#the commander and the civvie

[officeofcommanderfox]

7. You're not as bad as everyone saids you are. (Reader saying to Fox)

22. If you're still wondering who left flowers at your desk I think I'm ready to put your mind at ease. (Reader surprising Fox with flowers.)

I’m excited to see how you would maneuver these into the story.

Thank you so so much for your ask @darkangel4121 and please accept my (@firstofficerwiggles) apology for the delay in the response. Life has been rather crazy for me. Big props to my co-author @imabeautifulbutterfly for keeping the ship running. But now without further ado, we give you...

The Commander & The Civvie, Chapter 6

Previous Chapter | Fic Main

Pairing: Commander Fox x female reader

Rating: T

Warnings: flirting, suggestive talk

Prompts: 7. You're not as bad as everyone says you are. (Reader saying to Fox)

22. If you're still wondering who left flowers at your desk I think I'm ready to put your mind at ease. (Reader surprising Fox with flowers.)

“This is all a big mistake! You dumb clones don’t know who I am, and when you find out, you’ll regret it!” A large man in a cheap suit was making quite the ruckus as Commander Fox marched him down the corridor.

“Get in there and keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you,” Fox snapped as he shoved the criminal into the holding cell. His armor was sporting new blaster marks courtesy of his latest arrest.

“Don’t act so high and mighty, clone boy, my lawyer will have me outta here before breakfast,” the sleazy gangster sneered in Fox’s direction. 

“Another Black Sun lowlife, I presume?” Thorn inquired.

“Yes, and this one is charged with assaulting a Marshall Commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, so he will be going away for quite some time,” Fox announced in a voice loud enough to carry back to the man in question.

A string of rather colorful swearing answered in response.

Fox and his men had been rounding up Black Sun members and their known associates for a couple weeks now. He was determined to find the men responsible for making threats on your life. Unfortunately the slimy underworld dirtbags seemed to have a team of slimy underhanded lawyers at their disposal such that Fox felt lucky if he could get them past arraignment. But charges against a GAR officer were now being taken more seriously thanks to a new bill introduced by Senator Amidala. It often meant baiting these criminals into taking a cheap shot at him, but he felt it was worth it when it meant charges that wouldn’t be easily dismissed. 

As your boss made his way back into your shared office space, you couldn’t hold back a sound of worry,

“Oh no! More blaster scarring? I wish you’d stop making yourself a target, Commander.”

“It’s just a scratch, nothing I can’t fix,” he said with a shrug, although secretly he felt a pleasing warmth in his stomach when you fussed over him. 

You were already hurrying over to him with a fresh cup of caf and a med kit. 

Fox chuckled, “No med kit needed, Starlight, this new armor is reinforced.” 

He took off his helmet and took a deep sip of the caf, humming appreciatively as the warm liquid soothed his throat. When he looked back at you, there was a worried frown on your face and you were shuffling from foot to foot. Setting down his cup with a soft sigh, Fox held out his arms and rotated in a slow spin in front of you.

“Go ahead and look, Starlight, no serious damage, I promise you,” he stated.

You carefully inspected him, eyes darting to examine all the sensitive spots between his armor plating. There was a questionable spot on his side, but upon closer inspection. you realized it was just a loose thread from his black under armor shirt. As you heard Fox clear his throat you looked back up at him, meeting his eyes and realized just how close you were standing to him. You could smell his aftershave mixed with the scent of caf. 

“Do I need to take off my armor or maybe strip down for further inspection?” Fox asked, raising an eyebrow and smirking at you, “Tell me, Starlight, is that your plan? To finally see more of me.”

The thought of Fox stripping off his armor in front of you gave you a jolt and you suddenly felt overly warm. You surprised yourself by how much you did want to see him like that, to know exactly how well-built your commander really was. Your surprise must have shown on your face because Fox stepped a bit closer, giving you a sly little smile,

“You can ask if that’s what you want, I’m not shy,” he teased.

“I- I- n-no, I don’t need that, you look great- I mean you look uninjured,” you babbled at him.

Fox laughed as he stepped away and went back to his caf, “Thanks for checking me out.”

“I wasn’t- it wasn’t like that,” you blurt out, face burning with embarrassment

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Starlight,” he quipped before settling in at his desk.

You were making your way home still thinking about the Commander and his teasing. He had kept it up most of the day, smirking at you across the office and saying flirtatious little things to get a reaction from you, which he managed to do each time. It made you feel good, yet surprised, 

When did I start wanting him to flirt with me? 

This thought was still running through your head as you arrived at your building. There was a beautiful flower and gift shop on the ground floor, and their colorful display window caught your eye. 

“Show someone you care!” a large banner declared as it hung above several beautiful arrangements. There was one in particular, full of red and white blooms in a silver cup, that you were drawn to.

“You have a unique eye.” 

The voice pulled you from your musings, when you saw the florist, a middle aged man with a warm smile, standing at the entrance. 

“I'm sorry?”

“The arrangements. I arranged these for the boys in red. But it's not selling as well as I’d hoped.” 

“The boys in red?” 

“The Coruscant Guard. I was hoping people would purchase it and send it as a thank you for all the work those clones do. Plus I donate the profits to Dex's diner, where a clone can eat for free.” 

The smile on your lips expanded as you listened to his promotion, “That's such a brilliant idea. I work with them and I can tell you, most people don’t realize how hard and how much they work for all of us.” 

“That they do, but somehow, I don't think you were looking at the flowers with every clone in mind. You had someone specific running through your head, didn't you?”

Blood rushed to your face, as he spoke. You prayed he couldn't tell. 

“Um… yes.” You cleared your throat being as professional as you could, “The Marshall Commander personally saved me from an incident so I was thinking of getting him some flowers. Well maybe not just him.” 

“Why don't you come in and we can arrange something special for your savior,” he teased with a smile. 

Two hours later as you sat on your couch in your pjs, you couldn't help but replay the order you submitted to the helpful florist. Maybe it was a mistake to send the bouquet, after all you did send a rather large bouquet to the Commander… well, your Commander, as the florist kept insisting. You wondered if the card was enough or maybe it was too much. Was it all too much? 

Fox stood on the main floor of the Senate building with all his officers and prisoners, the air was filled with tension and anxiousness. Everyone was on edge, as they waited for news from the squad sent to investigate Fox’s office. 

“What's going on?” you asked as you finally made your way through the crowd, once you had been redirected from the Guard building entrance. 

“There you are!” Fox exclaimed in relief. 

“Commander, what's going on?”

He held up his finger as he commed Thorn, once he informed Thorn you were safe, he turned his attention back to you. 

“We're dealing with a possible incendiary device.” 

“Oh my gods.” Your hand moved to cover your mouth, as the shock from what Fox said caused you to open wide. “What happened? Did the Black Sun send a threat? Was it a mailed package? Or did someone leave a suspicious looking bag?”

“No. They're too clever for that. They sent flowers.” Fox reported, making the innocent word sound sinister.

“Eep...” a little yip left your lips as you blinked your eyes a few times trying to register what he just said. “Did you say flowers?”

“Hold on,” Fox held up his hand, as Thorn came from the joint corridor between the Guard building and the Senate building, carrying a rather large bouquet of flowers. As you suspected it was the very same bouquet you had sent to the Commander. 

You swallowed slowly, hoping no one was looking at you and noticing the look of horror on your face as it dawned on you that you were the reason for the evacuation. If the ground would open up and swallow you whole in this moment, that would just be fantastic. Or a heart attack, better yet, a heart attack would be better. They could just bury you with the flowers and no one would be wiser.

Come on, heart. Just start attacking.

“All clear, Commander. There were no incendiary devices, it was just–,” Thorn snorted as his mouth shifted fighting the laughter, “Flowers. Ahem! For you.” He passed Fox the bouquet of flowers and the card. 

Fox felt his face flush beet red, he didn’t know what joker thought this would be a hilarious prank, but the last thing he needed was 500 pairs of eyes watching him and asking a bunch of questions. He straightened up, turned his head and used his Commander voice. “All right. You heard the man. All clear. What are you waiting for?” He ordered his men back upstairs, and led by example, by moving towards the first lift available. It had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact he needed to be alone or avoid the curious glances directed toward him and his flowers. 

As everyone began heading towards the elevators, you remained grounded in your spot, blinking back the tears and shock that you were single-handedly responsible for this debacle, not to mention, the embarrassment of the man you admired in front of his men and what felt like at least half the senate. You closed your eyes praying for sweet death. 

“It's all good, mesh'la.” Thorn chuckled, “I think this is yours.” He passed you the invoice. Your eyes drifted to the piece of flimsi, your eyes focusing on that one spot, the one part that shone as bright as the sun, your name, “It was stuck to the bottom of the bouquet. Don't worry I won't say anything.” Thorn continued to chuckle as he left you standing there really hoping you’d die of embarrassment now.

Fox kept the bouquet on his desk, turning the card in his hand over and over, wondering who in the haran would have sent him flowers.

At first, he imagined it could’ve been Senator Amidala, a sort of, keep-up-the-good-work type of encouragement, or maybe he thought this was just a treat from her, but she had no idea what he was referring to. Then he considered it might have been one of his clone brethren, a vain attempt to try and humiliate him, but they all denied it. Wolffe especially seemed offended at such a childish prank, and Cody wasn't going to let him live it down any time soon. Rex, well he couldn’t stop laughing for a good five minutes.

He had spent a whole day on this and nothing. Not one clue. The card itself held a rather cryptic, albeit bemusing, message. There was no name of the flower shop either on the card nor the flowers themselves, and there had been no record of the delivery, which had led to his original assumption that these flowers were ill-intended. 

“Ahem! Commander” your voice was barely above a whisper, so it was no wonder that Fox didn't react right away. “Commander.” Your voice rang through a little louder this time.

Fox shifted his eyes away from the flowers and focused on you, 

“Oh, Starlight. Sorry. This day has been weird, and my mind is all over the place.” 

He cleared his throat and put the card down, giving you his undivided attention, “Anyway, what can I do for you?” 

You stepped in, closing the door behind you, as you began fidgeting with the hem of your top, “Um, I need to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

You took in a deep breath, closing your eyes briefly wondering if telling him the truth was the right thing to do. Obviously, it was. After the mess you caused this morning, not to mention his own embarrassment, he had a right… no, he deserved to know the truth. 

“Commander, if you're still wondering who left flowers at your desk, I think I'm ready to put your mind at ease.” 

“Sorry, ready to put my mind at ease?”

You nodded, trying to avoid looking into his warm, tender eyes, “Please don't be upset. But it was me.” 

Fox's eyes widened, “You?” 

“You're not as bad as everyone says you are.” 

His eyes went from his Starlight to the card he received with the flowers. There was the message just as she had quoted, word for word. 

A million questions ran through his mind, and yet rather than asking a thing, he started laughing. He laughed so hard tears came to his eyes and his cheeks ached. It was the most enthusiastic laugh you’d heard in a long time, and it was certainly the happiest you’d ever seen your Commander. He held his forehead as his elbow rested on the desk while he shook his head. 

“Starlight, only you could cause an incident on such a colossal scale.”

“I'm sorry. I never imagined–,” 

“Did you mean it?” He cut you off. 

“Sorry?” 

“Did you mean what you wrote?” 

“Every word.” 

He nodded as he stood walking over to you, gently cupping your cheek, “You… you baffle me.” He gently stroked your cheek, the shock and surprise of his actions written all over your face, which only made him smile brighter, “Starlight. Have dinner with me.”

Send Commander Fox an ask and continue the story!

Tag list 1: @boomtowngirl @becks-things @tailorvizsla @catsnkooks @bitchin-beskar

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[the-pixel-lover-extravagant]

Just imagine Captain Fordo, after the battle of Coriscant is assigned to the guard as stated in 2003 canon and the chancellor even bragged to him what an honor it is to have this position only; to figure out the guard and it’s commanders are basically mall cops with authority, encountering his first genuine tweaker. At first he’s taken aback by the belligerent nonsense, then he gets swung at so he tazed the fucker. This just irritates them because their on space bath salts and that only tickled them so he and Grizzor are running for their lives from this phyco smashing windows with their head and the only way they got away was by jumping on a dumpster droid until Fox showed up and coaxed them into the back of an laat by answering their riddle. Mentally Fordo is filling out transfer papers back to the front lines.

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[niccolites]

febrile (or; input vs output)

simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

-

or: Simon is a member of the Night City Police Department and you're a ripper doc. It is his job to catch criminals, but even he can admit, he's taken a different approach for you. CYBERPUNK!AU

TAGS: Dubious Consent, Power Imbalance, Size Kink, Unhealthy Relationships

read here on ao3

Simon’s got a bug in his system that is turning his vision white at the edges when he finally visits you.

Not that he has much of a morality regarding visiting ripperdocs. Sure, they’re criminals and as a member of the NCPD, it is his job to arrest and charge criminal activity, but that was a rigid rule set decades ago. These days, the split between the NCPD and a common gang is that the rules the gang lives by aren’t written into the law. But, allowances are allowed on both sides.

Simon has never cared much to think about it. He sees some other officers have that blank look in their eye after they finish a shift, others who seem to revel in being able to do whatever it is that they want. Simon just does as he’s told. If he’s told to save the woman who survived a cyberpsycho attack then she is tossed over a shoulder and brought to the ambulance. If otherwise, a nod is all he needs to know that there are no witnesses. Finger, gun, trigger. The explosion in the palm of his hand, kicked back and caught. Delivered.

Maybe it has left a screw loose in his head. Not his job to analyse that.

Flouting the law as and when it suits the law is a part of the job. Not one that Simon has much indulged in, he must admit. Any murder, extortion, crime that is involved in the ‘etcetera’ part of his work, has been asked of him. His fellow officers flout the law as and when it suits them. Illegal weapons, killing a perp who gets too mouthy, maybe getting a bit too handsy with a victim. Simon hasn’t been much interested in the ‘benefits’ he can reap with his badge.

However, after a job where the NCPD took down a group of scavengers, Simon’s vision starts getting spotty. He’d had to jack into one of the victims to see if they were still alive. Horrible static, bad channel. They hadn’t been. And seemingly willing to haunt him from the afterlife, leaving a pesky virus in his system.

There are NCPD designated docs that he could go and visit, but the idea of letting one of their starched, freshly pressed hands go worming around in his cyberware makes his skin crawl. Years before his official service, he’d had all his kit installed by a ripperdoc, and he hadn’t had an issue he couldn’t fix himself since.

He spends a few days just trying to deal with it, still able to hit his shots using the noise that all criminals insist on making. He can still mostly see, even a few days in. Maybe not make out features, but people are blurry and morphed shapes that approach him and he puts them down with the same accuracy as before.

It’s not long before his captain pulls him up, though. Forces him to admit the bug, and issues a new command. Sort it out.

Standing in the doorway of your clinic, hidden in his civvies, here he is. Sorting it out.

You’re in the middle of muddling around with some of your equipment, humming to yourself before you must catch sight of him. The blur of your figure jumps, as your face comes into profile. You must be intimidated by the sight of him, something that he registers with a cool type of pleasure. Even not in his uniform and clearly strapped with all of his weapons, he blocks the light coming in from your doorway. You must see the metal of his left arm, nothing human left there. The gas mask that covers half of his face, black and stark against the pale of his skin.

“Hello. How can I help?” you ask, shifting something up your forehead. It distorts ths shape of your head and he realises that they must be massive goggles. Ridiculous, he imagines you must look like the image of the crazy scientist from old stories; you probably have a lab coat on. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your reputation, known as one of the best ripperdocs in Watson, even if you are as cheap as they say.

Ripperdocs are the gray area in Night City. Criminals, yes, but the hassle of actually taking down ripperdocs is more than it’s worth. Not that Simon tends to give a fuck about the politics, or the give and take of crime vs law. He is a bullet, pointed in a direction and shot out.

“I got a bug in my system,” he says, taking another step into your clinic.

You nod, gesture for him to take a seat on your bench. Something out of a dentist’s nightmare, he imagines, but he takes a seat nonetheless. Despite lying down, everything in him is as tense as a straight line. Gaze landed and caught on you, lazy as he watches you drift around your clinic. His vision is filtering your clinic as starkly white, the outline of your light grey. You both may as well be in void, he can only see the outline of objects as they get close to him.

