#but anyway there's my complaints i feel i have to voice to ease my lingering annoyance lmao | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

writingsbychlo · 3 years

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smoke and fire (10)

word count; 16,174

summary; a suspicious call has disastrous consequences.

notes; it’s time. the death, and you aren’t ready for it. grab your tissues.

warnings; major character death, panic attacks, breakdowns, arson, gore, blood triggers, explosions, significant descriptions of injury, vomiting.

“You sure the call was here?”

You twisted to look at Minho, and he scowled at you for the insinuation. “I followed the directions!”

“Well, I don’t see a fire.”

“Oh, well, thank you, Captain Obvious!” He scoffed, and a few chuckles ran out over the group as you beamed at him. “How come nobody ever gets at Fry for his driving?”

“Because he knows how to drive.” You snipped back, and an arm slung over your shoulders, a new medkit pressed into your arms by your partner, and you scowled down at the bag.

It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with it, per se.

In fact, it was a pretty nice bag, all things considered. A nice shade of navy blue to match the smart uniforms the firefighters wore on formal occasions, with padded straps to ease the stress on your shoulders and no loose threads or faded patches. It was brand new, and it was even personalised with a nice stitching of white numbers to form ‘21 to show off the house you were proudly a part of, but it felt wrong.

It just wasn’t your lucky charm.

“Oh, stop pouting over the bag, will ya’?” Newt sighed, and you only huffed, swinging it up onto your shoulder, and tucking your hand into the fleeced pocket of the coat you’d bought. Since deciding you wanted to remain at this house indefinitely, you had treated yourself to a further wardrobe of firehouse ‘21 kit. Two more embroidered shirts, your new bag, this warm fleece jacket and even one of the firemen’s tees, the largest size you could get for comfort in wearing at home. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s not my bag!”

“Yeah, well, your bag is probably halfway to Australia or being picked apart by crabs, by now.” Your bottom lip stuck out a little at the idea, despite how entertaining the mental image of crabs playing doctor was. It made your lips flicker up in a brief smile, at least.

The rest of the firefighters were still standing around, staring up at the building with confusion, and you couldn't deny that you were in much the same state. There had been an emergency call, bringing you all out to the industrial estate on the edge of the city where you found yourselves now, and yet there was no emergency to be seen. Something about it felt wrong, something wasn’t right, you had a slightly nauseous feeling creeping in your gut but you didn’t know what was causing it, as nothing dangerous was looming over you all.

“The siren definitely said ‘emergency’, right?”

“Yep.” Thomas hummed, coming to stand beside his best friend, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat against the cool weather too, and his eyes found your own, lips forming a smile to greet you with.

“You know, maybe it’s like the call with Aaron?” A few of the other’s turned to face you at your suggestion, and you played with a pebble under the toe of your shoes. “This seems like the dumb place kids play at to rebel. Abandoned factories are great places for no good. Maybe there’s someone inside?”

Silence hung over it all for a second, and Gally was the first to break it, a groan falling from his lips. “I bet it’s a prank call.”

“We’re required to check it out anyway.” Brenda was ready to go, she’d been full of energy since the very beginning of the day, and you had a feeling that it had something to do with the suspiciously close arrival times between her and Minho. If you had counted right, it had been exactly five minutes apart, and the thought of Brenda telling Minho he had to wait five minutes before following her made you laugh. Neither had noticed you taking early stock on the ambulance this morning as they all but skipped into the station. You planned to confront her about it later. “Let’s get going!”

“Alright, eager. Something got you all hyped up?”

She turned to look at you, eyes narrowing for a second, and Newt gasped a little beside you as he realised there was some kind of gossip he had yet to be let in on, but didn’t bring it up, simply squeezing you a little tighter. “Alright, well, I don’t trust it. I want everyone in full gear, just in case.”

“Oh, God, I hate those damn helmets. So clunky and clumsy, I hate it.” Newt was complaining once again, his arm dropping away from around you to wander away towards a firetruck to gain a jacket and a helmet to match the rest as he followed the directions given by his friends, and he team around you all pulled on their helmets, masks hooked onto their hips in case they were needed.

“C’mon, let's get you all geared up. Think you can manage to keep it all on, for once?”

“What do you mean ‘for once’, Thomas? One time I took off a rope, one time!” He only beamed at your attitude, opening up the back of the Squad truck to begin getting out the spare equipment for both you and Newt. He simply shrugged, and Newt made a show of dropping down to sit on the concrete as he kicked off his sneakers, taking a pair of slightly scuffed boots, his own pair that was stored in the firetruck, and your own were much shinier, still waiting to be broken in like his were.

Dropping your bag down onto the lip of the van, you were more than happy to abandon the piece of material, despising it already, as the feeling in your stomach continued to make you dread everything about this unusual case. You took off your shoes to copy, and took the pair of oversized and heat-proof pants from Thomas, tugging them up over your uniform to cover your legs, and fastening them tightly around your waist.

“I already feel like I’m overheating.”

Newt only hummed from his seat on the floor, and Thomas dropped a jacket down beside his friend, the garment left abandoned. “Well, y’know, could take off your pants.”

Your eyes narrowed on Thomas as you pushed each foot into a boot, toes wiggling as you navigated your feet into the shoes, a hand braced on the side of the firetruck or balance, and he smirked at you as he held onto your jacket and waited. “Yeah, I bet you’d just love that.”

“He’s still waiting for his turn to see the cute panties.” Newt chimed in, and you leaned down, flicking him against his ear as you crouched to do up your laces, and he let out a loud shout of complaint and he wiggled a little on the floor to pull his fireproof pants up over his hips in a less than graceful manner.

“Yeah, well, he’s going to be waiting a while.”

“Don’t go breakin’ my heart like that, sweetheart.” He hummed, pouting a little as you moved to tie the other laces, glaring up at him as he continued to smirk, and Newt gagged dramatically at the interactions. You glared at him, too, your cheeks flushing with warmth, and you turned your back on the two of them, arms lifting to push backwards into the jacket Thomas was holding for you, before swiping up your bag and swinging it over your shoulder.

“I hope there’s a hole in that building, and I hope you both fall in it.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Tommy here is already falling f- you dick! What in the hell was that for?” Newt’s words were cut off, a red-faced Lieutenant glaring at his best friend, your partner rubbing the back of his friend and glaring right back, and you didn’t pay either of them any attention, instead choosing to wander away.

As you walked, you fastened up the front of your jacket, making sure that it was sealed up tightly to lock out the chill, and Gally was taking the first team in. The Truck team were lined up at the main entrance, a pair of bolt cutters in hand as the chains were snapped on the front entrance, all pausing. The sound of breaking glass followed, the whole team ducking down securely as they waited for a reaction to come from the broken glass. An explosion, a wisp of smoke, a smell of gas or a sudden backdraft, but nothing came.

It was all far too unusual.

“Do you smell that?” Winston voiced, face screwing up a little as he stood, leaning towards the window, and you raised a hand to cover your eyes against the glaring winter sun, despite the chill in the air, the rays were still bright enough to burn your retinas. “Smells kinda’ like a gas station.”

“You think there’s petrol in there?”

“Could be. I’m not seeing any smoke, but it's dark, and the smell is faint. These buildings normally have basements.” He shrugged, and you tucked your hands into your pockets.

“These kinda’ buildings normally become makeshift homeless shelters. They burn fuel for heat, maybe it’s just a smell that's lingering. It’s been pretty cold out, lately, we might just have some squatters being called in by a landowner.” A helmet was placed onto your head, falling down into your eyes from the impact, and when you lifted it up, Thomas was walking away from you, adjusting his helmet and preparing to take command of his crew.

“Well, no matter what it is, we can get in and get out after doing a quick check.”

He took a place beside Gally, the two sharing a glance, before the taller one was taking control, kicking roughly at the large double doors until they creaked under the pressure, swinging open roughly and echoing around the inside of the first room, the sound bouncing from stone and metalwork until it finally died out. Various torches flickered on around you as each member of the team activated the device on their shoulder, and Newt stood before you, a frown on his lips.

“This feels weird to you, right?”

“Really weird.” You mumbled back, keeping your voice low as not to disturb the members of the team who were each pairing off to enter, Thomas and Gally directing them at the doorways as they disappeared into the darkened old factory leaving you and Newt to follow slowly. You knew that neither of you was supposed to wander off too far, you would be told to stay in the main room, near the doorway, and to simply wait until you were needed. Teams spread out, pairs disappearing through the corridors, some up the stairs to the next level, and some lower to the basement, tracing the building for any source of evidence to support why you’d been called here.

There was a pause for a while, a long gap of silence, and you could hear the team shuffling about, before Newt was nudging you with his elbow, keeping his gaze forward and biting back a grin as he tried to keep a ‘professional’ expression on, but he leaned towards you to whisper his request; “You wanna’ have a thumb war while we wait?”

“Absolutely I do.” You grinned, turning to face him as he gasped excitedly, his one body facing your own. The radio on your shoulder crackled, Gally’s voice coming through it as he reminded the teams to update on what they had found, and so far, a collection of ‘nothings’ were coming back. Holding your hand out, Newt’s fingers wrapped around your own in the opposite direction, locking the two of you together, and you folded your other hand behind your back as he followed suit. Your thumb tapped against your hand and his, ducking together as you counted down in a small chant together, before the battle was commencing.

He grinned as his digit moved, wrapping around yours and trying to pin it down, but you were quick to retract it, and the smile was just as quick to fall from his face. Simple huffs in angry exhales and quiet laughter was shared between you both as you waited for any updates, the longer the time making it seem more and more like you were in the clear, as no signs of danger showed up.

“Upstairs is totally clear.” Thomas sighed through his radio, and you cheered loudly as you captured Newt's thumb, pressing it down while he cursed, and beginning to count to three. He didn’t let you get that far, however, before he was snatching his thumb back at the final moment, and you booed him, his lips flicking up cheekily.

“Told you, it’s a prank call!” Gally mumbled, Chuck radioing in to confirm his room was clear, as did Minho, who was checking carefully over all of the power outlets, but while seeming a little battered and busted up, some loose fires and broken sockets, nothing seemed at risk.

“We’ve got something down here.. I think..”

“What do you mean you think, Winston?” You paused, the two of you agreeing to call it a tie as a lead was beginning to rise up, and you focused your attention on your radio, trying to make out the words through the interference.

“I mean, it’s damn dark down here, and the smoke torches don’t give us much. I’ll need a whole flashlight, but from what I can make out, there’s a fair load of petrol canisters down here. Some tipped over, spilt oil, but no fire.” You could hear him clattering about, the metal sound of a boot kicking lightly against the side of one metal container ringing through clearly.

“Can you count how many?”

“Not without the flashlights.” He replied, and various chatter about it began coming over the speakers as the two lurked on the edge of the barrels, Fry adding that the two couldn't even see the end of the room.

“I think I can get power up and running. These circuits aren’t too busted up, I just need to flip a few breakers, hold on..” There was a grunt, chatter between Minho and Zart as they moved around the room. It took a few minutes, that same anxious period of waiting looming over you all once again, and you let out a low breath, the twisting feeling in your gut was still there, and you hated it. Resting a hand over your stomach, you took a deep breath, trying to ease the racing of your heart. “Alright, everyone get out from under any lights, the power surge might smash some of the bulbs, don’t stand under where glass may spray.”

You and Newt both looked up, a row of lighting above your heads, and your steps were almost synchronised as you took a few steps backwards from the centre of the room, making sure you were covered from a blast of glass if one came. You shared a nod with your partner, before lifting a hand to the radio you wore, and clicking the button on. “Alright, we’re all good.”

“Everyone on top is clear.”

“Me and Chuck are good.”

“Nothing over our heads, you’re good to go, Minho.”

The collection of affirmations was answered by the flickering of lights overhead. The bulbs were yellow and musty, and you jumped a little at the shattering of glass across the room, shards raining down to create a tinkling noise as it bounced across the concrete, and the bulbs all slowly flickered.

“Oh, shit, Minho! Turn it off!” Your stomach dropped, a slightly patchy transmission through the radio, and your breathing hitched in your throat. “We’ve got broken wires down here, sparks coming through th-”

It all happened within the blink of an eye. One moment you’d been staring ahead at the staircase and waiting for news, before everything had been a blur. Your feet on the floor, your body flying through the air before you were slamming roughly into the concrete factor walls, and it felt like everything in your body became bruised at once. Your shoulder was crushed underneath you painfully as you hit the floor, a throbbing on the back of your head now matched by the side as you collide with the wall, the helmet on your head being the only thing that had stopped your skull from cracking at the impact, and it fell free, rolling away across the floor as you gasped for breath.

For a moment, there was nothing, you felt numb while you tried to focus on what just happened, eyes squeezed shut as your head spun and you choked back bile, and then there was the pain. A screaming kind of agony racing through every nerve in your body, and you couldn't hear your own groan in pain as your ears rang loudly. Like a siren but inside of your head, and the throbbing behind your eyes only seemed to increase as you pried them open.

Clouds of dust waiting to settle that you could barely see through, but the darkness that had once resided was replaced with a bright orange glow, half of the flooring from the centre of the room having crumbled entirely from the blast below you, flames and smoke licking up into the air and beginning to fill the room. You struggled, to even push yourself up to sitting, and you stretched your jaw, shaking your head clear to try and combat the ringing within your ears, before fumbling for the torch on your shoulder, and turning it on.

It didn’t do much, it didn’t help you see through the dust, but you blinked, clearing your vision enough to watch another dulled torch flicker on a few metres away from you, and you arched your back, your bag still there but your bones and muscles aching from being slammed into it against the concrete, feeling the imprint of the equipment under your skin. The walkie-talkie on your shoulder was going but you couldn't focus on that now, stumbling to your feet and tripping on nothing as you tried to step forwards, once hand pressed to cool concrete as you steadied yourself, and tried to make your way toward Newt.

He met you halfway, the sweat on his face matted with grey ash and dust, his eyes wide, a little frantic, and he licked over dry lips, which seemed to do nothing, as they were in much the same state only a second later as the once cold room was rapidly beginning to heat.

“Are you okay?” You had to shout just to hear yourself speak, and he squinted at you, seeming to struggle to hear himself, making you repeat the words, reading your words. He nodded, hand coming up to sit on your shoulders as his gaze scanned over you, and you did the same to him, silently checking one another for injuries.

The ringing was dying down a little bit, you could hear the flames now, and the sound of sliding and grating stone and metalwork as the unstable floor continued to break away in some places. “We should split up.”

“I’ll take upstairs if you take this floor?”

You glanced at the stairs, looking around the room, and assessing the gaps of concrete that looked as though they were still stable. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“You good?” He slipped a hand back up to your cheek, turning your gaze back to him, and making sure you were picking up the determination in his voice.

“I’m good, I swear.” He shook himself off a little, flexing his leg at the knee while holding onto you, all the way down until he was rotating his ankle a little, but you didn’t get a chance to question whether he was truly okay, before he was disappearing from your sights and brushing past you, a final squeeze of your shoulder in confirmation, before the smoke was swallowing up his figure and he was simply a disappearing flashlight that faded with every step.

There was a good amount of concrete left around the left side of the building, furthest away from where the basement with Fry and Winston must have been, and you paced back the way you came, making sure to scoop up your helmet as you went, and place it onto the top of your head, adjusting it carefully to keep your protection against the situation.

Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion, the crunch of broken pieces of stone and dust under your feet, navigating your way through the smoke with a hand pressed to the all, avoiding the flames that were growing higher and higher in the centre of the room, just to find the corridors you’d watched your friends disappear down less than a half-hour before.

Finding your way, you were grateful to see that the passageway was intact, dark and filling with a layer of crawling black clouds along the ceiling but no damage that would impede your way, and there were several doors open. You took off in a jog, scanning the insides of each room, and coming to a skidding halt as you caught sight of the first of your team members behind a third door.

Minho was lay out across the floor, and Zart was kneeling by his side, the look passing over his face could only be described as the kind of relief that gives you epic highs as the stress died down, and you took a place on the other side of him, kneeling to check on the unconscious one of the pair.

There were darkened veins along his arm, and the skin under his glove was a little raw as you peeled it back to check over, the burns travelling all the way up to his wrist, The smell of burning flesh made your nose wrinkle, and you dropped your bag from your shoulders. Tucking your bag underneath his feet to elevate them, you pressed down over the artery in his neck, monitoring the speed at which his heart was still pumping. It was slower than you would’ve liked, but strong, and you could at least let out a little sigh of relief at that.

The muscles under his skin were twitching and spasms, the aftershocks of the current still tingling over his nerves no doubt, and you lifted one eyelid at a time to check him. There were no burst veins in his eyes, and his pupil reaction time suggested that he hadn't gained any permanent brain damage from it. There was a cut across the back of his head from colliding with the concrete after losing his helmet, but it wasn't too deep of a gash, and it was something that could be focused on after he woke up, because the dust was currently helping to clot the wound.

The radio on your shoulder clicked into life, and Newt was on the other end of it; “How you doin’ down there?”

Pulling back, you spared one hand to press the button to allow your reply, as the other tucked your torch away carefully. “Uh, I got Minho here. He’s out cold, got a gash on the back of his skull but nothing permanent, he’ll just have a bad headache and some aches when he wakes up, some burns on his hand to take care of. Might need a new glove, this one is a little charred.” You picked it up, examining the half-melted plastic fingertips, undoubtedly a power surge racing back through the system as it sparked against the petrol in his rush to shut it down. “How’s everyone up there?”

“Tommy and Brenda are okay. Gonna’ be a little sore, some minor injuries, a few cuts and scrapes, nothing terrible.”

“Tell that to the pain in my ribs.” Brenda coffee through the radio, a few slow chuckles following it, and the doorway beside you was filled as a shocked and ash-stained Chuck and Jeff filled the doorway.

“She’s fine, just dramatic.” You could practically hear Newt’s eyes rolling over the waves, and you motioned them a little further inside. Zart seemed okay, he was checked over, you flashed the torch over his eyes and asked him where his pain was, but much like you and newt, he’d had the luck of being stood away from anything else, just a headache from the blast and a sore through from the smoke, but he was quickly hooking up his mask to replace the ashy air with pure oxygen, and he assisted you in doing the same for Minho.

“I got Gally and Clint here, too. Gal’s okay, just complaining like Brenda, but Clint’s got a pretty bad cut on his face, I’m going to clean this one up now.”

“Okay, I’ve got Chuck and Jeff too, but the smoke is getting pretty thick down here already, so I’m going to head straight to Fry and Winston downstairs.” As if to punctuate your words, you heaved a loud cough, the burning dryness in the air scorching the inside of your throat, and you swallowed thickly to try and choke it away.

“No, don’t go downstairs. You don’t have a mask. How are Chuck and Jeff? Send them down.”

“We’re totally fine!” Your candidate all but chirped the words, and you glanced up at him, eyes narrowing a little as he spoke up, as though to convince you to convince Thomas to send them down to find their friends.

“No, I should be the one to go, I don’t know what state they're going to be in.”

“We’re okay. Well, we’re not, but we can make it to you.” A raspy voice came through, broken with a little more interference as the signal cut through snow and rock from the lower floors, and your heart skipped a beat in your chest as Fry’s voice came over the speakers. Everyone seemed equally as excited and relieved to hear from him, the tall man chuckling as his friends all hollered in response to his voice. “Winston is out, he’s got some bad burns, I put him out but he was standing in front of me, he pretty much took the whole hit. I can get him up to you, but I’ll need help.”

You finished up with Jeff, your hands leaving his body as you finished pressing over his torso for any cracked ribs or tensed muscles, any signs you could pick up now of anything that might be wrong. “Jeff, go help him. Zart too.”

The men nodded, and Chuck was all but bouncing in his boots before you as he stared. “I’m fine, I swear.”

“Bullshit. Chuck got thrown into a piece of machinery, looked pretty bad from where I was standing, his feet weren’t even on the floor for the blast.” You frowned at your friend, the official firefighter shrugging as he adjusted his mask before setting off, and the young trainee in front of you sighed. “Really, I’m fine. Sure, a bit sore, but isn’t everyone? Let me go help my friends, I’m all good.”

“Let me check you first, alright? I’ll be quick.” He sighed, but nodded his head, and you motioned to the front of his jacket, letting him unzip it for you. You started at his head, gingers smoothing through brunette curls as you felt over his skull for bumps and grazes, your fingers coming up dry over smooth skin, before you were moving down. You scanned his eyes, watching reaction times, and grinning a little as he winced and cursed under his breath for staring right into it and trying to follow the light, blinking rapidly to clear the retina burn. “Can you say ‘the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’ ten times fast?”

“Really?”

“Yep.” You popped the ‘p’, his face screwing up as he pouted, but he continued to list off the words to you, repeating them perfectly, stuttering over the words occasionally when he went too fast and got tongue-tied, but it was enough to signal to you that he was certainly understanding what he was saying, and aware of the words, never having a problem with processing them in his mind. “Tell me your birthday, your mother’s maiden name, and the street you grew up on as a kid?”

“You sound like a scammer trying to hack into my Facebook account. Those are my security questions. Do you want the name of my first elementary teacher or my favourite musician from when I was fifteen too?”

“Nah, not the musician. That was only a few months ago, too easy to test amnesia against.”

“Screw you, I’m twenty-two.” He growled, and you chuckled, listening to him give you the answers you had requested, as your hands moved over his ribs. There was no swelling, and you studied his reactions, the occasional wince or twitch, but nothing to indicate any serious pain. He’d have some bruising, but so would everybody in here, and there was no hard or tensed flesh under his skin to suggest any kind of internal problems that would flare up.

“Any pain you should be honest about?”

“None but this conversation.” He mumbled, and you pinched at his side roughly, the kid yelping and shoving at your shoulder, making you laugh as he stepped back, fastening his jacket up in protection against the heat, despite the flames now quite having made it to this room yet. “Alright, but you’re not going downstairs.”

“I’m not?”

“No, I need you to go and get the stretcher. Winston is in a bad way, and so is Minho. Both need to go to the hospital. We’re going to be down team members, and we can’t handle this on our own. We also need another ambo’. I need you to go and call it in, get another team and another paramedic here.”

“I can do that.”

“What out for the fire, it’s the big orange thing that glows, it’s hot too, an-”

“I hate you!” He yelled, flipping you off as he exited the doorway, and you turned back to face Minho. You crouched beside him, fingers pressing to his neck again as you took new measurements for him, and you could hear the team hustling around you, the sound of the trucks starting up outside as hoses were unravelled and water was beginning o be sprayed, but it did little to ease your worries, because the flames above you didn’t concern you, it was the occasional popping sound of another canister going up in flames that did, followed by the shakes and crumbling of the building around you.

Clicking on your radio, you tapped your fingers nervously on your knee while waiting. “Zart, Jeff, where are you guys?”

“Right here.” You almost fell in shock at the voices in the doorway, fogged-up glass and oil marks on their uniforms, and you twisted to find the group stumbling through the doorway. With an arm over each shoulder, Jeff and Zart were dragging Winston in, his head lulling at an uncomfortable angle, and Frypan was staggering behind them, clearly having understated the severity of his own injuries. “Where do you want him?”

“Fuck, uh, right next to Minho.” You stood up, bushing down your knees, and pointing to the spot on the concrete as you moved away. “Here; put him here.”

You pushed the entirety of your hand out from under the oversized sleeve, leaning down to pick up your bag, but placing your hand flat to the floor, lips pursing as you felt the warmth. It wasn’t burning, certainly nothing you couldn't handle and it would do no harm to the men laying on it, but it meant that the flames underneath were right up and curling along the ceiling, burning through everything below and threatening to break onto your floor.

It was overwhelming, Fry slumping down to the floor as he became unsteady, and you regretted that he’d even had to climb the stairs at all, but there was no way you would have been able to drag him up them, and with the speed at which the flames were expanding, you were just glad you’d been able to spare Zart and Jeff to help him.

“Fry, I’ll get to you in a minute, okay?”

“Take your time, at least I’m conscious.” He wheezed, a hand resting over his chest as he took slow and steady breaths, and your mind was spinning as you took your bag out from under Minho’s legs, and tried to decide where to start with Winston. There was oil all over the front of his shirt, spotted with burned patches of material where Fry had put out the flames, and it covered your hands as you tried to undo his jacket.

The tips of your fingers burned as you touched the still hot material, the boiling oil against your skin making you bit down on your lip to content he pain, but once it was open, you were wiping your hand across your pants and coat, smearing the black liquid in stains over your clothes, fingertips tainted by the substance. You couldn't see what you were doing, a mixture of blood, dust, ash and oil covering his skin in layers, but any injuries underneath would have to wait.

Lifting his head and removing the helmet, your fingers ran through raven-black and matted hair. There were several swollen and solid bumps forming, but nothing too serious. His pupils were delayed in response time and his pulse was slow and faint, all signs that made you panic, but there was nothing that you could do yet.

“I’m here! What can I do?”

You could have cried in relief at the voice of your partner, and you hadn't even heard him arriving, nor did you hear the other pairs of boots scuffing, Brenda arriving in the doorway ad looking so thoroughly panicked and distressed over the unconscious man on the floor she had a bond with, but she couldn't reach out. Thomas was behind her, and Gally filled the corridor with Jeff and Zart, of whom you had never even noticed leaving, but they were helping to carry the house, and the spray of water reached your ears now as you focused on it.

“Fry. I think he has a concussion, possible internal injuries, I haven’t had a chance to check him yet.” Newt nodded, spinning in the doorway to face his friend, and you turned back to the colleague before you on the floor. “Bren, I need you too.” You glanced back, her eyes snapping up from Minho to look at you, and she swallowed thickly, before nodding. “I need you to watch Minho for me, think you can do that?”

“Yes! Of course, uh, how? What do you need me to do?”

Her words were hurried and rushed, and Thomas was barking orders into the radio on his shoulder that were silent in your ears as you tuned him out for the time being. “Gross, I know, but take his hand. Hold tight, and monitor the pulse in his wrist. Just make sure it stays strong and steady.”

She caught onto what you were offering, the chance to be with the man she cared for without anyone knowing the real meaning behind it, and she let out a relieved breath, a silent look of appreciation and passing over her face as she did as told, turning to care for Minho as you helped her disguise the affections, knowing that she wasn’t ready to be open about it yet.

“Thomas?”

“Yeah?” He mumbled, the radio almost drowning him out at the shouts that came through and you couldn't make heads or tails of any of it, mangled voices all clashing together, and you admired that he seemingly could.

“Can you check where Chuck is with that stretcher?”

“Says he’s on his way down, house ‘35 is sending their Squad and Truck over with an ambo’ should be here in minutes, he’s trying to guide the stretcher around the rubble and broken flooring.” You nodded, licking over dry lips that threatened to crack, feeling his eyes sweep over you as he assessed you for harm, but you had other priorities to focus on, like saving the life of your friend. “Can I do anything?”

“You can come and get ready to lift Winston onto a board, and then get him up top with Chuck. I think we should get him ready to go as soon as they get here.”

His form towered over you as he waited, and you pressed along his chest, wishing that he was awake to give you reactions, but there was still information you could gain from it right now, even if he wasn’t conscious. There were patches of blood pooling under his shirt from where you suspected the worse burns to be, the places where the fire had burned right through his jacket when the chemicals had landed on him, but you couldn't risk treating them now and exposing his skin to the heat that was building in the room, despite the team trying to combat it.

“I’m here! I got the stretcher!” The wheels rattled and squeaked as Chuck entered the room, his body colliding with the side of the door frame as he spun around the corner.

He parked up beside you, the contraception coming to a halt, and you leaned over Winston, reaching up to find the handle underneath the device, and pressing it upwards. The locks holding the stretcher up high gave out, the bed sinking down to a lower level, until the entire thing was almost on the floor, folding like an ironing board, and you began to undo the harnesses. Thomas and chuck helped, getting it all undone, and soon, they were all hanging loose, the cushioned base waiting for a body.

“What now?”

“Now, Thomas gets his feet, Chuck on his hips, I got his shoulders and his head, and we lift him quickly and carefully. We need to move as a unit, I don’t want to risk any nerve damage by lifting out of order, alright?” You tried to remain professional, absolutely terrified at the prospect of losing a team member, and the two men got into position.

On your count, you lifted, supporting his head on your forearms and your hands hooked under his shoulders, grease covering your hand again, and your nails scraped against his jacket just to keep a hold on his slippery figure, but he was rested against the trolley only a moment later, and you hurried to fasten up the straps.

Loose enough not to irritate burned flesh but tight enough to hold him steady for the ride up, Chuck and Thomas didn’t hesitate, before they were setting off and out to meet the next team. You could hear the sirens of the other team now, loud and clear as they pulled up, and between the flickers of rising orange flames, you caught sight of blue, reflecting on the smashed glass of the windows were ash layers didn’t dull the gleam, and the adrenaline in your body depleted just a little as help arrived.

You were down three team members, and you weren’t so sure you fully believed how well everyone else was doing. Clint was down for the count in your books, the head injury and the shock alone taking him off the board, Thomas looked a little dazed as he moved despite trying to keep it together, Brenda was completely and utterly distracted, and you didn’t like the wheeze you were hearing every time Gally spoke over the radio, despite being cleared by Newt. He was probably lying about his condition, you weren’t entirely surprised if he was, they were all far too brave for their own good.

That left only five you were sure of; yourself and Newt who were paramedics, not firefighters, and Jeff and Zart, as well as Chuck, but he was only a candidate. Of twelve team members, you only had five left who were operational, and you weren’t sure that was even the truth.

Your feet were unstable underneath you as you made your way over to Newt, shoving the contents of your bag back inside - not that you’d been able to use much, the injuries gained here weren’t exactly infield patch up tasks - and checked with Brenda as you passed by, who was counting the heartbeats Minho let out each minute as she timed them on her watch, and you would have aww-ed internally at her devotion to him had it not been for the situation.

“How are we doing over here?”

Newt glanced up, worry written over his features. “Definite concussion, some serious bruising, cuts I’m not too happy about but I got it clean. I’m out of paper stitches, used them all on Clint, you got any?”

“Yeah, I got some.” You felt grimy as you slid your bag down your arms, grease smeared across your skin, staining your hands and face as you wiped away sweat, stray hairs and layers of dirt, crouching down and rooting through your bag to find the paper stitches. As you located them, the men returned, the stained and battered stretcher belonging to your ambulance was back with your two coworkers. “Winston?”

“On his way to Chicago Med with the paramedics from ‘35; he’s all good.”

“We need to get Minho on that next stretcher.” Newt was rubbing a hand absentmindedly over his thigh, and you worried your lower lip for only a second, before you had decided on your plan. “Newt, take Minho to the hospital. He’s stable, get him hooked up to a monitor and he’ll be fine. I’ll take care of Fry.”

“You sure?”

“One hundred percent.” You promised, Brenda and Chuck helping to get him all strapped up, before they were losing too, and you turned back to your friend, using a finger to tip his head up to look at you. “Keepin’ awake for me there, Fry?”

“Barely.”

“Just focus on me, alright? Why don’t you tell me about your latest cookery experiment.” He chuckled a little, and you peeled the first of the paper seals form the plastic packet, squeezing shut the cut across his shoulder in the fabric that newt had cut away to revel, blood oozing up over your fingers a little as you did, and he groaned at the feeling, before you were placing the first seal down.

“I’ve never made mac and cheese from scratch before, can you believe that?”

“Never?” You teased, and Thomas knelt beside you both, silent but patting his friend's good shoulder, and you peeled up another stitch, placing the sticky seals down carefully along his skin.

“Never. I’ve been practising different recipes, and I would love to make it for you all.”

“That sounds amazing. I love mac and cheese, so you stay awake for me and hold on, and I’ll help you cook it just as soon as you’re back on your feet.” As you placed the last one that was necessary, you tucked the plastic packet away, searching for your spray bottle of antiseptic, and cupping a hand over the wound to stop the residue flying into his face or eyes, before shaking it thoroughly.

“Oh, you gonna’ be my sous-chef?”

You took the chance while he was distracted, laughing lightly, and spraying over the wound, his groan of pain not missed by your ears as the other house began to storm through the building, their whole team uninjured and functional as they tackled this tragedy. “You bet I am. Think you can stand for me?”

He nodded, but was clinging onto Thomas for help, and you zipped up your bag quickly. “House ‘35 is going to take care of it all, everyone else is waiting outside. Brenda will drive the van, and you can check over everyone else.”

Thomas threw the words over his shoulder to you as you navigated through the building, the pathways you’d used to descend to them all were far thinner than they had been, the floor caving in more and more, and you stuck close to the wall for support as you passed them by, the shine of daylight getting stronger and stranger as you neared the door, and you were sure that you’d never quite get used to the cool feeling of a breeze every time you excited a burning building.

You were covered in soot, oil, and sweat, and you couldn't wait to just get back to the house and wash off. The rest of your team were standings around, the ones who hadn't been shipped off to the hospital, anyway, and you let out a heavy sigh as you glanced over them. You’d all looked better; everyone having taken a defeat today, slumped shoulders and worn-out bodies as you passed your sight over each one.

“I just want to check over one van before we leave, and I’ll check over the rest on the way there.”

“Who’s doing the best?” Thomas questioned, a chuckle rising from everyone at the irony of it, and your lips flicked up as he took your helmet from you, throwing it uselessly into the back of the Squad truck and not even bothering to put it away.

“Well, I already checked out Chuck and Fry, they’re all good. I want to get another glance at Gally, but Jeff and Clint are good to go. I’ll ride back with Squad and Truck can go up ahead.” Thomas only nodded, grimacing as he stretched while moving away, loading your shoes into the van too, and Brenda flopped into her seat within the truck from the second she’d climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Newt already said I was alright.” Gally offered, handling his helmet in front of his body as he came to stand before you, and you raised a brow at him.

“So, you don’t have any chest pains I should know about?” His mouth opened, denials spilling from his lips, and you lifted a hand, placing it flat on his chest and pushing down with a minimal amount of force, but even at the light contact, his words were cut off as his breathing hitched, face screwing up in pain. “You sure?”

“It was no big deal, really. I got thrown, I landed on some material, chest first. It’s just sore.”

“Does it hurt when you breathe?” You raised a brow, smoothing your fingers over his chest lightly and pressing down against the muscle in certain spots as you tried to get a reading of where the injuries were, without actually having him strip his shirt off in the middle of the area.

“A little.” The winces on his face continued on until you were halfway around his sides, and down to the base of his lungs from the tops of his shoulders, purple bruising beginning to flash up along pale flesh when you pulled the neckline of his shirt aside to take a look. “Okay, maybe a lot.”

“You’re not gonna’ like it, but when Newt gets back with the ambo’, I think you should go and get some scans.”

“Do I really have to go to hospital?” He mumbled, groaning in discontent towards the end of his words, and you shrugged, a slight smile forming on your face.

“You really do.” He frowned, and you shrugged, pulling your jacket a little tighter around yourself. “Clint needs stitches and so does Fry, so I need to take all three of you, anyway.”

“Oh, so it’s a club thing, then?” He grinned, tucking his helmet under his arm as he wandered back toward the trucks alongside you, and Thomas was holding open the backdoor of the Squad vehicle, Zart already sitting inside, head tipped back to rest on the seats and eyes closed, exhaustion taking over.

Jeff was behind the wheel of the Truck van, with Fry, Clint and Chuck in the back, a space left for Gally. It was much the same with Squad, Brenda sitting up front and a space left for Thomas, neither truck having their usual driver and they felt unsettling empty with half of the team missing, but you forced yourself to swallow down the anxious feeling, the worst seeming to be over, exhaustion being all that was left. The Truck engine started up, hissing as it took off of its brakes slowly, and Brenda composed the motions, twisting the keys to start it up as you came to stand before Thomas.

He stood slightly taller than you, and as your eyes swept over soot-stained skin, you caught sight of the red on the underside of his jaw. Settling a hand on his cheek, he gave no resistance as you tipped his head back a little, his pulse thrumming under your thumb, and you let out a soft breath. “Not too bad, just a little cut. I’ll clean it up for you.”

“Didn’t know it was even there.”

“Oh, manly man, doesn’t know he’s hurt.” You teased, a breathy laugh leaving him as you let him go, and his hand found the small of your back through layers of material as he helped you climb up and into the van, the door slamming shut behind you.

It took him only a second to round the vehicle and get himself in, before Brenda was following quickly on the tail of the other truck onto the road, sirens unneeded as you slowly made your way back to the firehouse, the day seeming like a real blow, a rare day when there was no victory for your team, no lives saved that you could pat yourselves on the backs for, and some of your team already rushed away to the hospital.

As the van moved, the ache in your body seemed to loosen a little, and you set your bag down on the seat beside where you were, kneeling against the cushioned chairs to lean over the backs towards the front compartment. There were so very light burns along the edge of Brenda’s face, nothing any more severe than a sunburn, but the skin still looked inflamed with red and a little sensitive, and you shuffle through one of the inside pockets that Newt had arranged for you, seeking out a cooling aloe wipe, and tearing the top from the foil packet.

