L A D Y L O T T I E

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

“no,” you huff. “you’re always working. need you so bad, cho—you don’t need me?”

and choso whimpers, because of course he does, because what else is he supposed to do when you zip down his jeans & pull out his swollen, heavy cock? your eyes are glimmering & he’s so fucking hard and there’s already precum smeared over the flushed pink tip. you lick your lips. flash him a smile. “aw, cho. hard for me already?”

he stifles a gasp, cheeks hot. “so hard. mmfph—” you pump him slow & he swallows, hips stuttering against the board. “i’m sorry baby,” he cries, “always need you.”

“are you sure?” you coo, lashes fluttering as your thumb circles his slit. “sukuna will get mad again.”

choso’s lashes are sticky with tears. “he’s always mad—hah—i think.”

you giggle, leaning forward to lick a teasing stripe up his tip. "so you're saying this is fine ?"

choso wants to say yes. he wants to say no. he doesn't know what he wants anymore except your hand on his cock & your voice in his ear and—

BANG!

“hello. what the fuck is taking so long?!”

ryomen sukuna has his guitar slung over him & his lips bent in a frown. choso’s hands fly to his jeans, and you only smile sweetly as sukuna’s eyes dart frantically between your wet lips & choso’s panicked eyes. suguru pokes his head out of the booth; grin clumsy, eyes bright.

“…lock in.” sukuna mutters, and the door slams shut.

2. HEADLINE #2: R★CKSTAR CAUGHT DURING MIDNIGHT SEXCAPADES ?!

choso kamo is too needy for his own good.

it’s 1AM & choso kamo is under hotel sheets with need buzzing between his thighs. the band’s on tour for the nth time this year but choso isn’t thinking about practicing his guitar riff. his phone screen is too bright in his face & his eyes are on your soft thighs, supple breasts, pretty face—and he’s palming himself while staring at pictures of you before he can think any better of it.

but then his phone chimes.

[ BLOOD MOON 🎸]

mine 😊🫀: @ choso i miss you :(

choso blinks at the notification, pupils dilating. he clicks it so fast his thumb twitches.

BLOOD MOON 🎸

mine 😊🫀: @ choso i miss you :(

choso: I miss you too, baby. You’re not sleeping yet?

mine 😊🫀: hard to sleep without you touching me.

choso’s cheeks are hot. his cock twitches in his pants. but then his phone chimes again.

BLOOD MOON 🎸

sukuna: Can we not do this in the band gc.

geto🐒: why is she even here i’m dead

mine😊🫀: @ choso my pussy is so wet for you daddy :/

geto🐒 reacted: ⁉️

sukuna: IN MY PUBLIC GC ???

satoru🧿:

——

choso panics—throat bobbing, eyes wide. he quickly switches to texting you privately, face smushed into his pillow & cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

mine ☺️🫀

choso: Baby, why would you text that in the gc?

Satoru will tease me during practice again

And Sukuna already texted saying he’ll beat me up

——-

your text comes in instantly.

mine ☺️🫀: are you mad at me?

i just missed you cho. i won’t text you again since that’s what you want ☹️

choso: What? I said I didn’t want that? When?

I always want you to text me. It makes my day when you do. Please don’t stop texting baby I always want to hear from you.

mine ☺️🫀: let me see your cock

choso: Okay

I’m already hard for you. I was touching myself to your pictures before you texted. You’re so pretty, baby. Miss your pretty face.

[Image_Attachment]

mine ☺️🫀: aww, you’re so cute cho

why not come over and get the real thing ?

choso: I want to, but you’re two hours away. Can I see your breasts?

mine☺️🫀: you can see them if you come over 😚 and you can touch them too pretty boy <3

choso: But I can’t come over. What can I do?!

mine☺️🫀: Suffer

choso: ???

——-

choso stares at the screen, mouth agape, heart in a frenzy. the light is bright against his eyes but choso doesn’t care to dim it. what can he do? he really wants to see your breasts but the circumstances won’t allow it. he bites his lip, thumbs moving before his brain can catch up to them.

choso: Suffer

I’m already suffering, angel. I don’t know how to suffer any harder. Can you please tell me what to do?

mine ☺️🫀: go to sleep choso

choso: But I don’t want to sleep. I want to see your breasts

mine ☺️🫀: then come over

choso: But I can’t

mine ☺️🫀: so why are you still texting me?

choso stares at your text, breath hitching. he glances over at the clock on his nightstand, and the digital display gleams back. 1:17 AM. that’s not too bad. surely he could get there by around three, fuck you till at least four, and get back to the hotel by six.

it’s a stupid plan. but for you choso’s a stupider man, and the next text you send doesn’t help his judgement.

mine☺️🫀: [Image_Attachment]

mine☺️🫀: sneak peek <3

choso’s heart hammers. the picture only shows your tits clad in a pretty pink nightgown, but the material is too sheer & choso can see everything. the soft swell of your breasts. your nipples pebbled and peaking through the fabric. the way your arm is tucked underneath your tits to push them together into the camera. choso’s mouth dries. his breathing goes ragged & his cock goes heavy against his leg. he’s still gawking at your picture when his phone chimes again.

mine☺️🫀: my new nightgown’s so thin :( i don’t know why you can see my tits through it

choso thinks your nightgown is the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

choso: your nipples are so pretty, baby

he sucks in a breath, taking one last sorry glance at the clock.

choso: I’m coming over.

choso doesn’t wait for a reply. he’s already scrambling to fit a tank top over his bare chest, tugging socks over his feet & shoving them into slippers. the hallway is dark and quiet, and choso takes one last look at your perky tits on his screen before clicking his phone off & shoving it into his pockets. he sucks in a breath. let’s do this.

two hallways right. one staircase down—not the elevator because it’s way too loud—and then another hallway to reach the lobby. choso knows the hotel layout like the back of his hand. he slips into the corridor, steps quiet against the hardwood, and the staircase is right there—

“late night, kamo?”

choso stops before he can bump right into sukuna.

ryomen sukuna is not impressed—and neither are the two boys behind him. geto’s piercings are glimmering in the heat. satoru has a smile too cruel to be kind. they stand on either side of a crossed sukuna, hands in their pockets, grins lazy-cruel.

choso gulps, eyes flitting between them. “uhm, i just needed some water—“

“back to your room, lover boy,” suguru whistles, thumb pointing to satoru. “unless you want to be smacked upside the head?”

satoru is cracking his knuckles with a grin.

