#like as i was drawing medic in a prison outfit i just felt so at peace

[alpacacare-archive]

shitpost that turned into a tf2 comic art style practice thats a part of my 5 year long evil plan to secretly make the 7th comic while valve isn't looking

audio is from Trixie Mattel takes a lie detector test lol

[edith-hyde]

Hi! I saw your post about who you want to write for and had to send in a request right away! Could I please have something with Otto octavius? Whatever you feel like writing as I love your writing so much. Thank you so much! I hope you get many many requests!

I am so sorry that this turned out really sad. It's raining here and I suppose that set the mood. But I hope you still enjoy it! Thank you for the request. Honestly, I love writing for Otto.

Flowers

You were the only one brave enough to volunteer. Honestly, you only did it to satisfy your growing curiosity. To get a look at the dreaded super villain trapped within his special prison.

Doctor Otto Octavius.

It wasn’t really fair to call him a super villain though. The man had been driven mad by his own creation. Everyone thought he had drowned the night of his failed experiment, but he had reappeared about a day after. He gave himself up without a fight and that was how he ended up here in a special wing of the prison.

You held your breath, heart pounded as they patted you down. Had to make sure you weren’t smuggling any sharp objects into the prisoner. Not that he would need them. The 4 metallic arms protruding from his back were more than enough to aid him in any escape attempt. Once the guards were satisfied that you weren’t a threat, the doors were opened and you were allowed inside. 

The actuators tuned first, looking at you like deadly vipers. You gulped in fear, squeezing your medical bag to your chest. 

“Hush now. She doesn’t mean us any harm.”

The large man turned as the arms lowered. He wore the orange prison jumpsuit, but only up to his waist. The uncomfortable looking apparatus peeking out around his midsection kept the rest of the outfit from fitting properly. You tried your best not to get distracted by his bare chest, but you couldn’t help it. As a doctor, you were used to the human body, but not really in this context. You felt the heat rise to your face and you averted your eyes. 

“I won’t hurt you,” the doctor promised in a soft voice, “Neither will they.”

He gestured to the arms that rested behind him. Two of them opened and closed like snapping jaws but the lights inside them were white, making them far less threatening. You finally managed to look at Otto’s face and you were surprised by what you saw. His large brown eyes were burdened with a great sadness underneath his messy curls. He had the start of a beard and you imagined that it would grow quite thick considering they probably wouldn’t let him shave. His entire expression was laden with sorrow and you could tell- he was just as scared as you were.

“Hi,” you whispered, “I’m Y/N.”

The doctor’s eyes went wide for a second. Then his face relaxed into a defeated smile.

“I am Doctor Otto Octavius. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The ex-villain offered his hand and you couldn’t help but flinch. His smile fell and he started to withdraw his hand, but you shot forward and grabbed it before he could. His massive digits closed around yours as his gaze locked onto you.

“The pleasure is all mine,” you declared, “Shall we get started?”

Otto nodded and sat down on the bed- the only piece of furniture in the small room. His tentacles curled up behind him, moving out of your way so you could kneel before him. 

“May I?”

“Go ahead.”

Drawing closer, you pulled down the section of the jumpsuit that covered the vice around his belly. You couldn’t help but wince as you saw the raw bloody skin that was scraping against the metal. 

“That has got to hurt,” you murmured, “I am so sorry.”

“It wasn’t like you did this to me, my dear. My state of being is a product of my own hubris.” 

You met Otto’s gaze and he smirked.

“Though your sympathy is much appreciated.”

You smiled at him, feeling a strange sense of calm. This man was frightening at all. Far from it. Despite his scary looking appendages, he seemed quite nice. You weren’t usually one to warm up to people so quickly, but there was something about Otto Octavius that made it easy to be around him.

“May I look at your spine?”

“Certainly.”

Otto stood and again, the actuators moved out of your way, now stretched out in front of him. You watched them, noting how each piece moved and clicked. You were sure that just the sound of them in the darkness would’ve given you nightmares if you had met this man under different circumstances. But right now, they only managed to make you worry slightly. You doubted that you would be harmed, but still- being this close to them was unreal.

With his back exposed, you gently inspected the flesh around the needles that were stabbing into his back. Much like his front, this skin was bloodied and chaffed. Your heart ached for him and you desperately wanted to help ease whatever pain he must be in.

“The weight of these things on your back cannot be good,” you observed, “Do you suffer any back pain?”

“Yes,” Otto admitted, “But I’ve gotten used to it.”

“I wish it were possible to remove this contraption from you. But the mental here at the base of your neck is fused to your skin. Cutting it off would likely kill you, or leave you paralyzed.”

“Shame,” Otto sighed, “But expected.”

“I am so sorry.”

“Again, you apologize for something you had nothing to do with.”

Otto turned to look at you. Shrugging you stared down at the ground.

“Sorry.”

“You apologize for apologizing. I don’t know if that’s ironic or just silly.”

Otto chuckled and you gave a short laugh as well. When you next met his gaze, he was grinning at you, clearly amused. You were glad to see some life back in his eyes. When you had first entered, he looked haunted- as if he had just woken from a nightmare. Now his face was alight with his smile. 

Though, there was still grief in his almond eyes. 

“I would like to rub some ointment on your skin to help with the chaffing. I would also like to give you some painkillers for the back pain.”

“That would be greatly appreciated, thank you.”

Otto sat and you rummaged around in your bag for what you needed. Returning to his side, you cautiously began applying the goop to his skin. He sucked in a sharp breath and you clenched your jaw.

“Sorry, it’s gonna sting for a bit.”

“Now you tell me.”

You made sure to get it rubbed in so that Otto’s wounds could begin to heal. You even put some on his spine. You wished you could put some kind of fabric between his skin and the metal but you weren’t sure that was possible. 

