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slutforsilverfoxes · 1 year

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Damned Spot

TW: Canon typical descriptions of violence (guns, hand-to-hand combat, McGarrett being McGarrett)

You feel a gentle nudge at your side and you groan softly in protest, nestling deeper into the pillow and the comforting smell of the cologne you bought your fiancé for Valentine’s Day a few weeks ago. Another nudge sends your body shifting again, the pressure more insistent this time, and you open your bleary eyes to find Steve sitting upright in bed, a finger pressed to his lips. You can feel the tension rolling off him in waves causing a bolt of fear to run down your spine and effectively breaking the sandman’s grip on you. You mouth, What is it?, and he holds up one finger in lieu of a response, listening intently. Then he asks, “Did you leave a window open downstairs?”

“No,” you whisper, “never. Growing up with cats made me paranoid.”

Steve eases his legs over the side of the bed, carefully opening the drawer of his bedside table and retrieving his gun and clip. Reaching for his arm as he slides the magazine into place with a faint click, you murmur, “Baby, what’s going on?”

“I think someone’s trying to get into the house.”

He checks his phone, frowns, and replaces it on the nightstand. “No signal,” he reports, looking hopefully at you when you raise the landline to your ear. You shake your head. He stalks over to the bedroom door, then stops with his hand on the knob at the sound of fabric rustling from behind him. Turning to find you tugging on one of his Navy t-shirts, he furrows his brow and hisses, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re staying here.”

“Fat fucking chance,” you argue quietly, racking a bullet in the chamber of your own piece while joining him at the door. “You don’t take me to the range so I can sit up here worrying while you play Super SEAL. Let’s go.”

He puffs out a breath of air, jaw ticking as he considers his options. After a moment, he relents, “Stay on me, and stick to the shadows. If I say run, you run, got it?” You swallow thickly and nod, his eyes softening at the determination and fear swimming in your own. “You remember what I taught you?”

“Keep my finger off the trigger unless I intend to shoot.”

“And if you do?”

“Aim for center mass.”

He tucks you into his body and presses his lips to your forehead, murmuring, “That’s my girl.” Steve quietly opens the bedroom door and steps out onto the landing. With his dominant hand on his weapon, he reaches behind with his free hand and laces his fingers through yours, tugging you closer until your chest presses against his back. Feeling your pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips, he gives your hand a firm squeeze before lifting it to his shoulder. After a quick sweep of the living room from upstairs, he looks at you over his shoulder and whispers, “On me,” then begins your careful descent. Glass shatters somewhere in the kitchen, and Steve can feel your entire body tense as you muffle a gasp against his bare back. He turns at the bottom of the steps, guiding you into the corner there and shielding your smaller form from the wide open space of the living room, then raises his gun in the dark. Pressed so tightly into him, you feel rather than hear his authoritative voice carry through your home. “This is Commander McGarrett of Five-0,” he announces. “Put down any weapons you have, and come out with your hands raised.”

The house goes dead silent, or maybe it’s just impossible to hear over the sound of your blood rushing in your ears. God, you think to yourself, how does he do this every day? The seconds tick by, and the tension hanging in the air is downright oppressive.

Then, an object goes clattering across the floor and all hell breaks loose.

“Get down!” Steve roars, spinning and crushing you into his body moments before the backs of your eyelids go stark white from the flash bang. You force your eyes open as the light dissipates, readjusting to the dark once again enveloping you as time slows to a crawl and the world spins around you. You feel Steve’s palm tapping insistently against your cheek, and you realize he’s been calling your name, trying to get your attention. “Y/N, Y/N, look at me,” he pleads, and you hear a distinct edge to his voice that you’ve never heard before. He’s scared, you realize with a start, bile rising in your throat at the prospect of this man, the very definition of bravery, being scared about what you’re facing. The scene unfolding before you hurtles back to normal speed, and you spot movement on the second floor by your bedroom. Acting on instinct, your index finger shifts onto the trigger and you squeeze twice in rapid succession, gulping in air and staring in disbelief at the body that tumbles down the stairs to lay at your feet.

Your eyes dart back and forth between the landing and the living room where you can hear Steve exchanging blows with one of the intruders. He lets out a guttural roar, and you can just make out his form ramming a figure clad in black against the far wall. Then there’s a sharp crack followed by the sound of deadweight hitting the floor.

“Baby,” Steve says urgently, wrenching the semi-automatic from the dead man’s grip before returning to your side, his hand a comforting pressure on your shoulder. “Get to the basement. They’re going to send a second wave-”

His intuition proves right, the front door breaking off its hinges from a powerful kick and more glass shattering before you hear the thundering of boots across the hall upstairs. “Go! Go now!” Pressing your body to the wall that supports the staircase, you make it as far as the kitchen before the clouds part and the crescent moon illuminates another three men running towards you from the beach, weapons trained on your beloved home. The acrid smell of smoke fills the air as Steve fires a series of shots, trying to fend off the intruders so you can reach the basement for a semblance of tactical advantage, the relatively small room devoid of windows and featuring only a single entrance and exit.

You move into the kitchen, glass cutting into the soles of your feet that you barely even register thanks to the adrenaline coursing through your body, and reach for the handle to the basement door. “I can’t feel it,” you cry, panic flooding your voice while you paw at the wood. “Steve, I can’t find the handle!”

He realizes then, with a rising sense of dread, that he didn’t hear a window squeaking on its hinge. They didn’t need a window to breach the house. It was a fucking drill.

“Okay,” he nods, resigned. “Okay. How many bullets do you have left?”

“Four,” you answer shakily, swiping at your eyes to clear your vision.

He pops off an expertly placed shot, and you flinch when the man’s head jerks back before he crumples to the sand outside. “I’m sure our neighbors have called HPD by now,” Steve says confidently, trying to imbue his strength into you despite the myriad of scenes playing out in his head of how this could all go horribly wrong. “Tell me again what you’re gonna aim for,” he coaches.

“Center mass,” you answer dutifully.

Steve rumbles out, “You’re doing so well, Y/N. You keep your eye on that hallway, okay?” You hear the crunching of glass beneath heavy footfalls, and you take a deep breath in a feeble attempt to steel your nerves. Then shots ring out across the kitchen, the sparks of bullets affording you snapshots of the chaos, accompanied by the soundtrack of blows landing and bones cracking.

As quickly as it started, it’s all over. The longest six minutes of your life. Just about the length of Bohemian Rhapsody.

The thought has a laugh bubbling out of you, and Steve turns at the sound to check on you, the air rushing out of his lungs.

“Baby?” He drops to his knees, cradling your head in his lap and pressing his hand against your chest.

“Hurts,” you gasp out, trying to pull away from the unwelcome pressure.

“I know, my love,” he soothes you, “just breathe through it, okay? C’mon, breathe with me.” Following his lead, you take deliberate breaths, each gulp of air sending a shockwave of pain radiating through your body.

“This sucks,” you laugh again, almost delirious now. “I just picked out my wedding dress.”

“And you’re gonna look so beautiful in it,” Steve croons, pressing his hand even harder against the bullet wound in response to your rapidly worsening pallor. “Keep breathing, baby.”

You take in an obedient breath, and he blinks away tears, joking, “You wanted us to have another thing in common, huh? Matching his and hers scars?” You smile lovingly at him before gasping from the pain, and he continues rambling to keep you conscious, “It’s a through and through, Y/N, you’re gonna be fine.”

“Jus’ a through ’n through,” you slur back.

“Stay awake, Y/N,” he says roughly, jostling his knees beneath your head. The sound of approaching sirens grows louder with each passing second, and you try to memorize Steve’s handsome visage, his features drawn together tightly in concern.

You muse, “So pretty,” as his face comes in and out of focus, and you let out a content hum before closing your eyes, the sound of Steve’s panicked voice blending into the wailing sirens, and then nothing at all.

__________

“Hey, babe,” Danny calls as he walks briskly through the hospital just after three in the morning, lowering his voice when he receives a disgruntled look from one of the few other people in the lobby. “HPD said you were on your way to Tripler.” Seeing Steve decked out in an EMT’s jacket, he quips, “What happened? You ride in the ambulance so much they gave you a souvenir, huh?” Steve turns at the sound of Danny’s voice, his disheveled appearance and red-rimmed eyes a stark contrast to his usual sarcasm and self-assurance. “Woah, hey,” the blonde’s voice drops to a soothing murmur, and he pulls his best friend into a tight hug. “What’s going on?”

“It’s um-” Steve sniffs and smooths a hand over his face, steeling himself. “A tactical team broke into the house-” His voice breaks and he clears his throat, his hand balling into a fist that he repeatedly hits against his open palm before blurting out, “She got shot, Danny.”

The blonde is dumbstruck, unsure of how to ask his followup question and grateful when his partner intuits his fear. “She’s in surgery,” Steve supplies, and Danny releases a ragged breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“How much longer?”

Steve merely shrugs in response, glassy-eyed stare trained on the floor in front of him. He pulls his hands out of the jacket pockets and studies them for a moment before concluding, “She lost a lot of blood.”

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, babe.” Danny guides his friend down the hall toward the nearest restroom. “I’m gonna call the team and let them know what’s going on. And I’ll have Chin bring you a change of clothes. Should I… call Y/N’s parents?”

“Not yet,” Steve intones, letting the rest of his thought go unspoken, then pushes open the door to the bathroom.

He stands in front of the sink for a few moments in a trance, unsure of what to do next until he glances down at his hands again, unrecognizable in their current state. He runs his palms under scalding hot water and scrubs at them ferociously, willing the liquid in the basin to stop running red. After several minutes, crimson has dulled to a blush tinge- the same color as your cheeks when he makes you laugh and the flowers you chose for the table settings at the wedding. He moves to swipe at his pooling tears but can’t bring himself to touch his face. Instead, he pulls out several paper towels, wets them, and dabs at his stinging eyes.

The cool water brings him marginally back to reality, although he’s not sure that’s a good thing given the state of his world right now. Suddenly feeling hot all over, and definitely too hot for this stupid jacket, Steve yanks at the zipper and peels off the heavy fabric. It takes him a few tugs to get the material detached from his bare skin, and when he looks up into the mirror again, he sees why.

On the other side of the door, Danny’s filling Chin in on the vague details he has of the night. “…won’t even say her name. No, I know, but he just keeps saying ‘she’ like Y/N’s a victim in one of our cases and it’s honestly freaking me-” Danny gets cut off by a gut-wrenching howl followed by the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. “I have to go,” he mutters into the phone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you when you get here. Thanks.” He allows himself a moment to breathe and prepare himself for what he’s about to see, then enters the bathroom.

He finds Steve gripping the sink so tightly that fresh blood oozes from the wounds on his knuckles with each flex of his fingers, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he stares blankly ahead into the broken mirror. “Steve-”

“Look at me,” his best friend rasps out, turning so that Danny can see his bare chest, a horrifying canvas painted with your blood. He opens and closes his mouth several times, clearly at a loss for words as he looks down at his hands in disbelief. “Her blood is literally on my hands, Danny. I was- I was supposed to protect her. My baby,” he whispers sadly, and then the dam breaks.

__________

As night creeps into morning, Steve sits in the waiting room with his team members poring over recent case files. He scratches at his chest for the umpteenth time, unable to escape from the hellish feeling of your blood on his body even after a hot shower in the nurses’ locker room and a change of clothes courtesy of Chin. “This is taking too long,” he sighs, slapping a file closed on the table before him and digging the heels of his palms into his raw eyes.

“Steve,” Kono starts gently, rubbing his arm, “why don’t you get some rest? We’ll keep going and wake you up if-”

“No,” he shakes his head, his voice rough with exhaustion and barely concealed rage. “I’m not going to sleep until I hunt down this son of a bitch and take away everyone he loves.” After a breath, he nudges Danny’s foot under the table and asks, “What’s Duke saying?”

“No hits through facial rec or even Interpol. It’s like these guys are ghosts.”

Chin sits up in his stiff hospital chair like an epiphany’s just struck. “What if this isn’t about Five-0?”

“Y/N’s a high school teacher,” Danny says, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Her biggest enemy is Mrs. Heifer down the hall who never replenishes the K-cups.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Steve smiles at his best friend and corrects, “Mrs. Hannifer.”

“I said what I said.”

“C’mon, you two,” Kono grins, squeezing their hands on the table. “Chin, what are you thinking?”

“When’s the last time you heard from Doris?”

Steve snorts out an incredulous laugh and answers, “When she got on that private jet a few years ago. She’s never met Y/N. Hell, she doesn’t even know she’s a grandmother now.” He shakes his head at that realization, gnawing at his bottom lip as he considers Chin’s line of thinking. “I’m gonna call Joe. You guys keep working through these files, okay?”

The older man answers on the ninth ring, his voice thick with sleep when he says, “Son, you have any idea what time it is where I am?”

Glancing at the digital clock at the nurses’ station, Steve replies curtly, “Four forty-seven in the morning. Where’s Doris, Joe?”

Steve can hear shuffling on the other end of the phone, and he can picture Joe sitting up in bed, trying to figure out an artful lie. “What’s going on, Steve?”

“There are at least eleven dead bodies at my house right now,” he says by way of an answer.

“Are you sure they were looking for your mother?”

“This wasn’t some intruder block party at the McGarrett household,” Steve snaps, ire overpowering his immense respect for the man whom he considers to be his second father. “They were in tactical gear with heavy weaponry and a clear target. This wasn’t just an op, it was a hit.”

“Christ,” Joe breathes out. “Are you alright, son?”

“No, I’m not,” he answers honestly, voice breaking on the last syllable. “Y/N’s in the hospital.”

There’s some shuffling again, louder this time. Steve can tell he’s getting dressed before he declares, “I’m on my way.”

__________

Joe’s baritone voice sounds garbled as it floats over to Steve’s ears like he’s stuck underwater, and the brunette sits up with a start, realizing he inadvertently dozed off while awaiting his mentor’s arrival. Kono places a paper cup with steam wafting out of it beside him, and he looks up at her gratefully. “I was just about to wake you.”

“Kono, hey,” Steve starts softly, reaching across their makeshift work desk to take her hand. “I just- I want you to know how grateful I am. For introducing me to Y/N and then giving me the push to-”

“Don’t,” she whispers emphatically, fighting back tears. “Save it for your reception, okay?”

He nods, sharing a bittersweet smile with your childhood best friend, before taking a fortifying sip of caffeine and heading towards Joe who’s being briefed by Danny. He pulls Steve into an uncharacteristically lengthy hug, then steps back with a sigh. “Son, there’s something you need to know. Your mother-”

“-never left the island,” Steve finishes the thought for him, spotting a concerned Doris rounding the corner into the waiting area. Then the other shoe drops, an all-too-familiar face stepping out from behind his mother.

“What the fuck?” Danny hisses under his breath at the sight of the two women arriving together.

“Steven,” Doris starts with a sympathetic click of her tongue, arms outstretched as she approaches her eldest. She stops short at the look in his eyes and the tight clench of his jaw. His rage is palpable, and the image of his hands around Doris’ throat flashes unbidden behind his closed eyelids. “They had plans of our house,” he says, his voice barely audible. “They took the handle of the basement door off so we had nowhere to go.”

If his mother is wondering who the we is, she’s doing an excellent job of hiding it. Her shadow, on the other hand, voices the question out loud. “Who was with you?” she asks, concerned. “Are you hurt?”

“My fiancée,” Steve spits out, trying and failing to tamp down the venom dripping from his words.

“I didn’t-” Tears brim in Doris’ eyes and Steve forces himself to look away. “I had no idea, Steven. I’m so sorry.”

“Of course you didn’t know,” he laughs sadly. Meeting his mother’s gaze once more, he says, “You shouldn’t be here. You need to lay low in a safe house until we figure out who’s running this op.”

“You need to play it safe, too, Steve,” the younger brunette speaks up. “Come with us.”

“Cath-” Her name catches in his throat like the shards of glass still taking up residence in the cracks along his knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then we’re staying here with you,” Doris says with a sense of finality. “At least until she's out of surgery.”

“Y/N.”

“What, Steven?”

Doleful eyes look up to meet his mother’s, the mix of blue and hazel in her irises an exact reflection of his own. “Her name is Y/N.”

__________

The first rays of sunlight stream through the cracks in the blinds into your hospital room, casting an almost angelic glow on your sleeping face. Steve would find the sight absolutely picturesque if his eyes weren’t laser focused on the steady rise and fall of your chest, terrified that every breath you take could be your last.

