Work Text:
Scene: “You’re Bleeding, Jake.”
Setting: Field quarters. The mission's just ended. Lights are low. Armor half-stripped. Tension's still crawling under skin.
Sarge doesn’t like the way Jake walks off the extraction deck.
It’s not the usual slow burn of command-worn fatigue. It’s wrong in the hips. Off in the shoulders. Like he's keeping something tucked beneath the plates—and not just metaphor.
"Gillan."
Jake doesn’t turn. Keeps moving like the blood in his veins hasn't started pooling slower. Like the skin near his ribs isn’t flexing too tight.
Sarge steps in behind him—no rush, no bark—just that low gravel that cuts clean through any rank or call sign.
"Jake. Stop walking."
Jake does. Half-step pause. Not obedience—calculation. As if he’s debating whether he can make it to his bunk without collapsing.
Sarge doesn’t let him finish the thought. Closes the distance, grips the back hem of Jake’s plate carrier—and feels it: the stickiness. Warm. Damp.
Blood.
“Shit.” Sarge’s voice is low, not angry.
Just there. Immediate. He unclasps the vest, palms already sliding under to strip layers. “You were hit.”
“It’s not deep,” Jake mutters, stiff-spined.
“You’re bleeding through your kit.”
“I handled it.”
Sarge snorts softly. “You didn’t.”
Jake sags—just a little. Enough to tip forward. Sarge catches him one-armed around the waist.
“You don’t get to go down on me like this,” Sarge murmurs, lips near Jake’s ear.
Jake huffs—part pained, part amused.
“Oh? So that means I can go down on you later?”
Sarge stills.
His fingers tighten around Jake’s side—almost a warning. Almost a yes.
Then he shifts. Pulls Jake’s gear off, layer by layer. Combat shirt peeled back. Blood tracks low on his left side, just above the hipbone—nasty tear. Clean, but deep. Sarge opens a med kit, doesn’t speak. Just works.
The antiseptic stings. Jake flinches, jaw clenched, but doesn’t make a sound.
“You always this stubborn?” Sarge asks, voice mild.
Jake’s reply is slower this time. “…You always this hands-on?”
“You’re my officer. I keep mine breathing.”
Silence. Jake’s breath is audible now. Not labored, but sharp.
Sarge finishes sealing the wound. The gauze is tight. The gloves come off.
His hands, bare now, hover over Jake’s skin. He presses down—not to hurt, just to feel the shape of life under his palm. Jake shivers.
“You need rest,” Sarge says.
Jake turns, just enough to face him. Their bodies are too close now. Heat crackles in the inch between their mouths.
“I need something,” Jake says low.
Sarge doesn’t ask.
He takes.
Mouth crashes against Jake’s in a brutal, breath-stealing kiss. It’s not neat. It’s not soft. It’s claiming. Jake’s fingers dig into Sarge’s vest, pulling him closer even as his legs give.
Sarge catches him again.
Their teeth clash. Jake’s laugh dies in a groan. Sarge pushes him against the steel panel beside the bunk, one hand braced to keep pressure off the injury.
Jake breaks the kiss first, panting.
“You gonna keep stopping?”
Sarge’s lips brush Jake’s jaw. Then his throat.
Then he stops—really stops—forehead resting against Jake’s temple.
“…Once you’re healed,” Sarge whispers. “Then I’ll wreck you.”
Jake trembles.
But he nods.
And Sarge holds him there—half-pinned, half-sheltered—until the ache becomes quiet, and the bleeding finally stops.
Montage Sequence: “How We Got Here”
Arrival Orders – [Assignment: Blackshield Squad]
Captain Jake Gillan sat alone in the command office, elbows braced on the desk as the new orders flickered across his slate. The standard welcome brief was already dismissed—he’d stopped reading those years ago. Instead, his eyes tracked the real intel: field data. Mission records. Kill counts.
Blackshield Squad.
Led by: Master Sergeant Asher Mahonin.
Jake leaned back in his chair, letting the name hang in the air. Mahonin. That name showed up in cross-unit debriefs—never flagged, but always present. Field-commended. High clearance. The kind of NCO who left a long trail of successful ops… and exactly zero insight into what made them tick.
He tapped through the dossier slowly.
Citations: Numerous.
Mission outcomes: Consistent.
Losses: Minimal.
Field coordination: Textbook.
Too textbook.
Jake exhaled sharply through his nose, watching the data scroll like a well-rehearsed lie.
Because this? This wasn’t standard. This wasn’t normal.
He’d seen units bleed for numbers like this. Break down. Lash out. Even the best cracked under that kind of operational tempo. But not Blackshield. They ran hot and clean. No flinches. No fractures.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
That usually meant one thing.
They’re operating like their own kingdom.
And kingdoms? They don’t like new kings.
Especially young ones.
Jake was thirty-six. Battle-seasoned. Silver-eyed and knife-quiet. A ghost with a Captain’s stripes and more confirmed kills than birthdays. But he still remembered the looks—the sneers from older squad leads, the casual disrespect from men twice his size but half his command clarity.
Academy boy. Golden boy. Brass pet.
He’d bled under their orders and outperformed them anyway.
Jake swiped past another glowing after-action report, then paused at the summary review:
“Blackshield demonstrates exceptional internal unity and field performance.
Conflict mitigation: N/A.
No disciplinary incidents on record.”
Zero?
He scowled, a hand dragging down his face.
That wasn’t normal. That was a red flag.
Because squads didn’t run without friction. Not for this long. Not without something—or someone—containing it.
Jake tapped Mahonin’s name again.
Master Sergeant.
Senior enough to command loyalty.
Old enough to have scars that never made it to paper.
He could already feel the static rising. He’d been sent to units like this before—ones that didn’t want a new officer, didn’t want oversight. Didn’t want him. And while command liked to call these placements “stabilizations,” Jake knew better.
This wasn’t a clean transfer.
It was another test.
Another unspoken challenge.
He blew out a slow breath and muttered to himself, voice dry with practiced cynicism:
“Let me guess. Another squad with discipline issues?”
But the file stayed stubbornly silent.
No black marks.
No behavioral flags.
No cracks.
Blackshield's commendations were flawless. Team cohesion: near-telepathic. Operational efficiency: off the charts. Internal conflict reports?
Still zero.
And that—more than anything—made his pulse tighten.
Nobody’s that perfect.
He stared down at the glowing slate.
Felt the weight of it.
What the hell kind of squad am I walking into?
And worse—what happens when I try to lead them?
Here’s an expanded version of that scene—keeping the same structure and tone, but deepening physical detail, emotional subtext, and internal monologue:
First Meeting – [Arrival: Blackshield Field Base]
Jake stepped off the carrier ramp in his Officers Dress Uniform, shoes hitting tarmac with practiced rhythm. He would've preferred to wear fatigues, but this was protocol. The air was dry—burnt ozone and motor oil—and the sharp scent of spent munitions clung faintly to the wind.
He squared his shoulders. Let his expression fall into unreadable neutral.
Mission-face on.
Ahead of him, the squad waited in formation. Four of them. Perfect V. Tight posture. No wasted movement.
At the front—anchoring the line—stood Sarge.
Master Sergeant Asher Mahonin.
He was taller than the file photos suggested. Broader, too. Built like armor plating over something that used to be bone. His stance was relaxed but exact—feet planted like he owned the ground, arms loose like nothing here could surprise him.
His eyes lifted when Jake approached.
Burnished brass. Calm. Direct. Unmoving.
No salute.
Not disrespect. Just… intent.
Jake stopped three paces away.
Silence. The kind that measured things.
Then: a nod.
Measured. Precise. And respectful.
“Captain Gillan.”
Jake returned it. No smile. Chin lifted just enough to establish rank. His posture remained sharp—back straight, jaw tight.
Waiting for the test.
The casual comment. The challenge. The edge of resistance that always came with new command. Especially from squad leads who’d been holding the reins without oversight.
But instead—
Sarge said:
“We read your dossier. Solid record.”
A beat. One blink’s worth of space.
Then:
“Glad you’re ours.”
Jake’s throat locked for a half-second.
That wasn’t posturing.
That wasn’t subtext.
That was welcome.
Uncomplicated. Unthreatened.
And it threw him completely.
He blinked once. Didn’t let it show on his face, but the tension in his spine faltered. Just slightly.
Because in his entire career, no one had said that.
Not like that.
Not without testing him first.
And standing in front of him now was a squad—calm, silent, confident—and a Sergeant who meant what he said.
Jake almost didn’t know how to respond.
He straightened instinctively, defaulting to what he could give in return:
“Appreciate the reception. I’ll try not to slow you down.”
Sarge’s lips twitched. A fractional smile—barely there, but there.
“We don’t slow down, sir.”
Behind him, one of the squad members quietly cleared their throat—maybe a laugh, maybe a cough—but Jake didn’t turn to check.
His attention stayed fixed on Sarge.
Who was still watching him.
Calm. Steady. Measuring—but not resisting.
So this is Blackshield.
Jake took another breath.
And—for the first time in a long time—he didn’t brace for impact.
First Mission – [Op: Silent Peak]
They move like one organism.
Jake watches it unfold in real time—through the scope of his HUD, through the rhythm in the comms, through the clean, fluid silence of a squad that’s done this before. Not just trained it—lived it.
When he calls for flanking rotation, his voice low and crisp—
“Push Echo left. Stack on entry point Bravo.”—
he expects the usual delay.
A pause. A breath. That click of challenge, the kind seasoned squads give when they’re still deciding whether the new CO deserves obedience.
But instead?
Sarge’s voice cuts in over the line, smooth and low.
“Echo left. You heard the captain.”
No pushback.
No posturing.
The order moves through the squad like water down a channel—flawless redirection. Boots shift, weapons cover arcs, and they flow around Jake’s command like it was always theirs.
Jake doesn’t have to repeat himself once.
By the time they breach the outer hall, every corner’s cleared before he finishes blinking. Kray on point, Rook sweeping tight behind. Weller drops two in the west wing, never breaks stride.
Jake’s not leading them.
He’s with them.
And that—that’s rare.
