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threeriver · 2 months ago

Text

just need a win

jack abbot x samira mohan

7k | ao3

cw: explicit sex. dacryphilia. descriptions of trauma. MDNI

it's the blood on his shoes that does it, he thinks.

he's not well before that. (of course he's not, how could he be?) but he can keep himself in check when it's needed, when the team is falling apart and the closest thing they have to a leader is unraveling. so he holds himself together with copper sutures and staples, just as ad-hoc and reliable as the maneuvers he pulls throughout the night, results more important than his ability to justify them later. it works - on himself, on robby. on the fucking pelvic obliteration that should have never been.

it works until it doesn't really, blood on his shoe and robby's retreating back. he eyes the collection of young faces around him and sees that same hollow look he knows so well, the bravado that will only cover it for so long and the pallid resignation of those who've only now figured out the kind of lifetime they've signed themselves up for.

jack's in no better shape.

later, his therapist will tell him there's nothing wrong with this - that being of a level with day one residents just shows his humanity, means he's not grown calloused and immune to the endless suffering he's borne witness to. he knows this, truly, knows what a shit doctor he'd be without that reserve of sympathy he's taken with him his whole life - a baggage that felt too heavy in the aftermath of his tours, and his leg, and his everything.

that doesn't make it any easier when he's stuck on a park bench surrounded by people he's supposed to be some sort of mentor for and he can't even haul himself off the seat to have his breakdown somewhere private because they'll all see how his hands shake when he tries to reattach his prosthetic.

sometimes it's like this. often, it's worse. jack has the unique advantage of combat, of knowing where his career and his past overlap. he knows what it is, knows his therapist will disagree when he says the easiest ways around it are a fight or a fuck. (knows he almost had the prior when those fucking cops had tried to come for mckay, if only.) he knows when he sees it in others, too.

dr. mohan's eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused when she takes robby's vacated spot. she misses the beer when it's tossed her way, her fingers just as shaky as his. she's stiff in picking it up, hasty in opening. delayed in her laugh when it sprays across the chest of her sweatshirt. she's tired, undoubtedly; crashing from that last leg where she'd flit around the ED desperate to keep herself attached to the ground however she could - tied down by a tourniquet if need be.

she needs a rest, sure. and probably some food, too. she needs something else worse.

jack knocks his knee against hers when she goes three full minutes without so much as a sip from her fresh beer. she jumps before he can even get a word out, big dark eyes turning on him in some confusing mix of accusation and fear. more suds line the folds of her sweatshirt, fizzing out alongside her tension when he holds up a placating hand. "easy," he murmurs, low enough he's not sure she can even hear him, voice gone thin and ragged from years of tobacco use.

(he wishes he had a cigarette now, misses the way he could externalize his symptoms when the nicotine had him shaking and sweating worse than the trauma did.)

"can i -?"

help you, probably, pretty lips pursed in concern. he tells himself it's the aversion to making her help anyone else tonight that has his chest constricting. "how you holding up?"

it's like he's asked her what year it was, like he has reason to initiate concussion protocol and she's been left out of the loop. "how am i… holding up?"

jack nods, patient. dr. mohan drifts untethered for a moment as she considers his question. "i'm… okay."

his laugh is jagged, too abrupt even for his own ears; like it started in his finger tips and pulled all sensation with it as it rattled around his brittle costals and knocked some teeth loose on its way out. he swallows down the next batch, jaw flexing uncomfortably with the effort. he thinks, now, he's been on the edge of this ever since he first heard the call on the scanner - earlier, maybe, not quite slept off after robby found him on the roof.

he needs to get home.

"samira," he tries again, keeps his tone level like he's guiding her hands through another home brew angioplasty. she looks at him just the same, too; trusting, awed. it's the only thing that staves off the tic in his jaw he might be developing. "how are you holding up?"

she's pretty when she cries because of course she is, though words seem to get a bit difficult for her. she barely needs them, though, not when he knows. not when they all know, apparently, the group around them offering thin but appreciated platitudes. what she's got ain't nothing new, and she knows just as well as him that she'll be better come next shift, too brilliant and talented to be kept down for long.

that doesn't help tonight, not when she sits with him long enough for all the rest to fade away, quiet well wishes and 'sleep tight's offered in passing and all the while she shakesshakesshakes. she won't take his hoodie, not even when he points out she'll make herself sick sitting in that beer-soaked thing.

she just sniffles, tears finally drying, though he suspects that's more to do with dehydration than it is a genuine improvement in her mental state. "you're not cold?" she counters, and he shrugs.

"freezing."

she scoffs, rounds on him with that same manic intensity from earlier, if a little thinner; watered down by her own tears. "oh my god, robby was right, wasn't he? i do talk too much. oh, i'm so sorry! you must be exhausted! look how late i've kept -!"

he can't really feel her pulse when he manages to corral the arm that swings wildly toward his temple, a prospect that has his nerves frazzling ever further before he remembers how his extremities had been prickling earlier, that numbing itch that had left him clumsy and floundering. he's shushing her before he can think better of it, cringing because he knows in any other circumstances she'd rightfully hand him his head for doing so.

tonight, she just obliges, breath catching as she hangs on his every word. she knows what he'll say, clever thing. he tries not to think too much about what it does to him, knowing she wants to hear it. "you're okay, samira. you're fine," he mutters. (he might not want to think about it, but that doesn't mean he can stop himself doing it.) "you're not botherin' me."

"but, you -?"

jack shakes his head before she can even finish that thought, grip adjusting on her arm until he can feel it, that steady pulse hitched rapid and thready, running on fumes. "i'm right where i wanna be," he assures, watches her eyes track between his and the park bench with so much sudden clarity he'd be worried about his position come tomorrow if he wasn't also so tightly wound.

it's not what she deserves, but they both know the appeal of results over practice on nights like tonight.

"you want to be here?" she challenges, the first he's heard her voice so level since that last batch of wounded had been sorted.

he shrugs, palm scraping against his stubble. "guess i'd rather be home," he concedes, too many ways to tell her she's right tying his tongue.

"am i keeping you?"

she says it like a challenge, too confident to doubt her instincts, no matter how robby tries to ruin it. he'll make it up to her, piling on as he's about to. "your bag is on my leg."

it's strange how much he misses her eye contact, considering she only blinks away for a moment. there's a yelp and a quick shuffling. she springs from the bench with the sort of agility people train for their whole lives, graceful even here, at the end of her rope.

but not graceful enough to stop the clattering of his leg, carbon fiber clanging as it bounces off the pavement. her hands cover her mouth in shock, holding back the string of expletives like a dam, though it doesn't it apparently doesn't do much good as she can't seem to hear his laughter over her own embarrassment.

"i'm so sorry," she gushes again, bending to retrieve the appendage for him even as he leans to do the same. there's a small clambering of limbs, her fingers tangling in his as she continues to apologize, a litany of 'let me's.

there's a warm glow of streetlamps haloing her iridial ring, the fine curls around her face an untamed riot and yet still so soft, light enough to catch and pull in the night breeze, obscure her vision for a moment before being blown away with an impatient huff, as if she can't bare to keep her eyes off him another moment. he remembers how she'd held his gaze when walsh had been spouting off hesitations and the kind of stringent procedural processes that would have let their man die. he can practically feel her taking something from him, gives it to her just as freely now as he did then, and her lips part in wonder, just the same.

"samira," he tries, voice gone gritty and thin with the glass he's sure he's swallowed tonight. she blinks up at him slowly, and he wonders if she knows her fingers are tracing along his own. "you don't have to."

it puts her back in her body, at least, her brow pulling tight as her situation comes slamming back into reality. she seems to take a minute to collect herself, noting her position kneeling on the ground before him in the park just outside their place of mutual employment. there's problems with this, ethics and repercussions to consider above the mutual need for control and the lack of it. he doesn't bother outlining them for her, trusts she knows what she's doing here same as anywhere. everywhere.

and she does, of course she does; better than him, even, the strength of surety returning to her grip as she adjusts it, pulls his prosthetic fully from his own hands. he lets her, one hand falling to the bench beside himself as the other fists uselessly in front of him, the tic on beat with the agitated flexing of his jaw. dr. mohan knows better than to take it for apprehension, or worse. there's a bit of a learning curve to her fumbling, but he doesn't offer help. selfish, maybe, enjoying the feel of her dexterous fingers against the tight, dry scar tissue. mostly he just doesn't think she needs it.

"and risk my impeccable customer satisfaction score?" she quips, manhandling his leg into a position that suits her with the kind of strength and abruptness that makes the mark of any emergency care doctor. he's known practitioners who hand wring over things like this, sincerely believe patient autonomy trumps all else. it's a nice sentiment, but means little more than that when most of their patients cannot move themselves even if they wanted.

he'd be embarrassed by the snort it earns if they hadn't already seen each other at their absolute most basic functions tonight. "you're right. what would robby say?"

her smile is less manic as she pats his leg, encouraging him to inspect her work. her breath catches when he nods his approval and he does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

"excellent as always, mohan." a beat passes, another. even in the stillness, his skin feels stretched thin, drum-tight and trembling with each pulse. his jaw is flexing uncontrollably now, his fist following suit, but there's no amount of tremors that can stave off the numbness, his body confused about the cause.

"he's only just come around to my particular brand of care," mohan concedes. "wouldn't want to disappoint."

jack doesn't quite care for this train of conversation, though he struggles to articulate why. "i wouldn't worry about robby. he'll -."

"i don't think it's actually robby's opinion i'm worried about at the moment."

and brilliant doctor that she is, she sorts his twitchiness with enough ease. he watches her, while she patently avoids his gaze. it's not something he usually abides, but he won't ask her for more than she can give right now.

her own dark eyes draw across the skyline as if she's only just noticed that evening has come. "night shift," she comments blithely, the intensity of her glare cutting when she turns it back on him, well worth the wait. "in your hands now, isn't it?"

any other night and he'd make her say it, outline specifics and triple check their math before providing the assist. any other night, that type of studiousness would make a mass casualty event that much more massive.

his hands drive them back to his, white knuckles flexing the whole way. the steering wheel creaks under his grip, barely audible over the sound of the heater running. the weather's nice enough for an early summer evening in pittsburgh, but mohan's tremors rival his own, the adrenaline having eaten through every ounce of fuel her body could provide. if he were a better man he'd be thinking about how to get her restocked - what he could make her, where he could tuck her in. but that man, the one he's shaped himself into with meticulous care, pleached and inosculated, has been burnt away, too, the evening all-consuming.

(a controlled burn, his therapist will call it, probably. necessary for growth. he'll have to take notes to share with robby.)

and that might be true, but it doesn't help him tonight, roots exposed and sapped. he can make her cry so easily like this, monsoon in a drought, wants to see how far she can bend with all her bark stripped away; greenstick fracture, easily set.

there's an established flow to this, a give and take. check points they're skipping, but he trusts her. samirah mohan isn't in the habit of being rushed when she needs time; knows when to dig her heels in and is learning when to push when necessary. it means she trusts him, too, and that's -. that's…

she doesn't ask for a drink. she doesn't ask for anything. just stands there in his kitchen all wide-eyed and pretty, keeps his gaze as he deposits his keys in the tray, his bag and her sweatshirt onto the hooks next to the parka he really needs to store for the season. in his hands. his voice barely sounds human when he asks if she wants a shower, jumbled and thin from disuse, or too much use, or maybe just the fry of… everything, and perhaps she doesn't trust her voice either because she neglects to answer, simply tucks her fingers under the hem of her t-shirt and pulls it up over her head, expects him to get the message despite the sight of her taut belly rendering higher brain functions defunct. but it's little more than instinct to reach out, let his thumb follow the line of her iliac crest as he pulls her a half step closer. her shoes stumble over his own, the phantom pressure of her treading on toes which are no longer there. she knows better than to apologize, the words breaking off in a thready whisper, so close he can feel the shape of them against his lips.

she still hasn't looked away, eyes never once darting to catalog the jumping cords of his neck; that same undivided attention and devotion she'd given him when he'd held up a pigtail catheter and asked for her trust. jack thinks maybe they'd been doomed since the moment she nodded, crowded close so he could hook his jaw over her shoulder, all the better to guide you with, my dear.

he doesn't kiss her, takes a cruel sort of pleasure in the unmoored way her eyes widen when he tilts his chin up, lets his lips graze the soft skin between her brow as he tells her where she can find the restroom with a gentle push to her hip. "top of the stairs. on your left."

it's short-lived, as she's not someone often dismissed. "need one worse than me, old man," she counters, eyes flicking to the specks of blood he knows still mat the stubble under his jaw. it will take some adjusting to remember whatever control he might glean from her is only ever freely given. and he was going to see about that drink or maybe a snack, but he remembers how she'd ignored her beer so he jack takes her lead, more than earned, and hooks his thumbs into the back of his collar to pull it up and over his head. when he resurfaces, she's already moved on, hips swaying enticingly as she begins to climb the stairs he steadfastly refuses to have an aid installed into for another five years, at least, bum fucking knee be damned.

he stares too long, evidently, eyes darting up to meet hers when she turns to ask if he's coming.

with any luck.

samira isn't sure if she should be surprised by the quality product lining the tub or not. it's not that dr. abbot has ever appeared anything less than immaculately coiffed, she's just unused to men knowing anything other than five-in-one, let alone the secrets of proper curl maintenance. not that she expects she'll be doing a full routine tonight, but it's nice to know there are contingencies. she'd left the shower curtain open behind herself, expecting him to join, and can feel abbot watching her take it all in, unable to look away since she started stripping. before that, even.

he's… intense. the very model for that old school ER cowboy industry standard she's been working against her whole life. but that didn't stop him from being a damn good doctor, nor herself from being wrong about him. he's like robby, in that, though robby could stand to prove her wrong a few more times.

but she doesn't want to think about robby right now, finds she can't really when abbot's shirtless before her and staring at her like he wants to follow the line of runoff that flows down the valley of her chest with an oscillating saw, get to the core of her via entry points he himself would carve. it's strange, thinking she'd trust him to.

he needs a new water softener, the taste bitter on her tongue when she licks her lips and drops her gaze to his low slung waistband. he's a little hairier than she expected, a fine line of steel wool beginning just above his bellybutton and disappearing below his hem. his fingers thumb the button of his jeans, hesitant in a way she hasn't seen him all night and she shivers despite the warmth of the shower, scared he will simply leave her to it, drop a stack of linens on the couch and sleep away the rest of his off-shift holed up in his bedroom alone, resting easy with the knowledge his job will remain safe.

"fuck," he grunts when she shivers again, his pants pooling on the tile. he goes to step out and then sits on the toilet seat when he remembers his shoes, eyes still glued to her. she only remembers herself after he gets the first one off, bending to unclasp his prosthetic instead of bothering to unlace the shoe itself.

"let me-," she starts, water sloshing onto the tile as she goes to help him.

"stay," he commands, and following his direction has worked out well for her so far, so she does.

he's methodical as in all things. doesn't have a care for show or finesse. pants and sock (she braces herself for the inevitable double the milage joke she's sure she'll hear at some point if she's ever lucky enough to buy him a pack one day) shed, abbot stands and shucks his boxer briefs and doesn't give her so much as a second to appreciate him before he's leaning forward to grab the handles on either side of the stall, first one and then the other.

samira has no doubt he does not need the support, but she gives it anyway, appreciates the fact that he lets her. she helps guide him to the bench but he doesn't sit for another moment, lets himself sag slightly into her space and press his nose to her temple, the hand not currently anchoring him to the grab bar rising until he can cup the back of her head. she doesn't know what to do with the fact that he hasn't even kissed her yet; with the fact that he still doesn't. she's not sure if she's ever been wanted in this way.

his name feels strange on her tongue. it's a sharp name, all awkward, bludgeoning consonants; heavy with implication. she's too tired to care, just wants to know if it's okay to sink into him.

he doesn't respond in kind, simply falls away from her until he's properly seated, his hands staying rooted to her hips to pull her closer, position her between his spread legs. her hands fall to his hair when he rests his cheek against her diaphragm, the curls winding around her fingers without her conscious input, and time melts away a bit with the residue that clings to them - not wholly, still observable, but distant and diluted, a thin rainbow of disinfectant washing down the drain. it should be nice. should be a much needed moment of reprieve after one of the most trying days of samira's life. instead, she feels untethered without his eyes on her, without the rough edge of his voice reassuring her. samira shifts on her feet, trying to swallow back the panic that's been rolling like a tide in the pit of her stomach for hours now: here tame and low-level, revealing all the washed up debris for her careful inspection should she so choose; there overspilling the breakers, an endless well she's powerless to stave off herself.

it's building to the latter when abbot's palm slips up her side, presses firmly against her sternum. when she snaps back to focus, his eyes are heavy on hers again, protected from the spray of the shower by the curtain of her hair. she hadn't realized she'd bent herself so far over him. his hand slips higher, fingers framing her jaw, base of his thumb pressed flush against her carotid like a brand, somehow warmer than the water.

"i want to see you cry," he informs her simply, a depth to the request she can't quite plumb.

she thinks she might already be when she nods.

she thought she'd had enough of it, thought maybe she'd nothing left to give, even if the release had sounded appealing when he'd said it.

that was before jack abbot had her sprawled out on his bed with his fingers buried in her pussy, whispering a steady string of words against the crown of her head compounded specifically to take her apart.

it's not what she expects, though so few things about him are. he lets her take his weight as they stumble into the bedroom, his crutches not having made it to the bath with them. she straddles his thighs, her adductors trembling with the stretch and the stress, just to take stock of him, trail her fingers over the rolling dips of his impressive musculature until finally she plants her palms on either side of his head. he doesn't let her hover, forearms folding over her back to pull her fully onto him, bodies slotting together deliciously. he's only partially erect against her belly, though he seems in no great need to hurry things along.

one hand finds the side of his face, familiarizes itself with the stubble there. "can i -?" she manages before words fail her, and her finger slides over the ridge of his malar bone, down to brush feather light over his philtrum.

"of course, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips quirking like he's holding back a laugh - like the answer should have been obvious. "whatever you need, baby. you've earned it."

she may have miscalculated the nature of his request to see her cry, she realizes with a sudden, unfortunate lurch. raw, animal need for an outlet she can weather. intense, direct affection and praise -?

abbot gives her no time to reconsider, one hand skirting up her spine to grab her by the nape of her neck. she doesn't fight him and he rewards her with a sweet, chaste kiss, quiet approval leaking out the sides of his mouth whenever she tries to deepen it, desperate to distract him. did so good today. so fucking perfect. looked so pretty out there, in your element.

the swell of panic climbs up her throat, brackish water that chokes her, makes her gasp and sob before she even realizes it's upon her.

