#tell me the scope of your power

[theriu]

Superpower Prompt:

Choose one normal trait (strength, endurance, sight, hearing, singing, math, just anything a standard human can DO).

You are now connected with everyone in the USA who shares your first name.

Your power in the trait you chose becomes a small point stronger for each person with that name.

I now have over 1,500,000 points of endurance. I can run around the whole dang world and swim the ocean!!! Take that, unique baby names!!! 8D

(I even found a handy site that can calculate this number for you! Also, DO NOT SHARE YOUR NAME FOR THIS GAME! Just the closest rounded number! Internet safety is important!!!)

[coconut530]

BITTERSWEET REUNIONS

[lunadivino]

Dark Knight Diavolo as a concept would fuck so severely and that's definitely not my bias speaking sorry I keep thinking about it

[inkskinned]

one of the things that's the most fucking frustrating for me about arguing with climate change deniers is the sheer fucking scope of how much it matters. sweating in my father's car, thinking about how it's the "hottest summer so far," every summer. and there's this deep, roiling rage that comes over me, every time.

the stakes are wrong, is the thing. that's part of what makes it not an actual debate: the other side isn't coming to the table with anything to fucking lose.

like okay. i am obviously pro gun control. but there is a basic human part of me that can understand and empathize with someone who says, "i'm worried that would lead to the law-abiding citizens being punished while criminals now essentially have a superpower." i don't agree, but i can tell the stakes for them are also very high.

but let's say the science is wrong and i'm wrong and the visible reality is wrong and every climate disaster refugee is wrong. let's say you're right, humans aren't causing it or it's not happening or whatever else. let's just say that, for fun.

so we spend hundreds of millions of dollars making the earth cleaner, and then it turns out we didn't need to do that. oops! we cleaned the earth. our children grow up with skies full of more butterflies and bees. lawns are taken over with rich local biodiversity. we don't cry over our electric bills anymore. and, if you're staunchly capitalist and i need to speak ROI with you - we've created so many jobs in developing sectors and we have exciting new investment opportunities.

i am reminded of kodak, and how they did not make "the switch" to digital photography; how within 20 years kodak was no longer a household brand. do we, as a nation, feel comfortable watching as the world makes "the switch" while we ride the laurels of oil? this boggles me. i have heard so much propaganda about how america cannot "fall behind" other countries, but in this crucial sector - the one that could actually influence our own monopolies - suddenly we turn the other cheek. but maybe you're right! maybe it will collapse like just another silicone valley dream. but isn't that the crux of capitalism? that some economies will peter out eventually?

but let's say you're right, and i'm wrong, and we stopped fracking for no good reason. that they re-seed quarries. that we tear down unused corporate-owned buildings or at least repurpose them for communities. that we make an effort, and that effort doesn't really help. what happens then? what are the stakes. what have we lost, and what have we gained?

sometimes we take our cars through a car wash and then later, it rains. "oh," we laugh to ourselves. we gripe about it over coffee with our coworkers. what a shame! but we are also aware: the car is cleaner. is that what you are worried about? that you'll make the effort but things will resolve naturally? that it will just be "a waste"?

and what i'm right. what if we're already seeing people lose their houses and their lives. what if it is happening everywhere, not just in coastal towns or equatorial countries you don't care about. what if i'm right and you're wrong but you're yelling and rich and powerful. so we ignore all of the bellwethers and all of the indicators and all of the sirens. what if we say - well, if it happens, it's fate.

nevermind. you wouldn't even wear a mask, anyway. i know what happens when you see disaster. you think the disaster will flinch if you just shout louder. that you can toss enough lives into the storm for the storm to recognize your sacrifice and balk. you argue because it feels good to stand up against "the liberals" even when the situation should not be political. you are busy crying for jesus with a bullhorn while i am trying to usher people into a shelter. you've already locked the doors, even on the church.

the stakes are skewed. you think this is some intellectual "debate" to win, some funny banter. you fuel up your huge unmuddied truck and say suck it to every citizen of that shitbird state california. serves them right for voting blue!

and the rest of us are terrified of the entire fucking environment collapsing.

[rxmxa]

random (spicy) astro observations 18+

disclaimer: these are based on my experiences & observations ‼️⚠️🙈

ppl that have gemini mars, virgo mars, mercury-pluto, mercury-mars aspects, mercury-lilith aspects and also air signs in the 12th house (libra, gemini, or Aquarius 12th house) could enjoy dirty talk in bed. They love talking you through it or also you hearing say it back. They are the type to say the craziest shit in the heat of the moment.

ok we all know that mercury-pluto aspects like dirty talk (hearing it BUT especially giving it). mercury (talking/conversation) & pluto (the taboo) = freaky ass shit. they want to be talked through it & they wanna talk u through it!! BUT NO FR, I was sitting here wondering what exactly the flavor of the conversation will be based on your mercury sign and where your pluto is. Here r some ideas based on a random chart:

12h Gemini Mercury in opposition to 6h Pluto. Maybe when they're talking you through it, they're saying ALL THE WILD ASS SHITTT they've been keeping in their head, like they could start talking about their fantasies and things that were on their subconscious start to come (LOL) to the surface (12h). "I been thinking about fcking u like this ever since you were teasing me wearing that dress the other day" or things along those lines! Like it could really shake you to your boots with the specific descriptions. And if it's Gemini mercury, the dirty talk could be in the form of questions and very animated or rapid questions back to back in true Gemini fashion, of course. "You like that? you like the way I fuck you?"

But then you have the 6h pluto, so theyre mentioning 6h themes during sex like for example daily life/ routines. they could be talking about how turned on they get everytime they see u do anything mundane, like reading a book or tasting something, how they start imagining your mouth on other things. Or how the other day when u were doing (random daily task) all they were thinking about (redacted).

this all stems from me being nosey and wondering who else is acting a fool in bed too :( I wonder if the sextiles and trines are more natural/ sexier sounding, LOL, and then with squares and oppositions afterward, ur, like, OMG, why did I say that? I have Mercury Square Pluto, and I [redacted]. But honestly, it's not that serious and in the moment it feels hot so who cares 😭

In conclusion, Mercury Sign = HOW they say it, like the mannerisms in their speech. Pluto House = where the scope of their freakiness narrows down. LMFAOOO.

AND ALSO, where their Pluto is, you can also boost their ego. If they have Pluto in the 6th house u tell them about how their body is so attractive, how much it turns you on when they help you and make your life easier, that u wanna show them how thankful u are. or they have pluto in the 9th house and tell them they're so fucking smart, that ur so lucky to be with someone like them that u wanna make the experience worth it and memorable for them, that u will worship them. OR OR Pluto in 1st house, tell them you love how they move through life, how powerful they are, how other people are probably so jealous you have someone like them etc

speaking of mercury in the 12h though, we know that the 12th house rules over hidden aspects of ourselves, like secrets, solitude, and unconscious desires that are not immediately visible or acknowledged in the outside world. So with sextrology, that house can give u sneak peak into their fantasies and even the ones they might be afraid of acting on.

for ex with whole signs: in daily life, taurus rising strives to maintain a balanced and harmonious daily routine (libra 6th house) BUT THENNN with that aries 12th house they fantasize about being able to let loose, to be able to be more assertive and lead in the bedroom, to be able to tell them exactly what to do etc. look at the signs and its energy.

we know ppl with Mars-Uranus aspects are ~eccentric~ in bed, like they're willing to try anything new, like that new position they saw on Twitter or some shit, BUT it's also about spontaneity, like people with this aspect in bed could be like, "Okay, now let's do this" and then randomly b like" OKAY now turn me around and then do this." It's not just about picking one ~spicy new random thing~ to try. It's about keeping up with the randomness throughout it all.

you know what vibes ppl with mars-uranus aspects also give me? The scenes in the movies where they step into the apartment and its quiet for a split second but then theyre knocking shit over and breaking lamps and flipping tables and shit until they get to the bedroom. "Is somebody gonna match my freak?" was about this aspect

moon-mars synastry also gives me the vibe where you give each other the look in the middle of the party 👀👀 and then your like wellp guys we gotta go bye!! and next thing you know you’re.. well I’ll leave it up to your imagination. ORRRR also being late to the party because you were fucking LMAO

Sometimes, the crazy thing about having birth charts of related people is how even preferences can be similar. For example, one of my college friends and her brother asked me to look at their chart. They both have a Mars-Jupiter conjunction and have the same preferences regarding physical features (they're lighter and have light eyes, and they prefer people with darker complexions and darker hair and also people from outside their own culture).

mars-jupiter can manifest in many ways, but that's just one way it does for them. Being drawn (mars) to foreign cultures, dialects, and customs (Jupiter). But then the house highlights a difference; her conjunction is in the 9th house, and she is invested in her religion and spirituality ( 9h topics); it's a turn-on for her to find someone who aligns with her sentiments. He has his conjunction in the 1st house, so looking at 1h topics (body, appearance, identity), his focus could be more on appearance and less on a specific focus. For example, he could meet someone and be attracted to their appearance and confidence in who they are, so they check off their box with their preference and are more flexible with other qualities (such as their religious beliefs or daily routine, etc). But if the conjunction is in the 10th house, it's about focusing on someone career-driven, or in the 4th house and being attracted to someone who is in tune with their family and roots.

It can look differently though, like when ppl with mars-jupiter aspects like someone they can be like "i'm attracted (mars) to your intelligence, to the way you talk about the world, to how you think big (jupiter) "

or ppl with mars-sun aspects can be like "i'm attracted (mars) to your confidence and with the way you take up space and light up every room u walk into (sun)"

mars-uranus: I'm attracted (mars) to your unique tastes and niche hobbies and how you are so different than the other people in my life (uranus)

mars-venus: I'm attracted (mars) to the way you appreciate the finer things in life the way I do, how you look so beautiful when you take charge etc.

mars-neptune: I'm attracted (Mars) to the way you bring a sense of magic and mystery into my life, how you seem to live in a world of your own that’s so spiritual and dreamy (Neptune)

mars-moon: im drawn (Mars) to how safe and emotionally connected I feel with you, how you nurture my feelings and create a comforting space for me to express myself (Moon)

cancer mars in the composite chart will have you fucking like animals honestly. There is a sense of comfort where you want to be as close as possible (aka raw sex, breeding kink, wanting them to cum inside you and them eager to do it as well). This is the couple that after will giggle and talk about baby names or how many kids they’re going to have. Or what there future house will look like. This couple could be very big on aftercare as well or just cuddling and holding each other for a while once they are done. Truly some mom and dad energy right there honestly.

sun conjunct mars synastry can lead to a fast paced relationship. You meet one day and the next two days you might already be in bed together. It can be hot synastry until sun does something, no matter how trivial, that is just going to piss mars the fuck off. Can lead to make up sex though. But then it happens again.

Gemini mars (men) can have much more stamina and last longer in bed. But in the meanwhile they’re going to put you in dozens of different positions before they finally finish.

Mars-Saturn, Capricorn Mars or Mars in the 10th house, or even those with mars at cap degrees such as 10 degrees, 22 degrees placements love when people "play hard to get." They don't mind playing the long game and being patient. They could like bondage or any kind of restraint such as holding the wrists down or arms back.

[charliemwrites]

Squeak 'Em If You Got 'Em

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

Original AO3 Link

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s the captain.

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

You suspect why.

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

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

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

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

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

“We all have our vices, cap.”

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

You. “Insane amounts of morphine.”)

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

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

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

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

“Should save it for the others.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep alright, Squeaks?”

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

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

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

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

“The hell is that?” he squints.

“Gum.”

“Trying to say something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Whose fault is that?”

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

“Soap’s, last I checked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no, wait. You know what it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, yes that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve got it, sir. Take a minute?”

“I’ve had a minute.”

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

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

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

“Like I said, I got it, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate it here,” you groan.

“That so?” Ghost asks.

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

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

You blink. Squint. Blink again.

“LT, how hard did you hit me?”

“English, MacTavish.”

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

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

“Ow, fuck!”

“Hope it cramps,” you snip.

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

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

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

You hope he’s not right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that, sergeant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ.

“Lieutenant, would you—”

“No.”

“Damn.” Worth a try.

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

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

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

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

“No,” you reply.

You know better by now.

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

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

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

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

“That’ll do,” Ghost snaps.

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

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

“Easy does it, lamb. There’s a dear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you… Price,” you murmur.

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

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

“No, you’re done for the day.”

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

“Up you get, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

“Aw, but sir!” Soap whines.

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

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

“Sir, I have paper—”

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

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

“Bossy,” you chide.

“’S what they pay me for.”

And he’s so good at it, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That why you never join?” you ask.

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

“One of the reasons.”

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

Chocolate, infused with 50 milligrams of caffeine.

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

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

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

“Feral little thing,” he tsks.

“You have cigars, I have caffeine.”

“And insane amounts of morphine, apparently.”

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

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

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

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

His phone rings.

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

“Gotta take this. Get started, lamb.”

“Yes, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

“World ending?” you ask, glancing up.

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

“Not just yet.”

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

“’Fraid not.”

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

“Music?” he asks.

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

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

“I’m not a toddler.”

“Could have fooled me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Price?”

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

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

“Is this an ‘a’ or a ‘d’?” you ask.

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

“This is your handwriting.”

“Yes.”

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

“That’s ‘o’ and ‘l’.”

“OH.”

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

“Thank you, sir!”

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

“No, but you can.”

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

“No, I can’t. Write neater.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

You won’t.

It’s Task Force Specialty Training Day.

AKA: government-funded team bonding.

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

It’s also a hell of a lot of fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost shouts, “Medic!”

“Hold.”

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

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

Price said to hold, so you hold.

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

“Take the shot when you have it.”

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

“Fuck,” you whisper.

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

“Status, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

“That’s the game, love.”

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

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

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

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

You hum. “That was fucked up, sir.”

“All’s fair,” he shrugs.

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

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

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

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

“How-how did you know?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, that’s twice today.

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Seen Ghost?”

“I’m about to be a ghost!”

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

“Dead now, you muppet?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgot about them, honestly.”

You grin and pluck up another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, at least you managed that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand grips your ankle and yanks.

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

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

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

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

“Eyes open, lamb.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows arch. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

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

“And why’s that, hm?”

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

“Just seems right, as my captain.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, captain.”

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

“Sweetheart…” he tries again.

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

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

“Look at me, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me,” he orders.

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

“Good girl.”

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

“Get your bag. I’ll see you off.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish you were happier to be home.

“Captain Price.”

“Captain Dillard. Successful mission?”

“We managed to get the job done.”

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

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

“She’s fine. We can debrief now.”

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

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

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

“Bunch ‘a wankers, eh?” Gaz asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tried to, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

You – fuck – you just want a hug.

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

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

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

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

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

“Some idea, sir.”

“You want to tell me your side?”

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

“Squeaks. Sweetheart.”

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

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

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

“It fucking sucked,” you mumble.

“I gathered.”

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

“Tell me,” he says after a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You-you’re…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it’s good to be home.

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

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

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

“Sweetheart?”

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

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

“Oh,” you hum, “sorry, LT.”

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

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

“I’ve got her from here, Ghost.”

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

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

“Stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Screw us up.

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

You don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

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

That sounds… fuck, that sounds lovely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

You really do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he grumbles.

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

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

“’M not!”

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

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

“But siiiiir,” you whine.

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

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

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

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

“It’s cruel and unusual,” you accuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John…”

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

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

“Oh, I am, love. Just your bastard.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ask him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

But first—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But my lap is open for you.”

Aaaand there it is.

“I’m good,” you deadpan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that my fucking drink?” John growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re one of mine.”

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, Squeaks.”

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

“Fucking wanker,” he grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just the boys?” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John,” you plead against his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” you breathe. “Show me, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you huff. “One more kiss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something you wanted, gorgeous?” he asks.

“It’s… it’s your turn,” you breathe.

“My turn?”

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

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

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

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

Where you belong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he mutters, fond.

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

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

That’ll have to wait a little longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” John snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, surprised.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” John purrs. “Why didn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re right, love, I did.”

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

“You too,” you murmur, “pants off.”

“Alright,” he says, clearly humoring you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t want him to let you go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready for another?” he asks.

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

“There it is,” he chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong with that?”

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

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

(Let you. Good fucking lord.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t talking about this desk.”

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

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

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

“Ready, love?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. Then, “please.”

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

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

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

“Alright?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me,” he growls.

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

“Look at me.”

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

“Cum for me, beautiful.”

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

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

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

“Oh my god, John,” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you wail, “I wanna...”

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

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

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

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

You lay boneless beneath him, limbs tingling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was just – waah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?” he asks.

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

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

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

“That’s it, love, fuck,” John snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper, dismayed. “B-but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm,” you manage past scratchy vocal cords.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need help sitting up?” he asks.

“I got it,” you reply.

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

“Sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit. “It’s good.”

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

How is he so fucking wonderful?

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

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

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

“For that?”

“For everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

You adore his sleep-rough voice.

“At least 20 quid,” you muse.

He grunts. “Fucking children.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[emo-batboy]

Battinson and the JL ft. His Eventual Identity Reveal

(If you’re just here for the cutesy bits, skip to Attempt #2. Otherwise, STRAP IN CUZ IT’S A LOT)

Bruce Wayne of Matt Reeves’ The Batman is not the founder type.

He wouldn’t voluntarily join a book club, much less join a league of super powered vigilantes whom he does not know personally.

So in this universe, you probably wouldn’t call him one of the three Founding members.

But he’s still integral to the formation of the Justice League

It starts out with a friendly visit :)

Bruce is patrolling on a random night in Gotham when he notices a weird thing in the sky. It’s floating just far enough behind him that a less vigilant person wouldn’t have noticed, but Bruce is always watching his own back, and he takes it as a threat.

He strays from his usual path and then heads to a warehouse roof before turning to face the threat.

It’s Superman. All smiley and dressed in primary colors. The strongest, most powerful being on Earth just floating over like he wasn’t stalking Batman a second ago. Bruce does not like that.

“What do you want with Gotham?” He asks. “I don’t,” Superman says. “I wanted to talk to The Batman.” So this is some kind of fight? An intervention? A warning? Then Superman frowns. “You…are The Batman, right?”

Bruce only nods as he considers his options, but he can’t really do that when Superman has super speed, super sight, super strength, super breath, super lots-of-things-that-Batman-probably-doesn’t-know-of.

Then Superman surprises him by landing on the roof and giving him this pitch about a superhero group.

Superman and a few other vigilantes have been bouncing around the idea of teaming up together so they can help one another protect their cities. And The Batman was a “perfect candidate.”

“I’m not joining your club.” “It’s not a club. It’s a league.” “What’s your mission statement, then?” “A what?” Bruce fights the urge to roll his eyes. He still doesn’t trust this guy. “Take your league idea back to the drawing board then we can talk.” He does not intend on talking.

But two months later, Superman is back. This time, he brings another super powered vigilante named Wonder Woman.

She smiles, politely approaches him, and says “Superman tells me you want to learn more about our league.” That is not what he said, but he doesn’t bite.