“There. I will be back tomorrow to give you more. It should be a lot better by next week.”

You stood and turned to leave. But Otto caught your wrist. The door to the cell suddenly opened and several guards ained their guns at Otto. You quickly waved them away before looking back at the man you had just treated. Your heart dropped as you beheld his watery brown eyes. At first you thought he was crying due to the sting of the ointment. But as he spoke, his emotions overcame him.

“Thank you for the ointment… Please… Can I ask a favor of you?”

You took his hand and nodded.

“Of course. If I can help, I will.”

“Can you… can you put some flowers on my wife’s grave? She likes roses and lilies… I would do it myself but…”

Otto trailed off, struggling to regain his composure. You knelt before him, setting a gentle hand on his knee. He met your gaze and you gave him a reassuring smile.

“Of course I can do that for you.”

“Tell her I miss her,” he whispered.

“I promise I will.”

You patted Otto’s leg and he released his hold on your wrist. You gathered your bag and left the room, barely keeping your tears back. When you gave Otto one last glance, you saw him sobbing with his head in his hands. Your own tears gained their freedom and you sped through the halls of the prison, hiding your face behind your hair. 

You would do as he asked. 

It was the least you could do.

[bunnyhanasong]

Brainwashed

Chapter 3 of Foolish Girl 

☆ Chapter 1 ☆ Chapter 2 ☆ AO3

Main ship: widowtracer

Notes: Hello all! I am so sorry I abandoned this book since November. I have been struggling with a lot due to the pandemic and my own life, so I got sidetracked and also had major writers block. I do hope this chapter makes up for it. We get to see a side of our favourite assassin in a new light, which may help explain her actions in previous chapters.

Content Warnings: swearing, mentions of weapons and injuries, canon-typical violence and the works, Reaper (he deserves his own warning 😂)

               ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Widowmaker pushed herself off the lumpy, Talon issued cot. The thing was barely considered a bed, no pillow to aid in comfort or posture, with only a thin blanket that scratched roughly at her skin. Still, Widowmaker couldn’t complain; it’s not like she felt the cold anyway. She also didn’t often rest, it just wasn’t necessary anymore, so the cot was mostly a formality.

She looked around her chamber with distaste, forgetting just how drab the whole place was. Her room in Talon always felt like a prison cell, with cement walls and floor and a broken door leading to a small bathroom. There was no personality to the room, the walls were bare and the only sign of life was her hairbrush discarded on the dresser and her own presence. The dresser contained training uniforms and various recreations of her Talon catsuit, an illogical outfit choice for battle but she could not argue. She was just a machine, an object; her opinion did not matter.

She collected her hairbrush and an elastic off the dresser, crossing the chamber to enter the bathroom. She stood in front of the dusty mirror, observing her own reflection in distaste. Her hair was down, something that occurred only when she slept, tumbling over her shoulders in a blue-black mess. Her skin was more pale than usual, it’s blue hue making her seem sickly. What didn’t help was the considerable bruises blooming on her face, highlighting the permanent dark circles under her eyes from the treatments that turned her into Widowmaker.

The bruises, she noted with an eye roll, were Reaper’s gift to her. “A gift,” he said, since she had been so disobedient. She did not off the Oxton girl when given a chance, she directly disobeyed orders and spoke back to her superior. That was asking for punishment, he explain, before landing a calculated punch to her face. Widowmaker had barely flinched at the contact, though the force of it sent her reeling backwards. With a few more hits Reaper ended up breaking her nose and leaving her with a particularly angry bruise across her cheekbone.

Moira had chastised her as she reset her nose and healed it with her scientific magic that Widowmaker would never understand. The older woman was not unkind to her, not directly, she was just cold. The scientist had no empathy in her body, purely apathetic and focusing only on the medical aspect of everything. She only fixed Widow because she was Moira’s creation, her guinea pig; a broken machine cannot function properly. She told Widowmaker that angering Reaper was a mistake, as if it wasn’t obvious, and the French woman had best smarten up. She could have healed her bruises as she fixed her broken bone in mere minutes, but left it as a reminder of her disobedience. A warning that she may not be so lucky next time.

With a huff at the memory, Widowmaker began to run the brush through her hair. She let her mind wander as she worked the knots from her inky blue locks. She wasn’t allowed to let herself to have idle thought, as she was only supposed to think what was put into her head, but no one was there to stop her this time. As she pulled her hair back into its signature ponytail, she let her thoughts fall on a particularly hyper Brit.

Tracer was someone that annoyed Widowmaker to no end. Her constantly giggling and flashing around like a mosquito she could never kill was irritating beyond belief. The sniper had wanted to kill her on multiple occasions, and had the chance almost every time, but she never pulled the trigger. She wasn’t sure why, since she only ever felt truly alive after a kill. Getting rid of Lena would cross a pest off her list and make her job a hell of a lot easier, yet there was something in her mind screaming to keep the girl alive.

With her hair finished, Widowmaker went back to her room to collect her training uniform. She hated wearing her mission suits and, though her superiors preferred her to be mission ready at all times, she would only don her catsuit when absolutely necessary. She saw the way the other agents sneered at her, no doubt objectifying her body in that skintight menace of a suit. They all got armour and protection in their uniforms, but Widowmaker’s was merely a means of demeaning her. She supposed that was the point, to treat her like the object they saw her as. She couldn’t argue, but she could avoid the outfit for as long as possible.

Her training outfits weren’t much better. Still skintight, a pair of athletic tights and a white tank top with the Talon insignia over her heart. She was able to wear a sports bra with this outfit, which gave some support her catsuits lacked. She had been chastised for it before, her hatred for her uniforms; apparently a machine should not care about being objectified. Widowmaker thought that was absurd, since she did still have some human left in her. Besides, her training outfits were more practical and comfortable, giving her more range of motion in their soft cotton and spandex than her suit ever did.

