#heavy lift helicopter Tumblr posts

[ghostwarriorrrr]

The U.S. Special Operations Command (SOCOM) - MH-47G Block II Chinook

[nocternalrandomness]

"Exfil Exercise"

[supplyside]

US Army CH-54 Tarhe

[oukabarsburgblr]

drabble....aftermath of Man in the Elevator

FEATURING : DAISUKE YUICHI (OC) x male reader

profile ...

fluff, con smut, root post

[START SCENE]

"Hey HEY! Where do you think you're taking me-"

(m/n)'s feet skidded against the carpeted floor, however Daisuke's grip on his wrist was tight, it didn't hurt but he managed to drag the (h/c) across his department's wing, gaining many confused looks from his coworkers.

"On a date! Well- lunch date. I was thinking fugu or wagyu beef!" Daisuke's mouth was watering as he continued to pull the struggling man behind him who was begging his coworkers to help him. His friends looked away, not wanting to intrude on (m/n) and his boyfriend- WHO TF SAID THAT??

Daisuke had bodyguards following him, tall buff men wearing suits and earpieces whispering to each other as they formed a parameter around the pair. (m/n) doesn't know how to feel that he fucked the CEO's son. No wonder Daisuke asked whether he knew him or not and his expensive attire he had adorned in the elevator.

Speaking of elevators, (m/n) violently pulled back, shocking Daisuke when they had approached the floor's lift. It was a different lift but the (h/c) was afraid nonetheless.

"I'm not going in there with you."

He hadn't stepped in a lift ever since two days ago, taking the stairs and claiming it was to burn his calories when his acquiantances asked.

The ravenette was silent, staring at the annoyed (h/c) before smiling. "Okay." "...Thanks." At least Daisuke acknowledged that what happened between them was somewhat traumatic. Deplorable and enjoyable but (m/n) wouldn't want to go through that with anyone else except if it's Daisuke- wait what?

"Is it fine if I carry you then?" (m/n) quirked an eyebrow at the ravenette. "Carry me where?" "Up the stairs. The helipad is closer than the garage from this floor. You must be sore after our whole workout right?" "Helipad???" Daisuke nodded as he crouched to slip his beefy arms under (m/n)'s knees and back who yelped and immediately clutched onto the ravenette's luxurious suit. (m/n) wasn't sure whether to address the workout comment.

"Our building has a helipad?" "Of course silly! How would I travel from my home to work every day?" (m/n) wanted to punch this privileged, first class, silver spoon in his mouth bitch. No wonder (m/n) never saw him near the lobby. He guessed either Daisuke commuted by a fancy car or a fucking helicopter.

One of his bodyguard opened the doors to the staircase, letting Daisuke pass through with (m/n) in his arms who was punching his chest, demanding to be released. "If you're worried about being heavy, then don't be! It's great for my cardio."

That was either backhanded as fuck or Daisuke was just really an idiot. They made their way up the stairs, Daisuke breaking a sweat or two while (m/n) was still squirming and screaming in his face. He was surprised Daisuke was still smiling at him.

True to his words, once they've reached the rooftop, a white helicopter was there, already running its engine and Daisuke told (m/n) to cover his ears as he continued to carry (m/n) up onto the helipad and into the helicopter itself. Once (m/n) was tucked in his seat, the pilot took off, heading god knows where as (m/n) began to choke the ravenette.

"Where are we going?!!" "To- ackk! My house- ghhackkk!" (m/n) gritted his teeth. "Are you trying to kidnap me??" "What? Why would I?" The (h/c) began to grapple away from the ravenette, pressing himself up against the window as his shoes smudged the leather seat. Daisuke tried to coax him to sit down properly.

"You dragged me here. By force." Daisuke pouted. "You looked like you wanted to run away from me as soon as you saw me. Besides- YOU LEFT ME IN THE ELEVATOR ALONE!!"

(m/n) choked on his saliva and looked away. Fuck he had a point. Daisuke was scrunching his noise as he pointed at the (h/c)'s face with his index finger. The pilot felt like two cats were fighting in the back.

"W-Well I tried waking you up. I swear! But you slept like a goddamn rock-" "I wonder why." Daisuke deadpanned as he stared at the (h/c) with his lips pressing into a thin line, hinting at the fact that even when Daisuke was tired, (m/n) wanted one last round.

Immediately, (m/n) felt flushed and tried hiding his face, Daisuke pawing at him to face him but fuck did he feel so embarassed around him. "Look at me. I want to see what kind of face you're making." The ravenette laughed as he tried pulling at the (h/c)'s arms, the latter kicking him in protest.

Soon, they arrived at their destination. (e/c) eyes bulging at the sight of the penthouse that looked even more extravagant than their already affluent company building.

"Welcome to my home. Well its my dads technically. I still live with him y'know." Daisuke held (m/n)'s hand as the latter descended from the helicopter steps. Is this what they call princess treatment? He wondered as Daisuke began to give out orders to his valets and shooed away his bodyguards.

"...I'm still in my work hours by the way..." (m/n) hoped he wouldn't get scolded by his HOD, Daisuke only tilted his head. "They'll understand. My dad is the boss to your boss yeah?" He suddenly went into a ramble, not remembering who (m/n)'s supervisor is but assuring the (h/c) that they'll definitely let it slide.

Rich people live such nice lives. (m/n) sighed as he let Daisuke pull him through the penthouse, in awe of the decorations and furniture. Looks like Daisuke was a fan of retro, Americanized. He definitely grew up with mainstream media. His eyes gazing over hung record disk on painted walls before his view was covered in green.

"Woah." (m/n) whistled at the magnificent view of his surroundings. It was a greenhouse, walls made out of glass and white pillars, vines hanging from the beige ceilings and flowers blooming from their patches of dirt nestled neatly in their respective areas.

"This is my favourite spot to eat. Since this is your first time here, I figure I'd take you somewhere nice." Daisuke rubbed his face, suddenly abashed.

Okay that's kinda cute. (m/n) hummed. "It is nice here. Wonderful even." Could never afford this place. He deemed and made a mental note, not noticing steam coming out of Daisuke's ears.

"Glad you like it." "Your favourite place to eat is your own home?" Daisuke pursed his lips, thinking of an answer. "My mouth is accustomed to my chef's food. If anything, I'd love to eat here everyday but my dad keeps saying I should go outside and explore." Again, he went into a ramble, saying that his dad won't even let him step out of the penthouse without a five-member escort.

The (h/c) rolled his eyes. How self-centered is this guy? He knocked on the wooden table they were seated at to catch Daisuke's attention. "Sorry haha. It's just really nice to talk to you." "It's not exactly talking if your mouth keeps doing all the work." "Well your mouth can do some other work-"

Daisuke howled in pain, a swift kick to his knees courtesy of (m/n) who was glaring heavily at him. "Behave." The (h/c) pressed. "...yes, sir." "Good." He looked around the greenhouse, taking note of the beautiful flora and faunas.

Feeling hunger stemming from his stomach, he turned to Daisuke who was rubbing his knee. "I'm hungry." The ravenette was eager to please his date, calling in a butler, giving him menus and showing him pictures of what his private chef could cook for him.

"I recommend the smoked salmon, the earthy taste is insane." Daisuke felt his mouth water, remembering the fish that melted in his mouth, smoky charcoal seeping in on his tastebuds. (m/n) was unimpressed. "How much can I order?" "As much as you like! You're my date so go crazy." The ravenette winked at him.

(m/n) squinted his eyes, before letting out a pleasant smile, letting Daisuke call him his 'date' and immediately ordering a five-course meal. The ravenette was impressed by his date's appetite, mirroring his order.

The meal went well, them talking to each other, albeit (m/n) cursing at him every time Daisuke teased the former, and officially introducing each other. The (h/c) found out Daisuke didn't even officially work there. He was just there to visit his dad or get some 'exposure' in a work environment.

They did talk about the whole elevator thing, Daisuke mentioned how he tried to investigate who was behind the intercom and the aphrosodiac but all lead to none. (m/n) groaned, taking note of how the lift he usually used was scheduled under maintenance and the one in the incident was usually used by VIPs.

"I just...don't want to go through that again." Daisuje shoved a piece of beef in his mouth before holding the (h/c)'s hand, expressing his empathy. "I hope you're okay after all that." "I am. It was just confusing?" The ravenette nodded.

"Same. I thought I was crazy, y'know? Cuz' I woke up all alone. Drenched in weird stuff on the floor." (m/n) glowered. "I said I was sorry..." "No you didn't. And what'd you say?" Daisuke teased, leaning in closer and the (h/c) pulled away, embarrassed.

"I said I'm sorry." He hissed. The ravenette laughed as he pulled away to recline in his chair, stretching his muscles. "You're cute." "I know." "But you're really cute." (m/n) slapped his hand on Daisuke's mouth.

"Just shut up and keep eating."

A scream left his mouth as Daisuke licked across his palm. A butler had to intervene when he tried to drive a butter knife into Daisuke's face who only cackled at the attempted murder. It continued like that for the afternoon, Daisuke chatting and ruffling up (m/n)'s feathers, the latter eating as much as he could while responding as little as possible to the ravenette.

The setting was nice, evening had dawned, (m/n) forgetting about his work, Daisuke trying to romance the (h/c) and a bottle of expensive wine was served to them. No cheap alcohol here, only the best for Daisuke Yuichi and his new 'lover'.

(m/n) downed the wine, a fruity taste lingering in his mouth. Maybe Daisuke likes sweet things. He kept that in mind as his eyes lingered on the flushed ravenette who was swirling his own glass, still being the chatterbox he is.

The alcohol in the wine was mild but it did its job, intoxicating the two as Daisuke drunkenly brushed his hand over (m/n)'s thigh, the tip of his ears red and his nape burning hot. Him switching places to sit beside the (h/c). His body slowly caging him in, his face leaning closer.

(m/n) knew what he wanted. He had his own desires as well.

Daisuke brought the (h/c) deeper into his penthouse, touching him all over, (m/n) leaning more into his hold.

(e/c) eyes fluttered shut, Daisuke pushing him down on his desk in his supposed office, the lights dark and curtains closed. It was contrast to their first which was a small space with glaring white lights.

"Haa hah hangh slow down Daisuke- mmff!"

(m/n) laid down on the mahogany desk, papers astrewn on the floor while Daisuke went to town on his neck while unbuttoning his work attire. "Sorry, it's so hard around you. So handsome." He kissed his cheek. "So cute."

The (h/c) panted while holding Daisuke's shoulders. "Don't call me cute." "What should I call you?" The ravenette questioned endearingly while pecking his neck.

"Hot, sexy, suave, drop-dead gorgeous."

Daisuke laughed as he swiped his hair back, (m/n)'s legs were loosely wrapped around Daisuke's, caressing them with his shoes. "Alright then. My hot-," A kiss on (m/n)'s hand. "so fucking sexy-," He purred while brushing his lips down the (h/c)'s arm.

"not really suave-," A slap to Daisuke's chest, the ravenette teasing the fuming (h/c). He chuckled as he leaned in, their forehead touching, black optics covering (e/c).

"my drop-dead gorgeous lover." He kissed the edge of (m/n)'s lips, the (h/c) sighing as his hands gripped Daisuke's bosom. "Lover is quite fast, don't you think?" "My mind is quite a few chapters ahead. Will you be willing to speed up your pace?" "Only if you wait."

Daisuke paused, not expecting the (h/c) to give a serious answer, a genuine smile stretched on his lips. "...Of course." He was willing to do as much for this man in his arms. Something in his heart tells him that he would regret to not give chase.

(m/n) stared at the man above him, sighing quietly as his hand cupped Daisuke's face. "You're lucky you're rich." The ravenette leaned into his palm. "You're welcome to use all my inheritance." (m/n) laughed for the first time.

"Don't say that. I might actually suck you dry. You're not so bad, Yuichi."

Something jumped in the ravenette's pants, (m/n)'s crotch lightly feeling it. "Sorry, I got really hard hearing you say my name." (m/n) rolled his eyes. "I should expect that from someone like you, huh?" "Yup!"

Daisuke cheered as he kissed the (h/c), the latter wrapping his arms around his neck, pressing his lips back. The ravenette's tongue soon licked his lips, begging for entrance as (m/n) opened his mouth.