Because he’s seen what it looks like when a Master Sergeant wants to remind you who really runs a unit. He’s had sergeants pretend they didn’t hear orders. Twist words. Wait just long enough for it to feel like resistance, without earning a write-up. That subtle undermining that leaves a squad off-rhythm, unsettled.
But Sarge?
Sarge reinforces Jake’s command with intent.
Not submission. Not flattery.
Just commitment.
He doesn’t want command.
He wants the mission done right.
And that? That hits Jake harder than he’s ready for.
When the dust settles, the compound is secured. Zero casualties. Enemy signatures all cold.
Jake stands outside the central control room, helmet tucked under one arm, breathing evening air still tinged with smoke. The squad’s collecting their gear. Debrief tags already syncing to their slates.
Sarge walks up.
Claps a solid hand on Jake’s shoulder—broad, warm, real.
“Clean work.”
The words are low, grounded. Meant.
His hand lingers a second longer than needed—just enough that Jake feels it. The weight of it. The grounding of it. That subtle tether that says I see you. I backed you. I still do.
Then Sarge adds, quieter:
“You kept them moving. That matters.”
Jake opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
He just nods. Sharp. Professional.
But inside?
He’s stunned.
Because that wasn’t praise for optics.
That was respect.
The kind you can’t order, can’t demand.
The kind you earn.
And—God help him—he wants to earn more of it.
Observation – [Messhall / Late Night Briefing Room]
The messhall is quieter after 2200 hours. Most of the squad’s already filtered out—gear cleaned, appetites satisfied, low chatter fading into silence. Only the hum of overhead lights and the occasional clink of cutlery remain.
Jake’s not eating. Not really. He’s perched at the corner table near the holo-slab setup, half a ration bar forgotten beside a steaming mug of synth-coffee. His focus is locked on the mission specs scrolling across his dataslate. Adjusting parameters. Confirming terrain overlays. Cross-referencing Blackshield's movement history against the next op drop.
But his eyes flick up. Often.
Not at the screen. Not at the mission.
At them.
At him.
He watches the way the squad leans into Sarge’s calm without even realizing it. How Rook drifts closer when uncertain. How Kray mirrors the man’s stance. How Weller’s running commentary only flows when Sarge nods, just once, like opening a channel.
They don’t worship him.
They trust him.
Not because of medals. Not because of barked orders.
Because Sarge deflects praise. Redirects glory. Absorbs every thread of unease until no one else has to carry it.
And still—always—he keeps one eye on Jake.
Not intrusive. Not territorial.
Measuring.
Watching the way Jake interacts. How he commands. Whether the squad settles around him.
And—subtle as it is—he follows.
No need for confirmation. No argument. If Jake says move, Sarge moves. Without ego. Without question.
Jake catches it again tonight.
He’s adjusting a mission variable—weight tolerances for the south ridge approach—when Sarge passes behind him.
Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t speak.
But as he goes by, two fingers graze the top bar of Jake’s chair—not Jake himself, but close. Close enough that the hairs at the nape of Jake’s neck rise. The touch is bare—Sarge isn’t wearing gloves. And there’s a warmth in it that lingers longer than it should for something accidental.
It’s the lightness of it. The intention. The way Sarge’s hand curves ever so slightly toward Jake’s spine before pulling away.
Jake freezes.
Doesn’t breathe.
Because he’s not sure if it was contact… or a message. It could’ve been habit. Momentum. Just a shift in passing.
But Jake’s spent enough time in the field, watching, to know the difference.
That was deliberate.
It wasn’t flirtation—not openly. It wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t even a reassurance.
It was… claiming.
Or maybe checking.
A pulse check. A read. A tether line being quietly, steadily run between them.
Jake says nothing.
Just lets his stylus hover above the slate.
He logs the variable update.
And logs the moment, too.
Quiet touch. Late shift. Intentional.
He doesn’t tag it with a timestamp.
He won’t forget it.
Breach Drill – [Training Ground, Three Weeks Later]
The simulated breach zone is filled with dust, smoke markers, and the sharp tang of spent flash rounds. It’s supposed to mimic a failed containment op—tight quarters, low visibility, compromised footing.
Jake leads the first wave.
Sarge holds the second unit, flanking and ready to surge once Jake’s team clears the corner.
They’re almost through when it happens.
A rookie—newly rotated in—misjudges the pressure switch on the demo charge housing. It’s a training rig, not live, but the consequences are still logged as real: blast radius, casualties, failure to protect squad integrity.
Jake sees the mistake before it triggers.
Doesn’t think. Doesn’t yell.
He just moves.
A single clean dive over the breach line, full armor weight crashing into the simulated pressure plate, shielding it with his own body—shoulder first, low to the ground, absorbing the hit zone with trained precision.
The air fills with alarm tones.
Red lights spin on the HUD.
Then: the long, low drone of the all-clear horn.
Simulated detonation logged. Blast averted.
Jake’s already rolling to his knees, brushing dust from his gloves like he didn’t just mark himself as the only theoretical KIA.
Sarge is there before he finishes the motion.
No words at first.
Just that sharp, assessing stare.
Then—voice low, even:
“You good?”
Jake exhales. “Fine.”
But before he can stand fully, before he can reset his tone or reassert rank—Sarge steps in close.
Too close.
A large, calloused hand comes up—grips the back of Jake’s neck with a firm, grounding weight—and pulls their foreheads together.
Just for two seconds.
No words.
No dramatics.
Just breath.
Shared. Felt.
The rookies freeze. Even Weller tilts his head—but no one says a damn thing.
Because it doesn’t feel weird.
It feels… like them.
Sarge pulls back just as quietly. His hand lingers a second more before slipping away. No fuss. No stare.
Jake doesn’t question it.
Doesn’t tease.
He just nods. Breathes.
And walks off the field with his squad at his back.
The Night Before – [One Day Before the Wound Scene]
The barracks are quiet. Late enough that most of the squad’s already bunked down or tucked away in mess or gym rotation. The low hum of ventilation fills the silence like static—background noise to a night that feels half-expectant.
Jake sits at his bench, half-suited down. Cleaning rag in one hand, disassembled rifle in front of him. His motions are automatic. Methodical. There’s a calm in the ritual, but also something unresolved in the way his eyes keep flicking toward nothing.
The door opens.
Bootsteps. Heavy. Familiar.
Jake doesn’t turn.
Sarge doesn’t announce himself.
He just walks to the table, expression unreadable in the low light, and sets two items down next to Jake’s gear with a quiet clink:
A high-calorie protein bar.
And a sealed trauma pack.
Jake stills.
The silence stretches—comfortable in theory, but tight with something unsaid.
Then, gruffly:
“You always forget backup gauze.” Sarge doesn’t look at him.
Just adjusts the trauma pack slightly so it’s centered with Jake’s med pouch.
“Figured I’d stop watching you limp through it.”
Jake finally looks up. Not fast. Just slow enough to mean something.
His voice is low. Quiet.
“You always take care of your COs like this?”
That’s when Sarge meets his eyes.
Not smirking. Not posturing.
Just… there.
“No.” The word lands between them with the weight of unspoken choices.
“Just the ones I don’t want bleeding out on me.”
There’s a half-beat where Jake could laugh. Could deflect. Could turn it into a dry jab about sentiment and regs.
But he doesn’t.
He just holds Sarge’s gaze.
And doesn’t smile.
But something in his shoulders loosens.
His chest lightens—fractionally.
Sarge steps back, just far enough to nod once, as if that small admission took more than either of them will say.
He doesn’t wait for thanks.
Jake doesn’t offer it.
They don’t need to.
Because tomorrow’s op might leave one of them bleeding—and tonight, this is the closest thing either of them knows how to give:
A bar. A bandage.
And the warning beneath it:
I care. Don’t make me prove it the hard way.
Montage Sequence – Sarge’s POV: “The Second He Stepped Off That Carrier”
The File – [Before Jake Arrives]
The base lights are set to evening dim, low and warm, casting long shadows across the ops table. Sarge sits alone in the comms annex, still in partial gear from drills, elbow propped on the table, a chipped ceramic mug resting near his hand. The smell of reheated synth-caf lingers in the air—bitter, burnt, and necessary.
The slate pings softly. Incoming command packet.
Another one.
He exhales through his nose and taps to open it.
**> Personnel Transfer – CO Update
Designation: Blackshield Squad
Incoming Commanding Officer: Captain Jake Gillan**
> Age: 36
Call Sign: Ares
Rank: O-3
Sarge’s thumb taps absently against the side of his mug. His jaw shifts.
Too young. Too many medals. Too many “leadership excellence” notations scattered between casualty reports.
The phrase “battlefield promotion” appears more than once.
Another polished brass boy, probably. One who thinks command means charisma and conviction instead of blood and hours. One who’ll lead with declarations instead of doctrine. Another idealist that burns bright—until the fire gets real.
Sarge’s gut clenches, prepared for the familiar cycle: the posturing. The subtle attempts to challenge senior NCO input. The inevitable fallout.
But then he scrolls.
Field photos.
He pauses.
The image that loads is not Academy-posed. Not a formal portrait. It’s grainy. Taken after an op, by the look of it—caked with sweat and something darker around the collar. Jake’s head is tilted, not quite looking at the camera. There’s a smear across his temple. No smile. Just a stillness.
Not broken.
But hollow.
Not the kind of hollowness that comes from ego—Sarge knows that kind.
This one?
It’s the kind that’s been cracked and fused back together too many times. Functioning. Present. But the edges don’t quite fit anymore. The kind of man who doesn’t flinch when orders come down hard, because he already expects them to cost something.
And suddenly the commendations… make sense.
He reads between the lines.
The death tolls.
The reassignment frequency.
The quiet note in one after-action report that simply says:
"Captain Gillan remained on field perimeter until all casualties were extracted. Medic ordered him back for dehydration collapse."
Another note in a transfer memo:
"Assigned to Blackshield due to high durability in adverse unit dynamics."
Sarge’s brow furrows.
“They keep sending him to the worst squads…”
And now they’ve sent him here.
To his team.
Because Jake Gillan holds.
Because he absorbs fire and doesn’t break the line. Because he burns and somehow doesn’t burn out.
Sarge leans back slightly, thumb now still against the mug. The bitter coffee is cold. He doesn't notice.
For the first time in years, something unfamiliar stirs in his gut.
