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lets-try-some-writing · 2 years ago

Note

what if optimus was a human teacher?

Well here is an interesting concept I am 100% going to go crazy with. This is a long one though so I'm going to break this up with a read more and a warning that this isn't going to go the way you might think.

Not So Normal Teacher

The Archivist in Optimus was bored.

Megatron had been quiet for over a year and not a spark had a thing to do until the Decepticons made a move. He had already reorganized the Autobot database three times and he couldn't exactly go wandering off with how much energon he used. He was stuck at base handling communications and mission assignment, and Primus, even the Matrix was antsy. He wanted something to do, anything really. And so after months of sitting around being driven half mad by lack of stimuli, he came up with an idea.

The Archivist in him wanted to teach, to preserve history, and to collect data. What better way to do all of that than by taking up a position as an educator? It was rather outlandish considering he was a Prime and from another world, but there was a school in the nearby human settlement hiring. He had no need for human currency nor was it particularly wise to go sign up as a teacher when the Decepticons could resurge at any moment. However he reasoned that if nothing else he would gain greater insight into human capability through his endeavors.

Ratchet was against his idea from the get-go but allowed Optimus to go through with it after he gave his reasoning and pointed out that he would actually use less energon if he kept his frame at base and worked elsewhere. Thus with Ratchet's begrudging assent, Optimus made himself a whole forged identity for his human holoform, plopped his real frame down in his berth, and got to work.

Orion Pax turned up to the interview looking his best, but despite his efforts there were still a few little things that set him apart. He was indeed professional in wearing a simple turtleneck sweater and jeans with a belt. However that was not what made the interviewer a little concerned, no it was fact that Optimus's hair looked like the American flag with the mixed red white and blue alongside the little markings on his face just under his eyes along with scars that had also transferred over. There was also the fact that his eyes were a little too bright, his movements a tad too stiff, and the way his voice seemed nearly melodic in nature.

However since Orion Pax managed to answer the interview questions perfectly, had a clean record, and was the embodiment of politeness and patience, he was accepted in short order. Thus Optimus got himself a job at Jasper Nevada Memorial High School as history teacher.

Orion Pax befriended the entirety of the teaching staff by the end of week one with his kind disposition, patience, and wisdom beyond his years. He assisted the math teacher in grading papers and even taught him a thing or two with all the patience in the world when the teacher began to struggle. He aided the English teacher by bringing her a cup of coffee and pointing out a small error in her class prep work. He helped the gym teacher get the court set up for the lesson that day and helped him organize the various equipment in record time. He stopped the science teacher from accidentally creating a deadly gas when the teacher passed out from exhaustion halfway through an experiment, leaving Pax to carefully clean up and then grade the teacher's papers for him. Then to top it all off, he assisted the music and arts teacher in her efforts to decorate her classroom for the school year.

The staff loved him, especially the school cleaners since Pax would always stay up late to help them clean despite their protests. He was the perfect co-worker, and quickly found himself as the most loved teacher once the school year started. His students were skeptical of the teacher who looked like he crawled out some sort of cosplaying event and had an American flag for hair, but they swiftly warmed up to him due to his manner of teaching.

Optimus hadn't actually done any real research on human methods of teaching, instead relying on his own experience. In a school as out of the way as Jasper Nevada High School, the regulations were not as strict and so long as students passed their exams, he was allowed to teach as he wished. He did have to adapt a few of his methods to account for human biological limits, but he quickly garnered the students interest with how he went about his teaching.

Using a holoprojector he adjusted to look more like a human one, Optimus, or rather Pax gave the children a more interactive experience. He was passionate as he showed them history in simulations and introduced them to old battles in complicated holographic maps. His classroom was covered in star charts and old documents, studies, and artwork. Every student was urged to find something historical that interested them and dive into it with all their passion and enthusiasm. No students were left unheeded and all their issues were accounted for. The social students were grouped together and given specific historical figures to study in a manner similar to what the archivists of Cybertron did. The less social were given special homework, being required to study a specific event and bring in all they had gathered.

Students with disabilities such as dyslexia and other reading or information processing impediments were personally tutored and grouped. Those who had issues reading were given a partner who would do the reading while they took notes and sectioned out data. Those who had trouble paying attention to certain subjects were given work in areas that had their interest. A child who found warfare to be of interest would be given to mission to look into the Art of War and compile an alternate battle plan for the assault on Rome. A child who preferred the more domestic texts was to come up with a whole biography that was time period accurate for a fictional character living in their chosen era.

Every student had their education specialized to suit them best alongside the general education Orion had them listen to.

Orion was not harsh, he didn't give homework in the manner of other teachers and instead gave the students one big project to complete over the year and smaller personal research projects to complete once a month. A good archivist doesn't rush his research, no, instead time and dedication is given to ensure everything is correct and proper. He did everything in his power to instill this into his students, never putting stern deadlines on anything and instead focusing on fostering interest and a desire for truth.

He wanted his students to love history, not despise it. He wanted them to learn from the mistakes of their ancestors and move forward. And most importantly he made sure to remind them to not be angry at the past and instead see it as an example of another time. For his efforts his students loved him.

It certainly helped that he tended to tell his students altered stories of Cybertron's history, changing bits and pieces to make it seem like a legitimate but long dead human civilization. His students were enraptured with his tales and the battles he made come to life with his projector. Even other teachers would come to listen if they had free time. However to keep his students on task, he only told them stories when the completed their other class's homework before his, thus leading to other teachers finding more success in their lessons too.

After particularly good performances from his students, he would quietly teach them pieces of his culture. He told himself it was just because it was something for them to do, but deep down he knew the real reason why he did this. He didn't want everything of his people to be lost if he were to lose the war. He didn't want everything his people did to be forgotten and washed away by the tests of time. If he was to fail... he wanted something to remain with his students.

Thus he taught them everything he could. He told the other teachers that it was from an ancient culture long forgotten that he was personally studying and come up with some forged documents to prove it. Then his students were introduced to the Ancient Cybertronian language and received extra credit for every work they submitted written in it. He altered the manner in which the glyphs could be processed and spoken while still keeping it as true as possible so that his students could speak it and read it. Then he offered them even more extra credit if they spoke the language in class.

It brought him no end of joy when one Rafael Esquivel made it his mission in life to learn and speak Ancient Cybertronian. If he wasn't long used to having to remain on task even while under increadible stress he would have devoted a great deal of his time to ensuring the boy understood everything perfectly. However he abstained and kept his focus, teaching all his students equally and making sure they were still learning their own history. If Rafael came to him after school to learn more, Optimus never rejected him and taught him happily, more than a little pleased when the boy's glyphs came out as perfectly as they could considering his biology when he spoke.

He also showed his students old dances from all across Cybertron. He altered them as much as he could and gave students different dances based on personality. Students got extra credit if they could perform a dance perfectly by the end of the school year. He never really expected any of them to do it, but by Primus he was surprised when Miko Nakadai turned up guns blazing and performed three different dances from different castes as perfectly as she could considering her biological restraints. She was a terrible study, but evidently her interest in dancing was increadible. Optimus may or may not have taught her a few more dances a little later just to see if she could do it, only to be shocked beyond words when she could indeed do it.

Lastly he introduced his students to Cybertronian art which had a heavy reliance on story telling. It was an end of the year project since his students managed to burn through the curriculum in less than six months and get mostly through the next year's work before the Principle asked Pax to slow down and teach them something else for a while. Optimus thought slowing his student's growth was ridiculous, but he complied and taught them how to engrave and paint in the manner of Cybertronians. It was shortly after he began teaching this that he was yet again surprised to find Jack Darby of all his students to be the one to perform best.

The boy was an excellent engraver, to the point where if Optimus were the kind of mech he might have even let Jack engrave his outer plating. He could get the glyphs nearly perfect every time and had a gift for painting that surpassed more than a few artists from Cybertron during the golden age. It shocked and awed Optimus more than he cared to admit, and much like with his two other exemplary students, he may have slid Jack over a printed copy of some other examples of Cybertronian art from the Autobot database.

He was a proud teacher, and a fragging good one too by any standard. But that was not all, he also cared deeply for his students and got to know all of them. Bonds were a serious thing on Cybertron, especially the ones found between mentor and student. Optimus took the time to understand every student he taught, to learn their likes, their dislikes, and what their situations were. By the end of his first year teaching he already saw his students as his little archivists. He stayed out of their personal lives as much as he could considering his place, but when needed he would answer a call for help.

A student who came in hurt would find their cast covered in loving little glyphs that spoke of wishes and prayers from Cybertron. A student who had a mental illness would be given plenty of small gifts and attention to help them look on the bright side. Students with body image problems were welcomed with love, always receiving a compliment when they entered. Every student was seen to and cared for, especially in the odd case where they came to him for help.

He said he wouldn't get involved, but he was a Prime, he couldn't leave anyone in need of aid. During the singular instance where a student called him in tears at the end of the school day weeping because of their abusive parent, Optimus didn't even hesitate. His holoform was reabsorbed and his real frame moved out. He transformed and drove as fast as he could until he reached the student's residence, at which point he remade his holoform, called authorities, and may or may not have busted down the door to get his student out of there before they could be hurt further.

Not a spark touched one of his little archivists. And while he did get a fine for trespassing and property damage, Optimus had no regrets. It certainly made him feel like his actions were justified when he found a small bundle of flowers on his desk a few days later from the student he saved.

The team slowly began to get a little worried for him when he began gushing about his students around base and keeping their little gifts. When questioned he had nothing but praise for his students and in the end the team just let him be. Optimus still did the work that was needed of him around base, so why argue with him when he was far happier than any of the team had seen him in centuries. Ratchet did warn Optimus not to get attached, but by that point it was far too late if the small pile of thank you gifts and other assorted thing piled on Optimus's workstation was any indicator.

His students didn't know, but he adored their gifts. Gifts were special on Cybertron, and so for every gift he received, he returned. His little archivists were in his own mind, the best. As such when Megatron made his reappearance two years later just as his first batch of students were graduating, Optimus was actually angry.

How dare the fragger turn up and put his little archivists in danger!? It was unforgivable, especially when because of Megatron's actions, three of his students turned up at base and Optimus had to try not to sputter. Jack, Miko, and Rafael, his three most invested students when it came to Cybertronian culture. What started as a harmless little subject quickly had the children connecting the dots when it came to the team.

They thought what Mr. Pax was teaching them was rooted from Cybertronian influence, perhaps from him unearthing something from Cybertron long ago. They didn't know that Optimus was the one teaching them and still turning up to classes part time every other day after Megatron returned. How was he supposed to not get attached even more when he lived two lives, one as Mr. Pax the history teacher and one as Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots, both of which interacted with the children?

Optimus: Jack, have you turned in your school work for the week yet?

Jack: No... I've been having some trouble with glyphs.

Optimus: Oh? What are you learning?

Jack: My history teacher Mr. Pax has been teaching up about a long dead civilization that seems to have been influenced by you bots. He's been teaching us the language they used.

Ratchet: *glaring at Optimus* Oh really? I would love to hear more about it.

Miko: Yeah! The glyphs are boring, but Mr. Pax also taught us dances! See, look! *proceeds to perform a dance from central Iacon*

Bulkhead: Wait, isn't that a dance used by the-

Optimus: *holding a servo over Bulkhead's mouth* The ancient civilization I assume?

Miko: Yep! Its super fun!

Rafael: Mr. Pax also taught us how to speak the old language. I think I am fairly proficient. *proceeds to speak fluent ancient cybertronian*

Arcee: What the frag!?

Ratchet: I do believe we need to have a talk Optimus.

#maccadam #transformers #transformers prime #optimus prime #team prime #tfp kids #miko nakadai #jack darby #rafael esquivel #teacher au #Optimus may or may not get carried away when it comes to his students #he adores them #its been too long since he's had the chance to just teach #touch his humans and he will fight you

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tiddygame · 8 months ago

Text

You give me goose bumps

(repost because Tumblr was being Funky on my end-- sorry!)

Ao3

Summary: Ghost sat there, trying to figure out how in the hell he had gotten himself into this situation: Lying on the floor of the safe house with a massive werewolf using him as a teddy bear. Honestly, the sequence of events wasn’t too complicated.

Tw: violence, nightmares, and a smidgen panic

It was a few days before a full moon and Ghost and Soap were on a simple, low-stakes mission. All they needed to do was find some flash drive in a building that had been abandoned. Ghost really didn’t even need to watch soap from his vantage point.

The mission was intentionally simple. Having a task force composed almost entirely of monsters did have its downsides. Every full moon, one of those disadvantages reared its ugly head.

In general, when it came to the werewolf side of things, Soap had a pretty good grasp on staying in control and not involuntarily shifting or going berserk. The amount of control he had over both forms was honestly impressive.

Full moons were a different story. In the days leading up to them, instincts always got a bit harder to defy and shifting at will would sometimes go out the window entirely. It’s why they were here, at an abandoned building. A low-energy mission to not trigger a shift, but something that needed to be done and a good outlet for pent-up energy at the very least.

Ghost watched from his perch outside as Soap methodically searched the building, occasionally catching glimpses of him through windows. Soap didn’t need his help, he was just watching the exits, making sure no one went in or out. That didn’t stop Soap from complaining to him the entire time.

“This place gives me the creeps.”

“Is that your official assessment, sergeant?”

“Oh piss off, you’re outside in the middle of the day. I’m in this creepy shithole looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“Focus, Mactavish.”

“I am! You might be different, but I can talk while doing something.”

Ghost didn’t grace that with a response.

“Any clue why they vacated?”

“Negative,” he tried not to think about how if it had been anyone else, he would’ve chewed them out for unprofessionalism three comments ago.

“They left in a hurry, some poor sod didn’t even finish his coffee,” it was said in a joking tone but Ghost could hear the genuine unease behind it.

“Just find the flash drive and get out. Sooner you’re done, the sooner we can leave,” he replied not unkindly, he might enjoy teasing the man but that didn’t mean he didn’t trust his instincts. If Soap felt like something was wrong, he’d take his word on it.

Ghost repositioned slightly, watching the floor Soap was on, looking in the windows through the scope. He was barely able to see his sergeant, just in view of the window. He saw when Soap stopped in the middle of the room, and turned in a circle, definitely looking for something but not a flash drive.

“Soap, sitrep. What’s going on?”

“Something’s wrong,” he’d never seen his sergeant so spooked. He wanted to be angry, wanted to use his lieutenant voice to tell Soap to get a move on, but he couldn’t ignore the dread that was overwhelming him as well.

“Ghost, I don’t think we’re alone here,” well fucking Christ, did he have to say it as creepily as possible?

“Johnny—?” he wasn’t sure what he was going to say, whether to tell him to continue or to cut and run, but it didn’t matter. It took him a few moments to realize that the windows were slowly being covered by a black fog. He could see the wisps of smoke curling towards Johnny.

Soap noticed it too, “For fuck’s sake, I hate dealing with wraiths.”

Soap wasn’t too concerned, but Ghost was. He quickly abandoned his perch and booked it for the building. There wasn’t much a sniper could do against a cloud of smoke.

“I’m on my way, don’t die,” he hoped it went through but the way the radio was crackling didn’t fill him with hope.

“Aff—m—ve,” he was barely able to hear what he said, the radio now spewing a high-pitched ringing as if his tinnitus wasn’t already bad enough. He had to agree with Soap’s earlier comment, he hated dealing with wraiths.

If he didn’t already know the right floor, the unmistakable growl of a pissed wolf and loud crashes would have been a dead giveaway. He climbed through the stairwell as fast as he could. He burst through the door to the fourth floor, the open office space giving him a clear view of the confrontation.

His sergeant, obviously having shifted, in the corner, growling with his teeth bared. In front of him, a wraith stalking him, trying to find a weak point. It looked at him, deciding that between the two, Ghost would be the easier victim.

Ghost felt deep within him when the thing turned Its full attention to him. Wraiths were born of pure misery, torture, and dread, and they were intent on making everyone else suffer an even worse fate than they did. (For several, several years Ghost was convinced he was doomed to become one too, until a certain Scotsman entered his life, at least.) This one was strong, as It stared at him, he could feel all his happy memories turn necrotic.

The two of them stalked towards the other, Ghost’s boots stomping heavily on the ground and the wraith imitating him despite Its floating. It lunged, only becoming tangible when Its hands wrapped around his throat, trying to cut off his airway. As utter dread washed over him, he stabbed at the thing but it turned back to smoke before it could connect. They had entered a fatal tango, though It seemed to have forgotten that there was another involved.

With the wraith distracted, Soap pounced. The tricky thing with fighting wraiths was their ability to become intangible at will. Standard protocol for dealing with one involved lengthy planning and strategizing, wearing them out before—

Oh, good god, It was already dead.

Soap ripped the thing apart in the same way a dog would its favorite chew toy. He had the thing’s neck between his teeth and was shaking It back and forth, the wraith trying to claw at his snout. It was clinging to life until the final tendons gave way and Its body dropped with a heavy thud. Ghost couldn’t find it within himself to feel bad for the thing.

While Its body was now detached from Its neck, Soap still wasn’t done. He put one paw on the thing's head and kept going, not stopping until the wraith had been separated into three parts.

Soap grabbed the throat and happily trotted to Ghost, wanting him to put his hand out.

Uncomprehendingly, he did. Soap dropped it in his hand and barked, his tail excitedly wagging away.

He realized as it was nudged towards him that it was a gift. Soap had gifted him the throat of the creature that tried to kill him. He really couldn’t tell if that meant he was lost in his instincts or if it was Soap being Soap.

“Thanks,” he was touched either way.

The werewolf barked and spun in a circle, having too much energy for such a large thing in such a small space.

“Let’s find that flash drive and get out of here,” Ghost had to fight to keep the baby talk tone he normally used when talking to dogs out of his voice. Werewolves weren’t domesticated dogs and it was beyond rude to treat them as such, regardless of which form they were in or how far in their instincts they were. Still, Ghost couldn’t help but compare the way Soap was jumping around to that of a puppy that didn’t know its size. He was far from an expert in them but he knew Soap was rather large for a werewolf; it was a miracle he fit through the hallways.

They went on to clear the building, eventually finding what they were after a few floors above where the wraith had attacked. Ghost still didn’t know what to do with the esophagus he had been given, so he just… held on to it. What was werewolf etiquette for being gifted a body part?

He remembered the whole thing with cats bringing their owners dead animals because they thought that their owners couldn’t hunt and internally groaned. Please, please, please do not tell him he is expected to eat this?

He hadn’t wanted to set it down because if Soap was in control and had knowingly given it to him, that would just be a dick move. And really, the same applied for if he was lost in his instincts, it would still be mean to simply toss it aside. Maybe he was just overthinking this.

Can you overthink being given the throat of your enemy? It seems like it might be one of those things that you can only under-think.

His pondering was interrupted by Soap stopping and sniffing the air. He let out a rumbling growl, sniffed once more, and then began herding Ghost to the exit. He wanted to ask what was wrong but it wasn’t like the wolf would’ve been able to answer. Regardless, just like his instincts earlier, Ghost knew to trust Soap’s senses.

As they made their way to the ground floor, he could hear engines in the distance.

“Ah, shit…” Why now did they have to return to reclaim their stupid building?

He looked around the perimeter and saw an abandoned truck near the fence. Ghost got Soap’s attention and gestured to the vehicle, both running for it.

When the door didn’t open, he didn’t hesitate to smash in the window. As he hotwired the car, Soap started pacing back and forth, clearly unhappy at the fact that he wasn’t able to help in some way. When the werewolf heard the engine start, he perked up and ran towards the driver’s door, spinning in circles.