They were both moaning and sucking on each other's tongue, Daisuke's hips bucking and humping (m/n)'s bottom, the latter gasping into the sloppy tongue-tying session letting Daisuke thrust his wet muscly organ down his throat.

Choking on his saliva, (m/n) squirmed, patting Daisuke's chest, who immediately pulled away. "D-Daisuke-" "Please, please, I wanna do it so badly." Daisuke mewled, his face entirely flushed. "You can just sleep here after this, not worry about work tomorrow but please, pretty please, let me have you."

The (h/c)'s bottom jerked, feeling Daisuke grind himself on him. He sloppily licked (m/n)'s bosom, his eyes all teary, begging the (h/c) to sleep with him.

(m/n) grinned, he was also intoxicated and suddenly liking Daisuke's behaviour. He pulled Daisuke's hair up, swiping his tongue onto the latter's teeth, Daisuke moaning loudly into the kiss.

Hurriedly, he shuffled his clothes off of him, pulling (m/n)'s own as well. Fingers pumping in and out of the (h/c) who threw his head against the table, Daisuke used his precum as lube and pull his fingers out once he wringed an orgasm out of his new 'lover'.

(m/n) didn't have time to recover, Daisuke immediately pushing his cock in and the (h/c) yelped in pain, scratching the latter's pale back. Both of them liked the pain, Daisuke jamming himself into (m/n) rapidly, the (h/c) digging his nails in and screaming every time the ravenette's huge cock dragged against his tender walls.

The ravenette's eyes rolled behind his head, his mouth open as he came so early into the (h/c), his hips twitching as he stuffed his cum inside (m/n)'s hole. Arching his back, (m/n) mewled feeling his ass filled with something so wet so fast.

"Sorry..." Daisuke was heaving, his eyes droopy, apologising for cumming so early. "You idiot..." (m/n) pulled Daisuke's hair, reeling him into a kiss as he rubbed his ass onto the ravenette's penis.

They went wild, fucking like bunnies all over Daisuke's office. Almost every furniture was used and tainted with the smell of sex. Daisuke was extra hyper with the help of the wine and him being so happy that (m/n) was so willing to have sex with him. (m/n) was taking advantage of Daisuke's fondness and huge cock, letting him split him open in so many ways, bent over the couches, pushing him up against the wall and even pressed him facing the windows, his own cock rubbing against the glass, smearing it with his cum.

Daisuke came so much that every time he thrusted inside, semen leaked out with a squelching effect, turning on the (h/c) more. Eventually after the tenth round, Daisuke dropped himself on the luxurious sofa, the one (m/n) was folded into a mating press two rounds prior. In his arms was (m/n), breathing heavily, his body sticky and dripping cum.

The ravenette's beefy arms were holding (m/n) more securely, perhaps he didn't want the (h/c) to disappear like last time. "...Let's sleep like this. When I wake up, I'll carry you to my bedroom." Daisuke mumbled, his eyes closed, so tired having his dick pumped dry.

(m/n) hummed, adjusting himself on top of Daisuke, . "Mkay." He felt a hand rubbing his hair which eventually turned into small massages on his scalp. How sweet was this man?

"...Don't just leave...like last time...please..." It was barely a whisper, (m/n) couldn't read Daisuke's expression, his eyes shut tight. "...I won't."

He could feel the man underneath him flinch, not expecting the other to hear him but the latter's body relaxed, loosing his tension and worry.

Daisuke passed out before (m/n), his light breathing was comforting and the (h/c) placed his face in the crook of Daisuke's neck, sleeping soundly as well. He had a good meal, oh and the food tasted great too.

True to Daisuke's words, (m/n) woke up in an ornate bedroom, the color scheme mainly consists of royal blue and dark greyish except for its furniture. The ravenette had woken up way before him, spooning the (h/c) being so giddy that (m/n) was still with him the next morning.

Instead of turning up for work, (m/n) went shopping, Daisuke insisting he wanted to treat him with clothings and jewelries and he did, getting pampered by the rich man all day and he finally returned home with an abundant amount of shopping bags. He also did not let Daisuke into his apartment, knowing that he wanted to sleep with and in his room. That horny bitch ISTG-.

Although Daisuke assured him that he could retire at an early age, (m/n) still continued his normal work life, although his manager and supervisor were extra respectful to him and his coworkers had so many questions on how did he manage to bag the CEO's son. Said CEO was wary on how did his precious son managed to fall for someone so quick but after meeting the (h/c), he realised his son was a tender-hearted idiot and wished the best for the pair.

Maybe (m/n) was thankful for the whole elevator shenanigan, he managed to end up with a lovestruck rich boy after all. His life didn't change much except the fact that a certain priviledged puppy would steal him during lunch hours and promptly fuck him in the long nights.

[END SCENE]

[unedited]

Afterthoughts :

How long/short a drabble should be? Haha cuz i think i went way overboard. Daisuke would feature in more aus and their official(?) storyline including spinoffs (what ifs) with another oc i will introduce next week maybe.

Please leave a comment! Although there will be no part 3 for this au haha. Keep an eye out for my next AU [Reversing the Tropes]!

I had smoked salmon w my bf the other day and IT WAS SO GOOD WHAT ANSBAKHAUAH. I think its funny me writing all these smuts while being a virgin LMAOOOO

more of daisuke yuichi! ☾

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Two

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 3.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, blood and injury, nurse!reader, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, feelings of fear, anxiety. Panic attack. Implied past abuse. Implied stalking. Deep breath.

There is blood in Johnny's eyes.

He comes to with a start, Price’s voice barking out an order, pressure and flame and blood all washing over him, pain erupting across every receptor in his brain like he’s being shredded alive. 

“Bloody hell, hold him steady.” 

It’s still Price, roaring over the chop-chop-chop of the helicopter blades, bloodied hands trying to keep pressure on the hole in his stomach, his side. 

It burns. Everything burns, his body feels like it’s on fire, bones turning to ash inside his skin, chest being torn apart by some invisible force. He can’t get enough air. There is something shoved inside his ribs, something heavy that’s weighing his lungs down, keeping him underwater, cinderblocks tied to his feet.

He tries to move, but he can’t. 

Gaz is strapping him down to a stretcher, he thinks, and when he ratchets a strap across his legs, Johnny screams in agony. 

“’m sorry mate, I’m sorry.” 

Where is Simon? There are faces here, but none of them are the one he needs. His LT. “W-where is Si?” He slurs, and Price frowns, leaning back over his face, calling his name. 

“Johnny, Johnny. Hold still. You’re on a medevac. We’re lifting you to base.” 

“Si-“ 

“Simon isn’t here, remember? Johnny, oi. Keep your eyes open, Sergeant.” Remember? Does he remember? He tries. Tries to place his partner’s face amongst the rubble, the blast, the screaming. 

Where is Simon?

Your coffee maker sputters to life in the silence of your apartment, churning out the dark, thick, life-giving liquid, and you can’t beat back the glare that fixes your face upwards towards your neighbors, the ones who are running a marathon in their apartment at three in the afternoon.

Seriously. Is there a herd of elephants up there? 

You can’t be too disappointed in them, you know. It is normal working hours. Normal daytime hours. You don’t expect your neighbors to accommodate or understand your schedule. Still, it would be nice if they were just a bit more considerate. 

It’s not the end of the world, regardless. You're up now, already started your day, crawled out of bed and opened the blackout curtains to stand in the afternoon sunlight that streams through your studio apartment. You flick open your laptop as sip your morning coffee, logging into your banking app with quick efficiency, eyes roving over lists of numbers, figures adding and subtracting in your head. You’re so close to being able to move forward with the plan, the light at the end of the tunnel growing stronger and stronger, glowing bright with hope, something that once felt so impossible, so far away. You're going to make it. 

It’s a hike to the train.

You’re fortunate that you only have to take one, no longer having to change once, or twice, in the middle of your commute like you used to, but now you’re walking at least twelve blocks to get there, each way.

It makes you feel very exposed.

You keep your headphones in, hood of your jacket over your head, and move within throngs of people during the trek, keeping your eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead, posture tilted just enough that you can watch the ground but still see in your peripheral. You don’t relax until you make it onto the platform, and even then, your head is on a swivel as you wait for the train to arrive, and you can melt into the mix of others. Seen, but not noticed. 

Old habits die hard. 

You swipe your card to proceed through the turnstile, cool metal sliding against your hands when you push forward onto the platform, settling against a pylon as you wait, flicking through the news with half interest.

The hair on the back of your neck rises.

Someone is watching you. 

Your skin goes cold, ice beneath your jacket, and your lungs stutter with short breaths. Logically, you know you’re wrong. The faces that wait alongside you are not focused on anything but themselves, too busy staring at their own devices, tablets, readers, phones. A woman fidgets with a stroller, a man wearing headphones spits some corporate nonsense out loud, obnoxiously. You’ve already looked them over, too many times. He’s not here.

You lean against the tile, rocking your back into the grimy wall, fingers clutching against the edge of your phone. He’s not here. You’re safe. The dark of the tunnel mocks you, laughs with his voice, its circular opening growing teeth like his, ready to devour you, drag you back to hell, swallow you whole and keep you there.

He's not here. You’re safe. He doesn’t know where you are. Deep breath. 

You breathe the words deep, counting the time of your inhales and exhales until the brakes of the train are squeaking and squealing to a stop, doors opening with a hiss. Everyone moves in tandem, an amoeba inching towards the same goal, get off, get on, and you go with it, pressing inside and shuffling towards the back, angling your body outwards, molded into a corner so tight your shoulders touch the walls of the train.

Deep breath. 

“Hey, you’re early!” The nurse you’re relieving smiles brightly at you, blonde hair pulled high in a scrunchie, stickers all over her badge and ID.

“Yeah, wanted to get caught up on some admin stuff but I’ve got it, if you want to…” you motion with your head, the universal signal of ‘if you want to leave’ without saying it out loud, lest you jinx it, and the place goes to chaos in the next five minutes. She nods eagerly, launching into a run-down of your beds, who’s stable, who’s sedated, who’s still on a vent. “-and two sixty-eight is about to come down from the PACU.” Your stomach clenches with anxiety, and you check your watch.

“They took him when I left this morning…”

“Yeah, I guess there was a complication. Had to re-open his chest, put in a new tube. Poor guy, he’s battered all to shit. Did you see the scans of his femur? It’s literally in pieces.” She sighs. “His partner is in the surgical waiting room, told him the next shift nurse would come find him when he could come back to the room.” Your anxiety heightens, and an alarm bell goes off in the back of your mind as you think about Simon, pacing back and forth upstairs, and Johnny, alone in the PACU, probably coming out sedation, terrified. What is wrong with you? 

“I hear those guys are like black ops or something.” Nia, the nurse who’s worked the last three rotations with you, comments over your shoulder as she drops her bag in the pit. You raise an eyebrow skeptically. Black ops? You shiver. “They air-lifted him from a military base that’s doesn’t even exist on a map. Cass and I checked.”

“Really?” The dayshifter perks up, interested, and you hold your hands out in caution.

“Okay, okay. Let’s not speculate.” You tap your number into the tablet, reading through charts and noting updates. A little green circle with an arrow through it blinks next to Johnny’s, signifying that he’s about to be moved. “Besides, he’s been through hell. Clearly. Let’s have a little, ya know. Respect?” They all cluck, rolling their eyes and groaning, but they shut up, and Nia gives you a little grin. You might not be the charge nurse, but you were the perma-night shifter on this floor, and the one with the most seniority in this moment. 

“Alright, well. You got this?” Dayshift asks, and you wave her off.

“Goodnight.”

“You’re the best. Bye ladies!”

Simon is easy to find. He’s wearing the exact same clothes from yesterday, black cloth mask still covering half his face, hoodie pulled up over his head. He looks less exhausted, but no less anxious, dark circles still present under his eyes, body language tense. He looks… scared.

He spots you just as easily, shooting to his feet when he sees you coming, hands clenched together in anticipation, and you motion to the chair, placing yourself next to him, turning slightly to ensure you’re giving him your undivided attention.

He shifts in the seat, legs spreading out against the stiff frame, and his knee bumps yours, warmth radiating beneath denim bleeding into your scrubs. If he notices or cares about the contact, he doesn't say anything, only blinks at you in anticipation. His head tilts before you start speaking, and your skin heats when you realize he’s looking you over, eyes tracing you from head to toe before pinning you in place with a focused scrutiny.

