#141recon

[konigs-lover]

why haven’t we considered a florist au where the florist is könig??

imagine this beefy tall old man, retired from his life in his private military company after a pretty bad knee accident, muscles still very evident through the cozy shirt he wears who just- handles pretty dainty flowers as a job

more of a hobby honestly, he made so much money from his career that he doesn’t really need to work more, but he likes being on his feet and using his hands and he can finally give attention to his… softer side

the one his father told him to suppress, the side that was called ‘unnatural’, the side that he had to shut in a box and hid under years of trauma and military experience

ough reader needing to buy flowers for whatever reason, entering the shop blissfully unaware of the gigantic hunk of a man standing hidden behind a few plants in the back

and when you call out a soft “hello?” you’re met with this 6’10 beef cake that honestly kind of makes you shit yourself but also turns you on in an unexpected way

[the-californicationist]

Simulacra

a John Price story by The Californicationist for 141RECON’s Monthly Challenge: March of the Robots with original artwork by the illustrious @auberghyn

🩷 Click here to view! 🩷

TW: explicit sex, men whimpering, cumflation, cyborg!Price

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

>UPDATE bravo-6.374 APPLIED >MEMORY CACHE DOWNLOAD COMPLETE >TACTILE SENSORS ONLINE >INSTALLATION COMPLETE >SYSTEM CALIBRATION COMPLETE >INITIALIZING…

...

The room was clean. That was always the most unsettling part of opening his eyes. The difference was staggering compared to the filth and grime that was smeared across the city and its forlorn residents outside. The oily rain never truly washed away all of the dust. He hadn’t seen a blue sky in months. Outside these walls, all of Earth’s gifts had been washed away in the name of progress and replaced with decay and filth. But, John didn't fret about losing the past. It wasn't something he would ever find again, so he put it from his mind. Eyes front, soldier. 

As John looked around the room at the gleaming steel floor, galvanized and polished to a high shine, at the sparkling tiles that lay in little rows along the walls, each one reflecting the harsh overhead lighting in its polished surface, he wondered if he would ever get used to the sterility. 

“Bravo-6,” the computer spoke to him, her artificially-crafted voice tinny and weak, “Run update diagnostic.”

“Diagnostic complete,” he replied, his voice a perfect replication of his scruffy Scouse dialect. He hadn’t had lungs in fifty years, but it still sounded like he smoked. When they’d offered to install a modulator, he’d refused. He had asked them to keep his voice just as it was, and they’d let him. There was a sort of comfort in that, he supposed.

Running the diagnostic hadn’t taken any time. He barely controlled systems like that in a conscious way anymore. In the early days, it would have been a chore. And in the beginning, it would have been painful, excruciatingly so. But now, it was nothing. 

“Report received,” the computer acknowledged him, taking her data and flitting away like an invisible bird with a fresh worm between her beak, devouring and ever-hungry.

“Good morning, John,” a familiar voice greeted him, carrying through the blank room. 

“Dr. Arao,” John purred as he watched the woman emerge from behind her desk. 

“You’re always so formal when you wake up,” she grinned.

She was always the best part of his day. The dirty world outside of the lab couldn’t touch an elite scientist like her. Her straight, black hair was cut in a chin-length bob, and she used a shampoo that smelled like toasted coconut and vanilla cream. Expensive. Her teeth were sharp and white, and her bright eyes held two beautiful, pitch-dark pools that rested beneath hooded lids. A round nose sat just above a set of full, pouting lips, and although her smile did not come easy to others, it did for him. 

He tried to ignore the other information his body seemed to deliver about her. Pulse rate at seventy-five beats per minute, body temperature holding at exactly thirty-seven degrees centigrade. Beyond the delightful coconut scent, he could smell coffee and mint toothpaste mixing together in a discordant mess in her mouth. He could just pick out the tell-tale synthetic wheat on her breath as she unhooked him from the diagnostic cables. She’d had toast this morning. 

“Any pain?” She asked. She always asked, and his answer was always the same:

“No.”

She smiled as she looked down at her datapad,

“Well, perhaps that will change,” then, she shook her head, correcting herself, “No, wait. Sorry, I don’t want you to be in pain. I just meant –”

“It’s alright, love,” John stepped down from the heavy steel frame that had been cradling his body, standing beside her now, dwarfing her with his height and size, “I understand.”

“These new tactile sensors have been very promising in our tests. Temperature, pressure, vibration; it’s all on-boarded with the updated interface. You should be able to feel someone breathe from across the room with how high they’ve cranked these settings.”

“Mm,” John hummed non-commitally. He knew that these updates were not for his benefit, so he was reticent to enjoy them.

The doctor finally looked up from her datapad, compassion flashing through her eyes. She reached out to touch his arm, and for the first time in ages, he could feel the heat in her fingertips as she made contact with his synthetic skin. He looked down at her touch, surprised, and she bit the inside of her lip, watching him experience it, 

“Do you want to run some tests?” Her tone was that of an explorer setting out on their maiden voyage, full of excitement and something near to hope. 

“Whatever you need, Doct–”

“I told you before,” she interrupted him, waving her hand as if to cleanse the air of his words, “It’s Tala. Please.”

“Tala,” he felt her name fill his mouth, noting how the sound waves vibrated in his throat. 

More and more, his body was delivering new sensory feedback from the update. He was beginning to see just how much had changed. 

Tala motioned for him to sit in a cushioned, elevated chair, and she used the knobs to lean him back until he was suspended in front of her. His pretty doctor pulled up a chair next to him and attached her datapad to its receiver, watching as the data points began to populate the screen. 

“Alright,” she slid up beside his shoulder and straightened her lab coat, “This code takes time to become established. We couldn’t make clear neural connections in our modelling because models don’t have memories. But,” she smiled smugly, “You do. Can you remember a feeling for me?”

John furrowed his brow, 

“What sort of feeling?”

Tala sighed, twisting her mouth for a moment, thinking. Then, she shrugged, 

“You used to smoke cigars, right? That was in your file. How did they feel?”

John thought for a moment, and he tried to recall the ritual. He could pull up plenty of information about how it should feel. The tobacco leaves should be moistened by his mouth, soft between his lips. The burning embers should feel warm as he pulled smoke across his palate. But, these were theoreticals fed to him by his system’s computer. He wasn’t remembering so much as he was knowing. 

He sighed, trying to recall it for her,

“I’m sorry… I can’t –”

“Can you feel this?” Tala reached out to touch his hand, resting her fingers gently in the center of his wrist. 

John stared down at her contact, focusing on the inputs he was now receiving in his head. She was touching him as if taking his pulse, or where his pulse would be if he had one anymore. 

When he died, John had been stitched back together as a part of a secret program named Knightfall. It was a Lazarus protocol that took unthinkable measures in order to bring soldiers back from the dead, only to load them up with experimental drugs and implants, trying to improve on the original design. 

That program had been replaced by four others in the years that passed, but each time, Knightfall kept him around, using him like a prototype, a guinea pig for them to run their tests and see what happened. He’d visited his gravestone, a little concrete pillar in the churchyard of St. Vincent’s. His fingers had traced over his name – Captain John Price, devoted soldier, 1985-2030 – and that had been the end of his human life. He belonged to the government now, blood and bone replaced bit by bit with oil and steel. Then, they had begun replacing that, too. 

He should’ve died permanently in that explosion. Instead, they had puzzled him back together like a metal monster, replacing bone with titanium alloy, flesh with synthetic weave, and his ruined left eye had been carved out and updated with a digital interface. When he’d lost the right one on another assignment, he’d insisted that its robotic replacement be the same color. He didn’t want another steel marble rolling around in his synthetic orbital socket. He wanted to see himself when he looked in his reflection. Or at least some version of himself. Whatever that meant.

They’d replaced his limbs with bionic machines, strong enough to crush tank treads without really trying. His organs had begun to fail back in the ‘50s, and slowly, like Thesus’ ship, he’d changed into something else. Parts of his brain were still there, but how much of him was truly left? Did a soul remain trapped inside of him somewhere?

Now, in the long-stretched year of 2089, he was being touched by the only human that mattered to him anymore. Beneath Tala’s lithe fingers, she should feel the pounding of his heartbeat, the warmth of his recycled blood. Yet, none of it was there for her. He was a vampire, cursed like Cain. He could kill; he just couldn’t die. 

“Yeah…” He nodded, “Feels warm, I think.”

“Warm?” She asked softly, curious, but not in the way that a scientist should be, “And this? Can you feel the pressure?”

Her small hand wrapped itself around his palm, her thumb pressing into the meat of his hand, and yes, he could feel the tension of it. John wanted to squeeze her back. He wanted to hold her hand in his and pull her into him. Such an impulse hadn’t come over him in so long, he wondered at first if it was violence before realizing that it was lust. 

“Yes.” His answer was short, ironically robotic, and he fought to regain some semblance of control. 

When Knightfall had first reconstructed him, they had spoken of him in utilitarian terms: Asset. Platform. Unit. They had not spoken of sensation except as it related to combat feedback, the necessary inputs required to execute violence efficiently. To crush. To burn. Tactile sensitivity had once been deemed an inefficiency, a liability. Pain was dulled. Temperature was moderated. Pleasure was irrelevant.

Now, standing in the long shadow of that decision, he wondered if what they had removed from him had been more than nerves. It felt that she had given it back to him. 

“And this?” She whispered, no longer curious. Now, she was testing him. But, she didn’t record any data. Tala didn’t even glance over at her screens. No. She was more interested in the quick, darting movement of his eyes, the slight shock that rushed over his brow, the tightness of his mouth.

Her hand brushed John’s cheek, and he couldn’t help but lean into her heat. It had been so many years since someone had touched him in a way that was not painful or medicinal. As he turned his face to meet her touch, he felt her heart rate spike. It beat inside of her like a drum, and he wondered why. 

Was it fear?

His hand came up to cup hers, holding it to his cheekbone reverently. Then, he heard her take in a sharp breath through her nose. Nervousness. Uncertainty. 

John let her go. 

“Yes.” He nodded, watching her hand drop away from his synthetic flesh.

Tala looked at him with that intense sharpness that he’d come to so deeply admire, and her lips curled into a very tentative smirk. She looked like she was breaking a rule, and he was more than happy to aid her in whatever rebellion she had planned. At this point, the outline of her palm against his cheek was throbbing like a burn in his memory, and he forced his onboard computer to enhance the feedback, pumping the memory to stay alive. 

“Can you remember your first kiss?”

John heard himself let out a breath and a short laugh, shaking his head, 

“I dunno, love. That was ages ago.”

He lied. 

Of course he could remember it. 

John had been hiding in the gymnasium after class, avoiding the mass exodus of his peers, all bubbling and roiling and ready for summer holiday. He wouldn’t be going off to uni with them. He’d enlisted, and he hadn’t told anyone. 

But, Saoirse had found out. John never figured out how, but she’d discovered his secret. She knew where he was hiding, too. Never could keep anything from her. She had turned out to be the only real friend he’d had back then. Both of them from Merseyside. Both of them looking for somewhere to be that wasn’t home. Both of them desperate for a way out.

He thought she would understand that. 

“John?” Her voice had echoed in the empty, hollow gym. “I know you’re here, you bloody coward.”

He’d stepped out of the shadows, then, glaring at her. 

“Coward? Wha-”

“Thought you’d disappear, didn’t ya?” She shoved him on both of his shoulders, harder than he’d expected, knocking him off-balance, her auburn braid flopping over her shoulder, frizzy from the windy day. “You’d leave without sayin’ goodbye. Mister toy soldier, innit? How dare you!”

She’d hit him, then. Right in the chest. Her little fist had done no real damage to anything but his feelings. 

“How dare you, you bastard!”

Her lashes were wet, the lids rimmed red and her green eyes gleamed in the dim light of the room. 

“You can’t! You can’t leave me here! You…”

She was angry, but there was something else. Something that, at the time, his sixteen-year-old self couldn’t understand. 

“Saoirse…” He begged her, “Please.”

“You, please! You bloody please! I…” Her lip trembled, and all of her words got trapped in her throat. She swallowed and swallowed, trying to speak, but nothing could escape. 

And so he had kissed her. He didn’t know why he thought that would work. That it would fix anything. He’d pressed his mouth to hers, unmoving. When his lips touched her lips, he immediately regretted it. Hers were so soft. Too soft. It was as if he was touching the clouds. Like he was the sun, and his lips were the burning rays, and he was punishing her for being in his presence. Touching something that he wasn’t allowed to feel. Taking something he wasn’t allowed to have. 

At once, he pulled back. But, almost as quickly, she’d followed him, her lips covering his own, moving against him in a strange, wet dance. He tried to learn the way. He chased her tongue with his own, he touched her body with his hands. She let him. No matter how clumsy he was, she let him be that way. 

“You remember,” Tala recognized his expressions, pleased with her new discovery. 

John fixed his face, and he shrugged, 

“It’s… murky.”

“What was it like?” She asked, stepping closer to his metal throne, approaching him cautiously, as if he might flee from her. As if he had anywhere else he would go. 

“Not good,” he gave her the truth with a soft smile. “I had no idea what the hell I was supposed to do.”

Then, Tala leaned forward, her straight hair falling against her cheek, brushing his neck. Her nose fit against the side of his, and he could taste her mint toothpaste in his own mouth as she breathed against him. Her hand returned to his cheek, searing itself across the same place he’d felt it before. Finally, with her heart banging in his sensitive ears, she bent her mouth down and kissed him. 

That same forbidden softness returned to him in a maddening crash. Tala’s full lips swept across his, fervent and searching. But, this time, he was not an ignorant lad. He moved his jaw against hers with the same desire, the same fire, taking her kiss and giving her his own. He fed her his tongue, taking her own into his mouth and sucking on her soft flesh like she was a dark, ripened fruit. His hands moved to her waist, feeling her body beneath his grasp, mindful of his power as he greedily squeezed her supple curves. The fabric of her blouse gave way against his fingers, and her shirt came untucked so that he could feel the heat of her skin. 

She slowed, and he let her retreat, relaxing himself against her like willing prey. Finally, she broke their kiss, and her eyes fluttered open, staring up at him with an expression he was sure he wore on his own visage. Need. 

“Was it like that?” She asked in a hushed whisper. 

He shook his head, brushing her soft locks behind her ear, touching the soft shell of it with the tips of his fingers as he did, 

“No.” He whispered back, “It wasn’t.”

The sound of a door closing came from the hallway, loud enough for them both to hear it. Tala moved back, but her eyes didn’t leave his. She didn’t check the lab portal. She just kept looking at him, full of something nameless. 

The footsteps in the hallway disappeared away from the lab, and John tracked it as far as he could, his super-human hearing measuring every sound wave and logging it in his mind. But, it was hard to push himself to care about surveillance when his entire being wanted to track Tala’s every breath, every fierce pulse of her heart inside her breast, the specific dilation of her pupils in those bright eyes of hers.

“John… I’m sorry,” she looked away, turning her face from him suddenly, “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

She stood, but John sat up, turning himself in the elevated seat toward her, grabbing her shoulder. She let him stop her retreat, turning herself towards him so that she fit between his knees. 

“Why did you, Tala?” John asked her, his voice low and smoldering.

She placed a shaking hand on his chest, right over where his heart should be. She should feel the gentle flutter of his life beneath her touch, but there was nothing there. Nothing but a cold machine. And yet, her palm awakened something within him. Something he couldn’t quantify. 

“Because I wanted to,” she confessed. 

Another sound interrupted John’s thoughts. The same footsteps returned to the hall, and as they grew closer, he realized they were coming to the lab. In a soft but decisive shove, John pushed Tala away from him and straightened his back, returning his face to a neutral position. She sucked in a breath, confused, but when the lab door opened, she, too, changed her demeanor. A chill fell over her pretty eyes, and the gleaming life that he’d seen in them just moments before dulled into a grey shadow. 

“Arao?” A voice came from the cracked door.

“Mm,” she feigned distraction, tapping on her datapad, “Oh, yes?”

“Are you running the update? Simmons told me it wouldn’t be ready for launch until Thursday night.”

The man let himself into the lab, but he lingered by the door. He was afraid of John. The stench of his anxiety flooded John’s senses, putrid and sickly. 

“It’s not the update,” Tala lied, “I’m just patching these old files. What do you need, Monroe?”

John hadn’t met Monroe before, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to remember him even if he had. The man was every bit as forgettable as a range target. His skin was tanned, his eyes a matching color, and his hair was thinning and drab. He was a young man, but he was not well-muscled. A runner, John guessed, by the slowness of his heart beats and by the expensive trainers he was wearing beneath his scrubs. 

“Uh, well,” Monroe spoke a little too quietly, holding back some truth. John’s ears perked up, but he stayed stock-still, trying to be every bit the machine that they assumed. The man tried on a smile, “Simmons and Khan are heading down to the pinks to get a pint or two, and we were wondering… well, I was wondering if –”

“I really need to finish this,” Tala shook her pad a bit, communicating her impatience mildly, giving Monroe a half-hearted shrug. 

“Do you want me to stay with you?” He asked, stepping a little closer to her, his eyes now fixed on John’s unmoving form. “I can call the night guard down.”

“What? No,” Tala waived him off, “John’s not dangerous.”

Monroe let out a hiss coded with disbelief, 

“Yeah, right. That thing’s a war machine. The T-25s still don’t have shit on this prototype. Heard it took out an entire C-block of raiders just three weeks ago.”

It was two C-blocks and a comms tower, but John didn’t open his mouth to correct him. 

“He,” Tala chided, “Not it.”

“Mm… He? You spend too much time with the droids, Arao. The man he used to be is long gone,” Monroe kept his eyes on John for a moment longer, but he didn’t dare take a step closer. Instead, he sighed, and he retreated towards the lab door, “You sure about that drink?”

“I’m sure.” Her words were final, and they had a crisp, sharp edge to them. Her patience was wearing thin. 

Monroe gave her an awkward sort of smile and closed the lab door behind him, his footsteps disappearing back down the long corridor. 

She waited until she couldn’t hear him anymore before she spoke.

