#LET. CROSSHAIR. BREAK. DOWN >:)

[fanfoolishness]

a rain that sounds like home (7/8)

After the destruction of Tantiss, the Bad Batch is safe at last. As Crosshair begins to recover from his injuries, it becomes apparent that not all of his scars are physical, and that guilt and grief are wounds that cut deeper than any blade. His family is determined to be there for him -- if only he can let them in.

Canon-compliant, focusing on PTSD, amputation recovery, and sibling grief, with plenty of whump, hurt/comfort, and emotional catharsis. Set shortly after the return from Tantiss and my fic Breaching the Wall. 43,000 words total.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 8

Chapter 7: Release.

Echo brings a gift for Crosshair, but things go wrong when Crosshair's trauma finally catches up to him. Crosshair and Omega POV. 7818 words. Art post here.

---

“So how’s it feel to take a break from saving the galaxy?” Crosshair asked.  He sat perched on a rocky outcropping ringing a small natural pool, his feet submerged in the water, toes digging into the sand.  Batcher waded placidly in the surf beyond the rocks before taking off to chase after Omega, who let out a whoop of delight before running over to where Hunter and Wrecker were building a citadel out of sand and stones.

Echo chuckled from where he sat beside Crosshair, reaching up with his left hand to shade his eyes.  While there were clouds smudging the horizon, the sun was still fierce today.  “You’ve got a high opinion of what we’ve been up to.”

”Tell me I’m wrong,” Crosshair challenged.

”We like to think we’re making a difference,” said Echo.  “Time will tell.  But we’ve been able to start cleaning up some of Tantiss’ messes.  Hemlock had smaller operations elsewhere and we’ve been able to start shutting them down.  We’ve gotten more clones out.”

Crosshair nodded.  “Good.”  His mouth quirked to one side.  “Cody?”

”No.  Sorry, Crosshair.”

Crosshair nodded.  He knew Echo would have told him, but he couldn’t help but ask.  

“So what do you think?” Crosshair asked.  He gestured to Hunter and Wrecker, now being half-buried in the sand by Omega.  Batcher rolled around in the sand, making funny little noises that carried on the breeze to where Crosshair and Echo sat.  

“I think Pabu suits you all,” Echo said.  He smiled.  “The house is great.  Never pictured you or Hunter being domestic, but it works.  And Omega — she’s really happy here, isn’t she?”

”She is.  She misses you, but she gets it.”  Crosshair reached up, wiping the sweat from his brow. 

We miss you, he thought but didn’t say.

They fell silent.  Crosshair gazed into the pool, noting little fish with small tendrils around their mouths darting near his feet.  A crab-like creature in fluorescent violet crept at the far end of the pool, waving two pairs of pincers and dancing back and forth.  The tentacles of blue and green anemones drifted back and forth with every small movement of the water.

“Did you bring it?” Crosshair asked in a low voice.

”Yeah,” said Echo.  “Just waiting on you.  Did you tell the others?”

Crosshair rubbed his right arm.  “No.  Not yet.  I wanted to make sure….”  His voice trailed.

”That it would work?”

”Uh-huh.”

”We can have AZI come by anytime.  After dinner or —“

Crosshair pictured Wrecker peering over his shoulder, Omega’s wide eyes, Hunter grimly watching.  He couldn’t take that kind of pressure.  “Maybe just you and me.”  

“We could sneak off.  But we’ll need a distraction…”

They watched as Wrecker erupted from the sand, chasing after Omega like some kind of crazed monster, clouds of sand flying everywhere with each leap he took after her.  Hunter roused himself from his own sand prison, letting out a whoop as he ran after them.

Echo snorted.  ”Yeah, that’ll work.”

---

They put in the call to AZI a few minutes later, once they got back to the house.  The droid had set up a little medical clinic in Upper Pabu but also made house calls.  Crosshair and Echo sat in the kitchen, waiting for the droid to arrive.  

On the table before them sat a sleek chromium crate.  Crosshair stared at it, his leg jittering under the table.  He bit down on his toothpick, shredding it between his teeth.  At last he reached out and flipped the lid of the crate open to look inside.

A metallic hand lay in the box, glinting beneath the lights.  He picked it up gingerly, cradling it in his left hand, holding it near his stump.  Its joints curled slightly with its own weight as he shifted it.  It was colder than he’d thought it would be, but it matched the size of his real hand closely.  He tried to picture it articulating, gripping, holding a blaster — or a razor.  His face twisted and he set it back down within the crate.

”Synthskin is harder to get,” Echo said quietly.  “I can keep looking —“

Crosshair shrugged.  “A glove’s fine.”

“You ready for this?”

”Not exactly.  But it’s not like I was ready to lose it, either.”

The door chimed, and Crosshair got up to key it open.  The medical droid hovered there cheerfully, flying in with a twirl.  

“CT-9904!  CT-1409!  It is a pleasure to see you both today. I understand you are in need of my services for attachment of a prosthetic.  How are you feeling, CT-9904?”

”Fine.  Can we get on with it?” he asked, fighting back his nerves.

”Very well.  Where would you like us to proceed?”

“Maybe the bedroom,” Crosshair said.  “I don’t know about doing surgery in the kitchen.”  

Echo laughed.  “Might not be the most hygienic, depending on who’s cooking.”

They moved to the bedroom, and Crosshair had to admit the droid was efficient, scanning his arm as soon as he sat down.  Echo sat beside him.

“Your healing has progressed well, CT-9904.  Your amputation site should be able to support this prosthetic without complication.”

”All right.”  That, at least, he hadn’t failed at.

“I will begin by installing the interface between the organic components of your arm and nervous system and the cybernetics of the prosthetic.”  The droid hovered over to him, taking his arm, a flurry of needles pricking his skin and numbing it before the droid held up something that looked like a slender microchip.  Crosshair looked away, feeling only a faint sense of pressure.  “The installment is not permanent.  You will be able to remove the prosthetic as desired, whether it is for cleaning, repairs or replacement.  Simply twist and release to undo the locking mechanism.”

”All right so far, Crosshair?” Echo asked.

Crosshair nodded, his mouth a thin line.  Until he remembered what the droid had just said.  “What do you mean, there’s an interface?” Crosshair asked.  “That’s just where it attaches, right?”

”That is what it looks like at the surface level, yes, but the interface interacts directly with the remnants of the radial and ulnar nerves, and from there to the brain.  This allows for precision control of the prosthetic and a true cybernetic melding of organic and synthetic.”

Crosshair stiffened.

”So… it would be controlled like my real hand?”

”Yes.  With practice, you should be able to achieve proficiency and dexterity equal to that of your natural hand.”

Echo’s eyes widened slightly, understanding his fear, but he didn’t say anything.

Are you saying it’s in my head?

Crosshair’s mouth went dry.  “What if I — I don’t want it to interface?  Couldn’t I turn that off?”

”That is the only way the prosthetic will function,” AZI said.  “It is a feature of its design.”  The droid tilted his head at Crosshair, blinking his huge yellow eyes.  For a moment, they looked disturbingly like Tech’s goggles. “Do you prefer I not proceed?”

He was afraid. Shaking, jerking, uncontrolled, weak…

He was terribly afraid.

But Echo had done this for him.  Omega would be proud of him for trying.  Hunter and Wrecker would ease off his back if he could show them he was getting better, especially with something big like this.

”Just get on with it,” he said.

He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against his toothpick.  Even though he wasn’t looking, and the skin had been temporarily numbed, he could still sense a pressure, hear the sounds of clicking and whirring.  And then suddenly there was a new weight on the end of his right arm, slightly heavier than the weight of his left arm, dragging it downard unexpectedly.  

One last click, and then he felt it.

He opened his eyes with a gasp.  He stretched out his fingers, haltingly, one at a time.  The metallic fingers whirred with a soft subtle sound.  He reached out to touch the new hand with his left, and jerked backward, realizing that he could feel the sensation in both hands.

”I — I can feel it,” Crosshair said, his voice cracking.  He looked at Echo with wild eyes.  “It’s  working!”

Echo gave him a smile.  “Looks that way.”

“Your new prosthetic is fully installed,” AZI said.  “There are multiple exercises I would recommend to help accustom you to using your new hand, as it will take your brain some time to readjust.  I can review them with you now if you wish, or link them to a datapad —“

”Datapad,” said Crosshair.  “I’ll look at them later.”  He let out a long breath.  “Let me just… get used to it for now.”  He stood up, using both hands to push himself off the bed.  It was a dizzying sensation, the palm and fingers of his right hand curling around the edge of the bed, pushing upward, slackening once he rose to his feet.  “Thanks, AZI.  Echo.”

”How’s it feel?” Echo asked as they walked the droid back to the front door.  

“Strange.  But… familiar.”

The droid left the exercises on the datapad on the dining table, then took his leave.  Echo and Crosshair turned and looked at each other.

”Well, now what?” Crosshair asked.  He clasped his hands together.  He clasped his hands together.  The sensation was strange — the asymmetry between the two hands was apparent, but there were two of them.  He felt half-faint with hope, with something light and free. 

Echo looked at him proudly.  “Whatever you want, Crosshair.  What do you feel like?”

He could stop having to rely on them.  Show them he’d recovered.  Show Omega everything was fine.

He tried reaching down to the pouch of toothpicks on his belt with his right hand.  His fingers took a moment longer than usual to make the required movements, but still managed it, and he inserted the toothpick between his lips.  He flashed Echo a tight grin, and Echo laughed, clapping him on the back.  

It wasn’t long until Hunter, Wrecker and Omega tromped in, still half-soaked and shedding sand as they came through the front door.  “Oh no you don’t,” said Crosshair, getting up from where he had been sitting with Echo.  “You’ll make a mess.  Let me get you a fresh towel.”  He crossed the distance to where they stood, and held out a pile of towels in his right hand.

There was a beat.  Then a soft gasp from Omega, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.  “Crosshair!”

”You went for it!” Wrecker exclaimed.  

Hunter smiled at him.  “How’s it feel?”

”It feels fine.  Take your towels, you’re dripping,” Crosshair said coolly.  He shoved the towels at them, but couldn’t hide a smile.

”So that’s where you two went!” Omega said with a hint of accusation.  She wrapped her towel around herself and kicked off her beach shoes.  “Can I see?”

”Sure,” he said.  He held out his right arm, opening and closing the hand.  “I’ll have to find a glove.  Might scare the kids.”

”I don’t think it’s scary.  I think it’s interesting,” Omega said.  She slipped her hands over his, peering up at his face.  “Can you feel that?”

”Yes.”  It wasn’t the same as his real hand, but he could feel the pressure of her grip, the sensation of her warm skin brushing against the metal of the constructed palm and fingers.  He squeezed her hand, tentatively, making sure not to squeeze too hard and hurt her.  

The effort of focusing made his head ache and his wrist prickle.  He shook the sensations away.  Maybe AZI’s exercises would help sort that out.

”Where did you find it, Echo?” Hunter asked, drying off.  

“One of Phee’s contacts knew a seller,” said Echo. “Pulled a few strings.  AZI got things set up.”

“You sure were sneaky about it,” Wrecker said, finishing with his towel and laying it around his shoulders.

“There’s nothing wrong with privacy,” Crosshair said loftily.  Wrecker snorted.  Crosshair knew Wrecker had never understood the concept.

“Well, looks good, Crosshair,” said Wrecker, giving him a wide smile.  

Crosshair lifted his hand and raised his first two fingers to his temple, then shifted his hand out in a slightly sarcastic salute to his brother.  The hand obeyed his thoughts, and though there was a slight delay from when he planned the movement to when it happened, it was still working.  It scarcely felt real, yet it was.  Somehow, it was.

He grinned.  He couldn’t help it.

---

“So what am I supposed to be doing here?” Crosshair asked, looking down at the baskets of fresh produce Omega had set out.  They stood together in the kitchen while Echo, Wrecker and Hunter caught up in the living room.  Batcher sat patiently between Crosshair and Omega, watching hopefully in case any food was dropped.

“I’m trying soup tonight!” Omega said.  She stood up on the kitchen stepstool and propped up her datapad against the wall with Lyana’s recipe displayed.  “I had it over at Shep and Lyana’s.  It’s really good, but it has a lot of steps, and I thought maybe you could help me with the chopping.  You know, for practice!” she said.

He nodded.  “Right.”  He held out his cybernetic hand, curling the fingers into a fist and then releasing them, then hesitantly picking up the knife.

“You only have to chop these,” Omega said quickly. 

“And how big is chop again?”

“Chop is big.  Dice is small.  Mince is insanely small.  Just chopping.”  She estimated the size with her thumb and forefinger, holding them up to Crosshair.  

“I think I can do that.”  He set to work with a large deeproot, bracing it with his left hand, cutting slow careful rows into it with his new hand.  Each chop took him time to line up, followed by a moment to carefully sink the blade into the vegetable’s flesh.  He was going slowly to avoid cutting himself.  Omega watched him closely, even though she knew she had other parts of the meal to prepare for; it was just mesmerizing to see Crosshair focusing, to see him with both hands, to see him doing this with her.

There was a small ahem.  She looked up to see him giving her an amused look.  “I thought I was helping you with dinner, not doing it all myself.”

“I just got distracted,” Omega said, unable to keep from smiling.  She turned back to the water she was starting to boil for the noodles.  “It’s just… you look happier.  And you’re doing a really good job.  How does it feel?”

He considered.  “It’s not the same as before.  I have to think about how to use it.  The droid said that should improve.”

“I’m sure it will never feel exactly the same, but hopefully it starts to feel like second nature!  Like when you first started training with your rifle, or when I started with my bow,” Omega said, finishing washing the last of the produce.  “I hope this turns out all right.  I know Echo can be picky.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Crosshair said in a low voice, winking.  

Omega giggled.  “He can look so stern when he wants to.”

“Mm-hm.”  Slow, careful chop, chop, chop.    

“How much longer is he staying?” 

“I don’t know.  You’ll have to ask him,” said Crosshair.  “He said he might be able to fit in a supply run for the island tomorrow before he gets back to it.”  He finished with the deeproot and reached for a pile of mallow tubers.  Omega added the chopped deeproot to the soup base, which already smelled lovely from the spices she’d added. Once the vegetables had sauteed, she’d add the broth, and hopefully it would all work together.  

“It’s good he’s been out there fighting,” Omega said quietly.  She’d been thinking since last week, when she’d had that horrible nightmare about Hemlock and the bridge again.  Everything that man had touched needed to be stamped out, and if her brother Echo was the one who had to be out on the front lines, destroying any last traces of Hemlock’s work, she understood.  Thinking of it that way had helped soothe some of the sense of missing him, and she’d felt lighter all week.  “We’ll always have room for him here, but I know he’s not done yet.”

“No.  You can never keep a good ARC trooper down,” Crosshair agreed.  He added the chopped mallow tubers to the pot and Omega gave them a good stir.  They sizzled, commingling with the spices.  “What else do you have?”

“These are really good,” Omega said, passing him the sea onions.  “They don’t take as long to cook, so they go in after the roots.”  

“The cooking part is all you,” he said.  “I’d probably burn it all.”  He got to work on the sea onions, mouth thinning in concentration.  They had a different texture than the roots and Omega knew from experience they were a little trickier to chop.

“Thanks again,” Omega said.  

“For helping with dinner?  We all have chores.”

“Well, that too, but the other night,” Omega said shyly.  She cast a glance back at her brothers in the living room, still talking amongst themselves.  “I’ve been meditating again before going to sleep, and I haven’t had any more bad dreams.  I’m glad you didn’t listen when I told you to get out of my room.”

He glanced at her, his expression soft.  “Just wanted to help.”

“You did,” she said, reaching out and patting his arm.  Her nightmares of Tantiss, Hemlock, the bridge, they all felt so far away now with Crosshair here and safe beside her, the rest of her family in the next room, everyone safe and healthy.  She sighed contentedly, taking a big whiff of the vegetables, which were starting to smell delicious.  “It’s like… I still had this weight I was holding onto.  Like Tantiss was something that I couldn’t ever leave.  But now —“

Crosshair’s knife clattered to the counter.  She looked over hurriedly.  “Did you cut yourself?”

He looked pale, tense, every line of him rigid and angular as he stared down at his new hand.  He shook his head just slightly.  “No.”

”Are you okay?”

Batcher whined, nudging Crosshair’s leg.

He picked up the knife again in his right hand, taking a deep breath.  “Here’s the onions.” He scooped them towards her and she added them to the soup.  

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

He set down his knife and reached for a toothpick, coming up with it and setting it in his mouth with his new hand.  His eyes darted back and forth, but his face was impassive, back to a cool mask.  “The onions sting.”

She squinted, feeling their fumes rise up from the pot.  “Yeah, they do.”  She fiddled with the spoon, stirring clockwise, then counterclockwise.  “But anyway.  Thank you.  For helping me with dinner.  And the other night.  And… taking care of yourself.”  She nudged him with her shoulder.  

He looked faintly exasperated, but his eyes were fond.  “You don’t have to look after me.”

”Don’t have to, but I want to.”  

“Hm.”

She glanced up at him again, hoping to see him smiling.  But his face tensed again, the lines between his brows tighter than usual, and she turned back to the soup, disquieted.

---

Crosshair stood in the refresher, holding his right wrist and staring at his new hand.  He examined every facet of the hand, every joint, every hinge, every turn and twist.  Everything was perfect.  It was metal, cool where flesh was warm, different…  but perfect.

But he’d dropped the knife while chopping vegetables.  Had his hand shaken?  Or had it been a momentary lapse, a disconnect between the new technology and his body?  

AZI had said it could take time to get used to.  That’s all it was.  It had to be.

You should achieve dexterity equal to your natural hand….

He bit his lower lip, remembering just how useless his natural hand had become.

He stared at his hand, almost daring it to tremble, but it rested still and calm on the edge of the sink.  He shook his head.  

It’d be fine.  There was no alternative.  He was fine.

He left the ‘fresher, joining the others around the table.  Omega had finished making her soup and was just finishing setting out a bowl at his seat.  Batcher was curled under the table, ready for tidbits.

“What’s up, Crosshair?  Upset tummy?” Wrecker asked.  

“Sorry to disappoint,” Crosshair said in a withering tone.  He looked down at the soup, somewhat impressed to see his chopped vegetables didn’t look too uneven.  

“Well, let’s give this a try,” Omega said, plunging her spoon into her bowl.  She blew on her spoonful first to cool it, then hesitantly put it into her mouth.  Her eyebrows rose.  “Hey, it’s pretty good!”

Crosshair followed her lead, holding the spoon in his right hand.  The movements to get the spoon into the bowl were a little jerky, a little stiff, but he was able to take a spoonful of soup only slightly slower than the others.  It was good, a rich and filling broth with fish and vegetables.  He focused on taking another spoonful, and another, his hand obeying him slightly more smoothly with each attempt.  He’d eaten half the bowl this way before he looked up and saw the others deep in conversation.  He’d been focusing so sharply he’d completely blocked them out.

“Emerie sends her regards,” Echo said to Omega.  “She’s back at base, working on analyzing some of the data we lifted from the secondary lab on Arvela-4.”

Omega nodded.  “I’m proud of her.  I’m so glad she changed her mind, in the end.  I always hoped she would, but I couldn’t ever reach her all the way.”  She frowned, as if she wished things had been different, but the disappointment lasted only a moment.  “I just never thought it would be you who changed her mind!”

Echo chuckled.  “The way she tells it, it was a perfect storm.  You started her thinking about it.  Then the kids.  Then I showed up.”

“It must have been some lecture you hit her with,” Crosshair said slyly.  His own interactions with Emerie had been less brutal than those with Hemlock, of course, but they hadn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy, and the best he could muster up for her was neutrality.  He was glad she was being useful, though.

“Yeah, no one can stand up to Echo for long when he gives you that look,” Wrecker agreed, finishing off his soup and setting his bowl down.  “Going for seconds, anyone else want more?”  He got to his feet.

“I’m good,” said Hunter.  “But this was delicious, Omega.  We should keep this recipe around.  Maybe I could figure it out, too.”

“It really wasn’t that hard,” Omega said, beaming.  “And Crosshair helped.”

“Hardly.  It was all you.”  He took another spoonful of soup, which had started to cool off, but his hand continued to obey him.  Maybe it’s going to be fine.  “You’re getting good at this cooking thing.”

She gave him one of those dazzling smiles, and went back to eating her soup, her cheeks pink.

“You said Emerie’s working on data from Arvela-4.  Anything useful?” Hunter asked as Wrecker sat down with another bowl.

Echo raised his eyebrow.  “I thought you were staying out of things.” 

“I am.  We are,” Hunter protested.  “Doesn’t mean I can’t stay informed.”  He gave Echo a rueful smile.  “Besides, old habits die hard.”

“Fair enough,” said Echo.  “Emerie’s given us more information on some of the side projects Hemlock had cooking -- you should have seen what his plans were for the zillo beast!  Good job getting her out, Omega -- but there’s still layers of encryption on some of the other data we don’t have a hope of getting through.  Maybe Tech would have been able to make sense of some of it--”

Crosshair’s hand jerked, his spoon clattering violently in his bowl as his fingers trembled.

He stared down into the bowl, struggling to keep his breath calm, his eyes burning as his hand slowly quieted.  He could feel his siblings staring at him.  He let out a long breath through his nostrils, blinking rapidly.

“Crosshair?” Echo said quietly.

“It’s nothing,” Crosshair hissed.  “I’m just getting used to it.”  He dropped the spoon into his bowl, then quickly tried to hide his hand under the table, willing it to stop shaking. 

Stop it.  Stop it!

Batcher licked his hand under the table.  He recoiled.  He knew she was only trying to help.  But the touch was an electric frisson boiling up his arm and back to his brain.  He balled up his hand into a fist, pulling it away from the hound.

Hunter, sitting beside him, reached out to pat him on the shoulder, but Crosshair pulled back and dodged the attempt.  “It’s fine.  You don’t have to --”

“I said it’s nothing,” he snarled.  But under the table he could still feel it, shaking and twisting against his thigh.

His heart rattled in his chest, his breath coming too fast.  They were all staring at him, Omega’s face full of pity, Hunter and Wrecker concerned, Echo looking saddened -- 

“Stop staring at me.”  He practically spat the words out.  Nothing was wrong.  He’d imagined it, he’d just been clumsy, it wasn’t the tremor coming back, it couldn’t be --  He whipped his arm out from under the table and grabbed his spoon, determined to get back to eating, and his hand trembled so badly the spoon fell to the table, bounced, and rolled off onto the ground.

“Crosshair,” said Echo in a low voice.  He held out his hand.  “Take a moment.  It’s okay.”

“How is this okay?” Crosshair fired back, raising his voice.  He could feel it, he was losing control, but he couldn’t stop himself.  Couldn’t fight the anger, the disappointment, the shame --

Omega stared at him with huge eyes, and Wrecker put his arm around her, drawing her close.  “Hey, don’t worry about it.  We can help --”

“Remember, AZI said this might happen,” Echo said slowly.  “That it might function like your real hand.  But this is just the first day.  It can get better.”

“Does this look better to you?”  He slammed his fist down on the table, spilling the rest of his soup over the edge of the bowl, the silverware jumping.  His fist shivered.  He stared at Echo, panting.

“The droid said there’s exercises.  It’ll take time,” Echo said, keeping his voice as soothing as possible.  It grated in Crosshair’s ears, winding him up further.  “It took time for me, remember?  I had to adjust to going back into action, the Kaminoans had to do a lot of work, Tech helped me--”

Tech’s name shattered the last remnant of his composure.  A sick fury roiled up within him, blurring the edges of his awareness, tainting everything with a burning, agonized rage.  He leapt to his feet and Echo stood up with him, holding out his hands in a placating gesture.  It didn’t matter, too little, too late.  

He thrust out his hand where they could see it.  The metal hand’s fingers trembled faintly at first, then more aggressively into a twisting flutter, the fingers jerking spasmodically against the palm.

He’d never leave Tantiss, not really.

“Look at it!” Crosshair raged, waving his quaking hand in Echo’s face.  “It will never be better!  I’ll never be —”  He clawed at it with his left hand, gripping the metal hand as hard as he could and twisting until he felt a click.  He shuddered at the sensation of feeling his left hand twist his right hand off, the sudden return to feeling only his stump, prickling with its new attachment point.  The hand was a hunk of metal again, disconnected once more from his brain, and he shoved it into Echo’s chest hard enough for the other clone to stumble where he stood.

“Crosshair, stop it --”

“You shouldn’t have bothered,” he choked.  “It’s useless.  I’m --”

He had to get out of here.  He elbowed Echo out of the way as the others rose to their feet.  He rushed past them.  He couldn’t be around them like this.  He couldn’t be around himself like this.  He stumbled to the front door, smacking the wall panel with his left fist until the door opened, and bolting out into the open air.

He couldn’t breathe.  He took great gulping breaths, trying to bring in air, but it didn’t work, it didn’t work, every breath seared.  He looked wildly around the path on the side of the house, stormed around the corner to the patio and sank to his knees.  He cradled his right arm against his chest, gripping his wrist so hard his fingernails bit and tore into the skin.  The pinpoints of pain felt distant and muted.  They were happening to someone else.

He bowed over himself, gasping for air.

There was no point in trying.  There was no better he would get.  He was ruined.  Doomed to his right hand being gone or useless, doomed to always needing help, doomed to make things harder for everyone else, doomed to fall apart when the others were moving on.

He’d lost the only thing he was ever good at, and no matter what they did, that would always be true.  What good was he now?

Through the maelstrom, he sensed something.  Something familiar.  Eyes — eyes on me —

His head snapped up, and he looked around wildly.  Hunter stood beside the house several feet away, one hand resting on the wall.

“Get out of here.”

”Crosshair.  Please.  Let us help.”  Hunter looked infuriatingly calm.

”Let you help —“ Crosshair closed his eyes.  “There’s nothing you can do.”

”Sure there is,” Hunter said, edging closer to him, crouching down closer to Crosshair’s level.  “We can get AZI back to look at it.  Echo said there’s exercises.  There’s Omega’s meditation.  We weren’t born soldiers, we had to train, remember?  So train for this.”

He shook his head.  “Can’t do it.”

”You can.  I know you can,” Hunter said, shifting a little closer.    “And if it’s not perfect?  It’s okay.  We don’t have to have a hundred percent success rate anymore.”

He didn’t care that Hunter’s words made sense.  They made sense for the others, not for him.  ”It isn’t good enough!  I can’t keep being useless like this, Hunter!” he burst out.

Hunter sat down cautiously beside him, and Crosshair let him, too worn down to push him away.  He glared at him instead.

“You’re not useless, Crosshair.  Hand or no hand.  Believe me.”  Hunter sighed.   “You’re one of us, whether you like it or not.  And you don’t need a hand for that.”

Crosshair tried to catch his breath.  Tried to think things through.  But it was all a painful, disorienting blur.  At last he said, “I thought — if I could make this work, that it’d fix everything.  But it won’t work.”

”Why not?  Let’s just call AZI —” Hunter tried.

”The droid will say the problem’s organic.  My nerves.  My head.  I’m the fucking problem,” Crosshair growled.  

“Damn it.  You’re not a problem!” Hunter snapped, glaring back at him.  “Why can’t you understand that?”

“If you think that, you don’t understand me at all.”

