#well I have managed to post this concussion and all

[ihathbenobiwankenobied]

electric

Part seven of 212th Medic Skull Has Had Enough on ao3

Part one | Part two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part 6

Summary:

Obi-Wan returns from Zygerria and something is off about him.

Word Count: 5,510

Skull was going to kill Cody. 

Sure, it wasn’t Cody’s fault he had been shipped off with half of the 212th to the Outer Rim, but somehow it still seemed like a personal slight to Skull’s sanity. 

There had been a mission Skull had been made aware of only by Kix, who had thankfully been employed to assist in a pick-up in its aftermath. Skull had been told Obi-Wan Kenobi was on a solo mission, which wrongfully, he had assumed was diplomacy related. What had been left out, was that solo mission only meant without the 212th, not completely alone. 

Kadavo.

Kix had commed him, voice tight and tension growing with each spoken word. “Rex was pretty banged up, but the General…isn’t doing well.” Kix said solemnly, voice dropping an octave like saying the words would somehow make the situation worse.

Skull hadn’t apologized for swearing. Instead, he asked for a list, outlining what Kix could observe. “He won’t– he won’t let me near him. Skywalker’s got him pinned in the corner– you know how they are.” 

Skull almost laughed, albeit bitterly, at the thought that Skywalker was the protective one. If only Kix could see Cody in action; Skull would liken it to taking on a group of rabid banthas with a butter knife. One didn’t cross Cody, where the General was involved. 

All Kix could observe were electrical burns across every inch of his torso, too many abrasions to count, and a clear concussion, among other things. It was already a list too long for Skull’s comfort.

Obi-Wan would be arriving on the Negotiator within minutes, Kix had said, sounding worse for wear himself. There were many injured Togrutas headed to the Resolute with him, not to mention the underlying tension regarding the nature of the whole slavery ordeal, as it was. Even the thought of it was enough to make Skull’s chest burn. 

The minute he placed his comlink down, turning to Oxy with a thick sigh, Skull knew it was his responsibility to tell Cody.

Cody .

Why couldn’t he just already be on the Negotiator with the second half of the 212th? It would certainly make it easier to corral the presumed mess of Obi-Wan Kenobi that would be delivered to the medbay. 

“What’s wrong, Skully?” Oxy asked, spinning mindlessly in his desk chair instead of working on reports like he said he had planned to do. 

“That was some diplomatic mission…” Oxy raised his eyebrows and momentarily stopped spinning.

“The General’s on his way in–electrical burns.” Skull clarified, not happy with the prospect at all. Electric burns, even with the help of bacta, weren’t pleasant to deal with, and in Skull’s very limited experience, were more painful than blaster wounds in some cases. 

“Slavers.” Skull clarified with another exasperated sigh. That was enough information for Oxy to get the picture. 

Oxy cringed, and stood from his chair, “Suppose we bring a hoverchair then?” 

Skull only nodded and plucked a few syringes of mild sedatives and painkillers from his stash, just in case, placing them in his utility belt before strapping it on over his blacks.

“Might be a lost cause– I have never seen the General willingly sit down in one.” Skull said, realizing that the only times the General had been cooperative, it was when Cody was present. 

Karking Cody.

Skull, regardless of protocol regarding medical emergencies, knew he needed to comm him with an update, it was the very least he could do.

So he did, waiting impatiently for the Commander to pick up his comlink. 

When Cody did–finally– he did not sound happy. “Skull– I’m in the middle of something– what is it?” Impatience tainted his tone and Skull could practically imagine him standing with crossed arms over his chest looking faintly annoyed. 

“Well hello to you too, Cody.” Skull said with as much forced pleasantness as he could muster. Of course Cody was going to be difficult; when was he not? 

“Hi– what do you want?” Cody said with equally as much sarcasm. 

“It’s your boyfriend–again.” Skull said, motioning for Oxy to follow him with the hoverchair as he stepped out of the medbay and started toward the hangar. Cody let out a muffled grunt, but didn’t actively try to deny it. Baby steps.

“Is he alright?” Cody asked, his voice more tentative than it had been seconds early. 

“Haven’t seen the damage yet, but it sounds… unpleasant. Did he tell you where he was going on his solo mission?” Skull didn’t want to be at the center of another famous bickering war between the two of them if Kenobi had failed to be informative yet again.

“He told me Zygerria, made it sound fairly routine…” Cody’s voice trailed off, like he knew that Obi-Wan had considerably downplayed the situation already. 

“Well if dealing with slavers is routine, I suppose he’d be right. He’s got major electrical burns from what Kix has told me. They were using electrostaffs on him.” Skull held back on speaking of the other probable injuries, already sensing he had worried Cody. 

“I–kriff.” Cody’s voice broke and he audibly gulped, “I am going to try and get back to the Negotiator– we’re almost wrapped up.” Skull figured that was a lie, that it would probably be at least a day before Cody would arrive back on the Negotiator.

“Cody, he’ll be okay. I’ll take good care of him; you know I will.” Skull tried to sound reassuring, but Cody let out a shuddering breath in response. The beginnings of panic.

“...I’ll be there soon.” Cody responded, despondent, and exhaustion evident. 

Skull wanted to remind him that the General would live, that he wasn’t in dire straights.

But it wasn’t really about life or death when it came to Cody and his General.

It was– as horribly disgusting as it sounded to Skull as he formulated the idea– everything in between life and death that made them tick. It was time, and every moment spent with each other through the highest mountains and lowest valleys. 

“See you then, Commander.”

Skywalker emerged first from the cruiser. He was shortly followed–very slowly – by a limping General Kenobi. He looked dazed, then pained as he scuffed one of his feet across the ramp. Skywalker grabbed his elbow to support him when Obi-Wan stumbled, letting out a muffled cry as he stayed bent at the waist. 

Skull took that as his cue to come closer, hoverchair in front of him and Oxy as they approached the bottom of the ramp. 

Skywalker nodded his thanks, then turned to Obi-Wan, who was still doubled over, now a trembling hand pressed over his mouth. Skull cursed internally for not thinking to bring a bag or something, but it was already too late. 

Skywalker hissed softly as Obi-Wan heaved, the meager watery contents of his stomach spilling onto the ramp. He straightened after a moment, with a profound wince, and the usual spark in his eyes entirely missing. Instead, he looked dull.

“Sorry, Master…” Skywalker said quietly to him, hand hovering near his shoulder, but not touching him. Skull would have found it strange, but he could already see the tattered remains of the back of Kenobi’s tunic. 

He was covered in burns and scrapes and bruises. Skull wouldn’t want to be touched in a condition like that.

“Brought a chair for you, General.” Skull said, voice apologetic as the General stared at him with dull grey eyes. 

He didn’t immediately refuse, letting Skywalker help him the rest of the way down the ramp and into the chair, but he protested as he sat on the very edge of it. “I– this isn’t necessary.” The words came out weakly, almost gruff, and without a hint of his usual stubbornness. It was almost like he objected out of habit, rather than desire. He refused eye contact with Skull.

Skull noticed he didn’t lean back into the chair, his back hovering inches in front of the back. With only a glance, Skull could tell the flesh of his back was still raw, tiny bits of fresh blood staining some of his tattered robes. 

“It’s necessary, General.” Skull said, noting the way that Skywalker hovered, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself or how to say goodbye. He was supposed to head back to the Resolute afterall. “I’ll take good care of him.” Skull told Skywalker, nodding at him in reassurance. 

The Jedi clenched his jaw, then looked away with a hand on his chin, “I know… there’s just–” He cut himself off, walking a few steps out of earshot of the General and motioning for Skull to follow. “He’s– there’s something off about him. He keeps… staring off, like he’s not even there at all.” 

Skull wanted to brush it off as a trauma response, afterall, Kenobi looked hollow behind the eyes as it was. 

“I’ll look out for that.” Skull responded and motioned for Oxy to start pushing the General toward the medbay, the less time wasted, the better. 

Skywalker headed back into the cruiser, looking back at his former Master like he didn’t want to  leave him behind. Skull hoped he knew Kenobi was in good hands.

“Alright General,” Skull started as Oxy maneuvered the chair through the first of the long hallways to the medbay, “Can you explain what happened?”

Skull was a few paces ahead of the chair and looked back to notice the General’s eyes followed the lines of the floor. He grimaced, looking up at Skull with a frown.

“Oh– nothing major. Just a few electrical burns.” He winced as he gestured toward his back, then returned his shaking hand to his lap. Skull could see the bruises on his face and the ones beginning to form on his hands around the tiny, dried-blood covered lacerations.

He was lying to himself, per usual.

“Kix thought you might have a concussion– does your head hurt, General?” Kenobi seemed to think about it for a moment, then offered a shrug. 

“Perhaps a little.” He admitted, though he didn’t offer any clarification. 

Oxy asked him a few more questions, mostly about the nature of the mission, as they approached the medbay. Skull was thankful that a couple more of his colleagues had arrived, both Splint and Copper already prepping for the still bleeding wounds on the General’s back. Skull must have called them in early for their shifts.

Pushing the hoverchair up to the side of the medical bed in the far corner of the medbay, Oxy offered a hand to the General, but was promptly ignored. 

Figures. Stubborn kriffing Jedi, Skull thought. 

“C’mon General,” Skull said as Kenobi grimaced, yet again, and pressed at the arms of the chair with a white-knucked grip, “You’d let Cody help if he was here.” 

Skull meant it as a light-hearted jab, but the look on Kenobi’s face indicated his quickly rising alarm.

“I need to tell Cody–” 

“Already done, Sir.” Oxy offered, smiling tightly as he gripped Kenobi’s elbow, “Let me help you get up there.” 

Surprisingly, Kenobi relented, and allowed Oxy to help him onto the bed. He positioned himself still sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging over the edge. 

Skull walked in a circle around him, trying to determine the best way to start.

The General was a mess, the bright lights of the medbay only highlighting the thick layer of soot covering his robes and the exposed skin of his wrists, neck, and face. Skull rubbed his beard anxiously as he walked around the bed to look at Kenobi’s back.

He sucked in a breath as he glanced over the damage, and Copper gave him a rundown of what he could see, “Doesn’t look so good, Skull. I’m seeing eleven separate electrical burns, and a long laceration across his shoulder. That one looks mostly healed.”

“Three days ago.” Kenobi said, voice weary. 

“I don’t think we can get bacta on these right away…” Skull said to Copper. “Some look fresh, the blood hasn’t stopped.” Skull walked back around to Kenobi’s front, watching the way he wring his hands in his lap mindlessly, not really looking at anything in particular in front of him, just as Skywalker had described earlier. 

Skull watched curiously for a moment, stepping closer to the General and stooping down just enough that he could make eye-contact with him. 

Kenobi blinked quickly for a couple of seconds, then appeared to regain his focus. He offered a lifeless half-smile, then clenched his hands at his sides, “You were saying?” His voice trailed off.

Something is not right here. Skull had seen many traumatized soldiers in his time, some equally as despondent, but never unresponsive like that. He glanced at Oxy for confirmation he had seen something too; the medic raised an eyebrow. 

Skull made a mental note to run a test once that had sorted out the burns, and got him through the worst of the pain. “We’re going to need to get these clothes off of you. Need to make sure we’re not missing anything.” 

Kenobi glanced around himself, eyes wandering across the four medics surrounding him on all sides. Admittedly, Skull would have been equally overwhelmed with the idea of being stripped down in the presence of four others, so he relented. “Just Oxy and I can help.” 

Thankfully, Copper took notice and pulled Splint away behind him as Oxy went to pull the curtains around the bed.

“This will have to be cut off.” Skull said as he gently tugged at the hem of Kenobi’s tunic.

“Master Yoda is going to stop accepting my uniform requisition forms…” Kenobi mumbled, half-jokingly as he reached for his belt, fumbling with it for a short while before Skull pulled his hands away and unclasped it himself. 

The General did not look happy about it, averting his eyes as Skull and Oxy pulled at opposite sides of the tunic to separate it from where it was stuck to the blood on his undershirt. 

Karking Cody. Kenobi was endlessly sheepish and this time seemingly mildly panicked, and understandably so, but Skull would have given anything to have Cody here with him. Kenobi was relaxed when Cody was around, and that made Skull’s job so much easier. 

By the time they had managed to cut around the outside of the wounds, only having to pull at the sticky electrical burns a little, Kenobi had formed tears at the very corners of his eyes. 

“You okay, Sir?” Skull asked, happy to see that Oxy already was wiping down the soot on one of his arms to apply an IV.

An IV meant sedation, it meant pain meds and some very needed relief for the General, at least until Cody made it there.

Kenobi only offered a single nod and wiped at the corner of his eye with his thumb. “Fine.” He murmured eventually, “Just… tired.” 

Skull didn’t doubt the truth of that, but knew there was something more always lurking behind the surface of Kenobi’s words. 

“Probably a little more than tired. We’re going to sedate you.” Skull said, waiting for the inevitable protest, the insistence that he wanted to know what was happening and sedation would prevent that. But it never came. Skull didn’t know whether to call that a win or a loss. 

“Let’s get these off.” Skull said as he crouched down and worked the first boot off of Kenobi’s right foot. When he got to the left foot, Kenobi let out a hiss as Skull jiggled the boot.

Kriff, Skull thought, looking up to see Kenobi’s jaw clenched tight, broken, isn’t it?

“... sorry.” The General apologized, “Think I twisted it.”

Skull, for obvious reasons, did not believe him, but decided not to press. “Do you want the pain meds before I take this off?” He asked, hoping Kenobi would agree. The sedation was going to take a few more minutes, and the pain meds would have more of an immediate effect. 

