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Keepsake - Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Heliophilia - Simon Riley/female reader
Like Real People Do - Simon Riley/female reader - hospital au
Raspberry Girl - Captain Simon Riley/female reader
I don't do tag lists - my masterlists are kept up to date.
Ghost/Soap/female reader
4k words - AO3
Warnings-tags: Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, nurse!reader, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst, Johnny is a flirt, Simon is a basketcase.
You meet your new patient, and his ghost.
“Johnny.”
He blinks.
There’s so much noise now, an overload of sensation ringing between his ears. Ripping and tearing, shouting, booming. The night lights with blue and green explosions, whistles of rockets singing through the sky.
He blinks again.
“Johnny, stay with me.” Simon’s calling to him, hands firm against his belly. “Eyes open, Sergeant.” There’s fear there, terror drenching each syllable. White-hot, mind-numbing pain radiates from where a palm presses against his wound, gaping hole torn through his stomach, river of blood spilling from his body. Pint by pint flows freely from him to the dirt.
He’s never seen Simon like this before, the whites of his eye gleam like bone. Terrified. Frantic.
It must be bad. He must be dying.
As he blinks, Simon slowly disappears, morphing into someone else, eyes and nose molding into another’s, Price’s face taking the place of his partner’s without preamble. Fire douses the air, red and purple explosions dancing above his head like a halo. Angelic light, falling from heaven to earth, just to take him away.
Fire and blood. Fitting end for a Catholic, he supposes.
Gaz yells something into a radio. A fruitless effort.
“Si.” He tries to reach, tries to pull him close, but his arm is dead weight, along with the rest of him. “Ah love ye. Tell- tell her, Ah love-”
“Stop.” The word is barked over another ricochet. “Lay still. You’ll tell him yourself.”
“Simon.”
“No, Johnny. You don’t get to say goodbye. Not yet.”
Hospitals are dreadful places.
For most people, hospitals hold the memories of the worst moments in their lives, loss of loved ones, loss of self, painful injuries, frightening medical procedures, or mistreatment by medical professionals. The sanitized, whitewashed walls and off-white linoleum even have a certain scent, a smell that people associate with fear, discomfort, pain. It's globally accepted that hospitals are not well liked. They're not popular or particularly enjoyable. No one wants to go to the hospital.
But to you, the hospital is everything.
It’s where you spend a large amount of your time awake, willingly choosing to be here over anywhere else. Picking up odd shifts on different units, offering to cover for coworkers, staying late or coming in early whenever it's needed. It's your place. Your only place. It's where you make connections, where you're good at something, where you can be seen but never noticed. It’s what you dedicate your life, your time to. It’s what you cling to. It’s where you find your own peace, your own solace. Where you can let go of everything at home and focus on what you’re good at, caring about your coworkers, honing your skills, taking care of your patients. It’s yours. A place where you’re sheltered, where you can be yourself and not have to look over your shoulder, or keep your voice down, or mince your words. Somewhere you know what to expect, where you can predict, most days, the outcome of most things. Where you can feel in control. Its consistent, solid. It’s your safety. Your sanctuary. Nothing can hurt you here.
It's everything to you.
The elevator dings, announcing its arrival, and you curl your hands around your coffee out of habit, warming your palms.
“Good morning?” The friendly face inside greets you, nodding towards your tall mug, steam wafting from the top, hot and fresh from the café. They're a rad tech, you're pretty sure. Day shift. Parker, maybe?
The elevator is always the same. Hellos, goodbyes, floor to floor. No one bemoans their outcomes or tallies their losses here. No one celebrates their successes or accomplishments either. It stays void, unfeeling, unknowing, except for the comings and goings.
“Hey, yeah. Good morning. Good night?”
“Oh yeah, definitely.” They agree, and you bounce on your toes, stretching the front of your new sneakers, trying to get the bridge across the tops of your feet to loosen a little.
“Have a good rest of your day.” You give them a smile, and then hop off, ready to start your morning, as most of this side of the hemisphere gets ready for bed.
“You too.”
“And room two sixty-eight is stable, sedated, for now, but he bottomed out less than hour ago, so keep a close eye. I haven’t had a chance to orient him either, so give it a go, if you can.” Mal taps her passcode into the tablet with one eye closed, spine slowly relaxing downward with exhaustion. “Thank you again. For covering. I wasn’t about to be stuck on another long swing because Alexis decided not to grace us with her presence.” She rolls her eyes, and you incline your head in response, shrugging her off. Mal saved your ass six ways to Sunday when you were a baby nurse, and you’d do just about anything for her, and coming in when your coworker decides she wants to be a slag doesn't even count, considering you prefer to be here anyway.
