eugenedream

[eugenedream]

‘You need your beauty sleep, pretty.’ The message is straightforward, direct and to the point. JASON never complicates any topic when it comes to you. Especially when it comes to taking care of yourself. Getting proper sleep, eating and resting—all of it is his top priority.

You try and get him to understand that staying up and waiting for him to get back from patrol is a detrimental part of taking care of yourself. Even a text from him has your body preening for his presence, even if you’re frowning at the message—you’ve been caught.

‘How do you even know I’m awake?’ You send him a message back. The fact he knows does something to you. There’s a mist flying over your body and consuming you. You feel yourself getting even more restless. The sheets feel somehow heavy on your body.

‘I can tell.’ He replies. Plus, he adds something about knowing you inside-out—habits and all that. You can’t even argue with that, because he is telling the truth. You can imagine the grin that dances on his stupidly handsome face right now.

You send some sarcastic quip back, annoyed about his rather ‘cocky attitude’—or so you tell him. But he knows it’s all just talk.

He knows when he returns and climbs into bed with you it will only take a second until your body seeks him out. It’s an instinct. You’ll wrap your arms around him and so will he. In your sleepy haze you’ll mumble his name and he swears that’s what heaven is and feels like.

You know he misses you just as much as you miss him. It’s proven by the voice note he sends you. A small gift, a blessing to your tired mind so needy for him.

“Sleep, pretty. I’ll be back before you even know it. Then you’ll have me all to yourself—night and morning.”

[eugenedream]

Inconsolable.

Cregan Stark x wife!weepy!reader

Summary: Cregan's wife was known for her teary eyes. He can often console her over the menial things that break her heart.

Warnings: crying, death, guilt (reader has long hair but alas, picture whatever you want :) )

Masterlist

.......................................................

Cregan was tough. Sturdy. Built stronger than the Wall and then some. So, when having a wife, one as soft and meek as his, he was often at a loss.

She was not like the stout evergreen trees of the North. No. She was truly like a willow tree whose leaves gently blew in the wind. Whose branches were strung with sadness and yet, a true beauty to gaze upon.

Her eyes, constantly wet with tears, were Cregan's joy. The light that would cast in them when he was around. Not that the tears stopped because of him, but that there could be reason within them when his calloused fingers grazed her cheeks.

That was his favorite.

The soft coos he'd give her as soft hiccups or whimpers left her lips. Oh, how he loved to comfort her over even the most menial of matters. 

He loved to feel wanted. To see relief in her because of his proximity. Like he could cure anything. A tough man like him could tear men apart, and yet she made him feel like his rough hands could carefully patch a broken heart. 

…

"Lord Stark," a servant interrupted his study.

Cregan peered up, hair tied away from his face as he worked. "Hm?" He grunted.

"It's the Lady, milord. She's inconsolable."

Stark set his quill aside and leaned back in his chair. His eyes closed for a moment. Part of him wished that he was annoyed with the interruption. But he wasn't. He never was. 

"She's locked herself in your chamber since the morn. She will not even see her handmaidens."

That worried him. She only got this way in serious circumstances. "Right. Well," he said with a hand rubbing over his beard. "Suppose I should journey that way. My chamber, you said?"

…

Cregan gave a polite nod to the guard at the door, waving him off. This was a matter he needed to be alone for. 

But upon testing the door, it was indeed locked.

He sighed softly. "Do you intend to stay locked away forever?" He teased softly.

There was a soft sniffle. "Perhaps," her broken voice answered through the wood.

The hurt in her tone physically pained him. "Might I be locked away with you?"

There was a pause. She was considering his question. Then, a soft "no" answered it.

He grunted and rested his forehead on the door, hands resting on the crafted wood. "That would be a shame. I would miss seeing such a pretty face every morning. Do you truly intend to deny me of that?"

Another sniffle. "Go, Lord Stark."

Silence. His tongue ran over his top teeth. Then, low, full of care, yet firm and demanding- "Open the door."

The lock clicks after a few moments.

Cregan does a small lap in the hallway to give her, as well as him, time to gather themselves. Then he opens the door.

His wife sat at the window she had begged him for only weeks before. She had so desperately wished to sit on the ledge. Cregan fastened bars over it to ensure she would not fall. And a bay window was created for his Heart to feel the limited sun and sky.

Her knees were pulled up, her forehead resting against them, hair falling in waves to cover her face. The soft pulsing of her shoulders told him just how far her sadness had taken her.

He crossed the room with careful steps until he was a meter from her. "Look at me."

Her weeping paused, her body in contemplation of disobeying him.

Eventually, she chose the wiser option and looked up at him.

At the redness of her cheeks, Cregan crossed the distance and began brushing the wet strands of hair from her face.

She had been weeping for hours. Tears still flowed freely from her eyes. Her cheeks were a permanent pink, her bottom lip in a tremble. 

"Oh, my girl," he whispered. "What could cause such a fuss?"

As much as he wished to always give in to her pleas, he had to admit that sometimes they were quite small things to fret for. But if they bothered her, they bothered him. Earlier, he was expecting something frivolous to fret over. But now, seeing her state, he was truly worried.

He cupped her face carefully, trying to find the answer to her weeping in her eyes. His comforting touch did nothing to ease the hurt. In only worsened it, as her heart still bled for whatever caused such a riff.

More tears spilled from her eyes, causing a stir in Cregan's stomach. He brushed them away as they came. 

"Please speak to me," he begged. "I will hand you the world if it is what you want."

She weeped a while longer, gripping at his wrists in a plea for his comfort. He'd never deny it.

Once her breath was caught, he asked again what was causing such pain. And finally, she could answer.

"It was so horrid, C-Cregan," she whispered. "I must be evil."

He wanted to outright laugh at that. Her? Evil? What an idea. But instead, he hid his laugh to the best of abilities and only tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

She tugged his hands away and turned to look out of the window. His eyes stayed on her. 

"It is my fault. And I do not have the heart to get it myself."

"My love, w-" the word dies on as he follows her vision.

On the ledge of the bay window, carefully pushed past the bars, lies a small plate. On the plate is breadcrumbs. Days ago, Cregan had told her to pick it up. But seeing the birds so close brought such joy to her that he only mentioned it the once and never again.

She had even begun to recognize the ones that came day by day. She claimed to not have favorites, but some earned her calm voice speaking to them through the bars. Caring for them. As if her children.

But today, next to the dish laid a bird. Dead.

It was small, still soft with down feathers. Barely past being a chick.

"Ah."

So that was the cause of all this. Cregan had been prepared to murder men, and instead an already dead chick was the root of such a weepy problem.

"Well, how… tragic," he words carefully. 

Her eyes finally break away from the body to meet his own eyes. They're wet with fresh tears once again. As if the very sight of the bird was tearing her apart limb from limb. "I am made of the purest evil," she whispers.

He sighs, brushing his hands down her arms to soothe her. "No," he assures before she can continue to spiral. "You are of the purest honey. When I see you, I see no evil."

"But I ha-"

"Shh," he interrupts. "You did not kill this bird. You were feeding it. It did not die by eating your breadcrumbs."

"You do not know that," she tries to reason.

"I do," he pushes. "It was likely sick or wounded."

"But it died by my watch."

"And how comforting," he considers. "Perhaps that is the best place to do so. Next to your caring hands. How safe it must have felt to close its eyes beside you and to wake up in the next life."

She frowns, clearly hesitating over his reasoning. 

"That is where I wish to pass," he continues. He looks down at her hands, brushing his own fingers against her skin. "Next to you. I understand what he was thinking, dare I say. And how can you weep over something so pure, hm?"

Her fingers twitch.

He tilts his head down to try to catch her eye. "Hm? Dry those weepy eyes. Your heart is overgrown," he teases. "If your body is a garden, your heart has taken over every other plant." He gently pushed his arms under her to pick her up. "Give the rest of you a chance to catch up."

As he picks her up, he frowns. "Why don't we have lunch outdoors? To honor your precious bird."

She tucks her nose into his neck. "I want to bury him."

Once again, he wants to be annoyed at this. He has the North to run. But, alas, he nods. "Aye. I'll bury him in the evening."

…

Cregan Stark, Warden and Wolf of the North, spent his limited, precious time burying the small bird that had captured his wife's heart so tenderly.

He patted the ground once it was finished. "Too great a heart indeed."

He looked up at the window, seeing her peer down at him with a hopeful expression. He nodded, letting her know the deed was done.

And the next day, she woke up to a carefully crafted bowl built into the ledge of her window- full of bread crumbs. Cregan never mentioned it, but he began to ask more about what she was seeing come to her window.

............................................................

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[eugenedream]

katabasis; to go down

[eugenedream]

[eugenedream]

[eugenedream]

5:45 A.M || michael robinavitch

summary : before the rest of the world is even awake, Robby likes to steal a few more minutes of sleep.

warnings: none. just a slow and sweet drabble

pairing : michael “robby” robinavitch x fem!reader

a/n : if I see you reposting, stealing, feeding my FICS into AI or some other fuck shit, don’t. 👀🫵🏽

—

SOMETIME IN THE EARLY MORNING, when the sky is still in its inky blue-gray hues, Robby opens his eyes.

He looks over to the nightstand next to his bed and groans slightly as he awkwardly reaches for his phone to check the time.

He sees the time - 5:45 in the morning, and the alarm you asked him to set just below to go off at 6:15.

Robby blinks a few times, trying not to yawn too loudly as the phone awkwardly clatters back onto the side table after he turns the alarm off.

Just because he had to get up early doesn’t mean you had to. But you insisted because you wanted to make him breakfast before he left.

He looks over to you and smiles softly, a small huff escaping his lips. You’re still asleep, hair mussed and lips puffed out as you breathe softly.

The irony of you wanting to get up before him makes his chest rumble, you were not a morning person whatsoever.

He likes watching you like this, when you’re still somewhere between awake and asleep.

It makes his heart bloom with a warmth he hasn’t known in a long time – but with you, he feels safe to want everything with you.

Robby scoots closer into the middle of the bed. One of his arms sneaks underneath your side, while using the other free hand, big and warm in comparison to yours that always ran cold, to scoop you up into his embrace.

He pats the back of your thigh softly as his other arm holds you close to him, shushing into your ear softly.

Robby slings one of your legs softly over his waist, your foot from your leg that’s against his side tucked just under his leg to keep warm.

He knows he doesn’t have long before he has to get up and make coffee for the both of you, but he loves being like this more than anything.

Tucked in under the warmth of the comforter and your love, Robby moves to lie on his back so you’re more comfortable and he can keep himself wrapped around you. Like he wanted to protect you from the rest of the world. Like the only thing he knew for certain how to do was love you.

Your sleepy moan perforates the hushed silence, and Robby mumbles low in his throat with that syrupy slow morning drawl of his,

“Go back to sleep f’me, sweet’art.”

There’s only a hum from you, eyes still heavy and laden with sleep as your hand dances under his shirt, lightly scratching his side lovingly before tucking that too to keep warm.

Sleep comes back to Robby easily.

Yeah, the coffee can wait.

—

© espressheauxs, 2025

[eugenedream]

I’VE BEEN SHOT

i need a lay down

1973. Saigon, Vietnam. (a jake seresin x reader soulmate au)

part six of sign of the times

You're destined to die in Jake Seresin's arms. In every life, in every iteration, it's inescapable. Whether you loathe, or love each other, each ending stays the same. But what if it doesn't have to?

warnings: 18+, mdni! violence, death, discussions of war, pregnancy mentions, unprotected pinv

masterlist // playlist (if you'd like to listen to some inspiration for the fic!)

And I gotta girl in the war, Paul I know that they can hear me yell // If they can't find a way to help, they can go to Hell // If they can't find a way to help her, they can go to Hell // But I gotta girl in the war, Paul her eyes are like champagne // They sparkle, bubble over, in the morning all you got is rain - Girl In The War, Josh Ritter

Jake hates the heat. An ironic sentiment, for someone born and bred in Texas. At least he gets a winter there. Here, it’s just non-stop sweat dripping down his back, into his eyes - he hasn’t been dry in months.

Whatever ‘American Dream’ bullshit Nixon had been spouting when they all got drafted, Jake’s sick of it. He’d rather they just called this what it was. Murder. Plain and simple.

He’s a killer, and there’s no getting round it.

He’s found himself becoming more reckless, less disciplined with each passing mission. Part of him no longer even wants to make it home. He just wants all of this to be over.

Wants to stop going to bed every night feeling sick to his stomach, a guilt festering low in his belly as he runs through faces in his minds - fallen friends, innocents caught in the crossfire, people back home he’ll never see again.

His movements are slower, his aim less precise. Jake Seresin doesn’t want to kill anymore. He doesn’t want to be responsible for a mother losing a son, for a child losing a father.

He doesn’t even know if he’d be able to go back to Texas, if he did make it home. Pretending everything is alright when Jake’s never been worse is not an appealing idea. He’d be heading back to an empty house, anyway. Lonely and dark - ever since his mother died, he’s been alone.

There’s nothing for him here.

There’s nothing for him back there.

He’s utterly stranded, in an endless pool of misery and self-loathing.