“Oh– no I’m… quite alright.” The General’s lips returned to a taut line, and his eyes were still not free of tears.

Skull sighed, “This is going to hurt.” He said, more to himself than Kenobi, and tugged the boot off as quickly as he could. Kenobi sucked in another harsh breath, an involuntary noise coming from his throat. “Sorry, General.”

Kenobi didn’t respond, just pulled in another shaky breath as Skull held his leg up and gently inspected the damaged ankle. It was purple, indicating that it had happened some time before, and it was certainly broken. Skull shook his head and stood, reminding himself that this was Kenobi. Of course he wouldn't offer this information up front.

Keeping his demeanor as calm as possible, Skull pointed to Kenobi’s last remaining article of soot-covered clothing. “Let’s get those off, then you can lay down on your front. The sedatives will kick in soon.” 

He allowed the General to fumble with the buttons of pants and then helped pull them off of his legs leaving him in his regulation briefs. His legs were bruised in multiple locations, and he had several electrical burns on his calves and thighs that mirrored the ones on his back. Skull noted the red of Kenobi’s cheeks as he helped the General onto his stomach on the sheets. 

Whatever sheepishness he had left disappeared in the matter of seconds, replaced by drowsiness as Kenobi settled into the sheets. “Water?” Oxy asked him, offering a small tube so he could drink comfortably from his position. 

The General did so, for once , without hesitation or complaint. 

Frankly, he was acting out of character enough for Skull to be harboring concern. Kenobi had entered his medbay in worse condition on three other occasions, yet this time, he was unusually on edge. 

Skull wanted to think it was because of Cody’s absence, but Kenobi was a Jedi still, he was aware of the nature of war and attachments just as much as any other soldier. It must be something else.

“Sir, I am pushing pain meds now, we’re gonna get started on the burns.” Oxy’s voice cut through Skull’s thoughts. Right, electrical burns.

Skull called out for Splint and Copper to return, noting their looks of disdain and empathy as they looked at the mess that was General Obi-Wan Kenobi’s back. 

“...fuck.” Copper whispered, his usual profanity not swayed by the presence of the General.

Skull looked over the flesh, noting the way some of the burns had scabbed over, seemingly having been inflicted long before the ones that had just barely stopped bleeding. “Alright boys,” He said, knowing they had hours ahead of them trying to properly bandage the wounds, “Let’s get started.”

Cody hadn’t been kidding when he told Skull he would be back soon.

The Jedi Council had send Quinlan Vos, much to Cody’s irritation, to wrap things up. They had already been on Spondiel for two weeks, endlessly waiting for more battle droids to invade their encampment, rather than getting any closer to completing the objective at hand.

Destroy the small weapons factory, they said, won’t take more than a few days.

Of course, as soon as Vos had arrived– his obnoxious loud voice and smug smile already annoying Cody within seconds of his exit from his ship– their objective was complete within a night. 

In fact, they had been minutes into a debrief, so close to leaving the karking planet once they settled on a plan for clean up, when Cody’s comlink had beeped.

He hated the way his heart dropped into his stomach when he answered, expecting Obi-Wan, but getting Skull instead. He schooled his tone, regardless of the rush of blood in his veins and the panic prickling up the back of his neck. Quinlan Vos, Obi-Wan’s friend and contemporary, was right there listening into the call.

Obi-Wan hadn’t told him anything yet because…

The thought of Obi-Wan and Quinlan together made Cody’s blood boil.

So Cody tried to make the call quick, tried to shield his worry; they would be back on the Negotiator within hours as it was.

Cody could feel Quinlan’s gaze on him, eyes narrowed as the discussion with Skull progressed. Skull was certainly not doing Cody any favors when he said boyfriend, like there wasn’t anyone else with Cody who could hear. 

“Boyfriend? ” Vos said, eyebrows still raised and the beginnings of a smug smirk painted across his face. His punchable face.

“Inside joke, Vos.” Cody bit out between gritted teeth as he turned on his heel. Unfortunately for Cody, Vos followed.

“Oh c’mon, Commander. Bit of an unprofessional joke don’t you think?” Cody clenched his fists at his side hoping that he could maintain self-control for the last of the time he had left on this force-forsaken planet. 

“Take it up with Kenobi later, Vos. He’s my General, and a close friend, and hurt.” Cody cut the shit, and spun around to see that Vos had his arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t want to talk about this now.” 

“You’re right, Cody.” Vos said seriously, then followed up with a quip that Cody was proud of himself for ignoring, “...but if you need any pointers, you know who to call.”

Cody decided that in a post-war world, he would kill Quinlan, and Skull. They deserved it, really, and he would remind them of his intentions until that day.

By the time the clean up was complete, it had only been two hours, and the trip back to the Negotiator would only be another two on top of that. Cody wanted to be relieved, but the idea of Obi-Wan, alone in the medbay, kept him on edge as he settled into his seat on the cruiser. 

Boil had tried to sit next to him and talk, but Cody barely answered his questions, eyes scanning over the floor as he considered the implications of Skull’s earlier call. 

Slavers, electric burns…

Cody swallowed, imagining the pain Obi-Wan would have been in. He leaned back into the wall, eyes closed, leg tapping nervously.

I’ll be there soon, Obi-Wan.

“Cody’s back.” Copper said, looking at his comlink, then eyeing the doorway like the Commander might burst into the room at any second. 

Skull snorted slightly, remembering a time before he had witnessed the lovers in action, where Copper had been reamed out by the Commander for accidentally giving Kenobi a few packets of food with ingredients he was allergic to. The General hadn’t eaten the food– he always did check the ingredients list– but Cody had been in a particularly protective mood that day.

“Prepare for the worst boys.” Skull said as he gently cleaned around the outside of one of the last electric burns that crept down from Kenobi’s lowest rib around to the front of his pelvic bone. They had managed to get Kenobi situated on his side, Splint propping him upright since the sedation had rendered him near useless.

Kenobi had since regained some level of awareness since they had turned him, but still seemed drowsy, his eyes closing for a few seconds with every slow blink.

“C’dy?” He asked, tongue running over his dry lips as he looked down at Skull where he worked.

“Yes, Sir. He’ll be here any minute.” That seemed to be enough to make Kenobi sick of the medical attention, and he tried to push himself up, Skull’s hands fumbling over the wound.

“Woah!” Oxy cried out, grabbing Kenobi’s bare shoulder and pressing him gently back onto the bed, “He’s coming to you, Sir, not the other way around.”

“S’rry.” Kenobi murmured, “When?” 

The pain meds were really quite effective, weren’t they? 

“A couple minutes, General.” Skull said again, “Almost done down here, then we’ll get you sitting up so we can put that leg in some bacta.” 

Kenobi grunted in response, then winced with an audible whimper as Skull pressed bacta over the last burn. The same process had repeated for hours, everytime Skull wincing himself as the General jerked in pain each time. A few times, Kenobi had leaned over the bed, throwing up into the bin that Splint had placed beside the bed. 

Skull, unlike Cody–the General’s boyfriend– was no expert at comforting him. Sure, he had fine bedside manner, but that was all. Sometimes he wished he was better at showing his compassion where he felt it. 

Just as Copper finished the dressing over Skull’s work, there was the sound of muffled voices emerging from down the hall. Oxy’s eyebrows raised again.

“Who’s with him?” Oxy asked Skull. 

Good question…

“Not sure,” Skull said as he rounded the bed and headed toward the doors of the medbay, hoping he would be able to catch Cody before he got sight of the General. A panicked Cody would do very little to keep Obi-Wan calm.

As he approached the door, he squinted at the two figures coming his way. He initially thought it was two clones, but the closer the pair came, it was quite obvious the second person was taller, and had much longer hair.

Interesting.

Skull turned to yell out to Oxy. “Not a brother– a Jedi maybe?” 

When he looked back, Cody and the man beside him were in full view.

Skull sucked in a breath, eyes looking past Cody and landing directly onto the tall man that trailed a few paces behind him. Unnaturally, his heart skipped a beat as his eyes traveled across the man’s exposed arms and impressive biceps. He held his head high, hair billowing around his shoulders and Jedi tabard moving between his legs as he walked. 

He was… attractive.

Skull shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. No, this was not the time or place to notice someone. Fuck.

Instead, he focused his attention on Cody, who marched up to him with narrowed eyes laced with something like disguised panic. 

“Where is he?” Cody asked gruffly, not bothering with pleasantries, but softening when Skull placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen– Cody, he’s not well.” Skull said quietly, not sure the man lurking behind Cody needed to hear, “He’s got a lot of burns, a broken ankle, and a concussion. He looks… bad. He’s been sedated and is a little loop.” Cody swallowed and nodded looking mildly teary, then gestured behind himself.

“Uh– this is Vos, one of Ob– Kenobi’s friends.” Skull wasn’t sure what to make of the look on Cody’s face, or frankly, the way he had gritted his teeth with the word friends.

“Yeah– hi. Quinlan Vos. Call me Quin. Just thought I’d see an old friend for some future blackmail material. Obes loves it when I swing by after he loses a fight.” He offered a grin, holding out a hand for Skull to shake.

Skull just barely held back a laugh with the outright look of death Cody shot in his direction. But Vos– Quin, Skull reminded himself, was… impressively similar  to him with his sense of humor. Skull would have to thank him later for the joke.

“Well, you both can head this way then.” He said, leading them toward the bed where Obi-Wan was now sitting, head propped up by Oxy’s hand as he wiped away the layer of dirt from Kenobi’s beard and cheeks. 

“Obi-Wan…” Cody whispered as he approached the bed first, hands hovering inches away from Kenobi’s shoulders. The Jedi offered Cody a soft smile that quickly was followed by more tears welling.

“Cody.” He said, batting away Oxy’s hands. Cody wandered around the outside of the bed, eyes observing the white bandaging that spanned most of his back and slipped below his briefs. 

“Are you…?” The General shook his head, wincing due to his concussion. “I’m sorry. I– I should have been there.” 

There was a few moments of silence in the medbay, Copper suspiciously eyeing the Commander, and Oxy and Splint looking away with disgust. Vos shifted on his feet where he stood behind Skull, a hint of a smile on his face when Skull turned to look at him.

Shit, as much as Skull liked to tease Cody and his General, he wasn’t sure what another Jedi would think. 

“So how long has this been going on?” Vos asked, smiling fondly when Cody ran a gentle hand through Obi-Wan’s soiled hair.

“Uh– what are you talking about?” Skull had always been a bad liar.

“I heard you over Cody’s comlink earlier. They’re a couple.” Ah, the Jedi always were observant. “Cody seemed to think he could deny it but he was a mess on the way back here.” 

Skull snorted, tearing his eyes away from the sharp jawline and collarbone that swam into his vision, “The two of them still think this is a secret. I’ve been grilling them for months.” 

Quinlan laughed quietly, “Not a surprise. Obes has always been stubborn. Keep it up.”

Before Skull had a chance to respond, Kenobi’s weary voice came from the bed, “Quinlan?” 

The tall Jedi smiled warmly, it appeared much to Cody’s irritation, and stepped over to him.

“Wow Obes, you really took a beating this time.” Vos said loudly. Skull almost expected the General to be defensive, but instead, he offered up his own quip.

“Should see the other guys.” Kenobi said, gripping Cody’s hand harder over the sheets.

For a moment, Skull was happy. The General’s hollow eyes had been replaced with something like fondness in the presence of people he loved. It was like a lightswitch had turned on.

But then. Then.

Just as the calm began, chaos erupted. 

One moment, the General was smiling, chapped lips curled upward for the first time in quite a while, then his face dropped. It seemed that every muscle in his body contracted all at once, his arms jerking out against an aghast Cody. Skull pushed forward, past Quinlan who seemed to have frozen in place, and caught the General’s jerking body before he could slam into the floor.

“Help me get him on his side!” He yelled to whoever was listen, his mind only processing one thought. 

Seizure. The General was having a seizure. 

The managed to pull Kenobi’s tensed body onto the bed, positioning him on his side, legs splayed out. Skull barked out orders for everyone to step back and not to touch him unless he looked like he would fall. 

Then, Skull counted, only once glancing to look at Cody. Tears fell down his cheeks freely.

… seven, eight, nine–

Skull swore as he noticed a dribble of blood on Kenobi’s lip; he had probably bitten his tongue. His movements were jerky at his joints, a telltale sign of a tonic-clonic seizure and his skin began to fade into a light blue the longer Skull counted. Eventually, a wet spot appeared on Kenobi’s briefs. 

One minute.

Skull held his own breath. 

“Why isn’t it stopping?” Cody’s gruff, broken voice emerged into Skull’s consciousness, but he was forced to ignore it, letting Oxy guide Cody to a chair in the corner.

Finally, after a minute and twenty seconds, the General’s body came to rest.

Skull, unthinking and with his own adrenaline guiding his actions, crouched at his side, feeling against his lips for moving air. 

Thank the Force, he was breathing. Still, Skull wiped at his mouth, using a finger to check and make sure that blood hadn’t filled his mouth.

The General stayed unconscious, eyes moving under his eyelids as Skull got a look at his bandaged back. The bacta had not sat untouched for long enough, and droplets of red pressed through the white gauze and tape.

Shit. 

“Copper, he’s bleeding again– tore his back open.” Skull said, moving back up to the General’s face to try and convince him to keep still once he was conscious again. 

Skull looked up to see Oxy crouched beside Cody, hand gripping the Commander’s arm as the man in question watched with wide disbelieving eyes. “It will be alright, Cody.” Oxy whispered.