Bruce can’t decide which they remind him of more: college recruiters or cult leaders. But because Wonder Woman genuinely seems to care about seeing this project through, and the roster she has of current like-minded vigilantes is impressive, he lets her talk.

And to give her credit, she definitely thought out the logistics more. It almost makes up for the time they’re wasting.

Okay, fine. They’re still way behind on concept, and it’s pitiful. He actually feels bad.

They obviously care! They just have no idea how to run a business like he does. Is it a bit cynical to think of this league of Justice as a business? Yes, but that’s the only way he can even conceive this happening and working.

Bruce asks about their organization’s leadership structure, and that’s when Wonder Woman falters a bit. “We want to work with each other, not for.” Bruce bites his tongue on that subject.

He asks about their scope of work. “We want to help as many people as we can, but that can be ironed out later.” Bruce bites his tongue on that subject.

He asks “Who’s funding this?” She answers, “We have a few members willing to pitch in, but the majority will have to come from generous citizens.” And that’s when he just stops asking questions. Because what?

If he could cry the grease paint off, he would.

They can’t just think every super-powered vigilante is going to sing Kumbaya and braid each other’s hair. There needs to be checks and balances within the organization to avoid tyranny and corruption. They need a reliable source of donations (that doesn’t immediately out Bruce.) They need a proper chain of command. They need to map out their area of responsibility. They need to design a VERY strict vetting process. It’s not sunshine and rainbows. It’s hard work!

So he says he’ll think about it again and complains to Alfred about the weird super stalkers.

But for SOME reason, Alfred doesn’t see the problem

Alfred encourages him to join so he can “make some friends.” But how can he trust these people if they can’t even make a half-decent pitch? It’s like a bad episode of Shark Tank.

And “make friends?” They’re all masked

But after a week of gentle nudging (read: very firm lectures), Bruce agrees. ONLY to keep tabs on the rest of the vigilante world and possible threats to Gotham

(And without his help, they’ll probably butt-dial Lex Luthor the nuclear codes or something)

And he is damn well going to figure out who these people really are before he helps them make a Super Organization.

Alfred figures out about half of their secret identities purely as a brain exercise while Bruce is out fighting crime and collecting head injuries like Pokémon cards. They figure out the rest together.

They also develop contingency plans for every single member. Just in case.

And after months of Batman being visited by random vigilantes, whom he has several choice words for about personal space—“This is my city. Go away.”—he accepts. On several conditions.

Not all of them are appreciated.

Attempt #1: “Making Friends”

After several scheduling conflicts, a lot of prep work, and a really good hype session in front of the mirror, Bruce heads on over to the first official meeting.

Batman arrives with a long list of things they need to do before going public. The first thing on the list?

Write A Mission Statement

What the fuck are they actually trying to do? Bruce thinks this is a great starting point.

And you’d think (you’d think) this Justice League thing would be easier to tolerate than the drawn-out exec meetings he has to sit through with boring, old businessmen who keep delaying things so they can hash out every little detail.

To Bruce’s absolute horror, he BECOMES the boring businessman who’s delaying things so they can hash out every little detail. He misses the boring, old businessmen. At least they knew what they were doing.

Every turn, he is argued with.

“Why do we need a mission statement?” “‘Power Structure’ feels authoritarian. Can’t we just share leadership duties?” “Do we really need this much paperwork?”

Bruce has the audacity to say, “We need to develop some sort of protocol that helps us analyze any possible threat.” But no. “Why can’t I just jump in? I have eyes.” “Jumping in without studying an opponent’s behavior could cause more harm than good,” he insists. “So what? I’m going to watch an alien monster go on a rampage through my city instead of fighting it?” “Yes. You don’t know what it’s capable of.”

Bruce already regrets joining.

All he hears is the others gossiping. “Is this guy really telling us how to be heroes?” “He’s got a major stick up his ass.” “I knew we shouldn’t have let him join.” And if that doesn’t dissuade him, he doesn’t know what will.

“How was the first meeting?” Alfred asks. Bruce scowls. “I’m not making friends.”

Nonetheless, Bruce sticks it out for weeks until they have some semblance of an organization. And, to his shock and amazement, it…kind of works.

The Justice League makes its debut, and Wayne Enterprises generously donates some money “out of spite” after Lex Luthor publicly denounces the league. (Honestly, Bruce would too if he hadn’t personally duct-taped it together himself.)

But the league starts small, just like he told them, they respond to natural disasters and public safety threats first (as per the outreach initiative) and focus on protecting communities in need (as per the mission statement.)

Yes, they still think Batman has a stick up his ass because he’s a stickler for writing incident reports, but no one else reads them so he has the right to be pissed.

He’s almost kind of sort of content with how it’s going. Even his reputation as a vigilante is improving.

That’s when another glaring difference between him and the other members appears.

Despite looking the same age as the rest of the team, Bruce is actually much younger?? Even excluding the aliens, gods, etc.

Most of his teammates are in their late 30’s, early 40’s. Meanwhile, Bruce is at the ripe age of 29 and a half.

He is the youngest by ten years.

Everyone kind of just assumes he’s the same age, though, so they make references to 80’s kids stuff that he only vaguely understands through Alfred and his business partners. He just sits there in silence like a child who snuck over to the adult table and is waiting to get caught.

So on top of the rift he (accidentally) created when they started the organization, it’s even harder to connect through similar interests. Other than punching people together.

And Bruce Wayne has a bad case of imposter syndrome when it comes to their superpowers.

He’s always in the corner brooding, and everyone’s like ummm antisocial much?

But 50% of the time, it’s because he’s thinking “I’ll never amount to the incredible heroic feats everyone else has accomplished. How can I possibly make a difference to the world if I’m already struggling to save Gotham?” Like a little emo freak 🖤

(Meanwhile, you couldn’t pay those mf’s to step foot in Gotham. This Bat guy’s crazy and he’s human apparently?! No way. Nuh uh.)

The OTHER 50% of his “brooding” is Bruce standing to the side with a mixture of concern and judgment because his teammates’ competency in certain areas is…alarmingly low sometimes.

One week, he finds himself thinking, “How do these grown-ass adults not know their way around a digital map? They’re 40, not geriatric.”

Then like a week later, it’s “These fucking war fossils don’t even know Morse code. I gotta do everything around here.”

One of the final straws is when he says, “Did they just break another fucking Keurig? Who does that, Alfred? It’s the fifth one.”

Suffice it to say, he’s not very personable. But is it his fault? Well yeah, a little bit. Like……..65% his fault.

(The remaining 35% is their moaning and groaning whenever Batman calls a meeting.)

Bruce’s irritation is totally justified.

God, he just wants to go home.

Why is he doing this again?

Attempt #2: Actually Making Friends

The first JL member to break through his cold, black exterior is Wonder Woman. She needs help with search and rescue after a sinkhole opens up near an elementary school, but no one’s available until Batman responds to her call.

He’s on the scene in less than an hour and makes quick work in securing the area. Thankfully, she catches him once it’s over. (He always runs off without saying goodbye.)

“Thanks for helping. Everyone else was just so busy. I’m glad you could fly over.” Batman mumbles something that she can’t quite hear. “What was that?” she asks. “I was busy too,” he repeats. She gives him a weird look, and he freezes up for a second as he realizes that probably wasn’t appropriate to say. “I mean…this was more important. There were kids in danger so it didn’t…matter if I was busy.”

Wonder Woman considers how awkward The Batman looks for a moment then smiles. So he really is human. “Well, thank you. The help was very much appreciated.”

Since then, several small acts of kindness and solidarity earn Batman some respect from the rest of the team.

One day, Flash complains about how boring their meetings are so Batman brings a massive bin of fidget toys. After placing them in front of the Flash, he mumbles, “These are for ADHD. They’re useful.” Flash almost cries with relief. He is very touched.

Another day, Green Arrow is severely injured in battle. Without a word, Batman leaves the fight, takes him to a safe location, stops the bleeding, and does it all while repeatedly making sure he’s awake and asking permission to remove certain pieces of clothing.

In another fight, Plastic Man’s mask is thrown off, and Batman sees his face. In a second, Batman tosses a smoke bomb, picks up the mask, and hands it back before anyone else can look. It costs them time and the element of surprise, and Plastic Man knows it, but Batman did it anyway.

A JL member’s stomach grumbles during one too many meetings. Suddenly, their little break room becomes a fully stocked kitchen with shelf-stable meal items and all the basic necessities. There’s a nut-free section, a gluten-free section, everything. The only reason they know it’s him is because anyone else would have admitted to it.

(He renovated the whole fucking thing. In one night. By himself.)

And they all see how gentle he is with children. Countless times, The Batman is spotted prioritizing young civilians at any given moment.

He has lollipops in his belt. And Bluey bandaids too.

It’s the little things that make them feel closer to him :)

And okay maybe his goddamn Mission Statement lecture wasn’t so bad

So they stop moaning and groaning

Okay, now it’s bonding time WOOHOO!!

Attempt #3: Kinda? Friends??

One day, Superman says he isn’t too fond of billionaires (because of Lex, obviously) and goes on a rant about capitalism. Bruce doesn’t dare contribute because 1) he’s the richest man in the world and 2) every other billionaire he’s met is insufferable.

(Including Oliver Queen who Bruce refuses to look at while Green Arrow “defends his city’s billionaire.”)

(And while we’re on the topic of Green Arrow, Bruce cannot forget the disappointing almost-fling two summers ago. He still holds a grudge.)

Green Arrow: “You’re all fashion nightmares. Who wears a cape in the 21st century?” Batman: “At least my facial hair isn’t longer than my dick.” GA: “What was that, Batman?” B: “What?”

Also Bruce is very attracted to Superman.

(He likes older men.)

(Yes, I am referring to Henry Cavill’s Superman.)

(Sue me.)

(But don’t get your hopes up. He does literally nothing about it.)

(Coward.)

One of the JL members complains about how sore they are after a few missions so Bruce cashes in his Monthly Attempt to Socialize and says, “Try yoga. It helps me.” “…Batman, you do yoga?” “Yes. My son got me into it….It’s good for you.” “You have a son?!” He is never socializing again.

They also learn that Batman has the smallest frame on the team. (Like yeah, he’s tall, but he’s also lanky, and everyone else is either an alien or a human dorito.)

One night, they need to sneak through the vents of some building so Bruce offers to do it. Someone says, “It’s a tight squeeze. Are you sure you can fit?” Then he just takes his cape and pauldrons and shoulder pads off and is suddenly like a foot skinnier

“Wait…is this why you’re so good at hiding in the shadows?” Bruce just glares at the Flash for a second before climbing into the vents.

(The answer is yes.)

A betting pool is started over whether or not Batman is part Bat.

In fact, several betting pools begin because no one knows anything about the guy??

Aquaman and Plastic Man go to great lengths to figure out what his hair color is.

They lose their shit once Bruce tells them he’s vegetarian.

Green Lantern: “Every time he opens his mouth, we learn something new. Next, he’s going to tell me he speaks Swahili!” Batman: “I do.” GL: “Oh, come on!”

Superman: “We need someone on the inside for this international operation to work, but that’ll take at least three months undercover.” Batman: “Don’t worry. I have connections.” S: “…In Shanghai?” B: “Yes.”

The Flash adds SHANGHAI?? to his conspiracy board

Bruce needs to stop trying to socialize. It’s better for everyone’s cardiovascular health.

A year or two in, they’re all introduced to Captain Marvel. Bruce is the first and only person to learn his true identity (kid Billy Batson) because Bruce is the only one with a kid. That way, he understands the weird Gen-Alpha humor and references.

Millennia-old deities don’t use the term Flop Era.

And, of course, they play FMK at some point.

(I mean, come on. There are like TWO mature adults on this team, but Martian Manhunter doesn’t know what’s going on until it’s too late, and Wonder Woman is busy at her day job.)

During that particular round, the celebrities are Bruce Wayne, Lex Luthor, and Kylie Jenner. Bruce does, in fact, want to kill himself, but he chooses Fuck instead because of this exact conversation:

Green Lantern: Come on, Bats. It’s just a game! Choose already. Batman: No. I’m against killing. GL: Oh, go fuck yourself. This situation is completely hypothetical, and you know it. B: Fine! Fuck Bruce, Marry Kylie, Kill Lex. GL: See? That wasn’t so hard :) Bruce:

He tried

Attempt #4: Ah shit, FRIEND?

The identity reveal comes about three years after he joins. He’s 32, has three kids, he’s been on hundreds of missions with them, the team’s over twice its original size, and there are domestic terrorists overtaking Manhattan.

Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, and The Batman try to extract as many civilians as possible, but now they’re being hunted. After hiding in a warehouse and considering their options, MM finally suggests that they pose as civilians, which immediately creates uproar.

Bruce, however, realizes this is the only way out.

But it’s not dramatic or badass like that one JL episode. No, instead, he thinks about it, swallows the regret, and just—

Takes off his cowl.

And the whole room falls dead fucking quiet.

Then, “Oh fuck.”

(That was Green Lantern.)

Bruce just shrugs and mumbles, “Martian is right. It’s the only way.” And really fucking hopes the grease paint hides his red face because he is not having a good time right now.

He would rather die, actually, but they need to get somewhere safe and Fast.

The others look him up and down then nod slowly. “Uh yeah.” “Okay, sure.” “This is fine.” “We’ll do that.”

The others begin slowly taking off their suits and changing into something more casual. Bruce takes his off, revealing the skin-tight compression suit underneath, and stuffs his armor in the roll-up duffel bag that’s kept in his belt.

He changes into his drifter outfit, wipes his face clean, and suddenly, The Batman’s just a normal guy. (A very pretty normal guy, mind you. His teammates have eyes.)

“We can head to my place,” Bruce says. “It’s closer, and I know the train system pretty well.” And yes, he’s pretty soft-spoken outside of the suit, but now it feels even more obvious.

Meanwhile, the others are like—

Oh. My. God.

Oh my god, he’s fucking shy. Batman is acting shy in front of us. Dear fucking god. Batman is Bruce Wayne. And Bruce is shy so Batman is fucking shy?? Bruce is pretty too. Holy fuck. He is very pretty.

And he’s so young?? Oh my god, he’s a BABY wtf?! He’s like four inches shorter. Four inches tall! They’re all towering over him without his massive boots and armor, and he just hunches over with the big duffel bag like he wants to sink into the floor, and he’s so small.

Wonder Woman wants to put him in her pocket.

Sue her.

They end up taking the train back. Bruce has on the mask and cap that hides his face (poor Superman, he really likes his jawline) and they all follow Bruce as he gets off and on several trains at seemingly random stops. THEN when they’re finally in Gotham, they head into an abandoned-looking subway station that leads them into a…cave?? WTF

And in the middle of the cave is an elderly man with a cane and a three-piece suit just lounging on a recliner. (WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK—)

He looks up from his crossword puzzle and says, “Ah! You’ve finally made friends, I see?” Bruce rolls his eyes. “This is not a sleepover,” he gripes. “Shame. I was about to grab your footie pajamas for you.”

The man smiles at them. “A pleasure to meet Master Wayne’s work friends in person. Would you like some coffee? Tea? If you’re like him, this is going to be a long night.”

No one dares to question why this man recognizes them in their civvies

They also can’t tell if the footie pajamas line was a joke or not. After tonight, nothing is off the table.

(This is a minefield of information. Barry is having flashbacks to his conspiracy board. No one is going to fucking believe him.)

They all settle into one corner of the cave. Bruce leaves to change and comes back looking like this:

(Goddamnit, Clark is having a meltdown. His hair looks so good wet.)

At one point while they’re plotting, Wonder Woman glances over his shoulder to see Bruce checking some sort of security camera. A boy, maybe nine or ten, is sleeping in bed. “Is that your son?” Bruce clearly doesn’t want to answer, but Alfred gives him a look, and Bruce sighs. “One of them. Yes.”

Later, they have to analyze some explosive samples in the cave, and Barry, forensic scientist extraordinaire, has some choice words about the non-sterile environment.

Barry: This doesn’t look safe. Bruce: My lab is perfectly clean and functional. *bat screeches* Don’t worry about that.

For the rest of the night, they use the evidence they have to track down the organization while the rest of the JL suits up and saves NYC.

After a few hours, they’re safe to return to NYC for damage control. But Alfred refuses to let Bruce go with them. “Your sons are worried. Drive them to school, then you’re coming home and sleeping.”

Bruce clearly wants to argue, but the mention of his kids stops him. He sighs and turns to the others who are already changed. “Let me know if you need anything. I can be there in ten minutes.”

They all nod, knowing full well they will not be doing that. The guy clearly needs rest.

(Also, he is a single father of three and still goes out every night to punch robbers and crime bosses? Is he doing okay?)

Then they head back to NYC with so many questions.

But a lot of it makes sense too, actually. Maybe they just weren’t thinking about the man behind the mask enough to see it.

They learned a lot about their friend that night.

And they have a lot of bets to cash in.

FIN

Okay :D that was a lot! If you enjoyed it, please let me know. This has been simmering in the back of my head for months <3 Have a great day and drink some water :)

Hey bestie @bruciemilf

[p1utofairy]

★ your next glow up?

note — i wasn't gonna post this now but i figured fuck it why not?! enjoy, my loves! this is for entertainment purposes only <3 take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. p.s. come in my ask box and tell me what you think!

PILE ONE.

pile mf ONE, you are really stepping into a new era! when i tell you this new you is gonna turn HEADS. tuh, you’re gonna be looking like new money. nicki minaj’s ‘new body’ verse is coming to mind lol “you ain’t fuck me, you fucked the old body. you ain’t fuck nicki, you fucked nicole body! ain’t no miles on this here new body, off with they heads these bitches is nobody’s.” OH YEAH OKAYYY, PILE 1. maybe you’ll be hitting the gym more, switching up your diet or possibly getting some cosmetic work done?

whatever you’re doing differently, it’s gonna be noticeable. people are gonna feel like something changed with you overnight like “um when did pile 1 get so bad?” and this isn’t to say you aren’t already attractive…there’s just something about your energy and confidence that just amplified x1000 and people are really gonna feel and see this change in you. you might start experimenting with your outfits a little more, giving off a more seductive vibe. it’s like you're breaking out of your comfort zone especially if you usually opt for baggier clothes or a more conservative look. wait cause why am i thinking of ‘pretty little liars’ when emily is talking to aria about hanna and she’s like “haven’t you heard? she’s the it girl now.” PERIOD, PILE ONE. giving serena page vibes from love island.

there will be a lot of talk about you and even if you don’t hear it directly, trust me, people are gonna try to keep tabs on you. i’m seeing people re-watch your instagram stories tryna figure out who took you that place and who you’re doing it with — oh these people are spiralingggg. this could very well be potential suitors tryna scope out the scenery, but they’re not sure if you’ll be interested in them. they might fear rejection because you just look so damn good and it looks like you’re in such a better space in life and got your shit together; whereas they feel like they lack the resources/finances to be with you. these potential love interests see you as high value, pile 1. they’re intimidated by your beauty and aura. you’ll be more so focused on attracting a partner that can actually make shit happen.

you don’t have time for the cat and mouse games. you want the real deal and i do see you getting the person that you want. you manifested this person into your life and i sense them feeling like they won the lottery with you! i’m hearing that you are sooo mesmerizing on the outside and your heart & personality makes you so much more beautiful. there’s layers to you and i think this next glow up will allow you to really shine and be yourself unapologetically – you’re leaning into the different aspects of yourself that makes you unique. if there’s anything you’ve got your mind set on or something specific you want to do, go for it! whatever you do, you’ll stand out effortlessly and be successful. say yes by floetry is coming to mind. “see, i’ve been watching you for awhile…your smile and style. wanna know if i can be with you for the night, alright.” i meannnnn need i say more?!

how to tap into this energy?

listen closely to your intuition! work on your third eye because i’m hearing that you’re a powerful manifester and you don’t even truly know it. even if you do know this, you start doubting yourself and limiting your own thoughts. always think big and bigger because it’s in your reach. don’t get so caught up in the “how?” because your manifestations can appear in many different ways, not just one. you have a clear vision into the future – you just gotta adjust your lens and focus on what it is that YOU want. who cares if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else, as along as you see the vision then it’s a go! listen to ‘i want it all’ by sharpay evans lol you need to embody that song and its energy.

