#She does visit the Medics Base from time to time

[banamine-bananime]

Growing up I lived in an area with a lot of cattle farming and I was very scared of the cows. Do you have any cool facts that will make me either more or less afraid of cows?

oh hmm let me think on that!

facts related to how to interact with cows so all parties feel and stay safe:

they have a very prey herd animal mentality. they want to move with their herdmates. they want to watch any potential threats like people and move away from them. they don't like loud or unfamiliar noises (they're sensitive souls. sometimes if i visit a dairy wearing waterproof coveralls where the cows are only used to people wearing cotton coveralls, just the whisper of waterproof pants rubbing against each other can spook them) or abrupt movements or going into areas they can't see well (and they have difficulty with depth perception due to their wide-set eyes for 300 degree vision, and with high-contrast, so going from sun into shade or vice versa can look like stepping into a white or black void for them and they don't like it)

based on this, we know the keys to low-stress cattle handling are consistency in how you interact with them, calmness (small movements, quiet words to let them know you're there), moving cows in groups big enough to have friends but small enough you can control the whole group without them milling around or the ones in front stopping and causing a traffic jam, and slowly moving them by just barely getting in their "bubble" of "whoa, you're a little too close for comfort, i'm going to move in the other direction" without ever getting into their "YIKES RUN AWAY FROM THIS THING" bubble

the last point involves understanding pressure and flight zones and point of balance:

from Mississippi State University Extension:

from grandin.com (highly recommend as a source of information about animal behaviour and welfare!!! temple grandin my idol since i was like nine i love her so. and i tear up when i think about how much she's done for millions of animals ;_; she's a genius and no lie revolutionized low-stress handling):

pet cows that get doted on enough to bond with people may not see people as a threat so the normal ways we use pressure zones to iinteract with cows don't necessarily do anything for them. you would lead them more like a horse, using a halter. or lure them with treats.

beef cows typically have little contact with people, often just processing (vaccines, preg checks, quick exam for any health problems) a couple times a year, so they can be very wild. doesn't mean they're aggressive, the overwhelming majority are non-aggressive but they have very large flight zones, so if you don't recognize that and approach too quickly, getting deep in their flight zone, that can get you into a dangerous situation where they get aggressive as a last resort. that said, they do usually still choose flight unless their calf is with them. "never get between mom and baby" applies as it does with any species

dairy cows are in between beef cows and pet cows. they interact with people regularly, several times per day, and it's respectful but not doting. kind of a business relationship with their handlers. they're not terrified of people by any means, but they haven't been, like, hand-fed treats to get over their instinctive wariness of potential-predator-like animals, and they know sometimes handling results in unpleasant experiences like medical treatment or pregnancy checks, so they avoid touch and have a flight zone, though it's small (and sometimes they'll calmly let you walk right up to them unrestrained, or approach you and lick you out of curiosity). very very rare to have an aggressive dairy cow (as in, one that attacks you instead of moving away when you're bothering them a little. really bothering them and ignoring body language when they can't move away is much more likely to get you kicked)

bulls are not docile. not every bull will be aggressive, but you should assume that every bull has the capacity to become aggressive with little provocation, and always keep a respectful distance and know your escape route if you have to be in a pen or field with them

cows love exploring with their tongues. any time you're in a dairy barn there's gonna be at least one friendly girl mlem mlem mlemming who won't leave you alone

adding on to the above, there is a slight caveat that you still have to be a LITTLE wary of friendly cows. 99% of the time they're just friendly but sometimes cows in heat will try to mount people. you don't have to be scared of friendly cows but if they're right next to you just keep them in your line of sight so you can move away if they make like they're going to mount. again, not common, never happened to me, but something to be aware of

signs of a happy, relaxed cow: lying down, chewing cud or eating, tail hanging down relaxed, moving slowly with her herd

signs of a slightly wary cow (you have entered the "pressure zone"): standing still/stopping what she's doing, turning towards you, ears turning towards you (watching the ears is a very good way of knowing what she's paying attention to), tail swishing or raised a bit away from body

signs of a distressed cow: vocalizing (they also moo for other reasons though), tail swishing, fidgeting/pawing/looking like she wants to move but doesn't know where to, freezing up and intermittently making erratic movements (back away a little)

signs of an aggressive cow: head down with attention on you, pawing ground, turning to show you their broad side. (turn sideways and calmly but swiftly walk away diagonally)

[random-fandom1984]

Can I have some g1 soundwave x reader please😅😅😅😅😅

Being the only femme Cybertronian on the Ark can be... something. Especially when some of them try hitting on you without getting to know you; quite annoying really, but you keep it pushed down; but some people can tell because of your alt-mode.

You stayed in the Ark because of your job as a medic. Your alt-mode is a heartbeat monitor, which also corresponds with your sparkbeats, which is how some people, very few, can tell what you're feeling.

You made your own little base of operations under an abandoned amusement park. You'd bring in people who were injured and left behind in the ruckus of the battlefield between the two factions. Human or Decepticon.

Whenever it's a human, you'd ask them to promise to not tell your Autobot friends about your place of escape, and they do. But with Decepticons, you make sure that they are knocked out, and you just give them a few amounts of anesthesia because they would break in, destroy the place, kidnap you and hold you for ransom against your friends.

One day, when looking through one of the many aftermaths of a battle, you found a minicon in the rubble, Soundwave's minicon: Frenzy. When you took him back to your base, you realized you've forgotten to stock up on more anesthesia, so now you have to worry with the fact that he might wake up soon as you did the procedure of fix-and-repair.

As you were putting your tools away, he woke up with a fright, and you quickly explained the situation to him, which slightly calmed him down. Key word: Slightly. He was suspicious of you but is slowly diminished as you continued to work on the minor injuries that just need a new paint job and be buffed. The last bit disappeared in an instant when you gave him an Energon Goodie.

When he came by again, to your surprise that he remembered the way here, you gave a tour of the place above, he somehow managed to get the place up and running again; thank Primus that your location was miles away from the nearest civilization.

As time went by, Rumble found out, then Ravage, then Laserbeak. When they come to visit, it would be like as if there was no war, they're having a good time in the amusement park.

Sooner or later, Soundwave got suspicious. Where were his kids minicons going late at night?

Being the best spy he is, he followed them, and was surprised that they were hanging out with an Autobot, weren't fighting like there was a war, stopping a fight between Rumble and Frenzy as calm as possible- and somehow easily get them to make up?! He couldn't do that without them continuing to squabble with each other.

He used his telepathy powers to look into your thoughts to see if you secretly had ill intentions with his sons minicons, but there wasn't any!

When his minicons return back to base, it's an instant interrogation the moment they step foot back in the habsuite: How long has this been going on? How did this happen in the first place? What do she always do with them? The only questions that were about you were answered back with positivity.

Curious, he decided to look more into your file when the Decepticons fight the Autobots near the Ark. When he does, all he finds is all good things.

When it was the next time they decided to visit, he wanted to meet her in person. And so he did, and by Primus were you nervous. You were worried he might blow your helm up. You, Soundwave, and his minicons walked through the park, watching the minicons play games, ride the rides; he began to trust you.

The more you all hang out in private, at your secret location, the more you begin to bond closer together, mainly you and Soundwave; the minicons noticed it as clear as day.

So, being mischievous little ones they are, Rumble and Frenzy decided to stage a lil' something. In private, the minicons would call Soundwave Sire, or dad in human terms. So, when the next time you and they met up, they would unexpectedly drop Carrier, mom, at random times in the night. When they first did it, they'd put on an act like as if they didn't mean to say it and it just slip. You fell for their act, so did Soundwave because it was unexpected.

They see you? An Autobot medic? As a parental figure? I mean, sure, you heal up their injuries, you give them Energon sweets if they be good and behave, calmly deal with their fights, gives them sweet head pats, have the most caring optics he's seen, the most beautiful smile- Oh, scrap! He's in love.

He would lie awake at night, questioning why he found you attractive. For starters, your gently touch that he felt when you repaired him, your smiles seem to shine brighter than any star, and sound from your vocalizer was like a siren's call and he was the sailor that was lured by its enchanting melody, your optics the prettiest shade of blue that rivals with this hunk of rock's sky, have the spirit of a Carrier with his kids- Primus, he was hooked, lined and had sunk deep.

After he came to terms with his newfound emotions, he started noticing something about you. Every single time he was close to you, he'd see the screen of your alt-mode, on your chassis, start getting taller. One time, he danced with you as music played in the park, and he saw that the big spikes became frequent, and a subtle blush would be on your cheek plates that you try to hide with your servo and turning your helm to the side. He found this adorable, so much that he became addicted to having that cute blush on your face.

When back on the Ark, you would get pings from an unknown comm-link number, only to realize it's Soundwave, and he's sending you something. When you are finally alone in your habsuite, you would take a look to see that they were poems; they were so sweet, you reread them, laying on your berth, kicking your feet as you excitedly giggle from how nice, sweet, and adorable they are that they might as well be invitations for Cupid to continue to shoot arrows into your spark, making you fall harder for the Con.

When they spent the night in your secret base, you all had fun doing any activity that comes to mind: pillow/blanket forts, teaching the little ones the steps on how you make your glorious Energon Goodies, etc. The last activity was a horror movie marathon. Every time a jump scare would pop up on the screen, you would hug the closest bot, and it just so happened to be Soundwave. During the horror movie marathon, you, Soundwave, and his kids ended up in a cuddle pile, scared, all but Soundwave, Ravage, and Laserbeak.

They decided to spend the night here before returning to the Decepticon base at the break of dawn. You decided to put the little ones to sleep. He decided to start cleaning up the mess that was made, and when he finished, he came back to you telling the ending of an old Cybertron bedtime story.

To him, it looked so nice and peaceful, and you looked so motherly that he just wanted to confess right there, right now. What sealed the deal was you placing a goodnight kiss on the top of their helms, tucking them to sleep before leaving the room they were occupying, only to be dragged off to somewhere by Soundwave, into the place you slept in from time-to-time.

You wondered what was happening, until Soundwave got on one knee plate, servos holding your own, visor looking up into your optics, glistening as he let out a very poetic, charming, delightful, exquisite of him telling you about his feelings, everything about you that made his spark soar: your voice, your optics, your touch, everything.

He carefully watched the screen on you chassis to see if there was any indication of making you uncomfortable or not. And by the end of his heartfelt confession, he watched the heart monitor didn't make any giant spikes. Oh, no. It made a heart at the center of the monitor as blush covers your entire faceplate.

Part 2 coming soon!

[pricegouge]

Get Her a Dog (She'll be Happier For It)

Part Four | master list | taglist | MDNI

Soap x reader, Price x reader, eventual PriceSoap x reader

series cw: cheating. dubcon. angst. cuckholding. pet play.

chapter cw: angst, pining for another man's wife

reader is fem and fat

He's low on the boy's list of priorities, it seems, his first day back from medical leave leading him far and wide across base before settling into John's visitor seat so late in the day. John didn't mind that, was honestly surprised to see him there at all considering the shallow relationship the two of them shared. What he did mind was the chosen topic of conversation.

It's late when Soap comes, the sun low enough to shine through the slots of John's blinds. That peaceful golden hour when the dust motes dance distractingly. He never gets much work done on days like this, when the sun warms his back, coaxing him outside to enjoy a sunlit fall day - a right novelty in England. It's the only reason he'd accepted the visit, Soap's knock at the door finding John elbow deep in paperwork he wouldn't have the attention span for until the sun had at least dipped below the armory building, his tablet sitting idle just wasting battery. He's low on the boy's list of priorities, it seems, his first day back from medical leave leading him far and wide across base before settling into John's visitor seat so late in the day. John didn't mind that, was honestly surprised to see him there at all considering the shallow relationship the two of them shared. What he did mind was the chosen topic of conversation.

"She said she wants what?"

"Mah bairn, cap. A baby, ye ken?"

If not for the years of training lining John's belt, he worries what he'd do to the unnervingly bright eyes Soap has trained on him in that moment. He wants to blacken them, maybe pluck them out of his pretty, dense head. He wants to see them shiny and wet with tears, red rimmed and bloodshot - doesn't know what to do with the urge, and doesn't even fully understand where it stems from either. Instead he draws a careful breath, takes a moment to be sure his voice is steady by carefully straightening and locking the screen in front of him. Across the desk, Soap looks ready to vibrate out of his seat, nerves shot beyond recognition despite the weeks of recuperation he's just getting back from. John decidedly does not think too hard about how the bird's been keeping her man tired out, the edges of his jealousy already honed sharp.

"I ken, Soap. What's this to do with me?"

John expects embarrassment, perhaps confusion. Something to show either Soap is misguided, or perhaps that there's a connecting piece John himself is missing. But the boy's eager in his response, leaning across his captain's desk with no concept of decorum. "Ye gotta talk some sense into her, cap," he pleads. "She'll listen tae ye - always has. Ye gotta tell her why it's a terrible idea, that -."

"A terrible idea?" If his voice sounds calm, it's a testament to the damage a lifetime's worth of scotch and cigars have done to his vocal chords, the constant hoarseness allowing his anger to go unnoticed here. 

"Aye, we're no' ready for a bairn, cap - hardly more than kids ourselves," he whines, and not for the first time, John thinks maybe he's right. Except -

"You are an officer. In the S.A.S." 

Soap has the decency to blanch, at least. "And tha's another reason! Ah'm ne'er home, cap! The last thing she needs is tae be raising a bairn herself."

John shakes his head, breath puffing out of him like steam. He has an urge to break his stylus in half so instead places it on the desk with unnecessary force. "Son, were you a candy striper when you said those vows?"

"Sir -?"

"Candy striper or a soldier, Soap, what were you?"

John knows his man well enough to spot the deep flush working its way up from under Soap's collar, recognizes the low set of his heavy brow. The way he himself tenses to meet it would be admirable, if not directed at his own subordinate. "A soldier, sir."

"And when you promised that woman kids, were you selling shoes?"

"Ye have a point, ah assume?"

John glowers, unable to even muster the patronizing look he usually adopts for conversations like this. "My point, is I'm not sure what you expected to happen. You gave that woman your name. You made plans for children. So why's it a problem now?" Across the years, an echo of a similar argument rings in his ears, the pleas once used against himself now slotting into place, loaded - fully automatic. He couldn't say why he was helping the man across from him, though. Loyalty, maybe. More likely, his desperate need for closure lies somehow even stronger than his growing desire to rip the other man's relationship apart.

Soap splutters. "It's no' a problem, it's jes' tha' -." He stops, squints, seems to roll his tongue in contemplation. "Well, ye kno' how it is, cap. Ne'er gonnae be the righ' time in this job."

By some miracle, John doesn't take the bait. He takes a deep breath instead, thinks about the favor he'll be able to call in after he tells Kate how level-headed he's being today. "MacTavish," he says patronizingly, revels in the thrumming of a particularly aggressive vein in the boy's bare temple. "I do know how it is, so you can take it from me when I say it will never be the right time. But you can also take it from me that it won't matter to your bird. She is lonely and wants a babe, and you're going to give her one because that is what you promised you would do."

"Will nae," the scott seethes, leaning close across the desk again. "A bairn won't fix anything, cap. She jes' wants -."

There are times when John's ability to command a room - to command unruly gits like the sergeant across from him - takes even him by surprise. It does so now, when his voice curls deep and dark and low and damn near knocks Soap back on his ass. "And something does need fixing, does it?" Johnny just stares at his captain, deflated and lost. John sighs again, drums his thumb on the desk agitatedly, the wood worn from years of use, the same spot weathered by his many frustrations. The fight might have left the sergeant, but John's still desperately searching for something to lay into, his bruised ego telling him Soap's the source of all his troubles and right there, causing yet more. Still, he has to trust the man with his life, and telling Soap if he doesn't fuck a babe into his wife soon John himself will probably isn't conducive to that end so he bites his tongue - literally and figuratively - and drags his seat closer to the desk, works his pent up energy off by planting his boots too aggressively when he spreads his legs. All tells, all things he knows the boy is trained to watch for. His patience has bounds, though, and he couldn't care less if Soap clocked him for it. "If you want my advice, your bird's a soft one. She needs something to care for, so if you won't give her a babe, at least get her a dog."

Soap blinks, leans out of John's space - a subtle bow out he does nothing to make casual. John eats it like paid dues. "Soft," he repeats. John does not close his eyes in frustration, afraid of the supple curves burned into the back of his eyelids which await him there every night, every blink. "A dog?"

"You're familiar, I assume?"

The vein in Soap's temple throbs back to life, but the boy does a decent job of schooling his expression this time. "Aye, ah'm familiar." A beat passes, Soap flicks at John's stylus - likely too deep in thought to worry about the insult of it. John debates kicking his chair over anyway. "Can't have a dog at our place."

"Then buy her a proper house!" John thunders, too frustrated to find Soap's blindsided expression funny.

He regrets it when he gets the home warming invitation in the mail a month later.

Next>>

[szynkaaa]

Zhu Bajie: do you exercise Travel Companion: I like to run away from my problems and feelings

The dialogue is based off a scene from Doctor Who. I don't think that my OC would be going with Zhu Bajie and the Destined One into the rock for the final battle (probably cause she is not able to enter) so she has to sit outside and wait anxiously for them to return.

She is happy to see them return but then also immediately notices how the Destined One's whole demeanour and aura changed. She knew that this point was going to happen where he inherits everything and becomes the new Monkey King, but I also think that she has a hard time wrapping her head around the concept of reincarnation and struggles with accepting it.

So yeah, I imagine the moment after new Sun Wukong comes out of the rock, it's an angsty moment. He just wants to see his best friend and tell her what happened, and now that he is finally "whole" again be able to propely have conversations with her and ask her about all the weird things she says and does, but instead she looks at him like she is very unsure of everything.

Sun Wukong doesn't really have the temper imo or at least here things get a bit heated and he snaps and well, she does what she is best at in situations like this: fucking book it :)))))

Obviously SWK wants to chase after her but Zhu Bajie helds him back and says "ayo kiddo give the lassie some time to process everything, she will come around" he doesn't want to but he knows that is what she needs atm.

Where is Travel Companion hiding meanwhile? In the Zodiac village, the Yin Tiger offered her a spare bedroom, and in exchange she helps around, with the crops, bringing materials back and forth and also has some good times drinking and sharing stories with the villager. Maybe also crying about her woes, and I think that the villager sharing their stories about SWK and explain more about his backstory and stuff helps the her to come around more.

also SWK knows she is there and comes by every day to get his harvest and the free medicing from your local meth dealer Xu Dog. She is hiding in Yin Tiger's lil blacksmith hut everytime he is visiting, but she knows that he knows that she knows that he is there.

And then one day when he is visting Yin Tiger, SWK sighs and goes all "hey bud can you pass this message to Travel Companion," and inserts some very sweet and sappy stuff, knowing that she is there and can hear him. Just as he is about to leave she decides to come out of her hiding spot and go "Hey... let's go talk somewhere more private".

SWK is not showing any emotions but you can tell by the flicker of his tail that he is relieved to see her. Bit worried about the dark eye circle and how not well-rested she looks like, but he will make sure to fix that soon.

[imlettingeverythinggo]

Astrology notes #4 🪼

Please do not copy or plagerise my work, if you want some of my observations to be included, please mention my username, thx

Photo from Pinterest

SN/12th house observations (NA and Synastry)

🪼 Sedna in the 12th house signifies a betrayal of a supposed authority (either job, family, spouse, etc.) and that trauma can be subconscious mostly from past life.

Ex. A woman was getting sick from a deadly disease and wanted the spouse just to make her dying process easier, but he still treated her like last priority, gave her no affection and blamed her for it. She wanted her life to end peacefully with the one she loves the most, but her life ended in betrayal and dissapointment. Now that trauma can be carried from a life to a life. Now that soul can't really trust people with whom they have relationships with nor marriages no matter how much work is done unless the affected person does a lot of shadow work/therapy

🪼 SN in the lower hemisphere (especially IC) of a chart can indicate being scared/afraid or not interested about travelling or moving outside the culture they've been raised in. Mostly, it is true if personal planets are in lower hemisphere too.

