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charlvr · 16 days ago

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- the universe's cosmic joke | the universe said f**k you

Pairing. Megan Skiendiel x Reader | Daniela Avanzini x Reader

w.c. 8.0 k

The fans think Megan and Y/N are in love. But Y/N’s heart actually belongs to Daniela. And Daniela? Well… she’s straight.

Falling in love with Daniela was easy. Inevitable. Like tripping on your own feet or realizing the ground beneath you had quietly shifted. You barely noticed it happening until it had already swallowed you whole.

It all began at Dream Academy, a place whose name sounded like a promise whispered on a stage: floodlights, fan chants, and viral stages. In reality, it ran on nerves, endless drills, and the quiet desperation of teenagers trying to become stars before the world forgot them. Every day felt like you were caught in the same nightmare. Long days packed with choreography, vocal training, evaluations, and interviews that never quite let you forget you were being watched. You were always performing, even when the music stopped.

It wasn’t glamorous. It was grueling. You learned how to push through injuries that never fully healed, how to force a smile on two hours of sleep, how to bow and thank every instructor even when you felt like you might shatter. Some days you wondered if it was worth it. Other days you were sure it had to be. Because when the lights would hit the stage, when the footage of your hard work would be replayed back for the world to see, you wanted to be there to catch them.

The other girls were intimidatingly good. They moved like they were born to dance. Like the music itself had chosen them as its favorite children. But even the best of them couldn’t be compared to Daniela Avanzini.

Daniela danced like she wasn’t a part of your world. Every movement she made was effortless, every smile perfected, like she’d just rolled out of bed one day and decided, “Yes, today I’ll defy gravity for fun.”

She was the kind of dancer who didn’t just take up space; she made you forget the floor had limits. You watched her in those first weeks, a spark of awe in your chest that wouldn’t leave. It was everything she did. Every breath she breathed. Even when she was just sitting cross-legged on the floor, adjusting her shoelaces, you could see it in the tilt of her head, the easy grace in her fingers: she couldn’t just dance, she was the dance.

You, though? You were good. Not great, not world-class, but good. Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror mid-rehearsal, hair plastered to your forehead, eyes wide with determination, face twisted in that half-smile that said you were trying not to let on how much your calves burned, and you’d think, “Hey, not bad.” But then Daniela would glide past you like a summer breeze, and you’d remember, “oh yeah”. She was untouchable.

So when Daniela offered to stay behind and help after a particularly brutal rehearsal, you had half thought she was joking. Or that you were finally hallucinating from the dehydration.

The rest of the class had long stumbled out like zombies, leaving behind a studio that smelled like sweat and cracked dreams. You were still trying to figure out how to make your foot stop cramping when she had spoken up.

“Want me to walk you through that combo again?” she said, like it was no big deal. Like helping you wasn’t going to cost her precious rest or time.

You blinked. “Me? Really?”

She grinned. “Yeah, you. Unless you’re worried I’m secretly plotting your elimination?”

You laughed, a breathless huff that came out more like a snort, not your finest moment, but Dani just laughed in turn. A big, warm laughter that somehow made your exhaustion feel lighter.

You stayed, if only to see how things would play out.

She showed you how to let the music fill you up, how to soften your lines without losing your strength. She corrected your posture with the lightest of touches, gentle yet grounded. And even though she didn’t have to, even though she could have easily just gone back to her dorm and crashed like everyone else, she didn’t. She stayed.

After that, every late-night practice turned into a ritual: late-night practices when the world outside the studio was dark and still, just you and Daniela and the mirror reflecting your progress in fits and starts. And every time you wanted to quit, she’d find some way to make you laugh: a silly face, a ridiculous story about her first recital costume, a badly timed joke that made you smile simply because she had gone through the trouble of telling it.

It wasn’t love at first sight. It was better. It was friendship first, late-night giggles in the hallway when you should have been sleeping, shared bites of half-melted protein bars, hugs that always smelled like coconut shampoo and clean sweat. It was something small and steady that grew in the spaces between rehearsals, in the silences when you were too tired to talk.

You hadn’t expected to find a lifeline at Dream Academy, but Daniela was yours. On elimination days, when your name was on the line and your stomach felt like it might implode, you always found her eyes across the room. She’d give you that look. Steady, bright. Like she believed in you more than you believed in yourself.

When homesickness crept in like a fog, it was Daniela who pulled you out of it. She’d find you curled up on the stairs, phone clutched like a lifeline, and plop down beside you. “Want to talk about it?” she’d ask, and sometimes you’d say no. She’d just sit with you anyway, humming little snippets of pop songs that had no right to be that catchy.

And when your name was called in the finale, when the world blurred into lights and noise and you thought your heart might beat right out of your chest, it was Daniela you ran to. Because she was the one who made you believe you could get there at all. And Dani? She hugged you so tightly that night you thought your ribs might crack. It was the best pain you’d ever felt.

—

Of course, your feelings only grew as time went on.

Because there were seven of you in Katseye, someone had to draw the short straw and end up in the three-person room. You, Dani, and Manon ended up sharing. Honestly? You were kind of relieved. If it had just been the two of you, you probably would have combusted by now. Daniela in pajamas? Daniela brushing her teeth with a little dance sway? You were not built for that level of proximity. You had a dignity quota to maintain, and sharing a bedroom with just her would have drained it completely.

Still, you were content. Totally, wholly, tragically content just crushing on Daniela from afar. You had a ten-year plan: get more confident, improve your freestyle, learn how to flirt without buffering like a dial-up connection. Then maybe, just maybe, you’d be brave enough to tell her. But for now? You were happy just to watch her in stolen moments, hands brushing in crowded hallways, laughter echoing in the spaces you shared.

Then the Weverse Live happened.

It started out harmless, a silly distraction in a hotel room that smelled like stale air and overpriced soap. The group had gotten a break between events, everyone scattered across several rooms. Manon and Lara had taken up residence at the foot of Manon’s bed, turning it into their own private talk show. They answered fan questions with effortless charm, laughing so loudly Yoonchae had to send them several threatening texts to be quieter. Daniela drifted in and out, appearing on camera whenever the mood struck her.

You watched the live from your phone, the next room over, a smoothie balanced in your lap, pretending you weren’t just watching for Daniela. No, this was about supporting all your friends. Obviously.

Manon squinted at her phone dramatically, eyes lighting up at a particular one, “Okay, here’s a good one,” she said, a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth, “Any rumors you girls want to debunk?”

Before Lara could even pretend to be scandalized, Daniela popped her head into the camera frame. Her hair was still damp from the shower, the natural curls somehow still alive despite management’s ruthless attempts to flatten it into submission. Spirals framed her face, soft and a little wild, and you had to remind yourself to blink. Daniela was grinning like she’d just found out breakfast was served until noon. “Yeah,” she said, throwing her hands up with fake exasperation. “That I’m gay. Enough with the gay allegations!”

Manon and Lara lost it, clapping and squealing like she’d just announced world peace. Their laughter was so loud you could hear it through the wall separating your two rooms, and the string of curses that left Yoonchae’s mouth had you clutching your pearls, “Congratulations!” Manon and Lara hooted, the fans similarly losing their minds in the chat.

“Wow. You're so brave.”

You, on the other hand, had dropped your smoothie. The plastic cup wobbling and falling with a sad little splat on the floor, smoothie splattering across your bare toes. Because that? That might have been the one variable you hadn’t prepared for.

You’d accounted for all the usual things: the slow burn of unrequited feelings, the fear of rejection, the endless “what ifs” that kept you up at night. But the “not even in the same ballpark” revelation? Yeah, that one slipped through the cracks.

You tried to act normal. Held it together for a few days, which you figured deserved some kind of medal. Chalked it up to pride. Dignity. Delusion.

It worked, until it didn’t.

Eventually, you cracked and wound up outside Lara’s door, full meltdown mode, hoodie pulled over your head like that would somehow soften the blow.

The girl opened the door with her usual calm: face mask in place, hair wrapped in a towel, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Don’t even start,” she said, before you could even open your mouth.

You didn’t bother with a greeting, just trudging in and flopping onto her bed like it was your own, “This group is full of gay people,” you groaned, burying your face into her pillows, “How did I manage to fall for the only straight one?

Lara snorted, peeling off her mask. The door softly shut behind her with a muted click, “Pretty sure it’s just you and me, babe.”

You peek through your fingers, cheeks on fire, “Really? Just us?”

“Tragically,” she said, wiping away the last of the mask. Then, a pause, “Well… actually—”

The door swung open and Megan suddenly stepped in, a lint roller in one hand. Upon seeing you, she paused in the doorway, her expression unreadable as she took in the scene: you flopped across Lara’s bed and Lara unbothered as always.

Megan’s eyes flicked over you for a fraction of a second before she looked away. Her mouth pulled into a polite smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

“Uh… am I interrupting something?” she asked, her voice careful. Neutral. Like she was weighing her words in her head before they even reached her mouth.

Lara shot you a look that said, Don’t say anything weird, before she turned back to her roommate, innocent grin and all. “Nope. Just girl talk.”

You pushed yourself up too quickly, like you had been caught doing something you shouldn’t. Yearning? That wasn’t a crime, “Hi, Megan,” you said, your voice cracking with the effort to sound casual.

“Hey.” She shifted her weight, eyes darting to the lint roller in her hand like she’d forgotten why she was there at all. She barely glanced at you again, like it was easier not to see you at all.

“I’m just grabbing the lint roller,” she said, her tone clipped.

You almost pointed out she already had one but bit it back. Lara, of course, saved the day. She reached behind her and tossed Megan another lint roller without a word.

Megan caught it, fingers toying with the handle like she needed something, anything, to do with her hands. For a moment, she just stood there. Two lint rollers, one awkward silence, and the kind of pause that felt heavier than it had any right to.

It looked like she was about to say something more. You swore she was. But then she looked away, her mouth pulling into that polite little smile you’d seen too many times. The kind that always felt like a door gently shutting in your face.

“Thanks,” she said, a little too flat to pass as casual. “Well… I’ll see you both in the morning, I guess.” She lingered in the doorway half a second longer, like the air itself had a grip on her sleeve. And then she turned, disappearing into the hall with a soft click of the door.

You blinked. The weirdness of it all clinging to your skin like static. It almost felt like she’d rather crash on the floor outside than share a room with you.

Lara let out a small laugh, the sound muffled by a hand. “Wow. You scared Megan away,” she said, voice light, teasing. “Didn’t even know that was possible.”

You groaned and flopped deeper into her comforter like you could disappear into the stitching. “I swear, she hates me,” you muttered. “Every time she’s near me, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lara said, rolling her eyes. “Megan doesn’t hate you.”

She nudged you with her foot. You grumbled a half-hearted “Hey!” and before you could fully protest, she yanked a pillow from behind you and smacked you with it.

“Now can you get your dramatic ass back to your own room? Some of us have practice tomorrow, and I’d like to survive it.”

You groaned louder, attempting to hide beneath the blankets. “Your friend is in emotional ruin and you kick her out. Say you hate me!”

Lara just laughed harder and shoved you off her comforter. “You’re being ridiculous,” she said, ignoring the pleading look you gave her. “But I love you, anyway. Now seriously—out, before Megan comes back.”

You dragged yourself upright with the full theatrics of teenage heartbreak and shuffled toward the door, still muttering quiet curses of “betrayal” and “injustice” under your breath.

When you slipped back into your own room, Daniela was still awake, curled up on her bed with her phone resting on her knees. She looked up as you entered, concern flickering in her eyes. Manon was nowhere to be found. Just you, Daniela, and the echo of your pitiful dignity.

“Hey,” Daniela said softly, setting her phone aside. “You okay?”

You nodded too quickly, the smile you offered feeling all wrong, tight and shaky, like it had been assembled in a rush. “Yeah. I’m great,” you thought, miserably. Just in love with you. Ha ha. No big deal.

She sat up a little straighter, watching you with those wide, painfully sincere eyes that always made lying feel like a crime. “Are you sure? You look kind of…” She trailed off, clearly trying to find a word softer than wrecked. “Tired.”

You let out a laugh that pitched too high and landed nowhere good. “I’m fine,” you said, waving a hand like that would dismiss the gnawing ache in your chest. “Just a long day. A stupid one.” Then, quieter: “Thanks, though.”

But she didn’t look away.

“If there’s anything I can do, seriously. I don’t mind.”

