#but why isn’t there someone from medical on each team?

[autistic-danieljackson]

Another hilarious thing about Daniel being part of the team is that it set the precedent for having archaeologists on SG teams but no medical personnel for some reason

[charliemwrites]

Squeak 'Em If You Got 'Em

You belong to Task Force 141. Task Force 141 belongs to Captain Price. It's simple math - but math was never your strong suit.

Original AO3 Link

Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternizing (therefore, power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

It’s your first mission with the 141. Well – your first mission with the whole squad.

You’ve completed assignments with Ghost and Soap, Gaz and Ghost, Soap and Gaz. A little intel gathering here; a terrorist assassination there. Things to build your confidence and the team’s confidence in you.

This is the first time you’ve been trusted with a Big Kid Operation. And it’s gone to absolute shit.

Not by any fault of your own. You’ve been sharp, responsive to your superiors’ commands. Hauled Gaz out from under a burning car with Ghost’s vicious scope covering you. When everyone else was breathing off the mad dash to the safehouse, you were still on your feet, doing triage. Price even patted your head before sending you off for a powernap.

It’s not clear what went wrong, or where. Hitting a base trying to flush out a Big Bad expected to be elsewhere, only for the guy to be there with his own small army. Too many men on their side, too few bullets on yours. Almost got massacred but managed to eke out an escape with some well-placed and impromptu bombs from Soap. Intel was wrong, someone was tipped off, plans were changed – doesn’t matter what happened, just that it did.

Your boys are pissed off, battered and scraped, all cramped together in a dingy safehouse only a little bigger than a barrack. Everyone is running low on patience. Gaz is ginger from multiple burns. You suspect Ghost has a microfracture in his leg. Soap is mildly concussed and grumpy about missing out on shuteye. Even you’re a little bristly, worn down from everyone else’s bad mood.

And then there’s the captain.

When you rouse from your doze, Soap and Gaz are hovering nearby, muttering sullenly about Price’s piss-poor mood. “Right crabbit” as Soap put it.

You suspect why.

(“Not going to say it’s bad for me?” Price gruffs.

You don’t look up from your treatment reports. “It is bad for you.”

“You’re not going to tell me I should quit.” He’s not asking this time.

You flick your eyes up, unimpressed. “Would you listen if I did?”

He huffs, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he blows cigar smoke out the open window. Pointedly. You don’t quite roll your eyes, but turning back to your charts is as good as.

“We all have our vices, cap.”

“That so?” he muses. “What’s yours, lamb?”

You. “Insane amounts of morphine.”)

Nicotine withdrawals are a hell of a thing. This mission wasn’t supposed to last as long as it has, but supposed isn’t worth fuck all right now. Gaz isn’t supposed to have second degree burns on his arms. Ghost isn’t supposed to be limping when he thinks no one is looking.

Bottom line is this: you’re all vacuum sealed in a little cement box and Captain Price didn’t bring any cigars. And it’s making everything worse.

Sighing, you rouse yourself from the corner you curled up in with the shock blanket. The boys quiet a little, offer you thin smiles. You appreciate the efforts and reward them with a squeeze to the shoulder each. Soap spares a whispered warning to keep out from under Price’s feet, but that’s exactly where you plan to go.

On the way, you grab a cup of water for your lieutenant, on watch at one of the windows. He’s been there for hours now. You scuff your boot to let him know you’re coming, set the cup and two paracetamols on the windowsill by his rifle, left side.

“Should save it for the others.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job, sir.”

He doesn’t look up from the scope. You notice his hand twitch from the corner of your eye as you walk away.

Your captain is standing in the open door at the front of the safehouse – opposite side of where Ghost is posted. He tilts his head to acknowledge your approach but doesn’t speak until you’re already at his elbow.

“Last time, sergeant, I’m not injured,” he rumbles. His voice is rough from too little use and too many bitten back curses.

“I know, sir,” you say, erring on the side of deferent. You’d bugged him about it a lot earlier, afraid to nod off with your captain potentially wounded and in pain. Know you made a bit of a nuisance of yourself, jittery on the tail-end of a bullet too close to his head.

“Why the fuck are you up, then?” he demands.

“Everyone else is up,” you answer, simple and nonconfrontational.

He grunts. Slides a glance your way and catches whatever expression you’re making. Seems to realize he’s being an ass, and sighs. His shoulders only seem to tense more though, leashing in his unusual temper. You wait another moment, obtrusive because you’re being quiet. Wait until he finally looks at you properly.

“Sleep alright, Squeaks?”

His tone is milder now, you might even detect threads of an apology woven in there somewhere.

You don’t quite smile, but you know your expression warms. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t bother telling me I should try it myself,” he warns, but it lacks the heat it had a moment ago.

“No, sir,” you agree. Then offer up the blister pack.

“The hell is that?” he squints.

“Gum.”

“Trying to say something?”

You roll your eyes, turn them out the open door. “Nicotine gum, Captain Muppet.”

There’s a beat of silence, then a sputter as he decides if he wants to ream you out or give you a commendation. You don’t look at him, spare his pride (and yourself from his temper) as you tuck your free hand behind your back.

“Fuck, Squeaks,” he sighs, swiping it from your patient fingers.

You wait until he’s popped two pieces and started crunching before offering the patches next, side-eyeing him.

“The gum is just something for your brain,” you explain. “These are what will actually take the edge off.”

“Christ, you’re an angel. Should have called you that instead of Squeaks.”

You snort. “Whose fault is that?”

He narrows his eyes at you, but it’s with better humor than he’s had since the transport in.

“Soap’s, last I checked.”

You hum, lean your hip into the doorframe. Can’t let yourself look at him again because you know you’ll blush like a schoolgirl. It’s an embarrassing and increasingly frequent risk around your captain. Because of your captain.

A good man – you’re starting to think one of the best men you’ve ever met. A better leader – definitely the best you’ve ever had. John Price is larger than life and all you want to do is bask in the safety of the massive shadow he casts. Like seeking shelter from a hot day.

You’ve gotten shy, praying that you can reside in that shadow without drawing the attention of the noble creature it comes from. Not because you’re afraid, but because you wouldn’t know what to do with it. Don’t know what to do with it. Still crave it, though.

It wasn’t like this, at first. Not sitting in his office, your file on the desk between you two. A fresh transfer with nerves shot on too little sleep and too many questions, asking your new captain why you were there at all.

Staring out into the small hours of another Hell Day, you puzzle out where it changed.

Maybe that first proud grin when you got brave enough to start asking the right – real – questions at the end of that introductory meeting.

Maybe when your fellow sergeants dragged you to breakfast dark and early the next morning, singing praises of the 141’s COs at your gentle probing.

Maybe it was that hair ruffle after debriefing your first official mission, Ghost reporting that you’d done well.

Or it was the pack of sour candies he dropped in your lap during movie night. Or the shoulder squeeze as he guided you through a tough knife maneuver. Or the sympathy on his face when you nearly cried over paperwork last week.

But no, wait. You know what it was.

A break during sparring practice sometime that first month. You were sitting against the wall, nursing a sore wrist with a cold pack. Price was posted up next to you, just quietly in your space. Almost like he was desensitizing you to his presence.

You’d been groping for something to say, uncharacteristically longing to bridge some of that gap between you and your CO. There had been no ice to break with Gaz and Soap, just the two of them cannonballing into your friendship. And Ghost – well, it’s hard to keep feeling terrified of a guy whose glove got caught on the lace of your underwear two days ago because of an unfortunate tumble and loosened drawstrings.

But you’d seen the way Price interacted with them. The fond if sometimes exasperated sighs at your fellow sergeants. The brotherly exchange of glances with Ghost. You wanted that too. To belong to the 141, not just part of it. And that had to start with Price.

“Your physical is coming up, sir,” you landed on. Wanted to drop your head in your hands. Not your best.

Price didn’t quite groan, but his grimace was loud. He didn’t turn away from the sparring mats where Ghost was beating the stuffing out of Gaz and Soap simultaneously. It was like he hoped that if he didn’t look at you, you’d magically forget your duties.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice it coming up?” you asked, mustering a teasing tone.

He grumbled noncommittally. You took that as a yes. (You’d been correct.)

“There’s four of you, sir,” you reminded. “I have your vaccination records memorized already.”

He huffed, ran a hand down his face, ended with a scratch to the facial hair at his jaw.

“How about this, sergeant,” he began. “You take my word that I’m fit as a fiddle, and I tell Soap to stop calling you Squeaks.”

Soap had just coined it that day; there was still a chance it wouldn’t stick. You sucked in a breath. “Sir. That’s just cruel. You need your physical.”

“Pain in the ass, they are.” He faltered, shot you a wary look. “Sometimes literally.”

“Nope, it’ll just be a normal check-up,” you laughed.

“The deal is still on the table, sergeant.”

“What was it you said that first day?” you asked, arching an eyebrow. Getting brave enough to let something like a personality shine through your training. “I ‘know how to get the job done’? Something about me being ‘unafraid to pull medical override’ when needed?”

“Alright, alright watch it,” he grumbled. You didn’t think there was any real heat in it. (There hadn’t been.) “Insubordinate little shit.”

“Tomorrow morning, then? Or would you prefer the afternoon to prepare yourself?” At his narrow look and knowing you could be pushing your luck, added a smug little, “Sir.”

“Right then,” he sighed, pushing himself up.

You blinked as he stood – blinked again when he winked at you.

“I’ll see you at 0700 tomorrow, Sergeant Squeaks,” he said, loud enough to catch the boys’ attention.

You yelped indignantly, felt your cheeks flush first at the noise and then at the wicked grin he sent you. Christ, that smile needed a license.

“Ah, that’ll be the nickname, then,” he mused, nodding to himself. “Ta.”

He exited to the sound of Soap whooping and Gaz laughing. You sat, shocked and betrayed, open-mouthed, until Ghost called you back to the mat.

Yes, yes that was it.

The warmth in your chest and persistent fluttering in your gut. The way that wink-and-grin combination made your head spin for hours afterwards. That first precious glimmer of really belonging.

After all, you don’t mind the nickname. It’s apt enough. Deserved given how you squeal when Ghost flings you across the mat by your belt, or when Gaz scoops you up around the ribs and hauls you about like cheap luggage. More imaginative than the “doc,” “sergeant,” or simply your last name that all your previous squads used.

“I’d offer a penny for your thoughts, but yours look like they cost a pound,” Price says.

You don’t quite startle, still too keyed in on the mission for that. But it jerks you from your musings, abrupt but not unwelcome. No use dwelling on your increasingly fluffy feelings for your captain. At least not here and now. Maybe in the shower back on base, where the feelings are allowed to be more than just fluffy.

“Too rich for your blood, cap?” you ask.

“You’d make me a poor man if I let you.”

Your grin has no right to be so bright given the circumstances.

“Squeaks!” Soap calls, a little whiny. “Can I have a vomit pill?”

“For fuck’s sake, Soap, if you don’t quit your whinging—” Ghost snarls.

Because you’re already looking at him, you see the way Price’s mouth goes tight, eyes closing as he gathers patience. You pat his arm, smooth a thumb over the synthetic of the nicotine patch – telling yourself that you’re just checking it’s flat.

“I’ve got it, sir. Take a minute?”

“I’ve had a minute.”

Brooding into the darkness doesn’t count, as you’ve told Ghost several times already.

“When was the last time you had something to eat?” you try instead.

He doesn’t answer – which is all you need. You tug a meal replacement bar from your vest pocket and tuck it into his hand.

“Like I said, I got it, sir.”

You blink at him one last time, a wordless entreaty to stay, eat. Then turn on your heel and return to your boys.

Ghost and Soap are scowling at each other. Gaz is slumped in the middle, looking about ready to tear his curls out. You make a detour to your bag to grab the peacemaking supplies, then fearlessly enter the fray. It’s shocking, really, that you’re not vaporized for stepping in the middle of their death glares.

“Here,” you say, dropping a Dramamine and a pack of pretzels into Soap’s lap. “Drink with water.”

You say it every time because they have no regard for their esophagus or stomach linings. Soap, defused for the moment, salutes you with a tip of his half-finished water bottle. You bite back a chastisement that he isn’t further along with it.

Gaz is next. He’s been chugging water dutifully, keeping his arms elevated and still, otherwise. His bandages are clean and dry from when you dressed them earlier. You know he’s hurting something awful and will be for a while yet. Wish you could do more, apart from generic pain meds.

You give him a bag of animal crackers and pat his leg as you turn to your last patient. Ghost glares at you.

“Already gave me the damn meds,” he growls. They’re gone now and the cup of water is empty.

“Let me take watch for a bit?” you reply. “Elevate your leg, put a cold pack on it.”

He frowns, considers. Clearly wants to say no. There has been no sign of hostiles since you all holed up, though. You’re just waiting for the coast to be clear enough for Laswell to send evac.

You’re about to say as much, but his eyes flicker over your shoulder. Maybe it’s occurring to him as well.

“Fine. You remember what I taught you.” It’s not a question because it’s not an option. Ghost has been relentless about sniper training. Says your steady hands and cool head make good assets.

“Yes, sir,” you say.

You don’t offer a hand out of the chair, know he’d sooner break it. But Soap sidles up to offer a shoulder (that he accepts) and you take his seat without another word.

Four hours later, Laswell sends word that Nik is on the way. Price looks saner than he has for the past day. He gives you a grateful nod and squeezes the back of your neck when you ask if the nicotine supplements helped. You board the helo and feel especially warm when he leans his thigh into yours.

Sparring, you decided a while ago, is your personal hell. That opinion hasn’t changed.

You can’t pin a single one of them. Ghost is a demonic trainer, barking instructions when he’s not tossing you around the mat himself.

Guard up, Sergeant. Leg back, Sergeant. Don’t let him overwhelm you, Sergeant, he’s a muppet.

Each time, you haul yourself up and try again. Get knocked around like a human pinball in a crack-fueled arcade machine for the effort, but you try. Price says you need experience and practice. So, you nut up and get practice and experience under Ghost’s watchful eye. Even if it means you probably need your own medic now.

It’s worse today. You think the boys might be a little high-strung because of your last mission. A hostile surprised you, knocked the pistol from your hands and took you to the ground. You managed to stab the guy – nearly gutted him, according to Soap – but it was the closest call you’ve had since joining the 141. Too close for them, you suspect.

Their response has been to train you harder, to be sure it’s not so close next time. You appreciate the sentiment, really you do, but damn if you’re not suffering from their particular brand of fussing.

At some point, you get dropped on your ass and just lay there, staring up at the ceiling. It’s not more than two heavy breaths before a skull mask peeks over you. Like the devil himself just watched you get drop kicked into Hell.

“I hate it here,” you groan.

“That so?” Ghost asks.

Opposite him, Soap’s mohawk pokes into view, a goofy grin plastered across his face. He’s not even sweating.

“Ach, don’ look so torn-faced, wee chook.”

You blink. Squint. Blink again.

“LT, how hard did you hit me?”

“English, MacTavish.”

Soap rolls his eyes and puts on an accent violently wavering between obnoxious American and obnoxious British. “Don’t look so sad, small chicken.”

You swipe at his leg – get him in the calf with two knuckles.

“Ow, fuck!”

“Hope it cramps,” you snip.

Ghost sighs, then reaches a massive hand down and hauls you up by the collar of your shirt. You consider hanging limp and defiant, but you know better than to test his patience by now. Resigned, you get your feet under you.

“Enough,” he grumbles. “Save it for the next round.”

“Oh, that’s the only hit you’re gettin’, lass.”

You hope he’s not right.

Five minutes later, you’re right back where you started, blinking at the overheads. Ghost is squatting next to you this time, apparently considerate of the knock you just took. Soap is muttering about your “stupid little hands” hitting him on pressure points somewhere nearby. You wish you had the energy to be smug that you made his arm go numb.

“Feel like that last round was personal for some reason,” you wheeze.

“Only got yourself to blame, Squeaks,” Ghost replies.

Wishing a cramp upon Soap was a little cruel, you’ll admit. Can’t help that you’re mildly frustrated that after months assigned here, you’re still barely able to hold your own against any other member of the 141.

Also, you can’t believe he called you a chicken.

“No, no I think I can blame Price for this,” you say.

“What was that, sergeant?”

You yelp and jolt upright, thankful that you’re already flushed from exertion. Price is standing at the edge of the mats, arms crossed, eyebrows arched. It’s not fair that he looks that attractive in cargos and a plain tan undershirt. Especially when you can tell you’re about to get your ass handed to you again.

“Sir,” you start. Wish Ghost would strike you down like the grim reaper knock-off he is. He’s not merciful enough to put you out of your misery. “I was just saying, um…”

Nothing is forthcoming and Price doesn’t wait for you to scrounge together any excuses.

“Right, then, Squeaks,” Price says, stepping forward, “let’s give you a chance to take out your frustrations, since you have them.”

Oh, you do. Just not any that should be worked out in the gym… or with an audience. (Or your captain, but that goes beyond saying. You’re well past that qualm by now.)

“Great,” you mumble as Ghost once again yanks you up like a particularly awkward kitten. “The whole squad gets a turn.”

Gaz chokes on water over Price’s shoulder. To the side, there’s a mysterious noise similar to a strangled goose as Soap turns away, ears bright red. It’s only when you hear Ghost’s quiet huff that you realize what you’ve said.

Christ.

“Lieutenant, would you—”

“No.”

“Damn.” Worth a try.

And so you trudge to the center of the sparring ring, shaking your hands out to dispel the nerves.

You’ve never sparred your captain before. He’s been running drills aplenty with you and the rest of the boys, of course. But Ghost has been the one in charge of your training, getting you up to snuff with the rest of the team. Gaz and/or Soap are almost always there as well, for bonding and encouragement.

Price, however, hardly has the time to join your sparring practices – nor does he really seem inclined to participate. When he is there, it’s usually just to supervise and offer advice. You’ve never asked, always just figured he’s too busy to risk an accidental concussion.

“C’mon then, sergeant,” he goads, nodding you forward. “Take a swing.”

“No,” you reply.

You know better by now.

“This’ll be good for you,” Gaz calls. “Need practice with someone new.”

You don’t respond, keeping your eyes on Price’s center mass. Another lesson Ghost taught you – the hard way.

“Need to get more comfortable with our dear Cap anyway,” Soap adds. “Nothing cozies up mates like a sweaty row.”

You twitch against the urge to turn and glare at him. Little shit. You’re plenty comfortable with your captain by now. Any further and you’re risking inappropriate behavior.

“That’ll do,” Ghost snaps.

Price huffs softly at them but never takes his eyes off you. There’s a beat of heavy silence, you feel the pressure of incoming action on your shoulders. Then he lunges at you—

And you decide in short order that you wish you’d never been transferred to the 141, never joined the military, never been born. Price fights like a machine. Brutal, efficient, ruthless. Less savage than Ghost but terrifying in new and nightmare-inducing ways.

“Easy does it, lamb. There’s a dear.”

He settles you onto the bench, barks at Gaz to bring you a cold pack and water. You just try not to fall over, still blinking spots from your vision. Probably not a concussion, but you’re in for a hell of a bruise later. Your vision finally focuses on Price, crouching in front of you, eyes so soft for a man that just gave you three consecutive heart attacks.

“Ring your bell a bit, did I?” he teases.

“If I get my bell rung any more it’s gonna be an alarm,” you mumble.

Gaz jogs up with the ice pack and your stupidly bright pink water bottle. The latter gets nudged into your hand. You sip at it while Price pops the internal water bag and shakes it. When you lower your bottle again, Gaz is already gone.

 “Chin up, sergeant, you’re making progress,” Price says, offering you the cold pack.

You sigh, set it against your smarting cheek and temple, one eye closing against the temperature difference. Drop your gaze to your free hand, still tightly wrapped to protect the fine bones and thin skin.

“I can’t win against any of you,” you mutter, trying not to pout.

“You will.” He says it like he gives orders, so sure that it’s going happen that he doesn't consider there to be an alternative. “Just need to get out of your own head.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, brow furrowing.

A gentle nudge under your chin draws your gaze up to his. A silent command to listen, this is important. You’re helpless to do anything but obey.

“You let yourself get intimidated, convince yourself that you’re going to lose so you miss openings to get a win. We’re not invincible, Squeaks. If some sack of shit out there can get a hit on us, so can you.”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, considering that.

It’s so easy to put them on a pedestal. They’re the 141. The four-man army (five-people, now) top brass sends in when they want shit done. Even you, a perpetually sleep deprived combat medic with more caffeine than blood, had heard of them before your transfer. Usually from patients waxing semi-delirious poetic about their badassery, but that’s beside the point.

You’ve been with them long enough now, seen enough of them, to parse facts from gossip.

Ghost is a terrifying badass with a penchant for wicked blades. But he also likes tea with too much sugar, watches nature documentaries with you at 2am, and once cursed a blue streak over a papercut.

Soap is indeed a pyromantic demolitions expert that can set anything on fire if he tries hard enough. He’s got one of the fastest clearing times in the military. That said, you’ve banned dog-themed movies because they make him cry, play doodling games when he’s bored, and could talk for hours about different types of coffee.

Gaz is brilliant with any gun he gets a hand on, a marksman to rival Ghost, with a head for strategy and tactics that makes your own spin. You’ve also helped him hide a cat on base for the past two weeks and learned how to crochet from him.

And Price. Price is everything they say he is, through and through. He’d a leader at his core, watching out for all of you no matter the time or place. He’s bedrock, the foundation you’ve all built yourselves upon, the reason the 141 is the catastrophic force it is.

But just last week you had to stitch his bicep together because some asshole with a blade got a lucky swipe.

“I want to do right by you all,” you whisper.

It keeps you up some nights, the weight of your position on this team. Not just because of what they are, but who they are. You care about your boys far more than you care about casting a shadow to match theirs

“You are,” Price says. Sets a large, strong hand on your knee and squeezes gently. “I wouldn’t send you out there if I didn’t think you could watch out for yourself and them. I know it’s hard for you to see, but you’re improving.”

You’re not a real doctor. You’re a combat medic; the first tenant of your creed isn’t to do no harm. It’s that you can’t fix someone else if you’re already broken.

“Thank you… Price,” you murmur.

The smile he rewards you with could fucking melt you. You duck your head, clear your throat.

“I should get back to it, then,” you say.

“No, you’re done for the day.”

“But—” Your mouth clicks shut at the look he gives you.

“Up you get, Squeaks.”

You stand, still holding the icepack to your face. At his gesture, you offer your free hand to allow him to unwrap it. He does so in methodical, hypnotic movements. Quiet, focused. His hands are so much bigger than yours, and rougher. Mind, you have your own callouses, but sweating in nitrile gloves half the day tends to soften them.

When he finishes the first, you switch, giving him the other hand. As he does, he calls out to the boys.

“Squeaks is coming with me, so don’t do anything too stupid.”

“Aw, but sir!” Soap whines.

“Let them be, Johnny,” Ghost interrupts, shaking his head.

Price lets you scurry off to the locker room for a rinse and change of clothes. When you emerge ten minutes later, he nods for you to follow him, and you dutifully fall in line. It’s quiet between you two, but not the awkwardness of when you first joined. Outside, he heads to the left instead of the right, meaning the destination is his office.

“Sir, I have paper—”

“Already waiting for you. C’mon, Squeaks.”

You puff your cheeks at him sullenly, but only because he’s not looking.

“Bossy,” you chide.

“’S what they pay me for.”

And he’s so good at it, too.

You’ll never tell him why, but you love his office. It’s quiet, cool – except for the patch of sunlit couch under the window, where you like to curl up when the AC gets to you. Price keeps it neat and tidy, but there are personal touches everywhere. A picture of the 141 before you joined, his hat on the edge of the desk, a few milling medals in little clear cubes on his bookshelf. It smells like a humidor, but your brain has been rewired to have a positive association with cigar smoke.

It's better than your “office.” Little more than a converted storage nook in one of the clinic’s procedure rooms, outfitted with a counter, cabinets, computer, and rolling stool. You use it for its intended purpose sometimes, but mostly it’s where you stash your personal supplies – funny plasters, candies, meal replacements, extra balaclavas, fidget toys, nicotine supplements.

It’s also where you hide to cry, but no one needs to know about that except the “hang in there” kitten poster.

Most times that you need to do paperwork without disruption, you come to Price. Er, his office.

You like to work with company and Price is usually buried under his own mountain of red tape, listening to whatever radio station has caught his fancy for the day. Usually some form of classical or jazz, sometimes dad-rock when he’s in an especially good mood. He’ll sacrifice a portion of his desk and let you fill out your charts and forms and happily receives your mission reports right on time.

Today, a stack is waiting where you usually work – to his left side, on the short end of the desk. You won’t be able to see his computer or any confidential documents on screen. He’d have to work hard to see any private information on your side. He’s even left a pen – your favorite one that you swear you’re going to steal, a smooth black ballpoint that doesn’t skip or smear.

Price nudges a chair out for you. You drop into it with a sigh, easing the ice pack away from your face.

“You broken?” he asks, closer than you expect.

When you glance up, he’s right there. Right in front of you, down on one knee. The fabric of his jeans is taught over the swell of hard muscle in his thighs. Even like this he seems to dwarf you, broad shouldered and just… larger than life. You’re a little lightheaded with the scent of him, cologne and cigars and clean linen. Don’t even care that he’s the reason your face hurts in the first place.

“Don’t think so.” But he’s already reaching. You let him.

His fingertips are searing hot as they caress over the cold skin of your cheek. A brush so soft it tingles instead of hurting. Your next breath shudders as he applies gentle pressure, prodding around the forming bruise.

“Didn’t mean to clock you like that.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, a purr that usually haunts you over comms but is pure sex without static to dilute it.

“Shouldn’t have gotten clocked,” you counter.

It really was your own fault. His shirt rode up a tantalizing inch, revealing the cut line of his hip. Practically a neon sign pointing here, look, you know he’s packing, you know you want to get your tongue— and then you’d received the cosmic justice of your captain’s fist.

Hopefully, the red skin from the ice pack shrouds the flush starting to fan across your face. That little sliver of skin will be burned into your mind for the next decade at least. A place of honor in Sergeant Squeaks’ Spank Bank.

“I’m not in the habit of beating down my own people,” Price rumbles.

“That why you never join?” you ask.

His gaze flickers that tiny fraction from the wound to your eyes. Something glints in them, there and gone, too fast for you to recognize. Still, the intensity of it makes your stomach flutter.

“One of the reasons.”

He stands and turns away. You swallow back disappointment at the loss – his attention is an addiction and you’re constantly craving a fix. Just as you’re wrestling your thoughts onto the much-more professional path of paperwork, he sets something down in front of you.

Chocolate, infused with 50 milligrams of caffeine.

Your mouth drops open, saliva already gathering under your tongue. Wide-eyed, your gaze bounces up to your captain, to the grin just a touch too sweet to be as mocking as he means it to be.

“You always crash after sparring,” he says. “Have a nibble before you fall asleep.”

“Thank you, sir,” you chirp, grabbing at the bar with excited hands.

“Feral little thing,” he tsks.

“You have cigars, I have caffeine.”

“And insane amounts of morphine, apparently.”

“’S what the caffeine is for.” You hum, delighted at the first touch of candy on your tongue, just the right balance of sweet and bitter. “Want some?”

He considers for a moment, head tilted, eyes flashing. Then he takes your wrist and ducks down, the click of his teeth through the chocolate loud in your shocked silence. When he straightens, his eyes find yours, glimmering in the soft lighting of his office. He doesn’t look away as he chews, swallows. Then his tongue peaks out, licking slow and deliberate across his bottom lip.

There’s going to be a wet patch on this seat by the time you leave.

You open your mouth, not sure what you’re going to say. Some one-liner that it’ll taste better from your mouth. A different one-liner that you want to see if it tastes better from his. That he’s the hottest thing you’ve ever laid eyes on in your miserable little life. That you’ll happily spend the rest of your days on your knees, between his thighs…

His phone rings.

He grunts, a dissatisfied but resigned thing as he plucks it from his pocket.

“Gotta take this. Get started, lamb.”

“Yes, sir,” you manage.

He drops a hand on top of your head as he goes around you for the door, already pressing the phone to his ear. You shouldn’t find the authoritative shift in his voice as he answers so appealing. You do anyway.

It’s only when the door closes that you feel like you can breathe again. Managing it in a way that’s somewhat normal is a challenge, but you wrangle yourself under control, thinking about anything other than how badly you want your captain.

By the time he returns, you’re already checking over lab results, making notes on a sticky-pad off to the side.

“World ending?” you ask, glancing up.

Price huffs in amusement, rewards you with one of those heart-melting smiles that crinkles his eyes a little. It’s impossible to coax out of him when he’s stressed or there’s bad news. Whatever his call was about, it doesn’t seem to be anything worrisome.

“Not just yet.”

“Damn, I was hoping I could avoid reports a little longer.”

“’Fraid not.”

A scritch to the back of your head as he passes this time, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. You hum in appreciation, lean into it a little, but don’t cause a fuss when he continues to his desk. That would be too revealing.

“Music?” he asks.

You perk up. He’s letting you pick today. “What about that classics station you found a couple weeks ago?”

He hums, glances at the window behind you. “Rain’s coming in. Sure you won’t fall asleep?”

“I’m not a toddler.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Now you’re just being hurtful, and I’ve been a perfect angel.”

He snorts, but there’s an unmistakably fond twinkle in his eyes. “Today.”

“Always! I’m the best behaved on the team.”

It’s true. Gaz and Soap are two bastard halves of the same bastard coin. And Ghost is a whole coin of his own, no matter how he pretends he’s above the sergeants’ shenanigans. It’s usually you that reminds them to keep the damage to a minimum, give the recruits a break, quit before Price hears.

“That’s not saying much,” he huffs. “Don’t think I don’t know about the cat, Squeaks.”

You blink, smiling innocently. “Cat, sir?”

He runs a hand down his face, but you clock his grin before he scrubs it away. “Right. Shut up and get to work.”

You hum and try not to look too smug. Don’t want to get kicked out just yet.

Price gets the radio started and you return to the lab results, the two of you settling into a companionable rhythm. Between Ella Fitzgerald and Price’s old-school loud-as-fuck keyboard, you have the perfect background noise to focus. The caffeine boost helps, keeps you from getting too drowsy once the rain starts pattering on the glass.

“Hey, Price?”

You’ve been slipping up lately, forgetting your formalities. Not that Price is much of a stickler for it outside of missions and official meetings. It’s a barrier you’ve tried to keep for yourself, to stop your traitorous thoughts from gaining too much traction.

He hums in question, but you wait until he’s turned from his screen to offer the paper you’ve been squinting at for the last several minutes.

“Is this an ‘a’ or a ‘d’?” you ask.

He blinks, glances at where you’re pointing. Pauses. Flicks his gaze back to you, unimpressed.

“This is your handwriting.”

“Yes.”

He sighs and gives it another look. Then sits back.

“That’s ‘o’ and ‘l’.”

“OH.”

You write over it, making the two letters more distinct. Price watches with something like dread.

“Thank you, sir!”

“Christ, Squeaks. Can’t even read your own scribbles.”

“No, but you can.”

There’s a part of you that really likes that. That he knows your handwriting better than you do, has read and deciphered enough of your reports or other notes to parse out the smallest difference between letters.

“No, I can’t. Write neater.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

You won’t.

It’s Task Force Specialty Training Day.

AKA: government-funded team bonding.

