[saintquincy]

Hiya! I'm Saint Quincy, I'm in my 30s and I've been in fandom for longer than I care to think about. I write mostly poly!141, and will reblog recs and fan art.

Links: fic list - AO3 - tips - Bsky

Rules: MDNI, no blank blogs, no AI or chatbots creators

[cheekyvank]

forgive me father for i have zoomed in on some images

[saintquincy]

nonstop making pinterest boards for my new original fic.

[lefttoesucker]

Behold. Helicopter boy be upon ye

[mitrielle]

Dangerous waters

[saintquincy]

everyone is updating their fics and i have no time to read them all 😫

[ceilidho]

TWO OF CUPS | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

You can’t remember wanting anything with ease. Certainly not the man of your dreams.

or: the anxious avoidant au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Mildly Dubious Consent, Anxious Avoidant Character, Coffee Shop AU, Strangers to Lovers

You can’t remember wanting anything with ease.

It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.

Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”

That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).

Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether. 

It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.

But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold. 

And it happens that way with your heart too.

There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine. 

It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.

The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.

You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.

They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them. 

Then, to him. 

He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down. 

Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence. 

Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun. 

You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him. 

It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again. 

And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time. 

That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he. 

It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—

It grows.

It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat. 

You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache. 

He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy? 

Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee. 

You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.

You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day. 

Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.

What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you. 

It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side. 

“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”

He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.

You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present. 

That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it. 

And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips. 

The only problem is—

Now he knows who you are.

You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger. 

But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in. 

It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.

Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.

His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could. 

“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.  

You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return. 

“Sorry?” you croak.

He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”

You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”

You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.

For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way. 

The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out. 

And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle. 

Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable. 

You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.  

Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.  

His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you. 

At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.

Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it. 

“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?” 

That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress. 

“For real?” you repeat.

“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you. 

“Oh.” 

You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu). 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died. 

It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat. 

You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely. 

The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.

But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land. 

What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?

Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection. 

But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous. 

You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you. 

Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town. 

To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory. 

Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.

You have to shut your mouth before you—

“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. When was your last date? 

Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”

He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight. 

You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch. 

What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch. 

He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design. 

“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm. 

“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now. 

You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.

The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose. 

You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs. 

There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.

He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts. 

He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy. 

If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat. 

That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that. 

He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory. 

Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread. 

You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons. 

When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—

He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again. 

“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching. 

“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”

“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks. 

Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut. 

They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface. 

Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.

He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath. 

Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels. 

He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—

You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him. 

What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.

“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day. 

Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly. 

When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin. 

“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.

And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”

“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you. 

“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling. 

And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do? 

You nod. 

“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.” 

When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone. 

You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up. 

So be it. 

What use is there in protecting something that’s already his?

[dato-georgia-caucasus]

Richard Laeton - Morning Wait

[orteil42]

given the current climate this pride especially i feel i must mention that i love my trans friends, i stand with trans people in the fight against transphobic legislation and those who would enforce it, and this blog is not a good place for you to be if you do not vibe with that

[druap]

old strawpage request

[saintquincy]

eeeeeeeee going to see the backrooms!

[astheriiiart]

Happy pride month 🌈✨️

[jeleynai]

I managed to finish this just in time! Almost missed MerMay..

Thank you to the lovely person on Patreon that requested a Mer version of the boys <3 I only did Ghost for now but I had SO much fun <3

As always, early access, WIPs and other goodies are on my Patreon!

[saintquincy]

today's research includes looking up with wheat and oat is harvested...

[saintquincy]

help comes from unexpected alphas (pt. 2)

ghoap x gn!reader | 6K words

tags: sickfic, omegaverse, a/b/o, scentmatching, semi established ghoap, mostly fluff, more angst

Question: what happens when an omega with covid who has lost their sense of smell crosses paths with their scent match?

AN: i said this would be a one-shot but I was wrong

Part One | AO3 | Tips | other fics

"Do I need to be sittin' for this conversation?"

Price's voice over the phone gives nothing away. Given the time of day Simon knows John's in his office, blessedly still in the country and not out in the field since he answered. Simon isn't sure he would be able to work up the confidence to have this conversation a second time.

He's not entirely sure how he managed it this time. It could be the lack of sleep wearing down his defenses. You're on the mend, your fever started to come down this evening, that smell of tart oranges slowly sweetening into something that sticks to the tongue. That alone was enough to have the alpha ready to do things he had never imagined himself doing.

"You 'ave the time to do this in person?" Simon asks, voice low.

You're in the bed, tucked into Johnny's side while the other alpha scrolls on his phone, eyes drooping as he fights off sleep. Simon knows him well enough to know he's putting on a strong facade for you. Simon also knows that Johnny has been lying about the level of discomfort he has been feeling from the moment they left base.

Simon can't help the creeping flush that warms his cheeks, his neck and spreads down over his chest. The feeling of rightness, something settling in him that he never knew was unsettled to begin with.

His whole life he had relied on his instincts to keep going, keep fighting, keep being the strongest soldier on the field in order to protect his team, his pack. But now? Now he wants nothing more than to protect this feeling, this moment, this little bit of calm and peace, this thing he doesn't know how to describe.

"Give me a couple hours. I'll text you an address."

Simon agrees to meet later. It's not ideally what he wants and by the time he is parking outside of the house he found at the address John had texted he is both more nervous than before and very confused.

John has hosted the team more than once at his townhouse, a rickety old thing he had inherited from his parents. Simon knew about the little cabin he kept in Scotland. The one Johns visits when things are bad, when the older man needs to escape people and the looming pressure of their job.

It only takes one knock before John is opening the door, ushering Simon into the house. It has that stale, unlived in smell. It's sparsely furnished with odds and ends that look out of place. John wordlessly leads Simon to the kitchen, sitting at a wooden table with three mismatched chairs.

"Wot's this place?"

"It's mine, only 'ad it a few months. 'Aven't 'ad the time to do anythin' with it yet."

Simon looks around the kitchen. It's not much now, but with the right appliances it would be far better than his flat or Johnny's. It's bigger than the one John had at the townhouse.

"Wot ye need all this space for?"

John looks sheepish as he scrubs a hand over his beard, a look Simon knows well. The kind of move he makes when he's nervous. It's not common, Simon's only seen the man unsure of himself a few times in the years they have known each other.

"Thought maybe one day I'd 'ave a pack to share it with."

A pack?

The four of them have never put a label on what they are. They are a military pack, a categorization that kept them together, gave them privileges they wouldn't have otherwise. Outside of the professional though, there was an unspoken bond between them. Simon had long accepted that the 141 is the closest he would ever get to a pack, even if it isn't in the traditional sense.

Simon has never felt for John, or Kyle, what he feels for Johnny. He understands why now, that even without their scents the two were drawn to each other. There are blended packs though, where not everyone is bonded, where some members are mated and the others are just platonic.

Simon has never considered the possibility of losing John and Kyle to another pack.

"Got a 'mega waiting for ye?"

John laughs, something sardonic and self-deprecating.

"Bit old t'be chasin' after omegas. Thought Kyle might like it 'ere. Thought I might like it when my days in the field are over."

"Retirin' on us, old man?" Simon jokes.

John doesn't answer right away. He doesn't meet Simon's eyes as he sighs, his head dropping back as he stares up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath before meeting Simon's eye again.

