#why should i fucking care? so many times you pissed me off and now what? i should care about person who doesn't mind

[wingedshadowfan]

⚠️arcane s2 spoilers⚠️

i just saw someone say "vi put on a uniform for caitlyn but caitlyn never took hers off", even going as far as saying that caitvi shouldn't have ended up together bcuz they have the dynamic of "oppressor and oppressed". tell me you've never paid attention to a single thing caitlyn's done or said in either season without telling me😭😭 (this is my nth post abt this bcuz it pisses me off when ppl mischaracterize her so when you see underlined text, it's linked to a more detailed post)

are we forgetting when she traded her weapon, her gun, her only protection away for a shimmer/medication/potion thing w/ that fucked up undercity dude with the glasses (the one who became the first of the glorious evolution) for vi and hugged him as thanks?

when she saw ekko's commune, his tree, and validated ekko's feelings about piltover and enforcers but also told him the cycle of violence needs to be broken because the undercity needs healing - something ekko could understand even in his anger and hurt.

when she confronted her own parents abt how the government doesn't care about zaun and the situation there, and then took it straight to the council. when jayce, her literal childhood best friend and basically a brother to her, now a councilor, ASKED HER IF SHE KNOWS WHO MADE ONE OF JINX'S BOMBS AND SHE WENT "no, well, uh-" because vi held her hand. she asked him, in front of everyone, "what happened to you" when he suggested using hextech to invade zaun.

even when vi got sick of trying to change things through the council, caitlyn kept telling her there must be another way and they just needed to make a new plan. oil and water, vi said, and that she was stupid to think it would work, but caitlyn's response was, what about us? what about the actual people, not their value as representatives of a group, a stereotype, one of many indistinguishable units? we aren't oil and water.

ppl say she used to view zaunites as just "creeps, crooks and villains" and after seeing more from them through vi, she changed it to "innocent helpless victims", which obv is dehumanizing since you don't recognize a person's capability for both good and evil and only see them as a stereotype. but she's always recognized both kinds of people exist in the undercity and that being "good" or "bad" isn't that simple. ppl seem to be mad she didn't try and dismantle piltover's entire police force like that would be possible or a solution to zaun's problems. she has a strong moral compass and a sense of justice - innocents should be protected and criminals prosecuted, zaunites or topsiders. if you steal, you should go to jail. but when you come from the dark alleys of zaun and poverty and deprivation is all you know, you're way more likely to steal, and when enforcers are prejudiced against you, you're more likely to face excessive violence and maybe serve a longer sentence. and this is why she tells the council that there are good people down there, that there is rampant poverty, famine, a drug problem, etc. her focus is on the daily humanitarian struggles of the average people.

you guys will twist yourselves in knots to make excuses for jinx, justify her actions and forgive her for what she's done (when she literally, aside from murdering a bunch of people and destroying a fuckton of stuff because she was insane, unstable and uncontrollable, literally directly prevented zaun from getting sovereignty by blowing up the council) but you don't recognize caitlyn's entire change in character started when jinx tried to blow her up multiple times, kidnapped her, tried to get vi to kill her, blew up the council killing her mother and then (this wasn't jinx but caitlyn doesn't know that) turned the councilor memorial statue reveal to a massacre. see: this very accurate post.

"caitlyn never took her uniform off" well maybe because she was scared of jinx, paranoid, angry, grieving her mother, seeking justice and buckling under the pressure of becoming head of house kiramman. perfectly normal reactions considering the circumstances. she even acknowledged to jayce how upsetting it was to realize this hate she harbored for jinx had started to undo a lot of the work she did towards understanding the undercity and zaunites better and seeking to help them. but i believe she thought jinx was a hazard to them too.

i have a whole other post diving into this, as well as why she wanted vi to "put on a uniform" (temporarily until they caught jinx, and not just bcuz she thought vi was "one of the good ones" but bcuz she wanted her close, under her protection and equipped w/ all resources and privileges available to piltover, not to mention ppl are seriously undermining the fact that vi played a role in that conflict too) and why she made the mistake of going too far in her pursuit of jinx - most notably becoming rougher and jailing people, poisoning the air as a battle tactic, endangering isha, hurting vi, assuming the commander position and pursuing jinx even harder. but this post isn't about that, it's about other ways in which she metaphorically took off her uniform, and even the way she wore it.

caitlyn wasn't happy as a commander, she wasn't going on a power trip, she didn't "become a dictator all too willingly" like ppl are saying. and yes, that doesn't mitigate the damage she did to zaun but she had clear goals she was pursuing, none of which involved harming innocents (but protecting them), and she even confronted ambessa when she thought her right hand was out of line, which caused tension between them. though blinded by a desire for revenge, she remained concerned with the undercity's state and realized ambessa was manipulating her, even saying something like "why is peace always a justification for violence?" to her. the cost of what she was doing was too much for her. all things considered, commander caitlyn wore her uniform in the best possible way.

and she took it off as soon as she saw what was on the line. vi's father turned monster would go berserk when injected by singed, innocents would be ripped to shreds, and he'd be captured and used as a weapon by ambessa (against the undercity or whomever). for all of these reasons, caitlyn betrayed ambessa. she double crossed her, and the way she acted it out matters, not just because vi, who she'd decked the last time she saw, called her "cupcake". but because it was the right fucking thing to do.

i have a separate post about caitlyn's implied guilt about the things she'd done, about her knowing she couldn't undo those mistakes. this is what made her so desparate to try to make up for them that she not only send the guards away so vi could free jinx (another brilliant analysis here), but it also resulted in the way she fought ambessa tooth and nail alongside mel - like she had a death wish. she, a sniper, sacrificed her eye so she could remove ambessa's talisman by cutting it free with the dagger she took out of her own side. and even in the very end, when she asks vi if she's still in this fight, it could be interpreted as the fight for zaun too since she gave sevika, a zaunite, an ally of jinx, her mother's councilor seat.

so don't fucking talk to me about how she "never took her uniform off" for vi, when she's done that so many times metaphorically (and their last scene is literally one of the very few in the entire show where she isn't wearing any insignia), and she's done it for zaun too. and maybe even more so than that - it's how she wore it that matters. what she did with her privilege and her power - her character and agency.

season two is at fault for mismanaging the piltover/zaun conflict and not focusing on it enough in its latter half, as well as also not showing any proper longer caitvi conversations that might've taken place, in favor of... glorious evolution alien robots??

[rambles-on-dragon-age]

It's word vomit time because I can't help myself when it comes to this franchise and particularly when it comes to Solas. Even some old blogs that I really enjoyed the analysis from I had to unfollow because it seems that all that's being taken from the game is "Solas did everything bad in history ever but actually it was also Mythal" and going wildly between completely absolving Solas of all responsibility because "Mythal made him" or "Solas is actually the root of everything wrong in the world". That they're just two dimensional cartoon villains.

Which???? That's not what Veilguard was showing us!!

Much longer rambling under the cut but the tl;dr is Veilguard showed us the build up and exposed just how high the stakes are and just how deep Solas's regrets are as he tries to wade through the mess he was born into. We got just crumbs in Inquisition/Trespasser and Veilguard just handed us the whole loaf. Looking at this as them saying he's just an uber villain is y'all eating the crust and being pissed about how crusty it is. Dig down to the fluffy center!!! He says time and time again that he's not a god, he's just a man that made mistakes. He's a man burdened by war and when all you have are horrible choices he tried to pick the least bad of them. It just added layers and reaffirmed that in war, there are no good choices. There's survival. You can't apply black and white morals to war; it's messy as fuck and there's no good choices. Veilguard exposed the motivations of a broken man drowning in guilt and showed us how he got there. It pulled back the layers like an onion and exposed the heart in glaring light; it added so much nuance and so many layers to Solas and his motivations and actions.

The cut hides me just rambling and breaking this down further, be aware it's a wall.

First off; the first elves were spirits. We've learned time and time again that spirits don't think the same as humans. Especially when speaking to Emmrich about Manfred and his rambling included teaching Manfred morals. Human morals. You can't really apply human morals to ancient immortal creatures that decided to fashion bodies for themselves cause they thought it looked fun and was new and novel. They probably didn't think ahead to the future where the creatures they struck down might be upset. They don't care; it's a rock to them. Why should they care? They're spirits mucking about in this new world and having a ball. They didn't stop to think about the consequences of it.

Which brings me to the second thing we got reaffirmed; THERE WAS WAR. Even now we live in war times. War is fucking scary. War changes people. We have so much media from survivors trying to express how terrifying war is and share that with people that haven't been through it. (LOTR I'm looking very pointedly at you and waving you around.) The first war was the Titans striking back at the Elvhen for what they had done. (Very justified.) This is when Mythal pleads with Solas to give up his very much loved form and Fade to help her. As they were originally spirits and are effectively immortal, they would have probably a.) felt emotions far more deeply and richly (if more narrowly/with less range) than modern mortals and b.) their morals are probably very different considering they're new to physical bodies and their own growing complexity instead of remaining as more simple spirits and c.) it's clear he feels at least some sort of trust and devotion to Mythal in a fashion we can't really grasp. (The writers confirm that a romanced Lavellan is the first time he's fallen in love so we know that's not what he has for Mythal. But devotion and service? Those are still powerful.) Anyway, that war is wrapped up decisively in one fell stroke thanks to Mythal again making use of Solas's wisdom to craft the dagger that would sunder the Titans. (Even though she, herself, apparently doesn't even do the final blow she again has Solas do it with the weapon he crafted. In the art book, it shows him trapping their dreams in a small black cube and he himself bringing that prison cube back. This is probably why he becomes known as her lapdog/attack dog.) War over, their people are safe. Oooooo elves are just so evil. Except. What were the alternatives? Continue hunting and killing the Titans until they're all truly dead? Would the dwarves have survived this or would they have died with their creators? How would this affect the physical world if the "pillars" are struck down wholesale? The elves can't just fuck off back to the Fade anymore, they have physical bodies crafted from this world now. They're no longer spirits. Do they all just roll over and die? It's in your nature to survive no matter what and this fundamental truth means there would be no peace between the elves and titans, even if the elves stopped their colonizing bullshit. Instead, they were sundered from the fade and left in comas alive. The dwarves were sundered from the titans and each other, but they also lived on. It was a terrible choice when all there were were terrible choices. There were no good choices. The elves sacrificed the titans for their own peace and their war with their world ended.

The second war was the newly named Evanuris against the Forgotten Ones for not helping the Elvhen in the war with the Titans. This is when the elves would have been fearful and already fallen in behind the strongest of them in want of protection. The fight of "those that protected us" vs "those that abandoned us". It just set the stage for more intensely divided elves, more intensely dependent elves. The Evanuris were powerful enough to protect them and end the war with the Titans, they would be powerful enough to protect them and end the war with the Forgotten Ones. (In Bellara's quest, we learn that at least one of them crafted an army of demons to fight for him.) We also learn through Solas's memories that the Evanuris aren't above propaganda and lies; they slaughtered their own people and claimed the Dread Wolf did all of it. This was a war of vengeance, plain and simple, prettied up as good gods vs evil gods. Even the later legends paints it as the good Creator gods vs the evil Forgotten Ones.

After that, the war focus shifts to Fen'harel and his "rebellion". The game shows us that after their war with the Forgotten Ones, Elgar'nan decides they deserve to be gods. Why not? They're already incredibly powerful and rule as kings/queens. Why not be gods? Their people already serve them in body, lets just amp that up to in spirit and in mind. They're marked in blood writing to show who owns them. Just take their minds and have their total obedience, love, and devotion. It's what they deserve after all being so powerful and cool! (Sarcasm in case you miss it.)

Solas pushed back at every opportunity. He started with letters and moved on to freeing their slaves and moving against them period. He was making such progress against them they got desperate and delved into the Titan's prison, using it as power. "They were blind to the horrors." They didn't realize how horrible this new power was because they were already corrupted. He begged Mythal to stop them and they instead murdered her with her own dagger/the weapon Solas crafted for her. To save the living world, he had to imprison them and the Blight away. The Veil locking away all of the Fade was a mistake on his part; considering the power of the magic he was casting, kinda understandable.

We can see, through his own memories, how he changes through this time. Where he begins to make more and more "acceptable sacrifices". Where he cuts problems off entirely instead of taking the time and risk to try and save people. The greater good is what drives him and he can't risk getting caught up in the small details. Like individual lives compared to all the lives they're working to save. Like the trolley problem but more extreme; does he let this person die, or does he let them carry their infection out to kill untold people? Does he ask these spirits to die doing what they love making the distraction or does he have their very limited bodied forces serve as the diversion and die instead?

The memories we play through in the Crossroads and hear through the murals aren't painting him and/or Mythal as the worst villains ever. They're not simplifying their motives or actions. I mean, they're not even justifying their actions either. They fucked up, they did wrong, but they fucking survived and tried to do so with the least casualties possible. The writers are handing us the story, colored only by Solas's feelings/memories. No longer are they colored by the personal biases and limited perceptions of the unreliable narrators like the rest of the game lore and history that has been given to us. These were practically straight from the source! And instead of it being given to us through the distorted lens of other characters, y'all get to distort it all yourself. :)

I had a good conversation with @hyperions-light in the comment section of this post where they also pointed out that the meetings show us just as clearly how this is happening in real time.

The game showed us, IN REAL TIME, how being presented pretty straightforward information is filtered by each person based on their own life's perceptions and biases and their own motivations.

I'm sorry y'all walked away from all that with the most basic surface level understanding colored in black and white.

The whole fucking thing was heartbreaking. What Solas has been through, the situations he was in both of his making and out of his control, were terrible. He did his best but it still wasn't good. Veilguard didn't cheapen what he did or what he went through; it added layers and honestly made it more tragic. He was born into war and desperately fought his whole life like he was the only one standing between his people and total annihilation. You can't live thousands of years like that and not fuck some shit up. I'm also not above that and I don't think any person would be. I'm in my 30s and have fucked plenty of stuff up; gimme a few thousand years and multiple wars and I probably also would have committed war crimes trying to save my people.

Every time I see a new post complaining that Veilguard reduced Solas and Mythal to cartoon villains that did everything wrong, I want to start biting.

[solidcarbon]

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[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.

[bullet-prooflove]

For Rip Wheeler

“Oh, if all I got is your hand in my hand Baby, I could die a happy man”

Tagging: @1-fuzzy-squirrels @nerdypinupcrystal @babygirl8900 @domquixotedospobresblog @buckysteveloki-me

Companion piece to Thrill of the Chase (NSFW) - Rip has always loved the thrill of the chase.

Rip doesn’t have a heart, at least that’s what they say about him. They see his hard edges, his gruff exterior, the aura of violence and they think there’s a barbed wire where one should be.

For a while even he thinks it’s true. The world has battered him, bruised him, broken him, he doesn’t have the capacity for softness anymore. He tells you that after you fuck him for the second time.

“Don’t expect anything from me. I don’t have anything to give you.”

His relationships have aways been physical, raw, primal. It’s about stress relief, not connection. He assumes it’s going to be the same with you until it isn’t.

There are so many ways you’re different to the women he’s been with before. There’s a softness in you he doesn’t anticipate. You aren’t rough with him like the others, you’re teasing, gentle. When he’s camping out alone, he thinks about the light caress of your fingertips across the scars that line his left shoulder, the tender brush of your lips as you explore every inch of him.

He might fuck but you, you make love.

He tries to fight the fall, really he does but it’s a constant war deep inside of him. He forces himself to leave your bed when he’s finished with you, he redresses in the dark as you sleep, ignoring the urge to climb back into your sheets, to hold you, to love you.