You’re not sure how Price has managed to swing it – paintball guns, paint-“grenades” (water balloons) – but you’re not about to complain. He’s passing it off as a training exercise, and you will admit there is some merit to it. Practicing teamwork as a unit and between individuals, trying out tactics and strategies.

It’s also a hell of a lot of fun.

You’ve been pairing up, one person taking a break each round with the odd number of people. Watching the showdown between Ghost-Soap and Gaz-Price was nerve-wracking and thrilling. The absolute thrashing of Gaz-Soap by Ghost-Price was downright horrifying. (Except for the part where the sergeants decided that if they couldn’t win, they’d at least go down being extra as hell, and for that you salute them.)

As for your team-ups, you’ve had mixed successes.

Ghost is a win for all three matches – you manage to pull your weight before getting taken down on two rounds, and on the last one you “survive” the whole way. Your lieutenant even fist-bumps you when it’s over, with a rare and coveted “good job” tacked on the end.

You knew teaming up with Soap would be a riot. You win two rounds with him and lose one, the latter against the formidable Ghost-Price team that you learn dominates pretty much always. The two of you don’t make it easy though. Rigging little traps, setting off red herrings, or just indiscriminately causing mayhem.

Working with Gaz proves the most mixed results. Two losses to one win – that being against Soap and Price, and only because the former lets himself be goaded into giving up their position at just the wrong time. Still, there are no hard feelings about your rocky matchups, just good-natured promises to improve together.

It’s your rounds with Price that have been the most exhilarating. You’ve never had him and only him in your ear before, growling out orders. The neat little part of your brain that’s so good at compartmentalizing has apparently decided to take a vacation today. You’ve been relentlessly horny since he purred that first “how copy.”

Thankfully, you’ve learned to adapt to operating while being attracted to your captain, so it’s not so different from any other exercise. Really, you’re hardwired to follow Price’s commands at this point, reinforced by living another day when you do.

You just don’t realize how hardwired until the last match against Soap and Ghost.

Price nods you into one of the tiny, gutted buildings through one of the windows. He’s going to circle around, try to meet you in the middle. Simple maneuver, very effective. You just have to stay “alive.”

Inside the building, there are windows, wall cutouts, even boxes and barrels to provide cover. You’re ducked behind one of these when you hear the pop-pop of a paintball gun. Then a yelp, a crash.

Ghost shouts, “Medic!”

“Hold.”

You’ve never, never ignored a call for help before. Hesitation means lives in the field and you’re programmed to move before that second syllable is even out.

But Price’s voice cuts through years of training and instinct, locks your muscles down, keeps you tucked behind a stack of crates. You don’t even think, don’t have time to think. It takes you a moment to process what just happened even as your body obeys.

Price said to hold, so you hold.

No sooner have you realized what you’ve just done – or haven’t done – than Ghost is sweeping around the corner. Deadly, silent, efficient. You can only just see the top of his head from your position.

“Take the shot when you have it.”

Ghost pivots to clear the other side of the room. You pop up, already firing. Hit him once, twice, three times. Stomach, chest, face. He grunts and goes down.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

You never managed to shoot Ghost in any of your other rounds.

“Status, Squeaks.”

You blink, still staring moon-eyed at your lieutenant, as if you actually just fucking killed him.

“Target down, sir,” you say. “Repeat: Ghost is down.”

There’s another pop-pop, followed by heartfelt Scottish cursing.

“That’s the game, love.”

Ghost is the only one there to hear the noise you make, thankfully. You’re not even sure why. It’s a term of endearment you hear all the time, even from Price, but never like that. Thick with pride and approval.

Ghost clears his throat, his gaze far too knowing. You jolt.

“Sorry for shooting you in the face,” you say, scrambling over to him. “You okay?”

“Just fine, sergeant,” he replies, pushing himself up. “Deserved it, I suppose.”

You hum. “That was fucked up, sir.”

“All’s fair,” he shrugs.

You scrunch your nose but offer your hand to help him up anyway. He takes it out of sportsmanship but doesn’t put any weight into it to stand. Price and Soap find you a moment later. Soap looks disgruntled, splattered in fresh blue, but Price is grinning.

He makes a beeline straight for you, wraps his hand around the back of your neck, and presses your foreheads together. You suck in a breath but don’t pull away. No, you pull him a little closer, fingers curling in the straps of his vest.

“Brilliant, Squeaks,” he praises, “as always.”

You swallow back the sound that threatens to crawl out of your throat, suspecting you’d sound like a mouse on crack. Price isn’t as sparing with praise as Ghost, but it’s always hard-earned and exquisitely genuine. More importantly, he always says it like you’re his favorite person in the world at that moment.

“How-how did you know?” you ask.

He pulls away and you try not to show your desperation for him to return.

“Ghost calls you by name when it’s an emergency.”

You blink, shocked and awed (and a little frustrated with yourself). As always, your unwavering trust has been rewarded. Not just with victory, but with a long, heavy look from your captain that makes your heart flutter.

Price gives you one last pat to the head, and then the four of you file out to meet Gaz.

Towards the end of the session, Soap suggests the one activity you’ve been dreading: royale.

It’s a good chance to practice solo work, in the event that you’re separated from the rest of the team. Unlikely as it is to happen – you’re always paired up, and always watched like a hawk – the 141 isn’t in the habit of entertaining weak spots.

So you suck it up, resupply your ammo, and dart off when the counter starts. Thirty seconds to develop a strategy and try to execute it. Soap had that look in his eye, so you feel confident that he’s going to make some noise and cause some chaos. Ghost is also an easy guess – stealth is his specialty, and no one has much of a counter for it.

While Gaz was a wild card with Soap earlier in the day, he tends to match the rhythm of whoever he’s paired with. Lacking backup for this round, you think his plan might be similar to yours: low profile, let the heavy hitters swing at each other.

As for Price… you’re not sure what he could be planning. He knows everyone on the team too well, is far too intimate with each operators’ strengths and weaknesses. Has to, given that in any other circumstances, you’re all on the same team, looking out for each other. Chances are though, he’ll mark you as an easy target and go after you or Gaz (his usual teammate on two-person ops) first, leave Soap’s antics and Ghost’s general spookiness for last.

You post up outside of one of the little buildings, between two free-standing walls and wedged behind a barrel. It would be too small a space for any of the boys to risk, but for you it’s just the right fit to provide cover without immobilizing you.

When the horn sounds for the beginning of the match, you let out a breath and start counting. You’ll wait a single minute, then start around the perimeter. You’re a decent enough shot that if you see someone from a distance, you’re willing to risk your position to fire at them.

At 45 seconds, you think you hear something. You quiet your breathing, straining to hear. It’s coming from the nearby building. You peak around your safety, watching the window and open entrance for movement.

There’s a flicker of color, the rapid pops of fire and returned fire. Soap’s maniacal cackling, someone cursing, but hard to discern who. Probably Gaz. It’s confirmed when you see the top of his baseball cap duck past the window. You pause, consider. Then grab one of the paint-filled water balloons and chuck it through the window as hard as you can.

Soap shouts something unintelligible. Then Gaz pops around the frame, already firing. You’re lucky, though. He hits the barrel instead of you, and you fire off three shots. The last one hits him in the face shield, and he goes down with an overdramatic cry.

Fuck, that’s twice today.

You take a paranoid glance around, then scurry into the building. You clear corners with slightly shaky hands, adrenaline hitting even though this isn’t real, and you weren’t even in the middle of it. You just can’t believe that worked.

As you get to the doorway, you come across Soap, laid out with hot pink up his shin.

“Och!” he groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Ma leg’s gone!”

You snort. “Want me to put you out of your misery?”

“Aye, ya cruel harpy! Send me on ma way to Hades.”

You roll your eyes. “Seen Ghost?”

“I’m about to be a ghost!”

From the room, you hear Gaz stifling laughter. You fire one last shot into Soap’s vest, right over his heart. He makes an oof noise then falls limp, spread-eagled like you’ve truly done him in.

“Dead now, you muppet?” you ask.

“Aye, I’m right deid. Pushin’ daisies.”

You grin even as you roll your eyes and continue into the room. Gaz is also lying there like a corpse. Per the rules of the game, you can’t ask him about Ghost or Price since he’s technically “dead.” Still, you kneel down by him, poke him in the cheek.

“You alright?” you ask. “I didn’t mean to hit you in the face.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he assures, patting your wrist. “Hey, you want a candy?”

He unzips one of his vest pockets, revealing a little trove of Jolly Ranchers. Classic flavor, good choice.

“Oh, hell yeah,” you whisper, fishing out a blue one. “You’ve had these the whole time?”

“Forgot about them, honestly.”

You grin and pluck up another.

“Oi, Squeaks, get me a red one!” Soap calls. Too loud.

You shoot him an annoyed look. “Shut up! You’re gonna blow my spot!”

Still, you grab him a red one and drop it on his face before moving on. Game’s not over yet, after all. They each give you five seconds to clear the area before they come over the universal comm channel, announcing that they’re out.

You duck into a room on the first floor, take a moment to pop a candy into your mouth and shove the wrapper in your pocket. Then debate your next move.

It’s insane luck that you managed to catch them both. Right place, right time, right opportunity. That unfortunately also leaves you up against the two teammates that scare you most. You’ve already gotten Ghost once today, doubt that you’ll manage it again. Price will also definitely come after you before trying for Ghost.

Meaning… well, you’re probably fucked. And not even in a fun way, dammit.

Sighing, you creep from cover, trying to think of a strategy other than hide and pray they take each other out. You’re a little too chicken-shit to leave the cover of the building. It’s small, maneuverable, and – most importantly – you’ve already cleared it. There’s “roof” access if you risk ascending the metal staircase on the exterior.

You pop your head out to triple-check the area, but there’s no sign of either of your superior officers. Heart rabbiting, you take the stairs as quickly and quietly as you can, immediately flatten yourself on your stomach when you reach the roof.

Well, at least you managed that.

You shimmy into position with the staircase to your right, trying to keep it within view. Then you settle to wait.

The one part of sniping that’s always been a struggle for you is the waiting. Ghost can sit there for hours, silent and still, just watching. You, however, need something to do. Even the most tedious parts of medical care require you to actively do something, or you have someone to talk to.

For a while, you entertain yourself by clicking the jolly rancher around your teeth, hoping it doesn’t turn them blue. When that one is finished, you fiddle the other one out of its wrapper and pop that in, wrinkling your nose at the mixed flavor. Still, it’s something other than tearing up the inside of your mouth with your teeth while you keep a wary eye on the playing grounds.

Not that there’s much to see. Not a damn thing.

You sigh, wondering what Ghost and Price are even up to. Probably found each other and are having a really intense staring contest from their respective points of cover. Perhaps trading clever one-liners.

God, you should have let Soap shoot you while he was still “alive.” Let yourself “bleed out” and then skulked off when the one-minute timer for “fatal” wounds was up.

The longer you sit here, the more your body wants to relax into complacence. And, paradoxically, the more wound up you get. Hurry up and wait, as the boys say. You’re used to it on missions, and usually busy yourself by taking everyone else’s minds off of it. Right now it’s a special kind of torture when you don’t even have the threat of actually dying to keep you on edge.

Just your captain and the lieutenant who, while scary in their own way, only have paint to threaten you with.

A hand grips your ankle and yanks.

You yelp, startled, as you’re flipped onto your back. The paintball gun is ripped from your hands and tossed aside in a tinny clatter. Out of instinct, you put your arms up to protect your face and neck, jerking the leg not being held. Your knee hits the back of your assailant’s, knocking them down onto your hip, pinning your torso.

You lash out at his midsection, get exactly one softened punch in. Then the hand on your leg wraps around your wrist and slams it into the concrete beside your head. The next thing you feel is the barrel of a gun against your temple and you freeze. There’s a beat of deafening silence. You slowly lift your other hand up.

“There’s a good girl,” Price’s voice rumbles. “Just surrender.”

You let out a shaky breath, heart thundering for an entirely new reason.

“Eyes open, lamb.”

You hadn’t even realized you closed them. His eyes are so fucking bright when you meet them, bluer than the perfect spring sky above you.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you manage, voice pitchy.

He hums, never dropping your gaze, never loosening his grip. You’re well and truly trapped.

“You let your guard down,” he replies, though it doesn’t sound quite like the reprimand he probably intends it to be. “Pulled myself up from the window behind you.”

Ah, right. You couldn’t have managed that distance without help, but of course he could. Fuck, you wish you could have seen him do it.

“Glad it was you,” you breathe, too honest.

His brows arch. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

You shift, trying to relieve the maddening pressure of his thigh between yours. Get a warning squeeze to your wrist and go still again, all too aware of the heat radiating off him, seeping through thin layers of fabric. You want to writhe, rub up against him like an animal until he’s soaked. You pray that when he pulls away, there won’t be a wet spot on his pants.

“And why’s that, hm?”

Because you liked getting caught by him. Because you wouldn’t want anyone else between your legs, holding a gun (even a fake one) to your head. Because you’re hoping that he’ll leave bruises on your wrist when he finally lets you go.

“Just seems right, as my captain.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you.

“Did you take out Gaz and Soap?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes flash with unmistakable pride. You nearly whimper when his thumb sweeps over the delicate skin of your wrist. A new and ridiculously arousing version of his usual head pat.

“That’s my girl,” he practically purrs.

Your face feels scorching hot and there’s no good excuse for it if Price notices. Maybe he’ll just think it’s embarrassment at being caught.

“Now, before we finish up here—” God, you wish he would finish you here. “Have you seen Ghost from this perch, little bird?”

You don’t even hesitate to offer up information. Price could ask for your Social Security at this moment, and you’d happily write it down for him.

“Northwest, ten o’clock. Thought I saw movement, but it was too far to take a shot. Was just keeping an eye on it.”

His smile is absolutely sinful as he straightens up and drops the handgun to fire a single shot against your chest, just like you’d done to Soap. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen. And then, to your mixed relief and disappointment, he shifts back and lets you go, giving you space to wiggle out from under him.

“Are you broken?” he asks. “Wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“Don’t mind a little rough.” It’s out of your mouth before you can think about it even once.

“I-I mean,” you fumble, scrabbling for your gun and looking anywhere but him. “I’m not fragile, that is. I’m – you didn’t – not broken, sir.”

And before he can respond, you practically throw yourself off the roof. That’s about as much humiliation as you can take. You don’t stick around to see the end of the match, instead make a beeline for the restroom to clean yourself up.

Not that it’ll matter, you think, only a little self-pitying, they’re just going to get ruined when I see him again.

If the captain was planning to say anything about your semi-inappropriate fumble on the rooftop, you don’t get to hear it.

No sooner have you returned to base and showered off the paint than you’re informed by Laswell of a new assignment.

A freshly formed squad with a newly promoted captain. They’re waiting for their actual medic to be transferred from a field hospital, held up by the shuffling of personnel to fill in the gaps. But since the 141 is between operations, your skill and experience make you a good candidate for a temporary placement.

You’re scheduled to ship out in two hours, and you haven’t eaten since lunch – was planning to go out for food and drink with the boys. You still have to pack your bag, your equipment, restock your supplies.

“Squeaks, settle down. You’ve got plenty of time.”

“Yes, captain.”

Price sighs. You cast him an apologetic glance, but only see sympathy and what might be worry in his expression. His arms are crossed tight across his chest, hat tilted so that with his head ducked the way it is, you can’t see his eyes.

“Sweetheart…” he tries again.

“I just—” You press your lips together, ashamed, but he nods for you to continue. You lace your fingers together, twisting and bending digits to the point of discomfort. “I-I like it here. I don’t want to… I know this is part of the job sometimes, but I just… I feel like I work well with you, and I’m worried about…”

A warm, calloused hand takes your chin between thumb and forefinger, guides your face up.

“Look at me, love.”

You swallow audibly as you obey, expecting reprimand or impatience. You feel stupid and childish. Price’s gaze isn’t judgmental, though. It’s searching, bouncing across your features and between your eyes like he’s trying to read all the things hidden between your words.

I like it here with you. I’m your medic, not anyone else’s. I’m worried that this will be like every team before the 141. I’m afraid I won’t measure up to whatever they expect, that they’ll take me away from you after this.

Whatever he sees (and you fear it’s something far too close to the truth) it causes his expression to shift. Something similar to what you see when a mission is going south. That determination and confidence that’s as firm as the ground you walk on. A look that declares we will survive, and we will win.

“Listen here, sergeant,” he commands. Your spine straightens, shoulders back, but you don’t pull away from the gentle hold on your chin. “You are 141; you are one of mine. You get this over with and come back to me in one piece. Do whatever it takes to make that happen. Your place will be right here waiting when you do. Understood?”

“Understood, sir.” Your voice is barely more than a breath, can’t get enough air in your lungs.

His hand shifts to the back of your neck, so wide he’s cradling the base of your skull. He tilts your head and for a heart-stopping moment you think he’s going to kiss you. You’d let him, right here in the open doorway to your barrack. Want him to.

Then his forehead touches yours. It’s almost better than a kiss. Just as intimate, more grounding. It’s what you need right now. To have him here breathing with you, showing that you’ll be missed. That he has faith in you but will be worried every moment you’re not under the watchful eye of the 141. Of him.

Your eyelids flutter as you focus on his warmth, his scent. Let yourself be soothed.

“Tell me,” he orders.

“I’m 141, one of yours,” you repeat obediently, voice soft and a little hoarse. “I’ll come home to you in one piece, whatever it takes.”

“Good girl.”

He shifts, the soft hairs of his beard brushing your skin, and then you feel his lips on your forehead. A sweet goodbye, maybe even a promise.

“Get your bag. I’ll see you off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Despite everything, the sight of the 141’s base through the plane window fills you with overwhelming relief. You’ve fulfilled your promise; you’ve come home to Price and the boys.

It’s only once you’re wheels-down and unclipping from your harness that the trepidation seeps in again. The weight of Captain Fuckface’s disapproving stare gets heavier with each second that it’s about to find an outlet with your own captain.

Once the ramp is lowered, he steps out first with a barked call for you to follow. As if you had anywhere else to go. Still, you set your jaw and fall in, pacing yourself to stay behind him all the way to the tarmac.

Your boys are waiting for you. Even Ghost, surly motherfucker with his arms crossed. He’s still there. And you’re struck with almost debilitating déjà vu. An arrival similar to this one, skittering out from a plane as a new transfer, nervous and trying not to be. Your team lined up to meet you, even though you didn’t realize at the team how much they would really be yours.

And Captain Price, your captain. A step in front of the rest with a small, crooked smile on his face. He looks more tired than last you saw him a month ago. Darker circles, deeper frown lines. They start to ease when he sees you approaching, only to reappear just as quickly when your expression becomes clearer.

His eyes dart to your temporary captain, to the grim expression that’s probably painting his face.

You wish you were happier to be home.

“Captain Price.”

“Captain Dillard. Successful mission?”

“We managed to get the job done.”

The unspoken “no thanks to her” is loud. Down the line, each member of the 141 shifts, frowns, glances between you and Captain Fuckface. To your gratification, they all seem dubious. Even Ghost.

“I see,” Price says slowly. His eyes flick to you. “Broken, sergeant?”

“She’s fine. We can debrief now.”

Price shoots him a razor-sharp look. “Didn’t realize you demoted yourself to sergeant.”

You swallow back a snort of laughter, choose the high road. “Not broken, sir. I’m solid for debrief.”

Price gives you a onceover, heavy and worried. But you really are fine – physically at least. With a nod, he and the other captain lead the way back into base. The rest of the 141 fall back to walk with you, doing their own check-ins.

“Bunch ‘a wankers, eh?” Gaz asks.

You duck your head, keep your voice quiet. “A bit, yeah.”

“Admitting you like us, then?” Soap teases. There’s tension around his eyes, a careful way he gauges your reaction when he loops an arm around your neck.

“Like you better than them, at least,” you say, trying for humor. Your tone just misses the mark, but he laughs like normal anyway. You’re unspeakably grateful. “Probably just because I’m stuck with you muppets.”

Soap scoffs, ruffling your hair. It’s familiar and friendly and what you need after being away for what feels like a year.

“You make us proud, Squeaks?” Ghost asks.

You know it’s just his way of checking on you. His tone implies that the answer is an obvious “yes,” but you can’t help the way you flinch a little. All the attempted good humor disappears.

“Tried to, sir.”

There’s a heavy moment of silence. Before it can be broken, you have to turn the corner towards Price’s office. You follow the two captains inside, settle at parade rest by the door. Price notices the unusual behavior but doesn’t question aloud, only narrows his eyes fractionally.

“Right then,” he begins, “what’s this about?”

“Captain Price, Agent Laswell led me to believe that the 141 is the best the SAS has to offer,” Fuckface begins. “But what I’ve seen from your medic this past month makes me wonder what kind of standards you’re being held to.”

Price holds up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. Sergeant?”

You swallow despite how dry your mouth feels. “Yes, sir?”

“Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

You slip out with as much composure as you can, wait until the door is closed to slump against the wall. You’re exhausted, nerves shot, just want to curl up in the common room surrounded by your squad and their good-natured chaos.

You – fuck – you just want a hug.

It’s about ten minutes that you stand there, leaning into the wall, wishing for this to be over with already. When you hear boots and see a shadow moving near the door, you straighten up into parade rest again.

Captain Fuckface opens the door looking smarmy, the asshole. Behind him, Price is standing over his desk, hands planted on its cluttered surface. He looks composed on the surface, but you can see that he’s pissed beneath. Your stomach sinks.

“Sergeant,” he practically barks, “a word.”

You wait until Captain Fuckface has exited before skirting inside, closing the door behind you. There’s a beat of silence. You’re sure you must be pale as your lieutenant’s namesake by now.

“You know what he just told me?” Price asks, voice low.

“Some idea, sir.”

“You want to tell me your side?”

“I—” You blink, words caught, frustration making your eyes water. Yes, you want to tell him. You want to explain every stupid miscommunication and misrepresentation that must have been told about your temporary assignment. All that comes out is a rough exhale, fists so tight behind your back that your palms hurt.

“Squeaks. Sweetheart.”

You tear your eyes away from the floor. Didn’t realize how badly you needed to hear him calling you that. Or to see that warm, patient look on his face.

“Stop standing there like an FNG. Come here.”

You drop out of parade rest and nearly scramble across the room. Not to the chair you usually lounge in, on the other side of his desk. No, you make a beeline for him, crash into his open arms with a bitten off sob.

“It fucking sucked,” you mumble.

“I gathered.”

You sniffle away any embarrassing tears and focus on your captain, all of him surrounding you again. His arms are sturdy and strong, squeezing you just this side of too tight. The scent of cigars and beard oil and gunpowder soak into you. You press your face against his chest, hear the strong, steady thump of his heart and could swear that yours is trying to follow along.

“Tell me,” he says after a moment.

“Sir,” you say, pulling away. Try to keep your voice at a reasonable level. “I tried. I did everything I usually do. By the book, even. He wouldn’t listen, sir. Told me I’d be reprimanded if I tried to go over his head.”

He nods. “I figured as much from what he said about you – insubordinate. Difficult to work with. He also said you were slow to follow orders.”

You close your eyes for a second, suck in a breath. Of course he said that. It’s not even untrue.

“Thought that was odd,” Price continues, “when I have every experience showing me the opposite.”

You blink, dart your eyes up to his. He smooths a hand through your hair and you’re helpless to do anything but lean into it. Needing comfort, needing reassurance.

“You have a hard time listening to people you don’t trust, huh?” he asks.

You stare, mouth parted like any moment you’ll muster up enough brain cells for an actual reply.

“It’s a note in your file from past COs. That you’re shy around authority. Even Ghost said something about it during your first couple missions with him,” he continues. “Thought I’d have to keep an eye on it, but you’ve never hesitated to follow orders since then. Not with Ghost, and never with me.”

You nod because it’s true. Too many COs trying to ignore your medical decisions, too many of them that let dying men run back into battle. Always thinking twice if you should listen and fall in line or call for evac and possibly be the reason a mission fails.

“You’re not insubordinate or difficult to work with. You’re the best fucking medic in the service and they were bloody stupid for not realizing the favor we did them by loaning you out.”

You blink away another wave of tears, realize your hands are curled into his shirt but can’t make yourself let go.

“You-you’re…”

“Yeah, I’m on your side, love.” You feel him smirk as he presses his lips to your forehead. “Honestly, Squeaks. What did I tell you? You’re mine. I’m not about to believe some puffed up kid that just got his third pip over my medic.”

And he says it so simply, so obviously, that you feel silly for all your anxiety. Of course Price believes you. He’s your captain. You trust him more than anyone. Possibly ever. And for damn good reason

“Yessir,” you breathe, nudging your face against his.

“Good. Now let that wanker back in and then come stand behind me.”

And as always, it’s not even a conscious thought to follow orders. You swing the door open, then pivot on your heel and stand just by Price’s elbow at picture perfect parade rest.

Captain Fuckface swaggers back in, drops into the seat across from Price’s desk. You keep your expression even and calm.

“I won’t tell you how to reprimand your people, Price, but I hope this isn’t an issue we have the next time we borrow one of yours.”

You wish you could see Price’s expression, because you could swear the temperature in the office drops to freezing.

“Borrow?” Price repeats, chuckling. It’s not nice. “I wouldn’t lend you a fucking pen, never mind a member of my team again.”

Yeah, it’s good to be home.

You’re happily snoozing when someone jostles you, trying to get their arms between your back and the cushions. It’s too soon after being gone. You flail, panicked. The only thing you remember is falling asleep near Price, and now someone (who is not Price, they don’t smell right) is trying to move you away from him.

You push out with your arm, catch fabric, hear a grunt. The hold on you loosens and you fumble around the figure leaning over you.

“John,” bursts out of your mouth, automatic as breathing.

“Sweetheart?”

You stumble towards his voice, not even fully awake but seeking him out, knowing he’ll keep you safe. And then he’s scooping you up, letting you cling. Sheltering you while you blink, taking stock of the situation.

You’re still in Price’s office where you fell asleep after he unceremoniously dismissed Captain Fuckface. Ghost is standing by the couch, hands up in the universal “unarmed” gesture. (Never mind that he is most definitely armed… somewhere.) Price has you cuddled up on his lap now, one arm around your legs and the other supporting your back. Making gentle circles with his thumb through your shirt.

“Oh,” you hum, “sorry, LT.”

“You’re alright, Squeaks,” he says, adjusting his mask. “Was just gonna get you to bed.”

“Oh.” You don’t want to go to bed, even though you can see that it’s well into night by now. You want to stay here with your captain. “I’m awake…”

“I’ve got her from here, Ghost.”

And it says something, probably, that Ghost doesn’t even pause. Just nods and quietly exits. It’s only then that you realize you’re still snuggled into your captain’s lap and while you really, really don’t want to leave, this is more than a little compromising. You shift, start to pull away.

“Sorry, sir,” you say, face warming, “I was just—”

“Stay.”

You stay, blinking in surprise. “Sir…?”

“You’re allowed to call me John, sweetheart. You did just now.”

Ohhhhhh no. No, no. He can’t do this to you. Not now. Not when you’re on his lap and he’s driving away the chill from sleep and you’ve been dreaming about him for the past month straight – and long before that, honestly.

“I-you—” you start but don’t know how to finish.

“Squeaks,” he murmurs, quieting you, “there’s something I want to run by you. I trust you’ll tell me what you think like always.”

Confused by the shift, you nod where you’re tucked under his jaw, knowing he’ll feel it.

“You like it when I call you mine.” You make a winded noise, but he just keeps talking like he didn’t just unceremoniously turn your world upside down. “You like that you belong to more than just this squad. You like that you belong to me.”

He lets that sink into the air between you, and all you can do is stare at his desk, shocked speechless.

“You like when everyone else calls you Squeaks, but you like it more when I call you sweetheart or lamb or love. And I think you said exactly what you meant when I caught you during the royale.”

You barely dare to breathe, wondering where this is going, what he’s going to say next. Alright, so you haven’t been subtle, you know that. But you figured there was a mutual unspoken agreement to ignore your unprofessional utter devotion.

“I also think…” Here he finally pauses. You feel him swallow, his fingers flexing where he’s holding you. He takes a deep breath like he’s the one bracing himself. “I think that if you want something more, you won’t say anything because you’re afraid it would risk your spot on this team.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hands tightening in his shirt. The silence is all the confirmation he needs.

“So I’m going to tell you this before anything else. There is nothing you could do to jeopardize your position here. Your place will always be with us for as long as you want it.”

You pry your voice from where it feels lodged in your chest. “Even… even if I screw up?”

Screw us up.

He chuckles. “We all make mistakes, Squeaks. You’d still have me if I screwed up, wouldn’t you?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

“There’s your answer.” He adjusts a little, tucks you against his shoulder so that he can card his fingers through your hair. “We’re a team. We communicate, we work together. No unilateral moves or heroes.”

That sounds… fuck, that sounds lovely.

“That said, if you don’t want something more with me, for any reason – or even no reason at all – nothing has to change. I’m still your captain, you’re still my medic. This is still your squad.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You’re too overwhelmed, half-convinced that this is just another dream. That you’ll wake up on Price’s office couch, to him gently and platonically ushering you off to bed.

“You don’t have to have an answer now,” he offers after a beat.

You already have your answer. It’s not something you have to think about when you’ve long made peace with your feelings.

“I-I want…” You gather your courage. Remind yourself that he wants this too. He wants you. “I’ve always been yours, John. From the moment we met.”

He exhales hard, ruffling your hair. His grip on you tightens again.

“Men like me don’t know how to love casually, darling. Can’t say things like that ‘less you mean it.”

“I do.”

You really do.

He coaxes you from the safety of his chest, draws you back to get a good look at your face. You stubbornly meet his eyes. There’s concern, uncharacteristic uncertainty. He’s just as nervous as you are. He doesn’t know how this is going to go either; if you two will be able to balance rank and duty with a romantic partnership. But beneath that, you see your own longing mirrored back at you and an adoration that makes your heart ache.

Carefully, you slide your hands up his chest, over his neck, to his face. Like he’ll bolt if you move too quickly. Your nails scrape gently through his beard, eliciting a shiver that you catalogue for later. One hand cups his cheek, thumb sweeping beneath his eye. The other traces delicate fingers up a strong jaw, over his temple, card into the fine silk of his hair.

You hope it communicates anything your expression doesn’t. That you want him in every way he’ll allow. That what you feel for him is anything but casual. The shock is still there, a film of static over your racing thoughts, but you’re certain that this – that he – is what you want.

“Alright, love,” he rasps. “I believe you. Just… for my own piece of mind, sleep on it?”

You frown, open your mouth to protest. The words die on your tongue when he takes your jaw in hand, thumb pressing gently to your chin. Even his silent orders you follow like religion.

“I promise I’ll still want you tomorrow,” he says, “but we’ve waited this long. Another day won’t hurt.”

You huff, but he can already see acceptance in the tilt of your head. Still, you’re sure to make your displeasure known by tugging at a bit of hair. Not hard, but enough to get the point across. Enough to make him grunt and eye you in exasperation.

“Brat,” he grumbles.

You shift on his lap, a grin tugging at your lips. You like this new nickname. “Your brat.”

“Mm.” His eyes go half-lidded. “You’re trouble.”

“’M not!”

The hand still on your jaw tightens a little, warning. “Behave for me a little longer and I’ll make it worth your while.”

You shiver, know from the look on his face that you’ve been made. Well, in for a penny and all that.

“But siiiiir,” you whine.

“Hush, none of that,” he scolds, but there’s unmistakable fondness.

