#dubious consent

two years ago, your neighbor, you supposed, moved in to the apartment's storage loft right above you. peter parker, he had introduced himself as, was a rather shy, reserved guy for someone who created an entire new list of expectations for the upstairs neighbor archetype.

a year and ten months ago, peter parker was a frequent weekly guest for tuesday dinner and switch tournaments. what had started as a knock on his door and some of your grandmother's brownies had evolved into peter spending hours losing to you on mario kart over bowls of bland spaghetti and spongebob mac and cheese.

a year and eight months ago, spider-man swan-dove through your window instead of his on accident, mask stripped before he knew better.

a year and a half ago, peter parker had managed to become the person you trusted most in this life. and in a measly six months, you had become that for peter in return. he opened up to you about the deaths of his aunt and tony, how he'd lost his friends - fuck, his whole life - to the spell.

and after about a year, though he'd never admit it, you could tell he was happy to have a "guy in the chair" again. to have someone in his headset, someone to patch him up after a rough night with scorpion. suddenly, peter wasn't so alone. he had someone who knew him as well as he knew himself, someone who - while you didn't get it necessarily - was the only one in the world who finally knew he fucking existed again.

which is exactly why you also knew about the headache's peter had been getting more and more over the past few months.

you were the first person he ran to when they started, collapsing on your bedroom floor in tears as he tugged at his curls for relief from the pounding. he was begging you to make it stop, curled in on himself like, well... a spider.

the first time was the worst of them, mostly due to not knowing what was going on. but after decorating your room in a thick layer of web (despite not having his web-shooters), it was clear this was outside your basic first-aid training. that didn't stop you from helping how you could. in that moment, and beyond.

you attended professor banner's lectures with him, taking whatever notes you could understand. you stayed up late into the night with him, acting as his assistant as peter worked up in his loft on getting to the bottom of whatever the fuck was happening with his own DNA. he jokingly called you "Dum-E" once, and was quick to backtrack as he saw bewilderment flash across your face. he apologized and rambled on that it was a good thing, tripping over his words to explain himself, though the hurt in his eyes when telling the story told you it wasn't a time to push.

all of this to say, you knew that something about the arachnid DNA was evolving, and going fucking haywire in the process. which is exactly why, when you heard a thunderous crash and sharp curses from peter in the loft above you, worry immediately flooded your system.

you bolted up the stairs, the obscene noises coming from peter's apartment growing louder as you approached his door. you knocked rapidly, calling out his name as you did.

another loud crash sounded, and you heard peter howl. "uhh, not right now! not a good time!"

you huffed. "yeah it doesn't seem like a good time! let me in, parker!"

peter went to respond, but was cut off by his own pained groan, and a worried whine left your own lips in reply. he deserved his privacy, hell, he deserved his own autonomy, but your concern overrode all ethical dilemma as you heard his knees hit the floor. hard.

thank fuck peter never locked his door.

you crashed into the loft, stopping dead in your tracks as you took in the state of peter's apartment. there was webbing everywhere. it covered the ceiling and his furniture, splattered over the windows which caused the light to scatter in awkwardly. you could only describe the state of his webbed bed as a nest. there was a PC monitor on the ground next to his desk that looked like it had been torn in fucking half. in the left most corner, there were handprints in the exposed brick on the wall from where peter had tried to catch himself before hitting the ground below where you saw him now.

peter was hunched over in a similar position you had seen him in that first time, limbs curled in on himself as he gripped his head, no doubt pounding like a motherfucker. he was facing away from you, but his shirt was ripped off, showing off just how pale he looked. a thin layer of sweat glistened off his skin, droplets forming and almost looking sticky. peter was shaking and breathing heavy as you approached him.

you had seen him like this before. it hadn't been this bad in a while, but you had been there for peter through it before and you could do it again. you had seen him when everything got too loud and he started to shut down, something else fighting to take over. that was the entire point of the inhibitor he had been working on. to suppress whatever the fuck this was.

you had pushed back initially, playing devil's advocate to encourage him to let it happen. to let the spider in. prove to himself that he was still peter parker when spider-man took over. after seeing him in this much pain and discomfort enough times, you stopped entertaining the notion.

because seeing him like this? was heartbreaking. you knew just how much everything was hitting him right now. how every sense was stabbing at him individually, how each breath you took was a knife to his eardrums. so you approached cautiously, keeping a step or two away and knowing not to touch him right now.

you met him with a hushed voice. "peter, hey. it's just me."

he flinched at your whispers and you cringed, feeling nauseated knowing it was your voice that hurt him. "let me help, okay? how can i help right now? do you need me to grab your-"

"no," he rasped out. his voice was deep, in a tone you hadn't heard from him before. "no, i'm not kidding. you need to fucking go."

"pete, i'm not-"

"no!" peter's voice boomed throughout the loft as he screamed your name. "i don't fucking care what you think right now!"

"parker," you went to scold, but he cut you off.

"i cannot get this fucking inhibitor to calibrate, and i-i.. fuck, i'm not myself right now. you need to go." his voice cracked on the last word, like he was trying to hold back tears. a moment ago, his voice literally shook the building. now, it just sounded broken.

you stood your ground. "peter, i'm not leaving you. don't do this alone."

his fist slammed into the floor in front of him, shattering the hardwood. as if it were fucking glass, splinters flew around him like shards of glass snowing in the air. peter held onto the edge of the newfound hole in the ground while trying to recenter himself, his grip on the floorboard literally causing the wood to disintegrate into dust in his hands.

you heard him fucking growl at you, and while you still weren't afraid of him, part of you was a little grateful peter was still facing the other way as you felt your cheeks heat up at the outburst.

"do you not see that i fucking have to?!" peter screamed into the corner, dust and loose grout crumbling from the ceiling at the sheer strength of his voice. you could see his back expanding and inflating as he desperately tried to suck in breaths, his many muscles flexing around his ribcage, and-

okay jesus, maybe not the time.

you sighed, shaking your head and taking another step closer. "peter-"

"fuck, get out of here! i don't want to hurt you!" he pleaded, still trembling and pulling at his hair.

you took a step back to look over at his computer, noticing his vitals freaking out on one monitor as the other was hooked up to some homemade tech he had running sequences on the inhibitor. EVIE was working with the same desperation that peter was oozing, already on trial #392. you looked back to the corner where he was still hunched in pain, and decided with unwavering finality that you were not leaving him alone during this.

walking back over, you crouched down to brush his shoulder with your fingertips, hoping to ground him with a singular sensation. he caught your wrist before you could even bother.

"i said. don't."

peter finally looked up at you for the first time, and your heart dropped to your stomach.

a lot about peter had begun to change during his "molting process" (as you referred to it). his strength had grown expotentially -- so had his spidey-sense. even the organic webbing, which was brand fucking new.

you hadn't seen his eyes go black like that before.

you stared into his fully darkened eyes, hoping the shock wasn't as evident in your own as you knew it was. hoping the tinge of something else in your eyes wasn't as evident as you thought it was. you flicked between his deep glare and his hand on your wrist as you regained your composure.

"peter. i'm not leaving you. i'm not scared of you."

he laughed. peter parker honest to god laughed at you, as he kept a firm grasp on your wrist and held your gaze.

