to do.”

“Again.”

“I did…I did what I was trained to do.”

When John stands, your eyes follow. Your head tilts back, and you blink up at him with watery eyes, and there is no mistaking the hand that comes up to cup the side of your face. You look just like the feral thing you fear you are. The cracks of your lips are still dark with blood. It’s still stained along your skin, a thick kind of war paint that you wear apprehensively, but John knows what he sees.

It’s been a long time since he’s had an omega this close. They are distractions. Giving Simon an omega meant needing to accept her into their pack. A pack of four alphas is unusual. No betas, no omegas, just four dog-like alphas that followed each other anywhere. They had an unspoken, silent agreement to keep their pack this way. Betas waste time, and omegas complicate things. They are self-sufficient, John is sure of this fact. They have never needed anyone but each other.

The moment you set foot on base, John felt it—the balance tipping. Simon had seemed indifferent to Kate’s proposition. He had never voiced his desire to claim an omega or to have a mate; his life had been a reflection of how wrong even the most natural of relationships could go, and he was not eager to try it his own way. As soon as you arrived and were tucked into your room, the change in Simon was immediate. You were here, and you would be his mate, and while Simon had never been privy to what it meant to really court an omega, his instincts took over.

John knows why. Nothing in Simon’s life had ever really been his. His entire family was dead, and even his life was not his own—he followed orders. He lived because they allowed him to, and he would die when they told him to die. The simplicity worked for him, and John never questioned that. Having nothing to lose made Simon fearless and smart. He trusted Simon to do what was necessary, and even when Simon knew he was the sacrificial lamb, he never said anything—all that came through on the radio was a curt copy tha’.

Kate gave him something, something soft and pretty, with a bite. Kate mentioned something about her being special, but John is having trouble remembering why. Something about this is the one I can’t have, but it’s white noise in his mind now. He used to think it was about control—if Kate could take you away and give you back, it might give her leverage over Simon, but he knows that’s just a fleeting idea.

No alpha in their pack would let them take you away. Not now. Not anymore. John wasn’t sure before; he had half a mind to tell Simon that this new dynamic wasn’t working, but then he heard your voice breaking over the radio, and then he saw you hauling Simon’s giant body covered in someone else’s blood with nothing but instinct driving you forward. The look in your eyes—he knows what that is, he recognized it as soon as he saw it. Someone tried to take Simon from you, and you did not let that happen. Visceral, that kind of killing. Tormenting. Immutable. It will be with you forever, but so will Simon now.

Just like that, you are accepted. Even John won’t turn you away. Couldn’t. It’s not possible. Fate has fuck-all to do with this kind of pairing.

There is a popular belief that mates are not chosen carefully—when you see them, when you smell them, it is known. The hierarchy of society that is chosen by the presentation of your own self, decided by nothing but your DNA, is divinely driven when it comes to how you pair. Your mate was already decided for you at birth, and you will discover them in your own time, because fate will have it so.

That is a lie. John won’t believe it. Simon certainly will never call this that. Kate propped a door open, and Simon simply decided that yes, he gets to have his cake and eat it, too. The waiting game is over. The chosen misery of not having an omega to knot ends. Simon knows when an opportunity presents itself, and he knows exactly when to take it. It’s pulsing under John’s fingers—a strong pulse you have, the gland just under your ear beating hot and thick under his thumb like it taunts him.

What if he leaned over and sunk his teeth there? What then?

She will never be warm enough. Her food will never be good enough. She’ll always sound distressed. The water in the showers will always be too cold. There are too many lights. She will never have enough pillows, enough blankets, they will forever torture her in a space too small, she’ll never be truly happy. They will always look for the void, for the empty spots, and they will forever try to occupy them. Fill them. Make you happy.

John understands. Maybe even from the moment he met you.

The smell of you. The sight of your doe eyes, your soft skin, the clear distress you were in—fuck, he had forgotten why omegas were kept so far apart on bases like this. Just one whiff, and John fought hard not to break right through his grip on the doorway. Enough to tempt a man; to stuff her away in some box, tuck her somewhere dark, keep her safe, sound, fed, warm, fat, happy, pleasured. A good man would be rightfully tempted by it, even with the claim over you, even with Simon’s scent sticky against your skin.

John’s alpha is not immune to that innate desire. He might not be your mate, but the cry for help is all the same, and so is the itch that his alpha wants to scratch. There is an omega in need—we have to help her.

Looking at you now, he couldn’t stop himself. Those big, wet eyes of yours, the sound of your cries. Your omega is smart. She curls your tears and your whimpers in just a way that makes every alpha in your vicinity stiffen. They all can hear it. They all can hear the clawing of her blunt nails. They all can smell the need to be comforted. Your omega is a magnet, and she’s strong; stronger than John is used to, and he thinks it’s because you don’t know how to control her.

When Simon shuts the door on his room later that evening, John isn’t the only one lingering. He sees their shadows, his sergeants, watching the door until that lock clicks. They all meet eyes, but they say nothing to each other. Perhaps it’s just another unspoken rule.

Not yet. Patience is rewarded.

Simon refused medical, naturally. He slumps onto the floor, back against the wall, and you won’t sit on the bed in your clothes, so you sit down next to him. Your knees wobble a little, and you have to hold onto the wall to sit to keep yourself from falling over as you slide down against it. You lean your head back against the wall, blinking up at the ceiling. There’s a fluorescent light that flickers, making you flinch, and then it goes eerily silent in the room. You feel nothing; it’s blissfully still, only the sounds of barely-there breathing, but then it hits you like a crashing wave. When you start to cry, Simon moves, shaking his head. He huffs, low sounds of disapproval as he shifts next to you.

“I can’t listen to you. Cryin’ like tha’.”

You don’t think he means that. From your peripheral, you can see the way his gloved hands curl into tight fists against his thighs. It’s taking everything inside of him not to reach for you. The need to touch you is something that must be burning under that thick skin of his. You hope it fucking hurts. You hope your omega is making it itch and sting so badly—you hope the discomfort makes him dig his nails so hard into his palms that it makes him bleed even more.

“I hate you.” It comes out of you too fast. You say it without thinking, but it comes out shaky and quiet. You feel defeated. You were someone else only hours ago; you were prepared to do anything for him, and all he can say is that he doesn’t want to hear you cry?

“Didn’t ask for you to do tha’. To do those things. I had it.”

You turn your head to look at him. Your guilt turns to anger. Your face drops into a tearful scowl, and your bottom lip trembles with it.

“What?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The fucking audacity of this two-faced asshole of an alpha—

“No, I need to h-hear you say that again. I need to hear you say you fucking had it. I need to hear you say that you had it after getting shot in the fucking head!” You cry. You lean towards him, glaring up at him. He refuses to look at you, just keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Look at me if you’re going to lie to me.”

He doesn’t. He just breathes deep, angry purrs that you don’t believe. You sit up on your knees, facing him.

“Coward,” you spit. “Is that what you’re gonna put in your report? That you had it, and an insubordinate rookie put your life in danger? I can’t wait to see it, Lieutenant, I cannot wait to see what kind of bullshit story you come up with. You make me so fucking sick. I can’t believe I even saved your life, cause what good does it do me?”

Simon finally turns to look down at you. Even sitting, he’s still much bigger, much taller, and he narrows his eyes. Deadly. Hateful. You are caught in a line, but you are prepared for it.

“Careful,” he warns. You gather up some saliva and spit onto the floor next to you. You wipe your wet mouth after, running your tongue over your teeth. Simon eyes the blood that still stains your mouth. Instead of horrifying him, there’s a rumble that happens deep within his chest that he cannot control.

“Don’t test me, Simon,” you throw right back at him. “He’s only dead because he doesn’t get the satisfaction of killing you. If anyone’s gonna kill you, it’s gonna be me.”

A flame that becomes a torch. That’s what you and Simon are. You do not complement each other, you set each other ablaze. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

Your faces crash together in a hard, nasty mess. His mask is first, shoved up over his nose, and then his mouth is on yours. You scramble to get undressed, fumbling to get your tact vest off as Simon’s hands paw at your cargos. You hear fabric tear, but you don’t register it. All you can think about is getting naked enough to get close enough to him so you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat against your skin.

He’s eating you; as close as he can get, anyway. His teeth anchor into your throat, scraping the delicate flesh, and then his tongue is wetting the blood that’s still on your skin and sucking it into his mouth. The taste of torn-apart alpha wasn’t apparent to you, but it must be to him—the way he’s snarling, biting, slobbering as he makes you his dinner plate.

“My pretty omega,” Simon growls. It comes from deep within him, a drawl that makes your pupils dilate. Whenever his alpha shows his face, it’s never for long, but it makes your entire body shake. You don’t really remember taking all your clothes off, but Simon’s gloved hands are on your tits, and he’s thumbing at your nipples, licking over his teeth, snapping his jaws as if he wants to bite you again. “Mine. Mine to fuck, mine to protect, mine to play with.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your heat…I can taste it,” he continues. It’s in your sweat, in your scent, he can feel it boiling under your skin, begging to come out. The way your eyes shift in and out of something, it’s the cloudy haze of it hanging over your head. “Is that how you got your leverage over ‘im? Did he get a whiff of you and forget who he was?”

“No,” you pant, slipping your hand down his pants. You cup the underside of his cock, and he hisses, putting his hand over yours and pressing you harder against him. He squeezes, and your fingers wrap around him, tugging gently. He’s pulsing hot under your touch, and you move to shove his pants lower as your knees fall open. “I saw his gland. It was so…” You falter, whining. “I didn’t think. I just did.”

“My omega,” he sighs, shaking his head. Simon grips the side of your head by your hair, and he shakes your head as he forces you to look at him. Dark eyes. Blonde lashes. A face so terrible and so beautiful and so horrifyingly yours. “You must be mine, you know tha’.”

The quickness to violence. Your unapologetic nature. Because I will do anything for him, because nothing is too much, because death is inevitable if someone gets in my way—

You do. You know it. It’s as true as your nature, as true as the voice in your head, as evident as the bones under your skin and the hair on your head and the beating heart under your ribs that feels like it’s about to break right through. Simon will put his teeth on your gland, and he’s going to bite there, and he’s going to steal everything you are and tuck it inside. You have this disgusting image of the puffed skin around his scars opening up and attaching you to him, bleeding you of any life you still have until you are nothing more than a shriveled, dry cavity.

I won’t let that happen. He might have you, but I have him, too.

When you kiss, you dig your nails into his scalp. You feel him in your guts when he slips inside, pussy opening up and squeezing right back down to keep him in. You whimper, drool spilling out of your mouth, and Simon is there to lick it right back up as he hikes your hips up and grinds into you. It’s not the worst place you’ve ever fucked, but the hard ground under your head won’t feel nice in the morning. He must know, somehow, because one of his big hands cups the back of your head, pillowing his harsh thrusts as he gives it to you good. He’s there, right there, right against your sweet spot, and you drag your nails down his back as he finds it so easily. Simon knows you—he knows you so well. His alpha knows your body, knows how to make you speechless and stupid, and you hate him and love him all the same. The emotions are so hot in your throat, wanting to come right up. You want to scream at him, you want to tear the flesh right off of his face, but you will always stop yourself with delicate hands. You will always want to save him. You can beat him and curse at him and cry all you like, but when there is a bullet that goes flying, you know you will throw yourself in front of him.

There is little safety in this world for you. You will always be nothing more than your body to others, but here, underneath him, clinging to him as he fucks you right into that plane of existance between pleasure and pain, you are you. You are more yourself than you have ever been. Half of yourself doesn’t belong to you, and yet he’s brushing your hair back and kissing you hot, and he’s saying your name, and you feel more like yourself than maybe you ever will be.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

Do you love him because you love him? Do you love him because she loves him? Do you love him because there is nowhere else to go? Because he is your only means of survival? Because if you don’t love him, you might fall into yourself like a dying star and let her finish you off?

Maybe that’s why you hate him so much. You hate him because not loving him is impossible. You hate him because you want him to prove how horrible of an alpha he really is, and yet his hand is taking the brunt of the pain, and he kisses like he’s sorry, and the scent of him relaxes you like nothing ever has before. You’re safe here with him. You always will be. It makes you so fucking sick.

“Please,” he groans. He whispers it against your cheek. His cock feels so good, hips grinding against your clit, and he’s so warm. “Let me ‘ave it. Give it t’me, omega.”

“Beg me for it.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“Bite me.”

You cry when he sinks his teeth into your jaw. It stings, in a good way. It nearly comes out, when you come for him. You nearly say it. You would mean it, if you did, but it takes everything in you to keep it down, to swallow it back inside, to keep it mashed under your tongue and sour between your teeth.

Your back bows when he comes. He always comes so much. You love the way it feels. You love how it can’t stay inside, too full, dribbling between your thighs. You love the sound it makes when Simon keeps moving—nasty, messy, lewd, a slick, slick, slick that makes you dizzy all over again. You could come again just listening to it, you could come again just hearing his choked breaths in your ear. He smells so good. You put your face into the crook of his neck and take a deep breath, and you whimper as it curls into the tendrils of your brain. Intoxicating—like you’re high. Right from the source, Simon smells delicious. You think love makes him smell better. You think love makes your omega even more feral, more than she already is, and the heat that stays in your chest tells you all you need to know.

You’re at the edge of that cliff. You’re about to fall over.

“S-Simon—”

Your voice pulls his eyes back to yours. He uses his hands, brushing your hair out of the way so he can look at you better. You cough, still a little delirious from your orgasm, but you’re coherent enough to communicate with him. You don’t need to say anything, you know that. Simon will look at you, and he will know.

“I have you,” he says. You knew he would say that, and yet you weren’t comforted until he did say it. “It’s happening, innit?”

I’m here, so close, I’m coming—

You just nod. He sits up, picking you up off the floor. All the blood in your head rushes down, and you hold on around his neck as he hoists you up around his hips. You press your face to his, cheek to cheek, and he carries you to the bathroom. When he turns the shower on, he sits you onto the toilet, and you watch him strip from there. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him, all of him.

He’s a canvas of war. Your breath stops in your throat as he turns to shuck his trousers off all the way and steps out of them. He’s covered in marks. Fleshy, pink spots that must be from third degree burns litter his left leg. They make a map of rivers along it, spreading out to his ankle. His other leg must have been slashed to bits. There’s long lines of it all, deep flesh wounds that run along the length of his thigh and his calf. Someone made a knife sharpener out of his skin, and there are dips where the flesh could not be replaced. Your eyes scan over his torso. Simon is the picture of strength. He’s big and beefy, with a solid stomach, and he just looks heavy, but even that isn’t enough to fill out the mess of his skin. Gunshots, knife wounds, cigarette burns scattered along his arms. Simon’s body wears his history like a bright neon sign. He doesn’t cover up because he’s ashamed of it—he covers himself because he doesn’t want people to ask.

He doesn’t want people to know what used to be.

You stand up on wobbly legs, putting your hands on his lower stomach, pudgy to the touch but rigid against pressure. Your fingers wander, smoothing over the lines and taking in the landscape of his body. Simon stiffens just a little, but his breaths even when you lay your cheek against his bare chest. You shut your eyes, and the only sounds are the water from the shower and the beating of his heart. It pumps strong—Simon’s blood sounds thick, tar and honey.

Under the hot water, you watch as the water runs red. You watch it carefully until it runs clear, and then you look up at Simon. He’s already looking at you.

“I’m scared,” you tell him honestly. You are afraid. You try so hard not to be, and you know deep down that your omega’s true nature is to protect you, but you’re afraid. Trusting her means giving up control, real control. Even if it’s only for a period of time, it’s long enough that you are so fucking terrified. You don’t know what to expect. No one ever taught you what to expect, no one ever told you what would happen, what you would feel. You’ve been drowning your omega so long, you are afraid of what she will do once she comes out—kicking, screaming, clawing, burning, biting. You’ve been doubtful and spiteful all your life, and now you have to just hand yourself over?

It’s mother nature; and she is such a bitch.

“Do you trust me?” Simon asks lowly. You touch his face, and he bends to keep his eyes to yours. You see nothing but honesty in them, and that terrifies you even more.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“That’s not wot I asked. I need ta hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you sniffle. “Yes, Simon. I trust you.”

When Simon tucks you into bed, you fluff the pillows. You keep doing that, picking up pillows and shaking them, tucking them into new corners until it looks…right. You stop when you’ve got the blanket scrunched up in your arms, and you blink up at Simon who’s standing by the side of the bed.

You’re making a nest. A God-awful, terrible, messy shitload of a nest, but you’re making it. You put the blanket down gently, pushing it into the corner, and then you play with your fingers in your lap, twisting your hands over each other nervously as you look around the bed. The shadow comes over you before you feel him at your back. Heat like no other, and then you feel his fingers on your arm, tracing a line from your shoulder to your elbow.

“Wot is it?” He leans over your shoulder, and you feel his lips touch the side of your head. “Wot’s wrong?”

“I need more,” you say softly. “More things. Uh…” You look over your shoulder, and his lips brush over your cheek. “Some of your clothes, maybe?”

He drops them beside you. A couple shirts, a couple hoodies, and when you hold them up for him, you hold each other’s eyes as he scents them for you, rubbing the fabric against his wrists and along his neck before you find a spot for them in the pile. It’s haphazard and not at all neat, but it’s the first time you’ve done anything of the sort. It doesn’t feel perfect, but it feels like yours, and you will always remember the look in Simon’s eyes when you invited him into your nest.

It’s shockingly intimate. There’s something so warm, something so lovely, about tugging on his arm and pulling him into the space you’ve made. He climbs over you, sinking into the blankets, and you lay back with him into the warmth. You curl up into his side, closing your eyes, and when he hooks his forearm around the small of your waist, you go with him.

It is close. You can taste it. It will be easy with him here, with her.

I know what to do. It’s okay. When you wake up, you’ll be new again. I promise. I’ll make you new. I’ll make you better. I’ll have them, I swear it. It’s okay.

It’s okay.

Okay.

You dream in a haze. The visions spill like water, crashing and moving, but you never get to focus on them long enough to see what’s really happening. You feel dirt under your nails and between your fingers, can feel the rocks cutting up your feet as you try and climb a high mountain. When you come to the top, you feel your feet slip, but someone grabs onto your wrists at the last second and pulls you upwards.

When you blink awake, all you can feel is the heat. It licks up your spine and curdles there at your back. You’re drenched in sweat, and it’s hard to breathe. The world looks like your dreams, but you can blink into focus. When you do, Simon is there, leaning over you. You whine a little, and when you rub your thighs together, you nearly choke at the feeling of how damp they are, sweat and slick staining your skin and the mattress beneath you. You didn’t expect to feel coherent. You do feel out of your body, but not in a frightening way. Maybe it’s your omega, or maybe it’s Simon, but all you feel is this immense pressure in your chest, something telling you to find and seek.

Alpha. Alpha. Alpha.

“I’m ‘ere,” Simon murmurs. He passes a thumb over your forehead, pushing some of the sweat out of your eyes. Your throat is dry, and you croak a little as you smack your lips together and arch your back up into him. “Right ‘ere.”

“Hurts,” you whisper. It does. There’s a pain in your belly that aches, and when Simon presses a hand there, you whine, immediately sensitive. There’s something missing inside of you, and your omega is singing for it to be filled. “Simon, it hurts—”

“Gonna make it better,” he says against your lips. When he kisses you, it feels like drinking fresh spring water. His saliva hydrates you, the taste of him satiating some deep-seated hunger that you’ve never felt before. It isn’t enough, but it’s good, tastes good, and you grab at him from all angles, trying to bring him closer. “Fuck, my pretty omega…” He gets between your legs, prying them apart, and you moan when you see the strings of slick that follow the motion. He seats himself there and pushes you backwards. “Present for me, kitty. Show me.”

You’ve never heard the phrase, but your omega knows what to do. She draws your hand down and uses your fingers to spread your puffy folds apart, and Simon sighs through his nostrils, hard and heavy, when he sees you spread open for him. He bends down, nudging your hands away, and when he closes his mouth over your pussy, you cry with relief. He groans. You are so warm, and you are positively sopping. He swallows mouthfuls, and it is still not enough—he bends your knees and hugs your thighs and tries hard to taste more, but it’s difficult.

“Simon,” you whimper. “Simon—” You choke on a moan as he tightens his grip. His fingers dig into you, bruising and hard, and you cry big, salty tears as he slips his tongue inside of you and fucks you with it. Soft, snarling licks, a devouring that you know is nothing short of primal. Your omega is stepping through the door, and his alpha is clawing at its fence, and soon they will meet, and you can do nothing about it but hope that they don’t kill each other.

Never. I can do it. You’ll see. I’ll make it so good.

“Alpha.”

The word resets him. He finally removes himself from between your thighs, dog-like expression on his face as looks up at you. Tongue out, drooling, that dead, loving look in his eyes. You cup his cheeks, drawing him up, and when you kiss, you note how sweet it is. How sweet you are. Natural pheromones that your body emits, something so luscious that her alpha cannot refuse it. It really is brain-swelling. You start to feel the spiral, a buzzing in the back of your head that is starting to get louder and louder and louder. Once you come for the first time, it’s like tinnitus. She’s here. She’s in your head.

She is not going anywhere.

It’s my turn now. I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

It must be revenge that she wants. Revenge against you—for every time that you’ve taped her mouth shut, every time you’ve scruffed her by the nape of her neck and forced her to quiet down. Revenge against Simon—for acting like he could do anything but submit to you, for being a right asshole just to fall at your feet for a taste of your cunt. Revenge against everything—for being underestimated, for being ignored.

You don’t know how long it’s been. A few days must have passed by now, but time slips through your fingers like water. You close your eyes to sleep, and when you open them again, it’s to fuck your pretty alpha until you need to sleep all over again. You wake up in increments of lucidness, feeling Simon tip your head back and feed you small bites of something savory or a few sips of water. You lick into his mouth after, purring as you rub your nose against his jaw, and he always presses back tenderly. Smiling as he fixes his fingers under your jaw, murmuring something soft into your ear, slipping a few thick fingers inside of you to make you relax for him.

He’s underneath you right now. Your hands are wrapped tight against the headboard, and you’re straddling his face. His thick arms are hooked over your thighs, and you whine as you draw your hips back and forth against his tongue. He eats hot and heavy, his nose and mouth wet with slick as he alternates between flattening his tongue for you to ride and forcing you to sit still as he pushes his tongue inside of you and swirls it all sloppy.

You suck it out of his mouth after, like you always do. You sink down until you’re straddling his thick middle, your mouth against his as you kiss with gritted teeth, all giggly and wet. Simon is a good kisser; the mask shouldn’t fool anyone. You reach down as he does, feeling around until you cup the underside of his cock and guide it inside of you. His knot swells as soon as you sit on it, and Simon grips you under your thighs, spreading your legs a little more until his balls are nestled between them. You whine when his knot catches, already pulsing as your mouth drops open and your eyes roll back into your head.

Simon’s always been big—but the hormones he’s been producing in response to your heat only make him thicker, and his knot nearly splits you in two. You love it, and you chase it all the same.

He hasn’t claimed you yet. You don’t remember how many times you’ve taken his knot, or how many places you’ve fucked in this room, but he won’t do it. His teeth have just grazed the spot, teasing, but he never seals the bond. You cried about it a few times, in between rounds, but he just stuffed you full again to distract you. It doesn’t always shut you up, but then he’ll hook his forearm around your neck and nearly suffocate you as he comes deep, and you’re so delirious, you forget about it for awhile.

Your omega doesn’t though. Your gland protrudes, swelling, and she wants him so badly to claim you. Half of her job is to get him to do it—she’s supposed to take his knot and entice his claim, that’s what she’s made for, and she doesn’t want to come out of this empty-handed.

I’ll give you back after I get what I want.

She fixates on his mouth. She draws you to it, making you cup his face and lick over his teeth. She makes you shove his face into your neck, makes you smother him in your scent, but Simon, to no surprise, holds his composure. He’s too capable and too aware, even in his moments of staticky pleasure, to give into her all the way.

It’s a few days later when you start to feel less out of control. Your omega still tugs at the strings; slick still pools between your thighs, the heat of your body is still making you sweat, but Simon is in focus, and you are aware as he ruts into you. Your hands cup his cheeks, and you kiss tenderly as he grinds into you with shallow thrusts, low grunts from deep within his chest making you whimper.

“I-I love you so much, Simon.”

It’s instinctual. You couldn’t stop yourself. You’re crying, so overwhelmed with sticky pleasure and soft insides.

Simon knows it’s the same when he falters. His elbows give out, his mouth grazes your jaw, and before he can think twice, his teeth sink right into the skin under your ear.

Now that is fate—Simon had set his sights on you. There was never going to be any other ending.

You cry out. Your eyes widen, bugged out, and your pupils dilate. You dig your nails into his back, right up against his other scars, and you feel blood under your nails as he presses his hips to yours and comes, more than he has before. Your toes curl, your back arches off the bed, and you choke on squeaking gasps as he shakes his head a little, sinking his teeth in deeper, holding himself there.

Animal. Bear. Hook, line, sinker—there was something that once belonged to you, but now the seal has been broken, and the golden ichor inside bleeds, and Simon takes it into his mouth like its the essence of life. Maybe it is. There will be no one else. There will never be another omega. There will never be another person that tastes the way you do, that fucks the way you do, there will never be another cunt that opens up like yours and swallows his knot just like this.

Simon’s been at death’s door far too many times. It is only now that he thinks he’ll be afraid to see it again.

You go blind for a few moments. You see spots, glittering ones, and something trickles from the base of your spine all the way to the top of your head. It feels like you’re floating—as if your blood inflated, picking you up, taking you somewhere warm and safe.

A cocoon. A protective blanket. The space against Simon’s chest, the place you’ve made under his skin.

When he pulls back to look at you, your blood between his teeth, you feel your omega come right back. You thought it was over; you thought the days of dreamy fucking and scalding sweat and mindblowing orgasms was done.

Not even close.

You’re alone when you wake up. Your eyes blink, adjusting to the soft yellow light of Simon’s desk lamp. You can smell him—he’s nearby, you hear some noises, but he’s not in your line of sight, and that makes your insides clam up.

“Simon?”

Your voice comes out more broken and sadder than you wanted it to, but your emotions feel like they are all over the place. You feel happy and sad at the same time, elated and entirely too depressed. You feel overwhelmed and also too empty. Your body aches, and you feel like there’s something wrong with you, but also that nothing is wrong at all.

“S-Simon?”

You blink through warm tears, and then you feel a hand brushing your hair off your face. Simon bends down to meet your eyes. His mask is back on, but he’s without a shirt, and you swallow at the sight of the intense bruises, hickies, nail scratches, the bite marks. The relief you feel once you know he’s here deflates your insides so warmly. You hold onto his wrist, keeping him close, and there’s a rumble that happens under his chest that makes you whine to get him even closer.

“Good morning, kitty,” Simon murmurs. He must be smiling under the mask; you see his eyes squint a little, and you hear it in his voice. “Feelin’ olright?”

You sputter and shake your head. “No.”

Simon snorts, thumbing at your cheek. You chase the feeling, following his thumb, not satisfied until he cups your cheek with his big hand.

“Tha’s olright. Y’r just hungry.”

The bath Simon leaves you in melts your bones in the best way. You sink into the hot water, humming, watching from the open door as Simon changes the sheets and cleans up the leftover food wrappers and empty beverages lying around. You remember Simon feeding you between rounds, letting you lick his fingers, suck on them—

You clench your thighs together, gripping the edge of the tub.

