#black bops

Bell’s having a great time, or can you even tell?

Bell’s a living meme.

Frank Woods x Medic!Reader-no gender, no warnings on this one

The rumors started subtly. A passing glance. A touch that lingered half a second too long. Woods’ habit of sticking close whenever you were in the field, always keeping you in his line of sight.

It wasn’t unusual for Woods to be protective—he watched over the entire team like a damn hawk—but with you? It was different. More deliberate. More personal. The others noticed.

“Y’know,” Hudson muttered one evening at base, eyes flicking toward where Woods stood beside you at the briefing table, “he doesn’t hover like that over anyone else.”

Mason snorted, arms crossed. “Woods? Nah, come on. He’s just—”

“Just what?” Adler cut in. “Just watching their six a little too much? Just finding every excuse to be next to ‘em? Just nearly broke a guy’s arm for getting a little too friendly last week?”

Mason paused. “…Shit. Maybe.”

The team started making a game of it. Not in a cruel way, but in the way soldiers do when they’re stuck in the same hell together and need something—anything—to keep morale up.

Mason started keeping count of how many times Woods said your name in a day. (The record stood at twenty-seven.) Weaver made a point to watch Woods’ expression whenever you laughed, smirking whenever he saw the telltale softening around the man’s eyes. Even Hudson, the most skeptical of the bunch, muttered a knowing huh when Woods immediately handed you his canteen after a long mission, before you even had a chance to ask.

You, of course, were oblivious. Or at least pretending to be.

One evening, the teasing hit a peak.

You were patching up Mason after a rough skirmish, hands steady as you worked. Woods leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with that ever-present gaze of his.

“Y’know, Woods,” Mason drawled, wincing as you tightened a bandage, “you could just admit it.”

“Admit what?” Woods grunted.

Mason smirked. “That you’ve got it bad.”

The room went still. You froze mid-motion, heart hammering in your chest.

Woods scoffed, but there was something—something—behind his voice. “You talk too much, Mason.”

Mason chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

You dared a glance at Woods. He wasn’t looking at Mason. He was looking at you. And for the first time, you saw it—the truth written all over his face, clear as day.

The rumors weren’t just rumors.

Not anymore.

—

You chose to ignore it. You had to.

Even when you felt Woods’ eyes on you, burning, heavy, searching. Even when Mason’s words settled in your chest, rattling around like a stray bullet.

Because it didn’t make sense. He didn’t make sense.

Frank Woods—loud, reckless, sharp as a damn blade, the kind of man who chewed up war and spit it back out—liking you? Wanting you like that?

It was easier to pretend. Easier to brush off the heat that crept up your neck whenever he was close, whenever his voice dipped just a little lower when he said your name.

And God, it wasn’t like you didn’t want him. You’d had a thing for Woods longer than you cared to admit.

Tall, mean, all man.

He was everything you weren’t.

Where he stormed into danger, you stayed back, steady hands stitching the team together when they inevitably fell apart. Where he cracked jokes and barked orders, you let yourself fade into the background, content to play your part.

But then—

Then there were moments.

Like now, when you finally tore your gaze from Mason’s knowing smirk and dared to look at Woods.

He hadn’t moved from the doorway, still leaning against the frame like it was the only thing keeping him steady. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were locked onto yours.

And you swore, just for a second, something in your chest tilted.

“…I should finish this,” you mumbled, turning back to Mason, trying to ignore how unsteady your voice felt.

Mason didn’t say anything, but his smirk widened.

Woods exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed off the doorframe.

“Don’t let him get in your head, Doc,” he muttered as he walked past, voice quieter than usual.

But the thing was—he already had.

—

The base was quiet, save for the distant hum of generators and the occasional murmur of voices from the night shift. You sat outside near the barracks, a cup of lukewarm coffee in your hands, watching the smoke from Woods’ cigarette curl into the night air.

Neither of you had spoken much since earlier that day, since Mason’s comment. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That nothing had changed.

But you could still feel it.

The weight of Woods’ stare. The way he always seemed to find an excuse to be near you. Tonight wasn't different. The way his voice softened—not much, but enough—when he spoke to you.

The rumors. The looks. The possibility of it all.

“You’re quiet,” Woods finally muttered, tapping ash off the edge of his cigar. “More than usual.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Didn’t know you paid that much attention.”

His brow twitched. “I do.”

Your fingers tightened around your cup.

A beat of silence. A long, stretching pause where you swore the night got heavier, pressing against your skin.

“…Is it true?” You blurted before you could stop yourself.

Woods shifted beside you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Is what true?”