Seconds later, Kenobi’s eyes blinked open. He looked at Skull, blinking once. “General, you had a seizure, I need you to stay still where you are.” He tried to speak the words calmly as to not incite an unwanted reaction.

Kenobi blinked again.

“Whe–” He tried to speak, but grimaced, obviously noticing that he had bit down on his tongue. “C’dy?” His voice was so weak, eyes already leaking tears again as he tried to sit up. Skull shook his head and pressed him back down on his side as gently as possible. 

Skull sat still for a second, contemplating what to do, as Kenobi shivered under his hold. “Cody.” He repeated, more firmly, “We were– he was right here.” The General’s words were slurred, and he was obviously disoriented. 

“Everyone out, besides Cody and Oxy. Get out.” He demanded, heart still beating inside his chest. 

They left, unquestioningly.

Then, Skull realized. 

Those unexplained moments of Kenobi staring off into the distance, the ones Skywalker had warned him about– those had been seizures.

Kriff.

[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.

[amourane]

kick in the right direction

pairing: football player!seungcheol x mascot!reader

genre: fluff, university au

w/c: 0.9k

summary: seungcheol is the star football player in your university but he becomes a bumbling mess in front of you.

warnings: none, you do get hit by a ball though

a/n: i have decided to start writing fics for seventeen too because i just love them way way too much <3 also disclaimer this post used to be under my old url httphannie <3

Seungcheol doesn’t know what to say. He usually has an explanation for his actions. There doesn’t seem to be anything coming to his mind when he sees you on the ground. The problem with being the star player on the football team was the amount of trust his coach put on him. As well as the thought that they needed to win every game, that wasn’t a problem though because Choi Seungcheol was a beast when he was in game mode. His aim was the best on the whole team, he’d never missed a goal. 

Obviously today was an off day.

“You’re staring, Cheol.” Jeonghan gives him a hearty slap on the back. “You really like our school mascot don’t you?” All Seungcheol can do is nod, watching as Seungkwan helps you up.

He really wants to go over and say sorry for nearly knocking you out with his kick but he can’t. Not because he doesn’t want to but because he simply can’t. It’s stupid really. Choi Seungcheol, star player of the football team, can’t say two words when he’s faced with you. He’s tried speaking to you. Once after a game, not the best choice because he’d become so nervous he spilt his water bottle all over you. Even after you told him it was fine he was still stuttering his words. Another time he’d managed to catch you walking down the hallway. The moment you smiled and said ‘hi’ his mind blanked. No words could come out of his mouth and he stood there gaping like a goldfish.

Talking to girls was easy for Seungcheol. He could give them a smile and they’d be fawning all over him. You were different. There isn’t one time he’s had a full conversation with you with nothing embarrassing happening. He’d stumble over his words or nothing would come out of his mouth. The only thing that kept him from giving up was the fact you would grin every time he came up to you and he didn’t like giving up.

“Of course I like her!” Seungcheol runs a hand through his hair. “I just don't know what to do?”

“You could ask her out.”

“I can’t!” 

His friend arches an eyebrow, clearly puzzled. "What do you mean you can't ask her out? Like you're scared, or you don't know how to, because those two are completely different things." Jeonghan's tone is gentle but probing, urging Seungcheol to confront the root of his hesitation.

“That’s not it. I’ve got everything planned out. I know what to say and I know where I want to bring her to. There’s a whole plan in my notebook, it’s coloured in and everything!”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Seungcheol fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “Whenever I go up to her to ask her out my throat closes and I can’t find the right words. Or when I try to even write my confession, my hand freezes and no letters can be written. It’s even worse because I manage to make a fool of myself whenever I’m in front of her!” He kicks the football away.

Jeonghan sighs, staring at Seungcheol as he aimed a perfect kick to the goal. The boy was completely enamoured by you. Practically the whole school knew about his crush on you. Everyone was just waiting for the day the both of you would come in hand in hand. 

//

“Y/n, oh my god! Are you okay?” Seungkwan was shaking you by your shoulders. You rub your head. That football was really hard. Who knew air could hurt you? “How many fingers am I holding up?” He waves three fingers around and your eyes struggle to adjust to his trembling hand.

“Calm down. I just got hit in the head, I don’t have a concussion or anything.” You just know there’s going to be a huge bump on your forehead tomorrow. “It’s partly Stuart’s fault.” You pat the dragon costume you had on. The fuzzy green body was heavy and the long swishy tail at the back was quite annoying to lug around.

"Why are you blaming our mascot? Stuart did nothing wrong," Seungkwan interjects, shooting a pointed glare at Seungcheol. "Star player my ass." He mutters under his breath, clearly unimpressed.

“Hey, don’t blame him. I’m sure it was an accident.” You give Seungcheol a little smile and an ‘okay’ sign to tell him everything was fine. 

“I can’t believe you like that dumbass, he can’t string two sentences together when he’s in front of you.” Seungkwan helps you up, handing you Stuart’s head. You dust off the dirt on your costume. 

What was there not to like about Choi Seungcheol? He was popular, athletic, smart and talented in everything. Not to mention he was the literal definition of eye candy. There hadn’t been many occasions where you two had met. He’d always stutter helplessly or his cheeks would resemble a fire truck, which was very endearing. It was quite funny seeing him stumble over his words whenever he tried to ask you out.

“Why don’t you just ask him out? You already know he likes you, not that he makes it the most obvious thing in the world.” 

“But isn't it just the cutest thing when he tries to ask me out but he’s a stuttering blushing mess?” You giggle when you catch sight of the pout Seungcheol has on his face. “I hope he asks me out soon though, I can’t wait to finally go on a date with him.” 

The smile you shoot at Seungcheol has him tripping over his feet, face planting into the ground. Suppressing your laughter behind your hand, you watch as he hurriedly picks himself up, only to see his teammates rolling on the floor with amusement.

“How long are you even willing to wait?”

“As long as it takes.”

[mxltifxnd0m]

heat wave ࿔ s. winchester

summary: heat waves suck in the bunker

pairings: sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x fem! reader

word count: 1.7K

warnings: no use of y/n, not beta'd, fluff, complaining about heat, nudity, suggestive content, one or two dirty jokes

a/n: i made a post about complaining about this heat wave that is happening in my area and decided to write about it. this was intended to be a blurb but it spiraled out of my control LMAO

(also i haven't posted this frequently in like... ever LOL. so please say thank you to sam winchester for being my muse)

please reblog and lmk your thoughts and opinions!! i wanna hear what you guys thought about the fic!

𝘴𝘢𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

You hated the heat. Nope. Scratch that you loathed the heat. Despite growing up in hotter climates, you never grew to like the heat. You can tolerate it, but you've always preferred the colder months, where you can layer all you want and get warm and cozy.  

But with summer, there was so much you could wear until you were almost naked.  

The bunker could only do much to keep out the heat during the summer and keep the heat in when winter rolled around. An unexpected heat wave hit Lebanon, and since the bunker didn't have any AC or windows, it was practically hell on earth in the bunker.

Sam and Dean were out on a hunt, and you were stuck in the bunker due to having a nasty run-in with a witch that left you concussed and bruised ribs. They said the hunt was a quick salt and burn a state over, so they would be back in a few days. But in the few days they were gone, the heat became almost unbearable.

You spent the past few days stripped down to a bra and the shortest PJ shorts you had. You would have strolled around the bunker naked, but you were a little paranoid that Sam and Dean would come home early, and you didn't want to give Dean a free show. The amount of water that you had drunk could be considered criminal, but you managed to sweat most of it.

You even went out and bought multiple box fans for the library, war room, kitchen, and your bedroom (To hell with your boyfriend and Dean's bedroom. They could buy a fan for themselves.) because you could barely stand the stifling heat that managed to worm its way into the bunker.

The heat had gotten to the point where you were sprawled out on your back, starfish styled on the cool tiles of the shower room. This was your only saving grace in this place (and taking cold showers right before you went to sleep). When the tiles below you would get warm and sticky, you would just shuffle (drag) your body slightly to another patch of cold tiles.

You were so focused on cooling down your hot body that you didn't hear Sam calling for you when he couldn't find you in your room. He and Dean eventually found you on the shower floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean's voice echoed off of the shower room walls.

"Finding reprieve from this god-awful heat." You sat up on your elbows to see Sam and Dean standing in the doorway, uncaring of your state of undress. Being a hunter and getting injured in inconvenient places had left you topless in front of the boys plenty of times and vice versa, so it left no room for modesty.

"This bunker doesn't have any AC or windows, and this heat wave has been terrible. You guys need to fix that." You said before sliding back down and moving to a patch of cool tile.

Sam's chuckling made you smile despite the heat. "Considering this bunker was built in the 30s, they didn't exactly have to worry about heat waves or AC."

Your smile dropped as you scowled at Sam's words. "I hate global warming. Also, how are the two of you not sweating your balls off yet?" You had noticed that they were wearing their flannels.

"We just got back and spent the past 10 minutes trying to find you. Safe to say we haven't spent much time in the bunker to feel the heat."

"Well, you're about to Deanie-boy, be prepared to strip." You went to take a sip of water from the bottle you had brought with you, only to find that it was empty.

"You would love to see that wouldn't you."

"It's nothing I haven't seen before." You said before getting up from the floor with a slight groan.

"Besides, I'd prefer to see a strip tease from a different Winchester." You winked at Sam as you walked in between the boys, giving his ass a quick tap as you left the shower room and headed toward the kitchen to refill your water bottle.  

About two and a half hours later, the heat had gotten to the boys, and they were stripped down to their boxers, trying to survive. Dean ended up stealing one of the fans you bought and stashed it in his room, but even then, the fans were just blowing around the warm air that was in the bunker.

When it came time to eat dinner, you guys quickly got dressed because none of you wanted to spend another second in the hot bunker. The cool night air was like a healing balm over the heat wave as you guys found a diner that also had outside seating. After you guys were done eating, Dean drove the three of you around for a while with the windows down in the Impala, not wanting to go back to the stifling hot bunker.

You guys got back home at eleven o'clock, and the temperature in the bunker got significantly better, but it was still uncomfortably warm. You all headed to different bathrooms to shower off the stickiness that the three of you were already feeling.

You took your time in the cold water, not wanting to leave it just yet, but you eventually left the shower once your skin acclimated to the water and started to feel warm to you. You wrapped yourself in a towel and made your way to your room.

Once you made it to your room, you turned on your fan, cranked it to the highest setting, and dropped your towel. You didn't bother with any clothes or getting under the covers because you would throw them off of yourself the second you started to sweat. You crawled on top of your covers and rested your back against your headboard. You wanted to read a bit before you went to bed, so you grabbed your Kindle off of your nightstand and began to read.

About fifteen minutes later, you got a knock on your door. "Babe?" Sam's voice was muffled by the thick door.

"You can come in." You tell him, not looking away from your Kindle.

You heard the door open, and that's when you looked up at Sam entering your room. You caught his surprised expression as he took in your nude form and quickly shut the door. You saw lust flashing through his hazel eyes as his gaze traveled up and down your body.

Sam cleared his throat as he kept his eyes trained on yours. Ever the gentleman. You thought as you smirked at his reaction.

"Did you need something?" You asked, batting your eyelashes at your boyfriend as you placed the Kindle in your lap. Your eyes also wandered up and down Sam's bare torso as he was only in his boxers. His anti-possession tattoo stood out against his tan chest and was littered with scars that had faded with time.

You saw Sam swallow thickly as his eyes flickered from your chest to your eyes. "I was wondering why you weren't in our room?"

It was technically Sam's room before you moved into it. After a couple of months of dating, you found yourself sleeping in his room more often than your own when you initially moved into the bunker.

"As much as I love you, Sammy, I cannot sleep with you during this heat wave."

Sam frowned slightly as he made his way to your bed and sat on the edge of it. "Why not?"

You scoffed. "Because you're practically a human furnace, and as nice as it is sleeping with you during the winter, I just know I'll be soaked just sharing a bed with you."

A dirty smirk wormed its way onto Sam's face as his warm palm landed on your ankle and slowly trailed up your leg. "I'm glad I have that effect on you, but I already knew that."

You narrowed your eyes at him as you wriggled your leg away from Sam's grasp. "Ha, ha, you're so funny." You deadpan. "But I'm being serious. You radiate heat, which isn't fun when we're trying to survive a heat wave."

Sam started to pout at you. "But babe-"

"Nope. Not hearing it." You cut him off and shook your head at him as you moved your Kindle to your nightstand. "You're sleeping in your bed alone until this heat wave is over."

"Now, go back to your room." You gestured to your door.

A small huff left Sam as he got up from your bed. "Fine, but at least give me a goodnight kiss."

You rolled your eyes slightly. "Get over here, you big baby." Sam moved to the side you were lying on and bent down to kiss you.

You intended the kiss to be chaste, but Sam (being the little shit he is) had other ideas. He grabbed both of your cheeks with his hands and pulled you into a passionate kiss.  

It was unexpected, but you melted into the kiss as your hands instinctively went to his chest. He tasted like mint and something that you could only describe as Sam. Sam swiped at the seam of your lips, and that is what broke you from your Sam-induced haze.

You pushed him away from you and glared at him lightly. Sam just had a cheeky grin on his face.

"Nice try, now go to bed."

Sam still had a grin on his face as he bent down again and kissed your forehead.

"Goodnight, baby," He murmured softly against your forehead before pulling away.

"Goodnight, Sammy," You said with a soft smile as he left your room.

