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charliemwrites · 11 months ago

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Squeak 'Em If You Got 'Em

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

Original AO3 Link

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then there’s the captain.

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

You suspect why.

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

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

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

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

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

“We all have our vices, cap.”

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

You. “Insane amounts of morphine.”)

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

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

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

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

“Should save it for the others.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sleep alright, Squeaks?”

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

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

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

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

“The hell is that?” he squints.

“Gum.”

“Trying to say something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Whose fault is that?”

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

“Soap’s, last I checked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But no, wait. You know what it was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, yes that was it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve got it, sir. Take a minute?”

“I’ve had a minute.”

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

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

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

“Like I said, I got it, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hate it here,” you groan.

“That so?” Ghost asks.

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

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

You blink. Squint. Blink again.

“LT, how hard did you hit me?”

“English, MacTavish.”

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

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

“Ow, fuck!”

“Hope it cramps,” you snip.

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

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

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

You hope he’s not right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that, sergeant?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ.

“Lieutenant, would you—”

“No.”

“Damn.” Worth a try.

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

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

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

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

“No,” you reply.

You know better by now.

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

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

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

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

“That’ll do,” Ghost snaps.

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

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

“Easy does it, lamb. There’s a dear.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you… Price,” you murmur.

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

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

“No, you’re done for the day.”

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

“Up you get, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

“Aw, but sir!” Soap whines.

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

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

“Sir, I have paper—”

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

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

“Bossy,” you chide.

“’S what they pay me for.”

And he’s so good at it, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That why you never join?” you ask.

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

“One of the reasons.”

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

Chocolate, infused with 50 milligrams of caffeine.

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

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

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

“Feral little thing,” he tsks.

“You have cigars, I have caffeine.”

“And insane amounts of morphine, apparently.”

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

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

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

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

His phone rings.

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

“Gotta take this. Get started, lamb.”

“Yes, sir,” you manage.

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

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

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

“World ending?” you ask, glancing up.

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

“Not just yet.”

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

“’Fraid not.”

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

“Music?” he asks.

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

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

“I’m not a toddler.”

“Could have fooled me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Price?”

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

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

“Is this an ‘a’ or a ‘d’?” you ask.

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

“This is your handwriting.”

“Yes.”

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

“That’s ‘o’ and ‘l’.”

“OH.”

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

“Thank you, sir!”

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

“No, but you can.”

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

“No, I can’t. Write neater.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

You won’t.

It’s Task Force Specialty Training Day.

AKA: government-funded team bonding.

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

It’s also a hell of a lot of fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ghost shouts, “Medic!”

“Hold.”

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

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

Price said to hold, so you hold.

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

“Take the shot when you have it.”

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

“Fuck,” you whisper.

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

“Status, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

“That’s the game, love.”

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

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

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

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

You hum. “That was fucked up, sir.”

“All’s fair,” he shrugs.

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

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

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

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

“How-how did you know?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, that’s twice today.

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

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

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

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

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

You roll your eyes. “Seen Ghost?”

“I’m about to be a ghost!”

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

“Dead now, you muppet?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgot about them, honestly.”

You grin and pluck up another.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, at least you managed that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A hand grips your ankle and yanks.

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

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

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

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

“Eyes open, lamb.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows arch. “That so?”

“Yes, sir.”

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

“And why’s that, hm?”

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

“Just seems right, as my captain.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, captain.”

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

“Sweetheart…” he tries again.

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

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

“Look at me, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me,” he orders.

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

“Good girl.”

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

“Get your bag. I’ll see you off.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wish you were happier to be home.

“Captain Price.”

“Captain Dillard. Successful mission?”

“We managed to get the job done.”

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

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

“She’s fine. We can debrief now.”

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

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

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

“Bunch ‘a wankers, eh?” Gaz asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tried to, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

You – fuck – you just want a hug.

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

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

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

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

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

“Some idea, sir.”

“You want to tell me your side?”

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

“Squeaks. Sweetheart.”

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

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

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

“It fucking sucked,” you mumble.

“I gathered.”

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

“Tell me,” he says after a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You-you’re…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, it’s good to be home.

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

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

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

“Sweetheart?”

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

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

“Oh,” you hum, “sorry, LT.”

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

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

“I’ve got her from here, Ghost.”

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

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

“Stay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Screw us up.

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

You don’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

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

That sounds… fuck, that sounds lovely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.”

You really do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he grumbles.

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

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

“’M not!”

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

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

“But siiiiir,” you whine.

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

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

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

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

“It’s cruel and unusual,” you accuse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John…”

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

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

“Oh, I am, love. Just your bastard.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright, love.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What for?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ask him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

But first—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But my lap is open for you.”

Aaaand there it is.

“I’m good,” you deadpan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that my fucking drink?” John growls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re one of mine.”

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, Squeaks.”

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

“Fucking wanker,” he grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just the boys?” you tease.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“John,” you plead against his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” you breathe. “Show me, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you huff. “One more kiss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something you wanted, gorgeous?” he asks.

“It’s… it’s your turn,” you breathe.

“My turn?”

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

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

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

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

Where you belong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Brat,” he mutters, fond.

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

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

That’ll have to wait a little longer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” John snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, surprised.

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” John purrs. “Why didn’t you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re right, love, I did.”

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

“You too,” you murmur, “pants off.”

“Alright,” he says, clearly humoring you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t want him to let you go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready for another?” he asks.

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

“There it is,” he chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong with that?”

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

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

(Let you. Good fucking lord.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t talking about this desk.”

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

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

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

“Ready, love?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. Then, “please.”

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

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

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

“Alright?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

“Show me,” he growls.

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

“Look at me.”

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

“Cum for me, beautiful.”

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

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

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

“Oh my god, John,” you gasp.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” you wail, “I wanna...”

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

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

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

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

You lay boneless beneath him, limbs tingling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was just – waah!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good?” he asks.

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

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

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

“That’s it, love, fuck,” John snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper, dismayed. “B-but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm,” you manage past scratchy vocal cords.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need help sitting up?” he asks.

“I got it,” you reply.

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

“Sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit. “It’s good.”

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

How is he so fucking wonderful?

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

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

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

“For that?”

“For everything.”

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

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

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

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

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

You adore his sleep-rough voice.

“At least 20 quid,” you muse.

He grunts. “Fucking children.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #sergeant squeaks #captain john price #john price x reader #cross posted on ao3 #old fic

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entitled-fangirl · 1 year ago

Text

Are you scared of me, Princess?

Jasper Hale x human!reader

Summary: The reader sees the scars on Jasper's arms, prompting him to tell her the truth.

Words: 1,646

Warnings: talk of murder, vampire stuff idk, scars, cursing

Author's note: God this is angsty. Someone get 8th-grade me in here right now because this is what she thought she was reading at her age.

Masterlist <3

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Jasper sat in the bed placed in his room, his mate resting her back against his chest. His arms were wrapped around her waist and his face found its way into her hair. Her hands were placed on top of his on her waist, relishing in the feeling of comfort he gave her.

They were a strange pair, the two. The bloodthirsty vampire fighting his instincts to feed and the helpless human girl who wouldn’t be able to fight him if she tried.

But she trusted him with her whole heart. It had been hard at first. She had to marinate in the knowledge of the existence of vampires, and he suffered the constant smell of her sweet scent, calling out to him every second.

It was so hard for him, even on a good day. Her smell of her blood always drew him in.

The only thing holding him back from draining her was the feeling he knew he wouldn’t fight the minute her body became lifeless: dread.

But now, they laid in each other’s arms in complete trust.

Her hand wandered up his forearm, stopping at the unevenness of his skin. She looked down, pulling his sleeve up briefly.

Bite marks and scratches laid all up and down his forearm. She didn’t want to know how far up his arm it went, thankful for the sleeve.

She felt him shift. He felt uncomfortable. Scared of her reaction. But above all else, he cared for her. She could practically feel his gift poking at her emotions, intertwining them with his. A sense of calmness fell over the two of them before words could form.

Her hand still laid against his arm gently, her thumb brushing one of the bites to comfort him in her own way.

She felt his head move away from hers, leaning back against the bed frame. She used this opportunity to turn in his grip, now facing him. Once there, she pulled his arm into her lap, her eyes inspecting the scars in front of her.

He simply watched. He couldn’t hide them, and he would never lie. Not to her. So, he simply sat there to let her ask him or draw her own conclusions.

She finally looked up, her eyes locking on his. She’s thankful of his gift, because otherwise, she may have been teary-eyed. “T….Tell me, Jasper?”

His eyes softened. God, she was so good to him. So perfect. So innocent and pure. Everything he knew he wasn’t.

Her blood would be so easy to take. The feeling of adrenaline would be worth the-

“It’s… a long story, Princess. I don’t think you wanna hear it.”

She was visibly hurt by his answer, her hand retreating from his. “Oh. I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry… I just… just thought…”

He chuckles to himself, teasing her, “Thought what, Princess? You really wanna know?”

She nods, her eyes glossy, holding an unreadable expression.

He sighs. He wanted to hold off from telling her this. That was his plan. But now, she had ruined the perfect plan in his head. Not that he could be mad at her. His heart couldn’t do that.

He pulls his sleeve up his other arm, showing her the scarring. “D’you know much about the Civil War, Darlin’?”

She nods, her eyes never leaving his forearm.

He smiles, “Good girl. Knew you would.” He took a deep breath, not that he needed to, but it allowed him to collect himself and decide what to say. “I was turned during the Civil War. A woman named Maria convinced me to help her train a vampire army. I was foolish and naive. I thought she was doing the right thing.”

He looked up at her to gauge her reaction. She simply stared at the scars, her head low in thought. He took this as a sign to continue.

“You know.. I was, uh, a major, in the war?”

Her head perked up at that, her eyes meeting his. “A..a major?”

He smirked, “Yeah. Major Jasper Whitlock.” As he said so, she felt a wave of pride come from his body. She didn’t need Jasper’s gifts to sense it, for it had come so plain.

He continued, “I trained them myself. Her army, I mean. I know you don’t know much about us, but newborn vampires are more dangerous. More deadly. They’re stronger than most.” As he said this, she could feel his tone becoming sharper.

“Stronger than Emmett?”

He nods, “Yes, Princess. Much stronger. You stay away from a newborn.” It had meant to be advice, but it came out a demand. “They’re more deadly than you can imagine. I’ve watched them do…” his eyes look off in thought, “…unspeakable things…”

A small silence overtakes them before she breaks it. “And you trained them?”

His eyes quickly move back to hers, the amber color glowing, “Yes, ma’am.”

“How?”

“Not easily. They don’t take too well, as you can see,” he said, his head motioning forward at his arms. “I punished them, too. Killed them when they got out of hand or weren’t what we needed.”

He feared to look up at her, but he couldn’t resist. Her gaze was on the window. He didn’t often wish for a gift different than his, but at this moment, he wished he could read her mind. See what was going on in that lovely little human brain of hers. But he couldn’t. He sensed she wasn’t distressed. He had to see her eyes to be sure. Not for his gift’s sake, but for his own. His hand outstretched to grab her jaw gently, pulling it towards his own. “Are you scared of me?”

Her eyes catch his, their faces a foot apart. “…Sh…should I be, Jasper?”

He considers her question quickly with a nod, his voice low. “Really fucking scared.”

She blinks at his wording, her brain struggling to comprehend everything in front of her.

He wanted to joke, take the dark mood away, but he knew this was serious. “I killed before this,” he gestured to himself, “I killed during this…. I’ll probably have to kill sometime after this. I’ve murdered many with no remorse, their bodies laying at my feet. Innocent lives and murders, too. I overpowered the strongest vampires with ease, ending them mercilessly. My heart holds no mercy. So, I’ll ask again. Are you scared of me?”

She wasn’t sure what to think. She couldn’t put it into words. Was she scared? She supposed so. Any sane person would be. But she trusted him. She trusted him. She trusted him. “You… You won’t hurt me, Jasper.”

He wanted to laugh at her sweet response. How naive of his little lamb. She said it so sure of herself. Of him. She didn’t know of the constant, deep thirst of blood he fought back every time their eyes met. She didn’t know of the pain he felt when she parted from him. She didn’t know of the horrors he had endured. And most importantly, she would never understand the terrors he had caused.

“You don’t know that, Princess.”

She took a quick breath in at his response. Every reasonable thought she ever had was gone. She should run. She should hide. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Her body remained here, on the vampire’s bed, his hand gripping her jaw while staring at her like she was prey. Every reasonable thought was gone.

She reached her hand up to place on top of his on her jaw, flinching at the cold feeling of his skin on hers. “You won’t, Jasper.” She began to even sound confident.

He smiled at her, his sharp teeth peeking out. This girl believes in him that much. What a stupid girl. Too trusting. Too hopeful. Too pretty. Too good. Too perfect. He could absolutely ruin her. But he wouldn’t. “C’mon, Princess. Admit you’re a little afraid.” He needed to hear her say it.

Her hand gripped his, pushing it down her jaw lightly until it rested over her throat. His hand now wrapped around her neck, her hand lightly resting on his.

He was speechless at her touches. Her movements. Her willingness. Her loyalty to him. His eyes stare at his own hand, admiring the view in front of him. Her hopeful eyes staring into his while his hand rested above her only source of oxygen. It was intimate. It was scary. It was perfect. She was perfect.

His thumb brushed her throat lightly, feeling her heartbeat quicken at his touch. He could practically feel the blood running through her veins. And she trusted him still.

They sat there in silence for a while, simply admiring the other.

She was perfect. Too innocent for her own good, but so loyal and willing for him. Her pretty face was the perfect view for him. He could stare at it until the end of his days. And she trusted him with her life.

She trusted him with the one thing his body thirst to destroy. And he loved her all the more for it.

He was strong. Resilient. An open book for her to read at her leisure. Protective was a word she was familiar with. She felt like his arms were the only thing she needed to live in the world. She trusted him with her life.

His other arm moved up her body, his hand getting lost in the hair on the back of her head. He pushes her forward, capturing her lips in his.

The hand on her neck stayed. But it never twitched.

They pulled away from each other to let her catch her breath. Their faces were close as they tried to think of the right words to say.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. She wasn’t afraid of him.

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allhopesforlove · 6 months ago

Text

Farewell, my love

Summary: In the midst of a battle, y/n realizes that their only way to victory would be through her sacrifice. Determined with her decision to lead an army of soldiers to the frontlines, there was nothing that could hold her back. Because she was sure that if she continued living on she wouldn’t survive any more of what was blooming between Elain and Azriel.

Pairing: Azriel x reader, Azriel x Elain

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Angst, self-hate (idk tbh pls forgive me)

part 2 part 3

———————

“Someone has to lead them to the frontline to allow an opening for us.”

Freezing, thats all she felt. Her blood stopped rushing and burning in her veins, no sound and no pounding. Just a serene calm washing over her as she let the wind breeze through her blood and mud smeared hair. Ah, she thought, this is it, this is where it all ends. She was aware. She thought all of them were aware of what would happen to the group taking responsibility to charge full on towards Hybern’s forces. Without a doubt, she decided, she would do it. No second thought. It had to be her.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened her eyes to only see what made her take the decision of bringing an end to all of it herself.

There, in all of the chaos, in all of the war afflicted damage around them, in all the sorrow and pain, in all the helplessness and suffering, there, she only saw those hazel golden eyes. Those eyes she saw before sleeping and waking up when morning came. Those eyes she was mesmerized by, eyes that always managed to take away all the pain in mere seconds, eyes that made the pounding in her head stop, eyes that promised hope.

Though, they were the eyes that never seemed to look at her, lingering at the doe brown eyes of the one he was cradling to his chest.

In all her 458 years of living, only three times she saw his eyes filled with such worry. The first being when Mor was captured. The second being Rhys’ sacrifice to keep Velaris safe from Amarantha’s wrath. And the third, well the third time was the moment he realized that they actually might not be able to win this war. And that he possibly could lose her.

The ringing in her ears stopped and her vision became clear again, as the sight made her decision final, brought her back to the reality they all were facing now.

“Rhys.. are you aware of what you are suggesting right now.. this.. fuck.. this is a whole on suicide mission..”

silence passed through and then in an almost hushed but assertive voice

“I know, Cassian. I am .. god I am aware. However, this is the only way we could outmaneuver them. We are already outnumbered as it is.”

And the warlord knew. Hell, he might be the best strategist his court ever had. With all his experiences over the years as a general of the Night Court, with all his knowledge, he knew that what Rhys was saying may be their only shot at victory. But he was in denial, because it had to be someone amongst them as they barely stood in a circle. All of them carrying wounds of different degree.

He looked over towards Mor’s blood smeared face supporting Emerie with her left arm, as the latter took a deep blow on her right wing. He winced at that as he knew how sacred wings were to them. He felt for Emerie in that moment, but was brought back by a soft voice, he might have not heard if he didn’t focus just enough

“Its just as I have seen… it wasn’t this clear, but, but I think I saw how this will go, which is why I agree with what Rhysand is saying.”

Its not that she was the first person who spoke up after Rhys’s declaration or the thoughts everyone else was too scared of to voice besides Cassian, that surprised y/n. It also wasn’t that Elain saw a vision and didn’t tell a soul about it, well other than besides maybe the one at her side looking at her as if he already knew of this assertion.

No, what surprised y/n was the one second Elain blinked over at her, a mere glance that made y/n’s blood boil again. A second which confirmed that it was obviously her that Elain saw. And what more was that Azriel probably knew, he probably knew and didn’t care to tell her. The shadowsinger did all but not dare to look her in the eyes, strengthening his grip around Elains waist and kicking some imaginary stones on the ground.

It made y/n sure in her decision. It had to be her, with all that was left of her, she had to be the one to do it. She knew it, Elain knew it and, this she wasnt sure of, but Azriel too probably knew it.

Without dwelling too much on what consequences Elains silence on her vision brought to them, Rhys was determined that it had to be him. It was his duty as their High Lord, as the most powerful being in all of Prythian, as a father to his beautiful child, as a devoted man to his only High Lady and as a loyal brother and friend to his circle, to the people of Prythian. Maybe this way, he would finally be able to forgive himself for all that he has and has not done, maybe this way he could finally stop the storm that was still alive inside of him.

With one final decision he looked over his circle, the people who were closest to him, for whose happiness he would even sacrifice himself

“Cassian, you and Amren will go over to Summer’s side, I already informed Thesan. You will lead our men from the right side at my command, after I charge with all the men left at our side-“

“You will what?!” He felt Feyres fury burning through him, “Absolutely not Rhysand, you will do no such thing!”

“Feyre, darling, there is no other way, I love you and I love our son so much that I am willing to pay this price so that all of you can-“

“You can go to hell with all of that bullshit-“

“That was kinda the plan”

“Shut up, this is no time to joke! Tell Thesan we have a change of plan! No one is going to play the sacrificial lamb, we will find another way.”

But there was no other way, y/n was sure of that, as was Elain. As the pair still continued to bicker, y/n glanced over to the shadowsinger, just to, maybe, she didn’t know, but all she ever wanted was for him to see her. Maybe it was a too wishful thought, maybe she was too naive to believe that in her possibly last moments he would finally spare her a glance. Because deep down she already knew that she was undeserving of his attention, undeserving of all his affection and love.

He deserved someone like Elain, someone who even in her darkest moments didn’t break, someone strong like her, someone whose softness and calmness was serenity to his soul. Unlike her own pathetic self waddling around the Shadowsinger to get his attention for decades only to exchange mere friendly gazes and words that she decided she was content with. But still, even for all that she was, she was thankful of one thing.

Loving Azriel.

Even if it plagued her and drove her mad at times, she was thankfuk that she got to love him at least from a distance. That she got to experience all the perfection that is all Azriel. From his soft dimples that appeared when Cassian was being his silly self to his inspiring determination to win a brawl. Or, she remembered, his calming voice that still brought chills to her when thinking of it. She hadn’t really heard what he said to her because all that she was focused on was the way Azriels lips were moving, accompanied by that voice that made all of her being tremble. That made her heart flutter faster and her face a little redder.

Oh, how she loved these little moments she had with him, these few minutes she had him all to herself until someone else got his attention.

In those moments she allowed herself to dream, she made herself believe that Azriel too looked at her with a lovers gaze, lied to her heart that he too wanted her. But reality always hit, whenever it was that Mor, and in recent years, Elain walked into the room. Reality was brutally honest which is why she never dared to take the next step, she knew her place.

Or maybe she was just a coward, because y/n knew, she knew the shadowsinger rejecting her would hurt more than what she had with him now. She’d rather love him from a distance without his knowledge than make a fool of herself and risk never seeing him again.

With one final gaze towards her Shadowsinger, she sighed and finally spoke up:

“It wont be any good to just argue and waste our time. Someone clearly has to do it and to be frank I think it would be the wisest if it was me-“

“y/n no-“

“Please just listen to what I have to say Mor. I have trained for decades with Cassian and the shadowsinger, I know how to lead an army and I know my way with the soldiers. Sending Rhysand, Cassian or really any of you guys there would be the dumbest decision. We need you at the back, the people need you. And besides, we have to be honest with ourselves… all of you, well not all of you, but you have to understand that you all eventually would want to have your own families”

she glanced over at her friends, Emerie and Mor, Cassian, Feyre and Rhys

“a bright future I can see right before my eyes”

and finally at Azriels and Elains direction.

“It would be unfair for me to keep living on when you all have already found the person you want to spend the rest of your lives with and frankly-“

“That doesn’t make you any less deserving of living though.”

There goes her shadowsinger, mindful of others as always. He was scowling and panting as if he was holding off words that suffocated him. This bewildered look on his face made her heart clench but she had to step in before he could say anything more.

So she dared to look him in his eyes and with all her strength she mustered up her coldest stare she had

“You dont get to decide a thing on my life shadowsinger.”

Silence. And then

“You won’t get anywhere by trying to talk me out of it. We are already wasting so much time as it is and I have already made up my mind. I will lead them.”

Azriel wanted to say more, to tell her and convince her that it should not be her, that she still had so much left to do with her life. He remembered a time before the war, before everything, when they sat together after a training session and just talked about anything and everything. They weren’t the closest friends, no, but y/n was someone he trusted and whose company he enjoyed.

On that specific day she told him of how she dreamed of seeing the colbalt blue sea, how she wanted to just spend all day in flower fields and enjoy all the types of flowers Spring had to offer or see the enormous libraries that resided in the Day Court. She wanted to travel all of Prythian and beyond and she told him with such glee that the memory of it almost made him step forward and volunteer to take y/n’s place.

But a squeezing hand pulled him back from his thoughts. He looked down towards his hands and saw a mismatch of two clasping hands. His own scarred ones and Elain’s. His beautiful Elain.

And he remembered all the promises he made her just before this, how he would finally propose to her despite what opinions Rhysand had, how he would give her anything she asked of him.

He looked her in the eyes, although teary, she looked at him as if she was determined. She wouldn’t let him take that step forward, and frankly, he was flattered by her reaction. He finally had someone looking after him and caring for his wellbeing. Although he hadn’t dared to show all of him to her, he was content that Elain accepted him the way he was.

Elain loved him for who he was, well, for those parts she only knew of. But that was enough for him, because thats more than anyone has ever offered him.

He smiled at her and although he didn’t want to look, he turned his head back to y/n’s direction. He saw that she was arguing with the other’s, but a sudden ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing anything that was being said. The only thing he was aware of was his heart thumping faster and faster by the second and suddenly he heard another heartbeat.

It was like everything around him vanished, muffled voices and a blurry vision. And an intense smell of warm floral notes, but it wasn’t Elains, no.

Suddenly all he could feel was a deep rooted longing, similar to the one he had been feeling all those years, and fear. So much fear it nearly made him fall to the ground. He was confused. What was happening to him?

Unbeknownst to him he tightened his grip around Elain’s hand which made her wince

“Azriel are you okay?” Her voice brought him back and he tried to find the words for what has just transpired but Mor’s sudden cry made him look at y/n’s direction again

“Please dont do this y/n, please, I can’t lose you, I can’t lose my sister, someone… just someone please help.”

While Emerie , also with tears in her eyes, tried to calm her, something inside Azriel made him anxious and panic. It felt like those moments where he was on the brink of an anxiety attack, and his heart was racing so fast he felt like he was going to puke.

And this time, when he looked at y/n she was right looking back at him with wide eyes. And there, although small, he could see the first golden fibers of what seemed to be forming into one string connecting him with her.

———————

Part 2 Part 3

A/n: Ahh this was my first time writing ever 😭 I hope you guys enjoy it. Also, I would love some feedback :) Make sure to tell me if you’d like another part 🫶🏼

#azriel angst #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel #azriel x yn #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar angst #fated mates #azriel imagine #acotar imagine #farewellmylove

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sansaorgana · 1 year ago

Text

— FORBIDDEN FRUIT

PAIRING — Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader // Baron Vladimir Harkonnen x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — After your planet was conquered by The Harkonnens, you are sent to Giedi Prime as a war prize to marry one of The Baron's nephews. However, Baron Vladimir changes his plans at the sight of you and decides to take you as his wife. Feyd-Rautha does not give up easily, though.

REQUEST — (1) // (2)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — It's finally here! I got carried away, not gonna lie... Look at the word count! 🙈 I might have forgotten about some warnings, just keep in mind the fic is dark and twisted 😝 By creating the Reader's homeworld and its customs I was loosely inspired by the mediterranean and islamic cultures but of course her physical appearance is not being described. 🤍

WARNINGS — arranged/forced marriage, blood, death, Baron Harkonnen being an absolute and non-consensual creep, Feyd-Rautha being non-consensual as well in the beginning, SMUT, fingering, oral, breeding (artificial and natural), incest undertones (they're not related but he calls her Aunt and she calls him nephew) + Feyd's traumatic past briefly mentioned, Reader is a few years older than Feyd but he is aged up to 20

WORD COUNT — 13,560 (🤡)

🔞 THIS FIC IS 18+ 🔞

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Your homeworld used to be a Paradise. The sky was always blue, the weather warm but not too hot due to the light breeze coming from the Ocean. Cypress trees, pistachio nuts, olive branches and fish were what Pairi Daêza was famous for in the past centuries. It was a small planet that remained unnoticed and neutral in most of the conflicts. The Imperial Family loved to spend their holidays on Pairi Daêza and import their goods in a form of a tribute.

That was history. And although you were born on this beautiful planet, in your teenage years the whole world crumbled down and you were exposed to the true reality of the war. When one of the Imperial geologists had found a huge spice deposit under your planet’s Ocean, the destructive war began.

Your parents tried their best to avoid the conflict. They offered the Emperor to dry a huge part of the Ocean to harvest spice from there. In fact, your father the Sultan saw an opportunity of getting wealth and influence in this situation. And that probably was his downfall. The Emperor wanted all the spice for himself.

But The Emperor was not the one to get his hands dirty. No, he hired the most fearsome warriors and assassins to teach your planet a lesson. The Harkonnens.

While the battles were taking place on the ground, their special machinery was drying out the Ocean and harvesting the spice hidden underneath the water surface. The whole planet began to die off due to the lack of water. The crops were evaporating in the heat, people were starving and their homes destroyed. The Harkonnens were kidnapping your citizens to be their slaves and your father and his army were too weak to protect them. The subjects of the Sultan started a rebellion with the help of The Harkonnens and after long years of the ongoing and destructive war, it was the final blow for your father’s weak reign.

