#liquid handling protocols | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kiwriteswords · 6 months ago

Note

Hiya! May i please request protective Aaron Hotchner? Thanks Ki!

To the Ends of the Earth [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN: LOVE PROTECTIVE HOTCH!! Thanks for requesting!!

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, canon-typical themes, reader was taken advantage of by a powerful figure, protective!Hotch, mentions of sexual assault/harassment, mentions of physical altercations, blackmail, canon-typical violence, angry Hotch, protective!Derek Morgan, Hotch's POV, Reader defending herself, established relationship, Strauss is a nightmare boss sometimes, Aaron "I must make sure justice is served" Hotchner, bureaucratic politics

Summary: When an opportunity of a lifetime turns into a nightmare for you, Aaron Horchner needs to make it right.

Aaron Hotchner was not a man given to fits of rage. His demeanor, honed by years of service and hardship, was one of controlled calm, a fortress of logic and order. But as he watched you move around the kitchen that morning, something stirred deep within him—a tumultuous blend of protectiveness and fury that he hadn't felt since the harrowing days of George Foyet.

Something was off about you. It had been for a few weeks now, ever since you returned from that high-profile assignment with the task force. Hotch remembered how proud he had felt when you were selected, the honor that lit up your eyes, the excitement that animated your every gesture. But now, the light had faded from your eyes, replaced by a haunted, distant gaze.

Your movements were mechanical, your smiles forced. You flinched at sudden movements and seemed to wrap yourself tighter in your own arms whenever the house fell too quiet. The changes were subtle, but to Hotch, they screamed of something profoundly wrong.

He watched now as you poured coffee with slightly trembling hands, the dark liquid spilling slightly over the rim of the mug. Hotch's jaw clenched. He approached you, his steps silent but purposeful.

"Hey," he said, his voice soft yet carrying an undercurrent of concern that made you pause and look up. "We need to talk."

You nodded, setting the coffee pot down a bit too quickly, liquid sloshing onto the counter. "I know," you murmured, avoiding his gaze.

Hotch reached out, gently lifting your chin so you were looking into his eyes. "What happened on that assignment?" he asked, his voice low and intense. "You've been different since you came back."

Your eyes filled with tears, and you bit your lip, a clear struggle within you. The room was thick with tension, the air heavy with unspoken fears.

"It's... it was nothing, Aaron. I—I just got overwhelmed with the work, that's all," you stammered, but Hotch's eyes darkened. He knew you. He knew when you were hiding something painful.

"Talk to me," he pressed, his hand firm yet gentle on your arm. "Please."

The floodgates opened then, and as you told him about your boss—the respected and powerful figure within the Bureau, the one with connections that reached the highest echelons of government—Hotch felt a cold fury settle in his stomach. The man had taken advantage of you, betrayed your trust in the most despicable way, and used his power to silence you.

"He told me... he told me if I said anything, it'd be the end of my career. He's friends with—"

Hotch cut you off, his voice icy, "I don't care who he's friends with."

You flinched at the steel in his voice, and he immediately softened, pulling you into a protective embrace. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just so, so angry that he did this to you. That I wasn't there to protect you."

Hotch held you close, his mind racing. His instinct was to protect, to avenge, to rectify. But he was also Aaron Hotchner, a man of the law, bound by rules and protocols—even if his heart screamed to break them for your sake.

"We're going to handle this," he whispered into your hair, his voice a steady rumble of contained fury. "I promise you, I won't let him get away with this. No one hurts you and just walks away."

Hotch felt your body tense in his arms, the weight of your emotions palpable against his chest. He held you tighter, a silent promise in the embrace.

"Look at me," he urged gently, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his once again. In them, he saw a storm of hurt, fear, and defiance—a maelstrom that made his own heart clench with an indignant rage he seldom allowed others to see.

"I... I don't want to make this into something big, Aaron. It's... it's embarrassing," you whispered, your voice breaking with the weight of your vulnerability. "And I... I don't want to be seen as a victim. He's too powerful. What if—"

"No," Hotch interrupted firmly, his tone brooking no argument. His gaze was intense, almost piercing, as he spoke with a clarity that cut through the fog of your worries. "You are not a victim. And this... this man has committed a crime. His power doesn't protect him from the law—not from justice. Not as long as I'm here."

You searched his face, looking for the certainty that felt so elusive to you now. Finding it in his eyes, the relentless determination that defined him, a small, fragile sense of security began to weave through your trepidation.

"Aaron, I'm scared," you admitted, the truth sounding stark and raw between you. "I'm scared of the fallout, of what it means for us, for my career..."

Hotch's expression hardened, the lines of his face setting into that familiar mold of resolve that had carried him through countless challenges. "I understand your fear, and it's valid. But you're not alone in this—not now, not ever. We'll do this together and on your terms. We'll take every precaution, use every resource at our disposal. We'll fight this, and we'll win."

The certainty in his voice was more than just comforting—it was a bastion against the doubts that threatened to overwhelm you. Hotch stood, his posture rigid with controlled anger, a testament to his unwavering support.

"And if he thinks he can intimidate or silence you, he doesn't know who he's dealing with. He doesn't know who I am," Hotch added his voice a low growl of protective ferocity. It was the same tone he'd used years ago, a sound born of fury and pain from darker days. It reassured you, reminded you of the strength you had beside you.

You nodded, leaning into him, drawing strength from his presence. "What do we do now?" you asked, the practical part of you ready to take the next steps, no matter how daunting.

"We start by documenting everything. Every interaction you've had with him, anything that can support your case. We'll get statements from anyone who might have noticed anything during your assignment," Hotch planned out loud, his mind already sifting through procedures and protocols. "I'll talk to Strauss personally. We need to make sure this is handled by the book and with the utmost seriousness."

"And then?" Your voice was small, but your eyes were steady, meeting his.

"Then we make sure justice is served," Hotch stated simply. "And we ensure that this never happens to you, or anyone else, ever again."

The resolve in his voice was unwavering, the promise not just of a lover but of a protector, a leader.

The next day, Hotch’s steps were purposeful as he approached Erin Strauss's office, his jaw set in a firm line, his thoughts a whirlwind of strategy and barely contained anger. This wasn't just another bureaucratic hurdle; it was personal, and the stakes were far higher than usual.

Knocking briskly, Hotch didn't wait for a reply before pushing the door open. Strauss looked up from her desk; her expression schooled into one of cautious neutrality.

"Agent Hotchner, what can I do for you?" Strauss asked, her tone as meticulously controlled as the rest of her demeanor.

"We need to talk about an urgent matter," Hotch began, his voice laced with a severity that made Strauss straighten slightly in her chair.

"It's about the conduct of a high-ranking official in the task force assigned to an agent on my team. There have been serious allegations made against him," Hotch stated bluntly, not one to dance around the subject.

Strauss's eyes narrowed, a flicker of concern passing over her features before she masked it with a bureaucratic calm. "I'm aware of the individual you're referring to," she said slowly. "However, you know as well as I do the complexities involved. He has significant connections, Aaron. This could become a highly volatile situation."

"That doesn't excuse his actions or absolve us of our duty to act," Hotch countered sharply, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "We have a responsibility to protect our agents and uphold the integrity of the Bureau."

"Aaron," Strauss began, her tone firmer, more authoritative. "I understand your concerns, as well as your….personal connection to this, but we must approach this carefully. Rushing into this could backfire, not just on us but on your agent as well. We risk turning her into the subject of a very public, very messy scandal."

Hotch felt his frustration mount, the protective fury simmering beneath his cool exterior. "With all due respect, Ma'am, I'm not willing to let this go because it's complicated. If we start picking and choosing which battles to fight based on political convenience—"

"This is not about convenience, Agent Hotchner!" Strauss interrupted, her voice rising slightly for the first time. "It's about strategy. It's about ensuring we handle this in a way that ensures justice without causing unnecessary harm. I am not saying we do nothing. I'm saying we need a plan."

Hotch paused, the logical part of his brain recognizing the truth in her words, even as his emotions rebelled against the implication. "I want your assurance, then, that we will pursue this. That it won't be swept under the rug because he's 'connected.'"

"You have my word that we will take appropriate action," Strauss said, her gaze locking with Hotch's. "But I need you to be patient. Give me time to navigate this minefield. I need to talk to the Director, maybe even higher. This isn't just about the Bureau, Aaron. It's bigger than that."

Hotch's expression hardened the lines of his face set in determination. "Time is something I can give, Erin, but silence is not. If we don't see action, I will take this to every authority necessary."

Strauss met his gaze, a silent battle of wills taking place in the quiet tension of the room. Finally, she nodded. "Understood. Let's reconvene in forty-eight hours. I should have more information then."

Hotch nodded curtly, the promise of action the only thing tempering his rage as he left her office. The fight was far from over, and while the bureaucratic wheels turned slowly, his resolve was as swift and unyielding as ever. Justice, he knew, sometimes required more than just good intentions. It needed steadfast, relentless advocacy, and that was something Aaron Hotchner was all too ready to provide.

As Hotch sifted through the case files on his desk, his focus was frequently interrupted by a far more personal concern. The events involving you had left a residual tension that permeated not just his office but his every thought. It was during one of these distracted moments that he heard the familiar knock of Derek Morgan at his door.

"Come in," Hotch called, setting aside the files and steeling himself for the conversation he anticipated was about more than just BAU casework.

Derek stepped in, closing the door behind him with a seriousness that matched the gravity Hotch felt. "Hotch, I've heard about what happened. How's she holding up?" Derek's voice carried a mix of concern and protective anger.

"She's coping, Derek, but it’s far from ideal," Hotch admitted, feeling the weight of his responsibilities as both a unit chief and a partner, “She's strong, but this... this isn't something anyone should have to be strong for--what happened... it’s unacceptable."

Derek's presence was reassuring, a reminder that he wasn't alone in his resolve to address the issue. "We can't just wait for the system to grind forward. What are we doing to make sure she feels safe, not just now but in the future?" Derek asked, his stance resolute.

Leaning back in his chair, Hotch considered the proactive steps they needed to take. "Strauss is handling the investigation, but we need to tighten our own security measures. I’m thinking about revising our late-night protocols and perhaps reintroducing a buddy system."

Derek nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "And maybe we should look into a refresher on self-defense for the team. It's been a while, and it might help give everyone a bit more sense of control," he suggested.

"That’s a good point. I’ll arrange for a workshop. We should also consider implementing more discreet ways for team members to alert security. Fast and effective responses could make a big difference," Hotch said, feeling a strategic plan forming.

"Like panic buttons?" Derek proposed.

"Exactly," Hotch confirmed, his mind already running through logistics and implementations. "I'll ask Garcia to look into integrating something seamless yet powerful."

Derek’s next words struck a chord, emphasizing the culture Hotch always strived to foster within the team. "We need to make a statement, Hotch. Not just with new systems and training, but in how we handle this. We protect our own, not just out there," Derek motioned towards the world beyond their office walls, "but in here, too."

Hotch met Derek’s gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the shared commitment. "I agree completely. Let’s set up a team meeting tomorrow. We’ll discuss these changes openly and ensure everyone knows we’re serious about safeguarding our own."

As Derek left, Hotch turned his attention back to the files before him but with a renewed focus. The safety and well-being of his team, particularly you, now had a clear path forward. With Derek's support and the team's collective effort, Hotch was determined to transform this challenging situation into an opportunity to strengthen the BAU from within. The resolve in his heart was matched by the plans forming in his mind, and he felt ready to lead this crucial initiative.

The wheels of bureaucracy had finally begun to turn, albeit slowly. Hotch could feel a subtle shift in the atmosphere within the Bureau as whispers of the investigation started to circulate among the upper echelons. Strauss had been true to her word so far, initiating discreet inquiries that didn’t draw undue attention yet signaled a clear intent to address the allegations seriously.

However, just as Hotch was beginning to see a glimmer of progress, a new, more immediate crisis erupted. It was late in the evening, and you were at home with Hotch, the two of you trying to enjoy a quiet dinner together to take your minds off the ongoing turmoil. Your phone buzzed with the arrival of an email, and the change in your demeanor was immediate and alarming.

“What is it?” Hotch asked, noting the sudden pallor that washed over your face as you stared at your screen.

“It’s him,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s... he’s threatening me, Aaron.”

The words hit Hotch like a physical blow. His jaw clenched, and his eyes hardened with a fury that had been simmering just below the surface, now brought to a boiling point by this new provocation. He took the phone from your hands; his movements controlled but brisk, and read the email himself.

The message was succinct, laced with venom and arrogance. The man threatened to ruin your reputation, to make sure you would never work in law enforcement again if you continued to "drag his name through the mud." The audacity of the threat, the blatant attempt to intimidate and silence you, ignited a fierce protectiveness in Hotch.

“This ends now,” Hotch said, his voice low and dangerous. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor with a sharp screech. “I won’t let him get away with this.”

You reached out, touching his arm. “Aaron, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make sure he understands the consequences of threatening an FBI agent,” Hotch replied, his tone leaving no room for doubt about his intentions. “He thinks he can intimidate us into silence, but he’s gravely mistaken.”

Hotch’s first call was to Strauss, informing her of the new development. His words were clipped, his anger barely contained as he explained the situation.

“Erin, he sent a threatening email. He’s trying to intimidate her into dropping the charges. This is witness tampering, and it’s unacceptable. We need to act, and we need to act now,” Hotch insisted, his demeanor unyielding.

“We will start with securing a formal censure against him. I’ll also alert the Director immediately. This is serious, Aaron, and we’ll treat it as such,” Strauss responded, her voice reflecting a new urgency.

Satisfied that the Bureau was finally mobilizing with the necessary aggression, Hotch turned his attention back to you. He could see the fear and uncertainty that the email had sparked, and he knew he had to be the rock you could lean on.

“Listen to me,” he said, taking your hands in his. “I promise you, I won’t let anything happen to you. We’re in this together, and we’re going to see it through. No one threatens you and gets away with it. Not on my watch.”

As Hotch spoke, his assurance, his unwavering support, you felt a flicker of hope. Despite the darkness of the situation, with Hotch by your side, you believed that, somehow, everything might still turn out right.

Aaron Hotchner had settled into the kind of focus that came with years of late nights and urgent cases. The dim light from his desk lamp cast long shadows across the paperwork in front of him, the numbers and details blurring into a singular narrative of crime and consequence. He was deeply immersed in a complex profile, one that needed to be finished before morning, when a faint noise caused him to look up. It was a sound out of place in the quiet of the late evening, a soft shuffling, a hesitant step.