"you fucking should be."

before you could blink, peter launched upwards, fucking jumping from his spot on the ground as shoved you against the wall. hard. despite the aggressive action and your back slamming against the brick, his hand landed behind your head to cushion the impact. the rest of you still hit with enough force that the wall cracked behind you, dust from the concrete swirling in the air.

you coughed hard, though, whether that was a result of the dust or the grip of peter's hand on the base of your fucking neck, it was hard to tell. he stared at you for a moment, black eyes darting up and down your body as he tracked your every movement. every rise of your chest, every twitch of your lip as you wheezed through his grip.

peter looked at you like you were his prey. like you were a fly that had been caught in his fucking web. you tried not to be as turned on as you were.

his eyes flickered slightly towards his hand on your neck and he loosened the grip, though still not letting you go. he regained a bit more of himself, a bit more of peter, as his shaking hand kept you pined to the wall. his voice betrayed the stone cold look on his face, trembling as he told you: "clearly, you should be".

peter didn't miss how your eyes jut down to his lips before hitting him with a rattled but firm: "well, i'm fucking not."

he smirked at you and let you go fully, stepping back to analyze as you took a moment to catch your breath. he drank you in, sizing you up before letting out a deep chuckle. before you could look up at him, both of your wrists were webbed to the wall behind you, pinned over your head as your back was once again pressed against the hard brick. peter closed in on you, boxing your frame in against his own. he pressed against you, getting in your face. literally breathing down your neck.

"no, you are. just a little," he growled in your ear. "but i think you like it."

you felt how fucking hard peter was through his juicy sweatpants, felt just how fucking big he was pressed against your hip. this was not a side effect of the arachnid DNA that either of you had seen in the last few months. or at least, nothing that peter had mentioned. come to think of it, why would he? it's not like he felt the same way.

you were snapped out of your thoughts as peter fucked sniffed you. you shook off the self-doubt as you took stock of the man in front of you, restricting himself to the point of physical pain right now as he caught whiff of your arousal. consequences to the friendship be damned, you were determined to stay at his side through this as his inhibitor kept running sequences on the computer, red flashing from the screen every few minutes to signal yet another failed attempt.

and, well. he exactly wasn't wrong.

you fought to hold contact with his deep, piercing eyes. "maybe i do, spider-man. what are you going to do about it?"

those were the magic words.

he ripped you off the wall, webbing still hanging from your wrists as he picked you up like you were nothing. a scream escaped your lips as you were airborne suddenly, flying through the air shortly before your back hit peter's bed.

his bed. oh fuck, you hadn't expected that to work so easily.

it was starting to become crystal clear that you were in fact going to have whiplash and possibly even a concussion tomorrow, but you were too fucking wet to care. you'd analyze what that meant about your psyche later. for now? you were simply too excited to see what the fuck he was going to do to you.

you watched as he stalked, taking in your frame as you laid hopelessly in his bed. his bed, which, was covered in webbing that extended down to the floor where peter was standing. you shifted with hesitation and watched peter's head flick towards you, almost like...

almost like he could feel your fucking vibrations against the webbing. like a fucking prey caught in his web, writhing for help and sending vibrations up this silk to signal the spider.

the spider, who was watching you through his black-hooded eyes, like he was fucking hungry.

peter started to squat down, and you sat up in turn, instantly worried his headache was consuming him again.

you didn't even get to meet his eyes.

peter pounced forward, a hydraulic explosion coming from his legs as he fucking jumped you on the bed, using his limbs to pin your own underneath him. your breath had initially hitched, but all air was taken from you as peter's hands were on your clothes, tearing the garments from your body like you'd only been in a paper fucking bag. shreds of cotton stuck to the webs around you as peter stared down at your mostly naked body.

he straddled you properly, using his hands to hold down your own again as he leaned close, breathing you in heavy. no doubt catching the pheromones in your sweat, a downright villainous smirk creeping on his lips as he got confirmation of just how turned on you were.

peter pulled back to see your eyes, and was taken aback to see the fear in them. regardless of every other emotion you were feeling right now, you were also scared.

and fuck, he did that.

he sat up straight, the black around his sclera retreating slightly as his breathing picked back up. you could feel him start to tremble over you again as peter buried his face in his hands for a moment.

"fuck, i don't- that's not," he choked out. "fuck, i'm so sorry. you need to get out of here, i fucking meant it earlier."

you could tell the headache was back as his grip tightened in his curls, a pained groan escaping from deep in his chest. he was fighting himself, trying to use the strength he had just minutes ago to lift himself off of your lap. you grabbed his hips to hold him down.

"peter, listen to me."

"please, i-i can't, i shouldn't have-"

"peter." he shook his head, refusing to look at you.

"i can't believe i put you in this position, oh my god. i-i, fuck i can't even begin to apologize..." he rambled. you tried to fight back, to tell him that it was okay, to let it happen.

you had been a firm supporter this entire time of the notion that peter just needed to let the spider in and see what the fuck happened. obviously, he had never wanted to do that. too afraid of what would happen. at this point, you were afraid of what would happen to him if he didn't submit to what was desperately trying to crawl out of him. this had seemed like as good time as any to test your theory, as peter's monitor still continued to flash red, the trial number now surpassing five hundred.

besides, if you died because spider-man ripped you in half from fucking you too hard? that was a fine way to go out, in your opinion.

so you antagonized him. just... a little.

"spider-man!" you yelled in his face, and your voice rang out alongside the CRACK! of your palm across his cheek.

peter looked back at you, slight shock on his flashing on face before his eyes went fully black again. he locked sight on you, eyes twitching as he analyzed each minute movement your body made. and there was that fucking smirk again.

"oh i see. you want this, don't you?" peter rasped in your ear as he leaned back down, his breath hot against your skin. "fine. but don't be mad at me when it gets to be too much."

in a split second, your hands were whipped high above your head, warm and sticky webs encasing your wrists once again. this time, attached to peter parker's headboard. fuck.

you squirmed in his grasp, fighting the webbing even though you knew it was no use. you were there when he discovered just how fucking strong his organic web was in comparison to the lab-designed. you couldn't move, and you knew it. he knew it too.

peter's hands were on you in a frenzy, ripping your bra clean from your body in a single motion. you gasped as he stared down at your chest, vibrating with restraint. restraint that peter didn't have right now.

perfect.

his hands weren't off your body for long, quickly lunging to wrap around your exposed breast. he squeezed the soft tissue, hard enough to elicit a scream that ripped straight from your throat. he growled at your response, loosening his grip and focusing on pinching your erect nipples instead. he leaned down to bite one, earning another piercing scream.

peter pulled back to admire his work, and you looked down to see the instant handprint that was bruising over your left tit. it made you dizzy, seeing peter spider-man mark you with such a primal fucking desire. blood rushed back to comfort the sore area, leaving your chest feeling warm and fuzzy. you weren't allowed much of a reprieve, however.

peter manhandled you exactly how he wanted you, crawling out of his hold on you to spread your legs and raise your knees. once he had you positioned, you felt the warm rush of webbing cover your feet as well. oh, you were so fucked.

his fingers trailed up your legs, starting at your feet and working their way towards your aching core. you shivered against his touch, and noticed how he relished in the way it caused his webbing around you to vibrate. you were but a bug in his web, caught and waiting to be eaten.

you let out a moan as he grabbed at your inner thighs, no doubt leaving matching handprints to the one on your chest. peter just snarled in response.