A knock on her chamber door just as she was drawing her jacket on caught Widowmaker’s attention. She sighed and flicked her ponytail over her should, making her way to the metal door that led out to the hallway.

Out in the hall stood the man himself, the shell of Overwatch agent Gabriel Reyes. She supposed that was secret information, but it wasn’t hard to figure out. Widowmaker still held some of Lacroix’s memories, though they were fuzzy. She remembered Reyes, his mannerisms and attitude, and had seen the files Talon kept on Reaper. Moira was easily prompted to brag about her “best accomplishment” and spoke proudly about how she kept Reyes from death. Really it was too easy and Widowmaker had known for a while just who Reaper used to be, and she supposed Overwatch knew by now too.

“Oui?”

“Widowmaker,” Reaper was slouched against her doorframe, “Functioning status?”

The woman tried to hide her annoyance, “Functional and ready for work, sir.”

He nodded, somehow seeming amused despite the unmoving white mask covering his features, or what was left of them anyway. He looked her up and down for a moment before speaking again.

“You are not in your uniform, Widowmaker.”

“I have not been assigned a mission yet, Sir,” she explained in a monotone voice, “Training clothes allow more range of motion for daily activities.”

“I see,” he did not sound impressed, “Well, Doomfist seems to have a mission for you; he requested your presence in the meeting room.”

“Very well,” Widowmaker agreed as she straightened her posture, “Shall I follow you to the room or am I allowed to go on my own?”

“I will take you. We wouldn’t want such an important machine getting lost on her way, would we?”

Widowmaker gritted her teeth, “Non.”

***

No more than forty minutes later, Widowmaker was back in her chamber and shimmying her way into that suit she despised so much. She hated the way it formed to her borderline emaciated body, all of the muscle and healthy fat that Lacroix had was lost due to Widowmaker’s lack of food intake and constant running across rooftops. Her metabolic processes had been slowed so she need not eat much, but that also meant her body had adapted to the lack of nutrients. Lacroix’s muscular dancer’s body had been altered to better suit combat, but it was also failing as her humanity was slowly sucked away through Widowmaker’s treatments.

“Where’s my favourite spider going?” a smug voice crooned from the corner, making Widowmaker jump. Sat cross-legged on her cot, which was empty a mere moment ago, was a particular pest that she would have no trouble pulling the trigger for.

“Sombra,” she snapped as she glanced over her shoulder at the hacker, “Pour l’amour de Dieu...”

Widowmaker made a mental note to always search her room for glowing purple translocators in the future.

“Always so grumpy,” the purple haired woman giggled annoyingly, “What’s your problem?”

“You’re in my room,” Widowmaker rolled her eyes, “I would prefer if you didn’t translocate into places you are not invited.”

“Well that would be counterproductive.”

“What do you want, Sombra?”

The Mexican woman hopped to her feet, smirk returning, “Where are you going?”

“Mission.”

“Not to see your precious lil girlfriend?”

The teasing tone and implications in her voice made Widowmaker want to hit her, “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“Just thought you’d be worried about your poor foolish Overwatch agent,” Sombra grinned, “Since you couldn’t stop Reaper from trying to do your job.”

“She was not my target,” Widowmaker said firmly, “And that is not your business.”

“Oh, c’mon, Widowmaker. I’m your best friend, why won’t you be honest with me about your little girlfriend?”

“We are not friends,” Widowmaker spat, “And I have a plane to be on.”

With that she walked past Sombra, ponytail swinging, and headed down the hallway. Sombra was the most irritating person she had met in Talon, and that was saying something. Her loyalty had always been skewed and it seemed the hacker would turn on them if the opportunity benefited her, but no one seemed to care. Widowmaker hated how smug and nosy she was, but this was just another thing a machine wasn’t allowed to care about.

She stopped by the armoury to pick up her things, slinging her gun over her shoulder so she could attach her venom mine cuff to her suit. She pocketed a few extra mines, locking them in a specially made compartment so they didn’t accidentally activate. After collecting her grapple and securing her helmet over her head, she made her way to the hangar.

The Paris Talon base was small, since it wasn’t often occupied. This was where Talon took her the first time she had been kidnapped. It was also where Overwatch had taken her from after she had been made a sleeper agent, unbeknownst to them. Since the main base was hidden away somewhere in the United States, this one was merely a place to occupy if a Mission called for it. They had been in Paris for a little over two months though, which meant Widowmaker had to deal with Sombra and Reaper in much closer proximity than she’d prefer.

She reached the hangar and found Maximilian standing outside the door of a small aircraft. The omnic regarded her with the same standoffish attitude as usual, somehow his discontent with her presence was very clear on his unmoving face.

“Widowmaker,” the leader nodded when she dipped her head in polite greeting, “Functioning status?”

“Operating as expected, Maximilian, sir.”

“What happened to your face?” His visual receptors caught sight of the bruises, somehow looking at her in distaste.

“Reaper lost his temper,” she replied lowly, “A mistake on my part, it will not happen again. Moira fixed me and I am functional, the bruising is merely a cosmetic issue.”

“I see,” he nodded and then gestured to the aircraft, “You know your mission?”

“Locate the Overwatch safe house and determine who remains in France, oui.”

“Indeed. You know of their possible whereabouts?”

Widowmaker nodded, “Lacroix’s memories tell me Annecy was an important place. It is where she grew up, where her and the husband lived, and presumably that is where Overwatch is most likely to reside.”

“Annecy... that is far, is it not?”

“Five and a half hours by car, but the aircraft can get me there undetected in under an hour I’m sure.”

“Very well,” Maximilian replied, “Get going then.”

“Yes sir.”