You tried to hold her gaze but couldn’t. The kindness in her voice made it worse, like it was peeling away all the armor you’d so carefully duct-taped together. “No, I’m okay. Really.” I mean, unless you want to start liking girls, but no pressure.

She gave you a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eye, but still, she nodded. “Alright. Well, I’m here. If you need me.”

You mumbled a quiet “thanks,” and crawled into bed, curling under your blanket like it might make everything less loud, less sharp.

Because yeah, things were going great. Just you, your hopeless crush, and the universe’s favorite ongoing joke.

And it was almost as if the universe took your thoughts as a personal challenge.

—

The day of the magazine interview arrived with about all the fanfare you’d expect: bright lights, meticulous outfits, and the kind of backstage chaos that made you wish you could evaporate into the nearest wardrobe rack. It wasn’t your first group interview, far from it, but today felt like the universe had gotten bored and decided you would be its favorite chew toy.

Because somehow, for reasons that remained unclear and deeply unfair, you were seated right next to Megan. Meanwhile, Daniela—the love of your life, in case the universe forgot—was at the other end of the couch, practically sharing a cushion with Lara. You tried not to take it personally, but the cosmic targeting felt a little obvious.

Of course Lara noticed immediately. She locked eyes with you across the room, her grin already criminal, as if to say, “Haha, loser. Jealous?” You glared back with all the energy of a jilted CW side character, mouthing, “There’s no loyalty anymore.” She just winked.

You sank lower into the couch. Daniela was laughing at something Lara had said, her head thrown back in that easy, airy way she had. You tried to mask the bitterness creeping up your throat.

Next to you, Megan sat like she’d been carved out of stone. Perfect posture. Perfect composure. And the kind of silence that felt too loud. You kept sneaking glances at her, wondering if she was still thinking about how you’d basically melted down in her room the night before. She didn’t look your way once.

Desperate to fill the silence, you cleared your throat. “So… uh, how’s your morning been?” you asked, voice low so it wouldn’t carry to the others.

She startled slightly, like she hadn’t expected you to speak. “Oh. Fine,” she said, stiff and overly polite. She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve, eyes flicking to the camera crew setting up across the room. “Yours?”

You shrugged. “Same. Just… you know. Trying to look awake.”

A small smile ghosted across her lips but vanished before it could settle. “Yeah. Same,” she said again

And that was it. Silence returned with a vengeance, awkward enough it practically had its own zip code. You couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable because she hated you or because you’d made a complete fool of yourself the night before. Probably both.

Mercifully, the producer called for quiet as the interview began, and you were pardoned from your suffering. The interview was simple enough, questions about training, group dynamics, upcoming releases: stuff you were used to by now. You smiled when you were supposed to. You answered like you’d practiced. Always mindful of the camera.

But then the interviewer tilted their head, eyes flicking between you and Megan with a smile too curious for comfort, and you suddenly felt the creeping suspicion that everything was about to go downhill from here, “Megan and Y/N. You two are seated together today, a pairing we don’t usually see. Have you gotten closer recently? The fans are really curious.”

It was the kind of question meant to be harmless. We’ve always been close. Everyone is like family. Easy. Done. Perfectly on brand. But for you, it detonated on impact.

“Uh—no, not really,” you blurted, too fast, too honest. You winced. Great start. Management was going to be real happy about this one.

Megan straightened beside you, already in PR mode. “No—well, yes, actually,” she rushed to clarify. “I mean, we’re all close. Everyone in Katseye is like family. We’ve been spending time together after practices… and stuff.”

“Oh—right, yes,” you stammered, hoping desperately you could salvage your answer, “We are friends. I didn’t mean ‘not’ as in ‘not.’ We hang out. I go to Megan’s room all the time!”

You paused. Just a moment. Your brain caught up.

“Or—actually, not all the time. Just… sometimes. A normal amount. Like anyone would. Definitely nothing weird—no sharing beds or anything!” Haha. Why did you say that?

You were fumbling this. Bad. You knew it. And judging by the way Megan’s head whipped toward you, mouth falling open in pure horror, so did she.

“We don’t share a bed!” she blurted, alarmed. “That’s not—we just talk! After practice. About choreography. And… group things. Completely normal, totally platonic group things.”

From the other end of the couch, Lara let out a noise that might’ve been a snort or a cough or both. Daniela’s smile twitched, eyes flicking toward you.

You and Megan tried to talk at the same time. Jumbled sentences. Overlapping excuses. Too many words and not enough sense.

“Just—like—” “It’s not—”

The interviewer laughed and moved on, but the damage was done. You could already feel it: that clip was going to haunt you forever.

And sure enough, when the video went live, the internet did what the internet always does. It latched on and refused to let go. The clip of you and Megan babbling about not sharing a bed? Instantly viral. Set to every soft-focus romantic audio known to humankind. #MegY/N trending within the hour.

And the captions? Absolutely ruthless.

“They’re so bad at hiding it. I’m obsessed.” “Why did she even bring up sharing a bed unprompted? Suspicious!” “This is either a romance or the world’s most awkward friendship. Either way, I’m here for it.”

You turned off your phone. Buried yourself under your blanket. Tried not to scream into your pillows.

Everything was fine. Totally fine. Just a crush you hadn’t gotten over and a ship name you didn’t ask for.

Perfect.

—

As expected, management was all over it the next day. It was almost laughably predictable: pulled aside after rehearsal, muscles sore and clothes still damp with sweat, you and Megan were ushered into the small “quick chat” room like kids being sent to the principal’s office.

You exchanged a glance, hers tight-lipped and yours halfway between apology and panic, before following one of your managers inside.

He was already beaming, practically vibrating with excitement. “So, that little moment in the interview,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Fans are obsessed. You two are trending everywhere. It’s perfect for the group.”

You shifted uncomfortably, sweat cooling on your back. “Right,” you said, trying to sound casual. “We noticed.”

Megan gave a single, clipped nod, eyes fixed on the loose thread she was now aggressively unraveling on her sleeve. It was a miracle that the sweatshirt didn’t fall apart on the spot.

“Here’s the idea,” the manager continued, voice too chipper for your taste. “Obviously, nothing you’re uncomfortable with. But you two? You’ve got this natural dynamic. We want to lean into that.”

You blinked. Natural. Right. “Lean into it how?”

“Nothing scripted,” he said. “Just... hang out. Get coffee. Wander around. Be friends in public. If fans spot you, great. If not, no big deal. Just... be yourselves, but maybe with a little extra awareness of the cameras. That cool?”

Your stomach gave a nervous twist, not liking where this was going, “So... you want us to play into the ship.”

“Exactly!” he said, hands clapping together like he’d just solved climate change, and not like he was suggesting borderline queerbaiting, “No pressure. Just visibility.”

You nodded, more in acknowledgement than anything. You did not want to do this. You really, really did not want to — “Yeah. Okay.” You heard yourself say, anyway.

Your manager gave you a satisfied grin. He turned to Megan. “And you?”

She hesitated, a beat longer than you had, before nodding. “Sure,” she finally said, voice level but far away. “That’s… fine.”

“Perfect!” You were pretty certain the man had never looked happier, watching as he all but skipped out of the room. “Can’t wait to see how it plays! And remember, you’re just selling the idea!” He was gone before you could get another word in.

You and Megan lingered behind for a second, neither of you quite believing what just happened. You turned towards the girl, hoping to catch her expression, but she simply gave you her signature tight, unreadable smile and a shrug, one that felt entirely too ingenuine.

“We… can figure something out later.” She muttered, low and rushed, before turning away and leaving.

You wanted to ask if she was really okay with this PR stunt, but the question caught somewhere behind your tongue and never made it out. The only thing you could do was sigh.

—

Later that night, you found yourself in Lara’s room again, flopped on her bed while she sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone. Almost like you being here hadn’t been the cause of your current predicament—well, that and your own big mouth.

“Wow,” Lara said, smirking without looking up. “If I’d known fans would go this crazy for a sapphic relationship, I would have started flirting with you ages ago.”

You shot her a flat look, not understanding how she could joke in a time like this, “This is serious, Lara. How could they ship me with Megan? We barely talk!”

“Well, the two of you certainly had a lot to say during that interview.” Lara responded, snickering as she came across yet another fan edit of MegY/N.

“I think my manifestation went wrong. It’s the wrong dancer, universe. It’s supposed to be me and Daniela, please. Me and Daniela.”

Lara cackled, tossing a pillow at your face. “Well, you didn’t exactly help with that ‘not sharing a bed’ comment.”

You groaned, muffling your face against the pillow with renewed conviction. “I swear, Megan probably thinks I’m an idiot. And worst of all, I might never have a chance with Daniela now.”

Lara raised an eyebrow. “Mmm, yes. I’m sure that’s why. Not, say... because Daniela’s straight.”

You shot her a dirty look. “I don’t know why I even come to you for help.”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Because I’m the only one who’ll listen to your gay panic and still think you’re not a total loser? Because I’m wise beyond comparison? Who else would you even go to about your gay problems? Daniela—oh wait.”

You threw the pillow back at her. She caught it easily, one-handed, grinning.

“Oh come on, it could be worse.”

Your muffled ‘not really’ was met with a dip in the bed as Lara climbed in with you. “I mean, think of it this way. Maybe you and Megan actually get along. Maybe Daniela might even get a little jealous.”

The idea made your ears perk and you sat up a little. “You think?”

Lara immediately burst out laughing. “No! She’s straight.”

You collapsed back onto the mattress with a dramatic groan. “I’M TRYING TO FORGET THAT.”

Yeah. You were in deep.

—

You had half hoped the whole MegY/N situation would blow over before management decided to chase you down for more content. But it was funny how long a 20-second clip of you and Megan babbling about not sharing a bed could keep the gay eyekons fed. And it wasn’t long before management sent both of you a “reminder” to hang out (code for give us something to work with). Not explicit, but heavily implied.

And with your luck, the “hang out” immediately started on the wrong foot. You’d mixed up the meeting time and ended up arriving at the café a full half hour late. For ten minutes, you’d paced outside, pretending you weren’t checking your phone every two seconds. Meanwhile, Megan had been there early, sitting inside, convinced you’d stood her up. When you finally rushed in, flushed and apologetic, she gave you a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Now you were perched on a rickety stool in a coffee shop, staring at Megan across the wobbly table. You wondered if it was possible for a coffee shop to be too curated. Everything looked like it had been picked out of a Pinterest board: tiny succulents in mason jars, handwritten chalkboard menus, and baristas who looked like they had deep thoughts about oat milk.

Megan looked like she was part of a magazine spread herself. Perfectly straight posture, hair tucked behind her ear, expression calm and polite. Too polite. You couldn’t tell if she was genuinely uncomfortable or just very good at pretending she wasn’t.

“So,” you said, grasping for anything to keep the conversation alive. “This place is… cute, right?”

She glanced around, her eyes flicking over the hanging Edison bulbs and carefully distressed furniture. “Sure,” she said, her voice so neutral it could have been a compliment or a eulogy.

You tried again. “I read somewhere they roast their own beans. Or something. I don’t really get coffee stuff, but it’s supposed to be fancy.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, just slightly. “You don’t get coffee stuff?” she repeated.

“I’m more of a ‘whatever’s cheapest’ kind of person,” you admitted, heat rising in your cheeks. That did not sound cool. “But I thought it would be a good place for… you know. The whole PR thing.”

She was quiet for a beat, fingers idly fidgeting with the cardboard sleeve on her cup. “Do you come here a lot, or did you just find it on some blog?”

You let out a relieved laugh. “Definitely a blog. My entire knowledge of ‘cool places’ is secondhand from other people’s Instagram stories.”

A small, genuine laugh escaped her then. It was soft, but it cracked the careful politeness she’d been wearing like armor. “At least you’re honest,” she said.

“Yeah, well, honesty’s the only thing I’m good at,” you responded, half joking but mostly sincere.

She looked at you for a long moment, her gaze steady and a little too intense. Then she took a breath. “You’re good at a lot of things,” she said quietly, so softly you almost didn’t catch it.

Your heart did a weird little flip, but before you could figure out what to say, she straightened up and the moment was gone. Silence stretched between you, awkward and heavy.

You cleared your throat. “So… I read somewhere that silence between people who don’t know each other is more awkward than between people who do. Does that mean we’re not friends, or…?”

Her lips curved, like she was trying not to laugh. “Are you really trying to turn this into a social experiment?”

