WARNING: Some of this are NSFW +18. MDNI (the authors put the respectives warnings in their works)
This is a Masterlist of my favorites fics (some are series or have more than one part) of various characthers separated by gender (Meaning fluff, smut, angst, hurt/comfort,etc.) and other masterlist/recs of other people that i like.
Last Update: 20/02 (Im from Argentina so the day goes first)
If you see a fic repeated let me know please and thank you.<3
(English is not my first lenguage, please be kind)
Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds)
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw (Top Gun Maverick)
Robert "Bob" Floyd (Top Gun Maverick)
Rhett Abbott (Outer Range)
Jacaerys Velaryon (House of the dragon)
Clark Kent (Smalville)
Peter Parker (The Amazing Spiderman)
Matt Sturniolo
Chris Sturniolo
Matt Murdock (Daredevil)
Peter Parker (MCU)
Lando Norris (F1)
Carmen Berzatto (The bear)
Robert "Bob Reynolds"/Sentry/The Void (Thunderbolts*)
Steven Grant/Marc Spector/Jake Lockley (Moonknight)
Derek Morgan (Criminal Minds)
Joaquin Torres "The Falcon" (The Falcon and the Winter Soldier)
Ilya being born 30 years before Shane, defecting from the USSR to get away from his father and going to Montreal. He's alone and depressed and maybe he isn't as careful as he should be. Maybe it was an accident, maybe it wasn't but now he's haunting his mansion, well actually he's haunting his mother's necklace which is tucked behind a drawer in the master bath.
People don't like living in Ilya’s mansion, they can feel him there. Then along comes young and hungry rising mlh star Shane Hollander, who after billeting his first year jumps at the chance to buy the Ilya Rosanov's old house. The last great player on the Voyageurs, the one whose death led them to a 20 year losing streak that Shane is there to fix.
Shane likes living there, its not creepy no matter what Hayden says. He likes the heavy feeling of eyes on him at all times, it makes it impossible for him to feel like he's disappearing. He likes the feeling of hands brushing against his skin, of phantom lips and teeth, of a big body right behind him at all times, its less lonely. Every night he dreams that Ilya Rozanov forces him to take his cock. Shane just really likes the place, it's got good bones.
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Knot. Breeding. Rough Sex. Scent Kink. Dub-con elements: breaking and entering, but all sex is enthusiastically consented. Non-traditional alpha purring. Size Kink. Premature Ejaculation. Feral/Possessive Behaviour.
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
Word Count: 12.7k
note: I have been toying with this concept for a while, and wrote these character premises as a background: Alpha!Soldat - Omega!Reader
5:07 AM.
The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. It’s that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.
She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.
Twelve blocks, it’s not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.
She doesn't see him.
But he's there.
----
Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. There’s no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.
Just her scent in the air.
Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that… omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.
It doesn't understand why it's following her.
Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.
It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.
But it can't stop.
Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.
Omega. Mine.
The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.
She turns the corner onto a quieter street.
Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.
It shouldn't be doing this.
Knows it shouldn't.
Handlers aren’t here. It chastises itself.
There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.
Only her scent on the wind.
----
Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.
It waits sixty seconds.
Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-
Before what?
Soldat doesn't know.
Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.
It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.
Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.
It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.
Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.
It’s a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.
She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.
And pulls her shirt over her head.
Soldat's breath stops.
It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.
Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.
But Soldat is feeling.
Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.
And it wants.
She disappears further into the apartment.
A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.
Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.
It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.
Its hand moves to the window ledge.
Testing.
The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.
Don't.
Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.
Leave. Disengage. Return to base.
But it's already moving.
The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.
The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-
Fuck.
It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.
Soldat is inside before really processing it.
The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.
The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.
Its cock throbs.
Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.
It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.
It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.
It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.
Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.
Would make her afraid.
And it doesn't want her afraid.
Wants-
It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.
The water cuts off.
Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.
----
She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.
And freezes.
Because a man is sitting in her window.
No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.
Alpha.
He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.
Above it, his eyes.
Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.
And they're locked on her.
Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.
Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.
And his left arm-
Metal.
Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.
She should scream.
She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.
But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.
It still responds with yes.
Because that scent, oh god, that scent.
It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.
It's him.
The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.
He's real.
He's in her apartment.
And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.
Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-
Oh no.
Oh no.
Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.
She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.
The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.
She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.
Oh fuck.
He smells it.
----
It watches her freeze.
Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.
She hasn't screamed.
That's… weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-
Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.
Slick.
It tenses.
That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.
But it's surfacing now.
Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.
Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.
It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.
Her eyes drop.
She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.
She should be running.
Why isn't she running?
"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.
Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.
It doesn't answer.
Doesn't know how to answer.
So it stands.
The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.
She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.
It takes a step toward her.
Then another.
Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-
No.
It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-
Another step.
She hasn't moved.
Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.
Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.
Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.
----
He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.
Close enough to drown in his scent.
It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.
More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.
She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
He knows exactly what her body is doing.
And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.
His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.
The hand hovers near her face.
Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.
Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.
Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.
Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.
Because this feels…
Right.
Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.
Until now.
A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.
She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.
And reaches up.
Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.
----
She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.
Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.
But she-
A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.
Not a growl, not a snarl.
Something else.
Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't… alphas aren't supposed to-
Purr.
Soldat is purring.
It doesn't know how to stop.
Doesn't know if it wants to stop.
Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.
From it.
The purr intensifies.
Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.
Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.
Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-
It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.
Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.
It’s not enough.
It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.
But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.
The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze because…
Because it doesn't make sounds like that.
It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.
Remove it.
The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.
Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap free…
Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.
The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.
Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.
But there are no orders here.
No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.
Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.
Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.
She makes a sound.
Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.
And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.
The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.
The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesn’t want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.
The word surfaces bitter and cold.
Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.
----
She can see it in his eyes.
He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.
Trapped.
He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.
He's not going to take it off himself.
Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.
And that… that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.
Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.
She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.
"Can I?"
Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.
But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?
He nods, almost military in its precision.
And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.
She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.
The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.
How long has he been wearing this?
She doesn't ask.
Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.
For the first time, she sees his whole face.
Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.
He's… beautiful. Devastatingly so.
Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.
And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.
The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.
Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.
Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.
She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.
Her head tips back.
Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.
But she's not.
He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.
The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.
He catches her.
The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-
The towel is gone.
She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.
He's hard.
She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.
The purr is still going.
That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.
Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.
But he is.
And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.
She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.
Not wrong like dangerous.
Wrong like broken.
The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.
His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.
He pulls back just enough to look at her.
His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-
The confusion.
The need.
The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.
But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-
"Please."
The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
----
Please.
The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.
Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.
Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.
It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in… it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.
And she's letting it.
Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.
It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.
Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.
Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.
Because if it lets go, she might-
Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.
Her hands come up.
Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.
Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.
It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.
She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.
It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.
Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.
Omega.
Wants.
Needs.
The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.
Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.
Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.
It grinds forward.
The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.
Yes.
It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.
She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.
More than enough.
Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-
Mark?
The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-
But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-
No.
Can't.
Not allowed.
It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.
But it can't let go either.
Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.
She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.
Understanding, maybe.
Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.
Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.
"It's okay," she whispers.
And Soldat doesn't know what she means.
Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-
"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.
Soldat freezes.
Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.
She pulls back.
Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.
Is this okay?
It doesn't know.
She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.
Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.
Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.
Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.
Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.
The sensation is-
Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.
Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.
The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-
If it just takes it.
And something inside it just… snaps.
It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.
Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.
She gasps against its lips.
It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.
Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.
She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.
Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.
The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.
She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.
It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.
Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.
Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.
For it.
It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.
It bites down.
Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.
Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.
Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.
How much she wants.
Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.
She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.
"Please-"
She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.
Wants to give her everything.
Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.
Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.
Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.
Its metal hand grips.
Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.
She cries out.
Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.
Beautiful.
She's beautiful.
And Soldat is-
It's-
The pressure peaks.
Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-
Everything goes white.
----
She feels him go rigid against her, and then-
He makes a sound.
Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.
Oh.
He just-
Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-
But he got there first.
And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.
Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.
Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.
Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.
The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.
Protect. Soothe. Comfort.
Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.
His grip on her hasn't loosened.
Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.
He's not moving.
He’s just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.
And he hasn't let go.
Won't let go.
She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.
Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.
"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out… wrecked.
"Hey, it's okay."
She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.
Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?
All of it, maybe.
She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.
And her heart just-
Breaks.
Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.
His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.
And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.
"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."
She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.
Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.
The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.
His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.
Mine, it says without words.
Omega. Mine. Not letting go.
And fuck, she wants to be his.
Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.
"Hey," she says softly. "You can… you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"
No.
He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.
Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.
She feels him shake his head.
Just once. Sharp and definitive.
Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.
"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."
And she… should probably be concerned about that reaction.
Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.
But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.
His scent shifts.
Sharpens.
She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.
Alpha.
Not just alpha.
Rutting alpha.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He's-
Before she can finish the thought, he moves.
Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.
Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.
Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.
He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.
His nostrils flare.
And the sound he makes is-
Feral.
----
The scent is everywhere.
Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-
Obscene.
The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.
Soldat's cock is stirring again.
Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.
Because she's there.
Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.
It doesn't think.
Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.
Gripping, spreading her wider.
She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.
It needs to taste her.
Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.
Here.
Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-
It buries its face between her thighs.
Fuck.
The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.
Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.
Keeping her spread while it licks.
Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.
It growls against her.
Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.
Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-
She jerks.
Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.
There.
That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.
Clit.
The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.
Makes her want.
It seals its lips around it and sucks.
----
She screams.
Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.
Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-
His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.
He's-
He's devouring her.
Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.
Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.
He doesn't know what he's doing.
She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.
But it works.
Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-
She doesn't even know his name.
The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.
"Oh fuck!"
The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.
He groans against her.
The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.
And there's so much.
She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
His metal hand shifts on her thigh.
Adjusts its grip, and then-
She feels it.
The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.
"Alpha-"
The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.
----
Soldat can't stop.
Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.
Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.
The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.
They’re in the way.
It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.
The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.
The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-
It looks down.
Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.
Its lip curls.
Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.
But it's also… messy.
Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-
A sound interrupts its thoughts.
Her.
Whimpering.
Its head snaps up.
----
She's staring.
Can't help it.
He's... fuck. He's big.
Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.
And the smell.
It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-
But he's already moving.
Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.
He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-
Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.
But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.
"Wait-"
The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.
"Alpha, wait-"
He freezes.
Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.
She sees the confusion dance across his face.
And then-
His expression shutters.
Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.
And the grip is different now.
Firmer. Restraining.
His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-
Oh no.
He thinks she's telling him to stop.
Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.
Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.
"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"
But he's not listening.
His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.
The message is crystal clear:
Stay still. Let me.
And-
Fuck.
She whimpers.
Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off him…
It should scare her.
Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.
But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.
Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.
But that's not what she wants, not right now.
She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.
She writhes.
Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.
But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.
Okay.
New strategy.
She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-
And then she twists.
Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.
It catches him off guard.
His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.
She rolls onto her stomach.
Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-
His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.
Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-
She doesn't let him.
Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.
Presenting herself.
The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just… stops.
She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.
And she knows what he's seeing.
Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.
Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.
"Please," she gasps into the mattress.
Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.
"Please, alpha-"
She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-
She spreads herself open for him.
Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.
Desperate.
Obscene.
Begging.
"Please- I need- please-"
----
Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-
Presenting?
The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:
Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.
Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.
Begging for it.
Omega wants.
Omega needs to be bred.
Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.
This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.
And they tried to kill it.
Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.
And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.
And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.
Need to mount her.
Need to breed her.
Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.
It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.
One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing matters except getting inside her.
It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.
There.
The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-
She makes a begging sound.
Desperate. Pleading.
And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.
Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.
Mine.
Omega is MINE.
Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-
Fuck.
The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-
Overwhelming.
Tight. Hot. Perfect.
It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.
And Soldat-
Soldat doesn't stop.
Can't stop.
Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-
The sound she makes.
High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.
----
She can't breathe.
The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.
Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.
The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.
Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.
Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.
Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.
He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.
And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.
The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.
Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.
This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.
And it feels so fucking good.
"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.
His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.
He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.
Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.
And the feeling is-
Fuck.
It's everything.
He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.
Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.
She needs more.
Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.
"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-”
Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.
----
Soldat snarls in response.
Move?
Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.
Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.
Now.
Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.
And then it slams back in.
Hard.
