#impromptu medical care

[the-dragon-hearted]

Part 3:

There is a universe, somehow, where Silco saves Vi.

It's... actually not all that uncommon, despite the circumstances.

It's a known fact they dislike each other: Vi's too much like Vander and she takes pride in that. It leaves a bitter taste in Silco's mouth. They fight, often. Well, Vi fights. Silco listens quietly and tears her little arguments apart like wings from a butterfly. She curses his name and trashes his office every time one of his endeavors gets people killed. It happens more often than not - the price of freedom is always paid in blood.

But, everytime he sits and watches. Calmly. When necissary, he can chase her out with a few words. Usually, it's a reminder of her temper, her age, or Vander. The latter is sometimes the only thing that can kill her fury.

She's not Vander; it seems he's the only one willing to make her remember that. She hates him for it. For the death and the suffering and the fact that neither of them can fill the cast iron gloves hanging above the bar. Not really.

But, when the chips are down and the guns are aimed, when she's collapsed in an alleyway from a broken rib, when it feels like it's just her with the Last Drop to her back... Silco's there. He'd do many things, but he'd never abandon her.

So he drags her home and leaves Mylo to patch her up. He bails them out of idiotic schemes. He hides enforcer bodies in the river (he never minds doing that). He pays someone off or makes someone disappear.

She still hates him, probably.

He... can't return the sentiment. She's irritating, in all those familiar ways Vander was, but it's different. He'd looked up to Vander, once. Much like Powder does to Vi - much like they all look up to Vi. But, she is not her Father. She is a child trying to fill shoes too big for her. From such a perspective, her irritating qualities are more... palatable.

She bartends, clenching her jaw and playing diplomat with the remnants of Vander's faction. She's a child, and the underworld knows it. Her hands are clumsier as they clean the glasses, unsure of how to be gentle when the rage burns.

The first time she asks Silco for anything is after she breaks the last of Vander's shot glasses. It's one of the only times her eyes mist in his presence. Nice glass is hard to come by in the undercity, and her going to the surface was out of the question... not after last time.

Silco has Sevika deliver the shipment and neither of them mention it again.

She's Vander's child. They all are. A step too far and the four (five, though Ekko's much better at staying out of trouble than his irritating late-guardian) gain a new title. Silco does not consider himself an emotional man, not anymore. But the first time an opposing crime lord tried to get to him through the children - Mylo, specifically - he finds himself... inspired.

Sevika finds Mylo in their enemy's basement. It's Silco who takes him home, a hand on the boy's trembling shoulder. They walk, tall - at least Silco does, something odd raging in his gut like a tidal wave.

It's a statement for him to walk Mylo home and he knows it. They're stared at - it's probably the first time he's ever done anything visible like this with any of Vander's kids. He doesn't regret it. Mylo doesn't either.

They root out the rot and leave a new scar in Zaun, Sevika is efficient and brutal when the time demands it. She aligns with Silco in that manner. He's never liked these inter-faction fights, but sometimes messages must be sent. Messages signed eloquently in blood are more memorable, and it must be memorable. Zaun's streets are too used to violence - if you want to send a message you must be... purposeful.

Mess with Vander's children and you will be meeting Zaun's ghosts.

It's the first collection of murders Vi doesn't condemn him for. Mylo's behind the bar with her, ranting about shitty air ventilation, nervous hands calming themselves as they dust glasses. Vi's quiet as Silco sits, not a word spared. She pours him a shot in a cleanly cut shot glass and it almost tastes sweeter.

They are Silco's wards. Vander's children, but under Silco's gaze. He doesn't want it to go any further, and the city would do well not to test it. Piltover too.

The marshall learns quickly enough that the streets play by new rules now. The Lanes are the safest place in Zaun for its children - they're nothing but a death sentence for enforcers.

Vi's... useful, in that regard. The only thing she seems to hate more than Silco is the people who got to Vander before he did. Another rare thing they both agree on.

So, yes, Silco has saved her before. This is different. It's not a glorious or proud moment... it's... necessary, as all things are in his life.

It starts when he slips by the Last Drop - he tries to do it fairly regularly. Not for the children, but for the statement. He's welcome here now. The streets know it. He haunts his old life, a stronger, fiercer phantom than any of his old demons.

It's pride, and he knows it. He strides in and smiles through the glares, Vi's included. She still pours him a glass no matter what fight they're having. She loves Powder too much to chase him away. That power is the halfway point between intoxication and sobriety, just as the shot of Vander's whiskey is.

He's late for his visit this time. Very late. More likely than not Vi's gone to bed and won't be up until late noon. He'll pour himself a drink then. There are no regulars to grumble at his arrival, just a drunk passed out in the alleyway next to the bar. Vi is still learning the art of cutting people off - sometimes he thinks she keeps the nastier ones drinking to teach them a lesson. Drags them home so they owe her a favor - so they remember they were at her mercy, once.

She's like Vander, but she's not all Vander.

Or maybe she is... Silco's throat is tight and his eye is beginning to throb from the long day. He reaches the door and stops.

It's left open.

Paranoia is an old friend. It keeps two knives on him, always in arm's reach. Danger is the best friend of Zaun's children, and it's taught him well.

Vi does not keep the door open. It lets a draft in, and the stench of the streets. She's particular about such things.

Silco pushes the door open and takes a long breath. It's a familiar sight, not to the bar, but to Silco: there was a scuffle, of some sort. There's blood on the bartop and a broken bottle on the floor. Stools are tossed aside, and the jukebox is donning a new crack - it was a long fight, then. It seems the dancers danced their vicious waltz all through the bar.

Silco steps into the bar, still lit, but empty. There's... something climbing up his throat as his mind churns out the most likely probabilities. It tastes like river water.

Vi was a fighter, like her Father. The streets knew it. They called her the 'little hound'. Silco never corrected them.

He crouches down to study a skid mark on the floor, right next to a small pool of blood. Someone had gotten punched, hard. Silco moves faster, passing the ghost of a bar and delving into its hold - the heart of this haven Vander built.

The door to the children's rooms is locked. That means one of two things. Either there's a nasty sight beyond for Silco to find, or Vi did what she did best.

He knocks: a rhythmic game that he knows one of the five will get. It's one of Powder's many games, tapping on his office door before barging in. Or his closet. Or his desk. Wherever her new hiding spot was. She and Ekko found some sort of amusement in startling him. Silco may loathe to admit it, but the pattern made their impromptu visits nicer. The anxiety leaves when the assassin in the belfry turns out to be the two youngest giggling at their endeavors.

Silco uses Powder's knock. He's met with silence.

There's a churning in his gut because he knows.

He's made enemies. Vander's children are still Vander's children - and the Hound's death doesn't satiate old blood feuds. And... he's not as clandestine in his affections as he wants to be.

Sevika tells him that much.

So does this. If those kids are dead, if Silco kicks this door down and finds bodies, he's going to make someone burn. He's going to carve this little haven apart in a baptism of blood.

A perfectly reasonable reaction. Justified, even. Not even Vander would disagree. It doesn't settle the crashing wave of something other than anger that's ripping him apart at the thought.

There's a scrambling on the other side and Silco releases a long breath he forgot he was holding.

There's a familiar hiss: "Powder - Powder no -"

Claggor's alive at least... and so is -

Powder opens the door, taking a large gasp as she runs to Silco and grabs him in a hug. It's not her usual. She'll poke at him or snatch something out of his pockets, but she's never been much of a hugger.

Silco isn't either.

He lets her stay, for now and places a hand on her head. She's warm... breathing and warm. He uses his other hand to push the door further. It reveals a more desperate scene. Claggor's holding a bloodied rag to his head. Mylo's nursing a broken nose from where he lays on the couch.

So it wasn't a long scuffle - it was multiple fights.

"What happened?" Silco only ever demands. Something Mylo hates - can't ask nicely, can you?

"Was one of those gangs Vi chased out a few weeks back," Claggor's the voice of reason and honesty. Now he's donning a black eye and bruised knuckles. He has Vander's build, but lacks a stomach for fighting. He can do it - and do it well, but not like Vi...

Damn girl. She's missing from their usual nest. Ekko too, but that's at least usual.

"Where is Vi?" Silco keeps his voice level, or he thinks he does. Powder pulls away and wipes her eyes, a familiar guilt dancing over her unblemished face.

"She went after them," Mylo answers, nasally, as he holds his head back. The nose is likely broken... again. "Told us to hold up here till she got back."

"Alone?" Silco's not surprised but he is... angry.

Not at Vi. She's an idiot, always has been. Like someone else he knew. She's doing what she'll always do.

Powder's near inconsolable, as she usually is when it comes to such things: "She told us to stay - I didn't want to but she made us promise and - and we couldn't find Ekko so we don't know where he went. I - I wanted to get you -"

"It's alright, how long ago did this happen?" Silco crouches down to meet Powder's gaze.

"I dunno, ten minutes," Mylo answers. "You just missed it -"

"Which gang?" Silco's impatience is eating at him.

No one has an answer.

"Stay here," he orders in the face of silence. "Wait for me."

"You're gonna get her, right?" Powder pleads. "I can help!"

It's always about helping, with her. Always about being useful and loved. It's painfully easy to manipulate.

"Protect your brothers," Silco instructs carefully, softly. He looks around the room and eyes familiar explosive devices at her bedside. "If they come back to finish the job, use your tools. Make them regret what they've done."

"We don't need her-" Mylo begins to object before Claggor slaps his shoulder.

Powder doesn't fully buy the lie, but it's enough. She bites her lip and nods. Silco spares her a warmer glance before he departs. The door closes behind him and it seems Claggor and Mylo immediately begin to argue: Typical.

Silco's a bit too busy seething to do much else. He gives the bar another survey, trying to decipher what Vander's little prodigy got herself into.

It could be a little collection of street menaces. Faux-tough folks who like to poke and prod at any establishment they can, except of course the actual bastards of Piltover. Silco hated such short-sightedness. That energy would be better aimed at those gold-plated brutes that police the streets they spit on.

There's no chance of beating Piltover if the streets are too busy going at each other's throats. Vi had kicked out a few folks, and broken a few teeth, but retaliation had always been out of the question. She'd been spared from the worst of Zaun's cannibalistic tendencies her whole life.

Though she may hate it, Vi was the closest Zaun would ever get to royalty. The daughter of Vander, protected by Silco's knife edge. So either these bastards were stupid or they knew exactly what they were doing.

And if they were the latter, there was a large chance Vi wasn't just gone. That's the cost of sending messages.

You get sent messages too...

"Thought I might find you here," a voice breaks through his concentration as he finds a few discarded coins by a table. It's Sevika. He doesn't even bother looking over his shoulder, as he pockets the change.

"Never a dull moment," Silco curses, standing. "Vi's run off."

"I know," Sevika mutters with a familiar exasperation. "I tried to stop her."

"You saw her!?"

"Yeah, caught her chasing down some thugs. She had a few scores to settle." Sevika is far too casual about it as she saunters over to the bar and pours herself a drink.

"And if it was a trap?" Silco's' challenge sounds a bit more paranoid out loud than it did in his head.

"I recognized the poor bastards, they're stupid - harmless in the long run," Sevika shrugs. "They take folks by surprise. Though they're in for a nasty one now."

Silco sighs, heavily, pinching his nose as a headache tries to wrestle into his priorities: "Where did she go?"

"Up towards the fishmonger's, at the pace she was at, she's probably caught up by now. She'll be back. They won't."

Silco doesn't say anything to that. He can't. So he leaves.

"Keep watch," he orders as he goes, because orders are simple, kinder things.

The streets are dark and damp, as always, but they're colder now. It's a bad idea to walk alone - especially given who he is. But... these were Vander's streets and they are his now. Strangely enough, despite the animosity there, the old resistance keeps a watchful eye out on his back. He doesn't trust it, but he does understand it.

You take care of those kids now, or so the old Yordle from the brothel had ordered. Do that, and I won't mind you.

He still walks quickly and grapples with old ghosts. Vi's growing into something - something Vander would be keen on stopping. Something Vander had always been afraid of becoming.

It's a stupid thing, really. Silco's breathing in Zaun's poisoned air and lamenting on all the things that dead fool may have been right about.

Vi's useful as a little hound, but Silco's never gotten good at leashing her. Vander never managed it either. All of those kids were annoyingly stubborn and brilliant and mold them as Silco may, some things don't change. Not the river water of Zaun or the blood on the bridge.

For the first time, Silco considers that maybe he's not the only one who drowned on these streets. It's no coincidence the thought comes as he passes the corner Vander died on.

He pushes it aside, quickly. He has something more important to deal with.

He finds her stumbling back. She is a mess. Broken nose, a black eye, and her knuckles are covered in blood. She is covered in blood. She limps along, guarding her side, pausing only when she sees him.

"Oh fuck me," she scorns and Silco has to chuckle at that.

"Hello Violet," he greets with a sarcastic glance. "You look well."

"Fuck off, Silco. What are you doing here?" half of the anger in her voice is from pain. The other half is her earnest loathing of him.

He can answer her honestly, though: "Looking for you."

"Well, you found me." She presses onward, passing him with a glare. He's content to follow.

They walk in silence for a while, Vi spitting out a glob of blood after a minute and cursing a colorful array for her wounds.

"Did you find them?" Silco inquires, once it's clear she intends to ignore him the entire time.

"Course," she spits.

"And, you walked away."

"I won. They're not coming back."

"Good," Silco supposes. The praise doesn't end kindly on her shoulders, but it's earnest.

"If you're gonna lecture me on how stupid going off alone was -"

"I have no such intention."

"I didn't kill them, either."

"I wouldn't care much if you did. It could complicate matters, but it's manageable."

Vi sneers at that and presses onward.

"Call for a doctor, when you get back," Silco orders, gently as he can.

She glares at him - a clear refusal. It's not a bad idea, and she knows it, but because Silco said it, her little spiteful side would rather bleed out on the street.

That's... not Vander. It may be Felicia in her...

"Were you stabbed?" Silco suddenly catches a glimpse at the side she's guarding.

"No."

"The blood isn't yours?"

"Can you just fuck off?"

"Violet. Have you been stabbed?"

She whirls around, probably to hiss another insult at him, but she stumbles instead. Embarrassingly enough for both of them, Silco moves to catch her. She grabs a light post instead and heaves out a heavier breath.

Silco watches, rolling his eyes at the theatrics.

"It would kill you to direct your stubbornness somewhere beneficial, wouldn't it?" He jabs, in a whisper.

"I didn't fucking ask for your help!" She snaps back, pulling herself back up and pressing a bloodied hand firmer into her side.

"No. You didn't," Silco mutters, and he's quick to snatch her wrist, stained by her own crimson. He isn't as strong as he once was, but with surprise on his side, he can yank her hand away long enough to see the wound beneath it.

Oh, look at that. She has been stabbed. Who would've guessed?

She rips out of his hold and he lets her. It was a more performative act anyway - she'll glare at him either way. She leans away from him with a snarl of: "Fucking bastard." Like a cornered dog.

Little hound indeed.

"Sit down," he orders.

"No -"

"Violet. Sit. Down."

It doesn't usually work on her. The tone was more useful with Claggor - but she's bleeding out. Seems that some of the stubbornness is going with it.

She sags to the cobblestone with a grimace as she guards her side, hissing through clenched teeth as she lands heavily. Silco crouches down in front of her, pulling out familiar tools from a small pouch he always keeps handy.

Again, paranoia and preparation were identical twins, you could only tell them apart in practice. He was well-versed in both.

"Oh, fuck this: Get your damn doctor," Vi spat as she spied the small vial of astringent.

And Silco hums to match her scathing tone: "I would. But you've decided to give us a time crunch."

"I - "

"Move your hand."

"No!"

"Violet, I am not going to tell your siblings that you bled out in front of me."

It was the only way to get her to do anything. A familiar arm to twist when it was necessary. She knew it too, which is why her glare burned darker, but she obeyed, even lifting up her shirt a few precious inches to show him the gore beneath. That was enough.

The streets of Zaun were familiar with questionable medical practices, and Silco was familiar with impromptu triage. They'd need better stitches and a thorough cleaning once he was done, but it would stop her from bleeding, for now.

She hissed when he poured the cleaner over it.

"Fucker -"

"You're welcome," he interrupts curtly. "And you're lucky."

She says nothing as she clenches her teeth and covers her eyes, breaths coming fast and heavy.

"If this had gone any deeper, or moved any higher, we'd be in a different predicament," Silco continues.

"Well it'd fix one of your problems," Vi spat between heavy breaths as Silco threaded the needle.

He chuckled at that one: "Perhaps."

Vi bites her already bloodied knuckles to keep from screaming as Silco begins his work. Painkillers would've been a useful thing to keep handy, but Silco prepares for needs, not comforts.

This may... change that.

The closeness is one of necessity, and it's obviously no comfort to the girl, so Silco works quickly. It's messy, but again, he intends to get an actual doctor as soon as the bleeding is stemmed. You can't exactly apply a tourniquet to a torso. And you shouldn't make a habit of stitching up your enemies.

Not that Vi was an enemy... not to him, at least.

"Of course, if you did die," he finds himself musing: "I dare say Claggor will end up breaking even more glasses than you did."

She doesn't respond but there is a breath - quick... it may even be a laugh.

"Unless Mylo takes over bartending. In which case I should hike up our liquor order. Something tells me he'll get too eager to test the merchandise."

"Oh fuck off." There she is.

"We'll have to wait until Powder grows a bit taller - if she doesn't kill me first for letting you die."

He cuts off the thin wire now holding the wound together. It snaps quickly and he ties it - tight. Vi's hand suddenly clamps onto his arm and he's thrusted back years by the force in that grip. He tries to hide it and likely does seeing how out of it the girl is. She's leaning forward, breathing heavily. His breaths, in conjecture: feather-light. Too quick.

"She - she wouldn't," the girl manages.

It's Silco who can't respond this time, staring at the white-knuckled grip on his arm. Well, they would be white knuckles if said knuckles were split and covered in grime. Familiar... too familiar.

Vi continues though, the pain spilling from her eyes despite the chuckle in her throat: "She likes you too much - looks up to you."

"A questionable choice," Silco finally forces out of his dry throat, carefully dissecting Vi's grip from his wrist.

"Yeah," she spits, leaning further forward, at least until Silco catches her shoulder.

"You'll split the stitching. You still need a doctor."

"Fuck."

Understandable. Silco helps her stand and, as if to scream how much she's truly out of it, she doesn't protest in the slightest. They make their way through the streets, slowly. The Last Drop is the closest safe spot, though the faster they find a doctor the better.

They get halfway there when Vi starts breathing just a little too heavy for his taste. She's shaking and when she starts leaning on him he caves in. They stop and he pushes her to a wall.

Another order: "Catch your breath."

She obeys. That's a problem. They're running out of time. He can't leave her here but he can't wait either.

Choices, choices, choices.

"I shouldn't have gone alone," Vi recites hatefully as she slides down to the brick wall, wrapping both arms around her stomach. "I know, it was fucking stupid."

"Well, at least you recognize it," Silco scathes, holding the bridge of his nose again as the ache behind his eye worsens. Brilliant. Who does he know around here? Anyone trustworthy?

"They needed to get the shit kicked out them," she rues, weakly.

"And did you get stabbed before or after you exacted your justice?"

"After. Fucker pulled a knife once it was a one-on-one."

"Predictable," Silco scolds. She glares, good - at least something familiar is still there.

"Maybe for you."

"Don't pretend Mylo doesn't play dirty. You know to expect it." Silco hardly notices he's begun to pace. There's blood dripping on the cobblestone. They need to move. Vi's breaths are still heavy.

The streets smell like river water.

"I broke his face."

And that, Silco can laugh at: "I don't doubt it. Now get up. We need to go."

She closes her eyes at the order - a bit too long for his taste. He couches down and grabs her shoulder. "Violet."

"I'm moving," she grumbles, taking his hand and weakly standing once more. Immediately, she collapses and Silco barely catches her, lowering her to the floor gently as he can as it all trickles out of him in hollow realization.

He sits her up against the wall and, heavily, takes a seat next to her. He can't carry her back. He's not that strong - maybe never was. And she's bigger now. He needs to go - get someone who can help.

He can not leave her. Not like this. Not like this.

He's lied millions of times, he'll lie a million times more before his life is through, but he made a promise, to a dead man, but a promise nonetheless. He could not leave her to die another one of Zaun's orphans. Her last cradle in the cobblestones. He would not leave her to die alone.

"Fuck." It's weaker now, wet. She's crying.

He can't stomach it.

"We need to move," he tries to find a sternness to press onward. It ends up sounding desperate. His hand is over hers, applying pressure she doesn't have the strength to.

"I shouldn't have gone alone," she repeats. The anger's gone... it's fermented into regret.

"You should have called me," he hates the rage that is slipping through his teeth like the blood between his fingers. "I would've handled this."

"They kicked Claggor," she breaths - like that's some sort of defense.

"You are dying."

There it is: in the air. No taking it back now. He knows it. She knows it. Zaun knows it.

"You are dying because of your own idiocy," he seethes regardless.

"Keep Powder away from your fucking war," is her answer. "Mylo and Claggor... keep them away -"

No. No he will not -

"You want to keep them away? Do it yourself," he hisses as he pulls her up again. This time he has one hand under her shoulders and the other pressed against her side. "Move."

"Silco -"

Not fucker. Or bastard. Or the many other colorful names she's deemed him worthy of.

"Move." That's his answer. It's his answer for the next few blocks, then there's a stirring from one of the rooftops and Silco almost breathes in relief to hear a familiar rhythm of taps, asking if the coast is clear.

Vi notices nothing, she's limp, and in a moment of weakness he presses harder inciting a gasp. She's still alive and she'll fucking stay that way.

"EKKO!" He calls and the boy is there, peeking over a roof's ledge. His eyes are wide and Silco doesn't help to soothe the fear there. "Get a doctor! Now!"

"Who?" the boy cries back, eyes locked on Vi.

"Anyone! Closest one you can find." Silco's done with plans currently. No one will try anything stupid with Sevika staring over their shoulder. Time's not on their side. On Violet's side.

Ekko's smart enough to not get himself kidnapped - probably. Tonight's just been full of all sorts of lovely surprises.

They press onwards. The streets are dead this early in the morning. It's nearly time for the early risers to stir. What fools do creep the streets vanish at the sight of Silco.

Vi's a heavy weight on his side, her feet dragging more and more with every moment.

"I seem to recall one of Vander's teachings warning against this exact situation," he mutters.

The sound of her late Father stirs her just a bit - it's all he needs. Her eyes flicker over and he drags her onward.

"Something about being careful about the fights you pick - and the causes you die for," he scorns.

A familiar warning. One he'd almost died for. The hands around his neck are heavy, but still lighter than Vi's weight on his side.

She doesn't answer.

"How did it go?" Silco breathed rhetorically. "Every time you raise your fist, make sure you're ready to die for it?"

"Make sure... you're ready... for someone to die for it," Vi breathes and it's not relief, but it's something similar that fills Silco's flooded lungs.

"Ah, of course. He was always so worried about collateral," Silco feigns ignorance. "And murder."

"Yeah," Vi barks a weak laugh. "You... wouldn't... know..."

"I wouldn't," Silco agrees. "Everyone has something they'd die for. I happen to think certain causes are worth killing for."

Vi goes silent so Silco clears his throat: "Not this though."

She does huff at that.

"It will be embarrassing if you die from this," Silco mutters.

No answer. He begins to calculate the next way phrase that could stir her up when she breathes a weak laugh.

"He wouldn't have died from this."

It doesn't take a genius to guess who she's talking about.

"Neither will you," Silco states.

"He... wouldn't have been stupid."

Silco does roll his eyes at that: "He absolutely would have been."

"Should've... seen it... coming."

"Yes. But you'll learn. We all do."

"I was... angry."

"I know." Silco breathes. Because he does. He knows it better than anyone else. Better than Vander would've.

Like a blessing from Janna, there's a golden light spilling from down the street, and they turn towards the Last Drop. They aren't a step towards it before Sevika is at the door, throwing it open and running towards them.

"The trick about anger, Violet -" Silco breathes as they slow. He looks at her and finds a determination in those eyes - "It's all in knowing how to use it. That rage will either kill you... or keep you alive. It's time you decide how you'll use it."

Sevika is there and she picks Vi up like she weighs nothing. The doctor arrives a few minutes later, Ekko on his heels. Some kinder neighbor who lacks prowess but is willing to do it for free - to repay an old favor to Vander.