“Simon…” You call for him. He drops the trash he’s holding, running a hand down his bare chest as he comes into the bathroom. He kneels down beside the tub, tilting his head to the side, and you guide his hand into the water and between your thighs easily. He chuckles lowly, tipping your head back, and you sigh with relief when his fingers slip inside of you.

“You are insatiable,” Simon hisses. “Fucking for nine days ain’t enough for you, kitty?”

“N-Nine days?” You gasp, grinding against the heel of his palm. You cling to his thick bicep, the water sloshing as you squeeze your thighs around his hand. Your nipples touch the cool tub, and you hiss at the sensation, leaning up to press your face to his. He grunts as he pumps his fingers, kissing his teeth as he leans his forehead against yours a little harder.

“Nine fuckin’ days,” Simon echoes. “Nine days of fucking my best girl.”

“Mmm—” You giggle, but it’s cut off as you gasp when he adds another finger.

“Nine days of you,” Simon clicks his tongue. He sounds starved. He sounds intense. He sounds determined, and you feel it in the curl of his fingers and the way his thumb swirls over your clit. He knows just how to make you shake. “It’ll never be enough, kitty.”

“N-Never.”

“Ahh—fuck—” Simon groans when he feels you tighten up and come. You’re so sensitive, it only took a minute or so, but he slips his fingers out and keeps stroking your clit with a thick thumb to keep you whimpering. You blink up at him, and Simon feels a deep satisfaction in his chest. He knows that look in your eyes, he knows it now.

You want to go again.

Simon has never been an affectionate person. You think it’s a sound assumption for how he behaved before you met him, but it was certainly not true anymore. When you were near him, he tended to stand close to you or guide you with a hand a few inches away from your back, but Simon kept to himself. He was not romantic. He took care of you—he made sure your meals were good, ensured the water for your shower was warm, but he didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t hug you or touch you beyond what was necessary.

Things are different now. Things have changed.

He’s warm behind you as you walk. His hand is fixed on your waist, occasionally hooking a finger around your belt loop and pulling you back when you walk too far ahead. You giggle when he yanks you back, stumbling in your boots before he rights you with a firm, gloved palm against your belly.

Touchy. Possessive.

The boys are all seated and enjoying their lunch when Simon opens the doors for you. You make your way towards the table, taking a seat, and the entire group goes quiet as Simon walks past to go into the kitchen. You adjust your hair, resting your chin in your hand, and you smile knowingly at John when he meets your eyes. He sizes you up; it’s been a few days since he’s seen you, and you already look different. Looser. Warmer. Thicker.

“Ye hungry, bonnie?” Johnny finally asks. You turn your head to look at him. You really look at him this time—you notice his eyes, bright and blue, and you take in the sight of him after morning training. His cheeks are a little flushed from the workout, his arms are bulging as he sips from a paper cup of coffee, and he’s smiling like he knows a secret about you that no one else is privy to. His hair has grown out since you last saw him; the mohawk takes up the curls of his natural hair, and you reach over absentmindedly and twirl your finger around the curl that falls over his forehead.

He holds his breath with your hand so close. Your scent is strong, sweet as he turns his head just a little to take a deeper breath from where your wrist lays. You follow the swirl of his hair before letting it go, smiling wider. Johnny is terrible at hiding what he’s feeling; his eyes obviously glance around your face, lingering a little too long on your lips, until they brighten a little at the sight of the mark that peeks out from your shirt.

“Mmm…” You lick over your top row of teeth. The action is too wet to be anything but enticing. “I’m starved, Johnny.”

His knee gives out and bangs against the table at your response. You giggle, and Simon places down a tray of food in front of you just as John grumbles under his breath as he picks up his cup of water that’s spilled over the edge of the table.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Simon mutters, taking a seat next to you. You take the fork from his hand and look down at your plate. Pasta. Garlic bread. An ungodly amount of parmesan cheese on the side. Your stomach growls looking down at the food, and Simon seems to hear it. He scoots just that much closer, and it’s nothing but instinct that draws him close. His mask brushes against your shoulder and the side of your head, and his fingers trace the scabbing outline of his teeth just peeking out from the high collar of your shirt.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz hisses, leaning back in his seat. You blink away the fog in your brain, feeling your face heat. “You both reek of it.”

“Of what, Sergeant?” Simon bites, and John is the one to curl his fist around his cup and crush it with a scowl.

“Don’t play stupid, Simon,” John murmurs. “You both need another hosing down.”

“Anyone wanna join me?” You purr, and Simon curls his fingers around your hair and yanks your head back with a huff.

“Oh, you’d like tha’, wouldn’t you, kitty?”

“You have no idea, baby—”

“Bleedin’ Christ!” Johnny groans. He’s gone before you turn your head to look at him, and you smile to yourself, amused, but Simon tugs you back to him, pressing his nose to the side of your head.

“What are you doing?” He whispers in your ear. You twirl your fork before pushing his hand off, taking a bite of your food. You chew and swallow before taking a few more pieces of pasta and holding it up to his masked mouth.

“Nothing. You want a bite, Simon?” You ask. You meet his dark eyes, raising a brow as you hold up the fork a little more. He narrows his eyes a little before hiking the mask up, and you feed him with a little laugh. You wipe his mouth gently before tugging his mask back down. “You know, I’d really like some iced tea, Simon. Do you think they might have some in the back?”

Simon’s eyes twitch a little. He looks over your face for a moment longer before standing, and you bite your lip as you stare a little too long at him in those cargos before he disappears into the back again. Your omega warms you, all down your spine. It tickles—her fingers curl around your bones, licking at your insides, purring—bite him, bite him, bite him—

“Real subtle, Kit,” Gaz comments. You take another bite of your food, leaning forward a little. You point the fork at him, tilting your head to the side.

“You know, I remember having this conversation with you not that long ago,” you tell him. “Something about how much you stink even this far away. You got something in your pants, Gaz, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Piss off,” Gaz snaps, and you smile. You know you’re getting under his skin when you smell ash in the air, something bitter and eye-watering.

“Is that a kink of yours, honey? Real subtle.”

“Knock it off, you two,” John sighs, shaking his head. He leans back, running a thick hand over his beard, and you go back to eating. “Gaz, you’re gonna be late. Get a move on.”

The air feels a little tense when it’s just you and John. You move your food around on your plate, frowning a little, and John shifts where he sits.

“How…” He clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”

You look up a little at him. He’s staring at you curiously, arms crossed over his chest. You shrug lightly. It’s humorous seeing him behave so awkwardly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Sore. Really tired.”

“You been to medical?”

“No.”

“Consider it an order,” John nods at you, looking at the collar of your shirt. “Those things can be nasty if you neglect it.”

You put your fork down, and when you and John look at each other, you have to swallow your omega back down your throat. She’s salivating—look at him, he likes us, he’s worried—

“Oh, yeah?” You smile a little, coy, demure. “You know a lot about that, Captain?” The use of his rank makes his jaw clench, and you wet your lips with your tongue. “Claiming omegas?”

If the air was tense before, it’s scorching now. John is white-knuckling his own arms, and his entire body is stiff. You blink, not looking away. You hold him there, and his nose twitches at the way you pin him against some invisible board. You’re already acting so differently—so confidently. There is nothing to fight for anymore. Your omega won her prize, and now she can reap her rewards.

Your omega is greedy.

Four is just so much better than one, isn’t it?

“You seem lonely,” you say softly. He sniffs a little, laughing dryly, and your boot moves just enough to touch toes with his. “Are you lonely, John?”

Are you lonely, John? Do you need me, John? Do you see me when you close your eyes, John?

You barely contain your jump when an ice-cold glass is slammed down on the table in front of you. You blink up at Simon, who’s standing there beside you breathing hard. He sniffs, looking between you and John, but you’re quick to pick up the glass of iced tea and nearly drink the entire thing in one sip.

If Simon notices John following the drop of tea that traces along your jaw and down your neck, he doesn’t say anything.

Your omega purrs, and you nearly do, too. When Simon grips your wrist, you follow him out, but not before catching John’s eyes right before you turn the corner. He watches you the entire way, until you disappear behind a wall.

You think you smell anger on Simon. It makes you cringe a little when you get a deep breath of it, but when he presses you up against the door back in his room, you realize it isn’t anger. You smile up at him, hands behind your back, and Simon fists your hair and kisses you hot. Nope, not anger. 

Fuck, he’s horny.

It’ll never be a level-playing field. From the moment you first presented, you didn’t think there’d ever be a real future for yourself. The social order that exists has always been well-maintained and aggressively understood. You exist all the way at the bottom; your kind is meant to get on their knees, be weepy and soft, and submit. You’ve always been told that is the easy life—you aren’t like betas who have to find their way, and you aren’t like alphas who have to continuously prove themselves. All you have to be is be quiet and obedient and gentle, and everything you want will come to you.

Even wants for omegas are understood. You aren’t supposed to want anything other than a cozy nest, a locking knot, or fat babies. You aren’t supposed to want anything at all other than the alpha that claims you and whatever they decide is right for you.

Your family abandoned you. Your caretakers lost you. Kate gave you away. Simon is the only one that has never asked you what you want, not because he doesn’t care, but because it’s not what matters. All he asks is what you need—everything else will follow as it’s supposed to.

He’s staring at your mark again. He does it often; he gets lost in his thoughts, and his eyes fixate on the faint bite mark that’s there behind your jaw now. It’s since healed nicely—all that is left behind is a faint indentation that would match Simon if he hinged his jaw open and bared his teeth. He has a strange obsession with it; not only does he stare, but he likes to touch it, too. He likes putting his gloved hand on the back of your neck and stroking it with his thumb, warm circles that make your entire body relax for him.

Simon’s not so bad. Things could be worse. Simon’s purebred, that’s for certain, but that also means his relationship with your omega is a bond unbreakable. All she does is flutter her lashes, and Simon’s alpha is on a leash, pulled taut, choking him of air. She likes that the most; she likes when he stumbles, when he falters, when his alpha is huffing and puffing because he can’t contain himself when she wags a treat in front of him.

You let her have it. It’s the least you could do.

Simon’s pack is no better. Sometimes, you think your omega feels guilty, but you push it down just like you’re used to. They deserve none of your pity. Entitled shits, they all are, and if it wasn’t for the fact that you are in their pack, you would never give such fragile egos the time of day; but they are in Simon’s pack, which means they’re in yours, which means you at least try to play nice.

Sometimes, though, it’s real funny watching Simon’s sergeants covering their crotches and waddling out of a room.

You can’t figure out John. He’s difficult to pin down. He has a special bond with Gaz and Simon, but every time you think you and your omega have figured out his wants and needs, he surprises you or oddly turns you down. While you already have an alpha that satisfies you entirely, it still stings, the rejection. Your omega whines. She is a part of their pack now, and the cold shoulder from even just one makes her upset—it does not help that John takes the place as head of this pack, either. She wants his approval, and she begs you to get it.

“Does John like me?”

Simon pauses at his desk. His pistol is disassembled in front of him, parts laid out carefully in a pattern only he might understand so he doesn’t lose any of the pieces. There’s gun oil and a rag to accompany him, and he’s methodically running that rag over the barrel when he stops. You turn your head from your place on the bed to look at him.

Simon shrugs. “Dunno,” he says finally, continuing with the rag. “Would think so.”

“I don’t think so,” you say softly. “Not like Johnny does. Or Gaz.”

“Tha’s cause they wanna fuck you, kitty,” Simon snorts, and you draw your knees up a little, squeezing your legs together. You think about Johnny’s wagging tongue or Gaz’s wet lips too long, and you’ll drag Simon over, even knowing his gear is filthy.

“John doesn’t?”

“John is…” Simon shrugs again, sighing deeply. “Him and omegas. It’s…complicated. Wot do ya care, anyway? Three alphas not enough for you?”

Three. The thought makes your omega giddy. You have yet to have them, but just knowing you can makes her so lightheaded. Since meeting her, you’ve come to know her as selfish and entirely too greedy. She’s a fiend for Simon’s attention the most, but you know she aches for all of it. She wants all four of them to fuss over her, to follow her like dogs.

“Maybe for me,” you agree, but your voice longs. It carries weight to it, and that makes Simon pause. “But not for her.”

Simon drops his things, standing up from his chair, and you smile wide as he comes towards the bed and grips you by your jaw with a shake. You blink up at him with a shaky breath, and his eyes crinkle, like he’s smiling, too, under his mask. Your omega will never be afraid of him. She adores him, far too much for your liking.

“Well, then. Maybe I should let my sergeants have a taste, and then we’ll see what’s not enough for her, eh?”

Your omega sighs. She just loves getting what she wants.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough.

One reprieve you do get now, however, is that your heats are predictable. Like clockwork, every ten weeks, you can plan for those seven to ten days of complete bliss underneath Simon. You can lock him away, pull him out of any obligation or any mission, and he’s in your nest, staring down at you, feeding you between intervals of intense sex to keep your omega happy and satiated. John just bites his tongue when you take his lieutenant away—even if he wanted Simon not to go, he would never command it. He couldn’t do that to you, not to their omega.

She gets whatever she wants. No questions asked.

The balance is certainly well and tipped. It is no longer a clean-cut ladder with John at its stead. Now, it’s a foot on the tightrope, with each alpha fighting to make sure it does not tip over. As long as you are happy, their footing holds. They feel it steady and still, and they breathe easy.

There is still something that has the ability to disturb the equilibrium your omega has maintained. You just never thought you’d see it again—or smell it.

Your omega knows what it is as soon as gets the scent—who it is. Familiar. Edgy. Dark chocolate and herbs, a scent that used to comfort you, and now one that makes you hot with disdain.

She looks older. Tired. Stressed. You see it on her face, and you smell it on her, too. She wants to take them away from you. Not one, not two, all of them—and she doesn’t want you with them when she does.

She waves her hand like she always does. She throws her orders around, expecting everyone to move as soon as she says to. She’s not prepared for the tension, and she’s not prepared for the reluctance she’s met with. Instead of four bloodthirsty dogs, she stares down at outright disobedience.

She’s disturbed a den—and she doesn’t understand what stands in her way.

You remember the first time you saw Kate Laswell. Freshly 18, nowhere to go, no family. The streets weren’t suitable for you; omegas are vulnerable on their own, and if you didn’t choose the pack you got swallowed up in, it would get chosen for you. The doors for the service were always open. That’s what they do, that’s what your country does—they break their people down to the bone, down to their knees, and then the only way to build themselves back up is to put shackles on their ankles and cuffs on their wrists. It is the circumstances your country thrives on. They build the walls that cage you, and then barely wrench the door open enough for you to breathe.

You will always be kept at the same level—you always beg them for more, and Kate is just one cog in the wheel that keeps the machine running. She saw your face, saw you for what you were. She promised you a life worth living, and then she pulled the rug out from underneath you. She put you in her pocket; she tucked you away for a rainy day. Her precious 141 was slipping away from her, and she played her cards.

You want her to hate the hand she is dealt.

You’re outside when she finds you. You’re sitting outside the mess hall, where the benches are plentiful, and you’re staring down at the pack of cigarettes you stole from one of Simon’s jackets. The lighter is in your other hand, but you can’t get yourself to try one.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker.”

You keep your eyes down on the cigarettes. You smooth a thumb over the label, licking over your teeth. Despite everything else, her voice hasn’t changed.

“I’m not,” you say softly. “Just…”

When you look up, you meet Kate’s eyes, and those have not changed either. They are still looking right through you, just as they always have. You used to think you loved her, at one point. She always would check on you. Visit your base herself, call if she couldn’t—ask how things were, if your CO had given you the accommodations she ordered him to. She made you feel like you were her favorite, as if she cared for you differently in some way. Surely, she did not check up on others the way she did you. She had other soldiers she must have kept her eye on, other places her guidance was needed, but surely, you were someone special to her.

You had been around plenty of alphas before her, but she was the only one that used to make you feel like you couldn’t rightly breathe. The first time you felt your omega bobbing her head to the surface of where you stuffed her, it was when Kate stood just this close to you. There was a time when you thought maybe Kate was reserving you. When the time was right, she might you ask the question you always thought she would—the terrifying world she tried to protect you from, she’d really do it, she’d take you away, take you with her.

Grass is always greener, you suppose.

You swallow hard when she takes the pack of cigarettes from you and brings one of them to her lips. She steps closer to you, jutting her chin out, and you raise a hand to flick the lighter on and burn the end of it until she puffs out a breath of smoke.

“Nasty habit,” you say softly, and Kate just laughs bitterly.

“Got nastier vices, kitty.”

Your eyes flick back up to hers, and you narrow them stiffly. Maybe she thinks she’s being cute, but all you see when you look up at her is someone alone. Someone reaching. Someone desperate. There’s an edge that Kate Laswell is known best for, but you don’t really see it anymore.

You tilt your head up a little, relaxing your face. You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“How’d your meeting go?” You ask. She takes a long drag from the cigarette, blowing it out just to the side. You reach over and put a hand to the collar of her shirt, straightening it out. “Hope you got what you needed. I imagine you don’t wanna be here long.”

“Interesting you asked,” she says lowly. “I, in fact, didn’t get what I needed. I’m not leaving until I get it.”

“That’s too bad,” you tut. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You always do, don’t you?”

You have to lean back a little when she steps closer. Kate has always been someone who was more or less affectionate with you. Soft touches, shoulder squeezes, comforting words. You don’t remember what you used to see in her. You can no longer recall an instance of ease, a time when she was kind. You can only remember her words of rejection and her dismissiveness of your fear. Every warm memory has been replaced with her abandonment of you and her autonomy over you. Building you up just to knock you right back down.

You used to want her to want you. You used to pray that she would wake up one day and realize you would be content to live out a quiet life somewhere secluded, even if your relationship would be nothing but platonic.

You were wrong about her, and she was wrong about you.

“I don’t know what you’ve said to them,” Kate murmurs. “But I need this. You wouldn’t understand, but this isn’t…I’m not dealing with trivial matters, Kit. This is life and death. International security, and I’ve never expected you to understand where I was coming from, never wanted you to—”

“They said no,” you whisper, laughing a little. “They said no to you, didn’t they?” You tip your head back even further, staring up at the night sky, and you laugh again as you close your eyes.

“John said no.”

When you open your eyes again, Kate is sitting down, leaning her head back against the brick wall of the building behind you. She takes another drag of the cigarette, her face scrunching as she breathes it in deep. She flicks the ashes off the end of it, looking down at her feet.

John said no.

“John said no,” you echo, crossing your arms over your chest. “And Simon?”

“I expected that,” Kate shrugs. “A given. You did good there, Kit.” When you sit next to her, you notice her knee spread a little wider, just barely touching your own.

“But you weren’t prepared for John,” you finish for her.

“If anything, I can always count on John to separate…” Kate scoffs, “wants and needs from what needs to get done.”

“From what you want to get done.” You turn to look at her. “Did you ever think that…maybe this wasn’t meant for them? That they wouldn’t do this forever?”

“That’s a dangerous way to think for men like that,” Kate snaps. “You don’t want them out of here, living a civilian life.”

“The only person this is dangerous for is you,” you throw back at her. “Who else is going to clean up your fucking messes if not them?”

“Watch yourself, Kit.”

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

You don’t realize you’ve said it until it’s been said. You nearly cover your mouth, horrified by what you couldn’t stop yourself from spitting at her. You can feel your omega’s fingers in your mouth. She’s feeling around your gums, drying out your tongue, cackling as she shows her newfound teeth. She never thinks any harm will ever come to her—the hollowness of your scent gland is proof of that. She’s been claimed but something foul, by something mean, and now she’s not afraid to do whatever it is she wants to do. You thought she’d given you back, but she’s still here, still causing trouble, and now Kate is forcing herself onto you. Her fingers are tight around your throat, and now you’re pressed up against crumbling brick, gasping as she crowds your space and attacks your nose with the bitter, poisonous concoction that her anger emits into the air around you.

“Don’t forget yourself,” she spits. Her lips nearly brush against yours, and you breathe in mouthfuls of her scent. It’s achingly heady, and it tastes like it’s filling your lungs with smoke. There’s something else there that you can taste, however—something warm, spicy, something a little less sour. Acid turns to sweetness, and you laugh between gasps of breath as you grip her wrist and dig your nails into her to try and get her to loosen her grip. When she finally lets you go, you take in a deep, shaky breath of fresh air. The tension never leaves her shoulders, but she steps back, away from you, and you smooth a hand down your own neck and brush yourself off.

You adjust the collar of your shirt, looking down at your feet.

“You owe me,” you say, throat scratchy. “I’ll do it. Whatever you’re here to ask me to do, I’ll do it. But you…owe me.”

You slam the doors behind you as you leave her there. Cigarette still burning on the floor, light flickering overhead—when you turn to glare at her from over your shoulder, she’s still staring after you.

You wonder if she looked at you this way when she left you the first time.

You remember when you used to be wary of Simon—when just the sight of him made the blood under your skin heat and bubble just under the surface. What you can’t remember is why; he’s standing between your legs right now, head bent forward, forehead brushing against yours occasionally as you gear him up. You pick up a few rifle magazines from beside you, trying to ignore how warm he is even under his gloves as you fill up every pocket of his vest. You pick up a pair of scissors and tuck it into another pocket, tugging to make sure everything is secure before you start to load the first aid kid that’s on his front.

You close your eyes when he juts his head forward just enough, his masked face pressing into the side of your neck. Your hand slides up, over his chest, just to cup the back of his neck and hold him close. His nose touches just under your jaw, and you make a small sound as his big hands grip you under the thighs and tug you forward. Your knees widen to accommodate him, and you scrunch your face at the feeling of his gear digging harshly into your middle.

“What is it, Simon?” You whisper, and he just huffs. You lean your head back a little, giving him more room, and you squeeze your legs around his hips when you feel his tongue from under his mask, wetting where your scent gland is. “Simon—”

“Smell nice,” he tells you. You laugh a little, and when he stands up to stare back down at you, you give him a nervous smile. “But I know how y’r feeling. Can’t hide tha’ from me.”

You don’t say anything. There isn’t anything you want to say. He’s right; you are nervous. The last time you followed Simon out in the field, he nearly died, and so did you. Sometimes you wake up thinking your saliva is someone else’s blood; and when he isn’t in bed when you wake up, you think you’ll see him again, sprawled onto his back, a bullet too close to his head.

You feel his fingers on your throat, blinking up at him, and when you meet those dark eyes, you feel your bottom lip shake. You’ve never been scared, but you feel so out of yourself when you join them. The 141 aren’t called in when the job is easy—they only do the things that no one else has been able to do. Your training is tested every single time you join them. You’re not like them; you cannot turn everything off. Simon is someone else on the other side. Johnny is fucking crazy. Gaz goes somewhere else in his head, and you don’t always recognize his voice. John—always level-headed, that one, but his gentleness with you is nothing short of an exception. These aren’t good men. They’re war criminals with badges.

“Ya don’t have ta come,” Simon says lowly. “I could ask Price, you—”

“No—!” You sit up straighter, your hand gripping his wrist to keep him close. You shake your head adamantly, squeezing his arm. “No, that’s…it would be worse.”

“Worse?”

“Who the fuck else is gonna watch your six?” You ask. “You suck at it.”

Simon laughs, from deep in his chest, and you press your lips against his from over his mask.

“Oi—kitty,” he murmurs, tilting your head back. He kisses you from under the mask, a soft peck through the fabric that leaves you with a light stomach. His attention is always too much and not enough. “Tha’s never gonna happen again, ya hear me?” He shakes his head. “Didn’t do my fuckin’ job tha’ day. Won’t be like tha’ anymore. I have you.” Simon kisses you again, pinching your chin, and you don’t let him move away. “My omega. Mine.”

“Wheels up in 15, lovebirds.”

Simon stops you from going too far when you hop down from the table. He tugs on your tact vest, making sure it’s tight enough, and then he picks up your helmet to fit it over your head. He picks up your sidearm next, releasing the magazine to make sure it’s full before hitting it back inside and loading the chamber. He bends to secure it in your thigh holster, and then he’s tugging on the straps of it, making sure it’s not loose around your leg. You can’t hold in your smile anymore when he stands and reaches under your chin to buckle your helmet.

There’s no reason to be scared. Not around him, not underneath him, and certainly not under his command. Maybe you’d step in front of a bullet for him—maybe you’d throw yourself in front of whatever someone tossed his way, but he would do the same for you. You don’t doubt that. You don’t think there’s anything someone could do to you that he wouldn’t give back to them much worse.

Simon’s love isn’t typical. It’s not sweet, nor does it fit inside its confines. He isn’t violent at his core, but it’s a response ingrained in him. Possessive, sick, overbearing to a fault—he’s too much all the time, but maybe it’s because Simon’s never been allowed to ever love anything without terms.

Everything has always been decided for him. How long he got to play as a boy. How tight he could hug his mother. How high he could raise his voice, how big he was allowed to grow, how he must behave once he presented. He’s always been too much, and he’s always been told what to do, so to have this thing, this one thing that could belong to him—who the fuck are they or you or anyone else allowed to tell him how to feel? How could anyone tell him the pedestal he puts you on is too high? Too warm? Too comfortable?

He’s died twice before in his life, but it wasn’t enough to keep him buried. Now he’s here, and he’s with you, and it wasn’t a coincidence. Fate handed you over, but by sheer will, he will keep you, and you will stay here, rooted to this spot, to the space between love and hatred and what overwhelms you and what lives inside of you between the hollow of your ribs. There’s a heart that beats there, too fast, too hard, knocking against the bones, and whenever Simon is near, it aches. You are bonded for life. Even if you lose him, you’ll never want another, not in the same way. It’s only ever been Simon that’s ever told you that it’s okay to be what you are; you cannot change your anatomy, you have to understand it at its most basic level and learn the rhythm of every song it sings.

I am not your enemy. I am your best friend. I will do things for you that no one else can do, I can hear the things you can’t tell anyone else, I’m the thing between what you really are and what you’ve always wanted to be, I know you, I know you, I know you—

“You trust me?” Simon asks. The ramp of the jet lowers, clattering against the tarmac, and he fits his thumb under your chin to bring your eyes back to him.

“Yes.” You smile up at him, and his thumb falls to touch the imprint of his teeth that’s there, right under your shirt. Only when he feels the dip where his canines have marked you does he look into your eyes again. Dark. Honest. Content. “Yes, I trust you, Simon.”

Simon drops his head, and you flutter your lashes when his helmet hits yours.

“On me, then, kitty.”

Simon is the thing that hides in the dark. The dark figure at the wrong end of a gun. He is the silhouette that takes the shape of your own shadow, and he is the terrible monster that hides under your bed; and yet, here you are, falling into step with him. It is not your omega that carries your feet—it is yourself, you, the one you’re hyper-aware of, the side of yourself that you have known for too long and neglected because you were taught the very worst enemy was the one inside of your own head.

If she was so bad, you don’t know why Simon’s hand would feel so warm in yours. If she was so terrible, you don’t know what makes his eyes so difficult to look away from. If she was so horrible to you, you don’t know why Simon is standing over a man that pointed his gun at you and forcing a blade so deep into his throat that the tip dents against the concrete.

It’s not that bad. Simon’s name will forever live in you, in the shape of his teeth under your ear.

Simon looks at you when he wrenches his blade back out, blood against the sharp edge. He lifts it to his face, and your lips part when he wipes it against the mouth of his mask, painting the skull teeth red.

No, it isn’t so bad. She’s smiling. No, you are. You’re one and the same, and you know her the same way you know yourself. She’s home, tucked into the warm places you know you’ll keep her, and you—

Well.

Whenever she woke up marked the last day of the rest of your life. One moment, the world inside of your head was unnervingly quiet. The next, someone else was there, whispering in the dark, taking over.