"I'm tired. I'm tired of the endless fight, tired of the blood on my hands, tired of fighting the instincts that ride me to do more. Maybe I don't deserve a happy ending, maybe I don't deserve to rest, but I deserve a little bit of peace, maybe a bit of comfort."

Simon nods. Simon knows that he doesn't deserve a happy ending either, but he's just enough of a bastard to steal one for himself. He might not know you, but he knows Johnny, the Scot can make you happy. Fate chose you for them and Simon will make sure it sticks for Johnny. And for you.

“Goin’ t’need that paperwork ye were talkin’ ‘bout.”

John reaches down to the bag he has on the chair next to him, thumbing through it and pulling out a folder. 

Simon opens it. The paperwork is already filled out with John’s neat handwriting, all that is left to do is sign his name and then Johnny’s on the dotted line and they will be a true pack, in the eyes of the military and the government. All very official. But this paperwork is only for the two of them, a pack of soldiers. 

“Might need to redo this, ’s why I called ye,” Simon says, passing it back across the table, not commenting on the fact that paperwork is dated months before him and Johnny scent matched. 

John nods, taking the folder and replacing it with another. Simon opens it to another form, still with the same neat letters but the fields for “civilian pack member” are left blank. 

The date at the bottom of this form is today. 

“Had a feelin’, Soap had been askin’ a bunch of questions a few months back.”

“Questions?”

“Asked if I ‘ad ever been with an omega, ‘ow did you court someone, ‘ow did you explain what we do to someone you were meant to cherish? Could tell ‘e was smitten with someone. And then ‘e never brought it up again.”

“It’s new.”

Simon doesn’t know how to explain it. Isn’t ready to share it even if it is only with John.

“There’s room for you ‘ere. Always thought of you and Soap as pack.”

And there is it, the words that Simon has never been able to say himself, the words he never let himself hope to hear from John.

“Think ye can put up with Johnny’s bad ‘abit’s and worst cooking? Barely any food in the flat.”

John laughs, then tells Simon about the first time Kyle visited him at the townhouse, just the two of them. It’s easy and familiar, the two alphas talking about their budding relationships, about Johnny keeping the omega secret, about John thinking he’s too old and not good enough for Kyle. I’m selfish for wantin’ it. Simon keeps to himself the fact that Kyle has been making moon eyes at John since before the Taskforce was official. 

“Need to sign anythin’ else if we take ye up on yer offer?” Simon asks as John walks him to the door. 

“Not yet, don’t need to rush it. We can take it one step at a time,” he says with a nod to the folder that Simon has clutched in his hand. 

“Aye, thanks…for everythin’.”

“Go take care of your pack, Simon. I’ll be ‘ere when you’re ready for the next step.”

**********************************

When you wake it's to an immense but comforting warmth at your back and a rattling purr that leaves you feeling boneless. Although, that might have also been the fatigue of the fever that had burned through you. In some ways it was no different than handling a heat on your own and in other ways it was very different because there was no gnawing, unsatisfied ache left behind in both your core and your heart. 

You consider that perhaps this has been a really good fever dream, something born from dehydration and lack of food, but then the person behind your shifts and you feel the firm pressure of their body against yours.

All of his body. 

You gasp when one of their arms comes around and pulls you in close, caging you in. The fear settles in quick, the confusion, the distress. How did you get here, whose bed is this, whose body? 

Your scent is acrid, burnt oranges that surprises even you because it’s the first time you have been able to smell in days. 

But then, that isn’t the only thing you smell. It’s two different scents that wrap around each other and then you, curling through your senses until your eyes are wide, searching for the source because you know one of them. It’s the scent that haunts you, that you searched for for weeks and could never find another hint of. The sweatshirt that you shamefully kept.

"Stop squirmin', Ahm tryna sleep," a voice murmurs into your neck, their breath hot against your skin.

The feverish memories of the last couple of days come back as a flood. Blurry shapes, low voices, the warmth of bodies pressed in around yours as you fight off the fever. The kind of warmth that only comes from comfort and not from the sticky sickness you had suffered through.

"John?" you ask, even though you know it's him, you remember cuddling him.

Fuck could you be more of a mess.

"Aye, was hopin' ye wouldnae wake until Simon was back."

This time the heat that warms your face is the flames of embarrassment because you remember who Simon is and more specifically that Simon is the alpha that belongs to your sweatshirt.

Does that mean…

You wiggle in John's hold until you can roll over, coming face to face with the Scot who always seemed to be running away.

You are beyond social niceties at this point, these two men, alphas, have seen you at maybe your lowest. There is no way you don't stink, you don't remember showering at any point, you do distinctly remember tossing off the very incriminating sweatshirt in the middle of the night, the press of two warm bodies had been overwhelming. John doesn't seem to mind you based on the way he has been holding you.

You shove your face beneath his chin, his beard is grown out more than you have ever seen it, his scent clinging to his skin and permeating the rough hair. You're still stuffy as you sniff at his scent gland, but what you can pick up has your blood running hot.

John's scent is warm, the kind that heats your skin in the summer, the kind that beats down on you from blue skies. It's like tart currants eaten right from the vine, staining your fingers and lips purple. You've only ever reacted to one other scent this way…

"Match?" you murmur against his neck, gulping down his scent and melting into the rightness that's settling over you.

"Yeah, bon, yer mine now and ahm nae lettin' ye go."

John kisses the top of your head before rubbing his cheek against you.

The urge to lick his scent gland is strong. You want to drink him down. Just a little lick wouldn't hurt.

"Fuck, bon, ye keep up like that and Ahm nae goan tae be able tae control mahself."

Reluctantly you pull back, the taste of him still on your tongue.

You've never had this kind of reaction to an alpha, even the ones you've dated or shared heats with. Your heats have always been mild enough, usually a knotted dildo could get you through it but now that you've smelled John? Found the owner of the sweatshirt? You can't imagine going back to long stretches alone in your sad excuse of a nest tending to your own needs.

You keep your face tucked into John's chest as your thoughts race, your heart not far behind. What if they don't want you? Don't want a pack? It happens. Just because you are a scent matched doesn't mean they have to want you.

You're not sure you could handle that, you've been heartbroken before, you don't know you could survive rejection from your mate.

Your breaths come in short gasps as you try to calm yourself.

"Where's your friend?" you manage to ask, anything to distract yourself from your spiraling thoughts.

"Nae sure. Been out for a mo'."

The door to the flat slamming shut breaks you from the haze, enough so that you are scrambling from John’s hold and right off the edge of the bed in a tangle of blankets and limbs. You can barely hear the heavy footsteps of the other alpha as he approaches over the sound of your own heart pounding. You scent him before you see him, a salty ocean breeze, a bonfire, Simon.

“Why's the omega on the floor?”

“I—" you start but are cut off by John.

“Got a name, ye numpty. Cannae go around callin' people by their designation.”

You stare up at the other alpha. He is intimidating. So broad, larger than John, the kind of person you would cross the street to avoid and yet, you can remember him from the haze of your fever, rough fingers that touched you reverently as he helped you to eat, to drink, to walk to the bathroom. 

You also remember the shock of embarrassment at realizing that he is Riley, the Riley whose sweatshirt you had been clinging to for months. The scent match you had almost convinced yourself wasn’t real. 

Now that you are seeing him outside of the haze of your fever you are struck by his face. He isn't a handsome man, he doesn't look like those traditional alphas you see on billboards with a flawless ruggedness that comes from moisturizer and vanity workout routines. His face was carved by violence, nose clearly broken more than once, a scar that bisects his lip and pulls when he speaks, one cauliflower ear while the other is missing a piece. One honeyed eye marred by a burst blood vessel, a yellowed bruise painted across his cheek beneath it. 

