A little something cooked between furiously writing a thesis; half baked and presented to you to test the waters and see if I should keep going on it (probably will keep going on it— can’t get these two out of my head)
Picture: Samira Mohan forgetting her scent patches because she’s been so busy lately and her heat makes a patient snap which makes Jack snap which ends with a chase and a whole lot of begging and self loathing and whining :)
warnings: uhhh typical MDNI warning, yada yada yada, haven't done this in forever so idk what to write here, not quite explicit but freaky as fuck, first time omegaverse (a warning in itself?), non-completed nothingness, accidental merging of Jack Abott and Pope Cody (because Jack is so Jack but I couldn't get black-jeans cody out of my head [ifykyk]), freaked out angsty Samira Mohan but it’s OKAYYY (it will be >:)), not proofread, uninhibited use of Sam as a nickname, plot points that don’t make sense yet (it’s a WIP, okay?)
like 2.5k words
Uhhhh anyway alpha! Jack Abbot and omega! Samira Mohan below the cut <3
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His body hits the door with a thud that ricochets off the empty walls of her room, not yet filled with the frills of her beautifully full life. Boxed somewhere are her Duke posters. Her cork boards, overflowing with pictures and ribbons and notes she couldn’t get rid of when she packed them as they were because of course they were still relevant. Of course she needs to remember that Lana needs scent patches by Wednesday,
Nevermind that Wednesday passed a hundred Wednesday’s ago. Nevermind that Lana is on the west coast now, even more hundreds of miles away.
Nevermind that she’s not with Lana who would know exactly what to do right now.
Nails scratch against the door— desperate. Chaotic. Begging. Scrape, scrape, scraping until she can almost feel them raking over her drenched back through the strong oak she's pressed herself against. Feel them sharp and frenzied and shredding her skin in the exact way she’s trying not to do, dragging her own dull nails across limbs that are too itchy. Too hot. Scrape, scrape, scrape— the noise translates into something she can imagine.
But not really, because he would never. Not Jack— he couldn’t bear to hurt her. Wouldn’t be able to do it. Not her Jack—
“Sam— fuck—” barely paused by a ragged breath that catches in her own throat too, burning away her oxygen— “open the door Samira. I need to know you’re— I need— fuck, Sam.”
—But this isn’t her Jack. She doesn’t have a “Jack.”
“‘M sorry Sam. I’m sorry honey. I didn’t mean to scare you. Didn’t mean it. Really sorry—” he’s rambling. Repeating. Voice reaching to the most unexpected whine that gnaws at her skin. Sinks into her core. Drips down her legs— “fuck is that–? Sam I need you to open the door baby.”
Her belly tightens, chest heaves up and down. Not rhythmic. Her skin burns.
“He was just so close,” Jack snarls. “Too fucken’ close and you smelled— fuck—” his voice cracks, the door vibrates— “Sam you smelled so fucking good. Too good. Too— sorry. Sorry, I’m so sorry. Fuck, baby open the door!”
Samira whimpers, body clenching fast and hard and bright. Sudden and so painful, like her body might be going full supernova, but so delicious, like it might be okay if she did. If the burning turned into stars, the kind that flash behind her eyes, then it might be okay.
But it won’t— it can’t. Not even when another rush of slick floods out of her—
“Fuck— like that. Smelled just like that, baby. Smelled like— Fuck, Samira, I can’t get to you without you opening the door. Smell so good I need—” and Jack moans.
He actually moans, low and gutteral, the sound seeping under the door, crashing over her like a wave that turns her on her head. Turns off her head, for a moment. Turns up the heat another notch. Her hand slaps down against the ground hard, a desperate attempt at staying upright as her thighs shudder, toes curling at the sound.
Scared— no, no. No. Samira is not scared. Not of Jack, at least.
She swallows her own moan, only a shallow hum breaking through but it's enough— enough for him to hear. Enough for him to know. Enough for the door handle to rattle again to no avail. It won’t budge— not here, in the Omega suites. Everything is stronger. Controlled. Unbreakable. Designed to keep people— no, designed to keep Alphas— from getting to them.
A thunk— knees hitting the ground, sending a vibration straight through her. Thunk. Another one, softer, jolting exactly where her neck pushes hard into the wood, scent glands taking the brunt of it, pulsing to no avail. She pushes back— maybe instinctively, maybe on purpose, definitely selfishly— letting herself be as close as she can be to him, but not closer. The barrier isn’t to protect her; it’s to keep him safe.