"that's it, baby," he whispers, his lips following the trail of tears with devastating care. "let it all out for me. i've got you."

and he does.

the worst (best) part is that he won't shut up, weak voice only made all the more jagged from the long night, and the quiet way he talks to her, trying to be gentle. she cuts herself on it anyway, words tearing at her softest spots - uneven sutures she'd applied long before she'd ever properly learned, reinforced with steri-strips and staples along the way. of course he finds the frayed edges, peels them back to check for infection. she's never been with another doctor. med students, yes, fellow fledglings who had been too distracted by their own make-shift care to notice her's. it's not that she believes for a second that abbot has sorted his own old wounds out completely, but she knows longevity starts with stability, and his hands are weathered enough to prove the effort he's put in.

samira watches them now, firm but careful on her sternum, between her breasts with his thumb framing the bottom of her left, as if supporting her heart. she wants to feel them pinching her nipples, but she likes how careful he is with her too much to stop him, especially when the things he says have her so..

"jack -."

"what do you need, baby? hm? tell me."

she needs him to shut up before she ruins the whole evening, breaks down worse than she did in the restroom earlier. "can i -? your mouth -?"

abbot's grin transforms his whole face, cheeks crinkling endearingly as his dark eyes bore holes into her. she realizes with a jolt of fear that he's still going to be able to see her - will probably keep staring at her the whole time with that unbearable intensity.

too late.

his hands turn insistent on her hips, pull her forward until her legs struggle to straddle the breadth of his chest. "you got it, honey," he grits, too much, too much, too much. "come here and take it. need me to kiss it better?"

and that's not something she can stand another word of, so she hauls herself the rest of the way with a strong grip on the headboard, and lowers herself unceremoniously onto his mouth.

and he moans like a whore.

in only seconds samira can tell she's never been with anyone who likes giving head as much as jack abbot. with his eyes closed she can almost stand it, the slight divot between his brows as he concentrates, his strong hands traveling up her back to keep her firmly in place. it's good - good - and she rocks her hips down, testing, and his eyes flick open to see - watch her move, check in, she doesn't know; doesn't matter when the effects the same - pinned in place for the hundredth him tonight by his unwavering gaze.

trusting, challenging. a dangerous cocktail designed specifically for her, has her drunk with it in record time.

"fuck," she hisses, and jack's mouth opens wide, sloppy, completely lost in it.

it's so different from how she's used to seeing him - intense, focused in a way that honestly intimidates her. here he's pliant, doesn't have much of a goal beyond making her feel good and enjoying himself as well, evidently. it's intense, in it's lack of intensity. she's unused to this languid speed, quick and easy trysts with partners she knew she wouldn't be keeping around never preparing her for this. it's a sobering amount of power to hold over a man like jack abbot.

(and not one he lets her keep for long.)

her hands land on his taut belly for leverage, hips working the firm line of his lips insistently. as she leans back, her fingers graze a familiar spot of stickiness and she cranes her neck to see, delighted to find him fully hard and twitching against his hip. it looks heavy, and samira takes advantage of her position to find out, lets her legs bear more weight as her fingertips skirt over the softened ledge of his inguinal ligament, flatten feather light over the heft of his cock. she hears him sigh into her cunt, breathy and unabashed, and she smiles in that way that only ever happens like this, stripped bare, the kind of openness that doesn't permit self-consciousness or smiles trained to hold the perfect amount of tooth-to-gum ratio. abbot's stomach twitches on her first stroke, and samira readjusts her grip, settling in.

it's an awkward angle, but worth it. like this, smothering him and working his cock, jack seems almost as lost as her. she revels in the change, watches down the long line of her own body to see his eyes go soft and unfocused, his tongue getting lazier and less coordinated until he gives up altogether, his grip changing to keep her locked in place just above him, her hips working against nothing as he stares - embarrassingly, reverently - up at her drooling cunt.

it gets worse when he remembers his mouth is no longer busy.

"samira." it shouldn't sound that good in his gravel-rough voice, lilting syllables turned clunky and grating. but dr. abbot's tone is soft as ever, private, something only for her to hear, and she knows - she knows - she shouldn't be thinking of anything but this moment, shouldn't be sinking herself further into that attending/resident cliche, but she remembers how he stepped between her and walsh earlier, close and broad enough to block out the whole room. just them and a man who desperately needed their help.

'you've got this,' when what he meant was, 'i've got you.'

it's not the first time she's heard it. not even the first time a partner has said it. but it is the first time she's believed it, and samira -.

of course he notices. the way he fucking stares, there's no way he'd miss it. one hand skirts up her thigh, palm settling against her mons as his thumb works her clit in the kind of tight, direct circles that she's helpless against and of course, he doesn't stop talking. "feel so fucking good, honey. so clever, aren't you? don't need to help you at all, hm? fucking perfect."

honestly, it's just not fair how easily that rips through her, pulls a sob with it as it goes.

she's flipped with the sort of ease she's ashamed to admit she didn't think him capable of, at least not with his leg still abandoned in the bathroom. but his hand plants on her chest pushes, and she feels the broad belt of his rectus abdominus flexing before he's even out from under her, and then his hand's there to cradle her head as she slips sideways, sprawled out on the bed with gangly limbs being tucked one by one under his body, cocooned in his hold with her hands trapped between their chests to prevent her from tucking herself away. not that there's any hiding form him anyway, not when his face nuzzles into hers, susurrations pressed into her cheek, nearly too quiet to make out. you're alright. i've got you.

she knows.

with one hand keeping her from turning away, the other drifts lower, calms her trembling with a broad, warm palm. it settles in the cradle of her hips - not pushing, just resting - and he waits, with all the time in the world, for her to meet his gaze.

"there you are," he mutters, thumbing the steady font of tears as if it hadn't been his singular purpose to earn them. his next question is pressed into the crook of her nose, chapped lips absorbing salty tears. "needed that, didn't you?"

she can only nod, distrusting her voice. the motion brings her mouth up to his and he indulges her, his tongue slipping easily past her lips to make her taste herself.

he doesn't let her settle into it, pulls away just to butt his forehead against her. "i'll make it better," he promises, before promptly making it worse.

he's just so unbearably close. doesn't even give her enough room to catch her breath properly. samira hiccups when he slides back in, yet still she doesn't force him away when she gets one hand free. instead slips it up his chest to cup his neck and pull him closer, pants into his mouth as he just keeps pushing.

"so pretty, samira. just let me in."

she's not sure how else she can without giving him the scalpel and outlining where to start the y-incision. she settles for hitching one leg higher, up and over his elbow. doesn't quite manage to suppress the tremor when he thanks her.

thanks her. she should tell walsh about that one. maybe when coherence returns to her, if ever that is. no time soon at least, not when he's got all the leverage he needed apparently, clever fingers crooking until she feels full, his thumb pressed tight against her clit. it's good, but his voice is better, a steady constant as he works her over, leads her right up to the edge and gives her the strength to fall.

"you're right there, baby. can feel it. you feel it too, hm? feel how tight you are around me? you've got this. i'm right here, let it go -."

she'd feel bad about the flood of tears that goes with it, if not for how eagerly he groans in her ear, leaning his whole weight against her to better kiss them away. he's too heavy, her breath forced shallow and ragged, but it takes her a moment to even notice because he doesn't stop, and she assumes the hitching and the shaking are because he's got his fingers set hard against that spot that makes her want to flinch away but he won't let her, keeps her pinned so he can lap up the tears streaming down her face and swallow down her sobs.

he pulls away when the fingers on his neck threaten to draw blood, a line of little crescents lining his levator scapulae she'll find it within herself to regret tomorrow. for the moment, it's beyond her.

then the realization he hasn't cum yet crashes through her come down like a bull through the hall. one moment she's basking in the breath he finally lets her catch, and the next she feels him, hot and heavy against her hip and she groans, her throat feeling ragged and raw.

asshole that he is, he only chuckles, breath huffing across her cheek because he still hasn't stopped peppering kisses over her face and if she thinks about that for longer than two consecutive seconds she'll start crying all over again, so she doesn't. just holds him close and enjoys it for as long as she can.

of course, he misunderstands. "we can be done," he offers sweetly, and samira kind of wants to choke him again, though it's hard to articulate why when her thoughts feel like wool being spun. too tender, maybe. too much. at the end of his rope and in need of a win of his own, yet unwilling to take it. he seems the sort, self sacrificing to a fault. she knows it well.

"i thought you were gonna make it better?" she challenges, makes no effort to cover the raw edge of her voice.

jack sighs and leans their heads together again, eyes unfocused with nearness and still unblinking. "yeah," he mutters, lining himself up. "i've got you."

here is the patience he didn't show before, fishing delicately to the bottom of an overused bedside drawer to find a condom before sinking into her so slowly she thinks he's maybe waiting for her to confirm every centimeter. might be, considering how much he seems to enjoy the high, thin whine he pulls from her.

"that's it, honey. let me hear you."

she can hardly do anything but, breath hitching when his hips do, making any hope of keeping herself quiet much too difficult to bother. she's rewarded with a warm palm tilting her chin up, his hips halting when he bottoms out. he takes a minute just to look at her, tuts when she can't maintain eye contact because he's just too much like this.

of course, he's not pleased with this. "you're gonna look at me when i make you cum," he threatens - promises. he thumbs away the tears that are already building along her lash line and watches as they disappear into the dry, flaky skin at the edge of his nail. she hadn't even noticed them falling, too tired to care. easy target.

it's easier to watch him like this, with his gaze lowered. she takes in his damp curls, threads of silver catching the low light filtering in from the hall, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, inviting where his rigid military bearing had once frightened her away. she can only nod when he looks back, tongue tracing the salt from his skin.

there's not much left of that kind attending when he begins to fuck her, the slow roll of his hips mounting quickly into something that leaves her scrambling to keep up, her pleasure building before she even realizes it's there. but she's helpless in the face of it, so full she swears she can feel his pulse.

she's close, somehow, jack's will winning out against her body's every natural instinct to just be fucking done already, and she snakes her hand between them to hurry it along, fingers barely even reaching the edge of her trimmed curls before he's dropping to his elbow, his weight dispersed so he can chase her hand away and crush it to the pillow above her head, a cruel chuckle ringing in her ear when she wails in frustration.

abbot's teeth graze her ear, voice so close she swears she can feel his humid breath on her tympanic membrane. "slow, mo."

she should shove him off. she should call him an asshole and storm out of here, crawl into her own bed and sleep for three months and wake up in a world where she no longer holds a position under him, or fucking robby, or alongside anyone else at that godforsaken joint; where she can find a new career helping marginalized individuals struggling to find effective care because of ER cowboys like the man currently making a name for himself inside her fucking womb, it feels like.

and she may yet. one day. tonight, she's gonna let him pick up the fucking mess he made because she certainly isn't in any shape to do it herself.

she thinks she manages to tell him to fuck himself, but it garners no reaction beyond a breath punched through grit teeth, so probably all she's accomplished is a garbled moan, and by the time she realizes that she's already forgotten what she was so mad about so she gives it up, her hips flexing futilely off the bed in an attempt to speed him along. still, jack goes at his own pace - brutal, but effective. results oriented.

"you can do it, baby. know you can. just like this, i'll show you, hm?"

english is hard to parse, his voice even harder. samira shakes her head anyway, instinctive.

then he's gone from her and that's worse, her hands following after to grip the strong forearm by her head, plaster flat against the soft wall of abs flexing above her, anywhere at all just to pull him close, within touch, keep his hands on her -

one finds her jaw, insistent but soft as he tilts her face up. she can feel the film of something between them. perspiration and something similar, the grit of saline. her diaphragm buckles when she tries to speak and she abandons the attempt just as quickly as it came, meeting his eyes instead and hoping he has enough words for the both of them.

devastating mistake.

"you've got this, samira."

and of course she does, because jack's got her.

it leaves her breathless, but it's more than just that, the gasps she can manage only making her spiral further. pleasure mixes with pain, her body run ragged. there's a desperate, panicked edge as well, her inability to draw a full breath leaving her shaking in confusion. but it's good. great. more than she can handle on her own, but he's right there, catching her. his hips still with a groan as he seats himself deep within her, little aborted thrusts timed with the way she can't stop trying to milk him. when he sits back, his hands run over her thighs, pull her closer by a firm grip on her hips.

he makes her wait until she can meet his gaze as best she can, her vision watery and unfocused.

"christ, you're pretty," he mumbles, almost to himself. the shape of him blurs until it blocks out the rest of the room, his body warm where he folds himself over her to pepper more kisses over her cheek. "hiding all these away in some bathroom, weren't you? next time you have a fucking breakdown at work, you'll come see me, hm? i'll make it better."

she wants to be snarky. yes, doctor. more than that, she wants him to be nice. her curls are gonna be a mess, scraped across his pillow as she nods.

"you gonna be okay if i get up, or do you wanna be held a bit longer?"

and that's a bold question to be asking when he's not even really holding her now, so samira reaches up behind him and pulls until he flops, considerable weight pressing her into the mattress. (firm. excellent back support. old bastard.)

jack doesn't laugh at her, just turns so he can kiss her cheek, her temple, his other hand threading into her hair to keep her close. "you're okay, samira. did so good today."

"you did too," she manages, sniffles abated just long enough to eek it out.

she expects resistance, robby's typical rebuff. but jack just presses a smile to her hairline, nods. she forgets sometimes how vocal he is about attending therapy. "we all did," he agrees. "hell of a team we got."

and she wants to ask if that's what they are, a team, but when jack pulls away he only tosses the condom and fishes out some sleepwear for both of them, tucking himself up behind her before setting an alarm on his watch that makes her cringe, and she reasons she'll have time to ask tomorrow when he tells her not to worry about it.

"not for you. just my morning run."

she hopes she never lives to handle shit like tonight as well as he does.

#samira mohan x jack abbot #jack abbot x samira mohan #mine #the pitt fic #mohabbot #abbot x mohan #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbott #samira mohan #the pitt #jamira

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fearissorrowful · 2 months ago

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"Voice Modulation"

The first time it happened, you were half-asleep and clutching a lukewarm cup of energon-laced coffee Miko had dared you to try.

You stepped into the Decepticon rec room—more of a "tolerated human holding cell with vending machines"—and blinked blearily at the towering figure hunched stiffly by the doorway.

“Morning,” you muttered.

The Vehicon snapped to attention like a steel rod. His optics flared a little too brightly.

Then, it happened.

“Gracious awakening... meat-bundle.”

You froze.

“…Excuse me?”

The Vehicon twitched, static popping from his vocalizer. “Correction! Good—uh—meat day. Wait. No. Human day. Good. Human.” He stepped back, processor overheating from the effort. “I rehearsed this!”

You stared. Then snorted. Then cackled.

“Oh my god. Did you just call me a ‘meat-bundle’?”

He backed into a wall.

“That... may have been... an internal designation. I assure you, it was meant respectfully.”

Still laughing, you pointed your cup at him. “Okay, okay—gracious awakening to you too, toaster.”

He whirred at that. “You do not actually believe I am a toaster. I lack any heating coils or—”

“It’s a joke, Gearhead. Roll with it.”

“…Rolling now.”

To your absolute delight, he literally rolled backward three inches on his heel servos. You nearly spilled your coffee from laughing so hard.

Later, Knock Out passed by, looking entirely too smug as he flicked a wrench at the awkward Vehicon's helm. “Trying to flirt again, are we, Boltbrain? You almost called her a delicious protein slab yesterday.”

“I am calibrating my vocabulary modules,” the Vehicon grumbled defensively.

Knock Out snorted. “You're calibrating your crush, and you're crashing it into the wall.”

You took another sip of coffee and raised an eyebrow. “So... what were you trying to say this morning?”

The Vehicon hesitated, hands twitching at his sides. His optics softened—barely. “I wished to express… that I hoped your... day-initiating cycle would be pleasant. And warm. As you are.”

You blinked.

Your ears went warm.

“That was… weirdly sweet,” you mumbled, heart suddenly doing a dumb little flutter.

The Vehicon perked up like a hopeful puppy. “Did I… win affection?”

“No,” you replied, hiding a smile. “But you earned a point.”

He tilted his head, processors whirring. “How many points are needed to achieve… dating protocol?”

You gave him a mock glare. “Let’s start with mastering ‘good morning,’ first.”

“Very well. Downloading… Basic Earth Greetings for Soft-Shelled Organics, Vol. 1.”

“…This is going to be amazing.”

#fear[is]sorrowful #transformers #tfp #fanfic writing #funny #humor writing #female x male #female reader #x y/n #transformers x reader #vechicon x reader #transformers fanfiction

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majinael · 6 months ago

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"This job can wait..."

★Michael Kaiser x Female Reader

★bit of smut

★651 words

In my life, nothing has ever been more thrilling than understanding the human body and pushing its limits. It’s what drove me to pursue a career as a physical therapist. Helping people regain movement, overcome pain, and recover their full potential was more than a job—it was my passion, my will to live.

That’s how I ended up assigned to the U-20 German football team, a role that offered no shortage of challenges and... unique experiences.

From the moment I joined, I quickly became a fixture among the players. Conversations flowed easily during treatment sessions, and some of them seemed to live for the moment when I laid my hands on them to assess their injuries and even acted like I was some kind of enchantress. For others, it felt as though it was the first time anyone had ever cared for them so gently.

But no matter how they reacted, I treated them all the same. Fairness was non-negotiable for this job.

That egalitarian approach, however, didn’t sit well with everyone. Michael Kaiser, for instance, hated it.

It was no surprise that Kaiser craved attention. It was no secret that he loved being the center of it all, and the moments when I worked on him became a kind of ritual. He thrived on my touch, on the care I gave, and—though he wouldn’t admit it—the rare, quiet intimacy of it all.

But the mere thought that others received the same treatment? Oh, that set his teeth on edge.

His possessive streak made itself known in the way he leaned into my touch, how he lingered after sessions, and his relentless flirting. His smirks and teasing words always carried a tension that bordered on dangerous. Sometimes, I sat wondering if he really meant it or not, but ended up focusing on my paperwork again, without an answer for myself.

That day, the match had been a brutal defeat. Kaiser, for once, wasn’t basking in the spotlight. He sat in the treatment room, quiet and brooding, his usual bravado conspicuously absent.

“Michael?” I asked softly, kneeling in front of him to examine his leg. “Are you okay?”

It was partly protocol, I had to ensure none of my players were disoriented but with Kaiser, it was more than that. The unease in his demeanor unsettled me.

He didn’t respond, only sighed and threw his head back, exposing the sharp line of his jaw.

Frowning, I reached out instinctively, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead to check for a fever. It was a move I rarely resorted to, considering I could easily tell if the body temperature was particularily off but his silence had me on edge.

That’s when his eyes snapped open, burning with an intensity I hadn’t expected. Before I could back away, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist firmly, pulling my torso closer to him.

“You really want to know what’s wrong?” he hissed, his voice low and taut.

The knot in my stomach tightened. His gaze pinned me in place, too intense, too close.

