cryingpages

[cryingpages]

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Before you leave their barracks, the others gently ask for a traditional scenting. There's a slight quiver when you say yes, giving away how nervous you are about it. Ghost moves the low table away and Price kneels in front of you. As pack alpha, he has the privilege of scenting you first.

He gently takes you hands in his and catches your eye. "'s still jus' me," he says, leaning in. He brushes his cheek against yours, the beard softer against your skin than you imagined. He noses at your scent gland, and you tilt your head into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply as he does the same. The comforting smell of autumn washes over you: woodsmoke and freshly fallen leaves, the scent of a forest in October and the fire you light to keep you warm. This close it rocks you. You know this scent. You've curled up with this scent.

Before you can fully place it, Ghost takes Price's place. He doesn't rub his cheek against yours, instead cupping your face in his hand and running his thumb along your cheekbone. His mask stays on, but it's not the full balaclava, so there's plenty of space for you to lean in and scent him properly when he brings your head to his neck. The sharp mix of ginger, onion, and garlic that hit you the first time you met is still there, but now you pick up on how it melds together. You can practically hear oil in the pan as Mum prepares dinner. The feeling of home wraps itself around you like a blanket, and again, you feel a jolt in your center, sure you've wrapped yourself in this same smell in recent weeks.

Gaz comes to you next, wide smile on his lips. As a beta, he lets you lean in first. You take in a lungful that reminds you of spring, of new growth and laundry on the line on a warm day. It's a languid scent, perfectly beta, soothing and peaceful. Your body relaxes more when he leans to breathe you in. The whole encounter sends warmth through you, and a tingle at the back of your brain tries to figure out why.

Finally, Soap's in front of you, more serious and still than you've ever seen him be. You smile through your own nerves and he responds with a grin of his own. "C'mere, lass," he whispers, urging you to scent him. You're met with the smell of the ocean, of brisk wind whipping a fresh, slightly salty sea straight into your veins. It puts you at ease, as beta scent should, but beneath that, there's something that niggles at you. There's a sense you've been soothed by this scent since joining the team.

When the scenting is done, each man quietly revels in your smell of sun-warmed berries and sweetness. The mix of their scents zings through you and you blurt, "The clothes!" The others immediately still, and Price's eyes cut to Soap so quickly you think you imagined it.

"Wha' clothes?" he asks you, looking as unruffled as ever, but now you're scent-marked, you can smell the slight shift, how the old leaves have started rotting, no longer freshly fallen.

You look from man to man despite knowing Soap is the weak link. "The jumper," you accuse, eyes on Gaz who has the good sense to look away. "The Henley," you say softer, disappointedly flicking your gaze to Price. "The blanket an' leather jacket," you state, pointing at Ghost and Soap in turn. "Ya've been scenting me this whole time." You're not happy about it, but recognize the move for its sweetness. It's a damn good thing Dad taught you how to lock down your scent or the others would recognize your pleasure at the move before you could give them a proper scolding. You focus your ire on Soap, remembering he'd given you the jersey first. "Tha's not how ya court an omega. Trickin' 'em inta being comfortable wi' yer scent." You frown at them all and in the stillness, Soap cracks.

"Ah know, Ah know, but Ah couldnae help it!" he pleads, looking at you with hearts in his eyes. "Ah know ye hadnae said ye'd let us court ye," he shrugs, "but Ah didnae see the harm ta get cracking." The lopsided smile he wears melts you, but you don't let it show.

"Tha' could 'a gone all ta pot, and then where'd we be?" You force yourself to keep frowning even though you can feel the muscle at the corner of your mouth itching to tick up into a smile.

Soap drops his gaze from yours and looks at the others. "Ah know, an' Ah'm sorry, Ren," he says earnestly. Looking back at you, he continues, "Ah jus' wan'd ye so bad."

Price cuts in, somber, taking responsibility for his pack even now. "We all did, Ren, and we should 'a been upfront wi' ya about a lot a things much sooner. I'm sorry I didn't stop Soap when he first started with Gaz's jersey." You can read the sincerity in his eyes. This is why he's such a good pack alpha.

No one else says anything. No one moves. With a little internal shake, you realize they're waiting on you. Pack alphas may make the decisions, but omegas are the heart of a pack. They wait for you to decide how to handle this revelation. It's heady to realize these four strong soldiers will take their cue from you, so you smile at them. "I don' like how ya did it, bein' sneaky, but I won' lie. Those things have brought me a lot a comfort." The tension the others had been strung on snaps at your words, and you can see the weight of your forgiveness hit them. Before anyone can say anything, you tack on, "But don' do it again. Any of ya." Quieter, you add, "I've never been courted, and ya already mean so much ta me. Don' cock it up."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

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[cryingpages]

I had to get this off of my chest, it's pure fluff and annoying!reader (according to Simon)

------------

Thonk

Simon turned to the side, looking at the new recruit on his shoulder. Your head had fallen onto his shoulder, using him like a pillow.

Simon wasn't happy about this new predicament in the slightest, especially not after Soap had taken a picture of it like it was a spectacle to behold.

It was incredibly disrespectful to use your commanding officer like a pillow, let alone Ghost. But you didn't care. Not in the slightest.

Well, it didn't seem like you cared much as you slept, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn closer as if you were having a bad dream.

He tried to move you off of him, shaking his shoulder, your shoulder. Nothing worked. You slept heavy, something condemnable in the military. Sleeping heavy meant you weren't alert, aware. Bad for business in all the wrong ways.

He called for your name, your rank, but nothing worked. You were out cold and using him for warmth.

He decided he'd deal with it when he landed. In 6 hours.

------------

2 hours passed and you were still out cold. Then 3 and 4.

Soap was up now, laughing his ass off again, waking up Gaz and Price who also seemed more than amused. The mission was clearly exhausting for you. It was your first, it didn't surprise the older and more experienced men around you, but it was still a sight to see.

Simon was pissed.

Had he stayed completely still during that entire time? Yes. Did he enjoy any second of it? Absolutely not.

Somehow, you had wiggled one of your arms under his, holding onto his bicep.

Then, you had the audacity to smile. Your eyebrows no longer drawn or lips parted. They were now pulled softly to each side of your rosy cheeks as you muttered. He almost asked you to repeat it before it before it registered.

"That's nice." You had said, nuzzling closer to him as if he was something soft enough to nuzzle.

Your smile had become dizzying to him as the words pingponged inside his head.

That's nice.

Nice? Him? Nice?

It was laughable at best, damning at worst.

He tried waking you up multiple times throughout the flight. A series of taps on your shoulder to shaking you. You just mumbled some jumble before squeezing his arm softly, smiling, and heading right back to dreamland.

You clung to him the rest of the flight, smiling that stupid smile as you relished in his warmth, melting into his side.

The plane landed and everyone moved off except for the two of you. Him against his will, and you against his side.

You stayed there for another hour before finally waking up.

You were teased about it relentlessly when you both returned to base and chewed out for almost an hour by Ghost himself.

------------

Weeks passed before the next incident that got you your callsign: Thorn.

On a mission in the cold and infamous Russia, you had fallen into a river the team had been crossing. Rushing to the safe house, your clothes were quickly pulled from your body as you shook violently. Ghost, ever the bigger man of the group, was tasked with warming you by the fire. He held you, yelled at you to keep your eyes open, and wrapped you up in his warmth.

You finally got over your mild case of hypothermia before falling into a deep sleep again. This time on top of him. You curled into his side, pushing your small feet between his legs to warm them before nuzzling into his chest.

It was more than embarrassing the next morning as your clothes were handed to you.

"Twice in two months." Soap teased, watching your face turn red at the raggedy dinner table the equally raggedy safe house had to offer. "Should I be expecting another next month?" He asked with wiggly eyebrows.

You shoved his face away, going to apologize to Ghost who was on watch.

The conversation was short and curt, him sending you off with calling you a proper thorn in his side.

Gaz joined in on the teasing, calling you Thorn, and the dreadful, fluster inducing name stuck.

------------

Unfortunately for the reputation of the Big Bad Ghost, it didn't take long before he had come to crave the heat you offered on his side.

Sitting next to drowsy you, or being forced to when all the seats were taken, had become a past time of his and Soap and Gaz were eating it up.

They had a hefty collection of photos of each encounter (that they caught) by the time Christmas came along. Ghost should have known it was trouble when Gaz and Soap had given you two a present together in the lounge room where the celebration was taking place. You, ever the naive, had just been happy and honored to get a present from two of your favorite people.

The groan that echoed throughout the room was loud enough that you could hear a pin drop in the aftermath.

Everyone had stopped to look at a pink faced you and a more than unamused Ghost as a roll of film was pulled from a decorated box. The bastards had taped every Polaroid picture together and it rolled out like loose toilet paper.

Everyone, except you and Ghost, laughed as the pictures were examined. It, more often than not, included a sleeping you and an angry Simon giving a death glare to the photographer. On a rare occasion in the collection of photos, there would be a photo of you and Ghost, huddled up together, asleep.

[cryingpages]

Y/N: “Look I’m not saying I wouldn’t date an elf, I’m just saying that you’re all so tall it would be difficult to kiss any of you conveniently.”

Lindir: “That feels like a weak excuse.”

Elladan: “What’s a weak excuse?”

Lindir: “ Y/N is saying they wouldn’t date an elf because we’re too tall to kiss.”

Elrohir: “And yet” *kisses forehead* “you’re perfect height.”

Elladan: *Kisses forehead* “huh? You’re right, they are.”

Glorfindel: “Why are we kissing y/n?”

Lindir: *kisses forehead* “because they’re perfect height for it.”

Glorfindel: “If ever there was a good reason.” *kisses forehead*

Y/N: “Are all you elves just gonna keep kissing my forehead now?!”

Legolas: “Well you don’t have to ask me twice” *kisses forehead*

Arwen: “Alright that’s enough.”

Y/N, almost dead from blushing: “Thank you!”

Arwen: *kisses forehead* “I was feeling left out.”

[cryingpages]

Thorin- 9 to 5

Number 33 from this post. Requested by @ohnonotnow

Thorin was grateful to find a tavern this far out of town, especially one so quiet. Traveling alone, although slightly more relaxing compared to having 12 other dwarves with him, did seem to make him more tired. It was probably because instead of having lots of his kin to focus on, it was just him and this thoughts.

Walking through the tavern there was only two older men in the corner quietly talking to themselves. Not wanting to draw more attention to himself as a dwarf in a human village would, he quietly sat down in the corner.

Not really caring when a maid would take his order, Thorin began to stare out of the window, looking at the blue sky and birds of the early afternoon. His quiet meditation however was quickly interrupted by the sound of the tavern doors slamming open and a yell from the kitchen.

“That better be y/n!” He heard a shout from the kitchen.

“Or what?! You’ll fire me? I told you ma was sick and that I’d be starting later today! Keep your petticoat on, I’m starting now.” Her voice quieted down as she got closer to the kitchen. Such an interaction left the two once quiet men to chuckle to each other.

Of course Thorin looked up to see what all the commotion was about. As the young lady he had gathered was ‘y/n’ came into view, his eyes could not leave her face or her form. As a new king Thorin was meant to be level headed and calm always, but this young lady made his heart and thoughts race.

Not only was she beautiful but she wasn’t afraid to give people a piece of her mind, and hearing how she was taking care of her mother and the way she joked with the two old men, it seemed she was caring too.

Thorin began to panic as said young lady began to walk towards him. Was he blushing? ‘Oh please don’t blush! Kings aren’t meant to blush!’ He thought to himself as she began to come over.

“Hello, sir. How can I help you today?” She beamed at him, small notepad and pencil in hand.

Now both looking into each others eyes he began to get a little nervous. Was he staring too long? Oh Mahal he was!

“Hon?” You gently asked.

“Oh, um, hem! I- just um- pint of ale and um a pie. Please. Thank you. Ahem.” He managed to awkwardly blurt out.

Luckily for him, his awkward display just seemed to make you sweetly giggle at him.

“A pint and a pie, the house favourite. I’ll be back with that as quick as I can.” She genuinely smiled at him as she walked away.

‘Don’t stare at her behind! Don’t stare at her behind!’ He mentally chastised himself as he forced his head to look out the window again.

It was fifteen minutes before you returned again. In that time Thorin had managed to get his kingly courage and confidence back, now determined to actually have a proper conversation with you.

“Here you are, hon. A pie and a pint. Enjoy.” You once again beamed at him.

“Ma’am!” Thorin quickly called before you were able to walk away.

“Yes?” You gently asked, standing beside him once again.

“Are you working all day?” He gently asked, almost afraid to raise his voice too much in case it would scare you away.

“Nine to five, five days a week. Had to come in at twelve today but that’s because my Ma is unwell. Why you ask?”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother and I’m glad she has someone looking out for her. I won’t be in town very long today but perhaps if I were to come back another day I could treat you to a pie and a pint.” He asked you, his kingly confidence waning the longer he spoke.

“That sounds wonderful. The company I mean, not the meal. Don’t get me wrong it’s good food but when you’ve worked here for three years it gets a little tiring. I know a nice spot you could take me to and I’ll even bring my famous cherry pie.” You smile down at him, hand lightly grazing his shoulder.

“I look forward to it.” He says proudly, his confidence quickly returning.

“You know, every now and then a new traveler will come in here and flirt with me, offering me evenings a lot more crass then the one you offered. Usually I turn them down, even the lovely offers,” getting closer he could smell a sweet floral scent as you go close to his ear, “but it’s not every day a king takes interest in me.”

As you straighten up again you wink at his shocked face.

“Guess I’ll be keeping my eye out for a handsome dwarf king to come back into this tavern.” You slyly smirk at him as you walk off.

[cryingpages]

don’t look at me like that (unless you’re gonna stay)

wc: 1.9k

series masterlist (part 4)

a/n: yall can eat this up while im away 💋

cw: slight mentions of sex, heavy swearing by simon, angst (only a little), angry!simon (not at reader), jealousy

He doesn’t say anything else that night.

Not after the kiss. Not after the way he climbed into bed with you like it was second nature, like you were his and he was tired of pretending otherwise. Just laid there — rigid at first — like his body didn’t know how to relax. But you felt it. The way he slowly gave in.

The way his fingers found yours in the dark and curled tight.

Now it’s later. Still dark. Still quiet. You don’t know how long it’s been, only that Simon hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s still behind you, chest warm against your back, arm slung low around your waist.