You aren't proud of her. No, you hate her. There is no one you hate more, you don't think, because she lets the direction of the fucking wind distract her from what really matters. She paints her environment in a soft, glazed picture, and she tries to hold up her canvas and convince you that her reality is real. But then you blink, and you get flashes of how dull the sky really is and the dirt that stains your shoes, and you know that she's just a liar.

A controlling, desperate thief.

When you heard her voice for the first time, you begged your reflection in the mirror to just kill you already.

If you were an alpha, maybe you could've just drawn away into yourself and lived a quiet life in the middle of nowhere. If you were a beta, perhaps the weight of nothing would've given you a little more freedom to do the things you wanted to do.

But no. You're an omega. Nature's servant. A natural follower. Destined for nothing except to open your legs and say, "yes, alpha, all for you," because if you are anything but complacent, you're unwanted and a waste of your very being.

Your eyes stung when you took your first little pill. They rattled in different colors in a little orange bottle, and it felt like sand as it dissolved under your tongue. Even though it makes you sick, you take them anyways. Even though the pills change colors and shape and efficacy because you buy them from someone different every time, you take them because it makes your omega shut the fuck up finally.

You bury her. And you won't let her out.

The truth of it is that you're only fighting yourself. Your omega, she is you, isn't she? She's a part of you, she makes up your very genetic makeup, and to hate her is to hate yourself. But nature is cruel–it gave you years of freedom. Years to know what life was like without her, when she was dormant, asleep, just waiting for you to finally wake up.

Then your very self locked the cage. Your fingers claw at the bars, but it's no use. It's your very own punishment. So in turn, you bury her, too, silencing her cries, quieting what she wants most in the world, because it isn't fair, fuck you, you whiny bitch.

She's a pathetic puppy; and you are more than happy to step on her fucking neck.

Your aim is off today. The sound is muffled through the earphones you wear, but they've never thrown off your balance before. When you lean over the railing and squint at the target papers towards the back, you can see the bullet holes just a few inches off center.

You're never off-center.

"Getting rusty on me, Kit?"

You turn around, setting the gun down, and you smile wide when you see a familiar face. You pull the headphones off, putting them aside before making your way towards her.

Kate Laswell is surprised when you throw your arms around her and hug her tight. She smells good; she smells like chocolate, dark chocolate, something bittersweet. She's got that edge to it that they all do, something a little heady and all-encompassing, but she's the only alpha that you've ever found comfort being near. You see her nose scrunch a little when she embraces you back.

You must stink like synthetics. You care, only because you hate to make her nose sting this way. It's never been meant for her. At times, you thought maybe you could do a little convincing; maybe if you batted your lashes enough, she’d take pity on you, hide you away in some CIA shack with her deep on a Montana farm and play house. You’d cook, and she’d protect, and you’d be perfect little alpha and omega until the end of your days.

But Kate doesn’t like baggage. Not even the sweet kind, and especially not the kind that makes it even more difficult to make the hard decisions.

Kate isn’t a soldier. She makes choices based on the greater good, the lesser evil. She doesn’t get to be selfish. She doesn’t have that luxury.

When you pull away, she looks down at you strangely. She looks tired. Her dark hair is in a mess of a braid tucked under a cap, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. Her attempt of a smile emphasizes the lines around her eyes. You open your mouth to tell her something, but she shakes her head.

"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.

"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.

"We need to talk. C'mon."

You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it into your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.

"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't–"

"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next. Her face makes you anxious, and the scent in the car that changes puts you on edge.

"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"

Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.

"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not really CIA. You don't give me orders."

"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."

Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.

Program. UK. Field assignment. Mate. All the keywords to make your stomach curl and your autonomy shrink in front of your very eyes.

"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. You soften your voice, and you let your omega drip syrup into it. You want to see her eyes dilate–you want to make her protectiveness kick in just enough that she might just appease you. It’s desperate, and you know it’s wrong, but you do it anyways, you have to. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised–"

"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply. She pities you, that much you can tell. She looks pained, but it doesn’t matter how pained she might feel because it isn’t happening to her. It’s happening to you, and she put you on that base so that it wouldn’t happen to you, and she tricked you into getting into this car, and now it’s her–

"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."

You promised me. You gave me your word.

"I can't–"

But the CIA can’t be trusted for shit.

"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. Appease. Beg. Bare your neck. Give her what she really craves. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to–"

Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.

"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"But you'll do this instead?"

"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. It aches. Despite you never leaning towards her, it is still an alpha turning their nose up at you, and the thing inside of you cries at the feeling; she begs you to do more, but you swallow her down, fingers itching for another pill just so you can really squash her singing. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."

"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. You scrunch your face at her touch. Her hands are cold, and they do not welcome you. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"

"It's mercy," she whispers. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks in soft circles. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there, and I can’t take you with me. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head preening. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. You’re panicking, and maybe she’s trying to help, but you hate her. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."

"Please..."

"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."

You rip yourself away from her, curling into yourself as you scoot away from her as far as possible. You press yourself against the door, tucking your knees into your chest. Whatever passes by outside is a blur, and your brain doesn’t register any of it. The only thing in your head is betrayal, traitor, those sick, stupid bastard alphas, all of them–

"Fuck your promises," you whimper, and when she reaches out for you again, you flinch, burying your face into your hands.

Kate is a liar. She never keeps her promises; that’s her job, it is what she does. The CIA is nothing if they aren’t incredible liars–it’s what they’re known for, and Kate takes to it like a fish to water. As far as you are concerned, she lured you in with bait, and now she's shut the door on a trap. It is lined with padding, soft, delicate, but it still holds you back, it still keeps you still and stagnant and forever chained to an existence that you detest more than anything. She used you; it was in her best interest to keep an omega under her thumb, to do with you as she pleased when she needed one, and you suppose once you are taken, she will find another to do the same with. She will give another desperate one like you false hope, and when she needs another omega to keep someone else complacent and willing, she will offer them up with her signature on paper–just like that.

She tries to touch your hand before you board the plane. She tries to meet your eyes, get your attention, anything. You cower when she reaches out, and when she steps backwards, you walk on.

You never look behind yourself. Not even when you sit, and not even as the ramp closes shut.

Fighting is futile when you are who you are. It's unexpected. It's frowned upon. You are made up of something that is intended to be docile, to be big-eyed and soft. If you were a dog, they would want you to roll over and bare your belly and forget how to do anything but obey, but that is not the kind of thing that you ever wanted to be, even when you were small, even before you knew what you really were.

You hate what you are. You medicate yourself to the point of being incoherent, you bare your teeth and aggravate the submissive nature you inherit to deter any kind of match. You make yourself undesirable, not just in your physical nature but in the very essence of yourself.

You want to start over, as something else, or you want to never have been at all. You hate this place, you want them to cast you out, you want to be left to your own devices because dying alone and unwanted is better than submission; it;s better than the imprisonment that your kind subjects themselves to, willing or not.

It sickens you. You watch your own kind fall to their knees, close their mouths, and allow their very being to disappear just to make another satiated. Happy. Their entire lives, reduced to being someone else's waiting hand, someone else's property. It's sad, it's pathetic, it rocks you to the very center of yourself, and you demand more of it, you reject this life and the voice in your head that fights with you every single day of it.

She hates you, too, your omega. She claws at your insides and begs for something to drink, but you dry her out. You don't allow her to even breach the surface of the wasteland you've suffocated her with. She is naïve; she doesn't know what is good for her, she doesn't know that you are saving her from a life of constant torture. She screams for you to let her out, but you take another pill and force her back into the dark.

Or at least you did. You haven't taken a pill in days. They won't let you, even when you asked, even when you began to beg. You promised to be good if they just appeased you. You promised to be quiet if they just slipped it under your tongue, even if they injected it into your very veins, anything, just please, please, I don't want to–

Everything is surreal. You feel like you're seeing everything in color. What used to be dull and uninteresting now sparkles in your very eyes, it glows under the sun. Everything is sharper and less blurry. Sounds are clearer. You can hear the wind more loudly in your ears and feel it under the soles of your shoes. But what dizzies you the most is your sense of smell.

Everything before had been so bland. You have been under the effects of suppressors for so long that you don't think food has ever smelled so bad and so good (eggs make you gag now, and the crisps they give you make your mouth water).

They keep you confined in a small room. You are not allowed in the presence of any alphas; you can smell them passing by the door, but whenever the stink of one of them lingers, there's loud voices, lots of heavy boots. A beta comes to collect you to do a daily workout and to shower, and then you are back in your room, your meals delivered on a tight schedule (and the food, after a few days of your tray being barely picked at, gets so much better–it's better quality than you've seen on any military base, and when you asked, all they said was "lieutenant's orders").

Today is different. Today, along with your breakfast, a large black hoodie is folded underneath the tray that they leave on the end of your bed. You set the food aside, picking up the hoodie, and when you unravel it, you spread it out, gawking at the size of it. Whoever this hoodie belongs to is more bear, more beast, than human. An enormous thing, but when you pick it up, you immediately pick up on its strong scent.

You press the front of it to your nose. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sink into the bed a little as you take a deep breath of it. Warm, but gritty, like charcoal. Cigarettes. Military-issue soap. Clean. Eucalyptus. Fire. Something with depth, something with teeth. You don't realize what's happening to you until it's too late.

Alpha. It smells undoubtedly like alpha, and you're certain by the size of it that it belongs to one. You nuzzle your face into it a little, instinctively, and you don't even register your omega knocking, peering through the door that's been cracked open for her.

She squeals with delight. She's getting dizzy, drunk, and you feel a soft noise in your chest bubble as she pets the back of your mind, keening at the introduction of it. She’s giggling. You can feel her tugging at your insides, whispering in your ear–See? I told you. I told you that you’d like it.

They smell strong. They smell capable. They smell pure.

When you put the hoodie down, your legs are pressed together, shaking from how hard your thighs are squeezed. When you relax, you refrain from the need to touch yourself, but you failed before you even started. You can feel how wet you are; your panties must be soaked, and you feel yourself pulsing with some sort of distinct urge to give in, give in, give in.

It's unnerving, the lack of control you have. Your omega has always been a few feet underwater, but she's breaching the surface now, her lips gasping for air.

You try to push her back.

Stay down.

When the clock strikes for dinner, you aren't surprised by the knock. But you are surprised that when the door opens, there isn't a beta in uniform holding your tray. Instead, you cover your nose a little, blinking harshly as a large man comes into the room. He's got a strange beard and a floppy hat, and when he smiles, he reminds you of a teddy bear. You can tell just by his physique what he is, but his eyes are kinder than you're used to.

You will yourself not to trust them. You trusted kind eyes before, and now you’re locked in a prison of your own making.

"'ello," he introduces himself, holding out his hand. "'m Captain John Price. 's nice to meet you."

You glare at him, not saying a word. When he figures you won't shake his hand, he just nods. He lets his hand drop, hooking his thumbs into his tact vest, and he rests at ease.

"I've come to collect you," he says lowly. "It's time."

You pick up your tray of food from behind you and hurl it towards him. He ducks just in time, moving one shoulder backwards as the metal hits the wall behind him and clatters to the floor in a splattered mess. John shakes his head a little, scratching the back of his neck, and he clicks his tongue. You’re unnerved and a little pissed off when a hint of a grin flickers over his face.

"Fuckin' hell," he breathes. "Yeah...you'll do."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's go," John snaps. "Won't ask again."

When he reaches for you, you swipe the fork from the bed, stepping close and sticking the little prongs up against his chin. You aren’t satisfied until you can feel his scratchy beard against it, piercing the skin just enough.

"If you touch me, I'll shove this right up your chin through your goddamn nose," you threaten, and John’s nostrils flare, his hands going up flat beside his head.

"Easy," he murmurs, and you feel like he’s talking to a skittish mare. "Just need to guide you, that's all."

"Well, I don't want to go anywhere."

"If you don't do this, I have to send you back," John explains. "And Kate made it very clear that is supposed to be my last resort. And you don't want to go back."

"Anything is better than this," you hiss, and he narrows his eyes.

"Not this. What they do to unruly omegas..." He leans forward, snarling a little. "Ones like you. Ones that bite. And scratch. They don't deal with them. They'll sedate you and use you as training practice. And while Kate might have a heart big enough to keep you outta that place, I don't have it. So get your arse moving. Now."

You put your hand down, dropping the fork, letting it clatter to the floor. He grips you by the collar of your shirt, urging you forward, and all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck as he gets dangerously close to scruffing you. It's enough of a threat that you immediately relax, your own body betraying your emotions as it tries to make itself smaller. To appease. To submit.

"This can't wait any longer," John mutters. "Has to happen today."

Your lip trembles.

"What has to happen today?" You ask.

"You're meeting your mate," he says. You know that was the answer, but you had to ask it anyways. You think of the hoodie you received all those hours ago. The smell of him, complete intoxication. "Simon."

Simon.

"Sounds like an asshole," you snap, irritated, and John chuckles a little.

"Mmm. He is. You'll adore 'im."

You flinch at the flickering fluorescent lights as he leads you down a narrow hallway. When you pass other soldiers, John puts you in front of him, glaring and baring his teeth a little. You're confused by this sudden display of aggression on your behalf, but when you spot the looks in others’ eyes, you're grateful for it nonetheless.

You know your scent is strong; piercing the walls around you, displaying your displeasure, discomfort, fear so plainly. It's an awful thing to not be able to hide how you feel, to not feel like you have any control over how you present to others, but you have no practice masking any of it. You have been drowning your omega for so long that you didn't realize the strength of her building up behind the synthetic walls you had built. She's livid, angry, permeating the spaces in your mind that you thought were solid and now are broken and hollow inside.

You stop in front of an unmarked door. John looks over you, eyeing the jacket you wear.

"Take tha' off," he says lowly. You frown, stepping back, but he nods again. "Take it off. You'll get it back, just give it to me."

You shrug your jacket off gently, handing it to him. John holds out his hand for yours, and when you cautiously give it to him, he rubs the fabric against your wrists to soak it in your scent before disappearing behind the door. You wait outside, pressing your ear to the metal, but you hear nothing but low mumbles. You do hear a heavy gait, big feet moving around that don't belong to Captain Price, and you close your eyes as you try and see if you can hear his voice.

You don't.

The door is opened just slightly, John cocking his head to the side.

"He wants to see you."

You raise a brow.

"Your mutt?" You ask smartly, and John scoffs a little, kicking the door open wide finally. Behind it, you can see a small little office situated. Dozens of file cabinets, a stained wooden desk, a peeling leather chair. There are papers everywhere, a disorganized mess and walls filled with medals, plaques, letters, pictures of faceless men. And standing beside the desk, towering over it with his head nearly hitting the ceiling is a bear.

A fucking bear.

He's so tall. Over six feet of hulking man, big shoulders taking up too much space. You can tell just by looking at him that he has to duck his head and move his body sideways to get through the doorway you're standing in. He has big hands and thick thighs, and your lips part when you realize his thigh holster has been released as much as possible just to still fit snugly around him. He's wearing dark jeans and a thick black hoodie, and he looks even bigger with a strapped tact vest that holds numerous little gadgets, weapons (fuck, he looks like he can kill you with the pencil laying haphazard beside him).

You can't see his face. He covers it with a mask, a snug covering tucked under his hoodie with the plastic front plate of a skull sewn to its front. He's holding your jacket in one hand, the other clenched in a tight fist as you step through the door.

"Is this your dog, Captain?" You ask finally. Simon doesn't speak. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing you, taking in the way you look from the tips of your combat boots all the way up over your head. His gaze lingers on your middle, the wideness of your hips and the curve of your body.

John crosses his arms over his chest.

"Suppose so," John shrugs, rolling his eyes a little. You blink, finally making eye contact with Simon. His eyes are dark and beady. He's intense, just as his scent had been. Your omega warms your throat and screams in your ear.

Grab him. Latch onto him. Don’t let him go. Do you see him? Look at him–

"Does it bark?" You wonder, glaring. Simon unclenches his fist, rolling his fingers out a little. They twitch beside his leg. His face twitches a little, too, you can see the mask move just slightly.

"When he wants to."

"Does it bite?"

John snorts. "Mmm. Afraid so." He opens the door behind him. "Don't kill each other. If I don't see her for supper, Simon, I'll hold you to it."

When you are alone, Simon still remains silent. He hasn't moved from his spot by the desk, still in a strange staring contest with you as you stand there trying to read him. Like Kate, he's impossible; this time, you don't even have the luxury of looking over his face, although you suspect even without the mask, he must have mastered some kind of expression of nothingness. He seems like the kind of brute to give nothing away. Not even his displeasure.

"Hope you're good on a leash," you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest. "I like to go on walks."

His face moves under the mask again. Finally, he moves. He unravels your jacket in his hand, holding it open for you to put on again. You eye him strangely before coming closer to fit your arms into it.

When you turn your back to him, you realize how much of his shadow you're tucked under. When he drops the fabric back on your shoulders, you still as he leans over one side of you, bending. Without thinking, your head tilts to the side, giving him more space into the side of your neck. You do it without even thinking. Your omega bleeds through you, and you feel her warmth everywhere now, making you move, but you let her this time.

Your scent gland pulses there under your ear. He can see it, hear it practically, rushing like the blood in his ears. You close your eyes when you feel him come closer, the cotton of his mask just barely grazing your neck as he takes a deep breath.

The growl he lets out shakes you to your core. Your pupils get blown wide at the sound, and your head flops back slow, exposing more of your neck. He uses the opportunity to bend just that much more, until the front of his mask is pressed against the gland, and he can breathe you in, right at the source.

He's snarling under the mask. You can hear his teeth knock together, his tongue wetting his lips. You shiver, leaning into him, your hand raising up to caress the back of his neck as he nuzzles his nose there, taking another deep breath. You step back enough that he presses up against you from behind. You can feel his pelvis right against your ass, and you arch your back just enough to fit him right where he belongs. A gloved hand catches you at your waist, and you put your free hand on the desk in front of you until his cock is right there between your ass.

Your omega is panting. She's clawing, right there at the edge, fighting against quicksand as she's desperate to meet him. The feeling of him, the scent of him so close, it's an aphrodisiac, potent, suffocating. Something warm is wrapping around you, sliding along your skin, tickling your toes. It's between your thighs, in your mouth, wetting your tongue. You're not sure what this feeling is, but it's thrilling.

He's purring. Big, rumbling sounds coming from deep in his chest. More animal than man as his tongue comes out under the mask, and you can feel him lick a nice stripe over the raised, warm skin under your ear. Your omega is being pulled to the forefront. She’s like a magnet to him. The closer he gets, the stronger she bites into you. Your mouth drops open when his hand falls between your thighs, gripping onto you and pulling you up against him in one, slow grind. You can feel the length of him, fucking enormous, and you’re leaking into your cargos as his fingers squeeze the fat of your thigh.

"Fuck–okay!" You pull away abruptly, turning to face him. You put your hands on his chest and push him back a little. He doesn’t move at your touch, but your voice startles him enough that he moves his hands up and away from you. He straightens up, blinking away the haze in his eyes, and you swallow hard. "T-Too much..."

He huffs, moving forward to bury his face into your neck again, but you step back, putting a hand on his chest firmer this time. You have stepped out of the cloud that surrounds him, but you can still taste it, and it’s pulling you back, and you’re losing control.

"Simon," you say his name gently, and he stops, his face scrunching a little under the mask before he stands back up again. "If I have to be your mate...we need to set some boundaries." He blinks, saying nothing. "Like...a-asking for permission."

You can tell by the way his mask twitches that he doesn't usually ask for permission. He wants, and he receives.

Typical.

“What?” You ask, scoffing. “You don’t talk?”

He doesn’t move. You crane your neck to look up at him a little better, and you smooth your hands lower on his chest. You can’t help but appreciate what you feel. He’s wearing a tactical vest, but you can still feel the deep breaths he’s taking, the strong, fatty muscle under your palms. He is the epitome of sheer strength and undeniable ability. Your omega draws your hands back up his chest, over his pecs that pull taut, and they wind up around his neck as you stand up on your toes and lean into the curve of his jaw. You put your nose to it, barely. Simon moves his hands down, cupping you under your ass and picking up your weight with not even a grunt until you can press your face deep into him.

Fuck, it’s like a drug. It’s addictive. His scent impales you. He smells like war. Like chaos and smoke, and your mouth starts to water as you keep breathing him in. You pull back just enough, blinking up at him. You look a little dizzy and intoxicated, and he squeezes your ass to hold you steady as he puts you back onto your feet.

“Uhm…” You sniffle a little, holding onto him. Your hands curl around his shoulders, and you keep yourself upright like this. “I didn’t wanna be here. I don’t…I don’t want this. I never did.” You blink away tears, but he sees them when you draw your eyes back up to his. “T-They made me. It hurts.”

“Wot hurts?”

His voice scares you when you finally hear it. Your lip shakes, and when you blink again, your tears fall down your face. Simon snarls when he sees them, reaching up with hands too rough and wiping them off your face, but they keep coming.

“I’ve never been o-off my meds–” You gasp, and your breaths start to come in panicked and too fast. “Everything hurts. T-The lights are too bright, everything hurts my nose, the sheets are too itchy, and I-I can’t breathe–”

Simon moves away from you immediately. He closes a fist and pounds the lightswitch, and only the yellow glow of the lamp on his desk illuminates the room. You curl into yourself, hugging your own arms, and Simon comes back to stand in front of you, narrowing his eyes.

“I did not want you either.”

“That’s just grand, this is perfect,” you hiccup, and Simon grunts.

“But I have orders.”

“You act like your Captain is just debriefing you for a fucking mission,” You snap, glaring at him. “I’m a fucking person. I know your kind may not see us that way, but I am. I’m not a mission. I’m not something for you to win or to conquer, you fucking asshole!”

When you raise a hand to hit him, he catches your wrist before it lands. He squeezes just enough to hold you at arm’s length, and you lean forward and spit on him instead. It wets the mouth of his mask, and he nearly loses himself as his eyes flash with something dark. He looks away from you for a moment to collect himself. When he turns back, he uses his other hand to cup the back of your head, silencing you.

“You listen ‘ere, omega–” The way he says your title makes the fight in you shrink. Your omega squeaks, ducking her head, that bubble of submission pilling in your throat as he holds you so close to your naked scent gland. “Dunno wot anyone told you, but I don’t have to win you when y’r already mine.” He ducks his head, pulling you closer, and you freeze when he presses his masked mouth at the base of your pulsing scent gland. It wafts into his nose, dilating his pupils, and he snarls. “And when you inevitably lose control of yourself–you already fuckin’ are, you reek of it–I’m goin’ to sink my teeth right ‘ere, and then it won’t fuckin’ matter ‘ow you feel.”

Your eyes blur with angry tears. You gasp, your breaths hitching, and Simon seems to feed off of your fear, your misery. If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you imagine he’d be licking your tears for a chance to taste your sadness. The worst part of it all is that your omega adores it. She’s been aching for so long for this kind of authority. For that edge to tickle her right under her chin where she likes it. The whiff of alpha that she’s getting is driving her out of control, and you don’t know how make her quiet down. She’s so loud in your head, banging against the walls–give it to him, give it to him, give it to him.

“You’re a fucking monster,” you whisper, glaring up at him. It’s no use–you will never scare him. Simon is what scares other alphas into submission. In one paw, he could crush your windpipe if he wanted to, with just a squeeze. Simon hums, and you imagine him smiling under that mask, some kind of vicious grin that you would love to smack off of him.

“Tha’s right, swee’eart,” Simon mutters. “I am. ‘n now you belong t’me. Everything that you are–” He smooths his hand down your neck. You seize when his hand slides over the curve of your waist until it cups under your ass and forces you up against him. “‘s mine. Your omega–’s mine. Your mouth–mine. Your arse–mine. That cunt that’s going to take my knot like a good little omega should–mine. So y’r gonna get y’r things, and y’r gonna move them into my quarters, and then we’re gonna go get supper, and y’r gonna shut y’r fuckin’ mouth.”

“I hate you. You’re the biggest son of a bitch I have ever met in my entire life, you are exactly the kind of asshole I knew you would be, you are no different than I thought. You’re a terrible, awful, horrible–”

“I can smell you,” Simon snaps. “Don’t try to be fuckin’ smart with me, I can smell how wet your cunt is, so why don’t you just be a good girl and do as I say?”

You bare your teeth a little, and Simon sticks a gloved thumb into your mouth. Without thinking, you relax. You suck it into your mouth and sigh, and Simon rubs his thumb against your tongue, shutting you up nice and well. He traces your teeth with it, and you start to cry. You cry because you don’t know why you can’t fight. Your grip his forearm, but your nails won’t dig. Your feet are planted to the ground, and you can’t move. Your mouth sucks, and he pushes, and you’re frozen here.

He knows what to do. Doesn’t he taste so good?

He seems to like your teary eyes. The big, fat tears. His eyes crinkle, and you know he’s smiling, and you wish you could rip that expression off his face, but all that stares back at you is death. Simon growls, and every bit of resistance in you fails. Slow, like molasses, your knees buckle, and he catches you. He pets your mouth, and when he leans in and presses his mouth to your ear, all you can do is cry.

“That’s it. Good kitty.”

“You think this is funny?”

“You maced yourself,” you choked out. “In front of my door.”

“I’m aware of the sequence of events.”

Another cough overtook him. His eyes were bright red now, his greying curls dishevelled from dragging his hands through them. He looked deeply miserable.

And, unfortunately for your dignity, still ridiculously attractive.

That was the problem.

Jack Abbot was fifty years old, permanently exhausted, sarcastic enough to qualify as medically dangerous, and somehow the hottest man you had ever seen in your life.

You’d noticed him the day he moved into the apartment beside yours.

He’d carried boxes upstairs alone, jaw clenched, old band tee stretched across broad shoulders, forearms lined with veins and faded scars. Tired eyes. Heavy posture. Wedding ring absent. A man who looked like he belonged to another era entirely.

Then you’d learned he worked nights in the emergency department downtown, and suddenly everything about him made sense.

The dark circles.

The strange hours.

The haunted look in his eyes sometimes when he came home just before dawn.

The fact he drank coffee like it personally offended him.

You’d developed a crush quickly.

Horribly.

Embarrassingly.

And Jack, apparently, had decided to make your life impossible by being unexpectedly gentle.

He carried groceries upstairs for you without asking.

Fixed your kitchen sink at four in the morning after hearing you threaten it violently through the wall.

Knocked on your door during a storm because your power had gone out and he “didn’t trust the wiring in this building not to kill you.”

You’d fallen harder every single time.

Unfortunately, Jack seemed entirely unaware of how attractive he was.

Or perhaps he was aware and cursed by fate.

Because every time he tried to flirt with you, disaster followed.

After the pepper spray incident came The Soup Catastrophe.

You got home from work late one evening to find him sitting on the floor outside your apartment with a takeout bag beside him.

“You okay?” you asked cautiously.

Jack looked up with the expression of a man abandoned by God.

“The soup exploded.”

“What?”

“The soup exploded.”

You stared.

He gestured tiredly toward the container beside him. “I brought you dinner because you said you’d had a rough week. I hit a pothole. The lid came off. Tomato bisque all over the passenger seat.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are absolutely laughing.”

“I’m trying not to.”

He sighed deeply. “I cleaned up as much as I could.”

“You still brought it?”

“You like grilled cheese.”

Your chest did a dangerous little squeeze.

Because there he was — exhausted ER attending after a twelve-hour night shift — sitting cross-legged in the hallway holding slightly traumatised grilled cheese sandwiches like an offering.

You crouched beside him.

“That’s actually very sweet.”

Jack looked startled by that.