“So help me understand,” Hunter said.  “We’re not soldiers anymore.  You can let it go.  All of it.”

“How can I let go -- when --”  He couldn’t even get the words out.  There was something clawing inside him, a wound he’d been burying under his missing hand, Tantiss, Mayday, Kamino, everything he’d done, something he couldn’t dare examine.  But a face in his mind’s eye blotted out everything.  “When I never got to —” He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t even think it.

He stared down at his stump.  Specks of blood dotted his arm where his fingernails had torn into the skin.  Before he could stop himself he whispered, “He could have fixed it.”

”Cross?” Hunter asked, his face softening.  

“Tech could have fixed it!” he shouted, and suddenly the weight of what he had just said crashed over him, sucking out the air in his lungs, crumbling the last of the walls he’d built up after Kaller, Kamino, Tantiss.  It was too much, too much, too much.

Tech was gone, and he wouldn’t fix anything ever again.

He froze, staring at Hunter, who looked stricken.  Hunter reached out cautiously.  He laid his hand on Crosshair’s arm.

It was such a small touch.  Just the simple weight of Hunter’s hand, warm and sturdy.  He’d carried burdens far heavier a thousand times.  He took a shaky breath.  He was fine —

The sobs exploded out of him with a violence that nearly made him sick.  His eyes screwed shut, tears forcing their way out to streak his face.  Crosshair sank against Hunter, sobbing in a way he’d never let himself before, shoulders heaving, silent in one breath, his voice a hoarse and wordless cry the next. He couldn’t stop it; it was a wave churning him under, drowning him in grief, a force far bigger than himself. All he could do was take breath after raw, ragged breath.  It poured out of him, Tech, Tantiss, Mayday, his hand, his mistakes, his failures, a corrosive guilt he’d been carrying for years now.

And Hunter put his arm around him, saying nothing, but saying everything.

He didn’t know how long he cried, or what made him stop.  The sobs slowed to slow, shuddering breaths, then faded into quiet, hitching exhales.  He felt as drained and boneless as he had after Kamino, after Barton IV, after CX training.  At last he managed to open his swollen eyelids, realizing that the sun had fallen and the sky was deep in blues and grays and blacks.  He let go of his right arm, noting how his fingernails had left bloodied half-moons in the skin of his wrist.  

He lifted his head and pulled away from Hunter, slowly, stiffly.  Hunter let him go, looking at him quietly, without judgment.

Hunter, who had stayed with him instead of leaving, stayed and held him through the storm.  

“I should’ve been there, Hunter,” he whispered.  Hunter let him speak, and he kept searching for the words, dropping his gaze so that he didn’t have to look his brother in the eye.  “If I’d gone with you on Kamino… he’d still be alive.”

“You can’t live on ifs, Crosshair,” said Hunter, his voice rough.  “You can’t die by them, either.”

“But Tech will never know,” he managed, his voice shaking, tears threatening again.  He scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, hiccuping.  “I’ve been trying to make up for it, but I -- I can’t.  No matter what I do… it won’t ever be enough.  He’ll still be gone.”

“I know,” said Hunter, and Crosshair managed to look at him, realizing that Hunter had tears in his eyes too.  “You think you’re the only one who blames himself?  Join the club.  But you can’t dwell on that.”

“But you were with him.  You never left him.  It’s not the same.”

Hunter met his eyes, then nodded.  “Maybe it’s not.  But he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself. He’d have been proud of you, you know.”

Crosshair let out a strangled noise halfway between a laugh and a sob.  “Tech? Proud of me?  He must have hated me for everything I did.  I turned my back on him.  On all of you!  And for what?”  He slumped.  “I deserve what I got.  That’s why the hand will never work for me.”

“Stop it,” Hunter growled, shaking him by the shoulder.  Crosshair froze again.  “Don’t you dare say he hated you.  Tech’s the one who found you were a prisoner.  He’s the one who got your message.  And instead of running from the Empire, he’s the one who pushed to save you because you were still our brother.  I’m ashamed to say he had to convince me.  I’d… given up.  But Tech didn’t.  He was better than that.”

Hunter’s words didn’t make sense.  Tech had to have hated him.  To have blamed him.  “You had the right idea,” he muttered.

“No,” Hunter said.  He let go of Crosshair and leaned back against the house, his shoulder brushing against Crosshair’s.  “I didn’t.  I missed you, for some reason --”  He cracked a loose, awkward smile, and Crosshair chuckled, ducking his head.  “But I just pretended nothing happened. Like you’d never been one of us.”

“Reasonable of you.”

 “No, it wasn’t. Tech still talked about you. He missed you,” said Hunter.

Crosshair squeezed his eyes shut, feeling fresh tears leak down his cheeks.  He let out a shivery breath.  “If he did, then that makes it worse.  That he… died… before I could -- before I could --”  His words failed again, and he shook his head.  Before I could apologize.

“I know,” Hunter said softly.  

Crosshair nodded, swallowing.  Somehow having Hunter acknowledge his darkest thoughts softened them.  “I wish I could tell him.”

“I think he knew,” Hunter said, gazing out at the darkened sea in the distance.  “But you can’t ask him, and maybe that’ll never go away.  Not really.  It’s unfair.  And it hurts, it fucking hurts.”

“It does,” he whispered.

There was a faint noise; the sound of the front door opening, footsteps.  Batcher rounded the corner of the house first, running to both of them, licking Crosshair’s face, then Hunter’s.  She parked herself at Crosshair’s feet, her bulk crushing his toes.  

“Go on,” he said with a faint smile, patting her.  He knew she was just trying to help, but he also knew his feet weren’t exactly a comfortable pillow.  She looked at him for reassurance, and when he nodded, she reluctantly got to her feet to go explore the patio, looking back at him after every sniff.  Eventually she settled into a scrape of sandy soil and made herself comfortable, but situated herself so she could still keep an eye on him.

“Batcher, come on, leave them alone,” Omega called, her voice strained.  She came around the corner, Wrecker and Echo behind her.  She looked at them hopefully.  Probably relieved he hadn’t socked Hunter in the face. “Crosshair… how are you feeling?”

“We can leave ya alone, if you want,” Wrecker said.

Crosshair sighed, leaning back against the wall of the house, staring up at the cloudy night sky.  “Stay, if you want.  It’s fine.  I’ve already made an ass of myself tonight.  Can’t get much worse.”

“No more of an ass than normal,” said Echo warmly.  Crosshair snickered through the clotted mucus and tears in the back of his throat.

The others joined them, sitting down on the patio, just quietly being with them.  Omega sat down on Crosshair’s other side, weaving her arm around his.  For a moment, nobody spoke.  Then Crosshair said haltingly, “Sorry.”

“You’d better be,” said Echo.  Crosshair opened one eye, looking at him skeptically.  “If you were trying to knock me down, that was pathetic.”  Crosshair chuckled again.  How Echo put up with him, he’d never know.

“Is there anything we can do, Crosshair?” Omega asked gently. She patted his knee with her free hand, and he smiled apologetically at her.  

“No idea,” he said honestly.  “Clearly, I’m not the best one to ask.”

Wrecker propped up his chin on his hands, wearing a sad smile.  “It ain’t just your hand, is it?  And it ain’t just tonight.”

”No.  It’s… everything.  My hand.  Tantiss.  My… mistakes.  And… Tech.”  He closed his eyes.  “Especially Tech.”  There was a faint, guilty sense of relief, finally saying it aloud.

“Oh, Crosshair,” said Omega, leaning against him.  He relaxed slightly, her small hands grounding him.  “Why didn’t you talk to us?  You know we all miss him too.  All the time.”

”How do you talk about him?  Without —“ He put his hand over his face, squeezing his eyes closed.  “How?”

”It gets easier,” Wrecker said.  “But it’s scary at first.  Not gonna pretend different.  But… sometimes it’s nice to talk about him.  He’s our brother, y’know?  Always will be.”

“Tech isn’t the first brother I’ve lost,” offered Echo. “Fives and I… we were as close as we could be.  He thought he saw me die, and he never knew I was still out there.  Rex told me how we lost him, and… it’s hard.  I won’t say it’s not.”

Wrecker reached out, patting Echo on the shoulder.

Echo smiled at him. “But I started to realize, their deaths aren’t who they are.  I won’t let that be what defines them.  Fives was one of the finest ARC troopers there ever was, and that’s how I’ll remember him.  Same goes for Tech.  Tech was a genius.  He was selfless. And he flew like a damn maniac.”  He grinned fondly.  “That’s how I think of the brothers I’ve lost.  Who they were, and what of them I carry with me.”

“I like that,” Omega said softly.  She thought for a moment.  “Once Tech told me that he processed the world differently, but that it didn’t mean he didn’t care. I used to think nothing ever bothered him, that he just didn’t care about things like I did.  But he cared about things like he did. And he cared about you, Crosshair.  He told me he respected that you’d chosen a different path.  I never thought about it like that.  But Tech was always thinking.  I loved that about him.”

Crosshair tried to picture Tech saying those things.  He couldn’t quite imagine it.  But there was something warm stirring within him at the idea, at Omega’s words.  He turned to her and nodded with a lump in his throat.

“Didja know he was a racer?” Wrecker asked.  “One of the best the Outer Rim’s ever seen?”

“What’s this?” Hunter asked, giving Wrecker a suspicious look.

Omega wore a secretive, gleeful smile.  “We might have kept it a secret because we knew you’d get mad.”

“What do you mean?” Hunter asked warningly.

“Cid needed backup and took us to a riot race,” Omega said, shrugging innocently.  “Her racer broke down and, well, Tech said he’d do it.”

“I thought humans didn’t riot race,” Crosshair said.

“He was crazy!” Wrecker roared, laughing full-throatedly.  “Humans don’t do it. But he jettisoned his weapons!  Took the abandoned racing tunnel!  Led the other drivers into a trap!  He was cutthroat.”

“And then when he won, the whole stadium went nuts!” Omega said.  She pulled her hands away from Crosshair, shaking her fists in the air.  “‘Tech, Tech, Tech…’”  She laughed, sinking back to her sitting position, shaking her head.  “We, um, all made a pact not to tell you and Echo.”

“It wasn’t exactly laying low,” Wrecker admitted, looking sheepish.

Hunter sighed.  “Probably for the best you didn’t tell me then.”  He cracked a grin.  “Only Tech would’ve been that crazy.”

“Tech wasn’t one for laying low in general,” Echo mused.  “You know he fought on a broken leg on Serenno?”

“That sounds like him,” Crosshair conceded.  He hadn’t been the only one of the group with a habit of telling them he was fine when he absolutely wasn’t.

“By the time we got to him for a pickup, he’d passed out, but not before taking out multiple stormtroopers. That was a nasty break.  I was mad at you for not keeping him off it,” he said, shaking his head at Echo.  “I knew Tech wouldn’t have any sense when it came to taking it easy, but I thought you at least would be responsible.”

“Tech was a force unto himself, and you know it,” Echo said defensively.  Hunter smirked.

Crosshair looked back and forth between them.  Something in his chest was loosening, breaking up, easing the awful ache he’d been carrying.  He took a deep breath, and his lungs seemed to fully expand for the first time in months, maybe years.

“Did I ever tell you about the time we accidentally got obliterated?” Crosshair asked.

The others stared at him in surprise, then leaned in to hear his tale.  He turned to Omega.  “Don’t get any ideas.  Like I said, this was accidental.”  He smiled slightly.  “Remember that mission on Hassaria?”

“I remember you and Tech got separated from us,” Wrecker said.  “Had to pick you up the next day, and you both looked like crap.  Sweaty… puking your guts out… Tech said you guys got poisoned by some local bug or something --”

“Actually, a local Republic sympathizer took us in after we wiped out the clankers,” Crosshair said.  “They offered us dinner and something to drink, and we didn’t realize that whatever it was, it was strong. Not until it was too late.”

He lowered his head, trying not to laugh.  “The Hassarian started trying to teach us a local fighting song.  We, uh, might have joined in.” Joined in was an understated way to describe Tech bellowing the words out in a fine tenor, Crosshair singing the women’s parts in a wailing falsetto, and the Hassarian declaring them their new best friends forever.  “We might’ve also started singing every dirty song Wrecker ever taught us.”  He reached down, taking a toothpick from his belt.  “Not that you heard it from me.”

Omega stared at him, open-mouthed, eyes wide.  “Crosshair!”

Hunter laughed, shaking his head.  “Actually, when we rendezvoused with you I could smell the alcohol from twenty paces.  But I thought it was funnier if I didn’t let on and made you nurse your hangovers in secret, so…”

“You knew?” Wrecker yelped.  “Oh come on, I woulda loved to make fun of ‘em!”

Omega giggled, nudging Crosshair in the side.  “I’ve never heard any of you sing.  Maybe we should start a band.  Lyana’s been getting me into Trandoshan funk, maybe that’s your true calling…”

Hunter held out a hand.  “We might want to take this indoors,” he said, glancing up at the sky.  “Just a hunch, but --”

A bolt of lightning flashed distant across the horizon, followed by a clap of thunder and the first few drops of rain.  Batcher let out a howl from where she’d been dozing in the sand, and scampered to the door.  Hunter got to his feet, offering Crosshair a hand up.  Crosshair clasped it with his left hand, allowing his brother to lift him to his feet.

For a moment, they looked at each other.

Crosshair saw Hunter.  Really saw him: the weight of all that had happened since Kaller was etched in the lines on his face, the bags beneath his eyes.  The years had been hard on him, too.  He knew his brother could have turned away from him, and had, many times.  

But he was here now, his strong hand gripping Crosshair’s, his support real and true.  He was loyal.  And that meant everything.

Crosshair nodded at him, and Hunter nodded back, and they went inside with the others to get out of the evening rain.

[legendary-defender-of-fandoms]

This is beautiful! I hope we get lots of tears from the Core 4 when they reunite. Echo can get some shiny eyes, but the bros who grew up together should be allowed to sob together.

Their welcome-back hug would start happy and end in crying

[mv1simp]

Slow Down♥️

Max Verstappen x Driver!Reader (SocialMedia!AU)

I’m so down if you’re ready, I’ll show you if you let me, girl (she said fuck me like I’m famous, I said okay)

You and Max Verstappen are very well known in the media, for having one of the most volatile rivalries in the sporting world. But Ferrari’s Princess and Redbull’s Mad Max send shockwaves through the paddock when your PR teams confirm you’re officially dating. The public have a hard time believing it…until your sex tape gets leaked on Twitter a month later. Social Media!AU

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, trying my hand at a SM! AU for the first time!!, dom! Max and switch! Reader, size kink, sexism, max being a feminist king

Everyone always said there was a thin line between love and hate. Frankly, you find it to be sexist bullshit, rolling your eyes everytime some interviewer or your friends or trainer would make some sly comment about so what’s going on between you and Max, with a suggestive wiggle of their eyebrows. Nothing, just him trying to run me off the track repeatedly and giving me 4 bruised ribs in Singapore when he clipped me illegally, you say with an annoyed tone. You know that if you were a man, and not the first female driver in decades in F1, you wouldn’t be getting randomly shippedwith all the drivers. And for gods sake, Verstappen off all people was the most laughable idea. The man was either being a violent menace on the track or an immature twelve year old off it, you think vehemently. You two had stayed well out of each others way in your Haas seat last year, with you leading the mid pack in the suboptimal car but Max remaining well out of reach at the front of the pack. But this year, you’d earned yourself a Ferrari seat and were ecstatic to finally be able to compete for a WDC.

That was, until you and Max Verstappen suddenly started to keep getting caught in each others crosshairs. What started as polite indifference between two coworkers blew up into a PR frenzy, with you and Max completing for the top step in the podium every race weekend. He thought you a reckless driver, getting lucky in a rocket ship this year and trying to sink her claws into something she can’t handle. You thought him over arrogant, a man who couldn’t handle losing to a girl, his fragile ego unable to handle losing a 4th WDC to a Ferrari driver who was only in her second F1 season.

And then, two months out from the end of the season, everything changed between you and Max. On a night out in Monaco with your friends, celebrating being home from triple headers, you’d had the unfortunate experience of being cornered by some drunk, sexist creep who thought he was entitled to touch you. He’d been stronger than you expected, pinning you in a dark alleyway and you just when you starting to freak out, Max of all people practically threw the guy off you. He’d angrily spat at the drunk to pick on someone his own size or he’d break his jaw next time, before leading you to his car with a gentle hand. Normally, you found Max’s far larger frame to be annoying, another way for him to intimidate you when he glared downwards. But that night you couldn’t help but be grateful for the muscular, tall man and his attentive blue eyes as you willingly follow him with wide, doe eyes.

The ride home had been silent, you nervously clutching the large sleeves of the hoodie Max had given you from his backseat. And when you’d thanked him for his help, saying you appreciate him looking out for you even though he hated you, he looked at you with genuine surprise. I don’t hate you, he’d said. Well, I suppose we have had our differences on the track. You snickered at this, muttering that’s one way of putting it. Max chuckled, making you peer at him curiously as you’d never heard him do that in your presence. He was actually very handsome, you noted, without an angry scowl on his face or that Redbull helmet covering him. Then you tell your tipsy brain to shut up because where the hell had that thought suddenly come from?!

But really, I think you’re a pretty amazing girl off the track, Max continued. It must be hard being the only female driver, but you always have something good to say to the dumb interview questions you get. And I’m not going to stand by and let any woman be felt up by some creep. Even if it’s the Princess of Ferrari, he adds with a smirk. You rolled your eyes at this, stepping out of his car as you reach your apartment. And when you offer him his hoodie back, he tells you to keep it. You can use it to stay warm at the next race - it’s Brazil, very rainy. Did I mention I’m called the rainmaster, incidentally? You burst out laughing at his lack of subtlety, and he smiles at having distracted you, making the scared look in your pretty doe eyes from earlier disappear. Fuck off, Verstappen, you giggle, and for once your words have no real bite.

By the time your second F1 season is over, and you’re receiving your trophy for the world championship at the Prizegiving Gala, the first female to do so, you and Max Verstappen have became good friends. Maybe something more, from all the time you’ve started spending together off the track gaming, playing padel, and going out drinking. You were far too afraid to ever say something to him, knowing the media response to the first female driver dating a fellow driver would be absolutely brutal. Besides, you had no idea if Max remotely felt the same way about you - his type seemed to be pretty models, not aggressive drivers who spent half her time plotting his downfall.

You’re surprised when he finds you at the after party, late into the night, where everyone is too plastered to note that the fallen Redbull champion is taking the winning Ferrari Princess to a private level on the yacht. If you think I’m going to apologise for breaking your winning streak, you can try again, you announce dramatically as you grin at him, 5 drinks in and pink lips loosened, letting him know you were jesting. Wouldn’t have it any other way, Princess, Max hums, coming to stand so close to you that your heart rate quickens when you feel warmth radiating from the taller, muscular driver. Besides, I’ll be taking the cup next year, anyways. Enjoy the high while you can, he says in his Dutch accent, all cocky.

You let out an outraged gasp at this, forgetting how close you two already are as you step towards him, accusing hand pressed against his firm chest. But before you can say anything, Max’s gorgeous blue eyes drop down to where your manicured nails are touching his pecs. And then he looks down further, to where your plush tits have pressed up against his abs, your cute red corset minidress pushing your cleavage up temptingly. There’s no mistaking the dark desire that swirls in his intense gaze as he looks back into your wide doe eyes. And then he’s leaning in, finally, you think, and then your brain wakes up and you remember who’s in front of you. We can’t, Max, you say breathlessly, dazed by how attractive he looks when turned on. Why not, the Dutchman demands, cocky as usual. You don’t want this, Princess? His large hand brushed your jaw, tilting your face upwards when you try to look away. Your breath hitched from the contact, and you’re sure he can feel how fast your carotid pulse is beating. It’s-it’s not that I don’t want to, you say with a blush, making a pleased smirk appear on Max’s lips. But I’m the only female driver on the grid, the public would tear me apart if they found out I hooked up with another driver on the grid-

Fuck what anyone else thinks, Max says passionately, the familiar spark of defiance in his eyes. I know the fallout from something like this would be much harder for you as a woman than me, and I waited till after the championship fight finished. No one can contest you didn’t win the cup with your own sheer skill. But now that it’s finished, I can’t hold back anymore. Your jaw drops from Max’s heated confession, never having guessed the handsome blonde would reciprocate your buried romantic feelings. And I don’t mean some one night stand or summer fling, he continued boldly. I want to be your boyfriend, I want you all to myself properly.

You must have had too many G&Ts, you hear yourself say distantly, cause you’re not even a little bit cute and shy like you normally are off the track, Verstappen. He smiles gently, knowing you were using humour to deflect from the swirling emotions within you. Maybe, he murmurs, bending down to rest his forehead against yours. Or maybe you look so fucking gorgeous in this red dress I knew I couldn’t hide how I feel anymore. When he feels your hand graze his chest, pulling him just a bit closer, he knows what you want. Pressing the gentlest of kisses to your glossed lips, he pulls back to make sure you still wanted more.

But he didn’t need to have any doubts, because you’re staring up at him sultrily, desire having darkened your own wide, doe eyes. This time you’re pulling him back onto your lips, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders so that there’s not even a millimetre of space between you too. He groans against you as the months of tension come to a head, the two of you languidly exploring each others’ mouths with your tongues.

Even if you’d woken up the next morning regretting your decision, there was no way you could turn down Max’s offer of a relationship. Because even if you had still hated him, the sex that night on the yacht has been so incredibly mind blowing, by far the best orgasm you had ever experienced, that you knew you’d never meet anyone who could fuck you so perfectly again. So you hesitantly said yes, let’s try this for real, Max over a late hungover brunch the next morning. The rest had been history - the two of you had spent the last 7 months in a secret relationship, not wanting the chaos of the media to ruin your relationship before it could even start properly. Max has proven time and time again you’d made the right decision saying yes, being the perfect boyfriend, dedicated to all your needs and wants, spoiling you endlessly and making you laugh whenever you had a bad day.

Sometimes things were hard, of course. Like when you two had tensions during a race, your private relationship doing nothing to dampen the competitive spirit you both shared. But you’d both make up after, whether it be with a long debrief and strategy talk on how to avoid an incident next time - or your personal favourite, some angry make up sex. Like you’d suspected, Max was an absolute sex god and you two enjoyed a very healthy sex life, exploring each others kinky preferences. So when you’d have to be away from each other for long periods, busy with planning and meetings at your separate team bases, your boyfriend came up with a solution once the nudes and phone sex didn’t quite hit the same.

Filming yourselves during sex seemed like a certain recipe for disaster, given how famous the two of you are and the consequences of anything got leaked. But the temptation was too great as weeks drag on without the touch of your boyfriend - so you agreed, just this once, to try it out.

Well, that had certainly been the plan. But the video had been so so nice to watch again and again anytime your pussy ached for Max that you can’t resist making more. And then last month when your teams had finally given the okay for an official announcement on your relationship, and the media response had overall been surprisingly positive, you two get too comfortable and Max accidentally sent the video over DM to you, instead of the encrypted chat you normally use.

And that was when shit hit the fan.

No, Max, go away, I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see anyone ever again! The blonde Dutchman sighs he leans his head against the closed bathroom door with a worried expression on his face. You’ve locked yourself in his Monaco penthouse’s bathroom for the past 4 hours, not coming out despite how much he’s pleaded. Please, schatje, he tries again. I know it’s bad, but we’ll get through it together. Twitter had already banned any links of the video and both your PR teams are doing damage control and so many of the grid drivers and journalists were calling out the website that had leaked the tape. Please, I just want to see you, you can’t be locked in there forever and reading all the stuff online alone.

When you don’t reply, only sniffling through the door, he sighs again and slides down the door, making himself comfortable. A few minutes later he hears the door unlock and your red, crying face peeking through. Oh, schatje, he croons soothingly as you drop down into his arms and bury your face in his thick neck. He rubs soothing circles along your back as you sniffle that Everyone’s saying such horrible things, Maxie. How am I going to face going on the paddock ever again?

He reassures you firmly that you two would go hand in hand, united on the paddock with your heads held high, because you’ve done nothing wrong. He’d been doing the media game a lot longer than you and knew this scandal, like everything else, would get blown over with time. After your quiet sobs settle with his comforting words and tight hug, you pull back to look at him and apologise for shutting yourself away and not checking in on him. It’s your leaked tape too, you say anxiously. How are you feeling about it, baby?

He eases your concern again, telling you honestly that in the grand scheme of things, although it was a little mortifying he’s had worse in the media. Besides, it’s gonna be satisfying to crush whichever little fucker leaked the vid, he says vehemently. Any anyone who’s saying any bullshit sexist comments about you sleeping your way into F1 or anything is getting hit with a defamation lawsuit from legal, he declares, making your heart swell from his protectiveness. You still aren’t convinced, though. Are you sure, Max? I remember in that particular video, you can’t see much of my body but there’s definitely a lot of shots of your…

Dick? Your boyfriend finishes with a deadpan expression, That’s fine. Besides, I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about. You know the hashtag Verstappen’s third leg is trending on Twitter now? You giggle at his nonchalance, making Max smile at seeing you cheered up. You’ve finally having processed what happened enough to maybe see a bit of humour in it. True, I suppose it could have been worse, you muse. The Las Vegas video could have been the leaked one. Imagine how batshit the fans would have gotten if they saw the handcuffs were for you, not me. Max laughs genuinely, blue eyes looking fondly at your mischievous expression. The familiar Ferrari fire he adored was back in your own pretty doe eyes.

Or worse, the Barcelona one, you tease as you lead him to the kitchen to start making dinner. Scrolling through hundreds of posts and spiralling was calorie consuming work. I think Twitter would have shut down if they found out Max Verstappen likes being called daddy in the bedroom.

Your boyfriend’s face goes adorably pink as he stammers at your unexpected roast. Hey-hey now, schat, that was just one time okay? You’d just accidentally said it and it caught me off guard-

You grin playfully, giving him a kiss on the cheek because he looked too cute to resist. Sure, baby, so off guard you lasted 5 seconds after that. His face goes even pinker, reaching the tips of his ears now as he shyly looks away. For all his fierceness on the track, you loved how sweet the Dutch Lion was off it. Giggling, you put him out of his misery by handing him a knife and tell him to get to work chopping the tomatoes. You knew no matter what came your way, you would be fine with Max by your side.

—————————————————————————

A/N: okkk so what did u guys think at my first attempt at a social media AU ahaha. You know I love to yap I fear I included too many Twitter screenshots, I ALWAYS GET CARRIED AWAY. Anyway this was super fun pulled me right out of my writers block!!! Hope u enjoy xx

[darkmatilda]

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which one you get hurt by an unsub, and while tending to your wound, reid spirals into an internal monologue about what your type might be — and why he even cares.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, reader gets injured (in the neck), blood and wound, good old banter, a bit longer than necessary but i haven’t written in a while and went all in <33 oh and now reid not only has a crush on you but also on your car :>

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4.2k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request

Don't take this the wrong way—it's not like Spencer Reid was arriving at such existential conclusions at that particular moment, when the blade of a knife was pressed close—dangerously close—to her delicate neck. The thought flared up in his mind briefly, intensely, fleetingly—then vanished, and he only returned to it hours later, once the air had cooled a little.

Basically, Spencer definitely preferred to be the one in someone’s crosshairs, the one in mortal danger, rather than watch someone else go through it.