Ex. Someone who is raised in Polish culture but is affected by this placement is not fully interested in travelling or moving outside slavic culture. They are not interested in visiting Dutch, Brazilian, Spanish or any culture outside slavic countries

🪼 SN in 9th house (Virgo) usually indicates that the person is experiencing stomach issues outside their homeland or birthplace. Virgo is medically associated with stomach area and intensities

🪼 SN and Juno Rx in 7th house in Sedna (90377) persona chart means that the subconscious fear one has is from lover from past life, probably the marriage was harsh from the start and didn't benefit (I will do a specific post about past life based of my charts and persona charts)

🪼 Not a lot of betrayal is mentioned in 12th house but a lot of placements in that house or 8th can signify that (I experienced it WAY TOO many times) and betrayals can come even from negative aspects to Saturn (all about synastry)

🪼 People with Venus in 12th house are not completely showing their love and care for others and their love can be hidden most of the times 💔 also they like to keep their love life hidden most of the times and don't really talk about it

🪼 People with SN in 9th house no matter how challenging it can be for a person, they LOVE to travel and be out of their hometown/country

🪼 People with bad Nodes aspects to Venus can't build up their standards properly and don't really know how to experience love and show it (similar to Venus in 12th house)

I really don't know if this note is true but if it's valid for yall natives please comment about it

🪼 SN conjunct/square Lilith usually mean that the natives can't really feel safe at the same place they are in so they are prone to changing routines, people around them, people they feel confrontable with, etc. (Based in what house the aspect is)

🪼 Having Moon in someone's 12th house can at the same time mean you understand their emotions fully or have deep intuition about them. You can even have dreams about them when in distance.

[drawing-prompt-s]

GoFundMe: Getting the kitten to the vet...

for a rabies shot, FIV testing, and a possible upper respiratory infection!

So someone sent in the last $305 I needed while I was asleep. I'm transferring it to my account now which means I'm a) shutting off the GFM as soon as the transfers process and b) taking in the kitten as soon as the money becomes available to me - so likely by Friday I'll take her in, or Saturday or Monday (they do half days Saturday, and are closed Monday).

GoFundMe Link Paypal Link

Venmo Link Cashapp Link

Multiple payment options available because I am typically asked for alternatives to GFM and PP.

$350 / $350

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INFORMATION + VIDEO UNDER THE CUT!

From the GoFundMe description:

Hello!

So, unplanned, there is a new kitten in the house as of Feb. 22, 2024. (Not Jolene's, she is fixed). When at my friend's house - where I will be moving in a few months - we found out that a cat that comes to visit often is not only owned, but a mom. However, the neighbor doesn't want the kittens, so he always puts them outside and leaves them there. I could no, in my right mind, leave the kitten outside by a trashcan and under a tire in February of all months, so I brought her home.

So far I have treated her for hookworms, given her the vaccines I can do myself, and looked into getting a spay voucher from one of the local shelters. The kitten is roughly 3 months old.

However, current concerns are that she may have an upper respiratory infection (and there is always the concern that she could be FIV+). She has an inflamed eye with a regular and concerning amount of discharge and has for a few days. I have also caught her sneezing and she has started coughing on more than a few occasions. She also has a few other signs of sickness - anemia, the runs, and some blood spotted in it. If it is a URI, I need to catch it as fast as possible because I also have Jolene, my 3 year old cat. She absolutely also needs FIV testing and a rabies shot because of that, and because where we are moving there are other cats.

Jolene and the kitten have both been getting along well. The kitten loves to follow her around and Jolene acts more like the disgruntled big sister (don't let her fool you, I have caught them playing regularly - she just needs her alone adult time too).

I have already altered a bit of my projected finances and removed money from my savings to care for the kitten and help her. But there is only so far that can go as I also need to be able to afford gas, food, and furniture for the upcoming move (I'm going to start buying things soon so I can put it together and move my stuff prior to the official move date). I was trying to put off a full vet visit until sending the kitten in for a spay, but with her eye and the possibility of infection spreading to other cats, it can no longer wait.

I am shutting off this GFM as soon as I reach the goal. The vet said to budget for a little more than $300, between the base cost of a visit, FIV testing, rabies, and potential treatment for an Upper Respiratory Infection- assuming it's nothing too major. And I added a little more to what I am expecting because GFM does take a fee from donations.

If the kitten does end up being FIV+ we do have rehoming options available or I will find someone better suited to handle an FIV+ cat (either already having one of their own or a home with no pets).

I tried to take a video of the eye, but as you can imagine, a 3 month old kitten isn't the most keen on staying still, haha.

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Let me add in the breakdown as well, now that I think about it:

Base cost for my vet to see a new cat (even as a pre-established client with other cats treated there): $100

FIV testing: $40

Rabies (and other vaccines I may be missing I was unable to do myself): $35 - $45

And the vet recommended budgeting about $100 for medications depending on what they find (if she still has worms, if she has other parasites due to being outside untreated, if she has a URI like the current concern is): $100

The rest is tax, the % upcharge for using a card, and to negate the fees that GFM with-drawls from each donation.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU // Chapter 1 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski, Reader (You) Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.8k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), descriptions of burning, depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. For years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because you feel like something halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t wash the smell of hospital out of clothes, not really. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Scott’s new-found abilities and the murky world they’ve been dragged into is making it pretty damn hard to keep his promise. 

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real and old family skeletons rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive? 

Maybe, the real question is how long will they want to? Chapter Summary: After your annual interrogation with Sheriff Stilinski, you meet his son who turns out to be very handy with jumper cables and incoherent babbling.

A/N: Does this look familiar? It should lmao. I gave into the peer pressure. All the messages and requests were too powerful. Here is a reader version of my ofc season 1 fic. Obviously some things have been removed to get rid of specific names/descriptions, so you want to read the full thing you can read the og version and check me out on ao3 (dork_knight)! For the sake of not clogging tags, I'll probably just do my reader version on tumblr and the full oc lore version on ao3 from now on. xx

Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice. From what I’ve tasted of desire I hold with those who favor fire.

Before your mother’s death, you would have picked fire. Every single time. 

You never liked the cold; never really had to get used to it growing up in central California—but the crux of your argument, the twisted logic behind it all, was that most burn victims died from suffocation before they felt the flames. A small mercy, really, in the face of unspeakable tragedy. 

In the end, however, statistics were just numbers, your mother didn't die from smoke inhalation, and there was no mercy in burying a parent before you were old enough to have children of your own. Nothing ever ended poetically off the page. Death was just death, and it was always ugly. Someone should really tell that to Robert Frost, you mused, biting at a raw hangnail.

The medical examiner said the actual cause of death was pulmonary edema; at least, that was his best guess based on the state of the body. He didn’t say that she felt everything, her skin peeling back into her flesh, her flesh liquefying into fuel, her joints flexing into contorted pleas until the fire incinerated her last nerve ending. He didn’t have to; you connected those dots all on your own. You’d been twelve at the time, not an imbecile. 

“I’m sorry to drag you through this all again.”

You flitted your eyes away from the flickering lightbulb above Sheriff Stilinski’s head and met his gaze; it was nauseatingly sympathetic. Your responding shrug was a small, little thing—more like a twitch in practice, “Not your fault.” 

Your yearly visits to Sheriff Stilinski’s office were solely your father’s doing, even if no one wanted to admit it to your face. Most mayors would use their political power to get their child out of a police station, not into it, but perhaps he stopped being your dad somewhere between the funeral and now. 

“If you could start—”

“From the beginning,” you smoothed your thumb in small circles over the armrest of your chair, attentively tracing patterns into the polished wood, “I know.” This was, after all, the fourth anniversary of your first interrogation. You’d become somewhat of an expert at being a useless witness. You picked at your uneven cuticles before continuing, “Mom put me to bed around 10:00—which was kind of late for a school night, honestly, but she let me stay up to finish another chapter anyway.” The right corner of your mouth twitched for a brief moment, “Nancy Drew: Password to Larkspur Lane. I told her that forcing someone to go to sleep in the middle of a mystery was specifically forbidden in Geneva Protocol II.” Your mom had been far too indulgent of your lip on most occasions, but that night she didn’t smile at your snarky aside. She let you finish the chapter because she was too tired to argue; you could tell. At the time, you saw it as a victory. Now, it kept you up at night, the drooping lines of your mother’s mouth spilling over the pages of whatever book you were trying to read.

You bit down on your tongue when a stray splinter snagged against the soft pad of your thumb, “Dad was out of town, so it was just the two of us. Mom always put me to bed when Dad was gone; said it was the only way she could get to sleep. Had to make sure my window was locked.” You paused for a long moment: everything went dark after this. Your mother kissed the top of your head, murmured, ‘Love you,’ turned out the light, and then that was it. You woke up in the hospital, and your mom was dead. 

A bead of sweat dripped onto your top lip. The air in the Beacon Hills police station was, without fail, sticky with heat and body odor—and it wasn’t just the oppressive Californian sun. Even in the winter, a person could choke on the stifling warmth. Idly, you wondered if it was a matter of interrogatory tactics or budgetary constraints. 

“And then,” Sheriff Stilinski prompted gently, though you both knew how the story went from here. You had told it to him and a dozen other officials at least a hundred times in the last four years. 

You bit down on your thumbnail and winced when your teeth snagged on the tender nail bed, “And then nothing. I opened my eyes, and a nurse said that you found me on the front lawn.” 

“You don’t remember how you got outside?” 

You shook your head, staring past the Sheriff's shoulder. Large pieces of dust floated through the air, highlighted by the slivers of light trickling through the blinds. Suddenly, you had a newfound appreciation for the lack of fans in the room. 

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “You don’t remember saying it was an angel?”

Blinking slowly, you looked at the grim line of the Sheriff’s mouth and gripped your knees tightly, digging your fingers into fragile skin until your wrist cracked, “I should, right? I was twelve. I should remember something—that’s what everyone thinks. That’s what my dad thinks.” Your eyelids fluttered to a tight close, and your voice went so quiet you could barely be heard over the hum of the copier outside the door, “He thinks it was me. That’s why he makes you question me every year.” Copper flooded your mouth as the soft lining of your cheek split under the brunt of your teeth, “He thinks you’ll finally figure out how I did it.” 

You were scared to open your eyes as the silence stretched between the two of you. You’d danced around the subject before, hinted and spun around the heart of it, but you’d never truly discussed how it looked from the outside. Sheriff Stilinski had been kind enough to give you a few different excuses over the years: trauma, head injury, oxygen deprivation, just plain ol’ grief—but whatever caused your temporary amnesia wasn’t so conveniently explained. In fact, currently, you had no explanation at all. When you finally peeked through your lashes, clumped together with frustrated tears, you couldn’t quite figure out what expression the Sheriff was making. He leaned back in his desk chair and frowned, “I’m sure he doesn’t—”

“He does,” you cut him off. Your eyes went flinty, irises darkening to something far more ashen with the resolve of your anger. You never had any trouble reading your father’s face; the disgust was thinly-veiled between the flickers of fear. 

Sheriff Stilinksi leaned forward so that you had no choice but to look him in the eyes. They were kind—more tired than usual, but still kind. They always were. That was one thing you remembered from that day, waking up in the hospital to Sheriff Stilinski’s kind, watery blue eyes, just before the entire world fell apart. His voice was gentle, but firm, when he finally spoke, “I don’t.” 

You nodded numbly and pulled at a fraying string on the hem of your denim skirt until the thread snapped. 

“I mean it, kid. They couldn’t identify the source of the fire. They couldn’t even find an origin point; no twelve-year-old could pull that off.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, “Could anyone?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s brow furrowed, and his mouth screwed up into a crooked line, like he was chewing on his words and deciding if he should swallow them or spit them out. “I wish I had all the answers for you. I really do. Not knowing, it’s worse than any truth.”

You blinked up at him for a moment, once again taken aback by his raw sincerity, and swallowed hard. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to have the answers; he was the one who was supposed to ask the questions. There was one failure in his muggy office, and it wasn’t the Sheriff. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Not your fault.”

He looked like he wanted to argue the point, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the phone on his desk. “I have to take this, but if you remember something, or if you just need to talk—”

��My dad spends a small fortune on a psychiatrist and a behavioral therapist for that,” you stood up quickly, shouldering your bag. You forced the corners of your mouth into a small smile, tight at the edges like a sheet that had been stretched too thin, “But thank you. For everything.” 

The Sheriff’s gaze darted to a framed photo on his desk. You had seen it before, on one of your many visits to his office. It was of a boy—his son, you assumed—he looked like he was around five or six at the time. He was grinning, wide enough to show off his missing incisors, and his fingers and wrist were stained cotton-candy blue from a melting popsicle. You must’ve been that happy once, right? In the beginning, everyone was unencumbered by the weight of imminent mortality. Maybe that’s what Sheriff Stilinski was thinking, too. He looked away from the photo and gave you a small smile, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

You gave a half-hearted wave before wrapping your fingers around the strap of your backpack and walking to the parking lot. 

Outside, the sky was grim, a mocking reflection of the dour expression on your face. The spite in your eyes hardened when big, fat raindrops splattered against the apples of your cheeks. For a moment, you just stood there, glaring at the rain and cursing the cosmos for their utterly unamusing sense of humor.

A jeep pulled into the parking lot, and the squealing engine startled you back into reality. The search for your car keys was, of course, a considerable endeavor. Nothing could be easy. Not here. Not today. Not ever, you thought. A bit melodramatic maybe, but the weather was certainly ripe for a bit of self-pity.

You stacked your textbooks and binders onto the hood of your sedan, haphazardly throwing your jacket on top of the pile to protect your painstakingly penned Kafka essay from the rain. By the time your fingertips brushed against the cool metal of your car keys, your hair was damp and curling at the ends. 

The momentary relief was short-lived when you pressed the unlock button five times and the accompanying beep didn’t sound, not even once. For an absurdly long minute, all you could do was rest your forehead against the driver’s side window, breathing heavily until condensation gathered next to your mouth and the drizzle speckled dots onto the sleeves of your thin cotton shirt.

“If you’re trying to charge the battery through osmosis, it’d probably be more effective to smash your head against the hood.”

You jumped, and then flinched again when your keys clattered against the ground. You caught a glimpse of the phantom speaker in the side-view mirror; bizarrely, he looked just as surprised as you felt. You turned around, trepidatiously—objects may be closer than they appear n’all—and tried to swallow your rapidly rising heart. 

“Sorry,” the boy pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down and had the decency to look contrite, “big mouth.” He rubbed a hand over his chapped lips. “It’s a real problem. It’s so big, actually, that my foot just slides right in there like…all the time,” he gestured animatedly with a flat hand, a quick sliding motion, like a fish through water.

You blinked at him, slowly, and bent down to reach for your keys, “Might wanna see someone about that. Sounds unsanitary.”

“Eh, it’s hardly the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” he said, eyes widening into horrified round circles the second he stopped talking. A faint flush creeped up his neck to his ears, and your heart dropped back into your chest. Slashers and ax murderers didn’t blush. Probably. You hadn’t ever met one, but it seemed like sound logic.

“Choking hazard,” you hummed, leaning back against your car. Your fingers traced a small dent in the door, the cause long forgotten, “It’s definitely still a choking hazard.”

The boy grinned before fixing his expression into something on the cusp of severity, “I’m about 95.7% sure that anything bigger than a fist is completely mouth-safe.” He held up his fist and nodded sharply, “Make that 98.3% sure.”

“98.3?” your brow arched.

“Maybe even 98.9.” 

The buzz of a lamp post hummed above your heads as you stared at each other with little smirks until the quiet made you sink your teeth into your bottom lip and big-mouth drum his fingers against his forearm. 

“So,” his sneakers squeaked against the slick asphalt as he shifted his weight, “you need a jump?”

You pursed your lips and ran your eyes over the front of your car, “I might give osmosis another shot. 30 seconds is hardly a fair trial.”

“Of course,” he hummed, “you gotta be fair.”

“We are in front of a police station.”

“Well,” he scratched his cheek, “it’s not a courthouse.”

“Technicality.” You were slightly horrified when you finally noticed that you were smiling. The sensation felt like it had escaped straight out of the uncanny valley and latched onto your face like a parasite in need of a host. It only took two weeks for muscles to atrophy; years must have completely decimated the fibers in your cheeks. “I guess I could use a jump. If your offer was an offer and not a hypothetical.” 

“Smart choice.” The boy rapped his knuckles against the hood of your car and said, “Steel’s probably pretty low on the permeability scale.”

“As opposed to a skull.”

He snorted and then nodded towards the large lump of books and papers covered by your freshly dampened jean jacket, “You should probably move your stuff. Y’know, ‘cause of the very un-permeable battery.”

“There’s that,” you sighed and started stuffing your things back into your backpack, shaking it violently until your notebook finally slid past your chemistry textbook, “and flunking English isn’t high on my list of things to do this weekend.”

His gaze flickered back and forth, rapidly cataloging every corner and crevice of your face. You tilted your head, brows pinched, and stared back at him with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. His eyes, you noticed, became a peculiar shade of brown in the yellow glow of the setting sun and the fluorescent light of the lamppost. More like honey, you realized, more like honey than irises. Something finally clicked behind them. "You,” he pointed aggressively, “you go to Beacon Hills.”

You pushed his finger away from your face with your own, “Safe bet, considering there’s exactly one option for the next 2,000 square miles.”

“You’re kind of a smartass, you know that,” he muttered. He struggled with the trunk of the jeep parked next to your car, cursing under his breath until he finally wrenched it open with an almost guttural grunt.

Your lips parted briefly, and then you grinned drolly. It was refreshing, not being treated like some fragile little creature who would buckle in the knees—or possibly set something on fire—at the slightest confrontation. “Kind of?”

“Total.” He nodded decisively before sticking his head and torso into the depths of his trunk. “Completely, entirely, and wholly a smartass.” There were various clanging sounds until he re-emerged with a pair of jumper cables, “Never noticed that in class. You don’t really…say anything.”

You bit back the snark poised on the tip of your tongue. When people looked at you, the only thing they saw was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. You were the daughter of the woman who burned to death on Cedar Street; your mom died, and you were there. It seemed like that was all you would ever be in Beacon Hills. 

In the grand scheme of things, it was better to be no one. 

High school had been your chance to slip into social obscurity—more kids, more drama, less discussion of homicide by arson—so you took it, wholeheartedly. You kept to the corners of classrooms, away from extracurriculars, and your mouth resolutely shut. 

“I try to exclusively bring the smart and leave the ass at home,” you finally replied.

The boy’s eyes drifted downwards for a moment, and his voice did a funny, squeaky thing when he said, “I should give that a go sometime.”

“10/10 would recommend. No one bugs you—and teachers never throw erasers at your face.”

“So you do remember me,” he grinned a little and rolled up the sleeves of his sweatshirt before unlatching the jeep’s hood and propping it open.

Slanting your head, you watched his profile. There were moles scattered across his cheek and neck, and his angular jaw clenched as he struggled with the knotted cords in his willowy fingers. “Vaguely,” you said faintly. It was coming back to you in pieces. That was life after twelve for you: bits and pieces. Everything was made up of the disquieting moments when you surfaced from the haze and into the present. It should’ve felt like a lungful of air, but it didn’t. It always felt like choking. 

He wiped his grease-smudged hand on his jeans and then extended it towards you, “Stiles.”

You took his hand, despite the strange formality, and shook it—mainly because of the black streaks staining his pants. “Y/N.”

His fingers twitched a few times when he connected the clamp to the coordinating battery terminal, and your eyes widened. You held your breath in your sternum until you registered that he hadn’t been electrocuted. He was just naturally tweaky, you concluded. It was either that, or he had jumped one-too-many engines in the last 24 hours…unless it was hidden option C, and he was actually tweaking. Unlikely, given he was on his way into a building teeming with cops, but far stranger things had happened in Beacon Hills.  

You sighed a little as you listened to the rain patter against the asphalt and the roof of your car, rubbing your palms over your arms until the goosebumps prickling along your biceps receded into your skin. Stiles looked back at you again, and his mouth wormed its way into a little frown. His head disappeared into his trunk, and after a moment a lumpy maroon mass hurtled towards your face. You caught it before it could smack into your nose, and you clutched at the soft material until you realized that the projectile missile was actually just a sweatshirt. 

Stiles was staring at you when you looked up from your hands. A small, unsure…something squirmed over his face, and you felt a little stupid, just standing there, hoodie limp in your arms. It happened a lot—more than it should after so many years. The invisible quicksand materialized in the strangest, most insignificant moments. You blinked, completely brainless, at simple questions, stared aimlessly into your closet until your second alarm startled you into snatching the first shirt you came across—clasped at a stranger’s hoodie until the rainwater pooled on your lashes dripped into your eyes.

Robotically, you thrust your arms through the sleeves and tugged it over your head, “Thanks.” The sweet scent of grass clung to the fabric, and there was something earthier underneath it, something like evergreen. You smiled slightly, combing your baby hairs behind your ears, “I guess I forgive you for attempting to blind me in the process.”

