#it's good at least to know that there's a specialist who can see him and some options to go from here | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 2 months ago

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punishment ; bradley 'rooster' bradshaw

fandom: top gun

pairing: bradley x reader

summary: after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore

notes: there are no words in any language (real or fictional) for how much i love this man, it's genuinely consuming... but anyway! have some fighter pilot fun! when i reread this, i felt like it didn't hit the way i hoped, but i can't keep rewriting bradley stuff just because i want everything about him to be perfect... so please be kind! and please, please let me know what you think! i actually worked super hard on this (lots of research) and i absolutely love hearing from y'all!

warnings: swearing, italics, hangman is a proper dick, the word 'cannibalism' is used (as a joke), kind of super cheesy, and it gets a bit horny in some places (no actual smut) so 18+ ONLY please!!! (let me know if i missed anything)

disclaimer: there is a lot more navy / pilot wording in this than i usually write. i do not claim that any of it is accurate or correct. i google things and i watch youtube videos, tv shows, and movies. as long as it sounds like it could make sense, i don't care. but please do not assume any of it is absolute fact, and please don't come for me if it's laughably incorrect or unfeasible.

word count: 13863

The bar smells like leather polish and beer. It sounds like a rowdy dive, full of off-duty naval officers and a few old veterans, but it doesn’t look like a dive. It’s clean and full of light, the sun pouring in through the beachside windows and bouncing off every shiny surface it can find.

You tuck yourself onto the furthest stool at the bar, hiding behind a well-placed pillar to quietly sulk and sip your beer. You’re not interested in conversation today. Not after the ass-whooping you took last week, which landed you on this stupid island in the first place.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you pull it out to check the text. It’s from Maverick: “0700 sharp. Don’t be late. Khakis.”

You scoff and stuff it back into the pocket of your leather jacket. Does he really think you’re that dumb? That you’re not going to wear your service khakis on your first day? You’ve got a full day tomorrow of getting chewed out by a whole new slew of admirals. Why would you possibly want to piss them off?

A smirk tugs at your lips, but you quickly hide it behind a sip of beer. Not that it really matters if anyone notices—they’d probably just think you’re a little crazy, smirking to yourself. No one here knows who you are—at least not by looking at you. Except Maverick, of course. Your new babysitter.

Just because you pulled off a high-speed, low-level flyby mere feet from the deck of an aircraft carrier while some snooty admiral and a group of very important people were onboard for a very serious demonstration, you get booted from your squad and strapped with a babysitter.

You didn’t even hit anyone. It was just a very close call. A few people toppled over. But it’s not your fault they didn’t see you coming and brace for jet wash.

It was actually quite an impressive stunt.

But the admiral didn’t see it that way. He sent you to learn from one of the Navy’s most notorious rebels about what happens when you break the rules. You’re still not sure why they stuck you with Maverick. Maybe they’re using the logic of ‘two wrongs make a right.’ Either way, that’s one part of this whole shitshow you’re actually relieved about. Maverick’s not a total stick-up-the-ass.

A voice pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts and back to the bar. “You here alone?”

Your head snaps toward your personal space intruder, bringing you face-to-face with a rather handsome man who is almost definitely too cocky for his own good.

“That your big opener?” you ask, twisting on the stool to face him. “Because it’s giving more serial killer vibes than fuck-me vibes.”

He smirks, unbothered by your prickliness. “Enlighten me, then. What would make you wanna fuck me?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you take a deep swig of beer, then glance back at him. “About fifteen more years of age and a nice, salt-and-pepper beard.” You slide off the stool and smack your empty pint glass down on the bar. “Sorry, pal. I’m only into DILFs.”

He rears back, finally unsettled. You flash your prettiest grin and a wink before heading for the doors.

You almost make it out without looking back—almost.

Glancing over your shoulder, you spot the man rejoining his table of friends, all of them giggling like idiots.

All but one.

He’s got honey-brown hair that curls in the most mesmerising way, catching the sunlight like spun gold. His lips are tipped up at the corner beneath a moustache that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. And when you meet his big brown eyes, you can’t help but bite your lip like a shy little schoolgirl.

Now, if that man had approached you, you’d probably be halfway to his bed by now.

You had your khakis dry-cleaned at the seedy little place next to the equally seedy fish and chip shop you found after sulking at the beach for most of Saturday.

The studio apartment you’re leasing for your three months of punishment is in a block right by the sand—another small win in the grand scheme of things. At least you’re not stuck on base.

You thought it was a small fuck you to the system to skip the official base dry cleaners and take your uniform somewhere else.

But it wasn’t worth it.

Now your khakis are super fucking itchy. They look fine, but every inch of fabric touching you—which is a lot—makes you want to peel your skin off.

“What’s wrong?” Maverick asks, frowning as he watches you twist and turn in your front-row seat in the training room.

You sigh, rubbing your back against the chair. “I took my uniform to a dry cleaner near my apartment. Now it’s fucking itchy.”

Any other CO would rip into you for swearing, but Maverick just chuckles. “Serves you right.”

Smug prick.

You take a deep breath and try to settle, ignoring the prickling fabric scraping against your skin.

“Don’t worry,” he says, shuffling through papers at the desk, “you’ll be in a flight suit soon enough.”

Your eyes widen. You jump to your feet and step closer to where he’s hunched over the desk at the front of the room.

“You’re going to let me fly?”

He chuckles. “Of course.”

“But-”

“I cleared it with Admiral Simpson,” he says, flipping a page. “As long as the squad doesn’t know who you really are, and you don’t pull anything totally reckless, you’re cleared to fly.”

For the first time in two weeks, it feels like you’re finally breaking the surface of the water. “Oh my God. Thank you, Mav.”

He straightens up, finally giving you his full attention. “You don’t have to thank me. I trust you. Just don’t prove me wrong. And for the record—” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye, “—I know you’re a damn good pilot. In fact, you remind me of someone.”

The cheeky grin on his lips is completely readable.

You quirk a brow. “You?”

He laughs—low, light, and smug. “How’d you guess?”

You shrug one shoulder, slipping back into your seat. “Because I know Admiral Cain has it out for you. Why else would he saddle you with me if not to punish both of us?”

Maverick sighs, but the grin stays on his face. “You’re not stupid, I’ll give you that. But you’re dangerous. And honestly, I’m not sure Admiral Cain really thought through what happens when you throw two dangerous people together.”

You drop your voice low, just in case anyone else is listening. “Maybe Admiral Cain is the stupid one. Underestimating both of us.”

Maverick tries—and fails—to hide his laughter behind the stack of papers, and you realize that maybe this punishment won’t be quite as punishing as you first thought.

A few minutes later—and after completely shattering all professional boundaries by getting Maverick to scratch a spot on your back you couldn’t reach—the aviators who make up his special detachment start to arrive.

You stay low and still in your seat as they file in, one by one, filling up the rows while Maverick stands grinning at the front of the room. Two aviators across the aisle glance at you curiously, like they almost recognize you. God, you hope not.

“Good morning,” Maverick says, grinning at the room. “Apologies for the late start. I had a meeting with Admiral Simpson this morning because today..." He glances at you and nods for you to stand. “We have someone new joining us.”

You plaster on a polite smile and scan the room—only to freeze when your eyes land on a familiar face. The guy who approached you at the bar last night. The one you all but told to fuck off.

A snort of laughter escapes before you can stop it.

He looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face turning redder by the second. You almost feel bad. Almost.

“This is our new tactical training specialist,” Maverick continues, oblivious. But then he hesitates, glancing down at his paperwork before looking back up and saying your name—your first name, not your last, and definitely not your callsign.

Just like Admiral Simpson ordered. No one can know who you really are.

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but the words get stuck when your gaze drifts a few seats over... and lands on the moustached sex god you locked eyes with across the bar before you left. The one you shamelessly eye-fucked before blushing like a fool, ducking out the door, and mentally writing a very detailed fantasy about that moustache between your legs.

He’s even hotter in a flight suit. Shit.

“Uh, anyway,” Maverick says, clearing his throat, “let’s get on with the briefing so we can fly.”

You sink back into your chair, cheeks burning and heart thudding way too fast against your ribs.

Maverick drawls on about a few mission updates, occasionally throwing in extra context just for you—over-explaining like you hadn’t already gotten the full briefing before being flown in. You’re still too stunned to speak—or correct him—so you just press your lips together and nod along.

An hour later, when you’ve almost completely forgotten about your itchy khakis, Maverick dismisses the group and tells them to meet Hondo in the hangar. He calls on the woman seated across the aisle from you—Phoenix—before she can leave with the others, and asks her to show you to the women’s locker room.

She nods, then turns to you with a small smirk. “It's Natasha, by the way. Feels a little weird calling you by your real name if you don’t know mine.”

You return the smile—genuine this time—and keep your eyes on her instead of following the sex god in a flight suit walking out the door. “Nice to meet you.”

She leads the way out, and you follow, assuming she's heading toward the locker rooms.

“So, you fly?” she asks, nodding at the shiny wings pinned to your chest.

You nod. “Yep.”

“Where were you before this?”

You hesitate, wishing you’d hashed out a backstory with Mav. “Uh… around. It’s… mostly classified.”

She raises an eyebrow, sharp curiosity gleaming in her big brown eyes. “Or you've been ordered not to tell us.”

You snort softly. “Yeah, something like that.”

She guides you down a set of stairs and a short hallway before gesturing toward the women’s locker room. “Just in there. If they’ve assigned you a locker, your flight suit should already be inside.”

“Thanks, Phoenix.”

“Anytime.” She turns to go, but pauses, casting one last curious glance your way before smiling, nodding, and walking off.

You like her. No bullshit.

With a deep breath, you push the door open and step into the locker room. Sure enough, your flight suit is hanging beside a locker with your first name written in Sharpie on a piece of masking tape slapped across the front. It’s strange, seeing that instead of your callsign—but it confirms that Admiral Simpson is serious about keeping your identity buried.

You’d heard your little stunt had made waves, but halfway across the country? If they’re hiding your name out here, then yeah—no wonder you’re in trouble.

Your flight suit doesn’t have your name on it, either. Just a worn Velcro patch that reads ‘INSTRUCTOR’—the kind that looks like it’s been passed around longer than you’ve been in the Navy. Lovely.

You peel off your khakis, relieved to shove the itchy green material into your locker, and slip your legs into your flight suit. You leave the top half hanging loose as you re-lace your boots and check your reflection in the mirror before heading out of the locker room.

You turn down the hall without a second glance, awkwardly trying to shove your arms into your suit—only to carelessly bump into someone coming from the opposite direction.

“Shit, sorry, I-” You choke on your words when you look up at the prettiest damn smirk you’ve ever seen.

“You’re good,” he says—the moustached sex god. “Need a hand?”

Normally, no. But right now, your traitorous body is practically catatonic, pretending it’s forgotten how to function just so the sexy man will help you into your flight suit. You’re supposed to be a tactical training specialist, not an inept fool who can’t dress herself.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” you say, ignoring the screaming voice of feminism in your head. “I don’t know how I got so twisted up.”

He chuckles—deep and warm, like smoke curling around you, pulling you closer.

“I’m Bradley, by the way,” he says as he steps behind you. “Or Rooster.”

Your brain completely short-circuits. You don't even think to respond as his fingertips brush your bare arms, sliding the suit up over your shoulders. Even through your thin t-shirt, the heat of his touch sends a riot of butterflies through your stomach.

“Thanks.” You turn to face him, digging deep for the confidence that usually fools people into thinking you’re calm and collected. “I might need your number… in case I need a little help undressing later.”

His face breaks into the most breathtaking grin you’ve ever seen. His cheeks flush pink, his Adam’s apple bobs with a soft chuckle, and when his brown eyes meet yours again, they sparkle so brightly you forget how to breathe.

“Before I say yes, I need to know… do you usually ask your trainees to help you undress, or am I just special?”

You laugh softly, your confidence flickering, and start down the hall—walking backward so you can still face him. “Right, because I’m technically an instructor.” You tap the Velcro patch on your chest. “And that would be highly inappropriate.”

Bradley stands with his hands clasped behind his back, a look of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Highly.”

“Good thing I’m not exactly known for my propriety.” You flash him your cheekiest smile, then spin around and quicken your pace down the hall.

You make your way to the hangar—a little breathless from your run-in with the hottest man you’ve ever met—only to be intercepted by Maverick before you can reach the rest of the team.

“Nothing fancy today, alright?”

He hands you a dark green, slightly scuffed helmet.

You frown at it. “But my helmet-”

“Has your callsign on it.”

He gives you a pointed look—a silent warning wrapped in patience—before shifting his attention to the squad.

You roll your eyes as he walks off, then inspect the helmet in your hands, cringing at the cracked lining inside. At least it smells clean.

After he picks the pilots flying the first drill, everyone heads to their jets. Your fingers twitch with anticipation as you climb into the cockpit, stomach flipping with that familiar mix of nerves and adrenaline. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but it feels like a lifetime.

Once you're in the air, you follow Maverick’s orders to hang back, constantly reminding yourself that one more slip-up could ground you for good.

First up: Hangman, Payback, and Fanboy. They’re good, but Hangman is cocky—and there’s a difference between cocky and confident. You’re confident. You know you’re good. And it’s borderline painful to fly like a rookie while he runs his mouth over the comms.

“Hey Mav,” Hangman says, his voice crackling in your ear. “I’m curious—why do we need a tactical training specialist?”

“Because you’re not good enough, Hangman. You need to be better,” Maverick replies coolly.

“With all due respect, sir”—you can practically hear his smirk—“what are we supposed to learn from someone who flies like my grandma drives her Honda Civic?”

There’s muffled laughter from Payback and Fanboy.

“Maybe that’s her callsign,” Payback says. “Honda Civic.”

“I was thinking Grandma,” Fanboy adds.

More laughter—like they’re the funniest assholes in the sky.

For a fleeting moment, you consider soaring up in front of them in an admittedly reckless inverted climb just to scare the smug off their faces. But you grit your teeth and bank slowly through a patch of low, cottony clouds instead.

“Cut the chatter,” Maverick says, voice sharper now. “Or I won’t go easy on you.”

You almost wish he’d let you off the leash. Let you show them exactly why you’re here. But he’s right. As excruciating as it is to fly like a grandma driving a Honda Civic... this is what you have to do right now.

By the end of the day, you're bored out of your brain. You've heard so much trash talk from the pilots that you're not only feeling more defeated than after your reaming from Admiral Cain, but you're seriously considering punching one of them square in the face.

You know it's just banter. They're not really trying to upset you—test you, maybe. Haze you. But it still grates, especially when they keep jabbing at your flying—the one thing you’re damn proud of.

It sucks hiding your superpower. Is this how Clark Kent feels at the Daily Planet?

When it’s finally time to hit the showers before Maverick’s afternoon briefing, you’re relieved. You drag your feet down the hall ahead of the others, not in the mood for post-flight chatter. You slip into the locker room, peel off your flight suit and underlayers, and step into the nearest stall.

The water warms almost instantly, and you sigh in quiet appreciation. You’re just starting to relax when—

“Get your shit outta my way, Fanboy.”

You flinch at the voice—Hangman’s—closer than it should be while you're stark naked and dripping wet. Then you glance up and spot a vent high on the wall. It must connect to the men’s locker room.

“You have a locker. Use it,” Hangman snaps again.

You roll your eyes and duck back under the stream, letting the hot water drown him out. Or trying to.

“So, what do we think the deal is with our new tactical training specialist?” one of them—Coyote, you think—asks.

Hangman scoffs. “She’s no specialist. I’d be surprised if she’s even a fully trained aviator.”

“She didn’t seem like she had any trouble flying,” Bob says, voice soft but clear. “She just seemed like she was hanging back. Laying low.”

“Yeah,” Bradley adds—and your stomach does a little somersault. “Maybe she’s a total gun and just waiting to embarrass us all.”

You smirk. He’s not wrong. If they ever take the leash off, you definitely plan to humiliate them.

“I doubt it,” Hangman grunts.

“She’s probably just here to babysit Maverick,” Fanboy says. “We all know Cyclone doesn’t trust him.”

You snort quietly.

“You’re not wrong,” Payback chimes in.

“Probably some admiral’s daughter, too,” Coyote jokes.

Hangman laughs—smug and overconfident. “I don’t care who she is. One way or another, I’m gonna find out why she’s really here.”

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. You fly like a rookie, listen to Jake—yes, you’ve learned all their real names now—run his mouth like the class clown he insists on being, and endure Maverick assigning you to lead post-flight reviews breaking down the squad’s tactical performance.

Your nights are spent reading, studying, absorbing everything you can about the thing you’re supposedly a specialist in. You already know your stuff—you like to think you’re pretty sharp tactically—but now that Jake is gunning for you, your cover needs to be airtight.

The rest of the squad has been decent, if a little wary—not that you blame them. And then there’s Bradley.

Bradley is nice to you. Like, really nice. Almost suspiciously nice, despite Jake’s constant digs. You catch him looking your way more often than not—though, to be fair, you’re not exactly subtle about your own ogling. He backs you up when Jake crosses the line, and so does Natasha—which only confirms why you liked her from the start.

But Bradley? Bradley is a problem. The man is a walking, talking hazard to your mental, emotional, and physical well-being. Just hearing his voice over the comms is enough to make your heart skip.

And the worst part? You have absolutely no idea how to act around him. Cool confidence is second nature when you don’t care what anyone thinks—but with him, you’re suddenly a fumbling schoolgirl with a colossal, deeply inconvenient crush. He’s kind. He’s hot. He’s got that easy swagger of a guy who knows he’s good—and he’s right. It’s not too much; it’s the perfect, dangerously attractive amount of confidence.

Honestly? He might be the most punishing part of your punishment.

You spend most of the weekend trying—and failing—not to think about what it would feel like to have that stupid moustache between your legs. Or worse: on the pillow beside yours, with his arms wrapped around you while you sleep. Just sleep.

Dating seriously in the Navy—or any branch of the military, really—is notoriously difficult. You’ve made peace with casual, mediocre—often infrequent—sex. You’ve learned to ignore the craving for real connection, to smother it under adrenaline and the thrill of flying. But when you look at Bradley—stupid, hot, kind Bradley—you wonder what it would feel like to love him. And to be loved by him.

Ugh. Gross.

“You alright?” Maverick asks, brows pinched as he holds out a stack of paperwork.

You blink, realizing you’ve been zoned out. You’re not sure how long he’s been standing there.

“Yeah, sorry. Mondayitis,” you mumble, shaking your head and reaching for the stack.

He rolls his eyes and glances toward the spot you’d just been staring at—where Bradley is talking to a maintenance tech beside his jet.

“Yeah,” Mav chuckles. “Sure.”

You snatch the paperwork with a little more attitude than necessary, but at this point, you’re comfortable enough with Maverick to get away with it. He knows the difference between you being genuinely annoyed—usually whenever Jake is within twenty feet—and just being a smartass.

“You sure you’re good to stay back tonight?” he asks after a beat. “It’s just a routine FOD sweep, but the techs like having someone around who understands the tactical systems, just in case.”

“It’s fine,” you say, hugging the paperwork to your chest. “I’ve got nothing better to do. Honestly, I’ll take any excuse to speak to humans outside the hours of nine to five.”

Maverick chuckles, but then tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really not doing anything else? You don’t even go out? Or, I don’t know… do Tinder?”

You raise a brow at him, trying not to laugh. “No, Mav. I don’t do Tinder.”

“Oh.” He nods like that’s good news, but then frowns. “Still, you should go out sometime. Grab a drink, meet someone. This is a Navy town—there’s plenty of-”

“Are you seriously giving me advice on getting laid?” you interrupt, eyes wide with disbelief.

A faint pink tints his cheeks, but he doesn’t backpedal. “Not explicitly. But I just don’t see the point in making this punishment even more miserable by ignoring the outside world.”

“Punishment?”

You both freeze. Bob is suddenly beside you, looking wide-eyed and flushed—like he knows he shouldn’t have overheard but absolutely couldn’t help himself.

You turn to him, panicked. “He—uh, what Mav means is-”

“Bob!” Natasha’s voice cuts across the hangar. “Move it or you’re walking to The Hard Deck!”

He gives a polite nod and bolts before either of you can say more.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath.

Maverick waves it off. “It’s fine. Bob’s a vault. Even if he does say something, we’ll spin it.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m starting to think you’re the one trying to blow my cover, not Hangman.”

He laughs, unbothered. “You need to relax. Seriously—go out with the others tonight. Let off some steam. Maybe meet someone.”

You groan, stepping back. “Are we back to this already? I can’t go out tonight—I’m stuck here babysitting the FOD inspections so you can go on a date and get laid.”

That earns you a devilish grin. “You could still go out after.”

“It’ll be too late.”

“Alright then.” He flashes that troublemaking smile, then strolls off toward Bradley.

You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you see it. The mischief in Maverick’s eyes, the subtle glance Bradley throws your way, the small nod.

“Rooster’s staying back with you,” Mav says when he returns. “He’s going to help start inventorying the night gear before next week’s night ops. Keep you company.” Then he winks. “You’re welcome.”

Your cheeks flame instantly. You can feel the blush rising from your chest to the tips of your ears, especially as Bradley sends you one of those slow, devastating smirks from across the hangar.

You never imagined this would be your biggest problem, but here you are—drowning in paperwork and feelings, stuck with one ridiculously hot pilot… all because your CO thinks he’s Cupid.

You do your best to avoid Bradley at first—and it mostly works. He waves off his friends, all of whom are more than a little annoyed he’s skipping the bar, but for some reason, he doesn’t seem to mind. You find a relatively clear table toward the back of the hangar to spread out your paperwork and start sorting through what needs signing for tonight’s special inspections.

One of the technicians wanders over and spends twenty straight minutes mansplaining the FOD sweep and borescope process. Normally, you'd bite a guy’s head off for talking to you like you're five, but this time, you let him ramble. Anything to keep a buffer between you and Bradley.

The night wears on, and the techs move through their routines with smooth, practiced efficiency. You answer questions when needed, sign off on paperwork, and try not to keep checking to see where he is. After a couple of hours, you find yourself staring blankly at your neatly reorganized stack of documents—for the fourth time.

“You alright?” Bradley’s voice cuts in, low and warm. He stops a few feet away, arms full of night vision goggles.

You snap upright and nod. “Yep. Just a little bored. Need help?” The words tumble out before you can stop them, and your stomach does a full aerial twist when he smiles.

“Yeah, actually. There’s more NVGs to go through, and I need to check we’ve got enough night-adapted flight helmets.”

You nod again and follow him to the gear closet. It isn’t small, but it’s tightly packed with equipment that smells like age and dust. The doorknob is mottled with rust, and the door itself is being propped open by a bent prybar wedged underneath.

“Wow,” you mutter. “Luxury storage.”

Bradley chuckles, low and easy. “Yeah, not exactly state of the art. But Mav avoids complaining—less time in the admiral’s office.”

You laugh softly, running a finger along a dusty shelf. “Can’t argue with that.”

He casts a glance your way, curious but unreadable, as he stacks the goggles beside you. Then he points to the shelf of helmets and tells you to grab what you can and bring them over to where he’s been cleaning and inspecting gear.

It takes a few trips, but eventually you’ve got all the helmets laid out across the hangar floor while Bradley goes down the checklist on his clipboard. You drop into a cross-legged seat beside the gear, inspecting each helmet one by one—checking the straps, the fixings, the visor, making sure there are no cracks or faults.

Bradley settles across from you, reaching for a helmet of his own. “So,” he says, casual and curious, “do you already have a callsign, or are we still workshopping?”

You glance up through your lashes, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Classified.”

He arches a brow. “That’s not a no. Should I be worried it’s something like Deathwish? Or Heartbreaker?”

A quiet laugh escapes you as you trade one helmet for the next. “What if it’s closer to the second one?”

He nods slowly, a smirk tugging beneath that damn moustache. “Then I’ll adjust my expectations.”

“That’s your first mistake,” you say lightly. “Having expectations.”

His gaze lingers a little longer this time, thoughtful. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces. You’re not trying to be cryptic—it’s just that words get sticky around him. Being guarded feels easier than being obvious. You’re not that complicated, really… but for some reason, with Bradley, keeping your walls up feels safer.

And maybe, if he’s curious enough, he’ll keep pushing. You kind of hope he does.

More hours pass, and you fall into a comfortable rhythm. When needed, the techs call you over to check something or sign something off, then you return to Bradley with a sarcastic remark or a curious question. He doesn’t pry too much about why you’re here, but he asks simple things—where you grew up, what your favourite colour is, if you have any pets. The conversation stays light and easy, and you find yourself looking forward to hearing his voice again after every question you answer.

“Alright, we’re just about finished up,” one of the technicians—Randall— says as he ambles over.

You’re crouched on the floor with a few open night ops survival kits in front of you, checking for chem lights, strobes, and IR beacons.

“Oh, that’s great,” you say, brushing your hands off on your pants as you stand. “Thanks.”

He nods. “Security did a walk-through ten minutes back. I told ’em you two were in here, and they said they’d circle back unless you’re planning to leave with the rest of us.”

You glance at Bradley, silently letting him decide—though you’re secretly hoping he chooses to stay.

“We’ll be here a little longer,” he says, his eyes flicking to you. “I think.”

You nod, and his cheekbones flush pink as a small smile tugs at his lips.

Randall glances up, motioning vaguely at the walls. “Cameras there,” he says, pointing, “there, and there. Dead spots are that corner… or the gear closet. Y’know—if you don’t want to get caught.”

Your eyes widen and heat floods your face.

Bradley lets out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Right. Thanks, Randall. I don’t even want to ask how you know that, but… good to know.”

The older man grins and lumbers off, whistling.

The second he’s out of earshot, you groan into your hands. “What is with old men today?”

Bradley raises a brow. “Don’t tell me one of the other techs gave you a hookup tutorial.”

“Nope,” you sigh, dropping your hands. “Mav. I think he was trying to give me dating advice. Told me I should ‘get out there’ more.”

Bradley snorts. “Was it any good?”

“Well,” you say, “he’s glad I’m not on Tinder—wants me to meet someone the authentically. But then he was annoyed I’m not going to the bar tonight. Never mind the fact he’s the reason I’m stuck with overtime.”

Bradley opens his mouth, pauses, then squints at you. “Wait… was this right before he came and told me to start inventorying night gear?”

“Yup,” you reply, popping the p and being careful not to look at him.

“Right,” Bradley chuckles. “Maybe we should change Mav’s callsign to Cupid.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the blush blooming in your cheeks. “Or Stupid.”

You quietly keep packing up the survival kits and carrying them back to the gear closet. A few of the techs call out their goodbyes as they leave, but most don’t. And then—it’s quiet. Too quiet.

You’re not sure if the tension comes from being suddenly alone—or from the fact that Bradley now knows why Maverick asked him to stay. Would he have bailed if he’d known sooner?