Like genuine kindness still caught him off guard.

“Well,” he muttered gruffly. “Didn’t want you eating cereal for dinner again.”

Your smile softened.

“You notice that?”

“You leave the boxes in the recycling.”

Right.

Of course he noticed.

Jack noticed everything about you.

He noticed when your migraines got bad because you closed your blinds too early.

He noticed when you were anxious because you cleaned compulsively.

He noticed when you skipped meals.

He noticed when you cried.

That one had been particularly unfortunate.

You’d had a horrible phone call with your mother and wound up sitting on the fire escape behind the building trying to quietly pull yourself together. You genuinely thought no one had seen you.

Then the fire escape door opened.

Jack stepped outside carrying two mugs.

No questions.

No awkward pity.

Just silent company.

He sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched lightly.

Held out a mug of tea.

And stayed.

That was it.

That was all.

But you’d looked at him under the pale orange glow of the security light — tired face, rough hands curled around cheap ceramic, eyes soft with concern — and realised with absolute horror that you were already half in love with him.

The third romance attempt involved flowers.

Technically.

In practice, it involved blood.

You opened your apartment door one afternoon to find Jack standing there holding a bouquet of sunflowers and a paper towel wrapped around his hand.

“…Are you bleeding?”

“Minor injury.”

“You’re dripping on my welcome mat.”

Jack looked down.

“Ah.”

You immediately grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside before he could protest.

He followed in stunned silence while you marched him into your kitchen.

“Sit.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Jack.”

He sat.

You unwrapped the paper towel carefully.

“…Did you cut yourself on the flowers?”

“In my defence, florist scissors are apparently sharper than surgical equipment.”

You stared at him.

Then laughed so hard you nearly cried.

Jack groaned.

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry, it’s just— you’re supposed to be saving lives.”

“I do save lives.”

“You lost a fight with a sunflower arrangement.”

His mouth twitched.

That was another problem.

Jack smiled rarely.

But when he did, it ruined people.

Especially you.

Because suddenly he looked younger. Warmer. Less weighed down by the world.

You cleaned the cut while he watched you quietly.

“You didn’t have to buy me flowers,” you murmured.

Jack shrugged one shoulder.

“Saw them. Thought of you.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“You thought of me?”

“Frequently, actually.”

The words came out absentmindedly.

Like he hadn’t meant to say them aloud.

Silence filled the kitchen.

Jack slowly lifted his eyes to yours.

You forgot how breathing worked.

Then his phone went off.

Of course it did.

Jack swore viciously under his breath.

You burst out laughing again.

And somehow that became your thing.

Jack failing spectacularly at romance while you fell more in love with him every single time.

He tried cooking for you once.

That ended with the fire department arriving.

“To be fair,” Jack argued while the alarm screamed overhead, “the recipe said broil.”

“The recipe did not say cremate.”

“I got distracted.”

“You’re an emergency physician.”

“Yes,” he snapped. “Ironically.”

The firefighter walking through the apartment looked deeply amused.

Jack looked like he wanted to die.

You, meanwhile, were leaning against the counter laughing so hard you could barely stand upright.

The worst part?

Jack could cook.

Usually.

You’d eaten meals he’d made before during exhausted post-shift mornings when neither of you wanted to sleep yet. Omelettes. Pasta. Perfect pancakes at six a.m.

But apparently the second he intentionally tried to impress you, the universe intervened violently.

Still.

The evening ended with both of you sitting on his balcony eating takeout noodles from cartons.

City lights glowing below.

Cool wind moving through the dark.

Jack slouched in his chair looking deeply annoyed with himself.

“I used to be smoother than this.”

You snorted.

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“I was.”

“Sure.”

“I had hair down to here in med school.”

“Oh my God.”

“Women loved me.”

You looked him over slowly.

Grey threaded through dark curls.

Strong nose.

Rough jaw covered in stubble.

Broad shoulders stretching his Henley.

Large hands scarred from years in emergency medicine.

Tired eyes that somehow still looked gentle when they landed on you.

“They still do,” you said quietly.

Jack stilled.

The air shifted.

You realised what you’d admitted approximately one second too late.

Your face burned immediately.

Jack looked at you with an expression so soft it physically hurt.

Then—

His chair snapped underneath him.

You shrieked laughing as he crashed backwards onto the balcony floor.

Jack stared up at the sky like he was reconsidering every life decision that had brought him here.

“I am being punished,” he informed the universe.

By month four of being disastrously, helplessly in love with your neighbour, you and Jack had developed something dangerously close to domesticity.

You spent mornings together after his shifts.

He drank terrible black coffee while you made fun of him for reading medical journals recreationally.

He fixed things around your apartment without being asked.

You fell asleep on his couch more often than your own.

Sometimes you woke in the middle of the night to soft knocking on your door because Jack had brought leftovers home from work and “there’s no point ordering enough for two if you aren’t eating with me.”

It became easy.

Too easy.

The age difference should have felt strange.

It didn’t.

Not really.

Jack never treated you like you were immature.

Never talked down to you.

Never made you feel lesser.

Sometimes he forgot there was twenty-five years between you entirely.

Other times, though, you caught it in the way he hesitated.

The way he looked at you too long before pulling himself back.

Like he wanted something he’d already decided he shouldn’t have.

You hated that.

Because you knew exactly what he was thinking.

He thought he was too old for you.

Too tired.

Too damaged.

Too much.

Which was ridiculous.

You wanted him so badly it made your stomach ache.

You wanted his tired smiles and rough hands and dry humour and the way he always checked if you’d eaten.

You wanted the man who carried exhausted nurses through panic attacks at work and came home with blood on his shoes and still somehow remembered your favourite tea.

You wanted all of him.

Unfortunately, Jack seemed committed to suffering.

The final romance attempt happened on a Thursday.

You remember because it had been raining all day.

You got home soaked through after work and found your apartment dark.

Before panic could settle in, there was a knock at your door.

You opened it to find Jack standing there holding a flashlight.

“Building lost power,” he said. “Come next door.”

Simple as that.

You followed him into his apartment wrapped in a blanket while rain hammered against the windows.

Candles flickered softly across the kitchen.

Your stomach flipped.

“Jack…”

He immediately looked nervous.

Which, for a man who routinely handled trauma patients without blinking, was almost impressive.

“I know this probably seems stupid,” he muttered. “And statistically my track record here is catastrophic—”

You started smiling already.

“—but I thought maybe dinner. Properly this time.”

The table was set.

Real plates.

Wine.

Pasta that did not appear burnt.

And flowers.

You eyed them suspiciously.

“No blood involved?”

“I bought them pre-cut.”

“Smart.”

Jack huffed a laugh despite himself.

You ate slowly while thunder rolled outside.

And for once, nothing went wrong.

No kitchen fires.

No accidental chemical warfare.

No collapsing furniture.

Just Jack.

Relaxed gradually by candlelight.

Talking about medicine and music and the little vineyard town he grew up in.

Listening to you like every word mattered.

You realised at some point that he kept looking at your mouth.

And every time he noticed himself doing it, he’d glance away immediately.

Your pulse fluttered harder each time.

Eventually the storm worsened.

Rain battered the windows so violently the whole building seemed to shake.

You wandered toward the balcony doors to watch it.

Jack joined you a moment later.

Close.

Very close.

“You scared of storms?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Power in this building’s unreliable.” His gaze slid toward you. “If the lights go out completely, I’m making a move.”

You laughed softly.

“Jack Abbot threatening romance. Terrifying.”

His expression shifted.

Something warmer.

More serious.

“You think I’m joking.”

The air changed again.

Slowly, carefully, he reached for your hand.

Your breath caught immediately.

His palm was warm.

Calloused.

Steady despite the tension you could see in his shoulders.

“You know,” Jack said roughly, “I have treated gunshot wounds with more confidence than I’ve handled trying to date you.”

“You’ve been trying to date me?”

He stared at you.

“You cannot possibly be serious.”

You bit back a grin.

“I don’t know. The pepper spray felt ambiguous.”

Jack groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Oh my God.”

“The fire department definitely confused me.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I really am.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And suddenly the humour softened into something achingly vulnerable.

“I didn’t think you could want this,” he admitted quietly. “Me.”

Your chest tightened painfully.

“Jack.”

“You’re twenty-five.” His voice was low. Careful. “You’re bright and beautiful and you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. And I’m—”

“Mine,” you interrupted immediately.

He stopped.

You stepped closer.

“So incredibly mine, actually.”

Jack stared at you like you’d knocked the air from his lungs.

“I don’t care about the age difference.”

“You should.”

“But I don’t.” Your fingers curled tighter around his hand. “I like you. God, I like you so much. Even when you nearly poison yourself with pepper spray.”

His laugh escaped softly then.

Disbelieving.

Fond.

You reached up carefully and touched his face.

The stubble against your palm.

The warmth of his skin.

Jack leaned into it instinctively before catching himself.

“You deserve someone uncomplicated,” he murmured.

“I deserve someone kind.”

His eyes closed briefly.

That one landed.

Because beneath all the sarcasm and exhaustion and self-deprecation, Jack was unbearably kind.

You saw it constantly.

In the way he stayed late for frightened patients.

In the way he remembered tiny details about everyone around him.

In the way he treated your feelings like fragile things worth protecting.

You’d never wanted uncomplicated.

You wanted him.

Thunder cracked overhead.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then died completely.

Darkness swallowed the apartment.

There was one beat of silence.

Then Jack muttered:

“Well. Guess I have to make a move now.”

You laughed right before he kissed you.

And maybe it should have been awkward.

Maybe it should have felt strange after months of near-misses and disasters and tension wound too tight.

Instead it felt inevitable.

Jack kissed like he did everything else — carefully at first, like he was afraid of hurting you.

Then your hand slid into his hair and he made this rough, wrecked sound against your mouth that nearly took your knees out.

Suddenly he was pulling you closer with both hands.

Warmth everywhere.

His heartbeat hard beneath your palm.

The storm raging outside while Jack kissed you like he’d been trying not to for months.

Years, maybe.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing unevenly, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You know,” he murmured, voice rough, “this is probably the first romantic thing I’ve done around you that hasn’t ended in property damage.”

As if summoned by the universe itself, something crashed loudly in his kitchen.

You burst into helpless laughter.

Jack looked toward the sound with exhausted resignation.

“Unbelievable.”

Armed without brand new lilac Littman stethoscope and the highest dosage of suppressants your primary care physician would sign off on you walked through the double glass doors, your brand new ID tag winking in the fluorescent lights. Your knuckles burned as you grasped both straps of your backpack, desperately trying to channel all the nervous energy away from your face. 

Confidence. 

ER doctors were confident. Sure of themselves. Unflappable. You refuse to let any self doubt ruin your first day. You’d earned this. Fought tooth and nail and spent countless nights in the library to surpass the expectation that omegas were only good for parenting and keeping house. Despite your presentation you’d never felt that bone deep urge to find an alpha and procreate like most of your friends. The only goal in your future was to become a doctor and help as many people as possible and now you were halfway there. 

“Morning” a blonde behind a white desk chirped. “You our new resident?” 

“Yes, ma’am” you replied in what you hoped was a confident tone. 

“Great” a tired smile bloomed on her face. “And for future reference just Dana is fine. We don’t have time to be formal around here” 

“Dana. Got it” you nodded. Dana’s smile widened but there was a curiosity in her eyes as she evaluated your form. There were only two possible answers to the question you knew was buzzing on the tip of her tongue. With no discernible scent the only presentation that she could rule out was alpha and that was only via statistical probability. Alphas on suppressants were rare, not only because their overactive physiology burned through the medication at an alarming rate but also because of the social currency they carried. Alphas were strong, capable, protective. Born leaders. There were very few situations where being an alpha would be considered a bad thing, let alone dangerous like it so often was for omegas. 

A sharp alarm broke Dana’s gaze, startling both of you as multiple people in black scrubs rushed across the ED into a curtained bay. 

“Welcome to The Pitt” Dana sighed. “Come on. I’ll show you to your locker and then we can find your boss” 

You’d been expecting to find your new boss waiting for you but even if he had you wouldn’t have been able to recognise him. When your interview at PTMC had arrived all those months ago the Chief of Emergency Medicine, someone with a long name you’d been too nervous to commit to memory, had been out sick, leaving the Chief Medical Officer Gloria and one of the attendings to fill in for him. It had taken a full 5 minutes to shake off the waves of pheromones pouring off Jack Abbot. Despite the two scarred over mating marks on his neck, one much more faded than the other, he was an intimidating presence. But even with the distraction you’d passed the interview with flying colours, much to your own surprise. You'd been so distracted by your move to Pittsburgh that you hadnt' taken a moment to try and cyberstalk your future boss, leaving the man that was destined to control your career a complete stranger to you.

And he stayed that way for the first full hour of your shift. 

A senior resident who introduced herself as Heather rescued you from standing awkwardly next to the central desk, explaining that Dr Robby (definitely not the name you remembered Jack mentioning in your interview) had gotten caught in a management meeting and would be down to meet you as soon as possible. Before you had a chance to decide whether that was a mark of a responsible Chief or a disorganised one you were following her to see to an 8 year old girl who'd broken her arm falling off her bike. 

“You did well in there” Heather said as the two of you exited North One, tossing your used gloves into the nearby yellow biohazard bin. “You’ve got a good bedside manner” 

A tiny prickle of frustration ran up the back of your neck but it died when you found nothing but sincerity in her deep brown eyes. Taking a deep breath you pushed the few strands of hair that had escaped your immaculately smooth bun away from your face.

Not everything was a dig at your presentation.

If you were going to survive in The Pitt you’d need to toughen up or you’d wash out like so many people expected and you refused to give them the satisfaction. 

“Thanks. But she was so cute it was easy” you replied with a casual shrug. 

“She reminded me of my daughter. She’s only a year old but I’m anticipating many accidents in her future. That child has absolutely no sense of self-preservation” 

The two of you walked back to the main desk where Dana was deep in conversation with a tall men dressed in the same black scrubs as the rest of the doctors. A dark grey stethoscope dangled over his shoulders, the ear pieces resting against the worn fabric of a very well loved hoodie. 

Even if he hadn’t been head and shoulders above everyone else in The Pitt those brown puppy dog eyes alone would have had you stopping in your tracks. Never mind the sprinkling of grey at his temples and in the scruffy beard that was begging for you to bury your fingers in it. 

A dull ache pulsed under your ribs and you had to shake yourself back to reality and follow your guide back to the hub. You hadn’t anticipated having such a handsome colleague but it was fine. Totally fine. He wasn’t the most stunning man you’d ever laid eyes on - the kind of stunning that had the a tiny voice in the back of your head pointing out how good he'd feel on top of you. How safe you’d be with those thick arms wrapped around your— 

“Ah, newbie” Dana’s bright voice interrupted your traitorous brain. “There you are. Dr Robby, this is your newest resident” 

Chocolate brown eyes landed on you before crinkling into an almost nervous smile that sent your stomach swooping. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived but when the board whistles I’m expected to come running” he said, ending on a tiny exhausted laugh that sent a shiver across your skin. 

What the fuck was this!? One little smile and a half hearted joke and your heart was fluttering like a lovesick teenager??

Yes, he was gorgeous and radiated alpha in the calm steady way that screamed “I would lay my life down to protect you from all the horrors of this world” but he was your boss. Completely and totally off limits. 

Schooling your features into what you hoped was a professional smile you gave him your full name, extending a hand for Robby to shake. 

“I’m really looking forward to learning from you” 

The second his slightly calloused palm touched yours a jolt of electricity sparked up your arm, sending another spasm of pain under your ribs. 

“Well you’ve got a great opportunity coming in” another nurse piped up as she put down a bright red handset. “Cyclist versus semi trailer incoming” 

Robby let out a deep sigh running his hand through his hair, the muscles of his forearm bulging in a way that had you wanting to sink your teeth into the corded muscle. 

“I was hoping the universe might give you an easy first shift but apparently it’s not in a forgiving mood” 

“If I’d wanted easy I wouldn’t have chosen Emergency Medicine” you laughed, some of the nerves dissipating at the prospect of getting to put all your hard-earned skills to good use. 

A dark brow rose in surprise as his cheek twitched with a suppressed smile. Hope bloomed in your chest.

Maybe this would be fine. 

Just because you were attracted to him didn’t mean you couldn’t work well together. And you were not about to let a man get in the way of your blossoming career. Fuck that noise. Dr Robby could strip down to his underwear and you would be completely unaffected. The picture of professionalism. 

Reaffirming your resolve you followed him to Trauma One where nurses and other doctors were pulling on disposable paper gowns. 

“You ready to hit the ground running?” Robby asked as he handed over a gown. 

“Always” you couldn’t help but grin, the adrenaline now coursing though your veins chasing away the exhaustion pulling at your eyes. With your arms in the papery sleeves you reached behind your neck for the ties but the slippy strands kept evading your grasp.

Thankfully instead of letting you spin in a circle like a dog chasing its tail Dr Robby gestured for you to turn around. Heart hammering against your ribs you did as instructed. He stepped closer, the scent of pine and sandalwood and smoke enveloping your senses. Under your ribs that strange pull tugged again, almost sending you stumbling back into his sturdy chest. Robby’s hands dropped the yellow strings to rest against your shoulders, steadying you. Even through the gown, your scrubs and white undershirt his hands radiated heat sending a shiver across your skin. 

“You okay?” his voice rumbled through you and you had to bite back a whimper at the question. 

You sit up, legs shaky, and reach for his belt. Your fingers fumble with the buckle, desperate and needy.

“Robert,” you breathe, voice wrecked, “let me—fuck, I need you. Take this off. I want to see you. All of you.”

He stills.

His hand clamps over yours, stopping you cold. Not playful at all. When you look up, his jaw is clenched, eyes suddenly flat.

“No,” he says, voice clipped

You blink, confused, heat still pulsing between your legs. “What?”

“I said no.” He yanks your hand off his belt and stands, towering over you.

His shirt hangs open, but his pants are still on, cock straining against the fabric like a cruel joke. He doesn’t touch you now. Doesn’t look at your naked body sprawled out for him. Just stares down like you’ve done something wrong.

You sit there, exposed, legs still open, pussy dripping onto the couch, and your chest tightens. “Robert, what the fuck? You just had your tongue in me—”

“Yeah,” he cuts in, voice sharp, “I think that's enough”

You flinch. He’s never spoken to you like this. Never stopped like this. You’ve been naked under him a dozen times, begging, and he was always sweet and willing to please you. But this was totally different.

You pull your knees together, suddenly small. “Did I… do something?”

He runs a hand through his hair, breaking the eye contact with you.

He exhales hard, like the air’s been punched out of him, and finally looks at you, really looks. The cold mask cracks. His shoulders sag.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.” The words come out rough, scraped raw. He crouches so you’re eye-level, but still doesn’t touch you. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just—” He stops, jaw working. “I panicked.”

You hug your knees to your chest, skin cooling, waiting.

Robert’s fingers hover over his own torso, then drop. “I’ve got scars,” he says, voice low. “Bad ones. Under the shirt. I don’t… I don’t let anyone see them.” He laughs, but it’s hollow. “Stupid, right? I’ll bury my face in your pussy for hours, but the second you reach for my belt I turn into an asshole.”

Your heart twists. You reach out, slow, and brush his knuckles. He flinches, then lets you lace your fingers with his.

“They’re from an accident,” he continues, staring at your joined hands. “Years ago. Skin grafts, burns, the works. I look like a fucking roadmap.” He risks a glance at you. “I didn’t want you to see and… change your mind.”

The silence stretches. You scoot closer, knees brushing his. “Robert.” You wait until he meets your eyes. “I’ve had your tongue so deep inside me I forgot my own name. You think a few scars are gonna scare me off?”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “They’re ugly.”

“Let me decide that.” You tug his hand to your thigh, guiding it between your legs again, where you’re still wet, still open for him. “I want you. All of you. Scars, cock and that filthy mouth. I’m not asking for perfect.”

He swallows, throat bobbing. You feel the tremor in his fingers.

“Show me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Robert’s breath hitches. Then, slowly, he stands. His hands move to his shirt. One button. Two. The fabric parts, and there they are: jagged lines, puckered skin, pale patches where grafts took. A story written in hurt across his ribs, his stomach, disappearing beneath his waistband.

You don’t flinch. You reach up, trace a raised seam with your thumb. He shudders.

“Still want me?” he asks, voice barely there.

You answer by pulling him down, mouth crashing into his, legs wrapping his waist. You feel his cock, still trapped in denim, grind against your bare cunt.

“Fuck yes,” you breathe against his lips. “Let me feel every inch of you.”

His jaw tightens. He's staring at nothing, eyes distant. "I'm not."

"Liar. I can practically hear it."

That almost gets a smile. Almost. But it dies before it reaches his eyes.

You shift, pulling back just enough to really look at him. His expression guts you. He looks defeated— sad. He wears this face too often now. "For the record, I think you did great today."

His gaze finally drops to yours. It’s still guarded. "You don't have to lie to me."

You shake your head. "I'm not lying," you say, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

"You are." But even as he says it, he's leaning into your touch. His eyes flutter closed for just a moment. "I know what you’re doing."

Your fingers trail down, tracing his cheekbone. You lean in, hovering your lips over his. Robert’s breath catches, but you shift at the last second, pressing a kiss to his right cheek instead.

"And what am I doing, exactly?" You murmur, pulling back just enough to look at him before kissing his left cheek.

He sighs. "Trying to make me feel better. Distracting me from my livestreamed failure."

"Or maybe–” You kiss the tip of his nose next, then cup his face. “I'm just a girl who missed her boyfriend."

His eyes search yours. The tension in his shoulders eases, and his expression shifts— that guardedness softening at the edges. "Is that so?"

"Mhm." You bite your lip, nodding. It’s starting to work. So you lean in again, welcoming the heat between you.  "Couldn't stop thinking about him all day."

"Oh yeah? Well I bet he was thinking of you too."

"I don't know about that." Your lips brush against his—barely, just enough to make him chase it. It’s always your favorite part. "He's been really busy recently. Saving everyone. Ignoring me."

"Okay, I wouldn't say ignoring—"

You press a finger to his lips and in one fluid motion, shift to straddle his lap. You take his hands and place them on your hips, basking in the view of him below you. 

His eyes have gone wide, dark with something that isn't exhaustion anymore. "But I think I can forgive him," you say slowly, "if he lets me make his bad day a little better."

His hands slide up your sides. His voice comes out rougher as he says, "I think he can do that."

You grin. "Good."

You lean down and kiss him properly this time, slow and deep, pushing everything else to the edges. His lips meet yours with a building hunger, now-confident hands pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. He lets out a groan when you nibble lightly on his bottom lip. 

When you pull back, his chest is rising and falling faster, heartbeat erratic below your palms. Lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. You bite back a smile at the evidence of your work. 

Sliding off his lap, you take his hand and tug him gently. "C’mon, Mecha Man."

He follows without question, letting you lead him down the hall and into the bedroom. The lamp on the nightstand casts everything in warm, low light. It makes the cuts and bruises on his face seem softer as you take him in, walking him towards the edge of the bed and pressing both hands to his chest.

He falls back onto the mattress, eyes wide as he looks up at you. There's anticipation there, and heat, and something almost reverent in the way he's watching you.

You're grinning now. Can't help it. "Don't move."

You climb onto the bed, straddling him again. You settle your weight over him and begin trailing kisses along his jaw, down his throat. His pulse jumps beneath your lips. Once again, his hands find your hips, fingers flexing with restraint.

"Better?" you murmur against his collarbone.

His response is half-laugh, half-groan. "Getting there. But I think I definitely need some more."

You laugh against his skin and continue lower, taking your time, savoring each small sound you draw from him. Challenge accepted.

Everything else can wait until morning.

You've had a lot of low points in your life, but this might just be a new one. You've officially hit rock bottom . . . or blown right through it and plummeted into the molten core of hell. This is undoubtedly pathetic. You have a crush on a guy named Robert Robertson for fuck's sake — though even referring to it as a crush is somehow arguably worse than his actual name.

It's all so lame. It feels so immature, miles away from anything that should exist within your life. Too fluffy, too naïve; feelings that bubble and fizzle it inside your stomach. All pink-hued and blushed. The sort of emotions that go along with bouquets and innocent pecks on the cheek, not for someone who's broken bones. Felt ribs and jaws shatter beneath the strike of their fists, split jugulars between the cut of their teeth to taste the blood. Killed and mauled, robbed life after life just to dull the ache in their belly. 

You don't do flowery and sweet. It's a shoe that doesn't fit. There are certain lines that not even you will cross, and this has to be one of them. He's you're boss — technically. Not that the power imbalance and the possible HR violation it comes strapped with bothers you. You have a criminal record. The idea of a fling with your superior doesn't exactly induce fear in you, but the warmth, the heat that settles over you, a blanket that swaddles and holds whenever you see him, kind of does.

It's off. Different, somehow. Unusual in a way that you can't quite place. A scattered jigsaw, meant to create an image that's familiar, but the pieces are interspersed and broken up into an unrecognizable mess. Chaotic and jumbled. 

God, you hate it. 

And now you're tucked away in the break room, holding onto the fraying threads of your sanity with pure desperation, because of course he's here too. And you're only in here because SDN is about as cheap as they come and they couldn't be bothered to supply the entire Z-Team with your own cubicles or designated workspaces. There's only a handful of members who actually have their own desks, and you aren't one of the lucky ones. 

But the execs are just waiting on all of you to give them a reason to pull the plug on the whole Phoenix Program, some kind of slip up grave enough to give them a reason to throw you all back on to the street (or at worst, prison) and wash their hands clean of you. It makes sense that they wouldn't be willing to supply your team with any proper funding. You're the basement kids of the entire organization, let out reluctantly and donated hand-me-downs from dead heroes. 

You should have just taken the files back home with you and finished them up there. Or blown them off all together. You've done it before, probably more times than you can count. So much so that you've developed a reputation for not being dependable for it, always turning in your paperwork weeks after the deadline, or not at all. But you — holy shit, it's humiliating to admit — but you actually want to get it done because Robert's been pressing the team about finishing up their reports on time, and you want to — what? Make him happy? Proud? 

But now you can hardly even focus on the pages in front of you, because he's sitting at the table directly across from yours and you're crudely hyperaware of that fact. It's awkward. Stifling in the sense that you feel as though you're being choked, the kind of pressure that prickles up your back when you're being observed at by someone unseen. A hyperaware weight. Nerves prickling and humming. You're too conscious of the way your shoulders draw in, hunching up like you're trying to shield yourself from an oncoming blow. 

You can't stop yourself from muttering, cursing low in a strained "Shit" under your breath. He's completely in his own world, chewing on a bite of those shitty mini chocolate cakes from the vending machine (they taste like the plastic they're packaged in), staring down at his phone. Scrolling disinterestedly, eyes flat and tired. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, probably at home, in bed if the dark bags under his eyes are anything to judge by. 

(The things you'd give to see that. You wonder if he sleeps shirtless. Just in his boxers. Or in nothing at all.) 

— Focus, focus, focus. 

You can smell him, and you can't focus. His scent permeates the air, brushing against the four walls, probably undetectable to anyone else with duller (normal) senses, but to you it's intense. As though someone had soaked a cloth with it and pressed it directly against your nose. It's a myriad of fragrances, textured, lived in. You can smell the shampoo he uses, unremarkable, clean smelling but ordinary. The detergent on his clothes, artificial in its perfume. Subtly floral, possibly meant to be lavender or jasmine, but the chemicals are too strong to properly produce the notes. 