Shift change bustles down and up the floor, night shift coming on, days and others leaving. You make polite small talk with everyone, since you don’t know them as well. It’s their Friday. Tomorrow is your Monday; you’re just picking up. Everyone is thrilled to have you though, including the charge nurse, and you allow yourself to sink into the ups and downs of their conversation, back and forth about weekend plans, their kids, their relationships, their issues.
In a group like this, you're seen. Not noticed.
Just the way you like it.
“Oh!” Mal calls out, breezing by the pit with her bag slung over her shoulder, watered down iced coffee in her grip.
“Go home.” You chide, and she sucks in a breath before opening her mouth again.
“I am, but one last thing-“
“Malaya. I got it.”
“I know, I know but this isn’t in the chart. Two sixty-eight, he’s military. There are three others here with him, two kind lurking in the hallway, and his partner is in his room, refusing to go home. He’s…weird. Got special permissions to bypass visiting hours.” She raises an eyebrow. “But they’re all quite fit. Caused a bit of a… stir.” Great. The last thing you needed in the ICU is a stir of any kind. You needed it calm. Peaceful.
“Okay, got it. Thanks. Now shoo.”
You check your email, skimming with speed, skipping over anything HR related, starring skills updates to look back at later, and casually replying to a request for a float to the PACU another day this week- Hi! I’d love to pick up a few hours if I can arrange it. What time are you needing? Before moving onto checks for your patients (too many, if anyone asked your opinion- which they wouldn’t, because why would administration want to ask a nurse their opinion on anything, right?) ensuring that everyone is in good shape, stable, relaxed, resting, or even better, fully sedated. Two of your patients are on vents, and you check in with the RT on shift before heading down the hall to your last, first stop of the day.
Two sixty-eight.
Two men are slumped over and asleep in the hallway chairs outside the room, arms folded, thighs spread wide, chins tucked to chest. One of them younger, probably closer to your age, chiseled jawline akin to Adonis, the type of rich beauty that would make anyone do a double take, and an older, albeit not by much, muscled, broad chested man with a distinguished moustache curling above his lip, eyes hidden beneath the rim of a hat.
These must be the guys causing the stir.
You stop outside the slider of two sixty-eight, drawing a deep breath before knocking and then pulling the slider, fogged glass parting to reveal your patient asleep, sedated, in the bed, and his partner, a hulking mass who sits at attention by his side. He’s broad, clad in black sweats, heavy arms and straight back showcasing his size- massive. The sweatshirt hides definition but judging by the appearance of the two in the hallway and your patient, you’d guess this guy was just as fit. He looks uncomfortable, body too big for the chair, brow creased with worry overtop the black cloth mask that covers his nose and mouth.
There’s something, in his eyes. Something devastated. Something you’ve seen before, in people who sit vigil like this, preparing for the worst, praying for the best, and something else, something that you recognize, but rarely see inside these walls. Something dark and severe, foreboding, even with part of a handsome face peeking out over the mask.
He's already half lost to his grief.
He could be a ghost.
“Hi.” You whisper your name with a small smile and point to your identification tag. “I’m the overnight nurse.” You imbue the words with sweetness, kindness, but he doesn’t respond, just traces you from head to toe and gives a perfunctory nod. It’s not abnormal for a patient’s loved ones to be less than warm, especially to the graves nurse, the one who ends up interrupting their sleep at odd hours of the night, the one who’s usually here when the worst happens. You never take it personally. You’ve sat in that chair before. You’ve known the pain of this heartache, the way their hearts are cleaving in two, one half desperate to stay beating, the other begging to be lowered in a grave alongside their loved one.
You give the silent man an opportunity to speak when you step up to your patient’s monitor, and then motion to the man in the bed.
“This is John? Mr. MacTavish?”
John MacTavish.
You’ve already read his chart back to front, memorizing his labs, his last vitals check, going over the scope of his procedure from this afternoon, and the tentative plan for the morning.
He’s a mess. Collapsed lung, hemothorax. Broken ribs, internal bleeding. Perforated liver. Broken wrist. Lacerations all over his body. Third degree burn on the entirety of his lower right quadrant. Shattered femur. Fractured hip. Triaged and treated in the field with less than stellar medical care. Came off the medevac and went right into surgery that lasted nearly ten hours long.