He didn’t look horrified. Didn’t flinch or recoil. Just made a joke.

But what the hell is that supposed to mean?

“We can finish up soon, if you want,” you offer, even though you don’t want to.

But now you’re overthinking everything. What if he doesn’t want to be here? What if he thinks you expect something to happen—like you’re in on whatever matchmaking crap Mav is trying to pull?

“Oh,” he says, following you into the gear closet. “I mean, it’s up to you.”

There’s a beat of silence while you both stack kits onto the shelf.

“I mean, if you’re trying to make it to the bar,” he adds, his laugh a little forced.

You shoot him a flat look. “Yeah, right. With all my friends.”

He shrugs, but it looks stiff. “Maybe you’ve decided to take Mav’s advice. Meet a guy or whatever.”

You lead the way out of the closet, your brows furrowed as you try to decode his words.

Is he encouraging you to go? Telling you not to?

Why is this suddenly complicated? Why are you even thinking about any of this when you’re only here as punishment? You shouldn’t be worrying about boys and feelings.

You shake your head and decide to ignore it, scooping up more survival kits to return to the gear closet. Bradley is right behind you, carrying the last of them.

You’ve just reached the shelf and freed your arms when there’s a bang and a sharp screech.

“Shit,” Bradley mutters, stumbling forward.

He catches himself before dropping anything—but then a loud slam echoes through the space, and both of your heads snap toward the door.

“No,” you mutter, rushing from the shelf to the door. “No, no, no. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The rusted doorknob starts to crack in your grip. It doesn’t twist or even budge—just crumbles like sugar in hot water.

“Wait,” Bradley says, dumping the kits on the shelf. “Are we actually trapped?”

“No,” you bite out, twisting the handle again. It snaps, and a piece of rusted metal—fantastic—sticks into your palm. “Fuck. Shit.” You whirl around, clutching your hand. “Okay, maybe.”

Bradley doesn’t panic. He chuckles. It’s light, casual—and laced with something else. Satisfaction, maybe?

“You okay?” he asks, stepping closer.

You instinctively offer your hand. The cut isn’t deep, but there’s a decent smear of red pooling in your palm.

“Lucky we just restocked the survival kits,” he says with a wink.

You want to roll your eyes—but instead, you smile like an idiot. He’s so close you can feel the warmth radiating off him, seeping into your skin like a slow burn—and then his hand wraps gently around yours, sending a surge of electricity crackling up your arm and straight to your chest.

“This is just my luck,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Technically, I’m the one who tripped on the prybar, so I think it’s my luck.”

“Yeah, but I’m known to be a bit of a…” You trail off, clearing your throat, scrambling to find a word other than the one on the tip of your tongue.

His head tips, eyes narrowing. “A what?”

“Walking disaster,” you say quickly.

That earns another chuckle as he turns to the shelf of survival kits. “I wouldn’t call this a disaster.”

You scoff. “Really? We’re stuck in a dusty gear closet at ten o’clock at night, the techs just bailed, our phones are in our lockers, and security probably won’t even realise we’re in here.”

Still facing away, he rummages through one of the kits. “I’m trapped in a closet with a pretty girl,” he says. “Not exactly a disaster in my books.”

You press your lips together, trying to smother the grin threatening to break loose—but then he turns around, wearing the kind of smirk that should come with a warning label. It’s cocky and knowing, like he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on you—and worse, he’s enjoying it. Heat flares beneath your skin, and suddenly the gear closet feels about ten degrees hotter.

“See?” he says, offering his hand for yours again. “Can’t argue with logic.”

You let him clean and bandage the cut on your hand, silence stretching thick between you. The warmth radiating off his body fogs your brain, making it nearly impossible to focus on escape routes from this stupid closet. His hands are slightly calloused—evidence of years gripping the F/A-18’s control stick the way you’re now imagining gripping something else entirely.

Fuck. This man might actually be the death of you.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, breath brushing your cheek as he stands so damn close. “You’re not claustrophobic or anything, right?”

You shake your head, subtle and slow, your gaze locked on his lips, your voice nowhere to be found.

“Good,” he says. “Because we’re probably stuck in here all night. No windows, no vents, and there’s no way we’re getting any of these radios on the same frequency as the tower. That door’s older and more stubborn than Mav—it was built to keep people out, which means it’ll do just fine keeping us in.”

You sigh, eyes drifting down to your bandaged hand. “Great.”

He quietly packs the kit away, head bowed over the shelf as he works, giving you a moment to just look. His long legs are braced slightly wider than his shoulders, making him seem even more solid, more commanding. He all but consumes the small closet space, his honey-brown hair dangerously close to grazing the low ceiling. His fingers move deftly, expertly, and you can’t help but wonder what else they’d be good at.

“You’re staring,” he says suddenly.

Your cheeks warm. “I’m calculating.”

He gives you a sideways glance and that crooked smile—the one that makes your heart miss a beat. “Calculating what?”

“What chance I have of overpowering you if the situation becomes dire.”

He chuckles, but it’s lower this time. Rougher. A little dangerous. “Define ‘dire’.”

You shrug and turn your back to the shelves, sliding down to the floor. “You know. Cannibalism.”

You lean against the bottom shelf, packed tight with gear boxes—solid enough to act as a makeshift backrest while you stretch your legs out in front of you.

“Cannibalism,” Bradley echoes, settling beside you. “Right. So, is it straight to eating each other, or are there warning signs I should look out for?”

His arm brushes yours as he shifts, the heat of his body seeping through your flight suit. And the way he said eating each other? Yeah—that’s not helping.

“Well,” you say, clearing your throat to redirect your filthy thoughts. “First comes shock and denial.” You lift your bandaged hand. “But I think I’m past that.”

He nods, eyes on you, like he’s genuinely interested—or just waiting for your next move.

“Then anxiety and panic,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips. “You might start crying, beating your fists on the door…”

He snorts, and you catch him glancing at your mouth.

“Then comes anger and frustration,” you say, letting your voice drop just a little. “We’ll start blaming each other. Arguing. And then…” You trail off, licking your lips, gaze moving slowly down his body with exaggerated interest. “Desperation.”

“What happens then?” he asks, his voice soft, deep—almost reverent. Like you’re telling him a secret he already knows.

You glance at his hands, clasped tight in his lap. His long fingers tangled with tension, as if he’s holding himself still.

“We’ll probably give in to all the tension,” you murmur.

There’s a pause—so brief it’s barely a breath—before he asks, “What does that mean?”

You finally meet his gaze, smirking like you already have him cornered. “You know exactly what I mean, Bradshaw.”

The tension snaps when he laughs softly, his cheekbones tinged pink as he looks away.

“Well then,” he says, “if we’re going to be stuck in here until we both go mad, don’t you think I deserve to know who you really are?”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Not a bad try. Still classified.”

He tips his head back against the shelf, and your eyes catch on the long column of his throat as he speaks. “Oh, come on. You think I’m going to tell anyone?”

“No, not really,” you murmur, gaze still fixed on the warm tan skin of his neck.

You feel like a starved vampire, fixated on his jugular with something close to bloodlust. But really, you just want to sink your teeth in—hard enough to leave a mark. Claim him.

God. Since when has a man made you feel this feral?

Then he tips his head down again and pins you with those big brown eyes. “So why won’t you tell me?”

You meet his gaze. “I think you already know more about me than most people do. Is it really that bad not knowing my last name or callsign? Ask me anything else.”

His smile turns boyish, softening him, making him look younger than he is. “So you admit you have a callsign?”

You nod. “Yep.”

“When’d you get it?”

“Flight school.”

“Is there a cool story behind it?”

You wobble your head as if weighing the answer. “Sort of. It’s not really a story—it’s more of a personality trait.”

He nods slowly. “So I might be able to figure it out?”

You shake your head. “Probably not. Not with the way Mav has me flying.” You don’t entirely mean to throw him a bone—some sliver of the truth behind why you’re really here—but it slips out anyway.

His eyes narrow. “So you are holding back,” he says. It’s not a question.

You don’t answer. Instead, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down—hard. His gaze flicks to your mouth, and lingers there, watching you. Something in his eyes darkens, and you can see the flush crawl up his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“Okay, my turn,” you say, angling your body toward him. “This whole ‘prince charming’ thing. The cheeky smiles, the perfectly tousled hair—does it always work for you?”

He frowns, but the twitch at the corner of his lips betrays the amusement threatening to break across his face. “What do you mean, ‘does it work’?”

You shrug, trying—and failing—to seem nonchalant. The green-eyed monster in your chest rearing its ugly head. “I’ve seen you walking around like you own the place. Don’t tell me you haven’t left a trail of broken hearts across the country. I mean, I see the way you are with Phoenix, all the-”

“Phoenix?” he interrupts, his eyes growing wide. “Phoenix and I are friends. Period. I’m actually pretty sure she’s hooking up with Bob, but she’s too scared to tell the rest of us because we’ll ruin it. Which, fair enough. Hangman can be a bit of a bitch.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. “But don’t change the subject. You seriously don’t expect me to believe there aren’t a hundred women trying to beat down your door every Friday and Saturday night?”

He rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There might be one or two broken hearts in my past, but I can promise you, no one is beating down my door. And the ‘prince charming’ act...” He leans in just a little, his voice lowering. “That’s just for you.”

This man is actually trying to kill you.

You roll your eyes and feign indifference. “Smooth.”

He raises his brows, that smirk still firmly in place. “You think?”

“You know exactly what you’re doing, Bradshaw.”

He chuckles, leaning back and resting his head against the shelf again. “Well, yeah. I know what I’m doing. But I can’t tell if it’s working or not.”

You fight a smile, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yeah,” you mutter, “it’s working.”

The next hour passes with random questions exchanged, both of you settling into an easy rhythm. He’s careful not to pry too much, slipping in the occasional question about your past or why you're really here. You answer with playful eye rolls and a quick “that’s classified,” but despite the walls you try to keep up, you find yourself telling him more than you expected. His presence is warm and easy, and there’s something about the way his eyes study you—genuine curiosity mixed with a hint of hunger—that makes you open up in ways you didn’t expect.

Then, after a beat of silence, he asks, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

It’s a stark contrast to the casual questions you’ve been tossing back and forth. Your brows pinch, and you tip your head, a wave of exhaustion making your posture sag. You open your mouth to reply, but he jumps in again, voice laced with sudden panic. “Wait, you don’t have some secret boyfriend... right?”

A soft laugh escapes your lips. “No, I don’t.”

His shoulders visibly relax, his eyes blinking slowly, tiredly. “Why not? Aside from the stock standard military excuse.”

You rest your head against the shelf, staring up at the paint flaking off the ceiling. “I like to blame the navy, but I think it’s mostly my fault. I can be... picky. I guess my standards are higher than they have a right to be. The last actual boyfriend I had... sucked. Monumentally.” You pause, biting your lip. “He scarred me. Haven’t really wanted to date seriously since.”

There’s a flash of something unfamiliar across Bradley’s face—an emotion that’s gone before you can catch it, replaced quickly by curiosity. “Why did he suck?”

You snort softly, remembering your last relationship with a sick feeling in your stomach. “Do you want the PG version or the real one?”

His gaze hardens, anger flashing behind his eyes, though he masks it quickly. “The real one.”

“Okay,” you say, steeling yourself for the uncomfortable memories. “Well, aside from just being a piece of shit...” You pause, taking a deep breath. “After almost two years together, he—uh, he had a hard time finishing... with me. Told me it was because he was bored, too used to me. Said I wasn’t good enough to, you know... get him there.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, thick enough to make you choke. Your chest aches, but you can’t find the strength to breathe. Bradley’s expression has turned murderous. His eyes darken, his brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. His cheeks are flushed, redder than before, and the colour crawls down his neck and disappears beneath his flight suit collar.

“He told you that?” he asks, his voice rough, low, cutting through the silence like a blade.

You nod, a bitter laugh escaping as you remember the moment. “Yep. Right in the middle of it.”

His eyes narrow, and the anger in his gaze intensifies. “He said that to you while you were having sex?”

You nod again, your lips pressed tight, bracing for whatever might come next. Bradley looks like he’s ready to explode, like a bull in a chute, and though it’s scary, it’s also... unsettlingly hot.

“I broke up with him the next day,” you say softly.

“Good,” Bradley growls, his voice tight.

Silence settles between you again, but this time it’s softer—less charged, more intimate. You can breathe. And now that the adrenaline has faded, so has your energy. Your eyelids are heavy, your shoulders ache, but the hard clips of the gear boxes digging into your back are making it impossible to get comfortable.

You shift upright with a quiet sigh, glancing around the cramped space for anything soft to lie on. But the only thing that looks remotely inviting is Bradley’s lap.

He has his head tipped back, lids half-lowered, but there’s no missing the way he catches your gaze. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips—lazy and warm.

“You can lie down,” he murmurs, voice husky and low, dragging heat across your skin.

“You sure?” you ask, even though you’re already moving.

He adjusts his posture, leaning back against the shelves to make room. The slight shift in his stance feels oddly like an invitation, like he’s preparing for you. Your heart pounds as you reposition yourself, curling toward him and easing your head gently into his lap.

It feels too intimate for what it is—but he doesn’t stop you. If anything, his body goes still, and then he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to ground himself.

The heat of him is immediate, seeping into your skin. Without thinking, you press your freezing hands to his thighs with a groan of relief.

Bradley stiffens. “Shit. Uh... careful where you put those.”

You glance up. His mouth is parted slightly, breath coming and going faster now. That faint pink flush has darkened, stretching across the bridge of his nose. His eyes—wide, dark, hungry—meet yours.

“Oops,” you murmur, lips twitching. “Sorry.” Though you’re absolutely not.

You try to focus on relaxing, but the feel of him beneath you is intoxicating. Your exhaustion is at war with the slow burn licking through your blood. You close your eyes anyway, willing your body to settle.

Eventually, his breathing evens out again—and so does yours. You curl in tighter, tucking your knees up, and nestle into him a little more. His breath catches, barely audible, but telling. Then, after a beat, his hand rests lightly on your hip. Just that. But it sends a rush of heat spiralling through you.

His other hand shifts near your face, and, emboldened, you ease one of your own free and find his. Your fingers slide into place between his, lacing together like it’s instinct.

The spark that jolts up your arm is instant—sharp, electric, undeniable.

Yeah. This man is a hazard. To your health, to your career… And definitely to your cover.

You’re not woken by your alarm or the sound of your neighbour—who also happens to be navy—slamming his door on his way out. You’re woken by something solid pressing into the back of your head. Something warm. Something insistent. Almost like…

Holy shit.

You sit up like a shot, as if a gun’s gone off, your body protesting the movement after a night on the floor. But the aches barely register. Not when you’re suddenly very aware of the very impressive bulge currently tenting Bradley’s flight suit.

You press your lips together, partly to hold back your laugh—and partly to keep yourself from doing something absolutely unholy. Like burying your face in his lap. Mouthing him through the thick material. Slowly unzipping that khaki jumpsuit and devouring him until he forgets how to breathe.

God. You’ve never woken up so horny in your life.

You briefly consider nuzzling back into him, soaking up every drop of that delicious warmth—until you hear voices outside. And then you see it: a sliver of daylight spilling beneath the door.

You scramble to your feet and tiptoe to the door, pressing your ear against it. You should be thrilled you’re getting out of this dusty closet, but disappointment prickles under your skin. You’re not going to sleep with Bradley tonight—not in any sense of the word. Which is stupid. Completely insane. You’d rather spend another night on a hard floor with him than go home to your own bed.

You shake your head and focus on the voices. You don’t recognize any of them. Tech crew, most likely—starting early.

You lean over Bradley, gently scratching the crown of his head. “Hey,” you whisper, keeping your voice low just in case.

His eyes flutter, then snap open—briefly panicked before he remembers where he is. He looks up at you with a sleepy smile, soft and hazy. “Hey. How’d you sleep?”

You laugh quietly. “Surprisingly well. Until I was woken up by your little lieutenant—well, actually, not-so-little, but anyway…” You trail off, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m going to shut up now.”

His brows knit in sleepy confusion… until understanding hits. He glances down—and immediately covers his lap with both hands. “Shit. Sorry.”

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’d offer to help you out, but I think we should probably get out of here before the others show up.”

His mouth opens, his gaze snapping to yours—hopeful and tortured all at once. Clearly debating whether it would be worth the risk.

He sighs, defeated, and pushes to his feet. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

You both move to the door, listening for familiar voices.

After a moment, Bradley murmurs, “I think we’re in the clear. Sounds like it’s just techies.”

You nod. “Alright, do we start yelling for help now?”

He glances down at himself and makes a face. “Can I get a minute first?”

You snort softly, biting your bottom lip to contain your grin. But you can’t stop the way your eyes drift down, or the warmth that floods your chest. Whether it’s the lap-nap or the fact you’ve gone completely stupid for this man, you’ve never wanted to drop to your knees more in your life.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, brows drawn as he focuses on anything that isn’t you. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry,” you giggle, turning fully toward the door. “I’ll just wait here.”

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice coated in sleep and something far thicker—undeniable desire. He paces the tiny length of the closet like a caged tiger, careful not to look at you.

A few minutes later, he returns to your side and nods. “Okay. Ready now.”

You smirk and nod, resisting the very strong urge to glance down. Then you both turn toward the door and start knocking.

“Hello!” you shout, mouth close to the seam. “Help! Please!”

There’s the sound of footsteps, muffled voices. Then a rough voice answers, “Hello? Someone in there?”

“Yes!” you call back. “The doorknob’s broken—we can’t get out.”

There’s a jiggle of what’s left of the knob on your side, but it doesn’t move.

“S’not budgin’,” the man says. “Stand back, alrigh’?”

“Okay,” you say just as Bradley grabs your arm and pulls you to the back corner of the closet.

He cages you with his body, chest pressed to yours, shielding you like a human wall. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his breath ghosting over your cheek, his thigh brushing yours, your mouth so close to his. One glance up and you know you’d be kissing. You want to. God, do you want to. But now isn’t the time.

A bang. Then another. The door rattles, the hinges groaning. One final crash sends the door flying inward, half-torn from its frame.

Bradley doesn’t move at first. Then he exhales and shifts away slightly—just enough to look—but his hand remains on your wrist, protective.

“You alrigh’?” the voice asks, silhouetted in the sudden glare of morning light.

You squint, the brightness stabbing at your eyes.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “We’re fine.��

You both blink as your vision adjusts and step toward the opening.

“Exactly how long have you two been in there?” comes a second voice. One you know far too well.

Maverick.

Your stomach drops.

As your vision clears, the scene before you sharpens into a full-blown nightmare. Maverick, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, slap-worthy smirk imaginable. Behind him: Natasha, wide-eyed, biting her lip to keep from laughing; Bob, cheeks glowing red; Reuben and Mickey, snickering like they’re in middle school; and—of course—Jake, grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery.

You're never living this down.

Before you can even begin to defend yourself, Jake lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Rooster. Didn’t know we were doing supply closet survival drills.”

Bradley sighs. “It was locked, Hangman.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Jake says, his grin wide. “But the rest of the hangar? Not so much.”

Maverick raises a brow, smirk firmly in place. “Glad to see you both survived the night. Though next time, maybe just request a room.”

You shoot him your sharpest glare—just shy of throwing a knife right at your CO. “That door needs to be fixed. You’re lucky I was stuck in there with Bradshaw and not one of these other idiots, or you’d have a dead body to deal with.”

Your glare swings to Jake, cutting him off before he can open his mouth again.

Maverick starts to reply but pauses, eyes flicking down to your bandaged hand. “Do you need to go to medical?”

You shake your head. “No. But I could really use a shower.”

He nods, then turns his attention to Bradley. “You need the day off?”

“No,” Bradley says. “We slept.”

Jake chuckles, wicked and bright. “That’s not what the security tapes say.”

Your heart stutters. “Th-There’s no camera in there. Randall said-”

“Randall told you about the camera blind spots?” Maverick cuts in, clearly amused.

The group bursts into laughter, and even Bradley’s mouth twitches into a smirk.

Jake winks. “Relax, I was kidding, sweetheart. But hey, good to know Rooster kept you safe. Always knew he was the gentleman type.”

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, a physical barrier against the swarm of smug faces. “Unlike you, Hangman, Rooster is a gentleman.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Maverick says, waving a hand to dismiss the squad. “You lot suit up. And you two—hit the showers.” He starts to walk off, then glances over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “Separately.”

Your cheeks go up in flames, but there’s no clever comeback waiting on your tongue. You just take a breath and storm toward the locker rooms, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back at Bradley… and ask if maybe he would want to shower together.

After a longer-than-necessary shower, you change into spare underclothes and slip your flight suit on over the top. It takes a little extra confidence to step back out of the locker room, but eventually, you do. You settle in the waiting room and do your best to pretend to work—analysing flight data and scribbling notes on tactical performance from Maverick’s current sky drills.

No one speaks to you, but you don’t miss the way Jake smirks as he strolls into the room after his run. Or the way he leans toward Javy, whispering something just out of earshot. You ignore it. You’re too tightly wound to entertain his usual bullshit.

When the day finally ends, you drag yourself home and go through the usual motions. But you can’t stop checking your phone.

You know last night was a fluke—an accident that landed you in a supply closet with the man your heart has apparently chosen to obsess over. You know better than to expect a message or a call. To think he might actually take you up on that teasing offer from this morning.

He’d been perfect last night. Soft, warm, protective—furious at your ex and almost wrecked with want when you’d touched him.

But today? He didn’t speak to you once. Not in an obvious, pointed way. Just… didn’t. He didn’t sit next to you in the afternoon briefing. He didn’t chase you down before you left.

Maybe he’s not interested. Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you thought.

Despite how much your body aches and how tired you are, sleep doesn’t come easy. Your mattress is too soft. Your pillows are too cold. There’s no steady heartbeat to lull you into slumber. No warm hand to tangle your fingers with. The silence feels sharp in your ears, and your room feels colder than it did the night before last.

You’re awake well before your alarm, so you take your time getting ready. You shower even though you don’t need to, apply a little makeup even though you usually don’t, and secure your hair with more precision than normal. Breakfast is slow and deliberate, eaten in front of the TV as if you have all the time in the world.

You’re still out the door early—even before your inconsiderate neighbour, Slammy Steve. You finally gave him a name for when you curse him every morning as his door slams shut.

At base, you head toward the usual hangar, steeling yourself to face the squad again—to face Bradley. Your stomach twists at the thought. You’re far too hung up on a man who probably sees you as nothing more than a bit of fun to flirt with.

You’re the first in the briefing room by a good half hour, but the time passes quickly as your thoughts spiral. Bob’s the next to arrive, and he gives you a polite smile before settling in with his travel mug and quietly watching videos on his phone.

One by one, the rest of the squad filters in.

“You know me, Coyote,” Jake’s voice rings out, smug and too loud as he strolls in with his wingman. “I’m a generous man. I can’t help myself.”

You don’t know what he’s talking about, but you know it’s bullshit.

You sink lower in your chair and roll your eyes, hoping he won’t see you.

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Jake calls as he drops into his usual seat just behind you. Then he leans in, his voice close to your ear. “What do we have here?”

You don’t react.

“Hangman,” Natasha warns flatly, “for once in your life, don’t be a dick.”

“What?” he says, mock innocence dripping from every syllable. “Just trying to say good morning to our lovely tactical training specialist.”

You glance at Natasha. She meets your eyes and offers a soft, apologetic smile—not that this idiot is any of her fault.

“Good morning, aviators,” Maverick’s voice fills the room, and some of the nausea in your stomach eases. “How are we today?”

There are a few mumbled responses—none from you—as he sets a stack of papers on the desk and powers up his laptop for the interactive display. He casts you a brief look and a small smile before returning to the task of setting up.

Then another set of footsteps enters at the back of the room, and you can’t help but turn.

“Sorry,” Bradley mutters. “Overslept.”

Maverick nods as Bradley takes his seat. No one says anything—until Jake does.

A low, sharp whistle. Then, into your ear again, “Guess getting locked in a closet’s the only way you’ll ever get Rooster to spend the night, huh?”

That’s all it takes to make the rubber band snap.

You’re on your feet in an instant, eyes narrowed, anger simmering beneath your skin like wildfire. You’re nauseous again—burning from the inside out.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you snap, louder than intended—but you don’t care.

You’re angry. You’re humiliated. A week of jabs and insults from a man who doesn’t even know you, and now this, after falling for another man who apparently wants nothing to do with you.

Jake chuckles, condescending as hell. “Woah, settle down. It was just a joke.”

“You’re a fucking joke,” you bite back, voice low and steady—deadly. “You talk a big game, but the only thing you’ve mastered is flying straight and fast. You burn fuel and pull Gs like it’s a dick-measuring contest, but the second a manoeuvre requires restraint, finesse, or actual tactical thinking? You fall apart.”

You lean in, eyes locked on his like a missile. “You’re sloppy in a merge, predictable in a climb, and your cross-checks are lazy as hell. You fly like you’re invincible—which might be fine in a video game, but up there? That gets people killed.”

You pause, just long enough to see if Maverick will step in. He doesn’t.

“You’re not untouchable, Seresin. You’re just loud.”

Then you turn back to the front and drop into your seat, arms crossed, chest heaving as you take a few deep, centring breaths.

A low snicker breaks the silence, followed by a quiet, impressed whisper: ‘Damn… take that, Bagman.’ You don’t turn around, but you don’t have to—Jake’s probably still blinking. Pride simmers in your chest, and despite your best efforts, a smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

“Well then,” Maverick says, rubbing his palms together with a smirk. “Let’s get started.”

The morning briefing goes better than usual, mainly because Jake is too embarrassed to pipe up with his usual bullshit. Maverick talks through today’s drills, outlining what he’s looking for in their flying. He also mentions that you'll be up in the air today, analysing their tactical skills and reviewing their performance once they’re back on the ground. He gives Jake a pointed look as he says this, and you can’t help but bite back a giggle.

About an hour later, Maverick announces that it’s time to fly, and the team starts filing out of the room. Jake casts you a quick glance—not lethal, just a small warning. Somehow, his stupidly cocky grin is already back in place.

When you reach the door, you realise that Bradley has lingered behind, falling into step beside you just as you exit the room.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” he says, glancing at you with that small smirk beneath that damn moustache, the sight of which sends a warm ache straight to your lower belly.

You offer him a clipped smile, a brief glance before looking back down, focusing on the movement of your boots.

“Unless... I already am,” he adds, his voice a mixture of question and statement.

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of Bradley’s eyes on you—watching, soft and thoughtful.

“I mean,” he continues, hesitating for a moment with a soft chuckle. “I know I should have called or something, especially after waking you up with my dick, but... I was honestly spent last night. Barely made it home before crashing out. But, if you’ll let me, I’d like to... you know... wake you up with my dick in a way that’s more enjoyable for the both of us?”