Good enough.

Powder's crying next to him. Mylo and Claggor fret the whole time. Ekko takes his place next to Powder and watches with a mixture of grief and horror. Sevika is strangely quiet.

But Vi? She refuses to fade. Refuses to pass out. She grips the chair beneath her and grinds her teeth on a twisted rag from Sevika as the doctor works. Her nails carve into the wood until splinters bloody her cuticles - and sometimes, she looks to Silco.

He doesn't know what she sees there, doesn't know what she's looking for. He just knows she's going to survive.

She knows it too.

She's not Vander, never was. It's not a bad thing.

But it changes everything.

[charliemwrites]

Squeak 'Em If You Got 'Em

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

Original AO3 Link

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s the captain.

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

You suspect why.

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

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

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

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

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

“We all have our vices, cap.”

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

You. “Insane amounts of morphine.”)

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

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

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

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

“Should save it for the others.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep alright, Squeaks?”

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

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

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

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

“The hell is that?” he squints.

“Gum.”

“Trying to say something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Whose fault is that?”

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

“Soap’s, last I checked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no, wait. You know what it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, yes that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve got it, sir. Take a minute?”

“I’ve had a minute.”

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

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

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

“Like I said, I got it, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate it here,” you groan.

“That so?” Ghost asks.

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

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

You blink. Squint. Blink again.

“LT, how hard did you hit me?”

“English, MacTavish.”

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

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

“Ow, fuck!”

“Hope it cramps,” you snip.

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

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

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

You hope he’s not right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that, sergeant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ.

“Lieutenant, would you—”

“No.”

“Damn.” Worth a try.

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

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

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

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

“No,” you reply.

You know better by now.

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

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

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

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

“That’ll do,” Ghost snaps.

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

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

“Easy does it, lamb. There’s a dear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you… Price,” you murmur.

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

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

“No, you’re done for the day.”

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

“Up you get, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

“Aw, but sir!” Soap whines.

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

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

“Sir, I have paper—”

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

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

“Bossy,” you chide.

“’S what they pay me for.”

And he’s so good at it, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That why you never join?” you ask.

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

“One of the reasons.”

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

Chocolate, infused with 50 milligrams of caffeine.

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

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

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

“Feral little thing,” he tsks.

“You have cigars, I have caffeine.”

“And insane amounts of morphine, apparently.”

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

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

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

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

His phone rings.

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

“Gotta take this. Get started, lamb.”

“Yes, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

“World ending?” you ask, glancing up.

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

“Not just yet.”

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

“’Fraid not.”

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

“Music?” he asks.

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

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

“I’m not a toddler.”

“Could have fooled me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Price?”

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

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

“Is this an ‘a’ or a ‘d’?” you ask.

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

“This is your handwriting.”

“Yes.”

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

“That’s ‘o’ and ‘l’.”

“OH.”

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

“Thank you, sir!”

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

“No, but you can.”

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

“No, I can’t. Write neater.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

You won’t.

It’s Task Force Specialty Training Day.

AKA: government-funded team bonding.

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

It’s also a hell of a lot of fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost shouts, “Medic!”

“Hold.”

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

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

Price said to hold, so you hold.

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

“Take the shot when you have it.”

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

“Fuck,” you whisper.

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

“Status, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

“That’s the game, love.”

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

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

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

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

You hum. “That was fucked up, sir.”

“All’s fair,” he shrugs.

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

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

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

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

“How-how did you know?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, that’s twice today.

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Seen Ghost?”

“I’m about to be a ghost!”

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

“Dead now, you muppet?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgot about them, honestly.”

You grin and pluck up another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, at least you managed that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand grips your ankle and yanks.

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

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

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

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

“Eyes open, lamb.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows arch. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

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

“And why’s that, hm?”

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

“Just seems right, as my captain.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, captain.”

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

“Sweetheart…” he tries again.

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

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

“Look at me, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me,” he orders.

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

“Good girl.”

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

“Get your bag. I’ll see you off.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish you were happier to be home.

“Captain Price.”

“Captain Dillard. Successful mission?”

“We managed to get the job done.”

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

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

“She’s fine. We can debrief now.”

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

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

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

“Bunch ‘a wankers, eh?” Gaz asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tried to, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

You – fuck – you just want a hug.

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

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

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

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

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

“Some idea, sir.”

“You want to tell me your side?”

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

“Squeaks. Sweetheart.”

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

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

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

“It fucking sucked,” you mumble.

“I gathered.”

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

“Tell me,” he says after a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You-you’re…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it’s good to be home.

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

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

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

“Sweetheart?”

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

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

“Oh,” you hum, “sorry, LT.”

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

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

“I’ve got her from here, Ghost.”

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

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

“Stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Screw us up.

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

You don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

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

That sounds… fuck, that sounds lovely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

You really do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he grumbles.

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

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

“’M not!”

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

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

“But siiiiir,” you whine.

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

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

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

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

“It’s cruel and unusual,” you accuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John…”

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

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

“Oh, I am, love. Just your bastard.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ask him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

But first—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But my lap is open for you.”

Aaaand there it is.

“I’m good,” you deadpan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that my fucking drink?” John growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re one of mine.”

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, Squeaks.”

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

“Fucking wanker,” he grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just the boys?” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John,” you plead against his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” you breathe. “Show me, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you huff. “One more kiss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something you wanted, gorgeous?” he asks.

“It’s… it’s your turn,” you breathe.

“My turn?”

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

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

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

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

Where you belong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he mutters, fond.

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

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

That’ll have to wait a little longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” John snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, surprised.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” John purrs. “Why didn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re right, love, I did.”

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

“You too,” you murmur, “pants off.”

“Alright,” he says, clearly humoring you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t want him to let you go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready for another?” he asks.

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

“There it is,” he chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong with that?”

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

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

(Let you. Good fucking lord.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t talking about this desk.”

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

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

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

“Ready, love?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. Then, “please.”

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

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

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

“Alright?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me,” he growls.

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

“Look at me.”

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

“Cum for me, beautiful.”

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

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

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

“Oh my god, John,” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you wail, “I wanna...”

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

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

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

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

You lay boneless beneath him, limbs tingling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was just – waah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?” he asks.

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

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

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

“That’s it, love, fuck,” John snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper, dismayed. “B-but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm,” you manage past scratchy vocal cords.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need help sitting up?” he asks.

“I got it,” you reply.

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

“Sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit. “It’s good.”

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

How is he so fucking wonderful?

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

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

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

“For that?”

“For everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

You adore his sleep-rough voice.

“At least 20 quid,” you muse.

He grunts. “Fucking children.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[themeraldee]

The Price of Love - Part 2

[Masterlist] [Part 1]

18+ Only | 3.8k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Early Season 2. Voyeurism. Dark themes. Breaking and entering. Manipulation. Fraud. Gaslighting. Office sex. Unprotected sex. Homelander being his own warning. I'm not really sure how to tag this properly tbf.

Homelander’s devious plan starts when he perfectly times when both you and your spouse leave your apartment empty. He knows you’re at the Vought tower, assisting Ashley in organizing photoshoots for the next issue of Vought Sports. Just the thought of that makes him roll his eyes. He’s got a four page feature with the Yankees, something about the importance of baseball to the American population. 

No. He can’t get distracted like that. Not when he’s already been so careful. Work can wait. 

He lands on your small balcony, testing the door handle. It budges immediately. Homelander grins at the revelation. You’re clearly one of those people who don’t think to lock the doors and windows just because you’re high off the ground. He’d have thought that after knowing him you’d know better than that. 

Homelander steps into your apartment. He’s planning to be thorough with his little impromptu visit. It’s only fair. Thanks to your job you have pretty much unrestricted access to his penthouse. You’ve seen what his space looks like. He should get to see yours too.

The first thing that hits him is just how this space doesn’t smell like you as much as he’d want. He can almost taste the bitter scent of your spouse in the air. Yuck. Homelander immediately walks through, exploring the kitchen, the living room for anything substantial at all.

There are letters with angry red words, shouting about bills being past due. Medical bills pinned to the fridge with some generic city magnet. Coupons and budgets all crammed on the small space on the fridge. Clearly, something isn’t working. Homelander has zero sympathy regarding your spouse but he cares about you. He doesn’t want you to suffer and with him, you’d never again have to worry about unpaid bills or having a roof over your head. 

He scoffs to himself. What kind of irresponsible and unreliable spouse have you got? You’re clearly working hard, he sees you relentlessly keep your head up at work and with your position only rising and more responsibilities being piled up on your plate he can imagine you earn a decent wage.

Clearly, it’s being drained somewhere. Whoever your spouse is, they’re a good-for-nothing leech that’s holding you back.

He could pay them off. Threaten them. Torture them. Kill them even. A thought that sends a thrilling shiver down his spine. But no, this has to be your decision. You need to be the one to decide to leave them. You need to seek him out. 

Homelander continues with his little exploration trip. Already forming a plan in his mind. What he saw the other day wasn’t coincidental. He feels a rift. Ever since that night he watched you pleasure yourself to the thought of him he knew it wasn’t a one-off. But for the first time Homelander gave you the ammo. He told you to your face that he’s interested. He allowed you to lean into these fantasies at the cost of having no leverage in his petty mind.

He can’t wait to put his plan into motion. 

Looking through the rest of your apartment should make him feel upset, agitated. Instead Homelander walks around with a huge grin on his face as he looks at the few framed pictures on the wall. They’re old. You don’t look like this anymore so decidedly your spouse hasn’t done anything worth remembering in recent times. Perfect. This is all working perfectly towards his plan.

Your spouse doesn’t value you. Clearly. He notices more signs of this behavior throughout your belongings. The cheap perfume that he smells on you everyday is so uninspiring he’s never even heard of the brand. The makeup is cheap, terrible enough quality that should only be used by teenage girls that are discovering themselves, not for a professional woman like you. Your clothes tell a similar story. You have a few nice outfits that you wear to your job. You only ever dress nicely for him. The rest of your closet feels like plastic, uncomfortably stiff and scratchy, it’s unlikely to last another season.

You will have none of these issues with him. Homelander will buy you only the best. Top of the line. All designer, original or handmade. Anything you’ll want, it’ll be yours. Only the best for his lover.

The more time he spends in your apartment the less he’s angry and upset about your initial rejection. He sees it now as a cry for help. Secretly, in between the lines you were rattling the bars of your prison begging him to save you.

And oh he will. 

The cherry on the top is the cheap ring that sits on your bedside table. No special case for it, no display, you don’t even carry it around with you. Maybe unconsciously you know how little your spouse values you. He picks it up to feel it. Cubic Zirconia on a small sterling silver band. Less than $100. Homelander scoffs at the cheap representation of your bond. So easy to scuff and crush. Maybe it directly reflects your marriage. 

Homelander leaves your apartment exactly the way he found it and over the next few days he watches. He watches you interact with your spouse, looking for any chink in the armour of your marriage and oh my does he find plenty.

Your spouse doesn’t deserve you, they don’t treat you with the same respect you give them. There’s room for insecurity to worm your way into your brain. He knows that now. You have sex at most once a week and even then it doesn’t look like it scratches the itch for you. Don’t worry, he’ll have you writhing under him in no time.

But it needs to be at your own pace. He knows you’re loyal to a fault, you’ve proven yourself with such quality over your time working for Vought. You won’t leave your spouse without a good reason. Besides betrayal. You clearly can deal with a non-spectacular life and even less remarkable sex life. But betrayal? A total annihilation of trust? Well, he knows you won’t be able to shake that off.

With that, he sets his plan into motion.

Nothing he does is by his hand of course, he needs to be invisible in all this. Instead he pays lackeys and he bullies Vought employees into scamming your spouse, stealing your shared banking details without them knowing any better.

Over the next month he periodically withdraws a sum of money from your shared account, slowly making his plan come to fruition. He keeps you busy at work. Really busy. You don’t have time to keep up with your household and worry about budgeting. You pull away from your spouse—a bonus he didn’t see coming. It’s even worth the stress it’s causing you. Each day you come in with dark circles under your eyes, tiredness just seeping out of your pores. But it’s okay. You can go through a bit of hardship while he plans your rescue. Things always get worse before they get better.

At the same time, your bills are going up, rent has skyrocketed—something about a new ownership, company you wouldn’t recognise as it’s outlined in the letter that came in the mail. More than ever now, Homelander sees you not skipping any overtime. Good, you spend most of your time with him now. He watches the late night arguments you have with your spouse about pulling their weight and how you can’t do everything yourself. Yes. Yes, it’s finally happening.

You haven’t even seen the main act.

When the next medical bill comes out and there’s not enough money in the shared account he waits it out. He’s planted all the seeds. All the money periodically taken out by the planted escort services. The bank statements laid out plain and clear. The call logs coming and outgoing to the same establishment. Your spouse’s lack of interest in sex with you only reinforced this notion.

Homelander isn’t there to watch the fall out. He’s too excited. Already waiting for you to spring into his arms at a moment’s notice. 

But you don’t.

Each day he gets more and more irritated. You should already be shouting his praises, showing him your signed divorce papers but instead you’re moping around like a sad dark cloud, raining oh his parade. 

Okay fine, he’s gonna have to nudge you a bit. It’s not going exactly according to his plan but that’s okay, he can adapt.

The next time you bring over some talking points for him to read and memorize, he stops you. He stops you from spilling out your rehearsed words, his gloved hand raised tearing you out of your mindless monologue you’ve been told to parrot back to him. You blink up at him, a little confused. You haven’t had many interactions these days so Homelander can’t blame you for acting like a deer in headlights.

“Hey, you okay? You look tired. Are you sleeping fine?” He gives his words the perfect amount of care and softness. Breaking through the shell you’ve put up around him. He gets it, you’re trying to be a strong woman—ladidadida. Normally he likes that about you but now you’re messing with his plans.

You sniffle and he smells the waterworks before they even burst the dam. One little question and you take two steps back, your back hitting the wall of the meeting room and you slide down onto the ground. Whimpering out a little wet ‘no’ you bring your knees up burying your face in them.

“Hey hey hey… what’s wrong?” He lowers to the ground in front of you.

“Everything’s wrong. My whole life is falling apart!” You sob into your knees. You start spilling as if he’s the first person to ask you how you’re doing. You rattle off an unintelligible ramble of hiccups, sobs and half-spoken words. 

Homelander was lucky that you still had your face buried in your knees because he could not stop the grin spreading across his face as he heard you hiccup the word ‘divorce’. After the little indulgence, he trained his face back into a sympathetic pout and he ran his hand down the back of your head, petting your hair.

“Slow down, say what now? Did you say you’re getting divorced? What happened?” If only Vought productions could see this Oscar-worthy performance they’d be making more interesting movies than the cookie cutter action flicks he has to waste his time on.

“Yeah…my…well, my ex now. They cheated on me. I mean they poured all our money down the drain, spent it all in a strip club or on some escort or whatever. Fuck. I don’t even know. I don’t want to know the details.” You look up at him and in that moment Homelander has never seen anything more beautiful. The tears in your eyes, the swollen red rim around them. All because of his doing. This is the start of a new chapter. 

A chapter dedicated to you and him.

He stops himself from smiling widely, he’s meant to be supportive now. Sympathetic. He nods as you continue.

“I’ve been breaking my back just to afford the insane rent and bills and this is what I get back?!” You flip flop between bouts of rage and fresh tears bursting at every other word. 

“Shhh, shh come here.” Homelander pulls you in close to him and back on your feet. He lifts you off enough where you feel the floor underneath your feet but most of your weight is being held up by him. As if he’s saying ‘you don’t have to carry it all on your own’.

“I’ll help you, okay? Anything you need. I’m here for you.” He cooes into your ear, rubbing soothing circles into your back as he hugs you close to him. 

Homelander knows you’re meant for him. But to actually have you in his arms for the first time is different. He wants to bury his face in your neck and inhale as much of your scent as he can. And forever carry that with him.  

But he doesn’t have to wish. Instead you pull away from where you buried your head in his neck, you place your hands on his jaw and you forcibly kiss him. Take the air right out of his lungs. Homelander immediately squeezes his eyes shut, doing his very best to not moan out loud. That’s it! Finally, he’s got you right where he wanted this whole time.

He squeezes you closer, his one hand slides down to your thigh, hoisting your leg up. And like the good, obedient girl you are, you bring your other leg up with him, wrapping yourself tight around his waist.

The taste of you is sweet and salty at the same time, the pure flavor muddled with the tears your ex doesn’t deserve. It doesn’t matter, Homelander kisses you desperately regardless. Hungry for the taste he’s been dreaming of for months. 

“Do you still want me?” You breathe out, less actively sobbing and choking on breaths, now the tears are just freely going down your cheeks.

“Always.” Homelander looks at you in reverence. You’re welcoming him in so freely. He doesn’t even need to push you to it. That’s how he knows you’re perfect for him. Barely just free out of the prison he rescued you from and you’ve already come running to him.

“Make me forget.” You kiss him again and Homelander swallows up everything you have to give. He pins you against the wall, his hands gliding from your thighs to your ass, the leather of his gloves sliding up the sleek fabric of your skirt. Through it he squeezes handfuls of your ass, before pushing the fabric up and out of the way.

“Please…make me feel good.” You sound broken and in need of good fuck that Homelander’s sure you haven’t had in years. Right, he can totally do that for you. He supports your weight easily, pinned between his body and the wall. One hand slides down from your ass, giving himself enough room to slide in between your legs, cupping your pussy. 

“I will. I will. Don’t worry about anything anymore. I’ve got you.” His fingers pinch the sheer tights and with a snap, he rips the fabric, immediately pushing your panties out of the way.

He brings his hand to his mouth, biting the leather of his glove by the fingertips, pulling it off his hand. His bare hand goes back down in between your legs immediately dipping his fingers in your wetness. He feels how excited you are. How for the first time in years your body is finally gonna feel satisfied. You yearn for this. He can almost taste it. 

His lips part and he moans at the feeling of your pussy just inviting him in. So hot and wet just for him. He strokes the back of his fingers up and down your slit, making your legs buzz with excitement. All nerves coming back to life. He sees that in you, the way you light up. Your heart rate elevated, breaths shallow, your muscles twitching. Homelander takes pride in the way he can make your body sing with just a few well-placed touches.

He turns his fingers around, gently, precisely, rubbing circles around your clit. He kisses you. No, he devours you. Parting his lips, he pries yours open, licking the taste of him into your mouth. He grunts into the kiss, moaning with each press of your lips. Each time you shove your tongue into his mouth he shudders, full of want. 

His fingers eagerly move down, pressing two digits steadily into you until he’s knuckles deep, grinding them into your pelvis, shallow strokes in and out. Crooked upwards and thick inside you.

He’s so hard it hurts. Achingly throbbing against the uncomfortable rigidity of his suit and he cannot wait to just fucking bury himself into you.

As if you were reading his mind your hands blindly and clumsily reach for his belt, unclasping it. Eagerly with more dexterity than he expected you to have in a moment like this you undo his pants, pulling them down along with his underwear.

Homelander hisses through his teeth, throwing his head back as your hand touches his aching cock. It’s so overwhelming he barely catches your awe at seeing it. 

“Oh fuck… Can I have you? Please?” You squirm in his hold your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking the head up and down. 

Jesus. You’re begging for him so easily. He could cum just from this. Your hand, warm and soft around him, stroking his sensitive head all while you’re beginning for him to take you? Good god, if he knew you’d be this pliant he would have had your ex killed in an ‘accident’.

“Course you can.” He mutters out, strung out on the pleasure that’s sending sparks up his spine with each twist of your wrist. He takes his fingers out of you, sucking them clean. God you taste good. He definitely needs to come back to that. He shimmies his pants down lower, releasing his cock fully. “Course you fucking can. It’s yours.” Straining he whimpers out, positioning his cock right against your wet cunt, the head spreading you open. “I’m yours.” He almost sounds close to crying. All that effort was so fucking worth it. You are so his. Who else could you want after you’ve had him. He’s so close to euphoria he forgets that you were crying a few minutes ago.

He wraps both arms around the underside of your thighs pinning your knees closer to your body as he sinks deep into you with one push. You’re so fucking wet and warm for him he could cry out of happiness. You want him so bad!

“Fffuck me, that’s tight.” He utters, all broken and whimpering as he buries his head into your neck, inhaling the scent of you like he wanted to earlier while he stills his hips, his pelvic flush against yours.

He’s so overwhelmed with the physicality of it all. Even through all the layers he feels the heat of your body, the thrum of your muscles and the rhythm of your heart. It’s intoxicating. 

He pulls out just to sink himself into you again. And again. And again. The feeling of splitting you open with each slide of his cock gets him so worked up, his own breaths coming out stuttered. 

“Homelander please… just… fuck me. Need it.” You beg him to continue, and as much as he’s enjoying the warm welcome on each wet, loud slide he gets it. You just need him to pound you hard and make you forget. Erase all memories of your shitty ex and the mediocre sex you’ve learned to live with. It’s okay. You’re with him now. And everyone knows there’s nothing mediocre about him.

Homelander kisses the plea out of your lips stepping a little closer so that he’s sat deep, deep inside you. Every thrust of his pelvis is a short snap but you feel it so deep it rattles your spine with every move. The way he’s got you angled is just about rubbing his pubic bone into your clit and he can’t help but grin at the way he’s already feeling you desperately claw at him, trying to hold onto reality.

You moan for him sweetly, your body quivering around him. And he doesn’t relent. It’s frantic, sharp and needy. This is about that quick release. He will have plenty of time to explore your body and make you cum a thousand times over later. Ideally from the privacy of his bed where he can watch you from every angle.

When he feels you clench and pulsate around him he stutters, one of his hands landing on the wall, making a dent in it. More than anything he wants you to cum. He wants to show you how much better he will be to you. The pure euphoria of feeling you cum on his cock pushes him over the edge. He moans a deep guttural sound into your neck, parts of it muffled. As your pussy deliciously squeezes around him in a stuttered rhythm he empties himself into you. His cock gives you one last spurt inside before he slides out, letting you get back on the ground to regain your footing. 

He’s mildly delirious and the next thing he wants to do is take you up to his penthouse and hold you close. He craves the intimacy of the afterglow.

Unlike his fantasy you don’t look to be ready to be swept off your feet and carried to his penthouse for some quality cuddle time. You look almost horrified.

“Oh my god…” Homelander watches with a frown as you push your underwear back into place, your skirt down over your thighs. You try to make a sense of the torn, tattered mess of your tights but you decide it’s better to take them off. He takes the chance to tuck himself back in while you sort your clothing situation and the turmoil in your head.

Before he can even question what has you so upset you continue. “I’m so sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.” What was a warm buzzing feeling that made his whole body vibrate pleasantly just turned to ice. 

What the fuck do you mean it shouldn’t have happened? 

He doesn’t get a say in again as you continue before he recovers from the blow. “I just fucking used you. I’m sorry. That’s—That’s terrible! I’m no better than my ex. I–I—” You visibly panic, your eyes wide as saucers and looking around almost everywhere but him.

But your eyes land there anyway. He almost laughs with relief. This is your problem? How cute.

“Nothing like that happened. Hey, none of that talk. You’re perfect. You’ve done nothing wrong alright?” He took one step closer, his hands immediately cupping your jaw from either side. Only one hand ungloved, using that one to feel the skin of your cheek as he tenderly strokes you. 

“I want to help you in any way I can. How about you move in with me until we sort this out, huh? I don’t want you staying with a person like that. Come on, I want you safe. And Vought’s got some great lawyers that can help you with the divorce.” He deploys his sweet tone, so persuasive, charismatic and charming. He knows what he’s doing and already you’re melting into his hands. Good. He grins at you. “Alright, sweetheart?”

You nod with your big watery sweet eyes and it’s then he knows that he won. Fair and square.

You were his long before you even knew it.

Finally, you recognize it too.

Taglist (you can add yourself to be notified anytime I publish a new Homelander story)

[stnkiconverse]

Anybody of your choice with a reader who likes to randomly bite for no reason

-👽

How about everyone?

Creepypastas x Reader who likes to bite

Ticci Toby

1. Playful Bites:

- You have a habit of playfully nipping at Toby’s arms or shoulders when you’re feeling particularly affectionate. He always laughs and pretends to be offended, but secretly he loves it.