His breath ghosts the shell of your ear, steady and deep, and for a second you think he’s asleep.

But then he shifts. Just slightly. Like he’s trying not to wake you.

You keep your eyes closed.

It’s stupid, maybe — the way you lie there, pretending. But something about the stillness is too fragile to break. Like if you speak too loud, he’ll remember who he is. Who you are. And it’ll all fall apart.

His fingers twitch against your stomach.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the kiss. You are. You haven’t stopped. It’s branded into you now — the way he kissed you like he was angry at himself for wanting it so badly. Like he’d been holding back for so long, he didn’t know how to be soft.

Maybe he doesn’t.

Maybe he’ll regret it in the morning.

That thought burrows under your skin like a splinter, sharp and sour. You swallow hard.

Because he’s Simon. And Simon kisses girls he doesn’t call back. Simon stumbles in at 3 a.m. with perfume on his collar and scrapes on his throat and never, ever stays the night.

Except… he’s here.

Still.

Wrapped around you like he needs it.

It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. And the longer you lie there, the worse the knot in your chest grows — tight and anxious and scared to hope.

He could have anyone. He has had anyone. Pretty, loud, wild girls with glossy lips and legs for days. Girls who don’t disappear into silence. Who don’t hide behind their bedroom doors, afraid of their own cough echoing through the walls.

So why you?

What the hell could he possibly want with you?

Your throat feels thick again. Too full of everything you’re not supposed to feel. You try to breathe past it — in, out — but it gets caught somewhere between fear and disbelief.

Behind you, Simon shifts.

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

His voice is low. Not groggy — just rough, like gravel dragging across concrete.

You hesitate.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you murmur.

“You didn’t.”

There’s a pause. Not heavy, but full. Like he’s giving you room to say something else.

You don’t.

After a second, you feel him move — slow and deliberate — until he’s propped up on one elbow. You feel the heat of his stare before you see it.

“Turn around,” he says quietly.

You don’t want to. You don’t trust your face not to give you away.

But you do.

And he’s right there — face shadowed in the dark, eyes impossibly soft for someone who’s always been made of stone. He looks at you like he’s trying to read something in your silence, like your stillness is speaking a language only he can understand.

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” he asks.

You blink up at him, startled. “Nothing.”

“Lie better.”

Your chest tightens.

“It’s nothing. I just…” You trail off. Then you force a little laugh, weak and unconvincing. “It’s weird. Having you here.”

Simon’s jaw ticks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask what you mean. He doesn’t have to.

You see it — the way something flashes behind his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Frustration. You’re not sure.

He shifts again, leaning closer, until the room feels too small for what’s sitting between you.

“You think this doesn’t mean anything?” he asks, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

“This.” His hand brushes your side, where his arm had been wrapped. “Us. Right now.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“I don’t know what it means,” you admit.

He studies you like that hurts more than it should.

And then, suddenly, he’s talking.

Not loud. Not fast. Just steady. Steady in the way a dam breaks — slow at first, then impossible to stop.

“I don’t do this,” he says. “Stay. Lie in someone’s bed. Let ‘em see me like this.”

Your breath catches.

“I know I’ve made you feel like shit. I know I’ve been an asshole.”

You try to look away. He doesn’t let you.

His hand comes up — fingers grazing your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw.

“You think I don’t want you,” he says softly. “You think I just came here to fuck.”

You flinch.

“I didn’t,” he says. “I swear to God, I didn’t.”

“Then why?” you whisper. “Why me?”

It comes out too raw. Too desperate. You hate yourself for it — for needing to know, for asking like it matters.

But Simon doesn’t pull away.

He stares at you for a long moment, like he’s weighing something heavy.

Then he leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“You’re not like them,” he says, so quietly it makes your heart ache. “You never were.”

You swallow hard.

“You hide away. You think no one sees you. But I do.”

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

“I see you when you’re tucked in the corner of the couch with your books. When you sneak out in the morning before I’ve even gotten dressed. When you cough in your room and think I’m not listening.”

You close your eyes. “Simon—”

“I notice everything,” he says. “And it’s been driving me fucking crazy.”

And then he kisses you again.

This time it’s not frantic. Not angry.

It’s soft.

Like he’s trying to prove something.

Like he’s scared of what it’ll mean if he doesn’t do it right.

You melt.

There’s no other word for it — you melt into him, into the heat of his body, the weight of his hand on your waist, the way he kisses you like you’re precious, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you off.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.

Just enough to look at you again, eyes unreadable.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says.

You reach up, touching the side of his face.

“We’ll figure it out.”

He stares at you for a moment longer. Then he nods.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “We will.”

—————

Simon doesn’t let you go.

Even after everything’s been said — after the softest kiss, after the whisper of we’ll figure it out — he just holds you. Like maybe if he lets go, it’ll all come undone. You feel it in the way his arm tightens around your waist, in the way his nose nudges the side of your face like he’s making sure you’re still there.

You let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself want this.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs eventually.

You shake your head, voice low. “You’ll disappear.”

His silence answers you. Not a lie. Just quiet.

Then — “I won’t.”

You glance up at him, skeptical.

He huffs, almost a laugh, eyes heavy but honest. “I’m shit at this. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to try.”

You don’t know what to say. So you nod. That’s all. Just… nod.

Simon shifts, presses another kiss to the top of your head. His voice is rough again when he speaks, but not like before. Not angry.

“You were right, by the way.”

“About what?”

“I hook up with a lot of girls.”

Your stomach twists.

“But it’s not because I want to. It’s ‘cause I didn’t know what else to do. You think I didn’t notice you? Truth is, I noticed you so much it fucked me up. Every time I saw you in the kitchen with your tea and your goddamn hoodie sleeves over your hands—”

He pauses. Breathes. Shakes his head like he hates himself for saying it out loud.

“I didn’t know how to want someone like that. All soft and quiet and real.”

Your heart is beating so loud it hurts.

He exhales. “But I want you. And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t anymore.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

Then, softly: “Okay.”

That’s all he needs.

Simon pulls you closer, tucks your head under his chin, and stays.

—————

You stay like that for a long time, just breathing each other in, the quiet of the room thick and heavy but somehow safe. You realize how much you’ve been craving this—the simplicity of being held without having to pretend, without the noise of the world pressing in.

Simon’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, his touch steady, almost reverent. The way he looks at you now, not with that usual cocky edge but something softer, something almost fragile, makes your chest tighten in a way that’s both terrifying and thrilling.

“Never thought I’d say this,” he murmurs, voice low enough that it’s just between you two, “but I’m glad you got sick.”

You blink up at him, startled. “What?”

He presses a gentle kiss just behind your ear. “Because otherwise, I wouldn’t have had a reason to come find you like this. To actually be here. Not just passing through.”

Your heart twists. You want to tell him it’s not fair, that you don’t want him to just show up when you’re vulnerable. But the words catch in your throat, and instead you lean into him, letting yourself be held.

There’s a long pause. Then he whispers, “I don’t do feelings. You know that.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

“But maybe… maybe I can learn.”

And in the quiet dark, with his arms wrapped around you like he’s never letting go, you believe him.

☆taglist☆

@little-mini-me-world @h0lydrag0ns @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @pixiellove @fruitymoonbeams-blog @jokerivory @arrowacer @4ri3n @yasmin-003 @charliehunnamsleftsock @strawberrymilk99 @queenoflaflames @xigua2kuai5yijin @arnnf @genea-myers @elixir-of-dreams @turtlegreentia @pinkembodiment @bbygirl9 @echo9821 @illyanam1011 @luciferstempest @lostintransist @dethspllz @letstryagaintomorrow @hypertail @cr0wbrz @enfppuff @elegantangelenthusiast @trashprincss @youngandweird @mafer383 @eremika104 @avgdestitute @poshestpigeon @tessakate @hyperobsessedd @ohdrey89

[cryingpages]

why me?

fuckboy!simon x nerdy!reader

part 1 part 2

a/n: yay it’s here!!

wc: 4k?? i think…

cw: slight mentions of sex, heavy swearing by simon, angst (only a little), angry!simon (not at reader), jealousy

You’re coughing again.

It’s sharp, chest-deep. Comes from somewhere buried, somewhere tired. You smother it with a pillow like that’s going to do anything, like that’s going to make it invisible.

But it’s not. Not to him.

The door slams open so hard it rattles the hinges.

You jolt upright, breath caught, eyes wide.

And there he is.

Simon Riley—hood up, eyes black, jaw locked so hard it might crack.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he’s already stepping inside like a goddamn thunderstorm.

“You’re sick again,” he snaps.

You blink. “I’m fine—”

“Bullshit,” he growls. “You’ve been hacking your lungs out for days, and you just—what? Sit in here and hope it’ll stop on its own?”

He’s never looked more furious.

Not the bar fights. Not the game nights gone wrong. Nothing has touched the fury in his eyes right now, the kind that’s not about being mad at you—it’s about not being able to stop caring.

You push your blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

Simon’s face contorts. “A big deal—? You can barely breathe!”

He starts pacing. Three steps. Turn. Three more.

“You do this every fucking time,” he mutters. “You hole up in here, you act like it’s nothing, and you don’t tell anyone.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You never think,” he spits, eyes flicking to you. “You think being quiet makes you small enough no one’ll notice? Is that it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. But you act like it.” He stops pacing. Looks right at you. Voice drops, low and trembling with something more dangerous than rage.

“You act like no one sees you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

The air is heavy now. Close.

“I do,” he says, softer now, but it sounds worse like that. Like it costs him something.

“I see you hiding. I hear you coughing. I watch you disappear into yourself like it’s safer that way. Like you think someone’ll care less if you’re quiet enough.”

You can’t meet his eyes.

But he doesn’t stop.

“You think I haven’t noticed you pulling back? The way you move around this place like you’re an afterthought. Like you’re fucking disposable.”

“Simon—”

He cuts you off, voice rough.

“No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to shrink and then pretend no one saw it.”

Your breath stutters. “Why do you even care?”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. Broken.

“Why do I care?” He shakes his head like you’ve just asked if the sky is blue. “Because it drives me insane. You walk around here like a ghost and I—”

He stops.

You’re trembling a little now. Not from fear. From the storm of it. From all of this finally spilling out.

He steps closer.

“You think I don’t notice you?” he breathes.

That voice—low, deadly quiet. Not loud. Just… inevitable.

His eyes are wild.

“You think I don’t see how you flinch when someone laughs too loud? Or how you stop breathing when I have someone over? Like if you hold your breath long enough, you’ll vanish.”

You open your mouth, heart thudding.

“I see it all,” he snarls. “I see every time you look at me like you hate me. Like you wish I’d stop. Like maybe, if I didn’t exist, it’d be easier for you to stop wanting me.”

That last word hangs heavy between you.

Wanting.

You don’t know who moves first, but he’s in front of you now. Staring. Breathing hard.

Then—

He grabs your arm.

You gasp.

Not because it hurts—it doesn’t. His grip is firm, yes, but grounding. Like if he doesn’t touch you, he’ll lose the thread of this entire thing.

He drags you up to stand. The blanket falls away. You’re standing there in an oversized hoodie and socks, blinking at him like you’ve never seen him before.

“I can’t fucking take it,” he mutters. “Watching you shrink. Watching you disappear in plain sight.”

“You’re the one who disappears,” you whisper.

His eyes flash.

“You think that’s on purpose?”

“I don’t know, Simon! I don’t know anything with you!”

He steps forward. You step back.

He matches you, one-to-one, until your knees hit the edge of the bed and you have nowhere to go.

“You think I like this?” he growls. “You think I like being an asshole to the one person who actually fucking sees me?”

“I don’t see you,” you say, but it’s a lie, and you both know it.

He leans in.

“Liar.”

The breath leaves your lungs.

Then, out of nowhere—he kisses you.

It’s violent. Not in the way that hurts, but in the way that grips. That shakes something loose in your chest. It’s all teeth and frustration and finally.

You grab the front of his hoodie and drag him closer.

He makes a sound deep in his throat. A groan. Something guttural. It sounds like surrender and defeat and want, all rolled into one.

You break apart only because you have to breathe.

He doesn’t step back.

His forehead presses to yours.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he mutters. “I never say the right thing. I always push too hard or run too fast.”

“You came in here,” you whisper.

“Because I couldn’t not.”

He closes his eyes, brow furrowed.

“I’ve been watching you,” he says. “I watch you every day. I memorize your silences. Your footsteps. The way your door clicks at night.”

Your throat tightens.

“I see you,” he says again, softer now. “Even when you try not to be seen.”

You lean your head against his chest. Let yourself breathe him in—smoke and cold air and home.

For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Just holds you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

Then, finally—

“I’m gonna fuck this up,” he murmurs.

You smile against him. “Probably.”

His arms tighten.

“But I’m still here.”

You nod.

“You’re still here.”

And that, for now, is everything.

The silence after the kiss is deafening.

Simon’s still so close your lips almost brush when you breathe. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run a mile. You don’t say anything, and neither does he. The air between you is heavy—too heavy. He hasn’t let go of your wrist.

He does now.

Pulls back like the heat of your skin just burned him.

His eyes dart away, jaw tight again, but not from anger this time. He looks shaken. Like he’s regretting something already, even though you kissed him back. Even though you’re still standing there, lips parted, chest heaving.

You shift, wrapping your arms around yourself like armor. Not because you want to push him away. But because if you don’t, you think you might fall apart.

“Simon…” you start.

But he turns.

He moves to leave. Like always.

Like he just did something reckless and now he has to go pretend he didn’t feel anything at all.

Except—

He stops.

Hand still on the doorknob. Back tense.

You wait, breath caught in your throat.

“Do you want me to stay?”

The question is so soft it almost doesn’t reach you. But it does. It lands in your chest like a dropped stone.

You blink. “What?”

He turns halfway, eyes low. That mask of his is gone. There’s nothing behind it but vulnerability, cracked and real. His voice comes quieter the second time.

“I’ll stay… if you want.”

Your room is still. The world outside might not exist.

You nod.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just steps back in and closes the door with more care than he’s ever shown it before. Doesn’t slam it. Doesn’t speak. Just locks it, slowly, and turns to face you again.

And then — without waiting for permission — he toes off his boots, crosses the room, and climbs into your bed.