You can’t help the grin that breaks across your face, a soft laugh slipping out before you can catch it. When you turn to look at him, his smile is sheepish and flushed, impossibly endearing, with a laugh hovering just behind it. His brown eyes are shining, warm and full of something that makes your chest ache—something you know is written all over your own face too.

And damn. If this isn’t the man you’re supposed to spend your life with, you know you’ll be spending it alone.

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, feigning indifference. “I’ll allow it.”

“Allow it?” he echoes, his voice rich with laughter. “Wow. I’m a lucky guy.”

Warmth spreads through your whole body as the two of you continue into the hangar. You feel like you’re standing next to the sun—but it’s not burning you. It’s keeping you warm, keeping you alive.

You can’t help glancing at him every few seconds, even while Maverick shouts instructions and assigns the first flyers. You find it hard to tear yourself away from Bradley when you’re called to your jet, waiting for ground crew instructions. Your mind is foggy with thoughts of him: his eyes, his smile, the little laugh he lets out, and that adorable crease between his brows when he’s confused or offended.

Fuck. You’re so gone. You haven’t even kissed him yet, and it might kill you when you do.

At least you’ll die happy.

When the jet starts to rumble and your hands move over the controls, you pull your thoughts in. You focus on the here and now—the cockpit, the sky, the mission. Even the idea of flying like a grandma all day doesn’t kill your mood. Because you’ll see Bradley when you're back on the ground, and that’s enough to keep you grinning like an idiot behind your oxygen mask.

The sky is clear—perfect flying weather—and the wind is barely a whisper. You feel like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for the gate to open. But that’s not what you’re here for. So you settle, banking slow beneath where you know Maverick is flying, waiting for instruction.

“All right,” Maverick says, his voice crackling over comms. “Hangman, you’re mission lead. Payback, Fanboy, don’t let your wingman down. Fly the profile in your system. Deviate, and you’d better have a damn good reason. Watch for enemy aircraft.”

“Sorry, Mav, my comms are a little fuzzy,” Jake replies. “Did you say enemy or grandma? ’Cause from where I’m flying, I can only see a Honda Civic.”

Maverick’s irritation bleeds into his voice. “I’m the enemy aircraft, Hangman. Watch out for me. Our tactical specialist will be monitoring, and you can explain your mistakes to her when you’re back on the ground.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Jake says, that smirk practically audible.

“We’ll see about that,” Maverick shoots back.

You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath and tamping down the irritation rising in your chest.

The others take off, and you track them—eyes sharp on the HUD and the sky. Maverick is flawless. And unfortunately, so is Jake. He’s a damn good pilot. Cocky, but predictable. You already know what he’s going to try next.

The drill plays out. You listen to the comm chatter as you stay low and out of the way, observing. The team gives Maverick a decent run for his money, nearly finishing the nav route before he takes out Reuben and Mickey. Jake claims victory anyway—but Maverick shuts him down fast.

“Fail,” he says. “Your wingman’s dead. Put the cocky bravado away, I’m done with it.”

You’ve never heard Maverick so sharp. He actually sounds like a CO—calm, stern, commanding—as he orders everyone back to base.

You keep low, banking through a few fluffy clouds, weaving like you’re bored. But your eyes stay trained, watching Jake flying just above, at your six.

“Hey, tactical specialist,” Jake’s voice cuts in. “Just watching your cross-checks from up here. I can practically see the superiority from miles away.”

You bite your tongue, suppressing the sarcastic retort clawing at your throat.

He adds, “Oh wait. Nope. That’s just your nose in the air.”

You roll your eyes and surge forward, jaw tight.

“That’s it,” Maverick says, voice stern. “Back to the nav route. Now. You’re flying it again. And I’m not the enemy this time.”

Jake snorts. “Mav, come on. You’re really gonna embarrass her like this?”

“That’s enough, Lieutenant,” Maverick snaps. “Follow your orders. Stick to your waypoints. And good luck.”

The way he says those last two words makes your pulse spike. Adrenaline kicks in, fast and sharp.

Your limbs feel light. Your chest is buzzing. Your breath hitches, and a wicked smile spreads beneath your mask.

“Alright,” Jake drawls, still clueless. “Come on, boys. Let’s show this Honda Civic how real men fly.”

You’re practically vibrating now. Locked in. Focused. You follow the others back to the route—Maverick hangs back. You’re a bull in the chute, about to blow the gate. You’re going to kick this cowboy into the dust.

All you need is the green light. The words.

“Whenever you’re ready, Grandma,” Jake says, smug as ever.

You take a breath. Narrow your gaze.

You’re not just going to shoot them down. That’s too easy. You’re going to humiliate them. Drag it out. Make them suffer before they burn.

Then Maverick speaks—low and clear, straight in your ear. A spark struck to gasoline.

“Flip the switch, Jinx.”

You’re gone before they can take their next breath.

They can’t see you. You know it. You’re good at disappearing. Now you wait—watching from the shadows, letting them scramble.

“Holy shit,” Reuben mutters, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Who the hell is Jinx?” Jake asks, a beat behind.

Reuben groans. “She is, idiot.”

“Wait—where have I heard that before?” Mickey pipes up.

“Jinx is the pilot Admiral Cain just grounded,” Reuben replies, his tone shifting fast toward panic. “Fastest low-level flyby of an aircraft carrier—barely two feet from the deck. And she’s the highest-scoring TOPGUN grad in twenty years. She’s fucking legendary.”

“No,” Jake breathes, full of denial. “No, she’s not Jinx. She can’t be.”

“You just had to run your fucking mouth, didn’t you?” Reuben says, voice deadpan with defeat.

“Oh, we’re fucked,” Mickey declares.

You slip beneath them like a shadow—silent, smooth—so close you could kiss their undercarriage with your canopy. But you don’t rush. You wait. Calculating. Cold. Planning the most humiliating move you can pull. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to dominate.

“Payback,” Jake says, still cocky, still smug. “You’ve got a shadow on your six.”

“What?” Reuben’s voice spikes. “Where the hell is she? Fanboy, talk to me.”

“Negative radar contact,” Mickey answers. “I don’t see anything.”

You throttle back just enough to hover beneath them, then slide up—then down again—dancing through their blind spots like smoke in a breeze.

“Hangman,” Reuben snaps, panic rising, “get her off us.”

“Relax, Payback,” Jake drawls. “I’ve got eyes on her. She’s not as good as she thinks.”

You breathe deep—steady, focused. The smile on your face is razor sharp.

“Alright, Hangman,” you murmur, voice low and lethal. “Want to see how a real man flies?”

You yank the stick back and rocket toward the sun—fast, blinding, gone. They lose you instantly.

“Where’d she go?” Jake barks. “Fanboy, where the hell did she go?”

“She’s too fast,” Mickey replies, frantic. “She’s over—wait—no, she’s—shit. I can’t get a lock!”

Leveling out, you catch a glint of sunlight off a wing at two o’clock—Jake, hanging wide. Sloppy.

You grin and dive—clean, silent, deadly.

Back behind Payback and Fanboy, you slip into their six like a phantom. One breath. Then you float up, nose aligned perfectly.

“Boo,” you whisper.

“Shit!” Mickey yells. “She’s on us!”

“Break, break, break!” Reuben shouts, yanking the stick. But you’re tighter than their turns, reading every move. Mickey’s calling positions, but it’s useless—you’re already there.

Tone lock. Missile fired.

“Damn it!” Reuben groans.

You peel away quickly, climbing high and vanishing back into the sun.

Then you wait.

Jake’s climbing now, banking, twisting. Scanning. You can feel it—his nerves crackling across the sky. You disappeared, struck, and disappeared again. And now it’s just him. No backup. No noise. Just the slow, sinking realisation.

“Where the hell is she now?” he snaps.

“She’s hunting you,” Mickey says, voice laced with amusement.

Jake loops, banks, scans his six. He’s getting desperate. But it’s too late—you’re already behind him, tracking every flick of his wings like you're inside the cockpit.

Then you dive.

Fast. Precise. Dead-on.

He doesn’t even hear the tone until it screams.

“Splash two, Hangman,” you say, smooth as silk, smug as sin.

“Fuck!” he barks, pulling hard.

You stick with him and surge upward, wings slicing through a cloudbank. Then you roll cleanly inverted—and drop.

You hover over his jet, canopy to canopy, just feet apart. Perfect. Effortless. Deadly.

Jake looks up.

And you salute him—with one elegant, deliberate middle finger.

“No fucking way,” he mutters, eyes wide.

“Mission failed,” Maverick says, the smile audible in his voice. “Nice work, Jinx.”

You right your jet, throttle back with surgical control, and leave Jake spinning in your jet wash—stunned, smoked, and thoroughly outflown.

The comms are silent on the way back to base, and you can’t stop grinning behind your mask. Your cheeks are starting to ache. You feel like a caged bird finally stretching its wings. Like yourself again—confident, alive—and almost as smug as Jake probably feels every morning when he looks in the mirror at his stupid, pretty-boy face.

Then Reuben’s voice crackles through your headset. “Is it true you once locked three bogeys in a single sweep during a TOPGUN exercise?”

You laugh, quiet enough that your mic doesn’t catch it. “Yeah. Second fly drill. Some guy was running his mouth, so I unleashed hell. Got an earful for it, though—reckless flying and all.”

Feeling a little cocky, you bank up beside their jet, then roll cleanly over—canopy to canopy. You give them a polite little wave before settling beneath them, then punch the throttle and streak ahead toward base.

“Dude,” Mickey says, awestruck, “I think I’m in love.”

You grin and surge forward, barrelling up beside Maverick. You sweep past him—closer than regulation, jostling his jet just enough to rattle him. His laughter fills your headset as you rocket ahead, heart pounding as he closes in behind you.

You chase each other through the sky in a tame game of cat and mouse until it's time to land. Following instructions from the ground crew, you ease into a holding pattern, waiting your turn to descend.

It’s not long before you’re popping the canopy and tearing off your helmet, still grinning as you climb out of the jet and drop to the tarmac—light on your feet and high on adrenaline.

“Holy shit!” Natasha storms toward you, eyes wide, cheeks flushed. “You—you’re Jinx! I can’t believe—oh my God.”

Bob is right behind her. “You pulled a Cobra manoeuvre during a mock dogfight at a showcase event to evade missile lock. I was there.”

Laughter bubbles from your lips, heat blooming in your cheeks as the squad quickly surrounds you.

Natasha shakes her head in disbelief. “The navy hasn’t seen a pilot like you since-”

“Me,” Maverick cuts in, stepping up beside you with his helmet tucked under his arm.

You glance at him, noting the proud grin on his face, before turning back to the others. Natasha and Bob are front and centre, Javy just behind them, with Reuben and Mickey lingering in the back, still wearing their helmets. But you don’t see Bradley.

“Listen up,” Maverick says, his tone turning serious. “As most of you know, Jinx was grounded for a particularly dangerous stunt—well, she should be grounded. Admiral Simpson agreed to let her fly on the condition that only need-to-know personnel are made aware of her identity. I’ve just made you all need-to-know. Now you have to prove you can be trusted with that.”

Jake steps forward, falling in beside Natasha, his expression unreadable. You and Maverick both turn toward him, and your stomach twists. If he wanted to, he could unravel everything.

Jake meets your eyes, and for the first time, there’s nothing but sincerity behind his. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re... you’re fucking amazing.”

A grin breaks across his face—and yours follows. The squad erupts in cheers as Maverick claps a hand on your shoulder. You offer Jake a fist bump, and he accepts it with a laugh.

“You know,” he says, that cocky smirk firmly back in place, “if it doesn’t work out with Rooster, I’m always-”

“That’s enough, Hangman,” Bradley cuts in, dropping a hand on Jake’s shoulder and nudging him aside.

You giggle like a schoolgirl with a crush. Your cheeks are on fire, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.

Bradley turns to you. “Hey.”

You tilt your head slightly, eyes locking on his stupidly handsome face. “Hi.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, his own cheeks tinged red. “That was—uh, you’re even cooler than I thought.”

You snort, unladylike and unbothered. “That so?”

He nods and steps closer, just a few inches between your boots.

“Does that intimidate you?” you tease.

He laughs again and glances up, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath that sun-kissed skin. The world falls away—it’s just the two of you now, the rest of the squad, watching and waiting, have all but disappeared.

“No,” he says, eyes back on you. “It kinda turns me on.”

You don’t think. You just move.

Your hand slides up the front of his flight suit, fingers curling into his collar as you tug him down before he can say another word.

And then you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not tentative. It’s everything—all the tension, the smart-ass remarks, the stolen glances and breathless moments that led to this.

You rise onto your toes and his hands catch your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth claims yours like a promise, like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have. And when his tongue brushes the seam of your lips, you don’t hesitate—you part for him, and it’s like striking a match.

There’s laughter in the background, noise and movement, but it all fades beneath the roar of your pulse and the heat of his mouth. All you can feel is him—his body, his breath, his hands. You want the flight suits gone, burned, anything that dares keep him from you reduced to ash.

It takes everything you have not to absolutely devour him right there on the tarmac. But you’re still at work. And people are watching.

So you part—eventually—grinning like idiots and panting like you’ve just sprinted a mile in full gear.

“Jesus,” Mickey mutters from somewhere behind Bradley. “Even I’m hot and bothered after that.”

“All right, you two,” Maverick chuckles. “Save it for the supply closet.”

You roll your eyes and drop back onto your heels, shooting him your best unimpressed glare—which, admittedly, isn’t very convincing when you’re high on adrenaline and kissing Bradley Bradshaw.

“We’re never living that down, are we?”

“No,” Maverick replies with a grin. “Never.”

You groan and turn back toward Bradley, letting your forehead fall against his chest.

“I’m still not convinced you two didn’t fuck in there,�� Jake says, striding past toward the briefing room.

A chorus of half-laughs and agreement follows him.

Bradley’s chest shakes with laughter beneath your cheek, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close.

“If they’re going to assume we did it in there,” he murmurs, just for you, “maybe we should just go do it in there.”

You glance up at him, eyes flicking to his mouth, already picturing that stupidly hot moustache between your thighs.

“Don’t fucking tempt me.”

He laughs again and drops his hand to yours, fingers tangling as he tugs you toward the briefing room. Your eyes fall to his ass—shameless, hungry—watching the way it moves with each step just ahead of you. Teasing. Taunting.

Being assigned to Maverick’s special detachment isn’t your punishment. Flying like Jake’s grandma in her Honda Civic isn’t your punishment either. No—the real punishment is spending ten hours a day, five days a week with Bradley fucking Bradshaw, pretending to be professional. Just waiting for the evenings when you can drag him to bed and completely, unapologetically devour him.

END.

#bradley bradshaw #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster #rooster x reader #top gun: maverick #top gun #miles teller #miles teller x reader #one shot #oneshot #fanfiction #fan fiction #imagine #top gun x reader #jake seresin #maverick #hangman

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violetrainbow412-blog · 4 months ago

Text

Differential Diagnosis

Spencer Reid x fem!reader x platonic!James Wilson

wc: 3.4k

note: okay, hyperfixations are WORKING. I started watching House MD (I saw a few seasons years ago, but I'd forgotten about it) and this just popped into my head during a night of mystical delirium. I hope it makes some sense; I had a lot of fun writing it.

The mere thought of asking Gregory House for a favor made your stomach turn.

Not because he was incompetent—quite the opposite—but because you knew his corrosive humor and his eagerness to make others uncomfortable all too well. Every time your paths crossed in the past, he found a way to mess with you, point out any personality trait that might make you vulnerable, and laugh it off with his signature mocking tone.

And yet, there you were, standing next to Spencer Reid at Princeton-Plainsboro, trying to convince yourself that this encounter wouldn’t be as terrible as you imagined.

As members of the FBI, the team had the freedom to consult with as many specialists as necessary, even if they weren’t directly involved in the case you were working on. And deep down, you knew there was no one better to help you than Gregory.

You cursed the moment Spencer had mentioned it in front of Hotch because you had to confess to the "friendship"—if you could even call it that—you had with the doctor. Well, more than a friendship, Hotch had sent you because he trusted that you could persuade him. You had asked Reid to go with you so he could explain the medical aspects and, in part, as a kind of punishment for him.

You had already spoken with the hospital director, and she had given you the all-clear to head to his office. When you arrived, House had his back turned, checking something on his computer. His voice greeted you before you could even speak.

“If this is another attempt by Cuddy to get me to take cases for free, tell her my charity quota is already exhausted this week.”

“It’s good to see you too,” you said, crossing your arms.

House slowly turned in his chair, and upon seeing you, a mocking smile appeared on his face.

“Well, well. My favorite FBI agent. What brings you here? Need a consultation, or are you here to arrest me for being too cool?”

You sighed. House was already getting on your nerves, and you hadn’t even been with him for five minutes.

“I’m sure if I were to arrest you, it wouldn’t be for that. We need your help with a case.”

House leaned his elbows on the desk and interlaced his fingers. He looked curious, like someone who, after hours of boredom, was offered an intellectual challenge. At least you had one advantage: you knew him well enough to read his expressions.

“Are you serious? The United States National Security and Intelligence Service needs Gregory House?”

“Maybe. But if you get too full of yourself, there are always other alternatives.”

“None as good as me, I see. I’m the first one you go to,” he murmured, a mixture of arrogance and mockery in his voice. “Don’t you have other FBI doctors for this? Or perhaps a 'medical council' that includes the entire detective team?”

You took a few steps closer, making it clear you were there for something serious. Spencer followed you cautiously.

“No, House. What we have is... something we can’t solve without your specialized knowledge. And I know this because you specialize in cases that no one else can interpret correctly.”

“And what do I gain?”

Reid intervened in his patient tone.

“It’s a case with complex medical implications. We thought you might be interested.”

House turned his head toward him, assessing him. He seemed as if he had barely noticed his presence.

“And who are you?”

“This is Dr. Spencer Reid,” you said, stepping forward. “He’s my colleague at the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Huh. I’ve heard about you…” House began, as if Reid were some kind of celebrity whose biography he was now trying to recall. “You’re the genius at the FBI, aren’t you? The child prodigy who memorized the Encyclopedia Britannica before he could ride a bike.”

“It wasn’t before I learned to ride a bike,” Reid corrected matter-of-factly.

House burst out laughing.

“Okay, you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention. What do we know?”

You sat in the chairs in front of his desk and slid the files you had brought toward him. Reid, from his spot, waited patiently for you to give him a signal to begin the explanation.

“Several victims have developed severe neurological symptoms before dying. We haven’t found any common toxins or obvious signs of poisoning, but their organs show unexplained deterioration.”

House flipped through the documents with little interest, probably analyzing what Spencer was saying.

“Interesting.”

“At autopsy, we found significant degeneration in the basal ganglia and the substantia nigra of the brain,” he continued. “There was also an abnormal accumulation of proteins in the limbic system, similar to what occurs in prion diseases, but without the presence of prions themselves.”

“Go on.”

“The liver tissue showed massive necrosis, with no signs of viral infection. And the lungs had edema, although the fluid levels were not sufficient to indicate severe heart failure.”

House narrowed his eyes.

“Hallucinations?”

“Yes,” Reid nodded. “In all the victims, the symptoms began with confusion, then extreme paranoia and episodes of aggression.”

House leaned forward slightly, interested.

“How long did it take from the first symptom to death?”

“About a week.”

“Common substances in the body?”

“Nothing consistent with known poisons. No recreational drugs or heavy metal exposure either.”

House let out a low whistle.

“Wow, this is interesting.”

You watched the interaction in surprise. House rarely took anything seriously in the first few minutes of a conversation, and the fact that he was now listening intently to Reid meant he was genuinely impressed. Then again, it was easy to be impressed by anything that came out of Reid’s mouth.

House leaned back in his chair, turning his cane slightly in his hand. His gaze slid from Reid to you and back to the file.

“All right, genius boy, give me a diagnosis.”

Reid squared his shoulders with his characteristic seriousness.

“It could be an atypical variant of Creutzfeldt-Jakob syndrome. The abnormal accumulation of proteins in the limbic system and the degeneration of the substantia nigra could indicate an accelerated neurodegenerative disease.”

House shook his head almost immediately.

“There are no prions. There’s no evidence that it’s spongiform encephalopathy. Furthermore, Creutzfeldt-Jakob doesn’t kill in a week.”

“It could be a case of L-Dopa analogue poisoning, perhaps exposure to a compound derived from MPTP. That would explain the necrosis in the substantia nigra and the neurological symptoms.”

“If that were the case, I’d expect to see rigidity and bradykinesia, not extreme paranoia,” House countered. “And liver necrosis doesn’t fit.”

Reid frowned slightly, thoughtful.

“Paraneoplastic autoimmune encephalitis?”

House snorted.

“And where’s the tumor, Einstein? Did I leave it in my other pants?”

“Some tumors may be too small to be detected in their early stages, especially ovarian teratomas—”

“Oh, right, because I’m sure all the victims had ovaries,” House interrupted, his sarcasm evident.

Reid was unfazed.

“Autoimmune encephalitis may also be associated with thymomas or lung carcinomas.”

House tilted his head, assessing him with more interest than he cared to admit.

“How old did you say you were?”

“Twenty-eight.”

House gave a short laugh. There was something like approval on his face, as if you’d brought him a tribute and he was happy with it.

“Medical specialty?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Cardiologist? Neurologist? No, wait—infectious disease specialist with a Sherlock Holmes complex?”

“I’m not a doctor,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t heard him the first time.

House hated being treated like an idiot, and, to be honest, you were enjoying the situation a little.

He frowned, that signature expression of his, and looked at your colleague again. “Then what the hell are you doing diagnosing?”

“I have PhDs in Chemistry, Mathematics, and Engineering. Also, specializations in Psychology and Sociology.”

“So, no medical degree, but you’re still correcting me.”

“I don’t need an MD to understand pathology, neuroscience, or toxicology,” he muttered nonchalantly, as if it were just another ordinary conversation.

You already liked Reid a lot, and after solving the case, you would make sure to buy him a few drinks just for the simple pleasure of infuriating the most cynical human being in the world.

“Tell me the truth, does the Bureau pay you well?”

“Excuse me?”

“Because I could give you a job here. Then I could fire those three idiots I have under my command, and you’d be enough to keep this department running. You’re more efficient, and while somewhat annoying, your answers are more grounded than theirs.”

“Don’t even think about it. Get your own genius.”

“You’re finally talking! For a moment there, I thought you were going to let your boyfriend do all the work.”

You rolled your eyes in annoyance. There was no need to inconvenience the poor boy.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Wow, what a waste,” House said with mock pity before turning his attention back to Reid. “Okay, smart-ass, let’s do another brainstorm. Neurotoxins in the environment? Maybe a rare fungus, something that affects the central nervous system and causes necrosis in other organs?”

Reid shook his head almost instantly.

“If it were an environmental toxin, we should have found traces in lung tissue or blood. We did extensive testing, and there’s no evidence of chronic exposure.”

“Okay, how about mitochondrial disease? A rare genetic mutation that only manifests under certain environmental conditions?”

“Unlikely. The progression is too rapid for a classic mitochondrial disease, and there’s no evidence of prior systemic failure.”

House pressed his lips together in approval.

“You were right from the start. I love this case; it’s like an intellectual prostitute to me, and that doesn’t happen very often.”

Although the tasteless joke didn’t amuse you, you were reassured because he had agreed. The pre-arranged conversation was proof enough for you that the case would be resolved in the best possible way; after all, you had two geniuses standing in front of you.

You looked at Reid with a slight smile, grateful that he’d been so punctual with the details and had sparked House’s curiosity. He, as sweet as ever, returned the expression.

“Tell me something, do you always rub your fingertips together before you speak?”

Reid blinked, confused, as you frowned. It was obvious House wasn’t talking to you.

“Sorry?”

House waved a hand.

“You’ve done it three times since you came in. A repetitive pattern. Do you also avoid prolonged eye contact and feel uncomfortable with loud sounds?”

Now it was Reid who frowned. Before you could say anything, your companion spoke:

“Are you implying that I have autism?”

House shrugged.

“Asperger’s, specifically. Although that’s not used anymore because it’s not right to separate the functionally from the non-functionally mentally ill, right?” he laughed to himself. “And I’m not insinuating anything, I’m just observing what you’re doing.”

“I’m not autistic.”

House tilted his head, looking at him almost like an exotic animal.

“Maybe you should get tested.”

Just then, when you were about to point out House’s clear traits of Antisocial Personality Disorder and Narcissism, the door opened and someone else entered the office.

“House, could you stop torturing the interns for a moment? I need your help—”

The voice cut off as soon as the newcomer saw you, and your heart gave a treacherous leap.

James Wilson stood in the doorway, his white coat neatly buttoned, holding a pair of folders. His expression was calm and patient, as if he was already used to House’s games.

In your youth, you had a ridiculous crush on him, back when you had to do some internships at the hospital and had the misfortune of ending up supervising House. That’s when you met him.

Wilson was the kind of man who exuded kindness and confidence, with a sharp yet approachable intelligence. Not like House, who enjoyed making others feel stupid, or Reid, who was simply brilliant without even trying.

It wasn’t one of those extreme, idealized loves, but it was enough to have followed some of his medical lectures with fascination, impressed by his intelligence, his empathy, his way of explaining things clearly. You admired the person he was, how he always looked out for you and became your lawyer when House was getting too unbearable.

And now he was standing before you, after years of that old crush being left in the past… Or at least, that’s what you thought.

Because the moment he said your name, your mind seemed to forget how to coordinate words.

“It’s been a long time! I heard you’re working for the FBI now, right?” he politely approached, and you jumped to your feet to take the hand he was offering. “Congratulations! I always knew you’d go far.”

“Huh, thanks, Doctor,” you murmured shyly. The others present could notice the change in your voice, your posture, even your expression.

“Oh, just call me Wilson. Otherwise, you make me feel like you’re my patient.”

“Then thank you, Wilson. How nice to see you again.”

The smile he gave you made you blush, and you unconsciously brought a hand to your hair, tucking it behind your ear. House, never one to miss a juicy opportunity, narrowed his eyes and then smiled wickedly.

“Oh, this is glorious.”

Wilson looked at him, confused.

“Did I miss something?”

“Yes, dear. Turns out you have a secret admirer,” House said, pointing at you with his cane. “How did I not notice this before?

You felt the heat rise up your neck to your face. Spencer, who had remained silent, watching the interaction, now looked at you with something close to surprise.

“House, what the hell are you talking about now?”

“She! Look at her when you arrived. She was insulting me a second before, and as soon as she saw you, she turned into a lovesick schoolgirl.”

“It’s called kindness. It’s hard to practice it with you because you tend to be a jerk who makes me insult you every chance I get.”

Your attempt to divert the subject was useless because, once House got something stuck in his head, it was hard for him to let it go.

“You know, I always hoped you’d like older men and thought I was the ideal candidate, but I see you already had someone else in mind.”

“Did you like Dr. Wilson?”