Stiles’s shoulders unwound as he scoffed, “That was an excellent throw. First-line material, honestly.”

You looked at him and tilted your head, eyebrows crawling towards your hairline, and Stiles sighed loudly, “Okay, so I’m not an ‘athlete’ or whatever—but I’m working on it. You’ll see—you’ll all see.”

You hummed softly, unconvinced but grateful enough to not comment further. Another bout of silence fell between you, but it wasn’t so restless this time—even after Stiles torpedoed his body through his passenger seat. He fought with his keys for a while until the correct one slid into the ignition. 

The jeep’s engine hummed pleasantly in the background as you let out a soft sigh, dropping your head back against your car window. The rain had stopped somewhere between trying to unlock your car and now, but you couldn’t quite recall when. The chill wasn’t so bad, you realized, without your foul mood casting a shadow over your head.

Stiles landed back on his feet and leaned against the jeep. You could feel his gaze on you again. A tickling sensation trailed down your spine as you fiddled with your keychain. You took a step backwards and bit your bottom lip, “I should probably try start my car…y’know, before you throw something else at my face.’”

He nodded, taking a step towards his jeep, “Solid plan. A tire iron was next.”

You slid into your car and stared at the steering wheel, forgetting to laugh at his joke. You wrapped your fingers around 10 and 2 and silently called upon every deity you’d ever heard of to end your suffering. Stiles seemed nice enough, but you seriously doubted your smalltalk capabilities were up-to ‘ride home’ standards. Perhaps, you should revisit your resounding dedication to atheism, you thought, as the engine sputtered in protest a few times and then came back to life. 

Stiles flashed two thumbs up through the window. The smile on his face was positively goofy, but his dismount from the jeep was somehow even goofier. He stumbled over his large feet a few times before regaining stability. You bit back a smile when he shot you another thumbs up, this time through the dash as he removed the jumper cables from your car’s battery.

He wiped his hands off on his jeans again; at this point, you were convinced that they were beyond saving, but Stiles didn’t seem concerned. He tapped against your window before stepping around the open door, “You should probably let it run for a while. Take the scenic route home; enjoy all the Beacon Hills hotspots open past 8:00 pm on a weeknight. I personally recommend the Rite Aid or Walmart.”

You snorted, “Maybe I’ll swing by the Preserve. I hear the woods are especially beautiful in the foreboding darkness.”

“Don’t.” Serious was an odd look on Stiles’s face. You decided that you much preferred the goofy grin. “Don’t go anywhere near the Preserve. It’s officially cordoned off—totally locked down, quarantine-zone-central. Something about flesh-eating, parasitic plant life.”

“As completely real and unobtrusive as that sounds,” you drawled, “don’t worry about it. Literally every single person in town knows about the body they found in the woods.” It was bound to happen, small town and all—and ‘woman dies in deadly animal attack’ was the most interesting thing that had happened in Beacon Hills since the intersection got a Target two years ago. “I’ve seen every installment of Friday the 13th and The Blair Witch Project. If I’m going to be murdered, I refuse to also be humiliated by a cliché C.O.D.” 

The manic expression on his face softened to a relieved smile and then again to a little smirk, “So what’s a certified fresh murder, then? Not that I doubt the depths of human depravity, but I think society killed off originality a few centuries ago.”

You thought back to a house fire with no origin, accelerant, or discernible cause. Apparently, not. “You know what they say,” you sighed, “life finds a way.”

Stiles tilted his head, “And death.”

“And death,” you agreed, staring at a small chip in your windshield. The cracks had just begun to spiderweb out from the pit. 

Stiles looked like he wanted to say something, and he looked so much like the Sheriff with his face twisted around thoughtful contemplation that you couldn’t believe it had taken you this long to make the connection. The boy in the photo had grown up. How unfortunate for him. Stiles swallowed whatever it was that was lingering on his tongue and shut your door. He leaned his elbow against the window frame and cocked his hand in a stiff little wave, “Seeya at school. I’ll bring something fun for target practice—maybe grapes. You like grapes? Don’t answer that—I’ll surprise you.”

You put your car in drive once Stiles was safely a few feet from the wheels and gave him a dry smile, “The anticipation is killing me.”

What a scary place to be, you thought as you watched Stiles disappear in your rearview mirror. Anticipation. Hope. Life. You were chronically good at surviving; cockroached your way out of every horrible thing life squashed you with. Lately, all you could do was cling to your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin, until you were barely more than roadkill. A walking carcass was a far cry from living, but death would not stop for you, so you stopped looking for him. You kept treading water, took your pills, stopped existing—you were a lot like Schrödinger’s cat that way: too stubborn to live, too stubborn to die. You didn’t know what to do if someone unsealed the box and forced you to choose. That was the trouble with possibility; it required far too much uncertainty.

Your dad’s SUV was parked in the garage when you finally pulled into your circle driveway. It was a rare sight; your dead battery had disrupted your usual routine. You were supposed to be safely tucked away in your room after an early dinner—take-out usually, sometimes a quesadilla if you were feeling exceptionally inspired—by the time your dad got home from work. It was dysfunctional in every sense of the word, but it was the only way you could function in the same space. 

He used to stare at you from the other end of the dinner table: not eating, not speaking. The only way you knew he was alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest. After a while, he moved dinner to his office. ‘Working dinner,’ he’d say in passing, ‘budgets are due.’ Eventually, he stopped coming home altogether. It was better that way, you thought. You loved each other better from afar, where the power of nostalgia could cloud all the present unpleasantries. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you now. You wondered, and you desperately didn’t want to find out.  

You shouldered your backpack and made sure your car lights were off twice before quietly creeping into the mudroom. You could hear the buzz of the microwave as you toed off your sneakers and tried to discern the smell emanating from the kitchen. Something with garlic and tomato. Bona Vita, probably. Your dad loved their al pomodoro. 

You tried to make yourself as small as possible as you skulked into the kitchen, shoulders hunched to your ears and grip tight around the strap of your backpack. Your dad’s back was to you; you could see the wrinkles in his collar from where he tugged at it when he was agitated. He stopped stirring his pasta once you reached the island. 

“Did…” your dad trailed off for a moment, still facing the kitchen counter, “did everything go alright with the Sheriff?” 

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see you, “I guess.”

“It’s just,” he rubbed at his jaw and looked down towards the oven, “it’s almost eight. I was wondering…worrying.”

He still wasn’t looking at you. You stared at the back of his head and sucked your bottom lip between your teeth. Look at me. Your brows pinched, and your back molars ground together. Look at me. 

“I called him. Sheriff Stilinski. He said that you didn’t speak for long.”

“Didn’t have anything new to say,” you shoved your hands into hoodie pockets, realizing belatedly that you forgot to give Stiles his sweatshirt back. Another problem for another time. 

“That’s not what I—” your dad grasped the lip of the counter and hung his head like it suddenly weighed too much for his spine, “I was wondering what happened to you.” 

“Oh,” you shifted your weight onto your other foot, “dead battery. I think it was the door light.”

Your dad nodded a little, “Do you need someone to pick up your car?”

“Got a jump from a friend.” Not a friend, not really, but you supposed it was the closest you’d come to one in the last four years. That was just a little too sad to say out loud. 

“Good.” He nodded again, “Good.” 

You nodded because it seemed like the only thing to do and slipped towards the hallway. You’d taken no less than five steps out of the kitchen when your dad said, “You could call me. Next time, you could call me.”

Maybe. Maybe you could if he would look at you.

[luboy7rt]

How Team GHOST Would React To You Being Brainwashed (Headcanons) (GN reader) (Elias, Hesh, Logan, Merrick, Keegan and Kick and Riley)

(Note: This is just what I (My headcanons), enjoy reading!)(Could be seen as Platonic, Romantic?)

(Reader is in the infirmary after the Federation brainwashed you, after months of not seeing you, how would characters react to you being so different)

Elias Walker:

- Elias went silent as he sat in your infirmary room, his arms crossed firmly. Elias is a hit..  saddened, he knew Rorke before he got brainwashed.. he never wanted it to happen to someone he knew so well, someone he cherished.

- Elias stares into your dull eyes as he sat next to you, his jaw subtly clenched as he would force himself to give you a reassuring smile.

- Elias would talk, talk a lot despite the fact he never talked much, he would catch you up on everything and anything, telling you stories about the memories You have shared together that you might have been brainwashed to forget.

- Elias would simply spend time with you, your body chained down due to your Brainwashed state, but.. Elias wasn't able to ‘get over’ it, like he did with Rorke, He wasn't able to not visit you. He had a chance to help you, he was willing to spend his time doing so. He never got the chance to help Rorke, he regretted not trying more to save the man in the past… But the past was the past and you were his future, you were more important and the current, he decided to focus on the present.

- Elias would pull up your covers if you weren't able to or didn't/couldn't move due to your brainwashed state. Elias would personally care for you, and when he couldn't he ensured it was a trusted friend, teammate or medic to care for you.

- Elias would give you headpats, he gently murmurs when you flinch back due to the trauma you have experienced by being Brainwashed and tortured by the Federation. Elias would respect your space but also wants to gently get used to his touch again.

- He would read You stories, his voice is great for it. (If you are his child, or if he raised you it's because he wants to remember the good times… and make you remember that he's here. or He would hum a soft song he hummed to you when you were very young or maybe humming a song Ms Walker would always hum before she passed) Elias would even read out loud or hum gently even if you are sleeping, he saves the stories about Team Ghosts and stories about you, or the others for when you are awake and ‘listening’.

- Elias would be there for physical therapy, every moment, whenever you needed help but couldn't voice it. Elias would be there, and he gets really good at just guessing what you needed.

- Elias wants to be the first person you see in the day, not a medic, despite the fact he knows you have false memories, or your memories were messed with, he wanted that trust you once had for him, he wants you to understand you were safe with him.

- Elias gives you a forehead kiss when he arrives to your side and one before he leaves, just to make a habit form so you can expect affection from him or if you're not that close he would pat your head instead.

David ‘Hesh’ Walker:

- Hesh falls asleep on the infirmary bed next to you every night, emotionally exhausted as you were the first experience of someone he knew so well being brainwashed. Hesh would refuse to leave your side, willing to stay put until he knows you are aware again.

- He does cry when he gets frustrated, knowing you were in pain, knowing he couldn't help.. knowing your memories were messed with, he tries to hide it, but his hand is tightly holding yours. He's on his knees by your infirmary bed, his face buried into the mattress as he murmurs ‘I got you’, ‘you'll be alright’ multiple times over and over again.

- Hesh tries to encourage you, to get up.. to move about a tiny bit.. to strengthen your limbs once again. Hesh takes you walking around the base when you are mentally aware enough to not attack him or others.

- His hands gently clasped around yours, after days of ‘waiting’ for something.. anything from you. Hesh began speaking to you, rambling on about any topic he could think of. Trying to comfort you so he talks about any topic that you had brought up to him before you went missing, it could be about a hobby you were telling him about or a story, or anything. He remembers, and will remember for you until you could hold onto the memories again.

- Hesh usually re-does your bandages, ensuring your wounds are disinfected and bandaged in clean bandages. He asked a medic to show him the ‘right way’, (he knew how to do this already, but asked the medic anyway to ensure he did it right). Hesh does this so you can get used to his touch once again, he flinches when you flinch at his touch because he isn't used to you flinching because of him.

- Hesh sneaks in your favorite snacks for you, despite the fact you weren't supposed to eat it, but he did sneak it in for a bed-time snack, trying to coax you with your favorite snack, so maybe it would trigger the memories of all the nice times you both have shared over snacks.

- He watches movies with you, Hesh didn't really care he was uncomfortably curled up in the chair next to your infirmary bed, ends up with Riley on his lap so you three could watch movies together while you recover.

- He tends to get frustrated and cry, but only a tiny bit, a few tears slipping from his eyes when he watches you, his heart hurt for you. Of course, he has seen a lot in his time as a soldier, he lost many friends, but he hadn't ‘lost’ someone like this before. He wanted to protect You but he couldn't figure out how.

Logan Walker:

- Logan didn't react much physically to the news you were back at base, back in the infirmary. He was told what had happened to you.. But he didn't visit at first, letting the rest of the Ghosts members visit you.

- He did visit at night though, when there wasn't supposed to be visitors, he snuck in. Silently sitting on the edge of your infirmary back, staring back at your dull eyes. At first he was surprised you were awake but he simply sat there.. so you wouldn't have to be alone again.

- Logan would stay the whole night, tapping your arm.. He ignored if you flinched, he understood what happened to those who have been brainwashed by the Federation. He tries to respect your space, doing just soft taps to let you know he was there every once in a while.

- Logan formed a habit to spend every night in your infirmary room, as if he was ‘guarding’ it for you. Ensuring no one came in, no matter how many times Elias tells him to allow you to sleep.. He does, but he's going to be around while you do.

- Logan simply wants to protect you, ensuring the Federation couldn't get you again, even though there is a slim chance of anyone getting into HQ, he likes to think it eases your mind, even if you couldn't or didn't voice it. 

- He'd sit there for hours, moving to sit next to you.. sometimes he would lay his head on your forearm, to sleep near you. Sometimes he would shift his head onto your chest to simply hear your heartbeat to ensure you were alive.

- Mentally Logan is breaking down, unable to handle the fact you were no longer the you he knew well. Not taking well to the fact your memories were messed with, so he tries to make you remember, using the rare photos he has of you and the team to try and show you.

Keegan P. Russ:

- Keegan broke in the moment he got word of your return, scaring all the medics as he kicked down the door (he didn't have to, it was unlocked, but he didn't realize It) as he stormed in. He would say your name, as he walked over to you. He sorta aggressively grabbed your shirt, to check your now bandaged wounds, just simply checking you over himself to just see you were alright, his gloved hands firmly checking over each of your now bandaged wounds.

- After a bit, he would grumble and sigh as grab the chair to the side, dragging it, the noise being loud, if you flinch he would place his hand on over your collarbones as if to keep you down, murmuring a soft shush as he did so.

- His hand would hold yours, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles as he would ensure no one else was around before being a bit affectionate with you. “You better be fuckin’ alright” Keegan would mutter under his breath.

- His hand stays firmly on your body, your chest, your arm. Your hand, he doesn’t care if you're brainwashed, he silently cares that you're alive. He’s willing to put up with you, he didn’t need you to remember (despite the fact, that he silently wishes for you to), he just needs you to be aware he’s there. Silently holding you, protecting you. He won’t admit it out loud, but all his actions while being around you are to protect you from further harm.

- He stays with you for a few hours every day. Leaving for missions when he needs to but he always usually returns to your side to inform you about his day. Aggressively challenges you, pissing you off with his snide comments, riling you up to do something.. anything. That's all he wanted, to get you back to your usual self.

- He would.. be a bit more patient than usual, sighing as he settles in the chair next to you. Ends up with his legs kicked up on your bed, his hand tightly holding yours, murmuring insults under his breath at the world.

- He would end up putting your favorite shows on, informing you of anything you couldn't remember, he knows it all. You're favorite character, favorite moment, anything you question about yourself, he probably knows it. 

- He plays music too, any music you like. As if trying to subconsciously make you remember anything. He would mutter the lyrics under his breath, having learned any songs you used to like in the time you weren't around. 

- His hand rests on your chest, feeling your heartbeat. He silently counts along to it, to ensure you were alive, well, and your heartbeat was beating at a decent pace.

- Keegan was willing to get you revenge as well, working his body to its limits on every mission to get rid of any Federation soldier in his path, he cared for his teammates a lot, and knowing what you went through, he would make them regret it

- Keegan is angry, angry at the world, the Federation.. Maybe a bit at you, despite knowing it was stupid. It wasn’t your fault you were captured, maybe he was also angry at himself, but he simply kept that anger for himself and any Federation soldiers he comes across in the future.

Thomas A. Merrick

- Merrick is surprisingly gentle, his hand resting on your shoulder as he sits on the chair next to your infirmary bed. He shifted the binders of work he needed to do on the floor by his seat as he checks up on you. 

- He tends to just quietly work by your side. It was a win-win for him, he gets to stay by your side while also finishing up on work. Sometimes he would talk when you are awake. Sometimes just telling you about things you had missed while gone for the months you were tortured and brainwashed.

- He would also apologize for all that you went through, he feels bad. He understands he couldn't control what happened but he regretted not moving fast enough to save you.

- Merrick would check up on you as well, checking your bandages, it's not that he didn't trust the medics, he did. But he felt like sometimes he just had to see for himself you were okay.

- He would be there, he would call himself stupid if he wasn't, he liked just talking to you, it reminded him of what your relationship was like before you were brainwashed..  or just talking to you. He didn't need you to speak back if you didn't feel like it, or couldn't.

- He would take you on walks, leading the way, or showing you around HQ again, even if you couldn't remember the way around. Merrick gladly will show you around, as many times as you need. He would also remind you of funny stories, and explain where it took place to try and get you to remember.

- Merrick is saddened and pissed off, but he understands, he couldn’t be sad forever. Yes, he will grieve the past version of you that he knew very well. But he simply kept that quiet and helped you recover. Merrick knew he would like the you, you are despite you being brainwashed, and he will continue to support you through it all. But on the field? Suddenly he gets more scary, yelling a lot more, and aggressively taking out Federation soldiers.

Kick:

- Kick is there, by your side while he has a break in his work, his hand firmly holding your forearm as if to ensure he doesn't ‘lose’ you again. He doesn't talk the first few days of your return, he glances away when your dull eyes meet his.

- He would also pick up one of your hobbies, even if you forgot all about it, if it was a video game, he would play the game and remind you all about it, what you liked, which characters you liked, show you your account and make his own. If you liked drawing, he would attempt to get into it. Basically just picks up any hobbies you had, to try and re-teach you, wanting to see the passion/love you had for it return.

- He’s a bit overbearing, wanting to see everything, every injury, every one who enters your room, he just wants to ensure you are okay.

- He uses a military drone to ‘entertain’ you, even if you don't react much and just watch, he's happy, talking you through his own hobbies for hours at a time. He just is trying to spend time with you, he almost lost you, and he wouldn't take his time for granted anymore.

- His hand is usually resting on you, your shoulder, forearm, knee anywhere you feel comfortable with. 

- He would sometimes tell you about his day, or something stupid Logan and Hesh have done as of late. 

- He would sneak in food, whatever you liked before getting brainwashed, he would cook it himself for you, the cost doesn't matter, if you liked it, he buys or cooks it. Leaves a note that he did indeed bring you food for the medics incase they needed to know but he does it before he leaves so the he doesn't have to face the medics.

- He also brings you your stuff, things you liked or like to do, will bring you books, papers, yarn anything really you want or can do. 

- He frowns when you don't react to the things he brings, as he sees you don't have the passion for any thing you used to like. He doesn't like seeing you.. Brainwashed, doesn't like that you don't respond, and only respond to orders. He will be here while you heal, understanding you would never be the same person he once knew.

- He tries to hype you up, oh you sat up for the first time since getting back? He's hyping you up, you talk for the first time since being tortured, you got this! He's hyping you up every step of the way on your journey to heal.

- He’ll do something stupid just to see you smile, he would make Logan and Hesh do something stupider to just see you smile, encourages stupid shit to Logan and Hesh, saying that yeah.. that would make you smile. But ends up just laughing at the two, and using them as his own amusement while ensuring he would be by your side the whole time.

Riley: (Honorary Dog mention) 

- Riley is sat by the side of your bed when he isn't with Hesh, firmly sat there to protect You.

- Barks for medics when you ‘need’ it, swiftly learns that when your hand brushes against his tail, he needs to bark loudly for a medic to check up on you.

- He waits for you to be ‘better’ so he could get you to play fetch with him, but for now.. until you heal, he is willing to wait by your side. 

- After a few months of your healing journey, Riley sets up to lay on the bottom of your bed instead of on the floor.. flops his head by your handcuffed hand so you can pet him.

- Riley is very loyal, staying put for hours at a time, when he wakes up, his eyes glance at you. To ensure you were alive, awake, and aware. If you sleep too long he chomps (lightly) on your hand to wake you up.. if you don't, Riley goes running off to the first Ghosts member he could find to drag them over to you.

[whynot-tryit]

Angel of Small Death: Chapter 1

John Price x female! reader

Summary: Laswell convinces Price to hire a team medic. You spend your first day meeting each one of the men and you take an instant liking to the captain, and he does so too.

Word count: 5,528

Warnings: inaccurate medical stuff, mentions of blood, insomnia, body parts, body touching, lmk if there’s anything I should add.

