A Mortal In The Hellaverse: Chapter 2: Are You A Couple?
𖤐Summary: You, a mortal unexpectedly thrust into Hell, becomes an unlikely anchor of light and warmth among its most notorious denizens.
𖤐Tags: Hazbin Hotel x Helluva Boss, Hazbin Hotel x Helluva Boss Crossover, Human Reader, Human Female Reader, Vivziepop, Fizzarolli, Ozzie, Lust Ring, Seven Rings of Hell, Developing Friendships and Relationships, Female Reader, Hazbin Hotel Gang, Verosika Mayday, Vortex, Alastor, Stolas Goetia, Lucifer Morningstar, Octavia Goetia, and many more
𖤐Chapters: 1
𖤐Credit: Divider by @sisterlucifergraphics
💜Continuing from Chapter 1-In Ozzie's Club💜
Fizzarolli waggled his brows and strutted a small circle around you, his mechanical joints clicking dramatically. “Y’know, sugar,” he said with an exaggerated bow, “if you’re gonna hand out compliments like candy, you really oughta spread the wealth. I’m adorable too, you know.” He flopped onto the arm of the couch beside you, striking a ridiculous pose with one knee bent and his head resting in his hands. “Go on, say it. Fizzarolli—the cutest jester this side of the Pit.” You laughed, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. The tension that had been clinging to you since you arrived in Hell loosened another notch. “You’re impossible.”
“Impossible and charming,” Fizz quipped, leaning so close his pinkish-red eyes filled your vision. Without thinking, you reached out and lightly poked the tip of his nose. “Fine,” you teased, smiling. “You’re very cute.” The reaction was immediate: a flicker of red bloomed beneath his clown makeup. Fizz blinked, his mouth falling open just slightly. “W-whoa, wait—did the human just call me cute?” His voice cracked on the word, and he quickly cleared his throat. Ozzie’s laugh rolled through the room like a warm wave. “Fizz, darling, you’re actually blushing.” The bull and ram in his mane seemed to giggle silently, their glowing faces brightening with amusement.
Fizz sputtered, trying to recover his usual swagger. “I—I’m not blushing! That’s just—uh—stage lighting! Yeah, the neon’s playin’ tricks on ya!” But his bashful grin betrayed him, and you couldn’t help but laugh again—this time with a genuine, unguarded joy that made both demons’ eyes soften. Ozzie leaned an elbow on the back of the couch, his massive frame folding in close enough that his neon mane brushed Fizzarolli’s shoulder. His glowing bull and ram faces peeked out, grinning as though they were in on a private joke. “Oh, look at him,” Ozzie purred, his voice like warm velvet. “Stage lighting, huh? You’re glowing, Fizz. Practically matches my hair.”
Fizzarolli groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Ozz, c’mon—don’t do this in front of the human—” “Oh, why not?” Ozzie teased, tilting his head so that the cyan streaks of his mane framed his sly grin. “You’re adorable when you get shy. Makes you even cuter.” Fizz peeked between his fingers, ears now flushed to the tips. “You’re gonna ruin my reputation, y’know that?” You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound warm and bright. Watching them, something in the way their movements synced—the casual ease of their banter—made your heart squeeze. They weren’t just coworkers or friends. There was too much softness in the way Ozzie looked at him, too much trust in the way Fizz leaned back against Ozzie’s arm without even noticing.
“Hey,” you said quietly, curiosity lacing your tone. “Are… you two a couple?” The reaction was instant. Fizz’s head shot up so fast his bells jingled. “Wha—no! Pfft, no, that’s—” He waved his hands, trying to sound convincing, but failing. “We’re just… partners. In showbiz! Totally professional.” Ozzie smirked, unconvincing in his denial. “Just friends,” he echoed, though the corners of his neon eyes crinkled with amusement. You arched a brow, unconvinced. “Uh-huh.” Then, with a gentle smile, you added, “Well… you look really good together.”
For a beat, neither demon spoke. Fizzarolli’s blush deepened until it rivaled the neon lights outside, and even Ozzie’s bluish face had a neon blush for a split second . The bull and ram in Ozzie’s mane glowed a little brighter, like they were smirking too. Ozzie finally broke the silence with a warm laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re trouble, you know that?” he teased, but there was a hint of tenderness under his playful tone. Fizz groaned again, hiding his face in Ozzie’s arm. “She’s onto us…” he muttered, though the small, shy smile tugging at his lips betrayed how pleased he really was. The room felt brighter somehow—less alien, less dangerous.
Fizzarolli peeked out from behind Ozzie’s arm, still pink under his makeup. The jester’s usual electric grin softened into something almost fragile. “Okay… yeah,” he admitted quietly. “You caught us. We… keep it quiet. Paparazzi demons can be vicious, and gossip spreads faster here than a wildfire in Greed.” Ozzie’s neon gaze dimmed slightly, a flicker of seriousness overtaking his teasing. “It’s complicated, sweetheart,” he said, his voice still gentle but edged with a weight you hadn’t heard before. “A Sin dating an imp? That’s… not exactly considered proper in the circles I move in. To most of Hell, Fizz is supposed to be a showpiece—my star performer, my friend at most. Anything more…” He trailed off, the bull and ram in his mane lowering their glowing eyes as if sharing his quiet worry.
Fizz’s mechanical fingers tapped against his knee nervously. “We’ve had close calls. Paps with cameras hiding in alleys, big mouths tryin’ to stir up trouble. It’s safer if people don’t know. I mean, if they think I’m just the boss’s clown, nobody comes after me.” You sat forward on the couch, the weight of their confession sinking in. You didn’t understand all the politics of this place—the Sins, the rings, the hierarchy—but you understood the look they gave each other, the way their eyes softened when they met. That was universal. “I don’t… know much about the hierarchy here,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart ached for them. “But it shouldn’t matter. If you two are happy together, then that’s all that matters. Screw what the others think or say.”
Fizz blinked, taken aback, and a small, genuine smile spread slowly across his face. “You’re kinda fearless, sugar.” Ozzie’s expression melted into something warm and deep, a softness rarely seen in the King of Lust. “That’s… very kind of you to say,” he murmured. His massive hand—careful and delicate despite its size—rested briefly on your shoulder. “Not many would stand up to Hell’s whispers like that.” Fizz gave a small laugh, the tension easing as he leaned back against Ozzie’s arm with an almost unconscious trust. “Guess mortals aren’t all bad.” You smiled back at them, the neon glow painting the room in bright pinks and blues. For a moment, the dangerous city outside didn’t matter. There was just warmth, laughter, and a little hope flickering like neon light.
Synopsis: When the tentative dance of mutual attraction reaches its natural culmination, you come to understand that knowing Hoshina carnally is to know his truest self. [Hoshina x Fem Reader]
Contents: Romance, sexual content, developing relationship.
CW: Explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, oral sex (male receiving), nipple play, soft dom/sub dynamics (switching).
(Hoshina's birthday smut fic, which is a tad late! 🍾🥂 Enjoy!)
Dividers by: @uzmacchiato
Night came to Tachikawa Base like the prowl of a stalking beast, casting familiar silhouettes in shadow.
Since Number 10's assault, even the sprawling familiarity of the base seems punched out of shape, careless and wild destruction dealt as if with the hand of some child playing God.
That had been the night your relationship with Soshiro, built on warm, stolen glances, the brush of his fingertips across your knuckles, the sweep of his eyes across your hair, had clawed its way out of a cocoon of propriety, into another form entirely.
You'd been watching his battle, along with some of the other medical personnel on standby at the base, ready to receive the influx of wounded officers who'd borne the rudiments of field treatment.
Your eyes had never wavered from him.
There he was, the Vice Captain with the steady hands and easy smile, the man who'd made this place a home from the first time you'd reported for duty.
On the screen, blood gleaming in dark, neglected trails across his face, pooling between his teeth, hair disshevelled and clinging to his damp, corpse-pale brow.
Hoshina was already slight in build, lean and honed as one of his blades, but against the towering form of Number 10, he seemed as brittle as a leaf about to be torn apart in a gale, each sweep of the glowing swords a risk, one that brought him closer to the crushing grip of his opponent.
Your nails were leaving harsh imprints in the flesh of your thigh, lip worried to raw edges between your teeth.
The moment Captain Ashiro had returned had been your cue.
With synchronised, unspoken understanding, the medical crew had risen as a single mass, heading with purpose to the med bay.
The battle would be over soon, one way or another.
As part of the specialized med tech team, you'd handled your fair share of injuries that should have been life-threatening.
Soldiers with crushed torsos, pulverized legs, debilitating spinal injuries and joints bent out of any form of recognition, all rendered treatable with Izumo Tech's new line of of med pods. They'd harnessed the power and efficiency of kaiju regeneration in order to 'prompt' the cells of the patient into such recognizable patterns.
Your team had last handled the treatment of Ichikawa Reno, his body riddled with near-fatal puncture wounds.