Ghost stepped to the side, wanting to let him in before he got behind the wheel. There was shouting coming from in front of them, some poor guard trying to get their attention who likely didn’t realize he was staring at the people who just stole incredibly valuable information right out from underneath their noses.

The guy, somehow not noticing the werewolf, approached, talking about how Ghost shouldn’t have access to the truck. He had the advantage, already holding his gun. They needed a distraction.

Some men stormed out of the exit of the building they had just fled through, gesturing wildly with their hands, shouting, “Something already killed the wraith!”

When eyes turned to the truck, Ghost had already gotten in and put it in drive.

If the guard hadn’t realized earlier, then it probably dawned on him as he had to jump out of the way to avoid getting run over. Some others tried to stop him, but there was a reason Ghost never got a driver’s license. He had spotted a locked chain link fence gate that looked just right for their grand escape and floored it. He laughed at their panic when they realized he wasn’t slowing down but tried not to be disappointed by the lack of sudden speed bumps. Soap had his fun earlier, why can’t Ghost have his?

They cleared the gate with ease and were speeding down old, back country roads in no time. Soap had moved to the backseat (the front being nowhere near big enough for him) and pawed at the window. Ghost, still riding the high of almost running people over, chuckled and let down the window, looking in the rearview mirror as Soap stuck his head out.

Knowing him, he was probably still mostly there and was enjoying having an excuse to be even stupider than usual. Ghost tried not to watch him, but he was happy to see his sergeant so happy. Besides, he’d seen enough shifts gone wrong to know that they were lucky he was still in such high spirits after a fear-induced shift.

He felt something by his foot and glanced down at the floorboard, seeing the throat still sitting there from where he had dropped it to hotwire the car. Huh. Seriously, what in the ever-loving fuck are you supposed to do in this situation?!

When he could safely say that no one was chasing them, he pulled over and got out, Soap following, running around to get out energy that was still pent up. He radioed Price, updating him on the situation. Luckily, there was a safe house nearby. Unluckily, it was a shithole.

It looked like the military saw a house going into foreclosure, bought it, then left it to rot. Even from the outside, he could see that the roof looked one more storm away from collapse and the windows had been boarded up with plywood. The only thing keeping the walls up was the structural support from how much vegetation covered the outside. How homely.

The front door wasn’t even big enough for Soap to fit, they had to go around and find a sliding back door that opened wider (he didn’t chuckle at the fact that the front door was too small for the behemoth of a werewolf, definitely not.) It didn’t take long to clear the house, the only hostile he found was some mold growing in the corner that could probably start another strand of the bubonic plague.

Ghost went back to the main room and picked through their MREs, preparing them while Soap sniffed every nook and cranny of the house. The novelty of such a large thing in such a small area had yet to wear off, and he still silently laughed at Soap having to squeeze through the doors. The wolf continually let out annoyed huffs and Ghost knew that if he still had human vocal chords, he would be prattling on and on about how stupid the door frames were.

Once Soap had checked the house himself, he made his way back and shoved his snout in Ghost’s way, both to see what he was doing and to be a nuisance. Ghost laughed and shoved his face away, knowing Soap was about to start a campaign to make sure the lieutenant wouldn’t be able to prepare their dinner in peace.

His left hand being designated as the ‘shove Soap away’ hand, he was able to continue setting up the heating element one-handed. At some point, Ghost stopped pulling his hand away and left it on his forehead, pushing as needed. And, because Ghost’s main talent is ruining things, it evolved into his left hand scratching Soap’s ears, apparently having forgotten the most basic rule when interacting with werewolves.

“If you wouldn’t do it to a human, don’t do it to them. You wouldn’t walk up to a stranger and start petting their head, would you?”

Ghost stopped and pulled his hand away, muttering an embarrassed apology that wouldn’t come close to making up for treating his sergeant like some random street dog. Throughout the petting, Soap’s head had dropped low, likely having feared retaliation if he protested the ministrations and just deciding to grin and bear it.

Soap growled, shoving his head towards his chest.

“I know, I shouldn’t have done that. It was just…,” just what? Instinct to dehumanize the person who just saved your life?

“Just… nothing. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.”

This time Soap whined and dropped his head in Ghost’s lap, staring up at him sadly.

“I know,” this time even quieter, “I’m sorry.”

By some saving grace, the MREs were ready. He set Soap’s next to him before subtly inching away, not wanting to force the poor man to eat next to him.

Soap huffed and nudged his food closer to Ghost before plopping down practically on top of the man and digging in. Ghost was frozen for a second, staring at his sergeant, before he too relaxed and began eating. It didn’t take long for them to finish up, both inhaling their food as fast as they could. Soap doing so from the increased appetite brought on by shifting, and Ghost hoping that he wouldn’t have to taste whatever the military considered edible.

Within no time Soap was stretching and yawning while Ghost situated himself at the window.

“I’ll take watch while you sleep,” he didn’t even bother trying to lie and pretend that he would wake Soap up to take shifts. No human vocal cords meant no arguing. He got comfortable, moving the curtains to just the right angle for him to see out while keeping the view from outside obscured.

Something was tugging his sleeve. Maybe the werewolf was further in his instincts than he thought.

When he looked, as expected, he saw Soap trying to gently pull him away. Ghost chuckled again, Soap always had to be careful watching his strength when shifted. He pulled his hand back and went to ruffle Soap’s ears before aborting the motion short. He’s not making that mistake again.

“Go to sleep, I know you’re tired from shifting. I’m the one that can still operate a gun.”

Soap growled. Ghost rolled his eyes and turned back to the window, “Go to sleep, sergeant.”

Soap backed away and, for a foolish second, Ghost thought that was it, that he had won.

He tried to lean back against the window frame but his shoulder wasn’t even able to make contact with the wall before something was latching onto his wrist, pulling him towards the corner that their bedrolls had been tossed to.

“Mactavish, that is enough,” he put as much authority in his voice as he could while being yanked around by a very stubborn werewolf. Ghost tried to pull his arm away but, unlike before, Soap’s grip tightened. It wasn’t enough to hurt, at least, so long as he went with Soap it wasn’t.

Soap growled. Just like the grip, before it had been playful, but not now. Ghost went with him, mostly out of shock. It was the first time the wolf’s ire had been directed towards him.

As he was shoved towards the makeshift bed, he gave in, “Alright, alright, I fucking get it.”

He laid down but didn’t remove any of his gear, as soon as Soap was asleep, he would be taking point at the window.

To his great frustration, Soap already seemed to know his plan and was biting at his tac vest. If Soap was far in his instincts, how would he know why Ghost kept his gear on? Was Soap, of sound body and mind, actually throwing a tantrum over who took watch?

“For Fuck’s sake, sergeant. Pull yourself together,” even as he said it he gave in to the repeated nips and growls and removed most of his gear, save for a gun holster and a few knives.

Soap seemed pleased and pushed his head into Ghost's chest to make him lie down again. He sighed and stared up at the ceiling, knowing he wasn’t exhausted enough for sleep’s mercy to grace him. It was bad enough on base, but on missions, his inability to sleep was somehow worse.

His misery was interrupted by something walking in front of him.

“What the hell was the point of making me lie down if you’re not going to watch either?”

Soap didn’t answer, just turned in circles getting ready to lie down. Until he saw Ghost moving to get up. Then he switched gears and dropped himself on top of him so he couldn’t get up and paid no mind to his gasping.

“Johnny, you-,” he shoved at the wolf and let out a wheezy breath, “you heavy bastard, move.”

Soap did no such thing and stared down at him from a sharp angle, noses less than two inches apart. As Ghost got used to the weight, he was able to breathe fully, finding most of Soap’s weight was dispersed enough that he wouldn’t be dying of crush syndrome anytime soon.

He also knew he wasn’t getting out of this anytime soon.

Ghost sighed to the best of his ability and reached for his radio.

Soap, as expected, growled.

“I’m just grabbing my radio to tell Price we aren’t dead. Is that alright with you?” the sarcasm in his tone was heavy but Soap just huffed and dropped his head back on (and completely covering) Ghost’s chest.

Price is a traitor and he revokes any positive comment he has ever made in regards to the captain. When Ghost informed him of his predicament and the fact that Soap had trapped his superior officer, the cruel bastard just laughed.

Price told him that Soap would hear someone before Ghost could see them with a scope and that he should enjoy the break and sleep. When he complained more, Price had the audacity to wrinkle paper and tell him the signal was dropping. Bastard.

He dropped his radio on the floor and readjusted himself. Chances were, he’d still be able to shrug off Soap once he fell asleep, it would just be a bit more difficult. Johnny was leaning into him and somehow managed to snuggle closer.

/\/\/\/\/\

Simon awoke with phantom images of blood on the carpet and the echoing of screams ringing in his ears.

He was still lying there, trapped underneath his sergeant who he seemed to have woken up with his sudden panic. Thankfully, the wolf moved and let him sit up, still trying to parse through his memories (real, fabricated, and embellished) and unable to get his breathing under control.

Something was tugging his sleeve.

He couldn’t see much beyond his blood-stained hands but recognized the sensation of fur under his fingers as he grieved once again. How many fucking times would he have to go through this? He pushed himself so his back was to the wall and closed his eyes.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

And yet they're still dead, aren’t they?

There was a weight in his lap. It was something heavy. He felt it and felt the same fur from before. He clenched his eyes tighter and tried desperately to breathe. In for 4, hold for 7, out for 8.

He lifted his hand, feeling like he had to rip out his hair, but Johnny noticed and rooted around, getting his nose under Ghost’s hand. Ghost moved his hand away but Soap just shoved his head back under it. Simon began very hesitantly scratching his ears. In for 6, hold for 9, out for 10.

He allowed himself to relax, if only slightly, and even brought his other hand up to scratch his other ear. Simon buried his head in the fur in front of him. In for 8, hold for 11, out for 12.

Simon cried. He hated doing it, especially in front of others, but he could hear Johnny admonishing him, telling him that crying was healthy, that it was just as necessary as laughter. He always hated the weakness and vulnerability it brought, hated the idea of people knowing he was upset, but Johnny was always the exception, wasn’t he?

After an embarrassing amount of time, he leaned back and wiped his eyes. He saw Johnny’s head resting in his lap, stupidly blue eyes watching him with care. The rest of the room eventually made its way in, light trickling in through cracks in the roof and an early morning chill settling around them. Later, it would likely be so hot that the ice of hypothermia felt desirable, but as for now, Simon shivered.

Johnny wormed closer and curled around him. Unlike last night when it was meant to make sure he would stay down, this time it was to make sure as much of him was covered as possible. Simon felt bad for forcing Johnny into the role of service dog and weighted blanket, but Johnny’s not-quite-snores were rather helpful in assuring him that the wolf enjoyed their current position as much as he did.

Simon continued scratching his ears and muttered a quiet, “Thank you.”

Johnny huffed happily and nuzzled closer.

#ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #soap x ghost #werewolf au #werewolf!soap #my writing

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flippyspoon · 9 months ago

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Chocolate Donut with Rainbow Sprinkles

Note: SNW Spirk drabble :). For some reason this has been in my head for the longest time lol.

Jim woke up feeling no better than he had the day before. It was only two days beyond the anniversary of the Farragut’s catastrophic encounter with the cloud creature from Tycho IV and he had not been himself for a week. First, because he was anticipating the anniversary. On the day of the anniversary he was reasonably sure he had not spoken a single word. Now not two days had passed and he felt marginally better after reaching out to the families of some of the dead crewmen he had known best. But he was still feeling it, and though he was adept at compartmentalizing and finding solace in his work, Jim felt like the bottom of a boot. Still, he dragged himself to the mess for breakfast and sat up straight as he drank his coffee for breakfast, since nothing looked appetizing enough to eat.

So he was surprised and slightly perturbed when Mr. Spock sat down in front of him. Spock was carrying a tray with a plate, a covered dish, and a cup of tea on it. He set down the plate bearing his own breakfast of some grain Kirk was unfamiliar with and berries. But he set the small covered dish in front of Jim as if Jim might be expecting it.

“Mr. Spock,” Jim said flatly.

“Lieutenant.” Spock nodded. “Good morning. “Good morning. Uh… what’s this?” He racked his brain, wondering if, in the relative stupor he’d been in for the past few days, he’d made some agreement to have breakfast with Spock. Was there a reason he should be expecting a covered dish?

He hardly knew Spock. Yet he liked Spock. He felt an odd kind of magnetic pull around Spock and put it aside…accepting the occasional fantasy when he was alone in bed late at night.

Spock did not start eating. He folded his hands and did not meet Jim’s eyes, instead looking down at the table. “For the past six-point-seven days, I have noticed that you have been acting unlike your usual self. While on the bridge you have spoken, on average, fity-seven percent less than usual. You are one of those humans who is, as the saying goes, easy with a smile. Yet I have not witnessed you smiling once in the last week. And you have not laughed. I… I have found myself concerned as to your well being. After speaking to your brother-”

“Sam,” Jim muttered, rolling his eyes.

“After speaking to your brother,” Spock went on, “I learned that two days ago marked the anniversary of…” He met Jim’s eyes and perhaps seeing Jim’s subtle reaction of dread, stopped himself. He swallowed. “I am aware that you are perhaps marking the anniversary of a great tragedy. I desired to…assist you in some way. That is, I wished to make you feel better. If possible.”

Jim blinked at him and felt a great and welcome warmth come over him. “Oh. That’s exceedingly kind of you. But-”

“I am not asking you to talk about the events of Tycho IV,” Spock said quietly.

“Good.” Jim relaxed and emitted something close to a chuckle. “I’ve actually talked about it a lot. Just…not with anyone on this ship.” Spock looked at him with interest.

“I understand.” Spock reached out and lifted the cover off the dish in front of Jim. “I only wished to give you this.”

A pink frosted chocolate donut covered in rainbow sprinkles sat on the little plate and instantly Jim was transported. Bobby’s Donuts in Riverside, Iowa. It was actually a full bakery and it had been Jim’s favorite place to relax after school (with the exception of the barn back at home). This was his favorite concoction and one of Bobby’s simpler offerings. Fresh baked chocolate donuts with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles. He had not eaten one since…since just after Tarsus IV probably.

“I once heard you speaking of your fondness for this delicacy to Nurse Chapel,” Spock said. “This is not a synthesized item. I…” Spock sat up even straighter. “I made it personally. Captain Pike assisted me.”

“You made me a donut?” Jim stared at him. “You made me a donut?”

Spock looked back at him. Jim knew little about the anatomical properties of Vulcan, but he was pretty sure Spock was blushing, the olive tones of his cheeks darkening subtly. “I am given to understand that humans often enjoy baked goods or sweets as a form of comfort.”

“We certainly do,” Jim muttered. “I just… I don’t know what to say.”

“Perhaps you should try it before you say anything,” Spock said.

“Yeah.” Jim picked up the donut and the corners of his lips quirked up when he felt that it was still slightly warm. He took a large bite and the chocolatey fried dough, not overly sweet frosting, and slight crunch of sprinkles instantly transported him to his child self. He was ten years-old, content in a booth at Bobby’s Donuts, reading about the achievements of Captain Jonathan Archer and distantly hoping his father was safe wherever he was. All that, and at the same time, across the table, he met Spock’s eyes and felt consumed with the urge to throw his arms around the Enterprise’s science officer. Perhaps later.

Jim swallowed the first bite and his mouth twitched before he finally said, “Spock. It’s… it’s perfect.” He could not contain the smile that burst across his face. “Thank you. I… Spock, I think this is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a while.”

Spock all but glowed, relaxing slightly in his seat. He raised his head and a subtle expression of satisfaction came over him. “I am pleased.”

Jim took a sip of coffee and couldn’t help moaning slightly at the juxtaposition. Spock’s eyes flashed and he looked down at the table.

At Starfleet Academy he’d begun drinking coffee. He’d found donuts (that were not as good as Bobby’s but still pretty good) at a spot a few blocks off campus. Studying warp core relays, chomping on donuts, sipping coffee…

“This is the best I’ve felt in weeks,” Jim said softly.

He wanted to say more. That it was not entirely about the donut. That something inside him had snapped to attention upon meeting Mr. Spock already, and maybe now he knew why.

Spock finally dug into his breakfast and he’d taken several bites as they sat there in contented silence before he said, “That is all I desired.”

#spirk #snw spirk #kirk/spock #strange new worlds #snw

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theconstantsidekick · 1 year ago

Text

Randy's Donuts In A Suit Of Armor

Pairings: Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings), Natasha Romanoff x Stark!Reader (little bit of flirting)

Genre: A bickering fluffy look back at the good times.

Summary: Tony just wanted a goddamn donut after wrecking the shit out of his birthday party by being an asshole. He tried to throw himself a donut-themed pitty party but the universe is never that kind.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, codename—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of Death, Hints of Suicidal Ideations, Mentions of Past Trauma.

a/n: dedicated to my dear reader @third-broparcelicito who wrote a whole-ass essay for me which kept me going through a rough time. Thank you so much.

sidenote: I just missed Tony a lot, ok?

“Sir! I’m gonna have to ask you to exit the donut.”

And man if that doesn’t throw Tony for a spin, cause when he looks down on the source of the voice, there stands a man in an all-black ensemble with a fucking eye-patch. If you don’t know where this is headed, in some ways Tony’s fucking jealous of you.

Reluctantly, he makes his way down and into Randy’s Donuts.

Seated opposite Fury in a booth that feels all too suffocating in his fucking suit made of gold-titanium alloy, with a coffee that was brewed at least two days ago sitting in front of him, and a giant-green-monster-who-tore-up-Harlem sized hangover crushing his head, he makes his displeasure at the situation known. “I told you I don’t wanna join your super-secret boy band.”

“No, no, no. See, I remember, you do everything yourself. How’s that working out for you?” Fury challenges.

“It’s… It’s… It’s…” Does it really look like he’s in the mood for a challenge? So, he deflects. “I’m sorry. I don’t wanna get off on the wrong foot. Do I look at the patch or the eye?” Lowering his sunglasses, he adds, “Honestly, I’m a bit hungover. I’m not sure if you’re real or if I’m having—”

Leaning in, Fury replies, “I am very real. I’m the realest person you’re ever gonna meet.”

Well, fuck, he thinks.

“Just my luck.” He looks over at the counter, “Where’s the staff here?”

The movement gives a full on show of his… situation? Yeah. Situation, let’s go with that. Fury gets a view of the situation he has at hand.

Fury’s hand comes flying to his neck, where he presumes his situation has become evidently concerning because then Fury says, “That’s not looking so good.”

“I’ve been worse.” He’s lying… kind of. The only thing he’s seen worse than this was back in the cave, which as is infamously known, not the best so, yeah. He’s kinda lying.

Anyway, what Tony sees next makes him want to spit his coffee out. Only thing stopping him is the fact that he might spit it on Fury and he doesn’t really wanna die in Rusty’s Donuts, hungover and shamed. He’d rather let the palladium poisoning take him out.

“We’ve secured the perimeter but I don’t think we should hold it for too much longer.”

Well, fuck times two.

Looking over the top of his glasses in complete and utter disbelief, trying and failing awfully to contain his shock at this absolutely, “Huh,” he says. “You’re… fired.”

“That’s not up to you,” Replies Natalie—who is definitely not Natalie, from Legal, cause she’s wearing a full on S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent bodysuit and currently in the process of taking a seat next to Fury.

“Tony, I want you to meet Agent Romanoff,” Fury introduces her with what seems like giddy excitement? Who even knows. He’s a fucking spy, Tony trusts nothing about him. Fuck Tony thinks maybe he doesn’t trust anyone anymore, especially since Natalie Rushman is actually Agent Romanoff, who says the perimeter is secure.

“Hi,” Tony replies, while facepalming in some more shame.