- Toby's tics might make him a bit jumpy at first, but he quickly gets used to your playful bites and even starts looking forward to them.

2. Affectionate Gestures:

- Toby enjoys the unique way you show affection. Your bites are never harsh, and they make him feel special and adored in your own quirky way.

- Sometimes, Toby will bite you back, though he's always gentle, mimicking your playful nibbles with a grin on his face.

3. Comfort and Calming:

- When Toby is stressed or anxious, you gently bite or kiss his knuckles or the back of his hand. The familiar sensation helps ground him and brings him a sense of comfort.

4. Inside Jokes:

- The two of you develop a series of inside jokes about your biting habits. Toby will often tease you about being a “little vampire” (GIRL YOURE MY FAVORITE, sorry, its a kpop reference) or “his personal piranha,” always with a playful glint in his eyes.

- You respond by pretending to bare your teeth and growl, which never fails to make Toby laugh.

5. Public Reactions:

- In public, your biting habits can sometimes catch others off guard. Toby finds it amusing when people react, but he also loves how unique and unapologetically yourself you are.

- Toby has been known to protectively explain to others that it’s just your way of showing affection, ensuring no one misunderstands or disrespects you for it.

Ben Drowned

1. Playful Mischief:

- Ben finds your biting habit absolutely adorable and matches it with his own playful nature. He often encourages you by pretending to run away or daring you to catch him.

- Your playful bites often lead to laughter-filled chases and impromptu tickle fights, making your relationship feel light-hearted and fun.

2. Virtual Bites:

- When Ben is in his digital form, you tease him by pretending to bite your screen, which makes him laugh and play along, sometimes glitching the screen as if he’s been “bitten.”

- He occasionally sends you silly gifs of biting or nibbling, keeping your playful dynamic alive even when he’s not physically present.

3. Casual Bites:

- Ben loves to watch you while you’re focused on something, waiting for the perfect moment to lean in and “surprise bite” you. It’s his way of keeping things spontaneous and exciting.

- Your biting habit often catches Ben off guard in the best way. Whether it’s a gentle nip on his ear or a playful bite on his arm, he loves the unpredictability of it.

4. Protective Instincts:

- Despite his mischievous nature, Ben is very protective of you. If anyone ever mocks your biting habit, he’s quick to shut them down, making it clear that he loves you just the way you are.

- Your biting habit becomes a form of affectionate reassurance for Ben, reminding him that you’re always there and that your bond is strong.

Eyeless Jack

1. Calming Times:

- Your gentle bites become a calming thing for Jack. When he’s stressed from his medical tasks or haunted by memories of his past, your affectionate nibbles or gentle kisses help ground him.

- Jack appreciates the intimacy of your bites. They remind him that he’s not alone and that someone cares deeply for him, despite his monstrous appearance.

2. Quiet Affection:

- Jack isn’t one for grand displays of affection, but your bites fit perfectly with his understated nature. A soft bite on his shoulder while he’s reading or a gentle nip on his hand while you’re walking together speaks volumes to him.

- Your biting habit becomes a silent way to communicate your love, something Jack deeply values and reciprocates in his own quiet manner.

3. Medical Curiosity:

- Jack is curious about the physiological reasons behind your biting habit. When he asked you about it, you answered with “I just like doing it”, leading to him finding it fascinating and endearing.

- Sometimes, Jack will gently bite you back (bcs of his teeth), experimenting with different ways to reciprocate your affection while ensuring he's always gentle and caring.

4. Shared Solitude:

- The two of you often spend time in abandoned places, enjoying the solitude. Your biting habit fits well with these quiet moments, adding a layer of comfort and intimacy to your explorations.

- Jack finds your bites reassuring, a reminder that even in the quietest, most desolate places, he has someone who understands and accepts him.

5. Late-Night Conversations:

- During your late-night conversations, you often kiss/nibble Jack’s hand or arm when he says something particularly insightful or touching. It’s your way of showing appreciation and connection without interrupting the flow of conversation.

- Jack has a dry sense of humor and occasionally teases you about your biting, calling you his “little predator” (which you send glares his way when he does so)with a rare, affectionate smile.

Jeff The Killer

1. Playful Defiance:

- Jeff is initially taken aback by your biting habit but quickly grows to enjoy it. Your playful defiance matches his chaotic energy, and he finds it both amusing and endearing.

- Your bites often lead to mock battles, with Jeff pretending to be “attacked” and dramatically retaliating with tickles or playful wrestling.

2. Boundary Testing:

- Jeff likes to push boundaries, and your biting habit becomes a game of who can surprise the other first. He’ll sneak up on you and pretend to bite you back, always keeping things lively and unpredictable.

- Despite his rough exterior, Jeff appreciates the unique way you show affection. It adds a sense of normalcy and connection in his otherwise tumultuous life.

3. Affection Amidst Chaos:

- In the midst of Jeff’s chaotic world, your biting habit becomes a source of stability. It’s a small, constant reminder that there’s something tender and real amidst all the violence and madness.

- Jeff might not say it outright, but your bites make him feel cared for in a way he hasn't experienced before. It's a comforting contrast to his usual interactions.

4. Protective Reactions:

- Jeff is fiercely protective of you, especially because of your biting habit. If anyone mocks or misunderstands it, he’s quick to defend you with his usual brashness.

- Your bites are a reminder to Jeff that he has someone who sees beyond his violent tendencies, someone who cares for the person he is underneath.

5. Unexpected Softness:

- Over time, Jeff becomes surprisingly soft when it comes to you. Your bites are the only form of physical contact he doesn’t recoil from, and he even starts to look forward to them.

- Jeff might occasionally let his guard down and return your bites, albeit clumsily, showing a rare moment of vulnerability and affection.

Jane The Killer

1. Soft Moments:

- Jane is initially wary of your biting habit, but she soon realizes it’s your way of showing affection. Over time, she grows to appreciate it, especially during quiet moments when you’re alone together.

- Your bites become a way to break through her emotional guard, reminding her that it's okay to feel and express love.

2. Tender Affection:

- Despite her tough exterior, Jane has a soft spot for you. Your gentle nibbles on her hand or shoulder are a reminder of the gentler side of life, something she often misses in her dark world.

- Jane reciprocates in her own way, sometimes brushing her fingers lightly across your skin or giving you a soft kiss in return.

3. Silent Communication:

- Your biting becomes a form of silent communication between you two. A gentle nip on her ear or arm tells Jane you’re there for her without needing words, which she finds comforting.

- In tense situations, a quick bite can calm Jane down, helping her focus and reminding her she’s not alone.

4. Protective Nature:

- Jane is highly protective of you, especially when she notices others reacting to your biting habit. She’s quick to defend your unique way of showing affection, ensuring no one misunderstands or disrespects you.

- Your bites become a symbol of trust and safety, reinforcing the bond between you two in a world full of danger and deception.

5. Shared Solitude:

- The two of you often enjoy moments of solitude, where your biting habit fits perfectly. It’s a small, intimate act that brings comfort and closeness without needing to say much.

- Jane finds these moments soothing, a rare respite from her usual life of constant vigilance and danger.

Nina The Killer

1. Playful Affection:

- Nina loves your biting habit. It matches her nature, and she often initiates playful bite-fights, laughing as you both try to outdo each other.

- Your bites become a regular part of your interactions, a fun and affectionate way to express your feelings.

2. Cute Moments:

-She often teases you about being her “little biter” and encourages you to keep it up.

- Nina might respond with her own playful nibbles, turning it into a game that keeps both of you entertained and connected.

3. Mutual Protection:

- Nina is fiercely protective of you, especially because of your unique way of showing affection. She admires how unapologetically yourself you are and makes sure no one mocks or misunderstands your biting habit.

- Your bites remind Nina that she has someone who truly understands and accepts her, which is rare in her chaotic life.

4. Shared Excitement:

- Your biting habit fits perfectly with Nina’s love for excitement. It becomes a part of your shared adventures, adding an element of spontaneity and fun.

- Nina often initiates playful challenges, daring you to bite her in unexpected moments, making your relationship dynamic and full of surprises.

5. Comforting Presence:

- Despite her tough exterior, Nina finds your bites comforting. They remind her that she’s not alone and that someone genuinely cares for her.

- Your biting habit becomes a way to bring Nina back to reality when she's feeling overwhelmed, grounding her with a simple, affectionate act.

Homicidal Liu

1. Gentle Affection:

- Liu is initially surprised by your biting habit but quickly grows to appreciate it. Your gentle nibbles on his hand or arm are a welcome reminder of affection in his otherwise tumultuous life.

- He finds your bites soothing, a way to ground himself when he’s struggling with his internal conflicts.

2. Grounding Presence:

- Your bites become a grounding presence for Liu, especially during moments when he’s mentally battling with Sully or dealing with his PTSD. They remind him of your unwavering support and love.

- Liu appreciates how your bites help him stay connected to reality, offering a sense of stability amidst his emotional turmoil.

3. Silent Understanding:

- The two of you develop a silent understanding through your bites. A gentle nip on his shoulder or arm tells Liu that you’re there for him without needing words, which he finds comforting.

- In moments of distress, your bites become a way to reassure Liu that he’s not alone and that you’re always there to support him.

4. Protective Instincts:

- Liu is highly protective of you, especially because of your biting habit. He ensures no one mocks or misunderstands it, making it clear that it’s a special part of your relationship.

- Your bites symbolize trust and safety for Liu, reinforcing the bond between you two in a world full of danger and betrayal.

5. Shared Solitude:

- The two of you often enjoy moments of quiet solitude, where your biting habit fits perfectly. It’s a small, intimate act that brings comfort and closeness without needing to say much.

- Liu finds these moments calming, a rare respite from his usual life of constant vigilance and danger. Your bites become a reminder of the love and trust you share, something he cherishes deeply.

Hope this was good enough!!

[willowed-wisp]

stitches [simon ‘ghost’ riley]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader/you

Hopefully this doesn’t suck and makes sense for the most part. Thanks for anybody that reads this 🥰

WARNINGS: smut, descriptions of injury, body insecurity… a bit of plus size!reader

When you joined the Special Forces, you didn’t want to form attachments.

That was the only rule you held yourself to.

As a medic back at base, you thought it would be easy. Alas, fate had other plans in the form of Task Force 141.

Lead by Captain John Price- who had handpicked you for medical support- to stay back at whatever base looked like- whether it be a van or a safe house.

With that, you lived with the boys. John Price, Kyle Garrick, Johnny MacTavish and Simon Riley. You kept yourself to yourself at first, not confident among four SAS soldiers nor in yourself. Knowing of them only.

So you planned to stay huddled in the corner and quiet.

Then in the middle of the night, you came face to face with a black balaclava and a gruff voice, “Ya good?” You only remember the nightmares… more so flashbacks. They were relentless- creeping in the recesses of your mind, waiting for times when stress peaked. Unfortunately this entire ordeal was nerve-wracking.

You only noticed the warm hand on your shoulder, instinct led you to stare past the noir covering the majority of his face and into his eyes. Caring eyes.

He had no need to check if you were okay, he didn’t know you but, nevertheless, it was nice to see the lieutenant as something other than a looming figure.

The seriousness became too much to bear for you, “Do you sleep in that thing?” Using humour to take the edge off- well trying to.

“Soundly,” Earthy, rugged… British yourself, he sounded awfully English. That was when your eyes dawned on the clock- the time more specifically. 02:01.

“Do you sleep at all?” Another attempt but he didn’t laugh- your smile faded, maybe a tad intimated. He wasn’t exactly small.

He stood away, no longer crouching at your bedside. How tall was the guy? You tried to hide the wonder on your face, “Better than you… when I do get a kip…” Some pain in those words. “Better get some shut eye, Y/L/N… see ya at dawn.” You slept better knowing at least someone in 141 had your back.

After that you started integrating more with the lads. You learned that Johnny could clean his messes up exceptionally well, and that’s why he was called ‘Soap’. Price still thought the name was bullcrap but alas, not your problem.

You also noticed that Ghost never showed his face. Black face paint shrouding the skin showing around his dark eyes or his sunglasses. You preferred the face paint.

He had a habit of watching you from across the room chatting with Soap and Gaz- you blocked any possible avenues of relationships. Not that they’d be interested in you (your own thoughts). You didn’t find yourself attractive or good enough. A bit too much weight, you continued to think.

It was a good thing, you couldn’t get distracted.

That was until that day…

Supply checks… stock up on the sterilised needle and stitch thread. You barely had any use to 141, just a glorified nurse who had no business being given a code name.

“Stitches! It’s LT!” The brash Scotsman bolstered his comrade over to the gurney in the impromptu medical van. Blue eyes flashed over into yours, hulking the larger man to lay on his back.

Ghost wasn’t having any of it, attempting to sit up only for more blood to gush from his thigh. You rushed into action, “Soap, get us out of here,” said all too calmly for someone under such pressure. The man did as he was told and they were off. Meanwhile, you had pushed the lieutenant down on the bed. He grunted in pain each time he made a move, “For fuck’s sake, stay still so I can fucking see.” Blue gloves on, as he stopped wriggling, “Thank you.” You were still unimpressed but at least he listened. Unbeknownst to you under the mask he donned a pained smirk- unaware you could be so commandeering. Almost proud of you.

A grunt paused his pride, “Fuck…” Through gritted teeth. Your fingers working the tweezers with expert precision.

He went to sit up, your left hand pressed against his sturdy chest- pushing him down, “Want me to snag your femoral artery, Ghost?” In no time, a red-coated bullet laid in the metal tray and he sat there in his boxer shorts- watching you work and hitching a breath each time the needle breached skin.

They were the gentlest hands that had ever worked on him. “What happened?” Eyes boring into his as you cast off the stitch.

“Someone got the jump on me, should see ‘im,” you smiled at that, able to tell he was too. By his eyes.

The ones you dreamt of every night- except when the terrors returned. Johnny was too heavy of a sleeper to hear you, but Simon’s eyes were what you woke up to. In the flesh. He never asked what they were about, just comforted you.

When your deployment ended, and you returned home… you missed the guys. And his warm eyes whenever you returned to the land of the living.

Johnny contacted you. A pub crawl in Scotland, apparently Gaz, Price and even Simon were game.

Turns out you and Ghost didn’t live too far away. In ten minutes, a knock at your door and you met that deep gaze. “Johnny only just message ya, didn’t he?” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m drivin’ us, don’t trust Gaz’s deathtrap…”

“Well… I just need to grab my stuff,” He started to walk away up the path to his 4x4. “You can come in and wait if you wanted?” Who was he to turn you down when you asked so nicely.

He helped you with your bags, “You sure ya gonna get through with that?”

“Haha,” dry humour, there was a reason you seemed to get on, “And if you want me to get more shit…”

You could see a glint in his eyes, “Nah, you’re alright, love…” That went straight down to between your thighs, the look on your face amused the man.

Surprisingly, the two of you weren’t awkward. Quiet here and there.

You assumed he wasn’t used to social interaction in general- especially wearing that balaclava, not good for conversation.

Simon was good to talk to, all waffled speech was redacted with him. Straight forward, sometimes sarcastic and wholly looking for banter- that’s what you preferred.

And there was no chance he would be interested in you. He has the aura of a guy who gets the attention of stunning women. Why would he want you? (You thought)

It was never going to happen.

By the end of that car ride, he learned about your messy string of exes and he had way too much Shania Twain on his playlist (and knew all of the words).

Johnny greeted you both with open arms, a tight hug for you, “You been ta’ing care of yourself, Stitches?”

“Better than you look, use more soap…” The laughs and hug came to an abrupt end- his stare directed over to Simon who loomed behind you. Was it just you, or did Johnny look scared?

“Let me show y’ where you’ll be sleepin’…”You went to grab your bags but Ghost already had it covered.

Poor you, you didn’t know what would await your stay at Johnny MacTavish’s.

The tip was a stretch, your head thrown back against the blanket pillow. Silent screams playing in your throat. He could feel the struggle and see the pleasure striking your visage. Murmurs of his name, “Si- Simon -!” Broken and whimpering. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t on the edge of losing his cool. You were pulsing around him so angelic.

“You’re takin’ me so well, lovie,” His hips took a full stroke, bracing your cervix. Thrumming and dripping wet. Another groan of his name.

The rhythm sank in, strangled moans trapped- your breathing wild against his ear. His thrusts swinging all the way back until they gutted you. Over and over. “Feels. So. GOOD -!” His hand covering your mouth, noting that the owner of the house was just next door and the other two at the end of the hall. Simon’s place supposed to be on the couch downstairs surrounded by Soap’s army memorabilia. Not right there, balls deep inside of you. Loving every second.

Cherishing every inch of you, kissing you in the moment to stay quiet so he could remain there for a while longer. So he may get some sleep, for the first time in a week.

Before you know it, his hand anchored around your ankles- spreading them to hook better. You’ve never moaned so loud in your life. Even echoing off the walls of the room. “Fuck it…” He was too far gone to care what the boys heard or thought. He had been thinking about that moment since he met you, looking so delectable with his cock hammering into you. Taking him so well.

You didn’t know if he would ever tire out, another rush of adrenaline and exhaustion swept over your limp body- numb to anything other than where his thighs slammed against your own and how raw you were going to in the morning.

Your legs fell, his grip focused at your jaw; leaning over- rubbing against sensitivity deep- and claiming your lips in a ravenous kiss that had your head spinning more than before.

Hands falling to your hips, thrusts sloppy as you tightened once again. “Where can I- ,” Drunk on how he tasted, your legs locked around his body.

“Inside,” Your hand found the base of his hair at Simon’s neck, holding on for dear life. Warmth spread downwards as your nails dug into his toned back and neck alike. A thick groan filled the air- enough to become addicted.

Neither of you panted, thriving in the silence. He savoured being hilted inside you, careful not to crush you beneath him. Hot breath spanning your collarbone. “Can’t tell ya how long I’ve wan’ed to do that…”

You felt so small against him, so yearned for. No face covering on his end, no boundaries. Laid bare to him and he wanted you anyway.

Fingers stroked at his thick hair, “Same, Si…”

Neither of you knew who fell victim to slumber first.

The morning came around, the boys had looked proud of themselves… too proud, too giddy. Especially Johnny.

“I think the gutters need check’ng, heard some weird noise last nigh’,” You’ve never threatened Johnny’s mohawk before but that day you grew close.

Price even had a glint of mischief in those clear eyes of his, “Vampires common in Scotland?” You didn’t check your neck, too caught up in the heat the previous night.

Gaz had a smirk on his face, “Not from what I know of, sir…”

Christ, you were never gonna hear the end of it.

______

masterlist

[jetii]

Too Sweet

Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Pairing: Fox x fem!Reader / Fox x Doctor!Reader

Words: 6,140/26,525

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! fluff, strangers to lovers, grumpy/sunshine, description of blood/wound care, Fox is a little anxious/paranoid, and he needs a hug, you can pry goofy Thorn out of my cold dead hands, smut in part 3? 4?

Summary: Fox has no time for romance. He doesn't even have time for sleep, let alone dates. But when a horrible day at work leads him to you, he suddenly finds himself in danger of reevaluating his priorities.

A/N: Trying something a little different with more, shorter parts for these longer fics. Also forgot to say thanks for 650 followers! hello!

Previous Work | Next Work | Masterlist

“For the last time, I don’t need a medic.”

Fox is trying to be polite about it, but the tone of his voice is bordering on a growl. Every push on his shoulder is a jab to his pride, making him hiss like an angry tooka-cat. He knows he's being ridiculous, but that's never stopped him before.

His patience is already thin, but it had been stretched to the breaking point by a series of unfortunate events over the course of the day. The first, and arguably the most annoying, had occurred at the beginning of his shift.

Fox had woken up late, and his alarm clock had gone off with a loud, obnoxious tone that had caused him to shoot straight up in his bed, slamming a fist onto the off button. He scrambled out of bed and dressed faster than he thought possible, then hurried into the mess hall for the early shift breakfast. He was late enough that the food line was empty, and his choice was between a bowl of sludgy porridge or an unidentifiable ration bar.

The ration bar had tasted like stale durasteel, and the porridge was more of a thick slop, so Fox had opted for the latter. He scarfed it down with a mug of caf after an overdrawn fight with the machine, which tried to refuse him more than one portion of caf. He had left the mess hall with his stomach growling and his mouth bitter with the aftertaste of the caf, and his mood had soured even further when he found the lift under maintenance, forcing him to take the stairs.

When he arrived at the office, there was an enormous stack of datapads on his desk. A new security system had just been installed throughout the city, and the details were apparently too sensitive to be kept on the holonet. The only copies of the schematics were the ones on the physical datapads, and Fox had the wonderful task of checking every single one.

By the time lunch came around, Fox had managed to read through half the stack despite the constant interruptions. Someone would come in and ask about some obscure policy, or a trooper would report that someone had thrown a bottle at him, and the Chancellor would call for updates, and all the while, Fox had to be careful not to crush the datapads with his gauntlets.

The Chancellor was especially persistent today, calling him in person to demand a detailed analysis of the new security measures. Fox was forced to leave the datapads behind in order to give him an impromptu briefing, which ended with the Chancellor dismissing him with a wave of his hand and a curt, "I'm sure you have more important things to attend to."

Fox was seething when he returned to his office, and in a last minute attempt to escape his prison and an effort to calm himself, he decided to walk the patrol route himself instead of sending a trooper.

Of course, this had to be the day that every citizen on Coruscant decided to commit a crime, from a jaywalking elderly woman to a pair of pickpockets that had made off with a trooper's blaster. There was an argument outside a bar, an illegal speeder chase, and a man had decided to start a fire in the middle of the street, and all this had happened in the span of less than two hours.

Thorn had thought it was funny, but Fox hadn't found it nearly as entertaining. And now, he's been injured during the scuffle with the firestarter, and Thorn is making a big fuss about it.

Fox's shoulder throbs with pain as he moves, and he tries to ignore the way the skin is tightening around the wound. It's only a scratch, but it's deep, and Fox can feel blood oozing out of the cut and dripping down his armor. His head is pounding, and his chest aches from having been slammed against the duracrete by the man's boot.

A hand presses down on his shoulder, and Fox flinches away with another hiss. He turns on Thorn with a scowl

"I'm fine," he growls, shrugging Thorn's hand off his shoulder. "Leave it alone."

"Fox," Thorn says. He's trying to sound reasonable, but Fox can hear the exasperation in his voice. "It's a karking gash on your arm. I can't leave it alone."

Fox rolls his eyes. "I'm not letting you drag me back to the medbay for something as minor as this," he says. He turns and starts walking, heading towards the Senate building. "We've got more important things to do."

"I'm not dragging you to the medbay," Thorn says, running to catch up. He grabs Fox's arm and yanks him to a stop. "You're going to GMF. It's on the way to the Senate anyway."

"What? No!" Fox sputters, but Thorn is already pulling him down the street. He digs his heels into the ground, but Thorn is stronger than he is, and the other commander pulls him forward without breaking his stride.

"You're coming with me whether you like it or not," Thorn says, his voice firm. He doesn't loosen his grip, and Fox can only follow along helplessly. "The office will survive without you for a couple of hours."

"Thorn, you're not—"

"Yes, I am."

Fox scowls. Thorn isn't budging, and neither is he, and they've reached a stalemate. He's considering the merits of just sitting down and refusing to move, but before he can even make a decision, they're already at GMF.

"Let's go," Thorn says, pulling him up the steps. "Just stop trying to act tough and get over yourself."

Fox wants to protest, but Thorn has an iron grip on his arm, and he doesn't want to risk a public spectacle, so he allows himself to be pulled inside.

"Fine," he huffs. He can already feel a headache coming on, and his stomach is still grumbling in protest at its meager breakfast. Maybe he'll be able to sneak away before anyone notices, and no one will ever know that the Commander of the Guard was seen at GMF for such a minor injury.

"That's the spirit," Thorn says, grinning. He pulls on Fox's arm again, and this time, Fox lets himself be dragged away.

They've been sitting in the waiting room for a few minutes, and Fox is already starting to regret his decision. It's a busy day at GMF, and a steady stream of injured people are filing into the building, filling the waiting room with a cacophony of moans and groans.

Fox's shoulder is starting to throb again, and the wound is leaking blood into the fabric of his blacks. Thorn is tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair, his expression thoughtful.

"I wonder how many people are in here because of you," he says, looking around the room. There's a group of young men sitting on the opposite side of the room, nursing a variety of wounds. "They must be getting sick of seeing the Guard around here."