Hope?
No.
Hope is for rookies.
This is deeper. Older. Heavier.
Worry.
Because if Jake really is who he seems to be, if the man behind the slate is the one walking through the door tomorrow—
He’s going to try to carry everything.
And Sarge has seen what happens when someone does that alone.
First Meeting – [Carrier Ramp Drop]
The air is dry and still at the forward ops bay. Heat shimmers faintly off the tarmac, the sun already slanting low on the horizon as the incoming carrier drops its ramp with a hiss of compressed air. The sound draws the squad’s attention—but Sarge was already watching, parade rest, weight balanced with soldier’s ease as he stood at the head of his team.
He spots the figure stepping down before the name is even confirmed.
Not fatigues.
Dress blacks.
Pressed, immaculate, regulation-perfect. The jacket’s high-collared, the insignia burnished sharp enough to catch the sun. And despite that—despite the crisp precision—there’s no arrogance in the way the man walks.
Captain Jake Gillan.
Sarge clocks it instantly: he hates the uniform. That’s not vanity. That’s chafing. The kind of man who’s worn command so long it itches, who’d rather be on the line with grit under his nails and a rifle in his hand. But he follows protocol anyway.
Because he’s disciplined.
Because he won’t let anyone question whether he earned this.
Sarge doesn’t need the slate anymore.
That’s definitely the man in the photo.
Jake’s eyes sweep across the squad as he steps down—pale silver, unreadable—but there’s fatigue there. Not the kind that comes from the flight. The kind that says he’s bracing for it again.
The posturing.
The side-eye.
The unspoken challenge.
Prove you belong, Captain.
Sarge’s jaw flexes. He watches his team—Blackshield Squad—still as stone. No twitch of insubordination. No forced bravado. Just attentive calm.
Good.
They're learning.
He steps forward. Deliberate. Controlled. Then—quietly, with clear voice:
“Captain Gillan.”
Jake halts two paces away. Gives a sharp nod, posture perfect—but not rigid. Not antagonistic. Just… prepared. For resistance. For something to go wrong.
Sarge doesn’t give it to him.
Instead, he holds eye contact and says, level:
“Read your file. Solid record.”
A pause. Not because he’s uncertain—because he wants the next part to land.
“Glad you’re ours.”
Jake’s blink is fast. Almost imperceptible. But it’s there.
That moment of surprise.
Like someone stepped in and caught the weight before it hit his back.
The barest shift in his jaw. The way his hand relaxes just slightly at his side.
A crack in the armor.
Not weakness—just breath.
Sarge doesn’t press. Doesn’t smile. Just nods once, enough to close the exchange.
But inside?
Something settles.
Warm. Quiet. Rooted.
He didn’t lie.
He is glad.
And now he just has to make sure Jake survives long enough to realize—this squad won’t break him.
Not this time.
First Mission – [Op: Silent Peak: After-Action Ground Zero]
They clear the last stairwell with textbook precision. No stray fire. No trip wires left unsprung. The final room—swept, tagged, sealed. And in that stillness, the rightness of it hums beneath their skin.
Mission complete.
Zero casualties.
Jake exhales slowly, one hand resting against the cool edge of the breached doorframe. His fingers flex once, then still. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t turn.
Because he’s waiting.
Not for praise. Not even for the squad.
He’s waiting to see what breaks.
The silence of post-op is always the most dangerous time—for a soldier, for a CO. That’s when the ghosts get loud.
And Sarge knows that posture. Spine too straight. Shoulders held like armor plates. Jaw tight. Breath shallow.
He’s seen men like that snap before.
But Jake?
Jake holds.
He always holds. That's why the brass keeps sending him to the shattered squads—the haunted ones, the half-reformed, the half-mad.
Because he doesn’t command like a banner in the wind.
He carries.
Every step he took in that breach felt like a calculated offering:
➤ Let me take the risk.
➤ Let me take the heat.
➤ Just get my people through.
Sarge watches him a moment longer before stepping forward.
His boots crunch softly on the scorched tile.
The squad is already falling back into quiet formation, checking gear, securing corridors. No one needs to be told what to do. Not with him on the ground.
Jake’s eyes stay forward.
But his hand is trembling. Just slightly. Barely perceptible.
Sarge doesn’t mention it.
Instead, he closes the last step of space and places one large, steadying hand on Jake’s shoulder.
“Clean work.”
Jake nods, once—sharp, mechanical.
But that touch?
It’s a lifeline. Sarge feels the flinch before it resolves into stillness again. The stiffness of a man so used to standing alone that even kindness feels like a foreign strike.
And Sarge doesn’t move.
He leaves his hand there. Solid. Quiet. Real.
Lets Jake feel the weight of it. Not as a pressure, but a confirmation.
You’re not alone in this trench.
Not this time.
Not with us.
Jake doesn’t say anything.
But his body breathes slightly deeper.
And Sarge catches it—just barely—when the tension in Jake’s shoulder eases beneath his palm.
Only for a second.
But it’s enough.
Breach Drill – [Jake’s Sacrifice]
The simulation starts clean.
First wave advances. Second wave preps flank. Sarge’s voice anchors the tempo in every direction—measured, exacting, no room for error.
Jake leads point.
He moves fast, sharp. Reading the terrain, adapting the angles, calling rotations before they’re needed.
Until the rookie missteps.
A clatter. A stumble. A click.
The sim doesn’t pause. The system logs a breach. A chain-reactive trigger pulse flashes red across the HUD.
Jake doesn’t think.
He moves.
One breath—two strides—then he’s launching across the breach line, twisting midair, body shielded tight as he hits the dirt hard, hard, directly over the pressure plate.
Sirens scream. Countdown blares. The simulation goes nuclear.
But it’s hypothetical.
This time.
The horn cuts through it all, signaling the drill’s abrupt end.
Jake is still on the ground. Dust blooming in a ring around him. His arm shakes as he pushes himself halfway upright.
And Sarge is already there.
Down on one knee, fingers ghosting the edge of Jake’s collar, checking for injury even as his own breath stutters shallow.
“You good?”
Jake’s voice is low. Rough. “Fine.”
It’s a lie. Obvious.
Not physically, maybe. But the way he’s staring—blinking slow like his brain’s still catching up—Sarge knows the burn of adrenaline crash when he sees it.
So he reaches up. Wraps one large, calloused hand behind Jake’s neck.
Leans in.
And presses their foreheads together.
Two seconds.
Not for optics. Not for show.
Just to feel—the warm exhale against his cheek, the thump of Jake’s breath finally settling, the stubborn resistance bleeding into tensioned relief.
Jake goes still.
Then he exhales. Not sharp. Not resigned. Just… real.
His hand, unconsciously, hovers near Sarge’s forearm but never touches. Still guarded. Still trying to be too professional.
But he doesn’t pull away.
When Sarge draws back, their eyes meet—Jake’s slightly glassy, but focused now. Alert.
And behind them?
Silence.
The squad’s watching. Every one of them.
Nobody speaks.
Because this isn’t some melodramatic moment or power play. It’s just them.
Jake and Sarge.
And the unspoken truth settling between them:
Jake didn’t need saving.
But Sarge needed to be there anyway.
Let the others watch. Let them guess.
Neither of them offers explanation.
They don’t need to.
The Night Before – [The “Just You” Moment]
The hall is quiet. Too quiet. Late enough that most of the squad’s turned in, the lights dimmed to low amber, the base sighing through its climate cycles.
Jake sits on a bench near the armory lockers, cleaning his sidearm with slow, methodical precision. His sleeves are rolled, jaw tense, muscles wound tight like a spring that forgot how to release.
Sarge doesn’t say anything when he walks in.
Just sets a protein bar down on the bench. Then a trauma pack. Then—without ceremony—he kneels, unzips Jake’s field med pouch, and swaps out the gauze himself.
Jake doesn’t stop him. But he doesn’t look at him either.
Not until—
“You always take care of your COs like this?”
The tone is casual. But there’s something jagged beneath it. A test. A challenge disguised as indifference.
Sarge doesn’t take the bait.
He shrugs, voice low and grounded. “No.”
Then quieter.
More intimate.
“Just the ones I don’t want bleeding out on me.”
Jake still doesn’t look at him.
But his hands stop moving. The cloth he was using to wipe the barrel pauses mid-pass. And his shoulders—held stiff for hours—finally drop a centimeter.
It’s not much.
But Sarge feels it.
Sees the truth in the flicker of Jake’s breath, the way his grip loosens like someone letting go of a shield they’ve been holding too long.
That’s when it hits him.
Jake’s not testing him.
He’s waiting for the answer he’s never gotten.
Not from brass. Not from past squads. Not from the people who put him in the line of fire and left him there.
He’s too used to being expendable.
And Sarge—Asher—feels something sharp and possessive lance through his chest.
So he makes a vow.
No words.
Just knowing—
If this man falls, it will never be because Sarge didn’t hold the line for him.
Later, when Jake quips, “I need something,”—it's unexpected but real—Sarge won't ask then, he'll take.
Hard. Rushed. Certain.
Then when he stops—really stops—forehead resting against Jake’s temple He'll whisper:
“Once you're healed...then I'll wreck you.
Jake will tremble and nod. Sarge holds him there—half-pinned, half-sheltered—until the ache becomes quiet, and the bleeding finally stops.
But the next morning?
He limps to the mess like nothing happened. No mention of the kiss. No flicker of acknowledgment in front of the others. Just business as usual.
Sarge watches it all.
Watches the mask slip back into place.
And says nothing.
Because he knows.
You don’t chase something this rare. This broken.
You wait.
You watch.
And when Jake’s ready to stop running?
Sarge will be right there.
No noise. No rush.
Just him.
Scene: “For the Love of God, Just Wreck Each Other Already”
Location: Blackshield Squad Quarters – Post-Mission, 2200 hours.
The lights are dimmed, gear strewn across footlockers and chairs like the aftermath of a small, contained war. Helmets, rifles, sweat-damp shirts. The air smells like gun oil, instant noodles, and the ghosts of adrenaline.
Half the squad is downed—boots kicked off, heads tilted back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer divine intervention.
The other half?
Watching them.
Sarge and Jake stand too close at the central ops table. Again.