The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.
It doesn't know how to do this gently.
Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.
So it just fucks.
Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.
Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.
Its metal hand tightens on her hip.
Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-
The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.
Surrendering.
Letting it use her.
Soldat snarls again.
Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
She's whimpering into the mattress.
High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.
Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.
Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.
Because she needs this.
It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.
Omega needs to be fucked.
Needs to be bred.
And the Soldat is-
Soldat is going to-
No.
The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-
But there are no handlers.
Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-
Knot.
Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-
And she's going to take it.
Its rhythm falters.
Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-
She pushes back hard.
Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-
Breaks.
Fuck the handlers.
Fuck seventy years of suppression.
Soldat is going to knot his omega.
Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.
Changing the angle completely.
And then it drives in.
Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.
There.
The Soldat does it again.
Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.
Close.
She's close.
It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.
Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.
Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.
Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.
The omega shrieks.
Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.
Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.
"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"
She doesn't finish the sentence.
Just shatters.
Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.
And it-
It roars.
Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.
White-hot. Devastating.
Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.
Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.
The omega is still shaking.
Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.
Mine.
Omega.
MINE.
The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-
She's taking all of it.
It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.
Inseparable.
Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.
Just-
Gone.
Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-
She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.
Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.
Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.
The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.
She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. She’s just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.
And Soldat does.
Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.
It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.
Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.
The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.
Her head tilts.
Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.
Beautiful.
The word surfaces unbidden.
It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-
She is.
Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.
Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.
----
She can't feel her legs.
Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.
And it's-
God, it's perfect.
She's never felt like this before.
Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was… adequate.
But this-
This is different.
This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.
She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-
Singing.
Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.
Because he, her alpha-
She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.
The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.
Because this isn't fast.
This is inevitable.
Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.
His knot pulses inside her.
She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.
Almost.
But not quite.
Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.
Yes. This. Him. Finally.
She feels him shift behind her.
The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-
Fuck.
The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.
And his flesh hand-
It slides down.
Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.
His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.
The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.
Mine, the gesture says.
Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.
And she whimpers.
Because yes.
Yes.
His.
Completely and utterly his.
His purring deepens.
Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.
His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.
And then she feels his lips.
A kiss.
Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.
Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.
His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.
Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.
He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.
The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.
His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.
The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.
The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.
Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.
True mate.
Hers.
She lets her eyes close.
Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.
And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.
don’t have any detailed requests but maybe something with miss mack and a kitty. My heart was broken when she was scammed out of a kitty in part 4
Could be set in the far further
I LOVE THIS IDEA!! thank you for the request, my love! this is super quick so i hope you enjoy 💖
sugar,baby? [j. abbot x f!reader]
Optional Ingredients: Carrots and Catnip
Jack Abbot had never stepped foot in an animal shelter, probably ever.
Yet, here he stood in front of a wall full of crates all full of furry little cats that were either sleeping or playing with cheap cat toys that looked worse for wear.
They should feel embarrassed, his body taking up space beside the very sweet older woman who stood beside him with bright eyes at the prospect of sending one of these lucky cats home with a doctor, which she would not let him forget he was.
Jack’s eyes were trained on the one cat, Mary, with a burning question. He didn’t really know how to choose a surprise cat for Miss Mack, he didn’t really have a set of parameters and asking ruined the surprise part of this whole thing, but he remembered that day in the hall with the confession of her late sister.
Miss Mary Mack, her favorite nursery rhyme and the inspiration behind the beloved bakery’s name. So when one cat with the name Mary crawled up to the bars and looked oddly a lot like Jack himself with the same stoic expression and would probably be crossing his arms over his chest just like Jack if he could.
“I know he has a girl name,” the older woman shared when Jack raised his eyebrows at the sign, “But the owners weren’t very attentive and didn’t ever realize it was actually a boy. We tried to give him a new name but he won’t respond to anything else.”
Jack could see her now, the tears building in her water line at the information and the little coo that would escape her lips unknowingly while she grabbed at his bicep and jumped up and down. She’d probably act like she had to beg for the cat, but both of them knew he would give her whatever she smiled just a little too big at without even asking.
He could see her putting the cat bed on the edge of their own bed, smiling and giggling when Jack complained about cat hair on his scrubs. She’d probably love this grumpy looking cat with a gender-bent name.
“Can I leave with him today?”
The woman was quick to inform him that yes, of course, he could leave with Mary today.
So that was how he ended up with Mary in his carrier with a few unimpressed meows every couple of minutes and a bag of carrots and catnip because he looked up a recipe for homemade cat treats that he knew she’d want to make because she she gets too excited she needs something to bake or she’ll never expel the energy.
Love does crazy things to men apparently Jack thought as he slowly removed the carrier as he parked his truck in the garage and made his way to the side door. The weight of the carrier felt like the weight heavy in his heart.
He made a promise that day in the rain outside the bakery when he grabbed Miss Mack and kissed her until he couldn’t think straight anymore that he’d always make her happy. He wouldn’t ever let her wind up on a date with a different man and he certainly would do anything she wanted.
So the nerves of picking the wrong cat might have not seen that serious, but Jack had yet to break that promise and he didn’t want this random Sunday to be the breaking point.
So natural, the doorknob that he had become accustomed to opening felt heavier than normal. She was on the other side of this door, probably prancing around in his shirt and her little panties that had him feeling like a teenage boy without a care in the world.
Because Jack had all the care buried deep in his old, scared heart as he turned the knob and felt like praying for the first time in a long time.
The sound of soft rock filled the house as soon as the door cracked open, the sound of her humming drowning out the professionals playing instruments and Jack couldn’t help but smile.
The sound of the door clicking shut made a quiet “Doc” peck through the music and his shoulders dropped a little. Her voice, even muffled, made a calm wash over him he dreamed of for years and would probably dream of it past the grave.
“It’s me,” his voice was full of every nerve he felt, his body hot at the idea of her disappointment.
“I was wondering where you ran off too this morning," her feet hit each floor board with a fervor, her voice enough to know she was smiling and rushing to meet him where she always met him, halfway and very much full of love.
“You’ll see.”
Before she can respond with some long rant about how she hates when he is cryptic, her body comes into full view. He was right, she stands before him like a Goddess in his old med school alumni shirt that drapes across her in a way that makes Jack feral and he can’t spot a pair of shorts so he can only assume it’s the pink pair he stripped from her body last night.
But what really fills his heart is her face. The smile drops, only for a second, and he is taken over with pure confusion at the carrier still gripped tight in his hand. Then, as if the truth had been finally gifted upon her by a fairy godmother, a smile stretched from one side of her face to the other. And every thought Jack had, bad and good, disappeared because this was what he was waiting for the whole ride.
“I got ingredients in the truck for you to make some treats for our new son.”
She squeals, a proper squeal, and rushes him like a football player on the opposing team.
“No way!’ Her knees hit the hardwood floor in a way that makes Jack cringe and a silent reminder to kiss them better once he gets her on the couch even though she’ll probably be so excited she won’t even think about the pain.
“Rember the cat incident?” Jack knew she never forgot, Mel and her still talk about it all the time, "Thought I maybe fill that void a few years too late.”
“Jack,” she used his real name likt a prayer, “I can’t believe you got me a cat.”
“Hey,” his voice didn’t hold the streness she wanted but much more teasing, “He has a name.”
“And what is that name cutie?” Her fingers broke between the bars, smiling at the cat that had found her much more interesting than he found Jack as he poked his nose out in hopes she’d ghost her fingers over his fur. Jack suddenly understood Mary on a deep level.
“He has a bit of an odd name. But I found it fitting,” Jack shifted on his feet, the insecurity creeping back in. What if she didn’t find the name Mary as perfect as he did? I mean it was an odd turn of events with the name of a boy cat.
“Can’t be that odd,” her starry eyes dared to glance up and Jack and the truth came tumbling out.
“His name is Mary,” he bit the inside of his cheek hard, “Like Miss Mary Mack’s?”
Her eyes met his own, her mouth hung open in the way she does when he’s rendered her speechless. It’s his favorite look of hers, so honest and vulnerable he can’t help but want to touch the pout of her lips. Her hands slowly fall away from the bars, her eyes filling with the water Jack imagined earlier.
“Jack,” her voice is hoarse as if she wasn’t just talking perfectly fine earlier, “Put the carrier down.”
“Why?” He really, really hopes she can’t hear the obvious panic in his voice.
“So I can climb you like a fucking bean pole for being the hottest man I have ever met.”
thinking of pulling spencer reid in by his tie for a kiss!!!!!! because that’s hot
warnings: reader is THIRSTING OVER HIM, i had early season 2 baby spencer with the glasses in mind but you can imagine whatever version of him you like
a/n: a guy asked me out and this is my way of coping ✋
It’s late at night. The sky is somberly dark and cold, like a fragile secret. But your shared apartment is warm when Spencer and you settle on the sofa for the evening.
Spencer is still in his outside clothes. His sky blue dress shirt still clings to his upper body like it’s his second skin, and his tie — the one you gifted him for his birthday last year — is neatly wrapped around his neck as the rest of the fabric rests on his chest.
You’re absolutely sure you’ve been ogling him all evening. Your pupils blown wide, the look in your eyes full of desire, full of want. Spencer just looks so good tonight and there’s nothing you can do about it. On top of that, he’s painfully oblivious to the fact he has this effect on you.
He’s gotten you all hot and bothered. It started when he came home and greeted you with a soft “hi baby”, followed by a chaste, warm kiss he pressed to your cheek. You ate dinner, during which he constantly complimented your cooking, telling you frivolous little facts about his latest obsession, which made you chuckle under your breath as you told him how silly he could be sometimes.
Then, he offered to do the dishes. That is what completely undid you: pushing his sleeves up to his elbows to reveal his slim arms, silver watch glistening under the dim lights. His overall disheveled look, with messy, chestnut hair and tired eyes. Almost as if he tried to lure you in with domesticity and responsibility.
And now, the both of you are melting into the soft cushions of the sofa. You’re still giving Spencer the glad eye, hoping he’d notice.
You can’t stop thinking about how warm his chest probably is underneath the fabric of his dress shirt, how effortlessly intelligent he is, and how annoyingly attractive it is how much knowledge he possesses.
He’s in the middle of a story, something about a new book he’s read. Of course, he wants to tell you all about his new hyperfixation.
You, however, have other plans in mind.
“And apparently, in ancient Athens, it was normal to keep your coins in your mouth, because—” the words sizzle out on his tongue when he feels your warm hand rub lazy circles on his shoulder.
“What- what are you doing?” He croaks out, voice coated in wonder and surprise. “Nothing,” you mumble back, offering him a sugary sweet smile. “Tell me more.”
“So, they kept coins in their mouth because they believed that those little pockets inside your mouth— Uhm—” and Spencer loses his train of thought as you straddle his lap.
It’s almost like dirty talk, the way he seduces you with his wide array of random facts and neverending wit.
A flush of redness blooms across his cheeks, and he keeps on stuttering. How could he not, with you perfectly sat on his lap, facing him, listening to him prattle on about the ancient Greeks, looking as beautiful as ever. Despite his nervous demeanor, his bony hands still find purchase on your hips.
The pressure in Spencer’s chest only grows sharper when your hands try to iron out the silky soft fabric of his tie. You can feel how warm his chest is underneath the thin cotton of his dress shirt.
He looks so… soft. And gentle. And tender. And affected by you, in the best way possible. His breaths are slow and heavy and his eyes constantly flick between your eyes and your lips.
“Baby, please…”
That’s when you decide to clutch your fingers around his tie, stories about ancient Greek daily life long forgotten. You pull him towards you with all your might, eager for a taste.
His lips are soft when they come in contact with yours, like two waves crashing into one another. A fizzle of explosions bursts low in your belly when you feel Spencer’s shy hands roam around your back. He’s pliant under you.
At this point, his glasses are fogged up and all Spencer can focus on is your familiar smell that surrounds him, the weight of you on him, exactly where you’re supposed to be.
