#cross posted to ao3

[redcoralpot]

Hiii!!! I’ve seen that you’re slow w writing and I don’t mean to nag or rush you at all but I just wanted to know if you’re still going to be/planning on updating smudged ?

Smudged Chapter Eight - Is it Effort?

Chapter Summary: You and Rodrick work on the final touches of your projects in his room, not that work stops you from messing with him.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1.1K

-

“How have you ever managed to pass middle school?” You rolled your eyes, raising your eyebrow at where Rodrick was perched on the floor, markers and pencils scattered around him.

He scoffed, “Pure coolness, uh, how’d you think I did it?”

You spun lazily on a nearby chair because God knows you wanted to avoid sitting on Rodrick’s, of all people’s, bed. It’d been a week since you set off with the two biggest, and one sweetest, dumbass into the forest to fail at any sort of prolificacy. Your own project sat half-finished on the desk in front of you, along with abandoned scissors and colored construction paper. The birds outside the window sang tunes as the sun prepared to exit the sky, some sweet and others a little annoying, but the days were getting notably shorter. A sigh here, a shrug there, and you started to chip back at your project again. 

“Coolness? Yeah, right, maybe los–” The final word caught on your tongue, and it struck you how much that made you sound like Heather. Fuck, that made you cringe. But if Rodrick even got a whiff that you were feeling pity for him, he’d never let you forget it.

“Maybe by making teachers lose their shit.”

Rodrick scribbled glue onto the back of a photo, and when he stuck it on, the corners immediately sprung back, “That’s practically a synonym to what I just said!”

“Woah, there, sweetcheeks. That’s a big word,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your lips like venom, or perhaps honey to a guy like Rodrick.

He sat up on his elbows and turned around to stick his tongue at you. By doing so, you got a good glance at what he’d just stuck on his project, a sight that made you stand up in offense and lean over him, “Dude, what the fuck? That’s my best photo– at least glue it on right so it doesn’t fly off and get trampled on in the hallway.”

“Uh,” Rodrick stared up at you, lips wet and slightly parted before finding their way into an indignant sneer, “who says I’m driving to school on time?”

“Ah, that’s right! It’ll get violently abused in the back of your van, much better.”

You knelt down and picked up a marker. The feeling of your binder cutting into your skin, something that will definitely leave a bright red line on your stomach by tonight, made you frown. But still, you persisted, and lodged the end of the marker in between your molars before tugging hard. It opened with a pop, the lid still stuck between your teeth while you signed the photo as quick as the lightning doodles Rodrick had drawn on the margins. Oh, yeah, those aggravating cursive lessons in elementary school sure came in handy now.

Spitting the cap onto the smelly, stained carpet underneath Rodrick, you tossed the marker in his direction, which unfortunately ended with a streak of black on his cheek before it actually landed in his hands. You chuckled at the sight, and even more so at his gaping jaw.

“Consider it a souvenir to remember me by after your teacher takes your ass to detention, cornball.”

Rodrick scowled, “How do you have a better signature than me, an actual, very real, very awesome rockstar?”

“Guess.”

He rolled his eyes, whining, “It always circles back to school with you.”

“It sounds like somebody’s catching on! Welcome to real life, we’re so pumped to have you.”

Squeals and banging footsteps echoed from downstairs, a sure sign that Greg and Rowley were home from terrorizing the neighborhood in one way or another. You kind of hoped Greg hadn’t and wouldn’t pick up on Rodrick’s old treatment of Heather, because you took notice of the way his ears went all red when Holly looked his way. Yes, that’s right, you thought. Old treatment. Despite Heather’s continuous offstandish behavior whenever Rodrick came over to your house, as was her right, he no longer threw infamous jokes her way, nor did he stare in the direction of her room. It was a tad bit weird having him be so focused– at least for him– on a school project.

Hell, you were a little proud.

Rodrick reached towards his cheeks, and you instinctively curled your lip and turned away in preparation for the dirty move he was about to pull, the one he knew never failed to make you queasy. But instead of pulling down his bottom eyelids, Rodrick loudly exclaimed, “Ugh– aw, damn it! Why didn’t you tell me my eyeliner leaked?”

You glanced towards him and a snicker bubbled up from deep in your chest. A decently large smudge that matched the one on his cheek sat on his fingertips, “Yeah, you got a little… marker.”

The gesture to your own face made him scowl.

“Fuck you. Ten times over.”

“Well, I really have the opposite preference, but that’s none of your damn business.” You shake your head, smirking, “Let me just–”

Spitting into your hand, you spread your saliva over your fingers, and reached over to rub it all over the stain on his face. At first, it appeared promising. Wisps of hair fell over his eyes, blending into the still intact eyeliner, smelling of cheap hairspray he probably got at the local gas station. Strangely enough, you could smell traces of cologne and pine soap, two things you could swear were Mr. Heffley’s deal. It only slightly masked the smell of grease.

But then, as you drew back and wiped your hand on your black shirt, you found that the stain was still there. Bigger. Maybe a little more opaque on the sides? You scratched your neck.

“I think it was a waterproof marker.”

“What the hell? No, nuh-uh,” Rodrick launched to his feet, “you’re so gonna pay for that!”

Your body cracked into motion before you even processed that an incredibly angry, lanky boy was barreling towards you, and hopped on the bed towards the window. It wasn’t locked, nor did it have a screen, as was expected. Fuck the no bed rule, it didn’t apply in war.

You managed to wiggle it open and slide out, balancing on the roof like you’d been doing for the past few days– who knew avoiding the Heffleys’ prying questions about your recent appearances would actually be helpful? Rodrick leaned out the window, cackling, “No fair, that’s foul play! You know I don’t have shoes on.”

“Duh.”

“Yet.” He disappeared into the dark of his room, and you didn’t waste any time trying to find out if he was serious. You knew him well enough that chances are, he was.

Waving your hand, you yelled, “See you tomorrow morning, Heffley!”

The studs on your belt scratched against the shingles as you climbed down, landing swiftly on a few boxes you had previously stacked. You didn’t turn back, sturdy soles clicking in a rhythm against road pavement as the sun finally settled to sleep.

-

[dontmentionitseriously]

𝙿𝚊𝚕𝚖 𝙻𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙿𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 (𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙾𝚗𝚎)

~☆☆☆~

Part Two

Pairing: Dipper Pines x Female Reader

Word count: 2k

Summary: You spend the Summer in Gravity Falls because your parents are kind of tired of your behavior. It's Dipper's and Mabel's fourth Summer in Gravity Falls. You're both technically from California, but different ends of it. So it's almost like fate (or a certain...writer) brought you two together. Part one of five(?).

Warnings: A couple of curses here and there, and one mention of divorce.

~☆☆☆~

"Ah, Summer Break. A time for leisure, recreation, and 'takin 'er easy'. ...Unless you're me."

-Dipper Pines, Tourist Trapped

Now, that was said by Dipper in a different context, several Summers ago, but it still can be applied here. Because, my dear reader, this Summer was supposed to be about leisure and recreation and all that for Dipper Pines, but of course it all had to be completely ruined when one particular girl came to Gravity Falls...

Dipper and Mabel Pines sat in the eighth row of a Speedy Beaver bus heading for Gravity Falls, Oregon. Dipper had recently resolved to have a stress-free, relaxing, normal Summer for once, and Mabel had sworn off trying to woo boys. Even though they could’ve gone to Los Angeles, or Baja, or someplace way more exciting (like too many of their peers), money had been tight since their parents’ divorce, and Gravity Falls had become something of a cheap tradition.

And so, there they were, hunkering and clinking along toward that all-too-familiar backwater town in the middle of the woods; toward Grunkle Stan and Ford, toward Wendy and Robbie, and, most of all, toward all the strange anomalies that were routinely overlooked. Dipper read a boring book on foraging for edible mushrooms in East Asia, while his sister blasted an extremely overplayed playlist of extremely overplayed songs into her ears beside him. It was so loud that he could actually hear all the lyrics, and it was making it very hard for him to concentrate on the already mind-numbing book.

He sighed in irritation.

Mabel failed to notice.

He sighed again, louder.

She deliberately turned up the volume, if that was even possible.

To his mild surprise, the next song on queue was Girly Icelandic pop sensation BABBA’s top hit ‘Disco Girl’, which harbored both good and embarrassing memories for him. Despite that, though, he found himself faintly humming along to the lyrics. Mabel did too, until Dipper corrected her on a lyric and they launched into a dumb and long argument about whether the song was talking about trampolines or tambourines.

Meanwhile, you were, by chance, three cars behind their bus, not listening to your dad ramble on about the death of disco and the rise of metal in the late 70’s, and all the nuances and mini-feuds that went on between bands.

“But that part was just for attention–are you even listening?” He cut himself off once he caught sight of you staring out the window boredly in the mirror.

“Huh?” You asked stupidly, zoning back in.

“Are you listening?” He repeated himself sarcastically now, raising an eyebrow in an unimpressed manner. 

“Uh…no…?” Came your response, and you smiled sheepishly at his exasperated sigh.

“Of course.” He said simply, and a short silence followed in which you foolishly thought you were off the hook, until he started a lengthy lecture about quality time and how you should at least pretend to care about his interests. (In retrospect, this particular argument was quite ironic.) During that lecture, you found yourself zoning in and out again, half listening to your father’s ranting, and half daydreaming about the wondrous things you could get up to with ten weeks of sloppy adult supervision.

To spare you the head-banging boredom that ensued between those two vehicles in the next three-and-a-half hours on the way to Roadkill County, I’ll skip the story forward to the part where you had arrived.

*Cheesy fast-forwarding sounds*

Ah, finally, fresh air.

You stepped out of your family car and stretched out your arms, yawning widely. You made your way over to the trunk, popping open the cover and pulling out your suitcase with a bit more effort than you’d like to admit. Some called it ‘unnecessary packing’ –namely, your dad–, but you called it being prepared. I mean, who in their right mind wouldn’t pack underwear like they’d be shitting themselves daily?

Speaking of which, what you weren’t prepared for, but probably should’ve seen coming, was your heavy-ass suitcase slipping out of your grasp and tragically colliding with the ground. It elicited a deep thud from the asphalt when it landed, and split open comically, spilling its contents. You swore angrily as you dove to retrieve it, shoving your clothes back in and forcing the lid shut.

“Damn cheap suitcase,” You complained bitterly, blaming the manufacturer instead of yourself–because you were quite obviously not the one at fault here.

Your dad snickered at your situation instead of doing the fatherly thing and helping you out, to which you just rolled your eyes and made a face at him.

“Need any help with that?” He joked, smiling widely at you.

“I’ll have you know that,” You began defiantly, pausing to grunt as you dragged the suitcase upright with herculean effort, “That I…yeah, probably.”

You both burst out laughing, and he helped you move your stuff into the lobby of the motel you were to stay at for a couple of nights until girls’ camp started.

Ugh, right. Camp.

Now, for a little background information; let’s just say you were a bit unruly this year, and instead of spending the Summer at home with your friends, like usual, going to the beach and enjoying the weather in Sunny SoCal…your punishment for your behavior was to be shipped up to Oregon to go to a cheap girls’ camp that only lasted for about three weeks. The remaining portion of your precious Summer was to be spent with your aunt Susan, working part-time at her diner. (No hot-girl Summer for you, you supposed…)

Now, you loved your aunt dearly, but she was a little, well, ‘eclectic’ to say the least. So you were just a bit apprehensive about staying seven weeks in her kind-of-untidy-cat-ridden-super-outdated house, but you figured it would feel like Caesar’s Palace after a musty motel mattress and itchy cabin cots by the lake.

You just hoped you wouldn’t catch lyme disease.

“Name and reservation, please?” The young man at the front desk asked a second time with a tad of impatience, snapping you out of your main character internal monologue.

“Oh! Right, sorry…”

~☆☆☆~

After your dad helped you check into the small room you had booked, it was time to say goodbye. He was never really great at those.

“Dad, will you please stop bawling? I’ll see you in ten weeks,” You reasoned, although you also felt the slight, sentimental urge to cry and hug him tightly.

“I just can’t believe my baby girl is all grown up!” He sniffed, and you half-groaned, half-laughed.

“Not quite,” You replied, guiding him toward the car.

Five minutes later, you were still saying your last goodbyes, which was mostly you reassuring him that you had absolutely everything you needed.

“Yes, dad, I have my phone, wallet, room key, journal, clothes, backpack, money, food, and the teddy bear from the gas station,” You exasperated after he asked you for what felt like the millionth time in 24 hours.

“Alright, honey. I love you,” He sighed sadly, wiping his cheeks.

“Love you too, Pop.”

And with a final hug and kiss and wave, your father was off. You watched him back up out of the driveway and disappear down the road with increasingly misty eyes.

~☆☆☆~

With a mixed emotions sigh and a short arm stretch, you flopped into the semi-uncomfortable mattress in your motel room and reached for the TV remote.

Deciding to shirk your unpacking for a while and see what the local media of Gravity Falls had to offer, you flipped through the channels with increasing disinterest. News (or lack thereof), bootleg Food Network, some old cartoons, a low budget mystery movie, an even lower budget drama, and pure static. You groaned at the realization that you’d have to un-shirk your duties instead, grabbing your phone and plugging in some earbuds to help you through the mountainous task of getting yourself set up. No free wi-fi, so you’d have to listen to your downloaded music…great.

After checking the teeny tiny room for hidden cameras (stay safe, kids!), making sure the toilet, shower, and sink worked, and whipping up a weak cup of luke-warm cocoa with the cheap coffee maker, you finally went through your stuff to double-check that you did indeed have everything. Turns out that you (conveniently) forgot your Summer reading, but remembered all the essentials. Whatever, that would be a problem for future you, who would kick your ass if she could.

The sun was setting now, casting a soft orange light through the window and illuminating the tops of the pine trees of the nearby forest. It was really picturesque, so you snapped a couple photos and sent them to your mom with a text letting her know that you had made it all in one piece. You smiled at her immediate response.

‘Looks beautiful, honey! Stay safe ♥️’

You threw away your empty paper cup and scrolled through your camera roll for a while, having nothing better to do. After that, you lazily brushed your hair and teeth and changed into your bedclothes, opting for an early-ish night for once. It was now 8:43 PM, which was a pretty decent time to hit the hay. And that mattress definitely felt like hay.

It was a rough night for you, to put it lightly. You dragged yourself out of the covers at 7:08 AM without prompting, just glad to have those hours of tossing and turning and annoyingly loud bed springs over with. At least you’d catch breakfast.

��Ew.

You weren’t expecting anything, and yet it still managed to disappoint. Limp sausages and overdone scrambled eggs with bland cornflakes and suspiciously watery, translucent milk constituted your breakfast. You forced it down with a hefty serving of cheap ketchup, since there were no adults around to judge you (besides the staff). The only decent thing about it was the several cups of apple-flavored water they labeled as ‘juice’ that you downed. 

‘Welp, glad that’s over.’ You mentally sighed as you left the lobby and took the elevator back to your room. Pushing open the door, you made for the bathroom to get ready for the day. A few hours out to see exactly what kind of town you were staying in for three months seemed obligatory. So, with teeth brushed, face washed, and hair adequately styled, you changed into some comfortable, casual clothes and your favorite pair of shoes. You almost forgot deodorant, like always, but managed to remember after you stuffed your crossbody bag with all your going-out stuff. 

With a quick glance in the mirror to ensure you didn’t look like holy hell, you rode the elevator back downstairs and walked outside, breathing in the fresh air. Southern California air was sometimes polluted, sometimes fresh, but it seemed that the small-town Oregon air up here was pristine, virgin even. As if the trees didn’t know the meaning of smog.

You stood there for a moment before realizing you had no idea where anything was. You opened your phone to check Floogul Maps, only to be greeted with the wonderful news that there was no mapping in this part of the woods, meaning you’d have to ask the locals for directions. Yay…

Sheepishly stepping back inside, you approached the middle-aged lady at the front desk.

“Hi there, I’m new here and have no clue where to go,” You began somewhat awkwardly, offering a bit of a smile. “Can you give me some directions to town?”

“Oh, of course, dear!” She replied kindly, telling you the following directions: ‘Go left to the signpost at the end of the driveway, then follow Elken street until you see the Sundollars coffee shop. From there, turn right and you’ll be at the center of town.’ You gave her your thanks and returned outside, looking around for the signpost and repeating the directions over and over to yourself.

Being a bit directionally challenged, it took a little while longer than expected to get there, but sooner or later you arrived at the familiar chain coffee stop. 

“Even in the middle of nowhere, you can count on having a Sundollars,” You remarked to yourself before turning right.

Only, you weren’t able to turn right, because you collided with a wall. No, actually, not a wall, fleshier than that–a person!

~☆☆☆~

Author's Note: Well, I hope you liked it so far! If you couldn't tell, Sundollars and Floogul Maps are re-brandings of Starbucks and Google Maps respectively. I'm just doing this because it's insanely funny to me and it seems universe-appropriate. Sorry if it's too short or long or wordy or whatnot, I'm still figuring out my writing style and this is my very first published piece of fanfic. If you have any thoughts, feel free to let me know!

Kind regards,

-DMIS

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) Part 1

Words: 2.7k Warning: Implied injury - stubborn, suspicious Wolffe - Bit of fluff Pronouns Use: She/Her - (Y/N)

Everything seemed normal enough when (Y/N) arrived at the temporary military base the 104th and Master Plo had set up. The command center had the perfect tactical advantage, a view of the battlefield, but at a safe distance, it couldn't be easily attacked. A perimeter had been set up, with an airfield, ensuring all those coming and going would be safe. Next to the commander center were the barracks, mess hall, medbay, and weapons depo, all perfectly organized. 

Plo had met (Y/N) at her designated landing bay; he greeted his former padawan in a similar manner to his warm greeting to Ahsoka. Full of care, fatherly and warm. His words to follow the same and filled with gentleness and wise advice. Almost as if he knew there would be an instant coldness between his former Padawan and his trusted Commander. After all, Wolffe had made his destain almost hatred for the Children of Dathomir plain, and (Y/N) would be the first Night Sister he would truly be dealing with since Ventress had taken his eye. 

The hours after her arrival hadn't been much trouble either. Wolffe hadn't been seen, normally preoccupied with other tasks that come with being Commander. On the other hand, the other troopers had greeted her with friendliness and curiosity. Boost, Comet, and Sinket had been the first three to approach, neither of them being afraid to voice their questions or try their hand at flirting. One by one, others came by with a hello and the intention of introducing themselves; neither one acted like she was any different from the other Jedi they worked with. Instead, the one to point out her obvious Dathomirian features was the Civvi Medic assigned to the 104th; the other Wolffe seemed to avoid like the plague or growled if they had to interact. Although to be fair, the petite woman did seem to avoid the commander just as much, normally shaking with fear and likely unspoken judgment when attending to him. 

When the afternoon was slowly turning to dusk, (Y/N) left the safety of the perimeter, hoping to find a quiet area nearby to meditate; being extremely attuned to the force, the unheard voices were loud in the base, as were the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her. (Y/N) clumsiness had led her to discover the unstable ground, leading to cave chasms that went down for miles; the darkness seemed to swallow everything that fell down it, even the glow sticks meant to offer light.

Making a mental note of the undesirable drop and likely death trap hidden within the endless shadows (Y/N) found a flat rocky surface to sit upon; there, she shifted until she was comfortable and began to meditate or attempt it. Within minutes of finding peaceful mindfulness, she had sensed another heading her way, navigating the minefield of unstable ground and dropping to uncertainty. Upon realizing the approaching intruder wasn't someone she recognized, she instinctively reached for her lightsabers, prepared to defend herself if needed, although she had hoped it wouldn't get that far. 

As if sensing something was off, (Y/N) opened her eyes, surveying the area in her proximity, although she did not see anything out of the ordinary. The rocks from the nearby cliff rushed down the drop from the wind left behind by the passing ships; the land around seemed to stretch for miles, and the droid army seemed to be struggling to rebuild their own commander center far into the distance. A planned surprise attack was unlikely to be on their agenda just yet.

"Careful, the ground ..." started (Y/N), finally seeing who the intruder was. Commander Wolffe. His low growls had cut off her line of thought and subsequent words. His stiff shoulders and crossed arms over his chest made it clear he wasn't in the mood to converse with her. Although it was rather obvious, he followed her. The question was whether that was entirely out of concern, suspicion, or something else. 

"You left the base," he stated, his voice direct and to the point, although void of all emotion, matching his cold demeanor.

"Well noticed," (Y/N) replied, failing to stop the sarcasm before it could fall from her lips. Although she held back the chuckle that threatened to follow it upon sensing the eye roll, Wolffe sent her from beneath his modified helmet. 

"Why?" asked the commander, although frustration and annoyance rang through his voice this time, once again suggesting he'd literally rather be anywhere but in her presence. 

"To meditate," she commented, returning the annoyance and frustration presented to her, although the Jedi Knight at least tried to keep a neutral expression, even in the face of judgment and unwarranted hostility. "I'm not fretting with the enemy, Commander. I just needed quiet; the emotions and voices can be overwhelming." 

"That's what your quarters are for," he uttered in a quick response, drawing an eye roll from (Y/N) as she climbed down from her position on the flat lump of rocks. Refusing to utter another word, she began to walk away from the Commander, further away from the base, hoping to find another quiet place to continue her meditation. A sigh quickly escaped her upon sensing Wolffe was once again following her, although this time only a few feet behind.  

"Woah!" yelled Wolffe upon the ground, cracking and giving away like thin ice the moment he stomped on it. He expected to fall helpless into the darkness, but instead, he'd stopped in mid-air, just dangling. The force someone was using the force to prevent him from falling to certain doom. Immediately, Wolffe presumed it was General Plo, the ever-caring fatherly figure. Confusion took over when Wolffe looked up to see (Y/N) trying her hardest to use her power to bring him to safety, a concentrated look painted on her features, determination mixed in. "It's cracking," called the Commander upon noticing the ground beneath her about to give way. 

But by the time his words reached her, both of them were falling. All Wolffe could do was flay his limps and yell out as the darkness swallowed him. He hit several rocks and other hard surfaces on the way down before the fall ended with a loud, wet splash into the freezing waters of an underground lake. He soon climbed out of the water, resting on the rocky bank, looking up with the hope of seeing daylight, only to be met with the unyielding darkness that seemed to go on forever. With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he began to assess the damage to his armor. The chest plate had been cracked, and a shoulder and forearm plate shattered to the point of being unless. 

Just as he was about to continue, his attention was drawn to the lightsaber lying by the rocks of the bank close by. The hilt was mainly black with silver decoration; it appeared damaged and stained with something. Just as Wolffe was about to question who it belonged to, his heart sank upon recalling the ground cracking. 

"Nightsister," called Wolffe, a prang of guilt flooding him as he regretted his refusal to learn her name. "Nightsister," he called again, pushing the fear away when no answer came. However, that sudden wave of fear grew upon noticing the lightsaber hilt was stained with blood. The realization hit him: she was injured and had been by selflessly trying to save him from the fall. Ignoring his own pain and obvious injuries, Wolffe got to wobbly feet and slowly began to shuffle forward across the bank in the hopes of seeing the Jedi who'd tried to prevent his fall. 

He hoped she was ignoring him; after all, he'd ignore someone calling him if they treated him as he'd done with her, but the more he searched, the more he called out Nightsister in an attempt to locate her. The feeling of dread gripped him. What if she wasn't ignoring him? Could she be injured? Was she even in the same part of the cave as him? Did she even fall down the chasm in the first place? 

"She's not in the cave with you, Wolffe," muttered Wolffe, his voice as cold as the lake he'd landed in. As he began to shiver, about to give up, the commander noticed something. A trail of blood, it was fresh; someone had landed there and was trying to hide, injured. "Nightsister," called Wolffe again, this time softer than before, quieter as if trying to convey he wasn't a threat despite his previous demeanor and actions. "I'm not going to hurt you," he called, realizing if she was injured, she likely believed whomever she was trapped with was trying to harm her. He'd been the same after Ventures had slashed out his eye. Even General Plo was considered an enemy in his mind. Anyone with a lightsaber had been for a short time. 

"Wolffe," came a quiet voice, no louder than a whisper. But in the quietness of the cave, it was loud enough for the Commander to hear to locate her. Hearing his name fall from her lips only made his guilt grow. She knew his name and took the time to learn it instead of calling him by his identification number or his rank of Commander. And he'd refused to learn anything about her after learning she was a Child of Dathomir. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice heavy with deep breaths filled with pain; she was hurt but refused to admit it. 

"Not as bad as you, Ca'tra," answered Wolffe, grimacing as he moved to sit beside her, holding her lightsaber out as if to return it. Slowly, he surveyed the extent of her injuries, almost horrified. Several joints had been dislocated, a large gash stretched across her side, and a nasty laceration now adorned the side of her head. There was little doubt she'd suffered broken bones as well. 

"Sorry about your landing," (Y/N) whispered. "It was either that or impaled on the rock spires," she added, lifting a shaky hand to point in the general direction of the spires in question. "There's a small med kit in my pack," she instructed, being thankful she'd been wise enough to have a pack ready for emergencies. Inside was a medical kit, water, ration bars, glow sticks, other forms of light, and another communicator in case the one attached to her arm was damaged. 

"Stay awake, Ca'tra," voiced Wolffe, softness beginning to take over, as was the worry and concern. In the minutes since finding her, her eyes had glazed over, and she was slowly losing consciousness. "Talk to me," he added, reaching for the pack and its scattered contents, a renewed sense of determination. She saved him twice in a matter of minutes, with little regard for her own safety or well-being. She suffered because of it. He had to repay the debt he felt he owed her. 

"Ca'tra," (Y/N) tiredly responded, confusion just about present through the pain. "What does it mean?" she asked, looking to Wolffe with glazed-over eyes, a grimace quickly flashing across her features upon pain tormenting her further. 

"Night sky," admitted Wolffe, deeming it be better to call her that than Nightsister. Especially now when he was beginning to wonder if calling her by Nightsister was offensive in some way. "I don't know your name," he added, shame washing through his whispered voice. Swearing under his breath when he dropped the contents of the medkit, his hands shaking so much from the cold. In his rushed attempt to collect all the items, he hadn't noticed (Y/N) reach for the stem cell injections. Although she did hold out the bacta gel 

"(Y/N)," she spoke in response, not arguing when the call of sleep as it became too persistent to fight, too strong to ignore. She hadn't been given the chance to say she liked the small nickname. The small kindness meant something to her, even if it didn't mean anything to Wolffe. 

"(Y/N), wake up," called Wolffe upon grabbing her shoulders to shake her. The shakes had been little more than light nudges, hoping to prevent her from falling asleep, but gotten rougher upon the Commander realizing she'd already fallen for the lure of the peaceful oblivion. "You're not getting away from me that easy, Ca'tra," he added, remembering he had the bacta gel. Upon applying a generous amount to her wounds, he turned his attention to his own and his previous task of assessing the damage to his armor. 

"Little (Y/N), Commander Wolffe," spoke the wise and welcome voice of Master Plo, concern flooding his otherwise fatherly voice. Wolffe quickly grabbed (Y/N)'s arm, puzzled by how the small communications device was still intact, let alone working. "(Y/N), Wolffe, can either of you hear me?" asked Plo, his voice fuzzy now, as if he'd moved away from the area. 

"I read you, General," spoke Wolffe, relief ringing in his own voice, mixing with his concern and pain. 

"Are you okay? Is (Y/N) with you?" questioned Plo, likely already realizing the ground had given way. Although where was the question? Once again, Wolffe focused on looking up, hoping to see some sort of light that would say how far down they were, whether from the sky so far above them or the light of a rescue ship. But again, was greeted with nothing but empty darkness. 

"We're both pretty banged up; I would have been worse off if she hadn't pushed me out the way," admitted the Commander, thankful for her selflessness but still feeling guilty. Even more so upon the realization hitting him, she'd put herself in far more danger by forcing him away from the spires and towards the freezing lake. "She's currently unconscious and needs immediate medical attention," he added with haste, once again reaching to gently shake her with the hopes she'd wake up, again being met with no response. 

"Keep the communicator on; we'll use it to track your position," stated Plo, the authority now ringing in his voice, likely to mask the growing concern and worry for his commander and former padawan. 

"Come on, Ca'tra, wake up. Help is coming," started Wolffe, finally removing his helmet and allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light of the glow sticks. Finally, he noticed his visor had been broken during the fall and a gash towards the bottom of the scraped helmet. "Why did you save me? Why would you risk your own life like that? I'm just a clone; only my brothers and General Plo would care if something happened to me," he mumbled, not hearing the ow to escape (Y/N)'s lips or even notice she'd barely regained consciousness. 

"Wrong. I care," she whispered with a broken voice, startling the Commander trapped with her. 

"But ... but I was cold to you ... harsh ... unfair," stammered Wolffe as he attempted to put his scrambled thoughts into words and overcome the shock; not only had she heard his words but answered with the last thing he'd expected to hear. She cared despite everything. 

"I know," replied (Y/N), trying her hardest to show her understanding. "I understand why you were quick to judge me. Fear can be cruel even to the toughest of men. I do not blame you for it. No one does. That was your way of dealing with the trauma, to ensure it wouldn't happen again," she replied, recalling her similar response to trauma as a child. She'd been incorporated into the order the same year Anakin Skywalker had joined the Jedi. She was ignored and judged with fear because of something she had no control over. 

She'd lost everything, and just when she had settled into what would be her new life. Things had gotten worse; someone had taken her from the temple and hurt her. Someone she should have been able to trust. Her rescuers had been far kinder. A pair of renowned bounty hunters, Cad Bane and Jango Fett. They saw her as the scared and broken child she was rather than the threat she'd been treated as. 

"I lost trust in the council a long time ago. Blamed myself for what happened," she breathed in response; a pained chuckle escaped her lips upon seeing the confusion written across Wolffe's bruised features. "If it wasn't for the efforts of Master Plo and a few others. I likely wouldn't be civil with the majority of them," admitted (Y/N), although refusing to relive what happened all those years ago by talking about it. Not that she could. Chancellor Palpatine had locked all files about the incident and her life before the Jedi. Reasoning it was for her own safety and to prevent what happened repeating again. 

Series Masterlist

[mr-carraways-letters]

The End of Gatsby

(third person OOC)

TWs / CWs beneath cut

TW: death, blood/gore, guns

Nick knew it would happen. He’d heard rumors while he was speaking to Daisy on the phone - apparently Tom had convinced Mr. Wilson to put out some sort of hit on Gatsby. On top of all of that, there was The Book.

So, he’d called off work, and he’d spent his day crouching on his porch and watching Gatsby swim. His love had been avoiding him since the luncheon - something about it ‘hurting less’. Nick didn’t care. It was rather creepy, his spying on Jay, now that he thought of it, but…it would be worth it, he told himself.

The sun was setting by the time he was shaken out of his thoughts by the rustling of some early-fall leaves on Gatsby’s yard. He looked up to see the portly man from the garage in the valley of ashes sneaking up to the bushes that lined Jay’s pool, holding a pistol at his side. It trembled in his grip.

Nick stood ramrod straight and began to run over into Gatsby’s yard.

Mr. Wilson's grip on the gun was tight. He was a bit frightened of it, but his anger over Myrtle's apparent betrayal overpowered whatever fear he had. As Nick ran up to him from across the property, he lifted his head, looking over at him. A mixture of anger and surprise filled his expression, and he held the gun to the side, pointing it directly at Nick. "What do you want?" He spat, trying to still the shaking in his arms.

Nick held his hands up in surrender, slowing to a stop. He could see the pistol shaking in Wilson's grip and figured he wasn't much of a shot. "I want to talk. Put the gun down, Mr. Wilson." He said quietly, keeping his eyes on the unstable man. He didn’t need Gatsby seeing or hearing any of this. If he could just override Gatsby’s fate before he even realized-

Mr. Wilson tilted his head to the side. There were tears of anguish, grief, and anger spilling from his eyes. “I don't know if I should trust you. You're friends with the man who stole my wife, aren't you?" He asked, pressing the pistol up to Nick's chest. He could hear the water sloshing from Gatsby's pool, the man seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Nick took a shaky breath.

“Stole your- what? Gatsby didn’t-“ Mr. Wilson scoffed. He was sick of the lies. "He took her. My Myrtle, my darling." He sniffled, but his grip on the pistol did not waver. "He took her from me, he slept with her, and then he fucking killed her! Like a dog! I know you're trying to cover for him. I know it was him. God sees everything, Mr. Carraway.”

Nick shook his head. “I-I’m not covering for him! “ He hissed. “He wasn’t the one who-��

Before he could finish, though, Wilson had turned and pointed the revolver at Gatsby, who was hauling himself up onto the side of the pool.

“No!” Nick found himself shouting, diving at the man. Wilson yelled out in surprise as Nick dived at him, sending them both to the ground.

The revolver went off with a BANG, bullet shooting into the evening sky.

The two men grappled, but somehow, Wilson managed to keep upright, still trying to aim. He seemed to be stronger, despite his age, as well as the fact that he was driven by anger and adrenaline.

At the sound of the gunshot, Gatsby stood up from the side of the pool, staring wide-eyed towards the men. Nick tried to grab at the revolver, and it pointed to the ground, at his leg. Before he knew it, two quick shots rang out, and pain erupted through his leg. He screamed, nearly falling, but managing to look up at Jay. Their eyes met, and he remembered what he was fighting for.

Nick reached for the gun, but-

BANG!

A shot rang out, and Jay stumbled back, clutching at his lower stomach. He fell to his knees, clutching at his stomach with a pained cry that almost sounded like a dying animal. Blood spilled out of the wound, staining the pale blue of his swimsuit.

Nick screamed. He didn’t know what he said. He didn’t know much of anything, right now - everything was falling apart right in front of him, his whole world.

Wilson gave a yell as he looked between the two injured men, his hand gripping the gun in a desperate attempt to regain control. He was breathing heavily, tears staining his face as he tried to bring the pistol up again.

Nick looked up at Wilson, but couldn’t get a word out before the gun fired again, this time striking Jay in the chest. Nick yelped, watching as his friend toppled backwards into the pool.

Wilson didn't notice, his eyes glued to the gun, where the smoke from the barrel came away in wisps. "Oh... oh God..." He whispered, looking up at Nick. He looked shocked, surprised, and scared. Nick was trembling, having fallen to the ground. He held his leg, where it was bleeding in two places. “What did you do..?” He whispered. Nick took a shuddering breath, trying to pull himself up to go after Gatsby. “What did you-?!”

BANG!

Nick watched helplessly as Wilson’s body crumbled to the ground, his head nothing but a mess of gore. He’d…he’d shot himself.

He felt sick. Nick stared in shock, his head beginning to ache from all the blood loss. He slowly crawled towards the pool, trying to ignore the body of the man who had nearly killed him.

"J... Jay?" His voice sounded a bit slurred. In the dimming evening light, he could clearly make out the blood that was staining the water of the pool.

A dark form rested on the bottom. Nick didn’t hesitate - he dove in, opening his eyes beneath the water and kicking through the pain.

He reached the bottom in a moment and grasped Jay under the arm. His head swirling and lungs burning, he tugged him up to the surface and began to paddle towards the steps into the pool. His leg felt like it was on fire, but he had to disregard that.

Weakly, he tugged his lover’s limp form up the stairs until he lay outside the pool. He pressed his hands against the wounds. “Jay. Jay Gatsby-“ Gatsby's pale skin was wet, his hair sticking to his forehead due to the water. He was completely unresponsive, the only motion coming from the blood that continued to spill from the wounds.

Nick felt faint. He'd lost a lot of blood, and so had Gatsby. He wasn't sure what to do, but he was growing more and more worried as he tried to apply pressure to Gatsby's wounds. Nick finally felt tears gathering in his eyes.

“Jay? Jay, come on-“ he gasped, shaking him a little. “Please, no, no, Jay-“ There was no response. Nick's vision was beginning to grow fuzzy, and he felt more and more like he was going to collapse. The adrenaline and the blood loss were getting to him, and the tears were distorting his vision. “No!” He screamed. “Jay! JAY! Wake up, you- somebody call an ambulance!” Nick cried, praying someone could hear.