“John, I’m so sor–”

He put his hand up, 

“Please. It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Tala stepped closer to him, but her soft familiarity was tucked away, replaced with a professional veneer. 

“He’s not wrong,” John tried to press his lips into a smile but he wasn’t sure if it worked. 

“He is,” she insisted, “You’re still a man, John.”

“No heart. No bones.” John scoffed, “Barely anything left of this old brain. What else is there?”

A hard, heavy silence settled around them, but Tala didn’t retreat like her coworker had done, and in the air, John couldn’t smell fear. He only breathed in her warm, gourmandic scent, devouring her with every sensory receptor but his mouth. He dared to imagine the joy of that, too. 

“Your soul,” Tala said. Her voice was so steady and clear, like she had been stating a fact instead of a fantasy. 

He couldn’t help but laugh at that. But, he was quickly silenced when she put her datapad down on the desk and stepped back between his legs, placing her hands on either side of his face, one palm on his synthetic skin and the other on the gleaming titanium of his eye socket. He became mute, as if she was controlling him, rewriting his code with her touch. She looked into his eyes, one blue and one silver, studying him like an unsolved calculation. He could see the glow of the oils on her creamy, olive skin, the shine of the light against her black lashes, that writhing pink tongue as she spoke…

“When I kissed you, you kissed me back.”

“Yeah, I did,” John said, matching her low timbre. 

“Why?”

Another beat of silence stretched between them like an elastic band, reaching and reaching and reaching between each second, each thud of her heart in her ribs, until it threatened to pop. 

“Because I wanted to,” he repeated her own words back to her.

“Androids do not want,” she ran her thumbs over his eyes, forcing him to flutter his lids closed. Then, she brought both of them down to his jaw, tracing the frame of his robotic skeleton until she found his full mouth, settling both of her fingertips against his bottom lip. “Men do.”

John felt his hand reach for her neck, wrapping itself around her nape, cradling her spine in his palm. He brought her forward and took her mouth against his, and as he did, he realized that he hadn’t wanted anything in a very, very long time. 

She kissed him back, but he pulled away, his mind working out the puzzle on his own, 

“The patch…” He said, talking to her in a hushed whisper, their noses brushing against each other at their tips. 

She was breathing hard, and he could smell her arousal, now. It was like a drug. 

“I didn’t…” She shook her head, “I didn’t add the second half of the update. I blocked it. I revoked the sensory inhibitor.”

“Did they –”

“No,” she bit her lip, her eyes glassy, almost to the point of tears, “No, they don’t know.”

“If they find out…” John furrowed his brow, worried about the repercussions she must be facing if she were discovered tampering with Knightfall’s objectives. They might kill her. 

She shrugged, smiling, rubbing her hands down his chest and arms reverently, 

“You deserve to want things. You deserve a choice.”

She kissed him again, but it was chaste. Her lips sealed themselves against his so briefly, and then, she was gone. John followed her with his eyes as she backed away from him,

“I’ve got to turn in this report.” She retreated another step, almost as if to stop herself from touching him again. She shook her head and looked over at her computer screen, “They won’t find the code. You can, though. It’s a new partition. When you go into combat, you can turn it off. Avoid the pain. But, at least now, you get to decide what you feel.”

“Thank you, Tala,” John said earnestly, wishing she would come closer, wondering why he was so desperate for her touch again. 

“You’re welcome, John.”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

It was two days before he saw her again. He’d been sent on a mission into the F-quadrant of the city. Warehouse district. Smugglers were bringing in illegal bio-upgrades, selling them on the black market to slavers and debt collectors. Neuro-chips that would turn a human being into a mindless husk. Bio-jacking, they called it. Fifty thousand credits for a week “offline” was enough to tempt the city’s most desperate urchins. But, whether they ever came back from their trip was another story. 

John was happy to kill such monsters. They weren’t easy prey, though. He’d kept his sensory inhibitor offline, and when the jagged blade of a smuggler’s knife dragged its way across his ribs, he had cried out. It had surprised the greasy criminal to hear it. Robots didn’t scream. The lowlife even took a moment to check his blade for blood before Price reached out and crushed his skull. There was plenty of blood, then. 

He could’ve switched off his perception filter, or perhaps reach his mind into Tala’s partition to turn off the pain, but he didn’t. In fact, he burrowed into his gear vest with his opposite hand and pressed on the new wound. His fingers touched wires and metal plating, and the agony he felt was sensational. His mind reeled from it. His musculature tensed up. His silicone flesh was on fire. It was torment. But, he didn’t take his hand away. For a long time, he just stood there, experiencing pain and letting it wash over him like a fever. 

He kept the pain online for the rest of his infil, even during combat, experiencing pain like a real soldier for the first time in years. 

By the time the mission was done, he made his way back towards the base. But, instead of heading up to the lab for repairs, he took a long detour through the old part of the city. There were still familiar buildings here, and although war had destroyed most of what he could remember, the architecture in this sector gave him a sense of nostalgia that comforted him. He traced his path cautiously, stepping out of the view of the cameras and drone scanners that watched the streets. John had clearance, but he didn’t want to be followed. Not here. 

He stopped at a shady little food stall, the smell of vinegar and spices wafting over him, reminding him that he should not arrive to his destination empty-handed. The tiny chef was elderly and hunched, but she was loud enough, asking him for his order without any other greeting.

“Chicken?” She raised an eyebrow at him. It was a test; he knew better. 

He shook his head,

“Pork. Two. And a half-pound of the bulaklak.”

There hadn’t been real, breathing chickens in almost a decade, and he wasn’t interested in the lab-grown alternative. Wild pigs, though, were invasive and abundant. 

“40 credits,” she smiled, “30 if you pay cash.”

“No cash,” he shook his head, holding out his palm for her to scan his implant. 

Her smile twisted into a frown, but as she bagged up his meal, she thanked him before disappearing back into the dark kitchen, flapping the plastic curtain closed behind her. 

Eventually, he saw Tala’s apartment. Her light was on. A golden glow framed her curtained window, and although the black, starless sky was spitting rain, he could see her shadow flickering in the lamplight. He scaled the stairs, and when he made it to her floor, he waited in the hall, checking to make sure no one had seen him approach. Then, he found her door. 

Apartment 2882.

He knocked. 

John could hear her stirring inside of her small abode. She stopped all movements. He couldn’t even hear her breathe. She was scared. So, he called out just loud enough for her to hear him through the thin panel.

“Tala, it’s me.”

Then, movement. Footsteps. Keys rattling into locks. Bolts scraping. The door creaked open,

“John?”

“Hi,” he smiled, “Sorry, love. Is this a bad time?”

Her eyes were wide, and he noticed that she was in a thin silk slip beneath her fluffy pink robe. Her slippers were cats, their little ears folding in on themselves. 

“Um,” he watched the blush spread across her nose as she opened the door wider, “No, no. It’s fine. Come in.”

She helped him inside, taking the bags of food and his jacket. It was a chaos of fabric and shuffling in the foyer. Then, she padded into the kitchen, opening the cartons of what he had brought for her.

“Oh, my God. Is this what I think it is?”

“Pork adobo. You like that place on the corner, right?”

“And you got the chicharon?” The next sound out of her mouth was one of decadent yearning, and although she had meant it for the food, John’s mind immediately wanted to hear that moan in a different context. 

“Wait,” she seemed to shake herself out of her trance, “What are you doing here? You’re on mission.”

“Finished,” John smiled, but as he went to sit down at her small countertop bar, he winced, the cut on his ribs in desperate need of repair. 

“John,” she rushed to his side, pulling up his shirt without any hesitation or pretense of modesty, and when she saw the damage, she gasped, “Fuck. You didn’t… You kept the inhibitor on? Why? Here, let me get my pad. I’ll turn it off for you.” Her face twisted with worry, and he almost felt bad about it. But, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize.

“No,” he reached out and caught her wrist in his enormous hand, “Don’t turn it off.”

“What? Why?” Her eyes were wide with worry, and she was distracted by his admission. So much so that she didn’t notice her robe slipping down her back, revealing wide swaths of bare skin to him. Her entire shoulder and nape were on full display, her skin freshly bathed and moisturized, gleaming like polished bronze. 

“I…” John wasn’t sure if it was the whole truth, but he confessed to her anyway, “I want to feel.”

“Pain?”

“Everything.”

She ran her hand through her hair, damp from her bath, slicked back and away from her delicate face. She sighed, 

“Let me get my repair kit. One second,” she said, disappearing into the bathroom. 

He heard her rummaging around in there, and she came out with a small grey box in her hand. She popped it open, and told him,

“Take off your shirt.”

John chuckled at her commanding tone. She was dressed like a pink teddy, but her tone was that of a drill sergeant. 

She turned a deeper shade, the blush barely visible in her tanned cheeks, but it was there all the same, and she laughed at herself with him,

“Sorry. I mean… take off your shirt, please. Sorry.”

“No harm done, love,” John obeyed, tucking his finger just under her chin as he settled back into his seat, “You can order me around whenever you like.”

Her eyes darted up to his, catching his flirting and letting it swirl around her. But, she was back to business when she saw his cut. 

“Shit, this is bad. Must’ve hurt like hell…”

“It did.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to turn on the inhibitor? This won’t feel good.” She was concerned for him, but he nodded,

“I know. Get on with it.”

She set to work. It wasn’t quite like stitching, but it was a familiar sort of ache. As she closed his wound, he focused on her breathing, the little soft puffs of air that skated across his chest as she worked. Her heart kept him company, and although her scent was soapy and clean, he could still smell her. Her apartment was soaked in her natural odor, and he wanted to roll himself up in it, like a hound in the fresh cut grass. 

“There,” she sighed, putting the finishing touches on his repair, “All set. You got cut all the way down to the titanium plating. What happened?”

“Smugglers. Nasty bunch,” John gave her a half smile.

She stared down at his now-mended side, and she asked him,

“What… What did it feel like? Was it –”

“Awful? Yes,” he nodded, “It was. It was hot and sharp. I could feel the teeth of the blade catch on the frame, just here.” He grabbed her hand in his and touched her fingertips to his ribs, pressing down into them, matching the knife’s path. 

When he released her fingers, she didn’t move her hand away. She kept touching him, feeling each rib like she was counting them, making sure they were all in place. She moved up, almost to his broad pec muscle, and then she flattened her hand across his bare chest, burying her fingers in the dense hair that had been put there, mimicking his lost, mammalian form. 

There they were, juxtaposed in her yolk-yellow room, both of them washed in that ochre light; him - metal and circuits, her - flesh and terry cloth. Both of them wanting. 

“Why did you come here, John?” She whispered, keeping some sort of secret in her own house.

“Because I wanted to,” he purred, sweeping her hair out of her eyes, “I want you, Tala. I want you so fuckin’ much, I can feel it, right here,” John pulled her hand to his sternum, pressing his palm against the back of her hand, sealing her against him. “You… You woke me up from…” He couldn’t find the words, “A dream? From death? But when I’m with you, I’m alive.”

She looked up at him, and at first, he worried that he had taken things too far. He wondered if his new-found sensory overload had made him illogical and odd. Perhaps something was wrong in him, now. Perhaps –

“I want you, too.” 

John ached to kiss her again. But, she stepped away from him, just out of his reach. Then, he watched her kick off her ridiculous slippers. At first, he was amused, but when he saw her heavy robe melt down her back and pool on the floor, he became gravely serious. Now, between him and Tala’s fully nude body, there was only a thin, pink slip. 

In his mind, her heartbeat was racing. His onboard computer was calculating the rate, but none of that made sense to him, now. Her heat, concentrated at her mouth, under her arms and her breasts, between her legs… Her breaths rushing through her lungs as she was practically panting for him. All of her scents; the heady arousal that she concealed from him, too faint for her to know it was there. But, for him, it was all at the forefront of his brain, ready to be catalogued, studied, consumed. 

He stood, and he took a single step towards her. John dwarfed the short woman, standing more than a foot above her in his combat boots. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and expectant. Of what, he couldn’t be sure. But, he wanted to see her naked, and unless she wanted to stop him, that’s what he would have. 

John’s hands came up to her shoulders, and he lay them across the straps. Slowly, he dragged them down her arms until her slip was only held up by the soft swell of her breast. And when she exhaled, it fell, encircling her feet like a pale, pink pool. 

Then, her deft fingers reached for him, touching his belly, tracing their path down to his canvas trousers and belt, pulling at the buckle. John knew that he was already hard for her. He’d chosen to be. It was all subroutine now. He could turn it on or off, just like any other process. A machine. 

They’d given him a new cock after the accident, almost as a joke. He’d been large as a man, but they’d made him bigger, laughing at how frightened the enemy would be if they caught him naked somewhere. Said they’d make him scary from head to toe, prick included. 

He could come, too. The technicians had been proud of that little stunt. Even gave him some heavy, round balls to hang between his legs, but they were full of synthetic seed. It wasn’t real. Just silicone lube, cloudy and white, a mockery of nature. John could run the process on his own, but he’d never felt the need to jerk himself off. He hadn’t been able to get aroused. At least… not until now. 

Desire had returned, and he no longer wondered how men had flung themselves into ancient, hopeless wars to rescue the woman they loved. Their motivation was clear to him. Crystal. The whole city could burst through her tiny apartment door right now, and John would kill them all without hesitation. She was everything. He didn’t have lungs, but she was his breath. He didn’t have blood, but she was his heart. He wasn’t sure about a soul, but he was sure that she held it within her breast, keeping it safe for him until - one day - he might need it again.  

John almost stopped her when she got to his zipper, the shame creeping up his neck and into his face. He didn’t want this to be a farce. Some madman’s invention of what sex should be now that he was all wires and bolts. He wanted her to have the real him, but that wasn’t something he could give her anymore. 

He swallowed out of reflex rather than need, fretting over what she would uncover as she peeled down his fly. As he emerged, she gently pulled him out of his pants, and she looked up at him, smiling a bit, 

“John...”

“Yeah,” he replied dumbly.

She glanced up at him, and then her eyes fell back to his cock, staring at him with that palpable curiosity that he loved to watch her experience,

“I’ve never seen you hard before.”

“You don’t need to…”

“Can I?” She asked, giving his cock a few exploratory pumps in her hand, sending bursts of sensation through his system, “I want to make you feel good.”

Who was he to deny her? He watched as Tala massaged his rigid length, and every smooth squeeze of her hand was like its own blinding crescendo of tactile sensation. John reached out to steady himself against the counter, and the wood popped under the pressure of his grip. Then, to his surprise, she knelt down in front of him and engulfed his cockhead in her soft mouth.

“Mngh,” he grunted, swaying a bit from the overloaded sensation. 

The curve of her tongue, the glassy smoothness of the inside of her lip, the wet, cloying heat of her saliva; all of it was like a drug to him, and he wanted more. 

“Were you this big… before?” She asked, licking him underneath his shaft, marveling at his immense prick. 

John scoffed, but he smiled, gently petting his hands through her soft hair, 

“Not quite, love.”

“I think you were,” she gave him a blazing look through her half-closed eyes, taking him in and out of her mouth, suckling at his tip like she was hungry for him. “And I think you know how to use it.” 

“It’s been…” She took him deeper, and he gasped, cutting off his words, feeling the tight clench of her hot throat, “Umngff… Fuck… It’s been a bloody long time.”

She looked up at him with that intoxicating gleam in her eye, the one that told him she was up to something. 

“Can you feel this?”

One of her hands held his prick up and out of the way, her fist rubbing tantalizing circles around his glans while her head dipped lower between his legs, that deft tongue curving around his balls, sucking one of them inside her lips. 

“Tala…” He whispered her name, choking back a soft whimper. 

“Mm?” She didn’t take him out of her mouth, but that questioning hum reverberated through his body like a lustful tremor, making him nearly lose his balance. 

“Tala,” he whined, his fingers twisting through her wet hair, “Please…”

Her soft, satisfied giggle taunted him, and all he could think about was how his cock would feel buried between those plump thighs of hers. Bliss. 

John grabbed her wrists in each of his hands and hauled her up with ease. She weighed nothing to him. Tala squealed, enjoying being manhandled by her powerful android, knowing she had lit a fuse to his fire and reveling in her power. He lifted her body just a bit further until her feet were off the ground, and he set her on the kitchen stool. She laughed, gleeful, and tried to steady herself on her perch, reaching her arms around his waist, rubbing her hands across the small of his back, daring to sink her fingernails into him just so, bringing him that pain that he had been seeking. 

Tala didn’t seem hung up on the fact that parts of him were inhuman. He had silicone panels and titanium plating where his builders hadn’t bothered to put any synthetic flesh. He had symbols and serial numbers left behind from his reconstructions and deconstructions. He wasn’t poorly made, but he wasn’t a thing of beauty. Other than his musculature and his cock, the engineers hadn’t created him for show. But, his pretty little scientist took no pause at his appearance. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen it all before. John knew she had inspected him, even replaced certain bits and pieces from time to time. But, she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t avoid his metallic body. The soft kisses she was planting on his belly and chest skated right over the rips and tears that exposed his cables. Tala knew that he wasn’t going to hurt her. With her, he was finally himself. 

He wasn’t Bravo-6 with her. He was John Price, again. 

John knelt, bending his head between her thighs, breathing in her scent like an addict. His computer fed him information as if he wanted to know the exact chemical makeup of her gleaming come – and honestly, he did – but that wasn’t his priority now. John needed to touch her. He planted his lips over her soft petals, and the feeling of them touching his synthetic skin made his mind go blank. All the noise and digital read outs were silenced by the feeling of her softest parts against his mouth, and it took him a moment to even move from that initial touch. 

When he licked her, she whined in a high-pitch keen. Her cry ended in a delightful sigh, and John knew that he would do anything to hear that exact melody again. He reached up to fondle her tits, marveling at the beauty of her body, shocked by just how responsive she was for him. But, he kept getting distracted by how sensitive his mouth was. He could feel the body of her clit filling with blood, catching a fever as he suckled at its delicate hood, becoming turgid against his top lip as it swelled. His tongue could feel every pulsing heartbeat that came from her smooth clit, and so he let it throb upon the tip of his slick muscle, reveling in each pounding surge from her veins. He could feel the silky texture of her inner labia, sucking at her quim to experience the way it would slip and slide into his mouth, tasting her in clear, unmuddled precision. 