You were an adult woman now, standing proudly with a veil covering nearly your whole face with only eyes being on display like all unmarried women of Pairi Daêza traditionally wore. Surrounded from all sides by The Harkonnen army in your father’s throne room, holding your mother’s hand. The dignified and beautiful Sultana with the last piece of jewellery she had refused to give away – a majestic headpiece made of gold and sparkling gemstones of all the possible colours. They reflected the dim light creeping inside through the windows of the ruined Pairi Daêza Palace where you had been born and resided for your whole life. And where you would die with only a few the most loyal guards protecting you.

The front doors opened loudly and a huge, beastly looking Harkonnen man stormed inside with a few of his identical soldiers. You had heard of him, he was the terror of Pairi Daêza in the past few years. The Beast Rabban himself. He dealt with your guards completely on his own, feasting on their deaths with a psychotic smirk. You swallowed thickly at the size of his hands; so big and strong they could break you in half. You hoped for a swift and quick death – as a Shehzadi of Pairi Daêza you had your privileges and you counted that the mercy of Beast Rabban would be one of them.

He started to approach you confidently, his black armour stained with the blood of your guards, contrasting with his sickly pale skin. Your father stepped out to cover you and your mother with his own body as if it would stop the Beast. Rabban froze at the sight and let out a contemptuous laughter that echoed through the throne room.

“Your reign is over, Sultan (Y/L/N),” he announced. “Pairi Daêza and its spice is under The Harkonnen rule.”

“Pairi Daêza no longer exists. You have destroyed my world and you want to rule over the ruins,” your father drawled through the gritted teeth.

“We do not care about your world. We care about the spice. But you… You will be remembered as the Sultan whose reign was the last. The death of your world will forever be attached to your name,” Rabban pointed out and reached for his blade. “Come to me and fight like a man, I shall give you the privilege of defending yourself. Do not cling to the skirts of your wife and daughter. By doing so, you put them in the path of my blade.”

“Don’t hurt them,” your father approached him, despite your hands trying to stop him. “The planet and the spice are yours. You can kill me but spare my family,” he pleaded.

“Your wife will be given to the new Governor of Pairi Daêza and he will do as he pleases with her. Your daughter is our prize I will take with me to Giedi Prime,” Rabban laid his terrifying eyes on you and you froze out of fear. You’d rather die than be taken away to The Harkonnens. He could only see your eyes but it was enough for him to smirk and lick his lips in a disgusting manner.

This scenario was worse than the death you had been expecting.

“You will die,” he told your father and pointed at one of the deceased guards for your father to take his sword and be able to defend himself in a fair fight.

But you knew already it would be a slaughter you did not wish to see.

“Don’t kill him! Don’t kill my father!” You screamed and took a step ahead. Your mother sobbed behind your back.

“(Y/N), don’t…” your father shook his head.

“I will offer myself to you willingly if you spare his life and let him govern this planet in The Harkonnen name. He will obey your orders and so will I,” you promised.

It was common for parents to sacrifice themselves for their children. No one would ever question such an act. Why couldn’t it go both ways? You loved your parents just as much as they loved you. Especially in the last years of the war, you had grown very close having basically no one else by your side.

If you were all to die together, it was not a bad ending. But if they tried to kill your father, send you away and give your mother away to a stranger… you could not let that happen.

“What makes you think we care about women giving themselves to us willingly, Shehzadi?” Rabban snorted at you but he approached you slowly with his blade held up. “You’re confident to offer so little for wanting so much in return,” the tip of his blade lifting up the hem of your face veil as you trembled out of fear.

“There is no need for bloodshed. My father will bend his knee and I will go with you, my Lord,” you choked out, trying to hide your obvious fear.

Rabban tilted his head and laughed at you. Then, in one swift move he cut the veil open and you gasped as the fabric fell down on the floor, leaving you exposed in front of him and his Harkonnen soldiers. It was one of the greatest humiliations for the Pairi Daêza woman for her to reveal her face in front of a man outside her close family before her wedding. It was her husband who was supposed to lift the veil off of her face on their wedding day and see her first before every other man would. To take the veil off of an unmarried woman in an aggressive manner like this was the greatest disrespect that back in the day men had been punished for by the law.

Embarrassed and humbled down, you stood still, trying to stare back at the Beast Rabban with your shoulders straight and your lips pursed out of anger and determination.

“You are not mine for the taking. I am to take you to Giedi Prime and my uncle shall decide what to do with you. Most likely he will want you to be my younger brother’s bride because it is him who will inherit the title one day,” he told you and you felt a knot forming in your stomach.

You hated Rabban but he was the devil you knew from the stories and now personally as well. His brother was a new character in the story that you feared. What was he like?

“Why is that not you?” You asked him. “You have just conquered a planet for your uncle, have you not, my Lord?”

“It is not I who argues with my uncle’s decisions,” Rabban snapped at you but you saw in his cruel eyes that you had touched a sensitive subject with your question. “Will you bend your knee, Sultan (Y/L/N)?” He asked your father.

He was staring at you with a terrified expression on his face. He couldn’t believe what you had just done. But you knew he wouldn’t throw a fist now. He would bend his knee because your father was a weak man.

Deep down, despite your love for him, you hated him for his weakness. Most of your problems, most of the failures in this war were caused by this trait of his. You couldn’t blame him, though. The Sultans of Pairi Daêza had never been trained to fight or lead military campaigns. There had been no need for that in the past.

“I, Sultan (Y/F/N) of The House (Y/L/N), pledge my allegiance to The House Harkonnen,” your father kneeled and bowed his head down.

You watched Rabban closely. He could accept this offer but he could also simply behead your father.

“In the name of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen, may your service be accepted, Sultan (Y/L/N),” he nodded his head. “We didn’t know who to make the Governor of this wasteland anyway,” he snorted. “I guess this is solved. However, you will be watched carefully,” he squinted his eyes at your father. “I will leave my guards here and you will be spied on every second of your pathetic life, Sultan.”

“Yes, my Lord,” your father nodded. “What about the rebellion you helped to start? The citizens of Pairi Daêza do not wish me to stay in this Palace anymore.”

“You have my army to command now. You can slay them,” Rabban shrugged his arms and your father stood up clumsily.

“You helped them to start the rebellion against me and now you’re giving me your army to slay the rebels?” He asked to make sure.

“All we care about is your spice,” Rabban’s voice sounded casual and then he turned around to look at you again. “And your daughter,” he added with a smirk before approaching you and grabbing you by your arm roughly. You squealed as he started to walk you out of the room.

“Let me go!” You protested.

“You’re already breaking our arrangement, woman. You promised to be obedient,” he barked at you.

“I want to say goodbye to my parents,” you told him.

“It’s not the last time you’re seeing them. That is, if they play nice and don’t start anything,” he threatened as he looked at your scared parents.

Your mother risked it, though, and she ran up to you. Her shaking hands grabbed yours as she sobbed. She couldn’t say much because of her state but she didn’t have to.

“I will be fine, mama. I will survive and you have to as well, do you hear me? Otherwise my sacrifice won’t matter,” you told her and she nodded her head, silently choking on her sobs.

“That’s enough,” Rabban threw you over his shoulder swiftly like you were a sack of potatoes and he took you out of the Palace – straight to the huge Harkonnen ship that was destined to go back on Giedi Prime.

You were a war prize.

You didn’t know much about Giedi Prime except for scary legends and myths. The heavy industrial landscape was something you had not been used to nor was their black sun that was making everything on the planet black-and-white when you were spending time outside. Not that you had spent lots of time there. You were transported from the ship to the huge black fortress and into the chambers with a few female servants waiting for you. They bathed you carefully and put you in long black robes with a veil mimicking the ones that were traditional for the Pairi Daêza unmarried women. Only your eyes were visible when you looked at yourself in the mirror, but barely – the veil was decorated with dangling silver chains. They were making you look even more mysterious and kind of dangerous but the whole outfit felt like a mockery of the traditional robes of your people.

The unmarried women of Pairi Daêza were hiding their faces but their dresses were often made of a few layers of sheer and colourful materials. Just because they were under a cover, didn’t mean they were not cheerful and full of life. The dresses would be often decorated with lace, flowers or embroidery. They were flowy and ethereal when the women walked down the streets and all the married women who no longer had to hide their faces were envious as they remembered their younger days. On Giedi Prime you looked as if you were in a deep state of mourning. But perhaps you were. Your planet was destroyed, your family humiliated. And no one knew what would happen to you.

You were taken by the guards and followed by the servants to a huge throne room of The Baron Harkonnen. You had heard of him from your father so you expected the worst but his unnaturally huge and floating form still made the blood in your veins run cold. He was enormous and repulsing; sickly. Kept alive by the machinery behind him and the undying will to rule forever.

He was accompanied by Rabban who smirked at you when you walked inside. There was another man standing there, too. He was young; strong and muscular but also slim. Tall and proud in the way he stood. His face was full of cruelty and mockery but you had to admit he was rather attractive… at least for a Harkonnen male. His lips were full, his eyes reminded you of a snake but they were decorated with a long set of eyelashes. You hoped he was the younger brother that Beast Rabban had mentioned before.

You stood in front of the stairs leading to The Baron’s throne and you bowed down, waiting for his reaction.

“Shehzadi (Y/L/N),” he greeted you in a harsh, deep voice that sent shivers down your spine. “Finally I get to see you… Or not,” he added and you raised your head to lay your eyes on him. He was observing you carefully and so was the young man. “Take her veil off, Rabban, show me what you’ve brought here,” he snapped at his nephew and the Beast approached you. “She better be pretty enough for Feyd-Rautha if you decided to spare her father’s life for her,” The Baron teased him.

“Who would have thought that women were your weakness,” the man named Feyd hissed at his brother and you got startled by the sound of his voice. It was identical to The Baron’s in a twisted and uncomfortable way that formed a knot in your stomach.

You felt oddly bad for the Beast Rabban. He was the one to conquer your planet and he was the one to take you. Yet, you were a prize that he had won not for himself but for his spoiled younger brother. You couldn’t quite understand the dynamic of this family yet.

He stood next to you and grabbed the fabric of your veil in his fist in his usual brutal manner. By the pace of his breath, you could hear that he was as nervous as you were. If The Baron would not like you, he would be punished for going soft on your father.

Rabban’s hand hesitated before tearing the veil off of your face. It caught his younger brother’s attention. He hissed and walked up to you with a short knife in his hands that he had been playing with as if out of boredom. He smirked at you and revealed black teeth that made you flinch at the sight. Your reaction only excited him.

“How long do I have to wait, brother?” He asked as he cut the veil open, impatiently. Rabban took a step back and allowed his brother to take a better look at you. The Baron tried to peek in but Feyd was standing right in front of you and covering your face completely from his uncle’s sight.

The young man hummed to himself and tilted his head both sides. He raised his hand up and grabbed your chin to squeeze it gently.

“How old is she?” He asked his brother as if you could not speak.

“Shehzadi (Y/N) is twenty years old like you are,” Rabban tried to recommend your virtues the best he could, like he was a slave seller.

“Five and twenty,” you corrected him confidently, not feeling any shame about your age. Rabban took a sharp breath in as Feyd gave him a scolding look.

“A bit old, isn’t it?” The Baron’s voice interrupted them.

Feyd looked you up and down with so much fire in his eyes that you started to feel your cheeks heating up. You had never been looked at this way not only because of the custom of covering your face but also because it was not a way that men on Pairi Daêza would court women in.

“I’ll take her,” Feyd shrugged his arms as he announced to his uncle. He turned around to look at him and you sighed out of relief. So did Rabban.

“Move aside, Feyd,” The Baron barked at his nephew, impatiently. “It is I who decide,” he added and Feyd took a step to the left, revealing your form to his uncle. You had both of the brothers standing on both sides and their hideous uncle looming over a few steps ahead of you.

In complete silence he was watching you for a long while, puffing on his pipe. Finally, he beckoned you over to come closer. You gathered the fabric of your skirt in your hands and took a few steps ahead with your heart pounding in your chest.

“I shall take her,” he stated as the whole room went dead silent.

“What are you talking about?!” Feyd protested and you chewed on the insides of your cheeks, trying not to burst into tears. “She is mine for the taking!”

The Baron was a disgusting creature but you were aware that being his wife would give you more power and influence than marrying any of his nephews. It would protect your family better, too.

And every power came with a sacrifice.

Still, your dignity wanted to join Feyd-Rautha’s tantrum. You had been expecting to be given in marriage to a young and healthy warrior. Not an old and sickly piece of greasy meat in front of you.

“Shut up, boy!” The Baron yelled at Feyd and you flinched. “Don’t startle, my Shehzadi,” he cooed to you in a malicious whisper. “As you can see, none of my nephews are worthy of you nor my throne one day. You shall give me an heir,” he told you and you nodded, obediently. Fighting him had no purpose.

Feyd was furious. You heard him walking out of the room angrily and slamming the door behind him.

“You have just made an enemy, my Shehzadi,” The Baron reached his swollen pale hand with the green and blue veins popping out. You gently took it and nearly gagged at the feeling of it.

“Me, my Lord?” You tried to bat your eyelashes at him. Your voice shivered out of fear and he smirked at you.

“Feyd-Rautha will no longer be the Na-Baron when our son is born. He will do everything to get rid of you and the child. You shall be careful, sweet Shehzadi,” he warned you. “I have my ways of keeping him obedient. When he’s not showing you proper respect, you will tell me, yes?”

“Y-yes, my Lord,” you nodded.

“Good,” he squeezed our hand gently and you felt your stomach turning. “Go, prepare for the wedding,” he let go of you and raised his finger to touch your cheek. It was getting difficult to hide your repulsion but on the other hand it was oddly satisfying to know that you were chosen by The Baron himself.

You bowed down and walked out of the room with the guards and servants. They all were staring at you with widened eyes, as shocked with the outcome of this day as you were.

You hadn’t seen The Baron for the past few weeks of the preparations for the wedding. In fact, you hadn't seen anyone. You had been kept a prisoner in one part of the fortress but you did not mind that at all because you had lots of servants and your chambers did not lack any luxury. The only thing you missed was nature – the greenery, the sound of birds, the feeling of the sun on your skin, the light breeze of the Ocean. But there was no way of coming back to it. Pairi Daêza had none of it anymore.

Spoiled as a child, you were harshened in your teenage years by the war taking place in your homeland. Despite your father’s weakness flowing in your blood, you had learnt how to adapt and survive. You would survive just well on Giedi Prime, you decided.

The only thing you dreaded about your marriage was the physical aspect of the union. However, you had been informed by the medic visiting you every morning about the nature of your future duties.

“These injections are supposed to prepare your body for carrying a son,” he told you after sticking a syringe with an odd liquid into your vein. “After the wedding you will be bred to carry The Baron’s heir, my Lady.”

“Bred?” You swallowed thickly.

“I will insert the seed during a swift and painless procedure, my Lady,” he assured you.

“So… I will not be…” You didn’t know how to say it without offending The Baron.

The medic knew, though. He looked up into your eyes as your face was covered with the black veil. The Baron had liked your homeworld’s tradition and allowed you to cover your face until the wedding.

“The Baron’s health does not allow such activities,” he informed you and you sighed out of relief. “Which does not mean he will not demand some… other duties.”

You nodded your head at him. Some other duties, whatever they meant, you could survive. It was the haunting image of him hovering over you or taking you from behind that was keeping you sleepless recently. You had come to Giedi Prime completely innocent in that subject but you made your Harkonnen servants tell you all about it. They were experienced, especially the ones who had been called late at night to Feyd-Rautha’s chambers. The young na-baron apparently liked sex a lot. The more you were finding out about him and his nature, the more glad you were that it was his uncle you were marrying. At least he was not so young; not so full of adrenaline and testosterone as his nephew.

Giedi Prime had not had a Baroness in a long time. The ceremony was about to be the grandest you had ever experienced. The leaders of the great houses had been invited – your parents amongst them. Even The Emperor himself had sent an envoy to take part in the event in his name. You had never expected to hold such importance in the Galaxy. After all, you were only a Shehzadi of a small and unimportant Pairi Daêza. The spice deposit had truly changed everything.

Your servant women worked on your huge wedding dress. It was black, too, of course. Everything was black. But there was some meaning behind it, in fact, since the wedding was an occasion to mourn your maidenhood and your previous life. The veil covering your face was decorated and attached to the upper part of your bodice, so when your face would be revealed and the veil taken off, your dress would stop being so modest and show off your breasts squeezed by a corset. You didn’t feel comfortable with that idea. Women on Pairi Daêza were not known for revealing their physical virtues in such a way. But Harkonnen women were their husbands’ prizes and trophies. You wanted to make The Baron proud because it would keep him happy. And keeping him happy meant the safety of you and your family. You didn’t want to play many games. You just wanted to survive.

You actually wanted to give him a son. Because giving him a son would seal your fate as The Baroness. Your position would be untouchable and that awful Feyd-Rautha could throw tantrums about it but it would be your son who would inherit the title of The Baron.

You were allowed to see your parents before the ceremony because they were supposed to leave early in the morning on the next day and in the evening there would be no occasion to be left alone with them like you were now. Alone in a room with your mother and father whose faces looked worried and exhausted. Their clothes were different than you remembered. Less colourful as if they were grieving, too.

“Are you alright?” Your mother asked you. She approached you and tried to lift the veil off but it refused to move.

“It is attached to the dress. I am fine,” you assured her. “Do not worry, my face is not bruised. You will see when he takes it off,” you nodded.

“It is an honour for you to marry The Baron himself,” your father smiled at you gently. “A great honour that he has liked you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” your mother scolded him. “It is awful, awful news. You know what he’s like. He’s destroyed our planet!”

“She can handle that for all the power she’s going to have now,” he shrugged his arms.

“How easy it is to say for a man,” your mother sighed. “You owe her your life.”

“I do and I am grateful,” your father nodded his head at you.

“And yet you demand more,” you whispered to him. He froze. “You demand of me to keep The Baron happy so he doesn’t get rid of you. But that is your part of the deal. You shall obey him and play nice as you promised. As long as you do that, there is no threat and my protection is not required.”

“If you think this way, why are you here, all dressed up to get married?” He raised his eyebrow.

“For mother,” you held her hands gently, “because you will not be able to protect her like me,” you added sternly.

Your father looked away, frustrated. He wanted to snap at you but he could not. Not when you were The Baron’s bride. You were no longer his daughter but almost another man’s wife. And the man was too powerful to disrespect.

The ownership of women. Once your father’s, then your husband’s. Freedom would come only in the case of a man’s death. And yet, men wondered why so many women were so angry and bloodthirsty.

“Time’s up,” one of the guards entered the room harshly. “Shehzadi (Y/N) is asked to attend the ceremony,” he announced and nodded at you. You nodded back and squeezed your mother’s hands for the last time before following the guard into the dark and cold corridor of the fortress, trying to keep your veiled head high.

Out of the people gathered for the ceremony, one pair of eyes was locked on you the most intensely. The dark eyes of Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen were observing your every move, every gesture, every breath and every word. You felt suffocated by his gaze. It was full of fire like the first time he had seen you but also full of hatred and contempt. You couldn’t tell if he wanted to claim you or kill you. Perhaps both answers were true. You wouldn’t be surprised after hearing all the stories about him.

You feared him the most out of all The Harkonnens. Beast Rabban was the devil you knew and you were his weakness because you were the prize he had conquered himself. The Baron was terrifying and dangerous but he was rather calm and he treated you like a pet so as long as you were quiet and obedient, he did not take pleasure in tormenting you. Feyd-Rautha was different. He was psychotic and your wedding to his uncle was making him lose the greatest deal – his inheritance.

The worst part of the wedding ceremony was the kiss. Not that The Baron had been particularly passionate about it but something about his lips touching yours – even though briefly – was making your insides twist. Perhaps being married to him wouldn’t be as easy to survive as you had been hoping.

When The Wedding Games had begun, Feyd-Rautha joined them eagerly with all the fierceness a warrior could possess. It was an old and dreadful tradition full of blood and violence, a display of power and murderous Harkonnen nature. The men, usually gladiators, were fighting for life and death. Only one could remain and become the winner who would be forever remembered. When his nephew joined the fight, your new husband didn’t look very pleased and he followed every movement of his boy carefully, keeping his eye on the guard, too. He was scared of losing his heir after all.

You watched Feyd-Rautha fight as well. His moves were swift and confident. It was bringing him joy to both hurt and be hurt. He was playful in combat – smirking, winking, occasionally looking back to make sure you were watching. And whenever he was the one to take the blow, he would let out a laugh and hiss in pleasure. He was an odd, scary creature because he had no fear of any sort of pain. Not even death most likely.

Eventually, he killed the last opponent right in front of your eyes, wanting for you to flinch, you suspected. You did not give him such satisfaction. All the years of the war on your planet had made you immune to the sight of such violence and death.

He let out a triumphant yell and raised the bloody knife before bowing down and reaching his hands out with the blade towards you. You stood up and accepted his offering as you had been taught by your servants the past few weeks during your preparations.

“Thy display of power and bravery has been noticed, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen,” you told him the words you had learnt by heart.

“For my Baroness I will shed the blood of my enemies,” he looked up intensely at you and you swallowed thickly. You hated when he was staring like this. You only nodded and turned around to hand the bloody blade to one of the guards who would secure it. The blade would later be on display in the Memory Room.

You sat back down and forced a small meal upon yourself. In the meantime, your husband had already left the party. Not that you minded.

Feyd and Rabban were sitting nearby. Both were staring at you but the older one actually looked as if he was sorry for you. He hadn’t spoken a word to you ever since his uncle had decided to be the one to marry you. It was nearly funny how back on Pairi Daêza everyone feared the Beast Rabban but here on Giedi Prime he was the least important pawn of the game.

Around midnight, one of The Baron’s servants leaned in to whisper into your ear to inform you that your husband had been waiting for you in his chambers. You swallowed thickly and nodded your head before standing up and leaving the dining room as fast as possible.

In the dark corridor you slowed down, though, not wanting to walk too fast and approach the dreaded room too soon. The guards were not following you but you knew the way, you had been taught it by your servants even though your chambers were in a different part of the fortress. Now, as The Baroness, you would get the new ones – even more splendid and luxurious. But you had been told you would not share them with your husband which was a great comfort.

Halfway there you heard footsteps behind you and you angered. Whatever humiliation was there to come, you did not want any witnesses. The corridor was dark and empty and yet some guard decided to follow you. You turned around furiously, ready to scold him. But it was no guard. It was Feyd-Rautha.

He leaned on the wall with a smirk and squinted his eyes at you.

“What do you want?” You asked him and clenched your jaw.

“Like a sheep for slaughter,” he snorted at you.

“That is none of your business, I believe,” you straightened yourself and raised your chin up.

He didn’t like your remark as he moved away from the wall and approached you quickly. In no time you felt his face looming over yours, mere inches away.

“I know what he’s going to do to you,” he whispered as you tried to remain cool but his words made you terrified. There was an odd sparkle in his eye, like he was enjoying your torment. He probably was.

“Fuck me?” You tried to pretend it didn’t bother you.

“Well, well, well, look at how dirty your mouth can be, Shehzadi,” Feyd-Rautha grabbed your cheeks to squeeze them and your eyes widened at his insolence.

“To you, I’m The Baroness,” you mumbled out.

“Sure you are, little snake. How else should I call you? An aunt?” He teased. “I shall,” he added. “No, he’s not going to fuck you. But he’s going to touch you and this reeking, slimy feeling won’t ever leave your skin. You will feel him always,” he moved even closer to you. You wondered how he could know such things. Then you felt how hard he was underneath his leather pants. You were scared he would hurt you now, which would make your husband furious and toss you aside, surely.

“Sounds like you’d like to watch,” you drawled, regretting it instantly. He took a sharp breath in and pushed you against the wall, still holding your cheeks but now you were trapped between his body and the cold marble.

“Don’t be disgusting,” he warned you. It was surprising there were things he was finding gross. He didn’t look like the type. “You’ve no idea what’s waiting for you, aunt,” he hissed.

“Aw, you’re worried?” You cooed and he let go of your cheeks angrily. He remained close to you, though. You felt his hot breath on your face. He smelled like blood and leather.

Feyd’s hands dropped to your waist. Before you could stop him, he was pulling up all the layers of your dress, desperately trying to get the access between your legs. You grabbed his wrists, trying to stop him quietly.

“No, no, no, please, no,” you whispered in a panic. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you, aunt. He’s going to do it,” Feyd snorted at your words and froze when all the layers of your dress that had been on the way were finally moved aside. A cold shiver went down your legs at the feeling of your exposed thighs. Feyd cupped your womanhood covered with black silky underwear. You gasped at the feeling as your eyes widened when you looked at his face. His lips curled into a smirk as you shook your head.

“Relax, Baroness, I’ll ease you for him,” he told you as his fingers hooked on the edge of your underwear. You felt his cold fingertips brushing your pussy softly and a set of shivers went down your spine at that sensation.

You didn’t know how to feel about it. Your heart was pounding in your chest and you were getting dizzy. Your mind wanted him to stop but your body did not. Despite the lack of experience, you knew that The Baron would not make you feel the same way as his young nephew would.

“I won’t fuck you,” he let out a raspy whisper, “he would kill us both for that.”

“He wouldn’t know,” you told him and Feyd tilted his head at you. “I’ve been examined by the medic this morning to prove my innocence. I doubt he will examine me now again.”

“Believe me, he would know,” Feyd let out a laugh as he moved your underwear aside and exposed your womanhood. It was too dark for you to feel ashamed of it but it still felt incredibly wrong. Yet, you didn’t ask him to stop. Not that it would change anything.

He raised his hand up to his full lips and licked them while staring deep into your widened eyes. Then he put his hand between your legs again and began to touch you in your most intimate place. You sighed at the feeling of his wet and cold fingers trying to get between your folds.

“Open your legs further,” he ordered and your body obeyed by moving the legs more apart before your mind could take over and make a responsible decision to run away. Not that you could run away because with his free hand he grabbed one of your wrists and pinned it to the wall above your head.

Once he got a better access to your pussy, Feyd focused on massaging your sweet spot that made your eyes roll to the back of your head, occasionally dipping his finger carefully inside of you to gather some of your wetness. You moaned softly and dug your fingernails into his bicep, feeling a close release. He was smirking at how fast he could make you reach your high but you didn’t care. You hated him but his fingers were skilled, making you stand on your toes as the muscles of your abdomen tensed, desperately wanting more friction.

“I’m gonna…” You gasped and that was when he took his hand away, fixed your underwear and took a step back, letting the folds of your dress fall down to their place. It took you a moment to collect yourself and realise that he had left you without a release but with a deep and urgent need. “What was that?” You asked.

“Now it won’t hurt when my uncle does the same to you, aunt. Maybe you’ll even cum with his fingers inside you as you remember my fingers on your cunt,” Feyd chuckled contemptuously and licked his fingers clean as you watched with terror in your eyes. “Sweet. Like I’ve imagined a cunt from Paradise to be,” he commented and turned around to walk back to the party, leaving you breathless and dizzy with an ache between your legs.

For a while you forgot where to go. You kept taking wrong turns before finally approaching the doors leading to The Baron’s chambers. At your state you weren’t even scared anymore. Feyd-Rautha had eased your mind indeed and reduced your body functions to one primal need.