You two kiss for what feels like hours, and maybe you really do. Not like you’re complaining.
the hanky panky trilogy — r ; moon knight boys x reader
title: the hanky panky trilogy
fandom: moon knight ; steven grant x reader , marc spector x reader , jake lockley x reader
rating: r
summary: the moon knight boys like you in all your different ways — all cute .
x-post: here
dry // moist // wet
a/n: don’t mind me , i’m just being pedantic in organising things neatly in one place .
thanks to everyone who have read the stories and liked and commented and reblogged . i hope you enjoyed them as much as i did writing them . writing moon boys smut was definitely not in my bingo card this year , but i’m glad i did it .
also , below the cut : me yapping about why i chose the trilogy name .
tl;dr : once again , the double entendre , and how each of the three liquors that make the drink remind me of each of them , and hoping some semblance of the taste notes transpire in the stories .
so , obviously i didn’t have a title for the trilogy in mind when i started this ; everything just happened so fast .
naturally , seeing that drinking is the underlying theme , a cocktail drink — specifically one with such a name — would work just fine as well . and down the internet rabbit hole i went .
some fun trivia .
it was concocted by ada “coley” coleman who was a bartender at the savoy hotel’s the american bar in the 1900s
she served cocktails to many princes and actors and playwrights like oscar wilde , somerset w maugham and charles hawtrey
so hawtrey came to coley one night and asked her to make him “something with a bit of punch in it”
coley spent hours experimenting before presenting hawtrey with a new concoction
the actor drained it and exclaimed — this is my favourite part : “by jove ! that is the real hanky-panky !”
hence the name
so . according to the savoy cocktail book by harry craddock , a hanky panky consists of three main liquors : sweet vermouth , gin and fernet-branca .
steven reminds me of the rich and herbal sweet vermouth ; low in potency and adds complexity — gentle and sweet .
marc is the sharp and clean gin ; an assertive bite and bracing but not overpowering — crisp and strong .
and jake is the flavour-dense fernet-branca ; intensely bitter and may dominate most blends ( hence only two sparing dashes for the hanky panky ) — piercing and authoritative .
author's note: i think i am lowkey just a Jack Abbott blog and tbh I am one million percent happy with that
written based on this lovely ask from @amytheavocado - thank you so so much for the request, i had so much fun writing this and I hope I could bring your vision to life!
"I’m a lab tech and in my hospital a lot of our analyzers are from a company called “Abbott” none of us in the lab really like them as they constantly have issues leading to downtime and delayed testing. BUT the other day while I was at work I realized that this could lead to a deliciously funny misunderstanding in The Pitt. Like imagine Jack Abbot overhearing tech!reader trash talking the Abbott analyzers so hard and Jack being like “???I don’t know this person what did I do???” "
thanks so so much for all your considered support <3
word count: 3.4k
pairing: jack abbot x labtech!reader
warnings: medical and lab tech inaccuracies, work place chaos, misunderstanding trope, fluff !!
description: reader spends most of her time in the hospital lab fighting broken analyzers and secretly admiring Jack Abbot from afar, until one misunderstanding brings them face to face.
Working in a hospital laboratory meant spending most of your life in rooms nobody else ever really saw.
The lab you worked in lived in the lower levels of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, tucked beneath the noise and urgency of the emergency department. Down here, the air was cooler, the lighting softer, and the sounds were a lot more mechanical instead of human. Centrifuges whirred steadily, refrigerators hummed and analysers beeped impatiently whenever a sample rack was empty. You had to admit that yeah, you enjoyed life that little bit more behind the scenes, even if there was a little black spot of mould in the right hand corner that Gloria insisted she would fix tomorrow. A promise she gave you about 6 weeks ago.
Most of the staff upstairs never gave you a second thought unless something was late, or they wanted something ran through faster, or something was broken. As the PTMC's trusty senior lab tech, broken things happened more often than not.
Which is how you found yourself climbing the stairwell toward the Pitt with a clipboard tucked under your arm and a growing sense of frustration simmering in your chest. The Abbott Analyser had gone down again. It wasn't a small glitch this time, either. It wasn't something easily solved with a quick on-and-off and a prayer to the calibration gods. You were never going to be that lucky.
This was the third crash this week, and it had decided to happen in the middle of a busy shift when the guys upstairs were sending down samples every five minutes. You had spent most of the morning fighting with the machine while the rest of the lab staff rotated between helpful suggestions and increasingly colourful commentary. You had a variety of rainbow-like vocabulary to add to the conversation.
The Abbott Analysers in your lab had a reputation, and it wasn't a good one. This walk up to the familiar double doors made you scrunch your face up in annoyance.
"Absolute garbage," you muttered, adjusting the paperwork on your clipboard. "I swear if Abbott crashes one more time this week I'm going to lose my mind."
The Pitt was alive in the way emergency departments always were. Loud, bright, restless. Phones were ringing out, and gurneys were rolling from room to room with less-than-happy patients on them. You admired how the nurses and doctors weaved through hallways with practiced efficiency. You spotted Robby across the room, and he nodded in your direction in acknowledgement. You caught him mouthing 'again?' while raising a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. You shrugged your shoulders and sent him an apologetic smile. You were only ever up here when something was wrong downstairs; everybody knew that.
You moved towards Dana at the nurses station. You were in one part in awe at her ability to direct the people around her, but you were also one part terrified to approach her with yet another update of a testing issue downstairs. The woman was strong and confident and probably had extreme hypertension, which you were definitely about to make worse.
Three residents were asking her questions all at once. The new nurse, you were fairly certain her name was Emma, was holding a medication tray in front of her. Jessie was shouting about bed assignments from the other end of the station. You hovered a few feet away, waiting for an opening.
And that's when you saw him.
Dr Jack Abbot stood near the end of the desk reviewing a chart, his posture relaxed but focused in that way that trauma attendings developed over the. His grey sleeves were pushed slightly above his forearms, and the overhead lights caught in the strands of salt and pepper threaded through his curly hair. It wasn't uncommon to see Jack during the day shift, you remember Robby telling you that he needed to take up a less existential crisis inducing hobby.
You looked away as fast as you looked at him. You always did. Your big fat crush on Jack Abbot was, unfortunately, both enormous and deeply inconvenient. It had started about 8 months ago. The first time you'd delivered critical lab results to the ER, it had been around 8:30pm and he had been the attending on the shift. He'd taaken the report, glanced at the numbers, and then looked back up at you with a quiet, genuine "Thanks for bringing it up so fast."
It was such a small thing, and you could grapple with the effect it had on you later with your therapist, but you put it down to being in a profession that was often overlooked by the people upstairs. Don't get me wrong, most of the pitts doctors and nurses were more than kind, but walk one flight upstairs to the people in ortho or surgery, and it was an entirely different story.
Since then, every time you came upstairs during night shift, your brain decided it needed to seek him out. Jack had an air about him. There was an extreme calmness in the way he handled chaos. He dropped dry humour into conversations like it was second nature, and you could tell people trusted him without hesitation. You also liked that he was a little mean, sometimes. Another thing to store away in a box at the very back of your brain, filed under 'whatever the hell is wrong with me'.
It was stupid, really. He was an attending physician, a gorgeouse one at that, and you were a lab tech, who spent most of your shifts arguing with machines in the basement.
Which meant your crush lived firmly in the category of admiring someone safely from afar. You were very good at keeping it there.
Which is why you absolutely did not realise Jack has already started paying attention to you.
How could he not? You were lovely. Kind, and accomodating. Leaving the elevator for those who actually needed it even though sometimes you'd have to run up and down between the lab and the pitt several times a shift. You spoke softly, had your shit together. You were intelligent, a leader. Jack admired that about you. He tried to tell himself that the fact you were a total knock out had nothing got to do with it.
You were also apparently very expressive when annoyed.
Dana had waved you forward.
"Hey, Dana. Just letting you know chemistry's running a little slow today."
Dana's expression immediately shifted and you tried not to wince.
"Abbott again?"
You sighed heavily.
"Abbott again."
Jack's pen paused at the sound of his name, clicking his pen shut against the chart in his hand.
"The stupid analyser crashed twice this morning," you said. "We rebooted it, recalibrated it, ran three controls, I think at one point I flung a pipette tip so hard against the wall it shook the earth-"
Dana snorted.
"- and it's still throwing error codes," you finished. "Honestly, Abbott is the worst. Like, this hospital needs to rethink it's entire system. I swear everytime something goes wrong down there, it's Abbott. Constant downtime, recalibration. Half the time, I feel like Abbott exists purely to ruin my day."
You were obviously completely unaware of the man across the station, as everyone around you went completely quiet. That didn't stop you, though.
"I don't know who approved it but I would love to personally tell Abbott how much I hate them."
Dana pressed her lips together, and leaned forward slightly to murmur in your ear with a quiet delight,
"Y/N, Dr.Abbot is standing right there."
You heart dropped into your ass, and your entire body froze. You had been so preoccupied with running your mouth about the damn machines, that you completely forgot they shared a name with your superior.
Slowly, painfully slowly, you turned around. And sure as hell, Jack was there, watching you. A painful 3 or 4 seconds passed where no one said a word, and then Jack broke the silence,
"...I don't even know who you are."
Your soul grew wings and began its descent into the fiery pits of purgatory.
The shift continued, but the damage had been done. You had never wanted to disappear into the floor more in your life. Every time you thought about it, the moment replayed in your head in perfect clarity.
I would love to personally tell Abbott how much I hate them.
You had said that, directly in front of him. Which meant that for the next several hours you avoided looking anywhere in his general direction. Unfortunately, when the lab system was down, you were the one who had to move between floors to make sure the ER was getting its results on time. Specimen pickups, critical results and redraw requests took up the rest of your day, and every time you walked through the doors, you were painfully aware of where Jack Abbot might be standing. Did this man ever go home?
Meanwhile, Jack had never been more confused. He had spent the rest of the morning replaying the conversation in his head. He was fairly certain he had spoken to you a handful of times, and never about anything other than lab results. Which made your very passionate rant about how much you hated him... confusing.
Langdon leaned across the desk and asked, "Are you ok?"
Jack frowned.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I can see the cogs turning in your head. Hard case?"
Jack glanced towards the hallway where you had just disappeared again with a specimen carrier.
"...I think that lab tech hates me."
Langdon blinked.
"What?"
"You heard her, right? With Dana?"
Langdon stared for a second, and then burst out laughing.
"You think she meant you?" Langdon wheezed.
Jack gave him a look. "My name is Abbot."
Langdon walked away then, laughing as someone called him from bay 7, wiping tears from his eyes.
Robby was right, Jack needed to get the hell out of this hospital in his free time.
Jack couldn't bring himself to confront you until the end of your shift. You were dropping off a stack of printed lab results when you stepped out into a quieter hallway near radiology.
Your face collided with a hard chest, and the smell of a mix of pine and antiseptic hit your nose like a truck. You froze, recognising the smell instantly.
"You got a minute?"
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, of course."
Jack leaned casually against the wall, arms folding loosely. You wanna know how a man whose been on his feet for well over 15 hours looks this good. It doesn't help with how nervous your tummy is feeling right now. You're more worried about how your tummy will react to whatever kind of reprimand you're about to receive.
"...did I do something to you?"
You blinked up at him.
"What?"
"You seemed pretty... passionate earlier about how much you hate me"
Your brain stopped functioning for a second, losing all sense of well, sense, until everything started to click into to place in your head.
"Oh my god," you clapped a hand over your face. "Oh my god."
"...that doesn't really answer my question."
You lowered your hand slowly in front of you. You were fairly certain you were about to be disciplined for talking shit about hospital machinery, or maybe told to try and do your job better and just fix the damn machine. You never thought that Jack would think you were talking about him.
"I wasn't talking about you, Dr Abbot."
"The analysers," you said quickly. "The Abbott analysers. The machines in the lab."
Jack stared, and the silence stretched between you. Then, he slwoley exhaled, relaxing his shoulders.
"...those are a company."
"Yes."
"....and you don't hate me."
"God, No!"
You were absolutely mortified.
"I would never, I mean, I don't hate you, I mean, I don't know you well enough to hate you - I mean -"
Jack laughed so hard that the tension snapped like one of those non shatter rulers that always break anyways.
"You thought I meant you?" you said weakly.