The bullet lodged in a tertiary bronchus of Y/N’s left superior lung lobe, just shy of the cardiac notch, your surgeon had explained to him. We were able to safely remove a portion of her lung, and we didn’t see any bullet fragments penetrate the pericardium, the sac around the heart. She’ll have to take it slow and avoid strenuous activity, especially with the rib fractures healing, but we anticipate a full recovery in due time. Steve had done some extensive Google searching following his conversation with the surgeon, but an article detailing the amount of hemorrhage that could occur from damage to intercostal vessels had his skin feeling hot and sticky again, and he forced himself to stop.

The flurry of activity in the recovery ward outside your room is muffled by the drone in his ears, interrupted every so often by the steady beeping of your monitors, proof that you’re still alive. Leaning his elbows against jittery knees, he presses his clasped hands to his forehead and finally breaks the silence. “So… the CIA, huh?”

Catherine sighs, running her fingers through her hair before saying, “I would’ve told you if I could.”

“I see why they assigned you to Doris,” Steve huffs quietly. “You both have the same penchant for half-truths.”

“Steven-” his mother starts, but he cuts her off with a withering glance.

“The least you could’ve done, the very least, was warn me to be on my guard.”

“And what would you have done differently?”

“Reinforce the house. Have Y/N stay with Danny. I don’t know what I would’ve done, because you didn’t give me an option.” He rubs his face roughly and takes a deep breath, trying to ward off the crushing weight of exhaustion. “Look, uh, Y/N’s going to be fine, so you guys really should get going. Get someplace safe.”

The two women nod, standing and gathering their things. Catherine steps out into the hallway, but Doris lingers at the threshold of your room, turning back to her son with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Steven,” she whispers, her voice cracking on his name. “I thought- I thought if I went back to the only thing I was ever good at, I could keep you safe.”

He rises from his chair to meet her in the doorway and pulls her into a tight embrace, years of questions left unanswered and moments missed passing between them in the span of a few seconds. “That’s not the only thing you were good at, Mom,” he divulges quietly.

She cups his cheek in her hand, and Doris can see the little boy she left behind peek through the hardened exterior of her adult son when he leans into her touch. “When this is all over, I’ll come see you, okay? I want to get to know my daughter-in-law.” I want to get to know you, she thinks sadly, deciding it’s better to keep that thought inside for now. “Stay safe, Steven.”

He nods. “You too, Mom.”

He follows her out into the hallway, calling out for Catherine who stops and turns at the sound of his voice. Jogging down the hall to make up the distance, Steve stops in front of his long-time lover, ex, and almost-wife. “Thank you,” he says awkwardly, now unsure of why he even stopped her from leaving. “For watching out for my mom,” he clarifies.

“Of course,” Cath responds. “She’s family.”

“Right, well, uh-” He sniffs and scratches the back of his neck. “Take care of yourself.”

“You too, Steve.”

He turns to head back to your room, but Catherine’s hand on his arm stops him. “She wrote to me,” the brunette blurts out in a confession. “Y/N, she- she wrote to me, and I found it in my old inbox a few months back.” Her eyes are glassy when she continues, “She, um, thanked me for being there for you all those years before she came into the picture. And the way she talks about you, Steve, God, she really loves you.” Steve drops his gaze to the ground, overcome with emotion, and nods. “Y/N told me about the ring, too.”

His head whips up at that, concern flooding his ocean blue eyes. “Cath-”

“It’s okay, really. I’m glad she told me.” They’re silent for a few moments, then Catherine says, “Look, Steve, just because I’m not in your life anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still care about you. And Y/N… it’s so clear that she loves you. That she’s good for you.”

“For the first time in my life,” Steve reveals quietly, “I know what it feels like to be chosen. For the first time in my life, I feel like a priority.”

“You should be a priority, Steve. You deserve to be happy, and you deserve to be happy with her.” Catherine presses a delicate kiss to his stubbled cheek, and it feels distinctly like a final goodbye. “See you around, sailor.”

She turns and continues down the hall, but Steve has lived a life filled with one too many unanswered questions. “Cath?” he calls after her. “What would you have said? If I had asked, what would you have said?”

Catherine smiles at him, a bittersweet smile that holds years of love, friendship, and fond memories. “I would’ve said ‘yes’, Steve.”

__________

A few days later, you’re enjoying a small, simple breakfast a la McGarrett that tastes like a Michelin star meal compared to the hospital food you’ve been forcing down since waking up from your surgery. “An omelet has never tasted this good,” you moan happily around another bite, and Steve grins at you. “I hope you still feel that way when we get you back home.”

The mention of home has your smile faltering as you recall the destruction that ensued on that fateful night. “Do we still…” You hesitate, unsure of how to phrase your question delicately. “Can we go back home?”

“We’re fixing the place up for you as we speak, babe,” Danny jumps in, sharing a quick look with his best friend. The crime scene cleanup crew had done a stellar job over the past two days, but Steve was insisting on pulling up and replacing the entire kitchen floor, claiming a remodel was past due anyway. No one had the heart to tell him they knew exactly why he couldn’t look at the old linoleum tiles.

“You guys are the best,” you gush. “I was worried we would have to move.”

“No, baby, are you kidding me?” Steve tuts. “Mary and I were raised in that house, and we’re gonna raise little McGarretts of our own there, too.”

“Don’t tell me I have to deal with more of you,” Danny groans, and you laugh before your entire left side smarts and you suck in air through your teeth.

“Danny!” Steve admonishes, and you’re quick to soothe his ruffled feathers.

“Are you two upsetting my favorite patient?” Your lovely nurse, Lani, narrows her eyes playfully at your boys as she enters the room, making notes in your chart of your fluid rate and vitals on the monitor.

“No, ma’am,” they answer in unison, and she huffs at them skeptically. Turning her attention to you, she asks, “How are you feeling today, sweetheart?”

“Less pain, more so discomfort. My stitches are starting to get itchy like you said they would.” She nods and hums sympathetically, then smiles and says, “That means you’re healing.”

“Does that mean I can take a real shower today?”

“Nice try,” she laughs, adjusting the pillow you’re leaning against. “Not quite yet. But Mina will be in soon to take care of you, dear.”

With a pout you ask, “You’re leaving me?”

“You’ll be discharged by the time I start my next shift,” Lani answers, squeezing your shoulder in a sweet gesture. “And Commander McGarrett?” She turns to him, one eyebrow quirked, and the SEAL sits up at attention. “We don’t want to see you in here for at least a year, okay?”

As Steve nods dutifully, Danny jokes, “I mean, really, you oughtta give this guy a punchcard or something at this point. Nine sets of stitches and the tenth one’s free, huh?”

Shaking her head, she calls, “Goodbye, you two. Get well soon, Y/N, dear!”

“What a gem,” you smile, “I love her.”

Danny stands with a soft grunt and announces his departure, too. “Gotta collect my monkeys and drop them off at school,” he explains, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll bring the kids by later and make sure this guy hasn’t bored you to tears, yeah?”

“You’re a real comedian, Detective Williams,” Steve yells as he leaves, rolling his eyes at his best friend’s ribbing. You reach your hand out towards your fiancé and wiggle your fingers, gesturing for him to come closer. Your EKG lines only allow you to stretch so far, and you fall back against the pillows with a huff. “I don’t like hospitals, Steve.”

“I know,” he responds sympathetically, coming to sit on the edge of your bed and brushing some loose hairs off your forehead.

“I don’t like having all these wires and tubes connected to every inch of my body.”

“Trust me, I know.”

“And I hate having to ask for help. Not even being able to bathe myself? Hard pass. It makes me feel useless.”

“Y/N-”

“And the last time we were in this place, the roles were reversed and I was so terrified that you weren’t gonna wake up and-”

“Honey, baby, angel, light of my life,” he cuts you off gently, squeezing your cheeks between his large hands, “would you just- would you take a breath for me? Nice and easy, just like that,” he instructs, breathing with you. “Thank you so much.”

“Was that your polite way of telling me to shut up?” You smile lovingly up at him, angling your head to press a kiss to each of his palms.

“I would never-” He molds his lips to your forehead. “-ever-” Another kiss. “-do such a thing.”

“Perish the thought,” you snort. “Will you snuggle with me, babe?”

He glances down at the bed, appraising. “Are we both gonna fit?”

You pout at him, dramatically jutting out your bottom lip. “I make it work when you’re in here.”

“You don’t pull your punches, future Mrs. McGarrett,” he laughs warmly, wedging his large frame beside you in the comedically small bed.

You hum contentedly as his arm settles around you, resting gently on your injured side. “Who said I’m taking your last name?”

“Ouch,” he mock cries, hand going to his heart. “Another direct hit.”

“I’m not done yet,” you declare, and he challenges, “Oh yeah? What else you got?”

“My scar is gonna be cooler than all of yours combined.”

His fingers trace delicate patterns along your side and he scoffs, “Is not.”

“Is, too!”

“Who’s gonna be the judge, huh?”

“All of our friends.”

“Nu uh,” he shakes his head. “Unfair advantage. You’ll get bonus pity points.”

“We’ll take pictures. Make it a blind experiment.”

“You’re on, Mrs. McGarrett.”

“What did I just say to you?”

“My last name’s cooler. You’ll come around.”

“You’re so annoying, Steve.”

“I know.”

“But I love you.”

“…I kn- Ow! Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I love you, too! Stop pinching me, you cheeky little- How do you have the energy to do this right now?“

__________

[A/N: Woo baby this one was a doozy, but I’m actually really proud of it? 🥹 Writing this gave me anxiety and then big sad and then big smile for my goofy baby Steve, I hate myself fr. This has been sitting in my drafts inspired by snippets of various episodes of the show because, let’s face it, writing myself into one Steven Jack McGarrett’s life is my guilty pleasure. I love this man sm and I wanted to explore his more emotional side as opposed to the tough and sarcastic version of Steve we’re used to. I hope you enjoyed this lil piece that’s been living rent free in my head for months now 🖤 Also...peep the Macbeth reference 💅🏽✨]

#steve mcgarrett imagine #steve mcgarrett fanfiction #steve mcgarrett x reader #steve mcgarrett #steve mcgarrett x y/n #steve mcgarrett x female reader #steve mcgarrett x you #hawaii five 0 #hawaii five 0 imagine #h50 #doris mcgarrett #hurt/comfort #angst with comfort #angst and hurt/comfort

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green-eyedfirework · 2 months

Text

Dick has had to concentrate on his breathing the entire day. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. The count is the only thing letting him hold it together. In, hold, out. In, hold, out.

Jason isn’t here, to get himself into trouble by saying or doing the wrong thing. Marian has been bundled off to Leslie—despite Prince Grant’s assurance that he isn’t going to send her away, Dick doesn’t want her in this suite.

In, hold, out. In, hold, out. Breathe.

“My god, that took so long,” the prince groans, shutting the door with a bang. Dick can hear the bolt slide shut. “Personally, I think Daniel’s pissed we gave him so little notice, that ceremony dragged forever.”

Dick registers the note of irritation in his mate’s scent and has to fight to stay where he is. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. He can hear his mate moving around the room, can hear the rustle of cloth and the squeak of the wooden cabinets.

“Dick?” He nearly stutters on his next breath as he lifts his gaze to meet his mate’s eyes. Grant is squinting at him, shirt off, standing in front of the closet. “You okay? You’ve been standing there for a minute.”

Dick forces himself to move. One foot after the other. Thankfully, his closet is on the other side of the room. One foot after the other. He can do this. “I apologize,” he rasps quietly, “I got caught up in my thoughts.”

“No need for an apology,” Grant replies easily, “I was just worried that you’d turned into a mannequin.” His tone makes it a joke, but that’s exactly how Dick feels. Like a wind-up toy, robotically moving through the motions, carefully and neatly undoing the knots that hold up his mating silks. A wind-up toy that’s not sure when it’ll run out of juice.

Halfway through the knots, his fingers stutter. An omega’s mating silks are not designed to be removed by one person. Last time, this did not matter. Last time—last time it was ripped off of him before he could utter a single protest.

In, hold, out.

“Dick? Are you having trouble with the dress? Do you want some help?”

In, hold, out.

“If it pleases Your Majesty.” Dick’s surprised his voice doesn’t waver.

“You don’t need to be so formal,” Grant laughs as he moves closer. Dick can hear him stop right behind him. “Just Grant is fine.” A broad hand brushes against his side as fingers tug efficiently but none-too-delicately at the knots. The cloth gives way, peeling off rather faster than his pounding heart appreciates. “They really make this difficult, huh.”

In, hold, out.

Grant’s fingers slide against his bare back as the half the silks slide off, and something in Dick snaps.

He’s untethered. Unmoored. Drifting. Something in his mind attempts to hide from the oncoming pain, and it shatters his control.

“The gods must be smiling on me, sweetheart, because we got you all to ourselves—”

“Fucking breed another pup into you—”

“Omega bitch, this is where you belong—”

“Do that again—bite him again, look at him, so good and quiet—”

“Yes, take it, take it you fucking whore—”

“What the hell do you have to cry about—”

“Be grateful—”

“You’ve got four of us to take care of you, sweetheart—”

“Dick? Dick?” The memory-scent of alpha lust is abruptly replaced by shock and fear. “Dick, what—Dick, please say something, Dick!”

There’s a stinging pain on one cheek and Dick realizes his eyes are open. He’s kneeling on something cold and rough, an arm around his shoulders keeping him upright, and he’s staring up at an alarmed face.

“Are you okay?” Grant looks very concerned. When he bends lower, all Dick can smell is his scent, blanketing everything around them. “Should I get the doctor?”

“No.” Dick’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. “I’m fine.”

“You went gray and collapsed, Dick, that isn’t fine,” Grant says firmly, blue eyes scanning over him, the same icy color as his father’s, “Was it something you ate? Are you ill?” Grant tightens his grip and hauls Dick up easily. “Here, you’ll be more comfortable on the bed.”

Dick can feel something inside him shrivel. Grant puts him down delicately, and then comes back with a blanket that he wraps Dick up in, before scurrying away and coming back with a glass of water.

The world feels distinctly off-kilter.

Dick doesn’t know when Grant got possessed by Jason’s spirit, but his stomach is twisting uneasily and he just wants this over with. It isn’t permanent, he has to remember that, Grant is the Crown Prince of Defiance, he won’t stay mated to Dick, it isn’t permanent.

“I’m fine,” Dick says raggedly, unwrapping the blanket. He sets the water aside, his stomach is already tied into knots. “Just—get this over with.” It’s ruder than he wanted, but Dick is too tired to care. There’s no point in walking on eggshells around alphas, Grant will hurt him either way.

The remainder of the knots are easy to undo and the silks fall off, pooling at his waist. Dick takes a shuddering breath—in, hold, out—and looks up to gauge what he should do next.

Grant is staring at him blankly. “Get what over with?” he asks in a curiously flat tone.

Dick goes very still. His rudeness was more egregious than he thought. Terror carves through his veins as he stumbles off the bed to crumple to his knees, bowing his head as he fights not to tremble. “I—I apologize, Your Majesty,” Dick forces past numb lips, something shrieking in his ears, “I did not mean to imply anything less than gratefulness for the honor of being your mate. I am not suffering from anything that would bar you from consummating the bond—”

“Dick,” Grant cuts him off. Dick looks up to see his mate several steps away, staring at him in a cross between shock and horror. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

Dick stares at him. He doesn’t—his head is empty. Something is roaring in his ears. In, hold, out. He doesn’t understand.

Grant’s expression crumples into something distressed. “Dick, this is political, remember?” his voice urges, desperate, “It’s just to keep Luthor’s hounds off the scent. You have my bite, that’s all we need, we don’t need to consummate anything.” He takes a shaky breath and crouches to be at eye level, still several feet away. “I’m not going to touch you,” Grant says, slow and even and firm.

He doesn’t start laughing after he says it. His eyes don’t flash with cruelty or mockery. His scent is filtering around the room, and Dick can smell nothing but sincerity.

“I’m not going to touch you,” Grant repeats, his gaze intent on Dick.

Dick starts crying. The prickling won’t stop, it feels like something’s unspooled in his soul, and Dick furiously rubs at his face but the tears keep coming. “Dick?” comes hesitantly and softly and Dick clamps his mouth shut on a hiccup and tries to stop crying and ends up burying his face in his hands in a futile attempt to halt the tears.