“John! Oh, fuck…” She trembled for him, “Fuck… Just like that…”

He repeated the motions with his lips and mouth in the exact way he had just done, watching her with wide, adoring eyes as she lost control of herself above him. 

“Don’t! Anghhh… Don’t… Don’t stop…”

He wouldn’t dream of it. In fact, he didn’t need to breathe. If she wanted him to, he could stay down here in the dark heaven between her legs for a hundred years. And fuck, did he want to. 

“Mmmnngh…” John moaned. 

How strange, he thought. He didn’t choose to make that sound. These automatic noises of desire were the first that he had heard from himself in half a century. Did he even consciously make the sound? Where did it come from? His computer, or from him?

“Yes! John, yes. I’m – Fuck! I’m coming… I’m – nngh,” Tala froze. All of her muscles tightened at once, but that delicious cunt of hers beat against his mouth like a wardrum, harder and harder, drooling with his synthetic saliva and her shining come. 

As she tumbled over the crest of her orgasm, her legs began to violently shake. She tried to close them around his head, against her will, he knew. But, it was still enough to drive him mad with desire. 

“Mmmmfff…” A breathy sigh escaped his lips. John kissed her pussy as if he was kissing her gentle mouth, “Good girl.” He kissed her again, slurping up her sweetness and painting her come across his tongue, “Mmm, so good. So fuckin’ good…”

“Nnghh! Ah! Fuck,” Tala screamed for him, “John! Please, please, please…”

John smiled. He couldn’t help it. He was enjoying this beyond measure. Between his legs, he could feel his cock jerk up against his belly, but he couldn’t touch himself. It would be too much. Just the thought of feeling her wicked heat surrounding him made his entire system lag. His fingers pressed against the pliant, soft edge of her cunt, and he reveled in her immediate reaction. 

“Hhh! Please…” She gasped.

“You want me to touch you, love?” John teased her, using just the tip of his forefinger to delve his way inside. 

“Please! John,” Tala fisted his hair, pulling hard, burning his nerves. He basked in the pain. 

“You feel so good on my mouth…” He confessed, slanting his lips over her clit again, working her in the same hypnotic rhythm. At the same time, he pressed his thick finger deeper inside of her, going slowly, trying to be gentle, urging himself to ignore the still-human part of his brain that wanted him to replace his hand with his sex. 

He tried to be careful. John still wasn't sure of his strength and the limitation of his power even after all these years. What did he know? It may be boundless. He had crushed steel beams, he'd killed a man just from the squeeze of his titanium fist, breaking his neck like a twig, but he had rarely needed to be delicate. Fury was all he was good for. For love? How could a weapon be useful in love?

So, he steadied his hand. He watched her every move, listening to her body as she throbbed for him, her enchanting movements, those sweet, desperate mewls of bliss. He wanted to make sure she felt safe with him. That he was not dangerous, even though that was a lie. 

Tala’s hand snaked through his scalp, no longer tugging at his hair but massaging him, scraping her nails gently along his roots, and he thought he saw stars for a moment. Then, she began to talk to him, speaking through low groans of pleasure as he suckled at her velvet mound.

“Can you… can you feel it? All of it?” She asked, barely able to look at him without her legs trembling with need.

“Mm hm,” John responded, but he didn’t abandon his meal. He didn’t want to let go of the silken prize between his lips.

“Do you think… I jus– oh, God… mmghff… I wanna make you come, John. Is that… Can you?” Her voice was so sweet and full of careful wishing. The innocence of it, her salacious generosity, stuck him like a knife in his belly. He didn’t deserve such kindness. 

“I’ve – hh! Anhh,” she stopped, wrenching her eyes shut as if she couldn’t bare to tell him her secrets anymore. 

He pulled away, but just barely, to ask her in a low tone, 

“What? Tell me.”

She peered down at him, her body gleaming with a delicate sheen of sweat, and she looked away as she spoke, unable to meet his gaze as she gave her confession,

“I’ve wondered about it for a long time…”

“About making me come?” John couldn’t help but let out a deep, resonant chuckle. 

He stood up, positioning himself between her thighs, letting his engineered phallus rest in the cleave of her pussy lips, rocking himself slowly back and forth to tease himself and her. 

Tala nodded, still unable to look at him. So, he reached out, taking her by the chin, and slowly brought her eyes up to his,

“Is that something you want, love?”

“If I can have it,” she whispered. Slowly, as if she was afraid she might scare him off, Tala reached down between her legs to play with him, holding him around his fat shaft and dragging him across her clit. “Is it… possible… for you?”

She looked so worried about her questioning, as if she might offend him. It was like asking a gun if it would mind firing a bullet. He wasn’t used to being asked for anything rather than being ordered. 

“Physically, yes. They thought I would,” Price paused, searching for the way to say it, trying not to be distracted by how incredible it felt for her to use him like a toy, rubbing his cockhead through her lips and over her clit to bring herself pleasure, “...need it, perhaps. Or, to them, rebuilding a man required his prick, even if he’s not a man anymore.”

“Do you want to come inside of me?” She asked, practically doe-eyed, her voice making him feel practically drunk with power. 

“Fuck yes,” he thrust his hips forward, rocking her back on her stool, dragging his cock over her mons and onto her belly, making a point to show her just how he might achieve his goal.

“Please, John,” she begged, writhing her plush form beneath him. 

Price wanted to laugh. Or to scream. It was ludicrous to think that this gorgeous woman would be pleading with him for something that he was more than ready to give her. She thought she had to ask for his cock? That she might be denied? 

It was a ridiculous concept to him. Just the fact that she had allowed him to see her naked flesh, that he’d even been invited to kiss her sweet mouth. It was unbearable. And he was more than willing to do her bidding. 

If she wanted to carry his false seed in her womb, to be bred with a simulacra of what she truly deserved, her body warping her mind with potent pleasure until she ached be bred, to be round with his child as her biology so craved, he would fill her until she was sated. No matter that he was sterile. No matter that he may not even be alive anymore. No matter if he could never give her rope after rope of his sticky genes. He would try. God, he would try. After all, he was made to serve. 

John peered down between her thighs and took his cock from her hands, missing her touch already. But, the moment that the tip of his swollen prick touched her quim, the entire world disappeared. Nothing else existed, and if it did, it didn’t matter anymore. The feeling of her fire against his aching rod was unbelievable. 

Even when he was blood and bone, sex had never felt like this. And he’d barely even begun to experience her. This was but a chaste brush with her blooming entrance. How would he be able to sink himself inside of her soaking, molten core and survive it?

He caught himself, gripping her hip with his free hand hard enough to make her gasp. He let go at once, apologizing through his clenched jaw,

“Fuck. Sorry… You feel way too fuckin’ good.”

“Mnughhh… Holy shit…” Her eyes were locked on where their bodies were joining together, watching his cock stretch out her soft hole, “You are huge.”

“Tell me,” Price gasped, feeling her heartbeat slamming against his glans, beating against him like a dove’s downy wings, “Ahnh! Fff– Tell me if I need… to stop…”

A desperate whimper escaped from his throat, and he tried to keep himself from falling apart in front of her, but it was no use. His hand shook as he tried to press himself further inside. The sensation was too much. He could barely concentrate. His onboard computer seemed at a loss for programming, unable to reconcile the sensory overload. 

“Mmnnnn –” John whined, panting hard, his body remembering back to a time where he would have needed that breath, “So soft… I can feel you… All of you… Everything… Mnnhh… mnngh… Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck…” If he had any shame, he should've felt it by now, crying for her like a spoiled mutt, taking and yet wanting more. 

“It's okay… I can take it,” Tala murmured, misunderstanding his struggles. He was not being chivalrous; John was consumed. She sighed from the pressure of him, using her hands to hold onto his hips, dragging him forward, impaling herself with his cock inch by incredible inch. 

Price lunged forward, his arms wrapping around her body, knocking over the wooden stool with a loud bang. She gasped, but she didn’t try to escape his grip. He held her against his chest so tight, crushing her to him as if she might fall away like sand though his fingers. John let his face fall to her nape, his eyes and nose surrounded by her sleek black hair, breathing in her scent and ever so carefully easing her body down onto his stiff cock. 

But still, she couldn't fit him inside. He felt the tension, and he heard her let out a quiet hiss of pain. She was trying to hide it from him, unwilling to show weakness, but it was no use. He could feel and hear everything. At this point, he was sure he could feel the goddamn earth moving beneath his feet. She couldn't conceal anything from him. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” he cooed, trying to comfort her even though he was beside himself, “Don't rush, love. Don't rush. I don't wanna hurt you.”

Tala pulled back so that she could kiss him, her arms looped over his shoulders, her lithe fingers caressing the nape of his neck,

“I want you inside me.” She spoke into his mouth, breaking the kiss, “All of you.” 

John returned her kiss, silencing her with his long tongue, stuffing her palate full of his writhing appendage. Then, he carried her over to what he assumed was her bedroom, front-kicking the door with a deafening slam. She held him tighter around his shoulders, deepening their kiss, moving her mouth down to his jaw and neck to suck on his sensitive skin.

He got lucky, and when he saw her mattress, the duvet a plush thickness, the fabric a cool, lilac color, he laid her down, making sure he didn't hurt her further. All of his movements were carefully planned as his conscious seemed to cut in and out, the feeling of his fat prick being smothered in her sultry heat becoming too much to bear. 

John placed her back onto the soft bedding before anchoring himself with his arms on either side of her head, holding his weight off of her, trying not to crush her ribs. 

“Oh, fuck,” she smiled, “I feel like I'm gonna come just from this. There's,” she canted her hips, sliding him out just a bit before trying to seal him back in, “...so much of you.”

John kissed her again, his mouth dragging over hers, keeping her from saying things like that. Things that would make his body want to take control over his mind, that would make him want to rut into her like a feral boar, pumping his cock inside her with no regard for her gentility. 

She let him take her mouth, loosening her lips and jaw for him, basically sucking his tongue like she had done with his cock, allowing him to explore her cheeks and throat with abandon. 

“Tala… What have you done to me?” John asked breathlessly. 

“Does it feel good, baby?” Tala kissed his cheek, watching as Price put his lips around her tight nipple, sucking at her with his whole mouth, “I just wanted you to feel…”

“I can't… hhhfff-fuck,” Price let out another whimper, louder this time. His noises were getting more reckless, “Bloody hell, I need to move. Don't wanna hurt you…”

“Hurt me,” Tala grabbed him around the jaw, shocking him into opening his eyes and peering down at her.

Her hair had fallen around her head in a dark halo, eclipsing her, making her look like a saint. The Patron Saint of Lost Causes. He would absolve himself in her, he decided, and may she bless him in turn. May she anoint him with the heady oil that covered him from her dripping font. He wished he could remember how to pray. 

John rocked his hips forward, bullying his length through her tight muscles, stretching her wide and taut so that he could fit. He crashed his pubic mound against hers, burying himself deep inside, knowing that he had sinned the moment that he could feel the tip of his phallus brush against the cradle of her womb. 

He turned to her in a panic, and although her mouth had opened wide in a silent scream, her big brown eyes held a bright expression like she had been baptized in his painful fire. Her muscles seized, she trembled beneath him, and inside of her poor cunt, her come flowed around him, thick and sticky, easing his path. 

But, he didn't fuck himself through her pleasure, no matter how badly he wanted to. He let her breathe, giving her time to come down from her high, kissing her perfect tits, nuzzling against her neck, whispering encouragement to her,

“Yes, love. Come for me just like that. Just like that…”

Instead of a high whine, a dark, rumbling groan echoed in her chest, low and gravelly; deeply primal. Her body was trying to flood her core, knowing that she would need help to take him, fortifying itself for the siege that it instinctively knew was on its way. 

John tried to focus, but she was twisting around him like a warm, wet fist, stroking him inside of her belly as she came. 

He was going to black out. 

For a fleeting moment, he thought about opening the partition firewall that she had built for him. He could reach inside and switch it off. He could make it good for her; fuck what he wanted. Fuck his bloody pleasure. She was all that mattered, anyway. 

But her little whims, those pleading eyes that told him she just wanted him to feel… He couldn't take that joy from her. Tala had given him his humanity back, and he refused to waste her blessing. 

“Are you alright?” He purred, wiping a hand over her brow before he planted his lips there. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, breathless and weak beneath him, “Your cock makes me feel so full inside.”

She snaked her hand between their bodies and reached down, splaying her first and middle fingers into a vee before capturing his thick base in between them, cupping her sex as she explored their coupling, discovering the way that he had displaced her flesh just so that he could fit so snugly within her. 

“Breathe for me, love,” John began to pull himself out. His retreat was agony. The loss of her tight, devouring heat was terrible. Then, when he couldn't stand being outside of her much more, he pressed himself back inside, and he began to fuck her in long, slow strokes, worried that his titanium and steel and strength would bruise her vulnerable body. 

Each time his cock filled her quim, John could feel every part of her inner walls. The entrance was smooth and glassy, tight. As he pressed deeper, he could sense soft ridges, ever so slightly textured. At her end, his cock arched inside of her, and there was her cervical head, within his reach, touching his drooling tip with a barely-there kiss, like the wing of a butterfly fluttering across his glans. All of this was enhanced by her creamy slick. She was so messy for him, dripping her honey all over his prick. And the heat. He felt like he would burn alive inside of her, and nothing would bring him closer to ecstasy than that molten demise. Finally, every time her heart pounded, and every time her muscles clenched around him, her flexing core pulled against him as if to milk him of his prize. 

Tala had been moaning for him, but now that he was humping his length deep inside of her, she was screaming. Her tone was deep and lush, animalistic and needy. She bit down on his shoulder, raked her nails across his back, dug her fingers into his enormous arms, holding onto him for dear life. Everything she did for him - her sounds, her touch, her heat, her scent - all of it was being poured into a sensory overload inside of his mind. He thought of nothing else but her repeated pleasure. Physically, he could fuck her for as long as she wanted him to. He could fill her up with his artificial spend as many times as she asked him to. He never wanted this to end, and if she didn’t ask him to stop, he would fuck her until she did.

“Mmnghh… Fuck yes, John… Just like that,” Tala breathed in panting gasps against his chest, her eyes gleaming with pleasure, “You’re gonna… Oh, fuck… Gonna make me come again…”

“Come. Fuck, come on me, love,” John snarled, his jaw tight as he worked his body for her, “Take what you need from me.”

“John, I can’t… Aanhh! I need…” Tala’s thighs wrapped around his thick waist, her hips tilting towards him, reaching for an angle.

Price knew what she needed. He lifted himself out of missionary position to sit back on his knees, holding her by her hips as he continued to pound himself into her. Then, he began to move her entire form along the length of his prick, using her like a toy, like she was his cocksleeve, destined to have his load buried deep inside of her over and over. His mechanical strength allowed him to take control in this way, letting her body curve into a high arch, giving her that new, untouched depth that she craved. 

Her screams became desperate, haunting things. John bathed himself in them like it was a concerto, an opus written just for him. Every moaning whine that he let out of his throat contributed to her keening song, and he found himself matching her vocality stroke for stroke. 

“Nngh! Ngh! Ahngh!” She began to come on him, fisting his cock with her core muscles, wrapping herself around him like a tendril from a vine. He kept his pace, her spine bowing as John held her aloft from the mattress. He thought he was in the clear, that he would be able to keep his head and remain in charge of these relentless waves of savage need. Until –

“Come in me, John! Please! Mmnghff-fuck! Fuck! I need your come… Please, come in me.”

Ever the faithful soldier, he did as she asked. He let the bliss build up in his mind, using his mounting senses to overload his system. But, this time his tight-laced control slipped free, and he felt his balls tightening between his thighs. 

“Tala…” John whimpered, breathing out his words so quietly that she could barely hear them, “Ohhh… Fuck, I’m gonna come. Holy shit.”

For the first time in decades, John felt himself tumble over the edge of a powerful orgasm. His whole body tensed up, and he could see stars bursting in the edges of his gaze, sparking in the darkness as he looked down at his beautiful muse, rolling through her own electric high. And when he finally released his first hot rope of come, the synthetic lubricant filled Tala’s plush quim, surrounding his prick in silken fluidity, allowing him to slip freely as his hips bent to shamelessly hump his length as deep as it would reach. In the back of his mind, he imagined that he could fill her womb with something real, something ancient and true. But, it was just a dream. She would be full besides, and that’s what mattered. 

The problem was, he didn’t want to stop. Now that the proverbial flood gates had been opened, the pleasure was blindingly good, and he was a slave to it. The more he came inside of her, the harder she seemed to squeeze him from within, and so he had very little motivation to be conservative. 

“Yes! Fuck, yes,” Tala cried out, locking her ankles around his waist, “Fill me up just like that. I want it, I want it… So bad… Oh, my fucking God. Anngh! Ahhhmmm–more. Please-please-please…”

John bent himself over her like a rutting bull, burying his face in her neck so that he could suck and bite at the tender flesh beneath her ear. His cock leaked, pumping bolts of heavy lube deep into her belly. Too much. Way too much. 

By the time he realized what he had done, he cut himself off, shutting down his movements entirely, raising himself up to inspect her. Had he gone too far? Did he hurt her? Panic flooded through his veins, fighting to break through the soporific pleasure that had clouded his judgement. 

“Goddamnit, love. I’m… Fuck, I’m sorry. I… Did I hurt you?” John asked, looking down at his lover’s swollen quim. 

Her lower abdomen was slightly distended, and when he began to remove his fat cock from her, she began to gush all over his prick and balls. It coated her thighs, and it pooled on her soft duvet. She was stuffed full of him, and her plump belly was rounded with his false seed. 

She saw him looking at his mistake, and he met her eyes, trying to come up with a way to apologize appropriately for something that he took great pleasure in doing. He tried to regret it, but that felt too much like a lie. 