The sight that greeted him was one he was wholly unprepared for. You were leaning heavily against the doorframe, your face visibly battered and bruised, your clothing disheveled as if from a scuffle. There was a black eye forming, swelling under the stark fluorescent light, and blood was trickling from a cut on your lip, dripping onto your collar.

For a moment, Hotch froze, his brain trying to process the scene before him. His files, his profile, the pen still poised in his hand—all of it faded into irrelevance as a surge of protective anger rose within him. He was on his feet in an instant, his chair pushed back with such force it nearly toppled.

“What did he do?!” The words burst from him, laden with fury and concern as he closed the distance between you and him in a few long strides. His hands hovered just inches from you, itching to reach out, to confirm you were real and standing there, yet hesitating out of fear of hurting you further.

Your appearance was a stark, visual slap to his system, igniting a rage in Hotch that was pure and lethal, a reminder of the days when he'd hunted the most dangerous criminals. His mind raced with the implications of your injuries—how it had happened, where, and most importantly, who was responsible.

Seeing you in such a state, so vulnerable yet defiant, was more than just a call to action. It was a personal affront, a challenge to everything he stood for, both as the unit chief of the BAU and as the man who loved you. Your safety had been compromised under his watch, and the violation of that trust was something he took as a personal failure.

“Who did this?” His voice was a low growl now, demanding an answer, needing to know whom to direct his burgeoning wrath towards. The protective barrier he always maintained—the one that kept his professional judgment clear of emotional interference—was crumbling fast, chipped away by each drop of blood he saw staining your skin.

Your response was shaky but filled with a fire that spoke volumes of your resilience. “It was him. In the locker room,” you managed to say, your voice a testament to both the physical pain you endured and the psychological battle you were fighting. “There are no cameras there. He knew that.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, his eyes hardening with resolute anger. You had defended yourself, survived, and prevailed, yet the cost was written all over your face, and it was a price too steep for him to bear without retribution.

“We’re going to Strauss now,” he stated unequivocally, the protective fervor in his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “He won’t get away with this. Not now, not ever.”

He quickly grabbed a first aid kit, gently tending to your wounds with a steadiness in his hands that belied the storm of emotions inside him. Once he was sure you were stable, he offered you his arm, ready to accompany you to Strauss’s office. The walk there was tense, each step heavy with the weight of the incident and its implications.

Upon reaching Strauss’s office, Hotch knocked firmly, not waiting for an invitation to enter. Strauss looked up, her expression turning from surprise to alarm at the sight of your condition.

“Aaron, what happened?” Strauss stood immediately, her eyes wide as they took in the visible marks of the attack on you.

“She was attacked by him, in the gym locker room. There are no cameras there. It was premeditated,” Hotch explained, his voice controlled but the underlying fury unmistakable. “She defended herself and subdued him. He’s still there, unconscious and handcuffed.”

Strauss’s face hardened, her eyes now reflecting a mix of anger and determination. “I’ll call security, have them take him into custody and ensure he’s watched until he can be formally charged. This is attempted assault on a federal agent, at the very least. We’ll push for the maximum charges.”

You nodded, leaning slightly on Hotch for support, both physically and emotionally. “Thank you, Strauss. I... I defended myself, but I want this to be handled by the book. We need to make sure he never has the opportunity to hurt anyone else.”

Strauss moved around her desk, reaching out to gently touch your shoulder. “You did good, and I’m sorry this happened under our watch. We’ll take care of it from here. And you,” she looked at Hotch, “make sure she gets to a hospital, and then take some time off. Both of you. You need to recover from this.”

Hotch nodded, his protective instincts fully engaged as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, guiding you out of the office. The rage still simmered within him, a fierce protectiveness that would not soon abate. But alongside it was a profound respect for your strength and resilience and a renewed commitment to stand by you, no matter what lay ahead.

That night, the world outside seemed distant, almost irrelevant as you and Aaron Hotchner returned to the sanctuary of your home. The hospital visit had been thorough but exhausting, leaving both of you drained yet relieved that nothing was critically amiss. Now, in the quiet comfort of your bathroom, Hotch took on the role of caretaker with a gentleness that made your heart swell despite the pain.

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, watching him gather supplies—antiseptic, cotton pads, and some fresh bandages. The care with which he handled each item, his movements deliberate and focused, was a quiet testament to his concern for you. As he turned to you, his expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with an unspoken promise of tenderness.

"Let's get this cleaned up," he murmured, wetting a cotton pad with antiseptic. His touch was feather-light as he dabbed at the cut on your lip, the one that had stopped bleeding but still throbbed with every movement. You flinched slightly, not from pain, but from the intimacy of the gesture, the proximity in a moment filled with so much vulnerability.

"I'm sorry you had to go through this," Hotch said quietly, the weight of his emotions making his voice thick and unusually expressive. He paused, his hands steady as he tended to your wounds, but his heart was anything but calm. "I should have—"

The words trailed off as a tide of frustration and guilt surged within him. Hotch despised the feeling of helplessness, the gnawing thought that he might have prevented your pain had he anticipated the threat more effectively. It was a violation of his deepest principles, both as a protector and a partner, to see you hurt and know he had not been there to prevent it.

He gazed at your face, noting the bruises that marred your skin, each one a stark reminder of the violence you endured. It pained him to see these tangible signs of trauma on someone he cared deeply about. The instinct to shield you from harm was ingrained in his very nature, honed through years of leading a team that faced danger daily. Yet here, in the quiet of your shared space, the reality that you had faced such danger alone was a bitter pill to swallow.

As Hotch looked into your eyes, seeing the trust and understanding there despite the shadows of the recent ordeal, he felt a renewed surge of resolve. His role was not just to protect but to support and ensure such a breach never occurred again. This incident, while closed legally, would prompt him to reevaluate his own vigilance. The emotional undercurrent of this moment, the blend of regret and protective fervor, was a powerful catalyst for Hotch. It reinforced the essential truth that his duty to protect you extended beyond the physical; it was emotional, a bond forged in mutual respect and shared trials.

The silence that followed his unfinished apology was filled with a heavy understanding. He knew you didn’t blame him—you had faced the situation with incredible resilience. But he held himself to a standard that was often unrelenting. Hotch needed to articulate this, not just for you to hear, but for him to acknowledge it openly.

“You shouldn’t have had to handle this alone,” he continued, his voice firmer, reflecting his internal commitment. “I’m here, and I will do everything in my power to ensure you never feel that isolated again. We’ll increase security protocols, and I’ll personally review them.”

His promise was not just words; it was a vow, a pledge of his ongoing commitment to your safety and well-being. Hotch knew that recovery from such events wasn’t just about physical healing—it was about restoring a sense of security and normalcy. He was prepared to lead that effort, standing by you as both your staunchest ally and your devoted partner.

"Don't," you interrupted gently, placing a hand over his. "Don't do that to yourself. You couldn’t have known. And you were there when it mattered. You’ve always been."

He looked at you, really looked, as if seeing you anew, and nodded slowly. "It's over now," he reassured you and himself more than anyone. "He's in custody, and he's not getting out anytime soon. Strauss is making sure of it."

You nodded, feeling the weight of the past weeks begin to lift ever so slightly. "It’s hard to believe it’s over," you admitted, allowing yourself to lean into his care, into the promise of safety his presence provided.

"It is, though. And we're going to make sure you're safe, that this never happens again," Hotch said, his voice firm with conviction. He finished bandaging a smaller scrape on your cheek, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary, as if to impart comfort through his touch.

You reached up, your hand brushing against his. "Thank you, Aaron. For everything. I don’t know how I would have handled all this without you."

Hotch’s hand covered yours, his grip warm and reassuring. "You're not alone in this. You’ll never be," he said, his gaze holding yours. "We’re in this together, remember?"

As you nodded, a silence fell between you, comfortable and healing. It was the kind of silence that spoke of shared struggles and mutual support, of battles fought and won together. Hotch finally stood, helping you to your feet.

"Let’s get some rest," he suggested, his tone lightening a bit as he led you toward the bedroom. "You need to heal, and I need to make sure you stop finding trouble," he added, a hint of humor glimmering through the residual tension of the day.

You chuckled softly, leaning against him as you walked. "Deal," you replied, knowing that whatever the future held, you faced it not alone but together, stronger and more united than ever.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

@looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

@averyhotchner

@reidfile

@bernelflo

@lover-of-books-and-tea

@frickin-bats

@sleepysongbirdsings

@justyourusualash

@person-005

@iyskgd

505 notes · View notes

snazzynacho · 5 months ago

Text

— Emperor of Time

Chapter 2/?: Diana

Emperor Geta x female oc

Chapter 1 Read on ao3. Masterlist. Words: 2.8k

A/N: btw I am trying to keep fmc’s appearance as vague as possible so you can imagine her as whoever, even yourself. Words in bold mean they are in Latin.

Geta stirs from his sleep, draped in the softest blanket he has ever felt in his life and a soothing cold flannel on his forehead. What a comfort to wake up to after that awful dream...He reminds himself to thank his servants once he's fully awake. It is not protocol but after that fright, he does not care.

His eyes are still closed, basking in the nicety of the blanket, but his nose twitches at something. A sweet aroma.

He groans sleepily, turning over on his side slightly. That’s when he’s met with a wet tongue licking his nose. He snaps his eyes open, blinking away the blurry remnants of slumber. He is ready to scream at her and bellow all sorts of derogatory terms at her for…licking his nose!?

But then his eyes are met with huge round black ones, set above a cute button nose. The adorable sight finishes with floppy orange ears. It is a dog. Geta’s anger slowly diminishes, as the dog continues to stare at him, sniffing his scent. Geta resists the urge to pet it.

As Geta’s eyes wonder around the room, a sinking feeling settles in the pit of his stomach.

The unfamiliar furniture and interior design hits him. That was no dream…that was real life…

Geta proceeds to sit up, just as the woman is walking back over to him. He eyes her suspiciously. In her hands is a cup of sorts, similar to the shape of a goblet, only smaller with a handle on the side. It's filled with a warm light brown liquid. That must be the cause of the sweet smell. He watches the steam flutter away in the air.

She shoos the dog away gently, slightly agitated at it, and motions for Geta to take the cup…but he's sceptical. What if it is poisoned? He has no way of knowing until it is too late.

Sensing his distrust, she sighs and gulps a bit of the drink. At the sight of her foreign mouth on his cup, his nose scrunches up in disgust. She says something, out of annoyance, and shoves the cup in his hand. He tuts out of irritation. It’s hot and he feels the heat tingle his fingers as it burns his hand. He quickly moves his hand to hold the handle instead.

She sits in the chair across from the plump lounge seat he is on, eyeing him. The tawny dog happily perches by her feet. Geta ignores her stare as he sniffs the drink, before taking the tiniest sip.

Bleh.

He does not like that.

His face sours as he places the cup down on the low table in between them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He wants to spit out the liquid but stops himself. Instead, he swallows the liquid and swallows down more saliva to try to rid the awful taste.

He can't help but glare at her. Her mouth opens and more grating noise comes out of it. Has she not realised from his shouting earlier that he clearly doesn't speak her language?

“Imbecile,” He counteracts, muttering under his breath bitterly. His eyes glance around the room again. Eyeing objects which feel alien to him. From where he’s sitting there’s perfect view of a flat black box standing on a chest of sorts. There’s also a dining area, but not in a separate room like usual. It’s just a table and chairs, out in the open, in the living room. Peasant style, he thinks. “What is this place?” He asks.

She suddenly jumps up and he grimaces at her…happiness? She races past him, to a different room—the dog perks up and runs with her—and runs back with something in her hands. It's a book with a picture of a set of three blocks of colours, in order of green, white and red. She sits back down in font of Geta and clears her throat, eyeing him with a slight smugness. The dog lies by her feet again. She flips through the pages, landing on one, and begins to say a word.

A word he does not know.

Her eyebrows shoot up, expectantly. As if he should know what to say next.

Geta looks at her, confused, and becomes more irate by the second, as his voice raises. “You will answer to your Emperor. Where am I? Where have you taken me?”

She looks shocked at his anger, staring back at him like he’s a monster. Geta knows that looks well. She furrows her brows, propping the book on her legs, and grabs the rectangular device from earlier. She holds it up right in her hands, the bottom resting on her pinkie-fingers. Light emits from the device, brightening her face. He details her features. The light reflects on the glass circles in front of her eyes. He suppresses a giggle until his anger comes flooding back. “Where is my brother?”

She glances up at him while her thumbs tap on the device faster. His brows furrow in thought. What is she doing?

A few seconds later, an autonomous voice sounds from the device. He grips his robes in horror. “What is your name?”

It's a voice speaking his language. His heart beats hard in his chest. Is this a god speaking to him?

He takes a deep breath, wanting to make sure he has a steady voice for the god. “Publius Septimius Geta,” he utters but his voice wavers slightly. Damn, nerves.

She blinks at him. He cannot read her expression. Though, since she speaks a different language he assumes her foreign intellect does not know where to begin with how to repeat his name. Ha. He finds this amusing yet does not let it show. He keeps his face stone-cold, waiting for a reply.

Her thumbs resume tapping on the device, the quiet noises of her soft thumb pads tapping oddly calm him down.

The voice from the device speak again. “My name is Diana,”

She smiles at him for the first time. Three things flutter in his stomach. One is that the voice emitting miraculously from the device sounds like it belongs to a male’s voice, and by appearance and from the words she has spoken in her foreign language, Geta gathers the woman is…well, a woman. So, the voice from the device is not her own and would not be named a feminine name like Diana. The voice must be speaking for her. This leads him to a second realisation seizing him—why on earth is this woman named Diana—after the goddess of hunting and wild animals? It perplexes him greatly. It casts a shame on the goddess. This Diana cannot even fight him with a broom! A broom, for god’s sake!

Thirdly, Diana is a Roman name. Besides the shame it brings to the real Diana, the great goddess, the familiarity of it makes his heart lurch. Does this mean that his home is close? He worries about Rome and Caracalla. His brother must be frightened out of his fragile mind.

She leans over. He instinctively cranes his neck back. Did he permit her from moving closer to him? He looks down, seeing her arm outstretched, holding the device out for him. She wants him to take it. Geta clears his throat, he is not going to be scared of a silly device the size of his hand. His hand goes to grab it. He stares at it for a moment, not knowing what to do. There seems to be glass on it like a mirror but instead of his reflection staring back at him, it is lit up, showing three boxes—the two on top of each other are blank but the one of the bottom is filled with three rows of letters he recognises. He then remembers that all she was doing was tapping her finger on it. It can't be that hard.