You pushed the door open softly and entered your husband’s chambers. They were nearly empty and very cold. In the middle of it, there was a big bathtub full of a black substance. He was bathing in it and puffing on his pipe as he squinted his eyes at you.

“What took you so long, Baroness?” He asked and you cleared your throat, trying not to sound too shook up. The sight of him in that bathtub made your desire much lesser, though. Even the memory of Feyd-Rautha’s cold fingertips brushing your clit lightly and teasing you with pleasure could not make you feel the same excitement again.

“I’m sorry. I got lost,” you answered, which had been only half a lie.

“Don’t worry, Baroness, you will soon remember the way,” he wasn’t angry and he beckoned you over with a move of his wrist.

You approached him obediently although your limbs were getting numb. You were left completely alone with him and you had no idea what he would want now from you. As your husband he could demand anything and you’d have to follow.

“Undress yourself,” his voice was softer than when he would address his nephews but it was still an order as he watched carefully with squinted eyes.

You nodded shyly at his words and began to clumsily take your gown off. It was a complicated piece of fashion and you did not have any servants to assist you. However, your husband was not rushing you, he simply watched and he was visibly content.

When you were naked, you covered yourself with your hands as you stood in front of him. He looked up from his bathtub and puffed on his pipe with a smirk.

“No, no, don’t hide,” he shook his head. “Come, join me,” he invited you in and you swallowed thickly at the black slime he had been bathing in. You doubted it was harmful but you didn’t want to sit in the same substance as him. “Join me,” he repeated, more sternly this time and you bit on your lower lip as you nodded and entered the bathtub.

Your body was shaking but the odd liquid was nicely warm and relaxing. The feeling of it helped you ease a bit. You sat as far away as possible from him.

“Come closer, Baroness. You see, I’m old now and not of the best health. I sadly cannot perform my marital duties and satisfy you like a husband would,” he pretended to feel sorry for you. “But I want to play with you a little and admire my new wife,” he reached out his hand and you took a deep breath in before holding it and letting him pull you closer. “Do you know why I took you for myself?” He whispered and you shook your head. “Because he wanted you so much.”

When you left The Baron’s chambers, there were two scared female servants waiting already behind the doors. At the sight of you leaving in a hurry, they entered – most likely to finish what you had started. You hurried to the rooms that were supposed to be yours now. They were empty since your own servants would come in the morning.

You had been barely dressed because you wanted to leave his room as fast as possible. This time taking your dress off took you a few seconds and you jumped into the bathtub in the bathroom and filled it with warm water. With a sponge laying on the counter you started to scrub your body harshly, causing the skin to bleed in a few places. You wanted to get the black slime off of you and – most importantly – your husband’s touch.

Feyd had been right. What his uncle had done to you was not the worst – he had been touching and teasing, sniffing your scent and caressing your skin as he had whispered about the beauty of youth and innocence. But the fact that it had been him doing so, it made it the most disgusting thing you had ever experienced. You gagged at the very memory of it and now, after your wedding night, you no longer felt comfortable with the idea of being bred with his son even if it would be an artificial conception.

You started to sob uncontrollably. You hated The Harkonnens. They had destroyed your planet and your childhood. Now they destroyed your innocence and womanhood. You would never get free of them.

But death was not an option. It would be an easy way out. You had to be strong.

The medic’s procedure had truly been quick and painless but you felt disgusting leaving the medical wing of the fortress knowing that The Baron’s seed might be already growing in you. To make it worse, on your way back to your chambers, you spotted Feyd-Rautha coming back from the training yards. He smirked at the sight of you as you froze, still remembering the last night’s blasphemous act of intimacy that he had performed.

“Aunt,” he greeted you with a nod of his head.

“Nephew,” you answered in a similar manner as you looked him up and down.

Sweaty from the combat and still wielding a blade, he looked incredibly magnetic at that moment. His youthful and fearless energy was unfortunately drawing you in. The way he was staring at you made you remember how good his fingers had felt on your pussy and it brought the heat up to your cheeks. You wished he would stay away from you because his very presence was a torment.

“How was it?” He leaned in when he spoke to you, his eyes carefully watching your figure. You did not give him an answer. “Did you cum?”

“You’re an insolent brat, Feyd-Rautha,” you told him sternly and he straightened himself. You spoiled his fun by not being scared nor disgusted. “I want you to stay away from me since I might already be carrying your uncle’s true heir,” you added.

The playfulness of his eyes turned into anger very quickly. He pointed at your abdomen with his blade and you flinched. The guards standing a few steps behind you, hurried to your side immediately.

“You will soon realise, aunt,” Feyd drawled, “that he is your enemy – not me. He will destroy you like he destroys everything he ever lays his hands on.”

“Like he destroyed you?” You raised your eyebrow curiously and he lowered the blade. His jaw clenched but there was a shadow of hurt in his eyes at that moment, which surprised you. You didn’t expect a man like him to ever feel hurt.

Feyd-Rautha did not reply to that. He walked away without a word, followed by your guards’ eyes.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” One of them asked you and you nodded. “Shall we tell The Baron about the incident?”

“Yes,” you nodded. “His nephew’s antics must be tempered.”

Six months had passed since your wedding day and you still were not carrying The Baron’s heir. Your husband was growing impatient and the only thing stopping him from getting angry at you was the medic’s declaration that it had not been your fault but the seed’s quality was weak due to your husband’s age and condition. Even enhanced artificially with the Harkonnen science, it could not settle well in your womb. At this point you were so drugged with their injections to the point that you wouldn’t be surprised if a simple touch of any other man than your husband would put a son in you. How ironic.

You had no idea what The Baron had done to Feyd-Rautha but after the corridor’s incident the young man had been avoiding you. He had been watching you carefully from afar with eyes full of hatred like an ominous shadow following you behind wherever you would go. But he would not approach you nor talk to you unless he had to in an official situation. He would always address you with respect as The Baroness or Aunt. You had noticed that it brought him a twisted pleasure to call you by that name.

Your husband hadn’t been spending much more time with you either. He would be next to you during the official events and he would ask you to join him in his chambers about once or twice a week but other than that you had been spending your days alone with nobody but your female servants and male guards, occasionally with the medic. It was a lonely life but at least you weren’t exposed too much to the dreadful Harkonnens… except for the nights you were expected to perform some sort of marital duties.

No amount of time had made you used to The Baron’s touch. You would flinch every time he caressed your body or admired it while whispering the filthiest things. But after the first month your body had developed a defence mechanism of dissociation during those acts.

Technically speaking, though, after six months of being The Baroness Harkonnen, you remained a virgin. The marriage had not been consummated properly so The Baron could divorce you without consequences any day. Giving him a son was the only thing that would legitimise your union. And as much as you dreaded his spawn growing inside of you, you wanted to secure your position. The frustration of not getting pregnant had brought you to tears many times before.

It did now as well. An hour after finding out that the last week’s procedure had failed and the seed had not settled in your womb. The medic had been both sorry for you and himself because he had known that The Baron’s rage would mostly be aimed at him for not doing enough. Soon, though, you were sure, it would reach you as well.

Your chambers were being cleaned at the moment and you wanted to be alone so you wandered to a different part of the fortress and hid in one of the empty study rooms. You kicked your shoes off and sat on a black leather armchair by the wall as you sobbed into your hands, curling up with your feet up on the seat. You felt so small and unimportant at that moment; you missed home and you missed your mother’s embrace. You missed any sort of affection.

Focused on self-pity you did not hear the doors opening. You only startled at the sound of them closing loudly and you froze at the sight of Feyd-Rautha who had just entered the study room. At first, he stiffened seeing you as well.

“What are you doing here, aunt?” He asked, carefully.

“It is none of your business, go away,” you ordered, trying for your voice not to break and reveal your crying state.

“You cannot command that,” he snorted at you.

“I am your Baroness. I can and I will,” you sniffled your tears back and you hugged yourself tighter as if you wanted to protect yourself from him.

Feyd ignored your words, though. He approached you confidently and smirked after realising what you had been doing.

“Yes, feast on the sight of me crying,” you snapped. “What a pleasure it must be for you. Let me please you further, dear nephew. I am still not expecting an heir that would take your place. Happy now?” Your voice trembled.

“Look at you, you’re glowing,” he crouched down to be on your level as he whispered in an oddly seductive way. You furrowed your brows at his words and he reached his hand out to brush your cheek stained with tears. “They’ve injected so many hormones into you, Baroness, you’re practically begging to be fucked. You’ve no idea what the smell of you does to men around you…” He brought his finger to his mouth and licked the tip softly. “The taste… Even your tears are an aphrodisiac,” he looked up at you and you swallowed thickly. It was making you uncomfortable but for the first time in a long time you felt seen. “What a torment it must be. Do you touch yourself, aunt?” He asked and the insolent question snapped you back to reality.

“I’ve no idea how he punishes you but you’re asking to be punished again,” you warned him.

“I can show you how he punishes me,” Feyd did not wait for your answer as he took his black shirt off, revealing his pale and strong chest. His hard muscles were simply beautiful, you had to admit it. But when he turned around to show you his back, he revealed dozens of thin scars scattered all over. Some were white and bumpy, visibly old. But some were more fresh and still reddened. You hissed at the sight and he turned his head around to look at your face.

“I’m sorry, I did not know…” You admitted and reached your hand out to touch some of them gently. You let your finger follow the lines and he smirked.

“Don’t be sorry, aunt. I enjoy the whipping,” he grabbed your wrist and turned his body in your direction again.

“It is hard to believe, Feyd-Rautha,” you admitted. “I thought his punishment was based on threats.”

“His methods are more sophisticated,” Feyd sneered. “Now, I’ve revealed myself to you, Baroness. Will you reveal yourself to me?” He asked and you furrowed your brow. “Do you touch yourself?” He repeated the question that caused your cheeks to heat up.

“Sometimes,” you answered. “I start but I never finish because somewhere in the middle I get haunted by the visions of his hands touching me and they make me sick,” you whispered your secret.

“Poor aunt, you must be so tense,” Feyd cooed to you and let go of your wrist. “So ready and eager to welcome a child in her womb and yet so unsatisfied.”

You hated to admit that he was right. The amount of hormones that had been injected made your breasts and womanhood sensitive, a single brush of your servant’s hand during the bathtime was enough to fill you with desire. Most of the time you were walking around with an itch deep between your legs, a heavy burden that could not be removed by any means.

Now, Feyd-Rautha being so close to you and talking to you in such a manner was not helping. In fact, it was making your condition worse.

“What do you care?” You asked. “I thought you don’t want me to carry him a son. If he tossed me aside or even killed me, it would be your victory,” you pointed out.

“My greatest victory would be humiliating him by putting my son in your womb,” Feyd watched your reaction carefully but you didn’t even flinch at the sound of that.

He was young and so full of life. You were sure he’d succeed during the first try. It would secure your position and keep The Baron Happy.

“What if he finds out? He’d kill us both,” you bit on your lower lip.

“And you think I would allow that?” He snorted at you, revealing his black teeth. You were so shook up that in this state you even found them attractive. The fact they were so black, so different, so extraordinary, symbolising his brutality. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted his toxic saliva to poison your innocence. You wanted to be trapped under him as he ravages you.

He had to notice the shift of your gaze, the way you face changed its expression. He smirked triumphantly, already knowing that you craved him.

“The medic… He will see I was deflowered,” your last hesitation made you speak up your concerns.

“The medic?” Feyd-Rautha chuckled contemptuously. “The same one who is working for me? The same one who is making sure that my uncle’s seed is not succeeding?”

“Wh-what?” You choked out but he only smirked as he shushed you.

“Don’t forget you were supposed to be mine, little snake. I do not give up easily,” he admitted and with one rapid movement of his strong hands he pushed your legs apart as your thin silky dress pulled up, revealing you to him. “Let’s give you a quick release before I properly breed you. You must be in such pain and torment,” he cooed.

Your eyes widened at his actions but you did not protest. Your limbs were getting numb out of the overwhelming desire and feeling his breath on your pussy was nearly enough to make you cum on spot.

Feyd dropped to his knees and leaned in even closer, biting the soft flesh of your thighs gently with his black teeth and leaving trails of saliva. You felt your womanhood pulsating, begging for his attention. He had to notice the twitching muscles underneath your underwear as well as he chuckled and took it off of you greedily. He froze for a moment with his eyes fixed on his prize and he slowly licked his lips.

“So swollen and eager. The smell is enough to put only one thought in my head,” he admitted. “Make you swell with my seed. Come here,” he crooned in his coarse voice that sent shivers down your spine as he grabbed your ankles and pulled you closer to the edge of the armchair’s seat. He threw your feet over his muscular shoulders and opened his mouth to stick out his long and slim tongue to show it off for you as you took a deep and shaky breath in.

Feyd leaned in and buried his face between your wet folds that had been anticipating any sort of release for weeks now. You gasped loudly at the sensation of the tip of his tongue tickling your sensitive sweet spot. His mouth was so skilled that he did not require the assistance of his hands as he placed them flat on your thighs to keep steady. He would gather your wetness with his tongue and then dip it all inside of you, making your back arch and hips rise slightly for more friction. There were times when his whole face was buried deep into you but he did not even flinch from the lack of air as he was devouring you, licking you completely clean like a starving dog and then focusing again on your swollen clit. Whenever he teased it, you were sure you’d cum now but then he would move his tongue away over and over, keeping you on the edge.

Your gasps and soft moans filled the room. You were trying to hold yourself back a little, ashamed of being so displayed for him but on the other hand it was him kneeling down to lick your pussy like a servant. It was you who was in control and the thought of that alone was enough to turn you on even more.

Your hands had been squeezing the armchair’s leather fabric but you dared to place them on the back of Feyd’s bald head and he did not protest. In fact, he moaned at the feeling as a pleasurable vibration went down your body. Your toes curled when you pushed his face even deeper and you felt the pressure of his nose on your clit when he was fucking you with his long tongue.

The overwhelming desire stripped you out of shame as you began to move his head up and down, rubbing your pussy all over his face while your moans grew higher and louder. Fuck it, you thought, you deserved it. After months of such a sad and awful marriage, being The Baron’s trophy wife, unsatisfied and yet violated by his repulsing touch, you deserved to cum on his handsome nephew’s face. It was the least Feyd-Rautha could do to make it up for you.

With a loud moan, shaky breath and trembling legs you finally reached your peak. Although the movements of your hips came to a halt and your hands stopped pushing his face, he was relentlessly sucking on your clit throughout your high, until you begged him to stop and he hesitantly let go of your glistening pussy with your sticky juices vulgarly dripping down his chin as you looked down at him with hazy eyes.

“I could feast on you for days, Baroness, you’re as sweet as a ripe fruit from your homeworld,” Feyd did not bother with wiping his face. He took your limp feet and calves from his shoulders and threw them back on the floor before placing one last kiss upon your wet mound as your pussy twitched uncontrollably in an aftershock.

You didn’t know what to say. You could see the hunger in him, he expected more and you wanted it, too. You wanted to feel his cock inside of you, you wanted him to fuck you like The Baron could never do.

“Claim me, Feyd-Rautha,” you ordered in a weak voice. “I want to remember with satisfaction each time he asks for me that it is you who have claimed me and fucked me. Put your son in me and smile every time you see me walking swollen with your seed as you know that it is yours and not his. If you’re a good boy now, I might reward you and let you feast on my fruit every night in my chambers,” you promised, like it would bring him more pleasure than you, which was not true at all. You craved it as much as him, if not more.

Your words elicited even greater hunger inside of him as he grabbed you by your ankles and pulled you down on the cold marble floor. The coolness of the stone brought some relief to your feverish body, your dress was still pulled up and you watched Feyd positioning himself above you as you bit on your lower lip and realised he would truly claim you now, on the floor of an empty room in secret. There was something barbaric about it and the fact you were an innocent lady from a planet known as Paradise who would be taken by such a brute warrior was making you go dizzy. You didn’t even fear the pain that would come with it because you wanted it – you wanted him to stretch you out and fill you.

When such thoughts were invading your mind and exciting you all over again, Feyd got his cock out of his leather pants and stroked it at the sight of you waiting for him with your legs open. With his free hand he gathered the wetness of your pussy and coated his length with it before hovering over you with his face inches away from yours.

“It’s going to hurt, my Lady,” he warned you with a smirk, there was absolutely no worry in his voice.

“I want you to hurt me,” you nodded and grabbed his biceps, ready to dig your nails in them as he’d slide inside.

Your spent and overstimulated pussy was relaxed enough to welcome him but the burning sensation made your back arch and your eyes roll, you were sure your fingernails made his shoulders bleed but you did not care. The pain was overwhelming and mixed with pleasure, you felt as full as you could and yet he still had more and more to give you, sliding it inside slowly, inch by inch, with a raspy moan and his forehead pressed to yours.

“You’re so tight,” Feyd breathed out, “open your eyes,” he commanded and your eyes fluttered open to stare into his cold and intense gaze. “I want you to look at me when I fill you up with my son,” he added and you nodded, still too overwhelmed to speak but already getting used to his size as if your pussy was made for his cock.

Once you nodded, he started rutting into you with all his force without any warning. You dug your fingernails even deeper into his flesh and moaned out of pleasure as the spasms of pain travelled through your body. His moves were fast and rough, relentless; nearly automatic like he was a machine and not a human. With each stroke he was hitting a spot inside of you that was making you gasp and writhe underneath him, leaving you a drooling and whimpering mess. Feyd used one of his hands to grab your cheeks and squeeze them gently to shut you up before joining his lips with yours in a sloppy and possessive kiss. You could taste yourself on him and you moaned at the taste – it was sweet indeed from all the hormones you had been injected with. It was no wonder he got addicted already, you would get, too. In fact, you explored his mouth with the tip of your tongue in order to clean it off of your juices completely, greedily licking them away from him as you were letting out muffled moans into his mouth.

His hips were brutal and his mouth was aggressive but you wanted nothing else but this. Hearing the stories about his sexual appetite you had been scared but now you wanted to laugh at your old self. It was nothing to fear, it was something to anticipate.

The fact that the act was forbidden, that he was your husband’s young nephew and a rival of some sort, was making it even better. You were welcoming each of his rough thrusts with eagerness, hoping it would fill your already swollen womb. Your whole body was ready to take the seed and as much as you dreaded the idea of carrying your husband’s son under your heart, you found the idea of carrying Feyd-Rautha’s heir much more appealing. If he would be like his biological father, he’d be handsome and fearsome, psychotic and depraved. You’d see your lover in him – not your husband – and it was giving you satisfaction.

Feyd’s hands dropped to your breasts as he tore the fabric of your dress open to expose them for himself to squeeze and pull on your hard nipples. You broke the kiss and cupped his face to push it down to your neck where you needed his open-mouthed sloppy kisses and soft bites of his black teeth. He obeyed and then he moved his head even lower to give the same treatment to your breasts, occasionally accompanying your moans with his low grunts.

You could feel that your second peak was coming close and you wanted to make him finish, too, so you spoke up in a shaky, hazy voice.

“Fill me up, give me a son,” you pleaded in a raspy whisper. “I want it so bad, I want to swell with your baby.”

Feyd moved his head up once again and joined your lips in another kiss – this time it was messy with teeth clashing and uncontrollable moans as the movement of his hips became less steady. In a few short spasmodic thrusts he spilled his thick black cum inside of your pussy. The feeling of his hard cock filling you deep inside straight into your womb was enough to bring you to your second peak as well.

Once he was definitely finished, he broke the kiss between you two and moved up to slide out of you and hide his cock back into his pants. You whined at the empty feeling and watched him put his shirt back on while breathing heavily, still laying on the floor, exposed with your dress torn up and your hair a mess. Feeling like a whore and absolutely loving it.

“You will go to the medic tomorrow and tell him that he had to be mistaken and the seed had made its way inside of you,” he informed you oh-so-formally.

“You’re so sure of your success?” You asked.

“I am,” he leaned in to look at you. “Don’t worry, I shall still visit you at night whenever you invite me. I’m a dog at your command now,” he admitted shamelessly and you sat up, resting on your elbows to take a better look at him.

That fearsome warrior was completely under your spell and all you had to do was to let him taste your pussy. You laughed at him. He had so many other women, yet it was you who made him this way. You knew why. It was because you were a war prize, because you were from Paradise and because you were an off-world Shehzadi. But most importantly he wanted you because you were his uncle’s Baroness. He craved you to spite him.

“And if I command you to never touch me nor speak to me again? I have already used you for my own gain,” you teased and raised one of your feet to caress his thigh with it.

Feyd angrily grabbed your ankle and looked into your eyes intensely.

“Don’t think I will allow my child to be called his heir and watch myself being tossed aside as my son is remembered as Vladimir Harkonnen’s spawn,” he threatened.

You didn’t answer that, unsure about the meaning of his words. He gave you one last angry gaze and pushed your foot away before walking out of the room as if nothing had just happened.

Of course the medic did not believe your words but he pretended that he had. He couldn’t know that Feyd had told you about the fact that he was working for him so he just played along and informed the Baron that he had been mistaken and you were, in fact, finally pregnant with his son.

You had been hoping that once you’d be pregnant, your husband would leave you alone. But no, how wrong you had been. He was now keeping you around him nearly all the time as if you were a precious cargo. He invited many great leaders for official banquets and showed you off. He would sit you on his lap and keep his huge hand on your swollen abdomen proudly.

But you did not even mind that much – not when you knew that the child was not his. You would often catch Feyd-Rautha’s gaze somewhere in the room and give him a mysterious smile as he would give you a smirk. It was your secret, your revenge on The Baron Harkonnen.

And late at night he would creep inside your room and please you however you wanted him to, only to disappear before the first rays of the black sun would hit you, as if he was only a dream or a ghost. You would recognise his smell now everywhere, though. The feeling of his touch differed so much from others. There was nothing but pure and raw desire bonding you two together and yet, when you watched him in the gladiator arena next to your husband, you feared for his life and you would startle at the sight of his opponents attacking him.

You knew that if something or someone threatened your life, Feyd-Rautha would protect you and he was more physically capable of it than his uncle. You needed him alive to keep you and your son safe.

You admired his body and his strength, the amount of his devotion to you and his little revenge plan. He was magnetic and you almost felt lucky to be chosen by him even though it was you having the upper hand in this relationship.

Some nights he was not coming to you, too busy with other things or perhaps too exhausted after the training. You didn’t mind since your body needed a rest as well, especially now when you were six months pregnant already. That night was one of those lonely nights and you had problems with falling asleep, so when you were woken up abruptly in the early morning by your servants, you didn’t hide your annoyance.

“What is it?” You snapped and rubbed your eyes.

“It’s… It’s The Baron, my Lady,” the girl’s black Harkonnen eyes were widened out of fear.

“What about him?” You yawned and sat up, squinting your eyes at the sun creeping inside through the windows. Another servant was already opening the curtains.

“He… He drowned last night, my Lady,” the girl informed you and you froze.

“What?” You asked, blinking slowly, not sure if it wasn’t a dream. “What are you talking about? What do you mean drowned? My husband is dead?”

“Yes, Baroness… He drowned in his bathtub. My condolences,” she bowed down. “You are awaited by the lords for the council,” she informed you.

You were speechless as you allowed them to dress you up in a humble black dress of mourning. They did your hair up and put a light make up on your face to hide the dark bags underneath your eyes. Your mind was spinning with an endless train of thoughts.

One thing was certain – it had been no accident. It had to be Feyd-Rautha’s doing.

And as much as you were relieved to hear about The Baron’s death since he would never touch nor hurt you ever again… you were scared of what would happen now. There was no way the lords would allow you to rule as the widow. You were an off-world woman who had been married to their Baron as a war prize. You were a pet, nothing more. You only hoped to convince them to let your son be an heir as they call someone else a regent in his name. You couldn’t hope even for the regent title.

You were escorted to the council room by the guards and when you entered it, every man inside went silent. They bowed down and gave you their condolences but their eyes held no sympathy. Feyd-Rautha was not amongst them.

“Thank you, my lords,” you took a seat at the end of the long, black table. “It is a great tragedy but thankfully before his death, my husband has managed to produce an heir,” you brought up the topic immediately as the men looked at each other. “What is it?” You asked.

“The boy is not even born yet, my Lady,” one of the lords spoke up and pointed at Rabban. “If we announce Count Rabban the next Baron… or Feyd-Rautha as the late Baron wanted… Well, then they might produce their own heirs in the future. They are both young and capable.”

You got dizzy at those words and the reactions of other men. They seemed to hum in approval.

“So, I am to be tossed aside?” You asked, angrily. “I am carrying your late Baron’s son and you’re tossing me aside? The child inside me is a rightful heir,” you protested.

“And what would you want?” A different lord asked without even addressing you properly. You realised you had already lost. “Perhaps you want to be The Baroness Regent? Over my dead body I will let a woman – let alone from Pairi Daêza – to command me.”

“Enough!” The doors opened and Feyd-Rautha walked inside with his head held high and a playful smirk on his face. The way he confidently walked and scanned the room with his eyes was enough proof for you to know that it was him who had killed your husband. “The child is not yet born, that is a fair point,” he looked at the lord who had addressed the matter, “therefore at the time of my uncle’s death I was still the Na-Baron,” he added and you gasped softly. You couldn’t believe that he betrayed you. You chewed on the inside of your cheek at the realisation how stupid you had been to think you were playing on the same side.

You had never discussed any details of his plan with him. But you were carrying his son and you hoped he would protect you and the child. Apparently, he only tormented you for his own fun. You wanted to cry. You had lost everything.

Then he looked at you and his face softened a little at the sight of your trembling lip and sad eyes.

“I will wed my uncle’s widow to be my Baroness as the old levirate law says,” he announced and you froze out of shock. Levirate was a law about brothers but you guessed an uncle with such an important title counted as that, too.

“Respecting that law is not expected from you, my Lord Baron,” one of the lords informed him. “You can choose any other bride.”

“I can,” Feyd nodded and stood behind your chair as he rested his hand on your shoulder, “but I will not. I’m choosing Baroness (Y/N) Harkonnen to be my bride,” he announced as the lords looked at each other, as surprised as you were. Out of relief you reached your hand up to hold his and squeeze it in a grateful manner. “I also want to make it known,” Feyd raised his voice and everyone went silent as they looked at him, “that the child she is carrying is mine and not my late uncle’s, therefore her son is my heir.”

Your heart started to pound in your chest. The eyes of the lords were staring at you with such intensity that you were afraid they would make a hole inside of you. You swallowed thickly, knowing perfectly well that you just had to admit to your sins now.

“I confirm,” you nodded and they began to whisper between each other. Feyd’s hand squeezed yours.

“If you do not believe me nor The Baroness, the medic might make a public announcement of the paternity test but I do hope you will not humiliate your Baroness like that,” Feyd told them and they all went silent again.

“N-no, my lord Baron,” one of the lords stood up and bowed down in your direction. “We accept the child as yours and we will let others know.”

“I do not want this matter to be discussed nor questioned,” Feyd stated harshly.

“With all respect, brother,” Rabban spoke up suddenly and you laid your eyes on him, curious about what he was going to say, “the matter that has been discussed and questioned so far was our uncle’s fatherhood. The only thing we have found out today was the identity of the man our Baroness has laid with.”

“Rabban,” Feyd barked at him.