Fox glares at him, and Thorn chuckles.

"You'd think they'd learn their lesson and stop committing crimes," Fox mutters.

"We'd all like that," he laughs. "But we both know that won't happen."

Fox sighs, leaning back against the wall. He shifts slightly, trying to find a comfortable position. He's still annoyed about his arm, and now the smell of bacta is starting to get to him. It had always had a pungent, chemical smell to him, and the scent of the various medical supplies is making him queasy. 

He can feel his stomach starting to churn, and he closes his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing. The bright fluorescent lights are only making things worse, and the sound of the door sliding open and closed as various people walked in and out of the medical wing is grating on his nerves.

It doesn't help that Thorn is sitting right next to him, staring him down like he's a suspect in an interrogation. He'd caught on to Fox's plan to slip away almost as soon as they'd stepped into the room, and Fox had been forced to endure his company as they waited for their turn.

"How long is this going to take?"

"They said they were pretty busy today," Thorn says. "I'm not sure, but you're probably going to be waiting for a while."

"Great."

"Don't be such a baby. It'll be over before you know it."

Fox groans and leans back in his chair. He can't help but think of all the work that he should be doing right now. The stack of datapads has probably gotten taller since they left the office, and he'll have even more work to do once he returns.

He hates the feeling of wasting time, especially when there's so much to be done, and at this rate, he'll be lucky if he manages to finish the rest of his work by nightfall. And that was if the Chancellor didn't call him again.

"You should go back," Fox says, looking up at Thorn. "I can handle this."

Thorn raises an eyebrow, giving him an incredulous look.

"And let you weasel your way out of getting that arm checked out?" he scoffs. "I don't think so."

Fox shoots him a glare, but Thorn only grins.

"Nice try, but no," he says. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"Thorn—"

"I'm not going anywhere."

Fox sighs and slumps in his seat. He can see that Thorn isn't going to budge, and he doesn't have the energy to argue with him. His shoulder is really starting to hurt now, and the bleeding hasn't slowed down yet. He's getting dizzy, and the queasiness is growing stronger

He closes his eyes, resting his head against the wall. He feels terrible, and the longer he sits here, the worse he feels. The smell of the bacta is making his stomach turn, and the noise and chaos in the room is starting to get to him.

The medical center always brings back memories of the Kaminoans, and he was usually only ever here when one of his brothers was seriously injured. He doesn't have fond feelings towards the place.

"This is a waste of time," Fox mutters. "I could be working, or doing literally anything else right now."

"You know it's not a waste of time," Thorn says. He's looking around the room, keeping a close eye on the other people. "You're injured, and you need to get that taken care of. Stop being such a stubborn di'kut."

Fox is about to say something in response, his eyes land on a medical droid heading their way. He lets out a sigh of relief and gets to his feet. Finally, his suffering is about to end.

"Commander Fox?" the medical droid asks, stopping in front of him with a metallic whir.

"Yes, that's me."

"Please follow me. We're ready for you now."

"Finally," Fox mutters, ignoring Thorn's chuckle. 

He follows the droid down a long, white corridor, his footsteps echoing against the tile floor. He keeps his eyes forward, refusing to look back at Thorn. He doesn't want to see the smug look on his brother's face.

After a few minutes, the droid leads them into an examination room and motions for him to sit down on the cot. Fox complies, perching on the edge of the thin mattress and crossing his arms, trying not to fidget, and Thorn takes a seat in the chair in the corner of the room.

The droid is quick and efficient, running the scanner over his shoulder and chest and checking the readouts. It tells him that he'll need some stitches and bacta treatment, and Fox sigh, nodding his agreement.

"Thank you, Commander," the droid says. It stands still for a moment, processing its data, and then turns and exits the room.

"You're not getting out of this one," Thorn says as soon as the doors shut behind the droid.

"I know," Fox grumbles, slumping in his seat. He rests his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. "I just want to get this over with."

Thorn shakes his head, a smile playing across his lips. He doesn't say anything, but Fox knows he's just happy to have won. They're both competitive, and any victory, no matter how small, is something to celebrate.

"Stop that," Fox snaps. He doesn't want to deal with Thorn's smugness. He's already irritated, and the last thing he needs is for his brother to rub his victory in his face.

"Stop what?" Thorn asks, feigning innocence.

“That thing that you’re doing with your face.”

“It’s called smiling, Fox, you should try it sometime. I think you could use the practice,” Thorn teases, and Fox rolls his eyes.

Before he can come up with a retort, the door opens, and Fox reflexively straightens, preparing himself for the worst. The medical droids aren't exactly known for their gentle touches and bedside manner.

To his surprise, the person who enters the room isn't a medical droid. 

Fox feels his eyes widen as he takes in the decidedly human figure standing in the doorway, a datapad in hand. Wearing a crisp, clean set of medical whites, you stand tall, and his first thought is that you're beautiful.

His second thought is that you look far too cheerful for someone working in a medical facility. Your eyes are bright, and you're smiling, and the expression is so warm and genuine that it makes him wonder how you're managing to maintain it in a place like this.

It's a nice smile.

It isn't until Thorn clears his throat that Fox realizes he's been staring at you for the last few seconds, and he hastily looks away just as you glance up from the datapad.

"Hello," you say, your voice soft. "Commander Fox, is it?"

"Y-yes," he manages to reply, feeling his cheeks flush.

"And I'm Commander Thorn," Thorn chimes in, and he shoots him a smug look when Fox turns to glare at him.

"Well, hello," you say. Your voice is warm and melodic, and your eyes are sparkling. "It's a pleasure to meet you both."

"The pleasure's all mine," Thorn replies, flashing you a grin.

"Yeah," Fox mumbles. "Pleasure."

He's never felt so awkward in his life, and he's suddenly acutely aware of the blood on his armor, the way his hair is sticking up in all directions, and the fact that he hasn't slept in a couple days. You, on the other hand, look fresh and put together, and you're practically glowing.

You introduce yourself, and you give them a brief summary of your qualifications and experience. Fox doesn't pay much attention to what you're saying. He's too busy trying not to stare at you, and it isn't until he hears the word 'bacta' that he snaps back to reality.

"Wait, what?" he asks.

"Bacta," you repeat, tilting your head slightly. "It's a healing substance that stimulates the body's natural ability to regenerate tissue."

"I know what bacta is," he says, his tone coming out harsher than he intended.

You blink at him, clearly startled by his response, and Fox feels his face heating up.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. You offer him a small, polite smile, and he looks away, embarrassed. "As I was saying, we'll need to administer a small dose of bacta to the area where the injury occurred. It shouldn't take more than a few minutes."

"Fine." Fox crosses his arms and tries not to scowl, and you turn away, tapping on your datapad again. Thorn kicks him in the shin, and Fox gives him a look. The other commander gestures with his eyes to you, and Fox frowns, shaking his head.

"Do you have any allergies or medical conditions?" you ask, looking up from the screen.

"No," Fox says, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. The mattress is far too thin, and the metal frame is digging into the back of his knees. "I already told the droid."

"Right," you say. "Just making sure."

Fox glances over at Thorn, who gives him an exasperated look, and Fox sighs. He knows that he's being difficult, but he can't seem to stop himself. His shoulder hurts, his head is throbbing, and his stomach is rumbling, and he just wants to get this over with so he can return to the office and finally finish the rest of his work.

He looks back at you and sees that you're staring at him. You're looking at him with concern, and your lips are pressed into a thin line. You're not smiling anymore, and Fox feels a twinge of guilt.

"You don't have to be nervous," you say. "This is going to be a quick procedure, and it won't hurt at all. We'll use a local anesthetic and numbing spray, and you won't feel a thing."

"I'm not nervous," Fox protests, his face flushing. "I just don't have time for this."

"I understand," you say, and your expression softens. "But this is important, and we need to make sure that you're taken care of."

Fox wants to argue, but there's a hint of steel in your tone, and the look in your eyes is firm. You're clearly not going to let him get out of this, and he sighs, resigning himself to his fate.

"Alright," he says, reluctantly.

"Great," you say, giving him a small, reassuring smile.

He feels a little better when you smile at him, and he tries not to smile back. You turn away, busying yourself with setting up the equipment, and Fox takes the opportunity to look at you again. You're standing with your back to him, and he can see the outline of your figure through your medical whites. You're not very tall, but you're not short either, and he wonders how old you are. You can't be older than twenty-five, he guesses, but it's hard to tell with natborns.

"How did you get that injury, anyway?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

"Work-related incident," Fox says. He doesn't want to tell you the truth. He doesn't want you to think he's a clumsy idiot, or that he can't do his job properly.

"Oh," you say, sounding a little surprised. You turn back to the equipment, and he can see the muscles in your back tense. "That sounds... dangerous."

"It's nothing," Fox says, his voice low. "I can handle it."

"Of course," you say softly. You turn around and walk over to the cot, your gaze focused on the equipment. "Okay, armor off, Commander. Let's see it."

Fox stiffens, his heart skipping a beat. "I—what?"

"The injury," you say, your brow furrowing slightly. You reach over and brush your fingers against his arm. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Fox says, a little too quickly. 

Thorn lets out a snort, and Fox glares at him. He just raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk on his face, and Fox rolls his eyes.

"Sorry, it's been a long day," he says as he turns back to you. "Just a bit tired, is all."

"That's understandable," you say, your lips curving into a small, sympathetic smile. "If it makes you feel any better, I've been on my feet since 0600."

"I think you win," Fox says, his voice dry.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, and his heart skips a beat again. It's a nice sound, and he feels a strange surge of pride at having caused it.

He was truly terrible at making small talk, and most people found his dry sense of humor off-putting. The fact that you had laughed at his words, even if it had been a polite, professional laugh, was surprising. It was hard not to see it as a small victory in an otherwise terrible day.

You smile at him again, and he feels a sudden urge to smile back. You look like you're about to say something, but then your datapad beeps, and the moment is lost.

"I'll be right back," you say. "Just got to check something."

You step out of the room, and Fox lets out a breath, relieved that you're gone. He hadn't expected you to be so friendly, or to be so concerned about him. Most natborns just saw the troopers as an extension of their equipment, and they only spoke to him if there was a problem. You're different, though, and it's unnerving.

"You're blushing."

"What?" Fox sputters, turning to Thorn. "What are you talking about?"

"Your face is red," Thorn says with a wide grin.

"It's the lights," he says, pointing to the ceiling. "They're too bright."

"I didn't know we could blush," Thorn teases. "That's kinda cute."

"Shut up."

"Oh, come on. You can't tell me you're not at least a little bit interested."

Fox sighs and shakes his head. "Not now, Thorn. We're in a medical center, not a bar."

"Good thing, too." Thorn stands up and starts to help him unlatch his armor, a smirk on his face. "Cause if we were, you wouldn't have a chance. She's way out of your league."

"You're the worst," Fox says, and he swats Thorn's hands away and reaches up to unfasten his shoulder plates himself.

"She's pretty," Thorn continues, ignoring him. He pulls off Fox's pauldrons and sets them on the ground. "And she's not scared of you, either. That's a first."

"Yeah, well, she works in a medical facility," Fox mutters, slipping out of his cuirass. "They must have taught her how to deal with difficult patients."

"Maybe," Thorn says. He removes the rest of Fox's armor, placing it carefully on the ground, and then steps back. "But I don't think that's it. She's nice."

"She's paid to be nice."

"That's not fair, and you know it."

"I don't need you playing matchmaker," Fox grumbles.

"Fine," Thorn says, crossing his arms. "But if you don't ask for her frequency, I will."

Fox's eyes widen. "Don't you dare—"

The doors slide open again, and you step inside, your expression bright. "Sorry about that."

Your gaze is focused on the gloves you're pulling over your hands as you walk in, but as soon as you look up, your smile vanishes, and you freeze. Your eyes are fixed on his arm, and Fox quickly glances down, noticing the large dark patch of blood seeping through his undershirt.

"Oh, Commander!" you exclaim, hurrying towards him.

"It's not that bad," he says. He hadn't realized how bad it was until now, and his heart is pounding in his chest. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Your tone is stern, and he finds himself shrinking back a little under your intense gaze. "Now sit still."

Fox does as he's told, watching as you pull a stool over and set up a tray. Your movements are swift and practiced, and you don't seem at all bothered by the amount of blood. You're frowning, but your eyes are calm, and Fox finds himself relaxing a little.

"Let's get this over with," you mutter.

You're not smiling anymore, and it unsettles him. He'd thought that he had imagined the steel in your voice earlier, but now he can hear it clearly, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

"Yes, sir," he says, trying to lighten the mood.

"It's doctor, actually."

Fox winces.

"My mistake," he mutters, his voice apologetic. "Force of habit."

You look at him, and he thinks he sees the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, but before he can be sure, your face is composed and neutral again.

"Would you prefer I cut the sleeve off, or would you rather take it off yourself?"

"I'll do it."

You nod, and he lifts his arms, peeling the soaked fabric away from his skin. His stomach clenches at the sight of the deep, bloody gash, and the stench of copper is heavy in the air. He can feel the blood beginning to trickle down his arm, and the sight of his pale, slick flesh is almost enough to make him vomit.

"Are you okay?" you ask, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder.

"Yeah," Fox manages. He's feeling a little woozy, but he tries to push it down. "I'll be fine."

You give him a sympathetic look, and he looks away, his gaze fixed on the wall.

"Okay," you say. You grab a vial and a syringe and inject it into his arm. "This should help numb the pain. Try not to move."

Fox nods, and you lean closer, gently cleaning the wound. The smell of the disinfectant is strong, and he forces himself to focus on your face instead. Your expression is calm, and you're humming softly as you work, and he finds himself relaxing a little more.

"How did this happen, anyway?"

"Like I said, it's work-related."

"So it was a knife, then?"

Fox glances at the gash, and he nods. He can't tell if the cut is deep enough to require stitches or not, and he's a little worried that the knife might have hit an artery.

"You're going to have a nice scar."

"Good. It'll match the others," he mutters, his tone flat.

You pause for a moment, looking at him. Your expression is unreadable, but there's a sadness in your eyes that he doesn't understand. You resume cleaning the wound, and he tries not to think about it.

"Do you always go out in the field?" you ask.

"Sometimes."

"And do you usually get injured like this?"

"It's not uncommon."

"Hmm." You're quiet for a few moments, and then you glance up at him, your eyes filled with concern. "You're very brave."

Fox is stunned. No one has ever said anything like that to him before, and it catches him off guard. He doesn't know how to respond, and he just sits there, staring at you. You don't seem to mind, and you return your attention to his wound.

"This is a lot deeper than I thought," you murmur. "It'll need a few stitches."

"Okay," he says, his voice soft.

"Try to relax," you say, gently touching his arm.

He nods, and you begin to sew up the wound. He tries not to think about the fact that the needle is digging into his flesh, and instead focuses on the feeling of your gloved hands on his skin. They're gentle and warm, and the scent of the disinfectant is beginning to fade, replaced by the faintest trace of flowers.

He can't remember the last time someone touched him so tenderly. His brothers are rarely so careful, and most people who touch him are doing so with the intention of causing him harm. It's a pleasant change, and he finds himself enjoying it more than he expected.

"Sorry," you say, glancing up at him. "Almost done."

"Take your time," Fox replies. "I'm in no rush."

That's patently untrue, but the lie slips from his lips easily, and he's rewarded by a smile. He can see Thorn giving him a pointed look, and he knows that his brother will never let him live it down. But right now, he doesn't care.

The smell of flowers grows stronger, and he realizes that it's coming from you. The scent is subtle, but pleasant, and he's surprised by how much he likes it. He wonders what the source is. Is it your hair? Your skin? Or maybe it's something you wear, like perfume. He can't quite tell, and the mystery is starting to bother him.

You finish suturing his wound, and you dab some bacta gel over the stitches, sealing them. The sensation is cool and soothing, and Fox lets out a soft sigh of relief.

"How does that feel?" you ask.

"Better."

"Good," you say, your expression softening. You reach out and squeeze his uninjured shoulder, and Fox's eyes widen slightly at the unexpected gesture. "You should be all set, Commander."

"Thanks," he says, and the word sounds awkward in his ears. He's never thanked anyone for treating his wounds before. Usually, it was a medic droid, or another trooper, and his thanks were never required. But somehow, the words seem necessary now.

"Of course," you say, a hint of surprise in your voice. You remove your gloves, tossing them in the bin, and turn to clean up your equipment. "Do you have any other injuries, Commander? Any other...work-related incidents?"

"No, nothing else."

"Good." You stand up and stretch, and Fox takes the opportunity to admire the shape of your body. He can't help himself, and he quickly looks away, a flush rising on his cheeks.

"Thank you," Thorn chimes in, and Fox nearly jumps out of his skin. He had almost forgotten that the other commander was there, and his brother is looking at him with a knowing smile.

"You're welcome," you say, smiling at Thorn. You turn to Fox and offer him a smile, too, and he tries to smile back. It probably looks more like a grimace, and he quickly drops it.

"Now, remember, if that gets infected, or the stitches come loose before they dissolve, I want you to come right back, okay? No excuses."

"Got it," Fox replies.

"I mean it, Commander," you say, and you give him a stern look. "Don't make me hunt you down."

Fox blinks, his heart skipping a beat. You're serious, and he finds himself nodding, agreeing without thinking.

"Yes, sir," he says, and then mentally curses himself. "Doctor."

You chuckle, and the sound makes his chest tighten. It's the nicest sound he's heard all day, and he can't help but smile. You give him a playful salute, and he returns it, and you laugh again.

"Well, I hope we don't see each other anytime soon," you say, grinning.

"Me, too," Fox mutters, before he stiffens. "I mea—"

"I know what you mean," you say, your eyes sparkling. You hold out a hand, and he hesitates for a moment before taking it. Your skin is warm, and his breath catches in his throat when you gently squeeze his hand. "Take care, Commander."

"You, too," he says, and your smile widens. 

You pick up your datapad and step around the cot, moving towards the door. As you pass him, Fox catches another hint of the flowery scent, and his eyes widen. Lavender. It's lavender.

"Have a good day, gentlemen," you say. You flash him one last smile, and then you're gone.

He lets out a long, slow breath, trying to process what just happened. He feels... strange. There's an odd warmth in his chest, and he's still not quite sure what it is. He doesn't think it's anything bad, but it's new, and he doesn't know what to do with it. Maybe it's the blood loss. Or the painkillers. Or maybe it's the bacta. Yeah, it's probably the bacta.

Thorn slaps him on the back, and he lets out a startled noise, nearly falling off the cot.

"I don't know what the hell that was," Thorn says, chuckling. "But it was the most pathetic thing I've ever seen."

"Shut up."

"Seriously," he continues. "She's definitely way out of your league. I might even say she's way out of mine."

"I'm leaving," Fox grumbles. He grabs his armor and starts putting it on, trying not to wince as the plates rub against the bandages. "Get out of my way."

"Sure, sure," Thorn says, stepping aside. He gives Fox a sidelong glance, a mischievous look in his eyes. "Just make sure you give her your frequency."

Fox stops, his helmet half-on. He stares at Thorn, his mouth agape, and then turns away, pulling his bucket on over his head. He's not about to give Thorn the satisfaction of an answer. Not when his brother is clearly enjoying his discomfort so much.

He stalks out of the room, his boots echoing against the tile floor. Thorn follows, laughing, and Fox can feel his cheeks burning. He keeps his head down, his shoulders hunched, and he's determined not to speak another word. 

As they walk through the lobby, he notices you standing at the desk, speaking to the receptionist. You're not smiling anymore, but Fox can still see the ghost of it on your lips, and he feels the strange warmth growing inside him.

Thorn elbows him, and Fox lets out a hiss, glaring at him through his visor. He's already starting to regret allowing Thorn to drag him here. This whole experience had been far more traumatic than the injury itself, and he would have been better off ignoring it. But as he looks back at you, his gaze lingering on your form, he finds that he doesn't really regret it. At least not entirely.

The receptionist hands you a datapad, and you nod, thanking her. You turn and look at him, and he quickly ducks his head, pretending to adjust his pauldron.

"Commander!" you call out. "Wait a moment."

Fox stops, and Thorn snorts. He turns and sees you approaching, a small smile on your lips.

"Forget something?" he asks, and he winces internally at how gruff his voice sounds.

"Yes, actually," you say, stopping in front of him.

"Okay," he says slowly. He doesn't really understand why you're talking to him again, but he's not complaining. "What is it?"

"Your frequency."

Fox freezes, his eyes widening. He can't believe what he's hearing, and for a moment, he's convinced that he's misheard. It doesn't seem possible. Not with how the day has gone so far.

He glances over at Thorn, who's practically vibrating with excitement, and he quickly turns back to you, his heart racing.

"Uh..."

"I'll have the receptionist check in on you every few days, just to make sure everything is healing up okay," you continue. You hold out your datapad, and he takes it automatically. "But if there's any complications, or you notice anything unusual, don't hesitate to contact me, okay?"

The breath leaves his lungs, and he's grateful for the bucket over his head. Right. Of course. You're his doctor. This is completely professional. The disappointment that floods his veins is surprising, and he mentally scolds himself. What had he been expecting, anyway?

“That won’t be necessary," he says, handing the datapad back. "But thank you."

You frown. "Commander..."

"It's fine." He turns and gestures for Thorn to follow. "Come on, we've got work to do."

He can hear Thorn muttering behind him, and he knows that his brother is probably annoyed, but he doesn't care. The warmth inside him has vanished, replaced by an uncomfortable numbness. He doesn't know what he was hoping for, and he's glad that the conversation is over. It's better this way.

You call out after him, but he ignores you, and within moments, he's out of the building and back on the street. Thorn is right behind him, and they start the long trek back to the office.

"I can't believe you just did that," Thorn mutters.

"Did what?" Fox asks. He doesn't look at him, keeping his eyes fixed forward. He can feel his face heating up, and he's suddenly feeling very tired.

"You're an idiot," Thorn says, shaking his head.

"Shut up."

They walk in silence for a few minutes, and Fox tries not to think about the conversation. It doesn't matter, and it's better to just forget it.

He's been doing this job long enough to know that it’s dangerous to get attached to people, especially when they were civilians. Things never worked out, and the risk of getting hurt was too great. He'd seen too many of his brothers get their hearts broken by the citizens they were trying to protect, and he wasn't about to let that happen to him. It wasn't worth it. And you weren't special, anyway. You were just another natborn.

He repeats these thoughts to himself over and over, and eventually, he starts to believe them. The warmth inside him disappears, and the numbness returns. He's relieved. He's finally starting to get his head on straight, and the sooner he forgets about you, the better.

And yet, when they reach the Senate building, Fox hesitates. His eyes wander towards the medical center towering over the cityscape, and he feels a twinge in his chest. He tries to ignore it, and he continues walking, heading towards the office. But the ache doesn't go away, and the image of your smile lingers in his mind, taunting him.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much. He'd only just met you, and it was nothing but a brief conversation. There was no reason to be upset. But somehow, it feels like something was taken from him. And he can't figure out what it was.