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

“John, in the past six months your team alone has made up almost forty percent of overall med bay visits. I’m not saying your team isn’t fit, I just think you should hire a team medic.” 

This isn’t the first time the idea has been brought up to Price during his and Laswell’s debriefings in his office. His hands run over his face, racking through his mutton chops before laying them down on his desk with a grunt of annoyance. “I know you guys can take care of yourselves on base and out there on the field but come on John, you guys need someone. You need someone to help you.”

Price wasn’t fond of asking for help but it was starting to get on his nerves with how much Laswell was bringing this up. “I already said no, Laswell.” His annoyance makes his words come out gruffier than usual. Laswell rolls her eyes and rests her back against the chair posted on the other side of his desk. “How about I choose for you? If you hate them then you’ll never hear me talk about it again.” 

The sigh that rolls through Price’s chest is the only sound that radiates through the small room for a couple seconds. He hasn’t had the time to finish the mountain of paperwork on his desk along with the daily training regime for the team, along with all the meetings he’s been dragging his feet to day in and day out. Maybe some help would be nice. Did that mean he was unfit in his role? His eyes come up from the papers on his desk to Laswell’s. Her eyes seem to read his mind and her eyes get softer trying to voice her thoughts.

He was good at his job, getting help wouldn’t be a bad thing, he deserved it. The bags under his eyes and stiff shoulders were a tell tale sign of how much he worked, an extra set of hands wouldn’t be the worst thing. 

“Fine. You pick ‘em.” 

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

You were an experienced medic, having been stationed in multiple locations, saved a multitude of civilians and soldiers. You were proud of your work. Moving around so much, feeling like you were being tugged in one direction to the other was getting quite exhausting. Once the rumor of a job opening as a team medic passed through your small base you hesitated for a small moment, you had no idea what team, where, but you knew it would be good to get some fresh air and maybe to have a new place to find stable ground for a foreseeable amount of time. It took months of rigorous interviews and paperwork but they chose you. Laswell, chose you. You had asked her why the captain of the team didn’t pick you, asking why they weren’t present for any of the interviews if you were going to be working with them. She had only hinted that they seemed to be a close friend of hers who needed the extra hand and didn’t have the time to pick someone themselves, so she was doing them a solid.

You had always liked the idea of helping someone, that's why the idea of being a medic, a doctor, was one you had had since you were a child. One that you worked very hard to make a reality, so the thought that whoever it was that you were going to work for really needed you made you even sounder in the idea of taking the new opportunity. 

Duffel bags are still packed and laying on the floor of your new living quarters, hands on your hips and eyes trailing around the four walls, all the way to the small bed and desk. This would have to do. Since the process of getting here had taken so long you wanted to jump right into introductions. You hadn’t heard a single thing about the team, 141. Cute name, you thought.

Unpacking and making the room somewhat livable for your needs was going to have to wait, changing into your scrubs and grabbing the four manilla folders you made your way to the medical wing on base. Laswell had helped you set up one on one meetings with the team so you could go over their medical files. Military medics, especially ones who didn’t work with the team directly and personally were always known to look over things and forget to file symptoms and problems properly so you wanted to make sure you went over some things. You wanted to do your job properly. 

First up was Kyle Garrick. 

As you walked towards the curtain which separated your little appointment room for your little meet and greets you noticed the feet underneath the small sliver of space made by the floor and the bottom of the curtain. He’s early, 15 minutes early to be exact. That earns a check in your book.

You take a deep breath to calm your nerves and reach out a hand to pull the curtain to the side and take a quick step inside before pulling it back to its place behind you. “You must be Kyle.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

You greet the soldier with a kind smile, moving to place the folders in your arm on the small side table in the corner before pulling out the rolling stool from underneath and taking a seat, scooting yourself a little closer to the cot located in the middle of the room, closer to Kyle who is seated right on top. 

“You don’t have to call me ma’am, makes me feel older than what I really am.” You say with a small chuckle. He doesn’t seem to be much older than you, a little younger than the other members in 141, you presume. Your eyes make their way from his eyes down to his shoulders, then to his arms, hands interlocked in his lap, all the way down to his legs and feet. “You can call me Gaz then, that's what everyone calls me around here anyway.” You file the nickname into the back of your mind. 

You splutter out a greeting, a more friend like one at least, your name and medic title. “I already went through your medical history and you seem to be pretty healthy or at least your file is a lot lighter than some I’ve seen.” You mentally flinch when you realize that it might come off as you think he’s inexperienced in his field, new to the military, although his age hints at him being quite the opposite. But Gaz smiles, “Means I’m good at my job. Don’t get hurt too often, at least I try not to.” Oh thank God, you think, he didn’t take it that way.

“Well then, I guess me and you are gonna get along just fine then.” You chuckle. “Is there anything you wanna tell me though? Anything like trouble sleeping? Appetite problems? Joint Pain? It doesn't seem like you’ve complained about anything, ever. At least according to your records.”

A deep hum can be heard coming from his chest as he seems to run through his own mind, trying to come up with anything he would deem reasonable enough to complain about, at least to a doctor. As he’s doing so you take note of his clothes, the medical wing is set up like most hospitals, AC blasting, it’s cold, sure, but not enough to be bundled up for. Your eyes focus on his shoes, more specifically his socks, they’re not the military issued kind. They seem to be wool socks, which is odd, not something you see that often. Maybe his feet get cold, at least to a level that he takes an extra precaution to keep them warm. 

While you’re finishing reeling in your thoughts after noticing your observation, Gaz finally finishes rummaging through his mind for anything to tell. “I don’t have anything I think is worth complaining to you, Doc. I mean if complaining about the food on base to you can actually change anything then that's about it.” A deep chuckle makes its way out of his throat. You smile.

“Can I see your fingers?”

The odd question makes Gaz raise a brow but he pulls his hands from his lap and lays them out to the space between you and him, palms up. You take a soft hold of his fingers, wrapping yours around them almost like you would grip onto a handle of something. They’re oddly cold. You take note of it in your mind and move his hand to be palm down so you can take a look at his fingernails, softly running your thumbs over them.

Gaz stays silent, watching you as you bring them level to your eyes as you take note of the very subtle vertical lines that run through his nails. You let a slight hum almost like an aha moment and Gaz is very confused. “What is it?” The question comes out with a slightly worried tone. 

“Do you get cold easily, Gaz?” 

“I don’t think I get any colder than the average guy, why?” 

You finally drop the hold you had on his hands and scoot to the desk, opening a drawer to quickly take a pair of gloves out and slip them on before scooting back to your previous position near him.

“You wear wool socks, which aren't really military issued so I’m guessing your feet get cold easily and your fingers too. Your fingernails also show symptoms of an iron deficiency. Is it alright if I check your eyes and gums?” You always try to explain the best way you can, talking slower than you normally would- trying to come off as understanding as possible. He gives you a nod of approval before shifting closer to the edge of the bed so you can do your little investigation. 

You take a hold of his face, placing your thumbs underneath his eyes before pulling down his water line to get a good look underneath. The spot is oddly void of red, a classic sign of anemia. You move on to do the same with his mouth, pulling on his bottom lip to look at his gums which are a pale pink- not the exact color that they should be.. 

Retracting your hands and pulling the gloves off you scoot to the manilla folder, pulling out a pen from your scrub pocket to jot some things down. “I think you’re anemic, an iron deficiency, nothing too serious since it doesn’t seem to affect your work but I’m gonna order a blood test to confirm and to see if it’s just a dietary issue or if you need a supplement to get you to normal.”

Gaz is kind of taken aback. He felt fine, or at least he thought he did. Sure, his feet and hands got cold but he had trekked through waist high levels of snow and water. The soldier thinks of how he gets winded when moving from one sparring match to the next. Was that what that was? “You got that because of my socks?” 

Shit, you’re good. 

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

Next was Johnny MacTavish, or “soap” at least that's what the red mess -doctor handwriting, right next to his real name on his file read. You had stayed in the curtain enclosed room after Gaz had left, writing out a referral for the blood test you had mentioned when you heard the slight squeaking of boots on the shiny floors headed right your way before they stopped right on the other side of the curtain. You looked up right as they were pulled aside and a friendly face greeted you, and a mohawk- which surprised you. 

“You must be the new Doc, names Soap.” He greets you and steps inside, extending a hand to shake yours. You take it, giving him a light shake before introducing yourself and directing him to sit on the cot. Soap’s introduction didn’t seem rushed yet happened all before you could even stand up from your seat. It somehow exuded this confident aura off him, which somehow in your mind explains the haircut for you. 

“I see here that you're a demolition expert?” To be frank, when you had read that in his file while going over all the men’s information, and seen all his med bay visits you knew he would be the one that would take up most of your time. You had seen first hand the aftermath of the explosions his people have dealt with. On enemies and on your very own. The thought and images are quickly pushed to the back of your mind. 

“Yes ma’am.” He laughs, it's deeper and louder than Gaz’s. “You are the second person to call me ma’am today, please just call me anything else.” 

“My bad, Sorry, Doc.” He raises his hands in a mock surrender. “I’m guessing you also know that your file says that you frequently find yourself in the medical wing.” Soap winces, a hand coming to rub the back of the neck. “Yeah, sorry about that. Kind of comes with the job. But, hey! We’ve got you now, so no worries.” 

Yep, you had your work cut out for you on this one. “I guess you do, can’t wait to see what you get yourself into that I have to bandage you up for.” 

Soap enjoys your replies, the banter settles nice under his skin. His smile doesn’t seem to fade, maybe slightly but never fully gone. “I’m guessing that since you’ve been at this a couple years you know about the annual hearing tests you should be taking.” 

His smile drops instantly. “What.”

“You did know that all personnel that deal with explosives regularly are supposed to be given a hearing test once a year while for others it’s every 3, right?” 

A laugh bubbles up in your chest, past your rib cage right near your spine as you watch him gape at you- like he’s grappling to find the words that he clearly doesn’t have. “I’m pulling your leg, your file doesn’t have anything on them either so I'm guessing you never had them.” Soap lets out a sigh before shrugging, flashing you a sheepish smile. 

You chuckle, “Alright, I’m gonna have you do one for me and let's just hope to God you’re not deaf yet.” That earns a chuckle from him, again. He was a lot more talkative than Gaz yet around the same level of openness. Thank god it seems like you got a good team, no weirdos so far. 

“Can I ask you one thing, lass?” Your eyes dart up from your folder where you were jotting down your notes. “Yeah, of course.”

“How fast does hair that's been burned off, by let's say- an explosion- take to grow back?”

Oh boy.

………………………………..

It had taken a while to finish up with Soap, he had too many questions for his own good. But the interaction puts a smile on your face at the thought. Your next patient was already waiting outside, Soap greets him right on the other side of the curtain before he comes in.

“You must be Ghost.” 

You had heard of him before, small whispers of a skull masked man who never showed his face. To be honest with yourself, it wasn’t quite unfamiliar to have a soldier that preferred to cover their face most times, so the thought of it that wasn’t unsettling to you in the least. Even as his huge frame slips past the curtain before moving to the other side of the room, or at least to the other side of the bed. You suppress a frown, he’s purposely distancing himself from you- normal in his case, you try to tell yourself. There's a long moment of silence where you’re at least expecting him to somewhat introduce himself but it doesn’t come. Alright then.

You introduce yourself instead, trying to get rid of the silence. “Did you know that most of your files are almost completely redacted?” His eyes finally meet yours after making their way across the room. “Yeah, I know.” 

There's silence again, this isn’t gonna be easy.

Ever since you were a kid you had always been able to read people, their eyes, their hands, the way they walked. You look at his eyes and the skin around them, at least the small amount you could see through the baklava he wore. They move down to his neck and shoulders, they’re stiff- almost painfully so. Then onto his crossed arms. 

“So, how often do you get nightmares?”

Even Though you can’t see his face you know he’s surprised. “Excuse me?”

You give him a soft smile, “Your eyelids are kind of droopy, you have serious under eye bags, both indicative of an inadequate sleep schedule and your right shoulder is higher than your right even though you're standing straight which tells me you sleep on your side very often. It's actually an effect from what we call a sleeping soldier position. You lay on your side, one arm under your head and the other most likely holding onto some kind of weapon.”

He doesn’t answer straight away, it almost seems like he’s sizing you up. Trying to guess if you’re serious, if you’re being condescending in some way but Ghost can’t seem to find anything behind your eyes except kindness. It almost scares him more than what he was expecting. You know you're right, you’ve worked with dozens of cases of PTSD, diagnosing it and treating it. “What have you tried in order to help?” 

You almost think he’s not going to answer you, that he’s just going to storm out of the room and somehow you’d lose your job before you even got the chance to do anything about it.

 “I don't know how to fix it.” It’s a quiet, muttered reply. You almost miss it. 

Ghost feels like he’s out of his comfort zone, sure soldiers had nightmares and maybe he had had them when on a mission, sleeping just a few feet away from his teammates but you were new and somehow could see through him. “Does your captain know?” You hoped the answer was yes because then it meant you wouldn’t have to tell his superiors about his personal problems and you could just help him without anyone having to know and judge him which is what you guess is making him uneasy. “Price knows.” You nod- they seem to be the closest in age on the team so you guess they’ve known each other for at least a decent amount of time, knowing things about each other that only a close friend would. “Then I can help, I don’t have to tell the captain unless he asks and neither do you.” 

“No drugs.” Ghost had lost hope on ever truly resolving his problems when he lied awake at night thinking about it. Drugs would be written down, stored and used against him. He’ll be seen as an unstable soldier- a sick man. 

“I can do that.” You offer him a small smile, at least you’re getting somewhere- doing your job.

Soap might not be the one to worry about, you thought.

—----------------------

You let out a quiet sign to yourself, the back to back meetings have had you cramped inside the room for hours. The team seems to be a good one, funny and kind, thank god. The last meeting was with the captain. You were nervous even though he had hand picked the three men you had met earlier so he couldn’t be too far off in comparison. But the thought that you were going to be working with him and he hadn't been involved in choosing you was gnawing at you. If he hated you or thought he didn’t need you he could have your bags packed in an hour tops. You try to take a deep breath, he couldn’t be that mean- none of the boys seemed to warn you about him so that means he had to be nice or else they would complain about him somehow. 

The thoughts in your mind seem to be clouding your senses, you barely hear the steps coming towards the curtain and how they come to a halt right before the fabric is slowly pushed to the side. 

Still lost in your thoughts and sitting in the stool, it seems like you’ve been glued to the whole day at the desk that's been housing all the manilla folders, referrals, and notes you’ve been working with for hours on end- you don’t hear the steps get closer and the figure who they belong to standing just slightly past the threshold. Price knows he should probably make himself known, maybe clear his throat or rustle the curtains so you know he’s here. 

He plans to, or at least that's what he tells himself, he can’t help taking your form in, your back to him- legs crossed, seated, elbow resting on the desk, chin in your hand. He gulps, he hasn’t seen your face but somehow he knows that you’re beautiful. He would bet money on it without you even having to turn around. Surprisingly, it's the very gulp that makes him let out a small cough that finally has you turning your head to face him. A part of him wants to back out of the room and call Laswell, curse her out for this idea of hers but that thought seems to slip out of his mind as your eyes meet his. 

You’re quick to stand up, wiping your hands off on your thighs before reaching one out for a greeting. “Shit, so sorry. I didn’t even hear you come in. You must be the captain.” Price takes your hand but his eyes don’t leave your face- that smile that he can already feel is going to get him in a load of trouble and gives you his own. “It’s alright, love.” You try to hide the sharp inhale you seemed to have involuntarily made when the name hits your ears. 

His hands are calloused, not in a way that scratches you but feels sturdy, warm, somewhat comforting. The grasp he has of your hand lasts a little longer than what anyone would deem normal and you stutter out a soft command for him to take a seat on the cot. 

Price does as you say and lets go of your hand before taking a seat, interlocking his hands in his lap. You take the time to turn and rearrange your papers, trying to get your breathing under control, of course no one mentioned he's handsome. Fuck.

“I hope my men haven’t given you a hard time so far.” You finally turn around after hearing his voice, it matches his face- handsome, charming. “ No, they're nicer than I expected.” That makes Price raise a brow, questioning what you mean by that and you catch on. “Gaz doesn’t like talking so much, Ghost is an enigma of his own, and well soap is one hell of a character.” You chuckle while taking a seat on the stool once again and scooting over til you’re a few feet away from him.

To be completely honest, Price had almost forgotten about the deal he made with Laswell. She had come by to drop your file at his desk- for him to look over- but in reality, he had forgotten. He feels what he thinks is guilt eating at him in his chest. He had been adamant for so long on not needing a team medic, that they were a waste of time and money- yet here you were, nice, beautiful and he didn’t hate you one bit. 

“Well, Gaz is called Gaz for that very reason and well Simon is Simon, and soap- well he’s most likely the reason you’re here.” Soap had been the sole reason for 141’s increased med bay visits which is what had tipped off Laswell to initiate the month long debate of hiring someone. 

“I’m glad you did, it doesn’t seem like you guys have been keeping up with protocol.” 

“What do you mean, love?” Concern is laced into his words, the thought of his men not getting adequate help makes the knot in his chest grow tighter. 

“I’m having Gaz checked for anemia since he’s got some of the tell tale signs. Soap hasn’t had a hearing test in over five years and Ghost has a severe case of insomnia.” You know that not a lot of teams have the opportunity to have a team medic, often resorting to rotating med bay doctors who aren't very keen on prevention and treating for mundane things. The look of guilt spread across the captain's face, his brows furrowing and lips taut. “It’s not your fault, I’m here now so I’ll be taking care of you guys and I’ll be trying my best, captain.” 

Your words seem to settle the man down but you can tell he still seems anxious over his men. You place your hands on your knees, “Let’s worry about you right now.” You offer him a kind smile before standing up from your seat and taking a few steps forward before coming to a complete stop when you're standing right in between his spread knees. Your hands are held up a few inches from his face, silently asking for permission. Price pushes the feeling of apprehension to the back of his mind before tilting his chin slightly up, granting you to do so. 

“Any past surgeries I should know about Captain?” The tips of your fingers press into the skin right below his ears, feeling the tension underneath while you slowly make your way down his neck, dotting your fingers into his hair clad skin. 

“No.” You don’t know if it's in your head but his reply almost comes out as a whisper, your fingers run back up his neck applying pressure directly under his jaw on both sides of his esophagus. You hesitate for a moment when you don’t feel the usual clump of cells that should be there. You spare a glance at his eyes, taking a second too long to remember the shade of blue you find yourself trying to jot down in your mind. “You sure about that?” Your voice sounds softer, closer to the whisper he seemed to have let out before.

You slowly remove your hands from Price’s head and reach for the pen in your scrub pocket and turn to write something in your manilla folder that's laid out on the desk. “I think I would remember going under the knife, love.” 

A small smile graces your lips while you finish writing your notes, scooting back to him. “Well Captain, I’m sorry to break the news to you but you don’t have tonsils.” You try to keep a straight face looking at the man sitting on the medical wings cot, barely a foot away. Your knees brushing up against his. “What does that mean?” You hear what sounds like a hesitation of concern laced in his voice and it almost makes you break the stoic look you’re trying to maintain. 

“Either someone drugged you and ripped them out of your throat in your sleep or you had them removed when you were a kid and you didn’t remember and no one ever bothered to check or write it down. I'm gonna go with the ladder so you can sleep better at night.” You let out a little chuckle at your imaginative story to pull his leg. Before Price seems to catch onto your joke you ask a follow up question. “Do you smoke?” 

“Does that matter?” He looked like the type to smoke, maybe not exactly a cigarette but maybe a cigar, your eyes flash down to his hands and look at his fingers which are laid out on his knees. Yep, he looks like the type to smoke cigars. Your eyes come back up to meet his.

 “Cigars?” 

Price doesn’t have to answer your question, the look on his face alone answers for you. Before the words reach your ears you’re already back to writing some notes in the folder. Sparing a glance back at the man you notice how out of place he looks. His dark clothes stand out against the pristine whiteness of the blanket laid out on the medical bed, and the slightly off white colors of the walls, the freshly mopped shiny floors. You have the sudden urge to comfort him even though he’s not here for any actual type of medical treatment. 

You can see the questions brewing underneath his lips and behind his eyes. Turning your body back to face him, inching your stool a little closer til your knees are almost back to pressing against his. 