“You can’t just offer me all this and then tell me I’ve gotta wait,” you complain.

He arches an eyebrow. “Oh, I can’t, can I?”

That low, rough tone washes over you like fingers down your spine. So fucking hot it’s unfair. You want to get on your knees – no, you want John to put you on your knees. Order you to kneel, sit still, behave. You’d do it, too, even as you would mouth off.

“It’s cruel and unusual,” you accuse.

He chuckles, shakes his head. His thumb sweeps in a gentle arch over your cheek. “How about something to tide you over?”

You perk up. There’s an amused twist to his mouth that makes you bubbly and warm.

And then he’s sliding his hand to the back of your head and guiding you down. Instead of leaning your foreheads together like usual, he tilts his chin and slants his mouth over yours.

You squeak in surprise, then go loose and pliant. Close your eyes and lean into him, knowing he’ll support you. Sink into the surprising softness of his lips, the tickle of his beard on your skin. Breathe him in and count his heartbeats beneath your palm, a touch faster than usual. It’s instantly addicting.

He keeps it chaste, but it’s like a feast after starvation, so much contact and intimacy where you’ve always tried not to take too many liberties. You press. Want him closer, closer, closer. He wraps his other arm low around your ribs, just above your waist. Hugs you tight against him. You wish you could straddle him, but that would involve pulling away, moving, not kissing so you take what you can instead.

It's too soon that he pulls away, shushing you when you whine.

“John…”

“Poor dear,” he coos, kissing your nose. “Right bastard, aren’t I?”

You nuzzle against his cheek. “Not a bastard,” you sulk.

“Oh, I am, love. Just your bastard.”

You hum in delight; know he can feel your stupid smile but can’t bring yourself to care. The two of you stay that way for a while longer. You, curled up on his lap like it’s where you want to stay for the rest of your life. Him, holding you like he never wants to put you down.

Eventually, though, you both chance a look at the clock and he sighs.

“Off to bed with you, lamb. You need it after all the shit you put up with.”

And while you want to argue, a huge yawn ambushes you at the word “bed” and you know to pick your battles. Besides, you’ve been dozing on his lap for the last few minutes, hypnotized by everything John Price.

“You too,” you mumble, pressing a sleepy kiss to his temple. “I know you haven’t been resting well.”

“Alright, love.”

You linger as he shuts down his office and locks the door, then fall into step towards the barracks. It’s late enough that you don’t pass anyone, but even if you did, it’s not unusual for you and the captain to be up or walking together. It is, however, unusual for him to draw you close by your waist at your door.

You set your hands on his chest, curl your fingers a little to revel in the hard muscles beneath. His arm around you is so fucking thick, strong with decades of training and work. You’re desperate to see it all for yourself, to feel him beneath your hands, your body.

Despite your less-than-PG thoughts, the kiss he leaves you with is achingly sweet. It’s like something out of one of those chick-flicks Gaz pretends he doesn’t watch. Slow and purposeful, like he’s got all the time in the world to torture himself with just a taste of you. No wonder the girls in those movies are always swooning.

“Goodnight, love,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Goodnight, John,” you whisper. “Sweet dreams.”

“They always are with you,” he says, winking.

It’s stupid and corny and you can’t believe how warm your face feels as you roll your eyes, feigning exasperation.

“Get out of here before you give me ideas,” you huff.

He hums, presses one last, perfect kiss to your forehead. “Think you’ve got enough already. Can’t wait to try them all out.”

And with that, he continues down the hall, leaving you to a night of slightly frustrated (but incredibly happy) sleep.

The next day is early as usual, but you’ve been given a single day of grace to recover from the month-long assignment. You spend it with the boys drilling recruits. You’re not doing any training, ostensibly there as medical supervision in case of mishaps – but mostly just enjoying your squad’s company.

Soap and Gaz fill you in on all the mayhem they caused while you were away, with Ghost interjecting the punishments and reprimands they received without you there to smooth things over with Price.

“Speaking of!” Soap adds, looping an arm around your shoulders. “Ask the old man if we can go into town tonight.”

“What for?”

He scoffs. “‘What fer’, she asks. To welcome ya back, ya daft chook!”

You’re as touched as you are confused. “I wasn’t gone that long?”

“Aye, but it’s the longest you’ve ever been gone, and it was proper dreich without you here.”

Gaz nods with his arms crossed, trying to look sage but mostly looking like a muppet.

“Ghost didn’t have anyone to toss around, and Price was dead chuffed.”

Huh. You glance at the lieutenant, the only responsible one who’s still keeping an eye on the recruits. But, sensing your gaze, he flicks you a look. He would seem disinterested to the unfamiliar viewer, but you clock a twitch around his eyes like he’s smiling.

“Ask him.”

You hum. “Alright, I will. But why me?”

“Because you haven’t been around to piss him off,” Soap says.

“And he won’t say no if he thinks it’s your idea,” Gaz adds.

“You’re going to see him in a bit anyway. Might as well,” Ghost muses.

Which, well. Yes, you are. You’ve got a backlog of records to catch up on, and you’re looking forward to doing so with John – even if it stays just the usual routine with no romantic overtures involved. Still, it should probably worry you that you’re so predictable.

You also want to ask about what Gaz meant, but you already know. The other sergeants have been sending you off to John with requests and bad news for a while now. At first, they said, because you were the newbie. By the time the “newbie” excuse was null, you didn’t mind being the one to seek your captain out upon request. But it’s a pattern that you’ve suspected for a while now, all but confirmed last night: John just doesn’t say no to you.

Except, apparently, when you want to ride him until his office chair breaks.

When you pop by his office after lunch (with food you brought from the cafeteria, because you’re a saint and you know it) the pattern holds true, and John agrees to take the squad for drinks. You grin, drop a kiss on his head as you fire off a text to Soap, who will surely let the others know.

You two don’t get to indulge much more than a few chaste kisses, unfortunately. The new evening plans mean that you both have to kick it into overdrive if you want to be finished with work in time to leave. You satisfy yourself by pressing your knee against his and sitting in his lap during breaks.

When the sun gets low, the rest of the team invades the office. You and John change into civvies, then meet up with the rest of the boys at the garage. John gets behind the wheel, you climb into the backseat between Soap and Ghost, while Gaz takes the passenger side.

The drive into town is lighthearted and high-spirited, chattering on about more things you missed while you were away. The bar is one of a handful that the squad rotates through to avoid establishing traceable patterns. This one has billiards, a foosball table, and a couple of old school arcade games in the back. During the season, they play Premier League on the TV screens, but right now it’s just reruns of old championship games.

You like the booths at this one, tall and rounded so that you can see and hear your whole team.

Soap pulls ahead to claim a table near the back, the first one in. Ghost slides in after him on the end facing the door. Gaz takes Soap’s other side, and you hop in behind him, scooching to make room for John.

“I’ll get us the first round, yeah?” he asks.

You ask for cider, craving something sweet and bubbly. Gaz and Soap get whatever seasonal beer is on tap. Ghost hops out of the booth to help carry the drinks.

John settles next to you when they return, his thigh a warm, hard line against yours. Whatever is in his glass is a warm honey brown.

“Wanna try?” he offers. “Have to do it before you drink the cider though. You’ll hate it otherwise.”

You’re already picking up the tumbler, humming. “Probably going to hate it anyway,” you muse, sniffing suspiciously.

“Christ, Squeaks,” Ghost gruffs, “it’s whiskey, not rotten milk.”

You wrinkle your nose at him, safe across the table and with John at your elbow. Then you take a sip. It’s nasty (as expected) and burns all the way to your stomach. But your reaction gets a chuckle out of the table, and you insist that one day you’ll like it. Still, you hand it back to John and quickly chase it with your own drink.

Conversation swings around to your own experiences while away. You try to keep it vague, knowing that your boys are protective. Overall, not bad to see how another team operates, but overjoyed to be returning to yours.

After the first round, Soap goads you into a game of billiards and Gaz follows along to play the winner. Ghost and John wave you three off, saying they’ll hold the booth and maybe order some food for the table.

Gaz retrieves the next round of drinks while you and Soap set up, then cheers on whoever happens to be losing at the moment – or whoever has his favor. You lose (because Soap is a pool shark) and Gaz doesn’t look like he’s doing any better. Across the bar, you make eye contact with Ghost. He visibly sighs, rolls his eyes. He says something that makes John chuckle before hopping out of the booth.

“He being insufferable?” he asks when you’re in earshot.

You both glance over as Soap crows something in purposefully thick brogue. Whatever he says, the tone is unmistakable.

“Right.”

Ghost pats your shoulder as he passes to challenge Soap to a round. It looks like Gaz is salty enough about losing to stay and watch the decimation about to happen. Which means that you have the perfect opportunity to cuddle up with your captain.

But first—

“Going to get another,” you say when you stop by the booth, “want anything?”

“Another, please, love,” John replies, tapping his glass.

You nod, take your empties back to the bar. It’ll be a minute until the bartender can come around, busy with a new group that just walked in. You’re not in any rush, so you lean against the countertop and wait patiently, offering a polite smile when she makes eye contact.

You entertain yourself in the meantime with thoughts of John. He told you to sleep on it last night, and you did. Ruminated on the potential changes to your relationship, professional and personal. The potential changes in your relationships with the rest of the team. Any nervousness that arises is always tamped down by the reminder that it’s John. You know him, trust him with anything and everything.

You can trust him to be your partner in this relationship, whichever way it goes.

Of course, as is the general state of the universe, it’s then that someone sidles up to you. That sixth sense for Men™ that most female-presenting people unfortunately develop starts to ping. Oh no.

“Sorry, it’s pretty crowded,” he says, a little too close and a little too loud, “hard to find a seat.”

Well, at least it wasn’t some shitty pick-up—

“But my lap is open for you.”

Aaaand there it is.

“I’m good,” you deadpan.

Instead of accepting the brush off – or even just scoffing that you’re a bitch and storming away – he laughs. All good-natured and familiar, like this is normal banter between you two.

“Okay, okay, sorry. I know it was a bad line, but I was hoping it would get a laugh.”

You arch an eyebrow, unimpressed by the attempt to backtrack. “Maybe stick to your day job.”

He chuckles, scratches the back of his head in a way that’s probably meant to be endearing. You think he looks like a knob. “Well, shit as the military pays, it’s better than what I hear comedians make.”

Surprised, you give him another once over, reassessing. Definitely military, you realize. It’s all in the stance, the way his too-tight t-shirt is tucked into his jeans. Also the haircut – recruit fuzz. Are they even allowed off-base?

He misunderstands your extended look and edges closer. His arm brushes yours. Someone is on your other side, so you shift your weight away as much as you can and try to ignore it.

“I’ve never seen you around here before,” he says. “Out of towner?”

You snort. He can’t have been here more than a month, what would he know about regulars?

“No,” you answer, “I’m up at the base too.”

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, giving you his own (too slow, so inappropriate) onceover.

“Yeah.”

Blessedly, the bartender stops by so you can order. Thank god it’s easy-to-pour drinks and not a cocktail with six ingredients.

“Damn,” the recruit chuckles, “a little forward, but I like a woman who knows what she wants. Whiskey’s not really my thing, though.”

You open your mouth to correct him, but he scoops up the tumbler almost as soon as the bartender sets it down and takes a big swig. The words wither as you stare, appalled. It’s so ridiculous that you have to mentally rewind to be sure that – yes, that really did just happen.

“Oh, sorry,” he smirks, leaning towards you. “Want a taste?”

You jerk back, about to punch the living daylights out of him. Then a shadow falls over you. The smell of cigars cuts through the stink of the bar and the recruit’s godawful cologne.

“Is that my fucking drink?” John growls.

“It was,” you sigh, leaning into him. Out of sight, his hand settles on your hip, thumb slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

The recruit’s eyes go big and round, blood draining from his face. “O-oh, sir—”

“Well, boy? You going to waste good whiskey on my dime?” John demands.

Somehow, the recruit gets even paler. The bartender, entirely uninterested in whatever drama is happening, slides your drink over and then nods when you ask for another whiskey.

“Go on, then,” John rumbles. You can feel it where your shoulders brush his chest.

With a trembling hand, the recruit downs the rest of the whiskey, though he nearly chokes on it this time. John tsks, thanks the bartender as a new glass is set down. This shouldn’t be nearly as arousing as it is, your captain putting the fear of god in some idiot with bad manners.

“Sir,” the recruit manages. “I-I didn’t realize that you – that this is your—”

He’s not referring to the drink though. His gaze is darting to you. To the 141 insignia on the jacket you’re wearing. And you’re flooded with memories over the last several months.

“You’re the new medic?” a nurse inquires, looking at your paperwork.

“Oh, you’re the 141’s, right?” a physician asks. “You can deal with your captain, then.”

“You’re one of Price’s 141, aren’t you?”

“Just what I would expect from Captain Price’s medic.”

“Oh, Christ, you’re Price’s. The medic.”

“You’re one of mine.”

Oh.

You blink, remembering what John said the night before: “Men like me don’t know how to love casually.”

No. No, he really doesn’t. You have zero issue with that.

“Word of advice, mate,” John drawls, “if a woman looks like she doesn’t want to talk to you, she fucking doesn’t.”

You hum in agreement, scoop up the new whiskey and offer it, knowing your cheeks are rosy from more than just alcohol. His gaze is molten when he looks down at you. Whatever expression you’re making, it seems to both wind him up and defuse him from ripping the recruit a new one.

“Shape the fuck up, soldier,” he says in parting, never looking away from you.

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, Squeaks.”

You happily slip past him, nearly moaning when you feel his broad palm settle on the small of your back. Not pushing or demanding. Just there. He helps you into the booth and then crowds in next to you, arm draping along the back. The heat of him is intoxicating.

“Fucking wanker,” he grumbles.

You bite back a grin, lean into his side. “Thank you for coming to my rescue.”

He shakes his head but there’s a smile quirking at the edges of his lips. “You don’t need rescuing, love.”

“I don’t need it,” you agree, “but I like it sometimes. When it’s you.”

He takes a sip of whiskey, swallows it with a sigh. “Christ, I want to take you back to base right fucking now.”

You can hear what he isn’t saying. The filthy promises tucked in the cadence of words and spaces.

You suck in a breath, squeeze your thighs together. “Wish you would.”

His eyes pin you, bright with desire. Reminds you of the hottest part of fire, beneath tongues of flame where it burns an eerie, steady blue. You see that same intensity in his gaze now, like you could burn yourself on his stare alone.

Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “A little while longer,” he decides, looking across the bar. “The boys missed you.”

You follow his gaze. They’re finishing up their pool game now, and you’re sure they’ll be piling in again soon, telling you all about who cheated and who’s a sore loser. You missed them too, admittedly.

“Just the boys?” you tease.

John’s eyes flick back to yours for a heart-stopping second. Something predatory flickers through them, sends a delicious chill down your spine.

“I’ll show you how much I missed you later.”

The ride back to base is pleasantly quiet after the noise in the bar. Everyone is drink-warm and in good spirits, the radio on a Top Twenty hits station at an unobtrusive volume. You spend the drive trying to sit still and not blush every time you make eye contact with John in the rearview. You don’t succeed, but if anyone other than him notices, they’re gracious enough not to mention.

Gaz and Soap invite you to a movie in the common room, but you politely decline with the excuse that you want more rest before getting back to routine tomorrow. You say your goodnights, then casually saunter out the door – but not before hearing John claim something about paperwork.

You don’t get further than the next hallway before you’re grabbed around the waist and flattened against the wall. Your mouth falls open on a gasp, sparks shooting up your spine. John looms over you, his forearm braced above your head. The fingers of his other hand curl around the nape of your neck, his rough palm so broad that he can thumb your jaw, tilt your face up.

You start to speak – a reminder that you’re out in the open, where anyone could see you two fraternizing – but his mouth crashes into yours and steals the breath from your lungs. He still tastes like whiskey; you could definitely learn to love the flavor from his tongue. He curls into your mouth, a thorough and devastating exploration, coaxing you to follow his lead, to taste and indulge.

His fingers twitch like he wants to grip you harder, hold you closer. A noise gets trapped in his chest and pours into yours like warm honey, dripping languorous and decadent into the pit of your stomach. Pools there, aches between your thighs. You make a soft, wanting noise, fingers snagging in the front of his shirt.

“John,” you plead against his mouth.

“Tell me,” he replies, voice broken to gravel. “Fuck, love, please tell me this is still what you want.”

You can hear the question there. Flutter your eyes open and see the longing in his, the thread of hesitation because he’s a man who values open, clear communication.

“Yes, John,” you whisper. “I want you. I want to be yours.”

He groans, presses his forehead against yours for a moment. Gathering himself, you realize. It never occurred to you that he could be just as desperate for you as you are for him. God, it’s heady, that thought. Dangerous.

“You’re already mine.” The dark edge to his words makes you twitch.

“Yeah?” you breathe. “Show me, then.”

And oh, you should know better than to challenge your captain like that.

He doesn’t utter a word as he scoops you up by the thighs. Like you weigh nothing, muscles jumping deliciously beneath your curious palms, biceps stretching his sleeves. You lock your ankles at the small of his back, wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Tease open-mouthed kisses along his cheek and jaw, just shy of his mouth, and grinning at his impatience as he storms down the hall.

He throws a door open, practically slams it after himself, the lock deafening. You know it’s his room just from the scent, but you surface when the light flicks on. Like his office, it’s neat but lived in, with the desk being the messiest spot in the room. There’s another door that you hope leads to an ensuite bathroom, but you don’t get to ask before he kisses you again.

And you see, now, why he wouldn’t give you this sooner. It would have kept you up all night and then destroyed your attention span all day – knowing what he tastes like, that he licks into your mouth like he’s kissing somewhere much lower. The way he just consumes every part of you; his undiluted attention becomes more necessary and precious than oxygen.

You don’t even realize he’s moved again until his thighs are under you, supporting your ass. The shift presses your pelvis to his, your clit bumping and grinding against the bulge growing in the front of his jeans. The sudden, delicious friction makes you draw back a little, gasping and clutching at his strong shoulders.

“Easy now, love,” he murmurs, tucking his face into the crook of your neck. “I’ve got you.”

You know he does, want to tell him that, but you’re beyond words at the moment. Breathless from the kisses, from that initial grind against your aching pussy, from the kisses he’s sucking into the sensitive skin beneath your jaw. You show him with your hands instead, featherlight touches along his spine that make thick arms tighten around your waist.

When you drag your nails along his shoulders he shivers, so you do it again, harder. He moans low and rough against your throat, teeth nipping. Another rush of liquid desire makes your pussy clench, empty and needy.

A sigh falls from your lips as one of his hands slides around the small of your back, callouses a sweet torture to the sensitive skin there. He grips your hip, just shy of too hard. You realize what he wants, move even before you feel a guiding tug. Rock down on his lap, providing you both the relief of a little friction. Just something to take the edge off, to buy you time to explore the gorgeous man beneath you.

One of your own hands glides into his hair, distracted by how soft and fine the strands are. It’s a detail you’ve never gotten to appreciate before, one that you imagine few others, if any, know. Your strong, brave, ridiculously competent captain, hiding a silky head of hair beneath that iconic hat or wool beanies. You bite your lip on a smitten smile.

Overcome by a wave of affection, you slide your other hand to his jaw, coaxing him away from your collarbone. His eyes are a storm when they meet yours, pupils blown wide and the blue ring around them swirling. This close, you can pick out the individual shades of gray that make them so intense.

His lips are swollen, glistening in the low light. Unable to resist, you lean in to kiss him, craving another hit. Get swept up in how he matches your passion and then leads you deeper, so gently but effortlessly dominating that you forget you initiated in the first place. Just press closer, closer. Hating the layers of fabric between your bodies but unwilling to allow any space or stop grinding against him.

That is, until he begins to ease away, soothing your protesting whines with lingering kisses and flicks of tongue. He doesn’t go far, leaning his forehead against yours and breathing into the heated hair between you two.

“I want to feel you,” he rumbles. “Will you let me undress you?”

“You’ll get undressed too?” you pout, plucking at the front of his shirt.

His smile is absolute sin. “Of course, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” you huff. “One more kiss?”

He huffs in amusement but indulges you. Takes the opportunity while you’re distracted and foggy to nudge you back on his lap a little. When you feel his fingertips skim bare flesh, you arch.

He doesn’t shove your shirt up like you expect from the hunger in his expression. It’s a slow glide, his hands mapping out the slope of your waist, the curve of your ribs, the dip of your spine. Everywhere he touches feels hot and tingly, sending fine tremors out to your limbs. You comply with pulling your arms from the sleeves, duck your chin to get it over your head.

Grin as your hair is ruffled up despite your best efforts, falling in disarray. He smiles back, takes a moment to smooth the strands down again, tucks a bit behind your ear. You tilt your head to kiss the thin skin of his wrist, just next to his watch. You’re obsessed with the stupid thing, love the way it accentuates the corded muscles of his forearm, the veins and tendons in his hand.

His other hand slips up your back, finds the wide band of your bra, plucks the hooks free with a sniper’s skill. You make an appreciative noise, shrug the damn thing off and take a deep breath in relief. He kisses your chest at the swell of your breasts, beard contrasting the softness of parted lips. Then you feel his hands sliding up your stomach, stopping at the top of your ribcage. His thumbs rub along reddened skin where the elastic left imprints, careful and reverent.

You practically melt, swaying closer as his mouth descends. Your nipples are already perked when he swirls his tongue around one, just teasing enough to make you whimper. He draws the flat of his tongue over the bud of nerves, then takes it into his mouth, sucking. A low sound of satisfaction thunders in his chest, accompanies a flick of his tongue that makes you jerk. Wish you had something to grind against, but your hands are too busy gripping at him to dip down between your legs.

He occupies one hand with the other breast, thumbing at the nipple. Then pinching, plucking. Drawing out high, soft noises from your throat that prompt responding growls from him. The other hand takes a handful of your ass to keep you still against him, fingers digging in. You hope it leaves bruises.

When his mouth and hand switch breasts, you whine, caught between the pleasure and wanting more. His mouth is wicked, that perfect combination of rough and teasing that you’re sure has your panties absolutely soaked. You wouldn’t be surprised if it’s visible through your pants by now.

“John,” you moan, patting his shoulder. He growls, sucks a little harder for a moment, prying a yelp from your lips, then draws away.

“Something you wanted, gorgeous?” he asks.

“It’s… it’s your turn,” you breathe.

“My turn?”

You huff, not sure if you’re frustrated or endeared by his eyebrow arched in curiosity. Hard to parse out anything from the lingering ache of pleasure. In answer, you hook your fingers beneath his shirt and lift. He realizes what you want, angles his arms to let you guide it up and then off.

You drop it on the bed, eyes drinking him in. He’s built beautifully, powerful muscle beneath healthy layers of softer tissue. Carved for work, for war. His skin is a tapestry of his military career; scars and uneven tan lines map beneath course thatches of body hair. Your hand looks so small on his stomach, looks fragile when the muscles jump at the light touch.

Fixated, you flutter your hands all over him, tracking each faded wound, tracing every line of tensing muscle. He’s burning beneath your hands, so hot you could think he’s running a fever. Touching isn’t enough. You plant a hand on his chest, feel his heart pounding beneath your palm.

Meet his eyes as you give a measured push. Slowly, never breaking eye contact, he lowers his back to the mattress. You follow him down, wriggling up his body. Lick your lips when you settle right where you were before, where he’s hard and straining in his jeans.

Where you belong.

Your mouth follows the paths your hands made. You kiss scars, nip at the ones you recognize as yours. His hand settles on the back of your neck, not gripping with any force or trying to guide you anywhere. Just holding, grounding – though you’re not sure if that’s for you or himself.

When your lips brush down the fuzz of his happy trail, he twitches and chokes on a noise. You love it. Want to hear more. He doesn’t stop your eager fingers from undoing his belt. Your mouth waters at the sound of the buckle clinking. It’s nothing, then, to get his button open, zipper down.

You tug impatiently at the waistband, which finally earns his interference.

“Alright, love, easy.” He’s still lifting his hips – so easily, even with your added weight, holy hell – to let you get it past his hips. “There’s no rush.”

“John, I want you. You made me wait all day.”

“Poor dear,” he coos mockingly, eyes lidded. “A whole day, you say?”

In retaliation, you nip sharply at the cut of his hip. He huffs, tugs on a lock of your hair.

“Brat,” he mutters, fond.

You flash an absent smile, already preoccupied with the tantalizing shape hidden beneath black cotton. Christ, and they say black is slimming? You can’t imagine it looking any bigger than it already does. But you’ve always enjoyed it when reality exceeds imagination.

You’re not disappointed. The head is flushed pink, flared, the barest hint of precome glistening at the slit. What catches your attention is how wide he is. Above average length, yes, but fucking thick too. Easily three of your fingers across, maybe slightly more. Your wet hole twitches around nothing, hungry to try to fit him inside.

That’ll have to wait a little longer.

With the two of you already at the edge of the bed, you’re able to get to the floor with relative grace, kicking your shoes off for comfort. Knees tucked under yourself, thighs pressed and rubbing together, you wrap your hand around the base. Your thumb and middle finger only just touch, and he’s thickest towards the middle.

His soft inhale barely registers as you ease your loose hand up to the head, trace around the ridge of the glans, then circle around to smear the beading precome. You slide your hand down, squeeze and stroke up again, coaxing out more. It’s too much to resist. The tip of your tongue laps at the shining slit, humming as the flavor bursts across your tastebuds.

You swirl your tongue, tracing the inverted heart shape in pantomime of what he did earlier to your nipples. As much as you want him in your mouth, you trace a thick stripe down his shaft, kissing open-mouthed at the base. He smells like masculine body soap and detergent, clean sweat. You sigh happily, licking back to the head and sucking it between soft lips.

It’s only then that you tune in to the noises he’s making above you, the low grunts and choked off curses. You didn’t think he could sound better than when he’s purring over comms, but you were wrong. Desperate to hear more, you swallow him down further, jaw already twinging at the stretch. It’s perfect.

His hand is in your hair again, still not pushing or pulling, just there. Just holding. You wouldn’t mind him holding a little tighter, but you’re not willing to pull off his cock to tell him that. No, you’d rather see if you can tease him into doing it by instinct.

You dive down until the head rubs the back of your throat. As much as you’d like to take him all the way, you’re out of practice and know you’ll choke too much to make it truly pleasant for him. He’s so thick it’ll take a few sessions to manage. That’s alright though, you know how to make it good without deepthroating.

Your hand wraps around what can’t fit in your mouth, tongue flicking at the vein on the underside. Then you loosen your jaw and move. Slow at first, testing how far you can go before your airway is cut off and your gag reflex protests. Then a little faster, applying suction towards the head, thumb rubbing tight circles right under where your bottom lip stops. You increase the pace until—

“Fuck,” John snarls.

You settle on that rhythm, mind emptying of anything and everything but this. Him.

When his hips start to rock along with you, a thrill goes down your spine. A noise vibrates from your throat, down his cock. He hisses a breath between his teeth, fingers flexing where they’re tangled in your hair. You could purr it feels so good, those little shocks where the strands pull too tight.

“Fucking incredible,” he pants. “You’re so – Christ, love.”

You give him a pleased hum, smiling a little at how his hips jerk.

“Alright,” he groans, the hand in your hair becoming insistent, urging you back. “Alright, that’s enough, gorgeous.”

You whine in protest, pull off gradual and decadent, reluctant to stop. A string of saliva connects your bottom lip to the head of his cock. You swipe your tongue over it one last time to snap it, eyes flicking up to his.

“You know,” he breathes, chest heaving, “I thought about this, at the training grounds.”

You blink, surprised.

“Your tongue was blue, Gaz’s fucking candies,” he continues. His hand slides from your hair to your face, wiping the spit that drips from the corners of your mouth. “Thought of you licking my cock like that. Wondered what you’d taste like if I kissed you after.”

You press your lips together, biting back a moan at the thought. If he had put you on your knees like that, you would have gladly exposed your back to Ghost’s gun just to get a taste of your captain’s cock.

“I was so wet…” you murmur, blushing despite yourself and what you just did. Your voice sounds husky and used, his jaw twitches at the sound. “I was afraid there’d be a spot on your pants. Almost wanted to get off in the bathroom while you finished the match.”

A confession for a confession. Kneeling before him like this, his hand on your face, it feels almost like absolving yourself of sin. Or at least, this is what you imagine it would be like; you’ve never been to a confessional. You’re also pretty sure that you’re about to be anything but cleansed.

“Yeah?” John purrs. “Why didn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to look anyone in the eye,” you admit. Then add, embarrassed, “And I knew I wouldn’t be able to get a good angle.”

He chuckles, low and dark. His grin curls more wicked when you can’t suppress a shiver.

“That so, love?” His tone twists into the gently condescending tone that you’re becoming obsessed with. “Like it deep, is that it? Can’t manage it with those pretty little fingers.”

You pinch your bottom lip between your teeth and have to squeeze your eyes shut while you nod. It’s embarrassingly true. Even when you can get that perfect spot, your hand tends to cramp by the time you get a good rhythm. Toys help, sometimes, but you miss the warmth of a living person – and half the time you’re too tired to thrust consistently at the speed you need.

All in all masturbation tends to be a frustrating process at this point. And now you just know he’s going to ruin it for you entirely.

“Don’t worry, love, I’ll take care of you,” he soothes. “Come up here.”

He helps you climb back into his lap, hands disconcertingly steady. You lean into his chest, mouthing at his jaw and scraping your teeth just to hear him rumble in your ear. One of your hands reaches for his cock, the head of it rubbing against your bare stomach, wet with saliva and precome.

“Now, now,” he chides. “It’s my turn. Be good for me.”

You moan softly. “But I want you.” The whine in your voice surprises you, sets your face on fire. You hide against his neck.

“I know, sweetheart,” he hums, “and you’ve been so patient. I promise I won’t make you wait long.”

His palm glides up your back, flat and warm. You’re being gentled, you realize. And it’s fucking working. It’s just like the training exercises, so easy to follow his instructions and knowing it’ll be well worth your while. In fact, you don’t even think of resisting as you sigh, pliant and cooperative while he rearranges you.

“Just have to make sure you’re ready for me,” he continues. “You’re in for a long night and I don’t want you too sore tomorrow, yeah?”

There’s a pillow under your hips as you’re settled on your back, blinking at him in a haze. He hums appreciatively, a roughly whispered “good girl” making your eyelids flutter. You drift your fingertips over his chest, down his arms, a little spacy but mostly just admiring. When he sits back on his heels, you let them settle next to your head. Open, offering.

He grazes his hands down your naked torso, lingering over the marks he’s already left, until he reaches your waistband. You lift your hips to give him room to slide them off. He drops kisses along your thighs while he does, open-mouthed. He takes your panties with him as he goes, apparently not patient enough to tease you any further. Not that you’re complaining.

Your calves brush his wide shoulders as he leans back. His jeans are still resting low on his hips, making room for his cock to sway over the bunched waistband of his underwear, still rock hard and flushed a tempting pink. You draw your legs back a little, knees pressed together. Enthralled by being completely naked, vulnerable, while he remains partially clothed.

“Shy now, darling?” he chuckles. “Come on, let me see you.”

You make a high, embarrassed noise… but still inch your legs apart, shaking when he palms your sensitive thighs. He exhales hard when you’re fully exposed, the gush of air caressing flesh.

“Bloody gorgeous,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “So fucking wet for me.”

Your fingers twitch. The urge to cover your face almost overcomes the desire to remain obediently compliant.

