#Chief Surgeon Who?

[klingerfashionarchive]

season 1 episode 4

[symphonyincoordination]

For your consideration. This cape?

Has to be the same one, right?

I think he would have donated it for the occasion 😊

[jonberry555]

I Watched the M*A*S*H: Chief Surgeon Who? | Season 1 Episode 4 | Retro Review

[raywritesthings]

Wanted to know how much Frank’s $35,000 house really cost. Don’t have a figure for his two cars, though.

[timeloopmash]

Third Episode: Summer 1950 SO1EO4 Chief Surgeon Who?

Frank Burns complains about Hawkeye taking over in OR - answering questions, giving advice, giving instructions. Frank occupies his time writing form letters to his patients in his civilian practice and brags that he has a 35,000 dollar house and two cars and Hawkeye was still working in a hospital when he was drafted.

Henry Blake resolves the issue of rank by appointing Hawkeye Pierce Chief Surgeon. Frank is appalled. Margaret and he compose a letter to General Barker, who shows up again played by the same actor. First sighting of Corporal Klinger, in a dress, then naked, greeted by General Barker with "Still bucking for a Section 8, Klinger?" Radar is found in Colonel Blake's office drinking Blake's whisky and smoking one of his cigars.

Barker is convinced that Hawkeye knows what he's doing by the sneaky trick of Hawkeye actually knowing what he's doing, and heads off happily telling Blake that Frank should be given a high colonic and go for a ten mile march.

Trapper's function is to play poker, provide backup, and conduct Hawkeye's coronation ceremony in the mess tent. Frank concludes the episode by voluntarily asking Hawkeye for help in OR.

[remyfire]

I saw a man so beautiful I started crying?

[majorbaby]

happy oliver jones sunday feat. ginger ❤️‍🔥💖

[mashpoll]

Tuttle (s1 e15): Hawkeye creates a fictional captain in order to give the local orphanage money and medical supplies.

Chief Surgeon Who? (s1 e4): To Frank’s dismay, Hawkeye is promoted to chief surgeon, which prompts Frank to call General Barker to the 4077th.

[catboyhawk]

am i passionate about catboy!hawkeye to a worrying almost furry-esque degree? maybe but that is frankly none of your business

[thebreakfastgenie]

E. W. Swackhammer, directing the fourth episode of M*A*S*H, Chief Surgeon Who?, in 1972: yeah it's fine we can just use this take even though Alan almost broke after that extra slapped his ass, it goes by so fast no one is going to notice

Steve Wilhite, inventing the GIF in 1987, setting the stage for enthusiastic fans to watch tiny moments of their favorite shows on a constant loop they can widely share with each other: >:-)

[prince-of-elsinore]

Dear M*A*S*H: S1 Ep 04 “Chief Surgeon Who”

Previous episode here.

Aka, Pilot Redux.

This episode does everything the pilot does, only better. It contains a thesis statement of sorts--this time, surprisingly, in the mouth of Henry Blake to Frank Burns: “We can’t be so G.I. we lose patients”; it contains a broad introduction to the camp’s zaniness and co-ed shenanigans, which General Barker experiences as he wanders around looking for Col. Blake; it deftly illustrates the main relationship dynamics of the camp, especially between Frank and Margaret; it puts proof to the claim that Hawkeye is the best surgeons around; it even repeats the beat of a general coming around to apologize for judging Hawkeye prematurely. It also does something the pilot does not; it establishes one of the few permanent changes that will occur in the early seasons, in the form of Hawkeye being named Chief Surgeon. If this change was going to occur so early anyway, my narrative-structure-loving brain insists that this would make a perfect inciting incident for the series as a whole. Overall, this episode strikes me as the Pilot that should have been.

We open with the excellent image of Trapper John using two bedpans for a foot soak. What could sum up the spirit of Trapper and Hawkeye better? Hospital equipment--designed specifically as shit receptacles, no less--appropriated for personal pleasure, a sorry approximation of what they’d rather be doing and where they’d rather be (much like golf in the minefield, or any time the two of them sip martinis together in lawn chairs in front of the Swamp). It also serves a practical purpose related directly to one of the many discomforts associated with their work; Trapper complains that he wishes they’d let them operate sitting down. The long hours in O.R. will be a well of discomfort the show draws from again and again; here they’re evoked through an efficient, characterful visual gag.