“If you got your tonsils removed as a child you have a slightly increased risk of upper respiratory infection and you smoking- even if it’s an occasional cigar increases that risk even more.” You try to show some sense of empathy through your eyes while they meet his. A sense of understanding seems to cross his face from your words and it causes a warm smile to find its way on your face. 

“It's not that big of a deal but since it’s now in my job description to make sure you and your men are as healthy as can be I just want to make a note of it in case of anything.” 

“Alright, love.” 

The gruffness in his voice makes you fight back a shiver. “Do you not like doctors, Captain?” His eyes wander around the room, taking note of the fluorescent lights and sketchy wallpaper with a not too fond look on his face. “Not exactly, just not fond of the medical wing itself.” You nod, “yeah I can agree with you on that, not exactly friendly.” John smiles, it's small but something and you feel a tightness in your chest just from the sight of it. “Well since I’m your doctor now we can always just meet in your office instead of here, as long as I can just bring my supplies when needed.” 

Price doesn’t understand why you’re trying to be so understanding, so comforting. It’s strange, out of the ordinary for the man, especially in his line of work. His eyes rack your face, down to your hands where you’re fiddling with your fingers. “I’m here to help you Captain, that's it.” You can tell he’s thinking, trying to take you in- read you. 

Price decides he likes it, likes you.

“You gonna cook me dinner too, love?” He chuckles. You let a small laugh slip past your lips. “Ask Laswell to see if you can upgrade to the doctor deluxe package and maybe I will.” You’re enjoying this, and judging by Price's reaction he seems to be enjoying himself too. 

“Deluxe package?” 

“Yeah, cooked meals, back massages, the whole nine, Captain.”

“Sounds like a dream if you tell me, love.” 

You both break out into a chorus of light laughter and quiet chuckles. The room doesn’t seem so small and suffocating like you had thought a mere thirty minutes ago and that pit in your stomach has seemed to all but dissipate. You finish going over some more of his medical records, confirming some information and filling in some gaps before you realize that it's been over an hour and the day is coming to a close. It doesn’t even hit you until Price brings it to your attention by looking down at his watch. 

“I’m so sorry, I’ve probably kept you here for longer than you planned.” You say with an apologetic smile, nervousness etched into your words. “It’s alright, love.” 

The boys were most likely waiting for him in his office for the past twenty minutes but he didn’t have the heart to tell you. Your eyes seemed to have glued him to the cot and your voice lulling him into a daze. Maybe having you around wasn’t so bad after all.

He stands- you follow him. “Well, it was nice meeting you, captain.” You hadn’t had time to take him in when he first came into the room. He’s tall, wide shoulders, tapered waist, and a nice strong set of thighs you have to force your eyes off of. 

“John.” You raise a brow, lost in thought from seeing him in his full form. “You can call me John.” His smile is warm and it's almost like the warmth of it radiates onto you and you feel a rush of heat crawl up your neck. 

“Okay, John.” 

“It was nice meeting you, love.” Price gives you one last kind smile, the crows feet along the edges of his eyes come out at the gesture as he walks towards the curtain before pushing it aside and stepping out. The curtains don't go back to their previous place. You watch him as he walks away until he’s out of eyesight and you finally feel like you can catch your breath. Fuck, your captain is hot. 

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

Taglist: @sharkiestory

[mrsparrasblog]

hi srry if you don't do requests but I have to ask cuz I love everything about your writing.

Can u write a fic where the mc is strictly monogamous but 141 are SO madly in love so they fight on who gets to be with her and it's causing actual problems between them?

Ignored this if u don't want to. Anyway stay slaying✨

Hey ☀️🩷 Ofc I take requests this is my first one tho, I hope you like It, and it's like you imagined because I always have like a little movie in my head when I write a scene and with requests. I don't know if my thoughts match with yours- performance anxiety lol. Still thank you for supporting me 🩷☀️

Fighting for you

TF 141 x Reader

You always had that one plan in your life: meet a nice guy, date for 2 years, marry him with the most extravagant wedding dress someone could imagine, and after that, you get three fat babies whom you will love and dote on.

The only problem was, as a nurse on a military base, you didn't meet guys capable of this lifestyle. You hated to see all these men trying to get in your pants while they were married.

"Why are you in the med again, Johnny?" You scolded him. Of course, you found the Scotsman funny and liked his daily visits, but still, having him here all the time felt like a lost puppy when you had work to do.

"Look, Bonnie, have a mean scratch, need stitches from ya."

"Is that so, Mr. MacTavish?"

"Yes, Bonnie, look." He showed you a scar on his biceps, and you sighed. You knew he was only coming for something else; no soldier went to the medical just because of a scratch. He started to flex his biceps.

"Johnny, that's barely anything."

"But ya always fix me good, lassie." He looked at you with puppy eyes, and you sighed, disinfecting his nonexistent wound. "Such a good caretaker, lass. Need to put a ring on ya before someone else does." You blushed at the thought of marrying someone like Johnny. He was handsome, funny, and super strong, but he was a flirt, probably flirting with every other nurse. Besides, you had a date today.

"Johnny, stop flirting. I have a date today."

"Just a date, lass. It's not like you'll marry him."

You stared at him with a dead glare. "For some people, dates are important, Johnny!"

"Who is it?"

"None of your business, and now leave," you scolded him, annoyed by his noisy behavior.

-----------

"Who of you bastards broke the agreement?" Johnny started to scream at his teammates.

"What do you mean, Soap?" Kyle asked, confused.

"We agreed that no one can have her since she doesn’t want to share, so who of you tossers broke the agreement and goes on a date with her?"

"How do you even know that mate, if you didn’t break the agreement too?"

"I just needed her to take care of my injuries, Kyle."

"Bullshit, you barely got a scratch. Admit that you wanted to break off the agreement too. Admit it." Gaz barked, walking towards Soap to pick him up by his shirt.

"Enough of you, Muppets!"

"You broke the agreement, Captain, didn't ya? Telling us all about the agreement and then taking out my future wife."

"I didn't, and even if, she'd be more happy to become Mrs. Price than Mrs. MacTavish."

They were so close to fighting; everyone accused the other of taking you on that date. They remembered the first day they saw you; all of them were smitten. You were just too precious, full of love and excitement. Perfect hair, perfect body, everything about you was perfect for them. You could walk with your greasy messy bun, and they’d kneel for you, promising you’re the most beautiful woman on earth. After a while, they noticed how every one of them was smitten, how Johnny spent every minute in the infirmary, Ghost becoming your shadow, protecting you from every danger of the world without you even knowing, the Captain always treated you better than every other staff member, you had more off days, better shifts, and even better pay, and Kyle bringing you always your favorite coffee and a bunch of pastries when you overworked yourself again.

Johnny was the first one to ask the rest if they’d be open to a poly relationship. He was the most open about his sexuality, and having Simon and you was the perfect thing for him. Whether the reasons why they agreed to try to court you in this relationship, every one of them thought you only deserved the best, and that included being worshiped by four muscular men.

Unfortunately, your best friend, who noticed their goal while you still stayed in your naive bubble, popped their bubble, telling them to sod off. You weren’t made for this kind of relationship; you were jealous and liked the idea of monogamy way too much. You only wanted to have one husband. That's how the agreement started none of them will pursue you, and they will only start something with you if you approach them, no more flirting, favoritism, or looming over you.

Nonetheless, they gave a fuck about their agreement, behind closed doors still trying to court you in various different ways, but how could they not? You were perfect, and they were obsessed and way too much in love with you to let someone else have you.

"Where the fuck is Ghost?" Kyle asked, looking around for the scary man with the skull face mask.

"Fucking hell, he is her date."

"Sick bastard."

------

Soap walked into Ghost's barracks, eager to scream at his best friend. He was the first to love you, so Ghost should not have gone on a date with you without telling him. The betrayal felt immaculate, his best friend with the love of his life.

"Aye, Lieutenant, heard you're going on a date with the lassie."

"Johnny, it just happened."

"No hard feelings, LT. Where are you taking her?"

"Alfredo's."

"Oh, okay."

Simon looked confused at Johnny. "What's wrong?"

"Take her to a better place a steakhouse or a fish restaurant. Give her a real meal, not something cheap. Lassies love this fancy shit."

"Thanks, mate."

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

Your date with Ghost was okay. He was brooding over something, and as he insisted on ordering something for you as a surprise, despite you telling him no, he did it, wanting to be a posh bloke who knows what his lady wants. Soap said you liked this fancy shit and heavy meat and fish.

As you looked disgusted at the filet steak, trying not to be rude by saying you're a vegetarian, he lost it mentally, not with you but with his best friend, who betrayed him just for you. He'd do the same, of course, but it's still different, right?

The date went on way too cringy, Simon spent most of the time apologizing to you for the messed-up date, and you tried to reassure him that it was okay. When he brought you back home, he asked if he could stay the night, and you politely declined.

"Johnny, I'm going to rip your fucking head off."

"Aye, shit," Johnny screamed as he began to run.

"The date went shit, I guess?" Kyle asked, unfazed by all the screaming from the two men fighting. He acted as if he didn't let slip the information that she is vegetarian next to Johnny or told Price she liked roses after she told him for 20 minutes straight how they are overrated. The best part was no one even suspected him; he was calm about the situation, not trying to solve it with violence like Johnny and Simon. While the others played checkers, he played chess to get you.

"Yes, it was."

"I told you muppets, I'm the one who deserves her."

"Shut up, Price," Ghost scoffed.

"I think so too, Captain should have her. At least he treats her well," Kyle said with a boyish grin.

So the Captain asked you out on a date, and after some convincing, you agreed, making yourself ready and waiting for him in desperation. You looked great, hair curled, mascara applied, and in a dress that was classy but a bit sexy. You knew Price could be a guy for this, maybe a bit too old, but still, you could grow old with him, and maybe he would give you everything your innocent heart desires.

After waiting for an hour, you were sure he wouldn’t come. If only you had known that Ghost was faking an accident and Soap's promise to tell you about it, not to let the sweet angel wait for the Captain. Soap was already on the way to play the knight in shining armor, fully confident to finally sweep you off your feet and make you the future Mrs. MacTavish, his sweet little angel. Oh, how the boys would look to know that he got the heart of their sweetheart finally.

Too late.

"Hey, lovely, why are you sobbing? Do I need to punch someone for you?"

"It's embarrassing, Kyle."

"Tell me about it."

"Just had a bunch of weird dates. One wanted to only bed me, I guess, and the other stood me up," you sobbed, looking into Kyle's pretty face.

"Oh, love, you know that all these guys around the boys are head over heels fighting over you like wild animals."

"Never."

"They are, how couldn't they? You're perfect."

"You're a flirt, you know that."

"And you're too pretty to cry, you know that?" He winked at you, removing the tears from your beautiful eyes.

"You think so?"

"Mhm."

"Kyle," you asked him shyly, looking deep into his brown eyes.

"Yes?"

"Are you one of the boys who fight over me too?"

"Sure as hell, love!" He almost shouted, full of enthusiasm.

"You wouldn’t want what I want."

"And how do you know that?"

"I just want you, to know all, exclusive dating."

"Mhm, I'd give you that without a doubt, love. Just let me prove to you that I'm the right one for you, love." His hand slowly went to your face, caressing the soft skin that was still tinted by your mascara tears. "You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen." And when you looked at him with your doe eyes, he lost it, slowly pulling his rough lips on your soft ones, holding your head for dear life as if you could vanish any second. He was afraid he did something wrong, maybe scared you like a deer, but you didn't shy away; you pulled him closer, letting his lips intertwine with yours and slowly opening your mouth to let his tongue explore yours. It felt like a firework in your body; every fiber burned with pure passion as he kissed you. You didn't want to stop; you needed him as deeply as he longed for you.

"Fucking Garrick, I didn't think he’d win her over," Ghost murmured behind the wall, watching you with the others in jealousy as Kyle got their girl.

"He played us like fucking fools, telling us it's okay if we win her over," Price muttered, annoyed and kinda proud at his sneaky bastard.

"I'm more of a looker than fucking Gaz," Soap said, annoyed.

As happy as you were right now, all of the boys knew the fight for your heart wouldn’t stop until there was a ring on your finger.

[alwaysshallow]

how you get the girl

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x female reader

READ ON AO3

You spend Valentine's Day with your best friend, perfectly oblivious to his feelings to you. (3k)

A/N: an exchange gift for @tokusho!! hope you like it; Kyle is a sweetheart!! a sweetheart that loved you from the very start, it would be proper to say. I wouldn't be myself if I wouldn't include smut in it lmao

People love winter for multiple reasons.

First, school doesn't bug them that much. Sure, there’s always something to do, but it’s calmer around Christmas time and February, when all of the exams are over. Time for yourself, learning new hobbies or expanding current ones. Cute.

It's also the best to spend this time on travelling—around the world or near the area someone lives in. No matter where, it’s good to take a breath and visit your family or friends, too.

Or just to wander around your town, taking in nature and thinking about mundane things, far from the school, far from the boring reality someone is in. When you can just be amazed by the view right in front of you, thinking how small the world really is, how grateful you are to be here.

Secondly, it's a cozy season. You can get lost in watching those silly romcom movies, trying to bake something edible from the various cooking shows that are out here. Wanting to be at least half as good as Gordon Ramsay is, or to serve the best cake in the world. Everyone makes it so effortless, it’s only natural to want to try it too.

Does it work?

Well, based on your own experience, you're certainly better at it, but cinnamon rolls are by far the best thing you can make—mostly because it can't be too sweet. And your main problem? Making things way too sweet. Not because you like it that way, not because you have someone who likes it that way, you just… Well, let's say, you like to skip the amount of things you have to add.

Everything is "on eye" and maybe it works with cooking, but certainly not baking.

All of those reasons could be your reasons why you would like winter. Could—because you have one that is way more important than baking or being alone.

Because this is the season when you see Kyle Garrick after months of being apart. You see his dumb smile whenever you open the door for him, how happy he is to be here. How he literally can’t wait to step into your house and be here for a couple of weeks since that’s how he uses his leave. Couple of days for other friends and catching around. The rest is for you.

Kyle is your friend from high school. Years spent together in the same classes, parties, he was—still is—a dear friend that had your back, and you had his, always, no matter how shitty the situation was.

Inseparable, that’s what you were. Attending the same practices, no matter if it was a football one, art classes or something else; you always were here for a good laugh, especially if you sucked at some activities.

Everyone around always saw you together. There were even a few rumors about you two dating, but it never came down to this, to being together despite years of flirting and a few innocent kisses, there and there. You two didn’t even talk about this, much to your dismay.

Maybe you would, if he didn’t leave for the military. Tough separation, leaving you on ice with no one to help you to get up and get your shit together because life doesn’t only depend on one boy that you’re hopelessly devoted to. Took a couple of months, but you eventually got used to it—being with him for a couple of days or weeks to see him leaving for another couple of months. Weeks.

You sometimes wonder if he has someone out there. Waiting there for him in the military, even if it’s forbidden at some point. Or, maybe he has some medic that always patches him up after the missions, a small smile at her lips, keeping his secrets. Keeping his bed warm, making the whole thing easier because she’s always gonna be around. No matter what.

“—and he’s just a moron.”

But maybe if he did have someone, he wouldn’t spend Valentine’s Day with you.

You look up at him, a confused look on your face, but you manage to give him a smile. He probably talks about the movie that you two are watching; a classic romcom, Love Actually, but you’re not sure. You got too lost in your thoughts to know who he is calling a moron and give it more than a second of your thinking.

He seems to know that. An arch of his eyebrows exposes him, appearing when he always thinks of something a little too much. Military habit, he once explained, but it makes you chuckle every time.

“Who’s a moron?” you ask, deciding not to act dumb—it wouldn’t work in front of him. Not when he knows the pattern of your thoughts, not when you two know each other inside out.

“Him. I would give up on a girl that’s taken, sure, especially if she’s nothing but eye candy. A stupid desire that would end the friendship. But he literally filmed her through the entire wedding,” he mutters, his fingers curling slowly the ends of your hair. He repeats the action several times, even if he talks. You think it’s soothing him in some way. “She had to mean everything for him.”

“It’s about the art of letting go. She was in love with his best friend, it’s… not that simple.” You shrug; for some reason, Kyle barks a laugh at that. Startled, you punch him with your elbow and you take a little distance. “What? You don’t agree? Come on, you wouldn’t do it.”

“Well, ‘m not the one to do it normally, but if I’d be obsessed enough to keep my eyes only on her, I might as well give it a better chance before she gets married,” he huffs. If you didn’t know him like you do, you’d suspect that there's a bitterness somewhere in it, the way he says it. Mad, almost like it’s about him, and a single thought about it makes you sick in your stomach. “Wouldn’t you?”

You gulp. It feels like an interrogation, not a simple talk between two best friends about a romantic comedy that you just watched. There’s a hardness in his tone, demand for answer. “No. I’d put his happiness before mine. If he’s happy, if he has plans that don't involve me in some way, maybe that’s only right. Especially if it’s like this for some time right now.”

It’s not the confession itself, it’s not your feelings with your heart that you put on a silver platter for him to take, but it speaks. It screams, suffocated so many years under the water because you don’t want to ruin anything that’s between you two. Maybe it would be easier in high school, maybe before that prom where he went with Lizzie instead of you, but it didn’t happen.

So, in your mind, it’s something that needs to be buried deep. Six feet underground, where you could meet your feelings from time to time with all the memories that followed it. When you’d eventually move on, but it doesn’t happen.

A small ding in the kitchen rescues you from the fiasco that could happen with this conversation; suddenly, you have to check on your cookies and decorate them, as you always have. Year by year, something sweet; a recompensation for being single so many years in a row.

It doesn’t take much time to have Kyle looming over you like a vulture, curious what you have here. It doesn’t take much time for him to help you; clumsily, but he does a cute job with decorating, even if it’s way too much cream there and there. You have no heart to tell him that, though. And, it doesn’t take him much time to think that’s way too boring for now, so he should do something different.

Something different: dance with you, like he always has. An old song playing from his phone, one hand on your waist, while the other hand travels to make you move. He doesn’t talk (he never does when you two dance, not unless you’re gonna start doing that), he just looks at you. Chocolate brown eyes staring into yours, like they’re trying to see something in yours.

“Boyfriend material,” you could say; and you do, without realizing it at first—Kyle’s smile gives it away.

“I mean, can’t say no to that.” He grins, happy. You, right now, want to kill yourself in some way. “I’m pretty useful in many ways, if I have to say so myself. I mean, just think of how many times you’ve been impressed with me already.” He chuckles, turning you around and around with seemingly no problem. He’s always like this; charming, boyish. Making you fall right into the trap with his eyes, straight up from a fairytale.

He is, in fact, from a fairytale. Too perfect to be real and too perfect to be single, guys like him are always snatched from the public. Kept close the heart because every woman in the world deserves someone like him.

“Your ego could be tempered, though.” You poke his chest (ridiculously hard chest), while he laughs again.

“Always charming. You love my ego,” he points out. You might not agree out loud, but in your mind? Oh, hell yes. Not debatable.

You’d give everything to love him properly. To cherish him, to make him happy when he’s on leave with kisses, gifts, with taking him to your family so he’ll have a scrap of normal life. To wake up beside him in bed, arms sneaked around you with a dose of protectiveness that he always has, even if it’s not the romantic one like you want it to be.

“And you’re thinking way too much, pretty,” he chuckles, leaning over you even more. The size difference between you two is evident and big, encouraging him. Always had, especially when he knows how much of an impact he has like that. “Care to share?”

“Usual shit,” you answer, clearing your throat. Two beats of silence pass, when he sighs and turns you around one more time, pulling you closer to himself. Chest to chest, or—your head to his chest, to be exact. You have to look up at him to see his eyes. “Kyle—”

“—is it about that movie we watched? You love someone that you can’t have?” He shoots a question at you; unexpected, a swift bullet going right through you. Making you tremble, feeling like you’re not in a warm house, but in the busy, cold street in London in your underwear only.

“No, it’s—”

“—Because if so, why didn’t you tell me? I bet there’s a way—”

“—there’s no way, that’s the problem. That’s the problem because you’re funny, handsome and you probably have someone here, way more interesting than me, so I don’t understand why you are here right now. I don’t, I won’t…” You breathe. There’s a lot in you right now, way too much to unload it right now.

“You love me?”

The choice of words, so carefully avoided by you the whole time, dawns on you. Makes an unpleasant feeling in your stomach, the presence of thousands of butterflies informing you that, in fact, you do love him. Always had, even if you denied to use these specific words.