He’s tired, sore and pissed off when he comes across you in the barn. He’s been pulling up hemlock all day in one of the pastures and you’re finishing a check up on John Dutton’s horse Starbuck. The old girl is getting up there these days, she’s starting to have more health problems. There’s going to come a day soon where you make the recommendation to put her down and the thought of that…

It devastates him because the two of them, they sort of grew up together. She was the first foal he birthed back in the day.

You must see the exhaustion in him, the toll of the day has taken. He thinks that’s why you reach for him, why you catch his hand when he walks by. The gesture surprises him because the women he’s been with, they’ve steered clear of his moods, they didn’t walk head first into them.

“Come home with me tonight.” You say as he turns to face you, and he sees the sincerity in your features as you draw him close. “Let me look after you a little.”

It’s the first time that anyone has ever offered him that, that they’ve cared enough to consider his wants, his needs. He’s tired of this war he’s been waging with himself, he’s tired of resisting you. All he wants right now is to curl up in bed, with the woman he’s falling in love with.

“Alright darlin.” He concedes, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek. “If you want me, you can have me.”

Love Rip? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[dumplingsjinson]

List of random dialogue prompts (pt. 3)

“Truth be told? I miss the times — the me — before I fell in love with you.” 

“You know, I can see myself in, on top of, or under you. What do you say?” “I can see you buried six feet under my very feet if you don’t stop joking about this shit with me.” 

“Was there a point when you fell out of love with me?” “There was a point when I fell in love with you, but never out.”

“When did you fall out of love with me?” “That’s the thing: I never fell out of love with you. You’re the one who fell out of love with me.”

“Right person, wrong time… What if this is the right time? We’re just the wrong people for each other.”

“You have me wrapped around your fingers. Crazy part is, I don’t mind it.” 

“Don’t forget this: I made you. I can easily break you if I wanted to.” 

“I shared pieces of me, with so many people, and none of them kept those pieces safe, and I don’t know if I can risk that with you because it would devastate me if you turn out to be the same as them all. I would be completely destroyed.” 

“Don’t give me that look.”

“You okay?” “No. I need hugs. From you. I need you to hug me.” 

“I just wanna fucking get over you so I can be okay again.” 

“Stop trying to remind me that you’re still in my life. I’m trying to not think about you, for God’s sake.”

“I wanna kiss you so badly right now but we’re in public and I know you hate public display of affection—“ “I’ll allow you to do it this time.” “Wait… Really?” 

“I make shitty decisions and you’re a testament to that matter.”

“I have things to do, and most of them include me trying not to think about you.”

“I’ve never cried because of someone, you know? I didn’t have anyone to cry over. You’re the first, and you’ll also be the last, or so God help me through this embarrassment.” 

“Breaking up with me does not mean you had to kick me off your Spotify playlist, you know? Because damn. As much as I’m upset, your list had some bangers.” 

“You don’t get to do decide my feelings for you.” 

“I’m not bitchless, you fucking dickhead. Take that back!” 

“Every little thing reminds me of you, which sucks because you’re not in my life anymore.”

“It’s kinda weird not seeing your name on my phone when I wake up. It’s gonna take me some time to get used to this.”

“I think I knew this wasn’t going to last when I realised it’s not that I trust you. It’s that I don’t care what you do, and who you might be fucking around with.”

“One text from you has me happier than a child whose mother bought them their favourite candy. It’s not okay.” 

“I don’t share my Spotify playlist with just anyone. It’s like a secret love language of mine, reserved for those I want to let in. You’re one of them, yet you’re here thinking I don’t feel the same way about you?”

“I dunno, I just… Kinda fell for you.”

“You’re the reason why I fell in love with you. You, as a whole.” 

“There are some songs that I can’t listen to anymore, because they remind me of you; of all the times we’ve had together. And it sucks because some of them are great songs. And you fucking ruined them, you asshole.”

“I’m tired of acting like I don’t care, because I do. I fucking do, and that’s what makes this even worse.” 

“One thing you should know about me is that I suck at letting go.”

“So you’re telling me I’m supposed to sit here and give a fuck? You couldn’t pay me enough to do that. I have places to be and things to do.” 

“You need to stop being such a dramatic bitch.” “It’s the only way I can entertain myself, okay? Now piss off and leave me be.” 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have let you go.”

“You deserve someone better than me—” “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

“You ever think about how good we could have been together?” “Yeah. I think about it all the time, and then I remember how badly you fumbled. So yeah, good job.”

“You’re blushing.” “I’m not.” “…Then I guess I’ll have to give you something to blush over.”

“I lost myself while trying to find the good in you.”

“I think it’s comforting that they’re somewhere out there… Even if we never speak again, you know? They were a part of my life, even if it was only for a little while. They made me feel good, even if it was only for a short amount of time.” 

“Remember when you said you’d catch me when I fell? Well, you’re a fucking liar. Figuratively and literally. Now I’m hospitalised and also emotionally scarred. I hope you’re fucking happy about that.” 

“If we break up, I’d look for you in other people and be reminded that they are not you, and that I’d never find someone like you again. And… I don’t think I can bear the thought of that.”

“I give you permission to break my heart.” “And I give you permission to end me if I ever do break your heart.” 

“I have things to do—“ “And I’m one of them.”

“You’re only saying sorry because you want to make yourself feel better, so you can go shove that sweet apology up your ass because it doesn’t mean shit. I hope you continue to feel like shit over what you did, because I’m never forgiving you.”

“I had expectations for someone I knew couldn’t meet those expectations, so that’s my fault for expecting anything from you at all.”

“You? Breaking my heart? It’s funny how you think you even have that power over me.”

“You were like a routine that I loved and it felt… comfortable. But I guess that’s not the case anymore.” 

“You fell in love with the idea of someone that wasn’t even real. You fell in love with your own projections. How are you so foolish to think that it would have worked out?”

“I’m fine. Of course I’m fine.” “Everything about this interaction is telling me you’re not fine — not even close.”

“The idea of us was perfect. Blame me for thinking it would turn out into something good and as fantastical as what I made it out to be in my head.”

“Because no matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about you and it’s about to drive me to the very brink of insanity, so if you’ll excuse me for not wanting to be near you, that would great.”

“I would not be who I am today if not for you.” 

(pt 1.) | (pt. 2)

[mrsparrasblog]

You're losing me pt 4.

prev part. part 1 next part

TW: Drug use, mentioned rape, mention of violence, medic is the worst human on earth

Simon sat down next to Johnny on his bed, holding the Scotsman's hand while giving him a reassuring nod. "We have the whole day time."

"It's complicated."

"I will understand."

"Promise to believe me."

"Promise." Simon didn't know exactly what had happened or how Johnny got this way. He always admired Johnny for his confidence and the way he made everything seem so easy. Seeing his boyfriend like this broke his heart. He knew Johnny would never cheat on you; he loved you, everyone loved you. He remembered that one day Johnny got piss drunk on a mission and a bird approached him. He showed her pictures of you for 10 minutes, telling everyone he had the most beautiful lass on earth. This man wouldn’t cheat, especially not with her, definitely not his type.

Simon thought she had just gone into Johnny's bed at night, removing her clothes and gaslighting him that he cheated. But when Johnny told him everything about the drugs, about the rape, about the way she tried to blackmail him, he felt like he needed to throw up. He was too young to protect his mother from this. He couldn’t do anything when it happened to him. He didn’t know you when it happened to you. But this time, he was going to kill the rapist. "You’re a good man. Don’t let her manipulate you into something you aren’t."

"I feel like shit."

"This won’t go away easy, love."

"I don’t know what to do." And he really didn’t know. Everything seemed and felt so lost. Simon believed him, right? But what if she tells everyone he raped her? It will be over with his military career. After she pulled that stunt you wouldn’t believe him anymore. The look in your eyes almost broke him completely. This was wrong. It went too easy for her like she had done this many times before or had been planning this for years. It was too easy.

"Let me fix it for you, Johnny." He was determined to do this. Through his head already went 1000 ideas on how to kill her. But every way was too easy, too nice for her. Rip her head off. Sell her off to the black market so she will experience first-hand the crimes she did to others. Burn her alive. Many possibilities.

"Don’t kill her, Lieutenant."

"You know she will do it again. Not only to you but to others."

"Do you think she already did this?" Johnny fiddled with his wrist. The bracelet that you bought him to help with his ADHD was gone. It always calmed him. You told him how you searched through whole Etsy to find some gems that should calm him down. He didn’t believe this shit, but it indeed calmed him down since it reminded him of you. And right now, you were the only thing he needed. He needed you to tell him that he isn’t dirty, that he isn’t at fault, that he is a good man.

"Would explain why she was transferred so fast to us from her old unit."

"Fuck." This needed to stop. He couldn’t let that happen to more innocent people.

"Let’s talk to Price, then I’ll take care of her, and after that, we get our girl back." Simon missed you just as much as Johnny did. For a split second, he was afraid that you were mad and disappointed that he didn’t check on you. But that wasn’t the selfless girl he fell in love with. He knew you would understand if you only knew. He could already imagine how you would apologize even though you didn’t do anything wrong. You were different than the medic scum.

"Do you think she’ll take us back?"

"Yes, promise." He placed a small kiss on the shaved part of Johnny's mohawk, a small gesture that the Scot always loved. Simon always knew how to calm him down. With that, they left in the direction of Price's office.

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

He woke up with an immense headache and the urge to throw up. John really drank too much the last few days, but this will end now. He will concentrate on you and the job again. You forgave him for lying, at least that was the last thing he remembered before you brought him to his bed. On his bedside table stood a glass of water and one of your self-made brownies with a small note. "Take care of yourself, bear." You always jokingly called him a bear because that was what he was to you. John was the big cuddly bear who always kept you safe.

He knew by the amount of alcohol he drank yesterday, he should probably head to the medical department for some meds. He would never tell anyone, though. He was a hypocrite sometimes, always letting the other hungover soldiers run miles to torture them for being so irresponsible to drink before training. But he could afford the luxury of taking meds against his hangover.

So John went to the medical. He was annoyed when he only saw her there.

"Hello, Captain." She smiled brightly, which made him almost throw up on the spot. There was always a difference between the real, sweet-like-a-cake, like his girl, and the artificial acting sweetness she faked. It was disgusting. "Is there another medic or nurse in here today?"

"No, sorry, Captain."

"I'll go then."

"Come on, Captain, be professional. What do you need?"

"Just something against my hangover." He can be professional and still respect you, right? You won’t be mad he talked to her.

"That was easy. I'll bring you something."

She came back, still with that creepy artificial sweet smile. In her hand was a glass of water with, judging by the displaced white particles, meds. "Just some pain meds against headache and dehydration. Drink up, Captain, and then stay here for 20 minutes for the next med."

John drank it up. After a few minutes of sitting in the chair, he felt his limbs tingle weirdly. This must be one of those side effects of the meds.

"How are you feeling, baby?" Weird name.

"Don’t call me that." He tried to leave, but it felt like his body didn’t do the things he wanted anymore like he was paralyzed.

"I wouldn’t do that, John."

"What was in there?" This can’t be fucking true. This is one of those weird drunk dreams.

"Oh, baby, just some mild paralyzer. Don’t worry, it only lasts three hours, and you can still talk. That’s great, isn’t it? Oh, and Viagra."

Fuck, this is true. This is how she got Johnny. She is fucking sick. "What do you want?"

"You know, I really tried to be nice, but you all only talk about her all the time, so I took matters into my own hands." She said as she slowly sat down on his lap. John tried hard to do anything, but he wasn’t able to move.

"Look, you’re a pretty girl. You don’t need us. There is someone who loves you." He tried to be nice, and use his words to come out of this situation, but she already removed his pants. He knew it was over there until he heard the sudden voices of Johnny and Simon. He knew she could never outsmart them, and she knew it too.

"Fuck, fuck," she screamed, gathering the remaining meds and her things. She ran out of the room the second she saw the door open.

"Fucking hell, Captain, you're okay?"

"That fucking cunt drugged me. Get a fucking nurse here." This all didn’t go like Simon's plan. It felt like she was always a step ahead of them.

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

Kyle didn't notice any of the drama going on in medical as he used his time in the gym. Well, more of texting you instead of being productive, until.

"Fucking hell."

------

Tag list: @littlechomper @ab12305 @darkangel4121

A/N: I know you are waiting for her downfall, it will come promise.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x fem!reader

Summary: Tangerine and Lemon learn more about the young woman they'd been hired to save and things become complicated. pt. 2 to Delicate

Genre: hurt and comfort

Warnings: protective!Tangerine, canon like violence, swearing, blood, guns, wounds, mentions of domestic violence/violence towards women, plot heavy

~ thank you @oh-starstarstar for giving me the inspiration to write this! It took a VERY different turn then what i originally intended but it's an interesting ride—hopefully! ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

Y/n. Tangerine mouths your name as he stares into the bathroom mirror, his toothbrush hanging from his lips. Y/n. The name suits you and warmth spreads inside his stomach as he spits into the sink and his mind is filled with memories of how sweetly you'd looked at him.

Fuck. 

"Oi," Lemon's hurried voice snaps him out of whatever was happening and Tangerine turns to him, leaning his hip against the counter. "Some weird fucker is on the phone," Lemon shows his brother his phone, an unknown number displayed clearly on the screen. "Says we have something of his."

Tangerine bristles and his jaw clenches involuntarily. He holds out his hand for Lemon to hand him the phone and when he does he puts it on speaker and holds it close to his ear, letting Lemon lean in and hear the conversation. 

"'Ello?"

"You have something of mine," a hoarse voice cuts the silence. The man behind the phone sounds older, like his voice has had time to become damaged from years of smoking, and he has a thick Irish accent.

"And what might that be?" Tangerine retorts, sending Lemon an unsure look but he keeps his tone steady.

"You have my wife."

Tangerine feels like all blood has been drained from his body and he's so close to losing it. His grip tightens on the phone as his eyes narrow.

"Fuckin' pardon me? Your wife?" he asks slowly, processing the words himself. Surely this man can't mean you.  

The man chuckles darkly. "Aye. You stole her. Took my girl. Wasted my fucking time. I want to know why?" 

Lemon looks at Tangerine, his eyes round with panic as he automatically crosses his arms. 

"I have no fuckin' clue what you're on about," Tangerine explains calmly, his voice strained. He grips the end of the counter with one hand, his knuckles turning white from the pressure. He doesn't want to tell this rando he has you at home with him and Lemon. He doesn't trust this fucker.

The man laughs darkly. "Defiance isn't smart, boy," the man says vaguely, his tone the same as before; hard and rough. "I don't like smug fuckers who take my things. I want my wife returned to me."

Tangerine pauses as he waits for the word 'safely' or any indication that this man who claims to be your husband cares for you. None come and his frown deepens. "We don't have anyone with us," he lies easily. "Now, why don't ya fuckin' leave me–"

Another cruel laugh sounds from the phone. "You and your brother are really startin' to piss me off," the man pauses and then asks, "I shouldn't have to introduce myself, should I?"

Lemon and Tangerine's expression hardens when they hear a gunshot and then a muffled scream that's followed by a heavy, dramatic, sigh. "See, I really did like that bloke—good guy, loyal, had a family and shit—" Tangerine's jaw clenches as he realizes how truly fucked this man is. "Now, I don't like you—you don't really wanna find out what I'd do to you, do you?" he threatens. 

"Cut the bullshit," Tangerine snaps, "Who the fuck are ya?"

