#old fic

The auditorium erupted in laughter at first, cruel and raucous, echoing off the walls. You stood there, trembling, your hands balled into fists at your sides. You tried to hold your head high, to keep your voice steady as you stumbled through the closing lines of your speech, but the tears gathering in your eyes betrayed you. The laughter turned to murmurs, the audience shifting awkwardly as they realized the prank had been more vicious than amusing. You didn’t wait for the teacher to dismiss you. With your vision blurred and your heart hammering in your chest, you fled, bolting through the double doors and into the hallway, leaving a trail of feathers in your wake.

Lauren watched you go, her smirk faltering as guilt began to creep in. She didn’t regret the prank itself—humiliating you was a pastime she enjoyed far too much—but the aftermath felt wrong. You were supposed to shout at her, maybe shove her a little, but then brush it off like you always did. The way you ran, the way your shoulders shook as you fought back sobs, made her stomach twist unpleasantly. But instead of confronting that feeling, she dismissed it, her mind already spinning excuses. It wasn’t my fault, she reasoned. I told them to use a little paint, not drench you like that. If anything, I’m the victim here for trusting such idiots to handle the details.

Meanwhile, you didn’t stop running until you reached home, your chest burning and your legs aching. The moment you slammed the front door behind you, the weight of it all came crashing down. Your father, who had been in the kitchen preparing lunch, rushed out at the noise, gripping a frying pan defensively. The sight of you—soaked in pink paint, feathers clinging to your clothes, your face streaked with tears—stopped him in his tracks. His brow furrowed, his expression shifting from alarm to deep concern as he set the pan down and approached you.

“Bumblebee?” he said softly, the childhood nickname falling from his lips like a plea. It was a name that had always brought you comfort, a reminder of simpler times when the world felt safe. But now, it only made you cry harder. Your father’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close despite the mess you were making of his shirt. “Hey, hey. What happened? Talk to me.” His voice was steady, calm, the way it always was when you needed him most.

It took several minutes for you to calm down enough to speak, the words tumbling out between shaky breaths. “Th-That horrible asshole—Lauren McCanister—she dumped paint on me… and feathers… d-during my speech!” Your voice cracked as you relived the humiliation, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “Everyone laughed at me, Dad. I—I can’t go back there. I won’t.”

Your father’s jaw tightened, his hand continuing to rub soothing circles on your back even as anger began to boil in his chest. He’d tried to protect you from Lauren before, reporting her behavior to the school, but nothing ever came of it. They always brushed him off, citing Julie McCanister’s influence and how they couldn’t afford to upset someone so powerful. Julie, his old friend. The same woman who had once promised him that she’d take care of things.

“She’s done this before,” your father murmured, more to himself than to you. “But this… this is too far.”

He held you close until you finally fell asleep from exhaustion, your head resting against his chest. As he stroked your hair, careful not to disturb the dried paint, he made a silent vow. No more warnings, no more waiting for the school to act. He would talk to your mother tonight, convince her to transfer you somewhere safe. It didn’t matter how prestigious this school was or how much they had raved about your scholarship. Nothing was worth watching his child suffer like this.

When your mother came home later that evening, she froze in the doorway, taking in the scene before her. The couch was a mess of pink stains and feathers, the smell of cheap paint lingering in the air. You were curled up against your father, your breathing soft and even as you slept. Her eyes darted to your tear-streaked face, her hands clenching at her sides. “What the hell happened?” she asked, her voice low and sharp.

“Lauren McCanister happened,” your father replied, his tone as cold as hers. “And we’re pulling Bumblebee out of that damn school. No more arguments.”

The next morning, Lauren waited for you at the school gate, a box of cupcakes cradled in her hands. She’d stayed up all night baking them, decorating each one with pink frosting and delicate sugar flowers in the colors she knew you liked. It was the least she could do, she thought, to make things right. She imagined your face lighting up when she handed them to you, your gratitude shining through as you forgave her.

But as the minutes ticked by, you never showed. Lauren’s initial confidence began to waver. Maybe you were avoiding her? That was fine—she’d just drop the cupcakes off at your house later. By second period, your seat in class was still empty. Her stomach twisted uneasily, a feeling she didn’t like and didn’t want to name. You were probably embarrassed, she told herself. That was normal. She’d simply have to make a grander gesture to show you how much she cared.

By lunchtime, Lauren had made up her mind. She excused herself from class and drove to your house, stopping at a florist along the way to pick up a bouquet of roses. She didn’t bother thinking about whether you’d actually want to see her. In her mind, you would be touched by her effort, maybe even a little flattered.

When Lauren’s bright pink car pulled up in front of your house, your father watched her from the window, his eyes narrowing. He recognized her instantly, her confident stride and saccharine smile enough to reignite his simmering anger. Closing the curtains, he turned back toward your room, where you were still resting. “Don’t worry about it, Bumblebee,” he murmured. “We’re leaving this all behind.”

Outside, Lauren knocked on the door, her smile faltering slightly when no one answered. Still, she wasn’t discouraged. If anything, the silence only fueled her resolve. You were probably overwhelmed, too shy to face her after everything. That was fine. She could wait as long as it took. After all, she thought with a small, possessive smile, you’re worth it.

By the sixth day, Lauren’s desperation had transformed into an all-consuming fire. The gnawing pit in her stomach had grown so unbearable it felt like it might swallow her whole. The first few days had been torturous enough, but this—this was a new kind of torment. Every second you remained absent was a fresh cut to her already fragile composure. She couldn’t focus in class, the once dull drone of her teachers now grating on her ears. Her assignments lay forgotten in her bag, crumpled and torn from where she’d scribbled your name again and again, trying to imagine what you were doing, where you could be. The emptiness of your seat, the silence in the halls where your laugh should have been, became unbearable reminders of the void you’d left behind.