“No! I mean, I… I liked him, but not in that way. Besides, it’s irrelevant!” you exclaimed, annoyed by Reid’s sudden indiscretion. Sometimes he spoke without thinking.

House smiled with delight.

“Oh, that’s completely relevant. In fact, I think your medical case can wait. This is much more interesting.”

Wilson sighed in resignation and looked at his friend, deciding it was time to intervene.

“House, will you stop bothering her? It’s not her fault that no one wants to treat you with human decency because of your behavior.”

You avoided looking at Wilson at all costs. You knew that as soon as your eyes met his, you’d blush, and that would only give House more reason to be a nuisance.

“For God’s sake, can we talk about the case again?”

House let out a laugh you never, ever imagined coming from him. He was ecstatic about what was happening, completely amused.

“Don’t you want Reid to know that his coworker had romantic dreams about the most smarmy oncologist in the hospital?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, a study from the University at Albany found that nearly a third of young women report having been attracted to authority figures like teachers, doctors, or supervisors at some point. It’s a well-documented phenomenon linked to perceptions of competence, security, and emotional maturity—”

“Reid,” you hissed. You swore you could die of embarrassment any second. “You’re not helping.”

“Sorry.”

House ignored the comments and leaned toward you.

“Tell me the truth, did you dream of being diagnosed with a terminal illness just so you could spend more time with him?”

“House,” Wilson exclaimed, his tone now stern. There was a second of silence before he continued, “Don’t bother her. Just admit that you’re trying to humiliate her because you’re jealous that your pretty assistant had a crush on me instead of you.”

You immediately raised your head, staring at him directly. There was amusement on his face, and you tried not to burst out laughing—not knowing if you were doing it out of embarrassment, to deny the accusations, or out of genuine amusement.

House looked offended, and even Spencer held back a chuckle. He didn’t want to make fun of you because you were his friend, and there were feelings involved, at least on his part, but he found it endearing to see you so flustered by the situation. Besides, it was hilarious to think of a young woman’s pupils dilating in the oncologist’s presence. He hadn’t pictured you as that kind of person.

“I’m Spencer Reid, by the way. I haven’t introduced myself.”

Your partner’s unwelcome intrusion, in an attempt to lighten the tension, made Wilson burst out laughing.

“James Wilson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You knew he was truly committed to protecting what little dignity you had left when he shook Reid’s hand—because you knew how terrified he was of physical contact with strangers.

When you looked at House, waiting for him to offer you a truce, he waggled his eyebrows up and down, like a provocative little boy. No one was surprised when you gave him the middle finger.

“Are you going to help us or not?”

House tilted his head, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

“Hmm, I will. Only because now you’ll owe me a favor, and since I know about Wilson, I doubt you’ll refuse to do it.”

Wilson sighed.

“You’re hopeless.”

“You know me well. What did you want to ask me, by the way? Everyone seems to need me these days.”

“Nothing urgent, I can wait,” he murmured. Then he looked at you. “Unlike House, I do have work to do in my department, so I’m leaving. It’s nice to see you again. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Same here. Although I hope we don’t have to call on each other’s services anytime soon.”

He laughed at your joke. Almost as if he wanted to test your limits, he leaned closer and, in addition to shaking your hand, planted a goodbye kiss on your cheek.

House (surprisingly) had the good sense to wait until his friend left the office before he started making exaggerated kissing noises—completely childish, if they asked you.

That was the final straw. You grabbed a tennis ball lying around and threw it straight at his chest: a ruthless and deliberate shot.

“Hey! Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit cripples?”

“And be thankful it wasn’t in the leg,” you exclaimed disdainfully. “Now move your handicapped ass outside. We need to go, and I’ll drag you to the car if necessary.”

“Now I see why you’re not her boyfriend,” he muttered as he stood up, rolling his eyes in Reid’s direction. “She’s just as crazy as my boss, and no one sleeps with that woman.”

You maintained your composure until he limped out the door, clearly pleased with the mess he had made. Once you were alone, Spencer cautiously approached you, testing the waters to avoid triggering your anger.

“That was… interesting.”

“Reid, I swear if you tell the team, not even all the love I have for you will stop me from punching you in the face. And it would be a shame to ruin your best attribute.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me. I was just an unfortunate listener in this mess.”

“I’m serious.”

“Understood, ma’am,” he said slightly mockingly, raising both hands in a show of sincerity. The two of you then headed for the exit, following House.

There was silence for a stretch of the hallway until, just before reaching the elevator, he decided to speak again.

“But you did like him?”

God knows how you looked at him to make him laugh nervously, half amused and half worried.

“Don’t tempt me, Reid.”

“It was just a question!” he murmured innocently. The elevator doors closed in front of you once you stood next to the man with the cane. “Though, to be honest, I wouldn’t blame him if he had feelings for you. You’re so smart and pretty, it would be silly not to.”

You looked back at him, but this time there was a certain surprise and delight in your expression. Spencer, afraid of your answer, just stared at you with those huge doe eyes.

“Shut up, please,” you laughed.

With that, you leaned against him, defeated, and he allowed himself to give you a sweet hug as if he wanted to console you for the painful scene you had just experienced.

The rest of the case wasn’t any easier to deal with House, but at least you had the company of your own genius to make it more bearable.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #dr spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid imagine #house md #dr house #gregory house #james wilson #hugh laurie #robert sean leonard #james wilson x reader

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lethalchiralium · 10 months ago

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hii your bio says that requests are open, so, if you don't mind, can i request a simon x reader where reader is also part of the 141 and got severely hurt, and turns out she's pregnant with simon's baby (they are together) but because of her injuries she lost the child? maybe they didn't know that she's pregnant. thank you love💞

hi!! i LOVE this prompt, so sorry it took so long lol

bring heaven down just for you | simon riley x wife!reader

cw: mentions of injury, blood, miscarriages

The car accident was extreme, even for the 141. They weren’t expecting to get T-boned in a city street, trying to make their escape, but it was short lived. You didn’t remember much, being in the backseat with your seatbelt off, on “follower” duty - pistol in hand, watching if anyone was tailing the escape. Price in the driver’s seat, Gaz in passenger, and Soap and Ghost were already at the safe house.

You remembered the car rolling, throwing you around like a ragdoll. Your head slammed against the roof of the car and then darkness took over, at least until you remembered hearing Price’s yelling. The way the straps on your vest were tugged and the blood curdling scream that left you, the explosion of pain in your leg, your shoulder, your abdomen - it woke you up instantly, and adrenaline seemed to kick in ten fold. Barely a glance down and you could see why pulling you wouldn’t be a good idea - so many glass shards in your body, deep red blood bubbled up and trickled out, you felt your body internally gag. You looked to the sound of gunshots, seeing Gaz firing off round after round, and soon silence followed. A slow blink, you found yourself crying out in pain in the street, Price knelt beside you, administering aid as you heard faint sirens. Soon, your eyes closed then opened again, finding yourself being loaded into an ambulance - Gaz and Price covered in blood. Panic surged through you, but so did the pain. A low rumble of pain escaped your chest, Gaz reached forwards and took your right hand - where did you gun go? - and held it gently, saying something you couldn’t quite hear.

A hand settled on your good shoulder, the one opposite to Gaz, you looked to your captain, now able to hear the siren wailing as he spoke, “Who do we need to call for you?”

A breath filled your lungs, only for you to cough and squeal out in pain. A moment more and you were able to grit out, “My husband.”

“What’s his name-“

The ambulance screeched to a halt, the back doors flung open, and your gurney was taken out. The IV in your elbow that was placed while you had passed out now seemed to prickle with pain, one nurse who walked beside your moving gurney drew a vile of blood before taking off, the rest of the medical crew pushed you into what you assumed was a trauma bay. You wouldn’t know, you’re not a medic. You’re just a sergeant, an infiltration specialist.

A doctor came in, placing a plastic bracelet on your wrist as you looked around with a heavy head. Price was with you, Gaz wasn’t… Where’s Soap and Ghost? Will they be here soon?

It felt like only two second passed when the nurse came back to your gurney, she was the one who took your blood. The other nurses still fluttered about, getting you ready for surgery as your captain stayed by your side. She had a somber look in her eye. There was a gentle hand on your shoulder, the good one, you paid no mind to Price - moving it to get his touch off of you. You didn’t want him there, you wanted-

“I have your test results, Miss.” You heard Price take a step back, the pain in your body began to feel fuzzy as the sedatives kicked in from your IV. The nurse stood beside you, holding onto the bed rail and you felt unease bubble into your lungs. In your adrenaline delirious state, you could still make out the look of the nurse’s face - the bearer of bad news. “Are you aware that you are pregnant?”

“I’m not pregnant.” It escaped like a whine, grabbing the nurse’s wrist with what little strength you had, your stomach twitched. “My husband and I have been- been trying for years. I- I can’t be.”

“You are, test confirms it. But we have to take you into surgery now, and I’m unsure if it will be viable after this.”

A growl emitted from your throat, “Save it. Save it. Save my baby. Please.”

There was a grim look on her face, and the doctor beside her. She stepped in, a calm look in her own eye as she spoke, “We’ll do the best we can, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

A hiccup escaped you, pain leaving you and your consciousness slipping away too, “Please. Save my baby.”

The doctor only nodded before she left, and the nurse gave you a somber look before leaving too. You couldn’t even look at your captain, the man you would have always looked to your guidance. But this… This was something you had to navigate alone and with your husband.

You were only awake for a few more moments, the anesthesiologist saying something about needing Price to leave, that you would be out soon. Your eyes grew heavy, you refused to fight it. Giving in meant not having to worry about losing the chance you’ve wanted.

When you woke up, pain encompassed you. A groan escaped you, your eyes opened and scanned the left side of the room, the light above your bed not being able to flood your room with light. It was dark outside, the stars still perched in the sky, your eyes moved right and you could see the dark mass of someone just entering through the door.

“Simon,” You whined his name, tears escaping your eyes in fat globs, your one good hand reaching for him. He was instantly by your side, hand gently moving from strands from your face. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever for?” He murmured as he pressed his lips to your temple. “You survived. Why would you be-“

Your jaw set, the words spoken like kerosene, meant to burn yourself alive. “I was pregnant.” The raw sob that escaped you made you push your head back, looking your husband in the eye as you sobbed from your injuries and the loss of what could’ve been. “I didn’t- I didn’t know and- and it’s gone.”

Your husband froze, you watched every muscle inside of him contract as he gazed at you. You watched, in such agony, as you husband’s forehead fell to your bandaged one, his warm hands holding your face and his own tears sprung from his face to mix with yours. And all you could hear was what sounded like howling - loud and heavy sobs, ones that would make your body tremble. It was just hard to realize that they were coming from you, you only realized it when Simon’s hand went around to your lower back, trying to move you towards him, trying to hold you in a way that could truly comfort you. It was useless. Useless.

“It’s gonna be okay.” A meaningless saying now. It hasn’t meant a fucking thing since your third miscarriage in your second year of marriage. It hasn’t meant anything since you had to stop counting your losses and began to pretend that your husband wasn’t fucking destroyed that you couldn’t give him the one thing you want to. A family.

How could it be okay when you couldn’t do this one fucking thing that your body was made to do?

“We’ll be okay.” He murmured against your skin, your good hand holding onto his jacket sleeve, your head pounded as the sobs grew louder, turning into wails. As much as it hurt your throat, it hurt more now that after three years since your last one, you had a chance. And it was ripped from you, ripped from your hands before you even had a chance to understand why it had been given to you. A chance to show your husband that you could be good too, that you weren’t like your past either.

“It- It hurt- hurts-“ Was all you could manage, and you felt Simon’s sob shake you, burn you, crucify you. God, this must be Hell for him, because it’s more than Hell for you to think about the pain he’s in.

“I know, my girl, I know it must hurt.”

A zap of pain in your belly and you were crying more, the wails quieting to you begging him for medicine. Tears watered your vision of your Simon as he pressed the call button, brushing your hair back before looking you in the eye again. Even if you couldn’t see too well from the tears and the pain, you could imagine his velvet brown eyes - you could feel his tears as he brushed your hair back over and over, his words rumbled through you like a prayer.

“Our time’ll come soon, baby. And I’m so sorry that it wasn’t now, n’I know that’s gotta hurt so bad.” A kiss and then his cheek was pressed to your hair, you could hear the nurse come in, and more voices enter your room. There was no reason to fight your urge to close your eyes, let the tears fall, and listen to him. “But I’ll be here. I’ll always be here, jus’ like every time before, and any time after. I’ll be here, even if I have to kill a thousand men to get here. I will be here.”

#lethalchiralium #lethal chiralium #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty #might make more of this idk #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x wife!reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley x female reader #simon ghost riley x wife!reader

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thewildernesschooses · 2 months ago

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My Man, a readerxtravis oneshot

a criminal lack of travis content. he’s so fun to write! oh well, i guess i have to be the change i want to see in the world and whatever.

reader and travis knew each other before the crash. You weren’t friends but something changed out there.

Travis was a dick, there was no denying that. You knew that before the crash and you had no expectations that a freak accident would make him kinder. But this was beyond the pale.

He didn’t get to be a dick to Javi like that. You understood that he was grieving, even understood how his complicated relationship with his father was making this worse, but he needed to buck up.

Javi was a good kid, he was stubborn sometimes but who wasn’t? You cared about that little boy, you babysat him back when you were JV. When Travis was recovering from his surgery there were so many appointments and hospital stays. Coach didn’t want to cancel any practice and god forbid he let his assistant coach assist him in coaching a varsity game.

You guys would order pizza and watch Pixar. You didn’t even have a license yet so you couldn’t do anything fun. Javi was always nice though, a sweet boy who listened well and never wanted to cause any fuss. You weren’t ever particularly good with kids but Javi was an easy person to be around. That’s why when Travis started to wrestle Javi too roughly you lost your shit.

You stormed out of the cabin to hear Travis yelling at his brother to spit something out, you can only assume he’s talking about that stale gum Javi couldn't let go of. You were actually going to talk about it with him after lunch, about coping with grief, but of course, Travis was too impulsive to move slowly.

“Hey, dickwad, let him go!”

But it was too late, Travis had forcibly opened Javi's mouth and made him spit out the gum. You were hoping he would be able to voluntarily release it, that it would help Javi psychologically accept the loss like how you talked about in AP psych. Obviously, Travis could only get into the bullshit health class where they don’t teach you anything about being a normal, decent person.

Javi didn’t react well. He stormed off and you were going to follow him until you looked at Travis and your heart broke for some reason.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” You knew he knew that. “The world is only going to get harder on us, the least you could do is be gentle with him.”

Everyone still seemed to be committed to rescue but you knew it had been too long. You went a weird way on a sketchy private plane. Nobody knew where you were and it increasingly looked like you only had each other.

Travis looked up from the ground with his big, sad eyes. “I…I just wanted him to stop smacking on that gum and…I don’t know.” You believed that he came in with no solid reasoning or plan, that sounded on brand for him.

You stepped closer because he was talking quietly. You kept going until you were closer than you had been in the four years you had spent catching rides home with Coach Martinez because your mom worked late. “Listen, you should find him in a little bit and apologize. I know you don’t mean to hurt his feelings but you need to cut all of this out.” Travis didn’t even have the heart to argue with you. “I know this sucks worse for you than for anyone else but with coach Ben’s leg, you’re the man here. You need to be level-headed and strong. Not just for Javi, but for all of us.”

All of Travis’s life, he had only wanted to feel like a man. Out there in the real world, he had failed. He wasn’t athletic and for a good portion of his adolescence, he was literally medically advised against exercising or lifting weights of any kind. When all the boys in middle school were doing push-up contests, he was going to orthopedic specialists for back brace fittings.

But Travis’s spinal fusion was successful, even if the healing was brutal. And he was seeing a place to prove himself. He needed to show his dad he could step up and be a man. He could take care of Javi and the girls and he would go back and take care of his mom too. This is the last time he and his dad will be in the same place and Travis will leave here a man if he can help it.

He oddly wanted to prove it to you too. You were around when he was worse off. One of his father's little pets he liked to keep from the team. You saw how debilitating the pain was before the surgery, saw how recovery was slow and isolating. And you saw all the in-between at school. Flex.

He never quite put together that you would have a lot of insight on him but now that he thinks about it, you may be the person to know the most. Which is sad because you don’t even seem to like him that much.

He takes your advice, though. Javi doesn’t accept it immediately but it seems like they eventually figure it out from your point of view. Of course, Travis is the same angry boy but he’s trying to temper himself into something stronger, less likely to break.

Travis keeps coming to you for advice. You’re not sure why, you never got along. You spent fifteen minutes with him 3 days a week (at the very least) for the last four years and you had developed no camaraderie during that but desperate times, you guessed.

It started with just his relationship with Javi. You were his babysitter after all and the kid talked about you like invented the Lion King DVD. You were more sensitive to him than Travis naturally was. Neither of you would acknowledge that this was the dynamic Coach Martinez and his wife had but you both felt the weight of it. You were the closest thing Javi had to parents out here. It didn’t matter if either of you liked it, you were mom and dad.

After a while, Travis started to ask you about more things. What plants were edible, how you mended things so well, what you did to make his dad like you so much. You didn’t have a clear answer for the last one. Travis seemed to know what you meant when you said you had no idea how Coach felt about you except for the fact he trusted you enough to watch over Javi. He was a man that spoke more with actions but that meant so much was left unsaid. You wished you had asked him why he took a shine to you. You weren’t the best defender. Was it pity for not having a dad? Or a mom that worked too much? You’ll never know now.

Then things got complicated when he started coming to you about a girl. He wouldn’t say who he needed advice about but you could assume. He had spent so much time alone with Natalie, it could only be her.

It made sense too. They both had a compatible jaggedness that seemed to slot together well. They both had to feel the pressure of being hunters, and the judgment when they came back empty-handed.

You weren’t expecting for it to… affect you. You couldn’t tell what it was at first. Initially, you thought you just didn’t like the idea of some poor girl being subjected to Travis’s courtship. Then you realized that he had grown and someone out here could maybe have a lovely relationship with him. Then you thought it was an extension of that irrational judgment, that the hunters should be focused on game and not frivolous crushes but even that was off base. You thought he and Nat deserved some respite.

It wasn’t until you were making sure Javi was tucked in well on a cold, rainy fall night that you realized it was because you were jealous. Travis slept one spot away from you with Javi in the middle and you looked at him already looking at you two. You thought about how glad you were he wasn’t closer to the door with Natalie.

Neither of you looked away for a minute. It felt so domestic like you were over at his house while his parents were out. Watching Bambi after Javi had fallen asleep halfway. What it maybe could’ve been if either of you had given the other one a chance.

You looked away first to make sure Javi was breathing deeply. You went to bed with the heavy feeling that you were helping push the boy you liked towards a much prettier girl, with more experience and bravery than you would probably ever have the chance of gaining at this rate.

The next day, you and Travis were stringing up herbs to start drying them in the meat shed when he asked, “How do you let a girl know you like her and not have it blow up if she doesn’t like you back?”

“Well, I don’t know how to answer that because no one’s ever liked me like that.” It was painful to say out loud but if you weren’t willing to admit that here and now, where would you?

He stopped what he was bundling and looked incredulous. “You mean, you’ve just never had to tell someone you don’t like them, right?

And man did that make you feel like a loser. Even perpetual virgin Travis was in disbelief at the lack of play you got back home. “No, that’s not what I meant,” you said quietly, cutting off some twine.

It was silent for a minute. God, he was awkward. Why did you even like him? He was just looking at you all weirdly and he hadn’t gathered the next bundle so you had idle hands.

He obviously deduced that you had a slight (massive) thing for him. You were too obvious last night, forcing him to play house with you. You were practically Misty Quigley-level delusional.

“I’m sure some guy has been pining after you and you just don’t know.”

“Oh yeah, that’s why I wasn’t rejecting boys left and right back home, I’m just too intimidating for anyone to ever confess to me.” The sarcasm was plain in your tone. “I’m just too pretty and smart for anyone to ever believe they could have a chance with me, is that right?”

“I know you’re trying to joke right now but you’re not wrong.” He said it all fast, like the words tripped out of him. He made his eyes go all big and soft which made it impossible for you to continue being aloof with him.

“Shut up, you don’t have to lie and make me feel good.”

“What if I’m not? What if I know for a fact that I’m right? That there is a guy out there pining over you.”

You laughed. It was torturous because the delusional part of you believed he must be talking about himself but you knew better. You didn’t get the boy in the end. You don’t get what you want.

“Yeah. Who? Sean from trig? I watched him pick his nose and put it under his desk like two weeks before our plane crashed, I’m good.” Joking usually helped you out in situations but it seemed to frustrate Travis further. He must be really weirded out by your liking him.

Travis took the twine and the knife from your still hands, the task abandoned long ago. He got close to you, the way you had gotten close to him that first time. “No. Not Sean. Me. I’ve been pining after you in these stupid woods and you’re the only one who can’t see that!”

“You mean Natalie? You’ve been asking me for advice on how to make her like you for weeks!”

Travis started pulling at his hair. It had gotten so long out here and had made him unfairly attractive. He shouldn’t distract you like this during serious conversation. “I’ve been asking you for advice on how to make you like me! Jesus Christ, aren’t you usually smart?”

“Oh.” Wow. That was not what you were expecting at all.

“Oh? What does that mean?” You never told him how to tell the girl without making it awkward so he didn’t know what to do after this. You just frustrated him into transparency like you usually did.

You were looking at his face for a moment, checking if this was a trick or something. When you only saw sincerity, you said “I like you too.” He exhaled, apparently waiting on bated breath for your answer.

He took the hand that was holding the twine and held it between his, just holding it, warming up your fingers. He stepped more into your space. He whispered, “I…I don’t know how to do this.”

You returned his intensity with your eyes, really just dropping down the walls you had built around letting your feelings for him show.

“I don’t know how to do any of it either. I was telling the truth when I told you no one has ever liked me like that before.”

He scoffed, “Their loss.”

“Yeah,” you quietly laughed out. Anything louder would’ve felt like yelling.

Then he kissed you. It was both of your first kisses, but he kissed you like a man. He put one hand on your hip and another caressed the side of your neck as he dropped that last physical boundary between you too. You couldn’t go much further because of your mutual inexperience and general breathlessness but it was more than satisfying to you both.

You would both have to leave the shed soon. You needed to check on Javi and talk to him about his whittling. You were trying to talk to him about historical events and books you remembered from school. Fall had come and he should be back in school.

You both lingered. Finally having some type of resolution to anything felt significant out here where things get started but never properly finished.

“So…Are you my girlfriend now?”

You grinned a little. At least this thing between you was good, sacred.

“Yes, and you’re my man.”

#travis martinez #travis martinezxreader #travis x reader #natalie scatorccio #yellowjackets fics #yellowjackets x reader #travis martinez x reader #x reader

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dammit-tazmuir · 2 months ago

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Reasons I do think Mercymorn is genuinely one of the most visually stunning people in the TLT universe, has been at least top 5 for 10,000 years, and was also crazy hot (if on a more normal scale) pre-Resurrection:

A lot of Mercy's lines do revolve around looks and formalities and appearances. ("And it's ugly of you to call him that" etc.) It's something she puts a lot of thought and likely effort into. She says she's "not wearing the right dress" for the fancy dinner party (itself showing concern for appearance), and Augustine insists the dress she already just happened to be wearing casually was perfect as-is, implying she often dresses really nice. -

We know flesh magic can be used to alter one's appearance, including longterm, based on things like Ianthe cursing Harrow to ceaseless haircuts. Mercy is the single greatest master specialist of flesh magic who has ever existed, frankly above even John, at least in skill even if not in scale, and "no signs of age touched those eyes", etc. -

The above is a good candidate for exactly what "animaphilia" as a school is, which makes Mercy calling Ianthe "one of those animaphiliacs" and being an overwhelming hypocrite about it extremely funny. -

Harrow, or Gideon narrating Harrow's perception, does think Mercy's eyes, terrifying and cruel as they are, are also dreamy and beautiful. -

Being a woman in STEM for so long sucks. But imagine being one of the 21st century's foremost medical specialists, to a point that no one alive can do what you do, and also you're conventionally hot as hell. Not even always heels and makeup or anything, though sometimes that, but partly just the kind of looks that make even an overworked mess a hot overworked mess. Imagine the kind of attention she'd command, wanted and unwanted. Imagine the level of spite and condescension involved when she does bother putting effort into it, the level of "look upon me and cry, but if you get near me I will rip your nuts off and feed them to you." The intimidation factor she could manage. Imagine this energy being cultivated all through high school, uni, med school, and years working in medical research before she ever met the cryo team. Imagine the cryo project being the BEST group she ever worked with longterm. Like. Do you see the vision. Can you see that kind of background extra feeding into why she's Like This. Do you feel me.

#the locked tomb #mercymorn the first #mercymorn cristabel #tlt shitposting #ntn spoilers #technically I guess #Listen I have always been weak for this kind of archetype. I adore Coronabeth as well #and I'm still very very aware how often it's done badly and very very glad for what a vast range of women TLT gives us #I just think Mercymorn specifically deserves this. As a treat. (The treat is for me not for her.)

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mina-org · 4 months ago

Text

now playing burning desire

୨୧ yandere!Kyle x reader x yandere!John price

୨୧ yandere drabble

୨୧ warnings: a lil smut, kidnapping, implied drugging, yandere themes, dark romance

୨୧ word count: 1026

Price wishes he had someone to go home too, but he’s never prioritised them and they’ve left. He doesn’t have the time or want to put the time into courtship. His mind starts to slip, especially after seeing you for the first time. Kyle got hurt and luckily he had you to dote on him and you just looked so pretty, bringing Kyle cooked goods, and of course you couldn’t make a single serve lasagne so you feed the whole base. The recovery was long, before you stepped on to the training camp Price was gonna send him home to recover but they have the specialist at camp, and a dedicated medical facility, so he orders him to stay and Kyle doesn’t question him too much and his suspicions are soon washed away. Waits at ERs can take hours and travelling takes a lot of time and money, it just makes sense for him to stay. And price cleaned out a barrack just for you, to save you driving so far so often. Isn’t that just so kind?

It starts small, a “marry them before I do” because for price it’s single until married. Kyle wants too. But it’s not that easy. He talks to Price about not being home and he knows you're loyal and doesn’t doubt you but he knows it gets lonely and is so, so afraid that you’ll stray from his side.

Kyle hides it well, from you at least, you didn’t question his intentions when he offered to supplement your wage so you could freelance from home, it was just for a while, originally anyway. Kyle really enjoyed you being at home, of course it meant he usually came home to dinner which was lovely after training, another benefit is that he got a notification every time you left the house or entered, and saw who ever entered which helped soothe him some. Knowing you were safe. But then he started to worry about where you were going? What if you needed him and he couldn’t find you? So he just slipped a tracker on the car, well it was his car, it’s in Kyle’s name and he pays for it and so kindly lets you drive it around.