Taglist: @baddest-batchers @covert1ntrovert @stellarbit @bruh-myguy-what @qvnthesia

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[melancholicstation]

GOD BLESS AMERICA AND ALL THE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN IT —HUSBAND!JACK SCHLOSSBERG COMFORT HEADCANONS 𓍼 𓇢𓆸

jack schlossberg fan fiction is for the lovers

WIFE!READER returns and is the orion carloto archetype, who balances modelling and writing, and i imagine her making tiktoks in the same vain of alanabananaxox (she's been my no.1 tiktoker since 2021) and sotce on tiktok.

taglist: @obsessedwithjohnjr @candyneckl6ce @rocker-chick-7 @ultr4v1ol3nt @violetharmonsfavgf @strip-weather-forecast @darcyspirits @fortheloveofjos @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @h-l-vlovesvintage @bluelancergirl @snowsgames @salvatoresablondie @dulcegal @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @kimcrystal123 @absurdlyvintage @jackiesgirl @chemicalw0rld @remotewatch @starsprangledgirl

no matter the stressor husband!jack literally treats it as a top-priority emergency

immediately goes to start a bath for you in your gorgeous copper bathtub (cause of course you have a copper bathtub ... duh) with some suzzane kaufman bath salt's that he picked up down in greenwich after a meeting with vogue's magazine department.

husband!jack is a freak for baths and it's rubbed off on you ... seriously like that man takes baths multiple times a week, on top of daily showers

if he had to be out on a day you were particularly anxious for whatever reason he would come home with a laundry bag of new tasteful yet cute stuffed animals from loewe and never tell you the prices cause he knows you'd crash out

is great at being a body pillow and has no shame just laying in silence together for hours

would try to make you feel better by getting the overpriced (not in your opinion) criterion subscription just so you could watch vintage halloween movies without running a risk of getting hacked on some third-party sketchy website

would 100% let you live in his clothes while he was out of the house so you could feel comforted even if he wasn't physically near

would absolutely try to distract you with light comedy, despite his cockiness he is indeed a funny guy so it helps slightly

husband!jack would be such a proponent of a healthy mind is a healthy body so he'd make you go do jump rope with him (cause why does jump roping have to be so humiliating) or even worse takes you out to paddle board, like imagine your knee-deep in that melancholic state where you only read plath novels and listen to unreleased lana and your boyfriend drags you out to go paddle boarding???? like cmon now

you do feel better afterwards but you would never tell him that

if you guys owned any pets together he would without a doubt tell you he's going to be out for a couple of hours and come back with one of those portrait paintings of house-pets to cheer you up (editors note: vang olsen mimi does the most delightful pet paintings if your in greenwich!)

he would absolutely NOT be above trying to self-medicate your problems (within reason) by smoking w*ed with you or sharing a cigar being the chicest couple ever!

would 100% smother you in delightfully soft cashmere blankets in the pattern of gorgeous tapestries

would earnestly read poems (robert frost, emily dickinson, and shakespeare) to you to get you to sleep on the especially hard days

is a devout optimist and routinely talks you out of your doom scrolling

always holds space for whatever emotions you are feeling but always wants to provide solutions to your problems

and when he encounters a problem he can't so easily fix he invests time into getting your mind off it and plans steps you can take to lessen the hold whatever your stressing about has on you

writes mini impromptu love letters/pep talks on the empty spaces in your agenda notebook (wife!reader would totally own more than 1 of these louise carmen organisers in an apropos shade of autumn scarlet )

encourages you to do self-care rituals with your staple skincare products by letting you do the exact same steps on him

while husband!jack cooks for you both you read him your favourite chapters of "democracy" by joan didion in the kitchen every night and it remains a pillar in your routine despite the tumult

during your hard times jack is serving peak husbandry doing the washing, cooking and cleaning

when he's on his lunch break at the office you get text messages like this:

always makes sure that you take your medication (if you take any) at the exact times its supposed to be at and has little alarms on his phone

husband!jack would increase his acts of service to 1000% like that man would be taking your row boots into the cobbler for a new sole

would bring home flowers without a special occasion, just cause

would without a doubt bring out those STELLAR accents just to see you smile

disclaimer: this is all obviously fiction and i do not know this man nor how he calms anyone down, this is all for some fun distraction in these trying times.

to anyone struggling with the results and its ramifications (same here) i would really encourage you to read this beautiful (free) essay from alanabanaxox on patreon: https://www.patreon.com/posts/i-miss-dancing-115580140?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_fan&utm_content=web_share

[hotchfiles]

smells like roses — aaron hotchner x gn!reader

WHUMPTOBER ENTRY FOR @tobias-hankel; prompts: suicide/attempted suicide, "you can't save everyone"

Aaron thinks you might be mad at him, so he tries to surprise you with flowers and a cozy night in. He finds your dead body instead.

Wordcount: 1,094

Content Headsup: SUICIDE. Main character death (apparently I'm never stopping the always kills the reader allegations). The suicide is not graphically described, reader is found inside a bathtub but I didn't write in the method, the state of the body (aside from dead, heavy and drenched), so it isn't THAT bad. This is pretty much just Aaron's POV to the day he finds you dead, so HEAVY ANGST, but not graphic. It is not implied that Aaron was at fault for it, the reasons behind the suicide are never discussed, reader is just depressed. Also, no dialogue and no use of y/n.

You can’t save everyone.

You can’t save everyone.

You can’t save everyone.

Those are the words flowing around his head. He can’t save everyone and that has always been his biggest fear. His Achilles heel.

He can’t save everyone and worse than that: Aaron couldn’t save you.

It’s his curse, really. Falling for someone only to inevitably lose them. It has happened every single time before: Haley, Kate, Haley again. Beth moves to Hong Kong and he meets you. He should’ve realized sooner that he wasn’t born to love or be loved for long.

Still, when you first smiled at him that one Monday morning back in June two years ago he knew he had to try. He had no choice but to love you.

And he did it so easily, made an effort to show you what he effortlessly felt for you from the beginning, as if he was never hurt before, like a teenage boy with a crush on someone pretty.

First time he saw you taking pills Aaron didn’t question it, thought to himself they were probably vitamins or something unimportant like that. Then he witnessed the panic in your eyes when you thought you had run out of it before your appointment for the prescriptions.

Antidepressants. He felt the guilt of not noticing it wash over him like a tsunami, his chest tight, his heart heavy. A profiler and your boyfriend and he missed all clues hidden under your smiles and your loving touch.

Aaron made sure not to let guilt paralyze him, calming you down, showing you no judgment and helping you find the missing pills you still had.

He acts normal on your good days but doubles the way he cares for you on your bad ones, even when busy on a case he calls, reassures you of his love, sends you food and asks to see you eating it.

He thought that would be enough. You were medicated and seemed effortlessly happy most of the time. Aaron really believed that and being by your side would be enough.

He worried. Worried about your well being. Made sure you wouldn’t starve yourself or forget to care for yourself on bad days. But he never worried about having to try to save you and failing to do so. He never laid awake thinking about finding your lifeless body in your bathtub. He wasn’t prepared for this.

The day started as it always does for Aaron, so early it can’t be considered bright. 5 AM on the dot, fresh coffee being made by the smart coffee maker you got him for Christmas last year the only noise heard as he quietly enters his boy’s bedroom. It’s too early and he feels sorry for Jack, but he has to be taken to his aunt’s before Aaron heads to the BAU.

Jessica’s car is at a mechanic and will only be done after lunch, it will be easier for her to take the metro with Jack this way.

Normal issues of a normal day. The worst he imagined could happen was an impromptu case, a flat tire even. If only he knew how his day would end.

It’s 10 AM and he should’ve paid more attention to the fact you haven’t texted him good morning. No breakfast pictures, no horoscope screenshots. But you’ve been working so hard and have been so obviously tired that he’s glad you’re sleeping in. You might be more of a workaholic than he is and Aaron just wants you to enjoy resting for a bit.

By noon he is swamped, drowning in paperwork and consultations that need his full attention, and Aaron knows he’s not at fault for doing his job but he wishes he did more than just snap a picture of his salad, he wishes he noticed it sooner, how you didn’t react to it, how he still didn’t know what you had for breakfast or what the day held for Scorpios.

8 PM he finishes work and it dawns on him how absent he was and how silent you’ve being. He curses under his breath, silent treatment was never a thing for the both of you so he assumes you must be extremely mad and Aaron learned from past experiences that he’s not the best at noticing subtlety when it comes to his love life. Maybe it was something he did or said, maybe it’s something he forgot.

Since meeting you he has been trying not to associate flowers with apologies, buying you singles or full bouquets almost every week, but still, that’s the first thing he does after leaving work, however mad you are, flowers and a surprise visit should be enough to melt it away.

He’s happy, annoyingly so if he thinks back, he’s not worried, it’s always easy to solve problems with you and he’s excited to see you, it wasn’t on his plans and that makes him extra giddy, a night surrounded by your scent and your voice is all he needs to feel recharged.

Aaron texts Jess to ask her to keep Jack for the night, tells her he can pick him up if she needs to, but he’s lucky she always seems to be prepared when he needs her, which is often, but less now with your help.

Maybe it would be better if he was worried. It would be less painful, less shocking.

Maybe if Aaron didn’t think you were just asleep when he turned the keys you gave him only to find a dark silent living room, the pained shriek that left his throat after following the bathroom light wouldn’t have been so loud.

But he didn’t worry. So when the bathtub overflown water hit his shoes, the flowers hit the floor, desperately let go as he yelled your name, his arms flying quickly to your cold body, trying to get you out as much as hugging you.

There’s something to be said about lifting dead drenched weight, especially over wet tiles. He slips to his knees before being able to, ends up dragging you out with him.

Aaron does CPR, the paramedics called by the neighbors don’t hide the pity in their eyes when they arrive and see him still trying.

Your name a begging sound, hurting more than the sore muscles of his arms from trying to lift and CPR a dead body.

The wet and stepped on roses leave a lingering scent, one he won’t ever forget.

He’s been trying not to associate flowers with apologies, and now they are forever linked, intertwined with death. Yours.

[transformers-spike]

Hello ummm can I order a uhh wholesome Starscream x human!SO with the SO being into praising him and caring for him? And he of course is drinking it all up because he needs love and reassurance more than he could ever admit

Yet again my brain decided to go for a full length novel, so I had to pull back and came up with this. Think of this as them before they got together:

“Are you alright?” “Of course I am! Why would you think otherwise?” he snarks, puffing up like a disgruntled cockatiel. You squint and look him up and down with the most “dude, just admit it” expression you can muster. He glares at you for what feels like ages, ridiculous brow plates knitted into a “fucking try me” V. You sigh, take off the welding mask and put down the torch. “I’m worried about you.” Those very same brow plates shoot up to the sky. “Pah! I don’t need your worry!” he scoffs like he isn’t bleeding out in the middle of the woods. “Sure you don’t, but I’ll have you know there’s only so much I can do! We should call Ratchet.” His fist slams to the ground, you stumble but manage to catch yourself before falling face first into the deadly spikes adorning his stiletto. Death by high heel isn’t on your “appropriately ironic deaths” list, but you should add it. If your brain didn’t slosh inside your skull like a snowglobe in the hands of a petulant two year old, you could have sworn the mighty ex-commander of the Decepticons looked apologetic for a split second. “I would rather not deal with the likes of the Autobot medic,” he declares in a slightly softer voice, although not without his usual amount of scorn. “After all, you’re doing just fine,” he croons in a sly, buttering tone. Maybe you could have believed him if he hadn’t been constantly berating you for fucking up the impromptu surgery. You are not a medic, goddammit! Much less well-versed in the art of welding shut a metal alien from a planet light years away! You’re just some car junky with pyromaniac inclinations! But seeing him this way… covered in grime and energon, wings hanging low and servos shaking. You’re glad you didn’t send him to voicemail.

You pat his leg. “Thanks, but if this happens again I’m calling Bulkhead to haul your ass back to base whether you like it or not.” Putting on your welding mask, you keep working. Starscream stays oddly quiet, not even bothering to beep at you indignantly when your torch falls out of line. It’s no Picasso, but the bleeding has stopped. After you step back to give him some space, he tests out his leg, standing up and shifting his weight from side to side. The injured leg strains but does not collapse. “Good?” you ask. “Manageable,” he mumbles in his typical “it kinda sucks but I have to be grateful” way.

Pride fills you up like a single mom downing martinis during happy hour. Although not the best compliment, it’s a Ritz-Carlton coming from him.

“Do you want to go back to base? Or just… hang out here? In the middle of the woods?” He wrinkles his optical ridge at you but doesn’t answer.

“Okay,” you drawl out, taking a seat on possibly the most comfortable rock in Nevada. Years pass by – or so it feels like – waiting for the usually extremely bitchy (thus chatty) bot to break the silence. He does not. “I think I should go,” you sit up and thumb at your car, parked all the way across the woods on the main road, a good hike from where you’re currently at. “Don’t,” he hisses. His expression is almost… forlorn if not for his angry brows. Oh fuck off, the emotionally constipated airplane war criminal can’t ask you to hang out without hurting his pride. Which makes you the responsible adult of the situation compared to the billion year old metal chicken. And by God, you are the least responsible person you know (excluding Starscream).

So you sit your ass back down and lock eyes with said chicken. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened?” you ask, fully expecting him to shut you down by calling you fleshling and waving your humanity over your head like a shitty “begone” charm.

Instead, he thinks about it, averting his gaze from you and turning it to the vast wilderness beyond the trees. “Vehicons,” he states bitterly. “Either it was a purely coincidental dogfight or… Megatron is after me.” His whole frame shudders, wings sinking as low as they can go.

“I see.” You pause to take a deep breath. “Do you want to tell the Autobots?”

He shakes his helm and loosens a self-deprecating chuckle from his vocalizer. “Like they would listen to me.” You scrunch up your nose. “How about I tell them? Would that be easier for you?” His optics widen for a brief moment before returning to their perpetually conniving state. “I’m not delighted with the option, but it’s preferable considering their propensity for gathering unsolicited information.” The silence returns. “Hey, I know it’s not the best time to bring this up. But you don’t even have to answer, just please hear me out.” He peers at you wordlessly. “You’ve been through-” you gesture at dry neon blue energon adorning his frame “-a lot lately. I’m not asking you to talk about your feelings or anything like that, but if you ever need someone to just… be around, I’m here.” His expression hasn’t shifted one bit. It’s completely unreadable. You continue on with gritted teeth. “Personally, I’ve never defected from an extremely violent faction and been hunted down through the sky, but I find it’s easier to suffer around friends and family. They help shoulder the pain.”

He arches a metal brow. “Are you implying we’re friends?” “I mean-” you stammer, “I definitely consider you a friend. If you don’t, that’s fine, I’m not forcing you or anything. To each their own. But that’s beside the point-” A lengthy chuckle cuts you off. “Does a friend answer their comm in the middle of the night cycle and perform surgery with sub-optimal tools?” You’re not sure if he’s insulting you or trying to make a meaningful point. Maybe both. “If so,” he continues, lips quirking into an intimidating but somehow genuine smile, “we are friends.” Your brain flatlines. “Oh,” you whisper. “OH,” it hits you like an F-15 Fighting Falcon at full speed. “I… okay. So, um, if you want to hang out and stuff, I can stick around until five o’clock. Then I’ll have to leave and get ready for work.”

“Good enough,” he scoffs good-naturedly, having returned to his bitchy old self with slightly less bitchiness. But the smile he doesn’t bother hiding betrays something deeper. Starscream is your friend. Starscream called himself your friend. Holy shit, you think you’re going to have an aneurysm.

[tinydefector]

Marine Centre- merformers AU

Multiple x human reader

Word count: 1.5k

Masterlist

Next

_________

Yawk-yawk Marine Rehabilitation centre. Its home to many injured Oceanides or as many liked to call them mers. It was also leading research into the way the oceanides socialised and lived, the large centre bordered on the ocean side where many Of the oceanides would gather due to the safety it gifted them to raise their young, care for injured. 

Oceanides themselves were rather elusive creatures, and could become hostile easily. A Lot of humans had them listed in the same category as dolphins, they had amazing memories, and could remember the faces of those who have hurt or helped them. And that's what led many of them to the centre's waters. Many different pods frequent, letting the vets and marine scientists within reasonable range to study them.

Footfall echoes across the broad walk making many of the oceanides heads snap towards the sound, some slinking back into the water of the cove. thrills of delight echo out from many as the human continues walking across the walk towards the water. “Yes, yes I know it's dinner time!” They call out with a laugh watching the oceanides eagerly swimming around. 

They continue to cart the large barrels of fish towards the jetty. A beautiful gold and black Oceanide is the first to emerge from the water as the familiar human approaches, powerful fins slicing gracefully through the waves as he gets to the jetty a loud snarl and hiss leave him impatiently. “Oh don't you start up Shimmer!” They huff out before mimicking his hiss. He lets out a grumble before darting back under the water with a splash. 

Two other oceanides are at the jetty following Shimmer. Both chirping and cooing when they see their feeder. The human eyes land on the silver-grey Mer before they call out. “and you Slip!, if I catch you in the Turtle tanks again I'm not gonna be happy!” They call out which only gets another loud thrill and show of fins.  

a dark grey and Red Oceanides pushes himself up partly onto the jetty as he calls out sweetly trying to catch the humans attention. Their eyes drift to the Mer as his wide eyes watch them. “Yes, hello sweet boy, I know it's food time” they hum only for him to call again. They let out a soft sigh before slowly walking towards him. “don't nip me Angelfish” they warn in a stern voice. They run their hand over his he'd crest which has him chafing lightly as he leans onto the touch. 

It's Only the sound of splashing and scratching which makes their head snap Back to the barrel to see a Red and Orange Mer alongside Slip. “Oi!” They shout which earns them a wide eyed stare from the two as they snag fish and take off. “ I swear you two!” They yell out while making their way back to the barrel. “Bloody pest” they huff. 

They move the barrel to the edge of the jetty, tipping it and letting the fish scatter quickly the moment they hit the water. The fish knew full well they were prey,  thrills and calls of voracious hunger leave the many Oceanides which dart into the water to chase down a meal. some grouping up to gracefully weave through the impromptu hunt, coming up with bountiful mouthfuls to share among the gathered pods. 

From the shadows of the lagoon, a deep rumble echo's as the massive blue and red mer slowly drift to the surface from his resting place amongst the sea weed, crooning soft as he looks towards the human. They smile as they see the large Red and blue oceanide. His scales looked better than they had a week before, the wounds he had sustained had healed well.

"Hey there Big blue" they call out grabbing one of the other fish, this one had a mix of medications in it to help the big mer heal. "Even brought you a treat " they hum, walking towards him with the large Barramundi, they hold the fish in the water for him as he swims over and bites into the fish, taking it with him gently. 

The human leans down and lightly drags their hand across the frills of big blues head, checking the fresh healed wounds. He was one of the more docile Oceanides, despite being one of the bulls of the pods he was very docile. The sound of hissing and snarling is what breaks them out of their checking Big blue. “Oi! Quit it!” They shout at the two Oceanides bickering. One flicks Water at the other as if to end The argument before thrilling in what they could only assume was laughter.

______

The soft footsteps had them alert them. Eyes looking up to see their feeder making their way to the water's edge. The sound of fish had  many of them slipping back into the water, moving towards the feeding grounds. Sunstreaker, Rodimus, Jazz and Bluestreak all watch the Walker as they cart what they know too well is fish. Sunstreaker is the first to emerge from the water as the familiar human approaches, a deep rumble leaves him. “took your fragging time lander!” he growls out. It earns him noise back from the human before they hiss back at him. He grumbles as he sinks back into the water as Rodimus and Jazz laugh at him. 

“awww did someone get hisses at?” Rodimus teases only for Sunstreaker to slap him with his tail. “Hey the Frag!” Rodimus chirps back at him. Jazz appears, flanking them. “Ay quit it, you two, it's hunting time” he calls back to them. Bluestreak peers up from the water moving towards the jetty. Wanting to get the softskins attention. 

Jazz laughs as he swirls around while the soft skin calls out at him angrily. "Primus, Jazz, what did you do this time?" Arcee ask as she makes her way over for the hunt. 

"You'll bring their wrath down upon us all with your tricks, glitch."

Jazz merely trills mischievously, fins undulating in a careless shrug. "Ah, they love me really. Little softskin adores me, may have broken into the Turtles again." He hums while brushing past her. 

Still, Sunstreaker emits a low rumble in annoyance, in truth he was getting angsty,  Sideswipe was in the facility and he couldn't see him. His ice blue eyes locked on the mammals every movement. “sweet skin!” Bluestreak calls out while lifting himself  up enough hoping they would come over, chirping happily and sweetly at them. He nearly melts as they walk over running their small hands over his face as a purr leaves him. 

Rodimus takes the opportunity while the human's distracted. “Jazz!, softies distracted!” he calls and Jazz moves just a quickly, both of them pushing themselves up onto the pier. Claws hands delving into the overly full Barrel of fish. But when the human shouts they both dart back into the water with their score. 

Mirage can't help a laughter escaping him at the human's exasperated cursing, as they glare at Jazz and Rodimus innocently smug looks as they chew on their fish.  Bluestreak coos sadly. “Come on! You two ruined it!” he grumbles before sinking back into the water patiently waiting for the fish to be dropped into the cove.  

Mirage purrs softly, as he swam up to Bluestreak soothing him while brushing against him. “aww don't worry Softie will give you more cuddles later you puffer fish” Bluestreak huffs in annoyance “I'm not a puffer”  

All arguments cease the moment the fish hit the water, hunting instinct taking over, as the fish scatter quickly. They each gracefully weave through the impromptu hunt, grabbing fish and ripping them to threads as they eat them. The commotion is what wakes Optimus from his place resting at the bottom of the cove in the sea weed. 

“hello little one” Optimus rumbles softly as he sees their feeder. His eyes light up as they bring over the rather large fish for him. He knew it was most likely filled with the medication that they were putting into him to heal but the large fish was still a treat, it wasn't often he got to feast on this fish. 

Sunstreaker snorts while watching. "Pit, can you believe this, Fleshie has made him soft" he grumbles out while tearing though his own fish and swallowing it still seething as he watches the large bull Oceanides. "Next thing you know, he'll be taking one as a mate like some wet-behind-the-fins first seasoner."

Rodimus smirks, fins fluttering dismissively. "Jealous, much, want the little softskin to yourself." Beside him, Jazz breaks into peals of trills at Sunstreaker's indigent snarling, spinning graceful loops through the water. "Aww, is Sunny jelly he ain't getting special treatment like the big Bull?" he teases.

Sunstreaker lunges at the slippery speedster, only for Jazz to evade with mocking ease. "Frag off, glitch! As if I'd want those walkers to touch me," Sunstreaker snaps, though his field radiates grudging envy despite himself. 

The others continue to tease him, he responds with hissing and snarling, Jazz and Rodimus finding it playful and amusing. That's until the humans yelling breaks them out of it. Sunstreaker slap his tail onto the water splashing them before sinking back down into the water, having had enough of them. 

In truth he didn't mind their feeder, he could leave at any time, he wasn't being held here, but it didn't feel right leaving when Sideswipe was hurt and the humans were caring for him. 

______

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원샷! (One-Shot!) - MYG X F!Reader

Part 1.5: Half The Man

series masterlist

pairing: Doctor!Yoongi x Doctor!Reader genre(s): crack, fluff, angst (i'm sorry) au(s): medical AU, idiots-to-lovers (not quite yet) word count: 1.7k chapter warnings: cynical Yoongi, Jeonghan cameo!, hospital talk, artificial insemination and pregnancy, sperm for insemnation switched without readers’ knowledge/consent, Yoongi has no filter, mentions of previously regretful acts done while drunk, arguments, lots of unresolved feelings, did I mention they’re idiots (affectionate), rating: 18+

summary: As your pregnancy progresses, Yoongi continues to wrestle with his long-standing feelings, culminating in an argument that has you making an unexpected move.

a/n: Hi, thank you so much to everyone that has shown love to this series. I'm so sorry that it took me so long to upload the second part, I struggled a lot to continue writing this partly because of my own insecurity, partly because of other things (which I don't want to get into). But Doc!Yoongi is so fun to write! I hope you enjoy!

disclaimer: I do not own, or have any affiliation with BTS. Any similarity between the version of the idol(s) mentioned and portrayed here and their real life counterparts is purely coincidental, and does not represent the thoughts and opinions of said idol(s). Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. This specific fic is based on the 2010 movie The Switch, which contains sensitive themes relating to accidental artificial insemnation, consent, and pregnancy. Please do your research before engaging with this fic, as these themes may not be for everyone.

The small splotch on Yoongi’s white coat, the byproduct of an accidental run-in with a very flustered Jeon Jungkook holding a very hot cup of coffee, had now turned into an unsightly bloom. Yoongi rubbed at the stain, cursing under his breath that he’d skipped laundry day this week.

To make matters worse, he’d gotten an impromptu page right in the middle of his lunch break. The three tiny beeps went off, and Yoongi’s face turned stark white.

“Oh no,” you gave him the most sympathetic look you could muster, your eyes turning misty. The pregnancy had thrown your hormones completely out of balance, the smallest inconvenience turning into enough to make you cry. “Jeonghan?”

“Jeonghan,” Yoongi sighs. 

…

The frigid air in Jeonghan’s office was nearly enough to rival the stare he currently possesses. Yoongi has to resist the urge to scoff. Yoon Jeonghan was the head of his department, full of pride with a face to match his inflated ego. A handful of years younger than Yoongi, he’d only gotten the position after Yoongi had turned it down multiple times, grumbling about how he was too busy taking care of real patients to deal with all the paperwork that department heads had to put up with. 