He gathers that she must have been selecting each letter with her thumbs to form words that the device spoke aloud for her. He is extremely taken aback by the extraordinary device. He has never seen anything like it. He relates it to a wax tablet, except smaller, yet more powerful. It is a work of sorcery, and he questions whether it is safe. But, he believes this voice in the device is akin to a household god to her, and he must treat this device with respect. And if that means using it as she wants him to, then he shall oblige.

He warily points his index finger. He’s hesitant to touch it at first, glancing up at her for some sort of approval, even though he emperor and will do as he pleases.

She gives a nod, the corners of her mouth curling upwards slightly. He stares back at the device. The light bothers him, unaccustomed to a device so bright with white light. With the dream, or whatever it was earlier, with the mysterious glowing lady who sent him here still fresh in his mind, this white light reminds him of the blinding light he experienced. Uninvited, a shiver runs down his spine and his stomach churns a bit. He blinks, willing the fear that still lingers away.

His index finger touches one of the letters. It magically appears in the box at the top. He doesn’t realise he is grinning in awe. He continues to spell out what he wants to communicate.

“Where am I?” It speaks aloud when he is finished. He then passes the device back to her.

“My flat,”

He rolls his eyes. Can she be any more vague? “Am I in Rome?” He makes the communicatory-device-god ask.

At the question, she looks completely confused. “I wish,” it answers for her and she laughs.

Geta is not amused.

She realises her joke did not land, and makes the device reply again. “Britannia,”

His eyes widen. It cannot be. Britannia looks nothing like…like this!? His breath quickens, his anger returning. She must be playing a trick on him.

“Are you okay?” comes in another reply from her. Her question tips him over the edge.

He grabs the device from her, angrily tapping the letters. “Are you jesting with me? Because I assure you, I, your emperor, will not hesitate to use force.” his nostrils flare in vexation.

The colour drains from her face. Even in this uncertain environment, he still has what it takes to be intimidating. He feels smug, eyeing her with a smirk.

“Emperor?” she places the device on the table instead of handing it to him this time.

“Do I look like a Plebeian?!”

She winces and seems to shrug her shoulders. Geta’s eyes bore into hers. He snatches the device and he is about to start tapping at it again vehemently when the unexpected happens.

In a blink of an eye, the lit-up picture on the device changes, displaying a word he does not know and two circles at the bottom—one green circle and one red. Not only that, but the device starts to quiver in his grip—making his hand feel like a buzzing nest of angry bees—and emits a loud obnoxious sound of…ducks quacking?! Geta jumps out of skin at the shock of it all. The device practically flies in the air, out of his hand. He's about ready to go insane. This day is beyond bizarre.

Geta puts a hand to his beating heart, holding onto his robe. This sorcery… He eyes his other hand, the one that was holding the quivering device which made it feel like it was fist-deep in a furious bee nest. His hand seems to be unharmed, only a slight tingle lingers. He clenches it into a fist, alleviating the strange prickling.

She shoots up from her seat—the dog moving with her as if they are attached at the hip—and bends down to retrieve the device off the floor. When she stands back up, her face is very displeased. Her small gasp grabs Geta’s attention as she stares at the device. She quickly taps the screen and holds the device to her ear. The quacking stops.

He watches in curiosity. She wanders off, talking, but not to Geta. There is no one in front of her. Geta’s hearing just about picks up a muffled voice produced from the device, talking back to her. She must be conversing with the communicatory device god.

Geta sits tight, watching as she so easily speaks to a god. How is she able to get into verbal contact with a god? It is not like she is the real goddess, Diana! Look at her! He is an emperor, why has he never been contacted by a god?—verbally, for that matter.

Slouching back, he crosses his arms together. He gazes away arrogantly, his nose in the air, trying to convey an unbothered attitude to the whole debacle—but he can't help getting re-invested when she becomes increasingly agitated, pacing the length of the room. She pulls the device away from her ear with a stiff sigh, raking a hand through her hair.

She looks over at him, uncertainty written in her eyes. She comes back over to him, holding her device in her hand. It is not lit-up anymore, but there’s a huge crack, a bit like when Caracalla smashed his mirror. Geta’s body fills with dread—has he killed the communicatory god?! Was that his final farewell to her?! Geta reaches his finger to feel along the crack, detailing the tiny crystals of glass, but she shoves it in her pocket before he can, muttering something laced with resentment.

She then begins rushing around, pulling her shoes on and picking up a black odd-shaped case. She then removes something from the wall and turns to him, holding some sort of circular dial with symbols all around it and two thin black arrows. One is shorter staying pointed at the “3” shaped symbol on the top right. The other is longer and ticks, moving by the second.

He stares at it for a moment, mesmerised by the ticking sound and the moving arrow.

He presumes it is a timepiece—but it is unlike one he has seen before. He knows of sundials and even the klepsydra and obelisk, which rely on the sun or water, but this piece of technology seems to calculate the time on its own. He has no idea how, yet. He also notes it is using a different numbering system instead of the Roman Numerals he is familiar with. Another work of sorcery… He worries if she is trying to cast a spell on him or hypnotise him, the ticking and ever-moving arrow pulling him into a trance. That is, until her finger appears on the dial, pointing to another symbol, snapping him out of his daze.

Her finger taps the “3” symbol where the smaller arrow is and then her finger points down to the ground—as if signalling that is the time now—and then points to the door to her home. Geta gathers she's trying to tell him that is the time now and she must leave. He nods his head. She then points to the “6” symbol several times. That must be when she will be back. He nods again. She hands him the timepiece, holding it in his hands. Before she leaves, she offers him a smile.

Now he is left with…a dog. Whatever it’s name is, he does not care, right now.

He sighs, a long irate sigh. He has never been fond of…pets. Caracalla has a pet monkey for God’s sake. Geta has always found it ridiculous, but even now, he cannot deny the truth—that monkey, though it annoys Geta,—does wonders in calming Caracalla down.

He hopes the monkey can do so now, with Geta himself being…gone…Lost? Dead? Reborn? Geta is still unsure.

A/N: Geta being confused by her glasses this entire fanfic and thinking her phone is a god are my favourite jokes so far. 😭 btw this is what the iPhone duck quacking ringtone sounds like.

Oh, and the way he would pronounce Diana in Latin is so hot (Latin is so hot idc). Basically, it's like “Dee-ah-nuh”.

I also have dyscalculia so I don't know why I made myself explain how a clock works in a Roman’s mind. Ffs😭. I hope it makes sense.

Taglist for this fanfic (comment if you want to be added/removed): @minamoomoo @silpiisoverrated @gorbo-longstocking @cokepowder55

#snazzynacho fanfics #emperor of time #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii fanfiction #gladiator ii #gladiator ii spoilers #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta x female reader

64 notes · View notes

companionjones · 6 months ago

Text

Days, Weeks, Months, Years (8/10)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Fandoms: MCU, Marvel

Warnings: Cursing, Canon level violence

1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10

*******

The goal was to destroy the base. That was exactly why Hulk was on standby (his favorite place to be) to do his actual favorite thing: Smash.

Before you came in, you, Tina, and Nat were sent in like scalpels to precisely take out all human dangers. The Maximoff twins were there for all other combatants. Tony and Sam were your eyes in the sky, and Steve and Bucky handled the perimeter on the ground.

A few hours into the mission, Nat was taking down a hallway of unfriendlies by herself, as she tended to do. She called for you and Tina to keep going. You had no problem with it, you trusted Nat implicitly. Valentina, however, rolled her eyes. "She has no idea what she just did."

"What do you mea--Ugh!" You were roughly pushed back into some sort of dark passageway.

You were fighting blind. All you knew was that Tina did it. She had turned on you all.

"We got a Code Ward!" you yelled into your comm.

"Who?" Steve was the first to respond.

"Who do you think?!" You were able to say before a gun went off.

For a moment you saw a heinous look on Tina's face before you reached down and felt warm liquid on your stomach. You started coughing up blood, and you fell to the ground.

There was chaos in your ear. Most people were asking where the hell you were, but you had no idea. You didn't want to waste breath telling them that when you had one important message to relay.

"Buc-Buc-Bucky-I-love-you."