Nobody responded to his call. They were alone. He could barely see anything now, his body beginning to lose its strength. He slumped over on top of Gatsby, ignoring the pain as he placed one hand on the other man's chest and the other on his cheek. “No, nonono…” He whispered, sobbing against him. Belatedly, he realized Gatsby’s eyes were still open. Those beautiful blue eyes. As blue as the sound itself.

Choking on his own tears, he reached up and closed them. Nick closed his eyes, and he almost found himself imagining that they were somewhere else. Perhaps in his cottage. Relaxing on Jay’s beach. London. Paris. Berlin.

He could hear himself whispering, soft and broken.

"Wake up, Jay." No answer came.

The last thing Nick saw before succumbing to the darkness was a butler staggering down the steps, likely having heard his cry from across the estate.

[thats-by-the-by]

Rescue Party

This fic is crossposted on Ao3, find it here. Mind the tags

The rain shouldn't feel as much of an omen as it does.

It's London, rain is as common as foul-weather friend is. The days are more often clouded than clear, and the battering of rooftops are lullabies to the youngest citizens of the city. The rain is a friend who knows just how much misery loves company. It drags you down with it. Condemns you to waterlogged streets and leaky alleys. It's as common as wood on a fire. As fleas on a dog.

The rain is not an omen.

He promised Betty that he would bring Tommy home, that no matter what, he would make sure that her children have their father back. Tommy - the eldest of the children he took in. His first ward. Who had named his children after Jacob and his family. Tommy, who had been a pain in his backside since the Rooks were founded. Who had broken Charlie out of Lambeth Asylum.

Tommy, who has two newborn babies waiting for him at home.

Freddie stands outside the final building they're going to check - a run down set of apartments that haven't been inhabited for the better part of a decade now. Whitechapel is a cesspool of crimes and violence, and this building has all the trademarks of it. Broken and boarded windows, pockmarked walls with bullets and blood still stuck to it, even as the rain slowly drains away the blood. Mold and mildew growing on the wooden door frames. The owner clearly hasn't been here in a while, and not even the bravest - or coldest - of the homeless population go inside.

Jacob's past this building a thousand times. He's watched it grow more dilapidated as the years have passed - from an abandoned set of flats, to a good place to squat, to something not even the insane would enter. Charlie was always fascinated by it, and Jacob remembers having to send Tommy to fetch Charlie and a few of his friends from the building at least once a week while they were growing up.

Freddie gives Jacob a pitying look, as though he already knows something. As though he's already given up hope. The others - his assassins, his initiates - huddle up behind him, seeking warmth with each other as the rain beats down heavier and heavier. Freddie jerks his head to the side, opening the door for the group to enter while they talk.

"I want you to know what you're walking in to, Jacob." Freddie says softly.

"You've been inside?"

"I haven't." Freddie looks distraught. "But people have been watching this house for nearly a week now - two men entered, and only one left. Covered in blood. One of your boys isn't around anymore."

"He might still be alive." Jacob denies, denies, denies. Tommy isn't dead. Charlie isn't dead. Freddie gives him a pitying look, though he sighs. "Freddie, he might-"

"I know." Freddie steps through the door. "Let's get this over with. Jacob, how do you want to do this?"

"I'll search the top floor with you, the rest of you need to pair up and search together, okay? No one walks alone." Hopefully, they aren't too late. Hopefully they haven't lost one of their number - even if Tommy refused to say the creed, refused to wear the hood. Even if Tommy was more Rook then Assassin, he's one of theirs.

It isn't lost on anyone that the building is silent.

[kenziedrawz]

Malfunction.

- A Ruikasa g/t fic - cross posted on AO3 -

fic underneath the cut. - 2,106 words

Rui quickly locked the bathroom door behind him, muttering an apology to whatever students who would want to do their business or whatever. Thankfully it was empty when he went inside, otherwise he didn't know what he'd do. He placed a collar shaped device onto the counter, how had it broken? He was sure that it worked fine this morning. So there should have been no issues! But, either way, his regulator had broken. And that was very bad, because without it he couldn't control his abilities.

His body already felt tight, he knew that he should try to calm down but he just couldn't right now.

But when did it break? Why did it break? He didn't know, but he had to fix it as soon as possible. He dug through his pockets to try and find a tool, any tool, but his rapid search turned up fruitless as he realized he left his tools on the rooftop. On the rooftop, with Tsukasa. Tsukasa, who surely must be very confused because he just bolted out of the roof top.

He felt sorry for suddenly ditching the blond with no explanation, but this was an emergency. One so grave that if he didn't fix the problem he might destroy the school, or be seen as a gigantic monster by everyone he knows. He stared down at the faulty latch of the collar, he was fucked.

Either he miraculously found a screwdriver in his pocket or he had to keep a grip on his form long enough to go back up to the roof top to get the one he left on the rooftop. And that meant he had to confront Tsukasa. But what would Tsukasa think? Would he call him a monster? Would he kick him out of Wonderlands x Showtime? Would he just simply not believe him?

God, he needed to calm down. the counter was already drifting away from him.

Unfortunately, he didn't find a screwdriver.

He was screwed.

His head hit the ceiling, reminding him of his current problem. Right, he just needs to calm down... but how could he when his secret, his very big secret, was in danger of being revealed? He just couldn't, but maybe he could keep calm enough to not destroy the bathroom? Yeah, yeah he could probably do that. He took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly.

There was a knock on the door, was it a teacher? No, it was much worse. " Rui? Are you alright?" Tsukasa's voice rang from the other side of the bathroom door, concern in the blond's tone. He should have known that Tsukasa would eventually follow him, he must have seen Rui enter the bathroom. Crap, this was bad.

" I- I'm fine, Tsukasa-kun." Rui replied, quieting his voice so it would sound normal. Tsukasa must have picked up on the anxious strain in his voice as the blond didn't leave. Damn it, why was his star so stubborn?

" You don't sound fine, Rui." Tsukasa replied, Rui could just imagine Tsukasa's puffed cheeks and stern hands on hips pose. The thought made him internally chuckle, it was cute, but he still didn't shrink. " Do you need help? Can I come in?"

" No- I mean- I'm fine, I can handle this by myself." Rui hastily answered, hoping that Tsukasa would take the hint and hopefully give him some time alone to calm down. But unfortunately, He didn't hear Tsukasa walk away. Maybe Rui could retreat to the SEKAI if things got bad? No, Tsukasa could still follow him there and find out.

Wait, did he even have his phone on him? If he didn't... Well, then he was even more screwed. He couldn't call his parents or text Nene to bring him a screwdriver.

The door was opening, he forgot that this bathroom's main door was easy to get open even if it was locked. Tsukasa was going to see him, fuck, no no no no no no no-

" Rui, I'm coming in to help you whether you want my help or not!-" Tsukasa froze as he stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The blond stared up to meet Rui's panicked gaze, his amber eyes slightly widened. Rui was prepared for him to scream, to try and run away, to faint dramatically. But he really wasn't prepared for what Tsukasa actually did.

The blond took a deep breath, holding his hands in front of his face in a prayer motion before he lowered them with an exhale. " Okay, this isn't the weirdest thing I've seen." The blond muttered under his breath before looking back up at Rui. " So, how'd this happen?" Tsukasa asked.

" You... aren't afraid?" Rui asked, staring down at Tsukasa with confusion and curiosity. 

" Well, this isn't the weirdest thing I've ever seen." Tsukasa said with a shrug. " Considering that we've been stranded on an island before, and the whole world made from my feelings that exists this isn't actually the strangest thing that could have happened." He explained. Rui let out a sigh of relief, thanking whatever gods there were that Tsukasa didn't seem to be afraid of him.

Silence hung between them, whether it was comfortable or not is debatable. It was almost peaceful until Tsukasa spoke up again, inching closer to the gigantic director. " So, to restate my question from earlier, how exactly did this happen Rui?" The blond asked, staring up at the other man.

This made Rui panic a little, what would he do? would he tell Tsukasa the truth? Or would he lie to the troupe leader? Would Tsukasa be scared of him if he told him the truth? Or would he be accepting? These questions swirled in Rui's mind like an endless whirlpool of anxiety, one that only calmed when he felt Tsukasa's tiny hand brush against his knuckles. God, Tsukasa was so tiny compared to him, one wrong move could send him flying through a wall or worse.

So Rui did the best thing he thought he could do in this situation, avoid the question. 

" Nevermind that Tsukasa-kun,  I'll tell you later." Rui lied, or well, it was more of a half lie. Rui still didn't know if he wanted yo tell Rui the truth yet, he honestly hoped that the blond would forget that Rui was supposed to tell him later. " But for now, could you help me a bit?" He asked.

Tsukasa looked up at him, their height difference bigger than it had ever been before as the small blond nodded. Tsukasa's hand was still on his knuckle, hell, he'd even began stroking his knuckle as if he were petting a dog. Rui's heart fluttered at the sight and he swore that he shrunk down a bit. No, he definitely shrunk down a bit. " Rui! You're- You're shrinking now?" Tsukasa said with a surprised gasp, it must have been a significant size change then.

" It- It's a side effect." Rui lied again, the fear of Tsukasa running away ever present in his tone. He felt the urge to hold onto Tsukasa to prevent the blond from running away if he decided to, but that would make them both panic. And not to even mention how he could accidentally hurt Tsukasa. It was a bad idea all in all. He looked down again, seeing the concern in Tsukasa's eyes as the blond gazed up at him. Oh- right, and he was still caressing his knuckle ever so gently. The actions of the blond were still somehow strangely calming, as if he was a flower of lavender being held close to him. Then again Tsukasa isn't purple.

Wait. He was supposed to be doing something, right? Oh yeah, his regulator.

" Tsukasa-kun, you didn't happen to bring down any of my screwdrivers, did you?" He asked the blond, who was still much smaller than him. You wouldn't believe the sigh of relief he let out when Tsukasa nodded. " Could you hand it to me? I know that it might seem that I'd be clumsy with these large hands of mine, but I have a precise hand, fufu~" Rui smiled when Tsukasa handed him the screwdriver, he held it in his fingers for a few seconds in order to get the best possible grip on it before he plucked the collar from the counter. He eyed the latch carefully as he brought the screwdriver to it. He got to work on the latch. And if the author knew how to write about Rui fixing the latch, then they would absolutely do that, but they don't.

After Rui had fixed the latch, he stared down at the collar in his hand. He just needed to shrink down in order to put it on. But he was still nervous. So with a sigh he placed the device back onto the countertop, to Tsukasa's confusion. " Rui?" The blond asked, having found a nice spot to wait against Rui's ankle. Tsukasa had now moved from this position and had come closer to Rui himself. " Is something wrong?"

" Sorry, it's just... I won't be able to put it on unless I'm, y'know, regular sized again..." Rui explained, looking away from the blond. His attention was soon called back to Tsukasa however when he felt a tug on his cardigan, soon finding Tsukasa attempting the climb up the article of clothing. It was a cute sight to see, one that made Rui's heart swoon once more. It was like the little blond was climbing up a mountain, a mountain that could change size at any moment but still.

Soon, Tsukasa stood upon Rui's stomach, with Rui having to adjust himself slightly so Tsukasa wouldn't fall off. " Not to worry Rui! I will help you in anyway possible in order to restore your regular height!" Tsukasa proclaimed, it was a miracle that nobody had heard them. How thick were the bathroom walls anyways? Hopefully thick enough to conceal both their voices. He gave the blond boy a soft smile, already feeling a lot better.

And then he shrunk again, thus proven from a yelp by Tsukasa as the two fell to the floor. Tsukasa landed on top of the formerly gigantic director, who now only stood at around nine feet tall, almost knocking the wind out of the poor purple haired boy. " Are you alright Tsukasa-kun?" Rui asked, helping Tsukasa to a kneeling position on the ground by holding his shoulders. For a moment, Tsukasa's eyes looked like rapidly spinning yo-yo's before the blond shook his head to regain his focus.

" I'm fine!" Tsukasa replied, looking up at Rui. Rui hummed in reply, pulling the shorter in for a hug. The blond squeaked in surprise before reciprocating the cuddle semi-awkwardly before falling into it. It felt nice to be able to hold Tsukasa like this, with almost no worries. The tight feeling in his body had cooled down significantly, as it was no longer over taking each of his senses.

Of course, Rui Kamishiro can never have nice things since five seconds later he heard banging on the door. The first thought that came to his mind was to immediately hide. So he let go of the hug with Tsukasa, grabbing onto the blond's blazer pocket with one hand before instantly shrinking down enough to hide inside it. This of course, was a surprise to the blond who immediately gawked at Rui's sudden actions, of course, before Tsukasa could protest the teacher who'd been banging on the door moment's prior called out for them. Thus leaving Tsukasa to quickly scramble together a lie and hope that the teacher would believe it. Rui didn't really bother to listen to what the teacher and Tsukasa were saying, he was more focused on the comfort of Tsukasa's pocket.

It was nice, warm, and he could hear Tsukasa's heartbeat. It was also pretty dark though. He could hear Tsukasa getting scolded by the teacher for 'accidentally locking himself in the bathroom', poor Tsukasa, he'd certainly have to make it up to him later. Perhaps he could treat him some way? Take him on a date- friendly outing? Ah, right, he could only hope that Tsukasa took his regulator with him out of the bathroom as well. He could tell that by now they had left the bathroom because he could literally feel the vibrations that came with each of Tsukasa's steps. He could probably just fall asleep in here, Tsukasa wouldn't mind, right? The blond's blazer pocket simply had the downside of being too comfortable to resist the temptation. Tsukasa would probably wake him up for class...

probably.

[lilacxquartz]

love you, love you, love you;

mr. crawling x reader

plot: some things are best expressed without the need of words — themes: spooning/cuddling, smut, maybe yan vibes — w.c: 1.1k

a/n: my first homicipher related fic. i want to try one for mr. silvair & mr. gap next, bc they were also my favs. this game has been taking over my life so much lately. like it’s been in my dreams, haaah.

masterlist • ao3

Mr. Crawling was always loud when he was excited within your company; his laughter filled out the vast empty spaces that were otherwise unadorned with familiarity. Whatever you once sought from those winding corridors was ever-fleeting, temporary, leaving you stuck within the confines of his company.

Yet, when he felt what you could only interpret as affection—that’s when Mr. Crawling then became different—quiet, soothing, kind but also… curious.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more strained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.

Mr. Crawling would have always found a way to… connect with you.

[blank-potato]

Insomniacs with a z

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader x John Walker

Summary:

“Damn it, John, let go,” you whisper under your breath, carefully trying to pry one of his arms off your waist. No use. His super soldier strength is in full effect, and all you manage to do is shift the grip higher—great, now he’s got you in a chokehold. And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there. “Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited. Or You form the New Avengers' very first sleep sub-unit. You, John and Bob all struggle to sleep, so you sleep in the same bed together to help each other out. And it's definitely platonic.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, fluff, little angst, threesome, p in v, oral sex (female and male receiving), creampie, sex dream, John and Bob being cute

WC: 9.5k

A/N: Started this ages a while ago but finally finished it. I wrote this because who wouldn't wanna be in a John and Bob sandwich, and I feel like since it's May (Challengers month but every month is Challengers month imo) I need to write threesomes. And I love Sentryagent, Thunderbolts has brought back the multishipper in me. Enjoy!

***

Sleep was something that often escaped you. After the things you’ve done, the things you’ve seen, you’re surprised you sleep at all. It’s like your mind refuses to shut down, always racing, always bracing for something that never comes. Like there's a part of you that's always on watch, never letting you fully rest unless your body gives in from pure exhaustion.

So here you are again, wide awake at god-knows-what hour, standing in the kitchen in your sweats, staring into the fridge like it’s going to offer you something other than the same sad leftovers and a questionable bottle of juice. You close it. Two and a half seconds later, you open it again.

You pace. Open a cabinet. Close it. Lean against the counter. Wander to the sink. Insomnia’s a bitch. The hum of the fridge is loud in the quiet of the night, and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet is the only rhythm to your restless routine.

“What are you doing up?” a voice asks from behind you.

You turn to see John standing in the doorway, looking tired, his old white army shirt wrinkled, hair an adorable mess (not that you’d ever say that out loud). His expression is soft, caught somewhere between concern and exhaustion.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say, shrugging. “Staring at my ceiling was starting to drive me crazy. What about you?”

John exhales deeply, like he’s carrying the weight of something heavy. “Same. Too much on my mind.”

“Feel free to join me,” you say, hopping onto the counter next to him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just moves around the kitchen trying to get his bearings. You sit on the counter, watching him as he searches the cabinets.

You never quite knew what it was. It wasn’t anything obvious, just something about seeing him like this, all comfy in his pyjamas. You liked it more than you probably should.

"You're staring," He says, snapping you back to your senses.

"Am not."

“Are too,” he replies smugly, finally retrieving a jar from the cabinet like he just found buried treasure.

“You’re such a child,” you say, rolling your eyes, though you’re smiling despite yourself.

“And yet, here you are. Watching me like I’m the last man on Earth who knows how to make a sandwich,” He says, going over to the fridge to grab bread. 

“I’m just making sure you don’t burn the kitchen down,” you lie, folding your arms.

“With peanut butter?” John questions, eyebrow quirked up. 

“You never know.”

He rolls his eyes at you and tosses his bread in the toaster as he goes to try to find the jam for his PB&J.

Just then, there's a quiet creak, the unmistakable sound of someone stepping into the kitchen. You and John both glance over to see Bob walk in, clearly not realising anyone else is there yet. He grabs a glass, eyes still adjusting to the light, then turns around. 

He stops in his tracks when he sees the two of you. His hair’s sticking up like he’d just rolled out of bed, and he's holding his empty glass like he’s just been caught stealing. In an instant, his powers kick in, the glass shattering in his hand. 

“Oh shit, I’ll…” Bob blurts, immediately rushing to pick up the broken glass with his hands.

John’s on the move before the words even finish leaving Bob’s mouth, already halfway across the kitchen, when he heard the glass break. “Be careful, you’ll hurt yourself—”

“I can’t get cut, remember?” Bob says with a small grin, crouched and collecting the shards like it’s no big deal.

John hesitates, hand still extended like he might intercept him anyway. He often forgot just how strong Bob actually was, it wasn’t something he ever led with. Something about the way he carried himself made you want to protect him, even if he was as strong as a God. Same for the rest of the team, probably.

“Still…” John mutters, his concern clinging stubbornly to the edge of his voice, even if it had no real argument to stand on.

You hop off the counter, bare feet, making a quick dash to the broom closet. “What are you even doing awake, Bob?”

“My mind was too busy. Plus, I’m kind of hungry,” he replies, tossing the glass shards in the bin. You start sweeping up the remnants of glass left on the floor when you get an idea. 

“Wanna have a midnight snack?” you offer.

“It’s 3 a.m.,” John cuts in, after glancing at his watch. 

You flash him a quick grin. “Wanna have a 3 a.m. snack?”

Bob nods, his grin matching yours now. You make quick work of sweeping up any remaining glass on the floor, and the two of you start raiding the fridge like a pair of delinquents. John watches from the side, towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed. He rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest curve of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I swear, the two of you are going to be the death of me.”

There’s a beat of silence as you and Bob settle on cereal, clinking spoons against mismatched bowls.

“Do you smell that?” Bob asks, nose wrinkling slightly.

There’s a very distinct burning smell filling the room, thick and bitter.

“The toast,” John grumbles, fingers running through his hair. 

“I told you,” you gloat with a smug grin, watching as he rushes to the toaster.

He yanks the lever up and pulls out what is no longer a slice of bread but a small, blackened slab of charcoal.

“It’s cremated,” Bob says through a mouthful of cereal, casually stabbing another spoonful into his mouth.

John just sighs in defeat.

“Just join us in having cereal,” you tell him, nudging the box toward him with a smirk.

“Fine,” he grumbles, grabbing a bowl. Eventually, the three of you relocate to the couch, cereal bowls in hand, because the counters weren’t exactly comfortable, and the kitchen still smelled like a small appliance fire.

“So… what’s keeping you both up tonight?” you ask, nestled between them on the couch.

John answers first, his voice monotone. “The usual.”

The usual being everything he never says out loud, all his regrets, everything he’s lost, everyone he’s lost. All the weight he still carries. It’s been quite some time since the divorce, but he still hasn’t quite gotten used to sleeping alone, constantly tossing and turning, wanting someone to be there.

Bob chimes in, “Same. The usual.”

His mind was always too awake at night, too weak and susceptible to slipping back into the darkness. It was impossible for him not to think about everything that haunted him. He was unbelievably touch-starved. He knew touch was one thing that could help soothe the restless chaos inside. Sleeping alone, just feeling the cold sheets on his skin, only made the emptiness grow louder and kept him up.

You raise an eyebrow. “What an open group we have here.”

John glances over. “What about you, then?”

You hesitate, staring down at your cereal for a beat, then sigh. “The usual…”

The silence that follows is oddly comforting. Each of you lost in your thoughts, shoulders brushing lightly, grounded only by the shared sound of quiet crunching. You all finish your cereal, the moment hanging in the air like a soft exhale.

Bob stands, collecting the empty bowls. “I’ll wash these.”

“Are you guys going back to bed?” you ask, stretching slightly as you glance between them.

John shrugs, sinking further into the couch. “I’ll stay here for a bit…”

Bob returns a few moments later from the kitchen and flops down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Same.”

The three of you start shuffling around on the couch until everyone finds a spot that feels comfortable, John leaning back with his feet on the coffee table, Bob sitting close enough that your knees touch, and you tucked between them like the final puzzle piece. From there, the conversation seemed to flow, distracting you all from what was keeping you up at night. 

“I mean, you turned my shield into a taco,” John says, deadpan but with a slight edge. You’ve always known he was a little bitter about it. 

“I said I was sorry!” Bob defends himself, holding his hands up in mock surrender, “I was a different man then.”

You chuckle at their banter, head resting back against the cushion as their voices wrap around you like a blanket. The warmth of their presence, the soft glow of the living room, and the gentle rhythm of familiarity start to lull you to sleep.

You don’t even remember when your eyes close. Just the sound of them, bickering, laughing, still talking as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist.

***

You wake up the next morning, so well rested, you’d think you slept on a bed of clouds and dreams. 

John’s arms are draped loosely around your waist, his fingers just barely brushing your skin beneath the hem of your shirt. Bob’s head rests gently on your shoulder, his breath soft and warm against your neck, making you shiver even as you smile sleepily.

The sun is barely peeking through the curtains, casting a soft golden hue over the quiet living room.

You know you can’t stay here forever, so with great care and a ridiculous amount of flexibility, you begin to untangle yourself from their limbs. 

You pause once or twice as Bob shifts slightly or John murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep, but they don’t wake. 

It isn’t as easy as you’d think it’d be, especially once you realise you’re caught in a trap. John’s arms tighten around you in his sleep like you’re some kind of oversized teddy bear he refuses to part with.

“Damn it, John, let go,” you whisper under your breath, carefully trying to pry one of his arms off your waist. No use. His super soldier strength is in full effect, and all you manage to do is shift the grip higher—great, now he’s got you in a chokehold.

And as if the universe hadn’t punished you enough for choosing this sleepover, Bob snuggles closer behind you. You feel the warm tickle of his breath against your neck as his nose nudges into your hair, his arm casually thrown across your side like it belongs there.

“Not you too,” you mutter, eyebrows furrowing as you attempt to wiggle free. But with John locked on one side and Bob clinging to you like a sleepy koala, your options are severely limited.

It takes at least fifteen minutes before you finally manoeuvre your way out of the human bear trap that is your two oblivious teammates.

Once you’re out, you decide to have a little fun. You gently lift Bob’s head and nestle it against John's shoulder, shifting John's arm so it's draped protectively over Bob. The sight almost makes you stay.

Finally, you tuck a blanket around the two of them and step back, admiring your work with a sleepy smile. They looked peaceful. Safe.

You leave the room quietly, knowing full well someone, maybe Yelena or Bucky, would be the first to stumble in and find the two of them cuddled up like that.

They wake up hours later, the distant hum of activity signalling it’s definitely already afternoon.

“Walker?” Bob murmurs groggily, his voice rough with sleep, as he blinks at the ceiling. Then he turns his head and freezes, feeling John’s arm slung comfortably across his waist.

They both jolted upright like someone had hit a panic button.

“Nothing happened,” John says immediately, running a hand through his hair, eyes wide.

“Obviously,” Bob replies, a bit too fast, already scooting to the far end of the couch.

But any attempt at saving face is promptly ruined when Ava walks by with a mug in hand and a wicked grin.

“You two make a cute pair,” she teases without slowing, not even sparing them a second glance as she disappears down the hall.

They sit there for a beat, stunned, before Bob mutters, “Please tell me no one took pictures.”

John groans, rubbing his face. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

***

The next few nights are tough. Worse than jetlag, worse than missions, worse than running on three hours of sleep and no espresso. You toss and turn like your sheets are made of sandpaper, pillow doing nothing to muffle the ache of absence beside you. You wanted to ask them, just once, to sleep beside you again. Just to see if it would help. Just to see if it meant anything.

But how were you supposed to do that? Knock on their door and go, "Sleep with me!"?

Mortifying.

Still, the restlessness was eating away at your nerves. So, gathering all the courage you can possibly muster, you decide maybe, just maybe, you’d go to both of their rooms and… ask. Or not ask. Maybe just stand there awkwardly until they read your mind.

You stumble out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and go to open your door—only to stop short at the sight of a tall brunette swaying nervously right in front of it, arm halfway raised to knock.

“Bob?” you whisper, blinking.

He jumps slightly, caught red-handed. “Oh… hey.”

You tilt your head, heart thudding. “What are you doing out here?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I was just… walking. Or, not really. Thinking. Or maybe… not sleeping.”

You smile, because yeah, you know exactly what that’s like. “Same.”

There’s a pause. The moment stretches, as you both tiptoe around the same thought. Then, finally, you take the leap.

“So do you… wanna stay in here?”

Bob’s eyes flick up to yours, and his smile is small, but relieved.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Both of you lie next to each other on your bed, talking about nothing and everything. It feels more comfortable, and you can feel your body starting to relax a bit. 

But ten minutes later, there’s a knock on your door. You and Bob exchange a look, and you walk over to your door to see John standing there. He looks as tired as you are, eyes rimmed red, posture slack, like sleep has been eluding him for days.

John notices Bob already there, sitting cross-legged on your bed, half-wrapped in one of your throw blankets.

“I’m interrupting, aren’t I? I can—”

“Stay. Please, it’s okay. The more the merrier,” you say quickly, stepping aside. You were happy to see him, and judging by the soft smile tugging at Bob’s lips, so was he.

“So, I’m assuming you’re both here to sleep with me,” you start, watching as they both sit down on either side of you. They pause. Blink. The silence stretches, thick with implication.

“Well, you know what I mean,” you clarify, cheeks heating. “Sleep next to me. Next to each other in a totally platonic and cool friend way.”

“Yeah, like that…” John says, nodding way too seriously. “I actually slept really well when we crashed on the couch the other day, so…”

“Same,” Bob adds. “I… haven’t really slept since then. Not like real sleep.”

You look between the two of them, then glance at your bed.

“So… how are we all going to fit?”

There’s a beat of silence before John offers, “I’ll take the edge.”

“I don’t mind an edge either,” Bob shrugs. “Unless you want it.”

“I want pillows, that’s what I want,” you say, flopping backwards across the bed. “We’ll make it work.”

And somehow, you do. There's a bit of shifting, a tangle of limbs and blankets, someone’s foot ending up in the wrong place and being shoved off with a muttered complaint. You’re in a Bob and John sandwich, and it’s actually very comfortable. Just knowing that you didn’t have to fall asleep alone did more for you than you thought it would.

You smile to yourself and relax, the warmth of them on either side soothing you more than any blanket ever could.

“Are you guys asleep?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bob lets out a soft, “No,” and John follows with a groggy, “I was.”

“I thought of a name for us. We’re ‘insomniacs… with a z,’’ Good right?” you whisper with a grin, and though you can’t see his face in the dark, you know John rolled his eyes at that.

“You need to go to sleep,” Bob murmurs, leaning into you, his voice low and full of fondness.

You hum in response, already halfway to unconsciousness again, feeling his hand settle gently on your waist while John’s leg brushes yours under the covers.

***

For the next few nights, the three of you fall into an unspoken routine. Cramming into your bed, trading dumb jokes and half-whispered stories until sleep takes over. It’s oddly comforting. Easy. You've never slept better.

Sometimes when you’d walk in, John and Bob would already be there, lying next to each other, leaving just enough space for you, but close enough that their legs touched under the blanket. You saw it even if they didn’t. The way Bob’s shoulders relaxed just a little more when John was near. The way John’s usually guarded face softened around him. Bob’s quiet glances when he thought no one was looking. John’s compulsive need to take care of him, even in the smallest ways, like adjusting the blanket around Bob’s shoulders or handing him a snack before he could ask for one.

You even caught John absentmindedly running his fingers through Bob’s hair once, his other hand resting casually on your shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, for the three of you, it was.

It was your little (not-so-secret) secret. Until one morning when Bucky catches you all red-handed. 

He rounds the corner, coffee mug in hand, just in time to catch John and Bob exiting your room. They're both rumpled and sleepy-eyed, Bob rubbing the back of his neck, John trying to quietly shut your door.

They both freeze when they see him.

Bucky raises an eyebrow, lips already twitching.

“It really isn’t what it looks like,” John says quickly, holding up his hands like he’s surrendering.

Bucky takes a slow sip from his mug, never breaking eye contact. “And I’m really not sure I want to know, Walker.”

Bob makes a small noise of protest, like he wants to clarify something, but then thinks better of it.

“But whatever helps you sleep at night,” Bucky deadpans, walking past them.

John takes a breath while Bob chokes on air.

Trying to eat breakfast after that was… an ordeal, to say the least. Ava was in the kitchen, minding her business but clearly listening, her facial expressions and raised brows doing all the talking. And Alexei (of course) was making himself at home, throwing not-so-subtle glances your way that made you want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Alexei comments casually, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Young people need warmth. Back in my day, we shared beds all the time for survival.”

“Right,” you mutter, pushing cereal around in your bowl.

“Nothing brings people closer than shared body heat,” he continues. 

“Ugh…” you groan, dropping your spoon. But all this was worth it. You needed them in your bed… for completely platonic reasons. Obviously.

That night, you open the door to see John already leaning against the frame like he owns the place.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” you say with mock grandeur, stepping aside to let him in.

John heads straight to your bed, dropping onto it like it's his. He leans back, gets comfortable, then pauses—his brow furrowing.

“Have you been eating cookies in here?”

“…No,” you lie, a little too quickly.

John shifts, brushing a hand across the blanket with exaggerated suspicion. “I can feel the crumbs,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes, not wanting to hear the full lecture. “Okay, maybe one cookie. Or maybe it was more like… four.”

John sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly fighting the urge to launch into a full monologue about hygiene and cookie crumbs.

“I’m not sleeping in your cookie-infested bed,” he mutters, shooting you a look. “Couldn’t you have, I don’t know, used a plate instead of just rawdogging it with your comforter?”

“Who takes a plate of cookies to bed?” you argue, arms crossed, as if this is a totally reasonable lifestyle choice.

John just stares at you. “People who respect baked goods and their sheets,” he rebuts dryly, rubbing his temple like you’re this close to giving him a headache. “When Bob gets here, we’ll just go to my room instead.”

But ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.

And still—no Bob.

You glance at the clock, then at John. “Think we should check on him?” you ask, the teasing drained from your voice now.

You were both beyond concerned.

Something wasn’t right.

John nods, and you follow behind him in silence, heart tight in your chest, hoping Bob’s alright.

“Bob? Are you in there?” John calls out, knocking once, then again, louder this time. But there’s no response.

He tries the handle. Unlocked.

Pushing the door open, you’re met with a rush of cold air. The window had been left wide open, the curtains fluttering slightly in the night breeze. The room is dim, quiet, and strangely still.

Then you see it—a Bob-shaped lump curled in the corner, knees drawn in, arms wrapped around himself like he’s trying to hold something in… or keep everything else out.

“Bob?” you say gently, voice soft but urgent, as you and John step carefully inside.

He doesn’t move. Still cradled in the same position. Shoulders tight. Breathing shallow.

The two of you lower yourselves to the floor, sitting near but not too close, not wanting to spook him, not wanting to leave him alone either.

“I’m fine,” Bob says after a long silence. His voice is thin. Flat. The kind of “fine” that clearly means anything but.

“This doesn’t look fine,” John replies quietly, a mix of concern and frustration in his voice.

You take in his dishevelled form—hair messy and clinging to his forehead, eyes wet with tears that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away. His whole body looks like it’s holding something heavy, like whatever’s going on inside him is too much to carry alone.

“You can tell us when you’re ready,” you say gently, your voice steady despite the ache building in your chest. “But we’re not leaving you alone.”

“We’ll stay on the floor with you all night if we have to,” John adds, firm and honest, with no hesitation.

Bob looks between the two of you, eyes wide and shining, like the idea of someone staying is new and almost too much to believe.

“You don’t understand…” he whispers, voice cracking. “If I lose control... I don’t hurt just me. I hurt everyone.”

Bob closes his eyes, and the memories hit him like a freight train—what happened in New York flashing through his mind as vividly as if it were happening again. He can still hear the screams, the panic in the streets, the chaos he caused. What he became. The helplessness of knowing that at any moment, it could all slip again. He could become that thing. And there’d be no undoing it.

“Bob,” you say gently, grounding him, your voice pulling him back from the edge.

His glassy eyes flutter open to the sight of you and John. He could see that you cared, more than he was used to. 

“If you lose control,” you continue, steady and unwavering, “every single one of us will be here to bring you back.”

“This will never be something you have to fight on your own. Never again,” John says, his voice thick with conviction.

And that’s when Bob breaks.

The weight he’s been carrying finally cracks, and he collapses into John’s arms, sobbing, raw and unfiltered. He reaches for your hand, grip tightens around it as soon as you find it. 

You stay there, the three of you, only the sound of Bob’s soft, trembling breaths audible. No one rushes him. No one lets go.

By the time you’re all finally drifting into sleep, slouched against each other on the floor, the first light of morning is creeping through the window.

***

The next day is a lot brighter.

The whole team is sent out on a mission that almost goes smoothly, if you don’t count the narrowly avoided international incident and the flaming jeep that somehow ended up in a fountain. But no one’s seriously hurt, and considering the usual chaos, that’s practically a win.

By the time you all make it back to the tower, bones are aching, eyes are heavy, and moods are dangerously close to cranky.

Then someone smells it.

Food. Real food.

The delicious scent winds through the hallways. The team practically floats toward the kitchen on instinct, lured like cartoon characters by the promise of actual food.

You spot Bob at the stove, apron slightly crooked, sleeves rolled up, a little flushed from the heat. You rush over to him, ruffling his hair without hesitation.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, smiling.

“I felt better today,” Bob says, glancing at you shyly, then smiling a little more freely. “So… I thought this might help. Everyone seemed like they needed something good.”

His eyes flick briefly to John, who’s leaning against the doorway, watching with soft approval.

“Well, thank you. We really appreciate it,” John says. “Plus, it’s definitely better than whatever the hell Alexei made last week.”

Alexei pipes up from the table, “It was fusion.”

“It was a war crime,” Ava mutters.

Everyone laughs, the tension melting into the kind of easy camaraderie that doesn’t come often, but when it does, it means something.

The whole time you eat, you feel it, that strange warmth in your chest, like a string pulled gently taut between the three of you. You catch yourself looking forward to nightfall in a way you never used to.

Like clockwork, they enter your room that night, John with a tired smile, Bob already carrying a pillow under one arm like he’s making himself at home. You scoot over to make space as they settle in on either side of you.

“Can you both do something for me?” you ask softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Name it,” Bob replies without hesitation, already leaning closer.

“No judgment,” you say, a bit embarrassed, “but… can you run your fingers through my hair?”

There’s a beat of silence, then two sets of hands move almost simultaneously. No teasing. No questions. Just soft fingers brushing through your hair, careful and gentle.

You lean into their touch. Each stroke sends a calm shiver down your spine, melting tension from your body. You don’t mean to fall asleep, not that fast, but your eyes flutter shut and the weight of the day slips away before you even realise it.

“She’s been falling asleep a lot quicker lately,” John comments quietly, pulling the blanket up over you.