You turned to your nightstand and turned off the lamp that illuminated your room. Your room was engulfed in darkness as you shuffled further down your bed until your head hit the pillows. You fell asleep as your fan blew cool air towards your bed.

Little did you know, Sam ended up sneaking into your room once you were asleep and woke up in the morning soaked in sweat and having a moose of a boyfriend wrapped around your sweat-slicked body.

It's safe to say that you gave Sam a very rude awakening that morning.  

[inkdrinkerworld]

Oh my god post-prison spencer and sunshine!reader is my new favorite 🥹

Can I request how spencer would react if something goes wrong in one of their cases and reader is held hostage/taken? I imagine she would be shaken ofc and spencer would comfort her after

canon level violence, reader has dislocated her shoulder and was concussed while also trying to fight off the feelings that are rapidly developing for spencer, and spencer doesn't give a fuck about her fighting their attraction

“Unlock the door, Y/n.” Spencer’s outside your door, he has been for the last couple of days. You’d been injured in the field, a concussion and a dislocated shoulder that had come from the unsub taking you during what would’ve been his take down. 

You’d been dispatched from the hospital last week after being less than attractive to the doctor who wanted to keep you there for longer. 

You’d answered texts and calls from your co-workers, but you’d been ignoring Spencer. 

“Go away Spencer, you’re supposed to be in Nebraska.” you were consulting on a case the team is currently on, so he can’t lie. 

He doesn’t try to, like you’d suspected, “I asked Emily to stay behind, you aren’t doing well.” 

You sigh on the other side of the door, relenting because you know that he won’t leave. 

“How can I help you?” You’re a little less than polite, but Spencer doesn’t seem to care. He knows what it’s like to be sidelined from the team due to injury and be upset about it. 

“Well first, you can let me in, I may look strong but these arms were not made to hold more than five bags at a time.” he’s as tender as he always is and it softens you. 

Stepping aside, you let Spencer in. Your apartment is clean, you’ve been surviving off delivery breakfasts and take out lunches, you can’t raise your hand high, so cooking is a no. 

You’re not worried about your attire, you’re in a green tank top with ’save the planet’ embroidered in cursive with a sick earth just beneath it, and a pair of cotton shorts that hit just above your knee- the heat in the city was driving you crazy and you also didn’t have the energy to try for more clothes- certainly not without upsetting your shoulder some more.

If Spencer is surprised by your outfit, he says nothing. You’re hardly surprised by his, a purple shirt tucked neatly into his dress pants and smart shoes; you’re not sure how he’s managed a perfect outfit in this heat.

Spencer sets the bags down and begins the task of taking out all the things inside- he pulls out packages of various nuts, passion fruit juices and a mountain of those clear, plastic bowls filled with fruit. 

“You didn’t have to buy pre-cut fruit; I know it’s more expensive that way.” You say to him, finding a bit of trouble pushing yourself into the chair you have at your kitchen island. 

Spencer sets down the plastic bags and moves around the countertop to help you, “I cut them myself, they didn’t have the ones you like in the grocery store.” 

You’re stunned silent, the bowls are full of watermelon, cantaloupes, orange quarters, mangoes, grapes and pineapple. All your favourites cut exactly the way you liked. Spencer must’ve spent around a hundred dollars just getting the fruit alone, maybe even more if the number of grapes is anything to go off of. 

“Spencer, you didn't have to.” He shrugs, his eyes searching your face. 

“How’s your head? Have you been feeling dizzy or having double vision?” It’s not easy to lie to Spencer, doubly so when he’s standing before you and staring at you so intensely. 

“The dizziness comes and goes, mostly when I’m in the shower.” You say honestly, and Spencer frowns. 

“You could’ve told me,” you blow a raspberry and pull the bowl full of mangoes towards you. 

“You would’ve made me go back to the hospital; I don’t like the smell of them.” you chew on a piece of mango while Spencer carries on assessing you. 

He notes that the mottling on your shoulder has gone down significantly, now it’s just purple and a little blue. Your eyes don’t appear unfocused, and Spencer is glad for it. “I wouldn’t have.”

“So, what’s your verdict, Doc?” you ask, shutting the lid on the mangoes before you burn through the entire container. 

“You’re not concussed, I think your dizziness in the shower is from you moving your shoulder too much and agitating it.” Spencer presses a light fingertip into the bruised skin and you hiss, batting his hand away making him laugh. 

You hum, “So what? I just never shower again? In the middle of this heatwave? I’d rather die.”  

“I forget how dramatic you can be.” Spencer shakes his head, “Or, you could’ve called me, or Penelope and either one of us could’ve given you a sponge bath.” 

You make your eyebrows dance, “You would’ve liked that, wouldn’t you Spence?” He rolls his eyes, tugging on the braid your hair is in. 

“How’d you do that?” he asks, helping you off the chair and leading you into your kitchen. 

Your face is red hot, “I bribed my neighbour’s kid to do it for pumpkin bread the minute my arm is out the sling.” 

Of course you did, you might be sunshine incarnate, but Spencer knows everyone has a spot they don’t want others to see- this is yours. You don’t want anyone in your team viewing you as incapable or in need when they should see you as capable and able to do every facet of your job. 

“I can help you make the bread tonight if you want something to do when the case is over.” 

You tilt your head, watching Spencer look around your cupboards for a glass. “Top left cabinet,” you say and he nods, smiling when he finds a glass covered in stickered ladybugs. 

Spencer fills it almost to the top with passion fruit juice and passes it to you. 

“Are you staying the night, Spencer Reid?” you take a sip and sigh in delight, it’s been a while since you’ve had passion fruit juice, you’re not entirely sure how Spencer knew it was your favourite. 

“If you let me, it isn’t good for you to be by yourself and the more you strain your shoulder, the longer it’ll take for you to get back in the field.”

An impish smile tugs at your lips, your eyes gleaming with a mischievousness Spencer hardly thought you possessed, “So what you’re saying is, you miss me desperately and will sacrifice your hatred of germs and touching other people just to ensure I’m back in Quantico at your earliest convenience?” 

A call from Penelope cuts through the fat of your question, making you laugh when Spencer rushes to answer it and slides you a mock glare that you know is just for show. 

“Yeah, Penelope, what have you got? Y/n and I are here,” well, there’s no escaping his presence now. You find you don’t mind it quite so much, your beginning aims of not falling for him is shredding more and more as the months go on.

[alwaysobsessed777]

OKAY GUYSSS, Nika's post on instagram has made me feel so much better about her. I'm sure it's still gonna be tough and all but she's resilient and will just get better than before the injury. And with that being said...

IIT GAVE ME MOTIVATION TO WRITE. So...anon who suggested this....i finally have it written. ENJOY!!

"NOTRE DAMN" - N.M.

words: 823

Warnings: none i can

Summary: Reader gets hurt while playing against Notre Dame. Nika helps her.

JANUARY 27, 2024

NOTRE DAME VS UCONN

GAMPEL

2nd quarter, 20 seconds left on the clock. We were down by three, one shot is all it took to tie it before half time. I ran up the court, finding a place to shoot if the ball was passed to me. I watched as the opposing team switched to their defense, the rest of the huskies running down the court.

Nika ran down the court, ball in hand, calling out plays. Her eyes met mine, nodding throwing me the ball. Wide open, easy shot, that’s what you’d think.

As I’m going up, a player, number 5, Olivia Miles, comes up to guard me. She jumps to block, not really slowing down. As I’m up in the air, I feel her body collide with mine. I lose hold of the ball, I fall back, my feet not able to hit the floor. My back hits the ground, my head bouncing off the court, pain shooting through my body.

I roll around trying to find a position that doesn’t cause pain, but anyway that I move it hurts. My head throbbing, back aching, I felt nothing but pain. I felt someone place they’re hand on my head, I opened my eyes. Nika.

“Hey, baby, you alright?” She was worried, I couldn’t even put together the words to make her feel better.

“My head…it hurts,” I manage out, Nika nodding. She helps me up, giving me a look. I couldn’t tell what she was getting at.

“You want me to carry you over to the bench?” I nod, my body felt like I was going to drop with just standing. She picks me, holding me bridal style, walking me over to the bench.

“It’s gonna be okay, baby, okay?” Nika’s voice soft, I nodded in response. She was weirdly calm, but I wasn’t paying attention to that.

She placed a kiss on my forehead, “They have no shot at winning this, we’ll win this for you,” her smile blinding yet comforting. I nodded.

“I know you will, niks.”

And the team did just that, Nika especially. She locked down on Miles, causing her to become frustrated, fouling out. As it was announced that she had fouled out, Nika sent me a look, a smile plastered on her face. I just laughed. She sent me a thumbs up, a look of concern on her face. I sent her one back, she nods. The rest of the game, flawless from UConn side. Shots falling in, defense never backing down, and everything was being done by everyone. This game had to have been the best game ever played by this team ever.

Paige hitting six threes, a total of 27 points, a couple blocks. The freshman totaling 30 points together. Then, there was Nika. 18 points, four threes and 5 steals. Her adding up on her assists with 11 in this game. A double-double, to say the least, I was proud of her.

“Best game ever! You played so well, Niks!” I walked over to her, bringing her into a hug. She nuzzled her head into my neck.

“Mhmm, all for you, y/n,” I blushed, melting into the hug more. She lifts her head up, her hand finding it’s place on my cheek, “You feel alright?”

I nod, “Better, but they think I have a concussion.” Her face dropped slightly; I wouldn’t be able to play a couple games with her.

“Hey, it’s alright,” I said, her eyes never leaving mine, “It’s the better outcome then what it could’ve been.”

“You not having a concussion?”

I swat at her arm, “No, Nika,” I laugh, “I was scared I did something to my back or my neck. They said that it might just be some bruising.”

She nods, her smile returning, “That’s good news.”

“Why are you so smiley?”

“I’m here with you.”

I blush, “I would kiss you right now.”

“Do it.”

“Nika…people would find ou-“

“I don’t care about other people; I care about you. I want you to kiss me,” I hesitated, she took that as her sign to kiss me. In the room full of people, she kissed me. After hiding for months, she’s finally kissed me in public where people could see.

“Why? Why’d you do that?”

“I love you more than my reputation,” she paused, “Which reminds me…I said a lot of things to get under Olivia’s skin so.”

I tilt my head, “And what exactly did you say?”

“Too much to say now, we should go with the team,” She begins to pull me towards the team, her hand interlocked with mine.

Paige sees us, a smile big on her face, “Y’all’s kiss made it on TV!”

I look over at Nika, a smile resting on her face, “Good, then everyone will know not to screw around with my girl,” She looks at me, “How do you feel about that, the kiss on TV?”

“Everyone will know I’m the luckiest person ever.”

--------------------------------------------------------

A/N: if this happens to be trash....i'm sorry

[on-the-clear-blue]

(Inspired by @batarangsoundsdumb and their post about Dami leaving reviews on kidnapping)

(What is the other batfams response to this? They go and do it themselves as well)

Tim: They were surprisingly nice? One guy played cards with me, meh food tho, getting kidnapped seriously makes me hungry, a single snack pack isn't enough. 2/5 would have gotten a 3 if they gave me a juice box.

Dick: I have been kidnapped around 8 or 9 times a year since I was taken in by Bruce. These guys were amateurs! Didn't even tie my hands, just kept a gun on me, didn't take my phone from me, and barely moved me from where they picked me up! They get a 2/5 simply because they gave me Bat burger when I said I was hungry.

Jason: I don't get kidnapped as much as Dick, I get the mean ones, fuckers snapped my God damn fingers and then locked me in a cell, then only gave me bread and water for two days straight....4/5.

Damain: I am disappointed in these criminals. They managed to get the drop on me and went further to squander that achievement, I was not tortured nor was I starved, nor was I hand cuffed to a radiator and left to spoil, no I was taken to a well-furnished warehouse that held a living space that was both comfortable and warm, I was given vegan and organic foods...1/5 for the soul reason of them obeying me dietary habits, if not for that it would 0/5.

Duke: Okay, so like, long time kidnapping watcher first time kidnapee, um was decent, I think? Kinda just got a brick to the back of the head and woke up in some guy's house? His kid was chill, hope she gets a good place to stay (stares into camera as if it was Bruce) anyway, his wife was not happy about this, but I got killer Mac and cheese, I would say better than Alfred's because she used hot sauce as a base, outta all of this, 3/5 I still have a concussion.

Cass: I have never been kidnapped.

Steph: lol I kidnapped Tim

[piratefishmama]

Pt1

It continues, also with Robin. She leaves Steve on that floor, pathetically cycling through this random metalheads video game music repertoire, sending a silent apology for her fallen friend to the lady in the apartment below them, sure she got to hear Steve practicing his songs every now and then which was a blessing, but she also now had to deal with his pathetic puppy crush as well.

Sorry two (definitely not house-trained) poodle owning lady, Robin sent her condolences for her hearing. But only a little condolence, one of those dogs had left a steamer in the elevator and it was a tall-ass apartment block. Karma really, sweet sweet karma.

It continued because Robin had a mild gift for hunting people down on the internet, it was a skill she’d developed and honed purely to hunt down the assholes who occasionally popped up on Steve’s insta with threatening messages and dumb as shit behaviours that a best friend refused to abide by. Steve had never allowed her to do anything with the knowledge, but one day, one day, the dogs of war would be released, and she would rain fury down upon them for making him make the sad puppy eyes.

He was just a dude, sure he grew up with wealthy parents, sure he had connections since birth to help him get to where he wanted to be, but… that didn’t make him any less of a soft-ass with a genuine love of sports, and sweaters, and listening to audio books in reading nooks with mugs of coffee like some kind of pinterest mood board model.