A brief summary of the case that led to the chaos that erupted in the office that night—a man suffering from PTSD who, after a psychotic break, became convinced that his wife and daughter had been abducted, and that everyone close to him was an impostor, all part of a massive conspiracy against him.

He got into the Quantico building by killing a police officer and stealing his uniform. Once inside, he found his way to the BAU offices and threatened to blow himself—and everyone else—up with homemade bombs if his real family wasn’t returned to him.

And well, just when everyone thought the situation was under control, when the unsub finally seemed to give up and put down his weapon…he suddenly launched himself into one last desperate attempt to escape, bursting through the doors.

He probably would’ve been shot. He probably knew that.

Which is why, when he saw a woman confidently crossing the hallway— and remembered the knife hidden up his sleeve—he didn’t hesitate. He simply pulled her toward him before she even had a chance to realize what was happening, turned to face the agents sprinting after him—who skidded to a stop at the sight, the squeal of their soles loud against the floor—and showed them exactly how tightly the blade was pressed to her skin, in a threat that made it…basically impossible for them to do anything.

Spencer struggled to breathe. That’s when the thought came. He preferred being in danger himself rather than watching others go through it. And it wasn’t some savior complex haunting him—nothing like that. It was just that staring death in the face gave him a greater sense of control, and a lesser sense of stakes. If you mess up, you die. That’s it. No one else pays the price. You don’t have anyone on your conscience. You don’t have to live with someone else's loss.

Also, it’s easier to come up with a plan then. The words just come out of you—you talk the unsub down, you convince him to spare you, or you outsmart him somehow. Things get complicated when you’re standing across from someone with a knife pressed to their throat, when you see the shock widening her eyes, her hand clenched around the man’s forearm, a grip she can’t yank or dig her nails into without risking having her throat slit.

So she freezes, completely still. 

Terror building in her gaze as it moves, one by one, across all their faces—Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss—

until it finally lands on him. Spencer held her gaze, realizing it was the only thing he could do to help her in any way. And to convince the unsub to let her go—but Rossi was handling that part now,

and the rule was that during negotiations, only one person should do the talking. Which, honestly, worked in her favor, because Reid wasn’t sure he’d be able to say anything that made sense.

Or maybe that’s just how he always thought of himself—afterward.

But at least he could hold her gaze, silently repeating the obvious things like don’t move or don’t panic, and watching as she answered back with just her eyes, something along the lines of how the hell am I supposed to not panic, you fucking idiot, when someone literally has a knife to my throat?Which—okay—was a bit sharp, but fair. Someone did have a knife to her throat and she was herself. He hadn’t expected any other answer, really. He was just glad she was still answering at all.

The unsub jerked his head when one of Rossi’s words seemed to hit particularly hard. He furrowed his brow, like he was trying to push back against the doubt forming in his mind, his knuckles shifting as he twisted the knife’s handle slightly. Spencer heard Prentiss exhale behind him—he held his own breath. She—the woman who’d ended up in this situation by complete accident—shut her eyes tight and stretched her neck upward, as if that small motion might somehow shield her.

But the pressure increased—the blade pressed tighter against the side of her neck, and a thin line of blood slipped beneath her collar.

It was too much.

Apparently for the unsub, too. Maybe he realized that this had been doomed from the start.So…he gave up, pushing his hostage away from him. Hard. So hard that she couldn’t hold herself up fully, crashing to her knees two meters away with a short hiss of pain. Spencer and Prentiss were instantly at her sides, while the rest of the team took care of arresting the unsub. Almost in sync, they grabbed her by both elbows, lifting her up with a bit of exaggerated care, as if to make sure she wouldn’t fall.

“It’s okay now, you’re safe—” Spencer began, rather standardly, feeling relief slowly spread through his body.

His eyes found the wound on her neck, trying to estimate how serious it was. But before he could do that—or even finish his sentence—she pulled her elbow free from his grip, then the other one from Emily’s.He froze, watching her move away from them with two shaky, staggering steps. He reached out again, burning with the sense that she might fall any second, but she stopped him with a simple, stiff extension of her hand.

He and Emily exchanged a glance.

“I’m not—” she began, standing firm on the ground, not moving.

Blood still flowed down her neck, but she seemed unaware of it, not even attempting to stop it with her fingers. She didn’t finish her sentence, pressing her lips into a thin line, her chest slowly rising and then sinking.

Of course, he couldn’t be sure what she was about to say, but he had a feeling it was something like I’m not one of your victims.

Without even sending him a glance, though their eye contact had been tight before, she turned on her heel, passing by the other agents who parted before her like the Red Sea. She was followed by many gazes, but for a while, no one said a word.

“What are you waiting for?” Rossi asked gruffly, spreading his arms. One of his eyebrows arched. “Someone go after her!”

Spencer felt as if someone had physically pushed him, urging him to take the same path she had just walked. It was possible he did it a little too energetically, and realizing that everyone was watching him, he felt a faint blush on his cheeks, but he tried to maintain his composure. He was doing them all a favor—she used to be insufferable even when no one had just tried to kill her. Some inexperienced agent might not survive her conversation after someone had.

And okay, he had to admit it to himself. There was also a slight hint of concern in that. He hadn’t been able to examine the wound on her neck, so he didn’t know how serious it was. He’d rather she didn’t bleed out. Besides, hey, when someone has just had their throat threatened, you simply follow them.

Why was he trying so hard to justify this to himself?

He found her, of course, in her lab. He reached it almost at the same time, even though she had left earlier, which made him realize he had sprinted the whole way. In any case, he burst inside just behind her, almost colliding with her back. Why was she standing there? Her entire team was in the lab, having stopped their work to stare at her, their mouths agape and one muffled gasp at the sight of the blood on her neck.

“Everyone go home,” she ordered, just having pressed her hand to the wound.

Reid slipped in quietly, standing by her side without a word, feeling a little lost, like an overwhelmed puppy at her feet.

“Oh my god—”

“What happened?”

“Gurl, I mean boss, you’re bleeding—”

“Literally sent you home earlier, why are you complaining?” she scoffed, but it was a nervous scoff. Suggesting that if they didn’t immediately disappear from her sight, she’d blow the lab up herself and turn them all into dust.

They looked at her confused, and Spencer was surprised to see genuine worry and fear on their faces. Well, he shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, he’d feel the same if something happened to Hotch. For some reason, he’d always perceived her relationship with the team as… less close. Maybe in reality, it was the complete opposite.

“I’ll take care of her,” he said, turning to the team.

All eyes were on him. Some raised their brows. Including hers.

Fucking choice of words. Take care seriously, Reid?!

Despite the growing embarrassment, he forced himself to give a convincing nod. Then, with hesitation and in complete silence, her entire team made their way to the exit, sending worried glances toward their boss, which she ignored, her head lowered and a hand pressed to her neck.

The door closed, and the silence between them was heavy.

She didn’t interrupt it just moved towards the first aid kit in the lab and began pulling out the necessary items to tend to the wound. Her movements were so efficient and composed that Spencer couldn’t help but feel shamefully unnecessary.

Watching her search for something to wipe the blood from her hands, he realized and handed her the first cloth he grabbed. Since he was already there, he figured he might as well be of some use.

“This is my lab coat,” she hissed at him, right after grabbing the cloth from his hands.

Defensively, he raised both hands.

She just sighed and, with nothing else nearby, wiped her hands on the white fabric.

“You’ll be washing this,” she insisted.

“No way, you wiped it yourself…” He stopped mid-protest, his gaze falling on the amount of blood now covering her lab coat. His eyes widened slightly. She was turned to him with the uninjured side, so he couldn’t assess the severity of her wound, but it seemed worse than he had assumed. Worse than her reaction suggested. He nodded slowly, almost in a daze.

“Okay, I’ll wash it.”

She hesitated slightly.

"Don't be deliberately nice to me."

 "Are you seriously yelling at me for being nice to you?"

 "Much better."

His heavy, disbelieving sigh. He truly didn’t know anyone else like her. For a moment, they remained in silence as her hands found the disinfectant and poured a reasonable amount onto a sterile pad. Spencer cleared his throat.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he said.

The whole situation, he meant. The unsub’s escape, taking her as some kind of hostage. It would’ve been one thing if she’d been an agent actively working the case—but she wasn’t. She was a completely random person who just happened to be walking through at the wrong time. In a building where, if anywhere, everyone was supposed to feel safe. On that note, he truly felt a twinge of sympathy—and even anger. How had they even let that man get inside?

Her snort was fully understandable.

 "Wow, really? I thought that was supposed to happen." Her bitter remark was followed by a hiss as she pressed the cotton pad to her neck. She pulled it away, looking at the stain on it, and a grimace passed across her face. "Normal. Another day at work, some guy bumps into you in the hallway and puts a knife to your throat. Happens all the time," she continued sarcastically, though the sarcasm wasn’t as noticeable in her voice. In fact, there was barely any in it, weakened by how suddenly tired she sounded. The lab was quiet, and he could hear her swallow loudly. "You get used to it. They could at least add a bonus for every surprise like this...god, why is it bleeding so much?"

She suddenly turned her head toward him, and for the first time, panic flashed in her eyes. Spencer flinched, surprised by the sudden change in her behavior, but he quickly adapted, straightening up in his place with a sense of purpose.

“Let me see,” he immediately suggested, and to his surprise, she didn’t push him away this time. She turned fully toward him, allowing him for the first time to get a close look at the wound. Close enough, in fact, that he instinctively took a step forward, his hand automatically reaching out to take the sterile gauze from her. “You’re pressing too hard. The skin on your neck is delicate, and the blood vessels are very close. You need to be gentle,” he said.

“So be gentle, doctor,” she muttered.

Spencer felt a small smile tug at his lips, but he quickly masked it. It helped to focus on what actually mattered in that moment—his hand gently steadied her neck to keep her from making any unnecessary movements, especially risky with a neck injury. Only then did he reach for the wound with his other hand, carefully cleaning it.

A barely audible sigh of relief escaped him when he realized it wasn’t as deep as he had feared. The artery was intact—thank god. But the bleeding was a bit alarming.

At first, he could feel her gaze lingering on his concentrated expression, unreadable, save for the slight furrow of her brow betraying the pain. She gave a subtle nod.

“It’s okay, I think that’s enou—”

She began, but before she could pull away, Spencer moved first, reaching past her toward the first aid kit behind her back for the right kind of dressing. Since he had started, he might as well finish.

Suddenly, he felt a touch on his elbow—her hand, gently resting there at first, then pressing down with more weight. A moment later, her other hand joined it, on the opposite side of his body. His movements slowed, even his breath catching, startled by what he first took as some strange gesture—until it hit him. It wasn’t a gesture. 

She was simply struggling to stay on her feet.

His hand moved instinctively to her waist, steadying her just long enough to slide a chair beneath her. She sank into it without resistance. A fresh bandage now adorned her neck—one of the most meticulous dressings Spencer had ever done, and he’d done many. Honestly, you could slap a photo of it into a first aid textbook and no one would question it.

He took a step back, catching the dazed expresson clouding her face.

“Feeling weird,” she admitted.

Adjusting quickly to the shift in her condition, Spencer’s mouth parted slightly before he nodded in understanding.

“Yeah. That’s probably the adrenaline leaving your system. It’s normal. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Who said I was afraid?”

“Well, the sarcasm clearly hasn’t left your system. That’s a good sign. Means everything’s still working just fine. If it were gone—that’s when I’d start to worry.”

With a certain inexplicable satisfaction, he watched as a small, delicate smile tugged at the corners of her lips. For a moment, they both fell silent—different from the kind of silence they’d shared earlier, when Spencer had awkwardly glanced around the lab, unsure of what to do or how to help her.

This silence felt like rest. Like something she needed. So he let it be.

His gaze settled on her—almost absentmindedly, really. Or at least, that’s what he told himself until her eyelids, which had been resting half-shut, slowly lifted...and caught him staring.

"You can go now," she instructed.

He decided to take it as a thank you. Still, he didn’t move, despite her words.

"And you’re planning to…?" he asked.

"Go home," she finished for him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then, after a pause, she snorted softly. "Actually, I had a date tonight, but…well, I guess I should probably cancel that."

He nodded.

"Yeah, you probably should."

Their eyes met, and for a second Spencer wondered if he’d said that a little too firmly. He cleared his throat.

"I mean, it’s probably better if you use the time to recover," he added, feeling some strange sense of duty to clarify. He gave a small extra nod, like that might help sell it. Dear God.

"Besides," he went on, "if you think about it, you’d actually be doing them a favor. Nothing they could possibly say would impress you after the day you’ve had."

She raised her eyebrows.

“So you're suggesting I only date boring guys?”

He rolled his eyes skyward, because of course that was the part she chose to focus on—the absolute least important part of what he'd said.

“First of all, I’m not interested in the kind of guys you date,” he replied—though he wasn’t entirely sure that was true.

The thing about Spencer Reid was that many things interested him. Just…in general. For no particular reason.

So yes, in a way, he was curious—not about the specific men she went out with, but about their type. He believed people paired up in psychologically driven ways, and analyzing her personality had only led him to contradictory conclusions.

Were they stereotypical alpha males? Overly dramatic romantics? Confident-to-the-point-of-arrogance types…?

“I’m just saying that staying home might be a good idea,” he finished, snapping out of the mental spiral. He sighed. “Anyway—how are you planning to get home?”

She stared at him for a moment, as if the question didn’t quite make sense.

“Car,” she said flatly.

“You’re driving yourself?”

“No, with a hired chauffeur.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Why wouldn’t I drive myself?”

She pushed herself up from the chair slowly, clearly making an effort to seem alert and lively.

Well. The problem was, she didn’t. Her movements were slow, dulled, almost weak—an answer in themselves, really. At least, enough of an answer that Spencer didn’t have to say a single word.

All it took was one pointed look.

Her long, drawn-out, irritated, yet also submissive sigh.

"You’ve already survived someone trying to slit your throat—don’t you think it’d be kind of stupid to die in a car crash now?" Reid asked, raising his brows. And even though his words had a teasing undertone, he was looking at her seriously. He scratched his nose. "I can drive you."

What surprised him was the sudden skepticism in her gaze, made stronger by the way she folded her arms across her chest. She narrowed her eyes slightly.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Doing what?"

"You followed me, you stayed, you dressed the wound, and now you want to drive me home. As far as I know, you don’t owe me some great debt. So why are you doing this?"

"Bravo. You’ve just discovered that selflessness is a thing," he snapped.

She didn’t really buy it. And honestly, it wasn’t very convincing. He just couldn’t help falling back into some good old-fashioned bickering. And, truthfully, he needed a moment to think about his answer. Sure, he could’ve just blamed Rossi, said it was him who told him to go after her. Which wouldn’t have been that much of a lie. Or he could’ve thrown out something like no one else would’ve been able to handle you in that state, but for some reason, he couldn’t say that out loud. Because was it even true? There wasn’t anything particularly special about him, and it wasn’t like their relationship was all that warm to begin with. So maybe the question wasn’t why he was doing all this—but why she was letting him.

He ran through the whole monologue in his head, outwardly just shrugging.

"It’s part of my job."

His job wasn’t just about the criminals—it was also about the people who got hurt because of them.But even if he’d chosen any other career path in life, he probably would’ve ended up in her lab anyway. Because, fine, whatever—you want the truth?

He cared.

At least a little.

Happy now?

She drilled into him with her gaze, and he had the unsettling feeling that a fragment of his earlier monologue had somehow escaped through his ears and she had heard it.An urgent need to look away—but before he could, she reached something out toward him. Spencer extended his hand; her palm dropped toward his like she was about to give a sideways high five, but froze mid-air. The tips of her fingers brushed his skin, but something was separating the inside of her hand from his, preventing full contact.

Car keys.

*

*You dropped something, Doc."

Snapped out of what felt like a borderline magical trance, Spencer began glancing around his feet for whatever might have fallen out of his pocket. He found nothing.

"What?"

“Your jaw."

He tore his eyes away from what was in front of him with difficulty, just to look at her (let’s skip the fact that usually it was entirely the other way around…), and immediately met her small, defiant smirk. Her face still hadn’t regained its full liveliness, but his reaction definitely sped that process up. Reid quickly shook his head to snap out of it. It didn’t work. Fuck.

Everyone—literally everyone—who knew him was aware of his love for old cars. How the hell was she in possession of such a gem and he didn’t know about it?

She snapped her fingers in front of his face. Oh, that worked much better.

“Come back from whatever land you just drifted off to. I’m kind of in a hurry.”

He weighed the car keys in his hand, but before he took a step toward the driver’s side, something stopped him. Slowly, he turned his head toward her.

“So, you’re actually planning to go on that date?” he asked, with a tone that clearly questioned whether that was such a good idea.

She hesitated for a moment before answering, her lower lip slightly pushed out. Not because she was actually thinking about it. It seemed like she was doing it on purpose, assuming he was waiting to hear what she'd say. Which wasn’t true. He stood there, completely still in front of her, not because of that—definitely not…

“No,” she muttered at last. “I’m just tired. In a hurry to get to bed.”

Spencer nodded in agreement, considering that a very good choice. Having gotten an answer to his question, he could finally sit in the driver’s seat, feeling a wave of stress build up. It had been a while since he’d last driven, and this wasn’t just any car. Not that he’d be more inclined to crash head-on into a truck in another kind, but you know what he meant. There was a heavier sense of responsibility now—for three, not two.

“Maybe you can reschedule. I mean—you and your date. An assault’s a pretty solid excuse, he shouldn’t be mad,” he added, for some reason continuing the topic and immediately regretting not having a third hand to cover his mouth while the other two rested on the steering wheel.

She muttered something under her breath that sounded like just let him try. After those words, she became much less talkative, and Spencer even wondered if she was simply upset about having to cancel the evening. He kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye, trying to catch an expression that might confirm it. He found nothing of the sort, which allowed him to assume it hadn’t been a serious date. Not the kind you look forward to for weeks, wondering what tie to wear. That left him with a certain light feeling in his chest.

He sighed, focusing on the road ahead. She had given him her address, but hadn’t said anything else. She was tired, with a wound on her neck—he should let her have this moment of silence and rest. He should keep his mouth shut and just do what he was supposed to do. He should…but hell, he couldn’t help himself.

“You know that this Mustang was the first model year with a wider body, specifically to fit bigger engines? And its original radio had an option to hook up a record player? Can you imagine, listening to vinyls in a car…”

If his rambling had been met with an annoyed grimace from her, he probably would’ve shut up. But that didn’t happen. Despite the exhaustion on her face, she actually seemed to be listening, all the way until they came to a stop. Only then did her hand absentmindedly brush the bandage on her neck, and her surprisingly gentle gaze slowly turned to him.

“Thanks, Reid.”

A simple thank you, but he could sense it was sincere. He gave a slight nod. It was nothing. 

[quackfallbackhq]

Transformers Autobots Characters Fully Committing To It Now (NSFW DRABBLES?)

Oh, frag.

A whole week—seven nights—of nothing but them pressing you into the berth, their frame caging yours, their voice thick and hungry as they push deep, again and again.

They’re relentless.

Every night, you start off with some strength—but by the end, you’re melting, your body wrecked, your voice nothing but soft, breathless whimpers as they fill you over and over until you can’t hold any more.

And the worst part? You love it.

SMUT - you been warned

The characters are written down below are,, Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Ratchet, Jazz, Ironhide, Sideswipe, Crosshairs, Drift, Hound and Hotrod.

Optimus Prime

Optimus tells himself he should pace it—but the moment he’s buried deep inside you, the moment he feels you clench so sweetly around him, his restraint snaps.

Every night, he ruins you.

His thrusts are deep, deliberate, his servos pinning your hips as he watches your expression twist with pure, blissful exhaustion.

By the third night, your body practically melts into his, too spent to do anything but take what he gives. And Primus, that just makes him want to keep going.

“You asked for this,” he growls, voice dark, lips tracing your heated skin. “Now, take it.”

Bumblebee

Bee started off teasing—but by night four, it’s no longer a game.

It’s a need.

He worships you, his servos gripping tight, his engine revving as he loses himself in the way your body takes him so perfectly.

Every night, you end up a whimpering mess beneath him, your body trembling, unable to move, too wrecked to do anything but let him fill you up again.

And frag, that only makes him want to keep going.

“You’re so fragging good for me,” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “You still got another round in you, sweets?”

You always do.

Ratchet

Ratchet knew this was a bad idea—he knew you wouldn’t last the full week.

But Primus, you insisted.

And now?

Now, you’re spent, your frame wrecked, your voice no longer begging for more, but begging for a break—

But does he stop?

No.

His movements are slow, deliberate, his spark pulsing wildly as he watches you tremble beneath him, taking everything he gives you.

“You wanted this, love,” he rumbles, voice thick with possession. “So now, you’ll take it.”

And oh, you do.

Jazz

Jazz thought he’d be the one to tap out first.

He was wrong.

By the sixth night, you’re melting beneath him, your body weak, your voice a soft, breathless whimper as he fills you up again and again.

And Primus, he loves it.

“Too much, babe?” he teases, his smirk dark as he rolls his hips just right, making your whole frame shudder.

But the second you let out a broken moan—

Oh, frag.

He’s gone.

Ironhide

Ironhide warned you.

He told you a whole week would be too much.

But you insisted.

And now?

Now, you’re spent, your frame trembling, your voice a breathless whimper as he presses into you again, filling you completely.

He should stop. He should.

But frag, you’re so soft beneath him, so weak from taking him night after night—

And Primus, that only makes him want to keep going.

“You said a week,” he growls, voice dark as he thrusts deep. “So I’m gonna give you one.” his servos slide between the crevice behind her knees as he fold her nicely.

folding her knees to touch her shoulder plates as his hips snapped towards her valve.

Sideswipe

Sideswipe laughed when you first suggested it.

A whole week? There was no way you’d last that long.

But now?

Now, you’re melting under him, too wrecked to do anything but cling to his frame, letting him take what he needs.

And oh, he needs it.

“Aw, babe,” he chuckles, voice thick with hunger. “You’re so fragging wrecked, huh?”

And the second you let out a weak little whimper—

Oh, he’s not stopping now.

Crosshairs

Crosshairs should’ve known this would happen.

By the fourth night, you’re already spent, your frame trembling beneath him, your voice breathless as he fills you up again.

“You’re so fraggin’ soft now,” he murmurs, his servo sliding over your trembling frame. “Practically meltin’ for me.”

And frag, if that doesn’t make him want to wreck you all over again.

Drift

Drift had been gentle—at first.

But by night three, something inside him snaps.

You’re so soft beneath him, so pliant, your body trembling as you take everything he gives you—

And Primus, he needs more.

“You will endure,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence, his movements slow but deep.

And oh, you do.

Each thrust send her though pleasure after pleasure, her whines make him increase each gentle thrust into more needy and hard ones, just by hearing her needy sounds made Drift himself snap.

But he shouldn't, not if they both have all week to continue on

Hound

Hound knew you’d be wrecked before the week was up.

But frag, did you look good like this.

Soft. Weak. Too spent to do anything but let him press you down, keeping you full all fraggin’ night.

And the way you melt for him?

Primus.

“You wanted this, sugar,” he rumbles, pressing a slow, deep thrust into you. “So now, you’re gonna take it.”

And frag, do you ever.

His large size makes her feel many things at once, the tight squeeze he feels when he would grind back in makes him full on shudder.

HotRod

Hot Rod thought he was the one in control.

He was wrong.

Because now, you’re so wrecked, so weak beneath him, your body trembling, your voice a soft, breathless whimper—

And frag, he needs to fill you up again.

He should stop. He should.

But with you this soft, this wrecked, he just can’t help but press a slow, deep thrust into you again.

“… Just one more,” he mutters, knowing damn well it won’t be.

And frag, do you let him.

notes - ahhh.. I suck at drawing transformers bots..

[fear-is-truth]

OMD Jason x assassin reader who was like sent to kill himmmmm

suggestive content

you don’t miss. but tonight, you do.

jason todd is a ghost before you even get the shot off. one second, your crosshairs are trained on his temple from the warehouse rafters—the next, you’re flat on your back, a gloved hand forcing your wrist down, your blade wrenched from your grip.

“you really should’ve picked a different mark.”

he’s strong. dangerously so.

“sloppy,” he muses, straddling your hips, his weight pressing you into the cold concrete. “not your usual, huh?” rage coils in your stomach, but your breath is still knocked from your lungs, mind struggling to recalibrate. he’s solid, muscle tensed beneath the tactical gear. you buck up, twisting, but his grip is like steel.

“who sent you?”

you grit your teeth. “go to hell.”

“been there. didn’t like the accommodations.”

he’s studying you now, sharp blue eyes taking in every detail—your mask, your gear, the tension in your muscles as you prepare to strike. but you don’t get the chance. before you can so much as move, his knife presses just beneath your collarbone, a teasing pressure—not deep enough to break skin, but enough to remind you that you’re at his mercy. and jason todd has never been merciful.

“i should kill you,” he muses.

he should. you would.

but he doesn’t.

he shifts, adjusting his weight, and fuck— you feel him. solid, heavy, thick against your abdomen. heat blooms in your gut, traitorous, and you hate the way he notices.

“you like this,”

you scowl, wrenching against his grip. wrong move. he laughs, deep and knowing, and started to grind his knee between your thighs.

“didn’t take you for the type,” jason muses, dragging his knife lower. it slips beneath the hem of your top, the cold bite of the blade making you tense. “but i guess even assassins have kinks.”

“fuck you,” you snap, but it sounds breathless. weak.

his teeth flash in a smirk. “bit forward, don’t you think?”

his free hand slides down, fingers digging into flesh. you should be shoving him off, twisting free—but you’re melting, back arching, hips rising to meet his. traitorous.

“cute,” he mutters, almost to himself.

you bite your lip, but the way he’s looking at you—amused, smug, half-lidded with heat—makes your stomach flip. you fucking hate him. you hate that you want him. he leans in, lips brushing your jaw. so close. you turn your head on instinct, teeth grazing his bottom lip, nipping just to see him react. and he does—fuck, he growls, and then he’s kissing you.

it’s not gentle. it’s hot and biting, teeth and dominance, his tongue pushing past your lips. his knife clatters to the floor, forgotten, because his hands are everywhere now—holding your jaw, sliding down your waist, pushing up the fabric of your top. he grinds against you, harder this time, letting you feel it, the thick press of him through his gear. your nails rake down his back, dragging at his belt, and jason groans into your mouth, half a curse, half a praise.

“needy,” he groans, dragging his lips to your throat.

“insufferable,”

he chuckles against your skin, warm lips grazing your pulse. “you’re the one grinding on me, princess.”

fuck. he’s right. you are. your thighs tighten around his hips, rocking up into him, gasping when his hands tighten on your waist. it’s too much. it’s not enough.

“gonna take me out,” he teases, nipping at your jaw, “or just keep humping me like a desperate little thing?”

heat floods your cheeks, but your hands are already moving towards his belt—fuck him. if you’re going down, you’re going down swinging.

[not-so-mundane-after-all]

I keep rewatching that epilogue scene and, the way Hunter and Omega talk about her joining the Rebellion... You can tell this is not the first time they're having this conversation. And I just can't help but wonder what the previous one(s) must have looked like.

Because something tells me it wasn't peaceful.