While Trapper is soaking and Hawkeye is drinking a martini and hugging a guitar (does he even play it? An odd detail, chosen for its aesthetic more than anything, I suspect), Frank has been busy typing away. He interjects, “Haven’t you two anything better to do when you’re off-duty than to lie around and swill gin?” This peevish comment not only sets him apart from Trapper and Hawkeye, it also introduces the main conflict. The driving force of the episode is the clash of personalities between Hawkeye and Frank: an interpersonal conflict, for the first time, rather than an externally imposed one. While both internal and external conflict can lend themselves to good storytelling, it’s satisfying to see a show able to mine its own cast of characters for motivated plot lines this early in the game, and it breaks up the repetitive pattern of the the previous three episodes.

The following exchange about what Frank is typing offers us Frank Burns in a nutshell, fully formed as he has not yet been presented to us. He’s writing his patients back home--not because he’s concerned for them, mind you; they’re form letters, he tells Hawkeye without shame. No, Frank Burns is concerned only for himself and retaining the patients whom he sees as nothing but the cash cows that have allowed him to buy his infamous “$35,000 house and two cars.” The exaggeration of his military exploits in his letters also give us a taste of Frank’s jingoism and yearning for wartime glory.

The bickering continues in O.R. and comes to a head when Oliver, a brain surgeon, asks the others what to do about a pancreatic injury. Frank and Hawkeye give conflicting answers; Frank’s is by the book, but Hawkeye’s is based on more recent medical knowledge. “You’re a year behind in journals,” he accuses. This humiliation prompts Frank to file a complaint with Col. Blake pressing charges against Hawkeye, which in turn prompts Col. Blake to appoint a head surgeon to avoid future conflict.

“You may just turn out to be one of the good guys yet, Henry.”

Henry’s unorthodox decision to make Hawkeye Chief Surgeon, despite Frank outranking him, is a turning point for his character. It’s the first time he’s been more than passively aligned with Hawkeye; he’s actually taking a stance for the moral position of the show, and at some personal risk. He knows Hawkeye is the better surgeon, but is wary of his irreverent ways. “Don’t let me down,” he tells Hawkeye, and Hawkeye responds, “Would I do anything to disgrace this uniform?” He’s wearing, of course, nothing but his boxers, undershirt, and robe. But that outfit is the Hawkeye uniform. It represents the man and his values far better than his Class As. In a way, him swearing on his beloved ratty, red robe is as good a promise as you can get out of him. He’ll be the better Chief Surgeon because of who he is and because he puts the patients first, not the Army and its empty symbols. Henry knows this, and casts his lot with Hawkeye.

There’s an ironic exchange between Frank and Hawkeye in Henry’s office: Frank says, “You were still working in a hospital when they called you up,” (as opposed to Frank, who’d been in practice 3 years) to which Hawkeye says, “I realize it’s ridiculous for a doctor to work in a hospital. It really screws up your golf.” Presumably, working in a hospital has not earned Hawkeye a $35,000 house and two cars. Here the show seems to be venturing beyond its usual purview of poking fun at military hypocrisy to question American consumerism and supposed meritocracy at large.

The face of disappointment

The scenes between Frank and Margaret reveal the true underpinnings of their relationship. It’s not just a love of “the Army way” that unites them; it’s a parasitic feedback loop in which Frank turns to Margaret for comfort and validation of his masculinity, and Margaret enables his grovelling by babying him while longing for a “real” man. Margaret no doubt believes she can “fix” him. They both want the other to parent them, but only Frank gets his needs met. Later, when she and Frank are canoodling in her tent and he asks to be called “tiger,” it’s pretty clear she’s not really into it. Oh Margaret, you can do so much better! In light of this unsatisfying arrangement, I don’t find it hard to believe that she is happy to receive the attentions of the generals that pass through in these early days.

“What’d I get on the humble-meter?”

At Hawkeye’s “coronation ceremony,” he says the following in his speech: “When you live in a cruddy situation like this long enough, you get to love a few people, and even hate a few. I guess outside of our families, we’ll never be closer to anybody than we are to each other.” One of his hands is on Radar’s shoulder, the other on Trapper’s. There’s a moment of solemn silence, and then Trapper breaks in: “You finished?” Hawkeye asks him, “What’d I get on the humble-meter?” I can’t help but compare this moment to another Hakweye speech where he talks about his love for the 4077 family, the eulogy he gives in S11 Ep05 “Who Knew?” By that point the show, and Hawkeye himself, was far beyond the point of undercutting a heartfelt moment with humor. And by then, it’s truly earned, after Hawkeye’s been there nearly three years.