Jack scratched the back of his neck. You hoped the rising pink in your cheeks looked like it was just because of this conversation and not the fact that you were near salivating and the way his bicep flexed as he raised it.
"I did think it was a little intense for someone I'd never spoken to."
You groaned softly, "I am so, so sorry."
Jack shook his head, clearly still amused.
"If anything, I actually admire you."
Jack raised an eyebrow, and you noticed the side of his lip rising in an almost smirk.
"Oh?"
Your face was positively on fire now.
"I mean, professionally!," you rushed. "You're a brilliant doctor and people trust you and I-"
Jack was smiling at you, teasing you. You stopped talking.
"Well," he said after a moment, "that's a relief."
You laughed nervously, shuffling you weight from one hip to another.
"I promise that the only Abbott I hate is the machine in the lab."
Jack nodded thoughtfully, and then he added, "For what it's worth, I admire you, too."
"You do?"
"You bring results up faster than anyone else," he said. "And you yell at machines like they insulted your family. It's impressive."
You buried your face in your hands again.
"This is the worst day of my whole life."
Jack chuckled, and you swore you've never heard a sweeter noise.
He watched you for another moment and pushed off the wall. Walking out of the room, he looked back at you, as if reminding himself that you were still there.
"I'll try not to take it personally next time Abbott breaks."
You think you'll remember the look on his face for the rest of your life.
Little Bonus Scene Post Established Relationship <3 <3
Dr Jack Abbot asked you out for coffee on a Thursday, and by the following Wednesday, you were pretty convinced you were in love. Which was crazy, you knew that, and something you wouldn't dream of telling him for months to come.
By the time the relationship between you and Jack became common knowledge within the pitt, the hospital had already accepted several strange realities.
Lena had accepted that Jack now disappeared downstairs to the lab at least once per shift for 'clarification of results'.
Ellis had accepted that the lab tech who tried to avoid the ER like the plague now stopped more than occasionally to use the coffee machine in the break room. The coffee was notoriously bad in the ER.
Shen had went on as usual and remained permanently confused.
And all the way through this, the lab and its staff still accepted that the Abbott Analyser still hated you.
You're standing in front of it now, with your hands planted on your hips like you were considering taking physical action. The machine beeped at you again, and you gritted your teeth in utter annoyance.
"You," you started, "are an absolute piece of garbage."
You leaned closer to the screen, pointing your finger at the screen as if it was a bold child.
"If you don't start working," you muttered darkly, "I swear I'mgoing to personally dismantle every Abbott machine in this building."
Behind you, someone said mildly,
"Still holding a grudge against Abbott, huh?"
Jack stood in the lab doorway with his arms crossed and the faintest hint of a smirk on your face.
"You definitely heard me wrong."
Jack raised an accusatory eyebrow.
"Did I?"
"Yep!"
Jack stepped closer and tilted his head slightly at the machine. It beeped again as if it were trying to defend itself. He tilted his head slightly.
"Looks fine to me, honey"
You stared at him, "You are a trauma attending, Jack. Yoy have no idea how these machines work."
"Yeah, true," Jack's mouth twitched, and that's how he knew he had you. The teasing back and forth between the two of you was what you loved about this new relationship, and you were praying that it was going to be an always thing.
He leaned against the counter beside you.
"You've been fighting with that thing for twenty minutes."
"It started it."
Jack glanced sideways at you.
“You said that about the centrifuge yesterday.”
“The centrifuge also started it.”
The analyzer beeped again and youturned back toward it with renewed irritation. Jack watched you for a moment, curious, and you watched as he then reached past you and pressed a button on the side of the machine.
The screen flickered.
The error code cleared.
The analyzer restarted.
You stared.
“…what did you just do?”
Jack shrugged.
“Turned it off and on again.”
You blinked at the now perfectly functioning machine.
“You’re kidding.”
Jack leaned closer to inspect the display like he had solved a complicated medical case.
“Huh,” he said thoughtfully. “Looks fixed.”
You looked at the analyzer, then back at him. Your eyes furrowed towards him, 90% annoyed and like, 10% more in love.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Jack’s smirk widened.
“You work in the lab and didn’t try that?”
You pointed accusingly.
“You got lucky.”
“Sure.”
You narrowed your eyes again, and then your expression softened despite yourself.
“You came down here just to tease me, didn’t you.”
Jack didn’t answer immediately, instead he reached for the pen tucked into your scrub pocket and turned it slowly between his fingers.
“I came down here because you skipped dinner again.”
You blinked.
“How do you know that?”
Jack gave you a look.
“Lena told me. Said you asked her would it be okay to put your food in the fridge in the break room, and it's still there”
Your stomach did the small, warm flip it always did when he said that. You leaned back against the counter.
“I had a backlog.”
“You had a granola bar.”
“That was lunch.”
Jack sighed.
“You’re impossible.”
“You like me.”
Jack looked faintly offended.
“I tolerate you.”
You laughed.
The analyzer beeped softly in the background, now happily running samples again.
You nudged his arm lightly.
“You know,” you said, “it’s still funny that the reason we met was because you thought I was trash talking you.”
Jack’s expression shifted into something halfway between amused and resigned.
“You were very convincing.”
“I said I hated Abbott.”
“My name is Abbot.”
“Different spelling.”
Jack tilted his head slightly.
“Not when someone’s yelling it across the ER.”
You groaned.
“Please don’t remind me.”
Jack pushed off the counter.
Then he reached out and hooked a finger lightly through the edge of your ID badge, tugging you a few inches closer. You looked at him through tired eyes, and noticed the same exhaustion looking back at you. Noticing the fairly empty lab, Jack ran a hand up your shoulder and placed his hand behind your ear, rubbing a thumb against your cheek. You subconsciously moved your face into the palm of his hand.
Your heart still did that stupid little jump every time he did something like that.
“You were pretty embarrassed,” he said quietly.
“I thought I insulted an attending physician to his face.”
“You did.”
Your eyes widened.
Jack smirked.
“Technically.”
You swatted his arm.
“You’re the worst.”
Jack leaned down to place a warm kiss on your forehead, wrapping his spare arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close to his chest. Quiet moments were few and far between, but cherished, none the less.
The analyzer beeped again.
You both glanced over.
The results rack slid forward smoothly, and you pulled away from Jack with accusatory hands on your hips once again.
You stared at it.
“…I hate that you fixed it.”
Jack chuckled.
“Don’t start a fight with Abbott again.”
You looked back at him.
“Oh I will.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“With the machine.”
Jack smiled faintly.
“Good.”
You bumped his shoulder.
“Come on, doctor. Go back upstairs before Shen sends a search party.”
Jack paused at the doorway. Then he glanced back at you.
“You coming up later?”
You nodded.
“Once the samples finish running.”
Jack gave a small approving nod, then he disappeared back toward the ER.
You turned back to the analyzer.
It beeped happily at you.
“Don’t get cocky,” you muttered.
But despite yourself, you were smiling.
Because the truth was, you still hated Abbott machines. But you sure as hell didn't hate the one upstairs.
also thank u for 100 followers..I’ll have something better as a celebration for u guys ;’3
I think it's pretty obvious that Pope...isn't that sort of guy. He's a very gracious, sweet lover. Always whispering sweet praises to you, telling you how good you feel, how good you make him feel. Talking you through your orgasm, kissing you and your neck making you feel the love he's giving you.
And he always does you so good, you're not complaining at all. You loved how sweet, devoted he was to you in bed, it made you feel sky high. But you also knew Pope could hurt.
You've seen what he can do, when he boxes, how he fights with his brothers, manhandling anyone that sets him off. And you're not saying you want him to slam you into concrete, just...roughen you up a little, up the anti.
He's shocked when you bring it up, eyes big and careful on you, “You want me hit you??” He holds his hands tightly together in his lap. “No, Andy not like-yknow beat me, just..like slap my face and my ass.” “Your face?? That could hurt you, I could hurt you.”
“Yeah that’s the point baby, it’ll hurt, but it’ll feel good in a way too.” You shrug, and his face is still drenched with worry. “If you don’t wanna do it that’s fine, but I just..wanna try it, and some other things.” You nod, and he nods slowly, looking down in thought.
“How hard would you want it? Like, a genuine slap, or somewhat of a..spank to the face.” He says, and you giggle softly, adoring how sweet and cautious he is. “The second one sounds easier. Here,” you take his right hand and place it on your shoulder, and lift his left to hover around your cheek.
“Just..test run it. I’ll tell you what hurts the best.” You say, and he takes a deep breath, the phrasing not making this better for him. He starts off soft, but each time you tell him harder, something grows within him, watching you gasp with each strike, how you hold onto his forearm but don’t tell him to stop. He watches you squirm on your feet you sat on, your other hand gripping your cover.
He hits you particularly hard after a few tries, a shuddery gasp that sinks into a moan coming from you, leaning into his hand and gripping at his wrists, nodding. “Like that, Andy…that’s good.” You nod, allowing him to wipe the tear from your cheek. His hands holding the side of your neck, keeping you stable.
“Like that?” He hits you again, more force behind it and grabbing your cheeks to force your eyes on him upon impact. “You really like this, don’t you sweetheart?” He strikes you again, licking his lips in a smirk when he gets that noise outta you.
“You’re a dirty little thing, yeah?” Hes nodding tauntingly, snaking his hands to your heat, keeping your cheeks in his grasp, scoffing a chuckle when he feels the wet spot between you. “All hot and bothered by me putting my hands on you, so fuckin’ gross.”
He pushes his thick two fingers in you with little resistance, his arms wrapped around your waist to put a stop to your squirming as you moan out to him, gripping his shoulder, “Uh uh, stay still. You asked for this,” he’s all in your face, breath heavy against you as you chase his lips, grabbing his hardened cock through his sweats.
“You want it, huh baby?” “I do..please..” you whine when he jerks his head away from you, obviously getting a kick out of how your mouth pants in wait, trying to close the gap between you as you grind on his fingers that already fuck you full.
“You’re so needy, I’m not giving you enough? You’re too much of a slut to simply take what I’m giving you?” A newfound hunger takes over him when you nod frantically, he feels you clench around him at the name, gripping onto his shoulders tighter.
“Oh yeah? Slut?” He questions, brows raised. “That’s what got you, getting called a slut like the dirty girl you are?” He says, though he doesn’t give you much time because he’s crashing his lips onto yours, sending you back onto the pillow, grabbing at him greedily.
It’s not long before he’s got your face down against the mattress, a hand keeping your back down and arched as the other supports himself on your ass, the soft flesh bruising with the grip he had on you.
“You better stop fuckin’ moving,” he warned, pulling you back on him forcefully, cock burried and bullying into at a brutal pace, kne that makes you scream out with each drag. “Andy—” you gasp, “Andrew I-I can’t—” “Yes, you can. You were just begging for it, shut up and take it like you fucking wanted.” He’s mean, it makes your body tingle as you moan out for him, holding the pillow under you tight, drool looking at the side of your mouth.
“It’s s-so deep, so deep baby fuck,” you’re pathetic, tears brimming as your orgasm comes running at you full speed, he feels it in the way your cunt squelched and clenched around him for dear life. “Uh huh, so deep,” he taunts, and before you know it he’s got your hair wrapped around your fist, pulling you up to look back at him as he fucks into you.
“And you’re taking it baby, you’re fuckin’ taking it, a good little thing, yeah? You my good slut?” He forced your eye on him, watching little tears fall as you look up at him with that doey, glossed over look, your teeth digging into your lip so hard you’d think it might bust open.
Your orgasm hits you hard, jaw slack and your arms feeling like jelly as you fight to stay up for him, sweat coating your scalp and your lashes fluttering. “Just for you baby, daddy.” You correct yourself in a high moan, watching Popes expression turn to shock, but not against, his cheeks reddening more than before.
“Yeah?” You think it’s impossible for him to fuck you harder, but he does, your head falling forwards when both his hands grip your hips, stuffing you full of his fat, aching cock ramming inside you. “You daddy’s slut? All for me baby? Daddy’s good girl?” He groans, hips jittering as he reaches his orgasm, cumming inside you quicker than he wantedwith a loud fuck, his hips slowly coming to a stop, running a hand down the curve of your spine.