It’s probably how he ends up stuck in a makeshift hospital, with a bullet in his shoulder. There’s no one to blame but himself - he’d been hanging back deliberately to avoid conflict, and had caught a bullet for it.

It’s almost healed now, but he’s spent the last two weeks feeling incredibly sorry for himself in a crummy hospital bay at the edge of the action. The hospital’s managed to avoid direct fire so far, but he’s sure it’s coming. It always does.

On orders from the doctor, he’s going on his daily stroll through the hospital. It’s too dangerous to spend much time outside, so instead Jake opts for walking through each ward. He’s come to befriend some of the nurses, some of the other patients - it makes his day feel slightly less lonely.

Feeling particularly spritely, he ventures higher up the hospital than he ever has before. Up to the critical injuries unit, where the really unlikely guys are being treated. The ones who are unlikely to even make it out of the ward, nevermind get back home.

It’s a busy ward, with far more nurses than on the other floors. He supposes that makes sense - some of the soldiers here can’t even eat by themselves anymore. It’s a sad existence.

There’s a woman at the end, standing talking to one of the doctors. Jake frowns, feeling a pull. Just as he’s about to begin walking, you turn around and meet his gaze-

“Jake,” You scold, stepping into one of the guest bedrooms. You’d woken up to an empty bed, a rare occurrence on a Sunday. Wrapping his shirt tightly around you, you had padded along to his office, expecting to find him hunched over papers, or on a call.

There had been nothing.

Same with the kitchen. The music room. The pool.

It isn’t until you hear a slight scuffle upstairs, that you’re given any indication as to his location. Your brow furrows slightly - normally the other bedrooms are only needed for guests.

Heading up, it’s only when you move through the doorway that you realise what he’s doing. Kneeling in the middle of the room, surrounded by planks of wood and wearing only a pair of linen pyjama trousers, he’s trying to build a crib.

“You’re not supposed to be up yet,” He says, eyes guilty as he turns towards you, getting to his feet.

“It’s too early for cribs,” You admonish, but there’s no real heat behind it as he drops his hands to your waist. “Anything could happen.”

Pregnancies are difficult in the best of circumstances. You seem to have some kind of higher power working against you. Your hopes are not high.

“I know,” He hums, dropping a kiss to your forehead. “I just thought it would be nice, for you to have a room where you could have everything ready. Anything you buy can just go straight in here, and… it just makes it feel real.”

“I don’t think the baby even has toes yet,” You let out a small laugh. “And you’re getting ready for their arrival.”

“Aren’t you supposed to go all out for your first?”

Your heart aches slightly at his words. Your first. Like he wants more with you, like he wants it all.

“Can't believe you've had six different lives and never had a single kid,” You murmur, leaning up to kiss him.

“Wouldn't have wanted it if it wasn't with you, honey.”

You drape your arms across his shoulders, watching the way your ring glints in the light. You don't know how much Jake paid for it, but the comments and looks it draws when you're out tell you all you need to know.

Sometimes it's easy to forget just how rich he is. You've loved each other through poverty, illness, conflict - you're entirely unused to a life of quiet luxury.

Jake Seresin isn't just rich. He could buy this whole town if he wanted to.

He insists that you could too. ‘What's mine is yours, sweetheart. Want you to have whatever you need.’

“I love that you’re excited,” You breathe. “But let’s get through the next few months before we get carried away, okay?”

He nods. “Alright. Yeah. I can do that.”

“Now, I believe I was promised breakfast in bed this morning,” You hum, before letting out a shriek as he scoops you up into his arms. “Jake!”

“You wanted breakfast in bed! I'm just trying to comply.”

“Who am I to argue with my husband?” You reply, laughing as his fingers dig into your side, tickling slightly. You hold on slightly tighter as Jake tackles the stairs, heading up to the third floor master suite. “You know I can still walk though, right? I’m not that pregnant.”

“Why should you have to walk, when I’m perfectly capable of carrying you?”

“God, you’re such a sap,” You scoff, but you can feel heat rising to your cheeks regardless. “Quite why everyone on Wall Street is scared of you I’ll never know.”

“They’re scared of you too,” He breathes, as he lays you down on the bed, crawling between your legs. “Because they know I would do whatever you wanted.”

“Well, they’re lucky I know nothing of finance then.”

“Very,” Jake smiles, lowering himself over you to pepper your face with kisses.

“I just-” You begin, losing your train of thought as your eyes lock on Jake. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

He starts moving at the same time you do, pushing through the throngs of people crowding in the hospital. You both meet in the middle, arms immediately wrapping round his middle.

“What are you doing here?” You breathe, burying your face in his chest, trying to breathe him in.

“What are you doing here?” After a few more seconds, he finally pulls back, hand coming up to stroke your cheek as he takes you in.

“I’ve been here for four months - volunteer nurse.”

“Y-you’re here voluntarily?” Jake mumbles, frowning. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“My brother got drafted,” You swallow slightly. “Last year. I followed him out.”

Jake’s a perceptive man. At your tone, his eyebrows raise. “He… didn’t make it?”

You shake your head, lip between your teeth. “Died last month. Freak attack in the jungle.”

“Why-why are you still here?” He can't imagine choosing to stay here, especially after so much loss. Not when you could be back home. Not when you could be safe.

You shrug, grip tightening on his forearms. “Don’t really have much to go back to - not with William gone. Figured I was doing some good here. Might as well stay put.”

“Oh honey,” He murmurs. “I’m so sorry about your brother.”

All you can do is nod, allowing him to pull you back in tightly. You're both starting to draw some looks from patients and doctors alike, so you grab his hand and pull him down the corridor.

There's an office - one that used to belong to one of the more senior doctors. He died a month ago, and no one's used it since.

You'll get some privacy in there.

*****

"Were you drafted?" You ask, clicking the door shut behind him.

"Last year."

"And you're... you're okay?"

"As okay as I can be," Jake admits. "It's hell out here. Not that you don't know that."

"I've missed you," You murmur. "Didn't realise it until now, but I have. Subconsciously, I think."

"Missed you too, sweetheart. Just wish it wasn't here we found each other again."

"The universe has an odd sense of humour," You reply. "We should've known they'd try and fuck us over before we even begun."

"You're not married this time, right?" He asks, the smallest smile on his face.

You can't help but laugh a little. "Not this time. You?"

He shakes his head. "Nope. That's good. Makes it a little less scandalous when I do this-"

He crosses the room in a few steps, pressing his lips to yours. Melting into his touch, you let him push you up against the desk, his hands roaming eagerly over your dress.

Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist, whimpering slightly as his outline presses into your thigh. "Please, Jake."

"My beautiful girl," He murmurs, hands dropping to his trousers. You're still on shift, and Jake's due back on the ward before the hour is out for physiotherapy. The last thing he needs is someone coming looking, finding you both like this.

As much as it kills him, there's no time for foreplay.

He drops his trousers to his knees, groaning as you reach out to touch him, fist wrapping gently around the base of his cock. You pump a few times, other hand pulling him down for a deep kiss.

The moan he lets out is near guttural.

"'M not gonna last, darlin'. Can't be doing that."

The expression on your face can only be described as smug. You love that you're having this kind of effect on him. He just loves everything about you.

Hands bunching up your uniform, he finally lets himself sink in, a low groan escaping. "God, sweetheart."

"Jake-"

Your voice cuts off in a gasp as Jake's hips snap against you. The pace is relentless, his hand cupped round the back of your neck, keeping your gaze firmly on him.

Maybe all of this is worth it. If he gets to have you in this life. Maybe he can live with himself again.

Soon, the only word in his head is your name. His mind goes blank, focused only on how your walls feel tightening around him, the way your nails dig into his forearms. You're pointedly avoiding his shoulder - maybe he's not quite as healed as he thought he was, if you clocked it so quickly.

It doesn't take long for you both to be thrown over the edge, sweat dripping down from your hairline as you near sob into his arms. How much you love him, how much you've missed him. How he's the love of your life.

Quick kisses are exchanged, with promises to meet again, and you're both gone again.

*****

He gets a week with you before his superiors deem him fit to serve again. One week of stolen nights, shared lunches, and promises to leave this place behind, before Jake is leaving, and you're left alone.

A part of him wants to refuse. Normally, at this part in the story, Jake leaving ends up with you dead. But if he refuses to go, he'll be dragged back to headquarters and he'll never see you again.

He can't win.

A matter of hours pass, before Jake finds himself sprinting through the Saigon jungle, squadron all but abandoned. The team leader had gotten word that the hospital was going to be bombed. That night.

If Jake leaves now, he'll make it back in time. Maybe not with enough time to get you out of there, but enough time to be with you.

At this point, that's all that matters to him.

He's never run faster - gear dumped unceremoniously, yells from his superiors echoing behind him.

He doesn't care.

You will not die alone in this life. Not if he can help it.

*****

When the hospital starts to shake, you know what's coming. Deep down, you think you've been expecting it since you found Jake. The powers-that-be manage to screw you over when circumstances are ideal, nevermind being in an active warzone.

You're going to die here. You can't decide if the knowledge is comforting or terrifying.

What you aren't expecting, is a tired and ragged Jake Seresin careening into the ward, practically sliding into the wall as he races towards you.

"T-they're bombing the hospital," He manages, chest heaving as he takes your hands.

"I know."

"It's too late for us to leave," He murmurs quietly, glancing around at the few patients left, most unconscious. That's good. They'll go peacefully.

"I know," Your voice is soft. “Why did you come back?” You whisper, but you know the answer.

He wants to die with you.

All the lifetimes, all the grief, the running, the praying, he's done.

“Just want to be with you, honey.”

A tear leaks down your cheek, and his thumb reaches up gently to brush it away. “You’ll die.”

“That’s okay,” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s simple, full of acceptance, and it makes you want to bawl. “We can go together this time.”

The hospital continues to shake, the sounds of destruction drawing closer with every passing minute. Jake sinks to the floor, back against the wall as he pulls you between his legs. Back to his chest, you rest your head on his shoulder, lacing your fingers through his tightly.

“I-It’s strange that I still get scared. After all this time, you’d think I’d be used to dying.”

His arm tightens slightly, curling round your waist as he turns you into the wall. He’s shielding you, you realise. Even after all this time, when you know how this is going to go, he’s still doing his best to protect you.

Like he’s been doing for 700 years.

Through Germany, America, France, Vietnam - it’s always the same. Jake has always tried to keep you safe. His single lie, all that time ago in Nuremberg, has struck him with so much guilt that every word he’s spoken to you since has been the absolute truth.

“I love you. So much.”

His voice is steady, calm. Like he’s the one who’s an old friend of death. You suppose he is, in a different way. Often at his own hand, Jake has died just as much as you.

“Do you think this’ll fix it?” You ask, closing your eyes to try and block out the chaos. “The- whatever this is? Us dying together?”

“I hope so,” Jake breathes. “God, I hope so.”

The thought brings you a little comfort. This might be it. No more pain or uncertainty, just nothing. Just Jake.

“We might not ever see each other again,” You swallow, lump in your throat.

“We will,” He replies, entirely steadfast.

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s us. We’re tied together for life, darlin’. Or, I guess, in this case, death. You really think whoever’s up there is going to send us to different places?”

“I don’t think whoever’s up there likes me very much.”

He peppers soft kisses across your face, as you curl into him further. “Even if we’re not in the same place, I’ll find you. I always do.”

It’s a ridiculous statement. The idea that Jake Seresin can thwart cosmic sources, with the sole purpose of making his way back to you, should be ludicrous. Yet you believe him. Believe with your entire heart, that if there’s an afterlife, or anything of the sort, that Jake will find you. That however this goes, he’ll move heaven and hell to get back to you.

The very foundations of the hospital are beginning to shake. You’re running out of time.

Just like always.

“Hey, look at me, honey.”

You draw your eyes up to his, and Jake presses his index finger to his nose, an all-too-familiar sign. The one he’d do across a room, when you were on Zach’s arm, and he was on Diane’s.

I love you. I love you when you’re married, when you’re sick, when you’re healthy, happy, furious. I love it all.

“We’ll be okay,” He finishes. “I promise-”

The Washington Post. March 5, 1973.

AT LEAST 65 AMERICAN LIVES LOST IN SAIGON HOSPITAL BOMBING

In the early hours of Saturday morning, a US-operated hospital on the outskirts of Saigon was bombed and destroyed entirely. Considered one of the most devastating attacks of the war thus far, casualties included 27 soldiers receiving treatment, and 38 medical personnel, largely volunteer nurses. It is unclear if these figures are the final counts, as officials are still combing the grounds for survivors. Identification checks are being run on the victims, and the process of alerting family members has begun.

For people who may be concerned about family members, please call the following line:

(202) 5555-3756

One of our team will do their best to assist while the investigations are still underway.

President Nixon spoke at a White House press briefing this morning, saying that ‘This is a heinous attack, deliberately targeted at civilians and the sick. Over half of the known victims are female, volunteer nurses who valiantly volunteered to serve their country in an immense capacity. I send my deepest condolences to their families, and would like to assure the American people that we are still very much in the pursuit of peace. This darkness cannot last forever’.

