synopsis: One of their targets is in sight, and when Adrian, Chris, and Ads discover crucial information about the pack's enemies, Adrian is more than ready to start taking down the people who are responsible for nearly getting you killed.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, omegaverse dynamics, alpha!Adrian, omega!reader, fluff, talk about heats/ruts/marking, Checkmate mission stuff, Adrian and Chris being bros
word count: 6.5k
notes: I am back from vacay and I had a wonderful time! Back on the writing grind starting today <3 Thank you as always @embeanwrites and @snowyathena for the beta read.
Masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine
That morning, Ads crafts a careful text to Dev Mason from the drug dealer’s phone. Adrian tries desperately to be patient as she does. Subterfuge like this is not his strong suit, but he understands the need to make sure this text is perfect if they want to get Mason to do what they want.
“We have to go back through their message history first,” Ads says, on the phone with John. “Figure out what their code words might mean. They’re not stupid enough to just talk about cocaine dealing outright. Dev might get suspicious if something sounds off.”
“No full sentences,” John notes. “Lots of straight up dates, times, meeting locations without any other context. Occasionally a follow-up to explain. Like this one—got the good stuff in yesterday.”
“What should we say?” Ads asks, staring at the blinking cursor in the message thread. Her thumbs hover, ready to type.
“We can lure him in with the promise of a job?” Chris suggests. “Say Eli knows a guy who has work for him?”
“Eli?” Adrian asks.
“The drug dealer you killed last night,” Chris deadpans. “He had a name.”
“Oh, right.”
“That’s risky,” you point out, and Adrian straightens at the sound of your voice. He hasn’t realized you were on the other end of the line with John.
“Morning, baby,” he says, unable to help his smile.
“Hi Ade,” you say, and he can hear the smile in your voice. “What if Eli didn’t know Dev is a mercenary? We can’t assume that. Whatever message you send, it has to be drug related.”
“Good point,” John muses.
“Well, Adrian just saw him buy drugs last night,” Chris says. “He’s probably not gonna need more for a little while, at least. So what’s the move here?”
“I worked in the drug trafficking unit of the DEA for a while,” Emilia says. Adrian’s smile falters a bit when he realizes she’s there too. He wonders how close you’re standing to her, then kicks himself for even having the thought. He grits his teeth and clears his throat to stop the growl that threatens to escape. Chris gives him a weird look.
“You need some water, Vig?”
“I’m good,” Adrian says, looking away, clenching his fists.
“One time we lured a guy by fabricating a supply chain issue,” Emilia continues. “Made it out like the dealer was running low and might not be able to restock for a while due to local gang activity. If he thinks his source is drying up, Dev might buy some extra.”
“Still not a guarantee that he would show, but I think that’s a better option,” you agree.
“Even if he doesn’t show—now that I have his number, I’ve coded a program to scan and trace calls coming from his phone. It just might take a little longer,” John says.
“Either way, we’re on to him. We know he’s in the city, we got the bar right that he frequents. We’re in a good spot,” Ads says. “I say we go for it. What should I say?”
“Pick a location where they’ve met before, if you can find one in the message history,” Emilia says. “Give him an address and a time. No frills. Then send a follow up. Running low. Supplier problem. Meet here if you want an emergency restock.”
“Misspell a couple words,” Adrian notes, reading the thread over Ads’s shoulder as she searches for an address. “This guy is fucking illiterate and apparently doesn’t use autocorrect.”
Your laugh rings out over the phone speaker, and it makes Adrian feel a little lighter.
“Keep us in the loop,” Emilia says.
“Be careful,” you add. “I don’t want to hear about any bullet wounds or broken bones.”
“I’ll keep him in line,” Chris says, and Adrian only half-resents the implication that he’s like an animal in need of leash training.
“Love you,” he says, ignoring the dig.
“I’m not saying I love you too, that’s fucking weird,” John says.
“He wasn’t talking to you, you fucking moron,” Emilia groans.
“Love you too, Ade,” you call back with a giggle, over the sound of Emilia smacking John upside the head.
“You ready, Vig?” Chris asks. “I can see Mason coming this way.”
“I’m ready, all right,” Adrian says, a slight growl to his voice.
“Please remember that you cannot kill him right away,” Ads says, exasperated.
Ads is set up in the van a block away from the established meeting spot, while Chris keeps a careful eye on it from a rooftop across the street. Luckily, Dev Mason took the bait, and Adrian has been waiting for him to show for the last twenty minutes, hands shoved deep in the pockets of another jacket borrowed from Chris, because apparently his own clothes aren’t cool enough and Dev will be suspicious if he sees a dork in a dad outfit.
You’d giggled when Adrian had called you to complain about it. Really, he’d just wanted to talk to you one last time before meeting up with Dev tonight. It was late now, nearly 2 a.m., and he wouldn’t get to talk to you again until tomorrow.
“They’ve got a point,” you said sympathetically. “Maybe we need to get you some undercover outfits. Your Vigilante suit is intimidating. The rest of your wardrobe, not so much.”
“I thought you liked my wardrobe!”
“I do love your wardrobe, because you are the one wearing it. But you have to admit that you don’t dress like the average black ops agent.”
“Fine,” Adrian grumbled.
“Hey. I love you, baby, ” you remind him. “Be careful tonight.”
“I will,” he said softly. “I love you too.”
Adrian thinks about that conversation now, eyes closing briefly as he remembers the sound of your voice, reminding him that you love him, calling him baby. Even still, his nose wrinkles with irritation. The memory isn’t enough to erase Chris’s strong Alpha scent that’s leached into the fabric of the jacket.
Normally, Chris’s scent doesn’t bother him, but it’s one thing to be crammed into the van with him. It’s another thing entirely to be wearing his clothes. It’s putting him on edge, even more than he has been the rest of this week. It’s making his stomach hurt, it’s making his head hurt, it’s just plain pissing him off. He wants to rip all his clothes off and wrap himself in the picnic blanket, the one still barely holding on to traces of your scent after five days away from you.
“Dev rounding the corner in thirty seconds,” Chris reports, his voice ringing in the mic in Adrian’s ear. Adrian refocuses. He’s got a job to do.
“Remember,” Chris says. “No small talk. You’re bad at it. But you are probably stronger than him. He’s only a Beta, and he’s pretty wiry. Just grab him and drag him into the alley. I’m already on my way down to meet you so you have backup.”
Not ten seconds later, Dev Mason rounds the corner and nods at Adrian.
“You Eli’s guy?”
Adrian grits his teeth and forces down the wave of rage he feels just at the sight of this asshole, so casually nodding at him, like they’re fucking buddies. Like he’s not on Adrian’s shit list, right in the top ten. Adrian can’t even bring himself to speak, he just schools his expression and nods, waiting for Dev to walk closer, intending to pass off some money in return for drugs and make a deal.
The second he’s within reach, Adrian wrenches Dev’s arm behind his back, kicks him in the groin, and punches him right in the neck. A sickly satisfied smile crosses Adrian’s face. He delights in the way that the man’s eyes go wide with surprise, the wind knocked out of him, mouth gaping as he tries to speak, to yell for help, anything, all for naught.
Adrian drags him off the street and out of sight. The Checkmate team had gone through Dev and Eli’s previous meeting spots and carefully selected the location for this specifically—the dark, filthy alley with the giant dumpsters. Adrian shoves Dev behind one of them, right into the wall, his head making a cracking noise as it hits the stone wall of the building.
Dev finally manages to take a deep breath, but right before he’s about to shout, Adrian’s hands close around his throat to hold him in place.
Chris enters the alley behind them just a few seconds later. Dev hears his footsteps and starts struggling, thinking someone might have come to save him.
“Help,” Dev manages to squeak out, his voice hoarse and tight, Adrian’s grip cutting off his air supply just enough to keep him under control, but not enough to kill him.
“He’s not here to help you,” Adrian hisses. “He’s here to help me, you fucking dickbag.”
