#sore that I kind of just have to shuffle around my house doing stretches and taking painkillers and naps because I still can't get fully | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

unbridgeabledistances · 3 years

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hi y’all<3 here’s a new section of the gallavich as seen from alternate POVs fic, this time featuring lip!!!! (i wanted to wait til after the ✨lickey drama✨ in the new ep before posting, but then i decided against it bc i didn’t want to re-write this lol)

i started to have way too many feelings while writing this so it’s a little lengthy and contemplative, but rest assured it features some domestic fluff/ian and mickey being disgustingly in love- i hope u enjoy<3

Lip shuffled into the kitchen of the Gallagher house, opening the fridge door and reaching past the clanging beer bottles to grab a metal soda can on the way back of the shelf, hearing a faint fizz escape as he popped the tab. It was late, the moonlight streaming in across the kitchen through the worn curtains and pooling on the kitchen floor— after Tami had crashed in their bed at the apartment after a long day at work and Freddie was sleeping soundly in his crib, Lip had come by the Gallagher house, without really knowing why. He just needed to clear his head, to get some distance from Tami and all her relentless nagging about moving and apartment hunting and his colossally obvious fuck-up with the bikes— he just needed some space, some less stifling air to breathe outside of their half-packed apartment crammed with boxes lining the walls.

It was funny; no matter how much energy Lip had poured into he and Tami’s first apartment, into painting the walls and agonizing over their kitchen backsplash like it was his first-born son, whenever Lip thought about home, whenever he felt that pit of uneasiness growing in his stomach and he just needed a place where he could lie back on a couch and loosen the knots in his shoulders and breathe in familiar air that would fill him up, instead of the too-clean smell of Tami’s flowery potpourri that she’d placed on the expensive coffee table in their living room— Lip always found his feet leading him across the slabs of sidewalk and past the chain link fences towards the Gallagher house, no matter the time of night. He had only been in the house for a few minutes before he felt the tight-knit something in his chest begin to unfurl— he didn’t even want to start to think about what was lodged there. This had been a crazy fucking couple of months, and he wasn’t going to start getting sappy about selling the house now, not when they were so close. He’d dug a hole too deep this time, and he needed the money. He couldn’t fuck up again— not with Freddie to take care of. No matter what it cost him.

So that’s how Lip ended up sitting at the Gallagher kitchen table at 2 a.m. on a Thursday night, sipping at an overly-sugary pop that was no substitute for what he really wanted to be drinking right now—he could imagine how it would warm the insides of his stomach, how it would cushion whatever weird fucking ache was in his chest right now. But— no. Fuck no. He wasn’t going to do that now. Everything about selling the house, about moving on, was about getting his shit straight— about leaving the bad parts of this sagging roof and these stained floorboards behind him.

Lip slouched in the wooden kitchen chair, scrolling on his phone and finally letting out a breath he didn’t really know he had been holding in all day, when he heard a creaking of footsteps padding at the top of the stairs— too heavy to be Liam or Debbie, too careful and unfumbling to be Frank dragging himself through the house. Lip flickered a glance up from where he was sitting and met Ian’s eyes as he turned the corner of the stairs, his skin looking translucent and overly pale in the moonlight like the ginger motherfucker he was.

Ian nodded his head towards Lip in acknowledgement, like he wasn’t surprised in the slightest that his older brother with a whole ass family and apartment of his own was decidedly squatting in the kitchen of his childhood home, drinking a pathetic-looking can of Dr. Pepper. Ian slid open the fridge door, grabbing a beer and swiftly popping the cap off by knocking the bottle on the side of the counter—and then in an instant it became one of those quiet, familiar nights when it was just Lip and Ian in the kitchen, sometimes letting easy conversations flow between them, but other times, just like this— just sinking into each other’s presence in the silence. Ian’s shadow mingling with the moonlight on the kitchen floor immediately snapped the atmosphere from lonely and self-pitying and stale to something lighter, something familiar—like the worn, buttery leather of a baseball glove that fits just right.

Instantly Lip was brought back to so many nights before this, of he and Ian orbiting each other in the kitchen at night— when they were kids and would creep down the stairs and eat fistfuls of junk food that Fiona had forbidden, or steal warm sips of the open beers Frank had left on the counter. This was where they’d processed Monica’s return, late at night while they passed a cigarette between them and Ian hadn’t tried to hide the tears that were freely rolling down his freckled cheeks, back when they were both just confused kids who clung to each other— this was where they’d processed Frank’s alcoholic meltdowns, too many to count, and all the love and loss and confusion that had passed between these walls, all the collateral damage of living in this fucking neighborhood. And Lip felt a sudden pang in his gut, sharp and present, when he realized that it might be one of the last nights that he and Ian got to spend in the kitchen like this.

Lip immediately shoved the thought down with all his might, a hydraulic press squeezing out any sentimentality. He had to do this— for Freddie, for Tami. He had to man up and move on, even if it meant physically wounding the crumbling walls to ease the pain of the parallel jagged wounds somewhere deep in his chest, or screaming and shouting until veins popped in his neck, so loud that he knew he was radiating his pain outwards like a fucking atomic bomb.

But tonight, Lip had no more fight left to give. He just wanted to let these four walls hold him one last time, without even realizing that was what he had needed until this moment. Ian slid a chair out from the kitchen table and sat beside him, leaning back and dragging out a slow, sleepy breath.

Lip cleared his throat, softly. “Where’s Mick?”

“Passed out upstairs.” Ian scrubbed a hand over his face. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Lip raised his eyebrow, almost involuntarily, and Ian immediately jutted his chin up in a half-nod, an affirmation, as he leaned back even farther and took the first sip of his beer. No, he wasn’t manic and yes, he was fine. After all the years that had passed since Ian was still figuring this shit out, Lip sometimes forgot that checking in on him wasn’t really his job, not anymore.

Lip took another sip from his soda can, a movement to fill the easy silence. “How was your guys’ night?”

Ian shrugged non-committally, his shoulders still slumped back in the chair, his lips puckered around the mouth of the bottle as he stared off into the distance at the peeling kitchen wallpaper. “Eh. It was fine. I dragged Mickey out to try and make more gay friends. Ended up being a mistake.”

Lip held back a laugh, taking a sip from his own drink to mask his smirk. He had ample auditory evidence that Mickey was plenty as gay as Ian, but it was still hard to imagine Mickey leaning into all of this shit— Ian used to wear golden underwear and frequent gay clubs and go to social justice brunches, but none of that really seemed like it was Mickey’s scene.

“Oh yeah? Mickey not the easiest person to befriend?” Lip said it with his eyebrows raised, like the joke was obvious.

Ian looked up at him, like he’d been snapped out of a sleepy train of thought, staring earnestly like Lip’s jab had flown right over his head. “Actually, it was kind of my fault. I was the one who made us leave this dinner party thing we got invited to. They were all talking shit about the Southside, about how they hated their families, and I couldn’t really… connect with them, I guess.”

Lip pondered that, taking a breath and stretching his arms above his head. God, he was sore— he hadn’t even been fucking working, aside from hauling those bikes from place to place to avoid the cops, but all the pent up stress and tension was starting to linger in his bones.

“Yeah, it was the same for me. In college, or whatever. Joaquin was the only person I really talked to, because he got all the shit I was always going through.”

Ian nodded contemplatively—but he was staring off into space again, almost like he was half asleep. Lip took another sip of his soda. He could bring up the house shit again right now—it was all that they’d been talking about for the past few weeks—but for some reason it felt too raw, too intense to bring up right now, like it would cut through this peaceful moment, this island in the vast sea of uncertainty Lip knew he was bringing down on all of their heads. So in this moment, he opted for smoother waters.

“Why’d you guys go looking for new friends, anyways?”

Ian finally broke out of whatever drowsy, pensive trance he’d been in, his lips sloping into a smile. “Mickey kept giving me shit for always doing what you do, after breakfast today. I figured… I don’t know, I just got all pissy and tried to prove him wrong.”

Lip felt the corner of his mouth tick upward at that. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

Ian grinned, and held out his beer bottle, stretching his arm across the table. Lip tapped it with his soda can with a light “Cheers,” then took the final sip. He crushed the can to a disk on the table, pressing it down firmly with the heel of his palm and watching the sides compress. Ian’s eyes were cast downward at the table, watching his movements.

“How’s stuff with you and Tami going, all the packing and shit?”

Lip turned the flattened can on its side, contemplatively spinning it like a top on the table and fidgeting with it between his fingers.

“Honestly? I’m fucking exhausted.”

He could hear the breathiness as he said it, how deflated his own voice sounded. And Lip knew could make himself say more— he knew if anyone would get it, Ian would.

“It’s just… fuck, man.”

He looked up and Ian was staring directly at him now, his expression unguarded— listening. Listening like he always did in these moments. Lip let out a low chuckle, trying to shield his own vulnerability.

“How’d we get so fucking old? How is this… it, y’know? Finally leaving the fucking nest, or whatever.”

Ian smiled, placing his beer on the table. “I think you already left the nest when you had a baby and moved into an apartment with your girlfriend.”

Lip shrugged, fiddling with the crushed can again between his fingertips. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

“And you are the one making us do this, for the record.”

If Ian’s tone wasn’t as playful or as tentative as it was, Lip would have worried that he was upset— but judging by Ian’s still-comfortable slouch and his steady expression, Lip knew he was fine— he was weathering the storm, just like Lip was.

Ian leaned forward.

“Hey. Mickey was giving me shit—but it is true. You’re my best friend, even though you can be a fucking asshole sometimes.” Ian’s lips curved into a crooked smile. “Nothing’s gonna change that.”

Ian’s eyes flickered around the kitchen as he spoke, and Lip heard everything that was unsaid. Even though you’re kicking us out of the house. Even though you’re changing everything. Even though there isn’t a focal point to our lives anymore.

You’re my best friend.

And Lip felt that pang in his gut again, sharp like a dagger.

He’d said it before, and he’d had no problem saying it over and over again in Mickey’s absence, up until the months before the wedding— Ian did always go a little bit “loco” when Mickey was around.

Which, fuck him, I guess, for caring about his little brother with an undiagnosed mental illness who was off living in the Milkovich House of Horrors slash meth lab with Mickey fucking Milkovich, the bully with greasy hair who Lip wrote papers for in high school and who now was a literal, actual, godforsaken pimp. Lip had seen a teenage Ian bruised and drunk and curled into himself crying over Mickey too many times to ever think that this shit was a good idea— and years later, when Ian almost threw away everything, almost threw away stability and sanity and his fucking family to follow Mickey Milkovich across the Mexican border, Lip knew he had to say something, even though it was an unspoken rule that he and Ian didn’t really critique each other’s love lives since the Mandy-and-Karen fiascos of years past.

So he’d said it, that day in the kitchen, after Ian had returned on a Greyhound bus and they were still processing the dull pain of Monica’s loss— and Ian had taken the feedback with a closed-lip smile, like his head was somewhere else, as he picked at the corner of the beer bottle label with his thumb.

And then less than a year later Mickey was released anyways, and ended up standing in a tank top and boxers in the middle of the Gallagher living room, when the house was crawling with strangers and Freddie was barely two weeks old— and Lip had taken in a sharp breath, a bundle of hesitant nerves sprouting for whatever the fuck this situation was going to become; but not one that he could really give attention to, with all the other bullshit that was pulling at his focus, like the desperate screeching of his newborn kid and the mascara running down Tami’s face.

Later that night, when he’d had a spare moment to breathe and Tami was finally calmed down and sleeping in their cramped bedroom, he’d run into Ian in the moonlit hallway as he was stumbling his way out of the bathroom, drowsily rubbing his eyes with his hair sticking up. And Lip had stopped him with a whisper, placing a hand to tap Ian’s shoulder as Ian blinked the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey. So uh… I see Mickey’s out.”

He’d seen the defenses immediately raise in Ian’s eyes, like he knew what Lip was going to say next.

“Yeah.” Ian had said it soft, quietly, like he was afraid of someone waking.

You sure that’s a good idea? Lip could feel the words itching on the tip of his tongue, and he was aching to say them again, all these years later— and yes, maybe his head was so wrapped up in his own shit that he didn’t really have the authority to be doling out relationship advice to his little brother right now, but so much of this reminded him of things that had happened in the past, of Mickey Milkovich crashing on Ian’s bedroom floor until he inevitably couldn’t anymore, until the pressure cooker of his presence mingled with Ian’s inevitably exploded— or at least that was how Lip saw it. There were too many wounds, and they were bound to leave scars— Lip was honestly surprised as fuck that the Gallagher house was Mickey’s first stop out of prison, after everything that had gone down between the two of them.

But, for Ian’s sake, Lip tried to reign it in—despite the fact that they’d just been commiserating about “being in love with crazy people” as they crouched on the living room stairs the night before as Ian sipped on a beer, sputtering out a “fuck no” when Lip asked if he was going to marry Mickey (which was an equally as batshit question as if Lip was going to marry Tami). Despite all of this— now that Mickey was back, Lip could see that this was something Ian wanted, that this was something Ian was treading carefully into, one more time. He was definitely stronger now; even Lip could see that.

“He gonna be hanging around here a while?”

Ian had given a gentle, sleepy smile. “Yeah. Think so.”

And Lip had just reached out, and clapped Ian’s sleep-warmed body on the shoulder. “Sounds good, man.”

Ian had walked the remaining length of the hallway, opening the bedroom door— and in the shadows, Lip could see that Mickey was curled on the old, concave mattress of Ian’s single bed that he’d slept on since they were kids— and Ian had lifted the thin blanket and pressed up next to him, the mattress sinking beneath their collective weight, settling in and pressing a kiss to the top of a snoring Mickey’s head without a second thought. Huh.

That was the beginning of Lip starting to realize that maybe, just maybe, this time with Mickey would be different— and it was. As Mickey started to become a daily fixture in the Gallagher house, constantly pinned to Ian’s side, Lip had noticed how something solid had shifted—they weren’t reckless kids anymore, for starters. He hadn’t really seen Mick and Ian physically together since Ian was catapulting off the deep end, in the weeks after Ian had gotten dragged away by the P.I.s and Mickey had gotten locked up for some crazy fucking stunt trying to murder Sammy. Things were too intense then, too technicolor—for some reason, Lip thought Mickey being back meant that they’d return to being that way.

But now here was this guy, placing a gentle hand on Ian’s chest and saying “Woah, wait a minute” to protect Ian from the batshit P.O. that had just barged through the door—and Lip couldn’t help but realize that was something that he would have done to protect Ian, in a universe where Mickey was still behind bars.

After then, Lip just kept seeing it— the ways that Mickey showed up for Ian. Not even in the ways that he used to, like forcing Ian to take his meds back when everything was uncertain and Ian was slipping through their fingers like sand in a sieve; but in a more solid, adult way, in a way that made Ian buzz whenever he was around him, in a way that made Ian happier and lighter. And maybe it was just the sex—part of it had to be the fucking sex, considering how loud they always were— but Lip realized, after a couple of weeks of Mickey’s presence in the house before their whole eventual engagement fiasco, that Mickey was Ian’s friend, in addition to all the other things he was. After all the years of uncertainty, they’d finally grown the fuck up— Mickey was someone who brought out the best in Ian, and it was like Ian had been waiting for this moment, for Mickey by his side, before he could fully and totally bloom.

And it was weird how emotional that made Lip— after seeing Ian as a hollow shell in a jumpsuit pushing garbage cans around a college campus, or pretending to be someone he wasn’t who wore patterned button-up shirts and threw around fucking useless five-dollar words that Lip didn’t understand like “gender identity” and “intersectionality”— Ian had finally made it, beyond being the bruised, scrawny kid getting sexually abused by a creepy 30 year old man in the back room of a mini-mart, or getting high off his ass every night and starving himself to fit into a golden thong, or wearing a baggy janitor suit with dark circles under his eyes and pallid skin. Ian had done that shit on his own, and made himself into something in Mickey’s absence, sure— but so much of him being the full, happy person he was in this moment was because of Mickey, and Lip could see that now.

Ian was himself— he wasn’t a shadow anymore.

And that was why Lip had said he thought he should marry Mickey, in the end— because there was no doubt in his mind that Mickey Milkovich wasn’t going anywhere, not anytime soon.

Lip could still see it now, in the way that Ian was lounging comfortably in the living room, like he had his whole life— but now Mickey was resting just as comfortably beside him. It was a few weeks after that night in the kitchen, and Lip had just pitched the FOR SALE sign in the Gallagher front yard— now everyone was huddled in the living room, for what they now knew was one of their last lingering nights in this space. Liam was sitting next to Lip, pressed into his side, seeking the comfort that Lip knew he needed through all of these massive fucking changes— Franny was playing on the floor and Debbie was sitting beside her, and across the room Ian and Mickey were pressed side-by-side on the fraying loveseat, scrolling through the lease document for their new apartment on the battered laptop. They were murmuring things to each other that Lip couldn’t really make out— but Mickey was pressed against Ian, slouching into him slightly, and Ian’s eyes were light. In his flicker of a glance towards them, Lip noticed that Mickey was playing with Ian’s hand, swiping a finger over his wedding ring, as Ian scrolled through the paperwork and started to read all the contract information out loud— and Lip smiled to himself as he tried to tune out all the sappy bullshit that was going on in that corner of the room.

Ian was going to be just fine.

Hour later Lip strode out the door to the front porch, a cigarette he’d bummed off of Ian wrapped in his fist— he didn’t smoke anymore, especially not under the same roof as Tami, but there was something about the gravity of this night, of the flimsy red and white sign rooted in the front yard, that made Lip’s fingertips itch for a cigarette and made his brain buzz with the want of nicotine to dull the sharp edges of everything he was feeling—for smoke to float in front of his face while he sat on the front steps just one more time.

He perched on the front steps as the sun was just starting to set, the fish-scale shadows of the chain link fence encroaching further and further into the yard as he flicked at his lighter.

He heard a light cough from somewhere in front of him— and saw that Mickey was outside too, blowing smoke out of his mouth and leaning against the fence in the front yard facing the house. Lip nodded at him in acknowledgement, then took the first drag. Fuck, he’d needed this.

“You gonna miss this place?”

Mickey said it into the open air, like he isn’t really talking to Lip— his eyes were off in the distance, staring at the paint-chipped front façade of the house. Which was fucking bullshit—why would Mickey be staring absentmindedly, almost fucking wistfully, at the Gallagher house?

It’s not like he and Mickey didn’t talk— they definitely did, pragmatically flinging banter across the kitchen to each other at breakfast when coordinating rides for Liam or grocery list items when Debbie was off at work, existing in the same space every morning— and Mickey helped him haul literal tons of iron when he’d helped him steal the bikes, had haggled over his cut. But never like this—never with any weight, never in a way that was this casual, or this familial, about fucking feelings.

Part of that was probably because it was hard as fuck to worm your way into the Gallagher family—as wide open as their door always seemed to be, with people filtering in and out and crashing on hallway floors or the lumpy couch, this house only continued to function because of its nucleus— because of Lip and Ian and Carl and Debbie and Fiona and Liam and yes, even Frank. Everyone else was a passerby, an impermanent blip crossing through the way station; Jimmy-Steve, Sean, Carl’s slew of girls, Mandy and Karen.

Monica.

None of them were Gallaghers— none of them considered this place to be home, or got all the privileges that came with that. The Gallaghers, the real Gallaghers, had seen every one of these people come and go— and something slippery suddenly crept into Lip’s realization that despite all the odds, despite all of his doubts about him—Mickey had chosen to stay close to these four walls just as much as Lip had.

“Mickey’s family.” Ian had said it over a mouthful of bacon at breakfast a few weeks ago, and Lip had immediately shot him down; but maybe there was some truth to what Ian had said, some truth to the oddly unfailing consistency to Mickey’s ten years. Which meant that maybe…

Maybe it was time to make a fucking peace offering, or whatever.

Lip hummed in acknowledgement to Mickey’s question, pulling himself out of his train of thought.

“Hey. Mick.”

Mickey looked up at where Lip was leaning on the porch, his brows furrowing like he was bracing himself for a confrontation. “Yeah?”

“My head’s been too far up my ass the past couple of months to say it, but, uh. I’m glad you’re family, y’know?”

He’d been passively thinking it for months— but he’d never said it to Mickey, never this directly. He hoped Mickey got it, without brushing it off or shooting him down with some snarky fucking comment like he always did. Lip meant it— he was glad, he was grateful, he was ready to let Mickey Milkovich keep being a part of his fucked up familial life. And he hoped that Mickey saw that.

Mickey just rolled his eyes, taking another drag of his cigarette—but he didn’t say anything in reply, not for a moment. And then:

“You’re as sappy as your fucking brother, Phillip.”

#i’ve said it once and ill say it again nothing makes me more emo than ian and mickey sharing ian’s old bed #also sorry this was kinda ANGSTY what can i say #lip is Too Much #gallavich #gallavich fic #shameless #shameless fic #gallavich fanfiction #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #lip gallagher #ian and mickey #ian x mickey #ixm

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writingsbychlo · 4 years

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smoke and fire (13)

word count; 14,463

summary; in the aftermath of an unusual rescue, some big revelations come to pass.

notes; y’all are gonna hate me but love me.

warnings; descriptive gore, gun use, reference to death, violence, gang activity, reference to drug use, reference to arson, reference to house fires, main character injury.

It was a known fact that it took three whole seconds in the morning before you could process where you were, and remember anything other than your own name.