“And, Widowmaker?”

“Yes, Maximilian?” Widowmaker had already climbed the steps to the aircraft so she turned to look at the omnic.

“No shots unless absolutely necessary,” he ordered, “I want all of them alive... for now.”

The assassin stifled a sigh and nodded, getting into the ship. The door shut behind her and she took a seat, being the only person save for the pilot on board.

“Surveillance,” Widowmaker scoffed, “Why would they send a perfectly trained assassin for a surveillance mission? Even Sombra could do this on her own.”

She continued her quiet grumbling for most of the way there, switching to French at some point when she realized the ship was probably bugged. She muttered about everything that was bothering her, simply because she had nothing better to do. It was best to get it all out now before she was on surveillance; as she would have to be silent for hours after she landed.

“Stupid foolish girl,” Widowmaker muttered, “Getting herself shot like a dumbass.”

It’s not that Widowmaker wanted to think about Tracer, but her thoughts kept drifting back there. It was beginning to annoy her, how often the small Brit flashed through her mind. Really it shouldn’t happen at all, not with the way her conditioning left her brain wired. She was supposed to only think to kill, certainly not to get distracted worrying about her enemy’s injury. If Moira knew of this she would have a hay day messing with the conditioning again, and Widowmaker would do anything to avoid more of that. So what if she was more conscious than usual? No one had to know.

“Arriving in Annecy in 15 minutes,” the ship’s AI droned monotonously.

“Mon Dieu,” widowmaker cursed under her breath, “Let this mission go by quickly. Why must I waste my time on surveillance?”

When the ship stopped to hover above a rooftop in a quiet part of the town, Widowmaker stood. She adjusted her rifle sling and popped her comm into her ear, immediately hearing a familiar voice a bit too loudly.

“Lacroix,” Doomfist’s accent made the last name sound foreign to her, though at this point in her brainwashing Widowmaker was unsure if Gérard’s name was ever familiar at all.

“Oui, monsieur Doomfist?” Her brain still half stuck in her native language, knowing he would understand those few regardless.

“Keep an eye out for Overwatch agents but also any suspicious looking omnics; they have been known to canoodle with those useless machines.”

Widowmaker had to stifle an almost monotonous laugh, hearing a dull thump as Maximillian undoubtedly smacked the leader upside the head.

Doomfist huffed, “Don’t let your guard down, Widowmaker. That being said, no shots unless absolutely necessary.”

“Affirmative.”

“Good,” Doomfist hummed, “Don’t step out of line again, we wouldn’t want to have to put down our precious spider for disobedience; now would we?”

“Non, sir,” Widowmaker replied through gritted teeth, letting out a sigh when the comm line went dead. She was left in silence, save for the sound of the hovering plane as she went to open the door.

They would never let Widowmaker live it down, that split second hesitation. The screaming voice in her mind that told her to spare Lena. She shouldn’t have listened, she should have followed her programming. Now she was being punished simply because her enemy was still alive at her fault.

“Foolish girl,” she muttered, “Get out of my head.”

***

Those long hours on rooftops were Widowmaker’s safe space. Despite her being technically out in the open, she never felt safe anywhere else. She had become claustrophobic due to her treatments, the straps that bound her to the tables always too tight. The tiny cement box that she spent every non-working hour in made her feel like a caged animal. Out in the open though, she could lurk in silence and not be seen. She was exposed but also concealed, not backed into a corner with no chance of escaping.

She had found the safe house in a mere half hour. After hopping over rooftops and using her infrared scope to see into buildings, she caught sight of a familiar willowy woman that immediately gave away their location.

It was amusing to Widowmaker, to see Angela Ziegler away from prying eyes. She lost her hardened attitude that came with years of being a trauma medic and became a different person. She looked smaller, almost meek, shuffling around the room she had clearly tried to turn into a makeshift medical area. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, pacing around the area like a trapped, injured lioness.

“Ah, Angela,” Widowmaker hummed softly, watching through the open window, “So troubled.”

She watched a bit longer, noting that the Swiss woman merely paced and seemed to mutter to herself. She did seem worried, but that was to be expected. Angela Ziegler had always been a mother hen, with one of her children injured she was undoubtedly upset and feeling helpless without all her medical supplies.

Widowmaker’s interest piqued when the door opened, revealing a muscled woman who’s image made her scowl. Fareeha Amari, how she had grown. So much like her mother yet so different, a soldier but not as hardened by war as Ana had been. Alive, nonetheless, and fussing over the previous subject of Widowmaker’s observations.

She was speaking to Angela in what looked like a gentle tone, a worried hand grabbing her shoulder. The doctor reacted with an annoyed shrug, though she sighed and begrudgingly apologized to Fareeha. Trouble in paradise? Widowmaker shrugged, not her business and certainly not information Talon would value.

She turned her scope to another open blind, fussing with the zoom before she finally caught sight of someone. A thin girl walking past the window, she barely looked older than a teenager, carrying a pair of crutches. Curious, Widowmaker leaned a bit over the edge of the building and focused her view a bit.

The girl, Hana Song according to her previous research on Overwatch affiliates, had walked over to the only bed in the room. There laid a sickly looking thing, a shell of who Widowmaker knew her as, Lena Oxton.

“Oh,” Widowmaker found herself saying, “Pauvre chiot...”

Tracer was slumped into the mountain of pillows propping her up, looking at Hana with a sour expression. The younger was obviously trying to get her to stand up, but the injured woman shook her head firmly. Widowmaker knew it was way too early for ambulation at that point, not with the extent of Reaper’s damage. Ziegler must know that too, so why was the young agent trying to hard to pry Lena from her blankets.

“Interesting...”