Jake’s in fatigue sleeves, rolled to the elbows, one hand braced on the table’s edge. The other curls into a loose fist at his side. He’s staring at the mission spec debrief on the screen, but his eyes haven’t moved in over two minutes.
Sarge stands opposite him—arms folded, feet planted wide, like a wall that’s made peace with being immovable. His head is tilted slightly toward Jake. Eyes locked. Not speaking. Not blinking.
It’s a miracle the screen hasn’t melted from the tension.
Weller sees it first—again.
He drops his gearbag with surgical precision. The crash is deafening in the quiet.
No reaction.
Jake doesn’t flinch. Sarge’s jaw twitches.
Weller looks over to Rook.
Rook shakes his head slowly, almost pleading. Don’t.
Weller, naturally, straightens.
“Alright, enough.”
Jake’s head lifts. Just a fraction. Sarge doesn’t move at all.
Weller’s voice cuts through the quarters like a breach siren.
“I’ve been watching this slow-motion mutual denial trainwreck for weeks. You two wanna play stoic statues, fine. But if one of you doesn’t wreck the other in the next forty-eight hours, I’m defecting to Zeta Squad. At least they have the decency to make their sexual tension productive.”
Gibbs nearly chokes on his protein bar.
Kraye starts quietly betting himself against the wall.
Rook puts his head in his hands.
Jake blinks. Once. Still unreadable.
Sarge lifts an eyebrow—barely—like a tectonic plate shifting.
But Weller? He’s in full dramatic mode now, pointing between them like he’s conducting air traffic.
“Do you know what it’s like trying to recalibrate my combat instincts because I can’t tell if we’re under sniper fire or if one of you finally brushed fingers?”
Silence.
He spins to face Rook.
“Tell me I’m wrong. I dare you.”
Rook—calm, deliberate Rook—stands slowly, brushes his hands on his thighs, and walks forward into the space between the two men like stepping onto sacred ground.
He looks at Sarge. Then at Jake.
And with the soft weight of truth wrapped in steel, he says:
“We’d follow either of you into fire.”
Pause.
“But it’d be easier to survive if the two people holding us together weren’t pretending they’re not bleeding.”
That lands.
Jake shifts his weight like he’s finally remembering his own body.
Sarge’s hands unclench where they’re folded—barely.
Gibbs’ mouth opens, but Kraye grabs him by the collar before he can make it worse.
Weller, sensing victory, throws his arms wide and begins backing away in smug, slow triumph.
“Mission complete. If I die mysteriously in my bunk tonight, tell my story. Put hero in the report.”
Jake watches him go, then finally—finally—lets his gaze slide sideways.
Meets Sarge’s eyes full-on.
And for once?
Sarge lets himself be seen.
No mask. No shrug. Just him.
It’s quiet again, but it’s not the same.
Something just shifted.
And the whole squad feels it.
Scene Continuation: “Is This Real, Then?” | Extended
Setting: Squad quarters, 0032 hours. Post-mission hush. The air still smells like ozone and cordite and old sweat, but for the first time in weeks, there’s no static in it. Just silence. Sarge and Jake stand on either side of the ops table, the glow of the debrief slate long gone dark.
The room holds its breath around them.
The kind of quiet that doesn’t beg to be broken—it dares you to.
Jake’s arms are braced against the table now. Shoulders loose in that dangerous, exhausted way. There’s still dust in his hair from the field, and he hasn’t unstrapped his sidearm.
Sarge hasn’t moved since Weller left. Feet planted. Hands loose. Watching Jake like he’s waiting for a second impact.
The weight between them crackles.
Then—
Jake laughs.
It bursts out of him like it’s been trapped, sharp-edged and halfway between relief and madness. He tips his head back and lets it come, dragging a hand through his hair like he needs to feel something break loose.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, still grinning like he can’t quite stop. “We’ve become those guys.”
Sarge exhales—and it starts in his chest, a quiet quake of his shoulders.
His lips twitch.
Then the sound rolls up from somewhere deep and worn and unfamiliar—an actual laugh, low and surprised, like it caught him off-guard.
They both dissolve.
Jake’s breath stutters, his face flushed as he leans harder into the edge of the table, wheezing out:
“I mean—Weller, of all people—Weller broke formation before we did.”
Sarge scrubs a hand over his face, still chuckling.
“He’s gonna write a goddamn ballad, isn’t he?”
Jake groans.
“Don’t give him ideas.”
Their laughter dies slow, tapering into the kind of silence that feels earned.
A softer silence.
Then Jake speaks again, the shift so gentle it lands like a whisper:
“Is this real, then?”
His voice is quiet, almost sheepish—but not scared.
Sarge lifts his head.
The smile fades from his mouth, but something warmer stays behind in his eyes. Something steady.
“Yeah,” he says. Calm. Certain. “It’s real.”
Jake watches him.
His jaw ticks. His hands flex. You can see the battlefield behind his eyes—every command chain, every letdown, every ghost in his file.
“You meant it,” he says. Not quite a question. “The promise.”
Sarge steps forward.
One pace. No hesitation. The kind of step that says this won’t break.
“I don’t make promises I don’t plan to keep.”
Jake’s voice drops to a whisper.
“Then why’d you wait?”
Sarge meets his gaze.
“Because I didn’t want to take anything from you you’d later decide you never gave.”
That hits harder than any bullet.
Jake looks down. Quiet. Processing.
Something in him buckles—not like collapse, but like surrender.
He licks his lips. Breathes in.
Then he meets Sarge’s eyes again.
And says, low and clear:
“I want to give it.”
No posturing.
No rank.
Just truth.
And Sarge?
Sarge breathes in like the air just cleared. Like he’s been holding his breath since the first second Jake’s name hit his slate.
His reply is just a step closer. The touch of a hand, firm on Jake’s jaw.
No force. Just claim.
Just presence.
And when Jake leans into it?
They both know—
There’s no going back.
Scene Continuation: “Mine Has a Lock”
The tension in the room could shear steel.
Jake doesn’t look away.
Not this time.
Not after everything that’s been said—and everything they didn’t have to.
Sarge’s hands flex again at his sides, fingers curling and releasing like he’s fighting his own muscle memory. Like every instinct in him is screaming take, claim, move—but he doesn’t.
Because Sarge doesn’t take what isn’t offered.
So Jake offers.
Not with fanfare.
Not with a desperate kiss.
Just… a step. One step forward. Closing the air between them.
Now they’re close. Not touching. But close enough to share breath. Close enough that Jake feels the heat from Sarge’s chest, the storm behind his eyes.
His voice, when it comes, is deliberate. Threaded with gravity:
“My quarters.”
Sarge’s brow arches—barely. A signal. A check.
Jake doesn’t smile. But his next words are damn near dry:
“Mine’s the only officer room that actually locks.”
A beat.
Then—softer, like peeling armor from flesh:
“No one will walk in. No one will hear.”
The implication coils in the space between them like a live current.
Sarge’s jaw tightens. His stance doesn’t shift—but his focus sharpens like a blade being drawn. His eyes fix on Jake’s, dark with unspoken thought.
Jake holds.
And then adds—barely more than a breath:
“Just us. Just... real.”
That’s what tips it.
Not the seduction. Not the logistics.
The honesty.
Sarge breathes in through his nose. Steadies it. Then lets it out slow, like it’s been trapped in his chest since before Jake ever arrived.
He nods.
Not a yes. Not an order.
A vow.
Jake turns.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just measured.
Walks toward the hall, shoulders loose, movements sure. Doesn’t look back.
Doesn’t need to.
Because he knows—feels—the second Sarge follows.
Heavy boots. Steady steps. No hesitation.
Not because he’s chasing.
But because what’s being offered isn’t conquest—it’s belonging.
And Sarge?
He’s ready to accept it.
“No Take Backs”
Setting: Jake’s quarters. Spare. Stark. Private. The only place on base where the air doesn’t feel like it’s listening—or judging.
The walk down the hall is soundless.
Not a breath wasted on words.
Their boots fall in sync, but not by coordination—by intention. There’s no pretense, no false calm. Just heat barely banked and the ache of a choice already made.
Jake’s pulse isn’t racing.
It’s steady.
For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like bracing for impact. It feels like momentum. Like permission to stop carrying it all alone.
He stops at his door.
Keys in.
The panel clicks green.
He doesn’t rush.
Just turns, meets Sarge’s eyes with quiet gravity, and says:
“After you.”
Sarge hesitates—but only for a second.
A breath. A scan. A check of intention.
Then he steps inside.
The room is dim—lit by a low auxiliary lamp and nothing more. There are no pictures. No clutter. A bed made with brutal precision. A desk too clean. A gear rack that looks like it’s never known unpacking.
A space not lived in—just occupied.
Like the man who owns it never thought he’d have time to stay.
Sarge takes two steps in and does what instinct demands—tracks the exits, the lines of sight, the safest places to fall back if something goes wrong.
And then—he stops.
In the center of the room.
Still.
Jake steps in after, quiet as his shadow. Shuts the door.
Locks it.
The sound is small—but final.
Jake leans his back against the sealed door, shoulders relaxed, head tilted slightly, arms braced behind him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Sarge doesn’t turn around.
Not yet.
He’s still tracking the shift in pressure behind him—like a soldier learning a new kind of battlefield.
Jake’s voice, when it comes, is low. Steady. No war left in it.
Just need.
“I need to hear you say it.”
That gets a reaction.
Sarge’s spine straightens like a drawn wire.
Jake continues, his voice a fraction quieter:
“I’m not asking for orders. I don’t want protocol. I just need to know this won’t get erased in the morning.”
A beat.
Then another.
Sarge turns.
His expression is unreadable—but his eyes? Lit from within.
His voice is gravel-soft but grounded in absolute certainty.
“You think I’d follow you into a room like this if any part of me was still walking away?”
Jake doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.
His reply is quiet.
“People do it all the time.”
Sarge steps forward once. No rush. No sudden movement.
Just presence.
“Not me.”
Another step.
“Not with you.”
Jake nods. Barely.
Takes that truth. Holds it close.
Then—soft, almost a whisper:
“No take backs.”
Sarge walks closer.
Measured. Grounded. As if every step is a vow.