You swing your chair around and pick up a wire. “You cool if I take a look?” you offer, gesturing with the wire. His forearm is already tense with the instinct to catch your hand before you can plug that into the side of his neck. His metal gasmask covers the slot anyway.

A beat, in which you look back at him. He considers making it awkward, telling you no or something. Settles on nodding and watches the way you flounder for a moment when you realise you can’t reach the slot. You’re paused, flatering in the space between the two of you.

“Can you take off your mask?” you ask. Your voice is deliberately light, but he can hear the catch of annoyance underlying your tone. It makes him want to grin, wonders how you look right now, if you’re frowning at him or trying to hide it with a smile.

“No,” he tells you. A beat. You don’t move or attempt to say anything else. Stalemate, when he can’t see how you look. “There’s a catch on the side, you unlatch that to reach the slot.”

You don’t say anything else, and he’s irritated by that. Relying on noise when the other individual doesn’t want to make any noise just leaves him listeless. You reach up, click open a section of his mask and plug in. You turn away, pull what must be a tray towards yourself. You must have plugged him into your laptop, your figure hunched towards it.

You cluck your tongue, goggles shifting across your brow as you gaze at your screen. “This is a nasty one, how’d you catch this?” He decides that’s not relevant and watches you instead. You give him a quick glance, head tilting his way, but decide to shrug off his strange silence. “I’ll just be a moment while I clear it. Seems to have caught onto a lot of your neural sensors, I’m surprised you can still walk.”

His chest doesn’t puff out with pride, but it’s a close thing. You tinker away at it, finally clearing it from his system. The whites that had clouded his vision clears, and he can see you in high definition finally. Can see the pores next to your nose, the frizz around the strap of your goggles as it disappears into your hair. You’re giving him an evaluating look, your eyes intent even as the rest of your body is deliberately loose. You don’t seem to have much chrome on you, thin lines of metal around your eyes, and a scanner on your right palm. He doubts you have much more.

“There we are, good as new,” you tell him, leaning back in your chair with a pleased huff. You give him another long look, but this time he can see the widen and pinprick of your retina. He wonders how he comes up in the scan that you must’ve pulled up the second he was in your doorway. Cop, ex-army, de-commissioned, KIA but here, in the (mostly) flesh. You don’t give any of it away, just shut your laptop and unplug him.

You hadn’t asked for payment upfront, and he imagines just walking out. Wonders if you would scowl at him, if you would expect it, maybe scowl for once. Drop that calm look on your face in exchange for something a bit uglier.

There is a long beat that he draws out to see what you will do, but you only sit patiently. You turn back to your laptop, tapping away on something else now. It’s not fun if you’re not biting, he sends you what he decides must be your standard fee, watches you tilt your head to the side at the chime of money exchanged.

He doesn’t thank you, just gets up and leaves. You didn’t close the latch on the side of his mask, and he considers marching back and making you do it, but decides to save it for another day. He closes it himself for now, and fancies that he can feel the finger print that you left behind on it, evidence.

-

The first warrant he comes back with is legitimate. Cyberpyschos are going mental over the bridge, and they have a faint enough lead that shows some of the cyberware tracing back to yourself. He knocks on your door and watches your face when he presents it to you.

He expects some kind of betrayal, for you to hiss and snap at him. Image of the NCPD, accepting your cyberware one week and raiding your clinic the other.

Instead you stand to the side and watch with him as the other officers dig through your stuff. They’re a bit too enthusiastic, your tray gets flipped over and your bench kicked over to check underneath and it isn’t righted again.

Simon watches you, uncaring that he should be watching his men. You tilt your head back and look up at him, you aren’t half his size but it’s a close thing. He thinks he likes that, watching the top of your spine disappear into your neck just to look at him, the arch of your throat. Traces his eyes over it, tendons and a vulnerable jugular, pushed out for him.

He imagines reaching over and holding his hand over the soft column of your throat. You’ve left it bare, you’d likely barely have any time to start flailing before he’d squeeze with intent and you’d drop, caught in the palm of his hand. If you can sense his thoughts, you don’t give it away, just watch him in return, blinking like a stray cat. Curious but wary.

“You know, Officer Riley, if you wanted to see me again, you didn’t have to bring the official signed document,” you say, gesturing with the hologram that was on the chip he presented to you. It’s slightly flirty, but cautious, like you’re padding around an interrogation room, but you don’t know what he’s done yet.

He doesn’t say anything. You smile back, as if he had responded, and let it lie. Your eyes are sharp, he imagined he could hear the whir as you scanned each of his men as they came in, but your smile and limbs are loose, like you are unaware of everything. Your teeth are blunt, but he imagines the cut of one against the metal of his forearm.

They don’t find anything, and one of his men huffs, giving you a dirty look. You’re asked what you work as and your smile doesn’t slip. “I help those with addiction, this is a place for them to speak, to be treated,” you answer.

“Treated?” one of his men pushes, giving Simon a look. It’s a terrible lie, so bad that Simon reckons they’ll have a hard time proving it’s not true. This is a shitty area, there’s likely 3 gonks in the alleyway outside lying in the gutter, high. You’re also liked enough that they could grab a random off the street and they’d lie for you easily enough.

“Simple brain dances, meditations,” you explain, rolling your head back to give Simon another look. The smile is gone, eyes gone guileless. He squints at it, suspicious and the corner of your mouth gives the faintest twitch. “Honestly, officers, whatever it is that you’re looking for, I’m sure I would not be of any help.”

One of his men steps forward as if to grab you by the arm but Simon barks at him to step back. You haven’t looked away, but you look analysing again, like you had looked at the virus in his system. “We’re done here,” Simon announces and steps back before you can say anything else. Leaves you with your trashed clinic and his warrant on the chip he gave you.

Simon falls asleep later and dreams of you with a scalpel in your hands, and when you cut into him, there is no blood.

-

Simon sees you again, but this time you’re outside. It bristles him, seeing you standing on an open street. Your sides are bare and before he can think about it too much, he’s cut his eyes around every alleyway around you. Making sure that there is no one on the rooftops. Traffic roars past and he grits his teeth. There's been a spike in drive-by shootings, gangs nipping at each other’s heels in a show of territory.

He’s over to you before he can stop himself, a hulking mass at your back, shielding you from the view of the road. He would tell himself that he is doing his duty as an officer, but he has always been a self-interested man, and never cared much to lie to himself. 

You startle as his shadow swallows you up, turning around to blink up at him. You squint at the sight of him. “Officer,” you greet. He grunts in response, which makes you almost roll your eyes.

You turn back to the stall you were standing at, humming over some mods for sale.

The man at the stall is terrified at the introduction of Simon, pale and nodding mindlessly as you start to barter. Simon imagines if he flashes his holster then you would even get the mod for free, a thought which amuses him. You'd likely get even more annoyed, which he does want to see.

As if you can sense his thoughts, you wrap up the exchange quickly and step away, Simon following at your back. “There something you want from me, officer?” You ask, giving him a look over your shoulder. He stares back at you, unyielding.

He’s unsettled suddenly, imagining how often you must be outside of your clinic. He hadn’t thought of it, had only imagined you were constrained in those four walls. The door had shut behind him and he had left you there, a still picture until he would return eventually. Waiting, like a good girl, sat by the door.

“You going home?” he asks you. Tells you.

You give him another look. He wants the crack of your skull in his palms, like the clean split of a watermelon. Wants to parse through your thoughts, wants to have them before they even fully form on your own.

“Yeah, I got what I needed,” you reply. He grunts, follows you until you tilt towards the side streets that lead back to your clinic. Barely any safer, but at least it’s not the open street, and he has his orders to patrol here. He watches you as you disappear around a corner. His gums itch, his tongue flexes in his mouth. He is a wild dog held back with a tattered leash, but he respects it all the same, heads back to his post, but keeps his ear tilted in the direction you went in.

-

He comes back again, and the warrant isn’t even real. He stares you down, wants you to open it, wants the reaction to his baldfaced lie. You take the chip and step aside to let him in. There’s a cut across your brow, purple bruising around it and he can’t look away from it. White in his vision again, he’s starting to suspect you’ve put another virus in his system, infecting him. He blinks and it clears, but the distrust stays like a rotting in his core.

He wants to dig his teeth into the edge of the metal in your palms and peel it up, wants the imprint of his teeth somewhere on you that you couldn’t replace with technology. He thought about you while he fucked his fist in the shower, and you had been beneath him, teary-eyed as he broke you in on his cock. He wants to fuck you until you drop that questioning look in your eye and bare your throat for him again.

“Look at the warrant,” he tells you. You smile up at him, like he is someone charming. He’s not, and he wants the reaction that he has sought out of you.

“Won’t it just say what all of them say?” you point out, leaning back against your desk. “Something that may have something to do with me, and here you are.” He stays silent, stares you down. “Do you want me to be a criminal?”

“You are one,” Simon rebuttals. That’s why he’s here. You need to be, he needs to catch you. He dreamt of chasing you down a network, jumping between wires and static until he caught your hips in his hands and crushed them. His desire for you is entwined with the dichotomy of your identities. He isn’t much interested in forcing you to become a legal law-abiding citizen, as he is pushing the two of you further into the roles that you are in.

“You know what I mean,” you add, pushing off of your desk and stepping towards him. A step away and he reaches his metal hand out, clamps your jaw in his palm. You let him, like you always seem to do, and it’s like pure heroin, lights something up in him.

“Who did this?” he asks, your chin in his palm, his thumb on your eyebrow. Right on the cut. He thinks if it was him that put it there, he might dig in a little, but he wasn’t. It’s hidden from view like this, with the edge of your eyebrow, disappeared behind his ugly, metal thumb.

“Got jumped by some asshole who thought he was hot shit,” you say, easily. The way you say everything, no pit-stop between your brain and your mouth. He wants to dig his tongue into the back of your throat and catch the words there, drink them down.

“Who?” he asks. You shrug and he shakes your jaw like a bad dog. “Who?” he repeats, tone biting. There’s a twitch in your eye at being roughhoused but you don’t step back.

You give a name, raising an eyebrow at him. He vaguely recognises it, some asshole who’s been causing trouble in Watson. Some wannabe gangbanger. He butts his head against yours, too hard to be truly affectionate before he leaves. His gas mask bumps against your cheek, leaves a red mark on your jaw from where his metal fingers dug in.

He shoots the fucker who jumped you, and dumps his body in the river. He watches it float, knowing it’ll be found. When they see the NCPD bullet extracted from his brain, he’ll be dumped back out again. Simon thinks about allowances, thinks about ropes of wire and how they snap. Rubber ripped, coil exposed.

-

He comes to see you again, this time in the middle of the night, wanting to see what you look like when you’ve just woken up. He imagines you’ll be pliant, let him shift you around as he wishes, sleep in your eye and a dream still dragging on your limbs.

You open the door and rub your eyes. Your hair is a little ruffled from your bed, blinking up at him with thick-cottoned eyes. He smiles with teeth beneath his gas mask at how awareness flickers into your eyes before you force a yawn. You’re so quick, which is why it’s always so satisfying to catch you.

“Something I can help with, officer?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Let me in,” he tells you. Demands it of you. It would be so easy to force his way in, but he likes it when you do as he tells you to.

“You got a warrant for that?” you ask, scrubbing a hand over your jaw. Eye him like he’s your patient again, like you’re finding that virus in his system and cutting it out.

“No,” he replies. Watches your expression, the subtle tick of your brow at his bold-faced honesty.

He wonders if you’ll shut the door on him. Make him peel the metal back to get in anyway. He would, he’s saved up his allowances and he plans on cashing them out on you.

You give him another long look before you step to the side and let him in. The door slides shut with a wheeze and a soft thunk.

“Is there something that you would like to say, Officer Riley,” you say, as if it’s a question but your voice doesn’t lilt at the end. He wants to catalogue every one of your reactions and keep them to himself, squirrelled away, out of the sight of anyone else. That is something beyond liking you, beyond attraction. Simon feels possessive of everything about you, like he might cave someone’s skull in if they saw too much of you.

Simon’s never been too much of a talker, he steps forward and crowds you into the desk that has all of your equipment on it. You blink up at him, perfectly still in the way that prey animals are, when they know they’re caught. The rabbit-like flutter of your heart, caught in the palm of his hand as he cups your neck. Thumb against the soft give just beneath your chin. “Simon,” he tells you, although he knows you already must know. He never told you he was Officer Riley, knows that you must have pried your way into whatever confidential information that you could find on your scan of him.

“Well, that doesn’t feel appropriate, Officer Riley,” you point out. Your calm tone is undermined by the kick of your pulse. His fingers flex, held back with a trained restraint. He likes knowing you’re afraid of him, like that you talk back to him anyway. Like watching a kitten yowl at a beast. Cute.

“Simon,” he repeats, bending his head closer to you, A hunch in his shoulders, and his face still isn’t that close to yours.

A quiet beat. “Simon,” you repeat. Your voice is flat, as if you’re trying to take the enjoyment out of it for him. He huffs with something like amusement. He gets his rocks off here, having his way in your clinic, the feel of your skin against the scar tissue of his human hand. You could be scowling or smiling, and he’d like either once he’s got his fingers in your mouth.

He reaches his other hand up and undoes his gas mask, lets it drop off and sets it on the desk next to your hip. Hoists you up, catches the kick of your leg, steps into the cradle of your thighs. “There we go,” he tells you. Your eyes have taken in the exposed section of his face. Ripped skin, some replaced by chrome, most of it left to heal as is. He knows that he is an ugly sight, a hulking, horrible man, hunched over you. He doesn’t care much what you have to say about it.

He ducks his head and looks you in the eye, even playing ground. You glare back at him and he grins with teeth. He hopes that you bite him, seals his mouth over yours. Your tongue is wet and he tilts your head back, wanting to get into your throat. You bite his tongue and he groans, his other hand pushing your hips into his. He grinds into you, huffing into your mouth. He memorises each point of your teeth, sucks your tongue into his mouth and blinks at you with half-closed eyes.

He pulls back with a wet smack, which leaves your cheeks flushed. “Show me your tits,” he tells you, hands flat on your desk, framing your hips. You don’t move, glaring up at him again. He gives you a lazy look, like you’re boring him now. If anything, the hateful look in your eye has made him even harder, if it were possible. “Now.”

“Such a dick,” you mutter to yourself, reaching for the buttons of your pyjama shirt and slipping it off. There’s a fine tremble in your hands before you still them with a calming breath. He was right on his first impression of you - that you barely have any chrome on you. Your skin is soft looking, no harsh metal on your torso. Restricted to the framing of metal around your eyes, your right palm. 

He smooths his metal hand up your side, watches gooseflesh and vellus hair raise in its wake. Cups one of your breasts in his cold metal palm. Almost coos at the sight of your nipple pebbling as his thumb swipes over it. Restrains himself at the last second, but gives into the urge to give you a mean pinch as retribution for your filthy mouth. You jump, a hitch in your breath. He smirks at you, hopes you can see the chip in his canine. “Behave,” he tells you, reaching for the waistband of your bottoms. Maybe once he’s drunk his fill, he can indulge the bite of your mouth, but his skin feels stretched thin over chrome and bone, and he wants what’s his and he wants it readily.

There’s a jump in your abdomen as his hand dwarves your hip, tugging your pyjama bottoms off and tosses them behind him. He spreads your thighs, peaks at the curls the cover your sex. All of the dolls in Night City are clean shaven. He likes this better, likes that you hadn’t been expecting him, and here he is anyway. He makes a mental reminder to bin all of your razors if he gets a chance.

He parts your sex with two fingers, huffing at the sight. So sweet, even with your strange looks and your filthy mouth. Sweet as sugar down here, your hole fluttering, your clit hidden under its hood like it’s shy. His hands are a cage around the span of your waist, squeezes in warning before he thuds to his knees and flattens his tongue against you. You whimper at the contact, manage to strangle the noise just barely. When he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, you yowl, thighs kicking out. He squeezes them in place over his shoulders, barely jostled.

He brings one hand down from your waist, lifts his head, a string of saliva connecting him to your clit. It’s out now, throbbing and awake. He spits on it, watches you flinch with it. Spittle drips down, sits on the slick that has gathered at your hole. He feeds you one finger, groans as he watches your flesh part for him, and feels how hot you are inside. You're tight, he can feel muscle clamp down around his index, clinging to him. “Need to relax, sweetheart, or my cock’s gonna break you,” he tells you. It almost feels like a struggle to even feed you one finger, something that leaves a strangled feeling in his chest.