You exhaled sharply, eyes flickering to the ground. “What Alex say.”

Silence again. But this time, it wasn’t empty.

It was charged.

Then Woods sighed, running a hand through his hair, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. When he finally spoke, his voice was different—gruff, but quieter.

“He talks too damn much.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smirked, shaking his head. “No, it ain’t.”

You swallowed. Your pulse thrummed at your throat. “Frank—”

He turned to you then, really looking at you, his gaze intense in a way that made your breath hitch.

“I ain’t good with this kinda shit,” he admitted, voice low. “Never have been. But yeah, doc, it’s true.”

Your heart nearly stopped.

Before you could process it, before you could say anything, he reached over, plucked the half-empty coffee cup from your hands, and took a sip, like he hadn’t just turned your whole damn world upside down.

You stared.

“…You just—”

“Didn’t wanna waste it,” he muttered, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

You wanted to laugh, wanted to say something, but all you could do was shake your head, cheeks warm, heart pounding.

The cool air biting at your skin, but you barely felt it. Not with Woods sitting so damn close. Not with your mind reeling from his words.

It’s true.

He said it so easily, so plainly, like it was just another fact of war, just another mission brief. But it wasn’t. Not to you.

“…You really mean that?” you finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Woods huffed, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He leaned back, balancing his cigar between his fingers. “Kinda figured you’d noticed by now.”

You let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “Noticed what, exactly?”

He turned his head to you, eyes sharp and unreadable. “That I got a thing for you, Doc.”

Your stomach flipped, and your fingers curled into your lap to keep yourself steady. “Frank—”

“I ain’t expectin’ anything,” he cut in, voice rougher now, like he was forcing the words out before he could take them back. “Just—” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wanted you to know. I don’t do this shit often, and I sure as hell ain’t good at it, but… it’s been there a while.”

How long? You wanted to ask.

How the hell did I miss it?

Because now, looking back, it was obvious. The way he always stood between you and danger. The way he lingered near your side after missions, making sure you were in one piece. The way his voice lost its usual edge when he spoke to you, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful.

The realization hit you like a damn freight train.

“…I don’t know what to say,” you admitted, voice small.

Woods chuckled, the sound low and warm. “For once, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, but the teasing only made your pulse quicken. He was still watching you, still waiting, like he needed some kind of answer—even if he’d never ask for it outright.

So, instead of speaking, you reached over and took the burning cigarette from his fingers.

And then, before you could lose your nerve, you brought it to your lips and took a breathe in.

Woods froze. His gaze flickered to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“…Really?”

You shrugged, barely biting back a smile. “Didn’t wanna waste it.”

A beat of silence—then a bark of laughter, loud and unrestrained, as Woods shook his head.

“Jesus, Doc. You’re somethin’ else.”

You weren’t sure what this meant, what would come next—but for now, with Woods looking at you like that, it didn’t feel so cold anymore.

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This was hard to write and I definitely did cry at least once in the process…

You're having nightmares at the safe house, but no worries—you have Frank again. Well, sort of. The thing is, he's been distant the past years since he lost his legs, and you're not sure if he actually wants to talk to you at all anymore. So, after you get the courage to go to the mission room, knowing that’s where he was sleeping.

Peeking into the room, you see Frank sitting up against the wall on the cot, eyes shut, arms crossed. Hearing footsteps, he looked over to the large doorway. He still wasn't used to seeing you again, but Frank knew why you had come to him in the middle of the night. After all, he wasn't immune to the effects of war, and you used to seek comfort in each other before he shut you out.

You stood there looking at each other until he rolled his eyes and lifted his blanket, offering you what little room the cot he had left. Before you lay down next to him, he had to take a couple moments to shimmy down the flimsy makeshift bed. As hard as it was to be around you again, it was even more challenging when he had to do things ‘differently’ now. But if you cared or noticed, you didn't say anything and let him get comfortable, at least as comfortable as he could.

He tried calming his racing heart, but it just got worse when you settled against him. How long had it been? Too long. Way too long. Your nerves were at the same level as his. Feeling him against you once again was a little emotional. Shutting your eyes to try to calm down. There’s a dull ache in your heart, knowing he still trusts you even if he doesn’t want you to see him like this.

You cling to him tighter, scared he’ll change his mind and tell you to leave. Your head on his chest tells you his heart is beating the same way. After minutes of silence, you move your leg onto him to get a little more comfortable, asking him, “Is this ok?” Referring to your leg on his, he hums, not wanting to think about what made him leave you, but it's enough of an answer for you to stay.