Seeing Hoshina in the same pod, limbs slack in the slumber of deep recovery, the steady electronic hum of the monitors and the muted click of measured vitals loud in the silence, had been surreal indeed.
When he'd been stabilized, the team's attention moving on to the next patient, you'd found yourself standing beside him, fingers hovering above his exposed wrist.
Flesh and bone, sinew and skin, inhabited by him, the man who made the mundanity of such things so irreversibly precious.
In that second of preternatural awareness, as if your presence had called him back from some other plane of consciousness, his eyes snapped open, fingers flexing, heart rate spiking on the ECG.
Without thought, you took his fingers between your own, clasping them gently, but firmly, thumb drawing soothing circles on the skin still bearing traces of dried blood.
His gaze moved over to you, piercing for all its hazy uncertainty, a great beast rendered momentarily immobile, trapped within its own form.
The sight of you seemed to do the trick. The furrows between his brows eased, the tension drawn taut in his neck and shoulders ebbing away once again.
He lay motionless for a while, fixing his eyes on you before the slow drag of their lids revealed his exhaustion.
Even in sleep, his fingers remained curled around yours.
You thought he might not remember.
It wasn't that you needed, or particularly wanted him to.
There were already too many aborted conversations, too many times when his duty had called him away from the quiet sharing of morning coffee in the break room, too many times the back of your hand had brushed his in the darkened hush of the observation room, the momentary halting of breath as stark for him as it was for you.
There was something that both of you were aware of, but neither of you would acknowledge, for reasons too complex to be listed.
After that day in the med bay, however, a change exerted itself, stealing into the space between you both like threads that laced together the promise of something breathless and urgent.
Hoshina remembered.
You could tell from the way he looked up from the report and spotted you in the corridor across from where he sat in the courtyard below, that singular motionless state signifying the ceasing of conscious muscle function.
Slowing your stride, you nodded to him courteously, as you always did in passing.
He rose from his seat, a little more gingerly than usual, considering the bandages and braces adorning his body. You stopped in your tracks, uncertain, moving to meet him halfway.
"Vice Captain? I hope you're not exerting yourself."
You couldn't help the instinctual scold in your voice and the corner of his mouth rose in response.
Ah, this part was easy.
"Always a worrier, huh? Nah, nothing like that. Although ... "
He squinted and eyed the administrative building behind him with suspicion.
"I feel like some people are mighty glad I took a few hits."
"What? Why would anyone want that?"
He leaned towards you conspiratorially.
"So they can stick me with all the paperwork!"
"A most devious plan, sir."
"That Number 10 ... I knew he sounded like Tanaka from Auditing."
You shook your head, stifling the snort that had emerged, but Hoshina tutted, tugging at your sleeve.
"Listen, I'm gonna head to the training room for a bit ..."
"Sir, with all due respect, I'm not going to be bought off with jokes."
For the second in command of a prestigious military base, Hoshina could pout as effectively as any kindergartner.
"Cover for me? I promise I won't do more than stretches."
Fingers tapping along your arms where you'd folded them, you considered his proposal.
"Only if I - "
It was at that moment that his glance dropped to your hand.
Not an action that would arouse much attention from anyone else, but the significance of it was not lost on you.
He was watching the dance of your fingers, intent and focused, as if their movement had brought to mind some other occasion where they'd touched more than the fabric of your sleeve.
It was over in an instant, but it had been enough.
The air between you had changed, charged with something humid, a low roll of distant thunder.
Hoshina raised a querying eyebrow.
"Only if you ...?" he prompted.
"If I get to observe you train. To make sure you aren't doing anything ... strenuous."
He regarded you in impassive silence before nodding amiably.
"Well, sure. If you've got time to spare. Don't wanna pull you away from your duties."
"I'm on break."
He could have made a jest about spending your break holed up in a training room, but he was strangely silent, as if he knew one more stray utterance would reveal too much.
You fell into step beside him, wondering why on earth you'd volunteered for this.
Had your brain lashed out with a kind of primal response, your desire for him leaping from your fingers, a mocking laugh trailing in its wake?
Regardless, you were here now, in the situation you'd placed yourself in, and it felt strangely inevitable.
Confronted by your folly, you couldn't help but wonder at the disembodied thought that had resulted in this situation.
Stretches, he'd said.
As if that innocuous word encompassed anything he'd done for the past ten minutes.
These were Hoshina's versions of stretches, apparently, and you'd never known the human form could look quite like that, even when injured.
He'd wandered into the room, jaunty in spite of his stiff stride, already taking off his jacket as he'd probably done many times before.
Underneath, he wore a loose fitting black t-shirt for a change, one that accomodated the bandages and padded dressings.
The injuries to his ribs didn't prevent him from limbering up slowly, a gentle side to side motion.
You settled onto a yoga mat in the corner, his slow movements lulling you into a false sense of complacency.
It would probably be half an hour, maximum, and he'd be done with -
Hoshina tucked his fingers beneath the hem of the shirt and drew it up over his head with one swift movement.
He turned to you, nonchalant.
"I can't move with this rubbing against the bandages. Can you hold it for me?"
You nodded wordlessly, trying to maintain a medic's professionalism as he strolled towards you, abdomen rippling above the rather low set of his belt.
The shirt deposited into your hands was still warm from his body, and you folded it hurriedly, smoothing the material over your knee.
It smelt of him too, the faint woody aroma of his soap, the underlying clean scent of his skin, the sharp note of antiseptic.
Your gaze flicked up to the roll of his shoulders as he walked away, before you fixated on the view of the sky visible outside.
You'd seen your fair share of soldiers in the course of your duty, so musculature and its definition wasn't new to you, but there was something about Hoshina that differed in the extreme.
Perhaps it was your knowledge of what he could do on the battlefield, pushing his body well beyond any known limits, that made him such a spectacle when he moved.
Lean-flanked, rigid as a stone carving when still, a swordsman's discipline on full display, and then the fluid break into motion, water spilling from the lip of a dam into an unstoppable rush.
Such was the way he geared into his stretches, even now, when he'd been robbed of full mobility.
As much as you wanted to keep your eyes on the swathes of airy cloud that drifted past, or perhaps the tops of trees, nothing quite exceeded the call of nature like its most stark and powerful form, the cleanest lines of elegance and martial beauty, clothed in skin and sweat.
Most daunting of all was the fact that nothing he did was for show, each movement contained, graceful and strong.
While Hoshina probably knew full well the effect he had on you (and wasn't above testing it), he seemed relaxed and at ease in a way he hadn't been in the courtyard below, that hyper-awareness leaping like lightning from your body to his.
Equally dangerous was this tranquility, a whispered promise of a different kind of intimacy, one reserved for after every drop of passion had been spent and a hush fell over a space that had once been inhabited by the vital heat of two entwined bodies.
This was the quiet of knees brushing beneath a table, of eyes that met first thing each morning. It was the easy, perilous familiarity that stole in with the heat of the day, ready to snatch away something precious and leave a beautiful bruise in its place.
What if you could -
And what about him? If he -
A dozen possibilities, never acknowledged, but so easily slipped into, like a silk dress you could never afford.
So what was this, so reminiscent of the time you'd held his hand as he'd drifted out of consciousness?
What was this invitation, so warm and sweet, couched in the language of silence and body heat, and the soft material of his shirt in your lap?
Hoshina had completed his stretches, taking a moment to wipe off his brow before he straightened and approached you once again.
He collected his shirt from you with a simple nod, and yet, the brush of his fingers was a forest fire that drove you headlong from a place of safety.
The first time it happened was a week after that.
It had settled between you like alluvial silt, hardening to solid weight under rushing currents of day to day life, this unspoken understanding.
You couldn't put words to it, not just yet, but if you had to, it would be a subtle claim of one on another, a torch that burned brightly just for you, even when nobody else was aware.
He'd find you in the med bay, the operations room, the mess hall, his presence pricking awareness all across your body.
Most times, you wouldn't even get a chance to speak to him, but the exchange of glances was enough.
There he is.
Yours.
How bold of you to say so, even in your mind.
This worldess claim begged to be converted to some other form, stacked coal, waiting for a bonfire that sent it up in glorious blaze.
It sent you to his office, one evening, when you knew the flow of paperwork had somewhat slowed down, when you knew he must have been rounding up his tasks for the evening.
You knocked, low and polite, and waited for him to look up.
When he did, his stylus paused, hovering over the data pad on his desk.
He straightened.
His hair was slightly disshevelled where he'd pushed his fingers through it a few times. The collar of his formal uniform was undone, exposing a sliver of throat, the rumpled fabric revealing the shift of his shoulders beneath.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?"
His voice was unexpectedly low, slightly husky with fatigue, striking a spark against living flesh.
You leaned on the doorframe, and his eyes followed the curve of your waist and hip, undisguised, unabashed.
"I bought a new brand of coffee. Thought you might like to try it."
He quirked a small smile.
"Now, you know full well I'm a one brand kinda guy."