I just can't imagine Hunter having any other reaction than an immediate, definitive "absolutely not" the first time he hears about Omega wanting to join the Rebellion. Just like I can't imagine Omega being okay with that reaction.

Were they arguing about it? Were they butting heads and not backing down from their respective points? Because they would. Absolutely, they would.

Did their brothers have conversations with both of them separately? Did Wrecker tell Omega to give Hunter a break because he's old and worried? Did Crosshair convince Hunter that he can't keep a grown woman grounded just because he's scared about her? Did Echo tell him that if this is Omega's calling, he has to let her do her thing?

She tried to sneak off. As if she didn't want to go through this again. As if she thought leaving without a goodbye would be easier on everyone and this way no one can stop her. After all, she made up her mind. She's going. But when she turns the light on and spots Hunter sitting there, she's not even surprised. She nods to herself like of course. Of course he's here.

This literally sounds like they've been over this before. But this time the conversation is surely more peaceful. They both have the other's perspective in their minds now.

This is my choice and I know it scares you but I need you to understand.

I know I won't change your mind but I don't want you to go, I want you to be safe.

This must have been said before as well. Maybe in anger. Maybe in pleading. Or desperation. I wouldn't be surprised if Omega got very frustrated with Hunter for treating her like she's still a kid. Nor would I be shocked if Hunter had trouble articulating his point of view in all his worry and panic. But here, it's a confession. It's very vulnerable. It's the truth Hunter doesn't want to hear and gives a reason why.

Omega is a grown woman now. Skilled, capable, brave. Hunter doesn't doubt that. But to him, she's always going to be his little girl no matter how old she is and I am still speechless at the fact that we actually see him not only struggling with it but also admitting to it.

Back on Pabu, after they escaped Tantiss, Hunter told her: "We've all fought enough battles for one lifetime." And now, years later, Omega echoes this back to him. "You've all fought enough." Almost like she's reading Hunter's mind and knows that if he can't stop her, he's going to want to join her.

The way he wants to reach after her here when she gets up. Like he wants to say wait, no, don't go yet!

But this is her fight, just like she says. She's never been able to sit still, we know that, we've seen that. Just like Echo back in season 2, she can't stand the thought of staying down and doing nothing when there are people out there fighting for freedom. People she can help. She's a skilled pilot now (I can bet she'll become most famous in the Rebellion for her flawless Tech-Turn), she has absorbed everything her brothers have taught her over the years like a sponge and now she wants to use that. After years of living away from the fight, she's finally ready to get back out there and make a difference in the galaxy. Fight for peace because that is her calling.

She's ready, but Hunter is not.

You can tell it's literally tearing him apart to watch her go. That's his baby, the whole reason he's living the life he has now. He gave his blood, sweat and tears so she could grow up safe and happy and away from the Empire's clutches. And now she's going back right into them, willingly.

But she's all grown up. And he has no choice but to let her go do her thing. So he holds her close and I don't doubt sends out a prayer that she comes back to him safe and in one piece. He closes his eyes and commits the feeling to memory because who knows when will be the next time he gets to do this?

And it might be destroying him inside but he's so damn proud. And he knows she's got this. She doesn't need her old man to watch her back anymore.

And yet still this old man, with gray in his hair and beard, this old man whose posture is hunched and who is moving slowly and having difficulty standing up because of his accelerated age, is telling his very grown up and very capable daughter that if she needs him, he's going to pick up his blaster, don the armor and join her in the fight.

Because that's what fathers do.

[nadvs]

watch and learn (part seven)

pairing fratboy! rafe cameron x female reader

rating explicit 18+

content warning drug and alcohol use

summary it takes one conversation with your college dorm neighbor to know you won’t get along. rafe is loud, rude, and short-tempered. after he overhears you talking about a disappointing fling, he loses his confidence in his sexual abilities and suggests you start hooking up to both improve your skills in the bedroom. you can’t stand him, but it’s too good of an offer to turn down.

» masterlist

*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*

The next morning, you sleep in, recovering from the party. Your head is still foggy as you scroll through your phone in bed, thinking about last night.

You spent a lot of time with Blake. He was nice and charming and all you did was talk and share innocent touches. He’s nothing but green flags.

Yet your mind kept reminding you of Rafe. And it kept replaying the sight of him kissing another girl.

Something between you two shifted the other day, when you dropped by after his dad’s visit. You agreed that you were friends. And then did something that friends definitely don’t do.

Then, of course, he took a few days to be a jerk. But last night, he mustered up a sorry for you, flirting with you again.

It’s almost like he’s leaving breadcrumbs, making you think he has feelings, with the possessiveness and the compliments and the looks he gives you. But time and time and time again, Rafe proves to you that he’s a douchebag who’s not looking for anything more than sex.

And neither are you, you remind yourself. Not with Rafe. He would break your heart if given the chance. And you’re not giving him the chance.

You see a text from Rafe from a couple of hours ago: you up?

You reply: i am now.

You open Instagram to see that Blake posted a story a few minutes ago. It’s a photo of a sign on the side of a building. He’s at a paintball range with his frat brothers. It must be another bonding event.

The text on the photo reads: let’s goooo red team.

You reply to the story: putting all my money on the red team.

He responds: I’ll win for you :)

Rafe has never played paintball before, but it couldn’t have come at a better time. His gun is loaded with blue pellets and he has Blake in his sights before the starting bell even rings.

This will be the best way to release his anger over the fact that he’s losing you. Well, other than getting naked with you and fucking until he can’t think straight. But you weren’t answering your phone this morning. So, this’ll do.

The field is vast under the cloudy sky, cluttered full of obstacles and barriers and embankments. When the game starts, Rafe has one goal and one goal only.

He hates how you were smiling at Blake last night. He hates how you touched his shoulder. How you laughed. How close you were.

Mere minutes into the game, he’s behind a colorfully splattered wall and finally finds Blake in his crosshairs. His finger presses down on the trigger over and over and over again, each pop loud and echoing, coating the front of Blake’s vest with bright blue drops of paint.

“Jesus, Rafe, I think you got him, man!” one of his teammates shouts with a laugh.

Even though one of his buddies on the red team nails Rafe in his arm a couple of times near the end of the round, the game ends in a blue team victory.

As the boys make their way back into the building, Blake shoves Rafe’s shoulder.

“The fuck was that, Cameron?” Blake asks, pointing to his vest, sheathed in blue. His smile is wide, but his tone is sharp. He’s trying to hide it, but he seems actually pissed off. Good.

“My bad, man,” Rafe half-chuckles, lifting his helmet off his head. “Got lost in the game. I love to win.”

The high from winning this stupid game is so intensely gratifying that Rafe wants to keep beating Blake in everything. Including in getting your attention.

When Rafe checks his phone as they leave the range, he sees you finally responded. He’s craving you now, but he’ll see you in a few hours at tonight’s party. And he wants Blake to see you with him.

He was stupid to think he could stay away from you. He’s going to see you as many times as you let him before your touches with Blake have more meaning behind them.

The “anything but clothes” party is slated to start at the Sigma Chi house in a few minutes. You and Liv decide to show up right on time to hang out with the guys and drink before the liquor runs out.

You made a stop at a party store off-campus to buy rolls of caution tape together, deciding to wrap the bright yellow nylon into haphazard tube tops and mini skirts, stuck together with clear packing tape. You’re careful so that the sticky tape is only on the caution tape, not directly touching any skin at all.

When you enter the house, you follow the noise in the kitchen. A group of frat boys are in the dining room, setting up the keg and putting out cups.

Blake and Rafe are standing with four other guys, talking as they set up.

Rafe should’ve put more effort into what he wore. He has a towel around his hips and when you walk in wearing next to nothing, he regrets it immediately. A boner would be way too fucking obvious.

Blake greets you with a side-hug and Rafe cracks his knuckles under the table.

“Hey, how was paintball?” you ask. “Did you win?”

“Lost and I’m wounded.” Blake’s wearing a plastic bag over his chest and another around his hips. He puts his hand over his sternum, the bag crinkling beneath his fingers.

“What the hell happened?” you laugh, placing your hand on his. He pretends to wince in pain when you touch him, making you laugh again. The sight makes Rafe scowl.

“Rafe went all Scarface on him,” Sam says. You look to Rafe, and at the same time, glass shatters in the kitchen behind you.

“Shit!” a guy shouts.

“So glad tomorrow’s thing is outside,” Blake mumbles. “This place is a mess and it’s only gonna get worse.”

“What’s tomorrow?” you ask.

“Family day,” Sam says. “We’re having a barbecue.”

“Do you guys have something going on every weekend?” Liv asks.

“Pretty much,” Blake in a bragging tone.

“And when do you study?” you say.

“During the week, fun police,” Blake mumbles with a playful smile. You hate the label and think back to a conversation you had with him over text about nicknames.

“Don’t call me that, babe,” you respond. Blake told you before that he loathes being called babe.

Rafe doesn’t know you’re saying it ironically. And he’s trying not to lose his mind. He looks down at his beer and takes another sip.

A moment passes and he doesn’t notice that Blake is trying to get his attention until he realizes seven pairs of eyes are on him.

“What?” Rafe asks.

“Who are you bringing tomorrow?” Blake repeats.

“I’m not coming.” Rafe can’t imagine even mentioning the event to anyone in his family.

“What? Why not?” Blake says. “I need to meet who raised you to be so fucking competitive.”

Rafe looks away the same way he did when you confronted his dad for yelling at him. It’s not exactly annoyance in his expression, like you’re used to seeing. It’s discomfort. Embarrassment.

You don’t want anyone to grill him. Not about his family. You can still hear the way his father snapped at him, asked what he was crying for.

“Sounds like you’re just mad that you’re such an easy target,” you say to Blake, primarily to take everyone’s eyes off of Rafe.

You earn a few jeers, heads turning back in your direction. Rafe’s eyes find yours and you glance at him to see a softened expression, the hard lines in his face suddenly gone.

“I’d like to see you try to play paintball,” Blake says.

“Yeah, you’re really selling it,” you respond sarcastically, snapping your gaze back to meet his.

“What other events do you guys have planned?” Liv asks.

As Blake goes into the schedule for the rest of the year - including a community service drive, a Sadie Hawkins formal, and a camping trip - Rafe can’t keep his eyes off of you.

He can’t forget how you stood up to his father, a total stranger, and told him to calm down. He can’t forget how happy your silly little gift made him.

Maybe you were just flirting with Blake, but he wonders if you purposely took the attention off of him, knowing what you know about his family.

You two are friends that have great sex, he knows that, but he’s staring at you like you’re more. You can be irritating and a tight-ass, but you’re kind and thoughtful, too.

Rafe looks away. These thoughts make him uneasy all over. He’s not a feelings kind of guy. And Blake is so obviously your type and Rafe is nothing like him.

He’s not stupid. Anything more than sex between you two would be ridiculous.

The house fills up with partygoers quickly, air thickening, music loud and conversations even louder.

Later on in the night, Rafe’s buzzed and standing by the keg, watching you dance with your friend. The way you roll your hips reminds him of how you move when you’re on top of him and he needs to force himself to look away before he gets hard. Again.

Eventually, he notices you head towards the back of the house alone and he takes the opportunity to talk to you.

When you leave the bathroom and head down the dark hallway back towards the party, you notice Rafe leaning by the wall, a beer bottle in his hand. There’s only a handful of people around, engaging in quiet, private conversation as the music throbs around you.

“Hey,” he says. He wishes he thought of something more clever to say, but he’s pretty close to being drunk.

It’s kind of sweet that he’s waiting here for you. But then you remind yourself he’s just horny.

“Hey,” you say, eyes flitting down his athletic body and to the navy blue towel sitting at his hips. “Pretty lazy of you to use a towel.”

“Nah, it’s smart,” he quips. “That tape is perfect for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you say.

“You can read, can’t you?” Rafe simply says, his hand ghosting over the bold CAUTION on your chest. You look down at the way his long fingers just barely brush over your breasts, imagining the way they were massaging you earlier this week.

The reminder sends a swirl of warm passion in your core. You want him again. And again. And again.

“Are you trying to say I’m dangerous? I’m not the one attacking people during an innocent game of paintball.”

“I got hit, too, okay?” Rafe complains. He brings his right arm forward, showing you his flexed bicep.

“I don’t see anything,” you laugh.

“These red marks are turning into bruises,” he says, pointing to his skin. “I’ll need you to take care of me.”

“I think you’re just being a fuckboy,” you respond.

Rafe’s smirk is playful and inviting and you realize you’re only inches away from each other, eyes connected and smiles mirrored.

You want to see him naked again. Neither of you had any pointers last time you hooked up, but that doesn’t mean you’re done learning, right?

“I’ve never gotten a ‘you up?’ text at ten in the morning,” you say. Admittedly, you were a little dejected that he didn’t reply to your message earlier today.

“You woke up late,” Rafe says, eyebrows quirking up for a second. “When’d you even get home?”

In reality, he wants to know if you were with Blake. He didn’t see you at last night’s party after he made out with a girl just to unsuccessfully make you jealous. Maybe you messed around with Blake and stayed up late with him.

“I don’t remember,” you admit with a defeated laugh. “I think I need to cool it on the partying. You frat boys never stop. I can’t believe how many things you guys have going on.”

Rafe breathes a sardonic chuckle, looking down, and you’re immediately reminded of tomorrow’s event.

Just like that, the air between you shifts. You’re both thinking of the same thing. You’re painfully aware of it.

Silence settles between you and you nervously scratch your arm.

“I wouldn’t want to bring him, either,” you finally say. Rafe’s eyes meet yours. He instantly knows you’re talking about his father.

Now he’s sure you weren’t just carrying on conversation with Blake earlier. You purposely took the attention off of him. Because you’re friends. Friends help each other.

“Yeah,” is all Rafe can say.

“Did you…” you say softly. “Do you not have anyone else you’d want to come?”

Rafe thinks of his life back home. His father, who never shies away from expressing his disappointment. His step-mother, who he has no relationship with. Sarah, who’s the clear favorite. Wheezie, who Rafe actually likes and sort of misses, but wouldn’t be able to visit on her own.

“No,” he admits. “It’s… I don’t have that kind of family.”

“Must be why you’re into this whole frat thing,” you say. You can’t stop yourself from trying to understand his complexities.

Rafe didn’t think about it that way. But the sense of camaraderie he has with his frat brothers, except for one in particular, does give him a sense of belonging he’s been chasing forever. He didn’t even realize it until you said it.

But that’s what you do. You make him think and feel things he hasn’t before and it’s so uncomfortable and exciting at the same time.

“You’re…” Rafe tugs at his earlobe. “You’re a really nice person.”

“What?” You laugh in disbelief. Is he being sweet to you outside of the bedroom?

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” he says. “When he asked me why I’m not going tomorrow, you changed the subject.”

He can’t say Blake’s name.

“Guilty,” you say. You settle into eye contact that’s unlike anything you two have shared before. Rafe huffs, wanting to force away the tension sitting in his chest.

“I think you’re into this whole frat thing, too, by the way,” he says. He leans even closer to you, blue eyes focused on your lips.

“Not at all,” you joke, shaking your head. “I hate you guys.”

“Really,” Rafe mutters, his tone low. “Even me?”

“Especially you.”

“You don’t remember what you said last time we fucked? When I asked if I could put it in?”

Your skin burns as you think back to the way he asked you if you were ready before burying into you.

“You must be thinking about another girl,” you say. He won’t even entertain the thought.

“You said please,” he rasps.

“Well, at least I have manners,” you reply, looking him in the eye as anticipation curls in your stomach, refusing to shy away.

“You gonna beg me for it again?”

“I did not beg,” you respond.

You want to tease him even more, tell him you thought you were experts now, so what’s the point of hooking up anymore? But you don’t need it to be instructional to have sex with him. He doesn’t seem to need it, either.

“Don’t tell me you’re still shy about liking it.” His smirk is taunting. This cracks you, a smile spreading on your face again, your eyes trailing down his bare chest.

“Maybe,” you tease. It’s a lie. You’re not shy at all anymore. The sense of shame you felt around sex before is gone. At least with Rafe, it has.

“How can you be shy when you’re wearing that?” Rafe asks. “Showing fucking everything.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, nose crinkling. The way you cock your head as you gaze at his body, your lashes fluttering as you blink, makes his gut warm and his groin tighten. Wow. He really doesn’t even need to touch you to get hard.

“And don’t act like you don’t like my outfit,” you say, meeting his eyes again. You shock yourself with your forwardness. He looks pleasantly surprised, too.

You hear your name being shouted. Liv rushes towards you, hands pressed over her chest.

“My tape broke,” she laughs. “I almost flashed everyone.”

“Really?” you gasp. Rafe is annoyed that you got interrupted, but he finds that he really likes what caring for somebody looks like on you. Your eyes deepen. Your brows lower. Your guard is down. You’re stunning.

“We should’ve brought extra tape,” Liv says.

“We can borrow a shirt,” you suggest. “Let’s find Blake.”

Rafe is seething. Blake. Of fucking course.

You offer Rafe a tight smile before taking your friend’s hand and walking in front of her to shield her.

When you find Blake, he leads you and Liv upstairs to his room, scrambling through his dresser to find a shirt for Liv.

“I’m not gonna get kicked out for wearing clothes, am I? It’s against the rules,” Liv says.

“No, only ‘cause you’re friends with fun police over here,” Blake replies, smiling over his shoulder as he hands a black shirt to Liv. “Special privileges.”

“I told you not to call me that,” you say with a laugh. Liv pulls the shirt over her head.

“Thanks!” she calls as she walks out of the room, a grin on her face. You know she’s purposely leaving you alone with Blake.

You meet Blake’s eyes, standing in the middle of his quiet, private room.

“Study fort’s gone,” you notice, looking down at his bare floor.

“Oh. Yeah,” he says stiffly. It’s awkward between you and you’re not sure why. “You look…”

Blake doesn’t finish his sentence. You knew he was a bit on the shy side, but he’s actually nervous.

You would normally find it endearing. But because of the intoxicating way Rafe was talking to you downstairs, how he’s so unafraid of telling you how attracted he is to you, you feel tense around Blake for the first time.

Still, intrigue coarses through you. You like him. You want him to flirt with you and to touch you and to finally kiss you. But he’s still.

Rafe spots your friend in the crowd with a t-shirt on. And you’re not next to her. He pushes through people to stand beside Liv and ask her where you are.

“Upstairs with Blake,” Liv simply responds. Rafe glances up the staircase, lips twisting as he nods. He stalks away, storming through the house with no real idea of where to go.

He paces around for a few minutes. He wants to rush upstairs and hurt Blake. Badly. Without a paintball gun this time. The thought of you being up there in his room, of his hands on you, of him on top of you… It’s too much. He’s grinding his teeth so hard that it hurts.

Rafe has had enough. He heads back towards the front of the house, not sure what the hell he’ll do if he walks in on Blake on top of you, but before he can go upstairs, he sees you in the crowd, chatting with your friend.

“I left you alone up there for a reason,” Liv says quietly when you approach her.

“Oh, I’m aware,” you laugh. “But the vibe was weird, so I left. I think we were both nervous.”

After Blake couldn’t finish his sentence, you thanked him for helping your friend and split.

“Do you not like him?” Liv asks.

You do. But you think you like someone else, too. And it’s terrifying.

Rafe weaves through the crowds, approaching you, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrist. You watch him duck to speak into your ear.

“Leave with me,” he says so only you can hear him over the music. You look at Liv, who has a sly, knowing expression on her face.

“I can’t abandon my friend just to hook up with you,” you say to him. A painful pang of rejection twists inside him.

“But do you want to?” Rafe asks. He needs to be sure. What if your next words are that you’re with Blake now?

Your pulse is racing. The promise of another night with Rafe is electrifying.

“Yes,” you admit. He smiles to himself, pulling back to look at Liv.

“You gonna be okay if she leaves?” Rafe says, tilting his head towards you.

“Of course, if she wants to,” Liv replies with an amused laugh.

Rafe pulls you towards him, out of the crowd. And for once, he’s actually glad to see Blake, who’s standing by the keg with a few friends.

He wraps his arm around your waist, mumbling to you that he’s going to rip that stupid tape off of you, as he glares at Blake, who’s staring at you two with a disconcerted grimace.

He leads you out of the rowdy house, grip tight on you as if he could lose you again.

The second you’re in Rafe’s dorm room, his hands are on your ass, fingers dipping under the tape. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, kissing him heatedly as you stand by his bed.

You can smell his cologne and his shampoo as his tongue runs over yours.

“You know everyone was looking at you tonight, right?” he says between kisses.

“No,” you scoff. While he’s helped you gain some confidence, you can’t imagine thinking of yourself as the most desired girl in a room.

“I told you not to do that,” he says against your lips. You feel the nylon around your ass lift off your skin as he tugs it away, pulling apart the material, tape unsticking.

“Do what?” you mutter. He grips your ass, feeling the fabric of your underwear on his palms. You lower a hand to undo the knot keeping up the towel on him.

“You pretend like you’re not beautiful and it pisses me off,” he says. Beautiful. He said hot before. But not beautiful. He never used that word with you. “How hard do I have to fuck you for you to get it?”

“Rafe,” you gasp with a giggle.

“How hard?” he asks. “Until you can’t talk?”

His towel drops and he kisses your neck, tugging at the tape bound around your chest. You shift to wrap your hand around his length over his boxers, aching for the feeling of him inside of you.

Rafe loves that you touch him like this now, without any hesitation. He rips the tape off of your chest, his fingers burning.

While you wore panties just in case, you’re glad you went without a bra simply because of the way Rafe breathes when he looks down to see your bare chest.

He fondles your tits with eager, rough movements, squeezing as he clenches his jaw.

“Every guy was staring at you, but only I get to do this.” His lips are against your neck, breath hot.

You tense for a second. He shouldn’t say shit like this. His words are possessive and tender and way too fucking heavy.

But you push yourself out of your head, focusing on how you feel physically, forgetting the emotions that have slowly been tacking themselves onto you like the crumpled tape on the floor.

You dip your hand into his boxers, wrapping your hand around his girth. Rafe inhales sharply, squeezing his eyes shut as you stroke him slowly. You drag your hand to his tip, feeling the warm precum and spreading it with your thumb.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“You like that?” you whisper with a smile. It’s exciting talking like this. You were always quiet when hooking up with a guy, but Rafe has pushed you completely out of your shell.

“Get on my bed,” he says gruffly, pressing your hips back. You lie down, watching his cock spring out of his boxers when he tugs them off.

Rafe almost asks to skip the condom, but it feels too intimate. Too serious. And he’s sure you’d say no.

You pull your panties off as he rolls on the latex and gets on his knees, sinking onto the mattress, hands gripping your ankles. He shifts and rests your ankles on his broad shoulders, his hands skimming down your legs.

He drags a thumb over your wet clit, gazing down at you with yearning as he spreads your slick arousal over you. You moan at the sensation, realizing just how sensitive you are from how long it’s been and how much you missed him.

“You’re fucking soaked,” Rafe rasps. “Who got you like this, baby?”

“You did,” you reply. The words coming out of your mouth are so fucking soothing. He can’t think about anyone else doing this to you. Only him.

Rafe pulls his hand off of you to grip your thigh and holds his cock at its base with his other hand, tapping it over your middle. You look at him, eyes meeting in an exquisite, mutual longing.

“Say please,” he teases.

“You say please,” you reply, smirking. Rafe shakes his head in disbelief and awe and desire, his hair falling over his forehead.

He can’t wait. He guides himself into you, slipping in so easily, feeling just how drenched and tight and warm you are. He groans as you take him in with a deep breath, tilting to feel the curve of his cock.

“That’s so fucking nice,” he whispers, watching himself push into you. “Your pussy is so fucking nice.”

His fingers dig into your thigh as he pulls back and pushes in again. You throw your head back as he shoves himself into you, filling you completely, the pressure hard and incredible.

Rafe’s thumb is on your clit again, rubbing in circles as he thrusts, making you tremble. Your mouth is agape, your hands above your head as he pleasures you.

It’s such a phenomenal view to him. Pleasure written on your face, your tits bouncing, your chest heaving, your body jolting.

You feel your stomach tighten, the rising sensation making you moan. Rafe starts to go harder, rubbing faster, a smile curling on his lips as he watches you.

“I…” you breathe. “Fuck, I…”

“Can’t talk?” he rasps, amused. You bite your bottom lip and moan a giggle, willing yourself to look at him before he has to tell you to.

His gaze is piercing into you as you feel yourself dissolve into ecstasy, your body going numb before it heats with the most amazing feeling you’ve ever had.

Rafe feels you clenching around his cock and he leans over to get as deep into you as possible, your legs bending as his shoulders push you forward.

After you come down from your orgasm, he places his hand on your cheek, dipping his thumb into your mouth.

You stare at him as he drives into you and you wrap your lips around his thumb, tasting yourself. Rafe might just go crazy. You take him so much better than he’s ever had before.

He tightens and you watch the euphoria wash over his face, his brows furrowing and his lips parting. You love that you can do this to him, that a man so commanding and dominant and brash crumbles like this when he’s inside you.

He cums in hard pulses, hips bucking with every jerk, seeing stars. When he slowly pulls out, you close your eyes, sighing in pleasure.

Your palms rest over your eyes, feeling high off the feeling as you feel him shift off the mattress. When you catch your breath, you open your eyes to see Rafe offering you a towel.

“You have fun?” he asks. You can tell he’s trying to do the whole aftercare thing, but because it’s not genuine, you’d rather not play along.

It’s clear he wants you to leave with the way he’s holding out the towel, surely wishing you’d cover up and go. You’re not surprised. You sit up, taking the towel and wrapping it around your body.

“C-minus,” you say.

“What?”

“Kidding,” you laugh. You stand to leave and decide to let him deal with the mess of caution tape on his floor, desperate to be alone so you can pull yourself together.

You go so suddenly that Rafe watches his door shut with confusion. He thought you’d wipe yourself down with the towel he gave you, maybe sit a while with him.

He oddly wanted you to stay a little bit. He liked joking around with you earlier tonight. It was fun.

But you were so eager to go. Probably because Rafe is the kind of guy you fuck and forget, and Blake is the kind of guy you make love to and stick around for.

He knows that he’s in a competition he’ll eventually lose because he can’t offer you a relationship. You said yourself he’d be the worst boyfriend ever the night he told you not to cuddle him.

But he’ll happily take these nights with you for as long as possible. And he’ll keep fighting for as many as he can.

When you make it to your dorm, you sit on your bed, breathless. Just when you think the sex can’t get any better with Rafe, it does.

He almost disappointed you with his lack of emotion afterwards, but you’re glad you didn’t give him the power to. He’ll always let you down in that department. As long as you keep any feelings for him at bay, you know you’ll be fine.

After you feel a bit calmer, you check your phone to see five texts.

Liv: didn’t get a chance to tell you but rafe is down BAD for you

Liv: when i told him you were upstairs with blake he looked like he was about to kill someone

Liv: hope you have fun lol :)

Liv: i sure am… i made out with sam after you left… oops

Then you see a block of text in the next notification.

Blake: Gotta be honest. I wanted to kiss you when we were in my room but you make me really nervous haha. Can I take you on a date? A real one. Not just a study date lol. All good if you’re not into it. Let me know.

(part eight)

author’s note: thank you anon for this iconic idea!!