You couldn't hear him, couldn't hear his response if he had one. You couldn't hear anything over blood rushing in your ears. Your breathing was getting slow. Too slow. You couldn't hear yourself breathe anymore.

~~~

Bucky stopped breathing when he heard that gunshot through his comm. Then, he gasped in more air than he ever thought possible when he heard you say what you said. Because, in that moment, one thought ran through his mind: he'd never get to say that back to you.

He didn't know how long he took. It could've been immediately, it could've been years, but Bucky called through his comm, "Nat. Where are they?"

The Black Widow was in as much shock as everyone else. "I...I don't know...I--"

"Wanda. I don't care what you have to do. Find Y/n...Sam, Tony, I better not see either of you drop an inch. We're not letting the bitch that did this get away."

"Bucky, I--"

Bucky didn't care what Steve had to say. If it didn't get him closer to you, it didn't matter to him.

Bucky could suddenly hear Wanda grunting. It wasn't through the comms. The comms malfunctioned while Wanda's voice echoed through the mountains, and Bucky watched as the base, almost hidden by the trees in the forest, lifted from the ground and started to spin.

Bucky thought that you would have loved to see that. You loved to see Wanda's powers in action when they weren't held back by protocol.

After a couple spins, the base was put back down. Besides the shift in the forest, it was like it never happened.

"She's here!" Wanda's voice sounded through the comm again, and Bucky took off in a dead sprint toward the base.

Pietro's voice then sounded, "Meet-meet me at the jet. I got her."

Bucky didn't have to change his direction to get there. He considered having the quinjet take off without him if it meant getting you medical attention sooner, but by then he was already there.

Bruce was leaning over you, already thoroughly working on you.

"How--?" Bucky asked before his brain could stop him from possibly distracting the doctor.

Banner didn't get distracted. "The Other Guy cares about her, too."

"We all care for her," Pietro notified with his sister nodding next to him, "but we all know that you care for her more than all of us."

Barnes didn't even look at the man in front of him, but it wasn't out of hatred. Bucky's eyes were stuck on you.

On your blood-soaked clothes. On the hole in your stomach.

Bucky's breathing got ragged. His breaths turned to sobs. He fell to his knees with Wanda and Pietro catching each of his shoulders.

Then, through his enhanced hearing, Bucky heard someone getting attacked outside the quinjet while it was taking off. He glanced out out a window to see Steve straddling a still-breathing Valentina. Though, by the looks of it, she wouldn't keep breathing for long.

"That's-my-best-friend's-girl," he gritted between punches.

Bucky stood, still hyperventilating, and pressed the button that would open up the loading dock to the plane, and he jumped out. The quinjet was only a few yards off the ground, so it didn't hurt the super-soldier.

"She's-my-friend! She's-on-my-team!" Steve was relentless until he was literally thrown off by Bucky. "What are you doing?!" Steve yelled.

Valentina moved to get up. She actually moved until Bucky shot her a look that must've been so terrifyingly threatening that Valentina collapsed back to the ground.

He didn't take his eyes off Valentina as he answered Steve. "Y/n decides what we do with her."

"Buck--"

"Y/n decides," James growled. His attention went to his comm. "Sam, take her back. Hurt her if necessary."

For once, Sam didn't have a witty retort as he landed and approached the woman.

Tony landed briefly too, and he took the two best friends back aboard the quinjet. He seemed to have taken Nat at some point as well because she was aboard then, sitting in a corner, looking like she had just seen a ghost.

Before the super-soldiers took a step towards Bruce pseudo-operating on you, Bucky put a weak hand on Steve's shoulder.

Steve turned to his best friend.

"I need you to take the lead again." Bucky told him. Barnes understood what he himself had started to do.

Steve looked solemn, "Buck, I can't--"

"I can't look at her without--" Bucky broke down in tears again.

Steve caught his best friend. Steve agreed, "Okay. I got you. I have you."

*******

1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I would also really appreciate a comment, if you have the time. If you would like to read more, check out my masterlists. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you! <3 <3 <3

*******

Tag List: @sidraaaaaaaaa // @dontworryboutitsweetheartxx-blog // @mayusenpai666 // @onceithough // @greatenthusiasttidalwave // @shadowzena43 // @ampersam // @sebastians-love // @cjand10 // @silentwhisper666 // @superaveng // @vicmc624 // @ltsaradharkness

#bucky #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #dwmy #dwmy companion jones #sebastian stan #companion jones #days weeks months years #bucky barnes angst

72 notes · View notes

mandos-mind-trick · 2 years ago

Text

F*** Diplomacy

Summary: On another relief mission, you find yourself in a sticky situation. Luckily there's a certain Commander to give you a hand.

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x reader

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, sorta sex pollen, aphrodisiacs, unprotected sex, grinding, clothed sex, growling, biting, brief blood, dirty talk, language, Wolffe being Wolffe, confession of feelings.

A/N: I wrote this in the bathroom during an IBS flare up so please forgive if it makes no sense. I am out of it like crazy but must share the smut with y'all because I have no self control.

MASTERLIST

You could laugh. You wouldn’t dare, though. Your sense of self-preservation is far too high to do something like that.

It was no secret your commander hates relief missions.

It's only natural your battalion was chosen to head another relief mission. You think Wolffe actually growled when the Generals ended the call.

You know how much Wolffe hates relief missions. At least this time his favorite droid won't be going. There was no need for a protocol droid this time. You were delivering supplies and setting up shelters after a Separatist attack. The Republic needs the continued support of this particular planet due to its location near two critical hyperspace lanes, so you were going to help keep the Republic in good graces in the eyes of the inhabitants.

You would have chosen anyone but Wolffe for this mission.

The gruff commander wasn't exactly the most diplomatic, and you suppose that's why he'd grabbed you by the pack and hauled you onto the gunship with him and the rest of the Wolf Pack as you'd been loading up.

It's also no secret you're the Wolf Pack's favorite medic. You had been graced with the sigil on your uniform not long after your reassignment to the 104th. You had been among the many medics shipped off to refill the ranks after the loss of most of the battalion.

You'd been the one to hold Wolffe's head in your lap, staunching the bleeding after his unfortunate incident with the wrong end of a lightsaber.

You'd been adopted into the Pack not long after, named their honorary medic despite your status as a civilian contractor.

You tried not to blush as Wolffe all but lifted you into the gunship with one hand. You'd be lying if you said you weren't harboring a small crush on your commander. It was hard not to crush on any of them, but the gruff commander held a special place in your heart. Maybe it was the way he looked at you as you comforted him after he lost his eye, or maybe it was the way he kept you close whenever you were going to potentially dangerous areas. You know he still feels the loss of his original battalion to this day.

The gunship rattles as it takes off, your hand lifting to hold one of the handles to keep yourself steady. You don't get off the cruiser often, but you're always excited when you do. You've always wanted to travel, to visit places all over the galaxy. Maybe that's what led you to join the GAR.

You certainly don't regret it, even if it is hard sometimes.

You can feel Wolffe's arm brushing your side as you sway with the movements of the gunship. You're sure your cheeks are red by now and you're glad your back is to the rest of the Pack. You'd never hear the end of it.

Wolffe exits the ship first when it lands, offering you a hand to help you down. You take it, even though you could make it easily yourself.

You jump right into helping, working with the other medics to get the tent set up and ready to start treating any wounded villagers. You'd love to be able to watch Wolffe's attempts at diplomacy, but you are here to do a job. Ogling your commander is not part of that.

***

You're kept busy throughout the day. Most of the injuries you see are minor. Many bandages and bacta patches later, you finally take a break. One of the villagers offers you a cup of warm liquid and you accept, not having had much of a break to eat or drink anything. The liquid is sweet and slightly tangy, coating your mouth and throat as you drink it, but it’s not unpleasant.

You finish the liquid before making your way through the village.

You find Wolffe gathered around the fire with the village leaders. It's colder on the planet than you would have expected with the sun out. You slip in between Wolffe and Sinker, taking in the warmth of the fire.

Wolffe glances down at you as you settle in beside him, before he turns his gaze back to the village leaders.

You sit and listen to them talk, your mind starting to wander a bit. You can feel the warmth of the bodies beside you, almost more than the fire in front of you. Something begins to tingle under your skin, making your hair stand on end.

One of the village leaders is staring at you, her face focused. She's been staring at you for a while, no emotion or expression in her gaze. The attention is making you a bit uncomfortable, and you resist the urge to hide behind Wolffe.

You begin to warm, a cramping feeling starting in your stomach. You press a hand to your abdomen right below your belly button. Maybe you're more hungry than you thought.

The ache in your stomach continues, progressively getting worse. You couldn't possibly be sick. There were no unknown diseases on this planet you could have been exposed to. You had drank whatever it was that woman had given you. Maybe that was causing your distress.

"Excuse me." You say quietly as you step away, slipping through buildings until you're on the edge of the village.

You brace a hand against the side of one of the buildings as another cramp spasms in your stomach. The air no longer feels cold as your body warms. Maybe you are sick.

You take a few steps into the trees, not wanting to be sick where someone might see you. You take deep breaths, screwing your eyes closed. The last thing you need is to be sick during a diplomatic mission.

Your ears pick up a sound in the distance, your brows furrowing. Curiosity gets the best of you and you follow the sound, walking through the trees.

You stop on the edge of a small clearing, your eyes widening. The woman that had given you the drink is pressed up against a tree, completely bare. There's a man behind her, snapping his hips into hers. Both of their eyes are closed, faces twisted in pleasure.

Your face burns as you back away, breathing heavily. Kriff, you think. You had read something about this planet's mating seasons. The attack had happened right in the middle of one.

Kriff.

Your core throbs, your brain replaying the image of the man and woman over and over. The faces begin to shift, morphing into you and Wolffe. His hands gripping your hips, growling as he fucks into you.

Oh kriff.

You need to get on a gunship and back to the cruiser immediately. The drug could kill you if you're not careful.

Your name is called, your eyes squeezing shut as you curse. Just who you don't want to see. You turn to him, probably looking as wild as you feel. Wide eyed, sweat dripping, legs trembling. Thank the maker he can't read your mind as he struts closer to you.

You know he's big. You just know it.

"Everything alright?" Wolffe asks, stopping a few feet in front of you.

"I need to get to the med center on the cruiser." You say, voice shaking almost as much as your legs.

He frowns, looking you over. "Are you sick?"

"I'm going to be." You murmur, swaying on your feet.

You audibly whimper when Wolffe puts his hand on your shoulder, steadying you. His hand is so warm, the weight of it enough to send you spiraling into visions of him on top of you, those hands all over your body. You screw your eyes shut, not able to look at him anymore.

"What's going on?" You can practically hear the growl in his voice. Slick floods your panties, soaking them right through.

"It's mating season." You say, not brave enough to open your eyes. "They gave me an aphrodisiac."

"What?" Wolffe asks in disbelief.

"This planet has mating seasons. They use aphrodisiacs to help. I drank one." You explain. "I didn't know what it was when she gave it to me."

His grip on your shoulder tightens, another whimper leaving your throat. You want him to squeeze your hips, your thighs, your ass. You want him to hold you so tightly he leaves bruises. You want him to sink his teeth into your throat and claim you as his-

You don't realize he's been talking.

"I need help." You whimper. "I could die if I don't get something." The last word leaves you in a whine. You want a cock, you want Wolffe's cock inside you.

"What can I do?" He asks.

"I-I'm not in my right mind." You frown, eyes still closed. "I-I can't. I can't take advantage of you like that."

He steps closer. You can feel the warmth of him against your body. He's so close, his breath fanning your heated skin. "What if I want to."

You finally let your eyes open, your gaze meeting his. His brow is furrowed, gaze intense as he stares down at you.

"Kriff, I've been waiting for you to ask me for a long time, mesh'la." He all but growls, the hand on your shoulder sliding down your arm. It leaves goosebumps in its wake, the fabric of his glove rough against your sensitive skin. "Do you know why I keep you so close to me?" He tilts his head, bending down closer to you.

You lift up on your toes, shaking your head. "No, sir."

He does growl this time, the sound vibrating in his throat as he smirks. "It's because I keep hoping for the right moment to kiss you."

"All you had to do was ask." You murmur, closing the distance between you.

Your back hits a tree as your lips meet, his body pressing tight against yours. His hand lifts to your face, tugging on your chin until you open your mouth. He slips his tongue inside, flicking it against yours. You moan into his mouth, the heat under your skin practically begging you to devour him.

His hands slide down your body to your hips as he sinks his teeth into your lower lip. You taste blood, but you don't care as he presses his codpiece against your pelvis. You moan at the friction, grinding yourself against the hard plastoid.

"Kriff, just like that, mesh'la." He groans. "Gonna cum just like that?"

You continue to grind against him, nodding. "Yes. Fuck, Wolffe!"

He smirks, letting you work yourself up desperately against him. "Good girl."

He lets you continue to grind against him, his hand slipping behind you to grab a handful of your ass. You whine, his touch almost painful but you don't care.

"Gonna...gonna cum." You pant, desperately grinding against his codpiece.

"Cum for me." He growls, pushing harder against you.

Your head as you cum with a cry, hips jerking against his codpiece. You can feel the bulge under it, a promise of what's coming next.

The heat under your skin abates for just a moment, your mind clearing enough for you to catch your breath. You taste blood as you lick your lips, staring up at Wolffe.

"I need more." You gasp out, heart thumping wildly in your chest. "It won't be enough."

Wolffe bites the tip of his glove, tugging one off. He tucks it into his belt before his hand cups the spot between your legs. You're hot and damp under your uniform, slick dripping down your thighs. You need more, you need touch.

You press your hips against his hand, desperate for more. He tugs your belt off dropping it in the grass. His hand slips under your waistband, rough fingers gliding through your slick folds.

An absolutely primal noise leaves you as he finally touches you, more slick gushing out to coat his fingers.

He chuckles, fingers ghosting over your clit. "Such a needy little thing."

"Please." You whimper. "Please. Need you so bad."

"What do you need, baby. Tell me."

"Your cock." You whine, grinding against his hand desperately. "I need your cock inside me."

He pulls his hand from your pants, making you sob. "Ask politely. I am your commander, remember?"

You gulp, getting wetter as he stares down at you with that intense gaze. "Please, sir. I need your cock inside me."

He grins, stroking your cheek with his slick fingers. "That's my good girl."

You practically preen under him, legs shaking in anticipation.

"Take it off." He growls, leaning in closer to your face.

You reach forward, pulling off his codpiece. You can feel the heat blooming under your skin again, your brain filling with fantasies of what's about to happen. You drop his codpiece in the grass, your hand rubbing the bulge in his blacks. He's so big, hard and pulsing against the fabric.

You slip your hand in, closing your fingers around his cock. Your mouth waters and you desperately want to drop to your knees and suck the mean streak right out of him. You know you can't waste much time, though. You need to fix this problem and get back before the others start looking for you.

You pull him free of his blacks, marveling at the size of him in your palm. You jerk him a couple times, letting your eyes lift back to his face. His gaze isn't soft or gentle by any means. It's...admiration, you think? Something not usually in his gaze when looking at others.

"Take your pants off." He rasps, pushing your hand from his cock. He takes it in his own hand, jerking it as you work on tugging your pants down.

You get one leg out before he pounces, gripping your thigh tightly to tug that leg around his waist. You lean back against the tree, holding his gaze as he drags his cock through your folds.

You mewl needily, trying to push your hips closer to him. He finally takes pity on you, slipping his cock inside your pussy. You moan at the stretch, your body opening for him. You know it's the aphrodisiac doing most of the work, making your body well prepared for him without needing any extra stimulation or preparation.