Lauren tried to convince herself that it was all a misunderstanding, some elaborate punishment you’d devised to make her sweat. That had to be it. You were teaching her a lesson, playing hard to get. But every logical explanation she clung to unraveled the moment she saw the look on your face that day, burned into her memory like a cruel brand. The raw betrayal, the hatred—no, she refused to believe you could hate her. Not when she had spent so much time thinking about you, dreaming about you, needing you.

By lunchtime, she couldn’t take it anymore. Subtlety, composure—those were distant memories, drowned in the tidal wave of her obsession. She stormed into the principal’s office, barely noticing the shocked expression of the secretary as she barreled past. Her hair was disheveled, her uniform rumpled as though she’d slept in it for days. A week of sleepless nights and constant anxiety had taken its toll, and the cracks in her once-perfect image were glaringly obvious.

“Where is Y/N?” she demanded, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear as she planted herself in front of the principal’s desk. The man glanced up, startled, but Lauren didn’t wait for an invitation. “I know you know something. Tell me where they are.” Her words were sharp, her tone teetering on the edge of hysteria, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

The principal studied her for a moment, his tired eyes narrowing as if weighing his options. He was used to Lauren McCanister’s dramatics, her entitlement, her fiery temper. But there was something different in her this time, something wild and unhinged that made him hesitate.

“Miss McCanister,” he began cautiously, lacing his fingers together, “I understand you’re worried about your classmate, but their attendance is not your concern. If you’re that curious, perhaps you should reach out to their parents—”

“Don’t you dare deflect,” she interrupted, slamming her palms onto the desk with a force that startled even herself. Her breath hitched as she leaned forward, her eyes burning with a desperate light. “You’re hiding something. I know you are. Just tell me where they are!” Her voice cracked at the end, the raw emotion spilling over like a dam breaking under pressure.

The principal frowned, his gaze flicking to the photo of a young Julie McCanister holding the noble peace prize hanging on the wall. He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “Fine,” he said at last, his voice low but firm. “Since I doubt you’ll let this go otherwise… They had transferred schools.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. Lauren blinked, her mind struggling to process his words as though he’d spoken in a language she didn’t understand. The air in the room felt heavy, suffocating, as her heart thundered in her chest. “Transferred?” she echoed, the word tasting foreign and bitter on her tongue.

“Yes,” he replied matter-of-factly, clearly unbothered by the devastation he had just unleashed. “Their mother received a significant job opportunity in another city—an excellent position, from what I understand. The family moved earlier this week.”

Lauren staggered back, her knees threatening to give out as her world shattered into a million jagged pieces. Her ears rang, drowning out the principal’s next words. Moved? Another city? No, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. You wouldn’t leave her—not like this. Not without saying goodbye.

She didn’t know how she made it out of the office, her legs carrying her blindly through the hallways as her mind spiraled into chaos. Every step felt like she was sinking deeper into quicksand, the weight of your absence crushing her chest. The bustling noise of students and teachers faded into a distant hum as she stumbled into the bathroom, locking herself in a stall before collapsing onto the cold tile floor.

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she clutched her head, nails digging into her scalp. The thought of you—so far away, out of her reach—was unbearable. You were her world, her reason for waking up in the morning, for breathing, for existing. Without you, there was nothing. Just this emptiness, this gnawing ache that no amount of tears or apologies could soothe.

“No,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling as she rocked back and forth. “No, this isn’t over. This can’t be over.” Her hands clenched into fists, her nails biting into her palms as a twisted determination began to take root in her mind. “I’ll find you. I’ll find you, and I’ll make you understand. You’re mine, whether you like it or not. You’ve always been mine.”

Lauren's fingers shook violently as she clutched her phone, eyes still glued to the screen, her mind unable to process what was happening. The words “deadly virus outbreak” replayed over and over in her mind, each repetition sounding more ominous than the last. The image of you out there, in the middle of Xasa, stuck in a city that was quickly descending into chaos, filled every corner of her thoughts. The idea of you being caught in the middle of something so violent, so deadly, turned her insides into a hollow, aching pit.

Her heart pounded against her chest, each beat louder than the last, and her thoughts swirled in a frantic haze. She couldn’t breathe. The air felt heavy, thick with fear and tension. No, not you. You can’t be part of this. Lauren’s mind refused to let go of the thought, the idea that you might be hurt, infected, or worse. The outbreak, this terrifying virus, was unlike anything she had imagined. The news footage of people—no—creatures, twisted and ravenous, was a nightmare made real. And you could be one of them, right now, suffering.

She dialed Julie’s number again, her thumb hitting the screen with trembling urgency. She had to reach her mother. Julie had always been the one with the answers, the one who could solve any problem, no matter how complicated or deadly. She had to be able to fix this. It wasn’t just that Lauren couldn’t bear the thought of losing you—no, this was different. Lauren couldn’t live without you. Her entire being revolved around the idea of you being there, in her life. The thought of never seeing you again, of you being lost in that city with no way out, consumed her.

She could feel the panic rising in her chest, her breath growing shallow, too rapid, as she paced in tight circles around her room. The walls felt as if they were closing in on her, the small confines of the space becoming suffocating. Every second that passed felt like a thousand years. What if she’s too late? What if it’s already too late? Her mind spiraled deeper, her stomach lurching as she imagined you caught in the thick of it. Her fingers were slick with sweat as she swiped through the screen, her eyes desperately searching for any sign of hope, any sign that you were okay.

Her phone rang. Julie.

“Mom!” Lauren’s voice cracked the moment the call connected. “It’s happening! The outbreak in Xasa—it’s real! You’ve seen it, right? You know what’s happening there. I need to get to them! I need to make sure they’re okay!” Her breath was ragged, her words tumbling out faster than she could think. “Mom, please, you have to help me! You have to do something. You’re the only one who can.”

Julie’s voice was calm on the other end, too calm. But Lauren could hear the undertone of concern in her mother’s voice. “Lauren, I know. I’m already on it.”

Julie’s words should have been reassuring, but Lauren couldn’t help the wave of nausea that washed over her. She didn’t want calm. She didn’t want rationality right now—she needed action, she needed to know that everything wasn’t slipping through her fingers.

