Just light chewing on his arms or hands, teething at the meat of his shoulders to his neck. It's a grounding and relaxation technique for both you and him.
He wouldn't squeak like a chew toy but there'd be some deep rattling sighs mixed with some sharp inhales if you catch him with a canine.
Alright, so we did hybrid Kortac boys, so while they might not be the main focus of most of my COD writing, here's the 141 boys + Laswell and Nikolai.
John Price, the old man that he is ("Mid-forties is not old, you muppets!") would be an African Buffalo. Very protective of his herd (the 141) while being level-headed enough not to let Soap or Gaz run off into whatever danger they've dug up. Still has his fun Bonnie hat, which now sits between two large horns. Not the biggest hybrid of the group, but knows easily how to reign in all of the others' chaos and point them in the right direction. Like herding cats if they were sniper-trained and at all feline.
Laswell would be an American Crow. Highly intelligent, planning for all possible outcomes to keep her boys alive and kicking. Her and Gaz get on like a house on fire, despite there being other avians on the team, and John enjoys having another 'adult' around to keep some of the shenanigans in line. Soap and Ghost know from experience just how scary Laswell can be when she puts her mind to it. So, while not being a direct part of John's herd, her callsign, Watcher, helps keep her involved as more than just a foreign handler.
Nikolai, the slightly unhinged pilot, would be a good ol' Pallus's cat. Very large for the breed, but since he's left alone enough to tinker with his plane (and definitely not some explosives lying around to give to Soap), the issue of sharing territory is minimized. John is more than happy to have someone semi-sane around to just spend time with (and not give him more paperwork). His short ears just poke out of his slicked-back hair, his sunglasses truly giving him the look of a cat just enjoying watching all the little creatures run around the battlefield. While never directly involved with any of the main herd, he can still be found sometimes in John's office, sharing a cigar and staring down anyone who comes knocking, lest they want to face a goring.
Gaz, the first half of the menace team (as John so lovingly calls them), would be a chatty Barred Owl. Now I hear you all, "Gaz fell out of a helicopter twice! How would he do that if he can fly?" But counterpoint, it's even funnier if he is an avian and still managed to fall out of two helicopters. Even earning a nickname of 'Baby Bird' from Lawell and Nikolai ("cause he fell from the nest"). He's very social for his species, getting on well with others and earning himself the spot of "Captain's Favorite", much to Soap's chagrin. His flight makes him perfect for recon and overwatch on operations; his abilities to blend into a crowd are even better for undercover work. Still doesn't mean that Ghost wants to hear him and Soap screeching at each other from around the training ground.
Soap, the somehow worse half of the menace team, would be a painted dog. Lots of energy to rush around with Gaz, and even more to hunt down enemies in the field. While not a large hybrid, his stature works easily for slipping in and planting bombs where others couldn't reach. His usually happy attitude helps any recruits get more comfortable with the fact that their sergeant is one of the most efficient predators on the planet. Often seen as the "Friendly" half of his usual pairing with Ghost, the two of them are never seen very far apart. The cooperative and almost altruistic nature of painted dogs makes it an easy blend into John's herd, despite him being one of the only social mammals.
And then there's Ghost. Not many know what kind of hybrid he is, as he doesn't have many outward features (wearing layers upon layers of black will do that to a man). But within the 141, its a not so open secret that he is a fellow avian, just not the kind many usually think of. His history with Roba has left him wingless, a death sentence for many bird species, but not for Ghost. A secretary bird. Flying was never his forte. Why would he if he can chase after them for miles and beat them into the dirt without breaking a sweat? Usually a very solitary bird, but with a grubby Scottish painted dog on his heels, he'll make do with an unusual partner. Even if he gets called a 'big feathery bastard' every once in a while.
While John's herd is a rather wide menagerie of birds and mammals, his team works well. No large territory disputes, no tense spats for leadership. There are ingroup pairings, as there always will be with mixing different hybrid behavior types together. But when has the 141 ever really cared about the rules of conduct?
AN: So, same universe as the Kortac Hybrids, just different team! I doubt I'll write a hybrid Medic!Reader in with them, but never say never. Also! Didn't write a blurb for Roach, but we all know he's just a lil buggie boy. Just drill some holes for his antennae in his helmet and he's good to go.
For reference on what hybrid each of the boys and Medic!Reader is, check this out first.
“BOYS!”
Three sets of fuzzy ears (plus Nikto) suddenly perked up at the yell, turning to the doorway to the rec room they were all definitely not hiding in.
“What did you shitheads do now?” Krueger teases, soft laughter sneaking out from his lips.
“We didn’t do anything!” Horangi hisses back, ears pinned back against his hair. “You probably ripped up another one of their favorite shirts!”
“I did nothing you can prove!”
“You two, shut up.” König snapped, earning a broader smile from the hyena and an annoyed ear flick from the cat. “Maybe it wasn’t us. Who was on recruit duty today?”
All three turned to Nikto, who was currently lying out across a couch all to himself, pillows tucked easily under his arms. The badger is oddly calm, none of his usually hissing or stalking around. It’s almost unnerving to see a man so usually up in arms at any moment be so … chill, sunbathing in the warm light that floods the couch he lies on.
“Recruits were fine,” he grumbles with an eye roll. “None sent to medical.”
“Did you do something? They about ripped your throat out last time you walked off with some of their laundry.” Horangi asks.
“Not in anger,” Nikto huffs, an amused gleam in his eyes.
“Fucking nasty,” Krueger laughs with a wiggle of his tail. Horangi cringes, and König does the equivalent of a blue-screen, blinking slowly at the badger, the skin around his eyes growing pinker.
“Quieter than your rumbling,” Nikto comments, eyes flicking over to a now flustered Horangi. “Rubbing not enough for you two, Котойд?”
A low growl from the man is cut off by a sudden slamming of the rec room door, the handle bouncing off the concrete wall from the force. The sight of your fury was enough to pin back all the ears in the room as it flowed off you in waves. Your deep black pits for eyes flick between the men cowaring before you. You would laugh at how these big, strong war criminals were scared of their little medic if you weren’t almost blind with rage.
“Which one of you big-backed furry bastards ate all of my squid?!”
A/N: Котойд meaning a silly/chaotic cat, one that likes to constantly be in the way.
König, in all his pasty white glory, got to break out his red and white striped board shorts, looking almost inappropriately small with how much thigh was on display. You just hoped Horangi's sunglasses were polarized for how much he stared at the bright white skin. Thankfully, he had opted for a much easier-on-the-eyes look of some dark green board shorts. The clashing coloration of the men at least helped identify which one of 'em kept falling off the boogie board at the wave break. You and Nikto had been relegated to taking score.
Krueger (to no one's surprise) was rocking an army green speedo, claiming it really brought out his skintone, which was only slightly more tanned than König. After being scolded for running off to the tidal areas without shoes ("My feet are too solid for any urchins to get me liebling"), he was handed a small hand-shovel and promptly got to work digging a hole into the sand. You would have teased, but it kept him from attempting to bury Nikto or messing with your books, so you kept quiet with a large grin on your face.
Nikto, shockingly enough, was willing to let you "dress him" today (as he so lovingly put it). It's not like you could bring him to the beach in his usual full suit or barracks set. You were already getting enough glances from some of the other beachgoers for somehow being the one to wrangle all of these grown men. So instead, he got clad in some grey trunks, one of his black undershirts, his typical hard faceplate backlava, and an outrageously big straw sunhat. Definitely one of the strangest looks he's ever worn, but he's comfortable enough to be actually enjoying the day, reading a book, and laughing along to your comments on the boys' posture on their board.
And you get to enjoy the sun without having the threat of putting someone back together. At least until Krueger decides to sneak off to join the two boogie boys. The industrial-strength aloe vera sits snuggly at the top of the beach bag, that particular problem long forgotten in the soothing sounds of waves crashing onto soft sand.
Nikto’s eyelids feel like cement, barely opening to find the source of the wet noise. The wall he lies against seemed solid, no outlying cracks for water to leak through. That would be too much of a relief for his damaged soul. Water his captors couldn’t withhold from him, couldn’t make him beg like a dog for. Something hot and sticky runs down his neck. Oh. That’s the sound. Blood dripping off what’s left of his ear onto the padding on his shoulder, running down his chestplate. His headplate is gone, the underlying baklava shredded, just barely hiding what’s left of his scarred face. His limbs were free, barely useful, as his mind was clouded in a heavy layer of cotton. Even the voices usually screaming in the vastness of his mind were quiet, gagged behind the thick fog. How had he even gotten here?
“Oh, it’s you.”
The voice cut the stagnant silence easily, a body shuffling closer as the owner breaches the darkness at the edges of his vision. Each labored step echoes off the concrete floor, a scrape of a shoe as if whoever was coming couldn’t lift their foot fully off the ground. It’s you. But how are you here? Why did you look at him so coldly? He had never gotten this look from you, the one you saved for your prey on the battlefield. But you weren’t on the battlefield, or at least not in your suit. Just your standard base clothing, ripped to shit, but not nearly enough protection to think you’d be out in the field. Your eyes were a hazy glaze, both looking at him but not truly seeing him in your irises. Your mouth was pulled into a lazy grin, like you were truly happy to see him but only for your own pleasure. His jaw wouldn’t move, teeth locked together tightly as they ground harshly, his willpower not enough to get out the waterfall of words he wanted to say.
“It’s been a long time. How have you been?”