You threw your hands up. “I’m desperate here! I don’t want management to think we’re hostages in a coffee shop. They might make us redo this whole thing.”

That got a real laugh out of her, one that brightened her eyes and made you feel like maybe you weren’t completely failing. “Alright,” she said. “Maybe we should change the setting.”

“Change of scenery?” you asked, hopeful.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of here before I end up memorizing the entire chalkboard menu,” she said, finally pushing her cup away.

You jumped up like you’d been waiting for permission. “Arcade? There’s one a few blocks away. More neon, less… quiet.”

She gave you a small nod. “Let’s go.”

The arcade was everything the coffee shop wasn’t—loud, chaotic, unapologetically alive. The air buzzed with the scent of popcorn and electricity, neon lights blinking like they were trying to communicate in Morse code, and some ancient pop song pounded through blown-out speakers. It was the kind of overstimulation that felt, oddly, like peace. Here, silence wasn’t expected, and small talk didn’t matter.

Megan’s shoulders eased, just a little, as she watched you flit from machine to machine like a kid on too much sugar. There was something quietly fond about the way she trailed after you. Like she was letting herself get pulled into your orbit.

“Look at this one,” you said, stopping in front of a claw machine. Inside, a small lion plush was pressed tragically against the glass, its stitched eyes wide with betrayal. It was the kind of thing you knew Daniela would love. You pointed dramatically. “I have to win this.”

Megan raised an eyebrow, amused. Clearly not as captivated by the lion as you were, “Seriously? That thing? You’re really going to spend all your money on that?”

“Absolutely,” you said, already digging through your pockets for change like a woman possessed.

Megan just hummed, clearly filing that little fact away somewhere deep in her mental archives. “Alright,” she said. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

You did not, in fact, have anything.

Your first attempt was a disaster. The claw swerved dramatically to the left, missed the plush by a full plushie-length, and slammed into the bottom of the machine with a metallic thud.

“Wow,” Megan deadpanned. “Inspiring.”

“I was testing the calibration!” you insisted. “That was a warm-up round.”

It didn’t get better. Try after try, the claw juked away from the lion like it was in a rom-com and the timing just wasn’t right.

After the fifth failed attempt, you groaned in despair and handed Megan the last few coins. “I’m cursed. You do it.”

She looked skeptical. “You really want me to waste your money too?”

“Maybe you’re secretly a claw machine prodigy,” you said, already stepping back with a flourish. “Let’s see what you’ve got, champ.”

She rolled her eyes, but took the coins. Her fingers brushed yours for just a second—barely enough to register, but still enough to make your stomach do a dumb little flip.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m blaming you when this goes horribly wrong.”

“I’ll take full financial responsibility,” you said solemnly.

As she lined up the claw, your phone buzzed. One glance at the screen made your stomach clench.

Dani: Where are you? We’re supposed to be going over the new routine.

You winced. Crap.

You: Sorry! I forgot. PR assignment. I’ll catch you up later.

You slipped the phone back into your pocket, guilt gnawing at your chest. You didn’t know how you had even let the rehearsal slip your mind: not when it was you and Daniela’s thing. But the morning had been so hectic with trying to meet up with Megan that you’d gotten lost in the chaos.

Daniela would understand. Right?

You shook the thought off and looked back to Megan—who was now engaged in what could only be described as psychological warfare with the claw machine.

Her jaw was set, her brows knit together in intense concentration. She muttered to herself like she was casting a spell and jabbed the joystick like she was ready to pick a fight. You watched as her claw missed the lion, and she smacked the side of the machine hard enough to make it groan.

“This piece of trash,” she growled, shoving in another coin. “Come on, you useless tin can.”

You blinked. Had she just growled?

“Whoever built this thing deserves to be haunted by every plush it’s ever eaten,” she muttered. “I will curse your bloodline. I will end your legacy. I will make you pay.”

You watched, equal parts horrified and fascinated. You’d never seen Megan like this: so alive, so real. So far away from the awkward, always impersonal Megan she was around you. It was… kind of adorable.

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “This machine is rigged, and I will burn it down with my mind.”

You laughed, really laughed, and for a second, Megan almost looked embarrassed. Almost. But the fire in her eyes didn’t dim.

“You’re really… passionate about this aren’t you,” you said, hands raised. “It’s kind of cute.”

The word slipped out before you could stop it, and the moment it did, you wanted to crawl into the claw machine and live there forever. It wasn’t like Megan could you drag you out of there, anyways.

Megan flushed. Her cheeks actually turned pink. You half expected her to ignore your comment, or maybe roll her eyes in response. But to your surprise, she didn’t look away.

“You’re weird,” she finally said, quietly.

You smiled, not apologetic, just honest, “Well. Takes one to know one, I guess,”

And for the first time that day, she cracked a real smile—really smiled. Not the polite, press-trained half-curve, but something warm and real and almost shy.

You pulled out your phone and snapped a photo before you could overthink it: the two of you standing in front of the cursed claw machine, Megan still a little pink-faced, you grinning like a maniac, and the lion still tragically out of reach.

You sent it to the team group chat with the caption: $70 and no lion, but at least we didn’t kill each other.

Megan looked at the photo, then at you. “Think that’s enough to keep management happy?”

You grinned. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you think we look like idiots in that photo?”

“Yes, we absolutely do.”

And for the second time that day, Megan smiled back, no polite pretense, no carefully practiced grin. Just a real smile. And you thought, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

—

You returned to your room that evening, feeling a strange mix of relief and giddiness humming under your skin. Your cheeks still ached from laughing too hard, your stomach from too much terrible pizza and even worse soda. The day had started with you wanting to melt into the floor, but somehow, against all odds, you and Megan had clawed (literally) your way into something almost… fun.

You were still turning that thought over in your head when you stepped inside to find Daniela sitting cross-legged on her bed, her laptop perched on her knees.She looked up immediately, eyes sharp with mischief.

“Well, well,” she said, her grin downright devilish. “There’s the cheater.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Cheat on you? Never.”

Daniela rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t budge. “You sure about that? Because according to the internet, you and Megan are in a very committed relationship.”

She spun the laptop around.

You crossed the room, curiosity getting the better of you, and leaned in to see. Sure enough, there they were: blurry photos of you and Megan at the café, the arcade, even a few of you walking in the park afterwards, all carefully captioned with things like “MegY/N in the wild?” and “soft couple vibes???”

There were even a few that made you laugh.

“Y/N touching grass?” “Rare shut in spotted.”

Those not so much.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God. How do they even find us?” You and Megan hadn’t seen a single fan the whole day, and you’d been trying. Turns out, you didn’t have to.

Daniela chuckled, low and amused. “You’re famous, remember? Our fans have eyes.” She glanced back at the screen. “You two looked like you were having fun, though.”

“Yeah,” you paused. “It actually… wasn’t too bad. Megan wasn’t how I expected.”

“Oh?” Daniela’s voice was light, but you thought you heard something else, something just below the surface. She tilted her head, studying you like she was trying to see past your words. “That’s good.”

But there was something in the way she said it that made you pause. Just a slight shift in her tone. A note you couldn’t name. You looked up at her. Her expression was still open, still warm, but suddenly you couldn’t quite read her. If there was anything else there, it was buried under that easy smile.

You leaned in a little, still peering at the laptop, and didn’t realize how close you’d gotten until your arms were braced on either side of her legs. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin and for a second the world felt very small and very warm, just the two of you pressed close together, breathing in the same pocket of air.

And then Daniela spoke, breaking the spell with a soft smile. “So the date went well?”

You let out a short, breathy laugh, the tension slipping away like water. “Gods, no. It started as a complete disaster,” you said, shaking your head. “Like, I was late, and Megan was there all early and composed and just… totally not impressed. I thought she was going to kill me.”

Daniela laughed, a bright, familiar sound that always made the air feel lighter. “I can’t even picture Megan wanting to murder anyone. She seems so… calm.”

“You’d think,” you said, grinning now. “But then we got to the arcade and something snapped. She went full gremlin mode over this claw machine. Like—threat-level. I thought she was going to break the glass.”

Daniela tilted her head, eyes dancing. “A gremlin?”

“She cursed at it. Threatened the inventor’s bloodline. I was honestly afraid for my life.”

Daniela shook her head, still smiling. “Sounds like you had an eventful day.”

“Yeah.” You glanced at her, softer this time. “It was… a day.”

For a moment, the room settled into a gentle quiet. Not awkward, not tense. Just still. You watched her, the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way she was always so unapologetically her. It was easy, being around Daniela. Even when everything else was loud and confusing, she wasn’t.

But you knew better than to say anything. You weren’t here to blur the lines. You weren’t going to be that person. Not now. Not when she was still looking at you with that familiar, easy affection and no idea how badly you wanted it to mean something more, “What about you? Any major developments while I was out playing claw machine therapist?”

She rolled her eyes and shut her laptop with a click. “Just practice. Nothing exciting.”

“Sorry for missing our rehearsal.”

“It’s okay.” Her voice was light, but not dismissive. “You can make it up to me some other time.”

You gave her a playful salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed, and for a moment, you let yourself have this—just the sound of it, just the feeling of her next to you, just the impossible, ridiculous hope curling somewhere low in your chest.

Even if it didn’t mean anything to Daniela.

—

The weeks after that day blurred together. Management had seen the fan frenzy from that first outing and decided to run with it. Every live stream seating chart seemed to get suspiciously shuffled until you and Megan were always next to each other. In group pictures, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder, and you had a sneaking suspicion that every “team-building exercise” was really just an excuse to get more MegY/N moments on camera.

But you didn’t mind. Not really. Because somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a PR stunt and started feeling… easy.

At first, it was just the little things. Like how Megan would lean in a little closer than she had to when you showed her something on your phone, her head tilting in that curious way that made your breath catch for no good reason. Or how she’d laugh at your dumb jokes, not the polite, clipped laugh she gave strangers, but the real kind that made her shoulders shake and her eyes squint shut.

You discovered that Megan was so much more than the polite, reserved girl you’d thought. She was spontaneous in the weirdest, best ways. She’d drag you out of the dorm on a rainy night just because she had a sudden craving for convenience store ramen, and you’d end up in a cramped little shop at midnight, eating noodles straight out of the cup and trying not to wake the sleeping neighborhood with your laughter. She’d burst out laughing at the worst times, her giggles turning into tears like you’d unlocked some secret level of her. She’d turn group practice breaks into impromptu karaoke contests, belting out songs in a voice that was way better than yours but somehow didn’t make you feel small.

And in those moments, it struck you how different it felt from Daniela.

Daniela was all warmth and quiet reassurance. The kind of person whose laughter was like a promise: bright, steady, soft around the edges. With Daniela, you felt grounded, safe. Like no matter how badly you stumbled, she’d be there to catch you with a smile and a gentle hand.

Megan was different. She was loud in all the ways that counted, and she pulled you along with her. She was unafraid to be ridiculous, to be too much. She made you feel alive, like you were burning bright and fast and somehow it was okay to let the world see you that way.

And you loved it. You loved how she didn’t look at you like you were weird when you started rambling about the conspiracy theories you’d read online. You loved how she didn’t care if you babbled about random facts or threw out terrible puns, instead choosing to match you word for word, joke for joke, always a willing accomplice in your nonsense.

It got to the point where you couldn’t even remember why you’d been scared of her. Megan wasn’t intimidating or distant; she was a puppy in human form, all bright eyes and wagging tail. She was so full of life it made your chest ache in the best way.

But it wasn’t always like that. Megan had her quiet moments too. There were days when the light in her eyes dimmed, when she’d retreat into herself like she was drawing her energy inward to keep from burning out completely. She never said anything was wrong, but you could feel it in the way her shoulders curled inward, in the way she’d let her phone sit silent and forgotten beside her.

At first, you didn’t know what to do with those moments. With Daniela, quiet moments were natural, comforting. But with Megan, it felt like a puzzle. You’d crack another joke, try to fill the quiet like you always did, but it didn’t always land. So you learned to stop pushing. You’d sit with her, shoulders pressed together, your own chatter quieting to a gentle hum. Sometimes you’d hand her your phone and let her swipe through memes in silence. Sometimes you’d just sit there, your foot nudging hers every so often to remind her you were still there.

One night after a group live, you both ended up on the practice room floor, backs pressed against the mirrored wall. Megan had her head tipped back, eyes closed, and for a long while neither of you said a word.