Price sees through it or maybe it’s his own projection. Either way Kyle’s possessiveness is growing and growing, and you spend more and more time by his side. Price joins the two of you most evenings too, at the beginning he was just telling Kyle what he’d missed in the training session and it becomes less and less formal, soon he’s correcting and almost scolding you for calling him captain or price, call him John, you’re all friends here.

Kyle notices a change too, John is a friendly guy and a man he looks up to but he’s being too friendly. Kyle tells Price issues that weigh on him endlessly and he starts with lingering touches? Right in front of him? John’s testing the waters, Kyle is hyper focused when it comes to his advances but you’re not paying it extra attention.

You only notice once Kyle’s mood starts to sour , John brushes some stray hairs away, tucking them behind your ear, his hand traces up and down your arm, all unnoticed by you. Too busy fussing over gaz, you question if his injury is flaring up, if he's been drinking and eating enough.

You’re so perfect, it only sets alight to his gasoline lined daydreams. How your back would arched on top of the counter, as your eyes squeezed shut. Pretty pussy taking him so perfectly while Kyle leaves his mark, his teeth sinking in, branding you as theirs. He had caught a glimpse of your face taken over by bliss, as Kyle was on his knees in the showers. The first rays of morning sunlight washing over you. Such sweet sounds trickle out your mouth as you squirm, nails digging into Kyle's shoulders, demanding more. Price knows a brat when he sees one and hes sure you’ll fall apart on his cock, he has an authority that Kyle lacks, he knows it.

The warmth the two of you would bring to his home and how it would be different this time, he had learnt and was ready to be a good man for his partner or partners. He just needed his sergeant to see that.

“Lovie, If I get a bump on my head, will ya be my pretty nurse?” Price says as he plops down besides Kyle. John's ears are graced by the heavenly sound of your laugh, even if he knows it's you fawning. He sees your pretty cheeks flush to a cherry hue and your eyes become bewildered, as they search for Kyle's reaction.

"They’re spoken for sir, we'll invite ya to the wedding though cap." Kyle laughs, with an undercurrent of bitterness, like when he's been marooned with 141 for too long, in too poor conditions and soap just keeps finding more jokes to fill the much needed silence.

You smile up at Kyle. Of course you. You don't spare John a glance, he's 2 decades older than you and your boyfriend's captain. A harsh reality but John's not one to let that get him down.

"Captain, not up for grabs, alright?." The bitterness shining through, no smile or sugar coating.

"Afraid of a little competition Gaz? Think about it for a minute Gaz, imagine how well protected they could be, how much we could provide for them. One is none Gaz remember that?" John says so sure of himself, that Gaz will see things his way and his eyes shift, gaz needs to get past the anger first and then he'll see where John's coming from.

“And do you really think they’ll fall for you? How many times have you tried and make a move? how far have you gotten cap? tryin' to make a move doesn’t but they don't want you and never will, they've been telling me the shit you've been doing, tryin' to swoop in and steal em while I was down.” Gaz replies, snapping back at price, betrayal and anger stabbing at him, finally confronting price.

“Gaz, there's gonna be consequences, you know that, it comes with the territory, someones gonna come for 'em” Price threatens. “Do ya really think you’re able to protect 'em? Do you really think you can possibly protect 'em better by yourself than both of us?" John questions, pushing back and leaning forwards, their eyes locked on each other. Gaz wants you entirely for himself, but John isn't going to give up without a fight. A long night but eventually gaz's consideration slowly turns to a reluctant nod.

A dull throb echoing through your skull wakes you, you can hear the gentle beat of Kyle's heart as you lay on his plusher than normal chest. His fingers tracing up and down your forearm, his calloused fingers have become a comfort, something you long for when he's away. You breathe in and the scent of tobacco and whiskey greets you rather than the fresh citrus that usually greets you, you shift in his arms, blinking away the sleep. But it’s not Kyle who greets you, but Price, who beams a smile down at you, arms snaking around you, constricting you as you try to flee his arms.

“Kyle’s just off to grab some of ya stuff, lovie, it's alright.” his gruff voice rings out into your ear, as he pulls you back into him.

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arc-misadventures · 6 months ago

Text

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Within the frozen tundra stood a small flag, it's red cloth gentle waved in the cool, Atllas air. Around the flag it was peace, it was silent, it was tranquility incarnate. A tranquility that ended in a plume of fire, and metal shrapnel.

The peace of the frozen tundra had ended. The peace ending with the deafening cries of war.

The gun's of, Mantle were ready.

~~~

: Direct hit!

Jaune watched through his binocs as the red flag they had planted in the frozen fields of, Atlas evaporate into a plume of fire, smoke, and snow. Jaune put down the binocs, and turned to look at the newly promoted, Colonel Kian, shouted triumphantly as the howitzers hit their intended target dead on.

Colonel Alden Kian, in charge of all the newly built artillery batteries, and weapon emplacements upon, Mantle's walls. Jaune liked to think he developed a good relationship among fellow officers, even if, Jaune really felt like one.

Col. Kian: And, with that, all weapon emplacements have been built, and properly calibrated.

Jaune: Well done, Col. Kian, and to you as well, Maj. Skender. The forces under your command managed to compete the wall, ahead of schedule at that.

Maj. Skender: Thanks, Jaune, Yeah, I'm glad we listened to your suggestions. Honestly, I'm surprised that we got this done far sooner than we expected.

Jaune: It was just a suggestion, Felix. I will tank none of the credit, it was all you, and your men's work that finished the walls ahead of schedule.

: A duty well done at that.

Jaune, Maj. Skender, and Col. Kian all turned to see, General Ironwood as well as, Specialist Schnee approaching them. The trio as well as any other soldiers on the wall saluted the, General as he walked upon the ramparts.

Ironwood: Well done, Maj. Skendor, thanks to your efforts, the new fortifications for the walls of, Mantle have finished well ahead of schedule. With that in mind, how soon can your forces return to building the new, CCTS?

Maj. Skender: Uhhh... We should be able to start in a we...?

Skender was about to answer, General Ironwood, but he saw, Jaune holding up a single finger, giving him a clear sign of what he had to say.

Maj. Skender: In a day, Sir. We just need to reorganize, and require all of the necessary equipment. This should take no longer than a day, day, and a half tops.

Ironwood: Oh, that's good! That's very good to hear, Major, I look forward to hearing your progress in the coming days.

General Ironwood then made his way to leave. As, Jaune watched him leave, his eyes locked on with, Winter's, who shot him a wink as she left. Jaune watched them until he was out of earshot where he let out a tired sigh, followed by several others. But, most noticeable, Major. Skender was cursing up a storm.

Maj. Skender: Gods fucking dammit, Jaune! It going to take me at least a week to grab all of our gear to start working on, Ironwood's pet project! Why the hell did you tell me to speed things up?!

Jaune: Because, General Ironwood wasn't her to celebrate the walls completion, he was here to make sure you got back to work on his stupid project. Besides you just need to divide your forces; half starts working on the CCTS, the other gets your gear.

Col. Kian: He's right, Felix. The generals sole focus was on his project, he doesn't give a damn about the wall. If it wasn't for, Jaune donating his winnings, it never would have been built!

Maj. Skender: I know that! I'm just blaming him for all the shit they're going to give me now!

Jaune: Wait, hold on. Why are you saying I'm the one donated the funds, the winner of that game donated the funds.

Col. Kain: Yeah, but everyone knows you're the one who managed to convince, General Ironwood, and you're the one whose been presenting, Robyn Hill as the one who really got this thing going, but everyone in the, Engineer Corp, and the Gunnery Crews know it was you.

Maj. Skender: Yeah, this was the first time, General Ironwood ever showed his face around here. He only agreed to this thing as a PR stunt. He's only focused on his stupid 'secret project.' You're the only one in the upper brass that gives a rats ass about the wall, and Mantle.

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Okay, it wasn't my idea, I got the idea from, Robyn Hill. But, how the hell did you even know I was the one who donated the funds for the wall?

Col. Klen: My wife is a secretary, and secretaries like to gossip. One of them heard the donation was from one of the, Specialist, and that, Specialist also convinced, General Ironwood to build the fortifications on the wall. And, since you're the only, Specialist who's shown to give a damn about the wall. It's gotta be you.

Jaune: ...

Jaune: Haa...

Jaune: Does everyone know it was me?!

Jaune looked around, and saw several of the gunnery, and engineers all nodding their head, and making sounds of agreement. Jaune just slapped a hand to his face as a tired groan escaped his lips.

Jaune: Gods dammit...

Jaune: If the secretaries know it was me, everyone in the whole of, Atlas, and Mantle probably know it was me.

Maj. Skender: Yeah.

Col. Klen: Pretty much.

Jaune: Haa... Do you know any of my other secrets?

Col. Klen: You, and, Specialist Schnee are a thing... of some sorts.

Maj. Skender: Rumors say, Robyn Hill has got a thing for you, since you saved her from that assassin fellow.

Jaune stared at the two officers, his face was a blank, the only thing showing any emotion was the way his eye was twitching aggressively.

Jaune: ...

Jaune: FUCKKKK!?!

SK: ...

Col. Klen: I hope he, and Specialist Schnee become a thing... They look good together.

Maj. Skender: Wife is rooting for him, and Robyn Hill. She thinks they look cute together.

Col. Klen: They do look cute together.

Jaune: Shut up!

SK: Sorry, Sir!

~~~

Robyn: Wait... Members of the, Atlas military know about your thing with, Winter Schnee, and about our thing too?

Jaune: Yes, it seems the well kept secret wasn't that well kept enough!

Robyn: It was a secret?

Jaune: Not anymore, because secretaries like to gossip! And, the blooming romances between a pair of, Specialists, and a Specialists, and a politician seems to be todays latest hot topic!

Robyn: Oh, is that so?

Robyn: ...

Robyn: Am I winning?

Jaune just stopped to stare at, Robyn, giving her a blank stare as she cheekily smiled back at him.

Jaune: I liked you better when you were this cold, politician who hated me because I was a, Specialist working for, General Ironwood. Not this cute, blushing, teasing girl from a high school romcom!

Robyn: You think I'm cute~?

Jaune: Shut up!

Jaune sighed in defeat as, Robyn was laughing at his expense. He decided it would be for the best if to change the topic back to what he had originally came here to inform her about.

Jaune: Ahem! Anyway, I am here to inform you that the wall's fortifications have been finished, and we will be going back to work on, General Ironwood's secret project. And, with that, the elections for a new council member will be held in just over a week. So, are you ready, 'Councilwoman' Robyn Hill?

Robyn: I am most looking forward to it! The polls that have been going around saying that I am a sure in to win the election! Hey, Jaune?

Jaune: Hmm?

Robyn: You'll keep your promise; you'll tell me what, General Ironwood's secret project is if I win, right?

Jaune: Unless by some miracle he tells you himself, I'll keep my word, Robyn, and I'll tell you what he's up to.

Robyn: I'll hold you to that, Jaune. Well, I still got to keep my guard up, just because their already setting up the voting booths doesn't mean I've already won.

Jaune: Voting booths? Why do they need to set them up, they're just boxes you put paper into.

Robyn: They're electronic, it takes them a few days to take them out, and set them up.

Jaune was walking about, his mind running with ideas on how, Robyn could challenge, Ironwood's authority. But, all these thoughts were brought to a screeching halt when, Robyn said that one word.

Jaune: They're electronic? The voting boots are electronic?

Robyn: Yeah, been that way for years.

Jaune: Do you know where they keep these voting booths?

Robyn: Not originally, but I do know they set them up at one of the community halls near here.

Jaune: If you'll excuse me, Miss Hill.

Jaune quickly turned, and made his way out of the, Happy Huntresses Headquarters.

Robyn: Wha...? Jaune, where are you going?

Jaune: To win you this election.

~~~

Community Hall #7. Aka, the Dust Miners Den.

Jaune had entered the community hall flashing his credentials as a, Specialist to gain entry. And, now he was, what one would call interrogate one of the technicians, grilling him on all of the operating's of the voting booths.

Jaune: Tell me, Jirina, how do this machine operate.

Jirina, a olive haired snake faunas, if one could assume so based on the scales on her forehead, and slit yellow eyes was fidgeting around nervously. It was understandable reactions, it should be expected when one of, Atlas's Specialist suddenly showed up, and demanded how to do their job.

Jirina: W-Well... The system works by simply tapping a name on the screen, thus counting this as a vote. That vote then gets sent to a datahub where the votes are all tallied up.

Jaune: The machine says, 'Yes,' and 'No.' You're not putting in the names of the electoral candidates until the day of the election?

Jirina: Yes, this prevents cheating.

Jaune: 'Prevents cheating?'

Jaune moved over, and tapped the yes button on the screen. It closed out, and a popup appeared saying, 'Thank you for voting,' then another screen appeared saying waiting for election official to reset.

Jaune: You have to reset it every time someone votes?

Jirina: Yes. After everyone votes, we, the voting regulators, have to swipe our id cards, and input a eight digit code to reset the machine.

As, Jirina did just as she said when she reset the machine, taking her no more than ten seconds.

Jaune: Interesting... Are you capable of knowing how many voted, and who they voted for on your tablet there?

Jirina: Ahh yes... See?

Jirina handed, Jaune her tablet, and he saw on the tablet a total amount of votes, five, and there was, two votes for, 'Yes,' and three for, 'No.'

Jaune: Are these numbers for each of the machines here?

Jirina: Yes, we have four voting booths here, and we 'vote' at least once on each machine to test them.

Jaune: And, all of the information of the votes is sent to a central hub that tallies up the votes, the location, and other such things?

Jirina: Yes, that is how it acts.

Jaune: So that's how he could do it...

Jirina: Do... do what?

Jaune: Nothing that you need concern yourself with, Ma'am.

Jaune was still looking at the screen on the tablet, when he heard the door open behind him. He turned to face them, as he saw someone enter the room. One, Penny Polendina to be precise.

Jaune: Ahh, Penny you made good time getting here.

Penny: It didn't take me long to get here. Now, you asked for my help?

Jaune: Yes I did; See this electronic voting booth here?

Penny: I can. But, why do you want me to do that?

Jaune: I want to see if it can be done, and if you can, what else you can do.

Penny: Okay.

Jirina: Wait, you can't hack these systems; They have been given advance firewalls, and cybersecurity to prevent such things fro...?!

Penny: I've hack the voting booth.

Jirina: W-What?

Jaune: That didn't even take you thirty seconds; Impressive. Now then can you change the text on the screen for who you can vote for?

Penny: Can I change it. Wat do you want me to make it say?

Jaune: It doesn't matter, I mostly want to see if you can.

Penny: Okay. I've changed it.

Jaune: Okay let's...

Jaune looked at the voting booth, the screen now read, 'I'm sorry for.' and 'forgetting you, Jaune.' He stared at the screen for a moment before hitting the one that said sorry, and then the reset banner appeared.

Jaune: Penny can you reset the machine?

Penny reset it in a flash, only this time it read, 'I had a virus,' and 'It was making me forget.' Jaune looked at the screen, then to the tablet in his hand.

Jaune: There are six votes in total, evenly split, can you make it five to one?

Penny: Okay.

Jaune watched as, Penny reset the votes were five to one. Jaune watch it, and as the voting was rewritten as, 'I'm sorry, Jaune,' and 'Can you please forgive me.'

Jaune watched this all happen as he handed the tablet back to, Jirina.

Jaune: Thank you for your time, Jirina. Penny, let's go. I need to have a word with, General Ironwood, and I need you there with me.

Penny: O-Okay, Jaune...

~~~

Ironwood: The voting booths can be hacked?

Jaune: Yes, Sir, very easily at that. It took, Penny her barely thirty seconds to hack the machine, and completely rewrite the system.

Ironwood: Is this true, Penny?

Penny. Yes, Sir. Specialist Arc asked me to come down to one of the voting stations, and asked me to hack the system.

Ironwood: And, why did you ask, Penny to do this, Specialist Arc?

Jaune: I heard that the election being held in, Mantle was being held in a week. I was curious about how, Atlas does things. When I went there I found out that you use electronic voting booth. I saw several posters of the people running for election, and I saw one of the posters was for, Robyn Hill. I remembered her assassination attempt, and how destabilizing her death would be for, Atlas, and Mantle. I think a similar effect would happen if she lost the election, not to the same extent, but nonetheless.

Jaune: After, Penny hacked the system, I found out she was able to manipulate the votes in several different ways; From changing the names, resetting the machines, and even alter who got the total amount of votes.

It was another partial lie, Jaune caught himself noting that he often gave, General Ironwood such answers when he asked him about anything. It got the job done in the end.

Ironwood: To what end did you do this for, Specialist Arc?

Jaune: If, Penny can manipulate the systems so easily, what can a person like, Arthur Watts do?

Ironwood: You're worried that he will rig the election in his favour?

Jaune: Yes, Sir. I recommend we replace the voting machines with paper ballots to insure, Salem, and her minions do not interfere with the elections.

Ironwood pressed his fingers together as he solemnly nodded his head.

Ironwood: This is a wise decision to make. I'll make the necessary arrangements. Well done, Specialist. You may have undermined, Arthur Watts in a way we did not expect.

Jaune: Thank you, Sir!

Ironwood: Now then, head to the meeting room, Specialist Ebi wants to discuss a mission with you. Your dismissed.

Jaune: Sir!

Jaune saluted, General Ironwood, and made his way out of his office. as soon as he was out of the room, a tired sigh escaped his lips. He stood there for a moment as he steadied his nerves. He had made a gamble to try. and get, General Ironwood to replace the voting booth with paper ballots. He knew, General Ironwood wouldn't give a damn about paper ballots considering it had nothing to do with his, CCTS project, but nonetheless.

He had to play his cards right with him.

Jaune: Okay... Let's go see what...?!

Penny: Jaune!

Jaune stopped in his place as, Penny came up to him, a nervous jitter in her stance as she looked at him.

Penny: D-Did I help you?

Jaune: Yep, you did precisely what i hoped you would do. Thank you for helping me, Penny.

Penny: Oh... t-thank you, Jaune.. I... oh?

Penny stopped talking as she felt, Jaune's hand on her head, gently ruffling her hair.

Jaune: I know you want to apologize to me for all that has happened, Penny, but you must understand: There is nothing you need to apologize for, Penny. I was never angry with you. I just felt sorry for you for all that happened to you. I was hurting because I lost, Pyrrha. And, you were hurting because she accidently killed you. She hurt us in ways we didn't expect, but neither of what happened to us was her fault. Cinder killed, Pyrrha, and she tricked her into killing you. It's, Cinder's fault, Penny. There is no one to blame, but her. Okay?

Penny was shaking as she brought her hands to her face, whipping away the tears in her eyes.

Penny: T-Thank you, Jaune.

Jaune: You're welcome, Penny. But, I just have one question for you.

Penny: W-What... (Sniff...) What is it, Jaune?

Jaune: Do you hate me, Penny?

Penny looked at, Jaune tears in the corner of her eyes as she smiled at him.

Penny: No, I don't hate you, Jaune.

Jaune smiled at her in turn as he took his hand off her head.

Jaune: You didn't hiccup.

Penny: I didn't.

Jaune: Well, I best get going, and see whatever it is, Clover wants from me. I'll see you later, Penny.

Penny: Wait!

Jaune: Hmm?

Penny: Can I... Can I come with you, Jaune?

Jaune smiled as he beckoned her with his hand to follow him.

Jaune: Come on, Penny let's get going.

Penny: Yes. Lets!

#rwby #jaune arc #pyrrha nikos #penny polendina #robyn hiil #winter schnee #james ironwood #arthur watts #clover ebi #cinder fall #rwby salem

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solarmorrigan · 6 months ago

Text

Wrote this a while ago for I think an Angsty August prompt but never posted it. Stumbled across it a few days ago and realized I actually liked it, so here it is

Rated: T | Words: 935 | CW: Anxiety attack | Tags: hurt/comfort, Eddie Munson needs a hug, Steve Harrington has chronic pain, Eddie Munson takes care of Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington loves Eddie Munson, the stress and imperfection of caring for someone with a chronic illness

There are bills. There are always fucking bills – a pile of them lying on the kitchen table where Eddie sits now, head hanging, hair clenched in his fists as he tries to breathe.

He’s pulling so hard that he’s giving himself a headache, and it nearly makes him laugh, but he refrains. He gets the feeling that if he starts, he might not stop – he’ll get louder and louder, maybe get a little hysterical, and then he’ll disturb Steve, who’s currently laid up with the mother of all headaches. Eddie’s little tension headache pales in comparison to the might of the migraine.

At least it’s Saturday. Steve hadn’t had to miss another shift, and Eddie is free to stay home and keep him company. Not that there’s much Eddie can do; he takes another shaking breath, trying to burst the band of anxiety wrapped tight around his chest, but his thoughts keep racing.

The envelopes piled on the table stare back at him as he blinks watery eyes down at his placemat, rent and utilities and medical bills all crying out for payment. Eddie’s job is barely enough to keep them afloat, and Steve – he helps as much as he can. His new job doesn’t pay as much as his last had, but fewer and more flexible hours reduce the chances he’ll get fired after calling out one too many times (like his last job).

(And Eddie can admit, if only in the privacy of his own head, to some frustrated, bitter thoughts in his weaker moments, wondering why Steve can’t just push through his pain like Eddie does. There are days when Eddie’s scars act up, when his body aches and he wants nothing more than to stay in bed, but he doesn’t.

But then he sees the results of Steve “pushing through it” – ignoring the way his whole body hurts, moving until he physically can’t anymore, until even breathing feels painful. Shoving off the impending signs of a migraine until they get mornings like this one: vomiting and stuttering and auras, sitting on the bathroom floor until Eddie can coax him back to bed.

He sees it, sees how much it kills Steve that he can’t do more, and feels ashamed.)

It isn’t just the bills weighing on Eddie’s mind, though. More even than money trouble—something with which Eddie at least has experience—it’s Steve that’s scaring him the most. The days when he’s overwhelmed by pain or by exhaustion, by fogginess and migraines, seem to be increasing, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do.

Scrape together enough money to go see another specialist who will tell them shit they already know and recommend treatments they can’t afford?

(Eddie would. If Steve’s doctor gave him yet another referral, Eddie would find a way to make it work. He’s just not sure anymore that it would help.)

He hates feeling useless. Hates sitting by, unable to do a damn thing, unable to solve the problem, stuck in place just like he had been in high school, dead weight, no good to anybody–

A rustling of sheets followed by a quiet groan reaches Eddie’s ears from the bedroom, snapping him from his spiral.

He sits up, then, releasing his hair and rubbing his hands over his cheeks, catching any stray moisture from beneath his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths, shaking less now, and stands from the table. There is one thing he can do, and even if it doesn’t feel like enough, Eddie is going to do it.

The bedroom is dim, curtains drawn over east-facing windows that blessedly get less light in the afternoon. The bed is a wreck of pillows and sheets, moved around or cast aside in an effort to alleviate the pain, to warm up or stay cool through a fluctuating body temperature. Steve lies in the middle of it all, turned now to face the door, one arm stretched over the empty space where Eddie had been.

His eyes are closed, but Eddie’s pretty sure he’s awake – sure enough, he pulls his arm back as soon as the bed dips under Eddie’s weight. Eddie slides back beneath the sheets and takes Steve’s hand with a gentle squeeze.

“Hey.”

Steve hums, eyes still closed, squeezing Eddie’s hand back. “Where’d you go?”

“Just got up to stretch my legs,” Eddie answers (it’s an easy lie, one Eddie feels no guilt over, because it’s better than explaining that he’d gotten up to avoid waking Steve with the anxiety attack that had built in his chest the longer he’d lain in the silence of their bedroom, watching the furrow between Steve’s brows that made him look pained even in his sleep).

After a moment, Steve’s eyes flutter open, searching Eddie’s face. Whatever he finds there makes his frown deepen.

“Kinda ruined our weekend, huh?” he says quietly. “’m sorry you’re stuck with me like this.”

“Don’t,” Eddie says lowly. “Never apologize. I’m not stuck with you, I love you.” He leans up, presses a kiss to Steve’s forehead, and Steve sighs.

He takes their joined hands and brings them to his lips, kissing the back of Eddie’s. “I love you, too,” he murmurs against Eddie’s skin.

“You need anything?” Eddie asks, before he really settles in.

Steve makes a noise in the negative. “Just you,” he says, lips still brushing Eddie’s hand. “That’s enough.”

Eddie can’t help the overwhelmed tears that well up in his eyes again. This is enough – they’re enough. As long as Eddie has Steve, they can figure the rest out together.

And that will always be enough.

#eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie #stranger things #cw anxiety attack #solar wrote #eddiesteve

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sweatervest-obsessed · 2 years ago

Text

New Shade of Green

Pairing: Spencer x Reader (gn!)

WC: 2.7k

TW: implications of murder, serial killer talk, mentions of abuse, crying, anger, swearing <3, Men sucking so bad

a/n: This was a request, which you can see here. Jealous Spencer was so fun to write! Enjoy babes!!!

"Oh my god. Shut the fuck up! I didn't know you were the consultant for this case!" You hopped up out of your seat on the jet to greet the man you called your best friend.

His eyes lit up when he saw you, wrapping an arm around you, squeezing you tightly. "I assume you didn't read the text I sent you last week."

You laughed and pulled out of the hug slightly, hand still on his arm. "I never read anything you send me."

Spencer, whose hand you had abandoned when you got up to say hi to Oliver, was zeroed in on the fact that your hand was still on Oliver's arm, and Oliver's arm was still slightly wrapped around your waist.

"Team, this is Oliver Swerdanski, my best friend and specialist in classics--"

"Norse mythology specifically."

It was not lost on the team that you clearly had a type. Oliver was about 6 feet tall, in a sweater, and wearing wired glasses frames. He was slightly buffer than Spencer, but not as tall. (something Spencer noted the first time you had introduced the two)

The team nodded and said their hellos, more interested in the shifting dynamics of the plane since you hadn't left Oliver's side, opting to sit with him on the couch instead of your usual seat by the window, next to a certain green-faced Doctor.

The flight was going to be a long one.

Eventually, Derek felt terrible enough for Spencer that he stopped by you and Oliver on his way to get some coffee.

"So, Oliver, how long have you known our dear Y/N here."

Oliver smiled over at you with a glint in his eye that most of the profilers on the plane noticed. Except for you.

"Oh, well. We go way back."

You nodded enthusiastically, just happy to have the company of an old friend. "We were neighbors growing up--you could say he's my childhood best friend."

"That turned into one of your now best friends..."

You smiled and rolled your eyes. “Don’t push it asshat.”

Derek smiled slightly, realizing this was going to be an interesting case “Well, it’s nice to meet you Oliver.”

He left the two of you alone, taking your abandoned seat next to Spencer, a slight smirk washing over his face as he did.

“Aren’t you the picture of joy this morning?”