He bends over you kissing the side of your cheek before lifting your head and kissing you hungrily, not being bothered by the strain of your neck it was causing as he still grinds his softening cock inside you.
“Daddy, huh?” He pants, getting a giggle out of you. “Yeah, that’s the ‘other stuff’ I wanted to try.” You nod, panting into each other’s mouths. He nods back, catching his breath. “Liked it, love it. Loved alla’ it.” (ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ.ﾟ
again thank u for a hunnid..y’all so real…pls start sending me asks I wanna hear what u have to say ;3
𝜗𝜚 THINKING ABOUT spencer reid noticing the little things about you
spencer's hands were on your waist, gentle and reverent in a way that only he knew could make your mind feel hazy.
his touch had the particularity of never being enough, leaving you aching for more, yet having the power to send you past the point of satisfaction within mere seconds. it was mindwrecking. then again, you both had given up on trying to solve the quation of your love long ago - sometimes, it's better not to look for an explanation. especially when there are much better things to focus on - like a makeout session, perhaps.
just as he was about to lean in for another kiss, tilting your head in a silent demand for more and granting you with the gentleness of his soft, plump lips against yours - he stilled, mouth hovering above the spot on your neck he was just nipping at.
"did you- change your perfume ?" he asked breathlessly, looking up at you with... sad eyes ? you couldn't tell, squinting curiosly as you tried to look past the fuzzy veil of love surrounding you.
only then he seemed to notice how far gone you were and chuckled, caressing your cheek reverently with the back of his hand - if he thought that would make you come back to your senses, he was far, far from being right.
"i asked if you changed your perfume," he repeated, "you smell different."
you simply nodded, gulping down and trying to fix your hair. “yes. i ran out of the old one, it’s out of stock everywhere. this one is just a sample i had”
from the look in his eyes, you could tell he didn’t seem convinced by the point you were making. he’d always associated you with the sweet scent of vanilla, mixed with a hint of cinnamon you’d carried for as long as he’d known you. while out on a case, or walking past a bakery, the faintest smell of your perfume was enough to make him give a second glance every time.
his nose scrunched up. “i don’t like it,” he said.
you almost pouted at his remark, but knew that’s not how he meant it. change was something spence hated, despised, really. and as much as he could’ve tried to adapt to your newest decision, he decided not to.
only two days later, you found a handmade wrapped box on your vanity, with a beautiful perfume bottle inside it.
safe to say that somehow, a bubbly technical analyst and her nerdy best friend had something to do with it.
SOMETIME DURING SNOOPY NURSE'S 11TH MONTH ON THE NIGHT SHIFT AT THE PTMC: DR. ABBOT MAKES YOU BREAK YOUR ARM. (1k, not proofread!)
it's icy. it's cold. and, even though you said your place wasn't far, letting you walk home alone after a 12-hour shift isn't fucking happening. in fact, he finds it incredibly a little irritating that you brushed off his attempts to drive you home.
(did you really think he was shallow enough to care about the extra it'll take to return you to your home safely? and, what else did you mention, the damn gas?)
that's why he's followed you home every day for the past week and a half. he doesn't drive right up beside you, but a few blocks back. slower than his usual speed because of the potholes that formed due to the low temperatures, and to linger behind your tired strides.
abbot trails you with a heat thrumming throughout his body. mumbling to himself for you to keep careful, kid, or watch that slick spot to your right. the itch to swerve up next to you, hop out, and drag you into the passenger's seat eats away at him until his nerves go numb, and he can't even feel the ache of the previous night.
he bites into the side of his cheek, instead. compiling a script in his head to for tomorrow when he offers you a lift home. again.
the man doesn't mean to take his eyes of you when he does. it's just that the sun is seeming to rise a little slower than usual this morning. he's sure it's just the clouds getting in the way of the light he wishes he could yank from the sky use to keep you warm, because that coat is not thick enough for this chill.
yet another thing to add to the list.
when jack peeks back over to where you are... shit. so, scratch that. where you should be, his heart stops. a sickening ache blossoms throughout his chest, and he squeezes the wheel with a quiet curse.
where the fuck did you go so quickly? and why the fuck did he look away for so long?
just as he approaches a familiar intersection, the light flicks to yellow and then red before he can even think about trying to make it. he slams on his brakes. jaw tight and chest still hurting. scrambling for his phone and your contact.
FAVORITES:
- SNOOPY
- ROB
in his hurry, jack clicks robby's name on accident. shit, no. he hangs up as quickly as he called. smashing his thumb into snoopy before shoving the phone to his ear.
the attending just barely reminds himself to take a few long inhales to get himself together. he needs to sound normal. like he wasn't following you home and is now about to lose his mind over the fact that he's lost you.
not that you're his to lose but...
the entire world should be happy that you picked up, even if it was on the third ring. even still, his eyebrows furrow when you greet him with tiny pants instead of your usual sweet, sweet hello.
"j-jack..."
okay. yes. something is wrong, because regardless of having known him for nearly a year, you refuse to call him jack. only doctor abbot, abbot, or–lord, help him–sir.
never jack.
breathe, abbot. whatever this is, she needs you.
"get home okay, kid?" his voice isn't right, but it's close enough. a sniffle sounds just as the traffic light switches back to green. jack makes a right turn and pulls to park on the side of the street. just for a moment. just until he figures out what's going on. why you left him.
"n-not really, um. uh, i was still on my way home, b-but i-i think someone was following me. i didn't get a good look 'cause i didn't wanna turn around, but i could hear them. i swear i could, so i just kinda ran away from them just now hoping they would get stuck at a light, then i fell on some ice and–" you pause to sob a little and jack runs unknind fingers through his hair. oh no. "a-and i was gonna try and w-walk it off. but i can't, i did something to my arm. 'm pretty sure that, uh, it's broken or something. it's numb and it hurts all at the same time. plus, i don't know where the car went, what if they're still around the corner waiting for me..."
your words fall off into another round of small weeps. ones that he can tell you're trying not to release, but it's no use. he hears them. and they're breaking him.
"okay, sh sh sh. s'gonna be alright. 'm on my way to come and get you, but i need you to listen to me, okay? take a deep breath and just listen." jack doesn't continue until he hears a wobbly exhale from your end. "okay. good girl. now, tell me–tell me what street you're on."
"jack, it hurts," you whine out, the agony and tears in your voice sound worse than the end of the world. he'd take that, a cease to much of the life on this earth if it means the end of your pain. "i can't–i can't..."
"I know, baby. just tell me where you are, and i will get you."
you tell him the street, speaking with less hesitancy than before. it's about a block from where he is. you must've turned down an alley and slipped towards the other direction. huh, he didn't even think you could move that fast, especially in the crisp of this morning's air. at least you had enough sense to not walk straight home after suspecting you were being followed.
but also... is this your first day noticing him? how much longer could he have gotten away with it?
jack's body only lets him give it six minutes of faking like he's driving through the side of the city before finally pulling back into the street. the entire time, the man talks through the pit of guilt peeling open at the bottom of his stomach, cooing softly into the phone and promising he'll be there soon.
he tells you that he's sorry. that he's almost there. that he's going to get you all fixed up... and then drive you home so you can sleep, like he should have been doing in the first place.
synopsis: after turning up on your rooftop injured one night, you and a masked stranger form a routine of late-night conversations and shared silences. when he shows up one night bleeding and in need of your help, your unconventional relationship is pulled into the light for closer inspection. — requested by anon !
author’s note: woah, this idea took hold and wouldn't let me go!! first matt fic since 2019, and i clearly missed him. this was fun to write, i liked coming at it like the reader knew nothing about him !! unsure about the ending, but i really didn't want to rush things.... hope you guys enjoy <3
wordcount: 5,766 (fucking hell.)
Matt Murdock x Reader
The city sounds different from the roof of your building – more distant, muffled, less overwhelming. Sirens racing below blur into something low and almost melodic, the oppressive heat of the summer loosening its grip as the sun goes down, while your thoughts stop ricocheting quite so violently around your skull.
You find yourself up here most nights – either fresh from your late shift, your feet aching and your eyes hurting from the glare of the fluorescents, or sleep-deprived and antsy from insomnia, seeking darkness and calm beyond the confines of your tiny studio apartment.
Tonight, bone-tired from your shift and desperate for some cool air and some quiet, you trudge up to the roof and sit down with your back against the brick, eyes fluttering shut as you listen to the distant traffic– and promptly doze off.
When you wake up, grimacing at the crick in your neck as you push yourself upright, it’s still dark, and you have no sense of how long you were even out. You move to push yourself up, palm splayed against the rough concrete as you blink the bleariness from your eyes–
That’s when you hear the crunch of gravel.
It’s subtle, barely even a sound, but you hear it pierce through the stillness anyway, the wrongness of it prickling up your spine, and you turn towards it, ever-so-slowly.
There’s a man on your roof.
Dressed all in black, a mask covering the top half of his face, crouched near the far side like he’s part of the architecture – motionless in a way that doesn’t feel inert so much as intentional.
Your heart slams into your ribs, adrenaline sharp and immediate, fear screaming get out before your brain can catch up. You move to push yourself up, keys clenched in your fist, exhaling lightly at the movement.
He hears it. His head snaps toward you with unnerving precision, looking right at you though the black fabric covers his eyes.
For one horrible second, neither of you moves.
Then he lifts his hands – not high, not dramatic, just open. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He says slowly, his voice kept low, controlled, almost tired.
Your pulse hammers in your ears. “...This is a private building,” you say, proud that your voice only shakes a little. “You need to leave.”
“I will,” he replies, then after a short, tension-filled pause, “I just… I need a minute.”
You don’t move. You don’t risk turning your back, letting him out of your sight. He’s too close to the door, if you try to make a run for it, he could easily grab you before you even make it–
“I’m serious,” you add, tremor in your voice increasing as your brain helpfully provides you with rapid-fire scenarios of every possible way this could go wrong. “I’ll call the police.”
He winces – though it doesn’t seem to be at the threat, but more as if the idea of that costs him effort. “I believe you,” he says. “I just–” He shifts his weight, inhaling sharply.
That’s when you see the red smeared on the hand he has pressed against his thigh, the droplets of dark dotting the gravel around him. Your brows tug together, scanning the rest of him, taking in the way he’s curled around himself, favouring one leg, his posture tight and pained.
“...You’re hurt.” You observe, before you can stop yourself.
He exhales through his nose like it’s funny, cocking his head. “Yeah.”
His response throws you, honest and underlaced with a deadpan sense of humour. He lowers himself carefully onto the ground, breath hitching despite the control he’s trying to maintain.
Against every sensible instinct you have, you don’t take your chance to run for the door. “You really shouldn’t be up here.” You say, weaker now, glancing at the next roof over – he must have jumped over here, you realize, frowning.
“Yeah, well, your roof was the closest and quietest,” he counters gently, grimacing as he leans up against a wall, leg stretched out in front of him. “Sorry.”
“No, I meant–” You hesitate, then step closer. Why are you getting closer, there is a strange man bleeding on your roof– “You should be at a hospital.”
“I can’t.” He replies easily, and you get the feeling this is a practiced answer to a question he’s been asked many times before. What the fuck are you still doing up here, you should run, get inside–
“I have water,” you say, shocked by yourself as the words leave your mouth. “And… A towel. If you want. For the… Blood.”
Another pause, this one heavier as you watch him assess you – though how he’s doing that with fabric over his eyes, you’re not sure – before he seems to relax ever-so-slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, and he nods.
“Thank you,” he says, tone still slow and careful, like he’s trying not to spook you. “Water and a towel would be great.”
You dip your hand into your bag and pull out the bottle, inching closer before holding it out. He takes it carefully, gloved fingers brushing yours, lingering just long enough for you to register warmth, for your heartbeat to accelerate.
As he drinks, you reach into your bag and pull out your gym towel, suddenly grateful you washed it and didn’t make it to the gym today. He takes it with a nod and presses it to his thigh, jaw tightening at the motion.