That didn’t make him any less of an actual mother hen to several child actors and young musicians ensuring they got fair treatment, ensuring they were never taken advantage of by the industry or the people around them.

It continued because within an hour of sleuthing, Robin poked her head back around from Steve’s guest room (read: Robin’s second home), and proudly announced “Found him!” As loud as she could to get over the cover of the final boss battle from Banjo and Kazooie that Steve absolutely did not recognise but was clearly vibing to.

“Found who?”

“Your mystery hater! He’s a—”

“Robin!! You can’t dox people!!”

“I’m not doxing him, I’m telling you exactly where he is so you can go confront him.”

“That is exactly what doxing is. How did you even find him?!”

“Dumbass posted a pic of a newspaper article that his friend wrote, which, uhm, that’s pretty cool I guess, but it had her name on it! All I had to do was search LinkedIn for her and boom, I gottem.”

“…Okay so he’s basically asking to be found is what you’re saying right now.”

“EXACTLY, can we go? Can we? I wanna see him squirm like a little bitch baby when you turn up to confront him.”

“All you’ll see is my pathetic attempts to flirt with him because I don’t know how I’d be anything but pathetic around him I mean have you seen his hands? Do you remember the Hemsworth incident? Do you remember the Hemsworth incident, Robin?” The incident in question involving a low doorway and a concussion that left him delirious in the fantastic arms of the God of Thunder.

“Do I remember you acting like a drunk school girl with her first crush around a guy with biceps bigger than your head? Yes. Yes I do. It was hilarious and you gained a handsome Aussie as a life-long friend out of that pathetic display—"

“I was concussed.”

“Drunk school girl. That doesn’t mean you can’t manage to charm a little bitch from Indiana, we’re from Indiana, we have common ground, you can bond with him!”

“Oh, because being born within the same state makes for such a conversation starter… should we really go?” Would that be stupid? Would that be crossing a line? Would that be absolutely batshit insane?

“For true love—" and champagne in First-Class "I think we should.”

“…Fine.”

Part 3

[poppadom0912]

Dr Dean Reybold

Warnings: Cancer, chemotherapy, hospitals, evil doctors

Summary: Unfortunately for you, some cancers are genetic. Also unfortunately for you, some doctors don't have good intentions.

A/N: Based on Season 1, episode 5 of Chicago Med (Malignant) and Season 3, episode 10 of Chicago pd (Now I'm God).

So I had this idea towards the beginning of when I first started watching pd and I am not kidding when I say this has been sitting in my drafts for over two years now. I thought I'd finally get to finishing it after a really good day today since the fic I posted like 2 days ago wasn't that nice. Hope you enjoy!!

When your mother died from cancer, it took a toll on your entire family. Everyone was struggling to grieve and the emptiness she left behind was unsettling. Even now, the empty chair at the dining table looked so wrong.

So when you were diagnosed with ovarian cancer seven months ago, you felt extreme deja vu. Life was repeating itself again and nothing good was going to come out of it.

While at work, your patient got a little violent and when you woke up, your dad and Erin were at your bedside. They were in the middle of a case when Hank was suddenly called, being told by Sharon that you were hurt.

Luckily, several tests and scans later, you were perfectly fine, coming out with nothing but a concussion.

Alas, your body seemed to hate you because fast forward two months later and you found yourself in a private doctors office, the man confirming you had ovarian cancer.

Looking your dad in the eyes that night, mustering up everything in you to tell him you had the exact same thing that killed your mother; you could see the world fall apart in his eyes all over again.

From that day on, you did your chemotherapy while going to work. Being a psychiatrist, it didn't entail much physical work and your hours were decreased due to manage your treatment.

But the cancer got worse, that's what your doctor said at least. You probably would've gotten your treatment done at Med since they were renowned for their chemo regimens and it would've been more convenient.

But your doctor was the man that treated your mother. Seven months into your treatment and you found it a little difficult to leave.

*****

So, it was just another day at work.

You near threatened Doctor Charles to allow you to take his place as the psychiatrist for the ED and after lots and lots of convincing, he caved but with the conditions: you took regular breaks, everyone kept an eye on you, don't take such a big load, update him often and not to turn Sharon away when she to check on you.

There was a sudden influx of patients due to a fire and you were finally able to help after Maggie stopped being so annoying very, constantly hovering over you when she wasn't with a patient.

This wasn't anything abnormal - the injured people - but what was weird was the lingering members of firehouse 51 and the arrival of Jay.

In one of the spinning chairs, you pushed yourself over to the group of people huddled at the front desk, curious to what was up and needing to do something after sitting duck for half an hour now.

"Oooh, what's this?" You looked at the zip lock bag in wonder, only opening it when Jay gave you the okay, nodding his head with a smile at your presentable face.

The last time he saw you, you were a struggling mess at your dad's having come back from getting treatment.

After explaining briefly, you gladly opened the bag and scanned the items. While flicking through receipts, you could hear Erin stop in front of you, letting the three of you know it was looking like a suicide. Giving you and Erin some time, Jay and Kelly gave their goodbyes and went back to their respective jobs.

"You look much better." Erin looked you up and down, noticing that your skin was still quite pale, the bags under your eyes were still there even with the makeup and you were wearing your usual bandana, a staple since the hair loss started kicking in.

"Well thank you very much." You said truthfully despite some part of you believing that she was lying and you looked worse than you did the last time she visited you. "How are you?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Erin asked, smiling as she watched you skim over the few items she had no interest in. "I'm fine, everyone's fine. This seems pretty simple which is good, less work for us."

You hummed nonchalantly, her words going through one ear and out the other. "Do you mind if I give these to Dr Charles? I want to get his opinion real quick."

"Sure." Your sister in everything but blood shrugged her shoulders, seeing no harm in getting another opinion. "Just don't lose anything, yeah?"

"Ha ha, very funny." You said smiled sarcastically, rolling your eyes at her undertone as you rolled your chair away to find the head of psychiatry.

*****

It had been a few hours later. The fire incident from earlier was no longer at the forefront of your mind as you busied yourself with your actual patients. Doctor Charles was back in the ED and you had several meetings scheduled.

Signing off a treatment sheet for some new medications, the silence of the psychiatric ward was interrupted by heavy feet rushing towards you.

Looking up, your were caught off guard. You were not expecting to see your dad and Erin again till later in the evening for dinner.

And by the looks on their faces, this wasn't going to be a happy little visit.

In fact, your dad looked conflicted. A myriad of emotions painting his face, so many that you started to get scared. You hadn't seen him look like this since-

"Dr Dean Reybold. He's your doctor right?" Your dad asked, skipping past any pleasantries.

You felt time slowing, almost struggling to hear what he was asking.

You could only nod.

You felt like a child again being scolded watching how he reacted. It was like you had hurt him. Watching him try to compose himself made you want to be sick.

When your dad looked back at you, his eyes bright in unshed tears, you felt your heart stop.

*****

It was a lie.

All of it, everything. It had all been a lie.

It felt like going through the five stages of grief, grappling with the news and the reality of this situation.

You along with way too many women had been lied to and deceived. In your most vulnerable positions, you had all been manipulated just for his selfish, disgusting needs.

At your most emotional, he lied. He used your personal connections, your past with your mother. What a sick sick bastard.

Sitting on a bed at Med, Natalie showing you your test results, you didn't even have it in you anymore to cry. You were just so tired.

Going back home to your dad, you felt like a little girl again. You felt like that five-year-old who would lie about her nightmares just so she could sneak into her parents bed and sleep with them.

His arms opened up instantly and you didn't need anymore prompting. Dragging your feet towards the couch, you sat and folded yourself up, tucking your feet under yourself as you tried to hide and make yourself invisible in your fathers embrace.

Closing your eyes, you told him the news, the inevitable that you both had been dreading. Deep down, some sick part of you wished to have cancer just so that you could feel better, just to not feel like a victim who was a ploy for some psychopath.

His arm squeezed you as your voice became breathy, words shaking as all the emotions all came crashing down once again.

You had been crying way too much recently.

The plans for the future were still a little blurry and you weren't too sure how you were going to cope. Your body needed to heal and go back to being its usual healthy, as if you and so many other women hadn't had chemo and unnecessary radiation pumped into your body for no reason at all.

You had met all the women at the court hearing, seeing just how many women and families he had hurt just like yours.

And for once, being a psychiatrist didn't feel like the most important thing.

You were struggling to grapple with your emotions but the easiest part of it was being a helping hand to them. Perhaps it made you feel better to help the other women, trying to help them mentally when you can't physically.

And your dad and Erin were your biggest supporters like always.

This had brought back so many memories from the past that it was almost too painful to recollect, especially considering you were now at the forefront of the exact same event.

You weren't too sure what the healing and recovery process was going to look like - that's what scared you the most.

But the most reassuring part was that the sick 'doctor' wasn't going to do anymore harm and you had the best family supporting you every single step of the way.

[clockwayswrites]

A Broken Sort of Normal Part 7

WC: 1011 Masterpost

After the concussion, Danny started seeing Flash more. It was nice; it was actually really nice. It made Danny realize how alone he had been— how long he had been keeping to himself. When he could manage to be painfully honest with himself, Danny could admit that he had been isolating. He had turned down offers from coworkers and even a few neighbors to be social. It had just been too hard to fathom getting close to anyone when he was still hurting from the loss of Sam, Tucker, and, worst of all, Jazz.

Flash (the younger mostly, but even sometimes the older) didn’t really give him the chance to turn them down. Danny was sure that if he pushed that the heroes would have backed off, but Danny found that he really didn’t want to push them away. It was nice to have people who stopped to check in with him just to see how he was doing.

Questions from Flash the younger started out as post battle check-ups turned to ‘how was your day’s to whatever inane thing was running through the hero’s mind. And there was a lot that ran through the hero’s mind. (Danny tried not to dwell on the fact that he thought of that personality trait as adorable.)

“Dude, no,” Flash bemoaned, leaning against the van as Danny double checked his list that everyone on his team had fully reported in.

“I said what I said,” Danny insisted, head ducked to try and hide his smile. It was just too much fun (and too easy) to rile Flash up.

“No, I refuse to believe that you actually think Ghoulie Girls Two is better than the original game!” Flash said, gesturing wildly. As he spoke his words sped up until they were hard to follow. “The second game lost all of its soul! It was just fan service! Which, yeah, okay so One was fan service too, but it had heart! It had an actual story! Two’s story made no sense!”

“But it set up Three where the other OG creator was back on the project and Three was amazing,” Danny pointed out, tucking his tablet back in his kit.

“Okay, look.” Flash spread his hands. “I won’t argue that Three was amazing. Redeemed the series— pushed it ahead. Introduced Helena who is both amazing trans rep and just plain amazing. Lilly’s arc made me cry. All amazing. But Danny, my dude, you cannot say that because it set up Three that Two is better than One!”

Danny looked up at Flash, blinking innocently. “Well… maybe a little of it is just that I played Two first so it got me into the series… and, well, how much it offended you.”

“I— you troll!”

Laughing, Danny walked away to finish packing up with his coworkers. Being one of the early teams on the site was always hard, but it was rewarding work and Danny found he preferred it over the clean up jobs. They were lucky that there was no need for search and rescue that day; Danny would have felt compelled to stick around. As it was, Danny put out a call on his radio for his team to load up so they could head back. They would have a quick debrief, fill out their reports, restock their kits, and finally be able to head home.

Flash caught Danny before he could pile into the front seat of the van with a gentle hand on his elbow. When Danny turned to him, Flash backed off almost nervously.

“So, um, right. I had an idea? And I was wondering if I could pick you up at your place later tonight for it?” Flash asked in a blur of words.

It took Danny a moment to parse it all. “I— sure? Yeah, okay. I’m going to be a few hours though.”

“Really?” Flash asked, grinning widely. “Yeah! No prob! I’ll grab you at eight— no, nine. Bring a jacket! Bye!”

Danny was left blinking at the spot that Flash used to be, bemused by whatever had just happened.

-

Flash knocked precisely at nine. It was, in fact, so precisely at nine that Danny had to wonder if Flash had just been standing awkwardly outside the apartment for a few minutes waiting to knock or if the accurate timing was just part of the speed force.

“Hi, Danny,” Flash chirped with a nervous little smile. He was back in the separate mask, though he seemed to be wearing something not that different from his tight super suit under the large Cyborg themed hoodie. He had his Flash themed backpack again and it looked almost over filled.

“Hey, Flash,” Danny said, hoping his smile would calm whatever nerves Flash was having. “Do I get to know the plan?”

“Nope! I mean, not if you trust me? But like, if it’s bothering you to not know the plan I can totally tell you the plan so that you don’t worry, I just thought that maybe it would be a nice surprise, but maybe you don’t like surprises—”

“Flash,” Danny said, cutting off the rambling. “I’m okay not knowing.”

“Okay, okay cool,” Flash said after he took an obvious breath. “Um. Arms or piggyback ride?”

Danny glanced up from putting his shoes on. “Hum?”

“To be carried. I need to run us somewhere.”

“Oh, uh, back I guess?” Maybe it would make him feel less unsteady than being picked up.

“Okay!” Flash said. He bounced eagerly on his toes as he waited for Danny to put on his jacket and lock up. When Danny finally turned to him, Flash handed over his backpack, spun around, and crouched down. “So make sure to hold on tight! Arms and legs both.”

“Sure,” Danny said. He had no intention to even risk being dropped.