“no thank you,” choso says too fast, too sheepish. his cheeks are peach tinged. “and what do you mean by lover boy? i was only—“

“save it,” sukuna growls, cocking his head. “the walls are thin as fuck, idiot. you think i didn’t hear you beating your shit and whining into your pillow in the next room over?”

choso’s throat bobs. sukuna pads closer to his shaky figure.

“back to your room,” sukuna’s hot breath tickles choso’s nose, “and don’t let me catch you in these halls again.”

3. HEADLINE #3 : R★CKSTAR CAUGHT HAVING SEX AFTER SETS ?!

on stage, choso kamo is half-boy, half-heartbreak.

at least, that’s what the fangirls say when he plays like this. mic cord in his mouth. hair soaked & sweat sticky. mascara smeared down his cheeks & a riff so loud it makes you feverish. on blood moon’s stage, choso kamo plays the electric guitar like his life depends on it. sukuna’s singing blares more like a roar. geto is on bass & satoru on the drums.

choso hasn’t seen you since the set started.

not in the crowd, or the lobby, or the soft space behind the old stairwell where he likes to kiss you dizzy. he’s trudging through backstage now, guitar strapped heavy on his back, steps slow & breath heaving because the adrenaline hasn’t worn off & he’s still half-high. where the fuck is his girlfriend?

but then he sees you on the amp.

and choso’s first thought is glitter. lots of it. sticky on your lip and your chin and your hair and your face. he pads towards you with bleary eyes and you welcome him with a teasing smile.

“hi, choso.”

“Hi,” his arms bracket your hips. “you look shiny.”

you giggle, hand curling into his necklace as he trails sloppy kisses to your jawline. choso kisses like a dog, tongue wet & breath sticky. “you’re so hot,” he rasps. “so fucking hot—mmh—m’dizzy.”

you let him kiss your lips. “can’t do this here,” he murmurs against them. “can i take you away, baby? behind the stairs?”

his eyes are soft and pleading. he talks like he’s asking but his hands are already hoisting you up & lifting you into his chest before you can tell him no. you cup his face. smush his cheeks. “impatient, are we?”

“sorry,” his cheeks are pressed together in your palms so his voice comes out strangled. “missed you.”

choso isn’t sorry. he’s stumbling past workers & crew alike while pressing sloppy kisses to your hot mouth. his tongue slobbers and drags while his hands press into your thighs, thumb climbing higher to graze circles on your hips. he nearly trips over two cables but you laugh into his mouth and choso kamo has never been happier. “you’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “so pretty.”

he finally reaches the stairwell. the closet door just under it is blue & peeling, and choso kicks it open with his mouth on your throat. he pulls back to stare at you and his gaze is soft. his eyes lift to stare into the room as you kiss his cheek.

his band members stare at him back.

ryomen sukuna has his arms crossed & his back against a wooden shelf. gojo satoru is sat criss-cross on a table with his lips in a grin. suguru stands beside him, leaned back lazily against said table with his lip piercing glimmering in the heat. and right there in the center, manager toji fushiguro has his arms folded over his chest, temu wristwatch catching the light.

choso drops you very slowly.

his eyes flit between his band mates, cheeks already blood drenched. he’s still gripping your skirt when he sets you down beside him. you whack his hand away and shift behind him to hide.

geto grins. “hey, lover boy.”

choso leans back into you slightly. he whispers over his shoulder, “baby—it’s a trap!”

he doesn’t need to tell you. you can fucking see that.

sukuna steps forward. he’s not even angry—shocking, honestly—he’s bored. steps lazy, gaze half-lidded. “told ya, fushiguro. our band’s lead guitarist is always in fucking heat.”

choso squeaks, gripping your skirt. “i wasn’t gonna fuck her!”

sukuna glances back at the others. “who is he lying to?”

toji sighs, shaking his head. he shoves his hands into his pockets, expression bored. “look, kid—“ he glances up, “your band mates and i don’t care about you being a horndog. we care that you’re letting it get in the way of your responsibilities.”

satoru perks up, tongue clicking. “you were supposed to head straight to the van after the set. but here you are trying to get some pussy…”

“shit’s jarring, man,” suguru finishes. “absolutely jarring.”

you lean up on your toes, just enough to poke your head up behind choso’s shoulder. satoru grins when he sees your face. suguru gives you a soft wave.

“hi,” your voice is shy. “this is my fault. sorry about him.”

“don’t sweat it, princess,” toji waves you off, fake ice glimmering on his wrist. “our business is with your boyfriend, not you.”

you nod shyly, disappearing behind choso yet again. sukuna huffs through his nose. “choso, got anything to say for yourself?”

choso looks around. at gojo and geto’s sleazy grins, toji’s deadpan face, sukuna’s lazy gaze. the room is hot but his cheeks are hotter. he swallows, blood sticky in his throat.

“i’m sorry,” he croaks. “it won’t happen again.”

sukuna doesn’t let him off. “what won’t happen again?”

choso grips your skirt behind him, swallowing. you squeeze your thighs around his palm to reassure him & choso gulps yet again.