“I am sorry,” he says quietly, wincing. “For scaring you. I didn’t think anyone was up here, I didn’t hear… Anyway, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You watch him, brows tugged together as you catalogue what you can about him – the black outfit, the gloves, the mask, the injuries.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean to fall asleep up here, so.” You shrug, your words offering a small acknowledgement of his lack of ill intent, and the tension in the air slowly starts to dissipate.
You cast your eyes back to the horizon to watch the city, noticing the faint glow on the horizon of the sun preparing to come up. You have got to get some sleep.
“I’m gonna…” You gesture awkwardly at the door, your gaze sticking on his injury for a few moments longer before you swallow. “I’m gonna go.”
The masked stranger nods, lifting the towel off his leg, and you realize that he’s trying to offer it back to you.
“Oh, no, you can–” You shake your head and swallow thickly, even taking a step back at the sight of the blood-soaked fabric as your pulse jumps. “You can hold on to that.”
“What, you don’t like blood?” He asks, cocking his head slightly, and you immediately scold yourself for finding the action hot. What the hell is wrong with you, he’s a strange man bleeding out on your roof – but he does have nice lips, and a nice smile, and–
“...Goodnight.” You say suddenly, realizing you’ve just been standing there staring at him, and move to the door.
He opens his mouth, about to say something, and for some reason you panic and dart into the stairwell before he gets the chance, running a hand down your face as you hurry down the stairs all the way to your apartment.
What the fuck was that?
You think about that night a lot for the next few days, the fear, the adrenaline, the way he’d carried himself while injured like it was no big deal.
You’re not avoiding the roof, per se, you just… Okay, yeah, you’re avoiding the roof, but you’re really not ready to run back into the masked stranger with an irritatingly attractive smile who bled all over your one quiet space in the city.
However, after a particularly grueling shift, when you come home to find your neighbours blasting music through your thin walls, you decide to risk going back up to the roof – it’s not like he would come back, knowing you could be up there.
The door opens with its usual reluctant groan, and you peek outside, looking both ways… Empty. Thank God.
You let out a breath you didn't even realize you were holding and walk over to your spot by the ledge, sitting on the low wall and peering down, eyes tracking the passing cars below, the neon lights, the sounds of raucous laughter and people shouting echoing up to you.
You’re halfway lost in the sound of traffic, exhaustion from your day lulling you into a moment of calm, when you hear it – a soft scrape, the sound controlled, deliberate.
You turn, your heart stuttering, and there he is.
Same black suit, same black mask, but not soaked with blood this time, you’re relieved to see. He isn’t hunched over or crouched, but standing several feet away from you, posture open, movements deliberate and visible and very intentionally non-threatening.
“It’s me.” He says, like that needs clarifying, and your relief is immediate and deeply annoying.
“Yeah, because I totally could have mistaken you for someone else.” You say, gesturing at his outfit.
He cocks his head, fighting the smile that threatens to break across his lips. “I wasn’t sure if I’d find you up here.” He admits, head tilting towards the spot you’d been sitting in the first time, and you scoff.
“Yeah, well. It’s my roof.” You reply dumbly, somewhat ashamed that you’d been so hesitant to return, and also that you were right to be hesitant, that he did come back.
A moment passes, where you can feel him assessing you – you would say you can feel his eyes on you, but that’s not right, not with that mask still covering the top half of his face. It’s more like… Like he’s listening to you, which sort of freaks you out, but mostly intrigues you.
“May I?” He gestures toward the empty space along the wall next to you, still maintaining a respectful distance, and some part of you finds it funny – what a gentleman.
You study him, tracking the distance he’s keeping, the way he’s waiting for your answer before he even moves.
“Yeah,” you say finally. “You can sit.”
He does, carefully, clearly leaving space between you, although now he’s within an arm’s reach of you. You watch him sit, the action fluid and easy, and you make a humming sound.
“You look better.” You say, narrowing your eyes at him, glancing at the spot on his thigh where the injury had been.
He shrugs. “I took care of it.”
Whatever that means. You make another humming sound, pressing your lips together. “Does that happen a lot? Wounds you have to ‘take care’ of?”
“Occupational hazard.” He quips, and you startle yourself by almost laughing. “What about you, you come up here a lot?”
You blink, looking away from him, fixing your eyes on a skyscraper on the horizon. “Just… Whenever I can’t sleep.”
“That’s… Often?” He guesses, though his voice sounds very sure.
You huff a quiet laugh, raising an eyebrow. “What gave me away?”
“Falling asleep on a rooftop isn’t what someone with a normal sleep schedule does,” he smiles, and you have to admit, he’s got you there. “That, and the fact that you move like you’re always tired. Maybe not just from the lack of sleep…?”
His tone is strange, almost probing, like he’s trying to broach a subject he’s not sure how to. You wait for him to elaborate, watching the way he’s sitting, his arm resting near you on the way, and suddenly it clicks.
“Oh, God,” you say suddenly, realizing why he’s being so nervous around you, why he’s keeping his voice low, keeping you in his sights. “I’m not going to jump, if that’s what you think.”
“No, I didn’t–” He starts to shake his head, and then stops, smiling thinly. “I mean. Maybe I did. I don’t know.”
“God, no, I just like the view, that’s all. Look, there’s another ledge further down, see, so even if I fell, it wouldn’t–” You shrug, gesturing down at the ledge, before frowning at your own wording. “Or. Well. Can you see?”
It’s a very blunt, inarticulate way to ask the thing that’s been bugging you this whole time, but you’re tired and this is a very strange interaction you’re having, so what the hell.
“In a way.” He answers in the least helpful way possible, and your frown deepens. “But yes, I know there’s a ledge down there.”
“...Okay.” If he’s not going to go into it, you’re not going to push. “Anyway. I’m not– I just like the peace and quiet up here.”
He holds his hands up in surrender, and you nod, letting silence settle in – not uncomfortable, but not entirely comfortable yet, just… Present. Open.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says quietly, and you pick up the low, pleasant timbre of his voice, another unfortunately attractive quality of his. “For the other night.”
It’s sweet, and you find yourself smiling softly to yourself at the consideration there. “You already did.”
“I know.” He smiles faintly. “Still, I’m sorry that I scared you.”
“Oh, no, the masked stranger dropping onto my roof in the middle of the night and bleeding everywhere didn’t scare me at all.” You respond, sarcasm dripping off your words, and he ducks his head sheepishly, so after a beat, you add, “But that’s kind, thank you.”
The stiffness in his shoulders eases just a fraction, and you turn your gaze back out to the horizon, wary of the sudden warmth blooming at your chest. A comfortable silence settles, but you keep glancing over at him nervously, until you finally decide to just come out and say it.
“You don’t have to stay here and babysit me,” you say, watching him out of the corner of your eye when he makes no move to get up or leave. “I’m not, like… At risk.”
“I know,” he replies, nodding, and then, after a beat, “I’d like to stay for a bit. If that’s okay.”
You consider the city again, deliberately avoiding looking at his smile as you try to ignore the way your pulse races at his words, your brain scrambling to catch up with the strange sense of calm of being here with someone who feels both dangerous and oddly safe.
“I don’t mind.” You say, swallowing, and catch his exhale and smile in your peripheral.
The two of you start talking after that – safe topics, like the summer heat, the skyline from your building, the sound of drunks being kicked out of the bar at the end of your block.
“Are you always this talkative?” You tease after a while.
“Only on rooftops with total strangers.” He says solemnly.
You don’t exchange names, and it feels intentional, something fragile you’re both protecting. Names would make this heavier, would demand context, daylight, consequences.
It’s nearly dawn when he stands to leave, but before he makes it far, he hesitates.
“I might come back.” He says, his posture almost nervous, and you stifle your smile.
“I might be here.” You shrug.
He flashes a proper smile at that, nodding to you as he goes to stand by the far end of the roof. “Goodnight.” He says, and then promptly leaps off the side, landing on another rooftop and disappearing into the dark.
“Goodnight.” You say to yourself, shaking your head at the absurdity of it all, but you realize you’re smiling too.
And when you come back the next night, you’re not surprised to find him there, almost grateful to find his shadowy silhouette already perched on the ledge when you open the door. And when it happens again a couple days later. And a week after that.
The comfort you find in these conversations doesn’t happen all at once.
There’s no one night where you suddenly glance over at him and think this is easy now. It accumulates quietly, settling into itself before either of you realize it’s happening. At first, you continue to sit a careful distance apart, your body angled toward the skyline instead of him. You choose what you reveal about yourself with intention, weighing how much you’re willing to give away.
Then, without either of you naming it, the guardedness slips away.
You start bringing two coffees home with you from your work because it’s late and he always looks tired. You don’t comment on it, just pass him the takeout cup when you sit down one night, and he takes it with a grateful nod and a smile.
Most nights, you talk about little things. The strange nighttime hours you both keep, jobs that couldn’t be more different if they tried but still leave you both in tandem nocturnal schedules. How certain sirens mean different things, which is something he has opinions about – measured, thoughtful, spoken like he’s spent a lot of time listening and learning.
You gather information about your stranger – he’s funny, in a dry, understated way, delivered like he’s testing whether or not you’ll catch it, smiling when you do. He believes in something, his faith appearing in small bursts when he talks about guilt and burden and right and wrong.
His hearing is ridiculously good, in a supernatural/superpowered kind of way. It makes up for his lack of sight, which you touch upon carefully, and he acknowledges but never elaborates upon.
“Is this weird?” You ask suddenly one night, and he cocks his head.
“Yes.” Then, a beat. “Is what weird?”
“You already said yes, idiot. This. This… I don’t know. I don’t even know– You don’t know anything about me. Don’t you find it strange that we see each other this often?” It’s been nagging at you for a while, this thing you don’t tell your friends about, that you look forward to but can never name.
“I know things about you.” He defends, and you quirk an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“I know you work at a diner,” he says softly, shrugging, and you frown immediately, wondering if he followed you– “Your clothes smell like fryer grease and coffee, but your breath doesn’t, and you wear comfortable shoes and a nametag. That, and the fact that you work late hours, but you never smell like alcohol.”
“...You know my name?” It feels like a breach of trust, and you’re surprised to find yourself genuinely worried at the idea.
“No, I– I can’t read it, I just can hear it sometimes when you move.” God, that’s so freaky, but you’re not as weirded out as you really ought to be. As if he senses your thoughts, he adds suddenly, “Not in a creepy way.”
You glance at him, amused despite yourself. “...Not in a creepy way.” You parrot, and he smiles at you awkwardly.
“Promise.”
In a way, you suppose it evens things out – you also know what he does, in a way, though you never say the word vigilante out loud, never point out that the nights he comes to you more battered and bruised are right before the mornings you read about gangs being taken down or criminals strung up and dumped on the steps of the police station.
Some nights, your conversations drift into what some might call real territory.
“You ever wonder if you’re doing the right thing?” He asks once, voice low, head tilted as he listens to the street below. He’s quieter tonight, burdened by something.
“All the time,” you reply with no hesitation. “I just like to think it’s the wondering about it that makes it right, like, if I’m making myself sick with guilt over it, I must be at least trying to do some good.”
It feels like an overshare, but he only hums in agreement, and that’s that. He’s quieter after that, closer, somehow, like he’s filing the information away where it matters.
The roof becomes your shared thing. You sit shoulder to shoulder now, knees brushing, heat shared as the cold starts to seep in, and when the wind kicks up, he shifts without comment, body angling to block it.
Sometimes you don’t talk at all.
You listen to the city breathe, to the rhythm of traffic, to his solid presence – attentive, unintrusive. It’s a strange comfort, sitting in silence with someone so shrouded in mystery.
Time passes in a way that feels both fast and endless – months go by, your nightly roof visits consistent despite being sporadic. You start noticing patterns – the nights he doesn’t show are often followed by him being more injured, more tired, more satisfied.
One night, he asks out of the blue, “Do you believe in redemption?”
You think about it for a while, frowning at the sky. “I… I think so. I think it’s something you can practice,” you say finally. “Not something you’re just suddenly granted.”
He exhales softly. “I like that.”
Comfort settles in like it belongs there. You stop wondering who he is when he’s not here – what you have on the roof is enough. More than enough.
By the time you realize how deeply you trust him, it’s already settled into your bones. By the time you realize how much you look forward to these nights, it’s already a habit.