"Moore, Keiran Moore," the man introduces himself after a moment. Tangerine's skin pales slightly and he's almost too distracted by Lemon's curse-whispering and insistent punches into the air, to fully register what that means. You? Married to Keiran Moore? One of the more dangerous Irish crime lords in central London?

Tangerine has so many questions swarming around him but Kieran's voice interrupts his thoughts. "Tomorrow. 9am. I'll have my men send you the location. Cross me again and I'll make a fruit salad out of you both, you understand me?" he chuckles at his own shitty joke and then the line ends.

Lemon snatches the phone from Tangerine's hand.

"Irish mob?! Really?" he hisses. "I told ya we should'av brought her to the cops! She's fuckin' trouble and it's biting us back in the arse!" 

Tangerine narrows his eyes at his brother and drags a hand in his curls. "You believe him?"

"You don't?!" Lemon counters, sounding exasperated as he hits Tangerine on the back of the head. "Stop thinkin' with yer fuckin' dick and be smart. She's married. To some dangerous fucker!!" he scolds and Tangerine feels like this is karma for all the years he's been the one to scold Lemon for stupid shit. 

Still, he isn't convinced. 

"I didn't see a ring on her finger, Lemon."

"Ya, because the arseholes that kidnapped Kieran Moore's wife probably took her wedding ring, you wanker!!" Lemon throws his hand up in defeat and exhaustion, "I'm not havin' this conversation with you right now. Why don' ya ask her yourself, hm?" 

Tangerine looks down the hallway. "She's probably sleepin' by now," he starts, knowing damn well he needs to talk to you. He needs to understand more because he's so damn confused.

Lemon sends him an annoyed look that he understands immediately and he swallows. Lemon isn't in any clear state of mind to question you without freaking you out—plus Tangerine's specialty is nonchalance. He can handle this easily. 

His walk to the guest bedroom seems longer than usual as he plays every scenario in his head, his hand clenching and unclenching. He knocks on the door, hearing your small voice answer. It's late and he instantly feels like an arse when he opens the door and sees your figure sitting up in bed, reaching over and turning on the lamp on the nightstand as the curtains are drawn shut. You turn and stare at him.

"Hi, darlin'," he whispers calmly, approaching you. You send him a nod of permission before he sits next to you on your bed. You shift and Tangerine can clearly see that your eyes are red and tired from your lack of sleep and from crying. His heart breaks and he swallows down the irritating lump forming in his throat. 

"I have some questions, Y/n, and I'm gonna need ya to be honest with me, you think ya can do that?" he begins, his hand itching to touch your leg and reassure any nerves that may be arising but he holds himself back. He waits for a nod andthen he continues. "Do ya know some bloke named Keiran Moore?"

As soon as the question leaves his lips, he sees the change in your expression. You sink into yourself, hand clutching the sheets as your breathing becomes harsher again.

Tangerine's worry increases and he holds out his hands for you to show you he still doesn't mean you any harm. He understands this is a lot to take in. "Woah, hey, it's okay. Ya know him, don' ya?" 

You nod meekly and alarm bells ring in Tangerine's head.

Her husband my arse—he thinks. 

"I need ya to tell me everything now. I can't help ya if you aren't completely honest with me. I know it's scary but Lemon and I truly mean you no harm. Ya can trust us," Tangerine explains as relief washes over you when he sees you relax and focus on calming your breathing.

"O-okay," you say after a moment, your voice so soft and delicate that Tangerine feels all kinds of emotions stir inside him. He looks at you, his gaze reassuring so you can continue. He needs to know everything and he wants to know it from you. 

"My father, his name is—'' you tell Tangerine your father's name in a whisper and his eyes narrow. Everyone in his line of business knows that name, only he never knew someone so ruthless and supposedly cruel had a daughter. 

"He promised me to Mr. Moore—some business arrangement I'm not sure— and I'm supposed to marry him. It's all a blur. I just– I didn't tell you and your brother because I didn't want you to return me to Mr. Moore. He's a brute and he's mean a-and—I- I tried to run once and he beat me—and once we're married he'll want me to do things. Things I don't want to do with him," you finish your rambles, your voice low.

The words sink in and Tangerine's jaw clenches. He knows what you mean and the thought makes his stomach twist with disgust. He inhales, holding in his fury for your sake since he doesn't want to scare you any more than you already are. 

"What do ya mean ya ran? You were living with him when you were kidnapped?"

You frown now, staring at Tangerine with a sincerely confused expression. "Kidnapped? I wasn't kidnapped. I told you, Daddy sold me to him."

It's Tangerine's turn to frown. 

"What?" he pauses, "So, your fiancé isn't the one who paid us to save you from your kidnappers?"

"Paid you? Kidnappers?"

"That doesn't matter now, darlin', but you're telling me technically we are the ones who kidnapped you from your fiancé?!" 

You chew on your lip, thinking for a moment. "I suppose?" 

Tangerine pinches the bridge of his nose and then he looks up at you, his eyes raking over you. You look terrified and confused and he's also fucking confused. Still, he reaches forward and smoothes his hand down your cheek, hesitating but ultimately smiling as you, consciously or not, lean into the warmth of his hand. 

"Don't ya worry, luv, we'll keep ya away from him and your father. I promise you," he strokes his thumb across your skin in a gentle manner. Tangerine feels like he's been turned inside out. He's never been gentle with anyone—not even with Lemon and he loves Lemon. 

Once you've calmed down and he'd gotten all the information he needed, he shuts the door behind him and walks back into the living room. Lemon looks up at his brother, still looking freaked out by the entire situation. "She's not married," Tangerine huffs and sits next to his brother, rubbing his temples as his eyes shut. "It's fuckin' complicated–"

"So, what are we gonna do now? Ya still wanna keep 'er?"

Tangerine opens his eyes and rolls them as he drums his fingers on his knee for a moment.

"Yeah. I still wanna keep 'er," he looks at Lemon, scoffing at the way he'd said that, and then a dangerous glint in his eye appears, one that Lemon knows all too well, "and the plan is simple, Lem. We're gonna kill those bellends."

* * *

Tangerine's plan is anything but simple, especially because it involves you. Lemon told him this was fucked up and a mistake but he didn't care. His plan was the only way to kill that bastard. 

You were dressed in your clothes from that night with only Tangerine's suit jacket draped over your shoulders as you shiver. The air is still damp and cool from the morning fog.

Tangerine was on edge as he nervously tapped his shoe against the graveled ground, checking his phone occasionally. Kieran Moore had been thirty minutes late to his rendez-vous andTangerine had only hoped he wasn't smart enough to only send him men—because otherwise, his plan is really truly fucked—

"This is so fucked!" Lemon suddenly shouts, blood splatter covering his face as he shoots at the group of men that had finally arrived, sweat trailing down from his hairline. "You fuckin' owe me, you wanker!" he screams at his brother, annoyed by the situation as he turns his head to see Tangerine take on three of Moore's men. It isn't exactly easy, but he's taken on worse than them. 

"Shit! Lem! Where's the bastard?!" Tangerine counters angrily, slamming the bud of his gun into a man's throat. He spins around, seeing bodies and smelling smoke but Kieran is nowhere to be seen anymore. Tangerine's blood runs cold when he sees that you're also missing from behind his car.

Where he'd made you promise you would hide when shit went down!

How could he have lost you?!

Lemon senses his brother's distress and grunts, looking towards the beaten-down and abandoned apartment complex. "He must have taken 'er in there since we blew up his cars. Couldn't have gone far on foot with a screaming bird in his arms— oh you motherfuckers, did he fuckin' send a cavalry?!" Lemon shoots another one of Moore's men. 

Screaming? Had you screamed and he didn't hear you?

Tangerine manages to break into a run, his eyes round and wild as he steadies his breathing so he can focus on finding you. When he enters the apartment building, he rounds the stairs and leaps up them. From a distance and because of an echo, he hears a shrill scream and he picks up his pace, spitting out blood from his mouth from a few hits he'd taken. 

"Shut up, ya stupid bitch!" Keiran's voice booms as he all but drags you up the stairs. The older man has a cigarette hung between his lips, cockily smirking as his hands gripping your arm as you kick and scream.

"Your fuckin' new boyfriends didn't think this through huh? Too busy with my men to realize I gotcha now?! You cheating whore— I'll have to beat some manners into ya again, huh? Huh?!" he snarls and smacks you across the cheek, causing another cry to tear from your throat.

Tangerine can see that your lip is bleeding. You look hurt and betrayed. He feels sick. Without thinking, he raises his gun and with a shaky exhale but a steady hand he pulls the trigger, hitting Kieran Moore through the head and killing him instantly. The man falls down the stairs, causing you to gasp. Your eyes follow him as he falls to Tangerine's feet at the bottom of the stairs. 

Tangerine wastes no time scrambling to where you are, guilt eating at him as he drops to his knees and without thinking, pulls you into his arms. His hold on you is hard and he's afraid he'll crush you so he loosens his hold.

However, you lean up, resting on your knees, as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him closer. You're shaking in his arms and his heart breaks when he hears you sniffle into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, stroking a hand in your hair. "I shouldn't 'ave brought you here. I shouldn't 'ave taken my eyes off him or ya for even a moment! I should'ave known this was too dangerous for ya. I'm so sorry. I'm such an idiot."

You hold him tighter, your mind racing and his words reach your ears but you don't comprehend them. "Is he dead? Tell me he's dead, Tangerine. Promise me he's gone," you say, pulling him close as if you want to mold your body against his.

"He's dead. He can't hurt ya anymore," he whispers, kissing your forehead as he holds you. He presses another quick kiss to your hairline and then stands, pulling you up with him. "Now, I want ya to stay right here. I need to help Lem finish off those fuckers and then I'll come for ya. Promise. Stay here and be quiet. This shouldn't take long."

And he's right, it didn't take long because soon you're back at their car, sitting on the hood as Tangerine looks at the handprint on your cheek.

Lemon is hunched over against the car, muttering curses as he bandages his hand. You clench your hand between your knees nervously, your eyes focusing on Tangerine's eyes as his thumb brushes away some of your hair and not the countless dead bodies all around the outside of the apartment complex. 

Lemon grunts, standing up straighter. His gaze suddenly lands on you and when it does, his eyes soften. As pissed as he was with the entire situation, he is happy you're safe. He sends you a weak smile. He walks over and pats your knee reassuringly. "'M glad you're okay, Percy," he teases, the nickname making you smile.

"We should go," Lemon tells his brother, rolling up his sleeves as he looks around. "Don't want some good for nothin' pricks callin' the coppers on us." Tangerine nods and helps you down the hood, still holding a hand on your waist. The hand on your waist tightens when three cars suddenly pull up next to theirs, the tires screeching on the pavement. 

Without hesitation, Tangerine pushes you behind him and keeps an arm around you. "It's okay," he whispers gruffly, "I won't let them hurt you."

You frown, pushing on his arm and you take a step forward as men exit the cars, including one you know very well andyour heart sinks. "Daddy?" you whisper, your eyes widened and you pause, shrinking back behind Tangerine when you remember how much pain your father was responsible for.

Your dad walks out, raising his arms in surrender to show Tangerine and Lemon that he's not a threat to them. A bunch of his men, men you know, start to clean up the bloody mess. Lemon and Tangerine look confused and on guard when another man comes out with a silver case. 

"Steady, gentlemen," your dad says calmly as he looks you over and then tilts his head as an indicator for the man with the case to come forward and open it, revealing a bunch of money. "Your reward, hm? I promised you some money, didn't I?"

Lemon's mouth hangs open and Tangerine stares at the case, his arm still around you as he keeps you shielded behind him. "Pardon me?!" he spits and looks at the money, "what's that for?"

You stare at your father, catching on quicker to his games than the Twins. "You paid them to rescue me," you say, raising your arm and clutching Tangerine's sleeve. It doesn't make sense to you. Your father was the one who'd given you up to Kieran Moore so he could save his business. Why did he hire Lemon and Tangerine to save you then?

"I did," your dad says and he sighs, explaining himself. "You think I wanted you in the hands of that bastard? Kieran Moore has been a thorn in my side for decades. I didn't have a choice in the matter, he was blackmailing me and the entire organization. Our organization. The family organization! So, I did let him take you for a while and I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you. But, Y/n/n, I couldn't let him keep you and I knew if anyone could keep you safe without raising suspicions, it was them." He gestures to Tangerine and Lemon. "And they did. Now, they have their money and you can come home now, pumpkin."  

You stare at your father's extended arms and your hand tightens around Tangerine's sleeve. You shake your head, eyes narrowed. "No. I want to stay with them," you say. After all, you're an adult who can make her own decisions. 

Tangerine's heart leaps when he hears you say that and he has to force down a smug smile. You want to stay with him and Lemon. Lemon looks less smug as he crosses his arms and looks around at your father's men cleaning up the mess they'd made of Kieran Moore's men. 

"Sweetness, these gentlemen want their money and if you don't come home with me, I can't pay them. Wouldn't be fair now would it?" Your father sounds stern and also confused by the turn of events. 

"We don' need your money," Tangerine admits quickly, keeping you close to him. "You didn't even show up to claim 'er!"

Your father pinches his nose and squeezes his eyes shut. "It was complicated. I couldn't pick her up then but I wasn't worried. I knew you wouldn't harm her. Listen, I can't just allow you to take my daughter—" 

Lemon interrupts him, "We just dealt with your lil' rivalry problem, huh, mate. Call it even?" he turns to look at you and how hard you're gripping Tangerine's sleeve. Lemon wasn't initially on board with this whole keeping-you-with-them-plan but when his gaze travels to his brother's expression, he chuckles and turns back to your father.

"Ya really think he'd hurt your daughter? Ya had no problem with someone who ya knew was gonna harm her taking 'er but this is too much?" 

"I want to stay," you repeat, your tone much firmer this time. "I'm not leaving with you."

Your father seems stumped for a moment but his shoulder sags and he glances around at his men. Lemon has a point, his problem has been mostly solved now or at least solved enough that he can easily take over from here.

He looks at you and inevitably the way you're still clinging to Tangerine and how he's standing next to you, his stance protective. Your father sighs. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he tried to force you to come home with him now.

So he doesn't and you find yourself back at the Twin's house, sitting on the sink in their bathroom, letting Tangerine press a cotton ball full of some homemade disinfectant to your split lip.

You look up at him. It feels wrong being the one he's caring for when he's very clearly more injured than you are.

"You should take a shower, darlin'," he whispers, bending down and throwing away the blood-stained cotton ball into the trash. He straightens up and rests his hand against your cheek as he runs his thumb around the bruise on your cheek, his thumb barely applying any pressure.

"Can I help clean you up?" you ask. You're starting to become more comfortable around him and it makes his heart flutter.  

Tangerine smiles and chuckles. "Nah. I'm okay. Promise. You should relax in a warm shower. You've been through a lot."

"So have you," you say and press your thumb next to a particularly gruesome-looking wound on his forehead. 

He flinches but gently lowers your wrist and holds your hand in his. "I'm used to this. Ya don't need to worry for me, luv." Tangerine looks at you with such care, that you can't help but mirror his expression. You lean up, bringing your hands up to his cheeks, and without a chance to question your actions, you lightly kiss his lips.

You pull away almost instantly, cringing at the sharp pain in your newly wounded lip from the pressure. Tangerine can taste the saltiness from your lips onto his but that's the least of his worries as his eyes widen and he holds your hips steady on the sink, looking you over as he's speechless from your kiss. "Ow," you mutter and touch your lip, "too soon," you joke with a small smile.