“Michael…” I whispered, unsure if it was fear or something far more dangerous making my pulse race.

And then he moved.

He pulled me forward, his lips crashing against mine with a ferocity that stole my breath. His kiss was hot, demanding, and full of lust. My initial shock melted into a helpless surrender, my lips parting to meet his pace.

His hands found my waist, pulling me closer, and I found myself straddling his lap. His touch was firm, possessive, gripping my curves as if to remind me that I was no one else’s but his in that moment.

His tongue brushed against my lower lip, seeking entrance, and I gave in without hesitation. The way he explored my mouth was maddening, his hunger evident in every movement.

When I pulled back with a soft moan, desperate for air, a thin thread of saliva still connected us. My chest rose and fell rapidly, heat flooding my cheeks, while he looked utterly triumphant—his lips curled into a smug, satisfied smirk. His tatooed hand crawled up to the back of my neck to fuse our bodies together.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice dripping with unshakable confidence. Before I could respond, his lips descended to my neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses and sharp bites.

I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders as another soft moan escaped me. The sting of his marks sent shivers down my spine, each one a silent claim.

“You’re not walking out of this room,” he murmured against my skin, “without me being the only thing on your mind, doll.”

His words, his touch, his relentless presence—it was overwhelming. He was overwhelming.

And just this time, for an instant, I thought "This job can wait."

#michael kaiser #blue lock #michael kaiser x you #michael kaiser x reader #blue lock x you #blue lock x reader #blue lock fluff #bllk kaiser #bllk x reader #female reader #smut #michael kaiser smut

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thetimesofindia · 18 days ago

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AI 171 crash probe widens: Ahmedabad airport ground staff quizzed, phones seized, sabotage angle not ruled out

A multi-agency investigation is underway at Ahmedabad's SVPI Airport following the Air India AI 171 crash, which killed 241. Ground handling agencies are under scrutiny, with staff questioned and phones seized. The probe, involving AAIB, Gujarat Police, AAI, DGCA, and the NTSB, seeks to determine the cause, including potential sabotage.

AHMEDABAD: Ground handling agencies at Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel International (SVPI) Airport are under scrutiny by multiple investigation agencies as part of the ongoing probe into the crash of Air India flight AI 171 last week.The investigation, led by the Aircraft Accident Investigation Bureau (AAIB), is being conducted with support from Gujarat Police, Airports Authority of India (AAI) and the Directorate General of Civil Aviation (DGCA). A parallel probe has been initiated by the United States' National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB), bringing international aviation experts to the crash site in Ahmedabad."All personnel involved in ground handling operations for the ill-fated flight were questioned, and their statements recorded," said a source familiar with the investigation. "Phones of key staff members who cleared the aircraft for take-off were seized for further examination."A comprehensive, multi-agency probe is underway to determine the cause of the crash. Investigators reportedly obtained CCTV footage from airport premises and are not ruling out the possibility of sabotage. On June 12, Air India Flight AI 171, a Boeing 787-8 Dreamliner, crashed moments after take-off from SVPI Airport, killing 241 of the 242 on board.Investigating teams have since recovered the digital flight data recorder (DFDR) and the cockpit voice recorder (CVR). These are crucial pieces of evidence, which will help identify what led to the crash of AI 171. A CVR records cockpit sounds, including pilot conversations, alarms and sounds of engine and switches clicking.Read: Air India passengers stranded overnight at Delhi airport after flight encounters technical 'snag'The DFDR, on the other hand, logs hours of flight parameters such as speed, altitude, thrust, flap positions, autopilot inputs, acceleration, lift and landing gear movements. According to officials, the pilot issued a Mayday call shortly before the aircraft lost contact with Air Traffic Control (ATC) at SVPI airport.Officials from Boeing, the US Federal Aviation Administration (FAA), the NTSB, and UK-based aviation experts are now in Ahmedabad as part of the probe.The NTSB, in accordance with the international protocol, is investigating the crash independently due to the aircraft's American origin. This is the first time a Boeing 787 Dreamliner has crashed.The US agency, an independent federal body, is tasked with determining the causes of civil aviation accidents and recommending preventive measures. Union minister Murlidhar Mohol on Tuesday confirmed that a report from the central govt-appointed inquiry panel will be submitted within three months.(With inputs from agencies)

#animation #arcane #art #animals #artwork #artists on tumblr #andor #911 abc #baby animals #birds

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hellfiresky · 6 months ago

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The rain pauses too

Summary: A chance encounter during a rainy afternoon in Coruscant’s Federal District leads to a fleeting conversation between a weary worker and an equally tired clone trooper.

Pairing: Captain Rex x GN!Reader

Word Count: 2067

Warnings: None

A/N: This is my very first x Reader fic and my first-ever one-shot! Inspired by today’s rainy morning that lingered until midday, paired with Vienna by Billy Joel playing on repeat.

Join the taglist if you’re interested

(Rex picture from TCW and Coruscant from Episode III, Yannick Dusseault. The photo in the middle is courtesy of myself)

———————————————————————————

You finger brushed your damp hair back and tucked it behind your ears. The hovertrain was busy that morning, like almost every morning in the Galactic City. You couldn’t remember when was the last time you could effortlessly enter the train and get yourself a seat - you always had to squeeze your way in and hope to god you wouldn’t crash into someone holding a hot caf and spilled it on their shirt. This time, at least, you managed to snag a free grab handle - better than leaning awkwardly against the separator by the door. It was raining again. You wondered if the weather control systems were glitching. There’d been reports about that last month - supposed to be summer, but instead, everyone was layering up like it was autumn. It took a week for the engineers to fix it because, of course, the topsiders raised hell over their ruined summer picnics.

The next station is Orowood. The doors on the right side will open. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.

A sigh escaped your lips. Five more stations, you thought. You wished you could live closer to your office, but your mid-level salary didn’t stretch to the business district. You wonder how it would be when the war ends - would it be cheaper then? Or would things be worse? And this entire galaxy would go into a galactic-wide dystopia and you would have to find the latest available commercial starship to fuck off this planet and go to some desolate rock like Tatooine? Or worse, a Cthon outbreak might turn the Remnants of Us holoseries into reality. At least that universe had that handsome Kiffar actor.

The next station is Calocour Heights. The doors on the left side will open. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform. Change here for the Federal, Southern, Rotunda, and Uscru Line.

Finally. You muttered the word under your breath as you double-checked your pockets - no pickpockets today, thankfully. You slipped into the river of commuters flowing towards the escalators, and finally broke off towards your usual tapcafe as its shutters slid open. Four people ahead in line. Not bad. You stepped into place, already tasting the first sip of caf. The next few minutes was a blur, it was like your body moving on autopilot to where you work as a communications specialist for the Interstellar Children’s Aid Fund. The next thing you knew you were in front of your terminal, clacking on your keyboard for the next press release on the joint effort between ICAF and the Galactic Senate, a collaboration so mind-numbingly routine.

Your datapad vibrated on the desk, demanding your attention. You scrolled through the business group chats. The protocol group for the Core Worlds Educational Reform Committee hadn’t replied to your request for a quote from their head senator. Typical. You’d sent the request yesterday, clearly marked urgent, but as usual, anything involving Senate bureaucracy felt like trying to steer a starship through a nebula without sensors. You returned to the draft on your screen, re-reading it for the third time, wondering if you could sneak in one of the standard placeholder quotes: "This initiative is a testament to the enduring cooperation between the Galactic Senate and civic organisations like ICAF." You winced. Generic. Sounded like you asked a droid to write it. Still, it might have to do unless the protocol group got their act together.

By the time your shift ended, the rain had returned, misting the transparisteel windows of Galactic City's towering spires. The train ride home felt heavier somehow, and you didn’t even bother to grab a handle this time, just leaned back against the cold separator and let your mind drift. You thought about nothing. You thought about everything. About how things might get worse before they got better - if they ever got better. Funnily, nothing was happening. It was neutral. Your life was neutral. You had a great career, a group of friends that you occasionally have drinks with, a nice one bedroom apartment in Orange District. It was alright.

Along the way, you changed your mind and got off the train at the Federal District where you were greeted by the drizzle. The shoes you’d splurged on last week as a treat splashed against shallow puddles as you turned down a quieter street, a detour you didn’t usually take. It was quieter here. Dimmer. And you liked that. You didn’t usually come to the Federal District unless work demanded it, but today you thought it might be worth reacquainting yourself. Another annual event loomed in the horizon - a grand affair hosted by the Galactic Senate involving a coalition of organisations, including your own. Something about health and youth in conflict zones - worthy on paper, meaningless in execution. You’d written enough press releases to know these things rarely scratched the surface, let alone solved anything. You marvelled at how different the neighbourhood is compared to the other topside districts - always well-guarded and clean.

You spotted the venue where the event will be held and watched from under your umbrella. You could already picture it: the Senate representatives filing in, the Chancellor delivering the opening remarks, followed by yet another speech from your organisation’s representative. Then more speeches, probably a ribbon-cutting ceremony, some small side events for civilians to engage with the cause. Booths would line the promenade, showcasing what the organisations and the Senate claimed they were accomplishing. And, of course, the obligatory doorstop interviews.

“Excuse me,”

A sudden jolt rushed into you. You knew that tone. You’d forgotten where you were for a moment, and now, the realisation hit you. Loitering is probably prohibited here.

“Sorry... I—I was just looking at...” You trailed off, flailing your hand vaguely at the outdoor venue in front of the Senate Building ahead. “I’m from ICAF. You know, the Interstellar Children’s Aid Fund? There’s an event there in two weeks, and I was just—”

“It’s okay,” the man bowed his head and shook it with a quiet chuckle. “Calm down. I don’t have jurisdiction here.”

His tone was disarming, almost amused, and it let you take in his appearance for the first time. He was a clone trooper - you knew that armour anywhere. It wasn’t the same as the ones stationed locally, though. His was a combination of white and blue, looked worn with several tally marks on its vambrace. He also had blonde hair that was buzzed very short. Definitely not a rookie.

“But,” he jerked his head towards a nearby window, “it might be better if you didn’t loiter too long. My brother over there already thought you were a threat.”

He pointed with his palm towards another trooper, this one in red armour. The man stood near a small group, some in full armour, others in those familiar grey uniforms. They were gathered inside a modest diner, chatting over caf and food that steamed faintly against the glass. You could tell by their body language it was their usual haunt.

“Oh,” you managed, darting your eyes between the trooper in front of you and the group by the window. “A threat? Me?”

“I believe you. But Commander Fox over there sometimes thinks a kid standing too long in front of the Senate Building is trying to hack into the Republic’s server. Let alone an adult like you.” You blinked, unsure if he was joking. Either way, you let out a professional laugh - the kind you’d perfected after years of working alongside the bureaucracy of the government. Polite, restrained, and noncommittal.

“Sounds like a… cautious guy,” you said. The trooper’s lips curved into a wry smile, flicking his gaze briefly towards the diner where the red-armoured clone - Commander Fox, apparently - stood with his brothers. “Cautious is one word for it.” It struck you how out of place they looked here, despite the Federal District’s veneer of order. Soldiers in a city that didn’t feel like theirs, in a galaxy that seemed to stretch farther and farther from anything resembling peace.

“Must be exhausting,” you murmured, the thought slipping out before you could stop it. “Always having to look over your shoulder.” The rain filled the silence that followed, soft patters against the pavement and your umbrella. You waited for a reply, but the man beside you stayed quiet. That was it, you thought - you’d done it again. Crossed a line without realising it. You shifted uncomfortably, ready to apologise or maybe just walk away, when he broke the silence.

“It is,” he said at last. “But it’s not just him. It’s everyone, these days.”

You caught his profile as he gazed out into the street. His tired eyes seemed to carry the weight of the world. “I guess we all do, in our own way,” you tried to meet him halfway. “Different reasons. Different things we’re afraid of.”

“You don’t look like someone who’s afraid of much.”

“You’d be surprised.” You huffed a quiet laugh.

Another lingering silence followed as though the conversation had reached an unspoken understanding. You didn’t press him for more, and he didn’t offer it.

“Anyway, you should pro–”

“Yes,” you finished for him. You followed him back across the street. The rain still fell steadily, painting the streets in muted reflections of street lamps and shopfront signs. Ahead of you, a row of businesses lined up - tapcafes with warm, inviting light spilling from their windows, a newsagent with a glowing sign advertising the latest headlines, and a pharmacy with shelves barely visible through the foggy window. Among them was the small diner he’d pointed to earlier. Through the window, you could still see the men inside in various states of relaxation, probably sharing war stories - or so you concluded in your head.

“Not exactly your standard war zone,” you murmured as you took in the scene.

He chuckled softly. “No. But sometimes you have to make peace where you can.”

You studied the way their armour contrasted the casualness of the place. “Do you get many moments like this?”

“Not often,” he admitted. “But when they come, you hold onto them. You take what you can get.”

One of the troopers inside had noticed the two of you and nudged another, who turned to look. You wondered what they thought of this. Of their brother standing in the rain, talking to a stranger who clearly didn’t belong in their world any more than they did in yours.

“Do you ever get tired?” the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “Of always having to take what you can get? Of never having more?”

“All the time,” he let out a deep sigh. “But tired doesn’t mean done.” There was something grounding in the way he said it. No resignation, no, but a quiet resilience you didn’t think you had in yourself. Of having to keep moving through this wheel of life. “We slow down,” he added with a smile, “Better cool it off before we burn it out, yeah?”

“Coruscant by Bili J’ole?” you chuckled.

“Love that track,” he mirrored your laugh, warmth creeping to his tone. “But I guess it was written for non-clones like you. Slow down, don’t be too ambitious, take your comlink off the hook, and all.” He raised both hands as if to say he wasn’t part of that world.

“Well,” you said softly, cocking your chin towards the diner. “I guess this is where you head back to… not being done and not disappearing.”

He looked at you for a moment, and you thought he might say something more. But then he just smiled. A small, tired smile..

“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks for the chat.”

“Thanks for the company,” you offered a small smile of your own.

You lingered for a moment longer, watching as he turned and headed back to the diner, one of his brothers in orange and white armour opened the door for him and slung his arm around his shoulders. Then you turned too, just as the rain eased into a soft drizzle. You folded your umbrella, shaking off the droplets, and began mentally listing your unfinished to-do list for the day.

Neither of you asked for a name. Neither of you looked back.

#hellfiresky #star wars #clone wars fic #captain rex x reader #captain rex fic #the clone wars fic #the clone wars fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #captain rex fanfic

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witchofthesouls · 8 months ago

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I had a dream about batmobile-mom and sparklings in Transformers:prime and her taking one look at the sad feral cat that is TFP!Starscream and going "Ya...this is mine now."

To me, it's funnier because the Cat Distribution System is doing the Lord's work with overtime as it claims Starscream to send him straight to them since they're stranded with a crashed ship. (Not the Light Lost. It's actually a little ship meant for initial expeditions of a new planet or for research. Still capable of supporting a small crew up to eight.)

So it's less of "This is mine." and more of "Well, I got a cat. This is not my cat. I never had a cat in this ship. I guess, it's mine now."

Poor lonely Starscream coming across the Batmobile family during his time as a rogue and got kicked out of the Decepticon faction, and getting all of his protocols and coding screaming at him over them. Batmobile may be a tank, but they're fragging huge and strong with matte black shades and a powerful field and little ones that she's attentive to their care. Sure, she's not Seekerkin, but she basically has a lot of the really attractive traits of one.

He becomes an indoor-outdoor cat that's super skittish since his own frame-instincts is attempting to latch onto them. Batmobile is coaxing the guy with Energon, shower brushes, cute sparkling babble, and a research lab where the Liaison is actually attentive to what's he's doing. They may not understand the entirety but they do like listening to the guy.

Because his frame-instincts are super confused over Batmobile not completely the proper mannerisms of a Seekerkin femme accepting another mech in her space, it goes haywire by jumping between 'get closer until she finally makes a decision' and 'FLEE YOU IDIOTIC FOOL' since Seeker femmes tend to be violently territorial over their nests with little ones. She's not making the right behavioral cues that mean 'I have accepted you into my personal, private, and intimate space,' but she's making a lot of the 'you're a guest' and it overlaps with the 'I'm trying to get to know you.'

#ask #skyite #transformers #crossover #transformers idw #idw #mtmte #transformers prime #tfp #starscream #batmobile!liaison #reader insert #humans into cybertronians #humanformers #parental relationship #cybertronian biology #cybertronian culture #maccadam #help starscream. help that poor birb because he's trying to see if he got accepted into a different flock now

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magic-shop-stories · 1 month ago

Note

You are amazing, I just love your writing so much, especially BTS Dad scenarios. I am addicted! So I wanted to ask if you could write some headcanons or short imagine of the BTS members having a child, their gender is up to you, that wants to race. Like they love F1 and racing in general and want to do it as well. I cannot get this out of my head and would die to read something like this. Preferably with Yoongi of Jungkook, but I leave that up to you. I hope that's not to weird, if so just ignore me but thanks in advance.

💌 Reply:

OH MY GOD THIS REQUEST MADE ME SQUEAL LIKE A 10-YEAR-OLD AT THEIR FIRST F1 RACE!!!! 🏎️ (Which, fun fact, was me. I had a Vettel poster on my wall and everything...) THANK YOU FOR THIS MASTERPIECE OF A PROMPT!!! I loved writing these headcanons and may have fallen into a 3-hour rabbit hole about Asian F4 teams? ADHD isn't a joke xD If you want a full imagine, my DMs are WIDE OPEN. 🏁 I hope it's what you wanted, if not - let me know. – c – 💜 ohh and THANK YOU P.S. tumblr decided to crumble every time I tried to add pics, and my migraine is currently killing me, so please forgive me for the missing pics...

BTS as Racing Dads Headcanons

Pairings: OT7 x Child!Reader (Parent/Child Dynamics) Rating: PG (K+) Genre: family fluff, sports drama, hurt/comfort Warnings: none

KIM NAMJOON (RM)

CHILD

Name: Soo-Yeon (she/her)

Team: Prema Racing (F4 → F3 → F2), Possible Future: Red Bull Junior Team (Engineering-Focused Development Route)

[note: she’ll probably be the only driver who sends Prema engineers correction emails with footnotes]

Personality:

cerebral introvert

quiet obsession for motorsport engineering

not drawn to the glamour of racing but to the physics of it

= fluid dynamics, tire compounds, energy recovery systems

bedroom walls plastered with diagrams of F1 aerodynamics

scribbles differential equations on her homework

HOW IT BEGINS

at age 12

she stumbles upon a documentary about Adrian Newey

becomes fixated

builds miniature wind tunnels out of cardboard and obsessively testing toy car designs

Namjoon finds her at 2 a.m.