Hana had succeeded in getting Tracer in a sitting position and was trying to get her to swing her legs over the bed. The Brit was clearly protesting, clinging tightly to her friend as pain shot through her tightly bound injury. The agony was apparent on her face and it made the sniper want to yank Hana off her, something in her mind protesting at the sight.

Widowmaker was shocked when she felt a pang of something in her stomach, a wave of worry and guilt washing over her. The intensity of them hit her harsher than Reaper’s fist; she hadn’t felt those emotions in ages, didn’t even think she could anymore. Why did her body have such a response to Tracer’s pain like that? Why wasn’t her programming pleased with the sight?

“Merde,” she spit in annoyance at her own thoughts, unsure of what to do. She should be checking other rooms for more Overwatch agents, clarifying who was in France, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the sight before her. Hana had slipped out of the room by that point, probably to get Angela, leaving Tracer alone on the chair beside the widow.

The woman was slouched over herself, hand holding tightly onto the windowsill for a semblance of support. Her teeth were gritted in pain as she tried to distract herself, clearly wanting to go back to bed to avoid this situation longer.

Widowmaker jumped when Tracer made a sudden movement. Noise from out on the street made her turn to the window, glancing out into the twilight. The motion made Widowmaker held her breath, she should be further away, she chose a rooftop too close by for secure surveillance. A rookie mistake for an assassin of her stature, especially when she locked eyes with her subject.

Tracer had clearly spotted her, her brain working overtime in her pained haze. It took a moment before a look of recognition crossed her face, quickly morphing to confusion and pain. Widowmaker cursed under her breath, mind screaming to hide, to duck, to run, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

The injured woman propped herself up in the windowsill, leaning closer to the pane as she gazed at the assassin across the way. She could see the familiar outline of her enemy on the roof, the telltale glowing red eyes on her helmet and the anxious shifting of having been spotted.

This was wrong, Widowmaker thought, what in the world was she thinking?

Tracer’s mouth moved as she spoke to herself, one word that Widowmaker felt hit her harder than it ever had before. The distance between them didn’t matter, nor did the fact that she couldn’t hear Lena. It rung through the silence surrounding her, blaring in her skull like a knife to the brain.

“Amélie...”

[plaidshirtjimkirk]

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” for Chahura if inspiration strikes.

Pairing: ChahuraSeries: Star Trek TOSRating: MSummary: Two things are certain for Christine Chapel: Starfleet is a bureaucracy and Nyota is simply gorgeous. [AO3]

.*Universal Constant*.

Christine wasn’t sure what boggled her mind more: the expanse of the Alpha Quadrant alone, or that Starfleet could secure a runner-up position for most bureaucratic organization this side of Antares. It was a staggering achievement, given the vast amount of fascinating politics (to put it politely) in the proverbial starry seas.

That wasn’t to say she was a woman of anarchist philosophy, though—no; standards and regulations, rules and directives were of sure necessity where the complexities of space exploration were concerned. The calling of these formal social parties in luxurious locations, however…well, that was a different story.

Red Tape Events were how they’d been described by anyone without their backside weighing down a chair in San Francisco. In theory, a starship captain always wanted to receive an invitation to one, because it meant their crew’s valiant efforts were recognized by the top brass—and standing out as an individual from the entire fleet was no minor triumph. On the other hand, there were very few captains who relished the reality of actually attending, and those who did simply weren’t in the know of the grander implications.

Opulent scenery, alluring music, rivers of liquor: entertainment and good times to be had abound, and all under the watchful eye of executives just looking for either mistakes or recruits for operations…or both. Blackmail was a hell of a compelling thing, after all. It was a conundrum, hosting an affair to laud best behavior so the very same honorees could be scrutinized and coerced down different paths because Admiral So-and-So needs a new Title-of-the-Week. Absurd.

In any case, Andorian champagne was similar to its pale ale cousin, just with more effervescence and sparkle as one might imagine. Her half-filled glass cradled by graceful long fingers, Christine glanced around the venue, taking in the view of crew mates outfitted as much to the nines as she, herself, was.

Flowing dresses, stark tuxedos, the best of both worlds captured in vest tops blended down into cascading ruffled skirts, and a whole array of formal attire in between filled the space with color and vibrancy, while individuals from all walks of life cavorted about each other and their ever-observant brazen overlords.

She’d already made her rounds tonight, served her time. The rest was up to the good graces of the captain and first officer, and not to mention one very grumpy Chief Medical Officer who was expertly hiding his annoyance over a tumbler of Saurian brandy on the rocks.

Unable to keep the smile from hinting at the corners of her lips, Christine let her gaze drift through the hazy pearl lighting, slowly taking in the sight of the people she’d grown so close to over the last four years.

There were Hikaru and Pavel in their stylishly coordinated suits, side-by-side as ever and brushing arms while they laughed softly through quiet conversation. And Scotty, who was putting on just as impressive a show as McCoy for someone who would damn definitely rather be holed up in a Jefferies tube than having his ear talked off by Admiral Nogura—the poor man. Naturally, Janice was flawless as ever in a coral dress of twining silk and lace, set off by another extravagant updo.

And then…there was her. And not for the first time, Christine’s heart pounded its ribbed prison a little harder.

As expected, Nyota was surrounded by others, conversing and her face alight with joy while her company chortled in kind. She was in her element, a star in her own right as birth name suggested, and looked downright stunning amid the dewy atmosphere of the hall.

Their eyes met then and one of Nyota’s fell in a slow, flirtatious wink while her lips pursed. Christine exhaled through her nose, and with a small shake of the head, couldn’t fight the grin which pulled outward to her cheeks—or the blush, for that matter.

Two could play this game, of course, so she broke visual contact with a graceful turn and floated toward the open balcony doors, as light as the sash curtains framing them.

~

Moonlight spilled silver over an ivory stone floor—nothing short of storybook glamor, and complete with a faint scent of jasmine permeating the air.

