#our christmas mural | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

luveline · 9 months ago

Note

Hii I sent the ask for more kbd could you please write them all going on there first family holiday lovely 🤍🫶🏻

love u <3 kbd au —the harrington’s vacation !! mom!reader, 1.5k

This is a good idea, you repeat to each other for weeks. Paying for the flights, making lists, getting Dove her baby passport, packing the suitcases days in advance.

Most of the time you agree with one another. The day you buy Avery and Beth little swimsuits Steve can’t stop smiling, and the nights leading up to it are like Christmas for Avery when she remembers (and Beth when Avery tells her).

But the night before you’re sick to your stomach, and then Steve can’t breathe right at the airport, but you get on your plane, and somehow the girls are good. Dove cries when you land because of the pressure change, but she’s soothed by the time you’re past the gate and into the sunshine.

“Steve,” you say, Dove strapped to your chest, world's heaviest baby bag on your shoulder, “sweetheart, we’re here.”

He holds Beth’s hand, who in turn holds Avery’s hand, trying to pull the world’s biggest suitcase behind you without running over his own foot. “I told you it would be easy.”

Your children look beautiful. Avery wears a sun visor cap and a blue dress with white socks and blue converse, and Bethie wears dungarees and a short sleeve top, little black converse to match her sister but unable to handle the sensory nightmare of a hat. They look ready for the sun, and excited to be somewhere new.

Dove sleeps on your chest. “Easy isn’t the word I’d use,” you mumble, kissing her forehead. “Okay, what’s the next thing? Are we getting the shuttle?”

Steve checks his watch quickly. “It’s another ten minutes,” he says. “Is that okay?” He points at your harness. “Digging into your side?”

“It’s fine.” You bend with your arm behind Dove’s back, turning your smile on your sweethearts where they mill around their dad’s legs. “How do you guys feel now? So happy? I’m so happy we’re not on the plane, we can stretch our tired feet!”

“Yeah, mom!” Avery says.

“Can we have soda?” Bethie asks.

And okay, you promised them treats if they behaved on the plane, but you’re on vacation. It’s allowed.

“Yeah, baby, let’s go find you a coca cola before we get on the big bus!”

You don’t want to pay seventy cents for one can of coke, let alone three dollars for three, but everything will be free when you get to the resort, so what does it matter? Plus, Bethie really, really enjoys it. She beams at the fizzing and begs you to try it like she’s worried you’re missing out.

(It matters. You and Steve are raising three kids on one salary. All inclusive vacations are expensive. They all needed new clothes including you and Steve, clothes and haircuts and mini shampoos. But it genuinely won’t matter if they have a good time, and make good memories.)

“Right,” you say near the shuttle, “Avery, you hold mommy’s hand when we’re outside. Beth, you’ll hold daddy’s. No running, and try to be polite. Deal?”

Avery twines her fingers through yours, little tiny fingers to your fully grown ones. When she looks up at you, she’s practically a hundred percent Steve, his smile, his lovely demeanour, and his attitude too. “Duh, mom. That’s an easy deal.”

Steve ends up carrying Beth onto the shuttle, and off of it again at the resort. She’s in his arms from the lobby to the elevators and into your suite, but she wants promptly to be put down when Steve shows your two girls their room.

“Mom, there’s bears!” She gasps. “It’s Goldilocks!”

A huge storybook mural covers their walls and parts of their ceilings, their single beds outfitted with gossamer curtains on four posters and princess pink sheets. “There’s a castle!” Avery shouts.

“You okay?” Steve asks again.

You’re a little tired from Dove's restlessness the night before, but you’re happy you’re here. You nod without thinking twice about it.

“Okay.” He pulls you toward him. Careful, he unsnaps the buckles of Dove’s harness, loosening the cords that keep her tight to your body before pulling her out. She grizzles at being moved, and he pats her back deftly to settle her before it becomes a big cry. Then he’s cradling her one handed, loosening the straps of the carrier behind your back and taking it off of you with a kindness that softens you for the thousandth time. “There, that’s better. You look like you can breathe again.”

Steve puts his hand flat on your chest and rubs a line with his thumb. “That’s a nice smile,” he adds.

Okay, you think. Goner, total goner, you cover his hand with yours. From the girls’ bedroom you can hear the squeal of bed springs being jumped on and the zipper on someone’s mini backpack. “Can we have fruit snacks?” Avery shouts.

Steve’s hand moves to your neck, your face. He rubs your jawline with the tip of his thumb. “Do they have fruit snacks at the buffet?”

“They promised they’d have everything at the buffet.”

You sound exuberant. You are. It’s nice to be touched sweetly, and to be somewhere cool. This is the life you’d dreamed of making with him, and at the same time, you never could’ve summoned this image of him.

You can’t wait for him to take his shirt off by the pool. You’re gonna take a whole disposable’s worth of photos.

“You have nice arms,” you say, feigning absentmindedness.

“Thank you.” He’s looking at you funny. It reminds you of when you first started dating, he’d get these weird moments of smiling and not telling you what it is that’s so funny, which would always inspire insecurity, but has since been explained to be awe rather than disdain. He pulls Dove closer to his neck and more toward his side, offering his empty arm to you for a hug. “You have nice everything,” he says, kissing you quickly on the temple.

“We’re actually on vacation.”

It always seemed too daunting. The more kids you had, the scarier it seemed. But one day Avery must’ve seen a commercial on TV or heard it from one of the little girls at the park, and she’d strolled up to you to ask you about vacations and the beach and aeroplanes. You’d taken her and Beth to Lake Michigan a bunch of times, but nothing feels quite like this.

“Let’s hope it really feels like one,” Steve says.

“Especially for you,” you say.

Stay at home dad-ing is exhausting. You can’t imagine he wants to be the one in charge here too. You’re determined to pull your weight, even if he isn’t keen to let you, plans for secret lie-ins and well-researched playtime clubs at the resorts recreation centres. You’re not delusional, you know you can’t do this without him. Or perhaps you could, but you’d enjoy yourself a lot less. Either way, you’re wanting to have fun too, so he can take Dove from you and wrap his arm around you like he’s the one in charge for now. It feels nice to be doted on, better when he starts his fretting.

“Do you want to get changed before we take them down for dinner?” He backs away enough to see your face but not too much as to steal the warmth of his chest where it kisses your arm. “Showers? You need something to drink. Where’s the mini fridge?”

“Remember what we talked about?” you broach carefully. You have no intentions of patronising him, but it’s unfortunate he’s forgotten already. “Relax, honey. That’s what we said we were gonna do this week. You don’t have to make sure everyone is one hundred percent all the time. If I need something, I’ll tell you.”

“What sort of marriage do you think this is?” he asks, smiling playfully, his warm eyes betraying how happy he is even through his worry and facade.

“One where you kiss me like you miss me all the time,” you say.

“Oh, is that so?” He ducks down and aligns your lips, the corded muscle of his arm lean where it presses to your softer back. “What do you do?”

“Kiss back.”

He laughs into your lips, a smile pressed firmly to a smile.

“Daddy, can you help me ‘i my shoes?” Bethie asks.

Steve breathes in deep as you part, hugging you tight to his side. “Where are you gonna go without shoes?” he asks her, genuinely curious.

“To bed.”

“You want a nap?”

Bethie nods tiredly. “Planes are hard.”

“Yeah, bub, planes are tough. You don’t wanna go have dinner first?”

She shakes her head tiredly. It’s the first hurdle of your vacation, but it’s not a terribly hard one to navigate.

“There’s gotta be some sort of snack in the fridge, right?” he asks.

Family nap time commences just as soon as Avery’s eaten her fill of mini sandwiches. You sleep like a baby under Steve’s arm, at least until the real baby rouses for another bottle.

473 notes · View notes

foundtherightwords · 5 months ago

Text

Love, If You're Near

Pairing: Michael (Hoard) x OFC

Summary: With a troubled past and a hopeless future, Gwen is just trying to survive on the streets of London. When she meets a man named Michael with a rather strange request, she shrugs and goes along with it, never dreaming that she will find a soul just as broken as hers, or that sometimes broken pieces can fit together perfectly, to bring healing and hope when one least expects it.

Warnings: discussions of prostitution and domestic abuse

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: I've had this idea for Michael even before "Hoard" was released, and after watching the film, I was happy that it was still viable. I don't condone Michael's actions, but I can see where his desire for love and affection comes from, and I hope that after what happened with Maria, Michael could start his own journey of redemption and healing. It is what I based my idea on. I also took some inspiration from "Frankie and Johnny" (the 1991 movie with Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino, not the song).

"Hoard" takes place in 1994, and this is about 4 years after that.

Also, big thanks to @wheels-of-despair for sending me a transcript of the movie. It's helped me tremendously in deciphering the East London dialogue!