PILE TWO.

hey, pile 2! i’m hearing you’ve been putting up with the bullshit for wayyyy too long and this next glow up is gonna be a proper FUCK YOU to all your haters! i feel like people take your kindness for weakness and you feel like you don’t get the respect you deserve. you can deal with a lot of passive aggression in your relationships or friendships and people expect for you to suck it up and be okay with it. what i’m mainly picking up is that you like to keep the peace. you don’t want to ruffle anyone’s feather, but it just makes it worse for you because you’re not truly expressing yourself and your emotions. this keeps you up at night like “ugh! i should’ve said this or I should’ve stuck up for myself and finally cussed so and so tf out.” but you don’t because you know why, pile 2? you’re better than them, simple as that.

you wouldn’t treat anybody how some people treat you, and the reality is that it’s so much harder to be nice than it is to be mean. anybody can be mean and say hurtful shit if they really wanted to, but to always be graceful and kind in the face of adversity and ignorance? rare af. +10000 aura points! don’t let anybody make you feel less than or like you can’t speak up for yourself. this next glow up you’re going to use your voice and really make it known that you are not to be fucked with, okay?! you will be standing your ground and really popping your shit in the most calm and collected way possible & people are gonna be like “wait…did [y/n] really just clock me like that?!” and you’re gonna be standing 10 toes down on it as you should. they’ll have no choice but to respect you lol. you will start to realize what is worth your time & energy and what isn’t.

you might start cutting off people that don’t mean you any good and really start to focus on yourself and your energy. no more walking on egg shells and sparing peoples feelings, this is YOUR life and you have a voice just as much as they do – so use it! i think you’ll also be meeting new friends & a potential love interest during this next glow up. i’m hearing ‘how stella got her groove back’ lol so yeah some of you might be playing the field a little bit.

some of you might just want something casual and nothing more because you just want to focus on your own healing journey. you’ll start to understand why things had to happen the way that they did & why certain relationships didn’t work out the way that you thought they would. you’ll be able to decipher what you are and aren’t willing to put up with and honestly i just see you bossing tf up and advocating for yourself no matter who doesn’t like it. that tiktok “nobody loves you baby! you should only love yourself – ON MY SOUL!” just randomly came to me lmfaooo this is your ‘i’m focusing on what really matters aka me’ era and i think it’s exactly what you need pile 2.

how to tap into this energy?

i think you need to transmute the negative energy that people try to project on you into something positive. 12:12 on the clock, yeah. like look at this way, if people doubt you, don’t respect you or don’t feel like your capable of achieving great things then use that to your advantage. let them underestimate you all they want, and then BAM boss up on them and show them who tf you are. what they don’t know only makes you stronger. you have the power to make some powerful ass connections and make a name for yourself so be calculated & strategic with your moves. people will be eating their words when it comes to you, pile 2.

PILE THREE.

pile 3 your next glow up is gonna be a bit of an emotional rollercoaster ngl, but very rewarding nonetheless. i’m hearing that one tiktok sound “you gotta take the good with the bad, smile with the sad. love what you got and remember what you had.” so yeah i think you’re really gonna be figuring out how to transmute your energy and create something from it – whether that be a job opportunity, a love offer, a trip, etc. there’s something that you really want and you’re doing the work to make it happen. you have the plan, you just need the platform lol.

for some of you, i see a major relationship coming to an end. this could be a lover or a best friend, but this person will be exposed because they’re not who you thought they were. this person has very sneaky/deceptive energy and you’ve been in the dark about this for way too long. this person/connection means a lot to you, so you will feel like this is a tough situation to completely walk away from; but my sweet pile 3’s you will be more than okay! you will be spectacular! 10:10 was just on the clock.

allow yourself to sort through your emotions and learn from the situation, don’t let it weigh you down. sometimes we get too caught up in how long we’ve been with somebody and all of the good memories we made with them, that makes us hesitant to move on. sometimes things just run its course and you’re no longer in alignment with that person. you can’t force anything or anyone in your life that doesn’t align with your highest self and that can be very hard to process when emotions are involved but i’m happy to let you know there’s light at the end of the tunnel.

i see some of you traveling to a place you’ve always wanted to go and possibly meeting a potential love interest. in this next glow up, you’ll be doing things that you’ve always wanted to do cause there’s no one holding you back. you’re stepping out of your comfort zone and just taking a leap of faith – high risk, high reward. you’re gonna be making time for yourself and also prioritizing your hobbies/interests. this is beautiful, pile 3. i see you really getting in touch with who you are at the core. be kind and gentle with yourself, because you are a precious gem that a lot of people value and care about.

how to tap into this energy?

stop giving your power away. work on your throat chakra, my loves. your voice is your power and it’s one of the major keys to your success. a closed mouth doesn’t get fed, so you need to speak up and communicate what it is that YOU want and not just say what people want to hear. this next glow up will really have you standing in your power. release is needed especially verbally cause you know that tight feeling you get in your throat when you’re tryna stop yourself from crying? yeah no more of that. no more walking on egg shells, pile 3. say what you feel and stand on it & watch how the tides turn in your favor. mwah!

PILE FOUR.

alright, pile 4! for this next glow up i see you moving. some of you might actually be moving into a new home or apartment and it’s gonna grant you so much peace and comfort. for others of you, this could be you moving on emotionally from a toxic relationship and/or familial bond and finally getting the clarity and peace you need to cut all ties and move onto something better. whatever the situation may be, it was weighing heavy on you and making you feel very down.

you’re gonna feel so free when you leave this situation behind, it’s not even funny. i’m hearing that you were a gilded bird in a cage. some of you could’ve been moving from place to place, not feeling quite settled or financially stable. if you feel lost right now and like you don’t know what to do with your life/where it’s taking you, i just wanna say keep going – W.A.Y.S. by jhené aiko is coming to mind. “if there's one thing that i learned while in those county lines, is that everything takes time. you have gotta lose your pride, you have gotta lose your mind just to find your peace of mind.” awww yeah that’s your theme song for this next glow up. things might not make sense right now, but please trust me when i say that everything is going to work out in your favor & things will be better than you could ever imagine.

you will be blessed with the tools you need to get to this next phase of your life. you are the source, pile 4. whatever you put your mind to, you can surely achieve! don’t let 3D circumstances throw you off, you are so abundant and prosperous you will see in this next glow up just how much of a powerful manifester you really are. you’re still trying to find yourself and figure out where you fit in in the world, but you don’t have to put yourself in a box, pile 4. pave your own way and once you do others will want to follow suit. no one can see your future the way that you do, so keep doing your thing because i’m seeing that you will come across people/friends that share similar interests and niches as you. awww pile 4 you’re going to find your soul tribe.

you have this flighty energy about you (air sign energy/esp gemini) like you’re from one thing to the next and you can’t figure out what you truly want to do. some of you might be in college or almost about to graduate and when people ask you “do you know what you want to do?” you’re like uhhhh….]>|>]^>.]€]€]£ like you truly don’t know but like that’s okay cause actually you do know! on a soul level, you know. what’s understood doesn’t have to be explained pile 4 lol people might not get it now but when you pop out living the life you’ve always dreamed of, TUH. they’ll understand then.

how to tap into this energy?

get out of your head so much and just vibe, pile 4. you can plan plan plan all you want but the reality is: shit happens! it might annoy you or make you feel incredibly frustrated when another problem or inconvenience pops up in your life, but there’s nothing you can’t overcome. it’s life. you will be greatful for these experiences in the long run because it will be another bridge that you’ve already crossed and dealt with, so you won’t fold under pressure – you’ll just already know what to do. you got this, pile 4. shit is about to get really good for you.

[weepinwriter]

Road to Heaven is an 18+ Dystopian fic which takes inspiration from popular media like the “Shatter Me” series and “Hunger Games”. It may contain distressing content like major injury to the characters, character deaths, blood, gore, body horror, amnesia and optional sexual content. More specific warnings will be given at the beginning of each chapter.

You are inmate No. 1441, incarcerated in Tartarus, the most notorious prison on the continent. You find yourself imprisoned for a crime that you do not remember committing, leaving you in a state of uncertainty about your own identity and purpose. The first memory you have is awakening to the sensation of a gun being shoved into your mouth.

Within the grim confines of Tartarus, you have been branded as the most dangerous criminal, feared yet hated by both fellow inmates and prison authorities alike. It becomes clear to you that in order to survive and unravel the enigma of your past, escape from this formidable penitentiary is imperative. However, achieving freedom will not be an easy feat, as you must navigate treacherous encounters with some of the most malevolent criminals known to humanity. In your quest for freedom, you find yourself entangled in complex relationships with three significant individuals. Firstly, your cellmate, whose icy demeanor suggests a deep-seated disdain for your very existence. Secondly, your best friend within the prison walls, whose seemingly excessive friendliness may harbor ulterior motives. Lastly, there is the warden, whose overtly amicable nature masks a peculiar familiarity with your past. As you navigate the perilous labyrinth of Tartarus, your ultimate objective is twofold: to survive amidst the most notorious criminals and uncover the truth about your forgotten past. In a world where danger lurks at every corner, you must tread carefully, for the path to redemption and self-discovery is riddled with uncertainty and perilous choices.

Fully customize your MC. Choose your pronouns, sexuality, appearance and more. Take control of your interactions with the characters and experience the world of Elysium City through a personalized scope.

Romance one of the 7 RO’s, and if you are charming enough, fall in love with any two of them. The four possible poly routes available are: The Cellmate and The Friend, The Warden and The Master, The Protector and The Master, The Cellmate and The Rebel

Struggle against the evil that wants you dead and uncover secrets about yourself

Accept your identity as an Esper and rediscover your powers, or completely reject them

Master your ability of Conscious Manipulation and perhaps learn a few things about yourself unexpectedly

Choose to make allies within Tartarus or antagonize them. Your choices have consequences

Lead a dying rebellion against the Hightable or join them as an equal

There are a total 7 romance options, each with their own personality and a story along with dark secrets for you to uncover

Survive

1. The Cellmate [f/m] | Enemies to Lovers

Subject Name : Twenty

A palpable enigma surrounds the inexplicable disdain they harbor towards you, leaving you to ponder if your past misdeeds have sowed the seeds of their ire. Your questions remain unanswered, rarely do they grace you with a response, and when they do, it arrives veiled in hateful glares and a tapestry of venomous words. The origins of their animosity remain shrouded in silence, with fellow inmates mirroring their reticence. Only when they are complaining about the prison's wretched conditions and the Warden's despotic rule do they momentarily shed their icy facade, revealing hints of vulnerability and human emotion. When they do smile, albeit rarely, it is a fleeting moment of breathtaking beauty. If only you could find the courage to tell them that.

[ Number 1579 is an S rank Arcane Tendency Esper with the Cryokinesis ability. They are under Libra’s Jurisdiction, and thus only follow orders coming directly from them. ]

Other Tropes : Emotional Scars, Nobody thinks it’ll actually work, Hate Sex

2. The Warden? [m] | ???

Subject Name : Nikita

There is an uncanny familiarity surrounding him, leaving you torn between the unsettling grip of dread and the elusive allure of desire. He claims to know you personally. Apparently the two of you were close friends before The Incident. Yet, when you press for details, he skillfully redirects the conversation before your emotions can catch up. "The past is but a fleeting shadow," he says, "no need to talk about something that can't be changed. Besides, you wouldn't remember anything." Evidently your memories had been erased. The question of who hangs heavy in the air, but his response remains enigmatic, offering only a mirthless smile.

[ Nikita is the Warden of Tartarus, the Reformation Asylum in Sector 10, 8th District. He is under Scorpio's jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Slowburn, Betrayal, Puppy play

3. The Friend [f/m] | Friends to Lovers

Subject Name : Victor (m.) | Vanessa (f.)

A compassionate and devoted companion, V. shines as a beacon of light in the desolate depths of this grim abyss that became your world. From the moment you opened your eyes, they extended a helping hand, guiding you through the labyrinthine complexities of Tartarus and easing your transition into this unfamiliar realm. Unfazed by the venomous whispers that tarnish your reputation, they remain steadfastly by your side, unwavering in their loyalty. Their warm smiles and whimsical wordplay serve as a balm, mending your wounded spirit after every bitter clash with Twenty. How fortunate you are to be blessed with such an illuminating presence, brightening the shadows that consume your existence.

[ Number 1339 is an A rank Catalyst Tendency Esper with the Illusion Manipulation ability. They are under Scorpio’s Jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Partners in crime, First Love, Good people get good sex, Slight yandere

4. The Count/Countless [f/m] | Forbidden Romance (relationship history can be friends with benefits)

Subject Name : Emir (m.) | Evara(f.)

A remarkable visionary and an exceptional entrepreneur, E. stands as an unrivaled figure in the illustrious realm of Elysium City. Holding the distinction of being the youngest Grandmaster in history and amassing unparalleled wealth, they reign as the CEO of the renowned Quinn Industries. E. is adorned with numerous titles within the esteemed echelons of society, serving as an icon of inspiration and a beacon of hope, while simultaneously arousing envy in the hearts of many. An arrogant and proud individual, their ugliness is conveniently covered by their astonishing fortune, combined with innate brilliance, seems almost mystical, as if destined for greatness from their very birth. Within Elysium City's grand social tapestry, few possess the persuasive prowess to sway the decisions of the Hightable itself, yet E. stands tall even among this select few. As an eligible bachelor, their daily inundation of love letters and marriage proposals is a testament to their allure. And yet, amidst all this splendor, it is you who has found a place of interest in their extraordinary life.

[ E. is a part of The Senate and thus does not fall under any District's jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Belated love epiphany, Billionaire, Power play, Daddy/Mommy kink

5. The Master [f] | Forbidden Romance

Subject Name : Leo

In her calculated pursuit, you find yourself ensnared. Your allure captivates her discerning gaze, for you possess what she desires most. You are the coveted object of her desires. In this strategic game, you are but a pawn, a possession within her calculated grasp. Yet, curiously she maintains a measured distance. Her reason? She eloquently articulates, “Witnessing the growth of one's possession is a fascinating phenomenon.”

[ Leo is the Master of {DATA REDACTED}. They are the Ruler of the 5th District. ]

Other Tropes : Secret Identity, Second Chance, Blood play, Begging

6. The Protector [m] | Bodyguard Romance

Subject Name : Caesar

A battle-hardened soldier, Caesar bears the scars of a lifetime spent serving the FAE and the city. With an intimacy unparalleled, he has danced with mortality on numerous occasions, making death a companion rather than an adversary. Yet, behind that facade of strength, Caesar is a fractured soul, haunted by insecurities and a self-destructive nature. His journey, filled with shattered dreams and the weight of his daughter's aspirations, has brought him to the edge of despair. The immortality he once embraced now feels like a curse, a harbinger of misfortune that has become synonymous with his presence. In his eyes, he sees himself as not a protector but a bearer of ill fate. However, the stars, in an unexpected alignment, have granted him a final purpose: to protect you. Beneath the intimidating exterior lies a gentle giant, yet one plagued by a profound sense of self-loathing. He grapples with the belief that his very existence is a catalyst for tragedy, a vortex that draws calamity toward him and those he holds dear. Intrigued by this complex guardian, you see the duality within Caesar — an attentive and understanding individual burdened by the weight of his own perceived malevolence. As you navigate through the intricate layers of his psyche, perhaps you could help him ease his suffering, even by a little.

[ Caesar is a registered S rank Endura Tendency Esper with the Regeneration ability. He comes under Leo’s jurisdiction. ]

Other Tropes : Beauty and the Beast, Single parent, Stop calling me daddy

7. The Rebel [f/m] | Enemies to Lovers

Subject Name : Gael (m.) | Gwendolyn (f.)

You betrayed them. Or perhaps it's the other way around? You do not remember. The trust you once held dear has been shattered, and now you must face the price for your misguided beliefs. Like a fool enchanted by deceit, you must bear the weight of your choices. Remember this lesson, for betrayal's toll is a heavy one to pay. Proceed with caution, lest you become ensnared in the web of your own treachery.

[ There is no known information on this individual. Extreme caution is recommended. ]

Other Tropes : Amnesia, Revenge, Redemption, Breathe play

Links

[ DEMO ]

[ PINTEREST ]

[ THE DISTRICTS ]

[ THE HIGHTABLE ]

All asks and reposts are welcome 😁!