“I’m going to be very frank with you Dr. Min,” Jeonghan leans over his desk, a few stray papers falling to the floor. “You’re falling apart.” 

Yoongi bristles, shuffling his feet. He’d felt off ever since the night of your party, and even worse a few weeks later when you told him you were pregnant, all the memories coming back to him. He’d pushed it out of his mind, but clearly Jeonghan had noticed which meant it was affecting his work.

“Namjoon says you’re ordering X-rays and labs for your patients, but not coming up with any diagnoses.”

He straightens, heat coming to his face. “Dr. Yoon, I can explain—“

“No need, Dr. Min. The whole hospital knows you’re in love with ___. You don’t do a great job of hiding it.”

If there was ever a time Yoongi wished a sinkhole would open up and swallow the hospital whole, it was now (not that he’d thought about it before). Almost as if he can sense Yoongi’s sheer embarrassment, Jeonghan is by his side in no time, pulling up a chair to catch Yoongi’s unsteadily swaying figure.

“I’m too fucking sober for this conversation,” Yoongi groans, plopping into the comfortable cushion, Jeonghan looking on with an amused smile.

“That’s probably why Seungcheol also said he saw you throwing up in the hallway like a sorority girl the night of ___’s party.”

Yoongi cursed his stupid neighbour, who also happened to be one of the hospital’s charge nurses, for ratting him out. But then again, a free therapy session with his director was hard to come by, so maybe Yoongi would need to stop and buy Cheol a coffee sometime.

“He has a PhD from Harvard… HARVARD,” Yoongi whines, thinking back to the stupidly attractive man he’d met who was going to be your sperm donor.

“You’re just mad because ___ put you in the friendzone,” Jeonghan sighs.

“We put each other in the friendzone,” Yoongi interrupts, but Jeonghan waves him away.

“No, you had your chance six years ago when both of you started working here, and you blew it.”

“How did I blow it?” Yoongi questions, even though he knows exactly how – and what you’d say if he ever had the guts to ask.

“You went all Yoongi on her — it kills the vibes. You showed too much crazy too soon,” Jeonghan is moving around him now, picking up the stray papers, and Yoongi’s patience becomes thinner than the 11 blade he uses for procedures.

“Oh I’m sorry, did your extortionate divorce settlement teach you that?” He quips back, purposefully sliding his chair onto some of the sheets so Jeonghan can’t reach them.

“Yoongi, you sent me a picture of your armpit three weeks ago while I was in the middle of a surgery.”

“I thought I had a growth! You’re a doctor, you should want to help me!”

“Newsflash, Min, we’re all doctors in here.” And Yoongi knows Jeonghan’s right – he was eccentric, too much at times. But somehow, you never seemed to mind, from always having his back through his daily rants, to showing up at his apartment with a tub of ice cream after his call shifts so you two could make affogatos (Yoongi was nothing if not a caffeine addict).

He hears the door click shut behind him, and Jeonghan’s gone, leaving Yoongi alone with his thoughts, thoughts he’s had many times before. But somehow, it all feels different this time around. You’re pregnant with a child - his child, and you’re not supposed to be. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and yet, he can’t have it because it would mean confessing that he’d messed up. And like Jeonghan, Yoongi much preferred to shut the door on things rather than let anyone in.

The moan you let out is borderline indecent, and probably not something you should be doing in the middle of your best friend’s apartment. But you were four months pregnant, and the tangy spice of the kkaenip-kimchi Yoongi had prepared for you at 1am was the best thing you’d ever put in your mouth.

“My eomma would have a heart attack if she saw you eating unfermented kimchi at 1am, she says—” 

“The fermentation is good for the baby, I know, I know,” you finish Yoongi’s sentence with a pout. “But I wanted kimchi now.”

“You’re lucky I’m Korean. What if you didn’t have a best friend like me and your random kimchi cravings hit?” Yoongi chuckles, his gums peeking out from one of his rare smiles. The dim lights from the city skyline reflect onto the window behind Yoongi, casting a faint glow over him, and you feel your heart flip-flop, unsure if it’s from nausea or something else.

“I would have gone to H-Mart or something, or called up Seokjin,” you mumble under your breath, but Yoongi, the ever preceptive one between the two of you, catches your hushed response.

“You’re still in touch with him?” His face is pale, a far-away look in his eyes, and you feel your stomach drop, a lead weight settling on your chest.

A strange heat crawls up your spine, and you feel yourself flush at the iciness in Yoongi’s tone, wanting to defend yourself.

“Of course I am Yoongi. The whole point of doing this was so that I could have a donor that I’d be able to meet face to face, look him in the eyes, shake his hand —”

“What, are you going to marry him or something?” Yoongi cuts through your rambling, eyes blazing. “I thought the whole point of this was having a baby. I thought he didn’t matter.”

“Obviously he matters, but not like that, I just–” you trip over your words, unsure why you’re growing so frustrated. This isn’t what you expected when you’d called Yoongi up asking for kimchi. “Why are you being so weird about this?”

“I’m not being weird,” Yoongi’s back is to you, shuffling around in the kitchen. He is being weird, refusing to meet your eyes. “It’s just – what if you meet someone tomorrow? Or in six months? What if you fall in love? Isn’t that an important part of this?”

“This isn’t like you Yoongi,” you shove your bowl of kimchi to the side, wrapping your coat around your arm. Yoongi pales, watching you get up to leave. “I’m not going to spend my life waiting for some what-if. I didn’t exactly dream of this okay? It wasn’t like I was sitting there suffering through med school, just pondering the idea of putting an ad out for a sperm donor one day! But this is real, and it’s happening, and even though you’ll never say it, you think I’m making the wrong choice. You’re supposed to be my friend!”

Your voice breaks at the last sentence, eyes filling with tears. Yoongi had always been there for every stage of your life, through all your terrible dates and failed situationships. He’d been your one constant, but lately it felt like he was fading, purposely removing himself from your life the moment you’d told him you were going through with this.

“I think we need to take some time apart. We need a time-out,” you throw your coat over your shoulders, and Yoongi stiffens, a choked sound escaping him.

“Already learning how to speak mom,” Yoongi quips, but his signature Yoongi humour isn’t enough to quell the rage filling your body. You don’t spare him a second glance, turning on your heel, letting the door slam behind you before you fall apart.

Yoongi wasn’t just your friend, he was so much more than that, but now you weren’t sure if he remained anything to you at all.

Jeonghan’s face is no longer smug when he breaks the news to Yoongi. You’re moving back home, claiming that the city is no place to raise a child. For once, Yoongi is thankful that the younger man doesn’t let his ego get in the way, opening the door to his office so Yoongi can lament in peace, the walls he’d built around his heart growing higher and higher. 

Two weeks later, you were gone. Yoongi stood with you as the moving trucks pulled up, watching you get choked up, the two of you barely having the guts to say more than a simple goodbye, for fear that you’d crack and say the wrong thing. 

Yoongi had always thought of himself as a mature, stable adult, but he fell apart at your leaving, feeling much like a child in need of constant attention. Your words ring back to him – a timeout. You’d left your friendship in constant purgatory – daily texts turned into once-a-week phone calls, which then turned into once-a-month emails, until you’d exchange Christmas cards once a year.

Seven years passed by in the blink of an eye - bringing with them two failed relationships, a stock market crash, a new roommate in the form of a poodle named Holly, and one phone call that changed everything.

A/N pt. 2: Thanks for reading! As always, any feedback or comments are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi 💜

[satorusugurugurl]

Worth It

Summary: Marie’s Summer Fest prompt: babysitting

Pairing: Choso Kamo x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: language, handjob, fingering, smut, protected sex, fluffy fluff

Word Count: 4,988 (oops)

A/N: hi y’all sorry for the delay heroes the last prompt for my summer fest celebration!! I am finally getting back on track, my goodness have I been super busy! Enjoy!

Choso was so damn stressed. He ran his hand down his face with a sigh as Yuuji screamed at the top of his lungs, singing along to the theme song of his favorite show that was playing in the background. Choso was left feeling more than a little stressed between his dayshift at the hospital and trying to find a new babysitter while taking care of the apartment. On top of everything else, he was trying to prepare himself to see you for the first time in four years.

He had run into your Mom at the grocery store last week. After talking for a bit and hearing about all the stuff piled up on his plate, she offered for you to babysit during the summer while his grandpa was on a month-long cruise. You had been friends growing up, having lived next door to each other; it only made sense. But the age difference between you caused you both to grow apart. It was only natural since there was a four-year difference. Choso was off to medical school for his nursing degree by the time you started high school.

But now that he was twenty-four and you were twenty going to college yourself, things wouldn't be so different. God, when had he seen you last? Would he ever recognize you?

While Choso found himself lost in thought, pacing the kitchen. You were excitedly bounding up the stairs to his apartment door, knocking on it. God, you were so excited! Your mom’s consistent meddling with your dating life had finally paid off for once! She had successfully given you a chance to rekindle a relationship with your longtime crush. You’d always had a down bad for the gothy boy next door. But since you were four years younger, it never went past friendship.

Things are different now, though! You both were older now, more mature, and you were jail-bait any longer. You wouldn’t throw away the golden opportunity you had been given.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you almost jumped out of your skin when the door to the apartment opened. Your childhood crush towers over you, black hair tied up in two buns, and he was in his tight maroon scrubs that looked delicious on him, showing off his muscles. While you were looking over him like a tasty meal, he swallowed hard, eyeing your blue jean shorts and a black crop top, leaving for Choso’s imagination. Both of you practically eye fucking each other when a flash of pink hair came bolting out of the door.

“Sissy!!” Yuuji yelled, throwing his arms around your legs and hugging you tight.

You giggled, allowing him to knock you back a step before you reached down, ruffling his hair. “Heya Yuuji!” Your eyes trailed from pink tufts of hair to Choso’s dark eyes. “Hiya Cho.”

“H-Hi, uhm, c-come in!” He stepped aside, allowing you to shuffle in with his little brother, still attached to your leg. “Sorry about the mess, I uhm—haven't had much time to clean.”

“No worries.” Your smile was soft, warm, and understanding.

Why did you have to smile at him like that?! It took every ounce of strength in him not to confess his undying love for you right there in the apartment's entryway. Instead of an impromptu confession, he cleared his throat, ushering you to the kitchen, where the sink was filled with dishes and toys littering the floor. Choso flushed, rubbing his neck with a huff.

“Uhm—yeah, the apartment is a mess, I'm sorry—I just—ya know—”

“Choso, you're good, so there's no need to worry. You've been balancing a lot.” you are so sweet, caring, and understanding. To not like you would be an atrocity.

“Right, right, so I’ll be home around 6 o’clock; you can order food. If you want, my credit card is on the counter. Yuuji already ate breakfast, so he’s good. Thanks again for doing this. My life has been hectic between my shifts at the hospital and trying to balance everything.”

You gently took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Whatever I can do to help alleviate some of that stress, I’m happy to do so.”

Oh, Choso could think of multiple ways you could help alleviate his stress. One day, he would tell you how much he liked you and had a crush on you since you were small. The other things he wanted to do to you involved that tiny crop top you were wearing.

“Okay, uhm—if you need me, I'm just a call away!”

“Right!”

Choso grabs his saddlebag, lunch, and his badge for work. He headed towards the door with you and Yuuji following him behind. Taking a deep breath, he turned back to look at you. You look so cute standing there holding his little brother's hand. He wouldn’t mind getting to see you like that every day he left for work.

“I’m off.”

“Be safe, see you later!”

Choso kept thinking about how you were at home with his little brother all day. He thought about how pretty you looked this morning. You were too cute for your good; you had grown up from that little kid with pigtails to a beautiful woman—one that Choso would love to take out for dinner, kiss, and finally confess his love for.

It was like that that helped him get through his hectic day. What was supposed to be a regular shift turned into a busy, nightmarish day. Between all the patients coming in for heatstroke and hiking accidents, Choso had been busy since the moment he stepped into the hospital. But a busy day, and his day went by fast, and the faster it went by, the quicker to go home to you—Yuuji, he was going to Yuuji, not you.

When he finally got home, he was about an hour and a half late. He grumbled, dropping his shoes by the front entrance before shuffling inside the apartment. "Sorry, guys. The hospital was busier than I thought." Yuuji lifted his head from the paper he was coloring on, rushing towards his big brother's arm, stretched wide.

“Big brother! Sissy made dinner! Lots of meat, and it was super tasty, too!”

"Welcome home," You said, setting a plate for him. "I hope you had a great day other than it being busy.”

Choso’s face flushed a deep red. Oh god, you’d be so cute as a stay-at-home wife someday. Shit. He nodded to you, swallowing down those thoughts. "'Uhm—yeah, it was pretty good. Thank you for dinner." He grumbled, looking you up and down as he ruffled Yuuji’s hair.

You beamed at him before kneeling to Yuuji’s height. "Yuuji, why don’t we clean up the coloring stuff? When we’re done, let's get you ready for bed while your brother eats before we watch a movie.”

Yuuji nodded excitedly, babbling on about the firefighter movie you would watch, while he looked at you with surprise written on his face before he took in the apartment. Not only had you taken care of his little brother and made a home-cooked meal, but you also had time to clean the apartment! You truly were perfection in his eyes as he happily ate the dinner your loving hands prepared while he watched you and Yuuji sitting on the couch laughing.

Yeah, this was a sight he would never get tired of looking at. When he finished dinner, he ruffled you and Yuuji’s heads before heading to the bathroom to shower. You watched from the couch, a little too obviously, as he took his scrub top off while walking down the hall. Fuck he looked so hot; it had to be illegal in some country to look as good as he did! The things you would do to him—.

“He likes you too.” Yuuji’s little voice spoke between a yawn.

“Eh?!” The eight-year-old's blunt comment left your cheeks flished as you jolted your attention back to him. “W-What makes you think that?!”

Yuuji so sweetly tilted his head to the side, smiling softly. “I see the way you guys look at each other. Plus, I heard Choso telling Gramps how excited he was to see you again. He said he couldn’t wait to see how prettier you were.” He yawned louder, rubbing at his eyes as he snuggled into your side.

“He said that?”

“Yeppers.”

About six minutes later, you carried Yuuji back to his room, tucking him in as he softly snored onto his tiger plushie. When you left his room, you decided it might be best to be blunt about your feelings for Choso. It was painfully evident that both of you were pining after each other, but neither of you knew how to tell one another. So, it seems as though you would have to make the first move.

But how are you going to do that?

It would probably be best just straight up to tell him, but you weren’t sure if you could look him in the face and tell him how you felt. Sometimes, actions spoke better than words. You toss your options around as you clean the kitchen, scrubbing at the plates left in the sink. At about that same time, Choso walked out of his bedroom, heading into the kitchen in a towel, his eyes watching you clean like a hawk. "Hey, honey."

"Hello Cho-o-ooh!" You blushed, looking him over, taking in the stray droplets of water running down his chest. He looked so hot! The water emphasized the definitions of his toned abs, making your mouth dry, suddenly thirsty for him. Miraculously, though, you shook your head, turning away from him. "Ehem, are you feeling better?"

He nodded, running a hand through his damp hair. "Yeah, a lot better.” He pursed his lips together as he watched you drain the sink before wiping down the counters. “Thank you for watching Yuuji and cleaning up for me—it means a lot.”

“I figured since I was here, and Yuuji could entertain himself, I might as well help out a little more. I like making it a bit easier for you.”

“You are a breath of fresh air.” He hummed, propping his head up on his elbow. “Seriously, you just lifted ten tons off my shoulders. I’m so glad your mom told you I needed help.”

“I’m glad she told me too.” You whispered as you wrung on the rag before folding it over the edge.

“Seeing you here at the house, taking care of Yuuji, making dinner, made me wish you could be his permanent babysitter until you return to college in the fall.”

You stepped around the counter, leaning against it before your childhood friend. “Are you offering me the position? Because I can assure you I am CPR certified and have tons of experience babysitting from my high school years.” Choso grinned, exhaling contently through his nose.

"Consider it, then. You're extremely qualified, and you’re good with him."

A compliment was his subtle way of asking you to be the full-time babysitter. Your tummy was all fuzzy as you gave him your best sultry laugh. A laugh that had Choso’s cock twitching to life underneath his towel

"Oh yeah?" You bit your lip. "Are you sure it's not just because you want me around—?" Your eyes glittered as you smugly grinned.

He flushed, eyes going wide as he turned to look at you. "No! I—I mean, only if you want to! There is no pressure at all!" He corrected himself, looking away as he rubbed at his neck.

“Well, what if I were to say I wanted the position?”

“T-Then you could have it.”

You crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your breasts together. “AlrightI—.” before you could answer, you couldn’t help but notice your childhood friend's eyes glancing towards your cleavage. “Oh my god—are you staring at my tits?” There was no disgust or anger in your voice as she questioned him. Instead, nothing but the light and excitement laced your tone, which went completely unnoticed by Choso.

He choked on his saliva, coughing as he looked away, trying to hide his blush. "N-No!I'm not some pervert!'

"Whoa, Cho, it’s okay! I was teasing you." You said, changing your laid-back demeanor. "I know you're not a perv." You returned to drying the washed dishes with a wink and a smile.

God, the things you did to him drove him absolutely insane. Choso couldn't deny that he was looking at your pretty breasts. His mind conjured up different ideas on how he worshiped them. Those delusional thoughts had him moving a hand to cover his mouth as he glanced out at the sink, flushing deeply. The embarrassment left him feeling numb to the temperature, your laughter, and the sensation of touch. Because he was so entranced, he never noticed his towel starting to fall, but it never lost, all thanks to his hard cock holding it up.

“Cho, really you’re—” your eyes peered away from the cup in your hand. The sight of his seemingly levitating towel caused the plastic cup to fall out of your hands, clattering in the sink. "I-I fuck~ you have a huge cock.”

His eyes widened as he looked down. "O-Oh fucking hell!" He grabbed the towel, trying to hide his erection from you, but it was too late. You’d already seen a peek, and you wanted to see more.

You walk over without a care in the world, your tits jiggling. "Choso~ do you need help with that?" you eye him closely, teasingly brushing your fingers over his shaft through the towel.

“H-Honey—I uhm—”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Choso sighed, shaking his head. “I-I uhm—no, I don't.” He groaned, shaking his head.

Without another word, you gently cupped his face in your hands, kissing him deeply. Choso’s eyes went wide for a split second, the shock causing him to release his grip on the towel as his brain tried to process what was happening. All of his dreams and fantasies for years were coming true. Your lips were on his, and he didn’t think he could longer hold himself back. So, instead of holding back those carnal desires, he let them take over instead. His fingers fisted into your hair as he kissed you back with the same enthusiasm as you had.

Lips moved in sync with each other, As he pressed you up against the counter, his hard cock throbbing against you. Your head was spinning in the best way as you dug your fingers into his damp hair, tugging at it gently as you let yourself lose all your control. You both weren’t kids anymore, and you weren’t jailbait, which meant you could finally go after what you wanted without any repercussions, and the way your childhood friend was kissing you, you knew he felt the same way.

Choso nipped at your bottom lip as he pulled back just an inch, allowing you to look at the black tattoo across the bridge of his nose. He was breathing; his cheeks flushed a pretty pink. His dark eyes roamed across your face, taking in your beauty.

“Oh my god, this is finally happening.” He snarled out before his lips were on yours again. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this is finally fucking happening.”

“Is that why you came out of nothing but your towel?” you questioned as he grabbed your hair, forcing your neck to the sides slightly, allowing his lips to trail down your sensitive, sweet skin. “Ah~ fuck~ t-trying to seduce the babysitter?”

“Ha, more like I’m finally making my move.”

You blinked, trying to focus on what he said, but his lips running over your skin was distracting. “W-Wait~ nnngh fuck did you seriously do that on purpose?!” His hands found a sweet spot on your hips, and you could feel him grinning against your neck.

“No, not really, it’s just a happy accident.”

"Ooh." You mumbled, reaching down, stroking his insanely hard cock. "I suppose I better help you with this accident then." You whispered, standing on your tiptoes and nipping at his earlobe. “I told you I'm happy to help with the house, but I'm also happy to help in ‘other’ ways too.”

Choso groaned, his hands gripping the counter next to him. "F-Fuck, honey—" He moaned as your hand twisted expertly up and down his cock. Watching you do something he’s fantasized about while jerking off for years felt like a fever dream. "Oh fuck-!”

You smirked at the feeling of his cock throbbing in your hand, making you move your hand.

"Does that feel good?" Choso hissed head, falling forward as he nodded.

"Y-Yeah, fuck, it feels s-soo good. God fuck, you’resfucking pretty." He panted softly, trying to prevent himself from cumming too soon. It'd been a long time since he touched himself; he had been so busy.

“Good,” Your thumb ran teasingly over the slit dribbling more pre-cum. “You deserve to have some fun~ for caring for your family, working so hard.” Your hand increased in speed, desperate to help him cum.

Choso gasped, one of his hands gripping the countertop of the kitchen island, as the other hand grabbed the back of your neck, bringing your for head to rest on his as his orgasm crashed into him, his cum spurting out in thick ropes over you are hand. "FUCK!" He cried out, jerking his hips forward with whines and grunts.

“Oooh fuck,” you moaned; his cum was so thick and warm, you wished he had come in your mouth or—somewhere more intimate. "There you go~ feel a bit better now, Cho?" you asked, bringing your hand to your mouth, licking the thick, bittersweet release off your hand.

“God fuck.” Choso panted softly, looking down at you as he took his bottom lip between his teeth. "F-Fuck, yes, thank you—b-but I think we have a problem now.”

“And what might that be?”

“I can't control myself around you.”

Hearing that had your panties soaking wet. You found yourself biting your lip, rubbing your hands slowly down his bare chest. You could see the way his eyes rolled back into his head, how he shuddered and groaned as his cock slowly twitched back to life. Giving you more confidence to press against him with a soft, needy sigh. Choso groaned, eyes rolling back as you kissed slowly up his chest.

“So now might not be the best time to tell you I'm soaking wet right now?”

Choso groaned, nodding quickly. "Y-Yeah, maybe you should stop. If you don't... If you don't, I won't be able to stop myself."

You pouted and sighed. "If that's what you want, I'll stop." You headed to the sink to wash your hands. "You just look so stressed out and in need of a good fucking. Oh well, guess I'm lucky you're such a good guy, Choso~ wanting to contr—”

As soon as you said 'a good fucking,' all hell broke loose. Choso grabbed you by your wrist, dragging you down the hall. He didn't allow you to think before you were pulled into a bedroom, and the door slammed behind you. Choso pushed you back and pinned you down onto his bed. "Fucking tease." He growled.

The sudden change of scenery and the drop of his voice had your thighs squeezing together. All you managed to do was gasp loudly, looking up at him in awe. "I-I—holy fuck Cho."

He leaned down, biting and kissing your neck.

"Is this what you wanted? For me to lose control and fuck you?"

You nodded, whimpering as you squirmed.

"Yes, Cho~ I do~!" You shivered before moaning into your hands.

A hand slid up your body, massaging your breasts with a desperate groan. He was so in love with you. To have you underneath him like he'd fantasized about a hundred times before was unbelievable. Choso wanted, no, he needed you so insanely bad. Nothing would stop him from making you feel good and showing you how much he cared.

“Tell me what you want, honey."

“Y-You Cho! I want you! I've always wanted you!”

He nodded with a smirk, his hand gliding down to slip under your panties, his fingers brushing against your pussy. "Fuck, so wet~" This, indeed, was better than any of the daydreams he'd had about you when you had come home from college.

You were a mess, gasping pit loud, hands gripping the sheets underneath you. His fingers felt so much better than you had imagined them feeling. Being with him like this would make every solo session you had from this moment on lackluster. Thank god he was only a few streets away from you.

Because looking down at his hand working at you would not be enough to get you off in the future. You needed him, to feel him on you, touching you, feeling the heat of his body on you. "Fuck, your fingers feel so good-!" You mewled out, your hips bucking up against his hand.

Choso pulled his fingers up slightly to gently toying with your swollen clit. "Yeah? Is that true?" He chuckled softly, trying and failing to hide the desperation in his voice.

"Y-Yeah~ god, they're calloused, and it feels fucking good!” Your eyes bore into his with pure lust. "Will you please have sex with me? I bet you know how to fuck well, Cho."