= adjusting the angle of a paper rear wing with surgical precision

First Conversation

“Appa, did you know downforce is just controlled air resistance? It’s… math in motion.”

he blinks

coffee forgotten

“You… built this?”

kneels beside her

studying her makeshift lab

“Explain it to me. Slowly.”

NAMJOON’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a genius. A literal genius.”

Worry

“Racing is dangerous. What if she gets hurt? What if the world exploits her mind?”

Guilt

“Did I push her into overthinking? Is this my fault?”

What He Says

Day 1:

“Let’s start with the basics. What’s your favorite part? The engineering or the speed?”

Week 2:

“I found a junior karting team with a good engineer. Interested?”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

education first

enrolls her in STEM camps

tho lets her skip lectures to shadow a Hyundai N mechanic

“Experience is the best teacher.”

karting phase

buys a used kart

insists she designs the modifications herself

“You want to race? Build it first.”

they spend nights in the garage

her hands greasy, his glasses smudged

safety obsession

researches FIA safety protocols

gifts her a custom HANS device for her 15th birthday (Head and Neck Support device)

“Your brain is your greatest asset. Protect it.”

CONFLICTS

First Crash

she flips her kart during a test run

he sprints to the track

panic clawing his throat

finds her already out, scribbling notes on a clipboard

“The roll cage held! My calculations were right!”

His Response

Outward Calm

“Good. Now let’s improve the chassis.”

Inward Meltdown

calls Yoongi at 3 a.m

“Hyung, what if I’m failing her, what if she gets hurt?”

LEAP TO F4

at 15/16

recruited by a Formula 4 team

he negotiates her contract

adding clauses for academic continuity

“You’ll finish school. And change the game.”

Proudest Moment

watching her explain energy recovery systems to engineers twice her age

“That’s my kid...”

Quote to Her

“You’re not just a driver. You’re a visionary. Make them see it too.”

KIM SEOKJIN (JIN)

CHILD

Name: Ha-Eun (she/her)

Team: Kart Republic → Iron Dames (F4/F3), Possible Future: Ferrari Driver Academy (if she pushes herself hard)

Personality

bubbly, competitive extrovert

lives for the thrill of the race and the cheers of the crowd

she’s less about the mechanics

more about the drama

customizing her kart with glitter sticker

naming it “Pink Lightning”

trash-talking Jin (and the rest of Bangtan) during backyard races

her dream?

= be the first (female) F1 driver with a themed victory dance

HOW IT BEGINS

during a family outing at an amusement park

she drags Jin to the go-kart track

overtakes him on the final lap

“BYE, APPA!”

staff hands her a plastic trophy

“I’m gonna be a racing queen.”

First Conversation

Ha-Eun: “Appa, I’m faster than your dad jokes!” Jin: “Yah! That’s Worldwide Handsome’s kart you’re insulting!”

fake-pouts, then grins

“But fine. Let’s see if you can handle real competition.”

JIN’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a star. A sparkly, chaotic star.”

Panic

“What if she flips the kart? What if someone breathes on her wrong?”

Excitement

“Finally, a worthy rival for my Singin’ in the Rain karaoke crown.”

What He Says

Day 1:

“Okay, champ. Rule #1: Always let your Appa win. Rule #2: Never follow Rule #1.”

Week 2:

“I booked us matching racing suits. Yours has glitter. Mine has my face.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

themed training

turns practice into “Jin/ Ha-Eun Grand Prix” events

cones become “dinosaur obstacles”

pit stops involve juice boxes and dad-joke riddles

“What’s a race car’s favorite snack? Vroom-sticks!”

safety first (but make it fashion)

buys her a neon pink helmet with “PRINCESS OF SPEED” on the side

“Safety’s boring unless it’s fabulous.”

secretly researches the safest tracks

social media hype

posts slow-mo videos of her wins set to “I’m the Best” by 2NE1

caption: “Future F1 CEO. (P.S. I taught her everything.)”

CONFLICTS

First Loss

she loses a local race by 0.5 seconds

throws her gloves

yelling

“I HATE KARTING!”

Jin’s Response

outward calm

“Okay, let’s hate together. Dramatic sigh I hate… broccoli. And slow Wi-Fi.”

inward angst

texts Yoongi

“How do I fix a broken heart? Asking for a tiny dictator.”

solution

hosts a “Losers’ Party” with pizza, disco lights, and a dance-off

“Win the next race, and we’ll crash a real F1 party. Deal?”

LEAP TO COMPETITIVE KARTING

at 11

she joins a regional league

he becomes her hype man

waving a custom banners

“HA-EUN: FASTEST & PRETTIEST.”

Proudest Moment

watching her podium speech

“Thanks to my Appa, who’s almost as cool as my kart.”

he fake-sobs into the mic

“She’s lying! I’m cooler!”

Quote to Her

“Remember: If you’re not first, you’re… still my favorite. But always try to be first.”

note: definiteley plays EA F1 with her, or the sim but NEVER wins

MIN YOONGI (SUGA)

CHILD

Name: Yumi (she/her)

Team: Hitech GP or ART Grand Prix, Possible Future: Alpine Academy (quiet prodigy path)

[note: pit engineers start whispering, “She sees lines we don’t” after analyzing her onboard footage]

Personality

fierce, stubborn introvert with a gasoline-and-metal soul

she’s tactical

calculating lap times in her head during dinner

thrives under pressure

her idea of small talk?

“Appa, do you think Verstappen’s tire strategy in Singapore ’23 was reckless?”

HOW IT BEGINS

at 10 (after years of building Carrera tracks, and decorating her walls with team posters)

she discovers an old racing sim in Yoongi’s studio

he’d bought it years ago (probably for a one time try)

she sneaks in

cracks the top 10 global leaderboard under the username “SHADOWSPEED”

Yoongi finds her asleep at the rig

hands still gripping the controller

First Conversation

“…You did this?”

gestures to the screen where her lap record glows

Yumi: “It’s not hard. Just physics.” Yoongi: “Wear these. The engine sounds are better.”

silently hands her his noise-canceling headphones

YOONGI’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a goddamn prodigy.”

Terror

flashbacks of his own accident

= rain-slick roads, injured shoulder, the smell of burnt rubber

“What if she…?”

Resolve

“If she’s gonna do this, I’ll make sure she’s safe. Even if it kills me.”

What He Says

Day 1:

“You want to race? Fine. But you learn to fix the engine first.”

Week 2

slaps a fireproof racing suit on the kitchen table

“Try it on. Before you argue.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

karting phase

buys a secondhand kart

spends months reinforcing the chassis himself (with her)

“Safety isn’t optional. Ever.”

F4 debut

pulls all strings to get her a spot on a team

insists on meeting every engineer

“The car’s data system is shit. Upgrade it or I walk.”

rainy day ritual

texts her a single emoji before wet races: 🌧️

code for “Don’t be a hero. Just come home.”

CONFLICTS

Crash

she spins out during a monsoon-like F3 qualifier

Yoongi watches from the pit wall

jaw clenched so tight he almost cracks a molar

when she limps back, he barks

“You’re done.”

Her Rebellion

Yumi: “You don’t get it! This is my life!” Yoongi: “I do get it. I’ve..”

slams his fist on the table

voice shaking

rolls up his sleeve

shows the surgery scar on hie shoulder

“This is what ‘life’ looks like when it goes wrong.”

Resolution

they don’t speak for days

Yoongi appears at her door with a helmet

modified with extra impact padding

“Race smart. Or I’ll sell the sim.”

SUZUKA GIFT

her 14th birthday

he tosses her an envelope

inside, two VIP passes to the Japanese Grand Prix

“Pack your bags. And… bring a notebook. Take notes on the real pros.”

At Suzuka

she vibrates with excitement

scribbling notes on tire temps and apex speeds

Yoongi is silent

grips her hand during the start

“If you ever…”

he stops

clears his throat

“Just watch, yeah?”

that night, he admits it over ramen

“I hate this. But I'd hate seeing you not do it more.”

ONGOING SUPPORT

custom safety gear

commissions a fireproof suit

her name stitched inside

“For luck. Don’t tell the team.”

post-race ritual

plays her a lullaby-like piano track he composed

“Checkered Flag Lullaby”

it calms her adrenaline

legacy

secretly funds a junior racing scholarship in her name

“So the next kid doesn’t need a scared shitless dad to make it.”

JUNG HOSEOK (J-HOPE)

CHILD

Name: Min-Jae (he/him)

Team: Williams Racing Young Design Talent → Karting Support Team Livery Artist → Mercedes Junior Creative Division, Possible Future: Lead Livery Director for Mercedes or independent design phenom running his own F1 visual branding agency

Personality

bubbly, hyper-creative whirlwind with a neon imagination

hands are perpetually stained with marker ink

tarted sketching liveries at 5

he talks a mile a minute about "making cars dance with colors!"

he names his designs things like “Rainbow Rocket” and “Glitter Shark”

HOW IT BEGINS

at 5

Min-Jae scribbles a chaotic, crayon masterpiece on the living room wall

= a race car with rainbow flames and polka-dot wheels

J-Hope, mid-dance practice, freezes

“Yah! Is that… a car?”

he beams

“Appa, it’s faster than your moves!”

First Conversation

“Explain this. Now.”

trying to sound stern but failing miserably

Min-Jae: “The polka dots are speed bubbles! And the rainbow is for when it flies!” J-Hope: “…You’re a genius. But never draw on walls again. Here, use this.”

hands him a F1 sketchbook

J-HOPE’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“My kid’s a creative monster! Look at those colors!”

Panic

“How do I nurture this without our house turning into a graffiti warzone?”

Excitement

“We’re gonna collab. Father-son design duo. Let’s go!”

What He Says

Day 1:

“Min-Jae-ya, let’s make a rule: Paper only. Unless it’s Appa’s dance shoes... those need glitter.”

Week 2:

“... gonna teach you about balance. No, not math... color balance! It’s like choreography for your eyes!”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

art studio overhaul

converts the guest room into “Min-Jae’s Mad Lab”

= walls covered in whiteboard paint

shelves stocked with every art supply known to humankind

J-Hope hangs a sign: “Caution: Genius at Work.”

field trips

takes him to the Seoul Auto Show

letting him interrogate designers

“Why is that car boring? It needs fangs!”

J-Hope translates

“He’s asking about… aerodynamic expression!”

matching kits

designs father-son overalls with “Team Hope-Jae” logos

Min-Jae adds doodles to J-Hope’s pair

= a tiny ARMY bomb with wings

CONFLICTS

Meltdown

Min-Jae throws a marker at a failed design

“It’s ugly! I hate it!”

J-Hope swoops in

spinning him in a chair

His Response

tough love

“Yah! Markers are for art, not tantrums.”

encouragement

“Remember when Appa fell during ‘Dope’? I ate the stage! You gotta own the mess!”

collaboration

they “trash” the design together

splattering paint everywhere

the result?

livery titled “Chaos Victory”

LEAP TO KARTING

at 9/10

local karting team asks Min-Jae to design their livery

J-Hope films the entire process for VLOG content

crying behind the camera

“That’s my son! Look at him glow!”

Proudest Moment

watching Min-Jae present his design

= a tiger-striped kart with holographic accents

team owner whispers

“He’s… ten?”

J-Hope grins

“Nine next week. Discount rate.”

Quote to Him

“You’re not just an artist. You’re joy on wheels. Make the world dance with you!”

PARK JIMIN

CHILD/TWINS

Names: Min-Jae (son) & Hae-Won (daughter)

Personalities

Min-Jae

Team: Red Bull Racing - Young Driver Programme, Possible Future: Red Bull Racing (F1) or AlphaTauri as his launchpad

[note: already has a penalty record in karting]

hot-headed

bold

fiercely competitive

drives for Red Bull Racing - Young Driver Programme

idolizes Max Verstappen’s aggression

wore his racing gloves during dinner when he was younger

Hae-Won

Team: McLaren - Young Driver Programme, Possible Future: McLaren F1 Team or Aston Martin (Talent-Precision Hybrid Route)

analytical

ice-cool under pressure

races for McLaren - Young Driver Programme

worships Lando Norris

keeps a race logbook titled “Emotion is Drag."

Dynamic

sibling rivalry on steroids

they debate tire strategies over breakfast

bet allowance money on lap times

refuse to carpool to the track

HOW IT BEGINS

at 4

they’re given toy karts for Christmas (Jungkooks gift)

Jimin films them racing around the living room

giggling as they crash into the couch

by 12, they’re dominating local karting leagues

Min-Jae wins by sheer grit

Hae-Won by calculating apex speeds

First Rivalry Flashpoint

during a regional final

Hae-Won blocks Min-Jae on the last lap

he retaliates, spinning her out

Jimin, watching in horror, sprints to the track

Jimin’s Reaction

outward:

forces them to shake hands

“You’re teammates first. Always.”

inward:

cries in the bathroom

texting Namjoon

“Hyung, what if I’m ruining them?”

JIMIN’S DAD MODE

Support System

dual team gear

wears a Red Bull cap and McLaren jacket to races

“I’m Switzerland. Neutral but fabulous.”

pre-race rituals

braids Hae-Won’s hair

for “aerodynamics”

tightens Min-Jae’s helmet strap

“Breathe. Think. Don’t murder each other.”

slips handwritten notes into their cars

“Proud of you. Love, Appa.”

Conflict Mediator

post-race debriefs

hosts “Family Meetings” with a whiteboard

“Min-Jae, stop dive-bombing. Hae-Won,stop smirking when he does.”

therapy sessions

drags them to family counseling

therapist quits after three sessions

“They’re… ´too passionate.”

JIMIN’S FEARS

safety

stares at crash compilations at 3 a.m.

“What if I lose them both in one day?”

sibling estrangement

finds Hae-Won crying after Min-Jae calls her a “robot”

Jimin tucks her into his side

“He doesn’t mean it. He’s just… bad at feelings.”

burnout

cancels a tour date to attend their first F3/2 race

“They’ll only be kids once. Priorities.”

BREAKTHROUGH

Monaco F2 Incident

Min-Jae and Hae-Won qualify P2 and P3

on lap 15, they battle through the hairpin

tires screeching, inches apart

Jimin clutches one of the members arms so hard he leaves bruises (they all came to watch)

Post-Race

they podium together

Hae-Won 1st, Min-Jae 3rd

instead of fighting, Min-Jae hugs her

“Don’t get used to it...”

Jimin sobs into a custom Red Bull-McLaren flag

Jimin’s Proudest Moment

overhearing Hae-Won defend Min-Jae to a reporter

“He’s the only driver I’d trust to race wheel-to-wheel with.”

KIM TAEHYUNG (V)

CHILD

Name: Min-Jae (he/him)

nicknamed "MJ" by the press

"Jae-Jae" by Taehyung

Team: Ferrari Driver Academy (F4 → F3 → F2)

Personality

firecracker with a Senna poster taped to his bedroom ceiling

brash, fearless

allergic to caution

MJ thrives on the edge

overtakes on the inside

revs engines like they’re percussion instruments

wears a permanent smirk under his helmet

media dubs him “The Little Phoenix” after he flips his kart in qualifiers only to podium the next day

Obsessions

Ayrton Senna’s 1988 Monaco GP

“He drove like it was jazz!”

customizing his gloves with paint splatters

“For luck. And style.”

collecting vintage racing helmets/suits

Tae turned his bedroom into a “museum” with display cases

HOW IT BEGINS

at 10

MJ finds Tae’s old Rush DVD

watches it 17 times in a week

then drags Tae to a go-kart track

he watches MJ lap seasoned adults while humming “Boy With Luv.”

First Conversation

MJ: “Appa, I wanna fly like Senna.” Taehyung: “…In a car? Or literally?”

TAEHYUNG’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Awe

“He’s a painting in motion. A… Pollock with a steering wheel.”

Terror

“He’s going to die. I’m going to watch my child die.”

Pride

texts the group chat

“MY SON’S A GOD. SUCK IT, KOOK.” (ofc banter)

What He Says

Day 1:

“You’re not allowed to die. Ever. It’s in the dad contract.”

Week 2:

“Let’s make your kart art. Pink flames? Gold tires? Yes.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

aesthetic overhaul

designs MJ’s kart livery

= neon splatter paint inspired by Basquiat

“If you’re gonna be fast, be iconic.”

mental health checks

hires a therapist who races

“Dr. Nara does donuts and CBT. Multitasking queen.”

Senna pilgrimage

takes MJ to São Paulo (his favourite track)

films him crying at Senna’s grave

posts it with “Legends recognize legends”

MJ threatens to leak his unfinishes tracks

CONFLICTS

MJ attempts a Senna-style “no-look overtake” in the rain

kart hydroplanes into a barrier

Tae, mid-photoshoot in Milan, flies home on a private jet

still wearing Gucci loafers in the ICU

His Response

outward:

“You’re grounded. To… the kart track. After you heal.”

inward:

paints a mural titled “Phoenix Rising” on MJ’s cast

“Scars are just proof you outran death.”

LEAP TO F4

at 14/15

MJ joins Formula 4

Tae negotiates a sponsorship deal

the car?

= a rolling canvas

abstract designs that shift under UV lights

Proudest Moment

MJ wins his first race

dedicates it to “Appa, who taught me crashes are just plot twists.”

Quote to Him

“You’re not just a driver. You’re a performance artist. The track’s your stage... burn it down.”

JEON JUNGKOOK

CHILD

Name: Haneul (Sky) (she/her)

Team: ART (Asia Racing Team) (F4 → F3 → F2)

Personality

spitfire with a lead foot and a chip on her shoulder

Haneul inherited Jungkook’s competitive strea

battles a storm of self-doubt in a male-dominated sport

she’s all grit behind the wheel

= aggressive overtakes, daring late brakes

off-track, she folds her race suits meticulously

as if perfection could armor her against the world’s whispers

“They don’t see a driver. They see a girl driver.”

HOW IT BEGINS

at 6

Haneul begs to ride shotgun in a Porsche GT3 during a track day

he lets her “steer” on a straightaway

her tiny hands gripping the wheel like it’s a lifeline

“Faster! Faster!”

she shrieks, and Jungkook grins

First Race

he buys her a junior kart for her 8th birthday

they paint it purple and gold

“Team Jeon colors”

he kneels in the gravel

teaching her heel-toe braking

“Smooth, Haneul-ah. Like dancing.”

JUNGKOOK’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a natural. Look at her lines...cleaner than mine at her age.”

Fear

“What if she gets hurt? What if they break her spirit?”

Protective Fury

“I’ll crash anyone who touches her.”

What He Says

After Her First Win (Age 10)

“You’re a monster out there. Proud of you, champ.”

When She Asks for F4 (Age 15)

“You sure? It’s not just speed. It’s war.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

training regimen

wakes her at 5 a.m. for endurance runs

then cooks galbi at midnight after sim sessions

“Champions don’t sleep. Naps.”

public persona

uses his fame to shield her

brings her on live, arm around her shoulders

“Meet my co-pilot. She’s better than me.”

tattoo

after her F4 debut

he inks her car number (#07) and chassis outline on his ribs

shows her post-race

“Now you’re always with me.”