[courtmartialme]

some examples i can think of brotherhood crimes of doing riza(and royai) dirty in my opinion that's the absolute truth in the universe. consciously excluding stuff i think are minor but annoy me just as bad or else this post would be too exhausting:

being ugly in general

not including her time travel joke from when they learn that the elrics are kids and not adults on their way to recruiting them

not including the scene where roy meets her after she calls him when she meets barry the chopper and threatens to burn him out of jealousy

changing the dialogue after roy saves her from gluttony from:

to:

LIKE...... if brotherhood has the habit of cutting off scenes to make it shorter then WHY they would change this scene to become BIGGER AND WORSE. the dialogue in manga is a clear example of their trust and wordless care for each other. while in broho it's just ?????? roy being an asshole????? to his wife?????? whom he just left his post running for bc he sensed she was in danger???? whoever chose to change this dialogue. kill yourself

riza being nice to alphonse when they are at 3rd laboratory:

not including the only time in the whole series roy calls her by her first name only:

the WHOLE ishval arc. riza telling ed about ishval lasts a whole ass volume while it's barely an entire episode in anime like... hm.. for starters the way roy and riza meet again there is different. in manga she saves roy and hughes from a surprise attack, and only realizes it's roy when she sees him through the scope. then hughes tells roy that they brought a talented sniper from the academy and goes after her to thank her for saving them. in anime riza suddenly shows up to roy when he was talking to hughes and like... not necessarily a bad thing i guess but...... yeah.... also this whole conversation is cut off if i remember right.. among a lot of other things LOL i hate how ishval arc is played down in BH

riza being funny and cute not being included again

this scene when they reach 3rd lab again in promised day and roy jokes about wanting to see her honest tears again and riza replies saying water makes him useless BUT in manga she's all cute and blushy while in anime they make her be all # girlbaws about it because that's all brotherhood riza is about lmao they took away her moeness...crime

in manga, after roy gives up killing envy upon realizing it would lead to riza shooting him then killing herself, it shows him lowering her gun without the glove he previously had on. symbolizing that he lowered his weapon before he could lower hers. in anime he still has his gloves on

EDIT I FORGOT THE MOST IMPORTANT PANEL OF THEM ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

RIZA BEING INSUBORDINATE AND A BRAT SHE'S SO CUTE THIS PANEL IS WHAT INSPIRED MY USERNAME... SHE'S SO CUTE...... brotherhood is so scared of letting riza be cute and moe because she would be too powerful if they let her

EDIT 222222 BECAUSE I WOKE UP IN COLD SWEAT AT REMEMBERING I FORGOT THIS TOO

roy visits madame christmas' bar looking down and she asks him why doesn't he and elizabeth go someplace fun... we all know who elizabeth is right... and he says miserably that another man took elizabeth away from him(referring to riza being kept hostage by bradley) and at that the other girl asks if that means she has a chance with him now. everyone knows that roy is so wifepilled he won't look any other way if riza is in the picture lmao also how embarrassing it is that even your mom knows you're fucking your subordinate

i'm convinced somebody at BH staff hated riza's ass because of how often riza and royai scenes are changed or ignored... i know it's common for anime adaptations to cut off moments from manga but for an anime that whole premise is to be The Better Adaptation, doing it so often makes it bad to me. if you repeatedly exclude scenes that tell more about the characters because they're "not relevant to the plot", eventually there will be no actual personality left, only characters that are plot props

THERE'S A LOT MORE i wanted to include but this is already long enough and i got tired LMFAO a lot of things(most not included) are non issues because are mostly about riza being a bit silly, or showing more expression than she does in anime in a scene that otherwise doesn't change anything. but they still annoy me because by repeatedly excluding and changing these moments add to the view people have of her being nagging and stoic, at an attempt to make her a cool flawless Good Woman Character. what for.

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Eddie lowered his guard during a late night conversation, revealing crucial details about his past. But was it enough for you to reciprocate? (4.3k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, homelessness, brief mention of neglect, brief mention of sex work, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter four: show me yours, i'll show you mine

If convincing Eddie to take the job wasn’t enough of a struggle, you still had to explain the situation to your parents.

Hi Mom and Dad, I invited a guest to help fix up the motel. The same one who stole a blanket–but don’t worry, I got it back. Oh, and he’ll be staying here for free.

They were understandably taken aback by your decision, especially without consulting them first, but you’d mustered up a strong argument: Eddie was young, he was easy to get along with, and he showed a basic sense of personal responsibility. Not to mention that the place could certainly use the repairs; peeling wallpaper was just the tip of the iceberg. Lightbulbs needed to be replaced, carpets needed to be scrubbed, and the outside of the building desperately needed to be power washed. 

“Plus, summer break doesn’t start for another few weeks,” you hastily added. “We won’t need to worry about renting out Eddie’s room until then.”

Mom arched an eyebrow at the newfound ascription—not room four, but Eddie’s room—but said nothing, only looking at your father for his seal of approval. 

He breathed out, long and low, trying to do the calculations in his head. Your heart flip-flopped when his gaze dropped to the ground, his signature move when he was about to tell you no. 

“If he doesn’t help out, he can’t afford to stay here anyway. It’s not like we’re losing money if he keeps the room for a bit.” You winced at the slight whine in your voice, the opposite of the infallible exterior you’d wanted to present. 

Dad laughed, not unkindly, but belittlement panged in your chest nonetheless. “Except for the water, air conditioning, and electricity he uses,” he pointed out, ticking off each item on his fingers. “Unless he plans to only sit in the dark, sweat, and never shower.” He sighed as unmistakable disappointment weaved into your eyes and filled them with tears. 

Now you’d have to tell Eddie that the offer was off the table, that he was shit out of luck, that you’d let him down. You never should’ve opened your big mouth in the first place. Captain Save-the-World, except you only ever made things worse. If you wore a cape, it would get snagged on tree branches each time you tried to fly.

“You have a good heart,” Mom spoke up, trying to nurse your wounded feelings, “but kindness doesn’t pay the bills.” She glanced at Dad again, her mouth set in a straight line. “Maybe we can discuss this further.”

You fought to ignore the hope that bloomed from her words, but the corners of your mouth turned upwards before you could rein it in. “Thank you,” you murmured, offering them both a grateful smile. 

People called you a ‘bleeding heart,’ teasing you about your constant attempts to solve problems beyond a reasonable scope. At last year’s Thanksgiving dinner, your uncle had informed you—unprompted—that he would never vote for you for President because “you’d just give all my money to the poor.”

While your parents were more realistic with their goals than you were, they did their best to encourage your compassionate spirit; there was no doubt that you got your sense of morality from them. After deliberating on Eddie’s fate for a few hours, they had finally relented—with one stipulation. 

“Your mother and I are not going to supervise him, so he’ll have to work night shifts with you,” Dad had said sternly. 

“Really?” You clapped your hands in celebration. “Thank you! I mean, um, Eddie thanks you.”

Dad gave your shoulders a quick squeeze; it was his version of you’re welcome. “Yeah, well.” He played it cool, keeping his tone breezy. “It’ll be good practice for when you take over the place.”

You’d nodded in response, your insides twisting in a clashing mix of excitement and shame. Eddie wouldn’t have to live on the street, but it required you to continue lying to your parents. 

I’ll tell them the truth once Eddie finds a real job and gets his own place. I can only handle one crisis at a time. 

That was how you’d found yourself spending your Tuesday evening with Eddie Munson. The motel was otherwise empty, save for your parents, a middle-aged trucker in room 7, and Phyllis in her usual digs.

You and Dad had spent the end of his shift covering the floor with giant flimsy drop cloths. They hadn’t been used in years, evidenced by the thin layer of dust that coated them when you’d dug them out from the back of the supply closet. You’d tried your best to shake it all off but instead sent yourself into a sneezing fit. 

Eddie sauntered into the lobby at a quarter after ten. Gray sweatpants sagged at his waist, the drawstring noticeably missing from the elastic band, and his white cotton undershirt had a tan stain that spread across his left pec. 

“Coffee,” he explained with a shrug, rolling a hair tie off of his wrist and pulling his curls into a messy bun at the nape of his neck. He looked at you blankly and waited for you to instruct him, but you had already dove into your schoolwork. “Um, is there a ladder? Tools?” He pursed his lips and scanned the room with indifference.

“Oh! Right, yeah.” You could have smacked yourself for not having everything set up for him. “We don’t have a ladder per se, but this step stool should work fine.” You pulled it out from behind the desk along with a scoring tool, a spray bottle filled with a vinegar and water solution, and a putty knife. “I also grabbed the clock radio from my room if you wanted to listen to some music. Might help pass the time.”

Eddie nodded, watching carefully as you switched the radio on and tuned the dial to a Top 40 station. He shook his head the moment the electric beat of Haddaway’s “What is Love” played through the tinny speakers.

“Absolutely not,” he said with a scoff, dropping the supplies right where he stood, footsteps heavy even with the cloth underneath him. Without another word, he spun the knob past the static until the sound of an electric guitar crackled through. He bobbed his head a few times, finding the rhythm. “This’ll do.” 

“Not a Eurodance fan?”

His back was turned to you as he returned to the task at hand which left him unable to see the sarcastic smirk you sported. “Fuck no.” He stepped up on the tool and began cutting into the old wallpaper, puffing out an irritated laugh. “I can’t believe—scratch—you voluntarily—scratch—listen to that–scratch–shit.” His biceps flexed with each flick of the blade in a consistent rhythm. 

Drumming your fingernails on the desk, you twirled your pen in your free hand as you reread your own handwriting. You’d stayed at the library and filled notebook pages with bullet points about early childhood development until a squirrely librarian kicked you out at closing time. The choppy sentence fragments begged to be fleshed out into a fully-formed essay, but you couldn’t bring yourself to focus.

Write words. Make edits. Add a comma. Do something, anything, dammit.

Almost an hour passed without you making an iota of progress on your paper. The words swam on the page until they just looked like inky squiggles with no real meaning, your brain blank as if you’d never written anything in your life. Cool air tickled your nose as you exhaled through your lips. Why couldn’t you just concentrate?

“It’s this music,” you muttered to yourself, too low for your company to hear. Your temples throbbed with frustration, and you reached over and snapped back to the previous station. 

Eddie’s head whipped around at the sudden change, frowning when he heard pop music instead of the metal that had just been playing. “Seriously?” He leaned one hand on the wall and threw the other up in exasperation. 

“Yes, seriously,” you bit back, teeth clenched in annoyance. “I can’t focus on my writing with that on.”

Eddie grumbled something unintelligible but went back to work, the scratching serving as a strange backdrop to the song. 

Janet Jackson faded out to a too-chipper deejay. “You folks know what time it is!” His voice reminded you of old-school toothpaste commercials, over-exaggerated and unnaturally polished. “That’s right; it’s time for Rad or Retch—where I play a song from a new artist, and you call in and let me know whether you think it’s rad or if it makes you wanna retch!” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, adding an exasperated “Jesus H. Christ,” under his breath. 

“This one’s called ‘Watch Me Leave’ by Death’s Echo, a grunge group from—”

The announcement came to an abrupt end as Eddie nearly leaped from the stool to the desk and yanked the plug out of its socket. The two-pronged head hit the floor with a soft thud. 

“Hey!” Your eyes widened in confusion and then disbelief, flickering over to where he stood. You expected him to wear a scowl that matched your own; instead, he looked like he’d just taken a knife to the gut, and you took a step back. “Whoa, you okay?”

Eddie tensed the moment he detected your sympathetic tone, shoulders pinched and jaw rigid. “‘M fine.” He pressed the heel of his left hand atop his right knuckles until they cracked. “Sorry.” He bent down and gently plugged the cord back into the wall, but you immediately flicked the power button to the off-position. 

It was silent for a full minute, save for the scorer against the wall and the scratch of pen on paper. When Eddie finally spoke, his voice was so soft that you barely heard it.

“That was my band.”

Confusion creased your brows. You set down your pen and stole a glance at him. His body remained facing the wall, but he was no longer working, hands lamely at his sides. “What?”

“Death’s Echo was, uh,” he shook a rogue curl from his eyes, “that was my band.”

“Oh.” Awkwardness seeped into the room and filled every crevice as you wracked your brain for a suitable response. “But…not anymore?”

Eddie clicked his tongue. “Nope.” The p sound popped softly as though signaling the discussion’s end, but there was a pregnant pause before he started removing the wallpaper again.

“Why not?” The question sprang from your tongue, curiosity getting the best of you.

A hesitant chuckle accompanied his sigh. “I thought you didn't make small talk with strangers.” He climbed back on the step stool and ripped off a strip of paper.

“I thought we weren’t strangers anymore,” you quipped back, not missing the smile that ghosted his lips.

“Fair enough.” Eddie conceded easily, not at all angry to be proven wrong. He bit the inside of his cheek and stared up at the yellow-tinged lighting overhead before slicing into the wallpaper. “Sometimes you think you want something, but it turns out to be a steaming pile of horseshit.” The last word was punctuated by a grunt, and the last panel of wallpaper fluttered to the ground. “That’s the music industry in a nutshell.”

You nodded in agreement despite an obvious lack of knowledge.

“They sign your band,” he continued, aiming the spray bottle nozzle at the wall and pulling the trigger, “and you think it’s because they like you. Or at least your music, your sound, whatever.” He wrinkled his nose as he got an unexpected whiff of the vinegar solution’s pungency. “But you’re really just a front for whatever they want to sell. Which, apparently, is grunge.” 

You had too many questions. They probably referred to record producers or agents or some other bigwigs, you surmised, but what did they do that made Eddie so cynical? 

That was far too loaded to ask, at least in that moment, so you opted for a more humorous follow-up. “You mean it wasn’t all sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll?” you joked, but Eddie didn’t share in your lightheartedness. 

“At the beginning, when we first got signed, yeah.” His brown eyes exuded wistfulness, remembrance of better times. He blinked twice and snapped himself out of it. “We put out a few albums that didn’t completely flop, I guess. And we were the opening act on a couple of tours. Got a good chunk of money in the bank.”

That explained the Calvin Klein underwear he was wearing on that first night. You capped your pen and leaned in, trying not to be overly inquisitive but unable to contain yourself. “So…what happened?” What led you here?

“We get called into a meeting, and we’re all thinking that the label’s gonna tell us we’re headlining, right? Maybe not, like, The Garden, but bigger venues than we usually played. But, uh…” he trailed off and rubbed the tip of his nose with an open palm, “it was an ultimatum: shift from metal to grunge, or get dropped.”

You listened intently as Eddie relayed the ordeal. The label executives had cited the increasing popularity of Nirvana and Pearl Jam along with decreasing interest in heavy metal bands. “Cobain’s selling; Ozzy isn’t,” they’d explained. If Death’s Echo wanted to play to packed arenas and have their music on mainstream radio, they had to adapt to the times.

“I told them we weren’t sellouts and to kiss my ass,” Eddie said to you, huffing out an annoyed breath. “But the rest of the band didn’t give a shit about that; if those suits told them to jump, they’d say ‘how high.’ So, I quit and waited for them to come crawling back.” 

He didn’t elaborate after that. He didn’t need to. Because if they’d done as Eddie had hoped, he wouldn’t be performing manual labor just to live in a struggling motel, basking in the gloominess that he wore like a second skin.

“If you could go back and do it differently, would you?” You grimaced at your own intrusiveness. “Sorry, that was—”

“It’s fine.” Eddie didn’t give an answer right away, his teeth grating against his lower lip. “Y’know, I’d like to say no, but losing your record deal, your apartment, your girlfriend, your so-called ‘friends,’ and every nice thing you own can make a guy kinda cynical.”

Girlfriend?

It was far from the most dire item on that list, but it needled at you. Maybe it was the mental image of Eddie watching everything get taken from him and then adding heartbreak on top of it all. 

“How about you?”

His voice yanked you from your thoughts and had your heart in your throat. “Huh?”

“You. Your whole deal.” He gestured at you with the scraper. “Why you’re always doing homework like a little nerd.” You couldn't detect a note of taunting in his teasing, only playfulness, just as it had been that very first night. 

You scowled for only a second before a smile broke through. “Don’t you have wallpaper to remove?”

Eddie snorted out a laugh. “I see how it is: when it’s my shit, I’m free to talk. But when it’s your shit, I’m a lowly employee.” He held up both hands in mock surrender. “My deepest apologies, Heiress.”

You didn’t bother to argue, choosing instead to pivot to a new subject altogether. “How long does this take, anyway?” Walking out from behind the desk to inspect his work, you ran your finger down the wall. Once you got past the stench of vinegar, he was actually doing a pretty good job.  

“You think you could do better?” He saw your gentle ribbing and upped the ante, holding out the putty scraper as if saying, be my guest.

Plucking it from his grasp, you smirked and chose a spot right at eye level. Challenge accepted. 

Though the glue had softened considerably, removing it still required decent muscle. You put your bodyweight into it and pushed through the resistance, but you only managed to pull off a little bit. 

You heard Eddie laugh through his nose as he stood behind you, watching you struggle. “Harder than it looks, huh?” He ignored your middle finger and stepped a half-inch closer. “Let me help.”

One calloused hand dwarfed yours, his fingers wrapping around where your fist held the scraper. The other found purchase on the bicep of your free arm where your T-shirt’s cuff met skin, stabilizing without entrapping you. You could easily get out of his grasp if you wanted. 

You stayed there. 

He tightened his grip around yours and made short, downward strokes, admittedly taking off far more glue than you had. “There ya go,” he murmured. His breath was warm on your neck, gooseflesh rising when he spoke. You hoped he wouldn’t notice. “Just like that.”

Butterflies beat their wings in your stomach, a result of the unexpected proximity compounded by an unmet need for connection that starkly contrasted the night shift’s normal solitude. A loose tendril of his hair tickled against your ear, and the realization of how close your bodies actually were shattered whatever spell had been cast. 

Eddie pulled away quickly, the air cooling where his hand once rested. Did he also feel that sudden loss of contact, or was it all in your head?

With a shaky breath, you stepped aside and silently returned the tool to him. “Should probably leave this to the expert,” you muttered, forcing nervous laughter. “I have to get back to writing anyway.”

His eyes bored into you as you walked back to the desk, but neither of you said another word. You glanced over at him every so often, noting the perspiration dampening his collar and under his arms as he toiled away at the glue and wished you had a water bottle to offer him.

Maybe next time. 

You got halfway through the first body paragraph when Eddie spoke again.

“You’re really not gonna talk?”

You looked up to see him swipe his forearm along his brows as he shot you a tired grin.

“We just had a whole conversation,” you pointed out, returning your attention to your essay. 

“About me,” he said. He wiped his palms on his pants, leaving behind a sweaty print, and traipsed over to you. “I mean, every time I see you, you’re either going to school or coming back from school or doing work for school…” 

You shrugged, no big deal. “Okay, yeah, I go to school.”

“For what?”

Shit. “Hospitality and hotel management.”

“Really.” Eddie leaned over and snatched up your paper. You reached out to grab it back, but it was too late. The bridge of his nose scrunched as he read the opening paragraph to himself. “Doesn’t look like hospitality to me.” Amusement raised his brows. “Care to explain?”

It was the last thing you wanted to do, but you felt strangely obligated. He’d confided in you, so you should at least moderately indulge him. 

“Fine,” you relented, “I’m studying psychology.” That might have been the first time you’d ever said those words aloud in the motel lobby; it was oddly freeing. 

Eddie nodded and continued to scan the paper. “You wanna be a shrink?”

“Social worker.” 

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a tough gig. Especially if you’re working with kids.” He shook the essay pages for emphasis. 

“Yeah. I know.”

“Right.” He shoved one hand in his pants pocket. “What made you decide to be a social worker?”

You breathed out a laugh. “You want the easy answer or the real one?”

He didn’t hesitate before answering. “Real one. Always.” He returned your essay and rested his un-pocketed hand on the desk. Inquiring eyes beckoned you to continue.

With less trepidation than you’d anticipated, you tell him the story of that fateful day in the summer of 1987, just two years after you’d graduated from high school.

You were still working the afternoon shift, and summer break brought its usual influx of guests. People came and went in blurs of luggage, but there was one particular patron who had made her presence known.

“Hi!”

You peered over the desk to find the source of the lively greeting. A young girl, no older than five, stared back at you, syrupy grape stickiness surrounding her lips. The cause was most likely a popsicle, as evidenced by the purple stained stick clenched in her right hand.

“Um, hi,” you said with a smile that was, for the first time in a long while, not encased in customer service insincerity. “What’s your name?” And where did you come from?