“Dick?” Grant sounds so uncertain, “Dick, do you—shall I get someone?” Dick shakes his head, he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, he doesn’t want his mate to see him like this, he just wants to hide.

The last time he cried this badly, Marian had just asked him why she didn’t have a Papa like all the other kids. Jason had seen the expression on Dick’s face and whisked Marian away, explaining that she was so special she got the very best Mama, and Dick locked himself in his room and sobbed until he had no tears left.

Dick can hear Grant moving, can hear a glass being set down near him as he curls up and hides his face against his knees. A soft weight drops on top of him and Dick flinches before he realizes it’s just a blanket. The footsteps fade away.

He doesn’t know how to explain it. It’s like something inside him unraveled, a tightness he kept locked up, and the sobs feel like they’re draining poison from him. He cried at his last mating too, but he cried in pain, touched by hands he didn’t want on him, consigned to a life of eternal torment, unable to fight back.

Now he’s crying at the brush of a future he didn’t think possible.

It takes a long time before the tears peter out. The blanket is soft and Dick scrubs at his face before going for the water to soothe his sore throat and quiet the hiccups. The room is quiet, but more than that, the room is empty, but Dick doesn’t have time to feel alarmed before Grant pokes his head through the door.

“I heard…” the alpha trails off when he meets Dick’s gaze, visibly wincing, “I, ah. How are you—how are you feeling?”

Like shit. But arguably less like shit than he thought he was going to feel, so he supposes that’s a positive. “I’m sorry,” Dick croaks out. He doubts that having his mate fall to pieces is what Grant was expecting from this night—the crying undoubtedly messed up his makeup, he’s huddled under the blanket like a sad lump, and—

“No!” Grant says immediately, eyes wide, “No, shit—no, Dick, I’m the one who should be sorry. I didn’t think—I didn’t realize that you thought—I didn’t explain,” he finishes, sounding miserable, “How this was going to go. It’s just—it’s just for the public perception. Until Luthor backs off. You don’t have to—you don’t owe me—I’m not asking—” he blows out a sharp breath and rubs a hand over his face. “This isn’t real,” he says finally, “It’s not a real mating, and I don’t expect you to act like my mate, and I’m never going to touch you without your permission, okay?”

Dick nods.

Grant smiles, though it doesn’t look as bright as his previous ones. “Do you—can I help you with anything?” he asks nervously, hovering in the doorway, “I’ll sleep in the sitting room, the door’s locked so no one will be able to tell the difference. Do you want me to get the doctor?”

Dick shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says throatily. Grant doesn’t look like he believes him, but he just nods and closes the door behind him.

Dick slowly pushes himself up till he’s sitting on the bed. He’s exhausted, wrung out like a worn dishcloth, but he can’t help the part of him that calls it a trick. That keeps watching the door. Slade Wilson is a man good enough at manipulation to keep an entire empire under his control, and Grant is his alpha heir.

There has to be a trick.

Dick curls up on the bed, dressed in softer clothes, and waits for the creak of the door. Waits and waits and waits, until the darkness and exhaustion conspire to pull him under, and he falls asleep.

~#~

Grant is gone when Dick wakes up the next morning—he isn’t in the sitting room, there’s no trace that he slept there last night, and the guard outside said he left early. Dick had deliberately not scheduled anything important for today, assuming he’d need at least the day to negotiate with his alpha to return to work, so he finds himself aimlessly wandering the path to Leslie’s rooms.

“Your Highness,” Leslie looks visibly surprised when he pokes his head in, “Good morning. Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I came to pick up Marian,” Dick says, and goes along as Leslie ushers him into a chair.

The doctor looks at him with her uncannily piercing gaze. “Do you need an examination?” she asks, her tone matter-of-fact and her eyes concerned.

“No,” Dick jolts up from the chair, “No, nothing like that. Just Marian, please.”

“A contraceptive?” Leslie asks, quieter.

“No,” Dick has to fight the flush, “No, Leslie, nothing—nothing happened.” There’s no one else in Leslie’s office, but he still drops his voice to a whisper, “There’s no—he said he won’t—it’s not a real mating.”

Leslie, to her credit, doesn’t display the incredulity she’s sure to be feeling. “Okay,” she says simply, before motioning to Dick’s face, “You might want to wash up, Your Highness, anyone would think you spent the whole night crying.”

Dick flushes again, but takes her point. By the time Leslie returns with Marian, he looks more put together—he can do nothing about the dark circles, but his eyes are no longer puffy. Marian still scowls when she sees him, all of three years old and a little alpha princess determined to control everything she sees.

“You don’t look good,” she accuses as he scoops her up, poking at his cheek, “You missed bedtime. Aunt Leslie doesn’t do the voices.”

Dick doesn’t bother to point out that Jason’s the one who does the voices, not him, instead dropping a kiss on her forehead. “Sorry, Mari, I won’t miss bedtime today. Do you want to come picking flowers with me?”

“Flowers!” Marian shrieks in his ear, and all’s forgiven on her end. Leslie, however, still looks grave.

“Are you sure?” she asks lowly, “She can stay here longer—”

“I’m sure,” Dick says, even but firm. Grant didn’t touch him. Grant didn’t hurt him. Grant didn’t even come into his room. He was never concerned about Grant hurting Marian, just about being unable to hide his injuries from his child, and if he’s not getting injured, the point is moot. “Thank you for watching her.”

“It was my honor, Your Highness.” Leslie’s gaze follows him out, a tangible presence against his back.

Leslie’s concern is not the only one he’s faced with. Several people ask him how he’s doing, ask him if he’s okay, ask him if he needs some extra food or water or balm or medicine. Even more people watch silently, narrowed eyes intent on his gait, on his face, on the bite on his neck visible with his low-collared shirt.

Needless to say, he’s more than happy to get out of the castle for a few hours to make flower crowns in a meadow with his daughter.

He runs into Grant when he returns for lunch, laughing at Marian trying to hold all her flowers in too-small hands and nearly walking straight into the Crown Prince in the atrium. Grant steadies him before he can fall and then blinks when he takes a full look at Dick.

“I see someone had a fun morning,” Grant says, raising a hand and darting a look at Dick, as though asking for permission. Dick dips his head in the slightest of nods, confused, and holds still as Grant reaches up and—adjusts the flower crown on his head. “Now it’s perfect,” Grant smiles, and sweeps into a mock bow, “Your Highness.”

“Your Majesty,” Dick gives a practiced smile and does an equally teasing curtsy back, aware of the many, many people watching. Luthor cannot know that this whole thing is just pretend. “Would you like one as well?” Dick is holding Marian’s attempt, a crown half falling apart in his hands, but Grant gamely ducks his head for Dick to crown him.

He smiles at Dick when he straightens, the Crown Prince of Defiance with a three-year-old’s best attempt at flower braiding in his hair, and Dick can see hearts melting all across the room. “I’ll see you in the evening,” Grant says, a hand under Dick’s elbow as he kisses the air above Dick’s forehead.

Dick scans the room as Grant strides away, and sees most looks of suspicion fading. All except Marian, who is holding two fistfuls of squished petals and staring after Grant with a narrowed scowl.

Dick hasn’t exactly explained the situation to her, too mired in panic himself, and that’s clearly a mistake he has to rectify.

~#~

It’s late by the time Grant finally makes it to his rooms, and there’s a headache pounding behind his temples. The smooth workings at the beginning of his visit deteriorated soon after they announced the mating, and today, without Dick there, it felt like people were deliberately stalling him.

In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if that’s actually the case.

There’s giggling coming from inside the suite and the scent of a happy pup, and he follows it to find Dick and Marian ensconced on the couch. Dick is reading her a story, and Marian is interrupting him every other word, and despite that, Dick looks at her fondly.

They both look up when Grant enters, and for a moment, Grant is frozen. Should he leave? This is his suite, he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go, but they both looked so unguarded in that moment before they realized he was there.

“Your Majesty,” Dick says, straightening, before a smile spreads across his face, “You’re still wearing the crown.”

What crown, Grant thinks dumbly, before he remembers the flowers. His hand immediately flies up, knocking a few flowers askew—the whole thing is tangled in his hair. Dick’s smile widens a fraction before it returns to his usual polite expression.

“I’d entirely forgotten about it,” Grant says, trying very hard not to stare at Dick. The thing is, Dick is a very attractive omega—the first moment he saw the steel in Dick’s eyes as he calmly dismissed a subpar plan, Grant couldn’t help but want.

But Dick doesn’t want. And that is the problem.

Admittedly, Grant wasn’t only thinking of the strategic benefits when he suggested the mating—more time spent with Dick, more time to get to know him, and a casual testing of the waters of how the rest of the empire would react to him mating with a prince of a conquered territory—but he had never expected this.

Dick’s terror—because Grant was all but choking on the scent as Dick shivered on the stone, looking up at him like he expected Grant to attack him for the audacity of feeling faint—and his tears, and the desperate, disbelieving look in his eyes when Grant swore that he wouldn’t touch him…

Well. Grant didn’t get much sleep last night, and even spending the morning hacking away at training posts pretending that they were the alpha who dared to put that terror in Dick’s mind didn’t help. Everyone staring at him like he’s a monster—Dick’s fear had to come from somewhere, somewhere real, and if Dick expected Grant to—to rape him when Grant never said anything of the sort, had in fact said they would annul the mating once their troops were in position—he’s probably not the only one.

Grant doesn’t know what shadows he treads on, only that they’re there. He could ask—he’s the Crown Prince of Defiance, he could have every gory detail by the morning—but the memory of Dick’s terror-stricken expression arrests him. He could leave it be, step carefully where he knows the ground isn’t stable, and make sure his intentions are always clear.

The priority is Luthor and Gotham’s safety. Dick’s safety. Grant can handle a few black looks.

“Silly, you’re just making it worse,” Marian clambers off the couch and glares at him. Dick scrambles after her, immediately pulling her up into the safety of his arms. Grant tries not to feel slighted. “What did I say about calling people names, Mari?” Dick hums quietly. The princess pouts. “Apologize to His Majesty, please.”

“I’m sorry,” the little princess dutifully recites, looking incredibly put-upon. Grant has to press his lips together to hide the smile. “Are you my Papa?” she asks.

Grant chokes.

“Mari,” Dick’s cheeks are red, “I already explained this. We’re going to be staying with Prince Grant. He is not your Papa.”

“Only pack stays together,” Marian narrows her eyes, “Uncle Jay said.”

“Sometimes, friends stay together too,” Dick exhales slowly, “Don’t believe everything your Uncle Jay says.”

Marian is still eyeing him with a calculating expression. Pup or not, it’s clear she’s an alpha.

“...Can you do voices? Mama’s bad at reading stories.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” Dick looks exhausted, “I’ll get her to bed. I didn’t mean to bother you—”

“It’s no bother,” Grant gives him a hesitant smile before turning to the little princess, “And yes, I do happen to be good at voices.” Rose has always called Grant dramatic. “May I tell you a story, Princess Marian?”

The suspicious look in her eyes disappears to glee. Dick is looking at him with a soft kind of incredulity, like he’s not willing to believe what he’s seeing, but he’s okay going along with it.

~#~

Grant’s continued stay on the sitting room couch is halted by Marian finding him there one morning, bulldozing over all his objections, and dragging him into the bedroom. Grant gives Dick a look that is very close to panic, and Dick can’t help but laugh.

There’s no doubt in anyone’s mind who the next ruler of Gotham is going to be, and Mari is a force unto herself.

Grant won’t hurt Mari, Dick knows that, Dick believes that, and he okays Grant joining them on the bed. All it takes is one servant to enter their suite unexpectedly and find out Grant is living on the couch, after all, for Luthor to decide that Gotham is easy prey.

The prince still keeps his hands to himself, even then. He silently asks Dick’s permission before touching him in public, even though the whole point of this mating is to put on the act of a happy couple, and Dick is starting to believe that Grant will actually keep his word.

It’s a startling thing, to sleep in the same bed as a strange alpha, and trust that he will not hurt you.

Grant may be the Crown Prince of Defiance, but he’s soft in ways that Slade isn’t—Dick can not, for example, imagine Slade sitting on a bed with a bouncy, wriggly three-year-old, ignoring the pup crawling over him while trying to have a serious conversation.

“Luthor’s envoys will be here tomorrow,” Grant says as Mari attempts to crawl up his back, “They will be scrutinizing us carefully.”

“Yes,” Dick says, not betraying the jolt of fear at where this conversation is heading.

“We have to be convincing.” The dread the words would’ve inspired is undercut by Mari spilling off of Grant’s back with a startled shriek and a muffled omph as she lands on the pillow.

“Yes.”

“I’ll—is it okay if I hold your waist when you stand next to me?”

“Grant,” Dick exhales, almost exasperated. He isn’t made of goddamn porcelain. “It’s okay to put an arm around my waist or hold my hand or brush hair out of my face. You don’t have to keep asking permission. I will tell you to stop if I don’t want it.”

Grant briefly squints, but drops the topic. “Okay,” he says slowly, “What about kissing?” His scent is beginning to leak anxiety, “I just—they’ll expect us to be close, and it doesn’t have to be on the lips, it just—”

“Okay.”

“What?”

“Okay,” Dick repeats slowly. Kissing. Honestly. Dick agreed to this thinking of several worse things than kissing. “You can kiss me. On the lips.”

Grant looks poleaxed, like he was never expecting Dick to agree. “Okay,” he repeats, wide-eyed, “Okay. I’ll squeeze your hand before I do it, okay? You can pull your hand away if you change your mind and want me to stop.”

Dick stares at him, caught in a moment of how is this real, how is he real, before Marian pops up between the both of them. “I want kissies!” she demands.

“Oh, do you?” Dick laughs and tickles her and bends down to loudly kiss all over her belly as she shrieks in glee. When he looks up, Grant is watching them with warm fondness—Dick can smell the faintest scent of want, but for the first time in years, the scent doesn’t make something cold crawl down his spine.

~#~

Grant does indeed squeeze Dick’s hand before bending in for a kiss in front of Luthor’s envoys. Dick holds his mate’s hand for the rest of the day, and squeezes a couple of times to catch some kisses of his own. Grant is warm, and he smells nice, and Dick feels dizzy and giddy in equal measure, like he’s a teenager again, sneaking kisses behind the stables.

Their mood is infectious. By the time Luthor’s envoys leave—Dick has informed them, in no uncertain terms, that their trade agreement is unacceptable, with Grant’s hard-eyed glare backing him up, and shot down every one of their half-hearted revisions—they look resigned.

Gotham is not easy prey. Lex Luthor will find no chinks here.

#my snippets #the rabbit died #deleted scenes from a planned sequel #royalty au #past noncon #fear of noncon #political marriage #omegaverse #dick/grant

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justcallmefox89 · 3 months

Text

Gale and the Gith: Chapter Fourteen - Inferior Part V

Nothing is as it seems.

Gale huffs, glancing over at the portal for the tenth time in as many minutes, then resumes his pacing. Lae’zel and Astarion exchange a brief glance but otherwise leave the wizard to his thoughts.

It’s taking too long. Why did I agree to let him go in alone? Stupid, stupid, stu-

The portal flashes and X’aa’nath tumbles through, wild-eyed and breathing harshly. Gale rushes to him, catching him by the shoulders and helping him stay upright.

“Kin! Have you done it? Have you killed our Queen’s enemy?”

X’aa’nath flinches, a barely noticeable thing Gale only catches because of how close they are. He quickly straightens up and faces Lae’zel. “I tried, kin. I tried… but the target is unkillable.”

Surprise, then anger flickers across Lae’zel’s face. “Unkillable? I don’t believe you – show me your mind.”

X’aa’nath looks like he wants to protest, but he relents, and slowly his unconsciousness unfurls, allowing the other three into his mind.

“I may have made a mistake trusting you. I told you to stay away from the githyanki. But you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” X’aa’nath’s dream visitor, a handsome elven warrior, turns to face him. “And now you’ve come to murder me.”

“My kin offer me cleansing! And my Queen has told me who you really are – an agent of the Illithid Grand Design.”

“I told you I stole the artefact from someone- well, I stole it from Vlaakith. Since then she has become desperate.”

X’aa’nath scowls. “So you admit to stealing from my Queen as well. Why should I not kill you where you stand?”