“Has anyone come to speak with you?” You ask, silently hoping that the surgeon actually did the last part of his job, and didn’t neglect the family member in waiting room, the one who’s holding their breath as every second ticks by.

Simon nods. “They said there was a complication with his lungs?”

“They had to plate his ribs. It will give the bleed in his chest a better chance at healing, help keep him stable. They also replaced his chest tube.” His brow furrows, and you pause. Maybe visualization will help. “Do you want to see?” You tap on the tablet, bringing up Johnny’s last imaging, scrolling through the pictures to show Simon what it looks like, pointing out the before and after CT of his chest, explaining the white vs grey spaces on the image. Simon studies it, taking the tablet in his hand, fingers tracing over the screen reverently, carefully, like he's touching Johnny himself. An ocean’s worth of emotions reflects in his gaze, despair, sadness, grief- all sitting just on the edge, nearly ready to spill over. Your heart skips a beat.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s coming down from the post-surgery unit now. I’ll have to get him resettled in his room, but I promise as soon as I can, I’ll come get you.” He twitches in the chair, rubbing the back of his neck before he huffs out something that sounds like ‘okay’, and you give him one more small smile with your ‘see you soon’.

Johnny is conscious when he comes up from the PACU, barely. His vitals look good, temperature, blood pressure, heart rate all in target ranges, and he’s due for another round of pain medication.

"Hey, Johnny." You smile down at him, sliding the lock on his bed in place and reattaching his leads carefully, gentle enough so you don't jostle him too much. 

"Hi, pretty girl." He slurs, and you chuckle, instinctively rolling your eyes before patting his good hand. 

“Came out of sedation fine, but he’s been a bit emotional.” The PACU nurse warns you, eyes soft with sympathy when she glances at him in the bed. “He’s asking for his partner, I think. Simon?”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.” You scan the post op notes, hitting all the important things, logging his last vitals check so you can administer his meds. The incision in his chest has been reopened, and then closed, and his lower body is completely immobilized in the bed, his hip pinned, femur delicately pieced back together with a plethora of plates and screws, so many you think it’s probably more metal than bone now. “How are you feeling?" You ask, heart tugging a bit at the hopelessness in his eyes. “Ready to get some more sleep?” He groans a response, words jumbled together and cracking into a sob that has tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Si..”

“He’s not back yet.” You try to explain gently, grabbing an extra blanket to put over the scaffolding around his leg. “Once I get you settled, we’ll bring him up, okay?”

“H-hurts.” He cries, vibrant blue eyes finding yours, scared, and desperate. “It h-hurts.” He’s openly crying now, shoulders starting to shake, and the monitor chimes at you, registering an increase in heart rate and blood pressure.

“I know. I know it does.” You clean his port, tracking the uptick in numbers on the screen. “Hey, hey. Shhh, it’s okay.” You try to calm him as you flush the line, pushing the saline from the side of the bed. “You’re alright. We’re almost,” You administer the medication easily, counting in your head, replacing it with another saline before reattaching his fluids line, all of the motions so second nature that it allows you keep your focus on him. “there.”

You expect him to calm down. Most patients do, but his heart rate continues to tick upwards, and his respirations don’t decrease, lungs heaving against the fresh sutures in his chest. His hand, the good one, skates across your elbow and down your forearm to grab a hold of you, fingers gripped onto yours tightly, like he’s afraid you might let go.

“It’s alright, Johnny. You’re okay.” His eyes don’t leave your face, his own jaw slack, pain meds coursing through his system. He's frightened, big blue eyes wide and anxious, and you squeeze his hand, stroking your thumb across his knuckles. “Deep breath.” You see patients upset, in pain, all the time. It’s an everyday part of your job. Even the hand holding is a necessary, frequent part of your profession.

But with Johnny, something feels different.

“It’s okay. You’re okay, just try to relax. Take some long breaths- good. That’s good.” You soothe him, rubbing soft touches into his skin. His head is turned to where you’re standing next to the bed, chest still heaving, and he winces with each exhale. “It’s just the last of the sedation, it can make you a little out of sorts. The pain meds are going to kick in real soon.” You reach over, and press the call button, twice. You can feel the pressure, the burn of his attention, his unwillingness to look away from you, and you hum out the softest words you can find, encouraging him to take calm, deep breaths. 

When Nia appears, she frowns. “Everything alright?”

“Hey, yes. Could you do us a favor and go up to the surgical waiting room? Johnny’s partner Simon, is waiting to be told he can come down.” She looks from you to him, reading the situation just as you would if the roles were reversed.

“Got it.” She makes her exit, fast, and Johnny gulps, still staring up at you with bright, wet, blue eyes.

“See? She’s going to get him. Everything’s alright.” He nods, barely, starting to succumb to the medication, and you exhale, letting out some of the tension from the last few minutes.

Simon comes through the door in a whirlwind, and you immediately raise your free hand, palm out, to slow his hurried panic.

“He’s okay.” You point to where Johnny is still clutching onto you. “He was still in a fair amount of pain when he came down, and coming out of sedation can be disorientating. I think he panicked a little when he realized you weren’t here.” He nods silently, taking his place bedside, towering over both you and Johnny, leaning past you to brush his lips against Johnny's forehead in a sweet, smooth kiss. 

"I'm here, sweet boy." He murmurs, voice so low you barely catch it. You step back, pulling your grasp from Johnny's, but he tightens his fingers, grip stronger than you anticipated, and you stop mid step, glancing to his partner. “I got him.” Simon reaches for where the two of you are connected, sliding his own hand overtop yours, replacing the contact before holding Johnny's hand whole. He’s so careful, lowering himself into the chair, carefully holding onto Johnny until he’s seated, bringing his palm to his mask covered lips. “I’ve got you.”

“Si.”

“I’m here Johnny. Rest.”

“Ye weren’t there.” He croaks, and Simon’s eyes shutter with a long inhale.

“I know.”

“Ah needed-“ He loses the words, dazed in a swirl of semi-consciousness. “was scared.” Simon strokes some of the hair that’s in disarray away from his forehead, smoothing his thumb back and forth above his eyebrow.

“Shhh, everything’s alright now. I’m here.”

The chair in supply closet 2b knows you well. It’s an old thing, something pulled from a patient room once it was deemed too squeaky, and too uncomfortable, shoved in here to be discarded at some point in the future.

That was months ago.

Now, it sits in a dark little corner, plastic packages of disposable PPE and gowns littered on top of it in a heap, excess supply with no place to live. Everyone takes turns in it, shifting whatever it happens to be holding that day onto the ground and settling in for what some could call a break, brief moments that could last seconds or minutes, quick opportunities to get off your feet and most importantly, not have to speak or be spoken to, for an indeterminate amount of time.

This is usually where you hide when you need a second. When there’s a lull, and the pit is full of nurses, techs, students or whoever else may have downtime, talking and laughing together, building relationships, getting to know one another. Making friends. It's a small luxury at work, to have that time, those friendships. 

Luxuries someone who wants to be seen, but not noticed, not known, does not have.

You close your eyes, head tipped back against the chair.

It’s okay to be alone. You can do this. Deep breath. 

Your mind floats to two sixty-eight, to Simon and Johnny. What is it like, to be loved like that? To be so fiercely cared for? Johnny’s teary, blue eyes and Simon’s soft, loving regard for him makes your stomach flip. You didn’t even know love like that was real. The only taste of love you’ve ever had left ash in your mouth, poison in your veins, and deep, deep scars across your body and soul that you’ll never be free of.

Deep breath. 

Your work phone and the tablet both start to beep, a shrill noise that makes you wince, muscle memory of what it indicates making you leap from the chair.

The screen shows a red flashing symbol next to room two sixty-eight.

Johnny.

“He’s tachycardic.” You tell the tech who’s fumbling with the phone, firing off a rapid text message to the on-call for this floor. You hold Johnny’s forehead still with the heel of your hand, using a finger to flick open his eyelids one by one, flashing the pen light across his pupils. “Pupils are dilated, BP is elevated- no call him- call him right now. Do what I said, I don’t care what he told you.” You bark, glancing up at where Simon is frozen across the bed from you, grip so tight against the rail that you think it might break.

“Simon-“ He cuts you off, but you’re half paying attention to him, too busy checking the site of Johnny’s chest tube, and then moving onto the dressing on his lower abdomen, ensuring it doesn’t feel scalding to the touch.

“He was fine. He was just… sleepin' and then-“ You move around the bed, pulling the oxygen tube longer, replacing the cannula with a mask.  

“Simon, I need you to step out.” You press two buttons on the machine, ensuring it’s on high flow, door sliding open with Nia’s arrival.

“No.” His refusal is steadfast.

“Simon, hey.” He lurches closer to Johnny, and on instinct, you reach out and grab his forearm, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes are wild, bleak with anguish, and his chest heaves heavily, panic radiating from his massive form. “Listen to me, listen. I’m here. I’ve got him, alright? But there are about to be five other people in this room, and we can’t work if you’re in the way.” You speak firmly, clearly, trying to get your point across as the door opens again, and the on-call attending is standing on the other side. Simon glances from him, back to you, and you nod reassuringly, swallowing the lump in your throat that forms when he latches onto your own arm, squeezing it tight. “He’s in good hands.” You tell him, nodding to the tech that’s waiting to usher him towards the hallway. 

He keeps his eyes trained on Johnny, before they flick over to where you’re lowering the bed completely flat, free hand on his bicep, thumb rubbing a small semi-circle into his skin, just like you watched Simon do last night, and earlier today. He swallows, endless depths of desperation welling in his eyes, and you take a deep breath, imbuing your voice with all the strength you have.

“I’ve got him. I promise.”

[sweets-library]

The quiet hours

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 4.2k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU.

content warnings: spanking, punishment, rules, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline

-

You're not allowed to watch the news when Shouta's not home. It might seem harsh, but after that one awful night—when you spiralled into panic attacks and wore yourself down to the bone over a fight that didn’t even involve him (“Underground pro moved to intensive care after brutal battle—”)—he laid down the rule: no news unless he's there to reassure you. And now, well, you’re breaking it.

Your fingers are raw, nails torn from anxious chewing as you follow the chaos unfolding on-screen. The fight rages on in an area Shouta patrols, and the pit in your stomach grows with every minute that passes. You search the screen, desperate for any sign of him—a dark figure amid the blur of heroes, villains, police, and civilians scrambling in the streets. The news helicopter captures the madness from above, and you try to convince yourself he’s fine. He’s always fine. But after an hour, when the villains are finally subdued, Shouta is nowhere to be found. Instead, you watch helplessly as bodies are loaded into ambulances, and worse, some are dragged away, lifeless.

It’s 3 a.m. now. Another rule broken. Shouta hates it when you stay up for him—he says it leaves you exhausted, strung out for no reason when you could wake up beside him, safe and sound. He’d be livid if he knew, but you can’t bring yourself to care. He’s your boyfriend, your partner, and every day he risks his life out there. Of course, you worry. Who cares if you can barely keep your eyes open at work tomorrow? At least you'd know he made it home.

The coverage is still playing when you hear his key in the lock, and your heart leaps into your throat. You quickly fumble for the remote, switch off the TV, and dive under the blankets on the couch, pretending to be asleep. He’s not going to be thrilled that you didn’t make it to bed, but at least he won’t think you’ve completely ignored his rules.

You hold your breath, listening to the familiar sounds of his boots hitting the floor, the clink of his goggles landing on the table, and the soft swish of his capture weapon being hooked by the door. His footsteps are slow and deliberate as he makes his way into the living room, pausing when he spots you curled up on the couch. There’s a heavy sigh—he’s fondly irritated, you can feel it—and for a moment, you brace yourself for a scolding.

Instead, his arms slip gently under you, lifting you without a word. You instinctively snuggle into him, heart pounding with relief. He’s home. He’s safe.

“Missed you, Sho…” you mumble, your voice thick with genuine exhaustion now that he’s here.

"Hm," he replies, the stern edge in his voice making your heart skip. "Were you waiting up for me?"

You don’t dare look at him. “No,” you lie, nuzzling into his shoulder as he lowers you onto the bed. “I was just watching a movie and fell asleep.”

You feel his eyes on you in the darkness, scrutinizing. "Makeup down your cheeks," he notes, swiping at the streaks with his thumb. "Must’ve been a real tearjerker, huh?"