He stops when they’re just shy of contact. His voice is lower now—rough with want, but reverent.
“No regrets.”
Their eyes lock.
It’s not heat that hangs between them now—it’s trust. The kind that burns longer.
Jake’s voice shakes—but not from fear.
From finally, finally letting go.
“Then say it.”
Sarge doesn’t hesitate.
“I want you.”
One breath. One inch closer.
“Not the kiss.”
Another.
“Not the adrenaline.”
And now?
Their bodies are almost aligned. Shoulders to chest. Breath to breath.
“I want you, Jake.”
There’s a beat of silence so loud it eclipses the room.
Jake’s hands drop from the door.
Open.
Unarmed.
He steps into that final space, heart bared—not with desperation, but choice.
And then—softly, finally—
“Good.”
Scene: “Let Me See You”
Setting: Jake’s private quarters. The door is locked. Their eyes are open. Every touch is chosen. Nothing is rushed. Nothing is hidden.
The room is quiet in a way Jake’s never known quiet to be. Not sterile. Not numb. Just still—the kind of still that lets meaning rise to the surface.
He doesn’t reach like he’s unsure.
He steps forward with intent.
Slides both hands up the plane of Sarge’s chest—slow, flat-palmed, the motion reverent, like he’s reading something carved in ancient stone. The heat under the fabric is real. So is the heartbeat. So is this.
“Let me,” Jake murmurs, his voice low. Grounded. Not pleading—just asking.
Sarge meets his eyes.
Doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t help.
Not because he’s withholding.
Because he’s offering.
Jake curls his fingers under the hem of Sarge’s shirt. Lifts.
The fabric resists slightly at the midpoint—cotton dragging over battle-worn muscle, the catch and slide of old scars raised beneath it. Skin touched by sun, wind, war. A history written in silences.
Jake has to step closer to free it from Sarge’s shoulders.
He does.
Lets the shirt fall.
Lets his hands settle lightly at Sarge’s ribs.
And then—
He looks.
Takes all of it in.
The width of his chest. The ripple of muscle beneath skin marked not by vanity, but by use. The scar near his clavicle. The uneven patch where shrapnel must have healed too slow.
Jake exhales—shaky. Awed.
“Jesus,” he whispers, almost to himself. “You’re carved like a punishment.”
Sarge chuckles. Low. Wrecked. A sound that tastes like rust and the edge of a grin.
“Wasn’t planning on modeling.”
Jake finally meets his eyes again, something electric simmering just beneath the surface.
“You should. I’d enlist again just to see you like this.”
That earns him a sound—half laugh, half surrendered groan.
Sarge reaches forward, palms sliding to bracket Jake’s hips. Steady hands. Warm thumbs tracing the sensitive dip above his beltline.
“Your turn.”
Jake lifts his chin like it’s a challenge.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Sarge doesn’t rip his shirt off. Doesn’t rush.
He undoes each button with deliberate precision.
Like it’s a countdown.
Like it means something.
And with every inch of skin revealed, his voice follows in fragments—close, grounded, low like thunder on the edge of a storm.
“You smell like ozone and gun oil.”
“You always this warm?”
“You were made for field command—but fuck, I’ve thought about you like this.”
Jake’s breath stutters. His mouth parts slightly.
But he doesn’t pull back.
The shirt slips from his shoulders. Soft thud as it hits the floor.
Sarge traces both palms up his bare chest—scarred, pale, marked by more than shrapnel. Jake’s a history too. And Sarge reads him the same way.
A breath. Then:
“I meant what I said.”
“I want you.”
“Not the rank.”
“Not the reputation.”
“Not the uniform.”
“You.”
Jake lets the air shake out of his lungs.
“Then keep going.”
They undress each other like it matters.
Like every inch of skin is a mission debrief they were never allowed to give. A field report on wanting.
“Your back—fuck, the way it moves when you breathe—”
“You’ve got a scar here. Did anyone ever kiss it?”
“…No?”
“They should have.”
By the time they’re down to boxers and tension, Jake is shaking with it.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Just the tremble of a man who’s been held together too long with willpower and field protocols—and is finally being touched like he’s more than a weapon.
Sarge lifts a hand to cup his jaw. Thumb brushing slow beneath Jake’s cheekbone.
Their foreheads touch.
The air thickens.
“No take backs, right?” Sarge murmurs.
Jake swallows hard. Nods.
“No regrets.”
Their lips meet not in collision—but in confirmation.
And when they sink into each other, it’s not for relief.
It’s for recognition.
Not the crash of war.
The homecoming after.
Scene: “All That Weight”
Jake’s back hits the mattress like it was always meant for this.
The impact isn’t rough—it’s grounding. The kind of landing that says stay. The kind that feels like the end of a long march through hell.
The lighting is low, the corners of the room blurred and forgettable, because the only thing that matters is the presence above him.
Sarge.
One knee already between Jake’s thighs. Hands planted on either side of his head. His weight not yet committed. His heat already overwhelming.
Not pinning. Not caging.
Just… there.
That body—all scarred bulk and war-forged density—casts a shadow that swallows the ceiling. The world narrows to breath, muscle, and the faint scent of copper and ozone still clinging from the field.
Jake’s breath catches.
Not in fear.
In relief.
Because he’s spent his whole life carrying—squads on his back, ghosts in his chest, protocol in his blood. Always braced. Always ready.
But now?
Sarge is on top of him.
And he’s not being crushed.
He’s being held.
Surrounded.
Kept.
Sarge doesn’t move. Doesn’t close the distance. He just waits. Like some last thread of restraint is holding him in check. Like Jake’s the trigger. The command. The permission.
Jake can feel that pause.
Can feel the tension in those arms—the way Sarge is holding himself up, his forearms trembling slightly from the effort.
It hits Jake like a damn revelation.
He’s not just being given weight.
He’s being offered control.
Jake swallows. Then—just to break the tension, just to breathe through the crackle between them—he lets his lips curl into a dry, lopsided smirk.
“You gonna crush me?” Voice low. Rough-edged. Teasing like it’s a defense mechanism. A safety valve.
Sarge’s eyes flash. But his reply comes quiet. Grounded.
“Only if you want me to.”
Jake’s smile doesn’t break.
Instead, he lifts both arms—slow, deliberate—and stretches them up above his head until his wrists meet the headboard. A pose that’s not helpless, but open.
A gesture that says: I trust you to come closer.
“Then fucking do it.”
That’s all it takes.
Sarge lowers himself—slowly, deliberately—inch by glorious inch.
Broad chest aligning with Jake’s ribs. Thighs sliding into place around his hips. The thick, searing presence of his body pressing Jake down into the mattress.
And Jake?
Jake groans.
Low. Guttural. Unfiltered.
Because it’s so much. It’s everything. Heat. Weight. Skin. Contact. A man built like a weapon giving all of it—not to hurt, but to shelter.
“Fuck,” Jake hisses, arching slightly into it. “You’re heavy.”
Sarge dips his mouth to Jake’s jaw—just a ghost of heat and stubble.
“That a complaint?”
Jake tips his head back, exposing more skin. Grinding up into the cradle of Sarge’s hips.
“That’s a thank you.”
And that?
That’s when Sarge snaps.
His mouth crashes down on Jake’s—not vicious, but hungry. Tongue parting lips, teeth scraping at the corner of his mouth, a kiss that tastes like command and confession all at once.
Jake moans into it—helpless, responsive, alive. His whole body straining upward, caught under muscle, wrapped in breath, surrounded in a way that feels more like being chosen than consumed.
Sarge doesn’t ease up.
One hand shifts, sliding beneath Jake’s lower back. Lifting him just enough. Tilting the angle.
And then—
Contact.
Full. Blunt. Delicious.
Cocks grinding through fabric, caught between friction and fire. The kind of pressure that leaves teeth gritted and eyes fluttering shut just to feel it.
Jake’s head tips back against the pillow.
Breathless. Desperate.
“Don’t you dare let up.”
And Sarge—voice rough against the curve of Jake’s throat—growls back:
“I don’t plan to.”
Scene Continuation: “That’s... Big.”
The kiss wrecks them both—wrecks everything.
They break apart gasping, lips swollen, breath ragged, the taste of each other still fresh and filthy in the back of their throats.
Jake’s thighs are locked tight around Sarge’s hips, heels digging in like his body doesn’t know how to let go now that it has. His fingers are fisted in Sarge’s shoulders—gripping muscle like it’s a lifeline, or maybe a leash.
But then—
Sarge pulls back. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at him.
And he starts moving.
Lower.
His mouth brushes Jake’s jaw, then his throat, leaving heat and shivers in its wake. His palms trail down Jake’s sides—steady, claiming strokes that map every inch of bare skin like it's terrain he already owns. And then he kneels back, slow and sure, his hands dragging down to rest at Jake’s hips.
Jake props himself up on his elbows, chest heaving.
Watches.
Sarge’s gaze is locked on his waistband, his fingers curling into the elastic edge of Jake’s briefs with reverence—not impatience. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
And then—
He pulls.
One slow, deliberate motion.
The cotton gives way, inch by inch, and Jake hisses through his teeth as his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already weeping at the tip. The air feels cold against it, but Sarge’s eyes?
Heat incarnate.
He makes a sound—low in his throat, not quite a groan, not quite a curse. A sound like possession.
“Fucking beautiful.”
Jake means to tell him to shut up.
Really, he does.
But then Sarge stands, and any words Jake might’ve had die in his throat.
Sarge peels off what’s left of his gear.
The briefs.
They ride low over his hips—his abs tight, sweat-sheened. They're clinging to the dip of his v-line, tension straining the fabric.
He hooks his thumbs into them.
And pulls.
Jake stares.
Time stops.
Then his breath leaves in a full-bodied gasp.
“Oh fuck.”
It’s not even a full sentence. It’s a reaction. Instinct.
Sarge pauses. One brow lifting, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Jake doesn’t even blink.
He just says it again, softer—like a whispered prayer.
“Fuck me…”
His voice hitches. There’s no shame in it.
No joke.
Just raw, open awe.
His voice cracks slightly as he adds:
“I didn’t know I was a size queen. But apparently. Yeah. Huh. There it is.”
Sarge doesn’t laugh.