He sees the moment when Dev catches a real glimpse of Chris and a flash of terrified recognition crosses his face.
“Peacemaker,” he rasps. His struggle intensifies as he looks back at Adrian. “And you—you’re Vigilante?”
One hand grips desperately at Adrian’s around his throat, trying to pry his fingers away. He looks left and right for an exit route that is nowhere to be found.
“Okay,” he says, panicked. “Okay, okay! Tell me what you want! I’ll—I’ll give you whatever you want. Money? Information?”
Chris shakes his head and scoffs with disgust at how easily he’s surrendered.
“No shit, we want information,” he says. “We know what you’re doing. You and Leon and the others.” He walks closer and pulls a gun, cocking it at Dev’s head. “Members of my pack got hurt because of you.”
“Not because of me!” Dev insists desperately. “I’m not—I’m not the decisions guy! I just do the tech work! I worked in the same department as John Economos at ARGUS, we just—we just do the computer shit!”
“Computer shit,” Chris says. “What kind of computer shit?”
“I book the jobs! Manage the finances, manage everyone’s schedules! That’s it! I don’t—I don’t do field work! I’ve never killed anybody!”
“Pussy,” Adrian mutters.
“If he manages the schedules,” Ads says over the comms, “then he should know where they all are right now. Ask him.”
“You know where they are?” Chris says. “The rest of your team?”
“Y-yes, I do!!” Dev sputters. “I’ve got—I’ve got it all on my laptop, on a spreadsheet. It’s at my apartment! I can take you there!”
Chris cocks his head as he considers. The guy seems about five seconds away from pissing himself. He lowers his gun.
“Put him down, Vig.”
“What?” Adrian cries, outraged.
“Look at him. His knees are fucking shaking. He’s about to piss himself. He’s not a threat.”
Adrian gives Chris a hard look. His hands clench tighter around Dev’s throat as he hisses a breath through his teeth. Chris is on your side, he reminds himself. Chris is your best friend. You promised you wouldn’t have any problems taking orders from him in the field.
Adrian lets go of Dev with a shove, pushing all his anger into the piece of shit in front of him even as his heart is screaming at him to grab on again. To squeeze tighter around Dev’s neck until his face is turning red, until he can’t breathe, until he’s fucking dead, just like he deserves for everything that he and his team have done to his pack. To you.
Dev swallows and looks between Chris and Adrian nervously. “I—”
“What?” Chris demands.
“I’ll take one of you,” he says, seemingly working up a scrap of courage when he realizes Chris might be willing to show him a bit of mercy. “I’ll take Peacemaker.”
“I think fucking not,” Adrian says at the same time that Chris says, “Okay. Deal.”
“Are you fucking insane, Chris?” Adrian says.
“He’s right, Chris. You’re not going anywhere with this guy by yourself. It might be a trap,” Ads says.
“And what, you think I can’t handle myself?” Chris snaps. “Might I remind you, I am the pack Alpha. I am more than capable of making a call like this, especially with this wimpy asshole—”
He cuts off at the sound of thundering footsteps. He and Adrian turn in the direction of the sound to see Dev’s retreating form, bolting as fast as he can out of the alley and down the street.
“Fuck!” Chris says.
“This is why I didn’t want to let go of him, dude!” Adrian shouts, taking off to chase after him.
Dev looks back with wide, panicked eyes when he realizes the two Alphas have stopped arguing and started pursuing him. He fumbles a bit, yanking his shirt out of his pants as he runs and nearly tripping over a sidewalk curb as he reaches into his waistband behind him to pull a gun.
“He’s got a gun!” Adrian yells, just as Dev manages to fire a shot. It flies wide. So fucking wide it’s laughable. And Adrian, in fact, starts cracking up.
“Holy shit,” he says as he pulls his own gun from the deep pocket of Chris’s jacket. “You’re fucking kidding. Your aim is shit! How do you work black ops, Mason? Jesus Christ.”
“Maybe stop criticizing the aim of the guy trying to kill you, Adrian!” Ads cries over comms.
Dev keeps firing erratically, and Adrian cries out when one of them manages to hit him. It doesn’t stick—it’s only a graze—but it hurts like a bitch because he’s not wearing his Vigilante suit. He doesn’t have any armor on.
“Fuck!” he hisses. “You fucking dickhead!”
Adrian lifts his gun and shoots. And his aim is anything but laughable. The bullet hits dead center at the back of Dev’s head, and he hits the ground instantly. Adrian keeps running until he gets to the body, kicks the gun out of his hand, but when he looks down, he sees it wasn’t necessary.
“He’s dead,” Adrian reports, holding his ear.
“Fuck, Adrian,” Chris says. “He could have still been useful!”
“Fuck you! He shot me! Was I supposed to not shoot him back?”
“You’re hit?” Ads says urgently. “Fuck. I’m coming around with the van. Put pressure on it. Try not to bleed everywhere and leave evidence, please?”
Adrian does as she asks, putting his gun away and covering the wound on his shoulder with his hand. He frowns and huffs.
“Fuck. I told her I wouldn’t get shot,” Adrian grumbles. “She’s gonna kill me.”
Chris and Adrian tense at the sound of a vehicle pulling around the corner, but relax when they realize it’s just Ads. She pulls up right beside them and rolls down the window, taking in the scene with an unamused sigh.
“Alright,” she says. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“Do we take the body?” Adrian muses, ready to reach down and pick it up.
“No,” Chris says. “We take all his shit, like we did to Eli. The cops will think they’ve got a mugger on the loose who keeps killing people.”
“No,” Ads says. “Even if we take all his shit—we have to break into his apartment, too. That’s where he said his laptop was, isn’t it? With all the information we need? We won’t be able to do that if the cops are swarming the place, investigating his murder. Adrian’s right. We take the body.”
Adrian tries not to feel too smug that Ads is taking his side, for once.
“Okay,” Chris says. “We take the body. Break into his apartment and grab the laptop. Bring it home to John to dig through all the files. And dump him somewhere random on the way back home?”
Adrian and Ads nod.
“Alright,” Chris sighs. “Let’s do this. I wanna go to fucking sleep.”
Adrian doesn’t wake up until nearly 2 p.m. the next day.
He panics when he checks his phone and sees a dozen message notifications. Did he miss something important from you? Did your heat start? Does he need to go home?
But ten of the messages are just from Chris and Ads, saying they’ll regroup for dinner, taking it easy after the chaotic events of the previous night.
Ads: What time are we meeting today?
Peacemaker: It’s too fucking early. I’m going back to sleep.
Ads: It’s noon, Chris.
Peacemaker: I don’t give a shit. I spent two hours last night scrubbing blood off the sidewalk. I do not want to deal with the body in the van yet.
Apparently Adrian is not the only one feeling tired today. He, especially, needed the extra sleep, his body healing from the bullet wound on his arm. He unravels the bandages Ads had wrapped last night to find smooth skin.
Still, he’d broken a promise to you and gotten hurt. He was impulsive last night, chasing after Dev like that. He wasn’t even wearing his suit, no plates of armor to protect him. If that bullet had hit a foot to the right, it could have done some serious damage. Damage that his body might not have been able to repair. And then you would have been left alone. His stomach clenches with guilt.
He has to tell you. He knows he does. He just really, really, doesn’t want to do that right now. He clenches his jaw and turns back to the group chat.
Ads: Alright, fine. Go back to sleep, Sleeping Beauty. I’ll update the team back in Evergreen.
Ads: Don’t worry Adrian. I won’t tell her you got shot. I’ll let you have that conversation 😬
Ads: I’ll pick up pizza for dinner. Let me know what you want.
Peacemaker: You know me Ads. Meat lovers all the way.
Ads: Meat lover, huh? Maybe you really are an ally, Chris
Peacemaker: It’s not gay to like pepperoni Ads!!!!!!
Adrian rolls his eyes and types out a quick response.