That first second was spent in a quickly disseminated state of serenity. Your head wasn’t yet hurting, and you eased back into consciousness with a slow start, the darkness surrounding you oddly reminiscent, but the chilling cold and the damp was less so.

The second was when panic rushed through your system. Your throat felt blocked as you came back to consciousness, the pain in your head came crashing back over you like a crushing tidal wave, the blood rushing on your head as coughs racked your body, trying to take a deeper breath, and panic filled you.

The third second made you roll onto your side, spluttering a little as pain throbbed behind your eyes and your head was spinning, making you feel like you were falling for just a second, before your nails were scraping at the material underneath you as you tried to sit up, everything along your body screaming out in agony and almost giving out with your weakness. It wasn’t soft cotton like your sheets, it was gritty like stone, tearing at your nails.

And then, you remembered.

You remembered exactly where you were, and what had happened, and why you were here. Well, that part was still a little fuzzy, you’d never really been given a reason. The pain in your body made sense, the dull throbbing in one eardrum more than the other and the shock of residual adrenaline left in your sore body that was beginning to make a resurgence in your fear, and you forced yourself to take a deep breath.

The familiar burn of tears in your throat as a lump formed and the stinging of salt in your eyes as they threatened to fall, and then you found the strength to sit up, to blink and clear dust-filled eyes a little more, before wiping a hand over your face to get rid of it all. There wasn’t much light where you were, but there was a clear spot of musty-yellow lighting in the centre of the room, your body curled in the corner, dumped in uncomfortable positions that made your legs ache, and there was a figure you recognised leaning over the table.

Covered in blood, frantic, brown eyes fixed on you that glittered under the low light, you swallowed thickly.

“Nice of you to join us, sleeping beauty. Think ya’ can come give me a hand over here?” Your brows furrowed, still trying to piece the puzzle together, but then there was a clicking that made you jump unnecessarily violently in fear, the memory of the last time you’d heard it flashing behind your eyes like a scene from a movie. Newt was panicked, but clearly trying to stay calm, his eyes widening just a fraction in a messaged for only you to hear, and despite the pain you felt, you forced yourself to your feet.

Your bag was weighing you down, medical supplies rattling, and you stumbled on feet that you could barely feel until your hands were braced on the edge of the table, and you could see what was going on a little better.

A gunshot victim, at least four bullet wounds, two packed with gauze that was rapidly soaking through as Newt had pressure on two others; swapping between them frantically if the pile of blood-sodden gauze on the floor was anything to go by. You assumed from the recognisable tattoo on the other half of this mans face too that he was a part of whatever gang this was, and clearly, an important member if they were willing to commit these kinds of crimes to save his life.

“You got more gauze, ‘cus I’m running out, and I could use your help getting him fixed up before we both end up looking like him.”

His words were low and whispered, and you gaped as you stared at the man. “This guy needs a hospital, and a team of professional medical surgeons. Like, Derek! Or, Dr Lahey! We aren’t trained for this!”

“Yeah, well, we’re all he's got.” Newt huffed, a spit of blood leaving the unnamed man’s body between Newt’s gloved fingers as he tried to shift his weight, a whispered curse from his lips as he tried to stop the flow again.

You nodded, swallowing thickly and squeezing your eyes shut in a desperate attempt to quell the pain bouncing around the inside of your skull. You assessment the scene, noting the Newt really hadn't been able to do much, and thankfully, if the change in the daylight outside was anything to go by then you had only been out for an hour or so, maybe a little longer, light still coming in between the cracks in the boarded-up windows.

The man in the corner was slumped in his chair, gun sitting beside him on the table, and your heart was racing so fast that the headache you sported was only getting worse. Your voice felt raw and hoarse as you tried to speak on it, squeaking and cracking the first time you tried to speak in anything above a whisper.

“We’re gonna’ need some water over here, boiled if you can to stop an infection, but even just bottled water would do at this point.” The man sitting on the chair stopped his rocking, the groaning of the seat against the concrete pausing, and you jumped as the front two legs slammed back down onto the floor. He stared at you for a moment, analysing you, before giving in, wandering over to the door and undoing a heavy deadbolt to open it up, never turning his back to the two of you and keeping his gaze locked with yours before throwing a demand for bottled water over his shoulder.

There was scuffling, various sounds of movement on the other side and you assumed there would be multiple people, before the door was closing once again, and the grating sound of metal was making itself knowing again in such a piercing scream along the lock that you shivered, wincing at the chill it gave you, stomach twisting.

“All right, this is a fucking mess.”

“You don’t say, love.” Newt grunted, a soft laugh falling from him as you opened up your bag, hands shaking as you tore it roughly, the zip ricocheting along its tracks to expose the contents to you. A fresh pair of gloves, and two of the strongest painkillers you could find that you forced yourself to choke down dry, and then you were attempting to focus.

Your scissors came first, chopping around Newt’s hands as best you could to remove the sodden clothing that covered his body to expose blood-smeared and frayed skin, torn from bullet wounds and bruised from the bleeding under the skin. Pushing the fabric aside, Newt pressed down a piece of gauze that was turning redder from pink by the moment, no white left on it, and the colour of his skin was beginning to turn sickly pale.

Grabbing for your flashlight, you noticed it was gone, left nowhere on your bag and missing from your person, patting down every pocket, before your partner simply huffed. “I wanted to do a trauma exam, except my torch is on my keys, too, and they took those a while ago because they have things that could be used as a weapon on them.”

“What, like my star-shaped plushie keyring?”

“Apparently.” You rolled your eyes, reaching a hand up to the lamp overhead, and tapping your fingers against the metal, hissing at the heat building up along the cover of the lamp, but deciding it would have to do. It wasn’t ideal, and it wouldn't give results all that accurate, but if there wasn’t any functioning or reaction at all, then there was no point in doing this at all, because the bleeding in his torso wouldn’t be the bleeding that would kill him.

Grabbing onto the stem instead, you covered his eyes with one hand, adjusting the lamp to sit a little differently, holding it over his head. Moving your hand back quickly, you lifted his eyelid, his pupil sluggish in his movements, but there was definitely a reaction, and you let out a little breath of relief. One more thing you could deal with. Checking the other eye, just to be certain, you got much the same reaction, not a speed you were overall happy with, but certainly better than nothing. This guy really had seen the worst of it, there was swelling along his jaw, cut and battered, a blackish bruise forming above his cheekbone and burst blood vessels in the same eye, and that was just his face.

He was coated in blood, and you couldn't tell whether it was his or someone else’s, some dried and other patches still oozing, body marred with bruises and cuts, both old and fresh, most of which were unrelated to the gunshot wounds he had. A fist came banging on the door, just in time, water bottles being handed through when it was cracked open a fraction, and there was only six of them by your count, eyes flittering over the sealed packets of water that hadn't even been opened, and you’d have to stretch it to make it last.

“How’s your leg?”

“Better than this guy, he has a bullet in his thigh.” The joke was to brush off his own pain, but for the past couple of minutes, he’d been shuffling his weight from one foot to another, and you glanced around, noting the box that was sitting only a few feet away. The unidentified man set to guard the two of you was coming over, the door sealed up tight once again and the packet of water in his hands.

“Can you put them down on the box? We could use the extra surface?”

He paused, glancing at it, considering the request, before agreeing. Silently, albeit, he accepted your request, dropping the bottles down onto it and kicking the crate across the floor to you, wooden container scraping over the stonework and bumping against your leg roughly, and you tried not to glare at him as your leg buckled.

A coppery taste filled your mouth as you licked over your bottom lip, wincing at the slight pain of the cut, swollen and sore, but not as much as the pain along your forehead, a cut you assumed you gained on the drive here. “So, first up, we need to try and stitch up those holes.”

“If I let go of these cuts, he’ll lose a lot of blood.”

“I know. We can work fast, but I need you to do the stitching, because I’m not sure I’m up to it right now.” You held your hands up, the uncontrollable trembling taking you over was far too violent to be able to do sutures, but you could definitely hold down pressure. Newt nodded, your hands closing over his, the squeeze of cold blood between your fingers from the gauze making you gag slightly, choking down that feeling of nausea.

His hands slipped out from underneath your own, and you pressed down the second they were gone, the man underneath you groaning under his breath as he constantly walked the border between conscious and unconscious. As you held down, Newt reached across his body, snatching up the first of the water bottles. Unscrewing the lid and placing it down, he left the cap beside it, before he was shuffling through his bag.

Pulling out the kit with needles and thread in, your emergency stitches kit that you’d ever actually to use in the field, and you were having flashbacks and pinpricks of pain along the tips of your fingers as you remembered practising the stitches in the academy, constantly poking your fingers with the metal thread.

The strongest antiseptic followed, dark brown liquid in a half-empty container sloshing against the sides, and it dripped across the edges, spilling a little in his haste, before he was diluting it in the first bottle. Lid back on, shaking it to mix, the once drinkable water turned a murky brown colour, and your eyes were stinging a little front he still open bottle letting strong fumes out into the air.

“I’m thinking chest, stomach, stomach, thigh.”

“Should probably elevate his legs if you wanna’ go thigh last, it’s pretty close to his femoral.” Newt nodded, glancing around, before realising there wasn’t much for the two of you to work with.

“Alright, chest, thigh, stomach?”

“I guess.” You mumbled, none of the odds being in either of your favours, and you watched as your partner pressed his fingers down against the pulse in the man’s neck, frowning at what he found and holding the position down for longer than what was good, the results silently given to you simply by the actions. “Do you need me to push the cut shut so you can stitch?”

“I do, but if you let go of those other ones, he’ll bleed out.”

You gnawed a little on your lower lip, fear and panic building once again, because every slip this man made closer to death, he was dragging both you and Newt with him. The words hadn't been specifically spoken, nothing was clear, but you could read between the lines, and if this man didn’t survive the day, then neither would you and Newt.

You didn’t know what had happened to him, you didn’t want to. Whatever kind of illegal activities, gang territory fight or simply men wreaking havoc upon one another had caused this, you wanted no more part of it than keeping him alive long enough to hope that you and your friend might get out of this situation. The hand under your heart thudded a little more violently as he surfaced back into total consciousness once again, a gasping breath followed by sputtering, fresh red bubbling in his spit as he tried to clear the blood that was pooling in his throat, before an agonising sound was leaving him.

“What the hell are you doing to him?”

You jumped at the loud voice, yelling from across the room and the gun clicked again, the sound a threat that made your entire body stiffen painfully, nails digging into the mains chest as your hands tried to ball themselves into fists.

“We’re trying to save his bloody life!” Newt yelled back, and you gasped, eyes widening a little, because if the two of you had already learned anything from talking back to these people it was the risk of a ruptured eardrum and a killer headache. Clearly, this wasn’t the same man who’d taken you hostage, the rasp in his voice a little different and this man simply grunted at the pair of you disdainfully, rolling his eyes and shuffling in his seat beside the door.

“Alright, what if we use the bags for weight? It’s not ideal, but if we work quickly, I can hold one shut while the bags put some pressure on the other two, and I can hold it shut.”

The blond before you flicked his eyes over everything, fiddling with the tools as he toyed with the tweezers he had retrieved, wiping them down as best he could with some tissue dipped in the antiseptic water. “This guy is so gonna’ fucking die.” He whispered, and you couldn't help the chuckle that left you, swaying on your feet a little as you did, the rush of a chemical other than adrenaline being overwhelming.

“Well, we’re all he’s got.” You repeated his words back to him, a cheeky flash of white teeth in a smile that was gone as fast as it came, before you were shaking your head and refocusing on the task at hand, chasing away anything else you might be feeling in the moment. Daring to free one hand from his thigh, you watched the rapid spurts of blood that came free, trickling over his trousers to the table below, before you were putting your bag down on top. You couldn't see much, whether or not it was even working, but it was the best chance the two of you had.

Newt copied your action, placing his bag down over the wounds on his stomach, much like you had done, giving the two of you the chance to focus on the wound on his chest.

Taking the disinfectant from his hand and pressing down a cotton pad over the end, you soaked the small white ball in the liquid, packing it into the wound as Newt tried to clear the area to see what he was doing, but really, it was only smearing the blood around further. You could clean him up and do a better job of it later, but the first thing you needed to do was get the blood flow under control and wash off the antiseptic once it was clean.

You pinched the hole shut, temporarily stopping the floor, beads of red pooling at the corners, and Newt spilt water over the tops of your fingers, the cold feeling making you shiver, because despite the freezing temperatures in whatever kind of warehouse you are trapped inside of, the layer of clammy sweat coating your skin was hiding you from the chill. Once you could see what you were doing, Newt sighed, taking the tweezers in one hand, and nodding his head.

“Push up around the edges to stop the bullet slipping, I should be able to get it pretty quick. I was good at this part.”

“You scare me a little, why the fuck were you a bullet removal prodigy?” He shrugged, winking a little and holding the metal tongs over the wound, before nodding his head once. Slipping your fingers out of the way, you pressed down around the edges, blood spurting up again but you pressed down, stopping the bullets from shifting as Newt pushed into the man's chest through the hole already made. There was a scarcely audible sound, one deaf to the untrained ear but like sirens to a paramedic, the cling of the tips of the needle against the tip of the bullet, and newt shifted his fingers a little.

Letting the metal open back up from where he’d squeezed them closed like a bullet, the edges of the hole stretched around the expanding metal, and an intense look of concentration took over Newt’s face, not even looking at the wound but staring at the wall behind you, looking right through it as he operated purely on instinct and the touch as he felt his way through it. He let out a victorious little noise, pulling back, and as he did, he brought out the shell of a bullet, one that looked to be homemade, though that didn’t exactly surprise you, and it let out a much louder clanging as he dropped it back down onto a metal tray beside the victim’s head.

You moved instantly, the second that it was pulled back you were pushing your thumb and forefinger back up against the edges of the cut to contain the bleeding. Holding it tightly, Newt picked up the next set of his equipment, an atraumatic needle, one of ten and you hoped he was as good as he boasted being because you only had ten between you both, and you’d need two per wound with the length of these wires to seal them up tight enough.

You watched, carefully, as Newt threaded the first of the holes through the wound, pulling it out of the other side with the tweezers, and beginning to tie a series of surgical knots to keep them closed. He gave it a test tug, the skin pulling as he did, but it didn’t rip or tear, neither the wire nor the flesh, a solid base with which he could work. Beginning to sow him up further, Newt moved in steady motions, each gap only two millimetres apart at the maximum, pulling them tightly enough to stop the blood flow and allow tissue repair to began, but not enough that it would tear at the inevitable strain it would undergo when it was done up.

As soon as she was halfway through, attaching a new thread to continue with, and the wound was getting closer to being shut, allowing you to move your fingers out of his way, a slight breath escaping you as your breathing hitched each time the needle or thread came too close to you, because the last thing you needed right now was to get an infection from someone else’s blood and a dingy warehouse, or to lose time on this man’s life by having to start disinfecting everything all over again.

As he sealed it up, he pulled all of the threads a little tighter, working his way along to make sure the thread was evenly distributed, before fastening up the thread. He pulled back, the both of you waiting with bated breath to see whether blood would come free or whether they would bust open once your fingers moved, and while they pulled tautly, they never broke or tore.

You flooded with relief, Newt letting out a mix between a chuckle and a sigh, relief overlaying it all, and you took just a second of reprieve to know that you were just one step closer to this all being over. Opening your mouth, you weren’t sure what was coming, words of gratitude and accomplishment sitting on your tongue, aimed at any kind of higher power that might be watching over the two of you right now, but your partner beat you to it.;

“Let’s check the bag wounds.”

You nodded your head, swallowing back whatever you were going to say, beginning to feel a little dizzy as your head spun, and you squeezed your eyes shut for a second, containing the way you were feeling. Lifting away the bag that was sitting over his thigh, you were both surprised and impressed that the bag method had held reasonably well. There was more blood than there would be if you’d held it yourself, but you could work with what you had, and as your eyes flicked to where Newt was checking his stomach, you found similar results. Your gut was twisting again, bile rising in your throat at the sight of the blood in various places, an unusual phenomenon as blood had never bothered you before, and you turned away, gagging as vomit threatened to make itself known, and you tried not to clap a blood-soaked hand over your mouth, the thought only sickening you further.

“Woah, you alright?” You gagged, dry heaving a few more times as you tried to keep back the vomit that was on the verge of making itself known, tears lining your eyes and heat flooding over your cheeks as everything within you threatened to let go, but you managed to keep a lid on it. “The fuck was that?”

“I don’t know. I’m fine. Just aftershock, I think. Hunger, too, maybe, been a long time since I had anything real to eat, I think my body is just all fucked up right now.” His eyes narrowed on you, but he nodded, accepting the answer because the two of you needed to focus on things that were more important.

Once you had suppressed your nausea, you were picking the scissors back up, Newt resetting and disinfecting the equipment once again as you cut away at a patch of the ruined jeans the man was wearing. The denim was stiff while wet, and you struggled to cut it, your fingers aching as the metal of the handles pressed into the edges of your fingers, and you released a breath as you were holding as it was finished. Wiping down the area and packing the hole with disinfectant to make sure it was clean.

The procedure between the two of you started up again, only a second later you were pinching the wound shut, waiting for Newt to extract the bullet before moving to knot the thread and begin to fasten the stitches. It felt like time was coming to a stop while also speeding along, your fingers moving to the pulse point on his neck to monitor how it was going, counting the beats you could feel and trying to remember how light it felt so each period check would reveal whether it grew stronger or weaker.

You felt like the clock was ticking by too fast, every time you glanced up to the musty glass barrier hanging over the door seemed like it was spinning by at double speed, the hand constantly moving in starling jumps around the clock, the shadows in the room growing more pronounced and sharp as the sun moved across the sky, the light becoming duller as the one hanging over you both seemed to become brighter, and you watched Newt work.

As a team, you stitched him up, making sure that each wound was sealed up tightly and that they wouldn't burst, the pair of you physically exhausted. You could see the ache in Newt’s leg, he’d given up on even trying to hide it a while ago, as the two of you had moved onto the third bullet hole, all of his weight sitting on his good leg as he balanced barely anything on the bad one. Four bullets were sitting in a row, lined up neatly beside his head, and you let out a sigh, scrubbing over his skin carefully to wipe up the traces of blood.

Once he’d been stable enough, you checked his vision again, his reaction times having increased by a fraction of a second, but it was enough to mark an improvement, and his pulse was picking up with both strength and speed. You could see the bruises and cuts along his skin more clearly once you’d wiped him down of excess blood, littered with marks that would fade, only the bullet holes to turn pinkish-purple with scar tissue eventually, to join all of the other battle wounds along his flesh. Various tattoos to match the symbols on his face were across his body, and you made sure to treat every single cut, not wanting to leave anything up to chance, your body screaming out in protest as your adrenaline died down, and exhaustion was crawling in.

You were overwhelmed, tears building in your eyes, and Newt mentioned nothing as a few fell free, because you were sure that at some point - perhaps before you’d surfaced back to consciousness all that time ago - that he would have done the same. The situation was terrifying and you were struggling to process it all, every thought you had was like a swirling hurricane, melded with every other thought and emotion you were feeling, leaving you hopeless to process your thoughts but just lay rampant to them.

Anxiety was spiking through your system, choking it down by focusing on the methodical cleaning of the man, but eventually, there was nothing left to do. Fresh gauze and bandages were stark in comparison to his sickly-coloured skin, wrapped neatly and tightly and finally staying crisp and clean as you had everything under control, and your legs were threatening to buckle. You packed away slowly, stepping back from the table, and removing your gloves to join the scattered piles of medical waste that covered the floor and the edges of the workspace.

Newt didn’t even bother to put things back properly, to look after the equipment, he simply dropped it all inside, doing the zip up enough to hold it shut, before it was dangling from his fingers by the straps, and you followed suit.

Noting the movements, the man in the chair stood, his movements slightly wobbly from how long he’d been sat down, and you realised how long must have passed. As he approached, he kicked one of the empty bottles aside, all six used to the last drop for cleaning and disinfecting, and he pulled the gun from his waistband, making sure his finger was over the trigger in case either you or Newt made an attempt to pull something.

Not that you had any chance, there was a pile of everything that could possibly be used as a weapon over on the table beside where he had been guarding.

“He’ll live?”

You raised your hands, folding them behind your head in a symbol of your cooperation as he turned to you, and you tried not to sway too much in your weakness, simply nodding your head to him, and swallowing thickly. “He’ll need to keep those wounds clean, you can take the stitches out in about a month, or longer, wait until they start to form flesh for a scar but take them out before the skin gets too puffy.”

He nodded his head before lifting the gun up a little higher, motioning to the bag you held, and you trembled, his finger flexing a little on the trigger. “Whatever we’re going to need to keep it clean. Get it out. Put it on the table here, and then walk over to the wall until your back is pressed to it.”

You lifted the bag slowly, the dragging of the zip over the metal was all that field the room, tense silence taking over before you were reaching inside, daring to take your eyes off of the man and quell your fear to be able to reach inside. Pulling out both the diluted and undiluted bottles, you hoped he didn’t notice the lack of canister spray you’d left at the scene, your mind suddenly becoming aware of the life you’d left hanging in the balance, and wondering whether he’d survived.

By now, the shift at the firehouse would have been over, and you did not doubt that a missing persons case would have been filed for you and Newt, the abandoned ambulance after over an hour of no check-in would lead them to know something had happened, but you didn’t know how long it would take to find you, or if they even could.

Placing the bottles, spare bandages and wraps, as well as some painkillers down on the table, you stepped back, fastening your bag up.