“Since high school.” It’s a quiet confession. Almost shy, but you look him straight in the eye when you say that, taking a step back when he takes a step forward.

“And why you… didn’t tell me sooner?”

“Wanted to. But when you took that girl to the prom, something…” You sigh. Taking a moment because for the first time, you need to be honest about your feelings. “I don’t know, something snapped. I thought it would ruin everything between us, I thought it’s not worth it to say that I want something more when you want someone else. And, after you got around the idea of being in the military—”

He steals the rest of the words with a kiss. Soft, indicating you don’t need to say more than you’ve already said because it’s all he needs to know, actually. It’s the first time he does it completely sober, not driven by alcohol, curiosity or some dare—it’s something that he wants to do, and you can feel it on your lips. The hot feeling of desire, when your hands travel under his t-shirt, where you didn’t have access earlier.

“Took her only because Jake said he’s going with you. I had no idea that he was lying,” he whispers out. Nervous, like he might spill some secret, while you just can’t keep yourself from smiling. “I wanted this,” he points at you and himself after another kiss, “since I’ve fuckin’ left. Got sick thinking of other bloody bastards that could—”

“Thinking too much?” you interrupt him, reminding him of his words from earlier. Words that, right now, seem even more appropriate given the situation between you two and how unimportant the past is.

Garrick huffs with disbelief, amused. “A fucking minx you are, y’know that?”

He doesn’t let you say anything in response, as his teeth clack against yours when he kisses you, hastily, like a man starved. Hands going around your waist just to transfer the two of you to your bedroom, decorated for Valentine's Day, unintentionally.

And maybe it makes sense, when you think of everything he has done for you, when he’s on top of you, placing a map of kisses on your body. Maybe it makes sense how he always brought you something on Valentine’s Day, making you feel special. Always saying that it’s a “commercial event” and nothing else, just a day, even if he always brought you flowers, teddybears and chocolates.

How he always spent it on doing your favorite things. Ice rink, going to a match, movies, it didn’t matter—what mattered was you. How he didn’t deny that you’re a couple when some strangers cooed that you two look absolutely perfect with each other. Only a big smile on his face, arm around you, protectively. Making sure that you’re here with him, not anywhere else.

He always keeps you close, even right now, insisting on holding hands when he fucks you, making you fall in love with the idea. Kyle moves slowly, like he wants to remember every inch of your body for the first time you’re so close with him, but it doesn’t last long. It doesn’t because it takes a couple of your moans and he goes mad crazy about the whole thing.

Between the sudden rough, fast pace of his thrusts, he talks a lot. You don’t get much of it, melted into a puddle of your own thoughts; you wanted it so bad. Fantasized, touched yourself to the thought of him to have him right here, right now, and now he’s rutting into you like a maniac. Spreading you open like it’s not even a challenge for him, which makes it easy to ignore the first pain of his cock in you.

When one of his hands circles around your throat (one hand still holding yours, fingers intertwined, like he insisted on doing), you pay more attention to his words, even if they’re incoherent. Messy, he lets every thought flow out of his mind, no matter if they have end or not, no matter if he said something similar or not. You are the one thing that entangles them, even if his words make you feel more and more weak in your knees. How good you are for him, how he’s not gonna give this pussy to anyone, how much your body will make him lose his shit.

He makes the whole thing way more intimate than it already is, luring you into the endless pleasure with him, when he leaves hickeys on your skin, a mark that he was here. Making you depend on him, intoxicating like a couple of colorful drinks, always making you dizzy, but nonetheless, you always want more, until you’re gonna see stars.

And that’s what you see with Kyle Garrick. It doesn’t even feel real, until your fingernails scratch his bare back and your fingers from the other hand tighten around his. Your legs are weak for him, your whole body is.

You feel it twice as hard when he comes too, babbling the whole time about you being the only woman in his life and marrying you. In a bliss, you only smile, kissing his forehead a couple of times, when he hugs you tight, like he doesn’t want you to leave the bed.

Not like you planned to do it anyway.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmurs against your shoulder, moving a little; you feel how his cum leaks from you. His softened cock still in you, as Garrick apparently doesn’t feel like pulling it out.

“The best Valentine’s Day,” you correct him with a lazy smile on your face. Content, for the first time in the while.

Garrick nods, slowly. “Yeah. Ended up in having sex, so—”

“—you’re the worst,” you laugh, shaking your head. Kyle seems almost scared for a moment, but when he sees that you’re genuinely laughing, he breathes out. “Only because of that? Not because your best friend basically confessed her feelings to you?”

“That too. Obvious option.” He grins, while you smack him with amusement. Kyle bites your shoulder, leaving another mark, while his other hand ruffles your hair.

You groan. “You’re gonna explain it tomorrow to my parents. All those hickeys and bites, young man.”

“You think they’re gonna be mad? Gonna tell them we’re together and they will ask about children,” he laughs; and he’s completely right about it, though. Your parents were cheering for you two from the start, they probably still do. “Anyway, we should order something. I don’t feel like cooking when I have you in bed.”

You huff, amused. “Romantic.”

“Very,” he snides, pulling you closer. His hand travels south, fingers circling near your clit. “Delivery will take some time, so we have to… make use of the time. You tired yet?”

“No, but—”

“—Fantastic.”

[irrealisms]

i call this collage "quitting therapy"

[ID under cut]

Image ID: a collage made from excerpts of my psychiatric medical records and reports. The excerpts are small black text on a white background and are pasted all over the image, creating a less organized collage look. The excerpts are small black text on a white background and are pasted all over the image, creating a less organized collage look. This ID will record each excerpt as it appears from left to right and top to bottom, with a couple noted exceptions where I felt the order mattered.

“This report is confidential and should not be released without the expressed written consent of the parent or guardian”. This text is in all capitals and bolded in the middle of the image, at the top.

“eye contact was sometimes prolonged or avoidant.”

“Casey has struggled with psychiatric symptoms since childhood.”

“She identifies with the pronoun “they”.”

“Casey’s gender and sexual confusion has been supported by her parents.”

This excerpt is a table labeled “Grooved pegboard test”, with the headers of “Z score”, “Percentile Rank”, “Drops”, and “Descriptor”, with rows labeled “Dominant (right) Hand Speed” and “Non-Dominant (left) Hand Speed”. The Z score for their right hand is -4.0, and -3.2 for their left hand. Both hands have a percentile rank of <1%, 3 recorded drops, and a descriptor of “Extremely Low”.

“Casey’s insight into her role in relationships was limited”

“Her affect was otherwise relatively flat”

“Deficits in theory of mind”

“Appearance/Behavior: calm and cooperative”

“poor eye contact”

“Casey’s interpretations of others’ thoughts/feelings was often immature or markedly incorrect.”

This is a table excerpt, listing “Activities of daily living”, followed by the scores “28**”, “1%”, and “Clinically Significant Elevation”.

“To date, Casey is quick to reprimand others for not following the rules. For example, she will reprimand her mother and father for removing their facemasks in public amid the COVID-19 pandemic.”

"age appropriate"

“Casey’s performance fell far below that which is expected of a younger teen.”

“fairly good insight into her weaknesses”

“insight: superficial”

“judgment: impaired, based on recent behaviors”

“insight: poor”

“Casey tended to talk at the examiner and talk over the examiner. Casey only once inquired about the examiner’s own experiences, when it related to her interests (“Do you like podcasts?”). She tended to dominate conversation.”

“therapist called the police and Casey way given the choice of going to a psychiatric hospital voluntarily or be Baker Acted (she went voluntarily).”

“Casey does not admit to ongoing AVH.”

“Comments: more guarded today and more reluctant to openly share symptoms”

“She is still reluctant to start another antipsychotic medication”

“Casey’s guarded nature. I would like to move forward with initiation of another antipsychotic (risperidone v olanzipine), but Casey would prefer to defer that today. Will allow time to process fears/concerns related to medication in therapy and revisit starting antipsychotic at next appointment.”

“Discussed risks and benefits of retrying antipsychotic medication, acknowledging her fear of inducing another seizure. Casey would prefer to defer initiation of another antipsychotic today and was encouraged to discuss and process her fears related to this in therapy, which she continues to attend and finds helpful.”

“Today: Mood and anxiety okay on mirtazapine and duloxetine but still having psychotic symptoms, the severity of which is difficult to assess given Casey’s guarded nature. I would like to move forward with initiation of another antipsychotic (risperidone v olanzipine), but Casey would prefer to defer that today. Provided information on both meds, including comparison of side effect profile and laid expectation for starting one of these meds in the future.”

“Strongly recommend Casey start an antipsychotic.”

“Unchanged from last visit.”

This excerpt is a rating scale, with the question “On a scale of 0-10, how likely would you be to recommend this facility to a friend or family member?”. Below the question are the numbers 0 through 10 in sequence, with a box to check next to each number. The box next to 0 is checked with an x, next to the words “not at all likely”.

“Discharge Medications. Patient discharged on 1 Antipsychotic(s):”

This excerpt is a bulleted list, immediately below the colon as if to imply that they are the antipsychotics in question, which has the following bullet points: “Improve eye contact in conversations with unfamiliar people”, “Improve social awareness and boundaries in relationships (learn to “read a room”)”, “Improve patience in relationships”, “Improve reciprocity in (in-person) conversations”, and “Improve tolerance for other people’s perspectives/differences.”

“Comment: somewhat avoidant.”

“Treatment: Continue therapy.”

This excerpt is a box to check, which is checked with an X, next to the words “Against Medical Advice (AMA) Discharge”.



(thanks to @aro-ace-ave-maria for helping with the image description)!

[sinisterexaggerator]

Got it Bad

Poe Dameron x Fem! Reader

Summary: You are a medic aboard the Anodyne, a Resistance frigate frequented by one Poe Dameron. He often comes to see you when he is injured; you assume this time to be no different, as he is reckless in the line of duty and could do with your healing touch. But you have underestimated him; he has to show you something. Will you entertain his request?

Warnings: Explicit / NSFW 18+ for: Heavy petting, cunnilingus, PiV sex, kissing, blood and injury, premature ejaculation, dirty talk, medical scenarios, and mention of death in wartime. Contains: fluff, a liiittle bit of angst, smut, humor, and “love” confessions.  

Notes: This is my first time writing for Poe Dameron! Dedicated to @allsystemsblue, because she was the one who told me to! Poe is all over the place in this, but always about consent!

Word Count: 8.1K

Divider and banner by me.

“How many times has it been, then?”

Doe brown eyes blinked once, twice, spidery lashes that may as well have been made of gossamer, or silk, gracing tawny skin with a kiss. Poe Dameron stared blankly at you as you dressed his wound, this being one of the numerous occasions that you were tasked to do so.

You were one of the many medics aboard this particular Resistance vessel that patrolled the Outer Rim. Stationed not too far from D’Qar and the principal base of General Organa herself, this reckless, daredevil pilot had a tendency to bless you with his presence after what you would call less than routine missions.

Not desiring to arrive to his superior a bloodied mess more than necessary, Poe frequently docked his T-70 star fighter in your frigate’s docking bay for safekeeping, allowing his droid companion free rein of the halls.  Moments earlier, BB-8 had been offered a recharging station, Dameron left in your expert care as his ball droid rolled off and out of sight, following closely behind a member of the maintenance crew. The conversation between the two had been amusing to witness.

“Don’t worry, buddy! I’ll be right here waiting for you. Maybe. Possibly.”

BB had issued a series of complaints and reprimands in Droidspeak, causing the pilot to wince as if being scolded by his mother, or the general herself.

“All right, fine! I’ll come and find you then. No sweat.”

Satisfied, the orange and white orb had swirled on its axis, wheeling fluidly across a duralloy floor, leaving its master alone to suffer the consequences of his actions. Though Dameron did not seem to care, remaining somewhat unbothered by the gash across his forehead from where a piece of shrapnel had sent Black One into a spin. Before he could regain control, Poe’s head had crashed into the yolk of his X-wing, leaving a two-inch rent in his flesh.

No, he had not been wearing his helmet.

Despite his foolhardy nature, you thought it curious. With such a varied assortment of medical personnel living and working on the Anodyne - a modified Nebulon-C escort employed by the Resistance for the express purpose of being a mobile hospital - it was a wonder of yours why Poe always chose to search you out.

Not considering yourself to be anything in the way of special, at least the skills you possessed were adequate to put him on the mend. But, somehow, this visit seemed different, even if sticky crimson coated his handsome features.

You had come to notice that Poe was spending less time talking and more time staring, a thing you were not accustomed to as his gaze was unrelenting, the commander scrutinizing every facet of your appearance. He had seemed to limit himself to the surface area of your face, wandering, probing, exploring the curve of your nose, the outline of your lips, and finally the warmth in your eyes.

“Y-you didn’t answer me,” you commented, applying bacta to the injured man with a dabble of your fingers, your voice having lost its normal confidence as Dameron uttered a single, muted question.

“Huh?” he asked, as if only now realizing he was indeed a person, and that he could be perceived by others. He sat up marginally in his chair, those unyielding, heavy-lidded eyes almost vacantly looking through you, or so you thought.

You were beginning to wonder if this had anything to do with the fact that he might be mildly concussed. You were also becoming self-conscious, trying to keep the conversation on track despite Poe being so close to you with his blood staining your hands. “How many times has it been that you have come to see me these last few months? Don’t you know how to stay out of trouble?”

“No,” he answered without thought, leaning forward once more in the chair serving him for his examination. That sole syllable had been expressed in a dilatory fashion, soft and airy, only inches from your mouth.

You let out a breathy exhalation, surprised by this turn of events, yet nothing had happened.  The cocky pilot dared to bite down on a rather pouty bottom lip; he watched you intently, gauging your reaction as he dallied there, finally adding more in the way of a response. “That’s why I’m here. Again.”

“Yes, right, obviously,” you managed, trying to restore some semblance of equanimity over yourself after having been caught off guard.

“Obviously,” he echoed, the word a whisper in the all too quiet room. However, this would not last as more wounded boarded the ship at intervals, soon the medical bay filled with a bustle of activity.

Unwanted activity.

Poe glanced around, assessing the situation. You had just finished bandaging him up when his hand reached out for yours, gently clasping your wrist.

“Doc, I’ve gotta show you something. I’ve got it-- bad.”

“It?” you inquired incredulously, your own glance taking an appraisal of the room. His voice had lowered again, as if this topic of conversation was not meant to be overheard. His expression appeared serious, deep-set brows knitting together in a visual show of his concern. You mimicked him, a rather human way to show empathy in this case, though not entirely sure what for.

“It,” he confirmed, gently pulling you forward toward himself, as if you weren’t already close enough. Your breathing picked up as you posed a follow-up question, a simple one, and straight to the point.

“What?”

He did that thing again, the staring, as if you were a sheet of transparisteel and he was looking beyond it to the other side. You scanned his face, those ruggedly attractive bits of him that you had tended to time and time again.

“Um—” he paused, as if not knowing what to say, like his words had failed him, which was not out of the realm of possibility as you could confirm this uncommon pilot flew by the seat of his pants. You canted your head, expecting some sort of answer, your gaze trailing to Dameron’s fingers latched gingerly around your forearm.

You took note of their thickness, their length, his nails surprisingly trim and immaculate for being a fighter pilot, though you doubted he spent that much time on solid earth when he craved the sky; realspace; to soar among the stars. Catching yourself quickly, it had not gone unnoticed, Poe matching your tilt of the head with one of his own as he peered up at you with those unwavering, expressive eyes.

“Rash … Inya Prime … Think it might be serious,” he informed you, causing you to retract and sit up straight. You tugged yourself loose from his grasp and frowned, turning to wipe your hands off the best you could on an otherwise clean towel, wishing he would have told you this before you had gone and touched him.

“Well, let’s see it then,” you offered, swiveling back around to face him. The pilot pursed his lips before biting down again, his foot beginning to tap against the floor; the motion was almost sultry, like this whole charade was planned.

For some reason, you doubted that assumption.

“It’s … I can’t show you here,” he confessed, lowering his head as he turned it to the left and right, giving the medical bay another sweep with his eyes; it was as if he was suddenly your conspirator, Poe carrying and guarding an important secret.

“Where then?” You compelled an eyebrow to stay level, it wanting to raise of its own volition. It was your turn to stare, Poe taking up each of your hands again, regardless of the fact you had just tried to halfheartedly clean them. He placed them gently atop his knees; he held you there, and you dare not move. Then, the man bore directly into you with his hardened gaze, nudging his head toward the exit door.

“Exam room, down the hall. It’s, um – it’s private.”

You gave him a reproving look. “Why were you on Inya Prime in the first place?” you asked, your fingers twitching beneath his. You were caught between wanting to relax and to allow this to happen, or to jerk yourself away for fear of someone getting the wrong idea.

“Reconnaissance,” he replied without missing a beat.  You supposed that seemed logical enough, though Inya Prime was a small, boring, terrestrial planet of little to no interest to most.

That explained the civilian clothing, whereas most of the time Poe arrived to you in his bright orange flight suit, standing out like a ray of sunshine among the dark, depressing backdrop of space.

“And how did you get this rash?” you inquired curiously, wondering why it was he could not show you here instead, or just how bad it might be.

“You don’t wanna know,” he stated with a sense of finality, eyes searching yours, as if he was trying to penetrate your thoughts with a Jedi mind trick. You held his gaze a moment longer than expected before quickly standing to your feet; you felt the need to break physical contact, Dameron’s hands warm, rough, and—

“Fine, let’s hurry. There are others who need tending to.” It was the truth, yet you could feel your heartbeat betraying you by thumping loudly in your chest; you were sure that Poe could hear it.

“Right, let’s,” he said, standing. He walked a pace ahead of you then turned back around. He lingered, making sure you were going to follow him before he started out the door.

The man seemed nervous, slicking back a ringlet of dark hair that refused to stay in place. He ambulated somewhat awkwardly around the corner, then waited for you to unlock the examination room with a clearing of his throat. It then occurred to him he was standing in your way; he opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it, moving to one side as you gave him an inquisitive side-eye, using your badge to unlock the facilities.

He nodded, just a small movement of his head, eyes darting forward as if thinking hard on something before he entered the small space. It was fitted with a table for patients to lie on - equipped with a step stool and stirrups - a cabinet filled with various medical supplies, a curtain for dressing and undressing, a scale for taking a patient’s weight, and blood pressure detection equipment, among other things. It had all those items necessary and then some, though depending on your diagnosis, you imagined you might need to prescribe him an antifungal ointment of some kind.

“All right, we’re here,” you offered with a gesture. “Now, show me this rash.”

Poe gave a jittery laugh, answering you with a nervy “heh” as he ran his forefinger along the clean sheets of the table laid out before him as if he was checking it for dust.

“Yeah, about that,” he finally spoke up, walking full circle around the bed-like object before he arrived behind you.

“You see, doc—” he began; you craned your neck, looking over your shoulder at him, wanting to know why you now felt trapped, barred to the only way out as he had sandwiched himself between you and the door. “It’s right here,” he said, placing his open palm against his chest and giving it a tap.

This time you were the one to clear your throat, tossing back your hair as you straightened up to appear more professional, or perhaps dignified, forcing yourself to not think about how you were about to come into contact with, or at least see, Poe Dameron’s bare breast.

All things considered, he was an attractive man. You had thought that the moment you laid eyes on him; the time he had come to you battered and beaten with a black eye and a sprained ankle – he had taken a tumble down the side of a rather steep hill on some backwater, jungle-planet and only made it back to his X-wing thanks to members of Black Squadron. His foot was so badly swollen by the time he reached you, it was a miracle he could walk  - or hobble – at all.

A thought occurred to you. “I should wash my hands before we begin,” you declared, moving toward the small sink stationed with a cleaning solution that was meant for disinfection as much as it was for washing away dirt and grim.

Poe looked taken aback momentarily, words caught in his throat as he gave another nod, this one more exaggerated. “Yeah, right, OK,” he shot back, as if for some reason this had been a surprise to him.

You began your task, one hand over the other as you lathered yourself, peeking back at him. “Why don’t you take off your shirt?” you suggested, not able to help the way saying that made you feel, like this was anything more than a clinical procedure.

You could hear the rustle of fabric as Poe began to undo the buttons on his dress shirt, getting the feeling that he was watching you, studying you, bent slightly over the basin in which you were cleansing yourself of his blood. It swirled around the drainage, leading to a reserve tank that purified and recycled what little water was aboard this frigate; you knew that every drop was precious.

Finishing quickly, you refaced him, Dameron’s broad, naked chest staring you straight in the face, though he had not bothered to remove his button up all the way; its two panels were parted and pushed off to opposing sides.