The piece of fabric was damp and cool under against touch, and you leaned over the seat carefully, making sure to be gentle as you wiped along the edges of her jaw, her attention fixed on the roads ahead of her, but she smiled a little at the relief of the cooling gel infusion against her skin. As soon as you’d finished caring for the delicate wounds, you used the wipe to clean the tips of your fingers, the rest of your skin still stained with the remnants of everything you’d encountered during your failed expedition, but the flesh of your fingers were clean, a dollop of burn relief cream coating the tips of two fingers.

A patch along her jaw was shiny and a little greasy from the residue of the cream, waiting to soak in and soothe the wound, but it was no longer bothering her and that was enough. Thomas tipped his head back a little, his body deflating under the weight of the coat over his chest, sagging in his tiredness, and his head rolled to the side to peer up at you.

“Me next?”

“Thought it didn’t hurt?” You grinned, a scowl taking place on his lips but the edges trembled as he threatened to smile, and he let out a little huff.

“Fine, I’ll just let it get infected, probably get some kind of blood infection, then I’ll die.” You couldn't hold back the laugh you let out at his dramatics, his eyes glimmering a little in the reflection of the mirror into the back as he caught your gaze.

“You are so melodramatic.”

“It’s a possibility!” He defended, Brenda and Zart adding small laughs to the mix, and your fingers brushed along his jaw, tipping his head to the side and ankling it upwards to catch the light on the cut as you examined it. Taking out a cotton pad and adding a douse of antiseptic to the centre, he held his head in that position.

“It’s a very low possibility. This is barely a cut.”

“Yeah, well, even if it- stings like a bitch, holy fuck!” That made Brenda laugh loudly, the van swerving a little in her shock, and he flinched away from you. “What the fuck, I thought it was ‘barely a cut’?”

“That could not possibly have hurt that much! Stop whining!” He growled a little under his breath, heat flushing over his cheeks as he complained about the skin being sensitive and the cut being deeper than you must think, and his head came back up to the correct angle as soon as you’d rubbed a little healing gel onto it. “Oh, you’ll be fine. It’ll be totally gone within a week.”

“Maybe you should kiss it better.”

Your head twisted to look at Zart, his eyes weren’t even open as his hands sat folded across his stomach, resting his eyes, and you were almost back at the station, your own cheeks flushing with embarrassed warmth now, and you packed your things away as you tried to get a hold of yourself.

“You know, just for that, you get to do reps next shift.”

“I did nothing wrong!” The foremen complained, his lieutenant sitting up front with a smirk on his face as he abused his power, and you grinned to yourself as Brenda all but howled in amusement. You almost missed the crackling of the radio on the dashboard over the amusement, and the shout that came through it, but the static was cleared by the second call, and the laughs faded away into silence.

The mood within the cabin changed in all of two seconds, laughs and gentle teasing with warm cheeks became blood running cold and a chilling shudder running along your body. The firetrucks ahead of you swerved onto the side of the road, their desperate calls for you to stop and join their vehicle made your legs feel weak, and you scrambled for the door handle before the truck had even finished rolling fully to a halt.

Their doors were already open, the body on the floor made you almost rip over your own feet as your mind short-circuited.

Hunched over on the floor of the van was Chuck, his body jerking unevenly in seizures as his hands hung by his sides, and as you knelt by his sides, a sudden cough shook his body, heaving for breath as he struggled to suck in any breath at all. You didn’t have the ambulance, or any of the equipment you needed, and you were left with only what you had in your bag and your bare hands.

“What the hell happened?”

Gally looked lost for words as you demanded an explanation from him, and you rolled Chuck onto his side, trying to position the larger man into the recovery position as he coughed. “I don’t know! One minute he was fine, said he felt a little dizzy, and that his vision was blurry around the edges but we all just assumed it was because he was tired, like us, or had a headache or something. But then he was talking, and his words didn’t make any sense! We called you, and as we were pulling over, he just fell out of his chair like this!”]

“Do something!”

“What’s happening?”

“Is he having a seizure?”

There were too many voices, you had no idea what was wrong, you’d done your initial examination of the boy and nothing had shown up. He was talking, smiling and chatting. He was steady on his feet with no signs of injury other than some bumping and bruising, no internal bleeding or cuts, and yet, he was having a seizure under your hands that you couldn't stop.

Your fingers pressed to his neck as you tried to find the strength or speed of his pulse; slow, unsteady and weak being your answer. “I need my bag! Someone go and get it!”

Multiple pairs of booted feet moved, and you solved a hand into the oversized pocket of the fireman's jacket you wore to find a torch you’d discarded long ago. Lifting one eyelid and flashing the beam of light over it, there was no longer a reaction, his pupil never moving, and your own heart felt like it stopped beating in your chest. Your bag landed next to you, the firemen gathered around you, but it felt like the world was slipping away, crumbling to ash and dust with everything you touched.

The whole day had felt oddly like it was moving in a mixture of slow motion, and too fast for words. Like you were walking through tar, but placed on fast forward, but this was different. This was the moment that made it seem like everything came to a stop, while minutes turned to seconds. It was too fast for you to handle, but flashing before your eyes like a video being played scene by scene. Like an out of body experience, a lucid dream, your hands being your own but the motions feeling detached, as your mind began to shut down on itself in shock and horror.

Voices ringing in your ears; screaming and shouting at you, begging you to do something, and yet you were doing all that you could, but nothing was helping. His seizing didn't stop, neither did the blood he was coughing up, splattering across your cheek in trails of wet droplets, spraying down your neck as he convulsed, across your chest as you leaned over to try and tip his head back to help him breathe.

“We need to get to the hospital, why is nobody driving this damn truck?”

Your hands were on his chest, trying to pump when you felt his body go still, when his heart stopped beating under your palm. It wasn’t the first time you’d lost a patient, it wasn't the first time you’d felt life slip away, your fist closing as you grasped to hold on but their life slipping away under your palms, but this was the first time you felt the life of a friend ebbing away and you were helpless to stop it. Your body was thrown from side to side, violently as you were threatened to be tipped from your kneeled position, sirens overhead and traffic swerving out of your way as the firetrucks raced.

Gally’s voice was clear in the ruckus, muffled but able to be picked out, calling into the hospital across the radio to meet you all outside, doing his best run down of the situation as he called for help, and there was a headache born of stress forming behind your eyes that threatened to split your skull right open.

This was Chuck; your first friend in the firehouse, the sweet kid who always had flushed cheeks and bouncy brown curls who was the first to really make you feel less alone, like maybe you’d found a home, the first person to truly let you in. The first person to talk to you on your first day, the first person to share a joke with you, the kid who made you tea when you were tired and watched romcoms, and had his squad training already all lined up because he just knew he was going to pass his exams. He had a locker only two doors down from your own, and his peppermint body wash always made your eyes sting a little but you'd miss it if it didn't, and you weren’t ready to let him go.

There was crying, wailing and screaming of his name, and it came with a flash of pain in your throat as the voice sounded suddenly hoarse and strained that you realised it was you. The wet heat on your cheek was no longer blood but salty tears, and there was a messy mixture on your face that smeared over your skin as you tried to wipe your tears away, stinging at your eyes, skin feeling raw as the rough material of your sleeve caught against sensitive flesh.

The doors of the firetruck opened; your arms, from your wrists all the way to your shoulders and your back, ached as you continued to pump at his chest, and two doctors you didn’t know had to pull you back and off of him to be able to lift his body onto the stretcher. He was rushed from sight, carried away from you quickly, your team surrounding the doorway as they all held the same look of abject horror, staring after the candidate they loved so deeply as he was taken away.

And then there was Newt, appearing from double doors to stare out at the scene before him, wondering what in the hell had happened, just like the rest of you were, the weight of the mystery looming over you all like a crushing weight, concrete sinking you to the ocean floor. You couldn't take it, not the whispered questions of confusion or the worried glances or even the hands that reached out to rub at your shoulders as they tried to bring you back from the brink, you couldn't take it.

It was Allison standing beside you, the nurse you’d met a couple of times, and your throat felt about as dry as sandpaper as you turned to face her, one clean and delicate hand reaching up for you, but you swerved away from it, the idea of another person’s touch right now making you feel more nauseous than you already did.

“Gally. He needs scans.” Her brows furrowed, and your voice didn’t even sound like your own, forcing you to choke back emotions and swallow down on a raw throat as you tried to think. “Chest injury, he needs some tests done. Clint needs stitches, so does Fry.”

“I can get that sorted, but don’t you think you ne-”

“I need to go. I need to go now.” You nodded to yourself, licking over cracking lips as you looked back to the doors that Chuck had disappeared through. “I need to go and be with Chuck.”

You didn’t pause, not when she spoke, calling out after you, or when Brenda reached out. Not when Thomas called your name, followed by an endearing pet name that was falling on deaf ears, or even when Newt reached out to snatch your wrist, fingers skimming your skin as you shouldered through the door, stumbling in placement after him. You heard him follow, though. The familiar pattern of footsteps that you knew to be your partners as his shoes squeaked across the floor.

You didn’t make it far, thumb jamming into the elevator door button and leaving a greasy mark across the shining silver button; oil, dust, blood, sweat, chemical. You didn’t bother to clean it off as the doors opened, and your blond friend slipped in alongside you once they closed again. He hit the right button this time, and he didn’t say anything, but he did take your hand, squeezing tightly and not letting go, even when you pulled away, when the pull to close in felt too strong, when the offer of comfort felt unwelcome and undeserved, he forced you to take it anyway, and in the silence of the elevator, the first real sob broke free.

They didn’t stop after that.

Not when you stepped out of the elevator, following along to the waiting room you’d become familiar with over almost a year of being around this hospital, of making friends. Your friend was dying, you finally allowed yourself to settle, to believe you were able to have something good, and it was being torn out from under your feet slowly, piece by piece. The thumb rubbing over your skin, and the tickling of the clock on the wall that showed minutes melting away until over an hour had passed was all that kept your panic attack at bay, the rhythmic sounds and motions keeping you in control, even if everything felt like it was spinning out.

At some point, you’d claimed enough to sit down, you didn’t know when, you didn’t really recall the decision, but now that you were sitting down in the chair, every muscle felt like it was too weak to ever stand again. You were exhausted, there was nothing left within you, and you were choking down the urge to vomit with every breath you took. Nervous reactions, the ticks in your muscles, the occasional spasms in the aftershock of such an adrenaline rush, and you were struggling to even breathe at this point.

Newt whispered words to you occasionally, statements that seemed to go in one ear and out of the other, but you’d retained a few key pieces. Clint and Fry were all stitched up, and had been taken back to the station with the rest of the firefighter’s when they had left. Minho was dismissed and to go straight home, and to follow the medical advice given to him by his house paramedics, if your head was ever going to be back in the game again, and Gally was much the same. He had internal bruising but no cracked ribs, he would just be achy and sore for a couple of days maybe even a week or two. Winston was due out of surgery any minute now, burns peeled of fabric and skin cleared of chemicals, but he wouldn't wake up until the morning, and he’d be in the hospital for a few days yet.

Then, came Chuck.

What seemed like hours later, and you were sure it was, if the change in the lighting outside as the evening began to creep in had anything to suggest, and you didn’t need to hear the news. It was obvious, as your friend stepped through the door, the mournful look on Derek’s face even when you knew that he hadn't been the one to perform the surgery, and what left you had seemed to fall away.

You had nothing left to give, no tears left to cry or screams left to let bounce from the walls. It was numb; cold and dark and lonely. You didn’t want touch, you didn’t want comfort or words of calming endearment, or anything else. You wanted your feet to move underneath you, and to carry you out to the van to go back to the station. You couldn't even speak, you couldn't thank Derek for coming to give you the news himself, to be the one to break your heart and deliver the blow a little softer than a stranger would have, but it was like he read your mind, because he dipped down, pressing what felt like a brotherly kiss to the top of your head, before Newt was wrapping an arm over your shoulders.

They traded a few words, things you missed, unable to cling to even a single syllable, before you were being guided along, white shiny halls like a blur around you, until you were sitting in the cold seat on the passenger side of the ambulance, clipping yourself in like you were on autopilot, and resting your head on cool glass, your eyes sliding closed.

You didn’t register the journey, none of the speed-bumps or dips in the road, and the silence in the cabin felt utterly stifling, your skin crawling as Newt drove beside you, slow and steady as he guided the van along, and your fingers were digging to tightly into your palms that you worried your nails would tear right through the skin and shred your palms. Your eyes were burning, holding back tears, and everything in your body felt like it centred on a weight, hanging on a pit in your stomach as your guts twisted into knots, bile rising in your throat as you choked it back, and your body jerked forwards a little in the seat as the van came to a stop.

Newt whispered an apology for the abrupt halt, his parking a little wonky when you cracked sore eyes open and blinked into the light, skin stiff from salt and stained with the horror of the day, and you didn’t bother to reply. As soon as you stepped out of the van, the team were there, all freshly showered and clean, changed into their own clothes and staring at you expectantly, and it felt like you were holding the entire world upon your shoulders.

“There was nothing that could be done.” He let out a sigh, heartbroken gaze flickering over everybody standing and waiting for news in the bay. “He had a-”

“Subdural haematoma.” Your voice cracked as you spoke, cutting Newt off, and their attention moved back to you as you cut Newt off. “He had a subdural haematoma. That, uh, that means he had a brain bleed, a tear in a blood vessel on the left side. He would have been fine if he’d made it to the hospital, if I’d noticed it, but it clotted rapidly. That gave him a pulmonary embolism.”

“The clots to stop the bleeding in his brain stopped blood from being able to get to his lungs.” Newt clarified, and you wondered if the way you were feeling on the inside was reflected on your face. “They tried to operate, but there wasn’t anything they could d-”

“I should have noticed sooner.” You mumbled, and Newt twisted to look at you, but then the feeling in your guys became all too much, and you cupped a hand over your mouth, pushing through the team as you stumbled in the closest you could get to a run. Pain radiated along your arm as you pushed through the main door to the locker room with your shoulder, knees hitting the hard tiling of the bathroom floor and making a cry leave your lips as you fell. The stall door slammed against the wall, a loud and echoing sound that made you wince as it rattled your skull.

Hands found the edges of cold porcelain, tears blurring your vision as you emptied your guts into the bowl. You heaved, bile and vomit burning your throat, and you couldn’t breathe, a flash of panic racing through your mind at the feeling as your body continued to wretch, before a further sickeningly thought crossed your mind as the fleeting thought about Chuck feeling the same way passed your mind. He couldn't breathe either, he had suffocated on his own blood as he bled out, all because you hadn't found the signs of his bleeding, because you hadn't helped him hold on a little longer, because you hadn't been able to save him.

A hand was on your back, and you arched away from the undeserved comfort, before fingers were wrapping in your hair, holding the loose strands that had fallen stray out of your face, before the hand was taking place again, rubbing soft circles against your back through the layers of material. There was no more bile, there were only tears, wracking sobs that broke you down as you cried, everything feeling weak, and you could barely hold yourself up.

That same hand moved, pulling you backwards until you were slumped out across the floor. You were trembling, shaking so violently you could barely reach a dirty hand up to wipe across the back of your mouth, and you managed to blink tear-filled eyes clear to look up at the person before you.

“Get out, Thomas.”

“Why?” He whispered, and you couldn't hold back the humourless laugh, shaking your head before you were breaking down into sobs again, and he shushed you quietly.

“Get out, Thomas! Get out, leave me alone, go away! Just get out!” You thrashed, his arms wrapping around you tighter as you pushed back against him, cursing and screaming. “Why won’t you leave me alone, just let me sit here, just let me be!” Walls were going back up inside of you, to protect yourself as the reality of the situation began to really settle in your mind, and you couldn't put them back up while Thomas was standing in your way, every ounce of pain leaking in. “I don’t want you here, get off me! Get out!”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He pulled you a little closer, the angle awkward, your hands pushing at his chest until there was no strength left in your body, and he held you tight. Your fingers gripped at his shirt, pushing weakly as your words became gabled and muffled, and you couldn't take it anymore.

You gave in.

You only had so much fight to give.

“He’s dead, Thomas..” Your words were like the final piece to truly accepting it, and you sniffed, sure that your skin was wet from a disgusting mixture of tears, vomit and snot but he never let you go, a hand rubbing up and down your back as his fingers slipped free from your hair, the ends damp against your skin where your upchuck had caught them in the crossfires, and yet, you couldn't even bring yourself to care about hygiene or impressions as you came to accept that you’d lost a friend. “He died, I could have stopped it. I should have done more, I should have checked again, I should ha-”

“There was nothing you could have done. Newt told us about it. He explained it. There’s nothing you could have done.” He pushed hair back out of your face, uncaring for the situation you were in, and wiping his fingers over your cheeks gently. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yes, it was. It’s my job to look after you all, and I failed at that.”

“That’s such crap.” He mumbled, your eyes snapping up to find his, and brows furrowing. “How were you supposed to know what was going on inside of his skull? Huh?”

“Thomas, I’m not in the mood fo-”

“The truth?” He snipped, cutting you off, and his hands hooked under your armpits as he pulled you up to your feet, your legs giving way and weight falling onto him as he supported you, one hand on your neck as an arm held up around your waist, thumb brushing under your jaw. “Look at me.”

You dragged your sights up, honey-brown eyes filled with concern staring down at you. “It wasn’t your fault, and nobody but you thinks it was. If Chuck were here right now, he’d call you out for blaming yourself.”

It was true, you knew it was, and it made your lips curl into the briefest smile you’d ever had.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?” You could only nod, his hands now both on your waist as he guided you in slow steps towards the shower. There was grime covering your skin, bodily fluids, grit and dust, all the way to grease and oil, and you hate the feeling of another caked-on layer against your skin. The water tap creaked a little as Thomas twisted it, water bursting through, and you were still gasping for breaths through your sobs as you stepped underneath it.

It was freezing, at first, the cold water was like a shock to your system as you closed your eyes and tipped up into the flow to let the harsh droplets wash over your skin. It began to warm up, and your lips parted, letting you breathe as you tried not to break down again. There was a rattle in the distance, the sound of someone moving through a locker, and your legs buckled once again. The weight of the world on your shoulders, the weight of everything that had happened, crushing you down into the ground, and your back smacked against the edge of the stall, and you sank down, until water was swilling around you as you curled your legs to your chest under the flow.

“Oh, sweetheart..”

Your chest ached a little at the tone of his voice, whispered words that hardly carried over the thrashing sound of the water, and his hand reached out to place your washkit on the small ledge out of the spray radius. His toes locked behind one heel, taking off his boots, before his sock followed, and he repeated the actions on the other foot. Bare feet met watery tiles as he stepped inside the stall, water beginning to mark over the edge of his t-shirt as he stepped close to the spray. “You’re going to get wet.”

“I don’t care.” His hands stuck out, expectantly waiting for your own as he stepped before you, water soaking over his back and clothes, hair growing wet once again, droplets shifting over his skin and dripping from the end of a sweetly upturned nose, and you slipped your hands into his. As he pulled you up, water bounced from his body across your face, and your bottom lip trembled. Tears were gathering in his own eyes, like he was only just getting a grasp on the situation, and his hands left your own, to smooth up over your arms.

A single tear escaped his eyes, lost in the droplets along his cheeks, and he cried silently while the sounds of your wailing filled the space. His fingers slipped under the edges of the jacket you wore, the heavy coat sodden with water, and he slipped it down your arms slowly, until it was hanging from your arms, and he took it from you, reaching outside of the cubicle to drop it to the tiled floors, and it felt a little easier to breathe now that it was gone.

“There are so many people who care about you. Right outside of those doors, all worried about you, all wanting you to be okay, too.” He pushed back wet strands of hair, delicate touch easing the bobble from your hair, letting the damp bundle fall around your shoulders to be washed too. His fingers moved to the buttons along the front of your paramedics uniform, the crisp white spattered with black and red, tarnished with grey, and as his nimble fingers undid each button, he leaned in, lips brushing over your skin, slow and tentative, until he was pressing a wet kiss to your cheek, water dripping over his lips, but he pressed in carefully, hands barely moving between your bodies.

He shifted, only a centimetre or so higher, across your cheekbone, a kiss pressed there, too, as he peeled the wet fabric of your shirt down your arms, discarded with your jacket, until just a wet vest covered your torso, white material going see-through under the fall. He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and your neck, and then your shoulder, before he was sinking lower and lower to the floor, kneeling before you and moving his hands to your boots, tugging at the laces until they came undone.

Your hands balanced on his shoulders as you lifted each foot, letting him tug away boots and socks, your toes aching from the strain you’d put on them, flexing a little against the tile when your feet were lowered again. Large hands smoothed up the backs of your legs, circling over the front of your thighs to tug the string of the firefighters pants loose, and he eased them down your legs, revealing the smart dress-pants of your uniform from underneath, and the pile building outside of the stall was leaking water across the floor into a large puddle, but neither of you cared.

You weren’t sure when you’d stopped crying, but you had, sniffling and a sore throat but the tears no longer came, and Thomas shuffled before you. He leaned back a little, clothes clinging to his skin much like your own were, and you raised a hand from his shoulders to push the wet hair plastered to his forehead back and away from his eyes, his head twisting to press a kiss or his palm. You weren’t sure whether it was for your comfort or his, but it soothed you a little anyway.

His hand found your waistband, tugging lightly on the material as a finger slipped underneath, his eyes locked on your own with a silent question hidden inside, and when you gave him no resistance, his other hand joined. He popped the button delicately, tugging the zipper down, before inching those trousers further down your legs. Each movement he made revealed a new patch of skin, and he peppered occasional kisses over the fronts of your thighs as he moved, nose nudging against your skin, until you were stepping out of the trousers, a hand under his chin to pull him back up to his full height, and the rest of his body followed.

His skin felt hot against yours as your palms inched underneath his shirt, locking onto the bottom of his tee, before pulling it upwards. His hands raised over his head, allowing you to strip the material away from his body, ruined and sodden, joining your clothing on the floor. His hands were on your cheeks as soon as they dropped back down, pulling you forwards until he could let his lips meet your forehead. He pressed a kiss to every spot on your face, and every time he did, it was like he was pulling another piece of your fears and worries away from you, relieving you of the pain.

He gave you no hesitation when your hands found his belt, undoing it swiftly and tugging the leather from its loops, before his trousers were following, kicked away and discarded to the ground outside, tugging your vest out of his way so bare hands could smooth down over your sides, pulling you forward until he was holding you so close that the body heat rolling off of him flooded over your skin and gave you goosebumps.

His forehead rested to yours, and yet he never moved it further than that, sharing breath, lips brushing ever so slightly, a tingle felt right to your fingertips, but he didn’t kiss you.

It wasn’t the right time, and both of you knew it. It was a development that was inevitably coming, every snowball of affection added to the avalanche, dragging you both down with it, but it wasn’t time yet. This was a time of hurt and comfort, of seeking a moment of respite in one another’s embrace, and your hands wrapped around his body.

“Just hold me, Tommy,” it wasn’t a crashing realisation, nothing abrupt or sudden, but more of a peaceful revelation as his arms squeezed a little tighter around you, that Thomas had made himself a place in your life that you’d never be able to replace, “and don’t let me go.”

“I don’t plan to.” He whispered, lips pressed to the top of your head as comforting kisses were left there in the wake of his words. Tense muscles in his back relaxed under your touch before your hands were hooking onto his shoulders and your chest was pressing to his, hearts racing in matching beats, as he dragged you in closer.

His head dipped, face pressing into your neck the same way yours was in his, and his fingers spread out across your back.

You didn’t know how long you stood like that, minutes or hours seeming to slip by, the rhythmic fall of the water letting you slow your heart down, your chest rising and falling in synchronicity with Thomas’, his fingertips digging into your flesh as you clung to one another.

At some point, he moved, one hand leaving your body to reach out to the shelf, and find some soap. The later shifted between both of your bodies, his fingers moving through your hair with shampoo and conditioner to follow, and the dirt of the day sliding from your skin made everything feel a little easier to handle, less of a burden and more of a weight, shared with the man before you as he helped you to hold it up.

There was more, a whole team, willing to step in and help you bear the pressure if you’d just let them, and you wanted to do so. You were so scared to lose them but it was out of your control, and you couldn't do it alone, not any more.

When you finally felt like you had the power to give in, and to step back, the water was turned off, water dripping along your body and from the ends of your hair, before Thomas was reaching for a towel. He wrapped one around his waist, a blush rolling over your face and a subtle smirk on his lips as he did, the material sitting low against his hips, water still dripping along his body, and you tried not to follow any of the droplets as he stepped closer to you.

“Y’know, I didn’t think I’d get the honour of getting you undressed quite so soon.” Holding out another towel, he sealed it around your body, letting you tuck it tightly over your chest to hide the underwear you’d been left in, as you suddenly became overly aware of your near-nudity. Your jaw dropped a little, eyes going wide, and he chuckled at your panicked state, shaking his head and letting his fingers smooth down your arm until one of his hands was pressed loosely to yours. “Don’t worry, angel. I’m not looking. One day, you’re gonna’ ask me to, and I want that moment to be the special one.”

“Thank you, Tommy.” Your fingers laced with his, tugging him closer, and he dipped down, smiling softly as the tip of his nose dragged along your hairline. The door opened, Brenda coming to stare at you both, red-rimmed eyes and a soft smile, before she shrugged lightly.

“You want me to brush your hair for you?”

Something told you that the gesture would be just as comforting for her as it was for you; she was heartbroken, and undoubtedly chafing at the bit to get off shift and see Minho, but your heart soared at the idea that she might find comfort with you like you did with her, just like Thomas did, or anyone else. They were your family, and they needed you as much as you needed them.

You took a seat on the bench before her, and so opened up her locker, producing an assortment of bottles from inside. Her fingers ran over your scalp, separating the hair out as she sprayed something that smelled like watermelon over your scalp, working it through your hair, before following it with a plastic comb. Thomas had disappeared to get changed, and your fingers were gripping tightly to the edge of the towel, pulling at loose threads. It was a material you didn’t recognise, not yours, and you figured that the worn fabric must belong to Thomas, because his had been matching.

When he came back around the edges of the locker, you lifted your he'd, watching as Thomas inched yet another fresh t-shirt down over his body, shaking his head a little as damp stands got stuck, and you winced a little at a knot that tugged on the strands, Brenda whispering her apology.

“I’ll go and wait outside, alright?”

You nodded, your hand reaching up to grasp Thomas’ before he left, and he paused, waiting a moment and squeezing back, before smiling. He leaned down, lips brushing over the crown of your head, before he was walking past, and you could practically already hear the words she wanted to say. While you didn’t know what they were you could feel them hanging over your head as she brushed quietly, and the second the door fell shut to leave the two of you alone, she was letting them go;

“You’d be cute, y’know.”

You knew what she meant, but feigned confusion, despite it. “Who?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.” She teased, poking you in the back of the head slightly with the comb, before she was bringing another chunk down to begin brushing through it. “I’ve known Thomas for a while, but I’ve never seen him like this. He really cares about you.”

“I care about him too.” You mumbled, and while you didn’t see it, you knew the smile that was on her face and could picture it in your mind. “I care about you, as well, Bren. I care about all of you.”

“We care about you too.” She finished her brushing, pulling the strands back out of your face, before she was picking up the next bottle. Some foam, you weren’t sure what for, but she added a few pumps of it onto her hands as she rubbed her palms together, before weaving it through your hair, and you relished in the simple touch of being cared for so gently. “We don’t blame you. Please don’t shut us out. You might not need us right now, maybe you’re used to doing things alone, but we need you.”

Tears pulled at your eyes again, and you turned to face her, finding her in much the same way as she blinked them back, her hands falling away to her sides. “I need you, Bren. I need you because you’re my best friend, the only best girl friend I’ve ever had, and the only person who takes me out for a wine evening, which I think I’m going to need, because I’ll need some girl advice at some point.”

She grinned, a watery and shaky smile, chin wobbling a little as she put her things away, before taking a seat on the bench before you, sniffling lightly. “I don’t think you’ll need the advice, have you seen the way he looks at you? I might be the one needing advice.”

You wiped at your cheeks, laughing lightly to avoid your shyness. “I noticed that you stayed the night at Minho’s last night, on a work night, no less.”

“How the hell would you know that?”

“I’m observant.” You teased, and her head ducked, giving her a moment to think over her words, you stood, opening your locker, and searching for a change of clothes. You weren’t shaking as much, and while you were technically still on duty for another hour, you were praying no more calls came in, because you were changing straight into your comfy clothes, a hoodie and some leggings, ignoring everything else, and switching out your underwear behind the door of your locker.

“Thank you for letting me be with him today.”

“You were helping me do my job, I should be thanking you!” You offered, clipping a fresh bra behind your back, before pausing, and staring into the locker at the t-shirt you had available. It was your house ‘21 emblem shirt, comfy cotton, and it felt soft under your touch, lifting it up to bring it over your head, and once you had, your hoodie was following.

“I know that you didn’t need my help, but you were trying to help me. That’s real friendship, thank you.” You just shrugged, pulling on a second pair of socks for comfort, and closing your locker, with your toothbrush and toothpaste in hand, the bitter taste of bile still in your mouth, and heading over to the sink. Switching on the tap and running your brush underneath, you added a dollop of the paste to the bristles, and began to scrub at your teeth.

It was relieving, to wash away the final elements of the breakdown that you’d had, and Brenda was kind enough to scoop up the still dripping articles of clothing on the floor as you did, and load them into a plastic basket. She offered to take them to the laundry room for you, but you had her leave them, saying you’d do it yourself, and then, you were left alone once again, promising you’d be out in a minute to find the team.

The reality was that you needed a moment to yourself, to process that for the first time ever, you had a team to turn to, people you could truly let your walls down around.

Balancing the basket on your hip as you left the room, you took it with you, drips of water left like a breadcrumb trail as you padded socked-feet across the bay, towards the laundry room. You weren’t sure how it should all be done, officially, whether there was a set temperature or cycle to set off the heatproof materials on, but you just dumped it all into a washer too tired to care, and taking a moment to clear your mind.

A scoop of some kind of European washing powder that Gally swore by, and the scent of florals filled the room as you added it. A splash of fabric softener, a few buttons beeping upon being pressed and the lid closing, and then the machine rattled to life as the sound of water rushing through the pipes bounced through the room. You left the basket propped up against the wall.

Newt was the first by your side upon entering the room, eyes wide as he wrapped you up into a hug, talking a mile and minute about how worried he was before cutting himself off with a hiccup, and you clung to him just as tightly, feeling him sag into your touch a little. “There was nothing that could be done.”

You were the only intended audience for the words, whispered into your ear as he hugged you, a hand petting your damp hair gently as it dried in the warm air, the heaters all turned up high for warmth, and the group were dotted around the room. “I know. I’m sorry for running off.”

“Are you okay?” He pulled back, eyes glossy like everyone else's, and you frowned, wiping his cheek to clear away a tear that fell.

“Are you?”

He shrugged, neither of you really knowing the answer to that question right now, but you did know that you would be. With the companionship of your team, your friends, your family, you would be just fine, as long as you allowed them to help you. You shook yourself off, Newt collapsing back down into his armchair, and everyone else seemed to have a place in the room. Brenda was sharing a couch with Jeff and Clint, Fry was sitting on the end of the couch beside Thomas and scrolling through the channels, a space left empty for you.

You glanced up, familiar eyes meeting yours, and he tipped his head lightly to the side in offering. You stared a moment longer, your feet carrying you more directly towards him, and he watched as you found yourself before the space, lifting his arms up as you collapsed down into it. You weren’t shy this time, or unsure about what it meant. You knew exactly what you wanted, and what it meant.

You wanted the safety of being in Thomas’ arms, the temporary relief from the emotional turmoil you had when he held you, to sync the beta of your heart up to his as it thudded under your cheek when you laid your head on his chest. Tipping your head up to see him, you didn’t care about anyone else right now, you didn’t care about anything else, because you were surrounded by the people who meant the most to you.

You saw the cut on his jaw again, running a finger over it, and you tried to push your mind back to before everything had happened, to before the pain. You were in the truck laughing with Brenda and Thomas and Zart, cheeks flush from the warmth of a joke made about your blossoming relationship with the lieutenant, and comment about a sweet gesture to be made. Leaning up, your lips followed your finger, pressing a soft kiss to the spot, and a breathy sound left Thomas as you did, before he was bringing his other hand up to thread into your hair and brush at the strands lightly.

“What was that for?”

“I was kissing it better.” You mumbled, his heart beating rapidly under your head, your fingers brushing and the cotton of his shirt, and Fry finally settled on a movie. He leaned down, a prolonged press of his lips to your temple, before he was nosing gently at the spot. It was far from the first kiss he’d given you today, but this one was different, because it was without anything else hanging over it. No tears, no desperation for comfort, simply a kiss, given in the company of all of your friends as though he had no care about who witnessed it. “What was that for?”

“I was kissing you better.”

#thomas #thomas x reader #thomas/reader #firefighter!tommy #ff!tommy #SAF #smoke and fire #thomas the maze runner #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien #dylan obrien thomas #dylan obrien the maze runner #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader

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jamespotterthefirst · 3 years

Text

Five Birthdays (Ethan x f!MC)

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 2.4K Warning: Implied adult situations Premise: Ethan’s birthdays with her in the next five years.

Author’s Note: A birthday fic that I wrote a while ago and wanted to post on my birthday. Dedicated to @perriewinklenerdie , @scorpiochick8 , and all the beautiful Scorpios out there. November babies, this is for you too! Thank you @aestheticartsx for reading through this mess! Hope you like it.

Year One

A soft knock pulled Ethan away from his latest patient chart. Interruptions were always a source of irritation but tonight he almost welcomed it. His body ached with exhaustion and his eyelids were heavy after the sixteen hour day.

The door opened to reveal Dr. Allende, looking uncharacteristically bashful as she entered, hands behind her back.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, his attention falling quickly to the chart. This he only did as an excuse to glance away because she was biting her bottom lip the way she did when nervous. It was a quirk that always drove him to distraction.

She said nothing as she approached, and Ethan could see in his peripheral that she did so cautiously. After a small pause, she set a tall to-go cup of coffee on the desk in front of him, successfully getting his attention.

“I brought you coffee,” she said by way of explanation. She opened her mouth to say more, but closed it immediately, looking uncharacteristically flustered and even a little anxious. She tried again, “The Vienna. From the coffee house you took me to a few weeks ago.”

Ethan removed his spectacles, staring at the cup. “I can see that. Though I commend you on the choice, I am still uncertain why you went through the trouble.”

The pretty intern flushed, looking prettier still, much to Ethan's frustration.

“I didn't know what else you liked. And I wanted to get you something.”

Ethan's confusion lasted only a second before realization sunk in. His stomach dropped and he all but groaned. For some reason, this seemed to ease some of her tension. She even looked a tad bit amused.

“Who told you?”

“Dr. Banerji,” she responded, not surprising Ethan in the least. “He let it slip while I was drawing blood for that full work up you ordered.”

Ethan huffed, sincerely doubting the old man had let the detail slip accidentally.

“Happy birthday,” she added and this time, the amusement was undeniable in her voice.

“You can't tell anyone,” he implored, feeling his face grow hotter by the second. He shuddered to think of the fuss people in the hospital would make if they knew, particularly the nursing staff. “I've worked too hard these past years to keep that a secret. Trust me, it's not an easy feat when Marlene is in charge of the birthday board.”

Lilac laughed, the sound so pleasant he almost forgot to be mortified. “Imagine the parties they'd throw in your honor, Dr. Ramsey. I don't think I can rob everyone of such a good time.”

“Lilac.”

More laughter. “I won't tell a soul,” she said solemnly. Ethan was still unconvinced and she rolled her eyes. “Just drink your coffee, Ron Swanson.”

___________________________________

Year Two

Lilac glanced around with interest, pressing her clipboard tightly against her chest. Ethan almost snorted at her feigned attempt to seem invested. There was nothing particularly interesting about the supply closet they both occupied.

“Interesting choice, Doctor,” she commented anyway, sounding thoroughly amused.

“I didn't think you'd mind meeting here,” he returned, feeling emboldened enough to flirt with the pretty young resident before him. He had already pulled her into a supply closet with the enthusiasm of an intern. Ethan might as well enjoy the full thrill of breaking the rules. “If you have moral qualms, however, just say the word and we can both go back to work.”

Lilac proved she had no complaints by closing the already small space between them and kissing him fully. The clipboard clattered to the floor as her hands slid up his shoulders and clung around his neck. Ethan responded in kind, his hands settling on the dip of her waist, his lips eagerly moving against hers.

She hissed a little as their kiss went from passionate to desperate, hands, lips, and teeth tugging at one another. These days, it only took a matter of seconds to reach that level, both growing needier by the day.

“I didn't take you for the type to make out in a supply closet,” she said breathlessly when they finally pulled apart.

“Honestly? The idea seemed juvenile until I started making out with you.” He gave her a half smile that made her eyes linger on his lips. “I've been thinking of nothing else ever since we broke into Mass Kenmore.”