But underneath all of the that, warmed by the heat of his skin, is salt and sweat. Grease, and the traces metal, all fabricating together to make something that is just distinctly him. Natural. Human. It makes your mouth water, your gums ache with the urge to bite, saliva pooling within the gentle cradle of your tongue. You want to taste him. 

 —You need to pick up more gum on the way home. 

You're thankful for how he seems to be oblivious. Though you probably have to thank that for your sunglasses, still seated on your nose, shaded lenses keeping your line of sight a mystery to anyone else who might be looking at you. You'd worn them only to stave of a migraine that the light could possibly produce, but they prove useful in other ways. If Robert were to glance up right now and make direct eye contact, he'd be none the wiser. All he'd see are two blank black pools, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window blinds in pale golden rivulets, reflective, blocking out the shape of your eyes. With the way your neck is bent downward, he probably thinks you're occupied staring at the files. The same files you really should be filling out. 

You should have just taken them home with you, that though looms over you again, sour with regret. But in your defense, you didn't think that he'd show up here. It's pushing 4:30 by now; you thought he'd be caught up doing whatever duties he has being dispatch. You don't know much about the job, but he has to have some kind of end-of-the-day tasks that need attending to . . . preferably far, far away from here. 

Now you're second guessing everything. You practically have a heap of files to work through, at least twenty different folders, about eighty-five percent of which are older than four months. The due dates technically long expired.

You've put off a lot of work. 

"You know, it helps if you actually use the pen to put the words down on the paper. You move your hand around a bit, and the pen makes ink, the ink makes words. That's generally how that works." It's delivered in that usual monotone as always, tone deep, just a little husky. Lightly graveled in a way that never fails to send a warm tremble soaking down the shape of your spine. Skipping over each individual notch, a thrumming glide. If this is what his regular tone does to you, you're pretty sure his morning voice would turn you into braindead puddle. 

But regardless of how hot he is, you can't keep yourself from bristling at the comment. "No shit," you snap, tilting your chin down even further to openly glare at him from over the edge of your sunglasses. Realistically, you can't get too pissed at him for using sarcasm or being exasperated. Z-Team isn't the easiest to work with, and you definitely aren't exempt from that. You aren't ignorant to how uncooperative you all are, if not downright combative. You all make things difficult in your own way, stubbornly digging your heals into the earth just for the sake of making things complicated, kicking and screaming the whole way just to stir up trouble. 

He's obviously tired. Dealing with you lot all alone has to be heavy weight. Juggling nine ex-villains is far from simple, and you're sure that Blazer doesn't always make things painless with how uptight and corporate she can get. She's practically the poster child for good behavior, eager to please the higher up and earn a gold star for her efforts. To be praised and lifted up on a pedestal. 

Well, maybe you're just the pot calling the kettle black given the circumstances. You're literally doing paperwork just to please a guy who hardly gives you a second glance. You're just another pain in the ass for him. Another villain to rehabilitate. An evil to change and alter. Something that needs fixing. 

"That sounds about right," he huffs. He hasn't even looked up from his phone, thumb hovering over the screen in between periodically swiping upwards. He doesn't sound defeated, like he's giving up, just ragged. Drained. There's no fight because he's come to expect the resistance. He's learned to pick his battles with the team, and it seems that he's deemed this one a fruitless venture. Undeserving of any true push back. 

The exhaustion underneath his eyes is dark. Vaguely lilac, like aging bruises. You can visibly see the weariness in his posture, slumped over, elbows propped on the table like he needs it to keep himself from keeling over. You don't know why, but it does something to you to see him like this. It hits you in your center, a place that's hidden and too soft. It cracks the scowl on your face apart, a mask shattering and slipping from its perch, leaving only the concerned expression beneath exposed. 

Again, you have to send out a thankful prayer to the universe that you were still wearing your sunglasses when he had walked in. It gives you a barrier between you and him, enough to hide what might be something close to remorse showing through your gaze. 

"No, you're right," you relent with a sigh. "I need to get this done. I've been blowing this off for long enough, and all I did was make more work for myself. I should have known that it would come back to bite me on the ass." 

You hate how a part of you preens under the genuine surprise that shows on his face, the thick shape of his brows lifting up like he can't believe what he's hearing. Like he could be happy. Proud even. The ghost of the smile that lifts at his mouth is worst of all. There's a little laugh that comes with it, small, barely there, but your ears pick it up. A fleeting scrap of joyful relief or shock, because you're actually apologizing, but it has your chest aching no matter how brief, butterflies tracing along the shape of your ribcage, because you're responsible for that. You lifted a burden, no matter how small or insignificant. 

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure Flambae's got an entire filing cabinet worth of paperwork that he needs to get done — not that he ever will. So consider yourself one of the lucky ones." 

"It does just a little bit." You smile in return, though it's probably something closer to a smirk, at Bae's expense. It's small, whatever passes between you two. Delicate, new, soft-edged. If you could hold it, it would probably fall apart in your palms, fine dust and paper-thin shards. And it's sweet. Too sweet for you. Cozy, as though you and Robert could be considered something like friends, and not only co-workers, simple and uncomplicated, tied together by only an impersonal schedule, but more. You could imagine. 

But now he's getting up, the metal legs of his chair scraping across the tiles as he shoves it back with his weight to straighten to his full height. He grabs his phone, slipping it into his back pocket. He takes the empty packaging from his snack up too, crumpling it up into a plastic ball within his palm. 

You pretend that you aren't paying attention to him anymore, returning the angle of your head back downward to stare at the files, but you aren't reading a single word. Letting your vision skip back over the ink over and over again while you listen to him walk over to the trashcan to discard the wrapper, the soles of his shoes whispering across the floor with each step. 

"Hey," he calls, and like an excited dog, your head shifts on its own accord, tugged on an invisible rope to look to him. He's standing in the doorway now. A hand clasped around the knob, but he's watching you from over his shoulder, and the warm shade of his eye seems to glimmer from the light trickling into the room. "Thanks, for at least trying to get that done. I know it's pretty low effort stuff, but you've shown more initiative than most of the team, so . . . I appreciate it." 

And then he's gone in blink, the door closing behind him with a gentle click, and your heart feels as though it's going to explode inside of your chest. You aren't sure if it's possible to overdose on your own adrenaline, or oxytocin, or what other chemicals go into making your nerves feel as though they're electrified, brain fuzzy and dopey, but you think that you might be the first person in history to do it. 

He'd hardly even complemented you. He explicitly said what you're doing bare minimum, and yet you couldn't stop the warmth that engulfs your body, dancing beneath your skin. That modicum of praise was water flowing down your throat. A crumb of food given to a beggar, small, petty, and yet your mouth still waters for it. 

You're truly pathetic. You're also completely fucked. 

At first, in the beginning, you didn't think much of Robert. Z-Team has had countless other dispatchers in the past. The majority of which, lasted less than a full shift. The record for the quickest leave had to have been when one had left only two hours in. You never met the guy — kid? He sounded young — personally, but you had known as soon as you heard his voice, rigid and textbook, that he wouldn't last. Sometimes he would wobble between hesitating before he spoke, or bulldozing directly over everyone else, determined to prove himself, and the group had grabbed onto that little show of inconsistency and ran with it. 

He'd been talked over relentlessly, too scared or frustrated to try and rope you all back into order. You think that it had all become too much for him when Invisigal had called him a "dumb bitch" more than once, and Prism had taken to making fun of the man's voice, pitching her own up into a thin warble to mock. But the catalyst, the final straw was probably when Flambae threatened to find out his address and set his house on fire. 

No one seemed to survive the team for long. It was something you all kept in mind, just how much you could provoke and nudge before they'd ultimately break and go running for the hills. But Robert hadn't. For whatever reason, he had stayed. He was stubborn. Latching onto you all like a dog, teeth burrowed in and jaw clenched tight. It's like he has something to prove. To someone specific, or just to himself, you aren't quite sure yet. But whatever the reason, you're glad that he did. 

When you first heard his voice over comms, you didn't think much of him. You were actually too busy laughing over the absurdity of his name to pay much attention to him. Chuckling and ridiculing alongside everyone else. But once the jokes had worn off, you did your best to listen to his orders when he dispatched you out to take care of emergencies. Mostly low level stuff, like tracking down a family's lost dog and apprehending a creepy van full of kidnappers — though you didn't listen to his orders too well on that one. In your defense though, he only said that you weren't allowed to kill them, nothing was stated about breaking a couple of bones. They were all still alive by the time the ambulance showed and the police arrived to the scene. 

Besides, the college girl they had snatched had been thankful, and that's all that really mattered, right? 

But somewhere along the way, you had actually started to anticipate hearing him. It really was that damn voice. It was difficult not to grow attached when you hear it constantly, nearly every day, giving orders, extending advice when needed. Pressed close inside of your ear, kept there by the plastic weight of the comms device, purring in a smooth baritone. You got hooked on it before you had even realized it. 

It snuck up on you, circled around your feet and sunk beneath your skin. Deep. Down in your blood and into your marrow. You didn't realize how much you hung off of every word he spoke before it was too late, and now you're left to scramble with the discovery. To try and deal with the aftermath of it. You aren't doing very well so far. 

You try not to be obvious. Any time there's a meeting, you try to sit as far away from him as possible. You look anywhere else but him, passing glances in his direction only when its necessary. Instead, you're usually staring at a wall, or whatever documents might have been passed around amongst the team. You study productivity reports, mission evaluations, rereading the paragraphs so obsessively that you probably have them all memorized by now, printed across your frontal lobe. You pretend to be bored, uninterested with the corporate droning that comes out of Robert's mouth whenever he berates the team for slip-ups or a costly mishap. 

You try not to get close to him, but its next to impossible when your paths are set to cross daily. You try to remind yourself to remain clinical, detached. And yet you struggle to distance yourself from your emotions. They churn and toss and throw themselves against the flimsy barriers you've constructed against them, wild and illogical. Burrowed deep into you like feeding parasites. 

Nothing has been able to snuff out what you feel. Not even the way she looks at him. You think that she tries to be professional (emphasis on 'try'), but it's there, naked and clear for anyone who isn't a complete moron to notice. Ever since she broke things off with Phenomaman, it's been blatant. Clear as day. She looks at Robert with a light in her eyes, alive and electric. It's kind of hard to blame her when the chemistry between her and Phenomaman had been . . . lacking, to say the least. 

You've seen more sexual attraction between cousins. Watching them try to banter and flirt was a little pitiful. There was always this tension between the surface, and not the good kind. Awkward, stiff, like two lifeless dolls smacking up against each other, plastic clacking together. You're pretty sure that their relationship was company orchestrated. Manufactured to boost popularity. It's not a farfetched theory considering that Blazer had not so subtly insinuated that a fake relationship between you and another villain — ex-villain — might help humanize you to the public. You were quick to shut the proposition down with a very firm "fuck no." Thankfully, she hasn't brought it up again. 

You can't bother to get angry that she might have feelings for Robert, or that maybe, he might like her back too. They make sense, you suppose. The both of them being heroes and all. Representatives of societies best attributes, pinnacles of humanity. 

You are far from that. You've done things that couldn't be forgotten, committed sins that wouldn't be washed from your hands no matter how furiously you scrubbed. Despite all of that, Robert still looks at you as though you're worth saving. Like you aren't just a statistic, a possible success story to be written about on blogs and magazines. The higher ups of SDN don't care about you — any of you. Not really. 

Your team is on life support as is, and they're just waiting to pull the plug on the entire operation. But Robert showed up, walked into all of your lives one day, and he's been here ever since. Persistent, stubborn. Hoping, even though he probably shouldn't, that you'll all change for the better. When he stares at you, you think that he might actually see something that's not completely irreparable. Something worth saving. 

Despite your best attempts to keep away from Robert, going through great lengths to maintain a professional dynamic, you nosedived in that venture with a startling speed. It started in the break room, the single place where the universe seemed determined to draw you two together. You were taking advantage of your free thirty minutes, eating your way through the half of the left-over burrito you had in your fridge from last night. You splurged on takeout, ordered a dish of double burritos, but you hadn't even been able to make it through one before your low appetite had finally reared its head and kept you from finishing it off. The rest of it had been swapped inside Tupperware for a tighter seal and stored in your fridge for later. 

You were working through the remaining half from last night, taking bite after bite in sluggish chews when a soft sigh caught your attention. You focus flickered over to the left side of the room where Robert was standing, looking indecisive and disappointed with the selection of junk food offered. From what you could tell, his eating habits left a lot to be desired. Every time you've managed to see him having lunch or a snack, it was always something that was total garbage. A bag of fun-sized chips, or Twinkies, or those awful chocolate cupcakes, maybe a sandwich or old pizza slices if he was feeling especially famished. You aren't sure how his body hasn't collapsed from lack of nutrients alone. 

You were completely unsurprised to watch him press in a code onto the keypad of the vending machine, the coil inside shifting to release a pack of those familiar golden Hostess cakes. You rolled your eyes, tracking him as he walked over to the vacant table to take a seat before glancing back down at your own food. You still had one burrito left, untouched in the corner of the plastic container, and you really didn't think your stomach could handle any more food. You were at your limit. Another bite would have your gut busting, nausea bubbling at the back of your throat, and it would go from indulging in a simple pleasure to a complete discomfort. 

You stole another cursory glance at him, roving over the shape of his back, the slouch of his head, the motion of his hands gently tearing the plastic packing open. A terrible meal. Fucking Twinkie's for lunch. 

Your body had made a decision for you. Before you realized it, you were lifting yourself out from the seat, picking up the Tupperware as you went. You didn't think as you approached him. He was oblivious, back facing you. He didn't look up until you sat it down in front of him, settling it down right beside the remaining cake that he'd yet to eat. It was only then that he saw you, eyes darting up, brows lifted in a silent question while he tried to chew the food in his mouth, wiping at the bit of vanilla filling around his lips. 

"Your diet is terrible." You said it as though that was explanation enough. To you it was. 

"Uh, thanks. I know," he answered, still confused. 

"It's a burrito. Some of my leftovers. You can have it, if you want; I don't really eat all that much at a single time. Not regular food, anyway." 

"I didn't know you could eat regular food," he replied, drawing the container closer, nudging the Twinkie out of the way with its breadth. He scanned it inquisitively, like maybe he was worried you had poisoned it, but he couldn't hide the visible hunger that had crossed his face. It made you smile, amused, and a little proud, maybe. 

"Yeah, I can. In small doses." You clarified. "Too much can make me feel a little sick. Anyway, I just thought I'd offer. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to, it's not gonna hurt my feelings. Promise I won't cry if you throw it away." 

He blinked, but his lips curled, a suggestion of mirth. "I'd at least wait until you left the room before I tossed it. But no, thanks, I appreciate it." 

"Sure." You shrugged like it didn't matter, but warmth seeped within your chest, light, shifting, as though the sun had expanded behind your lungs. And then you left without sparing another word. But that day had marked a shift in your relationship. A small one. You'd almost forgotten the entire experience, and then a week later he gave you a wrapped sub during your lunch break. Unprompted and unexpectedly. It was your favorite one, from the little mom and pop deli just down the street; the same shop that you typically frequent from the convenience of its proximity to the SDN building. Baked Italian herb, plenty of dressings to keep it from being too dry, plump with seasoned chicken and vegetables. It's your usual order. The one you get almost obsessively, but there's no way he would be able to know that. 

You had scoffed, out of disbelief rather than scorn or upset. "How did you...? " 

"I asked Mal." He admitted it like it was nothing, and maybe it wasn't supposed to be. It was probably just his way of getting even, to keep himself from feeling like he owed you for the burrito. But rather or not it was intentioned to, the exchange had begun a sort of ritual. Whenever your schedules allowed, you would both spend your breaks together. It went undiscussed, but you would both rotate between who would bring lunch. Sometimes it was just meals brought from your respective homes — typically leftovers. Though more often than not, you had found yourself beginning to leave the SDN building for lunch, frequenting the restaurants and cafes nearby. So much so that you had started being recognized by the staff of said establishments. 

But some of your favorite lunch-time rendezvous were the ones that happened up on the rooftop of SDN. They were calm, private, and you didn't have to worry about any co-workers walking in and making assumptions. You'd spend more time talking rather than eating, and more often than not, you'd end up with a full meal left over, enough for you to save for dinner if you still felt the desire to eat a regular meal. 

You would talk about whatever came to mind. You'd sit with your backs to the cluster of satellite dishes, hidden from the sun underneath the cover of their colossal shadows. Mostly for your sake rather than his. Thirty minutes spent in the sun wouldn't kill you, and it wasn't a long enough period to sap your energy, especially not with your suit on, protecting most of your skin. But you liked to keep your mask off, and having to squint against the sun would get annoying. More embarrassingly, you also didn't like having to looking at him through the polarized lenses built into the eyeholes. 

The tint on the see-through plastic washed him of his true shades. It made the chestnut color of his hair murky, a little washed out. It dulled the brown hue of his eyes, turned them cool and vaguely gray-toned. It was such a small insignificant thing, and you couldn't stand it. You refused to wear your mask or your sunglasses during your lunch breaks with him, even with the glare of the sun beating down on the concrete and asphalt of the parking lot below and the roof, reflecting back into your vision, annoyingly bright.

But the blaze of it, the dull sting would pale into an afterthought whenever you talked to him. For a few minutes, the world would fall away entirely. It wasn't so serious anymore. You both would prattle on about anything. Petty gossip, old rivals, music, which would make you bicker and joke about the other's tastes in bands. You learned that he had a hard time watching movies with mechs, and a brief mention of Chrome Defenders had him going on a tangent about why the piloted robots were so unrealistic. Why they would never work, how the combat depicted was all wrong, the physics off. 

You weren't even a fan of the film despite it being so popular. You just wanted to get a reaction out of him, and it definitely had. 

"You do know it was all fake right? A bunch of CGI and practical effects," you teased, nudging him with the point of your elbow. 

"I know, but if you're going to try and trick me into believing what's on screen, you could at least do a little homework first. You can't piss on me and tell me it's rain. I mean — what the hell was that mech called?" He'd snapped his fingers together, once, twice, three times in a row like it might help him catch the name. "Reaper!" He'd shouted in success. "Where they put the thrusters on its design, there's no way it would be able to get airborne. It'd get, like, maybe five meters off the ground before hurtling back down again." 

But not all of your conversations were always so lighthearted. 

"Why did you do it?" he asked one day, delivered in between a bite of lo mien. "All the crimes. The theft, the murders." 

You didn't answer right away. You let the question hang there between you, long enough for it to sink in, saturating the moment with all its weight and layers. It wasn't exactly unwelcome, just unexpected. 

"You don't have to answer that." He'd tensed a little, as though he'd only just realized what he said, fingers flexing around the white paper to-go container in his hold like if he squeezed it hard enough, he could turn back time. Start over again. 

"I know," you replied. 

"Really. I shouldn't have asked—" 

"No, it's okay," you reassured. You supposed it was a fair exchange, considering you knew his secret. Though that hadn't been intentional. Your hearing isn't nearly as sensitive as Galen's, but it's still keen enough that you had unintentionally eavesdropped on a private conversation between Blazer and Robert when you had been passing by her office, picking up fragmented bits of their exchange, about a suit, about Mecha Man. You put the pieces together pretty quickly, and once you had the knowledge, you weren't able to keep it from him, giddy like a kid who saw something they shouldn't.  

You let him know randomly one day, dropped it like a nuke in the middle of an empty conference room. You were the first to arrive to the meeting, slipping into the chair closest to where he was standing at the head of the table when you told him. "A little word of advice Mecha Man, there are a lot of people in this place with good hearing, so if you're trying to keep your identity a secret, you should learn to be conscious of when and where you're talking about it." 

He had looked like he could have shit himself. Once the temporary shock had worn off, he practically interrogated you, demanding to know how you heard. You caught the muttered, "Jesus Christ, does everyone here know who I am?" to himself as he paced. But you had promised him then that you wouldn't blab to anybody. And you wouldn't. 

"I may have killed people before Robert, but I'm not a complete asshole," you had told when he'd looked you over skeptically. And you weren't lying. You liked engaging in gossip as much as the next person, but you weren't the type to snitch over anything serious. And Robert, unlike any of the dispatchers before him, had earned your respect. And your respect wasn't worthless.

But being privy to his old identity still hadn't made talking about yourself any easier. You were nudging at an eggroll with the point of your finger, watching it wobble on the styrofoam, detached and temporarily mute as you tussled with your past. It's always quiet up on the roof, save for the wind, and the occasional rumble of traffic carried in on its currents. The type of silence that makes everything feel clandestine, secret. For the first time, you didn't know what to do with that kind of hush. The pressure of it that had transformed from peaceful to uncertain. Shaken. 

"Believe me, I ask myself the same question a lot." The confession came out taut, the exhaustion evident in the inflections of your voice. He turned his head to properly face you, but you couldn't meet his gaze. You scattered your own attention everywhere else, scanning the textures of the city, the sunlight caught in shimmers reflected from the windshields of cars and windows of apartment buildings and skyscrapers; the distant mountains in the far horizon, a flat jagged stretch of lavender.  "The first guy I killed wasn't on purpose. I was young. Twelve. I wasn't supposed to be outside of the house, for that specific reason. He was just walking. Some regular guy, probably heading home from work, or the corners store or some shit. Wrong place at the wrong time." 

But it hadn't been the wrong place or the wrong time. Not for him. You weren't supposed to be there. You shouldn't have been outside at all. But your dad had been late with your food. The nurse that he had been buying donated blood from had severed ties with him suddenly, cut him out with little notice or explanation. Maybe he had gotten caught, been discovered by another co-worker that he had been illegally selling blood off, stealing from the hospital he worked at for cash. But it didn't matter why he had ghosted your father and seemingly dropped off the face of the planet without warning, your dad was left to deal with the aftermath. 

He had you to feed. He'd been panicking, stretched thin by the demands of your biology, and he'd been out all day trying to find an alternative. You'd been living off of animal blood for a week, provided by some butcher shop. But the blood of pigs and cows and chickens would only suppress your hunger for so long, and he knew that. It nullified the ache in your gut, cavernous, gnawing, for only a brief time. A very narrow period. And he had been out God knows where trying to find you what you really needed. Human. Rich. Nutritious. Impossible to obtain. It led him down into dark places, rusted warehouses, seedy underbellies; rooms where blood smeared the cold walls, where harvested organs were sold to the highest bidder; red on concrete. 

You had tried to quell the hunger pangs by eating the regular food he gave you before he left, but it was as good as junk. PB and J's, crackers, left-over steak from the other night. It was useless. As satisfying as chewing a pack of gum for breakfast, all flavor and no substance. But you gorged yourself on it all, forcing yourself to swallow down the mouthfuls past the rise of nausea. Panting through the sickness that churned in your stomach, oil-slick and bitter at the back of your throat. 

You can't clearly remember when you lost yourself to it. Succumbing to the agony wracking your body. But you know that you had broken free, ripped the chain that he had clasped around your ankle from the basement wall, bolts tugging loose from the drywall without a fight. You remember shuffling down the street. It was dark out. Nightfall. The shrill screech of iron dragged across the asphalt behind you, scratching inside your ears, chain rattling. 

You aren't sure how long it had been before you found him. Seconds, minutes, hours. But you were staring at him while he shuffled down the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette as he went, and then in a blink your teeth had been in his throat. Tearing, vicious. An animal. 

When you came to, you were being carried, swaddled in a protective embrace and a familiar scent. The light of streetlamps blossomed across the street, a nasty yellow splash of color in the dark, trembling from the pace of the unsteady, frantic gait of the person carrying you. Iron was wet and warm on your tongue, smeared on your mouth. A dog with a cruor-soaked maw, gore from the rabbit. 

A man's voice trembled in your ear. Soothing. Terrified. Your father. 

"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. You didn't mean it. You didn't mean it." 

Your body had rejoiced, finally satiated. The hollow pit in your stomach finally buried. You cried into his neck. 

You never blamed your dad for the way that he handled your appetite. It's hereditary, your condition, but it hadn't manifested inside of your family tree since your great grandmother. He grew up normal. Regular. So did his brother and sister, and their own kids. They got to go to football practices, ballet recitals, have neighborhood potlucks without worry, without struggling to hide some abnormal secret. 

You played with dolls, too, just like any other kid. You held tea parties for your stuffed animals, made them drink invisible tea from plastic cups, but you always knew, deep down, that you weren't quite right. 

You sighed, shifted your weight, trying to shake off the self-consciousness that attempted to cling to you, to the moment. Robert hadn't made anymore attempts to touch his food. He was engrossed your words, in you, watching like he didn't want to miss a thing. It could have made you feel unbearably awkward, but there was a sincerity in his expression that kept the atmosphere from turning sour. It wasn't performative, or insincere. It was warm, a sunlight that didn't hurt. 

"When I first started killing, it was abusive ex-lovers, a few Herbert the perverts, human traffickers, crooked cops. I figured if I was going to live with myself, with . . . the constant fucking hunger, I might as well as make it useful." A plane flew somewhere overhead, its engine droning over the quiet in a noisy crawl. "And then somewhere along the line, people found out about me, through rumors, speculations on the street. They'd offer cash. For hits. Assassinations  — whatever you want to call it. For politicians, cheating husbands, mafia bosses. I took the money."

You sighed, tension leaving you with the exhale, shoulders relaxing like wax softening under heat. "I had a really nice condo. A deck with a full skyline view, a walk-in closet. A pool. It was pretty nice." Your mouth pressed, making a scowl. But then you had stopped taking hits, accepting money, held back by the guilt. You weren't completely stupid; you did save a large sum of it, hid it away far beyond the governments sight. It's enough to keep you comfortable for a very long time, if you play your cards right, stashed away for emergencies. Just in case shit ever hits the fan and you have to book it. 

It was with the income that you started to receive from SDN that you moved into your new apartment. It's humble, but in a decent neighborhood, and the condition it was in when you were first given a tour by the landlord was good considering the state of most places in Torrance. You couldn't be picky. 

"Yeah, that's pretty rough," he agreed. You could see him wince outside the vignette of your vision like he wanted to kick himself for the lack of complexity in his response. His guilt apparent in the tick of his jaw. "But you had all of that. Success, wealth. What made you give it all up?" 

Because you couldn't stand to look at yourself in the mirror. Because when you went to sleep at night, all you would dream of was screaming; wide, panicked eyes. The men, the women, and children, people close to the victims you had slaughtered. Most innocent despite their associations with your targets but harmed by the damage you had done. 

But you couldn't say all of that. So you settled. "After a while, you just get tired of all the killing." 

"For what it's worth — I mean, I know I'm pretty much just some random asshole— " you smiled at that, the first time in the past ten minutes "— but you did the right thing. It doesn't absolve you of the harm you've done. The pain you might have caused. But you're trying to make a change, and I think that's worth something." 

He said it with conviction, as though it were an undisputable fact. An absolute. When you looked to him again, he was already observing you. His stare unyielding, the rich shades of his eyes, a wealth of amber and umber and rust, blazing in the coruscating flare of the sun. 

Yeah, you knew then that you wouldn't be able to stay away from him. 

You should have known that the team would find out eventually. You suppose you weren't exactly subtle. It didn't matter that your interactions were innocent. Just two people finding some kind of solace, companionship in each other. But no one talks more shit than Z-Team, and it was only a matter of time before gossip was swirling around the workplace like a flesh-eating disease. 

You knew something was up when you walked into the building one morning. The ride up in the elevator had been strange, the two heroes standing beside you kept passing each other glances that they thought you couldn't see. You had chalked it up to the regular bullshit, heroes talking and jeering because you were an ex-villain. None of them particularly had faith in Z-Team. It wasn't a secret, and you didn't care.