What did you mean? He had just seen you yesterday, he swears. The two of you had gotten done training the rookies, a night together cooking his favorite pelminis in the kitchen before settling down to read together before bed. It was a nice, simple night. Soft and quiet in the way you both crave in the in between of contracts. He could have sworn you had slipped into a gentle sleep in the crook of his neck, soft breaths tickling his hair before following you into that soft slumber. Did you not remember? How long has he been out? Had he buried what happened between then and now so far into his mind that he wouldn’t even remember what had happened to you?
“I’ve been really busy being dead.” Your smile turned into something crueler. “Yknow, after you murdered me.”
His eyes flicked all over your form, blood now pooling in your clothes, spots growing larger and larger as a long red split cuts your neck from one side to the other. A nasty red slice splits your chest open wide, your insides pumping wildly as fresh blood pours onto the floor. A silent scream catches in his throat, his tongue too heavy to even form the words of his denial. He would never. You were his Родная, the only one he would never think of hurting. His one reason for staying sane, now bleeding pints of your precious life source onto the floor by his feet as you shuffle closer. Your eyes grow hazier, a cloudy glaze that he sees regularly in those of his opponents on the field, now bathe your irises. Your skin is a pallid mockery of your normal tone, a sickly grey of his worst nightmares.
“Okay, look, we both said a lot of things we’re going to regret.”
His muscles twitch in agony, eyes burning at the angry and sorrowful tears he wishes to spill. The ache in his chest at the howls he wishes to scream at the loss of you, no matter how much you blamed him for your end. He could never have done this, killed you in the brutal way your body now sits upon his thighs in the blink of an eye, morphing in the blur of tears begging to fall. He would beg any god to free him from this hell, as the heat of your blood soaks into the fabric of his suit. His throat would be raw from the words he would never regret screaming to you if only his vocal cords would deign to move. He had so much he wished to say, to cry into your chest, to kiss into your skin, to whisper to your soul. One that he had thought mirrored his own, now cold and leeching the last bits of life from his.
“But I think we can put our differences behind us, for what’s left of you.”
Your usually cold hands are even colder, the coolness and clammy nature os death lingering along your fingers as your hands caress the underside of his chin, a mockery of the way you often hold his head in your hands. Your mask of a face gets even closer to his, the sweet scent of decay drowning out the metallic tones of blood as the skin becomes opaque, revealing the veins beneath your cheeks. Your clouded eyes finally find his, mouth pulling wide as a new stream of blood leaks out of your bottom lip, dripping down your chin. The tacky liquid soaks the fabric just below his lips as you stop just breath away, the icy feeling leeching and spreading from where your hands have contact with his skin.
“You monster.”
Your bloody lips close around his as he slams his eyes shut, the normal taste of your saliva invaded with the iron of blood, cold and sticky like the flesh of a grapefruit. His limbs finally find freedom beneath the trap of invisible chains holding him still, grabbing at your flesh, pushing the gaping wound back together. Warmth spills over his gloves, soaking the heat into his flesh and bones as cold hands grip his chin, pulling him into your cooling embrace. And then your flesh gives way, his head and arms falling into the warmth of your body cavity, caught in a freefall into what remains of your insides. Each tumble into that wet, dark space gets tighter and tighter, a deep cry finally escaping his throat. One final constricting flip slams his body flat, the uncomfortably warm stick of blood coating his entire body as his eyes snap open.
The unbearable, wet heat fades as he pants, leaving him nearly shivering from the rapidly cooling sweat sticking his clothing to his body. His mind races, voices growing louder than ever as they scream to find you, save you, stop your corpse from being left alone any longer. He makes a start to get up, to scramble and find whatever was left of you before a sound breaks through the waves of wails. A soft moan followed by the shifting of what he now can see is a bed he lies on, a warm presence wrapping around his torso. A balmy forearm wraps around his chin, gently pulling his head closer to the heat source as fabric rubs against his cheek.
“Mmmmm…. What’s wrong, мой Родной?”
Ah, there you were. Your soft, sleepy tone, cooing, your nose rubbing gently into his hair, heart beating strongly through your chest pressed against his ear. You hum softly, waiting for his response, tangling your legs with his as one eye cracks open to find his. Bright, lively eyes. A warm hand gently scratching at the hairs along his nape. As if on instinct, he rolls into your body, shifting to throw his own arm around you to pull himself closer into your embrace. Your cheek rubs softly against his forehead, like a cat soothing its mate.
“Doesn’t matter anymore, мой Киса,” He croaks out, voice tight.
A soft hum is the only response he receives, your eye closing as sleep claims you back into its clutches. Sleep would not be welcoming Nikto back anytime soon, but staying here in your arms, heart beating loud in his ear as your chest rises and falls against his cheek, that’s enough to soothe the roiling ocean of sorrow and anger. Each beat solidified that you weren’t bleeding out, butchered like a pig for slaughter on some broken concrete warehouse floor. Every slow rise and fall tames the endless sea of pain from the whirlpool that had formed, now a tranquil lagoon of just him and you. Safe and sound to bob along in the gentle pull of your loving tide.
A/N: We're back with some more Nikto angst! It'll be more lighthearted soon, I promise. Perhaps another hybrid bit ;)
TW: Processing of grief, but it's Nikto, so we already know it's a rough time
Fleeting. That was the word. The simple, two-syllable word broke his mind and heart in two. He had always thought of you like a pretty songbird trapped in a cage of his need for your love. But now that the cage was empty, the door still welded tightly shut. He had always wondered and watched for the other shoe to drop, your presence in his life already much more of a prize than he had ever earned with his bloody existence. But the shoe had held off for so long, he had forgotten how hard the tread dug into his torn flesh when you were finally gone, stomping out the growing buds of hope. Your absence was a growing black hole in his chest, consuming what humanity you had let grow wild in him. The event horizon gaining on his already fractured mind as each deep root of your compassion and care rot away.
Each voice in his head was a cacophony of screams, louder than they ever had been. Or maybe he had grown used to their silence with you, your soft tone and touches keeping the roaring tide of voices within the bounds of their own sea. But the blessing of your gentle barrier was gone, each new scream a tsunami upon his softened psyche. Many cried for him to curse you, scream your name, and rip apart anyone who even mentioned it. How dare you have left him like this? How dare you have taken his sanctuary after years of torment? Had he not suffered from your absence enough, you would take the rest of his sanity as well as what torn, mangled pieces were left of his heart?
Other deep sobs moaned for your loss, wailing for your return as if a horde of banshees were let loose in the raging storm of his mind. Somewhere lodged in the fractures, he knew you were not gone of your own accord; you would have never left his side, but the screeching cries drowned out the truth in a waterfall of grief. König himself had come to break the news to the man, the only one theoretically safe from the fallout of Nikto. A mission gone wrong, intel far too rotten for any tracking, and you, his beloved, and the oozing glue that held his shattered body together, were missing.
If he were in any sound state of mind, he would have understood the colonel’s comforts. You were a fellow soldier, a damn good one at that. You would be tough to pin down, even harder to kill. You had earned your title the same as the rest of them, a force not to be reckoned with, both on the battlefield and on familiar soil. You would be found, if you hadn't already found your way back to them. He knew all of this. He knew just what lay beneath your calm, teasing exterior. He knew what monster lies bubbling, waiting for its turn out of your self-contained cage of restraint. Who else could he have fallen for if not for a wolf in sheep’s clothing? But the raging war inside his skull still feared what would be left of your wool when you came back to him. If you came back to him.
Of all the things his mind couldn’t stand, it would be that ‘if’. There was no ‘if’. You would be coming back to him, one way or another. You were his as much as he was yours. There was never any formal promise, no loud declaration of love. But you took care of him, a soothing balm to the itchy, bloody mess that was his soul. And he was your rock, an unmovable force against which your calming waves lapped at everyday. Always being the firm structure to keep the two of you from washing away. His mind wouldn’t handle it if you were gone; the mere thought had him bordering on catatonic. What would he be without his endless soft ocean? A mere crumbling cliff into the drying basin of where your love once resided, now nothing more than a muddy expanse into the horizon as if someone had pulled the plug.
What warmth you had been. His very bones had felt like they had flickered ablaze when you first touched him, melting through his skin to be closer to your fingertips. You had been nothing but kind to him since the beginning, even when he had been avoiding you like the plague. Your very existence had made his bleak life of guns, blood, and smoke gain color, as if finally pulling the bag shoved over his head years ago free. A first gasp of air after drowning in a sea of tears, blood, and torment for so long he’d lost count of the days. And when he finally was able to call you his? For a man who had never wanted anything more than his freedom, his craving for you was a taste of heaven to a starving dog. Your softness and gentle presence in his life are a liferaft in the sea of his past.
Now, who was going to be the poor soul who had to tell the man finally redeemed from his sins that his earned heaven had been lost for a week since König’s report? Who was going to be the one who sent the man already sitting on the edge of a cliff of his own making over the lip?
He could barely feel his own body at this point, all unnecessary motions of life offline as he continued the monotony of his day-to-day on base, still following the pattern you had set with him. Still going back to your room at night, trying so hard to hear the memory of your voice reading softly to him over the now constant buzz in his head. The TV static reached a new pitch, like a stereo left unattended for too long. The soothing monotony of following your ghost around the base kept him alive, as if breathing the same air you once had while with him would keep you with him, even if it was to be simple particles in his lungs. The retreat into his own thoughts of what remained of you made him complacent, soft almost to a dangerous degree. He hadn’t even noticed the guiding formation of the group around him, Horangi and Krueger flanking either side as he followed in step behind König, following as well as his subconscious knew how to.