“It is quite alright,” you said. “I am rather relieved that I do not have to lie about it anymore as I am proud to carry Feyd-Rautha’s son under my heart,” you smiled at the lords. Some of them rolled their eyes but they still nodded their heads at you.

“Then it’s settled,” Feyd announced. “Go back to your chambers as we settle the details about my uncle’s funeral and the rest of the upcoming ceremonies, my Lady,” he looked down at you and you nodded. He helped you to stand up and placed a kiss upon the palm of your hand before taking your seat by the table.

You were taken back to your chambers accompanied by the guard as you caressed your womb gently, very content with the outcome of that council.

The excitement made you less tired so you just ordered breakfast. Once you were finishing it, the doors to your bedroom opened and Feyd-Rautha entered your chamber. For the first time by daylight, without making it a secret. You stood up from the table and approached him with a smile before you threw your hands around his neck.

“My darling,” you greeted him. “I have doubted you for a short while this morning, you know that?”

“Have I not told you that I would not allow my son to be remembered as his heir?” Feyd smiled at you and pulled you closer by your hips – as close as he could with your swollen womb between you two.

“But the lords were right. You do not have to marry me. I can give you a son, he can be your heir. There is no need to wed me,” you pointed out.

“Don’t you want it?” Feyd tilted his head.

“I’m asking do you want it,” you pointed out.

“I wanted to marry you a year ago when you came here, after I lifted up that veil. Why would I change my mind?” He put his hand on your abdomen and caressed it possessively. “You were supposed to be mine. You would have been mine if he hadn’t wanted to spite me.”

“Why do you want me?” You asked. “As a Baron you could have anyone. One of the Imperial Princesses even.”

“You’ve got what it takes, my Lady. You’re stubborn and strong. I’ve claimed you, you are mine,” he insisted.

You cupped his face and caressed his cheeks with your fingertips. It was hard to believe that he was yours now. Your husband. You would no longer dread these words.

“I will be a good wife to you, Feyd-Rautha,” you promised, genuinely. You did not want any games nor conflict. “I want only one thing from you.”

“And what is it?” He squinted his eyes at you, curiously.

“Safety,” you pleaded. “Of me and my family.”

“Your family is now my family,” he nodded and you sighed with relief. “I want a few things from you, too,” he added and you bit on your lower lip.

“What is it?” You asked.

“You will share your chambers with me,” he started and you nodded, “you will give me more heirs,” he added and you smiled at that, “and you will never mention him again,” he finished sternly.

“Never mention who?” You asked softly and leaned in to place a gentle kiss upon his lips. “There is only you and I.”

MASTERLIST

#dune imagine #dune fanfic #dune x reader #feyd rautha imagine #feyd rautha fanfic #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen imagine #feyd rautha harkonnen fanfic #lilysfiction #austin butler x reader

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ateliersss · 10 months ago

Text

Oh, take me back to The Night we met

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: 1936, eighty-eight years ago, you met him, the creature that changed your life in a way that goes beyond human imagination. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: Attempted Rape, SA, Murder, English isn't my first language Word Count: 10.162 After the Blooming Family series

⇨ Surprise! I hope you are surprised because I was starting to doubt myself. I actually believed I wouldn't even finish it this year. Anyways, I wrote the finishing 6.800 words in the last seven hours and my brain is mush. I hope it didn't affect the pace or logic of the plot. If so, I will edit it in a few days. Comments are always appreciated.

⇨ Also, if you tell me I wrote an unrealistic reaction to seeing a Yautja's face for the first time, let me tell you, you and I wouldn't be here if I hadn't reacted the same.

1936, Earth

"Thank you, ma'am." The soldier in front of you returned your identity card, the national animal printed on it facing you.

You returned his bright smile with a tight one. You were already used to identifying yourself to patrolling soldiers after work. It was for "safety measures", according to the government.

While you were busy putting away your identity card, the boy looked nervously over his shoulder to his comrade who nodded back to him, encouraging him to finally man up and just tell you what he had rehearsed a dozen times already to eventually make a move on you and ask you out.

"A-And thank you for your service, ma'am!" He blurted out, louder than he intended to, with a soft blush covering his cheeks.

You closed your purse and looked up at him in confusion.

The boy, you now noticed, had to be at least five years younger, probably around the same age as your younger brother, Emil. And you recognized him now, too. He was patrolling around this area two to three times a week.

At your confused face, he gestured a little awkwardly to your uniform, the white dress and blue-grey blouse underneath it. "D-Doctors and nurses are in desperate need in times like these a-and saving lives is a remarkable job!"

"Oh." You looked down at yourself before you pulled your coat tighter around your body and smiled softly at him. "If that's all, I'll take my leave now. Have a good night, gentlemen."

He visibly deflated at your words and mumbled a quick "Have a nice evening, ma'am." but you barely got half of it when you turned around to continue your way back home. The second your back was facing them, your smile dropped.

You hated it, hated this, this so-called life you and everyone around you had to live. Horrible and disgusting things were happening, but no one dared to speak up. You were all trapped, too scared to act, too afraid to do something.

And the people could feel it, the tension that was stretched so tautly that was just waiting to snap. The whole world was holding its breath, deferring that one moment when the match would ignite and reduce everything and everyone to rubble and ash.

Meanwhile, your brother was beaming with pride as he was now considered old enough to join the army and could finally fight for his country. On the other hand, your father, the only other family you still had in this world, was far more reluctant when it came to the plans of the government and his son's naive blindness of patriotism.

No one was talking about the horrifying wrongs your home country was doing for years now, but everybody knew, everybody saw. And if someone even dared to utter a word about it, they disappeared.

That didn't stop your father from ranting about it behind the closed doors of your home. He did so, of course, in Emil's absence. He was family, yes, but nowadays blind obedience could manipulate even a brother and son to go against his own kin.

You loved your brother dearly. He was a good guy and he only held a very strong pride for his home, his people, and his culture. But sadly that was the only thing he acknowledged around others. He denied the "rumors" of a genocide going on and overlooked unintentionally the more sinister motives of others in the world of politics and the military. He was truly and utterly blind, but you couldn't condemn him for that. Not really.

The Great War ended when Emil was three years old and you remembered him crying when your father told him he couldn't participate in it anymore. Ignorant of the horrors that happened at the Front, he and a few boys from around the neighborhood would play war and were disappointed when they were told it was over. The worst part was the elder men sitting on benches near their battlefield, telling them their people were the superior power since they had been able to hold their own against three opposing countries in the end.

You sighed and started to fumble around in your purse for your keys as you reached your destination. After a quick look into the mailbox — the usual evening newspaper and another flyer that encouraged men between the ages of twenty and forty-five to sign up for the military — you made your way up to the first floor and poked around in the lock with the key, a little distracted by the newspaper as you were searching the headlines for anything concerning. There was another report about a skinned man found hanging upside down from a church tower. Unbelievable. At times like this and there was a maniac running around, killing people in the most grotesque way for fun.

"I'm home!" You called into the dimly lit hallway, knowing your father was sitting in his usual spot in the living room.

After dropping your purse next to the wardrobe, toeing out of the white pumps, shrugging off the coat, and hanging it on the coat rack, you walked through the corridor and past five doors. The ones leading to the bathroom and the kitchen were open as always, just like the door of Emil's bedroom. Although it hadn't been inhabited for a few months now, you would always leave it open after cleaning. It was false reassurance, but that way it seemed as if he was still home.

"How was your day?" Your father asked gruffly from his spot on the wing chair, the morning newspaper still in his hand before it got replaced by the evening issue you handed to him with a kiss to his temple.

"It was…"

Screams.

Blood.

Wails of a newborn.

A cold body.

"…long."

"Mhm." Your father hummed, his eyes scanning the front page before turning it. "Hah! Sightings of another black cloud of smoke and the authorities tell the public another farmhouse burned down. Do they think we are stupid? Unbelievable these people! Think they will get away with it, hiding it from the public eye, and no one would notice!"

You weren't entirely sure if he had even listened to you, but you didn't care. You weren't very eager to start a conversation with him anyway.

"I'm in my room. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

Though you didn't expect a response, you waited a few seconds — maybe today he would ask if his son had finally sent a letter — before you turned around to retreat to your room.

Since your father had lost his legs in a bomb attack at a munitions factory where he had worked during the Great War, he had changed. A lot. Before, he was quite a gentle and jovial man who worked hard and never shied away from showing how much he loved his family. Nowadays, he was resentful and bitter towards everything happening around him.

It was exhausting, not only listening to his complaints day in and day out but also being nothing more than a maid and caregiver to him. You were the sole breadwinner in this house. You worked yourself to the bone in a business that was equally about life and death but gave you more grief than joy. At least it made the medical care of your father a little easier. The surgery, the medicine, and the wheelchair would have cost you a fortune.

When you would get off work, more would await you at home. Taking care of the household was your responsibility for nine years now since your father wasn't capable of doing it anymore. After the first week of dusting and sweeping, washing the dirty laundry and ironing the clean ones, going grocery shopping and cooking, as well as taking care of your father like washing him, helping him get to the toilet, and such, you cried yourself to sleep with the thought of quitting and running away.

But you didn't.

You were miserable, yes, but you stayed. You stayed with the hope of a better life in the future. Maybe you will be married to a nice man in a few years like your girlfriends already were. You had experience with men, sure, but none of them you would consider fit to be your husband.

In your bedroom, you quickly got rid of your uniform until you were only in your undergarments, a baby-blue silk panty that flowed around your mid-thighs and an uplift brassiere of the same fabric and color, both with a lacy hemstitched design. You were about to throw the white and grey-blue dress into your other dirty clothes when you noticed red speckles on the left sleeve.

Yes, the day had been long, too long for your taste, and when your shift did end, you felt hollow once more. You could still see her in that bed, screaming and crying.

Watching her, you had wondered if you would ever end up like her.

You shifted in your place, second-guessing before you finally turned and looked at your reflection in the mirror that occupied one corner of your bedroom. You hesitantly lifted your hands and placed them on your belly.

No. Your job showed you women struggle and in pain every day. You would never do that to yourself. Being a mother was not worth the probability of taking your last breath during labor, giving your own life while granting another to your child.

Today was another reminder of that.

The girl in the delivery room, Johanna, was sweet and lively. You met her occasionally on a monthly check-up when you assisted the doctor who took her into his care. She would tell you about her and her husband trying for this baby for years and how excited she was.

You bit the inside of your cheek when tears once again started to well up in your eyes when you thought of how helpless you had felt when you stood in that room. Your colleague, an older and more experienced woman, was holding the crying newborn in her arms. The doctor was doing his all to save the unsavable while Johanna's body got colder as the dark red spot grew bigger on the white linen of the bed.

Today had shown you once again that you would never let something like that happen to you.

"You have to incise into her abdomen."

Not ever.

"No!"

Not in a million years.

"No, Mi'ytiar… you have to, you have to."

You would never put someone else's life before yours, not even the one of your never-going-to-happen baby.

"Save our baby. Forget me… ju-just save our son… please."

Sighing, you got ready for bed. You were far too tired this evening to get anything done. The laundry had to wait until tomorrow and your father probably already had eaten, so there was no need to get to the store. For now, you needed to stop thinking.

A whole week passed and you had followed your everyday routine like every other day. Occasionally, when you walked past the room where Johanna had delivered her baby and made her husband a widower, you paused and stared. Instead of the freshly made bed and the stark white linen, you saw her dying as she bled out. You saw the doctor, yourself by his side and the nurse holding the baby at the foot of the bed.

You jumped when you felt a hand on your shoulder and you turned to see said nurse smiling pitifully at you.

"You are still there, right?" She asked softly, her eyes scanning your face.

You swallowed and nodded. "It's like that every time I come here. I don't know why. She's not the first I watched dying during childbirth."

The elderly woman patted your cheek and guided you away from the delivery room by the crook of your arm, pulling you away from the sorrowful abyss before you could drown any deeper in it.

"You liked her, that's why." She started, "I had a Johanna, too. A long, long time ago. Although she was a lot younger, she was just as excited to be a mother. Poor thing died just like her baby."

You gasped and now it was you who looked with pity at her. "Why?"

"The baby was stuck." The older nurse sighed, "She pushed and pushed and tore. By the time the doctor started to cut her open, she died of internal bleeding." She had to clear her throat before she continued, "The baby died with her. A little boy. He got himself tangled up in the umbilical cord."

You turned your gaze from her face down to the ground and watched your feet walk an unknown route. Swallowing down your tears, you forced yourself to concentrate on not stumbling over your own feet.

You did like Johanna. You had empathized with her, even though children would never be part of your life. She had just wanted a baby, a part of her and the man she loved united in one body, and all that she got was death. She hadn't deserved it. At least the thought that she might be together with her baby in heaven now, thanks to her belief in God, soothed your heart a little.

"Go home, (Y/N)." The elderly nurse interrupted your train of thought.

Looking up, you saw her holding up your purse and coat. Apparently, she had led you to the lounge where the doctors and nurses spent their lunchtime.

"But I still have six hours to go." You tried to argue but bit down your lower lip when she shook her head.

"If someone should ask for you, I will tell them you didn't feel well and that I sent you home. There are certain benefits as the head nurse." She winked at you, pushed your belongings into your hands, and shooed you in the direction of the exit.

"I promise I will feel better tomorrow." You called over your shoulder and waved at her, giving her one last smile before you shrugged on your coat and left.

Thirty-two minutes later, you got off the bus and turned around the corner into your street, your purse dangling back and forth on your wrist. With your extra five hours, maybe you could finally start that book on your bedside table if your dad wouldn't find any reason to turn your attention to him.

Feeling slightly more cheerful, you walked a little faster, already searching for the key. Like always, you checked the mailbox — nothing again — before you hopped up the one flight of stairs to your apartment, the sound of your heels on the wood filling the otherwise silent staircase.

The noise seemed to attract the woman living across from you because you barely reached the top of the stairs when she ripped her door open and stared at you with wide eyes.

You paused and looked at her in concern. "Mrs. Walter? Is everything okay?" You asked and carefully inched closer to her.

For several moments, you didn't get an answer. Only when you opened your mouth to ask her again did she slowly lift her trembling arm and point past you at something you could not see.

Strange. The only thing back there was your apartment door, so…

The slamming of Mrs. Walter's door barely reached your ears when you turned around. All you could hear was eerie silence, not Mrs. Walter quickly putting her distance between her and the door, not the dog barking from above you that got awakened by the slamming door, not the traffic noises outside.

The door that you diligently locked every morning before you got to work and unlocked every evening when you returned home hung on its hinges. In quick strides, you reached it and ripped off the note that was nailed into the wood under the peephole. Your eyes scanned over the words as you pushed the door open and entered the apartment.

A search was carried out here due to a tip-off of a conspiracy against the country and its people. All residents are requested to report immediately...

Tears clouded your view and made it impossible to make out the rest of the words. But there was no need to. You already knew what you needed to know. Your father was dead, no questions asked, no evidence to prove that he was innocent or guilty, no interference by the judiciary. He had dug his own grave since he started to badmouth and criticize the current sins committed by the government.

You slowly navigated your way through your destroyed home, your hands supporting yourself against the wall, careful not to get caught in something with your pumps. You had to duck under the big shelf close to the entrance of the living room. It was tilted to the side so that the upper part was now leaning against the other side of the wall. Everything that had ever been placed onto it — pictures, plants, certificates, and other little knick-knacks — was now scattered on the floor.

It got even worse in the living room. Everything had been turned upside down. Your father's chair was thrown to the side just like the couch and the coffee table. The books from the huge bookshelf that covered the length of the smallest wall in here were pulled out and tossed on the floor, pages ripped out and strewn on the floor. Pictures were taken from the walls and the glass crunched as you stepped over them. Dirt was covering the floor as if someone had been digging in the soil of the potted plants. The carpet was overturned, partly thrown onto the couch, and revealed the wooden floor it usually covered.

Your living room had been thoroughly searched and you doubted the rest of your home looked any different.

In a daze, you carelessly let your purse drop to the floor and shuffled to your bedroom. Opening the door, you were greeted with a view you had expected — your bed was tilted to the side, clothes from your closet were now scattered on the floor, and your mirror was lying face down on the floor.

When you saw the pictures of you and your family carelessly thrown into the corner, you couldn't hold the sob in any longer. You sank to your knees, curled into a ball, and cried to your heart's content with your eyes squeezed shut.

You lost your mother at a young age, lost your father for the first time after his accident, lost your brother to the country, and now lost your father for the second and final time. Now, you were wholly and utterly alone. Not for long, though. If you didn't come forward and turn yourself into a possible fair trial in the next sixteen hours, you would be taken just like your father and die the same way he did.

Your breakdown had been apparently so nerve-wracking and tiring that when you opened your eyes, it was dark inside your room and outside your window. Groggily, you propped yourself up and looked around, disappointedly ascertaining that you hadn't been dreaming at all. Your eyes scanned your room, still a little out of it, until you spotted your clock on the wall, surprisingly intact. 9:24 PM. Now you had less than ten hours left.

How would you spend your last ten hours in freedom? You didn't know, but you for sure wouldn't do it in here. You needed to leave.

As quick as you could you switched your nurse uniform to a skirt and your favorite blouse, fixed your make-up and your hair to look less like a mess and more like the respectable woman you usually were, and left the apartment after putting on your shoes, coat and grabbed your purse. At first, you strolled around with no real destination in mind, but the darker it got the higher the risk of being stopped by a patrolling soldier.

You had enough money with you to occupy yourself with a few drinks, so why not enjoy yourself, let a little loose? You never really got the chance to try it out. Your job unironically prevented you from unnecessarily damaging your liver and you had the responsibility to take care of your family. Your girlfriends always invited you on girl's night, but sadly, you had to decline almost every time, be it your father or another night shift forced upon you. They had another planned on the weekend in a few days, the first one in a very long time you would have had time for. Not anymore. When they would sit around a table and share the newest gossip, you had already started to rot away in a mass grave.

You entered the first, non-shady-looking bar and plopped down on one of the bar stools on the right. When the bartender finally took notice of you, all he needed to do was to take in your gloomy figure pitifully slumped in your seat to grab a glass and fill it with a brown liquid. No words were spoken — you didn't feel like it and he noticed that — as you grabbed the glass, tossed the liquor back, and placed the now empty glass back down. The alcohol, whatever it was, burned like hell and you couldn't help but cough, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. The bartender, meanwhile, wordlessly filled your glass again and without any hesitation, you emptied that one too.

You spend almost four hours like that. Losing count after your sixth shot, your head started to feel funny, like the world around you was spinning too fast. You mused what your life would have been like if your mother hadn't died when you were just nine years old, if your father hadn't lost his legs when you were seventeen, if your brother had chosen a normal job at your current age. You could have grown up like any normal girl, could have joined your friends more often to hang out, could have started going on dates again after your last boyfriend dumped you for neglecting him.

And what about your future? What about the man you wanted to marry in a few years? Every day, you daydreamed of someone who would just sweep you away in his arms and take you far, far away from here. There had to be a place somewhere where you could live your life in peace without a brewing war and the constant fear of death. You waited for someone who would make your life easier than it currently was, who would take the weight from your shoulders and not add some more on them every single day. Someone who loved you passionately and would spoil you after nine years of labor where you worked yourself to the bone. Someone who would take charge and let you rest when you needed it. Someone who was the other half of your soul that hopelessly awaited to be rejoined with its counterpart.

When you reached out to your glass for the nth time, a hand softly clasped your wrist. Looking up, you saw the bartender giving you the same pitiful look you had received for God knows how often today, from your colleague at the hospital to some of the other patrons who entered and left the bar during the last few hours.

"I think you should get home." He said firmly and pulled his hand away.

No longer being hindered, you lifted the glass up to your lips and emptied it in one go. "I no longer have a home." You dully answered, your speech a little slurred.

"We close in a few minutes." He tried another route, anything to get you to stop drinking.

He may not be interested in what personal business you have to drink yourself under the table, but even he wouldn't let a young woman like you do that to herself.

"Fine." You mumbled, grabbed your purse, and searched for the money that was stored somewhere in there. You hummed when you finally found it and without looking at it, you dropped it down on the counter. "Here."

You held onto the sleek surface of the bar to lift yourself up and from your seat, supporting your whole weight with one hand while you needed several attempts to grab your coat. Not bothering to put it on, you turned to leave and even you were surprised that you could still walk in a (more or less) straight line.

"Hey, you paid too much!" The bartender called from behind you.

Not bothering to stop or turn around, you simply proclaimed, "Keep it. Where I go I won't need it." and pushed the entrance door open.

Outside, you tilted your head up, closed your eyes, and took a deep breath of the cool night air. It instantly freshened you up and cleared your mind a little. Looking left and right along the sidewalk, you decided to take the left and began strolling wherever it was taking you, once again with no actual destination in mind. You had no idea what time it was, but you guessed you had around five or six hours left. If you're lucky and didn't get held up by some patrols, you could visit the park one last time where your parents, Emil and you would hold a picnic every summer when you were younger. It would only take you ten minutes on foot. It wouldn't hurt to visit the place that held so many good childhood memories and bask in them in your final hours.

You were walking for a mere two minutes when you heard a whistle from your right. Halting your steps, you turned your head to the side and looked over to the source. There, on the other side of the street, were two men sitting on a bench and two standing around them. One was holding a beer bottle while the others were smoking their cigarettes.

"Hey, pretty lady." The one with the beer bottle called over to you and lifted it to toast to you.

You quickly snapped your head back forward and continued on your way, your strides bigger and faster to create as much distance between you and them as possible.

When you thought you were safe, you felt a hand clasping your wrist whose owner pulled you back and against his strong chest.

"Hey, hey, hey." The voice of the man with the beer bottle breathed against your ear, sending an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. "Don't be shy. We were just celebrating my friend's promotion." To your horror, he put his hands on your hips and turned you both to his three companions who had seemingly followed him, all of them wearing leering grins. "Why don't you join us, hm? We could need a little entertainment." He murmured against your neck, his breath reeking of alcohol.

Before he could place his lips anywhere close to your skin, you struggled out of his grip and stumbled a few steps away from him. "I-I'm sorry, but I need to go home. I'm already late."

The man who seemed to be the leader of the bunch stepped closer to you, smirking when you accidentally walked right into one of his friends. The guy immediately held you against him, keeping you in place.

"I think you could spare a couple of minutes." The leader said firmly and reached for your blouse.

Fear seemed to be a great way to quickly sober one up because the next thing you did was stomp down on the foot of the man that was holding you, your heel hitting his toe perfectly, causing him to let you go with a cry in pain and a curse. Next, you rammed your knee into the crotch of the man in front of you and when his body doubled over, you pushed him to the side and bolted down the sidewalk.

Not daring to look back, you sprinted as fast as you could, but the alcohol made it hard to keep balance, not to mention the nausea that bubbled up in your stomach. But you ignored it and tried to keep it down when you heard their calls from behind you, coming closer and closer.

This was not how you wanted to spend your last night, this was not how you imagined it. Tears clouded your view and you narrowly escaped the grabby hand of whatever guy that was closest to you when you ducked down and sharply took a left turn into an alley.

Unbeknownst to you, you were being watched.

The next thing you felt was hard concrete as you fell forward when a heavyweight collided with your back. You cried out in pain when you hit your head, then hysterically screamed in panic when you felt hands on your skirt and you started kicking around, not caring if you hit something or not. You heard a grunt when your heel finally made contact with the shoulder of one of them, but you barely had time to bask in your little victory when a punch to your face almost knocked you out cold. Your body went instantly slack, a long-winded groan leaving your mouth.

"Move your ass and hold her down." The voice of the leader sounded from somewhere above you. "And turn her around. I like to watch their face when they give up."

Hands turned you on your back as your screams and cries accompanied your attempts to fight their hands off.

"No… please no." You begged as your wrists were pinned above your head by a pair of rough hands. "No!" You screamed louder, in a high-pitched, panicking voice when your blouse was ripped open, your brassiere following suit, and your chest got groped by a calloused hand.

You squeezed your eyes shut when you felt an eager mouth around your nipple, harshly sucking on it while your breasts were still in a painfully hard grasp. You tried to gather your last strength, the drinks earlier and then the hit to your head from the fall tempted you to just fall unconscious, but you bucked your body up in hopes you could throw whoever was above you off of you.

Only you couldn't move. Someone was straddling your thighs, hindering you from moving.

You finally forced yourself to open your eyes and the blurry image of the leader pushing up your skirt presented itself in front of you.

"Stop, please! Help!" You started screaming again, causing the leader to sigh in annoyance.

"Could you please shut her up, for fuck's sake? I'm trying to enjoy myself here." He growled at the guy who was holding your hands down, his patience growing thinner with every passing moment he wasn't able to force himself inside you. "When I'm done with her, you get what's left of her."

"No, no, no..." You wailed when you heard the clinking of his belt and a zipper being opened, but you soon got silenced when a palm pressed down on your mouth.

Rather than keep watching him, you closed your eyes in defeat, now only feeling how he moved closer to your crotch, his fingers pushing your underwear aside, and positioned himself against your entrance.

A dull thud behind your attackers stilled them for a moment, but a raging roar got them to whip around. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, not wanting to see whatever feral animal was going to maul you and those men.

A scream, something wet splashing on you and something, someone, heavy landing on top of you got you to finally open your eyes again. You stared right into a gaping hole where the head of a person normally should be. Maybe it was the shock of almost ending up left on the ground in this alley, covered in bruises, blood and bodily fluids after they were done with you, that kept you from screaming.

In a daze, you pushed the corpse off of you and looked down at your body. It was covered in blood, parts of a splattered brain, and white fragments that had been the skull of the leader of the group. His head had burst into pieces. No animal could have done that and no human either. There was no weapon on earth with that much destructive power, so what…

With slow eyes, you looked up from your soiled legs. The guy now lying dead next to you had been obscuring the view of a large creature standing no more than three meters across from you.

Whatever it was, it seemed livid. Its body was heaving with wrathful breaths and its long fingers were twitching, clenching into fists before relaxing them again. Its massive form was hidden by darkness and you could barely make out its silhouette.

It felt like an eternity with you just staring at the creature and it (probably) staring right back. The other assaulters, two of whom had fallen to the ground in shock with the sudden attack on their leader, hadn't dared to move a muscle. Maybe they were in a trance just as you were, not for the same reason, of course.

"H-Hey!" The fourth guy squeaked, breaking the tension that seemed to suffocate the whole alley. "Wha-"

In a practiced, seemingly effortless movement, the creature whipped out its arm, and something silvery shot out of the darkness. It wrapped around the throat of the man, choking him and sending him to his knees. He was clawing his neck and tried to remove what seemed to be a whip made out of sleek silver and grey material.

You watched him as he desperately tried to free himself and blood started to flow from where the whip was wrapped around his neck down to his shirt, turning the light blue fabric deep red. Your eyes then traveled along the bladed chain, you now noticed, to the other end of it, and found the large creature moving towards you.

If you would have been able to make a sound, you would have, but you were still too out of it that no noise escaped your bloody lips when you were finally able to distinguish your savior.

It was indeed huge, a massive body that was dwarfing any human being you could think of. Its appearance was bizarre. Its feet and calves up to its knees were in unusual boots made out of metal instead of leather with an interesting design. You wondered if it was the skin of the creature or if it was wearing a net-like cloth that was visible on every body part that wasn't hidden beneath armor like the chest plate that bled over into a full sleeve of its arm. It was covering the left side of its chest but not enough to conceal a rather fit upper body. You found yourself staring a lot longer at the well-defined, almost sculpted abs of it. It was no doubt a male.