Military men.

Military alphas. 

John’s use of suppressants makes sense now, why you have never gotten anything from him. 

“I—" Simon starts, Simon Riley you think as you watch him before he continues. “I apologize,” and then he says your name and you don’t think you’ve ever heard your name the way he says it. Like you are something precious. Something special. Something not broken. 

Your breath catches in your chest, the familiar anxiety bleeding in. It doesn’t matter that these are your scent matches. History has already shown you not to trust alphas, not to trust biology. Fairytales are just that, tales told to children, fantasies for other people but not for you. 

“Sorry,” the word tumbles out of your mouth but you don’t know what it is you are sorry for, just that suddenly the weight of this revelation, the fact that you let literal strangers take care of you, that you burdened them when you only knew John by name and nothing more. All of it is too much. 

“Sorry,” you repeat it, “I can’t, I don’t,” you trail off. You’re going to ruin this just like you ruin everything else. 

“Bon, yer okay, it’s okay, nae a thin’ tae worry aboot.”

But John doesn’t know, he’s only ever seen you briefly, not long enough to know about you, know what you are like. Know all the reasons they shouldn’t mate you. 

You truly don't hear him move this time, his steps are silent and without warning Simon is kneeling down beside you. His scent is calm, if your behavior has turned him off from you he gives nothing away. 

“This is a lot for you, yeah?” His voice is quiet as he asks, a whisper that washes over you, teasing you with something that feels like kindness, understanding. 

You nod because the words feel too hard. 

“‘ow ‘bout you go back t’yours, shower, change into somethin’ clean and then the three of us ‘ave a chat later.”

“A chat?”

“Not lettin’ you get away now that we found you.” 

There’s a finality to his words, a commitment that has you nodding again and letting him drag you to your feet. Showing you your clean clothes, folded into perfect piles and then stacked carefully into your laundry bag. 

Simon follows you to your apartment, leaving a grumbling John on the bed, his knee propped up. 

You promise to come back when you’re ready. He makes you say the words out loud as you stand outside the open door to your flat. It’s like he can sense your indecision, your fear, the voice in the back of your head that tells you to flee. 

As a parting gift he pulls off his jumper, the material warm between your fingers as you take it from him. 

“Can’t let you forget what’s waitin’ for ya,” he says before walking away. 

*************************************

“Cannae believe ye left the omega alone,” Johnny grumbles as he spoons extra sugar into his coffee. 

“Oh so now it’s ‘the omega’?” Simon chides him. 

“Ye ken what ah mean. What if we came on tae strong?”

Simon laughs. 

“Isnae funny.”

“Only one comin’ on strong was you from the smell of it.”

Simon leans over in his chair, fingers carding through Johnny’s overgrown mohawk and yanking him to the side. Simon’s breath is warm on Johnny's neck as the other alpha breaths him in. Johnny knows he’s looking for, that delectable bouquet of orange and honey.

“Couldn’t keep your ‘ands t’yourself?”

Johnny doesn’t bother to answer. He knows if he hadn’t been laid up, knee locked straight he would have been all over you. As it is he can barely think straight now that you’ve been here for days, your scent somehow permeating everything in a way that Simon’s hadn’t. But maybe that’s it, maybe it’s the rightness of the two of you together. The coming together that he couldn't have predicted going so well, so perfectly. 

It isn't a fluke either, the scarf had been yours, he has proof now that you are meant for him, for Simon. All that time he spent agonizing was for nothing.

Except Simon has let you slip away, has made you leave them and even though a very rational part of Johnny knows it was for the best, that you need to regroup, gain your bearings, that he can;t lock you up and keep you all to himself. He worries. Worries you will walk away. Will run away. Reject them because who wants a broken alpha.

Simon and him make sense. Simon and him are made for each other, cut from the same cloth, walking different paths in life that had them careening toward the same existence. And when the military snatched them up it did it with no remorse for the young alphas they had been.

And now what is he good for? Killing? Blowing things up with an almost unreal precision? And if his knee doesn't heal? If the doctors got it wrong? What would be do then? What could he offer you?

“Johnny?”

“Aye?”

“Asked if you wanted to eat something.”

How can he think about eating when you are somewhere else in the building, washing away his scent, washing away all of his hard work. How can he eat when you might leave them? Might decide they are too much or not enough. Not good enough. 

Johnny doesn’t realize he’s growling until Simon is yanking him back into his chest, tucking Johnny face into his neck. 

He fights the calm he finds as he’s forced to breathe in Simon’s scent. He knows what this is even if it’s always been carefully controlled by suppressants. Buried by chemical hormones. A rut. Even as he acknowledges it, the desire creeps up his spine like a wildfire threatening to pull him under. 

“Don’t you dare fall into a rut when we’re tyin’ to impress our mate.”

Our mate. 

Something about the possessiveness of how Simon says those words calms something in Johnny. He’s known Simon long enough to know that if Simon has chosen you, he’s not letting you go, not easily.

“It’s nae ever felt like this,” he whispers into Simon’s chest. 

“Never been off suppressants this long, never been surrounded by your pack either.”

Pack. 

His pack.

Joining the military had pretty much been a death sentence to any dreams a young Johnny had had of being part of a pack. But now he has Simon. And maybe if fate stayed on their side, they will have you, if you want them.

****

Your knock on their door is hesitant and comes after minutes of pacing outside in the hallway. Simon doesn't comment on that or the bitter undertone to your scent. He leads you into the flat, Johnny propped up on the sofa, his leg elevated out in front of him on a makeshift ottoman. Simon's already making a mental list of questions for John about the house, it might be a better location for Johnny's recovery but Simon doesn't want to get ahead of himself.

"Bon, ye came back?" he asks with a smile, patting the spot next to him on the sofa.

Simon doesn't think you realize it but you slot yourself in next to Johnny, despite there being plenty of space for you on the sofa. Your body leaning into his instinctually.

"I said I would," your voice is soft when you answer.

Simon swallows hard to stop the purr that threatens when he watches you playing with the hem of the jumper he had lent you.

Johnny smiles at you, but Simon can still see the tension that keeps his body stiff. It's the worry, the fear that you'll tell them you don't want this. Johnny might not think he is good enough to be your alpha but at the same time Ghost knows Johnny doesn't want to lose you. Ghost knows because he feels the same, the hollow ache in his chest when he thinks about the possibility of losing you now that he's found you?

Of losing Johnny?

"Feelin' olright? Need anythin'?" Simon asks.

You turn your gaze on him, there's a hesitancy behind that look, a fear. Simon is not unfamiliar with being a thing of nightmares, of being the thing that people fear, but the thought that he scares you scares him.

"No? Maybe something to eat? If its not a bother?"

"Och, nae a bother. Simon disnae mind, aye?"

Simon moves towards the kitchen, aware of the way your eyes track him.

Johnny whispers something to you, low enough that Simon can't make out the words, but the huff of a laugh he gets in response has some of the tension leaving Simon's shoulders. You wouldn't be asking for food, or laughing at Johnny's jokes if you were going to reject them. You didn't seem like the heartless type.

"Is Simon your new roommate?" you ask Johnny in a quiet voice.

"Nae, still workin' out the logistics, aye? All this is new."

"New?"