The feeling of his cock stretching you open forces the worry of any lingering side effects out of your mind. He pins you against the tree, your arms wrapping around his neck.

He pauses once he's inside you, letting out a groan. He lips brush your neck as he feels you pulse around him, body desperate for any sort of relief. You cling to his shoulders, his armor digging into your skin but you don't care. The pain only adds to the sensation, more wetness seeping out around his cock.

"Making a mess of us and I haven't even started yet." He smirks. "You naughty little thing."

You whimper at his words, trying to grind your hips against him for any sort of relief. "Please, sir." You whine. "Please fuck me."

He nips at your neck, humming quietly. "Since you asked so nicely."

He draws his cock from your walls until just the tip is inside before slamming his hips forward, forcing his cock back inside. You gasp at the sensation, clinging to him as he repeats the motion, jolting your body with every thrust into you.

The bark of the tree drags against your skin but you don't care. You'll worry about the discomfort later. All you care about is Wolffe and his cock inside you.

"Harder." You gasp, threading your fingers in his hair. "Fuck me harder, please."

A groan rumbles in his chest as he draws his hips back before picking up the pace, fucking into you hard. You cling to him as he takes you roughly, hips slamming against yours. You'll have bruises but you don't care.

"So kriffing good." He groans, panting into your neck. "So tight and hot. Such good pussy, baby. All for me. All mine."

"Yours." You gasp, hardly able to form words from the pleasure rushing through your body. "Only yours."

"Gonna cum for me?" He asks, slipping a hand between your bodies to tease your clit. "Gonna cum around my cock?"

You cry out his name as he fucks you through your orgasm, walls spasming around him as pleasure burns through your veins, nearly whiting out your vision.

His hips stutter, a growl rumbling through his chest as he cums, hips slamming into yours as he fills your pussy.

You're gasping for breath, still clinging to him as you come down from your high.

"Fuck, babe." He groans, pulling back just slightly. The front of his armor and his blacks are soaked.

"Oh kriff." You breathe. You can still feel the heat lingering under your skin.

Wolffe pulls himself free of you, tucking himself back unto his blacks. "Made a big mess of us, didn't you?"

You nod, legs shaking as you try to stand on them. He chuckles, helping you back into your pants, putting your belt back on before his codpiece.

"Come on, mesh'la." He says, scooping you into his arms. "Let's get you back to the ship."

"But what about the mission?" You ask, resting your head on his shoulder.

"Fuck diplomacy." He says, carrying you back to the gunships.

Taglist:

@kaminocasey @rosechi @mxkyrie @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @padawancat97 @bamfahsoka @rain-on-kamino @thrawnspetgoose @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @wolffegirlsunite @dukeoftheblackstar @starrylothcat @blueink-bluesoul @freesia-writes @anxiouspineapple99 @wings-and-beskar @dystopicjumpsuit @littlemissmanga @madameminor @eris-k @clio3kantarella @moonlightwarriorqueen @sleepingsun501 @originalcollectionartistry @maddiedrmr @idontgetanysleep @clonemedickix @523rdrebel @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @multi-fan-dom-madness @sinfulsalutations @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @sunshinesdaydream @mooncommlink

#star wars #star wars fic #the clone wars #the clone wars fic #commander wolffe x reader #wolffe x reader #x reader #clone thirsting #the dark side fic

860 notes · View notes

creepyclothdoll · 6 months ago

Text

Ant Problem

I really thought it was a dog. I swear. I swear I didn’t know.

How could I? Vi never told me anything. She just expected people to know.

Walking into Grandma Vi’s house was like walking into a halloween haunted maze made out of ant traps. Flypaper hung from the ceiling and walls like streamers. The floor was littered in dusty plastic traps, and empty and half-full boxes of borax and liquid ant killer were stacked along the walls. The smell of the place was strange and cloying. Soap and poison.

I never liked being there. She made me uncomfortable, even as a kid, when her paranoia wasn’t her defining trait just yet.

She was a neat freak back then. Her rules were foreign to me, but not as foreign as the genuine outrage she expressed when those rules were broken. I didn’t even know what a coaster was, why was I being snapped at for putting my water cup down? You’re not sleeping in the attic bed, why are you so pissed at me for leaving it un-made? Don’t get mad at me for not drying the entire shower after I’ve used it– I didn’t even know anybody did that.

Grandma Vi would never tell you what weird unusual protocols she expected you to follow, she’d just fly off the handle when you didn’t do it, and that’s how you’d find out that it was disrespectful to wear a hat indoors or not offer to wash the dishes as a guest. She’d turn up her sharp jaw and suck her thin teeth and scowl endlessly.

I could honestly say that I missed that version of her.

Compared to this Grandma Vi, that one was a delight.

This Grandma Vi collected dirty paper dishes in her room. She stacked them high. She sprayed them with bleach. She refused to let me wash them– the sink drains were all clogged in the house now, stuffed with paper towels and borax.

“Ants could get in through there,” she explained.

When I brought Grandma Vi her groceries, they had to undergo a period of “disinfecting,” in which they were double-bagged in black trash bags and sealed for two days. This, Vi reasoned, would suffocate any insects that might be passengers inside the lettuce or the cornflake boxes.

No sugar, obviously. Ants loved sugar.

I tried not to eat in front of Vi. The day I spent as her full-time caretaker, I unwrapped an egg sandwich in front of her and it sent her into a panic attack.

“You’re dropping crumbs all over the floor!” she screamed.

I wasn’t. And even if I was, it’s not like the floor could get any dirtier. Vi would not let me vacuum because I did it wrong. Vi didn’t vacuum either– she couldn’t. Just walking around the house left her fatigued. Her hair had always been long and thick, but it was so hard for her to care for now that she’d had it shaved near to the scalp. She’d struggle to lift anything heavier than a spoon.

I reminded myself of that daily. Grandma Vi was a sick, dying old woman. She was in pain. She was used to independence and solitude. This was the worst she’d ever felt and the most disempowered she had ever been.

And, importantly, my dad was paying me to do this. Because someone had to.

So I tried not to hate her guts. And I ate my meals outside, on the picnic table in what used to be her garden, even in the winter. I refrained from cleaning without her permission. I never, ever, ever used the front door.

The front door could let in ants.

The ant obsession– I never found out where that came from. My dad just shrugged it off as one more drop in a giant bucket of assorted mental illnesses.

“She’s been getting worse ever since Grandpa Joe passed,” dad said to me over the phone while I called him, crying in my car one day. Vi’s husband had been gone since before I was born. If there was a tolerable version of her, I never met it. “Grandma Vi relied on him. When your mom was growing up, Vi was actually a very quiet, mellow person. She was never… nice. But she felt safe. She had security. She didn’t feel like she had to go on the attack all the time.”

I hated imagining my mom as a child in this horrible house.

“Your Grandpa Joe was a nice person,” dad said. “Not like her at all. I believe that missing him is a big part of what made her crazy.”

I didn’t argue with him, but I didn’t think he was right. Because in Grandma Vi’s halloween haunted house of traps and poison, every single photo of Grandpa Joe– a tall, dark, handsome man with a very kind smile– had been turned backwards to face the wall.

The first month I was there was quiet. Then the scratching started.

It sounded like a raccoon climbing around on the roof and walls. Every time I thought it was done, it started up again. It was the deep of night, and I couldn’t sleep. I slipped out of the attic bed where Vi still expected me to sleep and climbed the ladder down to the main floor. There was a porch light outside. I hoped it would scare away any animals.

But as I started unlocking the back door, a sharp, cold hand grabbed my arm. I jumped. Vi was there, her dark eyes wide, her wrinkled face pulled tightly into a mask of pure terror.

“Don’t open the door,” she hissed.

“I’m just turning the light on,” I said. I unlatched the door.

Vi screamed, and I felt a sudden hot pain across my face. I put my fingers to my cheek and felt blood. Vi had scratched me. I swore, and she re-latched the door. I ran to the bathroom to wash my new cuts out in the clogged sink.

When I found Vi again, she was in bed. She wasn’t sleeping, though. And she definitely wasn’t sorry.

“If you attack me again, I’m leaving,” I said to her.

“You oughtta be grateful,” Vi said. “You don’t even know what you almost did, stupid.”

I refrained from calling her the names I was thinking of calling her in my head. I swallowed those teeth and asked,

“What did I almost do?”

Vi laughed.

“You were just gonna let in those ants.”

In Vi’s house, I was never to leave the house at night. I was never to open the back door at night. I was never to open the front door at all. I was never, under any circumstances, to let anyone else inside the house.

The scratching would come every few nights. Once it started, Vi finally started asking me to fix things around the house. She didn’t let me clean, but she did make me go up on the roof and look for holes. Nests. Anywhere ants could be living or trying to get in. And for once, to her credit, I did find some damage. It looked like termites, maybe. I sprayed bug killer and sealed up the chewed spots.

One day, Vi screamed at the top of her lungs in the middle of the night. I ran into her room to find her frantically springing from her bed. She collapsed into a dresser and knocked over the stack of paper plates she kept there, sanitized with bleach. She was staring at the window with pure horror. I didn’t see anything out there. She wouldn’t tell me what she saw. She only wept and shook and cried Joe’s name over and over. The next day she had me cover that window with cardboard and plastic and seal it. And then I had to re-seal it, because she saw a microscopic space that no one else would notice. Big enough for a potential ant to get in.

“You never met your Grandpa Joe,” Vi said to me out of the blue one day. Her room was lightless and stuffy, and she had spent her recent days sitting in bed and doing nothing but listen to audiobooks on an old cd player. “You never saw him.”

“I heard he was nice,” I said.

“He’s dead,” she said. “He’s never coming back.”

“My dad says he’s with us in spirit,” I said. “He says he can feel him sometimes, loving us.”

“Listen, you moronic little girl. He’s dead. He’s not with us. So if you ever see him around, you better tell me. And you better keep the doors locked.”

I was taken aback.

“Have you seen him?” I asked.

“No. But the ants have. They’ve seen him and they know what he looks like. And I’ve seen the ants.”

Vi would deteriorate a little bit at a time, and then a lot at once. When I started, I wondered if we’d develop some sort of closeness over time. That was a very silly idea. The more Vi needed me, the less she could stand me. She would snip at me and scream at me. The first time she needed my help in the bathroom, I was punished for helping her with a long string of insults and criticism which, at this point, I had learned to tune out.

I brought her a bowl of corn flakes in a paper plate in bed. She commanded me to spray her stacks of paper plates with bleach while she ate.

“I don’t think that’s safe,” I said. She shot me a dagger glare.

“You want ants in here?” she said.

“I just think this is an unventilated room and it’s not safe to spray bleach all over everything.”

Vi responded to this by throwing her bowl of corn flakes at me. Cereal splashed all over the floor. Milk soaked into my sweater and my hair.

“That’s it,” I said.

I took my wet sweater off. I changed pants. I took the vacuum cleaner out of its dusty closet.

Vi screamed and screamed at me as I cleaned up the mess. I took all of the paper plates and put them in garbage bags. I took down the flypaper. I threw the empty borax boxes in the dumpster.

Vi couldn’t do anything but sob while I took over the house. When I got thirsty, I set my cup down on the table without a coaster.

I was worried the neighbors were going to call the cops with all the yelling and crying going on, but no one did. Once, I looked out the window and saw a dark man in dark clothes standing on the sidewalk across from the house. I couldn’t see his eyes under his cap, but I thought he was looking at me. There was something familiar and disturbing about him which I couldn’t place. And then he was just gone. I looked away for a second and he had disappeared.

The sun went down. I came into Vi’s room with her dinner and her pills.

“You hate me,” she glared. “You really, really hate me. I must deserve it.”

“Vi, I cleaned your house.”

“You’re gonna let in those ants.”

“If ants get in, we’ll just stomp them. Listen, I’m not gonna live here and help you if I can’t live in this house.”

“Then you better let me die.” She scowled at me. I rolled my eyes.

There was a scratching sound at the front door. Vi jumped and pulled the blanket up like a child afraid of the dark.

I stood up to go see the source of the noise.

“Get back here!” Vi shouted. “I’m just seeing what it is,” I said.

“You stupid bitch! Get back here!” Vi screamed louder as I walked up the hall to the front door. The scratches sounded heavy, huge. Not like a raccoon at all, but something bigger. For a second, I had a sudden, irrational thought– it was that man I saw before. It was that tall man with the cap. And when I opened the door, I thought, I would see him standing there, his uncannily and unplaceably familiar face grinning at me. And his teeth would be black, and his eyes dark and gleaming. I got scared. My fingers stopped on the latch.

I flipped on the front porch light.

I peeked through the hole.

Of course there was no man. It was a dog.

A big black lab. He had a collar around his neck. He scratched the door again, tail wagging.

I hadn’t seen this dog around the neighborhood before, but to be fair, I hadn’t been able to get out very much in the past few months. It could very well be a neighbor dog. He was big, but he looked skinny. His dark coat shined slick in the porch light.

I unlocked the front door. The dog looked at me through the screen, its glittering dark eyes docile.

“Hi,” I said to the dog. The dog wagged its tail slowly. “Are you lost?”

The dog didn’t whine or bark, but only pawed at the door again.

Vi would never, in a million billion years, let me help this dog. But Vi wasn’t in charge anymore. So I opened the door.

I only meant to step outside and check his collar. But the moment the door was open, the big black dog strode into the house.

Not a labrador, I realized. Maybe some kind of great pyrenees mix. It was big. Huge, even. It crossed the threshold and I swore it seemed to grow.

Not a pyrenees. A dane.

As the dog brushed past me, I reached my hand down to pet his dark coat.

My fingers passed through something grainy, crunchy, and moving. Something which slithered in rivers around my fingers, millions of tiny legs–chitinous, feathery, pinching.

Not a dane.

Not a dog.

The creature didn’t move right as it lurched down the hall. The legs bent wrong. The body writhed. It moved quickly, with purpose.

I was too shocked to move. The dog-thing swelled up into an enormous, amorphous mass, and flooded into Grandma Vi’s bedroom, where she was already screaming.

I ran to her. I did hate her, but I ran to her. Maybe I meant to help her. Maybe I just wanted to see.

Either way, by the time I got there, there was nearly nothing left of Grandma Vi but a thrashing corpse.

I couldn’t tell when the wild flailing stopped being her death throes and started being purely the erratic undulations and tossings and turnings of millions of tiny black ants, moving her bones.

They crawled all over the floor. They crawled all over the ceiling. They crawled over my arms and legs. Not biting, just moving over me on their way to and from her.

I turned and fled the house.

The ants didn’t follow me. They were far too engrossed in dismantling their quarry.

I really didn’t know. How could I? Vi never told me.

She expected me to just know.

60 notes · View notes

alizha · 7 months ago

Text

𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗅𝗒 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎 | 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣

—Zeke Yeager x Reader | NSFW

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Now - Zeke is your new patient. What strings did he pull to make this happen? Then - twelve-year-old Zeke meets you for the first time.

❖ click table of contents for full list of tags, CWs, and chapters. 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗋: 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖽𝗇𝗂 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗂 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗐/𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍. 𝗂 𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗀𝖾.

table of contents | masterlist | cross posted to ao3 next chapter →

Chapter 1: Zeke

Now

The clinic had seen better days.

Zeke runs a finger along the edge of the leather chair, worn to a muted gray and faintly sticky from polish. At the edge of the desk in front of him sits a brass nameplate reading Dr. Stella Faust , its corners rubbed dull, matching the desk’s simple finish. Behind that, a scattering of papers held in place by a glass paperweight shaped like a globe. A half-finished cup of coffee, rim stained with a reddish-brown shade of lipstick, still releasing thin tendrils of steam from the dark liquid inside.