“He’ll be in a fair amount of pain for a while, they should last two weeks, he can’t take any more than two a day, or else he’ll OD.”

The man nodded, motioning backwards toward the shadowed walls, and you stepped back slowly, Newt following when his command was given, and his hands were held up into the air too, both of you proceeding with caution.

While one danger had dissipated, another was making itself known, the purpose of being brought here was over, you and Newt had served your purpose, and if the man asking for supplies and advice was anything to go on, it meant that either they planned to let you go or planned to kill you, because you clearly wouldn't be sticking around to follow through on a treatment plan.

Once your back hit the wall, you stilled, Newt coming to stand beside you. The door was unlocked, several more men coming in, and the four of them all lifted their comrade carefully, carrying him out, and the door slammed shut behind them, leaving you both in cold silence. This area of the room seemed even colder than that of your impromptu operating theatre had, the shadows creating a drop in temperature, but you were simply too tired to care anymore.

Your head was still throbbing, your eyes felt heavy each time you tried to hold them open, the adrenaline and fear in the situation had been all that had helped to even keep you awake, and you rolled your head from side to side, trying to ease the pain in your neck.

Newt followed beside you, your legs pulled up before you as his stretched out, your bags abandoned together between your bodies, and your head came to rest on his shoulder, a heavy sigh let out.

“I think you have a concussion.”

You chuckled, but it was dry and humourless, simply a sound made to fill the silence and bush him off, but he wasn’t accepting that answer. His hand closed over yours, lacing your fingers together comfortingly and squeezing tightly, and you did your best to squeeze him back just as firmly. “I don’t have a concussion, I just have a headache.”

“Yeah.” He hummed, and you thought for a second, you may actually have won an argument with him. “But you also have nausea, you passed out, you’re a little confused, you’re weak on your feet and you can barely stand up straight.”

“It’s a-”

“You say aftershock and I’ll slap you.” He teased, a genuine laugh leaving you this time, and your shoulders rose and fell with a shrug. “When we get out of here, w-”

“If.”

“When we get out of here,” His voice was a little firmer, commanding you to have as much faith as he did, “Will you please just get it checked out? Just to make me feel better.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes behind closed lids, and groaning when he jostled his shoulder to wake you back up to the fullest alertness you could muster. “Fine! Fine, when we get out of here, I’ll get it checked out.”

Silence encased you both, darkness taking over, and the man who’d been tasked with guarding you both returned, taking his seat again and setting up to play on his phone from the second that he was comfortable, and you waited. He said nothing, not noticing the stare both you and Newt had fixed on him, your heart sinking as he remained quiet. The longer his lack of information dragged on, the more you felt doom beginning to sweep over.

The fact that he had nothing to say to you both screamed volumes into the void. There were no threats to keep your mouths shut, or looming promises of what would happen if you exposed the group’s location, or even any information on when you’d be leaving, and it seemed that they had no intention to let you go at all.

As you wiggled a little against the concrete, butt becoming numb from the stone underneath you, your legs stretched out to match your partners, and your eyes closed. You were fading away again, drifting towards sleep as it called out to you, the spinning of the room, the dizziness that was bordering on vertigo and the nausea with the headache, it all seemed to lessen as you slipped from consciousness.

Newt was talking to you, forcing you to stay just enough awake that you didn’t drift completely, but you weren’t processing what he was saying, the words just becoming background noise that disturbed you from being able to slumber, but you suspected that was the whole point. He wasn’t talking about anything important, he was telling you his mother’s recipes and the time he once went to buy new work shoes but almost walked out of the store while wearing an un-purchased pair because he was so tired from a double shift.

You missed the banging in the other rooms, you missed the actions taking place, barely roused by the sudden shaking your body felt, and you only snapped back to consciousness when you felt hands on your body. You kicked roughly, Newt barely avoiding the blow as all the pain you’d felt came flooding back over you in shockwaves, making you shudder violently at the surge of pain and nausea, before you were blinking at the dull lighting in the room.

“Stick with me, love. Tommy would kill me if we had to take you to the hospital after the final hurdle because I couldn’t keep you awake.”

“Oh, shut up.” Your words were slurred, and you shook your head, eyes squeezing closed at the throbbing taking place behind them. “You’d love that, I’m surprised you haven’t sacrificed me for a trip to the ER yet, anything to see Dr Derek in his lab coat, right?”

Pink flushed his cheeks, his eyes flickering over to the door, and he leaned in a little, hugging you tightly and shaking you enough to jolt energy through your body, a groan on your lips as he did. “Something is going on outside, and I never pass up a chance for an I-told-you-so!”

“A what?” You questioned, confusion still washing over you, but you never got a chance for an answer. The sound of a bullet pinging against metal was so sharp that it left another ringing in your ears as you cupped your hands over the sides of your head just a second too late. Newt did the same, falling away from shock with a grunt, and the man beside the door was in a little more agony at his close proximity to the sound.

You blinked blurry vision clear, watching smoke curl up from the lock, before the heavy metal door was falling open. It was a uniform you recognised, one of the police members you’d already seen much of over the last few cases, your brows raising a little as you watched them enter. You kept your hands over your ears, at least two more shots reverberating through the air and you felt them more than you heard them, body feeling the impact and breath feeling knocked from your lungs at the vibrations over the airwaves.

It was all like a dream, detached from reality as you were pulled to your feet by an officer, Newt’s hand dropping away from yours and you stumbled, feelings as though your movements weren’t your own. As you were guided through the halls, you tried to remember some of it, any of it, but everything you saw and heard seemed to be going in one ear and out the other.

Flashing blue lights outside with wailing sirens signalled the police cars, and several men around you were all being arrested, pinned down face first and snarling as they were cuffed, but you didn’t have enough energy to feel intimidated right now.

The fresh air was a shock, like plunging into water below the freezing point, and you took a sudden and gasping inhale, coming to a full stop, and everything out of focus suddenly went into overdrive. As you stepped out of the building the haze seemed to drop away, and you took another lungful of the air, panting breaths as you tried to fill your lungs with the source of oxygen, a panic attack building as you finally let everything cup back through, and gentle hands were guiding you to an ambulance.

You recognised the paramedics waiting inside, they were friendly as they greeted you by name and you recognised them from another case, perhaps the one on the bridge or at the chemical plant, you weren’t too sure, but it didn’t matter. An oxygen mask was placed over your face, fresh breaths of air racing through your lungs on a steady distribution that forced your breathing to even out, and you were grateful for it, not wanting to break down until you were curled up in your own bed tonight.

You winced at the flashlight that flickered over your eyes, stars in your eyes flashing for a second as you blinked to clear them, and while the paramedic around you shuffled within their own devices, you shifted yourself slightly on the stretcher, turning to stare out at the collections of cars instead, trying to see more than just the inside of the ambulance.

You searched for Newt, unable to find his blond hair for a good few minutes, before finally, you spotted him. Messy mop head in a far corner, beside a collection of cars that didn't belong to the public services, but instead to the members of the public services.

He was wrapped up tightly in his best friend's arms, Thomas patting his back comfortingly, as Minho all but bounced with excitement at his side. Brenda was leaning on her car, and Gally was standing beside them, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie. They were all in casual clothing, clearly having changed since the end of their shift had rocked around so long ago, the night sky closing in overhead as the day was being chased away, and you took another deep breath through the mask, smiling again.

Just the sight of your team was reassuring, to know they’d found you, they’d come to collect you, to make sure you were okay, and your heart thumped steadily and surely in confirmation that you needed their comfort right now. They were talking, Newt using a lot of hand gestures and while you couldn't tell much about their features, you knew they’d all be flickering from amusement to confusion to horror. Newt was quite the storyteller, at any time, no matter the trauma.

They turned, Newt pointing over to the ambulance you were within, and you raised a hand to wave to your friend as you watched all of their attentions move to you, before the paramedic before you was summoning your attention once again. You turned to her, the call of your name snapping you to the moment, and as much as you didn't want to look away from them all, you knew you’d be reunited with them soon enough.

“Well, you definitely have a concussion.” She confirmed, and you pouted, taking a final deep breath from the oxygen mask, and then taking it off.

“Newt is going to live for the ‘I-told-you-so’.” You scowled, and she seemed to come into more focus within your memory now. You remembered her, she had been there at the chemical plant, she’d been new at the time, a trainee, fresh out of the academy and on one of her first cases, and you’d tried to comfort her about the card system, making sure to navigate as many red cards away from her as you could to make a hard day just a little easier.

She grinned, handing you a plastic cup with some tablets inside, and a bottle of water, with the lid already unscrewed. “I’ll spare you the medical analysis, I’m sure you know what to do.” You only nodded, taking both from her gratefully and tipping the pills onto your tongue, before following them with a gulp of water, and taking them down eagerly. “Two painkillers to keep the headaches and muscle soreness at bay, as well as the nausea.”

“As much as I’d love to chat, I’m going to have to rain-check. Am I good to go? I’m desperate to just get home.”

She chuckled, nodding, and you stood up, still feeling a little unsteady and lightheaded, but it was beginning to get easier. Giving her a final thanks, and climbing down from the van, you closed the doors up for her, banging on the back when they were sealed up, and she gave a thumbs up from inside of the window, before sorting everything out and preparing for their journey back.

Turning around, there was a body directly behind you, and you cursed loudly while jumping, eyes trailing up from a familiar chest to his face and raising a brow as warm honey-coloured eyes stared at you. “Fuck, Tommy, hasn’t anyone ever told you not to sneak up on someone who’d been freshly rescued after an abduction? We tend to be jumpy.”

He grinned, shaking his head a little at your words, before your own smile was following. His hands came up, cupping your cheeks, and you leaned into the warmth that his palms brought over the cold skin of your face, sagging a little at his touch. “I have a lot of questions, but the main one is; are you okay? I just need to know you’re alright, and everything else can wait.”

“I’m okay, Tommy, I promise. A little battered and bruised, but hey, what’s new?” He rolled his eyes softly, a yawn following on your lips as you covered it, not missing the fond look he held as he continued to stare, eyes sweeping over your features. You waited for a second longer, before nudging one of your feet forward to bump your toes against his, your brows raising a little. “What’s wrong?”

“I was just really fucking worried about you.” He whispered, eyes dropping down a little, fixing on your lips, and licked over his own. His hands fell further down, sitting over your jaw and he dragged a thumb across your lips a little, your mouth pouting instinctually as he did, and his lips flicked up at the edges, never taking his gaze from where his finger was resting. “Chasing after you is like being on a damn rollercoaster.”

“How’s that?” You mumbled, breath clouding in the cold air slightly but the words were whispered, and his lashes tickled against your cheek as he shifted to bump his nose against yours, dragging them together slowly, his lips pressing to his own finger on the other side.

“Exciting, addictive, a total rush, but a little scary right at the big drop.”

You brought a hand up, sitting over his cheek, his head tipping into your hand, and his thumb slipped away, leaving nothing between you to stop you from being able to taste the overly sweetened coffee on his breath that he drank whenever he got worried. “Don’t kiss me yet.”

“Why not? It’s me and you, and now I know you’re okay, and I just really want to.” He teased you, pushing in enough to trace his lips very gently against your own, sparks of electricity shooting along you at the fleeting brush that you could still feel but wasn’t enough to be a kiss, but already left you wanting more. “If you don’t give me a reason soon, I’m gonna’ kiss you breathless, and they’ll need to put you back on that oxygen mask.”

You let out a soft breath, an airy laugh, before finding the strength to pull back by a fraction. “I have a concussion.”

He snapped back, eyes wide and brows furrowing so tightly you thought he'd get permanent perry lines, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “You said you were fine! You little liar!”

“I am fine!” You took his hands, pulling them away from your face and weaving your fingers with his on both sides, before rocking up on your tiptoes, and pressing your lips to his lower cheek, hearing him whine a little at the near-miss kiss. “I’m just a little woozy, and tired, and shaken up.”

“You promise that’s all?”

“I swear.” You offered, and he smiled, leaning in to press a kiss to your own cheek in return as he respected your boundaries. “If you can set rules for our first kiss, then so can I. I want to be at my peak when we do, I don’t want anything to spoil it, I want to remember it perfectly, and not have such a killer headache, preferably.”

“I can live with that. We’ll wait. For now.” You nodded your head, foreheads resting together once again, and your eyes closed, simply soaking in how it felt to be surrounded by him, before a loud and exaggerated clearing of the throat was breaking you apart, and Brenda stood with her hands on her hips, a wicked smirk on her face as she stared at you both.

“Do we get any greetings, or do we not matter anymore? Because I was kinda’ worried about you too.”

You grinned, the woman who you were proud to call your best friend was holding her arms out for you, and you dropped Thomas’ hands, feeling him let you go and step back just as quickly now that everyone else had come over, and you wrapped her up in your arms as she squeezed you tightly, rocking you from side to side. Another pair of arms wrapped around you, and you grinned as the familiar smell of your partner’s aftershave overwhelmed your senses, the man clinging to you from the back as he wrapped his arms around the both of you.

Minho followed, a wicked grin on his face as he draped himself across Brenda’s back, squeezing all of you even tighter, and Thomas followed beside Newt, Gally and Fry coming next, until you couldn’t see out past the mass of bodies that had joined, feeling as though you were in the middle of a rugby scrummage and you could barely breathe, the laughter you were letting out doing nothing to help.

Eventually, Brenda was elbowing the men back, letting you slip free when they all backed away, and you missed all of their body heats, wrapping your arms a little tighter around yourself to keep warm All you had was the thin material of your uniform shirt, soaked in blood and clammy sweat, as well as various medicines and chemicals, with a vest underneath. It was doing little against the cold of the night closing in, twilight well past as stars started to make themselves known.

You shivered, rubbing your hands up and down your arms, wondering how Newt wasn’t feeling the cold, but he was excitedly retelling the tale already of the surgery the two of you had been forced to perform, a story that would last him for ages, no doubt, but it was his way of processing the trauma; to turn it into something he was proud to remember instead of something he was scared to think about, something that made him feel bold instead of terrified, and you wanted to support that, so you kept your mouth shut.

Stepping back over to Thomas, his gaze left his best friend, flicking down to you, his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, and raising a brow when you tugged his arm out of his pocket. He let you, his arm limp in your hold as he let you guide him, a soft pink flushing his cheeks as you tucked yourself under his arm, your cheek moving to rest on his shoulder, your hands tucking into his pocket and one set of fingers weaving with the fingers of his that were still inside. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, before turning to look up at him as his arm squeezed around you a little more tightly.

There was a grin on his face, one with a hidden meaning as he bit at the inside of his cheek to contain it. “You know, Newt is gonna’ give us shit for cuddling.” His fingers were moving over your back in slow patterns, large palm rubbing slowly and transferring warmth back to you where you were chilled to the bone.

“I don’t care. I’m fucking cold, and you’re nice and warm.” You moved, face pressing into him a little further, the rest of your words becoming muffled, and he chuckled.

“Well, in that case,” He simply rested his chin on the top of your head, freeing up his other arm to hold you more securely, and letting out a slow breath that became a slight yelp as you pressed cold hands under the edge of his hoodie to sit on warm skin, grinning cheekily at the scowl that formed as you did. “Is any of the story Newt is telling actually true?”

“Surprisingly, most of it.”

“Well, which p-” He was cut off, the gruff clearing of a throat making him fall silent, and you pulled back, slightly embarrassed as heat made itself known along your cheeks when you found the police officer to be looking for you, the rest of the squad falling silent too and all turning to look at you, following the officer’s gaze, and you untangled yourself from Thomas.

“Sorry to interrupt you all. I just need your statement, ma’am, it’ll only take a moment.”

“You haven’t given your statement yet?” Newt quizzed, clicking his tongue in a tutting fashion, and you stuck your tongue out a little bit at him.

“You still haven’t been checked out by a paramedic yet?” You mocked, his amused face falling as he mock-glared at you, Minho pinching his arm as he tried to insist he was perfectly fine, his friend telling him otherwise.

“I’ll meet you over by that car in a moment, it’ll only take a few minutes to get your statement.” You nodded, the policeman giving you a polite smile, before tapping his pen against the pad in his hand and wandering away to the vehicle.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Lips brushed against your ear, making you jump a little, and you turned back to face the man behind you, your lieutenant standing back up to his full height as you did, and raising his brows.

“No, I want you to take Newt over to an ambulance and force him to get a check-up. He’s more than happy to diagnose me, but he won’t do a self-diagnosis.” Thomas laughed, a hearty and full sound, and you assumed there were memories flashing behind his eyes of a childhood full of similar circumstances. “I’ll come and meet you over by the cars afterwards. I’m going to need a lift home, y’know..”

His hand came up, tucking away stray hairs behind your ear, and nodding his head. “I was already planning on that, don’t worry.” You smiled, head ducking a little, and you tensed up a little at the clenching in your gut again, fearing it was another bout of nausea rising, but instead, your stomach rumbled, loudly. There was a snicker, hidden in your hairline, and your lips pursed, a shy feeling growing within you once again. “I’ll take you to get some food, too.”

“Shut up.” You mumbled, a finger hooking under your chin, pulling your face up, and there was a smirk there that only made you flush further. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like you’re adorable? Because, you are.” You scowled, blush only growing stronger, and he smoothed a thumb over your cheek as did, glancing away over your shoulder for a second. “Go give your statement, I’ll wrestle Newt into an ambulance.”

“Mhm, ‘kay.” You twisted your head, nuzzling a little into his palm for a second, before pulling it away from your face and squeezing his hand. “I want McNuggets. McDonald’s drive-thru.”

“Whatever you want, angel.”

You raised a brow, hand smoothing down over his chest to sit just above his stomach, and his eyes dropped, following your hand, a slightly more vulnerable look on his face when he turned back to you; wide eyes, swallowing thickly. “Whatever I want?”

“Anything.”

You tugged on the front of his clothing. “Can I wear your hoodie?”

He froze for a second, before a rush of a breath was leaving him like a punch, and he smiled, reaching behind his head with one hand and tugging it up, stripping the garment off and shucking it down his arm, the long-sleeved shirt underneath rising up a bit as he did, and you forced your eyes away from the happy trail revealed or the flex of his biceps, taking the warm garment from him. He held it out, soft green material looking warm and inviting, flooded with his body heat and the smell of him, your fingers twitching to take it.

Undoing the buttons on the front of your shirt, you cursed under your breath at the cold while taking it off, just a tank top left underneath, before taking the hoodie. It caught on your ponytail, Thomas helping you to adjust it over your head before taking the ruining uniform from you and draping it over his arm like a waiter’s towel, nodding his hair and lifting your hair free from the collar.

He leaned in, lips pressing to your forehead, a soft kiss given to you, before he was pushing you backwards. “Go. Go give your statement, the sooner it’s over, the sooner we get you those nuggets. I’ll meet you at the cars.” Tucking your hands into warm pockets, you wandered away, bumping your hip against Brenda’s as you did and she stumbled a little from where she’d been balancing mid-yawn, flipping you off as you laughed while walking away, and making your way over to the officer.

He stood up straighter from where he’d been leaning against his car as you approached, offering you his hand and introducing himself politely, and you freed up a hand to shake, giving him your name for the record, before your hands were once again clenched with the oversized hoodie’s pockets.

It was a simple case, there wasn’t much to tell. In all honestly, you didn’t know much. You wouldn't be much help, you’d been unconscious for the first half of the journey and in the midst of your concussion symptoms the second time, and you’d never seen the man pull up. You did tell him what you could, about the unusual call, you and Newt splitting up to check the area, before finding the man under the bridge. You tried your best to patch him up, before the two of you had been taken at gunpoint, and you’d lost consciousness when you’d been put in the car.

You asked about the fate of the man under the bridge, your heart sinking a little at the answer you got. He hadn't made it, he’d tried to use the equipment you’d left him but had passed away before the hour mark had passed, and you gripped onto yourself tightly to contain how you felt. He attempted to comfort you about it, to tell you that it was the gang activity you and Newt had speculated it to be, and that the man who’d been stabbed was a criminal, but it did little to ease your suffering.

You were a big believer in second chances; if you didn’t you wouldn't be in the place you were now, with the family you’d found.

Once he had you sign off on the confidentiality forms and disclosures, your name signed next to Newt’s chicken scratch signature, you were free to go, more than ready to just go home. Everything ached, you were still sore and covered with pain, your muscles all tensed up and torn from the strain of the day, your hunger making you feel like you were being eaten from the inside out by your own stomach and the headache that came with it wasn’t a highlight of your day, and your bed was calling out for you.

As promised, the teams were over by the cars, music playing on the radio from within Brenda’s as the door was open, letting her lean against it, and Newt was sucking happily on one of the lollipops reserved for little children that some of the ambulances carried, his tongue turning purple from the false-grape flavour of it.

He saw you coming, a little bounce in his step as you approached, before he was coming to stand before you, a smacking sound making itself known as he pulled the sweet treat away from his mouth. “You okay? Did he tell you about the guy?”

“Yeah.” You sighed, and he frowned, shrugging a little, but holding his arms open.

“He was a bad guy, you can’t save everyone, but you tried, okay? You gave it your best.” His words were true and you knew they were, you didn’t want to wallow in self-pity, you’d done everything you could without losing your one life, in which he would have died too, and you were trying not to risk your own life as much these days. “You’re okay, right?”