Gwen dropped down on a bench outside Dalston Junction Station, slipped her right shoe off her aching foot, and gingerly touched the raw red spot on the back of her heel, through her fishnet. "Cheap piece of shit," she grumbled. Except the shoes weren't exactly cheap. Twenty quid down the drain and they hurt like fuck, even after she'd tried every trick in the book to break them in. But her last pair had broken beyond repair, so it was either this or go barefoot, and she didn't want to step on broken needles and used condoms and whatever garbage that littered the backstreets of Hackney. Plus it was freezing. She'd met a stag do the previous night, and they had kept her out until the morning, eventually straining her all the way over in Chiswick. It was almost noon by the time she crawled back to her flat. It was too cold to sleep in, so she'd whiled away the day in coffee shops and pubs, waiting until it was time to go back out on the street. At this rate, she would take a five-quid blowjob in a car if it meant getting somewhere warm.

Across the street, the Hackney Carnival Mural shouted at her with its peeling musicians and protestors waving their "Unite for Peace" banners. Gwen turned away, annoyed. Idiots. What good is peace, when one is cold and tired and doesn't even have a decent pair of shoes?

It was almost Christmas, and a slow night. The nights had been slow for a while now, not like when she first started. Ten years on the streets, she thought she'd known how it worked. Then three years in the clink, and when she got out, it was like Brave New World out here. Foreign girls flooded the market. The pimps and the punters liked them because they were younger and easier to control, but the local girls knew that naïveté was just an act. These newcomers were tougher and meaner, and they wouldn't hesitate to pull a knife on those that dared to encroach on their territory. That was if they were still on the streets in the first place. It was all indoors now, and they didn't even have to rely on the old tart-card-in-phone-box method of advertisement. The Internet had that covered.

Gwen readjusted her long blonde wig and sighed. Sometimes she felt much older than her thirty-one years.

She put her shoe back on with a grimace. Perhaps she could try her luck up the road, near the Shacklewell Arms. Her friend Medusa worked that corner, and sometimes she would let Gwen stay with her so they could team up against the new girls.

Medusa's real name was Melissa, but all girls needed some exotic street names. For Halloween one year, back when they were both younger and sillier and full of hope, Gwen had even helped her attach plastic snake's heads to her dreads, both giggling like mad.

Gwen took the backstreets to avoid the twinkling lights, the sound of Christmas music, and the scents of evergreen and cinnamon that spilled out from every door and shop window. They depressed her. Her feet would not thank her for the detour, but her heart would.

By the time she reached the Arms, she was sure her blister had burst and was bleeding. Some indie band had just finished their gig, and the front of the pub was crawling with people. Gwen peered into the crowd, trying to make out Medusa's statuesque form. As she spied Medusa's dreads swinging to and fro, Gwen opened her mouth to call her friend. Her eyes fell on the man next to Medusa, and the call died in her throat. It was Medusa's boyfriend and pimp, Nico.

Despite Medusa's insistence that Nico was "not that bad", Gwen knew better than to face him. At best, he would cajole her into coming to work for him, and at worst he would threaten and force her. Gwen knew what it was like to tie yourself to a man. Usually, she could chase Nico off with a few choice words, but in her current state, cold, exhausted, and irritated, she had no strength to deal with him. She beat a quick retreat.

And collided with someone.

It was a man coming out of one of the cheaper and seedier establishments that lined the back alleys behind Shacklewell Lane. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

"'s alright," Gwen said. And, because he was a man and she was working, she added, out of professional habit, "You looking for company?"

"No, thank you," the man said, a little too quickly, and started to walk away. A few steps, then he seemed to have second thoughts and turned back. "How much?" he asked.

Gwen gave him the once-over. He was probably in his mid-thirties, medium built, dressed in old jeans, an older jumper, and sturdy boots. A working man, then, not a tourist or an out-of-towner looking for some cheap thrills. Not her ideal client, but beggars cannot be choosers.

She told him her hourly rate. "Forty quid and I'll do whatever you want, darling." It wasn't high, all things considered, but it wasn't cheap either. She had her dignity.

The man shook his head. "That's—that's out of my—sorry." He turned away again.

Gwen slumped against a brick wall with a sigh. Maybe she should call it a night. The prospect of her cold flat with its empty fridge was not very welcoming though. Maybe she could find Medusa again. She was desperate enough to even risk Nico.

As she struggled to her feet, she staggered backward and collided, for the second time that night, with someone. This time it was a little girl who was coming out of a doorway with her mother. The girl was holding to the hem of her mother's coat with one hand and in the other was a teddy, which she dropped to the ground.

"Sorry," Gwen said. She quickly picked up the teddy, dusted it off, and handed it to the girl with a smile. "Here you go, love."

The girl stared back at Gwen with enormous eyes but said nothing and made no move to take her teddy. The mother snatched the toy back. "Why don't you watch where you're going, you slag!" she snarled. "And stay away from my kid."

"You watch where you're going!" Gwen spat. "What are you doing, dragging a kid out on the street this late anyway? She should be in bed!"

The mother's nostrils flared. "Don't tell me how to raise my own kid! What does a slut like you know about being a mother?" With that, she snatched the kid up in her arms and stormed off. Swallowing her anger, Gwen walked away in the opposite direction.

A moment later, a wail from the little girl caused Gwen to turn back, just in time to see the woman yank the teddy out of her hand and toss it into the nearest bin.

An inexplicable fury prompted Gwen to chase after them despite her blister, not even knowing what she would do if she caught them, but the woman turned down a side street and disappeared. Only the teddy stared up at Gwen from the bin with a rather mournful look, or so she imagined.

She picked it up and straightened up the bowtie around its neck. "I know more about being a mother than that bitch," she said to the teddy, and, without knowing why, she put it in her bag.

Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see the man who had rejected her still standing at the mouth of the alley, watching her with a strange expression. Something in his dark eyes made blood rush to her cheeks, and she growled, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

He approached her slowly. "Forty an hour, you say?"

She stood up a little straighter. "Yeah."

"And you'll do whatever I want?"

"Within reasons," she said warily.

"Where can we go?"

"You have a car?" He shook his head. "Well, then that depends on what you have in mind," she said. "Even an alleyway would do, though I have to tell you, I'm not keen on getting any more blisters tonight." He colored slightly, and Gwen found herself wondering if this was his first time. She glanced at his hand. No ring. But then again, this type always takes care to leave their ring at home, don't they?

"My flat's not far from here," he said. "Do you mind—?"

Gwen hesitated. She made it a point never to go with a customer to a place she was unfamiliar with. Too risky. But she was cold and tired and just wanted to get this done.

She scrutinized the man, more carefully this time. He had dark hair pushed away from his forehead in soft curls, and a face that, had she been feeling better, she would have found quite handsome. What really struck her, though, were his eyes. They were dark and large, fringed by ridiculously long lashes, which made him look almost boyish. Gwen, who had to rely on false lashes and mascara to get such a doe-eyed look, stared at those lashes enviously. Noticing her scrutiny, he glanced at her briefly and looked away again. That shy, beseeching look finally cinched it for her.

"Alright," she said. "But cash up front."

"Fair enough." He opened his wallet and handed her some crumpled fivers and a tenner. Gwen counted them carefully before stuffing them into her bag. She also checked that her pepper spray was still in her bag—no matter how unassuming the man looked, or how sad his eyes were, she had to be careful. Technically, it was illegal to carry pepper spray, but Gwen never let a small thing like legality stop her.

Her fingers brushed across a little card, and Gwen paused momentarily. She'd been given that card by a group of women who roamed the area in twos and threes, who might be mistaken for working girls at first glance. She supposed that was their disguise. They were a non-profit helping to get women off the streets, they said. Give us a call anytime, they said. Gwen had scoffed at their optimism, yet for some reason, she still held on to their card.

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"What do you want it to be?" she said, again out of habit, too tired to actually be coquettish. The man raised his eyebrows at her, and Gwen relented. "You can call me Queenie." Medusa wasn't the only girl with a ridiculous street name.

She didn't ask his name. She didn't care.

They went down Shacklewell Lane, away from the bright lights and loud noises of the Arms, crossed the A10, and through some side street lined with terraced houses. Then the houses gave way to chippies, greasy spoons, Laundromats, and off-licenses. Gwen was whimpering by the time they reached a block of council flats, its brown brick façade the color of dry blood under the dim streetlamps.

"You all right?" the man asked, glancing at her.

"How far up?" Gwen managed, looking up at the looming building, trying to calculate how quickly she could run out of there, if necessary.

"Fifth floor."

She let out an involuntary groan. The man looked at her for a moment. And then, before she realized what he was doing, he scooped her up in his arms in one smooth movement and carried her up the stairs, bridal style.

"Do you mind?!" she protested. The man said nothing, only kept walking.

Gwen tried to wriggle out, but she was too tired and his arms were too strong, and after a moment, she gave up and leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of soap and sweat and rollies, and she found herself pressing her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in his human scent, to purge from her memories the stench of piss and stale beer and rubbish that had assaulted her all through the night.

For all his strength, the man was panting a little by the time they arrived at his door. He set Gwen down on her feet and fumbled with the lock. The moment they were through the door, she collapsed on the nearest available surface, which happened to be an old, rather threadbare sofa, and pulled her shoes off.