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If I could stay // Then the night would give you up // Stay and the day would keep its trust // Stay and the night would be enough - Stay, Faraway So Close! U2

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[eugenedream]

It honestly could be my villain origin story

OMG I HAVEN'T HEARD OF ROBOTS IN AGES

I loved that movie when I was a kid, had it on DVD and for a few months it would be the main thing I watched when going to bed lol

I loved it so much as a kid and then I forgot about it for a while. Then came across it on a streaming service and fell back in love with it so much I bought it on DVD 😂

[eugenedream]

I LOST MY ROBOTS DVD AND IM SO MAD ABOUT IT

it was one of my favourite movies when i was little and i had the dvd but NOW I DONT KNOW WHERE IT WENT AAAAAAAAAAAARG

OMG I HAVEN'T HEARD OF ROBOTS IN AGES

I loved that movie when I was a kid, had it on DVD and for a few months it would be the main thing I watched when going to bed lol

I loved it so much as a kid and then I forgot about it for a while. Then came across it on a streaming service and fell back in love with it so much I bought it on DVD 😂

[eugenedream]

i can’t recall if i already put in a suggestion, but my idea is a dr robby girlfriend/wife reader

reader deathly afraid of needles but takes injections every week for migraines. michael takes his “lunch break” to calm reader down and help her through the injection.

hiii bestie thank you so much for the request! i took some liberties with this so i hope that's ok. this should've been a relatively short prompt, but i am apparently incapable of writing anything without establishing backstory!

_______

time after time

dr. robby x wife!reader content: 18+ mdni, swearing, needles (obvie), some canon medical stuff, but barely words: 4.8k

It had been Robby’s idea for you to see a neurologist for your migraines. He had been begging you to for as long as he’d known you.

The first time he came home from a shift to find you laying down in the shower with the lights off, it scared the shit out of him.

“What the fuck?” He flipped the light switch on and dropped to the side of the tub.

But you seemed annoyed and groggy as you squinted against the sudden brightness, “Lights off, please.”

He looked at you incredulously, but since you didn’t seem to be dying, he obeyed, “I thought you fell.” He said, sitting down next to the tub and rubbing at his face.

“The sound of the shower and the feel of it against my head is soothing the pain,” You murmured, “Also,” You gestured to the toilet, “Proximity if I need to puke.”

He shook his head, “You could’ve warned me.”

You hummed, “Lost track of time. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

“That’s… mildly concerning.” You didn’t say anything else, but he continued to sit there, unwilling to leave you alone in this state, “Would you see a neurologist if I got you a referral?”

“No.” You said immediately.

“Why not?” He asked, though they had already had this conversation. He wondered, though, if asking while you were in the middle of an episode would change your tune.

“I’ve been dealing with it just fine by myself.”

He huffed a laugh through his nose, “I’m not sure I would call this just fine. Did you take Advil?”

“Yes.”

“Did it work?”

You didn’t answer, which was an answer on its own.

“I hate seeing you like this.” He said quietly.

“Then go in another room.”

He smirked, you were stubborn. To a fault sometimes. But so was he. He would wear you down. Not that day perhaps, but eventually.

“Can’t leave you here unsupervised when you’re like this. You could slip and fall when you try to get out.”

You sighed, “Well then, I guess we’re at an impasse.”

And it went like that for years, Michael repeatedly asking you to see a neurologist, you refusing.

It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that you finally agreed. Lately the attacks had become more frequent and lasting for longer periods.

Michael had been checking on you when he was home, but for the most part you would shrug him off and go back to sleep. It had been days, now since it started. But you wouldn’t listen when he said maybe you should go to the ER for fluids and meds. So he would leave you, putting a security camera in your bedroom so he could check on you while he was at work.

You had rolled your eyes when you watched him angle the camera towards the bed, “You know, baby, we could be doing much more exciting things with a camera in the bedroom than watch me sleep.”

“Yes,” He nodded solemnly, “And it’s a shame that we can’t do any of those fun things because you refuse treatment—“

You groaned and tugged a blanket over your head, “Thank you, Dr. Robinavitch, that’ll be all.”

He had smirked and pulled the blanket back down, kissing your forehead, “You know how to find me if you need me. I love you.”

When he checked a few hours later and you were off camera, he assumed maybe you were feeling better, maybe had gone to eat something. Or, you had gone to lay in the shower in the dark. He sent off a quick text to check in and then jumped back into another case.

But a half hour later, Dana was coming to find him, “I need you in North 11.”

“Just a second.” Robby was gloved up, watching Collins and Santos drain some blood that had collected around a patient’s lungs.

“I really don’t think you want to wait for this one.” He turned and looked at Dana. Her face was hard to read, but she wasn’t one to insist if it wasn’t important.

“Collins, you got this?”

“Sats are rising,” She glanced up at Robby, “We’ll call if we need you.”

“What is it?” Robby said as he degloved and threw away his robe.

Dana sighed, “Your wife is here. She’s fine.” She added at the look on his face, “Well, not fine. But she’ll live. Status migrainosis.” He nodded, but showed no other reaction, “You don’t seem surprised that she’s here.”

“She’s had a migraine for three days now, mostly bed ridden.”

“And you left her at home?”

He huffed a laugh, “When have you ever known my wife to do something just because I suggested it? Do you think I should have tossed her over my shoulder and brought her here against her wishes?”

“Point taken.”

Robby started walking, Dana trailed a step behind, “She brought herself here?”

“I think she Ubered, but she was pretty upset when she got here, it was hard to understand her. She didn’t want you to know she was here.”

Robby slowed and turned back to Dana, “Why wouldn’t she want me to know she was here?”

Dana gave him a knowing look, “Come on, Robby. You’ve been begging her to see a doctor for years now. The two of you are competitive and stubborn as hell. Her being here means you won.”

He gave a short laugh and began walking again, “Well she can’t be that bad if she’s thinking about winning.”

“As if you weren’t thinking about it, too.”

“How dare you. My beautiful wife is in so much pain she’s in my ER and you think I’m thinking about winning?”

“I don’t think,” Dana smirked, “I know.”

Robby pushed back the curtain to see you sniffling, curled on the bed and around a basin you appeared to have been vomiting in. You wore one of his hoodies which was tugged over your head, the strings pulled tight enough that it partially covered your eyes.

He sighed and pulled a stool close to the bed, “Hey, sweetheart.” He said softly stroking a hand on your bare ankle, “I hear you’re in a lot of pain.”

You glared up at Dana, “Traitor.”

“Sorry, kid.” Dana smiled and backed out, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

With just the two of you now, he could see you struggling not to cry, “The pain’s only gotten worse and worse and I couldn’t stop puking and I got scared.”

“It’s okay, you’re probably dehydrated. It’s likely that this was just your normal migraine, but since the pain’s worse than you’re used to, we’re going to run some tests to be sure.” He started to glove up as he spoke, “We’ll give you fluids and some meds intravenously for the pain while we wait for a spot to open up for CT.”

“Intravenously?” You squirmed away from his touch, “Can’t I just take them orally and chug a bunch of water?”

He eyed you strangely, “They won’t work fast enough that way, you’d probably keep puking them up.”

You rubbed a hand at your face, frustrated as tears began flowing again, “I can’t,” You cried.

“What do you mean you can’t?” He asked gently.

“Needles.” You mumbled.

He raised his eyebrows, “You’re afraid of needles?”

You nodded, still sniffling.

He almost laughed, “How did I not know this? In all the time we’ve been together haven’t you gotten vaccines or bloodwork done?”

You sighed and closed your eyes, tilting your head back against the bed, “If I absolutely have to, I wear noise canceling headphones and a blindfold so I don’t know when it’s coming.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know, but it’s stopped me from punching healthcare workers involuntarily. They don’t like it when you do that.”

Robby nods solemnly, “Yeah, I can imagine. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know.” You sighed helplessly, “I thought maybe you’d think it was silly.”

“It’s not silly,” He said softly, “It’s a very common phobia.”

You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk to me like I’m a patient you’re trying to soothe.”

He sighed, “Well, right now you are my patient and we have to get those fluids and meds in your body sooner rather than later, so I’m sorry to say, but we’ll have to put an IV in and we’ll have to take some blood too once you’re hydrated—“ You looked at him with horror and he said quickly, “But you probably won’t even feel the second one once you’re hydrated, alright. It’ll be super quick, I promise. And I’ll be here the whole time. I’m gonna go get Dana, okay?”

Robby sighed and walked out of the room.

“How is she?” Dana was immediately next to him.

Robby sighed, “She’s deathly afraid of needles.”

“You’re kidding,” Dana playfully shoved his arm, “You’ve been with her how long and you didn’t know? Some husband you are.”

He nodded and looked at the floor, “I feel awful I didn’t know. It explains why she’s always been so resistant to come here or go to the neurologist.”

“It’s okay, Robby. Happens to the best of us,” She clapped him over the shoulder, “Do you want help with the IV?”

“Yeah, I thought maybe you could do it. I don’t do them often and I don’t want to miss her vein.”

 Dana laughed, “Ah, so if I miss the vein, she can hate me instead.”

“Exactly.” Robby said as they pulled the curtain back around your bed.

You were puking again when they walked in and Robby immediately put a hand to your back to soothe you. It looked like you were vomiting straight bile now, which he imagined was very painful and only further exacerbating your migraine pain.

“Could we… Turn these lights off?” You asked calmly, but tears were streaming down your face and you were shaking.

They couldn’t turn the lights off because you weren’t in a room. “Do we have any private rooms?” He asked Dana quietly.

“Oh, no,” You said immediately, “I don’t want to take that from a patient who actually needs it—“

“You are a patient and you need it.” Robby said, and then turned back to Dana.

“We don’t, but we could put her in the family room. One of them has a little couch she could lay on.”

Robby nodded, “Could you grab a wheelchair?”

Robby fussed over you, carrying you into the wheelchair when you said you could walk. Rubbing your back when you inevitably vomited again. And although Dana would do the IV insertion, Robby disinfected your skin and tied the tourniquet.

Despite your best efforts, you whimpered when the tourniquet tightened. Robby looked up at you, “Did I hurt you?” He asked softly.

You shook your head, but didn’t say anything, worried you’d start sobbing if you tried to speak. You felt silly about how afraid of the needles you were. Anyone else would barely flinch at the thought of it. But it made you feel sick.

Robby came around to your other side, taking the hand that wasn’t about to be poked, “Look at me.” He smiled when you obliged, his eyes warm and loving, “Do you want to know what’s happening or would you prefer not to know?”

You took in a shuddering breath, “Could you distract me, please?”

He held your hand to his mouth, bending his forehead towards yours, “This was supposed to be a surprise, but I booked us an Airbnb in the mountains for Memorial day weekend.”

Your lips turned up just marginally and Robby watched as Dana prepped the IV behind you, “Will there be a hot tub?”

Robby laughed, “Yes, there will be a hot tub and it has an excellent view.”

“That’s good,” You seemed to be relaxing a bit more now, eyes barely opened, muscles deflating, “Because I bought a new bikini last week. I must’ve known subconsciously I would need it.”

He hummed, Dana was getting very close to inserting the needle, “What color is it?”

“It’s blue,” You licked your lips, “I know how you like me in blue.”

He smirked, “I like you in every color.” He said, and at the same time Dana inserted the needle. You jumped just a little, but you weren’t crying anymore.

“All done, sweetheart.” Dana said softly and took off the tourniquet, “You did great.”

Dana left the room, giving them some privacy, and Robby sat in the dark with you for a few minutes.

“You should get back to your patients,” You said, eyes closed.

He watched you carefully, “I’m going to refer you to a neurologist in the hospital. I’ll make sure an appointment gets scheduled where I can go with you. Okay?”

You swallowed and kept your eyes closed, “Okay.”

He leaned over and kissed you lightly, “I love you, I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”

“Okay, love you.”

And so, you had gone to that appointment and had been prescribed Aimovig, a medication that needed to be injected once a month. You had tried to argue your way out of it, but the neurologist insisted it would be your best bet at reducing the number of episodes.

“Baby,” Michael whispered to you, “I can do it for you every time, I promise—“

“You don’t know what I’m like when—“ You sighed, cutting yourself off, “I was in so much pain the last time in the ER, I couldn’t put up much of a fight. What if I hurt you or something?”

He laughed, “You think I’ve never had a combative patient before?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “I’m your wife.”

He leaned in closely, his nose brushing against the shell of your ear, “Can we just try it, honey? It might work so well you find it worth it.”

You swallowed tightly and then clapped your hands together. “Fine.”

Robby had given you the first shot there in the neurologist’s office. The neurologist had left the room.

You were already beginning to shake, watching as Robby put on a pair of gloves.

“I’m going to inject it in the back of your arm, so you’re not going to see me do it.”

You felt a wet cotton pad on the back of your arm, “Now, I want you to try something for me.” He said, and you heard the cap of the injection pop off, “Could you sing our first dance song for me?”

You gave a short laugh of surprise, “You’re serious?”

“Humor me.”