Simon can picture the way your brow furrows as you ask the questions, puzzling through what they are, what this is, where you fit in. It is the same furrow you had in the depths of your fever as you oscillated between burrowing into the blankets and kicking everything off. It had been a struggle for the two alphas to keep you clothed when you were determined to shed everything. But in your barely conscious state you knew enough to listen to your alphas.

It had pleased Simon more than he cared to admit. And he had studied every little expression, every little reaction, and even though you didn't seem to remember the worst of the fever, he did.

He remembered the scrunch of your nose, the furrow of your brow, the way your eyes had gone wide when you first put together that that sweatshirt you had clung to like a life vest had been his.

"Aye, mission gone too long. 'ad nae gotten a whiff of Simon before, but the moment ah did? Was like learnin' 'ow tae breathe for the first time."

"So you two aren't bonded? You don't have a pack?"

Simon frowns as he works on heating the soup he had picked up form the shops on his way back from John's. He hasn't had a chance to discuss it all with Johnny, to make a plan, to decide how they want to proceed. If it was just the two of them then Simon knew moving in with John and Gaz would be easy, it would make sense. Consolidate their funds, their resources, their time. The house was a hell of a lot better than this shithole.

"Nae, nae yet. Was bloody busy till Ah went and got my knee whacked."

"But you don't have a pack? It's just the two of you?"

There is a hesitancy in the way you ask the question. Simon worries because he has already latched onto the possibility of sharing a life with the whole pack, even if it is nothing more than platonic between the three of you, and John and Gaz. He's getting ahead of himself. He doesn't even know if you want them, let alone a whole pack and a pack house, and a whole new life.

"Nae in the traditional sense, Ah guess. We 'ave a military pack, nae bonded or anythin' like that, but we're close."

You don't say anything right away and Simon fights the urge to turn and see your face, to try and decipher what you are thinking before you ask your next question.

The kettle whistles before you can continue.

"Tea?" Simon turns to ask, forcing his face to remain impassive when he sees you still pressed up against Johnny.

"Cannae get a bloody cup of coffee with this one around. 'ope you like warm leaf water in the morn."

You laugh, giving Simon the barest hint of a smile as you tell him you would love a cuppa.

He makes both of you herbal tea. You need the rest and he likes to treat himself when he's on leave to something sweet. A box of Twinings mandarin tea had caught his eye at the shops and he wonders if with a spoonful of honey if it will be as sweet as you.

When the soup is ready Simon sets the rickety excuse for a kitchen table while you help Johnny limp over to his spot. You even drag over a stool to rest his leg on before taking the seat between the two of them. The fourth side of the table is shoved up against the wall for space.

"'ad lot of questions aboot us, what aboot you bon? We arnae stealin' you away from some stinky alpha?"

You frown at your bowl of soup, stirring the contents with your spoon before scooping up a bite. You swallow hard, Simon can't look away from the muscles in your neck as you do, his gaze drifting lower to where is jumper hang loose around your shoulders. Its an old thing, the stitching already mended in a few places, the collar and the cuffs had long lost their shape, but Simon liked it. It was comfortable, soft, but it looked better on you than it had ever looked on him.

"No alpha or pack. It's just me."

There a defeat in your words. Something that pulls at Simon, an emotion he doesn't have words for.

"Nae anythin' wrong with that. Simon 'ere waited till 'e was over thirty to meet 'is mate."

Simon scowls at the Scot.

"Wasn't like I was sat at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for you to come along," he shoots back at Johnny.

Johnny smiles, "aye sir, we were both a bit busy. And 'eavily surpressed. Cannae beat military grade suppressants."

You nod along, but Simon knows there is more to this story. There is a reason that you are alone, not a fault or anything like that, but a reason that in this moment, sat here in this flat you are alone.

"Don't 'ave to be alone anymore," he says.

Simon doesn't know how to do feelings, didn't grow up in a loving pack, doesn't know how to court an omega properly, but he knows what he wants and if he's going to get it, going to get you and Johnny, he has to convince you to stay.

To court you.

"What?"

You turn to him, soup abandoned, mug of tea still steaming on the table in front of you.

"You're our mate and we want t'be with you. Whatever that looks like."

You look back to Johnny, the question written clear on your face.

"Aye, ah want ye to, bon. Missed ye every second ye were gone. Thought my wee 'eart was goin' tae break if ye didnae come back."

You bite your lip, hands twisting in your lap. If Simon couldn't see your unease he would have been able to smell it. Your scent isn't burnt the way it was before, but its bitter the way the pith of an orange tastes. You're unsettled by something.

Your breathing is shallow, your mouth moving soundlessly as you mouth words he can't make out. Johnny looks at him across the table, already trying to shift himself towards you, to offer you comfort in the way an alpha should.

"Bon?"

**************************************

alone.

our mate.

stop. breathe.

In for four.

alone.

breaking my heart.

In for four.

alone.

In for…

Breathing exercises are pointless when you can't breathe to begin with. When you can barely hear your own thoughts over the ringing in your ears. How are you supposed to win over alphas when you can barely keep your shit together on a good day. 

And on a bad day?

Or on a day when it feels like maybe you can have everything you have ever dreamed of as long as you can pull your shit together for just a moment? Just long enough for them to see you as not so much of a mess. Not so broken.

You don't realize you are crying until you feel rough thumbs dragging across your cheeks as warm palms hold your face. 

It's Simon. His mouth is moving, the scars pulling at the skin around them as he speaks. You can see a chipped tooth that was never fixed, a patch of dry skin on his cheek that desperately needs lotion. Your omega, those instincts that feel at odds with you on most days, wants to sooth him. To run back to your flat and get the sample of the fancy skincare and smooth it over that spot. You have other things, lotions and serums and creams, that would help with the scars. It wouldn’t make them go away, you didn’t want them to go away, they were part of Simon, but you could soften them. You could help make it so they didn’t pull so tightly when he speaks, when he smiles…

“Love, you need to breathe.”

In for four…

You gasp, lungs struggling to fill. 

Simon pulls you in, burying your face in the warm safety of his neck, where his scent overloads everything else. It’s overwhelming and euphoric. Your body has forgotten how to breathe for you, but your omega wants to crawl in Simon’s skin and wear his scent as your own. 

You close your eyes and try to ground yourself in the alpha. In the feel of his fingers that hold your head close. In the warmth of him that bleeds into you. In the smell of leather, and smoke and the sea.  In the sound of his breathing, slow and measured against you. The rise and fall of his chest. 

In for four.

hold for seven.

out…

You sob before you can stop yourself, before you can focus on anything else but the sense of dread and loss that threatens to steal you away again. They don’t need to know about how you couldn’t please one single alpha, about how you begged for his bite, for his affection, his care and he rejected you while you were in heat. They don’t need to know about how your friends had sided with him and how the ones who hadn’t couldn't understand why you were still moping, still crying over some alpha who wasn’t good enough for you. 

“It’s okay, bon. You’re okay.”

You didn’t know how you had gotten here, tucked in to the bed again, John holding you in strong arms. You don’t realize you’re saying anything until he is pressing his finger to your lips and shushing you. 

“Please stop apologizin'.”

There's something akin to desperation in his voice when he speaks, the weight of it stops you before you can speak again.

You hate how weak you feel, how lost, how long you've felt this lost.

"Bon, it's okay," he says again, holding you tighter.