Bob nods, watching your steady breathing. “Yeah… think she just needed to feel safe.” His hand lingers for a moment, brushing a stray strand from your face before settling back. Then something happens that makes them question everything. 

You moan.

“Did you…?” John starts with a mix of hesitation and curiosity, but he’s cut off when you mumble in your sleep.

“John…” you whisper softly, dream-heavy and far too sweet.

Both of them freeze. Bob’s hand goes still on the blanket, and John stares at you like you just hit him with a truck. You continue, a few more unintelligible whimpers slipping out. They’re soft, needy little sounds that make both men immediately and awkwardly alert.

Your brows scrunch in your sleep, and then another mumble: “Bob…so good…”

Their hands are completely out of your hair now, as though it burned them. They exchange a wide-eyed look.

“What’s happening?” Bob says, whispering like the room itself might judge him.

“She’s dreaming,” John mutters back, blinking at you. “But… of what exactly?”

“She said both our names.”

“I know.” A pause. “Do you think we should wake her up?”

“No,” Bob cuts in quickly, eyes fixed on you, like you might say something even more incriminating. “We should let her sleep.”

They both sit stiffly now, backs straight, trying very hard to think about anything else as you sigh contentedly in your sleep, clearly having a very different kind of night than they are.

“Whatever it is,” John finally mutters, “it must be really good.”

“Walker…” Bob says, voice low and barely above a whisper.

“I’m just saying,” John mutters, lifting his hands in defence. The blonde’s ears were still pink, eyes wide. “I’ve never heard her make noises like that. That had to be… something.”

Bob runs a hand through his hair, clearly flustered. “Yeah, something. Something that included both of us.”

John sinks a little deeper into the mattress, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “That’s what I’m saying.”

You gasp softly in your sleep, a breathy “Holy shit…” slipping out before your voice finally fades into silence. Your breathing evens out, those needy little noises replaced by soft, peaceful snores.

They both freeze, eyes locked on you like you’re a live grenade in the middle of the bed.

And then, finally, you shift slightly and curl in, utterly unaware of the absolute panic you’ve left in your wake.

John exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s just… go to bed.”

“Goodnight, Walker,” Bob says, still sounding dazed.

They lay back down, each careful not to touch you or each other as if contact might electrocute them. They eventually fall asleep, but their minds? Nowhere near quiet. And between the memories of your sleep-talking and the unanswered questions hanging thick in the air, it ends up being the most uncomfortable restful night either of them has had.

***

The blankets rustle and shift, and you move closer to the two of them, shuffling about as you fight to get comfy.

“You need to stop moving,” John grumbles, his voice gravely as he's already half-asleep.

“I’m just trying to get comfortable,” you argue, shuffling over to press against Bob, who whines in protest.

“You really do need to stop moving like that,” Bob chimes in, his voice a little breathy, not entirely annoyed.

John’s hand finds your hip, firm but gentle, holding you still. “John…” you whisper, suddenly aware of how close his body is pressed against your back.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Do you want this as much as we do?”

You look between the two of them and let out a soft, shaky breath. “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days, and then John’s lips are at your neck, slow and deliberate. Bob’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you.

“Can I?” he asks gently, his eyes searching yours.

“Yes, Bob…”, you reply, and he leans in, your lips meeting in a kiss that’s careful at first, but quickly deepens. It’s a little messy, a little desperate, like he’s been waiting too long to do this. Pulling back, you gasp softly, breath mingling in the space between you.

Looking up at both of them, your words are a whisper, “I need you so bad.”

Your pleas are interrupted as John’s hands climb up your shirt and under your bra. It’s like everything he did was made to make you fall apart.

As if you weren’t overwhelmed enough, you feel Bob’s lips on your neck. His tongue tracing patterns, his lips kissing your sensitive spots so hard that it makes your toes curl.

Then suddenly all the touches stop, and you find yourself trying to catch up to the shift in the air. You’re about to open your mouth and whine about it when you notice them looking at each other.

It’s charged and quiet, electric, even.

Then John’s hand lifts, tentative, almost hesitant, and his fingers curl into Bob’s hair, like he’s done it before, or thought about doing it a thousand times. He leans in, and they kiss. It’s entrancing, the way their bodies shift toward each other like magnets finally giving in to the pull.

You’re sure you saw tongue.

Watching them kiss was a once in a lifetime experience and the fact that it was happening on top of you, “Holy shit…” 

Was this heaven?

You wake up, still a little dazed from that crazy dream you had, but feeling refreshed nonetheless. But you can’t lie, you wanted (needed) to see the end of that dream, but life couldn’t be so easy.

As you start to shake off the haze, you’re expecting the usual warmth, an arm slung around your waist, maybe a leg tangled with yours. Instead, there's nothing but cold sheets and the sharp absence of closeness. Your hand stretches out and touches only air. You blink groggily and glance around to see both Bob and John at opposite ends of the bed, practically clinging to the edges like there’s a force field between them, and you.

You let out a big, unfiltered yawn, and both of them twitch. Like actual startled animals.

They exchange a glance above you, a rapid, silent conversation with widened eyes and furrowed brows before both sit up like someone just sounded an alarm.

“What’s up?” you ask, squinting at them suspiciously. “You two look like you just got caught doing something illegal.”

“N–nothing,” Bob stammers, eyes flicking to John, then back to the floor. “I should get going, though. Breakfast… cleaning… stuff.”

“Yeah, I’ve got training,” John says, not meeting your gaze either. “Mission later, gotta prep.”

“Guys?” you press, voice dipping slightly with confusion.

“I need to, uh, do some chores. Important chores. Early morning chores.” Bob’s words tumble out of his mouth clumsily as he untangles himself from your sheets. “I have to go.”

And just like that, they both bolt, practically tripping over each other in their haste to leave the room.

You're left blinking at the door, your head spinning.

“…What the hell just happened?” you mutter to no one.

Did you miss something? Or worse, did you do something?

Because whatever it was, they’re clearly spooked.

All day, they ignore you, and you’d never seen either of them act like this before.

John, who’s normally a chatterbox, could barely talk to you on the mission; it was like when it came to you, it was like he couldn’t even hear your voice. And Bob, sweet and usually glued to your side, sat across the room at dinner like being near you might set him on fire. Every time your eyes met, he looked away.

To make matters worse, they break their ‘Insomniacs with a z’ club commitment. You wait up at night, waiting for them to come, but they don’t. Midnight, 1 am, 2 am, and they’re still not here, so you lie down in your sheets on your cold and empty bed, trying to sleep. You can’t, though, it’s the first sleepless night in a while, and there’s no other reason than the fact that they’re not by your side. 

You wake up alone again and with a mood. It was one thing if they didn’t want to do it anymore, but to drop you with no explanation wasn’t fair.

You were practically a walking sigh at this point.

Moping in the kitchen, tragically stirring your cereal like it personally offended you.

Moping in the gym, aimlessly walking on the treadmill like your heartbreak was some dramatic indie film montage.

You even moped in the laundry room, staring into the dryer like it could somehow spin your problems away.

And Yelena had had it.

“You want to talk?” she asked finally, catching you mid-mope as you stood in the hallway holding a half-folded towel like it was a fragile relic of a better time. “Because this sad little ghost routine is killing the vibe around here.”

You groaned, dragging the towel dramatically over your face. “They don’t want to sleep with me anymore.”

Yelena blinked. “Wait, what?”

You lowered the towel. “No—I mean—not like that.”

She arched a brow.

“I mean like… they used to come into my room. And sleep. With me. Next to me. It was a whole thing. We’d talk, they’d run their fingers through my hair, but no funny business, and now? Nothing. They’re avoiding me like I’m radioactive.”

“Well,” Yelena says dryly, “There’s only one way to fix it.”

“…How?”

“Easy. Corner them. Trap them. Use emotional honesty and eye contact. Or—if that fails—lock them in a room until they start talking like adults.”

You blinked.

“You’re a genius.”

“That’s what I keep telling people,” She gloats before she disappears down the hallway.

You just had to lure them in. That night, you send them a message that’s sure to have them running to you.

“Where’s the spider?” They ask, both rushing into your room at the same time. 

You appear behind them, locking the door behind them, “Fools.”

They froze. Like deer in headlights.

Bob blinked first. “You… tricked us.”

“You sent a code red spider alert,” John added, accusatory, like that was the crime here.

“And it worked.  You two aren’t leaving until I get some answers. So now, sit. Talk.”

They hesitated, glancing at each other like maybe, just maybe, one of them could break down the door and flee. But they decided not to test your wrath.

“Why didn’t you show up last night?” you repeated, slower this time, folding your arms like a disappointed parent. “You can’t just… vanish, and not just that, but you’ve been avoiding me. It’s been miserable.”

“Did I do something?” You ask quietly, and from the subtle little flinch, you know it’s true. “Oh…”

You suddenly feel self-conscious and start rubbing your arm to subconsciously comfort yourself. Bob then steps forward, unable to let you be so distressed. “It’s not really your fault. It’s not like you can control it.”

You tilt your head at him, confused, “Control what?”

They both take a deep breath, doing their whole little silent conversation thing before obviously deciding on something. “Your dreams,” John finishes.

“My dreams–” You cut yourself off as your memories of last night's particularly steamy dream come to mind. Did you talk in your sleep?

“Did I.. Oh, I did, didn’t I?” You cry out before almost launching yourself into your bed headfirst.

“It’s not a big deal, I mean it’s understandable,” John says, gesturing to himself with his usual little grin.  “I am kind of dream worthy.”

You want your bed to just swallow you whole. “This is unbelievable. I’ll never be able to get over this. This will quite literally haunt me for the rest of my life.”

You lie still like a plank, bathing in your self-pity before a question snaps you out of it. 

“What happened exactly?” Bob asks, and your head snaps towards him.

“You want to know what happened in the dream?” You question, your mouth agape. 

Rolling onto your front, you suck in air as you replay the dream in your head, both of them shirtless, Bob’s lips on your neck, John’s fingers rubbing your clit through your panties, watching them kiss. “I don’t think that‘s the best idea.”

“It involved a few things here and there…” You say hesitantly as you try to downplay it, but the way they were looking at you from either side of you.

“We want to know,” John says, sitting down next to you. At this point, they’re both crowding around you, and you thought you were the one supposed to be trapping them.

“Well, as you can probably guess, it was a sex dream.”

You twiddle your fingers as if that’s going to make things any better and delay the inevitable awkward silence.

“And we all kissed,” you finish, voice barely above a whisper.

“Like… we both kissed you or…” Bob asks, eyebrows raised, needing the clarification more than anything else, though his voice is gentler than you expected.

“We all kissed,” you reiterate, firmer this time, like saying it with more certainty would somehow make it less embarrassing.

Bob opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly processing before glancing over at John, who’s staring off, lost in thought, his brow furrowed as if trying to puzzle something out.

“Huh…” John finally says, scratching the back of his neck.

Bob exhales, rubbing the back of his neck too. “That’s… not what I expected, but, uh, not entirely unwelcome.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“So…” you begin, your voice quiet, unsure. You hesitate, wondering if you’re about to cross a line, if you're reading too much into the charged glances, the way they’ve both been orbiting closer each night. “Want to make it a reality?”

You almost regret the words the moment they’re out. But then, to your surprise, they both say yes.

You blink. They’re closer than you remember them being, shoulders brushing, heat pooling in the small space between the three of you.

They look at you, clearly unsure where to start. Taking things into your own hands, you reach for them gently, fingers threading into their hair. Bob’s hair is soft and slightly damp from a shower; John’s is shorter and messier, like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times today. They both look at you, wide-eyed, alert, hungry for your attention but waiting to be guided.

You kiss Bob first, slow, deliberate. He melts into it, moaning into your mouth like you're his salvation.

Then you turn to John. His kiss is different—deeper, more controlled—but just as wanting.

You pull back, eyes flicking between them, your hand still in John’s hair as you whisper, “Kiss him.”

They hesitate, eyes locked on each other. But only for a second.

Because they trust you and they trust each other.

You watch as they lean in, cautious at first, a brush of lips like testing the edge of something new.  Again, another enlightening experience. It’s softer than when it happened in your dream, but no less passionate. 

They pull apart to breathe, Bob laughing a little as he catches his breath. He catches the look on John’s face and immediately goes to explain himself.

“No, it’s just your beard is tickling my face,” Bob says with a shy smile.

Bob chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling.

John opens his mouth, about to apologise or say something, but Bob stops him gently.

“No, it’s okay… I like it,” Bob admits quietly.

They turn to you, noticing the way your eyes linger, how much you liked seeing them together.

“Oh, you really like that, huh?” John teases, a smug little grin on his face as he runs his fingers through your hair, right behind your ear, like he knows exactly how much that gets to you.

Bob leans in closer, voice softer but no less intense. “Didn’t know watching us would get you this worked up…”

Then, in a rush, like they can’t wait another second to get their hands back on you, they start removing their clothes. Shirts pulled off, pyjama pants too, movements frantic but focused.

You could scream.

It’s one thing to have one good-looking, shirtless man standing in front of you. It’s another to have two, both looking at you like you're the only thing in the room that matters.

You know exactly what they’d put in your autopsy report if you died right now:

“Cause of death: Abs.”

And honestly? Worth it.

It’s a mix of heat and motion, hands everywhere, so much that you don’t even know who’s touching you half the time. Fingers trailing your skin, lips brushing yours, pressure and pleasure blending until it’s all one glorious blur.

Your hands glide up and down Bob’s abs, firm and warm beneath your palms, while your lips trace along John’s bicep—so close you could just…

Before you know it, your teeth sink into him, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

“Did you just bite me?” John asks, blinking at you with a half-shocked, half-amused chuckle.

“Sorry,” you mumble, grinning. “Intrusive thoughts took over.”

“Bite me all you want,” he says, voice dropping low, “I can take it.”

Bob leans in from behind, his breath ghosting over your neck. “We both can.”

Just hearing that stole all the air from your lungs. In a flash, you’re lying on your back, as John ruts against you. You suspect he’s been hard ever since he and Bob made out, and you don’t blame him. 

Bob’s on the sidelines, completely entranced by John railing you, his desire on full display. Without hesitating, you reach out and palm his cock in your hands. “Can I?” You ask, and Bob swears your lips have never been so inviting. 

“Yeah, I…yeah.”

You take him into your mouth, with a kind of reverence that takes him by surprise. 

When you feel the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, you gag, a well of spit dripping out of your mouth onto the bed. 

“Doing so well,” Bob praises, watching you in awe, as he starts using your mouth more confidently. You moan desperately in response, and that’s all you're capable of right now. 

It’s almost too hard to keep up with. And you swear you’ve never been more full in your life. Your eyes screwed shut in pure ecstacy as you try to breath through your nose... You can’t think. 

“That’s a good girl,” John says as he pulls you close with each snap of his hips. You had to admit, you loved the praises they were giving you. Each one brings you that much closer to the edge. 

Suddenly, you feel Bob’s cum flooding your mouth, his hand holding onto yours as he comes down from the high you had given him. 

Then John pulls out of you, climbing off the bed and pulling the bottom half of your body with him. 

“John…” You whine, needing him back inside of you as soon as possible, because how dare he deprive you of his touch for even a second? 

“I know, I know... so impatient,” He laughs. You’re about to complain at him, but you’re interrupted by him getting on his knees, licking at your hole.  “John!” You scream out. No part of you was expecting him to start eating you out. Every part of your body, is freaking out and your hands scramble until they find Bob. 

As if to placate you, he kisses you, tongue invading your mouth just as John’s invades your pussy. 

You and Bob pull apart, a line of saliva still connecting your mouths as John continues to wreak havoc on your sanity—hands, mouth, voice, all driving you further under.

“Need you, Bob,” you whisper, breath shaky, and your mouth finds his neck, lips and teeth leaving a trail of heat. You press open-mouthed kisses along his throat, then bite down, again and again, each mark deliberate.

Bruises blooming like constellations across his skin.

You always thought he’d look nice all marked up with love bites, gasping out your name like you’re all he needs. 

And now you know he definitely does.

Just as you pull back to look at your masterpiece, John’s mouth pull away from your core only to be replaced with his cock. 

You hold onto Bob as John starts fucking you, each thrust hitting your sensitive spot dead on. “Please, John… please,” you gasp, voice wrecked with need as your words dissolve into incoherent babbles. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore—his hands, his mouth, just more.

You feel him smirk against the back of your neck, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His grip tightens, steadying you.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he murmurs, low and teasing in your ear. “But I like you like this—messy and desperate.”

"Please, fuck me harder," You whine, not caring what you needed to say to keep feeling this good.

Bob groans softly behind you, his breath hot as he presses kisses along your shoulder. “You should see yourself right now…”

And just like that, you're gone again.

“Please never stop,” You gasp out to both of them and with another thrust from John, your orgasm hits you so hard, you think you might be done for. “Fuck!” You cry out, your legs trembling as you slide down Bob’s body, landing in the sheets next to his thigh. 

But John doesn’t stop, continuing to pound into you, not once losing pace. Damn that super solider serum. All your restraint and any trace of common sense were long gone. It had left the building as soon as their shirts came off. 

You fade in and out, until you feel him fill you up with his cum, your name coming out of his mouth in pants. 

John pulls out of you and immediately checks on you, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you puff out, chest rising and falling as you collapse onto your back, completely spent and dazed in the best possible way.

The room is warm with afterglow, breath and heat and tangled limbs. You barely register the sound of movement before John and Bob exchange a glance over you.

“Let me help you out,” John offers, seeing that Bob’s already half hard again. 

“You sure?” Bob asks softly, hesitation in his voice. He didn’t want to inconvenience him, but the words falter when John moves closer, solid and warm, his presence filling the space between them.

“I’m sure,” John murmurs, voice low and steady, his hand finding Bob’s hip like it belonged there. His touch is grounding, confident, and it makes Bob melt under it, like everything he was holding tense finally lets go.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Bob adds, almost whispering.

John leans in, their foreheads brushing. “Maybe I want to.”

And with that, Bob exhales, letting him take control. His strong hands wrap around Bob’s dick, and Bob holds onto his arm, needing him so bad, he doesn't know what he’d do without him.

“Walker…John I—” He stutters as he moves his hips, thrusting into his hand with fervour. They look at one another. Bob’s eyes start glowing, the light pulsing with an intensity that feels almost alive. Unearthly, charged, and very imposing. It hums in the air between them, making John's chest tighten.

Afraid it might push Bob too far, might tip him into something he can’t come back from, John starts to pull away.

But Bob grabs him, firm, unyielding. “Don’t.”

It’s sharp, clipped, nothing like the sweet, careful way Bob usually speaks. The tension in his clenched jaw, the rawness in his voice, it’s not a plea. It’s a command. An order.

So John follows it.

He thrusts into John’s hand again and again, the control now flipped on its head, and John doesn’t mind one bit.

It was something else to see. Bob Reynolds, glowing, tense, his usual restraint stripped away. And still, like he was holding the universe back with his bare hands just to be gentle with him.

Then Bob’s eyes fall on you, intense and burning gold.

“Come here,” he says, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

He doesn’t wait for a response. You move, almost without thinking, drawn in by something magnetic and undeniable. You make your way over to him, and before you can even ask what he wants—

He’s kissing you. Like he’s been holding back for far too long.

John moves his hand away, letting Bob guide you until your back hits the bed.

“Are you ready?” Bob asks, smiling at you.

You consider your current position—John is beside you, lips trailing down one side of your neck, his hand firm on your waist. Bob’s cock is pushing against your hole, so close to giving you what you’ve been aching for. Your body is lit up like a live wire, and you feel like you might die.

And yet, heart racing—you let out a soft, breathy, “Yes.”

Bob pushes in slowly, and you find yourself mewling, John soothing you with his kisses. He starts slow, each thrust deeper than the last. 

As you start to get used to it, he picks up the pace, just enough to knock the breath from your lungs. Everything about this—your sounds, your body, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing in the world—was making him lose control.

He didn’t know it could feel so... so good. Overwhelming, all-consuming, better than anything he'd imagined in the haze of lonely nights and quiet want.

His voice is rough when he speaks, barely more than a whisper:

“I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

And honestly, neither are you.

And when John starts rubbing your clit, it’s over for you. Your moans become higher-pitched until you whimper out, “Holy.. I’m gonna…” 

A blinding orgasm hits you so hard, your back is arching off the bed. The sight is almost too much for them both, but especially Bob. When you come back down and relax against the bed, they both go back to touching you. Making sure you would have no peace while you’re with them.

Bob’s eyes glow again, and there’s a sharp cracking sound as a piece of your headboard is now somehow in his hand, splintered clean off without him even realising it.

Your eyes widen but there’s no time to focus on that, not while he’s fucking you into a new dimension. 

A few moments later, your bedroom mirror shatters, fractured by the force of the moment as he loses himself in you completely.

He starts to hesitate, breath catching, the weight of everything creeping in, but then he feels John’s hand on his back, steady and grounding, soothing him.

“Keep going,” John says, and all Bob wants to do is listen.

He ruts into you, fingers digging into your hips so hard, you know they’re going to leave bruises. 

Then Bob feels something, strong fingers threading into his hair as John pulls their lips together for the second time. This kiss is more desperate, more needy, like something inside him has snapped loose and there's no putting it back.

It’s messy and raw, and he doesn’t even try to slow down; his rhythm with you never falters, never once losing pace. You love a man who can multitask.

The kiss breaks only when breathlessness forces it, and Bob pulls back just slightly, eyes blown wide, lips swollen, his mind a complete daze. 

“I’m close,” You tell him, and he moves faster, doubling his efforts to make you feel good. 

“So perfect for us,” Bob says, matching his thrusts to how John was rubbing your clit. It feels too good to hear him say that. There’s something in the way he says us, the way his grip tightens on your waist… it makes you want to lose your mind.  There was no holding on any longer, so you let go. 

“I–” You start but cut yourself off with a guttural cry, as your climax rips through you. It’s like you're on fire with how the pleasure overcomes you. Your hip stutter against John’s hand, as your walls quiver around Bob’s cock. 

The feeling of you orgasming around him became too much for him to bear, sending Bob into his own.

Bob finishes inside of you, his breath ragged as he buries his face in your neck, holding you tight as the last waves of his release shudder through him.

Your chest is heaving with effort and aftershocks, your body trembling, but this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

They're nowhere near done with you. You can feel it, see it in their eyes.

And when John leans in again, lips brushing your ear, voice low and wrecked with want, he murmurs, “Hope you weren’t planning on sleeping yet…”

They could and would go all night long.

***

The next morning, you wake up tangled in their embrace again, and you're happy.

Sore, thoroughly exhausted, slightly disoriented... but happy.

Your bedroom, however, looks like it barely survived the night—mirrors broken, half the headboard gone, and a John-shaped hole in the wall. You're honestly surprised anything’s still intact, especially the bed frame, though it gives a warning creak when you shift to slide out from under the pile of limbs.

You stretch, muscles aching in that oddly satisfying way, and glance back at the bed.

John’s arm is slung over Bob’s waist, both of them blissfully asleep. Hair messy, skin littered with red marks—some from you, some from each other. You can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips.

You didn’t quite know what this made the three of you now, but there was time to figure it out.

Eventually.

For now? This felt like a damn good place to start.

Masterlist

[sixeyesonathiel]

love comes in small sizes

chapter one : fatherhood dlc unlocked!

pairing – ex situationship gojo x fem reader

summary : you and satoru have always been something—never labeled, never defined. from jujutsu high to stolen rooftop kisses, your dynamic is a mess of healing hands, half-confessions, and his infuriating habit of getting hurt just to keep your attention.

but when the weight of loss and pride tears you apart, you walk away—until fate (and a tiny, pink-backpack-wearing menace) drags you back into his orbit six years later.

tags –> canon divergence au, fluff, angst, humor, hurt/comfort, unlabeled relationship, grovelling satoru, secret child trope, reunions, miscommunications, second chances, happy ending for my own sanity

series masterlist. | collection m.list | next.

you and satoru gojo have always been something.

it’s just never been labeled.

from the moment you met at jujutsu high, he’s been a persistent force in your life—loud, overbearing, impossible to ignore. he pokes and prods, worms his way under your skin, grinning all the while like he knows exactly what he’s doing. and maybe he does. because despite your best efforts, despite the way you roll your eyes when he drapes himself over you or tugs at your sleeves like a child craving attention, you never really push him away.

it’s not just him, though.

because when he gets himself banged up on missions—when he returns with blood crusted at the edges of his uniform, bruises forming along his jaw, the scent of battle clinging to his skin—you’re always the first to reach for him. your hands glow with soft, golden light, the warmth of your cursed energy threading into his wounds, coaxing his body to knit itself back together. petals flicker at your fingertips, dissolving into faint sparks of vitality as you work, the remnants of your technique blooming in the air between you.

“you’re reckless!” you snap one evening, pressing your palm firmly against his shoulder where a deep gash is slowly knitting itself back together under your touch. his uniform is torn, the edges stiff with dried blood, and you can feel the way his muscles twitch beneath your fingers, still tense from the battle. “you always do this. you push yourself too far, like you think you’re invincible—”

“well,” satoru interrupts, flashing a toothy grin, his glasses pushed up just enough to reveal the brilliant blue of his eyes, “i kind of am.”

his voice is light, teasing, but you can feel the way he’s watching you—closely, carefully, like he’s waiting for something. the smirk he wears is easy, practiced, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not when he’s tilting his head just slightly to the side, pressing into your touch like it’s the only thing anchoring him. and you hate that it works, that even now, even with blood still drying against his skin, he makes you want to soften. you press your fingers harder against his wound instead, ignoring the way he winces.

“not funny,” suguru chimes in from across the room, his voice steady, edged with something like exasperation. he’s lounging on the couch, flipping through a magazine like he’s only half-listening, but you know better—he’s watching, just like you are, waiting for satoru to take this seriously. “she’s right, you know. if you keep acting like you can’t get hurt, one day you will.”

“oh, come on,” satoru groans, tilting his head back against your lap dramatically, the weight of him pressing against your legs. his hair, messy from the fight, falls over his forehead in uneven strands, white against the deep red of his uniform. “not you too.”

shoko, sitting cross-legged on the floor, exhales a slow stream of smoke from her cigarette, her eyes lidded with fatigue. “they’re not wrong,” she mutters, flicking her gaze toward you. there’s something knowing in the way she looks at you, something amused. “you’re enabling him, you know.”

you scoff, fingers glowing faintly as the last of his wound seals shut beneath your touch. the golden light of your cursed technique flickers briefly, petals of energy curling along his skin before fading. “i am not enabling him,” you argue, shaking your head. “i’m keeping him alive.”

“see?” satoru grins, nudging your thigh with the back of his hand, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. “she cares about me.”

shoko scoffs. “no one’s arguing that.”

suguru finally glances up, closing his magazine with a quiet thud, something unreadable in his expression. “just don’t let him drag you down with him.”

your fingers still against satoru’s skin for just a fraction of a second, your breath catching in your throat before you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep moving. “as if.”

but suguru just hums, unconvinced.

and maybe he has a point.

because this is your dynamic: you take care of satoru, and he lets you. you worry, and he pretends there’s nothing to worry about. he teases, you scold, he grins, you sigh. and beneath it all, something quiet lingers, something neither of you are willing to name.

and if he lets himself get wounded just once, just enough for you to heal him—if he lets a single well-timed hit slip past his defenses, allows an enemy to believe, for the briefest moment, that they’ve bested him—well. that’s his secret.

it’s calculated, precise, a game only he knows he’s playing. he times it perfectly, choosing the kind of wound that won’t alarm you too much, won’t make you furious enough to see through him. a shallow cut here, a bruised rib there—just enough to warrant your hands on him, to feel the warmth of your cursed energy bloom against his skin. because no one touches him like you do. no one else can.

you’re careful with him, always, even when you’re mad—especially when you’re mad. your fingers press firmly against his skin, your lips pressed together in concentration, a deep furrow between your brows that he finds himself staring at more often than he should. your cursed energy hums through him, soothing in a way nothing else ever is, wrapping around him like petals caught in the wind—delicate, fleeting, something he wants to hold in his hands but knows will slip through his fingers if he grips too tightly.

so he watches you, through half-lidded eyes, through lashes that are a little too long and glasses that slip just slightly down the bridge of his nose. he commits the moment to memory—the feel of you, the way you hover so close but never quite meet his gaze, like looking at him too long will make you realize something you don’t want to. he wants you to realize it. he wants you to notice the way his breathing slows under your touch, the way he always finds a reason to lean just a little closer.

but you never do. or maybe you just pretend not to.

so he lets himself get hurt, just enough. lets himself have this, just for a little while longer. because if a single wound is the price for your hands on him, for the way you fuss and scold and heal him all the same, then—well. that’s a price he’s more than willing to pay.

but then, one summer night, something shifts.

it’s late—too late to be sneaking around campus, but that’s never stopped him before. the air is thick with the lingering warmth of the day, cicadas humming lazily in the distance. the two of you are perched on the roof of the dorms, your legs dangling over the edge, the wind stirring your hair as you watch the city lights flicker beyond the trees. it’s peaceful, or at least it should be, but satoru is shifting beside you, too fidgety, too present, like he’s itching to say something but hasn’t quite figured out how.

“so.” he nudges you with his elbow, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, silver strands catching in the glow of the moon. his eyes, unshielded, are startlingly bright even in the dim light, a vivid cerulean that traps every flicker of movement like a kaleidoscope. “you like anyone?”

you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, unimpressed. “what?”

he grins, but there’s something a little too deliberate about it, the corner of his mouth curling just so. “you know. anyone in particular? anyone special?”

it’s meant to be casual. lighthearted. but there’s something just beneath the surface, something careful and quiet in the way he’s looking at you. his fingers tap idly against his knee, his posture loose, but you can feel the tension coiled just beneath his skin, like he’s holding his breath.

you hum, pretending to think, tilting your head slightly. “maybe.”

his grin widens, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “yeah?”

“yeah.” you tap your fingers against the edge of the rooftop, the faintest flicker of cursed energy sparking at your touch, like an afterthought. the air shifts, charged with something unspoken, something weightier than the teasing banter you’re used to. “he’s a pain in the ass, though.”

“must be a great guy.” his voice is light, but there’s an edge to it, something strained and expectant.

“oh, he is.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, watching the way his jaw tenses just slightly. his lips part like he wants to say something, but no words come. “except he never shuts up.”

“rude.” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense, his other hand bracing against the rooftop beside you. he’s closer now, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the faint brush of his knee against yours. “i am a fantastic listener.”

you snort. “sure, satoru.”

but he’s still watching you, still leaning just a little too close, his breath feather-light against your skin. the glow of the city lights flickers in his eyes, catching on the sharp angles of his face, softening the usual mischief in his expression into something quieter, something almost careful. his lips part like he wants to say something, but he hesitates, tongue flicking out to wet them before he closes his mouth again. his fingers twitch against the rooftop, curling and uncurling like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you, like the only thing keeping him still is the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

and then, just as you’re about to look away—

“you know,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s testing the weight of his own words, “if you did like me, i wouldn’t mind.”

your breath catches, the warmth of the night suddenly pressing too close, thick and stifling against your skin. cicadas drone in the distance, but the sound barely registers, drowned out by the rushing in your ears, the quickening of your pulse. the wind stirs your hair, cool against the heat creeping up your neck, but it does nothing to ground you when he’s right there, close enough that you can see the way his lashes flutter, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. the moment stretches, fragile and precarious, balanced on the edge of something neither of you can quite name.

he shrugs, tilting his head like it doesn’t mean anything, like he hasn’t just shifted the entire atmosphere between you. “i think we’d be good together.” the words are light, almost offhand, but his fingers betray him again, tightening into fists against his knees before forcing themselves to relax. his lips twitch at the corners, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk—something caught between expectation and defense, bracing himself for whatever comes next. the confidence in his voice doesn’t match the way his body betrays him, and it hits you then—he’s nervous.

your heartbeat quickens, hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words settling into your chest with something sharp and dizzying. you swallow, throat suddenly dry, fingers pressing against the rooftop like you need something to hold onto. “is that so?” your voice is steadier than you expect, but there’s something uncertain about the way it lingers between you, something questioning, something hopeful.

“yeah.” his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t drop, doesn’t shift away like he’s waiting for you to call his bluff. he leans in, just barely, just enough for his knee to brush yours, for his breath to ghost against your cheek, for the air between you to thin into nothing. “it is.” 

he’s waiting. you could push him away, laugh it off like you always do. you could pretend this is just another one of his games.or—

you let the moment stretch, your fingers tightening in your lap, cursed energy sparking faintly against your skin. the world narrows, the sound of the cicadas fading, the city lights blurring at the edges of your vision. and then, before you can second-guess yourself, before you can let yourself hesitate, you lean in, pressing your lips to his.

he makes a small sound of surprise—quickly swallowed by the way he cups your face, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting forever. his hand slips to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, his touch warm and sure. he leans into you, pressing closer, like he wants to drown in the moment, like he wants to lose himself in you.

and maybe he does.

because the next thing you know, he’s pulling you into his lap, arms wrapping around your waist, his grip possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. his infinity is off, the faint hum of his technique gone, and it’s only then that you realize—he wants this. wants to feel you, every point of contact, every shiver that runs through you as he presses open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“satoru.” you murmur, fingers curling against his chest.

he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead resting against yours. “just let me have this.” he whispers, and for once, there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. no cocky bravado. just quiet, aching sincerity.

the night stretches on, the cicadas singing their endless summer song, and somewhere between the tangled sheets and the soft, breathless laughter, you think—maybe he’s been waiting for you, too.

after that night, everything changes.

not all at once—at first, it’s subtle. the way satoru lingers a little too long when he passes you in the hallways, his fingers ghosting against your wrist before he pulls away like it never happened. the way he leans in when you speak, as if he needs to hear every single word, as if your voice is something he can’t go without. the way his gaze finds you in a crowded room, even when you’re not looking back, even when you pretend you don’t feel it burning into your skin.

but then, it happens again.

it happens when he grabs your wrist after training, dragging you away before you can protest, his grip loose but insistent. “come on, let’s go. training is boring, and it’s not like you need it—you already have a god-given talent. or, well, a you-given talent, i guess.” he flashes that insufferable grin, the one that makes it impossible to say no, the one that makes it feel like you’re the only one who matters. his thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist before he lets go, like he’s reluctant to lose the contact. like he’s testing a boundary neither of you are willing to acknowledge.

it happens when he shoves a half-melted ice cream into your hands, his own already half-eaten, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “i got your favorite,” he says, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t memorize the exact flavor you picked out the last time. and when you reach out with your thumb, swiping the chocolate away, his mouth closes over your finger without hesitation—lips warm, tongue flickering against your skin, blue eyes watching your reaction like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

but you don’t.

it happens when you end up pressed against the side of a vending machine, his hands braced on either side of you, his breath warm against your cheek. the fluorescent lights flicker, his sunglasses slipping just low enough for you to see his eyes—half-lidded, unreadable, something unspoken resting just behind them. he tilts his head, his lips brushing against yours, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it feels like one. and when you let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers skim against your waist, trailing up the fabric of your uniform, just light enough to make you shiver.

it happens when he sneaks into your dorm after curfew, flopping onto your bed like he owns it, his hair messy from the wind, the scent of the night still clinging to his clothes. “move over,” he complains, but he’s already pressing against your side, already hooking his chin over your shoulder, already making himself at home in your space like he belongs there. and when you sigh, when you give in, he grins against your skin, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and then, it just keeps happening.

but it also happens in other ways.

like when you fall asleep in class, forehead pressed against your arm, and you wake up to find his jacket draped over your shoulders, the faintest trace of his scent lingering in the fabric. you don’t mention it, don’t thank him, but the next time he dozes off, you tug your scarf loose and wrap it around his neck, watching the way his lips twitch in something like satisfaction even in sleep.

or when he holds his umbrella over your head instead of his own when it rains, his hair dripping wet, grinning like an idiot when you call him stupid. “what? i have my own built-in defense system,” he teases, tapping his temple like he’s making a point. but he doesn’t turn infinity on, not once, even when the water beads against his skin, soaking through his shirt. even when you huff and tug him under the umbrella properly, even when he bumps his shoulder against yours and murmurs, “see? you do care.”

or when he shoves a handful of candies into your pocket, grinning when you shoot him a confused look. “i know you like these.” he says, voice light, offhanded, like it isn’t something he noticed just from watching you. later, you find a small sticky note tucked between them, a doodle of himself with his tongue sticking out, with tiny scribbled words beneath: for when you miss me. you will.

it’s not a relationship, not exactly. neither of you say anything about it, neither of you try to define it. but there’s a shift between you now, something thick and heavy in the air, something that settles in the pit of your stomach whenever he looks at you like that.

like he’s waiting for you to stop him.

like he knows you won’t.

and when it happens again—when his lips finally, finally press against yours, when his weight settles over you, pinning you down in a way that makes your breath hitch—there’s no hesitation. there’s no teasing remark, no cocky grin, just the warmth of his hands on your skin, just the quiet hum of satisfaction when you pull him closer. he doesn’t turn infinity on, doesn’t keep any distance between you, lets himself feel you completely, like some lovesick idiot. like he wants to remember exactly how this moment feels, how you feel.

shoko notices first.

it’s not even subtle—the way she leans back against the school’s rooftop railing, cigarette dangling from her lips, eyes half-lidded in amusement as she watches you fuss over satoru’s scraped knuckles. he’s practically melting under your touch, his head tilting slightly as if he’s trying to press more into your palm without making it obvious. you’re focused, brows drawn together, lips pursed in mild annoyance at his carelessness, but your hands are gentle, fingers skimming over his skin with practiced ease. his long legs are stretched out in front of him, his glasses perched low on his nose, letting you see the way his bright blue eyes soften when they flicker up to meet yours.