Lucky to be alive.
“Johnny.” He corrects, his Manchester accent sharp, rough. You type it into the chart, making a note that Johnny is the preferred name, over John, and duck down to check the bag that’s attached to his foley catheter. The man across from you tenses but doesn’t say anything, tracking your every movement like he’s nervous you might harm your patient.
“I’m just going to check this dressing. I would prefer not to wake him, so I’ll be as gentle as I can, okay?” You explain, motioning to the wrapped portion of his body. He doesn’t respond, just sits still as stone as your fingers nimbly move his gown to survey the would and it's dressing before putting everything back in place. You’re quick once you’re satisfied that it looks okay, tucking the blanket back in around him, careful not to jostle where his leg is immobilized, wrapped in gauze and elevated. “I know this has probably been a very frightening and difficult time for you.” You tell the man in the chair with a whisper. “If you need anything, have any questions, concerns, I’m here. For both of you. I’ll be here at least four, five nights a week as long as he’s on this floor, so we’ll get to know one another.” When he still doesn’t say anything, you try to fight the awkward feeling that’s vibrating up your spine. Okay, he clearly doesn’t want to talk to you. That’s fine.
Your patient groans. His partner startles, body jolting, and then he’s on his feet, leaning over the bed, eyes searching, anticipating. He looks so… unsure. Worry etches across his face as he waits, and his hand hovers without purpose above the bed, flailing in the air like he doesn’t know what to do.
You stand back for a moment. Your patient, Johnny, will mostly likely be lucid for the first time in who knows how long, and you’d like a chance to orient him, let him realize his partner is here with him, tell him he’s going back in for surgery in the morning, before giving him some more pain medication.
The monitor beeps, signaling an increase in his heart rate, respiration, spiraling upwards until-
“Johnny?” The question is hopeful, nervous, and your patient grunts, tongue darting out to lick his lips before they crack open.
“Simon.” The name is a whisper, heavy with relief, and you make a mental note. Johnny and Simon. Room two-sixty-eight. “Whit happened?”
“You’re in the hospital.” Simon explains, anxiously glancing at you. “Can I… can I touch him?”
“Of course. Carefully.” He lowers his face to Johnny’s so slowly, so gently your heart skip a beat, tapping their foreheads together cautiously.
"Yer here." Johnny whispers, the fingers in his good hand barely lifting, reaching out to try to touch Simon, even though his body won't cooperate. "Thought Ah dreamed ye." You can see it, the heavy burden of love that lays between them, the thing that's brought them to this point, the thing that shines in Johnny's eyes as he tries to drink in the frame of Simon's face, tracing his features over and over, painting a picture to take with him... wherever he goes.
What is it like, to be loved like that? To be known like that? To be held in someone's heart, cherished and protected?
You had no idea, but these two did. Just one look, and you knew these two had something people all over the world would kill for.
“I'm here. I'm right here." Something wet and desperate is caught in Simon's throat, and Johnny’s lips tug into a weak smile before it fades away with a grimace, his partner straightening with a wide hand tight on the bed railing, knuckles turning white with the strength of his grip.
“Hi.” You tell Johnny your name quickly, eager to get the less important stuff out of the way and start working towards getting him some relief. “I’m your overnight nurse. How’s your pain?” He frowns in consideration before groaning.
“’s alright.”
“Don’t be brave.” Simon says, and you nod in agreement.
“I’d like to get you some relief now so you can sleep, if we can.” Pain management can be a delicate conversation with patients, and you never truly know how they’re going to respond until you get to this point for the first time. You smile down at him, and he gives you one back, sleepy and sweet, bright blue eyes peeking out beneath drooping lids.
“Bad.” He croaks, and Simon glances at you in expectation. You nod to reassure him, reassure them both.
“Alright. Let’s get you something, yeah?” You log his vitals with a few taps on the tablet. The order’s already in the chart, and you ready the dosage, turning your back to give them some privacy.
“Where’s-“
“At the Price’s.” Simon murmurs, voice low, it’s deep rumble vibrating around the room.
“Ach.” Johnny groans something out, but it’s lost to his discomfort, and you wince in sympathy, wiping the hub of his port with an alcohol swab.