Sorry guys. Just woke up. Pizza sounds great. Meet in an hour? Can’t really do anything until it’s dark anyway.
Just moments later, Ads likes his message. Then he closes out the chat and opens his message thread with you.
Omega 🩵: Morning, baby. I know you had a late night, considering I didn’t get a goodnight text until 5 a.m. I assume you’re still sleeping. I miss you! Call me later.
For the first time ever, he hesitates about pressing the call button next to your name. He doesn’t want to worry you. Not when you’re already in a sensitive state, not when you’re already wanting him and worrying about him. He can tell you about the injury later. It’s already healed up anyway.
“I don’t have to tell her right now,” he says to himself with finality, and he calls you.
It only rings once.
“I would say a regular hello, but something tells me I should be saying good morning,” you tease with no preamble. He smiles.
“I did, in fact, just wake up. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for, baby,” you say softly. “I want you to be well-rested. Especially out in the field. You’re less likely to get hurt.”
Adrian winces and changes the subject. “How are things back at the office? Ads says she updated you?”
“She did,” you say. “Dev is dead?”
“Yeah,” Adrian says. “One down. Five to go.”
“Good,” you say firmly, a sharp note in your voice. “I’m glad you killed him.”
“And he spilled a lot of information before I did,” Adrian adds. “Hopefully we’ll find even more at his apartment tonight. But first, Chris and I have to dump the body. It’s just…sitting in the van right now.”
“Dismember and burn?”
“Yeah. We’ll have to drive out of the city for that. Not sure where yet.”
“I can help with that,” you say. “I’m sitting at my computer right now. Let me bring up a map—”
“You don’t have to—”
“Let me fucking help, please,” you interrupt. “I’ve been feeling absolutely useless the last couple days. Just sitting around waiting for you to come back.”
“You’re not useless,” Adrian immediately argues. “You’re—you’re—everything. You’re my reason.” He pauses and swallows. “I think about you all day. And then I get back to this shitty motel and I think about you all night. And the only thing that’s keeping me from running home right now is the fact that everything I’m doing here is to—keep you safe.”
“I want to keep you safe,” you remind him, your voice thick with emotion. “I told you before you left. Before you even went on this mission. I can help too. I am more than capable. And I am trying really hard to be mad at you right now for being all overprotective. I don’t want to have this conversation again. But you’re such a sap and you just—say all the right things sometimes. You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Don’t cry,” he says hoarsely. “I never want you to cry. Not ever. I want you to be happy and safe and—mine.”
“I am.”
That evening, Ads rents a car to keep watch outside Dev’s apartment while Adrian and Chris go dump his body in a river thirty minutes outside the city.
“Just in case,” she says. “If he has a roommate or something, we need to be prepared.”
“Good point,” Chris says. “But be careful, Ads. We’ll be half an hour out if you need anything.”
“I’m not worried about me,” Ads says. She looks pointedly between Chris and Adrian. “I’m worried about you two and your bickering. Don’t kill each other.”
“We won’t,” Adrian says.
In fact, you had told him the exact same thing. Ads had told you that he and Chris were terse with each other this week.
“He’s your best friend,” you had reminded him. “Think before you snap. I know it’s not easy.”
It turns out, though, that everything is fine. Chris and Adrian have dumped dozens, maybe hundreds of dead bodies together. They fall into the old rhythm of it quietly, carrying Dev’s dead weight out into the middle of the woods, finding a good spot where the river water rushes by. It’s quick and efficient and—well, not quite fun. Chris grumbles a bit about the fact that they’re even out there dumping a body at all, and Adrian feels a little guilty for jumping the gun and killing the guy so quickly when they might have been able to get more information out of him. But there’s almost something nostalgic about it that brings him back to the days before Chris even knew his secret identity.
It’s the time in the car on the way back when things start to feel a little more…tense. Adrian starts to get almost carsick as he sits in the passenger seat and every breath he inhales feels hot and thick with Chris’s scent from the seat right beside him. He cracks the window open.
They’ve been sitting in silence for ten minutes when Adrian can’t take it anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he says, just barely audible over the sound of the radio that Chris has cranked up, playing his usual hair metal songs.
Chris pauses and glances over. “What the fuck are you sorry for?”
“Being annoying,” Adrian says. “All week. I know I’ve been on edge, and it’s making you on edge. And I’ve been more impulsive than usual.”
“I would be the same,” Chris admits, “if I was in your shoes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know what it’s like. I keep thinking about what I act like when Emilia is in pre-rut. How agitated I get about protecting her. She threatens to kick my ass when her rut comes around twice a year and yells at me that she doesn’t need my protection,” Chris huffs a laugh. “She’s right. She doesn’t. It’s one of the reasons Alphas don’t mate with Alphas, a lot of the time. They butt heads too much. Like we’ve been doing this week.”
“Oh,” Adrian says. He’s never even noticed.
“I give you props for even being able to come on a mission at all,” Chris continues. “Leaving her behind can’t have been easy. But we needed you, and you’re doing great. Even if you’re a little more…high-strung than usual. You just gotta learn to channel that energy and anxiety into the work, instead of bottling it up, you know?”
“I guess that makes sense.”
“Okay. I think we’ve had enough sappy conversations in the last several weeks to last a lifetime,” Chris mutters. “Let’s cut that shit out.”
“It’s healthy to be in touch with your emotions,” Adrian says. “Being able to be vulnerable with me is an important outlet, especially since you don’t see a therapist or anything—”
“Shut the fuck up, Adrian.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“You don’t see a therapist either.”
“I am already in touch with my emotions, I don’t need therapy.”
Chris looks at him sideways. “You need therapy more than any other person I’ve ever known.”
Adrian put on his Vigilante suit tonight before breaking into Dev’s apartment, the address listed on his ID. Chris and Ads had tried to talk him out of it, saying he’d draw more attention and look suspicious, but he’d insisted.
He’s still feeling guilty for getting shot last night. For breaking his promise to you. It’s put him on edge, made him nervous about tonight. He doesn’t want to risk getting hurt again, not because he’s afraid of the pain. Yeah, pain sucks, but he’s been literally tortured before. He knows he can take it.
He just doesn’t want to hurt you. And he knows that you’ll take on his hurt like your own. So he dons the suit, even though it’s a hot, steamy summer night, and his visor fogs up every time he exhales. And he waits until dark, when no one will see him sneaking up the building’s fire escape.
It’s a shitty part of town, anyway, nothing but moonlight guiding his way because all the street lamps are shitty and broken. The window itself is shitty, too. The lock on the frame breaks away under his gloved hands with ease, and he clambers into the dark, messy apartment. He makes a face.
“This place is a fucking mess,” he mutters into his comm. He broke a sweat scaling up the building, and he goes to wipe off his face before remembering he’s got the suit on, and does nothing more than hit himself in the face. “Fuck. It’s hot in here. Does he not have any air conditioning? Jesus.”
“Just make sure it’s clear, and then come open the door for us,” Ads says. “I don’t care if he’s got literal garbage piling up. Somewhere in there, he’s got something we need.”
Adrian makes his way through every room of the tiny apartment—the bedroom, where he came in through the window, a tiny living room and kitchen, a bathroom. That’s it. No office, no second bedroom. It’s so small Adrian almost feels claustrophobic, especially when he’s stepping around piles of dirty laundry and old takeout containers.
“It’s clear,” he confirms.
Two minutes later, he opens the front door for Chris and Ads, who wrinkle their noses when they step inside.
“You weren’t kidding,” Ads says. “This is just as bad as Chris’s trailer when he first got out of prison.”
“Hey! That was not my fault. The fucking cops raided my shit.”
“That was totally not cool of them,” Adrian agrees.
“Forget it!” Ads says. “We’re looking for his laptop. Any technology, really. Stuff we can bring back to John to look for.”