Ever since that event, he'd had several detailed fantasies that included Lilac in a supply closet with him, but he decided not to disclose them as the majority were irrefutably not safe for work. Then again, the way she pressed her body flush against his, her rosy lips trailing kisses along his jaw, was anything but appropriate for the workplace.

“Whatever the birthday boy wants, the birthday boy gets.”

Ethan involuntarily shuddered at the word birthday, which in turn made her pull away in laughter.

“No one is going to hear us here. You picked the supply closet in a construction zone that no one is allowed to be in.”

She was taunting him but Ethan didn't mind. If anything, he concluded that two could play at the game. With a devilish, lopsided smile that caught her attention again he said in a dangerous, low whisper, “I just thought you'd want to scream my name without the whole hospital hearing you.”

The surprised look that turned lustful in seconds sent a thrill of satisfaction through Ethan. He claimed her lips again without restraint, successfully opening the buttons of her blouse before him. There was no time to admire the black lace that left little to the imagination, when his pager demanded his attention.

He groaned but fixed his clothes and hair at once. When he was presentable once again, Ethan paused to give her one last, longing look. A familiar, mournful feeling settled in his stomach as another clandestine encounter came to an end.

Her responding smile was understanding, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. At this point, he was certain that she did.

“Happy birthday,” she murmured, lifting herself to press a sweet, tender kiss to his cheek.

Not for the first time, he wished for nothing more than to be able to kiss her whenever, however he wanted, no matter who saw.

___________________________________

Year Three

Ethan pressed her against the wall, escalating their usual goodbye kiss after a long day at the hospital. Though a little surprised at first, Lilac quickly recovered and kissed him back just as eagerly. When they broke the kiss for breath, she raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

“Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?”

Ethan shrugged, the pad of his thumb trailing the faint freckles on her cheeks. The truth was now that he could finally kiss her without needing a reason to and without caring who was around, he couldn't seem to stop.

In this particular instance, it was Naveen who entered the office, clearing his throat meaningfully. They didn't spring apart from one another as they used to, pretending (rather poorly) that they were only colleagues. Instead, they remained in each other's arms as they looked at the Chief. The older man did not seem to mind one bit for he watched them with a warm, proud smile.

“Ready for our meeting with the Board, Ethan?”

“No.”

Naveen chuckled good-naturedly. “It'll be a short one. I'll make sure of it lest Dr. Allende hates me for making her finance work late on his birthday.”

It did not go unnoticed by everyone that Ethan didn't exactly have a visceral reaction to the word, unlike the past years. Naveen shot him a fatherly smile and Lilac pressed a loving, chaste kiss on his cheek.

“I'll wait for you at home.” She waited until the Chief was out of the room to whisper in Ethan's ear, “I have a surprise for you.”

The heady promise stole his attention for the rest of the evening, which was a good thing because the meeting was as useless as he had expected. An hour and a half later, he discovered he was right in rushing home to Lilac.

She was waiting for him in the living, perched on the backrest of the love seat and clad in the shortest silk robe he had ever seen. Her shapely legs were exposed for his viewing pleasure, save for the sheer, black stockings ending with lace at her thighs. The echo of her previous promise adorned everything from her coy smile to the scandalous patch of lace peeking from the neckline of her robe.

“Took you long enough,” she teased in a breathy sort of voice that had an instant effect on him.

She hopped off the sofa, walking toward the dining room, hips swaying with each step. On any regular day, the sight would have been enough inspiration to tease her until she begged him to take her on any given surface of their apartment. In her current attire, he wished to pin her against the wall with primal urgency in ten seconds or less.

“I ordered us food from—”

In one quick stride, he spun her around, his mouth devouring hers in a scorching kiss. Lilac matched his passion, her silk-clad body melting deliciously against his, her arms locking around his neck.

“Happy birthday,” she moaned as he ran his tongue down her neck and into the exposed valley of her breasts.

Ethan had never been happier.

Not only because he was currently peeling the flimsy robe off with his teeth, revealing a lacy black number underneath, but also because of the three words that left her lips, as natural and wondrous as the beautiful sunset through the window.

“I love you.”

He could never tire of hearing them.

___________________________________

Year Four

Ethan awoke to soft, lazy kisses and a curtain of dark hair enveloping them both. When she straightened with a tired smile, he missed the floral scent of her shampoo at once. He groaned in protest and pulled her body against his for another quick kiss, cutting the small shriek of surprise short.

“Good morning,” he greeted between slow, delicious sips of her mouth.

“Good morning indeed,” she sighed in return. At last, when they fully pulled apart, she picked up a tray from the nightstand and set it on his lap. “Happy birthday! I made you pancakes. ”

He took in the pretty array before him, complete with coffee and a small vase of red carnations. Ethan flashed her a grateful grin, not missing the dark circles under her eyes or the exhausted sigh that escaped her as her head sank into the pillows.

“Is that what was burning earlier?”

Lilac laughed dryly, eyes shut. “Laugh all you want, Ramsey, but at least I can actually make them.”

“Touché.”

He savored her offerings in silence, admiring how her cooking had improved dramatically in her years with him. Lilac continued to rest against the pillows, looking so blissful, he couldn't help but smile. Within minutes, her muscles relaxed and her breathing became more even as she drifted into sleep.

The crackle of the speaker on their bedside startled her awake. If that hadn't done it, then the wailing that soon followed would have done it. “He's awake,” she mumbled, already moving to sit up.

Ethan placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, easing her back into the pillows. “I'll go.”

His son's crying subsided as soon as Ethan scooped him up and swayed him gently. He grinned down at his three-month-old, unable to contain the warm pride expanding in his chest.

“Good morning. You're up early after keeping us up for most of the night,” he murmured, kissing his tiny forehead. Ethan would give up all his hours of sleep if it meant holding his perfect son in his arms.

By the time they returned to the bedroom, Lilac was sound asleep, face buried unceremoniously in the pillows. Ethan smiled fondly at his wife, making a mental note to lovingly tease her about the snoring later. Quietly, he settled in bed next to her, carefully setting Jonah facedown on his chest.

Lilac mumbled something incomprehensible, sleepily burrowing into his arm. Jonah, meanwhile, drifted off into an easy sleep against his father's chest. Ethan smiled broadly, the gesture coming much more naturally than in past years, as he enjoyed a quiet morning with his perfect little family.

___________________________________

Year Five

“Happy birthday!” his wife exclaimed. Ethan wasn't sure what his toddler son had shrieked out. All he knew was that he matched his mother's enthusiasm as they presented the small, thickly frosted cake on the counter.

Ethan raised his brows at the creation before him. “You two made this just for me?”

Lilac beamed. “Yep, just Jonah and I.”

The slight pitch in her voice made Ethan chuckle. “I find that hard to believe. One of you barely has the fine motor skills needed to operate in a kitchen.”

“Cachen!” Jonah exclaimed, claiming his father's attention. Ethan bent down and kissed the top of his head.

“And the other is a one year old toddler,” Ethan finished, earning him an adorable glare from his wife.

“You think you're so funny, Ramsey.”

“I know I am, Allende.”

“That’s Allende-Ramsey to you.” Without warning, she scooped up a dollop of frosting and smeared it on Ethan's mouth.

Unfazed, Ethan licked off the excess before pulling her into a kiss. Lilac laughed against his sugar coated lips while Jonah shrieked with happiness, forcing them to pull apart.

“Either way, thank you for making this for me,” he said, gesturing toward the now marred cake.

“Antsina!”

Ethan glanced at his son curiously. “What is he saying?”

Lilac, meanwhile, shook her head comically at their son.

“Ant sina!” the baby repeated, his short arms outstretched towards the cake.

“Aunt Sienna?” Ethan guessed with a small laugh, looking at his wife. “Sienna helped you with this, didn’t she?”

Lilac seemed abashed, looking as though she had half a mind to deny it. Her shoulders dropped in defeat, however, and with a small laugh she said, “I didn’t think my baby would give me away, but yes.” At her husband’s smug smile, she added, “But Jonah and I helped! Jonah tasted the frosting and I helped with the batter.”

Her smile turned sheepish as she thought of something and added, “Actually, your daughter may have helped with that too. This makes for the perfect bowl stand.” Her hands lovingly caressed her very pregnant belly.

Ethan leaned in to kiss it and Jonah, always mimicking his father, leaned in to do the same. Both parents laughed, kissing their son in turn.

“Make a wish,” Lilac instructed as she lit the candles.

A knot formed in his throat as Ethan considered there was no need for that. In the past five years, he had been fortunate enough to find everything he could ever want.

___________________________________

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! I love you all <3

Also, I have hit a major writer’s block when concerning Part 2 of the Miami chapter in the Picta series. Slowly but surely, I am getting there. Thank you for being so patient!

Finally, if you asked me to add you to the tag list and I haven’t, please message me. I am so disorganized and forgetful. I’m so sorry!

___________________________________

tags: @openheart12 , @takeharryandgo , @trappedinfanfiction, @aestheticartsx, @aworldoffandoms, @paulfwesley, @myusualnerdyself, @rookie-ramsey, @ohchoices, @colossalpainintheass, @enmchoices, @i-bloody-love-drake-walker, @choicesfanaf, @openheartthot, @octobereighth, @nazarihoe, @utterlyinevitable, @kites-in-our-skies, @maurine07, @schnitzelbutterfingers, @doilooklikeiknow, @snesdudes, @kingliam2019, @perriewinklenerdie, @cinnamonspongecake, @choicesstan1, @queencarb, @ethxnrxmsey, @missmiimiie, @jens-diamondchoices, @adamsdumortain, @apphia12, @kalogh, @lucy-268, @binny1985, @queenbirbs, @honeyandsunfl0wers, @newcolonies, @lilyvalentine, @rigatonireid, @interobanginyourmom, @parkerattano, @custaroonie, @nikki-2406, @lilypills, @chasingrobbie, @nooruleman, @lonely-mxxnlight, @ruinedbypixels, @shadynaturehilariouscookie, @tsrookie, @mvalentine, @professorkingslay, @drakewalkerfantasy, @casey-v, @helloblueeyedcat, @mysticaurathings, @blossomanarchy, @thegreentwin, @togetherwearerapture, @rookieoh, @ramseysno1rookie, @rookiemarsswiftie, @natashajaniphil, @mysticalgalaxysstuff, @hatescapsicum, @choices-lurker, @kiara-36, @junehiratas, @danijimenezv, @macy-ray85, @adrex04, @canigetanawwjunk, @sanchita012, @overwhelminglyaquarius , @scorpiochick8, @skylarklyon, @starrystarrytrouble, @mercury84choices, @drariellevalentine, @ethanrcmsey, @lion-ess24, @aarisa-frost, @kaavyaethanramsey , @udishaman, @a-crepusculo, @quacksonlover,

#open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #playchoices #my writing #ethan ramsey fanfiction #ethan ramsey x mc #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfiction

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tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Text

(It’s the) Middle of the Night

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family Characters: Scott, Gordon

When he woke, it was dark. But he wasn’t alone.

Well, this serves two purposes - one is some nice new Military Bros content for today’s apparent Military Bros day (yay!), and the other is a little birthday present to myself (it’s gone midnight, it counts) because I wasn’t expecting to get anything else today (it’s 00:46 and already I’ve been proven wrong on that front because internet friends are amazing) so I thought I’d poke at my muses until they gave me something. I’m still not entirely sure what this is, but it’s just nice to have written something again.

When he woke, it was to the distinct feeling of pain. Muffled pain, clearly stifled by painkillers, but pain nonetheless.

That didn’t stop Scott from opening his eyes slowly, scowling a little at the dim lighting in the room. It saved him a headache to go along with the rest of the pain, but it didn’t make it particularly easy to determine where he was.

Although, really, there were very few options. Either he was in hospital, back home in the infirmary, or some third party had decided to take care of him. Scott knew which one he was hoping for.

“Is our sleeping beauty awake?”

The words were cliché, straight out of a bad kidnapping movie, and Scott rolled his eyes. Well, that was one option dismissed, at least. Potentially two, considering the owner of that voice’s opinion on hospitals.

“Yes,” he croaked, letting his head loll sideways until he could make out the hazy shape next to him. “Lights?”

“It’s the middle of the night.” The shape shifted slightly, and then there was a light touch on his shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

Scott huffed, and instantly regretted it as the action ignited the residual pain.

“Okay, stupid question.” The hand rubbed his shoulder gently. “Do you remember what happened?”

Falling rocks.

A little girl.

Scott lunged to sit up, but his brother was clearly prepared for that because hands gripped his shoulders and kept him pinned to the bed.

“She’s fine. Couple of bruises, but you kept her safe.” Fingers dug into his shoulders almost painfully, keeping him from moving. “You, on the other hand, have more than a couple of bruises, and Grandma and Virgil will murder both of us if I let you move just yet.”

Gordon spoke sense, but that didn’t mean Scott had to like it. Still, his body thrummed with repressed pain and his second-youngest brother was apparently finding it entirely too easy to hold him down. He stopped fighting for the moment, knowing that Gordon wouldn’t lie to him about the girl. Something else sparked at his brother’s words, though.

“Virgil?”

“Out on another rescue,” Gordon told him bluntly. “Alan went with him.”

Alan? Scott eyed his present brother suspiciously. “Not you?”

“Well, Alan was hardly going to keep you in line if you woke up, was he?” The words were flippant, and Scott was admittedly still waking up from an unwilling nap, but something struck him as not right about Gordon’s attitude.

He was too tired to try and parse it out the gentle way.

“Gordon.”

“Scott,” his brother mimicked. One hand left his shoulder, brushing lightly through his hair before returning to Gordon’s side as his brother settled back down stiffly in the chair.

Stiffly?

Scott’s eyes narrowed, as if that would help him see in the half-light. It didn’t, but he didn’t need to see to guess what was going on.

“How’s your back?” he asked.

Gordon sighed. “It’s fine, Scott,” he said, although the way he was shifting in place made Scott doubt they had the same definition of ‘fine’. “Just wasn’t a fan of moving boulders so I’m taking it easy tonight.”

Moving boulders. Scott closed his eyes as the implications of that washed over him, only for the other hand to leave his shoulder in favour of a finger jabbing him in the cheek.

“None of that,” Gordon said sternly. “Virgil did most of the work.”

“Virgil’s not the one with a bad back,” Scott muttered, peeling one eye open again to glare at his brother. He got another jab in the cheek for that and lazily shifted his head enough to snap at the offending finger.

Gordon whisked it out of range with a light laugh. A moment later, hands rested lightly on his arm, thumbs brushing bare skin gently.

“A bad back’s not going to stop me saving my brother,” the blond said firmly, just enough steel underlying his words to be at odds with his laugh. The thumbs didn’t stop moving, rubbing light circles onto Scott’s skin.

Scott wanted to argue. If it was anyone else, about anything else, he would have done. But Gordon’s back was its own topic, with its own rules, and no matter how much he wanted to wrap his brother up in cotton wool to make sure he never hurt it again, they had an agreement in place. Gordon’s back was Gordon’s business. As long as he remained honest about how it affected him day to day, Scott wasn’t allowed to try and control what he did.

No matter how much he hated the idea of something one day going wrong.

“I know,” he sighed, swallowing back the protests. Gordon squeezed his arm lightly, in an acknowledgement that his brother knew it hurt him every time he couldn’t stop him. “So, what happened to me?”

Safer waters it might not be, but the subject change sucked away the rest of the lingering tension in the room.

“Boulders don’t make for a good massage, Scott,” Gordon told him airily, before his voice hardened into something more serious. “You’ve got extensive bruising all over, and hairline fractures in three ribs.”

Scott winced. That meant he was grounded for weeks.

He hated being grounded.

Gordon hadn’t let go of his arm. His thumbs were still tracing circles on his skin, a pattern that was more soothing than it had any right to be.

“You should get some sleep,” his brother told him quietly. “It’s the middle of the night, you know.”

“You said,” Scott reminded him. “Why are you still up?” Gordon was strict with his sleep schedule, when rescues didn’t interrupt it, and the middle of the night was an hour his brother didn’t care to see outside of occasional trips to the kitchen for water.

The huff he got in response told him Gordon thought that a stupid question.

“Someone had to watch you,” he pointed out. “Go to sleep, Scott.” Then I can, was left unspoken, but Scott heard it loud and clear. Sneaky, manipulative little brother. “The others won’t be back for hours.”

Gordon would know better than him right now. Still, Scott didn’t want to sleep so soon after regaining consciousness, even if he was weak enough that Gordon could overpower him with ease.

“I don’t need watching,” he protested. Gordon made a sound that was entirely disbelieving in response and he scowled. “You need to sleep.” As if on cue, his brother yawned before letting out a disgruntled noise.

“I can stay awake a while longer,” he insisted, but Scott rolled his eyes.

“Bed, Gordon,” he insisted, trying to pull his arm away. Gordon didn’t loosen his grip. “Gordon.”

He half-expected to have his name mimicked back at him again, but this time that didn’t happen. Instead, his brother sighed, a little sadly. Scott didn’t like that sound at all.

“I’m not leaving you,” his brother said, quiet but determined. “You can’t make me.” His grip on Scott’s arm tightened, enough to puncture through the painkillers and get his arm complaining again in real time. “Not tonight, Scott.”

Despite being fully capable of tight, crushing, squid hugs, Gordon wasn’t particularly clingy all of the time. Alan would cling, Virgil would hover with the promise of bear hugs the moment he sensed something awry, and even John lurked in his own way, but Gordon was content to keep his own personal space unless he was particularly worried – or mischievous.

Gordon didn’t get clingy like this unless there was something else going on in his head, and Scott knew from experience that there really wasn’t any way of getting the squid to let go once his tentacles had grasped on. With Virgil and Alan both out on another rescue, and John as ever up in orbit, there was no way Scott could shake him.

If he was honest, he didn’t want to, either.

“Fine,” he accepted. “But you need to sleep.”

“Scott-”

He didn’t wait for the complaints, twisting his arm around until he had hold of his brother’s wrist. It hurt, but it did its job of silencing his brother. If there was more light, Scott suspected he’d see sharp amber eyes watching him with a mix of confusion and calculation.

“Sleep here,” he said, giving a light tug. The infirmary bed was big enough for both of them, a necessity given the entire family’s tendency to crawl into each other’s beds at the first sign of a nightmare. Bruising and hairline fractures would survive a bedfellow.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Injuries and nightmares came hand-in-hand.

The grip on his arm slackened, then fell away entirely. Gordon didn’t pull away from him, though, and Scott kept his grip as his brother moved.

Sheets rustled and shifted, exposing him to a rush of cooler air that raised goosebumps all over his body before the mattress dipped and a warm body pressed up against his.

While there was space for two, in theory, Scott had been placed in the middle of the bed, leaving Gordon to squish himself in the smaller gap between his body and the edge of the bed. Instinctively, Scott tried to shift over, but arms and legs wrapped around him loosely enough not to agitate his bruising, but firmly enough to keep him pinned in place.

“I’m fine,” Gordon said, breath tickling Scott’s neck. Hair brushed against his jaw, smelling faintly of chlorine as always. “Plenty of room.” Scott doubted that, but his brother’s hold on him was firm enough that he couldn’t move anyway. “Don’t forget to get some sleep, Scott.” There was a yawn near his ear, punctuating Gordon’s words. “Night.”

Gordon was good at falling asleep. Not like Alan – teenagerhood and adrenaline crashing the youngest Tracy where he stood on multiple occasions – but more befitting the military lifestyle he’d once led. There, sleep was precious, and being able to nod off at the drop of a hat was a vital skill. Scott had long since lost that to sleepless nights of paperwork and what-ifs, but somehow, despite everything, Gordon could still do it. The breath tickling his neck sank into something slow and even almost immediately.

His own personal lullaby.

Scott had no intentions of falling back asleep again, but Gordon hadn’t left him with a lot of options. The warmth of his brother soothed the pain, and the breathing against his neck soothed his mind.

It didn’t take long for his eyelids to slide shut again.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #gordon tracy #thunderwhump #thunderfluff #(it's the) middle of the night

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minijenn · 3 years

Text

Keys Comm #5

Woooo baby we got a big ol bundle of angst with this comm. Its for an anonymous commissioner, who wanted some angsty interactions between Sora and Young Xehanort following (spoilers?) Sora officially joining the Organization in Keys. This is a pretty fun dynamic to explore (its why its popped up in the last two chapters cause I think its fascinating), so enjoy the angstfest ahead (also if you reblog this do not tag any ships bc thats not what this is if you do i will scratch your eyes out k thanx!)

***

Even though he’s died on more than one occasion, Sora has never felt closer to death’s door than he does now. Now that he’s following his foes willingly, walking through the gates of a castle he’d once stormed as a conquering hero. Only to return as nothing more than a lowly slave.

Ansem and Xemnas head off in separate ways not long after they arrive, leaving Sora alone with Young Xehanort. The young master turns to him with his usual calm grin, though it's tinged with a touch of smug satisfaction that Sora might have once found sickening. But now, he can only incline his head in forced respect for his master, listening in solemn silence to whatever it is he has to say.

“Welcome to your true home, my thirteenth,” he says cordially. “After your last visit here, I trust you know your way around, so I’ll spare you the grand tour. I will, however, gladly show you to your room.”

Sora glances up at this, caught off guard. “...My room?”

“Of course,” Young Xehanort beckons him to follow as he continues on through the castle’s grayscale halls. “Did you really think we’d be barbaric enough to force our most invaluable member to sleep in a dungeon cell?”

“That’s… exactly what I was thinking…” Sora mutters, glancing down.

“I know,” Young Xehanort returns, reminding him yet again that his thoughts are essentially an open book to be read by his master, both old and young alike. “Still, I’m sure you’ll appreciate the room we’ve prepared for you. It used to belong to our previous thirteenth member, you know.”

Sora’s gaze snaps up when he hears this, a pang of grief tugging at his heart at even this indirect mention of Roxas. At even just the thought of any of the beloved friends he’s now lost forever. That grief stings even more when he steps through the threshold of the chamber Young Xehanort takes him to, a clean, largely vacant bedroom that he can all too easily imagine Roxas occupying. A bedroom that’s meant for the Organization’s thirteenth member, both back then… and even now.

“You can take all the time you’d like to settle in later,” Young Xehanort says, still standing in the doorway. “Your induction ceremony is set to begin shortly, and you mustn’t be late for it.”

“I-induction?” Sora glances back at him, confused.

“A way for you to formally accept your place among your fellow members,” Young Xehanort explains. “Believe me when I say they’re all very eager to welcome you into the fold, Sora. However, you will not stand before your Organization wearing that.”

Sora looks down at his usual clothes, already anticipating where this is likely going. Even so, he tries to bite back the rising dread when he asks the obvious question. “What will I be wearing then?”

Young Xehanort’s former grin returns as a bundle of black fabric appears over his outstretched arm. Sora takes in a small, sharp breath when he sees it, the final piece to tie his hideous new appearance together, meant to show exactly what side he stands on now. The side of darkness, the side of his master, the side of Organization XIII.

Sora says nothing as he takes the coat, staring down at it in muted despair. Of course, Young Xehanort only serves to rub salt in the wound with what he has to say next. “Wear it with pride, my thirteenth. It was made to help you to look the part of the role you’re very soon about to play.”

“...What “part” is that anyway?” Sora dares to ask, even though he knows he shouldn’t. “Now that I’m here, don’t I at least deserve to finally know why you chose me and what you want me to do?”

“You’ve already been told why,” Young Xehanort tells him as he turns to leave. “As for what… you’ll learn that in due time, my thirteenth. For now, you have an hour to prepare for your ceremony. I’ll be back to collect you when you’re ready. And remember: everything from the life you knew before must be cast off before you step into our ranks. You belong to us now, Sora; never forget that.”

“I-I won’t… master,” Sora replies, wishing with every fiber of freedom his ruined mind and broken heart has left that he could.

“Very good,” Young Xehanort says, still smiling as he leaves his thirteenth vessel to himself. True to his word, he returns exactly an hour later, and is visibly pleased to see Sora fully clad in his new black coat, finally ready to perfectly fit in among his fellow seekers of darkness.

“Our attire suits you well, Sora,” Young Xehanort notes as he looks over his newest vessel. “Isn’t this much better than those ridiculous clothes the lights gave you to wear?”

Sora doesn’t answer; instead, he glances back at those clothes, folded neatly on the bed behind him. Young Xehanort notices them too, as well as the look of longing written all over Sora’s face. Longing for something he can no longer be a part of. “I’ll dispose of those for you,” he offers, extending a hand out to receive them.

Sora hesitates, his sights still set on the clothes before he briefly offers his master a morose, pleading glance. “C-can I keep them? Please?”

“Really?” Young Xehanort raises a critical eyebrow at this request. “You wish to keep something that will only ever serve to remind you of all of the pain and turmoil you’ve been through? Didn’t you come here to escape the grief the loss of the lights left you with? Wouldn’t you much rather forget about the life you left behind? Don’t you want a fresh start, Sora? A clean slate? A new beginning with your new family?”

No, Sora desperately wants to say, but he doesn’t. He knows he can’t; because whatever family he used to have and love so dearly is long gone now. And the only one he has left is a family he never once thought he’d be a part of. Until now. “Y-yes,” he says softly, a single tear streaking down his cheek. “I do…”

“Then let us go so that family can receive you,” Young Xehanort says, his hand still held out. “But first, your old clothes.” Sora hesitantly nods, slowly taking the clothes from his bed before handing them over to the young master, his hands trembling all the while. “You may not believe it yet, my thirteenth,” Young Xehanort continues, urging Sora onward down the hall. “But you truly do belong here with us. At long last, you’re finally home.”

Sora says nothing to this, his head hung in saddened silence as he begins his solemn march to his long-awaited induction ceremony. Young Xehanort lingers behind for a moment as a dark corridor appears behind him and Saïx steps out of it, exactly as he requested. “Burn these,” the young master coldly commands, handing Sora’s old clothes over to the other member before he continues on his way. “I never want to see them again.”

***

Sora quickly finds that in a world with no real passage of time, the days blend together in a dull, dreary drudgery. He isn’t given any specific tasks to carry out like his fellow members are, with his master merely explaining that his true role is meant to be carried out “at a later time”. So instead, he’s largely left to his own devices. And most of that idle time is spent alone in his room, overwhelmed by grief as he openly despairs over everything that he so swiftly lost.

That grief hardly stays contained to his room however. His powers react to his immense misery, blackened spikes bursting from the gray ground not just in his chambers, but throughout the hallway surrounding it too. Complaints begin to file in from the other members, who find the unbreakable spires to be a gaudy nuisance at best and an impassable obstacle to getting around their own home at worst. And those complaints are what prompts Young Xehanort to pay his newest vessel a visit in the hopes of nipping this newfound problem in the bud.

He enters his thirteenth’s room without knocking, finding Sora sitting on his bed, his knees pulled to his chest and his face buried in them as he weeps softly. Countless black spikes litter the area surrounding him, all but destroying the once pristine room. Young Xehanort scowls as he steps past one of those spikes, interrupting his vessel’s despondent sobs when he speaks up.

“Why are you still mourning over the past?” he asks and Sora glances up with a startled gasp, his eyes still red with tears. “It’s been 2 weeks since you’ve joined our ranks, my thirteenth. You must learn to move on.”

“I-I… I can’t…” Sora looks away, his voice quiet and pained. “I miss them so much…”

“No, you don’t,” Young Xehanort counters as he approaches the bed. “What you miss is the memory of how you felt about them. If you let those feelings go, then you can finally find the strength to move forward.”

“I… I don’t know how to let them go…” Sora admits, leaving out the fact that he doesn’t want to let them go either. That he doesn’t want to forget them or how he felt about them or how much he loved them, how much he still loves them, even now that they’re all long gone.

“Then allow me to show you,” Young Xehanort extends a hand out. And despite his better judgement, it's a hand that Sora anxiously takes as he lets his master ease him into properly sitting up.

“The lesson you need to learn here is a simple one,” Young Xehanort begins, taking a seat on the bed next to him. “Your emotions weigh you down; they always have, and if you continue to let them get the better of you, they always will. You’ve been letting those emotions, your fear, your grief, your worry, cloud your mind and rule your heart. Your magic thus responds to them in turn, making your powers chaotic and uncontrollable.” He places a hand against one of the several spikes surrounding them. “Stopping those emotions from coming completely will take much time and practice for someone as young as you, but you can accomplish it eventually. In the meantime, you can start by suppressing them. And in doing so, you can finally begin to truly live the new life I’ve so generously given to you.”

Sora stays silent for a long moment upon hearing all this, trying to soak it all in. His tears have stopped by now as he finally takes stock of the mess his magic has made of his room, at the disastrous danger he’s always known his powers to pose. He tries to call them back in, but with his sadness still stirring so strongly within him, he finds it to be a largely impossible feat. Unless… “Suppress them?” he looks to his master, lost and confused. “Y-you mean… pretend I don’t feel… anything anymore?”

“Precisely,” Young Xehanort nods. “Pretend… until everyone around you believes in the mask you’ve put on. Until you believe in it yourself. And when you do, suddenly you’ll find that you won’t even have to pretend any longer. The mask will become real.”

This kind of advice is something that’s entirely new to Sora. All his life, he’s been told that his emotions are important, that they matter, that they’re what make him strong, what make him bold, what make him human. But now, he’s being told to throw those emotions away, to cast them off and put on the same mask of cold indifference that every other one of his fellow members so easily wears. It’s not a mask he wants, nor is it one he welcomes; but if it can numb the pain he still so powerfully feels, at least in some small way, then it's a mask he knows he might as well wear. At least until he doesn’t have to anymore.

So he closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and forces those emotions back into the depths of his heart. For as difficult as it might be, he somehow shoves the grief, the guilt, the pain, all of it under the surface, just as his master had said. And, when he opens his eyes again, he finds that every single one of the spikes his emotions had unintentionally created… is gone.

“I… it worked…” he balks, genuinely surprised.

“So it did,” Young Xehanort nods his approval. “But this is just the start of what you could do if you learned to truly control your powers, Sora. Your magic is very unique, so strong, yet so untamed in its current state. The lights wanted you to lock that magic, that part of yourself that’s so natural and so special, away simply because they deemed it to be ‘dangerous’. But here in the darkness, you’re free to wield those powers however and whenever you please. You’re finally free to be yourself.”

Free… not to express his emotions anymore, but his powers in their place. And really, now that he’s come all this way and has started settling into his place among the shadows, that’s exactly what Sora realizes he needs to do. To embrace who he is now… and leave behind whoever he used to be.

“P-please,” he begins, looking to his master earnestly. “I want to… I’ve never been able to…” he trails off, shaking his head as he steadies himself and starts his request again. “C-can you show me how to use my powers the right way, master?”

Young Xehanort grins broadly, a spark of what almost seems like pride flashing across his face as he places a hand on his newest vessel’s shoulder. “Oh, my thirteenth,” he says, his grip on the boy tightening ever so slightly as he speaks. “I would be more than happy to.”

***

Sora does what he can to avoid the other Organization members. He isn’t fond of the idea of forming a friendly relationship with any of his foes-turned-allies, and he’s certain just about all of them feel the same. So he mostly keeps to himself, only really leaving his room for the sake of magic lessons with his master and to fetch some food every few times a day. For the most part, he isn’t bothered by any of the other members he happens to pass by on his way to the castle’s kitchen. A few, such as Vexen or Demyx, will sometimes shoot him dirty looks, but otherwise won’t say anything to him. But of course, today on his way to get something for lunch, he’s unfortunate enough to quite literally run into two of the members who openly hate him most.

He’s largely lost in his own thoughts when he rounds a corner, only to collide squarely into Larxene. “Ugh! Stupid brat!” she hisses, harshly shoving Sora to the ground. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?!”

“Now, now, Larxene,” Marluxia says as he steps in to stand alongside her. “We shouldn’t be so rude to our newest member. After all, I’m sure it's very hard for him to focus on much of anything other than how much he misses his dearest, now-dead friends…”

“Pfft,” Larxene snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, poor little kiddo must be soooo lonely.” She grins wickedly as she suddenly reaches down, grabbing Sora by the front of his coat and pulling him up off the ground. “If you’re that bummed out, why don’t we keep you company for awhile?”

“N-no thanks,” Sora shudders, trying his best to pull away from Larxene’s surprisingly tight grip. “You really don’t have to-”

“Nonsense,” Marluxia says with a smug smirk to perfectly match Larxene’s. “We’d be remiss if we didn’t take the opportunity to spend some… quality time with our newest member. And besides-” Sora gasps in sudden fear when Marluxia summons his deadly scythe, Larxene’s knives flashing into her free hand as she holds them up threateningly. “We both have some unfinished business with you, number thirteen.”

Larxene abruptly throws him to the ground once more, calling upon a dark barrier in the space behind Sora to keep him from slipping away. “Aw, don’t look so scared, Sora,” she chuckles as both her and Marluxia brandish their weapons. “We just wanna have a little fun with you…”

“Fun indeed…” Marluxia agrees, drawing the tip of his scythe in dangerously close to Sora. “And perhaps… just a little payback too…”

Sora is unable to stifle a pained cry as the scythe suddenly rips across the right side of his jaw, creating a long, deep cut that tears all the way up toward his nose. The blood from it leaks across the rest of his face, to the point that he accidentally catches a taste of the bitter fluid when it inevitably leaks into his mouth. He doesn’t get a chance to nurse the new wound however, before a sharp, brutal shock ripples its way through his body, sending him flying back hard into the barrier behind him. Larxene laughs in twisted amusement as she keeps her electrifying magic pouring into him, until he quickly reaches the point where he can’t bear the agony of it any longer.

“S-stop!” he cries in the seconds between shocks. “P-please… stop…”

“You’ve resorted to begging for mercy?” Marluxia sneers unsympathetically. “And just when I thought you couldn’t get any more pathetic.”

“Seriously, what are you? Some kind of dumb dog that thinks those sad little puppy eyes of yours will convince us to cut you some slack? Please,” Larxene scoffs, raising her knives to toss them his way. “Get over yourself. You might have gotten lucky enough to beat us both before, but you’re nothing now.”

“Nothing more than a shadow of who you used to be,” Marluxia adds, raising his scythe high for another painful strike. Sora braces himself for the brunt of both attacks, closing his eyes and shielding himself away from the vicious torture they both intend to put him through. And yet in the end, those attacks never come.

He opens his eyes seconds later when he hears the sounds of Marluxia and Larxene’s weapons striking solid metal. The pair winces in apt surprise when Young Xehanort fends them off, using a bit of his own dark magic to swiftly shove them both away. He stands in the space between the duo and Sora, his Keyblade called upon seemingly for the purpose of defending his newest vessel from their violent ire.

“Do you two really have nothing better to do with your time than harass our newest member?” he scowls coldly at Marluxia and Larxene as they begin to pick themselves back up from his brutal attack.

“W-we were just-”

“I know exactly what you were doing,” Young Xehanort abruptly cuts Larxene off. “Whatever disdain you might harbor for our thirteenth must be put behind you. He is one of us now, and I expect you to treat him as such. Do you both understand or is that too much for your simple minds to comprehend?”

Marluxia and Larxene exchange frustrated glance at this, both of them clearly humbled and embarrassed by their young master’s admonishment. In the end, however, Larxene crosses her arms, simply nodding as she glares away. Marluxia is similarly bitter as he offers his answer aloud. “Yes, master.”

“Then in that case, you’re both dismissed to return to your actual duties instead of wasting your time standing around here,” Young Xehanort instructs, dismissively waving them both away.

The pair quickly retreats after this, though not before they both look past Young Xehanort to offer Sora one final hateful glare. He only barely hears Larxene hiss something about him being “master’s pet” to Marluxia before they round the next corner, finally leaving him alone with that master once more.

“I apologize for the misguided hostility of your fellow members, Sora,” Young Xehanort turns to him, extending a hand out to help him up. “It seems as though some of them are having a hard time letting the past go. Are you alright?”

As shaken as he still is by the recent attack, Sora struggles to collect himself enough to do much of anything else outside of accepting the hand his young master is offering to him. “I… y-you… you saved me…” he mutters, bewildered by the very thought.

“Of course, I did,” Young Xehanort offers him a cordial, almost kindly smile. “You’ve suffered more than enough by now. There is no need for you to suffer any more, especially at the hands of your own allies. You’ve been through enough of that when you were back with the lights, I’m sure.”

Sora sighs at this mention of his lost friends, though he maintains his mask well enough as he lightly traces the scar now marring most of his face. He flinches when Young Xehanort suddenly reaches out to touch it too, though as soon as his fingers so much as skim the still-bleeding cut, his skin weaves itself back together, the pain that it caused him all but disappearing completely.

“There,” the young master tilts his vessel’s chin up a bit to inspect his now-clean face. “Like it never happened. After a few more of our lessons together, I’m sure you’ll be more than capable of defending yourself against the petty wrath fellow members might decide to inflict against you. But until then, you can depend on me to protect you, my thirteenth.”

Even against the emotions he’s still trying to keep hidden under the mask, Sora can’t help but feel something he can’t believe he has toward his young master of all people. A sense of genuine gratitude, a deep, genuine gratefulness for the protection Young Xehanort is offering him, for the kindness he’s extended toward him in a time when he so desperately needs it most. In the absence of anyone he might have once sought that same sort of kindness from instead. “T-thank you… master,” he whispers, bowing his head in respect that, perhaps for the first time, is completely earnest, completely on his own accord.