"What was that for?" Tangerine asks breathlessly, his focus still on the fact that you'd kissed him. Actually kissed him. 

You smile. "Just a small thank you. For saving me and for letting me stay with you and your brother—keeping me safe and all." You press your palm on his chest, looking up at him. "There's more where those came from after you let me clean you up," you tease in a tone Tangerine hadn't heard from you previously. You sound lighter, not at all afraid or nervous. He really likes this side of you. his lips curl into a smirk as he reaches over the sink and hands you a fresh cotton ball, his hand curling on top of yours as you clutch it. 

"Careful with me, darlin'," he returns the tease and presses a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You laugh—that sound he loves so so much and he hopes with everything he has that he can hear that sound until the day he dies. 

He's never ever leaving your side again. 

[bunnliix]

Misunderstandings and Surprises

This was a very fun fic to write, and was also created/brainstormed with the help of the lovely @potatomountain, who I credit with me writing this with Hongjoong instead of Seonghwa hehe. Plus giving me lots of inspo with many pictures of Hongjoong.

Pairing: Hongjoong x reader Summary: You're fed up with your boyfriend putting work ahead of spending time with you, and confront him about it. wc: 1.9k AU: n/a Genre: Fluff/Angst warnings: yelling, fighting, crying, angst with a happy ending, threats of breaking up

You had been at odds with your boyfriend for almost a week now, after he had continued to cancel your dates and time together in favor of hanging with the rest of Ateez or working in the studio for the past couple weeks. You just wanted an hour with your boyfriend, but you only got him when he woke you up while he climbed in bed beside you. You knew what you were signing up for when dating an idol, but this was just too fucking much.

You decided enough was enough, and paid a visit to the company while you knew the boys had dance practice, so you knew he wouldn’t be in the studio where you couldn’t get in as easily. After saying hello to the front desk receptionist and showing your pass allowing you access, she waved as you walked towards the elevators to head up a couple floors to the dance rooms.

The ride up, though quick, only made you more pissed off and upset that you even had to resort to doing this. Once the doors opened, you were on a mission and staff who saw you coming moved out of your way as you headed straight towards the room that was blasting Ateez’s music. Not caring if you interrupted, you pushed the door open and shouted, “KIM HONGJOONG!”

The man in question abruptly turned around and focused on you, the blood draining from his face momentarily at your tone before all emotions were wiped off his face. “Why are you here, interrupting practice?” He asked you calmly.

“Because I’m done with not being able to see my boyfriend.” You said in response. 

“We’ve seen each other lately, what do you mean?” He asked you, confused and concerned at your words.

“If you’re counting you waking me up while I’m in bed, sure. But I have barely seen hide nor hair of you otherwise Hongjoong. And I can’t do that anymore. So either you figure out a better work-life balance, or we’re done. I need a boyfriend that doesn’t disappear on me for days at a time.” You said, your voice breaking at the end as tears welled up in your eyes, before you couldn’t take it anymore and left the room, heading back the way you came.

“Wait! Come back here!” You could hear Hongjoong yell after you, but you couldn’t face him. Before you could make it to the elevator, your wrist was grabbed.

“Please, can I explain? Don’t walk away from me, from us.” Hongjoong pleaded with you, though you refused to look at him, knowing if you did, you’d break down and give in.

“Hongjoong, I need a boyfriend who isn’t going to disappear and be unreachable, who will make me the priority sometimes, at the very least. This is just the breaking point, I can’t do this anymore if it continues like this, I’m sorry.” You replied, looking away from him.

He turned you around to face him, but you wouldn’t look up at him, keeping your gaze trained on the ground in between the two of you. This frustrated your boyfriend to no end, and you could tell by his clenched fist.

“Look at me, please.” Hongjoong begged you while you shook your head.

“Why should I?” You asked him.

The idol didn’t answer you, instead pulling you into the elevator as it opened and people got off, punching the button for the floor that held his own studio. He pulled you behind him, you lacking any will to do anything but let him do what he wanted, and once you were both in the room, he shut and locked the door, before placing himself in between the door and yourself. You plopped down on the sofa in the room, sensing that you wouldn’t be going anywhere.

“Will you let me explain? And please, can you look at me, just once?” He asked, repeating himself from earlier.

“Why? So I can look in your pretty fucking eyes and give in and let you explain again and again why you couldn’t see me for so long? Why work comes before everything else, including me, your partner? Hongjoong, we’ve been together for three years, why is it that recently you’re so occupied with work? You’ve never been like this, and I can’t see why you’re like this now. You’ve been on the go almost all year, and finally when I think you’re home, you can’t find the fucking time to spend with me?!” You rambled on and on, your voice growing louder and louder until you’re shouting. Hongjoong had tried multiple times to interrupt you, and without realizing it, you had angered your boyfriend with your rambling.

You felt fingers grip your chin tightly, and your head was forcibly turned to look at him, but you still averted your eyes.

“Look at me, darling. Now.” You heard him growl, anger the only emotion in his voice. It’s what made you give in and look at him, your eyes making contact with his own.

“Thank you. Now, if you had only let me explain, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself so worked up.” He said, almost treating you like a child.

“I got worked up because I felt that my boyfriend was ignoring me!” You retorted back.

Hongjoong took a deep breath, pulling away from you as clearly you were too upset right now to have a normal conversation. “How about we both take a couple deep breaths and have a conversation and talk honestly about our feelings?” He proposed to you, and you reluctantly agreed, still feeling the anger simmering underneath your skin.

“Can you explain to me why you’re feeling the way you’re feeling, darling?” Hongjoong asked you, his eyes pleading with you to talk to him.

“I felt like I was being pushed aside in favor of your work or time with the boys. I know it’s not fair or healthy to make you only focus on me, but these last couple of weeks have felt so lonely. I feel like I haven't seen you lately Hongjoong. I only get to have you around me when I’m about to go to bed, and you’re usually gone in the morning. I don’t feel like I have a boyfriend.” You explained, eyes welling up with tears once again.

Hongjoong’s face fell, and you could see tears gathering in his own eyes. You were slightly confused at why he was getting so upset, until he opened his mouth to speak.

“I’m sorry for how my actions have caused you to feel hurt like this, dear. I never meant to make you feel this way, and I’m sorry I have. Can I explain a bit of why I was gone so much?” At your nod, he continued, “I have been occupied with work and hanging out with the members, but it’s also partially been an excuse to keep you from wondering why I’ve been gone so much. In truth, the boys were helping me plan something for you, something that honestly was a long time coming.” He told you, getting up from his chair to move to grab something from one of the desk drawers.

He turned around to face you again, a box in his hand, before talking once again , “The boys were helping me design something for you, as well as plan it all out. I wanted to make it perfect and a surprise, but I think it’s better for me to come clean about it now.” He knelt down on the ground in front of you, looking up at you with love in his eyes, love for you, before opening the box to show you a ring inside. 

“I’ve honestly wanted to marry you after six months of dating you, but I never could find the perfect ring, or the time to plan everything out. I wanted it to be perfect because I needed you to know how special you are to me, how much you matter to me. I love you, you’re my entire world, darling. I know this is horrible timing and honestly I wouldn’t get upset if you told me no, but would you marry me?” Hongjoong asked you, sincerity in his eyes.

You didn’t expect this to be why your boyfriend had been almost a ghost lately. You never even had the thought and you felt so bad now for assuming the worst, for assuming that he was putting work and the group ahead of you. He wanted to make it perfect for you, and now you had gone and made him change his plans. Tears rolled down your cheeks, and Hongjoong panicked, putting down the box in favor of moving to cup your cheeks, wiping away your tears with his thumbs.

“Baby, why are you crying? Talk to me, love,” he asked you, tears once again appearing in his own eyes.

“I thought the worst of you, I thought you weren’t making me a priority in your life but you were planning to propose to me! You wanted to marry me and I was thinking that you weren’t even thinking of me!” You cried out, sobbing as your boyfriend moved to wrap you in his arms, shushing your cries.

“I get where you’re coming from, baby, and I should have communicated with you better. I should have been clearer that I wasn’t putting you behind my work or my friends, and I’m sorry for not communicating with you and reassuring you.” Hongjoong apologized to you, kissing the top of your head.

“I’m sorry,” you replied, as he told you again that you didn’t need to apologize.

“I think we both need to be a bit better at communicating.” He said, waving away any more apologies you tried to make.

“I wanna marry you too!” You blurted out, not having planned on saying that, but it came out anyway. “I know I said I was ready to leave you but knowing everything now, it only makes me love you more. You did all of this, for me. You roped the boys into helping you, and into deceiving me, cause they knew about this and still said that Ateez was just busy!”

“I asked them not to say anything, I wanted to make it a surprise. I’m sorry that it ended up like this.” Hongjoong explained further, explaining his plan and how he wanted to have asked you.

You wiped the last remaining tears from your eyes and tried not to sniffle, but failed, before speaking once again. “If you aren’t mad at me, would you mind asking me one more time?” You asked your boyfriend.

Hongjoong smiled softly at you, before getting down on one knee, his original plan completely out the window. “Will you marry me, and make me the happiest man?” He asked you, looking up at you.

Nodding, you softly said, “Of course I will, if you will take me, my stupid decisions and all.”

“You stupid decisions are what make you, you. I wouldn’t have you any other way, I want you to be yourself and no one else.” Hongjoong told you, as he slid the ring on your finger.

You pulled him up for a hug, before he pulled you down onto the couch, with your head laying on his chest. He leaned down to kiss your forehead, as the two of you laid there.

“I love you, darling. So very much.”

“I love you too, Kim Hongjoong.”

Later that night, a picture was posted to Hongjoong’s instagram of two hands, his own and yours, with matching engagement rings on both. A simple caption accompanied it, “Forever yours.”

Taglist: @bethelighthalazia

[unreliablesnake]

Big reputation (Simon Riley x reader)

Summary: You got injured on the field and now Ghost feels bad. Well, maybe it's not just guilt...

Note: The people have spoken. Soft!Ghost. Fluff. Short story.

In your previous team you managed to enrage a general that you shouldn’t have, and apparently kicking you out of your comfortable position was his way of punishing you. So now you came to meet your new team at the base, already having ideas of who’s who based on rumors circulating in the military. 

There was Price who was fair and relatively calm, Gaz who was loyal to the fault and was a surprisingly nice guy in general once he warmed up to you, and you couldn’t forget about Soap–whose call sign you found utterly ridiculous–who was a big mouthed but reportedly funny Scotsman. 

And then there was Ghost, the man who was a mystery to most. No one has seen his face from the people you talked to about the team, and you had a feeling you wouldn’t get to see it either. But that was okay. Him being a big and scary guy wearing a skull mask that every single person was terrified of was more than enough to make you cautious around him.

Fast forward to four months later, when Ghost became your shadow after a fucked up mission where you got hurt. It happened under his watch so he was probably blaming himself, but he never really gave you a reason why he was always near you. Soap was the one who mentioned him possibly feeling guilty, and since you had no better idea, you believed it to be true.

The big scary guy didn’t seem so scary anymore. He was more like a loyal guard dog that followed you everywhere and scared off people you didn't want to be around.

“You should go to bed, it’s late,” he said one evening after a briefing.

It was only the two of you in the room, everyone had left already, but he was going through some reports before taking them to Price. You let out a sigh and leaned forward to rest your elbows on your thighs as you observed him. He had left the room before, but after it emptied and it was only you in there, he came back with the files. Out of nowhere. Without a warning. He mumbled something about needing a quiet place, but that was a terrible excuse considering he had his room to go to.

For some reason he glanced over at you every once in a while, watching you as if there was something he wanted to say to you. But every time your eyes met, he returned his attention to the papers in front of him. He didn’t speak up and you weren’t about to bother him with questions. Ghost was usually pissed if someone asked too many questions, this is how Soap got burned a few times in the past. 

Then something changed. He closed the folder and turned his attention to you again, this time not shying away from making it obvious he was staring. You raised an eyebrow in question, hoping he would say something, but he remained silent. With a groan you stood up and walked over to him, gently pushing the folder away so you could sit on the edge of the desk next to the lieutenant. 

His hand inched closer, just enough to let his little finger brush your thigh. “It’s late,” he repeated his previous statement. 

“I’m not sleepy,” you replied with a shrug. “Why have you been watching me like this? Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Ghost sighed under the mask and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He was toying with it for a few moments, his eyes focused on the item instead of you. “You’re causing me quite a few sleepless nights, Rabid,” he muttered as he pulled out a cigarette from the box. He called you by the nickname that awful general had given you a few months back, and you knew he never did that without a good reason. 

What were you supposed to say to that? I’m sorry? No, that wouldn’t be right. So you chose to be careful with your next words. “You can’t sleep?” you asked him, genuinely interested. 

“Not when all I can think about is you and what I’ve done to you,” he replied quietly. 

“Why, what have you done to me?”

He shook his head, mumbled something like ‘fuck it’, then pulled his mask to his nose and lit the cigarette. You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him getting in trouble for this. Price would be angry, because he believed if he could refrain from lighting a cigar indoors, so could others. So now that Ghost was inhaling the smoke with closed eyes, you didn’t know what to do or say. He would eventually speak up, right? 

Just when you were beginning to think he wouldn’t talk to you, his amber eyes landed on you and he said, “I sent you in there. You got hurt because of me.”

Soap had been right, he really did blame himself. Interesting. “Ghost, that wasn’t your fault,” you assured him. “Shit happens, it comes with the job. Don’t blame yourself.”

His free hand moved to take yours in his, and his long, thick, and gloved fingers wrapped around it gently. “I’m not blaming myself for you getting hurt, I know it comes with the job. I just can’t stop thinking about the what ifs. What if you died? What if you got so injured you would be discharged from the force? What if you were mad at me? What if you left me behind?” This last one made you raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t considered this after what happened,” he told you. 

“Never thought about leaving you behind,” you admitted. “You would mind? If I left and we never met again, I mean.”

Instead of answering, he raised your hand to his lips. “You and me… That would be quite a conversation, wouldn’t it? With your reputation and mine… Well,” he said, and you could see the shining in his eyes that gave away he was smiling. 

It took you a minute to realize he was talking about the two of you being in a romantic relationship. He was right, this would be huge. You were also a lieutenant, he wasn’t your superior, but people feared you both for different reasons. Ghost was… Ghost. All he had to do was stare at someone for five seconds and they would run away screaming. You, on the other hand, were feared because you were unpredictable. One wrong word and you would be at the poor bastard’s throat. 

So yeah. If there was anything to know, people wouldn’t shut up about it. You wondered if he was aware of the bets recruits were making about you. If there was anyone from base you slept with, it would be Ghost according to most of them. Maybe they were right. Maybe that was bound to happen. But maybe Ghost was taking part in the bet for fun. 

“I don’t care about that bet,” he suddenly spoke up. You were terrified for a moment since you had no idea how he figured out what you were just talking about. “I care about you. Would you mind if I kissed you?” 

You were too stunned to respond, all you could think about was the fact he dared to ask you this. You weren’t that close, not with him keeping a comfortable distance all the time. “Right now? Yeah, I would mind. Let’s just get to know each other first, yeah? Maybe over a drink.”

Ghost placed a soft kiss on your hand. “Anything you want,” he told you with a smile before pulling down the mask and getting rid of the remains of his cigarette. 