“Okay. So, this should go a long way with your pain.” you tell him, disconnecting his line to replace it with the flush. Simon tenses, again, practically flinching in the chair when you approach Johnny with the first syringe of saline. His eyes crease in concentration, watching your fingers, trying to keep up with your movements. “I’m flushing the line.” You explain gently. “Then I’ll push the medication, like this,” You’re quick with your hands, swapping the syringes and then slowing down to administer the medication at the correct push rate. Simon visibly relaxes, only a fraction, after the explanation, and once you’re done, you attach a new flush. “It’s saline. Compatible with the body, we use it to make sure that all the medication is moved through the tube.” He’s focused on your movements, and you reattach the fluids line before patting Johnny’s shoulder softly. “There, all done. He should be feeling much better here in a moment or two.”
“Cheers, bonnie.” Johnny slurs, and you huff a laugh.
“I’ll be back in a half hour for a vitals check, and then after than I’ll leave you be for a while. You do have another surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning, early-“ you glance at Simon, hoping that someone came by to already talk to him, and he nods. “So, I’ll see you before then too. I’m always a click away, if you need something.” You point to the button on the side of the bed. “If either of you need anything, I’m here. Okay?”
“Whit surgery?” Johnny grunts. Simon’s jaw flexes behind the mask, but he hesitates. It’s long enough that Johnny tries to rouse himself, and you rush to answer, to settle him.
“You have a broken hip, and your femur is shattered.” Nothing like ripping the band aid off. “Orthopedics will come by in the morning to talk about the plan, but they have to go back in to continue to work on the repair.” You don’t mention that his leg is still partially open, packed for reentry in six hours, that the damage to his lung and liver took priority when he came in, and by the end of that, the swelling in his leg was too severe to continue. You’re not the doctor, so it’s not your job to advise your patient or his family of his prognosis, really. You need to keep him calm, comfortable. Alive. Advocate for him, for both of them. That’s the job. Simon can tell him what he wishes, when he’s lucid.
Johnny’s lashes flutter, and he mumbles something, fingers curling in Simon’s grip. You take your cue, checking your watch. “I’ll let you get some rest.” You enter a quick vitals check, and then turn to leave.
“Thank you.” Simon murmurs to your back, and you pause half step, head turned over your shoulder.
“Of course.”
Six hours later, you’re slipping back into the room to say good morning to a groggy, but still somewhat alert patient.
“Good morning.” You whisper, and then frown a little at where Simon is still sitting in the same spot, upright with heavy eyelids and mussed hair peeking out from the black hood. He looks like he hasn’t slept for a single moment, blue black circles shining under his eyes, stiff and uncomfortable in the too small chair.
Maybe we could get a recliner in here.
A big recliner.
“How’re we feeling this morning?”
“Alright.” Johnny grumbles.
“He’s in pain.” Simon snaps at you abruptly, insistent, and irritated, and your muscles tense instinctively before you forcibly relax them, un-bunching your shoulders from beneath your ears.
Deep breath.
Simon’s head cocks, just slightly, and then his attention is back on Johnny, two hands cradling one another, fingers intertwined like they’re afraid to let go.
“Okay, let’s see if I can get you a little bit of medication.” You pull out your phone, flicking open your work app to message his doctor. “They’ll probably order a small dosage of dilaudid, have you ever had that before?”
“Na.”
“Might make you a bit loopy. I’ll have them give it to you when you get upstairs.” You glance at Simon. “Did you get down to the café, grab something for breakfast?” He shakes his head no, and you briefly considering encouraging him before realizing it will probably go over like a lead balloon. You smile at Johnny instead. “Your partner tells me you prefer to go by Johnny?”
“Does he?” He blinks, blue eyes alight behind sleepy lids, looking over to Simon like he’s caught a kid in a cookie jar. “Aye, ah jalouse ye kin ca' me Johnny, bonnie.”
“English, MacTavish.” Simon murmurs, stroking a soft semi-circle into his arm with his thumb.
“Ye can call me Johnny, pretty girl.” He speaks slowly, dragging his consonants and vowels until he gets to the last two words, an impish smile twisting his lips.
Pretty girl.
It’s suddenly incredibly warm in this room.
You roll your eyes on instinct as you’ve trained yourself to do whenever a patient lobs a compliment or a flirtatious quip at you, but it’s usually only ever old men. Or women.
Not beautiful, sculpted Scotsmen with sleepy smiles, stunning blue eyes, and mysteriously handsome, brooding partners.