“Think nothing of it, my thirteenth,” Young Xehanort’s smile widens in the satisfaction of knowing he now has Sora exactly where he wants him. In knowing that he now owns every part of his thirteenth vessel: body, heart, and mind alike. “After all, it’s my job to warmly welcome you into our ranks. And I’m so glad to see that you're finally starting to feel like you’re right at home here with us. With me.”

Commissions are CLOSED

#jen writes #keys to the kingdom #kingdom hearts #commissions #writing commissions #sora #soranort #young xehanort #larxene #marluxia #saix #organization xiii #blood tw #drabble prompts #keys spoilers???#do not tag as ship #i mean it

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isthisthingeven0n · 4 years

Text

no thanks, dude : j.w

brief summary: jeff has a crush on you, and yet you’re oblivious to it. but when jonah tries to hit on you, jeff can’t keep his feelings supressed any longer

word count: 1.3k requested: yes,by the very sweet @squishybebe - i hope you like it love! warnings: jonah being a dick, creepy vibes

* masterlistin’ / masterlistin’ 2.0

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website know it hasn’t been approved me unless specified. all rights reserved. - i have to start doing this as I had some shit on my other blog with plagiarism)

“Wait, lemme see it!” You chuckle as you reach over Carly, grabbing Jeff’s phone as he protests.

Leaning back, you scroll through the Tweets as you suppress your laugh. “It’s just an idea, alright. I’m not saying you have to.” Jeff mutters, seeing a smile creep across your lips.

“And why wouldn’t I? I mean, my hair is in need of TLC.” You admit, lifting the dead ends of your hair as Jeff focuses on your furrowed brows as you focus on your hair intently.

“You’re seriously willing to come on the show?” Jeff questions as you nod in response. “You’ve seen the show right, I’ve only ever done girls hair like twice.” He reminds you, noting the look you give to Carly.

“Those weren’t so bad.” You tell him sweetly, unaware of Jeff internally lighting up at your soft comment. “I’m not after much anyway, but if fans wanna see it I’m down.” You hold out his phone to him as he accepts it back, looking through the tweets once more.

“Go on Jeff, you’re in need of content.” Carly inputs with a small laugh and all Jeff can do is nod as he focuses back on you.

“Alright, how’s Thursday morning work for you?” He rises to his feet as you do, quickly seeing you lean forward and embrace him in a tight hug.

“Perfect, thanks, Jeff!” You smile brightly as you pull away from him and head out of the house. “See you guys later.” You call out as you close the door, leaving Jeff stood still as he remains stunned.

“You ever going to tell her?” Carly glances up as a blush crosses over Jeff’s cheeks.

Snapping out of his daze, Jeff clears his throat. “Maybe.” He mutters before sitting back down with a thud. “But maybe not.”

Walking up toward his apartment, you send a text to let him know you’re about to arrive.

As you reach out to knock on the door, it opens for you. “Hey, Jeff-” You start, but as you avert your gaze from your phone, Jonah stands before you with a weird smile across his face.

“Hey, Y/n. Come on in, Jeff’s just setting up.” He moves aside, allowing you to walk past as his eyes focus on your body, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by some of the crew.

Wandering through the set, some of the crew notice the sight of your smile growing as Jeff walks out. “Y/n, glad you made it.” Jeff tries to keep his composure, but something about you just makes him weak at the knees.

“Jonah let me in, I hope that’s okay.” You say as you glance over your shoulder to see Jonah a lot closer than you had anticipated. Turning back to face Jeff, you force a small smile as you tug on your sleeve in discomfort. “So, need any help setting up?”

Jeff looks around, seeing everything is ready to go. He takes a step back and moves to stand behind the barber's chair. “Ready when you are, dollface.” He jokes with a thick New York accent and instantly cringes whilst you laugh, unaware of the glare that’s caught on camera of Jonah.

As Jeff starts to film, you try to remain perfectly calm and remain focused on what Jeff is saying to you. However, Jonah’s lingering eyes aren’t helping the situation, especially as he glugs his coke in the background of the video.

“Jonah, dude can you not? I’m trying to film.” Jeff glares over at Jonah who lowers the drink from his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before sighing.

“I didn’t hear any complaints from Y/n.” He remarks, and your eyes widen as you look over, a curt laugh escaping your lips. “See? She thinks I’m funny.”

Lowering your eyes you mutter under your breath. “Not exactly.”

Jeff smiles to himself, having heard your comment before he carries on shooting. “Okay, so let’s just start on your hair I guess.” He lifts the ends up, allowing them to fall over your shoulders as he pulls out a chair and sits beside you.

You can feel his breath on your cheek as he leans in, snipping away at the ends. “So, Y/n.” He speaks up, hearing you hum in response. “How’d you get your start?”

“Okay, let’s take a ten-minute break. Just check the lights and the audio.” One of the crew speaks up, and you slide from the chair to your feet.

“Wanna water?” Jeff asks as his hand rests on your arm, brushing off as you nod.

As Jeff walks away, Jonah forces himself up from the armchair. “Nice cut,” Jonah speaks up and you lift your head up, locking your phone as you reply to a text.

“Oh, thanks.” You reply, looking down at the fresh trim. “Always causes a lotta mess though.” You joke uneasily as everyone around you remains busy.

Jonah looks down at your chest. “You’ve got some hair on your,” He reaches out toward your right boob and his fingers graze across it firmly.

“What the fuck, Jonah!” You speak up, louder than intended as you bat his hand away.

Upon hearing you, Jeff moves through his apartment and pushes Jonah aside. As he stands in front of you, he can see the evident disgust in your expression and his eyes harden onto Jonah.

“What did you do?” Jeff grits his teeth as he stands in front of you whilst keeping an eye on Jonah who merely giggles.

“She had some lose hair on her boob, I just went to brush it off.” Jonah shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal and looks around to see everyone mirroring one another with dirty gazes at him. “What?” He scoffs as Jeff clenches his fist.

“Jeff,” You mutter, resting your hand over his fist. “he’s not worth it, honestly.” Your voice rises and Jonah raises an eyebrow to you.

“Oh, I’m not worth it suddenly?” He retorts to you. “What was with the looks you were giving me earlier, laughing at my jokes?” He lists off, but you shake your head in disbelief.

“Jonah, I’ve never shown an interest in you. It’s called being polite.” You state bluntly, moving aside from Jeff.

“If that’s polite I’d hate to see friendly,” Jonah mutters under his breath, and this time you’re too slow to hold Jeff back from lunging at Jonah and tackling him to the armchair.

“Jeff!” You yell, but a member of the crew holds you back as Jeff pins Jonah down, his arm leaning against his neck.

“You ever talk to her like that again, I’ll fucking end you.” Jeff spits to Jonah, who simply nods. “I’m going to let you go, and you’re fucking leaving here alright.”

Moving his arm aside, Jonah rises to his feet and pulls on his shirt before heading toward the door without another word being said.

Remaining still, Jeff tries to calm down his breathing. “Jeff?” Your voice snaps him from his thoughts as he turns around to see you timidly stood. “Are you alright?” You ask quietly, resting your hand on his cheek.

Naturally, Jeff feels himself leaning into your embrace. “After all that, you’re asking if I’m okay?” He questions, seeing you nod in response.

“Well of course,” You tell him. “because I care about you.” The words roll off of your tongue with ease.

“Yeah, like friends.” Jeff shrugs a shoulder, trying to protect himself. But to his surprise, you shake your head as you lean in toward him.

“Maybe more than just friends.” You mutter as you search his expression for any uncertainty, but all he does is smile back as his hands rest on your waist, pulling you in and never wanting to let go.

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cherrywoes · 3 years

Text

i. i wish i could say i'm sorry.

tw (general): graphic descriptions of blood, gore, sexual content, violence, homicide, physical torture, psychological torture, rape, dubcon, drugs, overdosing, suicide, cannibalism (brief desc/mention), knife play, wax play, dacryphilia, sadism, masochism, bdsm, corsetry, human trafficking, drug trafficking, oral fixation, thigh kink, stocking fetish, food play (and more to be named.)

tw (this chapter): teeth pulling with handcuffs, blood/gore.

THERE WERE THIRTY cinder blocks that made up the sidewall of your cell. Plain, white, unadorned with much else except for photos embedded into the stone with crude pins made out of fork prongs, they had served as both your entertainment and torturers; you counted each individual block and seam of filling down to a microscopic level, eyes flicking over each twist and bend in the layout. You had memorized it, of course, after a time—it was instinct at this point for you to scan the walls, making sure a block hadn’t been magically added into your cell to throw off your count. Each little divot in the spaces between drew your gaze, following patterns that you could imagine were there for a reason, even if they were likely mere coincidence.

“Inmate Akamine.”

The collar of your prison uniform itched at your neck, the cheap white fabric scraping against the flesh under your chin. You reached up reflexively to scratch it, blunt nails digging harshly into the afflicted skin without thought, ignoring the cop standing at the door of your cell with the telltale clinking of cuffs echoing through the open slat at the top of the steel contraption. You could feel the man staring holes into you when you didn’t reply, still lazily scratching at your neck to the point where skin could have started peeling underneath your fingers and you wouldn’t have been the wiser.

“Inmate Akamine,” the cop repeated, knocking the cuffs against the door. “Stand up and face the back wall and put your hands behind your back.”

You knew this routine. You would face the back wall, like he wanted you to, and he would put the cuffs on just a little too tightly, enough for you to feel the pinch of your wrists in the metal and leave something of a bruise or open wound later. You would then be escorted down the white halls, the other inmates as quiet as the grave, watching through the slats as you passed by, head raised high and spine straight. When you reached a certain point in the halls, the cop would stop and push you into a small, cramped room, no more than ten cinder blocks high and with a shitty fluorescent lightbulb swinging from the ceiling by a bare wire. Unsecured to the ceiling, it would swing slowly, tauntingly, from the force of the air conditioning vent beside it, never resting, never coming to a standstill. The room would smell like old paper and mildew and dark coffee wafting in through the underside of the door, creeping from the faculty room just next door where, more often than not, someone was cooking either strawberry flavored pop tarts or blueberry muffins within—it never differentiated. Inside this ten cinder block high room there would be a man waiting for you, sitting in a rickety metal chair with faux leather backing and cheap cotton to provide support. The metal legs would scrape against the floor as he rose to greet you with a too wide smile and too white teeth, his weight slightly too much and tilting the unstable square table slightly forward, rocking it towards you in his haste. He would then crush the wire tap in the potted plant in the corner beneath his fingers, fling it into the fresh, damp soil, and wipe his hands with a satisfied harumph. With yet another smile, he would unlock your cuffs with a skeleton key and lay them on the table, hands splayed wide in a gesture of goodwill. When you nodded your acknowledgement and took a seat across from him, only then would he produce a single immaculately rolled cigar from his lapel, clip it, and pass it over to you. You would huff and press it between your lips and allow him to light it with a cheap plastic lighter, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke from your nose that overpowered the smell of mold and paper and coffee and blueberry muffins or strawberry poptarts. When you had taken a few deep inhales, the air around your head thick with smoke, he would smile and lay his phone in the center of the table, press call, and scuttle out the door before the line picked up and you opened your mouth to speak.

“You know the drill,” the cop added, as an afterthought.

You got to your feet with the groan and complaint of your knees to accompany you. Years of sleeping on a thin mattress full of springs and a lack of exercise had destroyed your body’s constitution. Your neck popped when you rolled it experimentally, easing the tension in your spine and shoulders, turning to face the wall and putting your hands behind your back, fingers rubbing against each other in patient habit. The cold of the floor seeped through the cheap slippers they had given you, turning your toes to ice, but you had stopped complaining after the first week.

The metal door slid open with a disturbing squeal. The cop stepped inside, clearing his throat, smelling of nicotine and the pop tarts you hated so much. The key ring at his side tinkled when he moved to put the cuffs around your hands, cinching them a little too tight, fingers lingering a little too long when he stepped back and gripped your elbow, forcing you around to the open door.

You stepped through the threshold, toes still impossibly cold as the cop escorted you down the hallway. There was no jeering from your fellow inmates, no screaming or shouting or yelling but an impenetrable silence that lasted as you passed easily by the room of mold and coffee and paper, the cop’s encouraging hand upon your back and slipping dangerously close to your backside—a new development—sitting just upon the dimples in your back, made more prominent from lack of good food and terrible mattresses. His hand did not stray any lower, but you could feel his gaze burning into you as he directed you to turn a corner and face the long, artificially lit hallway leading to the first step of your freedom.

“Oyabun,” a man greeted when you entered the door. Dressed in a fine three piece suit, your family lawyer fixed you with a pretty smile and lowered eyes. A black Japanese koi crawled up the side of his neck and behind his ear, fresh work, the ink still dark and prominent upon his skin. There was no cigar waiting in his lapel for you; there was no burner cell tucked away in his coat for your use; there was no cheap lighter sitting in his pocket, mingling with spare change and buds of marijuana that clung to the plastic. “It is good to see you are well.”

The door closed behind you with the careful snick of a lock.

“Shingiin,” you replied calmly, with a voice that wasn’t quite pleased. “Nao. I take it your presence here is a sign that things are going well?”

His answering smile was as dark as the thoughts swirling around in your head. “Of course, Mama. We’ve all missed you, you know; being cooped up in Tokyo without you wasn’t nearly as fun as when you were there.”

“Of course it isn’t,” you answered knowingly, the tiniest of grins working up your lips. The cuffs bit into your skin tauntingly. “But I’m sure you’re not here to talk memories with me, are you, Nao?”

He shook his head, that gorgeous dark hair shining in the artificial light fixture above him. Nao was a very pretty creature of your own making—one of your many joys in life, no less, carefully cultivated from the streets and raised into a proper businessman and lawyer. He was as loyal a dog as they came and he obeyed when you called, heeled when you ordered it, and listened only to you, as all things should be. He owed everything to you, [Name] Akamine, and would drop dead in a heartbeat if you so wished it.

“No,” he laughed, then. His dark eyes twinkled merrily when he opened his briefcase and slid a manila file over to you, opening it up to the first page. In large, bold black letters, ‘case dismissed’ caught your eye. “I’m just here to give you the good news. Your case has been dismissed on the grounds of improper conduct, false evidence, and reports of extortion.”

You raised an eyebrow playfully, a true smile coming to your lips.

“Congratulations, Oyabun.” Nao Akamine stood and bowed low at the waist, victory in his voice. “You win yet again.”

“Do I ever lose?” You replied, peering over the papers with a keen eye. “It was only a matter of time. Tell me, when is my release date?”

Nao’s smile was positively vicious when he replied,”As soon as tomorrow, Mama.”

With that, you closed your eyes with a relieved sigh.

Prison whites never looked good on you, anyway.

“Tomorrow,” you repeated slowly. Your wrists twisted in the cuffs thoughtfully, digging deep into the skin, and fixed the file with an interested stare. Your lips, chapped and bitten harshly enough to draw blood, pursed when the edge of a photo caught your eye. Tucked between the papers, you wouldn’t have noticed it at all had it not been jostled by Nao sliding it across the table for you to see. With a jerk of your chin, you nodded to the picture. “What’s that?”

He pulled the photo free from its confines. It was a standard polaroid, the square photo within in black and white and slightly blurry from movement. Whoever had taken it had an unsteady hand or had been in a hurry. You scrutinized it as well as you could without the use of your hands, eyes flicking over a feminine face: pretty, unusually pretty, with oil black hair, a defining mole in the bottom right corner of her chin, and slate gray eyes framed by dark lashes. The photo had only caught her face and part of her ear, her surroundings too blurred to make out, but you could pick out the reflection of kanji in the glare of her glasses.

“Shimizu Kiyoko,” Nao provided helpfully, placing the photo on the table with a sly smile. From the same file, he produced three more photos, each depicting three men who were unfamiliar to you. Each of them appeared civilian, mundane, in the same blurry haste that the woman’s had been taken in. “She’s the provider for a new gang grouping up in the underground. We discovered them by chance, really—she’s good, but she’s sloppy. So are the rest of them.”

You expected as much. “And the three men?”

“Sawamura Daichi.” The dark haired male slid a photo forward. It depicted a man with close cropped deep brown hair, doe brown eyes, and a severe expression upon his face. Sunglasses were perched on his nose, obscuring some of his face, but the tattoo underneath his ear served well enough as identification. “He’s the ringleader in all of this, of course. He’s Ukai’s… protege, so to speak.”

A low hum escaped your lips. “I see. Does he have Ukai’s contacts? His supply lines?”

“No.” Nao smiled, then, and produced a stack of enlarged photos. They were heavy and glossy, produced with expensive stock and not polaroids. They were clear and pristine, and you could recognize the blood upon the walls and the teeth scattered on the concrete—more than one set, if your eyes were proving you right. You even spotted a gold cap littered among the rest of the pearly white front teeth, as familiar to you as the person who had put it in their mouth; you could just see the smile, the sharp edge of that golden canine when his lips were just too expressive to cover it. There were body parts and organs strewn about, of course, taken in the middle of cleanup, but they were of less interest to you. “We got rid of them as the old man’s will was being handed over. It was quick, clean, and they’ll have little idea who did it. Unless you want them to, of course, Mama.”

“I want his teeth,” you said, after a moment of consideration. “They’ll look lovely on my mantle, don’t you think?”

And Nao sighed in both amusement and adoration, tucking the photos back into the floppy manila file. “They’ll be stunning, [Name]-sama.”

“What of the other two?” You interrupted, eyes turning to the photos he had yet to hide from you. He stilled momentarily under your gaze, finely pressed suit enhancing the sharp lines of his torso and shoulders. A closer look revealed reluctance, hesitation, but like a dog with a bone, you persisted, moving so close to him that you could smell the tobacco on his breath and the mint of his toothpaste. “Acquaintances of yours? Friends? Old family?” A minute twitch of his pretty mouth. “Old family, then. I thought I taught you better, Nao.”

“You did, [Name]-sama,” he reassured you. He didn’t dare look up and into your eyes, because all he would see there would be sharp and savage disappointment. “They are—”

“They?” You repeated softly. There was a soft click of the locks on your cuffs. You freed your abused wrists from the metal confines with a small sigh, rubbing the tender flesh into something of a numbing pain, and flicked the fork prong you’d dislodged from your wall into a garbage can. You kept the cuff looped around one hand, the other coming up to flick open the file and page through it until you found IDs matching the photos on the table. You tutted, drumming your fingers in staccato rhythm and scanned the names upon the paper. “Kageyama Tobio,” you flipped to another page,”and Hinata Shoyo. Classmates of yours?”

You had brought in Nao as one of your own—had given him the Akamine name with full trust that he would serve you well, not unlike your mentors had you, once upon a time. You felt that trust had been well founded up until this moment, and it was a sour pill to swallow that he still harbored sentiment for a problematic horde of rats. You thought you had clawed out every emotional bone in his body and alienated him from his own emotions, but it was clear he had been holding out on you for quite some time.

“...Yes.” Nao’s tone was not as confident or self assured as it had been when he had greeted you at the door with news of your impending release. Now it was a noose around his neck, closing slowly enough that he was aware of it, choking off his oxygen supply and cutting off the blood to his brain and putting so much pressure upon his neck that the vertebrae popped and cracked. “[Name]-sama.”

“I see.” You placed the photos in their proper places and closed the file with a whisper of paper and cardstock. It brought with it a breeze of clean, new paper, much better than the smell of molding files accompanying the odor of coffee and blueberry muffins. You flicked the cuff in your hand freely like a switchblade, the arm dancing back and forth with the flick of your fingers. “Kneel, Jun-san.”

He paled at the use of his birth name. “[Name]-sama—”

“I told you to kneel.” Your tone broached no argument. He fell to his knees with enough force that you took pleasure in the way his knees protested at the sudden movement. If he didn’t suffer a cracked patella, you would be sorely disappointed. You inhaled and exhaled leisurely, reaching down and taking his face in your hands as gently as a mother would do a downtrodden son. Nao was so pretty it almost hurt you to do this to him; but weakness was punished in your family, and he knew it well. “Suzuki Jun. It has been a long time since you first disappointed me. I hoped it would have been the last.”

He didn’t apologize. He knew it was pointless to apologize for something he wasn’t sorry for. His eyes were downcast, mouth pulled in a tight line.

With a hum of displeasure, you pushed his top lip up with your thumb and painstakingly scraped the nub of your fingernail over the pearly white enamel of his front tooth. He shivered beneath your grip and attempted to move away, but you held firm, fingers digging into his jaw so tightly that his skin went white, and he was already pale enough. You peeled his cheek open to peer at his back incisors, noting the distinct presence of two gold capped teeth studded with diamonds in the bottom right row.

“These are new,” you observed idly, tapping your fingers against them playfully. When he winced, you knew they were fresh and improperly done. You chided,”Didn’t I tell you never to go to underground doctors for your work? Silly boy.”

A more thorough examination of his teeth proved pointless: you had your prize.

“I’ll take these,” you said, after a moment or two of thought. As if to remind him, you thumped the two gold caps with sick pleasure, relishing in the way he flinched back and his eyes went wide. You might have taken pity on him if he had cried, but so far he was as rigid and stalwart as you had trained him to be. It was almost a waste. “They will be payment for the individual weaknesses you harbor.”

You swung the unoccupied cuff up into his eyesight, holding the connecting hinge just so. You tested it experimentally on your finger, pinching flesh between it and wondering at their sturdiness. When you were satisfied by the way the metal still bit into your flesh like an obstinate blunt tooth worrying away at steel, you pried Nao’s mouth open with little care, sliding your hand in all the way up to the third knuckle. He gagged around your hand, throat working overtime to force you out of his mouth, hand coming up to grip your wrist tightly. Your makeshift pliers clamped down over the first golden cap with enough force to dent the precious metal. Diamonds scattered out of their previous settings and beneath his writhing tongue.

“What poor work,” you mumbled to yourself, wondering if the diamonds would hurt on the way down through his intestines—unlikely, as they were barely even the size of a sliver of your fingernail. With a sickening twist, you watched the cap pull free from the gum; red flesh erupted in irritation at the removal. A quick pop, and a broken fragment of tooth came with it, root pulling behind it. Nao was already shaking and looked ready to drop at a moment’s notice, so you snipped the root promptly and watched his eyes roll into the back of his head. You took your next tooth in a similar fashion, but you were disappointed when a cavity made it crumble into sections small enough for it not to have mattered at all.

A frown upon your face, you tucked the teeth away into his lapel and patted it reassuringly. He was coming to, but he appeared delirious with pain and had broken into a cold sweat. “Don’t worry. I won’t replace you just yet; not when you have so much to prove to me. Keep those teeth for me, will you? I’ll put them on my desk, right beside my cup of red pens.”

Nao gave no indication he heard your words, nor did you care. Tucking your hands behind your back, you cuffed yourself once more, always a little too tightly like the cop wanted, and knocked just underneath the knob to indicate you were ready to go. If the cop had anything to say to you about Nao slumped on the floor with blood oozing from his mouth, he didn’t say it, and instead escorted you back to your cell.

There was no improper touching this time when he removed your cuffs and placed them back at his side, unaware you had just used them to pull the teeth of a grown man out of his skull. Your cell door shut behind you with a penultimate slam, casting you in a faint shadow.

In a fluid motion, you sat back down upon your bed to stare at the wall, counting the cinder blocks one by one, following the pattern of indentations and striations upon them, mouth pulled into a frighteningly evil smile.

masterlist. | ii. come with me, destroy the masses.

#haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyū!!#oikawa tooru x reader #oikawa toru x reader #toru x reader #tooru x reader #yakuza au

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sugarandspace · 3 years

Text

Breathe in, breathe out (Sterek)

(posted on AO3 under the pseud aconitum)

Summary: Stiles hates being cold. It brings back bad memories.

Word count: 3,682

Warnings: nogitsune trauma, panic attacks, (but it’s a hurt/comfort fic so things end relatively well!!)

A/N: my very first Sterek fic that I posted on AO3 in October! Gifted to the lovely @sparkandwolf who was a huge help and encouraged me when I was panicking about writing these new characters! ily Em 💙

Read on AO3

Stiles curses Scott as he makes his way through the front door. The apartment is dark which means Derek must still be at work. Stiles is kind of glad about it because he’s sure he’s a laughable sight in his soaking wet clothes. He closes the door behind himself and doesn’t even bother to hang up his coat - it would only result in a puddle on the floor - and only takes his shoes and socks off before he heads to the bathroom.

Not only is he soaking, but he also stinks, and he can’t stop shivering.

It was supposed to be an easy case. Just a lone Kappa, Scott had said. They could take out a river monster with just the two of them, he had said. And Stiles has to admit that he had been right, they had been able to deal with it. They had just ended up in the river in the process. In the middle of December.

Stiles is pretty sure his bones have a layer of frost around them, and a part of him is surprised to see that his toes are still functioning. Scott and his stupid werewolf body temperature had recovered from the dive a lot sooner than Stiles, and his best friend had looked genuinely worried when Stiles had gotten out of his car at the parking lot of his and Derek’s apartment building.

(Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it took a couple of tries for Stiles’ shaking hands to be able to open the car door, maybe not.)

Stiles had insisted he’d be fine as soon as he was able to boil himself in the shower.

That’s what he was planning on doing, and with shaky hands, he takes off his clothes and puts them straight into the washing machine. The stench of mud is unpleasant even to his nose, and he can’t even imagine how strong it would be to Derek’s supernatural senses. He presses the lid closed and plans to deal with it in the morning since he’s not going to risk getting noise complaints from his neighbors because he used the washing machine at 11 pm.

Stiles gets into the shower and stands under the spray of water, turning the temperature warmer and warmer until it's way past the point he usually uses. It should be scalding but the coldness is persistent, and it’s paired with a tight feeling in his chest that he doesn’t quite understand.

Well, he understands the feeling, is intimately familiar with the feeling of pressure around your chest that’s caused by anxiety, but what he doesn’t understand is why the feeling is there. The evening went fine when you look at the big picture. Scott and he got away with minor aches that were going to pass in a day or two, and the monster was defeated. There was no reason for Stiles to feel that pressure that was making it harder to breathe.

He rubs the shampoo into his hair with more force than is necessary and does his best to ignore the feeling.

Stiles feels like he could stand under the water until Derek comes home and forcibly drags him out of there, but eventually he finds the willpower to turn the water off. He wraps a towel around himself and just stands in the bathroom.

The shower helped him warm up a little but some of the coldness lingers deep down, somewhere the shower couldn’t reach. He also knows that as soon as he opens the door and steps out, the warm cocoon of steam the shower had produced will leave him and he’ll feel cold again.

Eventually, the thought of warm clothes and their soft bed motivates Stiles to move, and he speedwalks through the dark apartment into the bedroom, not bothering to turn the lights on as he rushes to the wardrobe and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that really belongs to Derek. If Derek comments on it, Stiles is going to blame the fact that he got dressed in the dim light provided by the streetlights behind their window, but in reality, he hopes that its comforting scent will ease the persistent anxiety that doesn’t seem to be leaving him anytime soon.

Stiles rubs his hands up and down his arms, trying to generate some warmth. It’s quiet in the apartment, and as Stiles looks at the bed and thinks about going to sleep, he’s hit with a memory so strong it threatens to strangle him.

The quiet, the darkness, not being able to get warm and being all alone - these are all things he’s experienced before. Being so common, he’s probably experienced them more than once, but since one of the situations was vastly more traumatic than the others, his mind digs it up and throws Stiles back.

Back to when he was controlled by the nogitsune.

Suddenly the sight of the bed makes Stiles feel sick, going to sleep the last thing he wants to do. He rushes out of the room into the living room where he turns all the lights on before curling into a tight ball on the corner of the couch. He turns the television on just to have some background noise, so he doesn’t feel as alone.

What he really wants is for Derek to be here, but he’s working late at the station and Stiles isn’t about to call him and make him worry. There’s no real threat here, nothing but stupid memories that shouldn’t even bother Stiles anymore. It’s been years since it happened, months since Stiles last had a nightmare. He should be over it.

Stiles presses his hands against his face and tries to focus on his breathing, knowing that a panic attack is not far. He has to remove the hands, however, when he realizes that not being able to see his surroundings is making it worse. It’s making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up and it’s making him feel like there’s someone behind him. His head whips up and he looks around himself, wary of all the possible hiding places in their apartment.

He knows he can’t be alone.

He looks at his phone on the coffee table where he had forgotten it when Scott came to pick him up. It was a good thing he did because if he hadn’t, the phone would either be at the bottom of a river or broken beyond fixing. He reaches for the phone with shaking hands and finds Derek’s contact.

He's just going to call him to hear his voice, and to ask him how much longer until he’s coming home. Derek doesn’t need to know that Stiles needs him to come home right that second.

He takes in a few deep breaths, breathing in the scent of Derek from the hoodie. He pulls the hood up so he’s even more surrounded by it, and tucks his freezing toes between the couch cushions. Once he thinks he’s as calm as he can be, he presses call and brings the phone to his ear.

It rings a couple of times before Derek answers.

“Hey Stiles,” he says, sounding happy. “Did everything go okay with Scott?”

Stiles had texted him earlier, telling him what they were going to do. Derek had been sorry he wasn’t able to join them and had told Stiles that there was a lot of work at the station and that he might be staying until late.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies. “Everything went fine.”

It’s not a lie, at least not a full one. Falling to the river and the coldness that resulted might have been what brought all this on, but the monster-fighting went well all in all. It’s what came after that’s bothering Stiles.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is your voice shaking?” There’s a clear urgency in Derek’s voice but it’s the soft tone Stiles is used to hearing when they are alone. Stiles appreciates it so much and tries to focus on it instead of the panic still squeezing his chest.

“Stiles?”

This time the word is more urgent, and Stiles knows he has to respond, or else Derek will be at their door in fifteen minutes. Which might be what Stiles really wishes, but he doesn’t want to make his boyfriend worry, and he doesn't want to bother him while he’s working.

“You don’t need to worry,” he rushes out. “I’m home and I’m not hurt.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Stiles,” Derek tells him, his tone a little more stern now. Stiles can hear noises from the background and a part of him regrets calling because he’s failed spectacularly in not making Derek worry.

“Do you think I could come to the station?” Stiles asks, trying to salvage the situation. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

“I don’t know what’s going on but I don’t like the idea of you driving right now,” Derek tells him. “I’m coming home.”

“Derek-”

“I’m coming home,” Derek repeats. “I was almost done anyway. I can finish the rest of the work tomorrow.”

Stiles feels bad for disturbing, but a bigger part of him feels relief knowing that Derek is going to come home.

“Okay,” Stiles says. The word comes out in a relieved breath and he’s not sure if even Derek’s supernatural hearing is able to pick up.

“I’m leaving the station now,” Derek says. “I can put my phone on a speaker and stay on the phone with you if you need.”

“No, I want you to focus on driving,” Stiles says. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive from the station to their building. He’ll be fine for fifteen minutes. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Derek says and Stiles can hear a car door close. “I love you and I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay. I love you too,” Stiles says and ends the call. He holds the phone tightly in his hand as he’s fully alone again. The sounds from the television are doing close to nothing to mask the loneliness, and the paranoia is starting to creep back in.

Stiles gets up from the couch and rushes to the corner of the room, sitting down with his back pressed to the wall firmly. This way he can see the whole room, and no one will be able to sneak behind him.

He hugs his arms around himself and wishes he could get warm.

Stiles focuses on his breathing, trying not to let it get too fast. His eyes scan the room from side to side, terrified that the next time he looks he’ll see a man wrapped in gauze standing in the corner.

He startles when he hears the door to the apartment open, convinced that it can’t have been fifteen minutes already. But apparently it has since he sees Derek walk into the room, dressed in his uniform and looking frantic. It takes a moment for Derek to notice him on the floor, but when he does, he rushes to him.

“Stiles!” He says as he kneels on the floor in front of him. He looks Stiles over like he’s trying to find injuries.

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles says and he knows Derek can hear that he’s telling the truth. Derek nods and pulls him into his arms.

Stiles soaks up the comfort and warmth, the scent of Derek much more comforting in person. Derek's arms around him make him feel safe, and the pressure of anxiety clears up a little, making it a little easier to breathe.

“What happened?” Derek asks, but he makes no move to pull away and Stiles is grateful.

“Bad memories,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek doesn’t press further, but he pulls away from the hug and offers his hand for Stiles as he stands. Stiles lets him pull him up from the floor.

“You are freezing,” Derek says and rubs at Stiles’ upper arms through the hoodie before pulling him into another hug, this one more comfortable since they are both standing.

“Fell into a river earlier,” Stiles explains. “Can’t get warm. Brings back bad memories.”

It takes a moment but then Stiles can feel Derek tense up, and he guesses Derek understands just what memories Stiles means. He’s been there enough times after a nightmare to know that the feeling of coldness is almost always present in them.

“The nogitsune?” He asks quietly and Stiles gasps sharply, getting even closer to Derek and nodding against his shoulder.

“Okay,” Derek says, holding Stiles tighter. “Let’s get you to bed, get you warmed up.”

“No,” Stiles says and his head whips up so fast he almost knocks it against Derek’s. “No.”

He’s shaking his head and he feels his breathing pick up. Derek must be able to hear how his heart speeds up because he’s quick to reassure Stiles.

“You don’t need to sleep,” he says, immediately knowing what the problem is. Derek knows that when Stiles gets like this, when the memories of the nogitsune and the darkness are strong in Stiles’ mind, he’s afraid of falling asleep. Whenever he wakes from a nightmare that’s half a dream and half a memory, the fear is so strong that it leaves no room for the logical side of Stiles’ brain to work. He knows that it’s been years since the nogitsune, and he knows that the spirit is safely locked away. But it doesn’t help when he’s feeling like all he needs to do is fall asleep and then he can’t know if he’ll truly be awake the next time he opens his eyes.

“Promise?” Stiles asks and he holds Derek’s eyes as he waits for the answer.

“I promise. I won’t let you fall asleep,” Derek says and Stiles trusts him. If Derek promises something Stiles knows he can count on it. “I just think it would be more comfortable. Easier to get you warmed up.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees and pulls away, but he doesn’t get far before Derek is pulling him to his side as they walk to the bedroom together.

Derek lets go of Stiles only long enough so he can turn the lights on and take off his uniform, and then holds the covers up and lets Stiles get in before crawling in behind him. Stiles is still wearing the sweatpants and the thick hoodie, but he can feel the heat coming from Derek who is holding him tight to his chest.

It helps, but it’s still too quiet in the apartment and Stiles keeps looking at the open door of their wardrobe. Realistically he knows that there’s no one hiding there but he’s unable to look away. He lets out a frustrated whine and turns around, Derek’s arms around him loosening just enough to let him move. Stiles situates himself against Derek’s chest and hides his head in his neck, his arms trapped between their bodies. Stiles feels bad for his cold fingers and nose coming to contact with Derek’s skin but he doesn’t seem to mind, and only pulls Stiles closer when he stops moving.

“I should be over this,” Stiles says, wanting Derek to know that he doesn’t like to be bothering him with something that happened years ago. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Derek says. He slips his hands underneath Stiles’ - well, technically his own - hoodie and Stiles lets out a shaky sigh at the warmth they bring against his naked back. “What you went through was traumatic. Something like that never truly leaves.”

Stiles knows Derek talks from experience and so he doesn’t argue. Stiles knows that this is probably going to follow him for the rest of his life, and he appreciates that Derek isn’t trying to convince him that everything will be completely fine if he just gives it time. It won’t and it’s okay. It’s something Stiles, and something they can learn to live with.

Just like they live with the nightmares that occasionally make Derek wake up soaked in sweat.

They stay under the covers, and Stiles can feel his heart calming down and his body warming up. As he listens to the steady beat of Derek’s heart and feels the coldness leaving his body, the memories retreat back to the far-away part of his brain that they’ve made their home. Some uneasiness remains, but Stiles knows it’s not there to stay.

He feels so comfortable that he starts to doze off, but before he can fall asleep he feels Derek leave a kiss to the top of his head and his voice is deep and calm when he speaks.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he tells Stiles, and while Stiles appreciates that Derek remembers and keeps his promise, he’s ready to brush him off and tell him he’s okay now and it’s okay to let him sleep. He doesn’t have time to do it though before Derek is speaking again.

“Come on,” he says and pulls his hands away from Stiles’ back to gently nudge him. He scoots downwards on the bed so he can kiss Stiles’ lips softly and Stiles is helpless to resist. The kiss ends too soon when Derek is pulling away and getting out of bed. “I’ll make you a cup of tea. Chamomile, because I know that caffeine keeps you awake.”

“But it’s-,” Stiles starts as he sits up on the bed and looks at the clock on the nightstand. “Two in the morning.”

“Just some tea and something light to eat,” Derek says as he pulls some sweatpants on. “Come on.”