“Do one,” you reply, eloquently. But you don’t kick him off you or anything, so he just gives you another look. He’s being too indulgent with you, he knows. But, it’s better to let a puppy misbehave so they know what’s not tolerated. Training for another day, he lowers his head and licks at the stretch of your pussy around his finger.

He slides his finger in and out of you, gives you another when your panting starts to hitch up, rubbing his thumb over your clit when you whine at the stretch. You start whining out swears, hips jolting forward and then back again as if you want to come, but don’t want him to give it to you.

His third finger is pushing it, he knows because you start clawing at his scalp, sharp little nails. He groans hot onto your clit, which has you shaking. You’re wet with sweat, he can see the shine of it on the curve of your belly, on the strip of skin between your tits.

He slows the pump of his fingers, idly toying your clit with his tongue. He debates if you should be allowed to come. He doesn’t want you knowing that he finds your pissy words amusing, doesn’t want to overly encourage it. However, you haven’t tried to run, or punch him or anything of that ilk. He knows that you can’t help the kick of your hind legs. He pinned you down with teeth at your throat, and he knows that you’re trying so hard to behave. Besides, sinking his cock into you is already going to be a struggle, nevermind if you aren’t loose and pliant for him.

He curls his fingers, sucks your clit, chasing your orgasm like it’s his last meal. A test in his restraint. He thinks that he wants this more than you do. Your lungs stutter, shaking as your hands cradle his head. You’re muttering to yourself, ‘please’ spilling out of you, again and again. Another mean suck and your shriek, back bowing and he feels the clench of your cunt around his fingers.

He fingers you through it, until you are almost sobbing, trying to crawl away from him, but held in place with his metal hand that has slipped to the small of your back. He gives your clit a kiss, mean and hard just to watch it throb before he gets up off his knees with a groan. He;s getting too old to be kneeling on tile like that. He’ll fuck you in a bed next time, if you’re good.

He slides his fingers out of you, unbuttons his trousers. You stare at him, vaguely out of it as you try to catch your breath. Awareness seems to slam back into you as he fishes his cock out. He’s big, he knows this, but the way your eyes widen like he’s pulled a gun on you has him chuckling to himself. “That’s not going to fit,” you tell him, tone dead.

“Enough flirting,” he tells you, catching your legs over his forearms and dragging you to the edge of your counter.

“You’re deranged,” you snark. He’s amused, watching the anger tugging at your scowl, naked beneath him, and your slick caught in the curls between your legs.

He gives the side of your thigh a firm smack, catching the jump of your body. “Watch that mouth, or I’ll put it to use,” he warns you. You glare up at him, but don’t say anything else. A shame, but he does have to have a firm hand with you.

He takes his cock and grinds it against you, parting your curls to get to the hot, wet flesh beneath. He catches the head of his cock against your clit, slicks himself up, knowing that he’ll need it if the greedy suck of your cunt around his fingers is any indication. He pulls back and lines himself up. He understands what you’re saying, the mushroom shaped head dwarves the small hole that flutters as he presses against it lightly. It’s hard to imagine fitting in there, even given that he has tried to prepare you.

You don’t seem to understand how bullheaded Simon is, though. He hasn’t chased anything that he hasn’t caught yet. A tense of his wide bicep and he starts to push into you, metal hand on the base of his cock, the other lightly rubbing your clit in circles to get you to give way.

There’s a moment where he thinks it might not happen, you’re starting to flush, face shining with sweat. Then there’s a shudder and your cunt parts, splits, sweet fruit halving and the head slips inside. You both groan, his head dropping onto your collar as he pushes further into you. You’re slick, he can feel your cunt sucking at him.

You start to whimper as he pushes further into you. His thumb rubs up and down on your clit, insistent even as if you try to cringe away from him. Shallowly thrusts, keeps pushing until you start to give way. You thump your fist against his chest, the impact bouncing off of chrome. He barely acknowledges it, and continues grinding into you.

He bottoms out, groans into your collarbone. “There we go, there we are, sweet girl,” he tells you. The muscles in your back loosen at the praise, feels tense flesh give out into his metal hand.

He pulls fully out and slams into you, and you whine, hands on his shoulders and clinging. “Simon -” you start, but he shifts both his hands onto the back of your knees and pushes them up to your shoulders. He can see the stretch of your cunt around him like this, the spread of your legs for the monstrous size of him. He feels dizzy with it, can’t stop himself from pulling almost all of the way out of you before slamming inside. His eyes almost roll back into his head, and you sob, nails digging into the flesh that he has on his back.

Your knees over his forearms, he braces his hands on your hips and he starts thrusting into you, pleasure zipping up his spine. Breathy sounds are punched out of you each time his thighs slap into yours. There’s a heat rising in him, catching and flaming.

He lifts his torso up, looks down on you. It’s like he thought, the prick of tears in the corner of your eyes, the swollen spread of your pussy around him. He drops one of your legs in favour of flattening his palm against your throat. Your pulse is fat in his palm. He catches it there, feels the ricochet into the meat of his hand.

You clench down on him and he groans, bares his teeth at you. “You like that, huh?” he asks you, flexing his fingers over the tendons of your neck. Your mouth is open, he can see the pink flash of it in your mouth. You try to shake your head but another hard thrust just sends it rocking back instead, another moan gritting through your teeth again.

He digs into you, flexes the metal in his legs to thrust into you hard and fast. Exertion is an old friend, and he takes it into his stride. He is only starting to pant a little, but you’re running hot and have been for a while.

Pleasure is molten hot at his pelvis, and each time his hips meet yours, cock kissing your cervix, his vision whites out at the sides. The virus that you must have planted in him is deteriorating in his system, leaving him almost mindless. He’s chasing you, still, even with you caught between his body and your desk. Breath like steam pouring out of his mouth, saliva pooling under his tongue as he realises that you’re within reach.

You stare up at him, eyes wide. The vision of your head held up by his hand is enough to finish him off. He slams into you a few more times, groaning deep in his chest while you squeak, spills hotly in you, grinds to draw out the spark that glares in his vision until he stills.

A moment of quiet, air thick with sex and sweat. He drops his head against yours with a thunk as your skulls collide. Feels the buzz of your grunt in your throat with his hand still nestled there.

“You got a bed back there?” he asks, temple against yours.

“Not telling you,” you mutter, sounding wrung-out and gutted. He snorts, scoops you up in his arms, stepping back from your desk, holding you up. Still have a smart mouth. But, he has the patience to get that out of you. Not all of it though, but he won’t tell you that.

-

A week later, a missing report for a ripperdoc in Watson hits Simon’s desk. He shreds it, and it sounds like the chime of an allowance, cashed in.

[alor-ika]

These are all so amazing.

Everytime i read an AU where the war ends and the clones get rights and everything i cant help but wonder how they would dress.

You have these guys who have literally NEVER had to dress themselves. There were always uniforms and they have primarily been around clones and jedi and then the war is over and they just have to start?? Wearing normal clothes??

I feel like this scenario would end in some of the most horrendous outfits the galaxy has ever seen. Just millions of very very badly dressed men.

[machveil]

you may have heard of guard dog coded ghost.

but have you considered... puppy coded reader?

reader who simon pursued by following around initially. wooing them by his strength of personality and charisma alone (likely with a lot of help from soap tbh). so when they're finally a couple that adores each other, the reader ends up following him around as well. much to the surprise of the 141 who likely joked that simon is freaking the poor reader out prior.

if they're both military, it becomes a bit of a joke within the 141 where it's like watching two puppies chase each other's tails. if reader is a civvie, it's with the inclusion of the reader's friends getting worried and thinking that the reader is being harassed and stalked by a man they never saw before (they didn't know that the reader and simon are a thing now).

-- 📖

GuardDog!Simon “Ghost” Riley x Puppy!Reader wow that scratched an itch in brain—

GuardDog!Simon Riley who looks like he could kill a man (cough cough), who has dark brown, dead eyes and a cold gaze. if he’s walking down the pavement people will cross to the other side of the road, he just exudes an aura that threatens ‘I will bite and maul you’. but everyone’s attention is grabbed by you, a sweet, little thing happily tucked against his side. starstruck gaze, pretty eyes glued to him as you hold his rough, calloused hand. it’s like looking at a cute little purebred next to roughed up mutt

GuardDog!Simon Riley who acts like a well trained dog for you. you tell Simon to come, he’ll be by your side in an instant. if you tell Simon to bite? he’ll maul. he listens to his pretty little thing like he’s back on base - he’s always been good about following orders. he’s well trained in public too! he’ll fetch items he thinks you’ll like, buys you pretty little toys and accessories. he’ll sit and stay, arms wrapped around your waist as he pulls you to sit on his lap. the only command he struggles with is ‘off’, it’s just so hard to let go of you, puppy, it’s his job to make sure you’re safe!

GuardDog!Simon Riley who’s presence surrounds you constantly - from draping his jacket over you, making you use his shampoo and body wash, dangling his dog tags around your neck, biting and nipping at your neck to mark you up. his chest rumbles when you wear his clothes, too big on you. Simon treats you like his personal chew toy, a possessive gleam in his eyes when nips at your skin, red marks blooming when he pulls away. if you ever start to wander away from him he’ll gently loop his fingers under the chain of his dog tags, lightly tugging to bring your attention back to him. he’s not mad, puppies get distracted sometimes

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || 141 x Reader

[ Chapter 14 ] || [ Chapter 16 ]

Pairing: 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.9K~ Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: white-knighting johnny.

Chapter 15: Mo leannan

Johnny isn’t stupid. 

Or blind, for that matter.

Since the first time that Ghost went on that ‘date’, he’s noticed how different he’s been acting.

And weeks ago, he caught him and Gaz leaving base together in civvies. Civvies that neither of them would wear to go out for just a pint.

And either way, if they were going out for a pint, they’d have invited him and Price to go with.

No, this was different.

Personal.

And when they came back, and for the days after, he caught them sneaking glances at one another.

They’d exchange this sort of… look, that he couldn’t quite decipher.

But he could swear Ghost was smirking behind that balaclava of his…

And Gaz would bite his tongue before looking away.

It kept happening… The two of them disappearing for the night over the course of a few weeks, and coming back just in time for morning training.

Both of them way too glued to their phones…

His brain filled in the blanks as best as it could… 

And it decided that they were in love, Ghost and Gaz. 

That they were sneaking off base to get together in secret…

That they would text each other sweet nothings…

That they would exchanges glances to signify ‘I love you’s they couldn’t say aloud.

And, well, it was none of his business…

But it kind of stung a bit that he wasn’t trusted with it.

So, he tried probing.

Just a little.

Going up to Gaz during training and sort of nudging at him, poking him to see if he could get a reaction.

He made up some lie about having a date and asking Gaz if he needed help finding one too. The other lad said no with a decisive head shake.

Then, another day, he told him a story he heard of some sergeant, their age, who was caught in a relationship with a superior in their direct chain of command. And he didn’t miss the way Gaz’s eyes darted away before he muttered how stupid those soldiers were.

But Gaz didn’t fess up to anything…

And Soap wasn’t about to go up to Ghost and try the same… 

So he froze his investigation for a moment.

And he picked it up right. now.

As he stands on the next aisle at the corner shop, getting a few snacks to stock up on, he hears Simon’s distinct voice… it seems to be coming from a phone.

Peeking over what does he see if not you, listening to a voice memo with the butt of your phone against your ear, thinking the volume is low enough not to bother anyone else.

And it is low, but Johnny has good hearing, and could recognize his L.T.’s voice anywhere.

The audio is long and you’ve been listening to it for a while and giggling at it occasionally as you put things into your basket that hung from the crook of your elbow.

He’s sure you’ve been listening to the audio for like 4 minutes now, just a constant flow of Simon’s voice into your ear, probably telling you some sort of story.

Now there was something Soap hadn’t considered.

An extra piece of the puzzle…

He recognizes your face from a couple months ago on Tinder, when all four of them matched with you and, jokingly, Johnny said to Price, Gaz and Ghost that he did all the work in getting you with Price…

There was no way Ghost and Gaz were meeting up with you, was there?

Could they just have a new friend? Or… could you be more?

Thinking of approaching you and asking you directly, Johnny only catches on too late that someone is beelining right for you.

A tall, lanky bloke, maybe 6ft1 or 6ft2, with a look like he’s ready to kill someone stops grabs you by the shoulder and spins you around.

Your eyes double in size and recognition. “Who do you think you are?” He asks you.

“What the fuck do you want, Ethan?” You complain as you tap around on your phone, probably pausing the voice memo and sticking your phone in your pocket.

“What do I want?” He asks you with a humorless laugh. “I want to find out why the fuck you’re suddenly having multiple other blokes over at the flat for the whole night.” He replies.

Johnny’s eyebrows raise as he watches the scene from around the corner into the aisle.

“Since when is that any of your business? And how do you even know? Have you been spying on me?” You ask him, taking a step back.

“Spying? No. But multiple times now I’ve gone to your flat to get the rest of my things and when I was in the elevator got surprised by seeing a bloke going in or out of there.” Ethan reveals.

“Oh, piss off, Ethan!” You retort.

“You’re not denying it.” He replies. “That’s it, innit? You decide to break up with me, saying how you “deserve better” and you’re “not happy” and now you’re going around with a bunch of other blokes?” He says and chuckles dryly again.

“Oh, you’re such a knobhead!” You insult him, your feelings slightly bruised. “How dare you, honestly?! I’m not-” You add.

“You selling yourself now, ‘s that it?” He asks mockingly. “There was an old one leaving in the morning a couple months ago… now there’s black one too… And I’m pretty sure I saw one with a mask the other day. Your clients’ too embarrassed to show their faces around you, huh?” He taunts you.

“I’m sure if I went back tomorrow I’d find another bloke slipping out the door, wouldn’t I?” He continues, his words venomous. “I saw three so far, but I’m sure there’s been more. How many, hm?”

“Oh, my, God… You’re disgusting!” You tell him as you take a step back again, your fingers tightening around the handle of your basket. “I’m not selling myself, not that I need to justify anything to you! Now get away from me!”

“What’s wrong, lovie? You’re embarrassed to say that the break-up was all just an excuse for you to go around and be a whore?” He continues taunting you.

Johnny ses the panic in your eyes and before he can think about it, he’s standing behind this ‘Ethan’, who seems to be your ex. 

“They said ‘Get away from me’, I think that’s your cue, mate.” Johnny remarks with disdain dripping from his voice. Ethan turns and looks down to find Johnny. 

Johnny’s a palm shorter than him, at only 5ft10, but he’s built like a brick shithouse. Big, beefy arms, broad shoulders, strong pecs… Not to mention he’s in full military garb, minus the vest and pistols. 

His appearance is more than enough to strike a bit of fear in men taller than him… And Ethan is definitely intimidated.

“This doesn’t concern you. I’m talking to my partner.” Ethan tries defending himself.

“I don’t think so.” Johnny replies and stalks around him to your side. “Way I see it, they’re my partner.” He bluffs easily while snaking his arm around the small of your back.

He prays that you play along, silently hoping that you remember him, if nothing else, from Tinder.

“Yours?” Ethan sputters and glares at the two of you. You look up at Johnny like he’s your saving grace and lean closer to him, as a sign you recognize him and appreciate the help.

“Aye, mine.” Johnny replies with a curt nod. “This is that Ethan you’ve been telling me about, mo leannan?” [my love] Johnny asks you as his hand gently rubs your back.

Looking up at Johnny, you end up nodding in agreement. “Yeah…” You say softly, knowing that you can’t quite lie, because Ethan knows you well enough to pick up on it.

“I figured.” Johnny says as he looks at Ethan again, playing the part of the overprotective boyfriend pretty well.

“All these blokes ye’ve been ‘seeing’ out of their flat are my mates.” He explains and forces a crooked, not-quite-nice smile on his lips. “They were making sure they were alright, safe and sound, while I was overseas.” Johnny gestures to his outfit.

The realization that you are ‘dating’ a serviceman seems to extinguish whatever revolt was inside Ethan’s body immediately, like a candle that has been blown out.

Johnny lies like it’s second nature to him. His pulse and his breath are not wavering… And you can tell, because the way he has you pressed against him, you can hear both.