"so fucking desperate for it. is this why you've been helping me all along? just waiting to get fucked by spider-man?"

he stared up at you from where he was in between your legs, hot breath teasing against your damp underwear. "so desperate i bet you don't even need any prep, am i right?"

peter reached his hand towards your core, fingertips trembling with constraint as he could feel just how wet you were for him. he hissed, retracting his hand as though he had been burnt. within seconds, your underwear had been ripped off your body like the rest of your clothes, leaving you fully naked in front of peter parker.

in front of spider-man.

you stared into the black void of his eyes as he repeated the same action to himself, shredding the infamous juicy sweatpants in the process. you were pretty sure your eyes were as dark as his were, pupils blown to shit as you stared at the fucking greek statue in front of you.

did spiders have insanely large dicks, or was that just a peter thing?

not now, jesus.

as he promised, there was no goddamn prep. no easing into it. peter climbed back on top of you, his limbs stalking over yours as his webbing held you firmly in place. you tried to struggle against it, even if just for the show of it. definitely for the show of it.

"just a dumb. fucking. bug. aren't you? landed right where i fucking wanted you to."

peter gave no warning as he thrust all of himself inside you, a sharp cry punching from your chest as he bottomed out in one go. the line between pain and pleasure was a fine one as he set a disgustingly rough pace, pistoning in and out of you like it would literally kill him to go any slower.

maybe it would. you weren't here to find out.

you squirmed against him on a particularly heavy thrust, only to be met with a hand at the base of your throat again.

"no, hold still. you fucking wanted this."

oh, you were so gone. you weren't even sure you were going to remember enough of this to be able to psychoanalyze these newfound kinks, you were too fucking cock-drunk off peter. he was still relentlessly forcing his way into you, but you seemed almost distant from your body now. as though the pleasure was so good, you had started floating.

peter noticed and it only drove him crazier, watching your limp body move in time with his thrusts as he milked you dry, a creamy ring around his cock each time he pulled out.

"is this why you've been so against the fucking inhibitor? been wanting me to lose my goddamn mind like this?"

you weren't sure when you had started crying, but warm tears were now flooding down your rosy cheeks. peter mock cooed at the sight.

"don't cry now, baby. this is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? this is exactly what you fucking asked for."

you moaned at his words, too lost to form your own. peter only held you tighter. "such a pretty fucking crier. taking me so well."

peter dropped his head in the crook of your neck as he kept going, reaching new levels of overstimulation. and for the first time, the overstimulation wasn't destroying him. it was consuming, driving his every movement and decision -- but it didn't hurt anymore. it almost felt... good. natural.

he had never had sex like this before. sure, in the past, the physical intimacy of it all had been overwhelming, feeling each sensation of the other person as if it were also his own. but something about this was different. peter could feel your heartbeat inside of his own body, each time you pulsed around him sent an electrical current through his system that was, well... electrifying.

peter could feel you getting close, the constrictions of your muscles changing every so slightly to signal to him that you were on the edge. not only that, but he could fucking smell the hormonal change in your body before you even knew it yourself, soft moans falling from your lips in a desperate attempt to let him know.

like he didn't already fucking know.

"i know, that's it. come for me, baby. i want you to feel me for weeks. i want you to hurt so bad that no one else can fuck you. only me. you're fucking mine," peter snarled possessively in your ear.

that was all it took for you to fall over the edge, weightless as you screamed through the orgasm. the feeling of your cunt tightening around him, your juices slicking his cock even more, the sounds of it all: it was beyond lewd. peter was immediately behind you, the sensations coming from you enough to reset his entire system. it was a sensory overload in the best way possible, his vision going white as he came the hardest he ever had.

peter flooded you with his warmth, and you had come back to earth just enough to notice how similar his cum inside of you felt like his webs against your wrists. he gave one final thrust before collapsing on top of you, using his remaining strength to rip the webbing from your hands and feet. his breathing was heavy again as he pulled his head up to look at you, and you noticed that his eyes had returned to the soft brown rings of peter parker.

he flickered his gaze around you and where you both were, confusion flashing across his face as he fought everything in his body telling him to sleep.

"what... oh my god, what happened?"

peter barely slurred it out before he passed out on top of you. still inside of you.

you fought against your own haze, still on cloud nine as you caught a green glow from the corner of your eyes. thank god for his loft set up -- his desk being tucked next to his bed, allowing you to close access to his tech in this moment. sometime in the last god knew how long, EVIE had run a successful trial, signified by the incandescent green radiating from his monitor.

you reached out as far as peter's weight over you had allowed, just barely catching the inhibitor in your fingertips. you guided the small machine around his sleeping frame, connecting it to the spot on the back of his neck. you were already out of breath, fucked dumb and on the verge of passing out, but this was about peter. it had been since the beginning.

with the inhibitor finally latched and active with a soft chrip!, you let out a sigh of relief watching peter's vitals and DNA level back out on the computer monitor. you could feel peter further relax on top of you, and it was enough to give you a final sense of accomplishment before you let the lull wash over you too, pulling you under with peter into a blissful slumber.

you woke up hours later, tucked into the covers, still on peter's stiff mattress. the webbing around his bed was gone, leaving you to wake up on fresh sheets. the scent was overwhelming peter, causing a smile to graze your lips before you even opened your eyes. he must've moved you in your sleep, as both the bedding and you were cleaned off.

you opened your eyes slowly, a dull headache settling behind your eyes and confirming your whiplash/concussion hypothesis from earlier. you saw the evening light coming through the loft windows, which had also been cleared of the previous webbing, and noted that it had in fact been hours that you'd been sleeping. it was now that you also noticed you were still naked while wrapped in peter's comforter, and a blush settled over your cheeks.

you went to sit up, but your entire body screamed protest as you moved. only a soft grunt left your lips, but it was enough to alert peter that you were awake again. he was at your side in an instant.

"oh my god, you're awake. thank fucking god, i was so worried that-"

you cut off his rambling with a hand to his chest, grateful to feel his heart beat almost at a normal rate again. normal for anxious peter, at least.

"pete, i'm okay." you gave him a soft smile, but it was the comfort that sent him over the edge. he quivered next to you as tears fought to fall from his eyes, physical proof of just how sorry he was.

there was your peter parker.

"no, listen. i'm so fucking sorry. i can't actually describe to you how sorry i am, there's no words for it. i-i'm a fucking monster, i can't believe that i... fuck, oh my god- i'm going to fucking throw up. i-i have the cops on speed dial, you know that, right? i'll call them. i swear to god, i will turn myself in right fucking now-"

"peter," you tried again, sitting up to meet his eye level more. to stop his spiraling.

the opposite happened as the blanket fell slightly in your adjustment, revealing a bit of your chest where he had left a handprint. peter's eyes locked onto the bruise, and he looked moments away from throwing himself off the building. his nervous shaking had turned to violent, full body tremors as tears finally slipped down his cheeks. he opened his mouth, surely to apologize more, but you weren't having it.

you pulled him in for a kiss, ignoring how tender your wrists were as you grabbed onto his sweatshirt. peter was hesitant at first, but soon melted into the kiss, feeling something deep and primal within him relax.

you broke the kiss to look at him again, and peter was beyond confused. "but i-"

"peter, i wanted it. all of it." you held his gaze firmly, one hand holding his comforter over your bare chest, the other tightly holding his own trembling palm. "i wanted to push you and see what would happen. to help you prove to yourself that you aren't a fucking monster, even if you don't know what the fuck is taking over. you're still my peter parker. you're still good."

peter let out a relieved huff of air, pulling you in for a gentle and cautious hug as happy tears landed against your bare back. he held you, thanking you profusely for trusting him. for helping him trust himself.