You clear your throat, self-conscious, and startle just a bit when you hear the door opening, OR team sidling through to bring him upstairs.
“Alright, well. This team will take great care of you, and I’ll see you tonight when I’m back.” You pour positivity into your words, a practice you’ve maintained during your career, thinking good things for your patients, being positive for your patients. A good attitude can go a long way, especially for patients who may have a long road ahead of them, like Johnny.
Slipping out the door, you turn your head to where Simon listens to the surgeon intently, brows lowered, nodding occasionally, and splitting his attention between the (what you’re sure is) a one-sided conversation and where Johnny is half awake in bed, a nurse and two techs busy around him, prepping for the walk and elevator ride, their hands still clutched together.
Johnny looks over, small sigh expanding across his chest, locking eyes with you for a moment. You freeze, taken aback by the clarity in his gaze, his face shifting from uncomfortable and pained into a small smile, lopsided and sweet.
You give him one back and disappear down the too-white corridor, new soles squeaking against the floor.
Badging out always twists your stomach with the same kind of dread. It's Tell-Tale Heart kind of dread, something that starts in your mind and spreads through your bones, a symptom of malignancy, sickness that ties you in knots, tips you over into dark waters with waves that break too close to the shore. It keeps you rolling your neck and shoulders over and over to release some of the tired tension that’s been building in your back, trying to relax and ease the anxiety that's building up inside you like a tea kettle.
You’re half sleepwalking, mind already wandering when your shoes squeak to a halt outside of two sixty-eight on your way to the elevator, in front of the door parted to reveal Simon sitting in the chair by Johnny’s empty bed, arms crossed, head tipped backwards.
Is he asleep?
You purse your lips and tap against the glass with your knuckle.
“Hi.” You call to no response. Probably asleep. “Simon?” you whisper his name, and once he doesn’t respond, you turn the dimmer all the way down, satisfied that he’s getting some rest. You set your uneaten banana and protein bar on the little table by the bed before sneaking away, sliding the door shut with a satisfying click.
The weather this morning, this evening, is gorgeous. The sun is a golden orange orb peeking over the horizon, spraying a myriad of colors ranging from pinks to yellows across the rooftops of the city, dipping the morning commute in an effortless glow. It feels good on your face, the warmth, and you roll the long sleeve shirt that you wear under your scrubs up to your elbows to soak it in through your forearms too, stopping to stand still for a moment, for the first time in hours, in front of the back entrance to the hospital.
In the sun, in the light, it's easy to close your eyes and pretend that you're something, somebody else. Easy to tilt your face to the light and let it wash over you, bathe you in fire, burn you clean like a witch on a pyre.
Your watch beeps, dragging your focus to where it displays the time, a stark and devastating reminder that you have to get going, and you give the hospital one last look before beginning your trek to the train.
for all of us who can't bear to read anything but CoD fanfiction (due to the 141's fat tits) do you have any all-time favs?
Such an awful, sick affliction. I made one of these lists a while back but couldn't find it so you’re in luck because I have plenty of favorites and I’m happy to share them (in no particular order. I KNOW I'm forgetting at least ten fics I've read and loved but I have a goldfish brain today, forgive me):
And please, read the tags/warnings. Your consumption is your own responsibility.
Neon Medusa
Too sweet not to share
Ghost and Red Fox
Alford plea
The Willow Maid
Exfiltration
The Arrangement
Civilian Asset
See no evil
Squeeze me I squeak
MildLimerence
Mine & Yours
Saltwater
Metanoia
to you I can admit (that I'm too soft for all of it)
white flag
blood on my shirt, rose in my hand
totally platonic
Surviving you
Dog
all that's said in the lowlight
birdsongs or advice and symphonies for your children
Happiness
songs that sound like sea foam
down to the marrow
roommate gaz
Chink in the Armour
Man-sized
Hummingbird
don't leave me locked in your heart
Listening In
Situationship-verse
The Scottish Cabin in the Woods
Spoils of War
Where Your Feet Pass
Neighborly and/or not The Rear Window
jigsaws
pictures in frames, kisses on cheeks
sirius c
Spoils
Cabin Fever / part one
lotus flower
the lies we tell
Who Dares Win
babytrap anthology
The Hard Way
Of Sea Foam and Iron
bury me beneath the basswood tree
Wicked Harvest
Tiger balm
baby blue
Keeper/Kept
Something Sweet
Stay Away
appetite
Hi Peach! In honor of the fandom waking up, do you have any longer pieces of fic you would recommend to new or returning fans? I am indoctrinating a friend, and I have run out of longer stuff (75k+) to send her. She is a massive fan of Gaz and Captain Price so far.