“Not in the mood, Derek,” Spencer mumbled, staring intently out the window, trying not to let his jealousy get the better. It’s not like it mattered since he was surrounded by profilers who could read him like a book.

“What do you think of Oliver?”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, and Derek chuckled. “Good luck, kid.”

And with that, Derek left Spencer alone, knowing he had his plate filled with more than enough shit for however long this case would be.

And it didn’t help anything that you were completely oblivious to both men: both of them filled to the brim with envy of the other, having what they each thought the other had—your attention.

____________________________________________________________

Four years ago, Hotch had made you and Spencer share a bedroom, causing a chain of events to lead to the fact that you still share one now.

Three years of dating had made you feel very comfortable in your relationship; You loved Spencer Reid. This was not some passing affliction, it was simply a fact of the universe. You would move hell and earth if he asked you to.

But not right now. Right now? You kind of wanted to punch him. He was ignoring you, or at least that’s what it felt like. The car ride was completely silent. You could tell something was upsetting him, but you weren’t one hundred percent sure why he was so distant.

“Spence?”

“Hm?”

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong.”

He shrugged, effectively trying to murder the conversation before it even had the chance to live.

You frowned slightly, shifting in your seat slightly, and looking over at him.

“What’s going on?”

You heard him mumble something under his breath, unsure of what he was saying, but it just made you even more upset.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on with you?”

“I said. I’m fine.” Spencer huffed.

“Well, clearly you aren’t.”

“Believe whatever you want to fucking believe then.”

And that’s where the conversation ended, leaving you effectively lost. Especially since he wouldn’t hold your hand in the car ride back and then didn’t wait for you as he walked straight into the police station.

This was going to be a long case.

___________________________________________________________

And you were right.

Spencer ignored you at every chance he could. Even in the hotel room, he’d go to bed without you, no holding one another, no late-night talks, nothing. He would just get ready for bed in silence and then turn away from you.

And tonight, you couldn’t deal with it anymore. He had been ignoring you for over a week and now that it looked like the case was going to take longer, you couldn’t stand it. Instead of getting into bed, you grabbed your phone and wallet and stormed out of the hotel, slamming the door behind you.

You went down to the hotel bar and ordered yourself a tequila shot, downing it quickly before getting your regular drink.

Oliver slid into the seat next to you, hand on your arm.

“I haven’t seen you do tequila that fast since freshman year of college.”

You gave him a dry laugh and took another sip of your drink. “Desperate times.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. I’m just. I’m aggravated.”

“Come on, babe, it’s me.” Oliver rubbed his hand up and down your arm. “You can always talk to me—so tell me what’s been going on. Boy troubles?”

You sighed. “It’s just…I don’t know what’s going on with Spencer. He’s barely said like three sentences to me since the case began, and clearly, he’s upset with me, but I have no fucking idea why since he’s being a stubborn ass and won’t talk to me. How the fuck am I supposed to fix something if he won’t even tell me what’s wrong.”

Oliver rubbed his thumb across your arm. It felt intimate because it was, but this was Oliver, who only had the best intentions for you, who you had known since you were a little kid.

“He sounds like a douche babe.”

You leaned away slightly, face becoming unrecognizable for a moment. “Okay, well, that’s not what I said. He’s clearly just upset abou—”

“You kinda did. He’s acting like you don’t exist, and clearly, he doesn’t care about how all of this is affecting you.”

You went to rebuttal his claims because Spencer would never be that callous; he’d never treat you like that. But he kind of was. “It’s only because something is wrong and…”

“So he treats you like this whenever he can’t communicate with you.”

“Well not…he doesn’t…” You were starting to doubt yourself, unable to keep up with the accusations.

“He doesn’t what. Because it sounds like you’re saying he treats you like shit when he gets upset with you…”

“What are you trying to insinuate? That he hits me? Oliv–”

“I’m just saying that behavior–”

What? Oliver, no. Stop twisting my words.”

“I’m not twisting your words; I’m just stating what I’m seeing.”

“What you’re seeing? You’ve been here for a week. You don’t know the past three years.”

“It’s been a week and he’s still treating you like this. And honestly, whenever I come around, he…” Oliver moved his hand to your thigh, causing you to frown deeply.

“Oliver. Step off.”

He shook his head. “You’re upset. And I want to help.”

You shoved his hand off your thigh and stood up. You left cash on the bar, standing up and moving away from Oliver.

Oliver watched as you walked away, frowning once you couldn’t see him anymore.

____________________________________________________________

The next morning, Spencer was woken up, and you were curled into his chest, sleeping soundly. He couldn’t move. He ghosted his lips over your forehead, causing you to stir slightly, clinging to him more.

“Morning.” He whispered to you.

You hummed and gripped a bit tighter to him. “Don’t go.”

Your voice broke Spencer’s heart a little bit. It’s not that he didn’t feel bad about the way he was treating you, it’s just that Oliver kept provoking him, making him turn greener every single time he saw Oliver talking to you.

“I wasn’t planning on it, sweetheart.”

“Oh so now we’re back to nicknames.” You grumbled into his chest. “I’m still mad at you.”

He signed and brushed your hair out of your face. “I’m sorry Y/N. Let me make it up to you, yeah?”

“You can make it up to me when we get home.”

“Deal.” He kissed your head again, just as your cell phone began to ring.

_________________________________________________________

After two grueling weeks on this godforsaken case, everyone was ready to get home.

The rest of the case caused serious tension for the group because the mythology was the only thing tying these murders together, and your geoprofile was all over the place, meaning these two killers were too good at what they were doing.

Once you had been shot at, and nearly grazed by a bullet, you would have expected Spencer to continue to speak to you, but all he did was stare at you from afar. It was infuriating.

You couldn’t get a read on him. For the rest of the week, he had been speaking to you, kissing you, holding your hand; then after checking on you while you were getting checked out, he stopped speaking to you.

The entire team watched you and Spencer shift back into the dynamic duo you were, functioning better than before. They watched as Oliver got more frustrated as you continued to ignore him unless it was a necessary part of the investigation. Maybe you had figured it out–they hoped you had.

Instead of trying to deal with even more bullshit, you opted to sit alone at the back of the plane, headphones on. It was one of those many unspoken rules about the plane that everyone knew not to disturb you while your headphones were on unless they wanted to get bitch slapped.

Well, everyone except for Oliver.

You were deep in thought, trying to mull over why Spencer wasn’t talking to you–both times– going over every scenario you possibly could and figuring out what changed during that first day.

Oliver got up, ready to go and talk to you, his intentions pretty clear from the look on his face, but Derek grabbed his arm, effectively yanking him back down into his seat.

“What the fuck man?”

“Don’t bug Y/N while they have headphones on.” If Spencer wasn’t going to stand up for you, then Derek absolutely was. Oliver might have been your best friend, but Derek was your family.

“It’s just music…”

“Yeah,” Hotch spoke up, not looking away from the report in his hands. “And no one wants to clean up your blood when you get murdered for trying to interrupt that music.”

“Look. As Y/n’s best friend, I’m outside of most of their rules–”

“I don't think so.” Derek stood up, fully ready to restrain this man.

“What the fuck is going on.” You had stood up, and turned around, headphones out of your ears, and my god did you look fucking pissed off. “I don’t know why is everyone arguing so loudly, but if we could keep the volume at a fucking minimum that would be fan-fucking-tastic.”

The team stared back at you, except for Hotch who just had a slightly amused look on his face as he filled out paperwork. You glared at Oliver and Derek, who were standing opposite of you. “Can I help you two or…”

Derek shook his head. “Go back to your music. We’re sorry.”

“Thank you.” You grumbled to the group, sliding your headphones back over your ears, attaching a ‘sorry’ to the group as you did so. You moved further back on the plane, sitting on the couch, glaring at anyone who looked at you.

This has been a stressful two weeks for you. Oliver was acting all weird all of a sudden, –causing you to reevaluate your entire relationship with him, considering he was trying to make Spencer sound like a villain. And then Spencer, acting like a villain and ignoring you all week, then acting like nothing happened, and then ignoring you again for another twenty-four hours. You couldn’t take it anymore. And, on top of all of this, you had lost two more victims to the unsub, because one of the killers worked in the station, using his knowledge to avoid the BAU.

You were overwhelmed and frustrated, and you just wanted some peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask for?

“I should go apologize–” Oliver didn’t move to sit back down.

Spencer stood up and shoved past Oliver, moving to sit on the couch with you, causing you to raise your eyebrows at him.

“Can I help you?”

Spencer shrugged and opened his book, knowing you’d rather have whatever conversation he was willing to have now, in private. He opted to just read and be in your company. It was easily recognizable as the beginning of an apology, and you would take it. You maneuvered so your back was up against his arm, initiating the amount of touch you were willing to have, but also not crossing a line.

The plane ride was silent the rest of the way.

______________________________________________________________________________

“I’m sorry for this w–the past two weeks really. I-I’ve been really in my own head and–”

You let out a hefty sigh, tossing your keys on the counter and your bag down next to the door. Spencer followed suit, closing the door behind the two of you as you went into the kitchen to put on the kettle to make some tea.

“Are you going to tell me what was going on? What the fuck happened?”

He sighed back at you, grabbing your hand and pulling you into a hug.

And while you muttered your displeasure, you didn’t move away from him at all, opting to grouchily mumble in his ear, while Spencer ran his thumb up and down your back, listening to you mumble.

“I–god Spence. You just dropped me like all week, and then suddenly—”

“I-I know. I was awful. I’m so so sorry.”

“That’s not an explanation.” You mumbled into his chest.

“I….” Spencer swallowed whatever sort of pride he thought he would be saving and opted to tell you. “I…It was Oliver, and-and the way you were treating him, an-and you sat next to him on the plane and he was touching you and he was constantly holding you and stealing your attention away and—”

You pulled away slightly to get a look at your boyfriend. “Spencer Reid, were you jealous?”

He cursed under his breath and rolled his eyes.

You placed a soft kiss on his neck, causing him to hum. “You have nothing to be worried about Spence. You are it for me. No one can change that, especially not Oliver.”

Spencer looked down and smiled again. You smiled back at him, pulling him to you for a kiss.

It was recentering your universe. Everything was the way it should be–your lips on Spencer's, his hands around his waist, and a glowing sunset peering through your windows.

The kettle whistled loudly, causing the two of you to jump apart, startled at the sound.

“That was a good start, Spence. Once I finish my tea, you can show me how else you can keep making it up to me.” You smirked slightly, turning around to take the kettle off of the stove and grab the tea and mugs.

Spencer has never been so excited to drink a cup of tea, and honestly, neither had you.

#x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader fluff #spencer reid x reader angst #dr spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x gn!reader

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moody-alcoholic · 1 month ago

Text

Cross My Heart

Chapter 1 - Self Preservation

Summary: poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers. You're a smuggler working for whoever pays trying to survive in the war torn Urzikstan.

On what should have been a routine job for Konni you end up becoming entrapped by a mysterious SAS unit.

They need your help and maybe you need theirs too.

Original abridged version HERE

---

CW: Mention/description of injuries.

masterlist - next AO3

Enjoy <3

It was late evening when Ivan called you for a meeting. You walked into what Ivan has started calling the ‘war room’ to see a group of older looking men lined up against a wall. They look different from anyone else you’ve seen, these must be the people he wants you to smuggle.

Ivan is leaning over the table talking to whoever is on the other end of the call. You can hear a russian voice but you don’t recognise it. There is also another man sitting at the table who you don’t know as well. You lean against the opposite wall with your arms crossed, they’re going over the plan. As per usual you’re not listening to specifics.

Your attention turns back to the three guys, they look older, the walking is going to be hard on them. From what you’ve gathered there’s not even a swap, just dropping them off at an Al-Qatala munitions place about 30 kilometers inland. You watch as Ivan walks around the table with his arms crossed.

He looks better, gave himself a makeover by the looks of it, got a haircut, new suit and vest. He looks good for once-or at least better than his usual get up, it’s a shame he’s trying too hard to copy Makarov. The people you’re supposed to be smuggling look scared as shit, they’re not soldiers, they’re not POW’s, something else, all you were told is that they’re specialists.

“You fucking listening?” Ivan snaps at you. You stand up off the wall letting your hands drop and go over to the map on the table.

“I’ll take the normal route, 30k shouldn't be too slow, get them there by tomorrow morning.” You say pointing at the map.

“No. Farah’s moving north.” Ivan says, you sigh, raising an eyebrow at them.

“Alright, I’ll take the longer route, stop off at a safehouse if I need to.” You say.

“You should do it in one night. It’s risky stopping off at safehouses right now.” Ivan says, you know he’s not saying it for your sake. This is precious cargo, you look over at them standing against the wall. They’re not Russian, or at least they don’t speak Russian. They keep exchanging confused glances while they watch you.

“Can your smuggler handle the ULF?” A voice through the phone asks.

“I can handle myself.” You snap back, you don’t need strangers doubting you.

“Make it as far as you can before looking for shelter. If you’re lucky you will make it there by tomorrow morning.” Ivan says. You sigh, that was going to be the plan. But of course you can’t have all the glory, Ivan needs to earn his role so you let him think the plan is his. Besides, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“Fine.” You say, nodding and standing up. You look down at the new markers on the map, it doesn't seem like much has changed since you were last out. This is your first big job in a while though.

“Good.” The other random guy says, you don’t recognise him but he’s definitely Russian. Probably someone higher up in Konni, here to keep an eye on Ivan, it is his first time running a base for them. A big one too, on the Russian-Urzikstan border. You want to be proud of him but you really don’t care.

You look out the window crossing your arms again. It’s early evening, you should leave when it’s dark it will give you the best cover.

“What do you know about Farah? Why is she moving north?” You ask.

“No idea, Al-Qatala are monitoring it. Besides, you’re friendly right?” He says.

“Friendly’s a loose term. I don’t think she would be happy with me sneaking people to Al-Qatala.” You say.

“You’ll be fine, you know what you’re doing.” Ivan says. You nod, sighing.

“I’ll get what I need, leave as soon as it gets dark.” You say, turning to leave the room.

…

You walk over to the prison wing, although it’s barely a prison. The whole base used to be a school or a college. Konni took it over a few years ago, the prison wing used to be the art department or something based on the plain concrete walls and floor. It’s the most secure building, there’s an old cold war bunker directly under it.

You’re looking for Calab, you need a cigarette and a chat before you leave. It's the first proper job you’ve had in a while. Other than some simple intel runs for Konni, this is the first time you’ll be back in your home country in over a week.

Not that you miss it, not like there's anything there for you.

“Heading out already?” Calab calls over. You smile walking over to him and accepting the cigarette he’s already holding out for you.

“Thought you'd be off duty already.” You smile, lighting it. You take a deep breath in letting it calm you and warm your lungs.

“Too early for that, besides think I’d miss waving you off?” He chuckles.

“Big package.” He says pointing over at the people you’re smuggling.

“Konni to Al-Qatala.”

“Look at you, big leagues.” He says, you can hear the sarcasm in his voice.

“Big pay too. Maybe I'll take you out for dinner.” You smile nudging him.

“How much is the split with Ivan?”

“60/40.”

“He’s screwing you.” You laugh, blowing out a lung full of smoke.

“In multiple ways.” You say sighing. One of the soldiers calls you over.

“Got to go, should be back late tomorrow.” You say patting him on the shoulder.

“Give me another?” You ask, holding your hand out for another cigarette.

“You need to buy your own packs.” He chuckles, handing you two.

“I don’t smoke.” You smile back at him, flicking the butt on the floor.

“Hey!” He calls, you turn to look at him. “ULF’s heading North.”

“Yeah, I know.” You say holding a thumbs up. You watch as the soldier shakes hands with one of the people you’re smuggling. You won’t bother learning their names, the less you know about them the better.

“Long trek, need anyone to escort?” One of the soldiers says, you shake your head. You don't know who he is, you’ve only been using this base since Ivan got moved here. Easy to sneak people over the border when you’re literally on it. These people are a nice gift from Makarov, get them to Al-Qatala and then get back.

“Do you speak Arabic?” One of them asks, you nod. They seem nervous, nothing like most of the people you smuggle. Your plan is to make it to a ULF safehouse you know will be empty, or at least you hope it will. If the ULF are moving north you have to hope they’ve not come this far north.

“How long will it take?” One of them asks.

“Couple of hours, but we’ll be stopping off half way.” You reply, leading them over to the main gate.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” He asks, you turn to look at him and raise an eyebrow.

“I don’t really feel like walking 40 kilometers in one go.” You say, smiling at the soldier who’s standing at the main gate. You offer him one of your cigarettes.

“Heard the ULF are moving north.” He says, you sigh, taking it away before he can accept it. He scoffs and goes to open the gate.

“There’s a rumor marines landed a few hours away.” You smile offering the cigarette again.

“Americans?”

“No fucking idea.” He says.

“Landed where?” You frown letting the others go through the gate before you. He puts the cigarette in his mouth.

“Russia.” He says as he lights it. You nod and walk through the gates.

“Did you at least fuck Ivan?” He asks, closing the gate behind you.

“No.” You smile walking away.

“Fuck, he’s going to be in a bad mood.” He says, loud enough for you to hear.

“Not my problem.” You call back walking past the 3 people you’re smuggling and putting the cigarette in your mouth.

“Do any of you smoke?” You ask, switching to Arabic and looking around them all. One of them nods, you smile, lighting the cigarette. “Good.”

_____

When you make it to the safehouse you can already see it's still empty. You pop the lock on the door and walk in.

“Where are we?” The older one asks. He started complaining about his feet hurting a few kilometers into the walk. You thought you were going to have to stop even earlier, but you forced them to push through it. There’s no way the ULF are this far north and even if they were they wouldn't use this safehouse.

When you get in you feel the ache in your legs, you could use a rest too besides on the way back you won’t be stopping off. You shouldn’t sleep but you’re already feeling the first 20 kilometers and you know the people you’re escorting are feeling it worse.

“There’s MRE’s in the crate.” You say. “Don’t drink the water from the taps, there should be water jugs in the garage.”

They’re still looking at you bewildered and confused. You sigh, rubbing your forehead.

“It’s safe here, the ULF doesn’t come this far north. If Konni or Al-Qatala show up, call me.”

“Where are you going?” One of them asks.

“To get a few hours rest. You should too, one of you needs to stay up though, as a lookout.” You say.

“You’re the one with the gun.” The one with the glasses points at your hip.

“If the enemy comes knocking, my gun’s not going to do shit. So wake me before that happens.” You say sighing and walking up the stairs. You’ve never been caught short before, you’re not going to let it happen now. You still check all the upstairs rooms just to be safe, the place is clear. You pick one of the rooms, pulling your pistol off your hip and putting it on the bedside table.

You take your jacket off but leave everything else and lay down on top of the sheets. You should get a few hours rest, or at least try. You could use another smoke but then you definitely won’t be able to sleep. You can get a few hours here and then still make it by the morning if you pick up the pace a little.

You sigh and close your eyes, it doesn’t take long for sleep to pull you under.

____

A light flicks on and your eyes snap open.

Something’s wrong, you can feel it. You look round the room, your eyes immediately land on a man holding a pistol at you. He’s sat on a chair, decked out in full military gear. There’s a bigger weapon slung over his back.

“Not a good idea to be sleepin’ when you’re alone.” He has an accent you can’t quite place. Not American though. You look at the patches on his vest, Union-Jack, O-Positive. SAS, fuck .

“I had lookouts.” You say swallowing the nerves.

“Yeah, ‘bout that.” He sighs, your heart is pumping rapidly in your chest. They’re most likely dead-innocent people, dead.

“What do you want?” You ask, your eyes flick over to your pistol on your night stand. The man sees it, his eyes follow yours.

You have to act now.

You reach out for the weapon. The man is on his feet in an instant, the pistol in his hand comes down hard on your wrist.

You yell out in pain, your weapon falling to the floor. The door to the room fly's open, there’s another man now. He makes you jump, training an AR at your head with a scary looking skull mask covering his face.

There’s no point in fighting.

The man next to you picks the weapon up off the floor, unloading it and throwing it to the side. You swing your legs out the bed.

“Don’t fuckin’ move!” He shouts. You hear the safety click off his gun, your breath catches in your throat. You hold your hands up, you’re unarmed, there’s nothing you can do.

“What are you doing in a ULF safehouse?” The man in the doorway asks, you keep your eyes trained on the person holding the pistol to your head. The other man’s accent is different.

“You’re injured?” There’s blood on his vest, it’s a long shot but better then nothing. “I’m a medic. I can help.” It’s a lie but all you can think about is getting out here alive.

The man looks to the doorway, you keep still. Even if you could tackle him to the ground his friend would finish you off.

“We’ve got one injured, think you could help?” The man in the doorways asks.

“What happened?” You ask, trying to hide your nerves. Your mum was a nurse, your dad a doctor before. Before the war, you could help, maybe that would buy you your freedom, or at the very least make sure they don’t shoot you right away.

“GSW.” That’s all you’re given, that could mean anything.

“You work with the ULF?” The man in front of you asks. You shake your head.

“Al-Qatala?” You shake your head again.

“Who?” The man in the doorway asks again. This time you turn to him. The mask on his face is splattered with blood. He’s bigger, taller and wider than the guy in front of you. He has the same patches though, Union-Jack, SAS.

“Does it matter, you said you had injured? You’re not going to find a hospital around here. It’s all Al-Qatala controlled territory.” You say. Self preservation at its finest.

“Can you help then?” The man in front of you asks. You turn to look at him, your hands still in the air.

“The longer we wait the less chance I have. Gunshot wounds can be unpredictable.” You say swallowing the nerves. Confidence is key, that's what you learnt once. The man in front of you puts down his weapon, grabbing your arm and pulling you to your feet.

“Try anything and we fuckin’ kill ya.” He says through gritted teeth.

You make it down to the ground floor as their hostage, it doesn’t take you long to see the blood stains on the floor. The uneaten MRE’s and open jug of water. The man with the mohawk is walking down first, the man with the mask is behind you, the barrel of his AR digging into your shoulder blades.

You can see two other people, they’re dressed in similar gear. At least one of them is, the other is laid out on the couch. The man standing turns, he brings a pistol up pointing it at you.

“Easy Gaz. She’s a medic.”

“Doesn’t look like one.” The man-Gaz-says lowering his gun looking around at the people escorting you. They walk you over to the sofa, you step around the coffee table, you can see an open first aid kit, it’s one of the ones from the safehouse. It should have some things that could help you. The man on the sofa looks clammy, pale skin and sweat on his forehead, his top is soaked too, a mix of blood and sweat.

You don’t know what you’re doing, you didn’t think you could make it this far. They’ve taken his vest, belt and boots off. It’s just his shirt and trousers, his shirt has been pulled up to his chest, they’ve been trying to stop the bleeding. You’ve seen wounds like this before, you’ve seen people die from wounds like this.

You try to think about what you remember from your parents and spending countless summers and holidays in the hospital.

“You said you could help him. What do you need?” The voice snaps you out of your head, you look over at him. He seems the most reserved, dark skinned brown eyes, he has a cap on, he’s stood on the other side of the sofa his hands still on the weapon slung over his chest.

You have no idea what to do.

“Clean water, and bandages. Sterile if possible.” You say, you can’t tell if that sounds professional or not but they exchange glances and the mohawk man moes from behind you into the kitchen. You take another step over to the sofa. You need to know if the bullet has gone through or not.

“Not another step.” Gaz says, raising his weapon. You hold your hands up again, holding your ground.

“I can’t help him if you don’t let me check him.” You say, gritting your teeth.

“Stand down Gaz.” You hear the voice behind you say. Gaz shifts gripping the weapon in his hands tighter.

“You won’t hurt him?” He asks.

“Cross my heart.” You say looking in his eyes, you keep your hands up until he lowers his weapon. You look down at the man on the sofa. There’s so many things you need to check, he could be bleeding internally, you can’t see any other wounds but there could be others.

You remember the basics, seemingly pointless stuff like ten-second triage and CABC. You could name every organ and what it does. Maybe you could stitch him up, you’ve had enough practice in the labs with fake skin. You know how to do an ultrasound and an x-ray but it’s not like ULF keeps stuff like that in a safehouse.

You lower your hands but take it slow, bending down by him. Your hand brushes over the bandages. They're thick and it hasn’t bled through. You want to pull them back, look at the wound but if it’s not bleeding he's stable.

“I got water. Ghost, Gaz. Check your medkits for sterile bandages.” It’s the man with the accent, you turn to see him bringing over a bowl of water.

Ghost. He must be the man with the mask. Gaz and Ghost.

He puts it down on the coffee table behind you.

“What's his name?” You ask, swallowing the nerves you need them to think you can do this. Maybe you can do this, or maybe he’ll die and they have someone to blame.

“Is that important?” Gaz asks.

“No, I'm just used to asking.” You pull the bandages back slowly, blood pours out and you take a clean bandage mopping it up. You should clean the wound, asses the damage and get then fuck out of here. Or at least do enough for them to let you go.

“What's his blood type?” You ask.

“Oh-positive.” The Ghost says.

“Do you think he needs blood?” They guy with the accent asks. You look up at Gaz putting the bandages back down.

“I don’t know. How bad was the bleeding?” You ask.

“Bad I guess, bled through a few bandages before we got it under control.” Gaz says.

“Can you help me roll him on his side? I need to know if there's an exit wound.” You ask, turning to the guy with the accent, you still don’t know his name but he seems the nicest out of all of them.

“There’s no exit wound.” Gaz says, you believe him and the less you have to move him the better, especially if the bullet is still in there. You nod looking back at the bandages and gauze they’ve managed to collect.

You replace the bandages with gauze, homeostatic gaze, the good stuff you've only seen once or twice. The bleeding already seemed under control but you’re trying to buy time besides there's nothing you can do to make this worse, or at least you hope so.

You try to remember things you’ve picked up from your parents. He’s breathing, responding to pain even though he's barely conscious. His pulse is as rapid as his breathing, again you don’t know if that's good or bad.

In the medkit there’s a blood pressure machine and a thermometer. His blood pressure is elevated, if he was bleeding out his BP would be low or at least that's what you assume. His temperature is normal, so no fever which means no infection right?

You pick up one of the rags from the kit and dump it into the bowl of water. You ring it out and use it to mop up the sweat on his face, before resting it on his forehead. People do this in movies, maybe it will help, maybe it will get some kind of response from him.

If he dies they’ll kill you. There is always someone behind you, you can hear them shuffle as they move their weapon from hand to hand. If you tried to make a run for it they would kill you. Your best chance is to save this man. Save the enemy.

If he’s breathing, you’re safe. If he’s not bleeding out, you're safe.

You continue to make yourself look busy. Patting his forehead, keeping pressure on his wounds. He doesn’t seem to have any other injuries, just a gunshot to the abdomen. There’s no swelling or rigidness in his bowel. You remember hearing from an ED doctor once that everything from nipple to the navel is no man's land.