"Yeah…a dog died," you murmur, barely able to suppress a yawn. His quiet chuckle sends a wave of relief through you—he bought it, or at least, he’s letting you think he did.

“My little crybaby,” he teases, but you can hear the affection in his voice.

"At least kiss me before you start being mean," you grumble, pulling him down for a sleepy, lingering kiss. He hums against your lips, then pulls back.

"Go to sleep. I’m gonna shower and come to bed."

You smile, snuggling deeper into the blankets, eyes heavy as you let the relief wash over you. Somehow, you actually got away with it. You listen as Shouta moves around the apartment—showering, heating up his dinner in the microwave, and finally settling onto the couch. The familiar sounds are comforting, grounding you in the safety of knowing he's home.

And then, you hear it. The soft click of the TV turning on.

Your heart skips a beat. The news. The coverage of the attack is still on. You cringe, suddenly wide awake, the comfort of a few minutes ago evaporating as panic flares up again. You strain to hear every detail, anxiety pooling in your chest as you imagine the look on his face when he realizes what you've been up to.

The clink of his plate hitting the coffee table snaps your attention back, followed by the low groan of the couch as he stands. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, pad toward the bedroom. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, willing yourself to look peaceful, and innocent—hoping against hope that you can delay the inevitable until morning.

But you’re not that lucky.

"Sit up." His voice cuts through the silence, low and firm.

You hear him, but you stupidly ignore it, keeping your eyes shut in some desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let it go. The air grows tense, and you hear the sharp click of his tongue, a sound that makes your heart stutter.

“Little girl, you do not want to make this worse than it already is,” he warns, his tone laced with quiet authority. The moment those words hit, your body moves before your brain can even catch up. You sit up, your gaze fixed firmly on the floor, trying to steady your breath.

He steps closer, his presence looming as he positions himself in front of you. You don’t dare look up, but the weight of his stare presses down on you. Then, his fingers grip your chin, not harsh, but firm enough to force your eyes up. The moment you meet his gaze, your stomach drops.

He’s pissed. His dark eyes are locked onto yours, filled with disappointment and frustration.

"I'm going to give you one chance to tell me how you spent your night," he says, voice low and steady, "and so help me, if you lie again, you'll be getting bedtime spankings for a week."

The threat sends a chill down your spine. This isn't your boyfriend Shouta right now. The warmth and gentleness are suddenly punctuated by the stern, unyielding side of him that leaves no room for games.

"I—well," you stammer, your voice small. "I was watching TV... and I stayed up too late. I'm sorry." The apology slips out in a mumble, barely audible, as his hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you in place. He leans in, his presence overwhelming.

"Sorry, what?" His voice is firm, a quiet demand that makes your heart race.

"Sorry, Daddy..." you whisper, heat rushing to your face in embarrassment. It feels vulnerable to say it out loud, especially now.

"Hm." He lets go of your chin, crossing his arms over his chest. His forearms strain against the fabric of his sleeves, muscles flexing as he sizes you up. The air between you is heavy with his disappointment, but despite the weight of it, a small flutter stirs in your stomach. You hate how his sternness affects you like this.

"You were watching what on the TV?" he asks, his tone pointed, his gaze never leaving yours.

You sniff, nervously playing with your fingers, unable to stop the tremble in your hands. "I... I was watching the news," you finally admit, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, Daddy. I was just so worried, and it was so late, and they were in your area, and I just—"

"Enough."

The word snaps the air like a whip, and your mouth shuts instantly. The tension in the room feels almost suffocating as you stare up at him, waiting for the inevitable.

"So," he continues, his voice even and measured, "not only did you stay up far later than you're allowed, knowing full well you have work tomorrow, but you also worked yourself into a panic over the news. And then, you lied to me about it." He pauses, eyes narrowing as if daring you to challenge him. "Do I have that right?"

Your throat tightens, and your stomach feels like it's sinking. There's no way out of this, no excuse you can offer. He expects an answer, and there's only one.

"Yes... Daddy," you whisper, your voice fragile, on the verge of breaking under the weight of it all.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration before rubbing his tired eyes. The sound of his exhale fills the room, thick with disappointment. You can feel his exhaustion, his worry—this is not how he wanted to end his night, and it makes your chest ache.

“We talked about this,” he says, his voice firmer now, frustration seeping into each word. “We have this rule for a reason, so you don’t spend your nights like this—crying over something that’s not even happening!”

You sniffle, your chest tightening as guilt floods through you. “But... what if something did happen? And I had no idea, and you were hurt, and alone, and—”

“Sweetheart,” he cuts in, gentler now but still firm, “if something happens, you’re the first person they will call. You know this. The hospital will notify you if I’m hurt. And if it’s anything else, the commission will contact Mic, who will call you immediately. You know all of this—we talked about it when we made this rule. Together.”

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly tired and frustrated. The exhaustion in his eyes, the strain in his voice, all hit you at once. He’s been working so hard, pushing himself to keep you safe, to keep everyone safe, and here you are, breaking the very rules you agreed on. The weight of it presses down on your chest, and the guilt gnaws at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice thick with regret.“I just... I worry. So much.” The words come out in a whimper, hoping for some sympathy, but Shouta isn’t swayed by the tears.

“Baby,” he begins, his voice firm but not unkind, “you have to trust me. I don’t want you sitting here, crying yourself hoarse every night over something that hasn’t happened. It’s not fair to you. It’s not healthy, and I won’t allow it.” His gaze is piercing, locking with yours, filled with concern but unwavering in its resolve. You know he’s right, but the ache of your worry feels so real.

Silence hangs in the air for a moment as he looks at you, clearly weighing his next move. Finally, he speaks again, and it’s not what you expect.

“I’ll call your work in the morning. You’re not going in tomorrow.”

“What? No—Shouta, I’m fine!” you whine, trying to push back against his decision, but he taps your cheek again, this time with a little more firmness.

“Little girl, I don’t think you’re in any position to argue with me right now,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding. “Trust me, you’re not going to want to go to work tomorrow. We’re working this out tonight. I don’t want to have this discussion again, so we’re dealing with it here and now.”

The finality of his words hits you hard, and you feel the sting of tears building again, pressing at the corners of your eyes. You don’t want to deal with this—not now. Not like this. “Daddy, please, I’m sorry,” you plead, your voice fragile and trembling, but it doesn’t change his resolve.

Your apology falls on deaf ears as Shouta pulls the blankets from your legs with a swift motion, guiding you up with a firm but gentle grip. “Don’t argue with me,” he says quietly. “Come here. Now.”

You hesitate, but his firm tone leaves no room for defiance. He takes you by the arm, leading you to the end of the bed. He sits down, looking up at you with that same intense gaze, the weight of his authority wrapping around you. You stand in front of him, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to swallow the lump in your throat.

“Shouta, I—” you start, but his sharp look cuts you off before the words can even fully leave your mouth. You’re in no position to argue. You know this, but it doesn’t stop the nervous tremor running through your body as you shuffle your feet, feeling his gaze settle heavily on you.

“How many rules did you break tonight?” he asks, his voice calm but firm, waiting for you to face the truth.

You bite your lip, glancing down as the weight of your actions settles in. “I... I stayed up late,” you begin in a shaky voice, “and I watched the news... and I lied.” Your voice cracks on the last confession, barely above a whisper. “So... three,” you finish, the admission hanging in the air like a confession you’ve been dreading.

Shouta’s hands move to gently rub the sides of your legs, grounding you in the moment. His touch is comforting, a reminder that even now, when things feel so overwhelming, he’s here for you. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whisper, your voice breaking as a tear slips down your cheek.

He’s watching you carefully, aware of how hard this is for you, but also knowing this moment is important. You flourish under this dynamic with him—he knows that. It’s his responsibility to guide you, to redirect you when you stumble, and this is one of those moments. A slip. A mistake. One that he’ll correct, and when he does, everything will fall back into place and you'll feel better for it.

Shouta gently wipes the tear from your cheek, his thumb soft against your skin. "I know you’re sorry," he says quietly, “but this is why we have these rules. To help you, not to hurt you. And you know I’m going to make sure you learn from this.”

You nod, knowing deep down he’s right.

“Thank you for being honest with me, sweetheart,” he says softly, patting your cheek lovingly. The warmth in his touch eases some of the tension coiling in your stomach. “I think that’s enough TV for the rest of the week. You can read your books instead.”

Your heart sinks at the thought of being cut off from your usual distractions, but you suppress the urge to stomp your feet and whine. You know he’s not done yet. “And tomorrow after breakfast, I want you to write 50 lines in your notebook, telling me you won’t lie to me again,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You nod slowly, knowing this is part of the process. It feels unfair, but deep down, you understand that it’s for your own good.

“Now for tonight,” he continues, his voice low and steady, “I think we will finish this discussion over my lap. Come here.”

With a mix of reluctance and acceptance, you shuffle closer to him, positioning yourself over his lap. It feels both familiar and daunting as you bury your face in your arms, the warmth of his body wrapping around you. The world outside feels distant, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your breathing, trying to steady yourself for what’s to come.

“What’s your safeword?” he asks, his hand rubbing your back comfortingly, a grounding presence in this moment.

“Red,” you reply firmly, the single word a declaration of your readiness, a promise of trust.

“Good girl.” His approval wraps around you like a warm blanket, but before you can fully absorb it, his hand comes down hard. Even with the cushion of your pajama pants, the sting is sharp, and a whimper escapes your lips as you bury your face deeper into your arms.

The initial shock of pain sends warmth pooling in your cheeks, and you brace yourself, knowing he’s just getting started. He begins to layer swats on your backside, each strike firm and unyielding. With every hit, you feel a mix of emotions—pain mingled with an odd sense of release. His hands fall without mercy, and in the back of your mind, you know this is only the warmup, the prelude to what’s to come.

Your breath quickens, and you focus on the rhythm of his hand, feeling the sting dissipate into a strange warmth that blankets your apprehension. Each swat brings you closer to a clarity that only he can provide, a reminder of the balance between discipline and care.

“This won’t work if we can’t trust each other,” he says, his voice steady and authoritative, each word punctuated by the rhythm of his hand striking your backside. The hits keep coming, a sharp reminder that you need to pay attention. You don’t bother to respond; you know he wants you to listen right now.

“I need to be able to go to work without worrying that you’re at home crying yourself sick over something that was completely avoidable.” The sting resonates in your skin, but it’s the truth in his words that hits harder. Each swat underscores his concern, reinforcing the message he’s trying to drive home.

“If you’re feeling nervous, text me, or Hizashi, or Nemuri. I can’t always answer right away,” he continues, his tone firm yet laced with care. “But I’d rather you reach out to someone for help when your anxiety is getting the best of you than turn on the news and make things far worse for yourself.”

His emphasis on reaching out wraps around you like a lifeline, and you begin to realize the weight of your actions. It’s not just about following the rules; it’s about building a foundation of trust and communication. You focus on his words, letting them sink in as each strike reinforces the lesson. Whenever he redirects you, his discipline feels less like punishment and more like an act of love, a reminder that you’re never alone in this.

The swats stop for the moment, but you know the routine, and dont bother getting excited. He eases your pants down to sit at your knees, and resumes the flurry of spanks while you cry and drum your toes into the mattress. 

“And under no circumstances is it ever okay for you to lie to me,” he asserts, his voice unyielding, filled with the weight of authority. “Everybody makes mistakes, but if you can’t tell me the truth, then where does that leave us? If I find out you’re lying to me again, I have half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap and give you lines every day for a month. Do I make myself clear?”

The words hang heavy in the air, and you choke out a sob, barely able to respond. “Yes, Daddy, m’sorry!”

“If I can’t trust that you’re making good choices, then there will have to be long-term consequences.” His tone softens slightly, but the seriousness remains. “Do you need me to set up a check-in schedule for you? Is that what it will take for you to behave?”

Your heart sinks, guilt washing over you as you realize he’s already stretched thin, so busy and tired, and here you are, adding to his burden. “No, no, I’ll behave! Please!” You cry, desperation tinging your voice.

“I’m happy to hear that, baby,” he murmurs, his voice softening as he continues his steady rhythm. “But if that’s what you needed, then that’s just fine. We’ll talk about it another time.” His hand gently caresses your back, the warmth of his touch providing a comforting contrast to the stinging of your skin. “I love you, sweetheart. If you need more support from me, then you need to tell me.”