Firm pectorals were spattered with a thin sheen of dark curls, matching the scruff of a beard that had just recently begun to form on his perfectly sculpted cheeks, running its course down to a chiseled jawline. Beneath wisps of black was smooth, golden skin - as if kissed by a main sequence star that orbited some planetary paradise - the happiest of trails leading down and beyond the waistline of his trousers.

You watched, entranced, the rise and fall of his stomach with every breath he took, in and out, slow, and almost deliberately so. You swallowed to remedy the dry sensation in your mouth with what saliva you had available, wondering if your face appeared as red as you felt it must be.

“Right, OK. Rash,” you announced out loud, purposely making an effort to look up and back into his eyes.

Again, he put his hand up, over his heart. “Here,” he repeated, “Right here. You see—”

Poe stepped forward, and you stepped back, each move he made a calculated risk, but one worth taking. “— my … heart,” he said, voice lowering an octave, then promptly continuing, “it… burns, itches, when I can’t … see you,” he emphasized. “And. You. You’re the cure, you’re the—”

He walked another pace forward, looming above you as you found yourself pressing back against the wall of the exam room. “—the only one who can make it better,” he breathily muttered, so close now you could smell the scent of the shampoo he used; it was reminiscent of citrus, but not overpowering.

“W-what—?” You felt you couldn’t believe your ears, your neck lifting back and up as you analyzed his intense facial expression. “Poe, I—”

“Shhh,” he sibilated with a press of his index to your lips. Then, he changed the subject, however momentary. “I lied to you, by the way. There is no rash, I—”

“—Yes, I’ve figured that out,” you interrupted, though your words came out weak, quavering.

“Sometimes, I pretend to be sick or hurt just to come see you. That headache last week?” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “More like … heartache,” he finished, encapsulating your chin between two fingers as his lips met yours.

Your body froze; you were immobile, unable to breathe, unable to speak, and unable to comprehend exactly what was going on. Granted, you may have imagined this moment once or twice – every guy, or girl aboard this vessel you assumed had done so at one point or another. There was more than one reason Dameron was referred to so aptly as “Flyboy,” though you tried not to let that tarnish the present moment.

The only thing you could articulate was a soft moan of acceptance, melting despite yourself against the durasteel partition behind you. Ruddy fingers traveled upward, this time tangling themselves in your hair, palm cupping the back of your head as he gently drew you into a deeper kiss.

“Poe,” you gasped against him, your own hand rising to lightly push against his rock-hard pecs; it was a mistake on your part, this simple act of touching his unclothed chest the catalyst from which your loins stirred. “What—”

“—It,” he murmured, bringing the conversation back around from when he had coaxed you to this place. “—the thing I’ve got it bad for. It’s you,” he conceded, Dameron’s tongue slithering past full lips to gently prod at yours that stood partially agape, ready to accept another kiss.

You easily allowed him entry, that warm, wet muscle dancing in a figure eight, the pattern slow and rhythmic as he lapped at your suddenly hungry mouth. But you would not let lust overtake you, you were a woman of scruples, principles, and a practitioner of medicine; there was a time and place for this sort of thing and now was not it.

“Dameron,” you began again, this time managing to put just enough space between you so that you might think straight, Poe’s eyes immediately overtaking yours with a primal, excitable energy that penetrated you to the depths of your soul. He was so eager, you thought, so attentive, the man hanging, waiting, willing, to hear anything you might have to say.

“I believe you’re concussed, I think it’s best that—”

“I’m fine. Better than fine. Everything’s perfect,” he interjected, pressing his mouth against yours once more.

“—Why?” you blurted out, the question having clawed its way out of your chest. It was common knowledge that the man before you got around, not able to imagine that this meant anything more than an attempt at a quick hook-up.

“Because. I can’t. Stop. Thinking. About you. You.” He spoke your name, a tickle in your ear that sent a tingle of excitement prickling down your spine, leaving goose pimples that were undeniable to the naked eye.

“I can’t explain it. Maybe it doesn’t make any sense; you, me…” he trailed off, the butt of his thumb running over the curvilinear shape of your ear. “I watch you. Sometimes. Not to… sound creepy,” he added quickly, giving a somewhat apologetic look. “… You’re incredible. Calm in the face of danger, in the face of uncertainty. And. You’re not afraid,” he emphasized.

“Besides—” Poe bent down low, brushing his lips across yours, featherlight, causing a feeble mewl to escape before you had the time or the wherewithal to rein it in. “— what if we die. What if this is the only chance I ever get to tell you?”

He was right. What was the use of pondering the future, what could or could not be, based on the assumption that you were going to live another day, or two, or three. With the First Order threatening to undo all the hard work of the New Republic, your lot was on the run, your fierce and beloved leader the only thing keeping this small resistance group together, albeit haphazardly organized.

You feared for the general every waking moment, taking your orders come what may, keeping your head down, the only thing breaking the monotony of your day besides the constant fear of attack or death being this charming, handsome man who now held your attention, and had done so on more than one occasion.

“Kiss me again, then,” you begged, any objection you may have dared to make fleeing irrevocably to leave you open and vulnerable to the onslaught of his affection sans your better judgement.

“Mn, yeah?” he coyly asked, the fingers of his hand, dormant for your short discussion, reactivating to knead the base of your skull as he gently pulled you forward, Dameron once more inserting his crafty tongue into your waiting mouth.

His movements were thoughtful, tongue writhing and contracting in a measured orchestration that seemed rehearsed, yet special to this instant. Each loop was intricate, never so much as to be distracting, Poe’s delicious kiss spurring you to action.

You lifted your hand, allowing your fingers to clutch tufts of his hair. You moaned against him, his arms instinctively tightening around you before he pulled away, gasping for breath.

“Can I touch you?” he bashfully asked, hands smoothing over your back to descend in a downward sweep across your waist and hips. “Please, baby, please say yes. Please, please,” he whined, ardent pecks of his velvet lips only a bonus; you had not planned to turn him away regardless.

“Yes,” you sighed out lasciviously, thinking this entire situation was too good to be true. But why not embrace it for what it was? You deserved admiration, affection, love.

“Thank you,” he expressed with gratitude, as if you had given him his greatest wish, Poe adjusting himself accordingly as he gifted you with another lush, sensual kiss; it was tender and languid, feeling the movement of Dameron’s hand shift from the edge of your hip to the drawstring of your pants.

You were adorned in scrubs, a stark reminder of your station and position, yet you could not help that you were human with needs and urges to be fulfilled. Hell, you hadn’t even known you wanted this until it was happening, though life was anything but predictable - it was sporadic. And if Poe was anything, it was that.

You admired that about him. He had an almost childlike whimsy, taking all things in stride, even his injuries when he acquired them. He cared about others so often and so much he frequently forgot about this own ails. It was a good quality to have in a leader, and although he was often rebuked by his superiors, Dameron was an honorable commander and an even better pilot.

“Keep going,” you implored as you felt your desire building upon itself, pooling in the seat of your belly. Desperately, you wanted him to touch you, Poe inclining his head to one side as he broke apart from your pleading lips.

He made heady eye contact, the way he looked at you both dizzying and intoxicating, the man licking his teeth as he quipped a hushed “Yeah?” alongside the act of his fingers trailing to just below the hem of your waistband. They slipped down, down, two braver than the others as Poe’s index and middle finger disappeared beneath the front of your pants and past the soft, cotton layer of your panties.

Dameron groaned a sound, as if performing a task that was somewhat arduous, yet it was meant to evince appreciation for the soft bed of fluff that greeted him, all prim and trim. His breathing picked up, his probing appendages creeping further inside your undergarments; he whimpered against your throat, feeling welcomed by the warm slick that saturated his thick digits as he parted those soft, pillowy lips that lived between your hips, aligning the underside of his forefinger against the protuberance of your clit.

“Mn, you want this just as much as I do,” he teased, his words husky and sensuous, yet not at all meant to be disrespectful. He was the playful sort; you were glad it translated into other areas of his life, namely intimate moments like these, as it eased the tension you were feeling; the thought you were doing something you should not be doing; something wrong.

“Mhm,” you muttered, the interjection a dulcet susurration upon your partway puckered lips. It quickly devolved into an immodest moan as his thumb joined in, aiding in spreading your folds to allow him ease of access to your shrouded pearl.

“That’s it, baby,” he encouraged you, his tone coated in sugar sweetness as Poe continued to cheer you on, “you’re so soft, and warm, and— ohhh,” he cut himself short, feeling embarrassed for not only the sizeable boner he was jabbing into your leg, but the fact that if he did not control himself he might very well cum in his pants.

“I—mmn. Admiral Ackbar naked. Admiral Ackbar naked," he intoned at low volume; you proceeded to laugh, though Poe did not, a look of stern determination on his face. Still, that did not stop him from pleasuring you as he gingerly thumbed that little nub betwixt your thighs, concentric circles close-knit and diligently applied as you trembled enticingly in his arms.

“Is this OK?” he rumbled in your ear, his voice a throaty purr that made you pitch ever so slightly forward with the goal of kissing him again.

“Y-yes,” you managed, your body mildly spasming as you sought after his tongue, Dameron ever so subtly picking up speed in the way he massaged your swollen clit. It thrummed beneath his finger; he tested uncharted territory, gradually inserting his index inside you to the top of his second knuckle. You were already so wet there was barely any friction to speak of, Poe once more moaning aloud to impart his satisfaction to whoever was there to listen – you.

“Oh, you feel- you feel, so, so good,” he rattled off, priming that digit to curl just inside and against the anterior wall of your sex; you gasped, though you had known what was coming, you just didn’t know how amazing the sensation would feel until he was already pushing you toward an orgasm.

“Don’t stop,” you entreated anxiously, the pliant underside of his thumb continuing its mission as it stimulated your glandular bundle of nerves; they twitched faintly, pulsating under his proficient hands.

“OK, yes. Yes. Tell me. Tell me what you want, baby,” he affirmed. You were quick to answer.

“Another kiss,” you adjured, Poe indulging you before the words could die on your lips. The passion he brought to your embrace, the delicate way in which he held you, the rhythmic pattern of his tongue inside your mouth – it drove you to a quick release, Dameron sucking the heavy breaths from your lungs as he attempted to engulf you, so zealous was his appetite for your quiet, though rapturous praise.

You briefly closed your eyes to regain your composure, breathing ragged, then gazed upon his face as you struggled to recover. He pulled away to stare at you, the feeling of his forefinger sliding out of your soaked cunt something not to be ignored.

You gasped again, a tiny sound. Poe admired you with a twinkle in his eye. Then, he gravitated forward, bending so close to your ear. “I can do better.”

“What?” you questioned, confused, trying to curtail your panting breaths. The twinkle in his eye was infectious, spreading to his mouth, Poe’s pretty lips outstretching into a broad, mischievous grin.

“Wait,” he stated.

You observed as he bent forward into a crouch, sneaking along the wall toward the automated entry. Staying to its right, he was careful not to trigger its motion sensor, using the nearby keypad to lock it from the inside. This time, you did quirk a brow, Poe lowering the lights manually to off, but not before making sure the shades were closed to the rectangular window that gave you a mundane view into the hall. However, you may as well be seven feet tall in order to see out of it, and there were species that tall aboard this ship.

Overall, you felt stupid for not having done this before, yet everything had occurred so quickly. What if you had been caught by a co-worker, or your boss? You had no idea how to explain being fingered by Poe Dameron in a room that could otherwise be utilized to someone else’s benefit.

Then, the man came forward, standing to his full stature as he joined you where he had left you, haggard and still somewhat discombobulated from what just happened – that’s when he picked you up, bending at the knees to wrap both arms around your waist as he carried you aloft, your entire body remaining upright and vertical.

“Poe! What are you—”

“Shh, shh,” he endeavored to keep you silent, walking around the corner of the examination table to place you gently upon it in a somewhat forced, seated position. He immediately got to work, as he had started with your footwear, taking it upon himself to remove one shoe at a time.

“Are you a screamer, or are you a whiner?” he asked with another cheesy smile etched across his face, “because I don’t mind either, but the screaming may draw attention, and I assume that’s something you don’t want.”

“I-I don’t—”

“-know?” He shook his head as if in disbelief, though somehow not surprised. “Ooh, we’ve gotta set you straight, doc!”

You meant to argue, but with your shoes gone, Poe began to roll down your socks; it was one of the most intimate things you had experienced, watching with rapt attention as he pushed the fabric down bit by bit, replacing it with moist kisses along the top of your foot and up toward your now bare ankle.

“You don’t mind, right?” he asked offhand, Poe repeating the process on the other side; this time he enveloped your big toe, intaking it into his mouth as he teasingly sucked, mimicking a poi fish who wanted to dine on what it perhaps thought was a worm.

You involuntarily squirmed, pushing against the tops of his shoulders. “That tickles!” you declared, Poe gazing up into your eyes as a “pop” resounded upon release.

Then, with that same unapologetically severe, impassioned stare, Dameron rose to half-stand on his knees as his hands found your hips, fingers digging into the loose band at your waist. He pulled, softly but with enthusiasm, hypnotizing, chestnut-colored eyes once more drilling a hole straight down into your core as he tugged one pant leg off, then the other, followed by a move that would rid you of your underwear.

Partially naked, and on top of your own examination table no less, you instead tried to forget what repercussions might follow suit of your actions and leaned down to kiss the man again. He rose higher, forcing you to straighten your neck and back, Poe’s broad hands encasing the breadth of your face within them to hold you so, so carefully as he returned your gesture as naturally as if he was drinking water.

Come to find this was a tactic, the man releasing you after stealing your breath away a second or third time, hands sliding to lightly shove you back by the shoulders as he lay you down. At once he disappeared from your line of sight, leaving you faced with a view of the ceiling directly above your head; you idly wondered if you were both getting too far ahead of yourselves.

“Poe, I don’t think we should be—” You exhaled noisily, words caught as you choked on a breath, your overactive imagination unable to be controlled as you envisioned the intense kiss you had experienced earlier being reenacted between your legs. The man had pinned you by your hips,  kissing once, twice,  - feverishly -  the inguinal groove that connected your abdominal wall to your thigh, not wasting a moment’s time in making your briefly held fantasy come true.

“Hm? Mmmn,” Dameron hummed, his response muffled by your flesh. Your body stiffened before relaxing as he licked your already soaked slit with the flat of his tongue; it effortlessly slipped between the folds of your labia, Poe toying with your clit, running circles until the whole thing delved inside your opening.

The man pulled you forward by your thighs, closer to the edge of the table; you could feel the paper bedsheet sliding beneath you as he lapped at your cunt like it was a second mouth. He moaned into you, his breath hot on your skin, the scruff of his chin chaffing your legs, but you did not once complain.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he whispered, the tip of that furled muscle retracting to glide upward along your delightfully slick vulva before it once more found the nub that was begging to be touched; it was already so sensitive.

Your chest heaved as a ripple of pleasure quaked through you, Poe beginning to suck the hard bit that was the recurrent object of his focus. At that moment, you felt blessed, belting out a sound that was a cross between elation and ecstasy, the final product being nothing more than a subdued pule from downy lips.

“Oh, fuck,” you crooned, your thighs progressively closing around either side of Poe’s head as you instinctively tried to brace yourself against your coming climax.

“That’s what I thought—ooh, hey,” the pilot protested, not liking one bit the sudden fettering of his movements. He dislodged himself, then pushed down with both his hands, parting your legs again to make sure he had unrestricted access to your cunt.

Then, he had an idea. “That’s not happening again,” he informed you with an impish smirk, Dameron lifting you up by the underside of your ass as he dragged you even closer, this time making use of the equipment made available to him, though this wasn’t exactly a gynecological exam. The scoundrel picked up both your feet, one after the other, making sure each one was secured in turn, having positioned you spread eagle with your shamelessly wet pussy put on full display.

“Ohh, this is beautiful. Perfect. You’re perfect.” The man had stopped to stare at the exquisite view before him, a hungry look overtaking his winsome visage; you had barely lifted your neck, perhaps meaning to address him, before you were forced to expel a mousy squeak following a show of near desperation on his part.

Poe had darted forward. Now hands-free and having situated you in stirrups, Dameron plunged his tongue back inside of you while clasping his fingers behind his back as he liked to imagine himself in binders. He tongue fucked you as your chest expanded and contracted with each euphoric breath, deep and slow, before he redirected all his energy back to your eager bud.

Then, his head joined in, bobbing back and forth as he enthusiastically ate you out like a man starved, consuming his first meal in weeks, months.

Wet sounds invaded your ears, Poe miming a hound lapping water; it only caused your clit to pulse, your right arm lowering for impatient fingers to latch onto his raven locks; you were careful not to disturb the dressings on his forehead even so, not wanting to let your hard work go to waste.

You held him steady; you pulled him closer, thighs trembling, though your legs still remained forced apart with knees jutting out to either side. It was the dirtiest, nastiest you had ever felt, yet at the same time Poe had made you feel alive. Alive, and not just waiting around to die.

You moaned lewdly as you gently bucked your hips, your body convulsing in rapture as his focus was laser sharp, the full expanse of his thick, skillful tongue caressing you softly from the cusp of your vagina to the vertex of your throbbing clit – over, and over, and over again.

The pattern he applied was slow and methodical, Poe’s cock beyond hard as he gently humped thin air. The man himself was groaning, speaking breathlessly against the soft flesh of your mound, even as he continued to dine.

“Baby, you taste so, so sweet. So, so, good. Mm, be a good girl, yeah? Nice and easy for me. Nice and easy…” The pilot’s words trailed off, that gentle lapping turning toward a precise, calculated stroke with just the tip, this being the very thing that drove to you the point of no return; you came again, one hand still buried in Poe’s hair as the other clasped at your breast.

“Mmmn, oh shit, oh fuck, Poe,” you cursed again, your entire being writhing in unbridled bliss as you rode out one of the most intense orgasms in recent history, this only encouraging the pilot to keep at it until you physically had to push his head away, albeit with caution.

Poe looked up at you with those emotive, gorgeous brown eyes, lips glossy with your excess; you panted heavily, looking down on what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. You took a few more moments to recuperate, then made a demand of him that even surprised yourself. “Fuck me, right now, please.”

That cocky smile faded, Dameron staring fixedly at your face. He searched each part of it, as if measuring the seriousness of your words, then sat up fully on his legs before standing completely to gaze down at you, chin glistening and damp, not noticing the red welts spattering the inside of your thighs from where his stubble had left its mark.

“Since you said please, and so, so nicely might I add,” he joked, undoing the holster at his waist with lightning speed as he let his Glie-44 blaster pistol fall to the floor at his feet.  You sat up on your elbows, enjoying the show, Poe unzipping and unbuckling his pants and belt with such wild, feral vigor, it was as if they were presently on fire.

“Mn, sweetheart, would you hate me if I said I’ve been dreaming of this?” Poe questioned, though you were unable to get a read on if he was being sincere or just full of hot air. You did not answer him, instead reveling in the desperate way the pilot kicked his boots off, witnessing his undressing between your parted legs.

They felt like jelly, still held up by the stirrups. You smiled salaciously, feeling oddly playful as you began to sway your knees back and forth to emulate the fluttering of butterfly wings; you amused yourself by fondling your overstimulated clit for his pleasure and your own, waiting ever so patiently for him to finish.

It only slowed him down; you almost laughed again, this man proving to be predictable as far as men go, spellbound by the fact you were touching yourself, and in front of him, no less.

Poe let out a laborious, rasping breath, as if his throat might be closing in on itself, pearly whites once more finding rose-colored lips as he chewed timidly on a plump bottom rung. At that same moment his pants fell down to his knees, leaving Dameron in his tight white underwear, his package so hard and compact it looked ready to burst free of its cotton prison.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he professed mostly to himself, yet loud enough for you to hear him. He stumbled forward, releasing himself of the pants that still clung to him with every step, wide, warm hands placing themselves upon your knees, one for one.

“Mn, baby, for me?” he asked in a diffident tone, Poe’s cheeks burning hot as he was drawn in by the sexy spectacle before him. After a moment or two of getting lost in his own thoughts, he scrambled for his aching prick; it felt like it was going to erupt any moment now. Already it had leaked droplets of precum, the tip wet and sticky as it sprang loose.

The pilot began to pump himself as he was glued to the rhythmic stroking of your fingers; you teased him by inserting one within yourself, Poe moaning almost instantly as he came up to you all the way by the edge of the bed, gently batting your hand away. He aligned his dick against your slit, eyes laser focused, then he abruptly stopped what he was doing to lift his head and stare at you.