“Yeah.” You huffed, and he squeezed you a little tighter, clearly not accepting that answer, and waiting for me. “God, I hate this job sometimes, but I love it too. We save more lives than we lose, we change more lives for the good than bad, but every job has its bad sides.” It felt like you’d been having an awful lot of the bad side lately, but that only meant there was a lot of good to come to balance out the scales. “Have you texted Derek, yet, I bet he’s pretty worried.”

Newt let out a breathy sound at the mention of his crush, sagging in your arms a little before pulling back, and pale cheeks were flushed with warmth, the men avoiding your gaze and scratching at the back of his neck. “Not yet. Bren had my bag in the car, I got a lot of missed texts and a missed call, but I don’t really know what to say. It’s late, he finishes shift soon, I figure I’ll just wait until I get home.”

“Maybe you should go and see him.” You teased, poking at his shoulder, and your friend’s flush only deepened, shaking his head a little.

“I want to take a hot bath, and watch embarrassing rom-coms and eat an ungodly amount of food in a very unattractive way, and I don’t think me and Derek are quite at that stage. Yet.” He added the last word on, smirking as that cheeky attitude came flooding back, and you felt a presence coming to stand behind you. You knew who it was without having to turn, feeling it instinctively as a slight thrill raced through you, before a kiss was being pressed to the back of your head, an arm slipping around your waist, and a chin hooking over your shoulder.

Newt smirked, eyes moving over the pair of you slowly, and you ignored the look as he busied himself by moving to the backseat of Brenda’s car to retrieve your bag as well, and rifling through his own for his phone.

“Is this okay?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” You relaxed a little further into his hold, his fingers toying with the stitching underneath the pocket of the jumper idly as you sagged into him, feeling the movement of the muscles in his chest as he shrugged.

“Whole teams here, and you’re kinda’ the centre of attention right now. You and Newt. I didn’t really wanna’ push my boundaries, but I’m kinda’ afraid that if I let you go again, you’re going to get into some more stupid shit and get me all riled up again, and I’m still all full of adrenaline form these last few hours worrying about you.”

You moved to the side a little, twisting your head to be able to look up at him, eyes scanning over his face as you analysed his words, nothing but honesty and vulnerability shown to you. “Hey, I didn’t get myself into this one, it just happened. For once, I have no blame! I was cooperative with the criminal, kept my mouth shut, for the most part, you would have been proud of me.” His lips twitched with a soft form of amusement at your joke. “Besides, they all know how I feel about you, anyway. I’m not exactly subtle about it, and neither are you. I don’t think whatever this is, is exactly a state secret.”

He beamed at that, you weren’t sure why, but his face lit up with pure joy, and he nodded his head sucking down to peck the tip of your nose with a sweet kiss, one that made you feel ticklish, your face screwing up slightly. Turning back to your friends, you watched Newt stare at his phone for a second, considering accepting a call as his finger hovered over the accept button, the vibrating device with Derek’s name flashing along the top going off after a second, and you frowned.

“You sure you don’t want company tonight, Newt?”

“Yeah, I don’t really think either of you should be alone. Especially not with your concussion.” She pointed at you, but her attention quickly moved back to Newt, and the lanky blond shrugged. “How about a girl’s night? You can join in, Newt, because you can talk guys, so you’re acceptable.”

“Wow, thanks, Bren.” His tone was sarcastic but his face lit up a little, and he chuckled. Brenda turned back to you, raising her brows.

“Girl’s night?”

“How about a girls day tomorrow?” She pouted, and you grinned. “You’re right, I really shouldn’t be alone for forty-eight hours with severe concussion symptoms, but I think I can monitor them myself by tomorrow night.”

“Exactly, tomorrow night! Who’s gonna’ look after you tonight, huh? Girls. Night.” She punctuated her words with emphasis, and you tried to hide your giggling at her confusion behind your hand as even Minho groaned, both Fry and Gally snickered. “What?”

“Brenda..” Minho sighed, nodding his head towards you, where Thomas was squeezing you a little tighter, pressing a series of kisses along your hairline, and she studied you both for a second, before scoffing.

“Really? You’re taking Thomas home instead of me? Boo, you whore.”

You gaped, not sure whether to be offended or amused, and Thomas made the decision for you, protesting in offence on both of your behalves as he questioned why he was deemed as a ‘bad’ choice. “He’s bigger. He gives good cuddles. He promised me McNuggets. He smells good. Those are compelling arguments.”

Thomas’ chest puffed out a little against you and the compliments. “Uh, I smell excellent, I give great cuddles, I’d buy you a share box of nuggets that you wouldn't have to share, and I could put on tall boots.” She raised her hands, her voice teasing now, and your head tipped to the side as you stared at your best friend. “But, fine, girl’s day tomorrow it is.”

“I’ll come to that!” Newt chirped, sticking his hand up, and you nodded your head, Brenda taking the opportunity to high-five him.

“If Newt gets to go, then I’m staying.” You huffed, Thomas squeezing you a little tighter, and you lowered a hand to rest over his, soothing as his intense affections were based on the need for his comfort as well as your own.

“Uh, no.” Brenda deadpanned, her bluntness making you laugh. “You’re one of the main topics we’re going to be talking about. Newt gets to come because he can talk boys, and he tells me about hot doctors.”

“So I can’t come?” Minho chipped in, pouting a little for effect as he stared at Brenda, and her words went silent, no arguments to offer as her eyes narrowed on him, a silent argument between two colleagues that only you knew to be between two lovers, and you chuckled to yourself. He knew he’d won that battle, a smirk taking up on his face, and she huffed.

“If Min gets to go, can I come then?” Gally took a more polite approach, and you nodded your head.

“Sure you can.”

“You’re gonna’ fit all these people into your living room? On your two-seater couch?” Thomas teased, a couple of smirks being thrown in his direction at his reference to knowing your apartment so intimately, and you hadn't even realised that you’d been so freely inviting people to your home until now. You felt a little winded by the realisation, by the idea that it would be so simple to accept someone into the place that was so private to you, the place you’d retreat to after a long day to get away from work, but now, work was your family, and you wanted to share it with them.

“Well, Tommy-boy here can drive himself and you over to my place instead?”

“Team day at Minho’s!” Newt cheered, throwing his hands up in the air, and you laughed, the sound fading into a yawn as you covered your mouth.

“Okay, but late afternoon, because I’m exhausted, and I want a lot of sleep.”

“Late afternoon.” Brenda teased, rolling her eyes. “Midday. You better be there.” She barely gave Newt the chance to get the bags from the backseat before she was slamming the door closed, Gally twirling his keys on his finger and Fry already leaning against the car, half-asleep as his head was popped up on his hand.

You took your bag from Newt, who was catching a ride with Gally, the member of the firehouse who lived the closest to him. Brenda’s car was leaving first, spinning dangerously on mud-tracks as she left, and you were impressed with how recklessly she dared to drive surrounded by cops, but that was probably playing it safe for her. The rest of the team slowly followed, Thomas’ arm still wrapped loosely around your waist as he guided you over to his car, fresh mud spattered up along the polished paintwork, and your bag was placed on the backseat.

He was holding open the passenger door for you when you were ready, and you sank into the seat, offering him just a smile in acknowledgement, before he was rounding the vehicle to get in too, car starting up smoothly, and his hand on the back of your seat as he reversed out of the spot.

Switching gears, he inched forward slowly, pulling up the track carefully, and glancing back in the mirrors, before both hands were sitting on the wheel, and he was flicking on the indicator for the highway.

“You still want to go to the drive-thru?”

You considered it for a second, watching the road as he pulled out, before giving in to your craving. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He hummed, a hand reaching down to find one of your own where it was sitting in your lap, linking his fingers together loosely with your own. The radio was playing softly, the cars were flying past you on the highway as you weaved between lanes, an area you didn’t recognise, and clearly, Thomas wasn’t all that familiar with it either because he didn’t talk much, instead, focusing on the signage along the road for a long time.

It was a longer journey than you’d expected it to be, almost thirty minutes passing before you were entering an area of town that you began to recognise, the very edges of your territory as far as you’d expanded so far, and you squeezed Thomas’ hand a little tighter, letting him go every so often when he needed it to change gears or to drive, but his hand always seemed to find it’s way back to being pressed up delicately with your own.

Your mind slipped a little bit, wondering just how it was that you found yourself here.

It had been a long time since you’d allowed yourself to trust anyone, to really let anyone in, and now you found yourself surrounded. Your entire team had shown up to collect you tonight, all of them wanting to make sure you were okay; honest and true with nothing to gain from it themselves except for knowing that you were safe, and the man beside you had let himself dig in a little closer.

Instead of just holding your heart, he’d managed to let himself inside, residing there and making it his own with everything he did. The moment you’d laid your eyes on him, you’d hated him, hearing him already hate you felt like a bittersweet mouthful, making it easier not to get attached but hard as it always made you one step further from home. You’d spent so much of your life forcing people away while dreaming about one day finding your home that you’d never stopped to watch the time slipping away around you as the chances seemed to get further and further away, until Newt had forced you to.

You had your own history that made you the way you were, but you’d never stopped to give Thomas the benefit of the doubt that he did, too, and you’d taken out your anger on him when it was unwarranted. He’d clearly forgiven you for it and moved on, but you’d never really apologised.

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

He frowned, the neutral expression he’d held switching to a frown as he began to slow the car down, navigating through the car park as a surprising number of cars still milled around, shopping at the mall in the stores with later hours into the night and various fast-food joints, the illuminated letter ‘M’ calling out to you, and Thomas joined the queue of cars.

“I never said sorry for the way I treated you. I had stuff going on, I had a lot of issues, but I didn’t stop to think that maybe you had stuff going on too, and I’m sorry.”

He seemed stuck for a second, like a deer caught in the headlights, before he sank into his seat a little bit. “That’s okay, I forgive you. You didn’t know I had stuff going on at the time, I shouldn't have been mad at you, either. I took it out on you, but really, I had issues with someone else.”

The name was on the tip of your tongue, but before you could speak your next words, the static of the intercom requesting your order made the both of you jump, and Thomas rolled down the window. It took a moment, deciding as quickly as you could and putting in an order for what it was that you were craving as your stomach rumbled again, that typical greasy smell of fast-food drifting through the open window.

You stayed quiet for the rest of the transaction, reaching out to turn the music up a little bit as you switched over to a classical station, finding the latest chart-toppers to be a little overwhelming in the moment, but late-hour classical piano and violin notes were much more comfortable. The bags were hot in your lap as Thomas handed them over clutching his McFluffy in your hand carefully and staring down longingly at the chunks of chocolate candy and caramel sauce through the lid, somewhat regretting your decision not to get one when he’d offered you one.

Parking up at the back, a little bit away from where everyone else was, and you unclipped your seatbelt, watching him do the same, before he was pushing his chair a little further back and getting comfortable. You handed him over his cheeseburger, and the fries that followed, stealing one from his portion and watching as he grinned, sitting them on his lap and unwrapping the burger, while you opened up a box of nuggets, offering one to him.

You sprinkled some salt over the box, shaking the nuggets after he’d taken one to mix the seasoning, but you couldn't eat one, couldn't focus, not when a certain question was still hanging on the tip of your tongue.

“What’s up? They make it wrong? It’s pretty hard to mess up chicken nuggets.” He teased, leaning over to inspect them and winking cheekily as he plucked another from the large box, popping it into his mouth and chewing happily, a sound made as if to confirm to you that they were okay, but the food wasn’t what was bothering you.

“Can I ask you a question, and you promise you’ll answer honestly?” his brows furrowed, but he nodded, taking another large bite of his burger. You hesitated, picking at the edges of the bag, ripping the brown paper slowly, and you sighed. “That woman in the bar, that was Teresa, wasn’t it?”

He stiffened at the mention of her name, his face falling, and he was stiff as his head turned away from you to stare out of the dashboard, and your lips pursed, anxiety coursing through you at the time that it took him to reply. He chewed slowly, eventually swallowing his mouthful, and you took a cautious bite out of a chicken nugget as you waited. “Yes.”

You nodded, keeping it to yourself and looking through the bag for a packet of ketchup, opening up the small tub and dunking the savoury treat inside, swirling it around, and eating the other half. You licked salt from your lips as you finished, and turned back to look at him, where he was staring down at his food, a confused look on his features. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

He took a breath, seeming to have an answer ready to go, as though he’d anticipated your words, before his jaw snapped shut, and he put his burger down, sighing a little and nibbling on his lower lip, before giving in. “I didn’t want you to know.” You raised your brows, not the answer you were expecting, and he turned to look at you, taking in your expression, and shrugging a little. “You said you wanted honesty.”

“But why?”

“Why didn’t I want you to know that was her?” You nodded, and he took a bite of his food, prolonging the suspense as he procrastinated on his answer. “I guess,” He spoke through his food, grimacing a little upon realising, and you couldn't help your smile, eating another one of your chicken nuggets. “Because you’re nothing like her, and what we have isn’t the same, and I didn’t want you to have to cross with her.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes.” He didn’t pause this time, stiff once again as he gave you the truth without even considering lying, and you felt conflicted. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to reach out and comfort him, or comfort yourself and put your walls back up; in the end, the person best at comforting you was Thomas, and so you needed to be that for him. Reaching a hand out, you placed it on his arm, and he jumped at the contact, seeming shocked by it. He turned to look at you, eyes dropping to where your hand was sitting on his arm. “Are you mad at me?”

“I don’t have anything to be mad at you for, Tommy. I’m just sorry you got hurt.” You whispered, and he let out a shaky breath, his hand coming up to sit on your cheek, his face dropping to bump his nose with your own, sharing a breath and nudging into you.

“Just so you know, this is one of those moments that I would kiss you, if we’d already had our first kiss.”

“I’ll remember that.” You grinned, bumping back against him, before pulling away, and eating a chicken nugget as he whined slightly at the loss of intimacy.

“She, uh, she was a paramedic. You reminded me of her, at first.” You turned, realising that in the interest of honesty, he was going to tell you it all; the information that other members of the team skirted around and answered vaguely, a mystery that had been locked up tight to keep you out of, all of them having gotten hurt in some way. “She had the same attitude you did, she didn’t really let people in; a lot of walls. We were.. something. She didn’t want to put a label on it, she wanted me behind closed doors but never wanted me near her in front of the rest of the team. She had boundaries, she wanted me to come over late but never wanted me to stay the night, she wanted to have dinner and drinks but never in public. It felt exciting, but wrong. But I couldn't stop.”

“Thomas, you don’t have to tell me this.” He sniffed a little, eating his fries quietly and shaking his head a little as he relived the memories.

“I want you to know.” You felt touched that he wanted to share one of his deepest pains with you, but it was scary, because it meant you had to do the same. “I should have seen the signs, she always wanted more, and she never wanted to settle down, kind of like you.” His words cut a little, stinging, despite knowing them to be true. “She said she was leaving one day, out of the blue, and I blamed myself for it. We got into an argument, she didn’t even tell me she was moving house until she asked me to sign her transfer papers. We yelled a lot, and I was upset, so I signed them and told her to just leave. She did.”

“Is, uh, is that the day that-”

“Newt got hurt? Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke. “She left, and I was upset, and about an hour later, we got a call. I’d been too busy pacing my office and seething over it that I didn’t call in for a substitute. Newt told me it was okay, he’d been comforting me. He went alone on that call, got stuck under material that had fallen on his leg. Minho found him and carried him out after he passed out.”

He crushed the empty cardboard carton in his hand, the sudden sound making you twitch at the shock, and he whispered an apology upon sensing the environment he’d created.

“Newt’s been my best friend since I was a kid, and because of my feelings, he got hurt. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, but there were just so many similarities, it was overwhelming. I didn't want you to meet her, because you're nothing like her.”

“I’m not? Kinda’ sounds like we’re the same.” You finished your food, packing the wrapped back into the bag, and facing him more confidently as you turned in your chair, and he chuckled.

“You’re nothing like her. She may have been what I loved once, but you’re something entirely different.” He picked up his ice-cream, peeling back the lid on it and poking at the contents with a smile on his face now as he mixed the toppings in. “You’re sweet, you get along with everyone and you want to be with us, I can tell, even if you were going to leave at first. You.. you want me, you don’t hide it. I like that. You’ve spared my best friend a lot of pain instead of causing it, and you make Brenda feel like a woman again when she’s surrounded by men, and you cook with Fry. You’re a real part of our family, I don’t think she ever was.”

Once he deemed it thoroughly mixed, he took a large spoonful of it, holding it up and poking it against your smile lightly.

“Take a bite, I know you want some. You can share mine.”

You did as told, accepting the ice-cream he was offering to you, and relishing in the sweet flavour. He took his own bite, and despite how happy you were, there was still a pang of lingering guilt as you kept back your secrets from him after he’d told you his. “You’re not the first firemen I’ve been involved with.”

“I figured as much.” You were a little surprised, pausing in your words as he looked at you like it was no big deal, and he shrugged, offering you another spoonful. “I mean, I figured you had to have some kind of history in a firehouse, with your transfer record, more switches than a lightbulb sees.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning at his joke a little. “Well, you were right. In my first house, I was straight out of the academy and young, and there was a fireman. He was charming, and very attractive, and he had this way that made my heart race.” You reached up, wiping a stray piece of ice-cream for the edge of Thomas’ lip. “Like you do.”

“I make your heart race?” He was smirking, liking knowing he had such an effect on you, and you redirected your attention to the dessert, turning the spoon he was bringing to his mouth and stealing the spoonful, the chill helping to calm your flushing features.

“You know you do.” You swallowed the treat, licking the sugary taste from your lips. “He had a previous injury, and a drug problem. I was young and naïve, and he wanted the ambulance stock for the pain so he could avoid surgery. When the truth came out, I took the fall and lost my job, while he got off with a reprimand and being put on probation. I had to move to a whole new state to escape it and find a new firehouse. When someone tried to get close to me there, I panicked and thought they would use me again. I moved, and I moved, and I moved. Whenever someone got close, I panicked. I got confused. I wanted family, and I was so set on finding that perfect family that I never stopped to let anyone in, until I came to ‘21, and encountered a moody lieutenant.”

Thomas grinned, cold lips pressing to your cheek as he ducked down, and you squirmed at the slightly sticky feeling of melted ice-cream, the cardboard cup empty as it had been shared between you both.

“My real family, there’s not much to say about them. I don’t have much, my mother hasn’t spoken to me in a while, she sends a birthday card every year, and that's about all there is for me. Until I found all of you.”

“It was just me and my mom when I was a kid, and there was a house fire. She’s never been quite right since, I grew up looking after her, and Newt was the kid across the road who brought me trays of food his mom made for us, and who brought me the homework sheets when I had to leave school early. He’s my family, too. This whole squad is.”

You felt like a weight had been lifted off of your chest from the confessions, from finally trusting someone enough to tell them your story, feeling the burn of tears in the back of your throat, but you were too tired to cry, having no tears left to give. “Tommy?”

“Yeah, angel?”

“Can we go home now?” He nodded, starting the car back up, and you leaned over the centre console a little to rest your head on his shoulder, feeling him turn to press a kiss to the top of your head. “When we get there, I want to go to bed, and I want you to stay the night, and then I want to spend the whole day with you tomorrow, in front of our family, without hiding anything.”

He took a second to reply, letting out an unsteady laugh, before starting up the car and nodding for you as you pulled back. “I would fucking love that.”

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

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amintyworld · 3 years

Text

I'm Like You - Origins SMP Oneshot

A/N: So... Origins SMP may be over but that won't stop me from posting this-! :D

Origins SMP please come back

Anyway here's some hurt/comfort more on the fluffy side. - Minty

TW: Blood/gore, mention of death, kidnapping, mention of chopping one's wings off, mention of selling body parts, almost drowning, cursing. (Let me know if I need to add anything else!)

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Phil remembered the day they found him - he was tangled in some seaweed and reeds, floating along in the water, leaving a trail of crimson red in his wake. The teenager's right wing was a shamble of blood and feathers, bruises and cuts littering his skin that ignited Phil's anger - he had half a mind to find that damn village and set it ablaze. But, his mind made sure the boy was the priority. Phil untangled him, thankful that the ocean hadn't let him float out to sea, and pulled him on land, quickly searching for a pulse and practically sighing in relief when he'd found one. Phil wondered how long the kid had been out here - he felt ice-cold to the touch, skin ghostly pale.

He remembered, holding the teenager close in his arms as he took off in the air, wondering why. Why would someone hurt a kid, a child, for something they couldn't control? Why would someone have so much hate in their hearts to land deadly hits on a defenseless person? Why then, after everything they did to him, did they leave him in the river to die? Phil never really got an answer that night as he returned toward Ghostbur's mansion on the mountain. He guessed that maybe the world just didn’t have an answer, or rather, they just didn’t have an answer he wanted to hear.

Phil’s roommate, a good-natured phantom called Ghostbur, practically rushed the kid upstairs to a bed, grabbing supplies before Phil even had a chance to explain what happened. “Ghostbur, you really shouldn’t-!” Phil huffed as he launched himself to the second level, grabbing his friend by the arm, feeling his friend’s body shake with adrenaline, emotion. “Wil, he’s got a broken wing - wings are very sensitive and extremely delicate, we need to be careful.” His hand reached up to steady his phantom friend. “Can you grab a couple of potions, bandages, as well as a needle and thread for me? I’ll work on cleaning him up.”

The phantom took a deep breath, silently phasing through the floor beneath his feet to grab the items Phil requested. He understood Ghostbur’s worry - damaged wings for winged creatures could quickly turn detrimental, it was a natural part of who they were, how they felt, and sensed danger around them. Without it, they’d feel incomplete, empty, but most importantly - they’d be in their most vulnerable state.