“I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. shadow. Once we were informed that you’re ill, I was tasked to you by Director Fury,” Natalie, fuck! No. Not Natalie. Agent Romanoff explains.

“I suggest you apologize,” Tony says looking her dead in the eyes.

“I agree, Nat,” Comes another voice, and like, honestly? At this point he’s DYING to die at the hands of the palladium cause living has brought him no joy whatsoever. Not when his sister is just… everywhere. “You deceived me,” She says as she slides in to sit next to Tony. “You made me fall in love. I was going to marry you. We were going to have two adorable little children and live a long happy life as that weird family at the end of the most suburban lane with the lesbian moms and their adopted asian babies. You really should apologize.” She steals his coffee and takes a sip, stopping only for a second to make a face of pure disgust. “You broke my heart. Oh and, the perimeter is very much not secure… The north exit? Wesley I think his name was? Yeah, he’s down.”

“How did you—” Natali—fuck. Not Natalie is about to ask something that Y/n can very obviously not answer honestly, so he cuts in.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted a donut,” Y/n replies easily, like it’s the most boring thing in the world.

“You wanted a donut?” Huh?

“It’s a Pavlovian response; whenever I feel a deep, profound sense of disappointment I crave a donut, because you give me a fucking ‘apology donut’ everytime you disappoint me… which is really often.” She says it with air quotes and all.

“I don’t do it that often,” Tony tries to defend.

“You do it often enough for me to develop a fucking Pavlovian reponse to it, don’t you?”

“You’re making shit up, there is no chance in hell that I do it that often. I’m the pinnacle of siblinghood. I’m absolutely the best brother anyone could ask for, ever, and you know it,” He argues because well, he is.

“A pinnacle?” She scoffs. “The only thing you’re the pinnacle of is being a self-destructive asshole.”

And what kinda shit is that to say to your beloved brother? Honestly, that’s just disrespectful if you ask him.

“Guess who I learned it from,” He throws back… like a self-destructive asshole.

“Hey, hey, HEY!” Fury shouts as if he’s trying to quiet the two bickering children. Which, yeah, he might as well be doing just that. “I’m not here to take part in your bullshit. I’m here, cause you’ve been very busy. You made your girl your CEO, donated half your shares to your sister, you’re giving away all your stuff. You let your friend fly away with your suit. Now, if I didn’t know better—”

“You don’t know better,” Tony cuts him off. “I didn’t give it to him. He took it.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Fury exclaims in the most mocking tone known to mankind. “He took it? You’re Iron Man and he just took it? The little brother walked in there, kicked your ass and took your suit?” He turns to Nata—Agent Romanoff (fuck!), adding, “Is that possible?”

Ever so slyly, she replies, “Well, according to Mr Stark’s database security guidelines, there are redundancies to prevent unauthorized usage.” She looks right at him, with a challenge in her eyes that unsettles Tony… this might just be the start of a beautiful friendship.

“What do you want from me?” He asks. Cause, come on. He’s doing the best that he can, given the cards that have been dealt.

“I don’t want anything from you—” He shrugs, almost reassessing his statement and deciding to roll with it. “Mostly nothing. You should be asking her instead.” He points to Y/n, meanwhile Nat—(motherfucker!) Agent Romanoff gets up and walks out. “She’s the one who called us in.”

“YOU DID WHAT?” Tony’s about to blow his fucking gasket.

But Y/n is calmer than ever, which if you know her is the most normal thing for her. “You’ve been behaving exactly the way you did when you got chicken-pox and thought you were going to die.” She turns to face him. “You’re exacerbating the problem by scratching away at the poxes like there is no tomorrow meanwhile giving away all your toys to people you love and leaving goodbye notes.” He almost forgot about that one, fuck. “I hate to break it to you, but Howard might have returned your G.I. Joe action figure, but Rhodey sure as shit not giving the suit back.” He remembers that. He had to beg Dad to give the toy back. Howard had only given it back because he’d made mom intervene.

She shakes her head with a sort of disappointment then. “I don’t even want to think about how concerning it is that your self-destructive patterns haven’t changed a bit since you were four fucking years old.”

Before he can respond, Fury cuts in, “You have become a problem, a problem I have to deal with. Contrary to your belief, you are not the center of my universe. I have bigger problems than you in the southwest region to deal with.” What happens next, Tony has no time to register. There’s barely a second long pause before Fury looks up and commands, “Hit him.”

Suddenly there’s something being injected into his neck and his body is almost on fire from it. “Oh, God, are you gonna steal my kidney and sell it?” Fidgeting with his hands around the neck he looks up at Nata—goddamn it! He looks up at Agent Romanoff who holds the now empty injection in her hands, he says, “Could you please not do anything awful for five seconds” He looks back at Fury, “What did she just do to me?”

“What did we just do for you,” He corrects. “That’s lithium dioxide. It’s gonna take the edge off. We’re trying to get you back to work.”

“Give me a couple of boxes of that. I’ll be right as rain,” Tony says.

“It’s not a cure, it just abates the symptoms,” Agent Romanoff explains.

“Doesn’t look like it’s gonna be an easy fix,” Fury comments.

And you know what? He’s been ambushed twice in this conversation by people he thought he knew. And that’s not even counting the random injection of a so-called cure into him. So yeah, he’s a little short on patience. “Trust me, I know,” He says, with enough distaste that it makes Fury lean back. “I’m good at this stuff. I’ve been looking for a suitable replacement for palladium. I’ve tried every combination, every permutation of every known element.”

Fury leans back in, looks him in the eyes and says, “Well, I’m here to tell you, you haven’t tried them all.”

That stumps him for a second. Because, well you see, Tony’s been convinced he’s dying of this thing, this thing in his chest that while being absolutely foreign is an integral part of him now. He’s dying of the thing that he made to save himself and that’s been consuming his every waking (and most of his sleeping) hour. He had prepared himself for the worst, ready to face the bitter end, rotting from the inside out. It was a fitting way to go, he’d thought. The rot outside of him will have matched his insides. But that was his hubris.

How could he have thought he could decide to give up on his own life, as if he didn’t share it with someone. That too with someone who was just a little bit more stubborn than him.

Suddenly, “All that remains is the matter of your signature,” Na—Agent fucking Romanoff says from next to them as she places a document in front of Y/n. “Just sign here and here, and we’re good to go.”

The tone of the room changes in an instant. He has seldom seen his sister uncomfortable, so you best believe he senses the change coming from miles away.

“Signature for what? What the hell is this?” Tony asks, completely confounded.

Y/n shifts uncomfortably in her seat, “I gave you my word, we shook hands—that should be more than enough. I don’t do documentation. You know that,” she says looking at Fury.

“You don’t do digital documentation,” He pushes the papers closer to her. “This is analog.”

Tony’s had enough.

“What the fuck are these for?” He asks, loudly.

“Integration of Y/n Stark as a S.H.I.E.L.D. Liaison,” Agent Romanoff replies easily.

He turns to his sister. “Ah. Of course, I’m the self-saboteur in the family. The only one.”

“Tony—”

He’s not in the mood to listen to her bullshit. “What the actual fuck, Y/n? Have you fucking lost your mind? You want to be a fucking liaison for S.H.E.I.L.D?”

“Are these rhetorical questions or are you hoping for a response?” The nonchalance in her attitude pisses him off even more.

“Where is all this attitude coming from, young lady? You really think this is a situation where you should be running your mouth—”

“Oh my fucking god! Tony! What the hell was I supposed to do? You were dying, literally being poisoned by this thing in your fucking chest and I was supposed to do what? Sit back and watch?”

“Do not put this on me. This is not on me! How is this on me? This is a decision you made! By yourself!”

“I didn’t make it in a fucking vaccume, did I—?”

“Everything is my fault? All of it? I am not taking responsibility for your stupidity—”

“—MY STUPIDITY?!! You’re the one who put decided to put a fucking magnet in your chest, jerkface—not me!”

“I’m sorry my solution to being blown up by a missile was inconvenient for you—a missile which by the way had my own fucking name on it—I didn’t have much choice in the matter—”

“UUUGGGGHHHHH! FUCK!! Here we go again. Here we go for the millionth time—”

“—On account of me being held prisoner in the fucking desert!”

“Are we still milking that? Really? Are all your future crimes absolved cause you were kidnapped‚—”

“I wasn’t kidnapped, I was abducted! And do you think I liked—”

“You did like it! You said it yourself, you narcissist—”

“That was a fucking joke, Lincoln Lawyer!”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“You’re telling me you can’t gauge tone difference now? Really? You childish little shit—”

“You’re a fucking childish little shit—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Fury shouts. “Shut up—” he cuts off any protest from the siblings before it even forms, “—the both of you. I’ll make you regret it if you don’t.” He fixes them with a look which makes the two Starks silently climb back off of each other and take their seats; once again a part of polite society. This must please Fury to some degree, because he clears his throat before continuing, “Now, here’s the deal, you both will sort this little quarrel out on your own damn time.” He looks over at Y/n, “And you have to sign this, we need proof of some sort. Besides, you will have access to some of the nastiest secrets known man, there has to be some sense of accountability? If you catch my drift?” Reluctant as ever, Y/n just grits her teeth in displeasure but remains otherwise silent. Fury takes this as her assent and moves on to him, “And you! She did this cause you were being a little shit about all of this. So, just be a little nicer maybe?” When Tony remains silent as well he takes that to be an agreement too. He gets up and out of his seat, brushes himself off and then begins to walk away, stopping only for a second to say, “I’ll see you crazy kids back at your place.” With that Fury is gone, and Agent Romanoff along with him.

There is a short silence between the two. It’s something like tense, but not really.

Tony decides to break it. “You didn’t have to do this, you know?”

He can feel her shrug next to him. “Eh, it was for the best.”

“How?” Tony questions. “You hate all this spy stuff.”

She leans back, hands back in her pocket. “I actually kinda love the spy stuff. I just kinda sorta hate S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Then why go back?”

There is a beat before she replies, “You were suffering. I hate watching you hurt.”

Af if he didn’t know that. The woman burnt the books that gave him paper cuts.

He sighs. “We could’ve fixed it… found a way. We would have.”

“That was the whole problem, Tones. Ever since you’ve put on the damn suit we haven’t been ‘we’. It’s been you in the suit, you in the lab, you alone.

“That’s not—”

She cuts him off even before he has the chance. “And I understand that I can’t be there all the time and I understand that maybe it wasn’t your intention to cut me off, but none of what you’ve done with regards to all this has been a unanimous decision.”

“I—” he takes a second to reassess before he says anything further, because yeah, maybe she isn’t wrong. Cause right now her breath smells of cigarette smoke and she did just decide to sign herself away to an organization she had come to despise. That would all seem like an overreaction if Tony hadn’t been acting alone, especially from Y/n who is, for all intents and purposes, the most chill person he knows. So, yeah, maybe he fucked up a little bit. So he says, “I—I’m sorry.” He licks his lips. “I was a little too focused on not pulling you back into all this that I just ignored that fact that I was pushing you away all together.” Fuck. He takes a breath. “It’s always us against the world.” He knocks on his suit,”This tin-can won’t change that.”

She looks over at him then, “I know.” She smiles a little “We’re good.”

Nodding, he smiles too. “So, what now? You gonna sign these?” He asks, pointing at the papers in front of them.

“Yep,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ at the end.

“You think Fury will back out of helping me if you don’t?”

“No, no I don’t,” she answers. “But I’ll sign it anyway.”

“Why?”

“I need the access to the intel that they have.”

Tony has to laugh at that, “Oh yeah, you need them to gather intel. It’s not like you have a whole secret network of informants around the world or anything”

She rolls her eyes with a fond smile. “Yeah well, it’s more than that, okay? There’s something going on at S.H.I.E.L.D. Fury’s planning something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I need this,” she pulls the papers towards her. Pulling out a pen, she signs them. “I gotta be on the inside to figure it out.”

Reaf the next part here. Find the series masterlist here. Find the Static Verse Masterlist here. Read The Avengers (ft. Static) here.

tag list : @aryksworld @freeflyingphoenix @arikarapli @just-anotherstan @justab-eautifulmess @ceo-of-daichi @roxannejblack @liketearsintherainn @paintballkid711 @starkleila @heyitsmereading @fairlygothparents @euphoria-svt @sidepartskinnyjeans @mini-kunoichi @third-broparcelicito @siwiecola @haleybutnotthecomet @mvaldez7821 @rockybutmakeitlame @romanoffswoman @ashpeace888 @hopeofwinter @percabethfangirl987

hit me up if you wanna be added to the tag list.

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emojellyace08 · 1 year ago

Note

Hiya been long time no ask and I am sure I gonna be gone for a long time since my college day gonna start on Monday huhuh but I still look and heart around in tumblr.

So here a requesti, since today update of lookism we been granted by ptj of Gun on with bath towel. "I just thought damn does abs and muscles". I am curious what is the headcannon of y/n being muscle enthusiasts.

Basically they are a character of (Dumbbell Nan Kilo Moteru?) Name Souryuuin Akemi.

(Bet Gun recuirt her as his assistant and tracker of his health diet and muscle density lol)

Gun Park x Female! Reader (Do you want to see it closer?)

A/N: SHEESH This is actually a great idea xD. Since you asked for some somewhat spicy Gun x reader, I'm going to give you some and Idk if this can satisfy you but I hope you still like it and sorry for the late reply (good luck on your college day!) Genre: somewhere between fluff and slight lemon (not too explicit) Slight warnings: slight nsfw post reader is female (and is in an established relationship ; character x reader)

It's been months since you have seen your boyfriend. You tried to contact him but you've received voice mails instead which can be irritating for your part. You've been really worried about him getting into crazy shit again. No video calls, no messages, heck you haven't even received a single greeting like "hello" or "good morning". It really makes you worried a lot about Gun. You know he's strong. You know that he's a one man circle, but your girlfriend instincts always gets the better of you. You want to convince him to quit his job since it might put him more into potential danger in the future, but getting to know him better made you realize that even he is a masochist. He really has the passion and lust for fighting so you couldn't really stop him no matter how times you wanted to. It can also ignite a really bad argument so it's better if you just let him be. But he promised that he will take care of himself though.

It was 8 in the morning when you woke up early again in your gloomy and dark apartment. You encouraged yourself to slump yourself on the cozy and soft bed of yours. But no matter how many efforts you tried you thinking about that bastard again just makes you groan, you're craving for caffeine again.

Fixing the blinds, you winced as the sunlight made it's way to shine your eyes. It's not particularly sunny, but the sky and atmosphere is not too dreadful either. In fact it's the perfect weather for you. You got up to prepare and fix the coffee mixer and make your drink. It took minutes of you tapping your finger on the marble table humming your favorite song while you watch the machine, you being lost at your own thoughts. After minutes, you were mixing the hot drink on your mug before you heard the door open, you seeing your mentally exhausted boyfriend. Fucking bastard didn't even knocked on the door.

"Where have you been?" you asked in a concerned tone as he focuses his attention on you making eye contact. His black sclera were still intimidating to look at, but they weren't exactly too threatening. "Business" he bluntly replied not intentionally being rude, Gun was just like that all the time. You were about to ask more questions before he approached you while hugging you back and leaving wet pecks on your neck while caressingly touching your waist pulling you closer to him. "I'm sorry that I don't have time for you." "Hmm." you hummed as you drank the mix of sweet and bitter mixture. "You're not angry?" "Umm no? Why would I? It's your job to work for Charles." you playfully denied as he pulled you even closer, he knows that you're lying behind that pretty face but he understands and you have a point though. And hearing that old man's name really pisses him off at some point, but it coming from your pleasant voice makes him a bit calmer. "I'm going to take a shower" he mumbled as he buries his face on you even more. "Aren't you tired?" you asked as he chuckled, "Never have been."

Tapping your shoulder you watched him as he walked on the corridor and into your shared bedroom. It's his daily routine for him to go home and wash up first before cuddling and chatting with you on the bed. You went inside to prepare his clothes before seeing your half naked boyfriend, his scars showing up into his back but you couldn't care less. In your eyes, he's perfect.

"Looking at something?" you snapped at your own thoughts as you can see Gun's teasing grin as you laughed at him, your voice being gentle with a mix of tiredness on it. "Yeah" "You want to see it closer?" he teased you even more as you approached him as you hugged him from the back, you being obviously smaller than him. "You still look pretty even if you got lots of scars." "I know." he replied as you stayed like this, cuddling with him for a few minutes. He turned around to face you as he leaned in to give you a kiss, your tongue getting entangled from each other. The kiss wasn't really aggressive, but the way his tongue gently danced with yours is enough to make your underwear wet again. His hands were travelling to your face, slowly making it's way to your waist. Your clumsy ones are doing the same, it's playfully teasing his chest up into his abs. You weren't exactly that person who only relies on looks. But seeing your boyfriend properly taking care of his health makes you appreciate the effort he's doing to get stronger.

"Wow, you're getting more sturdy." you half joked as your eyes trailed down to his body. It wasn't necessarily in a lewd way, but it's just you being appreciative. And with this, Gun can't help but to be proud of himself. He managed to make himself physically pleasing so you also don't have to worry about his health. "Do you want to go to the gym tomorrow?" he asked as he leans closer to you with his hands still clinging on your waist. "Hmm... Sure, I got nothing else to do and it's best if we can check our BMI together." you liked his offer as both of your mouth curl into a smile as he pecks your soft cheeks making you chuckle. You got to enjoy your loves holding and kissing you like this.

A/N: Sorry if this is not up for your standards and it's so late (I'm doing my homework while procrastinating lol :)

#lookism x reader #lookism x y/n #lookism x you #lookism fic #gun park x reader #park jonggun #park jonggun x reader #gun lookism

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writingforfishes · 3 months ago

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i absolutely get that your hiccup stuff is kink and for arousal and stuff BUT i am so obsessed with learning about that part mark mentioned in the third fic where mark recounted that awful bout of hiccups otto got that made him want to take him to the hospital. i’m not even asking for a fic my whump appreciating ass just needs to know how that whole situation went down i need to know how absolutely FREAKED OUT mark was haha

Ooh. This is actually a good opportunity for me to flesh out that experience a little. I've thought about writing a little fic about it, but this ask gives me space to brainstorm.

CW: Fast hiccups, painful hiccups, long hiccups, and emotionally constipated cis men from the 20-teens.

I don't really know what precipitated this epic hiccup case of Otto's while Mark was living with him. It might have just been a random event, or it might've been instigated by dietary choice. That part might not be important.

I think it all started, though, when Otto got the hiccups from coffee that morning. They were a little stronger than normal, but Otto didn't really pay it much mind. He wasn't as aware of his hiccup patterns until Atticus revealed their kink to him.

Mark is on his way to hang out with friends from work, or something. Maybe a work meeting on his day off. Detectives have those, right? I dunno.

Mark probably acknowledges Otto's hiccups in a bro-y joke-y sort of way.

Mark: Gotta lay off that coffee, dude!

Mark maybe pats Otto's chest affectionately as Otto laughs.

Otto: I can h'mk!mk! stop an-anytime!

I think it's kind of common for coffee to replace alcohol as a safer vice. I can see that being sort of a private joke that Otto is a coffee-holic in lieu of alcohol.

Mark is gone for a couple hours or so and when he comes back Otto still has them, just as strong as they were that morning.

Mark: Oof. Got them again?

Otto: Still hu'up! Still have them, ac-hilp!-actually. Huck'm!

Mark: Jeez, man. You okay? That's-shit-that's at least two and a half hours now.

Otto: They're k-kinda hulp!hukkah!hmp!-oof! Kinda starting to hlmp!-uh, hurt a little.