You can feel his gentleness in his words, even if he can’t see the tear-streaked cheeks you hide from him. A fresh wave of emotion crashes over you, and you can’t help but weep, overwhelmed by the mixture of relief and vulnerability. The pain lingers, but it’s softened by the assurance that he’s here, guiding you through the shadows of your anxiety. In this moment, you feel a flicker of hope—his love is a steady anchor, reminding you that you don’t have to navigate this storm alone.

“Love you, Daddy. I’m sorry; I can do it. I can be good,” you cry, your voice thick with remorse.

He lets out a weary sigh, the sound heavy with mixed emotions. “You’re always my good girl, baby. I love you so much. We’re almost done.” With that, he shifts the position of your legs, exposing your sit spots more fully for the next phase of your punishment.

As the final swats begin, you feel the sting intensify, but beneath it all, there’s a strange sense of clarity. His unwavering presence and the weight of his expectations create a safe space for you to confront your fears and anxieties. Each strike serves as a reminder of the lessons you need to learn, urging you to let go of the worry that spirals out of control when he’s not around.

Though the discomfort is real, it pales in comparison to the overwhelming love that underpins this dynamic. You focus on that love, knowing that it’s a guiding light leading you toward a healthier path.

"And you know very well that we’ve discussed this before—about how important it is for you to take care of yourself. You need sleep, especially on work nights, and I’m not going to stand by while you exhaust yourself for no reason." His voice is firmer now, just loud enough to cut through your sobs, but never harsh or angry. "I think tomorrow we’re going to have another talk about your bedtime routine. Clearly, I’ve been too lenient, and that stops now, little girl."

The words sink into you, a mix of dread and relief. Even as he speaks, the discipline continues, each strike a rhythmic reminder of his control and your need to listen. He never yells, never lashes out—just that calm, unyielding tone. It leaves no room for doubt: this is not up for debate. You don’t try to suppress your crying anymore, knowing the apartment is soundproof, and that in his arms, you are safe to let go of everything. The punishment is painful, yes, but the deeper ache comes from knowing you’ve disappointed him—and yourself.

And still, through the tears and the discomfort, you know that he’s right. You need the boundaries he sets, the safety they bring. You feel the weight of his words settle inside you, and even though you don’t want to face the conversation tomorrow, you know it’s for the best.

Your ass burns, the heat lingering even after the punishment has ended. You see now that it’s really for the best that you won’t be going to work tomorrow. His hands rub your back soothingly, the warmth of his touch a balm against the ache. Slowly, he shifts you onto his lap, wrapping you in his strong arms, the fabric of your pants slipping down one ankle as you bury your face into the comforting crook of his neck.

“I know, sweetheart. It’s alright,” he murmurs softly, his voice like a gentle caress against your ears. “You’re okay. You did so good.” Each word is a soothing balm, and you can’t help but melt into his embrace, soaking up the praise like a flower yearning for sunlight. “My good little girl, I love you, baby.”

In that moment, as you cling to him, the world outside fades away. All that matters is the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek and the steady pulse of love radiating from him. You feel safe, cherished, and most importantly, understood. The earlier turmoil dissipates, replaced by a profound sense of peace, as you allow yourself to rest in his arms, knowing he’ll always be there to guide you back to safety.

Eventually, the storm of tears subsides, and a soothing calm washes over you, leaving exhaustion in its wake. You stifle a yawn, snuggling deeper into his arms, teetering on the brink of sleep. He continues to murmur sweet reassurances, his voice a soft lullaby that wraps around you like a warm blanket as he carries you back to your side of the bed.

For a moment, you feel a twinge of abandonment as he steps away, but he’s back almost instantly, a gentle smile playing on his lips as he holds a makeup wipe in hand. The tender gesture brings a flutter of warmth to your chest as he wipes away the remnants of your earlier distress. You fight the urge to surrender to sleep, but his soothing presence makes it increasingly difficult. The room falls into a comfortable silence, filled only with the sound of your soft breaths and his gentle movements.

Once your face is free of makeup, you feel lighter, as if the weight of the evening has been washed away. He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss on your lips, then your cheek, and finally your forehead, each kiss a reminder of his love and devotion. He crawls into bed beside you, pulling you close into his warm embrace. You instinctively wrap your limbs around him, finding comfort in his strength and warmth.

As you settle into the familiar rhythm of his breathing, you murmur out one last “Love you, Daddy…” The words linger in the air as sleep finally claims you, enveloping you in a dreamless, deep slumber, safe and secure in his arms.

-

guys i hate to say the daddy issues got to me. nobody look at me ok sometimes being an adult is really hard. i cross posted this on ao3 btw

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: Lights Out {1}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: Reality just keeps crashing down around you with the repercussions of your pregnancy. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, angst WC: 2k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine NAV: A New World One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten NAV: Lights Out One || Two

“Max? Max, where are we going?” Max looked away as he walked by your side, his hand never leaving yours. “Max, no, no…”

The sounds of the ward forced pressure to crush down on your chest and made it hard to breathe. One room cracked open as a nurse left with white gloves stained red, and the wails of pain leaked into the hall. The heaviness in your head lifted enough to crane your neck to see the walls decorated with teddies with pink and blue bows and posters on breastfeeding. 

The cries of newborns came and went with the rooms that you passed and your brother looked at you with pity in his eyes. 

“I shouldn't be here,” you whispered as your gurney was pivoted into a private room and the orderly left. A tense silence filled the room while you waited for the doctors to come. “I shouldn't be here, Max.”

“You’re having a baby, zusje.”

Panic spiked and you looked down at your body in confusion and fear, your voice screeching, “Now?”

“No!” he rushed to answer before his tone softened and he took a seat beside you. “Not right now.  Look, we should wait until Charles and Lando get here.”

“No, no, I need to get out of here. This is a mistake.” You were quicker this time and tore the IV line from your hands before anyone could stop you. Getting out of the room was another problem, you felt like bambi on ice and could barely keep your weak legs straight as you stumbled to the exit. 

“Get back on the fucking bed,” Max growled as he blocked the door. “You may not believe it, but it’s not just you that you’re risking because you’re being stubborn.”

Your hand reached for the soft skin of your abdomen before you forced it to your side again in a fist. “Do they know? Is that why they aren’t here?” 

“What are you talking about? Can you just get in the bed!”

“No, Jos left after mum got pregnant. Daniil and Kelly broke up after having P,” your voice broke as you dropped your head and sweat dripped down your neck. “Babies change things, is that why they left me?”

“Oh, zusje, no.” Max closed the space and pulled you into his arms. “They haven’t left you, I told you they are on their way. Charles was by your side the whole time and they wanted to come in the helicopter but they couldn’t. Don’t you remember?”

You shook your head against his chest, unable to see that the door had opened behind him. 

“Those two love you, and they aren’t leaving you.” Max looked over his shoulder and stepped away so Lando and Charles could calm you down in a way only they had the power to do.

“You must be crazy to think we would ever leave you, baby.” He took your hand and paled at the sight of the blood seeping from where the IV was. 

“What have you done, amour?” Charles sighed and shook his head. “Get her back in the bed, she’s still too warm. I’ll go find a doctor.”

“Sorry, she freaked out at the news.”

“We should have been here with her,” he said wistfully as he watched Lando carefully lay you back on the cooling pad and wrap the chilled blankets around you. 

“You should have worn a fucking condom.” Knowing his temperament was unstable, Max nodded his head to the bed and excused himself. “You stay here, I’ll find the doctor.”

For the second time in less than 12 months you were staring at a contract that was null and void. It was hard not to resent the little bean growing inside of you at the turn of events but it wasn’t her fault that you had a moment of stupidity when you were drunk. No one publicly knew the full extent of your condition outside of the handful of people who had signed NDA’s. You still didn’t quite understand it. Obviously, you did, but some part of your brain still refused to accept it. 

You hadn’t been able to say anything after the doctors told you everything that had come to light while you were unconscious. You had just curled up on the temperature controlled bed and fallen into a state of disassociation. It had taken almost two days for your body to regulate its own temperature again and you were almost ready to be cleared to be discharged. 

You had undergone test after test to make sure the baby was healthy and a small knot in your stomach unclenched when they said everything came back as normal. You picked up the picture of the sonogram again, searching the image for a connection that would make it real. But all you saw were ten fingers, ten toes and a big head. Charles joked Lando was definitely the father. Max kicked a chair and walked out.

“Shouldn’t I feel…something?” you asked quietly, your voice hoarse from the lack of use. 

Lando shared a look with Charles before climbing onto the bed behind you and curling his body around the shape of yours. He kissed your shoulder and his fingers brushed your shirt up so he could rest his hand over your abdomen. 

“There’s not even a bump,” you whispered. 

“I know you’re scared, baby, but it’s going to be okay,” Lando promised. “Charles and I will be by your side the entire time.”

You tucked the picture back under your pillow and closed your eyes. The toll the race took on you was still draining your energy quickly between the many naps you had taken. “I want to go home.”

“I’ll go find Max,” Charles said, knowing no matter how angry he might be he wasn’t going to abandon you.

You didn’t open your eyes as you shook your head. “No, not Monaco. I want to go home.”

The warmth being you disappeared as Lando rose from the bed and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call your mum.”

“I’ll book the flights.”

“And I’ll go to sleep.”

Your replacement had been confirmed before you even reached Doha Airport. It felt like the universe was kicking you while you were already down but someone had to be ready to drive in Austin, and Fernando certainly had the experience. Plus, he couldn’t get pregnant and fuck up the team’s plans for the season. 

Lawrence had tried to fire Kristian for not including pregnancy tests with the rest of your regime, but since he was employed directly by you the most the bastard could do was ban him from the Aston Martin hospitality areas. Kristian had apologised and sent flowers to the hospital, feeling guilty for not realising what was going on and for pushing you so hard. At least now you knew why no amount of training was helping you lose weight, it was only going to get worse in the coming months. 

“They’re all looking at me,” you huffed as you buried your hands in the hoodie you stole off Lando. “They know.” You had only just stepped out of the car at the terminal and you could feel the eyes in you. 

“No they don’t. No one knows, mon amour, and no one will until you’re ready.”

“Fuck, reporters are here,” Lando growled, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and tucking you into his side protectively as the security detail surrounded all three of you. “You don’t have to stop or say anything, baby, just keep your head down.”

Questions were shouted through the wall of black suits that blocked you, their accusations and taunts trying to goad you into talking to them. You were accustomed to the barrage but your exhaustion and the somewhat turbulent emotional state had your teeth gritted.

“Mr Stroll, the senior, has stated Alonso’s return will be positive for the team and he is expecting a much stronger finish to the season with a man in the seat. What are your thoughts on that?”

“Mr Stroll has been wanting a man to drive for him all season, I am glad he’s finally found one. Maybe he can replace Lance next and have it as a two man team.”

“Ma ch��rie,” Charles warned quietly.

“As for my thoughts, well Fernando can have them and my prayers when he realises what a shit box the car has become. I wish him all the best.”

You hadn’t realised you had pulled out of Lando’s embrace and were heading towards the reporters who were swarming with all the wild enthusiasm of a shark smelling blood. Suddenly the space between the security guards was blocked and it was Charles who curled an arm around your waist, guiding you towards the special entrance to the departure lounge. 

“Take a breath,” he murmured in your ear.

The rush of blood made it almost impossible to hear him and you realised how worked up you had gotten over the question. They made you want to rip your hair out. All that repeated in your head was the final question that had been shouted while you were led away. Twice you had your contracts voided, two teams, which meant you were the common denominator. Were you the problem in the sport or women in general?

“Congratulations. You just ruined any chances of another female getting to the same level. I always said women are too messy for this sport, too emotional.” You hated that you could still hear Jos snickering in your head and Charles wiped your cheek, his fingers coming away wet.

“It’s not fair,” you choked as you buried your face in his chest. “All I wanted to do was race, ever since I was a kid, Charles. I don’t know who I am without it.” 

“I know it isn’t fair, amour, and I’m sorry,” he said softly as he wiped your tears away. “But this isn’t the end, you can still come back. You are a World Champion, that doesn’t change because you had a baby.”