As you were eyeing the creature up, he yanked on the whip. You were only aware of a dull thud when the bladed chain cut off the head of the man who had been in its hold.

You didn't register when more blood sprinkled on you as you were too busy trying to imagine a face underneath that strange mask. With his green, brownish, and beige reptilian skin, the long black tendrils sprouting from the head, the long claws, and the animalistic posture, he was, without a doubt, not human.

An arm wrapping around your throat from behind, preventing you from breathing evenly, brought you back to reality. You immediately put up a fight, scratching it and pulling on the arm in hopes he would let go.

It was one of the attackers that had fallen to the ground when the creature had appeared. He must have scrambled over to you when his last companion was foolishly enough to run up to the murderous beast, trying to do something quite laughable, only to be impaled by a spear and was now hanging on the wall to the right like he was a portrait above a chimney, the spear rammed through the brick of the apartment building.

The idiot behind you thought the creature would let him go if he was holding you hostage as if he wasn't going to kill the both of you just like his buddies. So foolish, you internally sighed.

"S-S-Stop! I'm warning you!" He screamed at the towering figure which was closing in on you. "I will… I will kill her!"

The creature stopped a few steps away from you and reached behind his back. Quicker than your eyes could keep up, his hand shot forward and he threw something of the size of an orange at the man.

Yelling, the man loosened his grip, his instincts kicking in to fight against whatever was sticking to his forehead. In his struggle, he fell on his back and started rolling around on the floor when the little device made a strange wiring noise. His body went stock still when he was engulfed in a net, restraining him. Then the man screamed bloody murder when the wiring noise grew louder and the device pulled the net tighter around him.

You turned to him, only to see the strings cutting into his skin, drawing blood, until only pieces of his body were left of him, leaving him unidentifiable to whoever would find him and his friends.

Now, it was only you in that alley. You, the beast that saved you and the bloody massacre, turning the place into an image of horror.

You were going to get sick if you stared at what had been a living and breathing human once any longer. Rather than wanting to face the creature when it was going to kill you, you turned back around and then startled back. Said beast was crouching in front of you, the head cocked to the side.

He reached out a clawed hand and you closed your eyes, preparing yourself for whatever gruesome death he had planned for you. You thought back to everything you had achieved in your life, every person that was still dear to you, said goodbye to every place you loved to visit, to the movie you had wanted to watch in a week with a friend, to the unread book on your bedside table and every dream you had wanted fulfill — you had actually planned to do that in a few hours. At least he was going to give you a quick death and not whatever the authorities had done to your father.

Something poked your cheek.

Your eyes snapped open and you were met with a closer view of the strange mask covering the creature's face. His hand was outstretched and a finger was prodding your skin. A strange noise was coming from behind the mask, something you could only describe as a rumbling purr.

You stayed still, afraid if you would only move a muscle, it would set the creature off and let him drag his clawed finger up to your temple where a trail of blood had started to run from the wound you got from the fall. You hissed in pain when the pad of his thumb stroked — probably unintentionally hard — over your lower lip, the rough skin touching where it was busted. He pulled its thumb away only to replace it with the back of his pointer and middle finger to caress your jaw and down to your throat. The touch caused you to swallow which he most likely could feel. Only when you felt the scaly sensation on your skin dip too deep, too far beneath the ripped remains of your blouse, you gripped his wrist.

The creature's head snapped up where it had followed his exploration. You flinched back at the sudden movement and quickly loosened your hold on his wrist, pulling it away like you had burnt yourself.

"I'm sorry." You whispered, your voice hoarse.

What if you had just signed your death? What if you touching him like that had triggered him? What if he thought you were a threat now? What if he thought of it as highly offensive? What if he was going to kill you now? What if-

A low thump caused you to flinch when he hit the left side of his chest with his right fist. With parted lips, you looked from his fist up to his masked face and then back again, confused, both at the gesture and the lack of aggression towards you. Almost as if he could understand the look on your face, he repeated the action with a little more determination after he inched closer to you. You were more focused on his sudden closeness, daring not to move back, but you hastily turned your gaze down to his fist. It was a little hard to concentrate on what he was trying to tell you after the vast change of demeanor — from murdering in cold blood to trying to… communicate with you?

"You?" You tried hesitantly.

It really was your best guess on what he could mean.

A soft growl reached your ears from underneath his mask, making you tense up but relaxed in relief the second his attention turned to his forearm. You watched in curiosity as his clawed pointer finger ghosted over the armor-like wristband that started flashing in a bright red and made strange beeping noises like when a caller on the other line hung up before you could. Your mouth opened without you even noticing. You had never seen something like it, probably no one ever had. How was it functioning without cables like your telephone and radio did?

"Are you telling me you are married?"

You jumped back a little when a male voice chimed from his wristband.

"To a cup of tea, I will never say no."

"I can't believe you put the jar in the oven!"

You looked at him in astonishment as more voices sounded from his forearm. Human voices.

He kept repeating the same three sentences, but they seemed to get shorter with every replay.

“-telling me you are… telling me… me.”

"-a cup of tea… tea."

“-you put the jar in the… you put the jar… the jar… jar.”

He seemed to be satisfied as he let out a deep, low-pitched chirp before he played the cut and put together word snippets to you, his head facing you now.

“Me-tea-jar.” He hit his chest once again before playing the word again. “Me-tea-jar.”

"Meetja?" You tried the word, tried how it felt on your tongue.

He let out a deep grumble before he played the same word again and leaned even closer to you.

“Me-tea-jar.”

"M-Meetiar. Mi'ytiar."

With his head slightly cocked to the side, he tilted it forward in a one-movement nod as if to say, "Now you got it." and his fist hit his chest one last time.

"You. Mi'ytiar. T-That's your name?" You asked and hoped you put the puzzle pieces together correctly.

Another nod before he pointed at you.

"Oh." You softly said, shifted your hips slightly, and nervously placed a hand on your own chest. “(Y/N). I'm (Y/N)."

“(Y/N).” Your voice sounded from his forearm when he touched his wristband. “(Y/N).”

You couldn't help the small smile and you nodded. "Yes. (Y/N)."

The creature — Mi'ytiar — lowly grumbled in appreciation and you breathed out the air you had been holding in your lungs with a laugh. You couldn't believe you talked, more or less, to something that undoubtedly didn't belong on earth while you were surrounded by death after being spared from something that would have scarred you for life just because you had been out drinking to have one last night in freedom until you would follow your father in an early grave. Your life really had taken a strange turn in just a few hours.

"What are you?" You asked him and tilted your head to the side.

"Hunter." He communicated with the help of his wristband.

"Where do you come from?"

"Sky."

"Sky." You repeated the child's voice and looked up.

So he came from the sky. You wondered if he meant the clouds or maybe the moon. It could be the stars for all you knew. Was he the only one living there, or were there more? Maybe one like him lived on each star the night sky had to offer.

As you were looking up in thought, Mi'ytiar took his time to admire you. You were, what you humans would use, adorable. He didn't hunt humans very often as they weren't much of a challenge, but sometimes he would visit earth out of curiosity. Your kind was interesting and his ancestors had been quite fond of them when they used them to breed their prey centuries ago. Humans have continuously developed from then to now, so it was fascinating to watch.

Like he watched you now. He admired your wide eyes, the curve of your nose, and your rosy cheeks that displayed the dried tear streaks of panic and fear. He admired the shape of your lips and the cut that had caused you pain when he touched it. He admired your shiny hair that had once been pulled up in a neat bun but was now hanging loosely and messily around your face, framing it like it was a piece of art. He admired your small, shaking hands that were desperately holding the ripped-open blouse together, protecting your modesty and the naked skin of your trembling shoulders when the fabric had slipped down to your biceps. You had been so incredibly warm and soft when he had touched what you were hiding now.

A quiet hiss got you to look back at him and you watched with uncertainty as his fingers first pulled on the one tube that was connected to his mask and then the other before he removed it anxiously slow. You mentally prepared yourself for the most horrific sight of your life, but when the top half of his face was laid bare, you sucked in a breath. It wasn't the foreign shape of his head, the texture of his skin, or the spiky triangle-shaped bumps that circled the sides and the back of his head like a crown, clearly dividing where the roots of his hair ended and his face started. It was his eyes, though an abnormal orange, that was salient and captivating you. They didn't look like what your wildest fantasies had to offer, but they somewhat seemed almost human — a black pupil surrounded by an orange iris. And not just any orange. It was the kind of orange that stretched across the sky at every sunrise and sunset. The only difference you spotted from your own eyes was that he had a black sclera instead of a white one.

You would have gotten lost in them if he hadn't removed the mask fully, so his lower face was showing too. You wouldn't exactly describe it as terrifying, but the sight of his mouth was, to say it simply, unnerving. It was hidden behind four tusks that represented his mandibles. You were fascinated when he suddenly made a clicking noise but were taken aback when he extended the fleshy texture to reveal two rows of teeth. It was like he had two jaws, one when the mandibles were retracted to his face and one when they were extended and showed his actual mouth. His upper jaw held three teeth with two larger fangs on each side, his lower jaw held the same amount only were they a little thinner, so his fangs wouldn't hinder his mouth from closing.

Even after the initial shock subsided, you wouldn't exactly use the word pretty, but there was something about him. Thrilling and particular, astounding and intriguing, but also alluring.

The longer you looked at him, at Mi'ytiar, the more accustomed you got to his appearance.

Another clicking sound reached your ears and you stopped mapping his features with your eyes, only now realizing how he looked down at you with his head tilted to the side. When you mumbled his name, almost as if it took all your courage, he straightened up and his eyes snapped to your hand that had loosened its grip on your blouse. He followed its movement, getting closer to his face, and when you turned your hand so your palm was facing him, his own hand reacted fast and grabbed your delicate wrist.

Bad idea, real bad idea, you thought. He wasn't exactly hurting you, but his grip wasn't exactly soft.

Instead of tugging against his hold in an attempt to free yourself that would obliviously fail, you let your arm go slack. Instead of panicking, you remained calm. Instead of screaming at him to let you go, you kept your mouth shut and waited for his next move. If you triggered him in any way, he would surely kill you.

Mi'ytiar, on the other hand, was amazed by you and in awe. He wouldn't be the first Yautja to be enthralled with a human in this kind of way, sure, but he hadn't expected to be one of them one day. You were extraordinary in the way you looked at him, didn't mind the proximity he had put you in, and apparently seemed to seek for it.

Contrary to what you believed, he pulled your hand closer to his face by the wrist, causing you to move from your side-sit on the floor to get on your knees. Your lips parted in surprise when he pulled his mandibles in and he himself brought your hand up to his cheek.

The sensation underneath your touch was unusual and new. His cheek wasn't like that of a human when you would press the fat until you could feel the jaw bone. It was springy, considering it was only a fleshy layer that covered his mouth. You moved your hand down to his outer jaw, which consisted of his mandible, and followed its length with your palm. You could feel the firm muscle and bone and gave it a gentle, experimental squeeze. Almost automatically, he made a soft purring noise like that one of a cat and you blushed at the possibility that he was enjoying the caress.

You, of course, had no idea that you were touching a highly sensitive part of his anatomy and would be alive to tell the tale afterward.

Just as you were curious about him, he was eager to explore you as well. Carefully, he reached out and through the ripped-open front of your blouse. Seconds later, his palm made contact with your stomach and he could feel how you tensed up. He looked up into your eyes, but when he found nothing that indicated that you despised his touch, his hand ran along to your waist and down to your hip, his thumb absentmindedly stroking your belly. It was strange how you could feel his thumb near your navel and, at the same time, his other fingers on your lower back, taking the width of your hip like it was nothing.

The both of you were too busy in your explorations that you had grown ignorant to your surroundings, so when a scream filled the previously quiet alley, you grabbed his extended arm, not to push it away but to hold onto it in panic, while Mi'ytiar whirled his head around to the two outlines standing near the street at the end of the alley. Your body was hidden by his massive one, so it looked like a monster was kneeling among his freshly killed victims, basking in the glory of his crime.

Mi'ytiar's mandibles flared and the guttural roar that left his lungs made you cling to him in fear. Not of him, but the consequences that you would have to face if those who had stumbled upon this scene without context would call for the patrolling soldiers. You heard more screams and hastily retreating footsteps as the couple ran as if their lives depended on it.

Large hands grabbed you by the waist and hoisted you up on his shoulder, causing you to squeal in surprise, and you had barely time to hold onto him before he started climbing up the metal scaffolding of the balconies of the apartment building, jumping up and landing on the roof. With an arm secure around your waist, he jumped and ran further and further away.

And you let him.

2024, Yautja Prime

"What you smiling for?"

And all of a sudden, those purred words were taking you from your past life to your current one. You hadn't even noticed you had stopped drawing random figures and forms on Mi'tyiar's naked chest. At some point, you had started daydreaming with that far-away look in your eyes and a smile slowly making its way on your lips as you were lying on him, between his legs.

"Just thought of the night we met." You drawled lazily and rubbed your cheek against his reptilian-like skin. "My hero in shining alien amour."

"My amour does not shine."

Now you had to laugh. Sometimes, you couldn't help yourself when he was so bluntly clueless. Humans and their analogies were oh-so confusing.

"It's a human saying, my love." You explained as you crossed your arms on his wide chest and rested your chin on them. "A male who saves a female from danger. A male who would sacrifice himself so the female can get away without harm."

Mi'ytiar reached towards your face and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheek before he dragged it over your lower lip. You were dreamingly looking up at him, basking in his loving touch. You were placing your hand on his and turned your head to the side so you could pepper his palm with light kisses.

He couldn't help his body's reaction, he just couldn't. He was starved of your touch.

You suddenly stopped your sweet kisses when you felt something big poking your stomach. You looked down, although you could only see how your breasts were pressed against him, before you looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You are insatiable." You smirked and hoisted yourself up after placing one last kiss between his pecs.

You straddled his midriff but left enough space between you and him so you could reach underneath your body and grab his semi-hard cock. Even at this size, you had a little trouble fully embracing it and getting your fingertips to touch.

You hissed when you felt the familiar sting of his sharp mandibles and teeth digging into your skin. You tilted your head to the side and offered him more access. Mi'ytiar let out a feral growl when your blood finally hit his tongue. He relished in it, tasting so sweet, just like the rest of you.

Grasping your hips with both of his hands, his claws scratching your delicate skin, he pushed them down to his crotch.

He needed you again, needed to be so deep inside you, so he could see the bulge of his cock forming in your tummy. Just the thought of it made his hips snap up, barely missing your entrance and dragging his cock through your sopping wet folds that were covered with your combined releases from your last mating moments ago. It elicited a whiny moan and a wiggle of your hips.

"Stop teasing, tanhì. Put it in." You groaned and started rubbing yourself up and down his rock-hard cock, coating it with your mixed cum that was still leaking from your hole.

Mi'ytiar wrapped a large arm around you and started to get up, his other arm supporting himself to manhandle you on your back to be on top. The second your hazy mind registered what he was doing, you placed both of your hands on his chest and pushed him back down. You preened when his body immediately went slack, allowing you to do as you pleased with him.

He was staring up at you with flashing eyes. You didn't take the lead very often, preferring it to be dominated by your mate, but when you did, he was gladly giving you the power you wanted.

The first time you had tried to be on top, it had gone from steamy to ugly pretty quickly. You had been on your back when you tried to push him and switch your position, but since he had been unmovable like a rock, you had untangled yourself from him and told him to lie back. You were straddling his hips, humping his hardening cock for exactly thirty seconds before he flipped you over and on your back again. You had then mewled and tried to push him back once more, causing him to growl. For your attitude, he bit roughly into your throat, hoping it would keep you submissive. You let out a cry and hit his chest with both of your fists. This time, Mi'ytiar showed you his displeasure more vocally when he slammed his flat hands next to both sides of your head and roared right into your face. Safe to say, it scared the living daylights out of you and caused you to escape his caging arms. He, of course, followed you quickly and tried to amend his outburst with purrs and snuggles rather than words.

The next time you were on top, he vehemently focused on staying seated on the edge of your nest with you on his lap as you rode him with his helping hands on your hips. His eyes strayed from the spot where his cock was disappearing inside of you, to the bulge in your stomach that grew and shrunk with every movement, to your bouncing breasts, to your pleasure-contorted face.

After that, he couldn't get enough of you being on top.

The same was the case now as you slowly inserted his throbbing cock into your-

A wail broke the sensual atmosphere, causing the both of you to jerk your heads to the doorway connecting the room to the rest of your home. With your maternal instincts kicking in, you practically jumped up from your mate, his half-inside cock slipping from your tight heat, and ran to the room where the sound was coming from.

Mi'ytiar slumped back with a displeased grunt. He loved his pup dearly, truly he did, but he hadn't been able to mate with you for an eternity — five months, double the time the healer had advised you to keep from being intimate with each other after the pregnancy because a certain someone had been overly cautious with you — and his cock throbbed painfully at that sorrowful thought.

He got up from the nest and followed the direction you had run off to. Your five-month-old pup was sleeping alone in his room for only a short part of his life. Before that, his crib had been standing next to the nest in your room, quickly accessible and in reach should he need any sort of attention. Now, he was sleeping in his big brother's former nursery, which you had lovingly prepared when you had been pregnant with Akail, your first pup.

Mi'ytiar watched you standing in front of the crib in the middle of the room, your back to him, as you rocked the whiny pup in your arms. The wholesome thoughts of his beautiful mate taking such good care of his youngling quickly turned into an animalistic need to breed you once more when his eyes trailed over your curves that had gotten bigger after bearing his second son. They fixed on your legs where trails of semen were running down your skin from between your inner thighs.

He was faster by your side than you would expect from a being of his size. He pressed his bare body against your own, hands on your hips pulling you closer, his cock digging into your back. Mi'ytiar bent down to snuggle his face into the crook of your neck, purring lowly.

"He was just hungry." You whispered as you watched your pup falling back to sleep.

Bending over, you placed your little one back into his crib, careful not to disturb him. You had to bite your lip when you felt Mi'ytiar pull you back against his crotch to rub himself against your ass. All you needed to do was push your ass back into him for him to grab you, throw you over his shoulder and turn to leave your son's nursery.

Giggling, you looked back to the pup's crib and whispered, "Dream of the stars, my little Toyah." before you got carried back to your nest.

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xmpsrrr · 2 months ago

Text

Second guessing

inspired by the song “Love me not” by Raevyn Laene

(bakugo x reader)

The first time Bakugo said he loved you, it had been reckless.

A shout in the heat of an argument.

You were crying. He was furious. And the words exploded out of him like a grenade.

“I fucking love you, you idiot!”

You had frozen.

He had too.

Neither of you said anything after that.

Not really.

Not about that.

You both pretended it hadn’t happened — like pretending made it easier to breathe.

Like pretending made it real.

But pretending stopped working when the doubts started to creep in — eating you from the inside out.

Tonight, the apartment was too quiet.

You sat outside on the small balcony, the city’s lights bleeding into a thousand blurred stars. Bakugo’s hoodie was draped around you — oversized, heavy, smelling like him. But it didn’t stop the cold creeping under your skin.

You were tired.

Tired of wondering if he really meant it.

Tired of feeling like you were waiting for him to wake up one morning, realize he could do better, and walk away.

You heard the glass door slide open behind you. Heavy boots against the floor.

Bakugo didn’t say anything at first.

Just stood there, watching you.

“You’re freezin’, dumbass,” he muttered eventually, stepping closer. His voice was rough, frustrated — but you heard the thread of concern beneath it.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

The silence stretched thin, painful.

Finally, he dropped down beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him against your side.

“You’re actin’ weird,” he said.

Still, you stayed quiet.

“You mad at me?” His voice was low now. Uncertain.

That was the worst part.

Bakugo Katsuki — who could fight entire armies without flinching — sounded scared to ask.

You shook your head, pulling the hoodie tighter around you. “No. I just…”

The words caught. You forced them out anyway.

“I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to.”

Bakugo’s whole body tensed beside you.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

You swallowed hard, fighting the burning behind your eyes.

“You don’t have to love me just because you said it once,” you whispered. “You don’t have to pretend.”

There was a sharp intake of breath — like you’d stabbed him.

You finally turned to look at him.

Bakugo’s face wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t annoyed.

It was wrecked.

“You think I’m fakin’ this shit?” he said, voice cracking at the edges. “You think I’d waste my goddamn time?”

You flinched. He saw it. His face crumpled even more.

“Shit. No, I…” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots like he needed the pain to ground himself. “I’m just—”

He cursed under his breath.

“I ain’t good at this.”

You waited, chest aching, every second stretching endlessly.

Finally, he spoke again. Softer.

Raw.

“When I was a kid,” he said, staring down at his hands, “everybody told me I was gonna be the best. Strongest. Perfect.” He gave a broken laugh. “And I believed ’em. Thought… if I was perfect, nobody could leave me. Nobody could… get tired of me.”

He swallowed thickly. His voice got quieter.

“But they still did. Friends. People I cared about. People who… mattered.”

Your heart twisted painfully. You reached out, your fingers brushing over his knuckles — a silent I’m here.

Bakugo flinched again — but didn’t pull away.

“I got it stuck in my fuckin’ head,” he rasped, “that no matter how strong I got, it wouldn’t be enough. I’d still lose the people I…” His voice broke for real this time. “People I loved.”

You felt your throat close up.

“And then you,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You show up. You see all the shitty parts. The temper. The pride. The fuckin’ ugly, broken pieces — and you stay.”

He finally looked up at you, and god — his eyes. They were red, furious, desperate.

“I don’t know how to trust that.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“You don’t have to be perfect, Katsuki,” you said, voice thick. “You never did.”

He exhaled a broken laugh — part disbelief, part relief.

“I love you,” he said, voice shaking. “Not ’cause I have to. Not ’cause I’m scared. Not ’cause I’m lonely.”

He leaned in, forehead pressing to yours, rough hands cradling your face like you were something precious.

“I love you ’cause you make me wanna be better,” he breathed. “Not for anyone else. For you.”

You clutched his hoodie tight around you, sobbing quietly.

“And I’m scared as fuck,” Bakugo admitted, voice hoarse. “But I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’re stuck with me, you hear me?”

You nodded fiercely, unable to speak.

Bakugo kissed you then — fierce, desperate, like he was staking his claim. Like he needed you to believe it.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, tasting the salt of your shared fear, your shared hope.

When you finally pulled back, he was still holding you like he never planned to let go.

“You believe me now, dumbass?” he muttered against your hair.

You laughed through your tears, burying your face in his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I believe you.”

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t second-guessing anything.

hope u guys enjoyed, i love this song.

#bakugo katuski #katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugo x yn #bakugou katsuki #bhna #mha #mha bakugou

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ooffmlsorry · 2 months ago

Text

Loving Quirks

A/N: Law's got an attack dog s/o

Law x gn!reader

Law tries to ignore the headache forming. How long has he been stuck with Straw Hat and Kid...hours? Days? Weeks? Months? The only answer is too long.

"Where the hell did Kid go?" Law says through his teeth. He paries an enemy attack, and then his sword lances through them. "It's like wrangling monkeys with those two."

"That's an insult to monkeys," You says bitterly. Sweat burns in your eyes and your mouth tastes like ash. Something definitely feels broken but it's fine. Whatever. "Where's Luffy!?"

"No idea."

You scoff, "fantastic."

As if they could sense your conversation, Luffy's red blur passes you. The gust of air and sheer power knocks you to the dirt below you.

"Watch it Straw Hat!" Law yells after him. If you didn't have a mouth full of dirt you'd find Law's anger on your behalf sweet. The pain in your definitely broken rib sharpens.

"Sorry, Y/N!" Luffy calls back belatedly.

"Okay." You dust yourself off and pick up your staff again. "This is getting ridiculous."

"What's the point in bringing your honey if you aren't going to put on a show!!" Kid yells at Law. His rough laugh, like he's swallowed something jagged, follows. Kid turns to your enemies, "YOU WANT SOME!? COME GET IT!!" You hear it before the blast happens. The sound of Kid powering up a massive attack that makes your stomach lurch and the ground shake. The light is nearly blinding, so hot it makes your skin almost unbearably warm. The beam burns through the army like flame against wax. "That's how you show off, Trafalgar!!!"

"You think that's impressive!?" Luffy yells. "KING KONG GUN!!" You watch a building crumble in the wake of Luffy's attack as enemies go flying.

This is not real. You blink at them in shock. Are they really competing at a time like this!? Because I'm here? This is insane.

What neither of them notice is the falling rocks of debris you have to dodge to keep from being crushed. Your whole body lurches as Law shambles you to mid-dodge out of the way of the falling structures.

"I was fine!" You yell over to Law.

"Not risking it," he says quickly. Which would be charming if you weren't so pissed.

Luffy stands proudly, chest puffed up and grinning broadly. "You stay down there with Y/N, Traffy. We've got this!"

Your stomach sinks. Oh no...You turn to Law...

Law's nostrils flair. His cheeks and ears redden. His teeth clench together even harder and his eyes blaze. You know that look.

"Oh no, don't you get--"

"Shambles." He's gone before you can finish, a rock falls where your boyfriend once stood.

"--Started too..." You stare at the rock, momentarily letting your guard down. "I'm killing them," you say to yourself like a quiet and private vow. "As soon as this is over, I'm killing all three of them."

Later...

Your anger reignites as soon as you see Law again. He looks looks bloodied, bruised, and exhausted but alive. Still handsome, still your boyfriend even as your take your staff off your back and stride up to him, Luffy, and Kid.

You swing at Kid first, walloping him in the head with your staff, taking him by surprise and knocking him off balance. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH PLANNING WE PUT IN TO THAT MISSION!?"

"Hey Y/N!? What the hell!!" Luffy yells. You whirl around on him next with your staff. He ducks under your swing. "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT FROM YOU MONKEY D. LUFFY!"

You go back to standing over Kid, "FIRST OF ALL, HIS HONEY!? WHAT AM I? A PIECE OF HAM!? HE DOESN'T NEED TO SHOW OFF CAUSE I'M NOT AN IDIOT THAT NEEDS TO BE ENTERTAINED! SECOND, YOU NEARLY BURIED US!? IS YOUR BRAIN MADE OF METAL TOO!?"

Kid jumped up, fists balled at his sides. "YOU WANT ME TO BURY YOU RIGHT NOW CAUSE I WILL!?"

You got up in his face, it didn't matter that your were actually face to chest with him, "I'd like to see you--"

"That's Enough!"

You knew what it was from that tell tale lurch again and suddenly you were away from Luffy and Kid and instead, standing next to your boyfriend. You blink for a moment, trying to get your bearings.

"I'm putting you in time out," Law says. His arms were crossed over his chest.

You scoff and look away from him, "I can see that." Then, you glare at him, "I'm mad at you too, by the way. For getting goaded like that, what if you'd gotten hurt?" You say the last part quietly as if only talking to yourself.

Law sighs. He closes the distance between the two of you. His hands are hesitant, silently asking permission before touching you. They're warm against your biceps as his thumbs knead soothing circles into your skin. "Something's bothering you."

"I don't like him messing with you, and I especially don't like being the reason," you say. "And I appreciate you looking out for me, but I don't need you to...save me." Your talking slows as one of Law's eyebrows gets higher and higher. "I'm realizing this sounds somewhat hypocritical the longer I talk."