With her elbows braced against the balcony ledge, Christine’s fingers entwined lazily together over the side as she took in the view of a rolling valley that stretched to the glittering horizon. And when the familiar pointed taps of stilettos informed her of approaching companionship, she tried to maintain the hard-to-get facade to no success.

Who could resist the presence of a living, breathing goddess, after all?

The mauve dress danced with elegance about Nyota’s curves as she closed in slowly, her eyes half lidded as Christine straightened her spine and pivoted to receive her.

“Nurse Chapel,” Nyota purred with a regal tilt of her face. She reached out to Christine’s forearm and took gentle hold, the pads of her fingers massaging in small back-and-forth motions. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Funny, how this woman could steal the very words from her mouth before they even had a chance at leaving her tongue. Christine covered Nyota’s hand with her own, her digits folding in and coaxing it free; she brought it to her lips. “Lieutenant Uhura,” she replied with the same level of sensuality before bestowing a kiss there, “It takes one to know one, wouldn’t you say?”

A soft chuckle fell from Nyota and her eyes fell closed with an exhale. “What’s with all this flattery?”

“Flattery nothing. You’re stunning, Nyota,” Christine insisted without pulling her attention from her girlfriend’s ravishing features. “I thought for sure you’d choose the tux tonight, but this dress…” A soft hum followed. “It was definitely the right decision.”

“Let’s just say I was dressing to impress someone,” Nyota began matter-of-factly, and after a beat added, “…and we’ll leave it at that.”

“They’re very impressed, I promise.” Before releasing the hand she still held, Christine peered down to admire the intricacy of nail art adorning the tips. “These are so pretty. Did you put them on after I left to meet Leonard? I like him just fine but I still wish we could’ve arrived together.”

“Mm, that’s right.” Nyota lifted her pointer finger in the air and beckoned Christine closer. “And what’s more, let me tell you a secret.”

She leaned forward—felt Nyota stroke a lock of curled hair behind her ear before breath feathered lightly over her sensitive skin with a whisper. “They’re coming off again tonight.”

Blinking, Christine went to pull back and meet her gaze, but not before Nyota placed a small kiss to her cheek. “Just a little FYI, Nurse Chapel,” she declared in an airy, sing-song voice and stepped back. “A little…something to think about, right?”

Exasperation was in the subsequent reply. “Nyota…!”

“If you’ll excuse me now, I have to get back in there to manage those admirals.” With another wink, she purred, “I’ll see you later.”

And like the breeze, she turned to resume her task, nodding gracefully at McCoy passing by her on the way.

“Nyota,” McCoy drawled with a kind smile and tip of his head. He repeated the greeting when he arrived at Christine’s shoulder. “Came out to escape the heat from inside but it’s damn warm here too.”

“I’d say…” Christine exhaled, agreeing for more than one reason. “You have to admit, there’s a lot of hot air in there for a place that’s supposedly air conditioned.”

McCoy chuckled and lifted his glass before indulging. “Amen to that.”

Oh, it was going to be a longer night than expected…

~

It was after much too many hours when they finally, finally, found themselves back in the hotel room. Christine braced herself impatiently at the edge of the bed as Nyota knelt on the mattress behind her and undid the lacy bodice ties of her dress—slowly.

“Nyota,” she uttered in a half whine, half whisper.

“Yes, Christine?”

“Could you…” A moment so she could swallow. “…hurry, please?”

Nyota dropped the ribbons and took hold of Christine’s shoulders, leaning in with mock concern. “I’m sorry, are you in a hurry for something?”

A groan came forth and Christine let her lashes fall.

“Oh, I suppose I should stop being cruel, huh?” With that, Nyota made quick work of unbinding the rest of the material. “I don’t know why everyone hates these parties so much, Chris.”

“Red tape, Nyota.” Christine stood and let the garment fall free, slipping down her body to pool at her feet.

“Yeah? And I love unraveling you from it.”

Drawing a deep inhale, Christine’s eyes widened, and with burning cheeks she turned quickly on her feet to pounce at Nyota. “Oh my gosh, shut up!”

Nyota fell back against the soft bed, her chin tilted up while she laughed heartily. Upon stopping, another huff left her as she looked into Christine’s eyes. “Make me.”

Their lips met once, twice, and remained locked until the necessity of breathing pulled them apart again. They shared those same breaths before diving right back in, hands entwined and hearts beating to the same metronome: a universal constant.

[trade-baby-blues]

In Sickness

Pairing: Spock x reader

Word Count: so many (2680 to be exact)

Warning: Death, dying, serious health conditions, pretty gross health conditions, I think one swear

A/N: Requested by an anon!: “Spock x female reader where they are secretly married...but the team finds out when she gets injured on a mission...” Idk if you can tell but I have watched a TON of grey’s anatomy recently which might be why I spent so much time researching the medical stuff lol. This has absolutely NOT been edited because it’s 3:30 AM and it’s my birthday so I’m going to bed. I will (maybe) edit it later. 

Cold was not a word you would have used to describe Spock. The other crew members gossipped about how emotionless he was, but you knew better. You knew where to look. In soft touches in the hallway, meals sent to your lab when you forgot to leave for lunch. No, Spock wasn’t cold. He was the one spot of warmth on the whole damn ship.

When he asked you to marry him, you were over the moon. Literally. The ship had made an emergency stop at Derna after an influenza outbreak. Half the ship was bed-ridden, and you were working yourself to the bone trying to find a cure. Spock found you unconscious at your desk from a fever you’d neglected to mention to anyone, and, after a long, stern lecture he’d asked if you would be his wife. 