"Take it from me," she said. "Never wear heels."

He seemed amused. "OK, I won't." He went about flipping on the lights. "Do you want some Epsom salt for that?"

"Nah, I've had worse."

The man disappeared behind a door down the hall—the bathroom, she supposed—and emerged a second later with a plaster. He then knelt in front of her, rolled down her right stocking and lifted her foot into his lap, not in a sensual or seductive way, but rather matter-of-factly, and stuck the plaster on her heel, like a parent cleaning up a child's skinned knee. This done, he pulled out the sofa and made a bed on it, still in that same matter-of-fact manner.

Something rolled out from under the sofa—a piece of Lego. Gwen's eyebrow went up. Following her eyes, the man saw the Lego as well and turned red. He quickly kicked it back under the sofa and went on making the bed as if nothing had happened. Well, if he wasn't going to say anything, then she certainly wouldn't either.

"Right," she said, rolling down her other stocking. "Let's get started, shall we?"

He turned toward her, looking alarmed. "No, no, no," he said and put his hand over Gwen's, stopping her. "Clothes on, please."

Gwen tilted her head. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked to keep her clothes on, though it was rare enough that it still came as a surprise. She wasn't keen on having her dress all wrinkled and stained. It would be a nightmare to get it clean. But she pulled her fishnets back up anyway

The man sat down next to her on the sofa bed, sheepishly avoiding her eyes. "I'm Michael, by the way," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Gwen said, because that's what one is supposed to say when someone introduces themselves.

"Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?"

If he'd offered her some wine or whiskey or even beer, she might have accepted, but tea was probably the least erotic drink Gwen could think of. "No, thanks," she said. She didn't trust him not to slip her a Mickey—hey, Mickey and Michael, that's rich, she thought, chuckling to herself. When Michael didn't say anything, she reminded him, "You only paid me for an hour."

"Could you—" he began, looking down at a spot on the scuffed floor. "Would you mind—could you just hold me?"

Is that it? Gwen had to stop herself from grinning. This really was his first time then, poor lamb. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "Like this?" she whispered into his ear. Michael nodded and eased them both down on the bed until they were spooning, with her behind him, so she couldn't see his eyes. "What else do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just this."

Gwen frowned. "What?"

"Just hold me like this, please."

She sat up to look at him properly. He was lying on his side with his eyes open, staring not at her but at something or somewhere else, miles away.

"You're not going to make me put a giant diaper on you and breastfeed you, are you?" Medusa had once met a punter with that request. It had been part of the reason why she'd decided to work for Nico, so she could avoid another awkward situation like that, though, in Gwen's mind, it was rather like out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Michael turned to her. "What?"

"You don't want to tie me up, and you don't want me to tie you up?"

"No."

"You don't even want to have sex?"

He blushed again. "No."

"So let me get this straight," she said. "You're paying me forty quid to—spoon you?"

"Yeah." He sat up as well. "Look, if you're not comfortable with it, I understand. I'll pay you for your time, and then you can go."

She considered. As far as requests went, it was an odd one, but certainly not the strangest she'd had. And it sounded innocent enough—perhaps the most innocent of all. Still, she would not be lulled into a sense of safety. She pulled her bag a little closer to make sure she could reach inside and get the pepper spray if necessary. Her shoes would be a write-off—she could run faster barefoot anyway.

"Just—hold you?" she asked again, wanting to make sure. "For an hour?"

He looked up at her with those dark eyes, imploring, infinitely sad, like those of a lost child or a dying animal, and Gwen felt her heart stumble. "Yes, please," he said.

"I'm not charging you the full rate just for a bit of cuddle!"

"It's OK, really. I don't mind."

"I do," she insisted. "It's about being professional. What do you do for a living?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, but he answered anyway. "I'm a cleaner. At St. Mary's Hospital." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "Used to be a bin man. But I couldn't take the stink anymore."

Something in the way he said it made Gwen think that there were other reasons besides the stink for him to give up being a bin man, but it was none of her business. "You wouldn't take the full wage for cleaning half the hospital, would you?" she asked.

Something like a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I guess not."

"OK, so let's say twenty an hour, and we have a deal."

A moment's hesitation, and he extended a hand. They shook on it. His hand was warm, his grip strong and steady, and Gwen wondered why such a man could be so alone, and so lonely.

She made to give him back the twenty quid, but he pushed her hand away. "Keep it. I may ask you to stay longer."

"All right," she said, tucking the bills into her bra. "No funny business, mind."

"No."

She lay back down and put one arm around him again, leaving the other free so he couldn't easily pin her under him. "Is this OK?" she asked.

"It's fine," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Just—be natural."

Natural. Gwen wasn't even sure if she remembered how to be natural in bed anymore. She knew how to be enthusiastic, how to be dominant or submissive, how to be seductive, even how to be afraid. But natural? She no longer knew what that meant.

The minutes ticked by.

While they lay there, Gwen let her eyes wander around, trying to find some clues that might point to danger. She saw a sparsely furnished flat, similar to her own. There were only the sofa bed, a coffee table, and a TV taking up the front room, a kitchenette to the side, and two closed doors, one leading to the bathroom, the other she had no idea. She saw more evidence of a kid—childish drawings on the fridge door, a small toothbrush, a bowl of half-eaten cereal on the coffee table. If he had a kid, she certainly hoped the kid wasn't locked in that spare room.

Her wandering eyes returned to Michael. He had taken his jumper off and was now in a vest. There was a tattoo on his bicep. "Who's Billy?" she asked.

"Mate of mine, from school," he said in a small voice. "He OD'ed."

"Shit," she said. And then, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." His hand found hers, clasped it to his chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Your hand's cold. I was just trying to warm it up."

"I would've worn a coat, but unfortunately it doesn't go with this outfit," she joked. Her only warm coat would've covered up what she was trying to sell. She left her hand in his, feeling the heavy thump of his heart under her palm. He nestled into her with a sigh, but she remained stiff, keeping some distance between her chest and his back, so she could bolt at the first sign of danger.

But it never came. Instead, his breath evened out, and soon he was asleep.

Gwen must have dozed off as well, for she remembered jolting awake. Michael was still sleeping, holding her hand to his chest as if afraid she would fly off if he let go.

This could be her chance. After making sure Michael was sound asleep, Gwen carefully slid her hand out of his grasp, got out of bed, and tiptoed down the hall. She opened two closed doors. One was a bathroom, just as she suspected. The other was a bedroom, a kid's bedroom, painted in bright, buttery yellow, with a frilly little bed and cheerful toys and books piled on the shelves, a complete contrast to the sad, gray flat outside.

Gwen's feet took her into the room almost of their own volition. She gazed about, a strange melancholy washing over her. No, there wasn't anything strange about this sadness. She knew exactly where it was coming from; she just didn't want to think about it.

There was a framed photo on the bedside table, and she picked it up—it was of Michael, smiling a big, happy smile, carrying on his shoulder a little girl of about two or three years old, who had his same brown curls and his chocolate button eyes.

"What are you doing?" said his voice behind her.

She jumped and dropped the picture, which landed safely on the bed.

"Sorry," she said, fumbling to pick up the frame. "I was looking for the—uh, bathroom. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's OK." He didn't look angry, only a little awkward, like she had stumbled on an embarrassing secret. It emboldened her.

"This your kid's room?" she asked.

"Yeah." He took the picture frame from her and set it back on the table. "She lives with her mum. I only have her on weekends and when her mum has to work nights, but I try to keep the room nice and clean for her," he explained.

Gwen let out a small breath and reminded herself to stop watching so much The Bill. From the way he had been so secretive about it, she was expecting something tragic. She was glad it wasn't.

"That her?" She nodded at the picture.

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Michael's lips. "Her name's Amelia."

"Pretty name. Suits her."

"Don't let that face fool you, she's a little terror."

"How old is she?"

"Turning four soon."

"Oh, that's a great age," Gwen said without thinking. "That's when you can start to have a real conversation with them, and it's so fun."

"It is." Michael looked at her sharply. "Have you got a kid?"

For a moment, Gwen considered telling him the truth. It felt so nice, so normal, to talk in that cheery little room, as if sunshine had been stored in its bright yellow paint and the warmth of it was seeping into her, chasing away the cold of those long, lonely nights out on the street. She wanted to hold on to that feeling a little longer.

But she was here to work, not to have a heart-to-heart like she was on some bloody chat show.

"No," she lied.

"Because you sound like you know kids," he said.

Anger pricked at Gwen's insides. Who did this punter think he was?

"It's none of your business," she snapped. Michael continued to stare at her, and the intensity of his eyes forced her to look away. The flat was closing in on her, suffocating her, like her old prison cell. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of here, get away from this strange man whose eyes seemed to penetrate her very soul.

She grabbed her bag. "I have to go."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised. "But I paid you for two hours."

"Here." She tossed the money on the bed, picked up her shoes, and all but ran. He caught her at the door.