You shrugged, glancing across to the cupboard where he stored his usual brew, then back at him, crossing your legs at the ankle.
"So you won't try anything new?"
Now that caught his attention.
His smile disappeared, and you tilted your head, your hair sliding to one side.
"I'm heading to the break room. Come join me if you like."
As you turned, you heard the sound of his chair being pushed back. Standing with your back to him, you felt, more than heard, his approach.
He passed close behind you, as your position in the doorway demanded, brushing lightly against the material of your knee-length skirt.
"Break room? I think it might be crowded at this time. All your colleagues will probably be there."
His tone was even, controlled, leaving you rife with anticipation.
"Hmm. You're right. What do you suggest, Vice Captain?"
He turned slightly towards you, before gesturing forward with one hand, a polite request for you to walk with him.
You did, through the quiet corridors, an unremarkable pair, your officious presence beside him never raising any questions amongst those you passed.
The new coffee you'd purchased was picked up on the way past the break room.
There were only a few operators in there, hardly paying attention to your presence, and yet, he was still waiting in the corridor outside, ready to move on.
You followed him all the way up to the higher floors, where the senior officers had their quarters.
He punched a code into the keypad beside his door, stepping aside to let you pass.
The apartment was fairly spacious, neat and elegant, a certain minimalism in the furnishings, reminiscent of traditional Japanese homes.
His papers and books, manuals and reports were stacked high on the coffee table, a row of bookshelves all along one wall testament to his reading habits.
The kitchen was clean and organised, not much used by the look of it, and a small corridor led off to the side, to what appeared to be a home office and a separate bedroom.
You slipped out of your shoes, aware of him doing the same to your left, donning one of the few pairs of house slippers in the entryway. They felt well-cushioned under your soles, barely used.
He obviously didn't entertain much in the way of visitors.
He slid the package of coffee from between your fingers, heading for the kitchen, shooting you a smile over one shoulder.
"Make yourself at home."
Wandering over to his bookshelf, you felt his eyes on your back as he opened up cupboards, the clink of mugs heavy in the soft hush of his quarters.
"This is quite the collection."
You turned to catch him wrinkling his nose slightly.
"More a habit than anything else. Helps to ease the mind."
"Then you enjoy some part of it."
The kettle was on, bubbling merrily.
You traced a finger along the spines, pausing on titles that were familiar to you.
He had removed his coat, now standing with both palms braced on the counter. The sleeves of the dark shirt he wore beneath had been folded to his elbows, the overhead light highlighting the corded sinew drawn taut beneath the skin of his forearms.
He caught you looking, and you found that you didn't care.
"I've read some of these."
"Which ones?"
He was emerging from the kitchen, coming to a stop at your side.
"This one, and this one here. Oh, this one too."
"Ah. That one was pretty boring."
You huffed out a laugh.
"And you finished it?"
"Because of my profound sense of duty."
"Bravo, Vice Captain."
You'd spoken his rank almost playfully, but he turned to you with a serious look.
"Call me Soshiro. Please."
His earnest appeal caught you slightly off guard, and your shoulders dropped, a warmth building in your chest.
"Of course. Sorry. I'm just - "
An interruption came in the form of his fingers curling around your wrist, not tightly, a gentle pressure.
"I know. But here ... please don't."
He didn't have to explain. Here, it was you and him, and the world waiting outside for when you'd emerge, dressed in the trappings of professionalism once again.
Falling silent, you felt him release you, catching hold of him on the descent.
He didn't protest as you laced your grasp through his.
"Want to try that coffee?"
"I've already tried it."
Confused, you cocked your head.
"What?"
"I've tried it before. Nice enough, but doesn't beat my tried and tested Green Label."
You blew out an amused breath.
"So I came all this way for nothing?"
"I wouldn't say that."
There it was again, that shift from mischievous to weighted warmth, words that settled inside you like bales of downy feathers, ready to burst free of their bonds.
You wouldn't let it stop there, not when he was all but asking permission with his hands, his voice, the way his gaze fell across your hair, your lips, your throat.
"Soshiro ... "
It was more a test than anything else, his name new on your tongue, and yet not unfamiliar.
In answer he brought your hand up, fingers still linked with his, heat breathed out along the length of your wrist before he raised it to his lips.
It was a simple gesture, almost old-fashioned in its execution, but it knocked the breath out of you as effectively as if he'd pushed you backwards onto his bed.
He lingered there, mouth indescribably soft, and you realised that he was as disarmed as you were by the effect of this simple contact.
Then, he turned your hand over, and he was moving up the inside of your wrist, careful, gentle, ravenous, each soft placement a burning brand.
Lower lip caught between your teeth, you kept tight control over your silence, unwilling to break it over this, but now he was looking up at you from beneath those dark lashes, as if all you had to say was the word.
Which you did, hushed and unsteady.
"Yes."
He took both your hands this time, drawing you into him, allowing the press of his body to yours to speak of all the ways he wanted you, all the ways he'd been patient, and would continue to be.
He was incredibly warm, as comforting as it would be to stand naked before a cosy hearth, flickering flame dancing across every shadowed surface.
In that moment, you'd never been more aware of who he was, the strength in the arms that encircled you, the dexterous grip that eased up along your sides, the wash of his breath against your neck, as it would fog the inside of his gas mask when he commanded from the forefront of battle.
As eager for him as he was for you, you traced the line of his shoulders, dragging your palms down over the solid planes of his chest, his breathing growing heavier, less controlled, as you slid your arms around him in turn, hands mapping out his waist and back.
It took a few more breathless moments of standing there, barely able to hold yourself up, touching each other as if you'd never be able to again, before his lips found yours.
He was as gentle as when he'd first claimed your hand, angling his head to gain more purchase, the soft sounds of where your mouths joined as loud as your breath in your ears.
He released you, hand cupping under your chin, the harsher press of his thumb into your lower lip like a tug on delicate lace before it rips under a lover's ardour.
There was no going back after that.
That first time, Soshiro made love to you on top of his eiderdown.
There was no finesse, or technique, no art to the way he lifted you by the thighs and tossed you gently down.
Your clothes came off in a tangle that snagged on limbs, stubborn buttons that seemed to have no concept of urgency, zippers and straps that suddenly transformed from functional to erotic.
Soon it was all gone, the meaningless wrapping torn from the gift of naked skin, ready to be unleashed on yours. You were both running on pure instinct.
Foreplay was a mass of myriad sensation, the warm slide of his grasp parting your thighs, his soft hair trailing over your neck, lips closing, hot and wet, over your nipple, the powerful shift of his shoulders beneath your touch, knees sliding against yours, anchoring your legs apart.
He was a breathtaking juxtaposition of genteel and primal, the swipe of his thumb across your cheek a direct contrast to the way his teeth grazed your inner thigh.
Soshiro seemed to be feeling his way through this as well, watching you intently, his natural grace disguising the lack of practice when he moved against you.
You supposed, that as someone in his role, he wouldn't have had many opportunities to engage in discreet encounters like this, less so any that were charged with the deeper feelings that neither of you could put a name to.
Soshiro didn't strike you as someone who was free-handed with intimacy, and the thought lit you up further in ways you hadn't ever anticipated.
He'd let you in, into his home, his bed.
Here he was, looking down at you, panting, chest gleaming with the evidence of your exertions, honeyed gaze drinking in your own misted, pleasure-soaked surrender.
Here he was, holding your attention, commanding you silently to keep your eyes on him as he reached down between your bodies.
Here he was, uttering soft praise as you cried out at the touch of his fingers, petal-soft, caressing and parting you, circling and dipping with tantalizing intention as you arched beneath him.
Your whole body thrummed with heightened awareness as he groaned, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated against your sternum, nearly drowning out your soft gasp as he rocked himself along you, lengthwise.
His erection was burning hot, hard enough to bob against his abdomen, and you pushed on his chest in impatient need as he took his time, letting you feel the full length of him pass again, catching on your clitoris.
Soshiro wasn't too concerned with positions at the time, simply doing what seemed to feel good for you both.
His movements were almost languid, belied by the sinew standing out in his neck, the corded strain of his arms and thighs, giving a clear indication of how much self-control he was capable of exerting.
In that moment, he wasn't testing any boundaries, or measuring what you were able to take, simply guiding both your bodies through a sensuous, torturous dance that sensitized every nerve in your body to breaking point.
When he finally gripped you firmly, keeping your spread, guiding himself in, your breathless keening had his eyes snapping up to yours, watching your mouth fall open as you took him.
The stretch was exquisite, a faint burn of protest at the edges. He wasn't overly long, but his width eased you open in ways that had you clawing at his back.
You felt the slightly coarse brush of hair at his base as he connected with you fully, pelvis pressing tight into the yield of yours.
He began to rock against you, starting up a slow, inching rhythm that had your head falling back, one hand slippjng to the side as you slapped and clutched at the bedding beside you.
It wasn't so much what he was doing to you, as the knowledge of who he was, how long you'd both wanted this, how you'd let him have you like this for hours on end, and never grow tired of having his body against yours.