“Vlaakith wants me dead because I know her secret,” the dream visitor protests. “It is a secret so great that if your people ever found out, that would be the end of her rule, the end of her. That same secret is how I have been protecting you from the Absolute.”

X’aa’nath frowns, shaking his head slightly.

“I can hear your thoughts. You think I’m lying. Vlaakith warned you that I would try to deceive you. But consider this – what reason do I have to deceive you? I want the same thing as you do – freedom. I am on your side. I have been from the very beginning.”

“No! Do not try to trick me. Vlaakith does not lie to her faithful!”

The dream visitor draws his sword and kneels, offering his weapon to X’aa’nath. “I already told you I protect you, that I saved you. That I’m just like you. If this is not enough to convince you, what more is there to say?”

“I am githyanki,” X’aa’nath snarls, snatching the sword out of his dream visitor’s hands. “I am nothing like you. I am loyal to my Queen. I will bring her your head and be blessed with ascension.”

With no further hesitation X’aa’nath thrusts the sword through the dream visitor’s chest. Blood pours from the wound and the dream visitor gasps in pain.

“I really though you wouldn’t,” he grinds out. “We could have been so much more. But you had to choose this.”

The dream visitor fades from existence, then quickly reappears, completely healed and glaring at X’aa’nath.

“So you are not to be trusted.”

The sorcerer stumbles back, shaking his head and staring in shock.

“I don’t intend to make a habit of conversing with my killer, so I will be brief. Your survival depends on mine, and mine on yours. It is less than ideal, but it is where we stand. I know a secret that Vlaakith never wants to be revealed. It is the reason that she mobilized her people to retrieve the Astral Prism. It is why she sent you to kill me. And why she will kill you once you leave this place. Since we are both dependent on your ability to survive that, you would do well to remember that without me, you would become a mind flayer.”

“Lies!” X’aa’nath cries out. “You know nothing of my Queen!”

The dream visitor sneers and rolls his eyes. “Leave. I have a battle to return to.”

He waves his hand and X’aa’nath is thrown back through the portal.

Gale blinks, dazed as he withdraws from X’aa’nath’s memory.

Lae’zel scowls. “Vlaakith tavki na’zin! I see – only madness. My Queen knows my faith. She would never condemn me. But you… you have failed her.”

X’aa’nath’s eyes widen. “No, kin! I did as Vlaakith commanded; you saw the truth of it!”

“I should have been the one to go,” she growls. “I knew you could not be trusted with this.”

“Kin…?” X’aa’nath voice is small and unsure.

Lae’zel’s hand whips up and strikes X’aa’nath’s face with a sharp crack. “You are not my kin. You are not githyanki. You are the unwanted one… and you will always be other.”

A soft sound breaks in X’aa’nath’s throat, but otherwise he stands stoically in the face of Lae’zel’s condemnation. The red imprint of her hand blooms across his right cheek, standing out starkly against the pale gold of his skin.

Gale steps closer to him, attempting to be a reassuring presence without overwhelming the skittish sorcerer.

“Enough, Lae’zel!” Astarion snaps, stepping between the two gith, casting a slightly worried look toward X’aa’nath.

The younger gith avoids the vampire’s eyes, resolutely looking out at the broken rocks and gleaming stars as they drift by.

“Yes,” Lae’zel agrees. “We must go to the ch’r’rai. He will summon Vlaakith – she must know of this… this apostate.”

W’wargaz is waiting for them as they exit the planecaster, surrounded by a group of warriors. “Lae’zel – I have been waiting. You are named hshar’lak. Bend your head, for my blade is ready.”

“Ch’r’rai please summon Vlaakith!” she cries. “There is much she needs to be told!”

“She speaks truth, ch’r’rai!” X’aa’nath adds. “Please, allow us to explain.”

“She already knows of your failure, ghaik wretch,” W’wargaz sniffs disdainfully. “The queen has spoken – her death is decreed and yours will follow. You have shamed Khou’zal for the last time.”

Gale shoulders sag as the realization hits him; no matter the outcome of their trip to the Astral Plane, Vlaakith had no intention of letting any of them live. From the look on Astarion’s face, Gale surmises he has reached the same conclusion.

The faint hint of burning ozone fills the air and a brief touch of static caresses Gale’s exposed skin, sending a shiver crawling up his spine. He sucks in a deep breath as X’aa’nath takes a protective stance in front of his party members, his skin rippling with lightening he’s barely able to contain.

X’aa’nath grins maniacally as he stares down the ch’r’rai. “You want my head W’wargaz? Come and get it. Htak’a!”

He launches himself at W’wargaz and chaos erupts.

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oftenwantedafton · 2 months

Text

Personal Space - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Chapter 5

Word count - 4.5k

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - none for this chapter

Also available on AO3

That noise again, indicating it’s time to get up and begin the day.

Steve Raglan groans, reaching over your still slumbering form. Apparently you have no trouble sleeping right through the alarm. It’s a wonder you make it to work in such a timely manner.

He’s tempted to hit the snooze button again, but he knows you both need to get going. He gives your shoulder a gentle shake. You murmur and snuggle closer. Still clinging to his side. Face burrowed into his chest. He says your name, shaking you harder.

“Steve, quit it. I’m comfortable,” you murmur against his shirt.

“It’s time to get ready.”

“Let’s just stay here.” Head lifted briefly and then flopped back down again.

“Your parents paid good money for the room. And these speakers are experts. You’ll probably learn something valuable.”

“Can’t we just call it a vacation instead?”

“No, we can’t. Come on. Up, up, up.” He sits upright and you’re forced to move, groaning in protest. You drag a hand through your hair and rub your eyes, squinting at him. There’s a little daylight peeking around the curtain. “I’m going to make coffee if you want to go shower first.”

You huff, pouting, joining him sitting on the side of the mattress. Your fingers trail over his bare forearm, then snake up under the sleeve that ends above his elbow, tracing over the scars. “How far do these reach?”

“Everywhere. Nearly.” He smirks at the look you give him. “That’s not an innuendo. Just the truth. Enough stalling. Time to get ready.” Raglan stands and your fingers lose their grasp. He already knows he’s going to hate the hotel coffee. He’s very particular about what brand he uses. But any of that caffeinated beverage is better than none.

You pad barefoot into the bathroom with your suitcase in tow and he hears the shower turn on. The career counselor removes his clothes from the closet, deciding they are still a little more creased from packing than he’d like and he heats up the iron, unfolding the ironing board he’d retrieved from the closet. The coffee is ready by the time he’s finished pressing the first pants leg. He takes an experimental sip. Terrible, as he’d predicted. Not nearly strong enough. Maybe the offering at the conference downstairs would be better.

Steve finishes getting his clothes ready and flips on the local news, swallowing the last of his drink. You emerge from the bathroom, your eyes darting to the neat business clothes he has laid out on the chair tucked underneath the small desk at the far end of the room.

“You ironed? Ugh, now I feel really bad.” Your fingers push futilely against the creases in your skirt and tug at the wrinkles in your blouse.

“I told you to unpack last night.” He stands, setting the cup down. “You want me to press them for you?

“I’ll do it. You can go shower.” He nods, about to enter the bathroom when you voice halts him. “Thank you, Steve,” you say quietly. “For doing all this. Coming with me. Driving. You know, everything.”

“Sure. No problem.”

The mirror is still fogged when he enters the restroom. Your toiletries are haphazardly piled near the sink. He shakes his head, tucking them back into the zippered bag on the counter before opening his own. He’s got an undershirt and boxers in a neatly folded pile and a bath towel hung on the rack ready to use. He swipes at the mirror, his image still blurred.

What, exactly, are you doing, old man?

Letting you sleep in his bed. He’d liked it. Too much. Too comfortable letting those soft curves rest against him. Another boundary broken down. He was letting you get too close.

In the shower now and he’s halfway wishing you were in it with him. It’s a decent size. Plenty of space to…

Absolutely not. Cold water it is. Better to wake him up anyway. Supposed to be good for your health, shocking your system into a pseudo fight or flight response, getting your metabolism going, releasing hormones. Very pointedly not thinking about you. Instantly reminded when he realizes you’ve left your shampoo and body wash in the shower, declining the miniature samples the hotel offered. He’s brought his own supply, too.

The bearded man finishes washing and towels off. Less than ten minutes later he’s dressed in his under clothing, teeth brushed, hair combed, cologne on, and everything put away again before sliding his wristwatch on as he exits the other room. You’re seated on the edge of his bed, your clothing looking tidier than before.

“You smell nice. I forgot to put body spray on.” You slide off the bed onto stockinged feet and return to the restroom. The older man is glad your eyes didn’t linger too long on the scars on his legs. Ones you haven’t been exposed to yet. His mind wanders to the feel of your fingers on his arm, caressing the patterns. Not again. Don’t think about it.

You’ve returned to the bedroom again. He recognizes that fragrance. That fruity one. Some kind of sweet berries. The scent strong when you settle across from him, watching him button his shirt. Sinking down next to him after handing him his glasses from the nightstand and pulling an arm towards you so you can help him fasten the cuffs. Then you reach for the tie draped around his neck.

“You know how to do it?”

“Not really. My dad tried to show me when I was younger but I just made a mess of it.” You let the silk material slip from your fingers, your fingers dragging against his chest in the process. “Do we really have to go?”

“Yes,” he says softly.

***

The first hour is an allotment for a continental breakfast.

Steve opts for a blueberry muffin and another cup of coffee while you grab a croissant and orange juice. The place is very crowded. Loud. It’s going to be a long day. He nudges your arm to get your attention. “You can go talk to people if you want, you know.”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“Of course not. That’s why you go introduce yourself. Network.”

“You always make it sound easy.”

“You meet strangers for a living.”

“That’s different.”

He takes a sip of his beverage. Marginally better than the one he’d consumed earlier. “Why?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s different when you’re in control. When it’s just one on one. When you have the mindset that you have to do it, because it’s your job. Like it’s mandatory and your mind just takes over naturally. I don’t know how to explain it.” You tear off a piece of the croissant and a sliver of almond falls back onto the paper plate. “Besides, you don’t socialize and you do fine.”

“I don’t need to practice. I’ve already done all the networking I need to. It’s good for you to come out of your shell. Get comfortable being around strangers.”

“I want to stay with you.”

Steve sighs, dusting crumbs off his fingers and crumpling the muffin wrapper into a tight ball. “You should go. Chat. Meet people.” He waves a hand in the air.

“What if I say no?”

“Well, you’re an adult. I can hardly force you.”

“You’re always trying to get rid of me.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to foster some independence and growth. That’s my job as a mentor. I still have to do your review. It has to be completed by Friday.”

“So just say I still needs lots of training. And you’re willing to help. Problem solved.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” The fact of the matter was, in spite of all the joking around, he felt you could easily handle things on your own. He himself was really the only thing holding you back. Your feelings for him.

That obstacle he keeps having to contend with.

***

It’s a long day.

The seminars are on a variety of topics —ethics, managing private practice, engaging with different age groups, career mapping—honestly not a bad selection, if Raglan’s being honest. It really is a good opportunity for you. But his mind is wandering. He’s watching the hours slip away until lunch break, and then again until the last speaker wraps up.

Dinner time and he’s now walking the streets of Las Vegas with you.

He makes sure his wallet and your bag are secure. You’re not used to dealing with pickpockets. Keeping hold of your hand. Eyes flickering to either side, keeping aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t like the bustle of the city. The exposure. He wants to be back in that sleepy town he came from. Where he knows exactly where it is safe.

Where the worst danger is himself.

“How about pizza and beer?” You’re pointing to a small restaurant shoved in between buildings. Such a crowded downtown. He’s thinking of his shuttered pizzeria. Would you have enjoyed it? The stage shows and arcade games. Winning cheap prizes. You’d choose a plush for sure if you had enough tickets. “Steve?”

“Hmm? Sorry. Got lost for a second there. Sure, if that’s what you want.”

“We can do something fancy tomorrow night. I brought a nice dress…”

“Great.” He can only imagine. No. He shouldn’t imagine at all.

It’s hot inside the restaurant. Doors propped open. Crowded. They have to wait for a table to clear. Jammed into a booth fifteen minutes later. His knees bump yours under the table. You scan both sides of the laminated menu.

“What do you like for toppings?”

“Honestly anything. I’m not fussy.” His mood is improving slightly now that he’s got a cold beer in hand. He hasn’t had an alcoholic drink in awhile.

“The Margherita one looks good.”

“Alright, let’s do that.”

“Done.” You shut the menu and leave it on the edge of the table, ordering when the waitress stops by before taking a sip of your own drink. Some new brand of spiked iced tea that released last year that had been an instant hit.

“I thought you didn’t like tea.”

“Hot tea. Iced tea is a different story. Try some.” You push the bottle over to him. He takes a sip. Sweet, but not overly so. A nice kick after. “Good, right?”

“Yes,” he admits grudgingly. Maybe he’ll get one of those next. “Is that what you got at the bar that night? When you went out with the people from the office, I mean.”

“Nah. Tom Collins. That’s what my mom always used to have during holiday parties. Finally let me try some when I was sixteen. Only a little. I think she was afraid I’d get hammered. I stopped after a couple at the bar. Hit me harder than I thought it would.”

“They didn’t have anyone as a designated driver that night?”

“Yeah, they did. I just, I don’t know. I didn’t want to ride with them.”

“You could have asked me to pick you up.”

You take another swallow. “Seriously? You’d already fallen asleep. Don’t bother denying it, I know I woke you. I felt bad. And then you chewed me out just for calling you up.”

“I was concerned for your safety. I would have come if you needed me to.”

“I did need you to.” You pick at the paper label of your drink, tearing a strip away from the glass.

Steve finishes his beer. Unsure of what to say. Everything seems so unkind. He doesn’t want that. But then there’s the alternative. Encouraging you. Which seems even worse.

The pizza arrives. Another round of the hard iced teas ordered. It’s good. He hates to admit it, but it’s better than what he’d served in his own restaurant. Not greasy. Fresh slices of melted mozzarella. The perfect ratio of basil and crushed tomatoes. Crisp sourdough crust. He’s polished off two slices before you’ve even finished your first. You’re still quiet. He’s struggling to think of something to talk about.

“What did you do at the restaurant?”

Raglan’s eyes reflexively dart around. As if anyone was eavesdropping. Spying. Of course not. A touch of paranoia, but it’s how he’s kept his secret safe for so long. “A little bit of everything,” he replies vaguely.

“Did you work there for a long time?”

“Yes.”

“You really liked it.”

He takes a long pull from the bottle. “Sometimes. It had its ups and downs like anything else.”

“How come you left?”

“I didn’t leave. The restaurant closed.”

“How come?”

He sets the bottle down with more force than necessary, the glass striking the table’s surface loudly. “Because some things happened and the owner got blamed for them, and even though nothing was ever proven, people were convinced they knew better and the business suffered for it.” He tries to keep the bitterness and resentment from his tone, knowing he’s failing miserably.

“What ‘things’ happened? I heard there was a hypodermic needle in one of the ball pits at some fast food place, I forget which one now and—”

“—It wasn’t that. Let’s just drop it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Were you friends with the owner? Is that why—”

“—Drop it,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Okay. Sorry.”

Steve crushes his napkin and drops it on the plate. It was only natural for you to be curious. You were just making conversation. You were completely innocent. You had no way of knowing the terrible history of Freddy’s.

Which is precisely why he wants to keep you away from it. Away from the person he’d been before. Safer with this fake persona he’s adopted. Better this way. But still so hard to escape the past. Little bits bleeding through here and there. The disappointed look on his daughter’s face the last time he’d seen her. Helping him clean up after the most recent incident. Asking him when it would ever stop. He doesn’t know. He’s trying. Really trying this time. That knowledge, though. That power waiting. Could he really turn his back on that forever?

“I apologize,” Raglan says stiffly, pushing the words out with difficulty. “I know it seems I’m being rude and short with you. It’s a touchy subject. I understand the curiosity. I just don’t have anything else I’m comfortable discussing in regards to my history there.” He looks at you, waiting for a response.

“I won’t tell anyone. You can trust me.”

“It’s better this way. For both of us.”

He signals for the waitress and asks for the check.

***

Steve takes another shower when he returns with you to the hotel.

You’ve gotten clothes ready for the next day when he emerges from the other room. Learning. Or maybe wanting to be better prepared so you wouldn’t rush so much in the morning. More time for…

He’s still not sure if he’s going to let you back in his bed.