Mark probably asks him what he's tried to get rid of them. Otto never really had a reason to try to get rid of them as either he'd been too drunk to care, or they didn't bother him as much before and he just waited them out.

Mark just sits there and watches his friend wince through volleys of hiccups that are obviously painful at this point.

Otto: Ugh. I'm f-fine. Hu'ulk! They'll stop hulp! stop eventually. Hu'ulk!

Another hour passes though, and they have not stopped. In fact, they seemed to have dug their heels harder into Otto's diaphragm. He can't focus on his work and his chest and back have started to hurt.

Otto has eaten, but it hasn't helped, and his throat has also started hurting. He probably doesn't share all of this with Mark but it's obvious Otto is not having a good time.

Mark maybe tries to distract him with conversation or watching something on tv, but it's obvious that even that is being shadowed by Otto rubbing his chest and half-hearted chuckles and smiles. It's when Otto doesn't babble that you know something is wrong, and he'll have gone a bit quiet and less prone to spout random knowledge or correct Mark's inaccuracy when relating to history or some niche topic Otto happens to know all about.

Mark even sets himself up to be corrected a couple of times. Otto not taking the bait and just nodding along with the conversation are red flags to Mark that this is more than just an annoying bout of hiccups.

I imagine perhaps that Otto has gotten some air trapped somewhere in his body and every hiccup is sort of pressing that air in an unpleasant way. He may have tried belching but can't actually get anything out because a hiccup interrupts the attempts. So, at this point perhaps Otto is not only sore from hiccuping but also in pain from a pocket of air that he can't get rid of.

It's most likely at this point that Mark get concerned enough to actually start wanting to go hard on curing Otto's hiccups. And Otto, being more and more exhausted and in pain from his hiccups, probably goes along with it. So, they go through the litany of drinking water in various ways before Mark suggests holding his breath.

I'm not sure if Otto has experienced his body's paradoxical reaction to holding breath to cure hiccups before. If he had, perhaps he didn't recall it. Or perhaps this was the first time he'd cared to hold his breath. Or maybe he did as a kid and found out his hiccups' reaction to it and subconsciously never tried it again.

Regardless, Otto holds his breath out of desperation. Like, he holds it really hard, too. All the way in. And, at first, as he's holding his breath, the hiccups do stop. But then after a few seconds he feels painful thump in his chest as they fight against the pressure of his expanded lungs.

He can't help but let it out and Mark does freak out as Otto is hit over and over again by the fastest hiccups Mark has ever seen anyone have.

Mark puts a hand on his shoulder as Otto holds a fist over his mouth and closes his eyes trying to ride out the attack.

Mark: Shit! Are you okay?

Otto: hmk!hmk!hmk!huck'm!hmlk!huck!huck!hu'uck! Y-ye-ah. D-d-am-mit! hulk!hulk!hlmp!huck'ah!huck'uh!hup!hup!

Mark: Dude, this isn't normal. Maybe we need to go to the emergency room. God, man. Are you breathing okay?

Otto shakes his head in negation at going to the emergency room and waves his hands. Then realizes his mistake and tries to talk again.

Otto: L-lem-me hup!hup!hnk! l-hup!-lie nk! d-do-hup!-dow-hmk!-n f-hmk!-or a huk'm!-li-tt-le b-mk!-it. I-'m o-hmp!-kay.

Otto is getting a little out of breath but soon the hiccups give him breaks to breathe, only lasting as fast as they were for a few seconds at a time.

Otto goes upstairs to lie down but Mark promises he's gonna check on him. Otto gives Mark's shoulder a squeeze in thanks and goes up and tries to relax.

I imagine it takes another hour or so for the hiccups to finally calm down and eventually end after Otto is able to completely relax. He's probably able to get that air out of his system as well with a good belch and perhaps that was what was causing the irritation the entire time. I dunno.

Maybe Mark comes up with a soft knock on the door.

Mark: You okay?

Otto: Yeah. Man, I'm so tired though.

Mark: Why don't you take a nap. I'll order us some dinner in a little bit.

Otto: Hey...you okay?

Mark: Yeah-yeah. You just scared the crap out of me with those hiccups. You sure you're good?

Otto: I'm good. Sore and tired, but good.

Mark: Okay. Good. Just...you know...don't die on me, okay?

Otto: Not in my agenda, kid.

As much as someone who's ten years older than another person can refer to them as a kid.

Mark: Okay. Cause you're kind of important.

Otto: Careful. You might actually show that you care for me.

Mark: I do. Dude, you didn't have to do any of this shit for me that you've done. You let me in your house and have dealt with everything I'm going through and I was not an easy person to deal with. I'm at least that self-aware. I do care about you. I hope you get that. Like, that I'm not just using you, Otto. I don't want it to seem like that.

Otto: It doesn't. But hearing you say that is kind of nice. So, thanks.

Mark: Yeah, sure.

Otto: ...okay. So, when I wake up from this nap are you going to still be this emotionally vulnerable because we seriously need to talk about you doing the dishes more often...

Mark: I hate you.

Otto: Got it. Hey, thanks for checking in on me, though.

Mark: You got it.

Soo, liiike, something like that maybe?

#minors dni #hiccup kink #hiccups kink #hiccups #non kink blogs do not reblog #otto and atticus #otto #mark #this is sort of what a first draft looks like #except it's usually more in my head than written out #cis men and their emotional constipation

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honeybee-bard · 3 months ago

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Writing Interview Tag Game

My internet is finally back! Thank you to @nyx-knox for the tag. It's a long one, so buckle the fuck up y'all.

When did you start writing?

I'm the child of two English majors and I wrote little stories in my journals as a kid, probably as young as five or six. I started writing fanfiction specifically when I was about 15 and wrote Ed Sheeran smut and putting it on tumblr, which I absolutely should not have been doing for internet safety reasons but what's done is done and tbh it was some solid writing. I then stopped writing for an entire decade due to mental health issues. I started writing my Falling Star fic in...April, probably? So between that and my WIPs, I went a decade without writing and then suddenly pumped out a couple hundred thousand words in less than six months. Go big or go home I guess!

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

Honestly, not really. I'm a slut for spawn Astarion smut what can I say.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

There are none I can remember ever being compared to, but there are lots of other fic writers that I try to learn a little from each time I read their work.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I still live at home, so my writing space is at my gaming PC at the desk in my bedroom. The entire place is a huge mess and tbh it stresses me out a little but I have a lot going on right now so it is what it is. There's usually coffee and/or weed within arm's reach when I'm writing.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Something that's really surprised me in my return to creative writing is how easily inspiration has continued coming to me. Sometimes I worry that I'll lose it, but I keep having more ideas than I can get onto paper, and I've just barely begun exploring writing characters other than Astarion and Wynlana, so I think I'll have enough inspiration to continue writing for a very long time.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Smut! So much of it! And it doesn't surprise me in the slightest because I am a terrible, horny little goblin bastard.

What is your reason for writing?

I love my job (I work in early childhood education), but I realized it was at the point where it was taking over my entire life. I went on medical leave after having top surgery, and I decided to spend a lot of the time writing. Having a creative outlet has been very good for me, and the added motivation of people actually liking it has been a huge confidence boost.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

One of the first comments I got was complimenting my prose and how everything flowed and I think about it nearly every time I write. Those had been some of my biggest concerns that delayed me posting the first few chapters of the fic, so that comment really meant a lot.

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

I'd never really thought much about this tbh. I think a lot about how my writing will be perceived, but not so much about how I as a writer might be perceived. I care way too much about what people think of me irl so it's a nice break tbh

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I'm a stubborn bitch which means I'll keep rewriting and reworking a scene until I'm truly proud of it. There have been scenes I've had to change significantly or cut for various reasons, but not many I've scrapped entirely. I'm very persistant.

How do you feel about your own writing?

Honestly, pretty confident! I thoroughly enjoy re-reading what I've written, and all of the feedback I've gotten so far has been positive. It's been a boost to my irl mental health to have something I both enjoy and am good at outside of work, and it's nice for it to be something lower stakes than "keeping 5+ toddlers at a time from trying to kill themselves in the most creative ways possible". I love them, but it's a lot of pressure!

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, or do you write purely for yourself, or a mix of both?

Everything I write is something I've decided I might enjoy writing, but sometimes I write something and get really excited knowing my readers are going to love it. The other day I was editing an emotional scene and couldn't wait to show my beta reader because I knew she was going to love it.

No-pressure tags (sorry if any of you have done it already and I just didn't see lol): @bardic-inspo @pinkberrytea @locallegume @marlowethebard @kimberbohwrites

#bee posts #bee writes #writing #tag game

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prettyinlimegreenboots · 4 months ago

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Taking Comfort (in Your Arms) - Chapter 13

November 1, 1943, 1200 Hours

Twenty-three days. 23 days without a word whether John, Gale, Benny, Brady, and the rest of the men were alive, sitting in a Stalag or killed in action. The longer the time went on, the hope Addie had felt those first few days slowly faded. She was constantly on the edge of her seat, waiting to hear something. At this point, she would have settled for word of their deaths, just to stop her mind from wandering, though that was exactly the last thing she wanted to hear. She couldn’t think about the what ifs. It had gotten to the point when she entered the command center, all she had to do was look at Croz and he would sadly shake his head.

Placing her coffee cup down on the table, she pushed back from the table, letting her head fall back with a sigh. Josie looked at her friend with concern as she sat across from her. “I won’t ask how you’re doing because I think I have a pretty good idea. But is there anything you need?”

“Word that he’s okay . . . is that too much to ask?” Pulling her head up, she looked over at Josie, biting her lip. “I mean the Germans have nothing better to do than to let us know who they’ve got in custody.”

Josie cracked a smile at that. “Glad your sarcasm hasn’t disappeared completely.”

“I am trying my best.” Addie smirked, shaking her head.

Josie sighed, feeling exactly how she felt, and nodded. “That’s all we can do - one foot in front of the other. Have you heard from Lydia or Anna lately?”

“Got a letter a few days ago from them. They were thinking of coming for Thanksgiving, just so we weren’t alone. I was thinking of writing them back and telling them to stay at their base - we’re going to be miserable so no use in bringing anyone else down with us.” Addie gave her best friend a look.

She bit her lip, watching Addie cautiously, worried for her despite her own pain. “Might not be a bad idea for them to come here - it’ll be nice to see them.”

“Did they put you up to this to gang up on me?” Addie shot her a wink, while her hand played with her napkin, avoiding Josie’s look.

Josie shrugged, a little too innocently. “Maybe . . .we’re just looking out for you Addie. We’re all a bit worried about you. What can we do?”

“Make the Germans give us the information on the boys would be a good start.” Addie bit her lip, another sigh escaping. “I just hate that we don’t have any information - I would think they would be screaming from the top of the mountains that they have our men in camps or even talking about prisoner exchanges. The silence is deafening and eerie.”

Josie sighed, not disagreeing with her best friend. “C’mon, let’s head back to the tower. I’ve heard that we’ve got visitors coming later on today.” Josie mentioned, knowing Addie’s attention would peak at that information.

Just like she predicted, after they left the table, Addie gave her a look. “What do you know about these visitors?”

“Word is that we’re getting another four forts being delivered. Kidd mentioned that some higher ups were supposed to be making a surprise visit here too.” Josie mentioned, slipping her hands into her jacket as they walked back.

Humming, Addie nodded, eyes scanned the airfield, smiling as she watched Meatball run around with Lemmons and his crew. Billy and Sammy, the two local boys, were eagerly throwing the tennis ball for Meatball to chase. “I’m going to go check with Ken to make sure he’s good with keeping Meatball for a bit longer. I’ll see you back up in the tower.”

Pausing, she watched Josie make her way towards the tower before turning and heading towards the commotion with a grin on her face. “Lemmons!”

“Hey Addie. Come to collect Meatball?” He grabbed a cloth, wiping the excess oil off his hands, grinning at her.

Shaking her head, watching Meatball lay down in the grass, tongue hanging out as he panted loudly. “Quite the opposite. Checking to see if you wanted to keep him for a bit longer? Looks like the boys are having fun with him.”

“You don’t know the half of it. I don’t know who is having more fun - Meatball or the boys?” Lemmons watched Meatball chase after the ball that Sammy had just thrown for him.

Addie giggled. “Well at least someone will sleep well tonight.”

Raising an eyebrow at her, Ken gave her a look. “You doing okay? Need someone to talk to?”

“Sick of waiting for news. Just wish the Germans would tell us if they’re lying in a field somewhere or relatively safe in a Stalag.” She shrugged, running a hand over her face with a loud sigh. “Sorry, that was harsh. Just want to know where our boys are.”

Ken pulled her into a side hug, as she laid her head on his shoulder. She took a deep breath, willing herself not to cry. “Thanks, Ken. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling - you fix the planes that take our boys up and when they don’t come back . . .”

She left the sentence hanging as Ken nodded sadly. “I’m sure you and I have similar feelings on that. Definitely miss seeing the men around the base.”

“As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know.” She whispered, eyes on Meatball getting cuddles and rubs from the two boys. “Thank you for keeping an eye on Meatball. I’ll come grab him a little bit, if that’s okay?”

“Sounds good Addie.” He started to head back to the shed. “Addie?”

She paused, looking over her shoulder at him. “Yeah?”

“I’m here if you need anything. I know a lot of people have told you that but if you need anything, you just need to ask.” He said as she nodded and grinned, heading back to the Tower.

Climbing the stairs, she tilted her head back, sun warming her skin and the wind blowing her hair gently. Feeling the cool metal on her hand, she took a deep breath, reminding herself to put one foot in front of the other and keep going.

November 25, 1943, 1400 Hours - Thanksgiving

The day was long, and it wasn’t even 1400 hours yet. Addie and Josie had spent a precious few hours with Anna and Lydia, who could only get a 24-hour pass to spend with them. The night before was spent dancing and drinking while the morning was subdued with the stark realization the boys wouldn’t be home anytime soon. Many tears were shed by Addie and Josie, to the annoyance of them both, tired of shedding tears with no news to accompany them.

Now she stood in line to get her Thanksgiving feast, wishing she was anywhere but there currently. Smiling weakly at the kitchen staff, she scanned the room looking for a vacant seat. A true smile crossed her lips when she spotted Rosie all alone.

Taking a seat at the table across from Rosie, she sighed. Unwrapping her silverware, she stared at the food on her plate for a moment. She longed for a true Thanksgiving dinner, real turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and gravy like her mom used to make, not what the Air Force was attempting to pass as Thanksgiving dinner.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Addie.” Rosie nodded at her as she picked up her fork and started poking the food on her plate.

Giving him a sad smile, she nodded. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rosie. What have you been doing with your day off?”

“Played a bit of football with the boys earlier.” Rosie smiled. “We had a good game going. Probably will probably do another game after this if you want to come watch.”

Nodding, Addie agreed, taking a bite of her food. Not like there was anything else to do around base. “Sounds fun. Meatball and I will be in the crowd. What would you be doing if you were back home in New York?”

“Probably would’ve gone to the parade earlier then gone home and ma would’ve been cooking. The house would’ve smelt incredible. The entire family would’ve crowded into our apartment around all the mismatched tables and chairs.” Rosie’s grin didn’t disappear the entire time he was talking, obviously thinking about the previous Thanksgiving he had spent with family. “What about you?”

Addie took a sip of her water sighing. “Not sure . . . haven’t been back in the States since 1941 so not sure what I would be doing. Probably in the kitchen cooking, joking with my cousins. When I was younger, we’d go to my grandmother’s house - dad was one of five so the entire family would come together on Thanksgiving. The house would be so loud, all my cousins and siblings running throughout the house, my grandmother, aunts, and mom would be hanging out in the kitchen while all the guys crowded around the TV with whatever football game on. It was loud and happy.”

“Those are some good memories, Addie.” Rosie smiled brightly. “Sounds like a big family and lots of noise.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You don’t know the half of it Rosie.”

Silence descended on the table as they both were lost in thought. “You know I never asked you, but do you have a sweetheart, Rosie?”

“If I had a sweetheart, Addie, do you think I would have mentioned her in the two months that I’ve been here?” Rosie raised an eyebrow at her as she grinned widely back.

Shrugging her shoulders, she had a glint in her eyes. “You’re a man of mystery, Rosie. It wouldn’t be hard for you to keep a girl quiet. Hell, half of the new recruits are scared to death of you . . .”

“Gotta keep them on their toes, Addie.” He chuckled. “As for the new recruits, if you look at them, you’d scare them too!”

Addie smirked, raising an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard the rumors?”

“No, what rumors?”

“That I’m a dropped-out ATA girl.” She grinned wickedly.

Rosie tilted his head, looking at her confused. “But you are a drop out ATA girl - why is that a rumor?”

“The rumor is that I got kicked out for crashing and burning a fort on a run.” She gave him a smirk. “Little do they know the actual reason I was kicked out . . . much more scandalous than that.”

Rosie chuckled. “That’s too funny. Have you talked or interacted with them much?”

“No, I hesitate to do so. Don’t want to get close to any of them and they go down like Bucky and Buck. I know Bucky would want me to and I know it’s wrong, but I can’t do it, Rosie.” She sighed, shaking her head, biting her lip. “I can’t say goodbye anymore.”

Nodding sorrowfully, Rosie looked at his friend. There was nothing he could say. He laid his hand down on the table, palm up allowing her to put hers on top, giving it a squeeze. “Have you flown lately?”

Shaking her head, she bit her lip. “No, haven’t been out old man Rivers’ in a bit. Need to get out there.”

“What if we go out there this afternoon?” Rosie asked, raising an eyebrow.

She perked up a bit, giving him a wearily look. “You want to go up with me? I would have thought you’d heard it from the boys that I scared them.”

“It would be my honor to go up with you, if you want to go up.” Rosie offered, watching her mull it over for a second.

Nodding, a grin slid across her lips. “Let’s go. I promise I won’t scare you like I did with Bucky and Buck.”

Within 45 minutes, Addie was behind a jeep, driving them towards old man Rivers’ house. The old man waved at the jollily as they drove towards the barn. Parking the jeep, she walked with a pep in her step towards the barn, throwing open the door happily. “Ta da! Rosie, may I introduce you to Daffodil? Daffodil, this is my friend Rosie.”

Rosie whistled as he walked around the brightly colored Tiger Moth. “You can go ahead and climb up into the co-pilot’s seat. I’ll be up as soon as I finish the checks.”

Soon she joined him up in the pilot's seat with a grin. Placing the headset on her head, she finished her checks before speaking in the headset. “You ready Rosie?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She grinned, hearing the excitement in his voice. “Amazing that you came all the way to England and just happened to find someone who had a spare Tiger Moth that let you fly it whenever you wanted.”

She laughed, starting the engine and starting to taxi it out of the barn. “It’s good to make friends in foreign allied countries, Rosie. Especially friends who just happen to have a spare plane we can joyride in.”

His laugh was caught in the wind as they went airborne. She pushed the plane higher, leveling out at 5,000 feet, she excitedly yelled at the feeling of being back in the air. “Anywhere in particular you want to go, Rosie?”

“I’m just along for the ride, Addie. You’re the pilot.” He replied back, his head on a swivel as he looked out of the open skies in front of them. “It’s different up here.”

“Yeah, you get to sit back and relax for once, Rosie. Just enjoy the flight and take in the sights.” She joked with him.

Settling back in her seat, Addie felt her shoulders relax as she pushed the Tiger Moth a bit more as she directed it towards Thorpes Abbott. As they flew, Addie pointed out points of interest to Rosie as they continued their flight. “We’re almost to Thorpes. Did you tell anyone we were going up?”

“No, I thought you did?” She laughed hearing the confusion in his voice. “Nope, Rosie. I told Harding you and I were going for a joyride but he’s the only one. I think Maddie is on the wireless today, so she’ll see us flying around.”