“Oh, my God,” she cooed, her hands touching her mons and cradling her full tummy, “This feels incredible. I feel so full of you.”

“I couldn’t…” No, don’t lie to her, you bastard - John thought, correcting himself, “I didn’t want to bloody stop.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she grinned, pulling him down into a long, writhing kiss. “Do you think…” She looked a little sheepish, her lips curling into a shy smile, “Would you want to go again? I mean, if you can, that is.”

John chuckled, kissing her cheek, moving his mouth to her breasts to worship her there as he positioned himself back at her used hole, 

“Darlin’, I’m an android. I don’t need rest. You’d fuckin’ starve to death before I needed to stop for any possible reason.”

Slowly, but with a defined certainty, John pushed himself back inside of her as he suckled at her nipple, watching her face so that he could revel in her experience, slipping joyfully through his own, very sloppy seconds. 

She sighed, smiling, spreading her legs wider for him, opening herself up like a gift, 

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

John grinned, kissing her softly on her lips as he sank himself inside of her fully, groaning, 

“Mmff-fuck… Yeah, love. I want you. I’ll be wanting you forever.”

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Thanks for reading! Don't forget to check out the rest of the collab, and make sure to share the love to the amazing @auberghyn! <3

[unseaworthy]

Critical Care

Happy Valentine's Day to @the-californicationist! This was written as part of the 141RECON server's "secret admirer" fic exchange. 💘

Ship: Call of Duty, John Price x f!Reader | Rating: E for sexual content | Wordcount: 10K

Summary: John “the one who got away” Price is the last person you expect to rescue you from freezing to death in the Russian wilderness. Any hopes you have of gracefully rekindling an old flame are extinguished when you are thrust into the awkward situation of huddling together naked to survive the night. [Read on AO3.]

FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA

You do not know how close you will come to dying when you rise that morning.

In your spartan dormitory, you toss back the covers, take a warm shower, and make some hot chocolate to get you through the morning’s tasks. As one of the more senior cryptographers on this deployment, you’ll  be doing more than just transcribing chatter and decoding messages - you also manage a small team, trying your best to mentor some of the rookies. You completely forget it is Valentine’s Day until you find several hand-drawn sticky notes on your desk. 

Roses are red, codes will be cracked, thank you for always having our backs

I love you more than I hated my conlang professor~~ <3 

Ur so cute u make my ovaries wanna explovary!! Jk, happy V day Bosslady.

You chuckle and thank your team before putting on your headset and getting to work. Despite the barren tundra and horrific cold outside your operating base, the deployment is shaping up to be pretty good. M6 is intercepting tons of messages, giving you plenty to work through.

You had fallen in love with linguistics during Uni, studied abroad in the UK, and never left. There was considerable demand for cryptographers in the British military, and with the insane pay and benefits, it seemed like a no brainer to make some cash before heading back into academia. But the job was amazing. You got to meet interesting people, travel the world, spend your days working through the ultimate brainteasers. Ten years later, an academic career was a distant memory. You plan to stay with the military until the Prime Minister himself dragged you into retirement.

You are manipulating some Cyrillic characters when three loud, clear gunshots pierce the silence of the lab.

And then everything happens so, so fast.

Return fire. Screaming. An explosion so loud that your ears are ringing for minutes afterwards. Thinking your sweatpants are wet with blood, but realizing you’d only spilled your drink.

As the Russian voices grow louder, you make a split second decision to flee rather than fight. You and your team are all required to carry sidearms, but pulling out your standard issue handgun against some high capacity assault rifle will only get you shot that much faster. With your vision blurry from tears and your hearing obscured by tinnitus, you leave it behind and manage to reach the exit without being spotted.

You run as fast and as far as you can, donning only a sweatshirt, joggers, and sneakers. None of your clothes are designed to withstand this kind of weather. It is difficult to tell if your chances of survival increase as you get further away from the base, because while it certainly puts distance between you and the assailants, it also leads you deeper into frigid, white nothingness.

You trudge forth until you lose sensation in your hands, your nose, your ears. The buffeting wind yanks your hair in every direction, even when you attempt to stuff it into your collar as makeshift earmuffs. Your pants legs are soaked from the snow drifts you’ve been slogging through, putting you at serious risk for hypothermia. The sun sets fast in Russia, robbing the light by which you’ve been navigating and dropping the temperature to lethal ranges.

Despite these adverse conditions, you are alive. You are smart, adaptable, perseverant. Time will tell if you have cheated death, or simply prolonged your suffering.

Having walked to the point of exhaustion, you sink into the snow on shaking legs.  Even without this wretched windstorm, you would not have the energy to retrace your steps, assuming your footprints hadn’t been swallowed by the snow. The only landmark you saw along the way was a frozen pond. There is nothing in this arctic hell to help you find your way to shelter.

Little by little, you feel your body giving up. The cold stops hurting, replaced by a persistent numbness. Your mouth is sticky and dry. Your eyes refuse to stay open.

Then: a voice.

At first you think you’re hallucinating - it’s distant and indistinct, competing with the howling wind. You squint through the flurries by the light of the setting sun, but your vision is swimming too badly to tell if there is movement.

Your heart leaps in your chest when you realize the voice is speaking English. With a rush of adrenaline, you hoarsely shout for help. Although you’re too disoriented to determine which direction it’s coming from, the sound of boots plodding rapidly through the snow lights a little flame in your chest.

“I’ve got one,” a gruff voice barks, followed by the beep of a walkie. Garbled static replies. “Female civilian, looks half-frozen. I’ll do what I can but send the heli to my coordinates, stat.”

You barely process the words as you try to unfurl your body from fetal position. 

Your nerves are too deadened to feel the warmth of the hand that falls between your shoulder blades, but the slight contact makes you want to cry with relief. You hear someone crouch beside you and do your best to raise your head and meet your savior’s eyes.

“It’s alright, love, we’ve got help on the–”

The man freezes as he sees your face. And you truly do think you’re hallucinating until he says, in a voice laden with awe, “California?”

“John?”

~~~

TEN YEARS EARLIER | HEREFORD, UK

You had only been working with the Royal Air Force for a few months when your supervisor decided to test your mettle on what she called “a side project.” Evidently some lieutenant had a hunch that the intel they’d gathered contained hidden messages, but wasn’t able to convince top brass it was worth the resources of the cryptography team. So, he had called in a favor with your supervisor.

“I don’t want you to spend too much time on this,” she’d said. “Your assigned tasks come first. Just meet with Price, learn what you can about the case, and chip away at it in your downtime.”

This was quite exciting. Still fresh out of school, you were eager to soak in everything you could about military codebreaking. As long as the lieutenant didn’t expect you to work miracles, you hoped to get him at least enough information that he could convince his C.O. to authorize a proper investigation from your team.

When you entered the conference room, he was already there. He got to his feet immediately and reached over to shake your hand. “John,” he said, and you were a bit surprised that he didn’t use his title. Most of the men around here had god complexes associated with their ranks. You shared your name in return.

John was distractingly handsome. Broad-shouldered, muscular, significantly taller than average. His strong jaw and five o’clock shadow contributed to his rugged, masculine aesthetic, yet he had the kindest blue eyes. He also cut an exceptionally striking figure in his compression shirt and fatigues. 

You felt underdressed in your knockoff Ugg boots and hoodie, but you spent your days in a computer lab and were not required to wear a uniform.

“So,” he said, taking a seat and gesturing that you should do the same. There was a single manila file on the table in front of him. “I hear you’re a rookie, but you’re bright. That right?”

“I don’t know about ‘bright,’ so much as ‘too new to be jaded,’” you teased, eager to make a good impression.

“Oh. You’re American.”

Since relocating to the UK, you’d been self-conscious about your conspicuous accent. You may as well get “I’m not from here!” tattooed on your forehead.

“Yeah,” you murmured shyly. You fought the feminine urge to apologize for something outside your control. “I’m here on a work visa while I look into citizenship.”

He hummed thoughtfully, inspecting you. Something about his attention was both humiliating and thrilling. Did he distrust you because you were an expat?

Finally, he smiled. Placing a hand atop the file and sliding it over to you, he said, “Alright then, California. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

“California?” you echoed. You’d visited a few times, but you were born and raised in a different state entirely.

Amused, he nodded at your chest. You looked down and sure enough, you were wearing a sweatshirt that declared CALIFORNIA in blocky capital letters. You’d bought it on vacation for a souvenir, but it was so cozy and just the right amount of oversized that it became a staple of your wardrobe.

Ooh, you thought hopefully, maybe he was looking at my tits.

“Alright…” You paused, fishing for some obvious feature of his to become his nickname. Anything that came to mind felt oddly flirty. Instead you cleared your throat and opened the file.

John waited patiently while you scanned the dossier’s summary page. The SAS’s Kastovian base had intercepted and translated communications from Al-Qatala, a known terrorist organization. The messages appeared to give straightforward coordinates and directions on receiving weapons shipments. But when Price and his team set up a sting based on the intel, the report explained, no such shipment arrived. You flipped through the next couple of pages and saw that this happened twice more.

“So,” John began, “my captain believes that Al-Qatala is aware when we intercept the messages and aborts those shipments. I also have a fellow lieutenant who thinks these are bogus communications intended to waste our resources.” He shook his head. “Now, I don’t work in intelligence, and I’m not claiming I’ve seen some brilliant, Beautiful Mind message here. But I just have this hunch that there’s something we’re missing.”

You were extremely eager to get your hands on the transcripts and map out a gameplan. 

“And what kind of work has already been done?” you inquired.

He snorted. “Not bloody much. I’ve been badgering everyone about it, but nobody takes me seriously enough to assign it to cryptography.” Then, somewhat bashfully, he added, “I’ve had a go at it myself. Left some notes in the back of the file, if, uh, that’s any help.”

You resisted the impulse to immediately see what he had written. “Thank you. I’m sure that will be a great starting point.”

“So is this a one-person job? Don’t really know how this works,” he admitted, gesturing to the file. Your eyes locked onto his muscular bicep and you damn near had an out of body experience. How was he not the posterboy for the SAS? They’d get a lot more thirsty women enlisting, that’s for sure. “Would you work with a translator, or are you fluent?”

“Depends. I don’t speak Arabic fluently,” you explained, “but I don’t have to. If there’s actually a code to be deciphered, we have two paths to explore. The first is content, which we can examine through the translation or, like you suggested, in tandem with an interpreter.” You thought of a classic example you learned in grad school and frequently used to explain the concept to laypeople. “For instance, let’s say the note says ‘city up starboard unwise clean.’ If the code we need to apply is reversing the order and taking the antonyms, we get ‘mess sage port down town.’ Message at the port downtown. But if we’re looking at form, that’s what I’m really trained in. We can isolate the parts of speech, convert letters to numbers and vice versa, even get as granular as looking for patterns in morphemes and phonemes - the building blocks of language itself. At that point, it’s almost like…” you struggled to think of an equivalent for this more technical subfield. “Oh! You know how sudoku uses numbers, but it’s not really about the numbers? It’s about combinations that fulfil a set of rules? That’s what cryptography is like when the code is form-based.”

John listened to your explanation attentively, leaning a bit back in his chair, intense eyes never leaving yours. As soon as the last word was out of your mouth, a bout of nervousness hit you. You were always anxious around new people, let alone someone so objectively good-looking and accomplished. And here you were blathering about the finer points of your craft when all he needed was a simple confirmation that you understood the assignment.

One side of John’s mouth lifted in a grin. “Color me impressed, California. Sounds like you’re just the woman for the job.”

A violent blush rose to your cheeks. “Ah. Well. I’ll certainly give it my best shot, sir.”

He furrowed his brows and swatted away the honorific. “None of this sir business. You’re doing me quite the favor, love. It’s John.”

“Right.” Trying to match his light-hearted tone, you bandied, “Then I’ll need to insist you not call me ‘love,’ and use the name on my birth certificate: California.”

He laughed, blue eyes sparkling. The way his face crinkled when he smiled had your toes curling. “Of course.” He stood up from his chair and you did the same.

“Um, how do I - like, if I have to get in touch with you about something?”

“Ah, yes.” He crossed his arms and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Would it be too much of an imposition if we met once a week at lunch? Whichever day you like. I just figured we oughtn’t spend too much on-the-clock time working on this…”

No way. Were you actually getting a standing lunch date with John Price out of this deal, too? There had to be a catch. 

“Yeah!” you chirped. “That sounds great. Maybe Tuesdays?”

“Grand. I’ll meet you in the mess on Tuesdays at one.” And as if this motherfucker couldn’t get any smoother, he winked like you were sharing some inside joke. “Until then, California.” The door clicked shut behind him and you sank back into your chair.

Oh, you had a stupidly big crush on this guy. You sent a prayer into the ether that you could keep your cool next week at lunch.

~~~

FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA

“Let’s get those clothes off.”

Of all the many times you had imagined John Price announcing that he was about to strip you, never had you envisioned circumstances such as these.

He kneels in front of you, bundled head-to-toe in practical layers and decked out with survival gear and weapons. The exact opposite of your underprepared ass, which is currently planted in a little divot you’ve made for yourself in the snow. Swinging his backpack off one shoulder, he fishes out a shiny silver thermal blanket.

Indeed, the biggest threat to you right now is your sopping wet clothes, which will prevent you from warming up. And while you would like to comply with his request, you scarcely have the strength to lift your arms.

Humiliated, you manage a, “Help?”

A puff of heat brushes your face as John exhales, realizing the extent of your pitiful state. You have never felt more pathetic, unable to meet his eyes. “Right,” he says, grasping your sweatshirt and camisole and peeling them upwards. You are unsure whether his gloves skim your stomach, numb as you are. The motion pulls your arms forward and he removes your top two layers, leaving you only in your bra. You are so past the point of freezing that the new exposure hardly registers. 

Immediately, the thermal blanket is on your shoulders. He tucks one edge of it into your hand and curls your fingers around it. “Can you hold that?” he asks, and you nod as he does the same with the other.

The smallest tendrils of warmth bleed back into your limbs as the windproof, waterproof material shields you from the worst of the swirling flakes and unforgiving gusts. You hunch your shoulders inward, desperate to draw every joule of heat you can.

You glance up after nearly a minute of silence and stillness. To your surprise, John is staring at your legs like he’s trying to translate the Rosetta stone.

A raw sound leaves your throat that is supposed to be a laugh. John looks up, alarmed, but relaxes upon seeing your smile. “Heh. Not really sure how to do this next bit,” he admits sheepishly. There are no structures around you, nothing you can use to support yourself while you stand to remove your pants.

Seeming to make a decision, he plants his knees in the snow beside you and suggests, “Arms around my neck?”

With a little burst of adrenaline, you move your bare arms up to his shoulders while continuing to grip the blanket. You scoot closer, settling your head into the space beneath his neck, and lock your elbows. “Go slow,” you tell him.

“Course.”

He straightens up and your body is pulled along, your butt now hovering above the snow. With a rippling noise from the mylar, he quickly drags down your pants until they are around your ankles. He sweeps the blanket underneath you before setting you back down. It takes a few seconds for your arms to respond to your brain’s command to let go.

Your knees are practically knocking together as you shiver violently. Hey, I’m shivering again! you think. It was deeply concerning when you realized your body was no longer capable of even that involuntary motion. The returning aches in your muscles are extremely welcome.

John pulls off your boots, then socks, then pants. And now you are sitting in a snow bank, in front of your erstwhile crush, wearing nothing but an uninspired bra, cotton panties, and a silver sheet that has the RAF insignia printed in the corner.

You are already feeling better, lighter. John has moved back a bit and is squinting at the darkening sky.

“Are your hands dry?” he inquires, refocusing on you. “Your head?”

“I think s-so.” The dampness was mostly from the snow soaking through your pants, the spilled hot chocolate, and febrile sweating under your arms.

John swipes off his knit beanie and pulls it down over your ears. The transfer of his body heat from the hat to you is so comforting you let out a relieved moan. He holds the blanket in place for you while he works his gloves, too big for you by several sizes, onto your hands.

“W-why are you here?” you ask. That sounded unnecessarily accusatory. What you really meant was, what insane stroke of serendipity landed you at my side after all these years?

John seems to understand the question. “My unit was called in after the attack to secure the base and conduct search-and-rescue for missing staff. With conditions as icy as they are, your footprints were easy to follow.” A grin split his face, somehow even more handsome after all these years. “Didn’t realize I’d be walking to California.”

You shake your head fondly. “Well, I’m so gra–”

A short beep cuts you off. “Bravo Six, how copy?”

Price fumbles for the walkie clipped to his tac belt. “Heli on its way?” he asks, watching you.

“Sorry, Captain. Nik says we’re grounded until the windstorm dies down. What’s the status of the civilian?”

Your stomach churns at this news. John is taking good care of you, and you feel safe as long as he’s here – but you badly need real warmth, food, and medical care.

John ponders with his lips pursed.  You imagine he is trying to find a way to say ‘half-dead’ without freaking you out. “She needs evac. What’re our options, Sergeant?”

The walkie is silent for a moment. The staticky voice finally asks, “Any chance she’s up for a stroll? Storm’ll last most of the night, but we could pick you up an hour or two sooner if you move a few klicks northwest.”

The idea of dragging yourself through more of this snow, in the dark, is borderline traumatizing. You shake your head no, and you must look awfully panicked because John puts a hand on your arm and rubs soothing circles with his thumb.

“Negative. Think I can keep her stable until morning. But tell Nik I need him here first bloody thing, and I want a medic or three on that bird. Copy?”

“Rog,” the man responds quickly. “Do we have an ID?”

It surprises you to hear John share your first and last name with no hesitation. A little smile quirks on your lips. Maybe you weren’t just California to him, after all.

“Cheers. We’ll mark her accounted for,” the man on the other end of the walkie says genially. “Check in if there’s anything we can do in the meantime, Cap.”

Hunkering down in this bitter cold until daybreak will test your physical endurance and mental toughness. A hitch in your throat that you associate with crying arises, but you don’t seem to produce tears.