"do you feel better, pete?" you mumbled into the crook of his neck.

he choked on a laugh, and you felt a soft nod against your cheek. "yeah. yeah, fuck, i guess i do."

peter pulled back, concern laced in his eyebrows once again. "but you-"

"but i nothing, parker. i'm okay, really. think i can't handle a good fucking? being hurt a little?"

peter's cheeks lit on fire, a red flush extending down under the collar of his shirt. he laughed nervously, absentmindedly reaching up to graze his fingertips over the bruise blooming over your breasts. "good, huh? you're not too hurt?"

"oh i'm definitely hurt," you smirked at how quickly his face fell, your hand cupping his over your chest. "dare i say, hurt so bad that no one but you can fuck me?"

maybe it wasn't so bad if peter let the spider take over every now and then.

main masterlist

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Manipulation, Emotional Grooming, Dubious Consent (grief/manipulation), Power Imbalance (Doctor/Nurse), Explicit Sexual Content, Possessive Behavior, Emotional Dependency, Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Grief & Bereavement, Death of a Partner, Emotional Isolation, Praise Kink, Choking/Breath Play, Fingering, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Biting/Marking, Dirty Talk.

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Authors Note: Well... this is probably the darkest thing I've written. This is not canon Jack lol. I've been itching to write something crazy... here we are! If you decide to read, please mind the tags- the warning.

As always, thank you for giving my stories a chance. I hope you enjoy🩵

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Jack has noticed you since orientation. 

Not because you're the prettiest nurse—although he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought so—but because you're kind. 

Endlessly, recklessly kind. 

You stay late when your shift ends because someone always needs something. You cry after pediatric codes when you think no one is looking. You bring coffee for the unit secretary every Thursday without being asked. You remember your patients' grandchildren's names. You braid an elderly woman's hair because she says it reminds her of home.  

You give. They take; you give more. Happily. 

He likes that. Perhaps not for the most honorable reasons, but he does. 

It fascinates him, really. The way compassion seems to spill out of you without hesitation. As though you were made for it. As though there isn't a part of yourself you wouldn't hand over if someone needed it badly enough. 

He wonders where your limit is. 

Or if you have one at all... 

... 

He's watched you buy lunch for the nursing student who forgot her wallet. He's saw when you missed your own break because Room 14 couldn't stop crying. 

He's watched you kneel on the filthy emergency department floor just to be eye level with a frightened little boy. 

How cute. You are the perfect nurse. You were meant for this, to give. You like to give, because you care. Truly care… It's what you do best. 

One day, he thinks perhaps someone should return the favor. 

So, he starts timing his breaks around yours. 

Nothing inappropriate. 

Nothing anyone could point to. 

He tells himself he just wants to get to know the newer members of his team. That's all. 

He knows you drink vanilla iced coffee when you’re tired. Knows you tuck loose strands of hair behind your left ear when you're concentrating.  You crochet, you bake. 

Homemade sourdough, if the staff potlucks are anything to go by. Chocolate chip cookies when you’re stressed. Lemon bars when you’re happy.

There aren't many surprises left. Not anymore. He knows your routines almost as well as his own... 

Which is exactly why, when you hurry toward the break room one Thursday, he follows without thinking much of it. 

3:28 am. Your break. 

His, too. By coincidence. Mostly. 

It isn't unusual. The two of you have shared countless breaks over the past several months. 

Another conversation, another cup of coffee,

Another reason to look forward to coming to work. 

He pushes open the break room door just as you’re twisting the cap off your water bottle. He almost offers to help, then something catches the overhead fluorescent lights, his eyes following the glint automatically—

…

Diamond. Ring finger. 

New. 

He didn't know... not until now. An oversight. His.  

It wouldn’t happen again.  

... 

Now he knows you met him a year ago. (Apparently, that's all it took.) 

The first date was at the movies. (Predictable.) 

He brings you lunch every other Wednesday. (Every other? He couldn't manage every day?)  

Works in finance. (Boring.) 

He still asks if you want oat milk or almond.(Jack remembered after hearing it once.) 

Makes you laugh. Makes you smile. Makes you happy. 

He knows you love him …

…

Jack tries not to think about that last part. 

He tells himself that's where it ends. It isn't his place-He’ll never cross the line. 

She loves him. She's happy. 

That should be enough.  

...

Jack is patient.

He's already waited years after his wife died.  What's a little longer? 

For years after losing his wife, he hadn't noticed anyone at all. Grief had a way of making the world colorless. 

Until you. 

---------

Then your fiancé dies. 

Just a trauma alert— EMS rushing in. Wrong place, wrong time. Jack knows whose fiancé it is before you do. 

He works the code, calls the time. He signs all the paperwork. There are some things only the people in that room will ever know. Jack is one of them. 

He knows exactly what happened. He knows the injuries. He knows your fiancé didn't suffer. 

He knows the last words spoken in the trauma bay. 

He knows who was holding his hand. 

He knows the monitors had already fallen silent before you ever got the call…

---------------

For days, everyone offers the same condolences. 

I'm so sorry. 

If you need anything... 

I can't imagine what you're going through. 

They're kind, they're sincere—

They also tell you nothing…

Jack won't tell you he's sorry. 

He remembers what it felt like to hear those words after his wife died. 

I'm sorry— again and again. Until they became little more than background noise. Sympathy never answered the questions that kept him awake. 

It never quieted the silence waiting for him at home. 

It never brought her back. 

He doubts they'll do much for you, either.  So he offers you something no one else can—

He sits beside you in the empty staff lounge while your untouched coffee grows cold. 

His voice is quiet. "He wasn't alone." 

Your head snaps toward him. Questions spill out before you can stop them:

"Was he scared?" 

"Did he know?" 

"Did he..." 

Jack has every answer. Answers no one else can give—that only he can—And for the first time... 

You need something only Jack Abbot can provide.  

You take. He likes that.  

---------------

At first, it feels harmless. Kind, even. 

"You need groceries? I'll drop some off." 

"You haven't eaten- I made soup." 

"You shouldn't drive after crying this hard. I'll take you home." 

He's simply helping. That's all. Isn't that what people are supposed to do? Isn't that what friends are for? It becomes routine. 

You stop reaching for your phone before realizing Jack has already texted. 

Made too much chili. Bringing some over. 

Your prescription should be ready. I'll grab it after work. 

Storm's supposed to get bad tonight. Make sure you charge your phone. 

He starts solving problems before you realize you have them. 

Your sink is leaking? Somehow... Jack knows. 

Your car won't start after a twelve-hour shift...

Jack is already waiting with jumper cables. 

You mention therapy once. Just once. 

"I went after my wife died," he says. (He did.) "...It helped." Everything he says is technically true. 

--------

And he listens. He’ll always listen to you.  

You tell him your coworkers don't know what to say anymore. They change the subject.

They invite you out less. They seem relieved when you tell them you're "doing better." 

Jack simply nods."They're trying." 

You nod back. 

"They just don't understand." 

Another nod. Then— 

"They haven't buried the love of their life." ... "I have." 

--------

Somewhere along the way, you stop calling other people first. Not because Jack asked you to, but because he's already there. 

You cry. Jack answers. 

You can't sleep. Your phone lights up at 2:17 in the morning. 

Jack: You awake? — Perfect timing, as always.

He always knows you need help, before you know it yourself. He becomes your first call, then your last. 

Then the only one.  

---------

One night, you apologize. 

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I feel like I'm relying on you for everything." 