He felt a little awkward climbing onto Flash’s back, but the hero seemed perfectly comfortable with it all. Flash gave a little bounce after he was standing, as if to make sure Danny was secure, and then they were off in a blur of light and color.

-----

AN: Aaaaah these two are just so fun to write! They're just so cute. I also always enjoy writing people just being nerds~

(I'm still not very well, so I've been using this fic as my warm-up then poking at LBFD as my brain allows.)

Stay delightful, darlings!

Due to the new post editor and a few other reasons, I no longer tag people. You can be notified in much the same manner by subscribing to the master post here.

[moonshynecybin]

the way Marc’s diplopia issues in MotoGP could translate so well into concussions episodes in a hockey AU (just like Sid…)

the head injury of it allllll.... its crazy because motogp injury is USUALLY (not always) caused by incidental contact or a personal fuck up. "racing is a contact sport rubbing is racing" okayyyyy but not like hockey lol. in motogp you USUALLY arent making contact on purpose (no one crashes for fun) and when you DO make contact it is almost ALWAYS on the limit. while often hockey injury (ESPECIALLY HEAD INJURY) is caused by a hit. could be a dirty hit could be a clean one, but usually its cuz a guy decided to hit you very hard with his body personally. theres a lot more.... agency in the injury? which feels bad bc not everyone is running around concussing people but i think its fair to say theres more interpersonal violence with INTENT to be violent even if its like. a fairly innocent shove on the forecheck. touching people on purpose. cause and effect. you are injured because of someone. thats comparatively rare in motogp

all this to say. known injury weirdo vale (and i hesitate to mention this but part of the reason he is that way is BECUASE he was involved in a tragic accident that injured another person). in a contact sport. vs marc. famously most injured man alive including in his head. in another sport that LOVES to ignore concussions. add famous rivalry. add playoff hockey hit lenience. and i can see marc (head already fragile/diplopia'd up when he was in juniors) falling weird when vale is trying to muscle him in the corners and getting his noggin absolutely scrambled. and now we have to deal with vale as CAUSER of marc injury. where he's out for months. in a dark room. doing his eye exercises and cuddling shira and MAYBE it was during the playoffs so alex had to convince marc not to try and get on the fucking ice and vale is in the same city all the time feeling like his heart is getting pulled out through his SPINE because its one guy to convince yourself a rival is evil it is ANOTHERRRR for injury weirdo to actually and for real hurt someone he loves. like if you look at them in motogp thats not vale's bag at all during the marc years. even with him being a criminal against sete in 2006 he never pulls that shit out post sepang 2011. and i think if he managed to actually INJURE marc. well i think he might feel so bad he shows the fuck up at this door

so its. hushed tense voices in the hall (alex and vale). vale climbing into bed with him in the dark. holding ice over his forehead. playing cards to keep him occupied and off his phone. reminding him to do his eye exercises. taking him to appointments contacting the diplopia specialist... and marc is brain foggy and confused and needs comfort and just WANTS IT so badly that he doesnt question it too much... lets himself take a little... and vale is there... like truly vale LOVES to take care of people, acts of service is his love language, and he is. FANTASTICALLY guilty. so hes trying to fix it anyway he can. but then the playoff series passes. and marc gets a little bit better. and there isnt a REASON for him to be there. and marc might be edging on asking him wtf hes doing there in the first place. and one day marc rolls over and vale is GONE.... because hes like okay. well marc is better now so i should go WALLOW in my GUILT. which of course to vale looks like pretending it never effected him at all while being secretly very kind about the whole thing. because he SUCKS !

[in-another-april]

─ patching up a wound | s.r

summary/prompt + genre - ♟/12 from "Nonsexual acts of Intimacy” : "Patching up a wound" | hurt/comfort, fluff

warnings - mentions of minor injury and a bit of canon typical violence about a case

wc - 702

notes - first post on this blog! thanks for reading!!!

────────────────

You had just returned home after a long, strenuous case that left the entirety of your team exhausted and more grateful than ever for the weekend ahead. While the day, fortunately, concluded with the victim found safe and the unsub taken into custody, you were injured in the process. A hit to your forehead, resulting in a relatively small gash. Which, although minor, had Spencer fretting over you as soon as he took notice of it. You managed to convince him to take you home, knowing the last place either of you wanted to end the night was in the hospital.  

Despite his agreement, he still took the drive home as an opportunity to share his collection of statistics regarding infections, concussions, and the like. He knew you were strong, that you could take care of yourself. Even so, he’d be lying through his teeth if he said his worry for your safety wasn’t always an unyielding buzz in his mind, a consistent white noise that had been playing since the moment he met you. Now, in your shared bathroom with the first aid kit splayed on the counter below, you carefully tend to the injury and hope not to worry him too much.

“You okay?” The question pulls your attention away from the mirror, eyes flitting over towards the source of the gentle voice. There stood Spencer in the doorway, a concerned yet knowing expression displayed on his soft features. Your eyes make it a point to avoid his gaze, well aware of the “I told you so” look waiting for you within it.

“Mhm,” You hum, shifting your focus back to pressing the alcohol pad over the wound, wincing in pain from the stinging sensation. “I’m alright.” Your attempts at convincing him are clearly not as effective as you hoped, given the worried furrow settled between his eyebrows as he takes a tentative step towards you.

“Can I?” He asks, stepping close enough to envelop you in the scent of his cologne, faint from the long day but still ever so comforting and familiar. “You don’t have to take care of it all by yourself.” His words have an added heaviness that follow along with them, a meaning running deeper than just him tending to your injury, and you’re eager to alter the mood as best as you can.

“Of course, go ahead.” Your hand ceases its movements and falls back to your side as you watch him pick up the pad and set the entirety of his focus on you. Spencer reaches to tilt your chin up, allowing himself a better view of the gash. You try to ignore the feeling his touch ignites in you as he holds your face and begins wiping at the cut, touch so delicate and light it would barely register to you if you weren’t aware of what was happening.

That is, until he applied more pressure and the burning feeling returned at once, pulling a hiss of pain from you at the suddenness of the sensation.

“I know,” He all but cooed, brushing the stray hair out of your face. “I’m almost done.” His assurances were whispered in such a soft tone making you practically melt in his hold, the intimacy of the situation bordering on overwhelming. Opening up and accepting comfort is never easy, but it’s almost second nature with Spencer. It feels as though he defines a new level of gentleness as he loves you, irrevocably and fully, and he grants you the gift of being able to do the same to him.

He gives you a once-over after he’s finished, admiring both his work and the way you look under the glow of the warm bathroom lighting. He leans in to press a featherlight kiss over the bandage, the cheesy display of affection causing you to tuck your head into his shoulder in an attempt to hide the soppy smile making its way onto your face.

“You wanna head to bed?” He speaks quietly, so as not to disturb the peaceful silence that had enveloped the two of you. He lets out a soft chuckle as a yawn answers for you before you give a proper reply. 

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Wifey

Dev Patel x Y/N - drabble - 527 WC

Masterlist

Warnings: none this is so fluffy, maybe mention of injuries in regards to Dev but nothing serious at all

---------------------------------

You rushed through the doors of the hospital, instantly running to the nurse at the front desk. “Hi! How can I help -”

“Dev Patel, birthday April 23rd, 1990.” you said quickly.

The woman looked at you with an apathetic gaze, “Third floor, room 327.” she said.

You nodded at her and gave a small smile before making your way to the elevator. Once it reached the third floor you saw Dev’s manager and a few different crew members scattered in the hallway. You tried to make your way over to them but a nurse stopped you.

“Ma’am visiting hours are over, family only.” she stated, standing in your way.

You looked at Dev’s manager with a pleading look, tears starting to well up in your eyes. 

“She’s his wife.” he said, walking over to you. 

The nurse relinquished your arm as you made your way to Dev’s agent. You pushed your bag and jacket into his arms before opening and shutting the door once you were inside. Dev was asleep in the bed. You quietly walked to him, thumbing over his cheek gently as you looked over him. He had bruises all over. You frowned, eyes watering at the very notion of him being hurt.

“I’m fine baby.” you heard in a groggy voice.

Your head whipped to Dev. You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in, “Oh my god, honey…” you trailed off, not sure what to say.

“It really looks worse than it is… a broken leg and a concussion aren’t that bad in the grand scheme of things.” he smiled at you. 

You scoffed, moving to hug him softly “I’m just glad you’re alright. All they told me was that you were in the hospital.” 

Dev’s eyebrows drew together, “How did you get in? Last I heard visiting hours were over…” he said.

“I may or may not have said I was your wife… Well, I didn’t. Your manager did. Either way that nurse wasn’t gonna stop me from getting to you. Fuck visiting hours.” you said with all seriousness.

Dev laughed at the last bit, holding his side with a groan. You raised an eyebrow at him, “Bruised ribs…”  he said sheepishly. 

You sighed, “Move over.” you said.

Dev scooted over in the bed, holding his arms open automatically. You crawled in, careful to avoid hitting any of his injuries. You kissed his neck a few times before resting your head in the crook of his neck, breathing him in. 

“I’m glad you’re alright.” you whispered to him before pecking him on the cheek. 

Dev snuggled his head into you before kissing your nose then your lips. “I’m sorry I made you worry… wifey.” he said, you could feel him smiling against you. 

You let out a breathy laugh at the faux title, “Dork… you should get some sleep. Heal and all that shit. I love you” you said before kissing him.

Dev smiled, leaning his head against yours again, “Love you wifey.” he said, making a mental note to finally bust out that ring he bought 3 months ago as soon as he was out of the hospital.

------------------------

Naboo's Note:

Heyyyyy one small fic before my surgery on Tuesday. I hope ya'll enjoy, I have a few in my drafts so I will get around to posting those soon hopefully. :) ILYSM XOXXOXOXOXOXXOXO

[angstywaifu]

You Think I Wanted This? Dain Aetos x Reader

Prompt - “You think I of all people wanted to fall in love with you?” by @fw-gt

A/N: For a prompt for a character I never thought I would write, I am honestly really happy with this. So I hope all you Dain girls like this. Pre Warning though, there is no happy ending. This is just Dain angst. So enjoy if thats you thing? As always requests are open if you want to suggest anything.

Masterlist

It was so hard to keep my focus on Devera and Markham who were talking about one of the current issues on our borders. I could feel his eyes on me and the bruise and cut on my eye. My squad had come back from our RSC interrogation training late last night. We had been told to let our injuries heal naturally if they weren’t life threatening. So here I sat in battle brief, with my squad, with very visible and notable injuries.

Most of the other riders had ignored it after our arrival back at formation this morning. But not him. I had felt his eyes on me as soon as I had taken my place in the rotunda. Had felt them in the corridors as our squads crossed paths. And I knew if I looked to my right I would meet the sandy brown eyes of Dain who sat a few seats away with his squad mates. His squad had yet to be taken for interrogation training. But we had seen enough come and go to know what it entailed. Knew from the injuries the other second years had returned with what awaited us. And yet I had felt his eyes on me all morning. I knew I wasn’t the only one. A few rows behind me I knew my closest friends were watching him as well. Probably wondering why Dain was watching me like a hawk.

Dain and I had become friends somehow. Somehow he trusted me unlike the other marked ones. All the others he kept his distance from. Somehow that one challenge had changed everything. The challenge where we had gone all out as it was one of the last of the year. We had ended up sending each other the healers quadrant, both being deemed a stay over night. We had also been the only cadets there. The joys of giving each other concussions and a mender not being available to heal us fully till the next day.

With only each other for company, we had begrudgingly talked to each other. We had then stayed up till the early hours of the morning talking till a healer had told us off and demanded we get rest before being mended in the morning. From there it had spiralled. Late night sparring sessions, catching each other in the library while we studied. Keeping our new found friendship secret. Mainly for Dain’s sake than mine. I would definitely get a talking to from my friends, but Dain would have it far worse if his father found out he was friends with a marked one. A child of the rebellion.

But recently our friendship had changed. Something more teetering at the edges. Our library catch ups turned into study sessions in one of our rooms, our sparring sessions having a little extra tension when one of us managed to pin the other underneath us on the mat. I had started getting feelings for Dain. Very strong feelings for Dain. I would get jealous any time he doted after Violet, protecting her. But then my heart would do cartwheels whenever his eyes met mine. And my eyes would wander whenever I could see him during sparing and challenges. Admiring the way he handled himself, and honestly the view. Dain wasn’t as built with muscle as Xaden and Garrick were. But the amount he did have suited him perfectly.

I had fallen hard for Dain Aetos, as much as I had tried not to. I had fallen for someone that was considered my enemy. And I had to put a stop to it. Or at least get through the next year and a half where we would most likely get posted far away from each other and I would never see him again. Just another year and a half. In the distance the bell rings across the college, signalling the end of classes and the start of lunch. As I had been too out of it to unpack anything for the class I quickly grabbed my bag and rushed down the stairs. Away from Dain’s eyes. Very glad my spot in the room gave me a quicker escape than Dain who I had glimpsed fighting against the crowd to get to me.

I headed for my room, hoping Dain would head directly to the dining hall where most of the quadrant would go. Where I should be going seeing as I had slept through breakfast this morning. But clearly Dain knew me better than I thought. I had been so caught up in making it to my dorm room to change before challenges that I hadn’t heard the fast approaching steps. A yelp escaping my lips as a hand grabs my jacket sleeve and drags me behind a pillar. My eyes meeting the sandy brown eyes of Dain. His eyes are frantic as they take in my face properly. Focusing on the deep blues and purples around my eye, and the scar that extended from more fore head, narrowly missing my eye before ending halfway down my cheek.