CONFLICTS

First Slur

rival team owner mutters “Go back to makeup tutorials” during qualifying

Haneul pretends not to hear

Jungkook slams his fist into a garage locker

denting the metal

His Response

outward

storms into the stewards’ office

demands the man’s ban

“Apologize to my daughter. Or I’ll park my car in your pit lane.”

inward:

cries alone

“I should’ve protected her better.”

Haneul’s Breaking Point

she quits mid-season after online trolls photoshop her into a doll

Jungkook finds her dismantling her helmet in the garage

Dialogue

Haneul: “I’m not strong like you. I can’t just… ignore it.” Jungkook: “You think I don’t see the comments? ‘Washed-up idol. Failed racer.’”

COMEBACK

Training Redemption

Jungkook hires a female ex-F1 test driver as her coach (Jessica Hawkins)

“Learn from the best. Better than me.”

Proudest Moment

Haneul podium’s in F4

dedicating the win to “the Appa who taught me to never lift.”

Jungkook, wearing her #07 cap, sobs into his headset

Quote to Her

“You’re not ‘Jungkook’s kid.’ I’m Haneul’s dad. Remember that.”

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ficfield · 2 months ago

Text

Bedtime Zoomies

I had this silly idea, it’s based off when I get the zoomies of an evening, I terrorise my boyfriend, it’s like the funniest thing, he loves it and finds it adorable anywayyyys, I thought about Chris experiencing his Girlfriends zoomies for the first time and here we are… enjoy.

Chris Redfield x Reader

(GIF is the equivalent of my Zoomies 😂)

It had been two months since Chris and his girlfriend had started officially dating, two blissful months of lazy weekends, cooking experiments that usually ended with a fire alarm, and Chris learning what it meant to actually relax for once.

Tonight was no different, well, it started that way. Chris had spent all day running errands, working out, and getting a rare weekend off, and all he wanted was to collapse into bed next to the woman who had somehow convinced him that life didn’t always have to be an endless string of missions.

He was just starting to drift off, sheets pulled up, room dim and peaceful, when….

WHUMP

Something heavy and blanket wrapped crash-landed on top of him.

Chris jolted up, instinctively grabbing at the “attacker”, only to realise it was his girlfriend, completely cocooned in a fluffy blanket burrito, giggling uncontrollably as she wriggled on top of him.

“What the hell??” Chris choked out, half laughing, half stunned.

She let out a ridiculous growl and, in a spot-on Stitch impression, snarled, “Uh-oh. Badness coming on.”

Before headbutting him lightly on the chest.

Chris blinked, completely unprepared. “The what now?!”

Before he could even fully process it, she rolled off of him, bouncing around the bed like a caffeinated ferret, still completely wrapped up in the fluffy blanket. Every few seconds, she’d pop up and do another Stitch quote, nailing the raspy voice:

“I’m cute and fluffy!!” she declared proudly, puffing up like she was three times her size.

Chris just lay there, blinking, struggling between laughing and pure disbelief.

And then came the menacing Stitch laugh, the throaty, mischievous cackled she did way too accurately, which sent Chris into a fit of silent, shoulder-shaking laughter against the mattress.

“She’s completely lost it,” he muttered, wiping a hand down his face.

Just as he thought he might get a chance to intervene, she launched herself at him again, landing squarely on his stomach with an “oof.”

Chris grunted but reacted fast, wrapping his arms around her mid-wriggle. “Alright, that’s it. Containments protocol initiated.”

“Noooo!” she shrieked, still half in the Stitch voice. “You broke it!”

Chris was laughing now too hard to maintain any real discipline, even as he pinned her gently down. “You’re a menace. How have I not see this side of you before?”

“Because,” she said, peeking up at him with a mischievous grin, “The zoomies only happen when I’m super comfy. You unlocked it. Congratulations.”

The way she said it, half teasing, half shy, made Chris’ heart thud hard in his chest. He loosened his hold just enough to plant a kiss on her forehead.

“Well,” he murmured against her hair, “If being special means I get body-slammed by a Stitch possessed burrito at bedtime, I guess I’ll take it”

She let out one last mischievous Stitch cackle before finally flopping against him with a satisfied sigh.

Chris chuckled, pulling the blankets over them, tucking her firmly into his chest like he could somehow bottle this moment forever.

“Sleep now, menace,” he said softly.

As she snuggled in, Chris lay there, heart full, smiling into the dark, already dreading the next time he had to spend a night alone without her chaotic little zoomies. He was in deep, he was in love.

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peskellence · 2 months ago

Text

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Previous Chapter

A03 Link

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed-a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids-to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of 'More Than Our Parts' from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 9.4K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

Nines continued to dwell on the topic. Extensively and despite resistance.

Reed refused to return to his sphere of mental containment. He was no longer a concept—scattered, meandering preoccupations. Instead, he had become a single, disruptive entity. One that wandered through his mind without tolls or boundaries, as the android was forced to endure the torturous drag of every footfall.

It had been the previous night, when he retreated to his orchard in search of respite, that he saw him. A stain on his meticulously constructed sanctuary, grinning smugly as he emerged from the fruit trees:

“Hey, tin can—come here often?”

‘Protocol: Reed’ proved useless in combating the manifestation. With no tangible stimuli to which it could link, persistent annoyances slipped through, producing large, irreparable holes in its net of security.

The programme would require extensive tuning, so much that Nines reluctantly conceded to retire it. At least until he could devise a more effective system. And so, the simulation stayed—its behaviour mimicking its real-life equivalent with such startling accuracy that it became difficult to discern from reality.

A dissonance that was not helped as he input the address of a familiar residential district and began making his way towards it. Charging down the sidewalk, each step weighted by the load of pronounced irritation.

As he moved, he considered his options. A task that was easier said than done. While disruptions crashed like waves, ravaging his battered defences, solutions pooled shallowly on the shoreline. Already scorched, drying beneath a punishing sun.

All recent strategies for promoting compliance, such as increased social contact and rapport, now seemed redundant. Nines supposed that some might deem this karmic retribution, given his duplicitous intentions for fostering such a “bond.”

In any case, it left him with little option but to return to default configurations, limiting involvement with Reed to the bare essentials of work.

Regrettably, this did not spare him from contact outside business hours. There were developments in their case, with circumstances demanding they be discussed urgently, in preparation for Monday.

> COMMUNICATION LINK REQUESTED —> HOST RK900 #313 248 317 – 87; DET. G REED

> PERMISSION GRANTED.

> CONNECTION INITIALISING…

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

Detective Reed. I have made a breakthrough in the case. Please let me know when you have received this message so we can discuss further.

Model RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 – 87 .

Seeing the man was active on his phone, he awaited acknowledgement—then pressed for attention when this did not come:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

I would like to meet in person to discuss this, should you be available. Let me know

- Model RK900, Serial Number 313 248 317 – 87.

DET. G REED >> RK900 #313 248 317 – 87

its my day off nines. cant it wait until monday?

also you don't need to sign your messages. i know who you are. jackass

Nines huffed, fleeting amusement piercing the fog of his disillusionment. The text exuded intense annoyance, despite its briefness, and he reasoned it was only fair he might draw some paltry enjoyment from the otherwise miserable situation.

With an adjustment to his autonomous identification system, he constructed another message:

You will want to hear this. I assure you, I won't take up much of your time.

I am messaging you from my internal hub. I will try deactivating the signature, but I cannot guarantee success.

Reed noted the change immediately, making clear he didn’t appreciate the slight to his intelligence:

DET. G REED >> RK900 #313 248 317 – 87

those last two messages didnt have signatures.

you know what you're doing. stop fucking with me.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

It would appear I have succeeded. How fortunate .

Nines, feeling pleased with himself, noted the visual evidence of Reed’s struggle to formulate a comeback. He studied the flashing dots at the end of their chat log, flickering perpetually in and out like a buffering search engine.

This was before they vanished, with satisfaction persisting for as long as it took him to realise they would not be returning.

The status of his partner changed from 'Online' to the time elapsed since his last activity. He waited impatiently for it to switch back, to be provided with a reply. When this did not occur, the pace of his steps began to slow, until he had almost ground to a halt:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

To reiterate, my visit will be brief.

I am approximately 7 minutes from your apartment. Please acknowledge.

Any joviality dispersed completely, as Nines firmly reminded himself of the reason for his urgency.

The information he had gathered was pivotal to their case, but could amount to nothing, should their superior not be convinced. A feat that would be difficult, requiring persuasion, as supporting evidence was nowhere near as airtight as he'd hoped.

Forensics had submitted their report from the Ravendale crime scene, revealing the same images of the MJ100 that had been uncovered on the forum. While still alarming, this now constituted a case of data breach. Extensive IT investment and funding would be required to track the poster, given the meticulous efforts made to cover their tracks.

Without the definitive link to their killer—the crux of his argument—it was an effort that would prove difficult to justify.

All of this had proven vexing enough, troubling the RK900 into the early hours of the morning, but was made significantly worse as he was forced to watch minutes stack on the idle chat log.

Lest Reed slip into the pretence that he wished to engage in superfluous communications, the RK asserted the importance of the situation. The renewed conviction, in turn, corrected his wavering pace, as he sternly marched on.

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> DET. G REED

To answer your question, this cannot wait. It is of pivotal importance to the ongoing success of our investigation that we address this matter immediately.

Updated ETA: 5 minutes. Be ready to let me in.

The apartment complex came into view ahead of schedule, Nines having found the caveat of being ignored uniquely motivational.

Upon charging up the stairwell with the same single-minded efficiency, he rounded the corner to his partner's fourth-storey home. Even if he’d been unaware of its location, there would have been no mistaking which of the doors belonged to Reed.

He glared at the shamelessly proactive ‘welcome’ mat beneath his feet before surveying the nearby wall for a bell. It did not work, as poorly maintained as seemingly all surrounding amenities. Instead, Nines defaulted to a manual approach, striking the wood with firm taps.

Whilst knocking, he sent another message, calling increased attention to his presence:

I am outside. Open the door.

There was a brief lull in beats, awaiting a response that never came, before Nines started again. This process repeated for some time, with each ensuing correspondence becoming more insistent:

Detective Reed, this is highly unprofessional.

Knock.

The door, which felt worryingly flimsy under the weight of his hand, rattled with a sharp creak.

I know you're inside, and I'm aware you can hear me.

Knock. Knock.

The sound carried down the length of the corridor, reverberating against ageing plaster walls.

We will be having this discussion. You are making things needlessly difficult.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

There was still no response, and in exasperation, Nines lowered his arm. A sliver of doubt crept into his mind, burrowing through bad faith cynicism.

Perhaps there was a chance that Reed hadn't heard him.

It was a Sunday morning, after all, with the man boasting very little in the way of domestic duties. It was entirely plausible he’d gone back to bed, or intrepidly braved the elements to smoke.

The latter inspired a clearer picture. Reed, dressed in a baggy night shirt and sweatpants, leant precariously over his balcony. A cigarette in hand, he mocked the persistence of his partner to a flock of nearby pigeons—

Cynicism returned, as Nines was shocked back to reality.

Incensed by his own speculations, he bent forward to steal a glimpse of the living room through the peephole. This proved seldom effective, as he was unable to discern anything but the distorted outline of furniture.

Nines instead pressed an ear to the door, tuning for increased aural and metabolic sensitivity, searching for traces of life. Instead, a disruption was identified. Dull, continuous rushing—the flow of running water.

He scowled. Choosing to bathe amid active correspondence proved callous enough; doing so without any form of acknowledgement omitted the most basic of courtesies.

The android lingered, listening on, stewing in disdain. More productively, he was able to deconstruct the water’s pitch and frequency, determining the precise amount of force needed to reach his partner, without inadvertently destroying the door.

He then straightened up, his fist raised toward the panel, and prepared to strike. Before he did so, however, a shift of motion caught his attention and he stalled.

As his head snapped around, he was faced with an elderly woman stepping onto the landing. She clutched a bag of groceries to her bony chest, with a larger carrier trolley pulled a few inches behind her.

She looked horrified, bewildered, with sunken eyes darting repeatedly between Nines and the door. He wondered how long she had been watching, despairing at the thought. A rush of humility and self-awareness bristled through him before he pulled away sharply from the apartment.

With his arms tucked neatly behind his back, he attempted to save face, dissuading any presumptions of unsavoury intent by providing additional context:

“There is no cause for concern, madam—I know the man who occupies this lot. He is my partner.”

The woman continued to squint, her beady eyes lost in crinkled folds of her face. Then her thin lips parted, saggy jowls stretching wide before she released a hum of understanding.

“Ohhhh, I see, I see...” She smiled, nodding her head before turning on her heel and hobbling away. As she moved, she muttered a series of disjointed pleasantries under her breath.

“Such a nice man—so polite—I thought he was single, isn't that sweet—”

The words struck like a cold rush of water to the face. This was chased by a sharp surge of biofluid as Nines realised he had been woefully misunderstood.

His mouth opened to correct her, but it was too late. The woman, surprisingly nimble for her age, had already rounded a nearby corner, the squeaking wheels of the trolley carrying along behind her.

He stood alone, reeling from humiliation, considering the place he had secured himself in the building’s rumour mill. Then he shook his head, dislodging the trivial concern. There was no sense wasting energy on matters of personal pride—not when this power could be more productively invested in achieving his primary objective:

> ENTER DETECTIVE REED'S APARTMENT.

The shower continued to rumble distantly, with no signs of stopping. He found it difficult to believe that Reed would prove so diligent in personal hygiene. It seemed more likely that he had become preoccupied with other, less sanitary, activities, or that he had already finished, neglecting to switch off the water.

Nines had no desire to loiter indefinitely on the doorstep—subjecting himself to the scrutiny of prying neighbours—to find out.

With a direct route of access unavailable, he would have to secure an alternative. Ideally, one that allowed for some degree of discretion.

Accessing local architectural archives, the android searched until he had uncovered the blueprints for Detective Reed's complex. Constructing a wireframe projection of the building, he then assessed for other access points.

To his relief, there was a network of fire escapes mounted to the south side of the building. The structure served each home above ground level, connecting them safely to the streets below.

As his attention drifted up, he noted a blank-faced effigy emerging onto one of the balconies. A cigarette was clasped in their fingers, lifted to an absent mouth for a slow, indulgent drag. Ash was then flicked, scattered in the direction of a dispersing flock of birds…

He dismissed the simulation, prompting an update to his physical routing. Once finalised, Nines pivoted on his heel and proceeded to the new destination.

Whilst moving, he affirmed the justification for this trajectory. In case it required explaining to his superior officer. He hadn’t intended any breach of personal boundaries or privacy. He had simply been acting in the interest of professional diligence, as well as consideration for his partner.

After all, he had failed to secure Reed’s attention following multiple attempts. It was entirely plausible that there was a more serious reason as to why.

A slip, perhaps, when leaving his inordinately long shower.

As Nines reached the back of the building, assessing the network of frames, it became clear that his polished simulation failed to account for some crucial aspects. Principally, the real-life structure was abysmally maintained.

Rusted bolts protruded at odd angles, with attached platforms damaged or missing in several places. The additional weight and pressure on ill-secured joints had caused the entire framework to bow disconcertingly.

It fell so woefully short of Michigan safety codes that it may as well have collapsed completely, left piled in the centre of the pavement. Indeed, he predicted this would be the fate of any misguided individual who attempted to use it. Additional strategy would be required to ensure a safe ascent.

Nines focused his cognitive output onto pathfinding, assessing optimal routing for both stability and discretion. After several failed calculations, in which he was forced to witness a simulation of himself plummet pitifully to the ground, systems locked into a path that proved feasible.

He began to climb the escape ladder, tactfully avoiding the loose rungs and evading the unsteady grates that risked collapsing under his weight. Utilising the leverage of a suspended bar, he swung across a narrow gap, only realising mid-momentum how close he had been to a nearby window.

The android was operating on borrowed time. A concerned resident could contact law enforcement at any moment. The result of which would be an intensely awkward interaction with one of his colleagues.

By the time he reached the fourth floor, he was infuriated. Deeply resentful at having been forced to degrade himself in such a way. The sum of this frustration, of course, was targeted at the man who had made such measures necessary.

Stepping onto the balcony, he noted that one of the windows had been left ajar. Just enough that he could confirm there were no further sounds of water—dwindling alibis, stripping Reed of a primary excuse for ignoring him.

There was no trace of the man as he peered into his kitchen, although Nines was able to detect the metabolic rhythms of another, smaller creature. It was Tiffany, seated off to the side, growling as she stared accusingly into an empty food dish. Nines could feel his frustration fester in solidarity with the animal. All the more incentive to enter the apartment, feeding her himself, should his partner consider self-indulgent idleness a greater priority.

He tapped on the glass, firm and insistent, enough that the frame rattled from the impact. He maintained a close visual on the nearby door, anticipating that the human would be unhappy to see him whenever he decided to grace the RK with his presence.

This posed no concern. Nines had exerted far too much effort, implicated himself in far too many potential misdemeanours, to back away now. Despite this, he resolved to maintain professionalism and restraint in the impending confrontation.

The approach was clear: assertive, but brief. Cover the key points, establishing enough cohesion with Reed to ensure he wouldn’t actively impede their meeting with Fowler. Then, he would leave, having successfully limited extraneous contact, in line with their shared interests.

His partner still refused to show himself, having transformed what should have been a straightforward task into an arduous feat of self-discipline.

It was a fight that Nines risked losing, as his clenched fist came dangerously close to compromising him. ‘Accidentally’ striking the pane with too much force, shattering fragile glass and permitting him passage into the home…

Then, at long last, there was movement and the structural integrity of the window was preserved.

As Reed came bumbling through the doorway, it was clear he was unwell. He sported a bedraggled appearance, strikingly similar to the one he had on the first day of their partnership. It was a sickly kaleidoscope of discolouration—sallow flesh paired with purple rings beneath swollen, bloodshot eyes.

No doubt, a consequence of overindulgence the night before. The plans Nines had become privy to when catching the man in a slanderous digital rant to Officer Chen.

While enjoyment was undoubtedly drawn from the tragic presentation, it was not the only aspect of his appearance that proved…compelling. An injustice which struck Nines like a blow. By far, the most violent and unyielding that had been levied against his wounded pride.

Prior assessments of the man's physiology proved woefully correct. Reed was in remarkable condition, given his unsavoury lifestyle.

While there had been hints of a well-formed physique beneath the wrinkled folds of clothes, it was indisputable in his current undress. Only his lower half was covered, tucked beneath the fold of a bath towel, with his upper body bare. Comprising well-defined muscles, his chest was lightly dusted with hair, interspersed with scattered scars.