Against your will, you were smiling already. Your wedding had been dreamy and romantic, everything you had wanted. You were married, just the two of you, a photographer, and an ordained minister at the top of a mountain. You had both read your vows through tears. Later, you had dinner and dancing in a garden at the base of the mountain with your friends and family. Your first dance had been to Time After Time, but a more acoustic version of it sung by Lennon Stella. The original version with Cyndi Lauper had played in a bar on one of your first few dates and you had had to coax Michael to the dance floor with you. It had been your first dance then and at your wedding. You had thought yourself very clever for that, but you had kept that secret between you and Michael.

“Fine, but only if you sing it with me.”

He chuckled, “Deal.”

You say go slow I fall behind The second hand unwinds If you’re lost you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting Time after time

You winced at the sting of the needle and your heart rate picked up, “Keep singing.” Michael urged.

If you’re lost you can look and you will find me Time after time If you fall I will catch you I’ll be waiting Time after time

As you both finished singing the second chorus, you felt Michael place a bandaid to your arm, “There you go,” He said and gently turned you to face him, “That wasn’t so bad, hm?”

Thirty days had passed since and Michael kept forgetting to help you with the second injection.

“Honey, I am so sorry.” He said that morning, rushing through the house to get ready for shift, “Why don’t you stop by the ER this afternoon and I’ll do it on my lunch break?”

You laughed, not looking up from the novel perched in your hand. It was a Saturday and you were sat at the kitchen table, eating a bagel and sipping your coffee slowly, dressed in only one of Robby’s old T-shirts.

“You forget I have been to the ER,” You swallowed the bagel in your mouth, “I know you don’t get a lunch break, baby.”

He leaned down to kiss you and as he pulled away, booped your nose, “Don’t be a smart ass. Bring the Aimovig and call Dana when you get there, she’ll come find me.”

“Yes, sir.” You mock saluted him and he rolled his eyes.

“Don’t forget it needs to be taken out of the fridge at least 30 minutes before injection.”

“I know.” You said, not looking up from your book.

He paused at the doorway of your home, looking down the entryway, he could see you perched at the kitchen table, your legs pulled tight to your chest. He never understood how you could sit comfortably like that, “You’ll come, right?” He asked, one AirPod in his hand, the other already in his ear, “You won’t pretend that you forgot?”

You looked up from your book to meet his gaze, the beginnings of a smirk on your face. Slowly, you looked to the clock on the wall, “You’re gonna be late.”

He sighed and lightly knocked the heel of his hand against the doorway, “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

“I love you, have a good day!” You shouted after him.

“Love you too,” He replied, closing the door behind him.

***

“Dana,” Robby leaned over the desk at the hub, “My wife may be stopping by at some point today, could you come find me when she gets here?”

“Yeah, sure, everything okay?”

He nodded, “She was prescribed Aimovig for her migraines, I told her to come here so I could inject it for her.”

“Why don’t you just do it at home?”

He sighed heavily, “Because I keep forgetting and I think she keeps allowing me to forget to keep delaying it.”

Dana smirked as they began doing rounds, “If she’s delaying it, what makes you think she’d come here of her own free will?”

“She told me she would,” He shrugged, “I can’t keep treating her like a patient or a rebellious child, I can tell it’s getting on her nerves. She said she would come so I’m taking her at her word.”

“Fair enough.” Dana said, “I’ll let you know when she gets here.”

“Thank you.”

***

When you walked into the ER waiting room, you immediately felt your anxiety tick up. Walking to the window, you knocked sharply to get Lupe’s attention. You gave her a wave and a smile and she waved you through, unlocking the double doors that led to the ER.

Taking a deep breath, you exhaled shakily as you walked over to the hub where you saw Dana.

“How’s my sister wife doing today?” You asked playfully. You knew about the running joke that Dana was Robby’s work wife. When you found out about it, Robby had worried it would make you jealous, but you had only laughed and joked that you always wanted a sister wife.

Dana looked up and smiled, “Mrs. Robinavitch, we weren’t sure you’d show.”

“Ah,” You leaned against the hub, “You mean my husband didn’t believe me when I said I would come.”

“Oh, can you blame him, kid?”

You clasped your hands tightly in front of you to try and stop the shaking, “Did you know he told me to come in during his ‘lunch break’?”

Dana laughed loudly, “Lunch break? He’s lucky if he has time to stop and take a piss.”

You chuckled, “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“Alright, let me go find him, you wait here.”

You nodded, letting the smile fall from your face as Dana left. You were very good at covering up your anxiety when you needed to be, but your breathing trembled and your hands still shook.

“Hey,” A warm hand settled on your shoulder, squeezing lightly, “I’m glad you came.”

You turned to see your husband, “Well, don’t sound so surprised. You asked me to come, I said I would, so I’m here.”

He smiled, “Alright, follow me.”

You trailed behind him through the chaos of the ER.

“Dr. Robby!” You turned at the sound of your husband’s nickname to see what looked like a resident running after him.

“Not now,” He said quickly.

“But, I need—“

“Go ask literally anyone else, I will be with you shortly, Dr. Santos.”

You followed behind him into what you recognized to be the family room. He sighed deeply as he closed the door behind you, muffling the din of the ER.

“I can wait here for you,” You said softly, “If you need to go deal with that.”

“No,” He said and turned to you, smiling, “You have my undivided attention.”

You smiled tightly, “Great.”

“Oh, come on,” He cradled your face gently in his hands and you closed your eyes at his touch, “It’ll be over before you know it. I’ll be very gentle.”

Your eyes watered, but you nodded.

“Did you bring the Aimovig?”

You nodded again, reaching into your bag for it, but your hands were still shaky and as you pulled it out, it fell from your hands. Robby caught it in his hand, eyes focused on you the way they always did when he was worried about you.

“Why don’t you sit down over here?” He guided you gently to a chair, “I brought you some treats.” He pulled out a Polar seltzer can and a small package of Nutter Butters.

You managed a small smile as you took the Seltzer can from him and popped it open, “Thank you.”

He pulled on a pair of gloves while you focused on your breathing, barely taking a sip from your seltzer.

“No Nutter Butters?” He asked mildly, “I thought they were your favorite.”

You take in a shaky breath, “They are, but I am pretty nauseous at the moment. Wouldn’t want to start puking in your ER.”

“I can have Dana grab you some anti nausea meds.”

“No,” You said, “I’ll be fine once it’s done.”

He sat on a stool and rolled over to you, sliding between your knees, “Take a deep breath for me?”

“Michael, I don’t need a diagnosis, I think it’s pretty clear what’s going on with me.”

“Come on, I’ll do it with you,” He slid a hand to your inner knee, “Deep breath.”

You rolled your eyes, but did as you were told. Michael breathed with you, and though you hated to admit it, it was soothing to hear the sound of his breathing in sync with yours. The weight of his hand on your knee and the light circles his thumb made against you grounding.

“Better?”

You nodded, “A little.”

“Good, turn around for me?”

You straddled the back of the chair, taking a deep breath as you felt the wet cotton pad against your skin, “How’s your day so far?” You asked.

He chuckled, “You want to know about my day right now?”

“You act like I never ask you,” You sighed, “I’m asking for you to distract me so I don’t have a full blown panic attack. Who was that resident earlier? I haven’t seen her before.”

“Dr. Santos? New intern.” He pinched the muscle in the back of your arm between two of his fingers and you heard the cap on the injection clatter to the floor. “She’s good. Smart. Observant. Sometimes too ambitious for her own good. More empathetic than people give her credit for.”

You groaned quietly feeling the prick of the needle in your skin, exhaling shakily.

“Just another second, you’re doing so good, baby... And, done.” You felt the bandaid on your skin and heard the snap of Michael’s gloves as he tossed them in the trash.

Then his hands were on you, turning you to look at him, “Hey, you did it. You okay?”

You nodded, your anxiety leaving you in a rush. You felt Robby’s hands on your face again and you leaned into him, “You said I did good?”

He laughed, “Very good,” He grabbed the Nutter Butters and opened the packaging, “Eat.”

Just then the family room door opened and you recognized Dr. Mohan at the door, “Oh, um, Mrs. Robinavitch, I—I didn’t know you were here, sorry to interrupt, I—“

“What do you need, Mohan?” Michael asked and you tried to hide your laugh. It was always like this with the residents. Something about seeing you with Robby really flustered them. You listened as they spoke about a patient and then Mohan was gone.

“What do you do to your residents that they look so goddamn scared whenever they see you with me?”

He rolled his eyes, “Eat your cookie, please, I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on you.”

“You’re insufferable when you baby me.” You said, but took a bite of the cookie anyway.

He kissed the top of your head on his way out, “Complain all you want, I know you like it.”

You smirked as you watched him head back into the ER, Dr. Mohan following him closely.

With Michael gone and your anxiety leaving you, you fully took in the Nutter Butters and seltzer. Your favorite cookies and favorite drink.

You had always been annoyed by his insistence to get you treatment for your migraines. It wasn’t like he had been the first partner of yours to suggest you see a doctor, but he was the first to not give up, despite your stubbornness.

He had pushed, but he had never made you do anything you didn’t agree to. And now, in the face of your silly phobia, he had cared for you with no judgment, and thought to bring your favorite snacks in even in the chaos of his work day.

Obviously, he loved you very much. It had never been up for question, you knew the reason he was so stubborn was because he cared about you and hated seeing you in pain. But still, sometimes, it was nice to be reminded.

After a few minutes, true to his word, Michael returned.

“Feeling better?”

“Much.” You said, and reached for his hand, pulling him down to sit next to you, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course.” He smiled at you, “You’re not lightheaded or dizzy?”

“No,” You said and held up the cookie wrapper, “The cookies really helped.”

His grin widened, “Good. You’re cleared to go home, then.” He kissed your forehead and then stood to go, but you pulled him back down.

“If I’m not gonna see you for another six to seven hours, I’m gonna need a better kiss than that.” You smirked.

He chuckled, but seemed happy to humor you, taking your face in his hands he kissed you, long and slow. He slipped his tongue into your mouth, keeping you anchored to him with a hand at the back of your neck. Your toes curled in your shoes when he sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down gently.

As he pulled away, just slightly, you were still leaning into him for more, “Was that better?” He asked, cocky grin on his face.

You cleared your throat, sure you were blushing, “Yeah, that was fine.”

“Well I gotta get back to it now. I’ll see you at home?”

“Um, I have dinner plans with some friends in town so I might be back later than you, but yes.”

He nodded, “Okay,” He kissed your forehead again, “Be careful. I love you.”

“Always. I love you. Make sure you eat something, please.”

He nodded to acknowledge he’d heard you, and then he was gone, back in the thick of it.

[eugenedream]

tongue on loving wound

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader | omegaverse!au | alternate universe to In Limbo | alpha!ghost x omega!fem!reader | masterlist

Chapter Two: unravel me until i’m wrapped around your finger

tw: gore, blood, slight pseudo dub-con, is scent intox a thing?, scenting, nudity, light smut

Simon spits the blood out of his mouth before wiping the remainder off on his sleeve.

It lands in a bubbling glob next to Marco’s corpse, marring the floor with a faint pink before it’s overwhelmed by the flood of ichor pouring from his yawning throat. Pearl white teeth peek out from between parted lips, now stained rose, and Simon scoffs at the sight of his canines. Sharp. Whittled down enamel. They’re fake—the mark of an alpha without control. 

Closing his eyes, Simon breathes in the scent of a fresh kill. Raw meat, thick in the air, wafting through his nose and plugging it full until his mind is spinning. Pheromones fade and are quickly replaced by decay. Wet foliage and fur caked with dirt beneath a shallow grave. 

This is what victory smells like. This is success. 

“O-Oh my god, y-you…”

Eyes like burnt umber lock onto you the moment your trembling words burrow through Simon’s brain. Sweet little omega with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, and hands covering her mouth—you’re shaking with wide eyes focused on the scene behind him. Simon glances back at Marco’s body for a split moment to take in the gore and he mulls over how this must look to you. A senseless act of violence. Revenge in its most brutal form. You’ll realize that this is a gift in due time. 

“I told ya I was gonna take care of all this, sweetheart,” he patiently reminds.

The moment he steps towards you, your attention snaps to him. Blood still coats his face, wetting his maw, dribbling down to his chest. You know humans used to kill one another like this back before nature was deemed unsightly. Sharp teeth are meant for protecting, for fighting, for piercing sweet scent glands on the tender sides of necks. Still, the sheer carnage before you stuns you into silence. 

All Simon can think about is what a good omega you are looking up at him as you curl on the floor. It instills an aplomb that swells in his chest, heating his blood as it pumps throughout his body. You. Yes, you. It feels right. He can’t name why, he just feels the fact of it settle in his bones, a weight he doesn’t mind keeping around.

Kneeling before you, Simon’s hands reach for your throat and you only flinch a little bit when his fingers hook underneath your collar. Faux pink sears his retinas as he thumbs over the polymer. Real leather would be more secure, but this infantizes you. Belittles you. 

Teeth gritting, he begins to yank it apart. Plastic and metal strains and creaks underneath the pressure, and you squeak just as the collar splits open, claps coming apart and clattering on the ground. Simon discards it to the side, and your hands are quick to rub your naked throat as you sigh in disbelief. Your skin is ripe and smooth with perspiration, but you can’t help but trace the ghost of your collar. 