“so, are you two, like… a thing?” shoko asks, lazily exhaling a puff of smoke, watching the way satoru’s mouth twitches at the question.

“no,” you say immediately, your voice firm, but at the same time, satoru hums, “hmm, maybe?”

your head snaps toward him, brows raising in disbelief, while he merely grins like he expected this reaction. his free hand comes up to push his sunglasses up properly, but the motion is slow, languid, like he’s trying to keep his grin hidden behind his palm. shoko lets out a snort, flicking the ash off the tip of her cigarette, unimpressed.

“yeah, okay.”

suguru is quieter about it, but he doesn’t need to say anything. it’s in the way his gaze lingers when satoru drapes himself over you, in the way his lips twitch like he’s holding back a knowing smile whenever you roll your eyes but don’t push satoru away. when satoru unceremoniously drops himself onto your lap one afternoon, long limbs sprawling across the bench, suguru doesn’t comment. he just looks at you, looks at the way your fingers absently thread through satoru’s hair, the way his lashes flutter at the contact, and he knows.

“you’re really serious about her, huh?” suguru muses one evening, when it’s just the two of them on the rooftop, the sky bleeding into shades of deep purple and burnt orange.

satoru scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, but there’s no real bite to it. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

suguru only shrugs, turning his gaze toward the horizon, the wind ruffling his dark hair. “nothing. just wondering.”

but if there’s one thing about suguru, it’s that he doesn’t wonder about things unless he already knows the answer.

still, life goes on. there are missions, there are late-night walks, there are stupid jokes and stolen glances and moments where the world feels like it’s standing still, like it will always be this way. satoru still rests his chin on your shoulder when he’s bored, still tugs on your sleeve when he wants your attention, still lets his infinity down when you touch him. suguru still watches with quiet amusement, still nudges satoru’s foot under the table when he gets too obvious, still exchanges glances with shoko that say this idiot is hopeless. everything feels steady, like nothing could possibly go wrong.

until it does.

until riko amanai dies. until satoru comes back from that mission looking—different.

his presence is still overwhelming, still too much, but there’s something sharp underneath it now, something cold that wasn’t there before. his shoulders are broader, his stance heavier, his hands looser at his sides, like he’s more aware of their power now. he’s grinning, like always, like nothing’s changed, but it doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. the endless blue of them looks deeper now, like a well with no bottom, like something in him has caved in and been swallowed whole. he’s stronger, untouchable, but suddenly, it feels like he’s farther away than he’s ever been.

and worse than that—suguru is slipping.

you feel it before you fully understand it. the way his voice is quieter, the way his patience wears thinner, the way he sighs more often, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s tired in a way that sleep won’t fix. his words become sharper, his glances more distant, and when you reach for him—when you try to hold onto whatever is still left—he only offers you a fleeting smile, a ghost of what it used to be.

one day, you watch satoru and suguru stand side by side, just like always—just like they always have. satoru is saying something, something cocky and arrogant and so typically him, but suguru doesn’t bite back the way he used to. he just listens, nods absently, something unreadable flickering in his expression. and for the first time, it feels like there’s a canyon between them, a chasm that wasn’t there before, widening with every passing second.

you don’t know it yet, but things will never be the same again.

one year passes.

twelve months, fifty-two weeks, three hundred and sixty-five days—each one dragging by in a haze, dissolving into the next like watercolors bleeding together. sometimes, satoru forgets where he is, what day it is, what he was supposed to be doing before his mind wandered again. everything feels muted, muffled, like he’s watching the world through a fogged-up window. time keeps moving, but nothing feels real.

suguru is gone.

satoru barely blinks when it happens. it should feel like something—something bigger, something louder, something that shakes the world the way it shakes his chest. but all he does is sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his best friend’s defection, listening to yaga’s words like they’re coming from underwater. the room is too small, too tight, pressing against the edges of his skin, and yet he’s weightless, floating in some vast nothingness where things don’t really matter. his fingers twitch, restless, aching for something to crush between them, but what’s the point? if he destroys the walls, the floor, the entire goddamn building, it won’t bring suguru back. it won’t change a thing.

he doesn’t remember leaving the room, but suddenly he’s outside, staring at the sky. it’s clear, painfully so, stars scattered across the darkness like someone thought to mock him with how vast it is. the wind tugs at his uniform, cool against his too-warm skin, and still, he doesn’t feel anything. it doesn’t make sense. none of it does. suguru wouldn’t leave. suguru is—was—his other half, the one who understood him in ways no one else could. he has you, he has shoko—but it’s not the same. it will never be the same. satoru is the strongest. the strongest doesn’t lose things.

except now he has. and no matter how tightly he grips the edges of his own world, everything still slips through his fingers.

you find him there, quiet for once, his head tilted back as he watches the stars. the moonlight catches on his white hair, turning it almost silver, his sunglasses hanging loosely between his fingers. you don’t say anything right away, just stand beside him, close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. he’s grateful for that, the silent understanding, the way you don’t push him to talk when he doesn’t want to. but it’s you—you—and eventually, your voice cuts through the thick, choking air.

“come inside, satoru.”

he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “not yet.”

you hesitate, then sigh, your fingers brushing over his sleeve. it’s light, barely there, but he still feels it. you’re real. that’s something, at least.

“you can’t keep doing this.”

he doesn’t know what you mean—staring at the sky? ignoring everything? pretending suguru didn’t leave?—but he just laughs, a short, hollow sound, and grins at you like none of this matters. like he isn’t crumbling under the weight of something he refuses to name. “doing what?”

you don’t smile back.

you don’t say anything at all.

but your fingers tighten against his sleeve, just for a second, just enough for him to feel the warmth of you before you step away.

and he can’t—he won’t—let that happen.

before you can take another step, his fingers close around your wrist, pulling you back toward him. it’s not gentle, but it’s not rough either—just firm, desperate in a way he won’t let himself acknowledge. you stumble slightly, your palm landing against his chest, and he doesn’t let you move away.

“don’t,” he says, barely above a whisper. his voice is raw, frayed at the edges, like he’s holding something back. his fingers tighten, his grip the only thing grounding him. “not yet.”

your eyes search his, looking for something, anything, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to give you. he only knows that he needs you to stay.

“satoru…” your voice wavers, and he hates it—hates that you sound like you pity him, hates that you might see him for what he really is. but you don’t pull away.

his free hand lifts to your face, brushing against your cheek, barely there, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds too tightly. you don’t. you stay.

and then you’re kissing him. or maybe he’s kissing you. it doesn’t matter—he just knows that your lips are warm, that your hands clutch at his jacket, that he’s losing himself in the way you breathe against his mouth. it’s messy, uncoordinated, more about needing than anything else. he doesn’t care.

he just wants.

it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you inside, backing you into his room, his grip never loosening. you let him. maybe you need this too. maybe you need something real just as much as he does.

it’s not love. not really. it’s a desperate, clumsy attempt to hold onto something—each other, maybe, or just the pieces of a world that’s slipping through both of your fingers. it’s the press of his body against yours, the way his hands shake against your skin, the way neither of you speak because there’s nothing left to say.

when it’s over, you stay, your fingers tracing idle patterns against his skin. his arms are loose around you, his breathing slow, almost steady. but he’s not asleep. he won’t sleep. not tonight.

his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. it’s unhealthy. he knows it. you do too. but neither of you move.

not yet.

a month later, you come to him late at night, standing in his doorway like you’re already bracing for a fight. your arms are crossed tight over your chest, fingers gripping at the fabric of your sleeves, like you need something to hold on to. your weight shifts from one foot to the other, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re not sure if you should even be here. but your eyes—your eyes are worried. tired. heavy with something he can’t quite name yet, but it makes his stomach twist all the same.

“satoru, we need to talk.”

he groans, throwing himself back onto his bed like a petulant child, limbs sprawled carelessly across the sheets. his uniform jacket is crumpled beneath him, the collar tugging awkwardly at his neck, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. instead, he throws an arm over his eyes, sighing dramatically. “ugh, if this is about me skipping out on yaga’s stupid lectures again—”

“it’s not about that.”

your voice is clipped, firm in a way that makes his fingers twitch where they rest against his forehead. something in your tone makes him hesitate, but he doesn’t sit up just yet, doesn’t acknowledge the way his stomach knots at the sharp edge of it. instead, he props himself up on one elbow just enough to grin at you, lopsided and careless, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of his room. “then what? are you finally confessing your undying love for me?”

you exhale sharply through your nose, pressing your lips together so tightly they pale at the edges. your jaw tightens—not in frustration, but in restraint, like you’re biting back words you can’t afford to say. for the first time since you walked in, your gaze flickers away, dipping down toward the floor, then back up again. “satoru.”

his smirk falters.

it’s barely noticeable, the shift so subtle that most people wouldn’t catch it—but you’re not most people, and you always notice. he covers it up with a roll of his shoulders, a quick raking of fingers through his hair, but he can’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way something uneasy coils deep in his gut.

he doesn’t like it.

you take a breath, shoulders rising and falling with it, like you’re steadying yourself. your stance shifts, one foot moving slightly behind the other, like you need an escape route, just in case. “i—”

“’cause i mean, it’s pretty obvious.” he barrels right over whatever you were about to say, voice light, teasing—too quick. he leans back against the pillows, arms crossed behind his head, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. “can’t blame you, really. i am incredibly handsome. the strongest, too—”

“satoru, this is serious.”

your voice cuts through his like a knife.

his grin twitches, faltering at the edges, but he doesn’t let it fall completely. instead, he groans, sitting up in one fluid motion, his frustration bleeding through in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. his bangs fall messily over his forehead, but he doesn’t push them back this time. “yeah, yeah, everything is serious with you lately.” his words come out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t stop. “you know, you used to be fun. we used to be fun. now all you do is worry, and nag, and—”

you flinch.

it’s small. barely a twitch of your fingers, a quick inhale, a tightening of your shoulders. but he sees it, and the moment he does, regret clenches in his throat.

too late.

your fingers curl in on themselves, your nails pressing into your palms. your expression remains composed, but he sees the cracks forming—the slight tremble in your exhale, the way your shoulders stiffen as if bracing for impact. “satoru, i need to tell you something.”

his pulse kicks up.

it’s barely noticeable, the way his fingers tighten around the fabric of his pants, but you’re not most people, and you always notice. there’s something about the way you say it—something final, something that makes his skin prickle with the kind of unease he can’t shake.

he doesn’t let you.

“what? that i’m reckless? that i’m changing?” he cuts in, sharp and bitter, words laced with something dangerously close to something real. something he doesn’t want to name. “yeah, i’ve heard it all before.”

“satoru—”

“what do you want me to do, huh?” his voice rises, frustration twisting into something uglier, something more desperate. “cry about it?”

a long, heavy pause.

your face shifts—something breaking, something splintering right in front of him, and he hates it. your gaze flickers downward, away from his, away from the conversation entirely. your fingers curl tighter, drifting to your stomach, barely grazing the fabric of your shirt like—

he doesn’t get the chance to figure it out. because whatever it is, whatever you were going to say, it dies before it can even reach him.

you exhale, slow and measured. your fingers curl deeper into your sleeves, knuckles turning white, tension wound so tight in your shoulders that it hurts. there’s something unreadable in your expression, something quiet and distant, and for the first time in a long time, satoru doesn’t know what you’re thinking. the uncertainty makes his skin itch, makes his stomach turn. and then, finally—

“nevermind. i’m leaving.”

he scoffs, an ugly, humorless sound, sharp and bitter in the stillness between you. his lips curl, not in a grin, but in something twisted, something that doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah, right.”

but you don’t roll your eyes. you don’t laugh. you don’t give him the reaction he’s expecting, the easy back-and-forth that makes it all feel normal. you just look at him—long and quiet and sad, your fingers still trembling where they clutch your sleeves.

“i’m serious.”

his chest feels tight, like he’s breathing in smoke, like his ribs are about to crack under the weight of something he refuses to name. the words don’t settle right in his ears, don’t make sense in his head, don’t belong in your mouth. you don’t leave. not him. not this.

but then you say it—you tell him you can’t do this anymore, that you’re leaving jujutsu society, that you can’t watch him become someone he’s not. your voice is steady, but there’s something fragile in it, something raw at the edges, like you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as him. you say it like a choice, like something you’ve decided on, but all he can hear is that you’re leaving him.

and it makes him panic.

so he does what he always does when he panics—he lashes out.

“fine, go then.” his voice is venomous, cutting, every syllable sharpened into a weapon. he means for it to hurt. he needs it to hurt. “if you really think i’m so hopeless, just leave like he did.”

the second it’s out of his mouth, he wants to take it back.

because you freeze. because something inside you cracks, visible in the way your breath hitches, in the way your fingers curl into your palm like you need to hold something, anything, just to keep yourself together.

your mouth opens—then closes.

whatever words were lingering on your tongue, whatever truth you had been about to give him, they wither before they can take shape. they don’t belong here, not after what he’s said. not when he’s already decided to throw you into the same abyss as him. the realization settles in your chest like something sharp, something splintered, pressing against your ribs.

he doesn’t deserve to know. he doesn’t even want to know. so you just nod, slow and deliberate, as if committing this moment to memory—his face twisted with something between anger and regret, his fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of his pants that his knuckles go white. something hollow settles in your gaze, something distant, something final.

then you turn around.

and you walk away.

but just before you cross the threshold, just before the distance between you stretches into something permanent, you pause. your hand lingers on the doorframe, fingers splayed against the wood, as if you’re waiting—waiting for him to stop you, to say anything that might make this easier, to give you even the smallest reason to stay.

he doesn’t.

so you exhale, steady and soft, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely above a whisper. “i hope it’s worth it, satoru.”

he doesn’t ask what is ‘it’—his pride, his stubbornness, his refusal to let you in—because he knows. he knows. then you leave, and he watches you go, convinced you’ll come back.

(you don’t.)

six years pass him by, and it’s safe to say that it wasn’t worth it.

he never says it out loud—never lets the words leave his lips, never even lets himself think them too long—but the truth lingers, settling deep in his bones like a slow, creeping ache. he feels it in the way silence stretches too long in his apartment, in the way he still catches himself pausing at the door, expecting to hear your voice. it’s in the way his fingers twitch, like they still remember the shape of your wrist in his grasp, the way his bed feels too big now, empty in a way that nothing else quite fills. he tells himself it doesn’t matter. that he doesn’t care.

(he does.)

at first, he’s bitter. you left him. you gave up on him. just like he did.

the thought twists, ugly and sharp, digging into the tender parts of him that he refuses to acknowledge. he doesn’t dwell on it. won’t. he has better things to do, more important things—missions, responsibilities, a world that won’t stop turning just because he wants it to. so he throws himself into work, into being the strongest, into playing the role that everyone expects of him. if he keeps moving, if he keeps winning, maybe—maybe—he won’t have to think about what he lost.

but then the quiet comes.

it always does.

he can hold it off for a while, can drown it out in the noise of battle, the weight of duty, the voices of the students he’s taken under his wing. but eventually, when the dust settles and the world slows, when it’s just him and the empty space where you used to be, the silence seeps in, heavy and suffocating. it presses against his ribs, sits in the hollow of his chest, winds around his throat like something clawing for a home. and in those moments, there’s no ignoring it.

he dreams about you.

sometimes, they’re good. warm. the kind that make him wake up reaching for something that isn’t there. he dreams of your laughter—light and careless, curling around the edges of his mind like something precious. he dreams of your touch—the way you used to smooth your hands over his shoulders when you thought he wasn’t paying attention, the way your fingers would toy with the hem of his uniform absentmindedly, like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. he dreams of the way you used to look at him, with something so soft in your eyes, something he never knew how to name.

but other times, the dreams aren’t good.

sometimes you’re standing at the door, gaze unreadable, voice soft as you whisper, “i hope it’s worth it.” sometimes you’re walking away, and no matter how fast he moves, how desperately he reaches, he can’t catch up. sometimes you turn back, but there’s nothing left in your expression, like you’ve already disappeared, like you were never really there. and sometimes—sometimes, you don’t look back at all.

he thinks about looking for you. about dropping everything and scouring the world until he finds you, because if anyone can, it’s him.

but if you wanted to be found, you wouldn’t have left.

so he lets you go. or at least, he tries to. he tells himself it’s for the best, convinces himself that this—this missing, this hollow ache, this unbearable emptiness—is just another thing he has to live with. 

at least he pretends to.

and satoru seeing you again in what supposed to be an another monotone day clearly doesn't help his already pathetic facade.

he wasn't expecting to see you again, he dreamt about it often, that much is true but not like this.

not in the middle of a crowded mall, washed in artificial light, where the air smells faintly of buttered popcorn and overpriced coffee. not with the hum of idle chatter pressing in from all sides, footsteps tapping against the polished tiles, distant laughter ringing from a store playing a song he doesn’t recognize. not standing in front of a shelf filled with pastel notebooks and gel pens, head tilted in quiet contemplation as you skim the label of a glittery-covered planner. not looking so much like you that it knocks the breath from his lungs, like he’s been punched in the gut by the weight of time itself.

six years apart, and yet, seeing you now—nothing has changed.

your fingers still tap absently against the book’s spine, your brow still creases just slightly in thought, your weight still shifts from one foot to the other in that familiar, absentminded sway. it's the same little habits he used to watch from across a classroom, half-listening to you scold him for never taking notes, grinning when you’d huff in exasperation, muttering something about how even if you copied mine, you’d still flunk the test, gojo. it’s muscle memory now, the way he leans forward ever so slightly, the way his lips part to call your name before he even realizes it.

for a split second, he forgets the passage of time, forgets that you aren’t seventeen anymore, that he isn’t either, that the six-year gap between then and now has swallowed whole everything that was once soft between you.

somewhere between one breath and the next, his feet move on their own. he doesn’t remember closing the distance, but suddenly he’s there—standing right beside you, close enough to see the way the artificial lighting catches on the curve of your lashes, close enough that his pulse trips over itself in something stupidly close to nerves.

“woah,” he blurts out before he can stop himself, because he’s never been good at thinking before speaking, never been good at silence. his voice comes out rougher than he means, cracking on something fragile, so he leans into bravado, tilting his head with a grin like this doesn’t feel like the start of something dangerous. “didn’t take you for the cute little stationery type.”

you freeze.

not in an obvious way. it’s a flicker, a split-second hesitation, just the faintest shift in your shoulders, the way your fingers still against the spine of the planner. it’s long enough that something in his chest tightens, long enough that he wonders if you might run.

then, finally, you turn to him.

and satoru, for all his power, for all his foresight, for all his years of learning how to predict and anticipate—he’s completely unprepared.

your face is the same. but not really. the softness he remembers is still there, but refined, tempered into something quieter, something heavier. time has carved something sharper into the delicate lines of your features, something weary, something distant, something closed. and when your eyes meet his, something ugly churns in his gut at how unfamiliar it feels, how your gaze doesn’t hold him the way it used to—how it skims over him like he’s anyone else.

and then you open your mouth.

your lips part, hesitation flickering in your gaze, the faintest shift of your brows betraying something unreadable—something he isn’t sure he wants to name. for a moment, your throat bobs like you might say something else, something more, but then your expression settles into something carefully neutral. practiced. distant.

“gojo.”

not satoru. never satoru.

his stomach twists, and for a brief second, he hates himself for expecting anything different. of course, it would be gojo. of course, you would opt to say his last name like it belonged to a stranger, disregard his first name like it was just a word, just a title—like you hadn’t once whispered it into his skin, like it hadn’t once meant home.

he exhales sharply, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, though it feels stiff, foreign, like it doesn't quite fit on his face anymore. his hands shove into his pockets, his shoulders rolling with a forced ease, but the tension lingers, settling somewhere in his spine.

“so,” he drawls, playing it easy, playing it light, playing it like the years between you never happened, “you a teacher now? or just hoarding sparkly pens?”

there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or the ghost of it—passing through your expression. fleeting. barely there. but he catches it, latches onto it like a dying man gasping for air, like proof that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t the only one drowning in this moment.

and then you exhale, a quiet huff—not quite a laugh, but close enough that something in his chest clenches, tight and aching.

“it’s not for me.”

not for you.

his fingers twitch before he can stop them, the urge to reach out settling deep in his bones like an instinct he thought he’d long buried. his six eyes, ever-perceptive, drink you in without permission, tracing every minute detail, cataloging every shift in your stance. the way your shoulders hover between tension and ease, the way your weight subtly shifts as if you’re fighting the impulse to move—toward him or away, he can’t tell. but it’s your hands that betray you the most, your thumb brushing absently against your palm, slow and methodical, a grounding habit, a tell he never got the chance to memorize.

and yet, for all the little details his sight clings to, it’s the absence of something that twists like a knife beneath his ribs.

the faint indentation on your finger. a whisper of what once was—or maybe what never came to be. a ring should have been there. but it isn’t.

hope is a sickness, and it spreads fast, coiling through him like wildfire, igniting something reckless, something desperate. before he can stop himself, before he can think—before he can remind himself that hope has never done him any favors—the words slip out, raw and unfiltered as he stepped closer. “then who—”

but you do something he doesn’t expect. you step back. not much. just an inch.

but it’s enough.

enough to silence him, to lodge something cold and sharp in the hollow of his chest. enough to remind him that time is not a wound that can be rewound, that the six years between you are filled with things he was never there to witness. enough to remind him that no matter how tightly he might want to cling to the past, you have already let it go.

your expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t crack, but there’s something in the way your lashes lower just slightly, in the way your lips press together, careful and deliberate. restraint, or maybe consideration—like you’re choosing your words with more care than he deserves.

“it was nice seeing you, gojo.”

was. past tense. final.

his stomach twists, his throat constricts. he hates how easily you say it, how effortlessly you close the door between you.

you turn to leave. his whole body locks up. he should let you go. if he were a better man, he would let you go.

but he’s never been a good man, has he? never been selfless, never been someone who could bear to lose something precious to him—not again, not again, not again—

“wait,” he blurts out, reaching for you—

but in the corner of his vision, something shifts.

small. deliberate.

he doesn’t see it.

doesn’t see the way a tiny figure leans forward from behind a display shelf, chin tilted up in blatant curiosity, eyes sharp and calculating. doesn’t see the way her fingers tighten around the straps of her pink, glittery backpack like she’s bracing herself for something—like she’s trying to piece together the scene before her with the unrelenting scrutiny of someone who refuses to be left out.

she isn’t hesitant. she isn’t uncertain.

she watches.

studies.

eyes flicking between you and him, her expression shifting through something unreadable—thoughtful, shrewd, maybe even the slightest bit unimpressed, like she’s already decided she doesn’t like what she’s seeing.

he doesn’t see her.

doesn’t see the way she plants her feet, stance wide like she’s ready to charge forward and insert herself into the conversation the way only a child with too much confidence can. doesn’t see the way her tiny mouth presses into a firm, stubborn line, the way her nose scrunches in concentration, the way her little fingers drum against her arm as if waiting for the right moment to interrupt.

because right now, for the first time in six years, he finally saw you again. he only sees you.

he can only see you.

satoru doesn’t breathe.

not at first.

not when you disappear from sight, not when the absence of your presence leaves behind something gaping, something cold, something he doesn’t have the words to name. six years. six years of nothing, of static, of moving forward because what else was there to do but move? and now—now you were here, now you were leaving again, and if he doesn’t do something, doesn’t say something—

before he can even take a step, before he can even exhale—a tiny, pointed presence looms at his side.

looming shouldn’t be a word that applies to a child. but here she is. cornering him.

when he finally registers her, she’s already staring up at him, blue eyes sharp, head tilted in deep, almost theatrical thought. her posture is relaxed, but not in the way a child’s should be—no fidgeting, no nervous glances, no uncertainty. instead, there is something deliberate in the way she plants her feet, how she clasps her hands neatly in front of her, how she breathes so evenly it’s like she’s assessing him.

the soft scent of vanilla clings to the air around her, mixed with something delicate, maybe peach-scented lotion. her sneakers—pink and white with sparkly laces—are pristine, barely creasing as she shifts her weight. her cardigan, worn off her shoulders like a fashion statement, matches the ribbons in her hair, and her ruffled socks peek out from beneath the hem of a dress that isn't a princess dress but might as well be with how carefully chosen it looks—pale pink with embroidered flowers, soft and dainty.

but the most striking thing about her, above all, is that she is him. down to the way her lips purse in contemplation.

she blinks. once. twice. assessing.

and then, with all the grace of a tiny, self-proclaimed noble who has just encountered a most peculiar sight, she tilts her chin up and announces—“ugh. you’re taller than i thought.”

satoru blinks down at the little diva frowning up at him, her brows furrowing like he’s already failed some unspoken test.

she is… dazzling.

for all the wrong reasons.

because that is his nose. those are his eyes.

the slope of them, the sharp, fox-like tilt—so much like his own that it knocks the air from his lungs. it’s all there in the way her gaze flickers between calculation and feigned indifference, in the way her lips purse in mild dissatisfaction, in the way she shifts her weight onto one foot, expectant. her presence is something deliberate, something intended, as if she is waiting for him to notice her. but that’s ridiculous, right? right?

his throat bobs, dry. he clears it anyway.

satoru barely catches himself before he lets out a laugh—sharp, surprised, incredulous. instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and careful, before slipping his sunglasses off and hooking them onto his collar. the world is suddenly too bright without them, but he needs to see her properly. he lowers himself to one knee, eye level with the little diva who stands before him, hands on her hips like she owns the entire shopping district.

“uh.” he cocks his head, scanning her face for any sign of hesitation. none. not a single crack in that unshakable confidence. “hey, kiddo? are you, uh… lost?”

the reaction is instantaneous.

she gasps—loud, dramatic, affronted.

both hands fly to her chest as though he’s just accused her of something heinous, scandalized horror flashing across her tiny face. her perfectly arched brows shoot up beneath the sharp cut of her bangs, pink lips parting with the kind of exaggerated disbelief that could only be described as theatrical. she takes a step back, but not like she’s retreating—no, she makes it look intentional, like a leading lady on stage setting up the perfect moment of tension.

“excuuuse me?” she demands, her tiny chin tilting higher, voice dripping with the kind of indignation only the truly self-assured can muster. her hands, small but precise in their movement, land imperiously on her hips. “do i look like a peasant who gets lost?”

satoru blinks.

for once, his mouth moves faster than his brain, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense. he opens his lips, closes them, then opens them again, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. “uh—”

“i have an impeccable sense of direction,” she continues, not even sparing him a glance as she flicks her hair over her shoulder, her tiny fingers adjusting an imaginary crown. her eyes shut briefly—dramatic, self-important, as if recalling some great tragedy. “unlike mommy, who keeps walking the wrong way even with google maps.”

he startles.

it’s subtle, a twitch in his fingertips, a shift in his stance—so minor most wouldn’t even notice. but he does. he notices everything. the way her voice rounds out just slightly as she says mommy, the sharp, confident edge softening into something softer, something practiced. it’s natural, the way she says it, habitual, like it belongs to her in a way no other word does. there is no hesitation, no awkwardness, no resentment—only warmth.

only fondness.

or maybe he’s imagining things.

he’s still trying to process it when—

“anyway.” she rolls her eyes, slow and deliberate, like she’s giving him the benefit of the doubt and immediately regretting it. her voice is lighter now, offhanded, but the unimpressed arch of her brow makes it clear: he is wasting her time.

“let’s get back to business.”

his brows furrow. “business?”

“yes, business.” she plants a tiny hand on her hip like she’s about to announce the world’s next big fashion trend. her stance is commanding, legs slightly apart, the picture of confidence despite being barely three feet tall. “keep up.”

satoru isn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely isn’t this.

because the way she looks at him—no, studies him—is unnerving. there’s nothing idle about it, nothing remotely innocent. her gaze is razor-sharp as it sweeps from his feet to his head, dissecting every detail like she’s mapping out a blueprint only she understands.

the pristine uniform. the tall frame. the striking, almost unnatural contrast of white hair and blue eyes.

he's been stared at his whole life, but never like this—never like he's the one being judged. the gaze on him is unwavering, sharp, dissecting him piece by piece as if stripping him down to something more raw, more human. then, as if arriving at some profound conclusion, she lifts her tiny chin and flips her bangs with a small, decisive nod.

“you have white hair.”

her lashes lower slightly, a subtle shift in expression that tightens something in his chest.

“you have blue eyes.”

satoru’s pulse stutters.

before he can process the shift in atmosphere, she clasps her hands together, fingers lacing neatly over her chest. the movement is fluid, graceful, too composed for a child so young. it reminds him of a practiced performer, someone who understands the weight of gestures, of theatrics.

then, with the finality of a verdict, she nods again.

“i guess you’ll do.”

…do what now?

he stares, momentarily incapable of thought.

there is something deeply unsettling about being scrutinized by someone who barely reaches his waist. yet, there is an undeniable weight to the moment, a strange sort of gravity pressing against him. he can feel it—his own energy mirrored back at him, sharp and self-assured, too knowing for a child so young.

his lips part, but he isn’t even sure what he wants to ask.

the answer comes before he can find the question.

“so,” she announces, as if stating the obvious, “i need you to pretend to be my dad.”

satoru chokes.

the cough rattles his ribs, sharp and sudden, like his own body is rejecting the reality of what he just heard. he presses the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders tensing, but it does little to stifle the noise. his throat burns with the effort, and yet, the words still echo in his mind, rearranging themselves into something even more absurd.

he drags his palm down his face. “come again?”

the menace—no, the tiny, immaculately dressed con artist—squints at him.

“are you hard of hearing?” she enunciates, slow and patient, like she’s explaining a simple concept to a particularly dense student. her small hands settle on her hips, fingers tapping in silent judgment, and the stance is so eerily familiar that it sends a ripple of unease down his spine. her chin tilts up, her expression unwavering—like she’s used to being the one in control of conversations, and the thought alone is terrifying. “i said, i need you to pretend to be my dad for a father’s day event at school.”

something in his stomach lurches.

his brain can’t keep up. the words don’t fit, don’t make sense, don’t align with anything logical. she says them with such ease, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but for him, it’s the equivalent of a meteor crashing into his reality.

his throat is suddenly dry. “that’s… uh…”

“obviously, i don’t have one. and you were talking to mommy earlier, so you must be one of her friends.” she shrugs, breezy, nonchalant, as if she’s discussing the weather.

but it is a big deal.

a very big deal.

his heart is pounding so fast he might actually pass out.

“mommy always comes with me, and i guess she’s cool and all,” she continues, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. the movement is casual, self-assured—the same unconscious confidence he had as a child. satoru watches, helpless, as she flicks the curl over her shoulder with a tiny sigh, her expression morphing into something contemplative. “but i pity her, y’know?”

his throat tightens.

“pity.” he repeats, blankly.

“yeah, like.” she exhales, weight shifting onto one foot, lashes fluttering like she’s the protagonist of a soap opera. “all the other kids have dads, and she’s stuck with me all the time.”

his breath catches.

she sighs again, deeply, dramatically, as if she’s making some grand sacrifice. her lower lip juts out ever so slightly, just enough to look a little more pitiful, like she’s spent time perfecting this exact expression. “so, i figured i’d do something selfless and find a dad for the day.”

satoru swallows, something thick and unnameable clogging his throat. “that’s… very generous of you.”

she preens. “i know, right?”

and then—she leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“but don’t tell mommy,” she warns, expression shifting in an instant. her eyes are dead serious, her tiny fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as if to physically hold the secret in place. “she’d get mad.”

his stomach drops.

the weight of her words slams into him with the force of a truck, hollowing out his insides. his pulse roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the store’s overhead music, the chatter of passing customers, the clatter of shopping baskets. he feels it somewhere deep in his chest, a sensation not unlike free-falling—because of all the ways this day could’ve gone, this was never in the realm of possibility.

“mad?” he echoes, voice suddenly hoarse, the word barely scraping past the dryness in his throat.

“mhm.” she nods sagely, lowering her voice even further, like she’s sharing classified information. her tiny fingers tighten around the straps of her pink backpack, knuckles pressing into the glittery fabric as she leans in just a fraction more. her expression is thoughtful, brows furrowing slightly, as if she’s considering something heavier than a child her age should. “i think she still misses my real dad.”

satoru stops breathing.

his chest tightens, a sharp, unbearable squeeze, as if his ribs have turned into a vice, crushing him from the inside out. the world around him dulls, the chatter of passing shoppers fading into static, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a swarm of unseen locusts. the air in his lungs turns thick and heavy, refusing to move—because everything, everything, is falling into place so fast he can barely keep up.

the kid stationeries you were browsing, the set of pastel pens you picked up only to set them back down, like you were debating whether to buy them. the pink, glittery backpack in her hands, the same shade of obnoxious bubblegum pink he once claimed to hate, but now realizes he would buy in a heartbeat, no questions asked. the way she looks just like him—the sharp slant of her nose, the high curve of her cheekbones, the impossibly bright blue eyes that reflect his own like a taunt. even the way she stands, weight shifted slightly to one hip, tiny hands confidently gripping the straps of the backpack—like she already owns the space she stands in, like the world itself is just a little too small for her.

holy shit.

“anyway.” she huffs, as if he’s the one wasting her time, her small mouth curving into a pout of mild exasperation. she adjusts the straps of the backpack in her arms, shifting its weight against her chest, fingers drumming impatiently against the sequined fabric. she tilts her chin up ever so slightly, radiating a confidence that shouldn't belong to someone so tiny. “it’s on friday, 9:00 a.m., at kikyo kindergarten.”

he blinks, the words sluggish as they filter through his brain, like a broken radio signal cutting in and out. “what?”

“the event, duh.” she frowns, unimpressed, tilting her head with all the attitude of someone who cannot believe they have to repeat themselves. her lips press into a thin line, tiny shoulders rising as she takes a slow breath, like she’s summoning every ounce of patience she has to deal with an absolute idiot. “weren’t you listening?”

his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, but nothing coherent comes out. “uh—”

“you better be there.” she declares, arms crossing over her chest, voice firm and unwavering, the kind of voice that does not take no for an answer. her stance shifts as she leans in closer, an almost imperceptible movement, but one that carries all the weight of an unspoken challenge—daring him to refuse, daring him to disappoint her. there is something unreadable in her gaze, something old and knowing, something far too perceptive for a child her age. “or else.”

his pulse jumps. “…or else?”

she meets his gaze head-on, unflinching, as if she already knows she has him backed into a corner. her small fingers tap against her arm, considering, calculating—then, her lips curl into a smile that is nothing short of mischievous.