Not exactly.
But that rare, devastating grin spreads across his face—slow and wide and dangerous.
Predator calm.
He steps forward again, cock bobbing heavy and hard with every stride—too much, in the best way. The kind of thick that makes Jake’s mouth go dry, his brain stutter like a weapon misfiring.
Sarge stops at the edge of the bed.
Jake’s eyes trail up from where he’s hung—all the way back to his face, like he’s trying to recalculate every plan he’s ever made in the face of new intel. Jake stares like it’s a challenge and a benediction all at once.
“You okay?” Sarge asks, teasing, but there’s something real under it. Something careful. Checking.
Jake nods. Slowly. Then faster. Bites his lip.
“Just…” he exhales, “gimme a sec to emotionally prepare for my death.”
Sarge chuckles—low and wrecked—and then leans down, one hand bracing beside Jake’s ribs on the mattress, the other curling under Jake’s knee and lifting it until he’s open, spread.
Exposed.
His voice is a promise when it comes:
“You’ll feel every inch of it. Slow. Deep. Until you’re begging me not to stop.”
Jake’s entire body shudders.
His lips part around a helpless noise—half breath, half moan. His pupils blow wide, his pulse visible at his throat.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s… that’s what I want.”
No bravado.
No defense.
Just truth.
And Sarge—Sarge bends down again.
Cups Jake’s jaw in one hand.
And kisses him.
Slow. Deep. Sure.
Like it’s not the beginning of something casual.
Like it’s the beginning of everything.
Scene: “I Want This to Happen Again”
The room feels thick with heat.
Not just the warmth of bodies or friction of skin on sheets—but the kind of intimacy that makes silence feel holy. Their clothes are long gone, stripped in pieces and pauses, not in haste but in purpose. They’d seen each other. Touched. Worshipped.
And now?
Sarge kneels between Jake’s thighs like a man on sacred ground.
Not looming.
Not demanding.
Offering.
His hands smooth down Jake’s sides again—palms wide, fingers splayed, moving like he’s memorizing the man beneath him. The way Jake’s ribs lift with each breath. The way his stomach trembles under anticipation. The way he doesn’t flinch—not from this.
Jake shifts under the touch, hips twitching up. Not in impatience, but surrender.
Sarge just raises an eyebrow, presses two fingers lightly to Jake’s sternum to still him.
“You’re not in a rush, are you?”
Jake lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh—could almost hide how wrecked he already is.
“Not dying.”
Sarge smiles at that. Just a flicker. A ghost of heat and affection both.
“Exactly.” His hands trace lower, fingertips skating the edges of Jake’s pelvis like compass points. “And I want this to happen again.”
Jake’s eyes snap up.
That word. Again.
It hits harder than any groan, harder than any touch. His chest goes still—then expands like breath finally made it all the way in.
Because that? That wasn’t just a promise of tonight.
That was a future.
He watches Sarge—doesn’t blink—while the man reaches to the bedside drawer, retrieves the lube tucked there like it knew this night was coming. Like Jake had held onto the hope of it without realizing he had.
Slick coats Sarge’s fingers. Glinting in low light. And then—
He’s between Jake’s thighs again.
Jake parts them willingly, thighs falling open, knees soft at the sides of Sarge’s ribs. The air is cool between them. His cock lies heavy against his stomach, already flushed, leaking, ignored.
And then—
The first touch.
A whisper-soft slide of slick fingers between his cheeks.
Not pressing.
Not pushing.
Just exploring.
Circling.
Mapping.
Jake shudders.
Eyes fluttering shut.
“Don’t tease.”
“Not teasing.” Sarge’s voice is low. Intent. Intimate. His finger circles again, pressing in just a breath deeper. “I’m learning you.”
The first push is so slow it doesn’t feel like intrusion—it feels like acceptance.
Jake gasps. His knees twitch. His body wants to close—wants to protect—but then—
Sarge’s palm flattens on his thigh. Holds him open.
“You’re okay,” he says. Steady. “I’ve got you.”
Jake nods.
Barely.
Eyes dark and glassy and willing.
“More.”
Sarge obliges.
Second finger joins the first, and the stretch is real now—not pain, but pressure. Presence. Jake groans—deep and guttural—as his body yields, breath hissing through clenched teeth.
“You’re tight,” Sarge murmurs. His breath is audible now, hitched. “But fuck, you’re taking me so well.”
Jake moans. Head falling back.
His hands are fisting the sheets, not from pain—but from want.
Sarge moves his fingers in rhythm—twisting, spreading. Learning. Pressing deep—then deeper—until he curls them just right.
Jake bucks off the bed with a sound torn straight from his soul.
“There—fuck, there, right there—”
Sarge grins—sharp, hungry—and leans in to press a kiss to Jake’s inner thigh.
“I know,” he breathes. “I’ve got you.”
Three fingers now.
Deep.
Stretching.
Jake is panting. Flushed. Wrecked.
His cock untouched but already twitching against his belly, the pre-come pooling.
“You feel ready?” Sarge asks, voice nearly hoarse with restraint.
Jake opens his eyes—barely.
But the heat in them is incandescent.
“I’ve never been this ready in my fucking life.”
Sarge leans forward.
Kisses him.
Once.
Gentle.
Grounding.
And then—slowly—he withdraws his fingers.
Jake whimpers.
The emptiness is unbearable.
But it only lasts a second.
Because then—
Sarge positions himself.
One hand curls under Jake’s thigh, lifting it slightly.
The other guides his cock forward—thick, slicked, intentional.
“Breathe.”
Jake does.
And the head of Sarge’s cock presses in.
Not fast.
Not hard.
Just—deep.
Jake’s body arches at the stretch. His hands claw at the sheets.
“Holy fuck—”
Sarge pauses. Midway. A breathless stall.
“You want me to stop?”
Jake glares.
Flushed. Lips bitten red. Eyes burning.
“If you fucking dare, I’ll demote you in bed.”
Sarge laughs. Real. Rough. A noise that shakes his whole chest.
And then—
He sinks in.
All the way.
Jake screams.
Not in pain.
But in relief.
The stretch is overwhelming. Full. Heavy. Perfect.
Sarge stills.
Lets Jake feel it. Adjust. Own it.
Jake’s hands rise—wrap around Sarge’s shoulders.
And when he says it, it’s a plea and a command all in one.
“Move.”
And Sarge does.
Slow.
Deep.
Devotional.
Scene: “Beg Me Right”
Setting: Jake’s quarters. The door is locked. The lights are low. Jake’s body is open and full, taken—but not given. Not yet. Because Sarge isn’t thrusting. He’s holding.
Jake’s fists are cramped tight in the sheets, muscles locked, his knuckles pale from the grip. His body is trembling under the strain—not from pain, but from the agony of stillness.
Sarge is deep inside him—hot, thick, perfect—and immobile. Like a buried weapon waiting to be unsheathed. His body blankets Jake’s—one forearm braced above his head, the other hand splayed across Jake’s abdomen, firm and possessive.
That hand holds him flat. Holds him present.
Jake tries to move—just a shift, a roll of his hips, something to ignite—but Sarge’s weight keeps him locked in place.
“You’re killing me,” Jake breathes, voice wrecked and wild.
Sarge leans in, mouth at his ear, voice soft like a god whispering blasphemy.
“You’re not dying,” he says. “You’re being claimed.”
Jake’s breath shudders out of him, chest arching in response—like the words alone could pull him under.
And then—an inch.
Sarge pulls out—just that much—then sinks back in, slow, deliberate, like a promise being etched into skin.
Jake whimpers. His thighs tremble, his hole clenching greedily around the retreat and return.
“Fuck—” Jake gasps. “You feel—Jesus, you feel so fucking good—”
Sarge groans quietly, the sound rumbling through both their chests as he noses along Jake’s jaw.
“I know.”
Another thrust. Deeper now—but still slow. Measured. Teasing. Merciless.
Jake tries to lift his hips. Tries to meet the motion with more—but Sarge’s hand presses him down harder, pinning his core to the mattress like an order.
“You take me like you were made for it,” Sarge growls, low and reverent. “You’re gripping me like you’ll never let me go.”
Jake gasps, whole body tensing at the words. He wants to speak—but all that comes out is a ragged, “Please.”
Still, Sarge doesn't give him what he wants.
Instead, he changes tactics—rocks into him in these small, devastating rolls of his hips. No full thrusts. Just that precise, maddening grind against Jake’s prostate—deep, targeted, unstoppable.
Jake arches—legs shaking, back bowing—his cock untouched and throbbing, leaking onto his belly.
He tries to fuck up into it.
Sarge holds him down.
“No.”
“You take what I give you.”
“You asked for this.”
Jake bites his bottom lip so hard he tastes blood. His eyes tear up from the strain—pleasure boiling under the surface like pressure building in a locked chamber.
“I need it, please—”
Sarge doesn’t answer.
He stops moving.
Jake lets out a broken sound—half sob, half growl—his body clenching down around Sarge’s cock like it could beg without words.
And maybe it does.
But Sarge leans in again, forehead pressed to Jake’s, voice close and dangerous in its calm.
“Tell me.”
Jake blinks through sweat. Through desperation.
“Tell me what you want.”
Jake’s chest rises in sharp, shallow breaths. He blinks up, dazed, wrecked, glassy-eyed.
“You. More. All of it.”
Sarge doesn’t move.
“Not good enough.”
The world narrows to the pressure. The heat. The not-moving.
Jake closes his eyes. Swallows hard.
Then opens them again—bare, pleading.
“Please, Sarge.”
Sarge’s hand slides up, cups his face with shocking gentleness.
Jake’s lips part under the touch—desire twisting into something deeper, needier.
“Please wreck me,” Jake whispers.
It’s not just lust in his voice.
It’s trust.
It’s surrender.
Sarge’s expression shifts. His eyes darken. He kisses Jake hard, swallowing the plea like he’s sealing a vow.
Then he pulls back—and grins.
“There it is.”
And then—he starts to move.
Not a tease.
Not a grind.
But fucking.
Deep, relentless thrusts that slam into Jake’s spot again and again, every one harder than the last. The bed creaks. The headboard thuds. Jake screams—body convulsing, fingers scrabbling for purchase.
