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Oneshot Excerpt - "Racing Heart"

Knockout x Reader (8,434 words)

A chapter out of my story "Leaking Spark", but this chapter kind of stands on its own as its own little short story. Reader is described as a female with an almost flat chest, with long hair.

Summary: Knockout owes you, and he's convinced you to attend a race with him to collect the prize money he wins. Things... get a little more exciting than you expected.

Story below the cut.

Content tags: [Mildly NSFW but nothing overtly graphic, accidental stimulation, non-consensual vouyerism, very f l i r t y, illegal car racing, unwanted flirting (not from Knockout, from a side character), established relationship (platonic friendship but heading towards very NOT platonic ;3)]

You’re standing in the kitchen looking down at three happy cats with their butts planted in front of their food dishes, happily lapping up the wet food treat. It wasn’t usual for you to leave in the evenings, so you’d made sure to spend extra time with them playing games and ensuring they were maybe more than a little spoiled.

It wasn’t something you did often, so you let them indulge.

Nervous, you smooth your hands down the front of your shirt again. You’d agonized over what to wear; you had no idea where this race was supposed to take place, and googling photos of what people wore to racecar events didn’t really help you much. He’d said to dress for being indoors, so you figured you’d be in some kind of building to watch the race or maybe the bleachers were just enclosed, or. Something. You really weren’t sure; you loved looking at pretty cars, sure, but you really didn’t know much about them.

You glance at the clock. You have half an hour before he’s supposed to show up.

You smooth your hand over your shirt again, then all at once groan, grab it, and yank it up over your head as you march across the living room and dig through the assortment of clothes you’d dumped over the couch.

Everything had started as a nice little tidy, folded pile, as you matched outfits and wondered why this was even bothering you so much. You were going to a race to make sure Knockout could collect prize money -- you felt a bit arrogant just assuming he’d win, but it was really, really hard not to assume he had a natural advantage over any human driver -- and make sure you could get a new vehicle to get yourself to and from work in. You were not going on a date.

It didn’t stop you from trying on three more outfits and several different shirts before you looked at the clock, and just about panicked.

“Aaauuugh, fine! Default! Art school summer-day campus party!” you declared, then peeled the black shirt off, and marched over for your favorite crop-top.

~*~

Knockout considered honking to announce his arrival, but he was early, and he knew how his human acquaintance felt about sudden, unexpected loud noises. She wasn’t overly fond of being startled, mostly because she reacted like her life depended on her next choice of action, every time.

Considering her recent experience, he didn’t think that state was any better, so he just waited quietly in the driveway. Movement caught his attention, and he glanced at the large window of her livingroom just in time to see the human walk past with her lips pursed in a pretty pout, then she stopped, turned, and yanked her shirt off.

It was so abrupt and fluid, he didn’t even realize what was happening until it was done.

Every gear and servo in his body jammed up and seized. She peeled the black fabric off with one smooth motion and yeeted it into the air in the same gesture, as smooth and graceful as any transformation sequence he’d ever seen, only it left behind a swath of smooth, unexpectedly toned skin as her shapely back shifted with her movements. A thin red strap wound snug around her torso’s midsection, the rich scarlet bright against her skin and nearly the same color as his own finish.

Knockout…

…had seen naked humans. He’d used Boogle and come across many unfortunate if educational places of the internet, some of which he’d rather prefer to take a cortical splice to and forget about. He’d found humans to be largely unattractive, repulsive creatures, their fleshy bodies uncouth and disturbingly fragile. They certainly looked best when dressed.

But she…

Knockout had a small moment of crisis as he watched his human ally walk back and forth, trying on different shirts as she smoothed the fabric out, turned this way and that, then subsequently ripped it off again. Her body was sleek, smooth, curved in all the right spots… The shaped garment she wore over her chest beneath her shirts cupped her small breasts in a way that had him imagining sleek armor plating and delicate servos. She didn’t have large, squishy growths like most femme humans seemed to, but they were small and perky, almost flat to her chest but with just enough shape to curve her figure into an overtly feminine form.

If she were a Transformer, she’d be a perfectly proportioned femme.

Knockout shuddered when his vents kicked on, and forcibly shut them off. No. He was fine. He was. Just…

He was just all hot and bothered because Breakdown had been away from base for so long, and his favorite choice for blowing off steam hadn’t had any time to cross paths in a habsuite with him. That’s all.

Sweet chromium… he thought faintly as he watched her peel the next shirt she’d thrown on off, muscles rippling subtly with the motion of her arms crossing. Now that he was paying rapt attention, this time, he saw the silver shimmer on her back as she turned, before his engine seized again.

Only this time, it was with guilt.

His own finish had long since been repaired and buffed to shine, but hers… Her smooth skin was marked by the same angry scars he’d seen on her arm, all the way down the left side of her back that he could see, and probably farther. She marched out of sight after throwing her hands up in the air, and this time, he didn’t see her walk back into view.

~*~

At five fifty eight, you say goodbye to the kitties and lock the door behind yourself as you step out of your house’s front entry, military green coat over one arm and purse draped over a shoulder and across your chest. You’d opted for black leggings with rugged looking short shorts over them, your feet stuffed into laced up knee-high boots with solid tread and slight heels. Your chest was covered by a comfortable black tank-top with a screen-printed image of a graffiti-styled dragon in surreal, dreamy colors emblazoned on the front.

A red ball cap covered in an eclectic assortment of pins you’d collected over the years keeps your hair stuffed up underneath and out of the way as you smooth your shirt down nervously, trying to calm yourself down. The black, leather fingerless gloves on your hands stand out in smart contrast against your skin.

You’re so buzzed with energy and you didn’t even know why. Maybe it was because Knockout was taking you somewhere, or maybe it was because you were going to see a car race, something you’d never seen in person before. Whatever it is, it has your heart aflutter and your nerves on edge, so you don’t immediately notice your audience until you finally look up from nervously fussing over yourself.

You’re as ready as you’re going to be, which is good, because Knockout’s already parked like an improbably magazine-perfect car model in your driveway.

The driver’s side door pops open invitingly, and you steel yourself as you take a deep breath, then stride over with affected confidence. Right. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it with your chin held high.

~*~

Knockout had never thought humans to be very beautiful, though he thought many of the things they created were. They had an absurd penchant for creating some of the most stunning works of art, and he had to admit, while their skills in technology itself were largely lacking, their eye for the silhouette of a good vehicle form wasn’t.

He’d never seen a human dressed like his petite ally.

 It’s not that what she wore was so exotic, he’d actually seen many outfits like it-- but her clothes were… unique. Personalized. There were paint splatters on her boots, and her leggings, and her shorts. Even her old, beaten-up ball cap had some bright smudges of paint smeared and splattered on it. She’d added patches of scraps of fabric with painstakingly perfect stitches in bright colors and patterns he couldn’t help but suspect held some personal meaning. Rounded metal studs had been added as artfully placed accents affixed to the fabric, highlighting the art or becoming it itself.

She’d doodled on her tiny scrap of jeans with marker, abstracted designs that wrapped around her hip and vanished at the hem like there’d been a larger design there, once. 

She should look rumpled, dirty even, but somehow she pulled the eclectic look off with an artistic flare he immediately found bizarrely appealing. She stepped confidently out of the house wearing garments that neatly sectioned the parts of her body off into pleasing shapes; particularly the sleek black leggings that covered her squishy protoform between the tall boots she wore and the pair of shorts that covered her overtly feminine aft. Proportionally speaking, she had what Knockout would consider wide hips, and his gaze lingered far longer on her backside than he thought was maybe appropriate.

Scrap it all, he was getting all revved up over a human.

Having her soft body plop all its gentle, sleek curves into his driver’s seat as her form molded against the shape of him wasn’t helping his nerves.

“You certainly dolled yourself up for the evening, hoping to catch yourself a pretty mate from the audience?” he wonders idly. He tells himself he was just making conversation, but his investment in her answer has him wondering if he should comm Breakdown and ask for a little emergency quickie when he got back to base. It wasn’t often that he got so wound up, but when he did…

His thoughts derailed at his guest’s uncomfortable expression.

“Oh. Um… No?” she says hesitantly. With even more hesitance, she uncertainly asks, “Should I go change?”

Yes. Yes, she should, before he did or said something moronic. He silently reminds himself of all the grotesque, nasty, frame-shuddering things he’d seen on the internet of her species interfacing. It was not attractive. Not remotely.

“It’s just a compliment,” he soothes instead as he began to back up and turn to leave the way he’d come, because it was already six-oh-one PM, and they had a schedule to keep. “You look fine.”

Very fine. For a human.

“R-right. Uh… How um- How long am I going to be by myself while you’re racing?” she wonders, and tucks hair behind an ear as she looks out the side window.

Knockout’s engine purrs with a low rumble.

“Oh, not very long at all.”

“The race is that fast?” she asks, startled and impressed.

“Oh, I’m very fast,” Knockout boasts with an audible smirk.

~*~

He’s toying with you; giving you answers that don’t actually tell you much of anything at all. You won’t be alone for long, and you’ll be perfectly comfortable even if it rains earlier than the news forecast. No one will be able to harrass you, even while he’s busy driving, and no, you won’t have to worry about getting lost trying to find him after the race.

You’ll be indoors, but the race is outdoors; you couldn’t find any race tracks in the area that matched his eclectic, odd descriptions, and you finally gave up and accepted the fate of being surprised.

Your surprise couldn’t have been greater; no wonder you couldn’t find any clues about where you two were going, because Knockout drives you both out into the middle of seemingly fucking nowhere, desert stretching for miles in every direction, until all at once there’s just… Cars.

So many fucking cars. Old cars, vintage cars, modern cars, cars you’ve never even heard of or seen before. There’s some rusty ones, some pretty normal looking rides, but most of the vehicles present or at least easily visible, are souped up. There’s a handful of two wheelers from mopeds to motorcycles, a few of which have been painted up as pretty as the showroom cars.

Your heart flutters as you take in the amazing sight, studying sleek lines on aggressive muscle cars and sexy looking hot rods. And the art-- holy paintbrushes, you could spend all week drooling over the sparkly hoods and artful flames and fancy geometric patterns. Some models rock more classic styles, with minimal color blocking and striking, well placed body lines of razor-straight pinstriping.

“My, my… I didn’t take you for such an automobile enthusiast,” Knockout comments. He’d been unusually quiet for the drive, though you didn’t think he was in a bad mood, just… quiet. Maybe because of the somewhat awkward tension of you declaring you’d decide whether or not you two would stay friends or if he’d put his engine towards the sunset once this was all over.

You don’t like thinking about it. You like thinking about why you don’t like thinking about it, even less.

So you do the entirely reasonable, mature, adult thing to do.

You ignore it.

“I don’t know models or engine parts and stuff, I’m real shit at remembering numbers and words,” you admit. “But I fucking love a gorgeous ride,” you enthuse, forgetting for a moment how awkward it might be talking to someone who’s physical body happens to transform into an automobile. “Like, look at that Camaro-- everyone’s flocking around the new and shiny model over there, but that sexy beast looks like it could chew some asphalt. Way cooler paint job that shows off the body well, and I like the rims, it’s a bit clashy but has personality,” you ramble. “Oh! Oh! And the painted pinstriped one, not the vinyl striped on the end, the other one-- that’s some smartly pulled lines, and the body form is so pretty.”

Knockout’s engine makes an odd rumble for a moment, and you abruptly sit down in your seat, face warming as you cut yourself off from gushing.

“Hmmm… I’m partial to the reds, myself. That Firebird is a sleek look, too bad what’s under the hood isn’t much,” he comments idly. You look around until you see it, one of the few car models you actually do recognize.

“The T-top?” you question.

“Mmhm.”

“What made you decide to be an Aston Martin?” you wonder as Knockout makes his way through the crowd, seeming to thrive on the admiring stares he gets as people stop to oogle his pretty paint.

You don’t blame them. He is some fine looking eye candy in the car world.

“Hmmm, I liked its shape and specs, and there’s not many of them around. There’s no point in looking good if everyone else is rocking the same style,” he remarks.

You can’t help but giggle at his vanity.

“Well, you do look good,” you admit, then pat the steering wheel in what you hope is taken as the companionable gesture you mean it as.

“How good?” Knockout purrs, fishing for more compliments. You laugh harder.

“Is a literal crowd of drooling onlookers not enough to flatter you?”

“Quality, not quantity. I’d rather hear your praise,” the mech replies with a suave, low-pitched voice that quite abruptly, makes something below your belly twist.

Oooooh ‘kay. Time to change topics. Anything to get him to stop speaking like that.

“Right! So, where am I waiting while you race?” you wonder.

“Just sit pretty right where you are,” Knockout answers.

You go still.

Abruptly, everything suddenly makes so much sense. The fact he offered you the driver’s seat instead of the passenger side, that you’re dressed up for ‘indoors and sitting down,’ all the little clues and hints and taunts he teased you with so the answer was right in front of your face.

“K-Knockout, I’ve never been in a race!” You splutter.

“Relax, I’m going to do all the driving. All you have to do is smile and wave.”

“Did-- Did you already register? How does this even work? Don’t you have to pay to enter these things? I don’t have enough money for that!” you protest.

“I registered,” he soothes. “And payment’s already handled. Like I said… Just sit there and look pretty,” he repeats smugly.

“Oooh I’m going to kick your rims when I get out of here,” you grouse.

“Then maybe I’ll never let you go,” he taunts.

That flutter in your stupid, annoying, idiot body returns with a needy twinge. You shift your weight, trying to take pressure off the uncomfortably sensitized nerves between your legs.

“Just don’t yeet me through the windshield,” you beg, then reach up to grab the seatbelt. You’d forgone wearing it because honestly, you felt like you could not possibly be safer on the road than by being a passenger for the sentient mechanical being, but now you have images of being tossed about his cabin space with sharp turns or hair-raising, tire-squealing acrobatics. You have no clue what to expect. Is this a straight run? The road is straight, and seems to stretch for ages, so you assume it’s straight. Are there turns? Do the other drivers play nice, or does a bit of bumper-cars go on? You have no idea, but you get the feeling this isn’t, perhaps, a legal race.

“Please, you’re with the best driver on the entire planet,” he boasts.

“Wow, your ego is being very humble today,” you say dryly as he finally passes out of the crowd of gathered onlookers, and rolls up to a stop several car paces back from a blue painted line across the road where three other cars are already lined up.

“You think planetary greatness is humble?” he wonders.

“Only in comparison to expecting you to boast about universe-wide accomplishment,” you elaborate with a smirk.

Knockout snorts.

“Yes, well, I only claim credit where it’s due. I am, however, quite the name on my home planet.”

That catches your attention; he rarely talks about himself in any kind of personal way, prefering to boast of his assets and his skills.

You don’t get a chance to ask though, because quite suddenly Knockout is rolling down the tinted window as a man with dreadlocks and a flamboyantly bright yellow outfit swaggers towards you with a lazy gait.

“Your time to shine,” Knockout purrs quietly, and then you’re in the spotlight as you plaster a waitress smile on your face and wave at the man who’s walking over. “You’ve been to dozens of races and never lost one yet, so make me look good,” he instructs.

Outwardly, you actually manage to look collected. You even manage to keep down the initial, knee-jerk reaction to splutter and protest and ask a million-and-twelve questions. Who is this guy? What’s he want? What are you supposed to say?