That was almost two years ago now and it had been the best two years of your life. You didn't even mind keeping it to yourself, because it made everything feel more special - and he more than made up for it when you spent nights together. There wasn't a doubt in your mind that Spock would move heaven and earth for you if you asked, and you knew he would be completely undone if anything happened to you.

That’s what made you hesitate on the shuttle down to the planet’s surface. You absentmindedly played with the ring hanging around your neck as the emergency transport descended to the next unknown planet. Well, not completely unknown. You knew one thing about the planet: the flora was poisonous to humans, which is why you were zipping up your decontamination suit and pulling your mobile lab down the ship’s loading dock. It whirred to life behind you as soon as you were clear, receding back into the ship as it prepared for take off.

This was your choice. You reminded yourself sternly. You told Jim not to beam them up. Not to send anyone down with you. The fewer people exposed the better. You rolled your shoulders and neck, easing some of the tension you could feel building there, and started walking toward the emergency triage station that was already set up.

There was a small boulder that had been outfitted as a desk for you to work on. Samples from the plant that caused all the trouble were already laid out. Your eyes scanned them quickly, looking for anything that signaled danger. There were no thorns, no pollen, no sap - even the colors were subdued. You lifted a flower to smell, expecting a nauseating rotting meat smell like some other carnivorous plants, but even the scent was beautiful.

“He’s arresting,” an ensign called. She was hunched over a man on the ground, another ensign. Matyas. He worked with the chemists. It was his first away mission.

Someone grabbed your elbow roughly. “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help him?”

“I’m - I’m not a doctor. I’m a microbiologist I don’t-”

“Damn it I can’t find a pulse.” A doctor had joined the ensign and taken over. Going against warnings to avoid touching Matyas, the doctor was alternating compressions and mouth to mouth while an assistant dug through a bag for a hypo. The needle clicked and everyone held their breath but Matyas didn’t move. It almost felt like your heart was picking up the slack for him with the way it was pounding in your chest.

The doctor sighed. “Time of death, 15:02 Federation Standard Time.” The nurse immediately waved a tricorder over the doctor, scanning for any signs of infection.

You made your way over to Matyas, sample collection kit in hand. While the nurse checked the doctor, you checked the ensign for any obvious signs of disease. Despite only being sick for an hour at most, his face had lost all color and his eyes were dark. Even with gloves on, you could feel how brittle his hair had become. You cut off a few strands and dropped them in a sample bag. Next came the blood draw. You expected it to be the easiest part, but the blood came out much thicker than it should have, almost gelatinous. As if he’d been dead for hours and his blood had started clotting. You chanced a look at the doctor, whose worry was written across his face.

“Can I borrow your tricorder for a sec,” you asked. You accepted it gratefully from the nurse and ran it over Matyas. Each result seemed more concerning than the last: “Skin rash, cardiomegaly, ambient temperature, early signs of rigor mortis.”

The doctor grabbed the tricorder from your hands. “That’s not possible.” He scanned the corpse again, yielding the same results. “We scanned him twenty minutes ago and there was no evidence of cardiomegaly. The only symptoms were a rash, fever, and minor heart palpitations and now….”

“And now the scans show he should’ve been dead for hours, not minutes,” you finished. You wanted to comfort the doctor, who seemed to be getting more anxious by the second, but there was nothing you could say when he was sitting in front of the corpse of a man who might have just infected him. You couldn’t say how long the symptoms would take to start showing, because it was impossibly to know when Matyas was infected. You didn’t even know what caused it. It could be the flower or it could be something in the grass or the trees or even in the air. The only piece of good news you could give came from Bones calling to say the quarantine rooms had been set up.

You went straight to work when you were back on the ship, running the blood through every test you could think of and examining every inch of the plant under microscope. It was harder doing it by yourself, but you insisted your team stay away in case there was something poisonous in the plant. Of course, you hadn’t told Spock you were working alone or that you weren’t working in a decontamination suit, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. It was quicker without the burden of the suit anyway.

Bones kept you updated on the status of all the patients. Neither the doctor nor the ensign were starting to show signs but Commander Oni, a member of the security team of all people, was complaining about abdominal pain and facial swelling and the leader of the expedition, Lieutenant Mavek, had a severe fever. They were both being monitored closely.

You focused your attention back to your work. Sure they were stable now, but Matyas was stable when you were first called and not 30 minutes later he was dead. You just hoped half an hour was enough time for you to make some kind of headway with a cure.

Every minute that passed was torture. Ten minutes in and you had nothing. You were starting to sweat. From nerves, you told yourself. Not from disease. Fifteen minutes passed and Bones called to tell you Oni had blood in his lower intestine now, and his liver seemed to be shutting down. Twenty minutes. Mavek fell unconscious, heart beating erratically. Thirty minutes. His heart stopped. He was put on bypass. Forty minutes. Oni was experiencing multiple organ failure. 50 minutes. Dead.

You threw everything off your desk in anger. Nothing was adding up. The blood had been poisoned but there was nothing poisonous from the plant. The people in direct contact with Matyas were fine but the people who were nowhere near him are dead and dying and you had no more time to come up with a solution to save Mavek.

You scratched subconsciously at an itch on your arm until you realized your fingertips felt wet. When you looked down all you saw was blood. You could still make out the edges of what looked like the same rash Matyas had among the blood and skin that was hanging off your arm. It appeared necrotic, a symptom none of the others had presented. You poked at it lightly in horror, half expecting your entire arm to fall off, but you felt nothing. Aside from the skin falling off of your arm you felt fine.

Then there was a flash of heat so intense you had to sit down. Your vision was white and it felt like your temperature jumped from 98 to 103 with no warning. Waves of nausea hit you as you reached for the comm but you ended up knocking it to the floor in a daze. You fell to your knees to get it, trying desperately to call in a 911 to Bones. Your throat tightened as your heart sped up. You didn’t know what was anxiety and what was a symptom.