"What did I do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just have to go."

"Don't do this," he said, clutching at her arm like a child afraid of being separated from its mother. "Don't leave. Please." The pleading note in his voice now sounded more like a command. That voice, the hard grip of his hand, and the dark glint in his eyes awoke something savage within Gwen, a cold fury she hadn't felt in years.

"Let me go," she said quietly, "or I'll kill you."

He dropped her arm in an instant. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes glistening with what looked like tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—I just don't know how to—"

As suddenly as it appeared, Gwen's anger vanished. She couldn't afford to lose her temper like that.

"It's fine," she said. "Just let me—"

Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. "Michael?" said a voice on the other side. "You in?" A woman's voice.

Michael turned to Gwen, his eyes enormous on his pale face. "Hide," he mouthed to her.

A part of Gwen wanted to be defiant and face whoever was at the door—a wife? A girlfriend?—so she could watch Michael squirm, but another part of her took pity on his panic. Rolling her eyes, she made her way into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

"Leah," she heard Michael say, as he opened the front door. "What's wrong? Is Amelia all right?"

Peeking through a crack of the bedroom door, Gwen saw a woman standing in the doorway. She had auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a scowling, disapproving expression that seemed terminal. A little girl was asleep in her arms.

These must be his ex and their daughter then. Gwen retreated into the shadow of the room, feeling strangely embarrassed, like she had intruded on an intimate scene. In some way, she had.

"She's fine," Leah said, and Michael let out a breath of relief. "It's my mum," Leah continued, looking harried. "She's had a fall. I have to go to Cardiff to see her. Don't know when I'll be back, so I can't take Amelia with me—" She looked around the flat, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the bills scattered on the sofa bed. Michael looked away, his cheeks flushed. "Is this a bad time?" Leah asked.

"No, not at all," Michael said quickly. "I'll take her. Call me when you get to Cardiff and let me know how your mum is."

With a curt nod, Leah handed their daughter over. She brushed a curl away from the sleeping child's forehead and went downstairs, but not before throwing another suspicious look over her shoulder.

Gwen waited for another moment or two until the coast was clear, and emerged from the bedroom. Michael, with his arms full of a sleeping toddler, gave her an apologetic look.

"Well, I'll be off then," Gwen said, trying not to show how the sight of the little girl was affecting her.

Michael hesitated. "Listen," he said. He tried to take her hand, but his arms were too full to reach. "You don't have to run off like that. I'm sorry about earlier. Stay for a bit. It's cold out."

"I'll be fine," Gwen said lightly. "And you're busy. I should go." At the door, she paused. "Good luck, Michael."

At that moment, Amelia lifted her head from her father's shoulder. "Daddy?" she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Michael said, and the tenderness in his voice made Gwen want to cry. She knew she should be going now, but some invisible force was rooting her to the spot, making her watch Michael with his daughter as if hypnotized. "Mum has to go to Grandma's," he was saying, "so you're staying with me for a bit. Is that all right?"

The little girl rubbed her eyes with a chubby fist. "Where's Snappy?" she said.

Michael looked around. He patted the pockets of Amelia's coat and came up empty. "You don't have him with you?" The girl shook her head. "You must have forgotten him at home then."

"I want him."

"We'll get him when Mum comes back—"

"I want him now!" Amelia demanded. She no longer sounded sleepy.

Michael gave Gwen an exasperated look over his daughter's head. Despite the twist of pain in her heart, Gwen couldn't help but grin back in rueful sympathy.

"What's Snappy?" she whispered to Michael.

"Her crocodile." Turning to Amelia, he said, "Don't worry, Snappy will be fine—"

But Amelia was not having it. "No!" she shouted. "I want Snappy! I'm not going without Snappy! Give me Snappy!"

"Let's just go to bed first, and then I'll find Snappy for you, yeah?"

"No! I don't want to stay here without Snappy!" The little girl started kicking and wriggling to get out of Michael's arms, and there was a shrill note in her voice that Gwen knew well would be followed by a tantrum. Wincing, Michael set Amelia down on the floor. The little girl pushed at her father, shouting, "I want Snappy!"

"Hey, hey, stop," Michael gently admonished her. "I don't have a key to Mum's place, so we can't get in. You have a lot of toys here—"

"I don't wanna stay here! I wanna go home! I want Mum!"

At that, something seemed to break within Michael. Without saying a word, he dropped Amelia on the sofa bed and went over to the kitchenette, where he plopped down at the table with his head in his hands. All the while, Amelia kept crying for Snappy.

Gwen looked between the despondent father and the wailing toddler. None of this had to do with her. She did not need to get involved. She should leave now.

She didn't leave.

She sat down in front of Amelia, who continued to sniff and snuffle. The violence of her tantrum seemed to have passed into a sulk.

"Hi," Gwen said. "You're Amelia, right?"

The little girl wiped a sleeve across her runny nose. "Who're you?" she asked.

Gwen glanced at Michael. He was still sitting with his head in his hands. Odd, that. Why was he acting like a tantrum was the end of the world? "My name's Gwen," she said. Michael raised her head at this, but made no comment. "I'm—I'm a friend of your dad's. Amelia's a very pretty name. Have you ever heard of Princess Amelia?"

At the mention of a princess, the girl's large brown eyes, so like her father's, widened in interest. "Who's she?"

"She was the youngest daughter of King George III. She was very nice and kind. Her father loved her very much, and so did her mother and her brothers and sisters." Gwen paused. Perhaps she shouldn't mention that it was Princess Amelia's death that drove her poor father to madness. "And there's also Amelia Earhart," she said. "She was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic." Again, Gwen paused when she remembered that Ms. Earhart disappeared while trying to fly around the globe. She looked at Michael to see if he'd noticed her bungled attempt to cheer his daughter up. He was still at the table, watching her with an inscrutable expression, just as he had when they first met in the alley. She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Amelia. "Now, can you be kind like Princess Amelia and brave like Amelia Earhart?"

Hesitantly, the little girl nodded. Gwen smiled. "Good. Tell me about Snappy then."

Amelia's little mouth screwed up, and she blinked rapidly, threatening tears again. "He's—m-my croc-crocodile," she hiccupped. "He's gold and has black teeth and he's very scary and he protects me."

"Ah, so that's why he has to stay home then," said Gwen, as if she'd just made a great discovery. "He has to keep it safe for when you and your mum come back."

"Really?"

"Yes. He knows you'll be perfectly safe here with your dad. And"—here Gwen pulled out the teddy from her bag and handed it to Amelia—"in case you're feeling lonely, here's Teddy. He may not be as scary as Snappy, but he can keep you company until you see Snappy again, all right?"

Amelia took the teddy, turned it this way and that, and held it experimentally. Finally, satisfied that the teddy was safe, she hugged it to her chest and smiled at Gwen through her tears.

"Now there's a great big smile," Gwen said, smiling back and giving the girl's nose a little bop.

"My dad always says my smile's as big as Christmas," said Amelia.

"And he's right."

As if on cue, Michael appeared next to them. He nodded at Gwen gratefully and took Amelia into her room.

Gwen was still sitting on the sofa bed when he came out a few minutes later and sat down next to her. "You're really good with her," he said.

"So are you."

"No, I'm not. You heard what she said. She didn't even want to stay with me."

"Michael, she's four," Gwen said. "She's knackered. A four-year-old would say they hate you one minute, then turn around and kiss you the next. That's what they do."

"How do you know?"

Gwen rubbed a hand across her eyes. Amelia wasn't the only one who was tired. Gwen felt like she could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. "I lied earlier," she said. "I do have a kid. Her name's Emma. She's six—no, seven now."

Michael tilted his head, looking at her more closely. "Where is she?"

"She lives with a foster family in Croydon. I haven't seen her in three years." The foster mum sent photos, and Gwen tried to call when she could, but it wasn't the same. "Sometimes I'm afraid she's forgotten me."

"Why can't you see her?"

Gwen didn't answer. It was a wound she wasn't ready to open yet.

Michael went back to the kitchen and fiddled about with the kettle. He came back a moment later with two steaming cups, and handed Gwen one. It reminded her of the tea she used to make for herself as a kid, too sweet and milky for her liking now, but she said nothing. They sat sipping their tea in companionable silence.

"Do you believe some people just can't be loved?" Michael asked.

"What?"

"Some people always seem to end up alone. It's like they can't be loved."

Gwen took a moment to answer. The punters all liked to talk. They would complain to her about their jobs, their wives, their girlfriends, their mothers. She could hear Medusa now, telling her, "We're like trick cyclists, darling"—Medusa was not Cockney, but she'd heard that slang for "psychiatrist" on The Bill or EastEnders and liked to slip it into her talk because she thought it made her sound cool—"except we're cheaper and they get some sex on top of that." So when a customer talked, Gwen would just nod absently and say "Is that so?" while thinking of something else.

Now, having been brought closer by the talk of their kids, she asked Michael, "Why do you think that?"