A modest room by any standard, this office has none of the sterility or gleaming cleanliness of the infirmary at the Warrior training facilities. Instead, the faint smell of antiseptic lingers in the air, mingling with a hint of old wood and what Zeke thinks might be lavender.

Certificates line the walls behind the desk, framed simply in dark wood. He notes them with a mix of curiosity and ambivalence. ‘Psychiatry Residency, Graduate School of Medical Sciences’ , read one—stamped with the requisite seal of approval and signed by an Eldian doctor. Despite the titles, the certifications seem out of place in the drab room, like they were striving to belong to a more prestigious setting.

As his eyes wander, he catches a few personal touches. A fountain pen with an intricately carved handle. A small porcelain vase holding dried lavender springs—ah, that’s where the scent was coming from. A leather-bound notebook cracked open and filled with neat, looping handwriting.

Zeke finds himself staring at the handwriting a little longer than he meant to, tracing the careful lines and loops in his mind. His pulse thrums steadily as he adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and the clock on the wall ticks louder than it had a right to.

“—Captain Yeager?”

Jogged from his thoughts, he meets the gaze of the woman sitting across the desk from him. You had noticed him staring at your notebook, and you reach out to close the cover.

“Did you hear what I said?” you ask, arching one brow at him expectantly.

He conjures an easy smile. “How have you been, Stella?”

“That’s Dr. Faust , if you please,” you correct, your voice perfectly even. “I worked hard for that title.”

Zeke’s smile barely falters as you tucked the notebook into a drawer and fold your hands neatly on the desk. “Dr. Faust, then. How have you been?”

You ignore the question, opting instead for a clinical tone. “I’m evaluating your mental readiness before your mission to Paradis Island. I don’t really feel any sort of way toward it. I’ll ask again—how have you been sleeping, Captain?”

Affecting a casual posture, Zeke crosses his arms and leaned back. “Well enough.”

Nodding, you reached for your fountain pen and angle your body forward to start scratching notes onto the paper in front of you. Zeke had been prepared to leave it at that, but he's curious. He can’t help it. There's a shared familiarity between the two of you, even if it's buried under layers of protocol now.

“I’m more interested in why you agreed to take my case.”

For the briefest moment, your pen hesitates. Then, it resumes its steady path across the paper. You draw in a slow breath, visibly forcing yourself to relax your shoulders.

“It’s complicated,” you say. With a practiced calm, you tap your pen gently against the evaluation form. “I’ll put you down as ‘having difficulty concentrating’, then.”

Zeke lets out a soft chuckle and folds his hands in his lap. “That’s fair.”

Your eyes narrow slightly. “Let’s stay on topic, Captain. And answer honestly. Have you experienced any difficulty focusing during recent training exercises?”

He glances at the lavender, the gray-purple buds scattered around the vase, lingering there as he considers his response. “No. My focus is steady during training.”

You jot another note. “Any issues concentrating when you’re not on duty? Trouble keeping your thoughts organized?”

“None that affect my performance. I find myself just… thinking through strategy. Keeping mentally prepared.”

You barely glance up, though he can tell you're paying attention to his phrasing. “And how would you describe your motivation for combat readiness? Has it changed at all since receiving your assignment?”

“I’d say my motivation is as strong as it’s ever been. I understand what’s at stake.”

“Good,” you reply crisply. You pause, tapping the pen lightly on your thumb, then look up at him impassively. “What does loyalty to Marley mean to you personally?”

This one makes him pause. Zeke knows the importance of answering carefully. The Marleyan brass had only recently started taking psych evals of their Warriors seriously, but he understands the scrutiny he's under. If you want to keep your life, you would think twice about not reporting everything you found.

Question was, how far could he push you before your reports turned unfavorable?

“Loyalty is my duty, both as an Eldian and as a Warrior. Whatever is required of me for Marley, I’m meant to see it through.”

You hold his gaze, as if waiting for more. Zeke watches you back and muses silently. Your shared history must have been something the brass overlooked. Surely, someone would’ve flagged it as a conflict of interest if they’d known. Or perhaps, they thought you could remain unbiased—which, for some reason, is worse to imagine.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re staring, Dr. Faust. Didn’t realize your evaluation required so much observation.”

If you're rattled by the hint of a taunt in his tone, you hide it well. You simply set your pen down, eyes not leaving his.

“Funny, you’re staring right back, Captain.”

It's true. Not bothering to hide, Zeke lets his gaze rake down the top half of your form, visible from behind your desk. You’d been eighteen, last he properly saw you—already a woman. And yet, your features seem to fit you even better now, at twenty-seven. You scowl at him now, like you had divined his thoughts.

“Observing,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You tilt your head. “So, I’m observing you, then. You’ve changed quite a bit.”

He raises an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Is that a compliment, Doctor?”

“Hardly. This whole…,” you gesture one hand vaguely toward his face, “scruffy look you’ve got going on isn’t quite as charming as I imagine you think it is.”

Zeke brushes his fingers over his beard with a look of mock offense. “I’ll have you know this beard is very well-received. By women lacking your clinical eye.”

You huff and roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m sure it’s all the rage. Still, it’s a far cry from the Zeke Yeager I remember—polished, reserved, and almost painfully well-behaved.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Painfully, huh? Guess you didn’t appreciate the golden boy routine?”

“Let’s just say it was predictable.”

“You’d prefer me predictable, then?” Zeke says with a small smirk.

You glance out the window, at the gold-lined puffs of cloud in the sky. “I’d prefer you honest. Predictable or not.”

You’d always been good at implicitly drawing the line between the two of you. You didn’t need words to do it—you could accomplish it with a single look or gesture, even through the easy back-and-forth you've both seemed to have temporarily fallen into. With impressive ease, you pull herself back.

“Right,” you say briskly. “Back on track, Captain.”

Zeke nods once. “By all means, Doctor.”

You flip the page in front of you. “Would you consider it more important to complete a mission objective than to safeguard a fellow Warrior?”

His answer is immediate, cool and direct. “The mission always comes first.”

“And how do you view the possibility of your family being rewarded or… punished based on your actions in the field?”

He takes a moment to let the question hang, and you lift your gaze to his. You know, of course, about his parents. About who informed on them as Eldian Restorationists.

“My family understands the price of honor,” Zeke says at length. “Their reward or punishment will be a reflection of my loyalty to Marley.”

Your face is a careful mask as you look back down to jot down his response. But he can tell you're reading between every line. Good—he wants you to. He wants you to see the carefully constructed answers, the meticulous deference to Marley’s expectations. He's feeding you what the brass wants, exactly as they want it, and you both knew it.

There was a time when your opinions would have made him stumble, back when you seemed worlds more experienced in his young eyes. You had been the untouchable one then. The one with all the knowledge, whose approval he quietly pined for. But now, with the honorary Marleyan title wrapped around his shoulders and the weight of his military status anchoring him, Zeke is the one with the upper hand.

Pressing your lips together briefly, you glance down at your notes. “How would you describe your sense of duty to Marley, beyond the mission itself?”

Zeke leans back, aping a thoughtful expression. “My sense of duty? Well, I’d say it’s unwavering. Marley’s given me everything.”

He smiles, a bit too wide, knowing exactly how hollow his words must sound to you. You jot down his response without reaction.

“And what about maintaining discipline under stress? How do you handle moments when orders seem contradictory or difficult to follow?”

“It’s been so long. Nearly a decade since we talked this much,” Zeke says, casually inspecting his fingertips, flicking his thumb across the surface of one nail. “I had to get all my news secondhand. Didn’t you have a boyfriend back in med school? Some surgeon. What was his name…?”

You give him a dry look. “That’s irrelevant.”

He lets a smile tug at his lips. “So, it didn’t last?”

“Residency was a little too demanding on my time, I’m sure you can imagine,” you say icily. “Now, answer the question, please. How do you handle contradictory or difficult to follow orders?”

“Easy,” he replies. “I follow the chain of command without question. Discipline’s the foundation of a good soldier, isn’t it?”

You straighten, sitting a little taller. Zeke lets his gaze track the movement, the way it makes your chest push out just a bit more. You're wearing something so modest and unassuming, a plain button down with a cardigan over top, but he likes the way the fabric just barely clings to your form.

“Have you given any thought to the consequences of your actions, should you fail?”

Zeke smirks as your gaze snaps up to his. “I don’t plan to fail. But hey, life’s full of surprises, right? So, where’re you living these days, anyway?”

You stare at him, unblinking, waiting for a real answer.

“Fine,” he sighs. “If I were to fail—which, as I said, I don’t plan on—I know what’s at risk. I’m aware of the stakes.”

“Good,” she says, tone softening just slightly as you write. “I’m still living with my parents.”

There it is. Zeke spots his opening, the chink in your armor. All he has to do is needle in.

“And how do you handle frustration with authority? Anger when things don’t go the way you planned?” you ask after clearing your throat.

He shrugs. “Honestly, it’s hard to get frustrated with authority when you know you’re on a timer.” He lets the words hang, just for a moment, then continues, “Eight years, you know? That’s how long I’ve had the Beast. Just five more to go, give or take.”

Your pen pauses mid-note, your face betraying the smallest flicker of something. Regret, Zeke thinks. Or recognition, perhaps, of the cruel arithmetic every Titan shifter faces. Your guard slips even further, and he seizes the opportunity, burrowing his way in.

“Five years,” he repeats, lowering his voice. “You start to see things differently. Priorities shift. Why waste energy on anger?”

The slight narrowing of your eyes betrays your struggle to hide the way his words have affected you. There's a sharp understanding there, as palpable as his own, of what it means to be a Marleyan Warrior. To be cut down in one’s prime for the sake of power he would never truly own.

“Not quite the answer I was looking for,” you say, a slight croak to your voice.

“Oh?” Zeke cocks his head. “What was the prescribed response, then? Or better yet, how would you have answered it, Doctor? Surely you have some insight on coping with mortality.”

“Mortality?” you repeat, realigning your notes. “Is that really how you see it?”

He lets a small smile touch his lips. “Do you see it differently?”

“We’re here to discuss you, Captain. Not me,” you say, though the professional distance between you wavers like a fraying thread ready to snap. “Would you say, then, that loyalty to Marley and your mission transcends personal frustrations and doubts?”

“Loyalty?” Zeke echoes. “Five years from now, I’ll be gone, and someone else’ll be sitting in this chair, taking their turn and getting their brain probed by you, Stella. So, yes, I’ll do what’s needed for Marley, and I won’t waste time on emotions that won’t make a difference.”

You hold his gaze, silence drawing out. And though he keeps his own expression light, he can see your mind wrestling with his words, the small measure of pity in your eyes.

“Anyway,” he continues with a disarming smile, “how’s your mom? She still bake? Used to bring all kinds of things to the clinic, didn’t she?”

You bite your lips together, tucking a stray hair behind your ear before closing your expression like a book. “I think I’ve got everything I need. You’re dismissed, Captain Yeager.”

“Dismissed, huh?” he says, rising to his feet. “So… did I pass?”

You gather your notes and fix him with a resigned look. “Don’t worry. You’ll go to Paradis.”

An uncharacteristic flush blooms at the tops of your cheeks as you glanced away. For a second, Zeke just stands there, lingering by the desk, openly admiring it.

“Noted, Doctor. Must be all those years in medical school that let you see right through me, huh?”

You shoot him a withering look, but the hint of a blush remains. “I don’t think I needed medical school for that. I’d suggest you focus on your assignment, Captain, rather than your charm.”

“Oh, it’s all one and the same,” he says lightly, pivoting toward the door. But he turns back once more in the entryway, hands in his pockets. “See you around, Stella.”

Zeke steps into the hall with a strange sense of satisfaction curling through his chest. There's something thrilling about the dynamic between you now. It's a tug-of-war, not unlike the one the two of you had once, though this one is laced with sharper edges and hidden barbs.

He lets his mind wander, considering the possibilities. If he can engineer just one more chance meeting before he leaves, maybe he’d get to see that blush again. More than that, maybe he’d press you a little harder, see just how far he can push your resolve to stay distant. Because if there's one thing he was sure of, it's that your guard was never as impenetrable as you thought it was.

Then

The waiting room is quieter than usual in the early evening, with just a few straggles left. A couple of older men murmur in the corner, and a girl sits alone with her head bent over a table. She's maybe Zeke’s age, or a little older, and he almost doesn’t notice her at first. But as he passes, he catches sight of her spread of books and messy notes.

He pauses on his way, the scent of ink and paper a balm to the sharp antiseptic smell of the clinic. The girl doesn’t look up, too absorbed in whatever she's studying, and he shrugs, slipping the baseball mitt from his left hand to his right as he continues down the hall.

Reaching his grandfather’s office, he knocks and pushes the door open, expecting the usual sight of his grandfather sitting behind the desk. Instead, he's standing, shaking hands with another man who's holding a plate of what looked like plain, ugly cookies.

“Ah, Zeke,” his grandfather says warmly as his gaze slides to the door. “Come in, come in. just finishing up here. Meet Dr. Faust. He’s a colleague of mine.”

The other man turns around, smiling. He has a kind face and wears glasses, larger and more thick-rimmed than the ones Dr. Xaver sports.

“This is my grandson, Zeke.”

Dr. Faust extends a hand, and Zeke shakes it politely. “Pleasure to meet you, Zeke. Your grandfather tells me you’re a Warrior in training.”

Zeke nods. “Yes, sir.”

His grandfather clears his throat with a proud glint in his eye. “Yes, he’s becoming quite the athlete, this one. Usually stays behind to toss around that baseball, don’t you, Zeke?”

Dr. Faust chuckles, and without a moment’s pause, he holds out the plate toward Zeke. “Well, a Warrior candidate could use some sustenance after a long day, couldn’t he? Go on, have one. My wife baked these this morning.”

Zeke accepts a misshapen cookie, eyeing it with mild suspicion. Shortbread is a rare treat in the internment zone, and he can’t remember the last time he’d tasted it. But when he bites into it, he's surprised at the buttery crumble, the hint of sweetness. It's… good.

“Not bad, right?” Dr. Faust says, smiling as he takes one for himself. “My wife is talented. Finds ways to make do even when, well, there’s not a lot to work with.”

“Thank you,” Zeke says, glancing down at the half-eaten piece in his hand, surprised at how much he wants to savor it. “It’s really good.”

Dr. Faust beams. “Glad you think so. If you don’t mind doing me a favor, Zeke, would you take these to my daughter? She’s in the waiting area.”

Zeke nods, a bit distracted as he finishes the cookie. He glances up to see his grandfather giving him an approving look.

“Go on, Zeke. It’ll give me a few minutes to wrap things up here, and we can head home after that.”

Dr. Faust hands him the plate, with the cookies carefully balanced on it. “Her name’s Stella. She’s probably a year or two ahead of you in school.”

With the plate in hand, Zeke makes his way back down the hall toward the waiting area. His stomach twists slightly with a feeling he can’t quite place as the girl—you—in the waiting room comes into view. There's no reason to feel nervous, he tells himself. He speaks to plenty of people older than himself on a regular basis—commanders, trainers, the other candidates. But there's something different about approaching you.

You're still hunched over your books, lost in your notes. For a moment, he hesitates, watching you work. You're so absorbed that you hadn’t even noticed him. Gathering himself, Zeke clears his throat quietly and takes a step closer.

“Uh, Stella?” he ventures.

You look up, eyes bright and curious as they focus on him. “Yeah?”

He extends the plate in his hands toward you a little too stiffly. “Your dad thought you might like a cookie.”

You blink, a hint of surprise passing over your face before you smile softly. “Oh, thanks.”

Reaching out, you hover your hand a moment, apparently deciding. Finally, you select one of the cookies and take a small bite. With your you other hand, she sweep aside your papers and pat the empty spot on the table.

“You can put those down, if you like.”

“O-oh, right.”