“You okay?” you asked softly, your voice careful.

She cracked one eye open and smiled faintly. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

You didn’t push. You just offered her a quiet smile and let the moment sit between you.

It became a rhythm. Loud and soft. Bright laughter and quiet spaces. You’d match her giggles with your own when she was on, and you’d match her stillness with your own when she was off.

And it was in those moments that you realized how much you’d started to care.

It had been after an impromptu photoshoot at the park (complete with management’s not-so-subtle “just look natural” stage directions), you found yourselves sprawled out on a patch of grass, the late afternoon sun turning Megan’s hair into gold. She was quiet again, her fingers absently tracing patterns in the grass.

You reached over and plucked a blade of grass from her hair. “You’ve got a whole ecosystem in there,” you teased, “I think I saw a ladybug crawl in.”

She cracked a smile, small but real. “I’m going to pretend you’re kidding, for my own sake.” she said, her voice warm but tired.

You just grinned and let your hand rest there for a second, fingers brushing her hair before you pulled back. “Don’t worry, I redirected all the insects away.”

It was silly. And dumb. And ridiculous. And it didn’t matter.

Megan laughed, eyes squinting and teeth showing, her whisker dimples appearing. And your own smile was inevitable.

You knew it in that moment and every other after: you were so, incredibly screwed.

The universe was laughing at you now.

two direction for this story to go, pick your poison

Read the Supplements:

⁺ Daniela is not in love

⁺ Megan is not in love

+ Part 2

listen to. n/a. wrote this with a can of Celsius and a dream

#katseye x reader #megan skiendiel x reader #daniela avanzini x reader #charwritez

607 notes · View notes

soulofapatrick · 5 months ago

Text

Don’t Tempt Me - Xaden Riorson x female reader

Summary: Xaden finds you burnt out on the training field

Warnings: none

Words: 6k (somehow)

Notes: Not my fave and not proofread

Y/N's POV

The sun hangs low over Basgiath, bleeding gold and deep crimson across the sky, its light casting jagged shadows over the towering battlements. The war college looms around me, its stone walls unyielding, its presence as foreboding as ever. The air is thick with the lingering scent of sweat and scorched leather, remnants of a day spent in brutal training.

The air is thick with the scent of fresh earth and damp stone as I sprint across the training yard, my feet pounding the ground with a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat—a constant reminder of my inadequacies. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I refuse to wipe it away. I don’t have time to care about that. I only have time to run.

Over and over, I push myself to the brink, my body screaming in protest, muscles tight with fatigue. My breaths are ragged, desperate for air that feels like it's slowly being stolen from me. But the pain doesn’t matter. It’s nothing compared to the quiet voice inside my head, the one that whispers my doubts and my fears, the one that tells me I’m not enough.

You can’t keep doing this.

It’s Virethalon’s voice. Low, firm, and impossibly calm, like he always is when he sees me teetering on the edge. His presence pulses in my mind, filling the quiet spaces with a calm I can’t find within myself.

Stop, he says again, the warning clear. You’ll burn out before you ever get the chance to fly.

But I ignore him. I have to. I can’t stop, not when the weight of everyone’s expectations hangs so heavily on my shoulders. I can’t afford to be weak. I can’t afford to be what everyone expects—a failure.

My legs scream, my body trembling with every step, but I push harder. Faster. A flip, a backflip, then a roll, twisting midair in an effort to improve my reaction time, my agility. I force my limbs to obey, despite how they beg for rest, despite how my mind is breaking under the strain.

I am not enough. I’m not strong enough to make it here.

Each fall, each misstep echoes the same message in my mind: You don’t belong.

The words are a sting in my chest, sharp and bitter, poisoning the air in front of me. The instructors don’t believe in me, not truly. They’re waiting for me to break, to fail in front of everyone. The other cadets—they’re watching too, eager to see how long I’ll last.

Stop.

Virethalon’s voice is more insistent now, rising with frustration. I know he’s watching, can feel his eyes on me, even though he’s nowhere near. You don’t need to prove anything.

I don’t stop. I can’t. If I stop now, the quiet, haunting voice of failure will take over. If I stop, I’ll feel it—the shame of not being able to meet the impossible standard everyone else expects from me.

The ground shifts beneath me as I sprint forward, my foot catching on something, my body twisting unnaturally in the air. For a split second, time seems to stretch—slow, agonising. And then, I crash.

The world flips. My body slams into the earth, my hands and knees taking the brunt of it. The impact rattles my bones, sharp and unforgiving. My breath is knocked out of me, and for a moment, I just lay there, feeling the tremor of my body as it tries to recover from the shock.

I’m not moving. I can’t move.

Gentle hands find my shoulders before I can even process what’s happening. The pressure is firm yet careful, guiding me, coaxing me into a sitting position. My body trembles from exhaustion, every muscle protesting the movement, every joint aching with the weight of my own failure. I try to steady myself, but the effort makes the world spin, and I can’t seem to get my bearings.

The cold stone beneath me is a cruel reminder of how far I’ve pushed myself. My hands shake, fingers stiff from too much strain, and I finally drop my head, trying to hide the rush of heat that floods my face.

And then, I feel him.

His presence looms over me like a shadow, suffocating and unavoidable. My heart skips a beat, and I immediately wish I could melt into the ground, anything to escape the situation. But it’s too late.

I glance up—my breath catches as I come face to face with him. Xaden Riorson. He stands before me, looking like a damn god, his tall, muscular frame casting a shadow over me. The way his wide shoulders fill out his leather jacket should be illegal. He’s built like someone who’s spent years training and fighting, his chest massive, arms heavily muscled. His dark hair is windblown and tousled, the kind of messy that only makes him look more dangerous. His tawny-brown skin is kissed by the sun, and the dark stubble along his jawline only adds to the rough, untamed look. His eyes—gold-flecked onyx—are locked on mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m about to be set ablaze, and I would rather do anything else than face him like this.

I rub my face with both hands, hoping to hide the blush that’s rising to my cheeks. Of all the ways for this to end—of course, it’s Xaden Riorson who catches me. And of course, he looks like that.

“What the hell are you doing?” he growls, his voice a deep rumble of anger that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You’re an idiot.”

I blink, half-frozen, half in disbelief. The audacity. “Oh, wow. Thank you, Wing Leader,” I drawl, sarcasm practically dripping from my tongue. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

Xaden’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t bite back—at least, not yet. Instead, his eyes flicker over me, and I know he’s assessing the damage. My exhaustion. The way I’m trembling, barely able to hold myself upright. It’s the worst feeling in the world. I’m embarrassed as hell that he’s seeing me like this—weak, on the edge of crumbling.

“I told you to stop before you reached this point,” he mutters, shaking his head. There’s an edge of frustration in his tone now, and I can’t decide if I want to hit something or laugh at how he sounds like he’s scolding a child.

“Yeah, well, you know me,” I say, wiping a bead of sweat off my brow, trying to make myself sound more in control than I feel. “Can’t resist proving everyone wrong.” I let out a bitter laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “But, hey, thanks for showing up and saving the day. Just what every soldier needs: an overbearing Wing Leader.”

A flash of something—maybe amusement, maybe exasperation—crosses his face, but it’s gone too quickly for me to read it properly. His dark brows furrow, and he steps closer, invading my space. “You’re burning yourself out. You can’t keep going like this.”

I force myself to sit up straighter, determined not to appear as weak as I feel, but I can’t hide the tremor in my limbs. The ache in my muscles is almost unbearable now, and Virethalon’s voice echoes through my mind—Stop, or you’ll destroy yourself. But I ignore it, as I have for hours.

I grit my teeth. “I don’t need your help, okay? I don’t need anyone’s help.”

I try to push myself to my feet, but my body betrays me, buckling underneath me like a broken chair. I stumble, gasping for breath, my hand reaching out for support but finding nothing.

Xaden’s eyes flash with anger again, but his movements are faster than I can process. He’s at my side in a heartbeat, and before I can even protest, he lifts me up, cradling me against him in one smooth, powerful motion. His arms are like iron around me, and my body, still trembling with exhaustion, goes stiff against him.

“What the hell are you doing?” I gasp, still trying to regain some semblance of control. I push against his chest—unsuccessfully—my arms too weak to do anything more than flop uselessly at my sides. “Put me down, you asshole!”

Xaden doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t have to. His grip tightens, holding me effortlessly against him as he carries me toward the barracks. “I told you to stop, but you never listen. So now you’re paying the price.” His tone is laced with annoyance, but there’s something else beneath it—something that makes my heart twist. Maybe it’s concern, maybe it’s guilt, but I can’t focus on that. I’m too busy trying to avoid the heat that floods my face.

“You’re such a prick,” I mutter, my voice half muffled by his chest. I’m so fucking embarrassed, and I hate that I feel this way. His warmth, his scent, is all-consuming, and my skin burns at the contact. But I refuse to admit it. “I don’t need you to carry me like some helpless baby.”

“Funny,” he says, his voice low, “because you sure look like one right now.”

I can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and I want to punch him. I should punch him. But I don’t have the energy, so I settle for biting my lip, muttering curses under my breath as he carries me.

The weight of his presence presses against me, and I can feel his muscles shifting beneath me, each movement of his body reminding me of just how powerful he is. And for all my protests, for all my sarcasm, I don’t want to admit that I’m secretly grateful. Grateful that he’s here. Grateful that he doesn’t let me fall apart.

Even if it means I have to endure his endless teasing.

Xaden’s warm eyes flicker down at me, and this time, there’s something softer there. Almost like...he understands. But I’m too stubborn to let myself believe it.

Xaden doesn’t say a word as he carries me through the barracks, the warmth of his body pressing against mine as I try to ignore the heat rising in my cheeks. I’m too tired to fight it. His presence is too overwhelming, and I can feel his heartbeat steady against me. Every step he takes is calculated, strong, as though it’s second nature for him to carry someone in his arms like this. It’s as if he’s done it a hundred times—though I have to wonder just how many times I’ve crossed his mind before today.

Xaden moves with a quiet grace, his large frame effortlessly navigating the corridors of the dorm building as though he’s done this a thousand times before. He steps softly, almost soundlessly, his footsteps absorbed by the shadows that seem to cling to him like a second skin. My heart races, but it's not from exertion anymore—it's the way he's so effortlessly commanding in everything he does. The weight of his arms around me, the heat radiating from his body, and the way my mind seems to short-circuit whenever I’m near him make it hard to think straight.

We pass the first-year rooms—mine included—and I can’t help but cringe at the thought of being caught sneaking past curfew. But Xaden moves with such precision, such mastery of his surroundings, that the idea of us being caught seems laughable. No one can hear us, no one even notices us. It’s like we’re ghosts, gliding past the rooms, unseen by anyone else.

I briefly wonder how he does it—how he’s so adept at slipping through the shadows, unnoticed, silent. But then, he’s always been a mystery to me. The kind of mystery I’ve never quite been able to figure out. And maybe, in a way, I don't want to.

Finally, we reach the staircase that leads to the upper floors, and with a swift glance in either direction, Xaden steps into the shadows, carrying me effortlessly up the stairs. We move past the landing and down the hallway to the last door—the one I know leads to his room. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pause, and with a final quiet push of the door, we’re inside.

Xaden doesn’t put me down right away. His arms remain around me, his hold firm, as if he’s unwilling to let go. As if, for a brief moment, he’s afraid to lose the connection. The closeness between us feels suffocating, overwhelming, and yet I can’t bring myself to pull away. Every inch of my body is acutely aware of his presence, the heat of his skin seeping into mine, the muscle and strength in his arms keeping me held too close. I can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against me, mirroring the frantic pulse racing through my veins.

His dark eyes meet mine, and I swear, for a second, everything else falls away. His gaze is fierce, like a storm trapped behind his irises, flickering with a raw intensity that sends a wave of heat rushing through me. I’m suddenly aware of how painfully close we are—so close that if I moved even an inch, I’d be pressed against him completely. My breath catches, and I can’t look away, trapped in the gravity of his stare, like he’s pulling me toward him without even trying. And then, as if trying to fight whatever is building between us, his eyes flicker to my lips, and I feel it—the pull—stronger than anything I’ve ever felt.

But just as quickly as the moment seems to rise, he jerks his gaze away, his jaw tightening with the effort to control himself. It’s like he’s trying to push back the part of him that’s aware—aware of the magnetic pull between us, aware of how much he’s been fighting this… whatever this is. He shakes his head slightly, as though dismissing the thought entirely, like he’s trying to shut down the desire that flares in him. But I see it in his eyes—the flicker of something primal. Something I can’t ignore.