To keep the man on his knees, with his forehead pressed against her door as if he can open it with just his mind— just sheer force of will— safe.
His voice— muffled, raw— is right by her ears now, cooing. Coddling. Calling to her like she needed protecting. Like she needed to feel safe. Like he was the problem, not her.
“Open the door Sam,” he pants— he pleads. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry— fuck you smell so damn good. ‘S that all for mm— god, I’m sorry. So sorry baby. Can’t think when— when you— Need you to open the door so I can see that you’re okay.”
“Jack,” Samira’s voice sounds too foreign, too breathy, mingled with the edge of his words which have long since been scratched raw. Her own are choked out, catching and garbling in her mouth before she can push them out between ragged inhales. “I’m okay—” not she is not— “Just go—” she almost can’t force it past her lips, but she has to— “just… just. I’m okay.”
The noise he makes is something between panicked and frustrated. Something low pitched and throaty and her body follows it with another searing clench around nothing at all. More slick— too much more. More of that fire that tears her body apart from the inside out, weaponizing her very blood against her. Too hot— too achy.
Another whimper— one that has him fumbling on the other side of the door, panting through it. The sound of his hands slipping on the other side, slapping, searching for any way to get to her. He chants her name— “Samira. Sam, please. Baby I need— need you to open. Sam—”
So unlike him— it’s so unlike the put together doctor she knows. The one who praises her gently and corrects her even gentler. The one who never crowds her or pushes her or chases her— fuck, she had almost forgotten how he had chased her. How she had made him chase her, right out of the ED— right to her door.
Not right away. First he’d broken the nose of the other alpha— two feral punches that rang like gunshots through the pitt. Cut clean through the rare silence that had found them in a three a.m. lull. She had ruined the quiet. He never gets any quiet.
This is her fault.
This is all my fault.
“Not your fault—” Jack growls. Jack breathes, over and over and over again, almost incoherently— “no baby. No. Not your fault— not at all, Samira. Fuck, is that what you think?”
The handle rattles again, sharper— harder. Violently. He grunts and her heart squeezes at the same time that her legs squeeze together. Now she can smell him too; must be all the movement. The exertion no match for his suppressants. Must be that— is probably that— except that she can always smell him. Always find him by blindly following his coffee bean and nutmeg trail.
The same one that seeps through the crack under the door, burnt a little bit now, like the pot has been left to sit too long. Like it’ll only continue to burn the longer he’s separated from her. His heady scent spears her through the chest, cuts her down the middle, pulls her apart until it slots between her ribs and wraps around her heart. It feels like a vice grip— feels like his hand is in her sternum, pumping her blood for her, and for just a moment, the roaring in her ears stops. Her skin stops screaming.
She sighs and he begs her to answer him and it’s like the relief was never even there with how much worse it all is when the sensations slam back into her. His desperation singes her nostrils— fries her nervous system and has her reaching for the lock before she can stop herself but she does, at the very last second, dizzy at the movement. A symptom that will only grow worse until she either lets him in or passes out—
It’s all so messy. All her fault, the burnt panic that degrades his usual honeyed scent. She put that there— she did this to him.
“It’s what I know,” she whimpers— again, she can’t stop— grinding the word through a clenched jaw. Through the breaths she’s holding, trying not to gulp down every wisp of him that encircles her— the sob tears out of her against her will— “I’m sorry. You need to go. I’m so sorry this is all my fault.”
Sorry, sorry, sorry—
The immediate responding thump jostles her body, forcing a gasp of air into her— forcing his air, stronger, even more burnt but somehow also sweeter— so, so sweet— into her. Into her mind, hazing it at the edges. Into her core, gushing and throbbing.
Her fingers itch at her sides. Her clothes stick to skin— too tight. Too wet. She tears at her scrubs. She swallows a moan— turns it into a cry. Into another sob. It’s not at all better. Her fault. God she aches.
“How— why—” he draws in a breath and holds it— somehow she can feel him holding it. Feel him trying to focus. Trying to correct her in the gentle way he does. Trying to be Jack— lets it go— “why the fuck do you think this is your fault, Samira.”
She’s silent— she’s brainless— she’s wet. She’s soaking fucking wet. There’s nothing she can do to stop it, not when he sounds so angry— so absolutely disgusted by the thought of her thinking this is her fault. Not when her skin is tingling— zapping— when his scent mingles with her sweat.
“Jack—”
He doesn’t let her finish— must be able to sense her excuse. Smell the lie forming on her tongue.