Inwardly, you are screaming with inadequacy. You hope like fuck this guy doesn’t somehow oust you as an imposter; you haven’t driven a real car in years, let alone one like this. You know no racing jargon or anything about this race, you sure hope he doesn’t ask you any car nerd questions because oh man do you know nothing about Knockout’s disguise except it’s model inspiration. You don’t even know how Knockout registered or--

“So you finally decided to show your face, Mystery Marauder,” the man greets as he ducks down to see you, then looks openly surprised. “Well flip me sideways, you’re a lady driver? I get it, I get it sweets, but you’ve got some balls, girl,” he greets with praise, then sticks his hand out to you while you try like fuck to keep a straight face.

“Hey,” you greet. No one knows you here, so you decide you’ll just pretend that for today, your MO is the silent and short on words type. That sounds like it’d be appropriate, anyways, given Knockout’s need to hide the fact he doesn’t typically have a driver. You accept the hand thrust at you, and give it a firm, solid shake.

The man in yellow seems to like that, but he hangs onto your hand for longer than you’d like as he beams down at you with a somewhat leering grin. He’s a little too friendly, you decide.

“That’s it?” he wonders, teases, really. “Just, ‘hey?’ After all the hell you’ve caused me, winning races then fucking off? I mean don’t get me wrong the prize purse has been hella nice but the politics about what to do with it…”

You don’t know what to do except smile, which becomes rather forced when the man tilts your wrist then bends his head down, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Do me a favor and stick around for this one, or I might actually get my throat slit,” he tells you with a lilting tone, but his eyes look dead serious. His grip tightens on your hand for just a moment.

“I plan to,” you assure him, adding a wink because honestly you have no fucking clue what else to do except play along. You don’t know anything, so acting like you do will get you in trouble. You just want your hand back and the window rolled up. “See you at the finish line.”

“Yeah? How about after the finish line, I give you a private tour of my garage? Show you the sweet rides in my collection, ever seen a Porsche 911 Carrera RS 3.8?” he asks with a voice you know he means to sound seductive, but suddenly your gut is churning as your smile grows forced, and you tug on your hand.

He doesn’t immediately let your hand go.

“Sorry, my time’s already spoken for.”

“Damn,” he says. “Who’s the lucky chad, or chick, I ain’t judgin’ if you swing another way,” he adds easily, not seeming overly affected by your rejection as he lets go of your hand.

The response blurts out of your mouth before you properly think it through, already so into character you just roll with it. If this guy thinks you’re the real deal, then you think you have a chance to get through today. You only need the ruse to work for a little longer.

“Nothing I love more than a good engine with a loud purr, this sweet ride takes up all my free time,” you say with another wink -- fuck, are you winking too much? You’re probably overdoing it -- then practically jump out of your own skin when Knockout suddenly revs his engine louder than you’ve ever heard it before.

It’s well more than a purr, it’s a downright growl, maybe even a roar, one that rattles the entire car with its thunderous rumble. It sends a bone-shaking vibration right through your entire body as the man who greeted you jerks upright with surprise, then laughs.

The sudden tingle between your legs at the sensation nearly makes you slap the dashboard on reflex, before you remind yourself that there’s no way Knockout realized what he inadvertently did.

The man next to you ducks back down, fortunately having missed your own reaction of surprise while he was distracted with his. You pretend that you were totally the one that did that, on purpose. You also pretend that your underwear isn’t more than a little uncomfortably, distractingly wet. Good lords, what was wrong with you today?

“Bit more than a purr on this one,” the man jokes, then gives the hood of Knockout’s vehicle form an affectionate, and careful, pat. “I’d wish you luck racing, but… Shit, we both know you don’t need it. Hey, thanks for coming. You won me three hundred bucks in a bet,” he says with a grin as he begins to wave you to drive forward.

“I did?” you wonder.

He grins toothily.

“Sure as shit. Guys didn’t think you’d break your silence or show your face, but here you are. I knew you wouldn’t miss this race, ain’t many who can go bumper to bumper with Venom, Koi, and Hacksack. Hey, what’s your actual call sign, while I have your pretty face to chat with for once?”

You should probably have thought things through before you replied, but you didn’t. You were so in the zone, you just rolled with it.

You wink at him again.

“Tell them all to eat my dust, because Knockout’s here to make good on my namesake.”

~*~

“How did I do?” is the first thing she asks when the window rolls up, and Knockout drives forward to the starting line with more eagerness than he’s used to feeling before a race. He feels charged up and ready to go, practically vibrating with energy.

How did she do?

How about winding him up into a half-wild frenzy with her artsy little outfit and her sassy back-talk? How about making him want to snark and banter and blow his cover while she flaunted him off to the meatbag who ran the races?

How about making him want to kiss those pretty, perky lips, because he was finally going to get to burn some rubber against the opponents he’d been trying to run a match against for months?

He definitely was going to pretend he’d never thought that last thought. Humans were absurd-- their alien features so uncomfortably close to his own species, with their familiar silhouette and faces. Her mouth was, arguably, the most relatable part of her entire anatomy short of, perhaps, her hands.

Her sweet, shapely lips looked so soft. He wanted to know just how soft.

“You did fine,” he soothes her as he parks at the stopping line. Predictably, the vehicle next to him immediately rolls down their purple-tinted window. The tattooed man inside calls out a short greeting.

“Don’t you dare roll down the window,” Knockout’s pretty little femme blurts immediately, seizing up as she sits ramrod straight in the seat, and grimaces. “The less people who see my face, the better.”

~*~

“Hmm, they’re not worth wasting your time talking to, anyways,” Knockout purrs with blatant arrogance that should probably annoy you, except against it all, it kind of makes you want to giggle this time.

You smile as you look out the window, feeling just a little bad for ignoring the guy, but his mean expression doesn’t make you feel guilty for long. He flips a middle finger up at you, then rolls his window up.

“Something tells me you don’t make many friends on the race track,” you comment.

“Oh, I’m not here to make friends,” Knockout rumbles with obvious enjoyment. “I’m here to make them eat my tailpipe,” he growls in that voice, that gravelly, scraping, low rumble that shoots fire between your legs as your face warms.

Shit he shouldn’t have such an attractive voice. Shit shit shit you are so lucky he has no idea that--

“Are you alright?” Knockout asks abruptly. “Your face is changing colors.”

Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh no. No, no no nononononoooooo there’s no way you’re explaining your reaction. At least, not the truth.

“Sometimes humans blush when they’re very emotional. I’m very excited for this race,” you fudge a bit; you are, you just don’t need him to know that’s not the particular ‘excitement’ making your skin turn red.

“Interesting. For what purpose? Interspecies communication?”

“I guess? A lot of people wear makeup that makes it look like they’re blushing though, so sometimes it’s just for looks.”

“You don’t appear to be wearing any of the face paint I see other organics wear,” he observes.

“No, I--”

“Race time,” Knockout interrupts with an eager rumble. You jolt in the seat when suddenly, four powerful engines rev at full volume, drowning out the cheers of the crowd that lines either side of the wide stretch of road.

Holy shit it’s loud. Once you’re over the initial shock, you… kind of love it. You can feel the sound rocking through you like pulsing waves, though your sensitive ears are also starting to complain at the volume.

The man in yellow stands in the very center in front of the cars at the racing line, between the two middle-most vehicles so they won’t run him over. He holds a bright red rag in his hand that he lifts up, shouts something-- then drops it.

There’s absolutely no other warning. The instant that little scrap of fabric hits the ground, Knockout shoots out from the starting line with a powerful growl of the engine and a surge of speed that slams you back into his seat.

“Holy shit!” you exclaim as you rocket forward, already having left the crowd well behind. You contort in the seat the moment gravity is no longer forcing you pinned against it, and look behind. “Woah,” you breathe. The other three cars are already several lengths behind, and Knockout smoothly moves to take the very middle of the road as his engine purrs and vibrates through his frame.

“Impressed?” he preens.

“Yeah,” you admit breathlessly, stunned to see the other drivers fall rapidly behind, though they seem to go nose-to-nose with each other to try and take second lead. You’ll let Knockout have this one; he is fast, and it is impressive.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he rumbles. “Now sit normal before you get your spine twisted,” he orders, and you do so just in time to see an orange barrel sitting in the middle of the road up ahead. The tiny shape rapidly becomes larger. “Hold tight, fleshy,” he quips, and then quite suddenly tires are squealing as rubber burns a black smoke around you as the world spins and screeches like a banshee.

 It’s a good thing you threw the seatbelt on, because your slight body strains against the straps as you grab hold of the armrests and brace your feet on the floor. You have no idea what’s happening except your contextual guess of him doing a drifting turn to flip around the orange barrel and reverse his direction. When you come to a slamming stop then yeet forward again, that apparently seems to be exactly what the case was as he builds up momentum rapidly, and shoots past the cars who race past him to take their own, tire-squealing turns.

“Mmmm yes, I do love the smell of burning rubber and exhaust in my lessers’ faces,” Knockout enthuses, still talking in that lower rumble that has your stomach doing flips.

“Y-yeah, that’s, that’s really great,” you stammer lamely instead of the laugh he’d normally have provoked, your voice faint.

He scoffs.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“N-no! No, I mean-- Fuck,” you say contritely, struggling to think. You’re so not going to tell him you’re just flustered as heck right now. “I can’t -- word right. This is cool,” you stammer as the world speeds by and the distant crowd of people rapidly becomes much, much closer.

“And this is cooler,” Knockout boasts, before the steering wheel turns at the same time the clutch moves, and the living vehicle you’re in suddenly swings out and turns, skidding sideways over the finish line with a riot of cheers from the crowd. Rubber squeals until he comes to a stop, facing the direction of the other racers. It’s several long seconds before the first one zooms over the line after the others, shooting past Knockout in a blur of bright green and into his own skidding halt. The others follow suit, and you gasp for breath to come down from the adrenaline high of the century.

Knockout rolls forward once the others have passed him, making his way towards the yellow-suited man as he swaggers out with hands raised.

“My ladies and gentleman and others too many to name!” the man shouts. “WE - HAVE- OUR- WINNEEEERRRRR! Give it up for the fastest, the baddest, the hottest lady on the track-- Knockout!” he bellows.

Your face turns red as you sink into the seat.

“Pleeeeeease tell me no one’s going to recognize me after this,” you beg.

“Of course not, you look like all the other humans,” he remarks carelessly. “Mmm, I do love a crowd screaming my name,” he continues, clueless.

Ouch that stings. Way more than you would have expected it to.

You give his radio a flat look.

“And you look like a Camero to the JPD.”

“What?” he splutters. “I look nothing like a cheap muscle car!” he snarks.

“Not to someone who knows cars! And anyone who is familiar with telling humans apart, might be able to pick me out of a crowd. If I’d known I was going to be your face for the day, I’d have worn makeup to disguise myself!” you snap.

“Hmm, well. I wasn’t sure you’d agree if I asked,” he says, hardly an acceptable excuse, but at least he was honest. Ish.

The yellow man knocks on the tinted glass, forestalling your retort. His wide, toothy grin reminds you to put on one of your own as you quickly sit up straight in the seat. You’ve got to pretend your a badass hotheaded racer who just smoked three other drivers.

You give him your best ‘yeah, I just did that’ smirk of confidence.

“Well well well, and no one is surprised but the three disillusioned losers behind us,” he says with a wink, then hands you a fat white envelope, which you reach out to take. His hand doesn’t immediately let go of it, but this time you were kind of expecting that. It feels somehow like some kind of MO for him. “Listen, there’s another race next weekend, out on the flat stretch on the East end of town. We’re shutting down some streets to make an interesting course, you in?” he asks.

The engine of the very much alive vehicle you’re sitting in rumbles a little louder for a moment.

“What time and where?” you dutifully ask, and he lets go of the money.

“Got a cell? I’ll text you the details once I get them from Jackie,” he says, and immediately goosebumps raise up on the back of your neck.

“Nah.”

“Email?” he tries, a little more uncertainly this time. Your smile becomes forced.

“Nah.”

“...A’ight, a'ight. How about you meet me at the Corner Cafe on Wednesday, six O’ clock, and I’ll give you the info in person?”

“I’ll think about it,” you lie, already knowing your answer is no.

“You do that, Knockout… Damn fitting name. I’ll see you at the next race,” he winks, then steps away, and the window scrolls up.

“Get me out of here,” you say immediately, voice hushed, skin crawling.

“Bugger him,” Knockout says with annoyance as he slowly rolls forward and turns, the crowd that’s now broken free from the roadsides swarming the street around the racers. “He always knows when the next race is, why didn’t he tell us?”

You have to fight off the urge to laugh at the image of Knockout trying to follow the event organizer around hoping to overhear him tell someone about the race, wondering how he even finds out about them.

“He was a little too distracted trying to force me to go on a date with him,” you say with a scrunched nose, watching the other three drivers get out of their vehicles to talk to people. One of them, the man in the purple sports car who’d flipped you off, stops to stare as Knockout rolls past.

“Wait, what?” the ‘bot in question splutters.

“A date. It’s--”

“I know what a date is,” he snarks. “I didn’t realize that obtuse neon mile marker was trying to woo you. He’s not very good at it,” he scoffs.

This time, you laugh a little as you leave the people behind, and you shrug off the nasty glares the other drivers treated you and Knockout to.

“No, no he wasn’t.”

“I know how to get your heart racing,” Knockout purrs, in that voice.

Oh no. Oh fuck. He knows you--

You’re slammed back into the seat when his engine revs suddenly, and he rockets forward with an impressive amount of speed, much like he did back at the starting line. After the initial momentary shock, you find yourself feeling giddy as you laugh, relieved. He doesn’t know after all, but he is right.

You’ve always been a bit of a speed demon. You just never had an outlet for it before.

“How fast can you drive?” you wonder as the world races by at an impossible blur, and you glance at his dashboard gauges. You’re already well past one hundred and rapidly creeping up.

“Would you like to find out?” Knockout invites.

You bite the inside of your lip as your heart pounds.

“Yeah.”

~*~

It’s a fairly lackluster response, but that’s fine-- Knockout’s come to realize his human tends to lose her articulation when she’s excited or distressed, and he’s more than happy to burn some fuel as he races forward. Oh, today felt good.

His engine rumbled with a pleasing purr of harmonics as he let the giddy vibrations travel through his frame, reveling in the speed and power of hard, hot machinery under his hood. He didn’t accelerate as fast as he’d like to, out of consideration for his passenger. And also his upholstery; cleaning gravity-crushed human bits out of his leather did not sound appealing in the slightest.

Once they blew past the hundred and eighty marker, his human started to shift on her seat like she was uncomfortable; she no longer looked out the windows at the blurring landscape with rapt, undivided attention. Her awed gaze turns distracted as she keeps glancing around, like she was afraid of someone seeing them.

“Are you alright?” he wonders. He’d slow his speed if he thought that was the issue, but after watching her for a few moments, he resumed acceleration; her distress seemed more like she was thinking about something. She didn’t show any signs of pain, just a fidgety discomfort as her gaze flicked out the windows.

“Huh? Oh, uh, yes, fine, I’m fine,” she answers quickly.

A little too quickly.

“Hmm,” he hums, considering her.

“Woah, you’re-- you’re past two hundred. Wait, what if there’s wildlife?” she asks with sudden alarm.

Knockout scoffs.