Phil’s fingers were soft and light as he cleaned out the wounded wing, picking out and straightening feathers that were stuck, misshapen, or out of place. Gently, using lukewarm water, he washed the dirt, rocks, and dried blood from the wound, careful to move slowly so as to not cause alarm to the kid. Ghostbur floated up next to him, placing the things he asked for on the bedside table, crossing his arms, and looking over to the teenager. “Is he gonna be okay, Phil?”

“I…” Phil sighed. “I dunno. The wound’s deep, half his flying feathers are gone… thank gods whoever left him had a shit aim, it looks like they were trying to take the wing off at the source.”

“Can you fix it?”

“...I can try.”

------------------------------------------------

Tommy’s head pounded, his body wrapped in a comforting warmth that practically screamed at him to sink into. His muscles ached for rest, but Tommy knew he needed to get moving. His head ached so much it made his brain go fuzzy as he struggled to remember what happened yesterday. He and Tubbo were moving to go collect some honey… Did he fall asleep again?

Tommy would admit it wouldn’t be the first time he found a good sunlight patch to catch a nap and the shulker hybrid had to carry him back to their base on the mountain. How long had he slept? Why was he still tired?

His ears perked up as he heard shuffling around him. His instincts began to flare, sending signals up his spine. Wait… the hunters… the hunters took him… Tubbo’s in danger-

He felt someone touch his wing, gently moving it toward themselves. His wing… they tried to take his wings, they wanted to sell them for money-! Tommy’s eyes snapped open. He wasn’t home. He didn’t know where he was and a stranger was touching his wing.

dangerdangerdanger-

Ignoring his body’s protests to rest, he leaped up, surprising the attacker as he tackled him toward the wall quickly to restrain him, pinning his neck with his arm. A crash sounded behind him but Tommy didn’t care. He was getting out of here and saving Tubbo no matter what. His eyes bore into the ill-intended stranger, ready for a fight. “Where am I?!”

The stranger’s eyes flicked up toward Tommy’s, at first matching his intense gaze before quickly softening, silent as he became acutely aware of the razor-sharp talons digging into his leg. “You’re in my house.” He did his best to keep his voice calm. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Where’s Tubbo?”

“Who-”

Tommy slammed the man back against the wall. “Don’t act dumb you fucker, where’s the shulk?!”

“I don’t know, okay?! Just-!”

Tommy’s eyes flicked over toward the window - an escape! He needed to get out of here, clearly Tubbo got taken somewhere else if the stranger didn’t know him. He needed to get free and… and come up with some kind of plan...yeah! Adrenaline pumping like mad from the close encounter, the stranger noticed his gaze as realization hit him.

“Wait… hold on, you really shouldn’t-!”

Tommy felt the wind flow underneath his wings, perched on the window ledge. They were achingly sore - who knows how long he’d been trapped here? Moving to crack a tense spot in his back, Tommy felt a sense of relief. He smiled, knowing that his wings wouldn’t be sore for much longer. They just needed to stretch.

Phil rushed forward, an inch too late as Tommy leaped from the building.

The teenager stretched his wings out to catch himself on the breeze, confident for the span of at least a minute. He closed his eyes like he usually did to better focus. Why couldn’t he feel his wings picking him up? Why wasn’t his body doing what he needed to - it was as simple as taking a step! Just stretch and glide on the breeze.

Stretch, and…

For the first time since the avian learned to fly, Tommy found himself crashing down onto the grass. Shame welled up in his stomach, paired with confusion. Hearing the door bang open behind him added to it all a twinge of fear. He stumbled, trying in vain to gather his bearings. Ignoring the sting of scratches from the crash, he ran into the forest.

“Wait! Mate, just wait for a second!”

The wind picked up through the trees, tangling through hair and setting practically every nerve on Tommy’s wings aflame. There was danger. He needed to fly. He needed to fly away, but… but he couldn’t. He was trapped and alone with hunters chasing him down to finish the job they started. He couldn’t stop running. He couldn’t, because if he did he could say goodbye to flying ever again. He’d never grow his wings back, and he’d look like a useless disgusting human.

He’d be normal.

Flying was the only hybrid skill, the only uniqueness about him. Tommy would rather die than ever have that stripped away from him. Chopping away bone, muscle, and feather - all in the interest of earning a few gold coins! Well, fuck them. His body barely running on energy as it was, his legs gave out on him as he fell to the ground again.

No. Please.

He heard footsteps, flipping around to see the blonde man. Pure fear gripped him for the first time in his life. He scooted backwards as the man tried to approach. Another pathetic attempt at escaping - why was he even trying anymore? His back hit a tree trunk, his wings shrinking back, as scared as he was. Yet, the blonde man moved closer.

“Stay back! Stay back, or…” Tommy struggled, quickly moving to grab a rock, holding it up in some sort of threat. As if a rock could take down a hybrid hunter. “...or I will mess you up, bro!”

The blonde man stopped walking forward. “Look, I know you’re confused and scared, I would be too. But I promise, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Liar! I won’t let you take them!”

The man’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Take them…? I…” He looked down at the teenager in sympathy. “I don’t want your wings, I swear!”

“Bullshit!” Tommy yelled. “I know your game, stop acting so innocent! You can’t lure me in, you can’t make me trust a single word you say, hunter!”

“I’m not... I’m not a hunter, okay?” Phil said, stepping closer and making Tommy tense. He sat down four feet away from the teen, taking a deep breath before shouldering off his green robe, leaving the white tank. Immediately, a pair of translucent, metallic wings unfurled from his back, so large Tommy almost felt intimidated. Tommy wanted to say something, but words died on his throat. Phil shrugged his shoulders after stretching his wings out looking up toward the avian. He awkwardly smiled. “...well mate, I’m like you.”

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General Taglist (Tell me if you want to be added/removed!):

@bones-sprouts

@benzel

@foolishcaptains

#osmp #osmp!wilbur #wilbur soot #osmp!tubbo #osmp!tommy #tubbo #tommyinnit #tommyinnit and tubbo #osmp!phil #philza #dadza philza #my writing #hurt/comfort #osmp drabble #osmp fic

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gnocchighoul · 4 years

Text

Operation Hot Potato

Summary:

“See? She’s just a baby~” you coo, gently wiggling the kitten in his face.

Lucifer grimaces. Takes another, larger step back. “If a baby is what you want, I’d rather give you one myself.”

(You bring home a kitten and try to hide her from Lucifer. Unfortunately for you, nothing gets past the House of Lamentation’s resident pet-hater.)

Word Count: 3.6k

AO3 Portal

You found a kitten.

Well—kind of. It’s debatable.

You think it’s a kitten. She certainly looks like one—fluffy little thing with snow-white fur, blue eyes, a poofy little triangular head, and the most perfectly pink toe beans you’ve ever had the pleasure of squishing.

The reason why you’re so hesitant to call her a kitten?

She breathes fire. Hiccups fireballs. Sneezes flaming hot streams of… well, flames.

You learned that firsthand ten minutes ago, when you nearly got your eyebrows singed off by a particularly dangerous sneeze. All you wanted to do was give her a smooch on her wittle pink nose, you weren’t expecting to get blasted in the face with an orangey-red inferno.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter if she’s a little strange. You’ve sworn your everlasting love to your newfound daughter—your secret daughter that the demon brothers can absolutely not know about under any circumstances whatsoever, because you just know that Lucifer will make you put her back in the wild where you found her.

Your fire-sneezing, bouncing baby girl wouldn’t last another day out in the harsh wilderness (aka the dumpster that you retrieved her from). In the forty-seven minutes that you’ve had her, she’s grown accustomed to belly scratches, sleeping in your bed, and gnawing on only the finest tortilla chips in the Devildom.

Her name is Tater Tot.

She sticks out like a sore white thumb among your colorful assortment of pillows. Not that she cares. She’s living it up in the lap of luxury. Tater Tot stretches—turns around with every paw in the air, proudly showing off her rotund little baby belly, and mrrps at you.

Its the cutest thing you've ever fucking seen. You just wanna SQUEEZE her. Ugh, who would've guessed that a little trash fire baby would steal your heart so quickly?

And it’s not like you broke the rules and brought home a pet on purpose. Tater Tot had chosen you. By choosing to rummage around in that specific dumpster that you just so happened to walk past on your way home from RAD, Tater Tot had effectively decided that you were to be her new caretaker.

It’s fate. Kismet. You’ve wanted a pet for so long—dog, cat, dragon, gremlin, doesn’t matter. You’ve spent hours upon hours bitching and moaning to anyone that’ll listen about how badly you’ve wanted a pet to smother with your love. Nobody has been able to escape your woe. Everyone—the brothers, the angels, Solomon, and even your good buddy Diavolo (somehow, Barbatos has managed to evade you) have all been forced to listen to your lamenting about the pet-shaped hole in your heart.

But finally—finally—your prayers have been answered.

With a fire breathing kitten.

Oh yeah. Kismet.

You’re fairly certain that Tater Tot has never lived in a house. She had been perfectly content to snuggle up in your school uniform like some kind of tiny, pouch dwelling, heat seeking creature, until you had snuck into your bedroom and closed the door behind you.

The second you set her on the floor, it was like a switch flipped. Tater Tot had shown off her unnatural strength by flinging her little puffball body around the room like a possessed tumbleweed, spastically crashing around the room and knocking over furniture and keepsakes alike.

You had finally cornered her under your bed and sat peacefully nearby, humming quietly to calm her. It didn’t take long for you to coax her out with snacks—she liked the chips, but passionately disliked the gummy worms—and within twenty minutes you had Tater Tot lounging with you on the bed, rubbing her soft little cheeks into your palm for rubs and scritches.

You need to come up with a plan to hide your beloved child ASAP. It’s only a matter of time until either Lucifer hauls you off to his room or one of the brothers decides to camp out in yours for the night, and if word gets back to Lucifer that you’re harboring a fugitive animal… Well, favoritism or not, it won’t end pretty.

Though perhaps there is one person who can help you with this little secret.

Satan. The cat-loving fourth brother.

Man oh man, he’s going to be thrilled with sweet little Tater Tot. You have to be careful though—you reckon that there is a 96% chance that he’ll try to steal her away from you. Trying to juggle custody battles and harboring your secret daughter from Lucifer all at the same time sounds like such a pain.

But… That would still be better than having to put Tater Tot back on the streets.

With the threat of big-meanie-Lucifer looming over you like a particularly gothic and pet-hating phantom, you come to a final decision. You’re just going to have to pull on your big girl pants and accept the soul crushing truth of the situation.

Satan is your only hope.

But how are you going to sneak your daughter all the way over to his room?

You look around your own room for something, anything that can hide your beloved dumpster pet and—ohohoho.

“Darling?”

You freeze midstep.

Busted.

“What’s up, Lucifer?” You try so hard to keep your voice calm and normal. So hard.

Judging by the way Lucifer looks at you, you’ve failed. And you were so close. Satan’s bedroom is literally right there! Only a few yards away! If only you’d just had ten more seconds to yourself in the dark hallway... Alas, the warden your beloved Lucifer aka the resident pet hater stands between you and the dusty salvation that is Satan’s library of a bedroom.

You shuffle your feet a bit nervously. Readjust your grip on the cardboard box. A bit warily, Lucifer eyes it.

“What’s in the box?”

You panic. “What box?”

Fuck.

Lucifer cracks a smile, though it doesn’t meet his gaze. He gestures to the cardboard box that you are currently holding near to your chest like some sort of ugly, cubic liferaft.

“Oh!” You laugh. It’s too high pitched. Suspicious. “This box? It’s just some books for Satan, it’s nothing—”

The box sneezes.

Your mouth snaps shut and you thank all the fucking stars in heaven that this sneeze didn’t flambé you.

Lucifer’s eyes narrow accusingly. Tone icy and sharp, he says, “Books? Is that so?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuck—

You wilt a bit under the intensity of his gaze. “They’re… cursed books? Yeah, so cursed and dangerous and only Satan knows how to nullify the evilness of these books so I’m gonna just slip past you—”

Lucifer takes a step to the left, planting himself firmly in your path and effectively thwarting your desperate grand escape. A single blade of moonlight cuts through the curtains and slices through the shadows, Lucifer now caught in the spotlight and—oh that fucker did that on purpose. Ugh, what a drama queen.

Red eyes practically glowing in the dark, he nods menacingly at the box. “Go on then. Open it.”

“I dunno, I really shouldn’t because of the curses and—”

Clearly not in the mood to entertain your scheming-slash-rambling, Lucifer takes matters into his own hands. Before you can twist away, one of his hands darts out to knock the lid off of the box and—

Books. It’s filled with books.

He frowns. Lifts one up and—nope, there’s just more books underneath. “...What?”

“Happy? Now if you don’t mind I really should get—”

“Let me help you with that.”

Your reflexes aren't fast enough. Before you can leap back or Sparta kick him away, Lucifer plucks the box right out of your arms… and reveals a squirming lump beneath your sweater, right inbetween your breasts. The box hits the floor. Lucifer stares at your newly acquired mass with a very particular sort of horror that you’ve never seen before.

You panic. Again.

“...I grew a new boob. I think the Devildom air is toxic or something, but it’s okay! The more the merrier, right? We can still—gET YOUR HANDS OFF MY TIDDIES—”

Lucifer presses one hand to your lower back, trapping you, and yanks down your zipper, revealing the purrito that is wrapped kind-of-securely to your chest with a scarf. He recoils backwards, looking equal parts horrified and peeved off.

Time for Plan B.

93% sure that you can still recover from this situation that is rapidly soaring downhill, you stuff your hands into your pockets and then throw them outwards, flinging fistfuls of rainbow confetti into the air. “Surpriiiise! You’re a daddy! Say hello to our daughter.”

“No.”

“Her name is Tater Tot. Personally, I think she takes after you.”

The Tater in question shimmies out of her silky prison and tumbles nose first into your palms. You hold her right up to Lucifer’s face, grinning like a goddamn sociopath when he takes an alarmed step backwards. Little puffball paws desperately try to swipe at his nose. Lucifer looks downright offended by the assault of pink toe beans.

“See? She’s just a baby~” you coo, gently wiggling the noodle-limp kitten in his face.

Lucifer grimaces. Takes another, larger step back. “If a baby is what you want, I’d rather give you one myself.”

“As fun as that sounds, we have a perfectly good one right here!”

“That thing is not a baby. Where did you find it?”

There’s a concerned little scrunch in his brow that you wanna smooth over with your thumb, but when you try to close the distance between you two, he moves further out of reach. Frowning, you hug Tater Tot to your chest. She snuggles her face into the crook of your neck and purrs like the smallest biodiesel engine in all of the realms.

“I found her in a dumpster!” you say, perhaps a bit too proudly.

Lucifer’s eyes widen. “In the city?”

“Why is that so shocking? Does the Devildom not have stray cats?”

“That’s not a cat.”

“Well yeah I kinda figured, what with the whole fire breathing thing and all, but—”

“It’s a chimera.”

You stare at Lucifer. Try to gauge how serious he’s being. Tater Tot nibbles on your thumb with little needle-like teeth.

Surely he’s joking.

“...Like the lion-goat-lizard thing? That chimera?”

Lucifer nods.

Like you’re in some twisted version of the Lion King, you hold Tater Tot up in the beam of moonlight that Mr. Doom and Gloom had previously been occupying. Examine her totally normal kitten-features. The distinct lack of goat hooves. Miss Tater licks her nose. A Chimera? Her?

Surely he’s fucking with you.

But… it would explain the whole fire-breathing thing. Kind of. You’re not fully convinced he’s lying, but the truth doesn’t make much more sense.

But if she is a chimera… that’s so badass.

If Lucifer thinks for one second that Tater Tot being a nightmarish Hell creature is going to scare you into giving her up, then he is sorely mistaken. (You did choose to date him, after all. You're an expert at loving on Hellish beings.) At the end of the day, whether Tater is a chimera or a cat or whatever the hell else, you’ve already bonded with each other. She’s your baby and you are not going to let him get rid of her.

If he gets Cerberus, then you get your funky little Tater Tot, dammit.

Lucifer watches this journey of emotions play out on your face. His eyes narrow. He says your name slowly, strained—a thinly veiled warning in his voice.

The grin that overtakes your face can only be described as evil.

“We’re keeping her.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You can’t be serious.”

From the depths of your blanket fort, your hand emerges to flip Lucifer off. He scowls.

“This blanket fort is only for Tater Tot and me.”

“Then perhaps you should relocate to your bed.” Lucifer growls.

You snuggle further into the black sheets cocooning you. With impressive speed, you had raced back to Lucifer’s room and stripped every piece of fabric from his bed in record time. From there, it was simply a matter of combining the dark sheets with a bunch of pillows and voila. You had created your very own anti-Lucifer fortress, right in the middle of his bed.

Tater Tot army-crawls across your thigh and worms her way into the sheets, vanishing like a ninja.

"What?" You peek at Lucifer through a small opening in the fabric. “But then you would just ignore me and Tater Tot.”

“Yes, exactly. I’m glad that we’re on the same page.”

“No! We’re not on the same page at all,” you scowl. “I’m not moving until you bond with her.”

“Then I suppose you’ll be stuck there forever.”

“Maybe I will!”

You can’t see him right now, but you know in the depths of your heart that Lucifer is rolling his eyes at you.

Which, y’know. Fair. You are being a little bit ridiculous. But what choice do you have? The confetti didn't work and Lucifer needs to form an everlasting bond with Tater Tot. He needs to experience how lovely and precious and wonderful your little baby is, so that he won’t make you put her back in the dumpster where you found her.

You have one last tactic. It is by far the absolute worst.

Talking to him. Like some kind of functioning, responsible adult, because apparently that's what you're supposed to do in a healthy relationship. Blegh.

While you agonize over stooping to this final resort, Lucifer climbs into the bed without a word and settles himself in like he owns the place. Which he does. But that’s beside the point.

One of your arms emerges from the blanket shield to poke at his pajama clad thigh. He doesn’t react. So naturally, you poke him again. And again. And again, until finally he sighs, “What?”

You squirm your way out of the stuffy blankets, gulping down air once you're free—sweet baby Jesus, fresh air has never felt so good—and Tater Tot flies out after you, rocketing across the mattress at the speed of light and tumbling around like a little white pom pom. While she does her own thing, you worm your way into Lucifer’s side so that you’re halfway on top of his chest. He huffs and lays there like a board, refusing to hug you, so you grab his arm and wrap it around your shoulders yourself.

Here goes nothing.

“Why are you so against having a pet?” you ask, dancing the pads of your fingers over his chest.

Lucifer cracks one eye open. “The first and last time I allowed pets in the house, Satan brought home 48 cats. In one hour.”

...You really should have seen that one coming.

“Oh. Well, I mean… Is that reallyyy a bad thing—ow! You jerk, I was just kidding.” You pout. “You didn’t have to pinch my butt that hard.”

Lucifer snickers and pats your butt consolingly. “Mmm, no, I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

Briefly, you consider headbutting him right in the chin. But alas, that wouldn’t solve anything, so you settle for pressing a kiss to his collarbone, then reach a hand up to play with his hair, just how he likes. It’s not very ~vengeful~ buuut it’s bound to put him in a better mood.

You trace cutesy little heart shapes on his right pec. “You know what I want?”

Lucifer closes his eyes—lets his head fall back onto the mattress. “We’re not keeping her.”

You snuggle into his chest with a happy little hum. “Yes we are.”

“...Just for the night. Tomorrow you're putting her back where you found her."

You wake up in agony.

It feels like you’ve had a lung ripped out and replaced with serrated knives. Or shark teeth. Each breath drags oh so painfully at your—just kidding.

You wake up well rested and tangled in the bedsheets, your head hanging off the side of the mattress. You’re a little hazy-brained and your skull feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, but that’s probably because of all the blood rushing to your head. When you roll over and haul yourself back up onto the bed, a noise escapes you that is definitely not fit for polite company.

The murky depths of slumber threaten to take you again, so you pat around the bed with your hand, looking for your favorite demon-slash-body pillow. You pat. And keep patting. Where the hell is Lucifer?

You crack one bleary eye open, trying to find Lucifer and—

Where the hell is Tater Tot?

Your heart jolts in your chest as you realize a few things all at once.

One: Lucifer is missing.

Two: Tater Tot is missing.

Three: You slept through breakfast, but that’s less important.

You’re off like a shot, wrestling yourself out of the sheets and flinging them to the floor, then stumbling across the room to get to the door before your brain can even fully wake up. It’s fine, you don’t need 100% brainpower, you just need to find your baby.

You’ve barely taken four steps into the hallway when you slam nose first into Mammon. He catches you, saving your face from becoming acquainted with the floor, and you grab him by the leathery lapels of his jacket.

“Where’s Lucifer?!” you hiss.

Mammon desperately tries to squirm out of your feral grip. You shake him like a polaroid picture.

“Geez, knock it off would ya?! He’s in his office, what the hell is up with you? Wh—HEY! I’M NOT DONE TALKIN’ TO YA!”

Whatever the Weenie has to say to you is less important than finding your child, so as soon as you acquire Lucifer’s location, you haul ass to Lucifer’s study.

In a raging fury that could rival Satan’s existence, you fling open the door, ready to tear Lucifer a new one for not even letting you say goodbye to your beloved kitten and—

And your heart melts into a warm, gooey puddle.