“When were you going to tell us huh!?” It’s Gaz, he's loud and angry. There’s a hand gripping your shoulder and you’re pulled away from the man on the sofa. You turn to see Gaz with his weapon in his hands, the barrel pressed to your head.

“What’s going on?” Ghost asks even though he’s bought his own weapon aimed at you.

“She’s Konni.” The man with the mohawk says. You look up at the man with the gun pressed to your head. You didn't even get a chance to get to your feet.

This is it. This is how you die.

The barrel is cold on your skin, you’re holding your breath, his finger is on the trigger.

“Explain yourself.” A deep voice asks. You swallow hard trying to keep as still as possible.

“I’m a smuggler. I work for whoever pays. The people you killed, I was supposed to get them to Al-Qatala. Konni pays me to smuggle people or weapons over the border. It’s easy to use ULF safehouses up here as a stop off point.” It’s desperate, you feel like you’re talking too fast. Maybe they won’t understand you with your accent. Maybe they won’t believe you.

“You Russian?” The man with the mohawk asks.

“Does it matter?” You almost spit back at him.

“What about Al-Qatala or ULF you done jobs for them too?”

“If they pay, yeah. You’d be surprised how desperate people can get.” Adrenaline pulses through you, you’re not going to back down even if it is your final stand.

“Gaz, stand down.” You see a hand land on his shoulder. You swallow again, looking up at him, his eyes are scrunched together, there’s real anger behind them. The gun moves from your head, you let out a sigh of relief, sitting back on your legs, you keep your hands up.

“What do Konni pay you to smuggle?” Ghost asks.

“I don’t ask. The less I know the less I’m a liability. I’m good at what I do, that's all that matters.” The man with the mohawk scoffs. Gaz moves back to stand with him.

“You don’t even get a little curious?” Gaz asks.

“POW’s, chemicals. High ranking members of Al-Qatala, mostly for meetings with Konni, sometimes with Makarov himself.”

“What about the ULF?” Ghost asks.

“General supplies, the odd civilians, favors for Farah. It’s harder to cross the other borders. Russia is easy.”

“So you’re not a medic. Can you even help him?” Gaz asks. You turn to look at the man on the sofa, you can’t tell if colour has come back to his face or not.

“My mother was a ED nurse, my father was a doctor. I was on track to go to med school too.” You say, you’re not sure what’s going to happen now. You probably know as much as they do, they’ve most likely have more medical training then you.

“Where are your parents now?” Gaz asks.

“Dead, killed in the conflict. Like almost everyone I know.” There’s sadness in your voice, you try to hide it.

“You didn’t pick a side?” Ghost asks.

“I did, in the beginning. Farah’s message was a popular one. It was the ULF who came to our aid when our town was attacked.” You pause looking round at them all. “It was the ULF who carpet bombed the hospital killing my father. A week later my mother was killed by Al-Qatala when they raided a ULF base.”

“I’m sorry, about your parents.” The mohawk man says, Gaz tuts.

“Why become a smuggler?” Ghost asks. “Put your hands down.”

“It was by chance. I managed to gather enough money to flee, and pay someone to get me over the border. We got talking, he offered me a job instead.” You explain lowering your hands.

“Where is he now?”

“Probably dead.” You say as a matter of fact. You haven’t seen him in over a year. In the beginning he was like your mentor, teaching you the best routes and how to use ULF and Al-Qatala safehouses. Who to mention to get people to leave you alone. He vouched for you, got you jobs then when you were ready then he just left.

Or maybe he fucked up and he was killed.

No one is saying anything.

“Your friend’s gunshot is not a through and through, that means the bullet is still in there. Pulling it out could kill him, I don’t have the equipment to check where it is or if he has any other injured organs. He needs a hospital.” You say urgently.

“CASEVAC?” Gaz asks.

“Not from here.” Ghost replies. There’s silence again. You squeeze your eyes closed, sighing.

“There’s an abandoned vets in the next town, east of here. It will have the supplies I need to sew him up at least. Make sure he’s stable enough to move.” They could think you’re lying. They’re exchanging glances, you can almost see them thinking. It seems like Ghost is the one incharge, he shifts on his feet.

“Okay.”

“What about Farah?” Gaz asks, your head snaps over to the mohawk man, you need to get his name at some point, and figure out where his accent is from, he doesn’t sound like the other two.

“Nothing but radio silence.” Ghost replies.

“How did you end up here?” You ask before you can stop yourself. You’ve been honest with them, maybe they’ll be honest with you.

“That's classified.” Ghost snaps, you nod. You expected that.

“I heard Farah’s forces are moving north. We’re close to the Russian border. Maybe it’s best you wait?” You say offering up the only info you have on ULF’s movements.

“How do you know that?” Ghost asks.

“I was warned they were on the move when I picked up this job.” You say.

“By Konni?” Gaz asks, you nod. You hear Ghost sigh then mutter under his breath.

“In your opinion, how bad is he?” Ghost asks, taking another step towards you, you hold your ground.

“I don’t know. Moving him is risky, but there is no way to tell if the bullet is already doing any damage internally.” You explain. “It’s 50/50 either way.”

“And you know how to sew him up?” The mohawk guy asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve had plenty of practice.” You explain. It’s a long shot, but right now it's about keeping yourself alive. As long as you’re useful you’re safe.

There are collective sighs around the room, glaces and nods of heads. Ghost lowers his weapon taking another step towards you. He opens his mouth about to speak but a groan from behind you cuts him off.

You turn to see the man on the couch trying to sit himself up. Gaz rushes past you and you move out the way getting to your feet to give him room. The guy with the mohawk grabs your arm pulling out the way.

“Price, don’t move. You’re okay.” He says. Price, so that's the name of the man on the sofa. His eyes blink open and he looks around, you can feel the barrel of a weapon digging into your back.

A gentle reminder they don’t trust you.

“Where are we?” Price slurs followed by a groan, you almost miss what he says.

“Urzikstan, ULF safehouse just across the border.” Gaz explains. They came from Russia, what were they doing in Russia? You remember what the guard told you, there were marines landing in Russia. Maybe this is them and he got it wrong. Or there are still people out there and you’re about to have marines and SAS to worry about.

“Shit, what happened?” His voice is less slurred now. Gaz is keeping him pressed down, his hand stroking his arm.

“Convoy was ambushed, we had no choice.”

“Alex?” Price asks.

“MIA, we lost track of him when you got shot. I made the order to fall back.” Ghost says but you can hear the strain in his voice.

“Shit.” Price says, dipping his head.

“It’s okay Cap, we’ll find him.” So there are more people with them. Someone called Alex, and they’re missing. They had a convoy, most likely for the ULF.

“Who’s she?” Price asks his gaze landing on you. You smile at him, it’s mostly nerves but you don’t know what else to do.

“Not sure.” Gaz says, Price looks over at Ghost.

“Smuggler.” The mohawk guy says.

“ULF?” Price asks, no one says anything for a few seconds.

“Take her out to the hall.” Ghost says.

“C’mon.” The man behind you says pulling you out of the room and to the entrance hall. The door is closed behind you and he lets your arm go leaning against the wall. You don’t say anything leaning against the opposite wall.

You could take him, you wouldn’t have to do much just surprise him, give yourself enough time to run out the house. Maybe if you knock him hard enough you can grab his weapon. He’s not even holding a weapon at you, his arms are crossed.

You’re quick, you don’t know if you’re quicker then him but his pistol is just sitting in his holster.

It’s been at least 10 minutes you’d wager. They’re deciding your fate. It makes you restless, you pick at your nails while you hear their muffled voices on the other side of the door. You look over at the man in the room.

“See something you like?” He asks.

“Why join the army when your country is not at war?”

“Why not pick a side when yours is?” You scoff, shaking your head. Like he would understand what it’s like. Just like the Americans, there always has to be a good and a bad.

“You’re not british?” You ask.

“Scottish.” He replies. You didn't think you were going to get a sincere reply, you smile. He looks over at you and you look away, back to the door.

“Ever think about what’s going to happen when the war ends?” He asks. You laugh, you don’t really mean it, it just seems like such a stupid question.

“I’ll be long gone before that happens.” You say crossing your arms and shifting your weight. You’ve dropped the idea of escaping it seems. Maybe you can get more info from them, useful info. A Lot of people would pay good money for SAS intel.

“Really? Where would you go?” He asks like he’s interested all of a sudden.

“America, Russia. Somewhere with a fuck load of land.”

“Why?”

“Farming sounds like fun. Being self-sufficient, that kind of thing.” You say. He raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe you.

“What about you? Got any dreams or are you planning on dying for your country?” You ask bitterly. What makes him think he’s any better than you? Because he took an oath? Fuck him.

“Who knows, might do. What’s better though a quick fulfilled life or a long unfulfilled one?” He says. You frown at him. What the fuck does that mean?

“What? Were you a therapist in another life?” You ask, looking away. He chuckles, you ignore him. You both stand there in silence for what feels like ages. You can still hear mumbling, they’re still talking. They could be deciding to execute you. You’re the enemy, they don’t even need to make it look like an accident. Boom bullet in your head job done.

You just hope it’ll be quick. Or maybe they’ll decide to torture you for intel, not that you know much.

“What’s your name?” You turn to the man.

“Soap.”

“Soap? Like what you wash with?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. He nods, you scoff, shaking your head and looking away.

Soap, Ghost, Gaz and Price. What a fucking mess you’ve got yourself into.

The door swings open, it makes you jump. You both stand up but you wait for Soap to move first.

“He wants to talk to you.” Gaz says, he barely looks at you as he moves out the way of the door. You nod swallowing the fear rising in you. You walk back into the room. Price is sat up on the sofa now a hand pressed on the bandages on his stomach, there’s an electronic tablet by his side. That probably has a lot of expensive intel on it.

Ghost’s stood behind the sofa with his arms crossed. You look at him quickly then to Price as you stop in front of him. He looks round you, he still looks clammy, at least there is some colour back in his face. That’s got to be good, at least whatever you did didn't kill him.

“You said you could pull the bullet out?” He asks. You look round the room not quite believing what you’re hearing.

“No, I said you needed a hospital.” You cross your arms. Price smiles leaning back on the sofa, his face winces in pain even though he tries to hide it.

“I want you to pull it out.”

“Price!” You hear Gaz say. “That's not what we discussed.”

“I’m sorry. Even if I could just pull it out, I don’t have any equipment. No sterile field, an x-ray.” You stop throwing your hands up. “I could kill you. I don’t exactly want the blood of a SAS soldier on my hands.”

“I could die anyway?”

“You’re still talking, moving, breathing.” You’re getting frustrated, there’s no way you’re going to do this. If you kill him they’ll blame you, it’s a death sentence.

“Which means the bullet probably missed anything vital.” He says as a matter of fact. You look down at the wound, his hand still resting on the bandages. The bleeding is under control, he seems fine other than the hole in his stomach.

“Maybe. I don’t know but I'm not doing what would essentially be surgery on you in a shitty safehouse.” You say squeezing the bridge of your nose. “Like I said I don’t even have the tools.”

“The vets in the next town over, will it have what you need?” You stop pinching your nose. You don’t say anything. There is no way this is happening.

“You’re crazy.” You scoff, throwing your hands up in the air in disbelief. You look round at everyone. No one is saying anything, Price has a smile on his lips you just want to slap off.

“C’mere.” He says moving and gesturing for you to step closer. You just stand there gawking at him, no one is saying anything. You look up at Ghost, his eyes are digging into you. You swallow again, taking a step over to him. This time everyone does move, ever so slightly but enough for you to notice. Price’s hand reaches out to press on his side.

“Feel that.” He says. You look up at him unsure what to do, he nods at you. You shake your head for a second letting out a sigh and press where he instructed.

Holy shit, it’s hard just under his skin. It’s the bullet. You could pull that out no problem, then you could stitch up the rest of his wounds.

“Still don’t think you could get it out?” He asks as you stand back up. Your eyes flick back up to Ghost. You press your lips together thinking, you could do this.

“What’s in it for me?” You ask. Now it’s negotiation time. You hear Gaz scoff.

“We let you walk out here alive.” Gaz says, there’s anger in his voice. You turn to look at him. He’s definitely the most reserved out of all them, he held a gun to your head. He would kill you, all he needs is an excuse. You look back down at Price.

“Your life for mine.” He says.

“Dramatic.” You scoff. You hear Soap chuckle behind you.

“I want asylum, in the UK.” You say, crossing your arms. It's not America but it’s a start.

“Fine.” Price says. You look at him shocked.

“Just like that?” You ask frowning, it’s almost too good to be true.

“Just like that. You need to get us into Russia though. Quietly, you said you’re a good smuggler, we’ll even pay you for it.” Price says. Now you really don’t believe him. It’s a challenge though, you can see it in his eyes.

“I would need to go to the vets for the supplies.” You say.

“Ghost will go with you.” Price says. This is risky, they could be lying. They could kill you as soon as they’re done with you. If they want you to take them over the border you could hand them over to Konni. Makarov would probably pay you enough to retire if you handed him 4 SAS soldiers, fuck it he’d probably give you a mansion somewere in Russia.

“How do I know I can trust you?” You ask.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Price says back, tipping his head. Touché. You smile.

“Okay. I’ll help.” You hold your hand out, he shuffles uncomfortably but leans forward to shake your hand.

You don’t trust them, but they don’t trust you. No way you’re going to let them betray you though. That’s your job.

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wordstome · 2 years ago

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not to be pretentious or anything but I legit think whoever wrote König's bio was on some xgames shit. Like if we think about it, without his bio he's just some guy with a German-adjacent accent? The veil is kind of interesting, especially knowing it's a t-shirt, but a lot of people would just write him off as a Krueger clone. Richtofen from Black Ops has more personality.

But then someone, in exactly 119 words, conveyed so much and yet so little about who he is as a person? A lot of veterans come home with PTSD and anxiety, but König has always had anxiety, and he still chose to enlist at 17, which presents a lot of intriguing possibilities for what kind of childhood he had and what kind of person it molded him into. The fact that he was bullied as a child serves as a juxtaposition with "too big to be a sniper", which is at least 6'5". That's a big ass man. Did he hit a crazy growth spurt? Did the kids make fun of him specifically for being big? Was he a violent person in his youth, or did that manifest in the military?

Can you imagine hoping to become a sniper, a position that involves a high degree of skill and a fair amount of distance, and instead being assigned to be an insertion specialist, kicking down doors in the thick of it and frightening hostages? Quite a few people have explored this aspect of his character: is he bitter about that? Is he jealous of snipers? We know he holds some amount of resentment because of his "and they said I couldn't be a sniper" voice line, how would that tie into any insecurities carried over from childhood?

All of this also puts his voicelines into new context. Most if not all of the operators shit talk, yell, and cheer, but König seems to take a sort of vicious pleasure in what he does. He's confident in his abilities, bordering on arrogant. Part of this is probably just his accent, but it's another piece in the big guy/anxiety/YOU MISSED ME! puzzle. I love seeing how people reconcile these parts of him into a fleshed-out character. A lot of people deride people who like König despite him not being part of the story and only having a short bio to characterize him, but I think that's a good thing, and presents a lot of room for people to speculate and explore. That's kind of his appeal, at least to me.

#aside from the fact that he's hung like a horse obviously #könig #konig #könig cod #konig cod #call of duty #cod #bucca speaks

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phantom-of-the-501st · 8 months ago

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Fives Thoughts

Sooooo I literally just made a post being like 'here are some fun bits from Umbara because the arc is depressing and I don't wanna talk about the sad bits' but uh... I had thoughts in the last 15 mins and now I wanna share them. 😃

And of course tagging as usual for people I'm interested to hear opinions from: @saturn-sends-hugs @inkstainedhandswithrings @the-bi-space-ace

It's been a while since I watched these story arcs back-to-back, so a lot of the character development is really showing atm. And one I find interesting is a shift in Fives between The Citadel and Umbara.

Fives has always had a bit of a firey personality, but up until this point he's been a little bit held back with that passion for the most part. And I'm gonna touch in something that @novaceleste and @spaceyjessa spoke about in their podcast (@coffeeandclones I was just listening to it the other day and they talk about some interesting points. Defo recommend you check it out. Also #JusticeForDroidbait2024) because it really is the basis for this whole point. Despite Fives being the brasher, slightly more hardheaded personality, and Echo being the more by-the-books one, it's Echo that tends to do a lot of the talking when authority is involved. When they speak to Shaak Ti, it's Echo that takes the lead, while Fives is a little more hesitant.

And when they first meet Rex and Cody, Fives automatically introduces himself as CT-27-5555, despite being very open about his displeasure of being called that throughout their training. He has this louder personality but he tends to draw into himself and panic slightly when put in front of authority.

However, he still has these more fiery moments, like during his speech in ARC Troopers. When he's put in a fight, that spark within him comes out full force. "My blood is boiling for a fight." That's what drives Fives. That's where that passion comes from. He always wanted to make ARC trooper, to prove himself and to demonstrate that fire in the fight.

And yet when we get to the Citadel, he's surprisingly nervous. Echo seems to be fairly on board with everything, he's listening intently, he's down with the plan. But Fives is rather hesitant and doesn't seem totally enthused about the whole thing. They've made ARC trooper, they're being included in a specialist mission, the things that Fives so desperately worked for. But now that they're here? He's really not comfortable with it.

And I think that Fives' passion and drive is so prominent in the heat of battle because his adrenaline is going, he's got the energy to burn and so that's when we see this fire in him. But in the quieter moments, the meetings, the in-between fights? He's nervous. Those are the moments where he can sit on it and really think about what they're up against. And what becomes really apparent is that Fives is absolutely terrified of the thing that fuels his fire. The thing he worked so hard for scares the absolute shit out of him. And for good reason.

But it's never been so much of an issue because he had Echo. Echo, who's more level headed, who feels comfortable with plans and formats and authority. He could be the comforting presence that Fives needed outside of battle, while Fives could be the spark in it. They're like fire and water. They keep each other regulated, balanced.

But then The Citadel happens.

And watching the Umbara arc, I noticed that Fives doesn't have that very noticeable fear. It's not that it's absent, it's just that it isn't so obvious all of the time. Of course, some of that is going to come with experience, he's been an ARC for longer, he's know Rex for a while so there's slightly more comfort with that level of authority, but he's definitely more consistently confident than he was before.

So my suggestion is, what if that comes as a result of losing Echo (at least in part)? He doesn't have that calming presence anymore, the one to balance his nerves. He doesn't have someone to stand firm beside him or take the bigger step for the two of them, so he's had to learn to do that himself. I think part of it is natural growth that comes with experience (to quote Rex: "experience outranks everything") but I do also think it comes with no longer having that constant other half. Fives has had to learn to balance himself.

Like I said earlier, a lot of this links back to stuff said in Nova and Jessa's podcast, so I'd recommend checking it out. But I just wanted to add my extra thoughts on it, having just watched Umbara, because it definitely stuck out to me on this rewatch.

#i really can't leave the sad analyses alone can i #welp it's here now #always bringing it back round to sad domino twins stuff #star wars #the clone wars #arc trooper fives #fives #arc trooper echo #echo #ct 5555 #ct 1409 #the domino twins

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siconetribal · 3 months ago

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Beyond the Bookshelves (11)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: "I see."

Summary: You’re a Resource Management Specialist at S.H.I.E.L.D. normally referred to as “The Librarian”. You’ve been assigned the nightmarish task of digitizing all the physical resources currently owned by the agency, with a few new computers and one extra helper.

A/N:

Sorry about the delay. I ended up getting more tasks for work right after traveling abroad. It was a scramble to get the last 2 months caught up.

Please comment/like/reblog. If you’d like to be tagged moving forward, please let me know! (If I missed any tags, please let me know, I’ll add you right away!) I’d also greatly appreciate it if rebloggers remember to add the tags (or some at least).

The lovely banners used in this fic are from @cafekitsune.

If you’re new to the story, please check out the master post for the rest of the chapters.

Loki stood awkwardly in the sterile environment, too far from the door to leave yet close enough to not hover over the staff member dressed in a white coat. Y/N lay motionless on the atrocity that is considered a “bed”. A cuff was wrapped around her bicep which whirred to life with a few button presses. It inflated until it looked as if it would burst before slowly deflating with evenly placed clicks until numbers popped up on the screen. A plastic device was clamped over the tip of one finger and more numbers came onto the screen. The medic then slipped a metal probe encased in plastic into her mouth. Another portion of the screen lit up and a new set of numbers came up. He was not entirely sure what all these numbers meant, but it was clear by the frown that it was not good.

“What are these numbers and why are you wrapping her in such machinery? She fainted, how do all these gadgets treat that?” He finally asked two of the questions that only grew in number with each new thing. The staff member turned to face him, sizing him up.

“And you are what to her exactly?” The question was simple, but the scrutiny in the medic’s gaze gave pause. Was he being questioned on why he cared for her? Or was he being reminded rhetorically that he was an outsider and that he simply should leave?

If it’s the former, well is it not obvious? She is a thorn in my side. The vile villainess who dared to ban me, a prince, from the library! She is a haughty midgardian who lacks any proper etiquette towards royalty though she is surrounded by knowledge. He recalled their “first encounter” and the texts. His frown deepened. An oddity in this world that does not follow the norm. “She is someone I made to work with on a large assignment given to her by Fury. I need her to be normal for the work to be done and I can be freed of this extra burden.” He finally responded.

“I see,” was followed by silence. “This medical equipment does not treat her. It allows me to gather necessary information to best assess, diagnose, and treat her. Is there anything that happened during your assignment that I should know about?”

“That it has yet to start, because she simply vanished for a lengthy amount of time and only recently returned? Or perhaps her incessant chattering with the equally annoyingly talkative Rogers?” And I was forced to wait, none the wiser of her absence. “You've gathered your vitals, what is wrong with her?”

“I see, so she was traveling recently for work?”

“As per her claims.”

“I see,” the medic turned and began to tap away on a tablet. That two word phrase was beginning to poke at his nerves.

“And?”

“And do you know where she had gone in her travels?”

Do I look to be her keeper? I only brought her to you to be treated, not be her living diary! He bit back the words and dulled his sharp tone, taking a deep breath. “Do I look like her keeper?”

“I am simply gathering the necessary information to better assess her.”

“And how would knowing where she traveled be of any use to you?”

“Climate, environment, and what the current illnesses are currently on the rise.”

“No, I do not know where she went nor did I ask her or anyone. I was preoccupied with more important matters.” Loki took another deep breath. Will these insufferable questions end and the treatment begin?”

“I see,” his eyebrow twitched at the repeated statement. The medic moved from Y/N’s beside.

“Are you not going to cure her now? Where are you going?” The younger prince turned on his heel to see the medic start tapping away at a computer. “What are you doing now? What could possibly be more important in that hellish void than healing a fallen midgardian?” His jaw tightened at the series of clicks and clacks that came from the mechanical keyboard.

“I need to document my treatment in her chart.” The forever unperturbed voice of the medic was like nails on a chalkboard. Was there no sense of urgency? Was the health of someone who could outrank an Avenger mean so little? Or were the staff uncaring because he was involved? Was he hindering proper treatment because he was so hated and she was being associated with him? He glanced over his shoulder at Y/N. Her eyebrows were furrowed, creating creases in her forehead; and her breathing was labored and shallow.

“Is it necessary to do that right now?” The medic turned from the monitor and silently observed the irritated royal before refocusing in the computer screen.

“Yes, it needs to be done timely.” Once again, a sluggish and bland tone that gave no sense of security. “Do you plan on staying here with her?”

“Why would I stay here with her? Treat her so that she is back up on her feet and I am free of this unnecessary burden!” He demanded.

“I see,” his hand twitched at the statement that was repeated for the umpteenth time. It took a great amount of control to not summon one of his beloved throwing knives to threaten the medic into working properly.

“I highly doubt it.” He coolly retorted. “You’ve done absolutely nothing to treat her and are now requesting me to watch over her while you galavant off to do absolutely nothing. You've only assessed what I have told you multiple times, the Librarian fainted and needs to be revived. You have done nothing to remedy this.” He forced his jaw to unclench so that his words were clear for the pathetic midgardian in charge of care.

“There’s no medicine on Earth that can suddenly revive someone who has fainted as she has. As per what you said, she fell unconscious and did not hit her head, recently returned from a trip, and has been recently assigned something that requires the assistance of an Avenger. Coupled with her vitals, I can say she is safe from serious danger and will get better. It will take time, some medication, and proper hydration.” The medic walked past the irritated Asgardian, donning gloves after gathering some supplies. Loki observed the odd steps taken, skeptical and confused as part of her arm under her elbow was wiped and a needle with some tubing was inserted. The tubing was then attached to a bag that was hung above Y/N and drops of clear liquid began to steadily fill a chamber. Then the medic brought forth a syringe and poked something into the bag, pushing it into it. “She’ll need to rest here. I can’t say when she’ll wake up, but you can stop by and check in a couple of hours. The IV and medication will help her. If that’s all, I’ll be heading back to do my charting.” Seeing the prince stand there in silence was sign enough for the medic to walk out of the room and head to the back office.

That’s it?! That’s all that can be done? And they simply wash their hands of the matter and move on? What could that ridiculous excuse of a physician possibly have seen if that was all that could be done?! Loki had half the mind to teleport to the back and demand more be done, but stopped himself. Why am I so aggrieved by this? This is all her own fault! Why am I wasting my time here when she's the one who abruptly left me banned from the library for weeks? This it's simply the consequences of her actions. I have no work to be done at this moment, I need to eat and head back to the library to avoid all unnecessary interactions. He turned to the door and resolutely made his way back to the cafeteria to get some food.

Where am I? Y/N slowly slipped back into the world of the conscious. Her head felt like it was skimming on water and one arm felt a bit swollen. Forcing her eyes open, she blinked away the bleariness to see the IV drip and digital monitor. I'm in infirmary? How? She craned her neck to look around the room a bit before dropping it back against the pillow. Obviously someone brought me here, because I sure as hell know I did not bring myself. I went to lunch with Jess and she was telling me about a new recruit for the Avengers. Another super soldier, I think? Or was it something that has to do with Steve and not a newcomer? Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths to ease the oncoming headache. Don’t worry about that detail for now Y/N. Focus on not having your brain rip itself in two. She used her free arm to rub her face.

“I was talking to Jess, we ate lunch in the cafeteria, and we were walking out together. She was fussing over my health and then what happened? Did I black out?” She frowned. “That’s not good. Fury’ll be furious if my report isn't in by tomorrow, pun intended.” She mumbled aloud to herself. “What time is it?”

“It’s currently 19:30.” A voice off to the right answered her. Rolling her head to the side, she saw one of the nurses step through the glass door, the curtain half drawn across the glass wall for some privacy.

“Seven thirty? How long have I been here?” Y/N squeezed her eyes shut and opened them once more.

“You were checked in at 13:06 and have been under observation for fever, exhaustion, and dehydration. You’ve been asleep the majority of the time. We were told that you were travelling recently?”