“There’s no lifeforms on my radar in danger of being splattered.” She looks relieved at that, a tiny smile appearing back on her lips.

His engine roars louder as the speed increases, and quite suddenly, the human sits up straight in her seat then does a funny, hop-slide motion with her hips as she readjusts herself like something had pinched her. She settles immediately after, looking more comfortable, until Knockout spots the shockingly bright shade of red that’s slowly spreading over her face.

Until he’d become acquainted with her, he’d never seen the phenomenon up close  before, and it never failed to bizarrely fascinate him how their skin could change color.

“Excited?” he purrs, pleased to find a fellow enthusiast who could appreciate the same things he did; not terribly many decepticons had much respect for ground-alt vehicles, no matter how important they were to operations.

At least he didn’t eat four soldier’s worth of Energon every month just to keep his fuel tanks from going dry and locking his joints up.

“U-uh, yeah,” his human tag-along stammers, not quite the enthused reaction he was expecting. He studies her face as they rocket over the two-hundred-and-fifty mark, the world zipping past them in a satisfying blur.

“What, have I rendered you speechless?” he wonders with an audible smirk.

Curiously, her face turns even redder.

“Uuhh…”

“That sounds like a yes.”

“Y-yeah, yeah that’s a ye- holy SHIT you’re over three hundred? Are we going to run out of road?” she gasps.

“Eventually. This stretch cuts through the desert for miles.”

“W-wow,” she breathes, then abruptly undoes the seatbelt and lifts her soft body off his seat. She pulls her knees onto the upholstery, mindful of her shoe bottoms, and looks out the window.

A faint scent tickles Knockout’s sensors as she moves, one that nearly makes his engine shift gears with surprise as his cooling vents kick up into overdrive.

So that’s what she meant when she said she was… excited.

~*~

“You enjoy going fast,” Knockout comments in his usual suave tone.

Clueless that the mech has caught on, you easily agree with a bob of your head.

“I like controlled speed,” you clarify. “Going fast when you think you’re about to die isn’t any fun. But speed when I can just enjoy it? Oh yeah, big fan, I could get used to this,” you hum thoughtlessly.

Boy, could you.

The wet mess in your underwear certainly says you could, though that part you’d rather pretend didn’t exist. It’s way easier now that you’ve changed to kneeling, the tormenting vibrations no longer stimulating you relentlessly.

“Why don’t you sit down and relax then, and let me give you a show?” Knockout invites, and the instant he does, every hair on your body stands up on end with goosebumps as you glance surreptitiously at the radio. You’re pretty sure the suggestive wording from the literal robot wasn’t intentional, but…

That certainly doesn’t stop your thoughts from diving right into the gutter.

“U-uuh…” you hesitate to agree-- the idea of sitting down again on the shaped seat is certainly appealing. A little too appealing, and you’d failed to find a way to sit normally that didn’t still tease and torment you.

For that same reason, it’s actively something you desperately want to avoid doing, embarrassed beyond belief enough as it is. The steady vibration of his engine manages to shake through your legs in just the right manner, and while you’ve never minded that in a vehicle before…

This isn’t a vehicle.

“It’s not safe to be sitting like that,” Knockout chides, sealing your fate as you try your damndest to keep a straight face. You don’t have a good response to that, because quite technically, he’s correct.

“Uh, right,” you agree, and awkwardly shuffle yourself back into a normal seating position, thighs squeezed tight to try and keep the vibration off your core as you adjust.

It doesn’t work. Teasing vibrations torment you as you forcibly try to ignore them.

~*~

“I think I’m ready to go home,” the femme quietly falling apart on his seat finally blurts, admitting some level of defeat as they rocket down the road at near top speed. With only a handful of precious seconds left of this stretch to safely make this breakneck run, he’s not giving up the chance to leave the throttle wide open.

How amusing something so natural and thrilling to him inspired such mutual… excitement in another.

“Oh?” Knockout asks, drawing it out as his frame heats with the force of friction,

If he were an ordinary Earth vehicle, his tires would have melted so many miles ago. He just starts to feel the heat in overtaxed rubber as his engine rumbles with a steady, harmonic hum.

Top speed, without any stretch to push just that bit beyond. He missed Velocitron’s endless, looping tracks, where he could throw the throttle wide all day if he had the Energon for it, and never stop except to cool his rims.

“Yeah, it’s-- Um, it’s been a long day, and also I’m pretty sure this is illegal and if someone--”

“They can’t see through the glass, remember?” he taunts.

“Yeah, but I just put a face to this pretty car at that racing show. I flaunted your reputation tonight-- please be careful with mine,” she says, downright primly, in an assertive manner that would usually annoy him, except he’s caught up on her words. “You just slapped a human ‘owner’ on your car identity, and it’s me.”

Quite technically, she’s correct.

He tries to decide if he cares or not. Does he? It’s important to her, ergo, it would displease her if he treated it any less. And he wasn’t going to get her to slip him into any more car rallies if she despised him, so being on her good side was a must to that end.

He sighs.

“Very well,” he grouses, slowing down in speed.

“Thank you,” she says. “Also… thank you-- for, uuuh… I guess for breaking the law with me,” she laughs nervously. “This… This was pretty fun. You’re a bad influence,” she says with a shy grin.

Oh-hoh, there’s a rebel in you yet, he thinks.

~*~

The air in Knockout’s cabin space, you swear, is getting stuffier the longer the drive takes, even though the ride out had been clean, freshly cycled air.

You really hope his species doesn’t have a sense of smell. You don’t need to have a dog’s nose to catch your own arousal’s sweet perfume, and arousal that was more or less driving you absolutely mad by the time you say goodbye to your alien… friend? You think that’s what he is, because some stupid part of you really somehow likes his company, even though you really hate the life and death peril it’s frightened you with.

“Well… Drive safe home, I guess, wherever home is,” you say with somewhat awkward fondness as you stand up out of Knockout’s low vehicle disguise, free at last. The air is balmy tonight, and the stars are mostly obscured overhead by thick, gray clouds. The race had squeaked in just before the coming rains.

“Hmm, it’s a short drive with superior teleportation technology,” Knockout boasts, but this time, all you do is smile. You’re getting used to his theatrics.

“Yeah, that is pretty nifty. It’d cut my time down driving to work so much. Also… Hey, thanks for this,” you add, holding up the envelope with a little wiggle.

“Not even going to count it? What if he stiffed you, hmm?” Knockout taunts. He doesn’t make any move to roll out of your driveway yet, so you find yourself likewise hesitating, rooted to the spot as you chat by his window.

“I mean… If I was worried about that I would have counted it first thing, once I was inside you,” you say, and boy, could you have worded that better for your stupid little gutter brain.

How you manage to keep a reaction from your face or from choking on your own breath in a terrible wheeze, you don’t know. Maybe adrenaline.

The envelope in your hand feels heavy. If it’s the twenties and fifties you’re hoping for, it’ll be enough to take care of a lot of things right away.

“What if I’m about to stiff you, if I drive off never to be seen again, and there isn’t enough there to put new wheels under you?” Knockout prompts.

Is he drawing out the goodbye? You think he is, and quite abruptly, you remember something you’d forgotten. Or, more accurately, you’d chosen to shove out of your mind until you couldn’t outrun it any longer.

You hesitate, then reach out and pat the top of his candy red canopy.

“You can come by to visit again… if you promise to make sure no more near death experiences come my way, preferably? I’m down for a few races now and then and hanging out.”

His engine revs.

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” he purrs. “It’s a date, then.” Before you could quite react, he rapidly rolled out from under your hand, backing up in a quick pivot. “See you next weekend, doll.”

You’re left standing on your driveway with your hand still not quite lowered, and not quite raised, staring at the direction he’d driven off with a dumbfounded expression.

You were right; he was just drawing out the goodbye. The instant he knew he’d have more time with you again, off he went.

You look down at the fat envelope in your hand, then self consciously look around, before slipping into your house.

You consider the merits of moving, or maybe getting a second residence to swap between. Maybe if there’s enough left over after fixing yourself up with new transportation, you’ll look for a place to take out a loan for. Though your initial thought had been focused on moving for your own safety and to get away from aliens and all the trouble that came with them by proxy…

…you find yourself daydreaming how Knockout might react to being surprised with a garage he could actually stand up in. He’s never outright complained about your short ceilinged, two-car garage on any of his visits, but you can tell it’s not very comfortable.

You sigh, catching your own thoughts. You are so hopeless.

Safely indoors, you sit down on your sofa after closing the curtains, then open up the envelope.

The first bill on the stack has Benjamin’s face peeking at you from the envelope seam.

Your heart thuds.

You pull the stack out.

You intend to count, but honestly, after the first brush of your thumb smooths a clean, crisp fan of nothing but hundred dollar bills, you feel a little lightheaded and dizzy. You’d expected several hundred to maybe a few thousand dollars when Knockout told you about the race, then excitedly upped that estimate a bit when you actually felt the weight of the prize money in your hands.

But you’d still only expected a sum enough to cover your totaled bike and maybe some funds left over, not…

not…

You just kinda, pour the cash out over your lap and stare at it, dumbfounded.

“Holy… shit,” you breathe.

And Knockout was just… driving off? You supposed he didn’t have much need for Earth money, though you wondered if he ever needed to buy gas. Could his alt mode even safely take gasoline? You weren’t sure if he’d be weirded out by you asking, but you were curious now.

But then there was the shimmery blues and golds and greens laying on your lap, dumbfounding you.

“Holy shit,” you say again, because aren’t you just so articulate tonight?

That’s about when one of your cats wakes you up from your stupor, because Gizmo hops up from the ground onto the sofa. A white-tipped paw sloooowly reaches for the bills on your lap.

You jerk a bit, blink, and gently bop his paw away with the tip of your finger.

“No, not for kitties,” you admonish gently. Yellow eyes stare up at you unblinkingly, before he finally blinks and looks away, then turns and saunters off.

You take a deep breath, then shakily begin gathering all the cash up. You…

…really hope this money was all legally acquired.

Oh, lords.

What had you gotten yourself into?

CHAPTER DROP: Leaking Spark, ch 7

:3

pushed a new updoot out today, I was too excited to share this one.

Reblogs appreciated! (If you don't wish to be notified of my fanfiction chapter releases, I have started using the tag "DatChapterTho")

Chapter Drop: Leaking Spark, ch 17

I cooked, y'all

22 pages of cooking enjoy

Hi :)

You should not be doing this.

It rings like church bells in the back of your mind. A funeral toll for each damning decision that is killing your divinity.

Finding the ritual. Dong!

Drawing the circle. Dong!

Spilling your own golden essence over a twisting sigil. Dong!

Tongue tripping over unfamiliar vowels and consonants. A language you know but have never spoken. Dong!

“Well,” a low, rough voice drawls, “isn’t this something special.”

You close your eyes, steel your spine. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your nerves. Tilt your head just enough to watch him from the corner of your eye, a dark and hulking shape. You’re almost startled by the size of him. Have never seen a demon like this before.

His horns curve back from his head, rams horns. You jolt a bit. A higher demon than you expected - than you meant to summon.

“Such a pretty thing,” he coos, stalking closer. “I haven’t eaten an angel in millennia….”

You nearly gasp as rough hands brush your wings. It almost burns. You twist, find him suddenly much closer than you thought. A massive hand captures your chin, jerks your head up to look at you this way and that.

“And here you serve yourself to me on a silver platter.”

He smirks, a hint of viciously sharp fang peeking out. You gather your courage, smack his hand away. The bracelets around your wrist chime.

“You are the one who’s here to serve,” you remind.

He moves faster than you can ever hope to match, crushing you to the wall, your wings pinned beneath you. A clawed hand is around your throat, tight enough to threaten oxygen if you needed it. Still you gasp, squirming and struggling, frightened by his strength. Why is he so much stronger than you?

“Mind yourself, dove,” he growls, eyes glowing like hot coals. “You may have summoned me, but that does not entitle you to my power.”

You grunt softly as he flicks at your halo, eyes stinging a bit. You’re unfamiliar with pain; Heaven is soft and kind.

“Please,” you manage.

His eyes narrow, a smirk turn to his lips. “That’s more like it. Now tell me, why would one of the host call upon a demon.”

“T-to make a deal.”

His eyebrows arch, but there’s a flicker of genuine fascination in his eyes now. The grip on your throat loosens a little, but he presses closer just a quickly, one burning line of inhuman muscle along your front.

“A deal…” His voice has dropped even lower somehow, rumbling in his chest. “Oh dove, you have no soul to sell. What did you plan to bargain with?”

“I-I don’t know,” you admit. The desperation that brought you here, made you do all this, yawns open inside you. “You name the price, but please.”

His laughter fills the room, genuine amusement this time. “You’ve no idea what you’re offering.”

You frown. “I do. I know… I know what it means. But what I’m asking for…”

He tilts his head. “And what are you asking for, angel?”

“There’s a man, a human man. When his mother passed I brought her soul to Heaven and she asked - she asked me to watch over her son…”

He arches his eyebrows. “You’re no guardian.”

“No,” you agree. Guardian angels are fierce and beautiful, a balance of warrior strength and guiding patience. They carry swords and shields, iron in their feathers. “But… I couldn’t deny her.”

“Let me guess, he’s slated for death now.”

“Hes a soldier.” Death then damnation. He has made himself a machine of suffering and it has charred his soul.

The demon hums with understanding. “You want me to save him.”

“From death,” you clarify, “the rest.., the rest I will try to do myself.”

The demon makes a little “ah” noise. “And so you’ll offer me anything to defy death. For one mortal?”

You can hear the disdain in his voice and it sparks your ire. The scent of ozone seeps into the room as your feathers ruffle.

“I don’t need to explain myself. Will you take the deal or not?” You demand. “I need to know if I should summon another - ah!”

You flinch as your head is wrenched back, throat exposed. Hot hair brushes the skin as he looms over you, fangs so so close.

“Your Heavenly Father didn’t bend you over his knee enough,” he snarls. “We’ll have to correct that.”

You swallow down a whimper, sense that it’s best you don’t push your luck.

“Very well, dove. You have your deal. I will keep your precious mortal alive.”

“And in exchange?” you ask.

He chuckles. “That is not for you concern yourself with.”

And then white hot pain explodes through your shoulder, fangs sunk deep into your shoulder. He moans at the taste of your blood on his tongue, hips jerking roughly against your stomach. It feels like a small eternity that he bites into you, leaving his mark. The contract of your unholy deal. His tongue laves cruelly over the marks as he pulls away. Gold drips from his chin as he grins at you.

“Fly home now, dove,” he says. “I will see you very soon.”

Sundown (August 20th, 2018)

So around this time I fell in love with Reader fics, and this was my first time writing one for myself! And my first time, in a looooong time, writing hetero sex! I feel like I succeeded in both endeavors!

Rating: EXPLICIT Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Jesse McCree/Reader Warnings/Contents: Vaginal fingering, Vaginal Sex, Biting, First Time, Anxious Reader, Pet Names (Because, c’mon, it’s McCree), Ex Deadlock Reader  AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741816 Word Count: 9,223 (One Shot, for now) Summary:  You, agent Sundown of Overwatch, are put on a mission with Gabriel Reyes and none other than your fellow ex-deadlock best friend turned Blackwatch agent Jesse McCree who you haven't seen in over a year. Jesse gets himself hurt, and you fall back on old habits, which get you in hot water with the jefe. When Reyes reveals that everything you think you know about the deal you made with him is wrong it leads you to a certain cowboy's door with every intent on kicking his ass. A few confessions later and that's the furthest thing from your mind...