Sitting propped up on pillows, flipping through channels while you take your shower. Another pajama set with shorts, and a tshirt that clings to your figure. His eyes dart away hastily. Feel yours on him. He leans over to switch the light off. You stand and walk over to the edge of his mattress. He scoots over wordlessly and you climb in next to him. Arm curling around you. His eyes close. “I’m sorry for earlier.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Looking at you now, the light of the television bathing your features until you reach for the remote and switch it off. Sliding down until you’re both lying in each other’s arms.

“Goodnight.” He can smell the mint toothpaste when your mouth comes close to his cheek. Nearly a kiss. You hand resting on his cheek, stroking over his facial hair. Brushing over his lips. He captures your hand, gently moving it down.

He can’t allow it. Can’t even tell you the reason why.

You wouldn’t want him if you knew the truth.

***

You’re awake early the next morning.

Steve senses it as soon as his eyes open. Still fairly dark in the room. Your breathing too rapid for slumber. Facing him. Fingers blindly stroking over the tshirt covering his torso. He lets a palm settle over your shoulder. Easily covering it. Sliding down your arm. In the darkness, it’s easier to pretend. A little secret to share between you before it becomes light. Before the day starts. Fingers threaded through your hair. Touching your cheek. That little hitch of breath. So much pent up desire. It’s too warm beneath the covers. Shifting top sheet and comforter. You reach for his hand. Kiss his knuckles. He presses his lips to your forehead.

“I wish I could give you more,” he whispers.

The alarm sounds.

***

Another day of seminars. Steve loses track of the speaker’s titles and educational and professional backgrounds and their speeches go unheard.

He’s looking at you.

That pantsuit that flatters your figure so well is partly to blame. More than that. He’s looking at your lips. He knows how they feel on his hands. He wants to know how they’d feel elsewhere. Kissing your forehead. How much he wishes he was brave enough to kiss your mouth instead. But that would be too serious a transgression. No coming back from that once it starts.

A brief respite before dinner that evening. Allowing you to get changed into a clinging black dress that makes him want to devour you. Tear it right back off. Spend the evening inside instead.

Raglan drives you to the restaurant. Someone at the conference had recommended it. Several someones. He’d made a reservation earlier. Classy place. Linen draped tables. Waitstaff in formal attire. Extensive wine list. European flare to the menu offering.

He wants red meat tonight. Steak. Something cooked until it’s warm and pink in the middle. You opt for the same but request it well done. Gray. Safely avoiding the juices that ooze onto his own plate. The wine brings color to your cheeks more than the drinks from the previous evening. Stronger alcohol content. At one point your foot abandons its shoe and slides up his shin. He tells you to stop, halting you before you can go further. Thumb stroking over the inside of your ankle. At odds with his words.

He doesn’t want you to stop.

Your fingers lace through his on the return drive to the hotel. Remain there on the walk to the elevator. To the room. You don’t bother unmaking your bed after your shower. He’s already moved over to make room for you. No television tonight. No lights. Last evening at the hotel. Heading back home tomorrow. His arms drag you possessively against him. You’re wearing some short nightdress that’s far too revealing. Barely covering your buttocks now pressed against his crotch. He’s resisting the urge not to tuck his hand under that hem. To tug down whatever panties you’re wearing.

“Steve, please…” You’re shoving back against him. Grinding your body.

He groans, breathing against the side of your neck. “We can’t, I told you…”

“You said you want me.”

A shuddering sigh. “I do. But I can’t let this happen.”

“I want you.” Your face turning, searching for his.

“I can’t.” He turns over, facing the window. Too much temptation the other way. Going way too far. Your hand snakes around his waist and he clenches it tightly, keeping it tucked higher up against the center of his chest. He feels your warm breath against his upper back. Lips pressed there. Your final argument before you surrender, going still against him.

***

Steve hasn’t slept well.

Neither have you. He can see it in your features. Puffy, bloodshot eyes. You groan in protest when he switches on the light.

He sits up and you mirror his movements. “Can we just…can we go home? Like, this morning?”

“You don’t want to stay for the rest of the seminar?”

“Not really. I just…I want to go home.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “Yes, we can go home if that’s what you want.” He pauses. “Are you upset with me about last night? Because I wouldn’t…”

“It’s fine.” You try and fail a reassuring smile. “I’m okay.”

He can tell you’re not. He’s not really sure he is, either. It’s an awkward place the relationship is left in. To go from this, back to being apart. Sleeping alone. Only seeing each other during work hours. And he has that damn review he needs to finish. That should be his first priority when he gets back.

No ironing today. Regular clothes. Jeans, shirts. It doesn’t take long to get ready and pack up. He skips the coffee. He’ll just stop on the road. Grab you both something. Checks out and you’re back on the interstate by eight. Both quiet. Morning commuter traffic delays the travel time. The silence stretches.

Back at your apartment before noon. Steve insists on helping you bring your luggage inside. It’s not overly heavy. Nothing you can’t manage. You already have managed it. But it’s an excuse. Because now that the moment is here he doesn’t want to part. You’re lingering by the door. Hesitating. His mind screaming at him to say something, anything other than the generic declaration that he’d see you at work tomorrow.

In the end it’s all he says. Your door closes. He returns home, staring at your performance review, his luggage still packed, sitting by the front door where he’d left it.

He begins writing.

***

Steve arrives early to work Friday morning. He immediately begins making coffee, lingering by the window to view the latest antics of the avian wildlife while he’s waiting. Quiet this morning. Nestled on the grass. Offspring grown and gone. Parental duties fulfilled.

He’s completed your review. The first step towards getting back to the professional relationship between you. Shelving all the rest, the events of the last few days left to be a fond memory.

It had taken every ounce of willpower not to tear it up and write something else entirely. Keeping you with him. But that was selfish. There was absolutely no excuse for you to be beside him any longer.

The career counselor fills his mug with the freshly brewed coffee and turns to greet you as you enter the office. ”Good morning.” He immediately notices that something’s off. No smile. You toss an inter office mailer onto his desk. “What’s this?” He knows exactly what it is, of course.

“My review. That you left in my mailbox, instead of handing to me in person.”

He nods, taking a sip of his drink. “That’s the standard procedure for sensitive documents. So what’s the problem?”

You stare at him open mouthed. “What’s the problem? You said I was done training. That I’m ready to be on my own.”

“Because you are. You've done well. Exceeded expectations, which is exactly what I wrote. It’s a compliment, not a punishment. I’ve taught you everything you need to know. Enough for you to get started, anyway. The rest will come with time.”

“And you didn’t think you should tell me? You know, maybe at some point during the last three days we spent together?”

The older man moves hurriedly to shut the door. “Keep your voice down. You know now. What difference does it make?”

“You could have discussed it with me. At least given me the courtesy of a heads up. How can you just…throw me away like that?”

“I’m not throwing you away. We’ll still be working together. Just in different offices. Did you honestly think they were going to keep paying you to shadow me forever? There’s no reason for it.”

“You could have lied. Made something up. That’s what you do, isn’t it? What you’re good at,” you reply bitterly.

Raglan’s eyes flash. You’ve touched a nerve. “The only reason you got that time off was because of me. You realize that, don’t you? Because I went to bat for you. Convinced them. That a brand new employee with no earned time should get it off. For your education. An investment because you are worth it. I got you what you wanted. You should be grateful.”

“You know damn well that’s not why I wanted to go.” He can see the unshed tears welling up in your eyes.

“If you didn’t get anything out of it, that’s not my fault. The opportunity was there,” he says coldly. It hurts. Every word. But he has no choice.

“Do you not feel anything for me at all? How do you hold someone in your arms every night and not feel something?” You’re swiping angrily at the tears finally escaping, spilling down your cheeks.

“You came into my bed, as you’ll recall.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Steve sets the cup down so firmly the liquid nearly spills over the rim. “I warned you. Repeatedly. That nothing was going to happen between us.”

“Is that why you’re doing this? Retaliation because we got close? Would you have written the same evaluation if we had never gone on the trip?”

“It’s not a punishment, as I told you. And yes, I would have written the same one.”

You turn your face away, sniffling.

“Go in the bathroom and wash your face. We have a client coming in twenty minutes. And sign this and turn it back in to HR,” he says, grabbing the envelope back off the desk and thrusting it at you. You glare at him, snatching it from his hands before you wrench open the door and exit the office.

Steve exhales loudly. He reaches for his coffee mug and sees his hand shaking. He knows how terrible he’s being. And he has to. He’d been getting your hopes up. And that was far crueler than what he was doing now. Boundaries needed to be reestablished. No more touching. No more spending time together outside of work. All of it had to stop.

He slumps into the desk chair. He knows this is the right thing to do. The best thing for you.

So why does he feel so bad?

***

It’s the longest shift of Steve’s career.

You disappear for break and lunch without saying a word. Refuse to talk at all and he can’t find anything else to say to you. The tension thick in the air. Relieved when it’s finally time to shut down the office for the night. At least it’s Friday. A couple of days off away from each other will do you some good. Then you can start fresh on Monday. On your own.

Silence on the elevator. Again during the walk to the parking lot. Body held rigid, brisk strides. Inside your car before he’s even had a chance to open his. He sits behind the wheel. Glances over.

He shouldn’t have looked.

Your face is buried in your hands. Shoulders shaking. Fuck. He doesn’t want to see this. His eyes burn. No. He needs to leave, right now. Turning the key in the ignition. Rabbit’s foot agitated, swinging sharply as he reverses the vehicle. Nearly home before he pulls onto a side street and makes a u turn. Heading in the opposite direction. To your apartment building.

He refuses to process what he’s doing. Doesn’t allow himself time to. Thumbing the buzzer. Your voice on the intercom. Shaking. Full of emotion.

“Let me in. Please.” The longest pause. The door clicks. He pulls it open. Takes the stairs two at a time. Your door opens. He slips inside and shoves it closed. Gathers you in his arms before you have a change to respond. “I’m sorry,” he breathes into your hair. Your tense form melts against him, fingers curling into his shirt. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I do want you. You’ve no idea how much…”

He cups your face. Damp with tears. Because of him. He’s done this to you. Exhales. Surrendering. It’s no use. He can’t fight it any longer. Capturing your lips. Chaste, gentle, tentative. Still unsure. Your hand on the nape of his neck. Pulling. Kissing him back. Harder. Rougher. A little moan. Tongues touching. Instant heat. Something flips inside of him. Aggressive now. That pent up desire finally being unleashed. Kissing you until the warnings in his mind are silenced. Doubts purged. He wants this. He wants you.

None of the rest of it matters anymore.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan x you #dividers credit @ saradika graphics

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rottingpirate · 1 year

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Hello!! Is there a second part to the cod MIA reader? If not could I request one? ♥️ :)

No, cause I completely forgot about it 😭

'm sorry, here you go broski

M.I.A. reader who comes back pt. 2

Warnings: typical CoD violence, human trafficking, some angst, kinda ooc

Gaz

Gaz shot upright, gasping and sweaty, tangled up in his bedsheets. Another nightmare. No one else is in the room, no one but him and an empty space next to him. The sun was already shining bright and it slightly hurt his eyes.

Y/N should be here. It's been one week since you've been declared as MIA. So far, there had been no sign of you. No demands had been made, no threats, no body had been found…the silence was eating him alive.

It was as though you had vanished completely, everyone knew that with each minute that passed, their chances of finding you deteriorated.

Knock knock. Captain Price came into his room. He takes a moment as he surveys the room before sitting down on the bed next to him. Gaz didn't have the patience to wait for him to start the conversation. "Did you find them?" His voice came out as hoarse, rough, probably cause he hasn't left his room in the past few days.

"Yes, we found them," He sounded relieved. Gaz' breathing stopped for a second, he started getting up to reach for his clothes, asking when were they leaving, until Price stooped him "but you're not coming."

"What? Why not? They're my partner."

Price pats him on the shoulder and shakes his head. "You have barely eaten in the past week. You haven't trained nor have you left your room...you need to sit this one out, kid." He wanted to protest. He couldn't stay in his bed and just wait, but the look his captain gave him made him shut up. "Okay...just- bring them back to me, please." Gaz let's out a shaky breath and closes his eyes. You're alive.

The rescue mission took a long time. Longer than Gaz would have liked. He was scared, scared of seeing the state you would be in. He didn't want to think about all the gory and bad images that swirled in his head.

Gaz was staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours and he didn't even realize how he drifted.

When he wakes up, his breath catches in his throat, you're standing there with that dump smile of yours. How long have you been standing there? He could instantly tell that you've been through a tough time, you looked a little bit thinner, your face was littered with bruises and Gaz didn't want to know how the rest of your body was doing. It seemed like you were already taken to the doctor, as you already had a cast on your arm and there seemed to be a lot less blood than he imagined there to be.

He wanted to jump up and hug, to kiss you all over and never let you go and he didn't even realize how he started crying.

You sat down next to him, pulling him into a gentle hug while telling him that everythings all right.

Price

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), please respond!”

Price’s tone was pleading, wanting nothing more than his partner to answer. But, the communications frequency was filled with static. “(Y/N), if you can hear me please, respond….fuck, please” He sounded defeated, the much needed response not coming through no matter how hard he tried to wish for it.

"(Y/N)?” Price’s voice was a low whisper in the end. But no matter how hard he was pleading. Begging. You were not responding.

"We’ll find (Y/N). They’re too stubborn to die,” Soap says, standing next to him, squeezing his shoulder gently. “And if they’re not?” “They’re just missing. We’ll find them,” He assures him. Remembering that only made Price’s heart hurt more.

For three weeks he waited. Fot three weeks he hardly ate and slept. Three weeks of no messages.

Why Y/N? Why not me?

Y/N could be captured. They could be dead or hurt and waiting for help. You decades of experience under the belt, and the chances of you going down during a mission as simple as this one seem slim, but still possible.

Meanwhile...they took you to the other prisoners. The prisoners that you had to save. You felt deeply ashamed when you realized that he had completely and utterly failed. Completely failed.

It was dim and dirty in the little cell that you were held in.

In these three weeks you have grown a lot closer with the other prisoners. There were two girls, who were about your age and a boy, who was maybe around 17. You weren't physically hurt, but definetly weak. In these past few weeks you barely got any food, sleep, fresh air or water.

141 launched a rescue mission couple days after you went missing, but nothing turned up. But this time, they might have a lead. An old warehouse in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't heavily guarded, and their squad would definetly be able to get past them. He couldn't focus as they began planning the rescue. All he could think of was rushing ahead, jumping in the plane, taking every bastard who had touched you down with his bare hands.

When they arrived Price was anything but his usual professional self, he came in he stormed through the pile of bodies littering the corridors of whatever this building was, firing shots at anyone not in a guard’s uniform.

"Found them! Found Y/N!" Ghost shouted through the comms and Price sprinted through the hallways to the location Soap was at.

Price quickly helped you up, while the rest of 141 took care of the other people that were there with you. You were unsteady on your feet as you tried walking to the car. Price suggested he'd carry you, but you protested, telling him that it's okay and you can walk on you own.

Price swore that he would love, protect and be there for you for as long as he lived. There was nothing in this life he wanted more. Nothing was more important than you in this moment.

#call of duty modern warfare ii #mw 2 #kyle gaz garrick #john price #cod x gn reader #cod x male reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader

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bellaxgiornata · 1 year

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Falling For the Devil [Part seventy-nine: "The Hell Day"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: You stay home from work because you're having a terrible day on your period.

Matt stops by for a surprise visit and offers you comfort in more ways than one.

[Series of one-shots about Reader meeting, falling for, and dating Matt Murdock.]

Warnings: 18+ for this series; contains humor, fluff, romance, angst, smut (like...a lot of it later in the series), language, some violence

Word Count: 2.9k

a/n: This is a little hurt/comfort fic while Reader is on her worst day of her period. And there's some Sweet Matty comforting Reader and some moving in discussions! Our next installment is titled "The Revisitation of Moving In" that I'll hopefully be sharing later this week! You can find the entire list of installments for this series on tumblr here.

Tag List: @stilldreaming666 @mattkinsella @ninacoette @murdocksclient @madscamp02 @1988-fiend @lina-mar @pinkratts @schneeflocky (I apologize if I missed someone or if any of these tags didn't work! Some of you might have search settings turned off on your account so I can't actually tag you!)