“won’t fuck my girl while on duty. or let her jerk me off in the rec rooms. or try to sneak off to see her.”

your eyes widen behind him. he did not have to mention the rec room!

toji nods. then he checks his wrist—the temu wristwatch says it’s time to go. “alright, we’re done here. you boys be in the van in five. i got somewhere to be.”

he trudges past you and a frozen choso, kicking the door open to leave.

the boys follow suit. satoru hops off the table, grinning. “nice one, cho!” he smacks choso’s arm as he walks past. sukuna bumps choso’s side lazily. suguru slings an arm over your shoulders to steer you to the van with the rest of them.

in the closet, choso kamo has his feet frozen in place and his face contorted in horror.

once again, our rockstar’s been caught.

R★CKSTAR CAUGHT, end.

The faint click of your boots against the concrete floor echoed in the quiet space. Instantly, Simon’s jaw clenched, the sharp line of his scarred mouth tightening as he tilted his head towards the sound. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t brace for you, but he knew exactly where you were the second you stepped into the room again. 

“You’re late,” he rumbled, and his voice was completely unpolished and stripped of the professional tone he used on the comms. 

You didn’t answer that. You simply began to circle him, slow and agonizingly quiet, letting the rustle of your clothes and the heat of your presence there brush past him like a ghost. Every time you passed behind him, the muscles in his broad shoulders bunched, fingers twitching against the restraints. 

“Fucking tormenting me already, are we?” Simon muttered, a dark chuckle escaping his lips as his head rolled back against the chair. “Can’t even hear you breathe, love. Sneaking around me like a bloody wraith. You know what it does to me when I can’t see you.”

You stopped right in front of him, close enough that the heat radiating from his bare torso felt it was right at your fingertips. He couldn’t see you, but he could very well feel you. His chest hitched, ribs expanding as he took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of your perfume.

“Can feel you standing there,” he growled, clearly frustrated with how you were dragging it out. “Just fuckin’ staring at me. Give me something. Fucking anything.”

You stepped in a little closer, tips of your fingers barely brushing, tracking across his collarbone. 

Simon flinched at the touch. It was an involuntary twitch, his shoulders jerking against the wooden back of the chair as his restraints groaned in protest. He couldn’t see it coming, and the feather-light touch against his burning skin made his chest heave.

“Fucking hell, love,” he gasped, teeth clenching hard. “Warn a guy next time. You know I can’t brace for it like this.”

“That’s the point, Lieutenant.” you whispered, leaning in until your breath fanned over his damp neck, watching a shiver break out across his skin. You chuckled darkly when he chased the proximity. “You don’t get to brace yourself. You just have to sit there and take whatever the fuck I decide to give you.”

A rough growl rumbled deep in his throat, his head tilting back as he strained uselessly against the ropes binding his wrists. “Think you’re real clever, don’t you?” he wasn’t one to speak so often, usually mostly in blunt, clipped sentences. But he wasn’t in control now. You could see his verbal filter slipping. “You’re a sadistic little thing when you want to be. I’m sitting here at your bloody mercy and you’re just taking your sweet time.”

“Do you want me to hurry, Simon?”

“No,” he rasped instantly. “No, don’t fucking rush it. Torment me. Do whatever you want to me, sweetheart. Just… put your hands back on me. Please. The waiting is what’s killing me.”

You smiled then, deciding to give him exactly what he begged for, but with your own deliberation, of course.

Your fingers, so light he could barely feel them, slid from his collarbones, tracking the hard, defined valleys of his pectoral muscles until the tips found his nipples. They were already tight from the cool air of the room and the electric pulsing through his veins. You caught the right one between your thumb and forefingers, rolling the sensitive bud, pinching it just firmly enough to send a visible jolt straight through his massive frame. 

Simon let out a choked sound, hips jerking forward slightly, cock straining against his trousers so hard he could beg for any form of release. “Ah, fuck— Christ, love…” he rambled, head tossing from side to side, blindfold shifting slightly against his brow. “Too much.”

“You like it,” you murmured, leaning down further, your shadow completely eclipsing his chest.

“I fucking love it,” he panted heavily. “Fuck— tell me what a good boy I’m being for you. Tell me.”

Instead of answering with words, you dropped your head lower. 

The first touch of your tongue against his left nipple was a searing contrast— wet and scalding and so, so sweet against his chilled, sweat-sheened skin. Simon let out a pretty moan, half of it a strangled cry, shoulders slamming back against the chair as his fingers balled into tight, useless fists behind his back.

You swirled your tongue around the hardened peak, testing the texture, before drawing the sensitive bud flat between your lips and sucking down firmly, nibbling here and there.

Simon was moaning so hard under you, whole body going taut as a bowstring, the heavy wooden chair he was seated on scraping loudly across the floor as he fought the overwhelming rush of sensation. “God— gonna snap these bloody ropes if you don’t stop,” he rambled on, moaning, thrashing. 

Your fingertips clamped back down on his other nipple, pinching firmly while your tongue lashed relentlessly against the wet, oversensitive bud. 

“Ah, fuck— sweetheart, no, please—” Simon choked out, his blindfolded face completely flushed, jaw locked in an agonized grimace as his whole body shuddered violently. He didn’t even have his hands free to touch himself, didn’t have you in contact with his length in any way, but the pure sensory overload of his chest being worshipped while he was entirely helpless drove him straight over the edge. 

With a guttural, drawn-out groan that vibrated from the very depths of his chest, his hips buckled forward. He came hard right inside his combat trousers, a dark patch of heat immediately blooming through the heavy fabric of his fly as his abs spasmed within the long, punishing release. His breath came in ragged, pathetic hitches, shoulders slumping as you watched your work. Simon, the love of your life, completely undone. 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, love… I’m so fucking sorry. Couldn’t hold it…”

“Shh, shh,” you shushed him with a grin that you were glad he couldn’t see. “Don’t apologize, Simon.”