Stiles follows Derek to the kitchen, turning the television off on his way there. When he gets to the kitchen Derek is already preparing sandwiches while the water is boiling in the kettle. Stiles takes out their favorite mugs and puts the teabags in them to wait for the water to finish boiling.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asks.

Stiles looks at him and sees that Derek is still focused on the sandwiches, his tone light in a way that’s giving Stiles an easy out. It would be the easier choice, but it’s not what Stiles wants to choose.

“There was a Kappa in the river a little south from the town,” Stiles starts. The water finishes boiling and he keeps a part of his focus on the task of preparing the tea so that the memories won’t have his full attention. “We both ended up in the water, and I was freezing the whole time Scott drove me home.”

“Why did he leave you alone?” Derek asks, his tone confused rather than accusing. From the corner of his eye, Stiles can see that his full focus has shifted from the sandwiches to Stiles. “Why didn’t he stay?”

“Because I told him I was fine,” Stiles says as he takes the tea bags out of the water and brings them to the trash, focusing on staying detached from the memories. Forcing himself to focus on here and now so he can tell what happened without remembering it too vividly. “I thought I would be fine after a warm shower, but no matter how hot the water was, it wasn’t able to make me feel properly warm. I started feeling anxious and then all I could think about was how cold I was and how I was alone and then I couldn’t be sure if I really was alone.”

Despite his best efforts, Stiles is getting worked up again. It comes to a stop when he feels a steady hand on his shoulder, turning him around and pulling him against a solid chest.

“I’m really glad you called me,” Derek says as they sway a little where they stand.

“I feel bad for interrupting your work,” Stiles admits, even though he knows what Derek will say.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I can finish it tomorrow. You’re more important.”

Stiles absolutely does not blush at the words. That would be ridiculous, they’ve been together since Stiles came back to Beacon Hills for the summer after his second year in college. Such simple words aren’t enough to make him blush.

Except they are, and he’s unable to hide it when Derek pulls away enough to see his face. By the small smile he has on his face Stiles knows he noticed.

“I love you,” Derek says.

“I love you too,” Stiles replies. “I love you so much.”

And then they are kissing, in their kitchen at two in the morning after a disastrous evening. Their lives are unusual, and they both have plenty of nightmare fuel from things that will follow them the rest of their lives, but they also have each other, and in that moment Stiles feels incredibly grateful for that. Things aren’t perfect, but they are pretty damn close.

Derek is the one to pull away from the kiss first.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s eat so we can sleep. It’s late.”

“Oh, so now you care about what time it is,” Stiles says and rolls his eyes. “It didn’t bother you when I was cozy in bed about to fall asleep cuddled up to my personal heater.”

Derek shrugs, “I made a promise.”

Stiles’ mind draws empty on witty comebacks so he goes to get their mugs and brings them to the table while Derek puts the sandwich ingredients in the fridge and brings their plates.

“Besides I know how cranky you get when you wake up hungry,” he says as he sits on the other side of the table, opposite Stiles.

“Hey,” Stiles protests and pokes his foot against Derek’s shin under the table.

“It’s not a lie,” Derek defends himself and starts to eat.

Stiles lifts the cup of tea to his lips with both hands and breathes in the warm steam, reveling in the warmth the cup brings and the feeling of safety that is brought by the person sitting on the other side of the table.

He’s going to be okay.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #sterek fanfiction #my writing #i got hit by the sudden late night motivation to drag these here as well #i wasn't going to do that at first #because i thought i'd just write one #maybe two fics for this fandom #but now it's gotten pretty clear that i'm not going anywhere #so here people of tumblr #check out my latest obsession!#* fingerguns *

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sweetestlamb · 4 years

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Teenage Dream Pt. 2

Summary: Mun-Yeong learns that Gang-Tae has an admirer, she handles it very well.

Notes: So, I really had fun playing with blushingshy! GT and aggressivepossessive! MY, I thought the high school au would be the perfect place to have some fun with their roles, I love domGT to bits but domMY does something special to me. I tried to incorporate things you guys said in the comments for part 1, so if you see your idea in the story thank you for the suggestion! This has smut but I am also enjoying the slow burn of their teenage years, so no full sex yet. Blame GT he wouldn’t stop blushing long enough to get ridden. All in due time. Anyway, here’s part 2 enjoy lovelies!

In all actuality, she hadn't expected him to approach her that night. Had felt his eyes on her several times at school, Seung-Jae jokingly labelled him her "not so secret admirer" but she wasn't sure if he actually liked her. She was aware that people considered her popular, a byproduct of wealthy parents with celebrity status, therefore people thought they should like her. The same way you liked a useful tool, she wasn't naive enough to believe that her classmates liked her genuinely. Most of them didn't even know what her stories were about, couldn't see past the grotesque imagery and hidden messages. In reality she knew they found her strange, pretty but too different to truly understand but they played their parts well, fake smiles plastered on.

So, she only had Seung-Jae and that was fine by her, one great friend was infinitely better than a thousand faux friends, who only viewed her as a means to an end. But then he approached her and he was just precious, for goodness sakes he had complimented her school uniform of all things, even his constant stuttering and nervousness had been cute. None of her short stories were about damsels who needed saving, writers honestly needed to get past that ancient trope, yet she found herself playing that role with him. He would show up whenever she needed him, slaying all the dragons that stood in her way and asking nothing in return. It made it easy to give him everything, she'd never met anyone quite like Moon Gang-Tae. She hadn't planned on getting a boyfriend, too focused on school and her goals of being a writer, but he had stumbled into her life and she didn't know how to pass up beautiful things. Being with him was effortless in a way she'd never experience with another person, he listened to her and made her feel like she was important and enough as simply Ko Mun-Yeong, not the daughter of Ko Dae-Hwan and Do Hee-Jae . He had once told her as she cried quietly in soft of his collar, "You belong to you." Oblivious to the fact that he possessed a piece of her too, a piece she'd given willingly, no take backs. She was happy and it terrified her. Which, explained why the universe decided to tip her boat of happiness. She stood waiting for him, in the same spot they had been meeting for weeks now, their spot, not to be confused with their other spot outside where he often waited with her for Sang-In, who she had recently informed commanded to take a scenic route from now on when picking her up, cherishing every second extra she spent with Gang-Tae. It was his first day back since his untimely suspension, she had visited him everyday under the ruse of bringing him school notes, his mother would smile as she greeted her at the door. Unsuspecting that as soon as they were alone, studying was the last thing on their minds. It was beneficial for science class though, she was learning key information about the male anatomy. Excitement bubbled up as she waited for his arrival, fixing her hair and then immediately moving it back to its original position. Agitated at her nerves, it was unsettling to say the least, no one had this affect on her. His smile was brilliant, when he spotted her, his eyes scoping her out like he had a radar system solely for tracking her, he easily walked away from his friend leaving him mid sentence, closing the space between them with a few wide steps, courtesy of those long legs. Suddenly, it wasn't fast enough, she needed to be in his arms, sooner, now and she propelled forward, rushing to meet him halfway. They bounded to each other like long last lovers who were finally reunited, torn apart by the cruelties of an unfair life. She watched him drop a bag carelessly on the ground as he reached her and grabbed her by her waist, immediately she reciprocated his hold, throwing her arms around his neck. With ease, he lifted her up off her tiptoes, her feet left dangling inches off the ground as he effortlessly supported her body weight. She let out a soft gasp, always shocked by his unassuming displays of strength. She snuggled her face into his neck, it was flame red and and she yearned to kiss it. After a short consideration, she pressed a light kiss into his neck, his soft gasp music to her ears. Tightening his hold, he swayed them side to side, inhaling the scent of her intoxicating shampoo. Unbeknownst to them, Jae-Su looked on in disgust and horror, he hadn't even gotten a chance to finish his story before Gang-Tae had taken off, he rolled his eyes watching their dramatic reunion. They hadn't seen each other for two days; Saturday and Sunday, yet they were acting as if Gang-Tae had just returned from military service. He'd known Gang-Tae for a much more substantial number of years, and he was never greeted in such a fashion. He stomped past them grumbling under his breath, "You never hug me like that, I have to beg for any affection." Unfortunately, Gang-Tae's ears were occupied listening to Mun-Yeong's soft breaths and his complaints were left unheard. Mun-Yeong was the first to disturb the hug, drawing back until they were face to face, but still locked in their tender hold. She couldn't help the exuberant smile that spread across her face, "I'm so happy you're back. I missed you." She watched with amused eyes as his signature blush colored his face, his adorable grin tempted her to kiss him right then and there. It was only his next words that halted her, "I got you something." He finally broke their hold, she suppressed her sigh, and he picked up the bag he had discarded prior to their hug. She clapped her hands in excitement, she adored surprises. He reached into the bag smiling at her adorable response and handed her a plastic cup filled with milky brown liquid, her eyes lit up in recognition. "It's coffee milk. I went to the coffee shop you like, that's why I'm late, I'm sorry didn't mean to keep you waiting." His glossy brown eyes stared at her, apologetic and pleading. She giggled before finally giving into her previous urge, yanking his checkered collar, bringing his face close enough to kiss. His eye was huge but he didn't resist, allowing her to draw him in. She curled her free hand around his thick neck, leaning up to capture his slack mouth. He tasted like cereal, sweet and succulent and she chased the taste with her tongue, licking into his moist mouth before he returned the favor. His tongue insistent in her mouth, gasping when she pulled his bottom lip hungrily. She let out a surprised puff of air, as he walked forward forcing her to retreat until her back met the hard wall. He placed a broad hand on her back, dragging her deeper into the kiss as the other cradled her head. Time slowed down as they kissed, wet sounds filling the air. Their mouths broke apart only to come back together, time and time again. A loud cough sounded off to her right, she willfully ignored it, lost in the flavors of her boyfriend. But the cough continued followed by an obnoxious clearing of the throat, she pulled away to shout at whoever was interrupting them only to meet the eyes of her best friend. "You do realize that you're in public right and that you're giving everyone a free show?" Seung-Jae asked eyes never looking up from her phone, her fingers flying across the touch screen, most likely on Tumblr again. As she took a moment to catch her breath, her eyes scanned the hallway and yes, all eyes were on them. Thankfully no teachers but their classmates were looking on with gaping mouths. Some even had their phones out, she glowered at them until they hurriedly hid them shamed-face, before snapping back to Gang-Tae. He was painfully shy, she knew his face would be alight and she was right. He glowed scarlet red above, satisfaction settled in her belly, poor baby. Looking down at her watch with a despondent sigh, she brought the gifted drink to her lips, still tingling from the passionate kiss. His eyes followed the motion, lingering on her mouth. "Thank you for the coffee milk. You were even more delicious though." She teased, hearing him groan in embarrassment. "Come on girl, we need to get to class. " Seung-Jae impatiently interrupted again, tapping her feet now, code for hurry the fuck up. "Alright I'm coming." She picked up her fallen book bag, swinging it over her shoulder, before Gang-Tae's arm shot out grasping the bag in his large hand. "I can carry it." He said in the softest voice, sounding like he was being given a gift, she'd forgotten how he seemingly couldn't stand to see her carry anything. Just adorable. "No. No, lover boy. You go to your class, we don't have time for another long goodbye. She can carry a book bag." Gang-Tae's eyes shifted to hers pleadingly and she almost lost her resolve, but she knew her friend was right, if he carried her bag she would notice his arms and how muscular they were and that would lead to her wanting to kiss him again and this ferocious cycle would repeat. With an apologetic hand on his smooth cheek, she shook her head, "She's right, you shouldn't be late on your first day back. I'll see you later." He nodded, subconsciously swaying into her hand before she pulled it away. Suddenly she was violently yanked away by her book bag, Seung-Jae's patience all but worn out. She longingly looked back at Gang-Tae, blowing him a kiss. If she hadn't spun around to threaten her best friend for being so aggressive, Do you have a death wish? She would have seen him catch the kiss, delicately putting it in his pocket.

She'd always judged girls around school who couldn't stand to be away from their boyfriends, rolling skeptical eyes at their dependency, she was already whole no other half needed, thank you. So when she found herself thinking of Gang-Tae, unable to focus on the teacher's voice, affronted annoyance seared in her blood. What was he doing to her? Mentally berating herself for her weakness, she rose her hand, catching the teacher's attention. "May I use the bathroom?" She requested, already knowing the response would be yes, this was one of her best classes and missing a few insignificant minutes wouldn't alter her high standing. She grabbed the pass at the teacher's nod, avoiding Seung-Jae's suspicious glance. She didn't need her negativity, weren't best friends supposed to be supportive? Hers was clearly defective. She told herself she would use the bathroom after checking on Gang-Tae, see how his first day back was going, merely good girlfriend duties. Peering into his classroom she easily located her handsome boyfriend, a chiseled chin laid on his hand, gazing out the window as if lost in a daydream. Her heart skipped a beat. Her eyes eagerly devoured him, the hours they'd spent apart ached, she longed to be back in his arms kissing him senseless turning him into a blushing mess. She was so wrapped up in his beauty, she almost missed another set of longing eyes. Nam Ju-Ri, she didn't know her well, had declined her hand in friendship after seeing how quickly she could go from “nice” to malicious. She'd always preferred the wolf rather than a wolf in sheep's clothing. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the oblivious girl gaze at her boyfriend, the flames of jealousy searing in her blood. Who was she to look at him? Wasn't it clear that he was off limits? Her taste was probably still in his mouth from this morning, she'd happily recreate the moment to remind the two faced bitch to back off. Finally, after a few minutes she stalked off to the bathroom, a bad taste lingering on her tongue.

They were working together on a group project. Her smile had fallen as he explained to her that he would need to leave early to meet Ju-Ri and Jae-Su at the Subway's to begin working on their group project. She planned on asking him to stay at school with her, she needed to work on her new short story for the school paper. It was the perfect excuse to get some much needed alone time with him, this new information threw a proverbial wrench in her plans. Only his sweet sad eyes stopped her from throwing a tantrum. He didn't look happy at the prospect of being away from her either. Using the situation as motivation, she penned a tale about a slow-witted girl who learned the dangers of touching that which wasn't yours, the grass wasn't always greener on the other side, sometimes it was best to appreciate what you had, least you lose everything. Or at least, a few fingers in the process. She never claimed to be subtle. After adding the finishing touches, her story was complete. Not her best work but adequate, a true Ko Mun-Yeong classic, dark but revealing. Are you still at Subways? As she collects her belongings, she awaits his reply to her message, humming and setting a new course of action as she exits the school, the sun warm on her skin, restoring her energy. Yes, we're still here.

They are the scene of academic innocence with textbooks sprawled across the dining table, and notes and writing utensils precariously dangling. Gang-Tae is seated next to Jae-Su, Ju-Ri directly across, currently leaning over to point something out to his watchful eye. He rubs his jaw, nodding in agreement before jotting down notes on a stray piece of paper. With a firm hand she pushes the door open, a melodic chime announcing her arrival, all eyes glance to see who has entered including the only eyes that matter to her. He instantly stands up, wide smile on his face as he waves her over, missing the grimace that covers Ju-Ri's face. As soon as she's close enough to touch, he does. Drawing her into a warm hug, that she happily returns, breathing in his fresh scent. "I didn't know you were coming. Are you hungry?" He motions to the cash register, she shakes her head in decline, nodding at Jae-Su and Jae-Su, alone. Ju-Ri makes a point of checking her phone and looking as occupied as possible, she's happy to act like they’re strangers. In most ways, that's exactly what they are. "Do you want to sit?" There are no additional seats she notes, the establishment packed as it usually is after school's dismissal. "No, you sit." He looks at her in apparent confusion, about to argue before she forces him back into the seat, before taking her seat.

In his lap. His gasp breezes against her ear as she faces Ju-Ri, placid smile on her face at the girl's evident irritation, she makes herself comfortable turning to look at Gang-Tae, who shyly meets her eyes, his hands cautiously holding her hips for support. "Hey, you." She whispers only loud enough for him to hear, his coffee-brown eyes soften in response, "Hi, I missed you." Her lips find his in a sweet kiss, as he brushes her hair behind her hair. A quiet moan escapes her lips at the gentle touch, his eyes are dark when she draws away. A million miles away. She would never tire of her affect on him and how unashamed he was about showing her. "Alright that's enough from you two." Jae-Su's exasperated voice interrupts, she squashes the urge to glare at him, Gang-Tae had asked her to be nicer to him claiming he was terrified of her. She really didn't see the issue with that but she was trying for Gang-Tae's sake. He soothed out her rougher edges. Gang-Tae struggles to focus with her in his lap, absentmindedly stroking her hair instead of answering a question that was posed to him. When he brought his sandwich to his mouth, she leaned over taking a bite too, accidentally biting his finger, soft apology on her lip. She slowly licked mayo residue from the corner of her lip, his eyes raptly watching its journey as she swallowed, "Mmmm it tastes good." He briskly repositions her in his lap, shifting her into his leg, away from her place in the center. Ju-Ri finally speaks after the display through clenched teeth, "I need to go, my mom is expecting me." Gang-Tae and Jae-Su bade her goodbye and safe travels, Mun-Yeong merely looks at her while stroking her finger possessively across Gang-Tae's massive shoulders, mouthing one word, mine. He looked scrumptious in his basketball uniform, arms tensing and flexing as he dribbled the ball up and down the court. She'd happily agreed to stay for his practice today, unwilling to pass out the chance the see a slightly damp Gang-Tae. She hasn't yet spoken to him about his...admirer. It felt ridiculous to waste their time together talking about anything other than them, when they weren't devouring each other. So she didn't expect to run into the very person who was infiltrating her thoughts. The two faced bitch, alone, walking down the stairs text books in her arm. Impulsively she calls out, "You know he's mine right? Stay away from my boyfriend." The girl's head snaps up in shock, before her face settles into vexation. Good at least she's being real. She would loathe to see the fake calm smile Ju-Ri typically sends her way. "He's not your property. You don't own him." With a tight smirk she stalks over, climbing the stairs until they're level, still knowing she'll always be above her in every way imaginable. "That's where you're wrong, he is mine. My boyfriend, so why don't you get someone who actually wants you and stop drooling over what you can't have? You act so nice but you're just a two-faced bitch." She bites out the last word, stepping into Ju-Ri's face, blood singing at the opportunity to put her in her place. The sting of the harsh slap against her cheek, whiplashes her head to the side, momentarily she's impressed, surprised that the girl actually had the gall to strike her, whatever I do now is technically self defense now, she thinks. Before viciously grabbing the other girl by her thin hair, yanking at the tender follicles. "Are you crazy?" She screams loudly, lost in her rage. "Are you on something? How dare you slap me?!" Emphasizing her question with a particularly hard pull of her hair. They tussle on the staircase, Ju-Ri frantically trying to pry her hands from her hair as she pushes her head into the wall. Both unaware that the commotion from their fight has garnered the attention of the basketball team, the boys cheering them on, cacophonous yells filling the previously quiet hallway. "Oh shit is that Mun-Yeong?" "Someone get Gang-Tae!" She slams Ju-Ri's head into the wall, satisfaction overcoming her at the pleasing smack it makes. Soon Ju-Ri's screams drown out the boys and then she feels her body being lifted, completely swept off her feet. Only his familiar scent stops her from lashing out at the arms around her midsection, prying her away from Ju-Ri. Her hands remain in their tight clutch of the girl's hair but then his voice cuts through the fog in her mind, like a lighthouse. Guiding her back to the light. "Mun-Yeong, let go of her." His voice is too quiet to be a command but there is no inflection indicating a question either. He pulls her bodily away from Ju-Ri, his arms like steel around her abdomen, making her feel like a wayward child. With a final cry, she releases her hold, only to roughly shove her, aptly watching as she tumbles down the three measly stairs. Ju-Ri screams as if she had been murdered, dramatically wet eyes staring behind her, looking at him. She grabs at her once more, regaining her attention. She is elated at the look of fear in Ju-Ri's eyes as she looks up from her spot on the ground. She growls at her, bearing her teeth as she is carried away. "This was your only warning!" As soon as she is freed from the prison of Gang-Tae's arms, she begins pacing like an trapped animal, hot puffs of breath rasping out of her lungs. She feels hot with anger, which morphs into frustration before coiling into ugly shame. She dreads the look of disappointment she will see on her boyfriend's face, unlike Daniel, who was no friend of hers, she had just attacked someone he considered a friend. She knew that she had let the flames of anger consume her, this was the real reason she didn't have true friends. Most people couldn't handle her... intensity. Which was putting it nicely. She didn't like to share. Years of loneliness with parents that couldn't be bothered with her existence, had formed an ugly desire in her to latch on to the people she opened up to. She would squeeze so tightly until they ultimately burst, realizing her darkness and leaving before they too were consumed. She'd never cared enough to worry about losing anyone, all she had was Seung-Jae and Sang-In and they knew first-hand about her uglier traits, and loved her despite her flaws. But Gang-Tae had never seen this side of her, had never given her reason to show it. He looked at her like she was the sun and moon and all the stars, it would be crushing to see that love twist into fear. "Are you okay?" His voice. It was gentle. He didn't sound scared. Or disappointed. Or repulsed. Just worried, his hand on her cheek further shocking her until she brought her head up to meet his eyes. In them she saw concern, but not much else, none of the emotions others usually exhibited when they saw the real Ko Mun-Yeong. "Mun-Yeong, are you okay?" He repeated his question, cupping her cheek in his hand now. A cool balm on her hot skin. She forced out a reply, "Yes. She only slapped me, I hit her a lot more." His eyes perused her body, looking for more injuries and he let out a sigh of relief when he found none. "Aren't you.. aren't you upset that I hit your friend?" She cursed out the final word, unable to control the venom in her tone. "No, I'm mostly... confused? I didn't know you didn't like her." His brows knitted together in bewilderment, "Why were you fighting? What happened?" The memory of overhearing Ju-Ri talk to Byeol about Gang-Tae played in her mind, all of the earlier anger resurging in her blood. "Should you really be going after him? Isn't he with Mun-Yeong now?" "I liked him first! She stole him from me, I just want him to know how I feel too. Let him know he has options." After that the rest was inevitable, she couldn't hold herself back. Didn't want to in all honesty, the slap was merely the straw that broke the camel's back. "She likes you! I heard her talking about you, she said she wanted you to know you had options. I simply reminded her that there are no options, you're mine." Flabbergasted, if you searched the word in the dictionary Gang-Tae's face would be the image. He sat down in an chair of the empty classroom he had dragged her into, looking dazed. His mouth opened. Then closed. Opening once more, before closing again. Until he finally found his words, "You're jealous....of me? Of other girls liking me?" She took high offense at the skepticism in his voice and passionately retorted, "Yes, of course I am! Those...those ants want you and are trying to steal you away from me!" He grabbed her arms, stopping her mid pace, drawing her into his lap. Calming her with a single touch. His raspy baritone hypnotized her, "Breathe with me, please." She took a deep breath, matching his even breaths until she felt her anger dissipate, fizzing into nothing. "You have nothing to be jealous about. I don't want Ju-Ri or anyone else, I want you. Only you. I am yours, for as long as you'll have me." His hands rubbed up and down her sides in a soothing motion, massaging away any negative emotion left in her body. "You don't mind.... You're not upset I called you mine?" She peered at him with huge bewildered eyes. "Why would I be? As long as you're mine too." He looked at her hopefully, she didn't deign that inquiry with a verbal response. Instead taking the opportunity to utilize her spot in his lap, grabbing his face and kissing the query off his lips. Possessively shoving her tongue into his mouth, hands falling to his neck to pull him deeper into their embrace. She bit his lip then swiped the pain away, lapping at his hot wet mouth. Humming at his taste, thirsty for more. He gasped, pulling away to inhale deep breaths, his eyes were hazy with arousal. She attached herself to his neck, sucking his sweaty skin into her mouth, aroused by his moan of pleasure. "Wait, should we do this...here?" He gestured at the classroom, "What if someone comes looking for us?" She perked up at the idea, delighting in the thought of that two-faced bitch finding them and seeing first-hand that Gang-Tae belonged to her. She sucked harder instead of answering, running a hand through his hair, pulling his head to the side to give her better access. He melted in her arms, boneless at her ministrations. She looked proudly at the purple-red bruise that formed on his skin, stark on his porcelain pale skin, it would be seen a mile away. "Beautiful." She sighed caressing the marked skin, awed and proud of her work. Gang-Tae blushed looking at her like she was a predator and he couldn't wait to be eaten. Realization washed over her like a tidal wave. He hadn’t acted at all like she had imagined. "You like this." It wasn't a question, the hard line prodding into her ass told her everything she needed to know. "I never thought you'd get jealous of me. Seeing you like this is...." "Sexy?" She finished his sentence, he held her heated stare before nodding in agreement. She laughed, boisterous laughter, he was utterly perfect for her. She wanted to wreck him. Swiveling her hip into a seductive roll, she watched the pleasure wash over his face, his pretty red cheeks and open mouth calling out to the beast that had been unleashed. She swallowed his moans, groaning as he licked into her mouth, their tongues wrestling for control, she ground into his hard erection, playing dirty to get the upper hand. "Cheater." He rasped out, eyes narrowed at her. She grinded harder, wrapping her arms around his neck, riding him through their clothes. The head of his hard cock rubbing on her moist center, she'd moved her uniform skirt out of the way, desperate to feel him. They hadn't done much sans clothes yet and she was hungry for it. Whispering into his red hot ears, "Can I take off my panties?" His hands tightened painfully on her hips, as he threw his head back in a long suffering groan. She pressed on, "Please I'm so wet, I know you're not ready for.... that. But I just want to feel you." He was shaking in her arms, little hitching breaths and she waited for his response, mouthing at the large hickey on his neck. Finally he nodded. Eyes too bright, they almost seemed to be glowing. She stood up, leaving his lap, eyeing the rigid tent protruding from his uniform pants, covetously watching, eager for the day it would also be hers. Raking her skirt up under his watchful eyes, she took a hold of her panties, he subconsciously licked his lips in anticipation, as she slid the moist material down her thighs, bending over to slip them off. He watched her soaked panties hanging from the tips of her fingers utterly captivated, before she tossed them to the side carelessly. With a coy smile, she slid back onto his lap, moaning at the sensation of his clothed cock pressing on her bare opening, rocking harder on him, as spots of color exploded behind her eyelids. It felt incredible. He was burning hot and so stiff beneath her, all her thoughts minimized down to this moment. She wanted to come. Desperately. Could feel the persistent itch under her skin. When she opened her eyes Gang-Tae's were fixed on the space between her thighs, he looked ravenous as she used him for her pleasure, muscles coiled tight as he sat painfully still as she bounced on his lap. "You can touch me. I want you to, don't be nervous." She insisted, seeing his hands brutal grip on the sides of the chair. His nails were digging into the plastic, leaving indentations. He hesitated before bringing his fingers to the lips of her pussy, briefly sliding into the opening before retracting this fingers. She groaned in frustration, it felt so good she needed more, why was he stopping? Fucking tease. Voice laced with veneration, he said, "You're so.... it's so wet." She glared at him before chastising him, he was like this every time they were naked, surprised that she was aroused by him, "You made me like that. Don't be a tease now." He glowered at her statement, she had called him that various times before. His fingers slowly crept to her wet opening, a barely there touch that had her shouting, and she couldn't wait anymore she was too turned on, using his thighs for support she leaned up before bearing down on his fingers, easily slipping down their entire lengths, feeling a breath punched out of her. Gang-Tae was still frozen as she began to ride his fingers, pulling him into her tight hole, wet sounds filling the room, her juices coating his fingers. Then she felt him moving inside her, driving his fingers up to meet with her downward thrusts, his thumb momentarily pressed against her clitoris and she bit her tongue at the euphoria. She was dangerously close. His dick twitched underneath her and she slowed her sensuous movement in a slow rock, peering into his pleasure dilated eyes, "Do you want to feel me?" She watched the war on his face, control and hunger battling, "I don't...I don't want our first time to be in a classroom. You deserve more." She softened at his precious words, if only he knew that any first time would be perfect as long as it was with him. The location was insignificant. "There are...other ways to feel me." At his blank stare she continued, "Do you trust me?" Instantly he nodded, and she smiled, before reaching down to catch his zipper and slowly lowered it. He wheezed, sounding short of breath but didn't stop her. She pulled his erect dick from the slit in his boxer, it stood red and impressive in her hands, perfect in size and shape, thick and long. She hummed in approval, giggling at Gang-Tae's embarrassed face. With a dick like this, he had nothing to be embarrassed about, she doubted hearing that would help his blush though. He closed his eyes at the feel of her hands on his dick for the first time. It surely wouldn't be her last. She would make sure of that. Then with her eyes boring into his, she slid over his cock, rubbing her wetness over the hard ridge, simultaneously they moaned at the sensation. His engorged head caught on her opening but it never went in, instead sliding through her sopping wet folds, rubbing on her swollen clit.

Soon, she was the one being devoured as he inhaled her lips with a deep sloppy kiss, his spit running down her chin, as she vigorously rode him, letting him plunder her mouth. Without prompting, his hands slithered under her shirt, groping her breasts. Roughly, moving her bra out of the way, squeezing them the way he knew she liked. His fingers twisting her rigid nipples until they were deliciously sore.

"Gang-Tae!" She screamed his name, her body overloaded from pleasure. He met her thrust for thrust, their pace vigorous, a race to the end. She pulled away from his lips, taking his face in her hands feeling him stiffen under her, she forced his head up until their eyes met, with a final punishing thrust she was falling off the edge, shouting her release. She squeezed her eyes shut, riding the waves of pleasure. He twitched beneath her, bruising grip on her breasts as his cum shot out of his cock and landed in thick streams on the floor. She took huge gulps of air as her body cooled down, coming down from her extreme high, thin layer of sweat settling on her skin. Lifting her head from where it had fallen on his shoulder, she grinned at his goofy smile, he looked wrung out, it was a good look on him. After regaining the feeling in her legs she hopped off his lap, retrieving her panties from the floor, as she was placing her legs into them, she paused before looking at him, before walking up to him as he adjusted his own pants, flaccid cock now hidden away sadly enough. With a salacious grin, she stuffed her panties into his pocket, "You can keep those." He stuttered, too tongue tired to respond but didn’t stop her or give them back. They stumbled downstairs to wide eyed stares that shifted into knowing glances from Gang-Tae's teammates who were just finishing up with practice. All eyes immediately latching on to the giant hickey on his neck. She'd never seen him turn quite that red.

The next day, Jae-Su's loud voice assaulted her ears as he looked at his best friend in horror, "What happened to your neck?!" Before looking at her with an accusatory glare, "What did you do to him you....you vampire!" She smiled serenely as Ju-Ri snuck past them, avoiding her eye contact, a small scrape on her knee from the fall. Gang-Tae flushed at the words but didn't cover the mark, instead taking her books before kissing her on the forehead. He was hers, happily and she wouldn't take that for granted and had no problem reminding others who might forget.

#its okay to not be okay #psycho but it's okay #its okay to not be okay fic #high school au #jealous possessive MY #I sucked him so hes mine #smut #but like teenage sweet smut #I tried to make it short #ended up with close to 6k #I need help

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years

Text

The Wages of Sin

Before I found tumblr, I seriously believed I was the only person on Earth whose pulse went up when Samoa Joe appeared. He just broadcasts pure dominant energy and power. I miss seeing him in the ring but I’m glad he’s still on my tv on a (mostly) weekly basis.

Pairing: Samoa Joe x reader

Word count: 3,732

Content advisory: BDSM smut

It was all you could do not to roll your eyes at his expression when you came in the door. It was always the same with men: they called to have a computer technician come over and when a woman showed up, they looked at you like there had been some mistake. Some would even be so gauche as to ask if you were qualified to do this sort of work. This guy wasn’t that bad but when he saw you, his eyes swept up and down over your body, lingering on your breasts longer than he should have before he waved you inside with nothing more than a grunt.

“The computer’s in the office,” he informed you. “First door on the left back there. Off the kitchen. It’s been slowing down for a while and now it won’t even start up.”

“Ok. Other than slowing down, have there been any other problems you’ve noticed, Mr…”

“Joe,” he grunts. “Joe is fine. And yeah, there have been a bunch of programs crashing.”

“Well, Joe, why don’t we have a look and see what the problem is?”

You head in the direction that he’s indicated and enter a neatly organized office space. There’s a desk in one corner, but the room is dominated by a large section coach flanked by a couple of odd looking benches. It’s strange, because there’s no television in the room, no books, nothing that would indicate this was a place where one would sit and relax. You shrug it off. Maybe he likes to take a nap after he’s done working. Maybe this is where he takes women to seduce them.

Immediately, you try to push that image from your mind. You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but when he gave you that once-over, you’d felt a shiver run through your whole body. He was massive and while at first glance he’d appeared fat, you quickly saw that he was just powerfully built. As he stood behind you and watched what you working, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt, pushing them up and revealing forearms like iron girders, the kind of arms you could imagine holding you down with ease, choking you, forcing you to do whatever he wanted.

You try to shake those thoughts out of your head and focus on the task at hand. You boot up his computer in safe mode and, once you’re able to get a look around, it’s clear that the problem is a large number of files that have taken up so much space that the computer barely has any available memory to launch or run anything. On top of that, there are multiple malware programs that are deviously working away. You’ll have to work on those right away in order to get the computer stable enough for you to see the files and try to clear out some space.

He stands behind you as you start to untangle the electronic knots, his breath heavy and incredibly distracting.

“This is gonna take me a while,” you tell him.

“Well I’ll leave you to it then.” His tone is friendly but there’s a dark undertone to it, like he can see inside your mind and know that he’s having an effect on you.

Once he’s gone, you settle down and focus on the task at hand. He pokes his head in a couple of times but leaves you alone otherwise. It’s just as well because what he’s got is a real mess and it takes a lot of work to identify and then scrub the malware. Normally, you could run a program to deal with the majority of the work but his computer is so unstable that it can’t run anything, meaning that you have to do everything manually.

Thirteen programs. It takes two and a half hours but you’re finally able to remove all traces of the thirteen programs that have contaminated his hard drive. The early winter light is already starting to fade and now you have to start isolating files. Protocol is that you identify duplicates and separate them onto a second drive without ever looking but everyone takes a peek to see what secrets a client has. Nine times out of ten it’s porn, usually varying flavors of vanilla. It’s never happened to you personally, but a couple of the people you work with have found photos or videos of kids, something that immediately gets reported to the cops. (Peeking at a client’s files is unethical but not illegal, meaning that what the technician sees is fair game.)

When you see that the files are almost all videos, you figure you pretty much know what you’re in for. The nature of the videos, though, is more than you bargained for. This is hardcore stuff, all women getting flogged and bound and taken roughly in every hole as they scream in pain and ecstasy at the same time. There are dozens if not hundreds like this and mixed in among them are videos of Joe himself, proudly displaying his naked body and a thick cock that you can imagine would be rough to take even under normal circumstances.

Watching all this, you feel your breathing grow faster and that familiar wetness in your core soaking your panties within minutes. The fact is that you’ve desperately wanted a man who’d take you like this, who’d use you and brutalize you, but you’d never found one. You’d eventually had to dump your last boyfriend because the sex was so boring you found yourself repulsed by it. You’ve watched plenty of videos like these at home, but knowing you were only a couple of rooms away from a man who clearly indulged in these activities a lot makes you squirm in your seat, trying to get some friction against the seam of your jeans to relieve a bit of the pressure.

Your eyes flicker towards the benches you’d noticed when you came in and now you know what their purpose is. You open another file, Joe again with a woman tied up and bent nearly double, his hand wound around her pony tale as he pounds mercilessly into her.

Looking once again at the benches, you imagine him strapping you to one and whipping you, making you beg for him.

The woman in the video is screaming non-stop about how good he feels, how she deserves what she’s getting, welcoming every vile slur he hurls at her.

You’re so caught up in what you’re seeing and in what you’re imagining that you don’t notice that the sound on this video is a fair bit higher than in the others, and are caught totally off-guard when you hear the voice behind you.

“See something you like?” he drawls.

Right away, you feel not just your face but your whole upper body grow hot with humiliation. It’s one thing for you to be fantasizing but this is you getting caught invading a customer’s privacy. Even if it’s understood that everybody does it, you’ll be lucky to keep your job if and when he complains.

“Not really my scene,” you lie. “But I don’t judge. I just need to sort through stuff to free up some space. I’m going to install an external drive and move your videos there. It’s an extra charge but it’s not too much. You can call the office to find out the exact amount if you want.”

Joe gives a noncommittal sound and walks away without another glance. Your cheeks are still burning an hour later when you’ve dutifully moved the files onto the external drive, careful not to open a single one, even though you’re dying of curiosity. Trembling, you pack up your stuff and prepare to make a shame-faced exit. You’re wondering if you should just apologize to him, maybe say that you opened one of the files by accident and just started poking around, not quite believing what you were seeing. You’re unable to decide if that would be better than saying nothing and trying to pretend that nothing had happened. He’s standing in front of the door with an unfriendly look on his face.

“Well,” you begin unsteadily, “you haven’t lost any files. There wasn’t any permanent damage, so other than moving some stuff to an external drive, everything will be exactly the way it was, but it’ll run a lot faster.”