All of the men had worried for him. It was no small secret that you were somewhat of a key to the weird, broken music box of a man, and without you, there would be no stopping whatever happened. An all-out train off the rails, guns blazing approach was what they had expected when König broke the news. The usually quiet man had no problem snapping into bouts of violence over smaller infractions, but his one good thing going missing, presumed dead? A nuclear warhead would have had a smaller fallout. None of them had expected him to retreat, to fall back, lie down like a dog waiting for death to come as it had for his master. For a man who had clung to life through the unimaginable torment and subsequent aftermath to just lie down to be buried with what was left of you, it was a startling realization that not only were you the leash that kept Nikto leashed in life, but that you were also the weight tied to his ankles, dragging him into death with you.
The clean grey walls barely registered in his mind as he was corralled down corridor after corridor, hallway just leading to another hallway. A door creaked open, a shuffle of feet, another door. Hands on his shoulders guiding him like a service dog, as if the world suddenly no longer existed to what was left of his brain above the ocean of grief and rage. Something soft rubbed against the fabric of his mask; his arms guided around a solid figure as he realized he was lying on something warm, something that wrapped more warmth around his shoulders. A soft click of a door was all that told him that his guides had now left him with this strange heat. Perhaps he had finally given up, his scarred body giving out to greet you in the same warmth you had brought to him in life. A soft sigh escaped his lips as he felt his eyelids close, a soft hummed tune filling his ears. If he had known death would feel so much like you, he would have given anything to meet that inevitable god.
Soft sunlight bathed the room in broken slants, the blinds holding back the full extent of the bright rays. He blinked slowly, chest rising and falling as if coming out of a deep sleep, not fully aware whether he was still dreaming or back to the waking world. A soft touch ran up his spine, fingers reaching to scratch at the hair peaking out from under his mask at the base of his head. A motion only he would allow you to do. A motion only you knew how to make him feel like putty, the way he was feeling right now. A cruel trick of his own brain. A terrible, terrible dream that he would soon have to wake from, knowing you wouldn’t truly be there if he looked.
“Niktooooo”
He would never forget that soothing drawl, that teasing tone of his name strung out from your lips. What a pain it is going to be to wake up from this dream—this wonderful, wonderful space with his memories of you and him. A soft hand caresses his cheek, leaning into the gentle touch as it guides his gaze up from where it was nuzzled into that overwhelming warmth.
Oh.
You were bathed in that soft glow, rivaling the brightness of any god he had ever thought of praying to. Gauze littered your face, a nasty green swelling around one eye, and small, tight stitches arching up a cheekbone. Despite the battle wounds, your lips were pulled back into a soft grin, eyes still as bright as he remembered.
“Is this death, мой Родная?” His voice creaks with disuse, fingers tightening around what he knew to be the flesh of your sides.
“No, мой Милый,” You smile, thumb rubbing soothing circles against his fabric-covered cheek. “Not even a grave could keep me from you.”
The two of you stayed clutched in each other’s embrace until a fellow doctor had come in to check your vitals, not even blinking at the large man in the bed curled up around you. For as long as you were missing, thankfully, all of your injuries were on track to be healing up just fine. A couple broken ribs, a fractured radius, more cuts than one could count, and enough bruising to have your skin a pattern of purples and greens was all you would have to show for your missing time. Hardly enough to keep you on any sort of medical leave for very long, but the state of Nikto next to you was more than enough to earn a long break away from any heavy duties. You were his after all, and there would be nowhere else you’d want to be than back in his arms.
AN: I'm finally back after being a respectable scientist for a bit, so hopefully I will keep having the motivation to write for Nikto and Medic!Reader. But anyways, hope you enjoyed my take on Nikto's emotional processing
An idea I had floating around, just to mess with the 141 boys. Placed sometime after The Misadventures of the 141
It had all started with those stupid little antennas. Poking around like a bug searching for food where it shouldn’t. In this case, it was a poor little bug poking around a battlefield where he shouldn’t.
It was a quick in and out mission for you. The whole team had not been called out, so running a quick murder mission with Krueger and Nikto was almost a cake walk. The contract stated names, location, and that it had to be soon, so might as well capitalize on the fact that the area these targets were in had devolved into somewhat of a turf war between terrorist cells. Latest intel had pinned it closed to a Cold War situation, no bullets flying yet, but trading insults and much less pleasant threats was a prelude to action. But of course, someone was always going to start shooting; you had just hoped it wasn’t before this job was finished, but you were never that lucky.
Bullets echoed out over the skyline, screams and shouts ricocheting off the tall building walls. Nothing like a good warzone to get the blood pumping. The one good thing about the target’s choice of a high-rise in the middle of a roiling warzone was that it made the sudden disappearances much easier to write off as territorial casualties. It was almost too easy to locate the targets, all holed up together in their too-nice offices. Somehow still not nice enough to invest in doors that are non-breachable to anyone above a hundred pounds. You had managed to keep the boys reigned in enough not to whip out the explosives. No reason to draw attention to the small assassination happening right under their noses by blowing up the building or shooting at any passing hostiles. Much easier to just take-down and lock them in a closet.
The office space was nicely decorated, very out of place for the situation growing like a blight beneath the floors of the high-rise. The guys looked very out of place, all set for war in what could be best described as decorated like a doctor’s waiting room. The targets they had come for were lined up along the floor, hands and feet ziptied behind their backs. Now was the question of the day: what to do with them? Obviously, they needed to no longer be breathing before the team was finished, but with the growing noise of gunfire, there was a wide margin of wiggle room for ideas. Most would just shoot them, back of the head clean, execution style, but you had time, and these men had certainly earned a colorful death to end up on your radar. You were already classified as a war criminal anyway, so what’s a little more red in the ledger?
Nikto just rolls his eyes at the debate before him, stance still firm in watching the hallway leading to the section of offices you and Krueger were currently debating in. Krueger, ever the mad bastard, had many an idea on what to do with them, most involving gore in the range that Jigsaw would be proud. But ever the little magpie, something had caught his attention, a wicked smile creeping across his face. Krueger turned to meet your gaze, nodding his head ever so slightly to the area just a bit further down the office space with glass walls and a balcony. Prime real estate if this were anywhere else, high above the city streets of the ‘common people’. A grin spread across your face as you caught his, the idea so stupid but enough fun to make it worth it as you give him a nod.
“Let’s see these little birds fly, ja?”
It was nothing to convince Nikto to help drag the squirming targets; just a simple smile and head nod had him joining the two of you. The air was crisp, almost chilly, this high up as the sun peeked out behind clouds. The ground wasn’t far below, but more than enough, you’d wager, to have some brand new human pancakes on the concrete. It must have been some luck or trick of the sun to have caught your eye, a speck of someone entering the building. It would have been even blinder luck to see the small shiny black antennae sprouting from the frontof their helmet as they duck inside the building. Soap had once mentioned in passing that they had gained a new sergeant, one who wears a very similar getup to the one who had just wandered into your group’s domain. Softly tapping the boy’s arms, you motion to throw the men before nodding back to the doors inside, only to be met with a whine from Krueger about not getting to see the damage, only placating the man when you let him toss your target over as well. If you had known tossing men to their deaths from a high rise would get Krueger as eager as a kid on Christmas, you might have given him a much different present.
Walking back inside, it was clear that the 141 boy hadn't made it up to where you were yet, but given that no one could miss the sight of bodies falling past the glass to the ground, you expected it wouldn’t be long. Now, to just get the boys in on your little plan, not like it would take much convincing. It had been more times than you could count that the men had taken to sending taunts to the 141 from your stolen phone, most often to the glee of riling up Soap and Gaz. What would be more fun than to borrow their sergeant for a while?
It was almost embarrassing how fast it took the three of you to round up the boy, tying his unconscious body to a newly freed office chair. Sure, was it not a fair fight with three war criminals against a green new SAS sergeant? Absolutely, but you know Ghost at minimum would have prepared him to be on alert at all times in the field. So if anything, you were just helping along in his training; if he would ever learn to see it that way is another issue. With a snap of a chin strap and a shuffle of cloth to get at his comms headphones, you settled into a chair next to the dozing man as Nikto and Krueger settled on a nearby wall, a rare smoking bonding time between the two men as you got to talk with your favorite B-team. With a simple flick of a switch, you were now live, listening in as Ghost mutters something about water and what it does to office paintings. Soap’s cackling drowns out most of the conversation anyway.
“Test, test, is this thing on?” You tease into the mic, the conversation halting.
“Who is this?” Ghost demands, voice losing that calm tone from just moments ago.
“Was I really that forgettable, Ghost? Mighty rude, honestly.”
“Lector, is that you?” Soap chuckles roughly into his own mic. “Whit the fuck are ye doin oot here?”
“So at least one of you recognizes me!” You laugh. “Just out on a job. Watching you all rain some hell down like usual.”
“How did you get this channel?” Ghost questions, walls still up high. “This was a closed network.”
“Maybe they patchit i wi Laswell? Ye comin tae join the party doun here?”
“Not a chance, boys, though I do have something of yours to return.”
“If you’re bringing us more trouble, I think you can keep it.” Ghost mutters.
“I mean, he’s not in trouble at the moment? I caught me a little sergeant!” You laugh. “He would have been if it weren’t for us who found him.”
“Him?”
“Ah fuck Ghost. The kid. They're on this line.” Soap finally pieces it together.
“Prize to the winner! I knew you’d figure it out.” You tease, shifting slightly as the boy next to you starts to wake. “What was his call sign again? I just remember all the jokes about his poor helmet.”
“Kid’s Roach. Canae seem tae fuckin dee an aye comes crawlin back.”
“Ah, well, you might be right on that one. He’s shaking off getting wacked in the head by Krueger now.”
“You got him trapped?” Ghost chimes back in.
“Nah, just tied up to a pretty cushy office chair. Gonna scare him a little, he did try taking my head off.”