“Simon, I—thank you—this is—I can’t believe—oh!” 

Without warning his nose is in the crook of your neck, crooked curve rubbing at your scent gland. His breath is soft and long as he inhales you. Your gland pulses against his nostrils, white hot blood throbbing beneath your skin, and he huffs. Palms flat on his chest, instinct tells you to freeze as he continues to nudge against you, hot breath fanning against your newly revealed skin. 

There’s a pit that pulls just behind his navel when you tilt your head to the side; a snarling beast that compels his mouth to open. He nearly listens to it. That whining dog within him. Yet his nose catches the unsavory redolence of Marco, and how it still taints your skin, leaving you sordid and rotten, and he licks his teeth instead. 

“Sweet little ‘mega… you still smell like him,” he mutters into your collarbone. 

Blinking, your feet begin to scrape against the ground, body squirming beneath all of Simon’s attention. “I do?” 

He nods, then covers your hand on his chest with his own as he leans back to look at you. “I’m gonna fix that.” 

“You will?” 

Lips still twitching, still yearning for something, Simon leans forward without warning, mouth planting against the center of your forehead. The taste of your skin is muted because of Marco’s blood, which now stains the crown of your head, but it’s enough to satiate the growling in his stomach. 

“Yeah,” he assures as he rubs the blood off your face with his thumb. “Gonna take you home ‘n get ya all cleaned up.” 

Before anyone can stumble upon the mess he’s made, Simon escorts you out of Tsar Trading and shuffles you into his car before speeding off through the city. Your body is airy in the passenger seat next to him. Limbs filled with helium, skull packed with balloons, everything zooms by in a blur. Hands drawn to your throat, you can’t help but hold your tender skin. How long has it been since you last felt yourself like this without a barrier? 

Without Marco’s threatening teeth hovering over your neck? 

The dull drum of your hangover worsens the moment Simon pulls into the garage, and reality crashes down around you with the sudden weight of a tidal wave. Marco. Your debt. His corpse heavy on the floor of a grimy pawn shop. A hunk of flesh in Simon’s mouth. The alluring sheen in his eyes as he spat out fresh ichor onto his latest meal. 

“C’mon, sweetheart.” 

The door is open. Simon’s hand is waiting for you. Beckoning. Calling you home. You gently place your fingers against his palm and he brings you out of the garage and into the house. It’s darker than you expected it to be. Windows shrouded with thick curtains, all overhead lights snuffed out with only lamps and secondary lighting to illuminate the rooms—it’s warm. Comforting. A blanket of drowsiness swaddles you the very moment the door is locked behind you, pulling you beneath rocking waves and drowning out the vicious storm you’ve attempted to weather most of your life. 

Simon leads you through the living room around his comfortable sectional and coffee table littered with motorcycle parts to bring you into his bedroom. His mattress is huge. Large enough to swallow both you and him for dinner and still have enough room for dessert. Much like the rest of his house it’s dark with plain walls and a strong aroma of tobacco and musk. You breathe in and your brain begins to spin; gyrating until you’re unsteady on your feet. 

Algid air greets you in the master bathroom and it acts like water against your face, shocking you back into your body. Simon turns on the spout in the bathtub and runs his fingers beneath the flow, humming to himself as steam begins to waft and he yanks on the diverter until it’s spewing from the showerhead. 

“Oh, that was kind of you. You didn’t have to run it for me,” you excuse, attempting to thank him for his kindness despite how gauche it feels on your tongue. 

Straightening himself, Simon wipes his hand off on the front of his jeans before his attention is back on you. “Course I did.” Then, he motions at you, fingers flicking up. “C’mon. Clothes off, sweetheart.” 

His order restarts your brain and you find your arms absentmindedly crossing around your midsection, guarding your stomach, the most tender part of your body. “What? Like, right here? In front of you?”

“Is that a problem?” he asks with a raised brow. When you stutter through your answer, he puts you out of your misery. Stalking closer, feet moving with purpose, he gently closes in on you, body waiting to smother yours. “I told ya I was gonna clean you up, didn’t I?”

You swallow. “Y-Yeah.” 

The blood on his mouth has dried, but the scent is still just as strong. Intoxicating curor like red wine and honey mixed with brutal sweat. All discomfort within you dissipates when he looks at you—when he’s so close that you can smell him. Rewired brain, neurons learning new pathways, doors opening that you always thought were locked shut. 

“You’re gonna let me clean you up then, yeah?” he prompts. His lips quirk into a pleased smirk when you nod. “Good omega.” 

All shame leaves you the moment you begin to peel your clothes off. Shirt, pants, underwear—it all piles up on the floor next to your shoes until you’re standing nude in the mist, nipples perking in the cold. Simon pulls back the shower curtain and ushers you inside then shuts it before too much water can splash on the floor. 

Mindlessly, you stand beneath the pelting drops of water and let it cascade down your body, ignorant to the quiet thudding that hits the floor next to you. The next time the shower curtain moves, Simon is naked. His pallid chest dully reflecting the light still isn’t enough to blind you as you watch him climb into the tub behind you. You inspect him within a single instant. The thick muscles that flex in his thighs, ink spreading along his arms in swirling designs, a fat keloid that digs into his shoulder—

—and of course, him. 

You know what he’s supposed to look like. The videos and pictures from your health class ages ago were able to teach you that much at least. Still, it’s different seeing a cock in real life. Flaccid, it hangs lazy between his legs, foreskin stretching over the head and hiding it from view. Speckles of silver attempt to make their presence known from the underside of his shaft, leading all the way down to his puffy knot where it rests as a dormant shade of pale pink. 

As he snaps the curtain shut behind him, you distract yourself with mindless swaying while your arms wrap around your torso. Hands behind your shoulders, fingers digging into the anxious muscles unguarded. Simon dips his hand beneath the stream then wipes at his face. Beads of rosy water roll down his abdomen, tracing along his sternum before eventually diving to the tub where it vanishes with the flood. 

It isn’t long before his attention turns to you. Shower gel lathering in his bare hands, he guides you how he wants your body and scrubs you clean everywhere he can reach. The side of your neck, down the curve of your spine, between your legs—you giggle when he reaches your flank, nails scraping over your waist, tickling your ribs. He spends extra time on your wrists. Thumbing over the tiny scent gland that lies just over your pulse, he brings it up to his nose after each rinse where you can hear him breathe you in even over the roaring water clogging your ears. 

“Do I—erm… do I smell okay now?” you question cautiously. 

There’s a long stretch of silence full of Simon nuzzling your wrist before he finally answers. “You don’t smell like anythin’ at all.” 

“Oh, yeah,” you say with a sheepish chuckle. “I guess that… makes sense.” 

“Do you not have scent glands?” His question is blunt—near invasive. Far from a proper thing to ask, but his need to profile you is nettling too deep beneath his skin. The only person in the world he cannot smell, here before him, and haunting all his waking thoughts. Yet, you are not scandalized. Simon’s curiosity is not the first you’ve encountered. 

“No, I have them,” you admit. “They just… don’t seem to want to do their jobs. At first they thought it was late puberty, then a hormone imbalance, then a genetic condition… Now they’re telling me I might just be a little broken with no fix.” 

Simon’s eyes narrow at your explanation as if the very notion has him upset. “You’re not broken,” he insists. 

Backtracking, you shake your head. “Oh, I know. I guess. I-I mean, it doesn’t bother me. Like, I’ve never had any of the urges everyone else gets. Nesting, or heats, or…” Your tongue is loose, flapping against your teeth before you’ve fully comprehended your words. You stare at Simon as if he’s tricked you—transfixed you—before swallowing down the rest of your explanation. “It’s for the best anyway, I mean, with all that stuff going on with Marco I wouldn’t have the time to deal with biology anyway so… s-so, thank you. For—erm—taking care of him.”

Simon is quiet for a long time. He holds your gaze and it burns, red hot coals shoved into the pits of your stomach, poking at your navel, urging you forward. Instead, you stay still as he pulls your wrist up to his mouth just as his tongue lulls out to lick your gland. It sends a spark through your nervous system. It sizzles along each neuron until something hums to life in the long forgotten slice of your brain and you’re left staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Anythin’ for you, little ‘mega.” 

When the water shuts off and you’re met with the bite of brisk air, Simon dries you off with one of the largest towels you’ve ever seen. It dances over your skin, down your back and in the crux of your arse. He doesn’t bother to grab himself a fresh one before he dries himself off, then lazily wraps it around his waist. Enervation tugs at your eyelids as you lean down, fingers reaching for your old clothes on the floor, but your movements cease the moment Simon’s hand is on the back of your neck, scruffing you like a mangy cat. 

“Nuh uh,” he warns. You yelp as he pulls you back and you spin around to face him with a huff. “You’re not wearin’ those. They reek of Marco, and I just washed you up.”

As if wounded, you wrap your arms around yourself, skin puckering into gooseflesh as you shiver. “What am I supposed to wear, then?” 

Instead of giving you any proper clothes to change into, Simon retrieves a spare quilt from the hallway closet, wrapping it tight around your shoulders before dressing himself. Half naked, you sit on the edge of his bed with glassy eyes and scenes swirling in your skull as you’re forced to confront the day's events. 

Sharp teeth in tender throat. Fresh ichor spilling like pomegranate juice. The pretty corpse of a pretty man. A pink collar next to pallid fingers. 

“Hey.” Simon stands before you, fingers pressing beneath your jaw, prompting you to look up at him instead of your lap. “I’m gonna get you new clothes. Gonna be okay by yourself for a bit?” 

Your blink comes slow as you stare at him, nose flaring as his scent pierces through you like a bullet through ripe flesh. “Yeah. You can take the key to my flat, it should be in my pants.” 

“No baby, I’m buyin’ you new ones.” 

“What?” you breathe. “But I’ve got perfectly fine clothes at home!” 

The look he gives you turns your tongue into stone as umber eyes darken into onyx. Lips squeezing tight, you stare at him, hips readjusting on the edge of the bed as you wait for him to speak. 

“You’re not safe right now. Goin’ back to your flat is a bad idea while things are too hot, ‘n you’re safer ‘ere with me.” Pausing, Simon’s fingers wander away from your chin and down along your neck, ghosting over that sensitive nook that makes you quiver. “I asked you if you needed an alpha to take care of this for you ‘n you said yes, so you’re gonna be a good pet ‘n let me do this, yeah? Gonna let me take care of ya?” 

All fight and urge to argue is siphoned from your marrow, forced into dormancy too deep for you to reach. Everything goes fuzzy as mirth seeps from your brainstem and into your blood. It pumps throughout your body. Everything tingles. You’re warm in his touch. Content. Happy. 

“I’ll be good.” 

Simon makes quick work of his trip. After gathering your old clothes and throwing them into the bin, he spends his time meticulously gathering everything he expects you to need. Trousers, panties, shirts and pyjamas—he forgoes getting you any sort of bra entirely, not even attempting to eyeball your size. He doesn’t intend on letting you leave the house, anyway. Not until things cool down. 

He returns with his arms full of stacked bags that he haphazardly places on the kitchen counter before meandering back into the bedroom. Numbra cloaks the room, nearly obscuring his vision, but he’s still able to make out your form on the bed. As he stalks closer, feet silent on the floor, he notes you’ve slightly rearranged his bedding. Pillows strewn around your body, duvet bunched up in supporting places like you’re in the midst of a bowl. 

Eyes closed tight with the quilt pulled just under your chin, you’re fast asleep. He can hear the air in your lungs and how it expels through your nose, soft against the sheets, eyelids fluttering in the midst of a dream. Something stirs within him. A primordial growl that doesn’t quite bubble up in his chest—a content beast purring. 

He’s compelled forward, knees dipping into the mattress, movement gently jostling your form but not stirring you into consciousness. This feels right. His body next to yours, back pulled close to his chest, arm caging around you as he digs his nose into the back of your neck. You smell pure. A natural redolence like jasmine. With Marco’s scent expunged, he falls asleep within mere minutes. 

A few hours later, he wakes to the feeling of your nose pressed to his flank. 

His shirt is rolled up slightly, exposing the soft padding of his stomach during his slumber, but something sears through him. Your skin. Without the quilt to guard your body, you’re leaning against him without a barrier and he swears he can feel the quiver of your pulse. Your sniffs are soft and delicate, near pathetic little things—secretive and tense. 

Breathing in, Simon’s legs go rigid as he stretches and you freeze the moment he moves, retracting back into yourself as if you can’t afford to be caught. It’s impossible to hold back the simper on his lips as he sits up, movements slow and careful so as to not spook you. Still, you pull the quilt up under your chin again as his body twists, hands planting on either side of your head. His pupils swallow his irises. Black holes ready to consume you. 

“Why’d you stop?” he asks. 

Your lips curl inward before you press them against the corner of the blanket. “Stop what?” Simon doesn’t expand on his question, but the rise of his brows gets you to spill. “S-Sorry, you just… smell really nice.” 

“You’ve never been this close to an alpha before, have you?” he hums curiously. When your only response is to shake your head, his simper grows into a smirk. Before you know it, he’s lowering himself onto his elbows, body blanketing yours until his neck is presented to you. “Go ahead. You don’t even have’ta ask, baby.” 