Finally, he sets me down, but he doesn’t let go immediately. He’s still so close that I can feel his breath on my skin, a whisper of warmth against the cold, the tension stretching taut between us, like a string pulled too tight. My pulse races as I settle onto the bed, the soft covers pressing against me, but my chest feels like it’s about to burst. I try to catch my breath, but it’s like the air in the room has thickened, heavy with unsaid words and the suffocating weight of everything unsaid.

Xaden doesn’t back away. He hovers, towering over me, his presence suffusing the space around us. I can feel the heat radiating off him, his body just a breath away, and every inch of me is screaming to close the distance. But I don’t move. I’m not sure I can. His nearness makes every part of me ache, makes every nerve light up, thrumming with the raw electricity that crackles between us.

His voice cuts through the thick silence, deep and steady, but there’s something almost... softer now, something gentler that makes my heart stutter. “Stay here,” he commands, his words pressing down on me like a physical weight, making my chest tighten. The force of his tone is undeniable, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—something that makes my stomach flutter. Something dangerous and thrilling all at once. "Be a good girl. Don’t go anywhere.”

I feel those words in my bones, in the very marrow of my being. The way he says it—it’s like a promise, a command that makes my heart race faster than it should. And yet, there’s a tenderness beneath it, a strange gentleness that pulls at me, twists my insides into knots. He wants to keep me here, close. He wants to possess this moment with me, even though I can feel the struggle in him—his body yearning to cross the line, but his mind pulling him back, trying to control what’s growing between us.

His gaze holds mine, unwavering, and I swear I see something break in his eyes—something raw and unspoken. It’s as if he’s holding himself back from doing something he knows would be too much, too dangerous. But the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know: the battle is far from over, and this tension—this charge—it’s only just beginning.

I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. Every muscle in my body is taut, every nerve alive with an electric hum. Xaden disappears into the adjoining ensuite, his heavy footsteps echoing softly across the stone floor. I can hear the gentle hiss of the water filling the tub, the steady flow of it working in rhythm with the hammering of my heart. The tension between us lingers, the silence more suffocating now than ever before, and I can��t shake the feeling of his gaze still lingering on me even as he disappears from the room.

I should feel grateful for the space—should breathe, slow my pulse—but all I can think of is him. The way he’s so effortlessly commanding, yet there’s this softness beneath it that I can't quite place. The way he had looked at me, his expression a battle between restraint and something far more intense.

My fingers twitch, almost compulsively, and I reach for my boots, needing to do something. My body is still shaking from the exertion, from the near-collapse, and now my brain feels fuzzy, the exhaustion creeping in faster than I expected. I should just wait, I know I should, but I feel... out of control. I need to regain some semblance of normalcy, something to anchor me.

I struggle to bend down, but my balance is still far off from the punishment I just put my body through. My vision swims a little, and before I can register what’s happening, my body tips forward, sending me sprawling from the edge of the bed with a yelp. The floor greets me hard, and a shock of pain shoots up my spine, but it's nothing compared to the embarrassment that floods through me in waves. My pulse spikes, and I scramble, feeling utterly ridiculous.

A sharp, almost instinctive growl of frustration rises in the air—Xaden. He’s already moving quickly, a blur of motion as he rushes back into the room, his broad form filling the doorway in an instant. His dark eyes sweep over me, a flicker of concern passing through them, but it’s quickly replaced with something harder—almost irritated.

"You really are a disaster, aren't you?" His voice is deep, but there's a teasing bite to it, even as he crosses the room toward me in strides that eat up the distance. I can’t even find it in me to be offended. I’m too busy feeling like a complete fool.

Before I can open my mouth to respond, he’s crouching in front of me, his hands reaching for my arms to steady me. The sheer strength in his touch almost knocks the wind out of me as he helps me back onto my feet, the warmth of his hands traveling through my skin and straight to my chest. He doesn’t say anything else, but the way his eyes linger on me for a moment, as though making sure I’m okay, sends something fluttering nervously in my stomach.

“Try not to break anything else, would you?” His voice is softer now, as though the weight of the moment has finally broken through that icy exterior of his. His lips curve into a smirk, but there’s no denying the genuine care beneath the sarcasm.

Xaden moves with quiet precision, his hands wrapping around my waist, gentle but firm, as he guides me toward the bed. The heat from his touch lingers on my skin, and despite everything, I can't help but shiver. His grip is unyielding, his presence surrounding me, and as I sit on the edge of the bed, he stands in front of me, towering over me. The dim light from the room casts shadows across his features, making him look even more intimidating than usual, but there’s something in his eyes that betrays the mask he’s trying so hard to maintain.

His hands rest on my knees for a moment, and his gaze flickers to mine. There’s a question there, unspoken, something almost vulnerable beneath that stoic expression. I can see the battle waging in his eyes. He doesn’t want to touch me—at least, that’s what his expression says. But his eyes… those eyes of molten gold flecked with onyx… they betray him, flashing with an intensity I can’t quite read.

And then, in a moment that feels both like an eternity and a breath, Xaden sinks to his knees in front of me. The movement is fluid, almost too graceful, and my heart skips a beat. It feels wrong to be this close, too intimate. His presence is overwhelming, and I can feel the tension in the room thickening with every inch of space he closes between us.

Xaden kneels before me, his hands gentle but firm as he removes my boots. His touch is careful, almost reverent, but the tension is unmistakable. Each movement is deliberate, like he's holding himself back from something. The weight of his gaze on me is intense—smouldering, even—and I can feel every inch of him watching, noticing, memorising.

As he pulls off the second boot, his fingers brush against my calf, sending a jolt through me. My breath catches, and I instinctively tense, but it's more from the electric charge between us than the discomfort of my body. I don’t know why it affects me like this—this man who’s never once been shy about hiding the way he feels or thinking that his touch doesn’t matter—but in this moment, it matters. It matters more than it should.

He looks up then, his gaze locking onto mine. The heat in his eyes is unmistakable, a dark storm brewing just beneath the surface. His brow furrows slightly, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s questioning something—me, himself, what we’re both doing here, like this. But then his eyes flick lower, and I can see the hesitation there, a silent question that hangs in the air between us.

His fingers hover at the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms, brushing lightly against my hips. The touch is almost too soft, as if he’s trying to gauge my reaction before crossing a line that’s already dangerously blurred. He doesn’t say a word—he doesn’t have to. The question is in his eyes, in the way his lips part ever so slightly, in the subtle tension in his jaw. It’s an unspoken request, one that I know all too well.

I can feel the pulse of uncertainty in my veins, but something about this—about him—makes me lower my defences, just a little. Without even thinking, I raise my hips slightly, just enough to give him the signal. My movement is small, almost imperceptible, but it's enough. His breath hitches, and I can see the way his eyes flicker, a momentary loss of control before he tightens his grip on his composure.

Xaden exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath all this time, and I can see it in his expression—the struggle between what he wants and what he’s trying so hard to resist. His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my tracksuit bottoms, and I feel the slightest tremor in his touch. He’s slow, deliberate, like he’s savouring the moment, but also like he’s afraid that if he moves too quickly, the entire thing might shatter.

The air between us crackles with an electric tension, and as he helps me out of the fabric, I’m left feeling exposed in a way that’s more than physical. My heartbeat is louder than anything else, pounding in my ears, and for a moment, I forget about the aches in my body, the bruises, the exhaustion. It’s as though the world has narrowed to just us. Just this. And I can’t seem to pull away from him, from the way he makes me feel, from the way his hands linger a little too long at the edge of my clothing, as if to remind me that he sees me—every part of me.

I know it’s not supposed to feel this way, not like this. But every glance, every touch, every quiet, unspoken word between us is enough to unravel the careful walls I’ve built. And yet, even as he pulls the tracksuit bottoms off, his hands gentle but insistent, there’s something else in his eyes—something that tells me he’s fighting every urge to touch me, to kiss me. But he doesn’t. He never does.

I can’t decide whether that makes it harder or easier.

And when he finishes, leaving me in nothing but my sports bra and panties, I feel more vulnerable than I’ve ever been—completely at his mercy, exposed in more ways than one. The air is thick with unspoken words, and even as I sit there, trying to catch my breath, I know this isn’t over.

Xaden lets out a frustrated sound, a low, throaty growl that resonates deep in his chest. His breath stutters as his forehead falls gently to my thigh, the weight of it anchoring me in place. The intensity of the moment is suffocating, like the world around us has slowed to a stop, leaving only the two of us, tangled in something we can’t deny. His hands are gripping the edge of the bed, his knuckles white, and I can feel the tension in his body, a tight coil of restraint and hunger.

And then, in one swift, desperate motion, he surges upward, his lips crashing against mine. There’s no warning, no hesitation. Just pure, raw need. His mouth takes mine with a fierce intensity that leaves me breathless, as though he’s been holding back for far too long and now there’s no more control. It’s like he’s been starved for this—starved for me—and he doesn’t want to let me go, not even for a second.

I kiss him back with everything I have, my hands finding the sides of his face, pulling him closer, as if I can’t get enough. Every part of me feels alive with the heat between us, my skin tingling where his fingers brush against it, my heart thudding erratically in my chest. He tastes like fire—burning hot, consuming—and I can’t help but fall into him, into the kiss, into the feeling of him. I can feel the weight of his body pressing against mine, the strength of him, but it’s not overbearing. It’s grounding, like he’s pulling me into his orbit.

His hands move quickly, urgently, as if he’s afraid the moment will slip away from him. Before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, he’s lifting me effortlessly from the bed, and suddenly I’m straddling his thighs. His hands settle on my hips, holding me in place, the heat of his body radiating into mine. I can feel the way his pulse races beneath his skin, the way his chest rises and falls against mine. The kiss deepens, growing even more frantic, and I don’t know whether it’s the intensity of it or the way he’s holding me that makes everything else feel so insignificant.

He pulls me closer, his hands guiding me with a possessive, yet gentle touch, and I can feel the thrum of energy between us, something electric, something undeniable. My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging him closer, and the sound of his breathing, his heavy exhales, fills the space between us. I can hear the way he’s fighting for control, the way his muscles tighten with the effort of keeping his composure.

But I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to hold back.

I don’t want him to fight it anymore.

I can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my sports bra, his chest pressing against mine with each movement, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are, how easy it would be to lose ourselves completely in this. And yet, even as we continue kissing, tangled in each other’s embrace, there’s a part of me that’s still unsure, still trying to catch up with everything happening around me. But when his hands slide down to my thighs, gripping them with such possessiveness, that uncertainty melts away, replaced by a heady rush of desire.

The kiss breaks, but just for a moment, both of us gasping for air. His lips hover above mine, and I can see the raw intensity in his eyes, a mixture of frustration and something else—something far more tender, even if it’s buried beneath the layers of urgency.

"Don't stop," he mutters, his voice rough and low. His hands tighten around me, pulling me against him, as if he’s trying to make sure I’m real. “Please don’t stop.”

And all I can do is nod, my chest still rising and falling with the rapid pace of my heart. I don't want to stop either.

The air between us feels thick with heat, charged with a tension that I don't want to break, even as the reality of what we’re doing begins to settle in. Xaden’s hands are still firm on my hips, his grip tightening with every shift of my body, and I can feel every muscle in his form, every bit of control he's holding onto, fighting to stay composed. He pulls me closer again, the fabric of my sports bra barely separating us, his chest brushing against mine as he presses his forehead to mine, both of us gasping for breath.

The heat from his skin, the closeness of his body, is too much to ignore. It's overwhelming in the best way. I can hear my own pulse hammering in my ears, feel the electricity between us that neither of us can escape. He looks at me, his gold-flecked eyes searching mine, his breath ragged as if he's barely holding on to the edge of whatever control he has left.

I can't stop myself from raising my hand to touch his face, my fingers trailing down the line of his jaw, tracing the hard curve of his chin, feeling the roughness of his stubble. The tenderness in my touch makes him shiver, his breath catching in his throat, and for a brief second, everything else fades. There’s no training, no curfew, no expectations—just the two of us, caught in something far more complex than either of us ever intended.

His lips brush against mine once more, a soft, tentative kiss, but it feels more intimate than the previous fiery moments. It's full of the unspoken things, the feelings we've been hiding, buried beneath layers of duty and unacknowledged desire. Xaden pulls back slowly, just enough to look at me, his eyes heavy with something unreadable.