You laughed before sobering up. “Oh wait, you’re serious…”

“Of course I am, and I know you. Stubborn, strong, stubborn,” he smirked. “You thrive on doing what people say you can’t do, on what you think you can’t do. It’s why I fell in love with you, the day you beat me for the Monaco Kart Cup.”

You did love to prove people wrong, so maybe there was a chance - however small - for a return in the future. Whether someone would be willing to take a risk giving you a seat again would be a problem for another day, or year.

“I’m surprised you noticed me,” you admitted as you started to relax again in the empty hall that bypassed the busier areas of the airport. “I didn’t think you could see anything through that Beiber hair you had going on.”

“I saw enough to know you held my heart, and my trophy.”

Lando draped his arm over Charles’ shoulders and pinched his cheek. “Who knew you were such a romantic?”

“Everyone,” you smirked at Lando, “because he’s french.”

You laughed as Charles gasped as wriggled out from between you, pacing ahead on his own. “You know I am Monegasque.”

“You are?” Lando played dumb, scratching his head at the regular joke. “When were you going to tell us?”

A frustrated groan echoed down the hall and you giggled along with Lando before catching up.

“Someone should probably explain that to Arthur, he still thinks he’s french.”

Click here for the next part.

[enriquemzn262]

The might of American logistics in one picture:

A KC-130 Hercules tactical tanker refuels a CH-53K King Stallion heavy lift helicopter carrying an F-35C Lighting II 5th generation VTOL stealth fighter jet.

[ghostwarriorrrr]

Sikorsky MH-60M Black Hawk (S-70A) - USA - Army

[nocternalrandomness]

Chinook flown by the RAF descending into EGOV

[burstinn]

I need more krueger fics (anything) 👉😔

Stalker x Stalker

(Part 1/?)

KRUEGER X M! READER

Notes And Warnings:

- Stalker x Stalker trope

- Stalking on both sides

- Masturbation and jerking off

1.To people without their awareness

2.To a dirty piece of cloth

- Sexual innuendos and thoughts

- NSFW

- no proofreading

- made in a short span of time meaning probably an hour or shorter so this is probably not the best way to yknow..

- made short on purpose because I got lazy

- This is a work of fiction made because I was bored, This should not be followed or replicated or else I will kill myself (>o<)

-made this cuz I didn't write for a good while and I felt bad

You don't know how this even started, He wasn't even acknowledging you the first time you guys met.. Was it his eyes? His accent? Maybe he reminded you of someone.. Shit you didn't care, you stopped caring for a long time now. It's an obsession at this point, You are hidden in your closet. You made a small hole inside of it like a secret room.. Just so you can keep trinkets and everything about.. Him.

Nothing but heavy breathing fills your cramped secret hole.. You need more pictures of him, this is getting out of hand, you're so desperate to feel him in some kind of fucking way it's unbelievable you held back for so long. Smelling one of the missing boxers of his wasn't enough to even satisfy you anymore.

Krueger, Sebastian Josef Krueger.. You scan your wall of pictures.. Pictures of him sleeping, working out, talking, eating, bathing.. Jerking off.. Those pictures were when you got lucky enough to take them and by God do you masturbate to those every night. Wishing one day you'd finally able to make him yours.. You know everything about him, His likes, his dislikes, his family, relatives, who he dislikes, what he does every morning and every night..

And recently you've only just started breaking into his room just to touch him, his face, tracing your finger tips against his jaw line, pressing your thumb against his soft lips.. Fuck,the thought of it makes you so hard.

But right now, you have a mission you need to attend to and the only thing that can calm your nerves is Krueger. Since you couldn't find him anywhere, Your shrine is the best place. You softly press your lips against one of the pictures of Krueger. One day, You will have the balls to actually try and talk to Krueger. You walk out of the closet, leaving with a slightly less grouchy mood. Hopefully the mission would go off without a hitch.

•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~•

You're gone, The helicopter you got in with your other mates had just left and he watches intently and carefully to see that you actually did leave. Once he sees the heli leave the vicinity he wastes no time walking over to your room.. Not without precautions of course he made sure nobody saw him walk in there.

Fucking finally, Your room empty.. Everything in this room is just you, Your clothes, Your pictures, Your bed, your dirty laundry.

Krueger can't help but feel a short adrenaline rush come over him as makes his way to your desk which was right across from your bed.. He shuffles for a moment under the desk, pulling out a small camera.. He can't wait too watch this later, he doesn't care if you were doing nothing, reading a book, scrolling your phone, jerking off.. He didn't give a single shit he was gonna jerk off to whatever was recorded here anyway.

He pockets the camera, walking over to your bed and just.. Smelling, hugging everything.. You are so intoxicating. How could you do this to him? He knew it was wrong but he was in love, more than in love. Why else was he doing this? He loved everything about you.

Even if this obsession started over nothing special he didn't give a damn, what happened, happened and he's in love with you.

He stands up and grabs one of your dirty briefs from the hamper, making his way back to the bed laying back down and slowly lifting your brief to his nose. Krueger flinches his body getting hot just by the smell of you, He could just.. He shuts his eyes keeping your boxers to his nose.. His other hand shuffling to unbuckle his belt. His hard cock almost immediately throbbing out when he pulls his pants and boxers down.

He rips his gloves out of his hand with his teeth, slow breaths. His mind drifting off to you, naked on your bed.. Your cock out and lonely, desperate for his touch. Bothof you just whining and grunting out his name as you rubs your cocks together, moaning in each other's mouth, your tongues fighting against each other..

He didn't even notice he already came, his cum staining his uniform and on your bedsheets.. Goddamit, He promised himself he was supposed to make sure to not cum on your bed this time. He takes a breath, pocketing your brief as well as he gets up, zipping his pants up.. He should clean this.

Next time he'll be careful, It's only a miracle he doesn't get caught in your room while your sleeping, jerking off to your sleeping figure.

[mistydeyes]

medically induced dream

GIF by sprout-fics

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summary: Your idiotic act of heroism ended with a gunshot to the sternum and an immediate surgery. That's the last thing you remembered as you woke up in a dream like state in a time period that is unfamiliar to you.

pairing: Task Force 141 x pharmacist!Reader

see her here counseling the 141

her story if she likes price

her story if she likes ghost

warnings: medical/pharmacy terminology, medical inaccuracies, swearing, depiction of wounds and violence

a/n: missed my favorite pharmacist girl! plz enjoy and peep the little easter eggs of other famous women in medicine :)

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Everyone knew you loved being a military pharmacist. It was shown through the way you interacted with patients and worked to brighten everyone's day. You loved the spontaneity of the job as well. For example, you were now on your 3rd tour and were considered a veteran in the medical department.

It wasn't all fun and games as you were running out of the medic tent, onto a helicopter, and into an active war zone. There had been an emergency call for medics and you were one of the ones to help. You were equipped with a small sidearm and a medic pack to help as many people as possible reach the evac point.

Your ears rang with gunfire as you jumped onto the solid ground. You looked around quickly and saw an injured soldier lying about 100 meters from you. You ran to them, your boots kicking up sand and dirt. As you reached them, you could hear a familiar voice yell, "Y/N get down!" before you were thrown backward and felt pain shooting from your abdomen. Your feet were dragged behind a turned-over car and you could see through your tears, Gaz, applying pressure to your wound. "Stay with me, Captain," he said as he held the now pooling wound down. Your eyes fluttered closed as you heard him continue to yell.

The next 12hrs were a living nightmare as once you had gotten shot, you were drifting in and out of consciousness. You vaguely remembered the feeling of someone lifting you and the sight of Price running with you in his arms. You also remembered some of your fellow medics rushing to stabilize you as your ears rang with the sound of the helicopter taking off. Finally, you thought you recognized the sterile appearance of a hospital operating room as a mask was affixed to your face and an anesthesiologist counted down from 10. Your eyes felt heavy as you saw the surgeon look over at you. You tried to lift your hand to reach out but soon the comfort of sleep overtook your consciousness.

You opened your eyes to the sounds of screams and explosions. You looked around frantically as the chaos permeated the environment. The air was hot and you felt stuffy in your long skirt and bonnet. "Y/N get up now! They're bringing in the Captain and we need help," a nurse yelled at you as you saw a cot being dragged in by wounded soldiers. You barely had time to take in your attire before you felt a rush of adrenaline. Your skirt swished around your ankles and you saw a signature Red Patch adorning your apron. As you ran towards the man, you recognized a familiar friend. A pained expression was plastered on his face as his blue eyes darted around the room. His facial hair was stained with dirt and droplets of blood and you noticed him gripping his leg.

"John," you breathed out as you examined his body. He gripped your arm as you tried to move his thigh. You realized he had a bullet lodged in his left thigh and it needed to be removed immediately. "Get me bandages, now!" you commanded and nurses ran to get you the supplies. You looked around and were surprised to see the tent was filled with rudimentary medical supplies, where were the defibrillators and crash carts? A nurse handed you a pristine white roll of gauze and it felt soft in your hands. Subconsciously, you didn't know what overtook you but your hands guided your actions. You motioned for the soldiers to hold the man down as you fished out a bullet from his thigh. He writhed in pain and blood spurted on your white skirt.

After what seemed like forever, you retrieved the bullet and did your best to disinfect the wound and apply the clean gauze. "Thank you, Doctor," Price said gently as they placed him on a bed. You held his hand as the doctors injected him with something to relieve the pain. From your apron, you fished out a cigar and lit it for him. "For you," you said and handed it to him. "Don't think Dr. Finley would appreciate her medics giving out cigars," he joked. You were about to ask who he was referring to and why you knew that name but the moment was gone. As you watched him puff the smoke into the sticky air, you suddenly heard another airstrike nearby and were blinded by the rubble.

Your eyes shot open and you fully were preparing to be lying on the floor in some World War I war zone. Instead, you were shaded by a large tree and felt the tickle of grass on your legs. You looked down to see a rich red silk dress adorning your body and a book in your hand. "De Curatio, The Cure of Wounds," you read aloud as you traced your hands on the leather cover. The author, Mercuriade, was inscribed at the bottom along with the author of the English translation. You flipped through the book and it seemed vaguely familiar, detailing herbal treatments and how to identify ailments such as fevers and typhoid.

"Y/N," a voice called from the distance and you shield your eyes from the sun to see who was approaching. A familiar man approached and his linen shirt blew gently in the summer wind. "Kyle, what art thou doing hither?" you asked in an unfamiliar tone. Your brain was confused as this was a foreign syntax to how you normally spoke. "What art thee reading?" he asked as he sat down at the base of the tree. You hesitated as you struggled to remember how you even got here. "A booketh from Italy, medicinal studies from the Distaff of Sal'rno," you responded. Wait no, it was the Women of Salerno, how were you speaking like this? You looked at the man sitting against the tree and blinked a few times. You couldn't fathom what was happening right now as you grew more confused about your current location.

"Art thee ill?" he asked as he looked concerned at the wild look in your eyes. "I wilt beest not restful," you lied as he held a hand to your cheek. "Thee seemeth did ghast!" he exclaimed as he rose to his feet. Suddenly, he tripped on the long roots and fell in pain. You rushed over to see he had skinned his knee. "T'is a scratch," he laughed as you examined him. "T'is a wound," you corrected and used part of your skirt to put pressure on the bleeding. He hissed in response as your scarlet dress began to seep with blood. After a short while, he tried to rise to his feet by grabbing your arm. You aided him as his grip confined your dress against your skin. "Wilt thou tell me the date of now?" you asked as you began to guide him from the tree. "Y/N, t'is Friday, year of 1587." As he spoke the last digit of the year, you felt faint and clattered against the stump of the tree.

"Y/N, it is time to round on the men," a gentle voice called to you as they gently shook your shoulders. You gasped as you felt the taut cotton you were laying on, a cot you assumed. You rose to your feet and the hem of a dark long wool dress followed. You looked at the nurse as she gestured to the door. "Mistress Nightingale has already checked on most of them, continue with the room across. Those are the ones who are going to be sent out tomorrow," she whispered and laid down in the same cot you were just in.

You followed her direction as you wondered where you were. The surname of Nightingale seemed familiar but you couldn't place where you had heard it. As you grabbed a candle from the corridor, you used it to illuminate the sleeping faces of the soldiers. They lay with bandages adoring their bodies and tucked with wool blankets. You shivered as you continued, finally reaching a man with a blanket half on his torso. You gently put the lamp on the ground and the soft metallic sound filled the air. You winced at the noise and quietly pulled the blanket up on the man's torso. You could feel his calm breathing as you brought the fabric to his chin, his stubble tickling your knuckles. As you turned and leaned down to pick up the lamp, he weakly held your wrist.