He folds his arms and looks down his nose at you without speaking. It takes you a few seconds to figure out what to say next under the weight of his stare.

“There were a bunch of malware programs I had to remove. That was what was causing most of the problem. There are certain sites that tend to… have… lots of those things. Anyway, I installed newer antiviral software that should block them.”

You sound completely lost and you are. You feel like, rather than registering a complaint with your employer, Joe is preparing to kill you and eat you for violating his privacy. In the interest of getting out before you’re made into a main course, you opt to stop speaking and to leave the subject of your intrusion out of the conversation.

As you reach for the doorknob, though, Joe presses his arm against the door and his scowl deepens.

“You lied to me,” he seethes.

“Excuse me?”

“Before. You were lying when you said you weren’t interested in those videos. I can always tell.”

“Oh,” you murmur, “about that. Look, I’m really sorry that I was going through your-”

“Yeah, that’s not what we’re talking about little girl.”

“It isn’t?” You feel yourself shrinking back from him and he leans closer as you do, until your back is pressed into the doorframe.

“No,” he purrs. “We’re talking about you and how you were turned on by what you saw. We’re talking about how your panties are probably still soaked because you were so excited.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times as you fight to think of something to say. His broad chest is just inches from you, heat radiating from him and clouding your thoughts even more.

“I have to go,” is what you’re eventually able to croak.

“Is that so?” he hums. “Well I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna go get into something more comfortable. If you want to go, you go. I won’t stop you. But if you want to find out what I can do to you, what I can make you feel, then you get back in the office and wait for me.”

He steps back and heads up the stairs without another syllable, leaving you with a decision to make. There are assuredly better ways for you to find a man to dominate you. But you’ve seen what this man can do and you’ve felt the power and confidence roll off him, leaving you quivering inside and out. You take a deep breath and head back down to his office.

He makes you wait. It’s a good fifteen or twenty minutes before he reappears wearing nothing but boxers, a towel over his shoulders and an arrogant expression that says he never had any doubt you’d be here.

“Eyes down.” It’s an order, you know, even though he speaks as quietly as ever, and you immediately comply.

You’re able to see him toss the towel on the sofa and you hear him opening something- a drawer?- and then close it again a second later. Whatever he was looking for, he knew exactly where it was.

“Top off and hands behind your back.” His voice is behind you, even as ever.

You comply right away, stripping yourself of your sweater and t-shirt, hesitating a little at the thought of removing your bra.

“Everything off,” he whispers, much closer than he was before.

Keeping your eyes on the floor, you remove it and try to steady your breath. You feel a light line traced across your back by something you can’t identify. It’s thin and pliable, but has some strength to it, like the branch of a sapling. It makes you shiver as he continues to move it softly back and forth across the widest part of your back.

“So you like snooping around in other people’s things, do you?”

“No,” you stammer, “I don’t usually do that, I don’t know what I was-”

Immediately, there’s a sharp crack as he brings the branch-like thing, a riding crop, you guess, down on your back with force. You give a short scream and your breathing speeds up as you feel the pain leak from the narrow band of impact across your skin.

“You’re lying to me again,” he taunts. “We both know you do that kind of thing all the time, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, trying to focus on anything but the pain and at the same time feeling the juices pooling between your thighs.

“What a bad girl you are.” You flex your muscles, anticipating another strike but he does nothing. You let yourself exhale and relax just a little and that’s when the second blow comes, even harder than the first. The scream you give is louder and tears spring to your eyes. Behind you, you hear him hum in satisfaction and it reverberates in your core.

“You were watching quite a few of those videos. I saw you,” he continues, to your shame. “Tell me, what did you like the most about them?”

“I- I don’t know…”

This time, the strike hits the flesh of your inner arm, exposed because you have your hands clasped behind your back, the way he told you.

“If you’re not going to be honest with me, this is going to be a very rough night for you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” And there’s a sharp impact on your other arm that draws a sob and a long whine.

“Get to the point, little girl.”

“I liked seeing you. I got turned on by what you were doing to those women because I’ve wanted someone to do those things to me.”

He presses himself against your back, running his thumb roughly along one of the whip marks he’s made there. “Now was that so hard?”

You shake your head, struggling to keep your eyes fixed on the ground as he circles around you. He presses the handle end of the riding crop- you were right about that- under your chin.

“Look at me.”

You do as you're told, more tears dripping from your eyes as you lift your head.

“Already crying? Are you sure you want this?”

“I do,” you assure him, nodding your head vigorously.

“It only gets rougher from here,” he warns you. “So if you want it to stop…”

“I want to keep going.”

“So you think you deserve to be punished.”

“I do.”

“You know what you did was wrong. And you know that you’re a filthy girl for liking what you saw so much.”

“Yes.”

“That’s ‘yes, sir’” he corrects you sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think about doing things like that when you’re by yourself? About big, mean taking whatever they want from you? About them hurting you and using you?”

“Yes.”

You hear the sound of the riding crop cutting through the air, but not in time to brace yourself for the impact. It hits right across your nipples and if you had thought that the blows to your back and arms hurt, they were nothing compared to this.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir,” you sob.

He snaps the riding crop across the same point, the center of both nipples, making you shriek.

“Show me your hands.”

You lift them for his inspection and he whips your palms repeatedly, like you’re a misbehaving child.

“Now take off the rest of your clothes,” he instructs. “And give me your panties.”

You move to follow the order, flinching in pain at having to use your wounded hands. He paces in front of you, seeming impatient but letting you take the time you need to get fully undressed. When you’re done, you offer him the garment he requested, which he snatches away from you.

He smirks as he rolls them around in his hand. To your relief, he places the riding crop on the desk behind him before he approaches you.

“What’s this?” he sneers, wiping the soaked cotton over your face. “Is this because of what you saw?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You liked it even more than I thought. You really are a dirty little slut. Do you think you deserve to be punished more?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask me.”

“Please, sir,” you stammer, “I want you to punish me because I’m a dirty slut who got turned on watching your videos.”

He gives you a smirk that carries just a hint of approbation. “Very good, slut. Go kneel on the sofa, ass out, arms on the back.”

You scurry over and do exactly as you’ve been told. Once you’re in position, he follows you, hovering over you.

“Your eyes stay straight ahead,” he cautions.

He kneels on the sofa beside you and reaches down, producing a pair of handcuffs already attached to the old-fashioned heater, obviously installed for the purpose of chaining women in place. You let him take your wrists and manacle them, flinching because the metal is actually hot on your skin. Once again, he disappears behind you.

His hand comes down on your ass with a thunderous noise and you swear you can feel the reverberations in your skeleton. You let out a half-gasp, half-cry but before you’re able to regroup, he smacks your other cheek just as hard, if not harder. He continues this, increasing the pace as he does until you’re screaming and crying.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“I… I think so?”

“I don’t know,” he muses, “your pussy is dripping. I think we might need to look at punishing you another way. I think I might have to pound that slit with my cock to show you what happens to dirty sluts who go looking at things they’re not supposed to.”

“Yes, sir, you should.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“Yes, please, sir, I want your cock.”

“What’s that?”

“Please fuck me, sir. Show me how bad I am.”

He bends over you, pushing his boxers off, and whispers harshly in your ear, “Well as long as you’re absolutely sure.”

You nod and he accepts that, grasping your bruised ass tightly and ramming into you like a jackhammer. He pounds relentlessly, leaving you with nothing to do but take what he’s giving, gasping and mewling in ecstasy as each brutal thrust seems to increase the sensitivity of your cunt, the sensation of pleasure flooding through you.

“Is this what you needed?” he snarls, panting.

“Yes, oh god, yes!” You’re a little shocked at the volume of your own voice but all you want to do is scream because what he’s giving you is what you’ve fantasized about for so long, what your body has always known it needed but could never get. You can feel every nerve rushing towards climax and just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge, he pulls out, pressing the tip of his dick against your tailbone, just above the crack of your ass, and he comes, the hot liquid trickling down between your ass cheeks and your swollen lips in streams. He traces the flow with his thick fingers, up and down, making you whine in need. Finally, he grabs the towel he brought with him and wipes you off. You’re still whimpering, moving your hips all around, searching for any kind of contract.

He gives a dark chuckle and you hear him walk away. You want to cry but he’s back in a moment, close by you. Immediately, he starts to wind a rope around your legs, soft like silk and strong. He binds your thighs to your calves, your ankles together and then he flips you over, the chain on the handcuffs pulling your arms taut.

You could not be more vulnerable, spread open before him. He wipes his dick across your chest to remove the remaining mix of your juices.

“I’ll bet you think you deserve to come, now, don’t you?”

“Yes, please sir.”

“Why should I let you.”

“I’ve tried to be good for you, sir. I’ve done everything you asked. I’m sorry I lied to you before but I told you the truth after. And you just turn me on so much, sir.”

He smirks again and plants his tree trunk of a thigh on the sofa between your legs.

“Like this,” he growls. “You want to get off? You fuck yourself on my leg like an animal who doesn’t know any better.”

Part of you wants to resist, but you’re so desperate for it that you press yourself against him and start grinding into his thigh. You can feel the powerful muscle beneath the flesh as he flexes, giving you a little more friction. It’s still slippery and the way that you’re bound makes it difficult to move the way you need to, but you’re able to make it work.

“Are you close?” he rasps.

“So close, sir!”

“And am I good to you, letting you cum on my leg like this?”

“Yes, thank you!”

You thrust yourself even harder against him to add just the little bit more pressure that you need, moving faster as you can feel your orgasm ready to burst through you.

And with a nasty grin, he steps back.

Your clit is so engorged that the sensation of air hitting it is actually painful. Although you’d like to remain composed and be angry, you just sob, tears welling up yet again.

“Why?” you cry at him.

“You don’t get to cum until I decide you’re ready.”

“Please, sir, I’m begging you, I need to.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

He pulls his boxers back on and grabs the towel, heading towards the door.

“Wait!” you yelp after him. “Where are you going?”

He laughs again, deep and almost demonic. “I’m a busy man. I’ve got a lot of things to do.”

“Aren’t you going to untie me?”

He smirks and throws the towel over his shoulders again. “Oh no. You’re gonna stay right there until I’m ready to use you again.”

#samoa joe imagine #samoa joe fan fiction #wwe imagine #wwe smut #wwe fanfic #wayward wrestle writing

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morganas-pendragons · 4 years

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kiss me (for you’re all i ever wanted) | obi-wan

back by popular demand (seriously the amount of screaming you all did on the first part to this fic had me yelling) here’s part two of this fic - touch starved obi-wan - this got away from me i’m sorry (i’m really not)

anything in italics is either a. thoughts or b. talking across the bond (telepathically)

tag: @obiorbenkenobi // @dressed-up-heartbreak // @robertdownyjrs

***

Force, what the kriff were you supposed to do now?! It wasn’t like you could just... walk into the quarters of another Jedi General and say, “Shall we continue what was going to be the hottest kiss of your life that was so rudely interrupted?”

You silently pace the small length of your quarters, completely unaware of the fact that Ahsoka Tano is standing outside of your door and projecting the calm you seem to be unable to control at the moment. She’s extremely perceptive - one of the brightest of her class of apprentices - and has quite an eye for things that most people would be ignorant of.

Case in point: Your very obvious attraction for Master Obi-Wan who had tried and failed spectacularly to hide how desperately he wanted to be with you. Here she’d been led to believe her grandmaster was the epitome of the perfect Jedi.

Turns out he was just another hopeless fool in love.

“Master?”

“Force, Ahsoka- You can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

Ahsoka frowns and motions to the door. “But.. oh, kriff it.” She jabbed her thumb back out into the hallway where you could just barely see the forms of clones rushing through The Negotiator. “You are aware of what just happened, right? It didn’t just slip from your mind?”

“Ahsoka-”

“Maker, you adults are thick.” She mutters. “Look.. the clones are retreating to their night duties which means this portion of the ship is mostly abandoned. Rex and Cody are keeping their vod occupied, Anakin is in the gym where I’m supposed to be meeting him, and Master Kenobi..” Your eyes snap back over to the young Togruta who beams the moment she realizes she caught your attention. “He’s in his quarters down the hall. Seems pretty wired. Would you-”

“I’ll check on him.” You reply and swiftly leave your quarters without so much as another glance back at the padawan. You do, however, see her little victory dance.

True to her word, the clones are vacant from this part of the ship which leaves you lingering outside the door to Obi-Wan Kenobi’s quarter and wondering what on Earth you’re supposed to say when and if he opens the door.

Your fingers hover over the keypad with the code on the forefront of your mind; That’s when you realize you might be the only person outside of Skywalker who knows the code into these quarters.

The durasteel slides open with ease. On the floor sits a Jedi Master, hands poised against his knees and body set into the familiar meditation position. The sight of him so tranquil makes your blood boil. Is this what he does when he wants to forget how he asked you to kiss him?

“Obi-Wan.”

No response.

Pressing your lips together in a firm line, you shed your own robes by the hook next to the door and kneel down in front of him. Give his obvious ignorance to your presence you assume that he’s deep enough in meditation to notice you aren’t there. You can work with that.

“Obi-Wan..” Your voice echoes across your bond as your hands slide up his chest and smooth across his shoulders to remove the robes that hide his figure from your view. Warmth floods your cheeks as you catch the hitch in his breath, his body struggling to continue in his meditative state with the fire your hands ignite when they touch bare skin. “Kenobi... we have something to finish.”

“Force-” Blue eyes snap open and are blown wide when he realizes what you’re doing, and his hands very swiftly catch yours before you can continue. “What-What are you doing? You know better then to disrupt meditation when it’s in such a deep state!”

“It’s not like Skywalker hasn’t been interrupting you since he was nine.” You shoot back. “Anyway, why are you meditating? We just got back. Less then three hours ago. Meditation should be the last thing on your mind.”

Unknown to you, you are the only thing on Obi-Wan’s mind.

“I was trying to calm myself. My actions on the ship were inappropriate-”

“No.” You snap. Your voice holds more anger then either of you realized you were feeling, and the sharpness of it makes him wince. “That might work with Anakin and Ahsoka. It might’ve worked with Satine. It does not work with me. You’re an open book. I know when the infamous Negotiator is lying to me.

You can tell yourself until you believe it that you don’t want love. That you don’t want touch and you don’t want to be held. Here’s the truth of the matter, Obi-Wan. Despite The Code you seem to adhere to more then the majority of The Order, despite every instinct that fabricates the very essence of your being.. you’re a man. A man with a heart and who wants things. You said it yourself. You want me to touch you. So give into it.”

You lean forward just enough to brush your lips against the shell of his ear, and you’re rewarded with a delightfully low groan that reverberates in the back of his throat as his hands find purchase against your hips.

“Give into your desires.”

Cradling his face in your hands, you allow your legs to loosely wrap around his waist as he moves you right into his lap. The friction that creates alone is enough to make you blush. “Maker, please-” He breathes, low and hoarse against your mouth, as you hover only mere inches in front of him. “The temptation alone-”

“Obi-Wan.. what do you want?” You ask.

“You.” He says it so quickly that you know without a doubt it’s true.

“Then you have me.”

There’s no one around to interrupt you now.

Your hands make quick work of the tunic he often wears underneath his robes, deftly unlacing the knots that come together at the dip in his chest as he watches you through petrified blue eyes. It’s not hard to forget he’s never done this before.

Fingertips trace over burn marks that are kept just out of sight beneath his neck line. You dip your head down just low enough to skim their ridges, and Obi-Wan goes slack in your embrace.

“Hero. Savior. Friend.”

The Force is practically taunting him at this point. Here you sit in the darkness of his quarters, snugly pressed against his lap, your hands tracing his torso and your lips branding his skin. He’s pretty sure he’s entered the Cosmic Force.

“The Zygerians. My f-failure-”

You shake your head. “Never.” You whisper. Your attention drifts back up to his eyes which remain blown despite the darkness that envelops you. “Not to me. Never to me.” Your eyes flicker between his own and his mouth as you move closer and closer and closer until you receive your prize, and The Force sings with praise at the motion.

All the stars have aligned. Its chosen have come home to each other.

You lightly rake your fingers through the beard that burns your hands as you move slowly, timidly, waiting for him to learn how to reciprocate before daring to go deeper. This isn’t about you. It’s about him.

That’s when you feel it. His hands travel up your arms until they meet your nape and then his fingers thread into the knots of your hair, and you’re so awed by how easy he falls into you that you open your mouth wide to him, and Obi-Wan deepens the kiss.

You forget how to breathe for a moment.

Sh.. darling. I think I’ve taken you by surprise. His voice teases across your Bond as you pull away just enough to ease the heaving of your chest from the lack of breath.

You did.

Your fingertips trace the shape of his face. The sharpness of his cheeks that are hidden by thick auburn hair (let’s face it, he’s hotter with the beard), the outline of his nose, the shape of his eyes that flutter as he absorbs every touch you’ll give him. Your other hand is still spread out over his heart. It hasn’t moved.

He wonders why.

“You overwork yourself.” You whisper. You almost sound sad about the fact he works himself to the bone and has for the entire war. “You take on more responsibilities then you should, you don’t sleep, I can barely get you to eat most of the time because your nose is buried in a data pad. Your vod are worried about you. I am worried about you. Let someone take care of you once, Obi-Wan.”

His shoulders fall in defeat.

“Okay.” He whispers in reply. “Okay. Okay.”

You hum beneath your breath and stand to your feet, extending your hand out to pull him with you. Obi-Wan complies without complaint and listens to the lull of your voice and how it feels like there’s a hidden Force suggestion in it. Just the sound alone is making his eyes heavy.

“Oh no. Not yet.” You lightly flick his shoulder as he sits on the cot and allows you to take his boots off. “You’re not going to sleep yet.”

“Didn’t you just say-”

“Oh no. That kiss you gave me was exquisite. Unfortunately, it means I now have to further test the waters.” You muse softly. He’s clearly confused and equally stunned by his own gasp when you flick your hand and the upper part of his torso is left bare to you. “Good. Now sit still, and keep quiet. You don’t want the boys to hear.”

Hear what?

You part his legs just enough to settle yourself in his lap again. He’s leaning against the wall now, eyes narrowed as you bend your head to the column of his neck. His pulse is steady beneath your hand - amplified by his obvious fear - and you send a wave of calm across the Bond that makes his heartbeat slower.

Your lips skim feverish skin until you find your mark - the one that makes his breath hitch when you touch it - and very, very slowly begin sucking on it.

The way your core ignites at the groan he emits makes you dizzy.

“Force-Force-” He rasps through gritted teeth as his hands tighten on your hips so much you’re sure his fingers will leave imprints in your skin. “Maker-I-I-can’t-”

Then your teeth drag across the mark, and he sees stars.

“Hm.” You somehow manage to start sucking harder and Obi-Wan is cursing in every language he’s fluent in to keep himself quiet. If you’d known that this was what it would take to get him to use that fabulous tongue of his- “The waters have been tested. You like hickies.”

You pull away to examine your work. It stands out proudly against his skin. A mark that tells the people who see it that he belongs to someone. Sure.. you could theoretically use The Force to heal it.. but you don’t want to. You’re too smug about the sounds he made when you did.

“You know-” He rasps as you slip away before he can do anything, and Obi-Wan curses at how his limbs feel like they won’t sustain him. Kriff. “When-When I learn to do that, you will be the one getting tortured.”

“Oh, sure.” You retort as he lays on his side and opens his arms for you to lay in them. “How do you plan on doing that?”

You’re so prideful that you don’t expect his next words,

“Because I’ll mark you everywhere.”

***

The next morning, Anakin and Ahsoka are standing at the end of the hall that hold the Generals Quarters. They both had a rather restful night sleep after practicing their hand to hand with the clones and their katas in the gym. You and Obi-Wan, however, did not.

“Okay Snips.” Anakin muses. “I’ll bet you fifty.”

“Fifty? Did you miss the part where I said I convinced her to go to his quarters?”

The Jedi Knight laughs as his blue eyes flicker back down the hall where Obi-Wan exits his quarters and about two minutes later, your head pops out and you look up and down the hall to ensure no one saw you leave just after he did.

“No-” Ahsoka rasps, eyes bright with tears as she bends over in hysterical laughter. “You owe me a hundred credits and a dinner at Dex’s!”

“What the kark are you-” His eyes snap over to his former Master who is the definition of composed until Anakin sees the bright purple mark that’s just barely hidden underneath the fabric of his Jedi Robes. “Obi-Wan!”

Rex, Cody and yourself stand by Ahsoka Tano as she once again lifts her data pad to record the altercation for future reference while following on the heels of her Master as The Hero With No Fear chases one of the most respectable Jedi in the Order all the way through The Negotiator. That is until Obi-Wan has the good sense to lock himself in a room where Anakin has no access.

“Kenobi, when I get this door open-”

“Tell you what, ‘Soka.” You lightly bump hips with the Togruta and hold up your credit chit as Rex goes to calm his General. “When we get home, I’ll buy you dinner.”

You buy her six. She likes to hear the gossip you have about her grandmaster. When you come home to The Temple and find Obi-Wan waiting for you in your quarters, he follows through on his promise of torture.

He’s particularly skilled with his mouth, remember?

#Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader #Obi-Wan x Reader #Star Wars imagines #Star Wars oneshots

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exsqueeze-me · 4 years

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Bleeding Heart (ch. 4)

(This chapter is longer than usual, mostly to make up for my lack of writing recently! The schedule for updates on this fic are just gonna be random from here on out cause I've been procrastinating on coming up with ideas for this fic lol. I hope you all enjoy!)

It had been a few weeks since you had found the three, and since then you somehow convinced Bardock to take occasional adventures to hunt. You had also managed to get the boy, who's name you soon learned to be Raditz, to help you out in the kitchen every now and then. The baby, or Kakarot, had warmed up to you, if only slightly. After realizing he would get in trouble with Bardock for quite literally biting the hand that feeds, he began to try to cause as much trouble as a strange, alien child could. He always somehow managed to wreck your kitchen and living room when he was left unattended, which was surprisingly easier to deal with than getting bit every time you neared the baby.

Raditz took a few days, but he warned up to you pretty quickly, especially in comparison to Bardock and Kakarot. It was clear from what you've seen in the past few weeks that he didnt have a very good relationship with his father, so any praise for a job well done in the kitchen and the occasional extra dessert when he was having a bad day went a long way. That's not to say that everything was hunky dory all the time, Raditz would still get defensive very easily with you. There had been several times where he had growled and bared his teeth because you moved just a little too fast for his liking.

Bardock was a different story. While he had accepted the fact that you weren't a threat nor were you trying to be, he still seemed to dislike your presence. Usually, it was just you and Raditz in the house, as Bardock would usually go out to train and you would call on your old master, Gohan to babysit Kakarot(which convincing Bardock to let that happen was a whole new argument. Although, he softened up to the idea when he saw how well Gohan handled his son despite Gohan's old age), but when Bardock was home, it was either awkward silence or constant snide remarks about how weak and pitiful you were. Raditz often got similar snide remarks, so that might have also been why the boy warmed up to you so easily. Despite being an all around ass, Bardock was extremely helpful. While it took a minute to explain human currency and why you couldnt afforded to constantly feed them, he began to hunt for meat and such every day and even dragged Raditz out with him to gut it and skin it all for you. Granted, you did have to get onto them a few times for leaving picked carcasses too close to the house or nitpick them what to keep and what not to keep, even if Bardock bitched at you for wasting the leftovers. If there was ever something that you couldn't open yourself, Bardock would(with complaints and insults) open it for you with ease. He surprisingly wasnt very content with sitting around and letting you do everything, so he occasionally would stalk you around the house, waiting for you to ask him to help with something. His helpfulness made it easier to deal with the fact that he seemingly couldnt stand you.

Today was one of those days where Bardock took Kakarot to try to 'train him'. You knew Bardock was a fighter through and through, but training a four year old seemed a bit much. When you tried to ask about it, he only ever told you that it's just how his race is, so you eventually let it slide. Neither of them ever came back hurt, so you just accepted it.

Looking at the clock, you decided now would be a good time to start dinner. Calling Raditz from his room to help grab the meat from the cooler(that you had to buy in the largest available size specifically for the copious amounts of meat that Bardock brought back) while you began to cut up veggies. Raditz always seemed pretty happy to help cook and you often wondered if he used to help his mother cook as well. Raditz dropped a few big slabs of meat on the counter before looking up at you expectantly.

"Anything else you need me to do?" Raditz asked. He seemed to be having a pretty good day today.

You thought about it for a moment. If these people really wanted to hurt you, they would have done so by now.

"Can I trust you with a knife?" You asked him.

He seemed to erupt with glee at the question. His tail swished back and forth behind him as a smile broke out on his face and he almost seemed to bounce in place.

You let out a sigh but you couldnt help but smile as well. Raditz had to be the most bipolar fourteen year old you'd ever met, but he was an overall good kid.. usually. He had his moments where he did everything in his power to get on everyone's nerves.

"Alright, but be careful, okay?" You handed him the meat cleaver.

As soon as the handle of the knife was in his hands, a switch seemed to have flipped. The smile dissapeared from his face and he stared down at the knife sadly.

"Raditz?" You carefully called his name out. It wasnt unusual for him to flip flop emotions, but he was rarely sad.

"My mom used to use one of these.." Raditz's voice was soft , much unlike his usual loud manner of speaking. His tail curled a bit and he shifted on his feet.

You both stood in silence for a moment before he shook his head and began to cut the meat into thick,even slices. You spared him one last, lingering look before continuing to cut veggies. You didnt know what to say, or if there was anything you could say.

The sun was meeting the horizon when Bardock returned with Kakarot. Although he was clearly curious, Bardock didnt question the strangely solemn feel in the house. He was used to hearing you go on about everything that happened, occasionally asking him about how his day went, even if he never responded. He was used to Raditz goofing around with Kakarot, trying to teach the kid all sorts of dumb things that would surely get on Bardock's nerves. Today, there was none of that. Rather than question it, Bardock decided it would be best to let this slide.

You wanted to ask Bardock what happened to Raditz and Kakarot's mother, but it wasnt your place to ask such questions. You doubted he would answer anyway. You decided to try and ask Bardock about it in a roundabout way after Raditz and Kakarot were asleep. You had been curious about their origins anyway.

A few hours after dinner and Raditz and Kakarot were asleep, you sat yourself down on the couch next to Bardock, where he was watching whatever was on the TV.

"What do you want?" He almost sneered.

"I've been curious. Where exactly are you from? You're clearly not from Earth so.."

"Planet Vegeta." He said simply. You had hoped you wouldn't have to ask every little question, but you also didnt really expect him to tell you more than what was asked.

"What was it like there?" You looked over at him. Maybe now wasnt an opportune time to take in his features, but you couldn't help but glance over him. It wasnt often you met someone as good looking as him.

"Why the hell do you want to know?" He finally turned to face you, his lips curling up slightly in a snarl.

"I already said! I'm just curious. You've been staying here for a while and I barely know anything about you three." You yelped and put your hands up in surrender. It was technically the truth. You didnt know much about them at all. You only really knew their names and little things you'd picked up on from the conversations they would have at dinner.

He glared at you for a few moments before huffing and turning back to the TV.

"How do I watch something different on this damn thing?" He gestured to the TV, completely ignoring your previous question.

You glanced at the TV and back at him. Maybe it was better to wait until another day to ask more. This was a good opportunity to try to make nice with Bardock. He had never outright asked you something like this before.

"You've.. never used a TV before?" It was a bit odd to think about. From how their little space pods looked, they were light years ahead of you.

"Low class warriors like me didnt have much use for this shit." He almost sounded like he wanted to complain more, but stuck with grumbling and thumping his tail against the couch.

You just gave him a odd look before reaching over him to grab the remote. You expected him to growl at you for leaning over him, but he was strangely docile right now.

"You change the channels with this button. If you wanna turn it off, then you press the red button up here." You explained the more important features before handing the remote to him.

His tail flicked curiously as he pressed down on the channel button. It was kind of amusing to see him try and effectively figure out how to work the TV. He sat there flipping through channels for a good few minutes before setting down the remote and turning to you.

"While you're.. here." He hesitated for a moment before getting up and walking to the kitchen. "How does this thing work?"

You couldnt help but let out a little laugh when he pointed to the toaster. You had a feeling you would be up all night explaining how things worked to him, but this was much better than having him glare at you. Maybe he actually was starting to warm up to you a bit.

#bleeding heart fic #Goku #Bardock #Raditz #dbz #this chapter went places lol

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thisbrokenmask · 4 years

Text

A Little Medical Magic

Title: A Little Medical Magic

Pairing: Seokjin x reader

Genre: Meet-cute?, fluff, hospital au

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 5.1k

Song inspiration: Dope (music video)

A/N: So I’m very aware that I’m nowhere close to finishing my bingo card before the end of the challenge (the end of this month), but I’m going to try and write them all anyway, no matter how long it takes. My next submission for ficswithluv’s Bulletproof Bingo Event is my Dope inspired drabble, and this one takes inspo from the video rather than the song itself. Gotta love some Dr Seokjin <3

“Just a little longer, darling, I promise,” you speak softly into the hair of the boy in your arms, holding him close to your chest and rocking him gently. He whimpers, exhausted from the hours of sobbing and screaming he’d already endured throughout the night. You kiss his temple, pleased to feel his skin has cooled slightly despite the warmth that still radiates from him and sheen of sweat that still lingers.

You’ve been sitting in the A&E waiting room for just under half an hour, but it feels like much longer when your son has cried through most of his waking hours over the last two days. You’ve done everything you can, tried every medicine and home remedy you’ve had access to, but Iseul’s condition hasn’t improved. It started with a high temperature and gradually grew into a fever that you have been unable to break and you know better than to leave him suffering any longer. You’re trying to keep calm for his sake, knowing that he’s intuitive and perceptive enough to pick up on your fear even if he is only three years old.

“Mrs Y/l/n?” A nurse holding a clipboard calls your name across the room, although the prefix catches you off guard at first. You blink a few times before realising she means you, gathering Iseul in your arms before grabbing your purse to follow her. Iseul wraps his arms around your neck, snuggling into your chest and whining at the movement.

“It’s Miss Y/l/n,” you say as politely as you can, offering a smile before she can even begin to form an apology. “Don’t worry, most people assume. It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

You briefly remember now how you used to meekly allow people to assume you were married just because you had a son despite the absence of a ring of your finger. It didn’t take long for you to start correcting people, however, taking pride in everything you were achieving as a single mother rather than submitting to society’s attempts to shame you for not being with the father, let alone not being married. But when you’d found out you were pregnant just a few months into your last relationship, your still-new boyfriend had panicked and scarpered, so you felt no remorse at not being with him considering how easily he’d left you on your own.

The very second Iseul was put into your arms at his birth, you were besotted, and you’d known then, as long as you had your son by your side, you could face anything the world had to throw at you. The last three years haven't been easy by any means, juggling motherhood and your career, but you couldn’t even imagine now what your life would be like now without your son.

The nurse shows you into a consultation room, telling you the doctor will be with you in a moment before she leaves. You lay Iseul down on the examination bed and unwrap his hands from your neck despite his complaints, taking them in one of yours instead as you sit beside him. You stroke his hair softly, pushing it away from his forehead as you do so, and hum the sweetest melody you know. Your mother used to sing it to you when you were a child and the tune immediately came back to your memory when Iseul was born, as if it were a secret song only mothers knew. It has always settled him and you take comfort in the fact that you can at least give him that when your medicines haven’t worked.

As he gazes up at you, his face red and watery eyes shining under the fluorescent lights, you feel a sharp tug at the ever-present pull on your heart. It’s like a thread immediately unravelled in your heart when you gave birth to him, the other end attached to your son, pulling you towards him no matter where either of you were. You wish you could help him, that you didn’t have to bring him into the hospital environment that you hate so much at three in the morning, but you know this is what’s best for him.

The door suddenly opens behind you, making you jump slightly, and you turn to see the doctor walk in. You’re not sure if he looks so tall because you’re sitting down or if he really is that tall, but you immediately notice how you’re surprised that the small smile on his face actually reaches his eyes as he walks over to the desk on the other side of the room, white coat billowing out behind him.

Your last experience with a hospital doctor was when Iseul was born and, despite it being one of the greatest moments of your life, you can’t help the ghost of shame that creeps up your spine when you remember the way your doctor spoke to and about you. Yes, you’d been young, single and with your mother instead of the baby’s father, but you’d never expected such an emotionally detached reaction from the doctor. The nurses had looked after you incredibly, always making sure you were comfortable before and after Iseul’s arrival, but you’d never forget overhearing the doctor as he left, his assertion that he had another baby to deliver - this time to a “proper family”. Ever since, you’d had a wary disposition against doctors, constantly on alert that they would tell you that you were doing things wrong by being a single mother and not granting Iseul a male presence in his life, as if that were the most valuable thing in the world.

But this doctor seems a lot younger and, while you try not to let any prejudice shape your opinion, you can’t help but think he looks much more welcoming than any doctor you’ve met before. Maybe it’s because he’s a paediatrician, or maybe it’s the way his dark eyes seem to be permanently shining with a smile, but you instantly feel your own wariness beginning to ease.

It’s possibly also because he’s really quite attractive. He really does seem to be that tall and you note that the broadness of his shoulders is also not a trick of perspective. His dark hair sits just over his eyebrows, bringing your attention down to his large, dark brown eyes as they read the file that was left on the desk for him. Under his white coat is a simple white shirt, but it’s the tie that catches your attention: it’s bright red, not dissimilar to the red fire truck toy Iseul has at home, but it’s covered in little white hearts. You catch yourself smiling before he looks up at you, turning away and hoping he doesn’t notice any dusting on your cheeks.

“Who do we have here then?” he asks as he comes over to the bed holding the file, eyes already searching for every visual clue he can find to help him diagnose your son.

“Iseul,” you say with a brief flash of a small smile to the doctor before turning to your son, repeating his name and trying to coax Iseul out from hiding his eyes under his arms. He’d immediately crossed them over his face when you’d let go at the entrance of the doctor, shielding his eyes from the bright lights above him.

The doctor, however, seems unperturbed by your son’s reluctance to look at him.

“Ah, hello Iseul,” he says, carrying on as normal as he pulls over the chair by the desk and takes a seat, tucking his coat underneath him out of habit. “My name is Dr Kim, but you can call me Seokjin, if you like.” When Iseul still doesn’t look at him, Seokjin smiles sympathetically and turns to you. “So, Mum, what seems to be the problem?”

You’re ashamed that being on the end of his direct gaze makes you a different kind of nervous than you expected when you came to the hospital, especially when your son is lying on the bed beside you. Shaking your head slightly, you miss the smirk on the doctor’s face as you turn to your child.

“Uh, he’s had a high temperature for the last few days,” you say, placing a protective hand on his tummy, “ He keeps saying his head hurts, but paracetamol doesn’t seem to help much and I worry about giving him too much. He’s been off his food, too, even when I make his favourites, and he’s been sick a few times.”

Seokjin nods as he takes a few notes, adding to what’s already written in the file in his hand. You can’t figure out if his blank expression is solemn or just concentration and it makes your heart beat a little faster for the little boy under your hand.

“Iseul, buddy, is it alright if I take your temperature?”

Your son shakes his head under his arms before whimpering at the movement.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” you coo. “Doctor Kim’s gonna make you feel better, okay?”

“I sure am,” Seokjin’s voice is confident but warm and almost playful and you feel a flutter of relief when you see Iseul’s eyes peek out from under his arms and flicker towards him. “Do you think you can sit up for me?” Iseul’s not had much experience with doctors, not any that he would remember, anyway, and you don’t want to pass on your hesitancy, so you smile and nod encouragingly when he finally looks to you for reassurance.

Iseul thinks for a few seconds before he reaches out for you and you help him to sit up, wrapping your arm around him so that he can shuffle up to your side. You see his eyes widen as he takes in Seokjin’s full appearance for the first time, his attention immediately drawn to the shiny stethoscope around the doctor’s neck.

“You gonna let Doctor check your temperature?” you squeeze his shoulder lightly and stroke his hair again as he watches Seokjin curiously, his eyes constantly drifting down to the instrument around the doctor’s neck.

“All you gotta do is hold this under your tongue for me for a few seconds, okay?” Seokjin tells him, showing him a small thermometer, and your son nods shyly, still sniffling slightly. “Fabulous,” Seokjin praises his cooperation and you grin at the little smile that creeps onto your son’s face. “Now, let’s see how wide you can open your mouth, shall we?” Iseul makes a large ‘O’ with his lips, making both you and the doctor chuckle. “Oh, I know a grown boy like you can do better than that!” Seokjin teases and Iseul proves him right, allowing the doctor to slip the thermometer under his tongue. “Now, see if you can hold that perfectly still for me - without biting it,” he quickly adds, knowing most children are immediately tempted to do just that. “Pretend it’s a straw, okay?” Iseul does as he’s told, looking up at you before crossing his eyes to look down his nose at the thermometer.

“Good job, baby,” you encourage him as he keeps flicking his eyes between you and the instrument. You press a kiss to the top of his dark brown hair and are relieved to feel that his temperature has lessened slightly, even if only temporarily.