And by the time you realize how dangerous it is to be this comfortable with someone so shrouded in danger and secrecy, someone you barely know, you’re already sitting close enough that his shoulder is warm against yours, the low timbre of his voice rumbling through you and soothing something in your chest.
Tonight already feels different – you’re the first one up here, two black coffees slowly going cold on the ledge, quietly realizing that he’s not going to show.
Then you hear him, but you know something is wrong before you even see him.
It isn’t the quiet, deliberate scrape of him landing gently on the roof – it’s a thud, rattling the metal of the HVAC vents around you. The sound cuts through the quiet like a gunshot, sharp enough that you’re on your feet before you’ve thought it through.
His dark silhouette appears on the far side of the roof, where he usually comes from, but this time, there’s something off, something wrong.
He staggers, one hand braced hard against the brick wall as he approaches you, breath coming in rough, uneven pulls. His shoulders are tight, rigid with the effort of staying upright, and then he steps under the light.
“Oh my god.” You whisper.
There’s so much blood. His side is soaked, black clothes sticking to him and glistening in the dim light, but it’s still flowing, hitting the gravel and coating the stones. He turns when he hears you and your horror increases at the sight of crimson coating the side of his face, dripping down his jaw, his neck–
You feel sick.
“What– Are you– What do I do?” The words tumble out, disjointed and staccato, drowned out by the sudden pounding of your pulse in your ears.
He grimaces, teeth bared to reveal blood coating the whites, and shakes his head.
“Nothing, I shouldn’t have–” He’s cut off by his own low groan of pain as he turns to face you, a hand held out as if to keep you away.
He sucks in a sharp breath, tries to gather himself, and shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says automatically, and then immediately proves himself a liar by folding in half and keeling over.
You catch him before he hits the gravel, nearly hitting the ground as well as you buckle under the weight of him. He’s heavier than you expect – or maybe you’re just panicking too hard to brace properly, but he helps you by swinging his arm around your shoulders, clumsy and uncoordinated, weight sagging into you like gravity’s finally won.
“You are not fine,” you say, voice pitching high despite your best efforts. “You’re– Oh, God, you’re bleeding everywhere.”
“I know,” he grits out. “I just– I needed to get somewhere safe.”
The word safe lands hard, your heart slamming into your ribs as you try and figure out what to do. “Inside,” you decide. “Now.”
“No,” he snaps, reflexive, shaking his head. “I can’t–”
“You’re not bleeding out on my roof,” you cut in, fear sharpening your tone. “If you don’t come inside, I’m calling an ambulance. Right now.”
That stops him, and you feel the moment he weighs his options – pride, secrecy, pain, trust – and then exhales through clenched teeth.
“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay. Inside.”
It feels like a Sisyphean effort to get him down the stairwell and subsequent hallway, through the building and into your apartment with none of your neighbours seeing, but you manage.
Your shitty studio apartment has never felt so small.
You half-drag him to the bed and gently lower him down, trying not to wince as he hisses at the motion. His blood covers your hands, your shirt, already starting to seep into the fabric of your duvet.
Your heart is racing so fast it makes you lightheaded, and you stand there like an idiot for a few seconds, glancing around as if searching for a clue as to what to do next.
“What the fuck happened?” You ask, already digging through the mess of stuff under your bed for the first aid kit your parents had made you buy when you’d first moved in, voice shaking as you curl your fingers around the plastic handle.
“Knife,” he says, far too casually. “Slid under the ribs.”
You freeze. “Under the–?”
“Didn’t puncture anything vital,” he adds quickly, like he can hear the panic spike in your pulse. “I’d know.”
That should not be reassuring, but somehow, it is. You kneel in front of him, hands hovering uselessly for a second as you take him in – the blood soaking his side, his breathing shallow and careful, jaw locked tight.
“You need a hospital.” You try again, weaker this time.
“I can’t,” he replies, just as steady as ever. “Please.”
You swallow hard, then nod once. Decision made. You’re probably the least qualified person to do this, but he needs you, so you shove down the bile that rises in your chest and the panic that threatens to smother you, focusing on his torso.
You can’t control the oh my god that escapes you as you lift his shirt off, cold dread filling you at the sight of the mangled skin below. The wound is deep – a long, ugly slice that’s still bleeding steadily, and fear floods through you.
You hold gauze over it and press firmly, your hands shaking. He hisses, shoulders tightening, and then his head dips forward suddenly, forehead resting against your shoulder. The contact is unplanned, instinctive.
You freeze for half a second – then wrap an arm around him to keep him upright.
“I know,” you murmur. “I know it hurts. Just– Fuck. Breathe. Please.”
“I–” He hisses, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”
“Stop apologizing,” you say. “You’re allowed to need help.”
He laughs weakly, breathless, and it loosens something in your chest. “I’m not very good at that.”
“I’ve noticed.”
You finish bandaging him as best you can, securing it tight, praying it’s enough as he tips back to lie on the bed and slings an arm over his mouth to muffle his groans. Your eye then catches on the blood at his temple, seeping beneath the edge of the mask, and you reach for it then hesitate, fingers hovering along the seam of the fabric.
“I can’t–” He protests immediately, not angry, just firm. Almost scared.
“Okay,” you acquiesce, nodding. “I’ll… I’ll work around it.”
You clean carefully, lifting the edge of the fabric just enough to dab at the cut, never more than necessary. You try to fold the fabric back further, just enough to reach the edge of the wound, but it isn’t enough. Your breathing grows heavier, frustration creeping in–
His hand closes gently around your wrist, stopping you, and before you can protest, before you can explain that you need to do this, he inhales slowly, deliberately, and pulls the mask off himself, his hands shaking as he tugs it free and tosses it aside.
You turn your face away immediately, heart thudding at the weight of the trust he’s just handed you. You keep your eyes focused on your hands, on the blood, on the task, and when his breathing stutters, you talk – soft, constant.
“Stay with me,” you repeat like a mantra. “Okay? I’ve got you.”
He makes a humming sound, and you try to work as quickly as you can, grateful that the cut on his temple is shallow and seems to have stopped bleeding. When you sit back on your heels, your hands are slick with blood, your chest tight with fear you’re only barely holding back.
“I think I’m done,” you say softly, patting his knee to get his attention, but he doesn’t respond. His head is tipped back, chest moving very slowly, and fear grips you by the throat. “Hey! Stay with me, okay, stay–”
You swallow thickly, standing, hovering over him. What do you do, what are you supposed to do, oh my god is he dead–
“Fuck, wake up, please, I don’t even– I don’t even know your name.” You find yourself babbling as you hover over him, hands shakily feeling for a pulse at his neck. He groans, and relief hits you so hard you almost sink to the floor.
He groans again, muttering something lowly, and you frown, leaning in, but he’s already gone quiet, his body relaxing in a way that tells you he’s passed out, from the exhaustion or the pain or the injuries or all of the above. You pull a blanket over him, still dutifully not looking at his face, and then you turn around.
Your apartment looks like a crime scene.
Blood on the duvet. On your shirt. On your hands. On your floor. The sharp, metallic smell of it clings to the air, mixing with antiseptic and the stale coffee you never finished earlier. You stand there for a second, staring at the rise and fall of his chest, waiting for the fear to dissipate.
It doesn’t. Not fully, fracturing instead into a dozen smaller things.
You clean yourself up first because you’re on autopilot and your hands are shaking too badly to do anything else, scrubbing at the skin until the water runs pink, then clear. You change your clothes, take deep breaths, count his breaths like a lunatic.
You find his mask on the floor, soaked in blood, and you hesitate over it for a long moment before adding it to the wash with his shirt. It feels wrong to touch it, even now, like it’s a boundary you’re not supposed to cross – but he crossed it first.
By the time you’re done, the adrenaline finally burns itself out, leaving you hollowed and exhausted and still keyed too high to sleep properly.
You sit on the couch, staring at the bed, listening to him breathe, letting the reality of what just happened settle into your bones.
Eventually, without remembering the exact moment you decide to lie down, you do. Curled awkwardly on the couch, eyes fixed on the edge of the bed like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you stop looking–
Sleep takes you anyway.
Matt wakes slowly.
Not the sharp, instinctive snap of consciousness he’s used to – the kind that comes with pain and threat and the immediate need to move – but something thicker, heavier, like pushing up through dark water.
The first thing he registers is wrongness.
The bed, the scratchy blanket, the hum of an unfamiliar refrigerator, close enough that he can feel the vibration through the floor.
And then his hand shoots up to his face, landing on unfamiliar fabric pulled low over his eyes – not his mask, but covering his face just the same.
His body stills completely, breath going shallow as his senses reach outward, his fingers running over the fabric – knit, pressed lightly against his cheek, warm from body heat. A… Beanie?
There’s one heartbeat close by, familiar, but slow – sleeping. Relief and something dangerously close to affection twist together in his chest, and he exhales, long and controlled, forcing his body to stay where it is.
A few seconds later, that heartbeat stutters.
You wake with a sharp inhale, disoriented, pushing yourself upright on instinct when you realize he’s awake. For a split second, you just stare at each other – him propped awkwardly on your bed, you tangled in a blanket on the couch like you fell asleep mid-thought.
“Oh,” you say, then, quieter, “Morning.”
“There’s something on my face,” he says calmly, but there’s tension threaded through it, tight and careful.
“Shit, yes, about that–” You wince, scrambling to your feet, suddenly too aware of the space between you – how you’ve never seen each other in the daylight.
“Your mask was… Soaked,” you explain, words tripping over each other. “I didn’t know if it was, like, a health hazard to put it back on your face, so… I put it in the wash with your shirt, and I gave you my beanie.”
A beat passes.
“I didn’t have anything else,” you add quickly, because silence feels dangerous. “And I didn’t– I mean, I kept my eyes closed when I changed it. I didn’t look.”
He listens. Not just to the words, but to the way you say them, the steadiness of your pulse now that the panic has passed, the truth sitting plainly in your voice.
“…Thank you. For– For everything.” He says quietly, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, shoulders dropping.
He reaches up then, slow and deliberate, fingers hooking into the edge of the beanie. Pauses. Breathes. And then he pulls it off, carefully, almost reverent, like he’s acknowledging the moment for what it is.
He turns his head toward you fully, and your breath hitches – soft eyes and thick brows completing the rest of his face. Fuck, he’s beautiful, you think, heart stuttering, and you watch a smirk tug against his lips.