“John,” you call, quiet and beckoning. “You promised.”

It takes a second for him to realize what you mean, but then he huffs in amusement. Gives you a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re right, love, I did.”

He moves as if to touch you, but you press your foot to his thigh, urging him back a little.

“You too,” you murmur, “pants off.”

“Alright,” he says, clearly humoring you.

You bite your lip as he steps off the bed, gaze locked as he kicks off his boots and removes the last of his clothes. He arches his eyebrows when he catches you staring, even put his arms up a little, palms open by his hips as if to say “well?”.

“You’re so handsome,” you breathe, “I can’t stand it.”

“Good thing you’re lying down then, eh?”

You snort, shaking your head despite the smile tugging at your lips, and reach for him. He sets a knee on the bed and the lamplight encapsulates him in perfect, beautiful glow. Every inch that you’ve been worshiping, every detail you’ve sworn to memorize. You’ve had your hands on him, your mouth.

This man you love and respect, the embodiment of duty and honor, and you belong to him.

“Oh, love,” he rasps, “you can’t look at me like that.”

You blink. Don’t even know what face you’re making. “Why not?”

“Because I’ll never let you go again.”

You don’t want him to let you go.

And he must read that in your expression because he groans, crawls up the bed to your reaching hands. You love watching the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunch and jump as he settles between your legs. The hard length of him is searing against the bend of your hip. Seeing it next to your abdomen like this, you’re struck by just how deep he’s going to be. Fuck.

You curl a leg over his hip and gently tug, urging him to close that last little gap between you two. He acquiesces, propping himself up on an elbow by your head, caging you in, making you feel small beneath his bulk. You tilt your head for a kiss as his other hand skims up your thigh and teases at your wet slit.

“You really are sopping,” he breathes against your mouth.

Your hips twitch, wanting more, wanting him to touch. His finger draws a featherlight circle around your throbbing clit. It’s not nearly enough contact or pressure, but it still sends you moaning into his mouth. Slowly, maddeningly, he keeps drawing those delicate circles, occasionally dipping into the slick dripping from your hole. His touch becomes firmer after a few passes, enough that you think eventually you’d spiral into the most mind-numbing and aching orgasm you’ve ever had, but you’re not that patient. Not before, and certainly not now.

“John,” you gasp finally, trembling. “Please, more.”

He doesn’t say a word, just hums and dips his fingertip into your entrance, thrusting in tiny increments until his finger is sinking into you all at once. You whine, head tossed back against the pillow. It’s not a stretch, but it feels divine after being empty for so long.

“Breathe, love,” he murmurs in your ear.

You suck in a breath, blinking away the fuzziness at the edges of your vision. Leave it to John to make you pass out (or nearly, anyway) without ever laying a hand on your throat. When you have enough air, you keen desperately, feeling him stroking your walls.

“Ready for another?” he asks.

You nod, nipping at his chest. A second finger eases you open, curling until you yelp.

“There it is,” he chuckles.

If your eyes weren’t in the back of your head right now, you’d glare. As it is, it’s all you can do not to dissolve as he angles to rub the heel of his palm against your clit. There’s a slight stretch now, his fingers thicker than yours made more obvious as he scissors you open, preparing you.

You feel useless laying beneath him while he does the work, except when you reach down, he rips his hand away to pin yours. You gasp, protest on the tip of your tongue, but he kisses you quiet until the fight leaves and your noises turn needy again.

“I told you I’d take care of you,” he rumbles. “Just be a good girl for me and take it.”

And well, it’s hard to muster any complaints when he plunges his fingers into you again, a third wedging alongside the first two. You’re definitely feeling it now, just the right kind of stretch. It’s a challenging pressure but not painful, and you’re soon rocking down on his hand.

His mouth descends on your chest again, toying with your nipples, getting you to twitch every time he sucks. He finds that perfect spot inside you with unerring accuracy, petting it with hard, steady strokes of his fingers. You’re gushing over his palm, down his wrist, pooling beneath your ass. It’s all starting to coalesce, burning through your veins, the stimulation luring you higher and higher.

“I-I’m gonna…” you moan, hissing air between your teeth. Try and mostly fail to still your hips. “John, wait, I’m gonna cum.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Wanna – wanna… on your cock,” you babble, barely coherent.

He chuckles. “I’ll let you cum more than once, sweet girl.”

(Let you. Good fucking lord.)

“No, no,” you whine. You clutch at his shoulder, clawing him harder than you mean to. “Want the first time to-to be… John, please.”

He hums in understanding and slows but doesn’t stop. You swallow back a sob, reminding yourself that this is what you wanted.

“Tell me properly,” he says, a hint of that authoritative tone creeping into his voice.

“Please,” you whimper, “l-let me cum on-on your cock.”

He groans deep in his chest, rattling what few brain cells you’ve still got in your empty little head.

When he pulls his hand away, his entire palm is shiny with your slick, strings of it stretching between his spread fingers. His scarred knuckles are dripping with you as well, obscene with the light hitting them. He considers his soaked hand for a moment, then makes eye contact with you and drags the flat of his tongue across his palm. Your mouth drops open, but no sound comes out, head spinning and staticky as he swallows.

“One of these days,” he growls, bass deep, “I’m going to sit you on my desk and eat you out until you’re begging for mercy.”

You shudder, breath hitching while you try to string together syllables.

“I-isn’t this desk a little small?” you ask.

His eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them. His hand drops to his cock and strokes, spreading your slick all over himself.

“I wasn’t talking about this desk.”

Oh, fuck. You’ll never be able to sit in his office again. At least not without getting wet enough to save a dying man in the desert.

You’re so thoroughly distracted by that thought – that promise – that it almost surprises you when his cock glides along your pussy. He balances on his knees to watch himself notch the fat head at your entrance. It already feels like a lot and he’s not even pushing in yet.

You scramble for something to hold onto, find his hand and lace your fingers together, squeezing tight.

“Ready, love?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. Then, “please.”

He enters you in one long, slow thrust. An inexorable and unrelenting push, bullying your walls aside, creating space for himself inside you. You feel full by the time he’s halfway in, tender where you’re split open around the thickness of him. The thumb of his free hand rubs gently at your throbbing clit, little strokes that ease the ache but also make you twitch tighter around him.

Three quarters of the way, you’re making high-pitched noises in the back of your throat, sounding tortured. But he doesn’t stop, the squeezing of your thighs around his hips urging him deeper. If he’s speaking, you can’t hear it over your own heartbeat. Just arch your back, inviting him to ruin you.

When he’s finally seated inside you, heavy balls flush with your ass, you think you’re going insane. It feels like he’s in your guts, like his cockhead is kissing your esophagus. Logically, you know that your body is built to accommodate this – him – but it feels like he’s reshaping you just for his cock. You’d never be satisfied with anyone else; not that you think you’ll ever want anyone else. Not since you met John, and definitely not now that you have him.

“Alright?” he asks.

Your tongue feels clumsy in your salivating mouth, so you nod and squeeze his hand in reassurance. He rocks, grinding himself impossibly deeper and you cry out, thighs trying to clamp shut from the too much too good of it. He settles snug against you like that, presumably for you to adjust.

Except his thumb hasn’t stopped playing with your clit. You can’t relax, can’t think, can’t breathe under that unfaltering rhythm, that perfect pressure. He started you towards an orgasm doing that before and it seems he memorized it just to do so again. He’s not even moving, but he doesn’t have to, your walls are fluttering and twitching around him.

“Fuck,” you whine, “fuck, J-John. If you keep… I’m gonna…”

“Yeah?” he asks, and oh god, it’s that tone again. “You can cum just from having me inside you?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and nod, trying to stave it off, but the lack of sight only makes it worse.

“Show me,” he growls.

His pace doesn’t change in the slightest, winding you up and up and up…

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open, helpless against his commands, and lock gazes with him.

“Cum for me, beautiful.”

And you fucking do, back bowing to an almost painful angle, thrashing and crying out, eyes rolling into the back of your head. He doesn’t move a fucking centimeter, his cock pressing ruthlessly against all those white-hot points of pleasure, drawing it out. Even when he jostles inside you, it just sends another wave of ecstasy crashing over you, your pussy both under-stimulated and over-stimulated.

“There’s my good girl,” John purrs above you. “Ride it out, love. Fuck, you feel so good squeezing around me.”

You keen, push at his hand on your clit. Mercifully, he eases off, settles his palm flat on your thigh, giving you another point of stability. You pant as you come down, heart thundering and sweating.

“Oh my god, John,” you gasp.

“You did so well, sweetheart,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “Came so beautifully.”

You moan, rolling your head back against the pillow. Blink at the ceiling for a moment and try to remember how to breathe. Difficult when he’s still inside you, still hard. You twitch at the thought of more. John makes a punched-out noise, the hand still in yours squeezing.

“Do you need another moment, or can I move?” he asks, perfectly patient.

You clear your throat, shift a little, gauging. You’re still sensitive, but not overly so. More importantly, you desperately want to feel him moving inside you.

“Fuck me,” you whisper.

He groans, but there’s endearing relief in his expression.

You’re not willing to let go of his hand at first, until he brings it to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, your wrist, your palm, and rests it on his bicep instead. Both hands free now, he adjusts your hips on the pillow, angling them up. Then he curls his fingers around your calf and hooks your knee over his shoulder. You squeal at the shift, clench down on him hard.

“Holy fuck how are you deeper?” you moan.

He rocks his hips, not hard or deep, but even that is enough to make you squirm and quake.

“Fuck that’s a good angle,” he growls and doesn’t waste another second.

The pace isn’t fast, but it’s deep and rough. A measured rhythm that’s already driving you crazy. The head of his cock drags deliciously against your sucking walls when he pulls back, then scrapes your g-spot when he plunges in. Over and over and over. He doesn’t speed up at all and yet they start to bleed together, the pleasure of one thrust rippling into the next.

It's hypnotic, it’s maddening. It’s exactly what you need after cumming just from feeling him inside you. Your second orgasm almost always takes longer than the first, but John takes you apart methodically. Even when you start to whine and whimper again, keening half-words and flexing as if to make him go faster. He’s implacable.

Watching makes it worse. The tight flex of muscles, the way he grunts every time he buries himself to the hilt. He tilts his head back, a single pearl of sweat skating down the stark tendon of his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat. A groan rumbles from his chest when you scratch your nails down his arms.

He’s beautiful and he fucks like a god and all you want is to stay here on his cock for the rest of your life.

“Please,” you wail, “I wanna...”

His eyes flutter open, still sharp even through the pleasure scorching his system.

“Go ahead, angel,” he growls. “Play with your clit, make yourself cum again.”

Fuck, it didn’t even occur to you that you have both hands free, but now with explicit permission, your hand darts down to swollen flesh. You hold onto his forearm where’s braced beside your head, an anchor while you rub your clit. It’s almost too much at first, even when you’re in control of the speed and pressure. But soon that almost-pain melts into pure pleasure and you synch your strokes with John’s.

The second orgasm is a slow build, a rising tide of blistering heat and pulses of ecstasy, a gentle violence that ravages your body. It’s wave after wave, each more intense than the last, leaving you a writhing puddle as John fucks you through it. Every crest has you crying out ragged and slack jawed. As you’re shaking through the last of it, John dips down to kiss you, filthy and uncoordinated, grinding deep one more time.

You lay boneless beneath him, limbs tingling.

John dots your face and jaw with kisses as you recover, only half inside you. The hand that he’s been bracing on is tangled in your hair, scratching blunt nails over your scalp. He murmurs in your ear and your brain is too scrambled to figure out what, but his tone is sweet and soothing.

You take one last deep, settling breath in… and realize he’s still hard. Good fucking god, he hasn’t cum.

Gaz made a joke at John’s expense once; about how older men can only go once but they can go for a while. You should have taken that as a warning.

“Do you want to be done?” John asks gently.

You blink, refocus your eyes on him. His expression is open, concerned. If you told him that you couldn’t do any more, you know he would understand. Would let you finish him with your mouth, or even jerk himself off if you really tapped. There would be no repercussions, hard feelings, or complaints.

But even still shivering from your last orgasm, you want this man to paint your insides.

“Fuck no,” you reply, reaching for him, “I just needed to catch my breath.”

He grins and leans down to kiss you, a messy tangle of lips and tongues. Then he pulls out of you. A frankly obscene amount of slick floods from your abused hole, almost unnaturally hot where it slips down your ass. He smirks at the sight, but before you can grumble about it, he circles an arm around your waist and flips you. You land on your stomach with an oof muffled into the blanket.

“That was just – waah!”

You’re forced to brace on wobbly arms as he hikes your hips up and stacks both pillows beneath, then settles you down again. It’s stupidly hot how easily he manhandles you – and all in the spirit of making you comfortable to continue fucking your brains out. Christ, he couldn’t be better if you made him in a factory.

His palm settles low on your back, presses gently. “Show me what’s mine, pretty girl.”

You arch with a soft moan, canting your hips to display your swollen, dripping pussy. He makes an appreciative noise, draws a curious finger from clit to hole. Sparks of oversensitivity burn through your veins, but his grip keeps you from twitching away.

“I’ll have you in pieces by the end of this,” he breathes.

He’s right; it won’t even take much at this point. You double down on that thought when you feel his cock at your entrance again, still thoroughly coated in your slick. No, you’ll be disassembled before he’s finished, and you won’t even care if he puts you back together again.

(But he will, of course he will. It’s John.)

At this angle, he feels even bigger than before, nearly at your body’s limit. That doesn’t stop you from leaning into it, pushing your hips back to get him seated up against your cervix again. He makes you stop like that, bending down to press a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Good?” he asks.

“I’m good,” you reply, swiveling your hips in a tight circle. “C’mon, fuck me, fill me up. Show me what it means to be yours.”

He growls, draws his hips back, and slams home, forcing a cry from your used throat. It’s none of the steady, measured pace of before. This is rough and fast, almost brutal. He fucks like he fights, all deadly precision and focused strength. His bruising hands jerk you back to meet each thrust, treating you like a toy for his own pleasure.

It’s far too much after two orgasms. Your pussy spasms like you’re not sure if you want to keep him in or force him out. It doesn’t matter what you want, though, he’s fucking taking what he needs from your willing body. And you can do nothing more than wail, whiny little “ah, ah” noises ripped from your drooling mouth.

“That’s it, love, fuck,” John snarls.

The bed starts to bang against the wall, loud enough to be heard in the hallway. It drops your shaky arms out from under you, making the angle that much steeper, that much better. Your wet cheek presses into the mattress, fingers clawing into the sheets beside it.

“You take me so well, just like I knew you would,” he rumbles above you. “My sweet girl, always so eager to please me.”

You don’t answer, but the way you clench around him is all the confirmation he needs. He’s not even wrong; you love making him proud, earning his praise, being good for him. This is no exception, letting him demolish your pussy with every inch of his thick cock.

“You want me to fill this greedy cunt, is that it?” he grunts. “Have you drip with me at breakfast tomorrow?”

You shout a squeaky “yes,” feeling like you could cum again just from the thought alone.

“Then touch yourself for me, pretty thing. I want to feel you.”

You whimper, dismayed. “B-but—”

He slows just enough to lean down, nearly flattening you against the bed. He doesn’t stop entirely, thrusting into you in sharp, hard jerks that make your lungs hitch. His breath is against your ear, hot as steam.

“That wasn’t a fucking suggestion,” he purrs, low and mean, “and if you don’t follow orders, I’ll do it myself.”

One of his hands unlocks from your waist, fingers skirting dangerously close (and not gently) towards your aching clit. You squeal, try to writhe away but only succeed in grinding his cock against your walls.

“Y-yes, sir.” It’s out of your mouth without a single thought but you can feel him throb.

“Good girl,” he groans, pushing himself up again.

He nudges your knees wider apart, leaving you spread for him to hammer right back into you. You detach a hand from the sheets and sink shaking fingers down to your pulsing clit. The force of John’s thrusts makes it impossible to be gentle or careful, and you sob through the overstimulation as you rub two fingers through your puffy folds.

“That’s right, love, just like that,” he praises.

You thrash beneath the onslaught, voice out of control, only held up by John’s grip. His rhythm starts to falter, words becoming sparse as he chases his orgasm. Somehow he gets rougher, fucks harder, as he nears his end. Tilts his hips at just the right angle to abuse your g-spot again. You scream and then sob, babbling out pleas for him to cum in you, fill you up, make it drip down your thighs…

A burst of heat accompanies your name in his hoarse, fucked-out voice. The feeling of it, spurts of white-hot cum painting your oversensitive walls, sends you crashing through another pit of ecstasy. John slows but doesn’t stop, easing you both through the last incandescent dregs of orgasm.

You feel him shift above you, his shadow blotting out the minimal light. He whispers something under his breath, something complimentary, you gather. You’re too busy trying to remember who and where you are.

“Alright, love?” he asks, sounding just as wrecked as you feel.

“Mhmm,” you manage past scratchy vocal cords.

“Can I pull out, get us some water? Or do you need another moment?”

You shake your head, reach blindly for his hip to keep him close.

“Understood,” he chuckles, petting your flank. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

You lay there until your heartbeat steadies and breathing isn’t a manual process. When you tap his thigh, he tries to be gentle, he really does. But even soft now, he feels huge, and you make pathetic noises as he pulls out. He shushes you, dropping kisses on your spine as he helps you down onto your stomach, your hips sore.

“There you are sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back.”

The bed bounces a little as he gets up. There’s a moment of silence that you suspect is him admiring his work, then the sound of a door, running water. Seems like he does have an ensuite after all. Thank god.

The mattress dips as he settles on the edge, your hip pressed to his.

“Need help sitting up?” he asks.

“I got it,” you reply.

It takes you another second to gather the will and strength, but you eventually manage. You curl against his back as he offers you a full glass, need both hands to keep it steady while you sip. His hand settles on your knee, thumb caressing soft circles into the skin.

“Sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit. “It’s good.”

“Will it stay good, or should we get paracetamol onboard now?”

How is he so fucking wonderful?

You hold the drink away to lean into him, nuzzling up against his jaw. “I’m alright, love. You didn’t hurt me.”

He huffs, eyes impossibly soft when you pull back enough to meet them with your own. “It wasn’t too much?”

You smile, touched and utterly smitten. “It was perfect. You were perfect. Thank you.”

“For that?”

“For everything.”

You wake the next morning to John in your arms. His face is tucked into the hollow of your throat, quietly snoring. One of your legs is curled around his hip, the other sandwiched between both of his. He’s hugging onto you like a teddy bear, one of his hands spanning across your bare ribs, the shirt you’d stolen rucked up around his wrist.

You’re not sure where his other arm is – beneath the pillow under you maybe. One of yours is around his shoulders, keeping him tucked close. You card the fingers of your free hand through the downy hair at the base of his skull and bask in the pre-dawn light. John Price, your captain, is snuggled up to you in his own bed after rearranging your intestines the night previous. It’s more than you ever could have dreamed of. It’s perfect.

You doze for a while, soaking in the warmth of his bare chest, the sounds of him finally resting for once. Feel like you could stay here forever, loose-limbed and content in the watery hours before responsibility comes barging in.

The change in his breathing rouses you again, his snores tapering off. He presses a drowsy kiss to your neck. You hum a wordless good morning, smoothing your palm down his arm to hold his hand. The two of you lay like that for a few moments, waking up and fondly recalling the night before.

“How much do you think Soap and Gaz have on this?” he wonders eventually.

You adore his sleep-rough voice.

“At least 20 quid,” you muse.

He grunts. “Fucking children.”

You giggle, drawing your nails lightly over his shoulders. “In their defense, we took forever to sort ourselves out.”

He hums, agreeing but not willing to admit it. You see laps in your fellow sergeants’ futures.

“We took exactly as much time as we needed,” he replies.

You hold him a little closer as your heart skips a beat. “I love you, John.”

He lets out a breath and pushes himself up to look you in the eyes. “I love you.”

At breakfast that morning, you make eye contact with Ghost across the table. Even with the mask, you can tell he’s smirking when he flashes the 50 quid he just won off Gaz and Soap – much to John’s dismay.

[updownlately]

but i’m scared (of what life without you’s like)

| leah williamson x reader | angst with a dash of hurt/comfort | 1.9k | a/n: got this req in today based of this fic from yesterday. was listening to 'how do i say goodbye' by dean lewis, and well, the stars aligned themselves. i tried to make this short but angsty so someone lmk if i was successful! anyways, happy reading 🫶 read part i. here

~~~

It’s a warm May day yet your blood runs cold.

You know football’s a physical sport, having been on the receiving end of brutal physicality many times.

Pushes, shoves, stud-up tackles, you’ve had your fair share of bruises to show for multiple ninety minutes of running around chasing a little sphere. 

Accidents happen, and you were very well aware. 

But accidents weren’t supposed to be like this.

Accidents weren’t supposed to be accidents.

Accidents weren’t supposed to involve stretchers immediately rushing to the field. 

Nor a silent crowd in a fully sold-out stadium. 

Swallowing hard, you helplessly felt your adrenaline kick in, body subconsciously sprinting faster than you’d ever ran before. 

Maybe you should’ve checked up on Leah after the blonde had taken the corner to the face. Maybe you should’ve been overbearing. Or looked into her eyes, so that you could’ve noticed the dazed look. 

You could’ve stuck around a second longer instead of running back on defence. 

You could have, you could have, you could have…but now you couldn’t.

There’s something about seeing an unmoving lump of limbs on the floor, especially of a loved one, chest tightening ever so cruelly, so painfully.

As you come to an abrupt stop beside Leah, you do your best to stay out of the medics' way. 

Your hands shake, eyes wide at the blood streaming down the side of her face, the gash above her eye nothing but a waterfall of red. 

You don’t realize it when the other girls reach you. 

You don’t feel it as Alessia gently wraps her arms around your waist, trying to gently usher you away.

You don’t move an inch though. You can’t. 

Your feet are rooted to the spot, eyes fixating on the way Leah’s chest isn’t moving up and down. 

She was supposed to be breathing heavily. She had to be. 

Sure she had insane fitness, but none of you on the team were yet at the point where seventy minutes of football didn’t feel tiresome- she surely wasn’t. 

So why wasn’t her chest moving up and down? Why wasn’t it in the steady rhythm that you loved to listen to when you’d cuddle up to her on late nights after a tiresome day. 

Why wasn’t her cheeky smile on her face? The consistent response of her ‘I’m fine’ she would mumble to you each and every time she took a hit or a particularly hard tackle. 

Why was she not up yet? 

It’s sometime between Lia stepping between you and your view of your girlfriend do you find your voice, panic and realization clear as you call for Leah. 

Once. 

Twice.

Then another time.

Yet no response.

You feel your own breathing pick up, blood rushing through your ears.

No.

No. No. No. No. NO. 

You don’t realize you’ve screamed the words out loud, teammates and opposing players alike sharing grim looks of sympathy as many of them turned away from the sight of the medics.

Doing your best to claw your way out of the striker's tight grasp, you fight Alessia, feet digging into the grass as you try to gain the momentum to be near the English skipper.

Each try though, left you more defeated, the blonde’s grip strong as the ground between you and Leah somehow only increased with each attempt. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. 

The words rattle in your brain as you see a stretcher in your vision, sounds of sirens ringing faintly, so far away yet so close. 

Begging Alessia to let you go, you put all your effort into breaking her hold on you, your hands trying to unlock her linked ones, the striker only pulling you back into her chest in retaliation, gentle murmurs being whispered into your ears.

Tears streaming down your face, heart in your stomach, throat sore from all your screaming, you watch in horror as the sea of medics slowly fade from your view, Leah’s cleats oddly the only thing left on the pitch- no trace of blood, of cleat marks, of the weight of the medical bag- the blonde gone without a trace.

Falling to your knees as Alessia finally let go of you, you curled into yourself, sobs wracking your body as your forehead hit the ground, your hands coming to cover your ears as you tried to block out the shrill noise of the ambulances. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. 

~~~

It’s the same words ringing in your head that has you jolting awake, you taking a deep inhale when you realize where you are, the familiar walls of your shared bedroom with Leah bringing you immediate comfort that has you slumping back into your pillow.

Feeling wetness on the fabric as you laid down, you realized you’d been crying in your sleep, your cheeks damp, forehead and body covered in a layer of swear as your shirt clung to you. 

Fear kicking in as you realized why you were awake at this ungodly hour, you whipped your head to the side, eyes adjusting to the darkness just enough for you to make out your girlfriend’s sprawled out form beside you.

Swallowing hard, the images from earlier haunting your mind, you held your breath as you tried to listen for Leah’s quiet breathing, unable to see her chest rising from the bundle of blankets she was buried beneath. 

She was awake, right?

Raising a shaking hand, you contemplated whether you should touch the blonde to soothe your worries. 

You didn’t want to bother Leah, well aware of just how long it took her to sleep tonight, the constant pounding in her head frustrating her more than she’d like to admit, only able to get her rest as her body slowly succumbed to the exhaustion of the day. 

Yet, with each second that passed, you got flashes of Leah lying face first in the graph, medics around her, the grass stained bright red, taunting you, teasing you as you wondered if you were imagining the breaths you were hearing. 

Heart pounding yet again, you wanted to be safe. Sorry didn’t seem like an option. 

Sorry wasn’t an option, not when it came to the love of your life.

Holding your breath, you tentatively reached out, hand shaking, moving mere millimetres every few seconds. 

You didn’t want to wake her, but you needed to feel that she was alright. 

Hand making gentle contact with the nape of the other girl’s neck, you froze as you felt her tense at your touch, muscles taut for a mere second before she relaxed into the feeling. 

Waiting a second for her to adapt to your slightly cooler touch, you softly traced the length of her spine, following the bony pattern down to the space between her shoulder blades, hand coming to a rest as your fingers splayed out, trying to maximize the contact you had with her. 

Feeling a sob of relief escape you as you felt Leah’s body move in time with her gentle breaths, you brought your other hand to cover your mouth, stifling the sound as you felt your chest wrack with the weight of the tension slowly dissipating. 

Doing your best not to move too much as your body shook, you wiped your tears with the hand covering your mouth, not yet ready to let go of your girlfriend, her mere physical presence providing you comfort you couldn’t ever express in words. 

Fabric of your sleep shirt tucked into your mouth as you held back shaky pants, you moved to lay on your side, needing to be able to see Leah before you’d feel your heart settle for the night.

You couldn’t lose her. You couldn’t afford to. Not now, and not ever.

Sunshine on your darkest days, the constant light at the end of the tunnel, the woman was your rock through thick and thin. 

She was the first person you’d ever truly trusted, and the last you ever would. 

She was cocky, over-confident, a cheeky tease, an energetic kid at heart. 

She was determined, loving, caring, attentive, respectful, thoughtful. 

She was the best thing you had and god did it terrify you that you could’ve lost her yesterday. 

A piece of your mind knew her injury wasn’t that serious, the lack of the blonde out-right fainting immediately a good sign, a comforting one really.

Yet, your heart still couldn't believe it, not yet at least. 

Letting your hand come to gently brush away the messy strands that had come to cover her face in her sleep, you let your thumb run over her eyebrow as you sighed gratefully. 

She was okay. 

She was here.

You repeated the words like a mantra in your head, trying to get your racing heard to settle.

Nodding to yourself as you tried to believe the statements, you bit the inside of your cheek as you felt Leah stir at your ministrations, your hand coming to an abrupt stop as she just barely opened an eye, taking a second to register that it was still late, nearly the middle of the night. 

Keeping your voice low as you watched her sleep-laden eyes briefly search yours, you resumed your earlier actions, hoping it would bring the blonde the same level of comfort if brought you.

“Go to sleep, yeah? I’ve got you. You’re safe….”

Feeling Leah sleepily nod at your quiet words, you felt your heart melt as she sluggishly pulled herself towards your body, a blonde mop coming to rest on your chest as she curled around your side, an arm coming to wrap around your waist as she held on tightly. 

“Love you…” 

The words were muffled, being mumbled into the cotton of the old t-shirt you’d stolen from the defender eons ago, yet you heard them clear as day.

“I love you too…so so so much…”

Your words were hoarse, but in her sleepy state Leah didn’t notice and you couldn't help but be glad.

Placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head, your lips lingering for a second, you inhaled deeply, trying to commit the easing restlessness in your body to memory, the weight of the blonde on your chest bringing you the reassurance you so desperately craved, the pair of you breathing in tandem as sleep overtook her again, content in the solace that your arms around her form brought.

You didn’t want to worry about what life would be like without the blonde, and thankfully, you didn’t have to. 

Here, with her on your chest, small breaths puffing against the arms you held her close with, you let your worries fall away, lump in your throat easing rapidly with each second. 

She was okay. 

She was okay and here in your arms.

She was okay, and so you were okay- and you couldn’t thank the universe enough for either of the two. 

And so with sleep beginning to creep up on you, you wiped the last few tears of relief away with the back of your hand, finally truly believing the words.

It would all eventually be okay- all of it- just as long as she was here with you.

[whynot-tryit]

Angel of Small Death: Chapter 1

John Price x female! reader

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

Word count: 5,528

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine. You pick ‘em.” 

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

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

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

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

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

First up was Kyle Garrick. 

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

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

“Yes ma’am.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I see your fingers?”

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

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

“Do you get cold easily, Gaz?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, you’re good. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His smile drops instantly. “What.”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh boy.

………………………………..

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

“You must be Ghost.” 

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

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

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

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

“So, how often do you get nightmares?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—----------------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “Cigars?” 

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

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

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

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

“Alright, love.” 

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

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

Price decides he likes it, likes you.

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

“Deluxe package?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, John.” 

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

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

Taglist: @sharkiestory

[cheemscakecat]

If Emesis Blue really is a Dream, I love the fact that BLU Medic sees RED the way he does.

Think about it, BLU Medic is a Catholic who knows he’s mentally ill and is trying his best to keep it under control. RED Medic is a megalomaniac who likes the challenge of playing god and made a deal with the devil.

And beyond that, BLU has other personalities that he doesn’t understand [who freak him out] and hallucinates them from time to time.

That’s the actual reason he didn’t attack RED immediately, he thought it was one of them from afar. It has to be trippy and difficult to deal with that guy IRL in battle with the personality issue.

And even if BLU doesn’t know it, if he thinks his other personalities are demons or something, they still act like people. Angry, revengeful people, but not monsters. This picture is such a good representation of the difference between the two. RED is feral and messing with powers he shouldn’t…. For fun. Fixing respawn failures is not “for fun” it’s meant to save mercenary lives. So RED would be Monstrous.

He’s still red hued even in this blue room, skin and hair too, like a demon. And given he joined Classic team in hunting his own crew and BLU mercs, it makes sense that he’s literally two-faced.

Something else that’s interesting is that BLU Medic’s eyes are only ever black/brown as the funeral version, and he has hallucinations that make that personality look demonic.

But again, funeral Medic acts like a human person that’s 100% done with BLU Corp and their lies, not a cryptid. He’s not actually evil like Ludwig thinks.

But RED Medic is criminally insane in ways that transcend other Gravel War mercs, and that’s disturbing to someone like BLU.

O no he crumchy

He just put Scout’s body in a coffin as respectfully as he could given the circumstances. RED Medic brought their team’s sniper back to life and there’s no way BLU hasn’t heard about it post-comics. He didn’t want RED touching Scout, even if it could bring him back. He doesn’t trust that maniac, and that’s 100% valid. Why?