He was tense, which ultimately was like him, but it was a different kind of strain. Only getting older and now unable to walk was starting to make living more and more painful. Something that his muscles recognized. He thought he had trouble sleeping before, but now it was impossible. Not just because of the disability but because he pushed the only thing that gave him comfort away.

Soft and tenderly, sinking into his side like you did years ago shouldn’t be this painful. For the first time in a long time, it wasn't his legs that hurt the most. It was his heart.

If only he wasn't so prideful.

If he wasn’t stubborn.

If he’d just ask for help, for once.

But then… he wouldn’t be Frank Woods. So you stayed quiet, letting the battle of both your emotions wage war on each other as you held on tight to one another. Basking in the heat of the hot blood pumping through his veins. Proof that he was still here, still alive. It wasn’t fair to be mad at him.

A quick gasp out of your lungs as a rough hand grabbed your arm and pulled the weight of you almost entirely on top of the man. “I’m not made of glass, sweetheart.”

Looking up with wide eyes, you saw his own unmoving from the ceiling. It was his first time speaking to you directly since you got to the safe house. Cautiously resting your head into the dip of his neck, the sudden movement was a reminder of how strong he really was. And the nickname, well, it just put more heat into your pumping heart.

Rubbing his chest, you nuzzled into his neck, blinking back tears. Slowly, you bring the hand feeling over his steadily increased heartbeat to his face. Scratching his beard on the side of his jaw, he turned his head toward you and finally pierced you with icy eyes.

He shouldn’t have pushed you away, but he couldn’t change the past. He knew that all too well. Having you here at the Rook suddenly wasn’t a punishment. Having you against him again was the most healed that Frank had felt in years.

Not that he’d ever admit that…

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Frank in his tits out era. My personal favorite.

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Me when I see this after I’m already starting writing something like this just for him and it’s turning out SO good.

I love that you requested this anon thank you so much. I know you probably didn’t want this uhhh this nasty. But hey it’s Reznov what did you expect me to do? Big thanks to @gunnrblze for making me feel not like I’m not fucking crazy. I also did not translate because I’m naughty and I wanted to get this up for you. I was way too excited. I’ll probably go back and put in translations. Also I am still learning Russian so if it’s not great take it with a grain of salt.

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С тобой ~ With you

This is SMUT, and pookies I went hard on it

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The door had barely closed before you were on him.

Viktor had hardly taken a step inside when your hands found him—urgent, trembling, desperate. His coat was heavy with the weight of war, but you didn’t care. You just needed it off. You needed him.

His hands caught your wrists before you could work the buttons, his grip tight, firm. A warning. “Ты скучала по мне, да?”

Your breath hitched, eyes wide as you nodded, your fingers curling against his chest. “Of course I did.”

His sharp blue eyes darkened, flickering down just as your robe shifted open, revealing the soft lace beneath. His jaw clenched. The contrast between you—delicate, warm, untouched by war—only made the fire inside him burn hotter.

“You wear this for me?” His voice was low, rough, edged with something unreadable.

You swallowed, heart racing. “I hoped you’d like it.”

“Like it?” He let out a sharp breath, one that almost sounded like a laugh. His fingers ghosted over your waist, tracing the lace-covered skin. “Ты должна была знать лучше, моя любовь.”

And yet, he let you continue.

You kissed him, standing on your toes to press your lips against his, tasting the remnants of cold wind and gunpowder. He let you. He let you unbutton his coat, sliding the heavy fabric off his broad shoulders. He let you work on his belt, trembling fingers tugging at it as you led him back through the house—to the bedroom that had been empty without him.

He let you.

But the moment you tried to push him back onto the bed, everything changed.

That look—commanding, dark, heavy—froze you in place. A slow smirk curled his lips, but it was devoid of humor. His hands settled on your hips, holding you still.

“На колени,” he ordered.

Heat shot through you so quickly it was dizzying. His tone left no room for argument.

You obeyed.

Your knees hit the floor, eyes fluttering up to meet his as he towered above you. The weight of his gaze bore down on you, drinking in the sight of you at his feet, breathless and wanting.

“You whine so much, солнышко,” he mused, running a hand through your hair, gripping just enough to make you gasp. “So impatient. So desperate.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your thighs together.

His thumb traced your lower lip before slipping into your mouth, pressing down against your tongue. “You need to learn patience,” he murmured, watching as you instinctively sucked, your lips closing around his thumb.

A low growl rumbled from his chest.

“Perhaps I should keep you like this for a while,” he mused, tilting his head, his other hand slowly undoing his belt. “Make you earn what you want.”

Your breath hitched. “Please,” you whispered around his thumb, voice shaking.

That smirk deepened, and he finally removed his glove, brushing his bare fingers down your cheek.