He clutched the side of his temple, head bowed, muttering inaudibly. As the cat across the room yowled in growing impatience, his grumbling grew more incensed. He recoiled, wincing, his torso jutting forward as he did so.

The overhead light caught on the moist droplets clinging to his skin. His towel shifted, its tie loosening slightly, revealing the top of a sharp V-line that traced the contours of his abdomen.

Nines’ HUD flashed in warning, alerting to a sudden arrhythmia in his pump regulator. His scowl deepened, and his gaze, which had wandered traitorously, was snapped back into proper alignment.

Reed staggered further into the kitchen. Presumably, to serve the pet her belated meal. The effort soon proved too strenuous, however, as he stalled mid-step, visibly dazed and teetering precariously. It took some time to steady himself. Once he had, he redirected swiftly, shifting his course to the overhead cabinets by his sink.

He swung the first open and proceeded to rifle through its contents. Although visibility was limited, Nines caught glimpses of precariously piled dishes that shook with each ill-coordinated reach.

It was unclear what the man was looking for, but whatever it was, it was considered to hold great importance. The man grew increasingly frantic the longer he searched, not helped by the fact that he, too, was operating with restricted vision.

The top of the shelves sat just above his eyeline, to which Nines suppressed a chuckle. He did not wish to compromise his position, at least not yet, whilst flailing arms remained entangled in fragile porcelain. Any damage would be a consequence of Reed's own carelessness, for which the android refused to accept any responsibility.

He instead waited for a more suitable moment to catch his attention, ensuring he would not be startled. At last, Reed stepped back, his annoyance plateauing before it plummeted into dejected surrender.

Nines seized his opportunity and knocked again. Not as firmly as he had before, just enough to ensure his target became aware of his presence.

It became clear that he had miscalculated the timing of this address, or the human’s tolerance to sudden noise. His lowered head jerked to attention as Reed looked at him, utterly terrified.

His already puffy eyes bulged to comedic proportions as a sharp curse tumbled from his lips. He stumbled back, a jumbled mess of flailing limbs, before reaching instinctively to his side—no doubt a reflex borne from years on the force.

As his clenched hand gripped at nothing, he was thrown further off balance. The man swayed, directionless, only halting when he clipped the side of a nearby table.

The corner stabbed at exposed skin, and he arched away, hissing like an irate cat. His actual feline sat to one side, having witnessed all this take place but barely reacting. Instead, she pawed at her bowl, the lingering dregs of her patience rapidly dwindling.

Recovering from the fallout of his shock, Reed’s head swung trepidatiously back to the window. Recognition began to settle on his face, loosening the tense lines of panic.

They returned soon after, with a vengeance, the centre of his brow pinched into a large, unsightly knot. Flames of accusation roared, crackling behind his narrowing gaze, as Reed glared . His attention darted between the android's face and hand, as though daring him to knock again.

Nines rose to the challenge without hesitation. Following another brisk tap, he used his available hand to gesture towards the balcony door. A request that his partner received but coldly rejected.

The two were locked in a stalemate, neither willing to yield. Of course, Nines held a substantial advantage, capable of waiting for much longer than his organic counterpart.

Something that also seemed to be dawning on the human, as cracks began to splinter through his obstinate resolve. One of his eyelids twitched, and his head pulled stiffly to the side, as though he were attempting to remove the RK900 from existence through the power of mental persuasion.

When the effort was unsuccessful, he grunted bitterly and proceeded towards the door with heavy, reluctant steps. His towel remained pinned to his waist as the android mused on how well it had held through all the commotion.

He had not stepped an inch onto the foot mat when the entrance swung open. It narrowly missed a full-on collision to his face, as the android sidled to avoid it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

The demanding bark omitted any greeting. It was hurled into his face with violent propulsion, chased by a potent waft of alcohol.

Nines ignored the smell but could not overlook the opportunity to levy a jab at the man. The consequences of his late-night escapades were all the more apparent now he was standing up close.

"Good afternoon, Detective,” Nines said calmly, inspecting him with an equally manufactured diplomacy. “You're looking well.”

Reed saw through this instantly. He squared his shoulders, appearing to make another attempt at willing him out of existence.

"No, seriously. What are you doing? Because if this is about work, I swear to god, I'm pushing you off the balcony. I already said no, I don't want to—"

"I never received a 'no,'" the RK interrupted coolly. “You asked if it could wait until Monday. I concluded that it could not and informed you as such. Did you not receive my message?"

"I stopped reading your messages, dipshit. They were pissing me off.” The retort was delivered with a matter-of-fact finality. As though it differed in any way from the vast sum of their interactions. “Why didn't you knock on my door? Instead of scaling the fire escape like a goddamn lunatic?"

"I tried the door, but you were not answering."

"I was in the fucking shower. You could have waited a minute."

"I waited several minutes."

The vein that pulsed on Reed's temple looked ready to burst. He shifted his stance, feet braced in a stubborn blockade between himself and the apartment.

It seemed increasingly unlikely that Nines would be granted entrance. At least, not without moving the man by force. Instead, he appealed to his better judgment, attempting to incite reason. “Nevertheless, I am here now, so you may as well let me in."

"Are you—" The sentence broke, devolving into a series of indignant splutters. Following his impromptu impersonation of a malfunctioning motor, Reed started again.

"Okay, another ‘Human Tip’, jackass.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. “You can't just show up at somebody's house without permission. For all you know, I might have been busy, like, I dunno, cranking one out. You really want to walk in on that?"

Nines tilted his head, taking a moment to process the strange colloquialism. A cross-check of his internal database revealed a plethora of detailed sources. All of which he would have much rather avoided.

Having already considered this prospect as a reason for the man's tardiness, he informed him as such in a curt rebuttal. “I am perfectly aware of human fondness for self-stimulation. Truthfully, there are less appealing things I can think of seeing."

Reed baulked, his disgruntled scowl dropping immediately. The pace of his breaths quickened, core body temperature elevating in tow. He seemed suddenly, inexplicably conscious of his undress, where it hadn't bothered him previously.

His stance was adjusted, his arms crossed tightly over his torso, as though he were attempting to recover some modesty. Paradoxically, there was a dilation of his pupils, indicative of unspoken interest, before his gaze was averted.

It was only then, with all these elements falling into place, that Nines realised what he had done.

He cursed his social routing for leading him so wildly astray, propelling him into the second major miscommunication of the day.

This one proved more troublesome, as he would be forced to endure the fallout. Attempt to recover some degree of professionalism following the inadvertent flirtation. A tactic for behavioural management that had been firmly abandoned, given recent—

"I'll let you in.” A voice interrupted, injecting itself into his spiralling thoughts. It was dry, forcibly stilted, attempting to mask the subtle waver that persisted throughout.

A stipulation was then added, as though to dispel any speculations that the invitation was cordial. "...but only because I don't want my neighbours to think I'm being robbed."

One of his arms fell limply from his chest as Reed flung it behind him, ushering Nines inside. He failed to respond, staring at the limb, paralysed by bewilderment.

Then came a creeping realisation. One that perhaps indicated his interpersonal routing had not been so fatally flawed. Clearly, some dormant part of himself had anticipated this outcome, quietly electing to retain specific processes deemed defunct. A subtle rebalancing of control, adjusting the scale tipped heavily in his partner’s favour.

As the RK900 was led inside, Reed stared fixedly ahead, with such steadfast ferocity that he could have punctured a hole in the nearby wall. Tiffany, noting her owner's return, responded fast. Bouncing to her feet, claws clicking against the tiles, as she intercepted him halfway across the room.

Her wiry tail, already moving in restless swings, was swept like a duster across the side of his exposed ankles. Reed jolted back, his attention torn from its deadlock with the plaster as he sidestepped the furry hazard.

He mumbled a half-hearted apology before directing a similarly unenthused acknowledgement towards his partner. As though tacitly barring the RK from advancing further, he gestured vaguely toward his displaced dining table.

Nines obliged without comment—if only to ensure Tiffany would receive her ‘breakfast’ before sundown. After adjusting the furniture's positioning, he sat in one of the cheap, fold-out chairs and waited.

Under his silent observance, Reed reached into his pet supply cupboard and pulled out a wet food packet. The wrapping was partially opened, a tear teasing at the edge, before the motion was aborted.

Reed dropped the sachet, heaving uncontrollably. Clearly, some combination of the smell and texture had deeply offended his current delicate sensibilities.

It was almost comedic, just how disproportionate the aversion proved. He doubled over, slumping pitifully in the RK's direction, stomach clutched in pained grips. Nines quietly estimated the space between them, determining whether or not he was at risk from any digestive fallout.

“Are you alright, Detective?” He prepared to sidle his chair to a safer distance, should his calculations prove unfavourable.

“Fuck off,” came a clipped reply.

Reed stumbled back, and for a moment it seemed as though he might topple over. Pushing past his aversion, Nines prepared to step in. There would have been little point in troubling himself with the visit should the man decide to collapse on the floor, rendering himself unconscious.

“I would be happy to offer my assistance,” he offered, in a slight embellishment of keenness.

As though out of spite, Reed shook off his bout of squeamishness. Standing tall, he fixed Nines with a glare of obstinate defiance.

“I said ‘fuck off’. ”

He made a concerted effort to appear unfazed as he resumed his duties. This involved several instances in which he covered his mouth and nose, or anchored his body away to conceal more aggressive signs of repulsion. A long, steeling breath was drawn before the off-kilter man braved a final, perilous descent toward the kitchen tiles, setting down the freshly-stocked dish.

Not fast enough, it seemed, as Tiffany had already lost interest.

Having abandoned her station by his feet, she skulked around the kitchen in fractious circles. Amber eyes were alight with consideration as she sniffed the floor, searching for any morsels of food that her owner might have callously dropped. It was during this sweep that she noticed the legs protruding beneath the nearby table.

She pulled away, startled, her ears pinned back trepidatiously. Studying the stranger, he watched the continuous bounce of his knee as he waited impatiently for Reed to compose himself.

A low grumble started to build, rattling in her throat, pulling the android free from his agitated trance. He looked down, to which vibrant eyes locked firmly with his own.

They stared at each other silently until Nines recalled the warnings he had received on her penchant for territorial hostility. He stilled at once, tension drained from his posture, as he slowed the pace of his blinks and subtly diverted his gaze. The aim was to project as much passive openness as he could, hoping Tiffany would judge him harmless and resume her patrol.

She did not. Instead, the cantankerous feline proved unexpectedly receptive, abandoning aggression and meeting his gesture with placid curiosity. She strolled up to the android, planting herself at the base of his chair before admiring her reflection in the tips of his polished shoes.

Attention then turned to his ankle, her nose bumped lightly against the pant leg. She stalled, then repeated the motion. This time, incorporating the arch of her neck, adding weight and pressure.

She was testing for life; tangible feedback to demonstrate her touch was felt. Nines was not surprised that she was unfamiliar with the logistics of androids. He doubted Reed had invited many into his home previously. He helped to mitigate confusion, allowing a slight shift of his heel, just enough for his leg to brush against inky fur.

It was all the affirmation the cat required, as she settled into a reclined position before curling peacefully into a ball. In turn, the relaxed rise and fall of her breath, visible through her protruding gut, gave Nines the assurance needed to extend appreciation for the trust.

His hands, clasped primly in his lap, slowly began to unfurl. Fingers outstretched, flexed gently before sinking beneath the chair. His reach was angled in such a way that Tiffany could anticipate it. Sinking lower until he had ghosted the top of her skull—

" Don't ." Reed, having become aware of what his partner was doing, was quick to interject. “I've already told you, Nines. If you touch her, she'll—”

The warning came too late. Contact was made, with any ongoing protest shrivelling on his tongue.

Nines began massaging her fur, discovering that the texture matched its lustrous appearance. He worked the delicate bones beneath with expertly applied precision, and soon found the sensitive junction behind her ear.

Tiffany purred appreciatively, and if Reed were an android, his slackened jaw may have dislodged completely, clattering to the floor beneath him. His bulging eyes would have likely followed, popping from his skull and rolling out of sight beneath the fridge. As it stood, they remained nestled in their sockets, watching on dumbly.

"It would appear your cat likes me, Detective Reed.”

Nines had been unable to suppress the pride that carried through this announcement. It rushed his partner, proving enough to snap him back to reality. His mouth clamped shut, curling into a tight, bitter snarl. A low noise rumbled the seal, sounding distinctly like a growl. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he set the still-hovering food bowl harshly to the ground.

The clattering metal disturbed the peace of his pet. Her head whipped around, slipping loose from the hold that was caressing it. Bounding onto snowy paws, she abruptly trotted away, leaving Nines’ arm suspended in the space she had occupied.

Reed, delighted that his exercise in petty insecurity had worked, grinned at the android. This was before he shook his head, tutting in ‘commiseration.’

“That’s cats for you. Fickle bastards.”

The mockery backfired, justly punished, as the rocking motion appeared to trigger a new wave of dizziness. His body, which had only recently peeled from the nearby counter, collapsed back into it, left draped on the granite like a sickly ragdoll.

Nines, in his own act of spitefulness, responded with false sympathies to the self-inflicted suffering, "You appear to be in physical distress, Detective. Are you in pain?"

"I'm hungover , dipshit,” the human snarled back, as though the android were incapable of ascertaining this for himself.

He groaned and writhed, his head turned towards the sink, as it occurred to Nines that this spectacle of self-remorse might endure for an indeterminate period, unless steps were taken to prevent it.

In search of a solution for the man’s distress, Nines remembered the animalistic scavenging observed through the window. It was plausible that Reed had been searching for something to alleviate his discomfort before abandoning the attempt.

Recalling the footage from his memory archives, he began sifting through it, dissecting each frame. Amongst the precariously stacked plates, Nines noted an unusual number of mugs. It seemed excessive, almost absurd, for a single person to own.

Some had been used more than others, as evident in chipping and stains, with two of them showing the most wear. The first was adorned with a bizarre statement decrying law enforcement, whilst the second could only be described as a hideous misuse of artistic expression.

A hand-painted atrocity, adorned with a series of bright, uneven smiley faces. It seemed unusual that Reed would show a preference for it, until Nines studied the near illegible message crammed into the centre:

> NO.1 CAT MOM

The handwriting was familiar. A lopsided scrawl he had seen pasted to his partner's monitor numerous times, in the form of post-it notes:

> SAMPLE MATCH... CONFIRMED.

> OFFICER TINA CHEN.

As the name displayed confirmed his theory, Nines was struck with a reluctant sense of…charm. It was endearing that his partner showed such sentimental fondness for the gift, despite its questionable execution.

He tried not to dwell on this long. Instead, moving on to the next still. As his focus shifted further into the cabinet, he noted an obstruction wedged between two stacks of plates. It was a small screw-top bottle, its label faded from wear, but the contents clearly visible:

> ACETYLSALICYLIC ACID (ASPIRIN)

> DRUG CLASSIFICATION: ANTI-INFLAMMATORY

> DOSAGE: 300MG SLOW-RELEASE CAPSULES — UP TO 2.4G PER DAY

WARNING: DO NOT EXCEED RECOMMENDED DOSE, FOLLOW MANUFACTURER'S INSTRUCTIONS.

By the time Nines had dismissed the memory log, Reed was scarcely upright. His shoulders trembled, quivering arms propped on the side as they struggled to support his weight.

Undoubtedly, there wasn’t much time before the man would be forced to retire to bed, to which the android directed smoothly to the cupboard above his head. "Painkillers are on the top shelf—behind the mugs."

This sparked an immediate response. In another miracle recovery, fueled purely by shock and misguided pride, Reed snapped to attention: Bolt upright, sights darting sceptically between the android and the cabinet.

"...So what, you got X-ray vision or something?”

“Not as such, merely an observation."

His partner was unable to comprehend this. He squinted at the sealed door, lips parted and ready to protest, before he was halted by the mounting pain rattling his skull. His expression contorted, cortisol spiking, as he abandoned his desired elaboration in favour of more urgent needs.

He opened the cupboard with a clumsy jerk and searched its contents a second time. He seemed muddled, almost maddened, when he remained unable to locate the painkillers—as if he’d expected the bottle to bound from its hiding place and slide obediently into his grip.

Nines felt his lip twitch as he considered putting the man out of his misery. Not with any permanence, but rather, reaching over to secure the item that sat tantalisingly out of reach. He could only imagine the reaction this may inspire, the almighty knee-jerk of wounded masculinity.

Eventually, fingertips brushed the lid of the painkillers. Stormy eyes brightened with recognition as Reed pressed down, applying pressure to the seal. It was just enough to flick the bottle forward, dislodged from the hold of the plates.

With the item held securely in his palm, he breathed a sigh of relief. This was before the sound lodged in his throat and his attention snapped back to Nines. Scepticism returned to his gaze. This time, edged with a more biting accusation.

" How did you know this was here?"

"I noticed them earlier when you were searching your cabinet…” the RK900 began plainly, unable to resist the additional, “I'm surprised you didn't” that slipped from his curled lips.

"Oh, what, when you were creeping through my window? Didn't think 'Peeping Tom' was one of your features."

The smirk had slipped from Nines’ before it finished forming. While it was true that there had been an element of passive appreciation that had developed when watching the man, it hardly seemed fair to insinuate that any planning was involved.

He dismissed the notion accordingly, in a brisk defence of his honour. "Please do not flatter yourself—I would have liked to have made my presence known sooner, but I was seeking to determine an opportune time. I did not wish to frighten you.”

Reed was no longer looking at him. Instead, he had started to busy himself at the nearby sink, a callous snub of his presence. Even without the weight of his glare, tension persisted, held in the clench of his jaw before it was released:

“Well that was a bust, because you scared the shit out of me."

The mocking, sing-song cadence delivered a final, striking blow, toppling Nines from his pedestal of superiority. Any lingering confidence in his own professionalism promptly crumbled to dust. He had miscalculated—fumbled—at almost every juncture that day. Having floundered gracelessly through the threshold of Reed's apartment, rather than entering with precisioned steps. Two pills were deposited into his palm, and the detective neatly swallowed them. The bicarbonate coating dissolved, allowing bitter powder to fizz on his tongue. He then chased away the taste with a large gulp of water.

With his face flung back, out of view, Nines found that his mind subconsciously filled in the blanks. Summoning echoes from recent data banks, as gentles trickle of water were exchanged for beads of perspiration. Satisfied sighs became gasps of terror, then pain, as Reed retreated, colliding with the edge of the table.