”You should go see a healer.” He says as his eyes meet mine, his hand still grasping my jacket sleeve tightly.

”Not allowed to.” I say numbly as I cast my gaze away from his, feeling my cheeks starting to flush under his intense gaze.

I see his eyebrows furrow in annoyance, a slight tick in his jaw. “But you’re hurt. They can’t stop you. I’ll take you.” His hand releases my jacket as he goes to grab my hand.

I step backwards, his hand hanging in mid air where it went to grab mine. “I don’t need you to baby me like Violet. I’ll be fine.” I snap at him.

I hate myself as the words leave my mouth as he recoils. He had confided in me about his situation with Violet. From the kiss they had shared at Threshing, to the fights they’d had since she had arrived. He had confided in me about that, opened his heart to me and let me in. And I had just thrown it in his face. I knew he was just trying to help. But something in me had reared up at it. Telling me to shove it away. That I didn’t need his help. Didn’t need his pity. Didn’t want the help his name would bring if he took me over to the healers.

“I’m not trying to baby you. I know you’re different to Violet. But you’re hurt. You need healing.” He pleads to me as he steps towards me again.

”If I was out in the field I wouldn’t get healing. They’re just preparing us for when we leave.” I take a step back. I see the pain in his eyes as I step back, my words pushing him away. Maybe this was my way out. It pained me to do it, but I had to distance myself from him. Push the feelings I had away. I couldn’t be with someone like him. It would never work. Him the Colonels son, and me a marked one from the rebellion. A reminder of what happened. Our friendship would never leave this quadrant. “I don’t want your pity, and I don’t want healing the rest of my squad wont have available to them. I don’t want the privileges that come with your name.”

I go to push past him, my only avenue of escape. I had hoped my words would numb him. Stop any reaction he would have to me walking past him. But his hand reaches out and grasps my hand, spinning me around to him, his other hand cupping my cheek. His eyes go with with shock at the contact. I want to pull away, but its as if something is holding me there. Something willing me to not move. A connection. No. A presence? What was it. Whatever it is lets me go after a few seconds, Dain releasing his hold on me as he stumbles back. The shock still evident in his eyes. As if he has been told something he can’t quite believe.

”You love me.” He suddenly blurts out.

I stand there in shock as my own eyes go wide. How the hell did he know I had feelings for him? Wait. Did he say love? No. I just had strong feelings for him. Feelings I needed to get rid of. Feelings that shouldn’t exist. Feelings I was trying my best to get rid of by pushing him away. Feelings I had not told him about. But somehow he had know about them. Dain’s hand the had cupped my cheek still hovered in mid air as his eyes darted between it and me. Could Dain read my thoughts? It’s then I realise he has never told me his signet. That the patch on his uniform indicates classified. A mind reading signet that could only be activated by touch would definitely be one they would allow to stay. And one they would keep secret.

“No. No I don’t.” I tell him as I shake my head quickly.

”No you do. But you don’t want to.” He says with a sad tone to his voice as his eyes focus on me.

I swallow nervously as I stare back into his eyes. My suspicions confirmed. Dain could read thoughts at touch. And I had been practically screaming mine in my head as I had tried to push past him. I knew he hadn’t done it on purpose by the way he was reacting. But hard to ignore something when it is practically being yelled at you.

”You think I of all people wanted to fall in love with you? Gods I tried not to. I tried so hard.” I feel wetness on my cheek and realise I’ve started crying. “But I did. I fell so fucking hard for you it wasn’t funny. And I shouldn’t have. But here we are.”

”You make it sound like a bad thing.”

”Because it is Dain!” I yell, not caring who hears us now. “We shouldn’t even be friends. I should have ignored you that night in the healers quadrant. But I didn’t. I should have pushed you away when you sought me out after. But I didn’t. I didn’t because I didn’t want to push you away. But I should have. I should have ended this before I fell fucking fell for you.”

Dain just stares at me in shock. I swear I see some tears in his eyes as well. But unlike mine they dont stream down his face. He manages to keep his emotions in check.

”What if I fell for you to? What if I was dumb enough to fall for you to even though I knew I shouldn’t be?” He takes a step towards me.

I shake my head. “There is no what if, because even if you did Dain, nothing can come of it. This doesn’t end well for us in any scenario.”

He reaches out and takes my hand in his. He knows I will try to pull away as he links his fingers in mine and holds on tightly. “What if it did?” He asks softly, leaning down to rest his forehead on mine.

I close my eyes, not wanting to stare into his eyes that I know will have me succumbing to my emotions. I needed to push him away. I couldn’t let him in. I couldn’t go down this path. It only ended in heart break. It would not have a happy ending.

”We know it doesn’t Dain. Someone like you and someone like me don’t work together. We would constantly be hiding it. I don’t want that.” I say softly, still keeping my eyes closed.

I feel his breath across my face as he sighs. He knows I’m right. And I know he would constantly be torn between who he is, who his father is and me.

”We could just have this. Have us while we are here. Where we can hide it. Enjoy what time we have.” His voice pleads to me.

My breath comes out shaky. His grip on me tightening in response. “I can’t do that. I can’t do this knowing there’s an end date. I can’t Dain.”

I feel him nod. His movement causing mine to move with his. He knows I’m right. I open my eyes to see his sandy brown eyes already staring into mine. So much sadness in them. So much emotion in them. I know mine reflected the same. I wonder if he could sense my emotions with his signet, or if it was just past memories. Either way it didn’t matter. Everything was out in the open right now.

”Can I have one thing before you walk away? Before we go and pretend we don’t exist to each other any more?” He asks.

I nod at him, and in an instant his lips are on mine. I don’t even try to push him away. I let my emotions take over. Let my body do what I’ve wanted to do whenever he’s had me pinned underneath him on the training room mats. I grasp his jacket and pull him as close as I can as I deepen the kiss. His lips parting in response. His arms wrapping around me so tightly I don’t know where he ends and I start. The kiss is urgent and passionate, both of us knowing this will be the first and last time this happens. We pour all our emotions into it before shuffling feet has us breaking apart. No one could see us behind the pillar, but we couldn’t risk it. I can feel the tears threatening to flow again, so I push past Dain with ease this time as he lets me pass. Not daring to look back to see if he watches me go. But I know he does. I feel his eyes on my back like I had all day, but this time for a different reason.

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | April 8th-14th 2024

Managed to put it out slightly earlier this time! 😆 This is still long af and there are still too many fics left in my ao3 inbox but maybe the mini hiatus will allow me to catch up!

As you can see I'm still enjoying podfics and I am happy to report that listening to Coma-Verse made me cry as much if not more as reading it 🙃 You can also looks forward to part 2 of my "BFF fic rec" series which will cover seasons 4 and 5, coming soon!

Enjoy! 😃

Complete

and with each one, i'm a little more free series by honestlydarkprincess/ @honestlydarkprincess (Post-S7E4, Coming Out):

settle (<1K | General): Buck comes out to Chimney. so let the words slip out of your mouth (1,7K | General): Buck comes out to Eddie.

kiss him once for me by 42hrb/ @exhuastedpigeon (S7E5 Spec, Jealous Eddie | <1K | General): Eddie was perfectly happy and accepting about Buck’s sexuality, in fact, he liked to think he was the ideal picture of a best friend when Buck had told him. So, nothing changed between them. Or at least, nothing changed until he sees Buck and Tommy kiss.

when we're barely awake in the heat of the day's weight by trysetmeonfire/ @try-set-me-on-fire (BuckTommy | 1K | Mature): Buck wakes up at Tommy’s place and they have a conversation about taking up space

like an empty bottle takes the rain by glorious_spoon/ @glorious-spoon (Post-S7E4, Sexuality Crisis | 1,2K | General): "I was wondering. You and Tommy—how did you know?" There's a soft intake of breath. "That I was into guys? Or that I was into him?" "Either." Eddie shrugs tightly. "Both."

Yes, Daddy by Tizniz/ @tizniz (PWP, Daddy Kink | 1,7K | Explicit): And really, the shit eating smirk that graces Buck’s too pink lips should have been Eddie’s warning. But he’s so used to his best friend’s antics that he’s become immune to them. Or, well he thought he had. “Yes, Daddy.”

don't stand a ghost of a chance (with you) by extasiswings/ @extasiswings (Post-S7E5, BuckTommy Breakup | 1,7K | Teen): Tommy isn’t stupid. He knows the score from the beginning. But. He’s only so strong. And Evan is both hot as hell and supremely adorable. So Tommy kisses him, and asks him out, and tells himself that maybe he’s just been reading the signs wrong. Maybe Evan and Eddie really are just…very…close friends. He’s imagining things. They’re friends—or maybe Evan has a crush—but that’s fine. Evan asked Tommy out. So Eddie is…a nonissue. Tommy tells himself that right up until he can’t anymore.

don't want to be a fool for you by fallingthorns/ @fallingthorns (Bachelor party, Madney Wedding Spec | 1,8K | Teen): Or, at both the bachelor party and the wedding reception, Buck looks at Eddie.

let’s get lost between the lines by wafflesofdoom/ @capseycartwright (BuckTommy, Post-S7E5 | 2K | General): “You handled that well,” Tommy said, as they left the restaurant and stepped out into this cool evening air. His words were soft, and gentle – genuine, even. As though he really meant it. Buck was baffled, frankly. “I handled that with as much grace as an elephant doing ballet,” Buck glared at his - his date? - incredulously. “Tommy, did you hit your head? Are you concussed? Do I need to take you to the emergency room?” or, after the eddie shaped hiccup of their first date, buck and tommy walk and talk - about coming out and why buck deserves a nice boyfriend.

good luck, babe by hattalove/ @hattalove (Outsider POV, Social Media fic, S7E5, BuckTommy Date | 2K | Teen): sometimes, when you've had a bad week, all you want is a romantic evening out with your wife over terrible pizza, and what you get instead is some kind of intricate gay ritual happening two tables away from you.

say my name and everything just stops by bellabrady (BuckTommy, Endgame Buddie, Getting Together | 3K | Not Rated): Or: Buck accidentally moans Eddie's name while making out with Tommy and it leads to some realizations.

behaving myself. by dylaesthetics (Secret Relationship | 3K | Teen): OR it’s just a regular day at fire station one-eighteen. No one’s acting weird. Nothing’s out of the ordinary. Everything's the same as it's always been. Right?

even for a phoenix (i’m getting tired) by hobbitprincess (Post-S5E18, Hurt Buck | 3K | Mature) : “You’re gonna be fine,” says Eddie again, and Buck hates that he can parse out the slight waver that wasn’t there the first time. Buck doesn’t have the heart to disagree with him, even if they both know it isn’t true.

This Old Love Has Me Bound by allyasavedtheday/ @littlespoonevan (Post-S7E4 | 3K | Teen): In an attempt to better understand his newfound bisexuality, Buck tries to figure out if he ever missed any signs with guys before. The universe keeps interrupting every time he's about to think about Eddie.

so much to say that's subject-sore by hattalove/ @hattalove (BuckTommy, Buddie Endgame | 3K | Teen): in which buck is convinced he's having commitment issues, tommy is there to hold his hand, and the tiramisu won't eat itself.

I get drunk on jealousy by heartbeatdiaz/ @loserdiaz (FWB BuckTommy, Endgame Buddie | 5K | Explicit): Eddie calls Buck in the middle of the night at a not so covenient time, words are said, feelings are revealed and Buck's strenght is tested.

shoot another shot (try to stop the feeling) by withmeornotatall/ @chronicowboy (Bachelor Party Spec, BuckTommy, Endgame Buddie | 5K | General): "He just. He won't let me in, Tommy. It's terrifying. I don't know how to help him because he's refusing to even admit there's something wrong." Buck scrubs a hand down his face. "I'm not crazy, am I? I'm not making things up? He's not himself, right?" (OR: eddie gets drunk and cuts a little too loose, buck tries to pick up the pieces and ends up getting more than he bargained for, and tommy is just happy he got to be with buck at least for a little while)

Threes Not A Crowd by Tizniz/ @tizniz (Buck/Tommy/Eddie, PWP | 5K | Explicit): Follow up to Buck's Boyfriends in which Buck's boyfriends take care of him. Incredibly well. (Part 2 of Buck's Boyfriends)

🔥 To Build A Nest (To Build A Home) by Kwills91/ @kwills91 (Post-S5E14, Getting Together | 9K | Teen): Five times Buck shows his love for Eddie via pebbling and the one time Eddie uses those pebbles to build a nest.

don't go breaking my heart. by dylaesthetics (S7E6 Spec, Madney Wedding, Getting Together | 13K | Teen): Coming to terms with being bisexual and being in love with his best friend is not how Buck expected to spend the month or so leading up to his sister’s wedding. But then again, life has shown time and time again that he has been put on this planet to suffer. - OR Buck can’t take it anymore and kisses Eddie in the middle of his sister’s wedding reception. He’s never been known for making good decisions. (Part 2 of heaven is you.)

🔥 Test Drive by ElvenSorceress/ @elvensorceress (PWP, Buck/Tommy/Eddie, Buddie Endgame | 28K | Explicit): In which Buck wants his boyfriend to give his best friend a queer awakening like he had. For no particular reason at all. While he also has the most inopportune "Oh" moment ever.

WIP

Both Bermuda and Golden (Lost but Doing Just Fine) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (PWP, Threesome, BuckTommyEddie | 4/6 | 20K | Explicit): In which everyone has two hands and two holes and is keeping their options fluid. (Or: a collection of threesome fics.)

