@sombra7567 and all the other Mahatma simps.
Title: “A Kiss or a Few”
(Because one is never enough when he looks at you like that.)
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The clinic was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes the air hum — no groaning bounty hunters, no explosions outside, not even Attila muttering sarcastic things in Mahatma’s head. Just the faint tick of a clock and the soft rustle of paper as he flipped through a chart.
You sat on the examination table, kicking your legs idly, pretending you weren’t watching him. You were watching him. Obviously. How could you not?
His white coat was slightly wrinkled, his dark hair a little messy — strands falling into his face as he squinted at the clipboard. The lamplight made the edges of his glasses glint gold. He was mumbling softly to himself, words spilling half to you, half to the symbiote resting in his veins.
“Your blood pressure’s fine. Temperature normal. Attila says your heart rate is—”
He paused. Blinked. Looked up.
“Elevated.”
You swore you saw the faintest smirk tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Y’know, maybe it’s elevated because someone’s staring at me like I’m the dessert menu,” you teased, trying (and failing) to sound calm.
Mahatma let out a soft chuckle — quiet, but warm, the kind that curled behind your ribs and stayed there. He set the clipboard aside and stepped closer, his tone dipping into that gentle, teasing register that always turned your knees to pudding.
“Oh? Is that what I’m being compared to now?” he murmured. “I suppose I can’t complain.”
“Depends on the dessert,” you shot back, grinning.
Attila’s voice, faint and smug, echoed from somewhere deep in Mahatma’s mind — you could practically feel the symbiote’s amusement.
“Just kiss them already, doctor.”
Mahatma sighed through his nose, like he’d been caught. His hand brushed your cheek, thumb tracing a slow line up to your jaw, and his voice softened to a whisper.
“I’m trying to maintain professionalism.”
“Failing spectacularly.”
He laughed again, low and breathy. “You’re right.”
And then—
he leaned in.
His lips brushed yours once, feather-light. The kind of kiss that feels more like a question than an answer. But you didn’t hesitate — you tugged at his coat and pulled him closer, answering without words.
The clipboard clattered to the floor.
Attila muttered something like, “Finally.”
When you pulled back, both of you were grinning like fools. Mahatma’s face was flushed — not from embarrassment, but from joy. You’d never seen him look so alive.
“One,” he murmured. “That was one kiss.”
You tilted your head. “You counting them now?”
“Well.. I’m a doctor aren’t I,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I like accurate records.”
So you kissed him again.
And again.
And again.
Until even Attila gave up and sighed in mock defeat.
END YOU SIMPS.