Hi! I don’t have a lot of recent recs because I haven’t really been reading anything except for what my mutuals are doing, but I have an old fic rec list that I’ll reblog!
Hmm I think because their lives are so inundated with safewords already (sitreps, callouts) it'd feel redundant to have a specific one between them (also I think they are DEEPLY freaks who WOULD go without)
I do think they would check in on each other in their own ways, doting and concerned...🥺
+
I can't imagine Soap ever ANNOYS Ghost, but I bet he can get under Ghost's skin a bit as they get more comfortable - a feat achievable by a scant few in his life, surely...
Out of sheer curiosity, we saw the alphas reject omega reader in the story. Can omegas reject alphas, in your mind? Reject the matehood? Would it affect an alpha, make them more aggressive or despondent?
Also your story is sooooo fucking good I love it, thank you so much for writing and sharing it!!
Yeah, I think so! In my head anyway. I definitely think an omega could reject their mates but I think it would be highly unlikely considering their programming, so to speak. It’s not in their nature. And thank you! I’m so glad you like it!
i am doing a little better! awaiting a call from the doctor tomorrow for more test results. my pain has decreased at least, which is good.
my last day of work at one of my jobs is this week, and my second job is too physically demanding for me to work until i am back to full health, so i'll be out of work for the foreseeable future which is a little frustrating.
i always hate doing this, but i thought i'd just plug my patreon if any of you are interested/able to perhaps toss a coin or two my way. it's been three weeks of nonstop doctors appointments, imaging, procedures and tests and if i think too hard about what the medical bill might be, i start to cry lol. i haven't been able to write in a long while but i do have some original works up on patreon, as well as a few chapters of an in progress simon riley x reader fic on there as well.
right now i'm just taking it one day at a time. thank you all so much for your kind comments on that other post, too. i don't have the energy to respond to them, but just know i've read every single one of them and i appreciate all of you endlessly.
I feel like ur one of the few fanfic writers that I’ve come across that does omegaverse content justice. Like,,, you GET the soft stuff the sexy stuff and the intrinsic body horror that comes along with being betrayed by your own instincts, AND you do all three usually at the same time.
💐💐💐, flowers for you
Aw thanks I’m so flattered! 🩵 I really enjoy writing it some far (and it’s going to get so much worse)
Keepsake
previous - masterlist
Ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au
Your phone is missing.
You’ve unpacked the entire duffel, taken stock of everything that Johnny grabbed from your apartment, turned the bag inside out, and you still can’t find it.
You swore, you swore, you had it with you when you left. You thought maybe you shoved it in one of the pockets when you got on the plane, but you honestly can’t remember.
You’ve been traveling for days, and everything is a bit fuzzy.
But you know you had it.
Which means…
You eye the bedroom door. You haven’t surfaced from this room, the one Johnny says is yours, all day. You’re somewhere between hiding and avoiding, unsure which one you’re leaning more towards.
It’s not like it’s a hardship. This is a nice place. The room you’re in is huge, and it has its own bathroom. Cream colored walls and gauzy floor to ceiling curtains, it’s stocked with linens, towels, toiletries, anything you would need. The king sized bed is lined with the softest pillows imaginable, and there’s every kind of blanket, from weighted to wool. It feels… homey.
The entire house does. It’s not rundown with peeling wallpaper and puke green bathroom tile like the first place. It’s not small, or decrepit, or heavily shuttered. It’s modern, bright, and warm. It feels less like a safe house, and more like a home.
“Do ye like it?” Johnny asked as he finished giving you the tour, and you had stared at him in confusion.
“I thought safe houses were supposed to be… sketchy.”
“Aye, they are. But this one is special. Better for a long term stay.”
He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push, eager to create some distance, get away, try to clear the war zone that is now your mind. Two sides pushing and pulling, rationality and biology, instinct and anger, clashing again and again, trying to drown the other out. The omega inside of you is screaming, crying, desperate to claw her way out and drag you out the door and down the hall, put you right into their laps.
These men are dangerous, your relation to them might get you killed, yet your instinct only knows them as something holy, something safe. Protectors. Alphas. Mates.
It’s torture, being here.