You stand there frozen, watching the massive weight of him settle onto the mattress, hoodie rumpled, expression unreadable.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, barely audible.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “I know I don’t.”

He shifts back against your pillows, long legs stretching out, gaze flicking up to yours.

“I just… don’t want to leave you like that. Not tonight.”

You move toward him slowly, like you’re dreaming.

When you slide under the blanket beside him, it’s awkward at first. He’s all muscle and warmth, not knowing where to put his hands. You curl into yourself out of habit — defensive — but then his arm reaches out, slow and tentative, and hooks around your waist.

It’s not graceful. Not practiced.

But it’s real.

You stiffen, just for a second.

Then exhale and melt into him.

His hand doesn’t wander. It stays right there — solid, steady, like a promise he doesn’t know how to voice.

The minutes pass without a word.

It’s the quietest it’s ever been between you, and somehow the loudest too.

You can feel his breath in your hair, warm and uneven. His heartbeat against your spine. The barest twitch of his fingers every time you shift.

“You okay?” he murmurs eventually.

“Are you?” you whisper back.

He huffs out a breath. You can’t see his face, but you can feel his smile — tired, wry, a little broken.

“I’m trying.”

You close your eyes.

You’re so tired. Sick, worn down, emotionally wrung out. But the warmth of him behind you… it’s something you’ve never let yourself need before. Never thought you could have.

“You don’t have to fix me,” you whisper.

“I’m not trying to.”

His voice is low. Honest. Frayed at the edges.

“I just wanna be here.”

You press your fingers into his forearm where it wraps around your stomach. Just to make sure he’s still real.

After a long while, he speaks again. This time it sounds like it’s been clawing its way out of him all night.

“I don’t… do this. I don’t stay. I don’t hold people. I don’t let them stay.”

Your throat tightens. “Then why me?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But when he does, it’s the most open he’s ever been.

“Because you make me want to.”

You swallow hard. His words are simple, but they land like they’re sacred.

Another long pause. The kind that feels like it matters.

“You don’t think you’re worth much,” he adds. “But you are. I see you. All the fucking time. When you don’t think anyone’s looking.”

You shift a little, pressing closer. “I see you too.”

His arm tightens around you instinctively.

You let the silence settle again. This time, it feels softer. Warmer. Like maybe it could stay a while.

Eventually, your eyes start to slip closed.

And Simon doesn’t move.

He stays right there — in your bed, against your back, breathing slow, fingers twitching like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

And for once, the apartment isn’t so cold.

Your sheets are still warm from him. That kiss still on your mouth, smudged like something sinful — and then, just like that, he pulled back, awkwardly sat up like he was leaving, and stared at you like he was furious with himself for it.

He’d started to say something — but it stuck in his throat, like every word was too risky to set free.

And then you were both just breathing.

You feel him move again, the mattress dipping as he shifts. You hadn’t realized he was staying. He’d sat there on the edge for what felt like forever, silent and tense — but now he’s twisting around, one hand bracing himself on the bed.

Then?

Simon Riley climbs in beside you.

Again.

Slowly. Like you might stop him. Like he’s scared you might not want him there.

You turn your head. He’s right next to you now, both of you under the same blanket. He smells like cold air and aftershave and something else, something quiet. His arm brushes yours — and he flinches.

You feel small beside him.

“I can leave,” he says after a beat. Rough, low. But there’s something in it. A crack. “If this is too much.”

You shake your head before you even know what you’re doing.

“No,” you say. Voice raspier than normal, because the fever’s still lingering and your throat hurts and you’ve barely spoken all day. “Stay.”

Simon doesn’t respond with words. He just shifts a little closer, moving slow. One arm curls behind your back, pulling you gently toward him, and you follow like it’s gravity, your head resting on his chest.

It’s… soft.

Dangerously so.

You feel his fingers press into the fabric of your shirt like he’s grounding himself there. Holding you like he’s scared you might drift away.

You don’t know what this is.

You don’t know why he’s doing this.

Which is what scares you the most.

You’re quiet for a long time. His fingers are stroking the curve of your arm now, light and absent, but still real enough to make you ache.

Then — stupidly, too softly — you whisper:

“You hook up with so many girls.”

You feel him stiffen. Just slightly.

You shouldn’t have said it. But the words are already there. Floating in the air between your mouths.

You push on, voice barely a breath.

“You could have anyone. I don’t… I don’t get why you’d pick me.”

Silence.

It stretches out so long it hurts.

You feel your stomach twist. Regret like a second fever under your skin. Simon doesn’t do this — he doesn’t stay. And here you are, ruining it.

But then — finally — he exhales. Not angry. Not dismissive.

Just quiet.

“I didn’t pick anyone.”

You blink.

“I didn’t want to,” he adds, softer now. “Didn’t think I could.”

He’s speaking like this is costing him something. Like every word is peeled out from somewhere he never shows.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing with you,” he admits. “It’s not like—fuck. I don’t do this.”

You press your face a little harder into his chest.

“I know.”

He swallows. You feel the movement against your cheek.

“But you…” His fingers curl gently into the back of your shirt. “You’re not like the others.”

You stiffen.

“I don’t mean it like that,” he says quickly. “I mean—you look at me like I’m not already a lost cause. You… talk to me like you think I can be better.”

You don’t say anything. But your hand shifts, brushes his arm — a silent response.

“I didn’t notice,” he continues, voice more hoarse now, “how fucking much I watched you. How much I needed to.”

You can’t move. Can’t speak.

“I’d bring someone home, and they’d be… whatever. Perfect. Loud. Beautiful. Easy.”

The words sting. But his voice is heavy with something else.

“But none of ‘em ever made me feel like this. Not like you. You’re in the room and it’s like—fuck, I don’t know. I’m twenty goddamn feet underwater.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he notices first — you feel his arm curl tighter around you, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking a little. “I didn’t mean to—shit. I’m not good at this. I don’t know what you need me to say.”

You shake your head into him.

“I don’t need anything. I just…”

You sniff. A soft sound.

“I don’t get it. I’m sick all the time. I look like hell. I barely talk. I’m not fun. I’m not anything.”

Simon pulls back just enough to look at you. You can barely meet his eyes.

And then his hand cups your cheek, and his mouth is pressing gently into your forehead. A kiss so quiet you nearly miss it.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters. “Don’t ever fuckin’ say that again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Swallow thick.

“Why not?”

He looks down at you, something tortured in his face.

“Because you’re everything to me right now.”

The words hit you like a blow.

You blink, stunned. Your breath stutters.

Simon lets it sit there. Lets it echo.

Then he leans in again — not all at once this time. Slower. Gentler.

And kisses you.

It’s different than before.

This time, it’s not rough or angry. Not a clash of desperation. It’s quiet. Reverent.

Like you’re fragile.

Like you matter.

His lips trace yours like he’s memorizing the shape. One of his hands cups the side of your face — the other drifts down your arm, your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you at all.

You melt into it. Into him.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“I don’t know how to be soft,” he says. “But I want to try. With you.”

You nod — just a little — because you’re scared if you speak you’ll shatter.

You let him kiss you again. And again.

You let yourself believe, just for now, that this moment is real. That he means it.

That you’re the one he wants.

Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s complicated.

He’s here. In your bed. Holding you like he’s never going to let go.

And that’s enough. For now.

part 4

☆taglist☆

@little-mini-me-world @h0lydrag0ns @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @pixiellove @fruitymoonbeams-blog @jokerivory @arrowacer @4ri3n @yasmin-003 @charliehunnamsleftsock @strawberrymilk99 @queenoflaflames @xigua2kuai5yijin @arnnf @genea-myers @elixir-of-dreams @turtlegreentia @pinkembodiment @bbygirl9 @echo9821 @illyanam1011 @luciferstempest @lostintransist @dethspllz @letstryagaintomorrow @hypertail @cr0wbrz @enfppuff @elegantangelenthusiast @trashprincss @youngandweird @mafer383 @eremika104 @avgdestitute @poshestpigeon

a/n: taglists are stressful af omg 😭😭

[cryingpages]

you think i don’t notice?

part 2 to don’t tempt me

fuckboy!simon x nerdy!reader

wc: 6.7k

cw: slight mentions of sex, heavy swearing by simon, angst (only a little), angry!simon (not at reader), jealousy

Simon doesn’t leave your room.

Not after he kicks her out. Not after she slams the door like it’s you she’s mad at and not herself for getting caught.

He just… stays.

Sits on the edge of your bed like he has any business being there, like he hasn’t spent the last six months pretending you don’t exist. You, with your messy ponytail and hoodie sleeves stretched over your hands and tissues peeking from under your pillow like some kind of sick gremlin.

You don’t know what to do. What to say.

So you just sip the tea he brought you. Let the silence stretch.

“I thought you hated me,” you say finally, voice still raw.

Simon huffs a quiet sound. “Didn’t say I liked you.”

That makes you smile. Barely. But he sees it.

His gaze flicks to you — sharp, unreadable — and then just stays there. Watching.

You clear your throat and look away, suddenly too aware of how small your bed is. How close his knee is to yours. How he’s still here and hasn’t gone back to texting whatever girl he’d probably had lined up for tomorrow.

Your stomach flips.

You hate him a little. For making you feel like this. For confusing you. For being decent when he’s supposed to be a total ass.

“You can go, you know,” you whisper. “I’m not gonna, like… die or something.”

He doesn’t move. “Didn’t ask.”

“You’re not staying out of guilt, are you? ’Cause of what she said?”

Simon’s jaw ticks. That muscle again.

“I don’t feel guilty.”

“Then why are you—?”

“Because you’re sick,” he says. “And you looked like you were about to fucking cry, and I didn’t like that.”

You blink. Hard.

“Oh.”

That’s all you manage.

Simon runs a hand through his hair and exhales like you’ve exhausted him, like you’re the problem, not the girl who stomped in and insulted you in your own goddamn room.

“You ever gonna tell me?” he says suddenly.

You frown. “Tell you what?”

“Who hurt you.”

Your blood freezes.

“What—?”

“Don’t play dumb,” he says, low. “You flinch every time someone raises their voice. Every time someone touches you. Even when it’s me.”

You look down at your tea.

“It’s nothing,” you lie.

He doesn’t believe you. You can feel it.

But he lets it go.

For now.

You should feel relieved. But something in your chest twists, tight and aching.

You’re not sure when it started — the wanting.

Maybe it was when he wiped your nose without laughing. Maybe when he kicked out that girl without hesitating. Maybe it’s been building under your skin this whole time, slow and sharp like a splinter.

Whatever it is, it’s worse now. He’s too close. Too real.

You curl into yourself, trying to disappear.

Simon shifts. Leans back against your headboard like he lives there.

“You always this quiet?”

You shrug.

“Figured you’d be the type to never shut up.”

You glance at him. “Why?”

He smirks. “Glasses. Big words. You know. Nerd shit.”

“You think I’m a nerd?”

He grins wider. “Don’t play coy. You literally labeled your tea mugs.”

You flush. “I was sick. I didn’t want to—”

“You’re adorable when you’re defensive.”

You blink.

Did he just—?

Simon doesn’t look at you. Just casually tosses it out there like it’s not going to haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.

You sink deeper into your blanket.

Then—

Your phone buzzes.

You grab it instinctively, thumb swiping across the screen before your fevered brain catches up.

Simon doesn’t move, but something shifts in the air.

“You texting someone?” he asks.

You glance up.

His voice is too light.

You hesitate. “It’s just— this guy from class. He was asking how I’m feeling.”

Simon’s eyes darken. Just slightly.

“This guy.”

You nod, oblivious. “Yeah. He brought me cough drops once. He’s nice.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Just stares at the wall like it insulted him.

You scroll. Smiling faintly.

Simon’s hand twitches.

“What’s so funny?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” you say, looking up. “He just said I sounded cute when I was all congested.”

You’re teasing. Sort of.

Simon isn’t laughing.

“He say that before or after he asked if you were alone?”

You pause.

“What?”

“Don’t trust guys like that.”

Your brow furrows. “You mean nice guys?”

“I mean guys who see a girl who’s sick and vulnerable and think ‘oh cool, now’s my chance.’”

Your stomach twists. “You don’t even know him.”

“And you do?” Simon snaps. “What, you think he actually gives a fuck how you’re feeling? You think he’s checking in because he cares? No. He wants something.”

You stare at him.

“Why do you care?” you ask quietly.

Simon’s mouth opens, then closes.

His jaw clenches again.

“Because I’m your fucking roommate,” he mutters.

You nod slowly. “Right.”

Silence.

Then—

“You like him?” Simon asks suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“That guy. You like him?”

You hesitate.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Simon doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Then he laughs. Bitter. Mean.

“He wouldn’t last a day with you.”

Your throat tightens. “What the hell does that mean?”

He turns to you. Finally looks at you.

“You think he’d take care of you like this?” he says. “You think he’d sit here while you look like hell and wipe your nose and make sure you’re breathing okay?”

You flinch. “I didn’t ask you to—”

“I did it anyway,” he says, low.

You don’t know what to say.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters. “Whatever this is.”

You stare at him.

“Then why are you here?”

He looks at you. Quiet. Serious.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I keep thinking about you. Even when I don’t want to.”

Your breath catches.

Simon leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenched.

“I hear you through the walls,” he says. “When you cry. When you laugh. When you talk in your sleep.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“You do,” he says. “You said my name once.”

Your heart stops.

“What—?”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease.

Just looks at you like he’s watching something fall apart.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “I just didn’t know how to not want you.”

The air leaves your lungs.

Simon leans in.

Not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to ruin you.

“If that guy texts you again,” he says, “you tell him not to bother.”

You swallow. “Why?”

He looks at your mouth.

Then your eyes.

“Because I’m the one who hears you through the walls.”

And then—

He kisses your forehead.

Just once.

Soft.

Barely there.

But it shatters you.

Simon pulls back.

Stands.

Doesn’t say a word as he moves to the door.

He pauses.

Glances over his shoulder.

“You need anything,” he says, “you call me. Not him.”

You nod, speechless.

And then he’s gone.

Leaving behind a mug of tea, a thousand questions, and a silence that sounds a whole lot like the start of something else.

You were feeling a little better.

Not good, not normal, but better. Enough to shower. Enough to pull on fresh sweats and eat half a bowl of soup without gagging. Your nose was still red, your eyes still glassy, but the fever was gone, and you could finally breathe without feeling like your ribs might crack.