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘

[wistfulforstars]

I Want More, More

Crosshair x Reader Oneshot

WOW, I broke 20 followers! Thank you, thank you for reading my little fics, it means the world! Have a Crosshair battling with his feelings oneshot!

Word Count: 4605

Summary: Crosshair is made aware that he has not been treating you like he should. He has a crisis about it before talking to you like an adult, kind of.

Warnings: Here there be smut, minors begone, Crosshair struggling with his feelings is its own warning, Crosshair is a dick until he's not, he's a moron your honor, slightly desperate Crosshair, rough sex into talking into gentle sex into rough sex again, oral (m receiving), oral (f receiving), p in v sex, language, some derogatory pet names, talking during sex, reader is afab, there's porn here I promise, you just have to get through Crosshair's angst

This wasn’t fucking working.

Crosshair was near madness, and he was sure you were reaching a point where you needed a break. You’d never let him fuck your mouth for this long before. But there you were, topless, tears streaming down your face, knees probably scuffed or even bleeding from the durasteel floor, nevermind that you still had your pants on. And yet you pushed through, voicing not a word of complaint as you gagged on his persistent cock.

And he wasn’t anywhere close to finishing.

You should be complaining, he decided. What had it been? Thirty minutes? Fifty? Crosshair couldn’t keep track of anything except his own frustration, and that was making him a terrible lay. And if there’s one thing he would be loath to be terrible at, it was sex.

His cock throbbed, his balls ached, and you kept moaning. He growled.

Sooner or later, you’re going to hurt her. She’s going to get tired of this, and she’s going to leave. Hunter’s words from earlier in the week creeped back into his mind, and any hope of salvaging this situation dissipated into thin air.

Crosshair abruptly pulled you off his length and backed away, tugging his pants up as he went. Still you knelt, breathing heavily, awaiting what he’d do next. It was the arrangement you’d both worked out months ago. You allowed yourself to be used as he saw fit, and he made sure you left satisfied and ready for dreamless sleep. No feelings, no complications. It had worked well for a long time. But he looked at you then, your face a mess, your curled legs trembling, and for the first time, he couldn’t stand the sight.

She deserves someone who cares deeply about her, Echo’s voice, well, echoed in his head, as unbidden as Hunter’s had been. His nosy brothers had held an intervention of sorts a few days ago while you were out getting supplies. It had started with Tech’s “We want to know what you are doing with our medic,” gone through Wrecker’s “You know she likes you, right? Like, a lot,” and ended with a long speech from Hunter about how “One day Crosshair, you’re going to wake up and realize that she’s moved on. For some reason, she really cares for you. And you’re treating her like a meaningless one night stand, except you keep doing it over, and over and-”

It was stupid. You both liked what you were doing. You were both consenting adults with the power to walk away at any time. You were both happy and fulfilled with that. It was enough.

Except for the past few days, it hadn’t been.

Crosshair began to really notice certain things since the talk with his brothers. Like how you always met him with a cheery good morning, and how you didn’t expect an answer in return. How you’d sit next to him while he cleaned his rifle, content to do all the talking if he just listened. How you always ran over after a close call on missions, frantic about his safety and never expecting him to inquire about your wellbeing, even if you were covered in soot and limping away from an explosion. 

He realized you were giving more, much more to your…friendship, than he was. And that didn’t sit well with him. Your relationship was supposed to be transactional, and here you were, giving him attention and assistance and contact without expecting one damn solitary thing in return. Always giving, never receiving, and he…

He was a fucking prick. 

Horrible, awful scenarios started coming to mind after that. For two days, he thought about what would happen if you got transferred, or completed your service and left, or, stars-forbid, got shot. A concept he’d never considered before. You were always there, always constant as Tech’s pointing finger and Echo’s whirring attachments.

The idea of you leaving him - and he was completely arrogant for never seriously entertaining the thought - was frightening. And Crosshair didn’t do frightened.

The worst part? While he was drowning in inner turmoil due to his asshole brothers and your own damn sweetness, you were waltzing around, perfectly fine. You had never given any outward indication that you wanted something real from him, something more than a smokescreen of orgasms and sharp banter. Now that he knew how much you cared, now that he’d heard that you liked him no matter how hard you tried to hide it, he couldn’t let it go.

You’d been contenting yourself with his hands on your body and his lackluster personality for months, when, according to his brothers, you’d really wanted something deeper. Did you think he would reject you, or that he wasn’t capable of anything more to begin with? Both possibilities stung, a lot deeper than he’d ever supposed they would. Especially as he realized that neither of them were unreasonable of you to assume. Suddenly, he was furious.

That’s how he ended up with his cock down your throat in the back of the Marauder, while everyone else was out on the town. Not in his bed, never in his bed. That was one of the rules he’d made, to stop things from getting too intimate. Instead he’d had you kneel, and you’d done it with a wry smile and no questions. He’d planned to fuck these thoughts out of his head, but as it turns out, his brain was thinking the fuck out of his dick, so to speak. 

So instead, he leaned against the wall, gazing at you. You still kneeled, still waited patiently while he’d stared for who knows how long. 

You deserved better. 

The thought was pounding against his skull, incessant and refusing to leave. And Crosshair knew there were only two ways to resolve it. He could walk away, wish you well, and hope that you found someone who could give you a true relationship, no matter what it might cost him.

Or…he could try to be worthy of you.

The first option entailed less risk, and was definitely more his style. He couldn’t be bad at a relationship if he never tried to give you one. But the thought of someone else seeing you like this, or worse, someone else seeing you in ways he hadn’t yet…on a beach, walking down a colorful city street, riding a speeder bike, in the snow…

He stood abruptly and crossed over to your languishing form. He had you in his arms in less than a second, and had you laying on his bunk in less than five more. 

“Cross, wha-?” you protested. You knew the rules, knew his boundaries, and tried to sit up and leave. 

He grasped your shoulders and gently pushed you back, “Please.” Was all he said, whispered and hoarse. He worried at his lip without realizing it. Your eyes widened, and you let him lean you back on his pillows. He fidgeted with them, trying to make them fluffier than the GAR issued sacks of foam they really were, and you quirked a brow.

“You fucking with me, Cross?” you asked, and he could tell you were putting real effort into keeping the trepidation out of your voice. “Because this is a real weird joke.”

Okay, he deserved that one. But his words were stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth. How was he supposed to know how to tell a woman he liked her anyway? If the Kaminoans included a class on charm somewhere in their training programs, he definitely didn’t get an invite.

Maybe you would be better off with someone who didn’t spend their days getting up close and personal with other people through a fucking scope. 

But all this staring was starting to freak you out. You were sitting awkwardly, legs open, tits out, under his genetically superior gaze. Crosshair didn’t know what kind of face he’d been making, but it clearly wasn’t one you were used to. You crossed your arms over your chest and turned your head to the side, away from him.

“Are we done?” You ground out through a set jaw, a slightly trembling lip. “Is this…ahem…is this over? Because you could just tell me, you don’t have to try and make it easier. I can just go back to my bunk and…and…”

He caught the sheen in your eyes, the catch in your throat. Fuck. Fuck.

“I-I want you…” stars, he can’t even talk. Damn you. Damn him. He cleared his throat. “I. want. you. to stay… there.”

Well, it sounded like it was being tortured out of him, but at least it got your attention. You turned back to look at his face, “You want me to stay here.” You said evenly, jerking your head towards his shabby pillows. “In your bed. Where I’m never, ever supposed to be.”

He swallowed, mouth dry as hell, and nodded. You were so much better at this, so much stronger than he was. He couldn’t do anything but spill his guts in what was probably the least romantic way possible. 

So he did, “I want to try…something else.”

Your lips parted just a fraction, and something seemed to click behind your eyes. But you were tough, tougher than he ever gave you credit for, and you never gave him any ground. Oh you were gentle about it, cool satin to his rough burlap. He suspected it was the healer in you. But you always demanded communication from him, demanded that he explain his behavior, even if it took him a while.

“Something else,” the hitch in your voice had disappeared. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me, babe. You know I’ll try something new, and we have a safe word, but this violates your rules, and I don’t know how to act now. I don’t know what’s okay.”

Babe. It slipped out of your mouth every so often, usually in a teasing lilt over comms during a battle. He didn’t know if he loved it or hated it, but it always brought a sudden heat to his face. He felt the tips of his ears burning.

“I…” c’mon, bastard. You can get this out, you have to get this out. She’s waiting. “I want… toforgettherules.”

“I’m sorry? One more time?”

Brat. In any other circumstance, he’d have you over his knee for something like that. But he took a deep breath, like the ones he’d take before making an impossible shot. And maybe that’s what this was, “I want to forget the rules.”

Your eyes alighted with something like hope, “Why?”

Yes Crosshair, you stupid prick, tell the lady why. He needed to get his head examined. He was talking to himself more than usual. And now he’d started to sound like Hunter.

“Because,” he ground out, teeth clenched. “You deserve…better…than what I’ve been giving you. But I…I don’t want anyone else to deserve you.”

You sat with that for just a moment. And then you brought a hand up to your mouth and giggled. It was such a happy sound, he was almost completely unoffended. 

“You like me,” you murmured, eyes full of mirth and pure, honest delight.

He let out a shaky breath. It was almost a chuckle, “I like you. You’re a little shit, and you give me a heart attack half the time. But I like you.”

“And… I’m allowed to like you back?” This question was tentative, small. Not how he wanted to see you. You should be bright, confident, unafraid to show your brilliance. A fierceness crept into his heart.

“You get to like whatever you damn well please,” he growled, then softened slightly. “But…it would be nice if you liked me.”

You hummed, and dropped the arms covering your gorgeous breasts to cup his face in both hands. Your fingers moved in his cropped strands of hair, but he resisted the urge to close his eyes at the peace it brought him. 

“I like you, more than I ever thought you’d want me to,” you almost-whispered. Then you grinned that same grin you got when Wrecker offered to let you press a detonator. “But if you want in on this, babe, if you want some kind of commitment, I’ve got some rules of my own.”

Strangely, the thought didn’t concern him nearly as badly as it had a day ago. He didn’t know shit about real relationships. He wanted you, and if you gave him some kind of guide to go off of, well, at least there was less of a chance of him fucking it up. 

Crosshair nodded, and your smile grew wider, joy sparkling in your eyes.

“First of all,” you began. “You have to say good morning and good night to me. You also have to hold my hand every so often, and let me kiss your cheek. I promise not to embarrass you…too much.”

He huffed a little, but conceded, “Agreed. Anything else?”

“Oh this is an ongoing list. There will be amendments,” you chirped happily. “I require actual conversation daily, and I get to sleep next to you after we fuck.”

“What do you take me for? Of course you get to-”

“No getting jealous of my guy friends, including your brothers. Like when I give them hugs or candies or-.”

“The regs absolutely cannot be trusted-”

“Ha! I knew you’d be a jealous boyfriend. Oh yeah! And I get to introduce you as my boyfriend from now on.”

Crosshair’s mild disgust must have shown on his face, because you laughed outright, “What about partner? Lover? Fuckbuddy?”

He rolled his eyes, “I’ll make ‘boyfriend’ work. Can I kiss you now or does the princess have more proclamations?”

That shut you up. Despite all the other parts of him you’d had in your mouth, one of his rules had been no kissing on the lips. Your eyes glazed over, and he smirked and leaned forward.

Your lips were so soft, plush and sorely neglected. A vague sense of regret and longing overtook him. How the hell had he managed to avoid kissing you until now? It didn’t really matter. He decided, as you let out a little hum of surprise, that it was about to become his new ritual. Every morning, every night, every time he could drag you into a private little alcove, he’d do it, just to get a chance to press his lips to yours.

He pushed forward, his tongue licking at the line of your lips, and you whined. His cock pulsed, and he began steadily rocking it against your clothed thigh. You opened your mouth eagerly and he dove in. Oh this was divine.

“Never thought,” he mumbled into your mouth. “Never thought it’d be like this.”

“Like…what?” you gasped.

“This…this fucking… brilliant. Stars, your mouth…”

You groaned, and he moved to sweep his deft tongue along your jaw, up to your ear. He bit at your earlobe, and your hips began doing some involuntary rocking of their own. Crosshair growled in your ear, satisfied when you shivered.

He stopped though, when he felt your stealthy hand cup his balls through his pants, “No,” he rasped, taking your wrist in hand and bringing the misbehaving appendage up to nip at your squirming fingers. “I told you, doll. I want… to try… something else.”

“Letting me call the shots would be something else,” you whined, still wiggling in his grasp.

He shook his head, “Not tonight,” he said, sounding out of breath. “Tonight, you just lay there. Look pretty. Look fucking gorgeous because that’s what you are, and keep making little noises for me.”

You whimpered at that, and he smirked. But it wasn’t his usual cocky, infuriating twist of the lips. This was an adorable half smile, part disbelieving, part alive with anticipation. 

Your pants were hastily removed, and while your shoes caused a bit of an obstacle, Crosshair simply wrenched them off and tossed them over his shoulder. One landed with a thump on the durasteel floor - a place he swore you would never be kneeling unprotected again. He was pretty sure the other ended up in Tech’s bunk. 

Crosshair traced his hands down your legs and slowly, ever so slowly pulled your knees further apart. You were pressed back against the pillows, open and waiting for him, and his heart rose to a furious din in his ears. He was almost positive you could hear it. 

He was seized with another fit of insecurity. How was he supposed to know how to cater to you like this? He knew how to grasp your throat just hard enough that your eyes would roll back into your head. He knew how you liked to be tied down and spanked. This wasn’t even the first time he had held your legs apart and let you squirm under his attention. But tenderness… communicating one’s feelings with one’s body… he didn’t even know how to begin. 

His eyes flicked to your face, flushed with shyness and lust. Your kind, welcoming eyes, more open in every breath than he was in his entire lifetime. You bit your lip.

You have to try to be worthy of her, he thought to himself. And he turned his attention to your pussy.

Still clothed in your thin, basic panties, the solid color was stained dark with your wetness. Crosshair cursed, and slowly descended between your legs.

First, he kissed your knees, not bleeding but definitely scraped, and the gentle touch of his lips had you sighing. You’d never made that sound before, that exhale of pure contentment. He wanted more of it. 

You flinched and squirmed as he ran his tongue down your inner thigh, but he held you fast. You weren’t getting away from him. Not now, not when he was finally ready to really try. 

Crosshair knew where you wanted him. You weren’t exactly subtle with the canting of your hips and the nervous fluttering of your fingers over the sheets. Your breaths were coming in short bursts of want. Stars, how were you this sensitive already? He’d seen you in a state of pre-orgasmic distress plenty of times, had made you beg for him past the point where you could speak in coherent sentences, but never had he seen such simple, sweet touches electrify you in this way.

Instead of lowering his mouth to your pussy, though, Crosshair moved to lick and nip at your hip bone. You squealed and moaned, and he decided he’d never heard such an addicting sound.

He brought his tongue across your belly, snapping the waistband of your panties with his teeth before teasing your other hip. Your whimpering was a constant symphony in his dark bunk. He pulled back and chanced a peek at your face. Your eyes were shining with yearning. You had one hand in your hair. He reached up, tugged your abused lip from between your teeth, worried that you’d draw blood, and glanced back down.

The wet spot on your panties had grown, and finally, with a lighter touch than he’d ever directed towards you, Crosshair ran a knuckle up and down your clothed center. You keened, and threw your head back on his feeble pillows, which had flattened almost completely under you. 

I need to get new ones, he thought absently as he tugged your panties to the side, exposing your dripping core. She deserves to be fucked on real pillows. 

He lowered his head, and you were both gone. 

Crosshair had tasted you before, often as a tease while you were tied up and helpless. But not often, and not thoroughly. He usually enjoyed watching your face while taking you apart with his fingers, snarling demeaning pet names into your ear. But this…this was transcendent. You tasted like home, like he could live his entire life and die between your legs. He drank from you slowly, meticulously, lapping at your entrance and circling your clit before closing his lips around it and lightly sucking. Your legs were trembling within minutes. Every few seconds, garbled, meaningless sounds escaped from your throat and spurred him on. He gently, reverently pushed a finger into your hot center, caressing the spot you both loved. You seized up…, and let go.

He rocked you lovingly through your orgasm, fingering you slightly and keeping his mouth clamped around your clit. Your pussy spasmed, your hips jerked, and your mouth opened in a silent scream. 

But he didn’t stop. 

Crosshair began again, stroking your throbbing clit with his tongue, refusing to allow the fire in your abdomen to subside. Now that he’d really tasted you, now that he’d felt you fall apart on his lips, his only goal was to make it happen again.

“C-cross!” you yelled, hand flying down to his hair. You tugged hard, and he groaned.

“More,” he mumbled into your cunt. His fingers pressed at that tender spot inside you, and your head flew back. You shrieked and writhed on his bed, dripping onto the sheets. 

You were moaning with every breath, tensing your legs and frantically thrusting your hips towards his waiting mouth. Your toes curled repeatedly in the corners of his vision. Your pussy was red and swollen, your slick arousal running down his hand and wrist. 

Crosshair curled his fingers inside of you and allowed his teeth to gently catch against your begging clit, and your second orgasm hit like a lightning strike. You seized up, screaming your release to the ceiling of his bunk. He gently lapped at your clit as you came down, your yells turning to sobs. Tears spilled down your face and onto your chest. You reached for him, and he encircled your shaking body with his arms.

“Shhhhh,” he hushed into your hair. “You’re alright…you’re alright…I…I’ve got you, mesh’la.”

You pulled back, tears tracking your cheeks as you stared into his eyes, “Y-you’ve never called me that before.”

Crosshair knew you understood the word. Echo called you mesh’la on occasion, Wrecker too. “I felt left out,” he said. “I should get to remind you of how beautiful you are more than anyone else.”

You sniffed, and threw your arms around him, “You’re beautiful too,” he heard you mumble, and his heart swelled. “But…”

“But what, doll?”

Your voice took on a fierce, desperate tone, “If you don’t get inside me right now, we’re going to have our first fight.” 

Crosshair was stunned, but only for a moment. This was why he lo…liked you in the first place. 

He took on the domineering tone he usually had with you in these situations, “Demanding girls don’t get what they want.”

But you just grinned, and lifted your chin, “Girlfriend privilege.”

He threw his head back and laughed. What had he gotten himself into? 

He couldn’t wait to find out.

“Just this once, mesh’la.”

You practically went limp in his arms as his straining, red cock breached your entrance. He stilled for just a moment, relishing in the feeling of being inside you. When you looked up at him, eyes shining with something he dare not name, not yet, he felt complete.

Crosshair grabbed hold of your hair and yanked, and you squealed from the pull of his hand and the push of his cock. This much he was sure of: he knew how you liked to be fucked, and he didn’t have it in him to be gentle any longer. And though he wouldn’t last as long as he’d like, no one could accuse him of not being a giving lover.

“Just like that, good girl,” he growled. You whined and writhed, impaled on his cock and unable to even think. “You just lay back, and come for me one more time.”

“Cross…I-I can’t.”

“You can,” he assured you, and his thumb went down to ever so gently move on your clit. “You’ve done it for me before, and you’re going to do it for me again. Scream, bite me if you have to, but you are going to give me one more.”

You wailed, hips thrusting up, frantically trying to match his rhythm. Crosshair released your hair to grab your throat. He leaned in, a hair's breadth away from your ear, and whispered, “That’s it, that’s my good girl.”

You tensed, and he grinned, “You like that? You like knowing you’re mine? That this mouth, these tits, this pussy all belong to me?” He started moving faster, keeping that pressure on your throbbing clit. He bit at your ear, “But remember, mesh’la, just because you’re my girl doesn’t mean I won’t fuck you like the slut we both know you are.”

That did it. Your cunt clenched around him, and you let out an ear-piercing scream. Your release came in strong, crashing waves, wiping your mind of anything else and soaking both of you. Crosshair couldn’t hold out any longer. He buried himself to the hilt and came deep inside you, and you shuddered with the aftershocks, so full and sated Crosshair swore you’d fallen asleep.

He was wrong. You lifted a trembling hand to his face and smiled gently at him, “Thank you, Cross.”

He scoffed, “Nothing to be thankful for. Not like we haven’t done this a hundred times.”

But you shook your head, “We’ve never done this before.” You gestured at the mess you’d made in his bed, at your tangled limbs and the invisible closeness that still existed between you, even after the amazing sex. “Thank you for trying.”

Crosshair felt his strength leave him. He gathered you up, and buried his face in your chest, taking deep, calming breaths, “Don’t let me coast on it.” He murmured. “Don’t cut me any slack. I’m bad at this.”

He heard your giggle from above, “A little unpolished, maybe, but I’ve never seen you fail to excel at something you were determined to accomplish.” You stroked his hair. “We’ll be fine, babe.”

“We need to talk about that nickname.”

“I can think of others,” you teased. “Honey, sweetie, my little tooka-”

He made a gagging noise against your breasts, and you were outright laughing, “Babycakes, darling, love-”

Crosshair knew he’d tensed up at that last one, had let a little gasp escape in his contentment. He blamed the recent orgasm. But you’d heard it, and you stopped laughing.

“Oh…” he heard your voice take on a strange tone, and finally looked up at your face. You looked…shy. Shy and happy. You nodded, “Love, then. I can make that work.”

He felt his ears burning, and he turned his face back into your chest. A sudden possessiveness overtook him, and he gathered you closer, “You can’t…” he mumbled. “You can’t call anyone else that.”

You were quiet for a moment, probably remembering all of the interchangeable nicknames you liked to use with his brothers. Then he felt your hands grab his face - still hiding in your breasts like a coward - and turn it toward your own. You smiled down at him. 

“And that, love, is what we call boyfriend privilege.”

Crosshair gazed at you in amazement, then felt a rare smile break out over his face. He hugged you close, took his time kissing your lips again. He knew, in a moment, he would tell you to stay where you are as he got up and did something he’d never done for you before - clean you up himself. It’s something he would insist on doing from here on out.

Because, he decided, that’s what your boyfriend would do. And, as he was realizing rather quickly, he did not want anyone else to earn that title. 

It was his. And he was yours. 

[rowinablx]

Buckle up, because I’ve had it with the relentless toxicity from a certain subset of Buddie shippers who seem hell-bent on turning a fun fandom into a cesspool of harassment, bitterness, and entitlement—specifically aimed at BuckTommy shippers and Lou. This isn’t about all Buddie fans—many of you are lovely and just want to enjoy your ship in peace—but this is a loud, unhinged call-out to the vocal majority who’ve taken it way too far. You know who you are, and it’s time to sit down and listen.

First off, let’s talk about the sheer audacity of harassing BuckTommy shippers for simply liking a canon pairing. Buck and Tommy’s relationship became a thing in Season 7, and for a lot of us, it was a breath of fresh air—Buck exploring his bisexuality with a guy who’s got charm, depth, and a bit of grit. It’s not perfect, sure, but it’s real, and it’s happening on screen. Meanwhile, Buddie remains a fanon ship—beautifully crafted by fans over years, no doubt, but still not canon. And instead of just enjoying your headcanons, writing your fics, and letting others vibe with what the show’s giving us, some of you have decided that anyone who dares enjoy BuckTommy is a traitor, a fetishizer, or worse. The insults fly—calling us homophobic for liking a queer couple (ironic much?), accusing us of “settling” for a “lesser” ship, or claiming we don’t get the “true” story of Buck and Eddie. Newsflash: shipping isn’t a loyalty oath. People can like what they like without it being a personal attack on your dreams of Buddie domestic bliss. The fact that you’re out here bullying fans for vibing with a different pairing is pathetic—it’s not a competition, it’s a TV show.

But oh no, it doesn’t stop at fandom infighting. You’ve taken it to a whole other level by targeting Lou Ferrigno Jr. himself. This man is just doing his job, playing a character the writers gave him, and yet some of you have made it your mission to tear him apart. Death threats? Harassment on social media? Spreading baseless rumors about him? There’s chatter online about how you’ve bragged about running actresses off the show with your vitriol, and now you’ve got Lou in your crosshairs. What’s the crime here? That Tommy dared to kiss Buck instead of Eddie? That Lou had the gall to show up and act in scenes you didn’t personally approve? It’s unhinged. The guy took a break from social media during the hiatus between Seasons 7 and 8—gee, I wonder why—and instead of reflecting on how your actions might’ve contributed to that, some of you spun wild conspiracies about him being “hacked” by Buddie fans to make him look bad. No evidence, just vibes and a desperate need to villainize anyone who isn’t Ryan Guzman or Oliver Stark. It’s embarrassing.

And let’s not pretend this is about “protecting” the show’s integrity or some noble cause. This is about entitlement. You’ve built up Buddie in your heads for years—seven seasons of subtext, longing looks, and fanfics—and now that the show’s gone a different route with Buck’s arc, you’re throwing a tantrum. Tommy’s not “Eddie 2.0” or a “plot device” because you say so; he’s a character with his own history, flaws, and potential. But instead of engaging with that, you nitpick every line he says—“Oh, he didn’t dress up for the bachelor party!” “He made a daddy joke, how dare he!”—and twist it into proof he’s a terrible partner. Meanwhile, Eddie’s dry sarcasm or questionable dating history gets a free pass because he’s your golden boy. The double standard is glaring. You’re not mad because Tommy’s poorly written (he’s had as much development as most of Buck’s love interests); you’re mad because he’s not Eddie. And instead of coping with that like adults, you lash out at Lou, at BuckTommy fans, at anyone who doesn’t bow to your vision.

The hypocrisy kills me too. You’ll scream about how BuckTommy shippers are “toxic” for defending our corner, but you’re the ones sending hate mail, making call-out posts, and wishing death on a fictional character—and sometimes his actor—just to clear the path for your ship. I’ve seen posts on Twitter where people say they’ve turned against Buddie entirely because of how you’ve treated them for liking BuckTommy. You’re not just hurting your own cause; you’re alienating people who might’ve been neutral or even supportive. And for what? A ship that, as of 2025, still isn’t canon and might never be? The showrunners aren’t caving to your demands—they’ve doubled down on Buck’s journey with Tommy—so maybe it’s time to take a hint and chill.

Here’s the kicker: I get it. Buddie’s got a special spark—years of friendship, trust, and those heart-wrenching moments that make you root for them. I’ve read the fics, I’ve seen the edits, and I used to ship it. But that doesn’t give you a free pass to ruin everyone else’s fun. Multi-shipping exists. Liking BuckTommy doesn’t erase Buddie’s potential, and harassing Lou doesn’t make Eddie confess his love any faster. You’re not “saving” the show by attacking people; you’re poisoning a fandom that used to be about celebrating 9-1-1’s chaos and heart. So how about this: write your stories, make your art, and let the rest of us enjoy ours. Stop acting like you own Buck’s heart—or Lou’s career—and maybe, just maybe, we can all coexist without this endless ship war bullshit. Because right now? Your toxicity’s the real villain here, and it’s getting old.

[darthkote]

Echo Headcanons Pt. 1

Is such a sucker for any type of praise. Of course, all the clones love to hear they're doing well, but for Echo, it's almost a spiritual experience when his actions are highlighted and he gets the spotlight for a second. Even before Skako Minor, he loved hearing positive feedback from those willing to give it. Meeting Rex was like meeting a hero from a kid's story and hearing him say Echo could hold his own was exhilarating. He also remembers making ARC and all the celebrating he and Fives had done afterward. "I knew we'd do it. Thanks for never giving up on me, Ech." The eye-roll he'd given in response couldn't be helped.