[rapunzelbro]

Imagine Lucifer and Adam fighting over you

I would like to start off by saying sorry in advance. I have no clue about religion, if purgatory is the right term or if I’m understanding this correctly. This was what term showed when I asked in between hell and heaven. If I am not accurate please please correct me. Request: would u do a adam x reader x lucifer where basically there fighting over the reader to try and win them over to be in hell or heaven

Master list Tag request

When you died you never thought you’d end up in fucking purgatory of all things

You did you not want to deal with any of that shit? You just died and now this?

You had the option to follow through on correcting your small sins you had left, or honestly say fuck it and go live your life in hell.

You couldn’t give one less of a fuck but two specific people did and it confused the fuck out of you

Lucifer and Adam

Adam was the first to meet you since you were technically one step in the door but also at the same time not. You appeared at his doorstep practically

He explained a lot of what happened, and why you couldn’t exactly stay in heaven or hell.

He shared the remaining sins that remained for you, and how to get them forgiven,

Bud actually was willing to help someone for once?

Wtf did you do get him to help someone who is not himself? Holy shit

You only had a 4 or so left by the time you found the Hazbin hotel..

Now Lucifer was intrigued by your situation. Not many people got to that state, to his knowledge

He knew a lot about you already to begin with he totally didn’t stalk you and was pissed about the time you spent with Adam

Found out you ended up at the Hazbin hotel, since you had no real space to stay since you could go to heaven if you pleased, but not looked well upon

Charlie told him about the whole situation to try and get his advice on it all since she really didn’t know how to go about it but she desperately wanted to help you

He didn’t want to help you with your final sins though, he wanted you to stay for himself. He would never let his daughter know that.

He spent time with you often encouraging your ass to do stuff that sinners would do but you’re just so stuck on what to do so you often don’t do the things.

Lucifer and you bonded more than you and Adam

Dude just told you constantly about how horrible it sucks down there in hell

Annoyed you even more since he didn’t let you stay in heaven after saying that?

But oh yeah it’s fine because he goes down to see you🥰

What the fuck man

If you ever needed a place to stay Lucifer was always there. Even if you didn’t feel like staying at the hotel

If wanted to talk about the shit you have left to do to get into heaven he will listen

While he didn’t agree with your initial decision to finish your sins, that doesn’t mean he didn’t still care about you regardless of what you end up doing

When you got to your final sin to pass through the gates of heaven, that’s when Lucifer stepped in

“What the actual FUCK are you doing here sinner?”

“Bitch you know why I’m here”

Lucifer and then arguing over your ass while you’re just there chilling like wtf?

“Y/n do you really want to be stuck up there with this douchebag”

“Do you really wanna be with The Most Hated Being in All of Creation!”

Those two screaming at each other while you are just watching the two trying to debate on what you should do

The people of heaven who knew of you, didn’t like you in the slightest because you were never going to be a true angel in their eyes

The people in Hell couldn’t give one less fuck about your situation. You had so many friends down there who you considered practically family now.

Both giving you the most desperate looks both wanting you to go with them

“Lucifer.. I’m going with you”

The second you say that your appearance goes from the weird hybrid you were stuck in to being a full blown demon.

Adam is fucking crushed and pissed sending you two the fuck out insantly

Lucifer is so happy

“Wow you must be a mega turnoff since even all girls like what have to offer more than you~”

Gladly takes you back to his place, he has yet to explain to Charlie that you gave up on redemption.

He doesn’t want to break it to her but knows he will have to soon

But for now you picked him over that bitch and that’s honestly worth it.

Lucifer/All Taglist: @vendetta-ari @brithedemonspawn @katshyperfixations

@aphestina @satansmanager @irethepotato @mixplara

[rowretro]

If your requests are open, can I get hard yandere Jake or Ni-Ki where they punish reader for escaping and staying with one of their friends?

𝕺𝖍 𝖒𝖞 𝕯𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌…

✧warnings: Yandere themes, toxic themes, mentions of blood, manipulation(?), shirtless-ish riki, somewhat gore, mentions of sex

✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧

"Oh my sweet little y/n... I knew you were stupid but for you to be this stupid?!..." Riki tutted, a mocking pout on his lips, his shirt drenched with the blood of someone you called a friend. He barely knew you, yet he befriended you just because he knew you were in the danger of Riki. Your stupid self just had to believe Riki wouldn't know that the motherfucker would be keeping you in his house.

He was pissed. No he was beyond pissed, words can not explain how bad of a decision she made. Riki wasn't too into murdering people or ripping them apart, but for her? god a little blood on his hands was nothing let alone stabbing a dagger with her name encrypted into this so called friend of hers? heck he could even leave the body out because not even a family member was there to want him.

"Oh well... he lived a miserable life anyway.... this was your fault y/n. You know better than to trust a strangers word over mine. Fuck the fact you trusted another man. went into his house. wore his shirt. AND FUCKING LEFT ME?!" He finally yelled causing her to flinch, he stabbed him crazily as you screamed for him to stop, tears streaming down her cheeks. "STOP CRYING FOR HIM!" he screamed, slapping her painfully on her cheek.

he knelt down before her dark eyes, peircing into her as he groaned, he threw off his shirt "Mother fucker got his filthy blood all over my comfortable t-shirt. The one you should be wearing right now." he sharply said. The man was pissed. He slapped her yet again, ripping off the T-shirt she wore as she carried her and dropped her in the bathtub.

He didn't care that it was hurting her, he turned the tap on as he applied soap to the sponge and aggressively rubbed on her skin. "I know you wouldn't sleep with him. But you still hugged him. You still went in his house and sat on his rubbish sofa. Fuck imagine all the germs in that shithole you went to." He spat as he chucked the sponge at her and yanked her hair. "Clean yourself up and go to bed." He simply said before leaving the restroom.

"Oh no... I hurt my poor y/n oh sweetie... You need to know what you did is awful... you need to feel the pain I did... but I won't make it hurt as much as you hurt me because I love you... you can tell me anything.... did you have sex with this fucker?! is that why you're wearing his ugly shirt?!!!" Riki asked, as She stared in horror, and disgust. Riki chuckled

That very night, was the first time Riki hurt her, though it hurt him more to hurt her. He stepped out of the shower, smiling as he saw Y/n sitting on his bed, wearing his sweater, how it fell just off of her shoulder, her tears gone as she reached out to hug him, she just needed comfort... and she accepted her fate.

"So cute, I know you won't do something like that with some low life... awww my sweet innocent y/nie, so vulnerable and gullible, sweetheart, he's a pervert, he lied to you, he did this so he can use your precious body. You know I've never done and never will do that you know why? because I love you..." Riki explained as he cradled her in his arms.

He palnted soft kisses on her face "Oh my poor darling y/n... don't ever leave me... I can't live without you!" He said as Y/n placed a soft kiss on his plump lips, giving into his toxic love. She can't help it though... isn't it a good thing that he'd even kill for her?.... so many men have only hurt her, humiliated her or wanted to hook up with her but Riki... Riki loves her...

✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧❁✧

[casanovawrites]

random sentence prompts  ━ from various tv shows, part 11

you’ve been such a pain in my ass.

you’re the most fascinating person i’ve ever known.

can you stop needing to be the hero here?

people don’t just disappear. 

we are saying goodbye. just not to each other. we’re saying goodbye to everything else, our old lives.

everything that kept us safe is gone.

i would rather prepare for the worst before the worst happens.

i am basically 100% headache right now.

you’re the only one who ever let me feel normal.

maybe i suck too. i just don’t know how yet.

i’m not choosing anyone. i’m choosing work over play.

doesn’t it feel like everyone wants us to be someone we’re not?

a sleepover? am i invited?

it has to be you. you’re all we’ve got.

you know me. we know each other.

it’s called keeping up with the times, asshole.

but fuck all of you, and i mean that.

people don’t usually follow my lead, if you know what i mean.

there’s nothing wrong with us.

i want your point of view on things.

you’re killing me. you get that, right? that’s what you’re asking me. to die for you.

i’ll follow your rules. that’s all you get.

i’d love to trade witty one-liners with you.

you’re the worst. you know that, right?

today is the first time in my life that feels like the right time.

there is a point to everything. there are answers.

god doesn’t just play games with people for fun.

the sun just keeps coming up every day, and you can’t cry forever. 

you have to have hope, don’t you? because who knows. maybe tomorrow.

you don’t get to decide what matters.

a lot of what’s happening is us being scared, and alone, and bored. so we do scary things to each other, we hurt each other. 

it’s like she wants to turn the whole world upside down.

who’s been there for you more than me?

bullshit. we’re not the same person.

you didn’t pick me. because you didn’t think i belonged.

if i had to pick anyone in the world when things got bad, i’d pick you.

this isn’t about us. this has nothing to do with us.

there is no us. because of everything.

i love you. i know i don’t always show it, but i do. i love you.

the universe does not care about your love life.

i’m not sad. i’m pissed off.

you say too many things you don’t mean.

i’ve thought a lot about dying. i’ve gotten used to that. but i don’t like to be afraid.

sometimes when i’m angry, i want to hurt people.

i’m worried that i’m not real.

all you can do is have an advantage, and this is mine. it’s all i have.

what i did is not the worst crime in the world.

given everything, can’t i get a tiny break?

why? what’s so special about me?

are we going to fight each other over food? that’s fucking crazy.

you can live wherever you want, just not with me.

we should get some food, before it’s all gone.

what if things don’t go back to the way they were?

don’t give me a fucking speech. you have no idea.

i guess i can learn to get along with a few more people.

what’s so hard about being honest with yourself?

it’s been ten days. i’m not the same person i was.

if there are things that need to be done, i want to do them.

there are no sides anymore.

you’re the best decision i’ve ever made.

we’re the same. you have to stick with your own.

i’m scared, and i have to take care of myself.

i live in your shadow, and now you suddenly want to disappear?

you know that you’re the love of my life? and whatever comes after this.

if this is it, this is where i want to be. i mean not here, but with you. you’re where i want to be.

i was a different person before we fell in love.

thank you. for loving me. 

right now, we could use all the love we can get. 

you get scared, and you get mean.

is this how you want to spend the time you have left? always looking over your shoulder?

you’re giving me a headache instead of having my back.

it’s just, sometimes i know what i want, i just don’t know how to say it.

the only feelings that anyone cares about are yours. 

people keep dying around me.

i feel really lucky to have you. you’re my rock.

the end is none of your business.

i like you exactly the way you are.

i’m so sick of feeling different from everyone else.

after “fuck you,” i don’t have much.

i think about you too much.

i don’t think about you.

i’m not scared. i’m just realistic.

it feels like i’ve been starting forever.

no one cares about the best player on the worst team.

i’m tired of losing. i just don’t know what to do.

that’s hopelessly romantic. and this isn’t hopeless.

i haven’t been happy all year. why start now?

i’m sorry i can’t turn off my feelings whenever you want.

seems like everything i do hurts your feelings.

i care about you. i just don’t know how to prove it.

i like who i am in your eyes. i like how you see me.

i’m not sure i like myself in a relationship.

i’m way easier to replace.

when it ends, it’ll hurt.

the right thing is just to be here with you.

death is not beautiful, it’s final.

i keep failing everyone, and i don’t know what to do.

i don’t feel sad. i feel numb.

i ask people if they’re all right too much.

you never needed me. you needed someone.

i made myself sick to make you feel better.

this whole time i thought it was dying, but it’s living what scares you

you’re afraid to commit, and i need constant validation. 

you don’t belong here. not after what you did.

there is no mystery here. nothing to avenge.

i made a wish, and it came true, and i couldn’t take it back.

he was a bad person and a worse father. the world is better off without him.

you never know when to stop, do you?

you do whatever it takes to survive. or you die.

you think i didn’t try everything to get back to my family?

[messylustt]

I just finished the Miguel fic and its not bested YET my standers are HIGH. With that being said i have a hobie blurb/fic idea

goody reader! who hobie swear he cant stand (he's obssessed)

you angelllll and this scenario for hobie—ugh it lives rent free now THANK YOU my sweet anon

GOODY-TWO-SHOES AND BRITISH PUNK — hobie brown + reader: just hobie pushing away the fact that he’s obsessed with you, by finding your goody nature “annoying”.

marks no warnings. just a bit of banter. wc 1.6k.

When you joined the spider society, everyone thought of you as ‘sweet’ and an all in all ‘do gooder’. Many found it endearing, while Hobie claimed to think the complete opposite.

Even though his mouth was saying things like “ya could ‘ave aimed that web better.” And “maybe try catchin’ the evil guy next time…ay?” His body had always stayed close to you.

He said things regarding your ‘sweetness’, pinning it as ‘no good’, it won’t help being overly sweet while fighting bad guys. And god did you being a little ‘do gooder’ and following the rules piss him off the most.

But even after all those confirmations in his head he found himself looking for you, standing next to you in de-briefs or when a few of you would just hang out. It was always when you were in a group—Hobie was near.

And right now as you listened to Jess speak on the new ‘villain of the week’, you felt a presence beside you. As you glanced to the left you saw Hobie, standing, hands in pockets, as he acted oblivious to his own body’s movements.

He had moved closer to you. In his head he brushed it off as him just making sure you were listening and paying attention to Jess’s words so that you wouldn’t fuck anything up this time. (Not that Hobie ever does pay that much attention himself).

Hobie had never been a nitpicker, but when it came to you he noticed all the details. He could almost tell you your own body’s habits before you even realised them yourself. Like the little nose scrunch you’d do when you were bored. Or the tilt of your head, signalling that you were really trying to listen. Or even the press of your lips, showing that you were just…thinking.

He didn’t pay much attention to his reasons for taking such close notice though. No. Because he's sure that the sole reason (only one) is because you've always annoyed him.

“So please….” Jess is saying. “Please don’t touch any of the guy’s gadgets.”

Then the debrief is over, and you’re getting to your feet, having jumped up onto a ledge. Hobie can’t help but watch as you began to walk towards a portal. “Careful there luv…woul’n’t want you to get ahead of yourself. Maybe ya should stay back this round?” Hobie walks backwards, leaning his head slightly to the side as he moves to the portal.

You press your lips together, eyeing him. What is she thinking about?—Hobie thought to himself, eyeing you back, as he continues to speak. “To be good at ya job, ya gotta loosen up on those rules, ya do know that…right?”

“You say that like you think I’m wound tight.” You say, slowly walking with him—his feet still walking backwards as you walked forward.

He raises a brow. “Aren’t you, luv?” He tongue began to absentmindedly play with his lip ring, dragging it slightly between his teeth as he neared the portal. Then he’s leaning back, and falling through it, you not far behind.

The portal had opened up over a high sky, resulting in you both falling. Hobie tilted his head, watching as you faced each other, skyrocketing down. You spare him a tilt of your head, before your web is attaching to a building as you slip away from his line of sight. And Hobie doesn’t know why but his lips had began to twitch up.

Shooting his own web out, he swung to a stop on the building, where everyone else resided. And of course, he yet again moved closer to you.

Directions were given by Jess as the spider variants all went their separate ways. "Nah, you're comin' with me." Hobie says, grabbing your arm as he pulls you towards the edge of the building. "I thought I bothered you too much..." you mutter more to yourself.

"What was that?" Hobie asks, but you just spare him a "Hm?" before you're web slinging to the next building. Hobie scoffs, copying the action.

Soon you're both swinging past buildings, and when Hobie attaches his web to where yours was gonna go, your face actually displays a slight scowl. Hobie raises his brows—effortlessly swinging backwards. "See...I knew ya were fakin' ya sweetness." Hobie comments through the wind.

"And when were you paying so much attention to me for you to know that?" You call back, slipping past him as your hand slightly brushes his guitar strap. He doesn't like the feeling that crawled up his neck when you brushed so close. He was the one who initiated the closeness, and you having barely touched him made him quickly follow you.