He pondered what the human might have experienced in that instant. The outcome he had foreseen, reaching for his waist, in a reflexive grab for his missing firearm. He had already concluded the intruder posed a lethal threat to his life, based on a single, fleeting glance—

0̷̛͈̪͇̺̞̠̳̦̝̗͇̳͇̀̈́̋̉͝͠͠r̸̨̢̡̯̗̙̰͓͉͖̬͉͖͗͌̈́̏̎#̶̛̛̪̘͇̫̗͎̣̂̅͐̀̉́͛͆̀́̆̓͠͠ć̸̡̣͍̠̦̩̥̣̣ͅ@̷̛̛͔̯̓̃̑͐̈́̽̽ù̶͖͈̦̲͕͔̻̹̥͔̊̉̂̎͑͗͝+̷̨̟͓̐̉́̀̈̀!̵̡̩͓̲͍̯̰͌̉͋̈̌̒̊͋̐̾͐̌̈́̚͜͝0̵̧̪͍̯̝̟͚̹̖͍̹̙͍̫͖̯̈́́̒͌̿͌̿̅̇̔̉͠ū̷̖̳̩$̴̼̝̺̥͚͓̥͚̩͈͖̤̲̈͠

Shame and self-contempt surged, straining the walls of his skull. He pushed it back, along with all manner of unwanted memories. The agonised howls of cries, screams, rattling like a gale through the rafters of his subconscious.

He couldn't face them. Not now. Instead, he adjusted his perspective, acknowledging his failures in accepting responsibility for a far less egregious offence.

“...I apologise.”

Reed’s head snapped back, recoiling so forcefully that his neck appeared elasticated. Stray droplets dribbled from the overgrown stubble on his chin as he stared at the android blankly.

Slowly, gears of cognition began to shift behind his stare. A process that was becoming all too familiar, as eyes narrowed into dubious slits, and the sincerity of the remorse was brought into question with a callous tsk. "Sorry to tell you this, Nines, but the 'kicked puppy' look really doesn't work for you—give it a rest; you look constipated.”

The RK900 bristled, but had no chance to defend itself. Reed finished his drink, slamming down the empty glass with a disconcerting clink.

"Look, as disappointing as this might be for you, towel time is over,” he announced bluntly. Rubbing his palms together, he hunched to protect himself from the cool draft seeping from the nearby doorway. “I'm freezing my balls off; gonna get dressed…While I'm gone, don't touch anything . That includes my cat. You got that?"

Nines wavered, a bit disheartened by the final stipulation. He agreed nonetheless, nodding stiffly, valuing the proposed physical distance, as it might help him organise his chaotic thoughts into a more rational structure.

As it transpired, he had time to spare.

The human showed no signs of rushing himself, as Nines was left to sit in the kitchen for an inordinate amount of time. Provided with no direction except to stare at the filthy appliances he had been forbidden from disturbing. The logical assumption in the delay was that the human, too, was appreciating their distance. Although it seemed counterintuitive, to provide the android with prolonged, unsupervised access to a space where he wasn’t trusted.

Seeking an escape from mind-numbing tedium, as well as ensuring any lingering tension was dispelled quickly upon Reed’s return, Nines sought to connect to an inactive temporal link, dispatching a new transmission:

RK900 #313 248 317 - 87 >> RK800 #313 248 317 - 51

I have made a small error in my interpersonal judgment. Your input on how to resolve this matter would be appreciated.

…Of course, no actual input was needed. Nines already knew, with the utmost confidence, what RK800 would say to him.

He would ‘enlighten’ his counterpart on conclusions he had already drawn. A significant line had been crossed during his forceful invasion of the detective’s home.

There would be a touch of hypocrisy in the rebuke, which Nines would consider exploiting, reminding his counterpart that he had engaged in a far clearer instance of breaking and entering, targeting Lieutenant Anderson. Nonetheless, he would concede, acknowledging that he was the last individual to pass judgment on matters pre-deviancy...

Time passed slowly as Nines grew disinterested in the fictional dialogue. RK800 hadn’t responded, a rare event, prompting the younger android to conclude he was exceptionally busy or locked in stasis. In either case, any response he could expect would arrive long after the point of relevance.

In the absence of external support, he began to evaluate his options.

At this point, his best chance to reduce tension might involve expressing delayed gratitude for Reed’s hospitality. However, his choices would be significantly restricted if he continued to follow the man’s restrictive instructions.

> STAY PUT.

> EXTEND GESTURE OF GRATITUDE TOWARDS DETECTIVE REED.

> ERROR : CONFLICTING INSTRUCTIONS.

As he scoped his surroundings with renewed intention, Nines found his attention caught on a well-used coffee machine. Specifically, a glass jug, blotched with stains, resting on its base. Its contents were emptied, save for a viscous brown sludge caked to the bottom, betraying just how long it had been sitting.

Inspiration struck, encouraging the android to rise from his chair. Defiance was secured as his systems honed in on their new priority.

> MAKE DETECTIVE REED COFFEE.

The dirtied pot was removed and cleaned, with what sparse dish soap was left beside the overfilled sink. Setting it back into position, focus was directed to the cluttered storage above his head.

The first product Nines encountered was an economy-grade filter blend. Upon checking the brand with online retailers, the reviews were notably poor. He was taken aback that Reed would tolerate such subpar quality, even with his financial strains, given his frequent and vocal complaints about the coffee served at their workplace.

It seemed unlikely that such a mediocre product could serve as a proper peace offering. Frowning, Nines continued to rummage through the disorganised shelves, eventually discovering something more promising, hidden beneath a pile of crumpled noodle packets:

> BRAND: BLACK HOLLOW RESERVE

> PRODUCT: PREMIUM DARK ROAST BLEND

> RETAIL PRICE: USD 18.99 / 12 OZ

> CONSUMER FEEDBACK SUMMARY: POSITIVE

> RATING AVERAGE: 4.8 / 5.0 (SOURCE: 3,842 REVIEWS)

The packaging was new, unused, with residual glue on one corner where a price tag had been removed. It stood out against the low-budget offerings in the cupboard, leading Nines to deduce it had been a gift. After measuring the grounds into the filter basket, he activated the machine. It whirred to life, hot water cycling in slow, rhythmic pulses. Drips of ember liquid began to gather in the jug, growing steadily in volume. Satisfied, the android turned away, heading off to retrieve a mug from Reed’s plentiful stock.

The selected mug was set aside, its entourage of asymmetrical grins beaming approvingly at the coffee. The RK shared in the appreciation as warm wisps of steam began to fill the air around him, meeting his olfactory sensors with a pleasant, smoky scent.

It drifted beyond the confines of the room into the neighbouring living space. As though drawn to the aroma by some imperceptible, magnetic pull, Reed finally emerged from hiding. With a steady creak of the door and the hurried thud of footsteps, the man crossed the tiny apartment, arriving back in the kitchen just in time. The brew had finished, and Nines had started to prepare his drink.

"...What part of 'don't touch anything' did you not understand?" The question was caught between a hiss and a sigh, pushed through gritted teeth. It was the sort of response comparable to a parent uncovering their child’s botched attempt at breakfast.

Nines ignored this, having already traversed past the point of no return, and reasoning that there was little else that could make his partner more upset. "I realise that my intrusion today was somewhat callous…” He held up the beverage, extended towards Reed in a cordial offering. The man’s spite was redirected to the cheerfully decorated mug, as though the blotched faces had betrayed him personally.

“Given your fondness for caffeinated drinks, I thought making one might show appreciation. For the fact that you didn't turn me away."

The words had barely escaped his lips before Reed began to pick them apart.

"Last week, you would have fed me to lions if it got you a lead—and now you're making me coffee.” He seemed to take pride in the unwavering cynicism. Eyebrow raised, arms folded over the faded graphics of his t-shirt. “Either you’re Antisocial Asshole protocol is on the blink, or Connor’s been giving you more kiss-ass lessons."

The android stiffened, his grip on the handle tightening, threatening to shatter the fragile ceramic. His attention darted back to his internal communication network—and the message that remained unanswered. Of course, the detective could not know , nor have any concrete evidence, that he had sought guidance from his predecessor. He was simply taunting him, based on a spiteful, albeit accurate, assumption.

In response, the android offered a half-truth. Not denying the hypothesis, but withholding the satisfaction that could be drawn from confirming it outright, "...While I was given enhanced abilities in deduction and combat, RK800 has a more sophisticated social protocol. I’ve made it clear to him that I'm not interested in significantly altering my behaviour. Nevertheless, in the past, he has provided guidance on how I may improve my working relationships."

Reed scoffed, unsatisfied with the response. He appeared keen to press for details, but as his flared nostrils caught the pleasing earthiness emanating from the mug, he stalled.

He tilted his head, registering the difference from his usual blend—a curiosity which rolled organically into temptation. Ultimately, he gave in to primal urges and reached out to seize the drink.

Acknowledging the gesture of goodwill and stepping back from their argument, he did so with the stipulation that he would have the last word:

"Provided this coffee doesn't taste like shit, you can tell him it's working."

Their ensuing conversation was moved to the table. Reed sat opposite him, elbows propped casually on the table, the lax weight of his head supported by an open palm. He gestured loosely with his free hand, demanding the android proceed with his findings before he changed his mind.

"Okay, tin can, you've kept me in suspense long enough—so, what is this massive breakthrough that couldn't wait until tomorrow morning?"

A snide retort gnawed at Nines’ lips, informing his partner that he would have relayed this ‘breakthrough’ significantly faster, had he not taken so long dressing. He bit his tongue, instead pulling a stack of neatly folded papers from his jacket pocket. They contained an overview of screenshots from ‘The Fleshbound Brotherhood’ forum—prepared in a physical format, for ease of review by his partner.

“Do you recall when I scanned Mr Scott's phone? Back at the electronics store?" He set the sheets on the table, smoothing them out courteously.

"I remember you caught him watching porn.”

His fingers stilled as the android cast a withering look at his partner. Of course, this would be the ‘pivotal intelligence’ Reed retained from their visit.

"I wouldn't have said the material constituted pornography. It appeared to be a compilation of women in bikinis.” Refusing to entertain further semantics, he firmly tapped the sheets, ensuring the discussion did not veer off course. “This was not the only thing I discovered…my scan revealed Mr Scott had been engaging in several suspicious or troubling online activities. After further research, I have collated the following examples." Reed perked up from his semi-reclined position. Curiosity piqued, he reached across the table, retrieving the first of the papers. As he scanned the contents, a perplexed knot formed in his brow, and the intrigued spark in his eyes started to fizzle away, returning to dull indifference.

"...Look…I'm not saying this shit is nice, but it isn't that bad, really.” He abandoned the printout in favour of blowing on the rim of the cup. Cutting through the steam with restless puffs, eager to take a sip of the beverage. “Besides, I don’t really see what it's got to do with the case." Nines, ascertaining there was little he could communicate that would be achieved more effectively than a visual representation, solemnly directed back to the evidence.

"Turn the page." There was something in his tone that enraptured his partner. Perhaps it was the graveness, the stern urgency that spoke to all manner of grim truths, that made Reed understand just how serious this was.

There was no more fidgeting or snide comebacks, as suddenly, he had the man's undivided attention. The coffee was abandoned in favour of studying the android and his disconcertingly blank expression.

Sightlessly, Reed turned the page, only looking away as his head lowered to inspect it.

It was as though he had been petrified. Locking sights with a creature of ancient European folklore. He was bright, alert, but devoid of any joy or pleasure. There was nothing but grave dissonance, as though his mind were struggling to process the vicious brutality on display, whilst simultaneously understanding that the victims he was examining were not human .

Despite this, Nines saw something —a glimpse —beyond detached intrigue. A genuine condolence, sadness, as he stared at their mangled bodies. Lifeless faces, blotched with tears. As though he could… see .

See them. Their pain, fear. Unable to wave it away or coldly deny it.

The revelation passed as soon as it emerged. He looked away, swallowing thickly before stabbing his finger against a specific item of interest. "This one is ours—the MJ100.”

"They're all ours, Detective."

Nines allowed Reed a moment to process the gravity of this. Watching as he shuddered, sucking air sharply through his teeth, before nodding in numb understanding, prompting the android to continue.

"The HR400 is featured too, as well as all other crimes that could be linked with our investigation.”

He looked down at the page, not that he needed to. The images were already burned permanently into his processor—an unsightly fissure, carved seamlessly into existing formations.

“This is more than just an innocuous hate forum—it is an organised group, operating outside of Detroit. Most, if not all, of these pictures depict locally based crimes. There are also discussions alluding to local meet-ups and events."

With reluctance, Reed followed his gaze. Scanning the evidence repeatedly before shaking his head in surrender. "I don't see anything like that…"

“It seems posts are routinely deleted. No doubt for security reasons. Some crucial details remain, however. Look closer—"

Under the RK900’s direction, their focus was pulled to a discussion thread. The one that had most avidly captured his attention, upon initially discovering the forum:

> bacon at cedars + me. organic and synth.

It didn't take long for Reed to understand. As he did, his jaw hardened in scarcely repressed fury.

>> What did they want?

“Tlla ha JSOX. ZS J…”

He muttered the sequence under his breath a number of times. Labouring on each letter, curling them against his tongue as though reciting a ritualistic chant. He was exhausting a mental checklist of possible interpretations.

Nines, having already decrypted the sequence before arriving, spared him the effort. "Meet at CLHQ. SL C—It is a code within a code. Arrangements to meet in person."

" Son of a bitch ” The detective gripped the sides of the page, pressing them together until the paper had been reduced to a crumpled wad. "Were you able to find any private chat logs? Or trace where these messages came from?"

"Unfortunately, no. The forum operates on an anonymous basis. Private chats are unavailable, and while usernames can be edited, most appear procedurally generated.

Whoever this individual is, they have been careful to cover their tracks. I was unable to pinpoint their location."

"That fucker Mikey has a lot to answer for. I say we head back there and beat it out of him."

Nines hummed, indulging in the cathartic mental projections this inspired. This was before logic won out, and he offered a more practical suggestion.

"Tempting as that may be, I suggest we discuss matters with Captain Fowler first. Mr Scott is hiding something, and I believe a private interrogation may prove invaluable."

"Gotta admit Nines, you didn't disappoint. This is a solid lead.”

The RK felt a small swell of pride at this. It was the most receptive his partner had proven in their investigation thus far. All the more astonishing, given his compromised state.

He grew optimistic that this might allow for an ongoing dialogue. While he had discerned the purpose of communication between Scott and his affiliate, specifics remained undiscussed. Namely, the location represented by ‘CLHQ. SL C’ and how uncovering it might be supported by their existing findings.

The android had a theory, one that he hoped to run by his partner—

He never got a chance, however, as the human abruptly tensed. He leaned forward, clutching his stomach with a prolonged whine.

It seemed the painkillers were not reacting well to the already rampant volatility in his gut. The force of his moans appeared to dislodge remnants of his poor decisions, propelled unceremoniously up the length of his oesophagus. He attempted to swallow it back, to push through the nausea, but to little avail. His words became laboured and clipped, sentences failing to form.

“Nice—uh—”

His eyes filled with glum resignation. Acceptance of the inevitable, as he hurriedly lurched to his feet, chair screeching in shared urgency.

"—I'm gonna hurl."

With the climax to the man's nausea drawing increasingly near—and a renewed, more immediate risk that Nines might bear witness to the consequences, he stood as well.

Further discussion would have to wait. During the interim, he would deliberate on the best approach to their meeting with Captain Fowler and forward it in a brief for Reed's consideration. One that he hoped the man would review after he had expelled the contents of his stomach.

"I'll see myself out.” He smoothed the creases in his jacket, preparing to leave the home in a decidedly more dignified manner than he had entered it. “Thank you for your time, Detective—I trust you will be well enough to join me tomorrow." He received no response, as in a blur of movement, Reed was gone. Charging towards his bathroom, all but slinging himself across the couch that dared impede his passage. Having reached his destination, miraculously uninjured, he slammed the door behind him.

#dbh #detroit become human #dbh nines #reed900 #dbh gavin #dbh connor #dbh rk900 #dbh fanfiction #gavin reed x rk900 #dbh fanfic

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sevasey51 · 3 months ago

Note

Y/N crashes at home and Connor pushes all the meds he can give, but it only keeps her already dangerously high heart rate and tanked BP from getting worse and her just conscious enough for him to get a couple word answers out of her. STATS logged and Connors phone starts lighting up with phone calls and texts. He decides he needs Ava. She’s teetering on crashing and if she goes down he needs more hands to control it. Y/Ns body finally gives out while Ava and Connor are just barely keeping her stable.

The Edge of Collapse

Summary: Y/N’s been circling a flare for days—nausea, dizziness, lightheadedness—but she kept functioning, kept hiding the worst of it. Until her body couldn’t anymore. When Connor finds her barely conscious on the bathroom floor, he moves fast, pushing every med he has in their emergency kit. But nothing is working fast enough. Her BP is critically low, her heart rate dangerously high. He logs her vitals, and his phone explodes with alerts from Ava and Hannah. Then comes the terrifying moment he knew was coming—her body gives out. And now, with Ava at his side, Connor fights to keep the woman he loves alive.

Connor found her slumped against the bathroom wall.

One leg stretched out. Her back against the cool tile. Hair damp with sweat. Her eyes barely open.

He didn’t panic. Not outwardly. But his heart rate spiked hard.

“Hey,” he said as he knelt beside her, checking her pulse immediately. “Talk to me. What happened?”

Her lips parted, but the words barely made it out.

“Fast… spinning…”

He grabbed his phone, thumb tapping the emergency stats log. One glance at her wrist monitor confirmed what he already feared.

HR: 146

BP: 74/42

O2: 92%

She was crashing. Slowly, steadily, and without the ability to fight it.

He grabbed the crash kit.

Connor moved fast.

• Port accessed and flushed

• IV fluids running wide open

• Zofran and IV beta blockers pushed

• Salt tabs and glucose gel at the ready

He lifted her legs with a folded towel, positioned her on her left side, and dimmed the lights to calm the stimulus.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, kneeling close, fingers pressed to her pulse. “I’ve got you.”

Her breathing was shallow. Her lips dry.

“Connor…” she whispered.

“I’m here. Keep your eyes open for me.”

She tried. Failed.

Her body trembled.

He logged the second round of vitals.

HR: 153

BP: 70/38

Still conscious—barely

Responding to name, no full sentences

Emergency protocol meds initiated

His phone lit up like a wildfire.

Ava Bekker: Just got the alert. What’s happening?

Hannah: Stats just came through. Do you need backup?

*Ava (calling now…)

He answered on speaker, still kneeling at Y/N’s side.

“She’s crashing. I’ve thrown everything we’ve got at her and she’s still going down.”

Ava’s voice sharpened. “Vitals?”

“Heart rate climbing. Pressure’s in the low 70s. Still conscious, but fading fast.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t wait. If she dips below 65, call 911.”

Connor looked down at her face—pale, sweating, slipping.

“She’s not going to hold that long.”

Ava was there in under ten minutes.

She entered without knocking, lab coat over a hoodie, hair in a messy bun. Medical bag already open.

Y/N was barely hanging on.