After all the torture and isolation, he's much more reluctant to accept, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't make his heart's pace pick up. To this day, he can't help but turn a bit pink when Rex hits him with a "good job" or a particularly knowing look. It makes him feel so proud when he hears his ori'vod congratulate his skills and strategic thinking.

Craves physical connection very intensely. He sometimes feels the flames of jealousy lick at his mind when he watches CF99 all climb into a dog pile after their heavy picnics on Pabu. Each of them, even Omega, will curl into one another until Echo is left to sit alone and study their peaceful expressions. He fights the urge to stare, but he's all too aware of his metallic arm and legs. He wants to crawl closer to his siblings and let himself melt into their heartbeats and breathing; at one time, vod piles had been such a comforting way for him to decompress. But metal doesn't quite belong with flesh, and he has a hard time breaking through the barrier and letting himself be held. He sits quietly for a long while as if hit with several stun blasts. (Crosshair, ever aware, is the last to succumb to sleep and the first to notice Echo's rigidity. He likes to prove Echo wrong by resting his head on his brother's cybernetic lap; flesh or metal, they still see him as their vod.)

Okay okay... Echo got his name because he'd constantly repeat strategies or rules back to his brothers during their time as cadets. I think this would eventually be replaced with him mother-henning and nagging at every brother he gets slightly attached to. "Eat your carrots, Wrecker, Maker knows your eye could use it." (Wreck acquiesces with a grumble... When Echo turns his back to practically force-feed Crosshair a piece of broccoli - his jaw is locked shut like an activated bear trap - Wrecker slips the carrots to Batcher. Tech says nothing because the vitamins in the vegetable are beneficial for most biological organisms; he finishes his helping as he watches in silence. Hunter and Omega dutifully eat away, seeming to compete in silence as they make eye contact over the table.)

Tells Omega stories about Fives. He honors his brother as much as possible; he thinks Omega would enjoy hearing about some of her other brothers. He also talks about Hevy and the other dominoes quite a bit, but none as much as Fives... He knows Fives and Omega would have gotten along well and can imagine the passed-on Clone braiding her hair as it grows over the years.

Is similar to Rex in that he wishes to save as many brothers as possible from the clutches of the Empire. He imagines them all slowly trickling onto Pabu and finding lives there. He sometimes gets caught up in this daydream and is only brought back to reality by a cool teardrop slipping down the ridge of his nose.

[kaminocasey]

A Great View

WARNINGS: TBB S3 SPOILERS. 18+ MINORS DNI; Smut, fresher sex, possessive/jealous Crosshair, fingering, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex between partners (Wrap it up friends), p in v, maybe slight angst?

Summary: Crosshair gets jealous when Howzer flirts with you.

Pairing: Tbb s3!Crosshair x f!reader

WC: 2k

A/N: How GOOD were episodes 6 & 7?! SO GOOD right? I've missed this man so so so much. So excited for next week. When Cross said "Oh, I'm much worse." I couldn't BREATHE. And not to mention, seeing him in his old armor again???? Forever crying over him.

“Did you like the attention Howzer gave you?” Crosshair’s smoky voice is in your ear as he pushes you up against the fresher sink on the way back to Pabu so he can tend to your wounds. 

Normally, this would be your job, tending to the batch’s wounds. And normally, if you had any wounds yourself, Tech would-

“No.” You shake your head.

He lets out a noncommittal grunt, his hand traveling up into your hair to move it out of the way so he can help clean the blood off your forehead. “Is that so?”

Crosshair was right earlier. He is worse than Hunter. But that’s what you love about him. Kriff, you’ve missed him so much…You flinch when he dabs at the cut. 

He pulls his face back some and looks down at you with a raised eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. You’re telling the truth, though.

You tell him, firmly. “I just…”

“What is it? Tell me princess.” He hums, tilting your chin up toward him so he can search your eyes.

You can feel the other clones’ eyes on you as you sit with Omega, Wrecker, and Batcher at your feet. Howzer passes by, smirking. You look up at Crosshair, who’s suddenly more tense, and then look back down at your datapad. A few moments later, Howzer brings you a drink and you thank him. 

“No problem. If you need… anything else… don’t hesitate to come find me.” He winks. 

Oh. Uh oh. 

You look up at Crosshair again, just knowing his eyes are on you at all times. He’s shooting Howzer a glare so hard you think it could usually break a normal person in half. Crosshair walks over to you, leaning against the table, next to you and then tilts your chin up toward him and kisses you so deeply, it makes your insides go warm and fuzzy with need. 

You and Crosshair had been apart for so long, he wasn’t about to let anything get in his way again. When he pulls away, you feel slightly breathless, both yours and Crosshair’s pupils are blown and you think you may need to sneak away. Except Rex breaks up the moment, needing him and Hunter for something. 

Howzer throws Crosshair his own glare and joins them, leaving you warm in the face, thinking about what you’re going to do to him tonight. Wrecker’s laugh snaps you back to reality, so you ignore him, going back to your datapad. 

You look up at Crosshair, the burning need for him returning low in your stomach. 

“I like when you’re jealous. It’s hot.” You smirk up at him as he puts a small bandage over the cut on your forehead.

Crosshair lets out a low chuckle, smirking. “I would say it’s more protective than anything.” 

“Call it what you want, it was hot.” You shrug, running your hands across his stomach, landing on his waist, gripping his shirt. 

He leans in close, his warm breath ghosting over your ear. “Yeah? You like when I let people know what’s mine?” 

You nod. “Yes.”

He hums, kissing your neck and you let out a soft moan at the feel. He lifts you up, sitting you on the sink. This sink is bigger than the one on the Marauder, so there’s more room for him to stand between your legs without feeling cramped. Not that you mind the cramped feeling. 

“You want me to take you right here? Remind you who you belong to?” Crosshair murmurs, squeezing your thighs. 

“Yes, please.” You look up at him, eyes wide with need. 

Crosshair crushes his lips to yours, finally, hands traveling to cup your neck so he can reach you better. A soft moan escapes your lips, traveling right to his, making him smirk. 

The two of you had been together the entire war and then when he chose the Empire over the batch, over you, your heart shattered and you thought you’d never love again. 

And then he got off that freighter with Omega and your heart soared. You belong to him, and he belongs to you. It’s the only thing that’s ever made sense in these dark times. 

You and Crosshair have snuck away every chance you’ve gotten since he’s come home to you, making love, desperately and passionately. So this would come as a surprise to no one, being locked away in the fresher on Echo’s ship. 

He pulls away to help you down off the sink and spins you so you’re facing the mirror. His lips turn up in a soft smirk. 

“I look rough.” You notice.

Your hair is a mess, you’re caked in blood and dirt and desperately need a shower. 

“Doesn’t matter.” He leans down and kisses your shoulder. “You’re still beautiful.”

You roll your eyes with a teasing smile. “If you say so.”

He starts to ease your pants down until they hit the floor, taking your underwear with them. “I do say so.”

And then he places a swift smack to your left cheek, causing you to let out a sharp gasp. 

“Go on. Say it.” His smoky voice fills your ears and you close your eyes, savoring the sound of it as he rubs the spot on your cheek that he smacked.

“I’m beautiful even when I look like I had the shit beat out of me?” You tease.

He chuckles. “Brat.” 

“You love me.” You open your eyes only to meet his own in the mirror.

“I do.” He nods.

It’s a promise.

He lifts your shirt up over your head, unsnapping your binder next, with slightly shaky fingers. You notice when he looks down, frustrated at his hand, so to distract him, you back up against his hardened length, making him groan softly. His hands fly to your hips, pushing you down over the sink. 

“Tell me how bad you want it, princess. Go on.” He urges you, smirking down at your naked form. 

You don’t think there are words to describe how badly you need him to fuck you right now. 

“Fuck…” You whisper. “Please… I need it.” 

“Didn’t tell you to beg. Told you to tell me how bad you want it.” He purrs, sliding two fingers through your already soaked folds. 

“I- I need it.” You whimper. “So bad. Please Cross… I c- I can’t tell you how bad.” 

His fingers find your clit and your back arches up as you moan and his grip on your hip tightens. 

“What would you do if I just got down on my knees instead of fucking you?” He teases.

All you can do is whine. 

“You really want me to fill your pussy that bad, huh?” You can hear him drop to his knees and you whine again.

“Hush.” He whispers. “Let me make you cum and then I promise I’ll fuck you as hard as you want me to. Deal?” 

He knows that his voice alone is enough to make you fold. You’ve never been able to tell the man no. Not to anything. 

“Deal…” You sigh. 

“Thank you.” He places a quick kiss to your rear cheek. 

The moment that you feel his hot tongue against your warmth, you have to put your hand over your mouth so that no one will hear you come apart above your partner. He licks stripe after stripe over your folds, getting you nice and wet for him. Your shaky breaths only spur him on.

Crosshair’s arms snake around your thighs, giving you extra security to keep you held up and you silently thank him. Unable to help yourself, though, you push back against his face, the stubble against his cheeks causing a delicious friction against your inner thighs. 

Having Crosshair on his knees like this reminds you of the first night he was home. The two of you snuck away to the beach almost immediately. Hunter hadn’t been happy about it, but it was worth it. Cross had pushed you up against a rock, kissed you until both of you couldn’t breathe and then he dropped to his knees and ate your pussy for over an hour. You lost track of the amount of times he made you cum that night. 

There hadn’t even been any apologies until after. The need for each other just… outweighed the bad. 

And now, here he is, a couple weeks later and you have a lot of lost time to make up for. 

“Fuck, right there.” You whisper.

He hums against your cunt and then sucks your sensitive clit between his teeth before latching his lips against it, making you smack your free hand against the mirror. He chuckles and pushes a finger into your tight warmth, making you groan against your palm. 

“Yeah? You gonna cum on my face, cyar’ika?” He encourages you, thrusting his finger in and out of you. 

You both know it’s not as good as his cock, but his long slender fingers have always been able to reach into you so perfectly.

“Mmhmmm.” You whine as he curls his finger against the spongy part inside of you, making that familiar warm feeling start to take over. “So good.”

The blinding white hot feeling rips through your body like a volcano, sending you over the edge, dripping down Crosshair’s face. 

He stands up, gripping your hair and pulling back so that you’re forced to watch as he pushes his cock roughly into you, making both of you moan so loudly that he has to place his free hand over your mouth so you’ll be quieter. You don’t mind though because it brings you physically both closer. You make eye contact again in the mirror and he kisses your bare shoulder, thrusting roughly into you.

“Mm.” He sighs. “You know you’re mine, don’t you?”

You nod, mumbling around his hand, answering him.

“And you don’t mind if I make everyone else aware that you’re mine?” He whispers.

You shake your head.

“Good. Fuck… So good to me.” His thrusts become sharper, more purposeful as you clench around his cock.

You know you’re going to feel it later. But it’s alright because you know he’ll take care of you later. 

“Where do you want my cum?” He grits between his teeth.

“Inside.” You mumble through his fingers. 

He buries his face in your neck, biting back a growl the best he can as he empties himself inside of you, painting your walls with himself, just how you love it. Deep and rough. You’re sure to have bruises in the shape of long slender fingers on your hip in the morning, but you don’t mind.

“Shower.” You whisper.

“Shower.” He agrees. “But first…”

He spins you around to face him and kisses you again. This time, more gently, cupping your face so carefully, he almost seems afraid that you could break. His tongue slips past your lips, dancing along yours and you cling to him, wrapping your arms around him. 

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You look up into amber brown eyes, confused.

“For taking me back, even when I didn’t deserve it.” He whispers.

You pull away, staring up into his eyes, your favorite eyes, holding his face so that he looks at you. “Listen to me, Cross… Everything you did… all the mistakes you made… they don’t define you. You have to let go of the past so that we can build our future. Okay?”

You’ve seen how much he’s changed. You see the way he is with Omega. How affectionate he is with Batcher. And more importantly, how he’s apologized to you and promised to be better. You believe him. You believe in him. 

He nods, tears nearing the brim of his eyes, so you kiss him again. 

“Speaking of our future…” You murmur softly, smiling against his lips. “A couple days ago, Shep showed me a house I thought could be perfect for us.” 

“Oh yeah?” He guides you into the shower, starting the water.

“It’s got a great view.” You wiggle your eyebrows.

“Doesn’t every house on Pabu have a ‘great view’?” He raises a dark eyebrow.

“Yeah, but not every house in Pabu has you.” You shrug. For the first time, you think since before he left, he lets out a genuine laugh. It reaches your soul and you know you’ll do anything to hear that laugh for the rest of your life.

TAGS: @rebel-finn @rexandechosandwich @madameminor @dumfanting @corona-one @tecker @ladykatakuri @brynhildrmimi @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @zoeykallus @maulslittlemeowmeow @littlemousedroid @arctrooper69 @rexxdjarin @padawancat97 @hated-by-me @sleepingsun501 @idledreams @redheadgirl @themcuwriter @ashotofspotchka @sunshinesdaydream @crosshairsimp73 @ariadnes-red-thread @rosmariner @heyitsaloy @starstofillmydream @high-ct5555 @echos-girlfriend @sleepywych @nekotaetae @justanothersadperson93 @aconstructofamind @book-of-baba-fett @chopper-base @palliateclaw @501st-rexster @dead-poolz @nahoney22 @where-is-my-mind-tho @jediknightjana @erishimoon @witching3 @queen-of-many-fandoms @wizardofrozz  @burningfieldof-clover @rebelsriley

[floofyroro]

To Be Held in Return

Pairing: Crosshair/Reader

Words: 934 (ficlet)

Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, established relationship on Pabu (post- s3) reader is insecure (the insecurity is for you to decide) and Crosshair shoulders it.

Summary: He knows you're struggling. Crosshair comforts you in his own way.

A/N: This came to me on a whim. Entirely self-indulgent and can be considered a continuation of to be held.

Cold metal presses into the small of your back.

It’s enough that it jars you out of your thoughts, your eyelids fluttering as you glance up at the looming figure beside you.

He says nothing when your gazes connect. The restlessness ebbing in your chest momentarily lapses into a familiar warmth, spreading from your stomach all the way up your cheekbones. 

The sensation is enough that it contrasts starkly against this mood, guilt blooming into this hopeless concoction of self-doubt. Guilt, you begrudgingly realize, because he shouldn’t waste his attention on you right now. Not when he has his own demons to combat.

Durasteel fingers massage gentle circles into your lower back, and you hear him sigh before he looks out over the patio railing. 

“Only I’m allowed to be grumpy,” he finally says, his voice brooking a subtle teasing that most people would interpret incorrectly.

You look down at your hands with a huff, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

You miss the way he eyes your fidgeting fingers as they tug on the hem of your shirt.

“Do you… want to talk?” 

The ocean comes back into view when you crane your head upwards again. It's quiet, a unique kind of silence on Pabu that's only experienced during these late hours.

“Not really,” you say, forcing the words out. “At least, not right now. I have a lot on my mind.” 

He hums in reply, the sound deep and thoughtful. The hand he has on you begins to trail up your spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He reaches the base of your neck and gently digs mechanical fingers into the muscle between your neck and shoulders. Your head dips back at the welcomed affection, your eyes falling closed.

Strong arms wrap around the entirety of your form, bracketing you against his front. The pressure of his embrace feels… grounding.

Safe.

“Is this alright?”

You nod softly, leaning your head against his bicep. A waft of clean laundry and leather, melding with something distinctly him hits your senses, stoking a warmth in your chest.

He moves his head slightly before placing a kiss on your temple. It elicits a sigh from you and his touch lingers, his lips hesitant to break contact. 

It would be so easy to keep these insecurities to yourself. To shed light on them feels far too daunting, especially considering you’re usually unperturbed by such things. If anything, you’re the one comforting Crosshair as he makes leeway with his past, offering a listening ear and comforting touch as he processes.

Maybe he understands that the roles have been reversed. Maybe this is him, offering you the opportunity to lean on him, both proverbially and literally. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, steeling yourself. 

“No, you’re not,” he says, and you feel his smile as he presses his cheek to the side of your head. “I think you just wanted more attention tonight.”

You roll your eyes, the corners of your mouth betraying your amusement by twitching upwards. 

 “Cross…”

“I’m teasing,” he says, squeezing you tighter before loosening his grip. “It’s just weird, you know? You’re normally the… happy one.”

He pauses, seemingly at a loss for words before he lets go of you altogether and you nearly protest, twisting your body around to say as much when he scoops both of your hands into his.

“It feels wrong,” he says, holding your palms to his chest, “I think that was the most I’ve ever talked during dinner. Since when do I yap?” 

You can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of your throat because… he’s not wrong. Usually it’s the other way around, with you talking his ears off while he quietly (and not-so-secretly) enjoys what you have to say.

Your mirth seems to encourage him because Crosshair waits a beat, his mouth twitching into a smirk before he says, “You’ve finally done it. You’ve turned me into a yapper.” 

Tears spring in your eyes because he’s trying his best to make you smile and it’s working. It’s second nature to untangle your hands from his and encompass his torso with your arms, burying your face into his chest. 

Before you know it, the tears start to trail down your cheeks and it becomes harder to breathe steadily. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice muffled by his shirt. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

A hand threads into your hair, brushing strands away from your damp cheeks. 

“It’s okay,” he reassures, his voice soft. “You’ve seen… my bad side, how many times? I’m always waiting for you to realize that I’m no good. That I’m not worth the effort. But... You always listen. You hold me. So I think it’s only fair to hold you in return, too.” 

You think it's the most achingly sweet sentiment he’s ever verbalized. The realization coats your insides with a searing adoration, a heat that builds with each passing second.

You openly cry at that, gripping at him with a newfound ferocity that muscles a chuckle from him. He squeezes you gently before pressing a kiss at the crown of your head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “It’s okay.” 

His reassurance lessens the ache gnawing in your chest. He’s unmoving as he holds you, a pillar for you to lay your troubles upon. Time becomes irrelevant as you will your mind to quiet, a dullness settling in as he draws lazy circles into your skin. 

Tomorrow, you think.

I’ll tell him tomorrow when I have the wherewithal. 

For now, this is enough.

Masterlist

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

hiiii!! absolutely love your crosshair stuff (i’ve been on a crosshair binge since season three started lol) anyways i was hoping you could write something that’s like post-omega and crosshair escaping tantiss and reuniting with hunter and wrecker (end ep 4) with the prompts

11. I promised to love you forever, and that is a promise I intend to keep.

and

16. No matter how much time we’ve spent apart, I never stopped loving you.

like i was thinking crosshair and the reader are married but canon happened so the reader stayed with the bad batch and this would be the first time her and crosshair are seeing each other again since the end of season one at kamino

no rush for any of this btw. thankssss

Hello, hi! Thank you so much for this request. I had something similar going through my mind after the episode aired so was excited to see this drop in!! I hope you enjoy 😊

Never Stopped

When Omega's cryptic message leads to a heartfelt reunion on Ryloth's nearest moon, you didn't expect her to be accompanied by the one man you never thought you'd get to see again.

Pairing: Crosshair x f!reader

Word count: 2k

Warnings: spoilers for S3E04, we love a good reunion, inner turmoil, fluff, comfort, pet names.

“I had help.” Omega’s statement hangs in the air until the light sound of footsteps on metal reaches your ears, and you turn alongside Wrecker to watch as someone steps out of the stolen transport.

No. Not someone.

Him.

For a second, you forget how to breathe, unable to tear your eyes away from the man you never dared hope you’d see again. The last time you’d seen him had been after the fall of Kamino, on that blasted platform in the middle of the ocean. You’d pleaded with him to come with you - to leave the Empire’s clutches - but he’d declined. Your stubborn, infuriating husband.

Maker, you’d missed him.

Before you even know what you’re doing, you’re running, crossing the inky darkness between the two ships, closing the distance between you as Crosshair takes the final step down onto the planet’s surface. He doesn’t have time to protest before your arms are around his neck, hauling him into a crushing embrace. His brothers might be wary, but you aren’t.

Crosshair freezes, caught off guard by your affection. In the short time it had taken you to reach him, he’d braced himself for a slap or to be chewed out. This was…unexpected. You’re warm against him, the softness of your body so familiar, as is the scent of your shampoo. Tentatively, he slides his arms around you in return, pulling you close to suffocate all space between you both, soaking up the feeling of having you back in his arms. “Kitten...”

The whispered term of endearment is all it takes, and a heaving sob leaves you before you can stop it.

Everything since the order was given crashes down on you – the shots he’d fired as you scrambled to escape Kamino, how relentlessly he’d chased you across the galaxy, Kamino falling, the distress message he’d sent to your old comms channel…it had felt never-ending.

But it was over now. 

As you bury your face against his chest, the torrent of emotions overwhelms you. There’s a sense of catharsis, a release from the pent-up anguish that had threatened to suffocate you. The weight of his presence feels like a balm to your wounded soul, and with each sob that racks your body, it’s as if a burden is lifted, allowing you to finally exhale the turmoil that had gripped you for far too long.

He’s here. In one piece. Free from the Empire’s clutches, with Omega in tow.

Hunter and Wrecker’s tension eases slightly as they witness the reunion between you and Crosshair, but they’re not ready to let their guard down just yet. They exchange knowing glances before Hunter clears his throat. “We need to go.” He shouts across the distance, feeling guilty for breaking the moment but knowing that the Empire won’t be far behind.

You pull back slightly, hands still clutching desperately at Crosshair as he meets your gaze. He’s never been one to cry, but unshed tears line those sharp eyes you’ve missed so much. Silently, you swipe away your tears with one hand, the other finding his to guide him towards the Marauder. A blur of motion whips past you, and you startle, but with a click of his tongue, Crosshair stills the creature responsible, and a hound falls into step beside him as you lead him back towards the ship.

It feels too good to be true, too easy. The nervousness Crosshair had felt rolling through him as he’d forced himself down the steps of the transport returns. Fingers interlaced with yours, he can feel the skin-warmed metal of your ring. It’s still there after everything.

He feels nauseous as you cross the darkness towards the ship that had once been his home. He glances at Wrecker as you both pass him and the apprehension on his big brother’s face wavers for just a second before Crosshair looks away, unable to stand it.

Hunter has already ushered Omega inside, the young girl saying hello to Gonky, who beeps happily at her return. Crosshair lets you situate him in one of the back seats in the cockpit as Wrecker comes up the ramp, smacking the button to shut it as Hunter takes Tech’s seat and fires up the engines. 

Tech.

Crosshair swallows, bile rising in his throat. His twin is gone. Omega had brokenly told him what had happened during one of her many visits to his cell. Guilt curls through him - his brother had insisted on the mission to Eriadu and had been keen to find him, which ultimately led to his sacrifice.

Crosshair barely registers the ship setting off or the jump to hyperspace.

A soft squeeze of his hand draws his focus, and his head tilts to look across at you. Your wide eyes, which he adores, look at him with concern and something else he can’t quite put his finger on. Hunter and Wrecker are in the pilot and copilot seats, Omega curled in Hunter’s lap as they catch up while Wrecker pets Batcher.

You can practically see Crosshair’s discomfort, so you lead him out into the belly of the ship, closing the cockpit doors behind you to give the pair of you some privacy. “I thought I’d lost you.” You whisper, your voice barely above a breath as you sit side by side on one of the bunks, bodies tilted towards each other.

“Have to try harder than that.” Crosshair’s answer is quick, and the vice-like grip of dread that had encircled his heart slackens as he hears you laugh - it’s a short and sharp sound, nothing like the melodic giggles he’d grown accustomed to during the war, but it’s something. And Maker, does it feel good.

You’d almost forgotten what it was like to be on the receiving end of his quips, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed. But you spot something missing as you turn his hand over in yours. 

His wedding ring is gone.

“They took it from me.” He’s quick to reassure you, seeing the pained expression on your pretty face. He hadn’t even been able to fight to keep it, having woken up on Tantiss without it. The troopers had quickly silenced him whenever he’d asked about its whereabouts.

Silence settles between you both for a moment, your gaze fixed on this hand - on the vacant spot. “We’ll get you a new one,” you state quietly, lifting your eyes to finally meet his.

Crosshair’s brows furrow in disbelief at your words. After everything he’s done and the pain and betrayal, he can’t fathom why you still want to be married to him. Guilt and shame churn in his gut, threatening to overwhelm him. “Why?” he asks, his voice low and raspy, his gaze searching yours for some semblance of an answer.

You reach out and gently cup his cheek, your touch sending shivers down his spine. “I promised to love you forever, and that’s a promise I intend to keep,” you say simply, your eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that Crosshair can’t comprehend. “Despite everything, I still believe in us - in you. No matter how much time we’ve spent apart, I never stopped loving you.”

A lump forms in Crosshair’s throat as he struggles to process your words. He’d spent so long convincing himself that he was better off paying for his sins in that cell. But here you are, offering forgiveness and understanding. He searches your eyes for any sign of deceit or resentment but finds unwavering sincerity and love.

Crosshair reaches out, hand shaking as his fingers brush your cheek. “Maybe you’ve hit your head too many times, kitten.” Crosshair quips, a hint of his trademark sarcasm slipping through. Despite the gravity of the moment, he can’t resist teasing you. But deep down, he’s grateful for your forgiveness and unwavering love, even if he doesn’t understand it.

You roll your eyes at his remark, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Maybe you just need a few more hits to knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.” You retort, your tone teasing yet filled with affection.

As the playful banter lingers in the air, a moment of quiet settles between you both, the reality of the situation sinking in. Crosshair’s gaze softens, his hand lingering on your cheek as he soaks in your closeness. “I love you too.” He whispers, his voice barely audible above the hum of the ship’s engines. “I never stopped either.”

Your heart swells with relief and happiness, and with a soft smile, you press a gentle kiss to the back of his hand, feeling the slight tremble beneath your lips. “What happened, my heart?” You ask, your voice soft and concerned, brows drawn down as you watch how he shakes.

Crosshair hesitates for a moment. “They did…things. Some I remember. Some I don’t.” He answers vaguely.

You’re familiar with this game. He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to talk about it. And while you know he'll need to one day, today’s not that day. Respecting his unspoken plea not to delve deeper into the horrors he endured, you gently squeeze his hand, offering him a reassuring smile. “We don’t have to talk about it now.” You murmur softly. “But we need to get you out of those awful clothes.” You change the subject, wrinkling your nose. “Handsome you may be, but this is not working.” You make a vague gesture at his outfit.

Crosshair chuckles softly at your remark, the memories chased away for the time being by your attempt to lighten the mood. “I’ll have you know; I make anything look good,” he retorts with a smirk. “But I suppose some fresh clothes wouldn’t hurt.”

You nod in agreement, grateful for the ease with which the two of you fall back into rhythm. “Exactly, and I’m sure I can find something more comfortable for you.” You reply, standing up and glancing around the small quarters of the ship.

As you start to pull crates out from the nearby storage racks, Crosshair watches you with a slight smile, admiring the familiar sight of you in motion. “You always know just how to take care of me,” he remarks, his voice low and warm, a tone saved just for you.

You shoot him a playful smile over your shoulder. “Someone has to.” You quip back, pulling out the crate you’d been looking for.

His kit crate. You still had his kit crate, with all your doodles on the outside – his name in Aurebesh, the squad’s symbol, a copy of his tattoo, and ever so slightly wonky hearts that he’d made a show of grumbling about but secretly loved.