I suppose one could think that Hawkeye is being genuine here, and only pulls back due to Trapper’s interjection, but I don’t believe there’s anything in his characterization thus far to suggest that. The only times Hawkeye gets serious are when he’s angry. He doesn’t do sincere; not yet. This a perfect example of Hawkeye the irreverent performer. He says exactly the sort of thing one is “supposed” to say in that sort of speech, and then Trapper sets him up for the “humble-meter” punchline. Besides, he’s only been in Korea a few months at most. I don’t doubt his fondness for Radar and Trapper, but they’re not like family just yet.

Finally, General Barker arrives, answering Frank’s call (though of course, he really comes because of Margaret, of whom he clearly has fond memories). Frank complains that the new chief surgeon is keeping a patient waiting in surgery while he plays poker. As Hawkeye explains to Barker, he has a sound medical reason; he’s waiting for the patient to stabilize to see if operation is truly necessary, and has a nurse keeping close watch. As opposed to in the pilot, where General Hammond was convinced of Hawkeye and Trapper’s skill after witnessing a routine O.R. session, here Hawkeye’s medical judgment is directly questioned and then proven. When he finally is forced to operate on the patient, he explains to General Barker his rationale for going about the operation the way he does. He looks for a small hole in the patient’s lingula, something he only knows to check for through experience, and thus wins General Barker’s respect. We’re shown, not told, just how good Hawkeye is at his job and why he deserves to be Chief Surgeon.

“This place is a madhouse, Henry, a nut farm!”

General Barker’s little tour through the camp while looking for Henry is as fine a summation of the 4077 as any. He encounters no fewer than four amorous couples: the soldier hiding the prostitute under his poncho (I thought nurse at first, but the high heels and apparent shortness of her skirt seem to point toward working girl); Oliver and Ginger playing “strip dominoes,” a game I’m pretty sure they invented; Margaret and Frank, proving they’re no “better” than the rest of them; and Henry himself with a nurse, whom Henry, bless his heart, is excited to show the worms he’s caught for fishing. Barker also finds Radar posted up at Henry’s desk drinking his brandy and smoking his cigars while reading comic books. While this isn’t exactly in keeping with Radar’s later innocent and wide-eyed characterization, to me this is a perfect encapsulation of a child trying on the trappings of manhood. It especially strikes a chord when I think of how Radar would come to look up to Henry as a pseudo-father-figure. And, of course, Barker encounters Corporal Klinger, and finally it feels like I’m really watching MASH. When Barker informs Henry that the man on guard duty is wearing a skirt, Henry’s response is, “Yeah, well, luckily he’s got the legs for it!” It might have been meant as nothing but a throwaway joke, but I’m adding a point to the “Henry’s one of the good guys” column.

Other thoughts:

We get Hawkeye’s first mention of a sister, though I suspect it’s just a matter of speech; he needs his poker winnings so he can buy his sister a new truss (I assume in the medical sense of “a device worn to reduce a hernia by pressure,” which adds to my conviction that the whole thing is a joke)

Henry doesn’t seem all that bothered by Klinger appearing naked. I wish I could hear what he was saying to Barker.

Frank actually asks Hawkeye for help in the O.R. at the end! I would say that’s growth, but it doesn’t seem to stick.

Favorite line: the line that might have made me fall in love with MASH on my first watch, Hawkeye’s recipe for a perfect martini: “You pour six jiggers of gin and you drink it while staring at a picture of Lorenzo Schwartz, the inventor of vermouth.” (Although Hawk seems to have pulled this name out of his ass. Antonio Benedetto Carpano is credited with the invention of vermouth, while Joseph Noilly was the first to create a dry version, in 1813.)

A note: I won’t be attempting to do a write-up for every episode. I’m planning to skip to those I have the most to say about, or perhaps combine some strings of episodes together.

[magpigment]

a little concerned about uh. williams opinions about this doctors morality?? he’s like ‘yeah this doctor who’s in prison for child endangerment and dangerous experimental practices on children is equivalent to doctors who fail to save someone in a surgery. this is a reasonable argument that i would be willing to break this person out of prison for. there is not a single flaw in this ideology’. like. hello?? i’m not the only one who thinks he’s a tad off the rails about this right???

[nimuetheseawitch]

6 jiggers of gin and staring at a picture of Lorenzo Schwartz. This is the driest possible martini according to Hawkeye Pierce.