“Dinnae play ower rouchly wi him. Gaz finally has someone his age tae run around wi.”
“We’ll be nice. He’s kind of giving me the bug eyes right now anyway, so I’ll stick him back on. Wanna convince him he’s not in danger?”
“We're i a warzone lass. No exactly a cakewalk.”
“Best that I picked him up when I did then, huh?” You tease before sliding the headphones back onto the boy’s head. “So, Roach, how’s it been?”
From the muffled hum of the headphones and the lack of acknowledgement of your question, there must be a good amount of explanation coming to the kid all at once. His eyes had managed to finally stop looking like they were about to pop out of his head, but didn't manage to stop from flicking between you and the two men still resting against the nearby wall. His hands had finally stopped shaking, more like twitching as he ran his fingers along the rope holding him to the chair.
“Why are you here?” He managed to nearly whisper.
“Job. Not exactly the same as you guys, but similar enough. The boys ever mention a Lector?”
“The recipe book. All of your additions to the end.”
“Ah! Keeping it in good condition, are they? I half expected it to end up being blown up with Soap within a month.”
“Why did you take me?”
“Waving a gun around where you’re not supposed to be with people who would kill you isn’t exactly smart, kid. Especially not on your own.”
“Price on Overwatch.”
A snort passed your lips. “Good ol' Captain keeping an eye out, huh? Gimme a minute.” As you pull the headphones back off his head.
“Soap, would you be a dear and patch in the Captain?”
“Aye, A can dae thon. Juist a mo’.”
A soft crackle, and then comes in the smooth laughter of a man way too proud of himself.
“Captain! You really need to keep a better eye on your boys! Roach here about wandered into the business end of Nikto!”
“I always keep an eye on them, don’t worry. You’d never hurt a SAS boy, even if he is a bit … misguided.”
A long sigh slips out of you. Of course, Price thought this would be a good idea.
“We’re not a training exercise for your men, Price. Shouldn’t be leading newbies to me without even saying anything!”
“He’s just fine, no?”
“Snug as a bug in a rug up here. Better come get him quick, though,” You eyes catch Krueger tapping his wrist, as if to indicate time’s up. “Time for me to take my exit stage left.”
“Good to see you as ever, Lector.” Price’s low rumble comes before Soap, ghost, and now Gaz chime back in.
“Lucky!” Gaz huffs, “Neist time ye wee bastard!” Soap laughs as Ghost just sighs.
“Where should we get him from?”
“Big glass skyscraper down the way. We’ll let him loose, but tell him to stay put.”
“Aw o these buildings are fuckin skyscapers!”
“The one with the human pancakes out on the concrete then.” You laugh as Soap and Gaz gag into their mics. “Good luck hunting, boys!”
You slide the headphones back over into the man’s lap as you undo the ropes, freeing him from his seat. Rubbing his wrists, he looks up as you stand with narrowed eyes.
“Just letting me go?”
“You’re one of the SAS boys.” You smile down at him. “Rather not mess up our working relationship if I end up treating you one day.”
Now, as we all suspect, the KorTac boys have a groove. Working together, watching each other's backs for years on different missions and contracts, has to spawn some sort of rhythm between companions. Krueger strays left; Nikto swings wide. König charges forward; Horangi is right on his tail. Excess room between boys; you’re right there with an extra knife and gun ready to cover. The five of you flowed like water on the battlefield, not a beat missed guarding one another. Somewhere along the way, some wires must have been crossed, components switched out, because that rhythm and tempo must have been lost to the boys when it came to anything civilian, especially dancing.
The most danceable of them all was somehow König. Many would have thought the way he barges around, slamming doors open like they were paper and looking comical when it came to any normal person-sized chairs, that he would have two left legs when it came to the art of dance. But seeing how he had seen you swaying along to a song only you could hear when stitching a rather nashy gash on his arm, it was only a matter of time before you had caught the giant of a man looking at you with a look you would have expected a grandma to give her favorite grandchild. Pulling you aside during free training to one of the private training rooms showed you immediately why.
It was called Ländler, he had said with a laugh, directing your feet easily. An old folk dance that his Oma had taught him when he was younger. Soft, almost waltz music floated out of an old speaker as he taught you the moves, slowly spinning the two of you around the room. His grip was soft, as if the only way he could hold you was through learned softness. It certainly helped rein in his strength so he didn’t accidentally throw you around the room. A laugh spilled out of you over the music as he commented it’s much easier to do the spins with a much more spry partner than his Oma. The two of you would have looked wildly out of place if anyone stopped by, waltzing along to soft flute music in tight athletic gear, but with the time the two of you were having, it didn’t matter.
As if joining forces, the two of you managed to wrangle Horangi and Krueger into learning some dances. It was in the rec room this time, allowing much more space for the four of you to mess around. While König had known enough of the basics not to trip over his own feet for Ländler, he and the two others were basically newborn calves when it came to learning something new. Might as well try a trial by fire, right? Samba music echoed off the walls, shoes kicked off by the couches pushed to one side of the room. The footwork was easy enough, Krueger immediately grasping the simple sway and step method while Horangi was just a little stiff. Nothing too hard, somehow König was grasping the moves faster and faster. Then came partners. You and Krueger paired up (definitely not just to see König turn bright red at holding Horangi so close) and worked circles around the other two, hips swaying easily as the more limber of the pairs. Switching it up only brought chaos, König stepping more times than not on Kreuger’s feet, the pair swearing at each other in rapid German as you tried to coax Horangi into swaying along to the beat instead of being as stiff as a board. Nikto snuck into the room sometime in the scuffle, waving Krueger’s attempts at getting him to dance as you walk the other two through some of the side steps. His icy stare when it swept to you was of amusement when you grabbed König’s wrist to tighten his grip on Horangi’s waist with a teasing “He won’t break, you know?” A soft wink his way, he wasn’t off the hook that easily.
Soon enough, dancing became a weird weekly ritual. Once a week, you would gather in the rec room, learning whatever new dance one of you knew or could conjure up to teach the others. Horangi suggested some K-pop choreography that led to a rather impressive but hilarious video being shared in your groupchat. König continued on his trail of waltzes, always no-so-sneakily pairing up with Horangi as Nikto, Krueger, and you judged from the sidelines and totally not taking bets to see who would make the first move. Cumbia must have been the right type of beat for Horangi, laughing loud as Krueger met him step by step, as you walked him through a complex twirl move set. It was only a matter of time before both of the Austrian boys decided to give the Schuhplattler a go, hands slapping knees and thighs faster and faster until red marks were springing up all over. Krueger had suggested rave music, quickly shot down by the majority. He still claims to this day it’s because the “flat backs” of the team would be jealous of how much the two of you could throw it back, though an excellently timed book throw by Nikto at minimum ensured he’s stopped talking about your ass. That didn’t stop him from having a blast with belly dancing the next week, swaying and shaking along with an almost maniacal grin on his face. The looks you had gotten from Nikto when suggesting the dance held promises that he would most certainly achieve, given the way your hips were twirling. You would have thought the man would have carried you away when you had taught the guys ‘The Wobble’, but the poor arms of the couch took more than their fair share of his iron grip instead.
It took more than a little bit of coaxing, gently teasing the cold Russian into dancing with you. Nothing fancy, you had promised him, just a little swaying. It started slow, with him perking up more with each passing week of watching as the four of you danced around the rec room, even coming to just watch you sway and hum while cooking, as if to memorize the simple ways you moved. Each dip and falter of your body as you directed its movements so easily. Which leg do you lead with, and which hand do you use to direct others with some taps and drags? All markers categorized in his mental file of you, each little detail something new to log. Several voices rattled off the inside of his skull that these little details were useless; he’d just brute force his way through it like he did life. Others begged for more, as if famine-stricken, each new fact about you would be the only way to stop the hunger.
It was a soft, quiet night when it finally happened. The two of you had settled down early for the night, soft lights bathing your room in a weak orange glow. You were down to just a simple tanktop and sweatpants, attire ready to be bundled up in bed. Nikto was down to a long-sleeve shirt and pants, gloves and the hard outer shell of his mask removed for the night, leaving just a baklava to cover his face. A simple tug along your hips was all he needed, spinning you around gently in his grip, caged between his arms. A soft smile spreads across your face as his soft gaze meets yours, one hand finding his shoulder as the other links with one of his, fingers intertwining. The swaying is slow, just a gentle motion like lazy waves on a beach. Bodies rocking to a soft hum from the man, a tune you’re unfamiliar with. A lullaby, if you were to guess. He stutters slightly as you lean in, slotting your head into his neck and nuzzling softly with the rest of your body following suit. The soft buzz as he continues to hum while swaying with you, hand in hand. Just enough softness in him to dance for the two of you.
AN: Rambling idea that went slightly off the rails, but I desperately needed these boys to learn how to dance. Medic!Reader and Krueger would have popped off, shaking ass in clubs if they were a little younger. Also, for anyone who doesn't know 'The Wobble' and googles it, it's the 2000s version, not the line dancing version. Less fancy footwork and more grinding-type
Lil Valentine's Day with the KorTac Group and Medic!Reader
(Warning! Smut reading as AFAB (I haven't written smut in so long, so it is what it is) and typical Krueger weirdness ahead)
For as weird as KorTac was about anything related to the normal person’s way of life, holidays were always taken to another level. Christmases were wild affairs of snow and drinking, Halloween was a time of dressing up in your fellow teammates' gear, and Easter was a base-wide easter egg hunt filled with whatever mini-shooters and cigarettes you could get. So Valentine’s Day was, as expected, another military special.