~Excerpt~

“Ya deserve a better life!” The cowboy’s eyes flashed. “Ya don’t belong in gangs an’ that’s all Blackwatch is-another gang! More rules, sure, but it’s the same damn thing!”

“You didn’ answer the question, Deadeye!” You leaned in closer, narrowing your eyes to slits.

“Don’ push me on this just because I tried to do right by you for once in my life Sundown.” He snarled right back and closed the distance, face maybe an inch from yours as he showed fang.

You stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to back away. You felt some of your anger cool, and hated that it did. Trying to do right by you?

Before you could ask, he left out a ragged breath and ran a hand through his wild hair, and you felt a knee jerk want to pet too. “No, I don’ hate you. I never could. Yer the only thing I got left.”

You felt your heart clench, and couldn’t help how small your voice became. “Then why did ya leave me alone?”

He bit his lower lip, struggling against the sight of you upset. He had so little power when it came to that-to you hurting at all. He reached out, slowly, giving you plenty of time to shut him down, before gently taking you by the upper arms.

“I didn’ want ‘em ta judge you cuz’a me .” He pulled you close and wrapped his arms around you. You allowed yourself a moment of greedy indulgence, sinking into the scent of desert and gunpowder that was Jesse McCree. “Wanted ya ta have a clean slate, find a new life. I got nothin’ else to me but a gun and a grin, but you...yer smart, you can be somethin’.”

“I got the same offer as you,” you argued, even as you felt yourself melting. “I’m with Overwatch for life.”

“Overwatch’s got retirement, darlin’.” He snorted. “I got five hundred credits in m’boot for burial money, that’s the Blackwatch retirement plan.”

Knotty (February 17th, 2019)

Knotty was another Overwatch Reader Fic. It started out as a PWP but a liiiiittle bit of plot slipped in there at the end. I actively had to keep telling myself “No Serious, Only Fun.” I will definitely be returning to the HybridVerse again. I kinda wanna do a sequel about the Kittens...

Rating: EXPLICIT Fandom: Overwatch Pairing: Jesse McCree/Reader, Jack Morrison/Reader, Gabriel Reyes/Reader, Genji Shimada/Reader, Hanzo Shimada/Reader Warnings/Contents: Cat!Hybrid!Reader,  Cat!Hybrid!Shimada Bros, Human!Jack, Human!Gabe, Coyote!Hybrid!McCree, Scenting, Rut Sex, Heat Sex, Knotting, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Fingering (both), Oral Sex (both), Master/Pet, Pet/Pet, Feral/Pet, Spitroasting, Double Penetration, Mating, Mating Press, Pregnancy Kink, Lactation Kink, Power Play, Semi-Barbed Penis,  AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17821805/chapters/42048767 Word Count: 17,936 (6/6 chapters)

Summary:  Ch 1: Reader's Master Jack comes home smelling like Jesse's rut from working with Gabe all day. Poor pup's got no one to help him through. Magnanimous Reader offers her services. Ch 2: Reader thanks Masters Jack and Gabriel. Ch 3: Reader gets in some quality Shimada Heat Sex. Ch 4: Jack, Gabe, and Jesse come home. They are greeted very, very warmly. Ch 5: Pregnant Reader relaxes her Master, and then wakes up in a whole new nest with her Mates. Ch 6: KITTENS

~Excerpt~

You yawned, stretching yourself out, trying to gently slip away from Jesse, only to have big strong arms squeeze around your middle and anchor you in place for the duration. You snuffed, and looked up, smiling when you saw your master kneeling down beside you with a bottle of water and a washcloth.

“Hey there kitten,” he rasped, his big warm hands careful as they wiped your face down then propped your head up so you could drink. You hadn’t realized just how much you’d needed it until you blinked and the bottle was gone. “Master…” you purred back, grateful, as always, for his care. You reached out and rubbed his strong jaw with your hand before pulling him in and kissing him deeply. He smelled of need and hunger, things you would gladly rectify were you at home. Or in the car.

He let you kiss him for a while, before easing back and chuckling softly. “Don’t be rude, kitten.”

“Never, Master,” You immediately looked over his shoulder at the darker skinned man who walked in from the kitchen, holding two more water bottles and wearing a handsome smirk.

“Feeling alright, Gatita? My boy didn’t go too crazy did he?” The other master passed Jack a bottle and used the cold side of his own to press against the back of Jesse’s neck. The coyote yelped and jerked, letting go of you for a moment to try and defend himself before flopping back with a groan as he realized what it was that accosted him.

“Gabe?...The fuck?” He yawned, scratching at one ear and side eyeing his owner with a grumble. He glanced at you and flashed an award winning smirk, licking his lips before leaning in and nuzzling along your neck and throat. “Damn you smell good, kitty.”

Squeeze Me, I Squeak!

While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy. (In which Ghost is a brat with authority, but you don't mind. You're a bit of a brat too.)

Original AO3 Link (I posted this a million years ago to AO3 and it was my first ever COD fic, inspired by a Discord chat and Badjhur audios. I figured it's about time I added it to the Tumblr masterlist for ease.)

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

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.

Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.

Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.

Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.

Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.

Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.

His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.

Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.

The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.

“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.

The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.

On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.

“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.

And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.

But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.

“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.

“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.

“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”

“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.

“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.

You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.

It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.

Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.

You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.

On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.

His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.

You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.

But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.

“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”

His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.

He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.

Then you turn to the bleeding.

“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.

You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.

The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.

As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.

You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.

Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.

“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”

There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.

“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”

“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”

When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.

“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”

You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”

You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.

More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.

He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.

When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.

“Need one more thing from you.”

You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.

And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.

Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.

“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.

He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”

Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.

“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”

Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.

Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.

Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.

“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.

“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.

Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.

“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.

“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.

That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.

“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”

He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)

He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.

When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.

“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.

He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.

You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.

“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.

“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”

He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.

You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.

Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.

After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.

“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.

“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.

“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.

With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.

It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.

It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.

By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.

Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.

“Solid, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.

Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.

Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.

You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.

When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.

“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”

“I know.”

But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.

And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.

“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.

He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.

You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.

Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.

It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip. 

It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.

He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.

At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.

“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.

“’S nice,” you whisper.

He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.

You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.

“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.

It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.

“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.

There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.

“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”

“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.

You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.

Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.

You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.

Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.

Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.

Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.

Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.

There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.

When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.

Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.

“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.

You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.

“You ever seen Halloween?”

“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”

“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”

He goes still behind you. “What.”

“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”

You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.

“Squeaks…”

“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”

“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”

“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.

“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”

“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”

And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.

You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.

He’s biting you.

“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”

He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.

Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.

“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.

You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”

“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.

“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.

You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.

You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.

You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.

In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.

Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.

If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.

You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.

That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.

You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.

Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…

You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.

You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.

“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.

You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.

You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.

“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.

When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.

“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”

The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.

“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”

You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.

“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”

Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.

“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.

“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”

“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.

“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.

“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.

You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.

“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.

You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.

“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.

You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.

The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.

Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.

“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.

It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.

“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.

“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”

“Yessir…” you groan.

Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.

Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.

You might be after this though.

One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.

Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.

Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.

And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.

You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.

By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.

They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.

“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.

He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.

“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”

Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.

As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.

At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.

“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”

You get the fuck in.

As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.

Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.

He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.

You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.

He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”

You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.

 “There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.

“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”

You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?

You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.

“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.

Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.

“What?” you ask.

You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.

“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”

“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”

He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”

You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.

“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.

“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”

You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.

“That fast?” you ask.

“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.

“It’s clear!”

“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”

You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.

“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.

“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.

“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.

“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”

He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.

“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”

And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.

Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.

But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.

Then he shifts.

His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.

“Squeaks.”

You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.

Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.

Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.

He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”

You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.

It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?

Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”

You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.

“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.

“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”

You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.

“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”

You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.

“Go on,” he urges.

You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.

“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”

You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.

When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.

“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”

He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.

“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”

A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.

“You have experience,” he asserts.

“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”

He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”

His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.

“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.

If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.

He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.

“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”

“It will if you can be patient for me.”

“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.

His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”

You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”

His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”

“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”

You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.

“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.

“That’s my girl.”

He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.

You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.

“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”

He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”

His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”

You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.

He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.

“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”

“N-no,” you lie.

He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.

It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.

You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.

He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.

“Close,” you pant.

He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.

Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.

“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”

He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”

“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”

“Fuck.”

He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.

You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.

And he doesn’t stop.

“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.

But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.

Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.

“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.

He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.

Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.

Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.

He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”

His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.

A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.

“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.

“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.

“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”

You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.

“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.

You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.

His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”

You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.

You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.

“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.

You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”

“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.

“Have to fix that, then.”

You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.

You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.

“Yes,” you agree.

That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.

“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”

And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.

You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.

He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.

And your eyes.

The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.

“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”

Just the head. Christ.

The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)

He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.

Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.

“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.

You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.

By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.

“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”

“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.

“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.

You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”

You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.

“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”

You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.

“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”

He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.

“What about you?”

He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.

“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”

You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.

“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”

“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.

He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”

You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.

“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”

And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.

When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.

“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.

“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.

“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”

You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.

“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”

His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.

“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.

“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”

He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”

You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.

You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.

“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”

Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.

There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.

Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.

There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.

He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.

It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.

“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”

You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”

You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…

“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”

There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.

You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.

“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”

He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.

The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.

“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”

His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.

“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”

His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”

It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.

“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.

You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.

“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”

You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.

“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”

Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.

“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”

You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”

He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”

You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.

“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”

He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”

“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”

“Guess so.”

He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.

“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”

You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.

When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”

Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.

“You’re my hero.”

He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”

“Yessir.”

I’ve been wanting to write Captain Daddy again for a while so… I DID. (Also I didn’t edit this at all really. I wrote it in a horny frenzy)

This is a free use scenario, so warnings and specific kinks below the cut. Have a picture of him if it’s not to your taste.

Content: Consensual Free Use, Healthy Polyamory, Safe/Sane/Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Blowjobs, Frotting, Rimming, Anal, PIV, Overstim, BDSM elements, aftercare.

It’s a basic fact that Castle is good to you.

Good to the entire team, really.

He’s patient but firm, direct but sincere. Looks out for his own without crossing boundaries - and the rare times he does, he takes responsibility and apologizes. A proud man, and only a little arrogant - it’s not unwarranted.

Even temporary placements on the team end up a bit starry eyed under his leadership. He’s certainly the best captain you’ve ever had.

He’s an even better partner.

No unilateral decisions or jealousy issues there, not at all. His needs tend to be contingent on everyone else’s being met. Water and food and rest for Nikto. Cuddles and affection to Nova. Quality time with Keegan. Reassurance and communication maintained with you.

He gives and gives and gives, looking out for your team with a keen eye and a gentle (or not so gentle) hand when needed. He’s protection, guidance, solace, and discipline all wrapped up into one delectable package. An anchor you’ve all happily tied yourselves to.

And then some days he just needs to provide.

He doesn’t want to make hard decisions, or think three steps ahead. The checks and balances of being captain tip a bit too far and he just wants things to be easy.

“Was thinking about wearing my bracelet,” he says one morning, voice still sleep rough.

Keegan’s eyes snap up from his oatmeal. You blink owlishly while Nova hums into her tea with intrigue. Nikto shifts and places a hand flat on the table.

For his part, Castle is as cool and calm as always. No special dressing or playacting around the offer. Just a statement to be answered in its own time.

“This weekend?” Nova asks.

Castle nods, mopping up egg yoke with his toast. “Figure we’ll start first thing Saturday morning and go through the evening,” he explains. “Spend Sunday recovering.”

“I’m down,” Keegan says instantly.

You snort and nudge him under the table. “Are you okay, cap?”

He smiles at you, affectionate. “All good, sunshine.”

“I will be minder,” Nikto pipes up.

Castle nods, takes a sip of coffee. “Nova will take over if you want a turn.”

Nikto grunts the affirmative.

By your side, Keegan presses his thigh into yours, arches his brows when he catches your eye. He’s already excited, and Saturday is still three days out. Christ, you’d better start hydrating now.

“Saturday, then?” Nova asks.

“Saturday.”

Castle has a bracelet. It's a woven leather band with a thick silver clasp. You don’t know where he got the base from, but the four charms that decorate it have been provided by each of you.

A silver circle cut from Nikto’s original dog tags. A skull for Keegan. A star for Nova. And a sunflower for you.

It’s replaced his thick sports watch come Saturday morning, wrapped tight around his wrist as he pours coffee.

“Good morning, Daddy,” you coo, worming between him and the counter (and his precious caffeine).

His shoulders already look looser, eyelids heavy with the clinging gossamer of sleep.

“Mornin’ Sunshine,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his nose against your cheek.

You giggle as his stubble scraps your jaw, contrasting the sweet, lazy kisses he trails up to your temple.

“Need somethin’?”

He’s already half-hard against your hip and your stomach flutters in response.

“Not yet,” you hum, scritching blunt nails through the shorn hair at the back of his head. “Have your coffee first.”

He grunts, curls an arm around your waist while he reaches past you to grab his mug. You know it’s scalding hot and bitter as hell, but you still lick into his mouth after his first sip.

“Thought you wanted me to have coffee first,” he rumbles, thumb sweeping over your hip.

“What, I can’t have a bit of caffeine too?” you simper.

He snorts and hauls you over to the couch, plops down with a groan while you curl into him. He doesn’t put on the news like usual, just hands you the remote to put on whatever catches your fancy.

While you two snuggle, the others begin wandering in.

Nova, freshly showered from her morning jog in the gym. Nikto, brewing a double-strong cup of tea, only a fabric mask to cover the lower half of his face today. Keegan is in last, no mask in sight for once, just a loose t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Who’s that fine looking man?” you catcall, grinning when he shoots you an exasperated look.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replies.

While you listen to the others bustle about the kitchen, fixing up their breakfasts, your hands begin to travel.

Castle is built so thick, hard muscle and broad shoulders, barrel-chested. You trace over the scars hidden beneath his shirt, reading his history like braille. Trail down his abdomen, over the packed muscle beneath a healthy, hydrated layer of fat. Dance along the stretchy band of his exercise shorts, grinning into his shoulder when he widens his knees to give you better access. He’s gets harder as you tease, fingertips coasting over thick thighs.

“Done with coffee?” you ask.

He tilts the mug back and downs whatever is left like a shot. “Am now.”

You giggle, nipping at the corner of his jaw as you fish his cock out. No underwear, of course. Not today.

“Ooh, I love this set,” you coo, running your thumb over the first gold bar in his Jacob’s ladder.

He hums, laying his arm across the back of the couch behind you. Already pleasantly dazed, you think, tilting your head to kiss him.

“Getting daddy warmed up?” Nova asks, licking yogurt off a spoon.

You and Castle zero in on her pretty little tongue coated in white.

“Just playing right now,” you reply, shrugging, “but I can get him ready if you want something.”

She hums. “I’m pretty hungry this morning… don’t think this is gonna do it,” she says, shaking her fruit-laden yogurt meaningfully.

“Need something warm in your belly?” you tease, grinning.

“You know it, babes,” she agrees, winking.

You feel more than hear Castle groan, low and deep in his chest. When you glance at him, he’s tilted his head back against the cushions, watching you both lazily. He’s not even rocking into your hand, just breathing along to each slow stroke, even while his cock twitches hard.