And then the tall one who looked suspiciously similar to Ernie from Sesame Street lifted up his thick hands, shaping his fingers together to make the crude imitation of a dick thrusting into a hole. 

You weren't usually the type to entertain gossip, but something about the smug expression on both of their faces had really dug under your skin. 

You had crowded into their space, abrupt enough that they both had jerked back like they'd been struck, crowding against the wall of the elevator from the shock. Your fangs bared instinctively, irritation causing them to flash when your mouth twisted up into a snarl. "If either of you have something to say about me then at least you could do is have the balls to mention it to my face." 

The rest of the ride up was uneventful. You had to chew gum hard to ignore the urge to bite, adding strip after strip to give yourself something plush to sink your teeth into. You hoped the sound of it smacking in your mouth was annoying to them, childishness be damned. If it was, they didn't speak up. They kept to themselves, no longer chattering like a pair of obnoxious old ladies. But they weren't the only ones. You noticed the cursory looks, the way that some people would try and covertly peek over the tops of their cubicles as you passed. There was a myriad of different emotions displayed: amusement, surprise. Most were salacious. Alight with perversion, like a bunch of creeps trying to spy inside someone's window, drooling at the prospect of seeing something they shouldn't. 

You connected the dots pretty easily. Someone had blabbed, spread a rumor, and you were willing to put money on it being Visi or Flambae. Maybe Prism. Possibly Malevola. Honestly, it could have been just about anyone on the entire team, and you had no real way of knowing. 

But your suspicions were just that. Suspicions.

You smelt her long before you saw her, ozone and wind and expensive presume, fresh and flowery. You walked for as long as you could, as though you might just be able to evade her, but Blazer seemed to materialize within your trajectory, cutting you off from your path with her body. Her hands were raised, as though she were trying to appease a dangerous animal, eyes soft. "Hey, Nosferata. I hate to jump you like this so early, I know you just got in, but I've been hearing some rumors swirling around the workplace lately, and I—" 

"I'm not fucking Robert." You said bluntly, stepping around her to carry on. She followed, as persistent as ever, trailing behind your heels like a shadow. 

"Oh, that's great — well, not great necessarily. It's just that these sorts of things require a lot of paperwork. HR has to get involved—" 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, sucking down a spike of jealousy, unwanted and searing, making the pulse of it burn. You hated the way she almost sounded relieved to hear that nothing was happening between you two. Like she was happy with the news. It made some petty part of you tempted to lie about the whole thing, maybe backtrack and say that, yes, you and Robert actually were hooking up. You'd love to see the way her face would probably crumble, how she'd struggle to put on that plastic, unruffled veneer. But you wouldn't do that. Not to Robert. Instead, you just listened, hearing the repeated, thump, thump, thump of her footsteps pattering after you, as grating as nails on a chalk board. 

"Yeah, don't worry. We aren't 'fraternizing,' or anything so you can spare me the corporate interrogation, alright." You almost regretted being rude, but that little interaction in the elevator had already put you on edge, and her hounding you wasn't helping matters. You don't hate Blazer. You really don't. But jealousy is like a sickness, and unfortunately, it's already in your blood stream, brutal and illogical.  

Her voice had drifted after you, a low, "Sure, I just needed to check," like she'd stopped following, and was just watching you leave. You didn't turn to check, but the gradual loss of her scent let you know that she was gone. 

You were thankful for her absence. It meant you were able to locate Robert's cubicle without her being there to make things weird. Or weirder. You were relieved despite the circumstances to see him, seated at his desk. He had probably just got in. His headset wasn't on yet, untouched on the corner of the countertop, right next to a cup of steaming coffee. 

He didn't have time to register you were there before you blurted out the sentence that you'd been carrying like a hot coal in your mouth. "Just a heads up, people think we're fucking."

His head jerked up, mouth agape as he took you in. Clearly astounded . . . or horrified. "What— why, where did that come from? Why would anyone think that?" 

Your eyebrows perked as you hitched an arm up to prop it on the corner of the cubicle's panel, features morphing into a caricature of mock offense, but the smirk toying with your mouth must have made your true delight more than obvious. You always loved to tease him. He looks adorable when you actually manage to fluster him, when the impassive way he carries himself fractures around the edges and reveals flushed cheeks and stuttered breaths. You're probably a little sick for it, but it makes satisfaction smolder in your belly, molten, a little zealous.

Sometimes (all the time), you wished you could bite him. Not out of sadism, some desire for him to be in pain, but just to feel him. To have the weight of him pressed against the edges of your teeth, cradled safely within your mouth, all warmth and a heartbeat. 

"Wow, is the idea of having sex with me really that horrible?" you pouted in your faux outrage. 

"That's not what I meant— no, it wouldn't be ho— " He sucked in a breath, stilling himself like he was preparing what he was going to say next carefully. Balancing his words as deliberately as stones. "That's not what I meant. I just don't understand why anyone would think that." 

You shrugged, then crouched down to pat the top of Beef's head who had waddled out from behind Chase's cubicle. He wagged his tail in greeting, tongue lolling dumbly out of his mouth. His fur was soft, well taken care off, glossy underneath the fluorescents. "We hang out a lot. People are bored. It passes the time. I just figured you'd like the heads up because I'm sure that the team is absolutely going to be talking loads of shit today." 

He sighed, already defeated. "Great." 

The team did indeed talk shit that shift. And the shift after that, and the shift after that. He'd addressed it only a handful of times but quickly threw in the towel. He was pretty well adept at recognizing what was a lost cause in terms of Z-Team, and this was one of them. Bae had taken to calling you uncreative nicknames like Mrs. Bob Bob. He also accused you of sleeping with Robert to work your way up the ranks. That comment had earned him a broken nose. He had the bruise for days. 

Mal and Invisigal and Prism would prod and poke at you, trying to dig up dirt on your nonexistent sex life with him, like if he was vanilla or not. What kind of positions he enjoyed, if he could make you come. Visi asked if he whimpered, a question that you yourself have actually pondered. Many nights. In your bed. With your vibrator. 

You probably need to be neutered. Or just put down. That would probably make more sense. You've imagined your boss in positions that no one should picture their boss in, but the fantasies always seem to creep in, late at night when you're alone and your thoughts are idle. They manage to slink in, fueled by the fire beneath your skin, the ache between your legs. It never takes long before your restraint crumbles and you've got your hand or a toy buried between your thighs, using it to work yourself up, teasing and building that pleasure until it throbs and crests. His name is always on your lips when it happens, breathless, a little drunk, as though if you say it loud enough, he might hear you and come crawling to your front door. 

If only. 

And now that the entire team has begun to tirelessly clown the both of you for your imaginary relationship, it only serves as a constant reminder of what you won't have. That the dynamic between you and Robert will always just remain surface level. A professional (as professional as it could be with Z-Team) relationship. Nothing more than the occasional lunchbreak. Conversation shared over fast-food burgers and Taco Bell. And yet the most pathetic part of it all, is that you think that would be enough for you. Probably not forever, but it is now. 

You would take it, if it meant that you could keep close to him. If that means that you get to hear his laugh, his deadpan jokes. You'd eat them all like scraps. 

But that never meant that it never got exhausting. The constant charade. The permanent loop you seemed to be stuck in, deflecting the comments made by your co-workers, pretending that they were all wrong when they taunted you for having feelings for him. They were right. But you could never tell them that. 

As awful as it might sound, you were a bit grateful when your last assignment out on the field had resulted in you getting shot. It was nothing too severe. A pretty standard robbery. Thieves robbing a gas station, holding the cashier at gunpoint. You'd been sent with Coop, and you had no complaints there. You both worked well together, sharing an affinity for stealth, similar backgrounds making your techniques compatible. You had the same mentality: get in, get out, and make sure the job is done. It made every assignment efficient, off without a hitch. Except for this one. Technically. 

You thought everyone had been accounted for. You and Coop had dealt with the robbers pretty quickly. It had been lightwork, with only one of the four only giving you a brief bit of resistance. A minotaur — or that's what he looked like, horns and hooves and all. Eight feet tall and built like a brick shit house. But with both you and Coop, you worked to take him down together. But one of the others, still managing to cling to consciousness despite the fact that you had punched him hard enough that you think his jaw might have dislocated, had used the distraction to shakily lift himself up and reach for the gun hidden and tucked inside his boot.  

You think that Robert had yelled to warn you, guiding you from the security cameras. Most of the time you love having his voice in your ear, but it was such a distressed noise that it turned your blood to ice. You felt gutted by his terror projecting through the device in your ear rather than the bullet plunging through your stomach. Punching a hole through meat and sinew. 

It wasn't a life-threatening blow. You will and have experienced much worse injuries in the line of duty, especially back in the day, when you were solo and operating on your own. When you had to patch yourself up in dingy alleyways, hunched in the grimy crevices of the city, organs hemorrhaged behind shattered bones, blood pouring through raw gashes, clinging to life. This wasn't one of those times. The shot did little more than temporarily stun you, and you recovered quick enough to move before he could properly orient himself. You were in front of him before he could pull the trigger a second time, and the swing up your knee cracking across his face, nose crunching underneath the strike, blood gushing, had been the final blow it had taken to knock him out for good. 

The injury was pretty small, all things considered. You healed long before you got back to SDN, the bullet having been pushed out by healing tissue and flesh back when you were still in the gas station. It dropped somewhere on the floor. You're pretty sure the police confiscated it as part of evidence. But the emergency blood pouch stored in the back of the breakroom fridge had helped you feel a little bit better, dulled the faint hunger pinching at your gut into nothing. 

Blazer had proposed giving you the rest of the day off, a suggestion that you typically would have refused, but honestly, you needed a bit of a break. From you co-workers, from work, from being shot at. You hadn't denied her, as much as you wanted to, and you think that the lack of defiance had shocked her. It was there on her face, glittering in the blue of her eyes. You could tell she wanted to grill you over it, to see if you were feeling okay. You were thankful that she didn't. 

"Blazer," you called before she could step away, halting in her tracks, watching you expectantly. 

"Yes?" 

"Could you let Robert know that I'm okay?" You tried to repress the care in your own voice, but she'd heard it. It was a slip up, careless. You can't remember the last time you'd gone out of your way to check in on another person, to make sure they were alright, and she noticed. You could see that she had questions to ask, that perceptive glimmer in her stare seemed to bore into you. She wanted to poke at you until she finally figured out whatever was going on between you two. You could see the fervor of it. "I know it'll be a while before he's able to step away from the computer. I don't want him to worry too much. He's like a helicopter mom, you know, I'm sure he's already beating himself up over the whole thing." 

You tried to ease the moment with a flimsy excuse, but it felt unconvincing to your own ears. And she hadn't taken the bait. You felt like a riddle she couldn't figure out, dissected and splayed open under her focus. A doll that she was toying with, tugging with its limbs and body. But you could see that curiosity soften, turning into something that seemed at lot like sympathy and understanding. As though it had all clicked into place for her. Like she figured something out that you couldn't. 

"Yeah, absolutely," she agreed, relenting. 

You parted with a genuine thank you. When you got home, it felt as though burden had been lifted, a stone pulled free from your back, and you could finally breathe again. You showered, changed your clothes, fed your fish. You baby-talked him as he swam around the tank, nipping at the pellets as they sunk, the kaleidoscopic fan of his tail swishing.   

You contemplated doing laundry, but you technically don't have to do it until Wednesday, and so that plan was quickly abandoned in favor of lazing around you living room and browsing through apps and TV shows that you've already seen a hundred times. 

You aren't expecting the knock at you front door, three separate taps, spaced apart and dull. As though the person on the other side is hesitant, unsure of themselves. Your thumb pauses mid press on the select button as you pivot your head in its direction. You aren't expecting anybody. No friends, no takeout deliveries, and you hadn't heard any notifications ding from your phone alerting to any incoming texts or phone calls. 

You're almost tempted to not even answer. You could pretend that you aren't home, the curtain on the front window is drawn shut, and whoever is on the other side would have no real way of knowing. But then it creeps in, muted, diluted from the barrier of the door, sneaking in past the crevices between it and the threshold. Softly metallic, remnants of grease, salt and heat, sunlight incarnate. But there's something beneath it all that makes your spine snap straight. It's acrid, bitter, burnt around the edges. Anxiety. Concern. 

You're moving before you fully register it, lifting off from the couch. Bare feet padding across the wooden floorboards to carry you to the other side of the room. You don't think much when you unlock the deadbolt and the twist knob, not bothering to check the peephole before jerking the door open with a little more urgency than intended, all but swinging it on its hinges. 

It's Robert, a fist poised midair, frozen like he was preparing to tap another set of knocks across the frame. He's still in his work clothes. The shirt is messily untucked, powder blue material wrinkled, the first couple buttons undone, fully baring the pale stretch of his throat, the divot of his clavicle. You can hear his heartbeat. Steady, but you swear it spikes when his eyes settle on you, though that might be from how your pupils are probably glinting in the growing shadows, that filmy, inhuman silver. You always forget about that. 

The sky behind him is turning dark, a gentle dusk. The last stubborn rays of sunlight bleeding along the horizon in thin smear of lilac and blush, the stars just beginning to wink against the darkest point. He doesn't have Beef with him, so he must have dropped him off at home after leaving work before immediately swinging back around to come here. The fading sun throws shadows over his face as it gradually sinks behind the city, the light fixtures above on the ceiling of the corridor grow brighter, highlighting streaks of gold within the strands of his hair. 

For a fleeting moment, you both just stare at each other, but it swells and ebbs as suddenly as a tide. He drops his hand by his side, lips parting while his eyes rove over you. Like he's scrutinizing you, analyzing you for anything that may seem out of place. 

"Nosferata." He greets, settling his posture straighter, shoulders leveling out. "Sorry if I'm bothering you, I know it's getting kinda late." 

"No, not at all," you gesture a thumb back toward the inside of your apartment. You try not to focus on his heartbeat pattering across the quiet. "I was just watching TV. What's up? Is something wrong? You smell . . . worried. I asked Blazer to let you know that I'm alright; did she forget?" 

"I — " he sighs heavily, seeming to still himself. "I always forget you can do that. And yes, she did tell me. I just wanted to check on you, personally. Cause of the mission. I wanted to make sure that you're okay," his gaze darts off, brows pinching close. He gestures vaguely in your direction. "The gunshot." 

He almost looks embarrassed. Or maybe just hesitant. Like maybe he doesn't know what to do with himself, or you. His unease is endearing. It's not always that you get to see him this way. Unsteady, fumbling. He's usually unshakable. Moored. Armed with quick wit and a sharp tongue, sarcasm and dry humor. But now he's standing as though he's a little lost. Like he's crossing over a boundary that he hadn't properly prepared for and doesn't know how to navigate it. 

It's sweet. How he came all this way just check on you, if not a little strange. He knows about your healing factor, it's something that he always keeps in mind when dispatching you for calls. It's the reason why you're frequently sent out to high-risk situations. If there are violent suspects, erratic emotions, armed and dangerous persons, you're probably going to be on the scene. It doesn't really make sense that he felt like he needed to see you when he could have just sent a text or waited until you both showed up at work in the morning. 

"I'm fine," you respond. "Already all healed up, as good as new." 

"That's good. I'm glad to hear that." 

It sort of just hangs there then. You both just stand silently, staring as though you're both expecting something from each other. An explanation, a farewell, the promise to see each other at work tomorrow while you both goodbye wave and go on about your lives. None of that happens. And you don't want it to. You aren't completely stupid. There's no reason why he had to show up here himself to check on an injury that doesn't exist. That he knows doesn't exist. He's here with a purpose, whether or not he's second guessing that intended purpose is unknown to you, but one thing is for sure, you aren't letting him go that easily now that he's here. 

"You want to come inside for a sec?" You lean on your feet a bit, shifting just enough so that he might be able to glance past your head and see inside your apartment. "Have a drink, if you want. I'm pretty sure that I have some of those canned cocktails that my friend brought over weeks ago — I've been meaning to get rid of them or finally drink them. Whichever comes first." 

"Sure, I'd love to," he answers, hardly considering it. You donn't hide your smile as you move out of the way to let him pass, closing the door behind him with a click. He glances around the living room and adjoining kitchenette as he enters, surmising the space in perfunctory glimpse. "Nice place. It's no condo though." 

"Shut up." You swat at his shoulder.

Roughly ten minutes later, you're both standing in your kitchen, each holding onto an open can. The filter inside the fish tank projects the calming trickle of water through the space, making the silence tranquil. The cocktail fizzles on your tongue as it goes down, fruit flavored, strawberry, you think. You didn't check before you popped it open.

It feels peaceful having him here. Like any other time you two have been alone with each other, casual, lacking expectations. Just people existing together. But that doesn't keep you from wondering. It won't keep your questions at bay. You hold them back in your mouth, heavy, uncomfortable. A bunch of stones that you long to spit out. The alcohol hasn't hit your system, you've only taken a few sips, a buzz having not even settled across your nerves yet, but you can't keep your inquiries trapped behind your teeth any longer. 

"Soo . . ." you pluck absentmindedly at the tab on your can, making it sing in a metallic hum. "Not that it isn't cool to see you, but I have to ask: What are you really doing here?" 

"What? Is it hard to believe that I would just come to visit without an ulterior motive?" He huffs out a laugh and fully leans his back fully against the counter before raising his drink up to take a sip. 

"I mean, you've never visited before. Which is fine!" You tack the last bit on hastily. "It's just . . . why, I guess? I've been injured out on the field, that's nothing new. Sure, I haven't been shot in a while, but what made this so different?" 

He doesn't answer you right away, and that almost scares you. He looks downward, maybe dissociating, staring at the floor like he might find the answer he needs in the scratch marks left behind from previous tenants. Distress prickles in your stomach, like you've swallowed static and you regret mentioning your ponderings at all. You don't even know what you were implying when you asked him that. Just what specifically you were rooting around for. 

But now you're just lying to yourself. You know exactly what you were trying to hear. The truth that you're seeking. That after all of this time, he might actually like you. As more than a co-worker or a friend. And what if he doesn't? That's the thought that always manages to sneak in, permanently lurking around the fringes of your mind to haunt. Honestly, you don't know how you would handle that. You like to tell yourself that you wouldn't care, that the world would keep spinning and you would move on easily, like you always have. But would you, really? Yes, you would. You promise yourself that religiously, chant it internally like a mantra. You're an adult, you'd manage. You'd suck down the sting and the hurt and move on. Pretend that Robert didn't matter until he no longer did. 

"I know you've taken worse damage." He breaks you out of your head, drawing your attention to him as though it's been magnetized and he was iron. "But it's the first time I've seen you take a hit like that. It . . . It gets easy to believe that you're invincible. That everyone on the team is. But when I saw you get shot, it reminded me that despite the superpowers, you are still human. You can get killed. It, well —" he scoffs, or maybe it was supposed to be a laugh. "It scared me." 

He admits it like he has to be careful about it. With hesitation, as though he was having the realization in real time. He said it so softly, the rumble in his voice turned smoky with the light volume of it. It was vulnerable, but it strikes you like a sledgehammer. 

"Oh," you answer intelligently. The fluttering that glides through you, inside your stomach, summery and flickering could make you nauseous if that pathetic little part of you that clung to Robert like a dog wasn't so happy. It's been a long time since you've met someone who genuinely cared, and you hadn't fully realized how starved you've been for it. 

"Sorry. I hope I didn't make things weird." 

"You didn't. It's nice, really, to know that I have someone in my corner." 

"Yeah." He shifts on his feet, his fingers tight around the can, making the aluminum crinkle beneath the pressure. "There's actually something I wanted to talk to you about." 

You hate the way your stomach sinks, but he sounds so serious suddenly. Speaking like there's something that he's been stewing over; hanging over him for weeks or months and he's unable to endure it any longer. Your mouth goes dry and you can only watch as he rotates around, angling his body so he's directly facing you and it makes it impossible to look anywhere else but his eyes. His expression is troubled, the space between his brows creasing, mouth twisting like he's repressing the urge to grimace. 

"What about?" Your confidence sounds hollow when you speak, and you pray that he doesn't notice it. 

He exhales like he's bracing himself, psyching himself up to deliver terrible news. You fear for the worst. Maybe he's cutting you from the team, though it doesn't make sense that he'd choose to do it here. That would happen at SDN, where you'd be surrounded by heroes who could keep you contained in case things got out of hand. It would be clinical, emotionless. Unless he's trying to give you a fighting chance. The opportunity to run before the authorities come swarming to take you in. 

He sits the cocktail down on the counter, using the freedom of his hand to nervously grip at the nape of his neck. "Jesus, this is more nerve wracking than when I tried to ask Olivia Holten to prom, and I almost puked on my shoes." 

"Robert, you're kind of freaking me out." 

"I like you, okay?" he blurts. "I like you a lot, and I wasn't sure exactly how to say it, so I just . . . am. I've been thinking about you for weeks, and I know I probably shouldn't, but I do. I do it so much that I think I might be going crazy. I think about you at home, when I'm at work. I saw you in a pot of orchids at a flower shop because I remember you telling me how much you love them. I think of you when I'm standing in line at a checkout and see a pack of gum, or when I see your favorite color, or I hear a song you like playing on the radio. It's like you're everywhere I look, and I can't stop." 

It's a lot to process. A million feelings well up in the passing of a single second, and you don't know what to do with it, so you don't do anything at all. You're just motionless. A statue in the middle of your kitchen. Unable to speak, tongue thick and heavy like cement. There's a few things you're able to catch in the chaos. Glimpses of relief, exultation, bewilderment, joy. It steals the air from your lungs and leaves you to stare, speechless and dumb while your brain flatlines and your pulse quickens, heart pumping so furiously that you think it might give up and seize. 

It all just bulldozes over you. All of the emotions that you've been struggling to suppress or coexist with are surging up, a deluge rolling beneath the surface. It makes your chest feel as though it could split, like your ribs will just give from the mayhem of it all, and your guts will go spilling on the floor. 

"Okay, now you're freaking me out. Can you please say something?" His hands flex at his sides, and he seems so awkward. Shoulders hunching like he wants to bolt. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

You want to slap yourself as soon as you register what you've said, but it just came tumbling out of your mouth, like your body and mind had fully turned against you, abandoned basic morals and boundaries under the influence of elation. You still can hardly blame it on the alcohol. You've only just started to feel that relaxing numbness of a buzz, the pale effects of it just beginning to settle over you. Faint, definitely not enough to make you lose a grip on yourself. 

"I am so sorry," you apologize, shaking your head while you take in the surprise in his expression. "You just gave this really sweet confession, and I'm such an asshole — " 

He's on you in a blink, moving with a speed that's pretty impressive. And then his lips are on yours, the shape of them soft, parting to move against your own. It doesn't take you long to shake free from the stupor he put you in, meeting the pace he's set, passionate, greedy. Like he was a starving man, and you were the only thing he has to satiate his hunger. His hands are on your face, thumbs caressing the length of your jaw as his fingers stretch to cup behind your ears, nails lightly scratching over the back of your head. 

He's crowding you against the counter, closing you in with his body, and you let him. Your skull thumps on the cabinets above the sink, but the dull sting that throbs there goes unnoticed. Insignificant. You're barely cognizant enough to try and sit the can in your hand down, but you must miss the mark, because you're pretty sure that it goes teetering over the edge of the counter, landing near your feet with a metallic thump. The drink is probably pouring everywhere, but it's a mess you'll have to clean later, because as of now, you can't be bothered to care. 

He nips lightly at your bottom lip, just enough to tease, but it has sparks lighting up down your spine. It has you pressing into him, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin bleed onto yours through your clothes, but then he's leaning away. Just enough for his lips to leave yours, but they still brush against you when he speaks. 

"You can kiss me whenever you want." You've never heard his voice sound like this before. Throaty and low. Inflections layered and rough like you've turned him ragged just from a little kissing. You're tempted to tease him for it, but truthfully, you aren't faring any better. 

"Don't make promises you can't keep, Robert." There isn't an ounce of fight in him when you grip his shoulders and rotate your positions, spinning him around to pin him against the fridge.  You hear the contents inside rattle from the impact. He flattens against it with a grunt, but you can feel his smile sweeping over your own. He tilts his chin back when you trail your mouth down the ridge of his jawline, teeth scraping as you gently suck and bite.

He's freely offering his throat to you like you couldn't rip it out if you wanted. That half of you that always feels less than human, bordering on something other, preens in delight, satisfaction flaring within your brain as your taste buds light up with his flavor. Rich, unctuous, you can taste the blood rushing beneath his skin, honeyed and metallic. You want to burrow yourself in him, bask in his scent, drink him up like he's a wine, and he's clinging to you just as wantonly, hands roaming all over your body like he doesn't know where to grab. Like he wants to collect every last piece of you in his palms and keep them all for himself. 

"Do you wanna keep this going?" Your tongue nearly slurs your words, but they're muffled regardless, stunted from how you haven't managed to part your mouth from him. Still peppering kisses across his given flesh like constellations. He arches into you when you sink the stamp of your teeth around him in a particularly harsh bite. You nearly apologize, jerk away for the slip up, but the heady groan that pierces the atmosphere snuffs out any worry you were beginning to feel. You make note of that little reaction, filing it away for later. 

And then he's pulling your head away from his throat, hand as firm as steel around the nape of your neck to guide you to look at him. The shadows in the kitchen spill over his face, made heavy by the lack of a direct light source, dual glows casted only by the TV in the living room and the amber hue of the cooktop light pouring out from beneath the microwave. He looks pretty like this, painted in shades of black, and mellow gold, winks of silver reflecting in his eyes from the flat screen in the adjoining room. There's a tenderness in his stare as it darts over your face, pausing over your features like he's trying to memorize you. 

His thumb is sweeping over your chin again, traveling up, scorching in its path as it glides over the shape of your bottom lip to press against the pronounced point of a single canine. Like he was contemplating poking himself with it, allowing it to dig past his skin and make blood well up. The prospect of it makes you shiver, has your head becoming a little floaty. 

"Yeah? You want to keep going?" Now he's just teasing you. The question is genuine, you can tell that much, but its delivery is still entirely smug. There's a satisfaction in his gaze, the warm shade of them alive with it. Like he's got you exactly where he wants you. 

"Oh, of course I do. I'm not letting you get away that easily." You don't give him any kind of warning when you lift your thigh up between his legs, grinding it directly on the hardness that's pressing against the khaki material of his work pants. You can feel the weight of him on your thigh, even through the cover of the fabric. He isn't insanely large, like something out of some tacky porno, but Visi, always the shit talker had definitely been lying when she said that he wasn't packing anything impressive. Either that, or she needs to get her eyes checked, because based off of what you can tell, he has plenty to work with. 

His reaction was just as good as you hoped. He curls into you, head tilting to nudge against yours. His chest heaves, deep and heavy when a breath puffs out across your neck. "Fuck. That's —" his hips grind on your thigh, chasing after the sensations it creates, and you aren't sure if he's entirely aware he's doing it. "Something tells me you might really eat me alive." 

"You say it like you don't want that." You're tugging him away from the fridge by the collar of his shirt before he can manage a response, and he follows easily, practically leaning into your grip as you guide him down the hallway. He's leaning into you again, dragging you into another kiss as you pull him through the dark, though now you're both flying a little blind now that you're caught back up in him. You have to rely on muscle memory to back yourself through the open threshold of your bedroom. 

And then it spikes through the balmy air, familiar, intense. It bathes across your tongue, piquant and dark, sticking to the back of your throat like chocolate. Made strong by how he licks into your mouth. You taste him while your lungs draw in his scent, smothering you with him, but it's so good that you don't care about breathing. 