Even with the overwhelming feel of him inside you, you were slowly growing conscious of certain little tells.
There were sounds that escaped him, involuntary, when your nails raked gently across his scalp, the way his lower back had stiffened and coiled when your mouth had wandered close to a nipple, the way he'd bucked into you, hard, when you'd grazed over his buttocks. You'd felt the breath that had hissed between his teeth when his tip had first spread your glistening folds.
Soshiro's hips dipped, lifted and rolled between your quivering thighs, near effortless for someone of his strength and agility.
It was something else entirely that sang droplets of moisture into existence on his brow, some siren of soft, supple flesh, of tight, wet heat, of moans and sighs freely given as reward to he who pleasured so deeply, and so well.
Your neck was all but arched in ecstasy, damp with perspiration, hair cast over the bedding as he lost himself in the sweet, urgent call of your body.
Distantly, you realised that it wouldn't be long, not with how he was snapping down into you, one solid arm easing under your lower back to allow him to slip deeper inside.
The noise of your joining was loud, animal, obscene, in contrast to the way he brushed damp hair back from your brow, pressed his lips, butterfly soft, across your jaw, caressed your waist, even as your breasts swayed with the force of his thrusts.
He was everything you'd ever wanted, all while soaring beyond the limits of an over-taxed imagination.
When he brought you to the edge, it was unexpected, a molten, lava-burst of brilliance behind the eyelids, white-hot, sinfully drawn out, your whole body rendered taut as a tripwire before a detonation of blinding ecstasy.
By the time you returned to your senses, he had buried his face in your neck, body weight pressing into you, that rarest of simultaneous orgasms achieved.
You whispered his name into the quiet of the listening night, half-halting, laced with the exhaustion and wonder of what he'd done to you, of what you'd done to each other, in this secret sliver of stolen time before the dawn.
Of course, there was significantly more to this than sex.
With you, Soshiro seems to be fighting off his instincts to make light of heavier emotion, actively attempting to stave off the mask that fell so naturally into the shape of an enigmatic smile.
You both had busy schedules that left little time for leisure, he even less so, and yet he always found some way to maintain contact with you.
Whether it was a picture of something he'd noted on base, a new dessert he'd tried out, a series he wanted you to watch together, or perhaps a book he wanted your opinion on, he made a concerted effort to enmesh your lives in some fashion.
It wasn't as if his mischievous streak had disappeared.
There was the time a book with the dubious title "How to make your co-workers think you're normal" had been delivered to your desk with no wrapping paper.
You had also been approached by a shady-looking group of people with bowl cuts identical to Soshiro's, who'd offered you secret membership to his fan club on base.
You'd politely declined.
One time, he'd 'accidentally' cc'd you on an email competition for coming up with the most romantic haiku for your Valentine.
You'd retaliated by replacing his mug with one that declared him "Captain Narumi's No. 1 fan".
He'd sulked for a while after that.
Of course, there was sex, but you'd come to realise something telling about all of your encounters with him.
There was never an occasion that felt like some half-hearted attempt at maintaining intimacy, nor was there a tendency to fall into bed with you whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Each time you were together was thoughtful, carefully considered. It was as if you were catching more and more glimpses of his internal workings, of greater complexity than he let on, each time you learned of him physically.
It was a gentle unraveling, the fabric of his shield coming apart under your touch, all the threads that had once been beyond your comprehension now spooling around the slow turn of your wrist as you drew him closer.
Soshiro learned of you as well as you did him.
He'd always been a remarkably quick study.
You'd picked up that he liked it when you wore stockings he could peel off from mid-thigh, pressing kisses to the places only he could touch, the highest point of your inner thigh, the back of your knee, the curve of your calf and the dip of your ankle.
He liked watching the way you walked, the way you held your data pad across your forearm, the way your hair looked when you were fresh from a shower.
You'd caught him examining the way you'd organised you desk with a fond look, and sometimes you'd find the stock of the mint sweets you liked to keep in your handbag mysteriously replenished.
It had, however, taken you a while before you were comfortable enough to act on your own observations.
When Soshiro wanted to remain unreadable, he was almost impossible to guage.
And so, you decided on the next best, and obvious solution.
To ask him outright.
He was lying between your legs, the back of his head resting against your chest.
You both preferred evenings in like this, in the sanctity of his apartment, or yours.
The weight of him was substantial, warm, his arms draped in proprietary comfort across your knees.
Turning your attention away from the book in your hand, you smiled at the top of his head, the silly strands stark against the pale fabric of your sweater.
He was reading through reviews of a new coffee shop on his personal data pad, probably somewhere he'd suggest going with you when your time off coincided.
It occurred to you, in that moment, that you were in an ideal position to conduct as investigation.
Placing your book aside, you started to card your fingers lightly through his hair, noting the instant slackening of the muscles in his neck and shoulders.
"Do your officers know that you like a good scratch behind the ears?"
He stretched lazily, temporarily abandoning the data pad.
"'Course not. That would make 'em too powerful."
"I'm feeling quite powerful myself right now."
Grinning, he shot you a look upward from his rather comfortable spot between your breasts.
"Got the Vice Captain wrapped around your finger, huh?"
"You said it, not me."
"Consider it an admission."
"Hmm."
You pretended to think about this for a minute, the circles drawn on his scalp growing wider, the press of your digits slightly more forceful.
Soshiro sighed, leaning back against you fully.
"Got 'em magic fingers, sweetheart."
"Oh?"
Your thumbs moved down to the back of his neck, eliciting another slow exhale.
"Ah, that's good."
"What about here?"
You gently pinched the lobes of his ears, giving a light tug, curving the palm of your hand along the shell before repeating the process.
"Mhmm."
He shifted against you, and you glanced down at him, noting the slight flush creeping along the sides of his neck.
An interesting development.
You lulled him into drowsy complacency, alternating between stroking his scalp, neck and ears.
Soshiro's grasp had now shifted to the backs of your knees, so taken was he with the sensations you were giving.
Pausing, you placed a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Soshiro ... will you take off your shirt?"
His eyes flew open, and he stared up at you with a raised eyebrow.
"Huh? I thought I was the one gettin' in the mood."
You stifled a laugh against his hair, raising your head once again to offer him a direct look.
"I want to try something. But only if you want to."
He was silent and still for a moment before attempting to sit up.
You stopped him with a palm against his shoulder.
"Stay there. Just let me unbutton the front."
Bemused, he complied, seeming a trifle smug as you traced down his front, slipping the buttons from their receptacles.
"What're you up to?"
"You'll see."
The two halves of the shirt were folded aside, exposing the hard planes of his chest, so familiar to you now.
The clean cut lines of abdomen and pelvis, the ripple of power beneath supple skin, scars that tracked, bisected and drew small puckers and dents, and the slight scattering of dark hair between the pectorals, all laid out before your eyes.
Pushing the edges of his shirt further apart, you identified your target.
Not that you'd give the game away so soon.
This time, you started lower, at the soft violet trail running down to where his belt buckle heralded the boundaries of a new kingdom.
You felt him tense under your touch, his grip on your knees tightening, head falling further back against you.
His body was inherently divine as always, the flex of his abdomen tangible as he reacted to the slow, upward stroke.
Lingering right above the zipper of his jeans, you let him believe that this was your final destination.
Not that it wasn't.
You just had a few ... stops along the way.
Before he had a chance to register the change in trajectory, you slid your fingers up, circling both nipples.
He let out a small sound of surprise, pressing involuntarily into your touch, and you squeezed, pinching down on them lightly.
The moan that escaped him was positively delightful, his eyes opening wide once again at the knowledge of what you'd drawn from him.
You paused, giving him a chance to collect himself, whispering against his ear, even though it was just you and him, as always.
"Is this fine?"
He was still and tense between your legs, a slight shudder running through him as you circled again, once, twice.
When he nodded, the gesture sharp and tight, triumph fluttered upward in your chest.
He was trusting you with this, yet another part of himelf revealed.
There was no chance that you'd let him down.
You took to tracing those languid spirals once again, watching as his lips sealed in a tight line of restraint, the rosiness that danced down from his neck, the sensitive peaking of his nipples under your gentle attention.
Taking things up a notch, you pinched them lightly again, drawing them between your nails, and he uttered a low grunt of pleasure, fingers digging into your thighs.
Nudging him to sit up, you slipped out from behind him, the beautiful curve of his throat baring itself to you as he eyed you with eyes darkened and hungry with expectation.
Slipping off your own sweater, which had turned a little confining, you leaned forward and pressing soft kisses to his sternum.
His hand was now in your hair, an echo of the attention you'd given him earlier.
Your mouth now took over the duty of your fingers, lapping, tracing, exerting gentle pressure, then firmer.
Soshiro was breathing hard, never taking his eyes from you, the rise and fall of his chest palpable beneath you.