"Everybody in my life is gone," he said, his voice bleak. "My parents—well, they weren't fit to be parents, really. I lost count of how many foster homes I lived in. None of them wanted me. My brother took me in, but then he moved to Australia with his wife and kids. Maybe it's my fault." His head drooped. "I met someone once. I loved her. Or I thought I did. But I fucked it up. I didn't see what she was going through, and I made it worse."

"Was it Amelia's mum?"

"No." He sighed. "But I fucked it up with her as well. She's too good for me. They're all too good for me."

"Is that why you hired me?" Gwen asked before she could stop herself. Michael turned to her, and the look in his eyes went through her heart like a pin. It was the same look he'd given her when they first met, so lost and vulnerable, the look of a lifetime of hurt and loneliness. Now she understood why she had been so taken by it. It was a look she knew well, for she had seen it plenty of times when she looked into the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—"

She shrugged. "It's alright. I'm used to that."

He put a tentative hand over hers and closed his fingers around it. "Thank you, Gwen," he said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for helping me with Amelia."

"Hey, my pleasure." She grinned. "She's a good kid."

"I was frightened to death when she was born, you know," Michael said. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't. What if I fuck it up like I fuck up everything else in my life?"

Gwen squeezed his hand. Finally she understood his despair earlier, just as she had understood his loneliness; understood it because she saw it in herself.

"Want to know why I went to prison?" she asked. "Why I haven't seen my daughter?"

He looked at her, not with morbid curiosity as most people did when they learned she'd been to prison, but with interest and sympathy. She pulled off her blonde wig, and, turning her head, spread her mousy brown hair over her ear to show him the ragged scar just above it, which the hair couldn't quite cover.

"Her father, my piece-of-shit boyfriend—he gave me that," she said. "And worse. Then one time, he pushed me too hard. I pushed back. He hit his head on the kitchen counter." Her voice trembled. It was the first time she spoke of this in three years. She steadied herself, and continued, "I could've called an ambulance, but I didn't. I just stood there and watched him die. Got me three years for that. Involuntary manslaughter." She lifted her eyes to Michael's face. "Think you can fuck up your kid's life worse than I did?" she asked. She tried to laugh and began to cry.

Michael reached out and drew her to him until she was in his arms with her head on his shoulder, just like how he'd held Amelia. He said nothing, but in his embrace, she could feel her fears quiet down, if not fade away entirely. She thought of Emma, and herself, of Amelia, and Michael, of the frightened child inside all of them, waiting only for someone to reach out and hold them and tell them that it's going to be all right.

She buried her nose in Michael's neck, taking in his scent of soap and sweat and smoke, and let out a breath she had been holding for three years, or perhaps even longer. "This is nice," she said. "I can see why you'd pay for this."

Michael's shoulders and chest rumbled pleasantly with laughter, and Gwen smiled as well.

"Can I see you again?" he asked.

Her smile faltered. Somehow, his question made her sad. It brought her crashing back to reality, a reality in which she would have to go back out on the street soon, back to the cold and the loneliness and the emptiness.

But professional habit won out in the end, and she didn't even sigh as she gave him the answer she'd always used with all her customers, "You know where to find me."

"No, not as Queenie," he said. "I want to see you again as Gwen. And without the wig. Can I?"

She lifted her head to look at him. He didn't let go, only slid his hand up her shoulder and her neck to cradle her cheek. As the warmth of his gaze and the tenderness of his caress enveloped her, Gwen made a decision.

Tomorrow, she would go and buy Emma a Christmas present. And bring it to her in person.

Tomorrow, she would ring that number on the card of the non-profit group.

But today, tonight, she would stop running away.

"Yes," she told Michael. "Yes, you can."

THE END

Yes, "Snappy" is the crocodile that Maria gave to Leah.

And of course, it wouldn't be my fic without a Snow Patrol song to accompany it (the title comes from the first line of lyric):

youtube

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic #hoard #hoard film #michael hoard #michael hoard fic #michael x ofc #Youtube

74 notes · View notes

hamsterclaw · 1 year ago

Text

Humbug

Bangtan Christmas 2023 drabble 1 - read the rest here.

Paediatrician Dr Jung Hoseok is beloved by all his patients and everyone he works with. Unfortunately, his cheerful demeanour is only a front, underneath it all, he's a humbug.

Pairing: Hoseok x f! reader

Genre: Paediatrician Hoseok, social worker reader, fluff, smut

Rating: 18+

Word count: 6k

Warnings: Sex, swearing, medical emergencies

Hoseok looks up from the computer screen at the sound of his name. His eyes take a moment to adjust, the screen’s the brightest light in the otherwise darkened paediatric ward.

The nurse, Jihyo, holds out a mug of coffee, just how he likes it.

Hoseok accepts gratefully, stares at the words on the side of the mug.

Big patience for little patients.

He blinks, indifferent, and goes back to prescribing.

His phone rings, muted because it’s 3am but he can hear it loud and clear.

He lifts it to his ear. ‘Dr Jung,’ he says by way of greeting.

‘You’re needed in the ER,’ comes the crisp tone of the ER charge nurse.

Hoseok sighs, doesn’t bother to ask why. ‘I’ll be there in 5.’

He hangs up, signs the chart and gulps the rest of his coffee, scorching his tongue and the roof of his mouth but preferring the burn to the desolate pang of his empty stomach.

The dry sandwich he’d bolted at 6pm the day before is nothing but a distant memory, churning its partially digested way through his intestines.

He takes a shortcut to the ER, cutting through the works alley between buildings.

Ironic that he has to pass the unofficial smoker’s alley to get fresh air.

Kim Namjoon, his friend and the resident cardiothoracics surgeon, nods and waves a vape pen at him in greeting.

Hoseok lifts a hand back, pushes the back entrance door open that someone’s propped open with a brick, hospital security be damned, re-enters the hospital next to the mortuary.

He glances askance at the double doors. It always makes him feel a little twitchy passing the morgue in the early hours of the morning.

He reminds himself he’s a grown adult as he picks up the pace, allows himself a little sigh of relief as he turns the corner and sees the bright lights of radiology.

He’s greeted by a cacophony of noises as he enters the ER, monitors beeping, people barking out instructions, distant sirens as ambulances pull up to the drop off.

He narrows his eyes against the fluorescent white strip lighting, looking around for the charge nurse’s familiar navy tunic.

He spots her by the resus bay, grimaces a bit at the carnage from a trauma that hasn’t been cleaned up.

‘Called for a paediatric consult?’

The charge nurse nods, brisk, waves an arm in the vague direction of the paediatric area.

‘15 year old, intoxicated.’

With that she’s off, and Hoseok trudges away.

The atmosphere in the paediatric area is less jarring, not so much because of the cheerful murals on the walls, but because it’s quieter, less hectic.

Hoseok assesses a teenager in a glittery jumpsuit who smells so strongly of alcohol and hairspray he reminds him of his own high school leaving prom.

He does an assessment, makes the mistake of asking the teen if he wants a drink on his way out of the exam room.

The teen chortles gleefully.

‘Yeah, gin and tonic, hold the tonic!’

Hoseok rolls his eyes as he exits.

He’s looking for a free computer to write up his notes when there’s movement in the periphery of his vision.

‘Need a computer?’ you ask.

Hoseok blinks to wake himself up. You’re way too pretty considering the early hour. Judging by your attire, more casual than smart, your carelessly styled hair, he makes an educated guess.

‘Are you with social services?’

‘Y/N, duty social worker,’ you confirm, nodding towards the exam room he’s just exited. ‘Jaebeom’s one of ours.’

‘Yeah?’ Hoseok asks. ‘I’m Hoseok, paediatrics. I’m admitting him until he sobers up.’

You nod. ‘His foster carer can pick him up in the morning, she’s got another child that she needs to drop off at school.’

You look around, yawning delicately behind your hand. ‘Is there a place to get coffee around here at this time?’

There’s an on-call room waiting for him, a bed, but Hoseok doesn’t hesitate.

‘If you have five minutes for me to write up my notes, I can take you to the lounge?’

You give him a look he doesn’t bother to interpret, it’s now 4am and if you say no he can always go to bed.

‘Yeah,’ you say. ‘Thanks.’

Hoseok types up his notes with you sitting in one of the empty chairs in the otherwise deserted paediatric department.

When he logs off he’s amused to find you engrossed in sorting shapes to slot into a sphere.

‘I can give you a few more minutes if you want,’ he says, dry.

You laugh. ‘I’ll be quicker once I’ve had caffeine.’

You follow him down the corridor towards the main hospital to the lounge.

Hoseok swipes his ID badge, pushes the door open.

You take in the ancient mismatched couches, the big screen TV, the tiny kitchenette with the top-of-the-line coffee machine, the chipped mugs drying next to the sink.

‘So this is how doctors roll, huh?’ you say.

Hoseok laughs. ‘Yeah baby, stick with me and I’ll show you a good time.’

He waggles his eyebrows, and you burst out laughing.