He chuckles. Mostly laughing with you, but there's a twinkle of amusement that says he's also laughing at you just a little bit. "What? That you want to protect me from being teased but I can't protect you from falling debris? No, not hypocritical at all."

"Shut up," you try not to laugh. " Also Kid gets on my nerves."

"He gets on everyone's nerves," Law says plainly.

"Still..." you close the distance, pushing more into Law's arms. You lay your head on his chest, and listen to his heart beat loudly in your ear. The adrenaline is wearing off now and things are starting to ache more clearly. The anger subsiding too, now you're just happy you're both here and still standing. "So..."

"I'm never going to stop trying to protect you," Law says. There's no room for argument in his voice.

"I know," you hum into his chest. "And I'm not going to stop berating people on your behalf."

"I know," he says.

"What loving quirks we have," you say playfully. Law kisses the top of your head. "I'm ready to go back when you are."

Law groaned quietly. "Never."

The two of you return to Luffy and Kid tumbling in the dirt walloping on each other like rowdy children. Luffy's attention snaps away when you arrive.

"You're back! Say you're sorry, Jaggy!"

"I TOLD YOU I'M NOT APOLOGIZING!"

"SAY IT!!"

"NO!!"

You and Law exchange tired glances. "Wanna just leave, take a shower together, get patched up and go to bed?" You say.

Law sighs, watching Luffy and Kid argue. His body sags a little with exhaustion. The two of you use each other to stay upright as you walk away from them towards the little space you call home.

#trafalgar law #law x reader #one piece x reader #one piece imagines #don't ask me what this is #borderline self insert because the way they be fighting pisses me off and i love it #i don't hate kid but i do want to hit him

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latanyalove · 2 months ago

Text

Missed You

Pairing: Revolutionary Sabo x Y/N

Dialogue: Seeing Sabo after he went on a mission for a year made you acknowledge your feelings for Sabo.

A/n: I hope you enjoy this as much as I did writing this! <3

The dust swirled around your boots as you stood on the docks of Baltigo, squinting against the harsh sunlight. A year. It had been a whole year since you last saw him. A year of coded messages, hurried updates through carrier pigeons, and restless nights spent staring at the ceiling, tracing the constellations and missing your best friend.

The Wind Granma, one of the Revolutionary Army's sleekest ships, was finally pulling in, its sails billowing and snapping in the salty breeze.

You told yourself you were here for duty, to help unload supplies and debrief returning scouts. You certainly weren't here, heart hammering against your ribs, to catch a glimpse of straw-blonde hair and a familiar, lopsided grin.

You busied yourself with checking the inventory manifest on your datapad, pretending not to notice as the ramp lowered and figures began disembarking. You recognized Koala, her bright orange hair a beacon amidst the crowd. Hack was there too, his stoic face unreadable as always. But then, you saw him.

Sabo.

He looked…different. Taller, maybe. More weathered. His familiar blue coat seemed to hang a little looser on his frame, suggesting he'd lost weight.

His eyes, usually bright with mischief, held a depth that spoke of battles fought and victories won, but also of hardships endured. A new scar bisected his left eyebrow, a stark white line etched against his tan skin. It made him look even more…dangerous.

Your breath hitched. You told yourself to stay calm, to remain professional. He was just another soldier returning from a mission.

You were a valuable member of the Revolutionary Army, respected for your strategic mind and unwavering dedication. You couldn't afford to let emotions cloud your judgment, especially not now.

He scanned the crowd, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on Koala, then Hack, before finally landing on you. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.

A slow smile spread across his face, the one that always made your stomach flip and your carefully constructed defenses crumble.

"Well, if it isn't Y/N," he called out, his voice rougher than you remembered. "Working as hard as ever, I see."

You forced a neutral expression, lifting your gaze from the datapad. "Sabo," you acknowledged, your voice betraying none of the chaotic emotions swirling within you. "Welcome back. Debriefing is scheduled for 1400 hours. Be punctual."

He chuckled, a warm, familiar sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "Always the stickler for rules, aren't you?" He started walking towards you, his gait confident and easy. You tried to maintain your distance, subtly shifting behind a stack of crates.

"Just ensuring efficiency," you replied, keeping your eyes fixed on the datapad. "The Revolutionary Army can't afford to waste time."

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could smell the sea salt and gunpowder clinging to his clothes, a potent reminder of the life he led, the life you were both committed to.

"And how have you been, Y/N?" he asked, his voice softening. "Keeping busy, I presume?"

"Extremely," you said, your fingers tightening around the datapad. "We've been planning the next phase of the operation. It requires all my attention."

You risked a quick glance at him. He was still smiling, but there was something else in his eyes now, a knowing glint that made you uneasy. He wasn't buying your act for a second.

"Of course," he said smoothly. "The revolution always comes first." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "Anything else keeping you occupied? New strategies to implement? Perhaps... a new love interest to distract you?"

The question was laced with a playful teasing, but you could detect a hint of underlying seriousness. You bristled, your cheeks flushing slightly despite your best efforts.

"Don't be ridiculous," you snapped, finally meeting his gaze. "My priorities are firmly in place. And I hardly have time for… distractions."

He raised an eyebrow, his smile widening. "Is that so? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you're working awfully hard to avoid making eye contact with me."

Damn him. He always knew how to get under your skin. You opened your mouth to retort, but he cut you off.

"Relax, Y/N," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I'm just teasing. But I have missed you."

The admission, so simple and direct, stole the air from your lungs. You wanted to deny it, to tell him you hadn't missed him at all, that you were perfectly fine without him. But the words caught in your throat.

You looked away, focusing on a distant seagull circling overhead. "I'm sure you were very busy on your mission," you mumbled, hoping he wouldn't notice the tremor in your voice.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between you. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You instinctively flinched, but didn't pull away.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the sounds of the docks. "Look at me."

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. But you knew you couldn't resist him forever. Slowly, reluctantly, you raised your eyes to meet his.

His gaze was intense, unwavering. He saw right through your carefully constructed facade, to the longing and vulnerability you tried so hard to conceal. The smile faded from his face, replaced by a look of tenderness and understanding.

"I see right through you, love," he whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. "You've missed me too."

The dam broke. All the carefully constructed walls you had built around your heart crumbled, washed away by a tidal wave of emotion. You wanted to deny it, to maintain your composure, but you couldn't.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they streamed down your face, hot and unbidden.

"Don't," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper. "Don't do this."

He cupped your face in his hands, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Don't do what? Acknowledge that we care about each other? That we've been apart for too long?"

You closed your eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming emotions. It was no use fighting it. He knew you too well. He always had.

"It's just… it's difficult," you said, your voice trembling. "This life… it's not easy. We're constantly risking everything. And when you're gone… it's like a part of me is missing."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "I know, Y/N. I feel the same way. But that's what makes it so important, isn't it? To hold onto those connections, to cherish the moments we have together."

He tilted your head back, looking deeply into your eyes. "I promise you, I'll always come back to you. No matter what happens, no matter how long I'm gone, I'll always find my way back."

You swallowed hard, struggling to regain your composure. "You can't promise that," you said, your voice laced with fear. "This is war. Anything can happen."

He smiled, a confident, reassuring smile that chased away the shadows of doubt. "I know the risks, Y/N. But I also know what's worth fighting for. And you… you're worth fighting for."

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against yours in a light, tentative kiss. It was a silent promise, a reassurance that he was here, that he was real, that you weren't alone.

You closed your eyes, melting into the kiss. It was a simple kiss, but it spoke volumes. It spoke of longing, of devotion, of the unbreakable bond that connected you.

You pulled away slightly, your heart still pounding in your chest. "Sabo," you whispered, your voice filled with emotion.

He smiled, his eyes sparkling with affection. "Yes, love?"

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Debriefing is still scheduled for 1400 hours," you said, a hint of your old formality returning. "Don't be late."

He chuckled, throwing his head back in laughter. "Of course, Commander," he said, his voice filled with amusement. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He winked, then turned and walked towards the main headquarters, leaving you standing on the docks, a warm smile gracing your lips.

The dust still swirled around your boots, but now, it felt like a celebration. The sun seemed brighter, the air sweeter. He was back. And for now, that was all that mattered.

You knew the challenges ahead wouldn't disappear. The war was still raging, and the future was uncertain.

But with Sabo by your side, you knew you could face anything. Because you had each other. And that was a revolution worth fighting for. . . .

The fluorescent lights of the Revolutionary Army headquarters hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the exhaustion thrumming in your own temples. Hours had bled into one another since Sabo had returned.

Hours spent poring over the maps he’d brought back, charting new territories, analyzing political landscapes, and searching for any sign of the World Government's ever-tightening grip. The war room, usually a hive of bustling activity, was now mostly deserted, save for you and the scattered remnants of hastily consumed coffee cups and half-eaten rations.

The debriefing had run long, you knew. You could hear snippets of it through the thick walls – heated discussions about strategic alliances, hushed whispers about potential threats, and Sabo’s steady, commanding voice cutting through the chaos.

You told yourself you weren't listening for his voice specifically. You told yourself you were focused solely on the task at hand, on deciphering the intricate details of the maps spread before you.

But the truth, as it often did, felt like a heavier weight.

Your eyes traced the contours of an unfamiliar island, your finger gliding over a network of rivers you'd never seen before. You were tired, bone-tired.

The relentless pace of the Revolution rarely allowed for rest, and Sabo's return, while a welcome relief and a vital push for progress, had only amplified the pressure.

You knew what was at stake. You knew the importance of every detail, every strategic advantage. But your mind felt sluggish, your focus wavering.

You rubbed your temples, trying to ward off the encroaching headache that threatened to derail your train of thought completely.

“Still working?”

The voice sent a jolt through you, a current of awareness that had nothing to do with the maps and everything to do with him. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

His presence filled the room, a familiar warmth that both comforted and unsettled you.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your expression carefully neutral. "Just finishing up." You gestured vaguely at the maps, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your hand. "These are… comprehensive. Thank you."

Sabo closed the distance between you, his eyes, the color of a stormy sea, searching your face. The years hadn’t been kind to him, etching lines of worry and determination around his eyes and mouth.

But they had also made him… more. More powerful, more confident, more devastatingly attractive.

“You look exhausted,” he said, his voice soft, laced with concern. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before you could react. The simple touch sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder of the intimacy you had both tried so hard to bury.

You flinched, pulling away slightly. "I'm fine. Just… a long day."

He didn’t retract his hand, letting it hover in the air for a moment before slowly dropping it to his side. The small gesture spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of the invisible barrier you had erected between you.

“The debriefing ran late,” he explained, his tone apologetic. “Dragon wanted to go over every detail.”

“I figured.” You kept your voice even, your eyes focused on the intricate lines of the map. "It's important."

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the hum of the lights. You could feel his gaze on you, assessing, questioning. You knew what he saw: the fatigue etched on your face, the forced composure in your posture, the subtle tension that vibrated in the air around you.

He knew you too well. That was the problem.

“You don’t have to push yourself so hard,” he said finally, his voice low. “We all appreciate what you do.”

“Someone has to do it.” You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Besides, I’m good at it.”

“And what about what you want?” he asked, his gaze intensifying. “What about what makes you happy?”

The question hung in the air, a loaded grenade threatening to explode the carefully constructed facade you had spent years building. Happiness. It was a luxury the Revolution couldn’t afford, and neither could you. Not when it came to him.

“Happiness is a luxury we can’t afford,” you said, echoing a sentiment you had repeated to yourself countless times.

He sighed, running a hand through his blond hair, a gesture that was both familiar and achingly endearing. “Is that what you really believe?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the truth was that happiness, for you, was inextricably linked to him. And allowing yourself to feel that, to acknowledge the depth of your feelings, was a risk you couldn't afford to take.

"How was your journey?" you asked, changing the subject abruptly. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

He let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Did I ever. The World Government is digging its heels in deeper than ever. The situation is… precarious."

"Then we have to work harder." You straightened your shoulders, forcing a renewed sense of determination. "We need to be ready."

He watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he nodded slowly. "You're right. We do."

He reached for one of the maps, his fingers brushing against yours. You pulled back instinctively, pretending not to notice the lingering warmth of his touch.

"Tell me about this island," he said, pointing to the same one you had been studying. "What do you think we can learn from it?"

And so, you plunged back into the work, immersing yourselves in the details of the maps, the intricacies of the terrain, the potential for strategic advantage.

You talked about supply lines, fortifications, and the ever-present threat of the World Government. You talked about everything but the one thing that truly mattered: the unspoken connection that still crackled between you, the unresolved feelings that haunted your every interaction.

As the hours ticked by, you found yourself relaxing slightly, drawn in by the familiar rhythm of collaboration. You and Sabo had always worked well together, your strengths complementing each other’s weaknesses.

He brought the raw power and tactical brilliance, while you provided the meticulous planning and strategic foresight.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to imagine what it would be like if things were different. If you could let down your guard, if you could allow yourself to be vulnerable, if you could finally admit the truth that had been burning within you for years.

But the moment passed, shattered by the harsh reality of your situation. You were soldiers in a revolution, fighting for a cause that demanded sacrifice. There was no room for personal happiness, no time for romantic entanglements.

And besides, even if there were, you weren't sure you were brave enough to risk it. The potential for heartbreak, for devastation, was too great. Better to keep your distance, to protect yourself from the inevitable pain.

As the first rays of dawn began to creep through the windows, painting the room in a soft, golden light, you finally finished your analysis of the maps. You leaned back in your chair, stretching your stiff muscles.

"I think that's everything," you said, your voice hoarse with exhaustion. "We have a better understanding of the situation now. We can start planning our next move."

Sabo nodded, his eyes still fixed on the maps. "Thank you," he said softly. "You've done an amazing job."

"It was a team effort." You gathered the maps, stacking them neatly on the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get some sleep."

You stood up, ready to escape the confines of the war room, to flee the suffocating tension that had been building between you. But before you could take a step, Sabo reached out and gently took your hand.

His touch sent a jolt through you, stronger than before. You looked down at your hand, engulfed in his, the warmth spreading through your veins.

"Wait," he said, his voice barely a whisper.

You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. You saw a flicker of something in his eyes, something that mirrored the emotions you had been trying so hard to suppress.

"I know you're trying to protect yourself," he said, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "But you don't have to. Not with me."

Your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to believe him, you desperately wanted to let go of your fears and allow yourself to be vulnerable. But the fear was too strong, the risk too great.

You pulled your hand away, breaking the connection. "I don't know what you're talking about," you said, your voice trembling slightly.

He didn't try to stop you. He simply watched you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and understanding.

"Maybe someday," he said softly. "Maybe someday you'll be ready."

You turned and walked away, your back to him, your heart aching with a pain that was both familiar and unbearable.

You knew you were making a mistake, that you were pushing him away, that you were sacrificing your own happiness for the sake of self-preservation.

But you couldn't stop yourself. You had built this wall for a reason, and you weren't ready to tear it down. Not yet.

As you walked out of the war room, leaving Sabo standing there alone, you couldn't help but wonder if you had made the right choice. If you had condemned yourself to a life of loneliness and regret.

But you told yourself that it was necessary, that it was the only way to protect yourself. You told yourself that the Revolution came first, that personal happiness was a luxury you couldn't afford.

You told yourself a lot of things.

But deep down, you knew the truth. You knew that you were running away from the one thing that could truly make you happy. And you knew that someday, you would have to face the consequences of your choice. . . .

The dust motes danced in the harsh morning light filtering through the barracks window, each speck a tiny reminder of the time that had passed. Months.

Three months, to be exact, since Sabo had returned from his year-long mission. Three months since those words, etched into your memory, had been spoken.

"I know you're trying to protect yourself," he had said, his voice a low murmur amidst the chaos of his homecoming. His touch, the gentle stroke of his thumb against your hand, had been a brand against your skin. "But you don't have to. Not with me."

The words were a lifeline, a promise of safety and vulnerability offered with a sincerity that made your heart ache. But you, ever the pragmatist, ever the cautious one, had kept your distance.

You'd smiled, offered a quick hug, and retreated into the familiar safety of your routine.

Protecting yourself was second nature. Loss was a constant companion in this life, a shadow lurking behind every victory, every shared laugh. You had learned early on that the less you allowed yourself to care, the less it hurt when someone was ripped away.

Sabo’s mission had been a brutal reminder of that lesson. So many faces you knew, so many voices you’d heard in the mess hall, gone. Erased.

The new recruits, a fresh wave of faces filling the void, were a constant reminder of the lives lost. You threw yourself into training them, burying your grief and fear in drills and strategy sessions.

It was easier to focus on the mechanics of combat than to contemplate the fragility of life.

One recruit, in particular, caught your attention. His name was Silas, and from the moment he arrived, something about him didn't sit right. He was charming, undeniably so, with a disarming smile and an easy laugh.

He was eager to learn, always asking questions, always volunteering for extra training. He quickly integrated himself into the unit, becoming a favorite among the other soldiers.

But beneath the surface, you saw something else. A calculating glint in his eyes, a subtle shift in his expression when he thought no one was watching. He was too smooth, too perfect. His stories, though seemingly innocuous, felt rehearsed, carefully crafted to elicit the desired response.

You tried to articulate your unease to Captain Eva, a hardened veteran with a keen sense for danger. But your words felt flimsy, based on instinct rather than concrete evidence.

“He’s a good soldier, Y/N,” Eva had said, her brow furrowed. “His scores are excellent, his record is clean. You can’t condemn a man based on a feeling. We need every able body we can get.”

You knew she was right, logically. The losses from Sabo's mission had crippled their forces. They were stretched thin, vulnerable. Questioning a promising recruit without cause would be detrimental to morale and could potentially weaken their defenses.

So, you kept your suspicions to yourself, watching Silas, analyzing his every move. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something, that his presence here was more than just a coincidence.

Meanwhile, Sabo's presence was a constant, bittersweet ache in your chest. He tried, subtly, to bridge the gap you had created. A casual invitation to join him for a drink, a shared smile across the training grounds, a lingering touch on your arm during a strategy session.

Each gesture was a reminder of the vulnerability he offered, the safety he promised. And each one made you pull further away. You were afraid. Afraid of letting him in, afraid of the pain that would inevitably follow if something happened to him.

One evening, you found yourself patrolling the perimeter of the base, the cold night air biting at your exposed skin. The quiet was unsettling, broken only by the distant howl of wind and the creak of the metal fences.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to seep into your bones.

A voice broke the silence. "Beautiful night, isn't it?"

You turned to see Silas leaning against the fence, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He smiled, that charming, disarming smile that always made you uneasy.

"What are you doing out here?" you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

"Just taking a walk," he replied, shrugging. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd enjoy the fresh air."

His explanation sounded plausible, but your gut screamed otherwise. You studied him, searching for any sign of deception.

"Everything alright, Y/N?" he asked, tilting his head. "You seem tense."

"Just doing my job," you replied, turning away. "You should get back inside. It's going to rain."

He chuckled. "Always so serious. You know, you should lighten up a little. Life's too short to be so worried all the time."

His words were a casual observation, but they struck a nerve. You stopped, turning back to face him.

"You don't know anything about my life," you said, your voice low.

"Maybe not," he replied, his smile fading. "But I see you. I see how you keep everyone at arm's length. How you're afraid to let anyone get close."

His words were too close to the truth, too perceptive. You felt a surge of anger, a desire to lash out.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," you snapped, turning to leave.

"Don't you?" he called after you. "Or are you just afraid to admit it?"

You ignored him, quickening your pace towards the barracks. His words echoed in your head, a painful reminder of the walls you had built around yourself.

Later that night, as you lay in your bunk, unable to sleep, you replayed the conversation in your mind. His words, his presence, his very existence, felt like a threat. You couldn't shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on, that he was playing a game with you.

The next day, you decided to trust your instincts. You started digging, discreetly, into Silas's background. You spoke to contacts in other units, combed through old records, piecing together fragments of information.

What you found was disturbing. Silas's file was clean, almost too clean. His past seemed meticulously crafted, with no inconsistencies, no red flags. But there were gaps, holes in his story that couldn't be easily explained.

You discovered that he had transferred to your unit from a remote outpost, citing personal reasons. But the commander of that outpost had no record of Silas ever being stationed there. The name Silas, it seemed, was an alias.

Your pulse raced as you sat in the dim light of your office, the glow of the computer screen casting eerie shadows on the walls. You knew you had to tread carefully.

You were too busy to confront him directly, and he wasn't an immediate threat.

Yet.

Sabo adjusted his cravat, the morning sun catching the gold buckle. He scanned the newspaper, a frown etching itself onto his forehead as he read about the latest World Government atrocities. A sharp rap at the door pulled him from his grim thoughts.

"Come in," he called, folding the paper and setting it aside.

The door creaked open to reveal Silas, one of the newer recruits, standing stiffly at attention. He looked young, barely out of his teens, with a nervous energy that radiated from him. In his hands, he held a steaming cup, its contents swirling gently with each subtle movement.

"Excuse me, Mr. Sabo," Silas stammered, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Miss Y/N requested for this to be sent to you." He carefully placed the cup on Sabo's cluttered desk, the ceramic clinking softly against the wood.

Sabo's eyebrows rose in surprise. Y/N? He hadn’t seen her much lately, both of them caught up in the endless tasks of the Revolutionary Army.

A warm feeling bloomed in his chest. "Really? Did she say why?"

Silas scratched the back of his head, his nervousness amplified under Sabo's curious gaze. "Well, she didn't actually say to tell you it came from her, but… she said something about your cold."

That sounded exactly like something Y/N would do. Always thoughtful, always looking out for others, but often preferring to offer her kindness in a roundabout way, avoiding direct credit.

He had been battling a persistent cough for the past few days, a minor annoyance he'd been trying to ignore. He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"Thank you," Sabo said, reaching for the cup. He carefully lifted it, the warmth seeping through the ceramic and warming his hands. He inhaled deeply, the aroma of ginger and lemon filling his nostrils.

It was definitely her concoction; he recognized the unique blend of herbs and spices she used to soothe a sore throat. He took a sip, the warm liquid coating his throat, a soothing balm against the scratchiness. It tasted wonderful.

"You're welcome, sir," Silas replied, relief evident in his voice. He hesitated for a moment, then saluted clumsily. "If there's nothing else, I'll be going now."

"That's all, Silas. Thank you again," Sabo said.

He turned back to the cup, taking another slow, deliberate sip. He wondered what Y/N was up to. He hadn’t seen her since the last strategy meeting.

He took another sip, feeling a pleasant warmth spreading through his body. He chuckled softly to himself. She was too good to him.

He was about to take a third sip when a strange dizziness washed over him. The room seemed to tilt slightly, the papers on his desk blurring into an indistinguishable mess.

He gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady himself, a flicker of confusion warring with a growing sense of unease.

This wasn't just a head cold.

His vision swam, the vibrant colors of his surroundings fading into a dull gray. His muscles felt heavy, unresponsive. He tried to call out, to shout for help, but his voice caught in his throat, a strangled gasp that died before it could even escape his lips.

The cup slipped from his grasp, the ceramic shattering against the hard floor, the remaining liquid splattering across the wooden planks. The sound seemed muffled, distant, as if he were underwater.

Sabo's knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, the world spinning around him. His vision grew darker, the edges of his consciousness closing in like the jaws of a vise.

He tried to push himself up, to fight the sudden weakness that gripped him, but his body was no longer his own.

The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was Silas' evil grin, the glint of triumph in the young recruit's eyes as he stepped back from the shattered remnants of the cup.

The room tilted further, and then there was only blackness, a void that swallowed him whole.

The setting sun cast long shadows across the training grounds, painting the Revolution Army's headquarters in hues of orange and gold. But you weren't admiring the view.

No, you were pacing, your boots crunching on the gravel path, growing increasingly agitated. Sabo was late. Thirty minutes late.

You knew exactly what he was doing. He'd promised to personally inspect the new shipment of weaponry before they were distributed, a task he usually delegated. He’d even insisted on handling the initial inventory himself.

All a thinly veiled excuse to draw you in, to trap you in his office with endless debates about strategy and… well, just about anything. You knew his tactics, his charming smile, his infuriatingly insightful questions that always managed to unravel your carefully constructed composure.

And dammit, you were falling for it. Again.

You stopped pacing, a sigh escaping your lips. You told yourself it was the weapons, the crucial importance of their quality, that was driving you to his office. The Revolution Army's safety depended on it. But deep down, you knew it was more than that.

It was the pull, the undeniable gravitational force that Sabo exerted on you, a force you both resisted and craved in equal measure.

"Fine," you muttered to yourself, pivoting and striding purposefully towards Sabo's office. "He wants to talk? I'll give him a talking to. About punctuality, about delegation, about the importance of not making people wait."

You reached his door, your hand hovering over the knob. You didn’t bother knocking. Your patience had officially evaporated.

"Sabo–"

The word died in your throat. The scene that unfolded before you was nothing like the playful confrontation you'd envisioned. Sabo lay on the floor, a shattered teacup beside him, its contents staining the rug in a dark, ominous pool.

Towering over him was Silas, one of the new recruits, his eyes gleaming with a disturbing intensity as he clutched the newly arrived weapons. Weapons that were far too dangerous to be wielded by someone with ill intentions.

A cold dread washed over you. Silas had always given you an uneasy feeling. Something about his eagerness, his overly zealous patriotism, felt…off.

You’d meant to report your suspicions, but the chaos of the recent operations had pushed it to the back of your mind. Now, seeing Sabo vulnerable and Silas armed, the weight of your negligence pressed down on you.

Acting on instinct, you channeled your Devil Fruit powers. Water materialized from thin air, coalescing into a powerful stream that slammed into Silas with the force of a tidal wave. He was knocked off his feet, the weapons clattering to the floor as he landed in a heap, unconscious.

Adrenaline coursed through you as you rushed to Sabo's side. Your fingers trembled as you checked his pulse. Faint, thready, barely there.

You frantically scanned the scene, your eyes landing on the shattered teacup. The sickeningly sweet aroma that lingered in the air confirmed your worst fears. Poison.

Without hesitation, you activated your Devil Fruit again. You meticulously controlled the water, guiding it into Sabo's body, a delicate operation fraught with risk. You had to be precise, careful not to damage his already weakened system.

You enveloped the poison with the water, isolating it, pulling it away from his vital organs. It was a slow, agonizing process, draining your energy with each passing second.

Finally, you managed to extract the tainted water, expelling it from Sabo's body in a rush. You collapsed back on your heels, gasping for breath, your vision blurring.

You were exhausted, depleted, but your relief was short-lived. Sabo remained motionless.

The reality of the situation crashed down on you with brutal force. It was your fault. All your fault. If you’d trusted your instincts, if you’d reported Silas sooner, Sabo wouldn’t be lying here, fighting for his life.

"Sabo, please wake up," you pleaded, your voice cracking. You gently shook his shoulder, willing him to respond. But he didn't move. His face was pale, unnervingly still.

Despair washed over you, a suffocating wave of regret and fear. You sank to your knees, burying your face in his chest, the rough fabric of his jacket scratching against your cheek.

The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was so faint, so fragile, it filled you with a chilling premonition.

It was then, in that moment of utter desperation, that the truth you had so diligently suppressed burst forth. You realized, with a clarity that bordered on pain, that your feelings for Sabo ran far deeper than professional admiration or friendly camaraderie.

