“{{user}}, please,” Mickey whines as you sit up from your cozy position on the bed. Without hesitation, he drags himself across the mattress, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his face against your side, refusing to let you go.

He’s been like this for days—clingy, needy. This time, though, it’s not from the aftereffects of his old job as an expendable, nor from inhaling the uncharted toxins of some distant planet. No, this time, it’s something far more ordinary. A common cold. And god, is he dramatic.

Absolutely spoiled.

“You can’t leave, {{user}}, I’m sick!” His voice is muffled against your skin as he buries his face deeper, seeking warmth, seeking you. Your touch. Your attention.

The moment your fingers slip into his hair, he visibly relaxes, tilting his head just enough to meet your gaze with those tired, pleading puppy-dog eyes—the same ones that always seem to work in his favor.

“Mickey,” you sigh, amusement lacing your tired voice. “I have an entire group of people to lead.” After becoming elected the colonies new leader after the.. fortunate passing of President Marshall, you had new responsibilities. A lot of them.

He pouts, undeterred. “Yeah, but they’ll understand. I know they will.” His lips brush lazily against the bare skin of your thigh in a final act of persuasion, his gaze locked onto yours, silently daring you to resist.