Still, you hadn’t left your room.

Not since that night.

Not since Simon kicked the girl out, sat on your bed like he belonged there, and touched you like you mattered. Like he saw you for the first time.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

He’d been distant ever since — not cold, exactly, just… unreadable. No more girls. No more music shaking the walls. He hadn’t said anything, but you could feel him in the quiet. In the way he paused in the hall. In the untouched takeout that showed up outside your door, no note, no explanation.

He hadn’t checked on you again.

And you hadn’t dared knock on his door.

You were curled up in bed, watching some old documentary through one barely-open eye, when you heard it — the heavy thud of boots in the hallway. His door creaked open. Then closed again.

Then silence.

Then your door.

It didn’t open. Just a knock. Once.

Your heart jumped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still scratchy.

The door cracked. And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Gray hoodie. Sweats slung low on his hips. One hand braced on the frame like he might change his mind.

You blinked. “Hi.”

He stared at you like he wasn’t sure why he came. Like he’d rehearsed something in his head and forgot all of it the second he saw you.

You tugged your blanket tighter. “What’s up?”

Simon didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned you — flushed cheeks, hair still damp from the shower, sleeves too long over your hands. You knew you looked fragile. You hated that he was the one seeing you like this again.

He finally spoke.

“You look like hell.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Thanks.”

He stepped inside anyway.

Shut the door behind him.

Then leaned against it like he had nowhere else to be.

“Didn’t say it was a bad look,” he muttered.

You stared. “Are you flirting with me or trying to pick a fight?”

“Why would I flirt with you?”

“Ouch.”

Simon’s eyes flicked to yours, and something there made your breath hitch.

“I’m just saying,” he said, voice rough, “don’t get any ideas.”

You almost laughed. “Believe me, I wasn’t.”

He pushed off the door and crossed the room like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t spent months pretending you barely existed.

He grabbed the empty mug off your nightstand. Frowned at it.

“No tea?”

“I drank it.”

“No shit.”

He turned like he might take it back to the kitchen, but you stopped him.

“Wait.”

He paused.

You shifted awkwardly under the blanket, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Why are you… here?”

Simon didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just looked at you — really looked — and it made your stomach twist.

“You’re still sick,” he said finally.

“I’m getting better.”

“Didn’t ask.”

You huffed, grabbing the nearest pillow and hugging it to your chest. “You’re being weird.”

He snorted. “You’re the weird one. Sittin’ in here like a damn ghost.”

“I’ve been recovering.”

He looked at you over his shoulder. “From the flu or from getting screamed at by that silicone-sculpted banshee?”

You blinked. “Both?”

He turned back around. Set the mug down. His shoulders were tense.

“You shouldn’t’ve opened the door,” he muttered.

“I didn’t,” you said. “She did.”

He didn’t respond.

Just paced a few steps away, hands on his hips. Like he had too much energy and no clue what to do with it.

“What’s your deal?” you asked, quieter now.

He shot you a look.

You sat up a little. “You’ve been… off.”

“I haven’t.”

“You haven’t brought anyone home in three nights.”

“So?”

“So I’m not complaining, but it’s weird.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker. Frustrated.

“Maybe I don’t feel like listenin’ to some brat whine about thread count while I’m tryin’ to—”

He cut himself off.

You blinked. “While you’re trying to what?”

“Never mind.”

You tilted your head. “While you’re trying to pretend you don’t care about me?”

That stopped him cold.

His jaw flexed. His hands clenched. He turned to face you, slow and deliberate.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he said, low.

You smiled — tired, knowing. “You keep saying that, but you’re in my room.”

Simon stalked closer, eyes dark. “Because you’re sick.”

“You didn’t care before.”

“I didn’t know before.”

“You didn’t ask.”

Silence.

Thick enough to drown in.

Simon stood over your bed, jaw tight, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You stared up at him, heart thudding. “Why do you care now?”

His gaze dropped to your lips. Then your knees pulled up to your chest. Then back to your eyes.

“You really wanna know?” he asked, voice like gravel.

You nodded.

He stepped closer.

And closer.

Until he was right in front of you, close enough that the heat from his body made your skin prickle.

Then he leaned down, braced his arms on either side of you, and looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that made him feel anything at all.

“I don’t,” he said.

You blinked. Breath caught.

“I don’t care,” he repeated, voice lower now. “You get sick, you get better — not my fuckin’ problem.”

Your chest ached. “Right.”

“But if I hear you cry because of someone I brought into this house again,” he said, tilting his head, “I will lose it.”

You swallowed. “Simon—”

“I’ll lose it,” he said again. “Because I’m not gonna watch someone tear you down when you’re already hanging on by a thread.”

You stared at him. “That… kinda sounds like caring.”

His mouth twitched. “It’s not.”

You smiled. Just a little. “Okay.”

He leaned in closer.

Close enough that his nose brushed yours. That his breath was warm on your cheek.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he whispered.

“You’re worse.”

He didn’t deny it.

And then — without thinking, without warning — his hand reached out. Fingers under your chin. Lifting your face to his.

Not kissing you. Not yet.

Just holding you there, eyes flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize the exact version of you that made him lose control.

“You still feel like shit?” he asked.

“Less like shit,” you whispered.

“Good.”

Then he let go.

Straightened up.

Walked to the door like nothing happened.

Paused there, hand on the knob.

You watched him, heart still racing.

He looked over his shoulder. Met your eyes.

“Don’t go thinking I care.”

Then he left.

And shut the door behind him.

Your room was still too quiet.

You hadn’t said anything since Simon walked out last night.

Not when he brought you soup. Not when he leaned against your doorway and asked, “Need anything?” like it didn’t feel like his voice dragged hot iron down your spine. And definitely not when he stayed longer than necessary, standing there like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to start.

You didn’t answer because you didn’t trust your voice. Or your face. Or the way something was cracking open between you two and he didn’t even seem to notice.

But he did.

You just didn’t know it yet.

You were curled under the blanket now, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, glasses slipping down your nose as you flipped another page of the book you weren’t reading. It was easier than looking at the door.

Because you knew he’d come in eventually.

He always did now.

The shift had been slow — from silence to tension, from passing jabs to something warmer, if not softer. But the edge never dulled completely. Not with Simon. Especially not when he didn’t want it to.

You heard the door creak open behind you.

“Still alive, then.”

His voice was lazy. But there was a tightness beneath it. Like he’d been rehearsing sounding casual.

You didn’t turn. “Barely.”

Footsteps. Closer.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered. “House’s been quiet. Almost peaceful.”

You scoffed into your blanket. “Guess your bimbos took the night off.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I haven’t brought anyone home all week.”

You blinked.

That wasn’t like him. At all.

You turned to look at him, and he was already watching you.

Leaning against the frame. Hoodie half-zipped. Hair messy. Eyes dark.

You said nothing.

He stepped inside.

Something about his energy was different tonight. Less cocky. Less put together. Like whatever was usually holding him upright had been worn thin and now you were seeing what was underneath.

You sat up slowly, pulling your sleeves over your hands again.

Simon’s gaze flicked down. Noticed. Something flickered across his face.

“You mad at me?” he asked bluntly.

You blinked. “Why would I be mad at you?”

He didn’t answer.

You swallowed. “You’ve been… weird.”

Simon huffed a dry laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I’ve been weird.”

More silence.

Then he said your name.

Just that.

Soft. Like a question and a warning all at once.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally, because your chest was too full and your head was too hot and everything about him made you feel like you were drowning in something you weren’t supposed to want. “Why are you being nice to me now?”

“I’m not,” he muttered.

You blinked at him.

Simon looked away.

“You’re just…” He exhaled sharply, jaw ticking. “You’re too fuckin’ quiet all the time. And then when you do talk, it’s like you think I can’t hear you.”

You frowned. “What?”

He stepped closer.

You felt the shift in the air immediately. The pull. The way he always managed to fill a room, even without touching anything.

“You think I don’t notice you?”

His voice was low, dangerous in the way a storm is dangerous — not because it’s loud, but because you can feel it coming.

“Every fucking night I brought someone home, you think I didn’t hear you breathing through the wall? You think I didn’t feel it when you went quiet, like you were trying not to exist?”

He leaned closer. You could feel the heat coming off him now, smell the faint smoke of his cologne.

“I see everything, sweetheart. That’s the problem.”

Your heart stopped.

Literally stopped.

“Simon…”

“You think I was ignoring you?” His eyes pinned you in place. “I was. I fucking had to.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’d come home, see your light on, know you were in here reading some stupid ass book in that dumb oversized hoodie like you weren’t the most distracting fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

You flinched. His voice wasn’t angry. But it was so raw it hurt to hear.

“And then I’d go in my room and I’d hear you—just existing—and I’d get fucking mad.” His tongue ran over his teeth. “At you. At me. At the whole fucking situation.”

You sat there frozen.

Still too sick to fight, too overwhelmed to speak.

Simon stepped forward again. You were face to face now, your knees nearly brushing his thighs where he stood.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You never got it.”

“Then tell me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

“I didn’t bring those girls home because I wanted to,” he said. “I brought them home because it was easier than thinking about you. About the way you look at me when you think I don’t see.”

You swallowed. Your voice barely worked. “You’re always so mean.”

His mouth twitched. “Because I didn’t want you to look back.”

Silence.

He sat down on the edge of your bed like the first night, his knees brushing yours. But this time, he didn’t look away.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, almost to himself. “At—feelings. At being… kind.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I noticed.”

He huffed a soft laugh. Ran a hand through his hair.

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He looked at you again. And this time, the weight of it was unbearable.

You shifted. “Why are you here, Simon?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then—

“I heard you crying last night.”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “Just… stood outside the door like a fucking idiot.”

You stared at him. Eyes hot.

“I wanted to come in. But I knew if I did, I’d say something dumb. Or too much. Or not enough.” His voice dropped. “And I couldn’t handle you flinching from me again.”

You blinked fast. “You make it really hard not to flinch.”

“I know.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. “That’s why I’m trying.”

You stared at him. Hard.

“Do you even like me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled.

Then he said your name again.

Soft.

Real.

“I think I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

You didn’t breathe.

Didn’t dare.

Simon looked away, jaw tight. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

You shook your head. “That’s not a problem.”

He turned back toward you.

And for the first time in forever, he looked like he believed you.

Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t going to break him.

Or you.

You reached for him without thinking, fingers wrapping gently around his sleeve. He stilled. Let you.

He looked at your hand.

Then at your face.

“You’re still sick,” he muttered, but he didn’t move.

You smiled. “I’m always sick.”

Simon’s mouth twitched. His eyes softened.

He leaned in just enough to let his forehead touch yours.

No kiss.

Not yet.

Just heat and breath and a storm that didn’t want to pass.

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Okay.”

And for once, Simon didn’t run.

part 3

☆☆☆

☆taglist☆

@little-mini-me-world @h0lydrag0ns @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @pixiellove @fruitymoonbeams-blog @jokerivory @arrowacer @4ri3n @yasmin-003 @charliehunnamsleftsock @strawberrymilk99 @queenoflaflames @xigua2kuai5yijin @arnnf @genea-myers @elixir-of-dreams @turtlegreentia @pinkembodiment @bbygirl9

[cryingpages]

⌖ honey, i'll wait for you / headcanon & drabble -> johnny x reader based off a request by @kibakitty. / requests open.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ `· . dead-flight .ᐟ masterlist

john mactavish is getting a little old. it’s not that he’s weak, but years of military will take away certain things from you. he’s heard so many bombshells and the like that it’s starting to cut down on his hearing, and he struggles to hear anything said more than 4 metres away.

it doesn't mean that you're not patient, however. since his retirement, he's been absolutely smitten with you, spending almost every minute he can with you--it's only nice if you try to make things accessible for him.

as he ages, it's obvious his hearing is only getting worse, and he takes it to heart. he doesn't want to admit it, doesn't want to tell you how much it's affecting him, but you can see it anyways.

you can see how he refuses to turn on subtitles and leans forward on the couch to try and hear the tv a little better. so you sit beside him, ease into his armpit, and grumble something about preferring the subtitles on. he knows what you're doing, he's not stupid, but maybe a part of him doesn't mind that you're taking care of him.

and when he starts to retreat from intimacy--soap's always been a hell of a sound guy, loved to hear the noises he could draw out of you, and that slowly was being taken from him too, you made an extra effort to show instead of sound. dug your fingers into his hair a little more, raked your fingers down his back, moaned right into his ear where he could hear the way you shivered and shook against him.

and he loved it. loved you for it. because he spent so long protecting and not enough time being protected. he loved how you told off a woman who insulted your husband for not understanding something the first time. he loved how you grabbed his arm protectively and guided him through something.

and when he can only hear words spoken directly into his ear, you make an effort to learn sign language. together. so that you can show your love for him in all of the ways, even in silence--because love doesn't require word, it's about action.

[cryingpages]

you always looked fine to me

gym bro!simon x insecure!chubby!reader

ask

wc: 3k

a/n: omg anon this one hit close to home 🥺 literally whenever i go to the gym this is literally me so it was lowkey easy to write 🫶

You’ve been going to the gym for months now. Same time every evening. Same locker in the corner. Same oversized shirts and sweatpants, no matter how hot it gets. Not because you’re lazy. Not because you’re sloppy. But because every time you tried to wear something tighter—something even remotely flattering—you caught a look. A side-eye. A smirk. A whisper.

“If I looked like that, I wouldn’t wear that.”

That one stayed with you for weeks.

You didn’t even finish the set that day. Just left early and sat in your car with your heart in your throat.

Since then, it’s been full coverage. No skin. No curves. Nothing to point at or judge. Just baggy clothes, headphones in, and eyes on the floor.

Still, the comments find you sometimes. Not always mean. Sometimes fake-nice. Sometimes stupid little jokes you pretend not to hear.

“You’re here every day—where’s the progress?”

“Damn, it’s 90 degrees and she’s still dressed like it’s January.”

“Probably just here to feel better about eating later.”

You never react. That’s the worst part. You just lower your head and keep going, even when your face burns and your throat tightens. Even when it takes everything in you not to disappear.

But someone always notices.

And his name is Simon Riley.

He’s hard to miss. Built like a wall. Hood always up. Giant hands gripping weights like they’re nothing. People move when he walks by. Girls preen when he’s near. He never reacts. Never flirts back. Just keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing and nods at people when they say hi.