She saw the airfield in the distance and giggled to herself. “I know you’ve buzzed the tower in a fort before, but have you ever done it in a Tiger Moth?”

“Can’t say I have. But I’m sure you’ve done it a time or two.” He quipped back.

“Every single birthday since I was 13, most of them in a Tiger Moth. I buzzed this tower on my birthday with Bucky in the co-pilot’s seat, just before I scared Buck by stalling the engine.” She laughed, happy at thinking of the memories instead of being sad of them. “Get ready Rosie!”

Lining up Daffodil, she flew over the airfield once, seeing Lemmons and his crew cheering loudly at seeing her. She flew back around, lining the plane up, a grin tugging at her lips. “Let’s do this Rosie.”

And they buzzed the tower, both of them cheering, watching Harding, Josie, Crosby, and Kidd all hit the deck. Throwing her head back, Addie whooped and laughed at the feeling free for the first time since Bucky had gone down.

2000 Hours

Running her fingers through Meatball’s fur, she reread the words that she had written to Bucky. She had taken up writing to him, even though she had nowhere to send them. Just writing to him made her feel like he was still here with her.

My dearest John,

Happy Thanksgiving. God, I wish you were here and sitting beside me complaining about the lack of real turkey and mashed potatoes. But mostly, I wish you were here so I could cuddle with you and be grateful that you were safe and sound in my arms.

But alas, that’s not our current reality. I took Rosie up in Daffodil today and had a great time. It’s the first time I’ve been up since you went down and I think I needed it more than I thought I did. Despite not being back in the US, we had a pretty good day - a couple of the replacements started a football game and got the base out in droves to watch. The food was lackluster, but spirits were up. As soon as I’m done writing, I’m heading to the officer’s club with Blakely, Douglass, Croz, and Rosie for a drink.

I wish I had more to tell you, John, but I miss you. I miss your laugh and the little grins you’d shoot my way. I miss you randomly dropping by my desk in the mornings and the little kisses you’d give me. I miss the little notes you’d leave me, but those that I have I treasure more than you’d know.

Jack gave me your jacket and I’m going to be really honest, you’re probably not getting it back when you return. It’s mine now . . . though I may need you to wear it, so it regains your scent.

These last 47 days have been hard - I won’t lie. But I keep hope that you’re still alive, hopefully in a Stalag and relatively safe and warm.

Write to me, soon? Let me know you’re alive?

I love you, John.

Addie

December 5, 1943, 0800 Hours

Walking into the office, she flipped the lights on, the harshness causing her to groan. Getting to work making a pot of coffee, it was another twenty minutes before she sat at her desk. Looking at her calendar, she sighed with the lack of meetings scheduled, knowing the day would drag by slowly.

She felt like she was stuck and kept telling herself no news was good news. She still had hope that that particular day she would hear something, though the days had slipped by with no news of Bucky or Buck or DeMarco or any of the men that had gone down in October.

Addie was doing the best she could, which wasn’t all that great. She prayed her days would go by quickly so she could slip off to bed, where she tossed and turned. The girls had stopped asking questions weeks ago, Josie and Addie both shells of their former selves. She knew Bucky would be pissed if he saw her like this, but he wasn’t around, so she didn’t care much. She was utterly alone, left to battle each day by herself.

As she went to take a sip of the piping hot coffee, Harding threw open his door, causing her to jump in surprise, spilling coffee on her hand, causing her to cuss. “Addie, come with me.”

Something in her voice caused her not to question it and quickly followed him. Hurrying after him, they rushed down the stairs of the tower, making a quick walk to the command center. Not delaying, Harding threw open the door, calling out to Crosby, “what’s the news Croz?”

“You brought Addie?” Crosby called back, not seeing her standing behind him.

Harding cleared his throat, giving Crosby a very pointed look, pointing behind him. “Crosby, she’s here. What’s the news?”

“I just got a call from London with the new POW list.” Crosby grabbed the list he had hurriedly scrawled the names given. “Buck, Bucky, DeMarco, Brady, Murphy, Crank, and Hambone, along with all their crews, are all in the Stalag Luft III.”

For the first time since October 10, Addie felt like she could actually breathe. Her eyes went wide at that news. “They’re alive?”

“As of a week ago, yes. I asked for a report of the health of the men but they weren’t able to give me that information.” Crosby looked apologetic as her face fell slightly.

Sighing heavily, Addie felt the tears welled in her eyes. Feeling someone pull her into their side, she rested her head on their shoulder. Looking up, she smiled seeing Rosie and threw her arm around his side, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Crosby, is there any other news?”

“You got mail.” He handed over two envelopes, and she stepped forward, accepting the envelopes. “One is for Josie, can you make sure she gets it?”

Nodding, she flipped to the one addressed to her and couldn’t help the tears that escaped. A sob crept up, escaping her mouth. A steady stream of tears flowed down her face as she looked at the concerned faces around her. “It’s a letter from Bucky.”

The men surrounding her nodded. She gave them looks, backing out of the center, stumbling towards the runway to where the closest fort was parked. She sighed, fifty-seven days, since she heard from Bucky and now she had an envelope addressed to her in his handwriting. Once she was close enough, she sat against the tire, giving the envelope a glance before tearing into it.

Her eyes swept over the familiar scrawl, bits of it blacked out due to the sensors. Putting the paper to her nose, she breathed in the familiar scent that she had associated with Bucky - tobacco and sandalwood.

October 19, 1943

My dearest Addie,

I’m alive, Bluebird. I’m in —--------------- and I’m safe for the most part. I was a mess when I first arrived but after seeing the medic, I’m alright. Busted a rib and my eye socket is bruised but I’m alive, Bluebird. Buck’s here - met me at the gates with a “what the hell took you so long” and a grin. He’s in the next compound over but I see him daily - he sends his hellos and well wishes to you.

Tell Josie that DeMarco is here and he’s fine. I think he’s writing a letter to her but maybe not say that just in case. Send my regards to Meatball - I hope he’s keeping you company in my absence.

I know we didn’t leave on the best terms, and I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizing for that, but I love you, Addie. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me and it’s killing me that I’m not by your side right now.

I’m not quite sure where we are currently but I think we’re in —----------. The camp we’re in has —-----, —--------, —-------, and —----------. Most of the men here are Americans and for the most part, they treat us humanly. Could use an extra blanket or two but I’m doing alright. At least I’m with the rest of my men.

I wish I could kiss you senselessly and give you a big hug. I love you lots, Addie.

Yours,

John

Another sob escaped her mouth as she reread his words. She hoped he was that upbeat and not putting on a show in a letter just for her.

“Oh John.” Her heart broke all over again as she reread the letter, wishing more than anything that he was sitting beside her rather than 1,100 miles away from her.

She read it three more times before she sighed, the tension leaving her at the happy news. Despite the fact he wasn’t there with her, he was alive, and that’s all she had asked for the last 57 days.

December 15, 1943, 1700 Hours

“Addie, Harding wants you to go meet the group of pilots that are arriving on hard stand 4 in fifteen minutes.” Josie murmured to her, dropping a folder on her desk.

Picking up the folder, she flipped through it, looking wide-eyed at Josie. “I’ve never had to do it for any of the other pilots arriving here.”

“You went and met Rosie, remember?” Josie raised an eyebrow, grinning. “It’ll be just like that.”

Tossing the folder down on her desk, Addie wiped face. She wasn’t really in the mood to be the welcoming committee to anyone. “No, no it won’t be just like that. I won’t have Bucky teasing me.”

Sighing, Josie walked over to the other side of her desk, leaning over to give her a hug. “I know you don’t want to be your bubbly self, but these pilots are coming to the base and many of them don’t know what to expect. Just go welcome them, give them the lay of the land then you can curl up with Meatball. I’ll bring you dinner afterwards.”

Nodding, she sighed, pushing back from her desk to stand. “You okay keeping Meatball until I’m done?”

Looking over at the dog, passed out in his dog bed, Josie half-smiled. “Sure. I think he might be mad if you attempt to move him now.”

Slightly smiling, Addie nodded, grabbing the set of keys, pushing through the door, jogging down the stairs. Sighing, she climbed into the jeep, starting the engine, heading out to the hard stand. Parking, she watched the plane land, navigating to the hard stand, coming to a stop with the engine cutting off. She leaned against the jeep, watching the grounds crew, hurriedly put the chocks on the tires as a man dropped from the hatch.

Addie narrowed her eyes, something familiar about the way the man stood, looking around the field. Picking up his bag, his gaze fell to hers and she knew. She knew why that man looked so familiar.

Unable to do anything else, Addie bent at the waist, tears immediately welling up in her eyes as she cried.

It was her brother. Charlie was home. Standing tall, her hand flew to her mouth as tears continued to fall.

“Adelaide Baker!” He hollered, making his way towards her. Dropping his bag, he opened up his arms, eagerly waiting for her to run into them. He kissed her cheek, picking her up and spinning her around, just as he did when they were younger. “Oh how I have missed you.”

Waiting until her feet were back on the ground, she laughed happily, slapping his arm. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m home, they finally granted my request for transfer.” Charlie grinned. “I’m going to be a trainer here, no missions of my own.”

Giving him a look, she took in his words, a bright smile crossing her face. “You won’t be going up?”

“No, I’ll be working in the command center, assisting with building the missions but I won’t be a pilot. This is a promotion, believe it or not.” Charlie chuckled, shaking his head. “They asked me what base I wanted to be stationed at and this was the only one that came to mind.”

Throwing her arms around his shoulder, she laughed. “Oh, this is the best news I have heard in the last ten days.”

“Only in the last ten days? What was before that?” He asked, scratching his jaw, looking at his baby sister.

“We got word ten days ago that Bucky and Buck are POWs at a Stalag.” She looked at him, watching his eyes go wide at that news. He had made inquiries about them but had been told that was above his clearance and no one was willing to talk about them. “I got a letter from Bucky the same day letting me know him and Buck were safe.”

Charlie smiled. “Well ain’t that something. I’m glad you finally heard from him. I kept getting dead ends anytime I would inquire. If I had a nickel for every time I heard that was above my paygrade, I'd be rich and could retire.”

“I’m shocked you didn’t pick Anna’s base to go home to.” She smirked, finally happy that she could tease her brother about his not-so-secret girlfriend.

He threw his head back and laughed, loudly. “I thought about it for a minute but figured you’d need some family here. Besides, Anna’s the preferred B-17 pilot now for Thorpes, so she’ll be here plenty.”

“Hmm . . . you’re back in England for all of 48 hours and you’re already pulling strings.” Addie smirked at her brother as he started weakly protesting. “You know I’m right. Come on, I’ll give you the penny tour and show you where you’ll be staying.”

Leading him over to the jeep, she got in the driver’s seat, watching him throw his bag in the back before joining her. Shifting the jeep into gear, she drove them back towards the barracks. “Over there that’s the mess hall and my barrack is just to the left of it. Straight ahead is the barrack you’ll be in.”

Pulling the jeep to a stop, she grinned seeing Rosie and Crosby standing outside, eyeing her curiously. “Boys!”

“Addie.” They both called back, watching her hop out of the jeep and walk closer to them. “What brings you to our humble abode?”

“Boys, this is my older brother Charlie.” She grinned, looking over her shoulder at her brother. “Charlie, this is Robert Rosenthal, or Rosie and Harry Crosby. Rosie is a pilot and Crosby is group navigator on base. They’re also bunking here and can show you where everything is.”

The three of them exchanged handshakes in greeting as she grinned at the scene. “Josie mentioned there was a group of new pilots arriving today.”

“Yeah there were. I didn’t count how many arrived today but Charlie will be an instructor on base - not going up.” She grinned brightly at them, happy to have a piece of her family back on base.

Crosby whistled. “That’s great. Welcome to Thorpes, Charlie. I know this one is tampering her excitement down for the sake of looking cool.”

Slugging Crosby, Addie gave him a look. “Thanks for that Croz.”

“Just let us know if you want to know anything that’s happened over the last year since you’ve been gone, Charlie.” Crosby gave her brother a smirk.

Addie muttered a cuss under her breath. “Jeez, and to think I thought our friendship meant something. Willing to spill all my secrets as soon as my big brother arrives on base. Just remember Croz, I know where you sleep, and I know a few secrets of your own.”

“Damn, I forgot how scary you can be.” Rosie commented, looking between his two friends. “I’d watch what you say Croz.”

Charlie laughed. “Ahh she’s all talk with very little bite. Addie has always been that way.”

Addie looked between the three, shaking her head. She chuckled watching Crosby’s eyes go wide. “What’s wrong Crosby?”

“Just remembered what you did to Douglass to scare him after he slipped that supply request in your pile.” Crosby shook his head, while Addie threw her head back and laughed.

“Ahh, I forgot all about that.” She grinned. “That was my best revenge yet. That was legendary and kept the base on their toes for a few weeks.”

Charlie chuckled. “Is that where you dropped a box of rubbers and twinkies along with some feminine products?”

“Ahh so the boys already told you that story when they were in Africa, huh?” Addie smirked, shaking her head before looking between Rosie and Crosby. “Boys, can you show him an empty bunk? I’ll wait out here and we can head over to the mess together.” Rosie nodded, heading towards the barrack door with Charlie trailing behind him.

Leaning against the jeep, Addie smiled to herself. Things were finally turning around and for the first time since Bucky and Buck went down, she started to feel the hope creep back in.

December 25, 1943, 0900 hours

Groaning, she cracked open her eyes, seeing the bright light creep through the shades. Rolling over, she squinted, eyes wide when she realized it was 9am and she had slept in. Sighing, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, seeing the barrack was quiet, everyone up already and out of the hut.

Reaching over, she ran her hand through Meatball’s fur. “Merry Christmas, Meatball.” He groaned, rolling over onto his back so she could scratch his belly. She obliged him, both hands scratching as he hummed and groaned in happiness.

Swinging her legs off the bed, she looked at the locker that sat between hers and Josie’s bed. She hadn’t opened it since it was deposited there back in October. Easing off the bed, she sat in front of it, leaning forward to unlock it, pushing the top open. A thin layer of dust had settled over everything.

Reaching in, she moved his extra clothes to the side, seeing a stack of letters at the very bottom of the locker. Picking them up, she noticed most of them were addressed from Wisconsin, letters from his family. But at the very bottom was an envelope in his handwriting, with her name on it.

Without hesitation, she ran her finger under the flap, pulling out the piece of paper. She realized it was dated back in May 1943, right around the time she had first met him.

My dearest Addie,

I feel pretty stupid writing you this letter but I need to get this off my chest. You’ve been on my mind all day, might have gotten into trouble during the briefing due to my thoughts being on you instead of the observation mission. Might be just a tad sorry about that but not really, don’t tell Huglin.

It’s amazing that I’ve only known you for two weeks, yet I feel like I’ve known you all my life. And I don’t want you to stop being in my life. Never thought I’d come over to England and meet a girl that I want in my life for the rest of my life.

I probably will never give you this letter so I feel pretty comfortable writing this down - I think I’m in love with you. Yes, it’s only been two weeks but you’ve already knocked me on my ass and kept me on my toes at the same time. I’ve never met a girl like you before and I think that’s a good thing. Definitely cannot stop thinking about you, which could be a good or bad thing depending on the day. Also, you’re the first person (outside of Buck) that I want to rush to tell everything to.

Should probably wrap this up. Maybe I’ll give you this on our wedding day (if we make it that far).

Love you but not telling you quite yet.

John

Tears streamed down her face as she finished reading the letter. She knew he fell much sooner than she did but it was good to read his thoughts. Sighing, she leaned against her bed frame, letting her head fall back onto her bed. Meatball crawled over to her, his tongue licking away the tears that had fallen. Reaching behind her, she carted her fingers through his fur, patting his side in appreciation for being there for her.

Folding up the letter, she stuffed it back into the envelope, placing it back in the locker. Sighing, she shut the top of the locker, clicking the latches on it.

Pushing herself off the floor, she quickly got dressed, slipping on Bucky’s jacket before lacing up her shoes. Patting her leg for Meatball’s attention, she walked down the aisle of the hut, pushing open the door, allowing the dog to go out ahead of her. Shivering, she watched Meatball do his business before quickly walking over to the mess hut. Pulling open the door, she smiled at the warmth that wrapped around her as she searched the area for her friends and Charlie.

Making her way down the aisle, she stopped at a table that was in the middle of the hut. Charlie, Rosie, Crosby, Blakely, and Josie all sat around the table, each with a plate of food and a cup of coffee in front of them. Taking a seat in a chair, she greeted everyone with a cheerful “Merry Christmas.”

“About time you join us Addie.”

Sticking her tongue out at her older brother, Addie smirked. “I decided to sleep in this morning. Got the best Christmas present I could have asked for.”

“And what’s that?” Josie raised an eyebrow at the cheerful tone in Addie’s voice. Josie grinned brightly, seeing a glimpse of her best friend that she hadn’t seen in over 2 months.

Thanking the waiter for the cup of coffee, she smiled at the table. “Found a letter that Bucky had written me back in May. It was really sweet and made my day.”

“Back in May?” Josie looked at her friend. “That was before you two started dating, right?”

Picking up her coffee, she took a deep sip, nodding, smirking. “Yeah that was right after he arrived here on base. I still thought he was an arrogant flyboy - amazing how that has all changed.”

December 25, 1943

Dear John,

Merry Christmas, fly boy. Wish you were here instead of the stalag but I’ll take the fact you’re still alive as a Christmas miracle.

It was a pretty low key day today. Charlie, Josie, Crosby, Rosie, Blakely, Douglass and I hung out throughout the day and exchanged presents with one another. It was good not to be alone on an already tough day.

I’m going to admit something - I found a letter you wrote me back in May at the bottom of your locker and read it. It made my day and made me smile. It was the perfect unintentional Christmas present I could have asked for. I’m still holding out on walking down an aisle in a white dress towards you, Egan. Don’t let me down.

My Christmas wish for you is that you’re warm and safe and happy. Hopefully you and the boys found a bit of joy.

Love you with all my heart.

Addie.

Thank you for reading! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. Anything you want to see in the upcoming chapters? I've got a loose outline planned so if there's something you want to see, just let me know! Also, sorry, there wasn't any Bucky or Buck in this chapter, but Addie needed a chapter of angst and hurt. Both Bucky and Buck will be back in next chapter.

Chapter 14

#addie + john #taking comfort in your arms #john egan fan fiction #john egan fanfiction #masters of the air fanfiction #mota fanfiction #john egan x oc

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withahappyrefrain · 4 months ago

Text

Del, the way you seamlessly world build and have that woven into the plot is incredible! Below are my favorite parts

"You said you like small, dark spaces." His shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "This is the only place I could fit."

The idea of Bob trying to figure out why reader like this so much that he tries it out himself? This is Bob to a T, A+ characterization as always Del

Held back by Jake and Bradley. Teeth bared. Blood pouring from the corner of his mouth. Shoving against Jake and Bradley's hold.

This visual? Perfection, someone get me a fan. Also, I'm always here for Tom Cruise getting punched.

THEYRE ROOMMATES?! Oh my God they were roommates! I should have realized this sooner sorry.

The dagger squad dynamics are so fun and I would honestly read a whole piece about their antics and whatnot.

It's got to be a trick that the lighting is playing on your eyes, set off by the sweat that pours off his body like a waterfall. Dripping down the swell of his chest, running loose across a toned stomach, only makes it that much more obvious when his abdomen flexes. There's no way that he's fully awake, but his feet are alive beneath him, dancing left and right as if this old punching bag might start punching back.