Hoseok’s struck by your smile and the way your eyes light up. He clears his throat, tells himself to stop staring at you like a creep.

‘Latte?’ he offers, picking up the nicest mug he can see.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ you say.

You’re fishing in your bag, emerging with a half-opened package of cookies.

He exchanges your coffee for a cookie, gestures to one of the couches.

He’s not expecting you to sit next to him, there’s plenty of space, but after a moment, you choose the seat beside him.

You sip your coffees in silence.

‘Been busy?’ you ask.

‘Yeah, a little,’ Hoseok replies.

Up close like this, he can see the tiny piercings in your ear, the gleam of gold through the fall of your hair.

Again, he pulls himself together with effort.

‘Have you been busy?’ he asks.

You stretch a little. ‘Yeah. We’re short-staffed, like always. Also something about the cold weather makes people be shits to each other.’

Hoseok’s not surprised. Winter’s always hard, fuck Christmas spirit and all that jazz.

‘I hear you,’ he says.

You sip your coffee, offer him another cookie which he accepts.

Your phone rings in your bag, you glance at him as you fish your phone out.

‘Duty calls,’ you say ruefully. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

Hoseok’s about to bid you goodbye when you lean towards him, close, thumb brushing a corner of his mouth so quickly he barely registers it before you’re pulling your hand away.

‘Crumbs,’ you say. There’s the tiniest twinkle in your eye.

Hoseok’s voice comes out raspy as he says, ‘Thanks.’

‘See you around, doc.’

You’re not waiting for an answer, shouldering your bag, tossing him one last look on your way out.

Hoseok leans back against the couch, willing his heartrate to decelerate.

Outside, the darkest part of the night’s just about over.

***

Hoseok’s working hard to keep his bright smile on today.

He’s had a parent ask him if he has kids and then tell him he couldn’t possibly understand how precious their child is, as he doesn’t have children of his own.

He got an email from a conference he’s applied to saying due to the huge number of applicants, his abstract wasn’t selected for presentation.

His intern, Hyunjin, seems to be on a mission to aggravate him as much as possible.

‘We need a derm consult,’ Hyunjin tells him at the end of presenting the patient he’s just seen.

Hoseok closes his eyes briefly, desperately summoning what remains of his rapidly dwindling stores of patience.

‘Why do we need a derm consult, Dr Park?’ he tries not to bark.

‘This patient has verrucas.’

Hoseok blinks, takes a breath.

‘This patient needs nebulised albuterol and oxygen and an admission to paediatrics. The verrucas can wait until he gets better and the mom can stop by a pharmacy for some over-the-counter verruca treatment.’

Hyunjin stares at him.

‘He’s satting in the low nineties,’ Hoseok points out, words coming out brisk, staccato. ‘I can hear him wheezing from here.’

The ER nurse behind Hyunjin’s already tutting and prepping the neb.

‘Was there anything else, Hyunjin?’ Hoseok asks, getting up, staring at the rapidly expanding list of patients waiting for a paediatric consult.

His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket with a sigh.

‘Dr Jung,’ he says.

‘Is that Hoseok?’

The voice is vaguely familiar, but he can’t place it.

‘Depends who’s asking,’ he snaps.

‘It’s Y/N, the social worker. You got me coffee last week at 4am?’

Hoseok has a flash of a memory, of your hand on his face.

‘Shit, sorry,’ he says, running a hand through his hair, already sticking straight up in all directions, courtesy of the shitty haircut he got in the barbershop on his way in.

‘Rough day, huh?’ you say, the sympathy in your voice making warmth bloom in his chest.

‘Yeah.’

‘I was wondering if you wanted to go to dinner after work today,’ you ask, no preamble, so direct Hoseok takes a moment to process.

‘I’d love to,’ he says. ‘I don’t get off until 8, though.’

‘I finish at 8 too,’ you say. ‘That works for me.’

You exchange numbers, and you promise to text him details.

‘Hope your day gets better, Dr Jung,’ you say, the teasing note in your voice making him smile, genuinely, for the first time, today.

‘It already is,’ he says.

He’s still smiling when he hangs up.

‘Hoseok,’ comes a voice from behind him.

Hoseok raises a brow inquiringly at Hyunjin, who, inexplicably, is still standing there.

‘About the verrucas,’ begins Hyunjin.

‘Nope,’ Hoseok says, pleasantly, still smiling.

He brushes past Hyunjin and picks up the next consult.

***

It’s ten to eight and thank fuck for that, because Hoseok’s had enough of today.

He’s getting changed out of the scrubs he was forced to change into after he was projectile vomited on by a chubby 10 month old, grateful he has spare clothes in his locker, when the door to the changing rooms opens.

Hoseok pauses, shirtless, hands on the tie of his scrubs bottoms.

Hyunjin blinks at him.

‘Nice abs, boss,’ he says.

Hoseok eyes both the fluffy white tee he was about to change into and the scrubs top he’s just discarded, questioning why he ever thought going into medicine was a good idea.

He grits his teeth.

‘Yes, Hyunjin?’

‘There’s a blue light call - breathless five year old, ETA 3 minutes.’

‘Jisoo is on tonight, let her know,’ Hoseok replies. ‘Also, close the door, damnit.’

Hyunjin looks surprised at the three medical students who have clustered behind him, all of whom are staring at Hoseok wide-eyed.

‘Jisoo’s going to be twenty minutes late, something about a train breakdown?’

Hyunjin’s got the wisdom to stay out of Hoseok’s reach.

Hoseok’s hand lands on his soft t-shirt, longingly.

With a sigh, he bypasses it and reaches for his scrubs top, pulling it over his head.

‘I’ll be right there,’ he says.

***

By the time Hoseok’s assessed the breathless patient and handed over to an apologetic Jisoo, the time on the clock on the wall says 9pm.

Hoseok pulls his phone out, dials your number.

You answer on the first ring.

Without waiting for him to say anything, you say, ‘The food’s still hot, I took the liberty of ordering for you. Are you on your way?’

Hoseok breathes out, a sigh of relief so profound he feels lightheaded.

‘Marry me,’ he says. ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

He gets dressed in record time, emerges out of the carnage of the ER like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

You’re the first person he sees when he gets to the restaurant, and you’re the best thing he’s seen all day.

He greets you with a hug and a cheek kiss that you weren’t expecting, judging by the shy smile on your pretty face.

‘I —’ you start, then you stop, adorably flustered.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Hoseok says. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day.’

‘I was just going to say I ordered tempura that’s on its way,’ you say.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ Hoseok says. He’s got his hand on yours on the table without any memory of how it got there, but he likes the feel of it.

‘Make it up to me,’ you say, easy.

‘I’m going to do my best,’ he promises.

***

At least four people have seen Hoseok’s bare chest today, but you’re the only person he cares about impressing, at least right at this moment.

Because holy fuck, you’re beautiful, pressed tight to him on your poky couch, mouth on his, lips and teeth clashing as he kisses you over and over.

You’re making noises that are driving him slightly crazy, making him feel hot and desperate, and he has to stop himself from looking at your tits in that black bra or he’s going to embarrass himself.

Shit.

Your hand’s slid down, brushing over his dick, and he’s so hard already he has to will himself not to nut right now.

He tugs experimentally at the strap of your bra, and when you don’t protest he tugs it down, cups the weight of your left breast.

God, you feel so good. Soft, warm, exposed nipple begging to be kissed.

He runs his thumb over your areola, a slow pass.

The low moan you let out gives him the confidence to scrape the tip of his nail over the peak of your breast.

‘God, take it off, Hoseok,’ you tell him, and Hoseok’s sure as hell not going to make you ask twice.

He slides a hand around your bare back, unhooks your bra, can’t stop himself from looking.

His dick, already trying to stand at attention in its denim prison, twitches at the sight of your bared breasts.

Hoseok’s trying to remember what colour briefs he has on, if it’ll be obvious when he takes his jeans off that he’s leaking precum just from looking at your tits.

Then you cup the length of him over his jeans, and he finds he doesn’t give a fuck.

Your skirt’s ridden up, your thighs part under his hand encouragingly.

You’re so soft Hoseok can’t suppress a groan.

He hooks a couple fingers under the gusset of your panties, tugs, and your hand lands on his.

Hoseok looks up, hand stilling.

Hoseok’s been told that he has a gorgeous smile, but just at this moment, you’re the one who’s blinding him.

‘You can touch,’ you say, voice husky, teeth in your bottom lip.

‘Yeah?’ Hoseok asks, his own voice raspy, dropped low.

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I taste?’

You help him tug your panties down, over the curve of your ass that he can’t resist squeezing.

He tugs the flimsy cotton down your thighs, helps you slide a leg out.

He realises, belatedly, that you never answered his question, but you don’t seem to mind as he bends down, flicks his tongue against your pretty cunt.

Damn, you sound even prettier when he’s eating you out.

Hoseok licks into your folds, nudges your clit.

He doesn’t have any hangups about giving head, especially not in a girl like you who seems to enjoy everything he’s doing.