The speed at which you give in is laughable. Nose against the underside of his jaw, diaphragm forcing your lungs to suck in mouthfuls of him—you dive into him. Arms curling around his neck, you pull him closer and he relents. You nuzzle into him as if you’re trying to dig through his throat with your nose. The longer he lets you explore, the more brave you become with your movements—reeling him closer, tugging on his shirt, legs squirming beneath him. 

Then, there’s the pinch. 

Dull teeth nip at his collarbone, forcing Simon to pull back with a growl. Teary eyed, you stare up at him, apology already slipping from your mouth. 

“I-I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry,” you spew. 

He doesn’t say anything in response—he simply allows silence to shroud the two of you as he reverses the dynamic. His own crooked nose knocks against the side of your neck and you keen so prettily his hips roll forward instinctively as his lips hover over your scent gland. There are times in the past when he’s messed around with omegas like this before, toying with their most vulnerable parts just to feel them melt, but there’s something that’s weaving through his brain that muddles his thoughts. 

Jasmine. Ichor on flowers. Fur warmed by the sun. 

It lulls his teeth out from between his lips. They’re dry. Thirsty. Screaming for something to wet them, to put them out of their misery. Simon nearly gives in. Tender flesh on full display for him, quivering pulse within his grasp—he pauses. The scent flees just as quickly as it appeared. 

Humming, his lips quietly press against your scent gland and—for now—he ignores the tickle in the back of his brain that demands more. 

Weeks pass like this. You laze around on any surface you deem soft enough as you flip through the dusty books that lie on forgotten shelves throughout Simon’s home or solve sudoku puzzles in the paper. He tells you this is to keep you safe—just until Marco’s corpse has fully rotted—but by the time the weather warms into spring you’ve already carved your own spot into this house. 

Curled up into his side on the couch, nose suctioning to his side, digging into his ribs, wandering up to the pit, nesting in his bed, snoozing whenever you please, smiling more and apologizing less—you’re not sure you want to leave anymore. It’s safe here in the secluded den Simon has built. You tread past windows without the worry of camera flashes burning your sight, you don’t flinch when he touches you—and his smell. 

It sows something inside of you. An infinitesimal seed that’s burrowed deep into your gut and has germinated for so long it’s ready to bear fruit. Delicious, ripe with juice and skin so full it shears with the faintest pressure of teeth. The roots burrow so deep that they affect not only you, but Simon, too. He feels it churn through his offals, spearing through all things unnecessary; intestines, liver, spleen. 

The feeling haunts him worse when he’s not at home. Far in the depths of Terminus’s maw where a sickening concoction of scents assaults his nose. Even here in the VIP room it’s overstimulating. Sour musk, faux pheromones, greed and bitter lust; it all coalesces until his eyes are watering at the stench. There’s a twitch in his fingers that beg for a cigarette, but he bites the sensation back as the sillage of rosewater pierces through the wall of odor around him. 

“There he is. My husband’s favorite delinquent,” Aelin chirps. Simon’s growling chuckle sounds like blended metal when compared with the soft music playing in the room. Aelin grins as she leans against the wall next to him, heels tapping against the lacquered floor. “I do hope he’s taking things easier on you now after that whole mess.” 

Mess. He nearly scoffs.

“Marco was a sod. It was a pleasure to get rid of ‘im,” he hums. 

“Even without permission?” she questions, inflection curling around each word. 

His reply dances on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Of course it was worth it. He’d do it a million times over. Without permission, by himself, with a crowd, with his bare hands—the trouble he caused was worth it. Snuffing out the filth. Freeing you from your bonds. The sweet omega sleeping in his bed is just a secondary treat. 

“Chip didn’t come with you tonight?” Aelin reroutes when he doesn’t reply. 

He shakes his head. “Said she wasn’t feelin’ well.” 

“Ah.” An elbow brushes against his side; playful. “She seems to be staying with you an awful lot these days. Hardly even answers the phone when I text. Care to explain how that came about?” 

Truth is, he doesn’t. He thinks about your debt, and the secrets you’ve whispered to him about it, and he knows you couldn’t handle bearing your sins to Aelin. Not now, at least. Instead, Simon sighs as he rests the back of his head against the wall, looking at the crowd over the angled curve of his nose. 

“She likes the way I smell.” 

At that, Aelin smirks. 

The rest of the night moves at a snail's pace. Musk is tainted with liquor and hoppy beer, burning his nostrils until they feel void of hair. Simon remains at the edge of the crowd, eyes narrowing at each face that passes him by while something writhes beneath his skin. He thinks of you. Your skin on his. Nose on his neck. Gland in his mouth. It’s as if he has hives on his skin, they itch and burn, setting him ablaze, making him wish he could take his claws and rake it over himself until it stops. 

On the ride home he lights a cigarette to cleanse his palette of the filth he’s had to endure through the night. It swirls on his tongue and when he exhales he pushes it through his nose until the only thing he can note is tobacco and the buzz of nicotine. His dash reads 01:33 by the time he pulls into the garage and he’s groaning as he enters through the door, achy feet finally nettling too deep. 

The moment he steps foot into the living room, Simon knows something’s wrong. 

Thin fabric and glistening springs greet him as he stares at his barren sofa. Each cushion has been stolen away, leaving behind not so much as a throw pillow in its wake. Hackles raised, he carefully steps around the couch, eyeing it warily, as he enters the kitchen. The light is still on—you always keep it this way when you know he’ll be home late—but the island is a mess. Seven half empty water glasses are strewn about the countertop with no method to the madness, and he nearly slips right on his arse as he splashes through a puddle just by the sink. 

A piercing dither strikes his chest when he calls your name and he gets no response, sending him spiraling through the house until he’s bursting through the bedroom door. When he flicks the light on he freezes.

You’ve nested—properly. Damn near burrowed. A true hibernaculum. Sofa cushions line the wall and are held together by tucked sheets, and you’ve seem to have raided his spare blankets from the closet. His hamper is overturned, and he sees various articles of his clothing poking out from the medley of fabrics that you’ve buried yourself in. Even from the doorway he can hear your whimpering. Pathetic pules. The squeaking of a mouse or cries of a kitten.

Simon opens his mouth to grab your attention, but just as he does something hits him—a wall of thick air, something hardly permeable, yet strong enough to nearly bring him to his knees. He clasps a hand over his mouth as he stumbles toward you, but it’s not enough to smother the scent. 

Your scent. 

Jasmine and blood, fresh red oozing out of weeping meat, warm honey dripping onto a waiting tongue, the brine of needy tears spilling from a desperate cunt—

Your eyes flutter open as Simon seats himself next to your nest and the moment your gaze locks onto him, he knows he’s doomed. The sudden onset of your scent leaves his brain devolving until a demanding mantra plays on repeat—take. Take you. Take everything, all your pain and strife, and give, give, give. 

“Simon?” 

The crack in your voice sends his heart quivering as he leans forward, hands cupping your face. You’re febrile. It seeps through his skin and into his bones demanding that he purges it. “I’m right here, baby.” 

“S-Something’s wrong like- like, I feel really weird,” you whine. You reach up to wipe the sweat from your brow only for it to be instantaneously replaced by more perspiration and he has to fight back the urge to lick your fingers clean. “Everything’s so warm and I just- I can’t think straight… I-I’m sorry about your clothes, you just- it’s the only thing that seems to c-calm me and-and oh… Simon you… you smell so nice.” 

Each word you speak has his heart thudding in his chest, violent and raging like a storm. Your eyes are so heavy you can hardly keep them open, just peering up at him through heavy lids as you deliquesce in his grasp. He’s leaning forward, lips parting, tongue wishing to taste the delicate scent that teases his nose. 

“Did somethin’ happen?” Even his own voice sounds as if he’s under water—too far beneath your current to be saved. 

“N-No it just- I felt odd this morning but it just- it came out of nowhere sometime after you left.” You stutter as he breathes in against your scent gland. “Am I sick?” 

“You have a scent now,” he admits as the world seems to sway around him. It’s potent. So strong yet pleasant, smothering him in a way he wouldn’t mind asphyxiating. 

“I do?”

He hums in confirmation as he begins to traverse down your body. You’re wearing nothing but a dress shirt and a pair of panties, leaving your bare legs to spread wide for him as he slots himself between them. You listen to his touch, chest rising against his face as he trails down to your stomach. Then, he’s pushing at your thighs, giving himself enough room to shove his face against your clothed sex. 

Instead of exclaiming, you moan, hips rolling up as he inhales. There’s an intoxicating aroma that overwhelms him, sending all his blood straight to his cock where it aches against his jeans. You watch his eyes squeeze shut before he’s weaning himself off of you, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are warmer. There’s a new fire lit behind them and the sparks are jutting out to meet you—to know you, your skin, the softest parts of you, everything that makes you tick. 

“Poor little ‘mega,” he coos as he sits back on his haunches. “Can’t even tell when she’s in heat.” 

“What?” Everything you know crumbles around you as Simon’s words attempt to untangle themselves in your mind. “But I- no- I’ve never been in- they said I couldn’t!” 

“Might’ve been from the stress,” Simon offers, though it’s hard to think rationally when your scent muddles his thoughts. He attempts to recall any other omega who’s scent had this effect on him, yet nothing comes to mind. Something jovial purs in his chest at that revelation; that you’re special—his. “Owing Marco, workin’ yourself half to death the way you did, might’ve thrown your body into survival mode. Prioritized other functions besides scent and hormones.” 

There are tears in your eyes now. Frustration and fear clash head on in your chest, and you’re pawing at your eyes to will them away. “Fuck. No, no, I can’t—this cant—no!” 

Simon melts over you, elbows crashing into the mattress as he covers your body with his, sticking close to you despite the heat. “Shh, it’s okay baby.” 

“I dunno what to do! I’ve never… I can’t think, I just, it’s like there’s a hole inside of me, and it burns, and I just need it—I dunno what I need! I’m so-”

“Shh,” he coos again. He knocks your hands away from your face with his jaw before he’s presenting the side of his neck to you. Your sniffling slowly fades until you’re breathing deep, nose against his throat, drowning in his scent. “Poor thing. Need me to take care of you, yeah? Need your alpha to help you through your heat?” 

You hum, lips reaching up to grace against his Adam’s apple. “You smell… that’s not too much trouble? Helping me? Simon you—my alpha?—you smell so nice…” 

The keen in your tone has his fingers curling into your nest while the straining in his pants gets worse. He’s throbbing with want. It rattles inside of him so fiercely he fears you might hear the growling in his stomach. 

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

“No baby, it’s no trouble,” he assures. “Do you trust me?” 

You’re beginning to calm now, muscles no longer tense on the bed, yet still burning just as hot as you were before. But it’s better now. It’ll be enough—until it isn’t. 

But he’ll be right here to take care of his omega through it all.

“I trust you,” you eventually sigh. 

“Good. Now lay back and let me take care of my mate.”

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[eugenedream]

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

wc; 0.3k + extra.

the storm outside batters against the windows, the wind howling like the ghosts simon carries in his chest. it's late—too late—but he can't sleep much these days. the house is quiet, save for the soft whimper of his daughter stirring in her crib.

he send you to sleep a while ago, he knew you were tired for staying the whole day up and tomorrow you had work.

grace is sitting up when he gets there, blinking sleep from her eyes, cheeks flushed with warmth. he doesn't say anything at first. instead, he just lowers himself beside the crib, mask discarded for once, face to face with her in the glow of the nightlight. she reaches out with chubby fingers, brushing his jaw like she’s trying to recognize him by touch alone.

then she says it. clearer than it has any right to be.

"dada."

it's not a sound— he remembered any other of her incoherent mumbles and he knows she's not babbling.

he smiles— not just a smirk or a side one, it's a full smile that reaches his eyes.

he has been called many things in his life—soldier, killer, monster. but dada?

he never thought he'd earn that one. and there she is, repeating it over and over as she grabs her feet.

giggling at his stunned silence, and he presses his forehead gently to hers, closing his eyes like a sinner at confession.

"well, aren't you a charmer?"

extra:

he wouldn't admit it, but sometimes— just sometimes he wished that grace could've learned to say 'mama' first.

"dada!" she cried from her room and you muttered with your face buried in the pillow.

"she's calling for ya."

"i'm goin'," he huffed and stood up from bed, walking towards the door for the third night.

you smiled before you drifted off to sleep. that tiktok saying that you should make your kid call for 'dad' first was totally right.

a/n: requests are officially open!