Crosshair’s surprise is evident as he watches you retrieve a clean undersuit from the crate. He’d assumed its contents would be long gone - tossed aside, sold, or scrapped. The fact that you kept all his armour, along with his bucket, fills him with a strange mix of emotions. “Didn’t think you’d keep it,” Crosshair finally manages to say.

Before you can respond, footsteps interrupt the moment, drawing your attention towards the source. Hunter steps out from the cockpit – even with the door shut, he can still hear everything. His eyes meet Crosshair’s, and while he knows there’s a lot for them to talk about and work through, and he’s still not entirely sure he fully trusts his baby brother, he wants to offer him some reassurance. It’s the least he can do. “We were never going to get rid of it,” Hunter says, his voice firm yet gentle. “You’re still one of us.”

Crosshair finds himself at a loss for words. Emotions swirl within him, a tumultuous mix of gratitude and guilt. As Hunter’s words sink in, his gaze flickers back to you. Despite the doubts and fears that linger in his mind, one thing is certain: he’s home.

With a small smile, you offer the clean undersuit to your husband. “Here,” you say softly, your voice laced with affection. “Let’s get you changed.”

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @starrylothcat @cw80831 @issa-me-bry-blog @leftealeaf @isaidonyourknees @padawancat97 @dangraccoon @jedi-hawkins @dreamie411 @sverdgeir

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[aynavaano]

Babygirl

Kinktober ‘24 - domination/choking/overstimulation

Crosshair × F!reader

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 3.5k whoops this was meant to be short

Summary: You're in a relationship with Crosshair and sometimes you like it a little bit risky. When you’re out at 79’s with the squad the evening ends earlier than anticipated.

Notes: This is one of a few shorter fics I wrote for Kinktober. If you have any special kink and clone you would love to see, my request are open. This one is absolutely self indulgent and I have no excuse. I was giggling when I wrote the tag list, this was supposed to be short but what can I say, I have a soft spot for dom!Crosshair. Tags: Established relationship (important, don’t do stuff like that with people you don’t know), Semi-public unprotected sex, fully clothed (armored) male, almost naked female, spitting, slight choking, overstimulation, orgasm so good you start crying, subspace, brief mention of going non-verbal but lots of aftercare too, Hunter doesn’t like his little brothers escapades

The neon lights of 79's flickered as you leaned against the bar, the room buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversations.

Tech had stayed on the Marauder like most nights, spending his time tinkering with modifications on the ship and enjoying the silence when everyone was gone. Wrecker was on the dancefloor easy to spot as always, towering all the other clones and Hunter and Echo had ventured towards the back of the room to secure a booth for the squad before it got too crowded.

But your attention wasn't on the lively atmosphere around you - it was fixed entirely on the man sitting beside you. Crosshair, in his usual armor, minus the helmet, was lounging back with his characteristic smirk, a glass of amber whiskey swirling in his hand.

He hadn't said much since you had sat down together, but his presence and his hand resting on your thigh was all you needed to make your pulse quicken. There was something about him, the confidence, the sharp edge to everything he did, that had always drawn you in.

Over time, you had come to understand the language of his quiet affection—the subtle gestures that spoke volumes. You’d spent countless nights wrapped up in his arms, and still, every glance, every small touch, set off sparks that made your stomach flip. There was something addictive about how easily he could make you melt, even after so long and you’ve never felt so safe with someone like with him.

Your eyes flicked to the glass in his hand.

"What does it taste like?" you asked.

Crosshair's eyes slid toward you, and for a moment, he didn't respond. He simply took a slow sip of the whiskey, his lips curling around the rim of the glass as he drank. When he finally set the glass down, his smirk widened, clearly enjoying the game.

"Want to find out?"

You nodded, swallowing as his sharp gaze pinned you in place.

Crosshair stood slowly, his glass in hand, and stopped just inches in front of you. You could feel the soft brush of his breath on your skin, he loomed over you, his dark eyes locking onto yours, the sudden closeness making your pulse race.

"Open your mouth," he ordered, his voice low and commanding, his lips brushing your ear. There was no room for argument and the way he looked at you made you feel fuzzy.

Your breath caught, but you obeyed, parting your lips for him and slightly sticking your tongue out. Without breaking eye contact, Crosshair took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the liquid sit on his tongue before leaning in closer. The anticipation made your pulse pound in your ears as he tilted your chin up slightly with his free hand.

Then, he let the whiskey drip from his lips into your open mouth.

The sensation of the warm liquid, the slight burn of the whiskey mixed with something undeniably him, sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could react, his lips were on yours, his tongue pushing the whiskey deeper into your mouth as he kissed you. The kiss was rough, demanding, and it made your entire body heat up. You whimpered against him, your hands instinctively reaching for his chest plate, trying to find something to hold on to.

When he finally pulled back, his lips hovering just inches from yours, you were breathless.

"You like it?" he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement as his thumb swiped across your bottom lip.

"Yeah," you breathed, your head spinning from the mix of the whiskey and the taste of him.

"Good," he said simply, his eyes darkening with lust that mirrored your own.

"You want more?" he whispered low and raspy letting his hand drop to your neck.

You could tell by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t talking about the whiskey.

You felt your pulse pound beneath his fingertips, each second stretching longer as the air between you thickened.

"You know that I always want more," you whispered, trying to hold your voice steady despite the fluttering inside you.

His grip on your neck tightened just enough to make you feel a bit lightheaded, and his smirk widened, dark and possessive.

“And you know that I can never deny you anything,” he rasped.

Before you knew it, Crosshair's hand was on your wrist, pulling you off the barstool and guiding you through the crowded bar with a single purpose in his stride. You didn't ask where he was taking you, it wasn’t the first time you snuck out to fuck somewhere and your body was already responding to the low, steady burn of arousal that had settled deep in your core.

He led you outside into a dark alley behind 79's, the sounds of the bar fading into the background as the cool night air hit your skin. The alley was dimly lit, tucked away from prying eyes, and the moment you were far enough from the crowd, Crosshair pushed you up against the brick wall, his body pressing close against yours.

The cold, hard edges of his armor dug into your skin, but it only added to the thrill, making your heart race even faster. He slipped the straps of your top over your shoulders exposing your chest, your nipples hardened immediately in the cold air.

“So beautiful” he whispered letting his thumbs brush over your tits.

Then his hands slid down your sides, rough and unyielding as they found the hem of your skirt.

With a swift, deliberate motion, he bunched the fabric up around your waist, exposing your legs to the cool air.

"Crosshair," you whispered, your voice a mix of need and anticipation.

He didn't say a word, his fingers hooking into the front of your panties, pushing them aside and sliding through your folds without a warning.

The sudden touch made you gasp, your back arching against the wall as you felt the heat of him between your thighs.

“Mesh’la, you’re soaked and I’ve barely touched you” he rasped hooking and arm under your knee, pinning it against the wall and spreading you open.

You squirmed in his grasp when he began circling your clit and gave it a soft experimental pinch.

"Don't move," he ordered, his voice low and rough as his lips grazed the shell of your ear. The command sent a wave of heat through you, and you nodded, gripping the edges of his chest plate for support.

With one quick motion, Crosshair removed his codpiece and freed his cock, the thick length of him hard and ready as he pressed it against your slick entrance. You barely had time to register the feeling before he thrust into you, hard and fast, burying himself deep inside.

A sharp cry escaped your lips at the sudden fullness, the pressure of his cock combined with the hard edges of his armor pressing into your soft skin was overwhelming. Every inch of him stretched you in the best possible way, and the hard plastoid biting into your sensitive inner thighs only heightened the intensity.

"Fuck," he growled, his voice low and strained as he started to move, his hips snapping against yours with each thrust. "You're so tight.”

The words, his breath hot against your neck, made you moan as your body responded to every movement, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. You clenched around him, your hands gripping his armor tighter as you gasped for air.

"You like that, don't you?" Crosshair rasped, his voice barely above a whisper as he continued to fuck you, each thrust harder than the last.

"You like being fucked like this, against a wall where anyone can see how good I make you feel."

His words were filthy, but they only made you want him more. You nodded frantically, unable to form a coherent sentence as the pleasure built in your core.

“Use your words babygirl”

"Yes," you finally managed to gasp, your voice breathless and desperate.

"Good," he growled, his hand slipping down to grip your ass, pulling you even closer to him.

The rhythm of his thrusts grew faster, harder, each one hitting deeper inside you, sending you spiraling closer and closer to the edge. The sensation of his cock filling you, the hard edges of his armor pressing against your skin, the raw, primal need in his voice - it was all too much.

You were close, so close, your body trembling as you clung to him, your hands hurting from how hard you were gripping his chestplate. His hand came up cupping your jaw and you eagerly parted your lips letting him slip two fingers into your mouth.

"Come for me," he growled in your ear, his voice commanding and rough. "I want to feel you come around my cock."

The words sent you over the edge. Your orgasm ripped through you, your body convulsing as the pleasure crashed over you in waves. Your walls clenched tight around him, squeezing every inch of his cock as he groaned low in his throat.

Before your cries could grow too loud, Crosshair's mouth was on yours again, kissing you hard, his tongue sliding against yours as he swallowed your moans. His other hand stayed firm on your hip, holding you in place as he continued to fuck you through your release, his pace relentless.

For a few moments, the only sounds in the alley was your combined heavy breathing and the slapping of his armor against your skin, your bodies pressed tightly together, Crosshair's lips left yours, his forehead resting against yours.

“You want me to fill you up, make a mess of you?"

You nodded frantically unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Then be a good girl and come for me again” he whispered softly biting your lower lip.

“I…I can’t”

“Yes, you can.”

You immediately started to squirm and whimper when his fingers made contact with your oversensitive clit and his other hand came up to wrap around your throat.

“Cross…no”

“Safeword?”

You shook your head.

“Good.” he growled.

Crosshairs grip on your throat tightened just a bit, the hard plastoid of his vambrace pressing against your overheated skin as his fingers worked between your legs, relentless and precise, his cock still buried to the hilt.

The sound of your ragged breathing echoed in the alley, drowned only by the occasional muffled noise from the club when the doors swung open. You were already so sensitive, your first orgasm having left you shaking, but he wasn't done.

He never was until he had pulled every last ounce of pleasure from you.

He growled against your ear, his hot breath a sharp contrast to the cool night air. His voice was dark and commanding, a tone that left no room for protest.

"You'll come again for me. I want to feel you."

His thumb pressed down on your clit, drawing tight circles that sent white-hot shocks of pleasure straight through your core. You moaned, sliding your arms around his neck for support as the wave of heat began building again, higher and more intense than before. Your body trembled, overwhelmed by sensation, and you couldn't hold back the desperate whimpers spilling from your lips.

"I can feel how close you are. Don't fight it, mesh'la. Let go." he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Your head lolled back against the wall, and you tried to ground yourself, but Crosshair was relentless. His fingers moved faster, harder, and the world around you started to blur. The pleasure was too much, too sharp, and your body began to float, losing all sense of time and space as the sensations overtook you.

His grip on your throat tightened just enough to remind you that he was there, in control, guiding you through it. You tried to push against the intensity, your legs shaking, but Crosshair didn't let up.

"That's it," he cooed, pulling out almost completely an thrusting back in hard, hitting deeper than before.

"You're doing so well for me."

A soft whimper escaped your lips as his fingers worked faster, your body betraying you as the overwhelming pressure built up inside you again. The pleasure was blinding, almost too much, but Crosshair knew exactly how to push you past your limits.

"That's my girl. Come for me," he rasped, his voice pulling you under completely, the pressure of his cock against your cervix and his thumb pressing against your clit, just right, sending you over the edge and the world went white.

You came with a shattered moan, your body convulsing so hard you would have collapsed if he hadn't been holding you up and tears pricked the corners of your eyes as the pleasure ripped through you so intensely it felt like you might break. You gasped for breath, your body a shaking, overstimulated mess as the tears started falling.

The orgasm seemed to last forever, waves of pleasure rolling through you as you drifted, weightless, completely submerged in the intense euphoria.

For a moment, everything was hazy, the world around you distant, muffled by the overwhelming pleasure. Your body felt light, like you were floating somewhere far away, lost in the aftershocks of your release.

You barely registered the soft groan Crosshair let out as he came with you, his body shuddering as he pressed into you one final time, your still clenching pussy milking him for every last drop. You weren’t responsive for a few moments and didn’t notice he was talking to you, then, slowly, you began to come back to yourself. His strong arms were still holding you up, his chest rising and falling against you. His grip on your throat loosened, replaced by the gentle touch of his fingers on your jaw, guiding your face to his.

"Shh, l've got you," he murmured softly, his voice a gentle contrast to the harshness of before. His lips brushed against your temple, his breath warm and reassuring.

"You're safe. I'm here."

You blinked, still dazed, as he kissed away the tears you hadn't realized were still falling. His hands cradled your face, soft and tender now, as he pressed kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips.

"You did so well for me," he whispered, his voice thick with praise. "So perfect."

Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks of pleasure making your limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated, but Crosshair was there, steady and unwavering.

He pulled you into his chest, holding you close, his arms wrapping around you protectively. He rocked you gently, his chin resting on the top of your head as he whispered soft reassurances.

"You're okay," he said softly, his voice grounding you, pulling you back from the floaty haze you had drifted into.

"I've got you, mesh'la. Just breathe for me.”

You buried your face in his neck, inhaling his familiar scent as you slowly came back down, your mind still foggy but beginning to clear. His hand moved up and down your back in soothing strokes, his other hand brushing through your hair as he slowly and carefully pulled out of you.

You felt his spend trickling down your legs and the feeling made you shudder but after a while, your breathing steadied, the weight of reality slowly settling back in as you clung to him. He quickly tugged himself into his blacks, securing his codpiece back in place before he pulled you back against his chest again.

Crosshair didn't rush you, just held you close, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your hairline, his hands never stopping their soft caresses.

"Crosshair..." you whispered, your voice barely audible, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, his sharp features softened with concern.

"I'm right here," he said, his thumb brushing away the last of the tears that had gathered in the corners of your eyes. "You with me?"

His other hand gently cupped your face, guiding you to meet his gaze.

You blinked, still hazy but slowly coming out of the fog.

"Yeah... I'm here."

You nodded weakly, still feeling the warmth of his arms around you, his presence calming the last of the aftershocks. He smiled, a rare, genuine smile that made your heart swell.

"There's my girl," he said softly, and the tenderness in his voice nearly undid you all over again. He kissed you then, slow and sweet, his lips lingering against yours.

"You did so well, mesh'la. So good for me." His eyes searched yours, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Didn't mean to push you that far, out here," he admitted softly.

He pulled you tighter against his chest, holding you like you were the most important thing in the galaxy.

You leaned into him, nuzzling into his neck, feeling the warmth of his chest and the steady beat of his heart under your cheek. His scent was grounding and he held you like that for a while, not saying a word, just keeping you close, letting you find your footing again. Every time you shifted or trembled, he would murmur soft reassurances, his hands never leaving your skin.

When you finally felt steady again, you pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a small, tired smile.

Crosshair's eyes were soft, and he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as if he couldn't bear to let you go.

"I love you, mesh'la." he whispered, his hand cupping your cheek.

“Love you too Cross”

He gently pulled away from you, giving you one last soft kiss on the lips before he reached into one of the pockets of his belt. He pulled out a small cloth, using it to carefully clean you up, his touch still gentle and attentive. His fingers brushed your thighs, your skin still sensitive from the intense pleasure, but he was nothing but tender, making sure you were comfortable.

"Didn't mean to end our night out like this," he murmured apologetically as he wiped away the mess between your legs. "But I think it's better we head back to the Marauder. Don't want to take you back into 79's like this."

You gave him a small, tired smile.

"It's okay. I wanted it. But you’re right, I would prefer a cozy blanket and some cuddles over 79’s"

"Let's get you home," he said, his voice firm but soft as he helped you adjust your clothes.

Once everything was back in place, he reached for his comm and activated the link to Hunter.

It didn't take long before Hunter's voice came through, crackling with the background noise of the bar.

"Crosshair, where are you two? What's going on? We’ve been waiting for you."

Crosshair hesitated for a split second, glancing down at you in his arm. His worry was still there, but he tried to keep his tone calm.

"We're outside, we’re heading back to the Marauder.”

Hunter's voice grew a little sharper.

"Karkin’ hell Crosshair, what did you do?"

Crosshair let out a soft huff, but it wasn't his usual cocky attitude. He was still holding you, his hand stroking your arm soothingly.

"Everything is fine. Just... need to take care of her. I'm bringing her back home."

There was a pause on the other end before Hunter's voice came back, more insistent this time.

"You better let me hear that from her."

Crosshair glanced at you, his thumb brushing over your cheek reassuringly. You leaned closer to the comm, your voice still a little soft but steady.

"I'm okay, Hunter. I just... I need some rest. Crosshair is taking good care of me."

Hunter sighed, but he sounded satisfied.

"All right then. See you later, we’ll bring some food for you."

“Thank you Hunter.”

With the comm off, Crosshair turned his attention fully back to you. He gently brushed his fingers through your hair again, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Think you can walk?"

You nodded and tried to stand on your own, but your legs were wobbly beneath you, after a few small steps they gave in.

Crosshair caught you, holding you tightly against his chest and before you could protest he was back on the com.

“Tech…” the com crackled.

“Yes?”

“No questions, just pick us up outside 79’s”

“Affirmative. Hunter already let me know you’d be coming back. I think I don’t even want to know what you did this time. I”ll be there in 5 minutes.”

You giggled glancing up at Crosshair who was smiling too.

He gave you a soft kiss filled with all the love he held for you.

“Hot shower and cuddles?” he asked scooping you up to carry you to the pickup point.

“Sounds good” you sighed happily and still a bit floaty.

No one has ever made you feel the way he did.

[thewulf]

Breaking Point || Simon "Ghost" Riley

Summary: Request -I've got this itch for some hurt/comfort with Simon Ghost Riley and the reader from TF 141. Reader's this badass sniper, always on top of her game. But one day she wakes up feeling under the weather. She decides to push through training, but things take a turn when she starts feeling faint during drills after Price gives her shit for not training hard... Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh this was challenging but so much fun to right. Please let me know your thoughts below :) Got a little carried away with this one!

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader, TF 141 x Platonic Female Reader

Word Count: 7.7k +

TW: Heat Stroke, Flu, Illness, general COD warnings.

Four years ago, you were a part of a special training assignment with the American Navy, deployed in a remote and sweltering military base off the coast of Africa. It was here in the middle of the grueling drills and relentless heat that you caught the eye of Captain John Price. Your prowess with a rifle was unmistakable. Every target set before you fell without fail. But what truly set you apart was your demeanor: you kept your head down, focused intensely on the task at hand, never boasting about your undeniable skills.

Captain Price who was always on the lookout for exceptional talent to add to Task Force 141, saw in you a rare combination of humility and sharpshooting expertise. Recognizing your potential he pulled some strings, navigated through the complexities of the American Military bureaucracy, and somehow successfully recruited you into the prestigious ranks of TF 141. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. One that would challenge your resilience and skill more than any previous assignment.

Joining TF 141 wasn't just a promotion. It was being welcomed into a family of elite soldiers. While Soap and Gaz took an immediate liking to you, appreciating your wit and marksmanship, Ghost was initially more reserved. His trust was not easily won. It had to be earned on the battlefield not just through training exercises back at base.

Your defining moment came during a perilous mission in the frozen expanses of Russia within your first year with the 141. The mission had quickly gone sideways. Ghost found himself in the deadly crosshairs of an enemy sniper. With the situation deteriorating rapidly and no clear shot available to him your actions in those critical seconds would forever change the dynamics of your relationship with Ghost. From a concealed position you took out the opposing sniper with a single, precise shot, saving Ghost’s life.

This act erased any last reservations Ghost might have held. From then on he saw you not just as another sharpshooter but as an indispensable member of the team, his team. Your ability to make life-saving decisions under intense pressure proved your strength. Not just in terms of physical prowess but in intellectual and tactical acumen as well.

Since then you have become an integral part of TF 141's operations. Your journey from a promising recruit noticed by Captain Price to a pivotal player in some of the team’s most critical missions has been defined by relentless dedication and the deep trust you've earned from some of the military's toughest warriors.

The shrill beep of the alarm slices through the stillness of your room dragging you from the shallow waters of restless sleep into the harsh reality of dawn. For a moment as you blink against the dim light filtering through the barracks' curtains, the room spins slightly—a disorienting dance that forces you to close your eyes again.

You’ve always been the type who never gets sick. The one who breezes through the cold season unscathed while others succumb around you. Your robust health has been a point of pride, a badge of reliability in TF 141. But this morning something is different, and you know it immediately.

Your body aches profoundly, each muscle groaning with a weariness that feels bone-deep, and your head pounds with the relentless rhythm of a dull, throbbing drum. Swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down your throat. An unfortunate wave of nausea rolls through you as you sit up. It has to be the flu, you think grimly, recognizing the unmistakable and unforgiving symptoms.

Despite the clear signs of illness, the thought of calling in sick doesn’t even cross your mind. It’s not just about pride. There’s also a deep-seated belief that you can handle anything, a belief that has carried you through countless challenges.

With a heavy, determined sigh, you push yourself off the bed. Standing unsteadily for a moment, you use the wall to keep yourself upright. Today is not the day to show weakness, not the day to break your perfect record of health. You decide to power through. To dress and join your team for the morning drills under the rising sun. The thought of letting them down by your absence is more daunting than the physical discomfort threatening to overwhelm you.As you gear up, each movement measured and more deliberate than usual, you steel yourself for the day ahead. Today, you'll prove—not just to your team, but to yourself—that not even the flu can keep you from standing alongside your comrades.

Stepping out into the cool, pre-dawn air, you allow yourself a moment to feel the chill against your fevered skin. It’s oddly refreshing, a natural contrast to the unnatural heat of your illness. It’s bound to be short lived though as the sun’s rays already feel warm on your skin. The training field is a short walk away and with each step you rehearse the day’s routine in your mind. A mantra against the physical discomfort.

As the briefing wraps up and the team begins to disperse to their respective training stations you feel the weight of Ghost’s gaze right on you. Despite the heaviness of your limbs and the fog in your brain, this unspoken solidarity from your teammates, especially Ghost, gives you a sliver of strength.

With each step towards the day’s first drill your resolve hardens. You're not just fighting the flu; you're fighting to maintain the trust and respect you’ve earned. Today, the battlefield is here, within yourself, and you're determined to prove your mettle. You are keenly aware of being one of the few women in the unit and the additional scrutiny that comes with it. It's crucial that you show no weakness even as your body wages its quiet rebellion. Your head pounds with a relentless ache. Your limbs are heavy. And every breath feels like an effort. Despite these symptoms screaming flu, you've chosen silence—no complaints, no excuses.

When you arrive at the training field the usual bustle of activity sharply contrasts with your internal struggle. Everyone is focused on what needs to be done, their attention solely on performance. As Captain Price begins the morning briefing his voice sounds like a distant echo in your ears drowned out by the pounding in your head. The day's challenges loom large, testing your limits before you've even started.

As you make your way to the lineup, the crisp morning air begins to turn warm, almost uncomfortable warm already. Soap falls into step beside you, his familiar grin lighting up his face as he launches into the light-hearted banter that typically marks your mornings together.

“Morning! Ready to outshoot us all again today?” Soap teases before giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow, expecting your usual lively retort.

You manage only a weak smile, one that doesn't quite reach your eyes, and nod faintly. The flu has buried your usual quick wit under a heavy weight of fatigue and discomfort. It takes all your effort just to keep standing without revealing how much you're struggling.

Soap’s smile quickly falters at your lack of reply, his eyes narrowing in concern. “You okay, lass?” he asks. His tone shifting to something more serious.

You nod again, swallowing hard against the surge of nausea. “Yeah, just tired,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. You're careful not to reveal the full extent of your ailment, not here, not in front of your team.

From a short distance away Ghost's intense gaze follows the exchange. Though his presence is more subdued, and his demeanor reserved, his attention to detail remains sharp. You can feel his concern even without words. His posture is alert, his body tensed as if ready to act at a moment's notice.

Ghost offers no overt gestures of worry; he doesn't need to. The slight tightening of his stance is a silent signal of his readiness to intervene. His eyes, just visible through the slits of his mask, never wander, tracking your every move with a vigilance that speaks volumes. You know he's always watching out for his team, and today, his protective focus is unmistakably fixed on you.

"Alright, let's warm up! Start with sprints!" Captain Price commands. His voice cuts through the morning air, decisive and clear. You line up with your teammates, the grass cool and slightly damp under your boots. The whistle pierces the calm, and you propel yourself forward. Each step is a battle, your muscles protesting every movement. Yet you push through the fatigue and dizziness.

After sprints the drills shift to push-ups. Down on the warm, wet grass you feel the earth against your palms, stabilizing yet unforgiving. You count each repetition, your muscles burning and a thin layer of sweat forming, which only seems to heighten the chills that intermittently rack your body.

Sit-ups come next and with each crunch a wave of nausea threatens your composure. The world tilts slightly with each lift, blurring at the edges. Captain Price’s footsteps approach. His presence looming. "Let’s see that strength, Y/N! Don’t slack now!" he urges. The encouragement is meant to inspire but it feels like a heavy mantle on your already burdened shoulders.

“Yes sir.” You manage to get out between crunches.

As you struggle through each exercise you can't ignore the hot flashes followed by chills, the hallmark of flu symptoms. Each movement is more taxing than the last and the temptation to give in and rest grows stronger. However, your determination doesn't waver. You are here to prove yourself, to demonstrate that neither flu nor fatigue can break your resolve. You need to showcase the unwavering strength of not just a skilled sniper, but a resilient soldier.

As the whistle blows, Captain Price directs everyone to break into their respective teams for more specialized, team-based drills. You find yourself grouped with Ghost, Gaz, and Soap. Your usual teammates and three of the unit's most competent operatives. Your heart sinks a bit. Their proficiency and teamwork are unmatched and under normal circumstances you would feel invigorated by the challenge. Today, however, it feels like an uphill battle.

"Alright, team," Gaz announces with a nod, "we’re up for the relay sprints and tactical positioning exercises. We need to be sharp and synchronized. Let's show these assholes how it's done."

You nod silently, attempting to muster a semblance of enthusiasm. Soap claps you on the shoulder giving you a reassuring smile, likely mistaking your subdued quietness for focused determination rather than the fatigue that’s slowly overtaking you.

The drills begin with relay sprints. You watch as Soap takes off with his usual speed. His figure swiftly cutting through the warming afternoon air. Gaz follows, moving with practiced ease. Then it’s your turn. As you push off your legs feel as though they are wading through molasses, your usually sharp agility significantly dulled by the flu’s tenacious grip. Each step feels heavier than the last as your breathing becomes ragged and unsteady.

Compounding your discomfort, the gear you're clad in feels unbearably hot against your skin. The layers that are usually a second nature in your fieldwork now seem like a furnace, trapping in every ounce of body heat. Your temperature rises not just from the fever, but also from the exhaustive exertion and the insulated heat from your tactical vest. Sweat beads on your forehead, not entirely from the physical activity but also from the early signs of heat exhaustion—your body’s desperate attempt to cool down under the layers.