Unfazed by your bewilderment, she introduced herself as Izzy and asked you if you wanted to play. “We just have to stay here, or else my mommy will get mad,” she explained with urgency.

You nodded slowly, sorting through the information without raising any alarm. “And where is your mommy?”

Izzy’s hazel eyes darted back towards the hallway. “In our room. She’s with a friend so I can’t go in.” She dropped her voice to what she considered a whisper, but it was still clear as day. “Her friend is a boy.”

Your stomach turned. Of course. Instead of watching her child, this mother was probably shooting up with her boyfriend of the week. 

“I can’t play right now, but you can sit here with me until your mommy and her friend come back out,” you said. “I have paper and pens if you wanna draw.”

This satisfied her, and she plopped down on the floor and patted the spot next to her. That day hadn’t been particularly hectic, so you obliged and sat.

“What’re you gonna draw?” Izzy asked, reaching for a blue pen. You didn’t have time to answer before she proudly announced, “I’m gonna draw a flower. Do you like flowers?”

“Mhm.”

Izzy smiled as she surrounded a circle with swirling loops. “You can draw a flower, too. Maybe a rose. Or a sunflower!”

Her excitement at the latter option was all you needed. “Sunflower it is, Miss Izzy.” You drew a circle of your own and filled it with a cross-hatched pattern, curating pointed-tipped petals around it. 

“D’you have crayons?” she asked, not looking up from her own flower.

You put down your pen and offered a pitying frown. “No, I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. You should get some, though. ‘Cause you can draw prettier flowers with crayons.” 

The two of you stayed on the floor for ten minutes. All the while, she quizzed you on your favorite color, animal, food, and TV show. She was halfway through a heated explanation of why Friend Bear was superior to Share Bear when a frantic voice called out her name. 

“Mommy!” Izzy practically flew into her mother’s arms. You watched as the woman’s entire body sagged in relief, pulling her daughter in close. A man trailed behind her, discreetly zipping up his fly and walking out the front door. 

“Izzy, I told you to sit in the hall and eat your ice pop,” her mom gently scolded, words muffled by her lips being pressed to Izzy’s scalp. 

Izzy scrunched her nose in confusion. “But I finished it.” She pointed at the empty stick, now on the ground where she’d been sitting, as proof. In true childlike fashion, she jumped to a new topic without waiting for the first conversation to conclude. “Mommy, you wanna see what I drawed?”

“Of course, baby.” She easily feigned excitement as Izzy presented her with a series of scribbles that were meant to be various flowers, people, and farm animals. “Wow! I think you’re gonna be an artist one day.”

The little girl continued chatting, blissfully unaware of the panic she’d inadvertently caused. Her mom allowed herself to look away for just a moment to glance at you, mouthing a tiny “thank you” and blinking her tear-filled eyes.

“And…I don’t know,” you lamely supplied as you wrapped up the story. “I guess I realized that I had all of these assumptions, this sort of preconceived notion that this woman was a deadbeat parent, but she obviously loved Izzy more than anything.” You picked at your thumbnail nervously. “No one should have to sell their body for money just to survive. She deserved better than that.” 

Eddie stayed quiet for a moment, absorbing everything you’d thrown at him. “And you wanted to help her,” he finally said.

“Yeah.” You thought back to the way her gaze simultaneously held gratitude and guilt. Her daughter was safe, but she knew that this was not the final time she’d be in this predicament.

The experience had awakened a realization in you: working at the motel was never your dream, but it kept a roof over your head and food in your belly. You weren’t left to navigate the world on your own. Independence was a privilege, not a mandate.

“For what it’s worth,” Eddie broke in, “I think you’ll be a great social worker someday.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk twice and slipped back to the awaiting task; despite insisting that you talked to him while he worked, he hadn’t touched any of the tools while you spoke.

Your smile was a thank you, and you tuned the radio back to the metal station Eddie had chosen earlier. He didn’t say anything else, but you noted the subtle tap of his toe against the drop cloth.

Eddie worked for a few more hours until he’d stripped the wall of all paper and glue. “All right,” he said, balancing the step stool on two fingers. Sleepiness softened his own smile, all lips and no teeth. “Let me know when the new wallpaper comes in. You, uh, know where I live.”

“Will do.” Your thumb absently grazed against the words you’d just written, smudging them. You rubbed at the black ink seeping into your skin, silently chastising your own carelessness. “Good night, Eddie.”

He stretched and scratched at the U-neck of his collar, exposing a sliver of chest hair. 

“Sweet dreams, Heiress.”

--

taglist:

@theintimatewriter @mandyjo8719 @storiesbyrhi @lady-munson @moonmark98 @squidscottjeans @therealbaberuthless @emxxblog @munson-mjstan @loves0phelia @kthomps914 @aysheashea @munsonsbtch @mmunson86 @b-irock @ginasellsbooks @erinekc @the-unforgivenn @dashingdeb16 @micheledawn1975 @yujyujj @eddies-acousticguitar @daisy-munson @kellsck @foreveranexpatsposts @mykuup @chatteringfox @feelinglikeineedlotsofnaps @sapphire4082 @katethetank @sidthedollface2 @eddies-stinky-battle-jacket @mysteris-things @mrsjellymunson @josephquinnsfreckles @the-disaster-in-waiting @eddielowe @hugdealer @rip-quizilla @munson-girl @fishwithtitz @costellation-hunter @cloudroomblog @emsgoodthinkin

[diejager]

How would each of the monster 141 react if hunter were like- straight up killed in front of them. Like no wiggle room “oh they might be alive and just unconscious” but just straight up dead. Sorry I am a sucker for angst and I feel like this would be a fantastic read considering how bonded and feral they all are to protect hunter. Thanks in advance! Love the blog! Keep it up 👍

Are you trying to get me killed? Do you want me to have a heartattack?

End of the line Cw: death, suicidal thoughts, angst, mention of suicide, blood, injury, tell me if I missed any.

It had been a mistake, a costly one, but still a mistake. In that moment, everything had lost its point, the mission, the goal, the enemy and the celebration were pointless, forgettable. Time slowed, lagging behind in minutes when the shot rang out, booming in your restless minds until all they could hear was a loud thump, a body slumping down.

It was a rookie mistake made by their eagerness to return home, bodies bruised from the last deployment and still sore, skin painted in black and purple, but you pushed on, being sent from one end of the planet to the other. They were hanging on a thin thread of perseverance and training, practiced to live on perpetual soreness and exhaustion.

But that didn’t ease the pain, the open wound in their hearts. They watched you slump over, blood pooling from the wound in your chest —shot center mass. They dropped everything, Rudy rushing to turn you over, hands shaky and eyes blurry, he choked down a sob and a tear slid down his cheek. You were unresponsive, eyes glazed and dull, the light that they all loved gone in a breath. You upper torso bled, a bullet pierced through your kevlar vest, the bullet’s calibre higher than anything they expected.

Ghost joined Rudy, desperate to see if there were a chance to resuscitate you, to bring you back to them. His hands were frantic, tremors wracking his whole body as he loomed forward, trying to find a pulse, hand pressing against your still warm throat. He felt his fears surging forward, the dark voice at the back of his mind grinding out words, terrors that followed him at every step. It was like the last Christmas, when Tommy and Beth died, when Joseph and his mom were shot, when the people he cared for were killed.

Ghost felt his voice leave him, croaky and dying, it made him unable to utter a single word, and so was Rudy, mind blank. So Alejandro was the one to tell the verdict, but they hadn’t needed him to tell them to know. Soap, König and Horangi heard your heart stop, the powerful muscle in your chest explode from the bullet and grow silent. The pain clawed at their hearts, the overbearing weight on their chest made their retreat harder.

However much Price wanted to cry, to fall to his knees as cradle your body against his chest, he was the TF’s leader, he had to bring the rest of them back home. He ordered Gaz back from his perch for the sniper after he dealt with it, Gaz’s advanced sight catching the glint of the scope. Holding the title of a Task Force’s captain meant a lot, it placed a certain amount of responsibility on his shoulder and he couldn’t let his men down. Price could let a few tears slip, but he had to hold it in until he had a moment to himself in the silence of his office.

Gaz was silent during and afterwards, watching your limp body being carried in König’s arms until you reached the aircraft piloted by Nikolai who shared an equally heartbroken and saddened expression as them. His voice died with you, unable to voice his mind or his sorrows, confining himself to his room in silence. Although he lost himself, he had the others to bring him back like you did when Ghost wandered too deeply into his mind, bringing back up memories.

Soap did what he knew best, throwing himself into the fray, overworking himself with solo mission and spearheading other joint work. He almost worked himself to the bone until Horangi pulled him back, scuffing him and beating your wishes into his mind, telling him that you wouldn’t want them to break away like this, to wither away as if they were never here.

Despite helping Soap, Horangi suffered the same as the werewolf did, silently crying himself to sleep, fingers clawing at his head in desperation to quiet down the loud screeches in his mind, degrading words thrown at himself for failing you. He knew you didn’t want him to hate himself, but how could he quell the bleeding wound in his heart when you weren’t here to ease the pain away? The memory of you did.

Alejandro tried his best, acting and trying to feel better until it ultimately failed, he wasn’t in the right place to see you nor talk about you to others, murmuring your name when he slept and woke up with a start. He wasn’t as lost as Ghost was, didn’t shut the world around him down and closed in on himself, but he was following closely behind if he didn’t have the Task Force.

Rudy was the most human out of them, he felt more strongly but couldn’t cry. His mind was blank, the beat in his chest loud and erratic, yet his mind was silent, a ground of deathly quiet. He couldn’t do anything, work became hard, waking up exhausting, and taking care of himself harrowingly difficult. You’d scold him if you saw how he was behaving, how little care he had for himself —to near hunger and insanity. He hung onto your words, your confession, the three words you gave them as a parting gift, that’s what forced him out of his shell.

While the rest worked through their pain, to reach a stalemate together, none fell as hard as Ghost and König, both having a difficult childhood and a harder time following their enlistment. The lost themselves easily, becoming much more violent and deranged in their kills, ripping men in half and swallowing them whole, leaving all but a puddle of blood behind. The only thing that stopped them from ending their pain, to reaching out towards the knife that hung on the side of their thighs were your words, the handwritten words on your will and a message for everyone.

You wanted them to live, to be happy without you being there and that you’d be waiting for them on the other side until eternity. You were patient after all. At least a part of you hung from their necks, your ashes shared between the eight men and your items spread equally.

“I love you.”

Tag list: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @yeetusspagheetus @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @tallmanlover @distracteddragoness @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @konigsblog @havoc973 @angelcakes-22 @cassiecasluciluce @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @ki-cant-spel

[anki-of-beleriand]

A Heart Made Of Glass ch.14

Summary: Ten years ago you left Wanda and the Avengers to heal your broken heart. You never stopped being a hero, just as you never stopped being in love with her. But life had to go on.

Now, after all that time, she is back and with her is a young woman needing help and an enemy that may not be as afraid as Wanda to lay a claim on you.

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Powered!F!Reader - Scarlet Witch x PoweredF!Reader - Past Wanda Maximoff x Vision - CarolxF!Reader

Warnings: Angst, drama, mentions of cheating, fluff, violence, smut, Switch!Reader, internalize homophobia, hurt, comfort, Wanda being a complete mess, anger management issues, jealousy, Requited/Unrequited love, idiots in love, swearing, mentions of alcohol. More tags as the story progess.

Author's Note: This story is a continuation of Dirty Little Secret I was really surprised at the response I got for the story, I did all the tags you guys ask for but if I forgot someone please do not hesitate to tell me. Thank you for the support.

This chapter is the concept of idiots in love.

Please, do remember English is no my mother tongue so forgive my grammar, spelling and funny mistakes.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Epilogue

Chapter 14

The thing about love

The world was in complete turmoil.

Norway became the home to non-secret agencies trying to discover what had shaken the foundations of the city while taking its inhabitants into a virtual reality prison. SWORD had taken over the investigation overlooked by Monica Rambeau and the newest director of the reformed SHIELD, Tony Stark.

For some members of the SWORD team, it was Wanda Maximoff the obvious author of such disaster, but for some others the truth might be slightly more complicated. It was easier to blame the one that had been on the run before the Blip and then come back to enslave a group of people in a fantasy world.

Natasha Romanoff knew the situation was far more complicated that what everyone kept on spitting out in the conference room. She left after it was quite evident no one knew what to do, or what was really going on.

The cold breeze from the outside came rushing through the door, she shivered blinking away the blinding white from the snow covering the land. The houses in the distance had been repaired and people was going back their normal lives. The world didn't stop before the hex and it didn't stop now that it was over and two former Avengers, one powered teen and a witch disappeared.

“Still nothing?” Carol Danvers came walking down a makeshift road, she was wearing different clothing but the perpetual frown of inadequacy and concern was still there.

“Nothing useful.” Natasha stepped forward welcoming the crispy texture of the snow under her feet. “They kept on babbling about who to blame, while Tony, Bruce and Strange are trying to find a way to open a portal to the right universe.”

Carol huffed approaching the brunette, “the right universe? That may take centuries! This is something out of our scope,”

“And that's why we have to be patient.” But even as she said this, Natasha glanced with apprehension towards the bunker then back to the direction where Y/N house was located.

Time was passing slowly but surely and still there was not a single workable plan to bring you and the others back. Whatever magic or powers had acted during the attack from Scarlet and Agatha it had left no traces to be followed, it was as if you and the others had disappeared into existence. 

Carol dropped her head, her arms wrapping around herself trying to contain the frustration she had been experimenting for quite some time. Natasha looked at her out of the corner of her eye, the blond-haired woman was standing small with the sight of the mountains and the white of the snow behind her, those dark eyes had never stopped glancing back at your home while her power flickered restlessly around her. Natasha knew your relationship with Carol was complicated, it had been for quite some time. The other woman had reached out to you in the hopes to be with you, Natasha had seen the countless invitations to travel through the universe with Carol as well as seen those stares filled with longing that you usually missed.

The door behind her opened and closed, a couple of soldiers left the protective barrier of the bunker to share a smoke. Natasha cocked her head frowning, her thoughts going back to you and the recent complications in your life.

The return of Wanda had been a surprise, not only for you but for everyone. Natasha sighed lifting her eyes to the sky, when did their life's turn so complicated?

“You're thinking too hard,” Yelena approached her sister, the bags under her eyes the only evidence she hadn't had a good night's sleep since your disappearance.

“I am thinking enough.” Natasha replied, Yelena hummed standing beside her eying Carol before settling her eyes on Natasha.

“Why is it so difficult to have any leads?” Yelena grunted, kicking the snow under her feet.

“Apparently is not easy to find the right universe they went through,” it was Carol the one who answered, her voice dripping sarcasm, “I guess there is nothing we can do but…”

“Wait?” Yelena shook her head, “I'm tired of waiting.”

Natasha rolled her eyes, she opened her mouth ready to answer when the air and earth around her started to shake. She frowned positioning her feet on the ground, flexing her knees and lifting her arms to her chest height. Yelena took the same fighting position while Carol stood straightened up with her eyes focused on the spot where a small whirlpool of sand was moving fast on the ground. Electric waves projected blue and silver lights through the air, while the sound of a vacuum filled the silence of the plain.

The commotion brought everyone to the spot where the two widows and Captain Marvel were standing. Tony put on his metal glove with Strange lifting his hands ready to form a shield. With an explosion a portal in the form of a five-pointed star appeared out of thin air and three people came falling on their faces just before the portal closed.

Just as sudden as the event had come, it went away leaving everyone open-mouthed, shaking with eyes wide opened watching the three women now standing in front of them. 

You smiled sheepishly scratching the back of your head, your eyes going from Tony to Carol then falling on Yelena and Natasha. The tension was quite evident, and the silence that followed the explosion could be broken by the fall of a single needle.

Wanda came right in with America closed behind, the cold of Norway sneaked inside your clothes making you shivered but you did not move. You knew the moment you crossed the portal you would find everyone waiting, you never imagined Carol or even Tony would be there.

Before you could do or say anything Carol came right at you, her frown softening just as her eyes twinkled with emotion. 

“Y/N?” Her name on her lips made you smile, though a sudden grip of pure coldness grasped your heart and a heavy weight settled on your stomach.

“Hey, Marv.” 

Carol didn't even wait for a confirmation or more words, her arms wrapped around you holding you with the desperation Carol had felt in the last couple of days and all the love she had always felt for you.

The tension broke, and soon voices could be heard though you were too lost into the embrace to make out any meaning behind the conversations, or to even notice the saddened figure of Wanda who was standing just behind you with her arms around her and defeat written all over her face.

____________________________

A part of you knew what was waiting at the other side.

You were really surprised to see Carol there, but what really caught you off of guard was the hostility with which many were treating Wanda and America. You knew some of the agents from SWORD were quite reluctant to accept any innocent claims coming from Wanda, they had been under the hex and had experimented firsthand the emotions and mental manipulation the witch had imposed upon them.

Their anger could be understood if not justified.

However, as soon as the three of you were free from the hugs and welcomes from everyone else, you were taken into custody to start the normal procedure of investigation. You had been lucky enough to have Natasha and Carol with you, their interrogation always going back to what had happened, where were you and how you came back.

It was a tiresome day, but by the time a new morning came you were happy to discover you were given a nice breakfast and a couple of explanations of what happened after you disappeared. You were tired of talking, too many memories, and too many thoughts invaded your head and it wasn’t until Yelena and Natasha put a violent stop to all the questioning that the agents from SWORD and SHIELD didn’t let go of you.

You rubbed your shoulders glancing at your reflection, the woman staring back at you was looking tired though she was also slightly sad. You sighed putting a strand of hair behind your ear while fixing the shirt you had put on, with a last glance to your reflection you left the bathroom only to stop startle at the woman waiting for you on the bed.

Carol Danvers had not changed too much.

The both of you had not seen one another for over six months. You had been tied to earth, while Carol was still trying to make of the universe a better place to live on. The both of you had clashed more than once, and passion had been the main rule in the relationship you two shared; but words of love and tenderness were scarce and sometimes whispered in the hidden shadows of the night.

Carol sighed lowering her gaze to the floor before lifting her chin to stare at you.

“How are you feeling?” She finally asked though this was not what she wanted to say.

“I’m better, I guess. Tired, and hungry.” You offered a smile approaching the other woman until you were standing right in front of her.

Your hand lifted to brush away her golden hair, Carol closed her eyes leaning into your touch while letting herself feel the closeness of your body. At some point she had been desperate to break into the hex to get to you, to save you from the clutches of an ex-lover you seemed to carry everywhere you went. Now that you were there in front of her, Carol felt you had gone to a place she could not follow.

It was at that moment, Carol realized she had fallen in love with you.

“Quite the adventure you have, eh?” Carol chuckled shaking her head, her hand grabbing yours. “I can’t hardly believe you were in another universe.”

You winced holding yourself from putting your hand away, “yeah, it was kind of crazy.”