You had never considered the possibility of scent matching. The possibility of fate saddling strangers with you. You want to be like other omegas, like Olive who is strong and confident and once told she would rip and alpha's knot off for you. Or even like Theo, the beta, who goes out and dates like his designation doesn't matter and demands to be treated the way he wants.

You want to believe John. Believe that everything will be okay. But how could it be?

You shift in the bed, your arms feel weak, your scent burned into everything, but John's scent is still there, warm and comforting. You pull yourself to him, wrapping yourself up in him. Your face tucked in beneath his chin, close enough that he can here your whimpered words, your quiet confessions, but hidden from his view.

You tell him about the alpha, about the rejection, about the way your friends treated you after. About the creeping, crawling fear you felt every time you left the building. About the way you had avoided alphas since because it felt like everyone you had told your story to had blamed you. You even tell him about finding Simon's hoodie, left behind in the laundry room and still smelling of the alpha you could here puttering around in the kitchen.

John doesn't interrupt you, he lets you whisper to him every one of your secrets, every one of your fears until you feel hollow. He wraps you in his arms, warm and strong and grounding. His knee braces pushes into your own leg uncomfortably and if it hurts him he makes no move to change the position.

You lose time like that, maybe you fall asleep, maybe you just dissociate enough to not feel him leave the bed, to not smell Simon coming to collect his mate. You should mean nothing to the two men and yet they treat you so gently with such reverence it makes your heart ache.

They're in the kitchen, you hear the soft sound of the kettle heating on the stove. Their voices are low, too low for you to make out the words. They don't sound angry, they don't sound like they are planning on how to kick you out, to get rid of the inconvenience fate has tried to thrust upon them. Maybe your fate was to be rejected again, but in the moment you decide to burrow deeper into John's bed and surround yourself with his scent and the lingering traces of Simon.

Part One | AO3 | Tips | other fics

[localgoblinlad]

a good soldier–a leal hound

[saintquincy]

help comes from unexpected alphas (pt. 2)

ghoap x gn!reader | 6K words

tags: sickfic, omegaverse, a/b/o, scentmatching, semi established ghoap, mostly fluff, more angst

Question: what happens when an omega with covid who has lost their sense of smell crosses paths with their scent match?

AN: i said this would be a one-shot but I was wrong

Part One | AO3 | Tips | other fics

"Do I need to be sittin' for this conversation?"

Price's voice over the phone gives nothing away. Given the time of day Simon knows John's in his office, blessedly still in the country and not out in the field since he answered. Simon isn't sure he would be able to work up the confidence to have this conversation a second time.

He's not entirely sure how he managed it this time. It could be the lack of sleep wearing down his defenses. You're on the mend, your fever started to come down this evening, that smell of tart oranges slowly sweetening into something that sticks to the tongue. That alone was enough to have the alpha ready to do things he had never imagined himself doing.

"You 'ave the time to do this in person?" Simon asks, voice low.

You're in the bed, tucked into Johnny's side while the other alpha scrolls on his phone, eyes drooping as he fights off sleep. Simon knows him well enough to know he's putting on a strong facade for you. Simon also knows that Johnny has been lying about the level of discomfort he has been feeling from the moment they left base.

Simon can't help the creeping flush that warms his cheeks, his neck and spreads down over his chest. The feeling of rightness, something settling in him that he never knew was unsettled to begin with.

His whole life he had relied on his instincts to keep going, keep fighting, keep being the strongest soldier on the field in order to protect his team, his pack. But now? Now he wants nothing more than to protect this feeling, this moment, this little bit of calm and peace, this thing he doesn't know how to describe.

"Give me a couple hours. I'll text you an address."

Simon agrees to meet later. It's not ideally what he wants and by the time he is parking outside of the house he found at the address John had texted he is both more nervous than before and very confused.

John has hosted the team more than once at his townhouse, a rickety old thing he had inherited from his parents. Simon knew about the little cabin he kept in Scotland. The one Johns visits when things are bad, when the older man needs to escape people and the looming pressure of their job.

It only takes one knock before John is opening the door, ushering Simon into the house. It has that stale, unlived in smell. It's sparsely furnished with odds and ends that look out of place. John wordlessly leads Simon to the kitchen, sitting at a wooden table with three mismatched chairs.

"Wot's this place?"

"It's mine, only 'ad it a few months. 'Aven't 'ad the time to do anythin' with it yet."

Simon looks around the kitchen. It's not much now, but with the right appliances it would be far better than his flat or Johnny's. It's bigger than the one John had at the townhouse.

"Wot ye need all this space for?"

John looks sheepish as he scrubs a hand over his beard, a look Simon knows well. The kind of move he makes when he's nervous. It's not common, Simon's only seen the man unsure of himself a few times in the years they have known each other.

"Thought maybe one day I'd 'ave a pack to share it with."

A pack?

The four of them have never put a label on what they are. They are a military pack, a categorization that kept them together, gave them privileges they wouldn't have otherwise. Outside of the professional though, there was an unspoken bond between them. Simon had long accepted that the 141 is the closest he would ever get to a pack, even if it isn't in the traditional sense.

Simon has never felt for John, or Kyle, what he feels for Johnny. He understands why now, that even without their scents the two were drawn to each other. There are blended packs though, where not everyone is bonded, where some members are mated and the others are just platonic.

Simon has never considered the possibility of losing John and Kyle to another pack.

"Got a 'mega waiting for ye?"

John laughs, something sardonic and self-deprecating.

"Bit old t'be chasin' after omegas. Thought Kyle might like it 'ere. Thought I might like it when my days in the field are over."

"Retirin' on us, old man?" Simon jokes.

John doesn't answer right away. He doesn't meet Simon's eyes as he sighs, his head dropping back as he stares up at the ceiling. He takes a deep breath before meeting Simon's eye again.

"I'm tired. I'm tired of the endless fight, tired of the blood on my hands, tired of fighting the instincts that ride me to do more. Maybe I don't deserve a happy ending, maybe I don't deserve to rest, but I deserve a little bit of peace, maybe a bit of comfort."

Simon nods. Simon knows that he doesn't deserve a happy ending either, but he's just enough of a bastard to steal one for himself. He might not know you, but he knows Johnny, the Scot can make you happy. Fate chose you for them and Simon will make sure it sticks for Johnny. And for you.

“Goin’ t’need that paperwork ye were talkin’ ‘bout.”

John reaches down to the bag he has on the chair next to him, thumbing through it and pulling out a folder. 

Simon opens it. The paperwork is already filled out with John’s neat handwriting, all that is left to do is sign his name and then Johnny’s on the dotted line and they will be a true pack, in the eyes of the military and the government. All very official. But this paperwork is only for the two of them, a pack of soldiers. 

“Might need to redo this, ’s why I called ye,” Simon says, passing it back across the table, not commenting on the fact that paperwork is dated months before him and Johnny scent matched. 

John nods, taking the folder and replacing it with another. Simon opens it to another form, still with the same neat letters but the fields for “civilian pack member” are left blank. 

The date at the bottom of this form is today. 

“Had a feelin’, Soap had been askin’ a bunch of questions a few months back.”

“Questions?”

“Asked if I ‘ad ever been with an omega, ‘ow did you court someone, ‘ow did you explain what we do to someone you were meant to cherish? Could tell ‘e was smitten with someone. And then ‘e never brought it up again.”

“It’s new.”

Simon doesn’t know how to explain it. Isn’t ready to share it even if it is only with John.

“There’s room for you ‘ere. Always thought of you and Soap as pack.”