BLU team doesn’t know RED personally. What they’re like at their base, living with each other. They don’t know that RED Medic was infiltrating Classic, not truly joining them. They don’t know what he was doing in the early 40s or how close he is with RED Heavy. And here’s the proof:

BLU Medic doesn’t know that this is BLU Heavy; he knows that he’s at RED base, and wouldn’t have a reason to believe that this isn’t RED Heavy. Especially after what happened to Scout. So from his perspective, RED finally pushed nature too far and it blew up in his face. Resulting in RED Heavy loosing his mind and attacking.

That’s also why he hesitates to run away from the big Hoovy; he might be in hearty agreement with defeating RED Medic and leave BLU alone. But that’s not the case, and so the context changes from “this guy no longer serves RED” to “this guy has lost the plot altogether, he’s just attacking anybody’.

We, the tf2 fans know that this isn’t how RED Heavy acts; he actually didn’t question Medic’s loyalty in comic 6 and was ride or die, so if anything he’d still be docile to RED. But nobody on BLU team knows that.

And BLU’s doctor believes that something terrible will happen to RED if he doesn’t stop messing with the powers that be, even though he has no idea about the demonic deal.

[brokenpieces-72]

Recover-

CoD Hybrid AU | Navigation

Note: This is a continuation from Sick Day and a spin-off, so none of this actually happens, but it does include @diejager ‘s reader character Hunter and is inspired by the AU created by @bluegiragi

You eventually do recover, your hunger returning to normal. Johnny is relieved and hugs you when you come shuffling out of your room.

However you���re still tired and weak. Hunter had given you your flu shot which basically put you out of commission for almost a whole day. The rest of the team is leaving for a mission, and finishing with gearing up. Hunter would stay behind to help keep watch over you. They aren’t taking any chances with your safety. You find Johnny in his tact gear. You’re wearing one of his hoodies so it’s oversized, but warm.

“Johnny?” You say, your voice returned somewhat. He turns and big brother mode kicks in again.

“Aye, back to bed.” He orders.

“Are you leaving soon?” You ask, not obeying. Not the first time he’s gone on a mission without you. You try to occupy your mind with helping on base or doing your hobbies. This time is different and you don’t know why. Seeing your big brother off feels important. Johnny sighs and picks you up in a bear hug making you giggle before setting you back down.

“Yeah I am.” He says.

“Do you want help with your collar?” You say before yawning. The collar he uses for coms. Usually he lets Simon do it but if it puts you at ease he doesn’t mind. You do your best and make sure it isn’t too tight. Once you finish you wrap your arms around him tightly. You make a small noise

“Aye… I’ll come back I always do.” He says trying to soothe you.

“I love you.” You say.

“I love you too. Keep the hoodie on, it’ll help.” He says. He gives you a tight hug, before carrying you back to your room. “Be back soon.”

Your door shuts and you wait, text Macho a bit, and continue to wait. The mission is going to be a few days or so. Hunter keeps you company, and you keep them company as well. You're patient. You don't have a choice.

Hunter does some training of their own with you, providing you with more insights into each of the hybrids. You’re feeling plenty better by now, just tired. You’re eating much better too. Hunter gives you some free time, running time to go to explore the wilds around base. It’s freeing, and seeing the spirits of other animals roaming around brought an odd sense of peace.

One day you go out and find a few rabbits hopping around each other. You giggle as they hop over each other, and chase around trees. You start to sketch them when you hear something overhead. Your head flicks up at the sound of propellers, and you saw two choppers overhead. You don’t hesitate to take off running as fast as you can, startling the rabbit spirits. You’re in full tilt, vaulting and leaping over any obstacle in the way.

Once you get close to the landing pad your excitement changes to something else. There are medics moving quickly and stretchers being laid out. No. No it can’t be. You run harder, crying out for your team, seeing damaged wings, and roughly bandaged limbs. Ghost hears you crying out, and acts fast. He’s quick to catch you, moving through the other soldiers and reaching you first.

As you reach out Ghost catches you, getting to your level. You can smell the blood on him, hear him trying to give you orders but you don’t listen. You’re fighting him as much as possible, desperate to reach your team. What the hell happened?! You’re calling for Johnny and König, but Ghost is just trying to keep you from running in. You’re tough, and you don’t make it easy, as you try to shove him away. It’s useless though as he just puts his arms around you, and holds tightly as you start crying. You keep calling their names, waiting for someone to respond with something, anything. Your fight weakens as emotions take over. You can’t lose them now. You just can’t.

Ghost doesn’t let go until everyone is back inside, and even then he lets you cry it out. Your face buries into his shoulder. He’s worried about Johnny too, and everyone else. Crying and running in isn’t gonna solve anything. He doesn’t need to be with them if you’re out here sobbing and fretting over what you have no control over.

“It’s gonna be okay.” He says. “They’ll pull through.”

You continue to soak the fabric of his uniform with your tears. Simon isn’t the most tender of people. Never has been really. But you’re hurting and afraid. He lets you settle down for a bit before letting you go.

“Deep breaths.” He reminds you, holding your head to focus on him. You sniffle and nod, taking deep unsteady breaths.

“They’ll be in post op soon. Price’ll tell you what happened when he can.”

“Yes sir.” You said, swallowing the lump in your throat. Ghost gives a half smile under his mask. He stands and walks with you inside. Your tears are still visible, and he thinks for a moment.

“Hey. You ever try to catch fog?” He asks.

“N…no.” You reply, confused.

“I tried to but I mist.” He says. It takes you a second but you smile at him.

The mission had fucked up in many ways. Price nearly got his tail torn off. Rudy would have been a thrall himself if Alejandro hadn’t taken most of the bites. König had to fight a blood rage, with Horangi getting caught in the crossfire. Gaz got tangled up with some sirens which didn’t go nice with the number of feathers that had been ripped out. Soap wasn’t fairing much good himself, having plenty of injuries from silver bullets. Plenty of bite marks amongst them. You watch from the doorway with Ghost behind you, hands on your shoulders.

Ghost feels a sense of guilt. He was there, and should’ve done more. Right now he knows you feel the same sort of guilt, wishing you had been there.

Hunter is tending to Rudy when a couple other medics shout for them. You hear growls from both Johnny and Alejandro. Ghost holds your shoulders a little tighter, as you try to take a step forward. You can’t see much, but there’s definitely some struggling, you can hear the bed rattling and creaking from the two men trying to fight something. The noises you hear shift and change from human to beast, mixed with panicked and commanding shouts.

“Come on kid.” Ghost says, having to pull you away from the scene. You don’t fight this time, only lean forward to see as much as you can before more soldiers file in to help. You finally look away once Ghost starts leading you down the hall. The noise is muffled as you walk away. It gets quieter and quieter an until you can only hear the sound of boots on the floor.

You sit in the locker room while Ghost gets out of his tactical gear. You sit on the bench where you can’t see him, and thankfully no other soldiers were walking around. Once Ghost finishes his shower and gets changed he comes out with the balaclava on. You’re quiet, more quiet than usual. He sits down next to you.

“Don’t fault yourself for not being there.” Ghost reminds you.

“I’m not… but… what happened?” You ask.

“Shit hit the ceiling. We thought it was only supposed to be thralls and instead we were faced with far more than we could account for. There were creatures in blood rages, which threw us off. König got out of hand as well, I think someone stuck him with something. Thankfully he calmed, but keeping him from destroying everything and everyone wasn’t fun. Honestly kid, if you were there it would have been more difficult.”

“I could’ve helped König.” You argue. Ghost sighs.

“Yeah you could’ve… or you could’ve passed out from sickness.” Ghost says. You know he’s right. You don’t want him to be but he is. Without asking you lean against his arm.

“Do you like him?” You ask, not looking at Ghost. Ghost takes a moment to process the question.

“Yes. I do.” He says. You look at him, and you can see he’s struggling as well. It’s not as obvious.

“You did everything you could.” You tell him. The way you say it almost sounds like a question, even if you don’t mean it to be. He doesn’t have anything to say in response.

“You hungry?” He asks instead. You nod and he takes you to get something.

“Is it quiet?” You ask from the counter, looking around the kitchen. Ghost hadn’t taken much notice, focused on making you some food. Simple sandwich would do fine. Now that you mention it, it was strangely quiet. He was aware of some leave from other soldier but not that many. Surely not all of them were needed at the infirmary.

He offers you the plate, saying it was probably nothing.

Ghost joins you on the counter knowing the cooks would give him a hard time later on about it. You see his scarred face under the balaclava, and stare until he turns his head towards you.

“You can look I don’t mind. The mask is just a comfort thing.” He says.

You eat your food, trying to focus on Ghost than what was going on. It would be okay. You suspect Ghost is trying to distract himself the same way. The two of you sit at the counter and you kick your legs a little. You hear a message over the PA system.

“Attention! We have an emergency in the medical wing. Rouge Hybrids! Repeat! Emergency in the medical wing! Rouge Hybri-fuck!” You and Ghost share a single look before getting up and rushing to medical wing. You half expect it to be Soap or König, but you are soon proven wrong. At least partially.

After shoving through doors with Ghost close behind you, you come across the bodies of two soldiers. You rush to them checking for a pulse, asking if they can hear you. No pulse, and even worse, there were blades stuck in their vest. Ghost approaches the other body, which looks like it’s been clawed into and torn apart. He suspects König or Horangi, until you speak up.

“Ghost… are these…” you hold up one of the blades and something drops in Ghost’s stomach. They weren’t blades, they were feathers. Kyle’s feathers.

“Take their vests.” He orders. You don’t question it, and work quickly to remove the soldier’s vest. Ghost keeps watch, but doesn’t for long, when he sees what cut off the announcer. Price stood at the end of the hall, eyes vacant, and body slouched. In his hand was a charred corpse, or rather his claws were inside of it. Ghost’s eyes widen as he steps back in shock. You freeze in place your focus on your captain’s bizarre state. His head turns towards the two of you, as he lets go of the body. When it doesn’t fall from his hand being so deep he slams it down on the ground. The sound is enough to make you snap back into focus. You had to go, and now. You get up and grab for Ghost’s arm, tugging.

Simon steps back, taking a quick glance at you. He makes sure you’re behind him as Price moves closer towards you. His eyes once vacant were now very focused, and on you and Simon.

“Price? Price!” Simon yells at the captain. Price doesn’t say anything, just keeps moving closer. His wing stretches out, still ragged from the mission. It’s a threat, a warning. You start to smell smoke.

“Ghost!” You shout, and Ghost is moving quicker, turning and shielding you, shadows forming around you and his as fire is blasted at the both of you. Ghost looks towards the door, ready to pick you up and run. He notices something in the small window, that makes him look for another way.

“Close your eyes.” He orders, and you obey. You feel yourself being picked up and rushed out of the room. You feel something sharp drag across your arm and Ghost grunt in some pain as he keeps running. You don’t let go, and you keep your eyes squeezed shut. You hear Ghost muttering names, and you even hear some familiar noises. You hear voices you should recognize but something is wrong. Something that makes your blood freeze and your body stiff. You hear some sounds of a struggle from Ghost, keeping you close with one arm, and fighting with the other. You hear some squelching noises before he continues, having to stop a few times.

It feels like an hour of the horrible noises and sounds, concealed by the darkness of your own eyelids. He finally reaches a room where he shuts the door tight and is able to lock it. You recognize the scent of tobacco and smoke as he sets you down on the desk. He checks the door again, ensuring it was locked tight. You’re trembling when Simon looks back at you.

His clothes are torn in places, and you look down to see your arm was scratched. He checks it thoroughly, unbothered by his own state. Nothing serious, a simple cut, with some blood. Blood.

Something pounds on the door to Price’s office. Fucking hell, there’s no other exit. You look at Ghost awaiting orders but he honestly doesn’t know what to tell you. Ghost points to you and then points under the desk. You know what to do. Ghost makes his way slowly to the door, before he opens it. He’s ready for anything, but relieved it’s Rudy falling through. Ghost tenses shutting the door and summoning shadows, ready if Rudy tries something. Rudy is coughing and panting, looking exhausted. He still has bandages on. Slowly he turns and moves backwards seeing Ghost ready to strike.

“What did you say about my mask in Las Almas?” He asks. Rudy takes a minute to steady himself, and Ghost is nice enough to give him a chance to breathe.

“You would fit in well.” He answers, and Ghost offers his hand to help him up. “I came to help when the announcement came on. When I saw the damage…”

“What happened?” Ghost asks.

“I’m not entirely sure. Alejandro started having these seizures, and then Soap started having them too. They got me out of there so they could focus on them. As for the rest… as soon as I saw Gaz on my way back there, I made a run for it. The cadejos have taken a lot out of me already, seemed the safest option.”

“Whats wrong with Gaz?” You ask popping up from your hiding spot, making Rodolfo nearly have a heart attack.

“We’re not sure. I have a feeling those bullets were more than just silver.” Rudy explained, once he steadied his heart rate.

“I got shot, and I’m fine though.” Ghost comments.

“Maybe cause you’re not alive?” You suggest. Simon considers it as a possibility. Then you look at Rudy. “But why doesn’t it bother you?”

“Still mostly human. The cadejos are ghosts.” Rudy tells you. That makes some sense. Your mind then goes to the rest of the team.

“What about Johnny?” You ask. Rudy’s face looks unsure and grim.

“I don’t know Mija.” Rudy admits. The room is eerily quiet, and there’s no sound outside. Even you can't pick up much.

“What of the human soldiers?” Ghost asks. Rudy shakes his head. That’s all Ghost needs. If there were any still around they were either fighting for their lives or hunkering down the same as the three of you. You come out from behind the desk, and sit on top of it while Rudy and Ghost wander and pace around the room. The burning question among the three of you.

Now what?

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends @thriving-n-jiving @cutiecusp

[papil0nglegs]

What about the mercs with a fem SO that talks in brainrot sometimes? Would really want medic in there but it's up to you!

Mercs x Brainrot!Reader

A/n: WHY IS THE TF2 FANDOM SO OBSESSED WITH THIS IDEA? 😭 I SAW ANOTHER FIC ABT THIS AND TWO REQUESTS ASKING FOR THIS PLS

warnings: Brainrot.. a lot of images being used, it’s a shit post who cares tbh

Scout

He’s into it too

Guys it’s scout

“Scout ilysm ur so nonchalant <33”

“Thanks babe ^^ I know I’m pretty alpha”

(Oh btw the alpha thing isn’t a joke he unironically listens to alpha male podcasts)

In the middle of spy’s serious moments you’d both lip sync ‘you are my sunshine’ to each other when he’s not looking

“what the bloody hell are you guys doing..”

“…perhaps itz a coping mechanizm zince scout doesn’t have a father?”

Medic really had to take it there

The ‘fatherless child’ meme was a coping mechanism for him tho

“I’m a fatherless child, of course I have abandonment issues”

“Um babe? Idk if you should joke abt that 😚”

“Na it just makes me more sigma”

You guys love to fuck with the blu team sm with your shenanigans, esp sniper!!

Scout would have his bat and you would have whatever weapon you have with you and yell “skibidi” before jumping him

Here’s something he DEFINITELY didn’t learn from you 💯

creds to urwhouchoose2b on Tik tok

Engineer

He tries so hard to understand

Whenever you show him a meme he does the classic old person holding phone away from eyes thing

Yk the

“Ok so this is the ‘im nothing like y’all’ fish”

“alrighty, and this is..?”

“Oh that’s the Freddy five bear meme, see it’s funny cuz his name is actually ‘Freddy fazbear’ but they got his name wrong so like.. yeah”

“…I’m not sure what I’m ‘posed to say ‘bout this, but I think you belong in a looney bin”

Once he had a project that had the word “alpha” in it and he hated mentioning it to you cuz yk

“giggle”

“…what?”

“Skibidi alpha”

“What??”

Demo man

HE LOVES IT LMFAOO

he’s so energetic esp when he’s drunk so he’s happy to have someone he can share that energy with

Y’all know that “Scotland forever” meme

Well you screamed it after another victory as a joke, but when demo heard it he was confused but also excited?

“SCOTLAND FOREVAA”

“OH? ALRIGHT THEN, SCOTLAND FOREVER 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿”

cut to him butt chugging beers

Demo doesn’t get it but he has the spirit

He’ll be right there replicating the TikTok audios after taking the point

Dude is drunk 99% of the time so he’s never bothered to ask what any of this means, he’s just in it for the fun

Once you dragged him to the bathroom since he drake too many beers (shocker) but he didn’t want to do it in the toilet cuz he didn’t want to ‘hurt his dear skibidi’

“Cmon demo you have to puke it out!!”

“Noo, take me to the jawbox I don’t wanna hert me skibidi toilet”

“Oh god what have I done”

I think you rotted his brain a little too much

Spy

Don’t even get him started.

He’s so sick of your antics it’s not even funny

“Guys we all have to remember that it’s not about the money.. it’s about the skibidi.”

Passionately grabs spy’s shoulder

“How have you made it this far in life”

Unlike engie, he really doesn’t want to know about it

Especially during missions

“lol spy you’re so devious ASF”

“shhh, enough blabbering!!”

“You are not carti 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️❌‼️‼️‼️”

You make fun of him a bunch, he can’t think of a single moment where you took him seriously

“Y/n get off the cart!!”

“If we were in Fortnite I’d have higher ground + double pump.”

[in1-nutshell]

I don't know why but I really want wobbles to meet Red cross and Deadloop

A portal opens and sends wobbles to tfp universe completely lost wandering around like a lost puppy until the prime bots find them

Tfp ratchet and red cross can't even figure why wobbles wobbles so they aren't allowed to leave the base until they go home

Deadloop keeps wobbles out of danger when wobbles does get out of the base

Wobbles has returned!

Hope you enjoy!

Wobbles meet Red Cross and Deadloop

SFW, Platonic, Slight Angst, Cybertronian reader

MTMTE/TFP

Red Cross was trying to repair one of Ratchet’s tools, that may or may not have been trampled by a certain green Wrecker.

The team was out on patrol, and she was handling most of the controls and monitors.

Thankfully Raf had offered to be an extra set of optics and audials in case there was trouble.

Jack and Miko were talking about a shared class and something about finals.

Suddenly a portal came from the wall behind her.

Raf: “Red Cross behind you!”  Red Cross dropped the tool and held her servos in fighting position, prepared for anything that came— THWUNK! Red Cross looked at what hit her helm. It was an arm. Red Cross: “WHAT IN THE ALLSPA—” WHAM! Another frame came out and slammed into the medic. The portal closes. Jack, Miko, and Raf all run over to check on Red Cross. The mystery bot groan as they roll to their side. Red Cross also groans sitting up, holding her side. Both bots look at each other. Wobbles: “Hey! You found my arm! Thanks!” Red Cross: “… I’m going to be punch-drunk by the time this war is over…”

The new bot, Wobbles, happily explained their situation while Red Cross patched their arm back.

Red Cross was still trying to wrap her processor around… everything, she didn’t notice the bots had called in a groundbrigde.

Raf took the liberty of opening the groundbrigde for the bots.

Everyone was surprised to see a new bot in the med bay and a slightly stressed-out Red Cross.

The kids helped Wobbles explain to the others about their situation.

Deadloop: “You’re a simp kid.” Miko spits out her drink. Jack and Raf: “A simp?” Deadloop: “A foolish person.” Wobbles: “Hey!” Deadloop: “You just told us that you WILLINGLY allowed yourself to be someone’s test subject for teleportation and didn’t think that something bad would happen!?” Red Cross: “Deadloop! That’s enough.” She places a servo on Wobbles shoulder. Red Cross: “Wobbles has had enough excitement for one day. Let them be, there isn’t much we can do about the past, can’t we?” Deadloop grumbles a bit but stays silent. Miko under her breath: “You’re the simp.” Deadloop: “What was that kid.” Miko: “Nothing!”

Optimus granted Wobbles permission to stay at the base until their team came and got them.

Wobbles is surprised to hear that this universe’s war was still going on.

They immediately told everything they knew about the ending of the war to Optimus.

It wasn’t much help, but if there was a chance to help these kind bots they were going to do just that.

Red Cross did not like Wobbles leaving her sight.

Red Cross: “Deadloop, Bulkhead where’s Wobbles?” Deadloop: “Their with Miko.” Red Cross: “Miko?” Bulkhead: “Yeah, they mentioned something about sparring.” Red Cross: “Come again?” Deadloop: “Don’t get your bolts twisted. Its just a friendly—ACK!” The smaller medic grabbed both mech’s chassis and brought them to her height. Red Cross: “Did you just say Wobbles is SPARRING? WITH MIKO?! You might as well ask them to stand in front of Big Bertha!” Bulkhead: “She has the Apex Armor! Don’t worry!” Deadloop: “Leave the lass alone Red. The pair can make their own decisions.” Red cross glares at Deadloop. Red Cross: “Its not Miko who I’m worried about!” CLANK! CRASH! THUNK! Miko: “WOBBLES DEAD!” Red Cross, with sudden strength tosses the pair aside and runs to the sparring room, Ratchet soon following behind. Bulkhead notices Deadloop still looking in the direction Red Cross ran off. Bulkhead: “Hey, Deadloop… have you… you know talked to her about…” Deadloop: “No.” Bulkhead: “Are you planning on it?” Deadloop stays silent. Deadloop: “… I don’t know…”

Ratchet and Red Cross could not figure out how Wobbles could keep on falling apart without much notice or injury.

Wobbles mentioned that their Ratchet and medical team never knew why either, they just lived with it.

Red Cross keep Wobbles a few feet away from her.

She has saved them from 5 falls, 10 trips, and 6 limbs from falling out.

The team can see how worried Red Cross is for this bot and do their best to help make things for her are easier.

Deadloop has made it his job to watch over Wobbles when Red Cross can’t.

Deadloop standing behind Red Cross. Deadloop: “Red Cross, you need to rest.” Red Cross: “And like I told Ratchet, no.” She begins to walk away but Deadloop grabs her servo. Deadloop: “Red, you need to get off your pedes, the pede injury is going to start acting up again.” Red Cross stays quiet. Deadloop: “…Its already started acting up hasn’t it?” Red Cross: “…maybe?” Deadloop: “For Primus sake Red.” The medic yelps a bit when the Seeker suddenly picks her up and places her on the med slab, elevating her pedes. Red Cross: “I don’t need your help. I’m a medic Deadloop.” Deadloop: “Well, you sure not acting like one.” Red Cross stays silent. Deadloop: “…Just stay off the pede for a while. I’ll keep on optic out for the kid.” Deadloop walks out of the med bay, missing Red Cross’s sad smile.

Deadloop, thankfully, doesn’t have to worry about Wobbles going too far.

After sharing some stories, the young bot was willing to stay near him to hear more.

Did Wobbles start to grow on him?

Maybe?

Was he ever going to tell anyone?

No.

Wobbles then starts telling Red Cross about the stories.

She chuckles a lot at the theatric the bot puts on… except when their servo nearly came off…

Soon enough the same portal came back.

Wobbles, after making sure all their parts where with them, said their goodbyes and hoped right in.

Red Cross: “As much as that bot made my energon levels spike, I’m going to miss them.” Ratchet: “I am not going to miss tracking down their missing servos again…” Red Cross: “You’re going to miss them Ratchet, no need to lie.” Red Cross briefly makes optic contact with Deadloop before looking back down. Red Cross: “I’ll be fixing that tool.” Deadloop: “Red.” Red Cross looks over at the Seeker. Red Cross: “Deadloop? What is it?” Deadloop:” I… I…” Red Cross: “Yes?” Deadloop: “…How long is it going to take? I need someone monitoring my flight path.” Red Cross: “Get one of the Wrecker’s to watch you.” Red Cross walks back into the med bay. Bulkhead:  “Deadloop…” Deadloop: “Just… just watch my flight will ya.”

Meanwhile… Brainstorm, Ambulon, First Aid and Ratchet are in the lab. Ambulon: “Where are they?” Brainstorm: “They should be here any moment now.” First Aid: “This is the last time I’m letting them near the lab without supervision.” Brainstorm: “I was here.” Ratchet: “You don’t count.” Brainstorm: “What does that mean—Oh! Here they are!” The portal opens. Ratchet: “Well?” Wobbles goes flying towards the medics at full speed. CRASH! Wobbles is sitting on a pile of medics. Wobbles waves at Brainstorm. Wobbles: “That was fun! You have no idea what was on the other side! When can I go again!” All the medics: “NO!” Ratchet is the first to get out of the pile. Ratchet: “And to the medbay with you.” Wobbles happily waves good bye to Brainstorm as the medics bring them to the medbay.

wobbles waving at everyone

[jewels-writes]

Surviving the Crash (Part 2)

Fandom: Call of Duty Word count: 1,664 Warnings: not proofread, vague hospital scene, angst Background information: Your callsign is Crow (again) Part 1 Part 3 — — — —

It had been a week since you’d woken up. A week of apologies from Price. You’d told him each time that it was okay and that you didn’t blame him for what happened. You knew the risks of the job; now you had to deal with the consequences. 

Physical therapy was as humiliating and dehumanizing as you imagined it would be. More often than not, you felt like you were getting worse instead of better. Some days, you could walk a few steps. Other days, you couldn’t even stand.

Price wasn’t there as much as he said he would be. It hurt, sure, but you knew he was busy. But there was another part of you that thought that if he wanted to, he would. You thought you were special to him. The way he treated you before the mission, you thought you meant something to him. Why else did he insist on putting you on his team?

You were lying in the same hospital bed when a gentle rap came at the door. Waiting for your answer, the person who knocked poked their head in.

“Hey, love.” It was Price. Your heart ached at the mere sight of him for a reason you didn’t want to know. “I brought you something; it isn’t much, but I thought you’d like it.” Walking to your bedside, he placed a small white and purple box on your lap, allowing you to open it at your own pace. Carefully pulling at the ribbon that held the top on, you opened the box with gentle motions. “What do you think?” He asked, clearly nervous for your reaction.

It was a wood-carved crow painted a deep shade of purple. Turning it to inspect every angle, you noticed it’s imperfections. As you pieced the pieces together, a realization dawned on you.

“Did you make this?” You whispered, looking up to meet his nervous gaze. He gave you a small nod with a smile. “Price.. I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anythin’. I just hope that can bring you comfort even if I’m not here.” He took a step closer to your bed. “The boys miss you. They told me to say hi for them.” “Tell them I miss them too.” You muttered, your eyes focusing back on the crow in your hands.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for a while, neither of you knowing what to say. It was a surprise when his radio flickered to life, giving a reason to end the quiet.

“I’ll visit when I can.” He muttered softly to you. He looked like he wanted to say more but couldn’t bring himself to do so. “Rest up, Crow.” With a nod, he left the room, leaving an emptiness behind. 

A week had passed. Then two. Then three. No matter how many times you told yourself he was busy, the same part from before told you he didn’t care. Wouldn’t he have told you if he was going on a long mission? Or maybe someone would have the decency to tell you, right?

After a month had gone by, you stopped having hope. You knew you needed to focus on getting better anyway. When you were well enough, you’d confront him. 

— — — —

The day of your discharge from the medical wing wasn't anything crazy. Two grueling months in physical therapy had driven you nearly mad, driven only by the fact you could work again when it was all over. The nurses, with their kind words and congratulatory applause, bid you farewell as you strode out of the medical wing. While their well-wishes were appreciated, it wasn't their applause you yearned for.

Your footsteps carried you with purpose towards your barracks, a shared sanctuary nestled amidst the camaraderie of the 141. As you drew near the weathered tent flaps, a symphony of their laughter and loud chatter reached your ears. Their excited voices intertwined, filling the air with an atmosphere of joy that felt alien to you. It was a painful reminder of the life you yearned to reclaim.

“Ay, Gaz! Another round over here!” Soap's voice rang out, his words tinged with excitement that tugged at your heartstrings. The realization hit you like a tidal wave—they were drinking and celebrating, and you were clearly absent. You had found a strange comfort in the medical wing's solitude, believing that their absence was due to the demands of their duties. It was a flimsy shield against the sting of reality.

Anger should have surged through your veins like wildfire. You should have stormed into that tent, raising hell, demanding answers, and retribution. But you were better than that. Your restraint, borne from a sense of pride and a desire to be more than the victim of circumstances, held you back. 

You hadn’t realized it until their cheers died down that you were crying. Tears ran down your face as you tried to grapple with just how little you meant to them. You wondered why they’d fought so hard to keep you alive if they didn’t intend to stay. If they could be this happy without you, then why did it matter?

Despite your tears, you poked your head around the tent, trying to remain unseen. You saw all of them, standing around, opened beer cans in their hands, their laughter surging up again at a joke Gaz had made. Ghost’s arm hug lazily around Soap’s shoulder and Gaz sat on his bed across from them. 

God, it hurt. 

Looking over to your bunk, you realized something. Price wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the tent drinking with his soldiers. You shot down the hope you had, that he was absent because he was upset as well. Before you could think about it, you were walking to Price’s office. Where else could he be if not with his team?

As you walked through the camp, the moonlight shown down on you. Shivering slightly, you wished you would have brought a jacket, not that you could have walked in the tent without being seen by the 141. You brought your hands up to your arms, hoping it would retain some warmth.

And now here you were, your hand hesitating, hovering before the wooden door to his office. You faltered, twitching in your indecisiveness. What would you even say to him if he answered? Was it worth it? Would he even care? As you were about to give up, the shadows under the door moved and the handle turned.

Oh shit.

As the door opened, your eyes widened in dread. There stood Price, looking exhausted as hell. He froze when he saw you, his head tilting to the side in confusion.

“Crow..? What on earth are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in medical why-” His expression faltered with worry and concern. “You’re crying.” 

No matter how much you prepared yourself, seeing him was enough to break your walls down. Your hands came up to cover your face as you sobbed. The confusion and the pain ruining you.

In an instant he took a step forward, his arms wrapping around you. One of his hands went to the back of your head, pulling you in, the other on the small of your back. He rocked you back and forth, shushing you and whispering small assurances in your ear.

“You’re okay. Shh..” He murmured. “I’m here. Your captain’s here.” His hand ran through your hair, an attempt to soothe you.

He ushered you into his office, for the privacy, for the space you were familiar with. As he moved you, you felt the anger well up after the sadness got its chance to come out and you took a step away from him. His eyes searched yours, desperate for answers.

“I see you’ve been enjoying yourself.” You motioned to his desk, an empty whiskey bottle sat on top of a mess of papers. “Your soldiers are doing the same thing, maybe you should go drink with them. Or have you forgotten about them as well?” Your voice slowly gained more strength as you realized that you’d been wronged. 

Price didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what would even soothe you. Figured it would be better to let you get whatever this was out of your system.

“Two months, Captain.” You whispered, crossing your arms over your chest. “For someone who wanted me on their team so bad, you sure have a hell of a way of fighting to keep me here.” The pain in your voice was clear. Price could see the inner turmoil, the doubt, the confusion. His eyes flickered with recognition.

“No one told you?” He asked, a hint of realization in his expression. “We had to finish that mission. The one that you..” His voice trailed off as he motioned to your leg with a guilty expression. “We just got back tonight. I was finishing up a report on it before all this.” His eyes widened as he realized exactly why you were so upset. “You didn’t think I.. forgot about you.. right?”

You didn’t know how to respond. Could you even? Everything you’d thought was wrong? How could you know he wasn’t lying? How could you just push away what you’ve been thinking these past two months?

“Are you serious..?” Your voice was quiet, confused. “No, no one bloody told me anything. God dammit, Price. I thought..”