Your team was always one of the ones that went the extra mile. König received a heart-shaped lebkuchen, which he had basically inhaled after tossing your wrapped gift at you. His stuffed-cheeked smile at your amused smirk as you opened it to a “If you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em” mug would be one to memorialize under “smartass” in the dictionary. Horangi was gifted a tiny tiger patch, perfect to be sewn onto his pack. In exchange, he smugly presented you with your own pair of sunglasses, to quote “stop stealing his”, as if he didn’t leave them all over base to be stolen. König nearly choked from laughter at the two of you posing like each other, the loudest laugh being when you both did Nikto’s serious expression, arms crossed and stone-faced. If not for the gifts you had to still give to the others of your group, the goo-goo eyes the two men were giving each other were more than enough to kickstart hunting down the other two. Everyone else was smartly avoiding the colonel’s office, something you probably should have done with how quickly you were hearing moans from behind the wooden door. Still not enough of a deterrent to stop you from sliding a note with “use protection ;)” written on it underneath the door.
Krueger, your beloved psychopath, came crowing into the mess hall, shouting he had brought you the best gift. Only after he demanded you close your eyes and stick out your hands, did he plop something wrapped in plastic, warm and sticky, into your waiting palms. Opening your eyes, you can see the smiling man had lovingly presented you with a plastic-wrapped human heart, semi-fresh, given the slight heat of it. Now, to many of the recruits that were also in the mess hall with you, the general reaction to said “present” was violent disgust. But you, their darling medic, were nothing short of delighted, quickly making your way to the med ward, Krueger at your arm, regaling you with the tale of how he had gotten it that morning. One glass jar and some ethanol later, you now have a wonderful desk ornament, a specimen label bearing the once-owner’s name floating around in the liquid. Dragging Krueger back to the barracks, heart in tow, for his gift (also to be able to scrub the blood from both of your hands), which was a container of some bright dyed-pink marranitos, cut into simple pig outlines. His delighted chuckles at the small hogs and a comment of “You really did your research, liebling” was the closest you’d get to a genuine thank you.
All that was left was Nikto. Holidays were a grey area for him, both highlighting the past he could no longer remember but bringing opportunities for him to make new memories with you. Valentine’s was a particularly touchy holiday. He’d never celebrated it before, at least to his memory. Never had anyone close enough to make it worth celebrating with. But now he has you. His Родной. It’s not that the two of you are unaffectionate, but you have your own way of communicating affection that isn’t the marketed hyper-commercialized standard pushed on every screen in the base. So, most simply, he was lost with what to do. He wasn’t totally lost in the kitchen anymore with your lessons, but your simple-taught meals didn’t exactly scream romantic. He’d gotten you a small gift, a token of his adoration, less than a drop in the ocean of his devotion. Not nearly enough of what he thinks you deserve. The voices are clambering over one another, some screaming you are nothing but worthless meat to him, others tearing into his own insecurities, that he’s nothing more than a broken man, staining your goodness with all his filth. The soft ones you coo are drowned out by the possessive need to make this perfect, so that you will stay. See more in him than just the scars on his skin and mind. He knows a ring at this stage would be too early (not that he didn’t already have one stuffed inside a pair of his socks), but any other extra stereotypical Valentine’s events seem empty. Public dates are a no, as well as any large display or announcement of affection. He could fuck you nice and slowly, let all of his need and desire for you be told through the movement of your bodies, but he does that regularly anyway. His final decision at the end of his long brooding process is that he really, really hates this fucking holiday.
His panic was short-lived, finding you almost immediately in your quarters, positioning the jar on a shelf. His confused head tilt only gained him a laugh and a simple explanation of “Krueger”. That bastard. He would have cut his own heart out and served it to you on a crystal platter to earn the smile you’re giving Krueger’s jar. But instead, he just sighs, placing his own gift down on the desk. Your gaze turns to the box, smile widening as you quickly grab your own box, placing it down on the table next to his. A beat of silence passed before you pushed the box towards his empty hands.
“Go on, it won’t bite.”
It wasnt intricate wrapped or anything, just a simple red and white box with a lift-up lid. The pad of his gloves catches the edge easily, lifting the top free to reveal … a mass of black? Lifting a bit of it, one part separated from another, hold just one bit of the black in his hand, revealing just what exactly it was. It was a mask of his. The texture is the same as the one currently covering his face. His questioning gaze met yours again, as if begging for an explanation.
“You complained about not finding more that didn’t irritate your skin. I couldn’t find the right fabric, so I fixed up all the damaged ones.”
At that, he turns the box upside down, dumping the pile of black masks onto the desk. It was true, he did go through a ton of these specific masks in the field. Fabric does rip so easily. But this specific type never caught on his scars, didn’t pull already damaged skin. He had complained to you at length about how he couldn’t find more, almost rationing the ones he had left during laundry days. But now, there they were. A pile of more than ten masks, ready to be used, masks he loves. He can see some faint new stitching along some edges, larger bits sewn together to fix slashed and gouges he had taken, but all perfectly usable and ready to see action again.
“Thank you, Родная.” The compliment comes out rough, his head coming to nuzzle against yours. “What would we do without you taking care of us, hmm?”
“Still eating like an animal, I’d guess.” You tease, a low chuckle graces you as he pushes his present into your hands.
His box is wrapped in paper, a small string of red twine giving it a bow. Normally, you would rip through any sort of wrapping, it’s point is to be pretty anyway. But not this time. You know how foreign this is all to Nikto, his wound-up attitude alone spilling that little secret, so to have him present you with a beautifully packaged token of his affection, you want to treat it with as much care as possible. Wrapped inside was a small box, carved with swallows, a small metal handle, and wooden feet to stand on. Twisting the metal handle around and releasing, the wooden lid popped open to show a spinning metal casing and “Две души вместе” carved into the lid’s underside. A soft, musical tune echoes from the casing.
“Is that..?”
“Mmmm,” He confirmed as a soft hum. “Found someone to make one on a mission. It’s the right song?”
“My favorite.”
You turned gently to face him, hands coming up to rest on his fabric-covered cheeks, thumbs tracing the edging as your eyes met his, asking for permission, which he gave with a soft, slow blink. With a simple twist and tug, the fabric fell to reveal flesh from the cheekbones down, a large patch of scarring covering more of the tissue, one band tugging the top left bit of his lip up to show some teeth, another arching scar cutting down to his chin through the corner of his lips. His warm flesh now beneath your fingertips as his hands sit tenderly on your hips, and your lips meet his with a fervor. You could tell him all the ways you love your gift, write poems and sonnets about how much you adore him. Nothing reached his mind faster than when you touched him, doted on him with your lips and hands, showing him how much you love him through your touch. How much you needed him. Just slightly chapped, the rough edge of scar rolling against your lips as he pulls you closer, the border space between your body and his melting with each gentle tug on his bottom lip with your teeth.
“Niktoooooo”
It comes out as a purr, soft but with a clipped edge. An arrow moving smoothly through the wind with a sharp head of desire. The soft rumble hits him like a bat, his eyes flicking to meet your half-lidded gaze. A promise of more, a predator in his arms just waiting to bite and swallow him whole.
“I got you another present….”
“Is that so, мой Киса?” He softly chuckles, fingers tapping along your hip. “Go on then, покажи нам.”
You smile, moving in to press kisses along his jaw and down into the fabric around his neck as your hands slide down to pull his shirt free from his pants, slipping beneath the fabric to slide along the torn flesh as the man pleasantly rumbles beneath your fingers. His gloves are quickly thrown onto the desk, his bare hands reaching to find soft skin beneath your shirt before you stop him.
“Strip, мой Родной.” You breathe into his neck. “Don’t want you to see your gift early.”
“So demanding,” He chuckles, pulling his own shirt off over his head as your gaze falls hungrily to his chest, fingers toying with the trail of hair past his navel. “Как жена.”
Your lips find perchance below his Adam’s apple as his hands find your hips again, teasing the skin between your teeth as your hands glide along his happy trail to his belt, sliding the fabric out of the clip and peeling his zipper down. With a final lick over a spot turning a nice red, you step back from him, his pants now open, hanging off his hips. Now it was your turn as you pulled your shirt off, his nimble fingers sliding the zipper of your pants down, fingers tugging the material over your hips, his lips sucking a soft spot along the column of your neck, just below the jaw, pulling a soft sigh from you. Gently pulling him off with a tug on the back of his baklava, your smile grows as his eyes finally take in his “present” as your pants slide off to the floor. Deep green straps arch along your body, red roses patterning along your hipbones, ribcage, and outlining the tops of your breasts, leaving nothing to be desired. It’s as if Persephone had sprouted into the barracks, ready to seduce her beloved Hades on the day specifically for love.
“So pretty, мой Киса,” He coos, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs stopping their movement to tease slow circles around your nipples. “All for me?”
“All yours,” You sigh, feeling your core getting slicker with each slow circle of his thumb.
One hand slides down the lacing fabric on your body, teasing touches as it follows the lacing to your uncovered core. Two thick fingers tease the fat of your lips, tracing your slit with practiced ease as his thumb finds your twitching clit. His other hand pinches your nipple harshly, gently tugging with each swipe of his thumb.
"So pretty, милый." He teases, sliding the two fingers inside, massaging the soft spongy spot in tandem with soft circles of your clit as you whine softly. "Could take my time with no one needing us today."
“If you’re not in me in the next thirty seconds, I’m gonna eat you.” You huff out between mean strokes of his fingers.
A rough bark of laughter bursts from the man as he releases your now erect bud, licking your slick from his fingers as he shoves his pants and boxers down in one smooth movement as you hop up onto the desk, legs spread for him to easily step between. His hands gather the fabric beneath his chin and release the mask from its hold, pulling off the fabric and metal free from his face. One hand of your laces through his hair, ruffling it slightly to puff up from the constant helmet shape, his head leaning back as if to follow the movement of your hand like a cat being pet as his hands grip your thighs. His length twitches against your knee as your nails scratch the hair along his nape.