And there is it, the words that Simon has never been able to say himself, the words he never let himself hope to hear from John.

“Think ye can put up with Johnny’s bad ‘abit’s and worst cooking? Barely any food in the flat.”

John laughs, then tells Simon about the first time Kyle visited him at the townhouse, just the two of them. It’s easy and familiar, the two alphas talking about their budding relationships, about Johnny keeping the omega secret, about John thinking he’s too old and not good enough for Kyle. I’m selfish for wantin’ it. Simon keeps to himself the fact that Kyle has been making moon eyes at John since before the Taskforce was official. 

“Need to sign anythin’ else if we take ye up on yer offer?” Simon asks as John walks him to the door. 

“Not yet, don’t need to rush it. We can take it one step at a time,” he says with a nod to the folder that Simon has clutched in his hand. 

“Aye, thanks…for everythin’.”

“Go take care of your pack, Simon. I’ll be ‘ere when you’re ready for the next step.”

**********************************

When you wake it's to an immense but comforting warmth at your back and a rattling purr that leaves you feeling boneless. Although, that might have also been the fatigue of the fever that had burned through you. In some ways it was no different than handling a heat on your own and in other ways it was very different because there was no gnawing, unsatisfied ache left behind in both your core and your heart. 

You consider that perhaps this has been a really good fever dream, something born from dehydration and lack of food, but then the person behind your shifts and you feel the firm pressure of their body against yours.

All of his body. 

You gasp when one of their arms comes around and pulls you in close, caging you in. The fear settles in quick, the confusion, the distress. How did you get here, whose bed is this, whose body? 

Your scent is acrid, burnt oranges that surprises even you because it’s the first time you have been able to smell in days. 

But then, that isn’t the only thing you smell. It’s two different scents that wrap around each other and then you, curling through your senses until your eyes are wide, searching for the source because you know one of them. It’s the scent that haunts you, that you searched for for weeks and could never find another hint of. The sweatshirt that you shamefully kept.

"Stop squirmin', Ahm tryna sleep," a voice murmurs into your neck, their breath hot against your skin.

The feverish memories of the last couple of days come back as a flood. Blurry shapes, low voices, the warmth of bodies pressed in around yours as you fight off the fever. The kind of warmth that only comes from comfort and not from the sticky sickness you had suffered through.

"John?" you ask, even though you know it's him, you remember cuddling him.

Fuck could you be more of a mess.

"Aye, was hopin' ye wouldnae wake until Simon was back."

This time the heat that warms your face is the flames of embarrassment because you remember who Simon is and more specifically that Simon is the alpha that belongs to your sweatshirt.

Does that mean…

You wiggle in John's hold until you can roll over, coming face to face with the Scot who always seemed to be running away.

You are beyond social niceties at this point, these two men, alphas, have seen you at maybe your lowest. There is no way you don't stink, you don't remember showering at any point, you do distinctly remember tossing off the very incriminating sweatshirt in the middle of the night, the press of two warm bodies had been overwhelming. John doesn't seem to mind you based on the way he has been holding you.

You shove your face beneath his chin, his beard is grown out more than you have ever seen it, his scent clinging to his skin and permeating the rough hair. You're still stuffy as you sniff at his scent gland, but what you can pick up has your blood running hot.

John's scent is warm, the kind that heats your skin in the summer, the kind that beats down on you from blue skies. It's like tart currants eaten right from the vine, staining your fingers and lips purple. You've only ever reacted to one other scent this way…

"Match?" you murmur against his neck, gulping down his scent and melting into the rightness that's settling over you.

"Yeah, bon, yer mine now and ahm nae lettin' ye go."

John kisses the top of your head before rubbing his cheek against you.

The urge to lick his scent gland is strong. You want to drink him down. Just a little lick wouldn't hurt.

"Fuck, bon, ye keep up like that and Ahm nae goan tae be able tae control mahself."

Reluctantly you pull back, the taste of him still on your tongue.

You've never had this kind of reaction to an alpha, even the ones you've dated or shared heats with. Your heats have always been mild enough, usually a knotted dildo could get you through it but now that you've smelled John? Found the owner of the sweatshirt? You can't imagine going back to long stretches alone in your sad excuse of a nest tending to your own needs.

You keep your face tucked into John's chest as your thoughts race, your heart not far behind. What if they don't want you? Don't want a pack? It happens. Just because you are a scent matched doesn't mean they have to want you.

You're not sure you could handle that, you've been heartbroken before, you don't know you could survive rejection from your mate.

Your breaths come in short gasps as you try to calm yourself.

"Where's your friend?" you manage to ask, anything to distract yourself from your spiraling thoughts.

"Nae sure. Been out for a mo'."

The door to the flat slamming shut breaks you from the haze, enough so that you are scrambling from John’s hold and right off the edge of the bed in a tangle of blankets and limbs. You can barely hear the heavy footsteps of the other alpha as he approaches over the sound of your own heart pounding. You scent him before you see him, a salty ocean breeze, a bonfire, Simon.

“Why's the omega on the floor?”

“I—" you start but are cut off by John.

“Got a name, ye numpty. Cannae go around callin' people by their designation.”

You stare up at the other alpha. He is intimidating. So broad, larger than John, the kind of person you would cross the street to avoid and yet, you can remember him from the haze of your fever, rough fingers that touched you reverently as he helped you to eat, to drink, to walk to the bathroom. 

You also remember the shock of embarrassment at realizing that he is Riley, the Riley whose sweatshirt you had been clinging to for months. The scent match you had almost convinced yourself wasn’t real. 

Now that you are seeing him outside of the haze of your fever you are struck by his face. He isn't a handsome man, he doesn't look like those traditional alphas you see on billboards with a flawless ruggedness that comes from moisturizer and vanity workout routines. His face was carved by violence, nose clearly broken more than once, a scar that bisects his lip and pulls when he speaks, one cauliflower ear while the other is missing a piece. One honeyed eye marred by a burst blood vessel, a yellowed bruise painted across his cheek beneath it. 

Military men.

Military alphas. 

John’s use of suppressants makes sense now, why you have never gotten anything from him. 

“I—" Simon starts, Simon Riley you think as you watch him before he continues. “I apologize,” and then he says your name and you don’t think you’ve ever heard your name the way he says it. Like you are something precious. Something special. Something not broken. 

Your breath catches in your chest, the familiar anxiety bleeding in. It doesn’t matter that these are your scent matches. History has already shown you not to trust alphas, not to trust biology. Fairytales are just that, tales told to children, fantasies for other people but not for you. 

“Sorry,” the word tumbles out of your mouth but you don’t know what it is you are sorry for, just that suddenly the weight of this revelation, the fact that you let literal strangers take care of you, that you burdened them when you only knew John by name and nothing more. All of it is too much. 

“Sorry,” you repeat it, “I can’t, I don’t,” you trail off. You’re going to ruin this just like you ruin everything else. 

“Bon, yer okay, it’s okay, nae a thin’ tae worry aboot.”

But John doesn’t know, he’s only ever seen you briefly, not long enough to know about you, know what you are like. Know all the reasons they shouldn’t mate you. 

You truly don't hear him move this time, his steps are silent and without warning Simon is kneeling down beside you. His scent is calm, if your behavior has turned him off from you he gives nothing away. 

“This is a lot for you, yeah?” His voice is quiet as he asks, a whisper that washes over you, teasing you with something that feels like kindness, understanding. 

You nod because the words feel too hard. 