[reasonsforhope]

"The first modern attempt at transferring a uterus from one human to another occurred at the turn of the millennium. But surgeons had to remove the organ, which had become necrotic, 99 days later. The first successful transplant was performed in 2011 — but even then, the recipient wasn’t immediately able to get pregnant and deliver a baby. It took three more years for the first person in the world with a transplanted uterus to give birth. 

More than 70 such babies have been born globally in the decade since. “It’s a complete new world,” said Giuliano Testa, chief of abdominal transplant at Baylor University Medical Center.

Almost a third of those babies — 22 and counting — have been born in Dallas at Baylor. On Thursday, Testa and his team published a major cohort study in JAMA analyzing the results from the program’s first 20 patients. All women were of reproductive age and had no uterus (most having been born without one), but had at least one functioning ovary. Most of the uteri came from living donors, but two came from deceased donors.

Fourteen women had successful transplants, all of whom were able to have at least one baby.  

“That success rate is extraordinary, and I want that to get out there,” said Liza Johannesson, the medical director of uterus transplants at Baylor, who works with Testa and co-authored the study. “We want this to be an option for all women out there that need it.”

Six patients had transplant failures, all within two weeks of the procedure. Part of the problem may have been a learning curve: The study initially included only 10 patients, and five of the six with failed transplants were in that first group. These were “technical” failures, Testa said, involving aspects of the surgery such as how surgeons connected the organ’s blood vessels, what material was used for sutures, and selecting a uterus that would work well in a transplant. 

The team saw only one transplant fail in the second group of 10 people, the researchers said. All 20 transplants took place between September 2016 and August 2019.

Only one other cohort study has previously been published on uterus transplants, in 2022. A Swedish team, which included Johannesson before she moved to Baylor, performed seven successful transplants out of nine attempts. Six women, including the first transplant recipient to ever deliver a baby back in 2014, gave birth.

“It’s hard to extract data from that, because they were the first ones that did it,” Johannesson said. “This is the first time we can actually see the safety and efficacy of this procedure properly.”

So far, the signs are good: High success rates for transplants and live births, safe and healthy children so far, and early signs that immunosuppressants — typically given to transplant recipients so their bodies don’t reject the new organ — may not cause long-term harm, the researchers said. (The uterine transplants are removed after recipients no longer need them to deliver children.) And the Baylor team has figured out how to identify the right uterus for transfer: It should be from a donor who has had a baby before, is premenopausal, and, of course, who matches the blood type of the recipient, Testa said...

“They’ve really embraced the idea of practicing improvement as you go along, to understand how to make this safer or more effective. And that’s reflected in the results,” said Jessica Walter, an assistant professor of reproductive endocrinology and infertility at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, who co-authored an editorial on the research in JAMA...

Walter was a skeptic herself when she first learned about uterine transplants. The procedure seemed invasive and complicated. But she did her fellowship training at Penn Medicine, home to one of just four programs in the U.S. doing uterine transplants. 

“The firsts — the first time the patient received a transplant, the first time she got her period after the transplant, the positive pregnancy test,” Walter said. “Immersing myself in the science, the patients, the practitioners, and researchers — it really changed my opinion that this is science, and this is an innovation like anything else.” ...

Many transgender women are hopeful that uterine transplants might someday be available for them, but it’s likely a far-off possibility. Scientists need to rewind and do animal studies on how a uterus might fare in a different “hormonal milieu” before doing any clinical trials of the procedure with trans people, Wagner said.

Among cisgender women, more long-term research is still needed on the donors, recipients, and the children they have, experts said.

“We want other centers to start up,” Johannesson said. “Our main goal is to publish all of our data, as much as we can.”"

-via Stat, August 16, 2024

[aeyumicore]

misty invasion - hidden motive

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: zayne x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with some/little plot, porn with feelings

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 3.6k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight spoilers to ‘hidden motive’ (zayne’s misty invasion card), knee humping, titty sucking, titty sucking through clothes, titty nibbling (zayne is a boobie fiend), slight predator and prey, switch!zayne (he’s dom but kinda needy and vulnerable), use of Y/N, sub!reader, unprotected sex, cumming in panties, reader on top

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: video | ao3 | sylus's version | raf's version | xav's version

━ ✧.˖ A/N: haiiii guyssss i decided to upload the boys’ misty invasion fics one at a time! first up is baby zayne <3 his card inspired me so much, it was so intimate and passionate. 

next up will probably be sylus, hopefully will post in maybe 3ish days! I haven’t watched raf’s or xav’s but i have ideas for them. I’m excited to write, i’m praying i don’t burn out…hope you guys enjoy :) love ya’ll! also i am more active on twitter if you guys would like to follow me there, my link is in my masterpost!