"I—" he starts, his voice thick with emotion, but I stop him, my fingers pressing gently to his lips.

“I know," I whisper. "I know, Xaden. We don’t need to say it.”

The words hang in the air between us, unspoken yet understood. He looks at me, really looks at me, and for once, there’s no pretension, no walls between us. Just a moment of raw honesty.

But then, he pulls back just a fraction, his hands slowly loosening their grip on me, as if reluctant to let go but knowing he has to. His eyes soften, a flicker of something tender passing over his features before he runs a hand through his windblown hair, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“You should rest,” he murmurs, though there’s a trace of something unreadable in his voice. “You’ve pushed yourself too hard tonight.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words as the adrenaline from our moment starts to ebb away, leaving me with a sense of vulnerability, of exhaustion I hadn’t realised had been creeping up on me. My body is still sore from the training, but now, there’s an ache of a different kind, a deep, resonating need I’m not sure how to deal with.

“You’re right,” I murmur, my voice hoarse. “About that bath…”

Xaden’s hands gently guide me to my feet, his fingers lingering on my hips just a moment longer than necessary, as if making sure I’m steady before he lets go. His touch is firm but considerate, grounding me, reminding me that he’s here, present, in this moment. I almost wish he didn’t have to pull away so soon, but the space between us feels impossible to close for reasons I can’t quite name.

With a soft grunt, Xaden rises to his full height, towering over me for a moment before he reaches down and picks me up again, effortlessly moving me toward the bed. His strong arms encircle my waist, and I feel the heat radiating from his chest, the power in his body that he keeps so carefully controlled. He sets me down gently on the edge of the mattress, the softness of the sheets a stark contrast to the tension that still crackles in the air between us.

I sit there for a moment, watching him, as he turns toward the bathroom, his broad back stretching as he moves, his muscular frame rippling with every step. His windblown black hair falls just above his collar, and I can't help but stare at the way he walks—confident, purposeful, but there’s an undercurrent of something, a quiet storm inside him that’s barely contained.

The silence feels heavy, too heavy, until I finally speak up, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“... Maybe you could join me?”

The moment they leave my mouth, time seems to slow. Xaden freezes in his tracks, his hand hovering over the doorframe, his back to me. For a breathless second, I wonder if he didn’t hear me, if the words just got lost in the space between us. But then, the tension in his body is palpable. His shoulders tighten, his jaw clenches, and I watch as a low, almost imperceptible sound slips from his throat—a frustrated, breathy exhale that he seems to be holding back with all his strength.

He doesn’t turn around right away, but when he does, his eyes meet mine, and there's a flicker of something dangerous there. It’s not anger. It’s hunger—raw, palpable, and so intense that it sends a shiver down my spine. I can't look away, can't tear my gaze from his. The silence between us stretches, thickening, until I can almost feel the heat coming off of him.

"You really want that?" His voice is low, a little strained, like he's trying to rein himself in. There's a slight tremor in his hands, and his posture is tense, like a coil ready to snap. He’s trying to keep himself in check, and I know he’s holding back everything he wants to say, everything he wants to do. But there's something in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability, of yearning, that betrays the composure he’s trying so hard to maintain.

I nod slowly, heart pounding in my chest as I search his face, looking for any sign of hesitation, any clue that I’ve crossed a line. But there’s none. Instead, he takes a step toward me, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s waiting for me to stop him, to give him some sort of excuse to turn back. But I don’t.

I don’t know what happens next, only that the space between us feels like it’s been stretched so thin that it could snap at any moment. Xaden is so close now, his presence overwhelming, and I can’t breathe, not properly. All I can do is stare at him, feel the pull, the need between us, and wonder if he can feel it too.

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters under his breath, before stepping into the bathroom, leaving me to wonder if he’ll give in, if he’ll actually let this tension between us break.

Part Two ⇒ Giving Into Temptation

Fourth Wing Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 12th Oct 2024

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soaps-mohawk · 1 year ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 1 - The Introduction

Summary: Captain Price has been fighting the requests to add an omega to his team until those requests become commands. You find yourself traveling half a world away to join a pack of highly trained soldiers to balance out their dynamic. Not all of them are quite so happy about your arrival, but you're a good omega who does as you're told.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, language, brief moments of panic on the reader's side, scenting, military inaccuracies, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Author's Note: I couldn't help it and I've found myself falling into the Call of Duty brainrot once again so here I am to bless you with some poly 141 a/b/o goodness. It's just part 1, I promise things will get better as the story goes along.

MASTERLIST | Next ->

“I don’t like this.”

“Believe me, John, I know. But the higher ups are putting a lot of pressure on us with this initiative and I’ve pushed back as much as I can. They’re convinced it will be good for morale and team dynamics.”

He wants to protest, but he’s been protesting this idea for three months. “What more can you tell me about her?”

“Not much that isn’t already in her file.” Her tone is not lost on him. She can, but that’s not a conversation to be held over the phone. “She’s quiet and polite, a bit jumpy but she relaxes once she gets to know you. Remember, I picked her out myself.”

That doesn’t make him feel any better.

He flips through the file again after he hangs up with Laswell. He almost has it memorized by now, having looked through time and time again since the letter was dropped on his desk three months ago.

He stares at the photo, the headshot taken by the institute in her file. She’s cute, as most omegas are. American, but she had grown up on military bases. At least this world wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to her. He grimaces as he looks over her DOB below the photo. She’s young, younger than he would have liked, but at least she was old enough to drink.

He sighs through his nose as he flips through her records. She’s been in the institute for nearly ten years, likely sent as soon as she presented. He flips through page after page of test results, notes from her instructors, personality and temperament analysis, essays and essays worth of information written on her and also by her. He didn’t care so much about what her instructors thought, he was more interested in her.

“Christ.” He breathes as he pauses on the page with her statistics, rubbing his eyes. The file has everything in it, down to heat tracking and her early signs it was starting.

As if he doesn’t have enough to worry about, now he’s going to have an omega under his care.

He hasn’t considered taking an omega in well over a decade. Back when he had been young and reckless, he had once considered starting his own pack, but then his career in the military began to take off and he let that dream go. It became too dangerous, and he had seen many times what happened to omegas who were left behind during deployments for too long.

His team didn’t need an omega. He had briefly considered it in the beginning as they adjusted to the new dynamics, but he knew it was too dangerous and their schedules were far too unpredictable for the sort of stability omegas needed. He had fought time and time again against the push to add an omega to the team. They had settled into their roles easily, and operated perfectly fine with the missing dynamic.

Then the Omega Initiative was born and he found himself with no grounds to refuse anymore. Task Force 141 was getting an omega whether they wanted one or not.

He can’t help the tickle in the back of his mind that something else might be going on. He flips back to the first page, staring at the omega’s photo. They’d be here in a week. She’d be flying with Laswell to London where she’d be given a few days to adjust before they’d fly in here and she’ll be left with her new pack.

Price closes the file, leaning back in his chair. He has a lot to do in the next week.

You stare down at the files laid out on the table. Four of them, hardly more than a single page each, most of which was blacked out. They’re all older than you, their birth years at least visible to you. Most of the things on the file you don’t understand, and you weren't even sure how tall they were since you can’t convert meters to feet in your head.

You’re tired and on edge, nervous about tomorrow when you'd meet your new pack. You sit back in your seat, letting out a long breath.

“I know.” Station Chief Laswell, Kate as you had been told to call her, takes the seat across from you. “You’re going to have to get used to hearing the word classified. What they tell you about themselves is, of course, up to them, but the things they do, the places they go, even with your security clearance as high as it is, that will all still be-”

“Classified?” You finish for her.

Kate smiles. “Exactly. It’s mostly for your safety. The less you know...”

The less there is to make you a target.

You’d been given that speech before you left D.C. You’d been given a lot of briefings, as Kate had called them, since you had been pulled into the director’s office at The Institute and told to pack your bag. You remembered Kate and the interview you had done a few days prior. It hadn’t been any different than the other interviews you’d done before, except that you were chosen this time.

What had come after was three months of intense briefings and training, for what, you hadn’t really known at the time. They had told you little, at least until last week when Kate pulled you into her office and told you what was happening and why it was happening and where you were going.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, though.” Kate continues, something you’ve been told over and over again during your briefings. “They’re all good men. John and I know each other well. I wouldn’t have picked you if I didn’t think you could handle them.”

You continue to stare at the files. Two alphas, two betas. It wasn’t an unusual pack, evenly balanced, except for the missing omega. If the situation were different they may have elected to have two omegas to keep the even balance. This wasn’t a normal situation, though. This was a military pack, special forces at that. It wasn’t unusual for packs to form on bases, especially those stationed together for long periods of time. Alphas and betas united together with one purpose, one collective goal.

That was why so many alphas were drawn to the military.

That, and the excuse for violence.

Omegas weren’t allowed to enlist, omegas weren’t allowed to hold many jobs at all. It was usually only in special circumstances, and even then, they were more likely to be assigned into a pack than be allowed to work and care for themselves. In a lot of ways you were lucky. You wouldn’t have to fight to find a pack, fight to find a match, fight for one of the few decent alphas left in the world. Your road had been chosen for you as soon as you presented.

In a lot of ways, though, things were worse for you.

“How do you feel?” Kate asks, looking you over. You’ve grown to like the beta Station Chief in the weeks you’ve spent together.

“Tired.” You run a hand across your face.

“The time difference will do that to you.” Kate says, giving you a sympathetic look. “Not to mention everything else.” Kate stands, stacking the files and pushing them to the center of the table. “I have a couple more errands to run, so get some rest. I’ll pick us up some dinner on the way back.”

You look nervous.

He can’t blame you. He’d felt a bit of a nervous twist to his stomach this morning as he’d finished ensuring everything was in place. He doesn’t often get nervous anymore, years and years of experience giving him the ability to expect anything and react accordingly.

This is different, though. This isn’t a soldier he’s greeting, this is an omega.

His omega.

As Pack Alpha he had more of a claim to you than anyone else. It was his mark you’d wear, his scent that everyone would notice first. It was his duty to protect you, to ensure you have everything you need. You’re not another member of his team, you’re not even a soldier. You’re just a poor civilian that’s been thrust into this world of danger and secrecy.

“Captain Price.” Laswell greets him, shaking his hand.

He greets her back, but he can’t help his gaze as it flickers to the omega. You’re small, as expected of an omega. Your sweatshirt hides most of your curves, but your jeans hug your full thighs. Most omegas are small and soft, designed to be held and healthy enough to bear children when cared for correctly.

He doesn’t even want to think about that.

Laswell introduces you, your feet shuffling a bit as you step forward toward him. Coming from an institute, you likely hadn’t had much contact with alphas before now. You try to stand taller, look braver as you stand before him, but he can smell the tangy edge of anxiety surrounding your scent.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” You say, shaking his hand. It’s small and warm in his, your skin soft and slightly clammy.

“The pleasure is mine.” He says, releasing your hand.

You let it drop to your side, pulling your sleeve down over your fingers. You shift on your feet, your body language betraying your nervousness. Hunched shoulders, fingers tugging your sleeves over your hands, shifting your weight foot to foot as if you might take off running at a moment’s notice. Your eyes dart across the airfield taking in the movement around them. You’re on edge, alert, and likely a little overwhelmed.

“I’ll show you around and let you get settled.” He says, his eyes shifting to Laswell. “You and I have some things to discuss.”

You follow behind him with Laswell as he leads you towards the building that served as the 141’s home base. He points out different places you might find yourself visiting. The gym, the rec area, the mess hall, and finally their barracks. He leads you down the hallway where their rooms were located, pointing out each door before he gets to yours, sandwiched between his own and Gaz’s, with Soap and Ghost on the other side.

He opens the door, letting you enter. He stays in the doorway, letting you explore the small space. Your bags had been brought in, the faint hint of the beta Corporal that had brought them in still lingering in the air. There’s four shirts folded neatly on the desk, one from each of them that they’d slept in for the last couple days to give you a chance to get used to their scents.

“The lads are still running a simulation, but they’ll be done within the hour.” He says, drawing your gaze from the bed. “We’ll let you get settled in and I’ll come get you when they’re ready.”

“Thank you, sir.” You say.

Laswell steps in as he steps away for a moment, letting the two of you say your goodbyes. You’d likely see Laswell again, and soon, but he knows after three months you’ll have bonded with her just a bit.