“‘ow ‘bout you go back t’yours, shower, change into somethin’ clean and then the three of us ‘ave a chat later.”

“A chat?”

“Not lettin’ you get away now that we found you.” 

There’s a finality to his words, a commitment that has you nodding again and letting him drag you to your feet. Showing you your clean clothes, folded into perfect piles and then stacked carefully into your laundry bag. 

Simon follows you to your apartment, leaving a grumbling John on the bed, his knee propped up. 

You promise to come back when you’re ready. He makes you say the words out loud as you stand outside the open door to your flat. It’s like he can sense your indecision, your fear, the voice in the back of your head that tells you to flee. 

As a parting gift he pulls off his jumper, the material warm between your fingers as you take it from him. 

“Can’t let you forget what’s waitin’ for ya,” he says before walking away. 

*************************************

“Cannae believe ye left the omega alone,” Johnny grumbles as he spoons extra sugar into his coffee. 

“Oh so now it’s ‘the omega’?” Simon chides him. 

“Ye ken what ah mean. What if we came on tae strong?”

Simon laughs. 

“Isnae funny.”

“Only one comin’ on strong was you from the smell of it.”

Simon leans over in his chair, fingers carding through Johnny’s overgrown mohawk and yanking him to the side. Simon’s breath is warm on Johnny's neck as the other alpha breaths him in. Johnny knows he’s looking for, that delectable bouquet of orange and honey.

“Couldn’t keep your ‘ands t’yourself?”

Johnny doesn’t bother to answer. He knows if he hadn’t been laid up, knee locked straight he would have been all over you. As it is he can barely think straight now that you’ve been here for days, your scent somehow permeating everything in a way that Simon’s hadn’t. But maybe that’s it, maybe it’s the rightness of the two of you together. The coming together that he couldn't have predicted going so well, so perfectly. 

It isn't a fluke either, the scarf had been yours, he has proof now that you are meant for him, for Simon. All that time he spent agonizing was for nothing.

Except Simon has let you slip away, has made you leave them and even though a very rational part of Johnny knows it was for the best, that you need to regroup, gain your bearings, that he can;t lock you up and keep you all to himself. He worries. Worries you will walk away. Will run away. Reject them because who wants a broken alpha.

Simon and him make sense. Simon and him are made for each other, cut from the same cloth, walking different paths in life that had them careening toward the same existence. And when the military snatched them up it did it with no remorse for the young alphas they had been.

And now what is he good for? Killing? Blowing things up with an almost unreal precision? And if his knee doesn't heal? If the doctors got it wrong? What would be do then? What could he offer you?

“Johnny?”

“Aye?”

“Asked if you wanted to eat something.”

How can he think about eating when you are somewhere else in the building, washing away his scent, washing away all of his hard work. How can he eat when you might leave them? Might decide they are too much or not enough. Not good enough. 

Johnny doesn’t realize he’s growling until Simon is yanking him back into his chest, tucking Johnny face into his neck. 

He fights the calm he finds as he’s forced to breathe in Simon’s scent. He knows what this is even if it’s always been carefully controlled by suppressants. Buried by chemical hormones. A rut. Even as he acknowledges it, the desire creeps up his spine like a wildfire threatening to pull him under. 

“Don’t you dare fall into a rut when we’re tyin’ to impress our mate.”

Our mate. 

Something about the possessiveness of how Simon says those words calms something in Johnny. He’s known Simon long enough to know that if Simon has chosen you, he’s not letting you go, not easily.

“It’s nae ever felt like this,” he whispers into Simon’s chest. 

“Never been off suppressants this long, never been surrounded by your pack either.”

Pack. 

His pack.

Joining the military had pretty much been a death sentence to any dreams a young Johnny had had of being part of a pack. But now he has Simon. And maybe if fate stayed on their side, they will have you, if you want them.

****

Your knock on their door is hesitant and comes after minutes of pacing outside in the hallway. Simon doesn't comment on that or the bitter undertone to your scent. He leads you into the flat, Johnny propped up on the sofa, his leg elevated out in front of him on a makeshift ottoman. Simon's already making a mental list of questions for John about the house, it might be a better location for Johnny's recovery but Simon doesn't want to get ahead of himself.

"Bon, ye came back?" he asks with a smile, patting the spot next to him on the sofa.

Simon doesn't think you realize it but you slot yourself in next to Johnny, despite there being plenty of space for you on the sofa. Your body leaning into his instinctually.

"I said I would," your voice is soft when you answer.

Simon swallows hard to stop the purr that threatens when he watches you playing with the hem of the jumper he had lent you.

Johnny smiles at you, but Simon can still see the tension that keeps his body stiff. It's the worry, the fear that you'll tell them you don't want this. Johnny might not think he is good enough to be your alpha but at the same time Ghost knows Johnny doesn't want to lose you. Ghost knows because he feels the same, the hollow ache in his chest when he thinks about the possibility of losing you now that he's found you?

Of losing Johnny?

"Feelin' olright? Need anythin'?" Simon asks.

You turn your gaze on him, there's a hesitancy behind that look, a fear. Simon is not unfamiliar with being a thing of nightmares, of being the thing that people fear, but the thought that he scares you scares him.

"No? Maybe something to eat? If its not a bother?"

"Och, nae a bother. Simon disnae mind, aye?"

Simon moves towards the kitchen, aware of the way your eyes track him.

Johnny whispers something to you, low enough that Simon can't make out the words, but the huff of a laugh he gets in response has some of the tension leaving Simon's shoulders. You wouldn't be asking for food, or laughing at Johnny's jokes if you were going to reject them. You didn't seem like the heartless type.

"Is Simon your new roommate?" you ask Johnny in a quiet voice.

"Nae, still workin' out the logistics, aye? All this is new."

"New?"

Simon can picture the way your brow furrows as you ask the questions, puzzling through what they are, what this is, where you fit in. It is the same furrow you had in the depths of your fever as you oscillated between burrowing into the blankets and kicking everything off. It had been a struggle for the two alphas to keep you clothed when you were determined to shed everything. But in your barely conscious state you knew enough to listen to your alphas.

It had pleased Simon more than he cared to admit. And he had studied every little expression, every little reaction, and even though you didn't seem to remember the worst of the fever, he did.

He remembered the scrunch of your nose, the furrow of your brow, the way your eyes had gone wide when you first put together that that sweatshirt you had clung to like a life vest had been his.

"Aye, mission gone too long. 'ad nae gotten a whiff of Simon before, but the moment ah did? Was like learnin' 'ow tae breathe for the first time."

"So you two aren't bonded? You don't have a pack?"

Simon frowns as he works on heating the soup he had picked up form the shops on his way back from John's. He hasn't had a chance to discuss it all with Johnny, to make a plan, to decide how they want to proceed. If it was just the two of them then Simon knew moving in with John and Gaz would be easy, it would make sense. Consolidate their funds, their resources, their time. The house was a hell of a lot better than this shithole.

"Nae, nae yet. Was bloody busy till Ah went and got my knee whacked."

"But you don't have a pack? It's just the two of you?"

There is a hesitancy in the way you ask the question. Simon worries because he has already latched onto the possibility of sharing a life with the whole pack, even if it is nothing more than platonic between the three of you, and John and Gaz. He's getting ahead of himself. He doesn't even know if you want them, let alone a whole pack and a pack house, and a whole new life.

"Nae in the traditional sense, Ah guess. We 'ave a military pack, nae bonded or anythin' like that, but we're close."