“Let me see?” Doctor Kim leans over and you watch him take note of the temperature before taking the thermometer from Iseul’s mouth and laying it gently on a tray beside the bed. “Excellent, I knew you could do it!” He offers Iseul a high five, which your son eagerly grants him with more enthusiasm than you’ve seen in him lately and it makes your heart swell just that little bit more. Seokjin carefully takes his stethoscope from around his neck and holds it in his lap before leaning forward conspiratorially. “Now, as you were such a good boy, I’m allowed to show you a little bit of magic… would you like to see it?”

Iseul nods but then frowns, glancing at you before looking back to Dr Kim.

“Mummy can’t watch, though.” A cry of indignation escapes you at your son’s words, but Seokjin simply laughs.

“No?” Iseul shakes his head with a solemn expression, as if it pains him to speak the truth, and Seokjin continues to humour him, despite the splutters of objection you’re trying to swallow. “And why’s that?”

“Mummy hasn’t been a good girl,” your son states this like it’s obvious, much to Seokjin’s amusement.

“Excuse me?” you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks, a million thoughts flying through your head and a slight stab of betrayal in your heart, although you weren’t even sure what he’d be talking about. Sure, you enjoyed a glass of wine or two on a Friday night, but you always made sure to tidy everything away before your son awoke for breakfast the next morning. You didn’t swear in front of him. You hadn’t had anyone other than your closest friends over to your house since Iseul was born, and the three dates you’d tried had ended at the front step.

“Oh dear,” Seokjin sighs, although a playful smirk tugs at his lips as he looks at you, dark eyes shining like jet as he quickly looks you from head to toe. “Mummy’s been a bad girl, huh?”

An aggressive blush fills your cheeks and you suddenly feel like the little room is overheating, too stuffy to breathe properly as the devilishly handsome doctor in front of you simply quirks an eyebrow. ‘Stop flirting with the doctor!’ you berate yourself. ‘You’re here for your son!’ Your eyes involuntarily drop down to Seokjin’s hands, but his left hand is tucked neatly under his right over the top of his stethoscope, so you can’t see if a ring sits on his finger or not. You presume he is married, though, or at least dating someone, given how absolutely perfect he seems to be.

“...no,” Iseul says, looking up to the ceiling as if deep in thought and you recognise it as the way he tries to avoid looking at you when you’ve caught him trying to lie, and Seokjin looks back to him as soon as he speaks. “But she hasn’t done nothing good, neither! I had the ‘mometer in my mouth, she didn’t.”

“Ahh, I see,” Seokjin nods sagely, his hand pressed to his chin and the other folded across his chest, pouting slightly as he considers Iseul’s argument. “You make a good point,” he says, “how about this, then - I show you the magic, and then you can show Mummy?”

“You’ll teach me?” Iseul’s eyes light up, not even illness getting in the way of his love for magic tricks - especially magic tricks he can perform for you.

“Of course!” Seokjin grins, “although I’m sure you’ll do it first try no problem.” He looks to you and winks quickly, lifting the stethoscope slightly to signal to you what he was planning, and you return the slightest nod you can manage without drawing your son’s attention. “You ready?” he asks your son, who immediately turns to you and pushes at your arm.

“Don’t look, Mummy! Not allowed!”

Happy to see your son with more energy, you play along for his benefit, dramatically sighing and turning your body slightly so that he thinks you aren’t watching. You can, however, see his reflection in the glass-lined cabinet on the other side of the room, and watch as Seokjin presents the stethoscope to your son.

“Now this,” he says, and you smile at the way he softens his voice to make it sound much more fantastical for Iseul, “is a very special thing. It lets you hear a person’s heart.”

“Wow! Really?” Reflection-Iseul leans forward slightly and puts his hand out, reaching out to touch the stethoscope before retracting his hand, as if he might break the magic if he does. His eyes are wide and awestruck despite the traces of illness still lingering in his reddened cheeks and dampened hairline.

“Really. How about I show you how it’s done, and then you can try it on Mummy?” Your son’s reflection nods as avidly as he can without hurting himself, although you still see the traces of a frown pull at his brow when he does so. Seokjin puts the earpieces in before taking hold of the other end, showing it to Iseul and explaining that this is the magic piece that lets him hear people’s hearts. He explains that the heart can only be heard by good, kind people who care about others, which is why they all become doctors and nurses, before pointing to the part of Iseul’s chest he’s going to listen to and telling him he has to sit still for it to work.

And it works without a hitch, Iseul watching, amazed, as Seokjin listens to his heartbeat. After a few seconds, Seokjin starts nodding to himself and then pulls away.

“Yep, seems like we’ve got a good heart in there,” he says, putting the stethoscope back in his lap as he takes some notes. “You should be able to do this magic no problem.”

A tugging at your sleeve encourages you to turn around, fistfuls of your jacket sleeve in your son’s hands, and you smile down at your son.

“Did you see the magic?” you ask him, and he is all but bouncing on the bed.

“I did! Dr Seokjin says I’ve got a good heart and I can do the magic, too!”

You look at the doctor in question, catching him watching your interaction with your son with a warmth in his eyes before he notices you looking at him and looks back down at his papers, clearing his throat. You refrain from smirking at the blush on his cheeks and turn back to your son.

“Wow, really? You can do magic? Can you show me?”

Without any further prompting needed, Seokjin lends forward as he removes the stethoscope once again, this time scooting his chair closer to the bed. He offers the chest piece to Iseul, telling him to hold onto it while he moves to put the earpieces in place. He plans to hold them rather than letting them press on Iseul’s young ears, but as soon as even the slightest pressure touches his ears, Iseul shrieks and drops his end of the stethoscope. He pushes Seokjin’s hands away and covers his ears with his own, burying his face into your side.

You’re immediately panicking, but Seokjin quickly retracts the stethoscope and drops it to the bed, nothing more than a brief frown furrowing his brow before he reaches into his pocket to pull out a small instrument.

“Do your ears hurt, Iseul?” Your son nods against you, your arms already wrapped around him. “Can I have a look?” You expect your son to scream in refusal given the fact that Seokjin’s last instrument caused the pain in the first place, but you’re surprised when your son simply nods again, rubbing his eyes as he sits up again. Seokjin seems to have gained his trust incredibly quickly, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t thrilled that he wasn’t holding his experience against the doctor.

With the utmost care, Seokjin uses the tool in his hand to check Iseul’s ears before pulling away with a soft, yet somewhat relieved, sigh.

“It appears that Iseul has an infection in his left ear, which explains everything you’ve said he’s been going through,” he says, turning to you briefly before rolling back over to the desk. “I’ll get some antibiotics sorted for him, and he’ll be as right as rain in no time.”

The smile he gives you is reassuring, but you can’t bring yourself to smile back. You hold your son close as you curse yourself for not even thinking about the possibility of an ear infection, especially as it was now so obvious as you recalled Iseul’s increased habit of touching his ears over the last few days. He’d told you his head had been hurting, but you hadn’t realised he’d actually meant his ears. You feel a sinking in your chest at the idea that you’ve failed your own son, whose cries have now settled back down to hiccups, but Seokjin quickly catches on.

“Hey,” his voice is soft, calling you out of your reverie. He doesn’t want to assume what you’re thinking, but he’s seen the same look on plenty of parents’ faces over the last few years and he can take a good guess. “He’ll be okay.”

You nod quietly, still frowning but somehow reassured by the simple statement.

“Thank you, Doctor,” you say, rising to put your purse over your shoulder properly this time before lifting your son onto your hip. You take the signed prescription slip he offers you, ready to go off in search of someone to fill it for you, but he places a gentle hand on your arm to stop you.

“You’re doing a good job, Miss Y/l/n,” he says softly, and it takes you a few seconds to realise he hasn’t immediately assumed you’re married. “Don’t pressure yourself, okay?”

It’s been a long time since someone has outwardly praised you like this, especially a stranger, and it catches you off guard, your breath catching in your throat. Seokjin’s gaze flickers between your eyes for a few seconds, waiting until he’s sure you’ve taken him seriously, before he offers a gentle smile and removes his hand from your arm.

As you leave the examination room, Seokjin directs you to the hospital’s pharmacy and assures you that you should be able to pick up the antibiotics from them without an issue. He seems to hesitate, opening his mouth and closing it again before wishing you a good night and walking away, and you try not to think too much about the lingering flutter in your chest as you set off in your own direction.

You sink back into your chair as you place your mug back on the table, directing your gaze out of the large floor-to-ceiling window to the high street just beyond it. You idly watch as the Saturday morning shoppers hurry back and forth, some families and couples lingering at shop windows as others push on to their next destination. The summer sun casts everything in a brightness that you can’t help but feel joy in, even as the sun’s rays are amplified through the glass and make your legs feel like they’re burning up.

You turn back to look around the coffee shop you’re sat in, reminding yourself that you don’t have any reason to rush right now. The rare, stolen moment of unhurried peace that you haven’t felt in a long time is something you know you need to cherish, because in just over twenty-four hours your son will be coming home from his grandparents’ house, but it does feel strange to not have your son joyfully chattering across the table from you.

Your mother had offered to let Iseul stay over at their for the weekend, half out of her love of spending time with her grandson and half out of concern for the way you were constantly rushed off of your feet, either from being a mother or from your job as a curator for the National History Museum. It was a small treat for you to be able to get a weekend to yourself and go shopping on your own, not having to worry about your son running in and out of changing rooms while you tried on new clothes, and you’ve decided to also indulge in a slightly overpriced coffee without having to rush while you have the chance.

As your eyes skim down the line of patrons waiting to order, you think you recognise one of them but can’t quite place where you know him from. He’s tall, clearly several inches above the other people in the line, with dark hair sitting on top of a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. The light of his phone reflects in his lenses as he gazes down at it, avidly watching or reading whatever it is that’s caught his attention, and his lips are pushed out in a small pout in the midst of his concentration.

Despite the weather, he’s in black skinny jeans that look sinfully tight above the knees and bring further attention to his height, but you suppose the loose white t-shirt hanging off his broad shoulders must be helping him to stay rather cool-

Wait... incredibly tall, broad shoulders… it couldn’t be?

So lost is he in his phone, the man at the end of your gaze doesn’t notice the gap forming in front of him until the slightly elderly patron behind him clears his throat gently. You hear him apologise several times to the man behind him (who just smiles softly and tells him not to worry) and lets the man go up the counter first by way of an apology, and it’s only when you hear his voice that you realise who he is.

You’re pretty certain the jump in your heartbeat is cause for concern when you finally recognise him without the white coat. You start slightly, almost choking on nothing and quickly hide your reddening face by looking down at your drink, then out of the window again, then down to your phone. You bring up the home screen even though you know no one has texted you, desperate for something to do to put off looking up again, instead trying to figure out what had caused your reaction in the first place.

Of course, he was attractive - in fact he was ridiculously so - and he had been kind to you and your son, but that was his job as a paediatrician. Maybe it was the way he’d reassured you, been one of the first strangers in a while to assuage your underlying fears that you weren’t adequate as a single mother, or perhaps it was that last lingering look that had stayed with you as he’d said goodbye in A&E-

“Miss Y/l/n?” Your thoughts are cut short by a voice beside you. Looking up, you see the broad-shouldered doctor standing beside your table, holding his own drink in a takeaway cup. He smiles when you look up at him, apparently happy to have recognised you.

“Dr Kim?” You immediately blush at the squeaky voice that tumbles out of your mouth, a hand flying to cover your mouth.

“Call me Seokjin, please,” he smiles, a gentle blush on his cheeks when he can’t quite meet your eyes, seemingly less confident outside of his hospital halls. “Sorry for interrupting, I just thought I’d come over and say hello.”

In actual fact, he has no idea what made him come over to you. He sees his patients and their parents outside of the hospital all the time and never bats an eyelid, knowing it comes with the territory of working at the main hospital in the city, but when he’d seen you staring out of the window, a serene look on your face as you watched the people passing you by, he’d felt compelled to go over to you. So when the barista had handed him his drink, he’d followed his feet to stand beside your table.

“How’s your son doing?”

“Iseul? He’s fine, thank you.” You think back to what he’d said to you before you’d made to leave. “He was right as rain in no time, just like you said.” God, why did that sound better in your head than it did out loud?

“I’m glad,” Seokjin’s eyes briefly disappear behind his glasses when he nods happily, the reflection of the light above him making the lens white until he looks down to you again. “I told you he would be.” He tries not to wince as he groans internally, cursing himself for being so awkward when it comes to small talk. It’s never been his strong point, which is why he likes working with children as they don’t do small talk either. He’d rather field all of their weird and wonderful thoughts and questions than talk to their parents about the weather or sports he doesn’t watch.

You both fall into silence, still awkwardly smiling at each other without quite making eye contact. Your pulse is racing in your ears and you know it’s not the coffee.

“Would you like to join me?” You’re not quite sure where the offer comes from but you gesture to the chair on the other side of your table before you can help yourself. Seokjin’s eyes widen behind his lenses at your question and he looks at the chair with an expression that could be either pained or offended - you’re not quite sure.

It takes a few seconds for you to remember that he’d ordered his drink to go, the takeaway cup taunting you from his hand as he shifts his weight from foot to foot and now you’re not sure whether to hastily backtrack or just wait for him to reject you.

“Never mind-”

“I’d love to-”

You blink at each other when you speak at the same time, but luckily Seokjin blesses you with a chuckle rather and breaks the tension holding your heart hostage.

“I wouldn’t be disturbing you?” he asks, and when you shake your head with a smile he takes the seat.

“You don’t have to, if you’re busy?” You point to his cup, wondering where he’d been planning on going with it, wondering if there was maybe a partner waiting for him somewhere on the street outside.

“Oh, no, I’m not busy,” he fiddles with the lid on his cup, suddenly shy as he admits, “I don’t really like sitting in cafes alone, so I tend to just get it to go instead.” He hesitates and then looks up at you, his gaze steady despite the blush of pink creeping down the side of his neck. “But I guess I’m not alone this time, though, am I?”

“You’re not,” you agree, delighting in the way his lips transform into the most adorable smile you’ve ever seen on a grown man. You decide then and there that, even if it’s only for today, you’re going to try and keep that smile on his face for as long as possible. Clearing your throat, you lean your arms against the table and meet his gaze when he looks over at you. “So, Seokjin-”

“Jin.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My friends call me Jin,” he clarifies and you feel another little skip in your chest, then he motions for you to continue speaking as he lifts his drink to take a sip and hide his own blushing cheeks.

If you’d like to read any of my other drabbles, please visit my masterlist here.

#kim seokjin fic #kim seokjin #seokjin #jin #bts fic #bts fluff #bts fanfic #bts #seokjin fluff #doctor seokjin #doctor kim seokjin #doctor au #bts doctor au #fwlbingo #bulletproof bingo #ficswithluv #dope #bts dope #dts drabbles

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overdrivels · 3 years

Text

The Way to a Heart (20)

<<Chapter 19

When Hanzo wakes, he almost punches himself in the face trying to rub the sand from his eyes, body refusing to cooperate with any amount of finesse. When he is able to focus, he recognizes the interior of one of the medical bay rooms at Gibraltar. The significance of it doesn’t sink in until he sees his bandaged hands where the phantom feeling of his punches still linger.

Disappointment and anguish overpowers the ache and grogginess—he slams his fists against legs—the pain that shoots through him and renders his vision spotty does little to deter him from doing it again.

Reaper left him alive even though he had all the ability in the world to just shoot himself and Genji dead. It was humiliating.

Only the good die young, and he is none of those things.

“You’re awake!”

Dr. Ziegler walks into the room with Genji right at her heels. She approaches, but Genji is faster, interrupting her path.

Genji’s usual mask is off, allowing Hanzo to see the entirety of his face. It is first shocked, then twists into something like rage; it’s strangely assuring. What truly strikes him is not the scars on his face, no, but that his thick eyebrows, so similar to his own but more pronounced, are still intact.

“Genj—”

He is barely able to react—he later blames the drugs being pumped into him at the time—and thanks his lifelong training for teaching him how to shut his mouth.

The punch to the face nearly knocks out his teeth and consciousness. He could've sworn he heard the good doctor curse loudly. Before he is able to recover and give him a piece of his addled mind, his cheeks are enveloped in cool synthetic leather, and Genji's forehead meets his own.

The contrast in temperature is oddly comforting.

"I thought I almost lost you, brother," Genji whispers. The ringing in his ears is not loud enough to drown out the pain in his brother's synthetic voice.

Any protest or words he has dies pathetically in his throat. There is a click of something in the back of his heart, a spark in the depths of his mind.

Instead, all he can do is grab his brother by the shoulders and say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

---

After all the excitement dies down and everyone is ushered out of his room, he’s subject to a battery of tests (including another one for concussion because Genji really doesn’t know how to hold back) that pass by in a blur. Dr. Ziegler mercifully does not bog him down with the details of his injuries or what happened, simply inferring that Winston will update him when he is feeling more like a person and less of a ragdoll.

Left alone in the room, he finds the quiet to be peaceful instead of distressing. For the first time in a very long time, there is a reign of silence in his heart and a strange clarity to his muddled thoughts that he has never found before. He supposes almost dying would do that to a person, and perhaps that’s the reason why Genji is the way he is now.

Or maybe he really is concussed from Genji’s punch.

He watches sunlight filter in through the narrow windows, the way scarce bits of dust dance and twirl in the spotlight. Time passes by just like that with nary a thought.

Sunlight eventually gives way to twilight. Demons that would normally take advantage of the encroaching dark ready to stab him with past memories and sharpened ‘what if’s are not around. This quiet is peaceful, comfortingly so. Even the pain he should be feeling is dulled by anesthesia and the feeling of cotton stuffed beneath his skin.

It’s only when there’s a quiet knock on his door does he realize the whole day has passed him by. Was he awake the whole time or has he been drifting between sleep and consciousness?

When another knock comes, he realizes he hasn’t answered and the room is a shade darker than before.

“Come in.”

Surprise comes to him slowly and with less intensity than he expected.

"Chef. Why are you here?"

It's strange to see you on the other side of the bed now considering your roles were reversed not too long ago. But something about your appearance tugs at him—there’s a sense of weariness and exhaustion that seems to eclipse his own that he can’t place. He just knows.

You smile weakly, lifting the tray in your hands for him to see.

"I thought I'd bring you some food. Something easy on the stomach?"

Hunger isn’t very high on his list of needs or wants at the moment, but he waves you in with his non-IV-tethered hand anyway. He doesn’t have the heart to turn you or your good will away. The door closes quiet as a whisper as you tiptoe into the room, the lights coming on in slow intervals. Like an angel or a main character coming onto the stage, he thinks.

On the tray, there’s a cream colored ‘soup’ with chopped green spring onions on top and some bread on the side. It is a far cry from the meals he’s expected from you and reminds him of the earlier days when ingredients were clearly scarce and he didn’t know you were a person.

“This is…?”

“Artichoke soup.”

The side of his mouth twitches downward. Whatever little appetite he may have had dissipates. “Have you eaten yet, Chef?” he asks instead.

“Oh. Uh.” Your eyes shift away from him, a sure sign you’re lying. “I will. After this.”

He gives you the flattest look he can manage as he pushes the tray back toward you. He may not be in full control of his facilities, but even he can see that you’re tired and probably in more need of nutrition than he is.

“Yes. You will. Now.”

“This is for you, I can’t—”

“Sit.”

Even as you’re protesting, you still blindly grab at the chair beside you to sit down in. "I can't eat in front of my customers. We can’t eat until—"

He rolls his eyes and doesn't care how undignified that it is or that you see it. "And I am not your customer now, am I? Or is that all I am to you?"

"What, no! You're not, you're—you're not just a customer, you're…” You wave a hand vaguely at him, searching for the words, the anticipation makes his stomach tight. "Hanzo.”

“Hanzo.”

The label, if it could even be called that, amuses him more than he could ever say. Not a customer, not a friend, but Hanzo. As cliché as it sounds, there is a warm and fuzzy feeling that settles into his stomach.

"It’s not as though I haven’t seen you eat before.” As a matter of fact, he liked watching you eat. There was something charming about the way your eyes light up and the single mindedness in which you clear your plate. He has no plans to tell you that, however. “If it makes you uncomfortable, should I close my eyes?”

You grumble something beneath your breath about how this food isn’t yours and some other manner of complaints that just seem childish at this point. It’s with great reluctance that you pick up the spoon and bowl meant for him. But there is something different. Your eyes don’t light up, and you just put spoonful after spoonful in your mouth in quick succession without pausing to savor.

“You don’t like your own cooking?” is the unbelievable conclusion he comes to.

“Not really,” you mumble.

“So you’ve been feeding us mediocre work?”

“No!” It almost startles him how vehemently you protest, and maybe it startles you, too because you immediately back down. “No, I just—look. Sometimes,” you start slowly, eyes searching for the words across the half-finished soup, “sometimes you just get tired of your own flavor. Of your own cooking.”

He wouldn’t know anything about that. Of course there are times he’s tired of eating just onigiri while on the run, but that’s just one dish. There’s also something else underneath your words, too. Uncertainty and doubt.

Irritation bubbles up in his chest, and before he can even stop himself, he snatches the spoon out of your hand with a brief, “Excuse me,” before shoveling the soup into his mouth.

The richness of the artichokes is immediately apparent, mild and full-bodied, made thicker with added texture from potatoes. Yet, despite that, the soup isn’t particularly heavy, its richness cut by the zest of lemon which is tempered by the other ingredients. It’s easy to eat and despite his lack of appetite, he thinks he can eat more.

It would sound stupid to anyone he tells it to, but the soup feels like...a hug.

When he raises his eyes, your mouth is agape.

“I could never get tired of your cooking,” he says. The ease at which the words come to him must be from the anesthesia or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Of all the things that would make you flush. He smiles wide and slow, delighted at your reaction.

This is fun. Enjoyable. It makes him want to tease you more.

“Tha-thanks?”

“No, I should be thanking you.”

For so many things. For introducing him to new foods. For sacrificing so much for Overwatch. For...

The memory of Reaper with the tamale tugs at the back of his mind. He could wave it away, but that he lives because of you and he doesn’t say anything about it would burden him. Being saved by a civilian who wasn’t even there from a foe far stronger than he wounds him, but not showing appreciation for it would wound him further.

He puts down the spoon, and quietly confesses, “Chef. Thank you. Your cooking has…saved me.”

“Oh.” Surprise freezes your expression in place but it quickly melts into a warm smile, one that made you seem to sparkle and come to life. “You’re welcome.”

There’s no way for you to know just how much he meant those words, but he can’t bring himself to elaborate. It’ll be the closest he’ll be able to admit to himself that it was not his own strength that saved him at the end of the day.

---

Apparently Reaper is less violent than his actions and rumors would have everyone believe. Dr. Ziegler prescribes him less bedrest than expected and the green light to leave and return to his routine (barring actual missions) in a few days. Most of his injuries were superficial, and none of the shotgun blasts seem to have damaged anything too permanent beyond repair.

It’s Soldier: 76 who seems most put off by this news, grumbling about how Reaper is an unfair bastard. Winston is ever apologetic, still feeling responsible that they were led right into an ambush after hearing Hanzo’s report. According to Dr. Ziegler, the team was lucky Reaper was carrying normal shotgun clips.

Yes. Lucky.

It’s just been a series of lucky circumstances, hasn’t it? That they were all able to leave with their lives and tell the tale is beyond what most could have hoped for, and Winston apparently did not want to look that gift horse in the mouth.

"We will be leaving the moment we are finished with repairs to this Watchpoint. We never know when we'll have to return. I just wanted to prepare you for that eventuality.” Winston is distractingly huge in this little room as he shuffles on his feet, trying not to knock into any sensitive equipment.

“I understand.”

“That being said, Dr. Ziegler would like you to remain here until you are flight-ready. You will be a part of the last group to leave.”

“Has my new post been decided?”

“You will be informed when you make a full recovery and are back in service. In the meantime, we are trying to keep the number of people who know our next destination to a minimum. Security reasons; I hope you understand.”

The decision comes as no surprise to him.

It isn’t ideal to house Overwatch in a single place where the very country they’re stationed in is pitted against them. It’s even less ideal to have all their forces in one place at this time where the line of Overwatch succession has not been properly established. So far, it’s been a struggle between Winston, the de facto but still inexperienced leader, and Soldier: 76 who was the Strike Commander but claims he has no desire to hold such a title anymore while still meddling in Winston’s decisions. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

However, if the whole of Overwatch is leaving, then where does that leave you?

It’s unreasonable to drag you along, and it's too dangerous to remain here in Gibraltar by yourself, waiting for agents that may never return. Your restaurant has booted you out and by

Maybe you’ll go back to your restaurant and reclaim it for yourself.

Maybe he could be selfish and ask you to remain.

It’s silly, but he’s already gotten used to your meals, spoiled by the attention.

He presses his lips together, refusing to sigh no matter how much he wanted to. The future is yours to take hold of. Whether you decide to take the difficult path of following them or whether you decide to leave and do something else is entirely out of his hands.

As much as he wants to know, he can't bring himself, unwilling to hear the answer. He’ll have to wait for you to tell him—if you ever tell him.

Some more logistics are discussed, but Winston keeps the conversation superficial. Apparently the Junkers are obstinately refusing to leave and he’s had his hands full even without their opposition.

Hanzo has already tuned him out, thoughts wandering to you and what you plan to do.

Surprisingly, McCree visits him soon after. He’s also wearing the standard hospital gown, but doesn’t seem to be as well-wrapped as Hanzo. It somehow annoys Hanzo that the person who nearly led himself and Genji to their dooms is in better shape than he is.

“I saw how it went down,” McCree starts as soon as he sits down with a heavy grunt. “The tamale. You tell Winston?”

“Who was he?”

“I asked first.”

There’s a silent stare-down between them.

A short bark of a laugh tears out of McCree, loud and sudden. He leans back in his chair before changing his mind to lean forward, the hair hanging in front of his face does nothing to obscure the pointed look in his eyes.

“Gabriel Reyes.”

The name takes a moment to sink in, for the veil to lift and the name to become a face.

Hanzo sucks in a breath.

“I suppose Overwatch has some secret to immortality that they plan to impart to us when we reach tenure?” It comes out more critical than he has any right to be, but McCree would have to excuse him—he did almost die, after all, along with Genji and the remainder of his pride.

“If it’s tenure, I’d better be first.” Even McCree seems bitter about it. He supposed it was just as well, McCree was much closer to them and personally knew all three. It must have been a much bigger betrayal to him than it was to Hanzo who only knew of the three from news reports and word of mouth.

He heard bits and pieces of how Genji was a part of Blackwatch and Gabriel, in a sense, saved him from himself.

“...did Genij know?”

McCree pauses, face scrunching up and chewing his lips like he wished for a smoke. “...yeah. I told ‘im so he wouldn’t have to break my kneecaps.”

That’s probably why they didn’t stick to the plan. Genji knew, too. How is he taking the news, Hanzo wonders.

“And you? You tell Winston or what?”

“...yes.” It wasn’t a detail that he could have left out; it was the reason they’re alive and it’s such a stupid reason, too. He thought Winston would react in disbelief, but to his surprise—which now seems so obvious—the gorilla just sighed and moved on.

McCree lets out a breath, slumping into his chair. “Cat's outta that bag, I guess. Gonna have to get him to keep his mouth shut 'bout that 'round Chef. And you'd better do, too "

“And what reason do I have to do that?"

"'m serious. If Chef knew about Reaper, who knows what might happen."

McCree sounds tired. It wasn't his intent to speak to you about that anyway, but now McCree's piqued his curiosity.

“Elaborate.”

"....Reyes was considered one of them. When he wasn’t doing shit like sewing up costumes or drilling us, he was in the kitchens. They were family to each other.” Hanzo breathes in deep through his nose and presses his lips together. "Talon's already done Chef dirty enough and things aren't gonna get much easier either, so we should cut the chef some slack where we can spare, y'hear?"

It doesn’t take him long to answer.

"I hear you."

---

“Please let us know your decision by the end of this week, Chef. I know it won’t be easy, but I can assure you, we will support you regardless of your choice.”

Packing up the kitchen for departure was one thing, but asking you what you wanted to do with your life is another. It’d just be so much easier if Winston told you “Come with us” or “Stay here”. If it were the Head Chef, he’d probably insist on staying because this, for many agents, is home, though he would be just as likely to say anywhere his customers go, he goes.

—”What do you want to do?”—

Hanzo’s question bounces incessantly in your head, burrowing under your skin until they begin to eat at the core of your being.

Again, you’re struck with the ever-persistent reminder that you are not Head Chef Richard. You’re not an expert at managing restaurants. You’re not a world-class chef. You have no idea what you’re doing or what you should do next.

The kitchen is deafeningly quiet and devoid of answers except for your scrubbing, but even that is just out of habit; your mind is elsewhere.

Why couldn’t everything just be the way they were before?

You know what you want to do. You want to return to the past, to the days when the kitchen was the kitchen and when you didn’t have to be responsible for so many things or have to worry about the ever-growing uncertainty that couldn’t even be called a ‘future’. You want to go back to simpler times, to happier times when you weren’t alone and you weren’t given a responsibility that you weren’t prepared to handle long term.

But if you went back to the past, you wouldn’t be able to talk to the agents like you have been. Everyone was nice to you and they didn’t demand things or pick fights like the agents of the past. You were even able to have fun with them unlike before when your only friends were the rest of the kitchen staff.

You wouldn’t be able to go on shopping trips like you did with Hanzo. It was nice. It was the closest thing to normal you’ve felt in a long time. No expectations, no pressures, just freedom. How long has it been since you didn’t have to care about anything except for what was in front of you? How long has it been since you were able to just enjoy yourself? You had fun for once and with an agent, no less.

But what cost did that come at?

Overwatch would now be mobile, traveling all over the world, fighting bad guys and setting things right. There isn’t much that you could do as a cook especially with everyone scattered. You’d just be another body to protect or another factor for them to account for.

On the other hand, this kitchen only has you. From all of its intricacies to its idiosyncrasies, you were the only one here who knew them. Or rather, you only had the kitchen. The plan was always to keep this place afloat until the Head Chef came back. Once he was found and came back, then everything would go back to the way it used to be.

If he came back. What if he didn’t want to come back? Then all you would have done would have been for nothing. Hell, leaving now when he hasn’t returned may as well have been for nothing. If your work was going to be for nothing, then you would’ve never left Cœur d’Artichaut and then at least maybe you’d have a place to belong.

— “I could never get tired of your cooking.”—

—“A chef’s purpose iz to serve their customers. Without them, we are nothing.”—

You groan. You don’t know what to do.

Giving yourself a moment to mourn what should have been and what could have been, you throw your cleaning rag into the sanitization bucket and dump yourself onto the floor. From your pocket, you pull out your communicator, clasping it tight between both hands as though an answer would appear. It doesn’t, and you’re not sure if the many names you have recorded might have an answer either.

The kitchen doesn’t have room for crying or for the weary or the weak—all those should go to the break room. Everyone will have to forgive you if you don’t know what to do and don’t want to move.

A hiss from the direction of the Cellar makes you and your heart rate jump. Out of sheer habit, you grab and brandish the closest thing to you: a spatula.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize who is standing there, and you could only laugh. The drain of adrenaline immediately leaves you weak and cold, and you have to step back and lean both hands back against a counter. The area where you were shot throbs, and all at once, exhaustion tumbles relentlessly into you as though you were an empty vessel to be filled.

“Sorry about that, Agent Roadhog.”

“Mm.”

Roadhog ducks his head, stepping in sideways through the Cellar entryway. The door to the Cellar was originally designed to allow the kitchen carts to fit through with ease, but Agent Roadhog’s sheer girth makes that design choice seem inadequate.

You hurriedly wipe your face with your sleeves, and clear your throat, shoving your communicator back into your pockets.

“What can I do for you? Lemon lime bitters or lemon barley water? It’ll take a little bit since we don’t have anything premixed—”

Roadhog shoves a basket at you, cutting your speech short. Unwittingly, you take it from his hands. It’s a medley of vegetables and herbs.

“Oh, did you want me to make something with this?” you ask, sifting through the bounty. Spinach; radishes that look like they’re heirloom; arugula; kale; scallions; peppers. “They’re really good quality, I haven’t seen these in the market before…”

Your words fade from your mouth as a slow, creeping realization strangles them clean out of your mind. All of these look too familiar in terms of breed. Digging deeper into the basket, you happen upon a batch of mint. The leaf shape, the deep green color are all reminiscent of a different time. You pick a leaf off and put it in your mouth, chewing it slowly. The leaves are an even balance of crisp and soft. It is minty, of course, but there are no harsh or bitter notes that one would expect to find after chewing on peppermint. Instead, it’s sweet and soothing with a hint of fruit. It’s a nostalgic flavor, one you haven’t thought of in years.

“Where’d you get this…?” you ask slowly, trying to see past the mask he wears. There’s no way—

Agent Roadhog grunts and turns, leading you back into the tunnel from which he came. Clutching the basket, disbelief and anticipation running through your veins, you follow.

—-

Walking is a little more difficult than he remembers. There's a persistent pain in his legs from his injuries, but as long as he's not bleeding through his pants, he’s not too concerned. One of the first pit stops he makes is the cafeteria, and to his surprise, there’s already people.

Ana waves at him, gesturing at the seat between herself and Brigitte who nods at him as she tries to choke down whatever she’s stuffed into her cheeks.

“Have a seat, Shimada. Party’s starting without you.”

It seems that while he wasn’t looking, afternoon tea had resumed. In addition to the usual butter cookies, there’s a wider assortment of sweets as though someone were trying their hand at opening a store or someone robbed a bakery.

“...Chef made all this?”

“Sure did. Help yourself. Chef—mmph—makes awesome desserts,” Brigitte says between mouthfuls. She pauses her chewing to clench her fists, a full body shiver on display. “Mm! This is good, too.”

“Of course,” he replies automatically with a swell of pride.

How she managed to convince you to make so many is beyond him. Unconsciously, he looks toward the service window where the lights are on and there is movement inside. You’re definitely working too much. While he can admire a dedicated person, even he knows there are limits to how far one can push themselves before they break.

“What are you waiting for? Have a seat.” Hanzo hurriedly sits down, his lips thinning as he catches sight of Ana’s knowing smile. He ignores her, focusing instead on the selection of goods available.

It’s hard to even know where to start.

The usual butter cookies are a given and Ana seems to be happy monopolizing them. There are trays of flaky twists, sliced roll cakes of different flavors, white round balls of something covered with coconut shavings topped with a single red dot, white rectangles with a texture between sponge cake and mochi.

He goes for a tart-like pastry with yellow custard in the middle that he recognizes as egg tarts first.

The crimped pastry is perfectly flaky, the outer layers crisp and the inner layers toward the tart are moist and soft. The custard is still the slightest bit warm and jiggly, smooth, and tasting of lightly sweetened eggs. It’s almost reminiscent of Japanese pudding except it’s warm instead of cold.

Beside him, Brigitte leans in. “How’s it? Good? I haven’t tried that one yet.”

“It’s good,” he replies as he licks his lips. It’s different from what you’d normally make, but it’s delicious nevertheless. He pours himself a cup of tea

The tea is dark and astringent, almost unpleasantly so alone but pairs well with remnants of his snack with a cleansing aftertaste that reminds him of fruit. It’s not a tea he’s had before and is certainly not one he remembers Ana ever ordering.

He spots his favorite: pan-fried red bean cake and wastes no time snatching three for himself. If anyone accuses him of being greedy, he can just say he needs more sustenance for healing.

Pockets of time carved out like this makes it easy to forget everything that has happened, but given the nature of Overwatch, conversation eventually steers face first into business.

“When we arrived, we thought the worst,” Ana says rather lightly. “Both you and your brother were on the ground and McCree was missing.”

Hanzo grunts. Reaper just left them there after ordering the retreat without any answers as to why and how they were there in the first place.

“Do we know where the leak happened?”

Ana shrugs. “We have a few ideas and Fareeha is busy investigating right now. She’s missing out.”

Hanzo takes one of the white balls of coconut covered mochi, almost choking on an explosion of finely chopped peanuts and sugar that was hiding beneath the surprisingly thin exterior.

“We can ask Chef to save some for her,” Brigitte suggests, oblivious or ignoring Hanzo’s silent struggle. “I’m sure we have enough for that.”

When Hanzo regains control of his windpipe again, he asks, “Do we know anything about their motive? Other than the hostages.”

“We suspect the hostages were just an excuse as you may have guessed. All the shots—except the ones from Reaper—were non-lethal rounds, so they must have wanted to talk.”

“Any suspicions as to why?”

Ana scoffs. “Who knows what that fool is thinking.” She takes a ginger sip of her tea before glaring at the reflection. “He's always had a flair for dramatics, that one. Brilliant in ways I wished he wasn't."

“...you know Reaper?”

“I know him better than I’d like.” She sips her tea and lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, it’s a good thing there were no casualties.” He gives her a look, trying to convey that his current state of being is a casualty. The look is wasted on her because she just reaches for another cookie, skillfully ignoring his gaze.