“Yeah, I had to go to all the SHIELD libraries to make sure the new network was functional and the staff properly trained.” She muttered, rubbing her face. “I was working on the reports and took a break for lunch, but that's the last thing I remember before waking up here.”

“So no issues in remembering what happened prior to the incident. Do you recall hitting your head on something?”

“Hitting my head?” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to recall what happened in more detail. “No, I don't recall. I was talking to my friend and I just blacked out. No, wait, I did fall. I got dizzy and blacked out for a moment. I stumbled into the wall and slid down. Jess was freaking out, I used the wall to stand up again, and then I passed out again.” She opened her eyes again and turned to the nurse. “I don’t remember bringing myself here.” She frowned.

“You didn't, someone brought you in while you were unconscious.”

“Oh, I guess Jess called for assistance.”

“No, one of the other personnel brought you in.” Y/N’s head jerked up off the pillow at this detail.

“Another? Another who? I can’t have been Jess. She’s strong, but she isn’t that strong. Did she get someone to help?”

“Bingo, your friend Jess found one of the strongest to assist. You were brought in by an Avenger.”

An Avenger? Maybe Steve was nearby. Oh, maybe that's why I thought we talked about super soldiers. “Well, aren't I a lucky gal? Not everyday you get carried off by an Avenger without some life altering calamity happening.”

“Ain’t that the truth!” The nurse laughed, scanning Y/N’s wristband before taking her vitals. “Well, you’re looking good so far. Seems like it was purely exhaustion hitting you hard. You need to rest, don’t go running back to work after so much travel and in so many different time zones. Your body needs to recover.”

“Yeah, I made a promise to someone so I came in Toby away.”

“Y/N, I’m sure they'd have understood. Even if they didn't, your health is a priority to you. No one else is going to care for it for you. So, rest and proper nutrition for the next two days. No rushing to work, I'll post your order so everyone who needs to know doesn't give you a hard time.”

“Thanks, that'll help.” Y/N sat up at the edge of the bed, letting the nurse unhook her from the machines and clear her for leave. “I’ll be sure to stay home for two days as the doctor ordered.”

“Good, now off you go. Do you need someone to help you home?”

“Oh, no need to go that far, I'm fine.” Y/N assured. “Thanks again,” she stood up once cleared and left the infirmary. I’ll need to thank Steve tomor-no, when I get back. I'll thank him when I get back. Being carried by an Avenger is gossip enough, but by the Captain America only makes it worse! She pinched the bridge of her nose. A few days away from work would be the best course of action. P,us I can focus on my reports and submit them without an all-nighter.

Tags: @vbecker10 @huntress-artemiss @softestqueeen @thegodofnotknowing @princess-ofthe-pages @firedrakegirl @rcailleachcola @cabingrlandrandomcrap @lotrefcp @lwtannie @jainaeatsstars @msdjsg7 @tom-hlover @kneelingformyloki @gruftiela @gigglingtiggerv2 @kats72 @mischief2sarawr @evalynanne @wolfsmom1

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scary-grace · 7 months ago

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(secret) santa, baby - part 3 of a shigaraki x f!reader fic

Shigaraki doesn't want to participate in the office's Secret Santa exchange, but when Toga promises to make it easy on him, he gives in. But making it easy for him makes it a lot harder for you -- you're the one who got his list. Office AU, no quirks. A fic in 12 parts. Divider by @ wcnderlnds

part i part ii part iii part iv

part iii (deck the halls)

Tomura knew he shouldn’t have left his desk. The entire office is so Christmas crazy that any time he leaves his desk, there’s a nonzero chance of getting dragged into some Christmas activity he’ll hate. But somebody dropped a note in the Slack channel that there was food in the break room, and Tomura didn’t bring food – again – so he ventured out. The rumor about food in the break room turned out to be true. Unfortunately, food in the break room apparently comes at a price.

“I don’t have time for this,” he says, as Magne offloads an armful of something sparkly onto him. “I have shit to do.”

“We know! But this has to get decorated, and if you don’t help, we’re going to take the donut we saved for you and feed it to Midoriya,” Twice says cheerfully. He’s wearing one of those Santa hats with a motor in it that makes it flop back and forth, and looking at it is driving Tomura up the wall. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Tomura has the misfortune to have the same favorite donut as Midoriya, everybody’s favorite customer support specialist, and because Midoriya’s office is on the same floor as the break room instead of in the fucking basement, Midoriya usually gets to the donuts first. “I hate you.”

“You love us,” Magne says, and adds a pile of precut paper snowflakes to the pile Tomura’s already holding. “Go, uh – over there. Make that wall look festive!”

The wall in question already has somebody standing in front of it. “Looks like it’s covered.”

“Oh, come on. Be a gentleman! Don’t leave the new girl to decorate alone!”

The new girl. Tomura studies you, or studies your back, which is all he can see of you at the moment. He hasn’t seen you before, he doesn’t think. He doesn’t even know what department you’re in, or how long you’ve been here, or anything more than the fact that you work here and you’ve worked here for less time than he has. “What’s her name?”

“Who knows?” Twice turns Tomura in the right direction and applies a shove to his back. “Go help her out. The sooner it gets done, the sooner you can go back to your cave!”

“With your donut,” Compress adds. He’s cutting out paper snowflakes. “Good luck.”

You’re in the middle of hanging up some kind of banner, balancing on an office chair that looks way too unsteady for the job. Tomura figures it could be worse – at least you didn’t pick one with wheels on it. “Hey,” he says, and you glance down at him just long enough for Tomura to realize that you’re pretty. “They sent me to – uh, help.”

“Okay,” you say. “Do you mind handing me the stapler? They gave me command strips but this thing is really heavy.”

Tomura drops the stuff he’s holding, finds a stapler, and passes it up to you, at which point you open it wide and basically hammer the banner into the wall. Tomura doesn’t think you needed to do it that hard. “What did that thing do to you?”

“It’s taking too long and I’m on my lunch break,” you say. You hook the stapler back into place and hand it to Tomura, then climb down from the chair. “I tried to be patient, but –”

Tomura’s already at the end of his patience and he hasn’t even done anything yet. “What am I supposed to with these?”

“Put them on the wall, I guess.” You pick up a roll of masking tape and tear off a piece. “I wasn’t here last year, but – this seems like a lot of effort to go to for just the break room. The party’s offsite, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Tomura’s planning to skip it this year, and unlike last year, he’s not going to tell anybody that he’s planning to skip it ahead of time. Last year he did, thinking he could talk Spinner and Dabi into skipping with him, and instead they kidnapped him and made him go to the party anyway. “You weren’t here last year. When did you get here?”

“Um – this spring,” you say. You roll the tape sticky-side out, attach one side to the snowflake, and attach the snowflake to the wall. “In time to sign your birthday card.”

In spite of the fact that the company’s enormous, the CEO has some weird thing about making everybody feel appreciated, which includes birthday cards signed by everybody HR can get to hold still long enough to do it. Tomura’s card had probably a hundred signatures on it. Yours wouldn’t have stood out. “What’s your name?”

You say it, and the bottom drops out of Tomura’s stomach. He might not have seen you before today, but he knows you for sure – he got your list for the stupid Secret Santa thing.

Toga promised him an easy list, and yours is really easy. You wrote out the exact stuff you wanted, plus the prices and where to find it, and the total price for all your items is ¥4000. Tomura can’t tell if you understood the assignment or if you fucked it up; he saw the lists his friends wrote for their Secret Santas, and each individual item cost ¥4000. Tomura’s friends are going to get one gift each if their Secret Santa doesn’t go overboard, but Tomura could buy almost everything on your list and still come in under budget. Looking at your list made him feel kind of bad for whoever got his.

Tomura realizes he’s staring at you around the same time as you stop looking at him and go back to hanging snowflakes. He picks up a snowflake and some tape and gets to work. “I was kind of surprised by how into Christmas everybody is here,” you say. “My last job didn’t do anything like this.”

Maybe Tomura should quit and go work where you worked. “Did they skip it?”

“It was a nonprofit, and we got paid basically nothing. Our decorating budget would have covered, like – a snowflake and a couple of candy canes,” you say. Tomura snorts. “I guess it’s nice here. That everybody’s so involved.”

“Not everybody. I hate this shit,” Tomura says. A pointed memo he got about appropriate language use in the workplace flashes through his head on its way to his mental recycle bin. “I only came up here because they promised me a donut.”

“What kind of donut?” you ask. Tomura glances at you. “Not all donuts are created equal. Only some of them are worth decking the halls over.”

Tomura gets the weird sense that he’s walking into a trap. Are you really going to judge him over which donut he wants? Yes, you are, because he and Midoriya want the same stupid donut, and half the reason Midoriya gets to it first is because he’s willing to say it out loud: “Chocolate glazed with sprinkles.”

He glances at you, his face red. You aren’t laughing at him. “I thought you were going to say powdered sugar. I’d have had questions about your sanity.”

“Did they even have to bribe you to help with this? I have questions about yours.”

Tomura hears what it sounds like as it’s coming out of his mouth, and by then it’s way too late. You look surprised, maybe a little hurt, and Tomura returns his attention to the stupid snowflakes in a hurry. He snatches the next one off the top of the pile, scraping his hand against the others, and feels a sharp sting across his knuckles. Paper cut. “Fuck!”

“That looks kind of bad,” you observe. “It’s bleeding a lot.”

It’s bleeding a lot because Tomura’s fucking dry skin hates the cold and throws a temper tantrum every winter, splitting at the slightest provocation. The paper cut’s just an excuse. “It’s fine.”

“Hang on,” you say. You abandon Tomura and the snowflakes, cross the room, and come back with a paper towel and the first-aid kit. “Here. Give me your hand.”

“No,” Tomura’s mouth says. Tomura’s arm decides to do its own thing and sticks his hand out anyway. “This is stupid. I don’t need a band-aid.”

You aren’t listening to him. You have the paper towel folded and pressed down over the cut on Tomura’s knuckles with your thumb, and you’re sorting through the first-aid kit you’re your other hand. “All these band-aids are Christmas-themed. Do they really switch them out seasonally?”

Tomura wouldn’t put it past them. “I don’t want a band-aid. Especially not one of those.”

“Too bad,” you say. Tomura glares at you. “You’ve got options, though. Candy canes, gingerbread men, Santas, snowflakes – nutcrackers –”

“Nutcrackers.”

“I don’t know,” you say. You hold up the band-aid. “Want to find out?”

“No,” Tomura says, and you set the nutcracker band-aid back down. You look like you’re trying not to laugh. “The snowflakes. If there’s not anything else.”

The snowflake band-aid looks stupid against Tomura’s cracked skin. Anybody who sees it is going to laugh. You press it down carefully over the paper cut, then let Tomura’s hand fall back to his side. “Maybe you shouldn’t help with the snowflakes.”

Tomura’s in the clear. He can go back and get his donut and get the hell out of here before anyone notices and tries to make him do anything else festive. This time it’s his mouth that gets ahead of the rest of him. “You can hang them up. I’ll roll the tape.”

By the time the snowflakes are all attached to the wall, your lunch break’s basically over, and you vanish without a word to Tomura. Tomura sticks around long enough to get his donut before he retreats back to the basement. He wonders where you work. He doesn’t even know which department you’re in, not that it matters. Once he actually gets his shit together and leaves you a gift, he can just stick it in your mailbox for you to find later. That’s what everybody normal is doing, at least.

But whoever got stuck as Tomura’s Secret Santa isn’t normal, because when Tomura gets back to his desk, there’s a present sitting on it. It’s not a big box. It’s wrapped in red and green and tied with a ribbon, and Tomura studies it uneasily. He doesn’t have a clue what’s in it. If he’d made his list like you did, he’d have at least some idea, but he barely remembers what he put on his list at this point. Is any of it small enough to fit in that box?

One way to find out. Tomura sets the donut aside and opens the present, barely avoiding another paper cut in the process, and finds himself holding – “A hot chocolate bomb?”

“Huh?” Spinner looks up from his desk. “Oh, nice. Those things are supposed to be good.”

“What is it?”

“You put it in milk and it melts and then you have hot chocolate,” Spinner says. “Didn’t you put chocolate on your list?”

That sounds right. Tomura inspects the box and finds a sticky note attached to the top of it. Dear Shigaraki, Keep warm! Sincerely, your Secret Santa. Tomura doesn’t recognize the handwriting, and the longer he looks at it, the weirder he feels. “Did you see who left this?”

“No,” Spinner says unconvincingly. Tomura turns to stare at him. “I didn’t. Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s a surprise. That’s the fun part.”

Tomura’s not having fun. Tomura feels weird. His list is coming back to him now. He asked for chocolate and said he hates the cold – and his Secret Santa put two and two together. Whoever they are, they aren’t half-assing it. They’re putting in an effort. And now that Tomura knows what his Secret Santa’s doing for him, he feels a lot less okay about the idea of phoning it in for you.

He sits back down at his desk, ignoring Slack messages in favor of studying the hot chocolate bomb. You might have given him an easy list, but this is going to be harder than he thought.

<- part ii part iv ->

#shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #secret santa au

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taevescence · 6 months ago

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Guilty As Sin? | Prologue

Summary: You have just entered your new job as an intern in a hospital you worked so hard to get into; at last, after so many years, you had managed to fulfill your dreams, little by little, step by step. You had finished your studies with honors, you had a beautiful -and luxurious- apartment in the center of the city, you had just entered the job of your dreams and your relationship with your dream boyfriend was going great. Or so you thought until you met Kim Taehyung, the clinical mentor you were in charge of, who doesn't seem to mind keeping his opinion about your relationship and your idealized vision - in his own words - of your life. Author’s note: I'm really sorry for the delay, I was busy trying to inform myself a bit about the topic before writing :( I really hope it's well understood and that you enjoy it (this is a prologue, so there won't be drama here -yet-, expect that in chapter 1!) Pairing: Taehyung x Reader (female) AUs: Doctor!AU (Taehyung and Reader are OB-GYN) Word count: 2.8k Warnings: This is only the prologue, so there is not much to warn lol, the only relevant thing to clarify is that one of oc's patients arrives at the emergency room due to preeclampsia. Status: Unedited Taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss @yooglefics @tan-veee @thelilbutifulthings @calmyourtitts7

You finished fixing your shirt, taking a deep breath as you looked at your reflection in the mirror. You looked good, you felt good. You had been waiting for this day for weeks, crossing your fingers for time to pass faster, so you could finally enter the BRH hospital, one of the largest and most important in Seoul. This was a golden opportunity, and you would give everything you had to hold onto your position until you were a full professional.

"Are you ready?" Hyunjin asked, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and placing a delicate kiss just below your ear. You couldn't help but feel that little electric shock that ran through your body at the touch. "You look great," he whispered with a laugh, releasing his hold to walk toward the wardrobe.

Inside, there were a large number of neatly hung shirts, and on the floor, stored in a drawer, were dozens of ties he wore for his job. It was important for him to have a polished image, something that screamed that he was the boss, and for that, he needed good attire, or at least that’s what he always told you when you asked why he had so many ties if, in the end, he always picked the same one.

"I have to go, I don’t want to be late on my first day," you approached him, taking the black tie in his hands to tie it under the collar of his shirt. "I don't think we'll see each other much from now on... but I’ll try to manage my time as best as I can!" You gave him a smile before gently patting his shoulders. You felt your cheeks warm up when you saw him staring at you with a smile.

Ah, you felt so lucky.

"Okay, don't worry," he murmured, kissing your forehead gently. "Let me know when you arrive, okay?"

You nodded quickly, grabbing your purse and phone, rushing toward the exit of your apartment. Your steps were confident and firm, you knew the way by heart, you had reviewed it more than twenty times this past week, preparing for any detours you might need to take in case of an accident or how long it would take to get there if there was heavy traffic.

Today will be a great day, you told yourself. Today, you would put everything you learned in your years of university to the test, and you would do it perfectly.

"Alright, I’ll be direct, we don’t have much time. I’m Kim Taehyung, gynecology and obstetrics specialist, and your new supervisor," said a tall man in a lab coat, placing a stack of files on a large table in the center. There were five in total, one for each of the residents present. "These are the files you need to review, if you have any doubts about any of the cases, don't hesitate to ask me; we're in a hospital, there are lives at risk, and if we can avoid ending one of them due to our mistake, that would be ideal," he directed a tight-lipped smile at the five of you; despite his direct words, his tone was quite soft, which definitely helped ease the first-day nerves. "If I'm unavailable, you can always reach out to another supervisor, and don't hesitate to trust the nurses, they are the ones who move this hospital, believe me, they know much more than you can imagine."

Everyone nodded almost automatically to his comment; one of the guys, the one with tattoos on his right arm, approached the files, taking the one on top and opening it to review the content. Only then did the rest of you, including yourself, pull out a file.

Supervisor Kim remained standing in front of the table, watching your reactions. You would be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a little uncomfortable, but you understood that part of his job was to observe his residents. You shook your head gently, dismissing the thought quickly to focus on your work.

The first thing you saw when you opened the file was the patient's name, Kim Jiyeon, a 29-year-old woman, 28 weeks pregnant. You couldn't help but smile when you saw it was her first pregnancy. Was she excited to have the baby? Oh, you would love to see the face of one of your patients when revealing the gender of their future baby, was it too soon to think about that?

You bit the inside of your cheek and continued reading the information. She came for a routine prenatal checkup and, according to the file, there were no significant issues, which really relieved you. You didn’t want to deal with a complicated case on your first day; it was one thing to be excited and another to want to push your nerves to the limit when you were just starting your professional life.

You studied the information one last time before feeling ready to leave the office; your shift officially started at 8 in the morning, which was in nine minutes. You took a deep breath, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were too nervous, too excited, too scared. It was a strange combination, but that’s how you felt.

"Hey!" The guy with the tattooed arm placed one of his hands on your shoulder, smiling widely at you. There was something about the softness of his voice and the strength of his body that confused you a little. He didn’t really fit with... well, with him. "What case did you get? I got a post-partum checkup."

You looked at his hand, feeling a wave of discomfort wash over your body. You couldn't remember the last time someone other than your boyfriend touched your shoulder casually, especially a young man—and, to be honest, quite handsome. Still, you didn’t say anything, not that he had done anything wrong, after all.

"Uhm, I have... I have a prenatal checkup," you murmured, looking at the file in your hands. Why was time moving so slowly? It should already be 8, you should be working, not talking to the guy you barely knew.

"Really? What a coincidence! You’re doing a prenatal and I’m doing a postnatal," he laughed before finally releasing your shoulder. He stopped in front of you, his big smile reminding you that you shouldn’t be so uncomfortable with him. "Oh, by the way, I’m Jeon Jungkook, nice to meet you," he gave a slight bow, slipping his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. "I really hope we get along."

You nodded slightly, looking around. The other residents were chatting among themselves, discussing who knows what while letting out friendly laughs. And then there was Taehyung.

He hadn’t moved an inch from his initial position at the head of the table, the only difference was that now his hands were resting on it, his body leaning slightly forward, and oh, he was staring at you intently.

You almost choked on your saliva when your eyes met his.

"What about you?" Jungkook asked, looking at you as if he were expecting an obvious response from you.

What was he talking about?

"Excuse me?" You turned your full attention to him, trying—and failing—to ignore your supervisor's fixed gaze on you. Did you have something on your face? You hoped you didn’t have anything on your face.

"Your name, what is it?" He raised an eyebrow while one corner of his mouth lifted in a teasing smile. You felt stupid for a second, and your face didn’t take long to betray you as it warmed slightly from the embarrassment.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," you awkwardly took the tag hanging from your neck, showing it to him as confidently as you could, though it was too obvious that the shaky movement of your hands was due to nerves. "My name is Y/N."

"It’s a pleasure—"

"Alright! Time for your shifts to begin, remember to move quickly and precisely," Taehyung said from his spot, giving two overly loud claps before walking out of the room with all of you following behind. "I’m going to assume you were given a little tour this morning," he gave a slight bow to one of the nurses passing by him. You couldn’t help but notice how the nurse’s cheeks turned a soft pastel pink. It wasn’t like you could blame her; he was quite attractive. "This is where we split," he smiled softly once he reached the consultation counter, giving a slight nod of his head before speaking again, "I wish you the best for your first day."

And he left.

"Thank you so much, Doctor," murmured patient Kim Jiyeon, your first patient. Her hand gently touched her belly, and her face seemed to glow with joy. You assumed that any woman who loved the idea of having children would be happy to hear that her test results had come out well.

"See you, Miss Kim," you made a slight bow, waiting for her to leave the consultation room so you could straighten up. You never thought you’d be lucky enough to treat such a kind person on your first consultation, but here you were, smiling like a fool as you remembered how pleasant it had been to attend to her.

You couldn’t help but feel your chest warm as you thought about how wonderful it must be to see a mother meet her child for the first time, how the father would react to holding him in his arms… you had really made it to where you had always wanted to be.

Satisfied with your work, you finished the necessary report and decided to head back to the front desk where you last saw your supervisor. The desk was right in front of the entrance, so you could be present in case anyone needed your help.

There weren’t many people in the waiting room, probably because it was still quite early. You were about to lean against the desk to ask something of one of the people behind the window when a man quickly entered the hospital.

You knew you were screwed the moment he ran toward you and grabbed your shoulders tightly, shaking you back and forth in a desperate motion.

"My wife needs a doctor, please help!" The man's hands practically dragged you toward the hospital doors, and you almost went pale when you saw a woman with swollen face and hands, clinging to the entrance door with one hand while clutching her belly tightly with the other.

"Get a wheelchair!" You rushed to get to the woman, supporting her as best you could. Though it was your first time treating real patients, you knew perfectly well the symptoms they should have, and the swollen face and hands were definitely not a good sign.

You quickly thanked the nurse who provided the wheelchair, feeling your chest race every time the woman cried out in pain. Both of you helped the woman sit down and rushed her to a stretcher, with her husband following behind. His panic-stricken expression perfectly mirrored what you were feeling at the moment.

"I need you to help me lift her onto the stretcher," you looked at the nurse, who nodded firmly before leaving the woman lying on the stretcher. Both of you worked to stabilize the patient as best you could, and it wasn’t until you took her blood pressure that you truly grasped the seriousness of the situation. You suspected her pain wasn’t from contractions, but you really hoped your diagnosis in the middle of the crisis was wrong. "Please call Doctor Kim."

As soon as the nurse left the room, you tried to distance yourself from the woman, careful not to hurt her at any moment. "How many weeks is the baby?" you asked while observing her vital signs. You urgently needed an ultrasound.

"She’s 32 weeks," murmured the man, watching anxiously as his wife lay on the stretcher, tubes in her arms, and a mask helping her breathe. "What’s wrong with Minji, doctor? Will she be okay?" He stayed silent for a moment before finishing, "Will our baby be okay?"

Your heart tightened in your chest when you heard his question. You couldn’t guarantee the well-being of either of them due to hospital policy, and Minji's condition, as he had called her, wasn’t looking good. You didn’t want to say something and then have to watch the man break down with the news.

"What happened?"

You felt a great weight lift from your shoulders when you saw Taehyung enter with the nurse. His steps were firm and quick, and his face was much more serious than when you saw him last. You couldn’t help but feel guilty for having called him on short notice; had he gotten upset about that? Should you apologize?

"Give me a second," you said kindly to the man, moving toward Taehyung while rubbing your sweaty hands against your coat. You were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but the patient needed you, so you would push down the urge to collapse on the floor and cry, and you would tell your supervisor everything you knew so far. "Her name is Minji, she’s 32 weeks, she came in with severe abdominal pain, her face and hands are swollen, and her blood pressure is far above normal. She had trouble breathing on her own, so we put her on a respirator," you whispered, keeping your gaze fixed on Minji.

"What do you think it is?" Taehyung, just like you, seemed to be paying close attention to the woman’s condition, focusing on her vital signs and blood pressure.

"Her symptoms are typical of preeclampsia. It’s hard to detect it earlier due to the commonality of its symptoms during pregnancy, which would explain why it hasn’t been treated until now," you looked at Minji’s husband, guilt and sorrow flooding you almost instantly. You needed to work on controlling your emotions. "I wanted to ask for an ultrasound to check the baby’s condition and see if we need to intervene in the pregnancy or not."

Taehyung nodded silently, approaching the stretcher and signaling to the nurse to follow with a gesture. "I need a portable obstetric ultrasound here in the emergency room immediately. Tell the imaging technician that this is an obstetric emergency. Ask them to prioritize fetal viability and amniotic fluid examination," while he spoke, he checked the fetal heartbeats with a portable Doppler monitor, frowning at the irregularity in the rhythm. "Also, make sure the ultrasound specialist is informed so we can get quick results."

"Yes, Doctor."

"Are you her husband?" he asked the man, who quickly nodded, quietly saying his name.

"Alright, Mr. Jihoon," Taehyung remained as calm as possible while helping the man sit in one of the nearby chairs, "Your wife has a condition called preeclampsia. In simple terms, it’s when the mother’s blood pressure rises dangerously, and it comes with other symptoms like protein in the urine," he said in a soft tone, trying to calm the man while explaining the situation. "Right now, we’re trying to keep her stable with some medications. Is she allergic to any medications?" He sighed when the man nervously shook his head. "Perfect. We’re going to do an ultrasound to check the baby’s condition. Doctor Y/N told me she’s 32 weeks, so it’s crucial to be sure how advanced the situation is."

"W-what happens if it’s too advanced?" murmured the man with a trembling voice.

You nearly choked on your saliva when you saw Taehyung signaling for you to answer his question.

"If... If preeclampsia is too advanced, we’ll need to treat your wife with corticosteroids before proceeding with the birth. It’s dangerous to intervene before 34 weeks of gestation," you said softly, trying to imitate Taehyung’s calm tone. You knew he had years of experience, but that didn’t change the fact that you envied his composure. Would you be like that after working here as many years as he had?

Taehyung nodded silently, looking at Jihoon with a gentle smile. "There are no signs of seizures yet, so there’s still a chance it hasn’t reached a stage that would endanger the natural delivery of your child."

Jihoon nodded silently, resting his elbows on his knees and running his hands through his hair. He looked utterly devastated, and you understood. Just hours ago, he probably thought everything was fine with his wife and her pregnancy, and now he was receiving the news that she had a condition that affected her pregnancy and could endanger both of their lives.

You wanted to approach the man to offer some comfort, but almost immediately, Taehyung’s large hand held your wrist, gently shaking his head, signaling for you not to do what you thought you were about to do.

Yes, maybe you had forgotten his presence at your side for a moment.

You returned to your original position, taking deep breaths to calm the nerves that were slowly starting to settle after your supervisor’s arrival, who now seemed unwilling to take his eyes off you. Again.

You let out a long sigh, refocusing your attention on Minji’s blood pressure.

Your professional life was just beginning, and it already felt like a mess.

Masterlist.

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