Curled up on your couch absently watching the food channel, your arms were wrapped around your abdomen as you groaned in misery. Your whole body ached, especially your lower back, and you'd been feeling nauseous since early this morning when you'd woken up. You'd had a headache for the past five hours that just wouldn't go away no matter how much water you drank or ibuprofen you took.

You were on day two of your period–also known as Hell Day. Since it was Friday and you'd felt like death, having woken up long before your alarm had gone off and been unable to fall back asleep because your cramps were just that painful, you'd called off work. Last night had been one of those rare nights that Matt hadn't stopped by as Daredevil because he'd stayed home working on a case, so you'd thankfully not had to wake up to him witnessing how miserable you were.

While you'd avoided Matt over that first period week you'd gotten months ago, right after the two of you had gotten together, you hadn't continued that trend for most of the periods that followed after. Though admittedly you had often managed to find a way to avoid him one way or another on Period Hell Day for months now, so he'd yet to encounter you on the absolute worst day of your period. Which you'd been grateful for, because generally you were more of an emotional mess than usual, and that's exactly how you'd felt today, as if you were one random, small thing away from crying. Again .

A knock at your apartment door drew your eye towards it, a deep frown settling onto your face. There could only be one person who would be here knocking on your door at almost seven on a Friday night. You closed your eyes, rolling over and burying your face in the pillow you'd been lying on. Another groan left you yet again.

"I don’t feel good tonight, Matt," you grumbled into the pillow. “Leave me to my misery.”

"You and I both know that I'm not going to do that," Matt's distinctive voice came from the other side of the door. “Let me in, sweetheart.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you protested, face still buried in the pillow.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m blind,” he quipped back, amusement clear in his tone.

“ Matt ,” you whined.

You heard the clear rumble of his chuckle outside of your door, the sound of it drawing your face from its hiding place. It had been yesterday afternoon since you last saw him for lunch and you certainly had missed him–despite how pathetic it was to admit because it had barely been over twenty-four hours.

"I brought mint ice cream?" Matt called hopefully through the door. “And it’s uh, probably going to melt on me if you leave me out here.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that?” you called back.

You pushed yourself upright on the couch with a grimace, your cramps somehow feeling worse now that you weren’t curled in the fetal position.

“Because I sort of thought my girlfriend would be happy for some company and comfort tonight?” he responded. "Didn't expect that I'd need to bribe her to answer the door."

Eyes narrowing, you rose to your feet, shuffling your way to your apartment door. Your right hand was pressed to your bloated abdomen like it was going to keep your insides from somehow falling out of you while you walked. Quickly unlocking your door with your left hand, you swung it open to reveal Matt’s handsome and smiling face. He held up the container of mint ice cream he had in fact brought over in one of his hands.

“What the hell does that mean?” you asked him suspiciously, eyes still narrowed as you ignored the ice cream. “Why would you think I want company and comfort tonight?”

Matt’s smile immediately fell, his dark brows drawing together, a crease forming between them. His head slowly shifted to the side as he pursed his lips. There was a long moment that he stood in your doorway looking confused as he remained silent.

“Because you’re…on your period?” he eventually answered carefully. “And I know you usually don’t feel well?”

“How do you know I’m on my period?” you questioned him.

Matt’s head tilted further to the side, his dark brows almost entirely disappearing behind the red lenses of his glasses now. “This…this feels like a trick question,” he said slowly. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to answer that.”

You shook your head quickly, hugging both arms over your stomach as if that would somehow block Matt’s heightened senses from picking up on anything from your body. “No, ew, definitely don’t answer that ,” you agreed. “I meant I haven’t seen you today, how would you know?”

“I saw you yesterday, sweetheart,” he pointed out.

“But I hadn’t told you I was on it because I just had–” you stopped, eyes going wide when Matt’s expression turned sheepish. “Oh my God , you could still tell ?” When he opened his mouth you immediately shook your head again, throwing a hand up from your stomach to stop him. “No, please do not actually answer that.”

“It’s not a big deal, sweetheart,” he said gently.

“Says you !” you shot back.

“So you’re just going to leave me to let this mint ice cream melt all over my hands in your hall then?” he asked.

“Obviously not,” you said, stepping aside.

Matt took a slow, careful step into your apartment, almost as if he was wary that you really didn’t want him here. Your shoulders sagged at the sight, shutting the door after him.

“Sorry, I’m a hormonal mess,” you apologized. “I feel horrible and I wasn’t expecting you to stop by tonight and now I’m just overthinking your senses. Again .”

You accepted the ice cream from Matt, turning and bringing it to the kitchen to keep in your freezer for now. Behind you, you heard Matt slipping out of his shoes.

“You know you really don’t need to do that,” he told you. “Overthinking my senses about things.”

“Sort of hard not to do,” you mumbled. “Overthinking is sort of my thing.”

You made your way back towards the living room where Matt was pulling his dark glasses from his face. His eyes were tracking your movement as he leaned over to set the glasses onto your coffee table, the smile growing on his lips as you made your way towards him.

“If you’re ever actually going to move in with me,” he said, “you’re kind of going to have your period around me, sweetheart. And you know it doesn’t bother me. I’ve told you that a hundred times now.”

Sighing dramatically, you once again hugged your arms across your bloated stomach as you came to a stop in front of him. “Try getting my overthinking mind to believe you,” you replied.

He chuckled lightly, his hands reaching out and landing on your shoulders. He gave them an affectionate squeeze that drew a small smile onto your face.

“I have been trying that for awhile now,” he pointed out. “Clearly it’s not an easy feat to accomplish.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, “because all I can think about are the gross things you’re picking up on when I’m like this. And I’m…” you trailed off, lips clamping together before you could admit what was on your mind.

Matt’s face shifted to something serious instantly, clearly sensing your hesitation. His eyes were scanning around your face curiously. “You’re what?” he prompted.

Chewing your lip, you gazed down at your coffee table. Could you really verbalize something so gross and ridiculous to Matt? The last thing you felt like doing right now was discussing your period with the man you wanted to still find you attractive when you weren’t bleeding in a few more days.

“Hey,” he said, his tone softer as he gripped your shoulders a little tighter, “you can tell me anything. What’s bothering you?”

“It’s just…if I move in with you, you’re right,” you admitted quietly. “I’ll be having my period around you. Like all the time.”

“Yes,” Matt agreed. “I am aware that it's a monthly occurrence. And I don’t have a problem with that.”

“But like…” you continued, your eyes locked on your coffee table because you could not look at him, “that means I’ll, you know, be…disposing of period-related things. At your place. All the time."

Matt let out an amused snort that quickly drew your eyes to his face. He bit his bottom lip, shaking his head quickly.

“Sorry, sorry, I really don’t mean to laugh,” he said immediately. “I’m not–not trying to make light of your feelings, but sweetheart, it’s just blood. I bring enough blood home on a near nightly basis. I don’t care. It doesn't bother me. And for the record, it would be our place."

“But you have the nose of a bloodhound–”

“Better, actually,” he cut in.

“Matt!” you shrieked, to which he only chuckled again. “That’s not helping!”

"You're right, I'm sorry," he said, the grin still on his face. "Just trying to lighten the mood."

You shifted awkwardly on your feet before him, other anxious thoughts about living with Matt crossing your mind. As if sensing that, his hands slid down your shoulders, making their way down your arms until they wrapped around your own hands.

"Hey, let's sit," he suggested gently.

Matt led you back towards your couch, the pair of you settling down onto the cushions beside each other. He kept his hold on your hands, that serious expression back on his face as he gazed at you.

"What's on your mind, sweetheart?" he asked. "Tell me."

"I just–just worry about all the things you're going to pick up on if I move in with you," you confessed. "Things I'm not aware of because of your heightened senses."

Matt murmured your name, the sound drawing your eyes up to his face. Nervously you chewed your lip, Matt's thumbs rubbing lightly over the backs of your hands.

"You've spent so much time with me already, sweetheart," he pointed out. "Staying the night at my place or me staying here. And I'm still here not grossed out by you." One corner of his lips curled upwards as he added, "And I lived with Fog during college for years . Share an office with him almost every day of the week now. You're not going to gross me out or whatever you're afraid of."

"Well Foggy isn't hoping you're still attracted to him at the end of the day," you blurted.

Matt's mouth twisted into a bigger grin in response. "Well that would mean I'd have to be attracted to Fog at the beginning of the day," he teased.

You sighed deeply, not wanting his jokes right now. Quickly picking up on that, Matt sent you an apologetic smile.

"I'm serious, Matt," you admitted awkwardly. "If we live together, you'll be around me all the time. Every bad day I have and every morning of my gross morning breath. And every period where I'm super gross, like right now. And every time–"

"Hey," Matt cut you off firmly, squeezing your hands. "I want every moment with you, sweetheart. All of it. The good and the bad. I want you with me. And you are not super gross right now," he stated sharply. "You never are. Nothing is going to make me love you or want you any less."

You couldn't help the sting of tears that pricked at your eyes or the way your lips had begun to tremble as Matt's words hit you hard. His brows drew together on his forehead as he noticed your body’s reaction.

"Sweetheart?" he asked, his eyes softening as they focused near your own. "Why're you crying?"

Tears had already quickly begun falling down your cheeks in hot, wet steaks. You sniffled loudly, fighting to keep your voice as even as you could when you spoke.

"Because I'm hormonal as fuck, Matt," you sobbed. "And you're so fucking charming and sweet. And I love you." You slipped a hand out of his hold as you gestured behind you towards your kitchen. "And you brought me my favorite ice cream on my worst damn day of the month!"

His brows knitted further together, the crease between them deepening on his face. The corner of his mouth twitched downwards. "Those are all–all good things though," he pointed out carefully.

"I know!" you agreed, your voice cracking.

His head tilted to the side as he studied you for a moment. "So you're…happy?" he clarified.

"Yes!" you exclaimed. "I'm incredibly hormonal and you're being really great and it's making me cry! But I also cried watching House Hunters earlier, too."

He laughed lightly, pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around you. One of his large hands began soothingly running up and down your back as you buried your face into his dress shirt. You quickly soaked the material with your tears as your arms wrapped around him in return, balling the material in your fists. That familiar scent of him surrounded you and you buried your nose further into his shirt. A moment later you felt him pressing a kiss into your hair.

"I love you, Matty," you said into his chest.

"I love you, too, sweetheart,” he murmured. “How about I get changed and I come cuddle you on the couch?" he offered. "I can give you a back massage if you lay on me. I can hear how sore your back is."

"You've had a long week yourself," you replied, sniffling again. "Both in and out of the office. I'm not going to ask you to do that."

"Well you're not," he pointed out. "I'm offering. Here, let me up."

Reluctantly you released your hold of him, Matt rising up from the couch. He shot you a smile, murmuring he'd be right back back before you watched him disappear down your hall to your bedroom.

With a sigh you settled back onto your couch, your eyes focusing back on the food channel. It was a few minutes before Matt returned no longer in his work attire. Instead he padded down your hallway barefoot in a pair of gray sweatpants with a tee-shirt in one hand.

"Shirt or no shirt?" he asked, stopping before you on the other side of the coffee table.

Your lips parted in surprise as your eyes raked over his bare torso, every defined inch of him on clear display in your living room. Matt grinned devilishly at you, tossing his shirt onto the coffee table before he made his way back to you.

"That answered my question," he said, amused.

He sat down on the couch, drawing his feet up as he maneuvered behind you. And then he opened his arms to you, waving you over with a smile.

"Come here, sweetie," he whispered. "Let me help you feel better."

You gradually climbed up on top of him, nestling your head just below his chin as your legs rested between his on your couch. While your right hand slid up to grasp his shoulder, your left hand landed along his chest beside your face, fingers absently running along his bare, warm skin that felt amazing against your bloated abdomen. Matt’s own hands settled onto your lower back, his palms beginning to press in the exact right spot against your aching muscles. It was only a matter of seconds before your eyes were closing and you were sighing in relief and contentment.

“You’re really, really good at that,” you whispered, relaxing into him beneath you.

“Sort of easy when I can hear your body that well,” he replied gently.

“And that made it weird,” you pointed out.

Beneath you, Matt let out a rumbling laugh that had you bouncing along him with the movement, which in turn had you giggling. Burying your face into his chest as you laughed, you felt his hands pause their movement to hold you tight to him, his nose nuzzling into your hair as his warm chuckle filled your ears. When both your laughter subsided, Matt placed a kiss into your hair before his hands resumed their movement on your back. You gradually eased back into him beneath you, your eyelids dropping.

“You know,” Matt began, his tone catching your attention instantly, “I hear orgasms help relieve cramps.”

Your eyes instantly grew wide, your jaw dropping in response to what he’d just suggested. There was a rumble of laughter beneath you again as you raised your head from his chest, staring down at him in shock.

“Matthew!” you shrieked.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile growing wider. “Oh that one warranted my full name, did it?” he teased.

Heat crept its way up your cheeks as you buried your face back into his chest. “Oh my God ,” you groaned, voice muffled.

“I’m just letting you know that I am more than happy to help,” he told you, amusement in his voice. “Just so you know for the future.”

“I am officially embarrassed and uncomfortable,” you mumbled, still hiding your heated face against him.

“I strongly believe that one day you’ll take me up on that,” he mused, his hands still working the muscles of your aching lower back.

“Doubt it,” you disagreed.

He chuckled yet again, his hands managing to relax you back down from the topic of conversation. Slowly you shifted until your cheek was once again resting along his chest.

“Mmm,” Matt hummed out. “Guess we’ll see who’s right eventually.”

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x fem reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock series #matt murdock fic #matt murdock fanfic #daredevil x female reader #daredevil x reader #matt murdock #fftd

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skelemira · 2 years

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can i get a uhhhhh Grillby telling a tired y/n to get some sleep pwease

Absolutely you can, anon! I freaking love writing these ones, I have a lot of experience telling my friends to go to bed *stares at @lemon-lucid and @queeniesdomain*.

Anyway! Not sure if you wanted it to be romantic or platonic, but I'll try to write it ambiguously where Reader could just be a friend living with Grillby.

Mutual Exhaustion

Grillby wiped down the counter, waving at Sans as he left. With Sans gone, he looked around the empty bar, enjoying the soft jazz floating through the air from the jukebox. He absently noted that it sounded a bit staticky, so he probably should take a look at it later on. Something about the soothing music and the rich colours of the wood he was polishing just exacerbated the exhaustion he was feeling front the long day of work, and he finally set down the rag. It was clean enough, and Sans, despite his supposed laziness, always helped him turn over the chairs and mop. Well... He used his gravity magic to push the mop around, at least. Either way, it meant he could finally go upstairs and spend some time with the cute little human up there.

He locked up and headed upstairs, the thought of maybe watching a movie or playing cards with you spurring him through his exhaustion. Each step felt like walking a mile, but it got easier the closer he got to the door. The closer he got to seeing you.

When he finally pushed open the door, though, his eyes immediately went to you.... and closed with a sigh as he saw you in front of your computer, completely conked out. You tended to be a bit of a workaholic, taking on requests like crazy until you collapsed from exhaustion. Then when you were forced to take a break from work, you would deep clean the entire apartment and claim that it was relaxing for you. But the bags under your eyes told a different story.

The best days were when you both had a day off, and he could wrangle you into actually relaxing with promises of cuddles and snacks and movies.

But right now he had to do his Duty. So as much as he had wanted to spend time with you, he knew that the more important thing right now was getting you to bed.

You jolted awake as Grillby smoothed back your hair, startling him as well, but as soon as recognition sparked in your eyes, you reached up to give him a hug... and missed completely.

You totally misjudged where he was and almost fell flat on your face, but thankfully Grillby was slightly more awake and barely caught you.

Unfortunately, this didn't tip you off to the fact that you were exhausted. Instead, you seemed even more determined to stay awake, even though your eyes weren't totally focusing on him and you practically had a death grip on his arms to keep yourself upright.

When you slow-blinked for so long he thought you actually fell asleep, that's when he decided to just pick you up and carry you to bed. You protested, but your voice was so weak it didn't really do much to help your case.

He set you down on the bed, holding back a chuckle at how you seemed to sink into the mattress for a moment before remembering your protests.

"W...wait, Grillbs... If I'm... If I'm gonna... I'm gonna bed then at least... Let me.. uh.. my.. my glowy... thingy.... work thing."