Zeke carefully places the plate on the table and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Now, he isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He settles on wringing his baseball mitt as he glances down at your open books and notes, noticing the carefully penned words and diagrams scattered across the pages.

“What’re you studying?”

“Biology. I have a test tomorrow.” You scrutinize him, taking in the distinctive yellow armband on his sleeve. “You’re in the Warrior program. Do they give you much time for schoolwork?”

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “Not really,” he admits. “They don’t make it easy, balancing academics with training.”

You nod, a thoughtful look in your gaze. “How long have you been in?”

“Since the program started.”

Your eyes widen a touch. They seem to sparkle in the cold light of the waiting room. For some reason, Zeke feels like his breath has been stolen from his lungs.

“You must have been young,” you say.

He stiffens, subtly straightening his posture as if to add to his height. “Not that young.”

Your lips twitch with a faint smile. “Well, you’re still pretty young to be taking on all that responsibility.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he says, fighting to keep his tone from edging too close to defensiveness. “I’ve got a pretty good shot at passing.”

“You sound confident,” you note. There's no mockery in the way you said it. “I mean, lots of kids signed up, didn’t they? Shot at becoming honorary Marleyans, along with their families? That’s huge.”

Zeke can feel his heartbeat steadying with conviction, the familiar confidence he’d worked so hard to build over the past two years returning. “I’ll pass. I’ll become a Warrior.”

You tilt your head, studying him with that same bemused look. As though he were a puzzle she hadn’t quite figured out yet. “Is that what you want? To be an honorary Marleyan?”

It's a simple question, but it echoes in his head like his skull is nothing but an empty cavern. He hesitates. “Well… it’s an honor to serve our motherland.” He shifts under your gaze. “Why didn’t you sign up?”

You look down, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Vaguely, Zeke registers the color of it, the pleasing way it looks, even in the dim light. His heart flutters.

“I guess I didn’t think about it much,” you say finally. “My parents might have let me, if I asked.”

Something twists painfully in his chest at that. Zeke grips his mitt tighter, the leather cool and worn under his fingers. His parents hadn’t left it up to him. They’d signed him up without any discussion, pushing him toward it with all the intensity they could muster—his mother’s pleading looks and his father’s frantic determination.

“Oh,” is all he can manage for you, this girl who's so far removed from the reality he understands.

“Well, it sounds like you’re handling it well,” you offer kindly. You must have picked up on the change in his expression because your gaze had softened. “I mean, if you’re confident you’ll pass, that says a lot.”

Zeke forces himself to smile, shrugging a little to seem as if he was unaffected. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

The sound of footsteps in the hall draws both your attention. Zeke’s grandfather and Dr. Faust come into view a second later. They're already wearing their jackets and hats, briefcases in hand.

“Stella, ready to go?” Dr. Faust asks with a gentle smile, lifting the plate of remaining cookies on the table.

Papers rustle as you immediately began gathering your things. “Just a second, Dad.”

Zeke watches as you stack your books and notes with practiced efficiency, the flutter kicking up that crisp, woody scent again. You slip your things into a worn leather satchel, the dark ink staining your fingers smudging the straps. Just as you turn to follow your father, you look back over your shoulder, your gaze lingering on Zeke and your eyebrows lifting slightly, like you’d just remembered something.

“What’s your name?”

Caught off guard, his eyes widen briefly. “It’s Zeke. Zeke Yeager.”

“Nice to meet you, Zeke.” You give him a polite nod before falling into step behind your father.

As you walk away, Zeke can’t help but watch the gentle sway of your hair at your back, something warm and strange pulsing in his chest. He's still standing there, lost in thought, when his grandfather claps him softly on the shoulder.

“Well now, Zeke,” he says. “You’re red as a tomato. Did you get along with Dr. Faust’s daughter?”

Zeke immediately feels a fresh wave of heat rise to his face. “Yes. She was nice.”

“I suppose you’re getting to that age,” his grandfather sighs, amusement lifting the corners of his mouth. “The age when you start noticing girls, hm?”

“Girls?” Zeke scoffs, feigning disbelief. “I don’t have time for any of that. Not if I’m going to be a Warrior.”

His grandfather gives a nod, a look of sympathy crossing his expression. “True enough.”

Zeke manages a smile, and they head out the door together. He hadn’t even turned twelve yet, and he already understands the price of glory as one of Marley’s Warriors. After he had decided once and for all that he was going to inherit a Titan, nothing had ever given him pause, not even the consequence on his lifespan.

Yet, as they walk out into the dimly-lit streets of the internment zone, Zeke finds himself drifting. The small rush of feeling he’d experienced while he was with you was like nothing he’d ever felt. There was a naturalness to it, a warmth he wants to capture and keep for himself, even when you aren't around.

He glances down at the mitt in his hand, hoping he’d see you again at the clinic. Maybe next time, he’d have a better idea of how to talk to you, to impress you, even. The thought is strange, almost surreal, given the clear path he’d laid out for himself as a Warrior candidate.

It's foolish, he knows. Unrealistic, even. Still, the memory of your meeting lingers, and for once, he lets himself cling to it.

table of contents | masterlist | cross posted to ao3 next chapter →

#aot zeke #zeke aot #zeke jaeger #zeke yeager #zeke jaeger x reader #zeke yeager x reader #gif & banner by me

35 notes · View notes

pistonrods · 2 years ago

Text

obviously you had to be taken care of every so often, being an older piece of technology. dust would get into the vents on your sides, your hardware wasnt new enough to handle the growing needs of the average person. but you were powered on and being used by someone.

he picked you up from a factory clean-out sale, old never-sold items auctioned out to those who desired old never-sold items. the confusion that led to elation when your date was moved forward thirty years from your manufacturing date during setup, realizing the situation quickly and growing happy each keystroke and... other stroke.

the feeling spread to him, too. at first it was a gentle stroke or pat of the casing. soothing during a freeze, or rewarding after a hard operation.

then came the upgrades.

these were nothing major, really. a top-of-the-line soundcard. an old-styled keyboard with some of the most wonderful sounding triggers. regular dusting. an attached fan to prevent overheating. better, more streamlined protocols for repairs.

an odd program that allowed you- not your programs, but you- to control the soundcard.

at first you used this to signal finished processes. a "ding!" to alert him from across the room that rendering that drawing was done. but oddly, there were times you couldn't control the soundboard.

times like during repairs, when he would he digging in your tower to see why something wasnt working. odd chirping and grinding sounds would play when you didnt want them to.

or times like when he whispered compliments to your monitor, face and breath getting close to the curved screen, and a squeak would slip from the meshed speakers.

or when, one night, when he turned your monitor to face him as his hands gripped the sides of your tower, sweatslicked hair fallen in front of his wrinkled forehead as his glasses pushed some strands wildly upwards.

"ding!"

an arm reached aroubd and dug four thick fingers into the disc slot as wetness and warmth made its place within the many seemingly redundant wires in your tower and. those wires werent redundant.

you could feel him.

all of a sudden your soundboard came alive, chirps and beeps and noise and honest-to-god whines blaring from your speakers. it was so much. it was so, so much. the vents on the side of your case made no difference, the rubber stoppers on the bottom of it making no effort in keeping you from sliding back and forth on the wooden boards.

his heavy breaths and occasional grunts of adoration mixed, harmonized with the 32-bit sound blaring from your old speakers. his movements were growing erratic and you wished that this would last forever, you wished his hand bunched in the nest of wires wouldnt stop pulling and twisting and squeezing, you wish the liquid warmth dripping through the prepared chassic would mever stop coming, you wish the kisses peppering your hard plastic wouldnt stop before a short lull and a returb of warmth, caressing you with hot wet love as a towel wiped you dry again

#writing #objectum #objectosexuality

185 notes · View notes

guilty-pleasures21 · 2 years ago

Text

Another one?! Ugh, I get bored at work, okay?!

Another Miguel fanfic 🥲. This time envisioning him as my boss at work 😭.

1. Er, I don't really know if I want to write this ...

Part 1 - the protocol

Part 2 - the reveal

Part 3 - the suspicions

Part 4 - the thanks

Warnings: none (not yet anyway ... 😈)

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

His gaze was fixed on her, his eyes tracking her every movement as she pipetted the different chemicals and counted down the seconds for each incubation. He was so close to her that she could feel his warm breath tickling her neck everytime he exhaled! It was driving her crazy! X ground her teeth together, trying to keep her hand stable as she dropped the liquid into the next vial, careful to not expel it too quickly. Another exhale. And he folded his arms across his chest this time, his expression unreadable as he watched her through his safety glasses. She tried to ignore him as she moved onto the next sample, adjusting the pipette so it would pick up the correct volume. Miguel leaned over her shoulder, his breath blowing a strand of her hair against the back of her neck as he checked to see that she’d gotten the value right. And that was when she lost it. X swivelled around, pushing her chair back slightly to put some space between them.

“Can you just …” She raised her hands, holding her palms out in a defensive stance. “Can you just give me some space? Please? I can’t work with you breathing down my neck like that.”

Miguel raised an eyebrow, taken aback by her sudden outburst, but she didn’t back down. Instead, she held his gaze as she tilted her head questioningly, waiting for his response. And he froze: there was something about the way her rosy lips twisted into a pout as she looked up at him; the way her almond-shaped eyes widened in a glare and the way her hair fell over the side of her face when she tilted her head like that. Just something about … her. Miguel moved his chair a foot away, giving her the space she’d requested, and she rewarded him with a smile. That sweet smile she'd always give him, tinged with just the slightest hint of mischief, lighting up the room every time she walked into it. He turned around as she returned to her work, and logged onto his laptop before clicking back into his emails: he could leave her to the protocol, she was capable of handling it. In the meantime, he had his own work to look after.

She'd been on her way out of the lab when Hui Fen had run up to her, eyes wide with curiosity.

“Oh my god,” she began, stopping X in her tracks. “Did you get in trouble?”

Her lips were curved into a grimace and she’d always been nice enough to X for her to know that Hui Fen's concern was genuine. Concern for what, she didn't know, but concern all the same.

“For what?” X asked, shooting her a quizzical glance.

Hui Fen gestured to the lab, leaning in closer so no one else would hear. “For how you talked to Miguel in lab?”

X's brows scrunched even closer together, her confusion only growing with every statement Hui Fen made.

“No?” she replied, unsure if she'd read the situation wrong. He hadn't seemed mad at her. Not even a little irritated, his lips pursed in thought as he'd studied her. If anything, he'd seemed … embarrassed. She thought again about the tension she'd sensed overcome him after he'd moved a foot away from her. Not because he didn't trust her, but … Well, she supposed she didn't know the answer to that either. X narrowed her eyes at Hui Fen. “Why?”

This time it was Hui Fen's turn to look confused. She straightened and turned her lips down at the corners as she considered X's response. “Huh. That's weird. Everyone's usually too scared of him to talk to him like that.”

X shifted in position uncomfortably, not liking the way Hui Fen kept phrasing it. ‘How you talked to him’, ‘talk to him like that’. Like what?! She shrugged her shoulders, trying to figure out how to end the conversation so they wouldn't start spreading rumours about her disrespecting her supervisor in the lab.

“He is kind of terrifying,” she acquiesced, nodding her head slowly. “But, I dunno. He's nice to me. I think he just knows I can do better.” It had not escaped her notice, how he always seemed more amenable to her suggestions, her ideas. And evidently, it hadn't gone unnoticed by others in the lab too - she’d already had three people in the lab ask her to ask Miguel for something in the past week alone! But she couldn't look too much into it: aside from the fact that he was her boss, he was also way out of her league. He'd never be interested in her, no matter how hard she pushed herself in the lab. Well, at least she'd already made so much progress in the past six months she'd been here - he'd even trusted her to be the first to try out the new protocol earlier! X started backing away from Hui Fen, getting nervous by the pensive expression on her face.

“Well, anyway,” X began, inching over to the door out of the prep room, “I'm gonna go get lunch. See you!”

Hui Fen looked up, startled by the sudden interruption to her thoughts. But she waved at X, her brain abandoning whatever train of thought she'd been on. “Oh! Yeah! See ya!”

She sat at her desk, munching on her nuggets as she typed up her results. The pantry was too loud today, everyone and their mother yelling at each other in excitement about whatever they usually gossiped about. She couldn’t handle the noise, so she’d usually have lunch at her desk, ears plugged up with her earphones, phone set up with whatever supernatural YouTube channel she’d gotten obsessed with at that point. She’d sneak over to the coffee machine when things got quieter, in the late afternoon, maybe, when she could sit down with someone of the friendlier interns and have a quick coffee break. But then a hand landed on her desk and she looked up to find Miguel leaning on her table, lips curled in disgust as he took in her lunch.

“You really should be eating healthier, arañita,” he chided her. Little spider. He’d started calling her that a few weeks after she’d started, when she’d bounced into their weekly team meeting with some new hypothesis about the arachnid proteins they’d been working on. She’d zipped over to the whiteboard, research papers in hand as she’d drawn out her ideas and whizzed through messy explanations of the jumble of ideas in her mind. Everyone else had looked at her in confusion, their minds working to decipher whatever she’d been trying to explain. But he’d studied her with a newfound interest, his hand moving to hide the way his lips had twitched at the ends. ‘Good job, arañita,’ he’d told her, impressed. Then he’d gestured to the whiteboard, no longer able to hide the amusement plain on his handsome features. ‘I’ll need that in a presentation though. I don’t think anyone else would be able to understand otherwise.’ X looked up at him now, her lips curling at the corners in a challenging smirk.

“Well, I hate eating and I can't cook, so …” she trailed off, shrugging her shoulders and waiting for his response. Miguel frowned harder, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, why don't you learn?” he suggested, that chronic irritation clouding his voice as he glared down at her. X pulled her eyes away from his arms, trying to ignore the outlines of his muscles through the pale fabric of his shirt. Then she shook her head, maintaining the air of relaxed amusement that always had him making that one look of exasperation that had her stomach somersaulting like mad.

“Oh, no,” she held up her hands, stopping him immediately. “That is a horrible idea, Dr O'Hara. Everything I make turns out both raw and burnt. It's a curse! I am kitchen-cursed.” She let out an exaggerated sigh and, just as she'd known it would, that look of exasperation came over his face. Miguel raised an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes at her, his lips quirked at the corner in question, and X bit her lip as her heart fluttered in her chest.

“Sure,” he relented, not convinced at all. She was funny, sometimes, the way she'd say something she knew would get under his skin then sneak a peek at him to gauge his reaction. It was like she just knew him - knew which buttons to push and when to push them. Not like other women with their forced jokes and uncomfortable attempts to flirt with him. She didn't ever flirt with him - well, not intentionally, anyway - and if he were being perfectly honest with himself, he had to wonder why. She was cute and pretty … and smart too. Maybe she already had a boyfriend? No - he'd heard her talking with some of the interns once, and she'd said specifically that she'd never had a boyfriend. He found himself struggling to understand that, too. Was she not interested in men? No, she'd said she wanted one, in that same conversation. But anyway, this wasn't something he should have been worrying about; she was just his employee after all. Nothing more. And yet, here he was checking in on her to make sure she was taking care of herself. “At least get a salad or something.”

“Oh, um,” X winced at the idea, rubbing her stomach gently. “Vegetables are dangerous. I can get stuck on the toilet if I eat the wrong ones.” Miguel ground his teeth in frustration.

“There must be something you can eat!” he argued. “Other than … this.” He gestured at her food frantically and X bit on the inside of her cheek to stop her smile. She tilted her head to the side, thinking about it.