[eugenedream]

just a fever ── simon 'ghost' riley

summary; he's not scared of a lot of things. except the first fever of his daughter.

wc; 0.4k

he has faced down barrels of guns with steely calm, walked through burning houses with his mask soaked in soot and blood. fear doesn't live in his bones anymore—at least, not the kind that comes from battlefields or the breath before a bullet flies.

but this... is new.

grace is burning up in his arms, small limbs restless and face flushed red with fever, and simon's chest feels like it's caving in. her breaths come fast and uneven, and her fingers, always clinging to his dog tags when she's sleepy, twitch like she’s too hot to hold onto anything.

she's just a baby. not even two.

he paces the living room barefoot, her little form tucked tight against his chest, his shirt damp where her forehead rests. you're on the phone with the pediatrician, voice calm but tight—trying not to let him hear the edge in it.

but he does. he hears everything at this point, every beat and every breath.

his hands are too rough for this. trained for holding guns, not tiny bodies burning with sickness. he keeps checking her temperature with a trembling hand against her neck, like it'll tell him something new. like anything will change.

watching grace whimper weakly in his arms, no strength to cry—he can’t protect her from this. and it unravels him.

you turn to him, finally off the call.

"they said it's common. her body's just learning how to fight things off. fever's a sign her immune system's working."

he nods slowly, but his eyes—those same eyes that have stared down warlords and monsters in masks— look hollow now.

"grace is strong," you add, gentler, placing a hand on his arm. "just like you".

but simon doesn’t feel strong. he feels helpless.

"she's never been this hot," he mutters, voice low, rough like gravel. "she looked at me like she didn't know who I was."

"she's tired, love. she knows who you are" you say softly, caressing his shoulder "you're her dad. of course she knows."

she stirs then, tiny fingers curling into his shirt again. her lips part and he hears the quietest murmur—“mgh…”

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for an hour. cradles her closer. he doesn't even notice the wetness in his eyes until your hand brushes it away.

later, when grace is finally resting, fever breaking with a cool damp cloth and a lullaby that only you know how to hum right, simon stays by her crib. mask off. eyes open.

no guns. no enemies. just a man watching the smallest person he’s ever loved fight the first of life’s many battles.

he doesn’t flinch at gunfire.

but he’d rather take a bullet to the chest than watch his little girl suffer again.

a/n: making a series about simon being a dad !!! (probably a series of u meeting him too........ im down for it) (soon the masterlist)

[eugenedream]

You're sitting at your desk, typing away at your computer as you work, totally in the zone until there's a nudge at your chair. And then you're moving, chair turned around as Simon spins you around. You blink in surprise, before giggling softly, tilting your head back to look up at him.

He leans down, hands on the arms of your chair, blocking you in as he leans in for a kiss. When he pulls away, there's a furrow in his brows, and he grumbles quietly, "I'll be back." He's gone before you can question it.

A few minutes later, he's making his way back into the room, a screwdriver in hand. He spins you around again, before dropping to his knees by your chair. Without a word, he starts to tighten the screws on your chair.

The arms had been wobbly since you got the thing, something that you had just grown accustomed to. Never once did it cross your mind to bring it up to Simon.

You can't help but giggle softly, watching the way his arms flex as he swings you the other way so he can reach the other arm. He doesn't even glance up at you, solely focused on his task at hand.

"Thank you, Simon," you giggle out, as he rises to his feet, finished.

He leans down, catching your lips in another quick kiss, mumbling a soft, "Welcome, love."

[eugenedream]

OH THANK GOD!!!

that was so beautiful! thank you mother for not crushing us…but i am suspicious it will come later

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Twenty-Eight: childhood

tw: blood, injury, angst

You can’t breathe. 

Blood flows into your mouth in a never-ending stream and the iron tastes like the death that ought to fall upon you. Tangy and unrelenting—your cordolium chokes you. Thin fingers snaking around your throat, squeezing until there’s no air left for you to huff from your pathetic lungs. You stare at John with your apology already heavy in your eyes. It weighs your gaze to the point you almost can’t stand to look at him.

“What?” It’s the only word you can stutter. Broken vowels and sharp consonants; John’s face softens before it shatters. “She’s…? But she didn’t- I didn’t-” 

“She was going to tell you tonight,” he explains. His hand rubs at his face, and for a split moment you swear you see a glimmer in his eyes. Something bright and hopeful; proud. It fades as soon as it arrives, and he’s nothing but the empty night sky as he looks at Simon. “I don’t have time for this right now, I need to get to Aelin. Get her inside, and for Christ’s sake stay put.” 

Everything spins. John is long gone. Simon’s hand is on your back, leading you inside where your senses are drowned by music and heat, liquor heavy in the air, thickening as you trudge up the stairs to the second floor. He’s saying something to you. You can tell by the way he leans to murmur against your left ear, breath caressing the side of your face, but you can’t hear it. There’s a broken record playing on repeat in your mind, strained sobs and a hand clutching over a tender stomach—it drowns out everything else.

Your life is greedy. Avaricious enough to where it swallows not only you, but everyone else around you. Loving fathers. Unborn children. A woman who just wants to live her life, too. 

You’re nothing but a black hole.

Simon leads you through a heavy door and when it shuts behind you things grow so quiet that the ringing in your ears is deafening. Tobacco fills your lungs, but you pay no mind to it as you’re ushered into a bathroom. Cold stone on the palm of your hands. Wretched mirror in front of your face, reflecting what you wish it wouldn’t. Blood drips into the basin of a sink, swirling down with running water, glowing bright pink as it stains. He leaves you for a split moment before returning with an icepack. It stings against the bridge of your nose, and you hiss. 

“I can’t believe this. Aelin’s gonna kill me,” you breathe. 

Simon’s hand is heavy between your shoulder blades. His thumb rubs along your back, slow circles that attempt to calm the hiccupping in your breaths. “Let’s worry ‘bout gettin’ your nose fixed first, sweetheart.” 

It takes twenty more minutes for the bleeding to stop. Lightheadedness stirs in your brain as you stare at the ring of red below you, and it doesn’t cease until Simon helps you on top of the counter. Legs swinging, you stare at his chest as he stands in front of you, fingers poking along the bridge of your nose. 

“That hurt?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you wince. 

He carefully radiates outwards, gliding along your cheeks just beneath your eyes. “And here?” 

“A little.” 

Huffing, Simon’s hands fall from your face to land against your waist instead. You take a moment to press against it yourself, feeling where the bruise spreads deep in your face, and how tender it leaves your bones. 

“Well, it’s not crooked, but definitely broken,” he informs. 

Under any other circumstance, you’d force yourself to care more, but the capacity within you has vanished. “I’m better off than Aelin is right now.” 

The tension in his hand grows against your waist, and you see the way his breathing halts in his chest. “Chip…” 

“Andrei punched her in the stomach. The stomach, Simon. I don’t know how far along she is but- fuck, I know it’s not good.” 

“Baby,” Simon murmurs, nearly begging. His hands wander up to your face again, cupping your cheeks, tilting your head up until you’re no longer hiding from him. “Listen to me. None of this is your fault.” 

Bile roars in the back of your throat, nearly compelling you to laugh, but you bite it back as you shake your head. “You don’t know that. She knows everything now. What happened to her dad, my involvement in everything—hell, even just being around me probably got her fucking baby killed, Simon!” 

“Chip, you were just a kid,” he rationalizes. 

“It doesn’t matter!” 

Your sudden outburst is enough to get Simon’s hands to drop from your face as if your rage burnt him. The tears return to your eyes with a brutal vengeance, but you ignore them as you press your lips together, chapped skin scratching against each other. 

“It doesn’t matter,” you repeat, softer but still as firm. “It’s all the same. It was still me, it’s still my mistake. Even if it happened now, at my age… it would still be the same. I’m still as much of a coward now as I was then. Simon, it’s so hard trying to be brave when being brave has only gotten the people I care about killed. I should’ve just taken Marco’s offer.” 

“Baby, don’t say that,” he shushes. 

“I should’ve! Sean would still be alive, and Aelin and I never would have met, and she’d be living her life with her healthy kid and no one would have to worry about me-”

“Stop.” 

“Things would’ve been better if I never had been born!”

“Baby, stop that.” 

Fingers cradling the back of your head, Simon smothers you. Gently. He’s always kind with you. Too soft and caring. Cheek pressed against his collarbone, he sways as he rests his chin on top of your head. You feel the tension in his body; muscles threatening to squeeze you tight enough until you’re inside of him, safe and a part of him, some wretched and loving amalgamation. 

“Aelin doesn’t hate you,” he says. 

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His swaying grows more turbulent when your chest begins to shudder, oncoming sobs threatening to break from your mouth, something he tries to nip before it blooms. “She loves you so much she had me look after you because she was damn near worried sick. She loves you so much she tells people you’re her sister. I’ve seen her in tears because she thought you were in pain, and she wanted to do anythin’ to get rid of it for you. It’s not gonna be easy, baby, and I can’t promise how she’s gonna feel, but I know she’d never hate you. It’s not like her. She loves you too much for that.” 

The reality before you and the fictitious one in your brain clash so violently you can feel where it shreds through your grey matter, rendering you useless as your eyes squeeze shut. Then comes the tears. Pure brine down your cheeks, staining the cotton of Simon’s shirt. Your lips part in a sob. Quiet, pathetic pules. 

Neither of you say anything afterwards. Simon pulls you off of the counter and leads you into what you learn is John’s office. Tall, vermillion walls close in around you as you’re led past a wide, wooden desk and onto a couch. It’s similar to the one in the conversation pit in the VIP rooms, you realize. Soft. Oddly familiar. You’ve spent a long evening here before. 

Simon holds you until you fall asleep in his lap, head nestled on his thigh with his hand rubbing along your side. You dream that you are walking home from school again. Winter breeze slicing through your bare legs, hands clutching your sympathy flowers as you enter the front door. Marco’s waiting for you, bright teeth and bloodied hands—you turn and run. Your feet crunch the rime on the pavement as you run to a new house, ready to beg for help, but no matter where you go, Marco always beats you to it. 

There is no safe haven. Just peppermint and broken glass in every intersection you sprint across. 

In the morning, you wake up to the sound of the office door swinging open, heavy wood creaking with the motion. Your eyes flutter open and a sharp throb snaps at the front of your face. Fractured bones, swollen eyes—you groan as you sit up and rub at your nose only to wince. 

“Careful, baby,” Simon warns quietly. He’s helping you up, hands refusing to leave you for too long. 

Brain too fuzzy to think of a response to him, you keep quiet as you force your eyes to focus on the entrance. John’s figure snaps into view; too sharp and foreboding. He’s half the man you’re used to. Mussed hair, a thick line of red around his eyes, and still in the same clothes as yesterday, except now he has a VISITOR patch slapped on his chest. 

Your contriteness suffocates you. Hands in your lap, fingers twisting together, itching for string, you swallow. 

“How is she?” It’s the only thing you can think of—it’s all you’ve been thinking about for every waking moment—but the question feels like acid on your tongue. You don’t deserve the answer. You don’t deserve the luxury of worrying about someone you’ve nearly destroyed. 

“They’re keeping her for twenty-four hours because of some contractions,” John says, tone flat and impossible to read. “But she’s fine.”

“Her and the baby?” you prod. 

He nods. “Both of them.” 

Though you are glad to hear the news, there is no relief that floods in your chest; there is only a stone. Baronial and made of lead, it poisons you. Spills into your offals and seeps into your blood until you are nothing but a noxious creature. It worsens as John steps forward, hands resting on his hips, a huff of air expelling from his chest in a sigh. 

“Riley, Chip and I need to talk. I think you should join Kyle down in the basement,” John suggests. 

Pausing, Simon looks at you before his eyes settle on John with a glare. “Bullshit.” 

John steps closer, an impatient hand motioning him to get off the sofa. “I’m not in the fucking mood.” 

“It’s okay, Si,” you assure. Your smile is broken with sharp edges and tattered teeth, but you squeeze his hand through it anyway. 

Reluctantly, Simon caves. You see it in the slumping of his shoulders as he stands to his feet but leans forward for a quick kiss before turning to John. His pace is slow. Meandering; something to not trigger the bear to launch forward and attack. Cerulean eyes pierce through him as he stops, blocking John’s view of you. 

“This isn’t her fault,” Simon whispers soft enough to escape your hearing. 

Peeved, John’s eyes narrow. “Who do you take me for? Go on. I just wanna talk with her without her guard dog breathing down my fucking neck, is that too much to ask?” 

Simon huffs after a short internal battle rages within himself. The thought of walking out that door leaves his skin crawling, but he scrounges up whatever faith he has in John Price and slinks out the exit with one final look at you—curled forward, eyes focused on the floor, already repenting for your sins. 

John’s feet are heavy. Toes sliding against the dark stained wood grain, tracing each step he takes with an invisible line, malaise weighing him down until he’s on his knees in front of you. You’ve never seen him shrink so small before. Broad shoulders rolling inwards like too-dry parchment, spine sloping like the wispy branches of a willow tree attempting to kiss the grass. 

He takes one of your hands into his own, and when you gather the courage to look at him, you realize you recognize the glint in his eyes. You’ve seen it in your father before. Disappointment. A dole that always follows after you when you’ve done something wrong. 

“How’s your nose?” he asks, tone more fragile than what he used with Simon. 

“It’s fine.” The quirk in John’s brow tells you that your answer isn’t sufficient enough. “Simon says it’s probably broken, but not displaced so I guess I just have to… tough it out.” 

Content with your answer, he nods. “Who did it?” 

You hesitate. “Marco.” 