Jack smiles softly, maybe even a little sad.

Like he understands. "That's what people do after they lose someone." 

You nod. 

"Eventually..." he says quietly, "they stop looking behind them." 

You frown. "What?" 

He looks down at the coffee in his hands. "When my wife died... Everyone disappeared after six months." 

Another pause. "You'll see." He knows. 

That’s exactly what's going to happen. You just don't know it yet.

--------- 

Jack stops leaving after dinner. It only makes sense, you started watching his favorite series, so he'll watch it with you.

Then he stops leaving after midnight...

Then he stops leaving at all. 

Your nightmares become less frightening if someone else is in the room.  Jack learns that quickly. 

"Try to get some sleep," he murmurs one evening, pulling the blanket over your shoulders. "I'll be on the couch if you need anything." 

The couch becomes the guest room…

The guest room becomes the edge of your bed after another nightmare…

One morning, you wake with your head resting against his shoulder. Neither of you mentions it. It simply happens again. It happens because you’re lovely.

Because grief convinces you that reaching for the one person who never lets go must mean something. 

Because he's there.  He's always there. 

--------

Over time, his careful hands become careless.  

He allows himself to hold you now, no restraint. You let him. He holds you every night—

But tonight's not like the others—

His hands trail up and down your body, lingering where they never used to. You’re so soft in his hold. So pliant. So gentle. 

You don't even notice the moment the rules between you quietly change. Jack does. 

He notices everything. 

And for the first time since the night of the accident, he stops telling himself he's only trying to help. 

Carefully, he slipped a hand beneath your jaw, encouraging you to look up at him as he lifted his own head from where it had rested against yours. 

His thumb found your lips, gently pulling them apart.  

You stare up at him, trusting. 

He closes the distance between you with unbearable care, pressing the gentlest kiss against your lips. 

He pulls back, searching your face for regret. 

Nothing. You trust him.  

He shifts, carefully guiding you onto your back without breaking the quiet between you. For the first time, the embrace isn't about comforting you. It’s about keeping you there.

He draws back just enough to look at you again.  Something in his expression has changed. The restraint he'd worn for months slips, if only for a moment. 

He leans in once more, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

Slow and lingering. Almost reverent. 

He kisses your cheek as though asking forgiveness for something he hasn't done yet. 

Because now he knows he can take, because he knows you'll give. 

His hands drift down your chest, your waist, up and down your legs. Now back up to your throat. You gasp in surprise.  

“You wanna give something back to me? Mhm?” Jack coos. 

Words fail you, all you can manage is a small nod. 

Something dark unfurls across his face—a smile too wide to belong to the man who'd spent months pretending to be patient. 

“That’s it. Good girl, You gonna let me take over now, yeah?” He hums, grip tightening around your throat.  

Against all reason, you don't feel fear. You feel relief. The constant ache of holding yourself together eases, replaced by something dangerously familiar. 

Take. You want him to. “Please.” you whine.  

It's all he's ever wanted to hear. 

Jack began kissing you, rough now, pressing you into the mattress. The hand around your throat moved to your chest, grabbing at your breast.

Then to the hem of your top, making quick work of it.  He no longer cared to hold back.  

Jack pressed his large frame against you, hand now at your waist, pulling you even closer where your hips met. The grip bruising on your side as the bulge in his pants now pressed against your thigh.

You bite your lip, suppressing the groan. You knew he was big. You had felt him in the early mornings when he was still holding you close.  

His other hand now playing with your hair, before bunching it in his fist and pulling your head back.  

“Jack!—” you cry

“What, sweetheart...? You can take it.” He muses 

His hand travels from your side to the apex of your thigh, cupping you gently.  

“So warm, huh? You want me here, don't you, sweet girl?” He smiled against your neck, biting his mark deep in your skin. Your hips buck at his touch. 

He chuckles, “Don’t worry, I’ve got you now.” 

You couldn’t find it in yourself to resist. Not anymore. 

“Pull these off— Come on.” Jack yanks at the fabric of your sleep shorts. 

He always thought they were short, a tease. For him. This was all for him. 

You obey, stripping out of them quickly, leaving you bare. He groans

“No underwear?’ He croons. Jack couldn’t take it anymore. His thick fingers glide up and down through your wetness. Your head falls back as you moan. 

“So wet, So pretty. All for me...” He presses his fingers against your clit. You whine, grinding your hips up at the touch.

Jack groaned as he circled your clit, lazily. Now, flicking it sideways, building the tension flooding your belly. “That feel good, Huh?” He smiles. He knows you need him. Now you’ll always need him. 

“I’ll make it allll better baby; just take what I give.” He rubs tighter circles, bringing your orgasm close. 

Your hands go to reach for him— you want him close. You need him close. 

He feels so good. He feels right. This was right where he was supposed to be.  

Then suddenly, he stops. You bring your head up from the pillow, eyes glossed over, looking for his touch. 

“You want to cum, yeah?” He smirks, bringing his fingers to his mouth, now sucking the slick off them. A satisfied hum leaving him. 

“Y-yes.” You watch as his hands drop to his waistband.  

“Then you’ll cum on this cock, or not at all.” Jack nudges your legs further apart with his knee as he pulls himself out.  

You watch helplessly as the length of his cock plops out, smacking against his thighs. Thick and long, size intimating.  

He knew he was big, bigger than your fiancé especially by the look of fear on your face. He drags the red, angry head of his cock up and down your quivering slit. 

“You can take. You’ll be good. You’re such a strong girl for me.”

“Please, Jack, I need you now.” You cry. He loved seeing you writhe underneath him. It’s where you belong. Just like this. 

“Say you’re mine.” He demands, pressing against your clit.  

“F-fuck- Yes! A-All yours. I’m yours, Jack, please!” you sob.

He lines himself up with you and slowly pushes in. The stretch stealing the breath from your lungs.  Unforgiving.  

“Fuck, you’re tight.” Jack’s brows furrowed, now trying to press himself deeper.

“You gotta stop squeezing me like that, baby. Open up for me. Be good.” His hips draw back, then beckon forward. 

You meet his gaze, his face slack-jawed. His eyes, half-lidded, hips now forcing themself forward, arching your back off the mattress. 

Hands grip firm on your hips, holding them down. “There she is, good girl”

“You just needed me here, deep. Riighhht here, Huh baby?” He coos as he bottoms out— causing a high-pitched cry to fall from your lips. 

“Yes Jack, I need you.” You babble, lost in the sensation. You want to be lost—lost in him. 

He licks wide stripes up your neck, to your cheek. You chase his lips, trying to kiss him. He chuckles and pulls back.  

“Aw, you want a kiss?” He coos, now picking up the pace, relentlessly pounding into you. 

You cling to his arms. He loves your desperation. You nod and plead, choked out cries begging for mercy. He smiles. 

You still believed this was comfort. He knew better. He kisses you deep, possessively. He’ll give to you. 

He feels himself getting close, thrusts growing sloppy.  

“It’s okay baby, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you, and this pretty pussy. I’ve got you.” he purrs.  

“I got you sooo good now. All mine.” He coos as you clench around him. His hips stuttering, a loud, guttural groan rumbling from his chest.  

“I’m gonna fill this pussy up, Y-yeah? You just needed this cock to fill you and take care of ya, huh? Ain’t that right?”

Sloppy thrusts now turning erratic. You feel yourself clenching, the tight band in your belly snapping as your orgasm hits you like a wave. 

“Yes, Jack!—F-fuck, Thank you, thank you!” You cry.  