‘Shit, Hoseok,’ you moan, breathless, eyes squeezed shut.

He pushes a finger into you, curls it, and you cry out so loudly his cock hardens even more.

He tugs at the button fly of his jeans, loosening them for a little relief.

‘Please tell me you have a condom,’ you plead, voice thick, so sexy Hoseok can’t believe you’re under him like this.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Why don’t you come and I’ll fuck you?’

‘Fuck me now,’ you tell him.

Hoseok seals his lips around your clit, flicks his tongue, slips another finger into you, scissoring, pressing, slow, making every movement count.

‘Hoseok!’

He doesn’t reply, because he can tell by the way your thighs are shaking that you’re close.

He just needs another minute.

He doesn’t know if you’ve realised that your fingers are in his hair, pulling, but he’s taking it as a positive.

He keeps doing what he’s doing with his tongue, because you seem to like it.

Your cunt tightens around his fingers, you call his name again, buck your hips into his face, and Hoseok doesn’t even need you to tell him you’re coming because he can feel you pulsing, can hear it in your voice, can feel the way everything tightens as you reach your peak.

It’s the hottest thing he’s seen in a while.

Fuck.

Hoseok draws himself out of jeans, takes himself in hand, pumps once.

You haven’t forgotten him.

‘Get inside, Hoseok,’ you say, and as he fishes the condom out of his jeans you flip it out of his grasp and rip it with your teeth.

Hoseok closes his eyes as you squeeze the tip and roll it onto his dick, concentrating on not coming in your grasp.

You push him back onto the couch, get on top of him, and Hoseok could weep at the view.

Your hair’s a mess, your lips bitten and flushed, and goddamn, your tits need to be in a museum.

He doesn’t realise he’s said that last bit out loud until you burst out laughing.

‘Shut up, Hoseok,’ you tell him, but you’re still riding him so there’s that.

Hoseok grabs your hips, helps you move even though you’re doing a pretty damn good job already.

‘You like this, Hoseok?’ you ask.

Hoseok flexes his cock inside you. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘I like it too.’

‘Yeah?’

You lean forward, tits bouncing in front of his face, and Hoseok thinks that if he died right now, smothered in between your breasts, he wouldn’t mind one bit.

‘Go on, baby, take what you want,’ you say.

Hoseok bucks his hips hard, up into the wet warmth of your cunt, tugs your head down to kiss you deep, open-mouthed, and comes with a groan, deep in his chest.

Bliss.

***

Hoseok wakes in a bed he doesn’t remember getting into, a bedroom that he finds soothing, with its neutral colours and soft sunlight filtering in the crack between the curtains.

There’s an arm flung across his chest, the soft curve of a breast against his chest.

You’re turned away, boneless, in a deep sleep.

His incorrigible cock stirs as he takes in the line of your back, down to the tempting curve of your ass.

He spots the clock on the wall, groans when he realises he should really be up now if he wants to get to work on time.

You’re still dead asleep even after he’s fully dressed, splayed out in the sheets, gloriously naked.

Hoseok pulls the duvet over your bare shoulder, resists the urge to kiss your upturned cheek, and makes sure the door’s locked behind him as he leaves.

***

Hoseok tightens his scarf around his neck as he waits for you at the entrance to the Christmas market you’ve managed to convince him to accompany you to.

The fact is, he hates the cold, he thinks all Christmas markets are gimmicky and overpriced, and after a run of incredibly busy shifts, he’d much rather be in bed with you right now than here.

Hoseok sidesteps neatly as he’s approached by a jovial couple dressed as Father Christmas and Mrs Klaus.

He’s about to pull his phone out to check on you when you hurry up to him, tuck your arm in his.

‘Hobi! You weren’t waiting long, were you?’

Hoseok looks at your bright smile and can’t bring himself to say anything other than ‘no, not long.’

Your lips are cold, but the kiss you plant on his cheek, next to his mouth, goes a long way towards improving his mood.

He doesn’t even give the three elves handing out tiny candy canes a dirty look.

‘Crepes?’ you suggest, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the longest queue is in front of the crepe stand.

‘Sure,’ Hoseok agrees.

You get in line and immediately turn to him, sliding your arms around his waist, under his coat.

‘How’ve you been?’ you ask.

Hoseok and you have met up a couple times over the last three weeks, enough that he’s left a spare shirt and some toiletries at your place.

You’re sweet, and fun, and he hopes you like him as much as he’s starting to like you.

‘I’m better now,’ he says, just so he can admire the glow of your smile.

‘You’re cheesy,’ you say, but the brightness in your eyes tells him you don’t mind.

‘Nah,’ Hoseok replies. ‘You dragged us to this Christmas market, I know you’ve got your eye on one of those tacky reindeer tree ornaments, you don’t get to call me cheesy.’

‘I like the blue one,’ you say, conceding so easily Hoseok has to smile.

‘Wait here, I’ll go and get it,’ he says.

‘What crepe do you want?’ you ask, as he pulls away.

‘Surprise me,’ he tells you.

Hoseok walks over to the ornament stall you’ve been eyeing for the past five minutes, picks out the blue ornament, hesitates over the collection of tiny gold Christmas bauble earrings.

He makes a decision, pays, shoves his purchases into his coat pocket and walks back to you.

You hold a crepe out to him, and he accepts with a ‘thanks’, taking the warm paper-wrapped bundle out of your hand and taking a bite.

The warm melted chocolate floods his taste buds, and he tries not to moan at the gooey sweetness of it.

‘Good, right?’ you ask. ‘Worth the wait.’

You’re not waiting for an answer, skipping ahead, heading for the chestnuts and hot chocolate like you’re a walking Christmas cliche.

Hoseok follows behind you. He finds he doesn’t really mind.

***

You stick your key in the lock, unlock the door to your apartment, don’t bother with the lights before you turn around and slide your hands up Hoseok’s chest, fingers tucked under the lapels of his coat.

Hoseok doesn’t have a lot to say, not when you’re looking up at him, lips pouted for a kiss.

He slips a hand around the back of your neck, cupping your head, and tilts his head down to yours.

‘Mmmm,’ you murmur. ‘You taste like chocolate.’

Hoseok leans down again, kisses you deep, tongue sliding into your mouth.

‘It’s cold,’ he says. ‘Warm me up.’

He’s only half-serious, having you pressed against him like this is doing a hell of a job of warming him up.

The wicked gleam in your eye gets him the rest of the way.

‘Come on. Want to take a bath?’ you ask.

Hoseok makes out with you in front of the mirror in your bathroom whilst the tub fills, is a short second away from guiding his cock between your legs when you pull away, bend over in front of him to test the temperature.

‘Get in,’ you say, and Hoseok’s always been good at following instructions.

He slides into the warm heat of the bath, groans at the feel of it, reaches out to steady you as you climb in on top of him, right into his lap, impatient like he feels.

You look so good bare and wet like this, the steam making tendrils of your hair curl against your neck, the tops of your breasts visible above the water line. Hoseok hadn’t thought he could get any harder but he does.

‘Sit on me,’ he says, and there’s a slosh of water, wet skin against wet skin, and then the slippery warmth of your cunt, taking him in.

The tips of your breasts jiggle in front of him as you move, and between the tightness of your walls around him and the prettiness of your moans, Hoseok’s in heaven.

He slips a hand around your hips, helping you ride him, and curls his hand around your breast, lifting it out of the water so he can suck.

You cry his name as he flicks his tongue over your nipple, and Hoseok squeezes the flesh of your hip, tight, under the water.

Your rhythm’s erratic but it’s making the pleasure build, short, tight circles of your hips against his.

‘Hoseok,’ you moan.

‘Yeah?’ he mumbles, lips around the peak of your breast.

He flexes his cock inside you, hums in satisfaction at the way your face goes slack, eyes half closed.

Shit, you look so pretty in the throes of pleasure.

Hoseok slides a hand up, fingers curling around your neck, thumb pressed into the hollow between your collarbones.

Your voice is hoarse now, raspy like his, as he urges, ‘Go on, take it.’

He presses down, you gasp, and lose your rhythm entirely as you come around his cock, walls spasming around him.

Hoseok takes over, fucking you through it, hardening until he comes with a low grunt.

Wet, slick, warm.

You’re tired, he can tell, the way you’re slumping against his chest.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll wash us off.’

He coaxes you into your shower with him, soaps over the marks he’s made on your skin, wraps you into a towel.

By the time you’re both in bed, you’re more asleep than awake.

‘Work tomorrow?’ you ask.

‘I’m working,’ Hoseok tells you. ‘Want me to set an alarm for you?’

He doesn’t get an answer, you’re asleep on his chest already.

He should get up, switch some lights off, but a moment later, he’s asleep too.

***

Hoseok never thought he’d see the day he would want Hyunjin to be around, but he’s getting slammed, and the way things are looking, he needs all hands on deck.

He’s jogging down the corridor to his second emergency call for the day despite it being only 10am. It’s busy even for the holidays.