He’s never said more than a few words to you.

A quick, “You done with this?”

Once, a low “Need a spot?” when you nearly dropped a barbell.

And one quiet, raspy “You alright?” when you accidentally wiped your eyes too hard after a whisper that hit too close.

But lately… something’s changed.

You feel his gaze sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Not like the others. But like he’s checking—watching. You’ll finish a set and look up and he’s already looking away. You’ll walk past and he’ll move slightly, like he’s clearing the way just for you.

One time you caught him staring after a squat set—your sweats riding low on your waist, your baggy tee damp with sweat—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. You told yourself you imagined it.

Until the night he actually waited.

You’d finished your workout, earbuds in, head down, already planning what you’d eat in secret later, and then—

“Hey.”

You turned. He was leaning against the front desk, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you like he had every right.

“Me?”

He nodded once. “You free Friday?”

Your throat closed. “Uh. Why?”

His lip twitched—just a hint of a smirk. “Thought you might wanna get food.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to decide if this was some kind of joke.

“You’re asking me out?”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. “Okay. Sure. Yeah.”

He just nodded again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Pick you up?”

You nodded again, stupid and flushed and already spiraling.

And now it’s Friday night. He’s on his way. You’ve changed clothes four times. Cried twice. You don’t own anything “hot girl cute.” You don’t even own jeans that make you feel good.

So when he knocks, you answer in your sweats and an oversized tee.

Still thinking maybe this was all a mistake.

And there he is.

Simon Riley. All 6’4 of gym-bro intimidation, in a plain black tee that fits him like a second skin, his arms crossed, hood down, eyes soft but unreadable. He glances down at you—at your flushed face, your bare collarbones, the baggy tee that probably looks ridiculous—and frowns just a little.

“You alright?” His voice is low, warm. The kind of voice that wraps around you without asking.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. I just—um. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

His brow twitches. “So you picked nothing?”

You freeze.

“I mean—not nothing,” you say, tugging at your shirt, cheeks going hot. “I just… couldn’t find anything I felt good in.”

Simon tilts his head. His eyes sweep over you, quick but careful. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. It’s messy. You’re a mess. But you step aside anyway.

He steps inside, boots heavy on the floor, and turns to look at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “So that’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re just gonna tell me you couldn’t find anything,” he says, “and expect me to believe that’s why you were panicking behind the door?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t panicking—”

“You were.” His voice is so calm it makes your chest ache. “I heard you trip.”

You let out a weak laugh and hug your arms over your middle. “It’s dumb. I just—”

“You don’t feel good in anything.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion. Just with this weird, heavy softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

“You look good now,” he says simply.

You stare at him like he just said the sky’s purple.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You always look good.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Yeah, in my giant sweatpants and hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, steps a little closer. “Not even a bit. You think I’ve just been sitting there watching you squat for fun?”

You blink at him.

He smiles, faint and slow. “Okay, maybe a little for fun.”

“Simon—”

“I like how you look,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “And I like how you carry yourself. Even when people stare. Even when you keep your head down and pretend you don’t hear ’em. I notice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t say it like it’s romantic. He says it like it’s true. Like he’s been thinking it for a while. Like it’s obvious.

Then he glances at your couch. “We’re staying in.”

“What?” you blink.

“Not letting you spiral over clothes for the rest of the night.” He moves past you and plops onto your couch, legs spread, one arm thrown over the back like it’s his now. “C’mon. I’ll even let you put on one of those dumb romcoms you pretend not to like.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. “You haven’t even seen my Netflix.”

“I’ve seen your hoodie rotation,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Don’t need to.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flutter in your chest.

He pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“You’re not hiding,” he says, quieter now. “Not from me.”

You sit beside him, cross-legged, still hugging your arms like a shield. He’s warm beside you. Way too big for your couch, thigh pressing lightly against yours. It feels dangerous. Familiar. Safe.

“You seriously don’t think I look—” you start, then stop.

He turns to you. “Bad? No. Not once. Not ever.”

You look down. “I always feel like I have to prove something. Like if I’m not shrinking, people think I’m lazy or gross or… I don’t know.”

Simon shifts closer. “Fuck ’em.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were built in a lab.”

“Still insecure,” he says. “Still hate my reflection sometimes. Still overthink every time I talk to someone like you.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Like me?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Yeah. You’re funny. And sweet. And every time I’ve seen you, you’re kind. Even when people are dicks.”

Your throat burns. “That’s not—”

He cuts you off gently. “I like you.”

You stare.

“You don’t have to say it back.” His voice is quiet now. “Just don’t sit there thinking you’re not worth being liked.”

You bite your lip. “I just never thought… someone like you would want to…”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, brow raised.

“You’re intimidating. Like. Hot intimidating.”

Simon snorts. “You ever seen yourself stretch after a lift?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. “Simon!”

“What?” he grins. “Not my fault you look good with your hair up and those little flushed cheeks—”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, then tosses it aside and grabs your hand before you can look away.

His hand is so much bigger than yours. Warm. A little rough.

“You don’t have to be anyone else tonight,” he says. “Not for me.”

Your chest is tight. But it’s not painful. It’s full. Like he just cracked something open inside you, and now all the air’s rushing in.

You lean into him, just slightly.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in fully.

Your head fits against his chest like it’s been there before. Like it’s home. His other hand rests lightly on your knee, not moving, just grounding you there.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to watch a movie.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs.

“I just want to sit here for a bit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you. The way he settles in, like this is all he wanted.

You exhale slowly, finally letting your body relax against him.

Maybe you’ll wear something cute next time.

Maybe you won’t.

But right now, you’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re just thinking about the weight of his arm, the way his fingers graze your wrist, and how good it feels to not hide—for once.

He notices.

He always has.

☆taglist☆

@poshestpigeon @avgdestitute @eremika104 @lostintransist @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @h0lydrag0ns @trixilove257 @fertilise-me

[cryingpages]

“The Catch”

Simon “Ghost” Riley x You

TROPE: grumpy x teasing

​​​​​​​​⟢・・・・・​​・・・・・・・​​⟢

SUM: It turns out that even the deadliest men can stumble... when they accidentally cop a feel.

​​​​​​​​⟢・・・・・​​・・・・・・・​​⟢

It starts innocently. You're climbing down from the truck bed after a long, tiring day. Grumbling about your knees and cursing the military for not installing ladders.

Simon's waiting at the back, arms crossed, half-smirking.

“Quit complainin’. I’ve jumped out of helicopters higher than that,” he says.

You glance over your shoulder, feigning a glare.

“Wanna swap knees with me?”

He steps closer with a sigh, gloved hands raised as if he’s about to help someone twice your age cross a street.

“C’mere. I’ll catch you.”

You hesitate — not because you don’t trust him, but because he’s never offered before. Never asked to be close. Never asked for you to fall toward him.

So you do.

Facing away from him and hop down, just a little faster than planned.

And his hands catch you.

But they're not on your waist.

It’s… lower.

His palms clap firmly around the curve of your ass, all instinct and zero hesitation.

Your boots hit the ground within a second, but he still doesn't let go.

You turn your head to look at him.

He is frozen.

Not blinking. Not breathing.

The tips of his ears go unmistakably pink behind the mask.

“That where you meant to catch me?” you ask, one brow raised.

His voice, when it comes, is a gravelly mutter — defensive, raspy, like his entire brain has just short-circuited.

“Was tryna’ stabilize you.”

“Uh-huh.”

He drops his hands like they’ve burned him. And taking a full step back like you’re radioactive.

“Y’gonna sue me?”

You laugh. Loud. Honest. And when you walk past, you make sure to sway just enough for his eye to twitch.

Later, when sitting by the fire, nursing a flask, you murmur just loud enough for him to hear:

“Next time, Ghost, you can ask first.”

And the man — the battle-hardened, skull-faced soldier — has to look away, hiding the smile behind his hand.

​​​​​​​​⟢・・・・・​​・・・・・・・​​⟢

[cryingpages]

It's late and you’re curled up on Simon’s couch as the movie you were just watching comes to an end. Riley lays snoozing at your feet, one of her paws twitching in a dream. You're nestled into Simon’s side beneath a worn but warm throw blanket. When you shift beside him, suddenly overcome by sleep, you let out a soft, high-pitched hum. A tiny release that escapes you as you move, a little sound of contentment.

Simon’s body freezes immediately.

You don't notice it at first, with your eyes still half on the screen, half lost in the sleepy afterglow of the movie. But he does. Every nerve in him reacts to that sound like someone flipped a switch inside him. He is rock hard in an instant.

His jaw clenches and his heart starts to race.

You tilt your head toward him, catching the sudden tension in his body. “What?” you ask gently, with curious eyes.

He blinks at you like he's trying to rejoin reality. “Do that again.”

“Do what?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“That sound,” he says, shifting slightly away from you, like he needs space to get a grip on himself. “The little sigh. Just…Do it again.”

You narrow your eyes, now smiling, but still confused. “What sound, Simon?”

“You know what sound," he says and his energy changes. His voice is low, almost a growl, but playful. "C'mere."

"You're hearing things."

"Am I now?"

You sense the shift in his energy and move slowly toward the edge of the couch. “I didn't do anything!” you giggle.

His eyes flash and there is something hungry behind them. Without warning, he shoots up and you shriek with laughter, jumping up from the couch as Riley blinks awake and watches the sudden chaos unfold. You dart toward the hallway, still giggling.

“Simon!” you squeal, laughing breathlessly as you dodge away from him into the kitchen. He's already chasing you. "What's gotten into you?"

“Do you think you can get away with that?”

“I don’t even know what sound you mean!”

He catches up in three long steps, grabbing you gently but firmly around the waist and lifting you clean off the ground. You laugh even harder now and it echoes through his flat like sunshine. Both of you are breathless, both smiling like idiots.

“You’re insane,“ you laugh, as he presses his face into your stomach, ”put me down!“

„You have no idea what that did to me.“

You twist in his hold, cheeks flushed and your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders as your giggles soften. “You’re being ridiculous."

“Let’s see if you can make more of those,“ he murmurs, already carrying you back to the couch.

[cryingpages]

I have a kind of pairing thing that I wanna share

royal or fae or something Simon or Johnny who get arranged to marry reader but they ignore her because they don’t think they need a wife. But once someone else starts paying attention to her, suddenly they’re like “that’s my wife”

Fae(ke) It Until You Break It

There was an annual tradition to keep the peace between Fae's and the human's whose world's were teetering on the edge of intermingling. Once a year a trade would be held between the Fae and the human world to exchange one male or female for a marriage as a sign of goodwill.

The human would enter the Fae's Kingdom and be assigned a mate, while the Fae would enter the human world and become a partner and spouse. It was a system that prevented a war between two different yet similar creatures whose world's were only separated by a thin veil and Fae deception.

The year you were chosen was both a celebration of twenty years of peace and an anniversary of the first successful match set between Fae's and humans. To commemorate such an event, as poised by the Fae dignitary, this year's marriage would be something special. When it had come to the decision to send a Fae and human across the barrier to each other's world, you had not expected to have two Fae mates waiting for you.

Simon Riley, the cold and calculated high guard for the reigning King, was a Fae who had earned a reputation upon the court as an assassin. He had earned the reputation he garnered for himself through the actions of his past on the battlefield as he ran through a number of his enemies without taking a single hit.

Johnny MacTavish was a rogue type of Fae, equally skilled as Simon was, with a penchant for getting into trouble without suffering many consequences due to his natural Fae charm. The Fae with a figurative lucky rabbit foot permanently sewn into his skin had escaped a number of deadly fights.

The two were ordered by the High King to accept the mate bond with the human, as both a reward for their service to the King and his cause, and as a symbol of peace. Two of his best men, his fiercest Warriors accepting a marriage with a human would send a clear message.

Your reception to the Fae court was highly accepted by the beautiful and ethereal creatures, who had taken a fondness to human's and their quips. You were generally well accepted and had been thoroughly introduced to the other human's who were of the court though mating with Fae's.

Your future mate's however did not greet you warmly. They had taken their King's order with a grain of salt, accepting you but generally brushing you off as a problem that could be dealt with another day.

You were not mistreated, rather you had been given every amenity you could have needed with the understanding that you would generally leave them alone. You had been given your own quarters with a wardrobe full of the Fae's seasonal fashion that had felt like it was tailored made to your every measurement.

"We don't hear from you, we don't see you." That was the agreement, and you hadn't wanted to argue.

Why should you entertain Fae that didn't want anything to do with you? There were better things you could have done with your time, there were endless gardens and rolling hills that you could venture out to. The Fae's in their reception had meant there was a constant stream of parties you could find yourself entertained by, and there was no urgency to mate.

Two weeks after you had arrived in the Fae realm, in their Kingdom, the High King had decided that a reception to officially mark the twentieth year of human-Fae peace was necessitated. The event was grand and luxurious in every aspect with living garden walls heaving with freshly cut and placed flowers, fine silk and textured materials wrapped, delicately and sharply alike, around Fae's in attendance.

You were, in part, the star attraction at the event. You were the human who was chosen for the anniversary of the peace that fell between Fae's and humans. It was no accident that you were chosen to mate with two Fae soldiers, the best of the High King's guard. You were a symbol that there could be an understanding between the ethereal creatures and the humanity that remained just beyond the barrier.

The event was set in place, and true to Fae fashion, your dress was meant to represent the mates you were with. With a deep and striking black that was equivalent to the cold ash of Simon's heart, and the deep shades of blue evident in Johnny's eyes represented the other Fae. You were a picture of humanity dressed in Fae fashion, with two mates that didn't want to acknowledge you.

From the head table sat the High King, a Fae you'd only heard Ghost call Price, though you had never been close enough to address him as anything other than your Majesty. The seats beside him were empty, as was the place where a queen should be, though you were warned not to discuss it.

As the night progressed you were ushered around the room to carry on conversations with Fae and human's alike, telling them the story of your home life back in the human world just a touch away. While your story was not nearly as interesting as the Fae would have liked, there was something to be said about their fascination with human's.

They were powerful creatures who liked to trick and fool those who had wandered into their traps, which you had been warned of as a child. Still, the Fae's who had been given human's as mate's had clearly loved them, they were protective of their mate's as well as any children that might have come from the marriage.