“Mine, all mine. Mine.” His hips snap with each word as he empties inside. You feel ropes spurt deep, filling you, claiming you.  

Jack leans forward, now placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. The contrast frightening. His eyes linger on your exhausted face, watching as your breathing slowly steadies. Watching you recalibrate.  

He knew what this was now, even if you didn’t. 

Your eyes found his. Without thinking, your arms reached for him.

There she is. 

He gathered you against his chest without hesitation. 

He's got you. 

You hadn't accepted it easily. You weren't used to leaning on someone else… but grief has a funny way of changing people. 

And Jack had been there to catch every piece that fell. You spent your whole life taking care of everyone else. 

You give your patients everything. 

You give your coworkers everything. 

You gave your fiancé everything. 

Now... 

You give Jack everything. 

He'd spent months wondering where your limit was. Whether there was anything you wouldn't give to someone who needed you. 

In the end, Jack simply waited until there was no one left to give yourself to... 

but him. 

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

@amacphet @iheartshawn

In the grandeur of his home office, Zeno leans patiently on the window by his desk nursing a cigarette between his fingertips with a smirk on his face. Further back in the room, you lay unconscious on the leather couch; your head bandaged and your breaths shallow.

Your kidnapping had proved to be easier than expected when an early opportunity presented itself. His hired goons were efficient and eager for payment, which Zeno handsomely rewarded. He didn’t even mind that you’d accidentally taken a hit to the head during extraction. You held precious information he’d been dying to get a hold of for years. Physical wounds would heal after all. He had access to any doctor in the world and enough money to get any one of them to make a house call. All he had to do now was wait for you to wake up.

He can wait.

Zeno is a patient man when he wants to be.

The Connections had been forthright with information regarding the infamous Albert Wesker in the years he’d worked through their ranks; his intelligence, his cunning, his ruthlessness, but not so much with matters regarding more exclusive, personal details. Zeno is not the type to live without knowing exclusive details.

Zeno is the type of man to act when he wants something. And for years, he’s wanted every bit of information on the man he begrudgingly shares a face with. For years he’d been looking for you.

And now he has you on his couch. 

And you’re beginning to stir into consciousness.

Zeno’s lip curls, and he pushes himself off of the window, snuffing out his cigarette in the crystal bowl on his desk as he leisurely saunters closer to you.

“Mrs. Wesker, do you know where you are?” Zeno drawls.

He kneels next to the couch, his gaze never leaving your face as your eyes finally flutter open. Zeno smirks. “Or who I am?”

Your eyes finally come into focus on Zeno for a long moment, then you smile. “Honey, you’re back.” You coo sluggishly, your voice dripping in a sweetness that Zeno doesn’t expect. He stares at you, momentarily dumbfounded, only coming to his senses when he feels the heat of your palm moving to caress his cheek.

He uses his superhuman reflexes to catch your wrist before your hand makes contact, grip firm but not bone-crushing, 

“Honey?” He parrots back, his voice low. “Who do you think I am?

“I know who you are, Albert.” You say sweetly, blinking slowly. With your wrist still in Zeno’s grip, you tilt your hand forward and run a finger gently over the T-Virus mark that mars Zeno’s face, causing him to stiffen. “You’ve been taking more viruses. You promised you’d tell me if you were going to take another one.” You utter slowly in a soft reprimand.

Zeno feels one of his eyes twitch and his jaw clench so tightly his teeth ache. You’re talking nonsense. You think he’s Wesker. 

“You are delusional, woman.” Zeno grits out, jaw set in a barely contained rage. He’s been compared to a ghost his whole existence and your concussed brain mistaking him for your dead husband is doing nothing to curb his short temper. 

You only smile back in a daze, completely unaware of Zeno’s anger. “I have eyes, darling. You didn’t have that before you left the manor. It’s okay. I still think you’re handsome.” 

The way you smile is pissing Zeno off. This isn’t the way he thought this would go in the slightest. He’d expected shock. He’d prepared for anger. He expected fear and wariness. He was prepared to brush off empty threats. He was prepared for any number of insults to be hurled at him like in past interrogations with far more dangerous targets. Not flirting. Not loving touches meant for a man long dead.

“Woman-” Zeno spits, forcing himself to take a deep breath so he doesn’t blow his top on a deluded captive of all things. “You are confused. I’m not Albert. You need treatment.”

His words don’t breach the haze of affection on your face. “Your eyes are different.” You drawl brainlessly, looking at Zeno’s golden eyes through his sunglasses.

Zeno’s scowl disappears, a realization hitting him.

He could still get some of what he wants with you sweet and pliable like this. More ammunition to have at his disposal when you finally come to your senses.

“Different?” Zeno drawls, leaning closer to you to examine every micro-expression that crosses your face. A snakeskin gloved hand removes his sunglasses, meticulously picked among hundreds to highlight his bone structure, to reveal his otherworldly eyes to you more clearly while his other hand still grips your wrist with a less punishing grip. The glasses are discarded on a nearby table. “How so?”

“They were red like rubies when you left.” You continue, still gazing up at Zeno with a soft smile on your face. “Now they’re golden like amber, sunlight, turmeric…” You trail off, sighing up at him wistfully. “... still beautiful.”

Zeno stiffens. Your words are so genuine and unguarded that it’s stirring up warm feelings he’s unwilling to acknowledge. He’s used to attention, both negative and performatively positive. He’s used to empty praise from higher ups. He’s used to admiration from people always expecting something in return. He’s used to hollow flirting from people only interesting enough to spend a night with.

But your freely given affection gives him pause, cracking his cold expression into something more vulnerable, before quickly being covered in ice once again. “You’re delirious.” He utters, but the sharpness in his tone is weaker than before.

“-ly in love with you.” You coo, finishing a sentence that you’ve obviously said countless times with your real husband. Your dead husband, Zeno reminds himself. The husband that he looks so eerily like. Zeno clenches and unclenches his jaw. This softness he feels towards you is a byproduct of trace memories embedded in his borrowed DNA. Nothing more. Yet, he can’t bring himself to pull away from your gentle touch on his cheek.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Zeno mutters, unable to look away from the loving expression on your face.

You blink. “You got a haircut.” You continue, seemingly having tunnel vision on “your husband’s” different physicalities.

The edge of Zeno’s mouth twitches, fighting off amusement. Such a selectively observant thing you are when concussed. “I did.” Zeno lies, indulging your false reality for the time being.

“It’s shorter on the sides. Lighter too. Very modern. ” You compliment, that dazed smile still on your face. Your free hand fumbles into Zeno’s hair before he can protest, and the feeling of your fingertips brushing against his scalp has his breath hitching. 

A better man would swat your hand away.

A better man would call for the doctor to sedate you until this fever dream of yours passes and Zeno can interrogate you properly, but he can’t bring himself to shatter your illusion just yet.

Zeno is a strong, powerful man in the eyes of others, but with you in this moment he feels utterly weak to your sweetness. Even the strongest steel can bend with enough patience, time, and force. And the sheer force of your affection on his guarded, lonely heart wasn’t something he was prepared to fend off.

Perhaps a small indulgence is in order. To keep you talking so freely, of course.

Zeno finds himself leaning into your touch, eyes fluttering closed from your gentle fingers sifting through his hair.

“There we go.” You whisper, flattening your hand against his face idly rubbing your thumb on his cheekbone. “You’re always so tense when you come back after a long trip.”