The tile flooring felt much cooler against your knees and arms and your nausea lifted briefly. You reached for the Comm and froze. There. Sitting on top of it. What looked like an insect. You forced yourself to concentrate on it, ignoring the white creeping into the edges of your vision. You fumbled for a sample jar, knocking several over before you managed to grab one large enough for the bug and the Comm.

The insect seemed to sense it’s freedom was being threatened, because it jumped from its perch on the Comm and started running towards the door. You threw yourself at it, clapping the cup down full force against the ground. It scuttled frantically around the cup, stabbing what looked like a small stinger against its plastic prison. You slipped the lid underneath and sealed the cup before making your way back to the desk. You grabbed your Comm on the way, dialing Bones as you picked up a pair of scissors.

“Please tell me you’ve got something.” You could tell he was tired.

You stabbed a small hole in the top of the jar for air. “Insect sting. Best guess is it’s essentially Chagas disease but sped up by a few years. Oh, and symptoms also include some kind of dermal necrosis.”

“None of the patients have exhibited signs of necrosis. There’s rashes but not…” You heard Bones curse.

“Yeah. If you could send a gurney my way it’d be much appreciated, doc. I’ll try to meet you halfway.” You hung up before Bones could say anything. There was only one voice you wanted to hear right now and it wasn’t his.

“Ashalik,” Spock said, “I thought you would be too busy to call.”

“Yes, but I found the cause of the illness,” you said, leaning against a wall to catch your breath. Your chest felt tight. “I’m heading to MedBay now to give the results to Dr. McCoy.”

“Are you all right? You sound a little breathless.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Always am around you.” You slid down the wall, energy draining from you quickly. You could almost picture Spock sitting in the Captain’s chair while Jim dealt with the emergency in MedBay. His eyebrow quirking up, cheeks tinged green. You hummed softly at the thought. “Tell me you love me.”

“You know I do. Tal-kam, is there something wrong? Are you-”

“No, I want to hear you say it, Spock. It always sounds better when you say it.” You could hear a slur in your voice and you knew Spock would hear it too. There were a few seconds of silence before he spoke.

“I ayasha du.” Spock said something else, but you weren’t quite sure what. Your eyes had slipped shut by now and the only thing you could hear was a soft ringing in your ears. You felt yourself tipping over but couldn’t do anything to stop it, doomed to lie there until the medics found you unconscious, smile still playing around the corners of your mouth.

You woke up to a stinging pain in your arm and a scratching in your throat. You coughed lightly around a tube and it felt like your entire chest was on fire. You tried to ignore it, breath around it, but it felt like you were choking until you heard your door open and a nurse ran to your bedside to take it out. You smiled weakly at her as she moved to adjust your feeding tube.

“Gave us quite the scare,” she said with a smile. “Though I suppose not as much as you gave him.” She nodded to your left and you tilted your head as far as you could to see Spock curled up in a chair asleep. “Hasn’t left your side in days. Not since he and Dr. McCoy worked out a treatment.” You smiled.

Your gaze seemed to rouse him, because he began to stir. He was on his feet the second he saw your eyes on him. He clasped your hand in his and pressed a kiss to your temple before leaning his forehead against yours. He said nothing, but you didn’t need him to. You understood.

Of course, Bones didn’t understand the intimacy of the moment and barged in with a tricorder and a hypo. Most of the symptoms were gone, but the arrhythmia seemed permanent so far just as it had with Mavek. It would require some more testing and medication but would be manageable.

“Until we’re sure it’s arrhythmia and not an extension of the symptoms, I don’t want doing anything strenuous. You can go back to work as long as you stay in a wheelchair that someone else pushes. Outside that, we’ll run a few cardiac stress tests in the lab, but you shouldn’t do any running or fighting or basically anything that would raise your heart rate.” He said the last few words pointedly towards Spock.

“I’m not sure why you’re addressing me, Doctor. I have no control over what-”

“He’s talking about banging,” Jim said, all smiles. He was leaning against the doorway like he’d just won the lottery. “No more early nights or late mornings or quickies down in the lab. That is, where you went all those times, right?”

The tips of Spock’s ears turned soft green. “I’m sure I don’t know-”

“How long have you guys been married,” Jim turned his questioning to you. “I mean, come on. I didn’t even know you guys were together and now lover boy over here is pining at your bedside and you have a ring around your neck. What’s it been? A few months?”

“Give or take a couple years,” you said, still smiling.

Jim stepped into the room fully, smacking Bones on the arm as he passed. “A couple years? Did you know, Bones?”

“None of my damn business,” Bones grumbled, smacking Jim back.

“Well then,” Jim said, rubbing his arm lightly, “I say it’s high time to celebrate then.”

“You deserve congratulations for discovering a new species of insect, especially one so deadly,” Spock said. “The discovery will save countless lives if future voyages are ever attempted.”

Jim threw an arm around Spock’s shoulders. “Is he always this boring? Because I definitely meant I’m throwing you guys a bachelor and bachelorette party.”

You laughed, but, with your throat still raw from the breathing tube, it came out more like a croak which lead to a cough which lead to Bones shuffling everyone but Spock out of the room. He pulled his chair closer to your bedside again and dropped his face in his hands. It looked like he’d aged a decade in the past week.

“I’m sorry I scared you, ashayam.” You ran your fingers through Spock’s hair. His shoulders shook softly but he made no noise and you wanted so badly to hold him. “Come here.” You tugged gently on his hands until he looked at you. You scooted to the edge of the bed, and Spock took the hint, crawling onto the biobed with you until you were just a tangle of limbs and tubes and tears.

“I ashaya du, k’diwa,” you said, still stroking Spock’s hair as he laid against your chest. “In sickness and in health.”

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