Halfway through the night and you still had not said much to the Fae who you were paired to. There was little to be said when they were surrounding themselves with their fellow guards, their soldiers, drinking their expensive Mead and wine. And you were not going to beg them for attention, you were more than happy to be left alone, to have your ease of access to the wonders of the Fae Kingdom you were trapped in.

It wasn't until the customary dance between Fae and the human who heralded the spotlight for the night. While your supposed husband's were off drinking with their unit, you weren't left alone without a dancing partner.

Another Fae had stepped up to take their place, a Fae with rich dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. He towered above you, though he was not taller than your mates, and had easily swept you into the middle of the dance-floor. His voice was rich and heady, carrying an accent that was unlike the other Fae you had spoken to. He had carried an arrogance with him, one that wasn't isolated from the Fae themselves.

He was fluidly moving, keep you on your feet without causing you to stumble. As the music played in the ballroom decorated with the Fae's natural fauna and flora, elaborately designed with beauty and architecture in mind, you felt hard stares upon your back.

The impending looming eyes of two Fae had burned into your back as you were whisked across the dance-floor by Fae that was not your own. The beading of your dress with colours to match your mates that hadn't bothered with you, caught under the light. It had cast an ethereal cascade of delicate light upon the dark wood of the floor.

The first dance had come to an end, and the Fae that had swept you around had bowed before you. His hand held yours and he lifted your knuckles to his lips, kissing them delicately. Before he could offer you another dance, or even attempt to get the words out of his lips, there was an intrusion.

The two mate's that had ignored you almost all night, had appeared by your side. The stoniness of Simon and his cold ash heart had slipped, rendering itself in a manner of jealousy that was shown by the heavy hand he laid upon your abdomen. He was silently making a claim, his fingers curling tightly against the material of your dress.

And Johnny was no better. He had deliberately angled himself between you and the Fae you danced with, an unceremonious wanting being uttered in their language. There was an understanding being settled, a deliberate and purposeful claim that was now being laid out.

"...get your hands off my wife." Those were the only words you had understood.

"You didn't want me before," you were turning them away now, pushing their hands off of you to create distance, "you do not get to put your hands on me, claiming that I'm something to you now. I am not a toy you can hold onto when it's convenient to you."

There was something you had learned from watching other Fae's and their human's mates. Contrary to the belief's of human's on the other side of the barrier, the human's in this realm held the power in the relationship's. Fae's, if they should have human's, had a duty to provide and care for their mate's. And if they should fail there was an option for the human to choose another Fae to mate with.

That was an option that was going to be offered to you, if by the year's end there was still no marriage.

"Excuse me, I think I'm done with the party." You made your departure a quick one, leaving them standing in the midst of Fae's and human's alike.

[cryingpages]

Rival daughter’s reader trying to tell John she has very big news 🤰 but someone stops her from getting in contact with him

“He’s busy.” The door shutting in your face was deliberate, and the alpha on the other side was sparing no second thought of you standing there waiting.

You stared at the door, blankly wondering if you were actually seeing what you were seeing. Did this asshole really have the audacity of shutting you out when you had news for John? Did this guy really think John wouldn’t want to hear your big news instead of being shut out?

You raise your fist and knock again, your knuckles rapping on the door. You wait for a few seconds and knock again, standing there waiting for someone to acknowledge your existence. When you try to knock a third time, you feel those dead eyes casted upon you for the second time.

“I said he’s busy.” The dead stare and the unimpressed tone have your annoyance spiking, and with an unimpressed retort building on your lips, you’re ready to snap at him.

“Omegas need to know their place.” His dead eyes shifts into a hasty glare that’s meant to be intimidating, and if you were any other omega you might have cowed down.

But being with a man like John, and being in the position you were as his mate and lover, you had the assurance that you could get away with almost anything. And this asshole in front of you wasn’t going to be given any quarter once John found out that you were being blocked from speaking to him.

“Know their places?” Your eyebrows furrow and you have a moment of disbelief, as if you can’t believe this dick actually said that to you. “And where exactly are their places?”

“He’s busy, go play dress up with the other alpha’s wives.” The door is slammed in your face and you almost walk away, deciding the fight isn’t worth your time. The last word that slips out of his mouth changes your mind, as the “dumb bitch” is muttered under his breath.

You stop yourself from brushing it off, from letting it go, and instead you let it fester. You could, like he said, so spend time with the other alpha’s wives, you liked the other omega’s you really did, but no—you couldn’t let this one go.

You waited for a moment and then turned on your heel, walking directly toward the kitchen where your phone was charging. You had swiped it from the counter and immediately dialled John’s number, smirking when it only rang twice.

“Mrs. Price.” His voice was crooning, only for you, and you found yourself naturally eased by him. “What do you need, love?”

“I was trying to speak to you, I have some big news to share. But omega’s need to know their places, and I’m a dumb bitch who can’t disturb you.” You relayed the information, your big news, to John and even through the phone you could feel the impact.

The anger was palpable, the fact that you were kept out of his reach because some alpha thought he was more powerful than he was, would not sit well with John. And you could feel it, you could detect the swelling anger that his mate was kept from him.

“I understand,” John’s voice deepened with animosity toward the man who kept you from him, through his voice and the bond you shared, “it won’t happen again, sweetheart. Why don’t you come see me in half an hour and we’ll talk?”

Half an hour to clean up after he dealt with the obstacle in front of him—that alpha that called you a dumb bitch was going to be dealt with swiftly. That idiot should’ve just let you in, should’ve just let you see John but no, he had to be a dick about it.

You hang up the phone and set it back down on the counter before you lean against the cupboards. You rest a hand on your stomach, patting it twice.

“We’ll tell him soon.” You speak to your baby, as if they can understand you. “Once he’s done taking care of the problem.”

[cryingpages]

Omega gaz introducing price to reader please please please

Meet me by the front gates of the base, I want you to meet the Captain — Gaz

Admittedly you were pacing. Back and forth in front of the gate as the soldier in the booth stared you down, wondering what in the hell you were doing.

If you weren’t pacing you were rocking back and forth on the heels of your boots as you waited for Gaz. With winter approaching you’d traded in your summer gear for fall and winter clothes, even though the weather in the UK was nothing compared to the weather at home.

Still, you took Gaz’s words to heart and bundled up because you knew he’d be worried about you. Omega’s worried about omega’s, the two of you deeply emotionally and physically invested in each other.

If you had it your way, you and Gaz would be mated. But there were certain connotations about two omega’s being together that prevented you from fully embracing each other as mates.

You needed an alpha, and Gaz promised he found one.

“But frosty today, love?” Gaz’s voice finally brings you to the surface of your mind and the gates open to allow you to pass through. “Come on, snowbunny. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

“I wasn’t even waiting that long,” you walk toward him, reaching your gloved hand for his bare hand, allowing him to lead you forward, “really it wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re shivering, sweetheart. Should’ve busted through the gate.” Gaz grins and winks at you, as if you would ever try and break into a military base. “We’ll be in soon, you’ll like the Cap.”

“The Cap?” You repeat his words, following him toward the offices of higher up soldiers, including where the Captain must be. “You said his name is Price..?”

“John Price,” Gaz squeezes your hand as he ushers you forward, opening the door for you to step in, “a damn good soldier, and as an alpha-”

There are eyes on you, only a few, but curious when they see you walking in with Gaz. The stares don’t last long, not when Gaz gives them as stern of a visual warning as he can as an omega. He pulls you tighter and leads you down a hallway to a door parked in the middle of four others. There’s a placard attached to the door indicating that this is the place CAPTAIN PRICE written in brass platters.

“Don’t be nervous, babe.” Gaz’s voice kisses into your hair before he knocks, and through the door you hear a mumbled ‘come in’.

There’s a subtle creak as the door opens and Kyle enters first, keeping you behind him. There’s not much to analyze about the office, some awards that you’re sure the Captain didn’t want placed there. And some generic artwork someone would get at a department store just to keep the appearance of a normal office.

“Cap, this is Y/N.” Gaz finally steps aside and you are in the metaphorical spotlight once Captain Price raises his head. “This is my omega.”

The moment his eyes are on you, you can feel the raw and deep energy from the alpha. He’s not just an alpha, he’s got the energy and physical stature of being a high ranking alpha. He’s broad and tall, his physical appearance alone makes you feel small and fragile as omegas often do when meeting alpha’s like him.

“Y/N,” he says your name with a richness that nearly draws out a chirp from your lips, a sound omegas naturally make when they’re pleased. “Sergeant Garrick’s told me a lot about you.”

He doesn’t move from behind his desk but he is assessing you. He’s watching you, studying you, and then when he does move, you’re captivated by him. And you’re not the only one, Gaz too is entranced by him.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” He’s standing a foot away from you, looking you up and down as a smirk plays on his lips, but one that’s nearly hidden by his facial hair. “Smell good, sweetheart.”

“She does, Cap.” Gaz presses in, sidling behind you with his hands grazing your hips. “Smelled her on me before, Cap. Last deployment, took a scent cloth with me-”

“-damn near sent me into a rut, Gaz.” He remembers well, it seems. His eyes look over you again, and then he reaches out his hand to brush some melting snowflakes, rare as they are in the UK, from your shoulders.

“John Price, love.” He finally introduces himself, warmth in his eyes lowering any anxiety you might have felt. “Gaz explained the situation ‘tween you two, interested in an alpha?”

“Yes.” You speak instantly and without hesitation. “We both do.”

“Good.” John replied just as fast, once again raising his hand though this time he feels your hair between his finger and thumb. “We should talk, all of us.”

[cryingpages]

Pretty Little Thing

Part 3: Face To Face

The liaison that Captain price had mentioned had arrived a few days before the first face to face meeting was scheduled. With the arrival of the liaison had come a large and imposing package of forms that you needed to fill out and sign.

Most of the paperwork related to your medical bills or the necessary documents to get you immigrated to the UK. The medical bills that were outstanding, even with the health insurance you had, were officially paid via the alpha’s that you had agreed to be mated to.

Among the medical bills, the immigration documents that were going to be fast tracked through the agreed mating, there were contractual obligations that were solely in your favour. These obligations meant that the alpha’s had a duty to make sure both you and your child were well cared for, provided for every basic need and necessity, and if for any reason there was a dissolution of the arrangement, you would be taken care of on your own again.

Once the paperwork was signed, confirmed and notarized by a lawyer at the Omega housing unit, the in-person meeting was confirmed an arranged. As the liaison had left the omega housing unit with the paperwork in hand, the chatter among the other omega’s was vivacious.

There was always an air of excitement when one of the women would be able to meet their potential future alpha’s, especially if arrangement was closer to official than not.

In the days leading up to that first meeting, other women in the housing unit had stopped by your room with suggestions on what you could wear. Regardless of you being one of the older omega’s in this particular housing unit, you had never felt like an outcast from the younger ones.

The ages they accepted omega’s into the matchmaking service were 18-25, and most of the omega’s in the housing unit were between 20-23, although the youngest you’d seen was 18.

It was a determinable and brief flicker of nerves that had you second guessing this decision as they days counted on. The liaison had come, you’d signed papers, and the alpha’s had proven themselves mentally, emotionally and physically. That didn’t stop you from being nervous to see them in person, to be surrounded by their scent fresh from the source, and there was a self-doubt that had you nearly cancelling.

What if they arrived and they didn’t want you? What if they had seen you in person and they changed their minds? Or what if the alpha’s had caught wind of one of the other omega’s and chose to go after them instead?

Realistically you knew that was an improbability. They had already signed the documents on their end, they had committed to this with the full intention of taking you with them in the coming days back to the UK. The arrangement was in the process of becoming a finalized reality, of being something entirely cemented in the legality of the courts. Even with all the assurances, on the day that they would arrive at the omega housing unit, you were somewhat of a mess.

During the two weeks between that virtual meeting and now, you had been given a few courting gifts from the alpha’s. The gifts came in a basket from all of them, things you would find useful during your pregnancy, including some snacks from the UK you’d never tried before.

You received the basket and were delighted to see one of the biggest gifts in the basket was a stuffed animal that had a removable pouch that you could microwave to warm it up. You had just begun experiencing back pain at 16 weeks as you were 3 weeks into the second trimester of your pregnancy and had been elated to have something so cute to use.

One of the other courting gifts that had been sent in the basket was an olive-green thick scarf that was coated in the mixed scents of the alpha’s. You had snagged that from the basket the morning they were set to arrive at the housing unit, wrapping it around your neck before you left. As you were following the escorts who would be monitoring the first meeting to the tea house, you were grateful for your decision to bring the scarf when it began spitting rain.

“They’re a half hour away.” The escorts had informed you of the minimal time until they arrived, giving you a countdown in your mind until they would be here in the flesh. You were sheltered away to the teahouse before the downpour and moved toward the kitchen to distract yourself while you waited.

While the escorts and the omega housing facility had provided sustenance for these meetings, you had taken it upon yourself to make sweet tea for their arrival. Regardless of the rain outside and the bad weather that was encroaching, the temperature in the tea house was more than comfortable, and sweet tea was such an American staple.

It felt only natural to brew the cold drink and have it ready for their arrival, even if you could have simply stayed in the sitting room and waited.

By the time the half hour had passed, and the arrival of the alpha’s was expected, the escorts who would monitor the meeting, had taken everything into the sitting room. You were sitting on one of the loveseats that was set before the tea table, with your legs tucked under you.

To your right was a large bay window that was partially covered in white lacy curtains that had only partially obscured your look outside. You were watching the rain pick up in intensity, the heavy drops coating the grass and the brick pathway that led to the front door of the teahouse.

"Y/N,” the arrival of the alpha’s was marked by one of the escorts calling your name, drawing your attention away from the window toward the entrance of the sitting room, “they’re here.”

With two escorts monitoring the first meeting, one had opened the door to the teahouse to let the alpha’s in, while the other had stepped into the sitting room. They had taken their place in a corner of the room, simply to observe and make sure there was a reasonable amount of comfort in place for the omega.

You were the top priority for the meeting, and if the escort had believed that you were in emotional, physical or mental distress for any reason, the meeting would immediately end.

“In here.” The secondary escort had ushered the alpha’s into the sitting room with his hand extended toward the seating arrangements.

As soon as the alpha’s had stepped into the room, the previously comfortable space had seemed to shrink in size and space. The alpha’s, all of them, were taller than you had initially thought, and they carried themselves with strong forms. There was no shortage of physical strength with any of the alpha’s, all of them were athletically built with two of the alpha’s being even more imposing than the others.