Your voice, the way you're speaking, and the warmth underlying your affections are helplessly addicting. Zeno doesn’t remember the last time he felt cherished like this and he can feel his shoulders sag and jaw relax under your careful touches.

“The suit’s new too. What’s the occasion?” You ask softly, your fingertips softly tracing the T-Virus marks snaking down his jaw.

The suit. Right. It is different from anything Wesker ever wore.  

”It’s-”  Zeno leans back slightly and clears his throat, adjusting his tie. A nervous tick he’d picked up and never managed to kick. A clear signal to others he’s rich, powerful and worthy of respect? Zeno’s carefully calculated attempt to be the most stylish man in the room to distract from his stolen genetics? 

“-business. Nothing you need to trouble yourself over.” He says easily, slipping back into a more familiar (and comfortable) role as the suave, charming businessman. It’s not too different from a charming husband, he rationalizes in his mind.

“It’s really nice. White, three-piece. You’re not worried about stains?” You ask slowly with concern in your voice.

It’s astonishing how much you’re noticing about him while still missing the obvious. Zeno doesn’t bother to curb his smirk this time.

“It’s a special fabric. Stain resistant. Nothing to worry over, darling.” He replies. The pet name slips out before he can stop himself and he momentarily curses himself for it, but it’s quickly forgotten when you smile so warmly up at him. His answer seems to satisfy your worry and your hands start to wander once again. Zeno lets out a pleased hum as he leans into your touch.

He lets himself sink further into your touch when the hands on his cheek and head trace over his skin to rub the exposed sides of his neck and his clothed shoulders. He lets out a displeased grunt when you suddenly stop.

“Your ear’s pierced.” You sluggishly say with surprise, staring at the dagger dangling from his left ear.

That statement grounds him in an instant, his eyes snapping back open. A new suit is easy to explain away as wanting to try something new or needing one for an event. A piercing is a more challenging choice. For Zeno, he was seventeen and sick of everything being decided for him. He wanted to do something permanent for himself even if it was as small as a piece of metal in his ear. He’d stubbornly kept repiercing the same spot over the years whenever he’d accidentally left the jewelry out for too long and the hole closed up thanks to the menagerie of viruses running through his veins. He never minded the pain of it. It was a constant reminder of his own autonomy.

But Wesker had no such rebellion as far as he knew. Too out of character for even your hazy mind to rationalize. So Zeno opts for a simple approach. 

“Yes.” Zeno finally answers, flexing and unflexing his fingers like he’s itching to reach out and touch you but stubbornly holding himself back. “It’s new.”

You stare, and for a frightening moment Zeno believes you may have come to your senses. He lets out a relieved sigh when your confusion morphs back into quiet affection, gently resuming your gentle touches on Zeno’s neck. “Well, now I know who to give those single earrings too. I feel bad for losing so many. You spent good money on those for me.”

“Don’t worry. I can always buy you more pairs.” Zeno utters, a sudden lump forming in his throat when you give him another hazy smile. He’s surprised at how easy it is for him to slip into the role of doting husband. 

“Always so sweet to me.” You coo, the love in your eyes so earnest that it makes Zeno’s chest feel tight and his body to sink into your touch again.

It’s not for you. Stop indulging her whims. You’re better than this.

“Are you working in the next hour?” You ask sweetly, still caressing Zeno’s cheek.

The answer is always yes; Zeno has meetings to plan, notes to review, projects to check in on, angry calls to make. But with you like this, touching him, saying sweet things, he can’t bring himself to pull away from it just yet.

“No.” He utters reluctantly. “I have an hour free.”

“Care for a cuddle?”

Zeno is silent. He knows he shouldn’t give in more than he already has, but he finds himself torn between his common sense and his growing desire to keep entertaining your little fantasy. He’s painfully aware this whole situation is a byproduct of your concussed brain and that it’s not him you actually want, but with the way you’re looking at him, with that sweet, hopeful anticipation in your features, he finds it impossible for the word “no” to leave his lips.

“Alright.” He finally says lowly, a hesitance in his voice that betrays how suddenly nervous he is when he swallows. “A cuddle.”

Zeno finally sits on the leather couch, guiding you to sit across his lap. He leans back until he’s supported by the cushion, pulling you carefully with him. He’s acutely aware of every point of contact between you two; your plush thighs across his lap, his gloved hand on your hip, your hair tickling his chin from the height difference between you two. He unconsciously finds himself tilting his head to breathe in the scent of your hair. He can’t even think straight enough to decipher words to describe it; only indescribably good. Relaxing. Addicting.

This is ridiculous. He’s acting ridiculous. The sensible part of his brain is screaming that he’s a fool for indulging your delusions, but the affection-starved part that he had long convinced himself didn’t exist easily drowns out any remaining common sense. 

You lazily snake a hand over his shoulders and tuck your head into Zeno’s neck, your other palm slipping itself onto his dress shirt below his waistcoat as you hum, content and comfortable. “I miss this when you’re gone.” You sigh into his neck.

Your words only make the unfamiliar ache that’s settled in his chest more pronounced. He struggles to identify the emotion, his analytical brain running through every possibility before it lands on longing. He doesn’t even think to feel ashamed. Your hands feel chilled against his furnace of a body from the viruses living in his blood. Your careful touch and sweet words have made him feel more alive than anything he’s injected into his veins, but Zeno would rather die than admit that to himself.

He only breathes you in deeper and holds onto you tighter, his nose burying itself in your hair.

You notice his tightened grip. Of course you do with Zeno’s hands dimpling your skin through your clothes. You only chuckle. “It’s alright, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

Zeno can feel how fast his heart has started beating. He’s certain you can feel it too under your hypnotizing touch. 

His body betrays him and does the stupidest thing possible before he can stop it.

He feels his lips pressing a kiss into the crown of your head.

“... I know.” He breathes. 

You giggle and lift your head to look up at Zeno, that hazy affection still painfully prevalent on your face, now made even more irresistible by the flush on your cheeks. “You missed.”

“Did I?” Zeno utters in a low, dangerously hungry tone. You only nod and try to tilt your head up to Zeno’s lips, but the angle you’re sitting at makes it impossible for you to close the distance on your own.

 Zeno stares, staring intently at your lips.

He’s not that much of a glutton for punishment. 

“You’ve got a head injury.” Zeno grits out, his restraint being held on by a thread of decency and the last shreds of his self-control. “I’m not taking advantage of you in this condition.”

You hazily chuckle, nuzzling back into his neck. “Always such a gentleman when I’m hurt.” Your hand is still rubbing Zeno’s chest. Your thumb catches just below a shirt button, guiding your thumb to brush against a pectoral muscle. The skin on skin contact makes Zeno shiver involuntarily and his breath hitch and a heat to kindle in his gut.

He is not going to get a hard-on from you touching his chest. God damn it, he won’t.

“Don’t get used to it.” He grits out, clearing his throat and trying to act as composed as possible and not like he’s moments away from kissing that grin right off of your beautiful face. 

You only giggle and take a deep breath to relax into Zeno, but you pause. You breathe in again. “You smell different.” Your voice sounds almost hurt when you say that.

Fuck.

Zeno has no idea what expensive soaps or cologne Wesker used to douse himself in, or why you sounded so vulnerable when you pointed out his unique smell. His fingers flex from where they’re grasping your hip and shoulder, scrambling to come up with a reasonable response that won’t make you want to get out of his lap. 