“There’s no office. This place is just as tiny as it is messy,” Adrian says, gaze swinging around the room. “God. I’m sweating like crazy right now.”
“It’s not that bad,” Ads says, confused.
But Adrian exhales again, red visor steaming up with his breath, and he starts to feel like he’s choking on it. Chris notices the way he’s tensed up, maybe even smells the change in his scent, the way he gets a little panicky.
“Take the mask off, Adrian,” he says. “There’s no one here.”
Adrian does what he says with trembling hands, inhaling sharply.
“Are you feeling okay?” Ads asks, concerned. “You’re really flushed right now.”
“Just—hot,” Adrian says, strained. He looks down at himself. He wants to take the entire fucking suit off, actually. It suddenly feels too tight, too scratchy, too much. He swallows it down.
“Drink some water,” Chris says, digging through Dev’s kitchen cupboards for a glass. “You really don’t look good, man.” He fills up the cup from the sink tap, and Adrian scowls.
“I’m not drinking his nasty sink water,” he says. “I’d rather die of dehydration. What if he—puts cocaine in it?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Drug addicts do weird things! Addiction is a mental illness!”
“Are you sick?” Ads asks him. “How was your wound when you woke up this morning? Did I not clean it out well enough? Is it infected? Do you have a fever?”
“No, his healing factor would have taken care of that too,” Chris says, shaking his head. “It’s been a long week. It’s probably just stress. He’s been away from his Omega for almost a week, and her heat—”
“I’m okay,” Adrian insists, through his shallow breathing and shaking hands. He clutches at his mask to hide it. “Just—let’s find this fucking laptop and get the hell out of here. I want to go home.”
And that is what he wants, he realizes, more than anything right now. He wants to feel your gentle hands on his hot forehead, he wants to curl up in your lap, he wants to be laying in the cool grass with you outside in the Checkmate courtyard. No. Not in the courtyard—in bed. In the nest you’ve been fidgeting with all week. He wants to slot himself inside it like the missing piece he is, and feel you next to him and all around him, and go home.
Because for the first time ever, home doesn’t mean back to his mom’s house, or an empty safe house. It means your apartment. It means you.
“Right. Adrian and I will start out here in the living room, Ads, you can tackle the bedroom.”
It takes less than ten minutes for Ads to turn something up. She comes out of the bedroom holding a high-end laptop in her hand, maybe the newest and most expensive thing in the entire apartment.
“Found this under the bed,” she says. “Next to some unspeakable things that I do not want to talk about.”
“A man has needs, Ads,” Chris says, and she rolls her eyes.
“There was more stuff under there too,” she says. “But I thought we should try to crack this first.”
“I’ll keep looking in there,” Chris says. “You and Vig are better with computers than me.”
Ads cracks open the laptop and goes to turn it on, but Adrian stops her.
“Cover the camera,” he says. “He might have some spyware installed, or some shit.”
“Good point,” she says.
Ads powers on the computer expecting it to bring up a password screen, but it just—opens. To all of the files sitting on the desktop, just as messy and disorganized as the apartment they’re sitting in.
“You’re kidding,” Ads says. “He doesn’t even have a fucking password on his shit.”
“This guy is the shittiest black ops agent in the history of the universe,” Adrian comments.
Ads clicks around on some files. Everything appears to be names with a series of random numbers and letters, maybe a code that means something to Dev, but nothing that means anything to them. And while the computer isn’t password protected, it appears that a lot of the documents are.
“We’ll have to bring it to John,” Ads says. “Damn. I was hoping we wouldn’t have to, in case there’s some tracking bug on here or something.”
“Hold that thought,” Chris says, exiting the bedroom with a black notebook held in the air. “Password book.”
“You’re kidding,” Ads says. Adrian reaches for the book and cracks it open.
“It’s all right here,” he says, disbelieving. “File A75FBT2. Password: b00b5.” He and Chris cackle.
“Real mature,” Ads deadpans, but she types in the password, and—it works. They all stare at the screen for a moment, waiting for the gotcha moment. For the computer to crash, for the laptop to lock up. But nothing happens.
“Holy shit, I can’t believe that worked,” Chris says. “This is their tech guy? And he used to work for ARGUS?”
“I’m sure John will have stories,” Ads says. She takes a hard drive out of her pocket. “I’ll copy all the files over onto the drive. We’ll take the notebook.”
“Guys,” Adrian says, because while they’ve been chatting, he’s been reading the file that they just unlocked with wide eyes. “Take a look at this.”
It’s a schedule. A breakdown for the entire team. Job assignments, what the job whether it’s stealing or killing or protection, how much they’re being paid. But most importantly—names. Dates. Times. Locations.
“Holy shit,” Chris says. “This is it. This is—”
“Exactly what we came for,” Adrian finishes.
Adrian is itching to go right now. To burst in, guns blazing, and just fucking take them all out. They’ve got all the information they need. Names, times, and locations of their mission assignments. They could go down the list one by one. Starting with that dick Leon Sullivan.
Only some of the information is encrypted—who hired them. And they could easily work without that. Anyone hiring a mercenary to kill someone is gonna be bad news; no matter what, they’d need to be on guard.
The sooner these assholes are dead, the sooner the entire pack is safe. The sooner you are safe. And selfishly, he thinks, if he can take care of this before the rest of the group has to even get involved, he doesn’t have to worry about you putting yourself at risk, in the line of fire. Not for a while, anyway.
And he’s not the only one thinking about it. Taking immediate action. He can tell Chris is thinking it too. In the van on the way back to the motel, the air in the vehicle is heavy with tension.
“We could go.” Adrian says the quiet part out loud. “We could go now. And kill them. Take care of it.”
Chris hesitates, exchanging a loaded glance with his friend. “I know.”
Chris is stressed, Adrian knows. Maybe even more stressed than he is. Adrian is worried about you. It’s his job to keep you safe. But Chris—he’s the pack Alpha. He’s got everyone’s safety in mind. He’s got the final call.
Ads, in the backseat, finally speaks up. “We should go home. Regroup.” She says it firmly. “This isn’t something we should rush into. Remember what happened last time. When we thought we were prepared. We got ambushed. We should give the hard drive to John. Let him unlock the encrypted shit. So we’re not caught off guard. No surprises.”
Adrian goes tense immediately. Chris meets Adebayo’s eyes in the rearview mirror and nods.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “We go home. We’ll regroup.”
Before, Adrian might have fought him on it. Part of him wants to, even now. But he’s got a new perspective. There’s a new level of shared life experience that he and Chris have, now, and it helps him understand, a little bit more, the weight that his best friend carries. The lengths that he’s willing to go to in order to protect his pack. If that means being patient—Adrian can do the same. He is determinedly on the same page as his friend: whatever it takes, the pack stays safe, which means you stay safe, and that’s the only thing that matters.
Chris looks over at him, and Adrian realizes he’s waiting for his agreement. That his opinion matters, here. It’s a new feeling. A good one. He swallows and nods.
“We go home,” he echoes, with a little bit of relief. Because he really does just—want you, after days apart.
You’re going to need him soon, anyway, he thinks, and you are more important than anything else.
By the time they pull into the Checkmate parking lot, Adrian is the one driving the van.
He was thrilled when Chris tossed him the keys. He never gets to drive. But Chris and Ads seemed exhausted, and Adrian was wired with nerves and excitement about going home to you, so he happily took over while his teammates napped in the back seat.
“Home!” he says cheerfully, and Adebayo winces awake, rubbing her neck. Chris continues snoring in the passenger seat until Adrian kicks his foot.
“What?” he grumbles.
“We’re back!” Adrian says. He doesn’t wait any longer for the other two to get their shit together. He glances at the clock. 3 p.m. Everyone is still at the office. You’re right inside. His smile grows.
He should probably stop and bring some bags inside. There’s all kinds of shit they need to unpack. Med kits, weapons, his own duffle bags with clothes and personal items. But he doesn’t give a shit.