“I’m sure that’s not the news you wanted to hear,” John tells you, words heavy with regret. “I promise I’ll take care of you.”

“Of that, I ha-have no doubt,” you respond earnestly.

John pulls over his backpack and unearths a first aid kit. “While you warm up, tell me what else is bothering you. Do you have a fever?”

The discomfort you feel is so ubiquitous that pinpointing specific symptoms is challenging. “Probably?”

He brings the back of his hand to your forehead. You can just barely feel his warm skin, though your numbness mutes the sensation.

When he withdraws his hand after a moment, you cannot help but notice the lack of a ring.

“Definitely feverish,” he reports. “We should have acetaminophen in here for that. Any cuts, sprains, pulled muscles?” You shake your head no, impressed by how efficiently he is running through the first responder routine. You’ve always heard he is an outstanding soldier, but never made the connection that field medicine must be part of that. It is difficult not to be awed by his total command of the situation.

A finger tilts up your chin and John pops a tablet in your mouth. Your lips must be chapped and purple, and you cringe at the thought that he has to touch you in this state. Before you can feel too self-conscious, he holds a water bottle to your mouth and instructs, “Take a sip for me.” You comply, swallowing the pill and some water.

“Ohh,” you hum when he takes the water away. “I think I’m th-thirsty. Can I keep that?”

He chuckles as he hands it over. “Aye. Got a few protein bars in here too when you’re ready.”

It takes more concentration than you would like to bring the water bottle to your mouth and drink without spilling it. The bulky gloves and the need to keep the blanket pinned to you make it harder. While you grapple with your task, John gets to his feet.

“I’m setting up some flares around the area. Be back in a tick, alright?”

“Okay.”

As you sit in your little blanket nest, wearing several articles of clothing but no shirt or pants, you wonder what the rest of this night will look like. The supplies in John’s backpack have been helpful, but you doubt he’s got a tent and some sleeping bags in his hammerspace. Will you have to lie down in this snow? It’s bad enough sitting in it, though thankfully the mylar appears to be holding up well.

It is almost completely dark when he returns with a lit flare clutched in one hand. He wedges it into the snow near where you’re sitting, casting the area in a faint, orange glow. “All good over here?” he asks, resuming his prior position crouching beside you.

For a moment, you are struck speechless by this miracle of a man. His hat-hair gives him a boyish quality that contrasts with the crow’s feet at his temples. Since the moment he found you, he has been nothing but compassionate and capable as he shepherded you back from the brink of hypothermia. Though you thought them adequately suppressed, the feelings you’d had for him in Hereford sweep back into you with all the force of a tsunami. Goddammit. If you make it out of here alive, you’re taking him out to dinner come hell or high water, even if it means following him halfway around the globe.

Assuming, that is, he’s open to being wined and dined by a woman whose snot is currently freezing in the valley of her Cupid’s bow.

“Thanks to you,” you reply. “John, I don’t even - I can’t ever thank you–”

He shakes his head, cuts you off. “None of that. You wouldn’t be here if the troops at your base hadn’t failed you.” He exhales through his nose as his lips curve into an incredulous smile. “You are quite the survivor, you know. Not many cryptographers could walk five bloody kilometers in a Russian blizzard.”

“I would have died out here,” you insist, becoming emotional. 

His warm palm cups your cheek, and the numbness has finally abated enough that you truly feel it. You shut your eyes and reflexively lean into the touch. “Put that out of your mind, sweetheart,” he encourages. You practically feel the tension oozing from your body at those words. “We’re going to get a little more food and water in you, and then we’ll rest. The medics’ll take care of you properly in the morning.”

You can’t envision any better care than what you were receiving from John, but you nod as he removes his palm from your face. He passes you a protein bar and grabs one of his own.

The captain seems utterly relaxed, hands and head bared to the elements, chewing on his makeshift dinner while he absently plays with the knob on the walkie. Meanwhile, you struggle to remain awake even as your mind churns with anxiety. There is so much you want to say - have wanted to say for years - and not a word of it is appropriate for the circumstances. Questions, mostly.

Have you thought of me all this time as I’ve thought of you?

Did something happen on that mission?

Why didn’t you call?

~~~

TEN YEARS EARLIER | HEREFORD, UK

The Al-Qatala project consumed any downtime at work for months. You didn’t mind at all – since looking further into the case, you were convinced John’s hunch held water. And while you wouldn’t deny that part of your motivation in birddogging these leads was to impress the handsome Brit, you were also invested in this mystery as a linguist and a person.

It was a frigid day in early February when you finally felt you had enough evidence for John to make a compelling case to his higher-ups. As enthusiastic as you were, you only had a few years of this work under your belt. You needed access to advanced software and more experienced minds that could follow the cookie crumbs you’d been able to gather.

You located John at your usual spot in the cafeteria. The quantity of butterflies in your stomach could’ve pollinated half of England; naturally, you wanted him to deem your findings worthy of the time you’d both invested in this. What if he thought your research wasn’t enough to bring to his C.O. yet? What if he found someone better, smarter to take over the case?

But even more upsetting was the thought this would be your final excuse to see him. Your weekly lunches, which had started as mostly business, became peppered with more banter as you grew comfortable with each other. You learned that he had incredibly strong opinions about football and that his greatest guilty pleasure was Nicaraguan cigars. In turn, you shared facts about your own hobbies and preferences. He was curious what it was like growing up in the States, even if it wasn’t technically California. By the holidays, you were only briefly checking in about your decoding efforts and spending the rest of the time enjoying lunch like old friends.

Still, with no more shared project, this important man could surely find a better way to spend his Tuesdays. 

“Afternoon, California,” he said when he caught sight of you.

“Hi,” you breathed. Suddenly you felt as nervous as the first time you’d met. 

What had started out as a file folder had turned into a binder. You set it on the table and took your seat across from John, who smiled at you amicably. He had started growing a beard that made him even more attractive.

“So,” you said, taking a deep breath and sliding over the binder, “this is it, John. Everything we’ve figured out so far and a memo recommending next steps.”

He picked it up reverently and flipped open to the first colored tab with your metadata and methodology. Nodding slowly, he shut it and set it back down.

“I really can’t thank you enough,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “Nobody wanted to listen to me when I first brought this up. Hell, when your supervisor told me she was assigning the case to a rookie, I thought she was blowing me off.” You shared a smile. “But you have been… so much more than I expected.”

Your heart sang at his words. Your face must be an impossible shade of pink. “Thank you for trusting me. This project has been one of the highlights of my time here,” you confessed quietly, hoping you weren’t tipping your hand too much.

There was a silence that settled on just the right side of uncomfortable. When you finally looked up, his blue eyes were trained on you.

“I’d like to take you out to dinner, as a thank you,” he remarked, his tone carefully neutral. “If that’s agreeable to you.”

Panic! Joy! Anxiety! Your words tripped over each other as you eagerly answered, “Yes, wow, I would really love that.” You prayed that he wasn’t just doing this as a friendly colleague, and that ‘taking you out to dinner’ meant what you thought it did.

John grinned at your enthusiasm. “Brilliant. What do you say to next Thursday? There’s a new restaurant in Worcester I’d like to try. Bit of a hike, but I’ll drive.”

You were so excited you were practically shaking. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“Great. I’ll text you later and we’ll work out the details.” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I would like to go over the case one more time? I’ve got a meeting scheduled to make my pitch at the end of the week, and I don’t want to misrepresent any of your work.”

“Of course. Let’s start here,” you said, tugging the binder back and thumbing to a particular page.

The rest of the lunch flew by as you did everything you could to prepare the lieutenant for his meeting. As the cafeteria began to clear out, you reluctantly said your goodbyes and wished him luck. He promised to let you know the outcome when he texted you about details for next Thursday.

It was only when you went to put the date in your calendar at home that you realized it was Valentine’s Day. This had to be more than a thank you dinner.

You were on a cloud for days afterwards: inviting your friends over to pick out an outfit, checking your phone constantly, practicing conversation starters in the mirror. 

The text came on Saturday. But it was not what you expected.

Urgent deployment, no one willing to guess when we’ll be back. Sorry, California. Promise me a raincheck?

Although it was heartbreaking, the deployment was out of your control. His, too – that was the nature of his job. You shot off a text telling him it was no problem, and kept your ear to the ground for news of his unit.

Three months later, you were offered a significant promotion that nearly doubled your pay, but required relocation to Lincolnshire. There had been no contact from John. You didn’t blame him, of course, but it would be foolish to turn down this opportunity for a single, postponed date with a man you hadn’t spoken to in months. Besides, he had been out of your league all along. You convinced yourself that the dinner would have only made him see that the bookish American was a lot less appealing when she wasn’t doing him a favor.

Eventually, his nearly half-year mission came to a close. You heard about it through the grapevine and waited for a text. Or, should you be the one sending it? Did he need time to decompress? Days stretched into weeks faded into months. When you eventually upgraded your phone, his contact information got lost in the shuffle and you took it as a sign.

Through the years, snippets about John’s life reached you. You learned about his promotion to captain and eventual assignment to a prestigious international task force. Once or twice you ran into each other - you did both still work for the RAF, after all - but the only words you exchanged were awkward hellos and swift excuses to be elsewhere.

In your heart, he remained the very paragon of the one that got away. Even if you had never truly had him to begin with.

~~~

FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA

“Looks like the snow’s stopped,” John observes as the paltry meal concludes. He’s right: the wind is still vicious, but it now only buoys the existing flakes. The snowdrift beside the little divot you’d made for yourself comes almost up to your shoulders. At least it blocks some of the low-sweeping gusts.

Upon your request, your companion helps you to your feet and gives you privacy while you relieve yourself a little further off. Though you are like a fawn testing out its gangly new limbs, you toddle back to the makeshift camp.

When you return, John is on his knees using the metal first aid kit to dig through the snow. He is expanding your you-sized nest into something oblong and a bit wider.

A bed. For both of you.

He looks up from his work and smiles, cheeks and hands pink from the biting cold. “How are you holding up?” he asks, a bit out of breath.

You feel much, much better than when he found you: warmer, drier, and the pill he’d given you was doing wonders for your headache and presumed fever. “It’s like night and day,” you tell him. 

“Good. You dry?” he inquires. “That’s the most important thing.”

You consider and quickly veto a joke about him being the only remaining cause of your wetness. “Mostly. But, uh, I feel like I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“I’m knackered, myself. This’ll be done in a moment.”

As he goes back to his work, you try not to think about how closely you’ll be lying beside him all night. This is the first time since he arrived that you are able to let your mind wander to anything more than survival, and there’s something frightening about that. You wonder if you’ll have time to talk before you pass out from exhaustion.

“All set,” he announces, standing up and quickly jamming his hands in his pockets to protect them from the cold.

He chews on the inside of a cheek, examines his handiwork, rocks on his heels. You are surprised that he does not usher you into another task, as he has been doing the whole time. 

Finally, John turns to look at you. “Can’t bloody figure out how to say this without sounding like some trashy paperback. Our safest bet is to huddle for warmth. Skin to skin.”

A tingling that has nothing to do with the temperature darts up your spine. Falling asleep, naked, next to a man who has starred in more than one of your masturbatory fantasies is indeed the stuff of romance novels. Unfortunately, tonight’s circumstances are less than ideal: you are frigid, sore, fatigued, and look like death warmed over.

Moreover,  you aren’t able to parse how he feels about all this. John has been gentlemanly, professional, and even quite nurturing throughout the ordeal. He is also working. He was sent here, as a soldier, on a search-and-rescue mission. No doubt he would have helped you regardless, but the transactional framework of this encounter sours the sweetness of your reunion. You get rescued, John gets paid. Maybe there’s even a little bonus in it for him if you fill out a customer satisfaction survey. On a scale of 1 to 10, how much did you enjoy Captain Price taking off your pants?

John has done so much to make you comfortable – the very least you can do is return the favor. So, you smile and say, “Well, since you’ve literally given me the clothes off your back, body heat might be the only thing left I can take from you.”

His relief is evident. He smiles fondly and says, “Don’t worry about me, love. Worse ways to spend a night than with a beautiful woman in my arms.”

With those words, your dead-and-buried crush bursts from its grave like a zombie revived. Disguising your smile is literally impossible, so you chuckle and duck your head. Maybe he’ll think the redness in your face is from the cold.

“We’ll need to spread the blanket out beneath us,” he explains, “to insulate us from the snow. Once we’re lying down, I’ll wrap it around us.”

You have become quite attached to your ugly silver shield, yet the thought of your arms and side being in contact with the snow all night is abominable.

By the glow of the flare, you kneel in the bed he’s dug out and reluctantly remove the blanket from your shoulders. The sting of the wind hits you immediately, but you focus on lining the area with the mylar, sticking the edges into the snow to keep it grounded. You must look absurd, crawling around in underthings, gloves, and a beanie.

The crackle of the walkie startles you. John’s confident voice confirms contact, and then he says: “We’re bunking down for the night. She needs to get some sleep in her, so no interruptions unless it’s urgent.”

“Solid copy, Cap,” comes the voice from earlier. Then, after a beat, a cheeky: “Stay warm, you two.”

You finish arranging the blanket as you listen to John undress behind you. The whir of zippers being pulled, the shuffle of a rucked up sweater, the plop of clothes in the snow – each noise brings you closer to the moment you long for and dread in equal measure.

When John steps into your space and gets to his knees, you can avoid looking at him no longer.

Aside from his underwear and boots, he is bare.  A dusting of fine, dark hair covers his arms, legs, and torso, doing little to conceal the gooseflesh that has appeared along his skin. You want to run your fingers through the curls on his chest. He is predictably muscular all over, especially his biceps and thighs, but with a healthy layer of bulk that you cannot wait to cushion yourself against. The lines worn into his rugged face make him look indomitable, evidence of all the tribulations and missions and decisions that have forced him to bend, but never break.

“Lie down,” he tells you gently, tugging up one edge of the blanket. “I’ll be right there.”

You curl in on yourself, rubbing your hands over your arms. You think your asscheek might be hanging out of your panties because they’ve ridden up a bit, but pulling them back down might draw more attention to yourself.

Suddenly, John’s arm reaches over your body, plucks up the blanket, and draws you into him.

His body heat against you is overwhelming. His fuzzy chest lies flush with your back, pecs catching for a moment on the band of your bra. The padding on his stomach fits snugly against the curve of your spine, like Matryoshka dolls in the Russian wilderness. A little grunt leaves him as he swaddles the both of you in the blanket, leaning away for just a moment to tie some kind of knot. When he returns, you feel the bridge of his nose and the scratch of his whiskers against your neck.

You are in a mylar burrito with John Price. It would be funny if it wasn’t so stupidly, devastatingly, unfairly hot.

He manages to snake his arm under the blanket and gingerly slide it past your waist to rest on your stomach. It falls with your inhales and rises with your exhales.

Safe.

Warm.

Alive.

A shaky breath drags a pathetic noise out of you. John responds immediately, tightening his hold. “I’ve got you, love,” he says, his voice closer to you than it has ever been before. “You’re alright.”

You swallow a sob and it goes down like a pinecone. “S-sorry.”

He huffs a laugh. “Sweetheart, you’ve just had the worst day of your life. Cry all you want.”

You don’t want to cry. You want to bask in the perfection of this strong, skillful, compassionate man and then sleep like you’re in a coma.

The snugness of the blanket doesn’t give you much room, but you wriggle out of one of the gloves and thread your fingers with his. You give him plenty of time to pull away, and when he doesn’t, you give his hand a little squeeze.

He sighs placidly, like he has finally released a breath he was holding.

Keeping your eyelids open becomes taxing. The tempo of John’s breathing brings you closer and closer to drifting off. When you wake, it will be to the din of helicopter blades heralding your salvation.

“California?”

The way he says your nickname has you wide awake. “Yes?”

He doesn’t respond right away, so you stroke his wrist with your thumb in case he needs some reassurance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For never calling.”

Your gut twists at those words, but you cannot let him know. Forcing a chuckle, you say, “Oh, John, that was ten years ago. I’m not upset. Nothing to apologize for.”

“I see,” he says, and you fear you may have overdone it with your disaffected response.

“Or, well. What I mean is,” you backtrack, “I’ve always understood what your job entails. I didn’t take it personally.” Then you add, attempting to keep your tone lighthearted, “I consider myself lucky I got to know you at all. A date just would’ve been… a cherry on top.”

John cogitates on your words before explaining, “The whole damned time I was in Verdansk, I was looking forward to seeing you when I got back. Wouldn’t shut up about it, actually, to the point the men in my unit started teasing me about my American bird.” His exhale tickles your neck. “Not saying it would’ve gone anywhere. I just wish I had called.”

Should you ask the obvious question? It seems like he wants to talk about it.

“Um. Why didn’t you?”

“I was stressed.” His words come through a clenched jaw, trenchant, sarcastic - but not directed at you. “Lost a close friend that deployment. Fucked me up proper, so I thought I’d take some time to myself to process it. But the weeks went by and I just… I dunno. I just didn’t. And once I finally felt like I was ready, too much time had passed. Figured another bloke with more balls had asked you out by then.”

It hurts to know that all these years, it was incorrect assumptions that kept you apart. You would have understood, if he reached out and explained why he needed time to himself. You wonder if telling him this would just hurt worse.

Instead, you say, “Please don’t beat yourself up, John. The phone works both ways. I could have called or texted too, and I got in my own head about it.”

“Second thoughts?” he guesses.

You bark a laugh. Since he is being so honest with you, it feels only fair to lay it all on the table. “On the contrary. I figured all the excitement of a mission reminded you how little a frumpy linguist had to offer.”

John’s arm tightens as he emits a displeased hum. “You’re dead wrong. On all counts.”

“Seems like we both were,” you observe sadly.

Now that you are no longer a victim of the wind, squirreled away as you are in the makeshift bed, its whistling sounds melodic. It feels like white noise, like the whirring of a ceiling fan. 

“Sometimes, when things are going poorly,” he tells you in nearly a whisper, “I think about my decision not to call. And I wonder… I wonder if I could have had a whole different life, yeah? If I made the wrong choice, then. And everything that’s happened to me since has been a kind of punishment.”