The heat between you was suffocating.

Viktor undid his belt with practiced ease, the leather slipping free with a quiet whip before it hit the floor. You could barely breathe as he pushed down his trousers, freeing himself.

And there he was—thick, heavy, already half-hard, the sheer size of him enough to make your mouth water. He was so close, nearly brushing your lips, but you knew better than to act without permission. Still, it had been so long. You couldn’t help yourself—you leaned in, mouth parting, desperate for even one taste.

But he was faster.

His fingers tangled in your hair and yanked you back, forcing your eyes to his. He tsk’ed lowly, amusement laced with something darker.

“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, his grip tightening just enough to make you shiver. “So desperate for me already?”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice shaking, already on the verge of begging. Maybe you should just get it over with—drop your pride, plead for him to use you the way you needed. But it was too late.

He saw it in your eyes. He knew.

Viktor hummed, his grip loosening in your hair just enough for his free hand to wrap around himself. Your mouth fell open, eager, but instead of giving you what you wanted, he dragged himself over your cheek, smearing the slick heat of him against your skin.

Your tongue flicked out instinctively, desperate for a taste, but he refused you.

“Нет, нет,” he murmured, smirking as he thrust against your face, rubbing himself along the soft heat of your lips, the curve of your cheek. His cock twitched against your skin, hot and leaking, his breath shuddering out of him as he humped against you like he couldn’t resist.

“Моя маленькая жена,” he groaned, his voice husky and ruined, as if he was the one breaking. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

Your fingers clenched against your thighs, your body trembling. “Yes,” you whispered, but it wasn’t enough.

“Say it.” His voice was a low growl now, thick with the weight of his native tongue. “Say how much you missed me.”

“I missed you,” you gasped, tilting your head up, trying again to get him into your mouth, but he only chuckled.

His thumb dragged down your lips before pressing against your tongue, forcing your mouth open wider. “No,” he murmured. “Tell me exactly what you missed, моя сладкая девочка.”

You whimpered, your pride slipping with every stroke of him against your face.

“Missed your cock,” you finally admitted, your voice breaking. “Missed—missed the way you use me. Need you, Viktor, please—”

That was it. That was all he needed.

His grip in your hair tightened, his body shuddering. “Хорошая девочка,” he murmured, his control snapping.

Viktor was never a patient man.

Not on the battlefield. Not in life. And certainly not when it came to you.

The moment he had you where he wanted—bare, breathless, trembling beneath him—he moved.

With little effort, he dragged you up onto the bed, the same one he had made for you with his own hands, the wooden frame covered in pelts from animals he had hunted, skinned, and laid beneath you with purpose. His hands had built this place, this life, for you. And now, he was going to remind you exactly who you belonged to.

The moment your back hit the soft furs, he was on you, kissing you feverishly, his lips bruising, desperate. Hands roamed—gripping, tugging, taking—until both of you were stripped bare. Clothes hit the floor in frantic movements, the air thick with heat, with need, with months of longing.

And yet, you had the audacity to squirm away.

Viktor growled low in his throat, his sharp blue eyes locking onto you. Too far. You had dared to put space between the two of you?

No. That would not do.

His large hand wrapped around your ankle, yanking you down the bed with a sharp pull. A carefree shriek escaped you, but the sound quickly turned into a breathless laugh when he hauled you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly by your thighs.

“Think you can run from me, моя любовь?” His voice was thick, gravelly, spoken right against your ear as he crushed you to his chest. His arms tightened around you—strong, unyielding, yours.

You gasped, clinging to him, feeling every inch of him—hot, hard, ready—pressed flush against you. “I wasn’t—”

“Lies,” he cut you off, his lips tracing over your jaw, nipping at your throat. His fingers dug into your thighs, his grip possessive, unrelenting. “I have been gone too long. You ache for me, yes?”

You nodded frantically, fingers tangling in his hair. “Yes—”

Viktor smirked against your neck.

“Then I will not make you wait any longer.”

And with that, he dropped you back onto the bed, spreading your thighs wide as he settled between them, his broad body caging you in.

“Держись, моя маленькая жена,” he murmured, lining himself up, his eyes locking onto yours.

The moment Viktor thrust inside you, there was no resistance—only the slick heat of your body taking him in, stretching to accommodate his sheer size. But it burned in the best way, stealing the breath from your lungs, forcing a gasped cry from your lips as your fingers clung to his broad shoulders.

And he didn’t go easy on you.

No, there was no gentleness here. No slow, careful reacquainting of bodies after months apart. Viktor was not a man of patience, and now that he had you—fully, completely—he took you as if reclaiming something he had lost.