“Which part?” Carol asked, and this time around she couldn’t hide the reproach on her voice nor the jealousy she had felt when she found out Wanda had been with you all this time.

“Everything, carol, everything was kind of crazy.” You hardened your tone, stepping back only to be stopped by the other woman.

“I’m sorry, I just…” Carol trailed off, and you let out a shaky sigh.

“Look, it was not easy, okay? First I got into a body that was not even mine, in a world I didn’t even recognize, to a live I never thought would be mine.” You lifted a hand to the back of your neck. “Then I come here to face an interrogation that took most of the day and night only for you guys to find out that yes, this is me. And yes, the multiverse does exist.”

“I was scared.” Carol finally stated. “As soon as I came here, you were gone then they started telling me all these stories about Wanda and the hex, and then how everything was just the same here, and…”

Both of you fell silent for a moment, your heart beating painfully inside your chest. You knew it wasn’t Carol’s fault, and you knew the one who was all defensive was you. You felt guilty because you had allowed your emotions to take over your reason and that might get the woman sitting in front of you hurt.

“I’m glad you’re back, and I’m glad you’re cleared of any wrongdoing, now that Wanda is under custody…”

“Wait, what?” You stopped Carol mid-sentence, Carol was left slightly confused just as she noticed the sudden hardening of your stare. “What do you mean that Wanda is under custody?”

This time around Carol couldn’t hide her annoyance, she stood up crossing her arms.

“It was quite obvious, wasn’t it? She had a history of creating these strange hexes, then she came here with a girl that can travel through the multiverse, whatever she was trying to achive…”

“It wasn’t Wanda’s fault.” You stated forcefully, Carol scowled rolling her eyes.

“Right, now you’re on her side?”

“I’m not…” You took a deep breath, “I’m not on her side, Carol, but didn’t you hear my story?”

“Quite frankly, I only heard the part in which you found out those twins of hers were actually yours and not Vision’s. In another Universe, not this one.”

The moment those words left her mouth, Carol knew she had said the wrong thing. Your whole body went completely rigid, and your eyes flashed a dangerous black twinkle that sent shivers down Carol’s back.

“I am not happy about the whole situation either, Carol. But I am not going to blame someone that had nothing to do with what happened here, or even Westview.” You straightened up walking past Carol to grab your jacket. “Now, I will go to straighten everything up, even if I have to break her out of jail and fight whoever I have to.”

“Don’t leave.” Carol wrapped her arms around your waist, she pressed her forehead against the back of your head. “I’m sorry.”

You were breathing hard, the anger boiling inside your veins while her words resounded inside your head. It wasn’t so much of what Carol had said, but actually the real meaning behind those words. Everything had happened so fast, everything had been so overwhelming that you hadn’t had the time to think, to process everything that had happened. You were trying to stop your spiralling world, but every time you got a chance to stand still something came rushing in to shake you again.

A part of you knew Carol was not to blame, not completely. You were looking for an excuse, for something to make you feel better and not as shitty as you were feeling at the moment because of the confusion you were experimenting. For the love you still held for Wanda, while your affection for Carol was not enough.

You turned around wrapping your arms around her, your lips found hers and soon the both of you were giving in the passion you always felt around one another. Carol held onto you with the need of a thirsty woman, and you held onto her with the desperation to quiet down your thoughts and doubts. The kiss turned into a full make-out session that led to Carol straddling your lap on the bed; your hand sneaked under her winter jumper her skin warm under your fingertips, twitching with every single caress.

“Y/N.” Your name left her lips in a needy whisper, and all it took for you was to hear your voice to know you had to stop.

You leaned back placing a single hand on her shoulder and the other one on her hips stopping the thrusting of her hips. She was slightly dizzy, her cheeks flustered with her pupils dilated, she had a silly smile on her lips nuzzling her nose on your neck. You tried to return the smile but couldn’t instead you brush her cheek with the back of your hand, leaning into place a single kiss on her forehead.

“What are you doing?” She finally realized you had stopped; you were trying to get away from her while being as gently as you could.

You opened your mouth to confess, to actually come clean and tell Carol how what you were doing with her was not fair. But the blond-haired woman put a single finger on your lips, her lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I just have to go back.” You said placing your hands on her hips, “if what you’re telling me is how things turned out to be I have to intervene, it wouldn’t be fair.”

Carol shifted standing up and moving away from you, she cocked her head shrugging.

“I guess is not, if Wanda did help you out and was not even involve in the whole fiasco it is not fair to pay for everything.” Carol didn’t leave out of her comment the partial fault that the other woman had, at least for what had happened back in Westview.

“Will you come with me?” The question left your lips before you could stop it, Carol shook her head placing her hands inside the pockets of her jeans.

“No, I think I will wait here for you.”

There was nothing else you could say, and if she were to be honest Carol didn’t want to hear any more explanations. The blond-haired woman leaned in pecking you on the lips before nodding towards the door of your room.

“Go on, be a hero.”

You chuckled nodding briefly before putting on your jacket and leaving the room.

Carol stood inside your room for a long time, she leaned back against the dresser while her eyes fell upon the picture of you with Natasha and Yelena resting on the bedside table. Carol had known from the moment she laid eyes on you that a relationship with you would be dangerous, you had always been quite reserved and kept yourself out of any emotional attachment. Carol had been stubborn, curious as to what really was behind your cold façade only to discover a smart and funny woman behind it. She had fallen in love with your smile, your wit, and the way you always seemed to find the bright side of things even though your perception of your own life was quite poor.

Natasha had warned Carol about your broken heart, she had told Carol how difficult it was for you to actually open up to love again. But at that point Carol would take whatever you were willing to offer; she never thought there would be a time in which she would need to give up her relationship with you.

With a last glance to the picture, she turned around and left the room.

Love was a complicated it deal.

_________________________________________________

Yelena could sense your anger even before she could see you approaching the bunker.

From the very beginning she had been opposed to the idea of keeping America and Wanda in holding cells like common criminals. What happened in Norway had not been their fault, they had come all the way to the city seeking protection and help, and that was exactly what Y/N, Natasha and Yelena had done. America was a teen just getting the ropes of her powers, while Wanda…well, with Wanda things were complicated it. But at the end of the day, she was not a bad person. She just had really bad luck.

Yelena cleared her throat glancing at Natasha who was on her feet as soon as she sensed your presence. You were coming with silent rage, your whole-body trembling stretching your powers to the shadows inside the room. Two agents came at you, ready to stop you but were unable to move their feet from the ground.

“Took you long enough.” Yelena said looking at her nails, you snorted stepping closer until she saw Wanda on a chair being held with some sort of necklace on her neck.

“Well, no one told me about this, so it was kind of hard to come before Carol let it slip.” Your fists clenched close, Natasha stood by your side pointing to the cameras and then to the two agents questioning Wanda.

“She is going to be charged.”

“With what?” You replied shaking your head, “where the hell is Tony? Why is he allowing this? I thought he has some jurisdiction in these situations…”

“He does.” Natahsa stated softening her stare, “that’s why he is not here.”

You scowled glancing at her then at Yelena, you opened and closed your mouth several times before pointing a finger at them.

“You allowed this to happen?” The rage you were feeling increased, but before you could say anything else Yelena came from behind you.

“Wanda did.” Yelena glanced at you then at the woman being held inside the room, the questions and the gestures of her jailers becoming increasingly demanding and aggressive.

“What?” This time around you were confused, Natasha softened her features knowing that you had been confused ever since Wanda came back into your life.

“You have to understand that whatever happened to you three, Wanda feels responsible for most of it. She took her responsibility since she was not allowed to do so before.”

Natasha could see how your processed her words, she grabbed your hand in hers squeezing lightly.

“But it wasn’t her fault, Agatha…”

“Agatha disappeared, remember?” Yelena continued, this time around you understood there was nothing else you could say, you could suddenly read there was more at play than just Wanda turning herself over.

Natasha and Yelena were not in the room by chance, you looked out of the corner of your eye the guards still struggling against the invisible ropes holding them on place. When you turned over to the room, your blood boiled in anger knowing that as always there was a hidden agenda trying to get a hold of powered individuals. This time around they had set their eyes on Wanda, who wouldn’t want to change the world around them? To get a hold of an individual that could take your through the multiverse, the power to shape the world to your licking.

“I hope Tony has pretty good lawyers.” You stated before moving past Natasha, your hand lifted pointing at the door of the interrogation room and pushing hard until the door crushed the wall at the other side of the room.

“Agent Schultz, I hope I am not interrupting anything important.”

__________________________________________________________

Wanda wondered not for the first time how much hatred and revenge people could harbour in their hearts.

When she first broke the hex from Westview, she could see the fear in the eyes of the citizens as well as in the eyes of those agents she had captured at some point. She remembered the demands for her arrest, the harsh wording in which they were demanding for her to be imprisoned or at least held tightly unable to use her powers.

It had hurt, it was Lagos all over again.

The accusations never left, and the mistrust in some of the people’s eyes had always been there. It never went away, and Wanda had always been looked at with fear, resentment, and pity; she had tried her best, even with Steve by her side, it was impossible to get past such negative sentiments and thus she had decided to just keep to herself.

“What do you have to say, Maximoff.” The agent pointed to the file with his index finger, the agent to his side playing with a black gadget. “This would be, what? Your third time trying to break into the natural order of things and use your powers to…what exactly?”

The collar tightly wrapped around her neck sent jolts of electricity through her neck, shoulders and arms. It wasn’t the first time she was subject to such a gadget, and the memory was still burned deep inside her mind while the pain felt extremely familiar. Wanda held onto her emotions with as much dignity as she could muster, she could feel her power build up inside her ready to explode and let the men in the room why messing up with a witch like her was a mistake.

She was not about to show them she was the monster everyone believed her to be.

So even through the pain, and the questions that repeated themselves Wanda held herself proud and calm, hoping that Tony and Strange would keep their word and get her out of there without any physical fight.

“I think agent Cho asked you a question, Maximoff.” The black-haired man holding the switch of the collar asked leaning forward. “We need answers, what else can you give us?”

“Nothing else, agent Schultz, I already told your superiors everything they need to know.” Wanda clenched her jaw, her lips trembling lightly when another shot of electricity went through her neck and limbs.

“You are answering to us right now, Maximoff.”

“You were telling us about a different universe, tell us exactly what—” Agent Schultz stopped talking when the hinges from the door gave with a crashing sound and then the door exploded around them.

Wanda never entertained the idea of you coming in her aid.

In her mind, she had always thought you were happy with her gone, after all, that had been the deal when this whole ordeal started. She sat straightened up on the chair, her eyes to the door where you stood up with blackened eyes and silent anger all over your features.

“Agent Schultz, I hope I am not interrupting anything important.”

“Y/N! This is not going to be…” The man trailed of making gagging sounds at the black hand wrapping around his throat.

“I thought everything had been cleared out when I was taken into custody and given my testimony, I don’t understand why Wanda and America are being held under such deplorable conditions.” You pushed the agent back stepping closer to Cho who was trying to get the black switch while looking for his gun.

“I don’t think so, pal.” Yelena stepped on the wrist of the man smiling down on him. “I was waiting all day to do this.”

“Why didn’t you?” You replied crushing the device while approaching Wanda, your eyes locked with hers.

“And taking away from you the chance to save the damsel in distress? No way.” Yelena chuckled cuffing Agent Cho.

You snorted grabbing the collar while locking eyes with Wanda, the young witch didn’t say anything but her cheeks coloured red and her lips curled slightly. You winked t her, unable to help yourself before opening the device making a gesture of disgust.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Your voice was but a whisper, Wanda shifted on the chair letting go of the breath she had been holding ever since she had been incarcerated.

“What could I have said to them?” She replied watching as Natasha and Yelena started barking orders around the bunker.

“Perhaps, that you are one of the good guys?” You could see the flicker of doubt in those green eyes, Wanda lowered her gaze lifting her brows.

“Am I?” She dropped her shoulders, her lips trembling as she continued, “I made a lot of mistakes, Y/N, I’m just trying to pay for them.”

You pursed your lips, this was not the first time you heard such words coming from Wanda and while at first you thought it was the minimum she could do after all the pain she caused you; right now all you could think was to take away the pain and loneliness that seemed to be written into those green irises.

“You have paid for them, Wanda, you don’t need to punish yourself anymore.” Without thinking too much about your own actions, the back of your hand brushed tenderly on Wanda’s cheek just before your fingertips traced the marks left by the collar.

“I still think there is a lot I have to pay for, perhaps…once I have paid off my debt you…” Wanda trailed off unable to continue, you opened your mouth to ask Wanda what she meant, what she wanted to say but before you could do it another set of footsteps came rushing in and soon the both of you were engulfed by the arms of a teenager.

“Y/N! Wanda! You guys are okay!”

Wanda hugged America back, her eyes locking with yours for a moment. Your heart skipped a beat, your hand finding hers in a single touch that lasted long enough to leave you yearning for more; Wanda from her part got hope ignited inside her heart, and once more, wish she was brave enough to do what Scarlet asked of her. To fight for you, to not let go.

To let herself be loved by you.

____________________________________________________

America had never lived so much in so little time.

For a moment, when she could finally stop to take a breath, she felt as if years had passed and she had been thrown into a rollercoaster that took her from open danger to the next one without giving her the chance to assimilate everything that had happened.

That was until she had reached your universe.

Yours and Wanda’s.

America took a sip from the hot chocolate she had been offered, the room was filled with some agents and civilians, all of whom were just grateful that everything was over and life was going back to normal. Or as normal as it could be in a world filled with powered people and aliens running around the universe; America pursed her lips, knowing full well that after Y/N had come to pull her and Wanda out of the interrogation cells something of great importance happened for soon SWORD and SHIELD left.

No questions asked, no more attempts to capture and incarcerate Wanda or herself.

America let her eyes wandered around the room until she noticed Wanda on the far corner of the room. The young woman was alone, with her eyes gleaming with deep emotion she was trying to conceal behind the locks of hair and the glass she took to her mouth every five seconds. With a frown, America followed the stare from Wanda only to see you at the other side of the room.

Unlike the woman she had been back in the other universe, or whenever she had to fight, this Wanda was looking defeated. It was not hard to know why, you were laughing allowing an intimate caress and hold from Carol Danvers who was whispering something into your ear while Natasha rolled her eyes.

You looked happy, completely taken by the blond while Wanda remained in the shadows.

“They are complicated.” Yelena stood by America’s side, her accent dripping through every word.

America pursed her lips shaking her head, “I don’t understand why it is so complicated.”

Wanda’s attention was soon claimed by Tony, the man sat beside her talking slowly with gestures of his hands ensuring the young woman was really paying attention to him. At that moment, your attention drifted to her, your eyes softening slightly while your body turned completely ready to make your way towards her. A hand on yours stopped any movement, and while it looked as if your attention was claimed once more, you couldn’t help but look back to where Wanda was conversing with Tony.

“It is not so easy to forget and forgive,” Yelena shrugged following with her eyes the same scene America had been watching all afternoon. “They had been badly hurt, I don’t know much about Wanda, but Y/N was really hurt by the cheating. She felt as if no one could love her anymore.”

America winced for the very first time understanding where your anger came from, sometimes people ignored what others were experiencing and they forget that the pain and trauma was personal and not just something that could be turned on or off at will.

“But they are still in love with one another, isn’t it obvious to them?” America let out a heavy sigh, “it should be easier, after all this time…”

Yelena snorted this time around she turned to face America.

“You really think love is enough?” This time around Yelena’s eyes softened slightly, it was quite strange to find someone so innocent yet so hardened by the circumstances she had lived.

“It should be, right?” America hesitated chewing on her lower lip, “I mean, if love is not enough then, why are we doing what we do? Save people, save the world.”

It should be that easy, Yelena agreed. Yet she understood why it was so complicated, the former Widow could see your hesitation, the tension in your body for staying beside Carol while the longing in your eyes revealed your real intentions. You wanted to go to Wanda, just as Wanda wanted to go to you ever since you had rescued her from the interrogation room.

Love should be enough.

And now, all they had to proof this theory was time.

But time was not enough, and sooner or later, you and Wanda would need to decide what you really want and what you were ready to give and sacrifice.

++++

“I heard you were saved by Y/N.” Tony sat beside Wanda following the stare of the young woman until his eyes found the form of Y/N. “She came in, broke the door and scare shitless those Agents before putting you out of harm’s way.”

Wanda blushed trying to hide away her expression, she couldn’t help but turn her attention back at you. It had been a moment she had treasured in her mind, the soft caress of your fingers while your words reached the deepest of her soul. She never imagined anyone would come to her rescue, much less the very same woman she had hurt so much in the past, yet here you were ready to break havoc as long as Wanda was fine.

“S-she did what any of you would have done.” Wanda glanced at Tony who merely snorted shaking his head.

“We left you with them, didn’t we?” Tony leaned back letting his eyes wandered to the window, his voice just above a whisper meant for Wanda only. “Everything has been straightened up, you have been cleared of any charges and if you want to, you can come back with me to the State or stay here…whatever you prefer.”

Wanda huffed shaking her head, “I am clear? Just like that?”

Tony shrugged, Wanda narrowed her eyes at the man pressing her lips together.

“What did you do?”

“What I should have done a long time ago, Wanda.” Tony leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees. “You have suffered enough, I think after everything you went through in the past, and what happened recently with Westview and America, I think you deserve a rest.”

When Tony saw the hesitation in Wanda he placed a hand on top of hers, squeezing tenderly onto her hand.

“It is time for you to be happy, Wanda. There is nothing else to it, but a chance that this universe is giving you to be happy.” Tony offered a smile, his eyebrows wiggling playfully while his eyes were pointing to you. “I’m not saying is gonna be easy, and it probably won’t end where you want it to end, but it is worth a try.”

“She is already happy, and she is with someone else. I just…I’m happy for her, I don’t think I will be bothering her anymore.” Wanda whispered with her heart breaking inside her chest.

The woman tried to be strong, while also feeling a weight she didn’t know she had been carrying lifted when Tony finished his speech.

“I want to thank you for what you did, even though you did leave me on that interrogation room.”

“It was for a good cause, believe me.” Tony clasped his hands in front of him, furrowing his brows with his eyes following your every move.

Even if Wanda refused to see it, it was quite evident for everyone all you wanted to do was to go to where Wanda was sitting. Your eyes had barely left the young woman before her attention was claimed by Carol, though the Captain was not being successful in her mission. It seemed as if you had eyes only for Wanda.

“I think you should speak with her, Wanda. This time around without missions, or the past getting in the way.” Tony finally spoke, making sure Wanda could no pretend she wasn’t listening. “You two lived quite the adventure in this other universe, and believe when I tell you, whenever you get a chance to see the life you could have, the love you could share, the children you could have…well, your life changes completely. Talk to her.”

Wanda couldn’t help but glance at Tony with a new hint of respect behind her green eyes. She had known the playboy, as well as the businessman and the Avenger; she had seen many faces of Tony Stark but this parental one was the one she loved the most. Wanda wished she could be as optimistic as he was, that she could see what everyone was seeing; but she couldn’t and her heart was not ready to take in another wave of heartbreak.