Price leads Laswell to his office after she leaves your room, his ears picking up the sound of the lock clicking into place as they walk away. He’d left it on for a reason, wanting to give you the ability to feel safe and secure as you adjusted, even though you had nothing to worry about.

“So.” Price says as he sits behind his desk, reclining back in his seat. “What can you really tell me about her?”

Laswell gives him a knowing look. “The CIA has had their eyes on her for years now. The Omega Initiative as it is now, isn’t how it started. They were going to train omegas as agents, and she was one of the first names on that list. They had FIOT put a hold on her file once she came of age.”

Federal Institute of Omega Training. The name was stamped on the front of your file. It was the highest rated institute in America, the place where most omegas born to politicians, government workers, and some military went.

“They had agents go in and pretend to be interested parties just to make it seem like there was interest in her.” Laswell continues. “But, you know omegas aren’t cut out for this kind of work, so they changed the Initiative. She was still at the top of the list, but there were some...hesitations as to where to place her.”

“What sort of hesitations?” He asks.

“You saw those scores, John. She’s a good omega. Those purebred instincts are strong, and that makes her an easy target.”

Most omegas born from an alpha/omega pairing were good at listening to their instincts. That was why they carried such a high standing, even among omegas. But, being so closely intune with their instincts made them more sensitive, more vulnerable. They were more likely to give in to an alpha, if the alpha knew how to play them right.

Laswell pulls a file from her bag, sliding it across his desk to him. “She’d get walked all over in a larger pack, and the last thing she needs is to get hurt by an overbearing alpha.” There’s something hidden in Laswell’s words, his mind filing that away for later. “I need someone I can trust with her. She’s smart, learns fast. She needs a challenge, but also someone that won’t take advantage of her.”

“It sounds like you’ve grown rather fond of her.” He says, flipping open the first page of the file. It’s the CIA’s data on her, everything they’d done in the last three months to prepare her for her life as a Special Operations pack omega.

“Like I said, I’m the one that picked her for your team.” Laswell leans forward against his desk. “She knows what she’s in for. She was well prepared for this kind of life. She’ll let you mark her, no questions asked because that’s what she’s been told to do. She’s obedient, John, almost to a fault.”

“That could be dangerous.” Price says.

“Yes, it could.” Laswell says. “I’m leaving her in your capable hands. She has my number, and so do you.”

Price walks her back to the airfield, his head reeling a bit as he replays their conversation over and over. The hidden messages in Laswell’s words aren’t lost on him, and his gut feeling that something else was going on had been correct.

“Take care of her, John.” Laswell says. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you.”

He hasn’t failed her yet.

Your body is tingling. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or something else. You haven’t been around an alpha since the day of your presentation, when you had been pulled from your home and taken to the institute. You had nearly wanted to keel over when you came face to face with Captain Price. Your alpha. He’s a commanding presence, the tickling at the back of your neck still not quite gone even though the door is shut and locked.

The bed is comfortable, not any worse than what you slept on in the institute. There’s extra pillows and blankets stacked at the end, likely for your nest when you finally settled enough to make one. The door to the private bathroom is cracked open, facing the end of the bed. There’s four shirts on the desk next under the window next to the bathroom door, and your bags are sitting in front of the dresser and closet situated on the opposite wall from the bed.

You push yourself to stand, ignoring the way your legs wobble as you stare down at the four shirts on the desk. They’re all olive green, folded neatly in the exact same way. You wouldn’t have known any different, except for the scents gently wafting from them, and the names on the tags.

Price. You pick up the one that will be the most familiar, bringing it to your nose. Tobacco smoke, aftershave, something sharp like whiskey. All things you had scented on him in your short time together. Underneath you catch a whiff of his natural scent. Something woody, fresh. A tingle crawls up your spine, prickling in the back of your neck again. You drop the shirt on the desk, taking a step back to breathe in the unscented air for a moment.

You’re breathing heavily as you go for the shirt next to Price’s. Garrick. You press the shirt against your nose, inhaling. Aftershave, different from Price’s. Some kind of lotion. Coconut oil maybe? You can’t pick up more than the base scent of beta, the soothing almondy scent.

You take another deep inhale of it, letting the beta scent ease you before you let it drop to the desk beside Price’s. You grab the one next to it, looking at the tag. MacTavish. You lift it to your face, scenting another aftershave. There’s something citrusy mixed in as well, slightly watered down compared to the scent of the aftershave. Again, you can’t pick up more than the scent of beta, letting it ease the tickling on the back of your neck again before you let it drop back on the desk.

One more to go.

You pick up the last shirt. Ghost. The faceless one. You bring the shirt to your nose, wincing slightly at the sharp tang of gunpowder and metal, smoke and a lingering aftershave. You try to smell deeper, but your nose burns with scent blocker spray. You let out a huff, dropping it back onto the desk.

This Ghost was dedicated to his anonymity.

He’s going to be a problem.

You sink back onto the bed, eyeing the shirts. Your senses have heightened, picking up the scents wafting off of them, mixing in the air. You pick up the sound of boots approaching, three pairs of feet making their way down the hall. You can hear them talking and laughing as they approach. There’s a pause outside your door and you hold your breath, sitting as still as possible.

Of course they can smell you. You had sprayed yourself down with scent blockers before you left the hotel, but it had likely worn off by now. Even with the blocker, the scent of unmated omega wasn’t hidden easily. The entire base had probably caught a whiff of your scent by now. Caramel, vanilla, strawberries with the undertone of pure omega that made alphas go insane.

“Coming, Si?”

Your lungs burn as you hold your breath, and for a moment you’re afraid your heartbeat might be audible from how hard it’s pounding. Steps recede from your door and you don’t breathe until they’ve disappeared.

You decide to unpack to keep your mind busy as you wait. You don’t have much, mostly clothes from the institute and toiletries. You don’t even have a photo of your family, that part of your life behind you. You put your clothes away, venturing into the small bathroom to put away your toiletries. There’s towels already inside, along with a few things like shampoo and soap. They’re all scentless, like the things you had brought from the institute.

Nothing that could dampen your natural scent.

You almost don’t hear the knock on the door, lost in your own thoughts. You take a steadying breath, hand hesitating over the lock. What if it wasn’t Price? What if it wasn’t anyone from your new pack?

“Just me.” Price’s voice comes through the door.

Of course he would notice your hesitation. He’s a trained soldier, he’s always going to be aware of his surroundings. You unlock the door, opening it slowly.

Price greets you with a small smile, your nose picking up the scent of his aftershave and the lingering scent of tobacco smoke now that you’re attune to it. “They’re ready, if you are.” He says.

You nod. “Yeah, I guess.” It wasn’t like you had much of a choice to say no.

You slip out the door, closing it behind you. You’d ditched your sweatshirt, wearing a scoop-necked shirt to give them easy access for the scenting. Price leads you down the hallway, back towards his office. You’re not quite sure what to expect, the nervous twisting in your stomach coming back.

“I thought we’d do it in a meeting room.” Price says, likely picking up on the change in your scent. “Somewhere neutral.”

It’s smart, it’ll keep you from getting too overwhelmed by other scents or sounds. The last thing you need to do is panic and send them all into a spiral. Talk about a first impression.

Price pauses outside a door, looking down at you. His gaze is kind, almost sympathetic as you take a deep breath. “Ready?”

Not really, but you wouldn’t dare say that. You have to do this, and the sooner you got the awkward part over with, the easier things will get. You nod, hands tugging nervously at the bottom of your shirt. “Yes, sir.”

Price opens the door, stepping in first. You’re glad for the few moments you’re hidden behind him as the scents in the room slam into you. Alpha and two betas, scents you recognize from their shirts. They stand as Price enters, and for a moment you want to stay hidden behind the alpha but you know you have to be brave. You were made for this. The words drilled into your brain over and over again at the institute flash through your brain. You have one job in life and this is it.

You can hold power over them.

The words from the book your bunkmate had smuggled in flash through your mind. “The Powerful Omega”, it had been titled. Authored by a progressive omega, it talked all about how powerful omegas could be, even those forced into traditional roles. You can get them all wrapped around your finger if you wanted to.

You steady your nerves, clenching your hands into fists at your sides and step out from behind Price. Your skin prickles as three sets of eyes are set on you. Price is speaking but you’re not really listening as you take them in. You recognize the two betas from their files.

Gaz, you pick up Price doing introductions, has kind eyes. He’s tall for a beta, almost the same height as Price. He waves to you, offering you a small smile.

Soap is the shortest of the four, more what you would expect from a beta. “Good to meet ya, lass.” He greets you, giving you a charming smile. He’s going to push your boundaries, you can tell.

You’re beginning to see the dynamics already.

“And Ghost.” Price says, your eyes finally moving to the place you’ve been avoiding since you walked in.

All hulking muscle, Ghost seems to take up the entire room. Your heart flutters nervously as you meet his dark gaze, his face hidden by a balaclava with a skull painted on the front. His presence is oppressive, tickling the back of your neck. You’re not sure if you want to run or submit to him, every inch of him screaming alpha.

Price’s hand on your back nearly makes you jump, your gaze finally drawing away from Ghost and back to him. “Come on, take a seat. Tell us about yourself.”

Price sits at the head of the table, Ghost, Soap and Gaz to his left. You take the seat on the right, staring at the other three members of your pack. You jump into your spiel, things that they already knew if they’d read your file. There’s not much else to tell, since everything about you was in that file. That was its purpose, to make you look as appealing as possible to potential alphas and packs.

“What about your family?” Soap asks, the sharp scent of your nervous energy spiking for a moment. “Do you still talk to them?”

You shake your head. “Not for a few years. Institutes don’t really encourage keeping ties with previous packs, but I know there were a few omegas that did. It was hard to keep track of where my family was.”

“Your father was a Marine, correct?” Price, even though they already know the answer.

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

“You lived on base?” He asks.

You nod again. “Yes, sir. We moved a lot, but we lived in pack housing on every base. We were a family pack, and I was number four of eight by the time I presented.”

“When did you get sent to the Institute?” He asks, almost regretting answering it.

It’s a sore subject, he can tell by the change in your face and the slight souring of your scent. “The day after I presented.” You say.

The tension in the room is palpable, Soap and Gaz’s eyes widening in shock as Ghost's shoulders tense just slightly. Price stares at you with a sympathetic look in his eyes. He knew it was likely shortly after, but that soon? Most would wait until the presentation had finished at least, and usually there was some downtime when it came to getting into an institute as well.

“My father was a traditionalist alpha.” You say, something they also knew by your status. It was printed all over your file, squeezed in every place it could be as a reminder of your worth to whomever was reading it. “It was because we were already on base that they got to me so fast.” You explain. “It was my dad’s status in the Marines that got me into FIOT.”

“What was it like, in the institute?” Gaz asks, wanting to change the subject a bit, if only to ease the sourness in your scent.

You huff out a laugh, the corner of your lips lifting in a smile. “Not unlike the military, I think. We had strict schedules we stuck to every day. Everything was dictated for us, what we wore, what we learned, what we did with our free time and how often we got it. Even what we ate was chosen for us. We always had to be ready to be tested at any time, and we were always being observed.”

“Your test scores were high.” Price remarks.

You shrug. “I’m a perfect omega, or so my instructors always said. It comes easily to me. I don’t really have to think much about it.”

“Did you really kneel for two hours straight?” Gaz asks.

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah. There was one day...it was a couple years ago. I don’t know what caused it but there was something in the air. We were all on edge and worked up. The director got tired of us and made us all kneel in the mess hall during our two hour afternoon break. No cushions, no pillows. Just all forty of us, kneeling on the marble floor for two hours. Not everyone could do it. Quite a few got too fidgety, couldn’t handle the pain. Three even passed out.”

“How did you manage it?” Gaz asks.

Price wasn’t a fan of using instinctual habits as punishment. It left a bad taste in his mouth, and he can only imagine what else you could say they forced you to do with such nonchalance.

“To be honest, I don’t remember most of it. I just let my mind go somewhere else and before I knew it the time was up.” You shrug.

“We won’t make you kneel for two hours.” Price says. “And definitely not without a pillow.”

You smile softly. “Thank you, sir.”

Price watches you, the way your eyes dart around the room again, the sour edge of your scent gone, but the tang of anxiety remains. You’ve relaxed some, though, your shoulders are not quite so tense and you’ve stopped picking at your nails.