“You have two hours,” the escort who welcomed them in had given them the directive that two hours was the maximum time they had to speak with you initially—if they wanted more time, they would have to come back another day.

With one escort silently watching in the corner, and the other leaving toward the kitchen, you were seated on one of the plush comfortable loveseats in silence. You had thought of a million things to ask, to say, to kickstart the conversation and yet now you were rendered silent.

“You could start with hello,” the escort in the corner muttered under her breath, briefly looking up at you only to just as quickly avert her eyes when one of the alpha’s shot her a fierce look. It was enough to make her silence herself, almost as if she could or would fade into the background, as if she were nothing but a decoration.

“Y’right, bonnie?” The silence was ultimately broken by a thick Scottish accent and a charming smile meant to deflate your nerves. “Look like you’re ‘bout to bound away like a bunny.”

“I’m fine,” you found your voice and unfurled your legs, setting your feet against the thick carpet of the room, “sorry, I guess I’m just-”

“Nervous?” Pretty eyes, that’s you remembered the one alpha with a beautiful set of brown eyes and dark curls cropped close to his head. “Remember our names, love?”

He wasn’t the first to step forward, that was the Captain who had first entered the room, settling himself on one of the loveseats opposite of you. He seemed out of place in the delicate decorated room with that same bucket kind of hat upon his head, obscuring the dark head of hair beneath. His facial hair had partially obscured his lips but just as you’d been able to see the hint of a smile when you video called them, you could see the same glimpse of a smile now.

“I’m not going to be tested on your names, am I?” You followed their movements with your eyes, first the Captain’s, and then Pretty Eyes.

They were soldiers, you had been informed that they were based in the UK. They were part of the SAS but had belonged to a secretive service, the name was classified to you and the agency. Knowing that they were soldiers had struck your curiosity, especially since you had only seen them when they were exclusively wearing civilian clothes.

“Your scent, bon...” The alpha with a Scottish accent hadn’t taken the place next to the Captain, or even near Pretty Eyes, he had come and plopped himself right next to you.

“What about it?” You shifted on the loveseat, fingers rigidly curled against the material of the loveseat, your anxiousness and nervousness starting to peak again. “Is it bad?”

“Bad?” The boyish smile of the Scotsman grew, and he laughed with rigour, brushing against you with a playful nudge. “Fuck no, lass. Your scent is addictive, heavenly-”

“Control yourself, Soap.” The energy in the room shifted, it crackled but not unpleasantly, when the stoic alpha standing near the wall had spoken.

You could almost entirely organize their ‘pecking order’ of the pack from this single interaction with them all. It was clear that Captain Price was the leader, probably of this secretive unit they were in as well, followed by the stoic and broody alpha. The other two, you tried to remember if they were sergeant’s, were likely on an even level with each other.

“That broodin’ bastards’ Simon,” the comment rolled off his back like it was nothing, as he quickly introduced the stoic alpha standing out of the way, “m’Johnny.”

“Kyle, most people call me Gaz,” Pretty Eyes introduced himself while leaning in, his elbows resting against his knees, “you like the scarf, love?”

“It’s nice, thank you.” You reached up and touched the scarf, briefly shifting your attention from the alpha’s to the window, and the rain that was hitting the panes of glass, “perfect for a day like this.”

“Got all our scents on it,” the Captain spoke, mirroring Kyle’s position only he folded his hands on front of him, “John Price.”

“Simon, Johnny, Gaz and John...” you let their names echo in your mind while you simultaneously spoke to them, looking at them as a whole before you averted your gaze.

“I made sweet tea,” you had directed the conversation towards the clear glass pitcher of dark tea sitting in the middle of the table. Surrounded by the plates of baked good that the escorts had arranged, almost like a proper tea party. “It’s an American favourite.”

“Sweet tea?” Simon responded first to your statement, his voice little louder than before with a trail at the end like he was speaking in a question.

“Ghosts’ a tea snob, lovie.” Johnny brushed against your shoulder again, reaching for one of the teacakes, breaking it in half and offering you part of it. “Can hardly make a cup without ‘I'm complainin’,”

“You make shite tea, Johnny.” Simon had slowly started to approach, still taking languid steps toward the loveseat Gaz and John were sitting on. “Gobshite tea-”

“Ya need to learn how to make a proper English cup, love.” Gaz’s charming and smooth accent was reflective of the tease in his voice, the little lilt that could effectively make you grin in your own right.

“How are you feeling, darling?” But it was John who centered the conversation back onto you, onto the pregnancy that was hidden by your shirt and warm sweater. There was something to be said about your hesitancy to show the alpha’s the roundness of your baby belly now when on the videocall you weren’t hiding it.

Perhaps it was just nerves that kept you on edge, from showing them. Or maybe it was the idea that if you showed them the bump, they would change their minds. It was anxiousness that prevented you from showing them, but it was their curiosity that prevailed.

“Can we see it?” John’s voice was husky, you suspected it was hoarse from giving orders to his men, though he spoke softly and comfortingly.

You hesitated, squirming where you sat. You had remained silent until Johnny’s large hand settled on your knee, steadying you with a single touch. It was in combination with John’s soothing voice, the scents of the alpha’s that were projected as a means to comfort an omega they knew would be theirs.

“It’s still small...” You pulled on your shirt and sweater, tightening the fabric around your midsection. True to your word, the bump was still small and round, delicate yet showing obvious signs of the life that was growing inside you. “I’m only two week into my fourth month.”

“Steamin’ bloody Jesus’,” Johnny’s hand instinctively moved to that bump, hesitating about your abdomen when his senses got the better of him, “can I?”

“It’s okay,” you felt his hand against your bump, the large girth of his fingers spread out against the material that was a barrier between his skin and yours, “I should be able to feel movement soon, I've felt flutters.”

Johnny’s fingers curl against your baby belly as a different kind of smile forms on his lips. There’s brief silence, brief stillness between the five of you as you sit in each other’s company until John clears his throat. He draws your attention back to him, to his blue eyes that seem to stare deep into your heart and soul.

“You signed the paperwork, Kate is working on getting your passport fast tracked. Once it arrives, a flight will be booked-”

“Just like that?” You inhaled sharply, your breath hitching in your throat at the quickness of this whole arrangement. It was happening far quicker than you expected, without any hesitation from the alpha’s, and there wouldn’t be any on your part.

At least not enough to make you want to back out.

“It happens fast, love.” Kyle offers his own comforting smile, his eyes drifting to where Johnny’s hand still rests on your baby belly. “Can I?”

He asks, like Johnny had, and waits until you confirm before he rises to his feet and walks around the table. He crouches in front of you and stretches out his hand, resting it on the other side of your baby belly, the tips of his fingers brushing against Johnny’s. There was a soft humming coming from Gaz’s chest, a pleasant sound that you barely notice.

“You have medical bills that need to be paid for, some outstanding insurance claims that are being processed. We’re handling it, we’re taking care of it all, and once Kate tells us it’s clear, you can come with us to the UK.” John reassures you, like they’re all doing in their own way, that this is a choice they haven’t taken lightly, this is what they want.

They want to take care of you and your baby, because you will be their family. Both of you.

[cryingpages]

Pretty Little Thing

Part 2: The First Meeting

The expectation that you would be in the agency for weeks without finding a match had left you with the understanding that you could enjoy your time in the facility. While other omega’s were regularly getting matches or gifts from potential alpha’s who were interested, you were waiting in the wings. So, to speak. 

There was an omega who had applied for the program, only a week after 18, and had already been given a series of meetings and gifts with alpha’s who wanted her attention. She had been showered with applications to meet, with alpha’s from across the United States who wanted an omega through the agency. You had come to hear that she was only here for a week before she had accepted the offer and courtship of an alpha, and then she was gone. 

You had relented to enjoy the time you had in the house, getting to know other omega’s who wanted to seek a more institutional route of mating. There was an ongoing epidemic of violence against omega’s, both male and female, at the hands of alpha’s that had started this international joint effort. The same international effort to make omega’s safe with alpha’s who would treat them right, would be the same international matchmaking service that would give you the best chance.

You knew it was a longshot when you had first applied for the service, being that you were on the tail end of the age ranges these services wanted. Added to your mid-twenties age that was only 6 months away, you were also pregnant with a baby that would not belong tp whatever alpha might have wanted you. Regardless of that, there was a certainty that some alpha in the international matchmaking service would choose you, and if you remained unchosen than you would still walk away with money for your child. 

You had been in the omega housing facility for weeks after being accepted into the service. Your stay had been pleasant enough as it could be while omega’s, who were not pregnant, had been going through heat cycles that had quite often synchronized up. These omega’s who were all trying to navigate the potential suitors and courtships that would come for them, also had to navigate heat cycles without having an alpha. The tensions were often high in the house when one or more omega’s had gone into heat at the same time. 

At the end of the first month, you had been in the matchmaking service and in the omega housing facility, you had been informed by one of the liaisons between alpha’s and omega’s, that there were interested parties. The liaison that had arranged meetings between alpha’s and omega’s, both in person and virtually if they couldn’t be there for the first meeting, had been the one to tell you that there was a pack. 

A pack of four alpha's had unanimously agreed to meet you virtually and start the process of courting if you had agreed to it. If you met them, virtually, and decided that yes you wanted to continue, there would be a period of courting gifts that would be given before you could meet them in person. The liaison had warned you that the process could take some time for the connection to be made, for the alpha’s or you to feel a potential bond that could form. And given that you were pregnant, the liaison had given you the added warning that they could ultimately change their mind once they met you in person, and that in itself could be a setback. 

Regardless of the warnings and the potential setbacks that you could face further onto into this courtship, if they chose to continue after the first meeting, you were eager to meet them. The liaison, on your behalf, had contacted the pack of alpha’s and scheduled a virtual meeting between yourself and them. There was a 5- or 6-hour time difference between the UK, depending on where they were, and the housing facility you were in in the US, which was taken into account. 

It was at your benefit that the virtual meeting was set after your usual bout of morning sickness, which is how you found yourself in front of a camera and screen set up, shortly after 11am. To give yourself and the alpha’s privacy, the location for the virtual meeting was set up in one of the teahouses a small walk away from the main house. The teahouse would also be the location where you would meet them in person if this continued, a location that was still secure without the watching eyes of other omega’s. 

The escorts who were attending you in the teahouse had helped you settled into a large, cushioned armchair, with blankets stacked in a cloth storage bin beside the chair if you got cold. There was a series of doctor approved snacks and tea that you were able to have on a small silver plate to your left. You were left, mostly, to your devices with the camera and screen on you, and then the scheduled call was beginning with a dial tone that made your heart leap. 

Before you had even left the house for the teahouse to meet them, some of the other omega’s in the house had aided you. There was a kinship between omega’s, friendships that would grow and last lifetimes as you all sought the same end—a happy and mated life. When you told the other omega’s in the house that you had your first meeting, some of them had immediately offered to help you choose what to wear. It was a welcomed exchange that helped you strike the nerves from your system, knowing that a lot was riding on this. 

The options you had were limited since most clothes were going to be quickly outgrown and, in the end, through a consensus as a group of omega’s, comfort was the top priority. You had ended up wearing a soft and buttery pair of leggings that helped support your growing bump without being too tight, and a soft waffle-knit sweater. It was a choice you would have likely made yourself but it was nice to have second and third opinions. 

Now, a half hour later, you were sitting in the teahouse with snacks and a settled stomach thanks to your ginger tea. 

“...the connection sucks. Where did you get this shite?” The screen was black, but you heard a voice, thick and heady English accent coming through the speakers. There was an underlying buzz that was audible through the speakers, slightly irritating to your senses but easily ignored. Especially when the screen has finally shifted from black to a full range of colours, and on the other side were four alpha’s staring at you. 

“Hi?” You were unsure if they could hear you, and for a moment you thought the video call with these alpha’s had frozen. There was no movement, no sound, not at first as they stared at you, and you stared at them. “Are you-” 

“Steaming bloody fuckin-” One of the alpha’s had finally spoke, his voice carrying a lilt of surprise, though his accent was even thicker than the first alpha who had spoken. 

“Y/N,” the Scotsman was cut off by an alpha with chestnut brown hair wearing a kind of bucket hat that sat too low on his forehead. His blue eyes were striking yet slightly narrowed in the corners as he watched you, or your video wasn’t coming through to them. “Captain John Price.” 

He introduced himself and you were wholly proven wrong by assuming you couldn’t see them, when his eyes had flit down from your face to the baby bump that was currently acting as a table for your teacup. He hadn’t commented but you could detect the very faint edge of a smile beneath his mutton chop style beard—a look that only a man like him could pull off. 

“John,” you repeated his name as your fingernails tapped against the side of your porcelain cup, as if you could commit his name and face to memory on the first meeting.  

“Sergeant Kyle Garrick,” the attention had been drawn to another alpha, one with beautiful brown eyes and flawless skin, and s charming smile that made your heart flutter, “but everyone calls me Gaz.” 

Gaz was among the younger of the pack, while John was the oldest. Unlike John who carried a sturdy if not immediately strong and stoniness to him, Kyle was much more relaxed. He carried this natural charm with him, a penchant for being a little sarcastic and quick witted, with a smile that could easily disarm anyone. 

“Aye the bonnie omega we’d been pining after for hours,” the focus of your attention had shifted again to the Scotsman who took center focus, and flashed a half-smirk your way, “look at the wee bump.” 

“I’m only 4 months,” you spoke without thinking or allowing him to introduce himself, you jumped right into the progression of your pregnancy, “5 more to go.” 

“Johnny ya wanker-” The rough and husky voice of another alpha wearing a skull mask, had taken the opportunity to introduce the third of four alpha’s. There was contention between the two alpha’s as one spoke over the other. The one you had now known as Johnny, had given the taller and almost broader alpha a seething glare, before his blue eyes were fixated back on the camera. 

“John MacTavish,” he introduced himself with that same half-smirk, and crossed his arms over his chest. He was drawing attention to his size, which you were undeniably forced to admit was large and bulky, an intimidating alpha like the one wearing the skull mask. Johnny, the second youngest you guessed, had a mohawk of deep brown hair and stubble, yet no real beard like John. 

“Johnny,” you repeated his name like you had with John and Kyle, mentally comparting each alpha with a distinct feature. John would have the monicker of Captain or Cap, Kyle would be pretty eyes, Johnny would be Scot or Scotty, and the last... 