‘House fire,’ barks Mira, the ER charge nurse as Hoseok snaps on gloves. ‘Three children, five minutes out.’

‘How bad?’ asks Hoseok, prepping an IV access kit.

‘PICU are aware, they’re sending backup when they can but they’ve got their own internal collapse, they’re dealing with an arrest on the neurosurgical ward,’ Mira replies.

The doors slide open, and Hoseok can already tell from the looks on the paramedics’ faces that it’s not looking good.

Fucking hell, where’s Hyunjin, what a day to be in resus training instead of on the floor.

The second patient’s wheeled in as the first is still being parked, and Hoseok’s surprised to see you accompanying them, covered in soot, but he doesn’t have time to process now.

All he can do is deal with what’s in front of him, so that’s what he does.

***

It’s well into the afternoon by the time all three patients are stabilised and wheeled up to the PICU.

Hoseok’s washing his hands mechanically in one of the resus sinks, buying his brain some time to come down from the adrenaline of the last few hours, when he hears his name called.

‘Hey,’ you say, holding out a cup to him.

Hoseok takes a big gulp of the steaming hot coffee. There’s sugar in it, he doesn’t usually have sugar in his coffee, but today it goes down smooth, giving him a much-needed glucose boost.

He drinks most of it before he can muster a ‘Thanks.’

You don’t seem to be in a hurry.

You’ve cleaned most of the soot off your face, but your top is ruined.

Belatedly, Hoseok notices a plaster on your arm, remembers that you came in with the ambulance crew and the three kids.

‘Are you ok?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine,’ you say. ‘I was just outside the house when the gas oven imploded. I saw the kids in the window and got them out.’

Hoseok blinks. He hadn’t been expecting that.

‘You ran into a burning house?’

You frown a bit. ‘It wasn’t burning then, there was just smoke everywhere.’

You cough, and he notices that your voice is a little hoarse.

‘Besides, I was right there and I saw the kids, I couldn’t leave them.’

‘Shit,’ Hoseok says. He pulls you into a hug. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘Do you think they’re going to be ok?’ you ask, resting your head on his chest.

‘I hope so,’ Hoseok says.

He pulls away. ‘Did they check your carbon monoxide levels?’

You laugh, and the tension in his chest eases a little. ‘Yes, doc, I’ve been cleared for discharge.’

You grab his hand, squeeze. ‘I’m probably doing better than you right now.’

‘This is why I hate Christmas,’ Hoseok blurts out.

You’re looking at him, but you don’t say anything, and he can’t stop anyway.

‘Everyone goes on about Christmas and goodwill and people helping each other and yet the same shit happens as the rest of the year. It means nothing, just a commercial holiday that big companies use to make money out of dumb people.’

‘It’s bullshit,’ Hoseok says.

‘My parents feel the same as you,’ you say. You give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. ‘They never celebrated the holidays.’

‘They had the right idea,’ Hoseok agrees.

‘When do you get off today?’ you ask. ‘I can make us dinner, if you want.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be good company,’ Hoseok says, honestly.

‘You’re welcome, even if you’re the biggest grinch in the world,’ you say, with a sweetness that makes warmth bloom in his chest.

‘I’m not a grinch,’ he says, half-heartedly.

‘A humbug, then,’ you say.

You reach out and touch his cheek.

‘Come over, later, if you want.’

***

Hoseok finds himself outside your apartment after his shift, wondering if you really wanted him to come over.

You don’t keep him waiting long, soon enough you’re opening the door, handing him a glass of wine, putting food in front of him.

Hoseok hasn’t even so much as showered, he came straight from work.

You notice him looking at the half-decorated Christmas tree you’ve got in your lounge, the open box of ornaments next to it.

‘I like Christmas,’ you say. ‘I thought I’d cheer myself up by putting up a tree.’

You seem to be worried about his reaction, so Hoseok grasps your hand.

‘Just because I’m a grinch doesn’t mean you have to be,’ he says.

You smile. ‘My parents never had a tree and I always wanted one.’

The food and the wine are going a long way towards making Hoseok feel normal again after his day.

‘Are you going to see them for Christmas?’ he asks.

There’s a brief shadow across your face, so quick he isn’t sure if he saw it.

‘They’re doing relief work in South Sudan,’ you say. ‘They’re doctors too.’

You ask, ‘Are you away for Christmas?’

‘Yeah, my parents and sister are upstate. I’ll drive up to them.’

‘Are they grinches like you are?’ you ask, teasing.

Hoseok laughs. ‘I’m the only grinch in the family. My mother goes all out, and my sister loves Christmas too.’

‘Sounds amazing,’ you say, a hint of wistfulness in your tone.

Your top’s slipped down over your shoulder, and between the way your skin gleams and the way your lips are stained from the wine, you’re so pretty Hoseok’s distracted.

He reaches out, tugging you into his arms.

‘Can I take a shower?’ he asks.

‘Sure,’ you say. The mischievous twinkle is back in your eyes now. ‘Want company?’

‘Always,’ Hoseok says.

***

For once, you’re up before him the next morning.

He must have been more tired than he realised.

You’re fastening your bra in a feat of dexterity he’s always admired.

‘Shame I missed the show,’ he says, his voice raspy in the darkness of your bedroom.

‘Happens every morning,’ you say. ‘You’ve got an invite every time.’

Hoseok laughs, rolls over, sheet around his waist.

‘What time is it?’ he asks, propping his arm behind his head, looking out the crack in the window as the snow falling outside.

‘It’s 6am on Christmas eve,’ you tell him.

‘Shit, I gotta pack for tonight,’ he says.

You pull a sweater on over a tee, sit on the edge of the bed to put socks on.

‘I probably won’t see you until after the holidays, huh?’

‘I’m back in a couple days,’ Hoseok says, hand on the small of your back where your sweater’s ridden up.

‘Yeah. Merry Christmas, Hobi. Eat all the turkey for me.’

‘I don’t even like turkey,’ he says, honestly.

You laugh, amused, and cup his cheek. ‘See you after Christmas, grinch. There’s coffee in the kitchen.’

Your goodbye kiss makes him want to pull you back into bed with him.

***

Hoseok pulls up outside his parents’ house, rubs the back of his neck, trying to get the crick out.

He can see the living room and kitchen lights are on, and he already knows that when he opens the front door and steps in he’ll be greeted with familiar smells.

Cinnamon. Fresh bread. The chicken dish his eomma always makes the night before Christmas.

He realises with a start that he never thought to ask you what you’d be doing for Christmas.

He’d spent an hour finishing decorating your tree after you left your apartment, so that you’d have a fully-decked out tree when you came back from work today, and had only belatedly realised that perhaps you’d have had fun decorating the tree together.

He’d put the earrings he got you under the tree, hung the gloriously tacky blue ornament he’d picked up for you at the Christmas market.

He’d packed the red lace panties you’d tossed merrily in his face when you’d stripped for him the night before, in the shower.

Shit, maybe that was a creep thing to do.

Too late now.

The front door opens, and his sister stands in the doorway.

‘Come on, what’s taking you so long,’ she asks.

‘Coming,’ Hoseok says.

He grabs his bag out the trunk and goes inside.

***

Hoseok wonders if he’s even in the right place.

You’d once told him, offhand, that you often volunteer at the shelter close to your apartment on Christmas day, and when he’d gone to your apartment and you weren’t in, he’d driven here.

It’s a women’s shelter, and he’s trying to make himself look as harmless as possible as he waits to be let in.

A woman dressed in a light-up jumper opens the door, eyes him suspiciously.

Hoseok has a sudden feeling that he’s made a terrible mistake.

It’s too late now.

‘I’m Hoseok, I’m a friend of Y/N’s. Is she here?’ he asks

To his relief, the woman’s face transforms into a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

‘You’re the doctor friend she keeps telling us about! Come in, she’s here.’

The woman grasps him by the arm, pulls him in out of the snow.

‘She’s helping in the kitchen, you can help too, if you want.’

‘Sure,’ Hoseok says. Her grip on his arm is strong, there’s no way he’s going to say no.

He’s led to an industrial looking kitchen, dated but clean, greeted by the sounds of chatter and Christmas classics.

There’s mess everywhere, like Santa exploded, but all that falls away when he sees you.

You look up, spot him, and the smile on your face makes him smile too. He probably looks like an idiot, here grinning at you, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

You get up, and then somehow you’re in his arms, the reindeer headband you have on poking him in the jaw but he’s still not bothered.

There’s heckling, teasing, whooping, but all he sees and hears is you.

‘What are you doing here?’ you ask, holding him so tightly he can barely breathe.

He likes it.

‘I forgot to wish you Merry Christmas,’ he says.

‘Merry Christmas, humbug.’

Hoseok wants to argue that he’s not a humbug, not really, but you’re kissing him, so he shuts up and kisses you back instead.

#hoseok x reader #hoseok smut #hoseok fanfic #bangtan christmas 2023 #bangtan christmas #bts fic #bts smut #jhope fic #jhope smut

366 notes · View notes