You don't say anything right away and Simon fights the urge to turn and see your face, to try and decipher what you are thinking before you ask your next question.

The kettle whistles before you can continue.

"Tea?" Simon turns to ask, forcing his face to remain impassive when he sees you still pressed up against Johnny.

"Cannae get a bloody cup of coffee with this one around. 'ope you like warm leaf water in the morn."

You laugh, giving Simon the barest hint of a smile as you tell him you would love a cuppa.

He makes both of you herbal tea. You need the rest and he likes to treat himself when he's on leave to something sweet. A box of Twinings mandarin tea had caught his eye at the shops and he wonders if with a spoonful of honey if it will be as sweet as you.

When the soup is ready Simon sets the rickety excuse for a kitchen table while you help Johnny limp over to his spot. You even drag over a stool to rest his leg on before taking the seat between the two of them. The fourth side of the table is shoved up against the wall for space.

"'ad lot of questions aboot us, what aboot you bon? We arnae stealin' you away from some stinky alpha?"

You frown at your bowl of soup, stirring the contents with your spoon before scooping up a bite. You swallow hard, Simon can't look away from the muscles in your neck as you do, his gaze drifting lower to where is jumper hang loose around your shoulders. Its an old thing, the stitching already mended in a few places, the collar and the cuffs had long lost their shape, but Simon liked it. It was comfortable, soft, but it looked better on you than it had ever looked on him.

"No alpha or pack. It's just me."

There a defeat in your words. Something that pulls at Simon, an emotion he doesn't have words for.

"Nae anythin' wrong with that. Simon 'ere waited till 'e was over thirty to meet 'is mate."

Simon scowls at the Scot.

"Wasn't like I was sat at home twiddling my thumbs waiting for you to come along," he shoots back at Johnny.

Johnny smiles, "aye sir, we were both a bit busy. And 'eavily surpressed. Cannae beat military grade suppressants."

You nod along, but Simon knows there is more to this story. There is a reason that you are alone, not a fault or anything like that, but a reason that in this moment, sat here in this flat you are alone.

"Don't 'ave to be alone anymore," he says.

Simon doesn't know how to do feelings, didn't grow up in a loving pack, doesn't know how to court an omega properly, but he knows what he wants and if he's going to get it, going to get you and Johnny, he has to convince you to stay.

To court you.

"What?"

You turn to him, soup abandoned, mug of tea still steaming on the table in front of you.

"You're our mate and we want t'be with you. Whatever that looks like."

You look back to Johnny, the question written clear on your face.

"Aye, ah want ye to, bon. Missed ye every second ye were gone. Thought my wee 'eart was goin' tae break if ye didnae come back."

You bite your lip, hands twisting in your lap. If Simon couldn't see your unease he would have been able to smell it. Your scent isn't burnt the way it was before, but its bitter the way the pith of an orange tastes. You're unsettled by something.

Your breathing is shallow, your mouth moving soundlessly as you mouth words he can't make out. Johnny looks at him across the table, already trying to shift himself towards you, to offer you comfort in the way an alpha should.

"Bon?"

**************************************

alone.

our mate.

stop. breathe.

In for four.

alone.

breaking my heart.

In for four.

alone.

In for…

Breathing exercises are pointless when you can't breathe to begin with. When you can barely hear your own thoughts over the ringing in your ears. How are you supposed to win over alphas when you can barely keep your shit together on a good day. 

And on a bad day?

Or on a day when it feels like maybe you can have everything you have ever dreamed of as long as you can pull your shit together for just a moment? Just long enough for them to see you as not so much of a mess. Not so broken.

You don't realize you are crying until you feel rough thumbs dragging across your cheeks as warm palms hold your face. 

It's Simon. His mouth is moving, the scars pulling at the skin around them as he speaks. You can see a chipped tooth that was never fixed, a patch of dry skin on his cheek that desperately needs lotion. Your omega, those instincts that feel at odds with you on most days, wants to sooth him. To run back to your flat and get the sample of the fancy skincare and smooth it over that spot. You have other things, lotions and serums and creams, that would help with the scars. It wouldn’t make them go away, you didn’t want them to go away, they were part of Simon, but you could soften them. You could help make it so they didn’t pull so tightly when he speaks, when he smiles…

“Love, you need to breathe.”

In for four…

You gasp, lungs struggling to fill. 

Simon pulls you in, burying your face in the warm safety of his neck, where his scent overloads everything else. It’s overwhelming and euphoric. Your body has forgotten how to breathe for you, but your omega wants to crawl in Simon’s skin and wear his scent as your own. 

You close your eyes and try to ground yourself in the alpha. In the feel of his fingers that hold your head close. In the warmth of him that bleeds into you. In the smell of leather, and smoke and the sea.  In the sound of his breathing, slow and measured against you. The rise and fall of his chest. 

In for four.

hold for seven.

out…

You sob before you can stop yourself, before you can focus on anything else but the sense of dread and loss that threatens to steal you away again. They don’t need to know about how you couldn’t please one single alpha, about how you begged for his bite, for his affection, his care and he rejected you while you were in heat. They don’t need to know about how your friends had sided with him and how the ones who hadn’t couldn't understand why you were still moping, still crying over some alpha who wasn’t good enough for you. 

“It’s okay, bon. You’re okay.”

You didn’t know how you had gotten here, tucked in to the bed again, John holding you in strong arms. You don’t realize you’re saying anything until he is pressing his finger to your lips and shushing you. 

“Please stop apologizin'.”

There's something akin to desperation in his voice when he speaks, the weight of it stops you before you can speak again.

You hate how weak you feel, how lost, how long you've felt this lost.

"Bon, it's okay," he says again, holding you tighter.

You had never considered the possibility of scent matching. The possibility of fate saddling strangers with you. You want to be like other omegas, like Olive who is strong and confident and once told she would rip and alpha's knot off for you. Or even like Theo, the beta, who goes out and dates like his designation doesn't matter and demands to be treated the way he wants.

You want to believe John. Believe that everything will be okay. But how could it be?

You shift in the bed, your arms feel weak, your scent burned into everything, but John's scent is still there, warm and comforting. You pull yourself to him, wrapping yourself up in him. Your face tucked in beneath his chin, close enough that he can here your whimpered words, your quiet confessions, but hidden from his view.

You tell him about the alpha, about the rejection, about the way your friends treated you after. About the creeping, crawling fear you felt every time you left the building. About the way you had avoided alphas since because it felt like everyone you had told your story to had blamed you. You even tell him about finding Simon's hoodie, left behind in the laundry room and still smelling of the alpha you could here puttering around in the kitchen.

John doesn't interrupt you, he lets you whisper to him every one of your secrets, every one of your fears until you feel hollow. He wraps you in his arms, warm and strong and grounding. His knee braces pushes into your own leg uncomfortably and if it hurts him he makes no move to change the position.

You lose time like that, maybe you fall asleep, maybe you just dissociate enough to not feel him leave the bed, to not smell Simon coming to collect his mate. You should mean nothing to the two men and yet they treat you so gently with such reverence it makes your heart ache.

They're in the kitchen, you hear the soft sound of the kettle heating on the stove. Their voices are low, too low for you to make out the words. They don't sound angry, they don't sound like they are planning on how to kick you out, to get rid of the inconvenience fate has tried to thrust upon them. Maybe your fate was to be rejected again, but in the moment you decide to burrow deeper into John's bed and surround yourself with his scent and the lingering traces of Simon.

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