“or else, i’ll tell mommy you tried to kidnap me.”

his soul leaves his body. “WHAT—”

“bye now!” she beams, the picture of innocence, her entire face transforming in real time, as if she didn’t just completely dismantle his entire world in the span of a conversation.

in real time, satoru watches his own child scam him.

his tiny daughter—his menace of a child—spins on her heel, dropping the entire conversation like it never happened. she prances away, light on her feet, twirling slightly as she rounds the aisle you disappeared into, her little frame swallowed by the shelves.

her voice, when she speaks, is a melody, high and sweet and utterly deceiving. “mommy! look! this is the backpack i want!”

satoru can only stay there. staring.

his breath is shallow, like his lungs have forgotten how to function, like his entire body is refusing to move, to react, to process what just happened. the world feels too sharp, too clear, yet somehow far away, like he’s watching himself from outside his own skin. the fluorescent lights above hum too loudly, the colors of the store seem too vivid, and the ground beneath his feet feels like it's seconds away from giving out.

his daughter just found him before he ever found her.

his hands feel cold. his mouth is dry. his brain, usually a relentless, unyielding machine, capable of dissecting complex battle strategies in seconds, is blank. utterly, hopelessly blank.

she’s real. she exists. she is his.

and she just walked away like it was nothing. like she didn’t just turn his world upside down. like she didn’t just unknowingly rip open a part of him that he didn’t even realize had been closed off.

satoru exhales, slow and shaky, dragging a hand down his face. it doesn’t help. he blinks rapidly, trying to reboot his system, but all he can hear is the echo of her tiny voice—matter-of-fact, unimpressed, brimming with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

he comes to terms with something horrifying.

his menace of a child just blackmailed him. she didn’t ask. she demanded. she set her terms, delivered her threat, and walked away like a goddamn professional.

the absolute audacity.

the sheer talent.

his chest swells, something warm and bright bubbling beneath the overwhelming shock. his lips twitch, his vision goes a little blurry, and then—a slow, unhinged grin spreads across his face.

he has never been more proud.

“holy shit,” he breathes, blinking rapidly, his pulse still hammering in his ears. then, after a long moment of processing the absolute scam he just walked into, he straightens, grips the nearest shelf for support, and mutters under his breath;

“she so gets that from me.”

a/n: any normal person would be horrified finding out they missed out years in their child's life but he's not any normal person sigh he's so silly

tag list: @akeisryna

comment to be added on the tag list xx

[s0fter-sin]

thinking about the way ghost doesn't hesitate to start killing shadows when graves betrays them but soap only takes one hostage

you can almost hear the voice in his head telling him it doesn't have to be this way; they can still talk it out

"i'm calling shepherd"

his first instinct when confronted with betrayal is to play it by the books: to go up the chain. that goes against everything we've seen him do. he bucks authority at every chance except for the one time he's confronted with the barrels of his allies' guns

he wants a peaceful resolution; for the first time we've ever seen, he doesn't want violence to be the answer. there has to be another fix, a solution that doesn't end with him killing the same men he's been working with; his friends

nothing's happened yet

it doesn't have to go this way

but ghost has been betrayed before. he knows the way this ends; either with him six feet under or his enemy

he doesn't hesitate

it's only when they knock alejandro out that soap shoots; when they spill the first blood and cross a line they can never come back from

only when ghost orders him to run and he has to cover his retreat

and somewhere along the line, between civilians’ screams and taunting voices, between his shaking breath and ghost steady in his ear, that naivety is stripped away; his trust turned to teeth that he uses to sink into throats of men he'd have given his life for

"be careful who you trust, sergeant; people you know can hurt you the most"

he's learned the price of trust

just like ghost did

but unlike ghost, he has someone to guide him through the aftermath

"good advice, It"

[shiningsuki]

maybe something more - bob reynolds x reader

WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS FROM MARVEL’S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Fem!Reader Summary: 6 months after the Void spread across New York, the New Avengers play house in the Watch Tower. You notice Bob’s always got a book in hand, and you have an idea. Warnings: Light mentions of anxiety, depression, mental health issues, trauma, both Bob and reader struggle to start any type of intimate relationship beyond friendship at this point Content: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Artist!Bob, Bookworm!Bob, the Thunderbolts* as a dysfunctional family unit AO3 🔗 <- read it on ao3! Word Count: 6.3k A/N: Thank you so much for reading my first Bob fic! He and Thunderbolts* got me back into fic writing. I hc that Bob is an artistic soul and has a few outlets to calm his mind, so please do enjoy. And also please be kind since I haven't written in over a year :') Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated 🖤 More Bob to come soon~~

6 months after New York

The penthouse suite in the New Avengers facility, the Watch Tower, faces an interior design crisis. You watch the argument in front of you with amusement, feet up on the ottoman in front of the couch you’re sitting on, arms crossed. Yelena sits on your right, head in hands. Bob’s on your left; you sneak a glance at him. He’s reading a book, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and a vanilla milkshake sits on the coffee table beside the armchair. How on earth he manages to understand the book’s content with the ruckus, you have no idea.

“It should be white,” Walker grumbles. The ex-soldier faces the empty wall in front of the couch, his back facing your row. You hear the grimace in his expression.

“No, green. Like grass outside. Inviting presence; when people walk inside, they say, ‘Oh, I feel so warm and fuzzy.’ Subconscious from wall color — that is psychology, right, Lena?”

Alexei flashes a toothy grin at his daughter. She groans quietly in response, head still in her hands. You glance at her in pity, then focus back on the two men. Their voices start to rise in volume.

“No, white. Green is too mucky.”

“Green is good color. Why do you not want it?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“You are not painter. We tell Valentina’s crew to paint. Lena, tell him we should have it green.”

“God, you’re insufferable,” Walker throws his hands up and saunters into the kitchen. Alexei gives Yelena a hopeful look, and she groans again before getting up to stand next to him. Their debate continues, but you shift your attention to the quiet man next to you. All conversation fades into the background, and it’s just Bob, his nose in a book and his mouth hovering slightly over the milkshake straw in his hand.

You gently bump into his arm. “Whatcha reading now, Bob?”

Bob starts, nearly spilling his milkshake. He quickly sets it down on the coffee table before looking back sheepishly at you. You stifle a chuckle and watch him smooth his hair back with his fingers. Bob clears his throat, darting his eyes between you and the open book.

“Oh, it’s uh, Catch-22,” Bob turns the book to its cover, and you peer at the blue canvas. “World War II fiction. Interesting history stuff. It’s about this antihero, Captain John Yossarian, and discusses the absurdity of war and bureaucracy. Basically, he and his crew have to follow this Catch-22 rule: to be relieved from duty, they have to be declared mentally unfit, but if they request it themselves, they’re deemed sane and so must continue flying missions.”

“Ah, hence the phrase,” You reply. “With a Catch-22, there’s no win either way. You’re stuck in an impossible situation.” You slightly frown, remembering the last few months, but your mouth quickly shifts into a smirk. “Sounds familiar.”

“Exactly,” Bob’s eyes brighten as he chuckles. “I was super into reading about this stuff as a kid. Actually, what got me into it was…”

Bob trails off, his expression following suit. A shadow clouds his face, and you see his jaw protrude in and out from his chin. You tense inadvertently, but force yourself to relax. Bob hasn’t had an episode in months. Chill out. Still, you take a deep breath in before speaking.

“It’s alright,” You assure him. A tiny smile flickers on your face. “I understand.” Bob glances at you and closes the book, resting it on his lap. You stare at the cover, letting the silence stretch. Bob clears his throat again.

“Thanks. Uh, I like the book so far. I’d recommend it if you’re into that kind of stuff.”

You nod, looking back up at him. “Thanks, I’ll have to add it to the list. I haven’t read much lately, but I used to like it a lot. Gives me an escape from all this—” You pause, gesturing around your head. Bob smiles at that, and you’re relieved to see his expression lighten.

“That’s cool. It’s always there for you when you’re ready.”

You look at him, feeling your chest tighten. You inhale another deep breath. Bob seems like an aloof guy upfront, but sometimes he says the most profound things without knowing it. It infuriates and intrigues you at the same time.

“Thanks again, Bob.” The conversation happening by the couch fades back in, and you barely realize Alexei and Yelena have been arguing back and forth for the entire time you and Bob were chatting.

“Lena, green is beautiful color! It matches your eyes.”

“Alexei, my eyes are not green. And we are not painting the wall that color. It doesn’t match the rest of the suite.”

Alexei’s face is a mixture of shock and hurt. “Your eyes aren’t green?’

You glance at Bob, sharing a look of mirth, before you both burst out laughing. Yelena looks at you both with murder in her eyes, which only propels you to laugh harder. The blonde lets out a string of curses in Russian and stomps out of the room. Alexei chases after her, pleading. You wipe your eyes after you calm down and look back at Bob. He’s smiling ear to ear and genuinely looks happy. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

You blink. Okay, Alexei’s rubbing off on me. That’s a problem. You stand up and adjust your clothes.

“I’m gonna go out for a bit.”

Bob nods. “Okay, see you later.”

You salute him and start walking away. Then, an idea springs into your head and you shuffle back to him, stopping in front of his knees. Bob looks up at you again, round saucers for eyes, and you smile.

“Hey, do me a favor? Write down all the books you want to read. Or the books you love and want to have. Text it to me, or just give me the list, whatever you want.”

Bob quirks an eyebrow up. “Ooo-kay. May I ask why?” A hint of suspicion laces his voice, but amusement takes over his face, seeing your energy.

“No reason,” You respond in a singsongy voice before twirling around and walking away again. “Thanks, Bob!” You call over your shoulder. You just hear him laugh in response, and you can picture him shaking his head, his bangs falling over his eyes. You smile again even wider, excitement bubbling in your stomach from your plans.

You give Bob a week and some change before you see his bedroom door ajar, and you knock on it. He’s sitting on the floor, crisscrossed, hunched over a sketchbook with pages of drawings surrounding him on the floor. You lean on the doorframe and cross your arms, watching him for a few moments. He’s so immersed that he didn’t hear you. You give it another second or two before knocking again, although this time it’s more akin to pounding on the frame. You’ve never been much of a patient person.

Bob jumps and his pencil flies out of his hand, then rattles onto the floor. He looks up at you with wide eyes, frazzled, and relaxes when he sees you. He swipes his hair back, and you glimpse a dark smudge on the side of his drawing hand. He starts to gather his things, muttering under his breath.

“Jesus! Could you not keep doing that?” Bob glances up at you, his tone serious, but you catch a teasing glimpse in his eyes. “You know I have a fragile heart.”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You can handle a jumpscare or two, I know it.” You walk over to Bob’s bed and plop down at the end of it.

Bob winces. “I just folded that.”

“Oh, sorry.” You make to stand up and Bob waves his hands, gripping his sketches.

“No, no, it’s alright. You’re already sitting. Please.” Bob motions downward, and you follow suit.

You glance at the papers. “May I see?”

Bob looks back and forth between you and his hands for a few moments. You see in his face the gears turning in his head. He swipes his hair back again, and his foot starts to shake back and forth. He’s nervous. You give him a reassuring smile.

“You don’t have to show me anything. But I’d still love to see the artist of the group’s work, if you’re willing to share.”

Bob chuckles sheepishly, shaking his head. “I’m no artist. Most of these are just sketches, really. But they’re messy. And unfinished. It just… helps clear my mind. You know…”

Bob trails off, gesturing around his head, looking at you expectantly. You laugh at that, touched by the subtle mirroring of you from before.

“I get it. Everyone needs an outlet. It’s cool that you draw, though—I’m so bad at it.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad,” Bob replies. He shuffles the papers a few times before resigning to hand the stack over.

You grin at him and snatch them away. Bob avoids your gaze as he moves to clear the rest of the floor. You look down at the sketches and start rifling through them. There are some landscape images, mountains, flower fields, the like. Then you see portraits of the team, some in motion, some stills. You notice that every image is from a certain point of view, which you can only assume it’s Bob watching the rest of you interact while he stays quiet in the background, ever the observant one.

The last few sketches are the team’s individual pictures. None of them are smiling, but there’s a sereneness and simple beauty captured in them.

“These are amazing, Bob. You capture us so beautifully.”

Bob rubs the back of his neck, still avoiding your gaze. “Nah, they’re nothing special.”

“Of course not. They’re special, because you’re special.”

You wink at him, which thankfully he catches. Bob immediately looks away again, his hair falling in front of his eyes. His body seems to shrink in embarrassment, and you laugh. You look down again and shuffle to the next paper.

You can’t hold in your gasp. All the sketches were stunning, even the mundane ones, but this—a portrait of you, laughing, looking off into the distance with a spark in your eye. It’s the twinkle of hope, of real joy, something you’re fortunate enough to feel in sporadic moments the last few months, after everything. You didn’t know if you would feel that way again.

Honestly, you don’t even recognize yourself.

You look up at Bob, who wears an anxious yet expectant expression on his face. You look back and forth at him and the drawing, struggling to form words.

“What is it?” Bob asks.

“This… this is beautiful, Bob. I’m…” You trail off, clearing your throat. “I’m flattered. But there’s no way I look like this in real life. This person is—”

“She’s you. It’s how I see you.” You stare at Bob as he plays with his fingers in his lap. “All of those sketches, that’s how I see everyone here. This team.”

Bob pauses, chuckling. “I’ve said this way too many times, but you guys saved me. You saw me for who I am, and you still reached out to save me. So, the least I can do is portray how I see all of you as best as I can—and do the dishes.”

You let out a laugh, in shock, awe, disbelief. Words escape you again as you and Bob share a look of understanding. You let the comfortable silence stretch before whispering out the few words you can only think of to say at this moment.

“Thank you, Bob,” You look down at your lap, chest tight again, before gathering the papers and handing them back. “That really means a lot.”

Bob nods, a small smile on his face, and takes the papers, but a sketch that you hadn’t seen before falls out of the stack. It flutters to the ground and lands face up. You inhale sharply, chest threatening to burst.

An almost black page, scribbles upon scribbles melting into one another, with two small circles in the middle. Your body reacts before anything: hands ball into fists, shoulders tense, and your breathing starts to quicken. Bob snatches up the drawing immediately and hides it in his sketchbook. He glances up at you, terrified, and retreats into his body, looking so small on the floor like a child.

“I’m– I’m sorry!” Bob exclaims, hugging his knees. “That– you weren’t supposed to see that. You shouldn’t have seen that.”

You shake your head, unballing your fists and shaking them out. You try not to notice the tremor in your fingers as you settle your hands in your lap. “No, it’s okay, Bob. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. It’s just… when I think about that day…”

Empty, endless darkness. Falling into a room, then another room, then fighting your way through those painful memories before finally finding Bob, in his own room, and seeing no escape. Just… a void. You swallow hard. You still have no idea how long everyone spent in there, but it felt like eternity. Sitting in the pain. The shame, the disbelief. Revisiting what you never wanted to see again. But you had to, to save Bob. You all had to. And you know you would do it again and a hundred times over if you could.

Bob nods. “I know. Obviously, you know that I know better than all of you.” He pauses to gesture at the sketchbook. “Not all of these drawings are good. But like I said, they help clear my head. To regain lost memories. To try and remember all the bad things I did when I was… him. It’s cathartic, in a way. I try not to beat myself up over it. Some days are better than others.”

Bob shrugs, and you sigh. “Of course.” You get off the bed to sit beside him and place a hand on his shoulders. For a millisecond, Bob shrinks away, but relaxes since you’re not really touching him, skin to skin. You haven’t tried that, but from Yelena and Walker’s accounts, it’s kind of like a mini Void experience, but still not pleasurable.

You grimace to yourself. You don’t want to be afraid of touching Bob. You’re not really—he seems more afraid of contact than any of you do. So you keep your distance and close it when you can, just like now.

“Anything that helps you, I’m game. Do you have more good days than bad?”

“Yes,” Bob nods. “Thankfully. It’s not perfect, but it’s a step forward. I just haven’t used my Sentry powers since the incident. I’m… afraid to. Because then he… He might come out again.”

Bob swallows, and you squeeze his shoulder. “I know. We’re just trying to be cautious, that’s all, and what you’re feeling is totally understandable.”

Bob shakes his head, frowning. “I just wish I could be more useful. You know, help you guys out. All I do is wash dishes and clean up around the penthouse.”

You clap Bob’s shoulder before letting go. “And that’s all you need to do, for now. And be a friendly face. And share your book reviews and drawings with us. It really helps, you know. Everything you’re doing is enough, I promise.”

Bob lights up at that, smiling widely. You smile back and let out another sigh.

“Okay, dreamboat,” You say, standing up and brushing off your pants. You coined that nickname for Bob at some point, and it just stuck. He never seemed to mind. “I meant to ask you if you have that list of books for me yet.”

“Oh yeah,” Bob stands up and searches his desk for a moment. He turns to you and hands over a folded sheet. You take it and unfold it, skimming through the list.

“Those are all the books I could think of. I can send you more if I remember something I missed.”

“Great,” You say, folding it and tucking it in your pocket. You point at Bob and turn to walk out of this room. “Tolkien, Hemingway, Butler—some good reads. Thanks!”

“Wait, you never told me what you’re going to do with that list!” Bob calls after you.

“You’ll find out soon enough, dreamboat!” You reply over your shoulder. You glance behind you and turn to walk backwards, saluting. Bob’s head sticks out of his room, confusion clouding his face, and you just laugh.

“Seriously, you should think about showing everyone your drawings. They’re really something, Bob!” You salute to him before turning around fully to walk away.

Before you head out to pick up the furniture order you placed a few weeks ago, you stand in front of the newly painted beige wall. To Alexei’s dismay, the crew outvoted him and received a nice, monotone cream wall that matches the rest of the suite’s colors. Every wall is starting to be covered by various memorabilia, courtesy of members collecting random displayable knick-knacks to be showcased throughout the place. You’re standing in front of the empty space, which you had insisted that everyone keep empty for your plans, picturing the new furniture in front of it.

A pair of boots passes behind you. “Morning,” Ava’s voice chimes.

You motion without looking back at her towards you. “Ava, come here. Do you think mahogany will look good with this?”

Ava moves to stand next to you and tilts her head at the wall. “Yeah. They’re both neutral tones and don’t clash with each other.”

“Okay, good.”

“Wait,” Ava turns to face you fully, hands on her hips. “Didn’t you order the bookshelf already?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, I did. I’m just making sure, and I’m getting it today.”

“Oookay,” Ava replies with amusement. “Is Bob still here? Won’t he see everyone assembling this?”

“No, Walker and Alexei took him out already. Sightseeing. He really hasn’t seen much of New York since the incident.”

Ava hums in assent. “Yeah, fat chance of that the last few months. Hope those boys have their wits about them and don’t leave Bob anywhere.”

You roll your eyes. “Unfortunately, I have close to zero faith in them, but we can only hope at this point.” You look back at the wall in front of you, determined. “This should take some time, but we’ll get it done before they get back.”

A few hours later, you wish you hadn’t said that out loud.

It took nearly an hour to coordinate the furniture drop-off and lug it inside the building. You don’t have superhuman strength, but you were stubbornly determined to drag the box into the elevator. As soon as you made it to the penthouse, the doors opened to Bucky, who gave you and the box a once-over.

“How the hell did you get this inside?” Bucky asked.

“Don’t,” You say, pointing a finger at the man. Bucky rolls his eyes and puts his bionic arm under the box, lifting it out of the elevator with ease.

“You could’ve just called, you know.”

“Shut up.” You strut past him and put a middle finger up behind your shoulders.

You exchange a look with Ava, who’s sitting on the couch with a book open. Her face wears a confused expression before you wave her away, exasperated. Bucky puts down the box by the wall with a gentle thud and wipes his hands.

“Hope nothing’s broken in there,” He muses.

You glare at him and refuse to entertain the notion. Your eyes sweep the living room, which conveniently does not have any of the books you ordered.

“Where’s Yelena?” You ask.

Ava shrugs, nose still buried in her book. “Dunno. Haven’t seen her all day.”

You groan, slapping your hand on your forehead. “She was supposed to pick up the books.”

You grab your phone from your back pocket and dial her number. After a few rings, your foot taps impatiently on the floor when Yelena picks up.

“Hello?”

“Where are the books, Yelena?”

“What books?”

You grit your teeth and start to pace back and forth. Ava and Bucky’s eyes follow your footsteps. “The ones for Bob. I told you to pick them up today from the used bookstore.”

“Oh shit,” Yelena replies. You let out another groan and rub your eyes.

“Dude!”

“Don’t dude me!” She exclaims. “I forgot, I was running other errands.”

“What other errands?” Your voice begins to rise, and Ava closes her book, crossing her arms while tracking your end of the conversation.

“Doesn’t matter,” Yelena says. You can just picture the blonde waving her hand in dismissal, like it’s no big deal. “I’ll get them now.”

“Hurry,” You hiss through the speaker. “Walker and Alexei can’t keep Bob occupied forever. I’m not even sure if Walker can stay sane with those two the entire time.”

“Roger.” Yelena hangs up, and you shove your phone in your pocket again. Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you pause just to breathe. Then, clarity washes over your body. You open your eyes and whip around.

“Ava, come with me. We’re waiting for Yelena in the lobby to help her bring the books up,” You motion at her to follow. Then you point at Bucky.

“Bucky, start unpacking the box and arranging the parts.” The man frowns at you at first, probably not liking the tone in your voice. You pivot and smile sweetly, albeit feeling a strain in your forehead. “Please. It’ll be great if you can start assembling the shelf too, thanks so much!’

“Hey, now wait a minute—”

“See ya, Buck!” You grab Ava’s arms to pull her quickly out of the common room.

What feels like hours pass by before Yelena arrives. You see a car pull up to the front, and she hops out, strolling leisurely to the back seat to pull out the first box.

You’re fuming as you step outside the building door and shove past Yelena, not bothering to say a word as you lift up another box.

“Hello to you too,” Yelena greets you, and you can only muster squinting your eyes at her in response.

“Now, now, ladies, play nice,” Ava says, walking up behind you with a box in hand. “Jesus, this is heavy.”

“How many more boxes are left?” You ask, leading the charge to the elevators again.

“Only two. We can grab them,” Yelena offers as she presses the close doors button.

That marginally makes you feel better, and you nod, giving her a strained smile. Yelena notices your expression and flashes a bemused grin.

“Hey, he’s gonna love it. And we’re here to help you assemble everything.”

“Ha, that’s funny,” Ava laughs. “You know, ‘Assemble’—”

“No.”

“Don’t even start.”

You and Yelena speak at the same time and let out a bout of laughter as the elevator doors close fully in front of you and start taking you upwards.

After the two women leave for the last boxes, you’re sorting through the books as Bucky continues to assemble the shelf. He says it’s easy to follow the instructions, grumbling the entire time, but you have a feeling he enjoys taking first responsibility in completing the task at hand.

Ava and Yelena return and start helping you sort. You’re unsure of how much time passes when you hear your phone ring. You grab your phone and hold it up to your ear.

“We are coming back,” Alexei whispers into the phone. “ETA 20 minutes.”

Shit. “Oh okay, uh…”

You glance behind you and see Bucky working on the last row. Ava catches your eye, quirking her eyebrow up.

“Try to stretch that as much as possible. We’re almost done - thanks!”

You hang up and toss your phone on the couch. “They’re here in 20.”

Yelena shoots up from her seat. “Let’s get to it, then!”

She joins Bucky to help him lift the last shelf row to the top and screw the bolts in. You and Ava start lugging piles of books near the shelf and placing them haphazardly in neat rows. You’ll worry about presentation later.

Bucky and Yelena join soon after. None of you speak, focused on filing the books away. Eventually, nearly every row is filled, with empty spaces to display any fun knick-knacks lying around. You grab a statue that was sitting out of place in the kitchen. Ava brings a fancy mug, Yelena stacks some of Alexei’s figurines next to each other, and Bucky brings over a small succulent.

You eye it as he places it on the shelf, and he looks at you. “What?”

“Where did you get that?” You ask, curious.

Bucky shrugs and murmurs, “Just had it in my room. I keep some plants in there.”

You feign shock, gasping and putting a hand on your chest. “James Buchanan Barnes is a plant dad?’

“Shut up, kid.” Bucky reaches out to ruffle your hair, and you duck, side-stepping him as he tries again to shove you.

The elevator dings, and all of you whip towards the sound. Everyone shuffles in front of the bookcase and waits for the men to step into the room. You take one last look at the shelf, admiring everyone’s quick work and how neat everything looks already before turning again just as the trio walks in.

Alexei’s hands hover in front of Bob’s eyes as they walk slowly towards your group. Walker trails behind, his arms crossed and his face bearing a curious look. You catch his eyes widening at the bookcase behind you, and he locks his gaze on yours. He gives you a small smile and thumbs up, which makes you stand up straight, nodding at him.

“Okay, guys, what is this?” Bob asks, his voice light. You see his hands wringing together nervously and you crack your knuckles, sharing the sentiment.

With a gulp, you nod at Alexei, and he moves his hands away from Bob. Ava and Bucky step to the side to show the bookcase in full, and Bob’s eyes widen to saucers, shining.

The mahogany shelf stands at least two heads taller than you. You’re on the shorter side, so it doesn’t seem like much, but from your point of view, it looks majestic. The case spans the entire wall and is lined with books. They’re mostly used, although you were able to bargain with the store owner for some rare collectibles. Valentina’s pockets run deep, and you’re determined to utilize her as much as possible.

You step to the side as Bob walks up, his fingers running across book spines and his eyes taking it all in. You don’t take your own eyes off him, gauging his reaction. You nervously squeeze your palms together, anxiety growing as the silence stretches.

Does he love it? Hate it? Bob wears the same awestruck, lost look that he’s usually susceptible to having, but you can’t tell if it’s more or less of a degree than normal. You’re tempted to break the silence until Bob’s wandering gaze finally lands on you.

“Is this… for me?”

You sigh in relief. “Yes.”

You respond so quickly that the breath leaves your body before you can think of more words to say. Almost immediately, you realize how personal that response comes across, how intimate, and glance around the room. Everyone has some degree of amusement on their face—from Yelena’s smirk to Alexei’s proud smile and Walker’s shit-eating grin. You glare at him before softening your gaze back on Bob. He looks at you, eyes still shining.

“I mean yes, I– well, we–” You gesture at the group. “–know you love books. So uh, I asked everyone if they would like to, um, have some of their own favorite books in the mix along with yours. So that you can read them whenever you want.”

You smile at Bob, then catch yourself. “I mean, you and uh, everyone here! Obviously.”

You cringe inwardly, but Bob only smiles. “That’s… amazing. So that’s why you were asking me for a list.” He smirks down at you, and you look away, feeling your cheeks flush.

Bucky clears his throat. “This was actually all her idea. We just went along with it.”

You turn to him with wide eyes, shaking your head. Bob looks at Bucky, then back at you. You freeze, feeling even more heat rush up your neck. Bob looks at you for a few more moments, stunned. Your face burns, but you don’t want to look away. After a few more agonizing seconds, Bob’s face melts into a soft smile.

“Thank you so much,” Bob whispers, and you part your mouth, taking a deep breath. His eyes flash with something indescribable, looking over you once more before he returns his attention to the group. “Everyone, this is so thoughtful. I really appreciate it.”

The team walks up to Bob, greeting him and admiring the collection. On the other hand, you start to slowly back away from everyone. You enjoy seeing them appreciate the plans you’ve had for weeks finally come to fruition, but you also feel an itch to run off and hide. After a few more slow steps, you turn your heel and march out to the balcony.

The blast of fresh night air cools your face, and you gasp. You make your way to the railing and lean heavily on it, bending down with arms stretched out and head facing the ground. After a few more deep breaths, you straighten, still slightly leaning on the railing while looking out at the view.

What the hell was that? Your heartbeat betrays your slowing breaths; you feel like you could run a marathon.

As you gaze out into the horizon, New York City greets you with twinkling lights, and your thoughts drift to the past few months. Finding out you’re no longer the hunter, but the prey. Forced into close proximity with other quote-unquote criminals and having to band to together to survive. Discovering a lonely man with powers beyond your comprehension. And fighting for your life to pull him out of the darkness, your own darkness and his, with a group of unlikely allies turned friends.

And everything afterward. Bonding with this group of people. This team. Never in a million years would you imagine. You’ve never been great at teamwork. But now, you have no idea where you’d be without these people. Probably dead, or in a worse place. Especially after getting to know a certain someone…

You can’t imagine a life without him.

“Hey.”

Speak of the devil. You turn around and see Bob standing near the doorway, leaning against the frame. You cross your arms and mirror his pose, smiling.

“Hey, dreamboat. Tired of the bookshelf already?”

Bob shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, not at all. I don’t think I could ever tire of it.”

He joins you by the railing, leaning forward and taking stock of the view. Your eyes wander to the group inside, animated conversation floating out the doors in a rumbling noise.

You nod. “That’s good. I was worried I’d need a refund.”

Bob chuckles at that. You look at him and smile, and see that his gaze is locked on yours. Intense, brewing again with something you can’t explain. You wait a few moments before opening your mouth to speak, but Bob beats you to it.

“Is it true what Bucky said? That it was your idea to get a bookshelf and all these books?

Again, you nod, although you avoid Bob’s penetrating gaze. “Yes. I… I know books help you. And it’s been fun when we talk about what you’re reading, what I’m reading, et cetera. So I thought everyone could have a space to escape, like we do.”

You look up at that, catching Bob’s eye. “The bookshelf is for everyone, but you’re my primary inspiration for getting it.”

Inadvertently, your chest tightens up after saying that. Your stomach flips and clenches into a ball, trying to decipher Bob’s expression. He gives away almost nothing, minus the glimmer in his eye that always seems to be there when he looks at you.

Finally, he speaks up. “That’s very kind. And I’m honored to be your muse.”

Oh. Your mouth forms a tiny circle, small waves of shock coursing through your body. You never thought of it like that—with Bob being an artist, you guess that’s one way to put it. You look away, out into the city again, suddenly feeling shy.

Bob lets the silence envelop the two of you, the city’s noises of cars honking and shuffling pedestrians filling the gap. Gears turn in your head—you want to say more, somehow, but you’re not sure what. Every now and then, you see Bob glance over at you in your peripheral, but he still remains quiet. That’s one of the things you admire about him—he’s observant, and good at latching onto others’ feelings. Perhaps to his own fault that he forgets about his own, but you try your best to keep him accountable.

Swallowing, you look back at Bob, who’s also looking out into the city. His hair blows back gently with the breeze, and he wears a serene expression. You’ve noticed that too, how much more relaxed he is after just a few months spending time in this watch tower, with this mismatched team taking care of each other. Selfishly, you’d like to think you had a lot to play in that change.

Kind eyes. Firm lips. Handsome, rugged, and soft all at once. More descriptions of Bob you’ve filed away in your brain, but you’d never admit to him or anyone else out loud—at least not yet. Finally, you steel yourself, breaking the quiet.

“Bob?”

He looks at you. Tonight, it seems a soft glow emits around him, covering his silhouette with a halo and making you feel like you’re in a dream. You blink—or maybe you’re finally losing it, bursting at the seams with everything left unspoken.

“Yes?”

He looks at you, dreams in his eyes, and fear fills you head to toe, threatening to drown you and pull you under. You grip the railing in front of you until your knuckles turn white, hopelessly trying to remain calm. Bob glances at your hands and reaches forward, stopping just inches from them. His eyes widen before he jerks back, looking away. Shame flashes in his features before it disappears just as quickly.

You feel a short wave a pity for him before you force it down. Bob doesn’t need pity—far from it. He wouldn’t want to be pitied. He just wants to be understood.

After you take a deep breath, you shut your eyes and let a flurry of words out before you think too much about them.

“I don’t know where we’re at and I don’t know if I’ve completely read the room wrong this whole time, but please let me know I’m not delusional, and that maybe, just maybe, we could be something more in the future.”

Silence. That’s all you’re met with for what feels like long, agonizing seconds. Blood rushes to your ears, your pulse quickens, and it takes all of you to steel yourself and keep your breathing even.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes. Stars dance across your vision before it settles on Bob again. Does he seem closer to you? Bob slides his hand along the railing until his fingers are inches from yours. He looks at them for a few moments before looking back up at you again.

“I’m going to be honest,” He starts, and your stomach drops. You swallow and start nodding, about to acquiesce, but Bob continues. “Let me finish.” He laughs, shaking his head, amused. You cock your head to the side, a flicker of hope blooming in your chest.

“I’m severely fucked up. And—I won’t speak for you—but you may or may not be on the same page. Am I correct in saying that?”

You laugh too. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

“Right. I’m getting better, but I still have a lot to work on. And to learn to control. And… I don’t want all of my shit to jeopardize whatever comes next.”

You try to stand tall, but feel your body caving as your resolve crumbles. You let out a sigh. “I understand, Bob. I don’t want any of mine to jeopardize our anything either.”

“But…” He trails off and sweeps back his hair with his free hand. His other one on the railing doesn’t budge.

“You’re not delusional. Everything you’ve felt in the past months, I’ve felt it too. I promise.”

Bob’s steady gaze threatens to topple you over. All you can do is nod in reply.

“Let’s make a deal. We work on ourselves until we’re less fucked up, or at least until we’re ready. Then maybe, just maybe…”

Bob’s tone is teasing, and you roll your eyes at his gentle mockery, but also smile.

“Maybe we can be something more.” You whisper.

Bob smiles from ear to ear. You’d do anything to capture this moment of happiness and keep it in your pocket forever. You smile back.

“We’ve got a deal, Robert Reynolds.”

You bump into his shoulder lightly, brushing your fingers a hair’s width from his. Bob sucks in a breath, and you look at him in reassurance. You scoot as close to him as he’s comfortable and settle into another long silence.

Giddiness bubbles in your chest. With another shared glance, you see a lonely man, saved by love and friendship, and a future where you and all your friends are truly happy and free. It seems like a flight of fancy, but when you look back out into the city, the possibilities are endless.

You’re in trouble, and Bob may lead you into a whole other fucked up-ness you’re unprepared for, but you’d ride out any storm with him. And you know he’d go to hell and back for you just the same.

[charliemwrites]

Squeeze Me, I Squeak!

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

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

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

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

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

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

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you turn to the bleeding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

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

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

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Need one more thing from you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

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

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

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

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

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

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

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

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

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

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

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

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

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

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

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

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

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

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

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

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

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

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

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

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Solid, Sergeant?”

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

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

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

“’S nice,” you whisper.

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

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

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

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

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

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

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

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

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

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

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

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

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

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

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

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

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

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

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

“You ever seen Halloween?”

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

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

He goes still behind you. “What.”

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

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

“Squeaks…”

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

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

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

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

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

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

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

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

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

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

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

He’s biting you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

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

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

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

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

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

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

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

“Yessir…” you groan.

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

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

You might be after this though.

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

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

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

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

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

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

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

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

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

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

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

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

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

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

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

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

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

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

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

You get the fuck in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

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

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

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

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

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

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

“What?” you ask.

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

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

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

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That fast?” you ask.

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

“It’s clear!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

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

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

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

Then he shifts.

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

“Squeaks.”

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

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

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

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on,” he urges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have experience,” he asserts.

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

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

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

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

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

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

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

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

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

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

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

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

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

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

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

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

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

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

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

“That’s my girl.”

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

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

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

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

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

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

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

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

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

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

“N-no,” you lie.

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

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

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

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

“Close,” you pant.

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

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

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

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

And he doesn’t stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have to fix that, then.”

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

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

“Yes,” you agree.

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

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

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

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

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

And your eyes.

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

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

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

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

Just the head. Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

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

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

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

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

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

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

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

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

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

“What about you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

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

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

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

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

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

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

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

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

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

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

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

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guess so.”

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

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

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

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

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

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

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

“You’re my hero.”

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

“Yessir.”

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) - Prologue

Words: 1.1k Synopsis: Time doesn't heal all wounds, sometimes, there's too much hurt, too much pain to forget. Sometimes, scars are left behind. Scars that remind us the past is real. Everyone knows Love is the death of Duty. Pronouns Used: She/Her - (Y/N) also used Also On: Wattpad, Quotev, AO3 and Inkitt

The Clone Wars were a cruel, tragic, and devastating event that affected countless lives. Many lost their homes, their loved ones, their faith, and even their lives. Both the Clones and the Jedi fought and sacrificed selflessly in a war that they didn't choose to be a part of. They did everything they could to protect strangers across the galaxy, who would never even bother to learn their names or show any gratitude for their heroic actions. During the war, both the Clones and the Jedi faced many restrictions. The Clones were not allowed to enjoy even the simplest of pleasures and were treated as nothing more than mere products instead of the brave soldiers they truly were. They had fewer rights than even the convicts in the Republic prisons. The Jedi, on the other hand, were bound by their code, prohibiting them from forming any human attachments or loving anyone. They were not allowed to express basic human emotions for fear of falling to the dark side.