He raised a fiery eyebrow, desperately trying not to laugh. "Given that you can't even remember the word laptop, I think that's a hard no, bunny. Get some rest." With that, he tucked you in and went to lay down next to you, hoping to keep you from trying to get up to go back to work. Not that you could, of course, seeing as your eyes could barely open. But it wouldn't stop you from trying if he wasn't there.

So he pulled you close and listened to your breathing slow, feeling your delicate heartbeat lull him into a peaceful sleep as well.

Well I hope you liked it anon!! Thank you so much for requesting! And just a reminder that you can make multiple requests!

#undertale #undertale grillby #grillby #grillby x reader #romantic #or #platonic #tired reader #tired Grillby #fanfiction #drabble #writing #Undertale fanfiction #self insert

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ravens-words · 11 months

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Commiseration Tuesday

With AO3 temporarily down, lots of us are sad at not being able to read when we wanted to! With that in mind, I’m taking the opportunity to invite you guys to share a little something from a WIP to keep us going through the downtime! Preferably something we haven’t shared before, but whatever works for you!

Such a wonderful idea, thanks for tagging me @bonheur-cafe @noxsoulmate, love you both 🤍

This is from the Tarlos Zombie AU, which is coming along slowly. I hope you like it!

There's a distant static wave of sound that pulls him back into consciousness. He's still not fully capable of controlling his limbs, or his eyes, so he stays still in hopes of figuring out what's happening. Seconds later, there a rough tap on his cheek, a loud voice calling his name. "-arlos?" His heart pounds in his ears, and he clumsily lifts his hands up to them, pressing tiggtly as if that will muffle the sounds. "Hey-" there's that sound again, a little familiar, and a little too loud. "- Carlos?!" There are hands on him, now. TK? No, he thinks immediately; the hands aren't rough, but they're not gentle, either. TK's hands are always gentle. TK. Five men. Guns. A knife in his gut. TK, screaming at them, screaming for him. TK being dragged away from Carlos' outstreched hands. He opens his eyes immediatel, and the first thing he sees when his vision clears is a clear blue sky, then- "There you go," Judd says, smiling broadly, "had me worried there for a second." TK. Carlos bolts upright, the man's name on his lips. He chokes on it though, as white hot, piercing pain steals his breath. He looks down, sees the white bandage Judd's pressing to his abdomen. "-easy. Easy, brother, you're hurt." Yeah, no shit. Judd snorts as he helps him lay back down, and Carlos realizes he said it out loud. Carlos looks up at the sky, tries to ignore the pain as Judd does as best as he can stitchig the stab wound in his side. He closes his eyes and TK's face, tight with pain and fear- brows furrowed, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream. He opens his eyes, stares at the sky. He keeps his eyes open, doesn't so much as blink this time. . Judd says he should rest. Carlos scoffs and struggles up to his feet. Judd's there, hands hovering at his side to support him if he needs it. "I'm going after him, Judd. With or without you." Judd stares at him. "You're hurt, man. Can barely stand on your own. How do you plan on gettin' him out of wherever they took him?" He shakes his head. "I'll figure it out. I just have to find him first." "Carlos-" "Judd, stop," he snaps. What if it was Grace? he wants to ask but bites his tongue to keep the words in. It's not- he shouldn't compare a ten year relationship to whatever he had with TK for- what? Two days? Maybe even less than that. He shouldn't. It doesn't to have feelings for someone he met less than two days ago. And yet- Carlos exhales, his chest heaves and he sways, dangerously close to collapsing. He would have fallen in a heap on the concrete if Judd didn't catch him, one hand at his elbow and the other on his waist, steadying him. And yet, he thinks, ever since he woke up, it's felt like a part of him is missing, like whoever has taken TK has taken a part of Carlos' heart with them. Judd stares at him, as if he's a puzzle he thinks he can solve and Carlos looks away, jaw clenched. "Okay," Judd says eventually, "let's go find your man." "He's not my-" he attempts to protest weakly, but Judd's not really listening anymore, collecting their supplies off the street and throwing them in the trunk. Judd helps him into the passanger seat, then moves around to the driver's seat. They share a look, full of understanding, and Carlos breathes out. "We're gonna find him." Carlos nods. . They're on the road for about half an hour when it occurs to him to ask Judd how he knows where to go. Judd's hands tighten around the steering wheel. It takes him a minute to answer. "Judd?" "We have a tracker on him." His heart sinks. "And on me. That's how you knew where to find me."

Tagging: @chaotictarlos @tkstrrand @alrightbuckaroo @lambourngb @honestlydarkprincess @sapphire11 @rangergurlgleek1211 @itshoneywhatever

#ejtaggames #tarlos fic #tarlos #ejwritestarlos #ejswip

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duckymcdoorknob · 8 months

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𝓣𝓲𝓬𝓴𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓸𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝓓𝓪𝔂 2: 𝓐𝓬𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓵

Ahhhhh my first Double Decker fic !!! I will admit, I still don’t have a great grasp on their characters (16 episodes is too little 😭), so I’m gonna try my best with characterization.

Also please forgive me if this is not accurate, I’ve never touched a drop of anything aside from church wine 💀

—CW: This do have tickles below the cut ngl, alcohol and intoxication!—

Tags for today: @chrimsss

The day went exactly as it usually does: Doug and Kirill work together to save another victim of the current crisis, get caught up in a fight against a crazed Anthem-user, win said fight, then go out to celebrate.

And their usual celebration?

Going out for a few drinks.

Or, in Kirill’s case, getting one drink and losing his mind due to how much of a lightweight he is.

The constable was face-down on the counter, resting his head on his right arm as his left hand spun a barely-touched glass of water.

“You alright, Constable Vrubel?”

Doug always did look out for Kirill, even if he had a weird away of showing it.

“Yeah!” The purple-haired male chirped, head unmoving. “Jus’ godda finish m’wadder s’ I can ged an’udder dr’nk.”

The brunette sighed, “You’re sure that you want another? This would be your second Old-Fashioned… You’ve barely touched your water, and you’re barely upright.”

Kirill narrowed his eyes at his partner. “Tha’s n’t fair! I-I’m good, i c’n handle m- alc’hol.”

Doug couldn’t help the airy chuckle that escaped him. “Constable Vrubel-“

“Stop c’llin’ me th’t ou’side ‘f work.”

“Fine, Kirill,” the detective replied curtly. “Personally, I think you should go home.”

“Nooooooo! ‘M okay!” The constable whined, lifting his head from the bar top, revealing a red mark on his forehead. “I c’n keep g-goin’!”

Doug locked eyes with Derrick, who was placing a second Old-Fashioned on the counter, the man understanding what the detective meant immediately.

“Closing time!” The ex-officer announced, gently drying pint glasses. “Start finishing up, everyone. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“Alright, Derrick’s closing up, let’s go, you.” Doug beckoned, rising to his feet and gracing a hand on his partner’s back.

Kirill whined in protest as his second drink was taken from the counter and quickly downed by Deanna, who grimaced in the process.

“You heard him, buzz-cut, get moving.” She barked, tapping the side of his water cup.

The constable wasted zero time and began to chug the water, not realizing how parched he was. After that cup was drank, he got a refill from Derrick.

Soon enough, Kirill was stone-cold sober once more. (WHY DONT WE JUST PRETEND THAT THIS IS ACCURATE) He sat on the stoop of the bar, pouting and glaring at his partner.

“What’s up with you?” The brunette asked with a cocky smile.

“You know what’s up,” Kirill murmured. “You cut me off, bastard…”

“I wouldn’t have gotten you to leave any other way, now would I? You still haven’t even left the bar yet.” Doug replied, gesturing toward the concrete steps.

“And you know what, I don’t think I will leave the bar! Bastard…”

The detective sighed as he stepped closer to his partner. “Kirill-“

“No! Don’t you start with me! I’m staying put, and that’s final!” The purple-haired male upturned his nose and closed his eyes, refusing to look at Doug.

Doug sighed while kneeling down. “Sometimes, it’s like herding cats with you.” He scooped up Kirill and threw him over his shoulder. “If you want to act like a toddler, you will be treated as such. Now come on, I’m taking you home.”

The constable yelped and clung onto the brunette as his partner began walking away. “Doug! Put me down! Can you even hear me? Put me down you- HYEAH!”

The detective paused dead in his tracks, just having previously squeezed at the back of Kirill’s thigh to get him to shut up. “Kirill? Did I hurt you? Are you hiding an injury from m-“

“It’s nothing! Just forget it!” The purple-haired male yelped as he squirmed.

“It’s not nothing. Sit still, I need to look at your leg.” With a stone-cold stoicism, Doug poked and prodded at the thigh in question, eliciting choked giggles from the officer on his shoulder.

“D-Doug i’m- pfff- fine! It’s okay, im alrIGHT-“ Kirill yelped once again as he felt a swipe behind his knee. “Doug st-ahaha-“ he slapped two hands over his mouth, praying his partner had not heard.

Unfortunately…

“Wait, wait, wait… are you- are you ticklish?” Kirill could practically hear the evil in Doug’s voice as his eyes grew wide. “No! I’m not! Don’t touch me! No no- nohohoho!”

“Oh my god, you are!” The detective gushed as he began to pinch at small section’s of the constable’s thigh. “Ohhh, you’re usually so tough! How ironic is this?”

“Dohohohoug! Wahahahait! Puhuhuhut mehehe dohohohown!” Kirill whined as he gently slapped at the broad back beneath his palm. His hands balled into fists as he felt scribbling behind his knee. “AGH! DohohohoOHOHOUG!”

“I wish I had known about this sooner. You would’ve been much easier to deal with… at least I know how to get you to behave now.” The brunette mused, continuing his assault on the back of his partner’s knee.

It was almost too cruel.

Kirill’s face was contorted into a bashful smile as all of his co-workers started at him fondly— and if you were Deanna, menacingly.

“Dohohohoug! Puhuhuhut mehehe dohohohown!”

“That’s a negative. Until you learn to behave yourself, I have to resort to drastic measures.”

In one swift movement, the detective wrapped both hands around his partner’s hips, squeezing with a ticklish vigor. Kirill squealed and began to pound his fists against Doug’s back.

“DOHOHOHOUG! NAHAHAHAT THEHEHERE! HYEHEHEHAHA!”

“Ohhh, did I find a sensitive spot, constable?”

“YEHEHEHEHES! PLEHEHEHEASE DOHOHOHONT!”

“Please don’t what? Goodness, you need to start acting your age.”

“TIHIHIHICKLE MEHEHEHE! TIHIHIHICKLE M- WAHAHAIT WAHAHAIT! NOHOHOHO-“

“Ohhhhhh, tickle you! Of course I can. Thank you for using your words, Kirill. Now then, let’s get you home.”

The purple-haired officer whined in agony as he continued to laugh himself hoarse. His mindless pounding against Doug’s back did nothing for him, and he could only writhe in agony until his partner decided to have mercy.

Their coworkers watched in amusement as Doug cracked a rare smile of pure menace. Unfortunately for Kirill, his apartment was a long way home from the bar…

🎃————♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎✞♡︎————🎃

#t content #double decker #double decker Doug and kirill #doug billingham #kirill Vrubel #dddk #tickle fic #double decker tickles #tw alcohol #cw alcohol #augtickletober2023

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aurore-parle-de-ses-idees · 11 months

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7, any ranger + any other ranger 👀

halbarad & golodir! many years pre-epic, somewhere in the misty mountains (minor & vague injury):

The cave is dark and narrow and smells of nothing so much as frozen earth, but it is empty and sheltered from the biting winds of the mountains. Halbarad only barely remains upright as they stagger around a bend in the passage and into an open chamber. Liquid splashes against stone as they go; blood or melting snow or the last of their athelas-infused water, he can’t say. He hopes it’s only snowmelt.

Golodir lowers him carefully to the uneven floor, hissing through his teeth at some pain of his own. Halbarad bites back a groan as the movement threatens to tear the wound in his leg even farther.

“Hal?”

“Still here,” he says breathlessly. Golodir settles beside him, pressed close in the chill air. Halbarad leans into his friend’s warmth. “How are your ribs?” Golodir shifts just a little.

“Not broken,” he says optimistically. “I think.”

“Good,” Halbarad murmurs. “Are we alone in here?” Merilnim’s tales of goblin-tunnels and troll-lairs suddenly seem far too vivid.

“As far as I can see,” Golodir says. Halbarad squints in the direction of his voice.

“You can see?”

“Well- I-” Golodir sputters. “It was a figure of speech.” Halbarad chuckles weakly and tries to make himself comfortable on the cold stone. “I saw no sign of anyone or anything,” Golodir says more seriously. “Friend or foe.”

“Captain Lithwen will find us,” Halbarad says, and hopes he sounds like he believes it. Golodir says nothing, only shifting closer when Halbarad shivers violently. His pant leg is cold and wet against his skin, and every little movement makes the long gouge scream with pain again.

“Try to rest,” Golodir says, and long familiarity betrays the worry beneath the words. Halbarad tries to do as he says.

He isn’t sure if he ever truly wakes again during the two days they spend in the cave. There is never any light when he opens his eyes, and even when he wakes warm he trembles and shivers. Once he thinks he wakes to the sound of Golodir snoring, and once to him cursing in the dark while he fumbles blindly in search of Halbarad’s leg to check his wound. Once, he wakes from dreams he does not remember, shaking from fear rather than cold, Golodir holding him tightly enough Halbarad fears for his bruised ribs.

“I’m here,” Golodir murmurs, quiet and indistinct as if this is not the first time he’s said it, or as if he isn’t speaking to anyone who can hear him. “I have you. You’re safe.” Halbarad’s heart beats too heavily in his chest and speaking seems too great an effort, but he manages to grasp Golodir’s hand and cling to it as his head swims. “Hal?” There is a painful hope in Golodir’s voice, and Halbarad strains to answer.

“Still here,” he manages, and winces at the rough rasp of his own voice.

“Good,” Golodir whispers fiercely. “Stay. Just a little longer. The Captain will find us.” Halbarad tries to make some sound of accession or agreement, but his head is still spinning and his leg is aflame, and soon he slips away again.

---

The mountains feel like a distant dream when Halbarad finally wakes, warm in a room that is probably too familiar in Imladris. The skirmish on the slopes, Lithwen’s orders for him and Golodir to retreat, the cave. Nothing after that.

Halbarad shifts experimentally in the bed, and even with all the care in the world his leg still shrieks in protest. He nearly shouts- but strangles it at the last moment when he sees Golodir, dozing in a chair by the bed, his head pillowed on his arms atop Halbarad’s blankets. Halbarad is loath to wake him, even to ask if he’s alright, or to thank him, but it’s no great struggle to simply lay a hand on his arm and drift back to peaceful sleep.

#lotro #ask games #my stories #:D #i'm very much still on the halbarad & golodir buddies agenda <3 #halbarad #golodir

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awanderingdeal · 2 years

Text

O'Knutzy Week 2022 - Day 1

Prompt: Win || Loss

Rating: G

CW: Brief mentions of alcohol

Credits: O'Knutzy belong to @lumosinlove and thank you to @oknutzyweek for organising all this.

There's a running theme of my fics for this week of them being post-trade. I plan on them being all rather fluffy though (if not smutty).

“One, two…” Harry said, moving his counter along carefully as he slowly counted each square on the board. “...three, four…five!” He threw his hands up in the air, his counter flying from his grasp in the excitement. “I win! I win!” Harry cried.

“Again?” Finn plucked the die from the table, peering at it with intense inspection and furrowed his brow. “I think you must be cheating?” he pondered.

Harry shook his head furiously. “I didn’t! I promise!” He pulled himself up off the floor, bracing his hands on his hips, still barely reaching Finn’s seated height now that he was upright.

It took every ounce of Finn’s self control not to laugh at the toddler’s serious expression. Instead, he held out his hand, pinky finger outstretched. “Promise?”

Harry hooked his own pinky around Finn’s, grinning and nodding his head.

“Okay then, I believe you. You just must be the best chutes and ladders player in the world!” Finn laughed, ruffling Harry’s hair - not that it made much of a difference to the wild strands. “Come on, let’s go and find your mom and tell her how good you are.”

“Mom! Mom! I won!” Harry shouted as he ran off.

“Wait for me, you little scoundrel!” Finn chased after Harry, scooping him up into his arms just as they crossed the threshold of the kitchen, and tickled his tummy.