And worse… you think it’s making you sicker.
Your suppressants and blockers are working overtime, overloading your system, trying to compensate for the distance between you and your mates, the one that has been so drastically shortened. There’s a new hollow feeling in your chest, one that aches, it’s emptiness like a wound that won’t heal. A scrape that won’t scab.
A craving that can never be satisfied.
It’s a complication you were hoping to google, with your phone.
That you can’t find.
You take a deep breath. You know you have to face them, see them, you know you can’t hide up here forever. You have to live, or at least try to, during this entire… situation.
And in order to do that-
you need your phone.
Simon is in the living room when you come down the stairs. He’s alone on the couch, looking down at his phone, and you try not to react to the way he’s sitting, thighs spread wide, sweatpants and sweatshirt clinging to his bulk. He looks relaxed, so at odds with the intensity you’re used to, the laser focus that never lets up.
It scrambles your brain for a moment. Basal need wins out and the room turns a little hazy, a little blurred on the edges, too colorful and loud, and you swallow against a rising tide of conflict, trying to keep your head above water, trying to maintain some sense.
You hear your name. He’s standing a pace away from you. So close his scent invades your senses, and you unconsciously breathe it in, trying to soak up the sea salt and leather just like a greedy omega would. “What is it?”
Stop.
What are you doing?
“Um, I…” You start breathing with your mouth to block him out. “I’m looking for my phone?” It’s not supposed to be a question. It’s supposed to be a demand, but it slips weakly from your tongue. You focus on a piece of lint in the middle of his chest, purposefully avoiding his eyes.
“I have it…” he says slowly, stepping back. He motions to the couch. “Sit.”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just…”
“Sit.” It’s not a bark, not quite. Just teetering on the edge, just enough for you to clench your jaw as you do what he says.
You practically sink into the couch. It’s oversized, overstuffed, too soft. It’s the kind of couch you could spend all day in when it’s rainy, reading or watching a movie. The entire living room is the same. There’s a large tv over the fireplace, and a smaller couch perpendicular to the one you’re on the now. It’s a big room, but somehow still cozy. It has that same homey, lived in feeling as the rest of the house.
“I have your phone.” He says, sitting a few cushions away from you, turned entirely in your direction. You feel warm under his attention, like you’re basking in the sun. It’s unbearable.
“Okay.” You wait, expecting more. Expecting him to say, I’ll go get it, or be right back.
He says none of those things.
“You’ll get it back once this is over and dealt with.” Your mouth drops open.
“What? No. I need my phone.” This feels very nonnegotiable to you. Very. But he only shakes his head.
“Your phone is not secure. It doesn’t take much for someone else to have complete access to it, see through the camera, know where you are. It’s a danger to you, to us, right now.” Your pulse pounds between your ears. “You can have it back as soon as we’ve sorted this mess and eliminated the threat.”
“B-but… my… I have to call work. And my friends, I have to tell my friends-”
“I already called the diner, and you can text, call, whatever you need to do from our phones.” You think of Sarah and Alex, the only two people you really have. You went no contact with your family years ago, and outside of a few casual friends from the diner, Sarah and Alex made up your entire social circle. Were they wondering where you were? Were they worried?
“No. No, you can’t just… you can’t just take my phone.” His jaw flexes, and some of that softness you noticed ebbs away.
“I can. I am. It’s for your safety.”
You hate him.
He abandoned you. He rejected you. He humiliated you.
You shoot to your feet. His scent spikes, worn leather turning sun kissed, soothing. You grit your teeth.
“I want it back.” You hiss, a wildfire of anger flooding you like molten lava.
“No.” He stands to face you. Relaxed. Open palmed. At ease while you’re practically vibrating with rage, the feeling so overwhelming that you can feel it in the tips of your fingers.
“Yes.”
“‘m not doin’ this with you.” You expect him to bark. To give you an order, but instead, he does something entirely different.
He moves.
It happens so fast, too fast for your brain to understand, too fast for the rational side of you to step out of the way.
Instead, his palm lands on the nape of your neck and it’s big, warm, secure.
Safe. Your instincts scream. Mate.
You lock up. Once you’re finally caught up, processed, you get caught between trying to take a step back and turning stiff as a board, frozen in his grip.
“Easy,” he rumbles, the tone of his voice turning into something a shade close to gentle, something you didn’t know existed. And just like that, just one simple word, blunts the sharp edge of your anger.