Adrian just tosses the keys at Chris, still half-awake. They hit him in the face, but Adrian is already outside, the van door slamming shut behind him as he runs inside.
Fleury is the first person he sees. He nearly runs into him, actually, in his rush to get inside.
“What the fuck!” Fleury exclaims. “When did you—”
“Literally right now,” Adrian interrupts. “Chris and Ads are in the van still. Where is she?”
Fleury’s eyebrows furrow. “She didn’t—”
“She’s not here,” says John, and Adrian jerks his head to look at his friend as he exits the break room. “She went home early. She said she wasn’t feeling well.”
“She’s sick?” Adrian says worriedly.
Emilia steps out from behind John. She gives Adrian a pointed look, and his eyes widen.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, I need to—I need to go—”
He immediately reaches for his phone to call you, hands trembling, ready to fret over you. He realizes then that you’d texted him two hours into the drive.
Hey. I am NOT in heat yet. But I’m reaching the point where I’m cramping a lot and I just want to go home and nest, so I’m leaving early. Don’t rush. I’m only telling you because I don’t want you to worry when you get back to the office and I’m not there. Love you.
“Yeah, no kidding, you have to go,” Emilia says. “I can fucking smell it on you.”
“What—what do you mean?” Adrian says, caught off guard. “Smell what? That she’s in heat?”
He tries really, really hard not to get all pissy about the fact that another Alpha can scent it, the same way that he can. He grits his teeth in an effort not to growl.
Emilia looks at him like he’s a fucking moron.
“Not her. You,” she says, like it’s obvious. She looks at Chris and Ads, who have finally followed him in the front door, carrying in some of their travel bags. “Chris, you’ve been with him for a week straight. It’s a miracle you haven’t killed one another.”
“What?” Chris says, just as confused. “I mean. Yeah, it fucking is, he’s been unbearable all week, but—”
“No shit!” Emilia says. “He’s in fucking pre-rut!”
cw: fratboy bakudeku x fem! reader, college au, angst, fighting, nerdy shy innocent!reader, miscommunication, lmk if i missed anythingggg
pt. 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
☾ Two weeks had passed since you last spoke to Izuku.
After you’d nervously mentioned the his fangirls that cornered you, he’d left you on seen. No reply. No explanation. You still saw him posting, parties, soccer games, late nights out with his friends, but he hadn’t reached out. And you hadn’t seen him on campus either.
You’d be lying if you said it didn’t bother you. You hated that it bothered you, You didnt even know if you actually liked him or if you were loosing it because for the first time someone gave you attention.
There was an uneasy ache in your chest every time you thought about him. You felt strangely drawn to him, even though you knew better. You kept reminding yourself: He’s a frat boy. This is what they do. They make you feel special, then disappear the second things stop being easy. Besides… nothing had really gotten serious between you two anyway.
Right?
To be fair all that had happened between you two was two short conversations, both in which you tried to run away, so why did you feel this way?
What was weirder was Katsuki.
Every corner you turned lately, he seemed to be there. At first you thought it was coincidence. Now you were starting to doubt it. You also hadn’t seen that girl who cornered you in the hallway anymore. It was like she’d vanished.
At least once a day Katsuki spoke to you, at first you thought maybe this was some sort of game, but then he started to sit with you at lunch, or he’d make his way to the library just to see if you were there, then call you four eyes and leave.
Today, you decided to sit in the courtyard under the big oak tree. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and you wore your favorite long flowy skirt with a simple tank top. You settled against the trunk with your tote bag beside you and opened your newest romance novel, hoping the story would pull you somewhere far away from your racing thoughts.
Students milled around the courtyard; boys tossing balls, girls laughing in clusters, the scene almost too picture-perfect. For a moment, you let yourself admire it.
Until a loud, angry voice shattered the peace.
“Four-eyes! Ball!”
You looked up. Katsuki Bakugo was standing twenty feet away, pointing at the American football that had rolled to a stop a few feet from you. His expression was impatient, but his eyes lingered.
You sighed, stood up, and picked up the ball, hoping that would be the end of it.
You were wrong.
Somehow, you ended up slightly sweaty, standing in the middle of the grass while the star football player himself taught you how to throw. You’d tried to decline at first, but he’d scoffed and said, “There’s more in life than just burying your nose in books, nerd.”
He was surprisingly patient as he corrected your form — adjusting your shoulders, telling you how to grip the ball, how to push from your core. His voice was gruff, but focused.
When you finally threw a decent spiral and it actually went somewhere, a small, surprised giggle escaped your lips.
You were…having fun.
The realization made your chest feel strange. It was the same warm flutter you’d felt when Izuku had sat next to you in the library weeks ago. Only now it was confusing. How could you feel this way about both of them? Was that even possible?
Your cheeks heated up.
“You good? Too hot?” Katsuki’s voice came from behind you, closer than you expected.
You spun around quickly — only to be met with the sight of him lifting the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat from his brow. Your eyes traitorously dropped to the sharp lines of his abs before you forced them back up.
“Y-yeah… I was gonna head back to the tree now,” you mumbled, trying to escape the moment. You needed distance. The longer you stayed around them, the more confused and overwhelmed you became.
Katsuki’s expression shifted. The easy smirk faded, replaced by something sharper.
“Sure,” he said, tone suddenly cold. “Go stick your nose back in that nerd book of yours.”
You blinked, confused by the sudden change. He’d been almost… nice a second ago. What happened?
“Later, four-eyes.”
He turned and walked off without another word, leaving you standing there clutching the football, chest tight with a strange mix of disappointment and relief.
You slowly walked back to your tree, the joy from moments ago already fading. The sun still shone brightly, but the courtyard suddenly felt colder.
You didn’t understand any of this.
And the worst part was… you weren’t sure you wanted to.
── ⋆
When Bakugo pushed open the front door of the frat house, he wasn’t surprised by the silence.
His brain still whirling with the fresh memories of you, how you giggled when you got something right, how you looked at hime attentively when he explained how throwing the football worked….how you breasts sat so prettily in your tank top.
The place was dead quiet. Deku had been in one of his moods for days, which meant anyone who wasn’t part of the inner circle had been kicked out. No parties. No noise. Just tension thick enough to choke on.
Izuku had been losing his mind over you. He’d even tracked down the girl who cornered you in the hallway and made it very clear she needed to stay the fuck away. But after leaving you on seen for two weeks, he didn’t know how to fix it. So he’d been rotting in his room, replaying that stupid yacht video, wondering why the hell he let things get awkward.
Bakugo kicked open Deku’s door with more force than necessary.
“Oi! Get your ass up, you damn nerd.”
Izuku jumped slightly, sitting up in his messy bed. The room was dark, curtains drawn, only the glow of his phone lighting his face.
Bakugo stepped inside, eyes narrowing. “You still moping like a little bitch?”
Izuku didn’t answer. He just leaned back against the headboard, running a hand through his messy curls.
Bakugo clicked his tongue. “I get it now.”
Deku’s eyes flicked up. “…What?”
“I hung out with her today.”
The room went dead silent.
Izuku slowly stood up from the bed, hands slipping into the pockets of his basketball shorts. His expression was calm, but the air around him felt charged.
“You what?”
“I taught her how to throw a football,” Bakugo said, rubbing the back of his neck. He tried to play it casual, but his voice came out gruffer than usual. “She’s… not as annoying as I thought she’d be.”
Izuku’s jaw tightened. He took a step forward until they were nearly chest to chest.
“You used the football trick on her?”
Bakugo’s smirk faltered. It wasnt like the two boys hadnt shared a girl before, but this was different, when they did share they discussed prior to making any sort of moves on the girl. They didnt do that this time, and Bakugo knew Deku wanted you first.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Izuku said, voice low and sharp. “That’s your move. You teach them football, act all patient, get them laughing and sweaty, then fuck them after. Don’t act like I don’t know your playbook, Kacchan.”