“So cute, мой муж,” The cooed pet name, earning a low rumble from the man. “I may just eat you anyway. At least a bite.”
“So violent with you,” He murmurs, pulling you with the meat of your thighs closer to him, exposing your damp slit. “Chew away.”
A low gasp spills from your lips as he teases your entrance with his cock, the head bumping against your clit as he gathers some of your slick. With one hand positioning himself at your entrance and one hand on your hip, he glances up to meet your gaze as he pushes inside with a low coo of “Big stretch.” The stretch is amazing, each vein sliding in has your eyes nearly closing in pleasure, a high-pitched whine stuttering off as he seats himself fully in you. A low groan echoes off the concrete walls as his hips meet the backs of your thighs, shifting your legs around his hips as you squirm and whine. His pace starts slow, gentle rolls of his hips, grinding your clit against the coarse hair of his trail, groaning into your neck as your fingers tug on his hair with each roll. He draws all the way back before punching back in, pulling a constant string of moans from you with each pump, grin stretching his face as his gaze catches yours.
“Ours,” He teases between pants and grunts, watching your eyes go glassy with each rub of his cock on that sweet spot. “Inside and out.”
A high whine comes as one hand reaches down to roll tight circles around your clit, his hips setting a brutal pace, smacking against yours as he murmurs phrases too fast for you to translate. The pleasure is blistering, like fireworks set off inside your stomach. It’s almost too much, pulling him closer to sink your teeth into his shoulder, pulling a deep moan from the man above you. The scar tissue is rough beneath your tongue, barely a dent left by your teeth.
“Mark me up, милый,” He snarls, thrusts growing rougher with each pant. “я вся твоя.”
The heat in your gut coils tighter, a coil ready to burst as you mouth at the space between his neck and shoulder, biting and chewing to draw more moans from Nikto. You’re both so close, his shoulders locking as his hand on your thigh tightens.
“Приходи за мужем,” He groans, breath catching at the end. “Need you like this always, so good for me.”
Your teeth unlatch from him as he surges forward, catching your skin between his teeth as you pulse, moan turned scream as he pushes even deeper. The roiling heat bursts with a long, deep moan, legs twitching as you squeeze around his cock, ankles locking in the small of his back as he groans, pushing through your orgasm as he chases his own. Pounding you into the desk, rattling against the wall, he follows shortly after with a loud groaned “ЕБАТЬ”, heat pouring into your core as he twitches, hips slowing to a roll. You gently push the hair stuck to his forehead back, his eyes finding yours, both happily delirious as he nuzzles into your breasts.
“Я сохраню тебя навсегда. Ты никогда от меня не избавишься.” He murmurs gently into your sticky flesh.
“Gonna need you to translate, dear.” You giggle, hand threading through his sweaty hair.
He rolls his eyes with a smirk. “I adore you, мой Киса.”
“Seems like a lot of words for that, мой Родной.” You smile down at him. “You sure you don’t like this holiday?”
“I see the appeal now,” He grunts, smirk never faltering.
You just hum happily, trapping the two of you together in the afterglow. For as much as Nikto truly hated the holiday and the stress that came along with it, the chance to have you in his arms for no other reason than to show his love to you, he’d never pass up. Especially as your soft breaths and hand in his hair tease his softening cock back to life.
AN: Pretty short smut segment, but I legit haven't written smut in like, 6 months. Also, the song I like to think that comes out of the music box is "Go Tomorrow". Rewatched The Haunting of Hill House, and Nel's "The rest is confetti" speech was so Nikto x Medic!Reader. He loves them, and they love him the same. The rest is confetti
Also, for anyone wondering, I headcanon Nikto to look a lot like orbuz228's Nikto. Konig, I think, looks like charliemwrite's from Men At Work (for the long hair) mixed with kosatsatosh's Konig and love kosatsatosh's designs for Horangi and Kreuger.
Lil Valentine's Day with the KorTac Group and Medic!Reader
(Warning! Smut reading as AFAB (I haven't written smut in so long, so it is what it is) and typical Krueger weirdness ahead)
For as weird as KorTac was about anything related to the normal person’s way of life, holidays were always taken to another level. Christmases were wild affairs of snow and drinking, Halloween was a time of dressing up in your fellow teammates' gear, and Easter was a base-wide easter egg hunt filled with whatever mini-shooters and cigarettes you could get. So Valentine’s Day was, as expected, another military special.
Your team was always one of the ones that went the extra mile. König received a heart-shaped lebkuchen, which he had basically inhaled after tossing your wrapped gift at you. His stuffed-cheeked smile at your amused smirk as you opened it to a “If you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em” mug would be one to memorialize under “smartass” in the dictionary. Horangi was gifted a tiny tiger patch, perfect to be sewn onto his pack. In exchange, he smugly presented you with your own pair of sunglasses, to quote “stop stealing his”, as if he didn’t leave them all over base to be stolen. König nearly choked from laughter at the two of you posing like each other, the loudest laugh being when you both did Nikto’s serious expression, arms crossed and stone-faced. If not for the gifts you had to still give to the others of your group, the goo-goo eyes the two men were giving each other were more than enough to kickstart hunting down the other two. Everyone else was smartly avoiding the colonel’s office, something you probably should have done with how quickly you were hearing moans from behind the wooden door. Still not enough of a deterrent to stop you from sliding a note with “use protection ;)” written on it underneath the door.
Krueger, your beloved psychopath, came crowing into the mess hall, shouting he had brought you the best gift. Only after he demanded you close your eyes and stick out your hands, did he plop something wrapped in plastic, warm and sticky, into your waiting palms. Opening your eyes, you can see the smiling man had lovingly presented you with a plastic-wrapped human heart, semi-fresh, given the slight heat of it. Now, to many of the recruits that were also in the mess hall with you, the general reaction to said “present” was violent disgust. But you, their darling medic, were nothing short of delighted, quickly making your way to the med ward, Krueger at your arm, regaling you with the tale of how he had gotten it that morning. One glass jar and some ethanol later, you now have a wonderful desk ornament, a specimen label bearing the once-owner’s name floating around in the liquid. Dragging Krueger back to the barracks, heart in tow, for his gift (also to be able to scrub the blood from both of your hands), which was a container of some bright dyed-pink marranitos, cut into simple pig outlines. His delighted chuckles at the small hogs and a comment of “You really did your research, liebling” was the closest you’d get to a genuine thank you.
All that was left was Nikto. Holidays were a grey area for him, both highlighting the past he could no longer remember but bringing opportunities for him to make new memories with you. Valentine’s was a particularly touchy holiday. He’d never celebrated it before, at least to his memory. Never had anyone close enough to make it worth celebrating with. But now he has you. His Родной. It’s not that the two of you are unaffectionate, but you have your own way of communicating affection that isn’t the marketed hyper-commercialized standard pushed on every screen in the base. So, most simply, he was lost with what to do. He wasn’t totally lost in the kitchen anymore with your lessons, but your simple-taught meals didn’t exactly scream romantic. He’d gotten you a small gift, a token of his adoration, less than a drop in the ocean of his devotion. Not nearly enough of what he thinks you deserve. The voices are clambering over one another, some screaming you are nothing but worthless meat to him, others tearing into his own insecurities, that he’s nothing more than a broken man, staining your goodness with all his filth. The soft ones you coo are drowned out by the possessive need to make this perfect, so that you will stay. See more in him than just the scars on his skin and mind. He knows a ring at this stage would be too early (not that he didn’t already have one stuffed inside a pair of his socks), but any other extra stereotypical Valentine’s events seem empty. Public dates are a no, as well as any large display or announcement of affection. He could fuck you nice and slowly, let all of his need and desire for you be told through the movement of your bodies, but he does that regularly anyway. His final decision at the end of his long brooding process is that he really, really hates this fucking holiday.
His panic was short-lived, finding you almost immediately in your quarters, positioning the jar on a shelf. His confused head tilt only gained him a laugh and a simple explanation of “Krueger”. That bastard. He would have cut his own heart out and served it to you on a crystal platter to earn the smile you’re giving Krueger’s jar. But instead, he just sighs, placing his own gift down on the desk. Your gaze turns to the box, smile widening as you quickly grab your own box, placing it down on the table next to his. A beat of silence passed before you pushed the box towards his empty hands.
“Go on, it won’t bite.”
It wasnt intricate wrapped or anything, just a simple red and white box with a lift-up lid. The pad of his gloves catches the edge easily, lifting the top free to reveal … a mass of black? Lifting a bit of it, one part separated from another, hold just one bit of the black in his hand, revealing just what exactly it was. It was a mask of his. The texture is the same as the one currently covering his face. His questioning gaze met yours again, as if begging for an explanation.
“You complained about not finding more that didn’t irritate your skin. I couldn’t find the right fabric, so I fixed up all the damaged ones.”
At that, he turns the box upside down, dumping the pile of black masks onto the desk. It was true, he did go through a ton of these specific masks in the field. Fabric does rip so easily. But this specific type never caught on his scars, didn’t pull already damaged skin. He had complained to you at length about how he couldn’t find more, almost rationing the ones he had left during laundry days. But now, there they were. A pile of more than ten masks, ready to be used, masks he loves. He can see some faint new stitching along some edges, larger bits sewn together to fix slashed and gouges he had taken, but all perfectly usable and ready to see action again.
“Thank you, Родная.” The compliment comes out rough, his head coming to nuzzle against yours. “What would we do without you taking care of us, hmm?”