“I have to get there,” Lauren insisted, her voice rising again. “I can’t wait around for them to fix this! I need to be there now. They’re there, Mom! In the middle of all of this. I—”

“Lauren, listen to me,” Julie interrupted, her voice sharp and authoritative, the sound of her mother taking control sending a wave of reluctant comfort through Lauren. “I know exactly how bad it is. And yes, I can help. You’ll have your chance to get there, but not by rushing in. The government has sealed the city off, and it's not safe for anyone to go in or out without proper clearance."

Lauren’s chest tightened painfully. She hadn’t even thought about the logistics—the checkpoints, the quarantine zones. Of course, that’s how it would be. The government wasn’t letting anyone out, and the military presence meant that the chances of sneaking in or getting through were slim to none. But Julie was right. Lauren needed to think, needed a plan.

But even as she tried to cling to the fragile thread of calm Julie’s words gave her, the sense of urgency burned in her chest, a fire she couldn’t douse. Her hands gripped the phone tighter, knuckles turning white, as her mind snapped back to the brutal reality of it all. Xasa was locked down. You were still there. And Lauren was powerless to reach you.

“I can get you in,” Julie continued, her voice steady now, as though she had already accepted the weight of what needed to be done. “I’ve made calls. With my connections, we can bypass the system. They’ll accept my assistance in handling the outbreak. I’ll volunteer to work directly with the government to help research and develop a treatment.”

Lauren’s breath caught. Julie’s influence, her reputation, it was enough to have the government thanking every higher power for this mercy. They couldn’t afford to refuse her.

“But that’s not what I need right now!” Lauren hissed, frustration breaking through her voice like a crack of thunder. “I need to get there. I need to know if they’re still—if they’re safe! I can’t—”

“I understand,” Julie said quietly, her tone shifting. “And you will. But we do this my way, Lauren. We can’t risk making any rash decisions. Trust me. I’ll get you there. I’ll get you the answers you need.”

Lauren’s eyes closed, her chest tight as a new kind of realization began to settle over her. The fear didn’t vanish. It never could. But there was a flicker of something deeper—a sense of purpose, something she could hold on to. Julie would get her what she needed. And if it meant waiting, if it meant relying on her mother’s brilliance to carve a path through this madness, then Lauren would endure. She had to. You were out there. And she would never stop until she brought you back.

The Air of Xasa

The hum of the transport vehicle was a dull reminder of the weight pressing on Lauren's chest. Her fingers gripped the strap of her duffel bag so tightly that her knuckles whitened, a faint tremor running through her hand. Outside the reinforced windows, the city of Xasa loomed—a sprawling mass of chaos, the streets lined with overturned cars, shattered glass, and the faint, acrid smell of smoke that managed to seep into the sealed vehicle. It wasn’t the Xasa Lauren remembered from glossy brochures or family trips. This was something else entirely: a dead city that seemed to pulse with an eerie, unnatural life.

Her mother, Julie, sat across from her, calm as ever. The older woman’s tablet screen flickered with charts and data, her perfectly manicured fingers swiping through lines of text with precision. “We’ll be entering the quarantine zone in ten minutes,” Julie said without looking up. “Remember what I told you, Lauren. Follow protocol. Do not engage anyone—or anything—unless I give you explicit permission. Am I clear?”

Lauren nodded, though her mind was far from the sterile instructions Julie had been drilling into her. Her thoughts were with you. Every step closer to Xasa only deepened the gnawing pit in her stomach. Were you still alive? If you were… were you safe? Or had the virus claimed you, turning you into one of those things?

The image of you, twisted and unrecognizable, haunted her. She’d seen the footage, the grainy videos leaked online of the infected—pale, ravenous creatures with jerky, unnatural movements and eyes devoid of humanity. She couldn’t let herself believe you were one of them. She wouldn’t.

“Lauren,” Julie’s voice snapped her back to the present. “Focus. I need you sharp for this. I can’t have you distracted.”

Lauren swallowed hard, forcing a curt nod. “I’m fine,” she lied, though the crack in her voice betrayed her.

Julie’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, softening just slightly. “I know this is difficult,” she said, her tone quieter. “But if we do this right, we can save lives. We will save lives.”

Lauren didn’t respond. She didn’t care about saving lives. She cared about saving one. Just one.

The Lab

The facility was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. White walls gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, the sterile air heavy with the scent of disinfectant. Lauren followed Julie down the corridor, her boots echoing against the polished floor. They passed rows of sealed glass chambers, each one containing a test subject. Most were infected, their bodies twitching or slumped lifelessly against the walls of their containment units. A few were ordinary citizens, pale and terrified as they awaited testing.

Lauren’s stomach churned at the sight. She wasn’t naïve—she knew this was necessary. But knowing didn’t make it any easier to see the desperation etched into the faces of the uninfected or the inhuman rage burning in the eyes of the infected.

“This way,” Julie said, leading her into a high-security lab. Inside, a team of researchers bustled around a central workstation, their movements brisk and efficient. On the far side of the room, another glass chamber housed a young woman—infected, her body contorted as she writhed against the restraints holding her in place. The sound of her guttural snarls sent a shiver down Lauren’s spine.

Julie set her bag down on the workstation and began unpacking vials, syringes, and stacks of meticulously labeled documents. “We’re starting with the RNA samples we brought from the lab in Gensia,” she explained. “They’ve shown promising results in vitro, but we’ll need to test them directly on live subjects.”

Lauren nodded, trying to keep her hands steady as she helped arrange the equipment. She’d always admired her mother’s brilliance, but being here—this close to the virus—was something else entirely. The weight of it, the proximity to the infected, the constant undercurrent of fear—it was suffocating.

As the hours dragged on, Lauren threw herself into the work, her hands moving almost mechanically as she assisted Julie. They ran tests, analyzed blood samples, and monitored the reactions of the infected subjects to the experimental treatments. Some showed signs of improvement—a flicker of lucidity in their eyes before the virus reasserted its hold. Others… didn’t.