"Thank ye, Nurse," he spoke and his eyes fluttered open. He looked tired and appeared to wake due to your actions so you put your finger to your lips to quiet him. "Sleep now, tomorrow you will be returning to England," you whispered as you held your hand around the flame of the candle to dim the light. "Never thought Crimea would be so cold," he whispered back and pulled the blanket closer to his chest. You quickly rushed back to your quarters as your mind spun with unknown answers. You suddenly remembered where you knew Nightingale from. It was Florence Nightingale, the lady with the lamp during the Crimean War. As you crept into the room, the same nurse from earlier sat up, "Heard you were talking to Johnny, he's a good Scottish boy," she smiled. You didn't respond as you collapsed on a cot, why did his name sound so familiar?

You woke up with a start and anxiously looked around. Your white linen nightgown was soaked with sweat as you palmed the smooth duvet. Your clammy hands drew back the curtains to reveal a large room. Your eyes flickered around the teal wallpaper and the gold trimmings. The smell of rain and flowers met your nose as you saw the window cracked open. You rose to your feet and cautiously opened the door and began walking down the large hallway. Eventually, you came upon an open oak door where you could see Simon sitting with an open book and a candle. The illuminated walls contained a variety of titles and you saw that it was just as ornate as your room. "Y/N, what are you doing awake at this hour?" he asked as you sat across from him on a dark blue velvet chaise lounge. "Simon, what happened to your mask?" you spoke softly as you could see his blond hair and eyelashes illuminated by the soft flame. What interested you more was the book he was holding, Medicine as a Profession for Women by Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell. He closed the book and placed it on the table separating you two. "Changes are coming in medicine, thought I might read it before your entrance to the London School of Medicine for Women," he said.

Your hands shook as you struggled to respond. You gripped your nightgown as he stared at your intensely. "What did you say?" you whispered back. "But that isn't right, is it Y/N?" he countered, "because you already went to school and have been a pharmacist in the British Army" he chuckled. You were at a loss for words as he continued speaking. "You've been dreaming for a while now, do you think we would be in some Edwardian mansion in real life?" he said and grandly gestured to the library which slowly began to lose detail. "You have some weird dreams, Captain," he continued. As you looked intently at him, his long suede suit jacket and teal Jacquard vest began to melt into the attire you were familiar seeing him with. "Simon I-" you began to say but you suddenly felt faint and collapsed on the blue velvet chair. Your head spun as you stared at the ornate ceiling adorned with paintings and gold trimmings. "It's time to wake up, Y/N" you heard him softly say before you fell into darkness.

"I think she's awake" a voice excitedly exclaimed as you opened your eyes. You feared you were in another dream but the pain in your sternum and the sterility of the hospital room emphasized you were actually awake. You tried to get up before Price ran over to you and motioned for you to lie down. "Thought we lost you, lass," Soap spoke as he came closer to your bedside. You sighed as you looked around and saw them in modern-day civilian clothing. "Where am I?" you hoarsely asked as you looked at the IV drip. "Base hospital," Price answered, "You've been out for three days now since the surgery."

You were shocked as it hadn't felt that long. But he was right as the updated whiteboard chart had shown three days had passed. "How long have you been here?" you asked as Gaz handed you a small cup of water. "The whole time, we were with you on the helo," Soap responded and you could tell they looked tired. "You should go home and rest, I'm alright now," you smiled gently. "Ah we've been here long enough, we could wait until the doctor checks on you," Ghost said and you were relieved to see he still had his signature mask and wasn't in some ridiculous get-up.

"Suit yourself," you said and went back to chugging your water. There was a beat of silence before someone spoke up again. "By the way Captain, did you have any weird dreams?" Gaz asked as he propped up in his chair. "You were talking in your sleep, Captain," Ghost added and you silently cursed your sleeping habits. You would have to find out what you said. "Well, I guess I'll start by saying I've read too many books about the history of women in medicine," you started and they all gathered to hear about your morphine-induced dream world.

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[barefoothighlander]

two birds

summary: your last thoughts are of Simon

warnings: violence, death, blood, angst, reader callsign is storm, gn pronouns

a/n: In my feels, now everyone must suffer my ghost angst, I'm sorry

The shots ring through the air, the bullets whizzing by your ears as you and Ghost fight through the mob ahead of you, you're exposed in an open field, just the two of you. You called for evac five minutes ago, patiently awaiting the sound of the helicopter blades whirring above you, you're nearly out of ammo, replacing your empty clip with your final round,

"I'm almost out" You shout to him

"Only a few left, keep going"

You're both sprinting around, ducking for cover behind rocks and trees, dropping the men as soon as you see them,

"Two on your left, get over here"

You rush beside Simon, bracing your back against the tree as he turns to shoot the two men, you move to turn, a sharp pain shooting from your abdomen across your body,

"It's clear, let's go"

He moves forward, urging you to follow, you take a pained breath, your legs moving slowly as you trail behind him. You make your way to a small cabin a few miles from where you were, your legs stumbling over the uneven ground as your hand clutches your side.

"Are you hit?" Ghost asks, turning his body towards you as you arrive at the house,

"Just a graze" You shake your head in denial, but your fingers are stained red, you can feel the drips dampening your clothing.

"Get inside" His hand is firm on your back, helping you in, he closes the door and you collide with the wall, your back pressed against the wood as you brace against it.

"You alright love?" His words pass through your ears, the stinging in your stomach making you wince in pain, "Storm are you hurt?" There's panic in his voice as his eyes scan your body, he can see the drips of blood pooling around your feet, the tears that prick your eyes as you look back at him, his breath is shaky as he reaches for you, his hand covering yours, you flinch at the contact.

"Watcher this is Alpha team, how far out are you?"

"Alpha this is Watcher, we are 10 minutes out"

"Alright, just hang on love, a little longer"

You nod toward him, breathing deeply as you slide down the wall,

"I need to see, move your hand"

His eyes are glued to yours as he lifts up your shirt, it's drenched in blood, he lets out a heavy breath as he sees your wound, a bullet had entered your lower stomach,

"How bad?"

He takes a beat, his hands shaking as he presses into your skin to try and stop the bleeding, "There's no exit wound, but you'll be okay, you're fine"

You huff a small laugh, the movement in your chest making you grimace, your tears are falling down your cheeks, mixing with the dirt that stains your skin as your muscles get weaker, dropping to the floor.

"Hey look at me, we'll be out in a few minutes just hang on"

You smile weakly at him, a frail hand moving to cup his cheek, he leans into your touch,

"Let me see you"

His eyes are watery as his free hand moves to tug his mask off, your thumb traces over his skin,

"So beautiful"

"C'mon don't go all soft on me" He jokes, his eyes glaring down to his stained skin, the pool of red under your body growing later by the second.

"It's okay"

"No, no you're gonna be fine, it's just a scratch"

"Simon" Your voice is soft, his shaky hands pressing firmer into your skin, your body is numb from the blood loss, your skin getting pale as he shakes his head at you,

"It's not fair" His voice is trembling, "It shouldn't have been you"

"We've had a good life" You smile

"Not long enough, it's too soon, we're supposed to get all old and cranky together"

"I think you've had the cranky part down for years"

He laughs quietly, he's looking around for anything he can use to help stop the bleeding, his movements frantic, you place a delicate hand over his, he turns to you his face flushed.

"I won't let you die, not now"

He curses, his hand reaching for his comms, "Goddamnit Watcher where are you?" He's yelling into his microphone

"ETA 5 minutes"

"You need to be here now! Fuck!"

"Simon" Your voice is weak, your head falling back against the wall,

"I'm here love, what is it"

"I just, I gave you all I had, you need to know that"

"I know baby I know, just a little longer okay"

His eyes are frantically scanning outside for the helicopter, your eyelids are heavy as he moves to hold you, his arm wrapping around your neck to pull you into him,

"Hey you gotta stay awake for me alright, talk to me"

"So tired Si"

"I know, just think about getting home, we'll go see the ocean like you always wanted"

"You hate the ocean"

"I do yea" He huffs a small laugh, "But I'd do anything for you"

Your limbs are heavy, your frame only being held up by his grip as you grow weaker.

"I want you to find someone, after me"

"What?"

"When I'm gone, you deserve to be happy"

"I don't want anyone but you, you're it for me, this, us, that's how my story ends, us together"

"C'mon, you can't be hung up on me forever"

"Baby I have loved you from the minute we met, there's no room for anyone else"

Your skin is puffy from your tears, your cheeks flushed as your hand holds his cheek, the blood from your fingers smearing onto his skin.

"Thank you for letting me love you"

The distant sound of the helicopter echoes through the walls of the house, Simon's eyes widening at the sound,

"Alright baby, you have to stand, we have to go"

You shake your head, crying out in pain as he tries to lift you,

"I can't Si"

"You can come on, just hold onto me"

"Simon, you have to let me go"

His tears are falling, his hands pulling you into his chest so your head is tucked under his chin, his lips pressing to the crown of your head.

"It's okay" Your words are muffled in his clothes, you pull back weak eyes staring back at him, you slowly lean in to kiss him, his hands holding you there.

"Please don't leave me" He whispers, his forehead pressed to yours,

Your hand falls from his cheek, "It's okay, I'm in the arms of the man I love, the man I will always love, it doesn't hurt"

He's shaking his head,

"There's no pain anymore, just you, I love you Simon Riley"

Your heavy eyes close, your body growing limp in his hold, he tugs you into his chest, his tears wetting your hair as he muffles his sobs against you, his body shaking slightly.

He whispers your name, taking a strained breath as the full weight of your lifeless body is held by him, his hands stroke your hair, slowly rocking as he sits, his mind numb as the feeling of his heart being ripped out fills him, the sound of the landing helicopter outside buzzing in his ears.

[nevadancitizen]

-> SEEING DOUBLE

synopsis: könig thought he was the only one that could hear and see you for a while. that is, until horangi mentions someone singing.

word count: 1.8k

characters: könig, horangi, player! reader, reader's unnamed friend

trigger warnings: mention of canon-typical violence, mentions of/thoughts of relapse (horangi’s past gambling addiction), hornagi is like obsessive too lololol (also forgot to add STILL insp. by/referencing @simp4konig 's self-aware könig piece)

notes: uh pov switches from omnipotent third-person könig to omnipotent third-person hornagi. oops lol also the temp. is in fahrenheit in celsius it would be ~26 degrees

König thought he was the only one for a long while. All these operators around him were only given minds through their code and pixels – König was the one with an actual brain in his skull. 

That was, until another operator heard you. 

You – and, someone else, maybe a friend from your world? – were singing along to some song unknown to König, mumbling the parts you didn’t know so well and bursting with energy at the parts you knew by heart.

König was waiting for the mission time to arrive in the armory, quietly listening to you and your friend. He felt some warmth from you – a small percent of what you’re capable of making him feel. Just enough to know you’re there, that you have eyes on him, to know the singing isn’t a delusion.

Horangi was also in the armory, his footsteps light as he peruses the wall of firearms. He plucks a Fennec 45 from the wall before turning it over in his hands and inspecting it – though he seems distracted while doing so. 

He turns to König and adjusts his sunglasses. “Do you hear that?”

König looks up from the stray skid mark on the floor he was looking at. “Hear what?”

“The…” Horangi gestures vaguely around him, then taps his earpiece. His voice drops to a lower volume, like he didn’t want anyone else hearing. “The singing. Do you not hear that?”

König stays silent for a moment. He checks over his shoulder to make sure no one else is in the armory before turning back to Horangi. “I hear it.”

Horangi breathes a sigh of relief, but doesn’t say anything else. He settles his ass on one of the thick, plastic ammo crates, fiddling with the Fennec 45, repeatedly pressing the magazine release before pushing the magazine back in. 

The singing stops, leaving only the music playing. Then, a voice is heard – “I’ve never seen Horangi do that. What is he, nervous?” 

And then, your voice – “Hey, don’t bully him!”

Horangi’s back snaps straight up as he looks around the armory. “What was that? Is someone else in here?”

König pulls at his hood so he can see Horangi better. “You’re really hearing them?”

“Yes.” Horangi looks at König. “Where are they?”