“Still eating like an animal, I’d guess.” You tease, a low chuckle graces you as he pushes his present into your hands.
His box is wrapped in paper, a small string of red twine giving it a bow. Normally, you would rip through any sort of wrapping, it’s point is to be pretty anyway. But not this time. You know how foreign this is all to Nikto, his wound-up attitude alone spilling that little secret, so to have him present you with a beautifully packaged token of his affection, you want to treat it with as much care as possible. Wrapped inside was a small box, carved with swallows, a small metal handle, and wooden feet to stand on. Twisting the metal handle around and releasing, the wooden lid popped open to show a spinning metal casing and “Две души вместе” carved into the lid’s underside. A soft, musical tune echoes from the casing.
“Is that..?”
“Mmmm,” He confirmed as a soft hum. “Found someone to make one on a mission. It’s the right song?”
“My favorite.”
You turned gently to face him, hands coming up to rest on his fabric-covered cheeks, thumbs tracing the edging as your eyes met his, asking for permission, which he gave with a soft, slow blink. With a simple twist and tug, the fabric fell to reveal flesh from the cheekbones down, a large patch of scarring covering more of the tissue, one band tugging the top left bit of his lip up to show some teeth, another arching scar cutting down to his chin through the corner of his lips. His warm flesh now beneath your fingertips as his hands sit tenderly on your hips, and your lips meet his with a fervor. You could tell him all the ways you love your gift, write poems and sonnets about how much you adore him. Nothing reached his mind faster than when you touched him, doted on him with your lips and hands, showing him how much you love him through your touch. How much you needed him. Just slightly chapped, the rough edge of scar rolling against your lips as he pulls you closer, the border space between your body and his melting with each gentle tug on his bottom lip with your teeth.
“Niktoooooo”
It comes out as a purr, soft but with a clipped edge. An arrow moving smoothly through the wind with a sharp head of desire. The soft rumble hits him like a bat, his eyes flicking to meet your half-lidded gaze. A promise of more, a predator in his arms just waiting to bite and swallow him whole.
“I got you another present….”
“Is that so, мой Киса?” He softly chuckles, fingers tapping along your hip. “Go on then, покажи нам.”
You smile, moving in to press kisses along his jaw and down into the fabric around his neck as your hands slide down to pull his shirt free from his pants, slipping beneath the fabric to slide along the torn flesh as the man pleasantly rumbles beneath your fingers. His gloves are quickly thrown onto the desk, his bare hands reaching to find soft skin beneath your shirt before you stop him.
“Strip, мой Родной.” You breathe into his neck. “Don’t want you to see your gift early.”
“So demanding,” He chuckles, pulling his own shirt off over his head as your gaze falls hungrily to his chest, fingers toying with the trail of hair past his navel. “Как жена.”
Your lips find perchance below his Adam’s apple as his hands find your hips again, teasing the skin between your teeth as your hands glide along his happy trail to his belt, sliding the fabric out of the clip and peeling his zipper down. With a final lick over a spot turning a nice red, you step back from him, his pants now open, hanging off his hips. Now it was your turn as you pulled your shirt off, his nimble fingers sliding the zipper of your pants down, fingers tugging the material over your hips, his lips sucking a soft spot along the column of your neck, just below the jaw, pulling a soft sigh from you. Gently pulling him off with a tug on the back of his baklava, your smile grows as his eyes finally take in his “present” as your pants slide off to the floor. Deep green straps arch along your body, red roses patterning along your hipbones, ribcage, and outlining the tops of your breasts, leaving nothing to be desired. It’s as if Persephone had sprouted into the barracks, ready to seduce her beloved Hades on the day specifically for love.
“So pretty, мой Киса,” He coos, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs stopping their movement to tease slow circles around your nipples. “All for me?”
“All yours,” You sigh, feeling your core getting slicker with each slow circle of his thumb.
One hand slides down the lacing fabric on your body, teasing touches as it follows the lacing to your uncovered core. Two thick fingers tease the fat of your lips, tracing your slit with practiced ease as his thumb finds your twitching clit. His other hand pinches your nipple harshly, gently tugging with each swipe of his thumb.
"So pretty, милый." He teases, sliding the two fingers inside, massaging the soft spongy spot in tandem with soft circles of your clit as you whine softly. "Could take my time with no one needing us today."
“If you’re not in me in the next thirty seconds, I’m gonna eat you.” You huff out between mean strokes of his fingers.
A rough bark of laughter bursts from the man as he releases your now erect bud, licking your slick from his fingers as he shoves his pants and boxers down in one smooth movement as you hop up onto the desk, legs spread for him to easily step between. His hands gather the fabric beneath his chin and release the mask from its hold, pulling off the fabric and metal free from his face. One hand of your laces through his hair, ruffling it slightly to puff up from the constant helmet shape, his head leaning back as if to follow the movement of your hand like a cat being pet as his hands grip your thighs. His length twitches against your knee as your nails scratch the hair along his nape.
“So cute, мой муж,” The cooed pet name, earning a low rumble from the man. “I may just eat you anyway. At least a bite.”
“So violent with you,” He murmurs, pulling you with the meat of your thighs closer to him, exposing your damp slit. “Chew away.”
A low gasp spills from your lips as he teases your entrance with his cock, the head bumping against your clit as he gathers some of your slick. With one hand positioning himself at your entrance and one hand on your hip, he glances up to meet your gaze as he pushes inside with a low coo of “Big stretch.” The stretch is amazing, each vein sliding in has your eyes nearly closing in pleasure, a high-pitched whine stuttering off as he seats himself fully in you. A low groan echoes off the concrete walls as his hips meet the backs of your thighs, shifting your legs around his hips as you squirm and whine. His pace starts slow, gentle rolls of his hips, grinding your clit against the coarse hair of his trail, groaning into your neck as your fingers tug on his hair with each roll. He draws all the way back before punching back in, pulling a constant string of moans from you with each pump, grin stretching his face as his gaze catches yours.
“Ours,” He teases between pants and grunts, watching your eyes go glassy with each rub of his cock on that sweet spot. “Inside and out.”
A high whine comes as one hand reaches down to roll tight circles around your clit, his hips setting a brutal pace, smacking against yours as he murmurs phrases too fast for you to translate. The pleasure is blistering, like fireworks set off inside your stomach. It’s almost too much, pulling him closer to sink your teeth into his shoulder, pulling a deep moan from the man above you. The scar tissue is rough beneath your tongue, barely a dent left by your teeth.
“Mark me up, милый,” He snarls, thrusts growing rougher with each pant. “я вся твоя.”
The heat in your gut coils tighter, a coil ready to burst as you mouth at the space between his neck and shoulder, biting and chewing to draw more moans from Nikto. You’re both so close, his shoulders locking as his hand on your thigh tightens.
“Приходи за мужем,” He groans, breath catching at the end. “Need you like this always, so good for me.”
Your teeth unlatch from him as he surges forward, catching your skin between his teeth as you pulse, moan turned scream as he pushes even deeper. The roiling heat bursts with a long, deep moan, legs twitching as you squeeze around his cock, ankles locking in the small of his back as he groans, pushing through your orgasm as he chases his own. Pounding you into the desk, rattling against the wall, he follows shortly after with a loud groaned “ЕБАТЬ”, heat pouring into your core as he twitches, hips slowing to a roll. You gently push the hair stuck to his forehead back, his eyes finding yours, both happily delirious as he nuzzles into your breasts.
“Я сохраню тебя навсегда. Ты никогда от меня не избавишься.” He murmurs gently into your sticky flesh.
“Gonna need you to translate, dear.” You giggle, hand threading through his sweaty hair.
He rolls his eyes with a smirk. “I adore you, мой Киса.”
“Seems like a lot of words for that, мой Родной.” You smile down at him. “You sure you don’t like this holiday?”
“I see the appeal now,” He grunts, smirk never faltering.
You just hum happily, trapping the two of you together in the afterglow. For as much as Nikto truly hated the holiday and the stress that came along with it, the chance to have you in his arms for no other reason than to show his love to you, he’d never pass up. Especially as your soft breaths and hand in his hair tease his softening cock back to life.
AN: Pretty short smut segment, but I legit haven't written smut in like, 6 months. Also, the song I like to think that comes out of the music box is "Go Tomorrow". Rewatched The Haunting of Hill House, and Nel's "The rest is confetti" speech was so Nikto x Medic!Reader. He loves them, and they love him the same. The rest is confetti
Also, for anyone wondering, I headcanon Nikto to look a lot like orbuz228's Nikto. Konig, I think, looks like charliemwrite's from Men At Work (for the long hair) mixed with kosatsatosh's Konig and love kosatsatosh's designs for Horangi and Kreuger.
The 141 finally meets the infamous husband and team, but what does that mean for the state of the mission?
(Still Nikto x Reader, just some platonic 141 x reader for this mini-series.)
“So, you the husband?”
The one question. Innocent if it had come from basically anyone but Ghost, who looked like he was still deciding whether or not he liked the other man before him. You could see immediately where this was headed, being the only one who had spent an extended period of time with all the men present. It was still a shocking explosion of noise. Krueger and Horangi immediately started howling with laughter, König’s eyes watering as he tried to hold in his own laughter. Price just mutters something about ‘bloody muppets’, pulling out a cigar, and lighting it with ease. Soap and Gaz, ever the excitable, grabbed your shoulders and shook, your brain rattling around at the force of their shaking and the loudness of “Tat’s yor fockin’ husband?” and “You married a Ghost?”. Your only response was a laugh, swatting away their arms, freeing yourself to finally see Nikto. His icy glare was still on Ghost, arms crossed tightly as if to puff up before finally uttering his first words to the man.