“Different how?” His voice comes out softer than intended, not wanting to upset you

“Did you change your cologne?” You ask slowly, blinking up at him with those mesmerizing eyes of yours.

An awkwardly long pause stretches between you two. “Maybe.”

“You didn’t like what I got you?” You ask softly with a frown.

“I…” Zeno utters, having no clue how to respond. He tries in vain to bring any kind of memory to surface from Wesker’s life from his borrowed blood that will help keep this fantasy alive, but any kind of trace memory he’s inherited is vague and more of a feeling or general emotion at the best of times. He has nothing. He’ll have to improvise.

What do you want to hear? No, you might see right through that and make this situation worse. 

Tell you the truth? Out of the question.

“... I wanted something different.” Zeno finally finishes, carefully watching your reaction.

“I wish you would have told me. I never want to get you things you don’t like. Did it aggravate your nose too much?” You ask with painfully genuine concern in your voice.

Your expression is nothing but sincere and it makes Zeno’s chest ache even more. Is this what  loving someone is like? Fretting over a stupid present that shouldn’t even matter? To care about their happiness with small gestures and sweet words?

Zeno forces out a bitter chuckle, trying to remain the illusion of composedness even as he swallows down a painful lump in his throat. “It was a bit strong. Too strong.” He rasps.

You frown and for a moment Zeno has a heartstopping fear that you’ll pull away, which is quickly overwhelmed by a much stronger feeling of possessiveness when he feels you nuzzle into him again and plant a chaste kiss on his neck. “I’m sorry. Do you not like cedar anymore?” 

How can you expect him to respond after that? Zeno, embarrassingly, can’t even muster enough composure to form words, so he simply shakes his head.

“What do you like nowadays?” You ask, subtly resuming your gentle rubbing on Zeno’s chest.

Breathe you fool. Answer her.

“Pine.” Zeno finally grits out. He clears his throat again to compose himself.  “I like pine.” He says, softer.

Another sweet smile from you. “I’ll remember that for next time. Promise.”

There’s a simultaneous warmth that Zeno feels around his heart, and a twist in his gut at the unwavering certainty in your voice that there will be a next time. 

He can't let you say any more things like that. It will only hurt him more when you stop saying them after you come to your senses at some point. He logically knows this won’t last forever, but that doesn’t stop the soft, raw part of him to yearn hopelessly for more.

“Don’t. I might not deserve it.” Zeno breathes softly, frozen in place and not trusting himself to move or even look at you as he stares at the bookshelf stuffed to the brim with leather bound books.

You raise your head again, still sporting that disarming smile. “Doesn’t matter. I’m giving it anyway.” You say just as soft, gazing up at Zeno like he’s the center of your universe. 

And that’s what finally makes him break.

He suddenly lunges forward with all of his earlier restraint a forgotten memory, his lips molding with yours in a borderline desperate eagerness and his hand on your back raising to cup the junction of your head and neck so he doesn’t accidentally aggravate your head injury further. He pulls you tightly to his chest so there’s no remaining space between the two of you; his hand digs into the flesh of your hip, your hand has once again finds itself cupping Zeno’s cheek, and Zeno’s chest feels as if it’s about to burst from the sheer amount of longing to have you in his arms until the end of time. 

But you’re both still human for the most part and need oxygen, so at some point he pulls away to let you breathe. You’re flushed and panting and so beautiful with your eyes half-lidded. 

Zeno takes a shuddering breath against your lips, fingers tangling into the hair at your nape while he gazes at you like a man starved. His whole being aches with a mixture of hunger and guilt because you looked at him like he meant everything to you and it’s not meant for him. Not really. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting to keep that addictive look on your face. 

It’s not on your face now, though.

Your eyes are half-lidded and confused, he realizes.

“Honey, did something happen?” You pant with genuine concern, your hand still cupping his cheek. Your thumb rubs that damned T-Virus mark on his face like before, but instead of freezing up, Zeno leans into it, his eyes closing. 

He can’t keep doing this. 

Entertaining this delusion further is just setting up more emotional fallout down the line. 

Damn that soft, worried expression on your face. That breathtaking, wide-eyed expression. That single-minded worry and devotion. It grips his heart so tightly that it unravels any rational thought he has left. Damn him for being too embarrassingly weak to reject your affections. Damn Albert Wesker for making his wife so head-over-heels in love with him that Zeno will never stand a chance at having it from you himself. 

“No, nothing happened.” Zeno grits out, barely a whisper. The lie sits bitter on his tongue, unlike his easy excuses from before.

“You kiss different.” You say with concern.

“Different.” Zeno echoes, with fresh anxiety ripping through him. Of course he kisses differently. He kissed you like you were going to slip through his fingers any moment. Like this would be the first and only time he could get his mouth on yours. 

“Bad different?” Zeno rasps, suddenly second guessing every kiss he’s had in his life

“No! No, not at all.” You reassure, your expression painfully tender. Zeno can tell you mean it, and it immediately cuts through the haze of his spiraling thoughts. His desperate grip on you loosens as he searches your face for a lie, or worse, pity. All he finds is softness. That unwavering affection and devotion that sparked this whole mess in the first place that makes him ache with a longing and greed for more.

“Then what kind?” Zeno utters reluctantly, like he’s nervous about the answer.

“It’s just… it’s less certain. Like you’re kissing me for the last time or something. Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but is everything okay?” You ask, concerned and still achingly sweet as you keep caressing Zeno’s cheek.

Zeno’s grip goes slack, then tightens again. He can’t deny that he never wants to let you go, even though this whole arrangement is something fleeting and doomed. Zeno only grunts and leans his forehead against yours, savoring the proximity and rubbing your skin through your clothes for a moment before he utters, “No.”

A long pause.

“I don’t know if I can give it back.” His words are barely audible. 

“Give what back?” You whisper lovingly.

There are a hundred answers to that question that wouldn’t begin to cover what you deserve. The unwavering devotion? A loving look that could disarm a vengeful god? Tender care that makes you feel like a queen? You’re so soft and Zeno is anything but soft. Would you still look at him with such adoration if you knew he was only a broken copy of the man you fell in love with? 

“... nothing. It’s nothing.” Zeno says, finally answering after a prolonged silence. 

“Honey?” You whisper with worry and affection, lifting your other hand to cradle his face, and Zeno immediately melts into your touch despite his busy mind. He feels that same unfamiliar twist of guilt in his gut from earlier, stronger this time. He’s not the one you’re supposed to fuss over or care about. 

But he’ll be damned if he gives it up now. He turns his face slightly to leave a light kiss on your palm. Your skin is comparatively cool against his lips and it only makes him want to sink into your affections further.

You smile at the kiss. “You don’t have to tell me now, but just know I’ll be right here if you want to talk. I’ll just listen.”

Zeno remains silent for a long time, simply allowing himself to indulge in your softness.Your emotional safety. His voice is rough when he finally speaks. “Why?”

“Because I love you. You’re stuck with me for a long ass time.” You say, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, and with such earnest affection.

Zeno lets out a hoarse laugh. “That’s a dangerous promise to make, sweetheart.”

“Maybe I love danger.” You respond, once again, with an answer you’ve told your real husband countless times.

Silence. 

Instead of trying to distance himself from the sweet response, Zeno’s face melts into a handsome smirk. “Even if the danger is me?” 

“Especially if the danger is you.” You coo, giving his lips a light peck. Zeno’s lips chase yours again before you even have the chance to pull away. 

Damn the future. He has you now.

And Zeno is not one to let go of things that he considers his.