Lauren tried not to dwell on the failures, but each one felt like a blow. With every test that ended in another convulsing body, her hope dimmed. What if they were too late? What if she never found you?

The heavy, acrid scent of antiseptic clung to the air as Lauren moved through the sterile corridors of the Xasa quarantine facility, her steps unsteady but resolute. Rows of thick, reinforced glass walls lined the halls, each containing what could barely be called people anymore. Twisted forms shuffled in their enclosures, their once-human eyes now clouded with hunger and fury. Lauren tried not to look too long at any of them. She had learned quickly that looking meant imagining, and imagining meant pain. Pain she couldn’t afford to feel—not now, not when you were still somewhere in this godforsaken city, and she hadn’t stopped convincing herself that she could find you, save you, even if it defied every truth she had ever known.

Julie led the way, clipboard in hand, her expression unreadable. The months spent in this facility had stripped her of softness, replacing it with clinical efficiency and a ruthless determination that mirrored her daughter’s. “Lauren,” she called over her shoulder, her voice as sharp as the gleaming scalpels in the lab. “Focus. Today’s testing is critical. If we can stabilize the latest iteration of the serum, we might finally get viable results.”

Lauren barely heard her, the words registering as background noise against the thundering of her heartbeat. She nodded absently, gripping the tray of syringes so tightly her knuckles whitened. Each step toward the testing chamber felt like walking through quicksand, the weight of her emotions pulling her deeper with every moment. She had learned to bury her fear, to suppress the waves of grief that threatened to drown her. But she couldn’t stop the flickers of memory—your laughter, your voice, the way you had always looked at her with exasperated affection, never realizing how much she needed you.

Inside the chamber, the stench of rot was overpowering, even through the layers of masks and protective gear. A restrained test subject thrashed weakly against its bonds, its grotesque features contorted in a permanent snarl. Lauren swallowed hard, averting her eyes. It didn’t matter who this was or what they had been; they weren’t themselves anymore. She repeated the mantra in her mind like a prayer. Not a person. Not you. But no amount of repetition could fully numb her to the horror of it.

Julie’s voice broke through the fog of her thoughts. “Administer the serum.” Her tone was calm but commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. Lauren approached the restrained figure, the syringe trembling in her hand. The creature snarled, its movements growing erratic as she drew closer. For a moment, she froze, paralyzed by the sheer wrongness of it all. Then she felt Julie’s hand on her shoulder, firm but reassuring. “Lauren,” her mother said softly, her steely gaze locking with hers. “This is for the greater good. You know that.”

Nodding tightly, Lauren plunged the needle into the creature’s veined arm, ignoring the way its decayed skin gave way too easily. The serum flowed in, and for a moment, there was silence. Then came the spasms, violent and horrifying, as the subject convulsed against its restraints. Lauren stepped back, her stomach churning, as blood-flecked foam dripped from its mouth. Moments later, it slumped forward, lifeless.

Julie sighed, her frustration palpable. “Still too unstable,” she muttered, scribbling notes on her clipboard. “But we’re close. I can feel it.”

Lauren didn’t respond. Her eyes remained fixed on the now-still figure, her chest tight with an emotion she couldn’t name. They had been through dozens of tests, each more grueling than the last, and the failure never got easier to bear. But this one wasn’t the worst. The worst came later.

Hours passed in a blur of data analysis and recalibration. Lauren barely registered the passage of time, her mind numbly cycling through the same thoughts: You were still out there. You had to be. That belief was the only thing keeping her upright, the only thread tethering her to sanity. Then, a voice crackled over the intercom, pulling her abruptly from her reverie.

“Dr. McCanister,” the technician said. “We’ve recovered a new subject. It’s... unusual. You’ll want to see this.”

Julie frowned, exchanging a glance with Lauren before nodding curtly. Together, they made their way to the intake ward, where a group of soldiers stood guard around a gurney. The figure strapped to it was still thrashing, its movements wild and erratic, but what struck Lauren most was its appearance. The clothing, though torn and filthy, was familiar. The shape of its face, though twisted beyond recognition, sent a jolt of icy recognition through her veins.

It was you.

Time seemed to slow as Lauren stared, her mind screaming in denial even as the evidence lay before her. She stumbled back, her breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head violently. “No, it’s not them. It can’t be.” But even as the words left her lips, she knew they were lies. The way your body moved, the faint remnants of your features beneath the decay—there was no mistaking it.

Julie’s hand gripped her arm, anchoring her as she threatened to collapse. “Lauren,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Pull yourself together. If we lose focus now, it’s over. Do you understand me?”

Lauren tore her gaze away, her body trembling with the effort it took to remain standing. She nodded numbly, unable to speak, and followed her mother into the lab, where the gurney was wheeled in behind them. The technicians worked quickly to secure you, your snarls echoing off the walls like a cruel parody of the voice she had once loved.

As Julie began issuing instructions, Lauren found herself frozen, her eyes locked on your thrashing form. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to do something, to stop this, to save you. But there was nothing left to save. You were gone. And yet, she couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not ever.

The lab was silent except for the faint hum of machines, the usual cacophony of snarls and thrashing absent. You lay restrained on the gurney, oddly calm now, though the feral gleam in your clouded eyes hadn’t diminished. Lauren hadn’t moved for what felt like hours, her gaze locked on your still form. Beside her, Julie flipped through a stack of reports, her face a mask of grim finality.

“We’ve exhausted every avenue,” Julie said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of months of failure. “There’s no cure. The infection is irreversible once it reaches this stage. But—” She hesitated, her pen tapping against the clipboard. “We’ve confirmed the vaccine’s efficacy. Administered in time, it prevents the infection from taking hold entirely.”

Lauren flinched as if struck, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She turned to her mother, her face pale and tight with disbelief. “You’re saying we can save everyone else, but not—” Her voice cracked, and she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. The lump in her throat felt like it might choke her.