Lucifer is sitting at his desk. Tater Tot is draped across his shoulders.

Lucifer glares at you, but there's no real bite in his gaze. “Keep it down, Phobos is sleeping.”

You blink stupidly, your brain racing at a thousand miles an hour to catch up with whatever the hell you’re currently feeling that has you all mushy and moon-eyed. “Phobos? What the hell? That’s not her name at all.”

“My love, we are not naming our daughter after potatoes. Her name is now Phobos. She and I came to a mutual agreement that it is far more fitting of a name for a creature of her pedigree.”

...You’re so torn. On one hand, you want to argue that Tater Tot is a lovely name for your dumpster kitten-chimera-thing, but on the other hand… he called her ‘our daughter’. As in your guys’s daughter. This can only mean one thing, and you clutch at your heart when you realize what’s happening.

They bonded.

It damn well might bring a tear to your eyes.

You make your way over to Lucifer, shove aside the papers on his desk, and perch your happy ass right on the hardwood.

With a bone deep sigh, Lucifer leans back in his chair. “Why do you always do that? My lap is available, you know.”

Tater Tot wakes up and lifts her heavy little sleep-addled head to meep at you.

You grin—hook your ankles around the armrests of his chair and pull him closer. “So… does this mean we’re keeping Tater Tot?”

“... Yes, we’re keeping Phobos. But that’s it, no more pets.”

“Okay, wait. Hear me out. What about a dog?”

“Absolutely not.”

Lucifer plucks another white hair from his RAD uniform and holds it up to the moonlight, scowling at the offensive thing. Why in all the realms did you have to find a white cat? The damned thing has only lived with you lot for two days and yet somehow its hair has already gotten over every article of black clothing in his wardrobe. It’s infuriating.

His gaze wanders across the courtyard to where you’re sitting pretty on Beel’s shoulders, clawing at his face with your fingertips and screaming in terror at how high up you are. He grins.

He can put up with the shedding fur, so long as he gets to see how your eyes shine like the stars when you see Phobos.

Still though. Why couldn’t you find a black kitten?

“Lucifer! There you are!”

Lucifer flicks the cat hair—lets the breeze catch it and float it away. Before he can even get a proper greeting in, Diavolo is pulling him in for a bone crushing hug.

“You’re here a bit later than usual. How’s life with the new kitten treating you?” Diavolo asks.

Lucifer steps out of the hug and eyes Diavolo warily. “Just fine, thank yo—wait. How do you know about the cat?”

Diavolo blinks innocently. “Surely you told me about her, didn’t you?”

No, he definitely did not—oh no.

Lucifer stares, slack jawed and horrified, because in that moment, he realizes something that he refuses to accept.

No.

No. It can’t be.

Diavolo would never do that to him. He would ne—oh fuck, he absolutely did.

Diavolo planted the cat. He knew that you would find her in that dumpster and take her home.

Lucifer has never known a betrayal quite like this. Diavolo says something about heading off to his office, but he doesn’t hear him over the rushing in his ears.

“Diavolo.”

The demon prince in question pauses in his escape to look back at Lucifer. “Yes, Lucifer?”

“Why did you have to pick a white cat?”

And oh, Diavolo laughs. A full belly laugh that quite honestly kills Lucifer. Just a little bit.

#gnocchiwrites #obey me shall we date #obey me #swd obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me drabble #obey me fanfic #obey me! shall we date?#tater tot's adventures

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aphrodite-would-be-proud · 4 years

Note

It’s my birthday can I request headcanons or something with Erwin Smith surprising you with a cake he made?

It's your birthday and you came to me??? Im so honoured!!!💛💛 happy birthday btw! The world is so lucky to have you in it, i hope you have an amazing day and a lovely year💛💛

And of course you can🥰 anything for the birthday royalty!

Erwin celebrates your birthday by baking a cake

{ Erwin x reader | tw: none | romance, the cheesy kind | modern }

{ “For Saint Dorothea's Day" 1899 by Herbert James Draper 1863–1920 }

Now, Erwin is a romantic person at heart, someone like him would get the nightsky stars if his loved one asked for them. So he waits in anticipation for any excuse to drown you in his love, and a birthday is a perfect occasion to go the whole nine yards. He'd be planning for that day weeks in advance.

He'd even take the day off, something he so rarely does since he rivals Levi in his workaholism.

But for you? He's absolutely smitten.

Breakfast in bed, no negotiation about it. He'd wake up really early and sneak out of bed to prepare to you whatever your heart desires, he'd cut you fresh fruit and pour you your favourite drink. He'd make you some chocolate treats to eat, making some of them heart shaped with a smile on his face.

If you let him, he'd feed them to you by hand. Maybe even giving you a kiss after each delicious bite.

You're going to be so pamper and treated like loyalty you wouldn't know how to go back to daily life after that day.

How do you feel about a warm bubble bath with scented water in the morning? Because he's carrying you there, no matter what size have you seen this greek god built man?

Gently massages your shoulders and sore muscles while in there, while whispering honey like compliments in your ear.

It's just the start of the day and he already has you wrapped around his finger.

As much as he'd like to hog you for the rest of the day, he wants you to go and enjoy yourself with the people you love.

Maybe it's your family, maybe it's your friends or maybe it's your pets. Doesn't matter because even if you're not sure who to spend it with, Hange, Miche and Nanaba will be more than happy to take you out.

Levi will actually tag along too, he just doesn't wanna admit to it.

They will spoil you, whatever you want, wherever you want to go. Miche knows the best restaurants around here, Hange knows the best views and Nanaba will take you to the underrated shops she's friends with the owners of.

And whatever you chose, Levi will follow. He is there to protect you and make sure no creeps even think about ruining this day for you and not just because of Erwin's request, he genuinely cares about you and respects you. He sees how much better you changed his dear friend's life and how much happiness you gave him, he thinks you're a good person.

If you want to thank him, ask Miche to take you to his favourite teashop. He won't show a smile but his eyebrows will soften when you arrive there.

Meanwhile, Erwin would be just finished decorating the house. He wanted to do every single thing himself so it'd feel even more personal. Not to mention he really enjoyed it, hanging the fairy lights and tying the heart shaped ballons.

It's when he's finished sorting the flowers around the dinner table that he heads to the kitchen.

Now Erwin whilst a romantic, he's still rational and knows just how far his abilities can stretch, baking is not one of his strong suits. And yet he still wants to make you a cake himself, for you to eat something he made on your birthday.

That's how he ends up with three boxes of cake mix, after that making the cake simply required putting the right amount of ingredients, which to him is as easy as...a piece of cake.

Thankfully he doesn't burn it in the oven, and it actually tastes decent enough. After that he follows some youtube tutorial on how to cut it and add fruits and other things inside, then comes the icing and cream.

He tries his best, yes the red cream melted a bit with the white icing smudging it, yes the heart he drew is a little crocked at the side, yes he added too much sprinkles. But he is proud of his hard work.

It's Levi who texts him after he puts the cake in the fridge, telling him they're heading home right now.

Perfect timing isn't it. Did Erwin really calculate how much time his friends can distract you and timed it perfectly with how much time it'd take him to decorate and bake a cake?

Or is it just pure luck? You'll never know.

He welcomes you with a kiss, despite Hange and Miche teasing him about it. It only spurs him to show you more affection.

You all sit in the living room, share some drinks while chatting. The atmosphere is calm and you get to hear a lot of embarrassing stories. Half-way through the talk, Moblit finally arrives to join the rest.

He apologises for being late, apparently he was in charge of keeping the gifts and wrapping them. He sets the bag aside and takes a wine glass from Hange before finishing it himself.

After some hours, Erwin and Nanaba go get the plates, they insist you sit since it's your birthday. Levi clears some space on the table for the cake while Moblit turns off the light after lighting all the candles.

Miche and Hange keep you compay, they keep telling you jokes and stories that your stomach hurts from laughing so much.

Under Erwin's order, everyone has to join in singing a happy birthday no matter how bad of a singer they are, yes Levi even you.

You blow the candles, they cut the cake, Erwin feeds you a piece of his with the fork.

At night time, after you've all eaten, drank some tea that Levi made after the cake, talked and laughed. One by one they excuse themselves to leave.

It's Moblit who has to go first, still needing to finish some paperwork. He also drags Hange with him and they say they still haven't told you the rest of Erwin's embarrassing stories.

After them it's Miche, having drank too much Nanaba has to drive him home safely. She wishes you a happy birthday one last time before somehow handling the taller man to the car outside.

Lastly it's Levi, he just finished washing the dishes you just ate in, what? They were bothering him. And no it's your birthday of course you're not washing any dishes.

Just when he was putting his coat on, he tells Erwin to lean down before whispering something in his ear. It earns him a chuckle before he says "I'm serious." Then leaves.

Looking at Erwin curiously, you don't have to ask what he said because he looks at you back before saying. "He told me not to fuck up this and lose you, otherwise he's coming for my neck."

So far, this is the sweetest compliment Levi has ever said to you in all the years you've been with Erwin. You can't help but feel touched.

That night, before going to bed, Erwin tells you there's still one last thing he hasn't done yet.

He tells you to close your eyes, you do. Then you hear some shuffling followed by a slightly cold thing being draped around your neck. Guiding you to a mirror, he only tells you to open them after wrapping his arms around you, head on your shoulder.

"Do you like it?" He whispers to you, looking at your eyes in the mirror as he kisses your skin. Fingers trailing up your waist slowly, till they reach the necklace around your neck.

#erwin smith x reader #erwin x reader #erwin x y/n #erwin smith #commander erwin #erwin headcanons #erwin x you #aot erwin #erwin #erwin🕯#birthday #fluff #romance #aot #snk #aot x y/n #aot x reader #snk x reader #requests🕯

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mandolovian · 4 years

Text

1. triple-scented jasmine

pairing: cottagecore!din djarin/the mandalorian x reader

warnings: none! reader has some gently spicy feelings but it’s all pretty mild and full of yearning + fluff + pining

word count: 1.7k

a/n: this entire concept is dedicated to @mndalorians - thank u for fueling both my desire to live in the woods, and also to live in the woods with a tin can metal man. let me know what you think! pls expect more of this world bc i love it so so so so much ✨

You’d been eyeing the Mandalorian that moved into the property across from yours.

It was a rundown bungalow sitting on overgrown land: soil that hadn’t been turned, cobwebs that hadn’t been dusted. The previous owner was a portly man with ruddy cheeks - good-natured in temperament, but heavy-handed with the liquor. Towards the later years of his life, he became increasingly neglectful of the raised garden beds that lined the fences, and the poor citrus trees were left to shrivel into husks of their magnificent beings.

The arrival of a spaceship onto the planet sent many hushed whispers through the little farming community, no matter what kind of spaceship it was. Mira came rushing to your front door that morning, laden with town-gossip and bottles of bantha milk, a little shiny eyed and sweaty at effort it had taken to speed walk to your house in the morning sun.

‘It’s a Mandalorian,’ she stage-whispers, cooling herself with an old newspaper while sitting on your porch steps. ‘All shiny and pretty too. Parked his ship in the old hangars downtown. Probably the only ship in those hangars, to tell the honest truth.’

You lean against the doorframe, picking at a loose string on your apron. ‘What’s a Mandalorian doing around here, Mira?’ you ask.

‘Beats me,’ Mira says, shuffling her heavy skirts to sit more comfortably on the steps. The fabric hides the swell of her belly, and she keeps a hand on it when she leans back to look at you. ‘I heard it’s the same shiny Mandalorian that was shooting up all those Outer Rim cities. Maybe he’s looking to settle down here!’

You look down in exasperation at Mira with raised eyebrows, and she throws her hands up in defence before going back to vigorously fanning herself.

‘Either way,’ she says after a while, getting up with some difficulty. You offer her your arm and she takes it gratefully, heaving herself up to her feet. ‘It’ll be some excitement for us, you know?’

Her voice drops to a stage whisper again as she grabs your forearm, grinning toothily. ‘Maybe he’s single and is really looking to settle down!’

‘Mira please-’

‘I’m just saying!’ she says, waving you off. You help her collect the empty bottles back into her basket, and she waddles back down the porch steps. ‘If that Mandalorian comes knocking at your door, you best be opening it!’

----

Mira wasn’t wrong. He really was quite shiny.

With a mug of coffee and a biscuit, you settle yourself on the window seat and curle up your feet under you. It’s a prime position to look through the cracks of the curtains as the Mandalorian unloads his luggage off the rusty hover-trailer. The sun is high in the sky and shines off his armour as he lifts case after case off the trailer, stacking them on the porch of the bungalow.

A little baby follows the Mandalorian’s feet as he walks from the trailer to the house. Green, about a foot high, and almost entirely composed of petal-ears that raises and lowers in time with the crates that the Mandalorian carried. Your heart tightens a little when the baby trips over his little robe and goes sprawling into an overgrown rosemary bush, and tightens just a little more when the Mandalorian reaches down to pick the baby up, stroke his ears, and press the baby’s forehead to his helmet.

Maybe he is here to settle down.

You concede that he’s difficult to wholly admire from afar, but even with the distance that unfortunately befalls between you, you can tell that he was strong. Broad. You let your mind wander at the sight of his thighs when he kneels to tug at a handful of weeds that prevents his fence from latching firmly.

Capable and compassionate.

And if your eyes flutters shut and your thighs press against each other with just a little bit of pressure? Well, no one needed to know.

-----

‘Hi there!’

If anyone told you that you would open your front door, dressed in a nightdress and slippers, to a fully armoured and incredibly luminescent Mandalorian, you would say they were absolutely dreaming. Even still, there he stands, in his beskar glory, and your breath catches a little at the sight of his broad shoulders taking up nearly all of the doorway.

‘Hello,’ he says, and maker you’re already melting at his voice. ‘My son and I, we just-’ he haphazardly gestures behind him, ‘-moved into the house down there.’

‘I saw,’ you say quietly, choosing to avoid mentioning how much you’ve already stared at him today. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘We don’t seem to have electricity at the house,’ he says with a sigh, tapping his fingers against his belt. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the fuses but the entire system seemed turned off. Would you... would you maybe know why?’

‘You might not have your house connected to the grid,’ you say after a beat, tapping the corner of your lips in thought. ‘That house has been empty for years, of course it’d be disconnected.’

‘Is there a way to fix that?’

You shake your head, and the Mandalorian sighs quietly in response. ‘Not till morning,’ you say. ‘You’ll need to see Ledo Rikil in town tomorrow - he’ll be able to link your house up to the grid.’

‘I see,’ says the Mandalorin. He seems a little sheepish, perhaps dejected, and he lets out a tinny sigh again. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you shift slightly on your feet.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ you begin, not wanting to part so readily, ‘tonight will be warm so you’ll not need any heating, but maybe I can give you some candles for the dark?’

The Mandalorian hums, deep and sugary. Your toes curl inside your slippers at the sound and you feel ever so slightly dizzy. ‘That would be wonderful,’ he said, and stars, was it always going to be like this? Could you keep it together for one conversation?

You usher him over the step into your house, and he gingerly walks in. You can tell that he’s trying his best to avoid stomping on your floorboards, and you know better than to ask him to take his boots off. The Mandalorian carefully moves himself to stand on the rug in your living area - as if he’s a penguin seeking an iceberg on the wooden sea.

‘This is a nice house,’ he says, tilting his helmet as he watched you from the middle of the room. ‘Very… homely.’

He trails off at the end of the sentence, and seems to sink even more sheepishly into his beskar studded boots.

‘You’re allowed to take inspiration, if you like,’ you say with a soft laugh, turning to rummage through your cupboards. ‘Can’t imagine that the old shack has any personality right now.’

‘I haven’t lived in a house in a long time,’ says the Mandalorian, and you hum in response. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him cautiously take a seat at the edge of your couch, rearranging his limbs until his hands were folded on his lap like a regency-era maiden.

‘Well,’ you say, balancing several candles in your arms as you walk over to him, ‘you’ve come to the right place for inspiration and illumination.’

Onto the coffee table in front of him, you lay out the selection: four paraffin pillar candles, a handful of tealights, and one ornate jar, complete with a glass lid. The Mandalorian leans forward and rests his forearms on his knees, tilting his helmet to silently assess your layout.

‘The paraffin ones should be your go-to candles,’ you say, sitting back on your knees on the rug in front of the coffee table. Gently, you push the pillar candles closer to him. ‘They can burn for half a day, and they have a very bright flame. They’ll brighten an entire room with no problem.’

You pick up a tealight, and hand it to the Mandalorian. It sits tiny in the middle of his palm, and he strokes the edge of the wick gently with a gloved finger.

‘Those are good for temporary use,’ you say. ‘Or if you only need light for a small area. Or just for decorating. Up to you, really.’

‘And the glass one?’ he ask.

You pick up the jar and open it, before offering it to the Mandalorian. ‘It’s a housewarming gift,’ you say. ‘Triple-scented jasmine. Made it myself.’

The Mandalorian puts down the tealights, and accepts the jar with as much gentle grace as an armoured man could. ‘You made this yourself?’ he asks, and you nod shyly.

With a quiet groan, you sit up on your knees, and flex side to side to stretch out your sore hips. ‘They’re not too hard to make,’ you say, ‘I could show you one day if you’d like?’

There’s a soft crackle of a laugh, made hoarse by his helmet. It’s warm, delightful, and you wonder what it might feel like against the apples of your cheeks.

‘It’s incredible,’ he say, and you fiddle demurely with the edge of your dress at the praise. ‘Thank you so much for all of this - how could I ever repay you?’

‘Nonsense,’ you say, standing up straight and brushing off your skirts. The Mandalorian stands up with you, and he haphazardly arranges the candles in his forearms before sheepishly accepting a canvas bag from you. ‘Just… come say hello every so often. I’ll introduce you to everyone!’

‘Everyone?’

He’s standing back on your doorstep now, swinging the bag of candles lightly in his left hand. The moonlight shines off the harsh planes of his armour, and you idly wonder how often and how long he spent polishing it. You’d have to ask sometime.

‘It’s a small town,’ you say. ‘We help each other out. It helps knowing one another.’

The Mandalorian steps backwards, carefully down the porch steps and onto your gravel path. ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ he says, tilting his helmet towards you. ‘I’ll see you later.’

You cross your arms against the quiet breeze, and lean against the post. ‘Goodnight, Mandalorian.’

#din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian #mando #din djarin #dev talks #mandalorian imagine #mandalorian blurb #mando x reader #din djarin blurb #fluff #mywriting #blurb #hmmm will the tags work #anyway goodnight!

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pianomanblaine · 3 years

Text

Be My Guest

AO3 FFN

This had been a horrible mistake. She had known it from the start, and the blinding flash of lightning followed closely by the loud rumble of thunder overhead only confirmed it. Her father should have listened to her when she suggested staying another night at the inn, but they were nearly out of money and had already stayed in the same village longer than they usually would. They needed to move on to a new place where their music would be received by a fresh, hopefully well-paying audience. Gustave hoped to find that in Paris and so he had convinced his daughter not to postpone their departure any longer, despite his deteriorating health. He insisted it was merely a cold and it would pass soon enough. Christine suspected he was in much worse condition than he claimed to be, but Gustave Daaé was a stubborn man.

When they passed through a small village around midday and the sky was looking darker and more ominous by the minute, Christine once again tried to persuade her father to rest there and travel on the next morning. Gustave would not hear of it. He was convinced that if they pushed on now, they could make it to the city before nightfall. Apparently he refused to see that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse.

Three hours later, they were caught in a downpour, with no village, house or farm in sight. They were both soaked to the skin and freezing. Gustave was exhausted. He could not take ten steps without bursting into another bout of coughing. If they did not find shelter from the storm soon, Christine feared her father might not make it through the night.

Maybe if they had gone left at the last fork in the road instead of right, they would have found a place to stay by now, but they had come too far to turn back. She was growing truly desperate. Someone had to be living around here. There had to be someone who could help them. She could not lose her father like this.

Christine did not believe in miracles, and yet that is exactly what it felt like when they rounded the bend in the road and found that the path they were on led straight to a grand solitary estate. They followed the long lane flanked with beech trees to a large wrought iron gate, behind which lay a manor surrounded by vast, well-tended gardens. At first Christine feared that the gate was closed and that they had come all this way in vain, but with a firm shove the gate gave way.

“We’re saved, papa,” Christine sighed in relief. He was so weakened by now that he could not walk without leaning on his daughter, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist to support most of his weight. In her other hand she carried the most valuable thing they owned: her father’s violin, while the rest of their meagre belongings were tied together in a bag strapped to her back. She was cold and wet and tired, and all that weight she was carrying did nothing to improve matters. If they had not come across the manor, she did not know how much longer she would have been able to go on herself.

She almost had to drag her father towards the entrance. She was about to put the violin down for a moment so she could reach for the brass knocker when the heavy wooden door in front of her seemed to sway open of its own accord. Entering an unfamiliar house without being invited in was not something Christine would do under normal circumstances, but another loud clap of thunder and the rain still relentlessly pelting down on them urged her inside.

The door closed heavily behind them with a resounding bang, making Christine jump. It was probably just the wind, she told herself. She expected the noise would alert whoever lived here, or perhaps a member of the staff, to their presence, but no one came to see what was going on. She called out, but her ‘hello’ simply echoed off the walls.

The hall they found themselves in was so dark they could not see two steps in front of them. There must be drapes covering the windows, she thought, and there were no lamps or candles to be seen. She realized that if they had to walk around the place looking for someone to help them, she would need at least one hand free to feel around for any obstacles, so she untied the luggage from her back and put it down on the floor together with the violin, hoping it would not be in anybody’s way.