“Why, Sam. Tell me why, baby. Why is this your fault—” the door jolts again, like he's pushing all his weight into it— “why can’t you open the door. Why— fuck—” his voice catches and her heart stutters through its frenzied pounding— “why won’t you open the door?”
A foul grinding in her throat— in her chest. Closing and shrinking and her ears are ringing. Wrong— the tone. His tone. Wrong, wrong, wrong. It echoes not so much in her ears as it does in her soul—- something is wrong.
Still she denies him— she can’t help it, torn between the pain she’s caused and causing anymore— maybe she’s the one who’s all wrong. “Jack I can’t—”
He wails. Like the entire damn world is ending. When he does, it feels like hers is. Alphas don’t wail.
“Fuck— why not! Why can’t you let me fucking take care of you Samira? Why is my omega not letting me take care of her when she smells like that’s all she fucking wants! I’m— I feel like— feels like I’m gonna’ fucking die, Sam—”
Her entire world tilts. His omega. His, his, his— Jack’s omega.
The words bubble up so suddenly and traitorously and blissfully that she doesn’t have time to do anything but finally tell her alpha the truth—
“Because I forgot my scent patches! I forgot to buy new ones— I— I’m sorry, I forg—” she chokes on the words and her tongue and her tears, hot and wet and thick— “so, so sorry this is all my fault, he wouldn’t have— you wouldn’t have… If I hadn’t…”
She trails off, head fuzzy. Dizzy. Temperature spiking— thighs glued together, the wave of slick like a sick consolation prize for being honest with him. For telling him that her mistake made her heat start in the damn ED. For turning him into something he’s not— a doctor who punches his patients. His patients who she sent into a frenzy because she so damn stupid—
“Move.”
“What—”
“Samira, move before I accidentally hurt you.”
Before he hurts her… but he would never—
Instinct takes over before her brain does and she’s scrambling away from the door, limbs slipping— sliding, desperately searching for traction— in the sticky puddle beneath her. One foot finds a bit of leverage here, her palm finding purchase there, and her bum scootches closer to her bed just in time for her to barely miss the door as it splinters at the hinges, the crack of it as it breaks open like a bolt of lightning in her ears.
It doesn't hold a candle to her first glimpse of him though, darkened by the light behind him, towering— trembling— in the entrance that was never supposed to open. Arms outstretched, fingers vice gripping the border, chest bare and his shirt no doubt tossed somewhere behind him, long stripped off in his attempts to get to her. She short circuits— she stares, mouth agape, drool pooling and dripping down her chin but she doesn’t move to wipe it away. She can’t— not when his biceps flex, keeping him there even as his stomach ripples with heavy breaths. Not when she can hear the groan of the wood under his palms— see the tension in his neck. The beads of sweat catching the light as they slide down his freckled skin.
Not when he sinks slowly to his knees, arms still stuck, stretching above him. Holding him back
Not when she can see his eyes, red rimmed and glassy but oh so dark.
“Samira, the only stupid thing about you is that you actually thought those patches did a damn thing to stop me from smelling you.”
That— her name on his tongue, not as pointed as it should be, only raw, catching on his vocal cords as he swallows it like it’s the only thing he’s ever savored in his life— is like a bolt of lightning straight to her core.
A gasp— her gasp— her clench that has his arms dropping, body lowering him onto his stomach, smearing her mess over his abdomen. Has him pausing for half a second, eyes closed, inhaling. She’s going to lose her fucking mind—
She moans— she doesn’t even try not to— and his eyes snap back to hers.
“I could smell you anywhere, baby. Through anything. ‘Specially through those bullshit patches—” her belly tightens, her pulse spikes, and he leans down, tongue darting out, licking the fucking floor— they shudder at the same time— “fuck, Sam—” he pushes his face into it, jaw dragging over the hardwood— “could smell your heat before you could. Been smelling you for days. You wanna’ know why?”
She can only nod— only sink back onto her elbows, gutted as he crawls towards her, heart hammering. Heart slamming against her chest, trapped. A deer in the headlights, a bunny in a snare, a woman— no, an omega— exactly where she wants to be.
“Because you’re mine—” he inches closer— “my omega—” so slowly she’d scream if she could do anything at all— “mine to smell—” so slowly she’d whine if she could because why— “mine to help—” why is he crawling— “gonna’ let me help you, baby? Gonna’ finally let me do my job?”
Alpha’s don't crawl.