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

Spontaneity was not something Zayne preferred to indulge in.

He had enough of it in his hectic surgery schedule, so in his personal life he tried to keep things as predictable as possible. 

Yet he was graced with an absolute menace of a girlfriend, who, from the second she walked into his life, created chaos in her wake. Always running off on faraway Hunter missions, telling him only after she’d already left. Coming back injured, with a frustratingly adorable and sheepish smile, trying, and failing, to convince him she was fine. 

God, you drove him utterly insane.

Which is why now, the normally composed, self-assured, and controlled, chief cardiac surgeon was unraveling at the seams beneath your seemingly innocent touch.

“Why does it smell sweeter than usual?” Zayne’s voice is raspy and breathless from the torrid and heated kiss the two of you had just been locked in. The razor blade and shaving cream had long since been discarded and forgotten. 

Before you can respond, he’s pulling your wrist towards his reddened face, making you fall on top of him from your seat on his lap. You’re left straddling his one knee as you fall forward. Your wrist grips the leather recliner cushion by his head to catch you as he cups your lower back, just above your rear, pressing your body deeper into his.

He nuzzles his face into your wrist that's planted beside his head, absolutely enraptured by the scent of your lotion. The scent of you. 

Taking another deef lung full of your pheromones mixed with your fruity lotion, his intense hazel eyes desperately seek yours, like he’s conveying his desires with the golden green orbs. You open your mouth to question his unusual behavior, but Zayne’s one step ahead of you. His knee raises to push your backside towards him, making you lose your grip completely and collapse completely atop him. 

The recliner chair swings wildly at your combined movements, and you find yourself struggling to steady yourself. In your brief moment of helplessness, Zayne hoists you towards him, burying his face into your chest. His lips find your collarbone instantly, his knee nestled between your thighs to help balance you. 

You gasp at his tongue lapping languidly at your fragrant skin, your fingers grasping his shoulders as he sucks at your sensitive collar, no doubt leaving a bruise. His lips dance dangerously close to where your silk camisole hangs off the swell of your breasts. 

“Are you taking a break from work?” you ask between your raspy pants. Zayne continues to indulge in your skin, moving lower until his face meets your hardened nipples, separated only by a thin layer of silk. His tongue softly brushes against the soft material of your top, stroking at the swollen peaks through the smooth fabric. His knee grinds into your thighs, craving the warmth and dampness of his most favorite place.

He has to physically pry himself away from your chest, a dusting of deep peach painting his flustered face.

“Do I look like I can work right now?” His question is simple, but the aggressive demand that hides underneath them is urgent, nearly feral. You don’t get a chance to get another word out before he’s sinking back into the warmth of your chest.

This time, his lips close over your entire nipple through the soft silk of your sleeping cami, making you cry out in surprise. Your fingers grip his hair as he absolutely devours you through your top, the silk dampening with his saliva. His teeth come down to graze your sensitive peaks and you have to push him back before you lose yourself to the pleasure.

“...You don’t have to be so intense,” you urge him, despite the clear and inarguable fact that you want more. Clear from the way the panties you’d slept in start to dampen against his bare knee that peeks out from his robe. 

Zayne looks unamused, almost sulky, as he mutters, “No working, and not allowed to do anything else…” He looks up at you, mischief briefly flashing across his eyes

He sits up, wrapping his strong arm around your shoulder and bringing you to him in an intimate embrace. You flail forward at his sudden movements, the rocking of the recliner chair making it impossible to find any balance. He takes the opportunity to drive his knee deeper into your core, making you moan lewdly. His chin rests on your bare shoulder, words hot and breathy against your pulsing neck, “Well then…my love, what exactly do you allow me to do?” 

His actions make it difficult for you to speak, brain focussing solely on the pleasure he’s both giving you and keeping from you. At your wordless moans of excitement, Zayne continues.  

“Will you allow me to do this?” he rocks his knee deeper into you, effectively humping you against his leg. Your nails dig into his muscled back at the unexpected ecstasy, his knee rubbing against your clit in the most sinfully perfect ways. 

Zayne hisses at the feeling of the sting of your nails, only making him more desperate to take you right there on his living room chair, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

With his lips at your neck, he slowly and torturously pulls the flimsy straps of your loose top down, until your breasts are pressing against his exposed chest underneath his luxurious bathrobe. 

His hands descend to hold your waist firmly, gently pulling you away from his chest so his hungry mouth can find your soft breasts again. 