It's something that you've picked up on him a thousand times before, hidden beneath the base of his regular scent. Titillating, but subtle. It used to drive you crazy trying to understand it, trying to deal with it. It isn't something that's always present on him. It would peek through his natural scent at random times, and you would ruminate over it longer than necessary, spending what seemed like hours at a time trying to understand it. If it was maybe a cologne, or something that would naturally attach to him while he went about his day-to-day errands, or if it was just an organic facet of his body's perfume. 

But sometimes you wouldn't detect it at all. And then it would randomly spike. Always at the most inconvenient moments, during meetings and debriefings in crowded rooms, in crammed hallways when you were both arguing with each other, bickering over the aftermath of missions gone wrong. Voices raising and tensions climbing. Your disagreements never neared getting violent, you had a clear enough understanding of each other to keep that from happening. Your mutual respect would keep the arguments from escalating, confined within the fine circle of a simple dispute, but that didn't mean that you wouldn't occasionally get cross. 

You would crowd close to each other (not without a snide comment from someone on the team, like, "If they start fucking right here on the table, I'm killing everyone in this room."), fueled by your verbal sparring, and you'd catch a glimpse of it, smoldering and enticing, like smoked honey. You thought maybe that you were imagining it, or perhaps your brain was playing tricks, making it smell so much more tempting than it actually was because of your attraction to him. 

It would haunt you nearly every time you were around him. It would make your gums ache, heat throbbing between your thighs. And even more humiliating, you actually had to go commando in your suit once or twice because it had made you wet enough that you had to take your underwear off in the stall of the bathroom.

Worse than that, was how you wound up with your hand pressed to your cunt, the heel of your palm grinding against your clit while you pumped your fingers inside of yourself, muffling your moans behind the stiff grip of your hand. Trying furiously, to get yourself off before you had to get back out on the field just so you could fucking focus. Praying that no one would stumble in and figure out what you were doing to yourself. You did not need that HR nightmare. Or the public indecency charge. 

You used to hate yourself for it. You'd spend the rest of your shift stewing, loathing your own body, internally degrading yourself for acting like some kind of pervert. Behaving like a complete and utter creep. But no. It's here, clear as day, and you know exactly what it is, what's been clinging to Robert this entire time, driving you up a wall.

Arousal smells different on everyone else. It's personal. There's probably a lot of biological factors you don't really know about that play into how those personal notes are created: health, diet, medication. Some people smell sweet, candied, others are almost savory and smooth. You even met a guy, who strangely, smelt sort of like Pine-Sol, evergreen and chemicals. 

But Robert is almost buttery, caramelized smoke, full-bodied flavor bursting behind his normal fragrance. The realization makes you feel stupid, vindicated, and frustrated all at once. That means this entire time he —

You're hardly gentle when you turn him and shove him down on the bed. The springs creak with his impact, his weight sinks a divot into the mattress. You don't waste any time climbing over him, swinging your legs around his hips. His hands are eager, raising to grip you by the waist, holding on tight like he's wants to keep you there permanently. Holding you firmly to keep you pressed on the bulge straining against his pants. 

"Someone's eager—" 

"This whole time you've just been horny." You almost sound angry. You really aren't. Mostly irritated, but you think that's at yourself. For being so blind, so stupid to what's been in front of you this entire time. 

"Well, yeah. You're literally sitting on my hard dick right now; I thought that was obvious," he deadpans. 

"That's not what I'm talking about." You glide a hand over him, slipping it over his chest, feeling the shape of lithe muscles underneath your palm while it navigates its way up, allowing you to trail your fingertips along the column of his throat. "I could smell it all the time. While we're at work. All of those meetings and lunchbreaks. I thought I was losing my God damn mind, smelling things that weren't there. I thought maybe, it was like, your cologne or something. That I was the one acting like someone who deserves to be on a watch list. But you've been rock hard in those ugly khakis this entire time." 

The discovery invigorates you a little. You can't resist to be a little mean, circling your hips in a slow grind, working yourself over his bulge. You can feel him through your respective clothes; the loose fabric of your sleep shorts does little to dull the sensations. They even magnify them, the thin seam on the inside brushes right over your clit, sparking a bright, syrupy heat up your nerves when you move. 

"And I thought you were a good boy, Robert. Guess I was wrong." 

He breaths deeply, a low whine slipping from his behind the wall of his chest. You can feel the air slip through his trachea, the dim shudder of it humming beneath your palm when you tense it around his throat. He chases after the drag of your hips, lifting his own to meet the lazy rhythm you've set. Teasing you, teasing himself. It doesn't stunt his typical dry delivery though. "Okay, okay. You found me out, alright. I've been violently horny this entire time. Always seconds away from just busting in my pants." 

You lean yourself over him, not ceasing your movements, without removing your hand. You drag your nose alongside his, angling your head, contemplating kissing him, but you pull back before he can fill the distance. His head drops back down on the mattress with a muffled thump, a frustrated sigh escaping past his lips, eyes flickering to your lips when you speak. "So what's got you all worked up, huh?" 

His mouth drops open a bit, preparing to talk, and that's when you chose to grind yourself down more firmly. The head of his cock drags right along your clit when you do it, and you just barely manage to keep the loud moan in your chest from shaking free. Robert isn't so lucky though, hissing through his teeth, spine bowing to lift himself into the brunt of the feeling.

"Not. Fair," he bites out stiffly. He looks like such a slut like this. The bedroom is dark, save for the bit of light from the streetlamps outside that manages to barely slip in through the window. But with your vision, you can see him clearly, the blush on his freckled cheeks, the lust burning in his glazed over stare, hair tussled and messy on your comforter. He's impossibly pretty; you wish you could keep him here, just like this, forever. "Do you have any idea — shit, that feels good — what it's like watching you walk around in that fucking leather suit all day. It's practically molded to you." 

"Yeah, I've got an idea or two," you shrug, nodding your head in playful tilt. 

"As if you're any better. Do you really think I haven't noticed all the times I've caught you staring at my ass." 

Damn, you actually didn't think he had noticed that. So much for subtlety. 

"What ass?" 

"Haha. Very funny," he scoffs beneath you, making you shake with the motion of it. And then he's moving, and in a blur, you're the one under him. You don't resist, body turning pliant under the weight of him wedging between your thighs, slotting in to place like he belongs there. Your legs splay open, seemingly on their own volition to give him more room, your ankles hooking around the back of his knees to keep him there, locked to you. 

When he kisses you this time, it's so much sweeter than the one you had shared back in the kitchen. This exchange is more explorative. No less passionate, but more leisurely. Like you both want nothing but to take your time with each other. Eagerly tasting the other, indulging in the brush of your lips on his, and he, yours. The tip of his tongue skims over the swell of your mouth, asking for entrance, which you give without hesitation, jaw parting open to let him tease his tongue with your own. 

It throws you headfirst into a clouded head space, brain turning hazy from the press of his body pinning yours, the bite and lick of his mouth. The concept of time trickles far from your grasp, seconds and minutes turning murky when he grinds his hips down on you, taunting you with the heavy press of his cock, thick and throbbing, rocking over your clothed pussy. You're dripping now, wet and soaking your shorts, clit aching, and you moan into his mouth. 

He swallows the sound greedily, drinking it down like wine. You two are hardly doing much, dry humping like a pair of horny college kids, but your brain is already breaking down into mush. Made muddled, thoughts turned brittle and falling apart by the delicious pressure already building at the base of your spine, molten inside the pit of your belly. Searing, slipping inside your bloodstream, coiling like a drug. 

And now he's the one pulling away from you. Abrupt and terrible. You hardly have time to process it at all. 

"What the hell Robert!" you snap indignantly, tucking your chin down to glare at him as he lifts himself, untangling the hook of your legs from around he's knees so he can freely sit back on his haunches. He's unfazed by your complaint, too busy roving his attention over your body. You don't miss how his eyes seem to pause over your heaving chest, staring unabashedly at the way your nipples are hard and poking beneath your T-shirt. You see the way his eyebrows seem to perk appreciatively.

And then his gaze is traveling down further, his hand is on one of your knees, gently tugging your legs open wider so he can stare between your legs. It makes you uncomfortably aware of how wet you are, of the visible patch that's probably soaked through the gusset of your shorts. He doesn't comment on it, but he looks smug. Eyes glittering with a satisfaction that seems to burn. 

"Take your shirt off," he orders. And then he's hooking his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and pulling, hard enough that you almost get tugged with it. You have to grip onto the blankets to hold yourself in place. You move to obey, hands fumbling to reach for the hem of your shirt to ruck it up over your torso and past your head. Both articles of clothing get carelessly tossed, landing somewhere on the floor. 

You can't look away from him. Your attention is trapped, seized onto him like he's the only thing that matters. Transfixed like a moth hypnotized by an exposed flame as he leans down, settling his stomach flat on the mattress, shoulders tucked within the open splay of your thighs. Suddenly, you feel like you can't breathe. Like if you do, you'll wake up and realize that this is just a cruel dream, forced to drink the bitter medicine of reality. But this is real. This is happening. You can feel the warm brush of his breath gliding over the exposed spread of your cunt, teasing in its glide. 

"No panties?" 

Any other time, you'd say something smart back. Taunt him a little back, toy with him. But now that he's actually here, cheeks and hair brushing over the skin near your knees, your voice and wit have all but abandoned you. 

"What are you doing?" Nope. That's not what you had wanted to say at all. Now you look stupid, lips parted, eyes probably glassy. 

He smirks, the corner of his mouth ticking up in his amusement. "I was planning on eating you out. Why? Do you want me to stop?"

"No." The word all but rips out of your throat, loud and demanding in its tone as you jerk up as you prop yourself up on your elbows to openly glare. But you can't find it in yourself to be embarrassed about how desperate you are. Not right now. "I will literally kill you if you do that."

He seems pleased with your answer, gaze dark. "Good." 

There's no fanfare before he's all but burrowing his face into you, tongue splitting you open to lick a stripe over your cunt from hole to clit. It's a shock to your system, every atom in your body flares under the stimulation, muscles pulling taut. You're like a marionette on tight strings, all parts of you seizing, back bowing from the surprise of it, legs involuntarily clamping around Robert's head. He doesn't fight it, doesn't make any moves to pry your thighs away from his ears. He carries on, unbothered within their squeeze. 

His hands loop under you, coming around to grab your hips when they squirm. But he isn't stopping you. He isn't trying to hold you down. It's like he aiding them, guiding them when they start to rock against his face, helping you find a smoother rhythm that makes you gasp. "There you go, baby," he murmurs in a velvet baritone in between lapping at your clit in tight little circles. The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Snuffed out. "Just like that." 

He almost sounds proud, pleased with the reactions that he's getting out of you, and it has your body burning so much hotter. And then he's sealing his lips around clit, sucking gently. Your hands fly down to take ahold of his head, fingers threading through the silky stands of his hair. Reaching for something to ground you down. To keep you contained inside reality. 

He groans when you pull his hair, sending vibrations scattering across your cunt. Most of his face is obscured, smothered against your pussy, but you see how his brows furrow, face twisting with how much he liked it. Even more damning though, is his hips. The subtle lift of them before they grind back down, fucking himself on the mattress, seeking out friction. 

Your jaw drops open, from your moans and pleased disbelief. You smile as best as you can when you look down at him, trying to focus through the waves of bliss ceaselessly drifting within your body. "Are you, are you — God, Robert, are you humping my bed?" 

His eyes, which have slipped shut at some point, open lazily to meet your gaze, but he doesn't bother with speaking. All you get in response is a shameless "mmhmm." Smothered, slurred, like he can't be bothered to part himself from you. Maybe you should have anticipated that he would be like this. Zealous, indulgent, giving. He's eating you out like it's his job. Like he's doing it for himself just as much for your pleasure. As though he needs it to survive, the purpose of it. 

A laugh hisses from your throat, just as disbelieving as it is excited. "Wow, you really are desper—" 

You didn't notice that one of his hands had disappeared from your hip, until one of his fingers is prodding at you and slipping inside. The full length of it stretching you open in a single push, the insertion aided by how soaked you've become, wet across the inside of your thighs, his spit and your own arousal makes you slick. All it takes is a single finger to punch the air out of you. The suddenness of it, the width filling you up has your body squirming. 

"I'm sorry. What was that?" He taunts, and meanly curls his finger, pumps it deep inside of you, seeking out that spot that'll have you going brainless. 

" —An asshole," you choke out. "You're such an asshole." 

"Well, this 'asshole' is about to make you cum, so I feel like I should be hearing less shit talking." 

You're tempted to berate him. Maybe tell him to shut up, but the ability to speak goes lost on you as he goes back to licking on your clit. Thrusting his finger inside of you at the same time, and when he finds it, the edge of his finger sweeping over your g-spot with startling accuracy, the high-pitched moan it drives out of you is humiliating. You just barely hear the cocky "There it is" he murmurs over the blood roaring in your ears. 

Your eyes roll, lashes fluttering when you fully drop your head back on the mattress, lifting your hips to chase after the dual sensations of his tongue and the pump of his finger. You're just beginning to adjust to it, body growing used to the stretch when he's slipping another in alongside it. Relentlessly stroking them over that spot inside of you that makes your thoughts dwindle into nothing. And you let it happen, giving up any kind of resistance or snark that you might have been clinging on to, allowing yourself to fully bask in the rapture of it all, and the ecstasy is almost harsh. 

"I think you can be good for me when you don't act like a brat. Wanna try? You want to be good for me?" 

It lashes through you. Electrical, sharp, brilliant. You find yourself nodding without little thought. 

"Oh, c'mon. You know how to talk. Don't tell me you've gone all dumb on me already from a little finger fucking." 

It should be mortifying how simply he's got you under his influence. How clearly he's been able to read you. Picked you apart, piece by meticulous piece and figured out all of your tells, what makes you tick. But all you feel is elation. The euphoria that comes with being understood. 

"Yeah, I'll be good. I can be good, I promise." 

"There we go," he purrs, too arrogant. Utterly happy with the state he's put you in, and he's determined to make you so much worse. To tear you apart and leave you as a pile of twitching, heaving parts. 

"Robert, I'm —" your breaths snag, gasp hiccupping. "You're gonna make me, fuck."  

"Go on, pretty girl." He urges, voice a throaty rasp. "You can have it any time." 

And that's all it takes. The raw permission, the sloppy drag of his tongue gliding around your clit, the firm thrust of his fingers fucking into you. It all takes ahold of you mercilessly, wraps you up tight, and shoves you directly down into the throes of your orgasm. Your nails rake down his scalp, messily gripping at his hair in an effort to try and keep yourself sane while your back bows off of the mattress. He works you through it, lapping carefully at your clit, softening the pressure as the pleasure begins to tapper off, ebbing away in blissful aftershocks. 

The moan you let out is drawn out, wispy. Your hips are still moving, lazily rocking while the rest of you has gone boneless, endorphins and contentment turning your muscles into jelly. You can feel him peppering kisses across your thighs, the sensation of it helping to draw you out of the pleasant haze you've been caught in. 

You will yourself to look down, almost drunkenly tilting you head while you focus on composing yourself, sucking steady breaths. If you didn't know better, you could believe that Robert had been the one who just got off. His cheeks are still flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen and smeared the aftermath of your orgasm. He's panting, catching his breath while he nuzzles into your thigh. 

"I'd say I did a decent enough job," he joked. "What do you think? At least a five out of ten, right?" 

"Hmm. I'm not so sure yet. I think we need to gather more information before I can give it a proper rating." 

He smiles with you, some kind of silent exchange happening. And then you're moving. Lifting yourself up on wobbling knees. He raises himself to meet you, leaning himself over to take your mouth in a brief kiss, letting you taste yourself on him, dimly sweet, natural. You both reach for his clothes, and you busy yourself with his belt and then his zipper, tugging his pants and boxers down his waist, and he works on the buttons of his shirt. But he gets frustrated halfway, annoyed with how his fingers keep slipping from his impatience, and he settles for ripping it off. Buttons go flying, clacking across the floorboards in the spray, but neither of you pay it any mind. 

You're tugging him higher up on the bed as soon as he's naked. He pulls himself up after kicking his pants away and off his ankles, swapping his place with yours. You shove him down on the flat of his back, climbing astride his bare hips and his hands are already on you, groping, shifting, feeling all of you. Traveling up to take handfuls of your breasts, softly squeezing them within the textured skin of his palms. The callouses on his fingers and the undersides of his knuckles are delightfully rough against your nipples, and you arch into them, seeking out more. 

You can't help but to admire all of him now that you have him bare and beneath you. It only takes a split second to come to a conclusion: he's stunning. Far better than anything you imagined while alone in this exact bed. It's surreal to have him here, splayed out and panting. Pale skin bordered in amber from the glow of the streetlamp down below, casting just bright enough for you to catch the freckles and scars dispersed across his body. Lithe muscles taking shape from the shadows projected over him, thin but athletic. Lean strength, made from dedication, hard work. The round tear in his ear, the scars are all evidence of commitment made from bruises and blood. 

"Why do I feel like a piece of meat, right now. Are you thinking about eating me?" he jokes, observing you playfully. His thumbs sweep over your breasts, caressing around your nipples, making you grind down onto him. He's hot, throbbing, the thick width of him bare between the crux of your legs; head catching against the entrance of your pussy. 

"That sounds like a good idea. Maybe later." He doesn't seem to mind the glimpse of your fangs. You can't smell any fear; your ears don't pick up a frightened spike it his heartrate. He's unbothered. Still incredibly hard beneath the weight of your cunt. Watching you like this is the only place in the world that he wants to be. 

Your head angles to the side when you observe him, admiring him with an expression that you know must be terribly affectionate. Too loving for what this is. "You're pretty Robert."

"Pretty?" He looks like he doesn't quite believe you, eyebrows raising. "I don't think I've ever been called that before." 

That admission makes your heart ache. The flippantness of it. The casualness of its delivery. As though it doesn't matter. Like he doesn't expect for anyone to regard him such a way. That maybe, he isn't deserving of it, the appreciation or praise. "I'll have to say it more then." 

He truly looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself. Now the blush on his face isn't only from the lust burning through his veins, but also what must be mortification, self-consciousness, incredulity. As though he's been told he's been subpar, inadequate for so long that now he believes it. You want to convince him otherwise. You want to grab him by his shoulders and shake him until he's finally convinced that he's so much more than the lies he's been fed. That he's more than the suit or his family's legacy, or what other crushing insecurities might be hanging down on him. You know he hears it constantly, from the entire team, from other heroes. He's nothing without the suit. Just a man. Powerless. It follows him around into every room he steps inside, unforgiving and crippling. 

You want to tell him that he's so much more than all of that, but you suppose that it would probably be pretty ill-timed considering that you're both completely naked. You'll have to save the therapy session for later. When you aren't trying to fuck each other. 

He's soaked when you reach down where your bodies press together and take him into your hand, smeared with the precum that dribbles from the head of his cock. He hisses between the clench of his jaw when you grab him, sensitive no doubt, from how worked up he'd gotten from eating you out, from how he'd humped himself on your mattress. The evidence of it trickles from him in a messy, sluggish flow. He's so hard that it must be painful, head flushed an angry red. 

When you trace your thumb down a vein, throbbing as it scrawls down the length of him, he jerks, hips flexing into the movement. You feel starved and ardent when you watch how his eyelashes flutter, the subtle swell of his lips glittering with his spit and your cum. He looks drunk. Dazed while he stares up at the ceiling before glancing down back at you. He swears when he sees you hovering over him, like you're something to be in awe of. You don't do it to be mean exactly, but when the weight of his eyes settles back on you, glazed over, pupils blown wide, almost reverent, it has you clenching around nothing. You need to take the edge off somehow, need to get a little bit of relief just so you think a little clearer. 

It has you gripping him tighter, slipping your hold lower, aided by the smear of his arousal as you grab him around the base to hold him still when you grind your clit against the tip. 

His hands fly around your waist, firm enough that it would leave bruises on anyone else. He gasps, face pinching while he stares, transfixed as you softly rock on the head of his cock. 

"Okay, now you're just fucking teasing," he wheezes out. Something like realization slips into his expression, sober and bare. "Shit, you don't have any condoms here, do you? I wasn't exactly planning on this." 

You immediately halt in your movements, pressing a palm down on his chest to prop yourself up, breathing through the shocks of pleasure still boiling inside of your stomach. "No, I don't have any," you say, disappointment pressing down behind your lungs. You couldn't blame if he doesn't want to keep going now, for being responsible. "Uh, I mean, I'm on the pill and I'm clean. So if you are, then . . . " 

You let it settle there, the offer looming. Letting him contemplate your proposal on his own terms.

"Yeah, I'm clean," he replies. "Didn't really have too much time to sleep around being Mecha Man. And the last time I was in a relationship was an embarrassingly long time ago." It stretches between your bodies, an answer in its in own, and the stares you exchange only confirms it. His hands don't move to lift you off; they don't lighten to give you the ability to tear yourself from his grasp, either. You're both motionless, the shared decision felt in both of your bodies. 

"Oh really? I figured you would have had, like a whole mob of fans frothing at the mouth to get a piece of you. Guess that makes more for me then," you shrug. You shift the angle of your hips, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance and then you sink down on him. It's abrupt. He chokes, and all the collective air held in your lungs is shoved out in a single gasp. Your bodies freeze, muscles going temporarily still like they don't know how to handle what they're experiencing. 

He's not astoundingly long, about average, but for a guy as lithe as he is, he's decently thick. Enough that it has you holding your breath while you lower yourself down on him. An ache throbs from the girth of his cock stretching you open, a subtle sting that feels good as much as it hurts. Probably the only thing that helps in aiding you in fitting him inside so quickly is how soaked you both are, from how relaxed he'd gotten you with his mouth. You sink all the way down to the hilt, stopping only once the physical barrier of his thighs keeps you in place. 

"Hold on. Don't move," he pleads in a thin rumble. He draws in a large gulp of oxygen, brows furrowed like he's concentrating. "This is literally every guys worst nightmare, and I don't want to admit it, but if you move, I'll probably come. I swear I'm not usually like this." 

"That's what they all say," you chide with faux annoyance. It's not very convincing, your amusement is clear, a smile already nudging at your mouth. 

"Well in my defense, I did just wake up from a coma. I'm a little out of practice." 

You don't poke any more fun at him, you let him adjust, adapt to the feel of you around him. For a minute or two, you just stay like that. Quiet, joined together, listening to the other breathe, the occasional rumble of a car passing down the street outside, feeling the soothing warmth of each other's bodies. It's intimate in a way. Too gentle for what might just be a fling, for whatever this might turn out to be. A quick one-night stand in between coworkers, a temporary experiment. You don't want to think about the fact, that once this is over, he might not want anything more with you. And that's fair, isn't it? 

Sure, he said that he likes you. But that doesn't mean that this is going to develop into anything more than mutual attraction and lust that's finally spilt over. Once this is done, and the mutual high has worn off and you've both satiated that want and curiosity, you'll both go back to your lives. You'll attend work tomorrow and pretend that you don't know what he taste like, how he sounds when he groans, how he feels under you. You'll see him in meetings, listen to his voice over comms, continue on with your lunchbreaks and convince yourself that don't want him anymore. That this didn't matter. You'll lie to yourself. Make it easy, because that's what you do. That's what has to be done. 

But if you couldn't have this, him, then you'd at least make this a night to remember. Something to think back on fondly. 

"You good?" you ask him after a few passing minutes. He looks visibly less tense, and the white-knuckled grip he had on your hips has slackened; his thumbs now sweep over the sore skin in apologetic caresses. 

He answers in a nod, but when you raise your eyebrows in a silent bid for a better response, he successfully spits out a verbal reply. Quietly panting out a confirming "yes" along with another agreeing tilt of his head. It's only then that you lift yourself up in a steady rise only to drop back down again, rocking yourself in a steady motion that has your clit grinding against the swell of his pelvis bone, the dark thatch of hair above his cock catching on your clit. Coarse, dragging over you in a way that has pleasure sparking along your nerves, light and electric. 

It makes you moan, a pitched, breathy sound, rising up right along the wet squelch of his cock repeatedly driving into you. Robert's focus keeps darting, like he can't decide where to look: at your face, fervently admiring how your mouth has dropped open, cheeks and forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, or down where he splits you open, cock flushed, thick girth plunging deep inside of your pussy. 

You circle your hips when you rise and fall, rotating them in a heavy rhythm that nearly makes your eyes turn in the back of your skull. It has your hands scrambling again for something to purchase, slipping up the expanse of his abdomen, the shape of his pectorals. The damaged ridges of his scars brush along your palms, raised and smooth feeling despite the old violence of that created them. His flesh is hot, damp with perspiration, the usual pale hue shifted a little red. 

But when he sighs out in bliss, almost whimpering, he says your alias. The name you bore as a villain, and now as a hero. It shouldn't bother you. It never used to. Not with the flings you had in the past, where anonymity was crucial. But hearing him say it, now and like this, burrows into your ribs like a knife. It's clinical, detached. It doesn't have a place here, in a moment as vulnerable as this. You hardly process that you're speaking, that the name you utter between your lips is your real name, spoken out in confidence. 

You see his confusion clearly, glittering in his eyes, presented vividly from the glow of the outside streetlamps. 

"It's my name. My actual name," you clarify. "You can say it." 

He repeats it. It's like he's taste testing it, and it sounds saccharine on his tongue. After years of only being Nosferata, to hear yourself addressed properly, it's like coming home again. Being allowed to cross through a familiar threshold after being shunned from it for so long. It invigorates you, shooting through your system like a shot of adrenaline, and you can't help but to grind a little deeper, squeezing the walls of your cunt to grip him a little tighter when you lift yourself. 

It earns you a gasp of your name, a little desperate, as though he's been relieved by the feel of you, the heat and suction. You can practically feel the stress ebb from him. The tension vacating his body as you ride him, churning and bucking your hips to carry you both towards the ecstasy that looms ahead. A far drop that you know will have you both scrambling and struggling to hold on. 

His shoulders draw back, pressing back into the mattress when he fucks himself back up into you, thrusting rapaciously to meet your pace. 

"That's, that feels — " He doesn't get to finish his sentence, head lolling back, stretching out the pretty shape of his neck. You see how his Adam's apple bobs, throat working as he swallows another moan. If you focus just enough, sifting through the rise and fall of your shared breathing, the worn creak of the mattress' springs rasping each time you drop yourself back down on him, the wet smack of your skin meeting his, you can hear his pulse. Thundering under his skin. A recurrent thump, a brisk pattern that you swear you can almost taste in the air, weaving the already heady perfume of sex into something intoxicating. 

"I really wish you could see yourself like this, Robert." You heave in another breath, your own spine arching when the head of his cock strikes a spot that makes your thoughts fizzle, turning as thick and sluggish as a batch of melted sugar. "You look so good baby, it's not fair." 

You expect to hear his usual kind of sass thrown back at you. Maybe something sarcastic and self-depreciating, another deflection, but all you get is a rough groan, inarticulate and drawn out, like you've grazed something deep and wounded inside of him. 

Oh, he liked that. You could feel it in how every part of him coils up tight, legs bending sharper to drive into you with deeper strokes. Some kind of compulsion. A physical impulse, like his body had decided to do it before his mind could completely recognize that it's chasing after the urge. Hungry for the praise, the desire to be wanted. Adored. 

It's a complete 180 from how he'd been before. In control, directing you how he pleased, balancing between chiding and gentle. But this is the opposite. He's the one who's being influenced now; he's wordlessly handed you the reins and allowed you to take what you need from him, graciously accepting what you're willing to offer him. A chalice taking only what's been poured. And you're willing to give him anything, to fill him until he's overflowing. 