“No running in the kitchen please, boys,” Lily said, smiling over the rim of her wine glass.

“Sorry, momma,” Harry said, not looking remotely sorry as he wriggled out of Finn’s arms and into Leo’s. “Hi, Le.”

“Hello, Mister,” Leo greeted, moving his own wine glass away from Harry’s flailing limbs. “Are you keeping an eye on my Finn for me?”

“We played Chutes and Ladders,” Harry answered, running his fingers over the short stubble growing on Leo’s chin. “Like daddy,” he mumbled. “I went all the way down the chute and I was gonna lose.”

“But then the little monkey went and landed on the longest ladder.”

“Fissssshy!” Harry protested, but his disgruntled expression was fleeting. “And then I won!”

Outside, a car door closed and Lily tipped her head back to drain the rest of the wine from her glass. “Okay then my little board game champion, that’ll be your dad. We’ve got to go and see the kitchen lady now. Do you want to get your coat or your shoes on first?”

“Me stay with Fishy and Le?” Harry’s bottom lip wobbled as he clung closer to Leo.

Finn looked over the top of Harry’s head catching Leo’s eye. He didn’t need the small nod to know Leo was thinking the same thing he was. “We can take him to the park, Lils.”

“Are you sure?” Lily asked, her shoulders already relaxing. “It’d be a massive help. He was supposed to go to the Dumais’, but Marc’s sick. They think it might be strep.”

“Of course,” Leo said, blowing a raspberry on Harry’s cheek. “It’d be our pleasure.”

“Pots! We’re stealing your child!” Finn yelled at the sound of the front door closing.

“If you could bring him back before Sunday that’d be great, thanks. Sirius tends to get quite upset when I lose his God-child.” James made a bee-line for Harry as he entered the room, pressing a kiss to his cheek before quickly rounding the island to deliver one on Lily’s cheek too. “Anybody else want a kiss? I have some spare.”

“No, thanks. Logan tends to get quite upset when I go round kissing other men,” Leo quipped.

Finn snorted. “Except me of course.” And with that, Harry was bundled into wellingtons and a bright red jacket. James thrust Harry’s backpack in Finn’s direction, the antithesis of the anxious, fussy parent he had been the first time they’d babysat.

Three wide, Leo, Harry and himself, they took up most of the sidewalk as they walked slowly towards the park. “Phone Logo?” Harry asked. He had long since learned to pronounce Logan’s name correctly, but the nickname has stuck.

“Yeah, we’ll phone Logo, buddy.”

#o'knutzy week 2022 #Leo knut #Finn O'Hara #Logan Tremblay #Lily Potter #James Potter #Lumosinlove #Vaincre #Sweater weather #Rating: G #Fluff #CW: alcohol

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faofinn · 9 months

Text

7. “You’re a Jerk When You’re Sick”

It was almost dawn when Harrison stumbled in, a mug of ale still in his grasp. Steve had been up waiting for him, but the older man had drifted off at some point. He was woken by Harrison’s clattering, and thought he ended up sprawled across the floor, his mug stayed full.

Steve startled awake, drawing his sword from under his jacket. The tip of the sword pulled cup from Harrison’s reach, much to his annoyance.

"Hey!" He snapped. "That's mine. I paid for it."

"I don't care." Steve replied, his tone harsh. "Get yourself up. I'm not dealing with you tonight. You can sleep in the back room, on that cot, you’re not staying in your bed."

"It's my room!"

"They're my chambers, Harrison. It’s close to dawn, you're only just turning up, and you're in such a state it's ridiculous. Get yourself up."

Harrison raised his head, scowling at him. "Give me my cup."

“No. Get yourself up and go to bed.”

For someone lying in the dirt and definitely in the wrong, Harrison had too much arrogance and defiance. "Not until you give me my ale."

“Absolutely not.”

He sat, swaying. "Then I'll stay here until you do."

Steve shrugged. “Alright then, I’ll see you later.”

"What?" Harrison frowned. That wasn’t how he'd expected it to go. "No, you have to give it back."

“I don’t have to give it back.” He countered.

"I bought it."

“And now you’re in my chambers.” Steve told him, picking up the drink.

Harrison lurched for it, a shout in protest. He'd been cut off several times over the evening, and it had been difficult enough to get the final mug. Of course, he could barely see straight, and his coordination was nonexistent.

Steve set the mug on the table, looking over at Harrison on the floor. “That’s enough of that. Get up.”

"Why are you being so mean?" His anger had fizzled into tears, the alcohol messing with his emotions.

“Look at you, you’re a state.” Steve said, his own anger difficult to control. “Right, come on. Let’s get you in the cot, and you can sleep.”

"Because you won't let me have a drink!"

“I think you’ve had enough now.” Steve said, offering him his hands.

Harrison pushed them away. "Drink first."

“No. I’m trying to help you.”

"This isn't helping!" He angrily rubbed the tears away.

“I know, I know. You’re just drunk.” Steve said, reaching out for him. “Come on.”

"I don't want to."

“But you need to.”

"No I don't. I need a drink."

“You’ve had more than enough.”

"How would you know?"

“You’re literally on the floor.”

"Yeah, well." He grumbled. "Give me a drink and I'll go to bed."

Rolling his eyes, Steve poured the ale out and filled the mug with the pitcher of fresh water he kept at hand. “Here’s a drink for you.”

Harrison’s jaw actually dropped. "Are you for real?"

“As real as I’m standing here in front of you.”

He staggered to his feet. "That's fucking…fucked."

Steve reached out to keep him upright. “Whatever you say.”

His lip curled. "Don't touch me."

“I’m trying to help.”

"Yeah, right. You've thrown my ale away, made me sit on the floor, and you had your sword at me." He gestured wildly as he spoke, trying to keep himself upright.

“You put yourself on the floor, and my sword never touched you.”

"I never said it did."

“Stop being overly dramatic and let me help you, unless you want to fall again.”

"I'm not the one being dramatic."

“Whatever you say. Let me help you to bed?”

"Haven't you done enough?"

Steve shrugged. “If you want to sleep on the cold floor then be my guest. But I thought you might be more comfortable in a bed.”

"I'm going back to the tavern."

“No you’re not.”

"You can't stop me."

“It’s my coin you’re spending, I absolutely can.” Steve said, wrapping an arm around him. “You’ll feel better for some rest.”

He jerked away, quickly overbalancing and grabbing towards Steve, his self preservation breaking through the alcoholic haze. "Help!"

“I’ve got you.” Steve reassured. “Let me help?”

"I don't need your help." He muttered to the floor, hanging his head.

“It’ll go quicker if I help.”

He rubbed his face, brushing a hand through his hair. "Alright."

“Thank you.” Steve said. He did most of the work, steering Harrison to the cot set up in the room. It would be somewhere for him to rest, where Steve could keep an eye on him. This wasn’t the first time he’d come home this drunk.

The room only seemed to spin more as Harrison lay down, and he groaned. "Steve."

“What is it?”

"'m gonna be sick."

There was a bucket nearby, and Steve passed it to Harrison. “Here. Try and get it in the bucket and not on the floor.”

His head buried in the bucket, his retort was lost to a groan, his stomach twisting and spasming. He retched as his whole body shook, his arm barely holding himself up.

Steve grimaced, glad he’d given him the bucket. At least that would hopefully make him feel better, once he’d finished.

Harrison fell back against the bed, sweat collecting on his brow. He rested the bucket on the floor, his hand still shaking.

Steve set aside his frustrations and moved to sit with him, offering him the water again. “Here, have some water.”

"Thank you." His voice was barely a whisper, a tiny smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.

“Have we got rid of that foul temper now?”

His cheeks were already flushed, but a blush tinged his ears. "I'm sorry."

“You really are horrid when you don’t feel well, you know that?”

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tracybirds · 2 years

Text

Thundertober Day 1 😁😁 I love these prompts and I'm excited to spend some time with as many as I can!! Thank you @skymaiden32 for the prompts! Currently only have access to my phone bc overseas so please excuse any typos you spot 😅

Day 1 - Cave In

Alan hits a limit mid-rescue

Notes: significant emotional whump, hurt/comfort, generally the small one is having a bad bad time 🥺 (sorry Alan)

I promise it works out 💕

---

"Please, sir, stay calm," said Alan firmly. "Grab my shoulder, we'll move nice and slow. Ms Beaker, make a chain with Mr Welsh and follow on."

"Stephen, I'm scared," she said, gripping her husband's arm tightly.

"I understand you're frightened," said Alan, taking a deep breath.

His mind whirled with months of overlapping advice and he paused for a moment, tying to find the right response.

"The passage is clear but we have to move single file. I can give you a glowstick to help make sure you don't trip?"

She nodded slowly, and quickly cracked the proffered stick.

"Sarah, you go ahead of me," said Mr Welsh, a waver of uncertainty clear in his voice.

She sniffled, wiping away a tear in the dim light.

"We're not normally like this," she said unhappily.

"You've not normally been trapped underground for several days either," Alan pointed out. "All things considered, you're doing amazing. And we're nearly there, the hard part is almost over."

She nodded, drawing herself upright.

"You're right, we can do this. Let's get out of this awful maze "

They formed a line and Alan swung his flashlight ahead of him. A line of luminescent dots showed him the way out, a series of modern breadcrumbs scattered by the drone that had charted the pathway tto the couple. All they needed to do was follow them home.

"This way," he said, and the group began to pick their way across the rugged terrrain.

The path wasn't easy and more than once they needed to squeeze through narrow passages or clamber through low-ceilinged spaces on all fours. Alan's breath quickened at each obstacle, but his two charges made it through them all with little complaint.

"How much further?" called Mr Welsh, his voice sounding pained.

Alan checked his monitor, cursing his failure to check in on the injured man and his heart sinking at the distance.

"Quite a way," he admitted slowly. "We should take a break."

"No, no," he said. "That's not necessary, I can keep going."

"This is my call, sir, you're in pain."

"I'm fine," began the protest, but Ms Beaker soon quitened him.

"Stephen, he's right. If we don't take care of that arm, it'll require much more painful treatment when we finally get out."

"And this is as good a spot as any," said Alan, giving them an encouraging smile that neither could see. "It's wide and open, and we can set up the artificial flame cubes."

By the dimly flickering light, he could see the toll the crisis was taking on the two. He had to admit to weariness himself. Making their way out of the cave system was proving to be a grueling process, and he missed being able to rely on his brothers' guidance. Still, that was what today was about. In situations like this, even International Rescue's specialised low attentuation radio waves couldn't penetrate this deep underground, and he had to get used to making decisions without them.

He hoped he was doing them proud.

"I can give you ibuprofen for the pain," he said softly. "And the splint seems to have kept the bone in the right place. Try not to lean on it too much when we're crawling; use your elbow instead."

"Thank you," said Mr Welsh tiredly, resting his head back against the rockface. He accepted the rations pack along with the pills, not saying a word.

Alan leant back, still thinking of how his brothers would respond to the dismal scenario. Gordon had an air of confident cheeriness that seemed to make dark moods vanish with barely a word. Virgil excelled at comforting those with fading hopes, making space for their fears and gently helping them find their stength for the next task at hand. John was so matter-of-fact that it never occurred to the people around him to worry even for a second. And Scott was kind and sure, never doubting his success, never losing his way.

Alan wished he could be even half as good as they were. Instead, he breathed deeply, holding onto the slow meditations Kayo had taught him and squashing down the uncertainty and fear that he was mucking everything up.

His brothers trusted him, he reminded himself. Being here, in this moment, was evidence of that very fact.

"Time to keep moving," he said, forcing Gordon's cheer into his voice. "I know it seems like a lot, but we're over halfway. We'll be hearing my brothers soon, and then we'll be able to call the Mole down."

"The 'Mole'?" asked Mr Welsh curiously as he stumbled to his feet.

Alan opened his mouth to respond, but froze as a deep rumble rippled through the earth.

"Get down," he said harshly. "Hands on heads, don't worry about the break."

Startled, they minicked his motions as a tremor swelled and shook the cave, a sharp jolt that threw them all forward accompanied by an unpleasant rolling as the floor dropped and rose to meet them.

Alan glanced upwards as he recovered himself, and there in the red glow of the artificial flame cube he spied the first fracture in the rock above.

"Oh, sh..."

His sentence is swallowed by the resulting cave in.

He can hear himself yelling, his heart rate spiking as he calls for his brothers and hears nothing. He's not trained for the way the darkness presses down on his limbs, nor the way his nerve fails as phantom pain flares with the adrenaline.

Gasping, he remembers his charges, and he calls to them, screams for them when they don't respond. He crawls to them, shaking helplessly at their unconscious bodies and clawing at the blocked passage when neither responds.

He has to get out. He has to get them out. And he can't.

He curls into a ball between Mr Welsh and Ms Beaker and tries to remember how to breathe.

He can't do this, and the thought that he's failed wells up inside of him, choking its way out of his throat as he lets loose a sob. Failure means death and he can't process that, it's never happened when he was so alone.

He calls out for his brothers who should be able to hear him, who do nothing to help him and he realises he might already be dead.

There's no rationality left.

The air is definitely thinning fast and he gasps for oxygen, fighting the black spots in his vision. He can almost hear Virgil yelling in the background to turn it off.

He laughs hysterically. He can't turn off his fear, he's not Scott. He's not clear-headed John, doesn't have Gordon's will to live, and will never be strong like Virgil himself.

The rock shimmers around him and vanishes, leaving him splayed out on the floor and struggling to catch his breath.

"Alan," called his brother and he can feel warm arms holding him close as he curls in on himself even more tightly, grasping at life, and sobs.

It's a long time before he remembers who he is.

Scott looked pale, his arms cradling him in a way Alan vaguely recalls from when he was small.

"You okay?" asked Gordon, crouched next to him. His hand hovered over Alan's shoulder like he was too scared to touch him.

Alan breathes. It's all he can do.

"John's coming down," said Virgil, brushing a hand across his forehead and sweeping back his blond hair.

"He doesn't need to," said Alan, his voice as frail as he feels.

"He wants to," said Virgil firmly. "That was a nasty shock you had."

Tears welled in his eyes again and Alan buried his face into Scott's chest, unable to look at his brothers any longer.

"I'm sorry," he cried. "I failed them, and I failed you. I tried so hard to think of how you guys would do it and I couldn't and I can't and..."

"Shhh," admonished Scott, his grip tight around him. "You haven't failed. You've found a limit, that's all. To be honest, I'm surprised we haven't hit one before now."

"A limit?"

"We test the limits so that we don't discover them mid-rescue."

"We're not superhuman, Alan," said Virgil. "We all have fears, we all have weaknesses."

Alan scoffed.

"You've never fallen apart like that."

"And how would you know, squirt," asked Gordon with a faint grin. "John's not about to put us on any rescue that we can't handle."

"The training is to get better, to be better, yes," said Scott softly. "But it's also to ensure we know how to keep each other safe."

"Surely you've noticed that you've only done cave rescues in training or within communication range," said Virgil. "This is the first time you've had to deal with this extreme."

"And it'll be the last," said John, striding into the room.m and falling to his knees to give Alan a hug. "At least until you're ready to train the scenario again."

Alan didn't say anything, squirming out of his grip.

"I just feel so stupid," he said into his knees. "I knew it was just a training sequence. I knew that."

"It doesn't have to make sense, Allie," said Gordon. "Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. I can't do anything too high speed, my brain just freezes."

"Fires," offers Scott. "Not anymore, and I'm still the last option only, but for a long time until I learned to trust Brains' safety margins on the protective gear."

"Which you did by creating an inferno of your own, and then panicking." grumbled Virgil. "Idiot."

"Hey, I only panicked until I realised nothing was burning me."

"Unfortunately, it was burning everything else."

"Avalanches," said John quietly, interrupting them. "Virgil and me both. I transfer the call and Grandma does the monitoring from the island."

A hush fell over the brothers.

"Point is," said Scott gruffly, "we'll look after you. So you're not cleared on cave rescues, big deal. You're as competent as the rest of us. Fear isn't weakness."

"Definitely not," said Virgil as John and Gordon murmured their agreement.

Alan looked up at each of them, his ownpersonal heros, still as strong and corageous and kind even now he knew they weren't as fearless as he'd imagined.

He flung his arms around them, pulling them in close.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

#alan tracy #thunderbirds are go #sometimes i fic #(all the bros in the end 💕)#thundertober

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