You throw your head backwards when his warm and wet mouth captures your bare skin into its embrace. Zayne is absolutely relentless, bouncing you filthily on his thigh as he absolutely devours your breasts. His teeth and tongue work in tandem to suckle pretty little bruises into the swell of your chest, and around your pert nipples. 

Zayne looks up at you from underneath his eyelashes, heated irises drinking in your quivering form atop him. His erection pushes against the feeble restraints of his tied robe, creating a tent in his lap that twitches with anticipation. It brushes against your stomach as he grinds his knee into you, giving him just enough friction to need to bite into your breast to hold back his desperate moans. 

You cling to him, trusting him to take all control of your body and of your pleasure. Your nails continue to draw angry red welts into his back, as you feel the familiar coiling of ecstasy in your gut. 

You tap desperately on his shoulders, not wanting to make a mess in your panties that are already sticking to your wet folds.

“Z-Zayne, wait I —” 

He brings his thumb to your lips, pressing softly against your parted lips, all the while his own lips never leave your aching tits. Against them, he mumbles, “Don’t deny me. Please.”

You’re briefly snapped out of the mind numbing pleasure of your quickly approaching orgasm at the sound of his plea, bordering on a feral demand. It’s so rare to hear him so unraveled and desperate, to hear him demanding things from you. A man who never asked anything of anyone, especially not of you, the one person he treasured more than life itself. It’s so rare and raw that you can’t help but want to give him everything he wants. 

You bury your face into the top of his head, his addicting scent invading your senses, and you kiss him gently, “Never, I would never deny you.”

Zayne inhales sharply, groaning at your sweet words, ”Good girl.” He pulls you down fully on top of him again, the leather chair reclining until it’s nearly flat. Your ass is arched into the air, your face pressed into his chest, as his knee pushes into you with renewed vigor. 

His lips find themselves sucking urgently at your nipples again, his knee moving faster, wanting to see his beautiful girl come undone all over his thighs. His tongue lathers tortuous circles around your hardened and swollen peaks, soothing the areas in which his teeth bite down softly. 

“Let me see you, love. Please. I haven’t gotten to feel you since you ran off into danger without telling me, again.”

Your heart clenched as you realized that was where all this desperation and vulnerability was coming from. You want to apologize, but his unforgiving knee against your weeping cunt made it nearly impossible to get the syllables out.

“I-I’m – nnghh – m’sorry.” 

His hand roughly grabs your chin, turning you to level with his smoldering hazel eyes. His voice is gruff and inquisitive, eyebrows raised in doubt, “Are you, sweetheart?”

You whine at his words, his actions only becoming more relentless, as if forcing the responses he wants out of you, “I am!”

The corner of his lips curl up, so faint you can barely see it. An arrogance Zayne so rarely lets show. 

“Then show me. Show me how sorry you are.” With each demand, his leg drives harshly into your clit. You nod vigorously, eager to please him.

His darkened green eyes cling to yours, his voice deceptively calm and soothing, “Say it, love.” 

You want to respond but the way he’s punctuating his every word with a hard intentional thrust of his knee into your aching cunt makes it impossible to do anything but moan lewdly into his ear, your head hanging down with your hair falling over your eyes.

He pinches your abused nipple, guiding your eyes back to his demanding hazel ones, the golden flecks glowing brightly as they savor the sight of you.

“I-I’m – unghh – s-sorry. Should’ve told you. I’ll be good, just-just let me cum f’you!” You bury your face into his neck, embarrassed by the words coming out of your mouth but unable to stop them all the same. 

“Let me see you,” he grunts. When you lift your head, bleary eyes fixing on his, he smiles. It's faint but effervescently warm. 

“That’s my girl. Now tell me, hm? How is my beautiful girl going to make it up to me?”

Your eyes fill with tears, overwhelmed by the pleasure his knee brings you, and the raw feelings that are masked behind his lewd words. His facade of filthy demands that hide the suffocating emotions, the same emotions he’d felt when he saw your name on the list of hunters dispatched to the wanderer quarantine zone. Emotions that he was now taking out on your ever-so responsive body. 

“Anything you want Zayne, anything,” you gasp, your eyes locked into his as he continues to hump his knee into you, 

His breath catches audibly at your words, pulling your chin towards him to capture your lips in a raw and passionate kiss, one that felt like it might stop time and space as you knew it. 