Bakugo’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Yeah? Then why the fuck did you do it?” Izuku pushed forward, chest bumping Bakugo’s. “She’s not one of your hoes. She’s not like the rest of them.”
Bakugo shoved him back, eyes blazing. “And what the fuck are you doing about it? You’ve been hiding in here like a coward while she’s walking around campus looking lost. At least I actually talked to her.”
Izuku’s hands balled into fists. “You think teaching her football makes you special? That’s the same shit you do before you ghost them!”
The fight exploded.
Izuku shoved Bakugo hard, sending him stumbling into the desk. Bakugo caught himself and shoved him right back. In seconds they were grappling — fists flying, pushing and shoving like they used to when they were kids.
“You think you can just pull your usual shit on her?!” Izuku growled, landing a solid hit to Bakugo’s side.
“Shut the fuck up!” Bakugo snarled, grabbing Izuku’s shirt and slamming him against the wall. “You’re the one who left her on seen for two weeks!”
A punch cut him off. They crashed to the floor, rolling and throwing elbows. Bakugo ended up on top, pinning Izuku down with a forearm across his chest.
“Fucking talk to her, Deku,” Bakugo growled, breathing hard, blood on his lip. “Stop acting like a damn loser and fix it.”
He pushed off Izuku and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Without another word, he stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
Izuku stayed on the floor, chest heaving, tasting blood in his mouth. His knuckles were split. His heart was pounding.
He hadn’t meant to lose it like that.
But the thought of Bakugo using the same moves on you — the same football trick he used on all his girls — made something ugly and possessive twist deep in his chest.
He couldn’t lose you before he even had you.
── ⋆
“So basically they both want you?” Mina said bluntly, her face filling the FaceTime screen.
Your cheeks burned instantly. You and Mina had only become friends a week ago, after you’d literally crashed into her while trying to avoid Bakugo in the hallway. She’d taken one look at your panicked expression and decided you were now her project.
“I-it’s not like that, Mina,” you tried to defend, voice small.
She raised a perfectly arched brow, smirking. “The shy act is cute, babe, but first Deku was glued to your ass and now Bakugo’s suddenly everywhere? I don’t know, girllll~”
You sighed, looking away and finding the pattern on your dorm floor suddenly fascinating. “I just… I don’t know.”
Mina’s teasing smile softened a little. “Honestly though? Be careful with Bakugo. He’s known for doing that whole ‘football trick’ thing — getting girls all sweaty and laughing, then fucking them and dipping the next day. Just saying, babe.” She paused, almost like she felt bad delivering the warning. “Allegedly,” she added quickly, giggling.
“Oh.”
The word came out quieter than you meant. You weren’t even sure why the pit in your stomach suddenly felt so heavy. It wasn’t like you had any claim on him. On either of them.
It wasn’t long before Mina blew you a kiss and hung up, leaving you alone with your spinning thoughts. Why were both Bakugo and Izuku interested in you? Well… at least Bakugo seemed to be. You hadn’t heard a single word from Izuku in two weeks.
You hated how conflicted you felt. Was it even possible to like both of them? Was it right? The whole situation felt insane. You felt insane.
With a heavy sigh, you burrowed under your covers, hoping sleep would quiet everything. But then your phone buzzed.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
Three more times in quick succession.
izuku: hey
izuku: didnt mean to leave you on seen mb
izuku: just wondering if we could talk?
You groaned, scrolling further.
Then your stomach dropped.
@.itskatsukibaku.go is following you.
That was Bakugo’s main account. This couldn’t be a coincidence.
bakugo: four eyes, gotta talk.
bakugo: dont block this account either dumbass
Your eyes widened, heart hammering against your ribs. Mina’s words echoed loudly in your head: So basically they both want you?
You turned your phone off and hurled it across the bed like it had burned you. Then you shoved your face into your pillow and screamed.
After the life Simon Riley has had, it’s really not surprising that he just can’t get it up anymore. He’s tried, time and time again, but the blood doesn’t pump through him the same way it did. And it isn’t that he doesn’t have a sex drive, god no, one look at you and he wishes he could fuck you into the mattress until your tears stain the pillows and the only sounds falling from your mouth are screams of pleasure.
You walk around the apartment, his big t-shirt on, no panties underneath, and it drives him insane. You’re an entire decade younger than him, young and sexy, and he can’t help but feel guilty for letting you stay with him knowing that he can’t give you what you want in bed.
It doesn’t stop him from eating you out until your clit is puffy and your walls are rubbed raw by his calloused fingers. When his head is between your legs, he tries, he really does. He gets so worked up, grinding his soft cock against the bed, willing it to get hard so he can fuck you right after, but it never does.
All it ends in is you cumming on his face one too many times and him walking out of the room without saying a word in pure humiliation.
You don’t take it to heart, you know he beats himself up for it, saying he isn’t good enough, that you should find someone who can actually give you what you want and keep up with you at that. Every time you reassure him, that he does satisfy you, that he never fails to make you feel good regardless of how he does it, but it seems to go in one ear and out the other.
But tonight, tonight is different and you will find a way to fuck your man.
You lay naked on the bed, legs spread, juices glistening off your folds while Simon hovers above you. His arms cage your head in as he kisses you rough, his tongue sliding over your soft lips, yours entering to explore the expanse of his mouth. He kisses the length of your jaw, down your neck where he licks the salty-sweet skin, bites just hard enough for you to writhe beneath him, and sucks until purple bruises are left to ache in the best way possible.
Before he can lower himself between your legs, you let your fingertips brush just under the waistband of his sweatpants, and his mouth stills against yours.
“Si… just let me try something tonight. I really want to,” you say breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss, gazing up at him with a look that is more of a beg than anything.
He kisses your forehead, moving his hand down to pull yours away, but before he can you reach in deeper, squeezing the base of him and earning a rumbling groan from him instead. His fingers wrap around your wrist, not moving you, just simply holding on like he has to steady himself.
“Lovie, please. Don’t embarrass me now,” he whispers, voice rough and low, wavering ever so slightly when your hand begins to trail further up his limp cock.
You don’t reply, but you do run your thumb against his tip, swiping the precum beading from his slit, evidence of his arousal despite him remaining soft. Lips meeting him again, he’s reluctant, but eventually he finds your rhythm.
Pushing his sweatpants down, you pull his cock out, stroking it gently and your warm, soft palm against him feels like you're touching his raw nerves. Even if he couldn’t get it up, it is still incredibly sensitive from months and months of pent-up need and no sex. Not that you hadn’t tried before, because you have, and every time he gets frustrated.
There’s not much you can say to convince him to try again on the same night.
Nonetheless, you focus on his tip, gliding your thumb under the ridge, rubbing against his slit, and you feel his cock twitch barely in your hand. You pull his body closer to yours, resting his cock on your folds, and he hisses from the sheer pleasure of that alone. Your body heat, your slick, the thought of him touching your aching clit like this has him beyond needy.
“Just slide against me. It’ll feel good, yeah,” you say, nodding your head slowly in encouragement.
His hips roll against you, his cock sliding underneath your palm and through your folds, and he bites back a whimper while shivers run down his spine. Simon can feel his cock hardening, just barely, just enough that he might actually be able to feel your walls wrap around him, so he wastes no time in finding out.
“Please, please,” he says under his breath, begging his body to let him pleasure you in ways he usually can’t, just for tonight if that’s what it takes.
He grabs the base of his cock, positioning at your entrance, and it takes a few tries but his semi-hard tip pushes through your entrance. You gasp softly, the feeling foreign and orgasmic, and your walls clench hard around him. A guttural groan rips from his chest when he begins to rock into you, his eyes meet yours, passion and desire swirling around as his pupils dilate from the sight of you taking him regardless of the conditions.
“You feel so good, Si,” you moan, lifting your hips to give him easier access, glancing down every few seconds to watch the way his impossibly large and yet still soft cock rubs through your walls.