BOXER WEREWOLF BOB?!?! YOUR MIND DEL YOUR MIND

"I...I'm sorry," Bob's voice breaks through your thoughts like sunshine peeking through storm clouds, warm enough to melt away the words fluttering about your head, "I almost blew—"

Stop the way this is so Bob 🥹🥹🥹🥹

"I don't even remember what day it is." Oh how you wish that you were exaggerating. At some point in the week, you've just quit looking at the calendar and let your overfilled schedule swallow you whole.

The exhaustion and burnout is so real. Like no, I am not a werewolf pilot but damn have I felt this

"Feels, feels, aha—!" If he sounded this pretty in the backseat of a jet, you probably wouldn't have a license anymore. "Feels good!"

So fucking real for that

It ought to drown you. Flooding your senses like some kind of pleasant assault swirls your thoughts and delves deep into your belly, disturbing the butterflies there and setting you alight. This is...this is new. He's always made you weak in the knee, but you don't recall them nearly buckling from his scent alone, only held up by the strong arms looped around you.

Coffee and cinnamon strike your nose with the intensity of a freight train, tearing through your head so quickly that everything becomes muffled, wrapped up in your own little world. A little place where Bobby is your only concern, with his oddly sweet scent and soft blue eyes that threaten to drown you if you gaze too closely.

God, your writing. I feel how nervous these two are, how in love with each other they already are, how badly they want each other.

The idea that the military would use hormone suppressors is 100% realistic and also super intriguing! I was wondering who reader was calling, is it the military werewolf equivalent of their union representative? The werewolf ACLU (who probably have a dedicated section to the US government/military given all the shit they pull)? I got so wrapped up in the world you had built I forgot I came here originally for alpha!Bob smut. Also the idea of Bob being an alpha but not knowing and exploring it was a fucking genius idea.

As always, your writing leaves me in awe.

Cinnamon, Coffee & Vanilla | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 12,600 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, alpha! Bob, omega! Reader. Physical altercations, implied abuse/mistreatment & trauma from the Navy, a little blood, brief food mentions, handjobs, mating cycles, first ruts, knotting, unprotected sex, a (slight) open ending, and a weak traitor plot woven between the lines. Brief Summary: You'd figured you would be able to smell him by now. Truly deduce whether or not he's an alpha, beta, omega, or something in between the lines, but even as you breathe in, you can't catch a damn thing.

Wind howls around the corner, rain pattering against the window with soft thunks that dance and twist down the hallway like their own little melody. You haven't got the slightest idea where your feet are falling, barely guided by the pale blue light that peeks out from the kitchen and out into the hallway.

Turning the light on is a viable option; the switch should be somewhere on your right, but your arm is too heavy to lift, dangling limp at your side as you amble down the hall.

There are some things that you can't bring yourself to do this late in the night. Not when this is the first time you've seen these walls since you left this morning, skipping off into the sunrise, naively believing that you'd get to come home at a normal time.

Lightning flickers so brightly that, for a moment, you think the kitchen light has turned on by itself. But it's gone just as quickly as it appeared, thunder rattling the picture hanging on the wall as you drift past.

The kitchen isn't that much better. It seems that being closer to the window doesn't do all that much in regards to lighting because...you can't see a damn thing. All you know is that you're surrounded by vaguely shaped splotches, all varying shades of black. Some of them are familiar: the round blob that is the clock on the wall, the rug, the step stool, the dining table, the foot sticking out from underneath it...

Your eyes narrow. Squinting as if that can possibly brighten the room.

"Bobby?" Because there should only be one other pair of feet in this apartment.

"Hm?" It's faint, but you recognize that hum all the same.

Your weary knees creak as you crouch down, peering below the table. Light leaks out from a crack in the curtains, casting across a familiar mop of hair. His eyes squint back at you, unfocused and blurry, without the assistance of his glasses.

"What are you doing?" Your head tilts to the side, trying your best to shake an idea out of your brain.

"Dunno," Bob raises his hand, watching intently as he knocks his knuckles against the wood above his head, "trying to figure out what omegas get out of this."

You're...not following. "I've never gotten under the table."

"You said you like small, dark spaces." His shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "This is the only place I could fit."

"Well..." pausing, you shrug the backpack off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a resounding thunk. The neighbors downstairs probably heard that, but it's not your problem right now. "Is it striking any instincts for you?"

A chuckle rumbles out of him. "Not a damn thing."

But he's not making the slightest effort to come out from under there. Content to rest with his back against one of the table legs, like it's the best spot in the house. If the sun were still out, and your eyes weren't halfway closed, then you'd probably have a lot more questions for him, but fuck if questions are the last thing you want to think of right now.

Your palms flatten against the floor, left knee chirping as you begin to crawl under the table with him. Another motion, and it pops, the remnants of a nagging ejection injury. It's usually an easily missable sound, but in this quiet little kitchen, it might as well be as loud as the thunder.

"Was that your knee?" Bob asks it as if he doesn't already know the answer, his hand darting out as you settle next to him. His palm is hot against your bare skin, thick fingers squeezing around the joint like he thinks that a bit of pressure will heal the old fracture.

You wish it was that simple.

"Yeah," your head falls against his shoulder, unable to keep it up any longer. "I should bill Maverick for the surgery."

As if they'd even give you enough time off to heal. The consequence of being the best of the best: your free time vanishes because everyone on planet Earth needs you.

Bob's head comes to rest against yours, a subtle weight that seems to quiet your thoughts in an instant. No worries about getting into bed before six-thirty rolls around, what you'll pack for your rushed lunch tomorrow, and whether or not you'll come home from this mission alive. All you can do is breathe and watch as Bob reaches for your weary hand, squeezing it gently.

His wrist shakes, and you don't need to ask to know that it's been caused by another one of those full-body tremors. One of the side effects of being taken off navy regulation suppressants for the first time in over a decade, left to suffer the consequences of a body that has never learned to regulate its own hormones.

Slow, you tilt your head, nuzzling into the soft fat of his cheek. Squishy. "Anything change for you yet?"

"I can smell your scent now," you can feel the flex of muscle as he smiles, peeking at you through the corner of his eye, "but...nah, I think that's about it."

You'd figured you would be able to smell him by now. Truly deduce whether or not he's an alpha, beta, omega, or something in between the lines, but even as you breathe in, you can't catch a damn thing. Still the same vanilla shampoo and faded woodsy cologne.

"What do I smell like?" Asking after a moment.

"Somethin' like..." All of a sudden, the tip of his nose finds the shell of your ear. His fingers dance across your sensitive thighs, tickling.

"Hey!" You squeal.

A kiss presses to your cheek. "Sugar." Kiss. "'n fresh laundry." Another kiss.

Your noses bump together. It's too dark to see, but you know there's a shade of cherry dusting across his cheeks as he pulls you into him, mouths colliding like galaxies, merging into one.

There is no end to your exhaustion—simply an intermission.

Your feet fall so heavily that it sounds as if you're stomping down this empty hall. Boots pounding against the floor with heavy thump, thump thumps that pale in comparison to the voice that booms above all. It's so loud that you can hardly understand a single word, and you're making no effort to try and decipher it.

The hand on your bicep tugs, forcing you forward. A voice in the back of your head sparks to lie; they shouldn't be hauling you around like a mutt on a leash, but you can't bring yourself to say a damn thing. Not when your throat is already raw from shouting, voice run ragged in a desperate attempt to convince Cyclone that you're not the person he's accusing you of being.

What ever happened to innocent until proven guilty, anyway?

"I cannot fucking believe this!" Maverick's voice crystallizes as you round the corner, feet flailing beneath you as you're thrust into the room.

Weary heads turn your way. Jake. Natasha. Rueben. Mickey. Bob. Javy. Billy. Brigham. Callie. And you know the names of the remainders, but their names just aren't coming to you right now. But one glance is all it takes to realize that they must have pulled all of you all at once; they look just as miserable as you feel.

"The Navy trusted you!" Spit flies out of Maverick's mouth. "I trusted you!"

He turns, hands combing through his hair as if to try and soothe himself. It doesn't work. It never works. "I paraded you as the best goddamn pilots the Navy has seen this decade, and you make a fucking fool of me!"

Bob's head tilts, muttering something to Jake that you can't quite hear. Whatever it is, it's enough to have Jake nodding his head and leaning over to Javy.

"I give you my best and how do you repay me?" Mav doesn't seem to hear them, too red in the face to think about anything other than this. Betrayal. A figurative knife in the back. "By running off and becoming an insider for the goddamn enemy!"

His arm swipes across a shelf. Porcelain figures and glass frames fly in your direction. Shattering on the ground into a million and one pieces. Damn near invisible on this white floor, presence merely indicated by the glisten of the shards in the light. But he's not done. A potted plant strikes the wall, exploding like a firework.

"God, so help me," spinning around, Mav jabs his finger in your face, "if I find out which of you fucking did this—"

"For godsakes, Mav!" Bradley's voice is loud in your right ear. Every bit as strained as yours is. Cracking in the middle. A husk of its usual sound.

Just as quickly as he's turned to face you, Maverick is moving again. Storming across the room. Turning. Pacing back to you and Bradley like a mad dog, thirsty for someone's blood.

"How are you so damn sure it was us?" Bradley continues, throwing his hands up. He's so close that his nails scratch your elbow on their way past. You hardly feel a thing. "We weren't the only ones who knew this shit!"

A hand appears on your shoulder. Warm, a thumb swiping back and forth in such a familiar manner that you don't need to look to know who it is. Bobby. His slight nudge is enough to get you to follow him, slinking toward the back of the room. Walking backwards has never been your talent, but somehow, you don't bump into anything.

What's he trying to do?

"You and your team are the only pilots who knew the information that made its way across enemy lines," there's a sudden calmness to Maverick's tone that wasn't there before. You don't like it, not one bit. "And now you've cost us an entire goddamn mission."

Boots stomp across the tile. Louder. Closer.

"And not one of you is fucking leaving!" And all of a sudden, Maverick is nose to nose with Bobby. "Not until someone starts talking!"

Bob's mouth opens, but for a moment, nothing but air escapes. "You can't lock us in here."

Jake's head nods. So does Javy's. Silent agreement.

Mav shoves Bob's shoulders. Knocking him against the wall. "Yes, I goddamn can."

Bob's lip curls. Canines uncharacteristically flash in the light with the same glisten and sharpness as the glass scattered across the tile.

Maverick strikes him.

You don't even see him reeling back. You blink, and his fist is crashing into Bob's glasses. The frames fracture, falling to the floor with a clatter.

Someone gasps. Mav falls backward, hand shielding the side of his head. A boot finds his jaw. Hands grab hold of his hair. A flurry of bodies dart between. Someone's got Mav by the collar, and Bob—

Bob growls.

Held back by Jake and Bradley. Teeth bared. Blood pouring from the corner of his mouth. Shoving against Jake and Bradley's hold. And he's strong, but he's not stronger than both alpha and omega combined. You hardly feel your feet moving, bending to scoop the fractured frames off the floor.

"What's gotten into you?" Natasha shouts. Somewhere off on your left. "Both of you!"

Her shoulder clocks yours.

You spin on your heels.

She's nose to nose with you. "Get your roommate under control," she hisses under her breath. For a moment, her gaze darts to Maverick, eyes so wide that you fear she may never close them again. Then, back to you. "If this goes south—"

"I know." Your hands find each other at the same time. Squeezing once. Twice. Four times. She's got this handled. "I'll get Bobby sorted."

"By safe," she's stepping away, already beginning to shout something that you don't quite catch.

By the time you turn around, Bob is gone.

For someone who usually operates at a turtles pace, Bob sure does move quickly when he wants to. Jake tells you that he caught a glimpse of him leaving the locker room, and by the time you get outside, his truck is missing from its usual place beneath the old maple tree in the back corner of the lot.

"Do you think he's realized that he can't read the road signs?" Javy wonders aloud as you walk toward your vehicles. Always parked next to each other. He's the only one you trust not to ding your car with his door, and vice versa.

You're still waiting on Mickey to pay for that giant scratch he gifted you this past Christmas.

"He's probably wearing the set with the tinted lenses," you chirp, adjusting the bag weighing on your weary shoulders. "I think he usually keeps them in the center console." That's where you last saw them, at least.

Javy nods his head like he's agreeing with your train of thought. "Well, if I see a black truck swerving in and out of lanes, I'll give you a heads up."

The front of your boot thunks against the curb. Your weight falls forward. But your footing recovers just as quickly as you lost it. Javy's already grabbing your shoulder, holding you steady.

You might be too tired to be driving. But what other choice do you have other than to call a car and pay the fine when your car gets towed overnight?

"Maybe we should check for him around Mav's place," the sound of Reuben's voice is the only reason why you remember that he's walking behind you, "might be looking for a round two. No referees this time."

Your hand darts into your pocket, pressing a button on your key fob. A second passes, and the locks in your car doors audibly open. "Well, if he's not home, I'll sound the alarm,"

"Y'all make it home safe!" Jake's voice echoes across the lot.

"Text the group chat, or you'll find me at your front door!" Natasha picks up right where he left off, her phone shaking in the air as she yells. "That means you, Bradshaw!"

Bradley's horn honks. "It was one time!"

It's not until you get situated in the driver's seat and are combing through your music, looking for something decent to listen to, that your phone dings with a singular message.

Bob: Made it home 👍 12:47 AM

With everyone leaving at the same time, it's not difficult to find yourself falling into a loose line as you all make your way off base. A symphony of honks soar through the air once you've crossed onto city-owned pavement, some dumb little routine that sparked from Jake's incessant need to remind you all that he's here before you can possibly begin to forget.

This place is so far out that for a good three miles, the only vehicles on the road belong to your little group, following the slightly too-fast lead of Mickey's project car until the street guides you into town. Jake and Bradley take a left at the red light. Natasha cruises off onto the upcoming exit. Mickey and Rueben turn off into the parking lot of a sandwich shop; Javy tails you until you enter a roundabout.

And all of a sudden, you're by yourself.

It's almost strange, actually. You've grown so used to Bobby's headlights reflecting in your rearview mirror that without them, the road feels impossibly dark. Not another person on this Earth but you.

The sight of his truck parked in its spot is just as foreign, and once parked, you catch yourself trying to wait for him to pull in next to you. But there is no smiling WSO to accompany you on the walk into the apartment complex. No giggling as he tries to beat you to the elevator doors. It's just you and your overfilled backpack.

All that, only for the apartment to be dark when you open the door.

"Bobby?" You call out, trudging into the darkness. No response. Blindly, your hand feels along the wall, seeking the switch.

A whine jumps out of your throat. Light does nothing to reveal him, but his backpack rests in its usual spot beside the door, those tinted glasses sit on the arm of the couch, and his work shoes rest in the place of the beat-up pair reserved for the gym.

Is he not tired?

Evidently, you aren't either because somehow you've got the energy to slip into a softer pair of shoes and head back out of the apartment. Eyes half-lidded, barely paying attention to your surroundings as you make your way down the hallway.

There's absolutely zero reason for you to be doing this. It's not as if Bob is never going to come home again, but something has got you hunting him down like a bloodhound on a trail. Frozen images flicker through your head, like flipping through a picture book.

The drop of his smile when Cyclone made his accusations that someone is leaking information to the enemy. How tired those usually bright eyes were when you were finally hauled out of the office. The flashing of fangs, the fist connecting with the side of Mav's head. You don't understand. You've seen him riled up a number of times, but this...

This is new.

You suppose that you can't blame him; you acted similarly when they finally took you off those suppressants. Too many unbalanced hormones, all at once, thrown in the deep end with no idea how to swim.

You hear him before you've even stepped off of the basement stairs—the soft patter of fists against leather echoing throughout the stairwell like a beacon. Heat greets you like a slap in the face, enveloping you as if you've just walked into a sauna. It's always so damn hot down here; you don't know how Bobby can stand working out in it.

The door to the bottom of the stairwell is missing, seamlessly opening up to the gym. Treadmills, a long rack of weights, specialty machines you've already forgotten the names of; the mini fridge in the corner is still broken, and whoever left their neon yellow yoga mat has yet to come back for the poor thing.

It's so big that at first, you don't notice him. But then you do, and...

Shit. Has Bob always looked like that?

You've seen this sight more times than you count, have followed him down here for the sole purpose of drooling over his swollen biceps, but this...this is different. Something has changed, and you can't pinpoint what that is.

The strike of his fists might be more aggressive than you remember them being, but maybe the exhaustion slowing your senses is causing you to misjudge. His upper lip twitches up, breathing hard through his nose. It's the only other sound in the room. Too shy to allow himself to make much noise, for fear of hearing his own grunts.

There's a foreign scent in the air. Something hidden beneath the stench of sweat and the indescribable sourness that comes with a poorly maintained gym. Your brows furrow. It reminds you of...a kitchen. Fresh. Warm. Kind of like...the pot of black coffee that he brews every morning. Wrapped around a cluster of cinnamon and vanilla, like a hand-crafted candle.

Is that...?

All of a sudden, the gym falls quiet, his fists frozen at his sides, the punching bag still swaying from his final strike. From across the room, his eyes lock with yours, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead, cheeks flushed, unkempt in an almost endearing fashion.

Oh, his poor eye. Mottled with red and darkening purple, swollen around the corner, just enough to be noticeable when compared to his right one. The split in his lip doesn't look that much better, a visible scab resting in the corner.

Something in your lower belly twists. A shiver wracks down your spine.

Bob doesn't say anything, and you don't either. Frozen into silence.

Coming here may have been a mistake. Shit. Why did it never occur to you that he probably came down here because he wanted to be left alone? Why else would he be down here at one in the morning?

"I...I'm sorry," Bob's voice breaks through your thoughts like sunshine peeking through storm clouds, warm enough to melt away the words fluttering about your head, "I almost blew—"

"Mav had it coming." Cutting him off before he can finish his sentence. You were never upset about that to begin with.

Again, it's quiet. Hesitant, Bob steps forward, then pauses, looking back toward the swaying punching bag, then back to you. Then, one foot falls in front of the other, head hanging low as he crosses the room. A small part of you wishes that he would have stayed right where he was because that little voice in your head stirs to life the moment that he's within an arm's length of you.

Touch his chest. Touch his chest. Touch his chest.

You're no better than an omega in heat.

"'s my face look that bad?" A chuckle rumbles out of him, blindly pawing at his bruised cheek with the side of his hand.

Blink. "Huh?"

"You're looking at me kinda funny," he says it like there's absolutely nothing different here. As if today is just another average day. Same old, same old.

"You really haven't figured it out, have you?" It's more of an observation than a question. Even through your half-open eyes, it's not hard to tell that he hasn't put two and two together.

He reaches to scratch at the back of his neck. "...no?"

Ugh.

"Flashing your teeth, sudden aggression..." You're starting out slow, listing your evidence out bit by bit, but he's not reacting to a word you've said, "developing a scent..."

A scent is an understatement. He smells like a goddamn bakery.

A beat passes, and then, slowly, his shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "I'm not following."

For a guy with glasses, Robert Floyd can be really fucking dense sometimes.

If you were more awake, then maybe you'd put more effort into spelling this out for him, but a king-size mattress on the ninth floor is calling your name, and you're running low on willpower. Your brow furrows, swallowing hard. It's been a minute since you last tried to do this, but if you dig deep and focus on flexing your throat...

A chirp bursts out of you. Sharp. High pitched.

Jake did a piss poor job of explaining what that noise does to an alpha, but he must be right about one thing. Bob stiffens. Holding onto his breath, his wide eyes flickering up and down your body.

His eyelashes flutter. "Oh."

You're fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Alphas.

Of course, that's what he would wind up being.