Your childhood friend stiffens at your request. The shock faded into a need as he growled softly, sliding two fingers into your tight wet pussy to start stretching you out. "I have a bit of experience, yeah." His lips met yours in a searing kiss. “I’d be happy to show you how experienced I am.”

“Fuuck!” You inhaled sharply, looking up at him.

"Fuck yes, I want it so bad~" You moaned out, your walls clenching around his fingers.

Choso growled in response, curling them up and slowly pumping them into your wet walls. "Such a good girl— fuck honey.” While you arched and squirmed underneath him, Chosk leaned over, nipping at your sensitive neck as he slid a third finger in, thrusting them into you with a low hum of approval.

You could hardly take it anymore. You threw your head back. His fingers brushed over a sensitive, spongy spot deep inside of you that you could hardly reach. But the instant his fingers pressed down on that mythical spot, you saw stars.

"I-I'm c-cumming!" You screamed out loud, causing Choso to finger you faster until your slick coated his fingers, making his cock throb hard.

Seeing you come undone like that left Choso smirking as he continued working his fingers in and out of you, helping her ride out your orgasm. His gentle touches and soothing kisses had you eager for more. Your fingers dug into his biceps, trying to drag him close to your face and attempt that Choso found himself helping you with and allowing his body to follow your needy touch until his lips were on yours.

"Fuck me, god, please fuck me." You whispered against his kiss-swollen lips.

At this point, your walls relaxed enough to allow Choso to slide his fingers from you, moving them up to his lips and cleaning them off with his mouth. “You want me?” he grabbed a condom from his bedside table. "You think you're ready?"

"Oh god, yes, please fuck. I'm so ready. I've been ready for so long. God, I need you, Cho; I need you so bad, please.” You pleaded out, looking down at his thick long cock that throbbed at the sound of your voice.

That begging left Choso a groaning mess as he nodded, sliding the condom over his length before pushing the head of his cock against your entrance. "F-Fuck, you're so tight, honey." Choso moaned softly before he slid his cock into you, grabbing your legs and placing them over his shoulders. "Tell me to stop, and I will, okay, sweetie?”

“I will.” You whispered, only to have your words cut off by a gasp as Choso pushed further inside of you. "I—fuck!”

Hearing your oft cries only pushed Choso to press himself further inside of you. He made sure to pay attention to your body, breathing, and facial reactions the entire time. He wanted you to feel as good as he did but didn't want to hurt you. Luckily for him, you were so wet; everything went as smoothly as any couple could hope for their first time. And this was one neither of you would forget.

"Are you okay, honey?" Choso asked tentatively as he pressed his hips to flush against yours. You nodded in agreement, trialing hot, open-mouth kisses down his neck, encouraging him to keep going as you rocked against him. Feeling you get into it made Choso feel drunk off of you and your pussy. He felt like he was desperately restraining himself from fucking you fast and hard, just the way he liked it. "Honey, fuck—you're making it hard to hold back."

"Then, fuck me the way you like it, Cho." You whispered as you stared into his eyes. "I want you, no matter if it's hard or slow. Being with you like this is more than I could have ever asked for.”

He growled softly, leaning in and biting down on your shoulder as he started to rail his cock into you. Losing the last remains of self-control he had. The sudden change of pace and speed left you screaming and whining as you dug your nails into his back.

"Cho!" You cried out, thrashing your head side to side against the pillows beneath you. Seeing you in such a state had Choso's eyes rolling back as he desperately fucked into you like a wild animal, growling into your shoulder. You whimpered and moaned louder, feeling your legs starting to tremble at the feeling of another orgasm approaching. "C—Cho!" Your own eyes rolled back into your head. "F-Fuck, I'm gonna cum if you keep fucking me this hard!"

Choso finally released his grip on your shoulder, kissing and biting at your neck between moans. "G-Good g-girl, fuck! I-I want you to c-cum on my cock, fucking milk me, honey--!"

You were going to cum, and you were going to cum hard. Not wanting to wake up his brother, you decided to follow his lead. You bit into Choso’s shoulder as hard as you could to silence your voice as she came hard around him. Getting fucked like this by your long-time crush was everything you dreamed of. And Choso felt the same as his eyes shot wide as you bit him, his teeth clenching as he groaned loudly as his cock twitched inside you, unloading his cum into you faster than he thought.

You both remained still like that, teeth and fingers digging into each other as your body shook with the aftershocks of your orgasms. You were the first to release him, panting as you pulled your teeth out of his, opting to wrap your arms around him instead. A gesture Choso was grateful for as he panted against your shimmering skin. You were pulling back to look down at you with blazing, dark eyes.

“Oh fuck." You giggled, tracing your nails down his back.

"God fuck, yeah, that was unexpected."

"It was Unexpected, but it felt so good." You whispered against his lips with a wide, warm smile.

Seeing such a warm smile made Choso melt against you as he realized he was falling harder for you. "Y-Yeah. " He let out a breathless laugh, disgrading the used condom in the trashcan before he laid back down, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck. "Yeah, it did."

You relaxed against the bed, holding him close against you. "You know, I could get used to this. Hanging out at your place, making dinner, waiting for you to come home. It was nice." Your nails gently scratched at his scalp with a hum

“Only if you promise to let me take you on a real date. One that doesn't involve cartoons and crayons.” You giggled as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "You know, to an actual restaurant, then we can come back and have incredible sex like this over and over again."

"Mhmm, I hope you can match my sex drive.”

Choso couldn't stop the growl that rose in his lower chest as he tightened his grip around you. "Oh, honey, that's what's good about older men like me. We have the stamina and the experience."

You giggled as Choso yanked you onto his chest, holding you tight against him. “You're only older by four years, Cho.” His hand gently rubbed up and down your arm, as he sighed contently. As you nuzzled your head into his chest, Choso couldn't help but look up at his ceiling fan. “But that difference seemed to work out in our favor.” Pulling your head back, you rested your chin on his chest, finding His dark eyes focused solely on you; it was a look that melted your heart.

“Yeah, I guess it did, didn't it?” you agreed, resting your chin against his chest.

“Yeah, but it was well worth the wait,” Choso whispered, leaning down and kissing you softly.

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3 @wil10wthetree @luvsymai

Summer Fest Tag List:

@typicalife-101

[meiliarotten]

Team Fortress 2 Kinktober Time Three: Return of the Kink

Day 13: Room Service (Bath Sex)

🔞MINORS DNI🔞

Pairings: Medic x Fem!Reader

Summary: Medic treats you to a surprise to make up for some past incidents (can be read as a sequel to the 27th chapter of my very first Kinktober series!)

Tags: Bath sex, fingering, oral, aftercare

Word Count: 3.5k

The Masterlist

The hotel elevator could not possibly be any slower. As if the fact that the staff had forgotten to stock your room with toiletries wasn’t enough, not to mention the non-existent room service. The phone in your room didn’t even ring when you tried to call the front desk. You had needed to go out to get some of the bare necessities. The bag of travel sized shampoo and conditioner felt heavy in your hand. Thankfully there was a convenience store just next door.

Finally the elevator arrived on your floor, and you reached your room, unlocking it with a click. You entered to find Medic reclined in a chair, reading a book, or rather, pretending to read a book. How did you know he was pretending? Well, Medic hadn’t packed any books on this trip, and the only one available in the hotel room was the Bible. You had a feeling that a man who had sold several souls to Satan wouldn’t have much use for such a thing.

“Ah, you’re back!” Medic said, tossing the religious text onto a nearby table without a care.

“Yeah, finally. That damn elevator…” you muttered a few curses to yourself.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Medic rushed forward, taking the bag from you. “Here, let me take this.”

You rolled your eyes. “Poor thing? That’s a bit much.”

Medic laughed, and you couldn’t help but smile at the sound. His joy was contagious. Even when the two of you were on the battlefield together, he could make you laugh alongside him. “I suppose that’s true. You are quite capable of dealing with such a minor inconvenience,” he said. You met Medic’s gaze. He was grinning, and his gaze was lit up with something you knew all too well.

“Oh no,” you said. “You’ve done something.”

Medic had the decency to look taken aback, albeit poorly. You knew him too well, and you knew that look. It was the same look he had when he told you about his exploits in sewing baboon uteruses into his colleagues. It was the same look he had when he transplanted a would-be mugger’s brain into a pumpkin. You probably would have also noticed that same look on his face as he performed your heart operation for the Ubercharge when you two had first met, but you were a bit distracted by the fact that one of your vital organs had just burst in his hands. It was a look that meant, ‘I know something you don’t know.’

“Perhaps I have,” Medic said, grinning even wider before clearing his throat. “I’ve planned a little something for you, liebe.”

“Really?” You were still suspicious. There was still a chance that this ‘little something’ might involve impromptu surgery.

“Since we spent our previous vacation days smuggling exotic animal organs-”

“Yes, I remember the whale liver,” you said. “Vividly.”

“Of course,” Medic said with a nervous laugh. “Well, I wanted to make it up to you.”

“Oh, is that so?” Medic didn’t respond, wordlessly leading you to the bathroom. Even though you had been assured that this was not an organ smuggling trip, part of you expected to see a basin full of viscera on ice behind the bathroom door. Instead, you were met with a jacuzzi tub filled with warm water and bubbles. Rose petals floated on the surface, dappling the soap foam with flecks of crimson. You picked one up, feeling it between your fingers. Sure enough, they were quite real.

“Well, liebchen?” Medic asked, motioning towards the scene before you. You were pleasantly surprised, to say the least, but unsure of what to say. After a bit of pondering you ultimately settled on a simple question.

“Where did you get real rose petals?”

“I borrowed them from Spy,” Medic said, looking very proud of himself. You gave him a skeptical look.

“Borrowed?”

His composure faltered with a nervous laugh. “Aheh- well, more like, borrowed without him knowing…”

You sighed. Medic had always been one to follow the ‘ask for forgiveness, not for permission’ philosophy. That usually applied when he was sewing baboon uteruses into unsuspecting men, however it apparently applied to petty rose petal theft as well. You also couldn’t help but wonder why the hell Spy just happened to have a stash of fresh rose petals ready to go in the middle of a war zone, but those were questions for later.

You kissed him suddenly. It was nothing more than a quick peck, but it succeeded in flustering Medic enough to make his cheeks go pink. “Thank you for this,” you said, smiling up at him. He returned your smile before pulling you back in for another kiss, this one much more passionate. “Medic,” you gasped when the two of you finally parted. “You hid the hotel toiletries, didn’t you?”

“Well, I needed some way to get you out of the room for a while,” he admitted.

“And the lack of room service?” you asked.

“I just unplugged the phone.”

“Devious,” you chuckled, a bit ashamed that you hadn’t thought to check the plug in the first place. Then again, if you had, you probably wouldn’t have had this. “Well, I’d better make use of this bath before it gets cold, shouldn’t I?”

You would be lying if you said you didn’t put on a bit of a show for him as you undressed. The way you shimmied your pants down your legs with a little extra sway of your hips was especially bold. The shirt came off, your underwear and bra were thrown to the floor, and eventually you were fully undressed in front of the tub. Medic stared at the display with rapt attention, eyes darting between you and the pile of discarded clothes left upon the tile floor.

A soft laugh escaped you as you entered the tub. You could see the way Medic’s gaze raked over your body as you submerged yourself in the water, bubbles and froth just barely covering your chest. Medic let out a shaky breath as you began to settle into the water. His staring was anything but subtle.

“Are you going to join me?” you asked, smirking back at him and kicking your legs lazily in the spacious tub. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Come here, lean against the edge for me.”

“Alright,” you said, a little confused but curious. You sat back against the side of the tub, facing away from Medic. His hands came to rest on your shoulders for a moment before starting to rub gently, yet firmly. “Oh!” You gasped as he began to work the muscles, easing the tension out of your shoulders and then moving to your collar and around your neck. “Oh, that’s really nice.”

“I thought you might like this,” Medic said, sounding quite proud of himself. His medical knowledge was coming in handy as well. He knew just which muscles to focus on, and how to soothe the tension out of them. “Lean forward just a little. That way I can get your back as well.”

You did as he said, trying not to shiver as his fingers worked up your spine. His palms then splayed out over your upper back, massaging, caressing, and making you sigh with every delicate touch. Oh, those sounds you were making, so reminiscent of something far less wholesome. Medic reminded himself to be patient. He would get to that soon enough. The first order of business was to warm you up and relax your body.

The heels of his hands pressed hard along the middle of your back, working out an especially stubborn knot of tense muscle. That effort rewarded him with an outright moan. It sure as hell didn’t make it any easier for Medic to keep his cool. After a few deep breaths, he pulled his hands away. You heard the distinctive pop of a bottle opening, but before you could turn around, his hands were back, now massaging your scalp and working up a lather with some shampoo. You took a deep inhale, breathing in the scent of the soap as it reached you. There were notes of something floral, perhaps lavender.

When he was done, you dipped your head beneath the water, rinsing the soap out before letting him move on to the conditioner. He worked that product through your hair with just as much diligence. You could get used to being pampered like this, however a subtle twinge of desire chipped away at your mind. This whole situation- being washed by your lover, your naked body barely concealed by frothy bubbles- was undeniably intimate. It led your mind to wander.

“Your face is red, liebling,” Medic said, ever observant. “Is the water too hot?”

His question sounded so damn innocent, and it probably was. You weren’t worked up enough for him to start outright teasing you yet. “No, it’s not too hot,” you said. “It’s perfect, this is all perfect.”

Medic cupped your cheek, turning your face until he could lean down to kiss you. He was surprisingly chaste, going slow and soft, feeling the heat radiating off of you. Oh he definitely knew why you were blushing now. He parted from you with a soft gasp. “Do you want me to touch you, schatz?”

You stammered, tongue tied and flustered beyond belief. “You are touching me,” you said, mentally slapping yourself for giving such a deadpan answer. “I mean, you were. The massage, and washing me, and-”

“You know what I really mean,” Medic laughed.

He was right. You knew exactly what he meant, and you knew exactly what you wanted. Getting the words out was the challenging part. You took a deep breath. “I would like that,” you said, miraculously managing to keep your voice steady. “Please.”

He pushed his sleeves up higher before dipping an arm into the water. “Lean back, liebchen.” You rested your head against the edge of the bathtub. He began by caressing your thighs before letting his fingers brush over your entrance. Just that small gesture made you buck forward slightly. “Ooh, so sensitive!” Medic teased. You trapped your lower lip between your teeth to smother any embarrassing noises as he began to rub slow circles over your clit.

Medic leaned forward against the side of the bathtub, his head next to yours, his chin resting on your shoulder. You shivered when his stubble brushed against your neck. He knew how ticklish you were, smiling to himself when he managed to draw out a barely restrained giggle that ultimately devolved into a moan. You were so soft, melting into his touch like butter. Both the steam from the bath and your own arousal colored your cheeks, giving you a perpetual blush. It was an adorable look for you.

Trying to take things a step further, Medic began to press into you. Usually you would be quite wet enough to take two fingers, but just one caused you to pull back with a wince. It seemed that the bath water ironically hindered any attempt at penetration. So much for water equating to wetness, at least, not the kind of wetness you needed. “Sorry,” you apologized. “Here, maybe if I get out-”

“Nein, it’s perfectly fine, liebe.” Medic placed a hand on your shoulder, stopping you from leaving the warm embrace of the bath. “Would you like to keep going as we were before?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It felt nice with you just touching me.” Medic smiled, eager to return to pampering his little dove.

Soft gasps and sweet little moans escaped you as he returned to circling your clit, barely touching it enough to get a reaction. His free hand joined the fray, massaging your chest and brushing against your nipples. You bit your lip as Medic took full advantage of how sensitive they were.

“Don’t be shy,” Medic whispered, his lips close to your ear. “Let me know how good you feel.” You let a louder moan slip, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. You would have gone even redder if you could see the self-satisfied grin Medic was sporting. From behind, he began to kiss the nape of your neck, moving along your collarbone every so often, whispering soft praises and sweet nothings. “Sehr schön, you look so beautiful like this, liebchen. Just relax, let your doctor take care of you.”

Well, you were nothing if not obedient. You let Medic have his way with you while you just sat back and enjoyed the ride, surrounded by warm water dotted with iridescent bubbles. Said water began to ripple as your breath started to quiver, chest rising and falling at a faster and faster pace. You squirmed, unable to keep the slight tremor out of your muscles. That pleasure was starting to reach a peak, and you couldn’t keep yourself still. Medic took notice, of course, letting his lips brush against your ear.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, seeming genuinely concerned at first. His strokes slowed, but a desperate whine from you quickly confirmed that your squirming was not born of discomfort. His tone shifted. “Ooh, is my little dove getting close?”

You gave a quick nod, whimpering as his pace began to speed up. You wanted this to last longer, but he was so talented with his fingers that holding back was a futile effort.

“I’ve got you, just let go.” You felt his arm wrap around your body and a pair of lips pressed against your cheek right before your resistance caved and your orgasm overtook you. Medic held you close, barely paying any mind to the way the bath water spilled over onto the floor as you shuddered and arched back against the tub. “That’s it. Gott, you’re so beautiful, so soft,” he murmured. His strokes eased up before stopping completely. The gentle pressure of his arm around you kept you grounded as you came down from the high.

Your eyes fell closed and you lost track of where Medic’s hands roamed. One caressed your chest, momentarily squeezing one of your breasts and making you gasp. Leaning back, you rested your head on his shoulder only to find that you were met with damp fabric. “Fuck, I splashed water on you, didn’t I?” you sighed. “Sorry.”

Medic laughed softly. “It’s fine, liebe.” It was humorous that you thought a little water was of any concern. After all, you had seen him splattered with blood and viscera both on the battlefield and in his operating room countless times. Then again, you were rather out of it at the moment, still basking in the afterglow.

“Can you help me get out?” you asked after a moment, noticing that the water was beginning to turn cold. “I’m not sure my legs will hold.”

Medic offered you his arm, supporting your weight as you hoisted yourself out of the water. He reached in, pulling the drain plug and letting the soapy water slowly spiral down. A soft towel was draped over your shoulders, its plush texture protecting you from any chill. Your mind felt delightfully hazy, simply enjoying that post-orgasm bliss. It was only when Medic stripped his wet shirt off that you snapped back to attention, not about to miss a chance to admire that sight. It was only when he proceeded to kneel between your legs that you realized he may have more than just eye candy in store.

All you managed to say when he gently pushed your thighs apart was a surprised, “Oh.”

He smiled up at you, head tilted like a curious puppy. It was an ironically adorable look for a man as dangerous as him. “Again?” he asked, no further words needing to be spoken for you to understand his meaning.

“If you want to,” you said, spreading your legs slightly wider with a smirk.

Medic mirrored your expression, resting his hands on your thighs and gently massaging the soft flesh. “Let me make you feel good, Liebchen.”

You saw it coming, but the sensation of his tongue lapping over your cunt still managed to draw a sharp gasp from you, one which quickly dissolved into a moan when he pushed in deeper. You tried your best not to squirm- mostly because you were seated precariously on the narrow edge of a bathtub. Perhaps this wasn’t the best place for a bit of impromptu cunnilingus, but you weren’t going to say no to Medic’s offer of a second round, and you certainly weren’t going to ask him to stop now.

Every little noise you made seemed to spur him on. Medic was practically burying his face against you, breathing in your scent with every rushed inhale. The rose and lavender from the bath water mixed with your natural aroma, so sweet and intoxicating. Each breath he took was beginning to make his head spin, like he was getting his own personal high- or maybe the pressure of your thighs against his skull was beginning to get to him.

Your climax came on quicker this time, given that you were still quite sensitive. Medic felt you grow slick against his tongue, and he took advantage of it. With newfound ease, he slipped a finger into you, curling it against the spot that he knew would have you seeing stars. If the way you started gasping his name and tugging his hair was any indication, he had found it. You steered him with that death grip on his hair, guiding him up to your clit.

“I’m close,” you whined, cursing under your breath at how quickly he had managed to bring you to the edge. You had hoped to hold out for a little longer.

Any disappointment you may have felt was washed away when your second orgasm of the night hit you with a full body shudder. Medic groaned against you, the subtle vibrations against your clit making you buck forward unexpectedly, nearly tumbling off the edge of your seat. Thankfully, Medic was able to sit up just in time to catch you, pulling you forward to lean against him. You were so dizzy and high on endorphins that he wondered if you even realized how close you had come to toppling backwards into the tub. Based on the dazed grin you currently wore, you either didn’t know or didn’t care.

“Careful, liebling,” Medic said. “We don’t want you getting hurt.”

You giggled, throwing your arms over his shoulders. “It’s a good thing a doctor isn’t too far away. Well, ex-doctor.”

Medic rolled his eyes, chuckling softly at your little quip. He sat you back on the edge of the tub, making sure you were steady before he began to dry you off with the towel he had draped over your shoulders earlier. You were mostly dry already, with Medic just giving you a quick once over. By the time he was done you were already being overcome with a gradual, pleasant euphoria, the second afterglow beginning to settle over you.

Noticing that you were beginning to drift, Medic led you out of the bathroom. You leaned heavily on him, grateful to finally set foot on the carpeted floor and no longer be subjected to the potentially slippery tile of the bathroom. However, you immediately began to shiver when exposed to the cold hotel room air. Why these establishments felt the need to constantly blast the air conditioning, you would never know.

“Let’s get you under the covers,” Medic said, guiding you to the bed where you immediately collapsed into the mattress. The pillow was cool against your burning cheeks. You heard the sound of the television across the room being turned on, the volume down low, just enough to offer a bit of ambient noise. Medic knew you too well, and that included the fact that you struggled to sleep in complete silence. Something about the total lack of noise felt oppressive, probably because you had long since gotten used to the chaos of your home base.

A content sigh was the only sound that left you when Medic settled in beside you, pulling you to his chest and letting you relax into the warmth of his body. He pulled the covers up around the two of you, and eventually your shivering ebbed. “Look at you, you can barely keep your eyes open, liebchen,” Medic crooned, watching you try and fail to blink away the fatigue.

“I should do something-” you said, drowsily, interrupting yourself with a yawn. “You know, something to return the favor for all of this, to make you feel good too.”

“You don’t need to repay me for anything. This was all about you.” Medic kissed your forehead, his fingers combing through your hair and brushing over your scalp in a way that broke your resolve to stay awake. You let your eyes fall shut, finally admitting defeat in your losing battle with the allure of sleep. “That’s it, rest now, liebchen. We can sleep in for as long as we want tomorrow.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You were practically asleep before he even finished his sentence.

[stellar-haikyuu]

get well soon ☆ shirabu kenjirou x reader

synopsis: second-year reader has been shirabu’s classmate and academic rival since their first year. when reader overworks themselves and they break down during a test, shirabu is unexpectedly “kind.” details: academic rivals to friends/lovers, some angst, hurt/comfort, ~3.2k words, gn! reader. warnings: some descriptions of reader having low self-esteem and test anxiety :( also, this is long; i hope the time skips are clear.

Sometimes, you wonder how you ended up here. 

You were excited to finally reach the last leg of your high school journey after years of studying at Shiratorizawa Academy. 

Of course, you knew the climb would only get harder, but you had no idea the mountain would be this rocky.

Your goal was clear: consistently be at the top of your class, for at least two out of three terms every year. 

When you started your first year, the classes seemed pretty manageable. You didn’t think you’d have any trouble.

That was until your classmate, Shirabu Kenjirou, came out on top in the first term.

He didn’t say that much, but his scores spoke for themselves. Threatened, you pushed back.

You recited at least once every class. You volunteered to help your teachers. You made damn sure that you’d be congratulated for getting the highest test scores.

By then, you knew you had his attention.

An academic rivalry was not part of your plan; but for the sake of maintaining a competitive medical school application, you told yourself to accept it. 

And apparently, he has plans to apply to med school, too! Great!

Through sheer determination, you successfully beat him by the end of the second term. When you came home to your family for winter break, you proudly shared the news.

Come third term, everyone in your class knew you two were battling it out. Even the teachers caught on and reminded you two to keep the competition friendly.

Nobody would ever forget your pair work in social studies that ended in an impromptu debate about the Japanese economy. Your teacher just sighed and reiterated that your grade was shared, not separate.

Despite it all, you survived…only to end up tied with him in the class ranking. It was so unlikely, but somehow, the cumulative totals of your percentages were equal.

You had no idea how it made you feel, but you prayed to everyone and everything, hoping it would come to an end.

However, the day you walked into your new second-year classroom, you wondered if your wishes fell on deaf ears.