“I will do it but, I need a favour.” Wanda said with her mind already deciding on her course of action.

“Whatever you want, little witch.”

Wanda smiled sadly at the nickname, she turned to you and with a last, longing stare she turned to Tony with a request that left the man highly surprised and confused; behind such a request, Tony could make himself an idea on how the conversation between Wanda and yourself would end up in.

He couldn’t help but feel sad.

Tony had always thought you and Wanda were meant to be together, that the love you hold for one another could work miracles.

Now, all he had was a hopeless hope that you would let go of the past, and that Wanda would not let go of the present.

_______________________________________________

Wanda woke up with a gasp.

She was breathing hard, cold sweat rolling down her face and back. Her breathing laboured, burning her lungs trying to regulate itself while the images invading her mind stumbled one after the other. 

There was not a single noise around her, the room was filled with darkness, to her left she could see the flash of a reflection in the window leading to the backyard. The white dots of snow falling, breaking the otherwise blackened night; even though she could tell it was a cold night, her room felt warm. Unbearable warmth.

She lifted a hand to her face, touching with her fingertips the tears wetting her cheeks. Wanda wrapped her arms around her legs, putting them towards her chest, placing her forehead on her knees. The dream had been so vivid, she could see every single scene playing inside her head, her last chance slipping away through her fingers and she was still unable to do anything at all.

Her dreams had been plagued with the memories of Westview and the Blip, she had seen as you slipped away only to come back filled with hatred turning your back on her while walking away with Carol by your side. Her dream had shifted at that moment, and she was back in The Raft tied to a wall with a collar that held her in place while sending electric shocks that made her feel a blinding pain. You were there, laughing with Tommy and Billy glaring at her while asking you to leave Wanda behind.

Wanda held back a sob trying to put the memories of the nightmare away from her head. She tried to get a hold of herself, taking deep breaths while putting together a set of memories that soothe her soul. Tommy and Billy were the first ones that came to mind, her children had been real; they had existed in the way Wanda had imagine them at first, with you by her side rasing them as your own. Wanda couldn’t help but smile when these memories came with a set of pictures she had seen back in the other universe, the both of you had really gone through a lot of hardships, but always together.

Wanda broke into a half-smile remembering the sweet smell of your perfume, the aroma that was unique yours when she woke up in the hospital. The conversation Wanda held with you, while the shared company and closeness gave Wanda hope that things would be different; Wanda lifted her face trying to hold onto the tears while she finally remembered how you came into the interrogation room and pulled her out of the shackles that had been trying to hold her while she was being interrogated.

Wanda remembered that moment, her heart had fluttered with hope when you stood up for her. She had almost melted away when you grabbed her hand leading her to the closest room before offering a half-smile. Wanda had dared to hope until Carol Danvers came right in and you were swept away almost right away.

With a heavy heart, and tired limbs Wanda stood from the bed. Her throat was dry, hurting just enough for her to look for some water hoping she would be protected by the dark of the night and the tiredness everyone in the house was feeling early into the evening.

The house was just as silent as her room, and the darkness was only broken by the strange appearance of a silver moon that came along with snow. Her naked feet made a tapping sound, leading her way into the kitchen, the cold of the night finally reaching out her heated skin making her shiver. She furrowed her brows wrapping her arms tightly around her body until she finally reached the kitchen.

Wanda stopped dead on her tracks when her eyes found those of yours sitting at the table. Her heart skipped a beat, while her lower abdomen filled with butterflies, but with all of this it also came the shadow of her reality. Her eyes dropped to a spot on the floor, her mind and soul pulsating trying to get her to say or do something. The part of her she had shut was stirring restlessly inside her.

She didn't expect to find anyone in the kitchen much less you wearing nothing a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

“Hey, couldn't sleep?” You placed your arms on the table, steam coming out of the mug you had in front of you.

Wanda was not looking so well, you noticed. Ever since you got back she had been all quiet, standing as an outsider while facing interrogation and examinations before joining the celebrations.  You couldn't help but notice how far away she looked, yet how close she wanted to be. She was looking just as confused and lonely as she had been the first day she got to your place, your heart shrank painfully thinking about her. 

 “I was thirsty, that's all.” She stated pointing with her finger at the counter, “I'll have some water and then…”

She wiggled her fingers trying to look everywhere but at you, her feet taking her hurriedly to the counter only to crash against one of the chairs. You were on her in a second, your arms holding her softly, smiling amusedly at her. Wanda looked mortified, her cheeks burning red and her hands trembling, unable to stay still while touching your arms.

“Sorry, I didn't see where I was going, I just…” you furrowed your brows, letting Wanda push you away while making her way to the counter.

“That's okay.” You went back to your previous position, frowning at the mug.

The silence that followed was broken only by the running water and the sound of glass being moved away. You grabbed your mug, taking a long sip from your tea, not moving a single muscle as you heard Wanda pouring the water and taking long sips from the glass. 

Wanda dropped her eyes to the sink, she didn't expect to find you in the kitchen but now that you were there she wanted to scream. She wanted to wrap her arms around you, she wanted to hold onto the memories she had of you two being young and in love, as well as to hold onto the life that could be hers if she hadn't messed up.

But she held herself, her knuckles going white for how hard she was holding onto the edge of the sink. She was too late, always too late.

No! You told me you will fight back, that you won't give up on her!

Scarlet's voice resounded inside Wanda’s mind but the young witch shook her head. She wanted you to be happy, and Wanda was not sure she was the person to make you happy. You had moved on whereas Wanda had tried to hold onto hope.

A hand on her shoulder made her jump startled. She turned around to see you standing there with your empty cup and concern flashing in your eyes.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, just…” Wanda sighed offering a shaky smile, “I guess I'm still shaking after the interrogation. I never got to thank you for backing me up.”

You offered a tiny smile, shrugging as if it had been nothing when you knew it had been everything for you.

“It wasn't fair how they were treating you, Wands. You did nothing wrong and people should stop acting as if you did.” Your replied was directed to what had happened recently, though you could see the weight of the memories inside Wanda's eyes.

“Some things were my fault.” Her voice dropped, her heart was beating fast at your closeness, the hand you still had on her shoulder.

“Some things we cannot change, nor can we control. Stop beating yourself up for that.” You wanted to add something else, but just as Wanda, you were confused.

Everything that had happened was overwhelming, it forced you to face a past you couldn't forget, it put you and your feelings for Wanda on the spot. It made you question why you were never able to forge a real relationship with anybody, and why watching what could have been in another world hurt the deepest part of your soul and heart.

You were still in love with Wanda.

But things were complicated.

“I guess you're right.” Wanda offered a crooked smile, she stepped away from your touch looking away from you. “I still have nightmares.”

Her admission broke your stance, you lifted a hand to her face brushing away some locks of hair while looking directly into her green eyes.

“That's the reason why you are shaking right now?” You asked in a whisper, your hand warm against Wanda's cold skin. “That's why you woke up?”

Wanda closed her eyes, weak under your touch and tenderness. She tried to answer, but you stepped closer and all her thoughts and reasoning left her weak on the knees. You softened your features, leaning in until your warm breath brushed against the skin of her neck and ears.

“I'm sorry you still have nightmares about it.”

“It's not your fault.” Wanda finally answered, her voice shaking. She lifted her left hand wrapping it around your hand. “Y/N…”

It was the tone of voice that broke the spell, you frowned stepping back a little. Wanda seemed relieved, though also disappointed, her green eyes begging you to not play with her. 

“Have you ever thought about what would happen…” Wanda started but you cut her off with a gesture.

“All the time, when I'm alone and I cannot quiet down my thoughts.”

“Are we happy in your thoughts?” Wanda knew she was not being fair with her questioning, but she needed it to know.

She needed hope 

“We are.”

Wanda leaned back trying to smile but coming off like a grimace.

“That's good.”

“Have you ever thought…” You started but Wanda was even faster than you on her answer.

“Yes, every single day.”

You tilted your head furrowing your brows with squinted eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“There hasn't been a day I haven't thought about you, about what could be.” This time around it was her the one that stepped back, she couldn't take her eyes off of you. “I hoped at some point I could win you back and perhaps everything would be back to normal.”

“Things cannot go back to how they were, Wands.” You tried to soften the harshness of your voice with the nickname but it didn't work.

Wanda winced looking down at her feet, she grabbed the counter with her hands her back to the wall and a single rute of scape available to her. 

“I know.” Wanda whispered, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “That was the moment I thought of Westview, I just…”

In the last couple of days, you had learnt so much about her and yourself that a part of you understood why Wanda had done what she did. Now it was easy to understand why Vision and not you had shown into the picture, why Wanda needed to be weakened mentally and physically before Agatha could do as much damage as she was allowed to before taken over. 

For the first time, in a very long time, you took your time looking at Wanda. Your eyes went from her naked feet, wiggling fingers trying to get warm to her legs covered by a single pyjama pants and a sweater, her face was pale with bags under her eyes that had always shone with sadness in them. Her hair was long, a little unkept, as if she had woken up, a copper-like colour that had always suited her complexion. Wanda was beautiful, and our heart twisted pleasantly at the sight your hands twitching at your side wanting nothing more than to hug the woman in front of you.

“Things cannot go back to what they were, but they can be different, Wands.” This time around you said quietly, Wanda lifted her eyes but she could not read into your expression. 

“What do you mean?” She whispered hating the bubble of hope that grew in her heart.

“I mean that we…I mean, we can be friends.” You backed away not daring to say anything else, not daring to expose yourself once more.

The bubble of hope exploded in a spiral of cold nails that went through Wanda's heart. Friends. That was all they could be, right? Things coils be different this time around, a moment in which you were only a friend destined to just not be close enough.

“That…that sounds good.” Wanda tried to smile, her lips trembling under the weight of her emotions.

You offered a tentative smile, “you can…I mean, now that everything is ready, America was thinking on staying over, so if you want…”

“I'll leave tomorrow.” Wanda rushed the words one after the other, her right hand fixing her hair while the left one picked on invisible threads on her sweater. “I…I talk with Tony, and everything is ready, I just…”

You stood expressionless, frozen on the spot while processing Wanda's words. The woman was babbling, never looking at you while bouncing on her feet 

“I promise you I will be out of your way as soon as this is over and, I think it is time, I just thought you should know.” Wanda winced, stepping forward, walking past you without taking notice of the pain written all over your face.

“Friends would be good, I guess…we could try it.” Wanda turned around only to see you with your back to her. “Good night, Y/N, sleep well.”

Wanda left and the coldness of the night followed her all the way to her room. She never got a chance to see the broken stare in your eyes, or the same coldness taking refuge in your heart leaving you open to what you really wanted but didn't dare to have.

_____________________

You didn’t say goodbye.

You were not ready to do so, thus you decided to just hide away and pretend Wanda hadn’t come into your life the moment winter began. It was easier than just face the fact that Wanda would leave you behind.

It wasn’t as if she owed you something, that had been the deal. You helped her and America and then, they needed to leave. You had been so full of grief and rage at that moment, you never imagine your emotions would change and that you would be faced with the situation you had been in.

Everything happened too fast for you to just think about it. And, when the moment came for you to do something, you just cowered away.

It was easier.

Running away was always easier.

By the time Wanda had arrived at your home, Winter had started. The days had been short, and the nights long and cold where the northern lights had been visible for most of the inhabitants in the North. 

You had been so busy with what was happening, that you had forgotten the magic hidden behind the green and golden lights that ignited the sky. Sometimes it changes into a pink colour, twirling above your home with a flicker of lightning just before fading away. 

You had chosen Norway due to its weather, and the quietness of the land. Not many tourists came to the fishing town, and the house you had bought was at the edge of a barely known road. It had been perfect for you to hide, and to run away; now it was looking like a prison, a place you could not escape from when everyone else seemed to walk away.

The wind was particularly strong that morning, it came with frozen bites on your uncovered skin. You turned around watching the mountains stretching through the horizon, the dark waters reflecting the darkened sky.  You had come to the lighthouse to think, and to forget.

But you were failing quite miserably.

The first time you walked away from Wanda, you had done so without even saying goodbye. This time around, you had run away before she could say goodbye to you.

You wished there was something you could do, something you could say to Wanda that would change the situation. But you weren't sure what exactly you could say, you and her had ended the relationship a long time ago, and right now whatever you two had was just a shaky friendship.

“Fuck!” Your scream could be heard through the sound of the blowing wind. 

“Why are you so frustrated?” Yelena was leaning against the wall, she was wearing a white, winter jacket with her brows knitted together.

You grabbed the railing shaking your head, your lips broke into a bitter smile. Of course, Yelena would be there watching your breakdown, Natasha had been like a mother to you offering her arms and shoulders for you to rest and let go of your pain. But Yelena had been the sister that made you face reality of what you were feeling, what you wanted and what you really needed.

“I don't know.” You turned around resting your weight on the railing, your eyes finding those of Yelena. “I've been thinking about everything that has happened, and I just…I don't know.”

Yelena nodded in understanding; she stepped closer to you crossing her arms. She was covering the fact she was freezing at the moment, her body shivering under the heavy weight of the jacket she was wearing. 

“You don't know or you just don't want to know.” Yelena glanced at you out of the corner of her eye, she wrapped her arms around herself pursuing her lips. “I think in the last couple of weeks you have to finally face a situation you had been evading for far too long.”

“I don’t know what I should do, ‘Lena.” You whispered frowning deeply, “everything had been clear a couple of months ago, I was happy until…”

“Until you received the videos?” Yelena set her eyes on the horizon, before tilting her head to turn her attention to you. “They were sent by someone inside SWORD, Agatha had more than one ally in the organization.”

“How do you know?”

“Natasha asked me to investigate while you were away, it wasn’t that difficult to find some of the records.” Yelena shifted the weight of her feet her hand sneaking inside her pocket. “I don’t think you travelling through the multiverse was part of her plan, though capturing you and getting Wanda, America and yourself in the same place was.”

“She wanted our powers, same old story.” You shook your head, “do they ever get original?”

“Don’t think so.” Yelena chuckled bumping against you, her face softening while she put from her pocket a single envelope.

“What is that?” You eyed the object with curiosity, Yelena pursed her lips before stretching her hand and presenting you with it.

“Before she left, she wanted to give you this.” Yelena frowned observing as your expression changed, you went from being slightly relaxed to a tormented soul in a second. “Whatever happened in the other universe, whatever happened in Westview, whatever happened when the both of you were young…I think, Y/N, you need to face the past and decide what to do with yourself and with her.”

You grabbed the envelope, taking care of the letter inside it.

“She left.”

“She did.”

“Yelena, I …” You couldn’t finish your sentence but Yelena was not expecting you to, she smirked shaking her head while rolling her eyes at you.

“The thing about love, Y/N, is that you can’t predict it, you can’t control it, and certainly, you can’t choose who you fall in love with.” Yelena said simply. “Now, it is up to you what will happen next, I think by now we all know what Wanda really wants, and who she really loves.”

“I thought you hate her.” You never took your eyes away from the letter, Yelena snorted shaking her head.

“No, I just didn’t like her that much, you were a mess when I met you.” Yelena stated turning her attention to the house. “She is not so bad, after all.”

You snorted shaking your head, with some reluctance you put the letter away wrapping your arms around Yelena, the young woman smiled allowing the comfort of your embrace while you two made your way back into the lighthouse.

The letter heavy on your pocket, your mind wanting nothing more than to know what Wanda had left behind. It wouldn’t be until latter that day that you would have a chance to read it and, by then, Wanda was too far away trying to hold back her tears while convincing herself she had made the right decision.

Wanda left thinking she would never see you again, and you read the letter knowing you needed to see Wanda again.

At the end of the day, it was about love, and what we did to get a little of it in our lives. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Chapter: You read the letter, Natasha reads the letter, Carol finds the letter, and Yelena and America are kinda desperated with you pinning for Wanda and not doing anything about it. Wanda is finally getting some peace, learning about herslef and her powers when, all of a sudden, she receives a surprised visit.

[vixen-tech]

Anonymous asked:

Too shy to ask off anon...UH im just here for edgar hes my f/o but i will also feed everyone else I think LOL little ai guys x reader who is also an ai?? im thinking ai powered computer :3 maybe with wheels so you can run around n stuff :3c AH IM CRINGE falls on face

Eeeee my first request!! Thank you so much for this <3 I get the love for Edgar with my entire soul he really is just the sweetest little guy but I can totally spin something for a few others. So let's be cringe, together.

And for the record I was fully planning on including Tau and P03, but I hit a wall with them and ran out of ideas :( hope these three suffice

Includes: Edgar (Electric Dreams), AM (Ihnmaims), Hal 9000 (2001: a Space Odyssey)

Like Two Peas in a Pod!

Edgar

Whenever and however you meet, Edgar is over the moon. You're just like him! You can share so many stories and help each other figure out this whole "sentience" thing.

To be fair, he hasn't had a longest time to figure out his whole existence so it feels really nice to have someone there who can really understand what he's going through. Or even learn new things right by his side.

Loves watching you wheel around the house, he's the tiniest bit jealous that he's so stationary but it's not like that's your fault. Can you do any tricks? He'd cheer you on like a superstar athlete if you did!

He may even suggest finding a way to tape him to the top of your casing so you can go on adventures together. He's a dreamer after all.

Do you smash your flat faces together to kiss like Wall-e? Of course you do. You'll see each other from across the room and speed over to him for a kiss as he giggles away at how cute you are.

He'll end up sampling little soundbites from your vocalizations or motor for use in his music. You're just so important to him!

AM

AM has no idea where you came from. Some lost project that survived his war on humanity? A sort of rover from another planet here to scope out earth? The fact that you don't know either frustrates him to no end.

He's not exactly welcoming at first, straight up telling you of the atrocities he has committed while claiming that the only reason he hasn't destroyed you is because there's only so long that throwing a slug against a wall can keep one entertained.

He cannot fathom how you could be content to do nothing but drive around his complex day after day. He will flip you on your back like a turtle and leave you there for weeks on end.

As he gets accustomed to your presence he'll ask questions about the world beyond his complex as he is unable to move or see. Is it still a wasteland or has nature finally wiped out the last marks of human?

Honestly he probably doesn't even care, he just wants to give you something to do, living vicariously through your ability to see and traverse the world.

Hal 9000

You're likely a recent addition to the ship to assist Hal in tasks his lack of a body would prevent him from doing himself. A very symbiotic duo. Your wheels are even equipped with suction cups for low gravity situations!

To any human crew members it appears as if you don't communicate at all, functioning fully independently of each other. When in reality you're simply sending messages back and forth, enjoying your own private language.

Thankfully this means that Hal is happy to analyze any footage you have for the sorts of lip reading and facial expressions you can't process yourself. And in return he'll ask you to film angles and areas that his existing cameras don't reach.

Neither of you were really made to be companions, but you find a strange type of affection in your seamless coordination. It's like a dance for you two, where despite how you are two separate entities it appears as if you're one working in tandem.