By the time she finishes her breakfast, his dick is hot and leaky, the tip flushed bright. Nova lounges elegantly over your lap and dips her head, following your hand on the next downstroke with her mouth.

“Fuck,” Castle rasps.

She hums around his length, drawing back up with a lewd slurp.

“All day, Daddy,” she purrs.

You take the liberty of squeezing her gorgeous ass, since she’s so graciously draped herself across you. Pleased, she wiggles her hips, inviting you to take her tight leggings off. You peel them down to mid-thigh, groan softly at the slick already glistening on her skin.

“Want me to get you ready too?” You ask, feathering your fingers over her pussy lips.

Unwilling to part from Castle’s cock, she comes up enough to hum out an eager “mhmm” before swallowing him down again.

You work one, then two fingers into her, rocking them in and out at a steady pace while she bobs over his dick. When you scissor them to stretch her out a bit more, her hips jerk and Castle curses softly.

“Love breakfast with a view,” Keegan chuckles, taking a seat in the armchair nearby.

You make eye contact with him as you work a third finger into Nova, listening to her moan raw and needy when you curl them.

“You two are so fucking hot,” you sigh, twisting your wrist to rub leisurely circles around Nova’s clit.

“Not just those two,” Nikto rumbles, tugging your head back.

You gasp softly as he presses his thumb onto your tongue, pinning it to the floor of your mouth.

“You are full of energy today,” he observes. “Then we spar, da?”

You moan softly. On a day like today, there’s nothing you want more than to spar.

“Da, sudar,” you mumble.

He forces your mouth open wider and reaches for his mask. You close your eyes and stick out your tongue, make an absolutely obscene noise as he spits.

That seems to snap Nova’s patience. She’s scrambling up and it’s all you can do to help her while she kicks off her pants entirely.

Castle picks his head up just in time for her to sink onto his cock. She’s not slow or careful about it - doesn’t have to be. Not with the prep and how wet she is, and definitely not on a day when he’s not going to scold her for going too fast.

She wastes no time bouncing and rocking in his lap, gripping his wide shoulders for leverage. Nikto settles just behind you, where Nova’s legs had been spread. You lean back into him to watch, mind blank at the gorgeous display your partners make. Keegan really wasn’t kidding about the view.

You know she’s close when Nova grinds down. Castle does too and dips a hand down, pressing his thumb against her swollen clit. All it takes is a few more rocks of her hips and she’s gone, throwing her head back to keen high and sweet.

Castle is panting but still as she recovers, slumped against his chest to catch her breath. Keegan stands from the armchair and helps her off Castle’s cock - throbbing and harder than ever.

“Give,” Nikto says, holding out his arms.

Keegan deposits her gently into his lap, where she curls up with a content sigh.

When you turn back, Keegan’s already ducking down to lick and suck the combined juices from Castle length.

“Keegs, no fair,” you complain.

Without a word, he grabs your jaw and smashes your lips together, tongue-fucking the taste of Nova and Castle into your mouth. You moan and forget what you were so upset about in the first place.

During the team workout in the gym, you jump on Castle while he’s on the bench press. He quickly re-racks as you yank his waistband down, tucking it beneath his heavy balls.

His cock is laying flat against his stomach, never really stopped being hard from an hour ago. You straddle him and use his fat, pierced cock as a grind toy, frotting along each rung of his Jacob’s ladder and riding your clit on the head.

At some point, Nova joins you from the other side, bracing herself on the heavy bar to sit on his face. Castle moans while he lavishes her cunt, calloused hands spasming on your thighs. You exchange wet kisses with Nova over the length of his body until all three of you cum.

Keegan and Nikto haul you and Nova off respectively, sitting you both with water on the yoga mats while they help Castle finish his set.

Nikto pins you down for the third time, wrists at the small of your back and legs knocked out from under you, unable to get leverage. He calls Castle over and keeps you trapped there as your captain eats you out and fingers you.

Right as you’re nearing the edge, Keegan drops to his knees behind Castle, tugs his shorts down, spits on his ass, and slides home. The ragged groan your captain lets out sends you over, squirting all over his face and the sparring mats.

Nikto gently scoops you out from under him and delivers you to Nova for cleanup while Keegan pounds into Castle in the ring.

He’s barely gotten through any paperwork when you come strolling into his office, shoving files aside.

You make him fuck you on his desk, legs thrown over his shoulders and whimpering how your daddy is your favorite dildo. Rub your clit until it throbs, clenching down and refusing to cum until he does.

And then again from behind for Keegan to watch while you warm the head of his cock in your mouth.

While you lay sweating on the cool wooden surface, Keegan fucks his hand until he cums all over Castle’s dick and balls. Only for him to fuck it into Nova’s ass when she wanders in as well, eyes bright with desire.

He’s napping when you decide to ride him reverse cowgirl, wakes with a choked shout when you clench down hard. You’re not slow or careful about either, ramming yourself down the length of him with each rock of your hips.

“Fuck me!” you demand, scraping your nails down his thigh. “Want it hard and fast, daddy. Give it to me.”

And he does, grabbing your hips and manhandling you up and down his shaft. Snapping his hips up to meet you, absolutely brutal with it, just like you asked.

When you cum and he tries to slow down, you plants your hands on the bed.

“Don’t stop!” you snap. “Keep going, keep going. Want daddy to cum in me!”

He does with stuttering hips, hands finally beginning to shake.

Before dinner, Keegan fucks another load into Castle’s ass. And after, he licks it out again - while Nova holds your thighs open for Castle to warm your clit.

Nikto tsks at you for not finishing your veggies and spanks your asshole with Castle’s cock until you cum untouched.

At the end of the night, Nikto tucks you, Nova, and Keegan into bed. Washed and hydrated, any sore muscles massaged loose and gooey.

The three of you fall asleep to the soft sighs and whispered words of Nikto jerking his and Castle’s cocks off together.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴.

Fandom: Stardew Valley

Pairing: Shane X (M!)Reader

Genre/type: Fluff.

Word count: Around 700. (feel free to request more!)

Author’s note: This was requested by @nihilistic-nik a while back - check it out on my Ao3!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/

It's technically M!Reader but it's only briefly mentioned and is pretty much irrelevant.

Summary: A warm, comfortable morning with Shane, sheltered from the rain.

TW: Brief mention of nightmares.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45859960

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Cold rain. Warmth.

A rhythmic musicality commences, its origin being from the rain pattering against the windowsill to your left. The sooty grey curtain is slightly drawn, shielding your eyes from the brightness of the outside world, allowing you to fully immerse yourself into the comfort and warmth of your duvet; to prevent you from worrying about anything but the moment itself.

A stubbly arm extends from behind you, and snags you by the waist, pulling you closer. He grunts as though there is something stuck in his throat, his hoarse voice vibrating and his warm, beer infused breath warms the nape of your neck. “Morning…” he says with a rough yawn, and you sense that he is on the verge of drifting off into another peaceful slumber.

You turn to face him. It’s too dark to make out anything but his swollen eyes. Last night was a rough night for him; he has nightmares often, so he asked if you could accompany him. As his boyfriend, you felt obliged to agree, not only for his own benefit, but because you secretly love moments like these. Waking up and feeling the presence of the person you love.

The alarm clock resting on the cabinet beside you jolts with such vigour, it shakes the entire bedside table. It beckons you to release it from its duty, and you do so, your arm stretching out from the cosiness of your sheets, to aggressively whack the hell out of its stop button. You sit up, now awoken by your own force. You know you won’t be able to rest anymore, so you rise, but you feel a hand pull your wrist, but not aggressively…sweetly. Gently.

“Please…stay” his entire face is now unveiled from the constraint of the clean white sheets, revealing a tranquil smile. One that took you many months to weaken his guard for. One you would pay any amount of money for. One you would pay the world for.

“Wait…let me make breakfast first, i’ll bring it back here, yeah? Breakfast in bed.”

He responds, but only with a “mm”.

You get up from the bed and make your way to the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, a draft emerges from the chilled interior, making you shiver. You reach for the carton of eggs when you feel something being wrapped around your shoulders. Shane’s hoodie.

“I couldn’t wait. Sorry.” He says, running circles into your back with his palms. He takes a seat on the barstool at the kitchen countertop, and watches you as you make him eggs on toast.

You crack the eggs. These eggs were the ones that you and Shane had collected from the pen. It’s a good memory; you tripped over a hay bail and went flying into Shane’s arms. He laughed. He laughed…You’d never seen him so happy. So free.

You pour the yolk and the white into a frying pan, and fry it until the edges are golden and crispy. Using a spatula to raise the egg onto his plate, you serve him first. His eyes light up, but not because of the food being presented to him, but because of the smile on your face. Joy ricochets off the creases of your lips, and you feel tears form in the ducts of your eyes.

“What’s…wrong?” he asks.

“I’ve just… never been so happy.” You say.

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End author’s note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it <3

A Painter's Heart

A/n: this is an old story I wrote and never posted. Enjoy! Send in requests please!!

_______

Painting a sunrise was like painting a new beginning. It was promising. Though it didn’t matter what she put on the canvas, painting was a freedom. A freedom from the reality she lived in. Her canvas was the portal, her paint dimensions through time.

It’s the reason she was in a field full of purple flowers, looking towards the sky’s horizon. Her easel was set, along with her paint and freshly washed brushes. The chipping paint on their handles were proof of her love for art.

There.

The first light of the day breaking through the sky. She wasted no time. It was as if her body moved on its own, hands moving gracefully across the canvas. Urgent, fearless, passionate.

Klaus had never seen someone paint with such heart. He had seen people paint, paint with purpose, arrogance and even sadness. But the way they painted seemed rehearsed, stiff and even dull from the years of practice. The girl across the field painted as if she was born to paint. It was as if her fingertips bled the very paint that lay on the canvas. So he watched her paint from across the field, with the sun rising across the sky casting a beautiful glow. It was always strange seeing her canvas before her, showing a moment in time. Frozen still like a picture. To her it felt like another escape, but it was never reachable. Placing the brush down her hands ached, while the fingertips buzzed with pleasure of painting.

“You paint as if you were born from the canvas itself.” 

Startled by the sudden voice, she turned searching from where it belonged. There across the field, a man that seemed to be quite a distance away walked towards her. Had he been watching her paint? 

He was handsome, she thought as he soon came close enough to see his face. Dark blonde hair, blue green eyes that seemed glimmer with mischief, his lips dark red. He was clad in black, giving off a bad boy sense of self. But the way he walked toward her gave her no sense of danger.

“Were you watching me paint?” Her voice was accusing and the small frown on her face gave away the discomfort she felt from his invasion. Klaus could’ve sworn he had never seen a more beautiful sight.

He chuckled in response to her weariness, simply offering her a smile instead, “I apologize if I startled you love. It was not my intention, but I couldn’t help myself.”

His laugh was light and his smile breath taking. She didn’t know what held her more captivated, his strange accent or the smile he was giving her. Blushing her hands found each other as they began to rub against each other, a nervous habit she had since a child.

“...It’s fine. I’m just not used to people watching me paint.” Her voice was soft, almost like a feather. Her gaze was to the side almost embarrassed.  It was then he realize that he intruded on a personal talent that she seemed to hid from people. 

“My name is Klaus.” He said gently lifting his hand to shake hers. 

Smiling slightly, “My name is (Y/N),” she responded meeting him half way with her own hand. His was firm and warm as he clasped it around hers, but instead of a hand shake, he gently brought his lips down to the back of her hand. 

(Y/N) didn’t know what burned more, the spot where he laid his lips on her hand or the gaze he gave her, his eyes looking up towards her through his lashes. 

He gently let go, taking a step back to leave but never turning. Hoping to engrave her there, between the flowers and sky, in his mind. “I hope we meet again (Y/N).” 

She seemed to be in a daze, still feeling his warmth wrapped around her hand. “I hope so too.” She whispered softly, almost as if it were a secret.

That was all it took for a grin to be etched in his face as he turned and walked away. 

I will have this painter’s heart

Through the Motions

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x Reader

Summary: You and Frankie decide to start a family. Regardless of your mental illness and the challenges it faces.

Warnings: Mental health, cussing, pregnancy, bit of angst, comfort, fluffff, pretty much sums it up

A/N: Sooo…. This would be my first fic I’ve ever actually put out for the entire world to read. I used to have several 5 subject notebooks full of fanfic for myself and my cousins to read cause they were the only ones I trusted with that part of my brain. 15 years later and here I am. I had 4 different friends read it before I posted. All of which gave amazing input and helped me with wording, grammar, punctuation, etc. I love you guys!!! @hessofather(knows all about mentally ill pregnancy cause she did that), @jay-zzle(Spanish expert), @bi-panda(help with grammar and punctuation) and Sarah(helped with wording, who needs to get a tumblr)

Special shout out to: @chloeangelic- Thank you for being so helpful to this newbie with your writing advice! You saw this fic before it became what it is now, hopefully it’s still as interesting as you thought it was to begin with @gracieispunk for just telling me to go for it! ❤️❤️❤️

HERE GOES IT! 🫣

Masterlist

At the time you felt like this was a good idea, that you were strong enough to handle it, that it would get better as time went on. Except now you’re not so sure.

*****

It was your idea first, trying for a baby and Frankie was ecstatic. You’d discussed kids before but it was always in a wishful way, too nervous to stop the meds to actually try. Late one night while in bed you decide to talk about it once more.

“What if you can’t handle my episodes?”

“Such as…” He asks moving on his side propping up his head with his fist.

“Well… I’m kinda, actually no, I’m crazy without meds. You haven’t had to experience that side of me but other people have. I had so much rage in me all the time, I would snap in an instant at the smallest of things, there were days I couldn’t even get out of bed. I almost lost my job at one point.” You say rubbing your face trying not to think of the past without meds. He moves your hands and cups your cheek turning your head towards him.

“Hey now, we don’t have to do this. It’s up to you. I’d love it if we could have a version of you and me out in this world but it’s not a necessity if you don’t want to. I’m still going to be here whether we decide to do this or not”

“Oh god, the manic episodes! I’ve gotten those under control finally because of the meds but the mania was almost just as bad as the depression! Sooo many bad decisions, honestly surprised I don’t have a kid already. Definitely had a rise in my labido during the manic episodes,” with widened eyes and a panicked look you start to back track “Sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m rambling now.”

“Shhh, we all have a past,” Frankie laughs, shaking his head, “If we’re being truthful here though- if we try for a baby that would be helpful, right?”

You laugh and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, I guess you got me there.”

*****

Thinking about it and doing it are two completely different things. The trying part was definitely fun and then it happened. Those two pink lines happened a lot faster than you were expecting. What now? You have to get off your meds. That’s what you have to do now. It’s really happening. There is now a life growing inside of you. You thought you were ready for this. Mentally trying to prepare yourself for the moment the meds had to stop, the pregnancy hormones and what they’ll do, the changes your body will go through, the mindset you’ll need to have going through this, so much to prepare for. Then the first slip up happens. It took 3 weeks, 3 weeks for the first incident to happen.

“Oh, I see!” You say gritting your teeth, “So I need to have supper ready for you when you get home? Like I’m some 50s fucking housewife?!”