Then you're both swinging almost together, Hobie's gaze stuck on your relaxed posture. "Ya did learn from last time right, luv?" Hobie asks, to which you lazily glance at him.

"That wasn't my fault." You say, slipping through a narrow gap. Hobie went over so as not to scratch his guitar. "Ya can't be that blind...can ya?"

"You know, I've never understood why you act like this." You say, coming to a stop on a lower building and gazing down, spotting the gadget wearing anomaly. Hobie fluidly stops beside you as you both crouched down. But as you stared at the anomaly, Hobie stared at you.

"Act like what?" He asks, feeling a strange urge to pull your mask off. Why did he want to see your expressions when he was talking to you?

You glance at him. "Act like you hate me. Maybe you do...but I just can't pinpoint an exact reason why."

"Aw..." Hobie coos. "Scared not everyone is fallin' for ya goody-two-shoes act?"

"It's not an act. And I am not a goody-two-shoes." You slightly huff out.

"Yeah ya are..." Hobie hums out, almost sounding amused. "You always follow the rules, being a dottin' little helper to Miguel."

You look back to the anomaly. Jess had said to wait, as backup, so you do, trying your best to ignore a now closer hobie. "And you always do that...can't find a reason for it either." You mutter.

"Do what?" Hobie shifts closer. You turn your head, eyeing him. "That. Coming close."

"Maybe I'm scared you might do something overly heroic, just to get into Miguel's good books."

"Hobie being scared? Now that's a first." Hobie's surprised to hear the clear sarcasm in your voice. "And what makes you think I'm trying so hard to get into Miguel's 'good books'?" You ask.

"Ya are always the first to accept missions." Hobie says, and he hopes you don't notice his slight jealous tone. "And Miguel seems rather pleased with that."

"Maybe because I'm doing my job?" You ask, finally glancing at him again. And Hobie can't help but swiftly grab your mask. He wanted to know if you were bored, thinking, or actually listening to him.

"Hobie..." You say, reaching for your mask again. "I need that."

But Hobie just pockets it in his jacket. "Nah, Jess won't need us. She's too prideful and...usually completes missions..." He eyes you like he's hinting at something.

"I'm sorry—but when have I ever not completed a mission?" You have a slight frown on your face. And Hobie grins under his mask, liking seeing your expressions. Especially because he's been able to get new ones, like a frown and a scowl.

"Last week." He answers, fiddling with your mask material in his pocket.

You groan. "I told you, that wasn't my fault."

"Hm..." Hobie's eyes had begun to grow distracted in your moving mouth, noticing the details...yet again. The way they would slightly part when you were confused. You were confused now, so Hobie got a chance to see a fraction of your teeth. Why was he focusing so hard? And maybe if his mask was off, you would see exactly where his gaze was trapped.

"Hobie." You say, noticing he had stayed silent for a little too long. "Hobie." You shuffle closer to knock his shoulder. "Can I have my mask back?"

But he just began to shake his head. "Nah...I think I'll keep it." He then stands, looking down at you. You quickly get to your feet also, eyes narrowed. "Why? I do actually need it."

Hobie just shrugs, feeling thoroughly amused with the whole situation. You go to reach for his pocket, but he easily dodges. "This is really not the time." You mutter, trying again. But Hobie just moves around you.

You then swiftly shoot a web, aiming for the inside of his pocket, but hobie snatches the end, yanking you towards him, making tumble to a stop against his chest. And you can feel the slight rumble of a chuckle, making you quickly stand straight, only for your breath to hitch.

Because now his mask is off, and he's extremely close. Now you can see his eyes dart, fully absorbing your details, and you actually grow to feel a tad nervous. "Can I please have it back?"

"Back to the fake sweetness, are we?" He asks, his gaze now stopping on your lips.

"It's not fake." You mutter out, moving to step back, but Hobie tightens his hold on your web, keeping you still. "What are you doing?" You ask, a slight groan of annoyance edging your tone.

Hobie tilts his head, acting as if he isn't doing anything, as his finger comes out to just brush your collarbone through your suit. You don't know what to do, as you stare at him. He'd never been this close, facing you, at least. He's always been behind you or beside you. And now as his tongue comes out to lick his full lips, you find your gaze getting caught up in the action.

"I'm not a goody-two-shoes..." You choose to say, still slightly hung up on the nickname.

"Yeah...ya are." Hobie repeats, this time quieter. "...but it's..." You narrow your eyes on him. 'It's' what? "It's kinda cute, luv."

Your eyes widen. "W-what?"

"Hm?" He quickly hums, before he's webbing away, making you spin to gaze after him. "Hobie!" You call, as you quickly web after him.

© messylustt.tumblr please don’t steal, copy or translate my work onto other platforms.

[georgiapeach30513]

Two Good Reasons, Part 9

Summary: the one with Audrey's birthday

Pairings: Andy Barber X Reader

Rating: mature and emotional

Warnings:  Scott Huffman, language, depictions of anaphylactic shock, mentions of divorce, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 7.7K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

“Ugh,” you groan, tossing another pair of pants on the bed before stomping into the closet. Frustratingly roaming through your clothes. You’re pissed off. No, you’re in a very irritable mood because things have already not gone your way.

First thing this morning it was Scott asking for you to pick the kids up an hour earlier. Which is fine, but he could have said something last night. Hell, he could have just brought them by the house and let them stay here, so you could have a lazy day with them. In their home. Comfortable. But no! He wanted to be a difficult little bitch.

And then it was the sudden urge to pee. And pee again, but that time almost not making it. Then you burned the bacon and now your house smells like shit. And then! Then your newly painted fingernails — one broke. You just wanted a lazy good morning. And Now too many pants are not buttoning. And you’re frustrated, irritable, and in a not great mood.

Happiness is making you gain weight, and you really didn’t want to buy more clothes. But you wanted to remain happy. And in love. And, “What are you looking at?” Your words come out a bit harsher than you intended, and you regret the tone immediately, “I’m sorry.”

“Doe, what’s wrong?” You point over towards the bed, and Andy gives it an odd look. “You’re getting rid of some very nice jeans?”

“No,” you frown as you just reach for some fucking leggings. You weren’t going to try on and fail to button another pair. Not in front of Mr. Perfect Body. Good lord, his body is magnificent. Especially when it’s moving inside yours. You hadn’t gained that much weight. You’re probably just bloated. It’s all water weight. “We’re eating out too much.”

“Once a week?”

“We’re — we’re just — ugh! When I’m happy I tend to cook and bake more, and the result is the jeans not being able to button. So starting today, I’m not going to be snacking as much. And no matter what you say, I won’t be getting one more bite of cake,” that is that. Little changes could make the biggest difference.

“I don’t think…”

“Andy Barber, I know I’m getting older, and my metabolism isn't as quick as it used to be, so I don’t need to hear your excuses,” you bend over to roll the leggings up your legs. It’s fine. You feel fine. You didn’t even care because Andy didn’t seem to mind, and you are so very happy. Leggings and an oversized sweatshirt sound like heaven on a day like today.

“That’s not what I was going to say. I just think you should…”

“We’re going to add some more volume foods. I’ve just got to stop with the extra slice of bread,” he shakes his head no as he smiles and walks towards you, “And I’m going to quit napping so much. I want us to go on a walk every day with the kids. We can take the stroller if they get tired. But I need more movement in my life. If you can go swimming every morning, then I can walk every evening, but I don’t want to walk alone.”

“Honey,” Andy holds his hand over your mouth, using his piercing blue eyes to stare at you in the most intense way that it almost makes you uncomfortable. “Can I speak?” you nod your head once, and Andy exhales slowly, “Will you take a pregnancy test for me?”

You shake your head while rolling your eyes, “Why?” His hand drops off your mouth, and you try and find the words to tell him it's just an impossibility, and not what either of you should be thinking about right now. You need a house to make a home. You wanted out of this house, and divorced before ever truly thinking about pregnancy. At least when you’re not in the moment of getting your back blown out. Andy had that ability. He starts fucking into you, and you want him him to fuck a baby in you.

“Because the likelihood of me ever carrying a child naturally is very slim to none and we’re just not ready for that.”

“Why not?” How is he so good? He’s not even arguing. He is having a conversation, and trying to understand.

“Because I’m still legally Mrs. Scott Huffman,” you retch. Why did you ever marry that buffoon? The only good thing he ever did for you was give you the most beautiful children. “And I want our own home.”

“And I have watched my cum leak out of you before I’m fingering back inside of you. It’s not a lack of trying. And look at the pants,” your eyes flare as you stare at him. “I’m just saying, what if you’re pregnant?”

“I’m not. I’ve had two kids already, I would know,” he nods his head, figuring that you are right because you were the expert in this situation. “And I just,” could your mood swings be pregnancy? You haven’t had a proper period since splitting with Scott. Stress always makes your cycle wonky. “No. Okay, I’m just not. It’s fine. I want to drink more water, I want to walk as a family, I want to change my diet, and I’ll be just fine, okay?”

“Honey, you’re right,” you gawk at him. Did he just admit to knowing you’ve gained weight? “I would like to start walking as a family, too. We always talk with the kids when we get home anyways, so why not talk and walk.”

“Good save, Andrew.”

“Wasn’t trying to save anything, Doe. I’m being honest,” you’re sure he was just trying to ease you off a ledge of emotions that you weren’t ready to dive into. You’re trying to keep your head above the water until the divorce. Until the custody hearing, and you know that you get more time with the kids than Scott does. You want them with you. Scott wants them with him as leverage. Sick bastard.

“Mama!” Suede rushes to your arms as you walk into the apartment. The apartment that isn’t baby proof at all since Taylor moved in. Ooh, you wonder how many times she’s had to tell Suede no, or hands off. Aesthetically everything here is very pleasing, and all of her Instagram followers agree. So much white. Perfect color for a toddler around.

Suede clings to your body, burying his face in your chest. He isn't scared, but you know the separation from you just sets him on edge. This divorce is causing so much unnecessary mental trauma for your children. But staying with Scott would have caused more. In order to have happy children, you need to be happy, “Did you guys have fun? Oh.”

Taylor finally makes her way into the living room with a giant box of Christmas decorations. You know because the box is very aptly labeled as such in the most perfect script writing. Ms. Perfect probably did that herself. “Where’s the cat?”

She shoots you an aggravated look as she opens the box. Scott sits on the couch rolling his eyes, but remains glued to whatever game is on television. Audrey’s bathroom break is taking a bit longer than usual. “She is at my mom’s since Suede has a little issue with her,” the stupid bitch rolls her eyes again, and you’re biting your tongue to remain centered and calm. Pickups and drop offs have started to upset your daughter’s stomach, so you remain cordial for her.

“Yeah, it sucks that cat dander just really makes breathing difficult for him,” he looks towards the box, and oohs at the ornaments that Taylor pulls out of there. Little boys always want things they shouldn’t have, and telling them no makes them want it more. She’s a fucking idiot.

“No!” Not only do you take a step back, and hold Suede tighter, but you also make the most annoyed face in the world, Andy steps in front of you. His natural role of protector queuing up, “No, I told you that you don’t touch my things,” you shoot a glance towards Scott, wondering if he really thought that ‘her things’ were appropriate around your kids. Scott can fuck off. They weren’t his kids. They were a product of his sperm.

“I have had to deal with him all weekend. I tried decorating their room, and he just wants to help, and he puts the ornaments in the wrong space. And I went in there, and he messed it up again.”

“Well, he is two,” you shrug. You take back every nice thing you ever said about Taylor, she’s a bitch, and number two on your eat shit list. “The tree in their playroom at home was there for them to mess up, or hide the ornaments as they pleased. They’re kids. Nothing is perfect with them around.”

“Yeah, and it looks like shit,” her voice is clipped, and you wonder if she’s ever used that tone with your sweet boy. Over something stupid, and it wasn’t perfect for her.

“Taylor, enough,” she huffs before spinning on her heels and stomping out of the room. You’ve seen your daughter do that a few times, and she’s almost five. “God, you see what you did. She’s been fighting with Suede all weekend.”

“Fighting with a two year old?” Andy asks before you can even respond. That was a perfect response. He’s just as protective of them as he is of you.

“She’s trying to make things look nice for the holidays. It’s a nice change compared to your need to wait until after Thanksgiving,” deep breath in. Deep breath out. You will kill him one day. “And don’t make a big deal out of this. Suede had a good time, didn’t you, buddy?” Suede shrugs, and keeps his face buried in your chest. But his hand slowly moves up to your cheek where his cute little hand starts to pet you. A slow and painful death will take Scott out of this world.

“I really don’t want a fight. But I do need to tell you that we’re taking the kids to Michigan for Thanksgiving,” that’s one way to tell him.

“Over my dead body. You don’t get to tell me where you’re taking them. I have to approve. Suede can’t handle a flight. How are you going to keep him occupied?” Suede can’t handle a flight. What would he even know what Suede could handle?

“My parents haven’t seen their grandchildren in a year. They miss them, and the kids miss them.”

Scott gives you an eat shit grin. You’re glad that Andy lets you deal with him as much as possible, choosing the best possible time to jump in, “Like he even remembers your parents,” a very slow and painful death.

You laugh, “They FaceTime the kids every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday. Buddy, you want to go get your backpack? Make sure your iPad is in there, okay?”

“Chess,” he walks wide, staying out of his father’s grasp, but of course Scott doesn’t see that. Doesn’t see the odd quirks Suede has in order to avoid him.

“The damn iPads. Why are you spending so much money on them? That’s not what my support is for,” what is the best way to get away with murder?

“It was actually my assistant district attorney that bought those for them. Ransom is quite fond of the kids, and I’m sure it’ll help Audi practice her courtroom homework.”

Scott blinks slowly twice, and you step in front of Andy only for him to cross back in front of you, “Do you have a problem with how I raise my daughter? Mine. I had to fuck her mom for her. That’s right, I fucked your girlfriend. They will never be yours.”

“Mommy?” Everyone turns towards Audrey. Her tears shimmer in the light as she looks only at you. Her lip quivers a moment, and you know you have just a few seconds to get her out of the audience of others before she starts to cry uncontrollably, “Mommy, my belly doesn’t feel good.”

“Come on, baby. Let’s get yours and Suedey’s things and go home,” Scott starts to say something, and you point your finger at him, shaking your head, “That’s enough,” and he doesn’t want to, but he keeps his fucking mouth shut.

“I’m getting a bit tired of you, Barber,” Andy cocks an eyebrow up. He isn’t going to say a word. You asked him not to when you left with Audrey and Suede. “She is a goddamn genius, and she needs to start now! She’s got an interview with the best school in the district, and I need her prepared.”

“They don’t usually test kindergarteners on how many people are in the jury box, Scotty.”

“You really are a prick, you know that?” Andy shrugs, keeping his sight more down the hall where the kids’ room was. If he looks at Scott, the control he’s proud to keep in check will diminish, and he won’t do anything to jeopardize your custody, “Just remember who…”

“I got it, your sperm made the kids. You won’t ever let me live that one down, and I’m man enough to not let it bother me. But can I give you some advice?”

“Parental advice from someone who isn’t a parent. This should be excellent,” Andy wonders what you ever saw in this tiny little man. Surely he wasn’t always this much of an asshole.