You registered the smoothness of his skin, the slight coarseness of the hair in contrast, the firm yielding flesh of his pectorals edged by harder lines where they sloped down towards the top of his ribcage.
He was delicious, a banquet laid out for your private feasting, vital and ever-shifting, soft gasps escaping him when you took him between your teeth and worried at him.
It was a wonder that you'd never truly focused on him here before, considering the eroticism of his reactions right now.
You had set up a rhythm of a kind, three quick laps, followed by the close of your lips around one nipple, exerting a prolonged suction before releasing his sensitized flesh with a sound reminiscent of a cork being drawn from a champagne bottle.
Soshiro had choked back a laugh the first time he'd heard it, spurred on by your cheeky grin, but by the third or fourth, he'd all but lost himself to the sensations you were giving him.
His fingers had wound tighter through your hair, not guiding you, but squeezing appreciatively whenever you sent those small spikes of white hot pleasure riccocheting through his body.
His nipples were now slightly swollen from your attentions, standing stiff and pliant to the toying of your tongue.
Sweat had started to build in the places you'd grown so accustomed to seeing it form, a sheen across his forehead and pectorals.
Noting how he had begun to squirm beneath you, a quick unzip of his fly, a slide of your hand past the waistband of his boxers, revealed him in all his heated, hard, silky glory.
The moment you took him in your palm, his hips bucked helplessly, mouth falling open, lashes fluttering as he uttered a low, broken moan.
There was an answering throb between your legs, a sudden desire to stop short and indulge yourself too, but you tamped down your urges.
Today was about unraveling him, and you wouldn't do it by halves.
With that in mind, you gave his length a single, long stroke, as if making clear your intention, before adding this to the repertoire you'd been building.
"Oh fuck, sweet thing, if you keep - "
He cut off, low and guttural, the kind of voice he made when you'd truly managed to bring him to the edge.
Glancing down, you noted the engorged veins, the flushed tip, pearly fluid leaking down to coat your hand.
Soshiro's cock was as heart-stopping as the rest of him.
Throwing yourself into your current pursuit with renewed vigour, you pressed him back against the sofa, finally relinquishing his chest for other territory.
He glanced down hazily, hair mussed and pushed back from his forehead, the glow of arousal stealing across his cheeks, ears and the tilted tip of his nose.
It would never fail to amaze you, how he could manage looking this endearing even when in the deepest throes of sexual ecstasy.
You grip around him grew firmer, more intentional, the angle between his thighs widening to give you better access.
Your lips were trailing softly down his front, hands reaching down to cup him before resuming your steady strokes.
He was so incredibly responsive tonight, his voice hoarse with tenderness as he praised you, encouraged you, hissed filthy endearments at you.
Contrary to how chatty he was in the course of his duties, Soshiro was never overly vocal in bed, from what you believed to stem more from restraint than the natural way of things.
Here he was, proving you right once again, a stream of barely coherent sentences pouring from him, laced together with the heady intoxication of falling into pleasure beyond any form of control.
"Come on ... there ... ah! Come on, sweetheart, put your mouth on me. Want you so bad ... to ...to ... yes, like that -"
Complying with his wishes, you kissed the insides of his upper thighs, close, but not quite there yet, listening to his small sound of impatient protest.
Smiling, you gave him what he wanted.
As you palmed him, pushing against the curve of his erection, your tongue licked a tentative stripe up the underside of him, firming as you reached the tip, pushing back his foreskin lightly for better access.
He yelped slightly, followed by a breathy laugh that switched to a groan as you took him into your mouth.
You gave him a minute to adjust to the sensation, squeezing gently before you started up a rhythm similar to the one you'd established earlier.
Two quick, shallow bobs of your head, followed by a longer pull sideways into the flesh of your cheek, distending it, followed by suction and a release.
The technique was rather messy, but Soshiro certainly wasn't complaining, the hand tangled in your hair tugging harder in unconscious approval.
You chanced a look up at him, catching the way he threw back his head once again, overwhelmed, and oh, what a sight he was.
His shirt was now hanging loosely from his shoulders, all but discarded, jeans pushed all the way down to his ankles to make the spread of his legs easier.
Lower back arching, his body was drawn into a taut, tense curve, the muscles of his abdomen, arms and thighs clenching tight. The vibrant flush of his nipples formed a stark contrast to his skin, still peaked and damp from your earlier exploration. The clean, carved line of his jaw was exposed, throat bobbing as he fought to maintain control over his reactions.
His cock was now soaked with the evidence of your attention, each new pulse of pre-cum steadily suckled from him, spread over his burning length.
Through all of this, he never lost sight of the true nature of the act, the vulnerability you gifted him.
He was cradling your chin, damp as it was from sucking on him, tracing the distended corner of your mouth, pushing back your hair.
At one point, his hand came down along your neck, fingers curving around it briefly, as if to further experience the completion of each drop and tilt of your head, and you uttered a soft whimper of desire, loving the feel of him there.
You weren't sure if he'd taken due note of that, because you could tell from the increased upward lift of his hips, the ragged breathing, the way his mouth had fallen open again, that it wouldn't be long for him.
He looked briefly down at you, urgency in his expression, as if signaling you to get off, but you shook your head slightly, letting him slip deeper into your mouth as answer.
You released him for a moment, long enough to whisper to him.
"Come in my mouth. I want you to."
"Fuck, I'm gonna ... put that pretty mouth back on my ... uh, yeah, that's -"
He was now writhing and bucking beneath you, drawn to the limits of his ability to endure, thighs quivering, chest gleaming with perspiration.
Holding him in place was what you'd imagine restraining a kaiju felt like. The sheer strength of the man you had in your power right now was nothing to be sniffed at.
Soshiro came with a muffled roar, tendons standing out as his neck strained with effort, the slick, salty heat of him suddenly coating your tongue. Holding your head firmly in place, you swallowed with fervor, slowly tilting your head back as he slipped from your mouth.
You crawled up beside him, stroking back the sweat-soaked strands of hair that clung to his brow, a hot, heavy sensation growing in your chest as you beheld him.
He was turned towards you, eyelids flickering in a half-delirious, post-climatic haze, the smile that broke across his face radiant, free of all contrivance and studied charm.
There was no need for speech of any kind, no declarations of mutual satisfaction. Neither of you had any requirement for that, not when the magnitude of what you'd done together, what he'd allowed to happen between you, was still circling you both like some great bird of prey, ready to rip out readily surrendered hearts.
You pulled him lightly into you, his damp forehead cradled against your breasts, a return to the familiar intimacy of earlier that evening.
He gave a small sigh of complete content, happily nuzzling against the side of your neck, silky hair folding upward against your cheek.
The air around you seemed to contract, driven inward by a different kind of gravity, one that bound you closer than any words ever could.
He paid you back in kind, of course.
Later, when you'd both returned to his bedroom, when the awareness of each other's bodies past the thin shield of the comforter roused you from deeper sleep, he was there, one arm slung over your waist.
Innocuous, and then not.
The heat of him had filtered through to you, so much so that you'd bared your shoulder to the night air.
This was where you felt the light touch of his lips, following the planes and curves of your reclining form.
It was early morning, distant floodlights still visible beyond the curtain, but in the shadowed arena of his bedroom, you were awarded a most pleasant ambush.
Muffled laughter, soft gasps, the rustle of sheets and he had you on your stomach, sliding into position behind and on top of you.
You knew what he was after when he traced lightly over your neck, renewed vigour pulsing hard and hot against your buttocks.
"Soshiro ... "
Your playful, drowsy half protest ended in a sharp gasp as he rocked against you. You'd forgone any underwear beneath the t-shirt you'd borrowed, and he was taking full advantage of that.
Leaning forward, he held you in place with the weight of his body, breath stirring the hair near your ear. When he spoke, the crimson-lit richness of his tone, still husky with sleep, elicited a prickling all along the skin of your shoulders.
"Want you like this, angel."
As if to emphasize his need, his hips angled, sliding his erection right against your already-slick entrance.
You almost jerked away from him, ready response dying in your throat.
Until now, you hadn't realised how aroused your earlier activities with him had made you, even if you hadn't been on the receiving end. His grinding had unleashed a near-unquenchable desire to have him as deep inside you as you could take him.
This was how he took you apart, snapping the seams of your reserve, the outer professionalism you always displayed in his presence when you were on base.
Here, you were not an official.
Here, you could play as wanton as you liked, without fear of judgement. For every new raging fire he started in you, Soshiro would always find a unique way to quench it.
Such it was that you found yourself clutching the bedspread, knees held firmly in place by his, breasts and face pressed to the pillow before you as he took you, slow, controlled and high impact, from behind.
Oh, did he know your body well.
Devastating precision, each slapping thrust designed to make your breath hitch, no quarter given.
You were helpless in this position, entirely at his mercy, and he let you know it with every harsh, whispered reminder of how good you were, how sweet and tight, his beautiful one, and how wet she was too, asking him to go deeper? There? Yes, and harder, perhaps? Yes, he could do that too.