You finally realize what Simon told you months ago about “lying enough” while on the job and striving for honesty when he’s out of it… These soldiers are trained to lie like it’s nothing.

“And frankly, now that I saw ye accostin’em like this in a public place, I’m glad I didn’t skimp out on asking my mates to keep an eye on m’eudail.” [my darling] Johnny continues. 

“Now, if you don’t mind. We have shopping to do before we go home. So how about ye piss off?” He concludes and smiles politely. “Or else this is gon’ get very ugly.” He adds and his eyebrows shoot up in a silent lunge of a challenge.

Ethan doesn’t seem to quite believe the lies, but at the same time he’s intimidated enough to not try and argue. So he grumbles under his breath, throws his hands up in an exasperated groan and turns on his heel to walk back out of the store.

Only when he’s fully out of sight and Johnny’s sure the coast is clear, does he unwrap his arm from around you. “Ye alright?” He asks you. “Sorry for the sudden manhandling, could tell ye needed a hand… and had to get ‘im away from ye somehow.” He adds, apologetically.

You nod and look away a bit sheepishly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” You say softly as you fix your grip on your shopping basket.  “Just never thought something like this would happen.”

Johnny nods as he looks at you, noticing your face seems extremely stressed, set into a grimace that he does not like. You’re clearly shaken up.

“Hey, it’s alright. He’s gone.” He tells you calmly and taps you lightly on the shoulder. “Do ye need me to walk ye home?” He suggests.

Nodding softly, you force yourself to smile. “I think… I think that’s a good idea.” You end up saying.

Johnny nods as well. “Want me to call Simon and Kyle to meet ye there?” He asks.

Your head snaps up to look at him and your eyes widen. “You… you know?” You ask him in surprise, your breath catching in his throat.

“They’re not as discreet as they wish they were.” Johnny says, once more lying through his teeth. 

He would never admit it took him the better part of two months to realize Simon and Kyle were ‘together’, and that it only clicked they’re together with you right now… the confirmation having come from your stalker-y ex.

“Oh…” You say sheepishly and clear your throat awkwardly.

“It’s alright, I promise.” He assures you. “I’m not judgin in any way. They’re my mates, ye ken?” He adds in a surprisingly gentle tone. “Just tryin’ to help.”

From the stories you’ve heard out of Kyle and Simon, and even Johnny’s own bio on Tinder, you’d never have guessed he was so tender… They always described him as an anger-prone, grown-up class clown… And yet here he is.

Gulping down a breath, you nod. “Yeah… Please.. And I can… I can tell them what happened when we’re home.”

“Alright.” Johnny replies. “Ye wanna finish yer shopping first or d’ye wanna just go?” He asks you carefully.

“I… I’ll just get what I’ve already got in the basket… I want to get out of here…” You add as you shuffle toward the one register counter of the small corner shop.

“Right behind ye.” Johnny remarks as he follows after you.

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

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[officeofcommanderfox]

Hello!

I'd like to suggest Prompt # 46 - You're telling me you really have nowhere better to be than here today?

Thanks!

Carol (@clonethirstingisreal)

p.s. This is a really fun idea, thanks for doing it!

Thanks so much for the ask! Here's Chapter 3 based on your prompt!

The Commander and the Civvie, Chpt. 3

Fic Main | Chpt 2

Pairing: Commander Fox x Female Reader

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Language (although it's Star Wars 'swearing'), mentions of adult activity, dressing sexy, flirting

Prompt 46. “You're telling me you have nowhere better to be than here, today?” 

Prompt 47. “Wow, you really don’t have anyone special in your life at the minute.”

It was the end of the day when Fox walked into his office; you had already left for the day, but made sure to still take care of him by leaving a freshly brewed cup of caf just sitting there on his desk. As he opened the insulated cup, the warm comforting roasted scent filled the air even in his helmet. He took a deep whiff and smiled. Albeit reluctantly. 

He noticed you'd been doing little things to make it easier for him. You always had a cup of caf waiting for him after his meeting with the Chancellor. You even went and bought grounds from the café he visited, so it wasn't that cheap GAR supplied crap. 

There were even treats available at times, although he'd deny ever having them, truth was he hoarded a good amount in the bottom locked drawer. Thorn, Thire and even Hound on occasion would stop by just to get some treats not that he'd ever begrudge his brothers. Mostly. 

Fox took a sip of the perfectly made caf as he read a report when Thorn came in, “We have a problem.” 

He let out a sigh, “Who is it?” 

“Senator Clovis and a civilian he tried to sneak in.” 

Fox let out a frustrated groan, standing as he slipped on his helmet, “What is wrong with that man? Doesn't he see what sort of security breach he could be causing.” 

“Don't think he's thinking with his brain, more like his appendage further south.”

Fox let out a chortle of amusement, “Alright Thorn let's get this over with.”

The club was loud and full of bodies as you danced with the tall handsome stranger, you wanted to ignore the buzzing from your comm, but Fox did say if he commed you were to answer it immediately. 

“Sorry handsome, gotta get this.” 

“What you a cop or something?” The tall stranger chuckled as his hand tightened on your waist.

“Something,” you pulled away motioning to your best friend who was dancing with another stranger you'd be stepping outside. She nodded as you made your way to the entrance. 

You cleared your throat, “Commander?”

“Pita, how long will it take to get you to the office?” 

“Ugh! Really? Pita? Aren't we done with that nickname?” 

“Are you done being a Pita?” 

Your eyes rolled at his question, “Anyway…um…” your eyes scanned your surroundings, “I’m about 20 mins away if I can get a cab, longer if I have to take transit.” 

“Where are you?” Fox frowned as loud music flowed over the comms.

“Club Spike, why?” 

There was silence on the other end for a beat, “I'm getting Coldshock to pick you up. He's patrolling in the area. He'll be there in five minutes.” 

“Woah, what's going on?” 

“Security breach, need you here to help facilitate departments.” 

“Alright… well… I'm not exactly dressed in work appropriate attire.” You looked down at your “going out with the girls” outfit. It was designed to entice but that meant that there was a lot more of your assets on display than you would ever show to the office.

“Don't worry about that, I'll have some extra GAR sweats for you to change into.” 

“Thank you.”

Fox froze, it wasn't that you never said ‘thank you,’ it was just such a rarity to hear it, especially directed to him. 

“Uh… you're welcome. Anyway see you soon, Coldshock will be there in two minutes.” 

True to his word, as soon as you finished sending a text to your group of friends informing them that you needed to go back to work, Coldshock appeared in a speeder.

“Hey Coldshock, guess you're my ride huh?” 

“That's right, gorgeous. Come on.” Coldshock took another look at you, his helmet moving up and down, he froze as he took in your look for the night, “Wow… I mean … really wow.” 

“What?”

“Nothing, just … you look … wow.” 

You let out a quiet chuckle, “yeah. It was my friend's quitting party, so we decided to go kark-em-all sexy for tonight.” 

“I have no idea what that means, but you definitely nailed sexy. Holy kriff, did you nail it.” 

A rush of blood headed to your face, his compliment making you feel special if not a touch embarrassed. The drive to the office was quiet at first, the only sound filling the covered speeder was Coldshock's gloves gripping the steering. 

“So…” Coldshock cut the silence, “do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, furry partner, or something?”

The boisterous laughter flowing out of you, made Coldshock smile, “I take it that's a no?” 

“That's a no.” 

“Wow, you really don’t have anyone special in your life at the minute?”

“Nope.”

“That's good to know.” 

You simply shook your head as you looked out the window, “So do you know what's going on?” 

Coldshock's smile fell at your question, “Best if I let either Commander Thorn or Marshall Commander Fox answer that one, mesh'la.”

“Okay… um what was that word at the end mish-a?” 

“Mesh'la. Mi-shh-la. Mesh'la. And it means “beautiful”.” 

“Aww you're sweet. Thanks.” 

The silence that followed your arrival was felt throughout the whole floor. Fox felt his heart stop when his eyes slowly took in your outfit. The heels, the short skirt, the low cut top, the necklace that sat just perfectly against your cleavage. His mouth went dry as he did his best to understand what he was seeing. 

“Commander?” The question slipped from your lips, breaking the silence that seemed to follow you.

Thorn subtly kicked Fox’s ankle. 

“Yes!” He shook his head, grateful for his helmet, “Yes, uh… right. Pita, you're here.” He fumbled with his datapad, dropping it to the floor, “Good. Um… right. Here are the spare clothes,” Fox threw them into your face, unsure of how he should be reacting. He felt like a shiny, clumsy and clueless, “Go change and come back, we have a lot to get done.”

“Yes sir.”

Thorn simply bit his lip, doing his best to keep himself from laughing as you headed to the bathroom. He looked over to Fox once you were out of ear shot, as soon as he could he started laughing, “What is this, your first day out of the tube?? Never seen a pretty girl before?” His hand rested on his waist as he bent over laughing.

“Shut up.”

“Oh come on, Fox, just admit it, she’s sexy dressed like that.”

Fox’s visor focused on the datapad in his hand, “Just go do what you need to do.”

“What I need to do is harass you,” Thorn laughed, groaning when his eyes fell on your outfit, how was it you made even sweats look good?

“Commander, I’m here. Ready to work, what needs to be done?”

Fox clenched his jaw, how was it that the GAR’s sweats were even more fetching on you, than your clubbing outfit? You looked ready to snuggle up on a couch with a cup of caf, maybe watch a holovid, rest your head on his shoulder… he shook his head, and refocused on the work at hand.

“I need you to coordinate with the CSF (Coruscant Security Force) and the CUP (Coruscant Underworld Police).”

“You got it, but what exactly happened?”

Thorn let out a huff of annoyance, “Senator tried to sneak in his plaything, only to find out she was an assassin sent to eliminate several Senators.”

“Damn. Are all men this stupid? … I’m assuming the Senator’s a man.”

“He is,” Thorn and Fox stated in unison. 

“But what do you expect? All men turn into fools around pretty women, I’m sure you’ve experienced that first hand, mesh’la,” Thorn says to you, bowing and gesturing with his hand in a slightly over-the-top way.

“Thanks, Thorn, you’re too kind,” you reply lightly, giggling a little.

Fox glanced at Thorn, turning on his private comm to speak directly with his brother, “Why are you still here?”

“Where else am I supposed to be?”

“Patrol, resting, literally anywhere else?”

“Hmmm, I’m good here.”

“You're telling me you have nowhere better to be than here, today?”

The only response Thorn gave was a light chuckle, as his helmet focused on you.

Fox let out a frustrated sigh turning to focus on you, the idea that Thorn was standing there watching you and flirting simply irritated him, “Pita, do me a favor, get in touch with Captains Jaller and Gerros see if there's been any increased activity either Underworld or in the above levels. Then coordinate with the Senate Guard to make sure they have enough guards for the Senators both on and off duty. If not we'll need to send some Coruscant Guards to fill in the gaps.” 

You simply nodded as you went to do your work.

“Bye, mesh’la,” Thorn’s voice called after you, then he turned to Fox, “Pita?” he asked.

“Pain in the ass” Fox sat at his desk ignoring his brother's boisterous laughter, “Thorn, go interrogate the assassin, find out exactly why she was here, which Senators exactly were on her list, and who she's working for.”

Thorn nodded, heading out, still laughing loudly. 

Minutes ticked by turning into hours, your hands reaching towards the ceiling, allowing you to stretch, easing out the kinks in your back. Your eyes involuntarily followed Fox, he was on the comms with the Chancellor and the Jedi counsel. He'd been on comms all night, taking the blame for allowing an unauthorized civilian to be close to a Senator. 

The annoyance you felt for him was boiling into anger, how was it Fox's fault? It was the dumbass Senator who decided to get himself a plaything. Was Fox supposed to be telling them who they could and couldn't be friends with? You stood bringing him a cup of caf as soon as he ended the call. 

“Thanks” 

“It's not fair.”

“What's not fair, Pita?” 

“How you're getting blamed for everything. How are you supposed to control who that idiot sees and doesn't see? And isn't it better that the Guards were able to stop her and detain her after she tried to kill them? It's not fair that it all falls on you.” The anger from before unleashed in your tirade, “And if they were that concerned then they should put one of those holier-than-thou Jedis at the gate using their Force or whatever to see who is a liability. Frankly, you all should've let the Senator get hurt a little. Would've served him right.” 

Fox busted out laughing, “Easy, starlight, I appreciate the sentiment, but heavy is the head who wears the crown… or helmet,” his hand motioning to his own helmet. Leaning over he unlocked his drawer and pulled out the metallic box that preserved his treats, opening it, he offered one to you. “Go ahead, you deserve one.” 

The smile etching its way on your face, made Fox's heart quicken.

“Starlight, huh? I like that better than “pita”,” you remark, “Guess this means we're at least amicable?” 

“Yeah, starlight. We're amicable.”

Send Commander Fox a prompt to continue the story

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[gaybirdnerd]

Sleep-Deprived Sarcasm

Ghost is an asshole.

Everyone knows this, everyone thinks this.

Ghost is an asshole in ways that many don't really stop to appreciate. Because he may be an asshole, but he's not mean in a way that actually hurts anyone.

He'll casually call someone a dumbass if they did something stupid. He'll find solace in smacking a particularly close teammate over the head after a dumb stunt (Soap) or berating them until their ears are ringing for saying something stupid in front of a superior officer or someone interrogating them (Gaz).

He's an asshole, but he's loving about it in ways those who aren't close to him don't see.

Can't see.

It's a privilege to be able to hear when Ghost is sarcastic. People will hear stories around the base of him being incredibly sarcastic to Soap or Captain Price.

Soap brags about being able to get him to ask the invisible audience what he's won when Soap himself says something particularly dumb in front of him.

Price once told a funny story that no one actually believes where Ghost, high on the exhaustion of a mission gone sour and 4 days of minimal sleep, asks where he should house the high horse a particularly nasty unnamed superior rode in on during a debrief.

Everyone knows Ghost is an asshole. No one except the 141 sees when that asshole tendency turns soft and pointed and trusting. No one but them knows how deeply gratifying it is to see him dropping his guard and actually saying something disrespectful in front of them, showing a little bit of his Simon Riley attitude and personality rather than the forced blankness that "Ghost" is supposed to personify.

The first time Gaz saw him drop his guard, he cried.

According to Soap anyway.

It had been a time when everyone was getting eyed for their actions, after a stressful but successful mission, by their superiors.

Ghost had obviously had enough of the people breathing down their necks and sending them on pointless missions to "see if [taskforce 141] are good enough to keep on." The entire taskforce was put into question and none of them had gotten a good night's sleep in about a week between all of the debriefs, training, missions, and pointless lectures about being "the face of the military" (bullshit if you ask any one of them, especially the one in the mask) and it was getting on their nerves.

Ghost wasn't one to show his anger much when he was meant to be Ghost unless he deemed that it benefitted them, made the enemies or even allies nervous, and made them listen.

So seeing him overly sarcastic and willing to be directly disrespectful? It's a rite of passage.

It happened in the kitchen at 0300.

Gaz and Soap are shooting the shit getting some coffee to wind down and talking about how horrible the breath of their "borrowed" commander is when Ghost walks in wearing civvies and his usual hard skull balaclava.

"You look tired, Ghost" Gaz decides to comment, seeing the slouch in the taller man's shoulders that he wouldn't normally be able to see.

In the heaviest "no shit" voice he seems to be able to muster, Ghost looks him dead in the eye, holds a pretend microphone to Soap and says "He got the right answer, give the man a prize! What did he win Johnny Boy?"

Between one blink and the next, Soap making a choking noise like a dying cat and proceeding to double over forwards to laugh into his knees, and Gaz staring at Ghost like he had lost his mind, Ghost grabs a mug and starts making tea with more sugar than necessary.

When he walks out, taking the tea with him and cursing the universe for "dumbass shithead commanders," Gaz has to sit down as Soap tries to catch his breath, finally able to control himself now that Ghost isn't there looking like a puppy just woken up from a particularly hard nap despite none of them having gotten sleep in the past 24 hours.

It started happening more frequently from there.

Gaz would say something obvious on particularly hard days, days where they were all exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and sleep but couldn't because of various dealings with higher-ups or responsibilities, and Ghost would hand either Soap or Price a microphone and be sarcastic.

He tries saying the dumbest things he can to start longer speeches, something he was told to do by Soap after finding out that the more sarcastic he gets, the more he rants about the topic. They eventually start timing the rants when he gets into it.