It seems that you can only fight one battle at a time because your hands are on the move. Palms skittering up the sides of his waist on a one-way track to his chest. He's on fire, burning so hot that the feel of his skin alone is enough to have you feeling light-headed. There's no reason for you to be embarrassed by it, but you find yourself masking your intentions by using him to remain steady as you lean in.

His scent glands have only just begun to awaken, producing so little oil that your scent almost wipes his out entirely, but it's there, and it's real, and it's so...him. Hands appear on your waist, drawing you in, his sweaty body pressing against your uniform. Slow, his head moves against yours, temples brushing against each other once more.

"'m I doing it right?" He asks, breath tickling your ear.

"You're getting the hang of it," your confirmation doesn't amount to a whole lot. He knows that as well as you do. You're only slightly better than he is, too far removed from the instinct that resides in your DNA to make much connection with it.

Even so, that doesn't stop him from following your lead. Letting your hand curl around his jaw, guiding him to nuzzle against you in a sloppy, unpracticed fashion that just feels right. A noise lurches out of him, a low, rumbling thing that sounds like the beginnings of a purr.

Lips appear on the corner of your ear. Breaking your attempt at scenting in favor of kissing along the side of your cheek, each one growing closer and closer until his lips finally meet yours. Soft, melding with yours in a dance that you know like the back of your hand.

This is something that the Navy can never take from you. The weightlessness that settles into your joints, the way your head goes completely and utterly quiet when you kiss him. He molds against you like he's been built just for this, the soft jabs of his prickly chin drawing you into him like a moth to a flame.

You can feel the flex of muscle in his arms as they curl around you, strong and burning and so, so familiar. The fresh, warm scent that greets your nose is new and yet so undeniably him; you've only known it for a few minutes, but you can't wait to spend a lifetime wrapped up in it. In him, and his soft hums and the dizziness that he puts in your head.

It's the voices in the stairwell that break you apart, but it's the deepest craving of your soft, cozy bed that has you both tumbling up each and every step. Shoulders bump together as your weary legs carry you to that familiar apartment door, not quite awake enough to maintain any sense of balance.

"I can't believe you never put it together," you find yourself saying as you meander down the hallway. Whoever decided that the elevator should stop on the first floor and not the basement should be fired.

"Well...I sort of already did," Bobby pauses, squinting at the buttons, "I just didn't..." he trails off, too focused to finish his sentence.

"Uhuh, sure," Your hand darts out, pressing the correct one. "What other symptom could I have possibly missed?"

"A knot."

Saliva catches in your throat. "Huh?"

The elevator dings, evidently just as surprised as you are. A moment passes, and the door slides open. It's empty, thank god. No prying ears to overhear what is about to come out of your partner's mouth.

"I'm just as surprised as you are," his hand squeezes yours, obediently following along as you walk into the elevator. There's no use in him trying to do anything else. Not when he can't see. "It's not...you know, all the way there yet, but it's either that or an unfortunately placed tumor."

Almost automatically, you press one of the buttons, not even entirely sure if it's the correct one or not. Guess you'll find out when the doors reopen because this cheap old contraption gives no indication as to what the hell you just did. Are you going to the ninth floor or the third? Only the elevator knows.

Bob's weight sways from foot to foot, and in the thin sliver of mirror in the corner, you can see the overhead light glistening against his sweaty chest. There's that twitch in your lower belly again, thighs pressing together on their own as if to keep something at bay. Maybe there would be something if your head weren't so...empty.

"Nobody ever warned me about how sore it'll be when it's coming in," Bob's words are stretched around a yawn, quickly chased by a second one.

Almost simultaneously, your mouth pries itself open, yawning, too. "That bad?"

"You have no idea," his laugh bounces off the metal walls, ringing in your ears; it's the kind of thing that might put you to sleep right here and now. "I forgot about it while I was in the shower this morning and about hit the floor."

With another ding, the doors slide open, and as it turns out, you did pick the correct floor. The next thing you know, you're stumbling into the apartment together; your phone rests on the couch, screen flickering to life with a text. Right.

You: Made it home! 2:12 AM

Almost instantly, a new message appears on your screen.

Rueben: Is Rob home, or should I send the search team to Mav's house? 2:12 AM

Bob: 🙄 2:15 AM

Something about that text has both of your phones buzzing away with a flurry of texts as if some kind of floodgate has been opened. Bob entertains it, but you're too focused on gathering clothes and towels, dumping them in an unceremonious pile on the bathroom sink.

Where your belongings end, and his begin can be figured out when you're out of the shower. For now, all you're focused on is turning on the water and pulling this stuffy uniform off your body before it becomes permanently stuck there.

"Do we have work in the morning?" You find yourself croaking as you test the water. Still a little chilly.

Lips appear on the back of your neck, pressing a kiss there. "We don't work on Sundays, remember?"

There's no reason for him to guide you into the shower; hell, it's a walk-in, but he does it anyway. One hand on your waist, moving at the same slow pace until you're standing under a warm stream of water. Your eyes are already trying to drift shut, fighting against you as you try to keep them open.

Defiant, they drift down between Bob's legs as he reaches to grab a bottle off the shelf. There's a soft swell to the base of his cock that wasn't there before; skin stretched tau, not quite adjusted to this sudden change he's been hit with. Whether or not he catches you staring, you don't really care.

Moving is the last thing that you want to be doing. Your shower gel is only an arm's length away, but it might as well be a mile, and once you finally grab it, it's almost too heavy to hang onto. Somehow, though...somehow, you manage. You think you do, at least; you catch the familiar scent from the soap, and you certainly remember washing the bubbles off, so you must have washed something.

You're staring at your reflection in the foggy mirror when a cold wipe presses to the side of your neck, rubbing at the scent gland there. Funny, you'd almost forgotten about that. But now that it's been brought back to the forefront of your mind, you can't help but pluck one from its container.

The corner of Bob's lip lifts, obediently tilting his head to expose his neck for you. A few little swipes are all that it takes to unveil a scar atop the scent gland there. Faded white with age and almost blending in with his pale neck. For something that could cost you both your jobs, it's quite small.

"We're lucky Mav didn't see these," you mutter, thumb swiping over top of it. The gland is still dry, hasn't figured out how to produce that thin sheen of oil yet.

Maybe it never will.

Bob's frown is something that you find yourself having to kiss away, can't stand the sight of such a thing. And that's really...that's the last thing that you remember doing. Standing in the bathroom, feeling his arms snake around you, as you kiss his lips until they lift with a smile one more.

What you do know is that somehow, you get into bed because the next time you open your eyes, you're snuggled into the sheets. Sunlight peeks through a crack in the curtains, casting a horribly bright light into this otherwise dark little bedroom, all too visible behind your closed eyelids.

Defiant, you roll over.

If you don't acknowledge it, it's not there.

Guided by habit, your arm darts out from your side, sliding across Bob's warm belly. His hand settles around your wrist, squeezing gently as if to test and see if you're really there. Through the haze of sleep still lingering in your head, you think you can feel him moving, hips wriggling back and forth against the mattress, unable to keep still.

It takes a moment to find your voice. "What's wrong?"

"It's..." fuck, you forgot how deep his voice can get in the mornings, it's the kind of thing that can put thunder to shame. "It's nothing."

The room is darker than you expected it to be, nothing but that little sliver of light to illuminate the whole place, stretching across the bed and up onto the wall.

"Well, it's got to be something," gliding your palm up and down his belly in that lazy sort of fashion that always makes him sigh.

His mouth opens, then snaps shut just as quickly, afraid of the words that rest on his tongue. "'m hard," he croaks, and then, before too much silence can build in between sentences, "which wouldn't...which wouldn't be a problem, but that stupid...that stupid knot hurts."

Oh, and his cheeks are on fucking fire, red as they can possibly get. All these years, and yet he's still so shy about these topics. It's cute. Even if part of his face is decorated in a frightening mixture of red and purple, only just beginning to recover from yesterday's events.

You're only just beginning to blink away the blurriness resting in the corners of your eyes, but there's already a lightbulb going off in your otherwise foggy head. So bright that you can feel it lighting up your features, eyes brightening, smile sprawling across your face.

Bobby clocks it before you can even begin to formulate words. "I suppose you have an idea."

"When do I not?" Your weary arms help to push yourself up, lazily swinging a leg over his waist.

The sheets jostle, pooling around your hips, a chill nipping at your skin. But alphas run pretty warm, and Bobby was already a furnace, to begin with, downright burning against you like a flickering campfire.

Your plan isn't that unpredictable. It's so easy to figure out that Bob is already leaning up, elbows settling on either side of himself as he meets you halfway. Teeth knock together, lips crashing with so little grace that you distantly wonder if you're at the start of your relationship again—just two fools who don't know how to navigate around each other's bodies.

But you do know.

Only several years spent together could teach you that he'll shudder when your nails trace down his chest, gasping into the kiss when they drift across his nipples. Always has been sensitive here, even if he struggles to admit it.

Biology suggests that you won't get away with it, but history assures that putting your hands on his shoulders and forcing him onto his back will be rewarded with perfect compliance. Instinct be damned, he's putty in your hands. Blinking up at you with those big, unfocused eyes, like a lamb caught in the hungry gaze of a wolf.

You just can't help yourself. Mouth finding the soft underside of his jaw, where a little bit of stubble has managed to make itself known, scraping against your nose as you drift past. His hands splay out on your hips, his only attempt at reigning you in as you kiss down his neck. Soft little pecks that can't last any longer than a second or two, lest you get carried away and leave a mark that your superiors may spot.

One of these days, you're going to childishly mottle his neck with marks. Make everyone understand that the cute WSO is yours, nobody else's. Alpha or not.

"Don't tell me..." his chest heaves as you make your way across it, peppering every little freckle with attention, "don't tell me you're..."

"I'll be gentle," peeking up at him through your lashes, blindly following the hard valley of his sternum. Down, down down to the start of his upper belly, soft and squishing beneath your kiss. Here, you can pause, sucking gently at a patch of pale skin.

A hand slides up your back, settling into the space between your shoulders, just resting there. "Ain't worried 'bout that," his words come out breathy, not quite focused on what he's trying to say.

You've already got a little red spot forming. Then a second, and a third, before you've reached the treacherous territory of where his shirt may unexpectedly ride up. Being visible in the locker room is one thing, but if he reaches to grab something while wearing that little black regulation t-shirt...

"Do you want me to stop?" Pausing in your tracks.

"Nuh uh," his head shakes back and forth, then, hesitantly, "'s just...new."

Your knee pops as you scoot further down his legs, fingers hooking under the thick elastic of his boxers. Obedient, his hips lift, letting you slide the fabric down his thighs. But you're a little too close, forcing him to pull his knees to his chest in order to get it safely past his ankles.

Fuck, he really does have a knot. Properly swollen at the base now, the skin stretched tight and flushed a dark shade of red, not quite adjusted to this sudden change. At least at sixteen, your body encounters these things over time, gradually increasing in intensity. But he's a decade older and up the creek without a paddle.

"Well, if you could handle me on my first heat," carefully taking his length into your hand, feeling the weight of it, "then this should be a walk in the park, right?"

Bob's head tilts to the side, gaze fixated on what you're doing. "'s easier when I ain't the one changing."

Fair point.

Maybe you would have more to add if you weren't too busy settling between his legs. In hindsight, you should have detailed your plan a little bit more because now that you're here, you're not entirely sure what to do. Start at the base? The tip? Somewhere in the middle? What do you usually do here?

Your tongue darts out, running over the swell of his knot. Just one little lick and—

"Oh."

A spring squeals as his hips writhe against the mattress, suddenly full of life.

Curious, your tongue pokes out once more, gliding across it slower this time. A whine cuts through the morning air, rising to chase your touch. Greedy. Like he hasn't been touched in forever.

"Do that..." sucking in a desperate gulp of air, "do that again."

You don't need any more encouragement; already beginning to fall into some kind of rhythm. Lazily mouthing at his delicate knot, all lips and tongue, like you're playing with a lollipop and not the base of his twitching cock. So simple and yet he throws his head back and whines, content with this and this alone.

"Lube," speaking against him, if only to see the shiver that ripples up his spine.

His hand audibly pats around the bed, feeling around until he makes his way onto the bedside table. A beat passes, and the bottle appears next to you. Thank god for being lazy; otherwise, he would have had to move and dig into the drawer.

This is something you know. Leaning back to pour it directly onto him, savoring that little hiss at the chill. Maybe you're a bit too generous with it, thick globs of it running down him like some kind of waterfall, but it's too early in the day to be worrying about such a thing.

All you care about is getting your hand around him, feeling that familiar girth beneath your fingers as you give him an experimental stroke. How his back rises up off the bed once more, his hand reaching to grab a handful of the pillow, anything to keep himself from pawing at your arm.

"Feel good?" Your wrist twists. His thighs squeeze around you.

Dumbly, he nods. "Uhuh."

It's not enough for you, and so you're already opening your mouth with another question. "Can you use your words for me?"

But that pretty head shakes back and forth, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "N-no."

He's cracking. Hand flying away from the pillow, making a little grabbing motion until you offer him your unoccupied one. Always has to be holding your hand. Always. Even if it's when your other hand is lazily gliding up and down his weeping cock, working at its own comfortable pace.

Swift, your thumb darts out, massaging circles around his enflamed tip.

You don't know what's louder, the squelch of lube or the cry that rips out of him, muffled a little too late. This is so new. He's so much louder, reacting to every little thing as if it's the first time all over again.

"Up—mmh!" Bobby's eyes squeeze shut, then flutter open again, panting hard. "Up here."

If this was his first time requesting such a thing, you wouldn't know what he's talking about, but it has almost become second nature at this point. For a moment, you let go of him, needing both hands as you crawl back into your place beside him. He rolls onto his side, already beginning to reach for you before you can even settle in.

"This better?" You chirp. He's nodding before you can finish your question.

The change in angle makes it so much easier to stroke him, following your own undisclosed rhythm, feeling the way he twitches under your touch, sensitive to all hell. But you're already growing distracted, letting go of him once more, lightly tracing your fingers over that newly formed bulb at his base.

"That..." his thighs squeeze together, whimpering high in his throat. "That..."

In the back of your mind, you wonder if the neighbors can hear this. The unusually loud noises that just keep tumbling off his pretty tongue, so beautifully overwhelmed with the newness of all this. Glassy-eyed and pink in the cheeks, reaching out to hang onto your wrist as your fingers wrap around his cock once more, if only to keep himself grounded.

Maybe he's worried about being overheard because he's craning his neck, lips crashing together with the same clumsiness as before. Your tongue darts out, wrapping with his for a fleeting moment, wet and messy and certainly getting saliva on the pillow below.

Again, your thumb swipes across his flushed tip, running back and forth across his slit. His body jerks, gasping into your mouth so sharply that it startles you.

"Talk to me, Bob," you've got to quit using that phrase outside of the workplace, but it just works so well on him.

"Feels, feels, aha—!" If he sounded this pretty in the backseat of a jet, you probably wouldn't have a license anymore. "Feels good!"

Vanilla, cinnamon, and coffee kiss your senses with all the strength and intensity of a roaring freight train. The scarred gland on the side of his neck glistens, finally producing that intoxicatingly warm scent. So strong that it makes your head spin, senses downright swimming in it.

"I want...I'm gonna..." Bob's eyes scrunch shut, his foot kicking at the sheets like he can possibly keep it at bay if he fights hard enough.

But you're not slowing down.

"That's okay," squeezing him a little tighter, twisting your wrist in a fashion that makes his knees knock into each other. Close. So, so close. "Cum for me, Bobby."

And he does. Twitching in your hand one, two, three times before that first rope of cum paints your palm with white. Fuck, and it just keeps coming, knot swelling impossibly wide, pulsing with every spurt, until your entire hand is fucking dripping.

You've never seen so much of it. Not from him.

On their own, your fingers dip down, delicately rubbing at his expanded knot; it throbs under your touch, his thighs snapping together on impulse. The greedy voice in your head wonders what it would be like to feel that inside of you, locking your bodies together, cum flooding your pussy until you can't possibly take another drop from him.

"Feels..." he's fighting for a proper breath, eyes rolling, "feels so different."

"Is that a good thing?" You hum, drawing your hand away before that nonexistent refractory period of his can raise its ugly head and drag you in for a round two.

Weary, his head nods, but you're not entirely sure that he realizes he's doing it. "Uhuh."

You don't know if he's just not awake or if it's something about the alpha thing, but he hardly has his eyes open, lying next to you like a lazy puppy. His belly and your hand are a downright mess, drenched in an obscene mixture of cum, saliva, and lube, and more just keeps spilling out of him.

A shower is the only thing that can clean this mess up, but it's too late for that. He's already wriggling an arm around you, his head nuzzling beneath your chin, and moving is suddenly impossible.

If he's not worried about it, then you suppose that you aren't either.

It takes twenty minutes for his knot to go down, disappearing entirely as if it were never there, to begin with. It takes an hour to get out of bed and another one for your impromptu bubble bath to end, only for you to crash on the couch like a pair of sleep-deprived teenagers.

What else are you meant to do on your day off? Something productive?

You'd known this day was coming, but Christ, you didn't expect it to arrive this soon.

A gray building with gray floors and even grayer walls. The definition of boring and exactly where you're supposed to spend the next several hours rotting away in a meeting. The plastic chairs, the doors, and the pen that the lady sitting at the front desk taps her cheek with are all the same, dull monochrome.

It's such a severe lack of color that it makes the fading on Bob's cheek appear brighter. Fresher. Like he walked out of the fight ten minutes ago and not three days. There's no uniform, but Jake's red t-shirt is almost offensively vivid, persistently resting in your peripheral, no matter which direction you turn your head.

All of a sudden, the unnamed girl stands, darting into another room without a word.

"Sure can't wait for this to be over," Bradley mutters almost as soon as the door slams closed.

Jake shifts his weight, bumping their shoulders together. Hard enough to make Bradley sway with the impact. "Worried you can't take the heat?"

"Are you projecting?" Bradley hums, hardly even reacting to the second attempt to shove him.

There's a response there that you don't quite catch about something back at home. But before you can decipher those whispered words, your eavesdropping is cut short by a weight appearing on your own shoulder. The burning press of Bob's nose against your neck, shamelessly burying into you.

"Bobby?" You chirp, craning your neck to try and get a better look at him. No dice.

He doesn't move. "Mmm?"

Rueben's head swivels in your direction. Nose wrinkling.

...did you forget to take a shower? What's he looking at you like that for?

All of a sudden, Bob's feet stumble. Weight falling atop your back as he tries to regain his footing, so damn heavy that he's got you wobbling right along with him. A strangled noise rumbles out of him, riding on the coattails of his breath.

"Robert?" Because he's not answering to your nicknames. "Do you feel okay?"

"My head is..." his words vibrate into your collar, arms wrapping around you as if to use you as a pillar, "spinning."

"You're not gonna get sick on us again, are you?" Nat has suddenly appeared on your left, brows knitted together.

Between the lingering glances from Rueben and the sudden end to Jake and Bradley's conversation, it's suddenly far too quiet in this little room. A second drags by. Then a second, and a third. Your only indication that Bob is even awake is the brushing of his eyelashes against your skin.

Just as you're beginning to think he doesn't have a response, he opens his mouth.

"'s not that kinda spinning," he mumbles, hardly even loud enough to reach your ears.

Surely, it can't be something that he ate; you two have shared the same meals all week. If he's feeling off, then you should be, too. It's certainly not allergy season, and as far as you could tell, he was perfectly fine on the drive over here.

So what gives? What could have possibly changed in the span of a few minutes?