You dropped to your knees on the cold concrete between his thighs. Working quickly, you unbuckled his heavy tactical belt and pulled his zipper down, pulling the damp fabric of his trousers and underwear down past his hips, pinning his knees apart while he lifted himself up to the best of his ability to help you. His length was still semi-erect, slick and weeping from the sudden release, but you weren’t going for the main event just yet, no matter how pretty it looked. 

You leaned forward instead, burying your face in the apex of his thighs. 

The skin on his inner thighs was much paler than the rest of his body, with some light hair and heavy muscle. You started with hot open-mouthed kisses along the inner curve of his thighs, right where his thigh met his pelvis, mere inches from his heavy balls. Simon gasped, hips twitching automatically at the heat of your mouth.

Then, you bit him.

You nipped sharply at the tender skin, sucking a mouthful of his flesh between your teeth until you knew it would leave a dark, purple mark on his pretty ivory skin. 

“Ah!” Simon barked out, the sudden sting making him strain against the ropes again, boots scraping against the floor. You knew the pain of it was just going to make him hard again, so you didn’t give him time to recover. You moved to the other side, dragging your tongue over his skin before sinking your teeth into his left thigh, sucking hard enough to guarantee another matching hickey right beside his groin. He was rambling mindlessly now, a string of breathless, dirty curses pouring from his mouth, head rolling against the headrest. You could perhaps take a picture of your work down there later.

Once his thighs were thoroughly marked with your teeth, you finally slid your hand up, wrapping your warm fingers around the base of his reawakened length. Your hot breath fanned over the sensitive head of his cock before you swirled your tongue around the tip, gathering his pre-cum, tasting him.

Simon let out a whimpering groan, thighs trembling against your shoulders as he pushed them wide open for your comfort. “Wrap your mouth around it, sweetheart. Let me feel how warm you are. Take it.”

You slid your lips over the head, sinking down until his length filled your mouth, your throat stretching as you took him as deep as you could manage, your hand working the base in a slow rhythm. 

The sensation of your mouth against his skin, warm and wet, acted like a live wire against his already overstimulated nerves. Simon’s head fell back, the blindfold shifting, revealing a sliver of his wild, unfocused eyes as they rolled towards the ceiling. He was straining so hard against the ropes still. 

“Fuck,” he choked out, voice barely a breath, a thick mix of shame and need. His usual stoic mask was shattering into a thousand pieces. He couldn’t see you, so he was fixating on the feeling of you, the drag of your lips against his skin, the slide of your tongue, the way you were claimed him, littered his skin with your marks, tormented his nipples until he came in his pants. 

“Don’t stop,” he begged, the command laced with a pathetic whine that tore through his usual baritone. “Just… fucking ruin me, love. I’m yours to do whatever you want with. I’m yours.”

He was breathing hard to the point of hyperventilating, chest heaving with every drag of breath, skin flushed and slick. The sensory deprivation was forcing every nerve ending in his body to scream for more, and he was giving you everything; his control, his dignity, just to feel you a second longer. 

“Tell me,” he growled, voice breaking into a needier tone as he felt you reach your limit, his hips slamming upwards to meet your rhythm, to go in deeper into your throat. “Tell me you own me. Tell me you’re not done with me yet.”

You didn’t give him an inch of breathing room, though. Kept your hand locked at the base of his shaft, your mouth working a relentless rhythm over the head of his cock. Every time his hips tried to buck forward to seek relief, you held him perfectly still, forcing him to take it exactly at your pace.

The deprivation had completely fired his circuits. Without his eyes to track the movement, to brace for whatever you were about to do, every drag of your tongue felt like a brand, every wet slide of your lips pushed him closer to a terrifying precipice. 

“Ah— fuck, sweethearti please,” Simon choked out, at the edge of a sob. His knees were shaking hard against your shoulders, thighs trembling so hard the muscles looked like carved stone under the dim light. “I’m gonna break, love, I swear to God—”

You picked up the pace, suctioning down tight and swirling your tongue over the sensitive seam beneath the head. 

That was it. Simon’s body went rigid, a full-body spasm taking over. With a half-strangled scream that tore from the very bottom of his lungs, he came. He bucked upward into your mouth, hips snapping up with frantic urgency as he flooded your throat with thick, hot bursts of his release. 

He pulsed over and over, completely ruined, head slamming back against the headrest of the chair. His fingers were locked so tight around the wooden frame behind his back that the joints looked white. 

You swallowed every last drop, holding him there until the tremors in his thighs finally began to subside into weak shudders.

Slowly, you pulled off of him but you stayed on your knees for a moment, licking your lips clean, watching the spectacular mess you’d made of the formidable Lieutenant. He was panting like a dying man, sweat dripping down his jaw, head lolling to the side as the blindfold soaked up the damp of his brow. 

You stood up, then. Walked over to the restroom for a short while to wet a clean, soft cloth with warm water. When you stepped back into his space, you knelt down between his legs again, using the cloth to meticulously clean the damp remnants of his first release from his stomach and trousers, before gently wiping at his length until he was completely clean. 

“You were so good to me,” you muttered softly, your touch soothing, grounding. Simon let out a shaky sigh..

“You’re too good to me. Wreck me like a monster and then clean me up like an angel, hm? What am I gonna do with you?”

“You’re gonna sit there until I tell you otherwise,” you giggled softly, fingers tracking up to the knot of the blindfold at the back of his head. You untied it, letting the black fabric slip down his shoulders.

He blinked once, twice, wild eyes taking a moment to adjust before they finally locked onto you. For a second, they were soft, glassy with the lingering haze of the afterglow.