The winner so far is a minute and a half to Soap for getting him to rant about fall and leaves. They don't remember how that started.

In one memorable instance, Price says something stupid. Ghost, being half asleep at the table while they all wait for some superiors to get there for a meeting, hands Gaz the microphone and sasses Price so hard Soap is choking on breath until the first superior enters 10 minutes later.

[shadowmaat]

Drink Caf and Know Things (or not)

Rex sat in the tiny caf shop, nursing a caf long gone cold. His head was too full for the rowdiness of 79's, and alcohol wouldn't mix well with his emotions anyway, even if Skywalker had given them all vouchers. Fives was dead, and they only had this last night to mourn him before they shipped out again in the morning.

The bell above the door jingled and Rex looked up. A familiar face slouched in, nodded at him, and headed for the register. His hands tightened around his mug. Naturally Fox would find him here. The bastard had eyes everywhere.

At least Fox was in his civvies; a ratty, oversized hoodie advertising Mercy's Garage, a pair of equally ratty jeans, and boots he'd probably confiscated from a natborn officer.

Steaming caf in hand, Fox made his way over to Rex's table and sat.

"Captain," he said, sipping his drink and sighing in appreciation.

"Commander," Rex replied, wary.

"Thanks for submitting that report," Fox said. "I know it isn't easy when it's one of your own that turns."

"Yeah." Rex grimaced, then grimaced again as he took a sip of his own stone-cold caf. "First Cody's man, Slick, and now this." He took another sip.

"I'll forward you my own report once I've got everything analyzed."

And that was Fox to a T: meticulous attention to detail, bordering on obsessive, at times. It had only gotten worse on Coruscant, where bureaucracy was the lifeblood of the upper echelons of power.

"Appreciate it." Rex abandoned his mug and rubbed his temples. "I just wish I could understand why. He was a good soldier until this. A little annoying at times, but who isn't?"

Fox snorted. "That way lies madness, Cap. Everyone has a cracking point, and with the way this war is dragging on..." He shrugged.

Anger washed through him, along with the pulsing mantra of Why Fives? that had been a constant in his head since this shitshow had begun.

"And that thing about us having chips in our head." He let out a huff of frustration, and glanced up to see Fox watching him with sharp-eyed attention that immediately disappeared under a veneer of indifference.

"Anything to that?" Fox took another swig of coffee.

Rex frowned at him, not allowing himself to be distracted by the faint whiff of vanilla coming from Fox's mug.

"No," he said, watching the Commander closely. "I had Kix look through all his records. Plenty of scans showing plenty of brain trauma, a couple cases of parasites I don't want to think about, and one trooper who got a piece of shrapnel embedded in his skull, but nothing that looked like a chip."

There was a brief flash of disappointment, there and gone so fast Rex wondered if he imagined it. Fox nodded.

"Right. Well, if you hear any more, my inbox is always open." He stood, gulping down the rest of his vanilla latte and setting the mug on the table. "I'll let you get back to your brooding."

Rex scowled up at him. "I'm not brooding!"

He wasn't. There was a difference between brooding and thinking deeply on something important.

"Whatever you say, Captain Broody."

Rex threw a sugar packet at him as he headed for the door, but the bastard actually caught it.

"Oh, and Rex?" Fox turned back to look at him, all hint of amusement gone. "I am sorry. It's never easy having to put down one of our own."

Rex shrugged, the grief heavy in his chest. "He tried to kill the Chancellor. You had your orders."

"Yeah, I did." The bell jingled as Fox opened the door. "Doesn't mean it was right."

He was gone before Rex could think of a response.

Taking both mugs back to the counter, Rex puzzled over Fox's behavior. Was the Commander acting weird or was he just imagining things? Like Fives had been imagining things. Ugh.

He got a fresh caf, a vanilla latte this time, and headed back to his table to broo- to think. Was this the end of it, or just the beginning?

[eobe]

Commander Thorn at the GAR Goth Night in the 79s clone bar ⚡️🖤🪽✨ Mr. Viking Goth by Name is bathing in his gloriousness ultraviolet spotlight to show off everyone, who couldn’t believe it, that his heterochromia (headcanon for more lore about his name heritage) is an actual lightning bolt ⚡️✨

Have a closer look 😏 The uv light actually highlights it additionally:

Thorn constantly shoves the straps of his mesh top back, that fall over his shoulder, driving his vode and some heated minds 👀 a bit insane with that, but not really noticing it 🙈 I don't know why my brain comes up with things like that, but yeah, I hope you enjoy ☺️

Because of that fumbling he loses the Commander bet (a more fun chaos idea from the inspiring chat with @ladylucksrogue 🫶). The Commander with the worst thematic garment has to pay a round! 😎 The bet came up to make sure that the Commanders (who are always on duty, the majority of them sober and grumpy) don't show up in their regular civvies or even in armor!

More headcanon for fun and because I can: Poor Commander Thorn is an adorable slightly clumsy poser, a badass heavy gunner, favorite victim to Marshall Commander Fox' moods because mostly staying unnervingly positive and in his freetime he indulges a bit very Viking metal handcrafting (listening to Wardruna and Amon Amarth 🎶 ) and made himself cool bracers with his wing brand, a 'Hammer' pendant to honor his weapon and the belt to make a neat own gothic style ✨ Everything to show a bit off not have to pay the round!

As he thought he looks cooler when additionally cutting the mesh top straps, he went to far with his luck and so the Commanders were fast united that it's to Thorn to pay the round. He's not really mad 😊 Busy with collecting glances hihihi 🫠

@ghostymarni 🫶 Vod, still applauding for you hosting a GAR Goth Night, look what you did 🥰

@foxwithadarkside said that all we have needed to make a jump in our art skill was the excuse to draw hot clones in black leather – uhm, ahehe 😅 guilty? 😽 Thank you that my version of Thorn made his way – you know where 👀✨

@lonewolflupe ✨🐺 🦉✨ thank you for screaming, laughing, enjoying, hyping and ever ongoing support in our chat, love 😂 I won't miss it anymore! 🥰

@sunshinesdaydream, @moonlightwarriorqueen, @clonethirstingisreal and @last-of-cheese You sweetheart folks, thank you for playing guess with me and my WIP! 🥰🫶 Here's the full force result 😎

Chaos vode and GAR Goth Night friends 🖤✨ @wings-and-beskargam @eclec-tech @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf @fiveminutetrash @feral-ferrule @nika6q @skellymom @vimse @gargothnightzine

Taglist, at the moment I‘m mostly GOTHed: @bixlasagna @returnofthepineapple @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven @vrycurious @dystopicjumpsuit @chaicilatte @groguandthebadbatch @spaceyjessa @morerandombullshit @freesia-writes

[loveindefinitely]

— ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ THREE OF HEARTS | könig x ghost x reader

✩ PART ONE / ACE OF SPADES

// read on ao3. fic playlist. series masterlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

You can still taste the smoke on your lips.

The flavour of tobacco against your tongue, the spiralling smoke brushing your cheek. A hand in your hair, another between your thighs. One strong chest pressed against your own, the other laid onto the sheets between your legs.

A name spoken against your ear, another whisper muffled by your thighs.

Torture, in its rawest of forms – malicious and cruel and perfect. An agonising taunt of what could be, if not for regulations, rules; decorum and practicality. Right and wrong.

It had been two years since you’d seen the men that starred in your darkest of fantasies. Or, more precisely, six-hundred and thirty-eight days since you’d tasted them, breathed in the strong scent of their cologne.

But you weren’t counting.

You wouldn’t dare.

…Still.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days, you’d spent, longing and hoping and dreaming of another moment. A possibility to be embraced, once more, by them. Even just a minute of their time, to speak, to ask if they felt the same instant connection you had.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days of waiting for this very moment.

“Sergeant, I’m sure you’re at least aware of Colonel König and Lieutenant Ghost,” your Commander speaks, elbows resting on his desk, hands folded underneath his chin as he studies you.

Your mouth is barren of moisture, all of it draining straight to where your clasped hands grow clammy in your lap. Without a word, you nod. Your Commander doesn’t comment, but his eyes narrow, and he releases a short exhale.

The room feels so small, now, his office like your own personal prison cell. Walls a fading beige, the seat beneath you a cracking leather – the stench of old paperwork. It’s a challenge not to cough from the dust.

“And I know that you’re well aware of your upcoming mission. Tomorrow, correct?” He asks, flipping through the stapled stack of paper before him, tongue peaking out to lick over his thumb as he skims over the fineprint. 

You nod once more, eyes nervously darting around the enclosed space. No windows? Seriously?

“You’re a smart woman,” he observes, with a small shrug of his shoulders, eyeing you curiously. “I think you know what I’m implying.”

The contracted mission, which had once been an infiltration, targeted approach, has turned into a long-term undercover one overnight. In fact, you hadn’t been informed of the drastic change until ten minutes ago.

Neither had you been informed of the two soldiers you’d be working with.

You didn’t know if you’d ever regretted something this deeply.

Ever.

“I don’t even know the details, let alone my cover,” you begin, fidgeting with the hem of your civvies tank, “Isn’t this CIA shit, anyways? Why are we –”

“You know damn well why we need you three on this, and not just any agent,” Your Commander raises an unimpressed brow, and you slump further into your chair. He’s right, of course, but it doesn’t mean that it makes you feel any better.

The layers within this mission were nearly impossible to decipher.

A foreign terrorist – one growing a steady following within political groups and extremists – was pulling the strings of one of the most exclusive and profitable trafficking rings in the world. And he was doing it right underneath the public’s noses.

What the cover was hadn’t been known – until this morning.

“Read it yourself,” your Commander breathes exasperatedly, and with that tone, you know it’s not going to be pretty.

Tossing the paper over to your side of the desk, it skids to a soft stop right at the edge.

Flitting your gaze to the front page, your stomach sinks.

There, in printed, full colour – is them. They look unbelievably imposing, with their uniforms, and their masked faces.

You knew what was hidden beneath that black fabric.

The images aren’t the only thing to catch your abrupt attention, however, your focus instantly snatching on the cover stories. The… 

Oh. Fuck.

“Commander –”

He instantly raises a palm, and you bite your tongue, hesitantly reading the text from start to end. It doesn’t make the situation any better; somehow, it makes it worse – tenfold.

You speak before you can stop yourself.

“BDSM?” 

If all the blood has drained from your face, you’d be lucky to die on the spot. Because, truly, you can’t think of a better option. A bullet to the head, maybe? Arsenic in the water sat next to the contract?

Yeah. Anything is better than whatever the fuck you’re supposed to be doing tomorrow.

And for the indefinite future.

“I know that it’s impractical,” he tries to amend, obviously seeing the pure distraught written all over your features, “But it’s our safest bet. There’s thousands – millions of lives on the line here. And I’m sure you’re not alone in your… hesitation, either.”

Chewing at your inner cheek, you nervously skim over the rest of the information, before skidding it back over to your Commander, running a hand down your face.

“I have to pretend,” you inhale, deep, “To be in a kinky throuple.” 

With the men who you’d done ‘kinky throuple’ shit with, went unsaid.

The man across from you winces. But he doesn’t deny it.

“That’s…” He seems to search for words, but comes out empty. He clears his throat. “Yeah. That’s… That’s pretty much. The cover story.”

He sounds highly uncomfortable with the topic at hand, but with sweat beading at the nape of your neck, and your mind reeling, you can’t find it in yourself to have any empathy. At least he didn’t have to infiltrate a fucking sex club.

Flashes of bare skin, scarred jaws, calloused hands –

“When’s the briefing?” 

The words fall from your lips in a breath, your subconscious need for information being set to default while the rest of your brain tries to play catch-up.

Looking down at the bulky, gluttonously gold watch adorning his wrist, your Commander grimaces, before looking back up to you with an apologetic frown. “It’s in five minutes. This morning’s been a rush, sorry, kid.”

Rising from your seat on unsteady legs, you accept your own copy of the papers with shaky hands. If your Commander notices the trembling, he doesn’t comment on it.

They feel heavier than any weight, the words in your hands – the words bearing down on your soul.

Attempting to make sense of it all is a fruitless effort, and trying to reason with it is just as impossible. How could you? When this undercover mission was likely going to be the most difficult one of your life? Was this the universe’s form of a taunt, a punishment?

Your Commander opens the door for you, the soft draft of the hallway allowing you to breathe. 

The stifled, stale air of his office gives way, and your shoulders loosen slightly from the tight posture they were in. Maybe everything will be fine. You won’t be in a fake relationship with the men who you had a relationship with, however short-lived, to stop a world-class terrorist.

…Totally.

Following your Commander tightly behind him, your mind a hurricane of emotions and anxiety, you chew at the inside of your cheek as you rack your thoughts for any sense of direction.

You, inevitably, come up empty.

Boots hitting the linoleum floor swiftly, the sound echoing around the empty space, you release short, calming breaths. Realistically speaking, this wasn’t going to be the cause of your death – you were a professional. You were one of the most skilled coveted ops agents for-hire, and what was this but just another aspect of your job?

Maybe this was exactly what you’d been hoping for – a real, substantial opportunity.

Maybe they’ve both forgotten you.

Your breath hitches at that thought.

It takes root in your mind instantly. What’s making you believe that they care, in the slightest, for you? What makes you think that one night of lustful desires could hold a flame to a proper relationship?

What if you were just that – one night? Nothing more of importance, or worth, to them?

“C’mon, kid,” Your Commander claps a comforting hand onto your shoulder, near dragging you into the briefing room. 

You’re just grateful that he takes your hesitation as an uneasiness about the cover story, and not the men you’ll have to execute it with. …Although, the cover story isn’t exactly a breeze, either, König and Ghost aside.

The air-conditioned meeting room feels like ice against your heated skin, the door closing behind both you and your Commander as he goes to take a seat at the head of the table, beside a woman of whom you haven’t seen before. Her dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, a classic button-up adorning her torso as she flips through the files in front of her. 

When she looks up, she greets your Commander with a short nod, before giving one to you, too.

Other than her, the room is empty – and checking the decade-old clock on the wall, it seems like there’s only a minute until the official starting time.

Choosing the safest bet, a chair to the left of the elongated, wooden table, you sit in the middle. It feels like the best choice – not too close to the Commanders or any Chiefs.

You aren’t new to the concept of briefings; in fact, you’d likely been involved in more than any of the Sergeants you knew. 

Being an expert in the field of undercover and intelligence-based operations means that you attended more meetings than, say, an explosives expert. You have to know the smallest details; discuss them and pick them apart, add your own two cents.

Intelligence is something you pride yourself on – you break most stereotypes about the military, all in one go, and you aren’t ashamed of that. Book smart, progressive; a woman. 

It never fails to make you smile internally, the second-glances from the withering old men that held authority within your ranks. While you deal with the drawbacks every second you work, there are some benefits, you suppose.

The cushioned meeting chair is comfortable where you’re seated, hands folded dutifully in your lap as you await everyone else’s arrival.

Their arrival.

Door creaking open, your heart skips a beat in your chest as you instantly dart your gaze up.

You most definitely do not deflate when you see one of your Lieutenants walk in, instead of a specific one from the Task Force. …Or a six-foot-ten Colonel.

The logistics of this mission must’ve been insane to sort out. While KorTac and SpecGru are formally enemies, and actively enemies, too, there are under-the-table deals and trades made between the two behind closed doors.

This must be a prime example of such a decision.

König and Ghost – from those few hours you’d spent with them – had been amicable. That was putting it lightly; they definitely shared a few secretive, heated looks, even a kiss and a few strokes, too.

Maybe the whole forbidden thing was even more intense, for them? Being so explicitly enemies?

You weren’t exactly sure – still aren’t.

None of it makes any sense, which is a debilitating feeling, for someone who needs to know everything at all times. As best as you can, anyways.

Taking the spot directly in front of you, your Lieutenant gives you a kind smile. You easily reciprocate, even with your anxiety heightened, your thighs squeezing together underneath the shadows of the table.

The overhead lights are a harsh, grating white, and you feel a pounding headache incoming.

Your Commander and the woman seem to be engaging in a quick, near-silent conversation at the head of the table. They swap some papers around, narrow their gazes, raise brows. They’re… hostile, but not unbearably so – amicable enough not to cause a fight.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The world doesn’t stop, time doesn’t freeze, but it’s a close thing with the way your heart stutters in your chest, your breath cutting off with your last inhale.