Despite that, though, love still somehow flourished. Clones managed to find a semblance of peace away from the battlefield in the arms of another, even if it was only for a few short hours. If they were lucky, it lasted longer. The Jedi found solace in the arms of the troopers they fought side by side with on the never-ending rotation of merciless battlefields and warzones. 

Most Clones and Jedi, in some sort of relationship, had a tendency to keep them secret, if only to avoid the scrutiny of their peers and the judgment of those who would so quickly look down upon them for wanting the simple pleasures of life. Most, if not all, of them, hid their devotion out of fear of what would happen if discovered. None of them wanted to imagine the horrors that awaited. Nor the idea of being ripped away from each other for the simple crime of wanting to love someone, of wanting to be loved, of wanting to feel more than being a warrior meant to die on the battlefield. A prisoner without chains. 

CC-3636 was one of the most respected Clone Commanders, gifted with a strategic mind and brothers he could count on for anything. Preferring to be called Wolffe, he was looked upon as a role model by many cadets. Close with his Jedi General Plo Koon, but haunted by the traumas of the war, scared even to get close to someone outside those apart of the famed Wolf pack, for fear he would lose them. He feared the Malevolence nightmare repeating with others he let himself care for. Despite that, he cares deeply for his brothers and respects Plo above all others. Many times, Wolffe had been faced with a cruel decision, forced to choose between the lives of his brothers; every time, he'd save as many as he could and never forgot the names of those he lost. 

After losing his eye to Ventress, he gained a new coldness, especially to the children of Dathamir. Although he'd admit they were few and far between, it didn't prevent his distrust in them. His distrust tainted even the purest of intentions, making him suspicious of even the gentlest acts of kindness. 

One of the most known Jedi Generals was (Y/N) Black, commonly referred to as a Princess General by many clones or simply Princess by several of her fellow Jedi. She was Dathomirian, a Night Sister similar to Asajj Ventress. Strong in the force with a talent for breaking or bending the rules, a friend to everyone, and one of the biggest supporters of Clone Rights. As a General, she was battle-tested, clever, and always had plans and backups in case anything went wrong. If one of her bright ideas was risky, the only life in danger was her own. She trusted her men, respected them, and valued their lives above her own. There was never a time when she'd called a trooper by their identification number. Instead, she called them by their chosen names, friends, or, in some cases, affection nicknames in various languages.

Everything had been selectively normal or as close to normal as the war could get. (Y/N) had returned to Coruscant with her legion 916th Battalion. Their last assignment to the outer rim had been a particularly nasty one, even more so upon the discovery that the republic information had been detrimentally wrong. The locals had been caught in the crossfire, many injured and killed, and in the end, they were forced to retreat, the droid reinforcements being too much for one lone Jedi and batallion to handle. 

Although (Y/N) hated admitting defeat with a passion, she did what was best for her troopers; once again, she had put them before the often pointless and corrupt demands of the Jedi Council and Senate. Upon returning to Coruscant, she wished her troopers a fond farewell before leaving for the Temple, mourning the loss of those who hadn't made it and wishing a speedy recovery for those who had been injured. As usual, she gave her normal line of "Stay out of trouble." 

As per usual (Y/N)'s arrival at the temple was expected. As soon as she entered the city-sized structure, she was swept to the communications center to be debriefed and hounded with questions that only served to wear down her already thin patients further, as well as question the overall intelligence of the council members interrogating her. Despite her desire to speak her mind, she kept her snide comments and obvious frustrations to herself, at least until she made it back to the safety of her quarters, where she could release her pent-up anger and frustration in privacy. Or that would have been the plan had she not been informed of a request by Master Plo. He asked for her assistance in the mid-rim. 

"I will inform my troopers," commented (Y/N), already feeling down about having to spoil the well-earned shore leave break.

"Not your men, Black, just you," quickly corrected Mace Windu, seeing her uncertainty; no doubt she still remembered what happened the last time another took control of her boys. The inexperienced Jedi knight had become lousy with the power and all but played god with the trooper's lives, cost so much all because he refused to listen to the advice of Trip, the clone captain who served as (Y/N)'s second. 

"I will leave on the marrow," replied (Y/N) before leaving to return to her quarters, exhaustion seemingly jumping her the moment she passed the threshold, her mind turning lousy too, as if it was already in shutdown mode to prepare her for the horrors that waited for her. Upon completing her normal routine, she soon got comfortable, drifting off slowly, at least before the intruding thoughts began to bug her. 

Working with her Master again would bring its own challenges. With Master Plo came Commander Wolffe, the battle-worn trooper with a known hatred of her kind. As (Y/N) tried to drift off, her thoughts turned to the struggles both would face. She was used to being judged with fear by strangers. She was used to being called a witch even when she wasn't one. But being hated because of the actions of another wasn't something she was used to; it was a challenge in and of itself, as would be working with the commander in question. After all, in his mind, she was no different than Ventress; she was the enemy, too. 

Series Masterlist

[lockeswoodss]

Double It

MDNI!!!

Pairings: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader, Jack Abbot x Reader, Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Jack Abbot, Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader x Jack Abbot. (This does contain MXM smut, don't like don't read)

WC: 3,536 (This fic kinda got away from me lol 😅)

*Written before season 1 finale, so Jack's anatomy isn't up to date. It will be in future fics*

CW: Smut, Masturbation, Oral (Male and Female Receiving), Jerking Off, PIV, DP (Two Holes), Fingering, Daddy Kink, Sir Kink, MMF Threesome, Sub Drop, Porn, Squirting.

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You panted, breath coming out in stuttered exhales, as your eyes locked in on your laptop sitting next to you on your made bed. The lewd sounds of the porn scene playing out contained in your headphones. You kept your bottom lip sandwiched in between your teeth to stifle any moans. It was only five in the morning, and you didn’t want to risk interrupting any of your neighbors’ last couple of hours of sound sleep. Fuck, you wished you could be like them, but you were equal parts horny and geared up from the 15-hour shift you had just gotten off from a few hours prior. You were set to leave after your normal 12-hour shift in the Pitt as a nurse practitioner when a major car pile-up on the highway happened. Of course, it happened just before the exit closest to the Pitt. You stayed until the situation got under control. You only clocked out when you did because of your partners’ encouragement. They reasoned that you should go home and rest before the inevitable chaos of the Pitt sparked off again. You knew they were right, of course; Robby and Jack often were the only barrier between your sanity and working yourself to the bone.

Fuck, you internally groaned at the thought of your partners. Your pussy throbbed around the vibrating dildo you were riding. You did your best to distract yourself from your internal longing to be in the arms of your lovers. You knew they’d be at least another hour before clocking out, and even then, they’d most likely only have enough energy to shower before going to sleep. You closed your eyes, the sound from the MMF threesome you were watching faded into white noise as you tried your best to imagine it was really Robby’s cock nestled inside of you. It was just slightly too small to pass as the real thing. When you were in the process of buying sex toys, both of your lovers were against you buying anything bigger; they both knew you’re far too impatient to properly prep yourself. Which, while true, did nothing to negate the need flaring inside of you.

You closed your eyes, falling into the memory of the last time you had a quicky in an on-call room. Despite the temptation, it was rare for all three of you to be together at the hospital; Robby hated quickies. While the memory of how you found yourself situated between them on the cheap, stiff mattress of the on-call room was fuzzy, the act of itself was burned into your memory. Robby sat at the head of the bed; scrub pants pulled down just enough to free his cock. You could feel yourself salivate at the memory of the sight of his dark happy trail leading down to his already hard cock. Just as you had started to work your way down his cock and relaxing your throat to take the entirety of his length; Jack tugged your scrub bottoms and underwear down in one foul swoop. You let out a surprised moan as he thrusted two fingers into your heat. He prepped you just enough that it wouldn’t hurt when he pushed in. Equally impatient, you ground back against his fingers, back arched as you took Robby fully into your throat.

Jack placed a kiss on your right shoulder blade, as he draped himself over you, thrusting in one fluid motion. You moaned as he snapped his hips at a breakneck pace, his dominate hand finding it’s way to your clit. He rubbed it just right to make you as desperate as he was. You moaned around Robby’s cock, his hand threaded through your hair, his hips stuttered before he began to slowly begin to thrust into you. Robby’s consideration was short lived as Jack started to slam his entire weight into your pussy with each thrust, causing you to lurch forward and deep throat Robby. Your eyes watered as you were pushed and tugged by your partners as they desperately chased their release. Your pussy pulsed and clenched around Jack at the sensation of being used, getting off at the feeling of how desperate they were for you. You came first, triggering both of your partner’s releases. Your pussy milked Jack’s cock as he released within you. Your screaming muffled around Robby’s cock caused his hips to falter, cumming deep down your throat.

Fuck, you were so close, you could taste your release on the tip of tongue when the sound of the video cut out. Your eyes snapped open, widening at the sight of your partners towering over you. Both stood, arms crossed against their broad chests, clad only in their boxer briefs. Their scrubs and shoes most likely were ditched in the laundry basket next to the entrance of your apartment ( A practice you started during Covid). You flushed, there was no way of talking your way out of this to avoid punishment. Your hand was still wrapped around the dildo you were riding, and they had clearly seen the video being played on your laptop before closing it shut. With trembling hands you click off your vibrator, an unintentional whine escaped you as you slid it out of your slick pussy. You took a breath as you slid your headphones down to your neck.

“Hey,” you greeted shyly, your knees now shut together as you sat back on your calves, hands folded on your lap. You waited desperately for Jack to respond. While they were both dominant, Jack was a top to a fault, whereas Robby and you aligned more as switches.

“Hey, baby.” He replied after a moment, making you sweat, “What were you up to?”

“I, I was masturbating.” You replied meekly. There was no way around this, you were going to be punished.

“That’s interesting. I don’t remember either of us giving you permission to cum. Let alone touch yourself.” Jack said, glancing back at Robby, “Do you?”

“I don’t,” he replied, smirking down at you.

“No, that’s right, I believe our exact orders were to eat something and go to sleep.” Jack said, cupping your face, “Now, why would a good girl like you go against precise orders?”

“It was too quiet.” You didn’t have to elaborate; they both knew what you meant. Jack cupped your face in response, he perched on the bed to your right, stroking your bottom lip.

“I’m sorry you were feeling restless, baby, but you know you could have texted us.” Jack replied, “We’re gonna have to punish you, don’t want our angel becoming a brat, do we?”

“No,” Robby agreed, crouching down to your level.

“What’s my punishment?” you asked, looking up at them.

“Well, you wanted to cum, so I think it’s only fair we help cum to the fullest.” While Jack’s words were innocent, his tone revealed a more menacing implication.

“Why, don’t you warm her up while I start the shower?” Jack said, looking over his shoulder at Robby.

“Alright,” he nodded in response, Jack pecked his lips before standing up and making his way into the master bath.

“Hey, baby,” Robby greeted, slowly kneeling down between your parted thighs.

“Do you want me to move back? Are your knees-”

“I’ll be okay, love,” he said, kissing your inner knee. “By the looks of your pussy I’m not gonna be down here too long.”

Your core flared at his observation, you spread your legs as Robby pressed both of your inner thighs apart. You moaned as he parted your lower lips by running his thumb down the seem of your pussy.

“You must’ve been close, you’re practically dripping,” Robby mused, as two of his fingers easily slid into your heat.

“Daddy,” you moaned, body jerking as he wrapped his lips around your clit. A shiver wracked through when he started to suck, while he built up speed thrusting his fingers deeper than you could imagine reaching on your own.

“Fuck,” you moaned grinding against Robby’s face, fingers threaded through his hair to keep you grounded as you rocketed towards your release. Your eyes snapped open at the feeling of Jack’s broad chest pressing up against your back as he sprinkled your neck with kisses. You gasped as his cold hands cupped your breasts, teasing your nipples.

“Cum when you’re ready love.” He whispered in your ear, before nipping at your earlobe.

“Fuck, Sir.” You panted, throwing your head back, thighs shaking. Your delayed orgasm cut through you too fast; it was too much all at once.

“Daddy, I’m gonna-” was all the warning you could get out before your release splashed against Robby’s lower face. Despite the mess you made on his face, he didn’t let up. He sucked harder, tongue tracing your clit while he fingered you through your release.

“Fuck, Daddy no. I can’t. I can’t, it’s too much,” you whined, while Robby doubled his efforts, knowing if you really wanted him to stop, you’d call out your safe word (code) or yellow/red from the traffic light system. Your thighs couldn’t stop shaking as your release once again gushed onto Robby’s face. You fell back, limp, into Jack’s arms as Robby gently pulled back. Your pussy clenched around nothing at the sight of him wiping your release half hazardly off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What’s your color, baby?” Jack asks, lips brushing your right ear.

“Yellow, Sir,” you panted, “I just need a sec.”

“Alright,” he responded, kissing the side of your head, “Do you want to stay here, or can I take you to the bathroom?”

“Bathroom,” you answered, knowing they’d most likely want to wash the shift off of them before getting under the covers. Despite knowing it was coming, you still slightly jumped when Jack gathered you up in his arms and walked you into the nearby bathroom. Jack let out a chuckle as you hid your face into his neck. He gently placed you down on the counter, pecking your lips softly before he turned to face Robby. While both still had their underwear on, it did little to hide the strain of their cocks against the black fabric. Once they were in arm’s length from each other, Jack fisted the hair at the nape of Robby’s neck and pulled him in for a desperate kiss. He moaned at the taste of your release on Robby’s lips. Robby’s right hand cupped the back of Jack’s neck to deepen the kiss while his left tugged their underwear down enough that he was able to wrap his hand around both of their cocks. Jack whined as Robby jerked their cocks off together.

You couldn’t look away as Jack broke away from the kiss, resting his forehead against Robby’s, panting. His hand wrapped around Robby’s tightening their hold.

“Fuck,” Jack gasped, hips thrusting up into Robby’s grip.

“Fuck,” Robby moaned in agreement, his hips grinding into his hold. Their pants and moans bounce around the bathroom; if you weren’t already wet you were now. They rarely jerked off like that at work. Oral was the easiest clean up wise, second only to fucking with a condom on. Any sex at work was impulsive, not allowing the luxury of always having access to condoms. Plus, on the rare occasion Robby would allow for a quicky he wanted to cum in you. You knew it was the beginning of the end when their hips started to stutter and lose pace. Jack shot off first, cum splattered between their stomachs, a high pitch whine rip through him as Robby jerked him off through his release. Jack’s face began to turn red from overstimulation when Robby came, adding to the mess of their lower abdomen.

They leaned against each other for a moment before pulling back after coming down from their high. In what felt like an instant, they were crowding your space. Jack stood between your parted legs and began to kiss down your neck, adding to the hickeys on your chest as he migrated downward. Meanwhile, Robby had tilted your chin up, offering you his cum covered hand to clean up. You maintained eye contact as you wrapped your hand his wrist to keep it steady, before you began to lick and suck on his fingers.

“Fuck,” he gasped as you sucked his middle and ring finger into your mouth, cleaning the last bit of cum off of them.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, replacing his fingers with his lips. You teasingly nipped at his bottom lip, sliding your tongue in as he groaned in response. Despite your physical size difference, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence for Robby to allow you to dominate and take the lead when sex was involved. He was a switch at heart and didn’t mind letting you take care of him. You gasped against his lips as Jack thrusted two fingers into your heat.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “Her pussy’s prepped from the toy, you think you can take both of us today love?”

You inadvertently clenched around his fingers at the idea. It had been a while since you’d last taken them at the same time.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he chuckled as you pulled away from Robby, “What do you think?”

“Have I ever said no to that?” Robby asked, quirking a brow, “Where do you want me and Sir?” he asked, looking down at you.

“Can you fuck my pussy while Sir fucks my ass?” you asked, bordering on bashful, despite the words coming out of your mouth. You didn’t want them to know what it did to you to when you were that full, split open by both their cocks while they cradled you between them.

“As long as you want it, I’ll never say no to that baby,” Robby said, pecking your forehead.

“Good, we can start to stretch you in the shower, sound good, love?” Jack asked.

“Yes, Sir,” you replied, before he once again picked you up and deposited you between them under the warm stream of the shower’s water. You let out a contented sigh, leaning your weight back against Robby behind you. Your eyes fluttered shut as Jack took care of washing your face, while Robby worked at shampooing and conditioning your hair. He patiently combs through the knots in your hair as Jack stated on cleaning your body. They bathed themselves as they alternated washing you. You fell boneless back onto Robby once they were done pampering you. While they were always attentive when bathing you, it was especially important for you to be as relaxed as possible if you wanted to take both. Jack slipped his fingers behind you and started to tease and finger your asshole. Once he deemed you pliable enough, he shut off the water before wrapping you up in a fluffy towel. You were once again placed on the counter as your partners rushed to dry themselves off.

The edge of your consciousness had already started to feel warm and fuzzy as Robby scooped you up in his arms and sat down against the headboard, you facing him. You were vaguely aware of Jack behind you grabbing the lube as you pulled Robby back in for a demanding kiss. You moan into the kiss as Jack breeched your asshole. You could feel Robby’s cock stirring back to life as you deepened the kiss, showing how desperate you were for them. Robby held your hips steady to prevent you from grinding back or forward. Your slick once again began to pool at your core, wetting Robby’s thighs.

“Fuck,” you gasped, pulling away from the kiss, “Fuck, Sir I’m ready please!” you begged as Jack worked a third finger into your back entrance. He lightly smacked your outer thigh with his free hand, before wrapping his arm around your waist so that you’d be flush with his front as he continued to finger you.

“Baby, can you feel how hard you make me?” he asked rhetorically, cock pulsing against the small of your back, “Believe me the second I’m able to thrust in without hurting you I will.”

“Sorry S-sir,” you gasped as he reached around and began to toy with your clit. Robby stroked up and down your spine reassuringly, as you hid your face in his throat in an attempt to hide your flushed face. You whined as Jack pulled his fingers all the way out. Before once again clicking open a bottle of lube. He let out an unabashed moan as his thrusted just past your back entrance.

“Fuck,” he moaned, before slowly thrusting in an out to allow you time to adjust.

“Daddy, please,” you asked, looking up through your wet lashes, eyes watering from the sensation of Jack filling you so well.

“Fuck,” he groaned, he had never been good at telling you no. He teased his cock head against your folds, hoping to distract you enough until Jack bottomed out. He slowly began to ease into you after Jack gave him a small nod over your shoulder. He was only a third of the way in before he felt Jack inside of you.

“Fuck,”

“Fuck,” they both groaned at the sensation. He continued to thrust in and out, gauging your facial reactions before thrusting in deeper. His cock kissed your cervix as he bottomed out, pelvis flushed with yours. You let out a stuttered moan, now at their mercy as they both fill you to the brim.

“Please fuck me,” you panted, eyes watering from the stimulation, “I want it, want to feel you cum inside.”

Both men groaned in response as Jack pulled a fifth the way out before thrusting back in, and Robby followed. They settled into a rhythm of alternating their thrust so that only one of them was in you at a time. It didn’t take long for you all to start feeling overstimulated. You moan, unabashed, head thrown back over Jack’s shoulder as you bounce between them. Robby cursed under his breath at the sight of you, trying to contain his release. You looked angelic, glowing from a thin layer of sweat, breast moving with you, as you tried your best to keep up.

You only lasted a minute longer at the most before you came, eyes squeezed shut as you convulsed around them.

“Fuck, Daddy, Sir” you babbled helplessly. You had no time to come down from your high before being ushered into the next one. Jack had an iron grip on your hips, forcing you to keep moving past the point of overstimulation.

Robby was next to cum, facing the brunt of your orgasmic spasms in your pussy. As gently as possible he slipped out of you, cum spilling out of your entrance as you collapsed onto his chest. Your moans continued as Jack brought up the rear, using you like you preferred. He whispered praised in your ear, before he his hips stuttered and thrusts got sloppy, cumming deep inside of you. He groaned a soft, “Fuck” at the sight of both his and Robby’s spent leaking out of you as he pulled out.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” Robby asked, pushing your sweat-soaked hair out of your face, before pecking your forehead.

“Daddy,” you whined back, hiding your face in his shoulder. He and Jack shared a look over your shoulder, instantly recognizing the tone of your voice. It was plain as day to them that you were experiencing sub drop. They silently communicate over your shoulder, leading to Jack pulling back as slowly as possible while Robby kept a firm grip on your waist. Jack softly pattered to the bathroom, grabbing a warm, wet washcloth, and to the kitchen for a bottle of water, ibuprofen, and a few pieces of chocolate from your stash that you thought they didn’t know about.

“Sir,” you said, suddenly realizing his absence.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby. Sir will be back in a second.” Robby reassured you, stroking your spine, while cupping the back of your neck against him. Jack did less to hide his steps as he crawled into bed behind you.

“I’m gonna clean you up, you okay with that, love?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you replied softly. A whine escaping you as Jack cleaned you the best he could without a proper shower. Once he was done, with Robby’s help, he propped you up against him as he leaned back against the headboard. Robby poked your lips with the straw of your water bottle, before you reluctantly opened your mouth and took a deep sip of water, meanwhile Jack broke up your chocolate squares into smaller pieces, feeding you between sips along with the meds. Once you came mostly back to your body, they allowed you to lie down again. Jack shifted in behind you, face tucked into the hollow of your throat, ear flush with your carotid artery so that he could feel the steady beats of your heart along with your exhales. You were tucked into Robby’s chest, his long arm stretching over you, cupping the small of Jack’s back to keep you sandwiched between them. You hummed contentedly, feeling safe within their arms. The world beyond your blackout curtains tuned out for now.

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A/N:

Thanks for taking the time to read ^-^

I normally write for one piece, so it's been really fun writing for a relatively new fandom. Still getting used to writing for these characters, sorry if they're a little OOC.

Hope you're doing well wherever you are 💛

Update: The Prequel "Throuple It" can be found: Here

[starlit-writer]

in sickness and in health, ch. 1 - alpha!simon riley x omega!reader

ah, look at that. have some omegaverse angst inspired by this post here <3 if you want to understand more about my omegaverse au, you can look at my masterpost here, and it'll help explain all of the intricacies that may or may not be explained well enough in these short-form fics!

well, this turned out to be miles longer than i expected it to. there's not really a solid ending, so let me know if you want more! have so much fun getting your heart ripped out <3

word count: 4,764 chapter two masterlist ao3 link

Three years ago, you and Simon got married. It wasn’t anything flashy or big - fuck, how could it have been when you didn’t even love each other? But, military law forbade an unmated omega from joining the ranks, and Simon was seen as a wild-card alpha, too headstrong and violent, too hard to control. So, the brass laid out an ultimatum: mate, get married, or be discharged. Both you and Simon had worked too hard for too long to get where you were, so discharge was entirely off the table. There was no courting, no dates, and the wedding, if you could call it that, was little more than signing papers - three signatures on a thick piece of A4 government paper, one from you, one from Simon, and one from your witness, Captain John Price. You didn’t even exchange rings or vows. It took less than five minutes. 

After all was said and done, you and Simon went back to your lives. Of course, you were respectful to one another, and you spent one or two heats and ruts together, but you both maintained a distance away from each other. Neither of you were thrilled with the idea of being tied down, of being mated. The mating bond between you felt more like the neck of a too-tight sweater than it did a comfort, feeling each other’s emotions more of a chore than something you looked forward to. Sure, you worked well together, fluid and deadly like a well oiled M2 on the field. Always had. But there was a stark difference between working well together, and being mated.

So that’s how you ended up here. You had lost twenty pounds. Your skin was sallow and pale, your eyes sunken in. When you looked in the mirror, you could count your ribs, the knobs of your spine, even when they were hidden under the bruises that bloomed across your sickly skin.

You had thrown yourself into work, and when there was no work, you were challenging any living thing to go for a round with you on the sparring mat. But, you were weak; the bond sickness sapped all of your energy and strength faster than you could ever hope to replenish it. Your scent, which was once a warm and spicy caramelized vanilla, now smelled like sugar burnt to the bottom of a pot - acrid and rotted. You were dying, and you knew it. But your pride was far too great to ever go crawling back to Simon, the very man who caused the sickness to infiltrate every cell of your being. It had been months of this torture. Simon, your alpha, had all but abandoned you. You had been without his touch, his scent, anything and everything that the very base instincts of your omega craved from its mate for far too long. It didn't matter to your omega that this marriage, this mating bond was nothing more than a way to keep both you and Simon in the service. Instincts couldn't be fought with fact, and now you were reaping the consequences of the neglect of the bond. You had thought bond sickness was a myth, a fear-mongering tactic to keep alphas in line. However, you were now aware that there was far more truth than you could have ever imagined to that story that is told. 

You had seen the concerned looks of your team as they watched you haunt the halls of the base like a spectre. Soap had started to bring you chocolates and drinks, anything in hopes to get you to eat. Gaz took a different approach, always being the one to take you up on your sparring requests, the beta knowing that at the very least he could be gentle with you while still giving you an outlet. The Captain had made sure to keep you off any truly strenuous missions and tasks, mainly relegating you to the medbay or to training recruits. If you were any stronger, you would be pissed, but right now you took it as a blessing. At least he hadn’t kicked you off the team for your weakness. But Simon? Simon was nowhere to be found. He continuously was the first volunteer for the most dangerous missions, keeping him away from base for weeks to months at a time. When he came back bloody and bruised, he would avoid the medbay like the plague, only coming in to get fixed up by another combat medic when he knew Soap or Gaz had forcefully pulled you away. If you two happened to be walking in the same hallway, Simon would duck out of your sight without even so much as a word. You had long since given up on running after him. 

So color yourself surprised when you were standing in front of the mirror in your bathroom and the screen of your phone lit up, a text from Simon blaring on the too-bright screen. You had every intention of ignoring it, but your pride was no match for the dying ache of your omega. 

Come to my quarters.

The text was simple. Demanding, even. And all it did was make you angry. 

You quickly tugged on a pair of sweats and forced a tank top over your bruised and feverish skin. You thought briefly for a moment about tugging a sweatshirt on over your mottled skin, but, fuck it, let him see all that he has done to you. Maybe he would give you the one blessing you had hoped for over the last few months of neglect, and finally sever the bond between you. 

You trudged through the hallways of the base, every soldier you passed giving you a wide berth. You were certain you looked like death froze over, and the rage-filled expression set over your brows and your lips certainly did not help. When you reached his door, you didn’t even bother to knock. You just shoved your copy of the key in the door and slammed the door open. 

Simon barely even looked up from where he was lounging on the bed. His shirt was off, a rare sight, even for you, but even more shocking was the fact that he wasn’t wearing his mask.  He didn’t look much better than you - his once-bronzed skin paled, his own scars raised and reddened, and his musculature slightly less defined.

“You came.” He didn’t seem surprised, the rough timbre of his voice as unchanging as if he had remarked on the weather, which only increased the volatile rage that had flooded your system. His arms lazily opened in an invitation to lay with him. “No use just standin’ in the doorway.”

You, in all of your rage, just stood stockstill in the still-open doorway. Even as your omega side cried to jump into his arms and let his scent and his touch wash away all the pain, you refused with a defiant jut of your chin. You didn’t know why he had called you here, and the only thing your mind could conjure up is that Price, or Laswell, or fuck, even Soap, had sat him down and forced him to do this. And you wanted nothing to do with this or with him if he actually was not trying to change.

“I don’t want your pity. And I sure as hell don’t want your affection just because Price told you that you had to fix me,” you replied, your voice shaking with weakness and pain, even as you tried your damndest to keep it steady, strong. 

Simon growled lowly at the sound of your rage-filled pain, the sound of an alpha not used to having somebody fall immediately into line. His arms were still open, but you could see the way his muscles clenched, his own anger rising. “It ain’t about pity. It’s about basic biology,” he bit out, the words short and angry. 

That made you laugh, the sound short and sardonic before it morphs into a cough that shakes your entire, frail being. You brought a shaking hand up to wipe your lips before you fixed him with a glare hard enough to freeze an ocean. “Basic biology?" you mocked. “Yeah, for sure. But it’s also basic biology to not let bond sickness even be a worry for your omega, but looks like you fucked that one right up, didn’t you!?”

Your words made something in Simon snap. Your rage, the vitriol, clenched his hands into fists as he quickly swung his powerful legs over the edge of the bed, crossing the space between you in the space between one of your breaths and the next. He was in your face now, just enough space between you to not be pressing completely against you. You averted your gaze, knowing that if you didn’t, you might continue yelling at him, or worse. 

“Look at me,” he ordered, using the same tone he does on the battlefield. His hands are still clenched into fists, but they are shaking. Why?

That tone made your eyes harden, the instincts of a hard-bred soldier kicking in. Even through the fraying of your bond, your sickness, you knew that voice. You listened when given an order. You allowed your head to loll back to look up at him, but your expression was still set in that same hard glare. You weren’t on a battlefield. You were on base, far away from the acrid explosions and hot gunpowder. How dare he pretend otherwise? “Why?” you bit back in response. “This isn’t some tactical decision, Simon. Don’t treat me like one of your fuckin’ rookies.” 

He took a sharp breath through his teeth, obviously trying to control himself. He knew you were weak, the bond sickness taking so much more from you than it ever did him. But your defiance, your spirit despite the bond sickness was making his alpha go crazy. Even with you glaring up at him, he stared down at you with fierce eyes as his hands gripped your hips, shoving you out of the doorway and pressing you against the wall right beside it. Taking one hand off of your hip, he shut the door with a resounding click before his grip, and his attention came back entirely to you. “I ain’t treatin’ you like a goddamned rookie,” he growled out, his cold brown gaze entirely focused on your own broken one as one hand slams into the wall by your head. Even through your rage, he can see it. Feel it. He had broken you. And that knowledge caused his alpha to writhe in pain. “I’m treatin’ ya like my fuckin’ omega.” 

As he caged you in, growled those words at you, your own expression hardened. Your lips curled up to reveal your smaller omega fangs, a low growl of your own reverberating from your chest as your hands clenched into fists. It’s hard to ignore the sheer size difference between the two of you as he towers over you, his head dipped low to keep your attention. However, that did nothing to stop your rage, in fact, it increased it tenfold. 

“Oh, right. I forgot. Being your omega means less than being one of your rookies, silly me.”

You knew the second the words left your mouth that you just opened a Pandora’s box. You saw it in the way his eyes instantaneously darkened, in the way his hand left the wall before you could even blink, his fingers crushing your jaw between them in a bruising grip, forcing your head back against the wall as he brought his face ever closer to yours. However, as his face got closer, you could see the glint of something else in his eyes. Triumph. His alpha was revelling in watching you snap and get fiery again. It was a victory, in his mind, to see you able to be so angry after the bond sickness had taken so much from you. “Watch it, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. “I know that attitude of yours will always be there, but careful.”

His words sent another wave of anger through you, and as he forced your head back, you jerked your neck, snapping your teeth at him, your small omega fangs glinting in the low light of his quarters. It was a clear message. Fuck the bond sickness, he had no right to touch you right now. You did not forgive him, and he has to work to even begin to earn that, and if he won’t? You would dissolve the bond without him, whether or not it risked your life. 

“Don’t sweetheart me,” you growled out, glaring up at him even as the bruising grip of his fingers squished your cheeks together, slurring your words. “Not after everything.”

His alpha instincts flared again, the desire to force you into accepting his help clear as his eyes flashed in irritation at your anger. He pressed you further into the wall, his body now flush against yours as he snarled right back. “Then do something about it,” he challenged. “Get mad. Fight me. Let it all out. But, you’re not leaving this room until you let me fix this.”

As much as you hated it, hearing Simon’s permission gave you the ability to let it all out. No matter how much you wanted to pretend that you were unaffected by him, the knowledge that he wanted you to fight, wanted to fix this broken bond between you, allowed you to finally and truly get all of the anger out, and maybe, just maybe, give the bond a chance to heal. 

And so you did. Your body jerked against his, your sallow cheeks flushing red as you bared your omega fangs and growled at him again. Your eyes held the faintest spark of life, a far cry from what they used to have, but there was something there now. 

When Simon saw that spark, the faintest hint of his omega coming back, he chuckled gruffly, his eyes glinting with a possessive heat. 

“Yes, spitfire. I want you t’ fight me. Hit me, scream, yell at me, tell me how shit of an alpha I’ve been. I don’t care. Just don’t. Hold. Back.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, the dam inside of you broke. Months worth of anger, agony, grief, pain, and aching sadness flooded your veins like a hot, volatile drug. It felt like a living, breathing thing as the emotions curled around your lungs, your muscles, your heart. Tears pushed at your lash line, the aching pain making itself known through the rage. 

You held his cold brown gaze for a moment, your eyes searching his. When all you saw in return was steely determination, you did the only thing you could think of. Before he could even move out of the way, you shut your eyes and cranked your head back as far as it would go, and drove your forehead straight into his nose. It wasn’t nearly hard enough to break it, but definitely hard enough to hurt and make the blood start flowing. 

He staggered back from you, his hands coming up to cup his nose, but the alpha was far from angry. In fact, he was grinning, the blood pouring from his nose coating his lips and teeth. A low growl of approval rumbled from his chest as he stared at you, approval glinting in his eyes. “Good girl,” he muttered lowly, the praise slipping through so naturally. 

As his praise washed over you, you felt your stomach flip. It shouldn’t feel that good. Not after the months and months of neglect so bad that you were literally dying. But, you couldn’t help the small ember of warmth that bloomed through your chest as that muttered praise of good girl flowed through your veins like a warm blanket settling over you. 

But, you were still angry. And hurt. And countless other emotions that you couldn’t even begin to name, all just culminating into a neverending ache. And as you saw the blood marring the plush flesh of his lower lip, something inside of you snapped. 

He had made his worst mistake. He had let go of you, and now you could truly fight. 

You crouched down, using your smaller stature and power legs to kick your leg out, and you swept it across the ground, knocking the much-bigger alpha off of his feet. You watched as his massive frame hit the ground, shaking the walls, a bloom of satisfaction erupting in your chest. Adrenaline was pumping through your veins now, the only thing allowing you to move, and before he had the chance to become reoriented, you were on top of him, straddling his hips as you punched at his chest. Your tears of anguish were falling freely now, sobs breaking free with your yells. 

“You have broken me! Broken! I used to be so strong, so happy, and you destroyed that! Ripped it away from me! All because you were too fucking caught up in your own shit, your own fucking fear, that you couldn’t even be half of the alpha you needed to be!”

Simon grunted in pain as his back collided with the cold, hard tile of his quarters, his hands automatically coming up to grab at your hips. Not to shove you off, no, but to keep you on top of him. He knew he deserved this. Every punch, every pointed word, every tear. It was his penance for all of the pain and agony he had put you through, even if it was ripping his heart to absolute shreds. 

“I know, I know,” he growled softly, his voice thick with regret. “I know I did.”

You shook your head, tears and snot flying from the force. You were so angry, so hurt, but the adrenaline was quickly running its course, leaving behind only bone-deep exhaustion and pain. Your punches slowly weakened, until you were barely able to lift your hands. Instead, they came to rest on his bare chest, your omega claws digging sharply into the thick muscle that covered his chest, one of your hands directly over his heart, needing him to feel a fraction of the agony that coursed through your own. 

“Don’t you agree with me! Don’t you dare! Gods, you do this to me for months, and you… you have nothing to say for yourself!? I tried! Tried to be a good spouse, a good omega! I tried to give you your space, to be unobtrusive, even though that killed my omega! And all I fuckin’ got in return is this fucking bond sickness that is killing me! Tearing me apart from the inside out!” 

His body shuddered as your claws dug into his chest, his skin breaking under the tiny points. It hurt in every way that it could, but the tiny pinpricks of blood that welled around your claws were nothing compared to how he had hurt you. He knew that he deserved this, every inch of your wrath, of your anger, and the pain it brought for him. It was the least he could do - to bear this for you. But, Gods, it didn’t stop your words from tearing into his heart in a way your claws couldn’t even begin to touch. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he repeated, his words thick with the guilt that was threatening to choke him. “And I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

His apology broke what little strength you had left. The bond between you was fraying, seconds away from snapping completely, and you had never felt more lost. A sob broke free from your lips, the force of the sound causing your body to lurch forward. But, Simon was there. For once, he was there. His chest caught your head, your tears wetting his skin almost instantaneously as your claws scratched down his torso, leaving thin, raised red lines down his scarred skin. 