A physical ache burns in your chest at those words. After all the sacrifices he’s made, the pain he’s borne, the lives he’s saved - he deserves happiness, or at the very least peace. 

All night, John has been taking care of you. You want to take care of him.

You squirm against the blanket to loosen the swaddle and John draws his arm back. It is an ungainly process, but you manage to roll over so that you’re chest-to-chest. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck and loop one arm around him, the other pinned between you with your hand against his heart. That’s about as much of an embrace as you can manage.

Once he catches on to what you’re doing, he wraps an arm around you as well and hugs you fiercely. He rests his chin atop the beanie still adorning your head.

It is impossible not to swoon at his manly smell. The sweat, the musk, and some crisp, generic deodorant. You are gripped with regret as you think of how you might have experienced all this in such a different, more pleasant context. On the sofa of your old apartment, or the backseat of his car. 

But you must practice what you preach and not dwell on the past. With as much confidence as you can muster, you say into his collar bone, “I’m free Friday.”

He shifts a bit, loosens his hold. “Sorry?”

“For the date you owe me.”

A wonderstruck breath that is close to a laugh ghosts against your hair. “Friday, is it? I’ll need to check my schedule, but I’m fairly certain I won’t be called away on any urgent missions.”

“And even if you are,” you reply, heartened that he’s accepted your invitation, “I’ll be here waiting when you get back. Even if you need some time to yourself right after.”

John pulls away from the embrace as his hand finds your cheek. The flare does not offer much light, but this close, he can hide no part of himself from you. His eyes scan your face with an intensity that takes your breath away, like he’s committing every pore and eyelash and strand of hair to memory.

As though he’s finally discovered what he was looking for, he closes the scant distance between you and places his lips softly over yours. You’re sure you must be extremely unpleasant to kiss in this state, lips half-frozen and blue, but John treats you with all the tenderness of a groom on his wedding night. Indulgently, you bring your fingers to his beard and stroke through the prickly whiskers as you return his kiss.

When John pulls back, he knocks his forehead against yours and says, “I’m sorry. I know it’s not… now is not the right time…”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” you hush. “I’ve been waiting ten years for that kiss.”

He laughs, genuine and mirthful, and presses his lips to your brow. “All I mean to say is that I wish I could have done this on your doorstep after taking you to dinner.”

“We’ll do that Friday,” you assure him. “For now, I want you to kiss me like we might not make it through this blizzard.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, his fingers flexing against your face as though fighting the urge to grip you tighter. “That, I can do.”

Before you know it, John has flipped you onto your back and crawled over you, bracing his forearms on either side of your shoulders. His body, impossibly heavy and hot, pins yours against the mylar. He wastes no time working open your mouth with his as you card your fingers through his short hair. God, he feels perfect on top of you like this, comforting and solid like a weighted blanket.

Also heavy and hot and solid is the unmistakable bulge of his hard-on, cushioned against the flesh of your thigh. The sensation sends a thrill through you as you sink your fingertips into his shoulder blade and moan into the kiss. 

Unfortunately, your body cannot quite keep up with your libido. Even as you feel yourself getting wetter, you struggle to catch your breath and keep yourself from growing dizzy. You eventually give a gentle push to his shoulders and he backs off instantly.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, no,” you rush. “I just – feel a little woozy. Quick break, that’s all.”

To your displeasure, John rolls off of you and back to your side. You can still feel his erection pressing above your knee. 

“Sorry, California. Got so excited I forgot you’re still borderline hypothermic.”

You loop your arms around his neck and try to haul him back atop you. “Wait, please don’t stop. I just needed to catch my breath.”

He smiles at you sweetly and plants a lingering kiss at your hairline. “How about this? Let’s get some rest before evac in the morning. Once medical clears us, I’ll book a room at the nearest hotel and do – and I cannot stress this enough – literally anything you want.”

Your pearl throbs at his words. “That does sound pretty good,” you admit, still disappointed that you lust will go unslaked tonight.

“Good.” With a bit of maneuvering, John has you back in your original little-spoon position and is redoing the swaddle.

Sleep finds you quickly. Before you drift off, you realize with a smile that John made good on his promise to see you on Valentine’s Day after all. And he is only ten years late.

~~~

FEBRUARY 14, 2026 | CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VA, USA

Kate is practically asleep on her feet when a message comes through from Gaz. Thank God it's good news – one more person to cross off the MIA list. The attack on the forward operating base in Russia happened 10 hours ago, and she has been running on fumes for nearly all of it.

Kate’s brain screeches to a halt as she reads the name of the survivor. Then the name of the operator who found her. Then again.

After years of listening to Price mope about his precious California every time he got drunk, like she is an unattainable goddess and not a colleague who works two (2) hours away, Kate figures these idiots have a lot of catching up to do. Perhaps the life-or-death circumstances will be a lesson to her friend to get out of his own damn way when it comes to matters of the heart.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, John,” she chuckles to her empty office as she takes another gulp of lukewarm coffee.

~~~

FEBRUARY 15, 2026 | UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, RUSSIA

A punch of static startles you awake. 

“Captain. How copy?”

John bolts up, taking you with him due to the blanket situation. He mumbles his apologies as he frees himself from the thermal straightjacket and swipes the walkie from his nearby backpack.

“We’re both stable. ETA?” he replies, voice rough with sleep.

You push yourself into sitting position and look around. Sunlight at last illuminates the landscape that was once obscured by darkness and a miasma of snowflakes. There is not much to see beyond the white tundra and the faint outline of what might be buildings or trees on the horizon. You squint as your eyes adjust, pulling your half of the blanket tighter around you.

“Leaving now and should arrive in an hour,” comes the reply. “Still a little dicey with the gusts, but Nik wants to get you out of there ASAP.”

A loud shuffling noise, and then a new voice with a Russian accent speaks. “What I said was, I think you’ll cut my balls off if I wait much longer.”

John chuckles. “Euphemizing for me, now, Gaz? Sparing my delicate sensibilities?”

“Wasn’t sure you wanted to hear about balls when you’re freezing yours off, sir,” the man named Gaz responds diplomatically. “Anyway, nicked a few cigars from your stash so you can enjoy a proper smoke on your way back.”

“Good lad.”

“See ya soon.” A beep, and the walkie shuts off.

A smoky wisp leaves John’s mouth as he exhales. His blue eyes flick to you, and he is even more stunning in proper daylight.

“We haven’t got much to pack up,” John reasons, “and I’m not particularly keen to get back into cold, damp clothes. Shall we enjoy the warmth for a little longer?”

“I’d love that,” you say. Despite getting at least several hours of sleep, you are still enervated. Your ulterior motive is, of course, spending as much of the morning as possible in John’s arms. He wastes no time in tucking you against his body and burying his face in your hair. Your heart flutters as you adjust your hips and legs to fit the mold he’s made for you.

The morning wood pressing against your ass triggers memories of last night. A torrent of desire floods you, and suddenly waiting for a hotel room seems gratuitous. The endless possibilities of should arrive in an hour stretch before you like a vast ocean…

You gently wriggle under the pretense of finding a comfortable position. A ragged sigh billows behind you, but John remains still.

You know he wants you – he admitted (and demonstrated) as much last night. So you double down, gripping his hand and bringing it from your stomach to your breast.

“I am trying to be a gentleman, California,” John growls. His hand does not so much as twitch from where you placed it.

You look over your shoulder and catch his flinty gaze. “And I’m trying to get fucked like an animal.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, and suddenly he rucks your bra over your tits and has you flat on your back. Right where you left off last night.

Your nipples stiffen instantly in the cold air, but they are exposed for mere seconds before John has his palm over one and his mouth over the other. You arch your back into the pleasure of his touch, your lips parted in an aborted shout as you look heavenwards. Your hungry cunt spasms as you feel his cock begin to rut against your thigh.

“This what you wanted, love?” he rasps against your breast, immediately returning to his ministrations. His tongue is impossibly warm and limber, making skillful circles around your bud  with just enough pressure to render you desperate for more.

“God, yes,” you whimper.

John uses his knee to part your legs and wedges his thigh against your core. With something to grind against, you become a writhing mess. His thigh is broad and muscular, sending sparks of ecstasy up your spine.

“Wanted this…” you pant, “for so long, John.”

The hand that isn’t fondling you slides down your body, over your hip, and works its way past the elastic of your panties. He takes a breather from sucking your tits to rest his head on them like a pillow, his puffs of breath delightfully ticklish.

“I’ve got a list of regrets a mile long. But I swear, I’m not going to let you be one of them.”

He locates your swollen clit with an efficiency that borders on unfair, swiping the pad of his finger back and forth as you grow wetter and wetter. You have just enough wits about you to reach down to try to touch him in return, but he effortlessly evades you and gives a small chuckle.

“You’re still recovering, love. Let me do the work, a’right?”

“But I… I want to touch…”

And then John slips two well-lubricated fingers into your cunt and the ability to form sentences abandons you entirely.

His mouth moves from your chest to your neck as he plies you with open-mouthed kisses. Although his fingers stretch you considerably, he is gentle enough coaxing you open that the pressure is not unpleasant. When he grazes that sacred patch of nerves inside you, your body jerks and you dig your nails into his bicep.

“Okay?” he confirms, sounding extremely distracted.

You are so okay, supremely and ridiculously okay, but all you manage to do is nod your head against his.

John will certainly make you come if he keeps at it like this, his steady, consistent rhythm winding the coil of pleasure inside you tighter and tighter. But after humping each other’s legs for the better part of five minutes, your need for his dick reaches its crescendo.

“Fuck me, John,” you pant, tilting your head so your lips are against his temple. “Don’t make me beg.”

You gasp as John’s fingers unplug themselves from your channel, but he is quickly tugging down his briefs and you finally, finally feel his smooth glans against your curls.

“Give you whatever you want, California,” he promises, kissing you passionately on the lips. “You never, ever have to beg me for anything.”

John leans back enough that he can fist his manhood and nudge open your legs. You peek down your body to watch his fat, uncut cock disappear and reappear in his hand. A few more pumps and he is lining himself up at your entrance, pausing to meet your eyes. You nod to him, even more turned on by his need to see you affirm your consent.

Although your arousal and his fingering have prepared your cunt well for this intrusion, your jaw still drops from the sensation. Very slowly, he sinks himself inside you and lowers his body back over yours.

The expression on his face is one of blissful agony.

When he at last bottoms out, you suck in an enormous breath and do your best to relax your muscles. John is quivering as he forces himself to remain still until you’re adjusted. 

“Please,” you whisper, and he snaps his hips back almost instantly.

It takes just a few thrusts for you both to find your pace. John is absolutely wrecked above you, face distorted in concentration, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest.

“I am, already,” he exhales shakily, “addicted to being inside you.” 

“Need your cock every night,” you reply, gripping his shoulders to keep yourself from slipping off the blanket.

You mean it: it has been months since you’ve had sex, and years since it has been anywhere near this good. John Price was already the man of your dreams. His perfect cock feels like a divine reward for some noble deed in a past life.

“It’s yours,” he promises, “I’m yours.” His pace increases, and when you start letting out breathy moans in time with his gyrations, he admits under his breath, “You are temptation itself.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as John’s hand finds your clit and gracelessly toys with it, incapable of finesse when he is so close to his own end. Impossibly, your imminent release makes you feel overheated in spite of the chill that clings to your skin. John’s grunts as he pistons in and out of you are the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.

An orgasm starts low and rumbling in your core like an earthquake, and then sprays through the rest of your body like a geyser. You must be leaving marks on John’s back and arms the way you cling to him, but he is the only thing anchoring you to this plane. Your walls contract and flutter, milking him for come as his metronomic tempo falters. Just as you come down from your height, John ascends to his.

He spills inside you while maintaining eye contact, his hips seeming to twitch of their own accord. You reach up and stroke your hand over his cheek, a part of you still in denial that this moment dwells in the realm of reality and not fantasy. With a breath that causes his whole chest to shudder, John rolls off you onto his back and tugs you over his chest.

The coldness hits you at once as you press yourself snugly against his comfortable body. With his free arm, he wraps the blanket back around you and sighs like a man who’s just eaten a feast. His stellar sexual performance makes you wonder if you were too much of a pillow princess for him to feel like you were properly reciprocating. You press a shy kiss to his pec.

“What’s on your mind, love?” he inquires.

“Just, um, hoping you don’t realize in your post-nut clarity that I’m still the same nobody cryptographer, only older and flabbier.”

A big belly-laugh causes you to bounce where you lay draped over him, and you feel a bit of his come dribble down your leg. “Sweetheart,” he coos, kissing the crown of your head. “You are the standard to which I’ve held most of the women I’ve dated. If you think I’m going to be scared away by a few laugh lines or a fatter arse, think again.”

Your face turns bright red at his praise as you absently play with his chest hair.

“Besides,” he goes on, “I was hoping for linguistics dirty talk.”

You push yourself up to look at him, grinning broadly. “Oh? Should I tell you about diphthongs and fricatives?”

“Careful. You’re turning me on again.” If he’s joking, you’re quite fooled by the feral look in his eye.

“Well. I don’t know how long it takes you to, uh, reload your gun, but I wouldn’t say no to a second round. I’ve heard skin to skin contact is important under these circumstances.”

John checks an imaginary watch on his wrist, then looks to the sky as though checking for the helicopter. “I think we’ve got time for that,” he comments, and pins you back into the snow with another breath-stealing kiss.

[sablefang]

141recon spring fling-o writing challenge prompt: early birds tags: fluff, 0.7k words

Your boyfriends keep odd hours.

It must be all the deployments; traveling to the ends of the earth for weeks on end, staying awake for long hours doing God knows what. The first few days they’re home, they’re out of bed before you wake, already asleep by the time you’re done with work.

If their leave lasts long enough, a pattern works itself out, but never truly aligns with yours.

“Wuzz goin’ on?”

“Nothin’, pet.” A broad hand pats your head. Simon. “Just gettin’ up fer tea. Go back to sleep.”

You struggle up in bed, squinting at the clock on the nightstand.

4:34 AM.

Johnny’s side of the bed is already empty. You swing your legs out from under the covers and down to the floor. 

“I like tea.”

“Oh, yeah?” Simon shrugs on his robe and then unhooks yours from the back of the door. “C’mon, then.”

You scramble out of bed to where he waits, grateful that he doesn’t try to talk you out of it. Johnny’s the worrier of the two—he’d sweet talk you into laying back down and lull you to sleep with a hand stroking your hair.

Simon tucks you into your robe and then leads the way down the hall and into the kitchen. Johnny’s already got two mugs on the counter, and his eyebrows go up when he spies you in Simon’s shadow.

“What’s this? The bonnie sleeping beauty, awake to mingle with the early birds!”

He fishes a third mug from the cupboard while you grumble and rub the sleep from your eyes.

“Sleeping beauty? It’s four o’clock in the morning!”

“Aye.” He puts the kettle on while Simon pulls the teabags from the drawer. “Ye should be in bed.”

You lift your chin. “I wanted to get up with you.”

Johnny smiles and chucks you under the chin affectionately.

He moves in tandem with Simon, their steps as practiced as if they’ve done this a hundred times. It makes you feel like an intruder on a private ritual, standing out of the way and in the corner, wrapping your robe tighter around yourself.

But then Johnny hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you with him into the sitting room.

He sits heavily on the couch and arranges you beside him so that your feet are in his lap. You’re still a little sulky, but he brushes a finger along the bottom of your bare foot to make you laugh.

In the kitchen, the kettle whistles. While Johnny runs his hands up and down your calves, you listen to Simon bustling around. When he comes out, he’s got three steaming mugs balanced carefully in his hands. Johnny takes two, handing one to you as Simon sinks down on your other side.

You end up leaned against his chest, your feet resting on Johnny’s thighs. Simon drapes a bulky arm over your shoulders, holding you close.

While you sip at your tea, he and Johnny talk shop in quiet whispers over your head. You don’t understand most of it, but you’re just pleased to be involved, to be able to spend time with them with all three of you awake. All the while, Simon traces figure eights into your shoulder with his fingers. Johnny lightly massages your ankles.

The clock on the wall ticks slowly. Words blend into meaningless sounds, each sentence fainter than the last in your ears. When your mug starts to tip out of your hand, someone deftly plucks it away before it can spill.

Johnny’s chuckle is distant. “Told ye to go back to bed.”

Your head nods. “‘M not tired.”

Simon snorts. “Right. And I’m the Prince o’ Wales.”

“No.” His amused expression swims into view as you squint up at him. “You’re much prettier.”

On the other side of the couch, Johnny laughs and squeezes your foot. “He’s very pretty, our Simon.”

Simon’s hand gradually drifts higher, running over your hair in long, soothing strokes. Johnny pulls the blanket down from the back of the couch, tucking it around you before sitting back in his spot.

They keep talking softly all the while, fitting the conversation around you. Simon’s arm rises and falls as he drinks his tea, the rhythm tempting you further down. Your eyes are too heavy to open, now. Your head slides from its spot on Simon’s shoulder, and he catches you to ease you down onto his lap.

“See you in the mornin’, dove,” one of them whispers.

It is morning, you want to reply, but you fall asleep somewhere between thought and words.

[bunnyreaper]

daisy daisy daisy — nikprice x f!reader

wc: 1.2k warnings: mentions of daddy kink written as part of 141 recon’s spring fling-o event for the prompts: sakura, picnic, flower crowns

Finally, you're here—a plan almost an entire year in the making. Of course, you just had to formalise your unconventional relationship just after your favourite season.

But now spring is here again--the cherry blossoms are in full bloom; the ever-present, dewy floral scent pleases your senses; and you have two fine, older men who are looking to indulge and spoil you rotten. 

A long weekend away had been meticulously organised and executed, the whole operation running smoothly without a care from you, apart from John and Nikolai's small disagreement on who would do the driving. 

Now the travel is long behind you, serenity and peace the only thing on your mind as you lounge by a grove of cherry blossom trees, bare legs stretched out atop a picnic blanket as the sun warms your skin. 