He shook his head slowly, concern in his expression. “I could never, sweetheart. I worked my ass off, pulling strings to get you to my team. I could never leave you behind.” His arms went around you again, desperate to get his point across. 

Slowly, you believed him. It was in the way his arms trembled around you, the way he whispered to you gently, rocking you back and forth. You eventually leaned into his touch, seeking his comfort.

Finally everything seemed to be alright, for the first time in a long while. Note: I'm so sorry if this sucks, I'm best at writing fast paced action scenes but this was requested so here you go. I love you guys and I'm working on a third part before even posting this. Requests are open if you're ever interested in more writing from me!

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Wash Away the Pain #2 - Hunter

Fleeing Kamino, Hunter knows they’ve made a mistake, but he isn’t sure how to fix it. Could they even fix it? Who knows. All he does know is that he’s way out of his depth.

Pairing: Hunter x gn!reader (can be seen as platonic or romantic)

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: whump, guilt, hurt and comfort, brief mention of order 66, hopeful ending.

A/N: I was heavily inspired by these gorgeous drawings by @thattoothpick.

This is part of a mini-series where each of our boys will get their sad/angsty shower time, but they can be read as standalone's.

Check out others in the series: Echo, Tech, Wrecker, and Crosshair.

ps; don't care what's canon or not, the Marauder has a fresher 😂

Sign up to be tagged in my future fics.

It’s late, but Hunter can’t sleep.

How did things go so sideways?

They never leave their own behind, and yet…

He sighs, head thunking back against the shower wall. There wasn’t much room in the small fresher on the Marauder, but it was the only space he could be alone with his thoughts. Guilt churns in his gut. What the hell had happened to his baby brother? Why had he fired at them?

Crosshair’s demeanour had changed ever since the order on Kaller. His brother would’ve never fired on a child in the past; he would’ve listened – albeit with a snarky comment – when told to stand down. It was as if Crosshair had been replaced by someone else.

But rather than getting to the bottom of it, they’d left him.

He’d left him.

So much for being a good leader. A good brother.

The quiet click of the fresher door doesn’t even register to Hunter as his thoughts spiral, clutching the bandana wrapped around his fist.

The touch of your hand on his tattooed cheek rips him from his thoughts, head tipping forward to look at you standing before him under the shower spray.

You’d heard Hunter get up and had heard him head to the fresher and turn on the shower. Tech, Wrecker, and Omega remain asleep. Echo is on watch as you travel through hyperspace. As the squads nat-born medic, called in because of the inability of your boys to get along with regs, it was your job to look after their wellbeing. And now it felt like Hunter needed some care.

“Hey, H.” You greet him softly once he looks at you. Living in such close quarters had desensitised you to nudity – you’d seen all the boys in varying states of undress over the years and had even ripped blacks from them when they’d been injured to give you more room to work.

Hunter doesn’t bless you with any words, just a tiny nod of his head in acknowledgement. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to understand what’s going on in his head.

“It’s not your fault.” You whisper, fingers smoothing down his face and neck, pushing back wet strands of dark hair plastered to his skin until your palm presses against his chest. 

Hunter’s gaze lingers on yours, searching for reassurance that you may hold the answers he desperately seeks. The steam from the shower swirls around both of you.

“I should’ve done something,” Hunter mutters, his voice a low rasp. The guilt in his eyes mirrors the storm within him. “I left him behind. Left my own brother.”

Your fingers smooth over his collarbone, a gesture of comfort. “You did what you had to do to protect the rest of us. Crosshair wasn’t himself. You couldn’t have predicted it.”

Hunter’s jaw tightens, and his gaze drops to the swirling water pooling at his feet. The Marauder’s constant hum provides a backdrop to the heavy silence between you.

“He’s my responsibility,” Hunter admits, a raw vulnerability in his voice. “I should’ve found a way to save him.”

Your fingers tilt his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze again. “Hunter, you’re only human. You can’t control the choices others make. All you can do is protect the ones who are still here.”

He closes his eyes briefly as if trying to shut out the haunting images that plague his mind.

“You’re not alone in this, H.” You assure him. “We’re a team, and we’ll figure this out together. Whatever happened to Crosshair, we’ll find a way to bring him back.”

Hunter’s shoulders relax, if only slightly, under the weight of your words. The subtle touch of your fingers against his chest feels like an anchor, grounding him in the present moment.

A mixture of gratitude and anguish plays across Hunter’s features. He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. Instead, he steps forward, his wet skin meeting your soaked clothes as the shower’s spray cascades around you both.

Without a word, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a gentle embrace. A hand cups the back of your head, the other around your waist, holding you close. The water from the shower mingles with the tears that escape his closed eyes. You hold him, offering solace in the only way you know how. Hunter’s breath steadies as he clings to the lifeline of human connection.

As the minutes pass, the weight on Hunter’s shoulders seems to ease. The guilt doesn’t vanish entirely, but it becomes a shared burden. You pull back slightly, holding him at arm’s length. Your eyes lock onto his. “We’ll find him, Hunter.” You affirm, your voice unwavering. “Whatever changed him, we’ll get to the bottom of it. And if there’s a way to bring him back, we’ll find that too.”

Hunter’s expression softens, a mixture of gratitude and determination replacing the turmoil. He nods a silent agreement that resonates through the small fresher. The two of you stand there for a moment longer, the steady hum of the Marauder and the pattering of the shower the only sounds in the room.

You reach for his hand, unfurling the bandana wrapped around it. Quietly, you wrap one end around your hand, too. “We’re with you, Hunter. No matter what.”

Hunter’s grip tightens on his end of the bandana, the physical connection serving as a tangible reminder of the support he has. “What do we do about the kid?” He asks softly, thrown so far out of his element.

You shrug, not having thought that far ahead. “We figure that out, too. You said it yourself: she’s one of us.”

“Never raised a kid before.” Hunter murmurs, brows drawing down into a frown. He could remember himself and his brothers at Omega’s age, but that was his only reference point.

A soft laugh leaves you, echoing in the fresher. “And you think I have?” You tease, delight flaring in your chest as Hunter’s lips pull up slightly into a smile. That was more like it.

Silence lingers between you both again, comfortable as always, but you watch as Hunter’s eyes glaze over a little. “He’ll think we abandoned him in favour of her.” He swallows, jaw clenching as the earlier guilt rears its head again.

“Perhaps, but we know that’s not the case.” You reassure him, hand shifting from his chest to smooth across his bicep, across the dark ink that shades it. “We were kitting up to go and find him, to break him out of wherever he’d been taken.”

Hunter knows you’re right, but pushing away his thoughts is hard. “Should’ve stunned him. Should’ve…”

“Hey. We’re not falling down that ash-rabbit hole, okay?” Your voice is more assertive this time, though still laced with care. “There’s a lot of ‘should’ve’ in life, but if that’s all we focus on, then we miss out on the here and now and forget to look to the future. What’s done is done, how we survive this…takeover…of the Empire, and how we get him back are all matters.” You insist, both hands rising to cup Hunter’s face to draw his focus to you.

It works. Hunter’s eyes find yours as he leans into the comfort you willingly give him. “Think we’ll survive?”

“I’ve spent three years with you. I’ve seen you guys pull off the impossible before.” You point out.

Hunter’s lips quirked into a half-smile, a glimmer of hope breaking through the clouds of doubt that had shrouded him. “Yeah, well, we have the best medic in the galaxy on our side.”

You playfully roll your eyes at his attempt to lighten the mood, but it does its job. “Flattery won’t get you out of the next round of physicals, Sergeant.”

He chuckles, the sound a welcome reprieve from the heavy atmosphere that had lingered moments before. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Let’s get some rest.” You suggest, the exhaustion evident in both of your eyes. “We’ll face whatever comes next with clear heads and a plan.”

With a nod, Hunter switches off the shower, and the two of you step out to towel off, changing into clean blacks stored in the only locker in the room. As you return to the racks, you glimpse Omega, still curled on her makeshift bed. She stirs slightly but settles quickly. Hunter places a hand on your shoulder, a silent expression of gratitude.

As you settle into your bunk, you glance at Hunter, resting in his bed across from you. His eyes meet yours, and an unspoken promise is made in that shared gaze. The journey may be arduous and treacherous, but together, as a family, you will face it all. The Marauder hurtles through the star-studded void, a small vessel carrying the hopes and dreams of those who refuse to be crushed by the weight of a galaxy in turmoil.

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @littlemissmanga @starrylothcat @cw80831 @dreamie411 @issa-me-bry-blog

[painful-pooch]

An Impromptu Farewell

I do apologize to those that have been waiting since the beginning to read this. I have been through one of the worst times of my life since moving to this new place due to the military. That being said, I am grateful if there are still those interested in reading this as this is where the story will pick up. I love you guys.

Part 1 (Captain Down)

Bru Bru tag list: @cpt-winters, @redd956, @straight-to-the-pain, @technom0ose, @actress4him, @whumperofworlds, @i-eat-worlds, @inscrutable-shadow, @gala1981, @thethistlegirl, @ocean-blue-whump, @noirineverysense, @steelandblood, @crash-bump-bring-the-whump, @kervl-klear

CWs: military whump, war, gunshot wounds, blood, injury, gunfire, death of random soldiers, farewells, mentions of alcoholism, and violence.... Sorry for writing so much ahhhh

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruno’s aim is true and his intent clear as he holds the pistol tightly in his hand, watching Khrystyna’s body tense up. She’s not moving an inch, and he can’t blink away the tears in his eyes or she might disarm him before he can react. “Get. Back. That’s an order. Don’t make me hurt you.” His side is blazing with harrowing pain, spreading like a wildfire through his body, the bullet having wrecked him while staying lodged in him. He can feel the life seeping out of his side, but he won’t let Khrystyna see his suffering. She needs to make it back home. That’s his only concern now.

Khrystyna scoffs and takes a careful step towards him, her voice not betraying her probable fear of his threat, “Sir, you have a gunshot wound. Multiple now. I made an oath when I became a pararescueman. I am never leaving you behind. Now give-” 

He fires a warning shot beside her, wincing from the recoil of the .45 caliber gun. Even with all of his armor on, with his bravado, and with his stoic nature, he feels so vulnerable; so naked. It terrifies him, and with each second that passes by is just another second for the enemy to close in on their location. He can’t live with himself if he gets the youngest member of the team captured, especially the best medic he’s ever met. 

If she is caught alongside him, she would be forced to heal him and keep him around for longer… all while getting destroyed herself. Who would even heal her or watch after her if he were to pass or not be present? He shakes away the thought in his mind and with a shaky voice, re-enunciates, “Khrys… I am begging you as someone that loves you and as your commander, let me go.”

If Khrystyna had thought he was bluffing, she now knows he isn’t playing around. She is staring at the wound in his side for a few seconds, locking eyes with him once more. “B-Bruno, I can’t let you do this. We can make it back to the evac point! We can make it out of this!”

“You aren’t stupid!” Bruno roars, forcing himself to stand up, leaning back against the wall with the gun still aimed. “You know better than this. You know that this is only going to end badly if they get both of us. I can’t make it there, even with help. What I can do is provide you and the others coverage. Give you all the chance to make it out.”

“Why? Why are you doing this? This isn’t fair! Who’s even looking out for you?! Why are you pushing me away? I won’t fail you!” 

Failure. Is that what she is afraid of? He almost feels the corner of his lip curl up. She doesn’t hate him. Not yet.

Khrystyna is in tears now, her voice so full of anguish and disappointment. “What are you so afraid of?”

Afraid? Bruno isn’t afraid. 

He’s petrified. 

He’s about to lose everything he ever loved and cared about.

“Say something, Bruno!” 

“I can’t lose you all! I can’t let them ruin you and use you all to get to me. This is the only way to make sure no secrets make it out. I can’t trust myself, Khrys. I can’t trust myself to stay quiet if it means I have to watch you all slowly die around me. I am not strong enough. I will never be strong enough! I am dying, kid.” His hand holding the pistol is visibly shaking at this point, and the pain stemming from the wound only worsens with time.

“I am fucking dying, and I need you to get the fuck away and get to the rendezvous point,” he pours, all of his emotion going into those statements without any thought, the poor girl before him listening to him reveal all those unspeakable fears. He feels so powerless even as he holds the weapon in his hand; even as a leader, he failed his medic. 

Khrys retreats only a step or so, her hands up while silent tears stream down her face. “What can I do to help you then? What can I do for my Captain one last time? I won’t leave unless you tell me or let me help fix you up. I can’t let you die…” The woman has always been such an amazing prodigy and human. Even with all of her credentials, awards, stats, and her skill, she is still a young soul. She has a life ahead of her. She’s barely past the age to drink legally and yet she’s done so much more than most have ever accomplished in their whole lives. Her potential would be ruined in captivity. No one would recognize her for who she is.

He is so proud of who Senior Airman Khrystyna Paszek is, that he is willing to die for her time and time again so she can continue on with her journey. 

Bruno grins down at her, trying to cheer her up even just an ounce, ensuring that no one has yet closed in on them. “Your final order? Leave me a gunshot wound trauma kit, an adrenaline pen, and take my dog tag with you. Can you do that for me? Your old man here is gonna fuck shit up just enough to give you all a window of escape. Sounds good?”

She forces a smile and laugh, kneeling on the ground to rummage through her heavy pack, giving him a few supplies from the hemostatic dressing, bandages, and a syringe with the beautifully blue liquid to some sterile gauze with pain medication. She holds her hand out to him, unable to look at him. “Dog tag?”

Bruno inhales sharply, grabbing her hand, pulling her up, and hugging her tightly regardless of the searing pain in his side, leg, and heart. He presses a small kiss to her head, slipping her pistol back into her holster. “I am gonna miss you. Promise to keep looking for me after?” He looks down at her, yanking the chain from around his neck off with a snap, handing her the dog tags he has been carrying on him since… forever ago. His own tears fall and he clenches his jaw so tightly, waiting for her answer. 

“Sir…” She trails off, staring at the tag in her hand for so long. She closes her fist around the metal piece, her eyes screwed tightly. “I want to keep fighting… But I won’t let you down. I won’t stop looking for you. You better not die on us, old man. Do you have a message for her?”

Her. 

Miranda.

Yeah. He has a message for her. “Tell her I’ll be back by chow.”

Khrys probably wants to hit him, but she nods her head, picking up her pack again, clipping the straps together and ensuring it’s all in order. “She’s going to murder you. Here… your mic is broken. Give us one last message before it’s over?” She passes him an extra earpiece of hers, one that most likely works. “Don’t die. That’s an order to you, Captain Stenberg.”

He sighs and puts the earpiece in, hearing the sounds of all the other members scrambling to get to the evac point. “You need to start heading back. Now. I won’t die. That’s a promise, and I never break my promises. Head out and I will provide a distraction.” 

Khrys wants to say something else to him, but he can tell she thinks against it, turning to the side and walking to the end of the alley. She looks behind her one last time before she books it in the direction of safety. With that, Bruno is left alone in the alley with his gear, wounds, med kit, and his broken pride. 

He gets to work, vest off and his shirt and fatigues up, checking the wound that is looking a little worse for wear. He has to pack it with the hemostatic gauze that will force the bleeding to slow down and trick the body into clotting up the opening. 

A few deep breaths and with his head tilted back to look at the hazy sky, he uses his thumbs to shove the gauze deep into his wound. He tries to not scream, his jaw tight and his veins probably popping out from the strain. He is half gasping and crying with each packing movement of his blood covered thumbs and hands. It’s so uncomfortable and a pain he truly can’t describe, but once he’s done, he’s pouring down sweat from the exertion, placing a large bandage over the wound to at least keep the gauze in there. 

Once that is over, he picks up the syringe, staring at it. He was trained to use the damned thing if he was ever in a situation where it’s hard to stay up, alive, or both. The best part about the drug in the syringe is that it gives him enough of a boost to still cause just enough damage to provide the opening needed. He keeps the syringe in the pen pocket of his right arm, using the cute little velcro strap to keep it in place. 

With his injury, he can’t carry the full weight of his gear and needs to be as lightweight as possible for his plan to come to fruition. He unclips the straps over his chest and thighs, letting the heavy pack fall to the ground. The change was instantaneous, and the painful pressure against his wounds were lessened, the man sighing in heavenly relief. “Oh thank fuck.”

Before he starts to limp his way over to where Khrys headed, he makes a few alterations to his pack, grinning like a mad little scientist when he picks up the detonator and holds it in his hand. He promised his family of operatives and soldiers he’d get them home, and he is going to give everyone a show while he does so. The world spins and darkens up around him if he moves too crazily, but he sips at his camelback water bag still hooked up to him, the cool and refreshing water giving him something to look forward to. The earpiece is finally not getting ignored by him, and the voices that pour in get processed. 

“I need a count off from everyone now.” Valdemar grunts out, the sound of the chopper’s rotors and blades whirring in the background. “Go.”

Shifting and the sound of wind respond first. “Kieran here, just staying away from the action in the middle. Probably a mike or two (minute/s) away.”

“Away from the action?” Miranda laughs, her huffing well suppressed. She was, afterall, a former Marine grunt that could haul ass if need be. “I am basically there. Just making sure I am clear before going uphill. I would love to not be a sitting duck. Where’s Khrystyna and Bruno?”

Lukas’ scoff is the first to reply to Miranda’s inquiry. “Glad to know me, Sebastian, and Oscar aren’t cared about, lady. I get it. Tomcat, your happy loving pilot is going around in circles, going crazy and getting dizzy, thank you very much.”

“Lukas, I am going to quite literally smack you. You are in a fucking plane, away from all the bullshit down here. Sebastian is flying the helicopter, and Oscar is in a fucking air conditioned room back home!” Valdemar shouts into the comms. 

Oscar hums softly, a quiet response, “To be fair, last time I tried to be a part of a mission, I got stabbed…” There’s a subtle slurp from a drink, almost like he has a fountain drink at his desk. “Air conditioned room is nice.”

A moment of silence went through and Sebastian finally chimes in: “Yikes. Awkward, Valdemar the Viking. Seems like your Oonga Boonga Army brain is getting the best of y- hey, no no no get away! OW YOU ASSHOLE! THOSE ARE MY SKITTLES!”  

Bruno can’t help but laugh, even in his predicament, but when Khrys talks, the laughter goes away. “I’m almost there. I had to uh… help someone hurt.”

“Who was hurt?” Miranda asks, another moment of silence coming in when she then answers her own question. “Bruno…? You haven’t answered us yet. Where are you?”

He’s in Hell. 

He is in literal Hell, but he must tread on with honor. Someone will keep them safe. He swore them all to safety long ago. That’s the least he can do for them as their leader. Just once more, he can speak to them with dignity. He doesn’t know when the next time will be, but he prays- hope with all his might- that it will come soon. Maybe he will die, but he suspects his crew wouldn’t want that sort of ending for him. 

They need Bruno to not shatter in front of them. He can do that later. He stands up straighter against the agonizing cruelty of the cuts, bruises, wounds, aches, and shattered pride. Even if no one can see him, they can hear his confidence, and he will give them a leader, even if he is at the end of his rope. 

“I’m giving you all an opening. Keep heading to the second emergency rendezvous point as before. Engage the hostels when needed, but don’t push towards them. Keep retreating. I am getting closer to the bulk of the hostiles, so I can get their attention and draw them from you all.”

“Excuse me?” Miranda hisses into the mic, and Bruno feels the metaphorical knife sinking into his stomach. “You don’t get to decide these things! You haven’t even answered if you are hurt or if you are close enough to where we could have intercepted you to make it out of here together. You aren’t giving us a chance to make this happen!”

Bruno shuts his eyes and has to muster up all of his strength and courage for the next few words: “I am your commanding officer, Captain Ryker. I am far  too injured to make it to the evac point. It’s not close to me at all and I am not risking the lives of my men and women to get my ass on a helicopter! I get to decide these things because if I don’t, people die. You are the next commanding officer when I am gone, Miranda, so fucking act like it now.” He wipes the tears from his eyes, glancing around and making sure he’s still clear. “I can’t risk any of you getting captured with me if that’s my fate today. I love you all too much. Am I understood?”

Miranda doesn't reply back, and it's Valdemar that does. “Sir, kick their asses for us, and take as many as you can down, yeah? We’ll still put up your Christmas ornament if you miss it this year. Give them hell.”

Khrys… She simply whispers in the mic, “I already said my farewells. Still heading to rendezvous. I love you, Captain. Stay safe.”

Oscar’s popped up next: “I won’t stop searching and scrubbing all the networks for a trace of you. If you are kept around, they are going to use you, so we will get you back one way or another. I promise. You still have my chess piece, so you have to give it back to me…”

Bruno hears the sound of footsteps coming around the corner. He hides and he preps his pistol, taking on a small patrol of two hostiles once they make their identities known to him. He reloads and cringes to himself, the pain coming from his side biting him savagely. Upon taking a look, he can see the blood seeping through the wound packing. He stifles a grimace, distracting himself by still talking into the mic. “I won’t die. I promise you all I won’t. I plan on coming back for dinner. Just not tonight. And I will give them Hell. Each and every one of them.”

Sebastian is the next to go, and Bruno isn’t upset at all with the helicopter pilot. “First off: Fuck you for getting hurt. I thought you were invincible. Second off: Now who is going to validate my obsession over coffee, monster x reader books, and random tumblr posts I send in the group chat?”

He is cackling at their behavior and knows it’s a mask and that the helicopter pilot is crying, but he plays along, limping down the street, his movements growing more sluggish. Fuck. “My bad, Sebastian. Next time, I will let the hostiles know to aim at just my vests. Also, you can borrow my coffee collection in my closet. French press and my assortment of imported grounds from around the world. As far as your… literature, and I will make a tumblr account when I come back just for you, okay?”

“D-Deal. Thanks, old man,” they stammer back.

“Bru Bru…” Lukas’ voice is so soft and there’s a sense of sadness and despair in it. The man is practically like a son to Bruno. A lot of the younger team members are basically like the kids he would never be able to have, and he is going to miss that part the most. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry I hurt you. I won’t fuck up another air strike. Just don’t go. I won’t drink again.” Lukas is fully sobbing at this point, which is never a good sign for a pilot, and Bruno the leader needs to reel this one in quickly. 

He winces from the broken promises Lukas has made in the past about no longer continuing down the path of alcohol dependency to make it through the day, and he rubbed his face. “Son, I will never blame you for this, but I need you to make that choice for yourself. I need you to stop drinking for your own betterment, and not for me.”

“Guys.” Kieran cuts in, his voice cold as ice, and yet in this instance it was soothing, “give the men some credit here. Both Lukas and Bruno. Lukas will get better on his own and Bruno is going to come back like the tidal wave that he is. You know he’s going to somehow bullshit his way through and win this whole ass thing over. Plus, he owes us a vacation. Khrys has never gone to Disney World and the thought of seeing the big man in mouse ears is sending me places. So cut the damned theatrics and let’s go.”

Bruno chuckles in his mic and sighs. “Thank you, Kieran. Better words couldn’t have been said. Miranda? Anything to say before this is over?”

“What more is there to say, Captain? Don’t die, return with Honor, and remember where your loyalties lie.” Miranda sounds so cold and upset on the comms. Bruno can’t blame her. He never will. 

His throat clamps up and it’s like he can’t say the words he needs to say. “I… thank you… for everything. For giving me a reason. And a family.” He inhales deeply, so many tears of his own falling, and he isn’t able to stop his voice from cracking, his emotion showing. “Don’t forget me.” He rips out his ear piece and he throws it to the ground, stamping it into the ground with his heel, grinding it into dust if it were possible, screaming from the rippling pain the shock caused. 

Good. He wanted his enemies to come to him. This is it. 

He reaches over to the adrenaline pen he had secured, looking at it curiously in his hand. “So it’s just you and me now, huh?”

The blue liquid shimmers so beautifully in the sunlight, and in mere seconds, it disappears into Bruno. 

It doesn't take long for the effects to kick in. He leans back against the wall for stability as he hears the roaring crash of the waves, the sounds of the beach so far away from there just in his ears. The image flashes before him of a scenic sunset, the lapping waves hugging his body with a cold embrace until it warms him to the core. He can feel it… until the gunfire, smoke, and screaming all around him grounds him to the reality of what truly is happening.

He grits his teeth in silent contempt. He would make them all pay for making him abandon his family. 

His chest tightens up and he feels dizzy, but the man pushes himself off the wall with a growl. He makes it to the end of the alley, hearing vehicles rushing past, heading towards the emergency rendezvous point. “Come and get me, not them,” he mutters, putting himself out in the open and aiming with his razor sharp focus. With a few pulls of his trigger, he sees one of the vehicles swerve and crash into one of the buildings, a cruel smirk on his face. 

“You want me?! Come on!” He roars at the enemies coming out of the truck, firing back at him, and so he takes cover and returns each bullet he can.

There’s more vehicles and more enemies, and when he stands up to aim, he feels a wet slap followed by searing pain in his right shoulder. He screams from the burning metal lodged in him, and he switches hands to fire, using his left instead, but it’s useless when the pistol clicks and he’s finally out of ammo. 

He stays standing and throws his pistol to the ground, the hazing dark in his peripherals coming back to haunt him. This can’t be it. No, I refuse.

Before he knew it, he was surrounded, rifles aimed at him from every direction. He refuses to surrender and he picks up a shattered piece of glass with a jagged end, ignoring the blood trickling out of him. “Get back!” He yells, turning to each enemy and swinging angrily, their rifles still trained on him. 

He sees a woman and man break through the ranks and stare him down, and it hits him that they are the ones in charge. “So you are the ones I need to kill.”

The woman laughs and shakes her head. “You’re dying right in front of us and are still cocky as ever. So be it; I love to see the fire leave your eyes when you stay with us. I hope you enjoy it.”

The man beside her grins as well. “We even have a little friend to keep you company.”

Bruno’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth to say something, but because his attention was on the man, he doesn’t sense the rifleman behind him until it’s too late. There’s a sharp pain in the back of his head and he topples over, the darkness creeping in close. 

The woman walks up to him, setting the bottom of her boot on his head. “You’ll have fun. Enjoy your nap.” Everything for Bruno goes dark when her boot rises and comes back down, and in his final thoughts, he can only pray his family did get away safely. 

[tenderjock]

sweetened breath & her tongue so mean

stop right there, carter. / what's going on, jack? OR: a short missing scene before the automat fight and peggy's arrest.

“I got something for you,” Sousa says, once they’re in the conference room. Thompson’s there too, looking like he’s as confused by this as Roger is right now.

Roger’s still shaking off the feeling he was getting, heavy-eyed and hot-collared. It gets sweltering in the spring in New York, especially when you’re a coupla stories up in a brick building. “Yeah?” he manages. “Spit it out, Sousa.”

But Sousa hesitates. Thompson cuts in. “What is it, Sousa?” he asks. “You got a lead?”

“The blonde in the nightclub,” he says, after a moment. “I think I know who it is.”

Sousa places down a picture, the blonde from behind from the waist up, her arms bared and head dipped forward a bit. Her hair’s colored in black with a graphite pencil. Two scars, subtle but noticeable, pockmark one shoulder. They’re circled in red pen.

Roger leans in to look closer. He could swear those were bullet wound scars.

Sousa places, next to the picture, a diagram of a man’s anatomy with identical marks penned in in blue. The diagram looks familiar; Roger recognizes it as the U.S. military’s official formwork. At the top of the page in neat script is the name Margaret Carter.

Thompson inhales, quick. He doesn’t say anything.

“I brought Carter’s picture to McFee,” Sousa says, rather wretchedly. “He positively identified her. So did the security guard at the nightclub. We also have a witness that saw a well-dressed man and a woman outside the boat where we found Stark’s gadgets – a woman that matches Carter’s description, roughly. She has the same build as the blonde.”

“You’re telling me,” Rogers says, slowly, “That one of my agents did this? A lady agent?”

Thompson brings a hand up to his mouth in a swift, nervous motion. “She could do it,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “I saw her in Russia and – she could do it. If Stark talked her into it, I think she would do it.”

Roger stares at him. Thompson’s staring at the medical file, face drained of color.

“She’s been coming in late to work,” Sousa continues. “Leaving early, or ducking out halfway through the day. Acting suspicious. The other day she was limping pretty badly. I think it was only a day or so after we found Leet Brannis’s body. The man our witness saw on the boat could be Stark, or his butler, or someone else. One of their war buddies.”

“She knew his butler,” Roger says, the pieces clicking in his head. He pictures Carter, drawn and pale, watching through the glass, asking about Jarvis and what they knew about him. He looks back at Thompson. “That’s why she fucked your interrogation.”

Thompson rubs his eyes. “Shit,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sousa agrees. “She – I – yeah.”

Roger pretends he isn’t watching two young men have minor one-sided romantic crises and thinks like a federal agent. “Where is she now?” he asks. He had sent her out not too long ago. He’s kicking himself over that, now.

Sousa and Thompson look at each other. “We’ll track her,” Thompson says. “We should bring in an outside team to detain her.”

“A whole team?” Roger asks, skeptical. Thompson shakes his head.

“The guys from D.C. are up here, aren’t they? I don’t think she knows them. She won’t expect it.”

“You don’t think that’s overkill, Jack?” Sousa asks. His brow is furrowed and he’s leaning pretty heavily on his crutch, knuckles white.

“No,” Thompson says, grim. “I really don’t.”

[junkratsjunkertown]

Hello! Can I get a healer S/O with Sigma or junkrat, who is always worrying about his safety and such.

Of course. I did both and Junkrats is under Read More. I used actual Build-a-Bear stuffed animals from their website. I also did the research for Junkrat because I wanted to get the terminology right and checked multiple sources for pain relief. If I got anything wrong or if I should add something to Junkrat’s please let me know and I will correct it because I want the information to be correct.

Worried Personal Healer

Sigma

You’ve known Sigma since the day he arrived at Overwatch

You were always worried about his health

Both his mental health and physical health

You always requested to be a part of every mission that Sigma was assigned to

Jack knew how you felt about the older Astrophysicist and knew that you wouldn’t talk to him if something bad happened to Sigma

You did heal the other team members on the missions, but your main focus was Sigma

Sigma is very thankful to have you in his life and let’s you know that everyday

He knows that he can go to you if he needs someone to talk to about his problems (even though he does go to therapy)

He returns the favor by protecting you during missions

He knows that your office and your room are safe spaces because he’s a little paranoid that his room might have hidden microphones and cameras

You also carry around fidget toys for the older man to use during meetings, therapy, or anytime he’d like to use one

You ended up making him a Build-a-Bear for his birthday

You made him the Online Exclusive Piglet Gift Bundle with Sound

You wanted to use your own voice for the sound but decided against it because you knew if you did he wouldn’t keep it in his room

He loved the gift so much because Piglet reminded him of you because you are shorter than him and you always worry about him

Junkrat

Junkrat is a different case because he is so used to only having Roadhog caring about him and his health

You ask him how his prosthetic arm and leg feel each time you see him

You give him medication in case the Phantom Pain gets unbearable

You also let him and Roadhog know that there are other options to relieve the Phantom Pain in case neither of them have painkillers and if you’re not around or on vacation

On missions you constantly make sure that Junkrat is alright

You have always been concerned with his usage of bombs to fly through the air

You let him know that you do know someone who can fix his prosthetics whenever they become too damaged for him to fix

You also let him know that he does need to clean his Residual Limbs often just in case there are any sort of cuts or other injuries

He only showers for you because he knows that you worry about his physical health

It takes him a while to fully open up to you about his past and why he only talks to Roadie about his feelings

But he does go to you when he needs to talk to someone and Roadie isn’t available

You keep bomb plushies (they don’t explode but some of them do make explosion sounds.)