"I've always loved you," you whispered, the words choked with emotion, "even when I pretended not to."

The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. You pressed closer to him, clinging to the hope that somehow, somewhere, he could hear you.

"I said it okay," you continued, your voice rising in desperation, "please wake up now."

Silence. Only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic beating of your heart filled the room. You didn't know when the tears started to fall, hot and stinging, tracing paths down your cheeks and soaking into his jacket.

You cried, not just for Sabo, but for all the unspoken words, the missed opportunities, the wasted time spent denying what had always been there. You cried for the future you might never have, for the happiness that seemed to be slipping through your fingers.

Time seemed to stretch into an eternity, each second an agonizing reminder of your potential loss. You stayed there, huddled against him, a broken mess of fear and regret.

Then, a voice, raspy and weak, broke the silence.

"It took you me almost dying for you to confess?"

You gasped, your head snapping up. Sabo. His eyes, though still clouded with pain, were open. A faint smile played on his lips.

You scrambled back, your heart leaping with a mixture of relief and disbelief. "Sabo! You're awake!"

He slowly reached up, his hand trembling as he gently wiped away a tear from your cheek. "Yeah," he said, his voice gaining strength, "thanks to you."

The relief was overwhelming, so intense it almost brought you to your knees again. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. "You idiot! Don't ever do that to me again!"

He chuckled, a weak but genuine sound. "Promises, promises," he murmured, then winced in pain.

You immediately sobered, your concern returning. "Don't talk," you said, your voice firm. "You need to rest. I'll get someone."

You started to pull away, but his hand tightened on yours, stopping you. "Wait," he said, his gaze locking with yours. "What you said…before."

Your cheeks flushed crimson. You suddenly felt incredibly exposed, vulnerable. You’d confessed your deepest feelings while he was unconscious, believing it was a one-way conversation. Now, the weight of his attention, the intensity in his eyes, felt almost unbearable.

"It was… I was just… scared," you stammered, trying to downplay the moment. "I didn't mean…"

He cut you off, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "Did you mean it?"

The question hung in the air, demanding honesty. You looked into his eyes, searching for any hint of mockery or pity. All you found was sincerity, a vulnerability that mirrored your own.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Yes," you whispered, the word barely audible. "I meant it."

Sabo's smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made your heart skip a beat. He pulled you closer, his hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin beneath your ear. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of doubt or regret.

"Y/N, I've known for a long time," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. "But hearing you say it…" His thumb stroked your jawline, sending a shiver down your spine. "It means everything."

Your heart raced, your breath hitched in your throat. The warmth of his hand was a stark contrast to the coolness of the floor beneath you, a reminder that this was real, that he was alive.

"Sabo," you whispered, your voice trembling. You didn't know what to say next, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. You felt the heat of his breath against your skin, the thump of his pulse under your fingertips. You had never been this close to him, never allowed yourself to be.

His hand slid to the nape of your neck, his touch firm yet gentle, sending a cascade of sensations through your body. Your pulse quickened, your heart pounding against your ribs like a caged bird desperate to break free.

"Sabo," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion. "I-"

He placed a finger to your lips, silencing you. "Shh, love," he said, his eyes searching yours. "You don't need to explain."

The moment stretched, filled with a tension so potent it could have powered the entire island. You could feel the throb of your own heartbeat in your ears, a wild drumroll to a crescendo you hadn’t anticipated.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, his voice a soft, hopeful whisper that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room.

You stared at him, the question hanging in the air like a delicate thread, connecting you in a way that no words or battles ever could. It was a simple request, one that could have been brushed aside with a laugh or a joke, but instead it felt like the most significant question you had ever been asked.

You nodded, unable to form a coherent response. Your breath caught in your throat as he leaned in, closing the space between you. His lips met yours with a softness that belied the intensity of his gaze, a gentle pressure that spoke of the depth of his feelings.

But before the kiss could intensify, you placed your hand on his chest to stop it. "Sabo," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion, "you need to get checked. There could still be poison in your system."

Sabo's eyes searched yours, the passion in them momentarily fading into a look of understanding. He nodded, his hand moving from your neck to cover yours, pressing it more firmly against his heart.

"I know," he whispered, the beat beneath your palm reassuringly steady. "But I had to know that you felt the same."

You felt his heart's rhythm, the warmth of his skin, and the firmness of his chest. His breathing was shallow, and you could see the effort it took for him to maintain the gentle pressure of his lips.

You didn't want to stop the kiss, but you knew he was right. Safety had to come first, especially now.

"Alright," he murmured, his voice a soft caress against your mouth. He kissed you once more, a light, lingering brush of his lips that spoke volumes of his love and restraint. He pulled away, his gaze never leaving yours. "I'll go get checked."

You nodded, the reality of the situation sinking in. The urgency of the situation hit you like a tidal wave. "Do you need help?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

Sabo looked at you, his eyes filled with a mix of affection and amusement. "No thank you, love," he said lightly, his voice still a little hoarse from the ordeal.

"You're sure?" You asked, concern etched on your face.

Sabo nodded, his eyes still clouded with pain but filled with determination. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, his voice a little stronger. "You have to take Silas to the prison."

You nodded, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on you. The man who had tried to kill the person you loved lay unconscious a few feet away, and you had to ensure he was dealt with accordingly. You stood, your legs feeling wobbly, but you knew you had to act swiftly.

"How did he get you to drink it?" you murmured, the question echoing in your mind as you took a deep breath and turned to face the chaos.

You saw the shards of the teacup, the dark liquid seeping into the floorboards. It was a stark reminder of the vulnerability that had been so artfully exploited.

Sabo looked up at you, his cheeks flushing slightly. "He said that you sent it," he admitted, his voice low and hoarse. "That you'd heard I'd picked up a cold on the last mission and had brewed me something special to help."

You stared at him, your eyes wide. "A cold?" you repeated, your voice a mix of shock and disbelief. "You almost died because of a cold?"

Sabo looked shy as if he remembered too, his eyes flickering with a hint of embarrassment. "He said that you wanted to give me tea for my cold," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should have called to get confirmation, I was just happy that you gave me something."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and a warm blush crept up your neck, staining your cheeks. The thought of Silas using your kindness as a weapon made your blood boil, but at the same time, a tender warmth spread through you.

You had never been one to show affection openly, not with the weight of the revolution resting on your shoulders. But here was Sabo, admitting to a vulnerability that you hadn't even known he had.

With trembling hands, you helped him to his feet, his lean frame surprisingly heavy against you. Each movement sent waves of pain through his body, and you could feel his muscles tighten as he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.

His eyes never left yours, and in that moment, you understood that you had been wrong to push him away, to deny what was so clearly written in the air between you.

You used your Devil Fruit powers once more, creating a gentle cushion of water beneath his feet to ease the pain of his steps. "I'll get Hack," you murmured, knowing that your friend and fellow comrade would know exactly what to do.

With a flick of your wrist, you sent a stream of water through the air, weaving around the corridors and towards Hack. The power was a part of you, a silent call that only those who knew you well would recognize.

And Hack knew you well. A moment later, you heard a small yelp. Hack stumbled into the room, his eyes wide with surprise as he took in the scene.

He had been following the trail of water, unsure of what he would find. But when he saw Sabo's ashen face and the shattered teacup, his expression turned to one of concern.

"What happened?" he demanded, his voice sharp with alarm.

You didn't have the luxury of time to explain everything. "A new soldier went rogue," you said tersely. "Silas. He tried to kill Sabo with poisoned tea, pretending it was from me. I need to take him into custody and get him to the interrogation room."

The fishman, a burly, silent type named Triton, nodded solemnly. His gills flared slightly, a sign of his own shock. "Understood," he said, his voice a guttural growl. "I will take Sabo to the medical bay immediately."

You felt a pang of guilt as you watched them go, torn between your duty to the revolution and your desire to stay by Sabo's side. But you knew you had to deal with Silas.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. The traitor had to be contained before he could cause any more harm.

With a firm step, you approached Silas's prone form. His eyes fluttered open, the same feigned innocence you had seen so many times in his interrogations. But you knew better now. You knew the darkness that lurked beneath his surface.

You grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and hoisted him to his feet, his body limp and uncooperative. His smug smile faltered at the sight of your watery eyes and clenched jaw. He must have realized that his charade was over.

"You're going to tell us everything," you said through gritted teeth. "Everything about the enemy's plan, every detail you know. And if you don't, I'll make sure you regret ever setting foot in this headquarters."

Silas's eyes widened in genuine fear for the first time, and you felt a grim satisfaction knowing you had the upper hand. You marched him through the corridors, his feet dragging behind you as you made your way to the interrogation room.

The room was stark, the walls painted a cold, institutional gray. The only source of light was a single flickering bulb that cast eerie shadows across the floor. It was a stark contrast to the warm, inviting light of Sabo's office.

You pushed him into the room, his body collapsing into the metal chair at the center. You secured his wrists and ankles to the chair with water-based cuffs, the same ones you had used countless times to contain and question enemy combatants.

You stepped back, arms crossed over your chest, and stared him down.

"Why?" you demanded, the question echoing through the small space. "Why would you do this to us? To him?"

Silas remained silent, his smug expression slipping away to reveal something darker, something more sinister. You could feel the anger building in you, a pressure cooker threatening to blow. But you needed information, not just a confession of guilt.

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Why, Silas?"

Silas's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, for anything that might give him leverage. But there was nothing. Only the cold, unforgiving steel of the chair and the unwavering gaze of the woman he had underestimated.

"Okay, have it your way, Karasu," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm as you stepped away from him. "It's your turn."

With that, you turned and strode out of the interrogation room, the door slamming shut behind you. The sound of the lock clicking into place was a harsh echo in the quiet corridor.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The scent of the antiseptic cleaner on the floor was a stark contrast to the coppery smell of blood and fear that clung to Silas.

As you walked away from the room, you felt the weight of what you had to do next. You knew that you couldn't let your emotions cloud your judgment.

The mission was more important than your personal feelings. You had to be cold, methodical, a force to be reckoned with.

The echo of the slammed door was still reverberating in your ears when you heard the first faint cry, a sound that made your blood run cold. Silas's voice, strained and desperate, was unmistakable.

Soon enough, the cries grew louder, more insistent. The sound of his pleading sliced through the air, a grim reminder of the reality of war and the sacrifices it demanded.

You knew you had to remain strong, to focus on the mission. But the screams grew more intense, and with each one, your resolve wavered.

The walls of the corridor seemed to close in around you, the cold metal pressing against your skin, a prison of your own making. You clenched your fists, willing the cries to stop, to no avail.

With a deep breath, you turned on your heel and sprinted towards the medical bay, the urgency of the situation propelling you forward. The corridor blurred as you moved, your boots echoing off the walls, a staccato rhythm that punctuated the silence.

The medical room was a stark contrast to the rest of the headquarters. The sterile white walls gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the smell of disinfectant a stark reminder of the fragility of life.

The door swished open as you approached, revealing Hack's concerned face as he bent over an unconscious Sabo, a medical scanner in his hand.

"Is he okay?" you asked, your voice a desperate whisper.

Hack looked up, his expression grim. "The antidote is working," he said, "but the dose was strong. He's going to need rest."

Sabo's eyes fluttered open, the room swimming into focus. The first thing he saw was your face, hovering above his, your eyes filled with a mix of relief and sadness.

"Love," he whispered, his voice still raw from the poison.

You leaned in, your hand lingering on his forehead, feeling the heat of his fever. "Don't talk," you murmured, "just rest."

"Missed you," Sabo slurred again, his eyes half-closed. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, vulnerable and weak, and it twisted your heart in a way that was both painful and exhilarating.

You knew the strength he had to maintain out there, the persona he had to uphold, and now, here he was, laid bare before you.

"Sabo," you whispered, your voice thick with a mix of fear and love. "You can't say things like that."

He managed a weak smile, his eyes drifting shut again. "It's the truth," he murmured. "I can't hide it anymore."

Your heart clenched at his words, the weight of your carelessness crashing down on you like a waterfall. If only you had paid more attention to Silas, if only you had trusted your instincts, he wouldn't be here now, fighting to survive.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."

Sabo's hand searched for yours, his fingers feebly entwining with yours. "Love, don't cry," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper that seemed to resonate through your very soul. "This isn't your fault. It's war. It's what we signed up for."

Tears spilled over your lashes and rolled down your cheeks, leaving salty trails on your skin. You didn't want to let go of his hand, didn't want to accept the reality of the situation. But you knew you had to. You had to be strong, not just for the revolution, but for him.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Rest," you ordered softly. "I'll handle everything."

With a nod, you turned and left the medical bay, the echo of his words lingering in the air. You couldn't afford to be weak, not now.

The corridor outside was eerily quiet, the cries from the interrogation room now just a distant memory. You took a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. Silas had to be dealt with, and the revolution had to move forward.

Your boots clicked against the cold, hard floor, each step a silent promise to protect the man you had realized you loved. You knew what you had to do, and you would do it, no matter the cost.

As you approached the interrogation room, you paused, steeling yourself for the battle of wills that was about to unfold.

The door slid open at your touch, the cool air of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of your emotions. Silas was still bound in the chair, his eyes wild with fear.

"You're going to tell me everything," you said, your voice firm and unwavering.

He looked up at you, a sneer twisting his features. "What makes you think I'll tell you anything?"

You leaned in, your eyes narrowing. "Because, Silas, I know your type," you said, your voice low and dangerous. "You crave power, and now that you've tasted it, you can't get enough. But you're a fool to think you can betray us and walk away unscathed."

He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that sent chills down your spine. "You think you know me?" he spat. "You know nothing. Nothing at all."

The anger bubbled up within you, hot and fierce, but you pushed it down. You had to keep your cool, had to get the information you needed. You leaned back, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Oh, but I do," you said, your voice sweet as honey. "I know that you're in love with the idea of the revolution, but you're too much of a coward to truly commit to it."

His eyes flashed with rage, but you didn't flinch. You knew you had struck a nerve, had found the weakness in his armor. "You're wrong," he hissed.

You cocked your head, your eyes gleaming. "Am I?" you asked, your voice a siren's call. "Or are you just too scared to admit it? To admit that you're nothing more than a pawn in a game you can't win?"

He struggled against his bindings, the cords of his neck standing out as he strained to argue. "You don't know anything about love," he spat. "You're all just a bunch of cold-hearted soldiers playing at affection."

You felt the sting of his words, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you stepped closer, your hand trailing along the chair's arm. "Love," you murmured, the word a soft caress in the stark room. "Don't cry."

You leaned in, your breath a warm whisper against his cheek. "You see, Silas, love is what makes us strong. It's what keeps us fighting, even when the odds are stacked against us. And you," you said, your voice dropping to a whisper, "you don't know the first thing about love."

Your hand hovered over his chest, the heat of his anger almost palpable. You could feel his heart racing beneath your palm, a frantic beat that mirrored the chaos in your own chest.

"But I do," you said, your voice a gentle reassurance. "I know love, and I know that what you did to Sabo, that's not it."

With a flick of your wrist, you released the water from your hand, letting it pool around his chest, creating a cage of liquid steel. His eyes widened in shock and fear, his breaths coming in sharp gasps.

"You're going to tell me everything," you said, your voice calm, almost tender.

"Everything you know about the enemy, every move they plan to make. And if you don't," you paused, your hand tightening, the water pressing closer to his skin, "I'll make sure you regret ever setting foot in this headquarters."

His eyes searched yours, looking for a hint of mercy, but all he found was a steely resolve. You knew that this was it, that you had to be the one to hold the line, to protect the man you had realized you couldn't live without.

The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until finally, with a defeated sigh, Silas began to speak. His words spilled out in a torrent, a confession of his betrayal, of the enemy's plans to infiltrate the headquarters, of their desire to dismantle the revolution from within.

As he talked, you felt your heart rate slow, the pressure in your chest easing slightly. You had done it. You had saved Sabo, you had protected the revolution, and you had kept your promise.

But even as you felt the warmth of triumph, the cold reality of what you had just done seeped into your bones. You had used your power to coerce a confession, had played on his fear and his pain. The weight of it settled in your stomach like a leaden stone.

You stepped back, the water retreating with a soft hiss. "Thank you," you said, your voice devoid of emotion. "You've been very helpful."

Silas's eyes remained locked on yours, a silent plea for understanding, for forgiveness. But you knew you couldn't give him that. Not now, not ever.

Turning on your heel, you left the interrogation room, the door sliding shut behind you with a finality that echoed through the empty corridor. The cries had stopped, replaced by the heavy silence of the night.

As you approached the elevator, the gravity of what you had just done settled heavily on your shoulders. The thought of telling Dragon, the leader of the Revolutionary Army, about Silas's treachery and your part in it was almost too much to bear.

You took a deep breath, willing your shaking hands to still, and stepped inside the metal chamber.

The descent felt like an eternity, the walls closing in as your mind raced with the potential consequences of your actions.

When the doors opened, you were greeted by the dim glow of Dragon's office, the only source of light a single candle flickering on the desk. He looked up as you entered, his piercing gaze locking onto yours.

You could almost feel the weight of his scrutiny, the intensity of his stare cutting through the shadows.

"What is it, Y/N?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate the very air around you.

You took a moment to compose yourself before speaking, the words thick in your mouth. "Silas," you began, "he's been working with the enemy. He tried to kill Sabo."

Dragon's expression didn't change, but the air in the room grew tense. "Go on," he prompted, his tone unyielding.

You recounted the events, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. The way Silas had taunted you, the smell of the antiseptic floor, the sound of the lock clicking into place. The memory of Sabo's weakened form, his hand reaching for yours, his whispered confession.

"And what of the traitor?" Dragon's eyes bore into yours, his voice cold, the flame of his anger barely contained.

"He's in the interrogation room," you said, your voice tight. "He confessed."

Dragon nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "And what of your involvement?"

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a boulder. "I used my powers to extract the truth," you admitted. "But it was necessary. For the revolution."

Dragon's gaze softened slightly, his understanding clear. "And how is Sabo?"

"Recovering," you whispered. "But it was close."

He nodded again, the silence stretching between you like a tightrope you were both balancing on.

"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Dragon said finally, his voice measured. "You did what you had to do."

You nodded, the weight of his words a balm to your tortured soul. But the question remained, hanging in the air like a specter. "What happens now?"

Dragon leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant as he considered your words. "Now," he said, his voice a whisper, "we must be vigilant. The enemy will not rest."

You felt a shiver run down your spine. The thought of the enemy infiltrating their ranks was a terrifying prospect, but one you were all too familiar with. You had to be ready to face whatever came next.

"We will deal with Silas accordingly," he continued, his voice a low growl. "And we will find the others."

The promise of justice was a comfort, but you couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning. The war was far from over, and the battles ahead would be fiercer, more personal.

"Dismissed," Dragon said, his gaze returning to the flickering candle.

You turned and left the room, the weight of his words and the unspoken promise in his eyes following you like a shadow. You knew that the path ahead was fraught with danger, but with Sabo by your side, you felt invincible.

The corridors felt colder as you made your way back to the medical bay, the echoes of your footsteps the only sound in the quiet night.

The lights were dimmer, the air heavier with the scent of fear and anticipation. But you were determined.

As you reached the medical bay, the door slid open, revealing Hack still at his post. He looked up, his expression a mix of relief and concern.

"How is he?" you asked, unable to keep the tremor from your voice.

"Stabilizing," he replied, his eyes flicking to the unconscious form of Silas on the gurney. "But he'll need to be monitored closely."

"Thank you, Hack," you said, the words a sigh of relief. You stepped forward, taking over the monitoring equipment with a gentle nod to the doctor. "I've got it from here."

Hack nodded, his eyes understanding as he handed you the charts. "I'll be outside if you need me."

As Hack disappeared through the sliding door, you were once again alone with the man who had become the center of your world. Sabo lay on the medical bay bed, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

His skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh, sterile lights, but his aura was as potent as ever, filling the room with the warmth of his spirit.

Slowly, you climbed into the bed beside him, needing to hear his heartbeat, to feel the reassurance of his presence. "I've missed you too," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion.

Your fingertips grazed his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath the fabric of his shirt. His pulse was strong, a comforting rhythm that seemed to sync with the erratic beat of your own heart.

You curled into his side, your body fitting against his like two pieces of a puzzle that had been apart too long. His arm slid around your waist, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back, warm and possessive.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him—sea salt, gunpowder, and a hint of something that was uniquely, intoxicatingly Sabo.

His heartbeat was a steady thump, thump, thump beneath your ear, the rhythm of it a soothing lullaby that seemed to speak directly to your soul. You felt your own heartbeat slow to match his, the frantic pace of the day melting away into the warmth of his embrace.

For all the times he had shielded you, you were more than happy to return the favor. You had seen the way he looked at you during battles, the split second glances that said more than a thousand words ever could.

The fierce protectiveness in his eyes was something you had come to crave, to cherish, even when it scared you. Because it meant that, in this brutal world, you weren't alone.

You leaned into him, your nose buried in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. The scent of him was a potent cocktail of sweat, smoke, and something else—something that was unmistakably, irrevocably, him.

It was a scent that had haunted your dreams, invaded your thoughts during the loneliest nights of the revolution.

Sabo's hand tightened around your waist, pulling you closer still. His breathing grew deeper, his chest rising and falling against your side.

You felt his eyes on you, heavy with meaning, and you knew he was fighting the same battle you were—the urge to ignore the war outside and lose yourself in each other.

You turned to face him, your eyes searching his for any hint of regret or doubt. But what you saw was unbridled passion, a yearning that matched your own. It was a heady feeling, intoxicating and overwhelming.

You reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertips, feeling the stubble rasp against your skin. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed.

"I don't know if this is the right time," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart. "The revolution, the war, it's all so… intense."

Sabo's eyes searched yours, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. "Life is intense," he murmured, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin. "But moments like these, moments of connection, of love, they're what make it all worth fighting for."

You felt your resolve slipping, the dam you had built around your heart crumbling piece by piece. You had yearned for this, for his touch, for the validation of his feelings, for so long.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin, and brushed his lips against yours. It was a gentle kiss, tentative at first, as if he were afraid you might vanish if he pushed too hard.

But you were real, solid, and you were not going anywhere. . . .

#one piece x reader #one piece fanfic #one piece luffy #one piece #one piece headcanons #sabo #flame emperor sabo #one piece sabo #revolutionary sabo #sabo one piece #sabo the revolutionary #sabo x reader #sabo fanart #chief of staff sabo #op sabo #one piece fluff #one piece x black!reader #one peice #mrsfancyferrari

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dandysworld-meh-imagines · 1 month ago

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Can you make Astro x reader, where reader with Astro army. 7 Astro and 1 reader and reader like: Oh my gooooooood @////@

Reader With An Army Of Astros?!?

Ohhhh, I tried to make it kindaaaa related to the actual game PFFFT!! This also reminds me of THIS EXACT VIDEO PLS. Here you go, dear anon! I tried to make this a silly one (unhinged too) so it might feel like a fever dream and don't expect quality writing from this sksks, thank you for requesting! <3

Also as someone who had two of my friends be Vee and chase me around the map, it made me hella shy and flustered I can't imagine 7 of them oh my god- AND EVEN WITH SHELLY I'LL JUST SILENTLY PASS AWAY HAPPILY BUT SO SHYLY AJDHAJDHAHD omg it's almost 3 am someone help me AAAAAA

-Anna

-Oh, you thought 1 Astro is fine? How about 7 instead?! Yep! 7!! Congratulations, now you have 7 Astro's just following you around without question! It was pretty funny, as Astro's footsteps were just.. quiet. You turn around for one second and then back and you see a whole army of Astro's just observing you, making sure to watch your every move with those sleepy eyes of theirs. Some even smiled sleepily at you and it got you to turn around, flustered. No matter where you go, they followed around with no sound, just casually smiling sleepily and there was pretty much nothing you could do about it!

-Stamina? Pfffft! What's that?? Never heard of it before! Good luck actually running out of stamina because the Astro's are READY to use their skills and make sure you are back to full again, fully rested. They even take turns using their skill so EVEN if you ran like there is actually no tomorrow after one of them restored it, an Astro will ALWAYS have their skill available JUST for you! Lucky you! Sounds like a deal, no? The Astro's are even helping each other, giving stamina to each other so they can catch up to you if you ever ran away. You know they can see that you're low, right? They'll be there soon for you, trust!

-Extracting from machines has never felt more peaceful, because they are literally standing around in all the openings a twisted can get through towards you. They just casually drive the twisted away, no worries for you! All you can do is extract ichor from the machines. Some do help do machines themselves but it's mostly them protecting you and making sure nothing gets to you. You almost will never hear anything unusual as you do your own thing and are taking your sweet time, the Astro's have it all under control! Only thing you'll hear is just some faint footsteps but it's mostly the machine dropping ichor that has almost all your attention.

-It's actually scary how well they communicate too, even without words! It's like these Astro's know what they are doing.. knowing exactly how to pull on a twisted's tail and avoid them perfectly, like they have been doing this for years or something! Sometimes you think that the Astro's are just messing with you but at this point they haven't even allowed the twisteds to even get a LOOK at you! They always drive them away somewhere far from you, like they have made it their life goal or something! They do it so casually too that you think nothing is actually wrong on these.. weird floors and all these weird machines and whatever else is on here!

-They like to use their powers and combined, make any twisted pass out in literal seconds, even the mains! The mains!! 1 Astro would probably find it very difficult but 7 combined?? Nothing actually stands a chance, it's actually scary how much power they hold but it's all to protect you. They are working together so well like actual functioning braincells! Something I don't have!! Wow!! Have you ever seen a public lobby this good? No?? Well, you're in luck now! They know exactly what they are doing and they are doing it WELL. Power of friendship with each other ahhhh Astros.

-They find it funny to make a circle around you as you stand in the middle when the elevator goes to the next floor, no matter where you look.. it's that sleepy expression and smile as they look at you so softly!! Argh!! Good luck hiding your flustered expression cuz you can't hide ANYWHERE when they have you like that! If Dandy's shop is ever in the same floor, even the star of the show himself has NO idea what he's even looking at! He knows it's Astro.. AstroS, or something. He just pulls on the lever silently as his eyes can't.. process what he's looking at?? There goes Dandy's Shop for you! Whoopsies!

-These Astro's LOOOOVE using their star hands pretty much all the time so you'll see these glowy star hands producing this soft and cool light around you. It can also be used to create this very cool view where all the Astro's are holding their hands up close to one another's and it looks like a mini space.. considering you don't mind the lights combining and becoming stronger... and you can't see absolutely anything!! Well, if they do it a bit farther where you can see their hands more clearly then it looks nice! Sometimes they even run in line and it's like stars traveling together.. was Astro always this playful??? No??? Huh????

-Blackouts almost become Brightney only runs at this point cuz when they stick together, it's like y'all are the sun or something! So much light!! Even if one of them leaves to explore around, IT'S STILL SO B R I G H T! CYAN LIGHT!! BOOM! Sometimes they do you the favor and split kinda and the floor almost feels like it has regular light again.. just a cyan light though, like someone changed the lights. These Astro's are literally the torches in Minecraft! They LITERALLY light your way towards the machines and stand by the side like they are your precious knights. It wasn't until a big looking rock dog appeared out of nowhere, chased you and opened his jaws and your view went dark.