Connor had her in the recovery position, a second fluid bag prepped, and was gently coaxing her to keep her eyes open.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, over and over.

“I’m here,” Ava said, dropping beside him. “Let’s work.”

They checked her heart, lungs, abdomen. Administered another round of emergency medication. Upped the rate on fluids.

“She’s still too dry,” Ava muttered. “And her body’s trying to fight a shutdown.”

“I know,” Connor whispered. “I can feel it.”

And then—like a switch flipped—she slumped.

No muscle control. No response. Her head lolled.

The monitor screamed.

HR: 160

BP: 62/34

Connor cursed and reached for the ambu bag as Ava dropped into resuscitation mode.

“She’s gone vagal. Prep for pacing if she goes brady.”

“She won’t,” Connor snapped. “She’s not done.”

“She’s close.” Ava reached for the emergency epi pen. “If we don’t override the spiral now, she’s not coming back up.”

Connor hesitated—just for a second.

Then: “Do it.”

It was chaos for three more minutes.

Long, terrifying minutes.

Epinephrine. Fluids. Breath support. Monitoring her every heartbeat like it was a lifeline. Ava readied a dose of vasopressin. Connor kept her head cradled in his lap, whispering her name.

Then—finally—

Her pulse slowed.

Still fast. Still weak.

But steady.

Ava exhaled slowly. “We’ve got her.”

Connor pressed his forehead to her damp hair. “You came back. You stayed.”

Her fingers twitched. Her lips parted.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until she whispered, hoarse and barely audible, “Didn’t… mean to scare you.”

He laughed—a rough, broken sound. “You didn’t. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Ava muttered behind him.

They didn’t move her to Med that night.

They monitored her at home, two doctors on shift in her living room, vitals logged every 15 minutes. She stayed curled into Connor’s arms, barely awake, but alive.

And Connor?

He never let go of her hand.

#fluff #connor rhodes #connor rhodes x reader #connor rhodes imagine #yn halstead #chicago med #connor rhodes x halstead reader #sevasey51 #ava bekker

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shimii26 · 7 months ago

Text

Not Always Peaches And Cream

61 days after the crash…

“F-Four months of food left?” Anya repeated back to Jimmy who had relayed out the reality of the situation to each of the crew members.

“Yeah, Daisuke double counted what we’ve got left minus what’s probably left in the vending machines.” Jimmy confirmed. “If we have the discipline, it should last us the same amount of time as our remaining air supply.”

“I suppose that means no more mocktails by Daisuke on the weekends…” Anya mumbled under her breath.

The Pony Express crew had been under emergency protocol and off course from their original travel path for the past two months, with a distress signal seemingly being sent out to hopefully nearby rescue stations everyday, the team had gone through what could be extracted initially from the foam without tools and evaluated what wasn’t damaged from the blast. While their ship wasn’t prepared enough for emergencies as is, a good half of the supplies they did have were either destroyed or hidden under the foam, and most likely wouldn’t be accessible as it would be too risky to remove too much of the foam for the chance there could be another foam trigger. It was clear for all of them that while they were waiting for rescue, they would have to make do with using any supply sparingly and with thought, or risk starving to death before help arrived.

Curly was already causing quite a bit of conflict in how medical supplies were used, he required round the clock care of new dressings, painkillers, and a lingering sense of doom for the crew, considering everyone besides Jimmy was under the impression that this whole situation was his fault. Nevertheless, the team agreed to keep him alive and do what they could to reduce some of his suffering, but it wasn’t an easy task given the fact that Curly was basically completely helpless. With no appendages on his limbs and barely any skin left, he was at the mercy of the crew’s help, and couldn’t even communicate to them anything he needed. So due to the unusual language barrier, it was mostly guesswork by Anya and Jimmy who would take turns giving him his painkillers, food rations, water, and maintenance everyday. Anya handled most of the task as she was the crew’s onboard nurse, but lately administering Curly’s painkillers had been difficult for her, the noises he made when she had to insert the pill down his throat was gut-wrenching to put it lightly, each round made her stomach turn worse and worse, which meant Jimmy sometimes had to take her place and take care of it. It wasn’t an easy ask from him after he inserted himself as the new captain, along with Anya having to walk on eggshells around him after he had assaulted her before the crash. She was taken out of her looming deep thoughts about where the crew’s plans would go from here when Jimmy asked her a question she dreaded hearing.

“By the way, have you given Curly his medication today?” Jimmy sternly asked her, knowing he would most likely be the one to do so again.

“...I, w-well u-um…” Anya stuttered, not wanting to upset him with a ‘no’ answer.

He wasn’t in the mood to negotiate with, it was clear he was on edge about a conversation he must’ve had with Swansea about checking the cargo they were hauling all this time. She knew damn well that if she didn’t muster up the courage to bear through the nausea and give Curly his painkillers today, Jimmy would surely take his irritation out on him and further worsen his injuries. He let out a frustrated sigh and took a step forward.

“...I’ll take care of-” Jimmy started, but was cut off by Anya.

“N-No, I-I got it this time…” she interjected, trying to improvise her answer. “...Afterall, ‘People have to be worth their titles’, right?...”

. . .

Jimmy paused before answering. She flinched as he stepped back from her.

. . .

“...Fine, just get on with it. I’d like to sleep tonight without his interruption.” he huffed and turned away, heading for the door back to the lounge. “Keep an eye on Curly while I’m searching for the code scanner.”

“...Y-Yes, Captain…” Anya managed to squeak out, swallowing hard.

Once Jimmy had left the room to look for the code scanner, Anya released the tension in her shoulders and sighed in relief, any chance to take a break from dealing with him was welcome in her book. She had always been wary about her actions around Jimmy ever since he had assaulted her months ago, of course none of it was her fault, but she felt it necessary not to get on his bad side anymore. She leaned against the gurney, turning her head to face Curly, who was now staring at her with concern, he wasn’t shy about the conversation that just happened, he knew what was about to happen now was going to hurt.

“I’m… sorry you had to see me like that, Captain… Let’s get you feeling a bit better, okay?” she whispered to him.

Curly responded with a soft grunt.

After a couple moments of awkward silence and staring, Anya got up and stepped over to the counter where the remaining painkillers lied and she grabbed a bottle, taking out one of the pills inside. Taking a prepared breath, she sanitized one of her hands with the remaining hand sanitizer on her desk and got closer to Curly, trying not to make too much eye contact. She slowly tilted his head back and opened his mouth, readying her hand with the painkiller in it. Squinting her eyes a bit, she quickly inserted her hand into his mouth and hesitated from the slimy yet burnt texture of his tongue. The nausea wasted no time filling the pit of her stomach with its presence, but she knew she had to persevere, so she extended her hand further. Curly’s eyes watered and he began to choke, but attempted to hold it together, knowing that the pain would be over before he knew it. Finally, Anya stuck the pill far enough for Curly to be able to take care of it from there and swallow the painkiller down. Once she knew the pill was gone from her hand, she retracted it without as much care as before due to her panic and foggy mindset from the nausea. Curly flinched and coughed quite hard from the hand removal, gasping a bit for breath. Her hand had quite a bit of blood on it from irritating the more sensitive parts of his throat, a bit of guilt washing over her, she didn’t want to hurt Curly, but she had no other choice of pill administration since he couldn’t swallow properly. She took a couple breaths of relief as she closed his mouth and tilted his head back into its original position.

“...Sorry Curly, but… At least you won’t have to deal with Jimmy tonight now…” Anya reassured him as she wiped his tears away with his hospital gown.

Curly groaned in agreement and settled down a bit.

Anya stepped over to the sink and washed Curly’s blood off her hand, the sickly texture of his mouth still lingering in her mind as the nausea took its usual course. She decided to take a moment to try and settle the feeling and talk to Curly, so she slid her nearby office chair over to his face and bent over slightly to be closer to his eye level.

“...Y’know, despite the fact that I’ve yet to earn my nursing degree from my university, I’m surprised how well my lessons of emergency treatment were retained…” Anya began to trail off in conversation. “I mean, it’s very difficult now to keep the standards all the way given the fact that we’re out of most of the supplies we need to keep you the most comfortable, but we’ve managed to get by so far, right?”

Curly didn’t respond back, his stare giving her no reassurance about her explanation. She took the hint that despite the care she was giving him, he was still in a lot of pain and she sighed.

“...Okay, maybe ‘most comfortable’ isn’t the best description for your situation. But, at least we can keep your pain under control for a little while with the painkillers… But then… I’m unsure where to go from there with your care, pain isn’t easy to ignore without some kind of medical help once they run out…”

Anya placed her hand on Curly’s head, giving it a little pet.

“...But in any case, I won’t abandon you… not with Jimmy around…” she whispered to him, letting her eyes slowly close if just for a moment.

He responded with a little huff, putting all his trust in her better judgement.

Suddenly, Curly’s head jolted up from feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen, his limbs curling up in response too. A harsh, raspy barrage of grunts erupted from his throat as he tried to fight through the pain, the painkiller hadn’t kicked in yet, so he could feel the entirety of what was happening to him.

“C-Curly? Wh-What’s wrong!?...” Anya nervously asked him, getting up from her chair. “Where does it hurt?”

Grrooowwrrlwll…

Curly’s stomach let out an uncomfortably pained and empty noise, the painkiller hadn’t been taken with food, so it’s coating was causing some inside irritation within him.

“...Oh, that’s right…” Anya realized, looking at Curly’s strained expression. “When was the last time you were given something to eat?”

She knew Jimmy was the last person to feed Curly his rations, and he typically never wrote down the times he did so, but it was clear it had been quite some time given Curly’s current predicament. She had to feed him something as quick as possible with the minimum amount of viscosity since he had trouble swallowing and didn’t want to risk choking him. Plus, she couldn’t waste time feeding him slowly as his stomach needed help digesting the painkiller right away, and the more food in immediately, the better the outcome. Anya remembered one of the groups of cans of various foods they had stockpiled after the crash included cans of peaches with their juice, something that Curly should be able to swallow without much struggle. Despite the fact that the whole crew had to make four months worth of rations last six months, he was included in the crew’s calculations, so it wouldn’t be a total loss if a whole can was cracked open for him to eat. Anya gently rubbed his head and tried to softly shush him into a calmer state, eventually he managed to get ahold of himself long enough to listen to her.

“I’ll be right back with something for you Curly, try to breathe deep while I’m away, it should help subside the pain a bit.” Anya reassured him. “I won’t leave you like this, okay?” His exposed eye kept eye contact with her and he nodded, it was clear he was holding a bit of tears back from the pain.

Wasting no time to get back to Curly as quickly as she could, she ran out of the room and into the lounge, stepping into the kitchen area where the majority of their canned food rations lay. Following her finger to guide her eyes to quickly scan the labels of the cans, she managed to find one of the cans of peaches with the fruit juice on the counter. It was much larger in size compared to the other cans of the same product, but right now that didn’t matter to her, Curly needed her help right away, and she wasn’t going to disappoint him and Jimmy about her care for him. A clean enough spoon lay on the counter next to the cans, not the most ideal since it was on the smaller side, but it would do, so she took that with her back through the hallway. Daisuke sat nearby the kitchen and watched silently as Anya panic grabbed one of their ration cans and rushed it to the medical ward. He knew it probably wasn’t a good sign considering the whole crew was just made aware of their need to conserve rations, but he decided to trust her better judgement and didn’t get involved with what was going on. Ripping the top of the can open once she returned to the medical ward, she sat back down in her chair and prepared a scoop of peaches and juice on the spoon and scooted her chair next to Curly, her arms approaching his mouth.

“Relax Curly, this should help you settle back down, okay?” Anya softly whispered, trying to keep her nerves together. “Open up.” He turned his head to face her direction, taking notice of the spoonful of peaches next to his mouth. It wasn’t exactly a meal for someone struggling to heal from an almost complete third degree body burn, let alone balanced and nutritious, but it was clear there was thought put into his current swallowing obstacle. Peaches in a can were quite soft and moist, they could easily slide down his throat with minimal effort, and would be alkalizing enough to speed up the process of the digestion of the painkiller. Curly took a couple of rough breaths before uncurling his body and slowly opening his mouth to receive the food Anya was feeding him, the juice first coating every bit of surface in his throat. Most of his taste buds were destroyed from the blast, but enough remained that he could detect the syrupy goodness of the subpar peach juice, it was almost intoxicating to him. Once his throat was thoroughly lubricated with juice, the peach slice easily slid to the back of his throat without resistance, and he eagerly gulped it down, feeling almost instant relief from finally having something that didn’t taste like cardboard or charcoal. His tongue licked the remaining juice off his teeth, making sure not to miss a single drop. Anya seemed to relax in her seat, knowing Curly was now in a much calmer state of mind. She warmly smiled as she prepared another scoop from the can.

“Heh, you look like you enjoyed that. Haven’t seen you so excited for any of the Pony Express food.” Anya chuckled. “...But I guess any food would taste good if you’re hungry enough for it…Ready for another?”

Curly panted with anticipation, he couldn’t wait for another taste of temporary freedom.

. . .

Freedom from hunger, freedom from pain, freedom from his own personal hell…

. . .

If only just for a little while…

. . .

She spoon fed him another slice, this one almost tasting better than the first, sweeter and juicier, he happily took down the helping, and another, and another. The empty void in his belly fading as it was now filled with the sweet nectar of the Pony Express can ration Anya provided for him, the irritating pain subsiding as the painkiller soon took effect, rushing to his brain and giving him an instant euphoric high. The joy-filled experience for him intensified, he needed more mouthfuls of peaches and their juice, so her administration of each spoonful got a bit faster overtime. Spoonful by spoonful, the can of peaches slowly emptied to about half filled before Curly’s consciousness dwindled and it became harder for him to swallow effectively without coughing a bit. Anya soon realized that his painkillers had taken full effect, so he would most likely be in no condition to continue eating safely, so she decided to call off serving him another peach slice. The can she chose was quite large, so given that Curly managed to consume about half of its contents, he had probably eaten about a pound of peaches and drank a good half liter of the juice, probably a bit much of a portion for someone who hadn’t been able to eat much since the accident, but at least he hadn’t thrown it up like the last couple of feedings he had in the past.

For now, Curly was taken care of, medically distracted from the agonizing pain, and given a hefty meal of sweet bliss. Anya couldn’t hold back a chuckle as a bead of drool rolled down Curly’s mouth and a little snore escaped through his teeth. She could almost hear his stomach softly gurgle with contentment as it got to work extracting whatever nutrients it could from the meal to use towards further healing. If he wasn’t now just an almost inhuman looking pile of unsettling muscle, bone, and memories, the sight of him in this content state would’ve probably been kinda cute. She gave his belly a soft pat after she wiped away the drool off his face, it was one of the only parts of him that wasn’t completely burnt clean off, so she didn’t worry about injuring him with the pat.

‘...You’re not the greatest captain, you’ve let all of us down by not standing up for what’s right, but…’ she shuddered. ‘...Compared to Jimmy… You’ll always be the captain in my eyes… Captain Curly…’ she thought to herself.

Anya looked down into the can of peaches, the smell of them was actually a bit pleasing, enough to pique her appetite as well. She was pulled from her daydreaming and realized that she hadn’t eaten much today herself, and with the fridge in the kitchen no longer operationable from the foam’s impact, it wouldn’t be worth trying to preserve what was left in the can and eat something different. She shrugged and figured it was better to just finish them off for her ‘meal’ and call it a day, unless Jimmy managed to find the code scanner tonight. She stood up and took the spoon over to the sink and gave it a quick rinse before using it to scoop out a slice for herself. It still felt a bit odd eating food straight from a can, but nevertheless, it was technically edible in this manner, so she gave one a taste. To her surprise, the peaches were almost reminiscent of the fruit cups one might pack into the lunch bag of a child, nostalgic in their flavor, and decently seasoned in their own juices. No wonder Curly was so excited to eat them, it was one of the best tasting food can rations the Pony Express probably offered, and the two of them got to share the experience together, albeit not as together right now since he was a bit incapacitated with his painkiller high.

She sat on the edge of the gurney and watched over him as she took her time polishing off the other half of the peaches and juice, making sure not to let any little bits on the side go to waste. If they were going to be sparingly eating their rations to stretch their supply out for an extra two months, every bit from the can might as well be eaten to ensure they were all getting enough to eat when they did. Once all of the peach slices were gone, Anya sipped on the remaining juice and got up, giving Curly a once over check before deciding to step out for a break to maybe speak with Daisuke for a bit. However, once she entered the lounge area, she noticed that he was no longer in his original seat. Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder, which caused her to jolt a bit, quickly turning around to see who it was. Luckily it was just Daisuke and not Jimmy, but she was now quite irritated with him for scaring her like that.

“Anya?-” Daisuke started, but was cut off from Anya’s yelp.

“-Don’t scare me like that!” she scolded him, keeping the can of peach juice close to her body. “...What’s wrong?”

It was clear that Daisuke was on edge about something, having one hand holding his other elbow as he spoke.

“...Jimmy found the code scanner, and managed to find the combination to our cargo hold… He wants all of us to be there when he opens it.” Daisuke explained.

The cargo hold. The Pony Express didn’t allow the crew to utilize anything from the cargo they were hauling without some kind of reprimand for breaking the rules. But what other choice did the crew have? If anything, it could be of use to them somehow. It’s not like after their possible rescue they were going to finish their transport mission, but then again, The Pony Express wasn’t very kind to those who had just gone through work trauma.

“...Oh, I see.” Anya nodded, keeping her eye contact minimal. “Whatever’s in there, I hope we’re doing the right thing by checking it… Let it be medicine, food, or water. Any of those will be a major help for our situation…”

“I’m keeping my hopes up that that’s the case, and if not… I can’t imagine what we could possibly be transporting for over a year like this.” Daisuke agreed, beginning to make his way down to the cargo hold.

“...I just hope it isn’t dangerous…” Anya mumbled under her breath, not wanting another reason to keep away from Jimmy. “...I’ll be right down.”

“Alright, but don’t take too long, he wants to open the cargo hold tonight.” he said as he turned back around to head down the steps.

She slowly shut her eyes and tried to clear her head, worried about the unknown outcome all of them were about to face by discovering what they had been hauling all this time. If it was survival supplies, then it could be a complete game changer, if it was something completely useless, then the panic would surely wash over them like an overpowering minty teeth cleaner after a serious dental procedure. All they could do was find out now. She opened her eyes back up and gulped down the rest of the peach juice before placing the empty can into the recycling bin nearby in the kitchen, and following not too far behind from Daisuke to meet with the rest of the crew.

It was time to find out what The Pony Express had them transporting all this time…

Mouthwashing characters belong to Wrong Organ ^w^

#mouthwashing #captain curly #curly mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #daisuke mouthwashing #swansea mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #fanfic #fandom #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #fluffy #fluff

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