You and Roadhog end up making Junkrat two stuffed animals from Build-a-Bear for when he misses you two when you both or one of you are busy, on vacation, or on a mission without him

Roadhog made him the Online Exclusive Pinky Pig and you made him the Strawberry Cow Scented Gift Set

For the sounds of the plushies you both recorded your own voices. Of Roadhog was the voice for the pig

He loves both of them

[nanamineedstherapy]

To Love & To Ruin - Chapter 6 - Where the Heart Can’t Follow (Ao3)

Teacher!Suguru Geto Vs Nanago

WARNING: Heavy Angst, discription of greusome acid attack, medical malpractice & self-image issues with panic attacks & halluciantions.

Previous Chapter 1 - In Orbit, but Falling (Tumblr/Ao3)

Previous Chapter 2 - Threading the Needle (Tumblr/Ao3)

Previous Chapter 3 - Cold Hands, Warm Lies (Tumblr/Ao3)

Previous Chapter 4 - The Infinity of Idiocy (Tumblr/Ao3)

Previous Chapter 5 - Frayed at the Edges (Tumblr/Ao3)

GIF by catburglarwendy

GIF by mafuyuh

Notes:

This chapter is dedicated to a remarkable woman I met at a café in my city where all the staff are acid attack survivors (you won't believe that it has just as many men working there too.) My friends & I kept confusing with what to order, but she remembered everything, Sherlock Holmes-style. All of us were blown away as she recalled everything in one go without us even having repeated anything. People tried to dull their shine, but despite everything, she’s thriving. Here’s to her & to all those who push forward with resilience. I know their lives are forever changed, but I admire the sheer, raw “fuck-you” of it. ❤️ Anyway, grab tissues & maybe a support animal.

A voice spoke casually, "I leave you alone for some time, & you blast half the floor to hell…”

Then a scream sliced through the haze. "Oh my God—Satoru, what happened?”

Consciousness flickered. Satoru felt himself drifting, his body raw, scorched, barely held together. Then came the familiar, steady warmth: Kento’s arms, lifting him like he was something fragile. He could almost smile, a shard of comfort easing the pain. Kento was here. Kento could handle anything, even the curse, the acid, that had shredded his body to the bone. Soon, his Reverse Curse Technique would kick in, his body would stitch itself together, & he’d be fine, good as new. Just needed a moment to breathe, leaning into Kento’s hold, savoring the solid, reassuring warmth.

Through blurred vision, he reached up, fingers brushing across Kento's face. “How’d you get here so fast?... But... nevermind. You’re here now. I’ll be fine.” A weak smile flickered across his lips as he brushed aside a damp lock of hair from Kento’s forehead, sweat starting to bead there like he’d run all the way.

Kento’s expression was tense, voice unsteady. “Why hasn’t your RCT kicked in yet, Satoru?” He held him a bit tighter, his gaze darting around like he was calculating every second.

Satoru managed a laugh that was barely more than a rasp, the raw scrape of it grating even in his own ears. “Exhaustion, that’s all,” he murmured. The pain roared back, but he pushed it down. “I’m not going anywhere. Not when you’re here.” At least not as long as his husband was here.

Kento’s jaw clenched, & with a shaky hand, he pulled his phone from his coat pocket, dialing quickly & waiting. “You haven’t been eating or sleeping. It’s why your body isn’t responding. We can’t wait. I’ll take you to a healer... or a doctor... though I don’t know who could treat someone like you here.” His hands trembled as the call connected.

Yaga’s voice broke through, sharp & direct. “Are any of you hurt? We were just informed there’s been an explosion. We’ve got teams mobilizing—”

“Satoru’s burned—acid. His skin’s…” Kento’s voice broke, & he swallowed, forcing himself back to the calm, cold steadiness Satoru knew so well. “It’s…still dissolving. His RCT isn’t responding. Please—he’s slipping.”

Satoru tried to laugh again but broke into a spasm of coughing, each one scraping his insides raw, like his own bones were turning against him. “Not that bad, old man,” he choked out, but it came out too weak, hollow. “He’s…being dramatic.”

Kento glanced down, the lines of his face, his grip tightening as though he could anchor Satoru to this world through sheer will. He fell silent, listening to Yaga’s response, but Satoru could barely catch the words. His head spun, & he closed his eyes, just for a moment, long enough to let the darkness stop swimming.

“We’re on our way. Please let them know to be ready.” Kento’s voice, grounding him, pulling him back again.

He felt himself lifted, the solid weight of Kento’s chest beneath him, his head pressing against the solid warmth of Kento’s chest, holding him carefully to not hurt his chemical burns. “After all this time, you’re finally carrying me like a damsel,” he managed, words faint. A blush crept up, warm against the ache. “Missed this…missed us.” He squinted through the fog, his husband cradling him, an anchor in this sea of agony.

“Hold on, Satoru.” Kento’s voice now carried an edge of desperation, each word sharp, urgent. “Stay awake.”

Cool air whipped against his face as they moved, stinging his skin, ripping at the burns. A tear fell from Kento’s cheek, splashing onto his. Satoru closed his eyes, smiling faintly. “Nice weather. The sunset was beautiful. Moon’s even prettier…”

Kento’s arms tightened further, fingers trembling. The pain faded for a moment, his mind clinging to the small comfort. Satoru pressed his forehead against Kento’s shoulder. “I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? I finished the mission today. We’ll get out of here, go somewhere…a beach.” He grinned weakly. “Sukuna owes me. I’ll make him cover…” He coughed again, then continued, “—we’re good friends now.”

Kento’s voice turned soft, almost self-soothing. “A vacation…you’ll rest & I’ll hold you close like you always wanted.”

The words cracked something deep inside him. Satoru’s weak smile wavered, his voice barely a whisper. “Look at you, going soft. All it took was an acid attack...” He coughed abruptly, the pain rising, raw & unforgiving, as memories—the hollowness, the tragedies of Jujutsu society—closed in like shadows.

“Stop talking, Satoru! Save your strength, okay?” Kento’s words rushed out, each one a command. “Rainbow Dragon’s going fast. Just hold on.”

The mention of Rainbow Dragon made him smile; he must have hijacked the poor beast for Satoru, a warmth blooming as he drifted. “I love you, Kento…”

But then another thought flickered across his consciousness. Satoru blinked, confusion spilling in.

Suguru.

Kento’s eyes shimmered with something raw and cracked. Panic laced his voice, but he swallowed it down, looking around with the urgency of a cornered animal. “We’re here, Satoru. Just hold on.”

Satoru mumbled, his voice fractured. “Kento? Check the next room for Suguru… He should be here.”

The pain ebbed, a numbness spreading, but something darker, hollow, opened up beneath it. The arms holding him felt solid, steady, but for a split second, they trembled, a grief he could almost touch pulsing from them. That hollow sadness—the cliff he’d tried so long to avoid.

It couldn’t be.

Kento was here, wasn’t he?

But as he stared up, the image shifted, words blurring. A sickening drop settled in his chest, like the horror of a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. He reached out with a trembling hand. “Suguru….?”

Silence stretched, Suguru’s breath hitching as he struggled to hold his composure. Then, with careful calm, he played along. “He’s fine. You’re the one who’s hurt. Let me worry about you.”

The illusion shattered like glass, his voice a whisper, a raw edge in his broken tone. “Suguru?” He felt the lie unravel, his mind slipping away, retreating into the only place it felt safe—anywhere but here.

And as his vision dimmed, he thought he heard Suguru’s quiet, shattering whisper. Just a fraction of a breath before everything went black.

.

The sterile corridors of the hospital clawed at Suguru’s senses, each breath tinged with the stinging stench of antiseptic & charred flesh. He’d never forget it, that smell—it was like nothing he’d encountered, worse than the curses he’d swallowed, worse than the memories he tried so hard to bury. It was Satoru's smell now, burned into his mind, his very soul, as relentless as the shame curdling within him.

Suguru stood, fists clenched, outside the burn unit, fighting against his own futile rage. They wouldn’t let him in—no matter how much he argued, no matter how he’d almost begged them to understand. "Please, just let me in," he'd told the nurse, his voice shaking with desperation that felt foreign on his tongue. But they kept him out, as if he were somehow a threat, as if his need to be there, his need to touch, to hold, to fix was something ugly.

Suguru could still see it all—the horrific map of burns tracing across Satoru’s skin, his neck and chest raw and flayed open, layers of flesh peeled back to reveal bone, muscle, the faint pulse of his heart. Satoru’s body, shattered and broken, every injury etched into Suguru's memory like a grotesque mural of his own failure. How could I have let this happen? His mind spiraled with guilt, haunted by the thought that he should’ve been there, standing at Satoru’s side, instead of being distracted with Nanako and Mimiko. Every time he closed his eyes, the vision returned—Satoru lying there, defenseless, in agony. The glint of bone, the blistered and charred flesh, the colors of death and pain painted across Satoru’s body like a twisted masterpiece.

Oh God, he could really see the outer layers of his heart & ribcage! 

His fingers dug into his palms, the pain a weak imitation of what he knew Satoru was feeling on that hospital bed. Been there for him; he should have been there. The words carved themselves into his thoughts, growing louder, harsher, a brutal, rhythmic chant: Been there, been there, been there.

He could almost hear Satoru’s voice, still so absurdly concerned, even in his pain, asking if he was okay, as if Suguru were worthy of that concern. The thought made his heart ache, his throat tighten.

How dare he? How dare Satoru care about him, worry for him when all Suguru had ever done was fail him?

After eight hours of being denied a glimpse of Satoru, Suguru felt something close to prayer rise up within him, a desperate plea from somewhere so deep he didn’t recognize the voice. Give him one chance. Just one. I’ll never let him suffer again. I’ll protect him, I’ll make him whole, I’ll take us away from this wretched life. The words fell silent, leaving Suguru's chest feeling hollow, his mind twisted with the heavy truth of what he would do if Satoru survived.

He’d abandon everything for him—every shred of pride, every buried resentment, every hope he’d ever held for a world they could save. He’d leave it all behind if it meant keeping Satoru safe, holding him close, never letting him drift beyond reach. 

They’d done enough. They’d saved the world a hundred times over, hadn’t they? Let someone else take up the burden, the battles. Let others wear themselves down to dust. Suguru would wear their disdain proudly; every curse cast his way, a mark of his love, his devotion. He would be the villain if that was what it took.

Suguru wanted nothing more than to take Satoru somewhere remote, hidden from violence, where he could keep him all to himself. It was selfish, maybe even twisted, but Suguru was beyond morality now—his survival depended on Satoru’s. A quiet life, just the two of them. He’d become a farmer, a shopkeeper—anything—if it meant keeping Satoru by his side. Satoru’s life was worth more than any title, any honor.

He felt a dark, almost sinister thrill rise at the thought of keeping Satoru safe, of protecting him with a fury that no curse could match. A part of him relished the image of holding Satoru so close, so protectively, that the world would have no choice but to let them be. Yes, the kids might hate him. They might curse him for taking away their idol, the man they looked up to with such naive reverence.

I’ll give it all up, he vowed silently. I’ll give everything—everyone, the world itself—if it means keeping you safe. Suguru could feel the darkness blooming inside, a possessive ache that felt all too natural, all too powerful.

Still, the scent of burning flesh lingered, taunting him, reminding him of every second he’d left Satoru alone. He could still feel the charred air in his lungs—his own helplessness, his own failure. But that would change. He’d burn down the whole world if it dared to touch Satoru again, if it dared to lay a hand on the one soul who had given him purpose.

.

Satoru’s screams tore through the burn unit, his voice strained and jagged as he jolted awake on the suspension bed, his body arching in raw panic. His blurred vision tried to piece together the sterile walls, fluorescent lights, and an array of masked faces looming above him. But all he saw was Toji—every attending nurse, every respiratory therapist, every burn specialist morphing into that smirking face. The sharp scent of antiseptics flooded his senses, the beeping of the monitors echoing around him, but nothing registered beyond Toji closing in from every angle.

He thrashed violently, flinching away from the hands reaching to stabilize him. No one would touch him—not after what Toji did. His infinity crackled to life, the air around him warping as an electric hum pulsed through every corner of the room. It surged uncontrollably, suffocating everyone within range—the doctors, the burn specialists, the critical care nurses. His infinity spiraled, tightening, pulling air from the lungs of every staff member, sending alarms ringing through the room as the pressure snapped at the equipment, threatening to tear it apart.

Outside, the burn unit staff reacted swiftly. The lead burn specialist, Toji in a dress & long hair, forced his way into the room. Struggling against the suffocating pressure. A voice cut through the noise. “Sir, we need you to calm down,” firm, calm voice trained for critical cases like his, trying to hide the sudden lack of oxygen in it’s lungs. With it’s eyes, it motioned for the respiratory team to stand by, preparing for potential intubation if his erratic breathing continued, & for the pain management nurse to administer a dose of anxiolytic medication through his IV, carefully calculated to stabilize him without compromising his delicate state.

Then suddenly, the door on the next wall burst open too, the hinges snapping under the pressure. Another figure—another Toji—stumbled in, eyes widening as the force of Satoru’s infinity stole his breath too. Satoru fixed his glare on the intruder, narrowing his focus to choke the life out of this last, imposter Toji.

“Satoru, please, you’re ok. It’s Suguru.” The figure choked out, his voice strained as if each word was clawing its way through his throat.

“Don’t lie to me,” Satoru snarled, his voice a feral growl. “I killed you once—I’ll kill you again!”

His infinity tightened further, the pressure intensifying. But then, something moved—a flash of color & movement breaking through the haze. Rainbow Dragon surged through, breaking the reinforced window along with the wall it was attached to, its iridescent scales shimmering under the harsh hospital lights. Good. He could pet the good boy after & go home on his back.

But the dragon's massive form blocked the latest Toji from view; its stance protective; it faced him, baring its teeth, hissing lowly. At Satoru. He never did that. Unless?

Rainbow Dragon had only ever snarled at Satoru like this once before—and that was when he’d come dangerously close to hurting Suguru. Satoru’s mind whirred, trying to process, but the exhaustion was eating him alive. Maybe... maybe he could trust this last Toji just enough to let him speak.

He released his infinity, just barely. “Prove it,” he demanded, voice trembling on the edge of collapse.

Latest Toji gasped, clutching at his throat as air filled his lungs again. “Satoru,” he panted, his voice breaking. “You’re safe. Fushiguro’s gone. We both survived him—he’s dead.” His words came haltingly, each one a desperate lifeline. “He gave me his curse after he died. And you—Megumi. We both carry something from him.”

Satoru’s head spun, his mind racing to make sense of Suguru’s words. Reality wavered, folding back into focus, & his heart thudded with painful clarity. Suguru’s face softened, the frantic haze of his nightmare breaking just enough for him to see the truth. Suguru. His best friend, his anchor.

The adrenaline left him in a rush, & his vision went dark as he passed out.

.

As the team stabilized him, they began implementing the next stage of his burn care plan. Now twelve hours into his treatment, the priority was wound debridement to prevent infection. Under the guidance of the same lead burn specialist, the burn care team performed escharotomies on his most affected areas to relieve pressure and restore blood flow to underlying tissues. A respiratory therapist monitored his oxygen levels closely, while a pain management specialist administered carefully balanced analgesics through his IV to manage his intense pain and prevent additional shock.

Meanwhile, intensive wound care was underway. Hydrotherapy sessions would be scheduled to cleanse the burns, and a rotation of specialized burn dressings and grafts would be prepared to protect exposed tissue and promote healing. Nursing staff would regularly monitor his fluid and electrolyte balance to counteract the severe fluid loss typical in burns of his degree.

They placed him in a specialized, climate-controlled isolation room to minimize infection risk. In the coming days, the team would monitor for signs of sepsis and organ stress, with regular checks from surgical, respiratory, and critical care teams. As his vitals stabilized, the team began cautiously planning for early skin grafting procedures, a necessary step to support his long recovery ahead.

.

Satoru survived. But barely.

When he came to, the doctors explained that his RCT had kicked in... slowly—likely when he’d mistaken Suguru for Toji in his haze of panic—all because he had passed out for 12 hours & had recovered from some of the exhaustion. It took 3 days for his skin to fully close up.

They called it a C-PTSD episode combined with other things Suguru didn’t know Satoru had & was too oblivious to understand, likely compounded by years of hidden scars Suguru hadn’t known Satoru carried. He’d always sensed Satoru was haunted by something heavy, but he’d assumed it was something they shared, something born of a life lived under the weight of their own strength. He hadn’t realized it was… more.

Suguru hadn’t even considered therapy, but the doctors pressed, asking if Satoru had ever been. They wanted Suguru to understand: this wasn’t something that would heal on its own. But Satoru, being Gojo Satoru, couldn’t just go to therapy. Vulnerability wasn’t allowed, not in a world where the Jujutsu Society balanced on his strength. He was expected to be invincible. Hell, even Gojo’s techniques isolated him.

So, a few days later, when Satoru woke without his first reaction being violence, they decided it was safe enough for Suguru to visit him alone. The staff kept their distance, even the sorcerer medical staff; their awe tinged with wary respect. Suguru watched as Satoru’s strength returned in fractions, his wounds mending in a way that defied explanation. By the fourth day, his injuries had healed to faint scars, barely visible unless you knew where to look—shadows of the agony that had almost taken him.

The doctors handed Suguru a massive carton of medications—antipsychotics, alpha-1 blockers, paroxetine, cannabidiol—each bottle a weight of responsibility pressed into his hands. They gave him a therapist’s number too, practically begging him to make sure Satoru attended every three days, warning him of Satoru being a high-risk patient.

But Suguru knew. The way they looked at Satoru, they had already deemed him high-risk. Their own kind. Treating him like some natural disaster & not a real person with feelings, hopes, & dreams, who fought tirelessly to keep the same idiots safe only to be treated like an object. Satoru giving it his everything was the reason they were here in the first place.

Suguru had been speaking to Yaga, who advised to keep it all under wraps. Satoru’s absence in Japan was already emboldening their enemies; if word spread that he’d nearly been broken, it would be an invitation for curses to take over. Yaga had gotten the higher-ups to grant them three months' leave.

Suguru agreed.

As Suguru held the therapist’s card in his hand, he knew the decision he’d make. If he could keep Satoru safe—if he could get him out of this life, away from this vicious cycle of death & strength, he’d do it. They could disappear, just him & Satoru, far beyond the reach of anyone who’d want to use them. The world could fall apart, humans would be the reason, & it would be a small price.

Sorcerers died thankless deaths. But not Satoru, not anymore. He promised to keep Satoru safe.

.

Suguru took charge.

They left Texas immediately after Satoru’s discharge; their mission was already complete on the day of Satoru’s ambush; they would have returned to Japan, but not anymore. With nothing left at the hotel worth bringing along, Suguru arranged a private charter to a secluded Gojo clan island near Musha Cay in the Bahamas—Satoru had mumbled about wanting to see a beach while half-delirious.

Satoru barely stirred on the flight, knocked out by doses that would’ve brought down an elephant, the so-called treatment keeping him in a dead sleep. Whenever he briefly woke, he’d fall back into unconsciousness almost instantly. Another cruel reminder, Suguru thought, of how Satoru was treated more like a tool than a human. Ofcourse, as long as the patient was asleep, he’d be “fine.”.

Once they arrived, Suguru placed Satoru in bed & took a full inventory of the island staff, forbidding anyone from mentioning Satoru or leaving without permission until he was stable. He requested for a sorcerer therapist, someone closer to the island, then went over Satoru’s dietary needs, adjusting each meal plan for the heavy medications he’d be on for the next three months, & supervised the day’s preparations, tasting every meal himself to ensure it was safe.

Carrying a dinner tray to Satoru’s room as the sun dipped, Suguru glanced out over the sea, making a quiet plan to bring Satoru out to the shore once he was up for it. A cool breeze, a bit of sun—Satoru would like that, he thought, recalling how he’d closed his eyes in pure contentment on the Rainbow Dragon. But the memory twisted; the smell of burning flesh rushed back to him, & his hand shook as he steadied the tray.

It wasn’t a coincidence. That weak curse shouldn’t have touched Satoru, & the thought of the woman who had hired an assassin to target Kento surged in his mind. Someone was playing games with them, & this time, he’d be ready.

At Satoru’s door, he knocked & stepped in, placing the tray on the edge of the California king bed. Satoru lay there, sprawled, feet hanging off one end, still sleeping soundly. Suguru gently ran a hand through his hair, not even waking him at first.

Then carefully lifting Satoru’s head to sit him up. Satoru’s eyelids fluttered weakly as he struggled to keep them open, his gaze fogged over as he tried to focus on Suguru’s face.

“Hey,” Suguru said quietly, his voice calm, as if they were in any other room on any other night. “I need you to take a few bites, alright?”

Satoru barely moved, his head tipping forward slightly, forcing Suguru to catch him by the shoulders. With a steady grip, Suguru held him upright, slipping an arm around Satoru’s back as he reached for the spoon with his free hand.

“Just a little,” Suguru coaxed, bringing the spoon to Satoru’s lips. After a hesitant second, Satoru opened his mouth, letting Suguru feed him in silence. He chewed slowly, almost as if the effort itself was draining him, his eyes already starting to drift closed again.

“Hey, stay with me,” Suguru murmured, squeezing his shoulder. “Just a few more bites, then you can go back to sleep.”

Satoru blinked, unfocused, his lips parting slightly. “Why… why’re you…” His voice was barely a whisper, the words slurring as he tried to make sense of everything around him. He couldn’t quite look at Suguru, his gaze wavering somewhere over his shoulder.

“Because you need it,” Suguru replied simply, bringing another spoonful up to his mouth. “So eat up.”

Satoru’s eyes drooped even as he took the next bite, leaning more heavily against Suguru’s arm. His breath was shaky, like every ounce of strength had been drained from him. Suguru could feel how tense he was, like his muscles had coiled into a permanent state of defense even while his body sagged in exhaustion.

After a few more bites, Satoru’s head drooped again, nearly slipping from Suguru’s grasp as he faded back toward sleep. Suguru steadied him, sighing softly. “Hold on,” he whispered, his voice softer, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

He shifted, gently lifting Satoru to lean fully against him as he reached for the medication. “Just these last ones, alright?” He tapped a few capsules out of many differently colored bottles, holding it to Satoru’s lips.

Satoru’s gaze flickered, a flash of confusion in his eyes. “Suguru… what…?”

“It’s just your meds.” Suguru’s voice was patient, grounding, as he helped Satoru take the pill, watching to make sure he was able to swallow these many bitter pills.

Satoru’s hand came up slowly, clumsy & hesitant, trying to brace himself against Suguru’s arm, but his fingers barely had the strength to stay there. His hand slipped, his head dropping forward onto Suguru’s shoulder as he muttered something incoherent, barely audible.

“Got you,” Suguru said quietly, gently supporting him.

Satoru’s breathing softened, his body growing heavier as he sagged fully into Suguru’s arms, too tired to fight the support, too dazed to question it. Suguru carefully shifted him back onto the pillows, tucking the blankets around him & brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead. For a brief moment, Satoru’s hand gripped his sleeve, the touch faint but desperate.

Suguru’s hand came up, covering Satoru’s gently. “I’m here,” he murmured, voice low. "Rest. You’re safe."

And this time, Satoru didn’t fight the darkness pulling him under.

.

At night, Suguru heard it—the faint murmurs slipping from Satoru’s lips, muffled fragments of a name barely audible in the darkness. It wasn’t hard to guess what haunted him: Toji’s shadow hung over them both, an unyielding reminder etched into Suguru’s own sleepless nights. Suguru could endure the endless reel of his own memories, but not the sound of Satoru’s broken whispers, the quiet ache of someone who never let himself break. No one else would have noticed, but Suguru did.

With a sigh Suguru stood. He needed to anchor them both somehow. Walking over, he knocked softly & slipped into Satoru’s room, finding him tangled in his nightmare, his body rigid, infinity flaring erratically—a hollow, weakened pulse rather than his usual impenetrable barrier. Suguru approached slowly, staying out of the protective radius, his presence deliberate, a small, silent assurance.

He didn’t wake him. Instead, he lay down at the edge of the bed, reaching out a hesitant hand to brush Satoru’s hair, pausing just long enough to let infinity settle. When it finally eased, Suguru threaded his fingers through Satoru’s hair, slow & gentle. Satoru shifted but didn’t wake; he just settled further into the mattress, facing him.

.

They fell into this unspoken routine for fifteen plus days; Suguru’s patience stretched thinner each night. Satoru was trapped somewhere distant, half-alive, medicated into a docile stupor, & Suguru knew this couldn’t last. He couldn’t hide them both away while Satoru floated through sedated days like a ghost.

One afternoon, Suguru dragged him, barely conscious, to the beach. The staff had already set up a picnic area—a soft blanket, Luxox sun loungers, & every comfort Suguru could think of in case Satoru needed it. Satoru never fully woke, his eyes half-lidded as Suguru fed him lunch, whispered reassurances, gave him his medications. Once Satoru was wrapped up in a light blanket, Suguru settled next to him, trying to read, to forget. But the memories clung to him like smoke—Satoru’s flesh, burning; the smell seared into his mind.

He couldn’t speak to anyone else about it. Satoru’s nightmares prevented it, his unconscious mumblings forbidding Suguru from telling anyone—especially Kento. Not that Suguru would’ve told him. He & Yaga agreed: silence was the safest way forward. Speaking of Yaga, he stopped talking to him too. He’d discarded his phone & gotten a new one the moment they left Texas, convinced that Satoru was all he needed. And soon, he was certain, Suguru would be all Satoru needed too.

But the words haunted him, an endless chant carved into his mind: Been there. Been there. Been there. Been there. Should have been there. He wanted to scream, to cry, to feel something other than the hollow ache lodged in his chest, but his tears had dried a long time ago.

He brought Satoru to his therapy sessions like clockwork, summoning therapists to the island under strict confidentiality. Each session was the same; Satoru was too groggy to focus on more than a few words before passing out. On days Suguru dared to slip him just enough coffee to stay awake through the session—which wasn’t recommended but he was out of options now—Satoru dodged every question, steering the conversation to Digimon in his still sleepy haze, ignoring the therapist’s gentle persistence. Three therapists quit within three weeks.

Once, driven by desperation, curiosity, & a lot of boredom, Suguru took Satoru’s daily dose himself—a staggering fifteen pills. For three days, he slept or stumbled through a drugged haze just from one dose, while Satoru took similar meds thrice a day, understanding in his bones the weight that Satoru carried & the cruel, relentless sedation that kept him docile & broken.

Then Satoru, mumbling something about Megumi in his sleep, broke his thoughts. Suguru leaned closer, listening as Satoru’s fingers twitched, his words slurring out sleepily.

“It was perfect timing to sell a kid off.”

Silence.

Then suddenly, hand waving as if he were conducting a symphony of cat orchestera, “So, Megumi-Kun, you were the ultimate card that your dad kept on hand against the Zen’in Clan.”

Suguru raised his eyebrows, biting back a laugh as Satoru’s fingers twitched mid-air, like some sleep-deprived scientist just dying to get shocked by his own experiment.

“So leave the rest to me then.” The sleepy smile softened.

Suguru couldn’t look away; he had been wanting to ask him about that day’s conversation but never got the chance because of his own idiocy. He hadn’t seen Satoru smile like this since that night on the Rainbow Dragon & hadn’t heard anything but muttered nightmares or Digimon references since then. For a moment, Suguru considered reaching for his new phone, but it was dead. So he picked up Satoru’s instead, carefully unlocking it with Satoru’s finger, & took a video.

Luckily Satoru was still asleep, now mumbling about Megumi not letting him drop off his sea urchin at prom. Wailing dramatically.

Once Satoru calmed down to no talking in his sleep & Suguru had taken enough pictures & a video of his stupid face, he opened the gallery app to look at said pictures & send them to himself.

While he was scrolling, he unintentionally came across a folder named “Squidward”...?

Suguru immediately rolled his eyes. Of course, it was in Gojo’s phone. He knew he shouldn’t look—he really did—but the urge to click was like a siren song to a shipwrecked sailor. With a sigh, he tapped it. Inside was another folder: “Top 10 Squidward Sightings That Will Shock You!”

Suguru snorted. Yeah, no way this was real. But he couldn’t resist. Another click.

“Squidward Spotted in the Wild! (Not Clickbait).” Suguru groaned, half-laughing at the absurdity. This was getting ridiculous—& predictable.

One more click. “Unmasking Business Squidward: Dark Academia Exorcist Edition!”

His grin was already wide, but as he clicked it, his heart sank. Photo after photo of Kento stared back at him—some candid, some intimate. Suguru kept scrolling, every image a slow, sinking realization. Kento, asleep in bed, his bare chest rising & falling; Kento, leaning over Satoru, pressing a kiss to his temple; Kento’s hand resting in Satoru’s hair as he read, his expression soft.

Suguru’s chest tightened, but he kept scrolling, unable to look away. He thought he’d understood, thought he knew their closeness. But the next image was a box of rings, two nestled together.

And the next—a video. Satoru’s hand resting on Kento’s shoulder as he grinned at the camera, Kento’s hand cupping Satoru’s face, kissing his temple, both wearing the same rings at the local courthouse.

The dots finally connected, slotting into place with ruthless clarity. Satoru was too close to Kento. Too damn close. Close enough to be married to him. Suguru’s mind reeled, sifting through countless moments, each a piece of the puzzle he’d missed. Satoru never left his house to see Kento—not when Suguru’s girls had been watching. And Kento never came to him. No, Satoru was teleporting, slipping out of Suguru’s reach with a flicker, crossing space effortlessly to keep up his secret. He’d known all along, & Suguru had been the one left in the dark.

The more Suguru dwelled on it, the faster the realization snowballed. Kento’s penthouse, the opulence far beyond what a sorcerer’s salary could cover, even with Kento’s wealth. The way Satoru had been slipping away after missions, any excuse to disappear for a while.

Texas—that silent, impenetrable distance he’d felt growing between them, a creeping cold that settled deep in his bones, an ache that nothing could ease. He’d spent those days chasing down every spark, every fragment of warmth he could find in Satoru’s presence, desperate to bridge that widening gap. Every night, he lay awake wondering if tomorrow would be the day things felt like they used to, when they were unstoppable, untouchable, side by side. He thought it could come back with enough time, with enough patience, that maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough, Satoru would meet him halfway.

But Suguru had always been the only one holding on. He was the only one still looking back.

He’d planned everything so carefully, thinking if he could get every detail right, maybe Satoru would look at him the way he used to. He searched out every bakery, every small café, each corner of Texas that might coax out a laugh, a glimmer of happiness. But every sip of syrupy coffee, every too-sweet pastry, only reminded him how far he was from the warmth he’d once taken for granted. He could see it now, clearer than he wanted to—the truth that had been staring him down in every quiet moment between them.

It had all been for nothing.

He hadn’t just lost Satoru—he’d let him slip away. No, he’d pushed him away.

Suguru’s mind replayed it—the spiral of choices that had led him here, & he could feel every mistake settle heavy in his chest, like stones dragging him under. He’d left Satoru to fight battles he didn’t understand, drawn so deep into his own insecurities & beliefs that he’d let their bond fracture. And now, when he’d finally wanted to be there, to be enough, he was too late.