He hissed softly in response to the pain, but he made no attempt to move, to shy away from it. You had completely given up on your ego, your omega so desperate for your alpha, no matter what he had done. But, you were still so hurt, your omega so wounded that you had no idea how you were going to come back from this. 

“Just… just tell me why. Why did you do this? Why did you treat me like this?” you sobbed out into his chest, your sour, distressed omega pheromones wafting around him like a shroud of despair. 

His alpha writhed in pain at your scent. It was wrong, so, so wrong, but he had done this. His neglect, his apathy, had taken his once strong, ferocious omega and reduced her down to this. He had never seen you like this. And he never wanted to again. He could feel the bond between you slipping between his fingers, and fear rose to take its place. He wrapped his arms around you, cradling your tiny, trembling form against him, his nose burying into your hair as he pressed a featherlight, shaking kiss into it. He swallowed harshly against the lump in his throat, his heart clenching in fear. In pain. In anger at himself. “I was a coward, love.” 

You sobbed harder against his chest at his admission, shaking your head jerkily. Your body felt like it was freezing and burning up at the same time, as the frayed edges of the bond dug into you like poisonous thorns. You could feel your mind shattering, your heart stuttering as the bond sickness continued to take hold. You were dying, and you knew it. But at this point, you would almost take death over the amount of pain you were in. “That’s not a good excuse,” came your shaking reply, the words thick with tears and agony, but they were strong with conviction. “Tell me why, Simon. Tell me why, or break the godsdamned bond.” 

The words that left your lips felt like they were suffocating the alpha. Break the bond. His arms tightened around you until you were completely pressed against him, and he could feel every shudder, every quiver in your weakening body. A low growl rumbles from his chest, the sound full of pain but also a desperate desire to comfort. He had to try - to even attempt to explain, even if he wasn’t sure it would do anything. But the thought of losing you without even trying made his heart shatter, his alpha howl in protest. 

“Because I was afraid,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret and honesty as his knuckles ran across the knobs of your spine. That caused him more pain than you would ever know, feeling how you had atrophied from his neglect. How his dismissal, his abandonment had caused his once strong, beautiful omega, to waste away before his very eyes. “Afraid of getting caught up in you, in this. Of loving you, of giving you part of my heart. I didn’t know how to keep you safe. I didn’t think I was worthy of having something like that, like you. I still don’t.” 

“Then break the bond,” you whimpered out, the pain of the bond sickness, of your own emotions, and what little of Simon’s you could still feel through the barest threads of the bond ricocheting through your body, reduced you to little more than a husk lying on top of Simon. Your heart was shattering along with the bond, the broken edges of each splintering in a way that made it hard for you to breathe. Your breath pushed and pulled achingly achingly against your chapped lips like broken glass, just another thing ripping your very being apart. 

“If you can’t do this… I’ll… I’ll figure it out. The brass’ll let me stay, at least for a little bit. But, I can’t… I can’t keep doin’ this. ‘M not asking for love. ‘M not asking to be a real marriage, but I can’t be apart of a bond where ‘m not… where ‘m not bein’ taken care of. I can’t.” 

Your words were slurring, little more than a broken and pain-filled whimper against his broad chest, and Simon could practically hear the way his heart shatters beneath you. He did this. He did this. And yet, the selfish part of him couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, no matter how much pain he had put you through. The alpha snarled as he wrapped his arms around your ever-weakening frame impossibly tighter, as if he was afraid that if he didn’t hold you tight enough, you’d slip away from him forever. 

“No, baby, no,” he replied softly, but the words were filled with a growl of conviction, of promise. “I was stupid. I was so stupid, and I hurt you. Let me… let me fix this, okay? Please, baby. Lemme fix you. Just for right now.” 

Simon was begging. You didn’t know if you had ever heard him beg before, but here he was, begging you to allow him the chance to fix you. Your exhausted, wounded omega perked up a bit at his conviction, but you couldn’t help but feel like this was far too little, far too late. “I… I don’t know, Simon. How can you… how can you fix this?” 

The pained gasps between your words drove a stake of fear through Simon’s heart, his alpha whimpering painfully. He swallowed harshly against the ever-growing lump in his throat, as he knew that he had to be the pillar of strength. If he broke right now, there was no hope for you. His lips brushed against the top of your head as he inhaled your sour, rotted scent in despair, his hands running up and down your back in a vain attempt to soothe you. 

“Let me… let me have a chance,” the alpha, your alpha, pleaded. “Please baby, let me fix this. I’ll do better, I promise. Gods, I’ll do anything. Just… just let me get you better,  baby, please. And then, if you still want to break the bond, we can, okay? Just… I can’t lose you. I can’t let you die. Not like this. Never like this.”

You felt, more than heard, his words wash over you. You could feel your body failing, the bond sickness taking what little was left of you. Even with Simon’s touch, with his promises, you had a brief moment of clarity where you just knew that this still might be it, that the bond had been strained too far, the cavernous distance between the two of you still too great, that this bond sickness might still kill you, despite his promises to fix you. 

You were so tired. So, so tired. The pain is too much, your eyelids too heavy, and it felt like what was left of your shattered heart wasn’t pumping nearly enough oxygen through your veins. You were teetering on the edge, and all you wanted to do was sleep. 

“Just… just let me sleep. In here. With you. Please?” you mumbled, the words soft and slurred. Any fight, any pride you had just a few minutes ago was long gone, and if you were going to die, your omega wanted it to be right here, in your alpha’s arms, taken peacefully in your sleep. “I need… just, please, Si.” 

Simon’s resolve shattered at the nickname that fell past your lips. He instantly sat up, gathering your frail, fragile body in his arms as he nodded, his own tears finally breaking free. 

His fault. All his fault. Always his fault. 

He quickly stood up, your body light (too light, too light) in his arms as he carried you to his bed. He was terrified. He could feel how slow your heartbeat was, how weak your body was, how slurred your words were. He shushed you softly, gently, but the sound warbled against his own tears. 

“Shhh, shhh, baby. I got you. I got you. Just… just sleep, okay? I’ll be right here. Right here. Never leavin’ your side again. I promise. I’ll be right here when you wake up. Just sleep.” 

He gingerly laid you on the bed, surrounding you with blankets and pillows, anything he could find that was drenched in his alpha scent, before his body came to blanket you. He couldn’t lose you. And he will keep his promise, even as his own silent tears fell down around your now-unconscious face. What’s that old saying? Oh, right. You never know what you have until it’s gone.

[janiehellion]

𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐔𝐩 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Learning to ride a motorcycle should’ve been simple. After all, you knew your way around bikes better than anyone in Alexandria—except Daryl Dixon. But one crash and one pissed-off redneck later, and you're stuck with him giving you a hands-on crash course in focus and control.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Smut ⋮ Language ⋮ Minor Injuries ⋮ Vaginal Fingering ⋮ Cunnilingus ⋮ Semi-Public ⋮ Rough Sex ⋮ Painplay ⋮ Marking

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 14.441 𝑺𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: S05E13 & S05E14 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: My first oneshot of 2025—and my longest yet! Sorry, not sorry, for the length; Daryl Dixon refused to stop until the lesson was fully drilled in. Hope it's worth the ride.

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

You couldn't take your eyes off of him.

Out of everyone from the new group in Alexandria, he was the one who made the least effort to fit in. He was quiet and always looked ready to leave, like this wasn't a place to call home. He preferred to keep his distance, doing his own thing around the community, and that made him even more interesting to you.

Daryl Dixon was certainly different from the rest.

The first time you caught him working on the motorcycle and the parts he got from Aaron, in Aaron's and Eric's garage, something caught your attention. It wasn't just the way he moved, though the way his hands worked on the machine was something you couldn't ignore. No, it was more than that, and it pulled you in.

And for you?

The sound of metal and the smell of oil were all too familiar. You'd grown up around motorcycles and spent hours watching your old man work on his Harley Davidson most of the time, until you decided to become a mechanic after school, especially for motorcycles. That knowledge was something you didn't share with many others in Alexandria, but when you saw Daryl putting that motorcycle together piece by piece, you figured it might be a good way to start a conversation, if nothing else.

Sure, he kept to himself mostly, spending more time with his crossbow than with humans. But it made him stand out in a place where most people were getting used to living 'normally' again. And you didn't want anything normal. You wanted real.

That's what led you to the garage.

Daryl, of course, was bent over the motorcycle he'd been working on for some time now.

As you walked closer, you pretended to inspect his work. "What is this, a '92 Honda? Nice setup. Yamaha front end, though? Bit of a Frankenstein's monster, huh?"

That got his attention. "The hell ya know 'bout bikes?"

You shrugged, smirking at him. "What, do you think just 'cause I live in Alexandria, I can't tell a carburetor from a walker? Oh, please."

He hadn't spoken to you much since he arrived, but then again, Daryl didn't talk to anyone much. But you? You barely ever got a grunt in your direction since he'd been here.

"Looks like it's finally coming together," you started, trying to sound bored. It was a shitty way to break the ice, but small talk wasn't your thing after all.

Daryl didn't even look up. Grease covered his hands, and his current expression made him look like he'd rather punch you than say hello.

"Yeah, maybe if ya'd stop annoyin' my ass," he murmured, tightening a bolt.

"I'm only annoying the bike," you snorted. "And I'm making sure it doesn't fall apart the second you ride it out of the community."

That earned you a glare. A quick one. And you held his stare for that moment, refusing to look away.

"So yer always this annoyin'?" He shot back, wiping his hands on a rag and finally standing up to his full height.

"You tell me. So what is it? This… special kind of build?" You asked, gesturing to the motorcycle. You had to admit, it did look quite nice.

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be a little surprised about your curiosity. "Do ya really know bikes?"

You shrugged, playing it cool. "Enough to know that this isn't a normal setup, but that's just personal taste, you know?"

"It'll work."

"Sure, until it doesn't," you continued with a smirk. "But hey, it's your funeral. Or someone else's if that thing gives out mid-run."

He grunted, clearly not in the mood to admit you might have a point.

"Still, not bad for what you had to work with. Must've been a pain in the ass to track down some of the other parts," you moved closer, getting a better look at the setup. "But I heard Aaron's been helping you out. He's good with scavenging stuff. Though, I bet he didn't know half of what you needed."

That got a grunt of agreement from Daryl. "He ain't bad. Jus' don't need anyone watchin' when I'm workin'."

"Noted." You raised your hands, but you didn't back off. Instead, you crouched next to the machine, inspecting the details up close. You could feel Daryl's eyes on you, probably wondering what the hell you were doing.

After a moment of silence, you looked up at him again. "You ever really gonna take this thing out, or are you just building it for the hell of it?"

Daryl looked over to the garage door as if he was thinking whether or not to answer. Finally, he sighed. "Gonna use it. Aaron wants me on the road, recruitin' and all. Need somethin' fast."

"Yeah? And what if you end up with a flat tire out there? Wait, that might not even be a problem, since it kind of looks like you're building yourself a time machine there," you answered, standing up. "But you're gonna need more than just duct tape and spit to get this thing running."

Daryl's eyes narrowed again. "Told ya I know what I'm doin'," he snapped, his hand tightening around the wrench like he was itching to throw it at you.

But you weren't about to be ignored that easily. "You've really got some interesting mismatched parts here. Yamaha forks on a Honda… Look, I'm just saying that you might wanna check the suspension before you ride outta here. Unless you're aiming to get launched off it."

"Gonna manage."

You snorted. "Sure, you will. But hey, if you ever feel like teaching someone else how to ride, I wouldn't mind learning. I mean, someone's gotta be around to save your ass when that thing tries to kill you."

Daryl shot you a look, his jaw clenching slightly, but this time, he just stared at you like you were the most confusing person he'd ever seen.

"Ya wanna learn how to ride?" His voice sounded annoyed, like the idea was somehow offensive to him, but there was also some slight disbelief to be heard as if he wasn't sure why you'd ask him of all people. "Ain't got time for that. Got 'nough problems without babysittin'."

"Come on," you pressed further. "What's the harm? Or is the asshole routine just for me? Besides, if you ever crash, I promise I'll write you some kinda eulogy. Something about how you died doing what you loved—which is looking perpetually pissed off."

You could've sworn you saw the slightest smirk, but Daryl quickly busied himself with the motorcycle, like he hadn't shown you might really have a point with your tips.

Keeping your voice casual, you stepped back. "Let me know if you change your mind," you continued, brushing off your knees. "Might be fun."

With that, you gave him one last smirk and turned around, leaving him to think about whatever he thought of you.

You spent the next couple of days trying not to think about Daryl Dixon, which was about as easy as trying not to notice a walker biting your arm. But despite your best efforts to act like it was no big deal, the thought of riding that motorcycle—and more specifically, him teaching you—kept making its way into your head.

Daryl didn't say anything about your offer for those few days, too. Hell, he didn't say much of anything, really. He'd pass by you in Alexandria, his crossbow by his side, always looking like someone just spit in his drink. But you had gotten used to the silent treatment by now, so you didn't let it get to you... much.

Indeed, it didn't take long to figure out that convincing Daryl Dixon to teach you how to ride a motorcycle was like trying to herd cats—but grumpy, feral ones… with knives.

It was late afternoon when you found yourself near the garage again, and you hadn't planned on seeing him, but let's face it, you were intrigued. And there he was—still working on the motorcycle and still looking like it personally insulted him.

However, the thing looked all patched together with scavenged pieces and maybe a little bit of wishful thinking. It had a certain look to it, like it wanted to run off into the wild and never come back.

Daryl didn't even move. He didn't look your way. He just kept wrenching something near the seat before he glared at you like you'd asked him to solve a math problem.

"Thought I'd come by and bless you with my knowledge once more," you announced, smirking as you leaned against the workbench.

Daryl only rolled his eyes—actually rolled them—like he couldn't believe he had to put up with you again. "Ain't nobody asked for that."

"Yeah, well, nobody asked for that bike to look like it's held together with a plea and a prayer, but here we are," you shot back, leaning forward slightly. "'Livin' on a Prayer,' in fact."

He grunted, shoving the wrench into the toolbox with force. "The hell do ya know 'bout motorcycles, anyway?"

"I do know motorcycles! I told you, didn't I? And that thing," you pointed to the machine, "is one bad pothole away from turning into scrap metal."

Daryl scoffed, clearly not a fan of having his work criticized, especially by someone who, in his eyes, hadn't earned the right to say something about it. "It'll hold. 'S a good bike."

"Sure, sure," you said, grinning at him. "But if you're so confident, why don't you accept my offer? Teach me how to ride. Let's see if this thing here can handle it."

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was thinking about his options. You could practically see the gears running in his head—whether to shut you down and tell you to piss off or give in just to prove you wrong.

"Ya serious 'bout this?"

"Dead serious," you said, holding his stare. "What? Are you afraid?"

His nostrils flared in the way they did when he seemed to be two seconds from snapping at you, but instead, he just turned back to his work. "Ya wanna learn? Fine. But don't come cryin' to me when ya hurt yer ass."

"Oh, don't worry, Dixon. If I hurt my ass, I'll make sure you hurt yours, too," you said, biting back a laugh as you straightened up. "But I swear, this thing's gonna be your mid-life crisis. What's next, leather pants and chaps?"

He showed you one of those stares again—half-annoyed, half-confused—like he wasn't sure if he should bother responding or pretend you didn't exist.

"Ya done?"

"Done? I'm here to save you from yourself, Daryl. You keep this up, and in a week, you're gonna be having a mullet and wearing a crop top."

He stared at you like you'd grown an extra head. "What the hell're ya talkin' 'bout?"

"Mid-life crisis, Daryl. First, it's the bike. Then, it's questionable fashion choices. Next thing you know, you're coming back from a run with a Corvette and crying over Bon Jovi ballads. I'm just here to make sure it won't happen."

"Ain't havin' no damn crisis."

You smirked. "Uh-huh. That's what they all say. Just remember, I offered to help. I can't wait to see you when you're rocking those chaps and a bandana."

"So, ya still wanna learn to ride or not?" His voice sounded definitely pissed off.

You raised your eyebrows, as if in shock. "Oh my, was that an offer in return? From you? I'm touched, really. Let me just—" You pretended to wipe a tear away from your eye and sob. "This moment's very special to me."

"Shut up," he grumbled, but his voice gave way that he almost sounded amused.

"I'm just saying, this is progress," you said. "Next thing I know, we'll be exchanging friendship bracelets."

Daryl didn't respond right away, but you thought you had seen enjoyment, maybe? Or irritation. It was hard to tell with him. Either way, he was back on his feet now, pulling the motorcycle upright and kicking the stand back. Soon enough, the familiar sound of the engine made its way through the garage, and damn if it didn't make your pulse race just a little.

"Get on."

His sudden words made you blink at him in surprise. "Wait, like… right now? Where's the foreplay, Dixon? At least buy me a drink first."

"Nah, when I'm dead. Yeah, right now," he snapped, unable to believe you were even asking.

"Okay, okay," you mumbled, swinging your leg over the motorcycle with as much confidence as you could have at that moment. The seat seemed normal, but it still felt bigger than you expected.

Daryl stepped beside you, his arms crossed as he watched you. "Ya know how to start?"

"Of course I do," you said, reaching for the handlebars.

You were halfway through fumbling with the throttle at first when Daryl's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. "That ain't how ya do it," he growled as he leaned in. "First lesson: This here's the throttle—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a throttle is," you interrupted, waving him off. "I'm not a complete idiot. I could turn this thing into scrap and piece it back together if you wanted me to, so..."

His eyes narrowed. "Then maybe shut up and listen."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You couldn't help it—pissing him off was just too easy.

"Clutch on the left, throttle on the right," he continued, his fingers tapping the handlebars. "Brake's here. Don't yank it like an idiot." He then gave the machine a once-over. "Ya pull the clutch, twist the throttle slowly. Too much, and yer gonna stall it."

"Okay, understood. Show me."

Daryl let out a frustrated sigh but soon moved behind you, reaching around to grip the handlebars. His strong chest pressed against your back, and you immediately forgot how to breathe.

"Ya gotta ease into it," he instructed while his fingers guided yours on the throttle.

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure, ease into it," you mumbled, trying to sound unimpressed. "And what happens if I don't ease into it? The whole thing explodes?"

"Nah. Ya gonna wipe out an' eat dirt," he shot back, his lips showing a bit of a smirk. "But maybe ya'll learn faster that way."

"Yeah, well, I've eaten worse," you answered, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Besides, I doubt you've ever taught anyone how to ride before. What if you're just a terrible teacher?"

He huffed against your neck. "Ain't teachin' ya much. Now, idle it forward."

You followed his instructions, twisting the throttle just enough to get the engine purring beneath you. The vibration went through your legs, and despite yourself, you had to admit it felt very, very good.

"Okay, now what?" You asked, trying to sound bored even though the adrenaline was starting to kick in.

"Now ya balance," Daryl said, his voice neutral like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Try not to fall over." You could feel his eyes on you, judging every movement you made. "Quit messin' 'round. Friction Zone is how ya idle forward."

You shot him a look but did as he said, trying not to stall the motorcycle. For a second, you wobbled, and you swore you heard Daryl whisper something—probably betting on how soon you'd crash.

But you didn't. You steadied yourself. It was a weird feeling—kind of thrilling, kind of terrifying.

"Well, look at that," you said, showing him a grin. "Didn't fall over. Guess you're not the worst teacher after all."

"Jus' keep 'em hands on the bars," he instructed, his voice rather patient—well, as patient as Daryl ever got.

You did as he said, gripping the handlebars harder, trying not to think about how close you were to him. His smell wasn't exactly unpleasant. In fact, it was kind of… intoxicating.

Not that you'd ever admit that to him out loud.

"Fine, so what's next? Do I just rev it up and hope for the best?"

Daryl snorted, clearly unimpressed with you being unable to wait. "Ya listen, or yer gonna end up on yer ass."

"You know, Daryl, I don't usually take threats during lessons, but I'll make an exception for you."

His grip tightened on the handlebars, and you thought he might just leave you there. But he didn't. "Don't jerk the damn throttle, woman, or yer gonna take off too fast."

"Throttle, got it. Don't jerk it off. Guess I'll save that one for later." You wiggled your eyebrows, even though he couldn't see it.

Daryl stiffened, grumbling something you didn't quite catch, though it definitely wasn't a compliment.

"C'mon now, twist it—slowly," he ordered.

You followed his lead, the motorcycle easing forward just a bit as you worked the throttle.

"There ya go," Daryl said, his voice sounding a bit less harsh now that you weren't about to play around. "Gotta ease into it."

"Wow, who knew you could be so supportive?" You teased. "Almost makes me think you care."

He grunted. "Jus' don't wanna pick yer ass up off the ground."

"Got it, got it. Now, let's see if I can actually ride this thing without killing myself."

Daryl's hand moved to the clutch, his fingers touching yours as he guided you through the motions. You weren't sure if it was the machine or him, but your heart was beating much faster than usual. Maybe it was both. Either way, you were in for one hell of a ride.

His hand was warm, calloused, and—despite everything—comforting as he guided you out of the garage.

"Okay, slow down a bit, but not too much," he instructed, his voice almost a growl. The way he said it made you shiver, but you refused to let it show. You could be cool about this, right?

"Or I could just go full throttle and see how far I can fly through the streets of Alexandria," you laughed back.

"Real funny," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Jus' don't fuck up. Y'ain't flyin' nowhere. Ya gotta keep it steady."

"Right, no jerking off," you said, moving your head to the side just enough to glance at him. "That's usually my motto, you know, but I can make an exception for you regarding that as well."

"Focus. Don't push it," he warned. "Ya gotta keep yer focus on the bike, not me."

"Really? I thought you were my main distraction." You leaned back a little. "Sure, I'll focus. But I'm also pretty good at multitasking." As you worked the throttle again, you felt a rush of adrenaline. "So, what happens if I actually do fall? You gonna come to my rescue?"

Daryl didn't answer immediately. Instead, he loosened his grip on the handlebars, his body tense next to you. "Ya get back up. Everyone falls. 'S what ya do afterward that matters."

"Profound," you smirked. "You should start writing poetry! 'When life knocks you down, just get back on your bike.' Classic wisdom."

"Shut up and drive."

The motorcycle moved as you used the throttle too hard, and you fought to regain control, laughing nervously. "Shit! Maybe I should have listened to that part about not jerking it!"

He sighed, not bothering to hide his amusement this time. "Ya keep talkin', and ya might jus' convince me to kick ya off myself."

"Promises, promises," you smirked, adrenaline rushing through you, making everything feel a bit more exciting.

He grumbled something again—probably another insult—but he didn't try to stop you. Your movements weren't exactly smooth, but it was a start.

"You're a terrible teacher, by the way," you soon said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

"Good," Daryl answered. "Means ya won't ask me to do this shit again."

You were just getting into the rhythm, feeling the motorcycle beneath you and getting the hang of it, when you heard the sound of footsteps getting closer behind you.

"Hey! What's going on here?" Aaron's voice destroyed the moment, and you felt Daryl tense near you.

"Shit," he groaned, practically gritting his teeth. You tried to process what was happening as you got off the seat, the way Daryl's body stiffened and the smirk faded from your lips.

"Oh, nothing, just a little driving lesson," you announced, trying to keep going despite the sudden stop. "Motto: 'Try Not to Die, but If You Do, It Ain't My Problem.'"

Aaron laughed, walking closer to you both. "So, it's finally finished?" He looked at the machine, inspecting the mix of parts that somehow came together into something that resembled a proper motorcycle.

"Jus' 'bout," Daryl replied dryly.

Aaron raised an eyebrow, looking from you to Daryl, who was already stepping away from him and you.

"That's great. Looks like you're making some great progress," Aaron continued, stepping closer.

"Ain't needin' ya to worry 'bout that," Daryl grumbled, the annoyance in his voice unmistakable. "Lesson's over."

"Wait, what? You can't just—"

"Don't push it," he snapped, shooting you a look that said he was done. "Ya wanna learn, ya have to find someone else."

You blinked, stunned as he walked away with the motorcycle by his side. "Daryl, stop!"

"Forget 'bout it," he called back, almost like his voice belonged to a different person. "Y'ain't ready."

Your frustration boiled over, and you turned to Aaron, arms crossed. "Thanks for ruining my lesson, by the way. Just what I needed today—more interruptions."

Aaron frowned, glancing between you and Daryl again as he watched him walk away. "What did you expect? He's still new here. Trying to keep his distance from the rest of us."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't need to be an asshole about it," you snapped. "I was getting somewhere!"

"You have to understand that the whole group has been through a lot. Daryl's not always going to be open with people," he explained, but it didn't help your mood.

"I get that, but I was just trying to learn something! Guess it's my fault for thinking he could actually teach me without being a complete asshole about it."

"Maybe give it some time?" Aaron suggested, his voice softer now, sounding more sympathetic. "He'll come around."

"Maybe," you sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "But just when I thought I could finally get him to smile and to talk, you pull this."

Aaron's expression was by now somewhere between concern and curiosity as you huffed, glaring at Daryl walking away.

"Really, Aaron…" You continued, throwing your hands in the air. "You couldn't have waited five goddamn minutes longer to come and ruin my day? You see me finally making some progress, and you think, 'Oh, hey! The perfect time to interrupt!'"

Aaron raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I didn't mean to ruin anything. I didn't know you two were having... whatever that was."

"Whatever that was?" You repeated, your voice rising. "It was a goddamn driving lesson! Or, at least, it was supposed to be before you came along with your good intentions and your bad timing!"

Aaron frowned, the tone in his voice still kind, but he wasn't backing down. "Look, I was just checking in because I heard the sound of the engine. I thought Daryl wanted to head out, and I only wanted to see if he's done with his work on the bike. I didn't realize you were both so busy."

"Busy?" You let out a loud laugh, shaking your head. "You know what? Forget it. Next time I'm about to get Daryl Dixon to do something other than grunt or skin dead animals on the porch, I'll write you a goddamn note so you don't fuck it up. Now he's all pissed off and stomping away with my only chance at learning how to ride a damn bike and not kill myself."

"I doubt he's mad at you," Aaron responded. "Daryl's complicated. Like the rest of the group. They're still very new here. And you were the same when I found you and brought you here. But you're probably closer to getting through to him than anyone else."

You snorted. "Yeah, sure. 'Cause nothing says 'bonding' and 'getting to know each other' like storming off with his damn Franken-bike in a hurry. Really fucking touching."

Aaron smiled, squeezing your shoulder. "Just think about it."

You exhaled loudly, putting your hands on your hips. "Sounds like it's from a fortune cookie. Thanks for nothing."

With that, Aaron simply walked off, leaving you alone.

Soon, some days had passed since your lesson with Daryl. Days that quickly turned annoying when you realized he was avoiding you like you were the last slice of cold pizza at a party.

It felt weird.

Like, ridiculously weird.

And it didn't help that every time you tried to casually walk into the garage or catch him before he went on a supply run, he was either nowhere to be found or suddenly too busy to talk. You even half-expected to see a 'Do Not Disturb' sign near the bike.

It wasn't like you were stalking him—okay, maybe a little—but it was hard to stop thinking about him.

"Should I ask for him? Should I knock on the garage door? Maybe he's just sleeping? Or dead?" You laughed at the last thought. With Daryl, it wasn't a real possibility.

Finally, you sighed and decided to call it a day. "Alright, Daryl Dixon, you win," you said to yourself, kicking the dirt as you turned to leave.

But just as you made it halfway down the street, you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps, followed by a clink of metal that made your heart race. You turned, and there he was—finally. Daryl Dixon, leaning against the side of the garage, arms crossed, his eyes hidden behind his hair, and with a cigarette in one hand.

Oh no, you're not getting away this time.

"Been hiding from me, huh?" You asked as soon as you reached him. "Gonna run off again? Or maybe you've just been too busy?" You faked a yawn, your eyes narrowing. "Or hiding from the bike lesson, maybe?"

Daryl simply scoffed, the only sign of life you got out of him as you stood a few inches from him. His eyes looked down, clearly not thrilled to see you standing there, but you didn't give a damn.

You put your hands on your hips, pretending to inspect him like he was the most boring human in Alexandria. "Hey… You did promise, you know? I didn't just imagine that part now, did I?"

"Dunno what yer talkin' 'bout."

You raised an eyebrow, your smile growing wider. "Oh? Sure feels like it. Guess you finally realized you're not as good of a teacher as you think."

Daryl sighed, sounding not only frustrated but... pissed off? Maybe both?

"Don't need to explain shit to ya," he grumbled in return.

You grinned, shrugging. "Well, if you're busy doing... whatever it is you do when you're not being an asshole, I guess I'll just go back to trying to learn from someone else." You turned to leave, but not without looking back over your shoulder again. "Don't worry. I won't ask you to teach me again."

That got him. He pushed himself off the garage, taking a few steps closer.

"You promised, Daryl. Or is that just another thing you like to say and not follow through with? You were gonna teach me. Not that I care; I'm sure I'll learn from someone else... unless you finally stop being an ass," you taunted, still looking over your shoulder at him.

Daryl's hand shot out before you could get too far, catching your arm in a grip that could've cracked a tree in half if he wanted it to. He was definitely pissed.

With a growl, he yanked you back toward him. "Fine. I'll teach ya. But not here. Not in Alexandria." He released your arm. "Meet me by the gates. Tomorrow, at dawn."

Without waiting for a response, Daryl walked back inside, leaving you standing there with a grin.

The next morning, you woke up early, a little earlier than you'd planned, but that was the least of your problems. There was a knot in your stomach that you couldn't get rid of, not even with a few stretches or by putting on your clothes.

This wasn't just another run. It wasn't just another 'do this or die trying' kinda deal. No, this was different. And for some reason, you were extremely nervous. What was he gonna do? What was he thinking?

You threw on your jacket, tied your boots like they were the last thing you'd ever do, and then... you hesitated.

What the hell was wrong with you?

With a deep breath, you forced yourself out the door and towards the gates of Alexandria. When you finally made it, you saw him. There he was—Daryl Dixon, standing there like he was waiting for the bus, except minus the whole 'bus' part. The motorcycle was leaned up against the walls, and he was staring straight ahead as if you were the last person he wanted to see right now.

"Well, damn. You did show up. Thought maybe you'd hide behind that attitude of yours for another day," you said, taking your time to walk up to him, not quite giving a damn whether he was ready for you or not.

But Daryl didn't even acknowledge you. He just flicked his cigarette away and gave you a look that could probably kill.

He then grunted, clearly not amused. "Ain't here to talk."

You looked at him, smirking a little. "Oh, I thought we were here to talk. 'Cause last time I checked, you were too busy to teach me anything useful. Guess you did promise, isn't that right?" You continued and raised an eyebrow. "So... what's the deal, huh? You just gonna stand there, or are we gonna start this driving lesson?"

He was still giving you that dead-eyed stare like you just asked him to swallow down rusty nails. The way Daryl was looking at you, all calm but irritated at the same time—it made everything weirder. But now, you had no choice. You had to get on that machine if you wanted to learn.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to him after he took the motorcycle and got onto it himself. "Get on."

You hesitated before swinging your leg over it as well, the movement too awkward to be smooth. There was no denying it—there was a whole lot of you that wasn't exactly eager to be pressed up against him.

You bit your lip but tried to keep your cool. "Alright, I'm on."

Daryl didn't answer. He just started the engine, his hands gripping the handlebars, and that was when you had to settle into place—right behind him. You were close now—way too close—and that knot in your stomach was only tightening itself. You couldn't help it. You had to steady yourself, right? And as much as you hated to admit it, you found yourself sliding your hands down, almost instinctively. But... it wasn't enough.

And it wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair. The way he was so broad, strong, and so very close made it impossible to think straight. Your palms were sweating, and it wasn't because you were nervous about falling off. It was him. Just him. And God, it was infuriating, letting your thoughts run wild.

Why does he have to smell so good? Why can't he just be an asshole and not… this?

Your hands moved. Lower.

You didn't mean to, but... there you were. Your fingers grabbed his hips, right there in front of you and so, so very close. He was warm, so warm, and you couldn't not notice it, even if you tried. But you weren't even trying.

Oh, no. Don't. Don't do it. Not now...

But your hands stayed right there. Resting on his hips. You couldn't help it.

God, he feels good. Warm. Strong. Hell, if I slide even lower, maybe I can make him feel me, too. What if I just—

You quickly cut your thoughts off, but the temptation was there. It was stupid. It's Daryl, you reminded yourself, though it didn't make the racing of your heart in your chest any less intense.

"Quit it. Jus' hold on," he suddenly said, still keeping his focus on the road in front of you.

You snapped out of it, blinking as though you were just pulled back from the edge of a cliff.

"Me?" You shot back, trying to sound as neutral as possible, hoping he didn't feel the way your heart was pounding. "You're the one acting like you've got a stick up your ass. Don't act like I'm the problem here."

Daryl didn't respond—again. His hands tightened on the handlebars, and you felt him move slightly on the motorcycle. You wondered if he could feel the way you were still pressed against him, too. If he noticed, he didn't give any sign, but hell, you weren't sure whether that was calming you down or just making everything worse.

Your hands were still grabbing his hips. Still low. Still in the danger zone. And every second you stayed on that seat that close behind him, the more you realized just how close you were to crossing a line you couldn't uncross, too.

Just stop touching him like that. For God's sake, control yourself...

But it was too late, wasn't it? Your hands were already doing what they wanted, sliding ever so slightly as Daryl revved the engine beneath you. And as the machine roared further and you felt the vibration between your legs, you couldn't deny it—you were holding on tight...

And shit, you hated yourself for it, but you couldn't think straight.

Your hands—those traitorous, slightly trembling hands—started to move further without you even trying. At first, you could feel the hardness of his muscles under his shirt. You didn't mean to, but your fingers couldn't resist anymore.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You kept telling yourself you weren't like this, but the warmth of his body in front of you, the vibrations of the motorcycle—the whole situation—it was clearly messing with your head.

And then your fingers touched the waistband of his pants. Your mind started spiraling.

Fuck, stop it.

But your hands were moving still, just a little further, and before you could catch yourself, you were dangerously close to slipping one whole hand past the button of his pants.

Why does this feel so fucking good? So right? No! This is so wrong!

You knew you shouldn't be doing this. You were driving yourself crazy just being this close to him. You should pull away and act like nothing happened. But the thought of him—of the way he looked, the way he smelled—it was too much.

Should I really keep going? You wondered, heart racing. What if I just slide my hand inside and just feel him?

The idea was so sudden it made your stomach growl, but you couldn't stop imagining it. The way he'd react—if he'd stop the motorcycle and throw you off, or if he'd just let you have your way.

But your hand froze at the button of his pants, resting there, barely touching it. You hated how much you wanted to go further, how much you needed to.

Pull back. Move your hand away. Stop thinking about how strong he is.

The way his muscles moved under your fingers, how he wasn't even saying one thing to stop you. Did he want this? Did he feel it too? You hated how much you wanted to find out.

But Daryl kept driving, focusing on the surroundings and possible dangers as you left Alexandria.

Why isn't he stopping me?

He was tense, but that was it. No words, no warnings. And that drove you wild.

Maybe he wants this as much as I do.

Your mind was on fire now, and you wanted him so badly, it felt like your whole body was about to explode. And the weirdest part? You weren't sure you even cared anymore if this was wrong.

If you don't stop me, I swear I'll—

You didn't finish that thought, and as soon as Daryl pulled off the road and into a clearing surrounded by trees, the motorcycle came to a stop.

"This'll do," he said, getting off it and motioning for you to follow.

You stumbled off, your legs still shaky from holding yourself together.

Right now, you wanted to hate him. To scream at him. But the truth was, you were more pissed at yourself. You were supposed to be learning how to ride a motorcycle, not imagining what it would feel like to be all over him and…

No. Stop it. Get your shit together.

"Alright, what's next?" You asked, doing your best to sound casual even as your heart was still racing. "You gonna teach me how not to eat dirt or just let me ride it?"

Daryl glared at you, one eyebrow raised like you were the one making this complicated. "Jus' pay attention."