But then, the softness vanished.

As the air hit his face and his vision cleared, something shifted deep in his expression. The hazy, compliant cloud in his eyes was gone. He stared down at you— still on your knees between his thighs, looking up at him with his taste lingering on your lips. 

Behind the chair, you heard the sudden creak of heavy hemp rope. His forearms expanded, shoulders rolling forward as he deliberately tested the tension of the knots against his wrists, gaze tracking down to your mouth with a dark intent that had absolutely nothing to do with submission.

He’d let you have your fun. Now, it was his turn.

“You played a dangerous game, love.” Simon whispered in a tone that made the hairs on your arms stand up. “Did you really think these strings would save you from me?”

From then on, John's scars were half of a matching set. The burns on his right side (and Johnny's left) from pulling the weak and infirm from the rubble of St. Paul's when the Great Fire broke out. The jagged line that started from John's front around to the left ended on Johnny's right, earned while fighting back to back for Charles III. The battle where they found, when the battlefield cleared, a young black man with very different scars of his own but a look both Johns knew well. Kyle sailed away from the colonies in a much different situation than the one that brought him to its shores.

By the time they found Simon Riley stumbling away from the disaster that was Cardigan's charge at the Battle of Balaclava, John, Johnny, and Kyle had developed a bond deeper than brothers, closer than lovers.

The foursome took some time to find their footing: Johnny drawn to Simon like a moth to a flame, uncaring if it burned him; John clashing with Simon's refusal to back down; Kyle's constant wary, haunted look no matter how safe they made him. By the turn of the 21st century, their lives were intimately intertwined. On occasion each man's interest would be piqued by someone outside their circle, but between the strange nature of time and the strength of their bond, no dalliance ever lasted long.

Until you.

They run into you, literally, in the pharmacy. Or at least Kyle does. Head down, not looking where you're going, headphones in to shut off the world and and you back straight into him as you step away from an array of plasters. You glance up briefly into warm brown eyes before averting your gaze, mumbling and apology and leaving as quick as could be. With your eyes trained on the floor, you don't realize Kyle's scrutiny. It was hard to miss the plasters in your basket as he'd watched you pick them up but he also noticed the tattoo concealer, the eye de-puffers. You had a pullover on and while May sometimes called for that, London had been experiencing a heatwave. In fact, Kyle had noticed some of the finer hairs on your forehead were stuck down by sweat. There was only one reason he could think of to need so much coverage on a spring afternoon.

Typing out a quick text to the others, Kyle pockets his mobile, leaves the basket by his feet and follows you out the door.

He watches, impressed, by how you weave effortlessly through the city, like fog, gone before those around you realize you were there. Head down, always down, you step into the gap between a pram and a businessman, step lightly over broken cobbles on the Mews in Paddington, duck around some teens loitering on a corner. He follows you at a distance for nearly an hour, wandering by when you stop into a shop, doubling back to make sure he hasn't lost you. You're not taking a straight route anywhere.

He's puzzling over that when you suddenly turn, cornering him. He was so caught up in you he failed to notice the way the city's sounds dropped away, how the streets were narrowing. And now you're here, not quite meeting his eye, a tremor in your raspy, "Why are ya following me?" but a steady hand holding a small blade in the space between you.

He can't say he wasn't following you. Clearly, this isn't an alley intended for foot traffic. The only reason he'd be here is because of you. So he tells you the truth, or, his version of. Tells you he noticed what you bought, clocked your clothes, thought you might be in trouble.

You bark out a harsh laugh. "So you thought it'd be good to follow the poor broken girl and what? Fix things?" You meet his eye in challenge, and he sees. Kyle sees the same pain he recognized in John and Johnny that first night, the same pain that still haunts Simon some days. But here it's different. It isn't weighed down with years, like theirs. Each of the men suffered lifetimes of sorrows before finding one another, lived through generations of pain alone. Your pain and sorrow, while a match for theirs, hasn't been spread out over time. It is concentrated. Raw. Pulsing just below the surface in rapid time with your heart.

"Not trying to fix what isn't broken," Kyle finally says. Because you aren't broken. But the cracks are there. Like they were in John and Johnny when they met, like they were in Kyle when John found him, like they still are in Simon sometimes. And time, which always used to hurt, has been helping them repair each other.

You huff a harsh laugh. "Sure, mate." Your hand is still steady but less aggressive, the waver gone from your voice. You ask again, more forcefully, "So why are you following me? You should know I don't have any money, and my mobile's shit, but I know how to cut you so you'll bleed. A lot."

When he responds, his answer surprises even him. "You ever hear of the American writer Hemingway? He once said, 'The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills.' Whatever happened to you, you didn't break, but ya still got cracks, right. I got friends like that. I used to be like that too. Cracked by the world. But we helped each other. Like the Japanese who fix broken vases with gold and they turn out better than before."

He's rambling, but you're still here, still listening. He sees when the knife dips just a fraction. Just enough to let him know you're paying attention. Long moments pass, but neither of you move.

"Was maybe wondering if I could buy you a cup of tea," Kyle says, breaking the silence. You wiggle the knife again, ushering him out of the alley. Again on a thoroughfare with a little late afternoon foot traffic, you close up your blade and slip it into your jumper. Glancing up the road, you mutter, "One cup," before nodding to a Pret a Manger sign a block away.

"One cup," Kyle agrees.

But one cup isn't enough time for him. Because as you talk about yourself, never getting close up who hits you or why you let them, Kyle knows he's found something special. After the cups are empty and the silence weighs heavily in the space between you, Kyle finally gives you his name and asks, "Can we do this again?"

You can't hide your surprise and barely keep from gaping at him. You scribble your number on a napkin and warn him, "Calls only. Don't text me. And don't leave a message."