“Introduce yourself, lieutenant.” John had given the direct yet indirect order to the only alpha you hadn’t been introduced to. 

He stood like a phantom near Johnny, his thumbs hooked into the straps of whatever was on his back, the tips of his fingers resting against the black hoodie he wore. There was something entirely nondescript about what he was wearing, paired with the skeleton mask that obscured his face—except his brown eyes. 

“Ghost,” he finally spoke but not his name, no he had given you something else to call him and you wouldn’t ask questions if you didn’t want answers. That was all there was to it, a single Ghost, and that was how you were supposed to address him which was fine by you. You weren’t the type to push for more when it would get you nowhere, and this was a first meeting, if he wanted to tell you more, he would do it on his own terms. 

“Ghost,” you had still repeated the name as you did with the rest of them, and then it fell silent. 

Until Johnny had spoken up and broken the silence with his observing eyes and his heavy accent. He seemed, of the younger alpha’s, to be the one who was bolder and more brazen with his words, his observations. 

“How the hell did an omega like you end up here, lass?” The question would come up sooner rather than later, and you knew it was inevitable. You hadn’t inherently hidden the reason for you being here from the biography that alpha’s would be given, yet you didn’t necessarily broadcast your rejection. 

“I’m pregnant, the alpha who got me pregnant isn’t around and he doesn’t want to be.” You didn’t beat around the bush; you told them the exact reason why you were here and how you ended up pregnant without a mark on your neck or a mate. After you told them your reasoning, you lifted your teacup to your lips and sipped on the ginger tea the doctor approved of, hoping that it would quell your morning sickness for the rest of the day. 

“What kind of bastard gets an omega pregnant and leaves?” Kyle is the next to speak, standing in the same stance as Ghost had, with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Fuckers’ that’s who.” Johnny’s voice had reflected the look in his eyes, and there was a deep and low growl that hung to the edge of his words. 

“How’s the baby?” Ghost’s question had really garnered your surprise, from the intention to check on your baby and the fact that he cared as much as his voice suggested. From the impression you had gotten from him, the care and genuine curiosity was not expected. 

“Growing,” you lowered the cup to your baby bump, resting the edge upon your built-in table, “the baby is about 5 inches long and weighs about 5 ounces. It’s approximately the size of an avocado.” 

Your admission had drawn silence between the alpha’s, all of them falling silent as they looked at you through the screen, and you them. That silence had made you nervous, your heart rate had picked up and the subtle twist of your stomach had made you feel nauseous again. You debated reaching for one of the snacks the escorts had left for you but the idea of eating now would really make you feel sick. 

“Morning sickness?’” John, their captain, had finally spoke above his men, asking a question that you suspected he knew the answer to. Just from looking at you, you thought he might have known. 

“I still have morning sickness; it’ll hopefully be over soon.” You raised your mug that was still tucked between your hands, the string of the teabag wrapped around the handle. “The doctor wants me to drink ginger tea to try and keep the nausea down.” 

“You’re having regular checkups?” John continued with his conversation, sliding his hand along the desk with a note tucked beneath his fingers. “Health insurance?” 

“I have some, but I still need to pay-” 

“We’ll take care of it, and any other expenses you have.” John spoke over you to annouce the intention to care for you financially, even while you were in the housing facility, even with minimal costs. 

“Oh, you don’t-” you started to protest, your mind and tongue immediately setting upon the task of denying them the opportunity or even shutting down the very idea that they would need to. 

“Aye the bonnie lass wants to argue,” Johnny grinned and leaned in, flashing those pearly whites as he grinned, “it’s all part of the responsibility, ‘mega.” 

“Responsibility?” You questioned him, your eyes flitting from one to the other. 

“We’re pursuing courtship and a mateship.” Kyle had also offered a charming grin, one that made butterflies in your stomach flutter as the realization of exactly what they were saying was slowly sinking into your skin. 

“You all want to...?” You set the mug down on the table to your left, needing to have it settled before you spilled it on yourself. “Are you serious?” 

“The earliest we can come see you in person is two weeks. You'll be in your fifth month, or have you just started the fourth month?” John was straightforward, he wasn’t trying to sugarcoat their decision to pursue a courtship with you. They had decided if you would accept them. 

“I just started my fourth month of pregnancy.” They had decided as a whole, you could see it. There was unity in this decision, they were thinking as a solidified pack. “I’m just 16 weeks now.” 

They wanted you, there was no denying that. They had laid it all out to you, that you were the omega they wanted, and your baby would be accepted by them. It was a unanimous decision between them all, and likely they had come into this meeting knowing that they would choose you. 

“We’ll send the liaison an official agreement for courtship, legally binding if you accept.” There were certain obligations that they would have to adhere to if they agreed, and if you had signed the agreement than the process would officially begin. 

“I do, I accept I mean.” You would agree, you would read the agreement when it arrived and the courtship between you and the pack of alpha’s would officially begin. 

And depending on the first meeting, on the courtship process, you could be out of here before you were in your 6th month of pregnancy. 

[cryingpages]

Pretty Little Thing

Part 1: Searching

Congratulations! Your acceptance into the North American omega matchmaking service has been approved!

You will have a week to pack any personal items you would like to bring with you to the secure omega housing headquarters. After you had completed your preliminary check-in process, you will be assigned a housing unit, and then the matchmaking can begin.

Thank you for your cooperation in the official omega matchmaking service and remember that any funds you have collected will not be accessible until you have been chosen, or until the time has come when your contract is over.

The letter was slightly crumpled in your hands and your attempt to smooth the paper was not entirely successful. Either way, crumpled or not, the letter was official and had been stamped by two representatives in the matchmaking service. Your acceptance was now guaranteed and you would be given a place among the omega housing headquarters. Until you were chosen or your contract was over, you would be kept in the secure housing facility and only permitted to the grounds of the facility.

You were unsure if you would even be accepted into the matchmaking service to begin with. You were closing in on your mid-twenties which was pushing the envelope of their accepted ages, however you had another demerit against you. Not only were you on the cusp of being in your mid-twenties but you were also pregnant with an alpha’s baby that wanted nothing to do with you.

You were determined to carry this baby, to raise it even if that meant potentially raising it alone and without much of a support system. The decision to raise this baby when it was born had been the driving factor that made you apply for the omega matchmaking service to begin with. There were incentives to signing up, the agency would give every volunteering omega a sum of money that they would keep upon leaving the facility—whether they were mated or not.

The matchmaking service was tied into international agencies that were coming together for a mutual goal of providing omega’s good and strong alpha’s. After a surge of violence against omega’s had started to have negative connotations, an international solution was proposed.

It was a crisis that was seen across the world, the amount of omega’s willing to mate were steadily decreasing as the number of aggressive alpha’s had increased. It was an epidemic that was being dealt with swiftly and in a manner that protected the omega’s. And as such, the volunteers who signed up for the matchmaking services were rewarded for their participation.

The process itself was grueling, taxing for the alpha’s who had wanted to be matched with an omega. There were physical and mental tests, meetings with psychiatrists and medical doctors, and no small number of financial and emotional obligations.

The alpha’s had to prove they could provide for their omega, give them a stable life outside of the facility. If they had failed, the application to be matched was scrapped and they had one more attempt to be matched. If the alpha failed again to prove they were emotionally, physically and mentally stable enough to provide for an omega, they would be barred from the service.

When you had applied to join the matchmaking service, you were told that the likelihood of you actually receiving a match would be slim. You were going to be the oldest omega in the house and you were pregnant, carrying another man’s baby was likely going to be a detriment. Though they hadn’t said it was impossible, the agency was really just setting you up for the potential of failing, of being denied.

Even if you were, the money you would have for signing up and being accepted, would be enough of a jumpstart for you and your baby. It was beneficial either way, no loss one way or another, and you wanted to do the very best for your baby that you could.

Which is how you found yourself standing on the steps of the omega housing facility, transported from the headquarters to the housing unit you had been assigned. It had been a week since you received the acceptance letter, the one still rumpled in your hand, and now it was too late to turn back. You were, you would, be accepted into the house and this is where your journey would begin.

As you waited for the escort assigned to show you around the housing unit and the property, you took another glance at the letter in your hand. You had been given a week to pack anything you wanted to take with you into the house, of course they would have to be further approved for the safety of the other omega’s. Once they were approved at the headquarters where you received your housing assignment, they were packed away in a special bag with your initials and housing unit on a tag.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” the front door opened and a woman stood on the other side, her hair pulled up and out of her face, “we had two omega’s leave today after being successfully matched. Come in, we have a lot to get through.”

You stepped through the door, listening as it was shut and clocked behind you. Upon stepping into the housing unit, you had taken your first official look at the interior.

There were two floors above the main floor, with a winding staircase that led from the main floor to the upper floors, and hallways that branched out into rooms. From where you were standing, there was a communal kitchen off to the right of the entrance, hidden by a set of swinging double doors. On the left was a series of closed doors with silver engraved plates that explained the purpose of the room: study, library, multipurpose room.

“The kitchen is off to the right, there is a chef that comes in a few days a week, however you are welcome to use the kitchen whenever you want. Off to the left are some rooms that you can use at your leisure, of course there’s the garden at the back and a swimming pool. On the upper levels are the bedrooms, oh and the laundry-” Your escort and tour guide had begun her explanation, first just waving her hand in the direction of the rooms.

Once she had begun walking toward the staircase you were quick to follow her, taking every step with calculated caution. You weren’t so much on edge because of the facility itself or the omega’s that resided here, rather you were on edge because you didn’t know what to expect next. And while you had built up this idea that this would be stress-free, you had pinned your hopes on this matchmaking services. You'd be spending your time in a secure house for omega’s where you could focus on your pregnancy until you were chosen or the contract ended.

You were doing this for your baby, but the possibility of rejection was a reality that you wouldn’t have really wanted to face.

“Your room,” the escort had stopped by a door on the left side of the second floor, your name written in fancy scrawl on the silver nameplate attached to the door, “there is a schedule for breakfast, lunch and dinner. There is a doctor who comes to the house once a month to check on the omega’s here, because you’re pregnant and your appointment will take longer, you will see the doctor last.”

You stepped into the room and set your bag down on the floor in order to take a long look around the room. While it was basic with a double sized bed, a dresser and closet, it felt comfortable and there wasn’t a barrage of scents to overwhelm you. In fact the room was rather lacking in any additional scents, and you had imagined that was to ease the new omega’s. At least until they could get settled and their scents could takeover the room.

“I’ll let you put your things away and get used to the room. I'll come grab you in an hour and introduce you to the other omega’s.” The escort hadn’t given you much more than that before she left you alone, closing the door behind her.

You walked further into the small room and slowly turned, your eyes taking in every inch of this room that you could. This was going to be your new normal for the foreseeable future, until you got chosen or your contract ended.

The computer in front of John was open and the potential matches were sent on a secure file to the head of their pack. He had scoured through the images of the omega’s with the intent of being one of the voices that would choose an omega for the four of them. As he looked through the files that were sent his way, there was a lingering disappointment that had reflected the lackluster interest in these omega’s.

“Haven’t found one yet?” Ghost spoke from the doorway, his face obscured with the balaclava and his voice muffled. “We’ve been looking for weeks, Price.”

He knew that. He knew that their pack felt incomplete without an omega, and his alphas were getting restless without an omega to balance them out. They had all relayed their desire to have an omega between them, to have someone to care for and protect as alpha’s were designed to do. It was well and good having alpha’s that were bonded, mated and marked, but they each felt as if they were missing something in their pack.

Their desire to have an omega had led them to use a matchmaking service within the UK that would hopefully bring them an omega they desired. After weeks of searching, they had agreed to meet two omega’s, one in Scotland and one in London, however nothing panned out. There was always something about the omega’s they had met, or had seen through the agency, that deterred them.

“Thinking too local, Cap. Gotta go international.” Gaz had joined Ghost in Price’s office, taking his place on the couch to relax and enjoy the company of his mates. As he kicked up his feet, he leaned back against the armrest and yanked his hat down to cover his face. He closed his eyes and listened to the grumbling of Captain Price, a sound that had almost become ASMR at this point.

“International,” Johnny was next to join the room, unceremoniously dropping himself upon Gaz, smirking when the other sergeant grunted and then growled, “is the key.”

“I am international, Soap.” Price had looked over the edge of the computer screen toward the two youngest members of the pack.

He watched them with interest as Soap and Gaz had tussled over their positions on the couch. After he had lost interest, Price had looked back at his screen, finding himself once again disillusioned with the omega’s he was shown.

Heard you needed a little help finding an omega, I have a friend who works for an agency in the US. She thought you might like their newest applicant – Kate

The newest encrypted email that lands in his inbox contains information about a single omega—one single woman that had just been accepted to the matchmaking service a week prior. The image that’s embedded in the email isn’t the first detail that draws his attention, rather it’s the note attached to the top of the file.

With emboldened letters, PREGNANT, first draws his attention as it’s attached to the picture of the omega.

“Fuck,” John curses under his breath as he feels the shift in his hindbrain and felt the irrevocable draw to almost immediately offer to meet this omega. And then, as he scrolls down your file to read further details, he comes across additional pictures and your age.

One of the problems with these other omega’s that were in the service were their age. He and the pack had agreed that having a younger omega between the ages of 18-22 were too young for them. They hadn’t wanted an omega who was freshly in their adult years and had no experience dealing with alpha’s--no, they had concluded as a pack that they wanted someone closer to Johnny and Gaz’s age.

And this omega, whose image and details had enraptured him, was fitting every single desire they had.

You were among the oldest of the omega’s in that housing facility, only 6 months away from your mid-twenties, only a year younger than Gaz and Johnny. According to your file, you were pregnant from an ex alpha that didn’t want to be involved. You had applied for the matchmaking service even if you knew there was a possibility that you would not get chosen.

“You good, cap?” Gaz had finally settled himself on the couch, his legs entangled with Johnny’s.

“I think we finally have a potential match.” Price had lifted his head and looked at Ghost first, motioning him over toward the computer to look at this file—this omega that could be theirs.

Ghost leaned over the desk and stared at the same file that Price was looking at, the same picture and the same information that Price couldn’t stop thinking about. There was a subtle acceptance that had passed from Ghost to Price and back again.

“Let’s meet her.”