“Да, their Родной.”
The laughter from the KorTac boys only got louder, König now openly chuckling along. You just managed to catch between their laughter that you and he were anhänglich anyway. Price looks like he wishes he were anywhere but stuck on this newly abandoned base. Soap and Gaz just looked on, almost in shock as you approached Nikto, his eyes shifting to meet yours. There was no small amount of non-verbal communication there, if the slow blinks, squinting, and eye flickers were anything to go off of. You knew he was just being cautious, caring more about your safety than what your ‘new friends’ thought of him. Was he a bit (majorly) possessive? Sure, sue him. But when you looked dressed for murder, giving him the same caring look you had before you left, eyes gleaming with joy just to see him, and kept the ring on the whole time you had been gone? How could he resist, a simple moth to your flame? A low rumble came from his chest as you smiled, leaning in for the soft headbutt you’d been missing since you’d left on that first helicopter.
“Alright, you get one question each.” You face as many of the 141 as you can, shifting slightly to still stay within Nikto’s (honestly, more of an ‘our’ at this point) personal space, seeing hands go up like kids in a classroom. “Appropriate questions (eyes locked on Soap’s crooked grin).” Gaz, ever polite, starts first.
“How long have you been married?”
“Officially?” You peek around to see your other three finally calming down from the laughing fit. “Never. We’re together, but not formally married or anything. That’d be a lot of paperwork to file.”
“What’s with the ring and the ‘husband’ thing then?” Ghost asks bluntly, edging on accusatory.
“Military men, as Laswell so kindly puts it, are slags. A little ring scares enough to stay away.” Your eyes are almost pointedly looking at Soap now, his grin and raised hand still in place.
“Whit'd ye like aboot the other, tae actually get together?” A surprisingly wholesome question from the Scotsman for both of you.
“He stared at me like he wanted to kill me,” You sighed, glancing back to catch Nikto’s eyes, adding his own gruff take after. “Named organs falling out of a corpse.”
You both knew those were little white lies. No one but you two knew about the quiet nights, those first shared books, the gentle way your hands run through his hair, scratching ever so gently. That was the time for just you two. This was work, so the funny little quirks that had amused the two of you would suffice.
“Ah,” Soap added, grin faltering for just a second as his eyes flicked Gaz’s, a similar uncomfortable expression reflected at him. “Lovely. Sae werenae lyin aboot the war criminal thing then, huh?”
“You’re outta questions now,” You laughed, comically wagging your finger. “Just Price left, you want in Captain?”
“How’d they (he pointed a thumb over to the remainder of the KorTac group) know you were here?” He huffs out, a puff of smoke rising from his lips. “Intel wouldn’t say who would be coming on the mission. Your colonel here said they didn’t even know we would be coming at all.”
“Ah, мой милый would be the cause of that. Encrypted tracker inside the ring.” As you wiggle the gloved finger where the ring still resides.
“A wot?” Ghost starts, cut off by a crackle of comms, Nikolai’s voice coming in over the scratchy static about evac time.
“Looks like that’s our time to leave,” König claps, the two men next to him straightening up a little. “Welcome back party in a few days, Schatzi?”
“Of course, sir.” You tease. “Süßgebäck, if you haven’t killed my yeast?”
He nods vigorously, nearly hauling the two men away by the bitch straps on their vests as they start up with their teasing about “how they’re not totally useless in the kitchen”. Nikto gives you one last slow blink, which you return with a soft headbutt before he follows after the group. You can already hear Horangi turning the teasing onto him as you shift back to be facing the 141, most eyes watching the KorTac boys as they disappear around part of the wall.
“So, we gonna talk aboot hou ye fuckit a russian copy o Ghost?” Soap chuckles once they’re fully out of view.
“Johnny!” Ghost scolds, you just shake your head at him, a smirk playing at your lips.
“Let’s just go home, yeah?”
The helicopter ride back to base was surprisingly light, jokes passed around, and questions about some of the others in your original team. Was your colonel that big naturally? Yes, he’s genetically tall. Ghost got quite a ribbing from Soap about no longer being “the biggest bastard they know”, only to be shut down as still one of the shortest people Ghost knows. Is it required for all of you to be wearing masks? No, just comes with the job. Did you really name organs? Yes, but in your defense, Kreuger kept mixing them up, so it was more of a learning experience for all. Is your not-husband actually a war criminal? Soap really wanted to get the facts straight, but yes, you admitted he is, as well as all of your teammates, you included. Having that confirmation made a lot of your actions make a lot more sense to the rest of the team. Price just sighed and also confirmed that yes, he and Laswell knew when you were brought onto the team, while adding in that all of the extra paperwork because of your team’s little “field trip” was going to you. You just shrugged and commented that, technically, all the combatants were dead when the team arrived, so leaving KorTac out of the official debrief entirely would save everyone paperwork. If there was any moment you had seen over the past weeks of Price being proud of you, this would be that shining moment.
Laswell was somewhat less amused when all that was in the official report was that the combatants were neutralized by unknowns, but was willing enough to shrug it off, as the intel was still retrieved. She pulled the group aside later for the full truth, only to have one comment joking about promoting you for whatever magic you were putting in the food to have soldiers at your beckon call. Soap and Gaz immediately perked up at the mention of food; field days started early, so any form of actual food (you had finally convinced Soap that his protein bars were not in fact a replacement for a meal) hadn’t hit their stomachs yet. Laswell just laughed at the confirmation of her comment, waving you away as you’re dragged by the boys to the kitchen area, any last lingering thoughts about the mission quickly washed away with the food prep.
The last days of your time with the 141 were spent not quite how you had expected. Your little notebook of recipes had grown exponentially, and any special requests or birthday favorites (even though no one’s birthdays were anytime soon) were added, with special notation for who liked what. Training had majorly shifted, the lingering hype of a mission left the boys ansty, coils ready to spring out of their skin. Your regular endurance training was traded out for sparring; now the boys knew they wouldn’t majorly injure you if they were a little rough, not that they’d ever tell you that to your face. The recruits training in the gym at the time were a little (a lot) concerned with how hard you all were going, nearly sprinting to find Price when you had pinned Soap down with a loud crunching sound. Price was less than amused to learn that all you had done to scare the recruits was very forcefully pop Soap’s back, the man in a relieved puddle still on the mat. Gaz and Ghost debated dragging him back to the barracks on said mat when he didn’t get up after five minutes, both silently agreeing they’d ask you to pop their backs as well, but in the privacy of at least the common room.
The day you headed back to your own base had quickly arrived, not that anyone was counting down the days. The boys had each drifted around as you packed, not so sneakily observing just how much longer they’d have with you. But packing and transport wait for no one. Your final night had been filled with laughter and a mini-movie marathon, a nice excuse to squeeze out your last hours. You had presented them all the completed notebook of recipes and instructions, your own personal favorites and additions added to the end as a final touch. Soap nearly bowled you over, the emotional sap. The other men weren’t much better, just managed to keep the reins on for a bit longer. You had managed to wrangle Ghost away from the others as they had set up for another movie, a little lie about needing help with something in your room. For as stoic as the man is, you knew that he’d never openly accept something even remotely resembling a gift. So when you had presented him with a brand new container of some sort of ointment, he looked at you like you’d grown a second head. Soap had mentioned in passing that his scars would flare up now and again; you told him as much, so voila! Scar cream. His eyes finally softened from confusion when you nudged it fully into his grasp with a not-so-subtle comment about how your “husband” found a lot of relief with it. Now, if anyone claims to have seen the big, bulky man hugging you with a murmured, watery thank you, they must need to get their eyes checked.
And then, as it always does, morning came with everyone out on the tarmac. Goodbyes from the guys were long, bordering on unprofessional, when both Soap and Gaz pulled you in for one last hug. Both Price and Ghost gave you polite nods and handshakes, only just keeping composure. Laswell also said her goodbyes over a handshake and a mutter that you’d always be welcomed back as their favorite medic. You promised you’d be around if ever duty calls, and laughed to the rest of the group that hey, maybe they’ll see you out in the wild one day, so don’t shoot. And then just like that, you were off, giving one final wave as Nikolai lifted off and started back on your merry way towards home.
The landing back at home base was easy, four figures waiting just outside the range of the helicopter. You hopped out just as the rotors were slowing, walking briskly so that Nikolai could easily lift back up and be off again. As soon as the helio lifted out of the safe range, you and your sack were lifted in a swarm of arms. A muffled complaint barely got out as they squeezed you further, ignoring the fact that they had just seen you not more than a week before. Once you were finally released back to the ground, you got to get a good look at them. Horangi and Kreuger looked tired, with weak smiles and bags around the eyes. König didn’t look much better; his usual layer of comfort fat had given way to muscles you could see through his shirt. Nikto’s legs looked locked, as if forcing the bones to be the only things holding him standing. Forcefully shooing them all back towards the barracks, you deemed it a rest day and that there was to be no complaining (looking at you, Mr. Colonel), doctor’s orders. Not that they looked in any form to argue with you, slowly shuffling off to their rooms (or one room in the case of Horangi and König) as you made your way to your own, Nikto’s familiar shadow following right behind. He had been without you for weeks, and you know his tendency for sleep was already more on the sleep-deprived side. But it’s not like you’d ever complain about him being in your space or in your bed; you wanted nothing more than just to have one quiet morning alone with your husband.
AN: And that's a wrap on the 141! I may write them again, just as a lil offshoot since Medic!Reader is mainly all KorTac, but a little holiday pop-in never hurt. Writing out nine people in scenes, though, definitely hurts. But now back to regularly scheduled fluffy Nikto content, maybe some smut if I get the right kick
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