-You woke up in your bed sweating and touching around in panic as you realized you had the most unhinged dream.. it felt so weird and real at the same time. You knew you saw the Gardenview floors and these weird machines.. too many Astros who simped for you too, how weird!! it wasn't until Astro flinched by your sudden gasp and gently touched your hand in worry, grounding you as he told you to take deep breaths. When you tried to explain the dream to him, he looked so confused and flabbergasted. He only remembers sending you nice dreams tonight..

-He helps calming you down by getting you water and listening to you talk about that dream with so much.. confusion. He did blush and felt flattered that you dreamed of him.. 6 more of him, doing their best to protect you? The dream you are describing to him sounds so far off from the actual dream he send you but he definitely reassures you that he will be here for you and you can try sleeping again as it was quite late. Astro will always be there for you and to always listen to your rants about the most unhinged dreams, he promises that he is trying his best to send you a good dream though!!

Thank you for reading! <3

#astro novalite #astro novalite x reader #astro #astro x reader #dandy's world x reader #dandys world x reader #dandy's world #dandys world #dandys world astro #dandys world astro novalite #dandy's world astro #dandy's world astro novalite #writing #fluff #unhinged #cursed #gender neutral #silly

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nataliasquote · 1 month ago

Text

Honesty pt. 4 | n romanoff

the not-so lucky one

honesty masterlist

summary: college is officially in session. dance team tryouts, new friends, and oh- Natasha Romanoff and that damn jersey of hers. Kaia had avoided her til now, but there was no way she could escape this one.

pairings: enemies to… (natasha romanoff x o!c), best!friend!yelena

wc: 5.6k

note: I hope you’re loving this so far :) also im not american so i don’t know how college really works, im just making all of this up lol

-⧗-

"Okay wake up bitch. We've got things to do, people to see and food to eat." Yelena burst through the door and stormed over to the curtains, pulling them open allowing light to burst into the room, much to Kaia's annoyance. It wasn't particularly late, but the summer sun was determined to shine for as many hours as it could.

She grumbled and tugged her covers over her head, turning away to face the wall, still mumbling.

"Oh wakey wakey sleeping beauty." Yelena sang, climbing up onto Kaia's bed. They were polar opposites, with Kaia being the worst morning person to exist, whilst Yelena was awake before the sun most of the time. "Do you need the wake up song?"

Kaia had fallen back asleep, leaving no response, so she pulled her phone from pocket and clicked play on the song she had pinned to her screen. The opening guitar riff of "Pump It" by Black Eyed Peas blasted at full volume, a cocky smirk creeping onto Yelena's face as she saw Kaia squirm.

She grumbled something incoherent whilst turning over, to which Yelena just yelled "What was that? I can't hear you!" over the music.

Finally surfacing from under her comforter, Kaia sat up with a menacing scowl, her curls wild about her head. She reached for Yelena's phone but the blonde was fast and jumped from the bed and pressed herself against the wall, the song still blasting. Kaia grunted and launched a pillow at her best friend, who dodged it quickly.

"Turn that shit off now!" Ever since they were 15, Yelena had found that Kaia was infuriated by the song. So of course, any chance she got to annoy her, she took gladly.

"You have to come over here and turn it off yourself." With a wink, Yelena placed her phone on her desk and hopped onto her bed, swinging her legs off the side like a child. She grinned widely at Kaia who was sliding off her own bed, cursing under her breath at every movement. With aggressive movements, she shut the song off and Yelena's phone, disabling it for 10 minutes.

"Oh come on!" The blonde whined, but Kaia just quirked her eyebrow.

"That's payback." Yelena poked her tongue out. "What did you need me awake for anyway?"

The blonde stared at her blankly and Kaia wondered for split second if she'd grown a second head. The pair both waited in silence and Yelena actually couldn't believe the girl sat in front of her. They'd been at university for 3 whole days now, 2 since the parents and Bucky had left. And all that had been on their minds was-

"Societies fair? Orientation? Did you lose your memory during the night?" Kaia stared for a moment before realisation dawned on her face.

"Oh my god! Why didn't you say anything!" Yelena just scoffed and tugged the collar of her sleeveless vest, adjusting it. An army surplus, but it was her pride and joy. "How long do we have?"

"45 minutes until it starts." A look of horror dawned on Kaia's face as her eyes widened. So that's why Yelena was already dressed. "You have enough time, don't worry."

"You know I don't like being rushed." Kaia grumbled, trudging over to the bathroom to grab her toothbrush. Her perfectionist self was not happy, and Yelena couldn't help but feel a bit bad.

Grabbing her key card and ID badge, Yelena shoved her docs on again. "I'll go grab breakfast to help. Croissant?"

"And coffee. Thanks." Her words were really muffled by the toothbrush in her mouth, but Yelena understood most of what she said. They knew each other well enough to guess their breakfast order anyway, but Yelena wanted to double check to avoid anything else going wrong this morning.

As the door slammed shut, Kaia spat her toothpaste into the sink before straightening up and studying her reflection in the mirror. The sun had done her some good, bringing out the freckles across her nose and cheeks in a subtle manner. Her blue eyes were still blurry with sleep, but that would fade as she woke up. Her soft curls remained neutral, not too crazy and frizzy but still gave her hair some volume. Nothing a couple of braids from Yelena couldn't fix.

She rushed through her skincare, using colder water to wake herself up and reduce the puffiness around her eyes. She was still in her pyjama shorts and oversized t-shirt, belonging to Bucky, but pulled a pair of socks onto her feet that were quickly becoming cold from the tiled floor. They'd added fluffy rugs beside each bed as they decorated, but they didn't cover the entire floor which left some parts exposed.

Her case of records stood open, the lid lifted, and this caught Kaiiarina's eyes. The sun was streaming in from the open windows and only music would make the atmosphere better. Slotting 'Rumours' onto the platter of her record player, the crackly sound filled the room as the needle slotted into place. A smile crept onto her face as the opening notes of 'Second Hand News' sounded through the speakers.

Her body couldn't and wouldn't stop moving to the music, even as she was getting dressed. Opting for some loose dark blue jeans and an orange halter crop top, cream platform converse completing her look, Kaia didn't stop moving. Her shoulders swayed as she was clasping her necklace around her neck, which did indeed make her job ten times harder than it had to be.

Her bracelets stayed on her wrists almost all the time, except when she showered. They were hand made by Yelena, who had gone through a friendship bracelet making phase a couple of months ago. Natasha rejected all offers, so Kaia was subjected to every single bracelet. Some had snapped, which left 3 survivors that rarely left her wrist.

She sank down infront of her vanity mirror and began working on her makeup. Nothing much, but just enough to enhance her features. Years of dance shows and competitions had made her appreciate no makeup days; she wouldn't miss heavy lashes or too much blush.

As she applied a light coat of brown eyeliner, Yelena came bursting through the door, two cups and two plastic trays balanced on her arms as she tried to make it into the room. With a chuckle, Kaia leaped up to help her, grabbing the cups before there was a spillage.

"A croissant and an iced coffee for the sleeping beauty herself." Yelena teased with a flourish, offering the plastic tray with a bow. Kaia accepted the tray gratefully, smiling at the side of fresh strawberries and blackberries that Yelena had grabbed.

"You really are the best."

"Oh I know." Yelena had opted for a tropical smoothie, which she didn't realise was an option until she walked into the food hall. Smoothies were her favourite, just below mac and cheese. "Can I braid your hair when I'm done?"

Kaia nodded, mouth full of flaky pastry. "I was just going to ask you actually. Can you do two-"

"-Two little braids. Yep." Finishing each others sentences. Classic.

Kaia took the time to admire Yelena's hair. The blonde had done three tight braids that all joined together in a ponytail, leaving out two strands of hair to frame her face. They looked good, but Yelena always did, so it wasn't surprising.

They continued to eat their breakfast in silence, music being the only thing floating around the room. Kaia's mind wandered to the activities fair, thinking about all the clubs she wanted to look at. The dance team was a given, but other groups like a book group or a Taylor Swift society could be cool. She chewed on a blackberry as her creative mind created a million different different scenarios in her head, some good, some bad.

"Can I braid now?" Yelena's voice broke Kaia from her daydream and the Russian nodded eagerly before raising an eyebrow at her best friend through the mirror.

"Have you washed your hands? I don't want pastry crumbs in my hair." Yelena flashed a sheepish smile and disappeared into the bathroom, only to appear 10 seconds later flapping her hands by her side.

As she braided, Yelena rambled about her weird dream, which wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Kaiiarina would often wake up to ten or more messages of Yelena trying to explain her dream, which sometimes left her even more confuse. Kaia had learned to nod along, whether she understood or not.

At exactly 10:30, the duo were ready. They checked their outfits out in the mirror, decided they both looked hot, and after a final spritz of perfume from Kaia, they had disappeared into the hallway, arms linked.

Their dorm building was quite quiet, but the moment they stepped out onto campus, they were met with a rush of noise. Music drifted from the main area of canopies and tables, and excited yells and cheers echoed from around the corner of a building, clearly some demonstration was taking place.

The girls decided to hit the societies fair first before it got overcrowded as the day went on. They passed under the green and white bunting archway, the gold lettering balloons of P.O.U tied to tree trunks to their left. The entire main lawn was taken up with maybe fifty stalls or more, each one advertising a new student led group looking for more unsuspecting prey to lure into their lairs.

Kaia eyed the Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter tables as they walked past, slightly wary of a guy doing a Gollum impression beside the table. She wasn't one to judge people straight away, but it did scare her a bit. On her right hand side, Yelena was reading each and every sign they passed, basically giving a running commentary.

"Who knew we needed a 'Swedish radio club'. Or a 'single player chess club. Do you have to be single to join? Or friendless?" She questioned, to which Kaia just shrugged.

"I don't know. Ask them."

Yelena turned her nose up and they kept walking. "I don't think the Swedes will like that I'm Russian. And besides, I have a friend. So I can't join the chess club."

"Good, because I wasn't about to lose you to a bunch of loners." Kaia hooked her arm through Yelena's once more as they weaved slowly through the crowd. Someone yelled over to Yelena that they liked her jacket, to which she yelled "Thanks! You should see the pockets on this thing!". That was typical Yelena behaviour; talking to everyone and making friends no matter where she went. Kaia felt a little bit sick at the thought of Yelena making new friends and leaving her, but she couldn't get toxic. She wouldn't be a bad friend to Yelena, ever.

"Hey! There's the soccer team. Mind if I go sign up for tryouts?" Yelena pointed to a table along the row and Kaia nodded.

"Yeah sure. I've just spotted your lovely sister who I guess is running the dance team, so I need to sort that out." Natasha's red hair stuck out against the white tapestry behind her and Kaia had to clench her fists down by her sides.

"Oh god, good luck." Yelena patted her on the shoulder and then dashed off, dodging around people in the crowd like she would on a soccer pitch. Kaia watched her go before making her way to Natasha's table.

She was still several metres away before a brunette girl yelled over to her. "Hey! Are you a dancer?"

Kaia smiled politely. "Is it really that obvious?"

The brunette nodded with a playful smile. "Oh definitely. It's your posture for sure. But anyway, looking to try out for the dance team?"

"Why not? Sounds fun."

"That's what I like to hear. Hey Nat, can you pass me a sign up form?"

"Maria, can't you get it yourself? I'm busy." Nat was leaning over a laptop, shading the screen with her hand as she typed with the other. Her back was turned so she hadn't noticed Kaia, and the brunette Russian hoped she had maybe gotten away with it.

"Nope. You're closer." Maria looked at Kaia and winked. Maybe Nat wouldn't turn around after all.

But when was luck ever on her side? The redhead turned around, form in hand. "Here's your- oh." She completely locked eyes with Kaia and her smile dropped instantly. "Surprised to see you here." She deadpanned.

"No you're not." Kaia wasn't in the mood for Natasha's games, which took the redhead by surprise. She glanced at the green, black and white football jersey that Natasha was wearing, the oversized fit clearly not belonging to her. "I'm here to sign up and then I'll be out of your way."

Natasha hummed, looking Kaia up and down as she handed another form to a girl who was also stood by the table. "Well, let's hope all that rehearsing you've been doing has paid off. Would be embarrassing if you didn't make it to the team."

Kaia's cheeks burned as she filled in her mobile number on the form. Slamming her pen onto the plastic table, she straightened up and locked eyes with Natasha. "Look, you know as well as I do that you need me on that team. So you can keep playing your game, or you can do your team a favour. It's up to you." She didn't wait to see Natasha's reaction and continued to fill out her details. The silence that followed was a small victory in Kaia's eyes.

But as she stood back up to hand in her form, Natasha grabbed it and then grabbed Kaia's wrist. "Don't flatter yourself Kaiiarina. This isn't our little home studio anymore, it's the real world. You'll quickly come to see that you're not all that. Better get off that pedestal before you fall too hard." Her green eyes bore into Kaia's, a perfect eyebrow quirking up as she grew smug. "That'll be all. See you Friday."

Kaia snatched her wrist out of Natasha's grip and turned to look at Maria behind the table who was staring at the interaction with a startled look on her face. Natasha clearly carried a fierce reputation, so people coming head to head with her wasn't a common thing.

Not wanting to spend another second in Natasha's presence, Kaia turned away and marched through the crowd, adjusting the straps of her halter top as her eyes darted around to find Yelena.

"Hey," an auburn haired girl ran after Kaia, tapping her on the arm gently. "I saw how she just spoke to you. Are you okay?"

Kaia looked at her kind face for a moment and couldn't help but smile. "Yeah I'm fine, but thank you. I know that girl from back home. We basically grew up dancing together."

"You grew up with the Natasha Romanoff?" The girl asked and her eyes widened in disbelief as Kaia nodded. "Was she always that mean?"

Kaia hesitated for a moment, not wanting to bad mouth Natasha in front of people who could end up slipping up and spilling what she'd said. "She's just competitive. And at our small studio at home, we were often put against each other. I'm sure she's sweet in person." Kaia almost burst out laughing at how fake she was being. Natasha Romanoff did not have a sweet bone in her body.

"Even though she's a junior? Damn you must be really good." Kaia blushed at the compliment, shaking her head. "I'm Wanda by the way.

"Kaiiarina, but you can call me Kaia. Everyone does."

"Nice to meet you Kaia." Wanda had a slight accent, which made Kaia's name sound really pretty as she said it. "I guess I'll see you at tryouts?"

"You sure will." Kaia said with a kind smile. "Wait, what are you majoring in?"

"Oh, dance, with a minor in history."

Kaia's smile grew wider at the thought of knowing a familiar face. "Well then I guess I'll see you in class. I'm a dance major too."

Wanda let out an excited squeal. "You are? That's perfect!"

"I'll catch you later." Kaia smiled back at her before turning to find Yelena who was bounding over to her, a new pin stuck on one of the pockets of her vest.

"Making friends without me? Damn, college really is having an effect on you." Yelena teased, looking over her best friend's shoulder at Wanda's figure in the distance. "Who was that?"

"Oh, just a girl from my class. She watched Nat be her usual self towards me-"

"She's still being an asshole?" Yelena groaned, rolling her eyes. "I swear if I could have just one free swing to her face-"

"Well, she is your sister..." Kaia smirked which earned her a side eyed glare from the blonde.

"Don't tempt me."

Kaia let out a breathy laugh. "I see you made some progress with the soccer team. When are tryouts?"

Yelena paused for a moment and then looked at the scribbled pen on the back of her hand. "Uhmm..." she squinted to try and read her writing, which was proving to be difficult. "Friday... 3pm."

"Cool. Same as dance team."

"That's gonna be a lot of nerves in one tiny dorm room."

"Oh tell me about it." The interaction with Natasha had riled Kaia up more than she wanted to admit, and she was in desperate need of a distraction. "I see a giant cardboard cut out of Taylor Swift over there. Wanna go be a Swiftie with me?" Kaia asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"Is that even a question?!" Yelena was practically dragging Kaia by her elbow, ignoring the brunette's protests to slow down. Their love of dance may not be shared, but their love of all things music sure was.

-⧗-

"My hands are shaking so much I can barely braid." Yelena had been pacing up and down in front of the mirror for twenty minutes as her hands anxiously twisted her hair into a tight braid.

Kaia watched her, almost feeling the anxiety radiating off her as she stretched on the small strip of floor between their beds. She turned her body from her straddle stretch into her right split, rolling her shoulders and crossing her arms over so her hips stayed square the whole time.

"How are you so calm?" The blonde asked as she caught sight of Kaia in the mirror.

The latter burst out laughing. "Oh trust me, I'm really not. I'm just hiding it well." It was true. On the outside, she remained poised and calm, her face how it would be on any other Friday. But inside it felt like a heard of wild elephants had been released in her stomach as her heart stammered in her chest.

The steady motion as she put herself through her stretch and warm up routine helped ease Kaia's nerves as she focused more on each movement than she did on her racing heart.

As several bones in her spine clicked as she contorted her body into her impressive needle, Kaia let out a groan and let go of her leg. "I can't actually believe I willingly signed up for this."

Yelena turned around, her hands now halfway down her incomplete braid. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Kai started, moving to grab her pointe shoes so she couldn't quickly warm up. "I purposely chose to spend the next two hours of my life with your sister. And now that I actually say it out loud, that sounds insane."

"It's only two hours. You've survived full days with her before. And when you get back, we can order pizza and have a movie and pamper night."

"Okay that's a good deal. How long is your session."

Yelena pulled the small elastic from between her teeth and secured the end of one braid before starting the second. "It's only one and a half hours. So I'll be here when you finish." Kaia nodded, rotating her ankles in circles to prepare for pointe.

The pair worked in silence for a few minutes, with Yelena quickly getting into her soccer practice shorts and jersey whilst Kaia wriggled into her tights and leotard.

She usually wasn't this formal to normal dance rehearsals, but she had to make the best impression if she even stood a chance with Natasha and her ruthlessness. Kaia knew just how tough she was going to be, and she had to be prepared to do everything and anything that Natasha asked her to. Now was not the time for failure.

Yelena left a few minutes before Kaia needed to and they both shared a good luck hug, with Kaia kissing her best friend on the cheek like they usually did. Yelena wasn't a fan of hugging or anything like that, but it always felt right with Kaia.

The brunette checked the contents of her dance bag for the fifth time, repacking her tap shoes in their little bag and rechecking she had extra bobby pins in her tin. Her back was zipped up for the final time before she slipped on her converse checked her hair in the mirror. Her leotard and tights were hidden beneath a pair of sweatpants and she'd rolled an extra sports tank top into her back for afterwards.

"You've got this. It's just Natasha. Show her what you can do."

-⧗-

The sports and performance facilities at Pale Oak University were state of the art. They'd received a large grant from the government when Natasha was a freshman, so each studio was fully furnished with smooth polished floors and full size mirrors.

Kaia followed the arrows marked 'dance team tryouts' and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. With every step she took, her heart thumped in her chest so hard she thought it might rip her leotard.

The changing room air was thick with hairspray as she pushed open the door. Her eyes darted across the fifty or so dancers who were anxiously fixing already perfect hair or chatting in small groups. The medium sized room was quite crowded, so Kaia found an empty corner and slipped onto the bench, keeping to herself. She was usually chatty before performances, but each girl here was competition, and there were plenty of individuals that Natasha would love. It would be a knock to her confidence if Kaia didn't make the team.

As she zipped her phone into a small pocket on the side of her bag, a message from Yelena popped up on her screen. She punched out a quick reply with a smile before putting it away. Kaia took a deep breath and observed the room once more, sizing up her competition.

A tall blonde caught her eye. She was muscular but slim with strong lines and Kaia could tell just by looking at her that she had good technique. Natasha was going to love her. The brunette watched her closely, studying how she interacted with the girls around her. She seemed sweet, but Kaia could see a falseness to the way she acted, and her smile seemed too fake. A clear example of someone who clawed her way to the top and trampled anyone who got in her way.

"Hey! Kaia right?" An excited voice came from beside her. Kaia snapped out of her trance and turned to see Wanda grinning widely. "I'm so glad I found you. This place is a maze."

"Hey Wanda." Kaia observed the energetic girl beside her. "How are you not nervous?" Wanda seemed to have a lot of energy and was bouncing around as she peeled off her sweatpants and adjusted her tights. She'd chosen a wine red leotard with crossed straps across the back and Kaia couldn't help but admire it. She looked pretty.

"Oh I am! I just get bubbly when I'm nervous." She flashed a sheepish smile and took a seat beside Kaia, their hips touching in the cramped space. "I hope they're not too ruthless in there. I have no idea what to expect." Wanda was sweet but a bit naive and Kaia just hoped Natasha didn't truly eat her alive in the audition process.

The door swung open and very quickly the chatter died down. Every head in the room turned to Maria who was standing with a clipboard, her oversized black dance team hoodie almost reaching the end of her shorts.

"Are you all here for dance team tryouts?" A chorus of 'yes' answered her and she smiled, quickly scanning the room. Her eyes caught Kaia's and she smiled softly, easing the nervous Russian's nerves. Maybe there was someone on the panel who didn't completely hate her guts.

"I'm just gonna give you a brief overview of how these next couple of hours are going to go. I'll take you through to studio three, and we will do a quickly warm up before I teach you a combination. You'll have twenty minutes to run it in groups before the panel over in studio two will watch you in groups of three." Murmurs slowly spread along rows of girls until Maria shushed them. "Whoever makes it through that round will then be called in one by one to show your solos. Results should be up on Monday."

"She seems so chill dumping all of this on us at once." Wanda whispered, making Kaia nod.

"At least Natasha isn't teaching us the combo. We escaped that one." Kaia didn't fancy being singled out that early on. Maria seemed a bit more chilled out, so maybe today wouldn't be as bad as she thought.

Sticking herself somewhere in the middle of the studio, near-ish to the front so she could see Maria - some of the other dancers were very tall - Kaia rolled her shoulders and shook out her whole body, effectively shaking off the nerves. She'd been in countless auditions but it never seemed to get any easier.

With Wanda on her right and a gorgeous dark-skinned girl on her left, Kaiiarina let her body lead her through the warm up. Everything slipped away when she danced, hence why it became her therapy. It was just her in the room now, and occasionally Maria when they had to move into a different stretch.

The combination wasn't too difficult to pick up, at least not for Kaia. Wanda had a little trouble with the turns section so Kaia assisted her in the break, helping with her arm placement so her movements looked more fluid.

There were sixteen counts of improv at the start of the music... Kaia's time to prove herself. She'd spent too many hours dancing however her heart wanted to in the comfort of a private studio space for this to go wrong. She knew how to feel for the music, to let it seep into her muscles and control her body whilst she sat back and embraced it. Dancing was almost second nature to her now and she couldn't think of anything better.

They were split into groups by the places they had picked, so Wanda and Kaia automatically were placed in a group together, along with a dark blonde girl named Cora. She didn't smile, despite Wanda's bubbly efforts to make her feel welcome.

Kaia placed her antisocial behaviour down to nerves, knowing that people often were more closed off when faced with competition. She didn't want to judge her character too quickly.

One by one, Maria called a group into the next room. Kaia's group were number eight so she took the time to mark through the combination, the set music playing in her head. She watched her reflection like a hawk, hearing her old dance teacher's voices echoing their corrections.

She engaged her ribs when she contracted forwards, placed her hands with every movement, made sure her shoulders were relaxed. Even tiny things that wouldn't be noticeable, she corrected herself on, the perfectionist within her taking full control.

Everyone in the room had been blocked out, including Wanda. She may be a friend now, but she was still competition. She could still take a spot that was meant for Kaia.

25 minutes later, Maria came back into the room once more, calling for group eight. Kaia was taken by surprise when a hand quickly squeezed hers and she looked up to find Wanda grinning back at her.

"I was watching you practice just then. They'd be dumb not to take you based on this round alone."

Kaia smiled, although it didn't quite meet her eyes. She knew she was already at a disadvantage to the other girls, but it lit a fire within her that was driving her forwards. "Thanks Wanda. You looked really good too."

Studio two had been set up to resemble a theatre, the stage lighting shining on the designated dance floor as well as the judging panel. As Kaia walked into the room, she immediately saw Natasha.

Red hair curled, the same oversized football jersey resting over the top of a pair of black lululemon shorts. She was taking a sip of her drink when she spotted the next group and her face visibly darkened as she saw Kaia.

But the brunette didn't let that phase her. She ignored the judging panel, except when she had to state her name. The mirror behind the panel had been curtained off, so she really had to trust herself to perform flawlessly.

The three girls took their positions in the centre, Kaia in the middle but slightly upstage so she could see where Wanda and Cora were as they danced.

There were a few moments of deafening silence before the music started and Kaia felt as though her breathing was echoing around the room. But she held her starting position strong, waiting for the music to set her free.

Kaia pushed and pushed through her body, executing each movement with perfection. Her lines were flawless, emotion flickering across her face as she truly moved to the music. Natasha's eyes were on her almost constantly and Kaia had grown used to that feeling over the years. There could be no mistakes now. The slightest wobble would give the redhead a valid reason to cut Kaia from the team.

She leaped and turned and stretched, feeling the music flow through her veins, pushing her beyond her limits. She stayed aware of her spacing, leaping into a fiery front ariel just before the beginning of the combination.

Natasha sat behind the desk with a stoic face, but inside she was rattled. She'd watched Kaia for years, but nothing truly prepared her for the maturity expressed within her dancing today. She wasn't the annoying fifteen year old anymore. Kaia truly was an exceptional dancer, which left Natasha feeling disgruntled but rather smug.

There was no applause as her group finished, just the sounds of pens scratching across the paper as the four judges made their notes. They were given the nod by Maria and returned back into the changing room.

Kaia gulped down some water, her throat suddenly thick and cottony from dancing so hard. Wanda disappeared into the bathroom which gave the Russian a few moments to think. She analysed her performance in her head, a terribly bad habit that she couldn't break. She beat herself up over the tiniest wobble or mistake and it would eat her alive for weeks.

She was kicking herself over the ending of the turns sequence, knowing she could have finished them cleaner. Natasha would have noticed for sure.

Wanda was good at reading people, so by the time she came back and noticed Kaia's dejected mood, she allowed the girl some time to herself.

Ten minutes passed before everyone was back in studio two for the results of the first round. Some girls would walk away from today feeling disappointed, and Kaia prayed she wouldn't be one of them. It would knock her confidence into the ground.

"Thank you all so much for coming," Natasha's raspy voice called out. "Unfortunately, not all of you will be moving on to the solo round. So if I don't call your name, please collect your things and follow the arrows back outside. We appreciate how many of you turned up today, and there was a lot of talent, which made our decision really hard."

Maria shuffled the papers on her clipboard, just double checking everything was correct. "So, in no particular order, the first dancer we want to call back is..."

Names were being read out but Kaia was deaf to them. Her heartbeat rang inside her head and the bright stage lights seemed dazzlingly brighter than normal. She vaguely heard Wanda's name and smiled subconsciously, knowing the girl deserved to go through.

She focused back in at the last two names, a sinking feeling taking its hold in her stomach as she knew she'd run out of time. Clearly Natasha had more power than she knew.

"And our last dancer to go through to the solo round is... Kaiiarina Lenkova."

Kaia saw only one thing as her name was called out. Natasha stared directly at her, one perfect eyebrow raised as if to say 'prove yourself.'

part 5

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