His hands gripped your thighs, forcing them higher, spreading you even wider beneath him. His body caged you in, held you down, his weight pressing you into the soft furs below. He growled low against your ear, the sound thick with hunger, relief, the sheer need to have you.

“Ты моя,” he rasped, pounding into you, his thrusts deep and unrelenting, leaving no room for doubt. “Ты всегда была моей.”

Your head tipped back, gasping, nails dragging down his back. “Yes—Viktor, please—”

He groaned, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot against your lips. “You beg so sweetly, моя любовь,” he murmured, before grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head. “But I do not think you deserve mercy tonight.”

A strangled moan escaped you, your body arching as he fucked you into the bed, unrelenting, ruthless, his. The force of each snap of his hips sent shocks of pleasure curling up your spine, your legs shaking where they clung around his waist.

“You needed this, didn’t you?” he teased, his lips trailing over your jaw, down your throat, biting down just enough to make you feel it. “All those nights alone, aching, desperate for me.”

You nodded frantically, beyond words, beyond thought.

He chuckled darkly, his hands tightening on your wrists, holding you still as he drove himself deeper, deeper—until all you could do was take it.

“Then take it, солнышко,” he groaned against your lips, his body overwhelming yours, drowning you in his heat, his touch, his everything. “Take what I give you.”

Viktor had always been a man of iron will, a soldier hardened by war, by loss, by sacrifice. But you—you had always been his weakness.

And now, after months without you, feeling your body wrapped around him, squeezing him so tight, he knew he wouldn’t last long.

It was your fault.

And he made that very clear.

His grip on your wrists tightened, his pace turning almost desperate, hips slamming into yours with a force that left you breathless. The bed creaked under his weight, the furs soft beneath your sweat-slick skin as he took you the way he had ached to for too long.

“Ты…чертова…проблема,” he growled between thrusts, voice rough, breaking, as if he was angry about how easily you undid him. “How can I—hold back—when you feel like this?”

You gasped, back arching, fingers curling against his hold, desperate to touch him. “Viktor—”

“Нет!” His voice was sharp, commanding, his grip tightening further, forcing you to take every thrust, every ounce of his frustration, his hunger, his love. “This is your fault, солнышко.” His lips brushed against your jaw, your ear, his breath ragged, heated. “You tempt me—” He slammed inside you, making you cry out. “Torture me.”

His hips stuttered, his muscles tensing, his body losing control. The heat between you was unbearable, suffocating, drowning him in you, the scent of your skin, the way you clung to him, your desperate moans filling the air.

“Грязная девочка,” he rasped, his voice thick, wrecked. “Making me come so fast. After all this time?”

You whimpered, nodding frantically, your body tightening around him, dragging him under.

“Ах, сука,” he groaned, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you, his weight pressing you deep into the bed as he claimed you. He let go of your wrists only to wrap his arms around you, crushing you against him, burying his face into your neck as he rode out his release with deep, slow thrusts that left you whimpering.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, his breath heavy, ragged against your skin. His fingers traced over your ribs, your hips, your thighs—like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

Viktor was still inside you when he finally caught his breath, his heavy weight pinning you to the furs beneath him. His chest rose and fell against yours, the heat between you unbearable, but neither of you moved.

You whined softly as he throbbed within you, the aftershocks of his release sending weak tremors through your body. Your thighs trembled where they clung around his waist, the oversensitivity making you squirm, but his hands—large, warm, possessive—settled on your hips, holding you still.

A low hum rumbled in his chest as he lifted himself just slightly, enough to look down at you—his wife.

And God, what a sight you were.

Your skin glowed with the sheen of sweat, your hair fanned out over the pillows, your lips swollen from his kisses. There was a dazed haze in your eyes, exhaustion and satisfaction wrapped together, and he could still feel your walls fluttering weakly around him. Trying to take more of him, even though he had already pushed you to your limits.

His fingers traced over your ribs, slow, reverent, as if memorizing every inch of your body all over again.

“Моя красивая жена,” he murmured, voice softer now, a stark contrast to the way he had taken you moments before. His thumb brushed over your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You take me so well.”

You barely managed to hum in response, your limbs heavy, your body utterly ruined from his touch.

Viktor smirked at that, leaning down to press a softer kiss to your lips—lingering, unhurried. “Are you all right, моя любовь?”

You nodded, too tired to speak, instead wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him close, tucking yourself against him.

His arms encircled you, his warmth sinking into your skin, and for the first time in months, he breathed.

The war, the blood, the chaos—it was all so far away.

Here, there was only you.

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