Satoru would never leave with him. Once he was well, he’d go back to Kento, to the life he’d chosen. Suguru could feel it—every laugh he’d missed, every moment he’d ignored. How had he been so blind?

The realization hit like a knife twisting deep, the bitter truth hollowing him out, merciless & final. He’d had everything—Satoru’s faith, his trust, the kind of bond that people spent lifetimes hoping to find. And he’d thrown it all away.

Suguru could see it all too clearly now; every moment he’d let pride, stubbornness, & bitterness twist his choices. He’d clung to his ideals, his own vision, letting it eat away at everything that mattered. He thought he was doing what was right; he thought his path was the one they’d both wanted. But when Satoru had tried to hold on, he’d turned away, driven by his own anger & the conviction that he was right. He’d pushed Satoru to this, to finding comfort in someone else, to leaving behind the only life they could’ve had together.

A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow & strained. This was what he deserved, wasn’t it? He’d spent years running from the regret, hiding behind his purpose, convincing himself he was better off alone. He’d told himself he didn’t need anyone, not even Satoru. But here he was, his chest hollowed out, burning with the truth: Satoru had been everything. And now he was left with nothing.

He’d always been the one to turn away, the one to close off, to cut people down. He’d carved out his own isolation, thinking he was stronger for it. And now he’d brought it to life—this empty, endless loneliness that gnawed at him. Satoru had moved on, found something Suguru never could give him. He’d slipped through Suguru’s fingers like sand, & there was no going back.

The thought shattered something deep within him, & for a moment, he let the grief swell, raw & unfiltered. He could’ve had everything. The life he’d wanted—where Satoru was beside him, where they were unstoppable, where none of the pain, none of the loss, could touch them. But that life had never been real. Suguru had given it up long ago, & now he was paying the price.

As the despair clawed through him, Suguru could feel a new kind of resolve settle in his bones, cold & sharp. Satoru was all he had left, even if he couldn’t have him the way he wanted. He couldn’t bear to lose him again, to watch him drift away & be left with only his own hollow regrets. He would hold on this time, no matter what it took, even if it meant stepping into darkness itself.

He wanted to die, to escape this relentless pain, but he also wanted to kill, to tear apart whatever had taken Satoru from him, himself maybe. Closing his eyes, he drew a slow, shaking breath, forcing himself back from the edge. He remembered the grounding exercises, the breathing techniques Satoru’s therapists had tried—Satoru had fallen asleep immediately, but it worked for Suguru now. He needed to hold it together. For Satoru, he’d been through enough.

Because he knew he would burn for Satoru, would tear the world down if it meant keeping him safe—even if Satoru would never feel the same.

Suguru closed the apps, turned off Satoru’s phone, & threw it into the ocean.

.

.

Then, a few moments later, went back to fish it out.

_

Satoru felt steady hands cup his face, rough palms pressing just firmly enough to ground him, & the scent of cedar & bergamot filled his senses. He recognized it immediately—Kento’s cologne, his reassuring, familiar scent. It rooted him, soothed him in a way nothing else could. Satoru’s chest finally loosened, his breathing slowing as he relaxed under that touch. This was Kento.

"Kento…,” he murmured, the name slipping out like a half-formed prayer. He forced his eyes open slowly, afraid that if he moved too fast, the fragile warmth might disappear. But there he was—Kento’s face hovering above him, calm & focused, his brow drawn tight with concern. Those steady eyes held that familiar mix of worry & restraint, tempered with a softness only Kento ever allowed himself to show. Satoru’s breath hitched, his heart catching in his throat.

“Didn’t think you’d come all this way…” he whispered, the exhaustion raw in his voice, each word heavy, desperate. He melted a little at the sight of his husband, that firm, unshakable presence. Kento’s gaze softened, a slight crease in his brow, his thumb brushing a slow, measured arc over Satoru’s cheek.

“You’re hurt,” Kento said quietly, each word carrying that quiet urgency only he could convey. “You could barely breathe, Satoru. You think I wouldn’t be here?” His voice, calm but strained, was steady enough to cling to—a lifeline of certainty. “Let me handle it. You just focus on resting, alright?”

Satoru’s chest tightened, the warmth of those words wrapping around him, settling over his heart like a blanket he didn’t realize he’d needed. He felt his eyes prick with a mix of relief & raw gratitude as he reached up, fingers brushing over the familiar angles of Kento’s jaw, letting his hand drift as though he were memorizing the contours. He took in every small line, every shadow, tracing the shape of his husband’s face as if he could hold onto this moment forever.

“Stay a while, yeah?” he whispered, barely managing the words as a fragile, almost childlike plea trembled on his lips. “I don’t… I don’t want you to go.” His voice cracked, vulnerability creeping into his words as he let the exhaustion, the need, slip through.

Kento’s hand shifted, cradling the back of his head with careful strength, his fingers threading through Satoru’s hair as he gently pulled him close. “I’m not going anywhere, Satoru.” His voice was quiet, grounding, tinged with a tenderness Satoru could feel in his bones. He let Satoru rest his forehead against his chest, let him breathe in the steady beat of his heart. “Just let go, just this once. I’ll keep watch.”

Satoru’s eyes closed, his weight relaxing against Kento, surrendering to that steady, comforting presence. For the first time in weeks, the ache faded, the anxious pull in his chest subsiding into peace. He knew, somehow, that with Kento here, he could let himself go. Kento would hold it together for both of them.

But then, a voice pierced through the comfort, familiar but wrong. “Satoru—hey, come back to me.”

Satoru’s eyes shot open, & the warmth, the steady weight of Kento’s hand, was gone. The scent of cedar & bergamot had vanished like smoke. His heart plummeted as he blinked, realizing he was looking up into Suguru’s face, Suguru’s eyes filled with worry, his hand gripping Satoru’s shoulder in a gentle but alien way. The dream fractured, leaving him cold, shaken, & painfully awake.

“Satoru?” Suguru’s voice was soft, careful, but Satoru flinched as though he’d been struck. The room felt too small, dark, suffocating as his mind clawed at the fading remnants of the dream. Kento—Kento wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here at all.

“You’re alright,” Suguru murmured, his hand holding steady as his gaze searched Satoru’s face. “It was just a dream.”

Satoru’s throat tightened, shame & grief welling up, his gaze darting away, unwilling to let Suguru see the raw ache tearing him apart. A hollow emptiness settled in his chest, each breath sharper, colder than the last.

That day, after many days, Satoru decided to stop taking the meds; he'd have enough sleep for a lifetime. He even gathered some strength to shower, or maybe he forced himself just so he could stop dreaming.

.

Kento would always be with you, stand by you, die for you, forgive anything... Well, except one thing.

 And Suguru knew what.

Suguru had always been artistically aligned but just never had the time to practice on oil or acrylics like he wanted to. Fighting curses & teaching took all his time. But there was one thing he could easily be skilled at. He had learnt it for Nanako & Mimiko’s school projects a while ago. He might have been a little rusty now, but Suguru wasn’t anything if not a perfectionist; he’d pick it back up in a few hours.

He powered up a disposable new laptop he’d asked the staff to get him. Downloaded the latest version. He hated it, hated himself for it. But he needed Kento out of the picture if there was any chance of saving Satoru. The person he was destined to be with throughout the multiversers, across different timelines. Kento wasn’t strong enough to save him anyway.

He positioned him on his shoulder & took some photos of just Satoru, removing anything that could give away their location. Photoshopped them to look realistic & uploaded them to Satoru’s Instagram. #MyOne&Only. Then deleted it after 15 minutes; that would be enough to get Gojo’s students gossiping.

Now all he had to do was wait. Then Satoru had started mumbling about Kento in his dreams. Again.

Suguru tried to play along for Satoru’s comfort, but he gave up fast.

.

In the moments Satoru’s meds weren’t putting him down for the count, when he was just a hint of lucid, he’d tried to call Kento but kept falling asleep before the 4th ring. Kento was probably mad at him for ignoring him for so many days, especially with Suguru around. But what could he do, he was the one to tell Suguru to not tell Kento. He’d worry.

Satoru stood in front of the bathroom mirror, the cold air hitting his skin as the silence of the room stretched on. His reflection was all he could focus on, but it was hard to truly see. He had always been able to trust his appearance—a face that had never failed to be a part of his confidence. Now, everything felt warped—like his very identity had been etched out of his skin & scattered.

He reached a trembling hand up to the mirror, his fingers brushing the fogged-up surface as if expecting the real him to be on the other side. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to block out the reality that awaited when he opened them again. The image in the mirror wasn’t who he recognized. It wasn’t who he was.

The scars, barely visible, had healed better than expected, but they were still there. Above his collar, faint lines, like traces of something buried deep within, marked his skin. His chest, once so smooth, was now an atlas of memories. Some scars were hidden beneath clothing, but not all of them. It was the feeling—the subtle ache of the past—that made it impossible to forget. His heart felt heavy, a knot in his stomach that wouldn’t untangle.

He could see himself, yet he couldn’t see himself. The man in the mirror was too foreign.

The hallucinations came slowly, like whispers at the edge of his vision. He saw Kento’s reflection beside him, just as it had always been. “It’s alright, Satoru. You’re still pulchritudinous,” Kento’s voice said, so soft & comforting, like the first day they met.

But the voice was a lie. It was a hallucination—a ghost born from desperation. Kento hadn’t seen him yet. He hadn't been allowed to. The thought of Kento's reaction paralyzed him. The fear of rejection clawed at him relentlessly, twisting in his chest. Kento—Kento, who had always loved him for his strength, his invulnerability—what would Kento say if he saw the cracks in the armor? What if his husband couldn’t look at him the same way anymore?

Would Kento reject him?

The imagined Kento beside him only smiled gently, but that smile was so far away. He could feel his breathing becoming uneven, panicked. This wasn’t real. But the ache, the terror in his gut, it was.

The wounds had been healed physically, yes. But nothing, nothing would erase the deep fear—the terror that came with knowing he had almost died again. Almost killed by something so small, so insignificant. It wasn’t Toji. It wasn’t an adversary with skill or strength. It was a curse, a fourth-grade curse, & for that to be what nearly ended him... it was a brutal reminder of his vulnerability.

"Stop it," he whispered, voice shaking. "You’re still you. You’re still..." But the words died before he could finish them, strangled by doubt. His reflection didn’t speak to him. Kento’s soothing voice in his head only made the emptiness worse. He reached for the bathroom counter, grasping it for support, but it wasn’t enough.

He stared at the way his hands trembled; the way his reflection seemed like a mask of something he couldn’t recognize anymore. His body had betrayed him again—he had betrayed himself. The ghosts of every near-death experience, every attack he couldn’t avoid, they crowded in around him.

You’ve never been this weak, he thought. You’ve never had so much to lose.

And then, like clockwork, Kento’s image shifted. Instead of being beside him, he stood across the room. He was there, but not there, a blur that couldn’t truly reach him. Satoru closed his eyes, but the hallucination continued, the voice now a broken plea.

“You’re perfect. Image of Adonis. You don’t have to be invincible for me, Satoru. You don’t...”

The words broke something inside him. He felt his chest tighten, his breath hitch, but it wasn’t enough to soothe him. He didn’t know how to live with this version of himself. How could Kento, how could anyone, look at him the same again after all of this? He wasn’t the same. He couldn’t be.

The sound of the bathroom door creaked, & for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. He thought it was Kento—real Kento. But it was only the emptiness, the reminder that no one had walked in.

He slumped against the bathroom wall, hands pressing to his face as he tried to push back the fear, the overwhelming dread, that Kento would never look at him the same again. And in that moment, he felt completely alone.

Suguru had been there, but things had changed. The closeness, the comfort that used to fill the space between them, had withered. The bond they once had couldn’t sustain him now. He wanted Kento. He’d soothe him, know what to do, what to say, tell him he was still the same. Still his annoying partner.

But Kento… if Kento could just see him as he was, would he be able to accept him, scars & all? Or was he already lost?

Satoru pressed his palm against his chest, breathing shallowly, trying to calm the storm inside. But the waves wouldn’t stop. The tears—he couldn’t stop them either.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, trying to erase the reflection in the mirror, trying to ignore the pain he was too afraid to face. He had almost died. He had almost been taken by something so insignificant, something that reminded him that no one, not even him, was safe.

Kento hadn’t seen him yet.

And Satoru couldn’t look at himself.

.

That night, Satoru lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts spiraling in a hollow numbness. Shadows wove into twisted shapes across the room, crawling closer, lingering. He barely noticed Suguru slipping quietly out of bed, leaving him alone with the gnawing ache deep in his chest. That was fine—he didn’t want anyone around. Anyone but Kento.

The phone in his hand felt heavy as he dialed Kento’s number, his thumb hovering over the screen, pressing the call button almost reflexively. He didn’t expect a response. But tonight, desperation overruled him; he’d keep calling until something broke this silence. Until he felt something, anything, less empty.

How long could Kento ignore him? He’d keep calling him; the state he was in was allowed for spamming his husband. In fact, it was expected. Kento hadn’t looked good on their last call either; he must have been worried sick or worse, mad at him for not talking to him for days.

.

On the far side of the island, a lone boat docked in silence, its occupants treading quietly onto the wooden pier. Suguru arrived with a small group of sorcerers, each alert as they spotted a figure waiting at the edge of the dock. She stood with her back to him, her stance relaxed yet deliberate, a few men flanking her.

“Quite a bold choice to show yourself here.” Suguru’s voice was low, restrained, & he motioned for his companions to stay back. This was his confrontation to handle, & he intended to enjoy it.

The woman turned slowly, her short, jet-black hair framing a face marked with faint scars. There was something unsettlingly familiar yet distorted in her features, as if she’d borrowed them from another. Suguru’s jaw tightened as he recognized the face, his blood chilling.

“Kaori…?”

He’d last seen her with her husband Jin, the picture of a perfect family when they’d enrolled Yuji in Jujutsu High. Yet here she was, her expression now twisted with something dark & knowing.

She smiled, a practiced, icy smile that held nothing warm. “Geto Suguru. It’s been too long.”

Suguru’s expression hardened, his fists clenched at his sides. “What is this...?" Who are you?”

“Oh, so many questions.” She tilted her head with a mocking lilt, as if amused by his rage. “I am the one who has cleaned up the little inconveniences in your path. And now, I’ve come to see that you honor our arrangement.”

Suguru scoffed, his smile dangerous. “If you think you’ll get anywhere near Satoru—”

Her grin sharpened. “So quick to anger, so quick to assume. Have you no curiosity for the gifts I’ve bestowed upon you?”

Suguru held his silence, his eyes steely, waiting for her to continue.

“First, consider my apologies for the discomfort I caused Gojo Satoru. But I trust the damage is minimal, no? A few scars here & there, scars that barely mar that porcelain skin you’re so attached to…” Her voice dripped with mocking nostalgia. “A reminder of a younger time, let’s say. A fresh… vulnerability.”

Suguru’s control wavered as she continued, her tone amused & detached.

“And then, of course, there was Texas. I arranged a brief respite, a little time for you both to... reconnect.”

Suguru’s fists tightened, his jaw clenching visibly. “You’ve gone too far. He could’ve been killed. I’ll—”

She raised a hand with a faint, dismissive laugh. "Please spare me the bravado. Did you think I’d let things go that far? This was all necessary to… cultivate trust. To bring you both closer, a little reawakening, if you will.”

Suguru’s eyes narrowed. “I already killed your little puppet. You’ll follow suit.”

She regarded him with a pitying look. “So reactionary. That was merely an appetizer, a gesture toward what I’m capable of. And if I’d truly wished to kill your dear Satoru, would I have been so careless?” Her smile grew faintly cruel, a glimmer of sadistic amusement. “The poison was an invitation for you... & a nuisance for him.”

Suguru’s voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “What did you want with Nanami?”

“Oh, finally, an interesting question.” She sighed, as if disappointed by his lack of curiosity. “Nanami Kento is the sort who leaves no room for... persuasion. Stubbornly tethered to his... humanity, uncompromising, & yet fragile. You, on the other hand... well, I suspect your loyalties are not so immovable.”

Suguru’s eyes darkened. “And you think I’d help you?”

“Ah, but you already have.” Her eyes gleamed with a knowing smile, like someone holding the final card in an unseen game. “Who do you think kept you alive that night? Or rid your world of the troublesome Nanami Kento? Consider it a gift, Suguru—a small price to pay for the path you’ve already chosen.”

Suguru’s face twisted, anger & shock warring within him. “What… what did you do?”

“Poor Nanami Kento..." She laughed softly, a chilling sound that lingered in the air. “Dead & swallowed by the sea. We verified it, of course—five times over, to be precise. I would have come sooner, but I wanted to see the dawning realization settle over you.”

Suguru’s expression faltered, horror bleeding through his calm facade.

She watched him, satisfaction gleaming in her gaze. “Now, all I ask is that you continue down the path you’ve already chosen. Take your precious Satoru away from this wretched place. Hide him, protect him. Keep him close, Suguru. You may even return once the new age begins, & we might welcome you both with open arms.”

Suguru’s thoughts churned as he struggled to grasp the depth of her machinations. “And Sukuna?” he managed, voice tight with restrained fury.

Her lips curled into a sinister smile as she raised a crimson cube in her hand, eyes glinting with something ancient & deadly. “We have ways of handling him. Methods far beyond what your kind can fathom.”

Suguru felt his grip on reality slipping, his mind reeling from the barrage of revelations. Each piece seemed to chip away at his carefully crafted resolve, his thoughts spiraling into darker places.

She leaned in, her voice soft & poisonous. “Consider your debt to us paid. Now go to your Satoru. Hold him close. Savor these final moments together while we set the stage for the new dawn. And leave the rest to me.”

With a casual, dismissive wave, she turned, her silhouette melting into the darkness as her disciples followed silently. The shadows swallowed them whole, leaving Suguru standing on the dock, shattered by silence too thick to pierce.

.

On maybe the fifty-first ring, Kento’s phone finally connected. Satoru’s heart lurched with relief. “Hello, Kento,” he murmured, trying to gauge his husband’s tone. Would Kento be worried, or had he crossed the line into anger? He leaned toward the latter.

“Gojo-sensei?” The voice was unmistakably Yuji’s. Satoru blinked, forcing a smile. If Kento was mad enough to let Yuji pick up, then he really must be furious. Yuji had likely trapped him for another meal with Megumi & Nobara, or maybe... maybe Kento didn’t want to talk to him.

“Hey, Yuji,” Satoru said, injecting a lazy drawl into his voice. “How are you?”

“Don’t worry about me, Gojo-sensei. Where have you been? We’ve all been trying to reach you for months.” Yuji’s tone was uncharacteristically frantic, & in the background, he heard shuffling & low voices.

“Just relaxing on a beach,” Satoru replied nonchalantly, shrugging off Yuji’s urgency with a familiar cocky smirk. But more voices filtered through the receiver—harsh, hurried. Then came Megumi’s voice, taut with fury, before he snatched the phone.

"Are you insane?” Megumi’s voice broke through, sharp as glass. “Where the hell have you been? Japan’s been burning without you. Do you even care?”

Satoru’s heart twisted. So they were all mad at him. Of course, he thought bitterly.

Before he could respond, there was another shuffle, a new voice. "Let me talk to him. Stay here. I need to talk to him alone.”

“Satoru… where have you been?” The voice was so familiar it clawed at Satoru’s heart, but its tone—something was off. “I heard you were injured.”

Cold fear slid down his spine. “Why the hell are you with Kento’s phone, Sukuna?”

The line went silent, as if Sukuna himself was taken aback. Then, unexpectedly, Sukuna’s tone shifted, something serious, almost hesitant, entering his voice. “About that… I came back to Japan last week. No one in school knew where Nanami was. So, yeah, I asked around. Turns out he took a mission.”

“A mission?” Satoru’s voice grew taut. “Without his phone? Just tell me if he doesn’t want to talk to me—”

“Listen to me,” Sukuna cut in, voice tense. “Just… listen.”

Satoru froze, unease pooling in his stomach. Sukuna didn’t ask, didn’t plead, but here he was, practically begging for a chance to explain. Satoru waited, bile rising in his throat.

“No one knew exactly which mission he took,” Sukuna continued, voice halting. “But then I had to go back on a mission for a few days, so I put Toji on it. Remember that ghost ship mission they told us about in school? The one everyone avoided because the vessel kept vanishing? And later was sent to the back burner for no further assignments.” Haibara used to eye them like they were serial killers whenever they’d bet on which mission assignee would actually return—Shoko winning the most, of course. Not that he’d accept, but Sukuna would teach him like a little brother because he reminded him of Jin & Yuji, though he dropped the topic altogether after Haibara’s death. Sukuna hadn’t been in Japan when it happened, but even if he had, he couldn’t have saved him—he hadn’t yet mastered his revival technique. Then perfected it a few days later out of spite.

“Yeah, so?” Satoru bit out, impatient.

There was a sharp pause, like Sukuna was gathering himself. “Nanami was assigned that mission. We still don’t know by whom exactly, despite it being reserved for special grades.”

Satoru’s pulse roared in his ears, every instinct screaming at him to hang up. "So... he’s okay? Is he hurt? Put him on; I want to hear—” Right now he just wanted to listen to Kento’s voice; he’d deal with the higher-ups later.

"Satoru,” Sukuna’s voice hardened, something raw threading through it. “The ship... he sank the damn ship.”

“Yeah, I heard you,” Satoru snapped, voice cracking. “If he’s mad, fine. I deserve it, but he can’t send you as a messenger. If he wants me to hear his stupid hero story—”

“Nanami’s dead.”

A/N:

The word count in this chapter could probably break a world record for “Most Dramatic Crying Scene” ever. The only thing that kept me going was watching my SatoSugu cats reenact a cursed rom-com in the background. Yes, I’m officially that person now. 🤡

So here’s what went down: 30 hours of zero sleep, zero chill, and my own personal Mr. & Mrs. Smith. My long-haired black Persian—fully feral and 100% convinced he’s Geto reborn—keeps egging on his white “wife,” who is basically female Gojo reincarnated and the self-proclaimed strongest Persian princess. She’s busy smacking around their son for reasons, and he retaliates by peeing in her food bowl like the absolute menace he is. 凸(¬‿¬)凸

Then, when she finds her food bowl tainted, her two horrified white-furred kids (one boy and one girl; yes, they all live together because I don't trust people with my kids, what about it) watch in horror as Mom prowls, ready to whoop them all because her daughter (probably Nobara in cat form) egged on her clueless brother (total Yuji vibes), who thinks this was all just a fun prank. 🐈💀

Send comments (and mental health tips) because this writer is absolutely on the edge. And if you don’t know what to say, just drop a line you liked—it’s my lifeline at this point.

ಥ_ಥ

Apologies for the long ass note. Let's huddle in a crying circle.

Next Chapter 7 - read on ao3

[swords-and-starlight]

ok i think this is my first time ever watching a show while it’s coming out so i’m gonna write out my reactions as i watch the episode for the first time, even though i’m watching it from streaming (i don’t have cable rip) and i already got a bunch of spoilers.

obviously spoilers ahead

CARLOS!! first time we’re seeing him with his friends this season! and he looks so good!

Natacha looks so good in green, man. they seriously need to have her wear it more.

TK Marjan and Mateo look so good in that shot even if the person they’re being mean to is Paul :((

i really want to see them actually play a whole game of catan it would be so fun

i fs know those two boys are from paul’s past. i thought they might be people he lost but i feel like people who bullied him would make more sense in the context of the nightmare?

i know this is gonna turn out badly but i feel like this dinner is going surprising civilly for now

“LT” aww

why is the chore chart so big i don’t think we’ve ever seen it before

this is kinda making me miss clipboard Marj

paul is gonna crash and burn poor baby

wyatt is so cute omg but i miss gracie

i missed judd soooo much he’s the ultimate cutie pie

paullll why you doing this to yourself

PAUL CALL FOR HELP JESUS

tommy is so nice actually i would never facetime someone i didn’t like just to check in on them

love tk and nancy giving each other looks lmao they’re so siblings coded

gina torres is literally the cutest woman on this show (with the exception of sierra) i love her so much

tk and nancy “it’s convenient” “a little too convenient” omg this feels like one of those disney movies where the kids are trying to solve their parents kidnapping or something

why does tk know that??

nancy loml keep being a dramatic suspicious bitch please

“the enemy is behind the gate” so dramatic for no reason omggg what’s cassandra gonna do?

love paul and owen bonding time, i feel like we barely saw owen interact with the house on a personal level so far this season

genuinely how does judd afford that house by himself especially when grace was out, he didn’t have a job, and he was taking care of wyatt

TOMMY UP TO SHENANIGANS AGAIN oh i’ve missed you devious bitch tommy

i love that tommy has just fully embraced her work kids’s delusional ideas and judds the one trying to talk sense into her now

aww i know judd and tommy have been best friends forever but i know if sierra was here she would be going to grace :(

PAUL BABY WHAT ARE YOU DOING

rich people are so strange

i already love jenna hope nothing happens to her

nancy and tk sending each other looks again lmaooo

ofc the elevator broke down

damn poor augie

aww ok they’re better now

WHAT THE SHIT why is she bleeding from her eyes!?!

it’s really cute that wyatt takes all of 126 medic teams calls it feels like he’s trying to look out for them after they saved his life

paul’s gonna get hurt and mess up on this call isn’t he

oh nooo paul it’s so hard to see him cry

i feel like we need more people to die yk like how does tnt consistently bring people back from the dead? like the kid that was trapped underwater in a frozen lake for at least ten minutes and was expected to make a full recovery but tk who was in there for ten seconds was in a coma? but it was for the drama so whatever

tommy’s hair is my favorite part of every episode. is she even allowed to be whipping that horse tail around?

weed pen lmao

judd is such a nice probie

ok so i was kinda right about the kids in paul’s dream

aww paul he must have been so lonely growing up

i’m sorry i can’t take the weed pens

girl miss melody how did you think poisoning your mom and getting ur sister suspended would be better than just asking to live with your mom

episodes almost over :((( i don’t wanna wait till next week

tkmarjan friendship i’ve missed you!

im glad joe and marjan are still together! they were so cute

PAUL!! i love this entire scene with my whole heart

controversial but i really love it when people choose logic and their personal values over love. this show does that so well. like with marjan and salim, they were both in love but marjan couldn’t see herself building a life with someone so flaky and that’s a valid reason to break it off! with tommy and trevor, i think it makes sense that tommy can’t love someone who might contribute to a family breaking apart.

i know that tk and nancy are gossiping about all of tommy’s drama right now

TOMMY CALLING HER MOM!!!

idk if this is obvious yet but tommy is in fact my favorite 9-1-1 character

anyway that’s a wrap i loved this episode

[cheemscakecat]

Emesis Blue Medic Headcanon

So I’m 99% sure that Spy’s Disguise takes place before the nightmare sequence known as Emesis Blue, sometime during the height of the respawn failures.

[I’m going to talk about DID. I’m not an expert, and this post about a fictional character should never be used to self diagnose.]

The Bloody RED Engineer sabotaged the respawn machine, which led to his entire team dying for real; then he murdered a group of [supposedly] unrelated BLU engineers, who also died for real.

It’s the reason why Dr Ludwig is even in the area to work on the comatose CyberSpy.

If Emesis Blue is a dream/nightmare people’s jobs may not match with real life, but still tell us something important about them. Soldier being Spy’s assistant tells us that he likes to work in a group rather than alone, even if his teammate is a jerk.

Ludwig being the Chief Medical Advisor could imply that he was the go-to expert at the height of the respawn failures, who had to investigate and report on different accidents when he wasn’t attempting to save a patient from said failures. Whether it was killing him slowly or not, Blu wouldn’t care; not the Administrator or Jules Archibald, at the least.

Jules is shown to be callous about death in both Spy and Soldier’s nightmares, and someone who relies on other people to protect him and do his dirty work to the point he’s incapable of defending himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and his crew forced Medic to report on all the gory details of each respawn failure, while being unwilling to attempt to rescue patients or clean up the carnage.

Re-watching the early scenes with Scout it seems that the era of the respawn errors is long gone, and the details are highly classified. Which would explain why Scout is so uninformed about any of the other accidents, but Ludwig had a nightmare that his friend suffered one himself.

Medic’s body language at the Medical office and in the ambulance makes it feel like the doctor wouldn’t be answering all these questions if he wasn’t talking to a friend. Like it hurts to relive that trauma, and the answers he gives are vague. Makes sense if Jules and the team trying to fix the Respawn machine bombarded Medic with questions over and over again, forcing him to picture what happened, no matter how awful it was.

Keeping that in mind:

What if the Funeral Medic is in control of Ludwig’s body when we see him in Spy’s disguise?

Neither of them talk or blink, for one thing. He does wince and cross himself upon rewatching CyberSpy’s robot-seizure, but that’s instinct. Another thing I noticed;

Something is going on with his eyes. This was his reaction to CyberSpy’s neck cracking, and the eyes stay like that.

It’s almost as if somebody trained himself not to blink, so he’d make people uncomfortable.

[nods once, flares nostrils in irritation]

It’s starting to feel like the Funeral Medic is meant to put people off of approaching Ludwig. If that is the case, we have proof that it works despite looking like Fritz, not his scarier version from Emesis Blue. I also noticed he really doesn’t like CyberSpy and Buddy Engineer.

He’s like “The revolver… exists! But you two just had to keep using that broken disguise kit anyway.”

Normally these Respawn Failures are completely accidental, and the patients are innocent [in that context, anyways]. So for two people to cheat by using body modification, and drive an enemy teammate to insanity? Any deeper coldness and anger reserved for Archibald and his cronies would emerge.

And he had to set up a camera before touching the patient… I really think this personality is mute. People with DID have been studied, and their brain structure is different between personalities. Their pets can tell the difference, and some personalities have physical ailments that the rest of the system doesn’t. So it isn’t impossible for one of Medic’s alters to be mute or selectively mute.

Ludwig’s nightmare version of this alter is associated with the respawn deaths in his mind too. He must have been switching during the investigations, with Funeral Medic performing surgeries and dealing with Jules. But for a time there would have been a lot of casualties, and Fritz may believe that this personality was intentionally letting patients die.

Could contribute to the nightmare imagery of being helpless with this personality around.

The fact that the real alternate personality and the nightmare version move so fluidly could be showing us another important detail.

Funeral Medic has exceptional aim and reaction times. Probably in order to react to injuries caused by the respawn machine, and to perform the needed treatments as effectively and precisely as possible. That’s why he moves like that.

My theory is that Electric-Eye Medic is a protector personality that comes out during RED v BLU matches when someone keeps targeting Fritz and needs to be put in their place. And most other situations now that the respawn failures aren’t happening like before. It’s why he’s the first other personality to take control, and keeps showing up.

And Funeral Medic is a gatekeeper personality who used to take control to prevent Ludwig from getting more trauma from Respawn Failures and patient deaths. Normally he stays inside the mind and keeps other people’s trauma from resurfacing, but the events of Emesis Blue were so serious that he needed to front.

It’s why he only shows up at the end.

When someone has DID, communicating with their alternate personalities and understanding what they’re trying to do is key. But Dr Ludwig wasn’t diagnosed with DID [or multiple personality disorder], he was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. And he’s Catholic, so he’s really likely to mistake Funeral Medic for a demon.

It’s one of the reasons why I want Emesis Blue to be a nightmare; so Ludwig and his personalities can talk/write things out and deal with their inner conflict. They need to, and I think he deserves a happy ending.

If RED Medic has his stolen wedding doves, it’d fit BLU to have an emotional support animal.