Julie placed a hand on Lauren’s shoulder, her expression softening for the briefest moment. “We’ve done everything we could. More than anyone else would have dared to try. But we can’t dwell on what’s lost, Lauren. If we act quickly, we can still save countless lives.”

Lauren wanted to scream, to throw something, to rage against the unfairness of it all. But the exhaustion, the unrelenting tide of grief, made her sink back into the sterile chair instead. She looked at you—silent, unmoving, and unsettlingly calm for what you had become. Something about it made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t describe, as if there was still a sliver of you in there somewhere, waiting for her to reach you.

“I’m not leaving them here,” she said suddenly, her voice hard with determination. Julie blinked, startled. “Lauren, that’s—”

“I don’t care!” she snapped, standing so abruptly that the chair screeched against the tiled floor. “We’ve done everything for everyone else. For strangers. We owe them this. I owe them this. They’re coming with me.”

Julie exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re being irrational. They’re infected. Dangerous. What are you planning to do? Lock them in a room and pretend they’re fine?”

“I don’t know!” Lauren shouted, tears streaking down her face now. “I just— I can’t leave them here to rot, Mom. Please. You don’t understand.”

Julie stared at her daughter for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Fine. But this stays between us. If anyone finds out, we’ll both be implicated.”

Lauren’s nod was immediate, almost frantic. She wiped at her tears with the back of her hand, trying to steady her trembling breaths. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Together, they worked under the cover of night. Julie cleared the lab of technicians, citing a need for privacy to conduct “critical tests.” Lauren kept a wary eye on the surveillance system, ensuring no one could see what they were doing. They transferred you into a reinforced containment pod and loaded it onto a vehicle under the guise of disposing of biological waste.

The ride home was eerily silent. Julie drove with her lips pressed into a thin line, while Lauren sat in the backseat beside the containment pod. The straps holding you down seemed unnecessary now; you remained disturbingly still, your clouded eyes staring blankly at nothing.

Lauren couldn’t stop watching you. Her mind raced with questions she didn’t have answers to. Why were you so calm? Was it some anomaly in the infection? Or was it just another cruel twist of fate, a mockery of the person you had been? She reached out hesitantly, her hand hovering just above the pod’s reinforced glass. “You’re still in there, aren’t you?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You have to be.”

Julie’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts. “Don’t get attached, Lauren. We don’t know what this means. It could be temporary. It could be nothing.”

Lauren didn’t respond. She leaned back in her seat, her heart heavy with a mixture of hope and dread. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she knew one thing for certain: she wasn’t letting you go. Not now. Not ever.

By the time they reached home, the night had deepened, cloaking the streets in darkness. Julie parked in the garage, and together, they maneuvered the containment pod into the basement. It felt surreal, like a nightmare they couldn’t wake up from. Lauren sat on the cold concrete floor beside you long after Julie had gone to bed, her head resting against the pod as exhaustion finally overtook her.

And you? You lay there, silent and unmoving, the faint flicker of something unknowable lingering in your lifeless eyes.

The basement had transformed over the years from a sterile, eerie containment zone into something almost… cozy. Lauren had shoved an old couch into the corner, set up a table with mismatched chairs, and strung a few fairy lights haphazardly along the ceiling. It was ridiculous, really—what kind of person turned their basement into a playroom for a zombie? But then again, Lauren wasn’t exactly known for her practicality.

“You ready to lose again?” she teased, shuffling the deck of cards with exaggerated flair. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her grin wide and taunting. Across from her, you sat slumped, your posture as loose and lifeless as a marionette’s, but your clouded eyes tracked her hands with unnerving focus.

Lauren dealt the cards with a flourish, sliding each one across the makeshift table she’d cobbled together out of old crates. “Alright, rules are simple. No eating the cards this time. And don’t just grunt if you’re losing; you have to play fair.”

You grunted anyway, low and guttural, a noise that Lauren had somehow learned to interpret as begrudging acceptance. She watched as your stiff, jerky fingers fumbled with the cards, managing to hold them in a way that was almost—almost—correct.

The game began, and for the first few rounds, you actually seemed to be doing well. Lauren even raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Okay, okay. Look at you! A zombie poker prodigy in the making. Who knew?”

But then it all went downhill. Lauren laid down her cards—a full house. Your cloudy gaze shifted from her hand to your own pitiful pair of twos. The realization was slow but unmistakable. Your shoulders tensed, your hands trembled, and a low, frustrated growl bubbled up from your throat.

“Uh-oh,” Lauren said, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Don’t be a sore loser now.”

But you were absolutely a sore loser. With a sudden burst of jerky motion, you slammed your cards onto the table—scattering them everywhere—and let out an indignant roar. Your fists hit the table with such force that the crates wobbled precariously, one of them toppling over completely.

“Hey! Hey!” Lauren cried, throwing her hands up to shield herself from the chaos. She was laughing now, unable to stop herself. “It’s just a game! Chill out, zombie buddy!”

You, however, were inconsolable. You kicked the nearest crate, sending it skittering across the floor, and then crossed your arms in what could only be described as a pout. The effect was both terrifying and hilarious—a full-blown zombie tantrum, complete with huffy breaths and a refusal to meet Lauren’s eyes.

“Oh my god,” Lauren wheezed, clutching her stomach as tears of laughter streamed down her face. “You’re worse than a toddler! I should’ve strapped you to the chair for this.”

You let out another disgruntled growl and turned your head away, sulking. The sight of a zombie throwing a tantrum over a card game was so absurd that Lauren actually had to lay back on the floor, gasping for air between fits of laughter.

Finally, after a long moment, she wiped her eyes and sat up, still grinning. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you win the next one. Deal?”

You didn’t respond, but you stopped growling, which Lauren decided to take as a tentative agreement. She began picking up the scattered cards, shaking her head. “You know, if anyone ever finds out about this, my reputation is done. ‘Lauren, the girl who babysits a zombie.’ What a legacy.”