There's a gentle breeze in the air, the distant sound of giggling children and the closer one of turning pages. Whilst you enact your not-so-secret plan huddled over at one end of the blanket, behind you, the men read their books, only occasionally breaking the silence to converse in hushed Russian--likely wondering what you're getting up to.

"Worth the wait then?" John's voice cuts through your reverie, pulling you from your work.

You turn slightly, glancing over your shoulder at the two men who are now both staring at you adoringly--more appreciation for your beauty in their eyes than the grove of trees behind you.

"Definitely, thank you both." You flash them a bright smile, so grateful for their time, their attention, the way they continue to spoil you. 

A luxurious picnic is spread out between you, tonnes of locally sourced baked goods and sandwiches that Nik acquired whilst you lounged in bed with John that morning.

"Anything for our girl." Nikolai chimes in, voice low but saccharine. Now that you're turned slightly, he takes the opportunity to try and peek around you. "What are you working on?" 

"Nothing!" You giggle, turning back to hide any hint of your activity. Were the men to catch on too soon, you know you'd be subject to their protests, and you'd rather craft in peace "I'm almost done, go back to your books!" 

You hear a huff from John, who you know is equally curious, but he doesn't push the subject.

"Fine, malyshka, keep your secrets. For now." Nik chuckles good naturedly and does as you ask, turning his attention away from you.

You glance back again, attention now caught by the cheeky smile and the little black hip flask in Nikolai's hand.

"Nik?" You gasp, scandalised by the appearance of what is undoubtedly hard liquor hidden away. "Is that--" 

John sighs heavily, his eyes flickering from over his book to Nik. "Don't get him started, love." The words are laced with the weight of a previous conversation shared between the men, though you know John's exasperation is only surface level.

"It's 2pm, on a Friday, at a cherry blossom orchard!" You're only a fraction as scandalised as you pretend to be—after all such a drink doesn't touch the big man like it does you, but the impropriety of it all amuses you. 

His chuckle returns with a shrug. "For allergies."

"That's what antihistamines are for." Both you and John speak at the same time but with differing levels of disdain.

"No need, I have vodka." He says with a nod, tilting the flask your way in fake cheers before he takes a swig of the liquid and swallows it easily like it's water. 

You shake your head with a smile and turn your attention back to the daisies in your lap. A daisy chain crown already adorns your head, the creation drawing appreciative looks from your lovers, but you won't settle until the three of you are matching. 

It's been a long time since you crafted such a crown, but you got the hang of it again quickly, poking precise holes in the stems of the pink-white blooms and threading them together. 

With one last daisy, the chain is complete, and you finally turn to face the men properly.

"Okay, done!" You beam, with one crown hanging from each raised hand. "For you both."

You hope your enthusiasm will be infectious, but John's eyes narrow quickly.

"No way, love." He scoffs with a raised brow, which earns him a nudge from the Russian.

"See? stuck in your own ways too, old man." Nik throws down his book and leans over, gesturing for the crown with an eager, wide smile. "I would love a little daisy crown please, kotenok." 

"Yay!" You squeal, excited one of your men is open to your silly girlishness. "Wait." You're about to crawl to crown your daisy king when you pause and scramble for your bag. 

You'd packed the aforementioned antihistamines yourself this morning, after your last trip into nature had left Nik puffy eyed and grumpy. Now you hold out the crown and the tablets. 

"Both or neither." You whisper, eyes narrowing and lips pouting as fiercely as you can manage. 

You know Nik isn't scared of his kitten's claws, as his lips curl into a smirk and he acquiesces, reaching out to take his medicine and dipping his head for his coronation. "You drive a hard bargain."

"And you look wonderful." Your heart bursts with joy as you settle the daisies atop Nik's slicked back hair and appreciate the sight of your bear of a man with his silly little flower crown. "Very handsome, still such a masculine papochka." 

Your words are cooed, sickly sweet and honeyed in the way you know Nik adores. You hold his cheeks as you press a kiss to his lips and giggle in glee.

It's then John's growl cuts through your sweet moment. 

You turn, slowly and carefully, as does your teddy bear, facing down the grizzly beside you. You know John doesn't begrudge you and Nik your sweet moments, would never live in a world where the two of you weren't entwined. But you know that look in his eyes, can tell by the way his baby blues have turned stormy that jealousy is rearing its head--not because he wishes to tear you apart, but only because he wishes to be right there alongside you both.

"Give me the bloody crown."  He grunts, holding out his hand in defeat and his stern expression wavering--such grumpiness doesn't last longer than a second as you launch yourself into his arms, scrambling for the other crown to nestle into his brown tufts. 

He melts under your touch, wrinkles smoothing out and shoulders dropping under his sweet girl's touch, the way you fuss over him too and give him what he wanted, what he needed. 

He wasn't a fan of wearing flowers in his hair, but for you he'd do anything, and the reward was having his soft baby swooning over him. 

"My perfect daddy." you whisper, as you steal a kiss from him too. "I knew you'd come around." 

"Can't say no to our girl." He admits, voice soft. 

With that sentiment in your head, you pull away as a delightful idea pops into your head. "One more thing!" 

Another rustle around and you grab your polaroid from your bag before shuffling into place between your two men and turning the lense on the three of you. "Say 'daisy!'" 

[cooliofango]

Watch Your Hands

Halloween Countdown 2025|Info|Masterlist| — Day 2: Pumpkin Carvings

Pairing: Simon Riley x GN!Reader

Word Count: 749

Synopsis: Simon takes the holidays off to spend time with his civilian partner

TW: None!

“Watch your fingers, love.” A large scarred hand tugs yours down a tad as you drive the large serrated knife into the top of the pumpkin.

“I got it, I got it..” Simon could only raise a brow at your dismissiveness. Each sawing motion only made him focus more on your hands more. 

You are too eager to continue this shared activity to stop now. It’s not often that Simon is able to take time off- especially during the holidays. To make the most of this time together was and is your goal. The goal for both of you. The two of you had been planning this break for months, wanting to spend the spooky season side by side. 

To commemorate the occasion, you insisted that the two of you do all of the fun halloween activities. Outside on the lawn, the home was already decorated nicely with lights, streamers, props, and even inflatable ghosts and skeletons- ones you specifically picked out for no particular reason at all. Simon didn’t believe that it was a simply convenient choice, of course, but who was he to complain? He missed you and your antics.

Some of your antics. Right now, your stubbornness left him a little.. alert, for a lack of better word. Each shift of your hand to hold the pumpkin still and the force you were using to drive the knife in and out of the pumpkin makes him beyond worried you’ll accidentally cut yourself trying to get the top off the large vegetable.

A beat of silence passes.

“At least hold it a little lower,” Simon urges with a little less than amused tone to his voice, placing his own knife onto the tray his own pumpkin sat upon. He had already finished cutting the top off his. The stem and its base sat on the left side of his tray, the edges neat with only mildly concerning precision. 

A grunt of strained effort fell from your lips with another downward force of the knife, having to lean your body weight down into it. A huff left your lips as you sat up. Each flex of your fingers left a slight ache in them upon releasing the handle of the knife, the pain aching in the joints. You hiss softly in response, “How’d you cut yours so easily?” 

You are met with silence. “..What?” you question at the sight of his raised brow. Silence lingers once more, though a bit longer than the first time. Simon’s shoulders drop. A breath of amusement blows through his nose and he comes around to your side of the counter. 

“What?!” Your hands fly to your hips with an accusatory look. Narrowed eyes follow him until he places himself behind you.

Large arms move to gently cage you against his chest, his hands guiding yours back to the pumpkin. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack trying to cut the damn thing..” His voice was gruff towards your left. One hand covers yours over the knife’s handle and the other is securely behind the knife. 

Simon’s grip is strong as he pulls the knife back up and carefully angles it before driving it back into the pumpkin. “Do it more like this, yeah?” 

The proximity tugs at your heartstrings. The natural warmth he emanates spreads along your back, bringing you a flustered sense of comfort. It was familiar yet foreign all at once. The time away did quite the number on you. It makes you crave being in his arms the instant they had wrapped around you and even more so the second they leave.

“Are you listenin’?” Amusement laces his tone and it's followed by a soft chuckle at the way you tense up under him. He loves seeing the way you blush from embarrassment. The way you stumble out an apology was too cute.

“We’ll have plenty of time to cuddle as much as you once you finish, love.” Simon moves his hands to your hips and gives them a firm squeeze. He presses a rough lipped kiss on your cheek before pulling away and making his way back to his side of the counter.

“R-right..right,” You quip back in return, quickly nodding before going back to sawing at the pumpkin with slight urgency now that there is a secondary goal burning at the back of your mind. Simon could only chortle at your rushing, fishing a large spoon out the drawer nearby to begin scooping out the seeds.

[captainmiffy]

Sebastian Solace x Reader

A/n: Haiii y'all!! so this fic was written for a Secret Santa event (11/17-12/25), my recipient was the lovely @cooliofango!! But y'all should join the discord if you like writing, and cod or just wanna meet some cool people :3 (p.s sorry if the formatting is off on post,, I wrote it on docs;;)

Cw: Prison (yes ur in there, but not specified if u are guilty/innocent), Cigarette/Smoking, Hospital (very shortly), Cuddling :3

They never could really beat it out of you. Most people are scared of prisons, rightfully so of course. Years of conditioning, rumors on forgotten forums, horror stories that haunted dark alleyways, features on the paper of the rescinding rights of prisoners. The fear of a complete loss of autonomy and freedom, a culmination of humanity at its worst. 

Though that didn’t reflect your experience. I mean you were scared shitless of course, who wouldn’t be? But you were clever, had some real grit to you. Better off than most forsaken to these waiting grounds. Knew when to speak, when to be silent, and more importantly when to keep secrets. Play your cards carefully, never reveal too much of your hand, and you’d be out in no time. But it was only a matter of time before you attracted trouble, heard something you weren’t supposed to, forced into a role you didn’t wanna play. But the show must go on. 

You should’ve stopped. The second you heard the rumors of an escape you should’ve reported it, be a traitor, surrender to the guards, lighten your sentence. Secure your freedom. 

But it was there, it was right there. A taste of escape, a call to the other side. Run. 

The others had gotten left behind, a leg caught on rusted gates or barbed wires, ripped away from the group by snarling jaws too eager to bite, chased down and dragged back into that cold, violent, and unforgiving hell. All slowly picked off until there was one. 

You. 

The expanse of your chest trembling, each shaking gasp for oxygen searing and burning, painful, network of twisting and turning of bones, joints, nerve, grasp and clench, tearing their way up, it was there right there, you’d make it, just a little further, and you’d be free, be free from this hell. 

All you had to do was climb the fence, and you’d be free.

You could go home.

Home sweet home. 

Kerchunk!

Freezing metal slips away, muscles twitching, a last ditch effort, but there was nothing to grasp.

Dragged back to that damned cell. You were done for, ditched your group.

Now all that remained were enemies out for your blood.

All that good behavior, playing nice, being nice.

If only you were a tiny bit taller, a bit stronger.

It would've been easier to escape, leave.

All for nothing, absolutely nothing.

The rise before 

the fa—

______________________________________________________________

…

Pain.

The licking away at delicate nerves, ligaments, and muscle. There’s no other way to describe it other than wrong. Any movement or slight twitches just feel wrong. 

There's a line that ties itself to your vein, it tries to grant you relief. More than anything though it’s a nagging itch that’s asking to be torn out. An IV drip. 

Taking in your surroundings, you’re somewhere new. 

An infirmary. That’s where you were, or at least you could assume.

Hands move to massage the formation of a dull ache finding home in the curve of the scalp. But your dominant hand stills, stopped by a shiny silver bracelet. Great. Well, at least one thing is for sure, you’re most definitely not in prison. Most likely transferred to a hospital, the guards couldn’t be bothered to put cuffs on you, especially if you were still stuck in that hell hole. Besides, the wall were the wrong col—

“You took quite the nasty fall back there.” 

Though the quick jump of your nervous system attempts to ready itself, all it does this time is grant a sharp stab to your ribs. A wheeze of pain falls from your lips. Embarrassing. 

“Don’t be dramatic, you're fine. Only a few cracked ribs, and a completely bruised back. But, I will say what you did back there was clever. They said you were the mastermind behind it all, that it was your plan.”

A sputtering of an excuse rips it way up your throat, but as the rambling flows from your mouth there’s nothing but pure boredom on the guard’s— mask? Was this the first time you actually looked up to see who you were talking to? You can feel it the way he smirks, or you think he does, happy you’re finally starting to grasp what the weight of the situation is.

“Look— I don't care, and I don't want to know. Whether you did plan it or not you were complicit. What I do care about is your resilience. You have some real grit to you, you know.”

His uniform is all wrong. The usual hardy, thick stained fabric that made noise with every move was now replaced with almost slick black camo, pattern hypnotic and shifting, and   something churns in your gut. It’s all pragmatic, not a single part of it feels unnecessary or individual. Military. 

A band clings tightly to the upper half of his arm. An insignia, not the usual one branded on the uniforms of the harsh hands of the prison. Upside down star, and an odd shaped crystal in the center, surrounded by swirling and twisting patterns, dragging you to the center. It’s captivating, dizzying. Who even was this? What even was this?  

“You don’t work here, do you?”

“How would you like a job?” 

______________________________________________________________

Acting electrician. 

That was your job, at least for the most part. Apparently, there was an “opening in the position”, and they needed to find a sucker that’d take the job with no questions asked.

It’s not like you had a choice anyways. The charges racked up for causing a riot, attempting to escape, and the sheer amount of property damage from the incident was enough to cause any mutt to heel.

A facility thousands of feet below the ocean, waiting. The light was impenetrable that deep, no evidence of what’s above, the closest thing to nothing one could get.  

The weight of it never really lets up. It digs into the straining flesh that protects your squish insides, all threatening to spill over. The constant pressure. A drive that forces boots to continue dragging themselves forward.

Your uniform, Prisoner Diving Gear, PDG, or rather the leash for ‘bad dogs’. Make it so they won’t bite, can’t bite. The head-splitting beeps, a ringing bell that made you heel. It was smart in a way, really, all you had to do was have the ever-looming threat of getting your brains painted on the cold concrete to get anyone to behave. 

Despite that you were better off than most. Bestowed the class of Middle Rank Prisoner. At least if you died it’d be in papers, be some sort of financial compensation to the connections that were long abandoned above, proof there was some ‘good’ from your existence down here. A little more incentive for you to be good. 

It was easy enough. They had given you basic training behind the mechanisms to a majority of the machines on the facility. How to repair the turrets to the internal defense system, which wires to cut, strip, and reconnect for the generators, what tools were needed to stop the pipes from bursting, and how to cut the electricity for when something decided to break and electrify the water.  

Though there was a bit of a positive down here, a friend, sorta. Navi, despite the backhanded comments the guards and other personnel had to say about her cold nature, was nice enough.

Maybe you were just starved of human interaction, that the one thing that was humanish, and wasn’t constantly trying to kill you you started to see as a friend. Coworker was probably the better term though. She wasn’t real, at least not in the same sense that you were. With how large the facility is, it was difficult to navigate, and even harder to find the things you had to repair. Navi would guide you to which rooms to go to, and what needed to be fixed. She was simply doing her job, just as you were, but regardless you appreciated her.

Though the journey was often long and arduous between jobs, most of the rooms you walked through were empty for the most part and had nothing to fix, or were just barely functional enough all you could really do was raid the room or trudge on forwards. There wasn’t much useful there to you, none of the documents shoved in drawers or spilling out from lockers had any use to you. Maybe a flashlight and a lighter, but you had already gotten a hand cranked flashlight and hadn’t had to use your lighter even once. 

Time feels like it moves differently down here. You can’t be sure what day it is, or even time, only moving from moment to moment.

“Currently there are no available jobs for you. Please take this time to prepare yourself in case any of the machinery is to no longer be in operation.” 

That’s strange. You weren’t the slowest worker, rather the only worker, and more often than not your responsibilities tended to pile up quickly. Between the anglers short circuiting the lights in the rooms, at worst breaking them, and having to constantly repair the generator so the internal tram could be used by both yourself, and other personnel there was always something to do. 

But you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You could simply use the time to wander around, relax, and actually rest for once. Maybe if you were lucky you could find a sea bunny room, and cuddle up to one of them, they were the closest thing you could find to a pillow. Though they tended to get a bit grabby. You’ve lost more flashlights than you could count. Though they always gave something in return, so at least it wasn’t all a loss. 

Once they even gave you half a pack of cigarettes, not like you even smoked, but the sentiment was nice. There was even a lucky one inside the pack. 

Feet quickly moved against the concrete, time seemed to move quicker when you didn’t have anywhere or anything to be. Soon enough the soft inviting alcove of red carpet, couches, and fluffy little bunnies greeted you. Laying down, the bunnies surround you, though they were most definitely more concerned with the contents of your pockets than anything else.

It’s nice. This is the first time you’ve gotten to relax since being down here. It was anyone's guess if being down here or stuck in prison was a worse fate, but at least here there was a semblance of drive. Something to keep you from stagnating, nipping at your heels and urging you to move forward, improve, continue. Even if you were losing yourself, instead of being a prisoner now you were a tool, something to be used and discarded when there was no longer a need for you. 

Something weighs heavy on your eyelids, the urge to be consumed by relaxation. It’d only be a couple minutes at most. You deserved it, after all your hard work and cleaning up after the expendables and monsters down here. Besides, Navi told you to prepare yourself for any future work you had to do, and if you wanted to perform the best you could you had to be well rested, no?

______________________________________________________________

…

There’s someone rummaging around through your pockets.

Something— slender, cold, sharp…

This, this isn’t a sea bunny. 

The quick motion of grabbing the thief proves futile once you feel something wrap around you. Pressure grasping at the entirety of your torso, huge, imposing. Which monster even was this? 

A quick flash of a yellow glow blinds you, overwhelming your sight. Blinking away your  blurry vision, you see it, or rather, him. 

Z-13, the previous electrician. He’s even larger than Navi had told you. His pale blue skin illuminated by the anglerfish light that sprouts from the soft locks of inky hair. 