“You sure? What if-”  he hesitated, wanting reassurance.

“I’m protected,” you whispered, at once your feet lifting so that you could wind your legs around Poe’s waist like a serpent coiling about its prey. You squeezed lightly, drawing him in, Poe helping on his end by gently nudging the head of his cock against the lubricious entrance to your vagina.

Dameron shook this time, his body tremulous against you as he sank deeper and deeper into your warm center, guiding it slowly, his girth spreading you open as you gasped, arms overtaking him in addition to your legs; you wanted his chest pressed against yours, beckoning the man to lower himself to the proper height so that you might kiss him, fingers once more gathering in his shaggy mane.

“You f-feel, ohhhh… Like, like. Like clouds,” Dameron stammered, commenting on your plush, tepid walls as he finally bottomed out. He was slow to retract his hips, then slow to press them forward again, “It’s like breaking atmo; that euphoric feeling you get when—”

Poe cut himself off, lips compressing against one another to form a concentrated line. He closed his eyes, his pace deathly drawn-out, tortuously so, each stroke of him inside you sending pinpricks of pleasure throughout your nerve-endings, both from without and within.

It was endearing. Not knowing of all the nuances comprising this pilot’s personality, this one surprised you. Poe had always seemed so high-strung, so exuberant; it was a change of pace to see him take his time on something -  you.

With a tilt of your neck, your mouth found his, your tongue slithering between his teeth to taste yourself on him. You sighed fervently, pulling him closer by the meat of your thighs, in turn interring him deeper within yourself.

“I won’t break,” you informed him softly, having pulled away to encourage Dameron to rise above his stupor and fuck you like he meant it. Poe gave a slow, deliberate nod of his head in return, as if trying to find his center and a place of calm before he would be able to continue.

“Right,” he finally said, intaking a sharp inhalation of oxygen as he rocked forward, pitching his hips so that they were flush against yours. He dipped back again, repeating these motions in a syncopated rhythm, and you finding it impossible to keep your mouth from hanging open as he hit his stride.

“Just like that,” you cooed silkily, your breath warm and wispy against his ear. This alone sent Poe to a higher plane, somewhere you were sure you could not reach him, causing Dameron to make a helpless, needy sound.

You felt a warm gush; a spurt of something that was unexpected this early in the game. Poe’s face contorted pleasantly into a look of ecstasy. You watched, fascinated, the pilot coming inside you after only a few pumps. Hell, you didn’t even mind; he had given you yours twice over. You felt a kind of privilege bestowed upon you; the knowledge that your pussy must be made of solid gold. That, or he really did like you.

“Oh fuck, ohh no, shit, I-I’m sorry,” Poe stuttered, his tone indicative of embarrassment. You tried to lighten the mood with a joke, dotting tiny kisses along the corner of his mouth in an attempt to quell his mounting anxiety.

“What was that about setting me straight?” you teased, Poe forced to laugh despite himself as he tried to catch his breath. He shook his head, brawny biceps propping him up just above you, jet-black strands dangling down to brush against your nose as he sighed a dejected sigh.

“You’re just so pretty, and I was excited, you know? I- It’s- It’s been a while,” he clumsily explained, “haven’t had the time to actually masturbate, being in the middle of a war and all—”

You cut him off with a kiss, a forceful press of your lips to his. It was your way of shutting him up, aiming to put a stopper in all of his excuses; it did not matter to you.

“Poe, it’s fine,” you affirmed, cradling the antsy man’s refined jaw in the crook of your palm, “these things happen. I’m not upset. You already got me off twice; that’s more than most men for the entirety of a relationship.”

You had exaggerated that last part for a bit of dramatic flair, this particular white lie having no purpose other than to bolster Poe’s self-esteem and to make him feel better. He smiled at you, a genuine, honest-to-God smile, as if coming to terms with the fact he had no need to worry, and that he might just get a second chance one day, contrary to what he had at first believed.

“So, uh—” he started, lifting gently up and off of you; his cock incrementally eased its way out of you, the remnants of his seed thick and sticky as it flowed freely out and onto the exam table.

He scrunched an eye, as if still ashamed, Poe sucking on his bottom lip to alleviate the mental anguish he was suffering before he sheepishly asked you a question, “Now that we’ve gotten to third base, would you care to visit first?”

You propped yourself up on your forearms, quirking a brow as you rose to sit. He assumed correctly, thinking that you did not take his meaning, Poe following up to explain more succinctly. “Dinner, maybe? Or—”

Sirens began to blare, a red alert sounding all throughout the Anodyne. A voice rang out over the internal comm; Dameron and you were quickly put on edge.

“Attention, all personnel: report to stations. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is not a drill.”

Your face fell, as did Poe’s. He gazed at you a moment, ignoring the awful clamor in the background as people began to race throughout the halls just beyond the door. It was as if time stood still, and you were unable to break away from Dameron’s dark gaze. The man, who was so amiable and easygoing, now looked browbeaten and worn, knowing that any minute now he would have to find BB-8 and return to his X-wing when he had wanted nothing more than to relax in your company. Wishful thinking, he mused.

You were the first to move, rushing to get up. You found a towel and cleaned yourself up, collecting your clothes from off the floor; somehow, your tunic had remained intact, though you would hold out for a future time when Poe might touch those parts of you, too. It was hard not to want to imagine him with his soft lips puckered about your nipple as his stocky fingers massaged and revered your breasts.

“Attention: all pilots, return to hangar. Repeat: all capable pilots return to your ships.”

“It was just as well, huh?” he asked solemnly, referring to the abrupt end of your impromptu rendezvous.

“Go,” you commanded, Poe’s stare lingering, amber eyes piercing you with a look that was ironically impenetrable; resolute, yet somehow somber, wistful.

He broke away, finally, and with difficulty, scrambling to adjust his briefs before throwing back on his pants and buttoning his shirt. He hitched his holster around his hips, the boots made to go on last. You observed as he hopped around on one foot, once more finding him to be endearing as you turned to rush toward the refresher, steadfast in your desire to use the sonic, if only for a moment; you needed to rinse off before returning to the med bay, as was your duty.

Poe called out to you by name; you whirled to face him. The man’s fluffy eyebrows were stitched together as he could only stare at you again. Then, he seemed to finally come-to, stepping the few paces forward that separated you.

“I’ll comm you later?” he asked more than stated, the backs of his knuckles running the length of your cheek. You could only nod, leaning up to kiss him one last time.

“Come back in one piece, OK? I don’t want to have to stitch you up again; be careful,” you urged him. He smiled that charming, boyish smile that made your heart race, as radiant as ever; his mood could change so suddenly.

“No promises,” he replied, meaning it in jest, yet you knew there was some truth to it.

You parted ways with the best damn pilot in the galaxy, hope being the only thing left to you both now. Hope that he would never have to step foot back aboard this frigate, but that if he did, it would be for some better reason, and not because he had failed to heed your warning.

---

Reblogs / comments appreciated!

Masterlist

Ao3

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The surveillance advertising to financial fraud pipeline

Monday (October 2), I'll be in Boise to host an event with VE Schwab. On October 7–8, I'm in Milan to keynote Wired Nextfest.

Being watched sucks. Of all the parenting mistakes I've made, none haunt me more than the times my daughter caught me watching her while she was learning to do something, discovered she was being observed in a vulnerable moment, and abandoned her attempt:

https://www.theguardian.com/technology/blog/2014/may/09/cybersecurity-begins-with-integrity-not-surveillance

It's hard to be your authentic self while you're under surveillance. For that reason alone, the rise and rise of the surveillance industry – an unholy public-private partnership between cops, spooks, and ad-tech scum – is a plague on humanity and a scourge on the Earth:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does

But beyond the psychic damage surveillance metes out, there are immediate, concrete ways in which surveillance brings us to harm. Ad-tech follows us into abortion clinics and then sells the info to the cops back home in the forced birth states run by Handmaid's Tale LARPers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/29/no-i-in-uter-us/#egged-on

And even if you have the good fortune to live in a state whose motto isn't "There's no 'I" in uter-US," ad-tech also lets anti-abortion propagandists trick you into visiting fake "clinics" who defraud you into giving birth by running out the clock on terminating your pregnancy:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/15/paid-medical-disinformation/#crisis-pregnancy-centers

The commercial surveillance industry fuels SWATting, where sociopaths who don't like your internet opinions or are steamed because you beat them at Call of Duty trick the cops into thinking that there's an "active shooter" at your house, provoking the kind of American policing autoimmune reaction that can get you killed:

https://www.cnn.com/2019/09/14/us/swatting-sentence-casey-viner/index.html

There's just a lot of ways that compiling deep, nonconsensual, population-scale surveillance dossiers can bring safety and financial harm to the unwilling subjects of our experiment in digital spying. The wave of "business email compromises" (the infosec term for impersonating your boss to you and tricking you into cleaning out the company bank accounts)? They start with spear phishing, a phishing attack that uses personal information – bought from commercial sources or ganked from leaks – to craft a virtual Big Store con:

https://www.fbi.gov/how-we-can-help-you/safety-resources/scams-and-safety/common-scams-and-crimes/business-email-compromise

It's not just spear-phishers. There are plenty of financial predators who run petty grifts – stock swindles, identity theft, and other petty cons. These scams depend on commercial surveillance, both to target victims (e.g. buying Facebook ads targeting people struggling with medical debt and worried about losing their homes) and to run the con itself (by getting the information needed to pull of a successful identity theft).

In "Consumer Surveillance and Financial Fraud," a new National Bureau of Academic Research paper, a trio of business-school profs – Bo Bian (UBC), Michaela Pagel (WUSTL) and Huan Tang (Wharton) quantify the commercial surveillance industry's relationship to finance crimes:

https://www.nber.org/papers/w31692

The authors take advantage of a time-series of ZIP-code-accurate fraud complaint data from the Consumer Finance Protection Board, supplemented by complaints from the FTC, along with Apple's rollout of App Tracking Transparency, a change to app-based tracking on Apple mobile devices that turned of third-party commercial surveillance unless users explicitly opted into being spied on. More than 96% of Apple users blocked spying:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

In other words, they were able to see, neighborhood by neighborhood, what happened to financial fraud when users were able to block commercial surveillance.

What happened is, fraud plunged. Deprived of the raw material for committing fraud, criminals were substantially hampered in their ability to steal from internet users.

While this is something that security professionals have understood for years, this study puts some empirical spine into the large corpus of qualitative accounts of the surveillance-to-fraud pipeline.

As the authors note in their conclusion, this analysis is timely. Google has just rolled out a new surveillance system, the deceptively named "Privacy Sandbox," that every Chrome user is being opted in to unless they find and untick three separate preference tickboxes. You should find and untick these boxes:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/09/how-turn-googles-privacy-sandbox-ad-tracking-and-why-you-should

Google has spun, lied and bullied Privacy Sandbox into existence; whenever this program draws enough fire, they rename it (it used to be called FLoC). But as the Apple example showed, no one wants to be spied on – that's why Google makes you find and untick three boxes to opt out of this new form of surveillance.

There is no consensual basis for mass commercial surveillance. The story that "people don't mind ads so long as they're relevant" is a lie. But even if it was true, it wouldn't be enough, because beyond the harms to being our authentic selves that come from the knowledge that we're being observed, surveillance data is a crucial ingredient for all kinds of crime, harassment, and deception.

We can't rely on companies to spy on us responsibly. Apple may have blocked third-party app spying, but they effect nonconsensual, continuous surveillance of every Apple mobile device user, and lie about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

That's why we should ban commercial surveillance. We should outlaw surveillance advertising. Period:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2022/03/ban-online-behavioral-advertising

Contrary to the claims of surveillance profiteers, this wouldn't reduce the income to ad-supported news and other media – it would increase their revenues, by letting them place ads without relying on the surveillance troves assembled by the Google/Meta ad-tech duopoly, who take the majority of ad-revenue:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/05/save-news-we-must-ban-surveillance-advertising

We're 30 years into the commercial surveillance pandemic and Congress still hasn't passed a federal privacy law with a private right of action. But other agencies aren't waiting for Congress. The FTC and DoJ Antitrust Divsision have proposed new merger guidelines that allow regulators to consider privacy harms when companies merge:

https://www.regulations.gov/comment/FTC-2023-0043-1569

Think here of how Google devoured Fitbit and claimed massive troves of extremely personal data, much of which was collected because employers required workers to wear biometric trackers to get the best deal on health care:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/04/google-fitbit-merger-would-cement-googles-data-empire

Companies can't be trusted to collect, retain or use our personal data wisely. The right "balance" here is to simply ban that collection, without an explicit opt-in. The way this should work is that companies can't collect private data unless users hunt down and untick three "don't spy on me" boxes. After all, that's the standard that Google has set.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/29/ban-surveillance-ads/#sucker-funnel

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[mistydeyes]

𝔀𝓮𝓵𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽!

i’m currently not active atm but feel free to pursue my previous works <3

here's a short lil explanation as to where i am lol

click me for asks + requests :)

requests: closed atm!

pairings status: closed atm!

rules for requests - i love when you send things 💌

note - message me or comment on any one of my works if you want to be added to a tag list :)

I usually post on mondays, wednesdays, and fridays

izzie's fic recommendations - updated daily!

some things about me :)

the basics: 22, she/her, from the us :)

i'm a third year pharmacy student! also minoring in justice, law, and society

along with writing, i also intern at a retail pharmacy during the summer and a psychiatric hospital during the school year

so naturally my pharmacist series is my absolute favorite to write and research!

𝓶𝔀𝓲𝓲 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽 - the full masterlist

don't know where to start? here's a few readers' favorites :) ❤️ - izzie’s favorites

💌 if you want to peek at all of my writings

S E R I E S

"your prescription is ready for pick-up" - 141 x pharmacist!reader

all of my works and our pharmacist reader

a panacea❤️ - 141 meets the cure to all their ailments

sick day visit - you prided yourself on never getting sick but the day has finally come. as you’re resting in your quarters, a certain group pays you a visit :)

fake hypochondriac ghost x reader (sequel to “a panacea”) - ghost goes to extreme lengths to see his favorite pharmacist

pain-killer fueled thoughts price x reader (sequel to “a panacea”) - price landed himself in the medic tent and his pain killers are making him tell the pharmacist his feelings.

keep your weapons hot and bodies hotter (18+) - stripper!141 x fem!reader (codename: Phoenix)❤️

hunk-o-mania 141 edition - feast your eyes on Delilah's Den's newest male dancers

playboy bunny phoenix edition - an unforeseen guest complicates the mission, now you have to get ready to act as the distraction on stage

the joys of civilian life - 141 x civilian!fem!reader

opposite occupations - while on leave, the boys each meet a civilian that makes their time deployed and defending their country worth it

family moments - 141 x fem!reader

little moments and little voices - precious moments you spend in your home with your husband and children :)

oh, darling, don’t you ever grow up - your husband leaves this world too early and now you have to pick up the pieces with your children

secrets and pointed fingers (requested!)❤️ - simon "ghost" riley

behind locked doors - when the 141 thinks you're the mole, they make sure to extract the information in whatever way possible

empty apologies and avoiding glances - when you return back to base, everything is far from normal

half empty glasses and unchanging perspectives - you try to run away from the trauma at the pub but with a glass in hand, simon finds you

O N E - S H O T S

odd hobbies - 141 x reader everyone has their own hobbies, yours are just unique to 141’s perspective

butterfly effect - 141 x fem!reader they say "a butterfly flaps its wings in the amazonian jungle, and subsequently a storm ravages half of europe." what once was a silly quote now has implications as one action leads to your death.

opposite of a meet cute❤️ - 141 x civilian!reader most people have a cute story as to how they met their significant other but yours is a little more eccentric

V I S U A L S + R A N D O M

random things in pockets and bags❤️ SERIES - what does the 141 carry on them when they’re on leave?

pt i- kyle “gaz” garrick

pt ii - simon "ghost" riley

pt iii - johnny "soap" mactavish

pt iv - john price

E X P L A I N S my series of explaining the various timeline's of the games and characters

simon "ghost" riley's backstory

which modern warfare game should i play first?

some writings from the inbox

medication mixup - the medic unknowingly prescribing you a penicillin has disastrous results due to your allergy

141’s dossier - see what the dossiers laswell gets at the end of mw 2019 looks like! + template

ghost’s doppelgänger - how does the 141 and los vaqueros react to you joining the team? their reactions are even better when you share an uncanny resemblance with ghost

running mascara - 141 x fem!reader harsh words are said and you try your best to run away from the cause. however, everyone needs to face the issue eventually and now the 141 is left to pick up the pieces. initially part of my 1k celebration but i added a sequel as it was highly requested! PART I and PART II

mw2 x reader - my ongoing series of pairing y'all up and writing a short lil blurb about how you met and your relationship

izzie’s 1K celebration! - closed now :) but feel free to look and see some of the prompts + how i answered them

𝓪𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓬 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓴𝓼

[canonicallyobserving911]

Buddie & Bathena: Seasons 6 & 8 Parallels

I can't stop thinking about this, so I decided to post it today since OS didn't hold back on his response in that recent article.

Buck: "I feel like she sees me" vs. Bobby: "Athena, I see you."

I've already completed several Buddie & Bathena Parallel posts and the most recent one is from season 7 and it's linked here. However, season 8 is keeping the parallels coming and I found a BIG one that's a direct callback to a Buddie conversation in season 6.

So... we all remember the scene in 6x15 when Buck made that ridiculous comment while he was standing in the cemetery with Eddie, right? You know the one... it's when he told Eddie, "I feel like she sees me!" 🙄

Everyone knows that was BS especially since he had only known her for like 0.23456789 seconds but I digress. (If you can't tell that line still pisses me off! The F*X network is to blame for this but thankfully, the show is on ABC now and Buddie's going CANON!)

It's evident for anyone who's watched all 7 of the previous seasons of 9-1-1 that season 8 is being inundated with callbacks to those that preceded it. Here are three examples. (1.) There was the scene in 8x4 of all the 118 members visiting Bobby the same way they did in 2x17 after he was suspended. (2.) Competent and sexy combat medic Eddie is back and he's not focusing on his past and he's moving forward. (3.) There were two callbacks to the shooting, one in 8x1 and another in 8x4 (related post linked here).

In 8x3, when Bobby was standing on top of the "Hotshots" 119 fire engine talking to Athena while she was inside the cockpit of the airplane before she landed it, the words they were saying to one another were too on the nose to be ignored and two of their lines were very REMINSCENT of Buck's and Eddie's conversation from season 6.

Here's my speculation. Since I've already established Buddie and Bathena directly parallel one another not only as two couples but also as individuals, i.e. Buck and Athena parallel one another in wardrobe and the things they say the same way Eddie and Bobby parallel one another, I believe an upcoming scene between Buck and Eddie will parallel the "Athena, I see you!" and "I see you too!" scene between Bobby and Athena.

Everyone's speculating Eddie will have an NDE but I think it'll be Buck because based on the airplane disaster, Athena was in trouble and Bobby was cool, calm and collected. Eddie was cool, calm and collected in 8x4 and that's what I think they're setting everything up for. There are still a lot of episodes left in the season but we all remember how Eddie reacted when Buck said "I feel like she sees me!" His head whipped to the left so fast he probably got whiplash.

So... I think whatever's going to happen to them, will play out something like this...

Buck will be in a precarious situation (I don't know what type but we all saw how Eddie reacted the last time Buck was hurt) where they're about to lose each other for the umpteenth time but it'll be different because instead of Eddie hiding behind Chris like he's done in the past, he's going to actually tell Buck that he's in love with him. Also, Buck will be secure in his feelings about Eddie, he won't be confused and he won't be afraid to admit out loud that he loves him too!

Eddie: "Buck! I see you. I always have."

Buck: "EDDIE... I SEE YOU TOO!" He'll be panicking about not being in front of him like he was after the shooting or Eddie's mental breakdown, then he'll admit, "I love you!"

Eddie: "Tell me in person!"

If the show does this, I'll pass out like I almost did when I heard Bobby tell Athena he sees her. They've never said that to one another before but Buck has said it to Eddie except he was talking about someone else seeing him.

Now Buck's in this lackluster ass relationship with Tonsilitis and make no mistake T*mmy DOES NOT SEE BUCK!"

Buddie is going CANON and there's no one in the way to stop it. OS is saying things he never would have said in the past. RG has been let out of PR jail and they're both doing interviews and photoshoots that coincide with one another. There's no other place for the show to go except to make them CANON and when it happens, the internet will break.