You snorted, shaking your head. "Sure, 'cause that's been working out for me so far." You crossed your arms, a little too aware of how your body felt like it was overheating.

Stop thinking about him, stop thinking about him...

He was already gesturing to the motorcycle again, explaining the controls all over. "Clutch, brake, throttle—all that stuff."

You nodded, doing your best to stay focused despite how goddamn awkward you felt.

Focus; you can do this.

You glanced at him and caught the way his hands moved around near you, the way his fingers got hold of the throttle like he was born to do this.

"Ya won't wreck it if ya listen."

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves. "Yeah… 'if,' but okay."

Daryl took a step closer, the space between you suddenly feeling way too small. "Stop makin' jokes, and start payin' some real attention."

You could feel how he stared you down, even without looking into his eyes, and before you could stop yourself, you were blushing—hard.

Shit, shit, shit.

He then smirked, only a little, and you wanted to punch him for it. Or kiss him. You weren't sure. Either way, you tugged at the collar of your shirt like it was too tight, but there was no escaping it.

Daryl was watching you, though his smirk was already gone again. "Jus' sit down on it. Let's see if ya can at least do that alone while out here, without fallin' over."

You had to swallow hard.

Just get on, just get on, and don't think about him.

Your mind was screaming at you to stop acting like you wanted to crawl all over him, but your body was betraying you.

And Daryl for sure wasn't even trying to make it easier, and all you could do was grit your teeth and pray you didn't lose it.

The first time you tried to balance the motorcycle, you almost tipped it over, but Daryl quickly got a hold of it—and you—before you really ate dirt.

"Goddamn it," he groaned, yanking you upright and keeping the motorcycle steady. "Yer fightin' the damn thing instead o' drivin' it. Quit makin' it harder for yerself."

You shot him a glare but didn't respond, figuring it was easier to just get the lesson over with. This time, he stepped in behind you, hands landing on your waist like he was holding onto a ticking time bomb. His grip tightened just enough to make you aware of his presence, but you weren't going to let him throw you off balance.

"Ease up on the damn clutch," he grumbled. "Slowly. Ya ain't in a damn hurry."

By the third or fourth try, you were starting to get the hang of it. You made it a few feet without the motorcycle wobbling like it had been possessed. You didn't even stall it this time.

"Look at me!" You grinned over your shoulder at him all triumphant as you stopped at a treeline. "I'm basically a stunt double at this point! Wanna try jumping flaming buses next?"

Daryl shot you that look again. The one that made you want to throw something at him. "Nah, yer bein' an amateur stunt double wantin' to set yerself on fire… 'cause ya can't keep yer hands to yerself."

You ignored him.

You had it now. You totally had it.

But who needed to play it safe when you could push this lesson to the limit and prove yourself?

You twisted the throttle again but felt a sudden rush of speed. "Shit!" You screamed from far away. "Fuck!"

"What the hell are ya doin'?!" Daryl shouted before you were hurtling forward at fast speed, your stomach dropping as it made everything around you blurry in sight. You had no idea how to stop in the heat of the moment without throwing yourself off it, and that realization hit you hard. You were in panic mode now, and trying to steer only made it worse.

"Daryl? A little help here, please!" You screamed, gripping the handlebars as your hands shook.

"Hold on!" Daryl yelled, but his warning was already too late. The front wheel hit something—a big rock? A tree stump? You didn't even see it. All you knew was that the motorcycle lurched like a wild animal wanting to throw you off its back.

For a moment, you were sure you were about to die. But Daryl wasn't about to let that happen. He lunged forward, grabbing you and yanking you off the seat just before it tipped completely and threw you off.

You and Daryl went down, both of you slamming into the ground hard. You landed on top of him—completely on top of him, with your thighs pressed against his hips and your upper body crashing against his chest.

You knew you fucked up, but his expression only made it worse. The slight pain in your body was nothing compared to the humiliation you felt. All you could do was catch your breath and stare at him.

And Daryl was flat-out pissed. His face was full of rage, and he was breathing hard from the crash. He shoved you off him, his hands on your shoulders as he stood up.

"What the hell were ya thinkin'!?" His eyes were practically burning holes through you. "I told ya to slow the hell down and focus! Ya don't listen for shit!"

You didn't want to admit that he was right, that you'd been very reckless. "Well, maybe you should've taught me how to actually ride instead of standing there like a statue and just barking orders!"

Daryl's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

He wasn't just angry.

He was livid.

You were both breathing fast now, adrenaline still running through your veins. "And maybe I'm just a fast learner, okay?" You continued.

Daryl looked at you like he was about to rip you in half. "Yer not a fast learner; yer a damn idiot! And now I gotta drag yer dumb ass back!"

He grabbed the motorcycle and swung his leg over it with a grunt. "Get the fuck on," he growled in frustration.

You glared at him for a moment, but you weren't about to argue. You had to get home. You had no choice but to follow him.

Throwing your leg over the seat, you settled behind him. You couldn't even look up now. Every time you did, your stomach hurt in a way that made no sense. The anger, the shame—it was all so degrading. You wanted to argue. You really did. But you were too embarrassed, and your body was too sore to keep up any fight.

Daryl started the engine, and the motorcycle roared to life under you. As he sped down the road, you couldn't help but notice how tense his body still was. Every muscle in his back seemed to be stiff. And he didn't say a word anymore. Not a single word as you rode back toward Alexandria in silence.

His hands gripped the handlebars with such force, you swore the motorcycle might crack in half under the pressure if he kept it up.

You were pissed as well. Pissed at yourself for fucking up and pissed at him for making you feel all... this. You hated that you couldn't read him, hated how he could just shut everything out like that, and especially for making you feel something you didn't want to feel.

Once back at Alexandria, the garage door had barely been shut when Daryl's frustration exploded. He was still breathing hard from the ride, and he hadn't pushed you away since you'd now gotten back, but the way he was glaring at you said enough.

He took a step toward you, pushing you back a little. "Crashed my damn bike…"

"I didn't wreck it, Daryl," you argued. "It's fine!"

"Fine?" He repeated. "That's what ya call near splittin' yer skull open?"

"I didn't crash on purpose!" You shot back, the frustration boiling over. "I'm not dumb!"

He let out a mean laugh, his eyes narrowing. "Coulda fooled me, dumbass!"

"You're the one all trembling here, not me!" You crossed your arms, trying to hold onto whatever bit of defiance was left. "It was an accident, Daryl," you continued, glaring right back at him. "It's not like I'm trying to be your damn stunt double!"

He scoffed, not buying your excuse. "Bullshit. Ya were pushin' it, tryin' to prove somethin', weren't ya? Ya coulda gotten yerself killed!"

Maybe he was right; maybe you had been showing off, but why bother with giving him the satisfaction and letting him know that it was the truth?

"What's your problem, Dixon? It isn't like I destroyed the damn thing," you scoffed.

He shot you a glare. "Problem is, ya don't think. Out there, one screw-up ain't jus' a scratch—it's the difference 'tween comin' back or not comin' back at all!"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please! Spare me the PSA! It isn't like I don't know how this shit works! We're all one wrong turn away from dead anyway! What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," he growled, "is ya don't get to pull that shit with my bike!"

His finger shot out, pointing toward the side of the motorcycle. "Look at this," he growled. "Ya see that?"

You glanced where he was pointing and shrugged. "What, a couple of scratches? Boo-fucking-hoo! Rub some dirt with your spit on it; it'll be fine!"

"Couple o' scratches?" His voice rose, and he bent down to run a hand along the damaged part. "Ya know how I worked on this, ain't that right? To get it runnin' smooth?"

He crouched, looking at the machine like he was inspecting a wounded animal. "Look."

"What?"

"Look," he snarled once more, pointing his finger at the gas tank.

Reluctantly, you stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. The scratches weren't as bad as you'd expected—some scuffed paint and a tiny dent, hardly catastrophic.

"Oh no," you pretended to be shocked and threw your hands up. "It's ruined! Better put it out of its misery!"

Daryl turned around, staring at you in disbelief and anger. "That funny to ya?"

"A little," you shot back, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded. "Newsflash, Dixon! This is a hunk of metal. It'll survive!"

His jaw clenched, and he stood up so fast you stumbled back. "Ain't the damn point," he snapped, stepping closer.

"Then what is the point?" You demanded in return.

"The point is," he growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "ya don't listen. Yer always so goddamn dumb, thinkin' ya know better—"

"I do know better!" You interrupted him. "I could rebuild this bike with my eyes closed! Hell, I could build you a new one from… a scratch!"

Daryl's hands dropped to his sides, his breathing fast as he stared at you. His eyes looked down to your arms, and you followed his line of sight, realizing for the first time that you were trembling.

His eyes softened, just for a second. "Ya hurt?"

"No," you lied, crossing your arms to hide the shaking.

Daryl huffed, and his frustration was boiling over again. "Bullshit."

He moved toward you, closing the space between you as he grabbed you by the arm. You flinched but didn't pull away. His grip tightened, pulling you back toward the motorcycle you'd nearly wrecked.

"Get on," he growled, holding you still.

You froze, glaring at him. "Excuse me?"

"Get on the fuckin' bike," he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

You shook your head. "You're out of your damn mind."

But you didn't fight it when he shoved you over to the seat, guiding you like you were weighing nothing at all. You hadn't expected this—his touch and his obvious anger.

But it wasn't just the crash. No. It was the way his eyes looked at you—like he was waiting for you to back down, to beg for mercy even.

"What?" You scoffed. "You're pissed 'cause I fucked up your bike? Is that it? So fucking ridiculous!"

"'S part of it," he answered, and before you could respond, his hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.

And you weren't sure what you expected from him, but you didn't expect the force of his lips on yours.

His kiss was aggressive. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and tongue and the feel of his stubble against your skin.

You tried to pull back, pushing at his chest. "What the hell—!"

"Shut the fuck up."

You barely had time to react before he was pushing you against the motorcycle, and his hands found their way under your shirt. It was almost too much to bear—the roughness of his touch. It had no place here, not with you two practically being strangers in this world, but somehow it made sense.

And no, you didn't pull away. Not now.

"Daryl—" You cut yourself off when his hand slid down to your waistband, tugging at your pants, a movement that was fast and urgent. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your throat.

He didn't respond, not in words anyway, as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you, his hands on your thighs, forcing you to stay still.

He wanted you—had wanted you, maybe for longer than he'd ever care to admit.

You gasped again when he pulled your pants down roughly, his hands moving along your hips before dragging them down your legs. You knew his hands were capable—he could gut a deer in under a minute, rebuild a bike from scratch—but this? This was a whole different level of skill, and you weren't sure whether to be impressed or terrified by how quickly he had you undone.

But you didn't have time to process it before Daryl was standing again, his face dangerously close to yours, eyes burning with a fire that made you blush.

God, his eyes.

They weren't just looking at you—they were staring you down.

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to your hips and pushing himself closer until there was no space between your bodies.

And then, his fingers slipped beneath your panties, and he slid two of them into you. Without warning.

You cried out at the suddenness of it, at the overwhelming feeling, but you didn't stop him.

"Still think I'm tremblin'?" He asked as he moved them inside you with a pace that made your head spin. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

Sure, he was frustrated—but now it was all coming out, only in a way that you'd never expected. You didn't know what this was—what this would be afterward—but damn if it didn't feel like the only thing that mattered right now.

As his breath turned quicker against your neck, the urgency of his fingers quickened, too. Until he pulled them out of you. The moment he removed his hand, licking his fingers clean, you almost cursed aloud, the emptiness threatening to drive you mad.

He didn't give you time to say anything, didn't even let you think about it, because in the next moment, his hands were yanking your shirt up over your head, and your bra was gone just as fast.

But the way he studied you, every inch of you—like he was savoring the moment as if you were a piece of art he needed to drink in—made everything feel too much. Too much to take. Too much to bear. But also too good to stop.

You couldn't protest, couldn't do anything but let him have his way, and your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to hold it together.

Without a word, Daryl kneeled back down onto the ground again, his hands moving to your thighs, pushing them apart for him.

"Open yer eyes," he ordered, but you didn't. You just couldn't. But you could feel him there, right between your legs, and the anticipation was nearly killing you.

No, you couldn't do anything but obey as his hand was pulling your panties down and his other hand's thumb stroked across your clit, but something else caught his attention. A bruise on your thigh started to slowly form itself from when you'd crashed.

And then, without a word, he leaned forward, his lips pressing hard against the bruise. His teeth bit into the skin, and then he sucked on it with a hunger that had nothing to do with the motorcycle and the crash.

You gasped loudly, eyes opening wide as the sharp sting of his bite was followed by the slow, deep suck of his mouth.

His lips left the bruise for a moment, but it wasn't gone long. His tongue licked over the edges of it, then his teeth, scraping some more, making your legs shiver with lust and a little bit of pain.

As his fingers moved toward and away from your wet pussy, to brush over the scratches on one leg from the crash, you could feel the pressure of his touch as he traced over each one. He didn't care about the discomfort it caused, didn't care about the marks—they were his to play with.

A growl left his throat as he scratched them a little harder, just a little deeper, making you whimper.

You didn't even realize you were staring at him until his blue eyes looked up into yours, a silent claim that went deeper than anything else.

"Ain't lettin' ya look away," he warned as his hands gripped your thighs again, forcing your trembling legs to stay open for him.

And God, they were.

His touch was everything you didn't know you needed as he slipped his fingers back into you—simply all-consuming. His thumb stroked your clit yet again, and you were sure you were going to lose it way too fast.

And the way he kept looking at you—like he was daring you to look away…

But you didn't. Not once.

The pressure was building, that sweet, unbearable pressure, until it felt like you were going to burst into flames.

Indeed, it was pure fire.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya look away."

His fingers found their rhythm, slow but deep, making you moan out loud, trying your hardest to keep your eyes open and on him.

"Yeah, 's it," he growled. "Focus."

You nodded wildly, the feeling overtaking everything, your body desperate for more. Every bit of your skin was burning, and you hated how badly you needed this.

"Daryl… I," you gasped, your hands holding on for dear life on the motorcycle seat, trying to stay upright but close to losing the battle with every pump. "I can't—fuck!"

"Can't what? Focus? Ain't nothin' new," he answered, his thumb still on your clit while his fingers were thrusting away. "Can't handle it? Ya jus' gotta focus. Keep yer eyes on me."

You were close, so fucking close already, but he wasn't letting up.

His fingers moved so roughly inside of you, pressing against your G-spot, which soon made you feel certain this was it—this was the moment.

Your legs were shaking hard, your breath coming in quick, desperate moans. "Fuck… fuck…" You whimpered, fingers tightening on the seat behind you.

But then he stopped. Just stopped.

The sudden loss of his fingers was like being thrown into a room full of walkers. You groaned, your hips bucking in a desperate attempt to go after what was just within reach, but he pulled his hand away completely, leaving you trembling and half-crazed.

"What the fuck, Daryl!" You cried out loud as you glared down at him, but Daryl only had the audacity to smirk, licking his fingers off once more like you hadn't been about to shatter into pieces.

"Keep still and shut up," he growled, and before you could scream at him, his head was between your legs.

Your words turned into a choked cry as his tongue moved over your clit, the feeling of his stubble against your inner thighs making you squirm.

It wasn't fair. You were already so close, your body trembling so hard it hurt, but now he was dragging it out, taking his sweet-ass time, licking and sucking like he had all damn day.

"Fuck—fucking hell, Daryl," you hissed, hands grabbing his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against you. The vibrations shot straight through you, making your thighs clench around his head, but he didn't stop—he didn't even flinch.

"Thought ya were so good at takin' risks," he taunted, his lips brushing against your clit as he spoke.

And with that, he sucked on it so hard you nearly screamed, the feeling of it being just on the edge of pain, but God, it was perfect. You were so damn close again, and this time, you needed it.

If he pulled away now, you swore you'd kill him.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips grinding against his mouth in a way that should've embarrassed you. "Daryl, fuck, don't you dare stop again—"

His grip tightened on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his tongue pushed you further and further until there was nowhere left to go but over the edge.

But it wasn't just his mouth—oh no. His hands were keeping you in place, his fingers pressing into your skin like he was claiming you, and maybe he was. You didn't care. You just wanted more.

"Fuck—Daryl, I'm—" Your voice broke, too far gone to even finish the sentence.

He pulled back just enough to growl, "What? Yer what?" His voice was rough and way too sarcastic for a man who was driving you insane.

"Stop it and finish me!" You snapped, your hands pulling at his hair like it would somehow speed him up.

He laughed—actually laughed—and that sound went straight through you. But before you could cuss him out for being an 'insufferable bastard,' his fingers were back on you, two sliding inside so easily you swore you saw stars.

Your breath hitched, and then he added a third.

"Fuck—holy shit!" You gasped, your thighs trembling as he stretched you wide. The feeling was nearly too much, but it was just right, and when his fingers started pumping in and out, so deep and hard, you couldn't do anything but ride it out.

He looked up at you then, his blue eyes searching for yours. You wanted to look away, to hide from the way he was watching you like he was saving every second of this to memory, but you didn't. He wouldn't let you.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya fuckin' look away."

You didn't think you could blush any harder—you didn't think you had the energy left for it—but then his other hand moved, his thumb pressing into the bruise on your thigh, just hard enough to make you wince.

"Shit—Daryl, that hurts!" You hissed at him, but his grip tightened, keeping you still.

"Good," he growled, looking at you. "Should hurt."

His fingers inside your pussy were picking up speed, driving you mad with how good they felt.

"Ya think I'm jus' gonna let ya off easy after crashin' my bike?"

He pressed harder into the bruise, making you whimper from the pain that somehow only made everything hotter.

"Nah. Yer gonna feel this. Remember this."

You hated how much it turned you on—the sting of his thumb on your bruise along with the pumping of his fingers inside you and the way his mouth was so close to your clit again.

"Please—fuck—please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore. You just needed something—anything—to finally push you over the edge.

"C'mon," he growled against you, not stopping. "C'mon, woman. Fuckin' let go. Let me fuckin' have it."

And that was it. That was all it took.

Everything inside you exploded so intensely you moaned out loud, your whole body arching as the orgasm ripped through you.

"Fuck—fuck, Daryl!"

You tried to keep your legs from giving out, but they were done, trembling so hard you had no choice but to lean fully against the motorcycle once more, trying to hold yourself steady. But Daryl didn't stop. His mouth stayed on you, his tongue again working your clit, dragging out every last bit of your orgasm until you were shaking all over, whimpering and sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then did he pull his fingers out in a way that made sure you'd feel everything.

But before you could catch your breath, his hands were on you again, gripping your thighs like they belonged to him. Without a word, he hoisted your legs up, wrapping them around his neck. The sudden movement made you yelp, but he didn't care—not one bit.

"What the fuck are you—"

"Shut up," he growled, his voice ragged as he shifted you off the motorcycle and onto his shoulders like you weighed nothing. "Focus."

The cold floor hit your back as he lowered you down, your body shivering against it. He moved near you, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread wide as he settled between them again, his face just inches from where you were still dripping for him.

You barely had time to process the new position before his tongue was back on you, licking slow and deep, making you moan aloud through the garage. All you could do was writhe and shake beneath him, your hands searching for anything to grab and hold onto—his hair, his shoulders, the cold floor—trying to keep still as he worked you over.

But then, just when you thought he'd keep going until you couldn't take anymore, he moved, his mouth leaving your pussy as he started to lick and kiss—hot, wet, and sloppy—all over you.

And he didn't move fast. He took his time, crawling up your body like he was deciding which part of you he should tease next. You felt his breath across your skin, so warm yet unsteady, while his hands worked on keeping you exactly where he wanted you—legs spread wide, no room to close yourself off, no room to argue.

His hands? Oh, you knew those hands could kill you if they wanted to, but the way he traced the edges of the scratches on your thigh? Fuck, it was worse. Slow. On purpose. Just enough pressure to remind you it was there. A reminder you didn't need, but apparently, he thought you needed.

The tip of his thumb ran over them once, twice, then pressed down harder. You flinched—it was pure instinct—but his other hand clamped down on your leg, pinning you to the floor. His thumb didn't move, didn't give you a break. If anything, he pressed harder, and you hissed through your teeth. He groaned, low and deep, like your slight discomfort was exactly what he wanted.

Daryl soon leaned down and kissed them. He kissed them like he was apologizing. Then his teeth grazed over the same scratches, and you realized he wasn't sorry for it at all. His tongue followed, licking slowly and wetly over the stinging feeling of them, and your back arched itself off the floor.

By the time he moved up to the bruise on your hips, his fingers found it first, pressing into your flesh like he was testing it, seeing how much it was hurting you. You flinched again, but this time, his response was immediate—a growl coming out of his throat as his fingers dug in deeper.

"Daryl," you started, but your voice cracked, and you knew that he wasn't listening anyway. His mouth replaced his fingers, and the first kiss of his lips made your head snap up.

Not soft, not tender—he sucked on the bruise as if he wanted to drag the pain out of you, to make you feel every sting of it.

He kept going, his mouth kissing up your ribs, licking, biting, sucking, finding every bruise that was forming itself, every scratch, and making sure you knew he'd found them.

"Fuckin' hell…" He whispered as his mouth moved higher, pressing kisses to your chest, in between your tits, before his tongue licked over one nipple.

You gasped as he sucked it into his mouth, one of his hands moving to tease the other, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.

"Daryl, please! Please… just—"

He didn't let up. He crawled higher over you, his body pinning you down, his mouth moving up to your collarbone, where his tongue licked over it next.

By the time he reached your neck, you were a mess, your hands now clawing at his shoulders, desperate for him to give you more, to stop teasing. And he knew it.

But he wasn't done. His teeth found your neck, and he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, your thighs instantly squeezing around his hips.

"Goddamn," he growled as his mouth finally reached yours. "Look atcha… all wrecked."

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, rough and hungry, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you.

And fuck, you didn't care.

Daryl left no room for argument—not that you had any strength left to argue.

His hands were everywhere at once, sliding over your thighs, your hips, your waist. You moaned into his mouth as his fingers moved back down between your legs, slipping through the wetness he'd left behind when he dragged his fingers through your wet folds, and his smirk certainly showed that he was satisfied with himself.

He wasn't asking for permission, no, but he wasn't rushing either. And he was now giving you the chance to stop him without saying a word.

When you didn't push him away, he leaned back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes seemed darker now, his pupils all wide, searching for something, waiting.

Your hands slid up his strong back, trembling slightly but steadying themselves as they reached his shoulders. You gave him a small but quick nod as you took a shaky breath.

That was all he needed.

With a growl, Daryl's hands gripped your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach fast but not harshly. Before you could even process it all, he pressed himself down against your ass.

"Don't move," he whispered.

You weren't planning to.

He grabbed your hips again, pulling you back just enough to hold them upward. You felt his cock pressing against your ass, still in his pants but unmistakably hard as he grunted and pushed it against you, his hands only holding on harder.

The deep and loud groan he made? You couldn't help but push back against him.

You barely had time to listen to the sound of his zipper before he was back, his cock sliding between your thighs, teasing, the wetness of your pussy making it too easy for him to glide against you.

Your fingers were clawing at the floor as you tried to push back, but his hands held you in place.

His hips rocked forward, and the tip of his cock pressed into your pussy. You tensed, your breath stopping at the sheer size of it, but he didn't push in—not completely. He was letting you feel every inch of how big he was.

When he did push inside, it was enough to stretch you wide open, and with one slow thrust, he sank into you, filling you up. Still, Daryl didn't move right away. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, as he gave you a moment to adjust and made sure you were okay.

Then, he finally started to move.

Slow at first, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, each movement so controlled.

But it didn't take long for him to move faster.

Harder.

Deeper.

And you couldn't do anything but take it as he pinned you down.

"Daryl—" you moaned, but he cut you off with a growl, his arm sliding down around you, pulling your hips higher to give him better access.

"Don't talk," he ordered, trying not to lose himself. "Jus' take it."

And you did. God, you did.

The garage felt almost suffocating now, and all you could smell was the scent of sweat and sex. The only sounds to be heard were your fast-breathing moans of yourself and his feral grunts as Daryl moved behind you. Every thrust was deep, driving you forward just to pull you back again with a growl, his grip on your hips leaving marks you'd wear for days.

Your hands still searched for any kind of hold against the floor, trying to ground yourself as the intensity of it all threatened to break you apart. His cock stretched you in a way that still bordered on too much, each thrust rougher than the last, and yet you couldn't get enough of it—of him.

"Fuck," Daryl grunted, his voice sounding as if the word was being dragged out from deep inside him.

You couldn't respond to him, not with the way he filled you so completely, your body trembling under his control. But he didn't need any words in return from you. His hand slid from your hip, moving along your ass and up your spine, before he put his arm around your shoulders to keep you steady.

"Don't lose focus now," he growled, leaning over you, his chest brushing against your back. His stubble grazed along your shoulder as he pressed his mouth down, his lips rough, almost punishing. He bit down hard, his teeth sinking into your skin just enough to leave another mark.

You cried out, clenching around him involuntarily. "Daryl—"

"Shut up," he said, cutting you off with another bite to your shoulder, this one softer than the last. His teeth were still on the mark he'd made, right before his tongue soothed it, leaving you shivering.

Daryl's pace quickened, each thrust making your overstimulated body shudder.

"Goddamn, look atcha," he grumbled, his voice full of lust. "Really fuckin' wrecked, ain't ya?"

You whimpered in response, your head falling forward and almost hitting the floor, but your body was still being held on tight by his grip.

"Ya like that?"

You nodded.

"C'mon," he growled, his hand tightening around your chest to keep you steady as his thrusts grew erratic. "Stay with me, woman. Focus. Fuckin' focus."

You didn't have a choice. His arm around your chest and his cock buried so deep inside you made it impossible to think about anything else. And the pressure was building again, unavoidable, and you knew he could feel it—the way your pussy clenched around him, desperate to feel him come, too.

And he didn't slow down. He didn't ease the pace or give you any room to breathe. Instead, he buried his face against you again, his lips sucking on your neck, his tongue following to taste the sweat of your skin.

"Shit," he hissed, his voice all muffled against your neck. "Goddamn, ya feel so fuckin' good."

His hips thrust forward, harder and faster, and you could feel him getting close, his movements losing their rhythm as his breathing turned ragged.

"Fuck—fuck," he groaned, his arm moving from your chest to hold your hip again, his hand grabbing you roughly as his thrusts went deeper. "Gonna—fuck, I'm—"

He didn't finish the sentence. With a loud groan that was almost sounding more animal than man, he pulled out, his hand gripping his cock as he came all over your back with force.

You stayed there momentarily, still on the cold floor of the garage, as you tried to piece yourself back together. Your legs felt like jelly, trembling so badly you weren't even sure they'd hold you if you tried to stand up.

Daryl soon moved off behind you, his heavy breathing just as loud and uneven as yours as he leaned against the motorcycle for balance. His cum was feeling all warm across your back, but you didn't have the energy to care—not yet.

Finally, he straightened himself, pulling his pants back up and putting his softening cock away. You heard the sound of his footsteps next to you as he walked around the garage, and for a second, you thought he was going to leave you there, fucked and half-naked in the garage.

But not long after, he was back, something soft and slightly damp rubbing over your skin.

"Hold still," he grunted. "Gotta clean ya up."

You flinched, moving your head to see what he was doing. Daryl had an old, torn rag in one hand, smudged with a little bit of dry oil, but it was enough to do the job. His other hand pressed against your shoulder, holding you still as he wiped away the mess of his cum he'd left behind.

"You could've at least grabbed a clean one," you grumbled, but there wasn't any real annoyance in your voice.

When he was done, he tossed the rag aside. "Yer alright?"

You smirked, despite the ache in your legs. "What, worried I might've cracked under all that control?"

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he just grunted before crouching in front of you. His hands found your arms as he helped you up, his strength the only thing keeping you from falling right back to the floor.

"Easy," he mumbled, sliding one arm around your waist to steady you. "Ain't wantin' to pick yer ass up again if ya fall."

"Not my fault," you answered, your legs wobbling as you tried to find your balance. "You're the one who—"

"Don't even start," he cut you off quickly, but definitely with amusement. "Ya got no one to blame but yer damn self."

His arm stayed around you as you took a few shaky steps with him by your side as if you had to learn how to walk again, your knees still threatening to buckle. You hated how he looked at you right now, showing you a smirk as he watched you struggle.

"Shut up," you grumbled, leaning against him more than you wanted to admit.

"Ain't said nothin'," he smirked, but the way his hand tightened on your waist betrayed his satisfaction.

Once you were steady enough to stand on your own, he let go, his hands falling to his sides. As you reached for your clothes, putting them on with clumsy, trembling fingers, Daryl leaned against the motorcycle again, watching you with that same gaze he'd had earlier, his blue eyes tracking every movement of your body.

"So? Ya still reckless?" He suddenly asked, as if to taunt you.

You glared at him as you put on your bra and shirt. "Excuse me?"

"Crashin' my bike," he continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then gettin' all riled up when ya can't handle shit."

Feeling your cheeks turn red, the heat was spreading all over your face as you turned to zip up your pants. "Maybe if you weren't such a goddamn caveman, my attention would've—"

"Caveman, huh?" Daryl stepped closer, the space closing between you until you could feel the presence of him behind your back. One hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly over the bruise on your thigh from earlier, the touch rather gentle.

"Caveman kept ya focused now, didn't he?" He continued, his lips all close near your ear. "Got yer attention real good."

You hated how easily your body responded to him even now, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Next time," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "ya might think twice 'bout tryin' to show off."

His fingers then pressed into the bruise just enough to make you wince, reminding you of the lesson he'd drilled into you—literally.

"Control," he said, stepping back again. "Might save yer damn ass next time."

You turned to face the motorcycle with a scowl as you adjusted your clothes, looking around for your jacket. "Are you done lecturing me, or should I grab a notepad?"

"Nah. Jus' get yer shit together," he answered. "We're headin' out again tomorrow. Yer ridin' bitch till ya prove ya can handle it."

Laughing at that, your words were coming out faster than your still-wobbly legs could even move. "Riding bitch, huh?" You repeated as you turned to face him. "Next time you're teaching me to drive, I'll be riding something, alright—but it sure as shit won't be the bike."

It was a bold answer, considering your legs still felt like they'd been switched for spaghetti, but you weren't about to let him see you back down.

Daryl's lips twitched, that small smirk coming back as he closed the distance between you in a few quick movements. One hand shot out, gripping your chin and tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"Keep talkin'," he grumbled, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "See where it gets ya."

You grinned, biting his thumb just enough to make him hiss. "I think it gets me exactly where I want to be," you responded, voice all daring, even as your pulse kicked up a notch all over. "Don't you think?"

Daryl's silence was answer enough, and for a moment, you thought he might snap again, dragging you into another round right there on the spot. But for now, and for once, you decided to savor and enjoy your little victory. Of course, it didn't last long.

You weren't sure who moved first, but before you knew it, you were pulling him down by his collar, your lips crashing onto his like they had something to prove.

The kiss was all grunts and stubbornness, his teeth biting at your lip as you ran your fingers through his messy hair. You didn't even notice when his hands found your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between your bodies.

"Y'ain't got any sense o' self-control," he mumbled against your mouth, but he didn't stop kissing you, one hand sliding up to grab the back of your neck.

You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, smirking up at him. "And you've got too much of it," you shot back.

You knew this would've gone on longer—should've gone on longer—but the sound of the side door from the garage to the house opening stopped you both in place like a couple of kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Daryl?" Aaron's voice was to be heard, and you felt the blood freeze in your veins. "Are you both back already?"

Daryl let out a growl, his forehead slowly dropping to yours like he was trying to collect himself before turning to look toward the unwanted interruption.

Aaron stood in the doorway, his eyes looking between the two of you, taking in the sheer awkwardness of it all. His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked like he was trying to reset his brain back to factory settings.

"Oh…" Aaron said after a moment, his voice sounding a little bit higher than usual. "I just—uh—saw the garage door was closed from the outside when I came back. Thought you were done with, uh, teaching? I just wanted to get—"

Daryl cleared his throat, stepping back from you but not bothering to hide his irritation. "'M still teachin'."

Aaron's mouth opened like he was about to ask something else, but you jumped in before he could make things even worse. "Yeah, exactly," you said, smiling at him before you looked back at Daryl. "He's teachin' me how to… focus."

The words had barely left your mouth before Daryl shot you a look. Still, he couldn't resist adding, "And 'bout… control."

Aaron stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in urgent need of water. Finally, he managed to let out a quiet, "Still teaching, huh?" His voice was full of disbelief. "About control and focus?"

You crossed your arms, smirking. "Of course! And let me tell you, Daryl's got a real hands-on approach." Daryl gave you a warning look, but you ignored him. "Next time, maybe we'll move on to, I dunno, accelerating!"

"Yeah," Daryl answered flatly, his tone as casual as if Aaron had walked in on him fixing the motorcycle, not having had you taken against it. "Focusin' on the road ahead. Controllin' the bike while… ridin' it."

Aaron arched only one eyebrow this time. "Right," he said, dragging the word out like it was hurting him. "Well, maybe teach her outside of Alexandria next time instead of Eric's and my garage?"

You snorted. "Oh, we can, for sure. But Daryl's really good at teaching me how to focus on what's in front of me," you said sweetly. "It's the control part I keep getting stuck on."

Aaron let out a short, strangled laugh, already backing toward the door. "Yeah, okay! Don't let me interrupt your lesson." His face went red, and he backed up so fast he nearly tripped. "I mean, it sounds, uh... productive. I'll just—yeah." He gestured around awkwardly as he was about to hurry back inside the house.

When he left, you could've sworn he whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, "What the hell is wrong with all these people?" before he closed the door behind him.

The second the door clicked shut, you leaned against the workbench, your eyes moving to the motorcycle that had started this whole situation, after all. It stood there innocently enough, like it hadn't been witness to your absolute lack of keeping control. Stepping forward, you traced your fingers along one of the scratches on its gas tank.

"Looks like Frankenstein's bike's seen some rough handling, thanks to me," you said before your eyes moved back onto Daryl, who was watching you like an animal sizing up its next meal. "Guess it'll get used to bein' ridden hard."

Eyes looking up, you were daring him to take the bait. "Think you'll leave some scratches on me next time?"

His muscles were flexing like he was seconds from pulling you back to him. "Keep talkin', woman, and I jus' might."

You grinned, stepping away from the motorcycle and grabbing your jacket, which was on the floor near the workbench. "Guess I'll just have to wait and see, huh?" You put the jacket on, taking your time on purpose to let him stew in his frustration.

Just as you reached the garage door and opened it, you turned back toward Daryl, who'd started to talk, watching you lean your shoulder against the frame. "Yer walkin' funny, woman."

You stopped, moving your head up with a glare. "If I walk funny, I'm tellin' everyone it's 'cause of the bike." You made sure to add a smirk. "I'm going to say it was a wild ride—not a crash."

As you pushed yourself off the frame and stepped outside onto the streets of Alexandria, your grin was as wide as ever. "Thank you for the thorough lesson, Dixon."

But before the garage could even close behind you, something soft and slightly damp was flying past your head, landing on the ground in front of you.

"Jesus, was that—?" You started to laugh, realizing exactly what he'd thrown after you. "Oh, come on! Did you seriously throw that at me? Gross!"

Daryl leaned against the motorcycle, his smirk not obvious, but it was there. "Missed, didn't I?" He didn't flinch, didn't apologize. "Didn't miss on purpose."

"That's disgusting," you called back and laughed, unable to help yourself. "And I'm not picking that up!"

"Didn't ask ya to," he answered, pushing himself off the machine and taking a few steps closer to the street. "But yer might come back in here 'n pick up somethin' else."

"Not a chance," you snorted, shaking your head while you stumbled a little bit. "Better luck next time. Or… tomorrow."

"Fuckin' reckless…" Daryl growled, but with amusement in his voice as he watched you disappear ever so slowly. But he didn't move, not yet. "Jus' get yer damn ass back here!"

You were already down the street and smirking to yourself as you tried to walk and just waved him off, making it clear that it was all for show as you held up both middle fingers, trying to make it seem like you were stumbling away with your body intact.

And, of course, you were—kind of.

Either way, Daryl knew that next time, the only thing you'd be riding was him, and you'd make sure he would be the one struggling to keep focus and control.