Sat in the front row was the sandy-haired boy with the infuriating bowl cut bangs.

You know it’s not like you, but you crave seeing the sour look on Shirabu’s face whenever you win against him.

It’s become second nature to send him a sickly sweet smile each time you get praised by a teacher.

You couldn’t help it, not when you found out he became the starting setter for Shiratorizawa’s volleyball team this year. 

Sports was never something you cared about, as you’d rather spend the rest of the afternoon studying. But, it irked you to see how well he seemed to balance his extracurriculars with his academics.

No, you even envied it—the training was no joke. Your friends tell you that it’s constant early morning and late afternoon training, plus a harsh coach. 

Yet, the guy comes into class acing his assignments, almost as if he hasn’t spent hours of his day throwing and hitting balls.

Just for once, you want to see him break.

You feel ashamed to think that way about someone, but sometimes, it seems easier to be resentful.

It didn’t help that he was constantly being congratulated by classmates and teachers because Shiratorizawa won the Miyagi Interhigh Tournament.

Internally, you were happy because it meant not seeing him in class for a while. But the more you thought about it…

He’s going to Tokyo for Nationals. He plays with a team. He has a life outside of academics. 

You? You’ve got nothing going on.

Your days all blend together: late-night studying, rushed breakfast, intense classes, library time, dinner, studying some more. Repeat.

Your roommate offers company, though they're equally busy, chasing their own dream of becoming a lawyer. 

And while you see friends at lunch, you’ve started declining invites to go out, even on weekends. You can barely recall what the arcade or nearby cafés look like.

You always say you need more time to study. That you’re tired and want to rest. There’s truth to your reasons, yet you feel frustrated.

Unfulfilled. 

Pissed.

Why can’t I be like him?

Adding insult to injury, they release the first-term grade cards and class rankings. 

Just like last year, Shirabu took the top spot. You came in second, but only by a small, decimal point difference.

Something twists in your gut.

Normally, you do pretty decently in your mathematics classes, but it doesn’t mean you never struggle with the lessons.

The second-term curriculum seems to be out to get you though. Limits? Elementary Calculus? Where in the world would you need this kind of math in your life?

Lately, you’ve been observing Shirabu at the library on his free days. You wait until he brings out the math textbooks and worksheets, then time how long it takes him to finish studying.

It takes him about half the time it takes you. 

You’re not even surprised when he’s applauded for getting the highest mark on the lastest math test.

Of course. He has a way with numbers that I don’t.

When you receive your test paper, you stare at the red ink. You passed, but only by a few points. Relief and disappointment swirl inside you.

The teacher starts to go over the items that most students had difficulty with, but you don’t pay attention. You can’t, not when you know everything’s starting to fall apart.

For the first time in your life, you felt the danger of failure. It was terrifying.

You can feel Shirabu gazing at you, but you don’t look back.

He’s not important now. You need to survive.

If he starts wondering why you stopped going to the library, it’s none of his business.

A distraction is the last thing you need.

You stop talking to everyone, choosing to stick your head between your books during break.

You no longer recite in every single class. Once a day is enough to conserve your mental energy.

The weekends are reserved for a strict study regimen that gives you more time to study for math.

Your classmates whisper about you. They send concerned looks your way.

Some teachers ask if you’re okay, but you say that you’re fine.

You should be. 

You have to be.

Two weeks have passed, and there’s another stupid math test coming. Tomorrow, to be exact.

Your dorm room is silent. Your roommate has long fallen asleep on their desk, knocked out from working on their chemistry assignments.

It’s past midnight now, but you’re only halfway through the test coverage—partially, it’s also thanks to an English project draft that was also due tomorrow.

Your head is buzzing with anxious thoughts, worries that you’ll forget everything you’ve spent days studying.

I need to pass, I need to pass, I need to pass…

The numbers and symbols start to fly around the page. The steps starts to lose all sense of logic.

You don’t even register your eyelids drooping and the pencil falling out of your hands.

Fatigue is a tough thing to fight off. 

The next time you blink, it’s to wake up.

Both you and your roommate jolt at your morning alarms.

When did I fall asleep?

You groan and sit up, massaging a small cramp out of your neck. Your head has a lingering ache, you realize, as you wipe away a small amount of drool from the corner of your lips.

But you have no time to think about it. You need to get ready for the day.

The rest of the morning goes by in a haze. You pick up one of the energy bars on your bedside table. You feel like you can’t really eat anything more, anyway.

There’s a pit in your stomach. You suppose it’s hunger, test anxiety, or something else.

Whatever, whatever, I’m going to be late.

Your roommate gives you one last “good luck” before you both dash to your classrooms in the high school building.

Thankfully, all your morning classes were either entirely new lessons or reviews of familiar material. You cannot listen to anything your teachers are saying.

On your desk, your physics notebook is secretly opened. You try to review what you can, but it’s tough.

You feel like nodding off at any moment. The room feels hotter than usual, too.

When recess comes around, you’ve lost your appetite entirely. It’s an odd, contradicting feeling. You’re hungry and you know you need to eat, but you don’t want to.

Maybe you shouldn’t. You feel like you might throw up if you do. Lunch comes right after anyway, so you’ll wait until the nerves are gone.

It’s time. 

Your teacher walks into the room and you cannot believe that you’re about to take the dreaded test. Your legs can’t stop shaking. 

Somehow, the worst sensations are hitting your body all at once. Heat, chills, nausea, sluggishness, and some sort of brain fog.

You can’t even focus on the final reminders that your teacher is giving you. There’s some chatter from your classmates, but it’s all garbled noise in your ears. 

Every second feels like a century. The testing sheets make their way down each column, and you whisper one last prayer before your papers are passed to you.

Oh god.

Even though you’re staring directly at the page, none of the words or numbers register. The questions send a shiver down your spine.

How the hell do I do this again?

Breathe.

Breathe.

You’ve studied this.

You try to focus on the simpler questions first, to get them out of the way. You avoid reading the last few pages to give yourself some peace of mind.

You’re thankful that there are some parts with multiple choice questions, but your mind spins, trying to comprehend the conceptual aspects of your math lesson.

Your heart starts to pound wildly in your chest. You grip your pencil tightly as you attempt to solve or answer something.

You manage to come up with responses, but you get the feeling that there may have been something wrong in your computations. If there’s one thing you hated about mathematics, it’s how the careless mistakes result in a domino effect.

Whatever. It’s done. Next part.

You glance around the classroom, seeing nothing but your classmates working around you. Nobody seems to be struggling like you were.

Maybe they’re better at hiding it. It’s fine. It’s fine.

As you progress to the other questions, you find it increasingly challenging to concentrate and recall the steps. Nothing is surfacing to your memory. You feel like your skull is just stuffed with cotton.

What’s wrong with me?

The feeling is overwhelming. You look at the clock, realizing that you’ve already spent half the period on less than half of the questions.

I might not finish.

I don’t know what to do.

Nothing makes sense anymore. You feel like your insides are going to explode. Everything hurts. You feel like throwing up. It’s cold and hot and you don’t understand it.

I’m going to fail. 

The very thought brings your anxiousness to a peak. Tears fall from your eyes without warning. Your pencil drops to the floor as you hold your head in your hands.

It’s like a dam breaks.

It’s not long before you catch your classmates’ and teacher’s attention.

You can hear your teacher call out to you, but you don’t know what to to say. You register her coming closer, asking you questions with surprise and concern.

“Darling, what’s the matter?”

You can’t stop crying. Your mind runs a mile a minute.

You feel a cold hand on your forehead, and there’s a hiss that follows.

"You're burning up," she mutters, a crease of worry in her brow. "I think you've got a fever. You should go to the nurse. We can schedule a make-up test this week."

You sniffle and nod in response. The teacher takes your test booklet, giving your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before returning to her desk.

"Is there anyone finished? Kindly help them to the nurse if so," she asks, her voice echoing in the quiet classroom.

You don’t even realize who volunteers. You just want this to end.

There's a small tap on your shoulder. "Hey, let’s go." It's a voice you know all too well.

You look up to find none other than Shirabu standing over you.

Of course he's already finished, you think bitterly to yourself.

You muster a weak nod, feeling even smaller as he helps you pack up your things.

The hallway is nearly deserted, with a faint murmur of voices and the shuffling of distant footsteps. You’re aware of the sideway glances that a few students and teachers give you as they pass by.

You cover your face with your hands; you’ve always hated what you looked like when you cry. 

And I just had to break down in front of him like this.

To your surprise though, you notice that Shirabu’s matching his pace to yours. Shirabu always walks quickly, often a few steps ahead of anyone else. But right now, he's walking just slow enough that, if you picked up the pace, you'd be side-by-side.

Is he only doing this because the teacher asked him? But she isn’t here to see him right now, so-

"What happened to you?" His voice cuts through your thoughts.

You startle at his question, expecting this entire walk to be silent.

“I…I don’t know.” Your voice is still a little thick. “I couldn’t answer the questions at all.”

"No. I meant, why'd you go even if you were sick?"

“Oh.” You sniffle, embarrassed. “I thought I could handle it…didn’t know it would be this bad. Just wanted to show up.”

Shirabu goes quiet for a moment, before asking more questions.

“How long have you been feeling this way? Did you even eat or drink anything? You didn’t do either during recess.”

His questions catch you off guard. You can’t believe that he’s asking you something this personal. There’s no bite to his words. Just genuine curiosity.

“Uh,” you falter. You try to think back to yesterday and this morning. “Well, I…”

"You...?" He prompts, urging you to continue. 

“Um, I mean, I’ve been tired lately. Who wouldn’t be?” You mutter.

Shirabu raises his eyebrows.

Ugh, he won’t stop until I tell him.

“I didn’t really eat a lot yesterday.” You sigh. “Energy bar this morning. Water, I don’t know how much.”

You can see the gears turning as he processes your response. “So, you haven’t been eating, drinking, and resting enough. Surely, you would have realized this wouldn’t end well for you?”

Hearing him say it out loud suddenly makes you feel defensive. It feels like he’s about to counter your argument in a debate—a deliberate search for weak spots.

“Well, sorry about that, Mister Perfect."

“What?”

“I get it! I don’t have my damn life together right now!” You grit your teeth together in frustration.

"How will you practice medicine without taking care of yourself?" Shirabu responds.

Oh, you’ve done it.

“Why the hell do you care?” You snap. Fresh tears spring to your eyes. 

The both of you stop walking and a heavy atmosphere settles after your emotional outburst. 

Shirabu doesn’t respond immediately, which somehow makes you feel worse. You feel stupid for overreacting.

“Look,” he says quietly. “I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just that…you have to make it.”

Your head lifts up in surprise. “W-What?”

“You have to make it into medicine.”

“Why?”

“That’s your dream, isn’t it?”

“I, yes…” Your voice is soft. You’re not sure what he’s trying to get at. “But what’s it to you if I achieve it or not?”

“We need more brilliant doctors.”

That stuns you and you chuckle in disbelief at his words.

“Don’t mess with me. You can’t be so sure,” you mutter.

“I’m usually right about things,” he deadpans.

You glare at him, though a small part of you is thankful for that tinge of “normalcy” at a moment like this.

“Just...” He sighs, pausing to think. “I’ve never met someone that pushed to work this hard academically.”

You let out a weak laugh. “Hm. The feeling is mutual, Shirabu.”

There’s a few beats of silence before he continues. 

“You still feel that way now? Is that why you pushed yourself to take this test instead of resting?”

“Maybe…I don’t know,” you answer. Your brain can only take so much now. “But whatever. I get it—I’ve been making a lot of stupid decisions.”

“Then don’t make any more,” Shirabu says in a firm voice. He turns his entire body to face you, and his hands settle on your shoulders. “Listen to me.”

“Woah, what-”

“You better follow what the nurse says so you can recover.” He pauses, considering his next words carefully. “Once you’re better, I’m going to help you with math.” 

He grip tightens for just a moment before he lets go. When his words sink in, you blink at him, bewildered. 

“I’m sorry, did you get hit in the head by a volleyball?”

“I’m serious,” he glares.

“Why are you doing this? You’re helping me?”

“Did you not hear what I said earlier? I want you to make it.”

“...into medicine.” You whisper, completing his statement. 

Wait. “I want?” Didn’t he say-

“Yes.” He continues walking, but halts for a moment to look over his shoulder. “Come on.”

You follow. 

“And you plan on making it to medicine, too, Shirabu.” 

“Mhm,” he responds with absolute certainty.

As you both round the corner, the nurse’s office comes into view. You decide to ask the question forming in your mind before you lose the chance to.

“Are you saying that you want me to stick around?”

You brave a quick glance at his face, but the intensity in his eyes takes your breath away.

“I do.”

At some point, you drifted off after the nurse questioned you and guided you to one of the beds.

You vaguely remember Shirabu holding on to your belongings and lingering for a while before the nurse dismissed him.

“Hi, darling,” the nurse says, noticing you sit up. “Are you feeling a little better?”

“Yes,” you respond. Your fever’s gone down, according to the thermometer, though you still feel groggy.

“That’s good. I think you can go return to your dorm once you’re ready.”

You nod in response and you thank the nurse for her assistance. She moves to return to her desk, but then she stops.

“By the way…” She faces you again. “That kind boy from your class brought you some food from the cafeteria.”

Huh?

She points to the wrapped bowl on your bedside table. 

“Oh, I see. Thank you.”

Shirabu bringing you food was already surprising, but what truly catches your eye are the pages of class notes held together by a metal paperclip.

You gasp once you read the sticky note on top.

These are notes from today’s classes.  Review them when you’ve recovered. Take your meds, eat, hydrate, and rest properly. Get well soon. - Shirabu

masterlist

karasuno fic event: stellar's stationery (ongoing)

[lxverrings]

Hola!

It's been a while I know 💀

I just have something in my head and can't get my head out of it. Just hear me out- 😭

Spider!Reader being Miles', Gwen's and Mayday's work-mom (basically their mom at work). Reader just loves kids (haha can't relate 💀) and is a natural mother.

Miguel realizes that he wants needs to put a baby in Reader asap. (Breeding kink basically)

- Solecito (aka. Spanish anon 🇪🇸)

Me coming right back to life from how GOOD this ask is... Holy shit you put me in a mood 🥲

Motherly Instinct.

A Miguel O’hara drabble ; MDNI, NSFW under the cut!

Summary: What Solecito said, except I took the creative liberty to ensure reader speaks Spanish and also Mayday kind of has MJ (/other variations of her) so I’m going to add Pav and Hobie!!! Also reader isn’t necessarily a spider-person but def in the medical part of the spider society, so you go ahead with your little imagination <3

R/N: this put me in such a mood I need to find more fics like this smh and extra note, I feel you Solecito, I HATE TODDLERS!!!! babies are fine, so are teens, but TODDLERS??? TODDLERS???? my patience is thin... But I personally would like kids and especially with Miguel O’hara...

Warnings: NSFW under cut!!!! Obviously breeding kink warnings, mating press ig, Miguel physically cannot get his hands off reader...

——

You’ve been in the society for quite a while now. From Miguel’s start to the shablam with Miles and the final acceptance of the boy into the society, even if Miguel was a bit sour about it...

Either way, it’s been long enough so that Miguel put a ring on that finger...

For the time being, your husband hasn’t had time to discuss babies, which is something that you’ve been thinking about, and subtly (not) been bringing up. He promises that someday in the future.

Well, someday is still too far away.

You’ve been at least calming your raging baby fever by talking with the younger spiders and doing your best to take care of their occasional reckless behavior...

“Hey! Heyyy!!! I told you I was fine!” Gwen puffed as she was bandaged up from the shards of glass due to her impromptu landing, Hobie just chuckled— probably his idea...— more than anything to land that way.

“Oi, “ma’...” do me a favo’ ’n check on my ’vitr, thanks, luv.” he mused, he seemed unfazed, despite the wraps tied around his wrists and arms.

“Will do, Hobie...” you smiled warmly, nodding at the younger spider, while Miles nervously fidgeted. “Miles...” you began before you gently patted his arm, “It’s okay, don’t worry.” you smiled reassuringly, trying to soothe his nerves— seeing Gwen and Pavitr get hurt like that, definitely must have altered the nerves in the young man.

“I know... I just... I guess I’m nervous. I would talk it out with mí mamí, but I guess I just... Well. It’s nice talking to you, not lie a replacement, but... Like a supplement? Wait... No that sounds wrong...” he mumbled— which got him out of that loop.

“You sound like a gym bro...” Pavitr finally giggled. Hobie let out a small sigh of relief and chuckled.

“Swolemates, huh?” Hobie chuckled, you rolled your eyes and smiled at them, the little group of preteens filled the room with easy chatter.

You smiled and nodded at them, unaware of Miguel’s gaze from the sight of the cameras that filled the screens of his monitoring.

Honestly, Miguel wasn’t paying much attention, until Lyla’s alarming noises went off.

“What the shock, Lyla?!”

The snarky hologram just smirked, “Oh nothing.”

“I just wanted to show you this!” she chirped with a smile.

He just rolled his eyes for a while— until the screen lit up with your face and the chit-chats with the younger spiders.

Mom? Ma?

Fuck.

He was so down bad.

Embarrassing, really, wasn’t it?

Either way, Miguel just stood and grumbled.

“Lyla. Shock. Call her in.”

“C’monn...”

“Shut the shock up and call her in!”

“C’mon! C’mon!”

“Please, can you just shocking—”

“Yeah, I already called her.” Lyla smirked as Miguel grumbled and swatted her off.

“Boss got you on track, huh ma?” Hobie smirked as you smiled nervously and swatted him off.

“I bet it’s not important...” you mused before Lyla interrupted.

“It’s very important!!!”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure everything is okay? Maybe it’s important— but in a good way?” Gwen offered with a small smile and tilted her head quietly.

“Don’t be that way,” Miles muttered, but he shuddered, perhaps he was getting the PTSD that Miguel put him through.

“You are all such pessimists! The passion is palpable, how can you concentrate when our big bad boss is in loooove?” Pavitr quickly shot back in absolute delight.

You shooed them off with a smile before retreating to Miguel’s... Lair. If you could call it that. Office? Same thing.

You walked off quickly, and entered his office. If you could call it that.

Miguel watched you sternly and crossed his arms as he stalked over your smaller form

“Hola, Miguelito!”

“Ay. You’re finally here.” he grumbled, putting his large hand on the top of your head, pushing back stray locks of hair to kiss your forehead.

You smiled warmly, unaware of the daunting gaze he held on you.

“I have to ask something of you.” he mumbled as he lightly peppered your face in kisses, “És muy importante...”*

“Lo que tú quieras...”*

He stared down for a moment.

“Quiero un beb��.”*

Oh.

Oh.

You stared up at him nervously, your face flushed as your hands twittered together, and you gazed nervously up at him, “Oh?”

“Shock.” he hissed and held your chin as his kisses became more passionate, “Wanna get you pregnant, I want to give you a little baby. A little baby that looks like you, shock. You would make such a good mommy. Cuidando chamacos qué ni son tuyos... Y lo hacés tan bién...”*

Your breath hitched but you smiled up at him, “Me gustaría tener un bebé contigo...”*

The bed screeched underneath the brutal pace Miguel was going at, how many hours had it been?

Fuck.

Your clammy hands pulling at the sheets and the hiccups and tears that left your eyes as he pounded over and over again.

His tip prodding at your abused cervix, the harsh little veins scratching at your sweetest spots, and the scruffiness of his happy trail scratching at your little pearl of nerves.

God knows how many orgasms you had, your ankles over his shoulders as he bent you in half had your squelching cunt shaking and twitching as tears left your eyes at rapid paces.

“Dios. Ay! Miguel, por favor—Sisisi— ay! Ahí! Ahí!”* you begged in tears, both of you reduced to mingled Spanish as he gruffed and grunted.

“Te voy a llenar otraves, así te gusta. Sí. Tómalo todo. No dejes qué sé salga nada. Te voy a llenar de bebés. Te voy a dejar redonda y hinchada, hasta qué quedes bién embarazada y tengas mí bebé. Hasta qué grites de tan sensible y débil qué estés...”* he hissed back and kissed you with a stronger passion.

He was relentless with his pace as his fingers worked your nipples and he mused something about getting to drink from your swollen boobs, and getting to dress you in maternity clothes— how he couldn’t wait to watch it work wonders on your body. And how well he would take care of you with his baby. How his spoiled little wife would get nothing but the best, and have her with the most beautiful baby imaginable.

No mercy was bestowed on your poor body and less so that night. Your poor cunt was seeping his essence, and every time that a single drop leaked, he gave you another round until you passed out, only to fall asleep to his gentle praises and his gentle caresses.

Because he wouldn’t have it any other way; you would make the perfect mommy, and god was he lucky, that ring on your finger was absolutely perfect...

But what would make this more perfect? A little baby in your arms.

Surely, as soon as the baby was here, it wouldn’t be very long until he wanted another.

♡

Translations:

It’s very important...

Whatever you want.

I want a baby.

Taking care of rascals that aren’t even yours... And you do it so well...

I would like to have a baby with you...

There, there!

I’m going to fill you up again. That’s how you like it. Yes. Take it all. Don’t let anything spill out. I’m going to fill you with babies. I’m going to leave you round and swollen. Until you’re pregnant and you have my baby. Until you scream from how sensitive and weak you are...

[diejager]

Hello! I hope you’re doing well!! I was wondering if I can request more of percht König! If not that is totally okay!! Thank you ^^

Cw: blood, gore, injurie, inaccurate medic stuff, violent shift, tell me if I missed any.

He couldn’t remember much, after a rough and impromptu shift, his bone cracking and spine reshaping, snapping back together after his fat and muscle stretched along his back, his body rippling and shuddering, howls ripping through the stormy sky. Urgent shifts had always been painful, his body hastily and roughly shaping into the beast he was born as, leaving the ground beneath him bloody and his limbs shaking and throbbing with agony. His mind was a blur in the moment after it, every shape muddled, smell enhanced, his hearing filled with the loud beat of his heart, gurgling screams and booming shots, and his mind blurry. 

The last thing he remembered seeing was the insurmountable number of enemy, a trap they’d fallen into and left surrounded and caged, only knowing that he and Ghost had fallen into a stupid trap. Like a fly stuck in a majestic spider’s web, the intricately woven lines spun and interlaced to build the trap, unsuspecting and invisible until they flew into it; buzzing and squirming against the sticky web while the spider, big and dangerous in it’s beauty slowly crawled over, long and delicate legs threatening to stab the fly. They had stupidly fallen for an embellished trap by their backstabbing ally.

And when he woke up, laying in the biggest bed in the infirmary, the thick taste of iron lingered on his tongue, the disgusting flavour of rotten human skin and fat, the muscle fibres breaking so easily under his sharp teeth and eyes heavy with a bone-deep exhaustion. He was glad the lights were dimmed, the air sterile but gentle on his sensitive nose and the sheets soft around his rough and scarred skin. He layed naked, body tense under the blanket in his private corner of the infirmary, a thick, grey curtain hiding him from wandering eyes or other patients.

He relaxed when he saw you poke your head between the wall and curtain, a mask hooked under your chin to flash him a gentle smile, slowly approaching his bedside without spooking his frantic and confused mind. He tried to smile back, but his balaclava would barely show it with how subtle the curl of his lips was, his tired eyes fleeting over the heavy bags under your eyes and the worried air that oozed off your shoulders as you sat on the chair beside his bed, a clipboard placed on your lap. 

“How do you feel, König?” He loved how soft your voice was, the quiet rasp of it to not worsen his pulsing headache, but he caught the worn tone. You probably stayed up the whole night, stuck by his bedside and leaving only to shower and get another cup of coffee. 

“Tired,” he sighed, closing his eyes and slumping into the comfortable mattress and sinking deeper into his assigned bed, “Everything hurts.”

He heard you nod, scratching something on your clipboard, probably writing down his symptoms and noting down what you’d plan to give him for his pains.

“Headache?”

”Ja.”

The pen scratched again.

“Muscle pain and exhaustion.”

“Ja.”

You already knew that, he hadn’t heard you write anything, only the subtle sound of a page flipping.

“Do you want coffee or lunch before I give you painkillers?”

“Coffee.”

You placed the clipboard down, your boots quietly thudding against the slick floor and the click of a door letting him know you left his side. He appreciated your care, your tender affection to provide for him when he felt sickly or worn out. 

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