“So fucking tight—”
“Taking all of me—”
“You’re mine now.”
“Gonna mark you inside so deep you’ll taste it when you speak my name.”
Jake screams his name as his orgasm crashes through him—untouched, overloaded, violent in its intensity. His whole body bows, locked tight, and then shatters around it.
Sarge doesn’t stop.
He fucks him through it, staying buried, keeping Jake pinned even as his body writhes and spasms.
Jake’s voice is gone—just gasps now, lips parted, face drenched.
And Sarge?
He’s still inside him.
Still grinding just enough to make Jake twitch—wrecked and oversensitive.
He leans in.
Kisses Jake’s temple.
“That’s it, Jake.”
Whispers:
“Show me how much you want it.”
And Jake?
Jake does.
With every sob.
With every moan.
With every shake of his hips that says: again. again. again.
Scene: “I’m Not Done Wrecking You Yet”
Jake is wrecked.
Laid out flat, legs spread and trembling, one arm flung above his head like it forgot how to fold. His body glistens—sweat cooling in streaks down his chest, his thighs, the hollow of his throat. His breath comes in short, wrecked stutters. His cock lies soft and spent across his belly, a smear of his own orgasm drying along taut, heaving skin.
But none of that matters.
Because Sarge is still inside him.
Still hard. Still thick. Still pressing at the deepest part of him like the first time never ended—like they’re still building toward something even bigger.
Jake moans—low, involuntary—his hole fluttering around that relentless stretch, the steady pulse of Sarge’s cock a brand in his core.
He blinks open bleary eyes.
And that’s when he sees it.
The grin.
Slow. Lethal. Ferocious in its satisfaction. The kind of grin a man wears when he’s won—and isn’t finished taking his prize.
Jake’s stomach flips.
“Oh no,” he croaks.
Sarge plants both forearms on the bed beside Jake’s head, sinking his weight just enough to cage him in. Not crushing. Not restraining.
Just inescapable.
His mouth finds Jake’s ear, breath hot and ragged.
“I’m not done wrecking you yet.”
Jake makes a sound—half laugh, half sob. His legs twitch as if they might close, might flee—but they don’t. They can’t. Sarge shifts just enough to pin them wide again, hips rolling forward an inch.
Jake jerks like he’s been struck by lightning.
“Sarge, I—I can’t—fuck, I just came—”
“I know.”
Sarge’s voice is all gravel and glee.
“That’s why you’re perfect. That’s why I have to keep going.”
He pulls out—just a little. The drag is unbearable.
Then pushes back in.
Jake shrieks into the crook of his elbow, sound muffled, body seizing in overstimulated bliss.
“Too much—fuck, it’s too—”
Sarge mouths at the sweat-slick curve of Jake’s throat. Licks the pulse beating frantically just beneath the skin.
“You said wreck you.”
Another thrust—deeper. Controlled. Torturously slow.
Jake’s hands scrabble against the sheets like he might claw his way out of sensation—but Sarge’s arms are there. Anchoring him. Letting him drown in it.
“You didn’t say once.”
Sarge’s voice is almost gentle. Almost reverent.
Then he lifts Jake’s hips just slightly—changes the angle.
Finds that spot again.
And drives in.
Jake screams—pure sound, broken open, full-body surrender. His legs kick once, involuntarily. His toes curl. His jaw goes slack.
“So I’m gonna keep going…”
Another thrust—perfect, devastating.
“…until you forget who you were before this.”
Jake sobs out a moan that fractures into a laugh—a cursed, gasping, near-hysterical laugh.
“You’re fucking evil—”
Sarge kisses his jaw. His cheek. His mouth.
Soft.
Tender.
“You love it.”
Jake’s hands finally find him—grip at his back, his shoulders, anything solid enough to hold onto.
His body shudders—slick and ruined and starving for more even as it trembles at the edge of too much.
And yeah.
He does.
He loves it.
Loves every inch.
Every thrust.
Every word.
Every time Sarge refuses to stop.
Because the wreckage?
Is exactly what he asked for.
And Sarge? Sarge never leaves a mission incomplete.
Scene Continuation: “This Way. Deeper.”
Jake’s still shaking.
Sweat clings in glowing rivulets along his chest, down his spine, into the curve of his hips—gleaming where Sarge had licked him raw. His thighs twitch with aftershocks. His breath scrapes out of him ragged, hoarse, like every exhale might take something with it he can’t get back.
Sarge slows.
Not in defeat—but in awareness. His mouth brushes down Jake’s jaw, then lower—along the seam of his throat, lips parting against the pulse that still thunders just beneath the skin.
And his voice? It's soft. Honest.
“Tell me how you want me to finish.”
Jake gasps.
Not from surprise. From the way the question is asked—offered, not taken. No command. No assumption.
Just—trust.
And somehow, that breaks him more than any thrust.
He closes his eyes for a heartbeat. Regathers. Opens them again and meets Sarge’s gaze.
“Pull out.”
Sarge stills.
His fingers tighten slightly in the sheets, like the request is a test. But then—he blinks once. Steady.
“You sure?”
Jake nods.
His voice is frayed velvet. Wrecked, but anchored.
“Just for a second.”
Sarge shifts his weight. Moves with infinite care. The slow draw-back of his cock feels endless—each inch dragging free from Jake’s heat with wet friction, every nerve ending screaming at the stretch and loss.
And then—
Pop.
The thick head slides past Jake’s rim, leaving him suddenly, achingly empty.
Jake moans—low, broken. His body clenches down hard, as if to hold onto the ghost of what was just there.
“Fuck…” he breathes, hips twitching. “Still feel you.”
Sarge makes a sound then—a sound no man should be able to make and still remain human. A low, strangled growl that seems to tear through his chest and curl around the edges of control.
Jake moves before he can think.
Rolls to his side. To his knees. To his elbows and forearms—presenting.
He arches his back, spreads wide, shoulders dipped, ass high, cheeks parted just enough to show that slick, open heat—still pulsing.
The pillow catches his cheek.
His voice is a breathless whisper. A sin whispered at an altar.
“This way.”
He turns his head. Looks back.
His eyes burn in the low light—molten, unguarded.
“Deeper.”
And then—softer. The final nail in Sarge’s sanity:
“Finish in me.”
Sarge’s breath leaves his lungs like he’s been hit. Hard.
He kneels behind Jake like a man revering holy ground.
One hand traces reverent paths down Jake’s spine. The other grips his hip—fingers splayed wide, possessive, shaking.
“You want it that deep?”
Jake doesn’t flinch.
He leans into it.
“I want to feel it in my throat.”
That’s it.
That shatters him.
Sarge fumbles for alignment only once—cock so hard it’s twitching—then presses the head to Jake’s entrance, where slick still glistens, welcoming.
One hand braces on Jake’s lower back.
The other fists at the base of his own shaft.
And then—he thrusts in.
Slow. Unforgiving. Complete.
Jake’s mouth falls open, a silent scream torn from his ribs. His arms collapse under him, and he buries his face in the pillow—moaning, keening, wrecked beyond language.
Sarge buries himself to the hilt.
And Jake takes it.
All of it.
“Fuck—yes—yes—deeper—”
Sarge pulls back. Drives in again.
And again.
Each thrust angled.
Perfect.
“I’ve got you.” His voice is wrecked now. Cracked with restraint. “I’m gonna fill you so deep it leaks down your thighs tomorrow.”
Jake loses it.
His whole body shudders. One arm claws for the sheets, the other reaches back—grabs Sarge’s thigh in desperation.
“Do it—fuck—please—finish in me—”
Sarge’s rhythm breaks.
He pants. Growls. His grip on Jake’s hips turns bruising.
And then—he slams in, once more.
And comes.
Hard.
Full-body, soul-deep, claiming.
Pulse after pulse of thick heat floods Jake’s core—so much Jake gasps at the weight of it, the spread, the sensation of being filled so completely it leaves him trembling again.
Sarge doesn’t pull out.
He just leans forward.
Wraps both arms around Jake’s chest from behind and holds him there—connected, sealed, shaking together.
Jake can barely breathe. Barely think.
He moans, dazed:
“Fuck me… you’re still hard—”
Sarge laughs. Low. Rough. Presses a kiss to Jake’s neck, then his shoulder.
“Told you.”
Another soft thrust. Still thick. Still deep.
“I’m not done wrecking you.”
Jake groans into the pillow.
And smiles.
Scene: “Stay”
Sarge is still inside him when the aftershocks fade.
Jake doesn’t know where he ends and Sarge begins.
He’s boneless, folded half-under the weight of the man still holding him open—flesh tacky with sweat, lips parted on breathless, hiccuping gasps. Every inch of his body hums, overstimulated and drenched in warmth that feels less like heat and more like devotion.
A full-body shiver rolls through him—not pain. Not fear.
Just that unbearable, perfect tenderness that comes after being taken apart and held together in the same heartbeat.
Sarge leans forward.
Presses a kiss to the curve of Jake’s spine. Slow. Grounding.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
Jake nods. Or tries to. His muscles don’t quite respond, but Sarge reads it anyway.
Then—slowly, like the moment deserves reverence—Sarge pulls out.
Jake groans.
The drag of it, the dull, aching stretch, the slip of warmth already starting to trail down the backs of his thighs—it makes him twitch and moan, even as he sighs into it.
But Sarge is already moving.
One hand remains on his hip—anchoring him. The other reaches for the towel left by the bed.
He doesn’t speak at first. Just holds Jake steady, then presses the fabric gently between his thighs, catching the spill.
And then—
“Shower?”
Jake hums. Barely conscious.
Still on all fours, forehead against his forearm, smiling like a man wrecked into contentment.
Then: “Please.”
Sarge helps him up.
Jake’s legs nearly give, but Sarge catches him—laughing low under his breath, arms bracketing him as they shuffle together toward the en suite. Jake leans on him shamelessly, limp with pleasure, swaying like he’s drunk on it.
Maybe he is.
The water comes on warm. Steam curls up to meet them.
And they step in together.
Jake leans into Sarge immediately, forehead tucked into the curve of his shoulder as the spray kisses their skin. The sensation is almost too much—but it grounds him. The heat, the scent, the quiet pulse of the water hitting tile.