“You feel like a dream,” is all he can get out before his eyes are shutting tight and his fingers are tangling in your hair.
Your body meets his, helping him through it, helping him get to where he needs to be so that just for tonight, he can feel man enough for you. And when he cums deep inside of you, his tip pulsing with long, thick ropes of warm cum, ‘thank you’s’ fall from him repeatedly before he kisses you with a newfound confidence.
“Again Si, don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. He stays rocking inside you, cumming again and again until his cock is too raw, until your pussy is full of his cum, and you feel every last bit of him. When he’s done, he lowers himself between your legs, cleaning his mess and sucking your clit, watching you cry from pleasure, watching you squirm away, but there is nothing he could give you that would ever come close to the feeling of showing him that he is enough for you.
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A/N: since someone had an issue with the fact that i said the reader is a decade younger than simon and "young and sexy" let me clarify that i never specified an age anywhere in the fic lmao the reader could be 24 and simon be 37 the reader could be 35 and simon be 50 for all i care thats for you to decide and that is why i dont specify certain aspects of the reader i simply wanted to emphasize an age gap to make the guilt simon feels more profound simon finds the reader sexy and shes younger than him there is nothing to read in between the lines or imply about that literally at all
> Or, the small things about the creeps that still affect them in relationships
> Warnings: Canon typical allusions to violence and suggestive material briefly mentioned
> Including: Jeffery Woods, Toby Rodgers, Natalie Ouellette, Eyeless Jack, MH Duo x gn!reader
↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺
Jeffery Woods
As much as he was infatuated with his Glasgow smile, his burns were left neglected for the most part.
At least, that was before you came around.
While I’m not too sure how “thing of bleach” and alcohol burns work, I am sure that man was probably a little crusty by the time you met. It took quite a bit of persistence on your end to get him to admit the issue— let alone fix it.
It took months into your relationship for any change.
It came in part from his own stubbornness. Jeff isn’t particularly known for his humility and grace. But the lack of progress came equally in part from a stronger distrust. It’s hard, admittedly , to parse people’s motives when you only interact with serial killers.
But for those who he can trust, who can enjoy his brash company for what it was, he was content to let them trespass a few boundaries.
For you, this looked like sitting on his lap applying burn ointment every few nights and keeping his cuts and blisters clean. Sure, he might sit there whining, complaining, and teasing about how you’re overly concerned— but don’t believe his bluffs. Afterall, he’s the one pulling you down by the hip.
“I mean god fuckin’ damnit! And THEN the little shit whines for his dad, so now I gotta deal with that nuisance-“
It was almost comical. The poster child for murdering urban legends being so worked up about his recent attempt on an 8 year old’s life.
He paced the room, his room, gesturing wildly as he recounted the failed mission.
And while you’re sure the world of extra work and attention about to be drawn towards him would certainly be annoying for you both, he seemed more bothered at the moment by the fact he was bested. By a child.
His hands never stilled, waving erratically, mock chocking the child, raking through his hair, scratching at the dry patches of his skin beneath his jaw.
“God!- You ain’t even listening to me, are ya?!” Finally he stills, leaning over you as you sat on his bed, head tilted. It would be intimidating if you knew he was all bark and no bite.
“Dunno, it’s sounds to me…” You linger on the word, drawing it out as your eyes dash to his almost leathery skin. “Someone’s just grouchy”
“Wh-“ He sputters, even more confused as you stand abruptly, digging through the nightstand drawer.
“I mean c’mon, you could’ve just asked” You snicker as you push him back, causing him to stumble and sit down.
“What’re you- hey quit it” He grumbles as you cage him, knees either side of his thighs, and gather up some of the balm. He kept grumbling on, making no move towards getting you off.
“I’m still mad at cha” he mutters, tilting his head back for you to get his neck.
“Uh huh.”
Toby Rodgers
Maybe it’s something to do with his enthusiasm or the gash in his cheek, but there’s only so much you can do by means of cleanliness.
I’m sure by now, the concept of Toby being an eager lover is essentially cannon. I hear you, and I raise you the repercussions of his own enthusiasm.
That is to say, there is spit everywhere.
Innocent peck? Longing kiss? Late night makeout? Head? It doesn’t matter, his saliva is getting absolutely everywhere.
For clarification, in no way is he ashamed. In fact, any attempt of pointing it out is often met with the most shit-eating grin. On several occasions he’s probably licked you through the gap to watch you squirm.
He learned after the first time, he enjoyed it too much to stop.
If the constant mess didn’t happen to be your thing, he would make an effort to try and improve what’s left behind. But truthfully, there was some desire he find for your skin covered in his last attempt of loving up on you.
Like a dog, he was most excitable when you’d leave and when you’d come back.
In fact, he was so consistent that coming home from a mission you were sure to be greeted by your ever-so-eager boyfriend waiting to practically tackle you.
And tackle he did.
You’d hardly gotten through the door when your back was slammed against it, forcing it shut again. It was almost as if he was preventing you from leaving again entirely.
He was too giddy for words, grabbing at your clothes and hair, anywhere for purchase, to get you closer and closer and closer. By the time he was content, the nape of his neck was all you could see.
His attention shifted rapidly, as it always seemed to, while he focused on breathing you in. The crest of your hairline, the plane of your forehead, the curve of your neck, the apples of your cheeks, the ridge of your nose, and on and on and on.
By the time you were able to get a grasp of where you were and what was happening, it’d felt like he’d been everywhere. It felt like he’d managed to cover every inch of your skin in less than a minute.
Your hands, much stiller than his own, grabbed a face as his head jerked, stilling him. You nudge forward to meet him, feeling the cold breeze of your motion on-
Holy shit you were covered in saliva.
No wonder it felt like he surrounded you, as it seemed like he certainly did. It looked like a failed attempt at cannibalism.
“God damnit, Toby”
By the time you finished sighing he still couldn’t tamper down his grin.
Natalie Ouellette
Several times she’s reached for you, to pull you closer, to try and regain your attention, and just… miss.
Natalie suffers from a near comical lack of depth perception.
Mentally, she’s cursed her past self for gauging out her eye. Because, in the middle of a tense romantic moment, she reached for you and either jabbed you in the face or reached for absolute thin air.
For a long while it irked her. She couldn’t even do something as simple as grabbing your hand without being worried she’d ruin it. A feeling of possibly ruining her chance that she swore she’d buried with her past self
After she got over the frustration, even though it took a short eternity, she found it to be almost enjoyable. She learned to bask in seeing you flush in the face —partially from the moment prior and partially from laughing— and finding good fun in her mistakes only endears her to you further.
Summers were always brutal. It seems no matter where either of you went, there was no way to beat the heat. The humidity seeped into every room, making your life feel the same swampy heat for the span of 3 months, no matter how busted the ac was or how high the fan could spin.
Tonight though, it seemed especially worse.
The buzz of the cicadas mixed with the engines running, mixing in your head and muddling your thoughts. Each notion that passed your head came slow and sticky, few and far between, lacking in the quick reason that you’d usually pride yourself for.
Somewhere between the heat and your current… predicament, you lost all sense in reality. Your grasp narrowed down to the girl you lay entangled with.
Both of your skins were sticky with sweat as the humidity clung onto you. And sure, it might’ve been the alcohol, or the high coming off a mission well done, or the fact the tension between you both was thick with yearning. But chalking it up to heat was just easier.
Easier than confronting what that much endearment in your best friend’s eye might mean like this— with tangled legs in the back of her truck because neither of you are ready to say goodbye.
An evil grin takes her face, evil because you know she knows exactly what you’re thinking, and she knows you’re noticing.
“Yknow,” She drawls, enjoying the moment as you squirm, sitting up to get a better view “You don’t need t’ be so nervous” Her head tilts, the clock in her eye catching the light of the moon.