At his intensely possessive lips, his throaty demands, his insistent knee wedged into your cunt, it isn’t long before you come undone all over his knee. You cum with a strangled cry, your fingers digging crescents into his muscled shoulders. Your eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of the filthy dampness against the fabric of your panties. Zayne groans at the angelic sight of your face contorted into pure pleasure, his erection painfully hard against his silken robe, pressed into your quivering belly. The heavenly vision of you cumming was almost enough to have him erupting right against your stomach.

“That’s it my love, just like that,” Zayne coos as you cum over his knee, still rocking gently into you as he helps you ride out the waves of your ecstasy. His slender fingers rub soothing circles into the small of your back, cooling your burning skin. 

“So good, so good for me,” he murmurs into your hair, your head resting on his shoulders as the post-orgasm tremors come and go. His lips press into your scalp, the moment feeling absolutely  and idyllically perfect. 

You’re so blissed out you almost don’t feel him shifting beneath you, slender fingers pulling your soaked panties to the side. It isn’t until you feel the all-too familiar feeling of his fat leaking cockhead nestled between your folds, right at the entrance to your most sensitive parts, that your bleary eyes open.

You watch him, cock in his fist, swiping up and down your drenched lips, head hung down in pleasure as he watches the way your pussy quite literally invites him in. A thin layer of sweat glistens on his furrowed forehead, his restraint hanging on by a thread as he tries to calm himself before he burrows into you like an absolute animal. 

You grab him by his chin, guiding him to look up at you. You take his throbbing manhood into your own fingers, in place of his. He stares at you heatedly, your languid actions driving him to the edge of insanity. Your body quivers as his cockhead catches on your clit, your body still reeling from the orgasm you’d just experienced on his knee. 

Zayne’s hand encompasses yours, your joined palms holding his aching cock at the base. He repeats his plea from earlier, his voice raspy and breathless, “Show me.” 

His desperation makes you bite your lip in anticipation, and you nod before sinking down onto his thick member. Your body grapples with the stretch as you slide further and further down, as Zayne writhes below you, panting rapidly and fingers digging into your waist. 

“You’re so damn perfect,” he rasps, fingers bruising your hips with the intensity in which they grab you, “Give me more, please love.”

You grin at his rare pleas, teasing him by stopping halfway, not letting him enter you fully. His desperate moans and grunts make you giggle, and you relish in the way his large hands hold you so possessively, in the way only you are able to make him lose control.

Zayne chuckles darkly at your teasing antics, “You don’t sound very apologetic, sweetheart.” He raises his eyebrow at you, in a playful warning. You open your mouth to speak, but it’s cut off with a scream when he slams you down on his thick length, his strong grip pulling you down until your ass meets his thighs. 

The impact of your thighs against Zayne’s lap is sinful. Zayne groans at the way he can feel the globes of your ass shake against him, your pussy clenching to accommodate the sudden stretch. And Zayne doesn’t even let you ride him, instead using the raw strength of his arms and thighs to bob you up and down his length, in a rhythm that had you seeing white.

“Nnghh – P-Please Zayne!” you plead, but for what you’re not even sure. You certainly don’t want him to stop or slow down. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, holding on while he bounces you like you weigh absolutely nothing. 

Zayne grunts in response, too lost in the feeling of how your walls cling to him, how your body responds to his touch and thrusts like he owns you. 

“Always — hah — throwing yourself — fuck! — into danger. Without telling me,” he grits out, his thrusts into you harsh and passionate all at the same time. You can tell by his tone that he’s more hurt than he is angry about you running off to the frontlines of a nearby wanderer quarantine. The deep timbre of his voice conveys more worry and vulnerability than it does domination and accusation. 

Your heart flutters at how adorably pouty Zayne was being, in his own way. It was rare for him to act on his emotions like this, and it reminded you of how far the two of you had come. His hands gripped you forcibly, almost as if he was afraid you’d disappear on him again. His face buried into your chest, savoring your intoxicating scent like it was the air he needed to survive. The way your warm plush skin tasted on his tongue and felt against his canines.

So you let him throw you around like a fucktoy, letting him feel how absolutely and irrevocably his, you were. You held him tightly to your chest, kissing the shell of his ear as he rutted into you like a madman, suckling on your breasts like he thought you might lactate for him. The blend of possessive domination and raw neediness was driving you insane. 

Zayne tears himself away from your chest, looking up at you with heated expectation, his eyes hazy with animalistic desire, “Nothing to say, Y/N?” He punctuates his question with a harsh thrust that prods against your g-spot, all the way to your cervix. 