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briar / @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon S1-S6, S7 Spec | 125/? | 389K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

What’s Your Order? by JJK/ @trenchcoatsandtimetravel (Post-S7E5, BuckTommy | 2K | Teen): 5 Times Buck Guessed Tommy’s Coffee Order + 1 Time He Didn’t Have To

🔥 Any Other Way by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, S2 | 8/18 | 45K | Mature): In a switcheroo alternate universe, Buck spends young adulthood in the military, while Eddie, who has no idea Christopher exists, spends his twenties messing around, finally enjoying freedom away from his family’s expectations. When they both end up in Los Angeles, at the 118, some things are different, and others will be the same in any universe.

🔥 Cowboy With a One Track Mind by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergence, Not A Firefighter Buck | 1/4 | 6K | Mature): Spin-off Sequel to Evan Buckley & the Coma-Verse of Madness - Chapter 7 (Land): Grieving and tortured, Evan Buckley has been living alone in Montana in a remote cabin for nearly a decade. After an incident that leaves him missing six months of his life, and suddenly in connection with a group of strangers from Los Angeles, Evan must decide whether to remain in his self-imposed exile, or take a chance at life again.

Podfics

🔥 [podfic] wedding bells by All_I_Ask/ @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove for renecdote/ @renecdote (Friends to Fiances | 10-20 min | General): The background noise of the movie and the warm weight of his best friend against his side is lulling Eddie towards a nap when Buck breaks the silence. “Do you want to get married?” “Sure,” Eddie answers sleepily. “Fall wedding?” “What?” Buck frowns, and Eddie realises: oh, he meant do I want to get married generally not to him specifically. Then Buck is asking, “Why fall?”

🔥 [podfic] do you love me? all you gotta do is say yes by All_I_Ask/ @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove for fleetinghearts/ @shitouttabuck (Outsider POV, Friends to Fiances | 30-45 min | Teen): or, two boy best friends and an ex lover walk into a grocery store. everyone is on their normalest behaviour.

OK with being OK [Podfic] by blackglass/ @blackestglass // fic by S_lycopersicum/ @slycopersicum-in-disguise (Post-S5, Coming Out | 10-20 min | Teen): Buck was about 10 minutes away from the firehouse when his phone pinged. "Message from Eddie Diaz," Hildy's too-smooth voice announced, and Buck laughed at how Eddie's face would scrunch at Hildy knowing his business. "Wait in your car when you get here. I need to talk to you before we go in" Oh shit.

🔥 [Podfic] rainbows have nothing to hide by slipofthetongue/ @burnthatbridge for hattalove/ @hattalove (Getting Together | 20-30 min | Teen): how is eddie diaz like kermit the frog? let buck and christopher count the ways. (Part 1 of the kermit verse)

🔥 [Podfic] Before the Night Fades by slipofthetongue/ @burnthatbridge // fic by MilenaDaniels/ @milenadaniels (Post-S4E14: Survivors, Outsider POV | 45-60 min | Teen): “I have a bottle of champagne, four champagne flutes, one engagement ring to go into one of those champagne flutes, and a note to deliver it all to table 34 with dessert,” Tomas explains, wide-eyed, throwing his hand back to the prep station where said champagne is waiting on ice next to four flutes and a small ring box. “Okay?” “Okay so there’s two men and two women and I have no idea who’s getting proposed to. I’m not even 100% on who came with who." --- Or, EddieAna and BuckTaylor double date and it ruins everyone's night.

🔥[Podfic] Close My Eyes and Stumble (Right Into Your Love) by Ceewelsh/ @mayonnaisetoffees // fic by HMSLusitania/ @hmslusitania (Canon Divergent, S1, Dispatcher Eddie | 2.5-3h | Mature): Eddie's PTSD is just that little bit worse and when he moves to Los Angeles, instead of joining the LAFD, he joins dispatch. Which is all good and fine, except for this one firefighter he keeps ending up talking to.

🔥[Podfic] i did, i did, i do by Ceewelsh/ @mayonnaisetoffees // fic by @hattalove (Canon Divergent | 30-45min | Teen): or the one in which, a couple of weeks after meeting each other, buck and eddie fell in love, broke up, and then forgot to fall out of it.

🔥The Evolution of Buddie [Podfics] by MistMarauder/ @gracieryder for InsaneJuliann/ @marvelingjules (Post-Shooting, Getting Together, Eddie Coming Out, Warning: Homophobia)

[Podfic] Someone Told Me Not to Cry (It's a Lie) (20-30min | Teen): Eddie's fine, he is. Really. He keeps telling himself that until he accidentally calls Buck in the middle of the night after a nightmare.

[Podfic] Just Bros being Bros (45-60min | Teen): It's totally normal to kiss your best friend on the cheek. Eddie has no idea why everyone keeps giving him looks and thinking there's more there.

[Podfic] I was Sinking (Somehow I Forgot) (45-60min | Teen): Eddie tries to figure out just what he may or may not be feeling for Buck. Really, it only leaves him with more questions than any actual answers. His mind keeps twisting around, unable to let him settle with any certainty.

[Podfic] Ready to Suffer, Ready to Hope (S3E18 | 45-60min | Teen): Buck's the one hurting this time, and Eddie wants to help, but he's not sure how, or if he even can. Maybe, he was wrong before. Maybe everyone was. Because clearly, Buck's not as over Abby as everyone seemed to think.

[Podfic] Hard to Learn to Love (45-60min | Teen): Buck's helping Eddie fix Abuela's porch. Eddie's pretty sure he's possibly going to do something stupid, because he can't stop thinking about how much he wants to kiss his best friend.

[Podfic] Someday (Gonna be Free) (45-60min | Teen): Karen points out to Eddie that maybe, his ideas of what a relationship has to look like are something he needs to reassess. She lends him a book, and before Eddie knows it, he's having one epiphany after another.

[Podfic] Bittersweet Triumph (1-1.5h | Teen): Eddie's parents drop by for an unexpected visit. The only thing Eddie can think to do is damage control. Eventually they'd leave, right? Eventually, he could relax again. But he's quickly reaching a breaking point, and he's not sure what'll be on the other side of it.

[Podfic] Pivotal Moment (1-1.5h | Teen): Eddie's stood up to his parents, but of course it can't be that easy. They're still in his house, and Eddie's just waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's frustrated, angry, scared even - and worried about so much at once he can't relax. It's not only leaving Eddie on edge, but Buck seems more and more tense, too.

[Podfic] Hello My Old Heart (1-1.5h | Teen): Eddie needs to check his parents have left - and either way, there's a lot he needs to work through about their visit. Good thing he has family, friends, and Buck to help him figure it all out. And maybe, it's time for him to start showing his hand more, with them all.

[Podfic] Unlearning Lonely After So Long (1-1.5h | Teen): It's the next morning, Buck's still there and making breakfast, and Eddie's realizing that while yeah, the list of things he needs to talk about - with Buck and others - definitely doesn't fill him with anything close to happiness, the rest of it? It's a kind of happiness he hasn't felt in a while.

[Podfic] The More Things Stay the Same (Getting Together | 30-45min | Teen): Eddie's realizing that, now that he's dating Buck, it's not that much different from before, really - except for the increased touching and kissing. That's new. Maybe that's why no one's caught on yet, and they're able to keep it to themselves for now.

🔥 Evan Buckley & The Coma-Verse of Madness by Daisies_and_Briars [Podfic]/@cal-daisies-and-briars by Rhea314 (Rhea)/ @rhea314 (Coma AU, Multiverse | 7-10h | Teen): After being struck by lightning on a call, Buck experiences a plethora of alternate realities showing him different directions his life could have taken. Fighting hard to get home, Buck learns what, or who, is important to him in every lifetime.

Re-Read

🔥 Ace of Hearts by glorious_spoon/ @glorious-spoon (Post-S6, Getting Together | 9K | Teen): "I've been wondering…" Maddie pauses, watches Buck make a face like he's bracing to be smacked. "What happened with Eddie? You two were dancing around it for so long, and then… what, it just didn't work out? Was the date really that bad?" She's expecting another wince, or even for him to duck out of the conversation entirely, but instead Buck is staring at her like she's grown a second head. "Maddie. I've never been on a date with Eddie." Or: the poker game was a date. It takes Buck a while to catch on, though.

🔥 all good things come to an end (but it's not the end) by wafflesofdoom/ @capseycartwright (Pre-S4, Quarantine, Friends with Benefits | 10K | Explicit): “Okay, hear me out,” Buck said. "What if we have sex?” Eddie could be forgiven for choking on his own breath, given how out of the blue Buck's suggestion was. “What?” “You’re my best friend," Buck gestured vaguely. "And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re living through an actual plague right now, so neither of us is actually getting any. So who better to have sex with than each other?" - or, craving intimacy during quarantine, buck and eddie strike up a friends with benefits situation. because it couldn't possibly go wrong.

[empressgeekt]

Trolls - Burning Branches au - Part 3 Aftermath

Okay so if anyone has not read the other posts on this AU, I highly suggest you do. Believe me this will be much more fun with context. The previous posts are by the same title, minus the "Part 3". I will also be tagging all of them with the title after posting this.

Char = Branch

Lets get into it...

When we last left of the Family Harmony was complete and the V-Twins were being carted off to jail. Char and Poppy kissed and wondered if they could finally get married now.

Then Floyd collapsed. The troll literally had the life drained out of him for two months, he is not walking away from that with just a new hair style. This sends the happy moment into one of panic. Floyd does not wake up when prompted, and not even when the other moved him on to Rhonda. It's clear he needs a doctor, but none on Mount Rageonus know troll physiology, so they need to leave as soon as possible.

But where will they go? Anywhere is still few days drive, and there is barely any supplies on Rhonda. No food. There was water but not enough for everyone. And most importantly no medicine beyond a very old, very basic first-aid kit John had for gotten about. Barb and Bruce stay behind to make sure Floyd doesn't die (and make sure Tiny takes a nap). Floyd has a seizure and Barb steps in taking control of the situation with Bruce freezes. Bruce asks her how she knew to tend to someone who's sick, and Barb explains that Char used to have them as a kid and she was usually the one who nursed Char through his head aches, and when he got sick from the volcanic fumes. This leads to bonding between the two of them, and Bruce starts to think of Barb as his little sister too.

When the others get back, John and Clay kind of freak out about the seizure when told. Trips home can wait they need a doctor. Rock territory is closeted and the doctor that treated Char originally is still around and on call. Still few days drive, but it's the best guess they got.

When Floyd finally wakes up he's a mess. Exhausted, nauseous, with a killer head ache. It's also in the middle of the night, and everyone is still asleep. Well, everyone except Poppy and Char. They were still up due to some shared insomia, and discussing their re-do wedding plans. Floyd's perception of things are still hazy, so he's calling Char by Branch and not noticing the latter's discomfort over the name. Still Char helps alleviates Floyd migraine so he can go back to sleep. Floyd asks how Char would know that it would work, Char says it works for me. Floyd would continue to ponder that, until he passes back out.

When they get back into Rock Kingdom territory, Floyd is taken into the hospital rather quickly, and is put on supportive devices, to combat server malnutrition, dehydration, and oxygen just incase. Brain scans, reveal scaring on his brain from several concussions that went untreated. The source of his seizures, and possibly other symptoms that have yet to show themselves. Once he's conscious he reports of, numbness, pain and tingling in his legs and is looking at possible nerve damage.

During this time, with the help of Barb, Bruce manages to get a letter out to his family explaining what was going on and it would be little longer until he was home. Char and Barb re-unite with their Dad and Riff. And the rest are just trying to make sense of everything.

Floyd has, at least one of his brothers with him at all times. When he's awake they talk and bond, and when he's asleep they comfort his nightmares. He notices that Char isn't there most of the time (he's out making princely announcements explaining the situation and dealing with some back-lash about "returning to his own kind" from some of the less accepting citizens), and is worried that his Brother is mad at him for not coming back. He practically breaks down upon hearing about Char amnesia, and asks to see him.

Char comes, but is very awkward when he first arrives. Floyd takes in all the difference, and mentions the green vest. Char says he can't remember being without it, Floyd says he gave it to him, before beginning to apologize for leaving him. Char shuts it down, telling Floyd his injury isn't his fault, maybe a few days ago he'd have been mad, but he doesn't regret how his life turned out. He hugs Floyd and wipes his tears. Floyd tells Char that comforting was his job, Char says no matter who's older siblings comfort each other. Floyd wants to know how Char's life turned out. Char, eagerly tells him about Barb and Thrash, how he grew up as a prince, and his betrothal to Poppy. Floyd is shocked his brother grew up as a prince, but is happy his brother grew up in a good home, and wanted to meet Poppy, Thrash and Barb as soon as possible.

Eventually, Floyd is released. He's on crutches, with braces on his legs and has physical therapy routine he needs to follow to walk again. They stay at Char and Barb cavern (their royalty they have the room, and Thrash is loving the company, he's convinced their all his kids and no one corrects him) during this time and for a few days after the release, but tension with the public is spiking and they can't stay for long. Barb stays behind to control the crowds and the others go to Pop village. Viva would re-unite with Peppy, and begin preparations to move the Put Put trolls to the village, with an escort of Rock guards off course.

The saga would end, with Poppy and Char finally getting married and Char coronated as king of pop...with an epilogue of years alter when they had twins trollings, named Rosie and Ash (named after Grandma and Thrash).

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Part One and Part two

And those are my currently plans. I'm going to outline this, but Not sure if I should fully write this thing out now or later. What ya'll think?