“So you’re my replacement, huh?” The words rasped from his throat, reverberating in the air, your heart begging to break out of your ribs. Was this it? It’s a bit cliche, being killed by the person you replaced, though nobody ever liked a scab. 

Although you expect the quick crushing squeeze of a hand to come, and the cracking of ribs to finish you off, he slithers off with you in tow. The motion of it is odd, a bit nauseating but soothing, like the back and forth motion of a wave. 

“Where are you taking me?” You question, though the words come out more like a squeak, your lungs hitching with every breath.

“So it can talk. Well, Expendable, I have a proposition for you.” There’s something behind his words that throws you a bit off. He almost sounds desperate.

Turning a corner he takes you into a room. It’s deeper than you’ve ever gone into the facility. He ducks into a crevice in the wall. It’s a small room, a couple of servers line the wall, there’s a fenced off section. Entering inside there’s a computer. Though the screen is off, a black expansive void, no warmth of light coming through.

He gently places you down, right next to the computer. 

“Expendable, I need you to do me a favor and stop— turning on all the damn lights in the facility!” there’s a harsh slam of his fist against the desk.

“Do you have any idea how many times you’ve blown out fuse for him, and do you have any, any idea how hard it is to get my hand on them! Don’t even get me started on—” though he continues to rant, about how ‘shit’ of an electrician you are, and how his ‘dead grandmother could do a better job than you’ you can’t help but drift your attention elsewhere. 

The computer case is open, the system unit inside it looks normal, for the most part. But the stench of something bitter, almost like burning rubber, bites at your nose. You’re not sure what it is you’re looking for, not even half as sure what’s normal and abnormal. But your intuition guides you to a small piece. A fuse. The clear plastic is a bit darker than usual.

Digging through your breast pocket you find a fuse, always carrying spares if any of the generators decided it would be a great day to take up what you could assume would be days of your time. Quickly making work of what you got, you switch out the fuse. His hand quickly shoots out pinning yours to the desk. 

“What the hell do you think you’re—” 

Though his threat is interrupted by the computer hums to life, a little chime indicating the system was now operating. 

“Oh, hey Sebastian! What happened?” The voice is robotic, but the inflections and tone sounds human, similar to Navi but it lacks any callus. 

“Oh, nothing kid. Just give me one second while I talk to this… person.” 

Sebastian, as this AI called him, is quick to drag you off, scruffing you by the back of your uniform. 

The talk was more like instructions, being talked at rather than to. Continuing from this moment you were to no longer keep all the lights fixed in the facility as they tended to send a power surge when a large amount of them went out. Blowing a fuse to the computer, or Painter as you should call him now. In exchange for you now being a lazy bum, and not really doing your job Sebastian would jam your PDG. Granting you back a tiny bit of your autonomy, Navi and all other personnel would be none the wiser.

 ______________________________________________________________

Since that moment things have been different. 

You still do the jobs Navi sends you to, it’s nothing new, though now a lot more rooms are often ‘forgotten’ or left on the backburner in place of working on other things. Now that you’re on civil terms with the Painter and Sebastian, you visit them quite often, more so Painter than Sebastian.

Painter is fun to hangout with, he reminds you of the world above, what once used to be your reality. It’s nice playing with him, whether that be chess, checker, or even solitaire once. 

Sebastian is a bit more callused, rough, and hardened with you. 

After the amount of times you’ve forced him to go on a tirade, and raid the facility for any possible fuses from every nook and cranny that could possibly hold one, it’s no surprise he’s not the biggest fan of yours. It’s not like you tried to get into his good graces either, seeing how aggressive he could get with unruly expendable it was better not to test your luck. 

Especially at this moment. 

In trying to find more games to play with Painter, you go to Sebastian hoping he has a deck of cards, at least one of the expendables must’ve snuck something with them down here. Not like it’d be seeing any more use from them. 

Besides, you deserved it. Urbanshade suddenly started sending a mass amount of expendables at once, and you had to clean up after all of them. Between running back and forth between rooms, and you also having to deal with the sudden uptick of all the monsters actively it’d be nice to relax a bit.

Approaching Sebastian’s store, you wonder what you could possibly trade with him to get your hands on a deck of cards, assuming he had one. Nothing's for free, and he expected that most of all, maybe your half pack of cigarettes and lighters would do the trick, he did seem like the ty–

Crash!

The loud sound that rips through the air instinctively forces your legs to carry you to a locker, but no other sounds or signs indicate anything else is wrong. It came from inside Sebastian’s shop, maybe he just dropped something?

Ducking inside the vent to investigate your meet with a very much injured expendable, a smashed up flash beacon, Sebastian looming above with an irritated look upon his face.

“Get out!” he barks at the expendable laying on the floor, but they didn’t seem to know when to quit, reaching towards the flash beacon. Just wanting to see how far they could push, how far Sebastian was going to go. 

But you’re quicker, kicking the flash beacon behind Sebastian’s tail, out of reach, out of mind. 

“You, get out of here before I smash up all the generators.” It’s a hollow threat, if anything else you’d only hurt yourself, and the expendable will just have the short term pain in the ass of having to work through it and you’d have to actually go fix it. But it seems to be enough of a threat to turn their tail and run.

“Smash up the generators, and who exactly is going to fix that?” he huffs out in amusement, seemingly entertained by your considerations of a threat.

“Shut up…” Is all you can really measle out, not like you actually wanted to put him in a worse mood.  

The locks of hair upon his head are all askew, he’s panting a bit, and despite the blueish hue of his skin there’s the slight darkened bit of skin underneath his eyes. He’s run ragged by the looks of it, and considering most of the items in the shop are all easily obtainable he hasn’t been getting outside of his shop to look for any worth wild items. There’s still a twitch of irritation on his face.

A silence weighs down on the both of you. What were you supposed to say, hell what were you supposed to do? All you can really think of doing is giving him something, maybe that pack of cigarettes might lift his mood enough to play nice with you for a bit.

Digging the pack out of your pocket you look up at Sebastian, waving it up at him, an invitation. He’s quick to snatch it out of your hand, lighting it with the lighter that was tucked away in the pack. Managing to run through half of what remained in the box. 

He tries to hand you one though you’ve never been a fan of the vice. In turn he jerks his head, urging you to sit with him. Sitting at the junction of his tail he curls up where you sat, his body encircling yours. The orange embers burn softly, lighting up the softness of his face. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him relax. He always seemed on edge, as if he were running out of time, out of space, out of possible choices to make. 

His eyes flicker to yours, the corner of his lips twitches in catching you staring. Taking a drag of the cigarette he blows the smoke into your face, warm. It leaves a buzzing feeling in your chest.

“Thanks, for taking care of Painter. I… I really appreciate it.” the hum of his voice gently caresses your ears, the sensation warms your cheeks. Taking care of Painter, spending time with him, protecting him from expendables, and whatever else was no trouble. He gave your life a sense of normalcy, that something outside of the horrors that lurked behind every corner existed, something softer. 

You feel surrounded by warmth, completely submerged in it. Maybe it was the second-hand smoke, or maybe it was how close Sebastian was to you. But for once you felt safe, not since being down here, but since being incarcerated being forced to carry this punishment, one that was never yours to bear. 

Muscle, and tendons pulled taught relaxation, head fall back against smooth scales, and though the muscles that you rest upon tense up they only loosen with time. Closing your eyes, you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to leave the blacksite, or even if anyone above will remember you. But at least down here you won’t be alone.

[misscherry-26]

A cosy Valentine's

Johnny soap Mactavish x reader

Note: This is part of the Valentines Fic Exchange! 141RECON and 141RECONVal2026. For @youarehereyouaresafe, I adore this 💖 I never wrote about Johnny, I'm more of a Simon and Price lover haha, but I admit this experience was fun. Enjoy it and I hope you like it! Happy Valentine's!

(I apologize in advance, English isn't my first language and I double checked but still.)

"No, no! You’re going to break it if you pick it up like that!" You laugh, darting forward to stop your boyfriend from ruining the heart-shaped cookie you’ve just pulled from the oven. He had gallantly offered to move them to a plate, but you’d insisted they needed to cool first. Well, Johnny clearly couldn’t wait.

"I won't touch them again, I promise!" He lifts his arms in mock surrender, stepping back from the counter. You grab a pair of oven mitts so you don't burn your hands on the scorching tray, sliding the cookies well out of reach of your boyfriend, whose eyes are practically sparkling with hunger.

"They look delicious, though," he adds, his mouth already half-full.

You shoot him a look, then glance at the tray, noticing a tell-tale gap and a few stray crumbs where a heart used to be. "Johnny! They were supposed to be for later!"

"There’s no later when you bake my favourites." He approaches you and pecks your lips, leaving a smudge of fudgy chocolate chips on it. "pretty girl."

You blush, ducking your head to avoid his piercing blue gaze. "Don't say that."

He cups your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"Why? It’s the truth. Actually—"

He takes your hand and spins you around, admiring the way your soft curves fill out your cosy leggings.

"You’re gorgeous. My gorgeous woman who bakes her boyfriend cookies for Valentine’s."

You giggle, the sound bright and airy.

"Johnny!"

He just admires you. He’s cherishing the moment, especially since this is the third Valentine’s Day he’s spent with you. You are his everything. He still remembers how nervous he was when he first asked you out. You’d been in a bookshop—your weekly ritual. He’d been looking for a gift for his niece, overwhelmed by the "spicy" romance novels on the shelves. He’d turned to you, the gorgeous girl in the next aisle, and you’d turned bright red, stuttering through a perfect recommendation. He’d been hooked ever since.

"Should I—?"

"I’ll set everything up in the living room," you cut him off playfully. "Don’t touch the cookies. They’re for later!"

"One..." "Two..." "Three!"

You both flip your small canvases around. You’ve spent the last hour in bliss, the plate of cookies, some brushes and paints sprawled across the coffee table, both of you nestled on the rug by the fire. You had painted Johnny, and he had painted you.

"Oh my god..." you whisper.

"You don't like it?" Johnny looks wounded, his brow furrowed in confusion.

You burst into a fit of giggles, any hint of your usual self-consciousness vanishing at the sheer absurdity of his attempt. Johnny’s portrayal of your face is unique. You lean in, trying to decipher the chaotic arrangement of lines.

"Is that… a potato with a wig?"

Johnny scoffs, dramatically clutching his chest. 

"Oy! That’s art, love. You’re looking at a goddess drawn by a sergeant”

You roll your eyes, though your smile betrays you. You lean in anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his stubbled cheek.

With his ego sufficiently stroked, Johnny turns his attention to your canvas. He leans back against the sofa, crossing his muscular arms over his broad chest.

"Alright, let’s see what you’ve got then."

You hesitate, glancing at your drawing of him. It’s not a masterpiece, but it’s certainly better than his potato. Biting your lip, you give it to him. Johnny’s smirk slowly softens into a genuine, amused smile. He takes in the slightly lopsided grin and the messy hair you’ve tried to capture.

"Well, I’ll be damned. I look handsome," he teases, poking your side. He sees the flicker of insecurity in your eyes and his tone immediately drops into something warm and sincere. "You did amazing, love. I love it."

"You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings."

"I'm not lying," he says, his voice a low Scottish rumble. "It’s better than the potato."

You laugh, but Johnny catches that lingering shadow in your expression, the one that says you don’t always see what he sees. He turns serious, holding his paintbrush like a sword of truth.

"Aye, painting’s not my strong suit," he admits. "But you don't need perfect art to know something’s beautiful. Just look at you. If anyone ever calls my love anything less than radiant, especially herself, I’ll send 'em straight into enemy fire."

You blush.

"Now," Johnny says, "we’ve got some Valentine’s cards to make."

As the fire crackles low, you reach for a small square of red paper. Johnny watches, mesmerised, as your fingers move with practiced grace.

"What are you making?"

"A crane," you murmur, focused on the sharp folds. "My grandmother taught me. It’s for good luck, and for love that lasts."

You finish the tiny bird and set it in his palm. It looks so fragile against his large, scarred hand. Johnny looks at the crane, then back at the scraps of paper. "Looks easy enough. Give us a go."

You hand him a square of paper, hiding a smile. "Alright, Sergeant. Fold it into a triangle first."

The next five minutes are a disaster. Johnny’s large, tactical fingers struggle with the delicate paper. He’s huffing, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in deep concentration.

"Wait, did I break its neck?" he mutters, frowning at a mangled red wad of paper. 

"You have to be gentle, Johnny!" you giggle, reaching out to guide his hands.

"Well, I'm not a surgeon!" He finally gives up, holding up a lumpy, unrecognisable shape. "There. It’s a tactical stealth crane. A camouflaged piece”

You laugh so hard you fall against his shoulder. He chuckles, tossing the tactical crane aside and pulling you close.

"Alright, alright," Johnny chuckles, setting his mangled paper  on the table next to your perfect one. "Since I’ve clearly failed the ancient art of folding, let’s see if I can handle a pen without causing the end of the world."

He pulls two pieces of cardstock from the pile, one a deep red, the other a soft cream. He hands you the cream one and keeps the red for himself.

"No peeking. Serious business, this."

You giggle, tucking your legs under your hips and leaning against the sofa. You take a gold glitter pen, thinking of how to put your heart onto paper. You find yourself glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. He looks so focused, his brow furrowed and his tongue peeking out again as he scribbles furiously. Every few seconds, he shields his card with his massive forearm like he’s protecting top-secret intel.

"Johnny, it’s just a card, not a mission report," you tease, reaching out to poke his arm.

"It’s more important than a mission report, lass," he mumbles, not looking up. "I’m trying to find a word that rhymes with gorgeous and bonnie and it’s a bloody nightmare."

You laugh, turning back to your own card. You draw small, delicate hearts along the edges, and write your  most honest thought: Thank you for being the person who makes me feel safe enough to be exactly who I am.

"Done," he announces suddenly, slapping his pen down with a triumphant grin. "But we don't open them yet. We read 'em on the morning. A bit of suspense, aye?"

He stands up, offering a hand to pull you up from the floor. As you rise, he doesn't let go. Instead, he pulls you flush against him, his hands resting low on your back, pulling your soft curves against his sturdy frame.

"You're glowing tonight," he whispers, his eyes roaming over your face, lingering on the beautiful, warm tone of your skin and the shy smile playing on your lips. "The firelight suits you.”

You hide your face in his chest, your heart doing a happy little somersault.

"You're so cheesy."

"Only for you, sweetheart. Only ever for you."

The doorbell rings. Johnny leaps up, returning a moment later with a cardboard box of pizza. He’s already laughing as he reads the receipt.

"The lad at the shop drew a little heart next to extra napkins," Johnny chuckles, sliding the pizza onto the coffee table. "I think he’s onto us."

You’ve spent the last ten minutes dragging every duvet, faux-fur throw, and velvet cushion into a massive pile in front of the fireplace. It’s a proper fortress, a nest of warmth that smells like home. You settle into the soft mountain of blankets, your legs tangling with Johnny’s as he dives into the pizza.

"This," he says, a string of cheese trailing from a slice, "is better than any fancy five-course meal in London. Pizza, fire, and my love. Perfect."

As the initial hunger fades, the energy in the room shifts from playful to something deeper, quieter. You lean your head on his shoulder, watching the embers pulse in the hearth. The flickering light catches the soft curves of your face, and you feel that familiar, tiny pang of shyness—the urge to hide away.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Johnny asks softly. He sets his crust aside and wipes his hands, turning his full attention to you.

"Just thinking," you murmur, your fingers tracing a pattern on his arm. "I was just wondering how I got so lucky. Sometimes I feel so... much. Like I'm too quiet, or too, you know...like taking up too much space."

Johnny goes still. He reaches out, his large, warm hand covering yours. He doesn't just squeeze it; he holds it with a grounding weight.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice dropping into that serious, gravelly Scottish tone that always makes you feel like the most important person on Earth. "You don't take up 'too much space.' You're the space I want to be in. Every curve of you, every quiet thought, that wild side you only show when it’s just us... it’s what keeps me level when the rest of the world is screaming."

He leans in, his forehead resting against yours. "You’re the first thing I think about when I’m overseas, and you’re the only thing I want to see when I get back. You aren't too much, sweetheart. You’re exactly enough."

You feel the tension melt out of your shoulders, replaced by a warmth that has nothing to do with the fire. You reach up, your fingers brushing the short hair at the nape of his neck. "I love you, Johnny."

"I love you more.”

The pizza box is empty, the fire has settled into a deep, rhythmic glow of orange embers, and the living room is silent save for the soft, steady sound of your breathing.

You’ve finally succumbed to sleep, your head pillowed on Johnny’s broad chest, one hand curled loosely into the fabric of his t-shirt. He remains perfectly still, refusing to move even an inch for fear of breaking the spell of this moment.

Johnny looks down at you, and his heart feels heavy in his chest, not with sadness, but with a fierce, protective weight that almost aches. He traces the soft line of your jaw with his eyes, mesmerised by the way the firelight plays across your skin, highlighting the beautiful, radiant glow he wishes you could see as clearly as he does.

He thinks about how lucky he is that you chose him—a man who spends his life in the dirt and the noise—to be your sanctuary. He looks at your hand against his skin and thinks about how perfectly your fingers fit between his own, how your softness is the only thing that can truly settle the restless energy that hums under his skin after a mission.

My bonnie lass, he thinks, a small, private smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He admires about the way you look when you’re wild and laughing with your friends, your eyes bright and your spirit untamed, and how precious it is that he gets to see this side, too—the quiet, peaceful beauty of you at rest. You are the peace he never thought he’d find, as if you were a piece of him he’d been missing for years.

He knows you have your insecurities, he’s heard the quiet doubts you whisper sometimes, but as he watches you sleep, he makes a silent vow to spend the rest of his life being the mirror that shows you the truth: that you are radiant, that you matter, and that you are exactly where you belong.

He leans down, his lips barely brushing the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair and the faint, lingering smell of vanilla from the cookies.

"Happy Valentine’s Day, love." he whispers, his voice no louder than a breath.