A quiet flicker of virulent desire illuminates John’s eyes for a split moment at the name. Your tongue rubs against the roof of your mouth as you attempt to rid yourself of the sour aftertaste, but you know you’ll be forced to indulge again—and again. 

“Chip, I need to know how you know Makarov.” 

Despite the dam you’ve spent years curating—patching through the stress fractures, willing the water to go away—you finally let it overflow. Dribbling out of your mouth, wetting your chest, staining your lap and hands, you share everything you can bear to choke out. Your parents. Blood soaked flowers. The glass in your face that never wants to leave. Laundromat visits and the back of pawn shops. Trashed apartments and letters sent with malicious love. It spews like pus from a wound. 

“I begged Simon not to tell anyone,” you add quickly, nose backed up with snot. “I-I think I was ashamed. And just, so scared of Aelin finding out about her dad. I know it wasn’t right, but I r-really thought that I could just- that we could just fix it without involving anyone else. I’m so sorry, John, please don’t hate me.” 

“Hate you?” John repeats. The stern look of concentration quickly melts from his face as he pushes himself onto the sofa next to you. “Chip, I could never hate you.” 

“But you’re mad at me,” you sniffle. 

“No, no, I’m not mad,” he assures. He wraps his arm behind you, fingers curling into your shoulder to pull you closer to him. You realize that this is John Price. Not the man behind the mafia, but the man who housed you when you were a kid, who made you soup when you were sick, who cared for you when others wouldn’t. “No, I’m scared, Chip. Terrified, really. Worried sick that we’d lose you. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.” 

More tears come in quiet, pathetic streams down your cheeks. Each time you go to wipe them off on the back of your hand, you wince at the tenderness in your nose. “But… Aelin…” 

“She’s fine,” John assures with a tone of humor curling at the end of his words. “She damn near kicked me out of the hospital to come get you.” 

You blink out a few more tears before you get the courage to bring your attention to him. “To come get me?” 

He nods. “You’re all she could talk about in there. She wants to see you. Are you up for that?” 

Your answer comes as easy as breathing even though you still harbor that small fret within you—the painful thought that Aelin will abhor you after all of this. There is still this fear that now that you are cut open, you will be found unsightly for all your wicked sins, and cast aside like you ought to be. It’s a feeling you attempt to swallow down into the pit of your stomach as John leads you out of Terminus. 

Neither of you speak during the ride to the hospital, and you are grateful for the silence; for this split moment where you do not have to recognize the rot on your tongue and instead can just stare out the window as the world passes you by. Spring is right around the corner. You see it in the lime-green buds on trees and the flower shops moving some displays outside. Overcast skies loom overhead but children frolick down the pavement without fear or worry. 

It’s happening again—the brutal beginning and end of things. Circles that stay on track but tick at different intervals. Metronomes dancing their own beats. 

Chaos continues once you reach the car park to the hospital. With no rest for the wicked, the waiting room is nearly overflowing with patients and loved ones. You spot brightly colored emesis bags clutched in trembling hands and blue collar workers huffing over split flesh on their arms. John trowels through the mess until you’ve earned your own VISITOR sticker and you're traveling through cold hallways. 

The labor and delivery ward is painted a kind lilac so vivid you swear you can nearly smell the flower itself. Fresh after a storm, in full bloom, soft against your fingertips. A nurse in pink scrubs passes by you with a large yoga ball occupying her arms and apologizes for nearly running into you. People coo behind closed doors and babies whine and scream as the smell of alcohol pads grows stronger.

You know you’re at Aelin’s room when you smell roses. 

She sits swathed in a hospital gown with the bed elevated to support her back. Somehow, her hair still looks perfect. Not a single knot or any frizziness in sight. She’s sucking on a cherry ice lolly that paints her lips a firetruck red as her eyes stay glued to the television as it airs reruns of The Price is Right. Then, you see what you had been so blind to before. Her stomach, no longer hidden behind baggy clothes—it swells unheeded. Round. Growing. Her hand rests on the underside, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb across it. 

“Go on,” John prompts in a whisper. “I need to go sort some stuff at Terminus. Keep her company for me.” 

It’s as if you’re in a dream. Body ultralight as you walk across the room, limbs feeling as if they’ll detach from you and float away where you can’t reach them. Aelin doesn’t notice you until you’re halfway there, shaking in your skin as you eye the IV in her arm and the countless monitors she’s hooked up to. Her eyes widen, then her stained lips crack open into a smile as she discards her ice lolly in an empty cup on the tray next to her bed. 

“Chip!” she exclaims. Her excitement feels wrong as she shuffles on the bed, scooting over until there's extra room on the edge. Patting the side, she invites you to sit next to her. “Are you okay? I’ve been worried sick about you. I tried calling and texting, but nothing was going through.” 

Anxiously, you sit next to her, body half hanging off the bed. “Yeah, uh… my phone isn’t really usable at the moment.” Teeth gnawing on the insides of your cheeks, you swallow down all the tension in your body. “I’m more worried about you.” 

“Oh, we’re fine. They’re just keeping us for a longer observation period since this is considered a high risk pregnancy,” Aelin says flippantly with a wave of her hand. “I am sorry about… well, how I handled things during dinner and how I… ran away, I guess. It wasn’t fair to abandon you like that. I was just—well—really scared, I suppose.” 

Eyes widening, you shake your head. “No, if anyone should be apologizing, it should be me.” 

Brows knitting together, she cocks her head to the side in curiosity. “Why would you have to apologize?” 

A scoff escapes your lips as you stare down at your hands. “Don’t pretend like none of that happened.” 

“None of what?” she repeats, this time more firm. “That Makarov ambushed us during dinner? That they killed my dad in an accident that nearly got you killed, too? That I punched Vladimir fucking Makarov in his stupid face, which then made his pawns turn on me? On you? No, I’m very aware that it all happened, and I’m also aware that none of it’s your fault.” 

You’re getting frustrated now. Prepared with thickened skin, you’re expecting sharper teeth and less smiles. More yelling and less kindness. Where’s the pain? Where is the part where she shoves you away and never lets back in lest you ruin something else? 

“But Aelin, I-I lied. I’ve been lying this whole time. I kept all of this a secret from you.” You’re grasping for straws. For the knife. You’re attempting to shove it into her hands so you can point to the most tender part of you—the part that’ll bleed the most. 

“Then that makes two of us. You know about John, don’t you? Him and his family business?” she asks. Her smile flickers wider when you nod. “Yeah. And it wasn’t because I told you, either.” Sighing, she rubs at her face, fingers pressing hard at the bridge of her nose. “We wanted to keep it a secret. Thought it would be safer if you didn’t know, but you were in this mess the whole time anyway. Just the way things go, I guess.” 

Unable to say anything else, you sit like a statue on the edge of the bed. Still and firm, yet prone to the trembling of the earthquake that dances beneath you. Aelin’s faux hard shell begins to crack as she looks at you with your tight fists and clenching jaw. Pink tongue darting out to lick her lips, she gently sits forward as much as her swollen stomach will allow. 

“Chip, are you… wanting me to be mad at you?” she asks. 

Swallowing down the weight in your throat, you nod. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. I’ve spent so long thinking about… how you would react if you ever found out. When you found out. If I were you, I’d hate me.” 

“I could never hate you,” Aelin says earnestly. “Chip… God, when all this happened- I mean, you were just a kid.” 

There it is again—the phrase that’s meant to absolve you from the aroma of death that clings to you like a second skin. But now it comes from her, not as an excuse, but as truth. She says it as if you are not an irredeemable creature, but that you simply are. 

After all, it was your school uniform that was stained that day. 

“I love you no matter what,” she continues, tone tightening as her voice breaks. “We can talk about the specifics later, but for Christ’s sake, you’re like my little sister. You’re gonna be the best auntie to my baby girl, and we’re gonna grow old together, and nothing you could do would ever change that.” 

A smile fractures across your face like dry clay cracking in the desert. A new wave of tears rolls down your cheeks, but you laugh them away as you choke on the spit in your mouth. 

“So it’s… it’s a girl?” you ask. 

Aelin stares at you for a long moment, eyes turning a dull seafoam green before something snaps. “Oh, goddammit!” She scrambles for her side tray where she snatches a coral envelope into her hands and holds it out to you, thumbs and forefingers gripping both corners. “Here! Take it! Before I ruin any other surprises.” 

Blinking the tears from your eyes, you turn the envelope over until you see Aelin’s script dancing across the paper in rich, dark ink. Auntie Chip. It’s impossible to stop the way your bottom lip juts out in a near pout as you quietly gasp and rip the paper open to reveal the card inside. It proudly announces It’s a girl! and has a sonogram tucked inside. When you hold it up to the light, you can see everything. The shape of her head, the curve of her nose, and the way her little fingers splay as if to say hello. 

“Oh, look at her. She’s perfect,” you sigh. 

Suddenly the two of you are as you’re supposed to be. Once more young girls, so in love with life and all it has to offer, giggling quietly as if the nurses will overhear and chastise you for staying up too late on a school night. The pain and swelling in your nose is all but forgotten as everything else melts away, leaving behind only this excitement for the future. 

And when Aelin gasps, hands darting out to capture yours, and presses you to her stomach, time freezes when you feel the kicks. Fluttering little butterfly wings, delicate and beautiful, and full of more hope than you could ever muster on your own. 

You sob. Tears and snot and giggles all coalescing into an amalgamation of emotion. Shoulders shuddering. Eyes squeezing shut. Wailing as if you are wounded. 

Finally. Finally, you can let everything go, even if it’s only for a little while.

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[eugenedream]

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

wc: 0.2k

the phone buzzes at 3:07 a.m.

you answer on instinct, heart thudding like a warning—but the moment you hear the low crackle of distant static, your chest eases.

"si?" you whisper, voice thick with sleep.

"told you i'd call."

his voice is gravel, dulled by poor signal and fatigue. but it’s him.

"you okay?"

"fine," he says. it's automatic. a soldier's answer. then quieter, "can't sleep."

you sit up against the headboard, brushing hair from your face. "where are you?"

a silence and then, his answer.

"nowhere good."

he never tells you, not really. you stopped asking a long time ago.

there's a pause. you hear him breathe.

"is she awake?" his question makes you smile for a moment.

"she had a nightmare an hour ago. i rocked her back down, but she’s been babbling since. talking to the ceiling fan, i think.” you explain softly, sitting at the bed.

he huffs something close to a laugh.

"i'll put you on speaker."

in the dim nightlight, your daughter—grace, as he was gifted to call her, lies in her crib, blanket half-kicked off, tiny fists waving at nothing.

simon listens. on the other end of the world, he's crouched in some half-shelled out building, rifle at his side, bone-weary—but when his daughter coos into the line, high and breathy and nonsense-sweet, his eyes close.

"bah-bah. da-da-da-da."

he bites down the ache.

"daa,"she says again, louder, like she knows.

his voice breaks low over the line. "that's me, sweetheart."

as the line keeps up, you smile with your eyes closed. tiny moments, as you called them. tiny moments where simon could feel happy even if he was crossing the whole world.

a/n: simon would have a daughter fight me

[eugenedream]

Clumsy Girl

Fandom: The Pitt

Pairing: Dr. Robby x F!reader

Summary: You’re really clumsy so, more often than not, you find yourself in the hospital. Good thing you’re dating an ER doctor.

A/N: my first attempt at writing for Dr Robby. Please be gentle with me…

The curtain is drawn back abruptly, causing you to jump and gasp. Then you groan seeing your boyfriend, “Who told you?”

Your boyfriend and the attending doctor in the ER, Robby, steps closer to you, “Dana did, which I’m glad. Were you gonna tell me?” he crosses his arms over his chest and looked down at you in disappointment.

You shrunk further into the hospital bed, “I was…after I got treatment.”

He sighs and sits on the hospital bed, eyes filled with worry, “What happened?”

You sigh, “I was washing dishes and Dingus was standing right behind me. I didn’t know it and I almost stepped on him. I lost my footing and hit my head on the counter going down.”

Robby shakes his head and grumbles, “Stupid cat.”

“It’s not his fault. You know how clumsy I can be sometimes.”

Robby hums and scratches his head, “Maybe I need to put a helmet on you and wrap you in bubble wrap.”

You snort, “You can try.”

He stands, “Lemme take a look.” You lean forward and he examines the cut on the side of your head. He feels around the wound to make sure there’s no internal bleeding.

“Well it’s deep but not too deep. Just will need a few stitches.”

“Sounds good, doc.”

Robby is the one to clean and stitch you up, all the while you tell him how your day has been since he’s been at work.

The procedure isn’t long, but soon enough you’re out of the bed and getting discharged.

“She lives!” Dana exclaims as you step out from behind the curtain. She gives you a hug, “You, little missy, need to be more careful.”

You scoff, “Trust me, I try.”

Robby steps in, “We might just have to baby proof the place.”

You roll your eyes at him, “So dramatic. I’ll be fine,” you peck him on the lips, “I’ll see you later.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

He takes two steps before a voice yells out, “DOCTOR ROBBY, WE NEED YOU!”

You chuckle, “Duty calls. Love you and good luck!” You give him a salute and he waves you, “Love you. Please be safe.”

“I’ll try!” You reply as you exit the ER.