You never expect to hear from the handsome stalker again. But three days later you get a call from an unknown number. You pick up to a smooth voice you vaguely recognize. "It's Kyle. From tea the other day. I was wondering if you were free for lunch. There's this place I know makes a great fish and chips." Tea was one thing, but a meal feels different. More open, more vulnerable. You're about to politely turn him down when your stomach grumbles loudly, reminding you of your skipped breakfast.

You accept instead and what follows is your new normal: a cup of tea or lunch with Kyle every few days. Never the same day, never the same time, never the same place. You want to ask him if it's on purpose, but you worry about his answer. If he says yes, then you'll know he knows about the abuse. If he says no, you'll have to explain why you'd notice such a thing. He said he suspected what happens to you that first day, but you've never confirmed anything. Never denied it either though the proof of the pudding is in the eating.

So you spend time with Kyle, simply existing. It allows you an escape of sorts, and you enjoy his company. You find out he's clever but never attended university. You learn he's spent time in the military and seen combat but doesn't share where. You know he lost his parents - "feels like a lifetime ago" - but he has a close group of friends - "we're each other's family." He learns about you too, but it's all guarded. Nothing that shows your unprotected underbelly. Nothing that could hurt you.

Months of meetings, never failing to miss one, and one day you don't show. Kyle knows in his gut something is wrong. He calls your number and it rings and rings. You don't pick up.

He doesn't know where you live, has figured out your mobile is off the rack at Tesco, so there's nothing to trace even if he had the means. He has no way to check on you, so he waits. Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then an hour. Two hours later and he's still sat at the cafe, his tea cold in front of him, when his mobile rings. For a moment, hope alights in his chest, but it's only Simon.

taglist: @avgdestitute @diseasedclitoris

masterlist

you frown. it’s been exactly thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds since satoru looked at you last. he’s been on this stupid spreadsheet since class started, and it’s really starting to piss you off.

so you block his view.

“look at my fingers, toru,” you breathe, lifting your hand in front of his face. “i was in such a rush i forgot my rings. my hand looks so ugly.”

he lifts his head—just slightly, just enough that he can focus on the screen & not your hand in front of him—& replies without a beat. “looks pretty, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand. “so gorgeous.”

oh, that’s enough.

“toru.”

“hm, baby?”

“kiss me.”

gojo satoru chokes on his tongue. he freezes, blue eyes leaving the screen only to dart around the crowded lecture hall in alarm. he lets his eyes drop to you, and perhaps he shouldn’t have, because you’re looking up at him with glossy lips & too-big eyes & lashes that flutter in that way that means trouble. gojo gulps.

“we can’t do that right now, sweetheart,” his voice catches. you’re pouting up at him but satoru only cups your cheek and tries to reason with you. “we’re in public. can you wait for me, angel?”

your brows furrow, lips wobbling into that pout that only spells out gojo’s demise.

“are you ashamed to kiss me in public?” you croak, fake sniffling. “am i that ugly?”

you’re not ugly. you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know it, satoru knows it, & he also knows you’re doing this on purpose. but your eyes are so glossy. your breathing’s all hitched. your shoulders shake like you’re about to sob—

gojo satoru folds under zero pressure.

he cups your face, thumb brushing faux tears off your lashes as he presses his lips to yours. you taste like strawberry candy & something too sweet to have a name. gojo sighs into your mouth. cocks his head. pulls back just to lean in again when your lashes flutter up at him all pretty. he lets his thumb tug your lip and tongue lick your teeth and—

“ahem.”

you both freeze.

in the row in front of you the nanami kento is there, frown on his face & completely unamused. there are pens littered on his desk & his laptop is wide open—is he reading semantic error?

he eyes you both, lips curled in disgust.

“this is not a love nest.”

you & satoru are blinking in disbelief when nanami turns back to his laptop. he slams it shut in embarrassment when he’s met with an inappropriate panel onscreen.

II. DISTRACTION #2: NETWORKING ❌ NOT WORKING ✅

time: 7:14 pm. location: Bergeron Center for Engineering Excellence

⎚-⎚

gojo satoru has five minutes until the most important meeting of his life.

an opportunity to pitch one of his latest projects to some high-class engineering recruiters—lucky him! he’s in a private office with his speech in his hands, and his beautiful girlfriend kicking her feet on the office table.

you’re supposed to be his supportive plus-one. and gojo does feel supported—how could he not when the love of his life is here for him, dressed up like a midsummer dream? but gojo thinks he’d feel even more supported if you weren’t bracketing his thighs & tugging on his tie every time he tries to speak.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity—“

“satoruu,” you coo. “i miss you.”

gojo satoru knows better than to sigh. he does it anyway, collapsing into your neck in resignation as he squeezes your hips. you’re pressing a glossy kiss to his jaw. “i’m right here, sweetheart,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “will you let me focus?”

you nod sweetly, patting his cheek dismissively when he presses a kiss to your neck in thanks.

“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity to present—“

“satoruu,”

thirteen words this time. fairs.

“yes, sweetheart.”

“my feet hurt,” you state, kicking your feet up to show him. for once, you’re not being totally dramatic. even with your heels on satoru can see the sides of your feet reddening, flushed & slightly swollen against the material. his brows furrow. “how’d this happen, angel…?”

he kneels down to slip your heels off. you pout: “i got new heels so i’d look pretty for your presentation. now my feet hurt and i’ve ruined everything.”

satoru frowns, but you’re still spiraling. dramatic as always, talking like it’s the end of the world with your eyes glossy & nose wrinkled in lament. but gojo’s heart only goes sticky in his chest. how could you possibly ruin everything when you are everything?

he reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek. “look at me, baby,” he murmurs, other hand rubbing circles on your ankles. he looks devastating like this—hair messy, tie loose from all your tugging & knees on the floor for you even though he’s in his finest dress pants. “you didn’t ruin anything, okay baby? look.”

he slips off your heels, then his own leather shoes, & laces them onto your bare feet. “wear these.”

you blink as he lifts you off the table, kneeling back down to adjust the shoes better. you wiggle your toes. your feet don’t even reach the middle, and you almost fall trying to walk two steps, but the gesture alone has you beaming. you turn to him with your lips bent in a clumsy smile.