At the door, fist still raised, deep blue eyes and a sniper hood meet your startled gaze. The man’s eyes soften immediately when they catch onto yours, the greasepaint smeared around them doing nothing to hide the instant spark that lights within them.

He is, you distantly think, as breathtaking as you remembered him to be.

The top of his head is hidden behind the door frame, his height palpable even within the excessively tall roof of the building. His posture allows him to curl into himself, even with his fist still raised.

“We late?”

And –

Oh.

Oh.

König’s unbelievably large frame had taken the spotlight – but that wasn’t to say that the other man was any dimmer in your eyes.

Ghost. True to his name, his voice is a rough drawl, muscle-corded arms folded over his chest as his eyes dart around the room, before landing on…

You.

He doesn’t flinch; his expression doesn’t change in the slightest, actually, not even a hint of recognition in his dusky brown eyes. Just cold indifference, this side of disgruntled.

As if you’ve been frozen in time, you struggle to think, let alone breathe – like your life has been suddenly set to manual. With a quick jerk of a movement, you let your eyes zone out onto the mahogany in front of you.

“Colonel, Lieutenant – just in time,” the woman speaks succinctly, folding one leg over the other as she finally looks away from your Commander to gesture the two in.

Oh, what you wouldn’t give for a moment to process. To figure out the battlefield that is your head, and decide on your next actions – your feelings, too, the emotions of it all.

“Good to see you two haven’t killed each other yet!” Your Commander laughs, jovial, and you want to bang your head onto the table.

“...We are professionals.”

That Austrian accent – the thick, headiness of it, the lilt, the gentle tone – it’s one as familiar as your own. One that’s played in your mind, a constant, the memory of it spoken against your heated skin both a blessing and a curse.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days, it had been.

“At killing.”

You can hear the side-eye, the bored tone, the guttural raspiness reminiscent of his hometown. The sarcasm, too, a core part of the very man’s existence.

Six-hundred and thirty-eight days.

Your Commander is the only person in the room who laughs, clasping his hands together before waving the two over to join at the table. Looking up, for a split second, you nearly deflate when his eyes catch onto yours. The glint in them says everything you need to know.

“Colonel, Lieutenant – let me introduce you to Sergeant Star,” your Commander gestures towards you, and really, would melting into the floor be so bad?

Ghost raises a single brow, and your Lieutenant runs with it.

“Funny story, that,” he starts, and you barely restrain yourself from burying your head in your hands, “First mission. She somehow figures out who was sending the false intel for a case, and dismantled the whole bloody plan, made a new one. She was spot on, too.”

His smile turns shiteating as he leans further back into his chair, folding his hands over his chest. 

“When we got back onto base, Commander over there gave her a gold star for her troubles. Pretty good tradeoff, aye?”

“Leo,” you mutter under your breath, delivering your superior a vicious glare. 

Your Lieutenant – Leo – was more of an annoying older brother than anything else. Since that mission, he’d taken you under his wing; protected you like his own, too. He was a dickhead, but a solid one that you wouldn’t trade for the world.

Even when he pulls shit like this.

“That’s…” König folds into himself further, if that’s at all possible, as he looks to Leo. “Impressive. Very good.”

Ghost doesn’t say a word, instead, moving to sit in the chair next to your Lieutenant, and opposite you. König quickly follows his lead, sitting to your left with rough movements. A man of his size – to be graceful with anything was something of a miracle.

He’d been graceful when his hand had wrapped around your neck –

“Now that everyone’s here,” the woman cuts in, moving to stand and turn on the TV sat between her and your Commander, “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The show is multiple images of the targets, some of the women that have been kidnapped, reports, and other important information. You catalogue it all, playing close attention to the names and circumstances of both the victims and the targets.

It’s going smoothly, until –

“The rules,” the woman whose name you’ve learnt is Laswell speaks, flicking to the next slide. Your stomach drops for a reason other than the two men sat at the table when you read its contents.

Rule One: Explicit consent must be given between pre-established partners, or any new partners if a scene is wished to be done.

Rule Two: Masks must be worn at all times, with safe alternatives if oral play is wish to be done.

Rule Three: A person’s inclination [Dominant, Verse, Submissive] must be displayed on a corresponding armband, which will be supplied at entry.

Rule Four: Access to the basement level may not be granted to anyone, unless a verification and acceptance process has been executed. No exclusions apply.

Rule Five: Submissives with a Dominant(s) must stay within eyesight at all times, unless a collar has been placed onto the Submissive marking ownership.

It feels as though someone’s scrambled the contents of your brain in an attempt to destroy your very essence – and your stomach feels as hollow as your heart as Laswell reads off the words on screen. She doesn’t falter once, unlike you, knuckles whitening against the tight fists forming in your lap.

König, nor Ghost, react outwardly. No hint of hesitance or uneasiness, just taking their professionalism in stride.

You feel like a fool.

“Ghost will be acting as the Dominant, König the Verse, and Star the Submissive,” Laswell states, matter-of-fact, as if your world didn’t start crumbling around you the moment you’d been called into your Commander’s office.

If you were at all in a state to laugh, you’d probably giggle at how suitable the roles are. They all aligned to That Night, and a distant part of you wonders if the three of you were just obvious with your tastes.

“We’ve rented an apartment four blocks away. When you start to inquire about the basement,” she flicks to the next slide once more, “They will follow you. Expect to have a shadow everywhere you go – and one that you don’t know is there, obvious or not.”

“You guys aren’t good people, as of tomorrow,” Your Commander chimes in, leaning forward on the table, looking between both König and Ghost. “You are interested in their side business, and Star,” he looks to you, “Is none the wiser. This only works if you follow through with that – and offer up her services as collateral.”

“You want us to pretend,” König shakes his head, looking dismayed, “To give the Sergeant to the ring?”

Silence.

And, then, “Yes.”

You were made aware, earlier, of course, that your role was going to be slightly different to that of the other two men. But you hadn’t actually expected something so… fucked.

“If this goes sideways –” Ghost speaks up, voice deep and raspy as his eyes narrow, ever so slightly, visible even with his mask, “ –We’re risking ‘er life.”

“I know what I signed up for,” you respond, finding your voice, however weak. “This is no different to a warzone. Just with less explosions, and more…” You struggle to find the words, “Mind games. Tactics are changing from bullets to rumours.”

He doesn’t try to debate it, just merely shrugs indifferently and slides his smooth gaze back over to the two at the front.

As if he hadn’t felt you cum around his cock; heard you moan his name while he left bites over your neck.

Bastard.

The meeting goes on much the same, with more information on the plan as a whole. It makes sense, to you, and you know that you’ll be able to get it done.

König and Ghost, however, that haunting spectre that was them, feel like a road block.

Ghost, from what you had gathered, was either ignoring your existence for some selfish reason, or had completely forgotten about That Night.

You simultaneously find it hard to believe that your time together was that forgettable, and that it was truly something special. It has, after all, been six-hundred and thirty-eight days. Maybe he was used to such intimacy, although you find it hard to believe, it is a possibility.

Then, there’s König – his eyes, the way he almost reeled back at the sight of you, told you enough.

He remembered. Clear as day.

But whether or not he cares at all, or wants to discuss your past at all, is a whole other story. Maybe he just wants to brush it under the rug, forget it ever happened, and move on.

As much as one could move on when pretending to be in a relationship, that is.

“You will head to your apartment by eighteen-hundred, tomorrow night, and get yourselves situated. The club opens at nineteen-hundred, so an hour or so after that is reasonable,” Laswell says, finishing off on the debrief.

Her eyes find all of you.

“There’s a lot riding on this. This isn’t like any mission any of you have executed before – but we have faith that you will execute this with precision and care.”

The words sit in your soul like a reminder; a way of steering you the right direction.

A few words are exchanged after that, some questions, some answers. Leo will be serving as your operator, in charge of communications and resources for the mission. At the back of your mind, you’re grateful for the distant support of your Lieutenant.

It’s when everything’s wrapped up, and you’re falling back as everyone files out of the room, that a presence behind you has you freezing up.

Ghost.

“If you’re not up for the mission, just say so instead of draggin’ us down,” he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear the grain of his low, impatient voice. “This is important, Sergeant, and if your head is elsewhere –”

“You don’t remember?” Your voice comes out tight, impatient, upset. 

His shoulder checks yours as he passes.

“What’s there to remember?”

taglist. @thegreyjoyed @hayleybarnesx

[captainjamster]

Pairing(s): 141 x Reader Warnings: mentions of (pixel) animal death, butchering of a pixelated cow (rip thank u for ur sacrifice) Wordcount: 2.3k Summary: How I think you would get the boys into Minecraft and/or what it would be like playing with them. AO3 Link: Right here! <3

A/N: Hello why yes, this IS my first post in four months despite the mountain of unfinished fics I have xD I will edit any errors out of this later, but I'm making myself post this because I'm tired of avoiding uploading until something feelings perfect lol

We're pretending Mojang is competent so ignore any inaccuracies to how Minecraft actually works <3

Full fic under the cut <3

Price just plays to amuse you, but he becomes competent at the game ridiculously quickly. Yes, he might jokingly be an old man, as his favourite youthful commander would put it – but this ‘old man’ can learn new tricks, and he’s pretty sure some of the technology he works with would make a civvy’s head spin. Though he’s unfamiliar with most video games and consoles, sacrificing his youth for service, that doesn’t mean he hasn’t heard of them or played a game or two. John will admit; he doesn’t see much point in it, but adores the excitement you glow with as you’re adventuring and building.

“Alright, so it’s w, a, s and d to move, right? And then the space is to jump.” Your hands barely stretch over his, guiding them to the keys.

“S’easy enough, I suppose,” he rumbles, giving you that smile that crinkles his eyes. You resist the urge to kiss them as he adjusts his hands over your keyboard, giving the buttons experimental taps and watching how the screen reacts.

“Yep, and then you use the mouse to control your head, look around and stuff.” You nudge it over to him, and he gives it a shake before looking around.

“More bloody blocks. What’s that thing, there?”

You squint, looking closer. “A sheep, don’t worry about it. You want to try moving around?”

Once you’ve taught him the basics, his rapid acclimation to the games and controls are jarring. While he doesn’t become some Minecraft speed-runner pro, he’s an equally capable player in fights and foraging, and your base is ridiculously plentiful. You’re never lacking resources, and although he never mentions it, you can see John bloom with pride from the corner of your eye whenever you praise him for the neatly organised provisions.

You have to laugh at his suspicion of everything – “is this hostile?”, “this one hostile?”, “s’hostile one?” – and the way he takes protecting you seriously, scolding you for not wearing armour and giving you his own until he can make more.

The first time his dog dies, you think it might be over for your Minecraft run. He goes silent, aggressively hitting the keys as he slaughters the mobs around you, only speaking up when the area is clear. “I didn’t know that would happen,” he mutters, picking up the dropped loot as you make a sympathetic noise. When you log on the next time, waiting for John to come back with snacks from the corner, you don’t mention the small fence with a sign reading ‘Price Jr’ tucked into the oak trees at the edge of a pond – but the next time you check it, there’s another daisy swaying in the wind next to yours.

-----

Gaz knows what Minecraft is AND he’s played it – you’ve even played it together before. This boy is a gamer, and he’s down for a night of co-op couch games and take away with a cosy blanket if you are too.

Though he tries his hardest not to let it show around you, Kyle is aggressively driven in becoming competent, and that includes in video games. You never have to worry about dying, although it becomes a little frustrating when his experience level is more than triple yours – but you can’t even stay frustrated, you learn, as he unfalteringly drops his items and starts building a dirt stack that he jumps from, exploding into clouds and XP that floats towards you with a light, twinkling chiming. When you scold him for doing something so unnecessary, he gives you a kicked puppy look over his shoulder, pouting up at you. “I didn’t want you to wait for me to make a mob farm!”

Unlike Price, this man IS a Minecraft pro – he’s pulling out the water bucket to save you from falling, using beds to fight hostile mobs in the underworlds, zooming around with fireworks and an elytra to find that rare, specific coat of cat you’ve been running across the map looking for. You’re pretty sure that he could’ve beat the Enderdragon twice as fast if you weren’t there, but he still insists you were an equal champion of the fight as he proudly places the dragon head on your trophy wall.

Gaz is always prepared when the 6-month Minecraft fever hits and you make a new server. He’s sending you pinterest links of cute house ideas, making comments about adding another coop for the chickens and a pond for turtles. Hell, he’ll build them with, or even for you, if you want him to.

Playing with him can sometimes be similar to one of those youtube tutorials that cut back to a clip after some ‘offscreen building’ and they’re standing in front six life-scale cathedrals and a replication of Mt Everest – each time you log back on, you swear he’s expanded your base by another chunk, and you can’t even be mad you didn’t get to do anything because your world looks GOOD, and Gaz makes damn sure of it.

He has just about everything you can think of, and if not? There’s a sign next to his bed for you to note anything missing. Your main base is situated within a town of villagers with minecart roads and furnished houses, bakeries, animal centres, banner and dye stores – hell, he’s even built a zoo and an aquarium for the animals you can’t tame. All of your pets have names that he refers to fondly, each with their own little houses in a miniature version of the village. Despite the effort he puts into housing them, Gaz is a menace to the villagers – bad deal? Executed, or imprisoned at best. Sometimes logging onto for a session turns into a dramatic medieval roleplay as you dutifully play the executioner, triggering the trapdoor to give way to the pool of lava while Gaz finishes dramatically reciting the villagers’ crimes from a book - gives the ones that get to live names like ‘village dunce’ and ‘emerald hoarder’.

When you do build by yourself, he’s your project advisor throughout the process, patiently supplying the materials and helping you with the details. “Babe, this doesn’t seem right,” you grumble, head in your hands, “can you please come look?”

He’s quick to slide his chair across to yours, leaning on the sides. “This one,” he announces after a quick scan. “You added an extra block.”

You recount again, letting out a groan as you start breaking the blocks, and Gaz dutifully rolls back to help you. He’s your partner in crime, complicit in indulging your abandonment of any appropriate sleep schedule, staying up until he calls out your name to find you asleep, drooling on the keyboard.

-----

Soap does not give a shit until you mod the fuck out of it.

Yes, he knows what Minecraft is, thank y’very much bonnie, but he just doesn’t care for games that much. Like Price, his youth was spent either trying to get into the military, or actually being in it. The only games he’s entertained are his small selection of first-person shooters he plays occasionally off deployment that you can never beat him in. The topic first comes up is over dinner after a call with Johnny’s family, as he’s grumbling between bites.

“My sisters weans play all sorts ‘o stupid games, bloody bite my head off if I call ‘em the wrong thing – Minecraft, Roblox, aren’t they all the same?”

“Aren’t all shooter games the same, by that assumption?” You point out to his distaste, and he makes a face at you, reaching over the table to steal a bite of your food.

The next day, you pull up Minecraft for him to properly check out. Johnny isn’t particularly enraptured by the charm of the game, but he perks up when you mention the redstone mechanics. “So, it’s really just all block-y? And ye smack things wit’ yer hand?” He frowns, leaning against the back of your chair.

“That’s one part, yeah. But you run around and gather resources, by mining and stuff, so you can craft and build better things to survive – you know – Mine, craft. Minecraft.”

Johnny scoffs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “Y’think I’m daft, now? Taken too many knocks to the head, aye?”

“Let go of me, you’re going to get me killed!” You squawk, and he lets you struggle for a moment before he kisses the top of your head and releases it, wandering into the kitchen for what you assume is a snack, knowing Johnny.

The next time he takes interest, you’re still up when he stumbles in blearily, rubbing his eyes. “Bonnie? Yer not really still playin’ this, are ye? Y’haven’t even slept?”

“I was going to sleep soon,” you huff, turning back. “I just need to get a few more things and go back home.”

There’s an incredulous noise amongst footsteps over your shoulder, and his voice is suddenly a lot closer in your ear. “Soon? S’five in’ the morn’ bon, are ye just gon’ sleep the day away?’

You pause the game, spinning the chair around to meet him with a glare. “Why are you up this early?”

“International meeting, don’t go changin’ the subject.” He spins you back around despite your protests, leaning back upon your chair once again and peering at the screen. “Cannae see what yer enjoyin’ about this.”