The unnamed woman stumbles back into the room, her heels clicking with every little step that she takes. Something comes out of her mouth, but the grumbling noise that rumbles out of Bob covers it up entirely. It must be a request to follow her because all at once, everyone around you begins to move, filing through the same door that she just came from.

Bob's arms loosen from around you, and he's straightening up, all things that should make him appear better, but...he looks worse. Pale in the face, shoulders appearing to slouch in on themselves as he walks next to you. He's moving, though, feet falling in perfect tandem with yours, following the crowd down the corridor and around a corner.

The group comes to a sudden halt.

Bob's shoe squeaks against the floor. His shoulder hits the wall, his head rolling like it's too heavy to hold up. Eyelashes flutter, his chest rising with a breath so shaky that you can see him quiver with it.

Something's wrong.

"Bobby?" You start to reach for him, but Rueben's quicker than you, settling a sturdy hand on the back of Bob's shoulder, trying to draw him away from the drywall before he can accidentally put a hole in it.

Abnormally short fangs flash. Something akin to a growl rips out of Bob's throat. Heat rushes between your legs.

His face drops. Eyes wide. "I'm sorry, I—"

"It's nothing personal," Rueben's already backing up, his palms facing the ceiling. The closest thing he can get to waving a white flag. "I get it."

You don't believe what you're seeing. Smelling, even. It's way too soon for this, but...

He's starting his rut.

"Is everything okay?" The girl from before is asking; you wish you could remember her name, but reading her nametag is the last thing you're doing right now.

Bradley's shoulder nudges against yours, his head hanging low as if to shield out the rest of the group. "Get him home," he whispers. Firm. "I'll cover from here."

Your attention flickers to Bob, then to the rest of the group. "You're sure?"

All it takes is a look. Unwavering, jaw stiff, commanding all the authority that he can possibly muster. Omega or not, he's not one to be argued with.

Bob's shoulders shudder. Sweat is already beginning to bead at his forehead; lips parted, breathing through his mouth.

You don't need any more convincing, already beginning to take him by the wrist. There isn't the slightest bit of resistance, falling into step with you without any ounce of convincing. Whether or not he's actually comprehending what's going on, you're not sure, but he knows enough to not try and let go of you.

Taking the keys from him is the hardest part, trapped in the front pocket of his jeans, right next to the growing tent in the fabric, downright begging for your attention.

"Feels...weird," he grumbles, foot missing on his first attempt to climb into the truck. The second is a little more successful, almost trembling as he pulls himself up into the seat.

"I know," if it's anything like what your first heat felt like, then you've got a pretty good guess of what he's going through. Heat flashes, loss of coordination, nausea, the overwhelming need to orgasm damn near eating you alive.

In fact, you think that's exactly what he's going through. Grumbling with every turn you take, slouched against the corner of the seat, his head against the glass. There's a tremble in his hands that wasn't there before, knee bouncing up and down, unable to slow itself even for a second.

There are more signs that you would likely notice if you weren't so focused on the road ahead. You've only driven this truck a handful of times; the turn signal is in a different place, the view of the road is different, and it doesn't quite take turns as sharply as your car does.

But he's quiet. Uniquely so, as if he's lost in his own head. Doesn't make a comment on how you pull his truck into its spot rather than backing it in, only grumbling when you don't immediately give him your hand during the walk toward the apartment complex.

His chin falls onto your shoulder the moment the elevator doors close.

"Still feeling weird?" You ask, attention flicking to the mirror.

He whines, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, arms wrapping around your waist. A familiar hardness shamelessly grinds into the curve of your ass. Even the thick material of his jeans can't stop you from feeling the way he twitches, desperate for something. Anything.

Warmth rushes down into your thighs. Knees knocking together as they clamp shut, helpless to do anything but wriggle against him. His shaky exhale tickles your ear.

Something clangs overhead, but you can hardly pay it any mind. The elevator could be falling, and you still can't bring yourself to care. Too focused on twisting in his hold, bodies so close that your noses crash together.

Bob looks no better than he did while you were in the truck. Skin so clammy that he glistens in the overhead light, not quite pouring with sweat but if you give him a few minutes, that story may change.

The elevator doors open with a squeal. You move toward them. He doesn't budge.

"Bobby?" Your head tilts.

His eyes dart toward something in the hallway. You follow his gaze, but not a damn thing is there. Nothing but the same old gray carpet, dusty, decorative table, and the welcome rug sitting outside your neighbor's door.

Your alpha neighbor.

"Bobby, it's your instincts running wild," your attempt at diffusing fails to evoke the slightest reaction, "nobody is going to hurt us."

He doesn't seem to believe you. Still staring off into the hallway as if his greatest enemy is about to slink around the corner at any given moment.

You reach over his shoulder, fingertips brushing over the back of his neck. Scarred and battered from all those scruffings during basic and every other time a superior thought they caught a glimpse of defiance. Delicate, you pinch the soft skin there, but his shoulders don't loosen like they should. No, they stiffen.

His chest swells with a sharp inhale.

"It's okay," whispering, as gently as you can, "it's just me."

Hesitant, he takes a step forward. Obediently following your lead, those big blue eyes flickering back and forth across the hall as you walk down it. The apartment door is only a few steps away, off in the corner of the building, but it must take a minute or two to get him there. He's just sane enough not to fret when you let him go in exchange for digging the keys out of your pocket.

The door opens, and it's as if an invisible string snaps.

Kisses appear on the side of your neck. Crowding you through the threshold, the door slamming closed the moment you're through it. The apartment is at the same temperature it's always been at, and yet it's too damn hot in here. Feels as if you're walking into a burning room, but instead of flames licking at your skin, it's Bob's hands. Darting under your shirt, desperate to feel more of you.

"I..." Bob's voice dies in his throat. Rumbling against your nape. "I..."

It's too easy, letting him pull that thin piece of material over your head, your back finding its way up against the wall. The meeting, your friends, the buzzing of your cell phone in your back pocket, none of it matters. Only the press of Bob's lips against yours, how his body slots against yours, built for this and this alone.

He's everywhere. His lips are crashing into yours, and his hands are creeping up your naked back, and the bulge in his jeans is pressing against your hip, and, and—

It's so much.

Fuck, it's so much.

"Bob," you find yourself gasping, aimlessly uttering his name as if it can quench the fire beneath your skin. "Bobby..."

He whines at that. Rumbling against your mouth and down your spine, rattling through you like a shockwave. Your fists gather the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Deeper. Draws a surprised groan right out of his throat, caught off guard but making no move to stop you.

His hips roll into yours once more, all too eager for something, anything. Your thigh slots between his, pushing up just enough and...

"Shit," he's swearing under his breath, so quiet that you hardly hear it.

Your impatient hands tug at his shirt. The kiss only breaks long enough for you to yank it over his head, taking his glasses with it. They the floor with a painful clatter.

He makes no effort to retrieve them.

Neither can you because he's back in your space within an instant, his lips stealing your breath away as if it has belonged to him all along. He tastes like coffee and the honey biscuit he scarfed down on the way to the meeting, so warm and sweet that it's like kissing a bakery instead of a man.

Something in your lower stomach clenches. So upset over the overwhelming sensation of being empty that it begins to cramp, a wave of slick rushing to ease the ache.

Bob's moving, and it's all you can do to throw your arms over his shoulders and hang on. Following blindly as he backs you through the bedroom door, feet stumbling blindly. Back, back, back, guided by the pressure of his hands and the bump of his chest against yours.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, crumpling out from beneath you.

Your ass hits the bed. Vision swimming as you try to regain focus.

That soft belly is right in front of you. Pale and dusted with freckles, the thin layer of fat concealing the muscle that lurks beneath. You just can't help yourself, greedily leaning in and kissing a fading hickey. One of your hands finds its way to the tent in his jeans, pressing softly.

Bob sucks in a breath. Jerking. "Hurts."

"I'm gonna take care of you," you say it as if you've got yourself together. You don't. "I promise."

The button to his jeans pops open without the slightest resistance, zipper racing down the tracks at a record pace. He's too quick to help. Hands colliding with yours as you both yank at the hem of them, pulling his pants and his boxers down in one go, sloppy as it might be. His cock springs free without warning, the flushed tip nearly hitting your cheek as you try to help him pull the fabric past his thighs.

Once they're past his knees, you can no longer reach them.

Your eyes dart to the bottle of lube sitting on the bedside table. With the heat between your legs, you're almost certain that you won't need it, but you're squirming across the bed anyway, rolling onto your belly, arm outstretched, reaching for it. Your fingers wiggle, catching on the side. The bottle spins across the table, right into your grasp.

Hands appear on your hips, dipping beneath your waistband.

"Hey!" You squeal, but it's too late. He's already tugging your pants down, too, pulling you across the sheets in the process. Your phone pops out of the pocket, landing next to you.

"Sorry," but those half-lidded eyes and his lazy grin imply that he's definitely not sorry, already hovering over top of you. There's barely enough room for you to roll onto your back, caged between his shivering arms.

Funny, you'd always presumed alphas to fall under the same old, aggressive stereotype once their rut started, but this one...he's anything but. Pink in the face, pressing soft kisses against your cheek, almost entirely himself.

Whether or not he hears you uncapping the lube, you don't know, but he doesn't react to it in the slightest.

"Ah—!" He does react when your dripping hand wraps around his heavy cock, spreading cold lubricant across him without so much as a warning.

His knot is hardly there, nothing but a slight bump at his base, as it should have been this whole time. You reckon that something about his rut finally kicked his hormones into gear.

Your hand is hardly doing anything special. Simple strokes to spread the sticky substance across him, thumb swiping over his head once, twice, drawing little whimpers past his lips with every motion. Sensitive and so wrapped up in the feeling that he doesn't realize that you're surging up off the bed. Pushing him over, your leg swinging out to straddle his hips.

Those wide eyes draw a giggle out of you. "Dummy."

It's so easy, reaching between your thighs and taking hold of his weeping cock, guiding it up until his tip slips through your folds, nudging against your clit and all. Ugh, you've missed this feeling.

"You're..." Bob sucks in a trembling breath, eyes flickering from your face to the sight of his cock nuzzled against your cunt. "You're sure?"

"Are you?" Mirroring him. You've already made your intentions loud and clear.

He nods before he can find his voice. "Uhuh."

"Then so am I," and before either of you can begin to conjure up a response, you're sinking down on him.

A sudden pressure appears at your entrance, an ache already arising from your severe lack of interest in stretching yourself for him. It's a dizzying kind of burn that has your body shuddering, taking his cock head in with a soft 'pop' that ought to make your heart stop.

"Jesus," Bob's hands fly up to your hips, squeezing tight, "fuck."

There's just something about hearing him swear that gets your head spinning, fighting to keep your body upright as you take him inch by delirious inch. Not obscenely thick, but enough to already be rubbing against those little hidden nerves. It's not fair. He has no right to have your thighs tremoring before you've even taken him halfway.

Your hands fall forward, bracing yourself against his heaving chest. The feeling of the pitter-patter of his heart beneath your palms isn't doing much to help you either, beating at his chest like a caged animal.

But your ass is settling into his lap, and you're too damn full to remain up in your head much longer. Fuck, you can't breathe. Lungs tight as if you've run out of room, forced to pant for air that you can't possibly hang onto.

Already, Bob's hips roll up, unable to keep himself from squirming beneath you. His hands roam up your sides, idly touching, as if to make sure that you're really here. That you're not a figment of his rut-clouded mind.

"So pretty," he babbles, sounds absolutely awe-struck, "you're so pretty."

"You're just saying that because I'm riding you," teasing, a little smile emerging onto your face as you draw yourself up.

"No, I'm—mmh!" His head falls backward, thunking against the pillow.

This...this is something. You've hardly even drawn yourself up an inch, and he's already whining about it, his hands squeezing your sides once more, hanging on tight as you sink back down on him.

It's on the second attempt that your breath hitches, stars sparkling in your vision as he rubs against a particular bundle of nerves. An experience nearly identical to any of the other times his cock has been in you, but something...something is different here. You don't recall feeling a sudden gush of slick, reacting to an extreme.

He should have quit taking those suppressants sooner.

You're drawing yourself up quicker now, clinging to his chest as you try to find your pace. Something quick enough to get what you want but shallow enough to avoid wearing yourself out before you've even gotten close. But it's so hard to remain rational when he's downright nailing that little spot, cock head kissing it over and over and over.

Bobby's hips jump up once more, meeting you halfway. His whine intertwines with yours, dancing about the room and through the walls. You hope the neighbors aren't home because you don't have the strength to quiet him down. Not when he sounds so pretty.

"Darlin'," his head rolls back and forth, blinking rapidly, "darlin', I..."

A beat passes. He doesn't finish that thought.

"Hm?" Fighting to keep your eyes open, "talk to me, Bob."

You're using workplace phrases in the bedroom again.

But his eyes only scrunch shut. So tight that his nose wrinkles with it. "I don't know."

On its own volition, your hand darts out; he meets you halfway, fingers lacing together as you push them onto the bed. It's a motion that forces you to lean forward, such a subtle change in angle, but—

"There," you blurt it as if you're not the one in charge here. Heat rushes up your belly, burning high into your throat, smoke clouding your vision.

You're babbling something, but you just can't hear it. Control crumbling like a house of cards, impossible to rebuild as your hips quicken, chasing the delicious pressure of his cock against your nerves. Cunt clenching around him like a vice, every little motion punctuated by an obscenely wet noise that you're only vaguely aware of.

It's a sudden growl that rips you back into reality. Bobby's short fangs sink into his shivering bottom lip, pretty blue eyes glassy as he bats his lashes up at you.

"Huh?" Freezing in your tracks. Is there something...did you do something that he doesn't like?

He's pushing himself up, suddenly all too close. "Wanna roll over."

The room is spinning before you can even realize what he's just said. Back hitting the soft mattress, a familiar weight settling atop your chest. Arms brace on either side of your head, already finding his favorite position.

Your newly empty hand darts up. Grasping at his wrist until your fingers lace together once more, his weight pinning them into the sheets. You haven't the slightest clue how he stayed inside of you, but he's already beginning to move, and your shaking legs are coiling behind him, and—

"There!" It rips out of you so suddenly that you think you sound akin to a wounded animal. Little shocks jump up your core, pussy fluttering around him. "There, there..."

His hips move a little harder, properly jostling you beneath him, rubbing into those little nerves once more. "Jus' like this?"

All you can do is nod, tongue limp in your mouth.

Bob's leaning closer, his nose nuzzling against yours, hardly an inch of space left between your heaving bodies. The slight swell of his knot catches on your entrance, such a sudden thing that it rips the air out of your lungs, fighting to keep your legs hitched around his waist. All it's doing is drawing him up against where you crave his touch most, growing impossibly wet from the feel of his knot alone.

A stray squeezes out from the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek and leaping down to hit your nose. His lips crash into yours before you can begin to ask about it. A soft intertwining that makes your thoughts swirl together until they've blended into a constant, incessant murmuring. Bob. Bob. Bob.

"Bobby?" It slips out before you've realized it, and if your voice itself could echo a word, you have no doubt that a hundred incantations of his name would be tumbling out your parted lips.

His whine cuts through the air.

"Feels good," he gasps, speaking against your lips, making no effort to pull away any more than he has to. "Feels...it's so—mmh."

There's no possible way to keep himself quiet, his whimpers so distracting that you hardly notice the ones coming out of your own mouth. Your unoccupied hand rises, shaking with the heavy thump of your heart as it settles against his cheek.

As if it's come alive, your back twitches up off the bed, legs squeezing around his bony hips, a wildfire rushing across your skin. Head swimming with the noise that is Bob Floyd and the incessant nudge of his growing knot rubbing against that sweet little spot. It's so new and it's so much, and, and it's got spots decorating your vision. Patches of black fading in and out, like you're about to faint.

His knot catches on its way out of you. So big that it doesn't slip back in on the next pass, merely pressing into your pussy once, twice, three times.

You don't feel it coming.

One moment you're fine, and the next, your eyes are rolling, cumming without warning, as his knot finally pops inside of you. Quaking with the force of it, ears ringing so loud that you can hardly hear Bob's cry as he cums inside of you. Knot swelling to its full size, locking your bodies together, his cum flooding your spasming cunt, with nowhere for it to escape.

You're only distantly aware of your back hitting the bed once more, legs slipping out from around him to fall at his sides instead. There are teeth sinking into your shoulder, and your heart is pounding against your chest, lungs burning for a breath you've gone too long without.

The first inhale grounds you. Brings you down from the ceiling and back into his arms.

The second rips every ounce of strength from your body. All too limp beneath Bobby and his crushing weight that has long since settled on top of you.

"I love you," his words are jumbled together, so unintelligible that you hardly realize what he's saying.

It must take a minute or two for you to squeeze his sweaty hand, still linked with yours. "I love you too."

There's no way that you'll be separating any time soon, not with his knot pulsing inside of your poor pussy, stretched to a limit you didn't know you had. Even when his phone dings from the other room, there's nothing he can do about it. How cruel nature is, forcing you to lie here and accept his snuggling advances. Barbaric, even.

"This..." Bob hums, kissing at your jaw, "feels so damn weird."

Idle, your arm loops around his shoulders, hand greedily delving into his hair. "Tell me about it. If you cum any more, I think I might pop."

Your giggles melt into yawns; whoever said that sex was a quick and easy thing clearly wasn't doing it right. The moment that Bob gets his head comfortable, his nose nuzzled beneath your ear, you know that you've lost him. Frankly, you're not far from it, either, already beginning to fight back another yawn.

But your brain isn't on the same page because while your body is already sinking further into the bed, growing heavier by the second, your thoughts are racing a mile a minute. Maverick. The prescription suppressants sitting on the dresser, waiting for the day that the Navy requires you to start taking them again, for the sake of efficiency and making the job easier for all parties.

You don't understand it.

Why does the Navy prioritize scrubbing you of alpha, beta, and omega statuses? What's the point of soap designed to strip your scent glands when all it does is make you so much more sensitive to the variety of scents out there? Was the endless scruffing from your superiors really meant to 'build character'? Or was it just a bunch of insecure superiors desperate to make themselves feel in charge?

Bobby should have known whether he was alpha, omega, or beta over ten years ago. Why is it that you and he have been medicated to high hell while Maverick has walked around for the better half of thirty years without being given a single fucking pill to take? He's exactly what the Navy preaches about; a hot-headed, cocky alpha who gets so invested in instinct that he hurts his team.

God, fuck, his fangs aren't even formed properly. Short and stunted from the lack of hormones, not an ounce of threat to them, no matter how many times he may try to flash them.

Your eyes dart to your cell phone, resting on the unoccupied side of the bed.

It's barely within reach, but it's nothing that a little stretching won't resolve. Heavy in your hand as you type in the passcode and navigate toward an app, resting in the far right corner. The screen turns black.

A beat passes.

Then, a second.

And a third.

The camera opens, little squares dancing across the screen as it scans your irises. A microphone crosses the screen. Your name tumbles off your tongue.

Finally, it opens. A crudely built messenger app, a myriad of texts flooding in as it loads. Javy. Natasha. Jake. Rueben. Bob. Mickey. Three other familiar names that you cannot be bothered to read. All you care about is finding a contact by the name of Admin, and pressing the call button.

As the dial tone sounds, Bob's head lifts, sleepy eyes flickering up to meet with yours. Doesn't need to look at the phone to understand what you're doing. It's a call he made when Admiral Cain left a mark on your wrist. The same number Bradley dialed when Cyclone started that brawl with Jake.

Bob's just beginning to settle back into the crook of your neck when someone picks up.

"Who hit him?"

You know that voice. You know what happened the last time you called. But for once in your life, you've forgotten how to feel hesitant about the words that are about to leave your mouth.

"They call him Maverick."

#fic recs

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