Scott leans back, and smiles up at Andy. Andy never turns his attention to Scott. He just wants to see you emerge from the hall with the kids, “I may not be the reason those kids are here, but I pay attention. I know that Audi gets an upset stomach when she knows that you and her mom are going to be around each other. She’s internalizing her anxiety. I know that Suede when he sees his mom he just wants to hold onto her, and he doesn’t even want to look at you. Doesn’t care much to spend any time with me when they reunite, it’s all about his mom. You may not be physically harming your kids, but the mental distraught you’re causing them will have lasting effects. Your soon to be ex-wife is being too kind to you, and only because she thinks that it will make the transition with her kids easier. I think both you and Taylor know that. I think Taylor’s care for those kids is dwindling. She’s becoming what she should be, a kid that is solely focused on herself. She’s using your money to give her some sort of fulfillment. She plays the role of a good step mom only to her instagram followers, and to her parents, but deep down they resent you because you have children, you're legally still married, and you’re so older than her.”

“Get out of my fucking house.”

Andy slowly blinks, and nods, “That’s my goal,” ignoring Scott, he heads down the hallway. He gives Audrey the biggest smile before the little girl rushes into his arms. “You ready to go, mademoiselle?”

“Yes,” looking at her mom, she giggles. “Are you?”

“I am,” picking up Suede, you follow Andy out of the bedroom, and Scott clears his throat. You just want to get back home, so you can cuddle and love on your babies. It looks like they need extra attention.

“I want to speak to her privately,” Andy slightly shakes his head no, but you hand Suede over to him. And wait until the door to the apartment closes before you cross your arms, and jut your hip out, “I don’t want your boyfriend back here.”

“You don’t get to make those calls. Is that all?”

“You’re making a mistake,” of all the stupid nonsensical things he could say. “I am trying to be kind to you.”

“Kind? What about you is trying to be kind? Saying that I won’t lose my baby weight? Saying I’m used up, and old? Maybe it’s the cruelty you show our children? Or maybe it’s because our court hearing is soon, and you’re scared shitless? I bet that’s what it is,” of course it’s what it is. After the hearing he knows that he won’t be able to hold things over your head. In fact, he probably knows how much you have against him, and his precious Taylor.

“You let him raise our children,” you scoff. He really didn’t want to go there with you. Of course Andy is raising the kids, but he’s doing so with you as his partner. Just how it’s intended to be, “I don’t know what it is you want me to do.”

“I don’t know what it is you want me to do. Andy is a good man. Andy is present in my kids’ lives. He comes home to us every night. He helps around the house, he spends time with them, he is a good role model. And he’s a great man. What is your deal with Andy?”

“He’s a cocky asshole,” Scott had no room to talk. Andy was confident. Scott was arrogant.

“I figured the two of you would get along then,” he rolls his eyes, starting to stand up and walk towards the kitchen. “Is the real problem that I moved on?”

“I thought you would always be there for me,” he’s joking. This fool is seriously joking. How does one move on from seeing the babysitter bounce on top of your husband’s cock, and one you didn’t even particularly like? “Did you think I actually wanted to be here in this small apartment away from my family? I made a mistake, and you won’t give me any time to plead for forgiveness. You moved on to the fucking DA. You knew what you were doing, and it was just to piss me off. We were going to — I’m pissed off because I thought we would eventually work things out,” you hear a bedroom door slam shut before Taylor stomps out of the apartment, and slams the front door. “See what you did?”

“This has been an exhilarating conversation, Scott. But you did that. I had no intentions of getting back with you, nor you me. If you could admit that you did what you did because you thought you would get away with it, and you thought we’d get back together, and you could have your perfect family, while fucking the perfect body, we’d be better off. I don’t want you. I think it’s been many years since I have wanted you. And that is the only thing I’ll ever apologize to you for. I hung on for too long for our kids, but the man that I have always wanted, I now have. Send us the details to Audi’s party, and go fix your girlfriend if you want to keep her.”

“Can you stop calling her that?” You furrow your brows, not fully understanding what he was getting at. “Her name is Audrey. Suede’s name is Suede. Not Suedey, not buddy. Quit babying them,” okay. You need to leave before you say something you truly regret. He wasn’t going to tell you what you should or should not call your children. “I don’t want them to be in Michigan for the holiday.”

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” he obviously had something planned with them if he didn’t want you and Andy to take them to see your parents.

Scott looks in the distance, refusing to answer, mumbling something before, “I’m taking Taylor to Cancun,” he’s serious. He wants you to stay here while he takes his trophy girlfriend to Cancun. You hope all the men there can’t stop staring at Taylor who is always seeking validation from other men. You hope Scott feels as little as he makes you feel.

“And we’re going back to my parents’, Scott. Have a good day,” he can groan and complain all he wants to. If he can take his pretty little girlfriend on vacation, you’re going back to Michigan, and spending time with your family. You would almost have reconsidered, if he was going to be here. If he wanted to spend time with the kids, you would have stayed behind. He wasn’t going to bully you. He wasn’t going to tell you what your kids could do, or what Suede was capable of.

You’ll give him a backpack with plenty of snacks and toys, and Scott Huffman could fuck off. You’re not sure what has come over you concerning him, but you’re done. You don’t care about his feelings or Taylor’s. You don’t care to make sure if they’re comfortable. You just didn’t care.

You huff as you get into the car, and bend your hand backwards for Audrey to hold. Andy doesn’t say anything, he just puts the car into drive. You let your mind wander a bit. Not even about Scott, you didn’t care anymore. You wander to a moment when you, Andy, and your kids didn’t have to deal with that anymore. A moment where you will wake up and everyone you love is under the same roof always. It may be a dream in the future, but you have no doubt that eventually Scott will give you full custody. He truly was using your babies as leverage, and that pisses you off more than the fact he thought shoving his cock in some young whore could ever be forgivable.

But with a gentle squeeze from Audrey, you remember that all the pain of seeing him with Taylor was worth it. You don’t care how long he was sleeping with Taylor. You don’t care if he had any feelings for her then or even now. The only thing you remotely cared about is if your children saw them being romantic in any capacity. Scott and Taylor could eat rocks for all you cared. You just hope your children never saw them fucking.

Your mind focuses on the road in front of you, and you look over to Andy confused. “Where are we going? This isn’t the way home,” this is the complete opposite of home, and Andy’s smile guarantees he’s up to something. “Andy!”

Audrey giggles in the background. Her chubby little hand removes from yours, and she covers her mouth, while Suede grabs both his now shoeless feet as he smiles at you, “Ho, NaNa.”

“Did my baby just call you a ho, Andy Barber?”

“No,” the speed of the car gets slower as he turns onto a small road. “He said, home,” your heart beats rapidly as you see a beautiful house come into view, surrounded by so much land. All this space, and you gasp as you look at him. “Well, we all have to agree,” Andy puts the car into park. Holding up his hand, he lets a single key on a key ring dangle from his finger. “Shall we go look at it?”

Your mouth spreads into the widest grin as you nod your head. Jumping out of the car to get Audrey out of her seat, and Andy grabs Suede. Holding onto your shoeless monster, while everyone runs to the front door squealing. “It’s a bit large. But Linda Drysdale found it. It’s not officially been listed, but the asking price is just too good. There is enough for Suede and Audrey to have their own room, and then — some. Full size and finished basement for a play area, and,” opening up the door he sets Suede down, and both kids dart past you screaming as they run through a mostly empty house. “The master bedroom is phenomenal. There’s a great pantry. Garage. We’d be secluded, so the kids can have space to play and have swings.”

He keeps talking, but you’re just taking everything in. It’s perfect. Right down to the color scheme. It’s almost textbook the house that you and Andy talked about getting when you were silly kids in love looking through Pinterest. The space. The way that your kids are just giggling and laughing. The way that this actually feels like home. More of a home than whatever you and Scott attempted to make.

“Doe?” You spin around to face Andy, but he’s lower on the floor. Audrey leans up against him, while Suede is standing in between his arms, and your ring up in Andy’s hand. It wasn’t just a normal ring. It was the ring. The one that you and him jokingly went shopping for when he was eighteen and you were seventeen. A ring you knew he could never afford, but it was fun to pretend. It still was the perfect ring, and even prettier than you remembered.

“Honey, will you marry me?”

“Chess, mama!”

“Mommy, say yes! Andy asked for permission.”

Oh god. He asked your babies for their permission. This ridiculous man remembered everything. All of it. He is too perfect with your babies surrounding him. Letting them be just as much a part of this proposal as him. Because they are always in the equation. He thought of everything. “Mommy!”

“Yes. Yes!” You drop down to your knees with him. Crowding Suede and Audrey as you try to find his lips. Sealing everything with a kiss. “Give me two good reasons.”

“I can start with three,” Andy whispers against your lips. “Audrey, Suede, and you,” he’s too precious for words. Sometimes it isn’t about the time lost that made the difference, it’s the time now. You spent too many years trying to recreate Andy. But in those years away from him you both did some growing up. But the thing that remained was a true undying love for this man, and your family.

“Mama, we ho!”

“Yes, buddy. We’re home,” you can’t even see properly with the tears that cloud your eyes. First a home. A place to set down your roots. Your forever home with Andy. And then what he’s promised since you were seventeen. That he was going to marry you.

“Mommy! I want the bedroom with the princess window.”

“Me, too. Me oom!” Both kids spring towards the stairs again.

“Don’t run, guys,” Andy says calmly, and they immediately walk instead. They listen to him so well, “Shall we check out the rooms they picked out?”

“Andy, this is too much.”

“No, it’s priced to sell. Linda got us a great deal, and your name will be on the deed as well. If you love this house as much as me and the kids, it’s ours. What do you say?”

You look down to your left hand smiling. It was a stupid morning made right with the most perfect thing you could think of. “Let’s check out our new home,” you answer. Pulling at your fiancé’s arm as you walk towards the stairs. “What about the inspection?”

“Everything is perfect. There’s a little bit more that needs to be done in the basement. But other than that, it’s fully functional. Wires, plumbing, electricity, they all are perfect. After you, my love. I think Audrey and Suede have found their rooms. And there’s plenty more to grow,” plenty more to grow. You like the sound of that.

“What is all this shit?” Audrey’s smile fades quickly as she looks at her father, and Taylor drops her hand. “She’s five years old, it isn’t even that big of a deal,” Taylor marches into the kitchen laying another bag onto the counter, “Audrey, go in the bedroom, and take a nap with Suede. It took him forever to go to sleep.”

“I don’t take naps.”

“Audrey!”

Frowning Audrey stomps her food, “I didn’t even want a birthday party anyways!” Before stomping off into her shared bedroom with Suede, and Scott grabs his head growling. Her outbursts need to stop. They are getting out of control because he can’t give her whatever she wants like you and Andy.

”She was excited about today, and you had to open your big mouth! These are the goody bags that you said you liked. So this is what I ordered,” her movements in the kitchen are harsh, and loud, and it grates on Scott’s everlasting nerves. First his daughter’s temper tantrum, and now her.

“You’ve been in such a pissy mood ever since…”

“I heard you tell your wife that you wanted to get back together,” Taylor interrupts. She knows he’s going to have some line that differs from what she knew. What she actually heard him say. It hurt her. Especially since Scott wasn’t even the perfect catch himself. He had baggage for one. But he was amazing in bed. And then the allowance started.

She didn’t want to be a mom. Every other weekend is fine. But he claims to want more time. She knows he doesn’t want more time with his kids. It’s his need for power. A power she sometimes feeds off of. She used to feed off it all the time. His power was addicting. The men her age didn’t have that. They didn’t have the money or smarts either.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” because that makes her feel better. When the kids aren’t here he’s a different man. They stressed him out because they couldn’t be controlled. Especially not Suede. When he’s awake he is nonstop moving and playing. Always asking questions you couldn’t understand, always getting in your face, always needing attention, always needing help to go to the bathroom. Everything that Scott wasn’t willing to give because it wasn’t his job.

It’s not her fucking job either. They’re his kids. And while they’re cute, it’s annoying that he didn’t want to help at all. She didn’t even know if she wanted kids. She had no desire to remove her IUD, or even tell him about it. Making a mistake on something she felt was more temporary isn’t part of her plan. Not that any of this was. He was cute, and he gave her attention, and that’s as far as her vision went.

“That’s not really how I feel,” it is just easier to ignore Scott’s words. He’d always talk himself into a corner anyways. “She just infuriates me so much. You don’t see the way she prances around with her new boy toy.”

“Fiancé,” she tells him, continuing to move about just so she doesn’t have to look at him.

“Excuse me?” The vitriol in his voice pisses her off. He had no right to be pissed off that she was engaged. Taylor would fuck Andy, too, if given the chance.

“Do you ever listen to your kids?” Scott shrugs. Of course he didn't listen to them, why should he? Usually they were someone else’s problem. And as of late they were her problem, and she couldn’t even do the fun things with Audrey because Suede had to be there, and he was limited. Scott didn’t like having Suede alone either. But today. Audrey was going to have the best birthday. She doesn’t know why his mom couldn’t have withheld him from the party for a couple of hours. She would be selfish like that. Audrey deserves to have the best party without the limitations her brother’s allergies set.

It’s the reason why she wanted their mom to be there so hopefully Suede would beg to go home, like he always did. And she could play dress up with Audrey. Maybe get manis and pedis. She likes Audrey. Suede she didn’t connect with, and she’s sure he doesn’t much care for her either. “Suede and Audrey both told you they got engaged. Audrey even said they’re moving into a new house.”

“What?” His jaw unhooks, and she knows that he has been emasculated again by Andy. “What do you mean they got a new house?”

“NaNa mama ho,” Taylor answers, annoyed, and Scott shakes his head confused, “Andy bought his mama a home. And Audrey clarified it by saying she has a room with lots of windows, and it’s her princess room.”

“Audrey doesn’t like princesses. Audrey likes the law. She lives in reality.”

“OH MY GOD!” Taylor screams agitated. “She’s a child. She is just five years old. Audrey’s likes to do what other normal five year olds do, and that includes princesses.”

“Audrey!” Taylor rolls her eyes, and starts to pack up the things from the house. Her and Audrey can go to the event center early to set up, and Scott can bring Suede later. She’s already annoyed at him. “Audrey Elise Huffman, come here right now!”

Pompous asshole. Audrey comes into the room, now wearing her Madeline dress and Mary Janes that her mom bought for her for the party. The hat in her hand, and her right foot fiddles around a bit, while she struggles to not grimace at her father. “You guys moved?”

“No. No, not yet,” Scott doesn’t see, but Suede lingers in the hallway. Probably peeing on himself since he won’t ask to go to the bathroom. “Um, Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy…”

“Breathe, Audi,” Taylor says softly, and the little girl takes a deep breath, but her father asserts his authority by putting his hands on his hips. “Go on.”

“We take some things there everyday. But we still sleep at home. D-Andy had someone paint my pri — my room,” of course she would change what she called her room. She’s in front of her father. But she told Taylor that her bedroom was a soft pink.

“What’s your favorite thing to play?” Scott asks, thinking he’s going to trick her.

“Bocks.”

“Suede, I wasn’t talking to you,” Audrey furrows her brow, and holds out a hand for her brother, but he growls, and turns to go back where he came from. Taylor knows that none of those kids apart from their last name belong to Scott. “Audrey?”

“I like to draw. And do adding,” Taylor wonders if Scott ever took the time to look at Audrey’s sketch books to see in between every drawing of a courtroom was unicorns, or mushrooms with faces. “Are Andy and Mommy coming today?”

“Chess. Andy, mama. Me ho!” He makes a bunch of loud noises in his bedroom, and Taylor bites her tongue because that means she has another mess to clean.