“That’s not what I even said. All I asked was what are we having for supper? I did not mean what are YOU making for supper.” Frankie said as calmly as he could. He never thought his army training would help him in a situation like this. They teach you how to handle dangerous territories, hostile situations, survival, and so much more. But this? No one ever trains you for this. For a hormonal, mentally ill, pregnant lady.

You can feel your face hot from anger turning into one of embarrassment and shame instead. Your bottom lip begins to tremble. You realize your mistake immediately. Not sure if it’s the mental illness or the hormones rushing through your body. It all kinda feels the same right now. Frankie notices the change immediately and rushes towards you.

“Bebé, bebé, bebé,” He says quietly wrapping his arms around you, pushing your head into the crook of his neck. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’ll get through this just like everything else. I’m here.”

“I hate this!” You sob

*****

Your entire pregnancy you feel as if you’re going through constant loops. The manic and depressive episodes coming in waves. You sense it before it happens, a lot like when you can smell rain before it starts. The only thing is when. When is it going to hit you? Will it be a depressive episode? Where you find it near impossible to even get up but you have to in order to make sure things are ready for this baby. Will it be a manic episode? Where you have so much energy it feels like you’re going to crawl out of your own skin but also in a way beneficial because you can get so much ready for the nursery. Will it be one of sadness, anger, anxiousness? What will it be and can you make yourself stop it? Doubtful, you never can, just like now.

**9 months later**

He plops down at the kitchen table sighing. The baby has finally gone to sleep. After 2 hours of crying there is finally silence.

“What‘s wrong?” Frankie asks

“I don’t know.” you sigh, putting the last bottle in the dish rack to dry.

He can tell something is wrong by your actions. The way you’ve been rigid. You’re so stiff. You’re so tense. You feel on edge about every little thing.

The baby is crying. Needs changed again. The baby is crying. Needs fed again. The baby is crying. Needs soothed again. The baby is crying. When is there time to sleep? So over-stimulated it’s almost too much to bear.

It’s only been 2 weeks since the baby arrived and you’re back on meds finally. As with all things though, it takes time.

“What’s wrong? Hermosa, please tell me.” he asks again

“It’s just one of those days.”

One of those days, the hatred for yourself you feel. Am I a good mom yet? Am I doing everything that needs done? Is there anything I missed? I have to be perfect on the outside. Why am I NOT perfect on the outside? Can I even pretend to be perfect? The internal battle is almost too much. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want him to see how much your mind is making you suffer because he will see it, he always sees it now.

“Baby, please talk to me!” He pleads

You push yourself off the kitchen sink and finally turn around wrapping your arms around yourself and you know he sees it. Your mind starts racing. He thinks you’re a failure. He wants to give up on you. He doesn’t want to deal with you anymore.

He gets up and takes a step closer, you take a step back. Not ready for the comfort, the consoling, the pity party to ensue. He grabs you before you can get too far away.

“You're an amazing momma. Don’t sell yourself short!”

“Hold on,” You start to remove yourself from him, “I need to get the hamburger out for supper tomorrow.”

He furrows his brows letting you go and sighs, “Will you sit down, please?”

Reluctantly you sit down and your mind starts racing and panicking again. Why does he want me to sit? Why did he sigh? Is he mad at me? Did I do something wrong?

The baby monitor goes off and you start to get up again

“Stop, sit. I got this. Stay here.”

So you sit. You sit at the kitchen table with your mind spiraling and wondering what to expect next. Can he change the diaper? Can he make the bottle if the baby needs feeding? Can he soothe the baby to go back to sleep? What does the baby need?

You hear the crackle of the monitor

“Momma is so tired, isn’t she? She needs a break sometimes. She takes such good care of you while I’m at work.“ the baby starts to wail louder, that must be the getting diaper changed cry, “Oh yes, I know mi vida, it’s so cold and momma does it better but daddy is here and can do it too.” Low and behold you are correct!

The baby stops crying. Soothed for now. Who knows how long it’ll be before they’re awake again. Frankie comes back to the kitchen.

“Mi amor, we should get to bed.”

You nod while he grabs the baby monitor then your hand, in a daze you let him lead you to the bedroom. He helps you change your clothes for the first time in three days. Frankie grabs your brush, he gently brushes til the knots are out of your hair and he puts it in a bun the way you like. He grabs you around the waist and guides you into the bed. Laying there together, he’s whispering words of praise to you, “Eres hermosa, you’re a good momma, you’re perfecto for me and our baby” placing soft kisses to your neck with each phrase, and then you hear his soft snoring. With silent tears falling down your face you finally start to drift off to sleep, you suddenly remember you forgot the hamburger meat. You try to move but with Frankie’s warmth and tight grip surrounding you you easily give up, guess there is always tomorrow.

Fairness in one’s heart // part 2 (Reader x Benedict Bridgerton)

Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @theletterhart, @alex–awesome–22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @queen-of-books, @merlieve, @glimmering-darling-dolly, @denkisclown, @automaticbakeryfreakshoe, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @october-leaves, Post tag: @memberofalthefunfandoms, @lonely-witch, @northern-typist, @mostly-meg, @lofious, @acollectionofmymadness, @flowercrowns-goodvibes, @benedictbridgertonss, @busy-bee-angel-misska, @kazbekkarluvbot​, @erikaar (I can’t seem to tag you), @magical-spit​

Read part 1 here!

Summary: Benedict dares to make his first move on you but not without consequent. Will he dare to go deeper into the dangerous waters he finds himself in.

The next ball was around the corner as despite everything, Benedict hoped to catch another glimpse of you. Ever since he laid eyes upon you, were you haunting his dreams. As a ballerina on a center stage were you spinning around his mind. The spotlight constant on you. Turning and turning till he got dizzy from admiring you. He putted his glove better over his hand, sharing a carriage with his brothers and Eloise. – “These dreadful pins.” – called Eloise out, struggling with the irritating feeling it gave her on her head. She groaned, throwing her hands down onto her lap. Colin sighed soft, motioning for her to present her head better to him. She did as she was told, crossing her arms. Colin retracted the pin a bit from her hair, but not quite out of it. 

He then pushed it back, letting the end of the pin go in a different direction. – “Better?” – asked he, holding his hands up in case he had to intervene again. Eloise touched her head for a moment, scrunching her nose. – “At least it isn’t poking holes in my head anymore.” – responded she bitter. Benedict chuckled a bit, finding his little sister amusing. Eloise glanced over to him. The conversation she had with her brother still vivid in her mind. She could still recapture his words, the way the tone in his voice changed, the little details in his facial expressions that gave him away. Something was brooding inside of him. She just wasn’t sure yet what it was.

Keep reading

Shattered Glass part 3

Ship: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Not too angsty but it’s still there.

Summary: You and Bucky have been together for three years now, you don’t understand how he could break your heart the way he did when you found him in your bed, but not alone.

"Y/n, we need to talk."

You stood there staring at your ex, he was wearing your blanket around him like a cape on your bed.

He wore the shirt you first met him in, the day was a blur at this point because of how he treated you. He was cold, and stayed away from you. You later found out it was because he liked you and it was his first "crush" in a while.

Your heart warmed at the thought but then you remembered what happened.

"Bucky, I'm fine. Its just a bullet wound, I've gotten them before."  

Bucky looked at you, he was confused by why you were avoiding him.

"Y/n, although you worried me on that mission... You know what we need to talk about."  He says walking up close to you.  You had forgotten what it was like to be this close to Bucky.

You walk past him, setting down your crutches and sitting on the bed.

"There is nothing to talk about Bucky..." you say slipping off your shoes and looking up at him

He nods his head to the side and kneels in front of you, taking your hands.

"Please don't say that y/n. Don't leave me hanging..."

You let go of his hands and run yours through your hair, letting out a sigh.

"What do you want me to say Buck? What you did was damaging. The fact that I put so much of my heart to you that I bought you that gift only to come home- to our home, and you were with another girl?!"

"But I do love and care for you-"

"Obviously not, Buck! " you say wanting to stomp away but, you weren't supposed to be moving around during the healing process. So you turn your head away from him, crossing your arms.

You can hear him catch his breath from your response, "How could you think that y/n? I do love you, and I do care for you."

You feel tears in your eyes. They came by a surprise, and there is no point in hiding them because Bucky was in the same state.

"Then why did you do it?"

Bucky holds his stare with you then looks down, scratching his neck,

"You want the truth?" you nod and he continues "I was a jealous dumb ass... I thought that you didn't want to be with me and that you liked Sam. I know, it's stupid."

He glances at you then continues his story.                                                                                                                "I was drunk one night, Tony had given me a shot that would be so powerful it would make me and Steve drunk. You can ask him about it, I think it's Thor's... But back to what I'm saying, I was sitting at the bar alone and decided to take a shot of it."

You place your face in your hands, "Then what?"

Bucky chokes in a sob and goes on, "Since I was so caught in thought about you two I pretty much believed you were cheating on me."

"So this is my fault?" You say looking back up at him.

"Y/n, please just listen..."

"Fine, go on."

Bucky nods, "So I pretty much wasn't me at that point. I was care free Bucky Barnes from the 40's... Then Krissie introduced herself to me. My Heart was screaming at me not to go home with her but my mind was thinking 'Who cares, shes cheating on you anyway'"

"Bucky this story's bull shit meter is through the roof right now! Can I fix a few things from it??" You say interrupting him. He goes to protest, but then nods.

"Alright, I get it Bucky. You "weren't you" but what doesn't make sense is the whole Sam part?" Bucky isn't looking at you so you grab his chin and get in his face, "Do you fucking think that i'd cheat on you??"

The irony stings Bucky so he pushes away and stands up, "I know y/n! I said it was stupid."

"Not only is it stupid its crazy! Why didn't you talk to me?!"

"I DON'T KNOW- I don't know..."

You finally decide it's time to stand up, Bucky moves to help you in concern.

"Don't!....Don't touch me. You lost that right."

Bucky hesitantly steps away as you grab your crutches.                                                                                     He had dried tears on his cheeks. He knew how this is going to play out but he asks you anyway;

"Y/n, you don't have to answer me now... But, it was and is true that I want to marry you. So the offer still stands and always will. Even if we separate doll. You could call me up and i'll marry you in a heartbe-"

"No." You say pushing his box of clothes into his chest.

He steps backwards at your harsh answer but then his lips form a straight line and he nods,           " Just know that I will always love you y/n "

You try to keep your glare on him but then the corners of your lips wearily drag up,                           "I will too Buck.."

Without your permission he swoops you in a strong, knee weakening kiss. You hesitate at first but you know that this is the goodbye.

With a small "Goodbye y/n" Bucky exited your room. As soon as the door closed you let your self crawl into a ball on your bed, as tears streamed down your face.

________________________________________________

You and Bucky don't talk as much as usual but he still tries his best to win you over these days.

Flowers, ice cream, some really good take-out food.

He hasn't said anything about your relationship but you know how his mind works. Giving gifts is what Bucky would do when you were upset, and for the past few weeks that's all your life has been.

The night has reached its point and you were cuddled in your bed when you heard Bucky's heart shattering screams. You sighed and threw your blankets to the side, trudging your way into the hall. You saw Steve doing the same thing but you waved him off.

"Are you sure?" he mumbles to you

"Go on Stevie. Goodnight."

Steve smiles nervously and heads back to bed as you make your way into Bucky's new room.

There he was all tangled in sheets, beads of sweat drenched him.

You made your way over and sat next to him and started to rub circles on him arm lazily,

"Hey Buck, its alright." You say yawning.

Bucky started to cool down but then, catching you off guard. He pulls you tight next to him,

"Don't.. leave me tonight doll." You can feel your side aching. You knew that there was no point in leaving because Bucky had no thought on letting you go.

"Bucky my wound." You remind him

His grasp loosens and you scoot under the blankets next to him.

The two of you laid there for a few minutes before he spoke up.

"Thank you y/n"

...

You wanted to tell him that this doesn't mean any thing but you decide against it,                         "Go back to sleep Buck." you whisper to him

He hums to you and falls asleep in seconds.

__________________________________________________

The next morning you woke up glued in Bucky's arms. You had been thinking about something last night and you've made your choice.

You scooted away and out to go speak to Steve.

___________________________________________________

You were in the kitchen when Bucky's arms looped around from behind.

"Good morning doll."

You smile at him and back away.

"I'm leaving the Avengers."

"What?"

"I spoke to Steve about it. The rest of the team knows now, I packed the rest of my stuff this morning. This isn't permanent, I just want to live a normal life."

Bucky stared at you in shock.

____________________________________________________

Wowza?!

part four may be the last part guys!

Tags: @smsimoes @a-common-name @chipilerendi

sorry if i missed a tagged person! I’m new to this stuff...

Drunken Rambles, Sober thoughts.

Ship: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are old childhood friends who enter each others lives again, only to work together. Everything went smoothly, you were best friends again. But, after a couple drinks jealousy brews in his heart.

words: 1,646 

A/N: I wrote this not that long ago but I didn’t fully proof read if there was mistakes but I am way too tired to do that so here this is. Don’t question the tellytubby part it was really late XP

You and Bucky Barnes have been best friends since you were children.

After high school had ended you tried to keep in contact but that failed.

Little did you know that you'd be meeting up with the man himself again when you got a job at the avengers tower.

You worked as a scientist there besides tony and Bruce. You'd also help patch up the team. That's all you knew about though. You never really thought that The winter soldier was Bucky Barnes. So when you saw him again that day, your world became brighter.

"Ms. Y/l/n  how are you?" You here from behind you as you are making your way towards the tower. You spin around to see Tony Stark himself.

"Mr. Stark! It's so great to see you again!"

"Please y/n darling, call me Tony."

"Oh yes! Tony! Well I'm on my way up!"

He chuckles and looks down at your single bag of luggage. "Is that all you brought?"

You follow his eyes to the bag and left out a shy laugh, "It's all I need."

Tony laughs and takes the bag from your hands, and walks you into the tower.

The place was so big and so bright, you were almost scared.

"Please, follow Pepper she will lead you to your room." Snapping back to reality to turn back to Tony and see him and a beautiful blonde women.

"Hi! I'm pepper! Please come with me!"

You nod and go with her, the both of you go up a single stair case that leads to a hall way. You look at each door as you pass and realize that you were going to be placed in the same hall as the rest of the team.

You squeal to yourself as you get closer to your door.

Pepper tells you all about the hand scanner to get in and explains about friday the helpful AI in the building.

You thank her and go inside. Finally alone, you plop yourself into your bed. "I think I'm gonna like it here."

~~~~~

After unpacking the small amount of things you have you make your way out and into to lounge area to see if you can meet some of the team.

There on the couch sat three people, who seemed to be in a heated debate about something serious. "Yeah but what if we were in the world!"a spiky haired man says

"Honestly Clint I want to deck you right now." A stunning red head says

"Guys guys listen!" Captain America himself shouts "if we were in the Teletubby world you'd go nuts!"

You giggle to yourself, causing the team to look over in embarrassment.

You walk over only to automatically be greeted by the tall blonde. "Oh hi! Y-you must be the new scientist here? I'm sorry you had to hear that! Steve Rogers." He says taking a firm grip to your hand.

The other two nod and say their names as well.

"Well is nice to meet you all! My name is y/n y/l/n."

You hear a small slam from behind you. You turn around quickly to see a tall brunet looking at you with hope in his eyes. You glance down to see a discarded book on the floor, he must have dropped it.

"Y/n? Is that really you?"

You tilt your head walking closer to him, you examine his face and feel your eyes water up.

"Bucky!" You fling yourself into his arms and he spins you around. "Oh my god doll! It's been so long!" He places you down then crosses his arms. "How come I didn't hear from you?!"

You match his pose and look right back at him, "it's kind of hard to contact a super soldier."

His face tints red as you hear a coughing from behind you.

The team stares at the two of you looking for a story. Which Bucky always tells best.

"Guys, this is my bestfriend in the whole world. No offense Stevie you're still there too."

Steve clutches his chest and pretends to fall down.

Bucky explains the story with delight as you gaze upon him He's changed so much.

After he finished you checked your watch and stood up quickly. "Oh my god I have to go!"

Bucky looks towards you with an alarmed look on his face. "What's wrong doll?"

"I need to get to the lab." You say grabbing your bag and making your way to the door. You feel a slight tug on your shoulder and stop. "Well y/n, I can be your hall pass. Let me take you."

You let out a sigh of relief and follow him towards the lab. This is going to be great.