One palm slid along the length of your spine, resting at your shoulder before lightly squeezing your throat once more.
He'd definitely taken note of your reaction back then.
It wasn't overt, the light pressure he exerted, not intended to cut off your air, but to highlight some buried instinct, to brand a message into your skin, that in this moment you were his, that he could do exactly as he pleased, and what he chose to do was pleasure you senseless.
Every breath you took scalded your lungs, exhalation borne on one shuddering cry after another, muffled by the downy softness of the pillow.
Raising yourself slightly, you half turned to him, letting him see exactly what he was doing to you; the tears tracking down your cheeks, the mess his hand had made of your hair when he'd wound it through his fingers and tugged your head back, your swollen lips where he'd kissed you, messily, roughly, before flipping you over.
There were these marks, and others, more indelible, that he'd left where no one had ventured before, and seeing you like this was confirmation enough.
Instead of picking up the pace, he grunted with effort, starting to move his hips in grinding, intentional circles.
You reached back, clawing at him, hoarse cries escaping as he stretched you, filled you, pressing into that place that had you fighting every instinct to scream to high heaven.
Your voice was not your own, giving up its reigns to something ancient and primeval, one you didn't recognise, begging him to fuck you, yes, like that, please, please, to make you come -
The bed seems to give way beneath your hands and knees, swallowing you up like the gaping throat of a sea beast, every nerve set ablaze as he slowed, his own deep shudder and the sudden drop of his weight on your back pushing you further into that shining abyss.
You're vaguely aware of the beat of his heart against your back, damp skin on skin, the drawing of shaky breath as one organism, shattered into a thousand pieces and rebuilt into some new form.
Such crushing intimacy, the complete weave of his being with yours, even after all of this, when you must don your uniform and be apart from him again (but not really).
He slides off you, your answering, blissful smile a secret, one only he will know.
When he pushes away your hair, eases you closer, holds you until your breathing evens again, until he traces over all the places he's grasped with a gentler reminder of what you are to him, this is when you sink fully into him.
Soshiro.
Your Vice Captain, your confidant, your lover.
A blade honed for a single purpose can also turn inward, and you'll be there to clasp it between your hands, to receive him, to sheathe him inside a wound that bleeds gold, as the horizon does at dawn.
Pairing / Character(s): Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader
The raid doesn’t go as planned. And the consequences follow you all the way to PTMC — and Jack.
warnings: violence during arrest, injury, concussion, medical treatment, police procedural nonsense
“Well, that could have gone better,” you commend to Officer Brooks, while you search the detainee in front of you from head to toe. Someone had gotten the house numbers switched, causing the whole raid to start further down the street. So, by the time you got over here your suspects were suspicious. Even though the early morning hour and shut off streetlights had given you some advantage.
“It could have gone worse, too,” he replies, doing the same. “No one got shot. You should get your head checked after that headbutt.”
“I’ll...”
“Hurry up Officers! I wanna be out of here in 5. This already took twice as long as it should have,” Captain Mason bellows at everybody. His voice echoes in the narrow space between the tightly packed houses. “And someone take your injured lady over there to PTMC.”
“Officer Morgan. You take the lady. You should get your head checked anyway,” Sergeant Wolf calls over. “Everyone else load our guests up as soon as they’re searched.”
You’re finished with your search, so you head over to where she’s kneeling. When you have her lay down on the sidewalk to do your own sweep, an officer from another district interrupts.
“Officer, I’ve already searched her. So, get her out of here!”
All around you people are being loaded into vehicles. Still, you protest, “It’s protocol.”
“What? You...”
“Morgan, get moving,” Sergeant Wolf turns around and cuts in over the radio chatter.
Your head hurts and you can search her later. So, you usher her into your patrol car and head to PTMC.
You drive south, then east. Cutting through the city grid with a speed that’s only possible at 3 in the morning. The city is asleep except for the garbage collectors, the bread trucks and the solitary runners in neon bands. The cold air from the cracked window cools the left side of your face – dulling the throbbing pain from the bruise.
Your passenger doesn’t so much as sigh. You check the rearview mirror. She sits behind the safety partition perfectly upright, hands still cuffed in the back. Her face is a mask giving nothing away. She doesn’t even flinch when you take the pothole on Grand at full speed. She’s Hispanic, early thirties, short and small. She could appear fragile – if not for the way she holds your gaze in the rearview mirror.
You park the patrol car on the curb near the bay doors and step out. Wordlessly you open the rear door and motion for your passenger to swing her legs out. She complies. Not a single word, no complaint, just pivots on her butt and stands. It takes her a second to find her balance. Then those brown eyes are on yours again, like you’ve challenged her to a dare. You hold her gaze a second, before gesturing toward the bay doors. She walks ahead; her hands bound behind her by the flex cuffs.
Leading her by the arm you navigate the relatively quiet ED floor. The bright overhead lights have you blinking and the pain in your temple throbs. You reach the hub and address Charge Nurse Lena, “Morning Lena, I need this detainee checked over.” It takes you a second to mentally gather what else she needs to know. “We have no ID for her and she’s not talking. She hit an Officer over the head from behind and got tackled to the ground. Her head hit the floor, but she didn’t pass out.”
“North 7 is free. I’ll send you a doctor,” she answers after a quick check of the board, pointing to a room straight across from her.
“Thanks, Lena.”
Your usher your charge into the empty room and close the door. After putting a pair metal cuffs and the clipper on the exam bed, you secure her against the wall with one hand on the wrist closest to you.
“I’m going to switch out your cuffs now and search you. Don’t try anything stupid,” you inform her. Then you clip the zip ties and put the cuffs on her now free wrist.
There’s a short knock. Before you can respond, the door is opened and Jack comes in. You turn half towards him – about to ask him to wait outside for a moment.
“You told Lena it was only your detainee that needed a check. What happened? You just forgot you took one to the head?”
Silent lady uses the exact moment you were preparing to answer Jack and not paying attention to her. She elbows you in the sternum hard enough to knock you back a single step. You lose your grip on her wrist as the air is forced from your lungs.
“Fuck!”
When your head snaps back up – she’s turning around while drawing a small blade from under her bun.
“Security!” Jack yells through the still open door. But he doesn’t step back out.
She has not managed to turn around fully just yet. So, you leap forward throwing your weight against the shoulder closest to you. Your outer arm goes for the bicep of her knife arm hard. She tries to dodge you by going low and manages to kick hard against the inside of your knee. You let yourself fall on top of her with the momentum she created. There’s movement at the door and you’re hoping it’s backup. Even on the floor she’s pushing up her pelvis to free a leg from under you and gain some leverage.
But Jack has come over during your struggles and is sitting down on her calves. You huff in irritation, before focusing on getting her under control. When you shift your weight back, she tries to slash at the inside of the arm holding her bicep. The shallow knife cut sears – you knock her elbow hard to the ground. The knife clatters to the floor and heavy footsteps echo through the room as Armad from security rushes in.
Together you put the cuffs on her properly and finally do a thorough search. It turns up one more small blade in her right boot and set of small lockpicks in the other. There’s also a pill shaped plastic container falling down as you release her hair bun. Then you transfer her over to the bed. There you secure both her wrists to either side of the bed using your second set of cuffs. Armad takes up position by the door after she’s properly secured. Charge Nurse Lena and Dr. Shen arrive and Jack takes your arm, “Time to check you over, Officer.”
Before you can protest the turns to the other doctor, “Shen assess her and let me know what you find. In addition to her head and ribs, her right elbow now needs a look.” With that he leads you from the room. As you don’t want to make a scene in front of his colleagues you bite back your response. Shaking your head at his overbearing behaviour causes you to flinch at the sharp pain from the side of your head. Jack passes the obviously empty room 6 before ushering you into number 5 and closing the door behind the two of you.
You grab your radio and report: “Dispatch, David 12 at PTMC, North 7. One detainee, combative, multiple concealed weapons recovered. Primary officer temporarily out—need unit to maintain custody. Send additional for transport and advise supervisor.”
The response comes while Jack stares at you – a muscle in his jaw ticking: “David 12, copy. Units en route to PTMC North 7 for custody and transport. Supervisor notified. ETA three minutes.”
“They shouldn’t have sent you over here alone in the first place. You’re injured.”
“We didn’t have the time or manpower to spare. It was just a headbutt.”
“Which obviously hurt and can still cause a concussion. Sit down,” he motions to the bed.
You do – wanting to get this over with and get back to your case. As he runs his hands over your head carefully, you continue the argument, “Well, I’ll stay on desk duty when I get back then, doctor. But you need to stay in your lane next time. Or someone will get hurt – again.”
“Stay in my lane?” the disbelief is all over his face and in his tone.
“Yes, as in don’t enter a room with a detainee inside before getting the all clear. As in stay out of a physical altercation between a trained officer and an armed suspect. Better yet leave the room and get...,” you are interrupted as Jack shines his penlight into your eyes.
“I called for security.”