“they’re huge, toru,” you tease, twirling around for him to watch. satoru only smiles. his heart goes sticky in his throat. he pulls you into a soft kiss because trying to speak might make his chest hurt.

knock knock.

one of satoru’s classmates—nerd #1—peeks his head in, expression slightly terrified. “uh, gojo? they’re ready for you in the boardroom,” he gulps. “you’re up.”

satoru nods, gathers his speech papers. you’re practicing walking around in his shoes now, arms stretched out to help you balance as you strut around with a grin on your face. gojo satoru looks down at his feet. they’re in nothing but a pair of socks.

right.

he sucks in a breath, then turns to kiss your forehead. “stay here where it’s warm, okay?”

you’re still admiring yourself in his shoes, but you chirp out an okay! regardless. satoru bites his lip. it’s showtime.

——

the faculty is looking at satoru like he’s grown two heads.

have they never seen a shoeless man before? how rude. he’s standing on the boardroom’s stage now, clipboard in hand, projector lighting up the board behind him. some of the recruiters are nodding. the others are trying not to look at his feet so they can’t be accused of classism. gojo satoru is not even poor. a glance at his suit should tell you that.

but gojo doesn’t care. he presents without issue—even though the entire time, his mind is on you.

the boardroom door has a center made of glass. through the pane, satoru can see you back in the office—you’ve somehow found music controls for the office’s boombox, and you’re dancing—oh god, you’re dancing—twirling around with a clumsy smile & laughing when you stumble in his much larger shoes.

satoru’s heart swells. his lip twitches.

gojo turns his focus back to his presentation. he’ll work hard to keep you smiling for the rest of your life.

III. DISTRACTION #3 : WHY IS MY GIRLFRIEND IMMUNE TO TUTORING…

time: 6:14 PM location: The Quad, Satoru’s Apartment.

⎚-⎚

“who discovered the americas ?”

“Martin Luther King.”

You are going to fail this exam.

“that’s enough general history today,” gojo mutters, voice croaking in alarm when you give your answer. you’re tucked in his lap, fingers curled in his collar, nose in his neck & completely unbothered. your perfume is sticky in his lungs. “let’s try math. you like math, baby?”

“mhm,” you kiss his jaw. “love it.”

no you don’t. gojo flips open a book with one hand, the other rubbing circles on your thigh. “let’s practice some integration…” he scans the page for questions while you twirl the hairs on his nape. “okay, this one. can you try this for me, princess?”

your lips tug into a bored frown. “okay,” you lean up to glance at the page, “done.”

he blinks, “done?”

“yes,” you flop back against him, soft & pretty & tired & his. “i solved it in my head.”

satoru bites his lip, brows knit in concern. “baby, you can’t solve integrals in your head.”

“i have a very strong brain.”

satoru prays for some strength of his own. okay—okay. he purses his lip. “so strong, baby. do you want to walk me through your process?”

you frown in his neck.

“first of all,” you tug his collar, lashes fluttering, “i looked at the numbers.”

“good job.”

“then,” you tug his earlobe, “i got bored.”

“oh.”

satoru sighs—of course you did. he purses his lip, blue eyes flitting across the page as his spoiled pretty angel hugs his neck; dreary and tired and ‘bored’ in his lap. finals are coming up and things are not looking good for you. he prays for strength (again).

you seem to have found some strength of your own. gojo’s not sure when you pick up your phone (which he had confiscated from you earlier), but while he stares into the distance and laments your guaranteed failure, you scroll through your phone with a grin on your lips.

“toru, look at this bag,” you coo, pushing the bright screen to his face. “it’s so pink and pretty, just like me.”

“just like you,” he repeats, still staring into the distance.

“wow, nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” you kick your feet in his lap. “baby, can i buy it?” you coo, voice sweet.

satoru blinks out of his daze. he glances at the phone screen—then at you, suddenly sweet & bright & brimming with energy. his thumb brushes your inner thigh. “baby, you’re supposed to be studying.”

“i am studying,” you frown, and gojo wants to kiss it off again. “i’m studying consumer behavior. can i have your card?”

there are three reasons gojo satoru should not give you his card.

you are going to fail your exams.

you haven’t double-checked if the price is in CAD or USD.

you are going to fail your exams.

gojo lets you have his card.

you squeal, hopping off his lap to retrieve his wallet in the other room. satoru leans back against his desk chair. in front of him, his desk is a mess of opened books & littered pencils, a ‘get good grades!’ subliminal playing on your mini speaker because you insisted the whispered affirmations would guarantee your success. gojo sighs.

“thank you, toru!” you sing as you pad back into the room, a skip in your step. you lean down to kiss his cheek & flop onto his bed to open his laptop. you have his wallet in your hands, and gojo satoru already knows you will not double check the currency.

gojo closes your textbook with a sigh. better luck next time.

ac: (see alt text!) @ to00fu

DISTRACTIONS, end.

“It's too late for that, John.” Kate's tinny, clipped voice filtered down the landline receiver in Captain Jonathan Price's cramped office. The phone clutched between his ear and shoulder as he fought to not grind his teeth.