For a moment, she thought she saw the faintest flicker of something behind your lifeless gaze—amusement, maybe. Or maybe it was just her imagination. Either way, she tossed you the deck of cards and smiled. “Your shuffle this time, champ. Let’s see if you can keep it together when you lose again.”

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.

Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.

Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.

Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.

Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.

Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.

His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.

Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.

The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.

“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.

The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.

On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.

“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.

And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.

But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.

“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.

“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.

“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”

“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.

“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.

You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.

It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.

Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.

You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.

On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.

His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.

You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.

But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.

“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”

His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.

He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.

Then you turn to the bleeding.

“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.

You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.

The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.

As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.

You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.

Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.

“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”

There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.

“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”

“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”

When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.

“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”

You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”

You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.

More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.

He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.

When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.

“Need one more thing from you.”

You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.

And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.

Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.

“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.

He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”

Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.

“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”

Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.

Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.

Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.

“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.

“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.

Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.

“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.

“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.

That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.

“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”

He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)

He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.

When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.

“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.

He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.

You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.

“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.

“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”

He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.

You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.

Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.

After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.

“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.

“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.

“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.

With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.

It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.

It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.

By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.

Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.

“Solid, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.

Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.

Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.

You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.

When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.

“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”

“I know.”

But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.

And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.

“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.

He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.

You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.

Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.

It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip. 

It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.

He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.

At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.

“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.

“’S nice,” you whisper.

He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.

You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.

“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.

It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.

“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.

There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.

“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”

“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.

You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.

Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.

You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.

Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.

Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.

Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.

Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.

There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.

When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.

Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.

“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.

You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.

“You ever seen Halloween?”

“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”

“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”

He goes still behind you. “What.”

“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”

You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.

“Squeaks…”

“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”

“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”

“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.

“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”

“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”

And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.

You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.

He’s biting you.

“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”

He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.

Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.

“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.

You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”

“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.

“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.

You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.

You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.

You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.

In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.

Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.

If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.

You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.

That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.

You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.

Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…

You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.

You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.

“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.

You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.

You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.

“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.

When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.

“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”

The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.

“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”

You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.

“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”

Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.

“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.

“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”

“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.

“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.

“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.

You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.

“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.

You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.

“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.

You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.

The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.

Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.

“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.

It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.

“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.

“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”

“Yessir…” you groan.

Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.

Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.

You might be after this though.

One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.

Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.

Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.

And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.

You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.

By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.

They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.

“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.

He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.

“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”

Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.

As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.

At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.

“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”

You get the fuck in.

As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.

Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.

He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.

You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.

He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”

You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.

 “There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.

“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”

You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?

You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.

“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.

Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.

“What?” you ask.

You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.

“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”

“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”

He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”

You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.

“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.

“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”

You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.

“That fast?” you ask.

“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.

“It’s clear!”

“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”

You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.

“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.

“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.

“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.

“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”

He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.

“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”

And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.

Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.

But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.

Then he shifts.

His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.

“Squeaks.”

You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.

Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.

Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.

He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”

You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.

It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?

Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”

You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.

“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.

“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”

You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.

“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”

You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.

“Go on,” he urges.

You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.

“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”

You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.

When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.

“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”

He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.

“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”

A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.

“You have experience,” he asserts.

“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”

He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”

His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.

“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.

If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.

He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.

“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”

“It will if you can be patient for me.”

“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.

His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”

You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”

His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”

“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”

You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.

“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.

“That’s my girl.”

He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.

You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.

“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”

He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”

His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”

You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.

He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.

“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”

“N-no,” you lie.

He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.

It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.

You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.

He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.

“Close,” you pant.

He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.

Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.

“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”

He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”

“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”

“Fuck.”

He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.

You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.

And he doesn’t stop.

“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.

But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.

Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.

“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.

He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.

Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.

Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.

He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”

His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.

A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.

“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.

“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.

“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”

You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.

“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.

You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.

His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”

You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.

You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.

“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.

You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”

“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.

“Have to fix that, then.”

You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.

You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.

“Yes,” you agree.

That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.

“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”

And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.

You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.

He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.

And your eyes.

The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.

“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”

Just the head. Christ.

The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)

He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.

Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.

“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.

You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.

By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.

“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”

“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.

“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.

You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”

You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.

“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”

You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.

“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”

He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.

“What about you?”

He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.

“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”

You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.

“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”

“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.

He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”

You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.

“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”

And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.

When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.

“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.

“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.

“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”

You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.

“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”

His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.

“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.

“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”

He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”

You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.

You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.

“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”

Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.

There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.

Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.

There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.

He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.

It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.

“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”

You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”

You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…

“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”

There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.

You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.

“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”

He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.

The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.

“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”

His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.

“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”

His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”

It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.

“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.

You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.

“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”

You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.

“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”

Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.

“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”

You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”

He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”

You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.

“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”

He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”

“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”

“Guess so.”

He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.

“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”

You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.

When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”

Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.

“You’re my hero.”

He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”

Eddie's smile brightens once again and if Wayne notices the small amount of tears welling in his eyes, he says nothing about.

"You ever going to tell him?" Wayne continues, nodding in Steve's direction, the boy still oblivious to the conversation being whispered behind his back.

"I don't know if I can."

Wayne says nothing to Eddie's reply as he watches the boy return to the living room where he sits down next to his best friend. Steve smiling bright as the sun upon Eddie's return.

Months go by and Wayne gets to watch as Steve falls too. It's there and so obvious to anyone but Eddie.

His eyes linger and his smile never fades. Soon Wayne sees as he sits a little closer and his cheeks grow a little pinker.

There's moments when Wayne catches what he can only describe as a love struck expression across Steve's face. Eddie's talking, because when is he not, and Steve's there, eyes wide and locked onto Eddie's ever changing expression. 

He looks fond. Fond in a way Wayne's never seen anyone look at his nephew.

There's moments when he sees Steve hesitant. Moments when he and Eddie are so close and Steve's hand twitches like it wants to reach out. Moments when Steve looks like he wants to lean in but bites his lip and turns away with rosy cheeks.

It's nearly a year into their friendship when Steve's standing at Wayne's side and whispers, "I think I love him."