“Wh – I mean, it’s not like last time. This time, I’ve downloaded these files that modify the games contents, and there’s way more crazy shit. You can mod it so much it’s like a new game.”

Johnny makes a noise of interest, dropping down to settle against your shoulders. “Really now?”

“Yeah, like look at this. I’ve got a gun in the game.”

A shotgun appears in your hand as you scroll to the hotbar tab, and you shoot a shell into the ground, listening as Johnny clicks in appreciation, surprisingly satisfied after his scrutinising. “Alright, show me ‘er properly.”

He hovers over the chair for a few more minutes, taking in your overview of the mods. “Oh, and this one! Hang on, look.” You hit a cow, and Johnny watches as it falls to the floor. Grabbing the body, you drag it over to a pixelated hook, and show him how you break the carcass down through the stages, collecting parts down to the bones.

He makes a noise of interest. “Si would like that. Can ye play with other people?”

You spin around to give him an excited grin, feeling the sleepiness retreat with your rapidly building enthusiasm. “Why, you want to join?”

Johnny scoffs, but there’s no hiding how his eyes gleam as a smile tugs at his lips to mirror yours. “Only after I finish the meetin’, and y’get some decent fuckin’ rest.”

-----

Ghost doesn’t care until Soap asks him to play.

When you originally ask him, it’s a late evening, and he’s curled up on the bed with a book as you deliver the question. There’s a pause in the turning of pages, and you get the usual dead-eyed stare when you say something he thinks is stupid over the edge of his book. ‘Y’want me to play a kid’s game?”

You give him your own scrutinizing look back, before turning back to the screen. “It’s not a kid’s game, Simon. Video games aren’t just for kids.”

He doesn’t press the topic any further, but you know his mind is often unchanged - so it’s a nice surprise when he brings it back up again a month or so later over the quiet chatter of some foreign film he’s watching, stirring you to look up from the words of your book.

“Oi, what’s that game y’were talkin’ about? Bloody… Mineshaft?”

You think Simon knows perfectly well what the game is called, but you humour him, pulling the blanket down slightly to look at him. “Minecraft?”

He snorts, leaning back into the armchair. “Yeah, s’one. Johnny’s bird got ‘im into it, won’t stop yappin’ ‘bout it now.”

You hold your breath, doing your best impression of nonchalance, directing your gaze back to the book. “Oh, yeah? That’s nice, sounds like he’s excited about it.”

Simon gives a non-committal grunt, but you can tell his focus is beyond the screen he’s looking towards. “Asked me t’play it with ‘im, bloody bastard. Said ‘e’d paid for a server or some shite.”

Excitement explodes in the back of your mind as you mentally praise your husband’s co-worker, thanking him for his influence as you steady your tone. “Well, why don’t you?”

He snorts with a cross of his arms, holding the remote against his chest. “Don’t know how to do all that rubbish.”

You close the book, sitting up and waving off his statement assuredly. “I have it installed already, you don’t have to do anything – oh, but can you ask him if he’s playing with mods?”

He’s not impressed with the request, frown deepening. “What, ‘m I your personal messenger now?”

But you’re onto him already, guiding the topic back on track. “Alright,” you give him a dry look, “give me his number then.”

The show pauses, and Simon looks back at you. It takes a moment, but you know you’ve won with a roll of his eyes, grumbling under his breath as he pulls his phone out and passes it to you after another message comes through.

>> Bonnie got me a whole folder of mods. Liek a whole nother game. Yer gonna play minecraft with me?

“So what?”

“Okay, well that’s easy to set up.” You pass the phone back to him, settling into your comfy nest of blankets. “So?”

“Are you going to play with him?”

(A month later, there’s another desk snug against yours while Simon fumbles with his screen settings as a broguish laugh comes from the headset, and Friday nights are something you’re realising you’ll never get back from that goddamn pixel game)

Headers and Dividers by saradika-graphics

[gaykarstaagforever]

Okay, DS9 fans. I found my first bad one. "Melora" sucks.

What the hell are we even doing here? A dreadfully hamfisted disability metaphor...except she's NOT disabled, she's just a pain in the ass who is hot and blonde and CAN FLY.

And her so-called disability makes absolutely no sense in this universe. She can't tolerate average Starfleet artificial Earth gravity. ...IN SPACE.

Just shut the fucking plating off when she's in a room, guys. They act like it's impossible for these people to tolerate a few hours of low-Gs. You're ASTRONAUTS. They don't train these idiots how to manage in low gravity? YOU LIVE IN SPACE!

Oh, but if it isn't carpeted and temperature controlled and doesn't have artificial gravity, fuck space exploration, I'm gonna go play tennis. Come on, you fancy pricks.

I mean, if that's what we're doing here, fine. But it immediately makes everyone look like a big baby.

I realize DS9 is a Cardassian station and they're Space MAGA, so fine, they'd be ableist pricks. But then Sisko gives her shit about flying alone in a low-G runabout. Why did you let her join Starfleet if you're not going to accommodate this? What about all the Federation species that breathe neon, or are lava monsters, or are sentient deep-sea blob fish? Obviously you're going to have to let them serve in segregated situations.

"SHE DEMANDED THEY LET HER DO THIS!"

Well, no she fucking didn't, because she spends most of the episode bitching about how they're not going out of their way enough for her. And either way, she's an ensign. You don't let her dictate that. Sort it out, admirals. You live in a universe where some people are glowing orbs who don't understand time. Not everyone gets to just show up and do whatever they want.

And even accepting all this, why would the one huge gap in the Federation's medical science be helping people from low-gravity planets live in standard gravity environments? They can beam individual cells out of the body and cure blindness and make everyone live to 170, but they don't have gene therapies to correct tissue density? Clearly it isn't that hard to figure out, because Bashir sorts it out in like 10 minutes, and he was doing the calculations the whole time with his boner.

Which is another problem. She's an ensign, Bashir. I don't care how enlightened this future is, that sort of power imbalance is fundamentally unworkable in a romantic relationship. How could anyone trust that to work out? The officers sleeping with each-other and everyone fucking civvies all the time is bad enough. But you can't run a military organization if the officers are kissing the soldiers.

"STARFLEET ISN'T MILITARY!"

Oh shut up.

Of course, these people let commanders of war ships bring their families along to get exploded by panels, so I guess they just don't care.

That's not enlightened. That's the kind of thing ancient tribes did. It's always been a goofy part of this universe, but we accept certain things about a fun TV show. But Bashir sexually preying on an ensign is the kind of Kirk / Yeoman stuff that was inappropriate when they did it in the 60s.

Why didn't the writers just make her a ranking cartography officer? Why did you make her an ensign? Of course, if she WAS an officer, they surely would have figured out how to accommodate her by now, and we don't get to see a space-wheelchair.

...Also, fun fact, THEY HAVE PORTABLE ANTIGRAV UNITS! THEY'VE HAD THOSE SINCE TOS! THEY USE THEM TO MOVE CARGO ALL THE TIME! Why the fuck are you replicating wheelchairs?? Why isn't she wearing one of those antigrav things on her narrow ass so she can just float around everywhere all the time???

...Spock had rocket boots in the one movie! We were there! We all saw that! That was YEARS ago! Guys!

Who produced this episode that they didn't know any of this by this point in the franchise? It's surreal.

Also, doesn't Starfleet employ sentient dolphins to do stellar cartography? Or was that just a non-canon thing from the technical manual? Minor point.

[nahoney22]

Liar Liar (Part 11/?)

Part 11 - No Going Back // <<< part 10

🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox X Female Reader

🫧 Chapter Summary: A strange run-in with Stone seems to settle some nerves and an accidental confession leaves Fox aching for more.

🫧 Warnings: more angst, accidental feeling confessions.

“I wish you’d cheer up.”

You blink, jerked from your thoughts. “Huh?”

Stone huffed. “See? You’re not even paying attention.”

You were half a step behind him as you both made your way down the corridor, arms full of reports you were delivering for some dull errand. Stone had been chatting nonstop. Something about Thorn, cafeteria food conspiracies, and maybe something involving an ill-fated training drill—but the words had just buzzed around your ears like background noise. You hadn’t heard a single thing. Your brain had been… elsewhere.

“Sorry,” you muttered, nudging his arm with your elbow. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

Stone gave you a long look, one brow slowly arching. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head—and then, of course, the sheepish smile followed.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

“That ‘lot’ on your mind wouldn’t happen to be a 6 foot tall something, wears red, commands a battalion and acts allergic to feelings, would it?”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes narrowing. “No.”

He smirked like he’d won a lifetime supply of rations. “Sure. And I didn’t overhear you and Thire talking the other day.”

You groaned and covered your face with one hand. “About what, exactly?”

Stone made a vague gesture. “Y’know. You and Commander Doom ‘n Gloom’ .”

“Something did happen,” you admitted through gritted teeth, although you wish more of the guys would stop catching wind about it. “But I’m not going into it, so wipe that stupid grin off your face and let’s just drop it.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, raising both hands in surrender, but his grin didn’t budge. “Just saying. I think you two would actually make a good pair.”

“Stone.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Stone.”

“You’ve got that whole ‘irresistible tension’ thing going on. Very holodrama.”

You threw your head back and groaned as you resumed walking. “Kriff’s sake…”

But even as you tried to laugh it off, your chest still ached from your recent run-in with Fox.

The memory of it stung. Badly. It was the day after 79’s, a few days ago now, and he’d cornered you in a hallway, posture stiff, voice tense even through the filter of his helmet.

“The woman at the bar,” he’d said abruptly. “She was just a civvie. Thanking me. That’s all.”

You’d tried to keep your voice neutral, indifferent. “It’s none of my business, anyway.”

“But Hound said you—” he hesitated. “He said you were crying.”

You cursed Hound’s name internally.

You looked at Fox, bitterness pressing against your ribs. “Maybe I was. Maybe I had a right to be.”

His posture had wavered for a split second, and then he’d leaned in, voice low. “Can we talk? Just… privately. Please.”

Stars, how you wanted to say yes. But it was the part of you that still ached that answered. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Commander.”

“Fox,” he corrected quietly.

You swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go through this again.”

“I didn’t handle things right,” he said. “But if I could just—”

“You had plenty of time to explain,” you cut in, barely above a whisper.

He looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. He just deflated a little, shoulders sagging.

“…Is this your final decision?”

You hadn’t answered. Couldn’t. You’d just looked away, whispered something about getting back to work, and left him standing there.

And now, days later, the conversation was still looping in your head like a broken holotape.

You and Stone finally reached the destination for your delivery. It was a quiet, empty records office and you had to refrain from grimacing because it smelt bad. Like, really bad.

“Huh,” you then murmured, scanning the room. “Wasn’t someone supposed to meet us here to sign off?”

Stone shrugged, already leaning against the nearest desk and lazily inspecting his blaster. “Maybe they forgot. Or maybe I’m too intimidating.”

You raised a brow. “You got chewed out yesterday for not cleaning your weapon properly.”

He huffed. “I’m working on it. ” He waves his blaster in his hand at you.

You rolled your eyes and dropped the reports onto the desk, glancing uneasily at the vents above. The hair on the back of your neck prickled. “I don’t like just leaving these out here. It feels… off.”

Stone waved it off. “Relax. I do this kind of thing all the time. Besides, what’s gonna happen? A paperwork bandit crawls out of the air ducts and steals the mission reports?”

As if summoned, a loud clang echoed above your heads.

Both of you froze.

“…Okay. If that’s the bandit, I take it back,” Stone said, already on his feet, blaster drawn.

“You heard that too?” you asked, stepping back.

“Affirmative. Get behind me.”

You did as he said, heart racing as Stone climbed onto a nearby crate to reach the vent. He glanced at you, holding up a hand for you to stay where you were, then opened the latch and flicked on his torch.

There was a long, tense moment as he leaned in.

“Stone?” you whispered. No answer.

Then—

PEW!

You flinched at the sharp sound of a stun blast. “Wh-What was it?!”

Stone didn’t respond at first. He shifted forward, grunting as he dragged something towards him. Then he jumped down and turned toward you, holding it by the legs like a wriggly, ugly prize.

You blinked. “Is that a… hawk-bat?”

He nodded. “Looks like a baby one. Underfed, too.”

You stepped closer, frowning. That’s what I’ve been hearing? That thing’s been crawling around the walls?

He held it out, watching it sway in its stunned state. “You wanna keep it? Call it something cute, like Gremlin?”

You chuckled. “I think Fox would be a better name.”

Stone returns the laugh, smirking. “Definitely looks like him too, he's been a mess lately.” And for some reason, that didn’t make you laugh like perhaps he thought it would.

“Is he?”

Stone nods. “Sure. Not sleeping, drinking an unhealthy amount of caf - worse than usual. That prisoner's disappearance has really done a number on him.” Stone says almost casually, lifting the creatures leathery like wings to take a look and then he looks at you. “And I suppose if you have broken his heart then add that to the list, too.”

“I haven’t broken his heart,” you roll your eyes but still frown at everything else, “we should take this somewhere, set it free once we know it’s healthy.”

Stone nods in agreement, saying that he knew where to take it.

So the two of you leave the office, hawk-bat in hand. But still, your eyes drifted back to the vents above. Something still didn’t sit right. And not just about hawk-bats.

⋅⋅ ───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

You and Stone were halfway back to your main station, still carrying the stunned hawk-bat when something made you slow down. Your eyes drifted across the corridor where you see tucked just out of plain sight, Fox and Thorn. Thorn’s arms were moving a lot, sharp gestures like he was making a point, while Fox stood still, head tipped forward slightly like the weight of it all was finally pressing down on him.

Stone noticed too. “That’s a serious-looking powwow.”

You didn’t answer. You were too focused on how different Fox looked. Slumped shoulders. Arms folded tight across his chest. Even from a distance, he looked worn down. Tired in a way caf couldn’t fix. Stone had been right, he did look a mess and so you forced yourself to look away.

Once back at your station, you handed off the hawk-bat to one of the medtechs with instructions to keep it warm and fed. At least that solved the weird banging noises you had been hearing.

As you settled into your desk, Thire suddenly called your name.

You looked over to see him nodding toward the corridor where Fox and Thorn had been standing. “What do you reckon that’s about?” he asked.

“I… don’t know,” you murmured, gaze flickering back toward them. “Something serious.”

You sat back down, fingers moving to the console but your thoughts weren’t on the reports. They were on Commander Fox. A strange guilt started bubbling low in your chest, but you shoved it aside and focused on your screen.

Until you felt a hand on your shoulder.

You stiffened and turned. Thorn stood behind you, visor locked on. “Come with me.”

You blinked, confused. “Uh, okay…?”

You followed him quietly, heart beginning to thrum faster the closer you got to the corner where Fox still stood. Thorn didn’t say a word, just guided you to stand directly in front of the pair of them. The air was thick with something heavy and Fox still wasn’t looking at you.

You looked between them both, brows furrowing after a moment too long of silence. “Am I in trouble?”

Thorn’s voice was level but pointed. “Are you going to tell her, or am I?”

Fox exhaled hard, clearly agitated. “You can do it.”

That tiny flare of nerves that had been simmering erupted into something worse. Panic.

Thorn didn’t waste time. “We’ve been tracking the system disruptions for a while now. The failures. The delays. It turns out that all of them… came from your station.”

You blinked, completely taken aback. “Wait, what? My station?”

“Your terminal’s been used as the access point for multiple data breaches,” Thorn said. “The logs line up. And the signature pattern matches your ID.”

“That’s not possible,” you said quickly, voice rising. “I—I haven’t done anything. I wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“We’re not accusing you. Not directly,” Thorn said evenly. “But this is serious. And it’s coming from your end.”

You looked at Fox. Desperate. “Commander, you know me. You know I wouldn’t do this.”

But he didn’t even speak.He didn’t even lift his head.

The silence from him was louder than any accusation Thorn could’ve thrown. Your breath hitched in your throat, something like betrayal creeping up your spine.

“…Fox?” you asked, quieter now. Pleading. “Please.”

His helmet shifted slightly, as if he wanted to say something but whatever it was, it died in his throat.

That was worse than shouting. Worse than suspicion. He didn’t believe you. Or maybe worse was that he did —but he didn’t trust himself enough to say it out loud.

You sucked in a breath, steeling yourself. “Am I fired?”

Your voice came out calmer than expected, and weirdly—there were no tears. Not yet. Maybe you’d cried them all out for the man who couldn’t even look at you now.