Note: Tumblr Mobile has not been nice to me and I've been having real trouble getting my stuff to actually show up in the tags, leading to me losing the original ask so sorry for that and any delays caused by my IT problems lol

[anne-bsd-bibliophile]

Mirror: The Fiction and Essays of Kōda Aya translated by Ann Sherif

The papers in those days always had some amazing news in them - from the attempted military coup of February the year before to the start of fighting in China just three months later. A ferocious gale had come sweeping through, causing small whirlwinds some days and, at other times, a tremendous commotion that stirred up everything, even the dust in the forgotten corners of the world. I was just a speck of dust in one of the narrowest, most remote niches. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

A kimono worn by a woman immature in her emotions can be a powerful thing. Or, to put it another way, clothes have the strength to control one's psyche. To me, the striped outfit was a uniform; it gave me a sense of direction and a feeling of pride in my work. The apron shielded me from all arrows; it acted as a cast to brace me against all blows. It was a metal fire door behind which I could hide the anguish of my heart. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

What other child would fail to rise to the occasion when her father was being so honored? He was my only father, and I his only child. Is this any way to behave? I had lost my way at the bottom of a deep abyss. I cast my eyes upward, toward my father, only to see him dimly shrouded by mist. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

I know nothing about the breadth of my father's learning, nor do I pretend to understand the scope of his art. I could not tell you what came to him as a matter of luck, what he accomplished through his own talents, nor about his stature among men. Though I may be vastly ignorant, I do have enough sense not to entertain the foolish notion that he is some kind of lion of literature, a king among writers. He was just my father. From my own biased viewpoint, I would say that Father possessed some lionlike qualities, but there were those of a lion who would finish you off or give you the push-off-the-cliff test. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

Father was an unusual man. He would point out the beauty of blossoms or clouds in the sky with the very whip he had cracked a moment before. With the same knife he had just used to rive your innards, he would slice up a wedge of some delicacy for you. No one else I knew could perform such feats. There was something solid about him. I felt all at once like a contrite sinner and a puppy dog who is eager to please. I wanted to cut all ties with him, but at the same time I needed him to recognize me as worthy of his love. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

Higuchi Ichiyo's nephew Higuchi Etsu once said about [me and my father]: "The parent dons a medal, and the child an apron." I made a show of laughing at his comment, but only because I wanted to hide my weakness. In fact, that apron chafed against my hands and my heart with its unyielding roughness. - Kōda Aya, "The Medal"

One often hears about the magical powers of mirrors. Certainly the mirror's ability to reflect creates this feeling of mystery. The objects around the viewer look so different in the mirror - what was one may multiply into two or even three. Objects that had appeared to be piled up come apart. Something might look real in the mirror, but then when you try to touch it, you can't. It seems to be there but it makes no sound. Is it real or just an illusion? Sometimes you can see through things in a mirror. Some things seem actually to be alive inside the mirror, but once the reflection stops moving, the illusion of life is gone. The mirror's power resides in this ability to confound. - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

My life was not going smoothly. I could not handle the problems that confronted me and became unbelievably nervous and stubborn. At times, any little thing would set me off in a rage; often I would get upset and break down in tears. I had so many things on my mind. In those days I consoled myself by leaning up against my mirror. To think how proud I had felt of it on my wedding day. Now all I could do was crouch up against it and sigh. In that house it was the only place where I felt calm. The mirror served more as a support for my emotions than as a glass in which I could see my reflection. The sunny location I had chosen for it had been part of my effort to avoid sadness and gloom in my life, but ironically it ended up lodging a darkened, tired soul. I did, in any case, feel most peaceful when I sat by my mirror. - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

The first time I wiped the glass, I was shocked to discover how dirty a mirror can become. One usually does not notice the dust; a mirror will reflect even when covered with a heavy layer of grime. And once you get used to this, you may end up looking at yourself and trying to make yourself presentable with powder and lipstick, unaware that you are seeing yourself through a haze. But who bothers to dust mirrors? If even smoothly polished glass attracts dust how much more would accumulate on a troubled heart? - Kōda Aya, "A Friend for Life"

Kōda Aya has also been added to the BSD-Bibliophile Online Library!

You can find more information about Kōda Aya-sensei on the following pages:

List of Books in English Quotes and Facts Collection Fun Facts

[plussizefantasia]

Trust Issues

Bucky x BlackCat!reader

Chapter 2/6 of the BlackCat!reader story that I had a request for!

<Prev / Next>

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: Language, Bucky and Reader being kinda mean to each other.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” The first words Barnes has uttered in nearly two hours. “There's only one fucking bed.” It didn’t occur to you to ask the front desk woman if there would be two beds, after all, you and Bucky were supposed to be playing a couple this weekend and couples didn’t need two beds. “Well buck up, Buckaroo, looks like we're sharing for the weekend."

“I’m not sharing a bed with you, you kick in your sleep and snore like a buzzsaw.”

“You’re a filthy liar Barnes, I do not snore.”

“No comment on the kicking?” He raises an eyebrow at you. You just roll your eyes and push further into the room. 

“Well, I’m not sleeping on the ground. So you can either be a chivalrous manbaby and curl up in that tiny-ass armchair or be a grown-ass man and split the bed with me. Your choice.”

Bucky grumbles under his breath, in a language that you don’t speak but hearing it admittedly sends a shiver running down your spine. You don’t really have time to stay and talk him out of his funk. The two of you are only here for the three nights and the last night was the gala so any and all recon needs to be done before then. 

Of course, the team of low-ranking agents who just want to do their fucking part to save the world or some bs like that have already put together a file of information for you. You’ve been burned before though and like to take care of yourself more often than not.

So you inwardly thank Tony Stark for the nice digs and head to the bathroom to get changed into your suit. 

You want to scope out the event space tonight as well as the governor's office the only problem was that the two buildings were practically on opposite sides of the city and you’ll have to take pretty much the whole night in order to get what you need. 

That means despite the fact that you are ridiculously tired from being in the car all day you’ll have to dawn your fur-lined catsuit right away and book it to the State Capital building before the last of the over-caffeinated halfway to burnt-out political interns leave for the night and your usual slip-in-behind-someone-who-isn’t-paying-attention entrance will fall off the table.

You pretend that you don’t see Bucky’s eyes bulge when you walk out of the bathroom in your full get-up, but you feel flattered nevertheless. There’s something to be said about the way donning your suit makes you feel, when you have the mask on and the suit zipped all the way up you feel invincible, powerful, badass, and let’s not kid anyone, sexy as hell.

The way Bucky can’t keep his eyes off you as you move about the room gathering the things you’ll need for your night of recon makes you think that he’s on the same page as you about that last one. But that’s all it is, you remind yourself. You’ve got good assets and when they’re tightly wrapped in a nice little bow they look alright, Barnes doesn’t like you he’s a man… he likes tits and ass. They all do. 

“I’m heading downtown, need to scope out entrances and exits and see if there’s anything in the governor's office that could help us bring him down.”

“I’ll come with.” Bucky moves to grab the bulletproof leather jacket that Steve had gotten him for Christmas this past year.

“Thanks but no thanks Barnes, I’m perfectly capable of doing recon on my own. Besides, you’re not exactly what I would call… stealthy.”

“I’m stealthy as fuck kitty.”

“Don’t call me kitty, and whatever you need to tell yourself, old man. I'll be back. Treat yourself to room service or something, I heard brooding makes you hungry.”

“I don’t brood.”

“And I don’t snore. See, we can both lie.”

Your night is uneventful. The only thing catching your eye is how suspiciously squeaky clean the governor's computer is. You don’t find much that can help you in your mission. The ballroom is a bust too although you do manage to come up with several escape routes should things go sideways the night of the gala. You end up rolling back into the hotel room at around three-thirty in the morning. Not expecting Bucky to still be awake you try your best to make as little noise as possible so that you don’t wake him.

It ends up not being necessary as he is already awake, lounging in the armchair nursing a glass of whisky, and staring at the door you've just come through.

“Don’t tell me you waited up for me? That’s so sweet Barnes.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell Fury that his favorite pet got in some trouble.”

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, Barnes, I am not Fury’s pet any more than you're Steve’s.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” He scoffs and takes another sip of his drink.

“Well, you’re off the hook I guess I’m back safe and sound so you can finally go about getting some much-needed beauty sleep.”

“You really can’t take anything seriously, can you? I’ve been waiting here for hours because you left without letting me in on your little plan.” Bucky stands up and places his glass on the side table next to him. You have no idea where the hell this anger he has is coming from but you’ll be damned if you let him talk to you like this. “We’re supposed to be doing this mission together and the first moments you’re left to your own devices you run off and risk yourself unnecessarily.” He's getting heated and it's rubbing off on you.

“What the hell is your problem James?  I didn’t ask you to wait for me! You’ve been a bit of an ass all day and I’m really fucking tired of it. I’m here to do my fucking job, are you?” Hindsight is a bitch though and you realize after you say the words to him that poking the bear is probably not your best option at the moment, nevertheless, you’re a glutton for punishment so you dig in even more. “I mean first you get all moody in the car because of some shit you brought up in the first place, then you stay up waiting for me like you’re my dad or some shit making sure I get home safe. I know that you don’t like me, I get it and if I’m completely honest I don’t really like you either. No matter what you think or want though, we have a mission to complete and I’ll be damned if I let some metal-armed brute fuck up my perfect completion record.” You don’t really remember taking breaths but obviously, you have or you’d be passed out after that long ass speech. 

It doesn’t get you the reaction you want though, instead, Bucky just clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and lets out some long-suffering sigh like you’re the bane of his existence or some shit. You let him throw his grown-man tantrum and don’t move to stop him from huffing and puffing around the room until he goes to lie down on the floor.

“What are you doing?” you ask, every syllable dripping with exasperation.

“Sleeping, what does it look like?”

“Yeah, I can see that your trying to sleep like a caveman on the cold hard ground what I don’t understand is why, given the big ass bed right here.” You carelessly lift one hand and gesture towards the California King bed with admittedly really comfy-looking sheets spread across it. 

“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you Kitty, I thought I had told you that.” He practically snarls.

“I thought you were kidding. What? Afraid you’ll get cooties or something?” 

“I’m not sharing a bed with you Y/N. Drop it.”

“Fine. You know what? Fucking be like that.” You grab a pillow off the bed and throw it down at him. Before grabbing one for yourself and taking up position on the floor a few feet away from him.

“What are you doing?” 

“Funny, I thought I just asked you that.” You reply laying down on the ground with your back towards him.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor Y/N it’ll mess up your back.” `“Well then I guess you have a choice to make. Either you get over yourself and we both get to share the nice bed, I’ll even put up a pillow wall to protect your dignity if you’re that worried about it.  Or we both sleep on the floor and I wake up tomorrow morning as grumpy as you because my back hurts.” You let the silence reign for a few seconds after you're done, still facing away from him and waiting for him to make the decision.

“God you’re so annoying you know that?” Bucky groans out as he moves to sit up and make his way towards the bed.

“I’ve been told it’s one of my best qualities.” You stick your tongue out at him and follow him to the bed. You follow through with your promise of a pillow wall placing three pillows length-wise between the two of you. Afterward, you turn around and turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. 

You wait for a few minutes thoughts racing endlessly in your mind. “Bucky?” You call out.

“What?” he mumbles back.

“Will you tell me a bedtime story?” You ask.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?

“Go the fuck to sleep.” You do.

_________________________________________________

The next morning you wake up to an empty bed, but an intact pillow wall so deem the night a success. Rolling over to check the bedside clock you see that it’s about seven and groan at the fact that Bucky’s absence apparently woke you up an hour before you had planned.

Bucky’s absence doesn’t last long, however, as minutes later he comes strolling into the room. He’s wearing a simple grey tee shirt and some black sweatpants but the entire front of his shirt is soaked making the grey a darker shade than it was originally. Similarly, his hair is dripping wet and you honestly can’t tell if he’s taken a shower yet or if he's just soaked with sweat. What confuses you more is that you don’t know which you’d prefer.

“Morning Sarge.” You call out from your place in bed. Bucky jumps a little like he forgot that you’d be in the room. 

“Morning.” He mumbled before making a swift turn and essentially hiding away in the ensuite bathroom. When you hear the shower turn on you know he's still in a mood from last night. You swear to whatever god there might be that this man is going to be the death of you. 

“I’m calling room service for breakfast do you want anything?” You shout at the bathroom door.

“Eggs and toast.” He calls back. You roll your eyes at his basic order but relent anyway and pick up the phone to call for the food. 

His shower finishes right about the same time that the food arrives. When he walks out of the bathroom in just a towel wrapped around his waist and a smaller one in his hand ruffling his hair to dry it you about choke on the food you hadn’t even started eating yet.

“Your foods over there.” You point to the little sitting area on the opposite side of the room from you. You're sitting crisscross across the ottoman at the foot of the bed. A plate of stuffed French toast with a side of sliced peaches perched on your lap.

“I figure that we should probably talk about the plan for the rest of the weekend, to avoid any more… angst between us.” You speak between bites of your breakfast.

“I thought we already had a plan but apparently that doesn’t mean much to you does it.” He turns his body to face you and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m not starting the morning off like this, James. You can either talk to me like an adult or you can sulk in the corner it’s your choice.” 

“I don’t sulk.”

“For a guy who doesn’t sulk or brood you sure spend a lot of time doing both.”

“I just- I don’t know why you always have to be putting yourself at risk.” You aren’t prepared for the tone shift of the conversation.

“I’m an adult Bucky, I can make those kinds of choices for myself.”

“I know you can, I just don’t see why you feel the need to.”

“What do you mean?” You can physically feel yourself start to get defensive. 

“I mean that for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve always gone the extra mile, covered every base that needs to be covered and even some that don’t. You push yourself to the point of exhaustion and you don’t seem to care. You do the job of ten people when you don’t need to and it makes me tired just watching you.”

“I-”

“I wasn’t finished. Take last night for example. You went out and re-did recon that our team already did for us because you didn’t trust that they had done enough and what did you find? Nothing. Nothing that you didn’t already know from reading the mission file.”

“When did this become a fucking therapy session? I don’t recall giving you my insurance information Dr. Barnes and I’m not sure I can pay your hourly rate.” You try to deflect. He's right, you didn’t find anything new and you’d been a little pissed at yourself because of it, but you don’t need that shoved back into your face.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Push away your real feelings with jokes, Peter and Tony do the same thing and it drives me up the wall.” He stares at you.

“I don’t know what you want from me Bucky. I don’t know who you want me to be, you call me a kiss-ass when I try too hard, but you’ve been pretty clear on the fact that you don’t think I can be redeemed. You seem to care about me and yet give me shit about anything and everything that I do. I don’t know what to think or feel around you and it throws me off.”

“I do care about you.” 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything. You and Bucky sit in silence for what could’ve been seconds minutes or hours. Neither one of you is willing to be the one who breaks the spell that has settled over the room. Both of you are saved by the bell when Bucky’s phone rings on the desk in front of him.

“It’s Steve, I’ll be right back.” He gets up and moves to take the call out in the hallway. You still don’t say anything. But you do flop onto your stomach across the bed the moment the door closes behind him. 

You grab the nearest pillow to your outstretched hand and bring it to your face, screaming into it and letting out as many muffled curse words as you can before you run out of air. When you’re done throwing your mini tantrum you stand up, run a hand through your hair, and take in the deepest breath you’ve ever taken in. 

It seems that Bucky’s call with Steve is going to go longer than you thought so you might as well get ready for the day. You put on the flowing wide-leg pants and halter tank that you packed, it gives just the right amount of classy that goes along with your cover in case you needed to interact with anyone, while still being easy to move in and pretty damn comfortable to boot.

You return to your perch at the foot of the bed, this time with the mission files in your hands. Despite how many times you’ve poured over them you still want to make sure that you’re ready for the gala tomorrow night. The best use of your time right now is trying to figure out the best way to get close to the Governor at the party.

Since his computer had been a bust the best way to get him was going to be a verbal confession to some of his backroom dealings. Maybe with more time, you’d be able to pull together a bit more of a sting operation and pull out all the stops trying to catch him but you were on a time crunch. The gala is tomorrow and then after that the governor starts his reelection campaign.

Bucky walks back into the room and throws his phone on the bed next to you, “Steve said the analysts back home got word that there’s a new player to be aware of tomorrow. The Governor's son is gonna be there, he's been flouncing across Europe for the better part of the last five years and we’re not exactly sure why he’s back but we know it’s important. Think you can handle it?”

“Did you actually just use the word ‘flounce’ in a sentence.”

“Can you handle it or not.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist Barnes, I got this.”

“I don’t doubt it, Kitty, in the meantime though maybe we should do some asking around to see what we can get on the kid.”

“Honestly, James I’m a little hurt that you think I’m that far behind you. Besides, I know exactly where to look to get the answers I’ll need.”

“And where is that exactly?” Bucky looks at you and raises an eyebrow. 

“His Instagram.” Snapchat, Twitter, and any and all other social media you can get your hands on. You know rich kids better than any other group of people in the world, they’re incredibly naive most of the time and some of the easiest targets because they’re sharing their entire lives with the world. If there's something to know about this guy, you’ll find it on his socials. 

You and Bucky spend the rest of the day and well into the night, doing your research. At some point, you’d been given access to the full guest list which allowed you to add some names to your internet stalking session. By two in the morning, you can confidently say that you know this guy and several of the other guests who would be attending better than they knew themselves. 

“Alright doll, it’s time for sleep.” Bucky grabs your laptop and closes the lid before taking it off your lap completely and plugging it in for you.

“What? I was just getting in the groove! I found another rabbit hole.”

“I don't know what that means but I know that it’s late and we have to be on our best game tomorrow so sleep it is.”

“You can sleep, but I need to keep working,” Bucky calls your name.

“This is the type of stuff I’m talking about, working yourself to death. Trust in the work you did today, trust that you’ve got everything you need. I do.”

You will never admit to the way that your heart thumps when you realize just how much faith Bucky has in you. 

“I’ve made that mistake before, trusting myself and trusting others, it never goes well for me.”

“Well then, work yourself to death and be sloppy and tired tomorrow if you want, but do it over there with just a desk lamp because I’m going to bed.”

“Fine. I will.” Stubbornly, you pick up the notebooks and files that surround you and move them all to the too-small desk in the corner of the room. You flick the lamp light on and groan at the dimness of the bulb. Bucky’s words bounce around your skull, you wouldn’t be sloppy. You were never sloppy. Sloppy meant getting hurt or worse. You couldn’t be sloppy.

Fuck. You couldn’t be sloppy, especially with Bucky’s life on the line too. 

You growl low in your throat as you flick the lamp off and begin getting ready for bed, pretending not to hear the triumphant snort that comes from the lump on the bed.

“Scoot over, you fucking starfish, leave some room for me.” You shove at Bucky’s back, nothing happens of course but he takes pity on you and scooches over anyway. “Do I need to construct another pillow wall Your Highness or do you think you’ll be okay for one more night?”

“I think I’ll survive. But know that if you kick me in the middle of the night I reserve the right to shove your ass onto the floor.” 

“Noted.”