König shakes his head. “It’s best if we discuss this later.” In reality, König was dying to discuss this with another person – it was as if this heavy burden had been lifted now that he could talk to someone about you, about this video game they lived in, about everything while actually having something to back him up. 

Only a few seconds later, the siren sounds and it’s go time. Footsteps hit the ground and operators rush to the rooftops to be taken away to the hot zone. 

When both Horangi and König are secured on the helicopter, they don’t talk for a while, only sharing occasional glances (silent promises that no, the other is not insane, and no, this is not the start of a mass hysteria outbreak).

When boots hit the ground, König feels that oh-so-familiar warmth flood his body, blooming like a lotus from his chest to his limbs. He nods to Horangi to stick close. 

The music was turned down and all focus was on the battlefield – your silent guidance gave König commands to carry out, while your friend did the same with Horangi. 

Commands are barked out by the operators, you and your friend give excited praise, and the battlefield is a mess of noise. Bullets fly every which direction, sprays of brrrrrr-AT! echo off the abandoned buildings, some of which were still in the process of being built. 

This is urban warfare. 

As a SpecGru operator turns the corner, König pulls Horangi back behind a concrete half-wall (half because the rest of the wall had been sloughed off by explosions). To König, the touch is nothing, but to Horangi? Oh, that touch felt like bliss. 

It was you, striking a match and tossing it into the full burning barrel that was his lungs. Horangi pumped air into them like he was having a goddamn panic attack so that when his lungs caught fire, the rest of him did too. Your fire was slow, yet burning and hot all the same. It made him want to collapse in your white-hot flame and be consumed by you and not even care that he was ash and –

The feeling was gone, and Horangi was normal again. As normal as he could be when shivering in full tactical gear while it was eighty degrees out. 

König’s voice breaks through the haze. “Horangi?”

Horangi shifts so that he’s sitting with his back against the concrete half-wall. “Yes, sir?”

“You solid?”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. “The voices… our voices. The ones…” he gestures to his earpiece. “I heard them. And then I had a hot flash when you touched me.”

“Focus,” König hisses. “There’ll be time for that later.”

Horangi presses the magazine release and pushes the magazine back in. He peeks out from behind the concrete half-wall, then ducks back behind it. 

“Ready, sir?”

“When you are.” 

The battle is easy for König and Horangi when a benevolent being and a lesser one are controlling their every movement. It doesn’t hurt that the warmth serves as adrenaline, a body high that keeps them both alive and bold. Battle chatter fades into the background when that song and your rushed praise fills their ears and makes them feel warmer than you already make them. 

When the last opposing operator falls, the message is relayed until every KorTac operator is back at the helicopters. 

“Wheels up in two!” the pilot calls out. 

König and Horangi move together up to the cabin of the helicopter and silently sit next to each other, hands working deftly to buckle themselves in. 

Horangi tilts his chin up and lets the back of his helmet hit the headrest. He takes his sunglasses off and wipes them of dust and a spurt of blood. His eyes wander over the ceiling of the helicopter, quietly listening to you and your friend celebrate. 

“Who are they?” he quietly asks König. 

König leans closer to Horangi, the hem of his hood brushing Horangi’s shoulder. His voice is quiet. “I call them players. I know the one who told the other not to bully you. We… I don’t think we exist on the same plane as them. I think of them as a god. They help me – us, now.”

Then, König leans closer and whispers your name like a single-word prayer. 

And, fuck, how Horangi wants to fall back into gambling so he could whisper your name into his cupped hands while he’s shaking the dice just as he rolls that blessed seven. His breath falters for a split second as he thinks of the divine luck you’d bring him at the craps table, your fingers – assuming you were even human, or humanoid – trailing down his arms, touching his wrist to imbue his hands with your power. He’d happily worship you if it meant feeding that rush when the payout is high, and… shit. Hornagi takes a deep breath before he quickly corrects his thoughts and directs them elsewhere. 

He doesn’t even know where those thoughts came from. Well, he knows where the thoughts of relapse come from, but he doesn’t know where the thoughts about you stem. He’s barely felt your warmth, yet in your presence, he doesn’t want to be the big bad tiger – he wants to be the housecat that rubs up against your legs and gets away with knocking pill bottles off the counter. 

“Can you feel them?” König asks in a hushed whisper.

Horangi nods. Your fire is a dull thrum in his chest, but your heart is beating right next to his nonetheless. “Yes.”

König knocks his knee against Horangi’s. “Focus on something small. Circular. Like a light. That’s how I see them.”

Horangi hums and looks at the ceiling. He focuses on a small red indicator light, his eyes unfocusing as he keeps eye contact with the tiny LED. And, slowly but surely – just as König said – something else came into view, slowly creeping into his peripheral vision. 

It was a small bedroom – a shoebox, really. Dimly lit by fairy lights. A bed, a desk, a dresser… Someone was on the bed, and the other person was in the desk chair. They were both holding game controllers, facing each other. Talking. 

“We need to play their Thanksgiving album,” the person in the chair says. 

“To what, pregame for Thanksgiving?” the person on the bed laughs. “That’s months away.”

And with that angelic laugh, Horangi knows that’s you. The person laying on their stomach on the bed, with your perfect smile, perfect fingers holding the game controller. 

You reach for your phone and unlock it, the screen lighting up your face. You tap at it a few times before too-loud music starts playing – a man yelling about how dangerous gas station tweakers are.

“Ay, turn that down!” your friend protests. 

You grunt and turn it down a little. The music is hard funk-trap, and you and your friend sing along. It’s something like – “Closed casket funeral, but Imma have to peek in; tryna get real, like, sorry, I was sleepin’!”

Hornagi quietly listens to the rest, keeping his eyes still so he can keep you in his sight. You and your friend prattle off the rest of the song, even going as far as vocalizing the instruments. 

When the song ends, you roll on your side and face your friend. “We should listen to their Halloween album next. Then their Christmas album. Then their Valentine’s Day single. And then start up their Thanksgiving album again.”

God knows how Horangi would let you. He’d love to watch you do anything – even if you’re doing nothing. He’d do anything just to reach out and touch you. Run his hands over your face and watch your nose scrunch up at his touch, your eyes squeezing shut. Your smile would be just like the one you’re wearing right now, accentuating the apples of your cheeks perfectly. 

And he’d love to sit with you as that artist’s Halloween album, Thanksgiving album, Christmas album and Valentine’s Day single play, even if he didn’t understand the slang the men used. He’d rub his hands up and down your back – anywhere he could touch you, really – as you explained what they meant when they said they were gonna “pop a thirty an’ get real sturdy.”

And maybe one day he’d make that a reality.

[sinkovia]

Civilian casualties

John Price x GN!Reader

Angst with comfort, reader has mental health problems, price being a father figure.

Your hands moved with urgency, fingers dancing across the intricate wires of the bomb strapped to the terrified civilian. His pleas for help, mentioning his wife and kids, echoed in the tense air.

Your breathing was labored, a mix of adrenaline and the weight of the ticking clock bearing down on you. Price, ever vigilant, watched your back as enemy operators closed in on the rooftop.

With only 30 seconds left, panic clawed at the edges of your determination. The seconds seemed to slip away faster than your fingers could work.

The civilian's tear-stained face and desperate words fueled your determination, but the complexity of the bomb defied your efforts. Price, sensing the diminishing time, placed a hand on your shoulder.

In your focused desperation, you shrugged off Price's hand. "I can do it, Price, I just need more time," you assured him, Price swiftly moved, eliminating another operator with lethal precision.

Your heart pounded, your mind racing to keep up with the urgency of the situation. Glancing at the timer with only 10 seconds left, Price made a tough call. He forcefully pulled you away, urgency etched across his face. "We don't have more time."

The man fell to his knees, desperate for your help, and you stood there with tear-filled eyes, a silent witness to the impending tragedy. Price, without hesitation, pushed the man off the building, and his scream echoed in the air just before the bomb detonated. The blast reverberated through the air, the shockwaves reaching every corner of your being.

Price grabbed your arm and ran towards the fire staircase clinging to the side of the building. The world around you blurred as you ran behind him, your senses overwhelmed. Running became a blur, the disorienting sound of ringing in your ears accompanying each step.

Reaching the ramp of the exfil helo, you found yourself dissociating, the traumatic events unfolding in front of you leaving you numb. As you boarded the helo, Price's hand on your shoulder brought you back to the present.

"Y/n, look at me. It's not your fault, okay? We didn't have the luxury of time," he reassured. Nodding, you took a seat as the helicopter lifted off, carrying you both back to the base.

You sit alone in the dimly lit room, a heavy weight on your chest. The familiar voices of doubt and self-loathing echo in your mind. "You're worthless," they whisper, a cruel refrain that plays on a loop. You think about the times you've let people down, the mistakes you've made, and the unshakeable feeling that you never get anything right.

The darkness within you seems to grow, feeding off every one of your failures. "Why bother trying? You'll only disappoint them again." The faces of your team flash before your eyes, each expression a mirror reflecting disappointment.

You remember the times you promised to do better, to be better, only to fall short once more. "You're a burden," the voices taunt. "No one needs you. No one wants you." The weight on your shoulders becomes unbearable, and the room feels smaller, closing in on you.

The thought of being a constant source of letdown gnaws at your insides. "Why can't you be like them?" the voices hiss, comparing yourself to an idealized version that seems unattainable.

Your achievements, no matter how significant, are overshadowed by a relentless sense of inadequacy. The room feels colder, and the isolation intensifies. The battle within your mind rages on, a relentless war of self-deprecation.

The next week was hard for you; the haunting images of that man begging for his life played over and over in your mind. The weight of it bore down on your already fragile mental state.

Despite being accustomed to civilian casualties, this particular event seemed to cut deeper. You withdrew from your team. Weeks passed, and you spoke less, ate less, and your sense of self-worth deteriorated day by day.

Even before this incident, you battled self-doubt. Every glance in the mirror reflected someone you hated, convinced that you couldn't get anything right. The guilt over not being able to save the man only made these feelings stronger.

If only you had been better, that man might still be alive. You felt like a constant disappointment, failing those who depended on you. The weight of your failures bore heavily on your shoulders, and with each passing day, your mental state crumbled.

Price noticed the toll it took on you. Without a word, he approached your room, gently knocked, and you ushered him in. Silently, he closed the distance, enveloping you in a comforting embrace. As tears streamed down your face, you allowed yourself to release the pent-up emotions against his chest.

His hand went to the back of your head, holding you a bit tighter before he spoke. "I'm proud of you, Y/n. I hope you know how worthy you are and how much you bring to the world. You're stronger than you think."

Tears streamed down your face as he continued, "I'm proud of you for not giving up, no matter how many times you've wanted to. For choosing to keep on going, for continuing to show up each day despite what you've been through... You bring so much light to the world."

As his comforting words washed over you, your breathing steadied, and you sniffled against him. He spoke with genuine care, "I hope one day you can see yourself the way the team sees you. We love you so much, Y/n. Never forget that."

Your voice, shaky and vulnerable, responded, "I'm pulling everyone down with me. I'm not the person they think I am."

He shook his head reassuringly, "No, you're not dragging us down. We're here for you, through thick and thin. Your struggles don't define you. You're stronger than you realize. Just one step at a time, Y/n."

The weight of your emotions pressed on, "But what if I'm too tired to take even one step? What if I just want to give up?"

"Then let us carry you for a while," he said softly. "It's okay not to have all the answers or to be strong all the time. Lean on us, share the burden, and let us help you find the light. Giving up is not an option."

Your pain surfaced again, "I don't want to burden anyone. I just want the pain to stop."

"You're not a burden," he emphasized. "Your pain matters, and so do you. We're here because we care, and we want to help you find your way back to the light. You deserve happiness and peace. Let us be there for you, even when you feel like giving up."

He pulled you away gently, and you gazed up at him with tears in your eyes. "We are a family," he declared, handing you a tissue as you wiped your eyes and nose, a small, understanding smile shared between you.

"One day at a time okay." he put his hand on your shoulder and you smiled, "One day at a time." you say softly. "Come on, the boys were in the kitchen cooking.

“They wanted to cheer you up." you let out a small laugh and follow price out of your room. "Let's hope the kitchen isn't on fire."

Price laughs next to you patting your back. "I have strong doubts."

Father when will you say any of these things to me.