“I’m Matt,” he says after a moment, swallowing thickly. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Something settles between you at the sound of it – not relief, not fear, but recognition. The final piece of a puzzle sliding into place between you. You smile and repeat it back to him like you’re anchoring it in place, following it with your own name.
something something animal kingdom au where andrews treatment in prison makes him selectively mute. after the solitary confinement and - lets call it for what it was - torture he endured, andrew just stops speaking.
he returns home on parole and goes back to his life but he doesn't say a word. smurf tries to get him to talk and his brothers get kind of fed up that he won't respond beyond shaking or nodding his head, or the occasional shrug. andrew figures out he can get by with pointing and hand gestures or facial expressions, so why bother talking at all?
this goes on for a long time. it happened for a few of the years he was in prison and into the years he was released. there was no need for verbal communication. andrew didn't like most people and they generally didn't like him either, so the lack of talking just added to his generally off putting demeanor which kept people away from him.
except for you.
you'd noticed andrew in the grocery store one day, staring somewhat angrily at the shelves of cereal, which was exactly the spot you needed to be so you did another lap of the store to collect everything you needed in hopes he'd be gone by the time you finished. andrew was still there when you circled back, frowning at the boxes like they personally did something to offend him, and you had to interrupt him.
you were polite and apologetic for disturbing him but he was standing in front of the cereal you wanted. his anger immediately disappeared, clearly only meant for the food on the shelves, as he looked over to you. he silently passed you one of the boxes, his face neutral, but there was something about him that kept you from finding the quietness unnerving.
he had kind eyes.
so you asked if he needed help finding anything and he held a list out to you, pointing to an item that was kept in another aisle. you knew where it was and he followed you to the shelf that had the healthy cereal brand smurf requested.
that was when smurf appeared in the store, making a fuss about how she couldn't find andrew and asking why he was taking so long. she even apologized to you on his behalf for bothering you. andrew frowned at her and her treatment of him, as though he wasn't a grown adult who could handle himself.
smurfs infantilization of andrew didn't sit right with you either, despite having just met him, and your heart immediately went out to him.
the next time you saw andrew you bumped into each other at the hardware store. he was picking up a bunch of things and you were looking for lightbulbs. you commented that he seemed to know his way around the store and asked if he could help you. you watched him stand up straighter, suddenly more sure of himself as he set off on this task for you, leading you to the lightbulbs.
the two of you worked your way through a conversation, you sticking to mostly 'yes' and 'no' questions to make it easier for andrew to answer. it's not that he needed anything dumbed down, he clearly understood everything you were saying, but open ended questions were harder to answer without words. when you both got to the cash, andrew paid for your lightbulbs despite your light protest, and he joined you on your walk to the diner you worked at after you invited him for lunch.
soon it became a routine that andrew would come to the diner and sit in your section and order something by pointing at the menu and you'd chat with him in between orders. he'd walk you to your car after your late shifts, and came to your apartment more than once to fix the pipes or help build some furniture.
you recognized that andrew liked being treated like a normal person and he definitely liked feeling useful. you saw how other people treated him, giving him a wide berth as they walked past or talking behind their hands to each other after he refused to speak. andrews quietness wasn't disturbing to you, you actually found it calming. despite never speaking a word, he was still extremely communicative with his facial expressions, if people bothered to pay attention.
you also felt very heard by him. he always looked at you, always let you know he was listening. you felt comfortable with andrew and it was clear he was comfortable with you.
that became especially clear when he showed up on your doorstep, bloody and bruised. you pulled him inside and got him to your bathroom for some untrained medical assistance. it was just some cuts and scrapes, looking worse than they actually were, but he let you remove his shirt to inspect the shallow cuts on his side.
you did you best to hide your shock at the scars on his chest. some were easy to decipher - bullet wounds, possible knife slashes - but other long scars left you with questions. you tended to his wounds but the sight of the scars pulled at your heartstrings.
was this why he didn't speak? did something so horrible happen to him that it scarred his body and drove him to be silent?
andrew noticed you glancing at the scars, so you asked if you could touch them. he nodded and you guided your fingertips gently over the raised skin, trailing along reverently as if your touch could soothe the pain, the violence that had been inflicted.
andrew watched you closely. he saw how you looked at him, without pity, without fear or disgust. for once in his life andrew didn't feel like a monster, like a horrifying creature that struck fear into people. he was so used to people turning away from him, ignoring him like he wasn't there, or pulling away when they saw all of him. you were the first to reach out and hold on and not let go.
you weren't scared of him. his silence wasn't disturbing. you didn't force him to talk or talk down to him like he was a child or get angry when he didn't speak. you liked him just the way he was.
so when you looked back up at andrew and apologized - apologized! - for what happened to him and that no one was there to protect him or defend him, andrew couldn't fight the way your name pushed its way up his throat. your name passed his lips, his voice rough and gravelly from a lack of use. you startled and then smiled, bright and big and all for him. the warmth of your smile beckoned him closer and andrew leaned in and you met him halfway. he kissed you gently, carefully, and he finally felt like andrew again.
ever since the serum had been injected into bob’s veins, everything had shifted.
it didn’t happen all at once, not like the movies promised. no, it was gradual, unnerving in its subtlety. the first thing he noticed was his sight. the world seemed sharper, edges more defined, and colours deeper and richer. he could read signs from blocks away, pick out the individual feathers on a bird mid-flight, or catch the twitch of an eyelash in someone across the room. at first, he thought he was imagining it, some placebo effect. but it only intensified.
then came the hearing.
he remembered the exact moment it hit him. he was sitting at the far end of the common room, alone, pretending to read, when he heard two of valentina's employees whispering at the other end. their voices were low and hushed, the kind of whisper meant to be private. but to bob, it was as clear as if they were right next to him. every word, every inflection. he could even hear the nervous swallow between sentences. it wasn’t just what they said; it was what they meant. the anxiety in their tone, the subtle shift in their breathing, the heartbeat that fluttered just a little faster when one of them lied.
he could no longer tune the world out, not really. every sound, every movement, every flicker of light or scent in the air felt amplified, pressing against his awareness all at once.
and though it made him powerful, it also made him restless. he was hyperaware. always alert, always listening.
especially when it came to you.
his senses were a symphony, and you were the constant note threading through every movement, every breath. whether you were near or far, awake or dreaming, he felt you in ways he couldn’t explain.
even when you weren’t in the room, he was attuned to your presence. the soft rhythm of your footsteps down the hallway, the particular cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought, the slight creak of the door when you entered another room — he noticed it all. he listened for you like instinct, like ritual.
your scent reached him before your voice ever did. that perfume you wore seemed to linger in every corridor, haunt every doorway. it wrapped around him like a memory, one that clung to the back of his throat and refused to leave.
your room was right next to his, a simple coincidence that became bob’s quiet obsession. the walls weren’t particularly thin, but they didn’t need to be. not for him. ever since the serum rewired his body, it took almost no effort to hear you, to tune in like your life was a frequency only he could pick up.
you didn’t have to be doing anything special. the ordinary was more than enough. you could be vacuuming, humming some tune off-key beneath your breath, and he’d still be listening like it was something sacred. the gentle thud of drawers opening and closing. the soft drag of hangers being pulled off the rack. the rhythmic pat of your feet on the rug as you moved around folding laundry or brushing your hair — he catalogued all of it.
but at night, that was when he listened the hardest.
when the tower was finally quiet. when the hum of voices and the click of boots had gone still. when only the moon dared cast its pale light through your curtains, then he’d lie still, eyes open in the dark, and listen.
and tonight, was no different.
he sat in his bed, spine pressed against the cool metal of the headboard, the room dim save for the soft glow of the moon spilling through the half-closed blinds. one hand rested on his cock, fingers moving in quick, desperate strokes. his other hand clenched weakly in the sheets, as though grounding himself.
he could hear you in the room next to him. could hear your quiet whimpers into your palm, could hear your fingers dipping in and out of your pussy, the lewd sounds it was making. hell, he could smell how wet you were.
god, that scent was burnt into his memory.
he had caught it once, faint and lingering, on a pair of your panties while you were away on a mission. he hadn’t meant to. at least, that’s what he told himself. but the moment it hit him, something inside him shifted.
it was warm, sweet, unmistakably you. from that moment on, he couldn’t forget it. couldn’t stop chasing it, craving it, thinking about it. it wasn’t just desire; it was obsession.
through it all, he listened, eyes shut tight, jaw tense, trying to pretend it was your hand instead of his. that it was your fingers teasing him, your touch coaxing out the ache he’d been carrying since the first time you smiled at him.
he imagined your thumb brushing over the sensitive tip and imagined the way you'd whisper his name in that soft, breathy tone that already lived in his head. he brought his own fingers to his mouth, sucking them in a daze, pretending they were yours, letting fantasy blur the lines of reality.
but it was the sounds that undid him most. the delicate whimpers, barely there, but so clear to him. each breathy moan sent a jolt through his spine, every soft whine feeding his need. and when your breath hitched — when your fingers must’ve circled your clit just right — he nearly came undone at the thought of what you were doing only a wall away.
but he held himself back.
he could tell you were close. it was the way your breath hitched, the subtle change in rhythm, and the quiet urgency in your touch. he knew every sound you made by heart now, and the slight shift in your whimpers was enough to tell him you were teetering.
still, he waited.
every muscle in his body was tight with restraint. the ache was unbearable, but he refused to let himself finish before you. his fingers were still in his mouth, teeth pressed into the pads just to ground himself, to keep the soft sounds of your name from slipping out. if he let it happen too soon, if he gave in before you, it would ruin everything.
then it happened, that sound. that desperate little moan, unmistakably yours, the one he’d memorised from dreams and half-lucid fantasies. it hit him like lightning.
only then did he let go.
his back arched slightly, breath catching in his throat as release hit him hard and fast. it came in warm, urgent waves across his stomach, leaving him gasping, shaking with the force of it — all from the sound of you, just on the other side of the wall.
one day, bob thought, he wouldn’t have to eavesdrop through the wall anymore. one day, he'd kneel in front of you and beg for you to use him in whatever way you pleased.
l've like lost my voice from the New Years Eve party I was at AND I'm at work, but the Jack Abbot brain rot never stops.
Also, I might be making a New Year's Eve mini fic for Roommate!Reader and Nurse!Reader bc I'm insane like that 😛
a bit of a TW! The beginning mentions blood and a brief description of a gash on your arm
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Imagine like Roommate!Reader is saved as something sweet on Jack's phone and they texted him as he was like showing Robby or Dana something and he doesn't think much of it but everyone else is saved on his phone like:
Robby (ED)
Dana (ED)
Shen (ED)
Mom
Sweetheart [or some other nickname]
And no one says anything, but if you ever call Jack, he drops everything he's doing. He legit could be elbow deep in a patients chest and he won't care bc it's you and you never call unless it's something important.
And then maybe you come in one day to The Pitt with blood dripping down the length of your arm covered alongside a wet towel.
"Hi! l'm sorry, I don't mean to bother, but it appears l've lost the ability to handle a knife and sliced halfway down my arm." You smile at the receptionist. She glances at the bloody towel that covers your hand and arms. Blood dripping farther down your elbow.
"Okay. Yeah. Come through those doors!" She ushers as you're all but shoved through the doors. You look at a nurse who tries to escort you so you can sit-
"What are you doing here?" Jack quickly crosses the room. He's all up in your space with a frown on his features. He lacks the ability to remember what personal space is when he's near you. The nurse blinks at him and then down to you as if realizing something
A beat passes before her eyes widen. "Your Mrs. Abbot?!" She exclaims, and suddenly, every head in the ED snaps in your direction. One nurse finds an empty room and all but ushers you in it with Jack pressed to your side. He's gentle with you and blocking you from getting surrounded by other people with his body.
"What happened? Why didn't you call me?" He questioned as he sat you on a bed and carefully peels the towel off. You hiss, and he whispers, "I know. I'm sorry." As he inspects the wound.
"I was trying to cook some dinner, and the knife slipped while I was cutting potatoes. I didn't want to bother you while you were working. It's just a gash, Jack." You mumbled as you glanced at him as he gently placed your arm down onto a little table so he could clean and stitch up the wound.
"Bother me, I don't care. Next time you get hurt, you call me. What am I supposed to do if you suddenly croak at the apartment." His brows furrowed as he began numbing the area around the wound. as he looked at you and shook his head. You saw a few nurses peak into the room curiously. "I hadn't realized I was famous."
He lets out a huff as another nurse walks into the room hesitantly. "Mrs. Abbot?" You glance up at her, and Jack watches you easily react to his last name as if it was your own. She glanced down at your arm and finally seemed to register that Jack was there. "Oh! Dr. Abbot! I hadn't realized you were in here." She adds as Jack begins to stitch you up.
"You have to be more careful. Any deeper and you might've needed surgery." Jack sighs as he methodically sutures your wound. You nod. "Didn't mean to worry you."
"I'm always worried." You smile at him as you shake your head. The nurse glances between the two of you before she gulps and holds up more gauze.
"Um... I've brought gauze for you to take home, Mrs. Abbot-"
"We have some at home. I'll ensure she keeps it out of water." Jack snaps as he begins to wrap your arm up. Brows furrowed. "I'll re-check the wound once we get home."
He didn't let you leave alone. Instead, he made you stay in the ED to keep an eye on you.
When Robby finally walks in for shift change, Jack comes and gets you. He walks you to his car while huddling near you to make sure you were okay.
The gossip Jack had to deal with when he got back to work the following night was immense. Everyone had been talking about you and him, AND how he acted around you.
Who would've thought Jack Abbot was such a caring man towards his wife roommate.
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I saw so many of you guys love Roommate!Reader, so I decided to write more
If any of you want to be tagged when I post about Roommate!Reader or any others, let me know in the comments!! 😛