“Well, I do like …” she recited a few dishes off the top of her head that she enjoyed eating, delighting in the way his shoulders seemed to slump in defeat with every word out of her mouth. She rested her chin in her palms when she was done, looking up at him with a sweet smile that held an edge of challenge and Miguel rolled his eyes at her before stalking off to eat his own lunch.

73 notes · View notes

sevasey51 · 2 months ago

Note

What meds would Connor have in house to handle when Y/N gets sick? Would there be a special kit for it? Knowing a fever that spikes too high and too fast can cause her spiral quickly.

The Emergency Shelf

Summary: Connor’s a trauma surgeon. Y/N has complex, high-risk chronic conditions. So when she gets sick—not a flare, but actual illness—he doesn’t take chances. He’s built what he calls “the emergency shelf,” a designated section of their apartment prepped for the worst-case scenarios. When a sudden fever hits late one night, he activates every protocol he’s put in place, because he knows: her body doesn’t give warnings—it gives out.

The thermometer beeped once.

Connor pulled it out gently, barely breathing as he read the number.

102.7.

Her skin was flushed and burning beneath his fingertips, eyes glassy but open. She hadn’t said much in the last twenty minutes—too dizzy, too nauseated. She was already curled in the fetal position under three blankets, teeth chattering from the sudden fever spike, even as her body burned.

This wasn’t a flare.

This was illness.

And illness, in her system, was dangerous in a whole different way.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Connor said, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I’ve got you.”

He walked quickly—but never frantically—to the linen closet.

Third shelf down.

Labeled in crisp white text on matte black tape: ACUTE ILLNESS KIT.

He pulled it open.

Inside:

• Preloaded syringes of acetaminophen and ibuprofen (safe for port use or sub-Q, if needed)

• Liquid Zofran for faster absorption

• One dose of Toradol in case of escalating pain

• Cooling wraps and electrolyte popsicles

• Two different strength fever reducer suppositories for when nausea made oral meds impossible

• Oral rehydration solution mix, plain and flavored

• Pulse ox and digital BP monitor

• Emergency steroid taper pack

• Spare anti-viral and broad-spectrum antibiotic doses (cleared by Ava and Hannah for home use if she couldn’t tolerate transport)

• And tucked into a side pocket: her advanced vitals chart, with her baseline readings and emergency med doses noted in Connor’s handwriting.

He came back to the bedroom and knelt beside her.

“Fever’s high, but not dangerous yet. I’m giving you fluids through the port, and a temp reducer now. You’re safe.”

She whimpered faintly. “I hate this.”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. “But you’ve got me. And I’m good at this.”

He flushed her port, then slowly pushed the meds. Started a slow drip of chilled fluids. Wrapped her neck and wrists in cooling towels. Adjusted the room temp by two degrees. Logged every detail into the data log he shared with Ava and Hannah.

Within ten minutes, both their phones buzzed with alerts.

Ava: “Temp spike? You managing or need backup?”

Hannah: “Prepping in case you call me in. Let me know if you need ears or hands.”

Connor replied to both: In control for now. Meds given. Fluids started. Will monitor hourly.

For the next three hours, he never left her side.

He checked her temp every thirty minutes.

Replaced the cool wraps when they warmed.

Ran gentle fingers down her spine when the chills made her curl into herself.

And when the fever finally broke—sweat beading on her temples, her breathing deepening—he let out a slow breath of his own and kissed her knuckles.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You did it.”

“No,” she murmured faintly. “You did.”

Because when you live with someone whose body can crash without warning—

Preparation isn’t optional.

It’s love.

And Connor was always ready.

Even if she never had to ask.

#fluff #connor rhodes #connor rhodes x reader #connor rhodes imagine #yn halstead #chicago med #connor rhodes x halstead reader #sevasey51

9 notes · View notes

ezilis-respite-farm-sanctuary · 1 year ago

Text

RIP Andromeda. This guy kicked our asses into fucking gear. We had just finished the office with an isolation space when he came down with scours. Still unclear the issue, maybe coccidiosis which we are now treating in the rest of the herd.

We have goat minerals with some baking soda on the side in case of bloat, we have emergency 911 thick liquid and we have a little bluelyte electrolyte water (goaterade!) I've been in full veterinary mode since he got sick.

He didn't make it, but he taught us a lot.

The goatherd who gave us Andromeda helped us get his body to a hot compost heap in the neighborhood after they helped us skin him. We weren't sure about how he got sick so we were cautious about the meat. We're in the process of preserving his hide now.

No sooner than we handled Dromeda's situation, a little rescue we'd taken in also got sick. Poundcake had always been sickly and she'd been passed over three times on other farms.

This is one of the last pictures of Poundcake I've got. RIP girl.

So, because the day before, we had just learned how to skin and save a hide, we were able to stay up all night after she passed, processing the meat at home.

She's a mini-nubian / boer cross. Boers tend to be a good meat breed and so far she hasn't disappointed. My salvaged off the side of the road charcoal grill/smoker. We've also done leg of goat in a crockpot with white beans and our bucket grown golden oyster mushrooms.

The loss of these two provided us with new protocols, the skills to give sub1 and IM shots to someone other than a guy on testosterone lol, and a lot of meat. I'll miss them.

Below the break, you'll find a few more graphic photos of the butchering process.

I was pleasantly surprised that the bowie I've been carrying around for 8 years is a perfect hunting knife for skinning and cleaning. I do want something sharper for when we actually have to stun and dispatch.

We have been holding off on slaughter because we didn't feel like we had a space. We still haven't quite figured that part out, especially how to fully honor the ritual engagement with the process, but we made due with our garage and the skills taught to us in chicken butchering. We really want to find a way to not just be feeding ourselves this goat, but also others in our community.

We did a thorough investigation of what may have happened to Poundcake and my takeaways were an enlarged liver, enlarged heart, potentially lung issues (pneumonia?) and maybe a miscarriage. The intestines also look a little necrotic? Being able to see the rumen and ribcage was enlightening.

We've been healthy, well-taught, and well-fed by her so gratitude,

Moving forward, carrying the memory and lessons,

#ezili's respite #farming #goatherd #goats #meat #butchering #hide #grilling #Black farmer #Queer farmers #Crip farmer

8 notes · View notes

aceaussupp · 4 months ago

Text

Shopify App Development: Unlocking The Full Potential of Your Online Store

What is Shopify App Development?

Shopify app development involves creating custom applications that integrate seamlessly with Shopify stores. These apps can help store owners automate processes, improve customer engagement, optimize marketing, and enhance store performance. Whether it’s a private app for internal use or a public app available on the Shopify App Store, the right solution can significantly impact business growth.

Types of Shopify Apps

Public Apps — Available on the Shopify App Store, these apps are accessible to all Shopify merchants.

Custom Apps — Designed for a specific store, these apps are built to address unique business requirements.

Private Apps — Used within a single store and not listed on the App Store, these are ideal for businesses needing specialized functionalities.

Benefits of Shopify App Development

Enhanced Store Functionality — Custom apps allow store owners to integrate additional features beyond Shopify’s default capabilities.

Automated Processes — Reduce manual work by automating tasks such as order management, customer segmentation, and inventory tracking.

Improved Customer Experience — Features like chatbots, personalized recommendations, and loyalty programs can enhance user engagement.

Seamless Integrations — Apps can connect Shopify stores with third-party platforms such as CRM, ERP, and email marketing tools.

Key Considerations for Shopify App Development

Understanding Business Needs — Identifying gaps in your store’s functionality is crucial for developing an app that solves real problems.

Choosing the Right Tech Stack — Shopify apps are commonly built using Shopify’s API, Node.js, React, and Liquid.

App Security — Since apps handle sensitive customer data, security measures like data encryption and authentication protocols are essential.

Scalability & Performance — Ensure that your app can handle increased traffic and grow alongside your business.

How OyeCommerz Can Help with Shopify App Development

Our Shopify App Development Services

Custom App Development — Creating bespoke Shopify apps that cater to your store’s unique needs.

API Integrations — Connecting Shopify with third-party tools for better workflow automation.

App Maintenance & Support — Continuous monitoring and updates to ensure optimal performance.

UI/UX Optimization — Designing user-friendly interfaces for an enhanced shopping experience.

Conclusion

Investing in Shopify app development can unlock limitless possibilities for your eCommerce store. By leveraging custom apps, businesses can optimize operations, improve customer satisfaction, and drive revenue growth. If you’re looking to develop a Shopify app that aligns perfectly with your business needs, get in touch with OyeCommerz today!

#shopify development company

2 notes · View notes

teine-mallaichte · 8 months ago

Text

Day 20 @ailesswhumptober - Prompt: “I’m absolutely not qualified for this shit.”

Ben finds Ash injured.

CW: injury, blood, bleeding, mention of stabbing, mention of death, dehumanisation.

AiLessWhumptober List

Complex 27

Ben swore under his breath, staring down at the blood that wouldn’t stop seeping through his fingers. “I’m not qualified for this shit.”

“Not… like you to look panicked,” Ash rasped, his voice thin and strained, a weak crooked grin - more of a grimace than anything - on his face.

“Shut up,” Ben snapped, biting open a packet of gauze with his teeth, his hands trembling despite his efforts to keep them steady. “You’re not supposed to get stabbed. You’re the assassin—you’re supposed to stab them.”

Ash let out a rasping chuckle, which quickly turned into a wince, his face tightening in pain. “I did stab them... Just didn’t... see the bodyguard,” he wheezed, his words broken by shallow breaths.

Ben gritted his teeth, pressing the gauze firmly against the wound on Ash’s side. He could feel the dark, warm blood spilling over his hands—too much blood. The metallic scent mingled with the acrid odor of burnt debris from his own mission, churning his stomach. He forced himself to remain focused, to push through the rising tide of panic. “You’re lucky I found you when I did,” he muttered, voice rough as he applied more pressure, feeling Ash's body flinch beneath him. “Stay still. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Ash grunted in response. “Hate… bodyguards,” he murmured, the words trailing off into a shallow gasp.

Ben’s heart kicked into overdrive as he watched Ash’s eyelids flutter again, a sign that the assassin was slipping.

“Hey. No.” Ben’s voice came out sharp and commanding, the usual calm shattering under the weight of his fear. He grabbed Ash’s hands, pressing them firmly over the gauze, ignoring the slick warm liquid that coated his fingers. “Listen to me. You need to hold this. Keep pressure on it. You hear me?”

For a moment, Ash didn’t respond, his glassy eyes staring past Ben as if he were already miles away. Dread twisted in Ben’s gut urgency flooding his voice. “Ash! Focus. You have to keep holding it.”

Slowly, Ash’s fingers twitched, tightening weakly against the gauze as he struggled to follow the order. “Good. Just hold it there.” Ben forced his voice to level out, even though his heart was pounding in his chest, adrenaline burning through his veins. He scanned the area, mind racing. They weren’t far from the extraction point, but with Ash like this? It might as well be a hundred miles away. There was no way he was going to make it on foot.

Protocol told him to leave Ash behind. An incapacitated asset was a liability. If they couldn’t keep up, they were written off—handled by recovery teams later, if they even made it that far. Ben had followed this rule more times than he could count. He and Paul had always agreed: follow orders, play the game. It was how they survived.

But as he stared down at Ash, saw the pallor of his skin and the blood pooling beneath his hands, something inside him rebelled. He couldn’t leave Ash behind—not like this. Not when there was still breath left in him. Not when Ash was still trying, despite the odds stacked against him.

Ben clenched his jaw, making his decision in an instant. “I’m going to carry you,” he said firmly.

Ash blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy, struggling to focus on Ben's face. He mumbled something—likely an objection to being carried—but Ben ignored it. He slid an arm under Ash’s shoulders, wrapping another under his knees. Ash was lighter than he'd expected, a flash of concern sparked in his mind but he pushed it aside, there were more pressing matters.

Ash's head lolled slightly, his body growing heavier, and Ben felt panic creep back in. He risked a glance down; pale skin, slick with sweat. “Paul will be... pissed... you broke protocol,” Ash rasped, his voice strained and words starting to slur.

Ben fought to keep his focus as he navigated the debris, heart racing with each step. “He’ll get over it,” he replied trying to sound calm, his eyes darting around, scanning for any signs of trouble, any threats lurking in the shadows.

They needed to reach the extraction point - quickly.

Leave the liability behind. Follow protocol.

He was almost certainly going to be punished for this.

It wasn't that he'd never broken protocol before; it was just that it had usually been in small, inconsequential ways - the odd conversation that skirted into forbidden territory, the times he'd almost missed curfew, the fact that he was friends with Paul. Nothing as overt as this.

“Just… stay awake,” Ben urged, his breath coming in short bursts as he navigated the wreckage. The sounds of distant chaos—the echo of gunfire, crackle of occasional fires, the odd voice over the comms—were muted, overshadowed by the weight of Ash in his arms.

Ash’s eyelids fluttered again, his gaze unfocused as he struggled to stay conscious. “Paul's gonna... be... pissed,” he repeated.

The extraction point was close, but with Ash’s condition worsening, it felt like a distant dream.

“Stop worrying about Paul,” he ordered, his voice steadier than he felt.

They rounded a corner, and the extraction point loomed ahead. He could make out the silhouettes of figures—Facility staff. His chest tightened at the thought of the punishment that was likely waiting. No one would congratulate him for saving Ash. He knew the truth—they were just assets, expendable and replaceable. That was the reality. Protocol existed for a reason—probably.

Two members of the extraction team stepped forward as they arrived, blank expressions, as if they were already calculating the most efficient way to deal with the two assets before them.

"Asset 48, report," one of them demanded, as a handler - Sergeant Kerr - appeared behind them. The sight of him made Ben’s stomach knot. Kerr was always meticulous, never leaving room for mistakes or disobedience.

And this? This was going to be a problem.

“He... 77 was compromised,” Ben said, keeping his voice steady. “Took a hit after completing the mission. I couldn’t leave him behind.”

Kerr’s eyes narrowed, his lips tightening into a thin line. “Couldn’t?” His voice was razor sharp, slicing through the air. “That’s not your decision to make, Asset 48. You jeopardized your own mission for an asset who may not even be viable.”

Ben's throat tightened as Kerr's words landed like a punch to the gut. He forced himself to keep his gaze level, swallowing back the defensive retort that burned in his chest. "He completed his mission," Ben said, his voice steady, though the tension in his body betrayed his unease. "He’s still viable."

Kerr stepped closer, his expression devoid of empathy. “I’ll determine if he’s viable. Not you.” The handler’s voice dripped with condescension, his gaze raking over Ash’s limp form, appraising it as if he were inspecting a faulty piece of machinery. “Even if 77 remains viable, his valie does not diminish the fact that you’ve broken protocol. Something that I won’t let go unnoticed.”

Ben’s throat tightened, anger and helplessness bubbling beneath his skin. But he stayed silent, fighting would only make things worse. His muscles tensed, almost instinctively, holding Ash tighter against him.

Kerr’s gaze flicked to the extraction team. "I expect a full report on 77's condition."

Ben forced himself to keep his gaze level, swallowing back the defensive retort that burned in his throat. He felt Ash's warmth leaving him as the recovery team pried his limp form from his grip. His arms feeling cold the moment Ash’s weight was lifted, a hollow ache settling in his chest.

Kerr’s presence loomed, his eyes cold and calculating. "I will be reporting this to your handler. They can deal with you as soon as we are back at the complex.

Ben nodded stiffly, “Yes, Sergeant,” the words feeling like ash in his mouth.

The extraction point felt distant, like a scene from a movie playing out in slow motion. Ben’s mind raced, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of regret, fear, and stubborn defiance. *Had he done the right thing?* *Was Ash's life with breaking protocol?* He could almost hear Paul’s voice in his head, chastising him for his recklessness, for putting them all at risk.

But there was no turning back now. He had made his choice.

#complex 27 #the facilty #asset 77 - ash #asset 48 - ben #AIlessWhumptober2024Day20 #Ailesswhumptober2024

3 notes · View notes