Despite feeling increasingly overheated and nearly overwhelmed, you hide your discomfort well. Your face remains stoic, betraying none of the battle raging within your body against the heat and illness. To an outsider you might just appear intensely focused. But beneath the surface you're fighting a much tougher battle, trying to keep pace while your body screams for relief.

Ghost, from his vantage point, watches closely. His sharp eyes catch the subtle signs that others might miss—the slight falter in your step, the way you're breathing a little too hard after your sprint. His gaze intensifies with concern etched across his face as he monitors your every move, aware that something isn’t right but waiting for you to signal if you need assistance.

When you pass the baton to Ghost your hand trembles slightly. He catches it and for a brief moment your eyes meet. There's a flash of concern across his usually impassive face, a subtle shift that speaks volumes. He nods at you before taking off, his movements fluid and precise, yet his mind clearly not fully on the drill. His glance back at you is quick, discreet, checking to ensure you’re still on your feet.

As the exercises continue with the tactical positioning drills, the demands increase. This part of the training requires quick movements and even quicker thinking as each team member needs to cover different angles and work together seamlessly. You position yourself to cover Ghost’s flank, aiming to maintain your usual high standards. However, the world begins to tilt alarmingly. Your vision swims and the ground beneath you feels as if it’s shifting forcing you to steady yourself against a nearby tree.

Ghost, now at a slight distance, turns sharply in response to your stagger. His eyes narrow, not with disapproval, but with intensified concern. He makes a subtle move to close the distance between you, his instincts as a protector kicking in. Yet, he stops himself, respecting your pride and your ability to signal if you need help. He positions himself strategically, so he’s close enough to intervene quickly if needed. His body tensed and ready to act.

“Y/N, you alright?” Gaz’s voice suddenly cuts through your fog of discomfort, and you realize you’ve attracted more attention than you intended.

You straighten up quickly, nodding more sharply than necessary. “Just lost my footing for a second,” you lie. Managing a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Ghost, who has now subtly shifted his position to provide you with both physical and moral support, keeps his gaze fixed on you for a moment longer. He doesn’t call you out on your obvious discomfort. Instead, he gives you a nod, an unspoken communication between you two. It’s his way of saying he’s there, just in case, without putting you on the spot in front of the others.

His presence helps you gather your strength to continue. Despite the unease churning inside you knowing that Ghost is watching over you with such attentiveness gives you a small, but significant boost of confidence. You focus on the drills, pushing through the nausea and instability, bolstered by the knowledge that help is just a few steps away if you truly need it.

You begin to feel the oppressive heat bearing down on you more intensely than before. Each breath feels like you're inhaling fire. And the tactical gear, usually a familiar weight, now feels like an unbearable burden. Trapping too much heat against your body. More and more sweat beads on your forehead mixing with the slight dizziness that refuses to fade. The discomfort is escalating and despite your best efforts to mask it the heat is becoming unmanageable.

Ghost was still maintaining a discreet distance, watches you with sharp, observant eyes. He senses the subtle changes in your posture and the slight grimace that you can't quite hide each time you move. His concern deepens but he waits for a sign from you, respecting your pride and your position within the team.

As the drills continue you find it increasingly difficult to focus. The world seems to shimmer with heat around the edges and you feel a wave of nausea stronger than before. Recognizing that you might be in more trouble than you initially thought you catch Ghost's gaze across the field. It's a silent plea for understanding, a subtle acknowledgment that you do need his help after all.

Ghost responds immediately, his instincts as your LT kicking into high gear. He crosses the distance between you with a few quick strides. His approach discreet yet filled with purpose. “Everything okay?” he asks quietly. His voice low enough that only you can hear. It’s clear he’s prepared to step in, to offer whatever support you need without drawing unwanted attention to your struggle.

Your attempt to respond is less than reassuring. "Heat… too, it’s not the... can't—why can’t the air?" you mumble. Your words tangling into an unintelligible mess, a clear indicator that you are far from alright.

The expression behind Ghost's mask tightens, his protective instincts flaring as he assesses your condition with even greater alarm. Your face is flushed from more than just the heat. It's clear you're struggling significantly under the weight of your gear and the relentless sun.

At that moment Captain Price's voice cuts sharply through the air, his tone laced with the urgency of the drill. "Let's move it, Ghost, Y/N!" he commands from a distance, seemingly oblivious to the severity of your distress. His focus is on the continuity and discipline of the training. Unaware that one of his own is teetering on the edge of collapse.

Ghost’s response is swift and decisive. Without drawing attention to the situation, he steadies you with one arm, his other hand signaling subtly to Captain Price that something isn’t right. "Give us a moment, sir," he calls back firmly, his tone respectful yet insistent enough to convey the seriousness of the issue without alarming the entire unit.

He turns back to you, his gaze intense. "We need to get you out of the sun," he states quietly, directing you towards a shaded area nearby. His hand remains supportively on your back, guiding but not pushing. His presence a steady force as you stagger slightly under your own weight.

Once under the shade, Ghost helps you remove your tactical vest, easing the burden of the heat trapped against your body. The cooler air hits your skin, offering a momentary relief that you hadn't realized you needed so desperately. But as your body starts to cool an unexpected shiver runs through you, violent and uncontrollable. It feels as though the temperature has plummeted, though the day remains swelteringly hot.

"Ghost," you stutter out between shivers, "it's so cold." Your teeth chatter, a stark contrast to the sweat that still beads on your forehead. The sudden coldness is disorienting, confusing, and you clutch at your arms in an attempt to warm yourself.

"Simon," you manage to say between shivers. His actual name slipping out amidst the confusion—an unusual slip that does not escape his notice. Ghost, or Simon as you now call him, recognizes the gravity of the situation immediately. The usual protocols and formalities fade into the background as he prioritizes your wellbeing above all else.

You blink rapidly trying to focus as your surroundings become a blur. The ground seems to tilt beneath you for a second time and a wave of darkness edges your vision. Simon watches you closely with an arm around your waist in case. His trained eyes catching every sign of your deteriorating condition.

“Hang on,” he urges. His voice steady but the concern is palpable. Before he can offer more reassurance your knees buckle beneath you. Your body finally giving way to the overwhelming symptoms. And suddenly the world goes dark in your eyes.

Simon catches you before you hit the ground his arms securing you firmly yet gently. “Medic!” he shouts. The urgency in his voice cutting through the morning air without a hint of hesitation. Captain Price who had been overseeing the drills from a short distance, turns sharply at the sound. His quick assessment of the situation bringing him running.

Price approaches just as Simon adjusts his hold on you, bringing your body to the ground so you were laying.  “What happened?” Price asks. His voice a mix of command and concern.

“Heat stroke, I think—she’s out,” Simon responds curtly. His gaze fixed on you as he checks your pulse and looks for any sign of recovery. Your brief moments of unconsciousness are fleeting but each second is critical.

As you flutter your eyes open, confusion mingles with the need to communicate. “Simon... it’s all spinning,” you murmur with your voice overly weak. The use of his first name again in such a vulnerable state only cements his resolve to get you the help you need immediately.

As Simon kneels beside you he carefully supports your head, his eyes searching yours for any sign of recognition. “Can you tell me where you are?” he asks again. His voice a mix of firmness and concern trying to assess the level of your disorientation.

You blink slowly but the effort to focus feeling monumental. Your gaze drifts over the familiar yet strangely distant figures of Soap and Gaz before returning to Simon. “We're... in Bosnia?” you murmur hesitantly, the name of a recent mission location slipping out, completely unrelated to your current setting on the training field.

Simon’s expression tightens, a flicker of worry crossing his features as he realizes the depth of your confusion. He exchanges a quick, grave look with Captain Price who has been monitoring the situation closely. The incorrect answer confirms the seriousness of your condition, prompting Price to look around, expecting the medics to be approaching swiftly.

However, as Simon scans the area his frustration mounts. The medics, possibly delayed or misinformed about the severity of the situation, are nowhere in sight. Realizing that waiting even a moment longer could jeopardize your well-being he makes a decisive call.

"Not fast enough," Simon mutters under his breath. His protective instincts overriding protocol. Without waiting for the medics to arrive he gently but firmly scoops you up in his arms. His movements are swift and determined as he begins to rush you towards the infirmary. His concern for your immediate safety taking precedence over everything else.

Captain Price, upon seeing Simon’s sudden movement, understands the gravity of the decision and immediately acts. "Clear the way!” he shouts, commanding the attention of everyone on the field.

As Simon carries you, the world around you becomes a blur of motion and sound, but his steady grip provides a reassuring constant. "Hang on love, we're almost there. Just stay with me," he urges. His voice a soothing presence amid the confusion.

With each step Simon takes your sense of time and space dims, the urgency of his stride and the rhythm of his heartbeat blending into the background noise of the base. As you approach the infirmary you see figures moving quickly to prepare for your arrival.

Simon’s pace doesn’t falter until he reaches the medical staff waiting at the infirmary doors. As he gently hands you over to their care his gaze lingers on yours filled with concern and an unspoken promise of unwavering support, no matter the circumstances.

In the cool, sterile environment of the infirmary, Ghost stands a vigilant watch beside your bed. His gaze locked onto your face as the medical team works rapidly to stabilize your condition. The typical stoic mask he wears has fallen away, replaced by an expression etched with deep concern. Each furrow of his brow and tight set of his jaw reveals more than usual concern. It speaks of a profound fear that he rarely allows others to see.

As the medical staff step back momentarily to fetch additional supplies, Ghost's role shifts subtly but significantly. He transforms from a mere observer into an active caretaker, a role those in TF 141 rarely witness. He picks up a damp cloth and gently wipes your forehead. His touch delicate and caring, betraying the roughness expected from his formidable field presence.

"Hey, love, can you hear me?" he murmurs. His voice soft and laden with a tenderness that surprises even him. The word 'love' slips out naturally. A term of endearment that he hasn't used lightly before. This slip, this small but significant deviation from his usual manner, is a clear sign of his deepening feelings. Feelings he might not have fully acknowledged until this very moment.

You blink slowly, responding to the sound of his voice. Ghost watches for any sign of recognition, any indication that you understand his presence. As you meet his gaze, there's a moment of relief that passes over his features. But it's quickly replaced by renewed worry as he continues to monitor your responses.

He is utterly overwhelmed. A feeling that's foreign to him. He's faced countless dangers without flinching but the sight of you so vulnerable stirs a fear in him that battlefield threats never have. He realizes perhaps more clearly than ever how deeply his feelings for you run. It's not just friendship or brotherly protection. It's something much deeper, more personal.

He stays close, his hand finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The contact is meant to comfort you but it also grounds him, reminding him that you're still here, still fighting. "Stay with me, okay?" he adds quietly, almost pleadingly. This is not just a command from a superior officer; it's a personal plea from someone who cares deeply.

Ghost's presence in the infirmary becomes a constant, a guardian ensuring that no detail is overlooked, no necessary treatment delayed. His commitment to your recovery is unwavering, his actions driven by a mix of professional duty and personal concern that has become inseparable. The realization that his feelings for you have evolved adds a new weight to every decision, every action he takes on your behalf.

A few hours later, the haze of confusion and illness that enveloped your mind begins to clear slightly. As your eyes flutter open, the stark white lights of the infirmary momentarily blind you, and the unfamiliar sounds of medical equipment beep rhythmically in the background. Disoriented, you try to recall the sequence of events that led to this moment.

Sitting beside your bed, Ghost notices the subtle signs of consciousness returning. He leans forward, his presence reassuring amidst the clinical surroundings. "Hey, you're awake," he says gently. His voice a soothing contrast to the beeping machines. "Take it easy. You gave us quite a scare out there."

As fragments of memory return—the unbearable heat of the training field, your faltering steps, the feeling of collapse—your face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. The realization that you succumbed in front of your team, particularly because of a flu exacerbating the situation, is hard to accept.

Ghost reads the embarrassment in your expression and quickly addresses it. "Listen, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. You’re dealing with the flu on top of everything else. Heat stroke is serious and it’s a lot for anyone to handle. Especially when you’re already under the weather," he reassures you earnestly.

He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. His touch grounding. "Even the toughest soldiers need to take a step back sometimes. It’s okay to acknowledge that you’re human, that you have limits. It doesn't diminish your strength," he continues in your silence. His voice imbued with empathy and understanding.

Feeling the sincerity in his words helps ease some of your discomfort. "Thanks, Simon," you manage to whisper, your voice still weak but filled with gratitude. The informal use of his first name in such a vulnerable moment speaks volumes about the trust and comfort you’ve grown to have in him.

Simon offers a gentle smile. His eyes softening. "You’re always pushing yourself to be the best and that’s certainly admirable. But sometimes, taking care of yourself is part of being the best. Don’t blame yourself for this. I certainly don’t blame you for trying," he adds, affirming his support in you.

"Sleep now. Don’t worry about the rest for now. We’re all here for you," he suggests while still holding your hand, his steady presence a comforting constant as you drift back towards unconsciousness. His commitment to your well-being is clear not just as a teammate but as someone who cares deeply on a personal level.

As you close your eyes, comforted by his words and presence, you feel a profound sense of relief. Simon's quiet vigil lets you know that no matter what, you’re not alone. Periodically, he checks the IV line and adjusts the cold packs making sure to monitor your recovery closely.. Each time you stir or grimace in discomfort, he’s there, adjusting your position or simply offering a reassuring touch.

As the hours pass Ghost remains by your side, a silent sentinel. Even as you're asleep he doesn’t leave, instead pulling up a chair to sit beside your bed. Occasionally, other members of the team peek in offering quiet words of support. But it's clear Ghost has appointed himself your primary guardian during this vulnerable time.

This unexpected role of caretaker reveals a depth to Ghost that goes beyond his tactical prowess and battlefield grit. In the infirmary, with the soft hum of medical equipment in the background, his softer, caring nature comes to the forefront, showcasing a profound sense of loyalty and protectiveness towards his team. Especially towards you.

As the day's tension slowly ebbs away in the quiet of the infirmary, you sleep deeply, recovering from the ordeal. Ghost sits steadfast by your side. His focus is solely on you. His usually impassive gaze softened by concern. The door creaks open softly as Soap and Gaz walk in. Both their faces splitting into mischievous grins when they see Ghost in his uncharacteristic role as your caretaker.

“Never thought I’d see Ghost play the doting nurse,” Soap chuckles quietly. Trying to keep his voice low to avoid disturbing you. “What’s next? Will you be knitting her a sweater?”

Gaz joins in leaning against the door frame with a smirk playing on his lips, “Maybe a nice scarf to go with it, mate. Make sure it matches her eyes, yeah?” His comment draws a soft laugh from Soap. Their teasing lightening the atmosphere of the infirmary.

Their laughter, though subdued, is a needed release after the day’s stress. It’s filled with genuine affection and respect for both you and Ghost. They understand the stakes of such moments and the bonds they forge.

Ghost, not missing a beat, shoots them a pointed look. His response is tinged with his characteristic dry humor. "Keep it up, and you'll be on the next solo recon mission in the coldest part of Siberia," he replies. His tone firm but with a faint smirk betraying his amusement.

In the background Captain Price stands silently in the doorway. His observant eyes taking in the scene. He watches Ghost’s interactions with a discerning eye, noting the subtle softness in his usually stoic demeanor. Price is no stranger to the complexities of personal dynamics within his team. And he senses the potential implications of Ghost’s deepening concern for you. There’s a hint of understanding in his gaze, mixed with caution, as he ponders the path this could lead down.

As the laughter begins to die down Price steps forward, his presence commanding a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. He gives Soap and Gaz a brief nod, a clear signal that it’s time for them to leave. The moment for jokes has passed and it's time to restore some decorum. As they exit Soap can’t resist throwing one final teasing comment over his shoulder. “Take good care of her, Ghost!” he calls out as his tone is playful yet sincere.

Price remains a moment longer his gaze lingering on Ghost and then shifting to you, asleep and unaware of the exchange. There’s a quiet gravity to his demeanor, an unspoken reminder of his leadership role and his understanding of the deeper currents flowing beneath the surface of his team’s interactions.

Captain Price approaches Ghost, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. He pauses beside him, his voice low and measured to ensure privacy. "Simon," he begins. His tone serious but not without warmth, "you're handling this well and it's clear you care deeply. Just remember, maintaining balance is crucial." His eyes, steady and understanding, meet Ghost's, acknowledging the depth of his concern while gently reminding him of his broader responsibilities.

"Don't lose focus. We rely on you—not just for her, but for the whole team," Price continues, his voice softening slightly to underscore his supportive intent.

Ghost nods, the gravity of Price's words resonating with him. "Understood, sir," he responds, his tone reflecting both respect for Price's leadership and an acute awareness of the weight on his shoulders.

Price places a hand on Ghost's shoulder, a gesture that speaks of his care and mutual respect. "Keep me posted. If there's anything you need don't hesitate to ask," he adds. Emphasizing his role not just as a commander but as a supporter willing to provide resources rather than merely oversee.

"Will do, sir," Ghost says, his voice steady as he watches Price prepare to leave the infirmary. Price gives him one last affirming nod—an acknowledgment of Ghost's commitment and his understanding of the emotional complexities involved. As Price walks away his demeanor reflects as a leader who trusts his team to handle personal challenges with professionalism yet remains ready to step in if the balance shifts too far.

Once alone again Ghost turns back to you, his expression softening as he adjusts the blanket around you and checks the monitors to ensure everything is as it should be. In these quiet moments his demeanor reveals the profound loyalty and protectiveness he feels. Traits that define him just as much as his combat skills.

The room is quiet, the only sounds are the gentle beeping of the medical equipment and your steady breathing. In this sanctuary away from the battlefield's chaos, Ghost’s vigilance continues, a promise of unwavering support.

In the dimly lit infirmary, the soft beeps of the monitor blend with the quiet sounds of the night. Ghost sits closely by your side, his eyes tracing over your peaceful face, contrasting sharply with the day’s earlier tension. The room is calm now, the urgency has passed, but the weight of the day lingers in the air heavy with unspoken words.

Leaning closer Ghost watches you for a long moment. His expression a mix of concern and something softer, more vulnerable. He knows you can’t hear him, but the words slip out quietly anyway. A whisper meant only for you. "You’re killing me here, love," he murmurs. The hint of a smile touching his lips despite the worry in his eyes. It’s a rare admission. One that reveals just how deeply he’s been affected by your condition.

He sighs lightly, the sound almost lost in the quiet of the room. Adjusting the blanket around you one last time to ensure you’re as comfortable as possible, he finally leans back in his chair. His gaze remains fixed on you a moment longer as a guardian watching over you.

Realizing the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion settling into his bones Ghost decides he wasn’t willing to leave you yet. Not when you’d hardly regained consciousness and certainly not when you might need him upon waking. He shifts to make himself as comfortable as possible in the chair beside your bed, his body angled to keep you in sight.

As he settles in, his eyes slowly close but it’s clear he’s not completely given over to sleep. Even in rest, he’s alert, ready to wake at the slightest change in your condition. In this quiet vigil, his presence is both a promise and a protection. A steadfast commitment to be there for you when you finally do wake.

The night deepens around the two of you. The soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant in the otherwise still room. Ghost, in his chair, remains by your side. A figure in the dim light embodying both the warrior and the caretaker in this rare moment of peace.

As the first light of dawn begins to filter through the blinds of the infirmary your eyes flutter open greeting the new day with a mix of confusion and sluggish awareness. Initially, your vision is blurry, the shapes and colors of the room melding into indistinct forms. Gradually though your eyes adjust, and the figure slumped in the chair beside your bed comes into sharper focus. Ghost, asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the wall.

The sight of him so uncharacteristically vulnerable in sleep immediately warms your heart. Despite the residual fog clouding your mind a soft smile plays on your lips. "Ghost," you call out, your voice hoarse but audible enough to stir him from his light slumber.

At the sound of your voice Ghost snaps awake, instantly alert. He straightens up before rubbing the stiffness from his neck as he turns to face you. His eyes that displayed a flicker of reprieve meet yours. "Hey, you're awake," he says. His voice rough with sleep but tinged with unmistakable relief. "How are you feeling?"

"A lot better, thanks to you," you reply. Your voice was still weak but filled with gratitude. "You stayed all night?"

Ghost nods, a soft expression crossing his face as he hears your voice. This subtle return to normalcy reassures him. Warming his heart and letting him know you must be feeling a bit better to revert to familiar terms. "Yes, I stayed. Didn’t want you to wake up alone here," he replies. His tone gentle. Ghost’s eyes scan your face for signs of pain or lingering confusion, ever the vigilant guardian.

"Thanks, Ghost. Really," you manage to say feeling comforted not only by his presence but also by the return to a semblance of normalcy. His constant vigilance, even as you slept, speaks volumes of his dedication not just to his duty but to you personally.

Ghost offers a slight smile, one that reaches his eyes this time. "No need to thank me. Just glad to see you're doing better," he says. He pulls a chair closer to your bed, settling in. "Need anything? Water? More pain meds?" he asks. Ready to assist with whatever you might need.

The simple exchange is light yet filled with unspoken care helps to ease the remaining tension from the ordeal. As Ghost continues to make sure you’re comfortable, you feel a profound sense of safety and appreciation for the bond that has only deepened through this experience. The conversation drifts into a comfortable silence filled with unspoken understanding and mutual respect. In this quiet early morning hour, a new layer of your relationship has been gently unfolded. Revealing the depth of connection that hardship and vulnerability can foster.

As the morning sun continues to pour a warm glow into the infirmary the doctor finishes his examination and nods with satisfaction. "You’ve made a remarkable recovery. I think you're ready to be discharged today. Just remember to take it easy for the next few days," he advises as he begins to pack away his equipment.

Ghost's reaction is almost immediate, his brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure she’s ready?" he questions the doctor. His voice carrying a protective edge that makes you smile inwardly. His overt protectiveness is both touching and reassuring. A stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor.

The doctor, accustomed to dealing with the cautious nature of soldiers about their comrades, reassures him with a confident nod. "Yes, she's stable. Just ensure she rests and avoids any strenuous activity. She should be fine," he explains patiently.

Despite the reassurance Ghost still looks unconvinced. His gaze flicking back to you, searching for any sign of discomfort or lingering weakness. "Maybe another day for observation?" he suggests. His tone half-questioning, half-requesting. It's evident he'd prefer you stay under medical supervision a bit longer.

Your heart warms at his concern and though you find his overprotectiveness endearing, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Instead, offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand instead. "Ghost, I think I’ll be okay," you assure him gently trying to alleviate his worries.

Ghost manages a small smile. His usual impassive facade softening. "Just making sure," he mutters. Though his eyes remain tender with concern. He finally nods accepting the doctor's verdict, but his posture stays alert, protective.

"Alright, I’ll hold you to that. But we’re taking it slow for the next few days. I’ll let Price know." he declares. His tone firm, directed more at himself than anyone else.

As the doctor leaves Ghost assists you in gathering your belongings. His movements careful and considerate. He checks in frequently asking if you're feeling alright to continue, his cautiousness evident but heartening. It’s clear that although you’ve been given the all-clear Ghost will be keeping a close eye on you, ensuring your recovery proceeds without issue.

His unwavering attention not only makes you feel deeply cared for but also subtly deepens the bond between you, underscoring a shift in your relationship where his role as protector has become as instinctive as it is essential.

As you swing your legs off the bed and attempt to stand a momentary wave of dizziness makes your legs waver slightly. Instantly, Ghost is there, his hand firm on your waist, steadying you. His touch is gentle yet secure, grounding you in the moment.

You laugh it off with a light flush coloring your cheeks. "Just wobbly legs," you joke trying to ease the tension you feel from his close presence. Despite your attempt to downplay the situation your movements are still a bit too brisk. A clear sign you might be overestimating your current strength.

Ghost doesn't smile but there's a tenderness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. "Take it slow, love," he advises, his tone almost demanding. His hand remains on your back as a discreet but constant presence. He guides you slowly out of the infirmary. You feel the steadiness of his support with each step you take. His careful pace ensures you don't overexert yourself, allowing you time to adjust as you walk. The corridor seems longer than you remember but Ghost’s reassuring presence makes the journey feel safer, more manageable.

"You don’t have to rush this," he continues. Sensing your eagerness to prove your recovery. "We’ll get there when we get there." His words are simple but effective reminding you that your health is the priority not the speed of your recovery.

As you proceed you lean slightly into his support realizing how crucial his support has been, not just physically but also emotionally. Ghost’s unwavering steadiness helps bolster your confidence, making you feel that no matter how shaky your steps might be you won't fall as long as he’s by your side.

The walk back to your room is quiet but comfortable. It’s filled with an unspoken understanding that something significant has shifted between you. When you reach your door, Ghost finally pulls his hand away, but the warmth of his touch lingers.

"Thanks again, Ghost. For everything," you say while meeting his gaze. It's an open acknowledgment of all he's done and all he might continue to do.

"Anytime, love. Just... please take care of yourself," he responds. There’s a promise in his words, an implication that he'll always be nearby, watching over you.

As you reach the door to your quarters, Simon pauses, his hand resting lightly against the frame. "Can I help you get settled back in?" he asks. His tone as soft as it has been before, something new that has overcome him in your incident. His concern clearly evident.

You nod, touched by his attentiveness and as you enter your room he follows close behind. Simon watches carefully as you slowly make your way to your bed and sit down, still feeling a bit shaky. The room is familiar and comforting but his presence makes it feel even safer, more serene.

Once you're seated on the bed, he scans the room quickly, always alert for what you might need. "You sure you don't need anything else? Some more water? A snack?” Ghost asks, already moving towards your small kitchenette. He assumed a role that went beyond duty into something more personal.

You smile at his back, warmed by his concern. "I’m fine, Ghost. Really," you reassure him. But he shakes his head, not entirely convinced.

"It's no trouble at all. You should eat something," he insists gently while fetching a glass of water and a small snack from your stash. Simple things that you hadn't thought you’d needed until he presented them. As he hands you the glass his fingers brush yours lightly, sending a small, unexpected shiver up your arm. You thank him with a soft smile, touched by his thoughtfulness.

Noticing a few strands of hair falling over your face, Simon reaches out and gently brushes them back, his touch delicate and caring. His hand lingers for a moment, a silent expression of his deeper feelings.

You’re momentarily stunned but thrilled, nonetheless. You find it hard to find words as his hand lingers on your face. "I know I keep thanking you but thanks again Simon. For... well, for everything," you say after a moment. Your voice low and sincere. Using his first name feels natural, reflecting the shift in your relationship.

He pauses, looking into your eyes with an intensity that makes your heart flutter. "I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to be," he replies. His voice so soft it’s nearly a whisper, revealing the depth of his feelings.

"If you need anything else, just let me know. I'll be just a call away, love," He adds imbued with a warmth that reassures and comforts. His use of ‘love’ is tender, an endearment that resonates deeply, marking a significant moment in your ever evolving relationship.

He gives you a lingering look that was filled with care and a promise of protection before he reluctantly steps towards the door. There's a hint of hesitation in his movement, a subtle pause that conveys his desire to stay longer.

As he exits, gently closing the door behind him, you lie back against your pillows, the glass of water in your hand. His presence has left a comforting warmth in the room. A sense of safety that lulls you towards rest. The thought of Simon being just a call away brings a smile to your face. And as you close your eyes it’s not just the fatigue that makes you feel at ease. It’s knowing Simon is there, caring for you with a tenderness that goes beyond the call of duty.

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