The large man slowly rested back into his worn leather chair as he went through the motions of preparing a much needed cigar. Of course, Kate Laswell would know about his team's plight before he even got around to properly asking her for assistance. Brows pinching together, “... meaning?” he exasperated, cockney tone equally as clipped.

“You've pushed the board past their breaking point, John. This is the seventh GOOD medic that's requested a transfer out of your team... Did you think they would turn an eye forever?” The rather tired Station Chief held no hands as she laid John's predicament out to the man.

“I've kept them at bay for as long as I could, but you know every unit needs a dedicated medic. You can't expect me to convince the higher ups that dedicated field care isn't a requirement of highly trained task forces. They want their assets taken care of for as long as possible.” The woman sighed as John lit the end of his cigar and listened. One thing he'd learned to do quickly into his military was to know when to keep his mouth shut. This is one of those times.

John could only manage a grunt in reply as he took in a mouthful of smoke and braced, a hair's breath, into his chair. Of course, he knew that he couldn't keep his men hidden from the demands of the higher-ups forever. Knew they wouldn't stand for the unit's break in protocol and regularity. But the part of him that wasn't the Captain, that wasn't the hardened soldier, had hoped they had had more time.

He can practically hear the woman roll her eyes through the phone as he fails to provide a proper response. “... Clarke, I can understand, John. He was too bullheaded to handle Ghost on the best of days, but Taafee was an exceptional soldier and a top-tier medic! What could your men and you POSSIBLY be doing to make them fold in under a month!? A month, John! That's not even enough time to properly acclimate to base.” Kate doesn't relent in her questioning of her, typically collected, colleague behaving like... like such a schoolboy.

As concerned and perplexed as John feigned to be for his superiors, he couldn't convince Kate that he didn't know how his men were pushing out medic after medic. No. Kate had known him for too long, worked with him for too long to convince her that he didn't know how his own men operated. Taking a drag of his cigar, John released a rush of air and smoke through his nose as if he were some dissatisfied dragon. If he were truly honest with himself and Kate, he would acknowledge that his boys, and him included, often drifted into their own small universe together.

Sometime after all of them had sat down and finally had ‘the talk’ regarding their budding relationships with one another, Gaz and Soap having had to drag the other two into doing so, John had realized that they all were drawn to one another. Not just in the sense that their highly specialized set of military skills drew them all together. No. They sought one another out after hours of training recruits, between practice at the gun range and dinner in the mess hall, when reports were due and they didn't quite feel like being alone while rushing to write it, and when there was just nothing left to do for the day.

Whether his boys noticed themselves, well, he wasn’t completely sure. But he'd noticed the team unintentionally forgetting about the string of additions to the taskforce over the last year and a half. Unless it was directly related to the assignment set before them, they all still gravitated around one another. Having built orbits circling each other as their intimacy grew and having functioned as a four person task force for years made it hard for them to remember to include new additions to the team.

Some part of John wished it was something more petty, that it was something he could easily correct but… this was purely unintentional.

The team had its habits, not that that would be a justifiable reason for Kate. “You know how the lads are, Kate, bullheaded. The whole lot of ‘em. The soldiers they've sent over just haven't meshed right with the team,” he replied stiffly, like the words didn't feel right coming off his tongue. An uneasy silence settled between them as the call turned into a quiet standoff, both of them waiting for, hoping, the other to give in and comply.

“Mesh right?” Kate questioned incredulously, tone skirting the realm of chastising, “It shouldn't matter if they mesh well! You're all trained professionals. What matters is if they can save your lives.”

”We can save ourselves, ‘don't need a bloody medic to compress a wound or use a disinfectant packet.” John managed to defend between puffing on his cigar. His free hand drummed an agitated beat along his desk.

A short bark of a laugh comes down the line from Kate, both of them well aware of how paperthin his rebuttal was. “John. A medic would have stopped Soap's head wound in Los Almas from being so touch and go.” The American says flatly but not unkind. The unfiltered reminder of Soaps’ almost death rattling him in a way he hadn't expected. Conversation dying up on his tongue.

They had dealt with Johnny almost dying on them during the fiasco that was the Los Almas joint assignment. Ghost and Gaz had been inconsolable, Christ. He'd been barely able to hold it together between attending debriefings and staying vigil outside Soap's hospital room. And now they were finally settling back into their old rhythm only for it to be upheaved.

As the silence lay between them once more, Kate continued, “I won’t sugar coat it, John..” Not that she ever sugar coated anything in the years he’d known Laswell, “... the Brass is at its wits end with the sheer amount of medics that have transferred out of the task force. So much so that there is talk of disbanding the 141 until one of your boys is certified as a field medic..” The implications of that hanging between them, thick and cloying in John’s lungs like the cigar smoke already there. That would entail one of them being sent off to receive their nursing degree at a civilian university… meaning they would be disbanded for at least three years… four to five if he factored in the shadowing done in active hospitals. Enough time for the Brass to reason that the 141 wasn't needed anymore once one of the men had the education. Enough time to divide his lovers into new units and away from one another permanently. His mind spiraled through possible outcomes, none of them realistically positive.

“Kate…” John started in, about to ask for even a sliver of assistance, something to give him time to find a way out of the situation. Only to be cut off by Laswell as she offered a proverbial hand, "That's why you’re going to accept my recommendation for a medic with no complaints,” it was firm, an offer out of the hole he had let his team dig, that he couldn't refuse.

John's mouth opened as if he was going to quip back, but his voice fell short. This wasn't the time to have a proverbial dick measuring contest with his colleagues over who was going to take control of the situation. Chewing on his ego, he acquiesced, “Alright… send over their file.” Putting his men above his pride, he listens as Kate hums pleasantly and informs him that his new medic will be there in two weeks. Two weeks to somehow convince them all that this is what they needed, whether they truly wanted it or not.

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