You gasp out, almost choking for air, “M’sorry Zayne. I-I’ll make it up t’y-you.” His fingers grip you tighter as he relentlessly bounces you on his lap, his fat cock bullying into your g spot. Your teeth dig into your lip as you feel your cunt trembling, close to release.

Zayne nestles his face into the area where your neck meets your collarbone, gasping out as you get increasingly tighter, until it feels like he’s suffocating with pleasure.

“Let me cum in you,” he growls, moving back to your chest, nipping at the swell of your breasts, lapping at a reddened bruise he’d unwittingly left there. Zayne normally wasn’t keen on these juvenile displays of affection, leaving hickeys like a horny highschooler. But something about the way you constantly threw yourself into the face of danger for others, left him uncharacteristically uncontrollable and unrestrained. 

“Let me leave my mark in you so you know better than to go running off into danger without me again.” 

A string of whimpers escapes your mouth at his possessive yet sensitive words, clearly still miffed at the memory of your injured state after saving the pair of young siblings in the quarantine zone. Your talented, self-controlled, god-like surgeon, falling apart at the seams, for you.

It’s all enough to have you at the cusp of another mind-bending orgasm, your eyes rolling up as you try to warn him, “Z-Zayne, c-close.”

Zayne chuckles as you warn him. How adorable you were to think he needed to be told, as if he didn’t know your body like the back of his hand. That he couldn’t feel the telltale way your pussy pulsed and quivered around his cock, so tightly it threatened to break him.

“Look at me, my love. I need to see you.” He rams up into you, hands possessively on your hips, bringing you down forcefully with each upward thrust. You focus your eyes on him, eyelids hooded with an exhausted pleasure.

Through your blurry vision, you can see that Zayne is close too. His jaw ticks dangerously, teeth grit to hold the swears back. His golden emerald eyes meet yours, and he smiles, his fingers threading into the back of your head.

“Just like that, look at me when you cum,” he demands, pulling your face forward to capture your lips in a final kiss that would have you tumbling down the cliff of ecstasy. His tongue demands entry, teasing the seam of your lips. His fingers cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. 

You moan into his mouth as your body succumbs to yet another orgasm, your fingernails scraping into his back. Zayne groans into you as the sting of your nails against his skin intensifies the pleasure of your pussy practically wringing his cock dry, forcing the orgasm out of him.

It’s a passionate and furious gnashing of tongue and skin, his thighs, wet with your release, pounding up into you. Your combined whimpers of pleasure mix with the wet smacks of your ass against his thighs, creating the most sinful blanket of lust-filled ecstasy in Zayne’s living room. 

His seed erupts inside you, hot, plenty, and demanding. Demanding to be inside you. Demanding to claim you. 

Zayne’s thrusts slow, but don’t stop, plugging you completely full of him. He finally pulls away from your lips, breathing heavily as goosebumps of overstimulation litter his skin. He keeps going until you tap his shoulders in surrender. He chuckles, lifting you easily off of him, removing himself from you.

Your thighs quiver as you remain seated on Zayne’s lap, his fingers rubbing delicate circles on your waist. His lips brush gentle kisses on your collar, savoring the moment of intimacy and adoration that falls over the two of you. 

Zayne shifts so that he can look at you, cupping your chin gently in his fingers.

“How are you feeling Y/N?” His deep voice is filled with concern, eyes searching yours, “Was I too…enthusiastic?”

You giggle tiredly, your voice filled with playful teasing, “Maybe a bit. But I loved it. I love you.”

Zayne chuckles, bringing your face back down to rest on his chest, his bare skin peeking through the robe that had become untied amidst all the movement. He cradles your head against his body, his arms secure and protective against you, his lips pressing kisses into the top of your head.

“Can you blame me?” He presses his lips into the space below your ear, leaving a trail of kissing down your neck and along your shoulders.

“When you’re constantly worried about the woman you love…it can leave one a bit pent up.”

His lips on your singed skin has you shivering against him, your fingers trailing up and down his chest, “And are you still…pent up?”

The corner of Zayne’s lips quirk up, the blood rushing back south as he feels you writhe against his most fleeting touches. Always so responsive to his touch.

Zayne uses one hand to guide your chin up towards him, his smile hungry and affectionate all at the same time. His other hand holds yours, and you jolt off his chest when he wraps your fingers around something wet, hot, and hard.

“You could say that.”

© aeyumicore 2024.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

[majorbaby]

Interview with Larry Gelbart on Charlie Rose, 1998