But it doesn’t stop there.
He makes a sound low in his chest, a warm, coaxing thrum that your omega knows before you do.
Subharmonics.
It almost brings you to your knees.
“Enough now,” he murmurs, guiding you in closer, “We’re not your enemy, dove.”
Alpha.
You’re slipping away, losing the fight to your hindbrain, to who you are underneath it all.
He moves backwards, taking you with him, one step at a time, guiding you, urging you to move with him without forcing it.
You put your hands up, hold them out like you mean to push him away.
No, that is what you mean.
You mean to push him away, tell him not to touch you, not to talk to you, not to… alpha you… but his body is warm under your palms and his subharmonic rumble is like a siren’s song, sinking into your bones and turning you to mush.
“Don’t.” You whisper. It’s more for yourself than it is for him.
Don’t do this, don’t be weak, don’t give in.
Your protest doesn’t stop him, doesn’t prevent him from pulling you inward, closer, close enough you’re overwhelmed by him, the blockers and suppressants doing nothing to drown him out, sea salt and tobacco, sun warmed leather invading your senses. Even holding your breath, he’s there,
“No.” You croak, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge your protest. His arms are rebar as they come around you, force you into his chest.
“Settle,” the pressure increases, around your body, in your head, the careful construction of your resistance, your anger, starting to disintegrate right before your very eyes.
It’s not fair.
“You don’t need to fight us,” he continues, “we’re jus’ trying to protect you.”
“I don’t want this.” You choke out. “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home.” Home, home, home. You’re stuck on it, stuck on trying to get back to a shit hole apartment in a shit hole town.
“That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is keeping you safe.” Nothing about this is safe. Being trapped in a house with mates who rejected you isn’t safe, it’s hell.
Simon’s stopped trying to soothe you now, pheromones and subharmonics dialed down to a low hum, something still present, but not as strong.
The floorboards creak at your back and you stiffen in response, turning to find Johnny watching you and Simon from the edge of the room.
He doesn’t look upset, or jealous, or anything you’d expect. Only mildly concerned, brows barely creased in the middle.
“Everythin’ alright?” You shake your head, but Simon nods.
“She was gettin’ a bit worked up.” You stare at him, incredulous. Worked up? Like you’re some hysterical omega who can’t control herself.
“Ah. We cannae have that.” Simon’s grip slackens, and you take the opportunity to step away, trying to separate yourself.
“I wanted, I want my phone.” Johnny nods. It’s sympathetic, and understanding, and you hate it. Like you hate him. Like you hate them both.
“Sorry dove. It’s not s-”
“Safe.” You finish for him bitterly. “Yeah I heard.” You pull all your resolve together and turn away, aimed at the stairs, seeking your escape.
Neither of them stop you. There are no protests, not as you climb back up to the second floor and run down the hallway, and not as you slam your door like a petulant child.
It’s only once you’re curled up under a heap of blankets that you finally let go, and bury your face in a pillow with a sob.
It’s late when the knock comes.
“Dove?” It’s Johnny, his voice soft and smooth on the other side of your door, patiently waiting. It wakes you up, something inside you alerting to his presence, even in your sleep.
You don’t answer. He sighs.
“Ye didnae come down for dinner, an’ we dinnae want ye to be hungry.” You drag the covers up over your head, sitting in silence until he breaks it. “I brought ye some food, I’ll just leave it outside yer door. Try to eat somethin’, please.” There’s a pinch in your heart, a chord struck. Alphas are hardwired to care for their omegas. Ensuring you’re eating is not out of the ordinary, and you wonder if they hadn’t rejected you, hadn’t left you, it would be different, you would enjoy Johnny bringing you food.
But you can’t. Even though your hindbrain screams and tries to drag you towards the door to him, you dig in your heels and resist with all you have.
He knocks again.
You meet it with silence.
Finally, after minutes, he gives up and leaves, taking the wave of cardamom and black tea with him, and you slip back into oblivion, closing your eyes to escape into sleep.
You have no idea how comforting it is to see your posts again. Even if they're not chapters or story related, just reading your thoughts on stuff and things happening in your life makes me enjoy and want to open tumblr more, So thank youuu ( I'm sorry for being sappy but i missed you sue me)
😭 ahhh I love you, you’re so sweet! I definitely have off and on seasons with tumblr but I love being here with you all. Feels like we have a little community and that’s really special 🩵 I’m happy you’re here!