“Ugh,” Scott groans. He needs a nap. “Yeah, Suede get dressed,” a two year old get dressed by himself. Yeah, Taylor already sees where this is going, and walks away from Scott and to the kids room to get Suede dressed. Accessories are all they are to him. If she were to be asked, she’d tell the court that their mom deserved them. One day with the kids was enough for Taylor, but even their father couldn’t stand to truly be around them for more than an hour. It’s why he always left. Or why he made an excuse to be in his office. Why he came home late. She’s biding her time until after she goes on vacation. She never could have afforded it alone.

“They rented this for a five year old?” Ransom asks. It was a bit ostentatious for a child’s birthday party. I’m sure that Taylor’s Instagram will look fabulous today.

“They had to have the space for the bounce houses,” Ransom looks in the backseat at you. Sweet angel child, this is how Scott would have your children grow up, lacking a sense of child wonderment. “They’re these blow up things, and you can bounce and hop on them. Andy, I did get Suede’s inhaler, right?”

“Yep,” he could exert so much energy on those things, you hope that he was breathing okay. Or even that the adults were paying attention to how his lungs are working. “Doe, we’re not that late. You said you didn’t want to intrude on their birthday party.”

Being late didn’t even bother you. The less time you spend around him the better off you are, “I just can’t help but,” you didn’t want to say it, but something felt off. There’s a sinking feeling in your gut, and you’re trying to ignore it. But it is screaming. Blaring inside of your heart. “Andy, something’s wrong.”

He shakes his head no, but the moment the car is in the spot, you jump out of the car. Trying to remain calm, but your skin is crawling. Every hair on your body is prickled up, and all you hear is laughing and music. Your chest heaves as you walk towards the entrance, with Andy and Ransom jogging on your heels.

Going in the building you scan everywhere. Your smiling girl gives you a wave from one of the bounce houses, but no Suede. There is too much noise. Too many people. Too many kids. Too much going on. Scott sits with a group of men, and Taylor’s bouncing around like an idiot on the slide with the group of men watching her. Pigs. Everyone is accounted for. But…

”Andy, where’s Suede?” He goes off one way, while Ransom goes another, and you walk into the belly of the too many people like a wild woman. Your head whips back and forth as the bad feeling festers deeper in your bones. You want to vomit. Where’s your baby?

This isn’t right. There’s something wrong. He stays with Audrey, and none of those kids were him. Who were all these fucking kids? Who were all these men? Your throat is so dry. Fear doesn’t creep up, it swallows you whole. Taking every last bit of breath from your body. You didn’t see him. Couldn’t hear him. He always sees you first.

“Suede!” Nononononononononono. “Suedey! Baby, no!” The roar of the event center changes as you scoop up your baby from the floor. “Fucking macarons. There’s eggs in here. Oh my god. Andy! Oh my god, he’s not breathing!”

You can’t even hold your hand steady as you try to get the EpiPen out of your bag. “He’s not breathing. No no no,” the color of his skin is all wrong, and tinged purple. How long has he been here? My god you hate them. Hate both of them. You asked for one fucking thing.

You jab the pen into his leg, and open up his mouth. Scooping out the bit of cookie he couldn’t swallow. “Suedey, baby, mommy’s here. Come on, baby,” Ransom is already on the phone with 911, and you can’t focus on anything but the blurry baby in your arms. Your tears stain your cheeks, and make it impossible to see properly, “Suede! Suede, mommy needs you to take a breath.”

He’s so cold. He is too small, and doesn’t seem right. This is supposed to be a fun day. It could have been. Keep allergens away from Suede. That’s how you prevent this. “Suede, buddy, breathe for mommy,” holding a hand over his chest, you can’t think, you just do, and lay him on the floor to breathe for him.

“Mommy!” You want to comfort her, but you can’t. Suede needs oxygen. You took his allergies seriously, and learned everything there was to know in case of an emergency. “Mommy, he’s not dying,” Ransom scoops Audrey up in his arms, walking away with her kicking and screaming. He knows you don’t have time to deal with her comfort right now.

There are times you have to pick and choose your children, and right now Suede wasn’t conscious. Beat by beat. Pressure by pressure, you keep filling his lungs with oxygen, while you press onto his chest. Sounds that a mother should never experience inhabit your body as his chest cracks, but you just want air to move into his body.

“Come on, baby. Mommy loves you and she needs you,” come on. Take a breath. You need to see that he is capable. You can’t give up hope. It may be the swelling of his throat constricting his breathing. But the EpiPen will do what it needs to do. You have faith. He is okay.

It isn’t a breath as much as it is a gurgled cry, but it’s enough to see his skin starting to change back. “There you go, baby,” his blood shot eyes open up, and he stares at you so confused, and hurting. “Hey, Suedey. Mommy’s here. I’m right here, baby.”

He moves his mouth with no sound coming out, but you don’t care. He’s alert enough to see you. He looks around at everyone crowding him, but he’s back to you in a second. You pet along his face, crying and smiling, unable to focus or breathe yourself. Exhaustion overcomes you, but your baby is breathing.

“You son of a bitch!” You can’t even process that Andy is screaming, you just see this sweet little boy who is so scared and confused. “One fucking thing! She asked you one goddamn thing and that was that he could have everything here! That was it. You and your child of a girlfriend are deadbeats. You could have killed him!”

“Hey, baby,” you coo at him. Keeping him focused on you and not the fight that’s ensuing behind you.

“Mama,” his voice hurts so much, but it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. “Mama,” he’s okay. He’s not perfectly fine, but he’s okay.

”I know buddy. We have to wait for the ambulance. You and mommy are going on a ride.”

“My daddy,” his eyes circle around, looking for his father.

“He’s,” a piece of shit. He will never have your son with him alone ever again. You didn’t care if he ever saw Suede ever again. He didn’t deserve his son. His son meant nothing to him. He allowed those stupid cookies here, and couldn’t keep an eye on him.

“NaNa my daddy,” you wipe the tears and snot off your face. Andy can be his daddy. Scott didn’t deserve it. “My daddy NaNa.”

“Andy,” your voice is a croak, and he won’t hear it over his berating of Scott, but you didn’t have the energy to even try. “Andy.”

“You’re a sorry piece of shit, Scott, and you’re fucking idiot,” he defeatedly says as he walks over to you. “Suedey, buddy, you scared us,” this took ten years off of your life.

“Daddy. My daddy,” Andy looks over towards you, and you just nod your head. “Tong.”

“Yes, buddy, you’re so strong. Those sirens are for you. I’m going to check on Audi, okay?”

“Otay,” his little hand tries to give him a thumbs up, and Andy kisses your temple. He gives Suede a thumbs up back, as he stands up, ready to get Audrey.

“I’ll — you want me to bring Audi to the hospital?” No. She’s traumatized enough as it is. “Ransom said he can take her to his grandpa’s for a few hours.”

“Okay,” it’s the bad thing about not having friends here. But Ransom is a start. Didn’t hesitate to do what needed to be done. He took care of it all, while a part of you died inside. You have no feelings towards Scott, he’s dead to you. You struggled to ask for sole custody, but you aren’t struggling anymore.

You hear him saying your name, but ignore him. You are numb to him. That man has done the worst things to you, but purposefully being negligent to your child is unforgivable.

“He’s had an EpiPen?” You nod your head to the paramedic, and Suede squeezes your hand a bit tighter. “You ready to go for a ride? We’re going to make sure everything is okay.”

“Me tong,” Suede whispers out, and you finally smile.

“You’re the strongest little buddy I know,” and he is. You’ve never seen a two year old be as resilient as him. The way he is trying to smile despite whatever his little body is screaming. You know he’s in pain. Know that he’s hurting so bad, but he’s okay. Scott says your name again, and you don’t even look.

“Ma’am, is that your husband?”

“No, I’m not married. I’m engaged to…”

“My daddy. Mine,” Suede taps his chest, and you want to hold him and squeeze him. It might be a long way in the distance, but it is something Andy has hinted at. He’d adopt your kids. It’d be a process, but it’d get Scott out of child support. It would take the responsibility off his shoulders, and Andy would take it all. You don’t want a conversation. You want Scott to disappear, and let you and your kids move on with a man that loves and enjoys all of you.

They lift Suede up on the gurney, and he reaches for your hand, looking more scared now than before. “They’re not taking you from me, baby.”

“Doe, I’ll meet you at the hospital, honey,” you collapse in Andy’s embrace. Trying to absorb his strength before you get into the ambulance with Suede.

“My daddy,” you step up into the ambulance with him.

“Yeah, buddy, I’m your daddy,” Suede smiles at Andy before the doors are closed. And Andy walks towards the car.

“Barber!”

“Scott, how long was he out?” Scott shakes his head. The bastard didn’t even know. “I’m going to say this as nice as I know how, but you’re a sorry piece of shit. You didn’t care about Suede, and that proves it! You let that girl bring fucking eggs in the party, and you as the parent didn’t watch to see if he was getting into it. Do you believe he has allergies now? My fiance had to breathe life back into her baby! She saved our son’s life.”

“He’s my son!”

“By blood. That’s all you have. He’s my son by choice. His choice and mine. Suede could have died, and you’re too busy trying to have a pissing contest with me. I’m going to the hospital to comfort my fiance and son, and we’re going to pick up my daughter, and we’re going to go home,” Scott growls, showing more emotion with the mention of Audrey being Andy’s daughter than Suede’s.

“You’re an insufferable asshole that plays favorites. Don’t call. Don’t text. We’ll see you in court,” Andy slings his door open before he gets in. He meant what he said. That was it. Andy would make sure that the law was thrown at Scott. Because of his negligence Suede nearly lost his life. He’s finished playing nice. Fuck Scott Huffman.

Today, Andy Barber is a father.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @kmm-fluv @rogersbarber @theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy @hisredheadedgoddess28

[widowbitessting]

Flower Petals on the Floor

Word Count: 996

Rating: General with fluffy scenes. SFW!

Summary: All you wanted to do was surprise the Trio! at work. But the stupid security guard is set on ruining your plan.

Dom!Natasha Romanoff, Dom!Wanda Maximoff, Dom!Carol Danvers x Sub!Reader

(I swear I'm not an idiot. I got asks and I lost them. Can I find them? No. I remember it being along the lines of 'a security guard not letting Baby past' so nonnie I am sorry for losing your ask. Just label me stupid I guess. Again, it’s not the best thing I’ve written but I hope you all enjoy nonetheless)

xoxo

It was supposed to be a surprise. 

A midweek visit as your classes were called off. 

You’d even bought a small bouquet of flowers for each of them. 

But would the stupid security man let you in?

No.

No matter what you tried to say, he just wasn’t having it. 

“Listen! They know who I am, just let me up!” 

“No. Your name isn’t on the list, meaning you can’t come in.” He tells you. “Now go and bug someone else.” 

You glower at him, officially irriated. 

“I am not bugging - how many times do I have to tell you? I’m their girlfriend!” 

“That’s what they all say. I wasn’t born yesterday.” 

“Listen boogers for brains, I don’t know who pissed in your coffee this morning; but I’m here to surprise my girlfriends ‘cos they’re stressed out of their minds and you’re sort of ruining it!”

“Heard it all before, love. Now beat it.” 

He shoves you and you stumble back. 

“Hey!” 

“Get out of my building, doll face.” 

“Who are you -” 

“I will personally remove you if I have to. Leave.” 

He tries to shove you again but you manage to scurry back.

You glare at him.

“Fine. Fine. I’m going. There’s no need to push me. God.” 

You stomp out of the reception area and back out the pristine glass doors, where the horrible weather is waiting to soak you. 

“Fucking stupid…butt face.” 

You stop as the door swings shut behind you and pull your phone out of your pocket; texting the Trio.

Y/N (13:14): Hypothetically…if I was trying to get into your building…what would I need to do?

Carol (13:14): Well hello to you too, cutie. 

Carol (13:14):  We’d have to put you on the OK list; get you a Visitor ID sorted and so on. Why?

You groan. 

Why is nothing ever simple?

Y/N (13:15): No reason

Wanda (13:15): Are you downstairs, baby?

Y/N (13:16): Maybe…? I’m outside…

Natasha (13:15): Go back inside love, we’ll be there in a minute❤️

You quickly do as you’re told, rushing back into the warmth of the building. 

Only, you’re met with the same security man as before. 

He’s glaring at you. 

“Listen love, if you wanted to be handcuffed this badly, all you had to do was ask.” 

“What?”

He throws your flowers to the ground and spins you around so fast that you don’t even have the time to make a sarcastic comment. 

The cold bite of his handcuffs snag at your skin. 

“Listen -” 

“No, you listen to me, I’ve had enough of your shit. You’re in detainment until the cops get here, is that understood?”

“Cops? But wait -” 

“Save it.” 

This has to be the most mortifying ordeal of your life. 

Everyone in the open reception space is looking at you and you really don’t know what to do. 

And to make it worse, your left shoe keeps squeaking.

“I can’t - I can’t go to jail!” 

“Should have thought of that sooner, love.” 

He moves you so easily that you make the mental note to start going to the gym. 

Dragging you towards the turnstiles. 

He scans his ID and pushes you through.

Taking you towards the back door when - 

“Greg, any reason you’ve got our girlfriend by the wrists?” Natasha’s voice has you both stopping and you just want to sob in relief. 

She glares at the man holding you, raising an eyebrow. 

“Oh thank god.” You mutter. 

“Yeah, that’s kind of our job.” Carol adds. 

“Told you I wasn’t lying.” You glare back at him.

“I was just -” 

“Being disrespectful to someone who we care about.” Natasha buts in. “Forget being professional, you were being downright rude. Uncuff her. Right now.” 

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry ma’am.” 

He lets you go and you quickly move to stand closer to your women; Wanda’s hand quickly finds your waist and holds you close. 

“Do you do this to all the visitors that aren’t on the all clear?” Carol asks, putting her hands into her pant pockets. 

If things hadn’t been so disastrous, you’d have found it incredibly hot. 

…Maybe you still do…

“I - no. I…” 

“Go on. We’re waiting.” Wanda snaps. 

“I was told to make sure no one got in if they’re not on the all clear.”

“And how do we ensure people do get on the all clear?” Natasha asks, as if she’s speaking to a 1 year old, 

“Having one of the reception team buzz up to Kate…”

“And did you do that?” Wanda asks.

“No…”

“Why not?” Says Carol. 

“…she…she was testing my patience!”

“And the reasonable thing to do was handcuff our girlfriend and cause a scene?”

“I was handling it accordingly.”

“He hurt my arms.” You pout and nestle into Wanda, hiding your smile. 

“I think we should have a little chat, Greg, don’t you think? Bring in the Head of Security too?”

The man visibly pales.

“I think that sounds wonderful.” Natasha adds on. “You’re dismissed. We’ll contact you later when we’re ready.” 

And just like that, he’s gone. Practically vanishing in thin air.

“Are you okay, my love?” Carol asks, looking you over and inspecting your wrists. She clocks the red marks where the handcuffs were too tight. 

“I’m gonna kill him.” Natasha growls, pulling you in for a tight hug. “My poor girl.”

“We’re gonna put you on the clearance list and get you an ID sorted.” Wanda says. “So you can come straight up next time.”

“Okay.” You pout. “I brought you flowers but he…” You point to the flowers littered on the floor. 

“Aw, baby girl.” Natasha sighs. “We appreciate the gesture. C’mon. Wanna come see where we work?”

You nod. 

Natasha takes your hand and leads you to the elevators. 

They open almost as soon as you get there and the four of you walk inside. 

Carol presses their floor and you grin up at her. 

Until she asks:

“Baby girl. Where’s your coat?”