“Jack! That’s not the point.”
“You do have a mild concussion,” he states, “and you can’t expect me to stand by when you’re getting hurt. Now, let me see your arm.”
Taking a breath, you remind him, “Getting hurt comes with the job on occasion.” As you shed your uniform jacket, Jack helps you by pulling the arms down.
“Then you’re gonna have to do a better job at avoiding those occasions. And live with me having my way with you, when you can’t,” he replies, while you place your injured arm on the table he’s rolled over. Before you can loosen the cuffs on your uniform shirt, Jack does it for you and cuts the shirt off, above the elbow. You’re gonna need to order a new one.
“And you need to remember I’m an officer first while on duty – and your...what ever second,” you’re still trying to make your point.
He huffs, “I’ll try. And I think you mean partner. Or am I just your love interest?” He’s efficiently cleaned your wound in the meantime. Picking up a couple butterfly strips as he speaks.
“You are not just anything, Jack!” You want to punch him for derailing the argument. This is not the place though, so instead you add, “But I think we can agree on partner.”
“Lucky me then,” he smirks and bandages your arm.
You hop off the bed as soon as he’s done and turn towards the door.
“Hold on there. You know what to watch for with a concussion?” Jack holds your arm.
“Not my first one. And I’ll change the bandages after the shower tonight,” you shrug and look at him pointedly.
“You mean I’ll change them.”
“Jack, please. I need some processing time here. This case is far from over. And I’ll recover better at my own place.”
“Fine. I’ll come by with food at 8 then.”
“Seriously?” you shoot him a look, but he doesn’t budge. “Okay. See you then.”
He finally lets you get back to work.
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous → Next
tag list (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @amacphet,@thatfanficstuff,
Vespa Crabro the taboo hunter from N corp is not a person who believes in fantasy. He doesn't believe in something coming true like a dream or destiny , nor does he believe in miracles. He believes in order and the chain of commands, he believes in loyalty and sincerely doing what's required of him , even if it means pushing himself to a breaking point or crossing lines of professionalism
Vespa is strictly a professional individual. His daily life is filled with work and perseverance to fulfil that goal of the day. He is not perfect but he tries his best. His victories are not completely distinct from failures and successes. He is just another fixer living in the city , trying to survive and live , determined to not meet the fates of the many.
Vespa is easily capable of pushing his professional boundaries when necessary, yet he finds it difficult when it comes to you. You are a fixer he had unexpectedly grown fond during his compromised stay and work with Moses.
He had never planned it, let alone expected it. You were annoying. He disliked you teasing him along with Ezra and trying to involve him for unnecessary activities outside of work. Pestering him and trying to make him smile because of 'his old man face'. You laughed or attempted to make him laugh at things which were not funny. He found that .... disruptive.
But aside from it all, he also respected you for your work. You were annoying but often reliable when it came to tricky missions. You were an A grade fixer who often pushed past your limits and pulled unexpected, unpredictable stunts where usually he knew there was a higher probability of failure rather than success. He respected you because you knew how to turn the wheels and very smartly so , and although he has never openly admitted that many missions and tasks often became tons easier and tolerable because of you. You were surprisingly logical and sensible when it came to certain tasks.
And over time , Vespa was surprised to find he did not find your presence exhausting. He found it hard to push you away. He found it harder to reject your post- mission detours and places you visited because they were 'interesting'. He found himself instinctively jumping to save/ protect you whenever you were minutes away from getting gravely hurt or injured. Somehow he had begun to notice the way your eyes fluttered when you smiled or twinkle when he agreed to something you suggested or drop when he rejected your request or how they twitched and closed when you were hurt. How he reluctantly followed your stupid bets or got involved in petty games.
Somehow he was beginning to warm up with your reckless ways and reckless ideas of living your life in the moment to the fullest because no one could ever know the unpredictable events & phenomenons in the City that would snatch away the liberty to live any moment. You often said it whenever a particular distortion was overwhelming to handle because of unfavorable circumstances. Or when you would relate with an unwanted emotion that resembled with it. It never hindered your performance but often changed your mood post mission. But it made him curious. He never pried but you seemed to be inviting him to pry.
And he never regretted not prying before till the moment you had pushed him off and voluntarily taken the hit to deal with one tricky Distortion so he could find an opening to attack. That had ended up causing you severe distress and injury leading to your unconsciousness and absence for a long time.
It was then he realised the inevitable connection he had formed. It was then he realised the hollowness that would sometimes consume him whenever he looked at your empty desk when you recovered. He inevitably found himself worrying about your well-being and wanting the best things to come your way.
And his heart dropped on the thought of never being able to see you again. Even after all the things he had gone through in the past, Vespa Crabro had unexpectedly turned fond of your presence to a point he couldn't bear the idea of never being able to see you again.
It was in the office when he saw Moses and Ezra discussing about the offer you had received from Wing. A better, long-lasting, well-paying job which was relatively safe and well fitted to handle. All criterias were met and "Only a fool would reject the offer. "
were surprisingly Moses's remarks.
For the first time in his life after a long while, Vespa felt uneasiness in his heart. The discussion that occurred in Moses' office in every form and way concluded with them all suggesting you to not miss out on the offer. They all appreciated your stay and your hardwork , many of them were reluctant for your leave and had formed connections yet all of them had the opinion of letting you go because it wasn't easy to attain such an offer.
An uneasy feeling had begun to build up , crushing and suffocating his chest , leading him to take a break on the balcony. He blankly observed the architecture of the city and his views on the job. It was truly a tempting offer but upon pondering over the events that led him here , the times he spent together and on genuinely assessing his feelings that had built up over time, Vespa realised he did not want you to go . He did not want you to go so far away that he wouldn't even be able to see you from afar. No matter how easy the job was, no matter how happy you would be , it was his selfish wish that secretly desired that you would stay and never leave his side.
"Why hiding the long old face , Vespy Bee?" You suddenly appeared to his side and questioned with a knowing, endearing look on your face. Your eyes were narrowed at the corners, something he realised you did when you were genuinely happy to see him or when you were in a good mood " Jealous you didn't receive an offer like this yourself?" You teased , flashing him a toothy smile that miserably failed to mask your own dilemma.
" I couldn't care less about an offer like that" his eyes reverted back, as he scoffed in disbelief you would even ask such a question. But you being you, he was not surprised.
"Right because you're soooooo hung up on that Taboo Hunter Job from N corp. Honestly, I don't get the kicks." You admitted , your eyes glossing in wonderment and thought, not knowing what was so special about that job.
Vespa watched you slump over the railing with expressions that melted away with time and revealed the real feelings that tumbled underneath. The Color Fixer had a feeling you had been allowing him to view more and more about yourself recently and he couldn't say he disliked it.
It was very unusual of you to follow him out when the entire office had been supporting you and celebrating on your behalf. Anyone would be happy or honoured .
But the expressions you showed him, told him you were not. You looked more in dilemma and confusion instead. And that prevented Vespa from gauging your answer on its behalf.
“Are you planning on leaving?” Vespa's lips moved before he got a hold of himself and you looked at him in surprise. You were stunned, for Vespa never usually asked questions or held doubts or cared about matters like that.
A smile crept up on your face with an urge to tease him yet again “Why? Does Vespy Bee not want me to leave?”
Vespa had been very brusque about almost all matters he had encountered with. You knew that better than anyone else about his opinions than anyone in the office would. Being on the same and opposite side in high stress situations , there is a clear and intimate understanding that comes while repeatedly facing situations like that.
“I told Moses once,” Vespa mused , recalling the topic he had once discussed with his respected colleagues “that feelings should either be left to wither or accepted in their entirety. I don’t believe in miracles or destiny" he continued. “But I do believe in decisions and freedom of choice”
He then turned to you.
“ And if you have already made your decision then there's no use of me asking you to change it. ”
That made you humm, realising he wasn't really wrong with his words and beliefs.
“However…”
Your attention was turned back to Vespa again, but this time , he stood upright, staring at you with a tender gaze you had only seen on his face in rare moments before. He were beginning to show more of that side recently but unlike other moments, somehow today he was bold to step closer and directly look down into your eyes.
“You once said we should live in the moment because the City can take anything at any time. To live before learning what it is to die,” Vespa is not a man who was a fan of touches, yet while uttering those words he gently reached out for both of your hands with his warm callous arms. His eyes glinting faintly in restraint resolve, with a subtle, almost shy hesitation in their softened edges. “ And I think I would very much like to learn what it is to live with you before learning what it's like to die without you by my side”
You had dreamt of many confessions before, but never in a million years had your hopeless romantic heart dreamt of this one. Eventually you found your heart beating faster and a flush darkening your cheeks. "I don't think I'm going to leave you any sooner Vespy Bee" was all you could reply with the widest grin before ruffling his styled golden black hair until it turned messy and fell down his temples.
Vespa let out a free breathless chuckle , as both of you lightly laughed , admiring each other with warm , adoring and gentle eyes.