"Tell him," Wayne answers easily, leaving out the 'please' he so desperately wants to tack onto the end of that sentence.

Please, he thinks again as he watches Eddie turn to face them from across the yard, a smile so beautiful Wayne thinks it's the first time he's seen it on Eddie's face. The boy's elbow deep in his van as his cheeks grow a little pinker as he says with a smile, "Stevie, come here for a sec."

Steve leaves, but not before whispering back to Wayne, "I think I will."

No more than a week later Wayne comes home to find the boys on the couch, Steve sleeping and curled into Eddie's side, snoring with his nose pressed to Eddie's neck. 

Wayne offers his boy a smile as he stirs from the sound of the door closing. He looks tired, arms tightening around Steve's waist as he smiles back and burrows closer, kissing the top of Steve's head before drifting back off. 

"He loves me," Eddie says one evening, weeks down the road, a rare occasion when Steve isn't over, and Eddie's actually home.

Wayne smiles, his heart so warm and full as he says, "I know."

Steve's been over for a few weeks now. Part of Wayne's convinced he's moved in, what with the new additions to their fridge and bathroom vanity. The idea doesn't upset him in the least. 

He's gotten to witness their love grow during that time anyway.

He's gotten to witness the way Steve kisses a grumpy Eddie good morning until he finally smiles.

Or the way Eddie lights up when Steve's arms wrap around his waist and he whispers an "I love you, Eds," that Wayne isn't sure if he's supposed to hear.

Or the way they giggle and kiss and love one another in such a beautiful and uninhibited way.

Granted too, sometimes that means Wayne's hears a bit too much. Eddie would be mortified to know there's been far too many occasions in which Wayne's had to leave the trailer to escape the gasping breaths that occasionally pour out from under his bedroom door.

Though this time, Wayne's inside as the boys are on the roof smoking and he thanks the lord above that all he can hear are the faintest of whispers. 

There's only parts of the conversation that he catches, but his heart swells when he hears Eddie's voice so clearly say, "I'm gonna marry you someday, Steve Harrington."

Wayne cries the day Eddie shows him the ring. 

And cries even harder when Steve shows him his.

Steve's hand is shaking where the single golden band lies on his ring finger, Eddie standing directly behind him, arm around his waist with a smile that matches Steve's in the way it resembles Sunshine.

They can't marry, not legally anyways. But that doesn't stop Jim Hopper from officiating a ceremony or Joyce Byers from walking Steve down the aisle. 

The backyard to Hoppers cabin is filled with faces Wayne has grown familiar with over the years. Young and old, smiling and crying all the same.

Dustin and Robin both write speeches, both as rambling and as funny as they are beautifully heart wrenching.

There's not a dry eye in the house.

The boys move into an apartment where they build a life together.

Wayne visits often for meals or a cup of coffee in the mornings, still delighting in the way his Eddie seems so wonderfully overcome with love and affection. 

He'd thought he'd shed enough tears for his lifetime at the wedding, but one evening, sat at the table with Robin Buckley and his boys, Wayne finds out he's gonna be a grandpa. 

Elaine Birdie Munson is her name.

Sunshine, they call her instead.

I only mention it here because a friend recently asked me if i had written any post season1 Good Omens fic recently, and I said "sorry, no, just the old post-season 1 series I did" and apparently she hadn't actually been aware i started a series in 2020 because she was away from the internet for a few years lol. And since it's been literal years since I finished it, i thought if anyone else is also looking for a Sir Pterry-oriented series that's untouched by everything that came after season 1, I'd offer it up In the series, the boys are sex-positive, sex-favorable asexuals (Crowley a gray ace, Aziraphale a demisexual). There's so much wing grooming, and some nesting, and serpent Crowley and genderfluid Crowley show up, and sometimes Aziraphale is biologically asexual as well as. Their budding romance is a big part of the series, and also just them trying to get used to freedom. The Burn, she is slow. The Friends, they become Lovers. Lots of feelings, lots of relationship milestones, and a little bit of smut that can be skipped if that's not your bag (all those scenes just fully get their own fics to make them easy to avoid. or to be the only fics you read, depending on your taste in fics i suppose lol)

Straighten up from being hunched over, you stretch. A yawn escaped from your lips, followed by a shiver up the spine. It reminded you of the rapid decrease of temperature within this state. Thinking about what time it may be, you attempted to clean your fingers off before reaching for your phone tucked in your back pocket. You knew you’d just make more work for yourself by greasing up your phone, but you were too tired to care at the moment. Something for future self to deal with. After practically blinding yourself, the phone showed the current time. 2:48AM. By being practically done, you can just finish it up early in the morning.

The semi-truck, though old, held high importance to you. It was your dad’s truck when you were preparing to be a mechanic for the military. You loved that thing to death, the power of the engine to the deep honk its horn made. It was just as forceful sounding as the truck itself. The reason it was in your care now however, was because of your father’s ‘not-so-sudden’ illness. It was a blur at the time, but there was clues leading up to it. The semi was meant to be a ‘coming home gift’ after returning from said military service. The service was cut short. He had worked his ass off and more to get it up and running again after a nasty crash. But all those sleepless nights spent alone to fix it, further declined his health. The keys, given to you on his deathbed.

Lightly sighing, followed by an equally light hum, you click off the device, returning it to its place. Then turning to the side to gather up your tools and the leftover parts. Then turning towards your destination, you tiredly headed to the nearby barn. It’s paint long since faded and wooden doors wide open. Though barren inside, there was a few items left within the space. Halfheartedly dropping the gathered items onto the nearest table, you quickly grab a fresh cloth and head to the sink. With a quick scrubbing of your blacken hands, you head back to the table and grab the one or few tools needed to loosely close up the engine cover.

After that was all said and done, the idea on a shower sounded refreshing. Now moving up to the front door and closing it behind, you placed the remaining tools onto the kitchen table. A quick glance around the empty space reminded you of your traveling plans. To hop into your truck with a duffel bad of clothes and some snacks; to travel around the state, maybe the country. You were still undecided at the larger idea. Shaking away collecting thoughts, you headed straight towards and into your bathroom for that much needed shower. Kicking your grime covered clothing onto the tile floor, then a couple of twists to set the water’s temp, you began your 30min or longer shower session.