“Especially with you, Shimada. It would have been bad if Talon could spin the story that Overwatch came back and used lethal force against people equipped with ‘non-lethal’ weapons.” Again, he tries to give her a look and again it’s rebuffed. “I think you’ve been changing. You’re an assassin by trade, yes?”

“Yes,” he answers hesitantly. “Family trade.”

“And killing your enemies is your default.”

“...yes.”

“But no one died on the mission.”

“Not that I was informed, no.”

“You held back. Sure, you hurt them enough to make them wish they died, but you didn’t exactly slaughter them outright, now did you?”

“I…” He doesn’t really remember. As soon as each enemy was felled, he stopped caring. But he remembers having put his hands on people, thrown them to the ground, hit their vitals with his fists, but he can’t recall having to confirm any kills—there was no need.

“It changes nothing. Killing wasn’t a requirement in that mission.”

“But we never said not to. You made the choice for yourself.”

“It was implied. Overwatch is not that sort of organization.”

“And you’re fitting in just perfectly,” Ana says cheerfully. “You have changed, Shimada. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

There’s nothing he can say to that, and he drinks another cup of tea.

He has changed, he knows this, but whether it’s for the better or not is something only the future would know.

The snacks dwindle as more people slowly join the group. D.Va and Winston join them at some point while Brigitte leaves with a whole handful (and mouthful) of pastries. Even Soldier makes an appearance, only to leave after suffering ridicule from the combined forces of Ana and D.Va.

It’s not until late in the afternoon that he finds his opening to get up and leave, but not before stopping by the service window.

For old time’s sake, he rings the bell.

Almost just as quickly, your torso appears at the service window.

“Hello Hanzo. What would you like to order today?”

A warm, molten feeling fills his stomach and rises into his cheeks, forcing a smile out of him. It’s innocuous, but it’s the first time you’ve called his name without a prefix while working. Hanzo has seen some of the world’s splendors in his youth but none of them has made him feel anything like this.

Despite not being able to see your face, you seem more spirited than before, practically rocking on your feet.

“I came to compliment the chef on the buffet. It was delectable.”

“Actually, I only made the cookies and red bean cakes. Patisserie Woo sent everything else through same day delivery.”

“They were all delicious.”

“I’ll let her know.” He doesn’t have to see behind the partition to know you’re pleased. “We should also be getting some meals from a few others.” He can’t imagine these are being sent the conventional way; part of the reason why you had to use the restaurant as a cover was because regular shipments couldn’t be sent here lest the Gibraltar police knows Overwatch is back again.

“Does this mean you’re now in contact with your colleagues?”

You take a moment before answering, hands float between the partition hesitantly and then rest on top of the other. “...yes.”

Inexplicably, his stomach drops at the soft tone of your voice, concern filling the void.

“Did it go well?”

“Yeah, it did.” You laugh sheepishly and the sound instantly makes his worries disappear. Your hands gesture at the group and the treat covered table. “As you can see. Everyone suddenly called and was mad that I was doing these things without telling them, but we’re getting somewhere.”

“I can’t imagine that Soldier approves of it.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

“You’ve gotten cheekier.” Realizing you may not take that the right way, he hurriedly adds, “It’s a good thing.”

“Well, this cheeky person got permission to hold a final farewell dinner.” You hold your fists at your waist, probably puffing out your chest. “Do you have any requests?”

“I thought you didn’t take requests.”

“Well…we’re leaving Watchpoint: Gibraltar and I thought ‘enough rules have been broken, what’s another one’?”

He entertains the idea of asking you for the treasure of the Cellar if only to confirm his suspicions, but that wouldn’t be fair. He then remembers something he saw not too long ago and comes to his decision.

“Miso soup.”

“That’s it?”

“Should I ask for a ten-course meal?”

“Please, no.”

He couldn’t help the sly smile that forms on his face or the burst of mischief. “What if I insist?”

“No.”

“If I say ‘please’?”

“Keep this up and I won’t make anything for you.”

“Three course meal.”

“One.”

“One course and a snack.”

“One item and a snack.”

“Done.” He holds out his hand for you to shake on it which you do with a laugh. Just as he grips your hand however, he adds in just as quickly, “Snack is one whole cake.”

“Are you kidding me—!?”

“We shook on it, Chef.”

“You’re bad.” And then in a more teasing tone, “Are you sure you’re a hero? You should be a villain."

“Why does everyone think I'm a villain? Is it the goatee?” He pauses, stroking his facial hair despite the fact you likely can’t see him. “It's the goatee, isn't it?”

It draws a burst of laughter out of you.

“I like the goatee, you look distinguished.”

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased with this development or your compliments, allowing himself to savor your words a little more, rubbing his goatee between his fingers.

Grinning to himself, he leans in as close as he can to the wall. “Is that all you like, Chef?”

To his delight, you begin to splutter, clearly at loss as to how to answer. He presses himself closer to the partition, ducking his head slightly so he might catch your answer.

Hanzo whirls around suddenly, a thorny presence behind him. Just as he does, a movement catches his eye and his hands rush in before he can even think.

He barely catches the falling teapot by the handle. It’s thankfully empty and he holds onto it with both hands, looking back at Ana who stands a little too close with a funny smile.

“Go on, I can wait.”

---

Dr. Ziegler finally gave him permission to help out with packing up the Watchpoint, warning him not to lift heavy objects.

“No climbing. No jumping around. No backflips or frontflips. Nothing faster than a light jog. And you are not to lift or carry anything over 15kg,” she stresses with a pen in his face. “I know how your wounds look, but you are far from fully healed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She has to belabor the point a few more times, and he suspects it isn’t really him she’s talking to. When he finally gets free, Winston directs him to you, citing that while the kitchen is mostly packed up, there are other things that require attention.

You tell him as much with a secretive but exasperated smile on your face. The kitchen itself seems more barren than before, its shelves and hangers mostly empty, highlighting the hastily put-together repairs that were attempted after Talon’s attack. It’s a little sad, if he were to be honest.

You lead him into the Cellar, explaining that the past few days were spent clearing out storage spaces and the like. There’s one final thing you wanted help with, and you lead him straight through the winding tunnels and to the imposing wall of the vault.

Standing in front of it now, a door separating him between what is likely the Cellar’s treasure, he finds that he is not as excited about this as he thought he’d be. It isn’t exactly how he had envisioned getting inside, either, but he supposes with so little time left here, he cannot complain.

You knock on the door, now welded on one side like a proper door, but the singe marks make it perfectly clear that it was anything but.

“Password?”

“Golden faerie bread.”

'Faerie bread?'

He didn't have time to ask as the door creaks open. The light that comes out of the room forces him to hide his eyes behind his hand. Even before he’s able to see, the smell of fresh dirt and humid air gushes out, briefly choking his senses. Slowly, he lowers his hand, taking his first steps inside.

The room is slightly humid and pleasantly warm in a way that reminds him of late spring in Hanamura. The room is cavernous and its walls are all dyed in white; it looks like a miniature version of the cafeteria. Instead of tables, lines and lines of shelves stack on top of each other, reaching up toward the ceiling where dozens of lights hang. Meters with shaking needles and crudely put together charts hang between curtains of tubing. These shelves look like they’ve seen better days, some parts frankensteined together with mismatched pipes and tape.

Within each of these shelves, lush leaves of different shapes and sizes spill out in neat rows.

It’s a garden.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Happy to have you here! You can look, but touching’s gonna cost ya—hurKK!” Junkrat is immediately grabbed by Roadhog who gives you the briefest of nods and him the hardest of stares before lumbering off toward the far end of the room.

Awkward moment aside, you waste no time launching into a spiel and introducing him to the space. “Welcome to the Cellar Garden. When I first got back, all the plants were already dead and lots of the infrastructure was rusted or broken, and I didn’t have the time to fix it. But Agent Junkrat and Agent Roadhog fixed it up and converted this from an N.F.T. system to a Drip Recovery system so that there’s less maintenance needed when we're not here, but it does take up more space so we can't grow the bigger vegetables—”

The words blend together and become incoherent. Instead, this world of whistles and greens narrow until only you remain. You’re like a child in a candy store, similar to when you both went out shopping, pointing out everything with excitement and wonder and without any of the worries or cares that always held you down.

Freedom and happiness is a good look for you.

And it’s at this moment he is able to confirm something he had thought ever since you first brought him into the Cellar.

“—so these are ready for harvesting. Agent Roadhog and Agent Junkrat will dismantle that section for parts so don’t worry about picking anything from there.”

He watches you roll up your sleeves, weaving between wall after wall of greenery with a spring in your step. Wryly, he smiles to himself as he remembers McCree’s hints.

The treasure is meant to sustain Overwatch and without it, the organization cannot survive. One would indeed think it’s alcohol, enough alcohol to numb the nagging voices and doubts of every agent as they carry out their increasingly morally dubious activities while the world burns around them.

Seeing the walls and walls of vegetation around him, this could also be the correct answer. Even your own hints, that the treasure won’t be of interest to anyone but the chefs, point to this garden.

Perhaps you aren’t aware of it yourself, but this hidden garden is likely a red herring.

No one ever said that the treasure was in this vault-like room. The clues simply said the treasure was in the Cellar. Beyond the Cellar door not only laid the garden, but the office, storage rooms, and break rooms.

More importantly, he caught a glimpse of the first room you entered when you both went on your escapade: a spartan, but well-used dorm room. He could easily imagine a dozen or so people in there, resting after a long shift or sitting in their bunks, playing cards and laughing and joking around, waiting to get caught staying up late like a bunch of school children, but also ready to throw on their uniforms if hungry customers demand for it.

A romanticist like your Head Chef could only have been thinking one thing, and perhaps he was one too for thinking it.

The real treasure is none other than the chefs (and you).

Chapter 21>>

#the way to a heart #my writing #oh my fucking god it took 20 chapters but here we are #the treasure is revealed and i am almost free #just 1 more chapter and an epilogue goddamnit #there's so much i want to say especially about the development of this fic but i need to wait until the very end

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galaxy-class · 3 years

Text

Star Trek Voyager Chakotay/OC

Hello! This is the first fic I’ve ever written, it’s a 6k Chakotay/OC PWP with some fluff and touch starving sprinkled in here and there. Janeway has an honorable mention in the beginning because I love her, but this isn’t a J/C fic (at least not this time lol). Possible triggers under the cut!

Possible triggers (If you think of anything to add let me know!): Alcohol consumption, descriptions of male/female sex, themes of dominance and submission (power dynamics between commander and subordinate), mild choking (hand on throat positioning), mild restraining (holding wrists, no ropes/equipment)

A thank you to @marigoldseesstars and @burntheparameters (and other friends not on tumblr so I’m unable to tag them) for encouraging me to post! I hope you guys like it and I welcome feedback good or bad! <3

Chain of Command (Title is trash because I am trash, thank you!)

Although the Delta Quadrant was full of new experiences and discoveries, the days between each excursion were full of the necessary, albeit mundane, tasks that it takes to run a starship. Duty rosters, shift trades, meetings… Terribly dull, and yet required for the ship to function. Captain Janeway insisted on it. Looking out of some unnamed observation window with a distant gaze, she would lecture crew members who tried to oppose her strict adherence to protocol. “I know, believe me, and I’ve thought long and hard about whether or not it’s wrong for me to impose these rules on this crew, knowing that the institution upholding them is so far away… But these rules help bring us together. They give us purpose and cohesion, and remind us of our principals while we’re so far away from order and reason…” Most people stopped listening the second she got that look in her eye, knowing there isn’t any amount of complaint or protest that could change her mind. And it isn’t too terrible a concept anyway. After all, someone has to be the one to wipe off the com panels when they muck up with the fingerprints of the crew members who insist on using the touch features rather than the voice commands, and someone else has to review the available personnel to cover for Ensign Baytart’s requested personal time off and Tuvok's mandatory fitness training.

Chakotay felt the days growing shorter, while the workload of monotonous tasks crawled on before him. The days of course, where perfectly timed on the ship’s chronometer to ensure maximum efficiency among the crew while allowing for adequate time to rest and relax between shifts. It even took into account the differing night and day cycles each species had grown accustomed to on their home planets and calculated a perfect medium between the variables. What the ship’s computer did not account for however, was Chakotay’s tendency to linger in the small moments between tasks. How he would stop to appreciate the soft thread in a blanket gifted to him by a friend, or steal an extra second to smell the spices mixed in with Neelix’s latest “coffee” blend. And so, his days grew shorter, while the soft glow of the padds laid out on his work station encroached in his peripheral vision, beckoning him to finish up this week's chores.

Chakotay stood from his chair stretching his arms and looked down at the bottom of his mug, no longer filled with the thick brown liquid Neelix described as “Better than coffee.” He chuckled to himself about what a luxury real coffee had become in this quadrant. ...Duty roster.. Hmm… Why don’t I just go down to each station and see who’s available… Maybe the crew will have some personal insight I could use… His thoughts began to trail off and he found himself wandering towards stellar cartography.

As the cool metal doors slipped open, light poured in from the hall onto the darkened work stations of a diligent crew, carefully mapping out this new region of space. They had their work cut out for them, creating detailed maps based on Voyager’s data and comparing them to patchwork resources acquired along the way. Slowly adjusting their eyes to the bright light silhouetting Chakotay in the doorway, spines began to stiffen at the sight of their commanding officer. Lieutenant Kelly, who’d recently been promoted to this division, tripped over a few words beginning a report of their progress. “Sir! We didn’t expect- We’re currently running a scan on the left-”

Chakotay put his hand up in protest. “I was only wondering if anyone wanted to spend tomorrow on the bridge, Ensign Baytart requested a day off, and if I have to scroll through any more names on that padd I might just go crazy.” His expression was soft and lighthearted, but the crew shared nervous glances concerning the surprise visit from the ship’s first officer. “At ease” he insisted, and held out hope for a few more seconds that anyone would take up his offer.

“I’ve never had bridge duty before” someone spoke up from the back of the room.

“Who is that?” He asked, trying to see through the dark.

“Ensign Salva sir, I have.. some experience with being on the conn, just not Voyager’s bridge… If no one else wants the shift that is.”

Ensign Bobbi Salva was not tall and commanding, nor did her voice carry well in any way that demanded attention, but she was never one to pass up a new opportunity. What else are star ships for? In fact, she had found herself in stellar cartography on a similar request. Although she was trained as a medical assistant, she found ways into almost every corner of the ship. A recent favourite of hers being the aeroponics bay, where Kes had invited her to learn about cultivating plants after spending time with her in sickbay. “Growing a plant is just like treating a patient” Kes would say to her, “You just have to know what they need, and they can flourish on their own.” She liked Kes, they were similar in size and stature, but very different in personality in a way that complimented each other well. Bobbi had a square face, and curly dark hair which she tried a variety of ways to pull back into the intricate designs that reminded her of all ways her mother would style her beautiful curls. She had high cheekbones, and deep set eyes that sparkled with reflections of scarlet in the dark brown of their center. Sometimes she appeared to have a bluish tint, her father insisted that she was mixed with a Bolian on her cousin’s grandmother’s aunt’s side of the family, but mostly she had olive undertones on lovely brown skin.

"Salva… Aren’t you usually working in sick bay? I wasn't aware of any personnel changes in that area of the ship" Chakotay started.

"Well actually sir, it's a funny story really, me and Kes were in the aeroponics bay discussing-"

"Sir, I apologize for interrupting, but if there is nothing further we do have a few more things to get done." said Lieutenant Kelly, who was admittedly happy that Salva had found something else to do. As interesting as Bobbi found it, stellar cartography was not her strong point.

"Of course" Chakotay responded, "Salva if you'll come with me we can go over the details of the assignment. As you were Lieutenant." With that Bobbi followed Chakotay into the hall, leaving behind her curiosity for star maps and replacing it with apprehension about serving on the bridge.

"Sick bay, aeroponics, stellar cartography, is there anywhere besides the bridge you haven't been Ensign?" Chakotay chuckled.

Bobbi was struck with the sudden realization that, not only was she talking to the second highest in command on the ship, but she had neglected to inform him or anyone else about her incursions.

"I, well, only went to sections that I was invited to observe or help by other crew members, I never meant to break protocol.."

"That's alright, I was just curious." Chakotay let out a sigh. He knew most of the crew respected him, and he trusted them. In the Marquis however, things were different. Sure, he was their captain and they followed his command like any good crew would, but there was rarely tension between him and his subordinates solely on the basis of rank. Starfleet vessels are polished and prideful, and senior officers are revered for their accomplishments. Marquis ships are built on trust and bonds between crew members fighting for a cause they believe in, and sometimes respect in senior officers is only granted because they can hit harder than you can in a bar fight. A bit far off from the Starfleet sparkle of an extra pip.

Tired from his daily tasks and determined to have a sense of normalcy, he started again, “Are you looking to explore another career option? We could always use extra hands in engineering.” said Chakotay.

Bobbi let out a breath and relaxed her shoulders, realising how tense she had been. Chakotay’s warm voice and reassurance took away some of the stress she was carrying around while trying to maintain an aura of professionalism. “Actually I love sick bay. I’ve never felt more right than when I found medicine, I had changed my area of study so many times before…” A small smile escaped her lips, thinking of how many nights she spent worrying she would never find a place to fit in, now feeling so at home with a medical tricorder in her hands. “But as much as I love it, I’m still so curious about everything else. I want to see it, be a part of it for a small time. And seeing the other divisions in action reminds me just how much I love what I do.” she laughed, and looked up at Chakotay to see that he was smiling too. She never noticed before, how his face seemed to light up when he smiled, and caught herself holding her breath again.

He stopped in the hall outside of his room. “I’m glad to hear you’ve found your calling. It’s a rare gift to know where you fit in. But I’m happy you’ll be joining me on the bridge, even if it’s just one shift. How about I make us some tea and we’ll go over the details of your assignment?”

…Glad I’ll be joining him on the bridge.. ‘Joining me’ he said… Wait, his quarters? The First Officer’s quarters? Ensign Salva felt her cheeks flush, and the little slice of Bolian blue in her veins sparkled through, turning her subtle blush into a beautiful, almost purple crimson.

He was nearly caught off guard, watching her face. She’s almost glowing, I wonder what... oh I should have realised that would make her uncomfortable… “Of course we can go in the dining hall if you prefer, I just have to get the padds, I’m sorry if-”

“No no it’s alright, I could use some tea.” She looked up at him again, settling her gaze on the part in his lips forming what was going to be the next word in his apology, turning her glance quickly back towards the doors to his room. He smiled and welcomed her in.

Chakotay’s room was softly lit, and sprinkled with things that had been given to him by the people he cared about. A lovely red and orange throw blanket from his grandmother, a crystal set of whisky tumblers from an old pilot he used to know, little pieces of the people who’d helped shape him.

“Tea first, then work.” He gestured towards the couch for her to sit, and walked over to the replicator for two cups of yerba mate. A red, earthy tea, made from the leaves of a South American holly tree. One of his favourite blends that he didn’t often indulge in, because he didn’t want to spoil it. Tonight it felt appropriate.

“Bridge duty on Voyager? Maybe I need something stronger than tea.” She could feel herself smiling nervously. Why did I say that? He’s going to think I’m not up for the challenge…

Thinking for a second, tilting his head ever so slightly, “You know what you’re right. Let me get something… Here it is, warm vanilla brandy from a group of Bajorins that helped us restock on a very cold, very long night with the Marquis. It compliments the tea perfectly.” Adding the brandy to the tea, he joined her on the couch. ...What I wouldn’t give to see that lovely color in her face again… We’re supposed to be discussing bridge duty, I think…

As he sat down next to her she crossed her legs up onto the couch and held the tea in her lap, feeling the warm mug in her hands, letting the steam from the mixture of herbs and brandy curl up around her and closing her eyes for a second. Has he always been so welcoming and kind? Is he always this easy to be around? We’re supposed to be discussing bridge duty, I think…

He put his arm on the back of the couch, and rested his cheek against his fist “Where are you from?” he wondered.

“From?” she blinked

Chakotay smiled and put his hand down in his lap, mirroring her posture and feeling the warmth in the mug he was holding. “Yes, before Starfleet, did you live on Earth?”

“Oh no, I mean I’ve been there plenty of times, but my dad worked in one of the schools on Mars, he’s a teacher there for kindergarteners.” Bobbi laughed and looked up as if she was watching a memory play on the ceiling, “He used to tell stories to his kids about me being in Starfleet, he was always so proud of me. I wonder what he told them when…” She stopped and looked down, it wasn’t a happy memory any more, not knowing if he had given up hope that her ship would be found, not knowing if she had given up hope that they would make it back either.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Chakotay reached his hand out to put his palm on her knee. “We’ll make it back, I have to believe that. I’m sure your father misses you a great deal.” He let out a small smile, “Honestly I would miss you too, you seem like that type of person, who sticks with someone when you’ve gone.” He didn’t even notice that he had moved closer to her.

He may not have noticed his movement, but she was acutely aware of his hand on her leg, and the distance closing between them. She noticed that she leaned into his touch, and she noticed that she was hanging onto every word in that soothing deep tone of his. “I.. thank you sir.” Bobbi felt her cheeks flush again, and cast her eyes down at his hand. Am I flirting with the first officer? Is… Is the first officer flirting with me? She felt the brandy warming her stomach and a prickle at the tips of her fingers. Oh, this is real alcohol she thought for a second. It had been a while since she had the comfort of a genuine drink, and synthehol just doesn’t have that same feeling.

He paused for a second at the sight of her. That wonderful color, shading the edges of her cheeks and the tips of her ears, stole the words he was trying to formulate. Chakotay didn’t usually like being called “sir,” he always thought it sounded a little pretentious, and while he understood and respected the purpose of formality on a ship, sometimes he just wanted a regular conversation. So then, why did it sound so good when she said it? He was fighting a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and felt that same warmth in his veins from the brandy that he hadn’t felt in some time.

“I really appreciate you making me feel so... welcome.” She said, unsure if she should change the subject or push it further. She reached over and placed her cup on the coffee table, and watched as he mirrored her movement, setting his down as well. “I couldn’t have been your first choice for Baytart’s replacement, but I appreciate the opportunity, sir.” she finished, deciding to turn the conversation back to work. Even still, she couldn’t help but wonder where it might have gone instead. I’ve got to be reading too much into this… There’s no way he’s... I just need to get my thoughts together for a second…

There it is again, ‘Sir’... It felt like honey coming off her lips. The way she said it, like she didn’t need to say it, like she had an inside joke and it was a challenge. “Honestly” Chakotay responded, trying not to linger too long on the thought, “I had no idea who I was going to pick. I spent so long looking at names on a screen, I just had to see someone face to face instead.” This time he did notice that his hand was still on her knee and he had, in fact, moved closer to her. He noticed too that she’d shifted positions and now the other leg was down on the floor, pushing her very slightly closer to him. Before he realised what he was saying, he started saying it. “I’m glad it was you that decided to say something, and that you came with me tonight. That subtle blue is so beautiful in your skin, has anyone ever mentioned that before?” His voice grew quieter and deeper, his eyes trailed across the line of her jaw.

Oh… This wasn’t her over thinking anything, she realised. And now that she had figured it out, she wasn’t letting it go. Now it was a challenge, if it wasn’t before. Her eyelids lowered and she chose her words carefully, curious how far he was willing to take this conversation without her making it too easy. “Is that so? No, I don’t think I’ve been told that before.” Bobbi could still feel the heat in her face, and was finding it more and more difficult to take her focus off his lips, his shoulders, the feeling of his hand still on her leg, until she felt herself reach down and softly lace her fingers onto the spaces between his. It was almost jarring, how incredible it felt, the softness and warmth of his hand, all from a very small touch that she didn’t realise she needed until it was so obvious that she needed it.

Chakotay could tell she was playing at something and could see the twitch of excitement on her face, even though she answered him so sparingly. …’Is that so’ Oh, I think you know it is, and I would love to see what else you know… But the feeling of her hand on his brought him out of his trance. He looked down at her delicate fingers fitting perfectly between his, knowing how good it felt to be touched. “Ensign… Bobbi. This wasn’t my intention with bringing you here. If you’re not comfortable, I would never impose…” He tilted his head back up to meet her gaze, “What I mean to say is that I don’t want to cross any boundaries you might have.”

“Commander, I could say the same to you. But I think, if it’s alright, that I would like to stay for a little while.” She held his stare intently while she spoke, to be sure he would not miss-hear her words. No, commander, I do think I will stay here with you… I think that’s exactly what I want to do. Again, her eyes found his lips, and she moved closer to his seat, sliding his hand with hers further up to the soft middle of her thigh. His fingers tightened their grip just slightly, like he couldn’t help it, like he had to feel more of her, and she nearly lost all of her focus at once. Not yet, she thought, I want to see what you do. You’re the commander, after all, so make a decision. Make a command. Dizzy with the thoughts of what he might do, she waited, giving him no more before he would respond.

Commander… Say it again… “Then stay.” He placed his hand gently on her cheek, using his thumb to feel the curves of her face before pulling her to him until their foreheads met. “I’m going to kiss you.” It wasn’t a question, his voice was deep and quiet, and full of desire.

“Then do it.” She whispered. He smelled sweet like the vanilla brandy mixed with the faintest trace of eucalyptus, and his hand felt strong on her face. She could barely contain her composure, waiting for his lips to meet hers.

Her words felt like another challenge, and without hesitation he pressed his lips onto hers and felt her whole body melt into him. His hand slid up her thigh to around her waist, pulling her deeper into him, and he moved the other hand to the base of her neck where he could feel her draw in a breath between each kiss. She let out a moan that he could feel with the hand on her throat, and he pushed her back gently, stopping her in the middle of her ecstasy. Lifting a thumb to her chin, he pulled down and parted her lips with his hand, and drew his face in close again, just barely brushing the surface of her mouth with his own. “I like that sound, does this feel good?” While he asked, his other hand trailed along the inside of her thigh, making her gasp. “No, I asked you a question. Does that feel good?” His fingers tightened their grip on her leg.

“Yes.” She whispered again. How could it not feel good? Please... The strength of his hands, his lips, his tongue, he was intoxicating, and she didn’t want him to stop.

“Good.” His lips were still brushing hers, he felt her trying to move forward and pushed her back again. “You want more?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what? You weren’t so shy before calling me ‘sir’ and ‘commander’. I even thought you liked it.”

Her eyes turned sharp and hungry, and she waited just a little while, testing his patience until she felt another squeez on her thigh. He wanted to hear her say it.

“Yes, sir. I want more.”

This time it was him that let out a moan as he pulled her back. He wanted more too, her skin, her warmth, he wanted to feel every part of her, and more than that, he wanted to make her feel good and watch her move and gasp with every new touch. She smelled like clove and she was soft, so soft he didn’t want to hurt her by gripping her too tight, but everytime he strengthened his grip he felt her lean further into it, deepening her intensity. He stopped her again, this time putting distance between them. “Stand up.” Chakotay ordered. He looked up at her and smiled with that warm inviting smile as she stood. “Good girl. I want you to take off your uniform, I want to look at you, will you do that?”

“Yes sir.” She turned away from him, and when he started to speak out in protest she silenced him with a look. He was driving her wild with anticipation and now it was her turn. Very slowly she began to undo her clothes, leaving the back open for a few seconds before carefully pulling off one shoulder, then the other, and sliding out each arm purposefully, drawing the fabric down the length of her arms and past her hands, but holding up the front to keep herself covered. Then she slowly turned to face Chakotay. His expression was intense, his lips parted at the sight of her and his hand was drawn up in his lap as if he was going to start pleasuring himself to her, but he stayed very still instead, watching her movements intently. She nearly forgot what she was doing when she saw him looking at her like that, like she was the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

He waited patiently, saying nothing. She continued with her game, pulling the fabric slowly off each leg while holding the bulk of it in front of her with the other arm. Chakotay leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, eagerly watching her every move. Once the final items of clothing were removed, and she stood in front of him with only the drape of an empty uniform left to cover her, she took a step closer to him and left the last of the fabric to fall on the ground around her. He sat entranced in her shape only briefly before reaching up to grab her hand, pulling her into his lap.

Her hands rested on his chest, and she straddled his lap. She was surprised at how comfortable he was physically, and how easy it was to follow his direction. It felt natural, like a game they were playing that they both knew the rules to, and she was fixated on his every next move. His hands began to move up her thighs, onto her hips, up her waist, and up the sides of her breasts to her shoulders. She held her breath, he wasn’t really touching her, not completely. Still dancing around the edges, making her wait, making her want him. One hand curled around the nape of her neck, and the other slid back down to her hips as she let out the breath she was holding in.

“Look at you, you look stunning.” Both of his hands moved to her breasts and his feather light touch cupped them and brushed his thumbs over her nipples. She lifted her head back and groaned, reaching a hand down to touch herself, but Chakotay grabbed her wrist and stopped her. “No, not yet.” He was still softly stroking her hard nipple with his thumb while holding her wrist away from herself.

“Please?” She let out a whimper.

“Please what?” He said.

“Please, I want yo-” She groaned again, interrupting her words and her thoughts with the feeling his hands were providing.

He chuckled at her reaction to his touch and felt her squirm in his lap. “Please what?” he said again, and gently squeezed her breast in his hand, shifting his grip to use his index finger to tease her instead of his thumb.

“Please, I want you to fuck me.”

“Is that how you refer to me?” His hand moved up from her breast to her neck, with his index finger resting on the line of her jaw putting a small amount of pressure on her throat, just enough to notice. His other hand let go of her wrist daring her to try again, and moved to undo his own uniform. “You were doing so well before. If that’s really what you want then you’ll have to ask me the right way.”

She watched as he unfastened his uniform and took the length of his cock into his hand, touching himself like he wouldn’t allow her to do, and she was breathless again. He pulled her face close to his with the hand around her neck, and continued to stroke the length of his shaft underneath her. She whimpered thinking about how good he would feel inside of her. He could feel the tension in her legs, and he knew she could only go so much longer before it would become too much. “Go on, say it.” He said between stolen kisses on her open mouth.

“Please sir, I want you to fuck me.”

Chakotay took his hand from himself and reached up to her pussy, feeling the wetness between her lips, sliding his fingers up onto her clit and massaging it slowly. She groaned deeply at his touch and her hips began to sway in motion with his fingers. “There, that wasn’t so hard. I want to hear you moan.” He worked his fingers faster on her clit and felt her body reacting in waves to the feeling.

It felt so good, that’s really the best way to describe it. It felt so good and she felt herself move along with him, her muscles tensing and releasing with his changes in speed and pressure. “Mm it feels so good, don’t sto-” she moaned again, louder this time. And just as she was about to direct him not to, he stopped and pulled his hand away, back to himself. “You’re not done yet.” Bringing her up to that edge, watching her body, her face, he loved every second of it. With one hand still around her throat, he pushed her off his lap so they were both standing and kissed her deeply, letting his other hand explore her curves.

“Wait.” It was her turn again. She pushed him away for a second and he waited to listen to her demands. “Let me take off your uniform.” He smiled as she moved her hands over the fabric, as slowly as she did for herself she unfastened his shirt and slid it off his broad shoulders, then moved to his undershirt, giving him light kisses on the stomach and chest as she pulled it up over his head. His pants, which were already partially undone, were the easiest to remove. She found herself laughing with him as he tried to step out of them after they pooled around his ankles, falling back onto the couch and taking her with him. Their laughter moved their bodies on one another in a way that brought her closer to him, and she could feel his warm skin against hers. She layed on top of him for a second, feeling him breathe, listening to his heart beat, and feeling his arms coil around her again.

His hands began to explore, and he felt her shifting on top of him. She sat up looking at him, and his hands slid back up to cup her breasts then back down again so his thumbs were resting on her sex. He began to rub her clit with his thumbs, watching her move to the feeling and moan. He reached for his cock with one hand, and pulled it up to slide between her pussy lips, not letting her have it inside her just yet, rubbing the tip against her clit and letting her wetness cover it’s length. She moaned, the most beautiful sound in the world, and grinded her hips back and forth over the length of his cock. She tried to reach down again to touch herself and intensify the feeling, but he pulled her wrist and sat up slightly, bringing both hands behind her back. “Not yet.” he whispered. He kissed up her neck, brushing his lips against her as he moved and she lifted her head back to feel his mouth and tongue on her skin.

“You feel so good Bobbi.” Chakotay let out a moan, and wrapped both arms around her, pulling her around underneath him. His hips slid between her legs and he paused for another second, putting his hand back around her neck drawing her focus up at him. “Tell me what you want.”

She could barely form the words now, her head still spinning from the feeling of grinding on top of him. “I want to feel you inside of me, I want you to fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yes, sir.”

Her words were ringing in his ears …’yes, sir’... and he thrusted the length of his cock deep inside of her wet pussy, watching her face change as she gasped when he filled her. She moaned into his thrusts, and floated her hands up his arms onto his shoulders where she dug in her nails to his back. He felt her nails pierce his skin and thrusted deeper, and her hips matched his rhythm pushing herself harder onto him. His grip on her throat tightened slightly, and he pulled himself up to watch her body move and quiver. Her moans became louder and surrounded him, and he slowed his pace, carefully feeling every inch coming in and out of her.

Her sex was like velvet, soft and hot around his cock, he moaned at the feeling of her legs beginning to shake. He came to a stop still inside of her and watched her hips squirm around him. Slowly pulling out, he took his hand off her neck and moved it back onto her clit, rubbing slow circles with the pads of his fingers. Waves of pleasure were washing over her as she moaned again. “Turn over.” he said, still rubbing her clit. She groaned and pushed her hips into his hand. He leaned down to kiss her, and said in a low voice in her ear, “You’re not listening, I said turn over.” taking his hand away sharply, and stroking himself instead again. She sat up to turn over, and he stopped her abruptly, thrusting his fingers inside of her pulling them towards her g-spot. “What do you say?”

Her head was dizzy again, but she knew the words this time. “Yes sir.” she moaned.

“Good girl.” Chakotay kissed her again.

She turned over with one knee on the couch and the other leg extended down to the floor, not bothering to hold herself up, she let her back arch and her arms slide forwards above her head. His hands trailed her spine and the curve of her hips before he thrusted into her again. She let out a cry from the pleasure, the change in position reaching new parts of herself. He filled her again and again, grabbing her hips to thrust harder and deeper, listening to her cries and moans change with his changes. “Fuck” she moaned again, “Oh fuck” her body was starting to tense and quiver, and he responded thrusting faster. “Please, you feel so good” she mumbled into the cushion between gasps.

It felt so good to be inside of her, but hearing her say it brought him over the edge. He started to moan, thrusting harder and deeper, and bent down over her to pull her further into him, reaching a hand around to massage her clit while she quivered and begged. He spoke into her ear again in that low commanding voice “Tell me again, the right way.”

“You feel so good inside of me sir, please don’t stop” She barely made the sentence out before she started shaking again with waves of pleasure.

Chakotay felt her orgasam around his cock from the tightening pulses, and slowed his pace to match her body. “Do you want me to keep going?” He asked gently, knowing she might not tolerate more.

She lazily nodded her head, and mumbled into the cushion again “mhm.”

He chuckled at her response, and paused inside of her. “Turn over again.” She did so without hesitation. “That’s not right, what do you say?”

“Yes sir.” She smiled up at him, like she had almost gotten away with it.

In that moment she had the most beautiful smile in the world. He couldn't help but kiss her again, and again, and trailed down her chest, and breasts, and stomach, kissing her all the way until his mouth found her sex. She gasped again, as he slowly dragged his tongue over her clit, moving softly and carefully. She tasted like heaven, and she squirmed as his tongue began to flick faster. He thrusted his fingers inside of her, and started to suck on her clit, looking up as her body moved and swayed with his actions. Her hands curled into his hair, pulling his face down into her pussy. He reached down with his other hand and stroked himself again, before sitting up and putting the length of his cock back inside of her.

She let out another gasp, and he began to thrust rhythmically with her hips pushing into him. He stayed with his body pressed against hers this time, feeling her every movement. Her moans became more intense, and he moved faster letting out moans of his own from the feeling of her body pressed up against him. “I’m going to come.” no longer able to resist the feeling, he managed the words between thrusts.

“I want you to cum inside me.” She responded, feeling the length of him and hearing his moans, knowing it was her turn again.

He had no time to correct her with their little game, he could feel his orgasam pulsing in her as he thrusted deeply one last time, feeling the waves flow through him, and cumming inside of her. She could feel the heat from the cum running down onto her thighs, and the pulses in his cock as he remained still. They breathed deeply together, being still, feeling each other's breath, dizzy from the orgasams, and happy.

A small laugh escaped Bobbi as she felt the weight of Chakotay laying ontop of her, and he started to laugh too. Before they knew it they were both laughing together, a mess on the couch. She sat up with him and curled into his arms. It still felt so good to be touched, by someone, by anyone. They were all alone together in this quadrant, and neither of them knew exactly how much they needed it, that is right up until they knew how much they needed it.

#voyager #star trek #chakotay #fic #lemons #star trek voyager #mine #fanfic #oc #6k #pwp #smut #writing

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