Thorn shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Fox and then back to you. “No. Fox convinced me not to terminate your position.”

Of course he did.

The silent executioner.

“But,” Thorn continued, “I have to escalate this. The breach came from your system, and until the investigation clears, you’ll be reassigned to another station.”

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “So let me get this straight—you think I’m too dangerous to be here, but I’m safe enough to just be dumped in another corner of the building? Sure. That tracks.”

Thorn hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. “I… didn’t say it like that.”

You turned to Fox then, who had finally raised his head. Not quite looking at you, but closer. “If you’re so worried about trust, Thorn,” you said coldly, “maybe take a good look at the man standing next to you.

Fox’s shoulders squared instantly like your words hit him physically. He stood up straighter, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of your gaze. Not now.

You turned on your heel and stormed off, boots echoing with fury down the corridor until you slammed back into the station. Heads turned. Conversations dropped.

Stone raised an eyebrow as you marched to your desk, grabbing a crate. “Uh—what’s going on?”

“Moving,” you snapped.

“M-Moving where?” Thire blinked, hurrying over.

“A different station.” Your voice cracked a little from the sheer force of holding everything in. “Apparently I’m a security risk.”

Grizzer whimpered at your feet, sensing the tension, but you stepped over him as you shoved datapads and personal items into the crate. Hound blocked your path for a second before you brushed past him too.

“They think I can’t be trusted,” you muttered, teeth clenched. “Apparently every damn system breach came from my terminal.”

Stone shook his head, eyes wide. “That’s impossible. We would’ve noticed—”

“Yeah, well,” you scoffed bitterly, “apparently I’m real good at flying under the radar.”

“You need to talk to Fox,” Hound said, frowning. “He’ll fix this.”

You gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. “Oh, I did. Or tried to. But it turns out he’s good at being speechless when it matters.”

Hound opened his mouth again, but you cut him off, voice rising with each word. “He had plenty of chances. When he lied. When he said it didn’t mean anything. When he watched me get blamed for something I didn’t even do!”

Thire approached you gently, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Just calm down for a second, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

“Calm down?” You turned on him, eyes wide and blazing. “They’ve accused me of screwing up everything . You want me to calm down? Would you be calm if your name was dragged through the mud without even a shred of defense from the person who—”

You stopped yourself, swallowing hard as the floodgate cracked.

You dropped the next item into the crate harder than you meant to, rattling the others.

“And Fox?” You spat his name like venom. “I have never in my life met someone so disloyal. He lies for weeks, strings me along like I mean nothing. Then stands there mute when I need him most? Screw him.”

No one moved. Even Grizzer stayed perfectly still, ears back. The three clones stood in stunned silence, watching you as if you had grown an extra head.

You turned, ready to storm out only to freeze in place as he - the very topic of conversation - stood in the doorway, silent and unmoving. He must’ve heard every word. Good.

For a second, no one breathed. You stared at him, seething. “Oh, if it isn’t the bubble-brain himself,” you sneered, lifting the crate in your arms. “Come to lend a hand, or just here to make sure I don’t steal anything on the way out?”

Fox stared you down, visor locked onto you and only you. The boys behind you shifted awkwardly, the air thick with unspoken words. You huffed, throwing your hands up.

“Yes? No?” you bit out, answering the question for him.

Fox hesitated then sighed, stepping aside wordlessly to let you pass.

The silence that followed was almost heavier than the tension before it. Thorn shook his head, watching Fox retreat toward his desk.

“What the are you doing, Fox?” he demanded.

“What choice do I have?” Fox grunted, his armour clinking as he moved stiffly.

“Go after her!” Thire snapped, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “This is your last chance.”

Fox’s fists slammed down onto the desk, the crack echoing through the room and cutting them all off.

“You heard what she said!” he barked. His voice cracked through the modulator—frayed, exhausted, broken. He dropped his head into his hands for a moment before dragging them down his helmet with a long, heavy sigh. “It’s done. It’s been done.”

Then he lifted his gaze to Hound, sharp and bitter. “And you—you weren't doing me any favours filling my head with ideas that she still cared. She doesn't.”

“She’s angry ,” Hound said firmly, stepping forward. “Because you didn’t stand by her. Not because she doesn’t care.”

Fox’s jaw locked hard enough you could almost hear the grind of his teeth. His helmet tilted, staring at the door you had stormed through.

“I’m tired, Hound,” he muttered.

“So is she,” Stone said, quieter this time. “Tired of fighting battles you make her fight alone. Just apologise. Be the man she knows you are.”

Fox's hands balled into fists again. “How can I fix it when she thinks I’m the most disloyal bastard she’s ever met?”

The others went silent. No one had an answer for that.

Fox let out another sharp breath, shoving back from the console. His body was tense, his movements mechanical—but after a second of pacing like a caged animal, he cursed under his breath and made for the door at a near-run.

He searched every corridor, panic blooming tighter in his chest with each wrong turn. Fifth hallway down, he caught sight of you. Crate in your arms. Walking fast.

He called your name.

You slowed, just for a second, your head tilting back over your shoulder. But when you saw it was him, you immediately turned back around, quickening your pace.

Fox jogged after you, closing the distance fast. He skidded in front of you, blocking your path. You scowled. “Move.”

“Just give me a second.” His voice was rawer now. “Let’s talk. Properly.”

You hesitated. Sighed. Then took a step back, shifting the crate’s weight in your arms, your exhaustion written in every line of your body. “Fine. Talk.”

Fox stood there a beat too long, fidgeting like he was physically holding himself together. You noticed his hands shake slightly at his sides. The great Commander Fox, reduced to nerves in your presence.

"I..." His voice faltered before he swallowed hard and forced it out. "I tried. I know you’re not responsible for the leaks. Any of it. And I’m sorry I didn’t speak up sooner. I spent days convincing Thorn not to have you fired.”

You stared at him, dead-eyed. “Am I supposed to thank you for that?”

Fox bit his tongue, chest rising and falling heavily. “No. I just—I don’t want you thinking I don’t believe you.”

“You could’ve said something,” you muttered, shaking your head, shifting the crate again. “You’ve never been the type to shut up when it mattered. I’ve worked for you for years. I know you.”

"If that's all..." you added, voice rough, "I'll be on my way."

You went to move past him—but he caught your sleeve.

“I’m not done.”

Reluctantly, you turned back to him.

Fox’s shoulders stiffened. He scanned the hallway quickly, making sure no one was around before he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter now. “About what I did to you. About… Whisky. About everything.” His hands fisted and flexed at his sides. “I don’t know why I made him up. Maybe I just wanted—needed—you to look at me the way you did that night.”

You swallowed hard.

“When you came to me at 79’s,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges, “I thought you knew it was me. And I just got caught up in a lie, second guessing myself of how you would have acted if you knew the truth. I wanted you to believe it was me. Because it was."

The silence between you was unbearable.

You shifted the crate higher in your arms, biting back a wave of emotion. “Let’s just forget it happened, Commander.”

“Fox,” he corrected immediately. “I told you. Call me Fox.”

You clenched your jaw, staring up at him through lashes thick with unshed tears.

“Let’s forget it happened, Fox ,” you corrected hollowly. “I’ve gotten over Whisky… and maybe moving stations is a good thing.” Your voice wavered, cracking right down the center. “Because now I can finally get over you too.”

Fox's eyes widened behind his helmet, it hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Get over me?” Fox repeated, stunned. He took an automatic step forward, towering over you. “What do you mean—?”

You dropped your gaze, heart pounding so hard you thought he could hear it.

“N-nothing. I need to go.” You tried to step past him again but this time he stopped you with a hand at your waist.

You froze. The heat of his touch burned right through the layers of cloth, igniting something you had tried so hard to bury. A shudder tore through you.

“Please…” he murmured, voice almost wrecked. “Tell me. Did you… did you ever feel something for me? As me?”

You looked down at his hand—then back up at him. “I guess I did,” you whispered, the confession leaving your lips like a wound torn open. The anger, the jealousy, the heartache, it was because of Fox. “But it’s all changed now.”

Fox sucked in a sharp breath, taking another step closer, his entire frame blotted out the corridor, your world reduced to his red armour and the familiar scent you had now realised to have missed so much.

“It doesn’t have to,” he rasped. “You can trust me. You can—"

You closed your eyes tightly, inhaling the scent that broke you all over again. It was the same one that had clung to you in the meadow, in the cab, on the nights you let yourself dream he was yours.

“That’s the thing, Fox,” you breathed, voice almost breaking. “I can’t. I look at you and I just think back to when I opened myself up to you. When I told you that trust was everything to me. But when I look at you… all I see is a liar. And I can’t do that to myself again.”

Fox doesn’t let you go, not yet. His touch lingers a moment more on your waist as if savouring the feel of you so close before he takes a step away, his hand slipping back to his side. “I respect your decision. I hope… I hope that you will be happier.”

“Yeah,” you sniff, moving past him for the last time, “me too.”

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[officeofcommanderfox]

Hello there! 🤩

I am sooo happy for this event, thank you so much for it! 😍

I would like to request something a bit whumpy/angsty with the prompts 36 and 48 🥺

Thank yoouuu 🥰🦊

Thank you so much for sending in your prompt! Here's the next chapter!!

The Commander and the Civvie, Chpt. 4

Fic Main | Previous Chapter

Pairing: Commander Fox x female reader

Rating: T (Teen)

Warnings: Mentions of violence and attempted murder, hospital situation, injuries, coma

Prompt 36. “You know you can always talk to me.”

Prompt 48. “I don’t want you to die.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

You never meant for any of this to happen. 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Why? Why did your life have to be the one that was so messed up? Why was it you had to suffer the consequences? And now it wasn't even you, but the Commander. Maybe if you had warned him sooner. Maybe if you had opened up when he asked… 

Beep. Beep. Beep.

As though being in the ICU wasn’t bad enough, the chair provided in the GAR medical facility was not conducive for having visitors. It was probably the most uncomfortable seat you've ever sat in. However no matter what anyone said, you refused to leave the Commander's side. After all, he was there because of you, he took the shot that was meant for you.

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t look away from his fragile state. He looked so different from the Marshall Commander you’d come to know. Seeing him lying there, was a lot to handle, your worries, your guilt, your fear he’d never wake up, it all kept piling on top of you.

“It's not your fault.” Thorn offered, doing his best to console you, even if it didn't do much.

“How can you say that? He's in a coma because of me.” 

Thorn shifted in front of you keeping his eyes locked with yours as he kneeled, his hands engulfing yours while they rested on your lap, “Mesh'la, how is Fox defending you from some psycho with a blaster your fault?” 

“He wouldn't have gotten injured, much less been there if he just let me grab a cab by myself. If he just left like he usually did instead of trying to be chivalrous…” 

“Then you'd be lying there instead of Fox, or worse, and you know if you ended up here, Fox would’ve been very upset. Not only would we have lost the most attractive girl in his office, but he would have to do all the paperwork himself.” He smirked, hoping to get you to crack even the tiniest smile, but instead there was a single tear that welled up. He gently cupped your cheek wiping away the drop, 

“Mesh’la, listen this is what we were made for, to defend and protect the citizens of the Republic. That includes you.”

“Doesn't make it any easier.” 

Thorn nodded he knew things weren't as simple as he wished it to be. Maker, he'd love it if it was a simple mugging, and maybe they should've told you more about what was really going on, yet somehow neither Fox nor he were ready or able to tell you. 

“Fox, I don't get it. What could she have done to make herself a target?” 

“That's the question, isn't it? Are you sure the target is Starlight?” 

“Without a doubt, I double checked. One of the CUP officers was even able to get a puck recruiting mercenaries for the hit. Here.” Thorn pulled out the puck from his utility belt and pressed the button. There was no mistake, it was your face floating in the holo display. 

Fox rubbed his forehead, “Alright. Let me talk with her first. Let me see if she has an idea as to why the Black Sun would want her dead.” 

“They said dead or alive.” 

“Is that really important, Thorn?” 

“Sorry.” 

Fox shook his head, “No. It's mine. I… I just can't imagine what she did or who she pissed off. I mean she certainly has a mouth on her, so it's possible she talked back to someone she shouldn't have. Ugh.” Fox rubbed his face. He took one of the new cookies you had brought in and thoughtfully chewed on it. “Okay, leave the puck with me. I'll talk to her. She's my secretary, so I’ll handle it. And in the meantime, do a background check on her. I want a thorough check, leave no stone unturned.” 

Thorn nodded leaving Fox's office. It was still an hour before you were supposed to come in. This is not what he needed to deal with especially after the attempted kidnapping of the Chancellor. 

“Step back!” 

You jerked back to the present and watched in shock as the medics pushed you aside, reacting to Fox's heart which had started to beat erratically. Thorn held you back, his hands holding your arms, as you watched in horror while they shocked him back to a normal sinus rhythm. 

Once Fox was stable and your own heart felt like it started up again, you finally found your voice, “What's happening, Patch?” You asked the Coruscant Guard medic. 

“When the Commander jumped in front of you to protect you, taking the shot, the bolt

missed his heart by a millimetre. Which is about this much." He held up his thumb and forefinger showing a minimal space in between. “Because of how close the shot was, the electrical current jarred his heart out of rhythm. His body is doing its best to reset itself. I know it looks scary but he’ll be okay, that’s why we're here. Ready to jump in and reset his heart. Alright, love? I promise everything will be fine.” 

Thorn gently rubbed your arms, as you nodded. “See, he'll be fine, mesh'la. He'll be fine.”

You turned in Thorn's arms hugging him, needing warmth and comfort.

“Hey, Starlight, can we talk for a second.” 

Even though your working relationship had gotten better over the past month, you weren’t exactly buddy-buddy with the Commander, at least not yet.

“Commander?” You stood at the entrance of his office, watching as he motioned for you to take a seat. “Am I getting fired?” You smirked. 

Fox shook his head, a slight chuckle escaping from his helmet. “No, Starlight. You're not getting fired. I just wanted to check in to see how you're doing and how you're finding the job. See if there's anything you want to discuss?” 

“Oh. Oh well let's see. Everything is going well. My main concern is still the filing system. It's getting better but if I could stay late or even come in on a weekend to organize and arrange it chronologically and order of severity that would help.”

He cleared his throat, “I'm sure we can arrange something. Um… and aside from work, your personal life… is good?” 

That question shocked you, “Since when do you ask about my personal life?” 

“Well, you've been here a few weeks, I think it's about time I learned a little more about you. Anything I should know?” 

Your brows furrowed, “I feel like you're trying to ask me something specific.” 

He let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, he lifted his helmet and set it aside looking into your eyes. 

You felt your breath catch in your chest, you knew Fox would be good looking, after all you've seen other Clone troopers but… there was something so much more attractive about Fox. Maybe it was the gray streak in his hair, or maybe it was the way his eyes bore into yours with wisdom and determination. The sharp chiselled jawline that could cut glass didn't pass your notice either. You swallowed as you looked at each other. 

“Starlight, you know you can always talk to me.” 

“I'm sorry Commander, I’m not sure what you want me to say..” 

Fox paused, breaking eye contact and blinking a few times. How was he going to tell her, a civilian who clearly had no idea the danger she was in, that a hit had been taken out on her. “No. Um … you know what, let's talk more later.” 

You tilted your head as you looked at him, you wanted to drag out this conversation longer, just so you could keep looking at his handsome face, “You sure?” 

“Yeah. Let's just get going with the day and catch up at the end.” 

Your hand rested on the armchair, as you simply nodded.

“I should've told you the truth.” You whispered, now that Thorn had left your side to handle things at the office, “I should've told you my life was a mess.” 

You held his hand, the guilt from not opening up to Fox when you had the chance weighed heavily on your heart and mind. And now you wondered if you'd ever get the chance. 

“Please. Please don't die” you whispered, “I don't want you to die.” You wiped a tear, wondering if what you felt for him right now was pure guilt or was it something more. “I'll explain everything if you wake up. So please. Wake up.” 

You stood, removing your hand from his, but instantly missed his warmth. You gently ran your hands over your arms, comforting yourself a little, as you headed towards the window by his bed looking out over Coruscant. Taking in a deep breath, wondering when this weight of guilt would leave you. 

“Starlight…” 

Your breath caught in your throat as you slowly turned to see Fox awake and smirking.

Send Commander Fox a prompt to continue the story!

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