She carefully walked forward, her free arm stretched out in front of her, the other still supporting her father, who was now shivering uncontrollably and still coughing. He needed a doctor as soon as possible, or at the very least a fire to warm himself until a doctor could be summoned.

Determined to find someone to help them, Christine carefully took a few shuffling steps forward, feeling her way across the hall until her hand encountered a wall. The chattering of her teeth increased at the feel of the cold stone beneath her fingers as she followed the wall to her left, and she was relieved beyond measure when after a few moments she could see a small speck of light in the distance. Light meant fire, and fire meant warmth.

As they neared the light, she noticed the room they were about to enter was a very large sitting room. She could see a sofa and an ottoman in front of the fire, but not much else. Since the fire burning in the hearth was the only source of light, the majority of the room was cast in darkness. Not that what the room looked like was of any importance to her at the moment. The only thing she cared about was the roaring fire in front of them.

Father and daughter hurried forward as best as they could in their exhausted state, falling to their knees in front of the fireplace and stretching out their hands towards the flames almost close enough to burn their fingers.

It took a while for the warmth to seep into their skin, but eventually Christine’s teeth stopped chattering and she directed her attention back to her father. His shivering had lessened somewhat, but his face had taken on a sickly pale shade and the coughing simply would not stop. She had to search the rest of the house quickly for someone who could help them and hopefully send for a physician, but her father was too weak to go with her and she did not want to leave him alone in his condition.

While she was considering what to do, she felt a shift in the air around her and knew that someone else had entered the room, although they stayed out of the circle of light around the fireplace, remaining invisible.

“How dare you set foot on my property without my consent?”

A thunderous, bodiless voice boomed around the room. Christine shivered – not because of the cold this time – and instinctively gripped her father’s hand tightly in hers. She looked around her, trying to locate where the voice was coming from, but it did not appear to originate from one particular spot, seemingly coming from everywhere at once.

“Apologies, monsieur, we simply wish –“ Gustave managed to croak before another violent bout of coughing forced him to stop speaking.

“I do not care about your wishes, old man. I am not your fairy godmother,” the man bit out. “You are trespassing. I want you to leave. Now.” His voice emanated power. Despite how cold and tired she was, Christine suddenly felt the urge to do exactly what he told her, almost as if he was compelling her to follow his orders with nothing but his voice, but leaving was not an option.

She could not fault the man, whoever he was, for being angry with them. He was right after all. They had entered his house without permission. Still, how could he turn them away just like that, with the storm still raging outside? And could he not see what poor condition her father was in?

“Please monsieur, we only seek shelter from the storm,” Christine pleaded. “We have nowhere else to go, and my father is terribly ill. If he is not tended to soon, he may die.” Her voice faltered at the last word and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself. “He is all I have. I cannot lose him. Please do not send us away, monsieur, I beg you.”

She did not want to cry in front of this stranger, who would not even do them the courtesy of showing himself, but she felt a sob rising in her throat. If he sent them away now, she would lose the only person she held dear in this world, the only family she had left.

The voice was quiet for a while. Maybe she had finally managed to get through to this man, to make him understand how dire her circumstances were and how much his hospitality would mean to her.

When he spoke again, Christine was sorely disappointed.

“And how would you repay me for my extraordinary kindness if I decided to let you stay for the night?”

Although Christine found the question quite impertinent and was astounded by his lack of sympathy, she was so hopeless that she would do anything the stranger asked of her as long as it meant her father was going to be looked after.

“We do not have much money, but whatever we have is yours – “

“Don’t make me laugh,” the voice interrupted. “Did you not take a moment to appreciate the size of this estate before you so carelessly intruded on my privacy?” He let out a dark chuckle that sent another shiver down her spine. “I do not want for money, child.”

Although his arrogance and condescending tone infuriated her to no end, she could not let it show. However unlikable he may seem, he was her only hope. She needed his help.

“What else can I offer you then, monsieur?”

As soon as the question had left her lips, she regretted it. She could not see his face, but she could hear the taunting grin in his voice as he answered.

“Let me see. What could a beautiful young girl like you have to offer me? I am sure we could think of something.”

Young and innocent she might be, but she was not that naïve. She understood perfectly well what he was insinuating. She had to think of something quickly, before the conversation got completely out of hand, and so she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I – I could sing for you.”

“Sing for me?”

Rather than sounding amused or conceited, his voice now carried a hint of curiosity. She had not expected him to be interested in her voice, but apparently her offer had captured his attention.

“My father and I are travelling musicians, monsieur. He is clearly in no condition to play, but I could still sing, if that would appeal to you.”

He seemed to think it over. For a while, all that could be heard was her father’s wheezing and harsh breathing, along with the sound of the rain beating incessantly against the windows.

Eventually, the voice replied. “Well, let us hear it then.”

Singing a cappella was not something Christine was used to. In normal circumstances her father would accompany her on the violin and she would draw confidence from his wonderful melodies, letting them carry and support her voice, but this time she would have to manage on her own.

She drew a deep, steadying breath and began to sing.

It had not been a conscious decision to sing in Swedish. The repertoire she and her father chose from when performing consisted mostly of French songs, which appealed more to a French audience than music written in a language they could not understand. Yet for whatever reason, this particular song from her home country was the first one that came to mind.

It was a folk song about a young girl who fell in love for the first time, only to realize that the object of her affections was already in love with another woman. Although the story was sad and the melody haunting, the song had always been one of her favourites. Her mother used to sing it to her every night before she went to sleep. It was one of the few things she could still remember about her time in Sweden, when her dear mama was still alive.

After she let the last note die out, the voice remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Perhaps she had offended him somehow. Maybe she should have chosen a French song after all, or a more cheerful one, or maybe he simply was not impressed with her voice. If she had angered him in any way, however unwittingly, he would certainly cast them out and they would be a lost cause.

Eventually the stranger broke the silence. “I have a proposition for you.”

For a moment Christine doubted whether she had heard him correctly. That was not at all what she had expected him to say.

“What sort of proposition?” she inquired.

“I will let you and your father stay here for the night. One of my servants will look after him, and tomorrow morning he will be brought to the private hospital in town, where he will receive the best medical care available. You do not need to worry about the expense, I will take care of everything.”

Could he be serious? Two minutes ago he wanted nothing more than to have them removed from the premises immediately, and now he was offering to pay for her father’s medical care? Could one song have caused such a change of heart? If he truly meant what he said, she would be elated, of course. It would be the answer to all her prayers, but given his earlier behaviour she doubted that he would do all of this simply out of kindness.

“I- I do not understand,” Christine stuttered. “What would be in it for you then?”

“I would expect you to stay here with me for the duration of your father’s stay in hospital. As my guest, my… companion, if you will.”

Her father, who had stayed out of the discussion until now, finally spoke, using the little strength he had left in him to voice his concern.

“No. Christine, you… cannot.” He coughed heavily in between words, heaving for breath, but he went on. “You… do not know him… don’t know… his intentions.”

The voice chuckled, seemingly unconcerned about her father’s struggle to breathe, but rather amused by his protests.

“Ah, I believe I can ease your father’s mind in that respect. I can assure you that no harm will come to you while you stay here, and I can also promise that there will be no… untoward behaviour from my side. I will have my lawyer draw up a contract first thing tomorrow morning. Should you find that any of these conditions are not met, the contract will be rendered void immediately and you will be allowed to leave as soon as you wish.”

How could she refuse such an offer? He was clearly making an effort to ensure her safety, even putting everything on paper so she could leave without repercussions if he did not keep his promises. And most importantly, her father would be cared for. There was still no guarantee that he would survive, but at least he would have a chance. He would receive much better care than what they could afford, and all she had to do in return was move in here, into a house that seemed at least ten times the size of her home back in Sweden. It almost sounded too good to be true. There had to be a catch somewhere.

“What if, for whatever reason, I want to leave before my father has fully recovered?”

“Then you will be allowed to do so, of course,” he replied, “although in that case my payments to the hospital will cease immediately.”

“And what exactly would you expect me to do during my stay here?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. I do not receive many guests here, so I would simply like you to keep me company for a while. I might ask you to sing for me on occasion. I’m sure that will not be a problem.”

He did not strike her as a very sociable kind of man, so she did not understand why he was so interested in her company. Yet if all he wanted was for her to talk to him and sing a few songs once in a while… That did not sound too bad, did it?

The fact that she was even considering this bizarre proposal was a clear indication of how desperate she really was. She simply could not lose her father, so if this was what she needed to do to save him, she would do it. There was only one more thing she needed to ask before she could accept his offer.

“Will you step into the light? If I am to stay here, I believe I at least have the right to know who I am talking to.”

At first, she thought he had not heard her as he remained out of sight. After a few seconds, however, she could discern movement in the shadows to her right, somewhere between the far wall and the fireplace. Ever so slowly, as if he were afraid of making sudden movements lest he scare her away, a tall, imposing figure stepped forward. Christine could not make out the colour of his eyes from this distance, but it seemed for a moment as if they were glowing in the dark, like those of a cat. It must be the reflection of the fire, she thought.

There was something strange about his face as well. It seemed as if his skin was glistening, but only on the right side. It was not until he was standing right in front of her, within the circle of light cast by the fire, that she understood why: a white mask was covering the right side of his face from his forehead over his nose to his jaw and upper lip. Later she would notice other things about his appearance, like how elegantly dressed he was in his black evening suit and how gracefully he moved. In those first few moments she saw him though, all her focus was on his mask. She wanted to know why he was wearing it, what he was hiding underneath, but she knew asking him would be incredibly rude, as was staring, so she forced her gaze away from his face.

It did not matter what he looked like. Her mind was already made up.

“Very well. I will stay.”

Her father made to protest, but she silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s alright, papa. You do not have to worry about me. I will be safe here. All that matters now is that you get better.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another figure enter the room, although she had not heard the man summon anyone. It was a woman who seemed to be about her father’s age.

“Madame Giry,” the man addressed her, “have one of the servants take monsieur…”

“Daaé,” Christine answered his unspoken question. “His name is Gustave Daaé, and I am Christine.”

“Have someone take Monsieur Daaé to the servants’ quarters. That way he will not need to go up any stairs. And have a room prepared for Mademoiselle Daaé.”

Madame Giry nodded her compliance and without another word, the man left the room.

She did not even know his name.

#phantom of the opera #poto fanfic #poto fanfiction #phanfic #phanfiction #e/c #eline writes #my fic #be my guest

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softguks · 4 years

Note

request!! jungkook had a bad day and you comfort him and it’s all fluffy? 💜

SOFT NIGHTS | JJK DRABBLE

+ jeon jungkook / reader

+ everyone has bad days. days where you want nothing more than to curl up in the comforts of your bed and cry, days where you feel like the world is turned against you, and days where everything is too much to handle. but for jungkook, there’s nothing better than coming home to you because you make bad days better.

+ 1.3k words

+ fluff and some comedy/crack, angst if you squint, boyfriend au, established relationship au, idol au | no warnings !

Jungkook has had a long day.

It’s evident in the way his shoulders slump, both out of relief and exhaustion as soon as he enters the house, shutting the door with a gentle swing and kicking his sneakers off. His head hangs low, tucked into his chest as he plops his keys into the little bowl at the front. A heavy sigh falls from his pursed lips, a sound so shaky and fragile, as if it could shatter like glass. Tousled wavy, brown locks fall in front of half-lidded chocolate eyes that are blank with tiredness and slightly glossy with frustrated and unshed tears. Long lashes flutter against rosy cheeks that are flushed under your scrutiny as you watch from your position on the couch with a frown. You close your laptop, placing it on the table as you motion for him to come over, a sympathetic smile on your face. Tossing his bag onto the table, he shuffles over, sock-clad feet swishing against wooden floors with his pretty lips pushed up in a pout as he approaches you.

“Long day, love?”

“Mm yeah.” his voice is lightly raspy and soft, something angelic and delicate you’ve always loved about him. His long arms reach out for your embrace, face nuzzling into the crook of your neck as his arms wrap around you. His nose slots perfectly against the dip in your skin, pressing a featherlight kiss against the curve of your shoulder as he closes his eyes. Your fingers run through his messy locks of wavy brown hair, massaging his scalp and gently carding your nails along the soft locks. His hair smells suspiciously like your shampoo, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you chuckle.

“You wanna talk about it? Want me to order some food? Run you a bath?”

The slight shake of his head and the bounce of his curls is incredibly endearing, causing the butterflies in your tummy to stir as you smile down lovingly at the boy who has completely, wholly, and entirely captured your heart.

“Just wanna cuddle.”

The hushed mumbles tumbling from his rosy lips tug at your heartstrings, igniting something warm and gentle that tingles in your veins. It’s a beautiful feeling, like flowers blooming across your chest and hazy sunlight pouring in through glass windows. It’s a feeling that you’ve never experienced and even though it scares you, it also thrills you. It’s an addictive feeling that thrums in your bloodstream and flutters in your heart. It feels natural and right, like it was meant to be.

The tears that have long been situated in the corners of his eyes slip down his cheeks, body trembling as he tries to hold in his cries. Your heart breaks to see him like this, so vulnerable and fragile as he hides away from himself and his emotions.

“What’s wrong? Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shaky breath that fills his lungs with cold air. The pads of your fingers brush against the skin under his eyes that are stamped with purple moons, another reminder of his sleepless nights and constant pressure.

Sinking further into the plush cushions of the couch, you pull him closer, peppering kisses along his cheeks, up towards his forehead, and finally against pecking his mouth a few times. He looks so pretty like this, with his lips tinted red from your kisses, cheeks darkened in color —he swears that it’s the heat of the living room even though you know different— and the corners of his mouth turned up in a shy smile. The action of affection has him giggling, eyes bright with stars; little pinpricks of light that sparkle in the wide expanse of black and glow against the blankets of space. His smile is blinding, eyes scrunching up to form crescent moons as the corners of his eyes crinkle. Your fingers reach up to poke his dimples, only adding to his embarrassment and shyness (he will never admit how much he loves this) His cheeks color the shade of cherry blossom pink, the kind that dangle precariously from thick, woven branches on a cool spring day.

“I love you so much and I’m so proud of you. Don’t stress too much over it. You’re working hard and doing your best and that’s all that matters.”

“I know. I’m very lovable indeed. They don’t call me Mr. International Playboy for nothing y’know.” He grins cheekily, the curve of his lips elongated by the smile that graces his features.

“I’m trying to love on you but you’re making this so hard.”

Immediately, something mischievous twinkles in his eyes, flickering like a sudden beam of light in the warm brown depths of his eyes as a coy smirk stretches across his lips. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, a shit-eating grin snaking across his rosy lips. “You know what else is hard? That you could take care of?”

Your expression immediately turns sour, causing a loud laugh to rumble from his chest, a sound so happy and him that you cannot hold back the smile that threatens to show. He is so Jungkook and you love that about him. “Oh my god, you’re so fucking disgusting and cheesy.”

“Only for you, baby.” His wink is so awfully adorable that it makes you want to kiss him a hundred times and puke at the same time.

“Are you tired?”

“Just a little. Can you keep playing with my hair?” Jungkook look adorable with his wide doe eyes staring up at you with so much tenderness in them that you cannot deny him of anything. He is so effortlessly gorgeous and you are so whipped for him —not that anyone could blame you, that you would give him the world if you could.

Love is a strange and finicky concept. It’s always sounded too perfect and cliche to be real. You’ve never been so in love with someone and it’s scary. The idea of loving someone so much that they become a part of you and a piece of you is terrifying. They become something you can’t bear to lose and a weakness. But with Jungkook, it’s different. He completes you. He brings out the best in you after seeing the worst parts of you. He wants all of it, the good parts, the bad parts, the scary parts, everything. His bright bunny smile showing off his pearly whites is enough to brighten your entire day, his laugh is enough to make your heart skip a beat, and his personality is something so bright and contagious that you cannot help but fall in love with him.

The gentle thrumming of the dryer and the low bubbling of the pot on the stove is enough to make him drowsy. After a long and tiring day of practice, his muscles are sore and ache with tiredness, exhaustion hanging off of his body. His movements are sluggish and slow, eyes drooping as deep slumber threatens to overtake him. He feels warm, safe, and loved, and there’s nothing more he could ask for at this moment.

Staring down at you through groggy eyes and slightly blurry vision, he admires the baby hairs that fall in front of your eyes, the little freckles and marks that decorate the wide expanse your skin like stars in the sky, the dusty pink flush that colors your cheeks, the small and tender smile pulling the corners of your lips upward, and the warmth that radiates from your body.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, you dork.”

You swear you feel him smile against your neck.

“Babe, this is important, get up.”

“What? Jungkook, go to sleep.”

“Why are pizzas boxes square, pizzas in the shape of circles, and pizza slices triangular?”

“Oh my god, Jungkook, please shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”

please reblog and leave some feedback if you enjoyed! remember to drink water and stay healthy and safe! sending love 💗

#heartsforbts #ficswithluv #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook fic #softguks

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narutowtfareyoudoing · 4 years

Text

Morning Coffee.

So I once got a lovely message from an anon that said they like to read what I write while they make coffee in the morning and it gave me the idea for some cute mini scenarios. If you're out there anon this is for you, I don't know your favourite characters so I just went with some of mine. --- Kakashi Hatake:

With no alarm clocks in this house it's usually the sun vengefully hitting you in the eyes that wakes you and unfortunately this morning is no different if anything the sun is even more evil today. Blinking your eyes open you don't even wanna look at a the clock but you do wanna look over at Kakashi, it's good to actually see him sleeping in bed you've caught him one too many times reading into the hours of the morning instead of sleeping. Gosh he's cute. You sigh and stretch as you get up, bones popping and a whine escaping you as you do, your feet find the floor and you force your tired body up not caring for the blankets that cling to you. Kakashi's developed an iron grip to fight your blanket stealing ways so you know it's not going anywhere. You shuffle your way from the bedroom to the kitchen rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you go and though the journey's not far you lean against the counter when you reach it and yawn and then you look to the next feat of your adventure and decide if it's worth it...bending down to grab the coffee grinds, who put them down there? It had to be Kakashi because you would never sabotage yourself like that. Everything in your body groaned and creaked as you bent down into the cupboard to grab it but you were rewarded with the smell of coffee as you opened the container and dumped a few scoops into the coffee maker and silently thanked Kakashi for always putting in a filter after throwing out the old one. You and Kakashi both knew you could afford a much nicer coffee maker than the one you had but it had gotten the job done for years, why replace what isn't broken? You sigh as you realize you have to fill it with water, will these trails of survival never end? You shuffle yourself over to the sink to fill the coffee maker and finally, finally! You're able to push the on button. You lean on the counter and listen to the hissing and gurgling of your precious machine ah music to your ears little did you know it was also music to Kakashi's unconscious ears. The familiar sound rouses him awake and much like you he feels every ache in his bones as he stretches and shuffles himself to his feet as he walks through the left open bedroom door he's greeted by the sight of you. It's a good sight, no matter how messy the hair, how tired the eyes or how hunched over you are seeing you brings a smile to his face as does the coffee you're making. He sneaks over and with too much delight for this morning hour snatches the cup from your hands. "Hey!" "Morning." He chimes back taking a sip of coffee. "That's mine!" You snap as you try to grab it from him but he quickly moves. "Careful, you'll make me spill." He teases. "You don't even like my coffee! You're a black coffee freak!" You complain. "That's not a very good way to convince me to give it back." "Give it back or I ban reading books in bed." The coffee is back in your hands. "You don't fight fair." He sighs and pours his own coffee as you finally get a sip of yours and feel your muscles relax with the delicious slightly burnt taste. "It's before my first cup of coffee I don't have to fight fair." You point out. "Is that in the Shinobi handbook?" He teased. "Oh yeah, first page." You tease back. He hmmed in response as he takes another sip and soft silence hangs in the air and he's once again reminded of how happy he is to have you as apart of his mornings even with all the teasing. He comes cover behind you and wraps his free arm around your stomach and rests his tired head on your shoulder and relishes in the way you affectionately nudge him with your own head. With all the work Shinobi do these moments feel increasingly rare and so you two just silently bathe in the warmth of the moment together, letting the tiredness wrap around you and make the moment nearly euphoric. That is until there's loud knocking on your door that knocks you out of the moment and almost costs you your coffee cup. "We know you're in there Kakashi-sensei! We've been waiting for hours at the training grounds!" A tiny voice shouted. "Kakashi." You scolded. "In my defense it's your fault. You did keep me up last night." He teased kissing your neck. And for a moment you enjoy the tingling sensation that radiates throughout your body but only for a moment until loud knocking once again loudly booms through your apartment. "We're counting to ten and then we're gonna break down the door!" "You think I can bribe kids with coffee?" He pondered "Kakashi, if they break my door you're never reading in this apartment again." You said pointedly. "Oh, so it's your door?" He teasingly sighed as he put down his coffee. "It's my door the same way it's my fault for keeping you up late." You said sarcastically. You walked over to the bedroom door as he walked over to the front and grabbed his mask from the handle and slingshoted it at his ass making him jump. He looked over at you with an eyebrow cocked as he picked it up. "You're not making a good case for me to open the door." He pointed it out as he slipped it on. "Save my door or else I can't be held responsible for what happens to the books in my room." The door was opened just before the kids hit zero saving your door, Kakashi's books and what was left of your coffee. ---

Gaara:

Gaara is always up before you even without Shukaku he doesn't really sleep, he'll lay with you at night if there's time but typically with all the duties of being a Kage there isn't time. However there's always time in the morning for iced coffee and breakfast together. This morning was no different, in the Sunagakure heat little was tolerable to eat other than something cold so iced coffee and fresh fruit salad is was as usual. Living in the desert doesn't often lend itself to fresh fruit but with Gaara cultivation of cacti he grew many different types of prickly pear so in the early morning sun he went out to collect some. Some may see this as a daily chore but it's apart of Gaara's day he thoroughly enjoys, it's a simple constant in his life to harvest the fruits of his labour and share them with you and just that thought brought a rare smile to his face. So many hours of his day are devoted to the people of Sunagakure but in these early morning hours they're just for the two of you and it brings some semblance of normality to his life. He looks over his cacti, all the hours he's sunk into these thriving plants and the few plants that aren't cacti that you two planted together, whenever you go out on missions you always return with some kind of new plant of seed for you two to plant in the garden, they stick out like sore thumbs but he loves them and always makes sure they're well tended too. Memories happily trickle through his mind like sand through an hourglass as he uses his sand to gather prickly pears and avoid their spikes. He gathers only what he needs before heading back to your shared home and preparing the prickly pears, it's something domestic he enjoys, it's easy and calming to him and even after all this time the novelty of making breakfast for the both of you hasn't warn off at all. He notices the sound of dragging feet as you make your way over. "Morning, lemme hug you." You yawn tiredly. A warning really isn't needed when you've made no point in trying to hide you whereabouts but you've gotten into the habit from the one time Gaara didn't hear you coming and instead of meeting his body you were met with a wall of protective sand. Your arms wind their way around his middle and you hug him tight from behind and no matter how long you've been together, no matter how deep you've delved into intmacy simple touches like this still make butterflies flutter around his chest. You lean your weight into him as you rest your entire body against him, it's almost comical. "Sleep well?" He asks. "Mhm." You murmur into his back. "Why don't you go sit? I'll bring you breakfast." He offers softly. You shake your head into his back. "I'm good here." You slur. A small chuckle escapes his throat as he nods and continues his work, he's got no great desire to remove himself from you so he simply bathes pleasantly in your presence. As he's cutting the prickly pears into small chunks he notices your hand blindly sneaking over to try and grab a piece. "You're going to grab the husk and poke yourself again, S/O." Gaara gently chastises as he brings his sand up to make a barrier between you and the food. You playfully let out an exasperated groan bringing a small smile to his lips that only grows when you lay a small kiss to the middle of his back where your head lays it blossoms warmth in his chest as you let go since your master plan as been foiled. You decide to set your sleepy sights on coffee, filling glasses with ice and adding sugar and milk to your own and leaving Gaara's black bleh you pour the coffee and bring them over to the small dinning table, taking a sip really helped to pull you out of your hot sleepy state, the cold caffeine tingling your mind awake and into alertness. Not alert enough it would seem as you still jump slightly in surprise as Gaara lays down a plate of cut and cubed prickly pear as sits across from you. "Thank you for the coffee." You gaze up at him and can't help but to smile, your alert brain slowly turning into mush. Gods, he was cute and so sweet, he'd made you breakfast and was thanking you for coffee? Who's this nice in the morning? Just your Gaara. You reach over and hold his hand and he's more than content to hold yours back, to brush his thumb over the the top of your hand and relish in this sweet silence. Most mornings are quiet, Gaara isn't a very chatty man though he's more than happy to listen to anything you have to say but your mornings are filled with content silence, the morning is a time set aside just for the two of you to savour. You'll sit well into the morning, slowly draining your coffee and having your fill of fruit until the day calls you both away but until then little is sweeter than this. Besides your coffee if you ask Gaara. ---

Itachi Uchiha:

Had making tea always been this stressful?! You could pull your hair out you were so nervous. You were nearly never up before Itachi but this morning you were so you decided to surprise him with tea in bed, Itachi has several teas throughout the day, he loves tea so that just made sense to do. What didn't make sense right now? All the possible preparation it took to properly brew tea. If it was too hot you'd burn the tea, too cold the flavour wasn't going be full bodied, what about steeping time? Should you add honey? Milk? Cream? Sugar? Gods, when had this become to complicated? You just wanted to be a good S/O and treat Itachi like he usually treated you in the morning but so far you were just surrounded by tiny cups, put into a Hell of your own making, a beige Hell of different coloured teas with varying amounts of milk and other ingredients. It was the smell that woke Itachi and the first time he noticed was the lack of your presence on his chest, usually this early you're still asleep and drooling tiny rivers onto his chest. He sighs as he slowly sits his aching body up and reaches into his bedside drawer to grab a vial of medicine to make the day a little less painful, it tastes vile as he swallows it and if his nose is telling him anything there's tea ready to help get rid of the foul taste. He slowly gets up and wonder what has you up so early, you usually like to sleep in on the days you two have together if he doesn't wake you he knows you can sleep well into the afternoon which he finds quite cute, the way your face scrunches up when the sun finally hits it and you are clearly awake but attempting to argue with your body over being conscious. It's ridiculous but very endearing. Just like the sight that greets him as he comes into the kitchen. You're standing there in your nightshirt, hair still unbrushed, counter and small dining table covered in tiny teacups. He slightly cocks his head as he takes in the sight, his mind trying to figure out what exactly it is you're doing as he grabs a tea closest to him and he notices how cold it is...so you've been at this for a while. "Feeling insustrious this morning, love?" He softly asks. He's up?! Oh Gods how long have you been doing this? You thought you'd have time to clean, you stutter for your words trying to explain as you look around. "Tea?" You weakly settle on to offer. "Seems like I've got options." He gently teases as he walks over to you. The taste that's left in his mouth is still noticeable and unfavourable but he pushes that aside to check on you and see what's going on in your brilliant mind. He brings a hand up to push the hair on your face aside and presses a soft kiss to your forehead to try and calm the clear panic you're in and you melt into the action. Big black eyes reassuringly stare at you and you can feel the tension leave your shoulders. "Tea?" You offer again grabbing the one you thought you'd done the best on. He takes the Oolong tea from your hands. "Thank you." He says before taking a sip, he can feel your eyes on him as he does and it becomes very clear to him what's going on here. "It's very good." He adds and he watches you beam proudly at the praise. "As I'm sure the rest of them are." He softly adds. And those word do make you realize that perhaps...this had been a silly worry. "I just wanted to make you tea in bed...I know how much you love tea but then I realized how much goes into making tea, like the temperature, the steeping time, the amount of sugarorhoneyormilkor--" You start to wind yourself back up again. "Anything you make me is perfect because you made it for me." He interrupts gently bringing his hand back up to your face to capture your attention. Once again your panic melts into his soft touch and you take a deep breath. "How about we drink on the front porch this morning? I'll deal with this mess once I'm more conscious." You pitch. "Sounds like a good idea." He easily agrees. Itachi moves the hand caressing your face down to lace his fingers with yours and with your free hand you grab one of the many tea's and you both head outside to sit and enjoy the pale blues of the morning sky. You lean yourself into his side as you sit in contentment, there aren't many mornings you get to enjoy with Itachi, he's typically so busy with his work with the Akatsuki so moments like this you let yourself get lost in, you soak up every bit this shared time together offers and save it for the mornings you miss him. Itachi does the same, he's well aware his days are numbered whether it be from his line of work or his illness he's well aware that there is no endless days like this with you so he takes in right now. And right now he's with you, a S/O who loves him so much you panicked yourself with making the perfect tea, right now the love of his life is holding his hand and leaning into his side, your head resting on his shoulder and if he concentrates he can feel your relaxed breathing against his side, he can smell your shampoo, the quiet mmms that escape you every time you take a sip of tea. Right now this moment he's in with you outweighs all the pain and misery he's experienced, who needs forever when moments like this exist for him to live in now? This morning tea was perfect. --- ~Admin Coral Buy Me A Coffee?

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shimmeringclouds · 3 years

Text

Chapter 4

The train journey was excruciatingly long, just as they remembered it to be. Karatsugu peered out the window beside him, his eyes stuck to the darkening sky above, which was also tinted a slight shade darker due to him wearing his large aviator sunglasses. He watched as the scenery outside gradually changed from strictly endless waves of tall green grass and trees to small buildings in the far distance and flat earth.

Across from him, Hajime sat silently, slouching in his seat as he clutched his large backpack to his chest to rest his chin atop it, his eyes shut as he slept quietly. A small smile came to Karatsugu's lips before he yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand whilst his other arm stretched up above his head. He let it fall down onto his lap lazily as he went back to staring out the window, his leg jumping up and down lightly as he inwardly became impatient.

It had been quite a while since he had last come to Akashika District; a year, to be exact. He still remembered the first time he had visited that place like it was only yesterday, as well as the interesting adventure he and his newfound brothers took part in. Karatsugu smiled fondly at the memory, wondering just what else they would be getting up to this time.

He was quickly snapped out of his daydreams as a voice spoke over the intercom, and although it sounded very fuzzy and full of static, he could just about make out what the voice said:

'We are now arriving at Akashika Station. This is the train's final stop. Please ensure you have all your items of belonging before leaving the train. We are now arriving at...'

The voice repeated itself several more times before it fell silent, and Karatsugu could feel the train begin to slow down. He carefully, and very cautiously, leaned forward to nudge Hajime's knee, attempting to rouse him from his nap.

"Hajime... You need to wake up now, we're here..." he mumbled, gently calling for his younger brother. He could feel a bead of sweat beginning to accumulate on his temple as Hajime didn't stir, prompting him to nudge a tad bit harder whilst also bearing in mind to not push his own luck, lest he want a fist to the face.

Thankfully, that didn't happen, and Hajime grumbled against his backpack as his eyes sluggishly cracked open. His dark gaze landed on Karatsugu for a moment before it wandered around the train compartment, shifting slightly in his seat and raising his head. He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, wincing at the soreness from the awkward position he had fallen asleep in.

"... We're here?" he mumbled, barely audible over the ruckus of the train still moving against the tracks. Karatsugu nodded, taking his phone out of his pocket whilst Hajime stretched his arms. Karatsugu swiped through the group chat one of his brothers had created, skimming over his unread messages from hours ago to begin tapping away at his screen.

── SEX🤤🍆tuplets

12:24

[Chorosuke💐🌹] Who changed the group chat name?

[Takashi🍰🍬🍭] Who do u think lol

[Ozo🍺🚖] its gr8 right! sexxxxxxxxxxxx tuplets HAHAH

[Chorosuke💐🌹] Please shut up.

[Ozo🍺🚖] ur alwas so booooooring chorosuk e lolol anyway! karatsugu n hajime! wya?

[Hajime🐈‍⬛🐾] train

That is correct burazzas!~~😎😎✨✨ Our travels have only barely just begun!💫💫 We will be arriving later tonight! I'm sure you are all very excited for our arrival, hmm~~? 🥀🥀🥀🥀😎😎😎😎

[Takashi🍰🍬🍭] We get it plz stop with those ugly ass emojis

[Jyushimatsu🌻🌼☀️] KARAMATSU NIISAN ICHIMATSU NIISAN HIHHIHUHIHUU!!!!! HIRRY UP I WANNA PLAY!!!!!!

[Chorosuke💐🌹] I don't want to kick you out again, Jyushimatsu. Please don't spam.

── SEX🤤🍆tuplets 19:03

[72 unread messages]

We are arriving at the station!✨✨ Ozo, burazza, would you be so kind as to give us a lift?😎😎😎

[Ozo🍺🚖] sureeee its abt time u guys got here!

[Jyushimatsu🌻🌼☀️] YAYYYYAYA!!! YOUR HERE YOURH ERE!!! OSOMATSU NIISAN CAN I CUM A SWELL????!!!!

[Takashi🍰🍬🍭] oh my god eww

[Ozo🍺🚖] Yh! the more the happier as they say

[Chorosuke💐🌹] It's: 'The more, the merrier.' Honestly, how do you not know?

[Ozo🍺🚖] I ain't no nerd anyway ill be there in 10!

──

Satisfied with Ozo's response, Karatsugu put away his phone and stood up, reaching up to the overhang and carefully sliding his suitcase out and onto the floor. He also did the same for Hajime's suitcase, having a sneaking suspicion that the man wouldn't get it himself, but he wasn't bothered by it.

They waited for the train to pull to a stop, the metal wheels against the tracks squeaking and groaning loudly into the air. The voice over the intercom spoke again, signalling that all passengers were now allowed to leave.

So, with their suitcases in hand and their backpacks slung over their shoulders, the two brothers exited the train and stepped onto the same barren and quiet platform. The warm evening air pushed into their faces, the heat a lot tamer than it would be during the day. Hajime looked up towards the sky for a moment, witnessing the final shreds of sunlight melt away into the night as a dark blanket covered the sky.

"We should head outside," Karatsugu spoke up, his baritone voice echoing around the area, "they could be here any minute, now." He had already begun walking towards the exit, and after a few seconds, he heard his brother's footsteps shuffling along the concrete ground, following him from behind.

Karatsugu stepped out first, taking a deep breath of fresh air as a soft breeze picked up around him briefly before it died down. He smiled at the scenery, already feeling at home with his excitement growing by the second.

"Karamatsu-niisan."

The man screamed, jumping on the spot and tripping over his own feet as he tumbled to the ground, his mouth agape and sunglasses askew on his face, eyes darting around to see where that sudden voice came from, only to find a man standing to his right with a brown paper bag over his head and the roughly cut holes where his eyes should be dark and devoid of life.

Hajime stepped out next, taking one good look at Karatsugu on the ground and raising his brow before looking over to the paper bag man. He barely reacted, only giving a slight nod and saying:

"Long time no see, Jyushimatsu."

"Aha! Same here, Ichimatsu-niisan!" Jyushimatsu laughed, rocking back and forth on his heels giddily. Karatsugu, still on the ground, gradually collected himself and cupped his chin with this thumb and forefinger, smirking as if he hadn't just screamed like he had seen a ghost.

"Heh! Jyushimatsu! It has been some time since we last spoke in person!" Unsurprisingly, Karatsugu went ignored as the other headed towards a car that was parked a little further down the road, with the engine still running and the lights beaming down onto the gravelled path. Karatsugu only hummed amusedly, standing up and brushing himself off, making sure to readjust his glasses before grabbing his things and following behind them, listening in on their conversation.

"A lot of things have changed around here since you last visited, you know!" Jyushimatsu swung his arms back and forth as he walked, the smile in his voice heard through his words.

"Yeah? Like what?" Hajime readjusted his backpack on his shoulder, throwing a side glance towards Jyushimatsu. The paper bag man only giggled, his head now swaying side to side, as if nodding along to some unheard tune.

"Things!" Was all he said as they reached the car. The trio paused as the driver's door opened, and out clambered a grinning Ozo with a beer can in hand.

"Finally! I thought you guys were never gonna show up!" He complained, though there was no bite behind his words. Hajime shook his head as he watched Ozo take a large swig from his can.

"You couldn't wait until we got to that otaku's house to start drinking? I don't want to die because of your shitty driving..." he shuffled over to the car, opening the trunk and pushing his suitcase in there as Jyushimatsu sat in the back seats.

"I'm not a lightweight! I can handle more than one can, y'know!" Ozo sat back down in his seat, and Karatsugu also went over to place his suitcase in the trunk before closing it. Hajime sat in the back with Jyushimatsu, leaving the passenger seat up front available. Once they were all settled in the car, Ozo manoeuvred the car out of its parked position and back onto the road.

"Let's chuck your stuff at that guy's place, and then we can go drinking!" Ozo cheered, Jyushimatsu matching his excitement. Karatsugu couldn't help but laugh, and even Hajime couldn't control the small smirk that crept its way onto his face, which he quickly hid behind his backpack.

It was nice to be back.

»»-----　♔　-----««

You sighed softly as you wiped down the bar top with the slightly damp cloth in your palm. Glancing at the small clock on the wall behind you, you took note of how it had been just over an hour since your shift at Bang Bang Chicken Bar had started and, as per usual, barely anyone had entered the bar. There was that one regular customer who had already came and went — a man with very large front teeth who asked for the same drink every other night, attempted to flirt with you, then would leave with the promise of coming back as a rich French man... whatever that means.

Another sigh escaped you. It was now just past nine o'clock, and you had a strong feeling that the hours were going to slip by a lot slower than you would like. That, and coupled with the fact that you would be the only one working at the bar at this hour (aside from your boss, who would be cooped up in his office until early hours of the morning), you knew it would be yet another boring night ahead.

Well, maybe not entirely boring.

The sound of drums suddenly filled the silence in the bar, which was soon followed by the sound of heavy strums of electric guitars and keyboards. A woman's voice began belting lyrics into the microphone. You watched the band, Killer Fish, perform on the raised platform in the centre of the room, the seven women on stage lost in their own world of death metal music as their heads nodded along violently to the beat.

When you had first started working at Bang Bang Chicken Bar — an obscure bar at the end of a long, winding and empty road on the outskirts of Akatsuka Village — you did not expect the seven quiet and well-dressed women on the stage to start singing death metal. It scared you half to death the first time you heard the screech of guitar strings echoing through the desolate bar. Even the lead singer, Totoko, dressed in a formal Japanese yukata with her hair styled up in an old-fashioned bun, her face stoic and serious, shocked you with her booming voice and scratchy vocals of a true death metal singer.

It was all so unexpected, and the tremors of the music had left you slightly shaky once the first performance was over. Now, though, you had become used to the music, and although it wasn't your preferred choice of music, you began to enjoy the performances. It made the whole bar feel so much more alive.

By the time you snapped out of your thoughts, the performance was over and the group was setting themselves up for another song. You, with nothing better to do, decided you would turn to the shelves stacked with all kinds of alcoholic drinks behind you and sort through them again, making sure they were presented with their labels faced towards the patrons and that they were organised neatly, despite the fact that you had already done this. Three times.

Whilst you mindlessly traced your fingers along the glass bottles, the music started up again, drowning out the sound of the door to the bar opening.

In walked six men, each dressed in black suits, and each of them boisterous and excited to begin their night of drinking. They awed at the group on stage for a moment before one of them took charge and pushed them over to an empty table in the middle of the room. They took their seats and began conversing with each other, laughing at some joke someone made or at another's crazy antics.

Eventually, two of them stood up from their seats, one seemingly more casual with his hands tucked into his pockets whilst the other, donning a black yukata, seemed more uptight with an annoyed frown pressed onto his upturned lips. The two began making their way over to the bar, where you were stood with your back still turned, oblivious of what was happening behind you until your ears picked up the sound of two men conversing.

You tilted your head slightly, squinting your eyes as if it would help with figuring out whether you were hearing things or not, but as the voices grew closer, your eyes widened as you realised no, this wasn't your imagination, and there were actually other customers in the bar.

Turning on your heel, you physically felt your brain fizzle and pop like an old lightbulb at the sight of the two men coming closer towards you, their faces still fresh in your mind from the first time you had encountered them on separate occasions.

"Come on, Chorosuke! You're loaded! A couple of drinks with your money won't hurt anyone!" It was that taxi driver from the other day who was talking, that same sleazy grin displayed proudly on his face as he poked fun at the man next time him; that man from the store who had given you that watermelon, which actually was sweet.

"You and I both know you won't be having 'a couple of drinks!' And you have your own money! Pay for yourself!" He shouted over the music, his eyes narrowing in frustration as he knew all too well that he would inevitably be paying for the drinks. You could only stand in silence as they grew closer and closer, neither of them truly paying attention to your presence as they continued to bicker back and forth until they were stood right in front of you.

Ozo turned to you first, his mouth opening to make his request until his half-lidded eyes locked onto your face. He frowned for a split-second before his eyes widened, the smirk on his lips stretching into an excited grin as he instantly recognised you. Chorosuke, confused by his brother's odd reaction, turned to you as well, only for his expression to fall into a look of horror, his pale cheeks flushing a bright crimson.

"It's you!" They exclaimed together, their tones completely opposite to one another. Pausing, they whipped their heads to look at each other confusedly. "Wait, what?" they questioned in unison.

"How do you know her?" Chorosuke quickly demanded, his eyes flitting between your nervous form and the man beside him.

"I told you, I met a pretty girl yesterday!" Ozo reminded him, "And what about you?"

"I-I, well... We bumped into each other at the market the other day..." Chorosuke's voice trailed off, secretly hoping you would remember him so that he wouldn't be humiliated in front of the one man who wouldn't let something like this go. Lucky for him, you did remember. You remembered that interaction all too well.

"Really?! Wow! Small world, right?" Ozo turned to you, leaning against the bar top with one arm as he gave you a quick once over, a flirtatious look in his eyes that only served to make you shrink into yourself. "Do you remember me? I dropped you off yesterday! Man, if I knew you worked here, I would come by more often!"

They seemed to be waiting for some kind of reaction from you, so you took a minute step back from the countertop and chuckled nervously, an odd smile on your face that probably didn't look like a smile at all.

"Aha... Yeah! Hi... again..."

This was going to be a long, long night.

#hereeee it is #after so long #also if the texting scene looks weird #its cuz tumblr formatting is shit #srry bout that #anywayssss hope u all enjoy! <3 #osomatsu san #osomatsu san au #denki mystery #osomatsu x reader #karmatsu x reader #choromatsu x reader #ichimatsu x reader #jyushimatsu x reader #todomatsu x reader

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holy-stevie · 4 years

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