You swallow, the heat feels like it’s in your veins now. Desperately, you try to shove down all the new and old feelings it awakens. The urges you swore you wouldn’t act on for the sake of a friendship “I have no clue what you mean”
She laughs, the non committed chuckle that only exists to humor your response.
“Sure y’ don’t, hun” Her hand comes up past your shoulder, almost like she’s trying to cup your face.
All at once she leans forward, and with nothing to catch her grip, falls into your chest.
Mission failed successfully?
Eyeless Jack
While he’d like to say that being a “monster” for so long has not negated his humanity, his relationship with you has certainly proved enlightening.
He doesn’t get it really, your questioning. In fact, you seem to never run out of them. He can’t recall a day since you’d met where he hasn’t been inquired upon.
Namely, to how having no eyes, many teeth, and a tail aren’t common human traits, and how exactly that works for him.
I have much to say, to the point this section would easily triple the others, but for the sake of equality I’m going to focus on the fact of his tail.
Especially how it’s robbed him of his composed facade and ability to lie.
Sure, you can take him at his word, that he’s not amused by your shenanigans, but his tail flicking behind him betrays his carefully designed persona. The image he fronts to keep himself away from the others.
His rows of sharpened teeth, a maw— really, empty sunken sockets that drip, and a frame not quite right is uncanny enough to send most that cross his path fleeing. And yet you won’t. Because the same anatomy that’s so scary won’t let him hide his amusement.
It’s not all bad, though. It’s kept you around after all, and who’s he to be ungrateful for the best thing he has?
He honestly had no clue why you kept finding yourself back in the clinic.
The first few times it was warranted. Intake, a stabbing taken in defence, a broken nose, the likes.
And sure, he could’ve questioned the visits over shallow cuts or the common cold— but who’s he to judge someone for being health conscious?
But now, with you sitting atop the examination bed, airing your stream of consciousness out to him, he really wonders why you’re here. By all standard metrics, you should find yourself anywhere else.
It’s not like he’s the most engaging conversation partner. In fact, he’s sure he’d hardly uttered more than 6 sentences to you since you’d met.
Alas, there you sit, talking about some recent internet drama between some celebrity couple. Personally he doesn’t see the engagement of others’ infidelity, but he digresses. Or something like that, he hasn’t been paying active attention.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” He sucks in a breath turning around to face you, not at all deterred by the gaping holes in his face. “But I believe we both have work we need to get done”
He feels the urge to smile, to placate the disappointed look that takes your face. But as he considers it, he’s reminded that showing off his method for killing things as unsuspecting as you isn’t polite manners.
“Yeah I guess you’re right.” You hop off the table, only to pause and look down at your ankle.
“Uh….” You swallow, looking back at him.
“Jack?” You laugh nervously, your brows furrowed slightly.
He becomes then, keenly aware of the fact his tail is wrapped around your ankle, preventing you from leaving. It was instinct, an unconscious attempt to keep your company. One so strong he needs a conscious effort to loosen his grip.
“Sorry, my apologies” He’s not sure if his blood works the same, or if he can blush. But if he can, he’s certain he is.
“No worries at all, I’ll see you soon” He can hear you grin, no need for vision. “Don’t miss me too much!”
He thinks he might die again.
Brian Thomas
It was maybe a year or so into your relationship when you started to realise it. The winces if he’d turn to sharply, the sputter in his breathing if you pressed against his ribs, the leaning on countertops to balance out his instability.
Again, I’m not well versed in the effects of being shoved off a balcony. But I do know that not only would it hurt, but that kind of hurt would last a long while afterwards.
This is one I don’t see becoming relevant until further into your relationship because his position has little room for inefficiency.
There’s an ever looming threat in their line of work. What becomes of dead weight. The things people do to stay alive truly are impressive, and that drive only became more potent now he had something to live for.
While the worst of the injuries were managed and tended to, the deep aching pain was one he forced himself to ignore. As all things did, they got worse.
By the time you notice there’s an issue, other people are about to. Only after facing that can you start getting him to medicate instead of just swallowing down the pain every day.
It’s the closest thing to domestic he’ll get. His lover staring him down after asking if he took his meds before leaving on a job, sweetening you with a kiss as he grabs the bottle and turns to leave.
It’s almost enough to feel normal again.
It’s not as if he tried sneaking in. He knew better by now than to try sneaking things past you. And besides, what kind of lover would he be, lying about what he was doing.
That was to say he was trying not to wake you up. Or so that was the excuse he told himself not calling or texting his return to you.
Relief came in the form of a dark house. That you were sleeping, unworried, and to be pleasantly surprised by his return. All the murder aside, he was pretty good at this domestic thing.
He hummed quietly, slinging his bags over his shoulders and making his way inside. Despite the dark of the house, he didn’t find it difficult to find a table to stash his equipment for the night.
All things considered, a successful mission in every aspect.
And then the kitchen lights turn on.
“Well there you are” You sound incredibly unimpressed. Unamused in a way that spells a night on the couch.
“Hey, Darl’n I didn’ mean t’ keep ya up” He abandoned the table in favor of hopefully pleasing you. The crappy motel left enough of a creak in his eternally pained back— the couch might just kill him.
“You didn’t.” You quirk an eyebrow, seeing past his faux sleepiness.
“I didn’t?” He smiles, confused more than anything.
“Tim called and let me know yall were headed back.”
Well shit.
“See, hun-“
“And more interesting than you not telling me yourself, is this” You lazily hold the bottle of pain medication, the motion causing it to rattle.
He stares at you, wondering whether he can talk himself out of the hole he’s dug or to keep on digging.
“So here’s what’s happening. You,” You pause for emphasis, jabbing the bottle into his chest lightly. “Are going to take two of these and go right to bed before I consider sending you to the couch”
He pauses, partially in disbelief and partially for more orders.
“Clear?” You tilt your head and smile, and he swears he’s never been more in love in his life.
“Crystal.”
Timothy Wright
Holy slowburn.
The entire lead up and forging to his spot working under the operator was in mistrust. In Alex not disclosing anything, in Jay never giving the full truths, and in his way of life falling to the mercy of some creature’s whim.
Additionally, with any person he comes across becoming a potential victim to the operator, there isn’t room for sentimentality.
Allies he’d made, friends snuffed out too soon, haunting him long after they’d mysteriously gone missing. Every connection being so intangible, smoke between his fingers, filling his lungs for only a moment.
It takes a while— years, maybe, for him to accept that you’re not going to be ripped away. That the person you show yourself to be is real and genuine and someone he can rely on. Someone who can actually stick around.
You, to him, are the physical manifestation that there is still right things. That he’s not beyond hope or yearning or a good life. That he’s more than just shooting and people that can’t be saved.
If there were one thing aside from the obvious for him to complain about, it’d be the motels.
It made no sense: how a motel in butt-fuck nowhere, with all these rooms, was at maximum occupancy in the middle of a thunderstorm. But between sharing a room with you or sleeping in the truck, he supposed he could suck it up.
Besides, it wasn’t like you were such bad company.
He leaned out the window, his elbows catching the water that overflowed from the gutter so he could smoke. There wasn’t much sunlight he could parse out from the clouds, but it was something to watch.
“Finally, dry clothes” You groaned, saved at last from being soaked to the bone. He doesn’t look for you, instead waiting for you to join him, as you always seemed to do.
“And hot water. For as bummy as these rooms are, I’d buy 10 of em’ for hot water.” You laugh, dry, looking up at him. He tears his eyes from the dying sun to look at you.
His lungs itch from holding the smoke, causing him to shudder, but he can’t help but want to pause the moment.
You’re so much like the sun it hurts. The thing his world revolves around, bright and damn-near blinding. Your hair is soaked from the shower, in clothes stolen and ill-fitting. But for the first time since his last stolen moment with you he feels properly alive.
“Yeah” He exhales with it. He’d give a thing for another moment like this. More of his clothes, all the money in his pockets, the suffering his life absorbs and inflicts, all for one more moment. “I’d give anything.”
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