Sarge’s arms slide around him. Hold steady.
Jake’s body is still loose-limbed, open, sore—claimed.
But he feels safe.
Sated.
Sarge reaches for the soap. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t joke.
Just—starts washing him.
His hands are careful. Tender. Reverent.
He lathers slowly down Jake’s chest, his stomach, down his arms in long, deliberate strokes—not for hygiene, not even for comfort. For the ritual of it. For the closeness.
Jake exhales against his skin.
Then leans back into the tile when Sarge sinks lower—guiding the soap along his inner thighs, between them, cleaning him with unbearable gentleness.
When he’s done, Sarge kisses his hipbone.
Soft. Grateful.
Then rises.
They stand in the steam for a while, side by side—shoulders touching, silence thick with everything they don’t need to say.
Jake’s fingers twitch once. Then curl around Sarge’s wrist. Light. Just to anchor.
And then—quietly, small—
“This wasn’t just sex.”
Sarge doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t grin.
He meets Jake’s eyes.
“No,” he says. Low and steady. “It wasn’t.”
Jake swallows.
His voice is hoarse.
“Good.”
Sarge lifts his hand—brushes his knuckles down Jake’s cheek, across the wet jawline, then tilts his chin just enough to look straight at him.
“I’ll still be here in the morning.”
Jake’s breath catches.
Something in his eyes flickers—uncertain, stunned.
Then settles.
He nods.
Eyes shining.
“Okay.”
And for the first time in longer than he can remember—
Jake believes it.
Back in the Room...
Jake drops onto the edge of the bed, towel slung low on his hips, his skin still warm from the shower and pink with afterglow.
His body hums, not just from exertion—but from the quiet echo of being held open, then cared for. His legs still tremble faintly, not from weakness, but from too much feeling.
He watches in silence as Sarge moves around the room with that same practiced ease he carries in the field—efficient, precise, focused.
But this time?
It’s not combat.
It’s care.
Sarge strips the linens without prompting—ripping the sheets free, balling them in one arm, walking them over to the chute without comment. He doesn’t look at Jake. Doesn’t ask what he needs.
Because he already knows.
He’s already pulling fresh linens from the overhead locker—folded with crisp military corners but smelling faintly of clean cotton and sunlit silence.
Jake doesn't move. He just watches.
It’s not about the sheets.
It’s the way Sarge folds the corners tight. The way he flicks out the new blanket and lets it settle like he’s building a space for them. Not just for sleep—for after.
Jake’s breath catches.
Sarge finishes, then pauses.
Stands there across the room, towel now loose and low, chest rising with a slow inhale as he turns back toward Jake.
Their eyes meet.
Jake’s voice is soft. Threadbare.
“Stay.”
He says it like it’s nothing.
Like it’s everything.
Sarge doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t hesitate.
“Wasn’t planning to leave.”
And just like that—he lets the towel fall.
Steps forward.
Jake doesn’t breathe.
Sarge slides into the bed behind him, the mattress dipping with his weight, and then—
He wraps around Jake like it’s instinct.
One arm curls across Jake’s middle, hand splayed against the flat of his stomach. The other threads beneath Jake’s neck, pulling him flush back into a wall of heat and muscle. His chest rises slow and even against Jake’s spine. Their legs tangle without needing adjustment.
It’s not possessive.
It’s not even protection.
It’s presence.
Jake exhales—slow, shaky.
Then melts.
His hand finds Sarge’s and pulls it tighter to his stomach. His eyelids flutter, mouth parting on a small, involuntary sound—more sigh than speech.
And Sarge?
He leans in. Presses a kiss—soft, reverent—to the nape of Jake’s neck.
Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t need to.
There’s no morning-after deflection.
No banter.
No withdrawal.
Just breathing.
Just home.
And Jake—wrecked, open, quietly stunned—lets his eyes fall shut.
And doesn’t even try to sleep alone.
Absolutely—here’s the expanded version of “The Breakfast Reckoning”, drawing out the tension, squad reactions, and the perfect blend of chaos and affection.
Scene: “The Breakfast Reckoning”
The mess hall is too quiet.
Not empty. Just… unnaturally subdued.
There’s the clink of metal on enamel, the scrape of chairs. A low murmur of whispers that dies every time the door creaks. Every soldier is present, every tray half-eaten.
But no one is talking.
Not about anything else.
Weller’s nursing his coffee like it’s a shield charm. His eyes never leave the entrance. He doesn’t blink.
Kray’s stabbing his scrambled eggs with unsettling precision, like maybe if he dissects them hard enough, he’ll exorcise the memory of whatever he heard last night through the vents.
Even Gibbs—usually loudest at breakfast—is paused mid-chew. Cheeks full. Eyes wide.
No one moves.
And then—
The door opens.
The silence implodes with the weight of one shared breath.
Jake walks in first.
Hair damp. Collar open at the neck. Fresh uniform, but not crisp—not parade ready.
There’s a flush across his throat that might be sun, might be steam. Might be the aftermath of being pinned down and filled until sunrise.
Sarge follows.
His shirt is wrinkled at the hem. His gait? Just a little off-kilter. Like a man who didn’t get as much sleep as he should’ve—and didn’t give a single damn.
They don’t hold hands.
They don’t need to.
They enter together.
From the officer’s quarters direction.
The room explodes.
“AYYYYYYEEE!”
“LET’S FUCKING GO.”
“HE LIVES! HE BREATHES! HE—OH MY GOD, LOOK AT JAKE’S NECK.”
Weller slaps the table, hooting like he just won a World Cup.
Gibbs stands up and bows.
“Permission to toast the battlefield victory, sir.”
Sarge groans. “Oh shut the hell up.”
Jake?
Jake doesn’t flinch.
He just grabs a tray with the patience of a man used to chaos and starts ladling eggs onto his plate.
“You all done?” he asks, not even looking up.
But then—
Sarge stops short.
Across the table—front and center, like an altar—sits a neatly folded stack of credits. Not tucked away. Not subtle.
Bold. Brazen.
Like an offering to the gods of sexual tension finally resolved.
On top?
A laminated name card.
Rook.
Winner: Rook.
Sarge stares.
Jake blinks once. Then twice. Then starts laughing silently, shoulders shaking as he pours coffee like nothing is happening.
Sarge narrows his eyes. “Wait. You won?”
Rook glances up from his oatmeal. He looks almost innocent.
Almost.
“I meant what I said last night.” He lifts his spoon. Shrugs. “But I also hedged my bet.”
Weller lets out a strangled cough-laugh-snort, which might be toast-related trauma or pure emotion. He slumps over, head thunking dramatically into his tray.
Gibbs howls. “He played both sides! Holy shit—this is why Rook runs our blackmail logistics.”
Jake sips his coffee like it’s the finest vindication in the world.
Sarge just—stares. Like he’s trying to process the exact moment he lost control of this squad.
“You played us.”
Rook bows his head. Like a gentleman. Like a thief king.
“Statistically, sir, the tension was unsustainable.”
Silence.
Then Jake—grinning—leans in and murmurs just loud enough:
“My quarters are still locked.”
Sarge actually groans. Loudly.
The squad loses it.
“GET A ROOM.”
“THEY DID.”
“BRO I CAN NEVER UNHEAR IT—”
“WORTH IT.”
“ROOK BUY US A ROUND.”
Sarge rakes a hand down his face.
Jake just takes a bite of toast. Smirks.
“Told you we should’ve left through the back.”
“You did leave through the back.” Gibbs wheezes.
Sarge turns red.
Jake doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of breakfast.
Absolutely—here’s an expanded version of the “Not Hiding” scene, drawing out the tension, emotional clarity, and the quiet weight of being seen and choosing it anyway.
Scene: “Not Hiding”
The squad filters out in twos and threes.
Breakfast over. Teasing quota hit. Emotional trauma delicately masked as camaraderie? Handled.
Weller and Kray are still arguing over whether Rook cheated with insider intel.
Gibbs leaves humming something that sounds suspiciously like a wedding march.
The door finally swings shut behind the last pair.
And then it’s just them.
Sarge lingers by the table, finishing his coffee one slow sip at a time. He grabs the half-piece of toast left on Jake’s plate—because Jake always leaves the last half—and eats it like it’s a ritual, something familiar anchoring him.
Jake leans in the hallway, one shoulder braced against the cool metal wall, watching.
Not impatient.
Just soft-eyed. Amused. Like every time he sees Sarge steal that leftover toast, he lets it happen because—well. He likes it.
When Sarge finally joins him, they fall into step automatically.
No words at first.
Just that easy rhythm of bodies that fit, shoulders brushing with each stride, neither pulling ahead. Just moving together.
They reach the lift junction when Jake glances sideways, voice low but laced with warmth.
“You alright?”
Sarge exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a groan.
“I’ve been through firefights with less heat.”
Jake grins. Can’t help it.
But then his voice shifts—just a little. Not teasing anymore. More open. Cautious.
“We can keep it quiet. If you want.”
They stop walking.
Just like that.
Jake turns to face him. Waiting.
And Sarge—he doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t fidget. His gaze is steady. Wrecking.
“I don’t want to hide.”
Jake blinks. Just once.
Because he knows what that means. From a man like Sarge? That’s not a casual decision. That’s a line in the sand. A flag planted.
Sarge shrugs—slow, deliberate, almost casual. But his tone is anything but.
“They know. They’re still following us. Still trust us.” He lets that hang in the air for a second before adding, softer:
“That’s what matters.”
Jake swallows.
His mouth curves into something crooked and fond.
“You like that they know.”
Sarge doesn’t deny it.
Doesn’t have to.
He just steps in close—closer than they’ve stood in daylight, in uniform, in full view.
And when he speaks, it’s low and gravel-warm, pitched for Jake and Jake alone:
“I like that they know you’re mine.”
Jake exhales.
Like he’s been holding that breath since last night. Since before last night. Maybe for months. Maybe longer.
He doesn’t speak.
Just closes the last inch between them and leans their foreheads together, skin-to-skin, breath mingling in the hush of an empty corridor.
No one’s watching this time.
But it wouldn’t matter if they were.
Because this—this moment, this choice—isn’t about secrecy.
It’s about truth.
And they’re not hiding anymore.