You lean over him as best as you can without throwing off the pace you've built, supporting yourself with a hand on his chest while the other settles beside his head, fingers squeezing to clasp the blankets to keep you grounded. You lower your head, chin dipping to glide your nose along the shape of his cheekbone, and you have to smile at how he leans into you to graze his nose along yours. It's intimate. So intimate that you could suffocate on it like a poison, but you can't stop. 

"You feel so good," you praise in a euphoric moan. "Robert, you're making me feel so full. God." That compliments that flow from you aren't fake. You aren't hamming it up like you have with past one-night stands, saying whatever you possibly can just so the guy will get off and make the experience end sooner, counting the seconds in the hope for it to be over.

But you typically aren't this vocal apart from the occasional moan, or a sporadic line of dirty talk scattered here and there. But right now, it all flows from you freely. Maybe it's only because you love to see the reactions it garners from him. You're subconscious craving more. More of those dainty, breathy whines and gasps that have begun to spill from him. Groans worked out from him each time you lift yourself up with your thighs, balancing your weight on the flat of your feet to drive yourself downward. It's hell on your muscles, a deep burn already zapping up the tendons, licking harshly across the meat of your thighs, but you'd be damned if you stopped now.  

You aren't entirely sure that he's aware of the noises he's making now. You didn't think that he would lose his composure this fast, unbothered demeanor crumbling as delicately as a sandcastle giving beneath the barrage of an ocean's waves. He looks debauched, hair damp with sweat, eyes still dazed and fluttering, jaw dropped open. You wish you could keep him like this for eternity, spread out on your bed in a hedonistic display, chest heaving, atmosphere thick with the sounds of his pleasure and the prurient taste of his scent saturating your mouth and throat. Kept and cherished, drinking each other down until the sun goes supernova and consumes the world in a burst of fire and plasma. 

He mutters something, a whisper of words, jammed and snagging in his mouth, tongue tripping uselessly against his teeth. Even with your sharp hearing, you aren't able to pick up what he said, syllables lost to the slurred mumble of his voice. 

"Hmm? What was that?" You remove your hand up from where it was gripping the blankets, using it to cup the side of his face, directing him to focus his attention back on you from where it had drifted off. 

For a split second, it seems like he's contemplating talking back. There's a flicker in his eyes, sharp and challenging, but it vanishes as swiftly as it had appeared, snuffed out as definitively as a coal being doused with a bucket of water, and all that remains is supple compliance.  ". . . Don't stop. Please, don't stop." 

You really wished you had the time to really indulge and take him apart piece by piece. To study him in the way that you truly want to. To prod and lick and touch, discovering what makes him weak. What gets under his skin and turns him boneless and desperate, but that sort of excess requires a long discussion, a conversation of boundaries. It would be pretty mistimed to try and bring that sort of thing up now, when you're both already in so deep, consumed and stupefied by lust. Too muddled and dazed to think clearly. 

But having him like this is more than enough. You'll be thinking about this for weeks, months, hooked on him like a drug; candy stuck and caramelized between your teeth, sweet and tawny. Buttery gold on your enamel, sunlight caught inside of your mouth. 

You would deny anyone else, taunt them, make them ask you again until you were satisfied, but you don't think you can resist him now. Not with you both so close, hurtling towards the fringes of a shared bliss. It's soaking up the foundation of your spine, rooting within the cradle of your hips, drenching your bone and viscera in melted fire. Honeyed rapture seeping between your vertebrae, sizzling there with zaps of lightning, coils of heat and smoke making your back bow taut as you chase after it. 

"I won't stop," you assure. "You've been so good for me. Always so good, Robert." 

And there it is again. He jolts, a full-bodied shiver twitching over him as though he's physically trying to seek out more praise. You swear you can feel him twitch inside of you, but it could just be a trick of your imagination. Though you're doubtful it is with how needily he drives his cock into you, causing the noisy echo of skin on skin to pitch around the room, the bed creaking repeatedly, the frantic movements of your bodies causing the headboard to thump against the wall. 

You're probably going to get a noise complaint tomorrow, but it's definitely worth it. 

"You close baby?" you ask, slipping your palm down from his face to feel his pulse battering throughout the junction of his jugular. 

He nods frantically, a guttural groan vibrating behind his ribcage. You're both right there. Dangling at the edge, hurtling in the direction of a precipice that swells and expands in front of you, and you need it. You need it so bad that it hurts. A painful ache, like the gnawing of hunger. All it's going to take for either of you to reach it is a little push, and you're happy to deliver, to reach out and shove. 

"I want to feel it. You're so close, Robert, I know you are." You're moaning now, and your thumb squeezes around the width of his throat, hooking just beneath the hinge of his jaw and he presses into it. (You're absolutely storing that away for later — if there is a later) "I want you to come inside. I need you to fill me up. C'mon, you deserve it." 

That's all it takes. He goes off as though he's attached to a fuse that's been lit and eaten up by the sparks. He seizes up, reacting like a man being electrified, coiling up, wrought with tension that makes him spasm. "Oh fuck," he swears. A cork popping free from a bottle, a string of swears and curses rambling from him in a stimulated rush. 

You keep bouncing on him, unrelenting in the cadence of your ride, determined to aid him through every possible pulse of pleasure, just as adamant to finish yourself off in the process. It's right there, dangling in front of you, licking up your back, lashing through your stomach. Before you can reach down to swirl a finger over your clit, he's doing it for you, settling the thick pad of his thumb over you in tight, debilitating figure eights that light you on fire. Between the brush of his thumb on you and the warm flow of his cum spurting inside of you, that's all it takes for you to tip over into your second orgasm of the night with a silent cry. 

The urge to bite him lunges up. The animalistic instinct to claim him, to taste the blood that hares through his veins. A desire that's only invigorated by the scent of him, natural warmth, human, comforting in the traces of grease and metal that lurks beneath. 

It takes every bit of self-restraint you have to lift your arm and to gag yourself with it, sinking the lethal points of your canines into your own flesh. It gives without protest, fangs sliding past the epidermis like it's butter. It doesn't inhibit the pleasure taking you over. It makes it all the more fatal. White-hot in its seize. The flavor of blood, metallic, bold, a nectar unlike anything else, only exacerbates the high of sex, and now you're the one convulsing from the brunt of your orgasm. 

You keep going until you're both spent. Until the pleasure turns too sharp, overstimulating, and you're both twitching from the aftershocks. It's only then that you allow yourself to collapse. The sting in your hips and thighs makes you groan from the relief of finally stopping and you sag on top of him from the respite of it. 

Your head drops on his chest, ear pressed where his heart thuds and pulses. You reluctantly pull your arms from your mouth, teeth parting with your skin, which immediately begins to heal from their absence. The smear of blood vanishing, cells pulling and returning to your body from the threshold of the wound, before the punctures can seal up. A pair of gnarled holes, and then they're gone entirely as though they had never been. But you can still taste the blood, the evidence of it across your palate. 

You both pant, unmoving, Robert still buried inside of you, softening but heavy. You try to catch the oxygen you had lost and struggled to hold. You stay like that, basking in the afterglow. Lounging in the sounds of your breathing, the scent of sex, which has merged with his. It's pleasant. Peaceful. The kind of smell that you wish you could trap in a bottle and save for later. You hope the it sinks into the individual fibers of your blankets, joins into the walls so that the ghost of him will be housed here long after he's left. A haunting made especially for you. 

You long to stay here, but you know that time won't slow down for you. Soon you'll both have to move. You'll have to get up from the bed and clean yourself up, take another shower, and Robert will have to go back home to Beef. This moment isn't infinite. The hands on the metaphorical clock are ticking down, and they can't wait for you to be ready for the inevitable. For the awkward conversation that awaits you. The shifty eyes and the promise to make sure that you'll both be professional, detached while at work. 

"Ten out of ten," you blurt, trying to shake off the dread that's settled over you, as fitting as a second skin. "Ten out of ten, for sure." 

He chuckles at the call back, and the fleeting trickle of levity is soothing. But it doesn't last. He falls silent, catching his breath while he absentmindedly traces shapes across your back and shoulders, sketching nonsensical patterns and marks. The sensation of it is more calming than your half-cocked attempt at humor. It helps you settle against him, going lax across the shape of his torso, your ribs trying to take shape to his own. 

"You smell nice," you confess distractedly, placidly staring out the open window. Admiring the jumbled shapes of neighboring rooftops, the glow of the lights. 

"I do try and bathe pretty regularly, so I'm glad it's paying off," he jokes. It lands better than your own, a sparse but delighted laugh bubbling from you. 

"Not like that you dick." You turn your head just enough to playfully nip at his chest, earning a surprised 'ow' from him, but he quiets when you press a kiss to the sting. "Everyone has a scent — you know that much, obviously, but with my powers it's all magnified. So much more intense." 

"What I smell like?" You hear his curiosity. It makes you wonder if he's staring up at the ceiling while he wonders, but you can't bother to lift your cheek up from where you settled it back down on his sternum. It's too warm. Too relaxing to pull away from. 

"Warm. Alive. Vibrant." 

"I'm not sure . . . If those are words that are usually to describe scents." 

"They totally are. But I can try and dumb it down for you," you offer. You're sure he's rolling his eyes at you, and it makes you snicker. "It's difficult to describe sometimes. It's like I can smell your pulse. Your heartbeat. It's steady. Kind of comforting, like an old coat." 

There's a tick of silence that passes by. "So I smell like an old coat. Got it." 

"Ugh, no. You don't — nice! You smell nice, okay?" 

"Sure, sure," he relents, impish dejection. There's no anger in it, no real hurt. It's all play, lighthearted. He's still holding you, arm wrapped around your waist, fingers playing over your back like he's plucking the invisible strings of a guitar. It all seems so real. It's the kind of gesture that doesn't belong between one-night stands. It's captivating, close, something shared between lovers. It has anxiety prickling at the back of your throat like you might be sick, turned ill from the uncertainty tossing in your stomach. 

You should break the tension. Rip the band-aid off but you find your voice lost, caught within the chaotic webbing of your insecurities. Stuck on the fine threads and spun up like a stupid, struggling fly. 

"I guess I should go ahead and ask: Was this a one-time thing? It's cool if it is, I understand. I just . . . want to make sure we're both on the same page. That there's no room for misunderstandings." 

You question if you're hallucinating. If you had imagined him talking. But no. His voice is real, gruff and raw from how it had been used, but no less vulnerable. Uncertainty clinging to its edges. As though he's reluctant to ask. Afraid to hear what your answer is. While he's busy suffering in his trepidation, you're being freed of yours. The delight that breaks through you is shifting, coruscating with its hope. 

"Do you want it to be a one-time thing?" 

"No. No, I don't." His answer breaks over you like the dawn piercing through a long dark. Warmth cresting, a medley of hues splashing over the sky as though someone had spilt watercolors over a canvas. Life bursting through frozen earth. 

"Then it isn't," you reply. Firm, doubtless. 

His lips press against the crown of your head, a loving stamp of approval sealed on your skull. A mutual agreement signed in affection. A promise that hums between you with its own pulse, made living and determined. A future spanning out with promise.  

Most people only see a handful of soulmarks in their life since uncovered soulmarks are considered vulnerable or risky: their own, their children’s, maybe a close family member’s or a friend’s, and their soulmate’s if they’re lucky enough to meet them. Jack Abbot thinks he’s seen a couple thousand: soldiers with elaborate tattoos around the name, tiny print ones behind people’s ears, ones so big they cover the entire back or limb, and even an actual soulmark on a labia during a delivery.

He has a soulmark too, marked like deep blue ink on his upper right thigh. He hasn’t forgotten for a single moment how grateful he is he only lost the lower part of the leg. It’s just a first name, and not uncommon enough he hasn’t seen a few patients with it. None of them have ever reacted to his name though, which is prominently displayed on his badge. When he’s seen those patients with his soulmark’s name, he’s moved the badge from where it’s normally clipped to his pants to his chest, just in case.

This night shift started out as normally as they do: one MVA, one near-fatal drowning, a heart attack, a kid with pneumonia, a stabbing to the neck who didn’t make it, a man with a broken leg screaming uncontrollably, two psych evaluations waiting for the morning finally asleep on antipsychotics, and everyone in between. Jack’s typing up the tibial fracture—not shattered or complicated despite the patient’s 10/10 pain status no matter how much morphine they gave him—when the charge nurse pops her head around the corner:

“Mugging incoming. 3 victims: one unstable with a GSW to the chest, one stable GSW, and one graze. EMS 10 minutes out.”

Jack closes out his last chart and grabs some gloves, gowning up as Shen draws an extra long suck from his huge iced coffee before regretfully setting it down. Ellis rolls her eyes but is already tossing her stethoscope around her neck.

The first victim to arrive is a 60 year old male, shot in the leg. It missed all the critical spots, and he’s awake and talking rapid fire to a cop about the mugging, so Jack lets the R2 and med student take that one. The next ambulance pulls up fast and EMS rolls in, calling out vitals. The unstable, 30s female, has a non-rebreather mask on and a bloodied set of bandages slapped over her upper left chest where the medics have cut away her dress. Her chest rise is starting to move unevenly, so Jack is calling for blood, a chest tube, and stat x-ray as they wheel her fast into Trauma Bay 1. He barely clocks the final victim with the graze to the head, who Shen grabs before Ellis jumps in on his case.

It’s controlled chaos from there, as routine for him as a Saturday night is for a bartender. As Jack pulls on sterile gloves, he listens to the nurses calling vitals and someone tossing her kitten heels to the side. He turns in time to see Jesse taking the trauma shears to the rest of the patient’s dress, cutting through the fabric and the bra like butter as Ellis starts to peel off the bandages to examine the wound.

Jack doesn’t catalogue physique, scars, or tattoos. His only focus is on welfare, and he’s thinking about all the critical things a bullet to the chest could hit. As the dress falls open and Ellis prods the edges of the bleeding wound, Jesse’s shears falter.

For a beat no one in Trauma Bay 1 moves or breathes.

J Abbot

It’s right there on the left upper quadrant of her belly, like a brand over her spleen. Jack freezes like he hasn’t since he was a green medic. That’s his J, his line from the A to the B in Abbot. He’d know his own signature anywhere; he signs it way too often as a doctor.

“90/62!” someone calls, and Jack snaps back into action. His hands don’t shake as he calls out how to fix the blood pressure while rolling the patient over, his gloved hand landing just below his own name. He can’t look at the woman’s face, can’t focus on anything except fixing her, and that means he needs to be completely zoned in. Ellis scans her back and nods, and he can feel the eyes on him as he pulls the dress away instead of Jesse and does a cursory sweep for other wounds. Then Perlah is quickly putting a drape over her lower body, flashing him the quickest of smiles. Jack doesn’t smile back.

“Exit wound clean, missed the scapula by centimeters,” Ellis is saying as he preps the chest tube insertion site, his eyes remaining firmly below her chin. A face to a name is too much right now; he has to treat her as a patient, even though every cell in him is screaming. Ellis keeps calling vitals even though she doesn’t have to, and Jack can feel the tightness in his own chest ease the slightest bit as his patient’s blood pressure starts to perk up with the O negative.

Jack can’t help seeing his name in the periphery of his vision with his every move as he slices and inserts the chest tube. Her heart beat is loud on the monitor, like a chime in his head, and there are no jokes or jibes around the table like usual, the intensity too high. The trauma room feels fragile, the delicate work of tying off the bleeding veins as precise as brain surgery, and Ellis is unnaturally still, watching, not acting like she usually would. This is his patient and probably his soulmate. Until the lung re-inflates and the last bleeder is sealed, the prognosis isn’t certain, and even then there’s always the chance of complications. As he finishes the last knot his hands finally fall still, bare inches from his name, watching the oxygen sats slowly climb, heart rate lower, and blood pressure stabilize. Jack finally seems to exhale. His soulmate— the patient’s vitals are stabilizing, chest rise is even, the bleeding has stopped, and in this moment he can breathe. She can breathe.

Normally Jack doesn’t stay to close the surgical cuts, letting a resident or trainee do it, but when he calls for the suture Jesse sets the table, and the others trickle out of the room. He knows they’re looking at him, murmuring, and he doesn’t miss how Perlah quietly puts one of the soulmark bandages on the bed.

His sutures are neat and clean, just a handful needed on the front, and then a few more on the back. He thinks about how lucky the woman is, but also how she’ll need PT for the shoulder and someone watching her breathing for a few days. Jack knows he’ll volunteer if her name is his match.

“No ID in the system,” Jesse murmurs softly, looking over Jack’s shoulder out into the hall. Jack knows half the ER staff are aware by now, but he can’t feel anything except a buzzing white noise and anticipation as he stitches. It’s a waiting game now to see when she wakes up and… if his name is a match. “EMS said her purse got snatched,” Jesse adds, voice so quiet again that Jack looks up at him with an irritated stare. He doesn’t need to say anything more; everyone walking on eggshells around him is already annoying. “Pretty sure there’s at least three different bets going on,” Jesse cracks, testing the waters.

“Yeah?” Jack grunts, and with a single jab of his chin, Jesse helps to hold the patient on her side so he can close the exit wound.

“Doubt there’s a bet for whether you’re a match,” Jesse says lightly, shrugging his shoulders. “No one would take those odds.”

Jack doesn’t dignify that with an answer. He can only be so hopeful, but he knows there are near-misses, names and soulmarks that sound like sure promises but aren’t.

They move her to a room on the quieter side of the ER tonight, not far from one of the hubs full of computers. He’s the last one to leave the room, and he applies the soulmate bandage tenderly, blurring his name before memorizing her beautiful face. Just in case.

Jack does all his charts from the nearby hub, and the second his internal timer to check on the sedation goes off, he steps in, shutting the door and flicking the curtain closed behind him.

#

You wake up from the drugs slowly, confused. Everything is muddled, the lights are bright, and you’re totally disoriented. Nothing really hurts, but your throat is sore, and for a moment your arm doesn’t feel attached until you realize it’s just stiff, and the air tastes weird. It takes a while to swim to a level of awareness that understands the white ceiling, white bedsheets, and IV poles around you.

“What?” Your voice rasps like you were sucking on cotton balls, and your throat stings. You try to cough and sit up, and a hand on your arm gently pushes you down.

“Hey, you’re okay,” a voice murmurs, and you look over, the movement making everything blur around you for a second, like your eyes can’t catch up. A man you don’t recognize in black scrubs with a stethoscope is standing by your bed, and as your vision clears you realize it’s a handsome doctor with grey curls and a guarded expression. Something in your belly flips, and you wonder if the drugs are going to make you throw up. “You’re at Pittsburgh Trauma Center.”

“Hospital?” You scratch out. The shock rolls over you slowly, dulled by sedation but setting off alarm bells.

“You’re okay. You’ll be fine. The worst is over.”

You nod, mind fuzzy but reassured, tripping between words. You try to open your mouth to ask more questions and your lips practically stick to each other. The doctor puts up the back of the bed and grabs a cup of water. You eagerly take a few thirsty sips, half of it dribbling down your chin, and he grabs the cup, changing the angle.

“Easy, easy. There’s plenty more.”

Your hands shake and he keeps a grip on the little plastic cup as the sandpaper in your mouth eases.

“What’s your name?” He asks softly, eyes fixed on yours. He’s close enough you can see the bits of green in his hazel eyes and you answer on a sigh.

Something in his mouth twitches, the gaze changes, like the sun peeking out from the clouds, but your senses are still dulled by strong medication, and you’re still confused.

He can see it, and he takes the cup away, setting it down and leaning forward so his piercing eyes take up all your vision. “There was a mugging outside a restaurant. You were struck in the chest by a bullet.”

You gasp and your hand lifts like it wants to touch, but the muscles are exhausted, and he catches it and puts it down. You don’t have any pain, but you glance down and see the edge of a bandage above your left breast under the hospital gown. You feel suddenly dizzy, like you got shoved into a dryer, and you sway, the doctor’s grip on you the only thing holding you steady. Isn’t the left where your heart is?

“I’m okay?”

He squeezes your hand, and even though the world is still a bit blurry on the edges and the meds are strong, that feels more real than anything else. “The bullet clipped your lung, but it’s been repaired. A few days here and you’ll be home.”

Relief filled you as suddenly as the dizziness.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m on the good stuff,” you joked, and he smiled a little. Your stomach did another flip, and this time you weren’t so sure it was the drugs. Your voice softened, and you searched his gaze with curiosity. “Did you fix me?”

“I did,” he murmured. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, but don’t make me, Jack thought, searching those lovely, slightly cloudy eyes. He felt his tongue turn to lead in his mouth, trying to find a way to say the words. You have my name and I have yours. It wasn’t really a violation that he’d seen your soulmark without your consent—you’d been unconscious and dying, and he’d been your doctor. But it still felt wrong somehow, that it hadn’t happened “naturally”.

“Thank you,” you said. You didn’t realize you were still holding his hand until you squeezed it back, and his lips curved into a full smile. Your breath caught, and a monitor started beeping.

He turned to look at it, and your face turned red as you realized it was the heart monitor. Embarrassed, you hurried to cover it up with something.

“Um, did my date get shot too or—

“Code Trauma. Repeat. Code Trauma,” sounded over the loudspeaker, and the doctor stood up. You let go of his hand as he went to the curtain, pulling it aside, looking down at your palm that felt ice cold suddenly. Wow, they must have you on so many pain meds.

“We got this, Jack,” someone called. There were more words exchanged you couldn’t make out, and then he stepped back behind the curtain.

“Do you need—?” You started.

“No.” He sat back down, a touch stiffer than before, but you didn’t trust your senses right now. “You were on a date?” He blurted, and Jack winced. He was too old to be jealous like this.

“First date. He… was late.” That’s right. You remembered waiting at the bar for ten minutes, sure he was standing you up, only for him to show up just minutes before the man with the gun. Your date had immediately thrown himself to the floor, and when your purse had been grabbed, you’d grabbed it back.

“Punctuality says something about a man,” he commented, and you laughed. He squeezed your hands. You didn’t know when he’d taken both of them in his, but for a moment you both fell silent. You could feel the ebb of the drugs now, the world coming back into focus: the callouses on his fingers, the thickness of them in your smaller ones, the smell of antiseptic and bleach, the sharpness of the sterile hospital, and the throb of the injury to your chest.

Your gaze trailed from your joined hands up, bumping over his badge that said—

He watched the moment his name on his badge registered; the way you froze. Every muscle locked for a second in total disbelief, and then you were staring up into his face with the most beautiful smile blooming on your face.

“Are you—Do you— What is—”

“Yes. I’m Jack Abbot. I—” He ran his hand through his hair, uncharacteristically losing his words. “I saw yours when we had to cut off your dress.”

“And it’s a match?”

“I sign my name every day.”

“And yours—”

“Yes.”

You blindly moved forward, and Jack had to practically stop you from crawling into a hug with him, laughing giddily, high on pain meds and excitement. “You saw mine? And you’re sure—”

“Yes,” he laughed as you grabbed his badge reel, yanking it up to your face to confirm the spelling matched.

“Can I see?” The drugs made you bold. That was a question only for when someone was sure. But Jack was, and he double-checked the curtain before he stood up, willing his cock to chill when you licked your lips.

“I still have four hours of this shift,” he murmured, but he knew you didn’t care. He didn’t either.

He loosened his scrub bottoms and pushed them down, and your eyes catalogued the black boxer briefs and then—

Your name. In your messy cursive, the capital letter slanted more than the others, the loops way too big because you’d thought that was cool in middle school and never stopped.

Jack’s head snapped to the monitor as your heart skipped literal beats, enough to set off a small alarm. He pulled his pants up and turned the alarm off.

“I’m guessing that’s—”

“It’s my name,” you breathed. “That’s really— and mine is yours—?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“You’re on morphine,” Jack pointed out, but his smile was about to split his face.

“I don’t care. You’re my soulmate.”

__________________

The step stool gives you an extra boost. There's a large bowl on the very top shelf that you need so you can Lena can bake cookies. You grab it, but lean too far back. Your heart drops as you brace for impact, but a pair of arms catch you instead.

"Holy crap," you murmur, looking at your savior.

Pope tsks and shakes your head, "You need to be more careful." He helps you stand up right as you hand Lena the mixing bowl.

You give him a sheepish smile, "I know, but you're also always there to catch me, right?"

He silently rolls his eyes and watches as you and Lena start gathering the rest of the ingredients to bake.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. He says things here and there, answers a question or two when Lena asks.

"Okay, now we need to get a whisk-oh! Thanks, babe!" Pope is already holding out a whisk to you that he grabbed as you were reading the instructions aloud. You kiss his cheek in appreciation and hand the whisk to Lena.

He comes up behind you, hugging you from behind and resting his head against yours as you watch his niece mix the cookie ingredients all together.

_____________________

You'd just dried yourself off after a shower. You're standing at the bathroom sink, drying out your hair when Pope appears in the threshold. He leans against the wall, watching you. You catch his eyes in the reflection and softly smile at him. You go back to getting ready for bed.

After setting the hair dryer down, you go to grab your brush, but you see Pope standing behind you already, brush in hand. You stand there as he brushes through your hair, careful not to hurt you in anyway.

Once he's done, he sets the brush down and kisses your head. He goes back to being a silent observer.

You grab your skincare and start your routine. You feel his eyes completely focused on you the entire time. You don't feel unsettled. You feel seen, appreciated, loved, and protected.

______________________

"Does he do that all the time?" Your friend, Ella, asks, nodding to Pope who's sitting at the bar counter, watching you.

You glance at him over your shoulder and then turn back to Ella, "He's protective of me."

"It's creepy."

You roll your eyes, having explained this to several people beforehand, "It's how he shows he cares. Besides, he's out DD if we get too fucked up."

"That's what Ubers are for."

You scoff, "Why pay for a ride when Andrew can drive us for free?"

"Okay, but he's been staring at you nonstop," her eyes glance back at Pope in a disgusted way, "He's not controlling or anything, is he?" she looks at you seriously, silently asking a question you've gotten before.

You sigh, "I'm fine. I promise. Andrew's not like that. He just shows his love and care differently than others. It took me some time to understand it too, but he treats me so much better than anyone has."

Ella slowly nods, "Alright, but if he hurts you in anyway-"

You chuckle, "I know, girl. I'll let you know."

_____________________

Pope brought you to The Drop so he can discuss some things with his brothers. You're sitting at the counter, drinking a soda, and scrolling through your phone when a man decides to take up residence right next to you.

You sigh and say, "Not interested," without looking up from your phone.

The man scoffs, "Not even gonna let me say 'hi' or nothing?"

"Nope," you don't give the man any satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you continue drinking your soda and scrolling through your phone.

The man fully faces you, "I can treat you real good."

"I'm taken."

"And where's your guy right now, huh?"

"Right here," you hear Pope speak behind you and you smile into your straw. You completely turn to face Pope, "Everything good?"

His eyes soften when he looks at you, "Yeah. Go start the car," he hands his car keys to you.

You close your hands around his, "I'm fine. Let's go." You see him hesitating but immediately nods. You guide him out of the bar and he's following you, but not before sending a deadly glare back to the man who was bothering you.

_______________________

You're sitting in the sand, back pressed against an eroding wall, alone. You just needed some fresh air and sunshine after a rough few days. You listen to the waves crashing against the shore, the sound of children screaming with laughter, seagulls flying above head.

You hear a jingling of keys paired with the sounds of heavy boots approaching. A shadow looms over you, but you know who it is. You look up and see Pope staring down at you. He's giving you a questioning gaze.

"I'm okay. Just needed to think."

He nods and sits on the wall, right behind you. You lean against his legs, his hands resting on your shoulders.