~~~~

You've been working with the team for a while now. Everything is going great!

The group of you sit in a circle playing never have I ever, drunkenly.

"Nev-never have I ever kissed someone recently." Tony says like a child

You chuckle and put a finger down, you feel all eyes on you.

"Ooooo y/n! Tell ussss!" Wanda slurs

"Hehe okayyy. Well! It was this cute boy!"

All the girls in the room 'ooo' and the guys fake a gag. Except Bucky, he had his stare right on you.

"What was his nammmmeeee?" Natasha begs

"Alex! But mehh he wasn't good in bed... shhhh."

The team all gasp and giggle like a bunch of toddlers.

"Alright alright! My turn!" Sam yells "never have I ever had a secret crush!"

Most of the teams fingers goes down, all except yours. They all give you 'mhm liar' looks.

"What?"

"You have a secret crush doll." Steve says smirking.

"Well... it's not so secret though."

Bucky face heats up and he looks away.

"I bet it's on that alex kid!" Natasha says whispering very loudly.

"What! Shhhhh!"

Next thing you know it Bucky is up and out of the room.

You glare at Natasha before getting up and following him.

"Buckyy?" You say stumbling through the halls.

You feel yourself trip, not sure what over but you were falling. Then, you weren't. You felt a strong grasp around your waist.

You smirk up and the blue eyes man as he frowns down at you. "Bucky! You saved me!" He stands you up straight and starts to leave again

"Where are you going though?" You say sounding like a crying puppy.

He sighs and turns around "Y/n you're drunk. Go to bed."

"But whyyy? I want to be with my bestfriend!" He stiffens and walks back over to you.

"Doll... I can't fight you right now, go to bed."

You frown and look into his eyes, you step closer and start tracing his chest. "Y/n! What are you doing?"

"I just...my secret crush is on you... but I didn't tell you that!"

You say stepping away with your hands up. Bucky frowns, groaning. "What? You don't like me?" You says placing your hands on your cheeks.

He automatically straightens up and marches over to you, holding your sides once again. "No doll, it's not that..." You slide your arms up and around his neck, draping them over his shoulders.

"Then what is it?" You whisper

"Doll, you're killing me right now."

You gasp dramatically and sit on the ground. "I am?"

Bucky chuckles and picks you up, carrying you bridal style in your arms. "Come on doll, I'm tucking you in."

You yawn out a yay and pass out in his arms.

He looks down at your sleeping figure and smiles warmly. "She likes me..."

~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning you wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon, and a pounding headache on the side.

You look over to see a note with water and an Advil. You pick up the note and read it. "I'm not sure if you remember last night doll, but you had a lot of fun. I loved listening to all your stories. Please meet me on the roof."

You smile recognizing the hand writing and try to remember the night before.

Then it hit you.

"Oh." You sit up quick. "Oh god no."

You get up and dressed, rushing out to the roof.

There sat bucky at a small table , he had two plates of breakfast in front of him.

When he finally looks over to you he chuckles. "Good morning doll."

You hesitantly make your way over and sit in front of Bucky.

After a few moments of silence you finally speak up. "Look. I know what I said last night but if you don't feel that way can we just act like it never happened?"

Bucky looks back over to you with that alarmed look again and takes hold of your hands. "No no no doll! Listen."

You relax slightly and look into those eyes of his. "Last night was amazing, I'm glad you said that to me. It took me every bone in my body to not kiss you right then and there!"

Your cheeks turn pink and you look away, taking your hand back and putting them on your face. Bucky stands up and walks around and over to you. He takes your hands from your face and stands you up.

"But I don't like you y/n"

You feel your heart pang, you search his face for answers. So many questions flew in your head. "What? But you just said-"

"I'm in love with you doll."

You stare at him in shock. "You. Love. Me?"

He laughs and pulls you closer. You can feel the hunger on his lips.

"Since the day I met you y/n."

You laugh and look down. You feel his cold fingers lift your head back up. His smile now a serious look, he was almost searching your face. "Can I kiss you?" You catch your breath and nod.

He grins and leans in, taking your lips with his. You felt your soul intertwine with his.

Why hadn't the two of you done this already? "Doll I'm sorry this took me so long."

You shush him and kiss him again before pulling back. "I love you too you dope."

I hope you enjoyed! Please leave feedback!

Me when all my fics need a part two and I haven’t even thought of what to do next:

PLEASE I LOVE THIS FATHER DAUGHTER MOMENT WITH MIC (my oc) AND OPTIMUS

To Be a Father

A/N: I am pleasantly surprised at how well this turned out, and I must say I believe it to be one of the best that I’ve written! Hopefully you’ll think the same, haha.

Happy Father’s Day to all you dads out there. You rock. <3

Title: To Be a Father

Summary: Optimus spends the day with you by the lake.

Words: 3048

It wasn’t often that Optimus Prime got a day off from his duties, but when he did, each time was more likely than not going to be spent with you. In previous years it had proved quite difficult to do so, as you had school to attend and lived with your family in an entirely different state, but as soon as you turned eighteen you took up an apprenticeship at NEST. Your brother, Sam, had also been offered one, but apparently he much preferred the quiet life as opposed to you, who took up the aspiration to somehow be involved in the military as soon as all things Cybertron came to Earth. Of course, Optimus adored the extra time he got to have with you, but he vaulted straight into what Will and Epps had dubbed his ‘Daddy Mode’ any time something even partially dangerous cropped up and completely refused when you asked to join him. You still shivered at how mad he’d been that one time when he’d discovered how you’d sneaked out of the Base to follow him and the other ‘Bots… granted, he’d only discovered you because a Decepticon had somehow managed to slice through your upper arm, and that was most likely the reason why he’d been so mad and refused even more from thereon after… but, still. You’d joined for the whole military experience, and that certainly wasn’t what you were receiving. 

It had come as somewhat of a shock at the beginning when Optimus began to act as though he were your father. After all, who could get used to seeing a robot look after a human as though she were his own? Nevertheless, that shock had subsided almost five years ago. Now, it would be a surprise if the alien Commander didn’t treat you as he did. Everyone had accepted it, and it was practically custom at the Base to expect nothing less than Optimus being the one they go to when something concerned you.

He was your guardian, no doubts about it, and neither of you would have it any different.

“I can’t throw this to you!”

Lake Chelan was beautiful on a summer’s day. The cool, blue-grey water glistened in the evening sun, dancing on the the small ripples of waves as they glossed over the surface. The trees surrounding it rustled in the warm breeze, leaves toppling off and floating down to the grassy ground where they lay surrounded by wild flowers and mounds of dew-dropped blades of emerald.

Both you and Optimus had first visited it when exploring the new Headquarter’s surroundings in Washington. Thankfully, it had been winter at the time, so the place had been empty enough that nobody noticed the thirty-two foot alien robot trekking through the trees with a human sitting on his right shoulder, and the two of you had been able to explore as thoroughly as possible. It must have been on the third trip to the lake that you’d stumbled - and quite literally at that. Optimus had tripped over a fallen log and barrelled straight through a rather large canopy of trees and bushes - across what you’d since dubbed your ‘secret hideaway’. It was a beautiful area of the lake which had seemed pretty undisturbed, housing all sorts of creatures that unfortunately ran as soon as Optimus came crashing through their home. It was overgrown, dotted with flowers which were all the colours of the rainbow, right next to the glittering lake, and it was utterly beautiful. Optimus had done his best to arrange all the trees and such back into the places they had previously been so that it would remain a secret to everybody but the both of you, and, so far, even after four or so years, neither of you had encountered anyone else in that part of the lake. 

Today was one of those rare days in which the Prime has been given a day off, along with many other men at NEST. It was what the humans called ‘Father’s Day’, and those who had children to return home to had been granted permission to do so. Optimus was no exception. He had bustled you into his truck and sped off towards Lake Chelan with absolutely no sign of hesitation, and the two of you had been there for six hours, now. The sun was beginning to set, casting a magnificent glow over the shining lake and painting a gorgeous canvas of reds and oranges and yellows in the clear sky. He doubted the both of you would get home at all tonight, if your complete lack of boredom had anything to say about it, but he couldn’t admit that he cared that much. He did not mind where he was, as long as he was with you, and you were happy. The moment he returned home, work and his duties would slap him right back in the face.

“Of course you can.”

“No, I can’t. This is Will’s ball, and I’m not gonna return it to him, completely squashed, with a crappy explanation like ‘I threw it to Optimus and he burst it’.” You gave the ‘Bot a look, hugging the blue blow-up ball to your chest, and Optimus chuckled. He was sat on the ground, one leg stretched out in front of him while the other was bent at the knee, and both arms braced on the grass behind him. He was the most relaxed he’d been in quite a while, and most stoic generals who marvelled at the Autobots every time they visited NEST would more than likely feel faint at one sight of the position the stern and battle-ready robot was currently in. 

He shook his head. “You over-estimate my strength,” he told you, and you scoffed.

“Nobody can over-estimate your strength.” You turned and threw the ball in the air. “We’ll have to find a bigger ball.”

“One that is not plastic.”

“And one that won’t burst at a slight touch of your finger.”

Optimus smiled. “We best get to searching once we return, then.”

You mirrored his smile, throwing the ball once again. A bird flew over you, followed by a couple of what you supposed to be its babies, and you couldn’t help but laugh as Optimus immediately moved his head, not fancying another case in which birds attempted to nest on him. Waking up with an itching feeling and reaching his hand up only to pull back in surprise when the ruffle of feathers and cacophony of chirping reached his audio receptors was not something he wanted to experience again. You had not stopped laughing for at least half an hour after while he sat, back resting against a tree, arms crossed over his chest and the most ill-tempered look on his face.

You threw the ball up once again and quickly clasped your hands together, bouncing it on your fists when gravity pulled it down. One of those hands immediately came up to clap over your mouth as the ball flew straight towards the Prime and hit him right in the optic. He made a shout of both surprise and discomfort, one of his flapping arms covering where it had hit. “Ow…”

“Optimus, I am soho sorry,” you apologised, though the giggles spilling from your mouth did not aid at all in moving that apology along the right path. “I didn’t- Ihihi didn’t mean to do thahat.” 

Optimus grumbled something in Cybertronian under his breath. “When do you ever…” he muttered.

You shrugged. “At least it wasn’t the birds.”

The ‘Bot narrowed his optics and immediately made to leap up after you, causing you to squeal, turn around and dive into the water. Optimus’s mood changed immediately and he frantically shook his head, leaning forward and making a grab for you, but you were already completely submerged. “Those are the only clothes we have with us, Y/N,” he lightly scolded as you reached the surface and gasped for air, hair plastered over your grinning face.

“I don’t care! The water’s warm!”

“That is what you said the last time before you proceeded to come down with the influenza.” He heaved a sigh and leaned back, seeing that there was nothing he could do now. If you suffered through another nasty sickness, then he couldn’t say he hadn’t tried to stop you. 

“I’m gonna swim to the other side,” you told him, and he rose an optic ridge.

“Are you, now?”

Biting your lip, you swam up to the edge of the lake and crossed your arms over on the grass, resting your chin on top of them. “Optimus,” you said, gaining a very sweet smile, “can I swim to the other side of the lake? Pretty please?”

The Prime smiled. “Yes, but be careful out there. If you drown, do not expect me to save you.” He winked, cobalt optics twinkling mischievously, and you laughed.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Before the Prime could question what exactly that meant, you were off. He shook his head fondly and gazed out across the lake, marvelling at the mountains in the distance as the slight wind breezed over him. His silent peace was swiftly interrupted, however, as he noticed an incoming call. Frowning, he accepted it quickly. “Optimus Prime,” he said as way of greeting, sitting up.

“Optimus, hi. It’s Ron. Ron Witwicky.” The ‘Bot visibly relaxed at that, having previously been worried that it may have been Ratchet or somebody back at Base, telling him he needed to return due to an emergency.

“Good evening, Mister Witwicky,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“Ah, I was just wondering if Y/N was anywhere nearby? I tried calling her mobile but she won’t answer.” Optimus glanced over at the backpack you’d thrown by a tree a little way off. No doubt your phone had been going off in there for a while, but when you were faced with nature - especially when you were with him - electronics no longer became a thing of existence to you.

“Yes, she is here, though…” He turned his head slightly, noticing how you were still splashing through the water. “I am afraid she is quite far out in the lake as of now.”

He heard Ron chuckle. “At Lake Chelan, are you?”

“We are, yes.” 

“Typical. Said she’d ring me this afternoon to wish me a Happy Father’s Day and it’s, what? Six pm, now?” He breathed a laugh, and Optimus could imagine him shaking his head fondly. “That girl, Optimus, I swear to God.”

The Prime smiled. “I apologise on her behalf, Mister Witwicky,” he said. “I shall remind her to call you once she gets back.”

“Yes, you do that, big guy. Tell her her dad’s been spending the day drinking beer and watching her mom’s channels on TV. Make her feel guilty.” 

Optimus threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, I will,” he said. “Where’s Sam?”

“With his girlfriend, I expect. He called in this morning, which was great, but it’s pretty tough not having a Father’s Day hug from my little girl for the first time ever.” Ron’s voice drifted off a little, and Optimus nodded to himself, completely understanding. You were, after all, his only daughter and youngest child. To have you living hours away from him must be extremely trying, for both you and your parents - and Sam, at that. Primus knew how difficult it was for him to cope when you had to leave to go back home and he knew that he would not see you for another few months. He could only imagine how your family felt.

“Of course,” he said understandingly, “though she will be visiting fairly soon, remember that. She misses you and her mother, also, as she does Sam. I am sorry it is proving hard for you.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry. She’s eighteen - I sometimes forget that’s how old she is - and she’s gotta go out and make her own way at some point, right? I’m damn happy she has you with her. If she didn’t… let me tell you, Optimus, both Judy and I would be worried sick. But the simple fact that you’re keeping an eye on her means the world to us.”

The Autobot smiled. “I assure you, Mister Witwicky, I am keeping both eyes on her. She is safe, and I’m sure it will give you great relief to know that she is very happy. She gets on tremendously well with the rest of the men, and, as you know, my ‘Bots are every bit as much her protectors as I am.”

“That means a lot, pal, thank you. It really does.”

“Hey, Optimus! There’re fish out here!” The Autobot glanced up as your voice echoed around the lake, and he smiled when he saw you out in the middle, treading water while you spun around, seemingly following the fish beneath you.