Ghost has remained silent the entire time you’ve spoken, eyes glued on you. You’ve tried not to look at him, finding your words get stuck in your throat whenever you meet his gaze.

He’s going to be a problem.

“There’s some rules we need to go over before anything else.” Price says. “You have freedom to roam this building as you please, but one of us will escort you if you need to go elsewhere at least until you’ve been marked. There’s other alphas on this base and I don’t want them getting any ideas.”

You knew well enough omegas frequented the barracks on bases often. You don’t want to be mistaken as one. Even with their scents on you, you know that won’t stop some. You’re not even sure a mark will stop them either.

“I want full transparency. If something happens you come to me, or you call Kate if we’re gone. If you need anything too, the same order stands.” You’re beginning to detect the edge to his voice, The Captain slipping through his more casual demeanor. “We have some downtime to adjust for now, but sometimes we may leave for weeks at a time. It will be rough, I won’t lie to you, but Kate pulled some strings and there’s an Omega Specialist that’s been brought in for you. You’ll meet her later, I’m sure she wants to do a full workup.”

You’ve met many Omega Specialists in your time. The beta medical professionals that go through specialized training so they can assist and treat omegas better than regular doctors and medics. Most of them go through a residency at Institutes, studying and practicing on young omegas. The thought of having at least someone who might understand you on a deeper level is comforting.

“I’m starving, let’s get the scenting over with.” Soap nearly whines, rubbing his stomach.

His words strike a chord of nervous energy in you again. You had been prepared many times for the scenting. You’d seen instructional videos and done mock practices with your fellow omegas. Yet you feel like it’s not going to be enough. These were real alphas and betas, your pack. What if you don’t like the way they smell?

What if they don’t like the way you smell?

“If you’re alright with it?” Price says, looking at you.

You’re taken aback by the offer for consent. You weren’t expecting it, as this was something you have to do. What would happen if you said no? Would they respect your boundaries? The fact you had been asked at all is shocking to you. You won’t say no, because you’ll have to do it eventually, and at least this way you’ll be walking around smelling like them. If nothing else, it might make this transition a bit easier.

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing down your nerves. “I’m okay with it.”

All five of you stand from the table, your stomach churning with nervous energy. You try to clear your head, try to calm yourself so you don’t stink them out with your anxiety. You need your scent to be clear, to be as tantalizing as possible.

“Don’t look so worried, lass.” Soap says as they gather around you. “We won’t bite.” He winks at you playfully.

Your cheeks warm as Price steps up to you. He is right, that would come later. Likely during your first heat when Price would give you his mark and claim you as his. It wasn’t unusual for packs with multiple alphas to let more than one claim an omega, but judging from what you’ve seen of Ghost, you’re not sure that’s going to happen.

He had a right to claim you too, but from the look of it, he was the least excited about your joining their pack.

You tense as Price’s hands settle on your waist, lifting you up so you’re seated on the edge of the table, putting you closer to being eye-to-eye with them. They’re all so big, the natural consequence of genetics and their jobs.

“Ready?”

You turn to look up at Price, close enough you can see the freckles on his nose and the grey in his blue eyes. You nod, pressing your hands into the table as you bare your neck for him. Your heart is fluttering in your chest as he leans in closer, pressing his face against your neck. His beard tickles your skin as he rubs his face against your scent gland, warm breaths fanning against your skin.

He pulls away just slightly, baring his own neck to you. You press forward, gripping the edge of the table as you press your face against his throat. You catch the scents you had picked up on his shirt in your room, the surface level scents that were environmental. You close your eyes, inhaling deeper. Woody. Pine? Spruce? It reminds you of a candle your mother used to burn. There’s another scent, the one that lingers. Petrichor, you think, rubbing your face against his scent gland.

His hand on your side pulls you back from your scent-induced haze, and you force yourself back from him. You take deep breaths of the sterile air in the meeting room, picking up his scent more clearly now as it mixes with the others.

“Good girl.” He says, squeezing your side gently. Something flutters in your stomach at his praise, some deep primal part of your brain preening at the thought of making your alpha proud. “Ghost.” He says, stepping back from you.

You’re snapped back into reality as the hulking alpha steps up towards you, moving almost silently. You try to keep yourself calm as he stalks towards you, his sharp gaze burning into yours.

He’s testing you.

You won’t satisfy him, holding his gaze as he reaches you, his thighs pressing against your knees. One hand comes to rest next to your hip on the table, his body leaning in towards you. You’re enveloped by the black fabric of his sweatshirt as his other hand reaches up to tug his balaclava up. Stubble tickles your skin as he presses his face against your throat, breathing in deeply. He lets out a quiet sound as he scents you, almost akin to a growl.

He shifts his weight, pressing his uncovered scent gland against your face. You close your eyes, inhaling deeply. Gunpowder and metal stings your nose again, along with the scent of his body wash. You press deeper into his throat, seeking out his natural scent. Something deep and musky washes over you, like suede or leather. There’s something fresh in there too, almost like eucalyptus. You press your face closer, inhaling it deeply. Your head spins, and you’re sure your knees would have given out if you hadn’t been sitting.

Something rumbles in Ghost's chest as you scent him in a daze. While all alphas’ scents carried a natural musk, Ghosts seems to shoot directly to some deep part of your brain even Price’s scent hadn’t reached.

You let out a quiet whine as he’s pulled from you, his mask back in place by the time you pry your eyes open. Ghost is leaning back against the wall, eyes back to their icy stare as he watches you. Your head is still spinning as someone steps up next to you, taking Ghost’s place.

“How ya doing?” Gaz asks, eyes assessing you. “Hanging in there?”

You nod, taking a couple deep breaths to try and clear your head.

“You’re halfway there.” He says, leaning in closer. “Got through the hard part.”

His breath fans your neck as he leans in, the familiar scent of beta flooding your senses. He was likely doing it on purpose, trying to calm you after the intensity of being scented by two alphas. You breathe in the almondy scent, relaxing into him as he scents you. Your hands raise, gripping his shoulders as he presses his neck close to your face. You seek out the source of the calming scent, pressing your nose into his scent gland.

You’re drawn from the room and to the time your family took a trip to the beach when your father was stationed in North Carolina. Salty sea air, briney and clean, and something else, something soft. Like the clean linen scented spray your mother used on the laundry. You’re clinging to him, his arms around you as you relax into his scent. The tingling energy that had begun to build up at the proximity to the alphas fades as you melt into the calming energy of the beta in front of you.

“Easy.” He says, his hand on the back of your head as he pulls you away from him. You take a deep breath, trying to clear your head. “Still with us?” He asks, meeting your gaze.

“Yeah.” You say, sounding breathless. You knew scenting could be intense, but you hadn’t expected it to feel quite like this.

“Almost done, hen.” Soap says, taking Gaz’s place in front of you. “Lucky there’s only four of us.”

He’s right, you think as you bear your throat for him. You’re not sure you could have handled it had there been more of them. You already feel like you’re floating, enveloped in so many scents you’re not sure what to do. That tingling has begun at the back of your neck as Soap scents you, your eyes meeting Ghost’s. The look in them has changed, his body poised like he’s ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

Soap pulls back, blocking your view of him as he bears his throat to you. You press your face into his neck, pushing past the scents you knew, and that beta scent, looking for him.

You inhale deeply, the scent of warm spices invading your nose. It smells like the holidays, cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger enveloping you. You can almost taste the apple pie, see the gingerbread houses. You cling to his shirt, holding him against you as you rub your face against his throat.

You’re trembling just slightly as Soap withdraws from your hold. It’s subtle, but to them, highly aware soldiers, it’s likely clear as day. Your skin is buzzing, like the fluorescent lights above you. You can hear it now, the buzz of electricity. Your pupils are blown, the room suddenly clearer and sharper.

“There she is.” The low grumble of Price’s voice begins to pull you from your heightened state, your eyes turning to him as his hand cups your cheek.

You press into the rough palm of his hand, eyes picking up the grey in his beard and hair as he stands in front of you. He’s older than you, they’re all older than you. Older than you, bigger than you, stronger than you. A small tickle of fear begins to itch in the back of your mind, drawing you from your daze.

You’re vulnerable, entirely vulnerable and incapable of defending yourself against them. Forgetting second genders, they’re all much stronger than you, not to mention trained fighters. You’d be fucked if they decided to try anything, if they wanted to do anything. You’d be entirely helpless against them.

They could if they wanted to.

It would be well within their rights. Even though you had just met, even though you bore no claiming mark, there was nothing stopping them. You couldn’t stop them, and no one would help you.

“You hungry, pup?”

Price’s voice cuts through your fearful daze. There’s a slight furrow to his brow, likely picking up the sharp edge seeping into your scent. Omega fear and distress was the one defense nature gave to your kind, aside from the omega itself. It’s a putrid scent meant to ward off alphas and betas. You’ve heard it described as smelling like sulfur, burning coals, gasoline, melting plastic, and sometimes even the ozonic scent that accompanied alphas in a true rage. It was a warning, but it doesn't always work.

Pup. Price called you Pup.

You haven’t been called “pup” since you were a pup. It’s a commonly used nickname for any status. You remember your father calling your older brothers pup, even after they presented. It could be derogatory, but it’s more commonly used affectionately. He’s trying to ease your discomfort, the fear welling up inside you.

The door is open, the fresh air of the hallway watering down the heavy mix of scents that had become trapped in the room. Soap and Gaz have already stepped out, Ghosts hulking figure blocking the doorway for a moment as he follows them, leaving you alone with Price for a moment.

“Alright?” Price asks as your gaze meets his again.

You nod, still leaning into his touch. “Yeah, ‘s a lot.”

“I know.” His thumb strokes your cheek, a knowing glint in his eyes. He leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Don’t tell him I told you this, but Soap nearly passed out when we scented him.”

You cover your mouth to stifle your giggle. It wasn’t unusual for scentings to become so intense that the receiver passes out. You’re sure if there had been more than four in your new pack you would have passed out.

“Come on.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist to lift you off the table and onto unsteady legs. He doesn’t even grunt with the effort, moving you easily. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not entirely one of fear.

His hand is warm on your back as he leads you out of the room, the clean air in the hallway clearing your head further. Most bases have circulating air systems, constantly filtering out scents to keep things as neutral as possible. They’re less effective in smaller areas though, especially after scents were intentionally projected. Most military members wore scent blockers, at least while performing their duties. You remember your father coming home at the end of the day with the dull burn of scent blocker still on his clothes.

Your head is still spinning a bit as you follow them out of the barracks and towards the mess hall. They seem to almost walk in a formation, though you suppose with years of having it drilled in your head, it’s almost second nature. You’re sandwiched between Soap and Gaz in the middle, Price in front and Ghost bringing up the rear.

The other personnel on the base give your group a wide berth, and even in the mess you can feel the glances, but none of the stares linger. Price guides you next to him as you get your food, adding things to your tray for you. That tickling feeling starts again at the back of your neck as he makes your plate, your omega preening happily at the knowledge of what he’s doing.

He’s proving his ability as a provider.

In more primordial times he might have gone out and hunted for food to bring back to you to prove his capabilities. Even in more modern times, he might have hunted as some alphas still did, or he would have gone to the store to keep the fridge stocked full of food. Alphas are good at adapting to their surroundings and situations. He’s proving his capabilities in the way he can.

You’re also silently grateful to not have to think too hard about the choices in front of you. Even after a week, British food is still a bit unfamiliar to you. It’s not entirely indiscernible, though, and you’re sure you could pick out things that sounded good if you had to. At this moment, though, with your head still reeling a bit and the unsettling energy of a new place filled with unknown alphas and betas, you’re happy to let Price do it for you.

He carries your tray and his to a table, sitting you next to him. Gaz takes your other side, Soap and Ghost sitting across from you. The choices in their seating arrangement don’t feel quite so random to you, and you quickly realize the arrangement is similar to the room setup in the barracks.

A beta for each alpha, you think. Gaz and Price. Soap and Ghost.

Then there’s you, stuck somewhere in the middle of them. Somehow you’ll fit between them, squeezing into their perfect dynamic. Omegas are supposed to help balance packs, but as you sit with the four members of your new pack, you can’t help but feel like you’re only going to make things more difficult.

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I'm willing to put together a taglist if people are interested...

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #141 x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #cod x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #gaz x reader #kyle garrick x reader #soap x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #a/b/o

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