Once satisfied with the results of her now clean body, you head to your equality empty bedroom to get lazily dressed. Grabbing a bra to sleep in, shirt and camo pants from your large duffel bag. Sure you could wear your pajamas, but again, too drained from truck repairs to care. You weren’t even thinking of food, as the thought alone was tiring. Before crawling under the covers, you went back through the empty house to turn off the lights. With the bedroom light now off too, you attempted to fall sleep. Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come. Not after ten or even twenty minutes.

“Fuck, my phone.” Groaning with tired frustration, you purposely flop out of the comfortable cocoon. After picking yourself up off the carpeted floor, your body fumbled and moved. Though the darkness of the room was thick, You knew for certain where the bedroom door was, walking towards its direction with confidence.

Instantly grabbing your nose, a wimpy noise slips. ‘You shouldn’t have allowed yourself such confidence.’ Your conciseness tells you. Lucky, no blood. Now adding grumpy to the list is status, you find the door beside you and further fumble your way to the bathroom. Knowing it would be much easier to turn on the lights, you ignore the brief. Finding the discarded clothing pile and retrieving the phone, you make your way back to the bed.

You had almost made it to said room when a sudden tremor tripped you to the floor. Confusion sets and your military training kicks in. A loud deep groan had followed shortly after the shake from the from of your home. The sudden alertness made navigation simple, not like the house had anything anyway. Squinting into the darkness, you carefully made your way back to the main area to peek through the blinds. Your widen eyes met with a massive humanoid silhouette outside. Despite the darkness of the property, you could tell that what ever it was, it was in pain. It tried to get up, but just harshly rolled onto it’s s back. Huffing, gears churning.

Something was off, however as you gazed at the shadowy figure. You couldn’t quite put you finger on it, but something was missing about the whole situation. What ever it was, it was right to come here. The place was off the main road and away from prying eyes. Not that there was many to begin with. It took a good chunk of time, but with more staring, but eventually it clicked.

You weren’t scared.

It was weird. Weirder than normal. Which would also make that… normal? And as much as you wanted to keep thinking about it, the thing let out another pained grunt, failing another attempt to get up. It just laid there now, like it itself was too tired to keep trying. With the possibility of death, you knew you had to try to aid this being. You had attempted to will yourself to flee, but you couldn’t do it. Your kind, caring nature was stopping you. You were too nice not to, your heart claims victory. With self-preservation damned, you might as well see what could be done.

Switching on the main room’s light, you retrieved your socks and shoes, putting them on and headed out the front once more. You were quiet while moving off the balcony and slowly toward the thing. With soft words as to not scare it, you let your presence be known.

“Are you alright?”

The figure flinched, trying to get up suddenly to see your location and defend itself. It only managed to further its pain by to fall more harshly back onto the earth.

“Hey, I-It’s okay! I didn’t mean to scare you…” You weren’t really sure if it could even speak English. Light from the house reflected a little off the giant’s form. Studying it a sec, you realize it was made of metal. Further more, you could hear an increase in volume from something whirling. It reminded you of an overheating laptop, which shouldn’t make sense. Though then again, it clearly wasn’t of Earth origins.

“Leave me be.” It rumbled with a defensive tone. Deep baritone, it sent shivers up and down throughout your very being.

“It’s going to be alright, I want to help you.” You further reassure. Activating your phone’s torch while pointing it down, you slowly stepped closer towards it.

“I’m fine.” It huffed

You lightly scoffed. “Clearly you’re not.” It was now obviously that it wasn’t going to accept your help willingly. If this male sounding metal was going to act stubbornly, then so will you. You continued to talk as you made you way closer for a better look at possible injuries. “Look, I’m a mechanic and your some form of mechanical being. I can help you.”

He didn’t seem to like that, although he didn’t move, he did start growling.

You growled back.

Once again, he tried to get up and once more he fell back, groaning in pain.

“Please…” You push, “At the very least, let me see what I’m working with.” While awaiting a verbal response, you got close enough to peek at the potential damage done to him. It seemed that he’s begrudgingly decided to just let you do whatever now. Good, he’ll now get help. Maybe.

Now shining the phone light up at his body, the damage became somewhat clear from this viewpoint. His left arm platting was shredded, a small part of torso was missing. The left chest window hung down his side, the side that you happen to be looking at. The other one looked to be severely cracked. There was other various damages too. His legs seemed fine, but the might be something under the plating though. That was as much as you could see from looking over from his left side. You looked toward his head, flinching for a second at the sight of his blue glow eyes that essentially stared you down, his head angled to see more clearly. Despite the unpleasant stare, your eyes just barely caught sight of two deep cuts on his face. His mask was obstructing the minority of them both, one more than the other.

The bot’s eyes narrowed as you slowly shifted a way closer to his head. Lowering the light’s brightness to the minimum and half on him to not hurt his orbs. Squinting in an attempt to see the two said cuts on his face, plus the added closeness, The shorter distance not help much unfortunately. Your inspecting gaze shifted back to his glowing ones. If it wasn’t for the current circumstance, you might’ve found his robotic eyes mesmerizing. But now’s not the time, you needed to inspect his face for more injuries.

Now that you were standing up straight, phone torch somewhat pointed at him, You calmly and politely asked, head slightly tilted, if he would be willing to remove his mask. More likely or not, the mask blocking the worse of it.

“No.” He responded, a slight growl in the back of the voice.

“No?”

His robotic eyes narrowed at the human, clearly not happy with the request. Distrust clear despite the dark cover of night somewhat obscuring view of his face.

“Then how can I possibly know the extent of the facial wound of you won’t let me at least see it?”

Thought clouded his mind at that reply. You yourself weren’t really sure if he’d even entertain the idea of removing it, could be a privacy thing.