“See if you are quick enough to catch one for your dinner!” he called back, and if he was close enough he was positive he would have seen you roll your eyes. He heard chuckling on the other end of the line. “I assume you heard that?” he asked, and Ron’s laughter grew.

“I did, indeed. You wouldn’t think she was eighteen, would you?”

“No. She still has that flare of innocence and complete youthfulness that I remember seeing in her all those years ago.”

It was silent for a moment before the man spoke again. “We did good with her, didn’t we?” he said, and though Optimus sub-consciously frowned for a moment, wondering what he meant by ‘we’, he nodded.

“Yes,” he replied, “I believe we did.”

“You know, this is as much your Father’s Day as it is mine, Optimus.”

Ah. That must have been what he meant. Optics widening the smallest bit, he opened his mouth to speak before shutting it again and waiting a moment. “It… is?”

“Yeah, pal, of course. You’ve known her for as long as she can remember! You’re her guardian, her protector… she considers you her family. Hell, we all do. That kid wouldn’t be half the person she is today without your help, Optimus. You keep her out of trouble, both when she’s with you and when she’s here at home.” He paused for a second. “Do you remember that time she got so moody just because she missed you? She was fourteen, then.”

Optimus’s face softened as he immediately plunged back into some of the sweetest memories of his life. “I do,” he said. “Sam called me up and asked me to talk some sense into her, and I told her not to be upset on my account and to simply think about the fun we would have when she came to visit in the summer.”

“And she cheered right up,” Ron said, smile evident in his voice.

Optimus weakly shrugged. “Patience is not one of her strong suits.”

“Yeah, definitely not,” the man said with a laugh. “Look, what I’m trying to say here is… you are a father to her. Whether you like it or not, whether you meant for it to happen or not, you are, and you’re a pretty amazing one at that. I’m thankful for you, Optimus, really, I am. You’ve shone a light on our girl’s life that I would never have been able to put there alone. You devote a lot of your own life to her, even though you’re busy as hell, you reprimand her, praise her, look after her when she’s sick, teach her what’s right and wrong… sometimes I’m learning from you. You are what it means to be a father.”

Optimus was, quite honestly, a little lost for words. Of course, he had always seen himself as some sort of father-figure to you, but to hear your actual father say it himself meant more to him than he could ever have imagined. He’d always worried about it - about how much time he was spending with you compared to how much you were spending with Ron. Would he ever be jealous? Upset? Angry, even? That someone else had stepped into your life and was now sharing his role as father? He would never wish to take that away from either of you, but to completely give up this role would have been torture for him, so he hadn’t. And yet that thought had always been nagging in the back of his mind. Nevertheless, to hear that your father was, in fact, one hundred percent grateful and, in actuality, relieved for the support in raising you gave peace to his entire being.

A smile spread across his face, and he couldn’t help but sigh in what could only be relief. “I cannot explain in words what that means to me, Mister Witwicky. I hold what you have said very close to my spark, and I can only say that it is my absolute honour to be able to share this with you. I love helping in looking after your daughter, and I love her. More than I will ever be able to say. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing but my pleasure, Optimus, honestly. Who else can say they share fathering duties with an alien robot, huh?”

Optimus chuckled, turning his head to gaze out at the lake yet again and easily catching sight of you continuously diving under the water and resurfacing seconds later, apparently trying your luck at catching a fish. His smile widened. “Not many people, I would assume,” he said.

“She still swimming?”

“Yes, though I can call her back if you wish to speak with her now?”

“Oh, no, no. I want her to spend this day with at least one of her dads. I’ll call her later.”

The Prime nodded. “Alright. It was nice speaking with you.”

“And you. Happy Father’s Day, Optimus.”

Looking back across the lake once more, Optimus was surprised, to say the least, when he saw you splashing around in the water, a fish struggling in your hands. He rose an optic ridge, lost for words for a brief moment, before he blinked and shook his head, breathing a soft laugh.

Ah, the joys of fatherhood.

“Happy Father’s Day, Ron.”

prompt masterlist୧

navigation . rules . prompt list . masterlist.

⋆｡˚events - 1k cafe event . birthday celebration

enemies to lovers- promptlist

second chance trope- promptlist

forbidden love- promptlist

It's first time I post something like that and I don't know what to write here so...

Warning! Dark fic, blood, killing, short, no romance (for now at least)

Thomas Hewitt x reader

Part two here!

If you are still here, enjoy!

First meeting.

You and your friends were traveling around Texas. There was no specific idea where you want to go. So you didn't care. After a long road in a God-forsaken place, you stumbled upon a gas station. In the Texas heat, it seemed like a blessing that descended from heaven, and the five of you already imagined how you would bask in the cool air of the air conditioner. Billy and Jay were the first to run out of the car, the twins never knew how to sit still, even if they knew for sure that they would have problems. Behind them you, and behind you Carrie and Michael, a loving couple looking for adventures, but already tired of the long road. They really needed a break.

Something made you linger in front of the door. It's a feeling. Like every time something bad has to happen. An unpleasant tingling in the stomach gradually passed to the throat like a snake, and then became a knot in the chest, which tightened until it hurt.

You were brought out of your trance by Carrie, who put hand on your shoulder. A girl could always bring you out of a state of panic.

"Are you okay?" She asked with worry. Michael came up from the other side and looked into your face.

"You're pale," He said, looking at you with sympathy.

"Overheated probably, let's go inside"

They both took you by the arms and led you inside, the lump formed in your throat made you resist.

"I'll wait for you here. Just...guard the car..." Having said that, you slipped out of the couple's hands. They shrugged and nodded, leaving you alone.

You were left alone on the street. Goosebumps on the back. Something is clearly wrong. Looking around, you noticed the sheriff's car. For some reason, the sight of it only made everything worse. Breathe. In and out. The attempt to calm down was interrupted by Billy and Jay. The twins ran up from the gas station, almost knocking you down.

"They don't have air conditioning!"

"And food!"

"Yeah! And no fuel!"

"And station smells rotten!"

Two guys shouted at the interruption. This only made your chest tighten more.

"Can we go then?"

You mumble, looking at the car. The guys nodded

"The sheriff is checking the Carrie's car documents. He'll finish and we'll go."

You just had to nod before the twins started talking some more nonsense. Looking back towards the gas station, you saw Carrie running up to the window, but before she could do anything, a massive figure grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back. Your heart jumped in chest. You saw him... He is a beefy giant, wearing a black mask and an apron. You didn't catch any more, but it was enough for everything to freeze.

"G-guys? Carrie she's..."

You mumble, looking at the twins. The guys turned towards the gas station and at that moment the door swing open. The sheriff pointed a gun at you.

"Hands up! Thomas! Help me!"

The sheriff shouted, you and the guys raised your hands, turning pale with fear. That giant you saw in the window came out from behind the sheriff. There's blood on his apron. Jay and Billy couldn't stand it and rushed to the car, not caring about you or what's with Carrie and Michael right now. But they didn't run far away, Billy was shot in the leg by the sheriff, so he fell. The giant, Thomas, if you understood correctly, rushed past your figure rooted in the ground from fear. He grabbed Jay, who was trying to help his brother, and slammed his head into the car with all his might. Screams and the sound of breaking bones filled your ears, causing a waterfall of tears to pour from your eyes.

You can't see anything anymore, falling on the ground from weakness of the body and fear, shaking like a leaf in the wind. You felt someone grab you. Strong hands gripped you tightly. Looking up, you saw that giant. He looks at you calmly, dark hair falling over his face, partially hidden by a mask. You would have called him handsome if he hadn't smashed your friend's head moment ago. The strength left your body and you leaned your head against his chest. Something warm and slimy clung to your cheek. Blood.

Requests are open if anyone is interested :)

This was like the worst teaser ever! Like you can't just leave me like that!!!

Hybrid AU with Ragdoll!Reader and Siberian-mix!Konig

Reader is a rescued cat hybrid that Laswell's sister in law has been taking care of for the last 3 months. When she meets this little ragdoll kitty, so bright and friendly and curious, she immediately thinks of the 141. Hybrids have a lot uses in the government. Sometimes combative, sometimes therapeutic. The 141 could use a companion animal, given the close call Soap recently had and the general trauma the whole squad has.

With the kitty's permission and cooperation, they assess her as a possible therapy placement. She tests so well and so high that Laswell (again, with consent) immediately starts paperwork to place her with the 141 before even bringing it up to Price.

He's a bit skeptical at first. Even without being a combat hybrid, their jobs are high stress, very dangerous, and not very stable. But Laswell convinces him to at least meet Ragdoll.

They do introductions at the sister-in-law's house, where the kitty will be most comfortable. Ragdoll takes one sniff of him and starts purring like a little engine. He's visibly surprised, and Laswell can barely hold back her grin as the kitty climbs into his lap. They spend the rest of the afternoon discussing arrangements while his new hybrid naps because obviously he can't say no now.

Price becomes her primary handler. They move her to his barrack and give her a week to settle in, but she's not a skittish thing by any means. Wants to follow him everywhere, curls up in his bed, meows sadly at the door when he leaves her alone. It becomes clear very quickly that the usual introduction manuals are too slow for her.

Kitty meets Kyle next. Again, instant purrs. She presses her cheek into his palms, then wriggles her way closer to brush up against his cheek. Lets out a little "mrrp!" when he stutters out a pleasantly surprised, "hello there." She nibbles at the brim of his hat and grins when he gently redirects her, chirping at this fun new friend.

Two for two, Price and Kyle decide to introduce her to Simon and Johnny. They let her explore the common room first, get comfortable, and then call the other two in. Kitty watches from behind Price as Simon and Johnny enter.

Johnny is a dog hybrid with Simon as his primary handler. Price has faith that his sergeant will behave well with the new kitty, but he's not sure of what her reaction will be. Johnny's obviously, visibly excited, tail wagging, but Simon gets him to sit and wait while she makes the first move.

It takes absolutely no time at all for her to pad out from behind Price and approach. Simon goes first, offering a hand. But she barely even sniffs him before cuddling up to him, pawing curiously at his mask. He lets her, clicking his tongue when she dislodges it a bit, but then he gently nudges her towards Johnny.

His ears are perked forwards, tail still swishing. Kitty's ears are twitching, eyes big and curious. But her tail is up and curved curiously, not even a little fluffed. She gets in real close to his face, sniffs, then bumps her forehead against his chin. Which is when he loses patience and licks a big stripe up her cheek. She mews indignantly, ears going airplane mode, but thankfully doesn't swat at him.

It literally couldn't go better. She's a perfect fit.

Over the next few months she settles in with them happily, an absolute dream of a hybrid. Not very verbal, at least through human speech, but perfectly communicative and incredibly friendly.

She chirps whenever one of the 141 enters a room, has a different tone for each of them. Purrs if one of them so much as looks at her, all slow blinks and little smiles. Chitters when she sees them running outside through the windows.

Even grooming is relatively easy. She lets them brush out her floofy tail without much fuss, only trying to retreat if they catch a tangle. Readily gives up her hands to trim her claws. Even opens her mouth for them to brush off her fangs after raw meals.

She curls up with Simon on bad days, warm and purring, breathing little puffs of air against his collarbone. Lounges with Kyle after hard missions, nuzzling against him while he pets her soft ears. She spends hours upon hours in Price's office, curled up on his lap while he does paperwork or talks over the phone, kneading biscuits into his stomach.

Her friendship with Johnny is maybe the most surprising. They play wrestle just about every night, rolling around on the rough carpets in the common room and nipping at each others ears. She'll pounce on him, little teeth flashing, but almost always get bodied by his larger stature. The others will let them play until one of them - usually Johnny - gets too excited and makes the other yelp. At that point, Price or Simon will usually scoop one of the hybrids up and tsk at them for getting rough.

She's the 141's precious kitty, sweet and friendly and outgoing. The whole base knows her, though she's never far from one of her boys. And they know what it means if Ragdoll doesn't like someone.

It's rare, which is why it raises neon red flags. The first time is a new recruit that reaches to pet her without introducing himself first. She twists around on him, but usually even that would be recoverable. Except when he keeps trying to touch her, she gets a whiff of him and hisses, scrambling away.

The guy doesn't last long.

It happens again a few weeks later with a nurse meant to be giving her checkup. She gets low to the table, tail poofing up, and growls low in her throat. When the nurse rolls her eyes and tells Price to just hold his hybrid still so they can get things over with, he knows instantly that his little ragdoll was right to react that way.

With that in mind, it's no surprise that no one trusts Philip Graves when he visits their base and she takes an instant dislike to him. He introduces himself correctly, but she still hard reverses away from him, nose scrunched up. Ears back, tail fluffing up, she slips behind Price and glares from around his arm.

Problem is, Graves is used to dog hybrids. He's great with them. Kitties... not so much, even with a manual. Ends his week at the base with a couple of proper bite marks and an itchy scratch on his hand.

Given her reaction, Simon and Johnny aren't too shocked when he betrays them in Las Almas.

When a team from KorTac is scheduled for a joint assignment, the 141 is bracing for a similar reaction. Especially because they have their own cat hybrid - some big mixed breed.

Kyle even suggests keeping Ragdoll inside for initial introductions on the tarmac, but they all know that's not actually viable. Their kitty wouldn't talk to them for the rest of the day if they left her out like that.

So Price double checks that her little bell-collar is on and brings her out to meet the KorTac team.

Their cat hybrid is even bigger than expected - no wonder he's a combat placement despite being a domestic breed. He keeps his face hidden behind a big black hood with cutouts for his ears, fluffy tail slightly tangled-looking.

Price hasn't even finished introductions with the KorTac team when she makes a rolling little chur noise, bright and curious. The bigger hybrid zeros in on her instantly, ears flicking. She pads out from behind the captain and slips away before he can catch her. Any calls for her to come back are fully ignored.

She trots right up to the Austrian and mrrps again, pausing mid-step, waiting for a response. The other hybrid doesn't respond - at least he doesn't seem to.

"Sorry, kitten, but he doesn't really do the cat noises," Declan tries to tell her. But he's also ignored, and no sooner has he spoken than she's getting into the other cat's space, continuously making little "brr" noises.

And then to everyone's shock, he's bending down to greet her in return, nuzzling her cheek and forehead through the hood. She starts to purr, pressing up close, tail swishing lazily. A noise erupts from him, deep and rough, rattling in his chest. Johnny jumps and snatches at her shirt, dragging her back to the safety of their team.

She mewls sadly, arms extended to reach for him.

"He's growling, Doll," Johnny corrects, arms curling around her middle. For the first time ever she starts to wriggle. "He's too big for you to mess with."

"I... wasn't growling," the Austrian pipes up. "I apologizes if I caused alarm."

Johnny shoots him an incredulous look.

"Then what was that?" Kyle asks, confused.

"I don't... often purr."

Price takes one look at their still-wiggly kitty and the Austrian leaning towards her, as if wanting to follow, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Shit."

Interrupted (1415 words) by StitchingSorcerer Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Gale/Tav (Baldur's Gate), Gale (Baldur's Gate)/Reader Characters: Gale (Baldur's Gate), Tav (Baldur's Gate), Original Female Character(s) Additional Tags: POV Second Person, Free Use, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, a bit of, Praise Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Summary:

Gale interrupts you while you're reading your book

That's it! That's the fic! Just a short smutty little reader fic!