Vespa Crabro doesn't believe in miracles or destiny or fate — but maybe for you he would learn to make them all an exception.
Note: y'all why does NOBODY write Vespa X reader. My man deserves so much appreciation please
Pairing / Character(s): Dr. Jack Abbot x GN!reader
Some days you just wanna go home. Unfortunately, there’s still shit to do. And when you finally make it home — Jack’s already on the porch.
warnings: concussion, minor injury, exhaustion, police procedural nonsense
The precinct smells of stale coffee and feels strangely abandoned. Sergeant Wolf is the only officer at the front desk and even the bullpen sits empty. You head straight over to where she’s typing, as if the keyboard had personally offended her.
“Sergeant Wolf?” you inquire.
She stops typing and looks up. “Officer Morgan, you cleared?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a concussion and a graze. Doctor told me to take it easy for the rest of this shift.”
“So, she got you with that knife. You’re justified to go home,” she makes it sound like an offer. But you’re not stupid enough to take it. The story about the last fool who did is still being told to every newbie on their first shift.
“And make you write my reports? I think I’ll pass.”
“Wise choice. Take tomorrow off though,” and her tone of voice makes it clear it’s an order.
“Not gonna say no to that. You’ve an Advil for me?” Your head still hurts, as Jack had not offered you any pain meds.
“Sure, take what you need.” She puts a pill and water bottle on the counter, angling her head to get a look at your bruised temple.
While you fish two out, you ask her, “Any more surprises with my detainee?”
“Well, she’s out on 200 k of bail,” she shrugs her shoulders.
“How? She didn’t even give us her name!” You reel back at the news, before continuing, “And for bail she would’ve had to have been processed.” You hurry to take the pills and swallow them down.
“Name’s Coleen Fernandez apparently and her lawyer showed up at the hospital with the bail order,” Sergeant Wolf grimaces.
“Wow, she must be someone special.” You can feel your eyebrows going for your hairline and flinch at the sharp sting from your bruise.
“Hm,” she nods and stows the Advil.
You take that as the dismissal it is and make your way down to evidence.
The last lamp on the stairs is still flickering. It has been for the last two weeks. Though since last week there’s a note pinned to the wall, halfway down the steps, reading in print: “Maintenance has been notified.” Now, a handwritten line is added: “The light fixture has been ordered.” You smirk and move on, wondering what will appear there next week. Reaching “The Underbelly”, as the downstairs area housing the evidence lookup and the handful of techs has been labelled, you turn right. After opening the heavy metal door, you whistle.
“One sec,” a voice answers through the speaker.
The tiny room is packed. On three walls shelves reach up to the ceiling. Multiple screens line the wall in front of a desk. And there’s just enough space left for the metal desk and the gaming chair. Sitting down on the edge of Micki’s desk you look down at the sealed RFD-bag in your hand. Your head snaps up at the sound of door hinges screeching before Micki appears in the doorway to your left.
“What brings my wounded Heron?”
“Something that fell out of my detainee’s hair and looks like a pill but isn’t.” You hand over the bag.
Micki taps your thigh, “And this time you managed to bag it properly. I knew you could do it.”
Is he ever going to let you off the hook on that? You tease him a little, “You let me know what you find, Micky Mouse?”
“Careful Heron or I’ll add to your injuries.”
“You’ve a bad day too?”
He takes a noisy breath, “EVERY SINGLE phone they brought me was neither turned off or put in an RFD-bag. So, by the time I got them – they were wiped. And then I get asked why I wasn’t able to produce any leads!?”
“Man, that sucks.”
“You tell me. On the upside, I’m free now. Wait a minute and I’ll tell you where you can buy this.” He waves the bag and disappears back into his lab.
You deliver the knife and the lockpicks into evidence, before going back up to the bullpen. Your report isn’t gonna write itself. Thinking about it, you consider if you should find out the name of the officer, who did the incomplete search. You could ask Sergeant Wolf. But thankfully, pointing fingers is someone else’s job. In this case likely hers and knowing her that officer’s Sergeant has already gotten a call. Ugh, your brain definitely took a hit.
By the time you filled out the basic info on the report by copying it from the warrant, the Advil has kicked in. You take out your notebook to make sure the report and your notes are synced, as your cell phone rings.
“Hey, Micki.”
“I’ll be damned. Your pill is a tracker. And not the made in China kind.”
“Meaning she got it where?”
“Either one of the letter agencies or the black market.”
“Can you narrow it down further?”
“I’ll try but don’t pin your hopes on it.”
“Thanks.”
“Any time, Heron.”
You’ve just reached the hospital scene in your report, when you’re interrupted from behind.
“Where is my evidence?” A voice snarls.
Swinging around with your chair you find Detective Fowler standing close enough he had to step back when you turned.
“Excuse me Detective?” you keep your tone casual.
“The evidence you took of the detainee – hand it over,” Fouler is punctuating the last three words.
“I already have. Everything confiscated from my detainee is in evidence,” you reply calmly.
“Get it back,” he barks. “I need that now! The phones were useless.”
“Detective Fowler, the evidence has been properly processed. If you want custody, you’re free to sign it out.”
“You signed it in. We both know I’d need a supervisor's signature for that.”
“Well, if your request is justified, I don’t see a problem with that.”
“It’s MY evidence in MY case.”
Oh, now you’re done being polite. “And I did MY part. You know how to get your evidence. Have a nice day.” You turn your chair and go back to your report.
Fowler is nearly growling in your neck, “You’ll regret this, officer.”
That’s when you realise the “Pill” is with Micki – not in evidence – and hope Fowler isn’t going to check. You’ll have to ask Sergeant Wolf before you leave in the morning.
It’s only 6:40 am when you leave the precinct. Sergeant Wolf told you to leave early, as you have to stop by headquarters and turn your damaged shirt and jacket in. You could have done that tomorrow, but you’re too exhausted to argue.
Sitting down in your car you grimace; it’s ice cold since it has been sitting in the lot for a day and a half. You turn the heat to maximum, even knowing by the time you reach your first stop the car will only be marginally warmer.
The slightly sleepy quartermaster takes your damage report and the clothes for disposal without a fuss. Great. Now you just have to go online and order new ones and pick them up and remember to put your name plate and service stripes on the new jacket.
Despite the music blaring from the speakers and the partially open window you drive home on autopilot. Parking in your usual spot you notice Jack’s Jeep sitting across the street. You check the time: 7:35 am. He said, he would be here at 8. So much for getting a moment to yourself.
Jack’s waiting on the porch of your grandparent’s house a bag from a local bakery in his left hand. He’s wearing a thick, brown jacket over an olive-green fleece shirt, black cargo pants and combat boots. His eyes are tracking your elderly neighbour Mr. Peter as he sweeps the sidewalk. It must be Saturday. Jack turns towards you when you reach the property line.
He holds both hands up the paper bag dangling in his left, “I’m not gonna argue with you this morning — just let me stay.”
Your eyebrows rise and you flinch again; the Advil is wearing off.
“Morning, Jack,” you greet him with a nod. When you reach the front door, you unlock it. “Fine, come in.” You hold the door open and lock it after him.
A quick flick of the light switch illuminates the entryway. The rest of the old house is dark and cold. All the shutters are down to keep the cold out and the heaters have manual thermostats. You both shed your jackets and shoes by the door. Jack hangs his jacket over your leather one after a moment of hesitation, since all three hooks are occupied. You hang yours over your raincoat.
As you make your way to the kitchen, Jack follows you silently. The light comes on with a low hum. Jack drops into the chair on the far side of the kitchen table. Sighing at the state of the worn formerly white cabinets you pull out two plates. When the shine from the old hanging lamp dims, you give it a tap with your free hand. Jack’s hand shoots up to stop you.
“You want to get zapped?”
You put the dishes down and tap the glass of the lamp with your fingernails, “It’s glass, so no zapping.”
Jack looks unimpressed.
“Do you want tea, too?”
“If it’s herbal.”
“Anis, Peppermint or Ginger?”
“Ginger, please.”
After prepping the two cups and setting the kettle to boil you go upstairs to the bedroom.
You return with the bundle of clean clothes cradled under your arm. Your service weapon is now stored in the safe and your badge back in your wallet. Jack hasn’t moved from the kitchen table. He’s stretched his legs out, head leaned back, eyes closed, the bakery bag beside him. You set your bundle on the counter, careful not to disturb the cups by the stove.
As the kettle clicks you measure out two scoops of loose ginger tea, drop them into the waiting mesh balls and pour the water. You set a timer on your phone for five minutes. Since the main bathroom upstairs is a construction site, you turn on the space heater in the guest bathroom. Rubbing your eyes you decide to use the last three minutes to stow the unused coats from the hooks in the wardrobe under the stairs. You stop the timer before the alarm can sound and fish the mesh balls out.
“Jack? Tea’s ready.”
He sits up immediately and takes the warm mug you offer him.
“Thank you.”
Checking the pastry bag he brought, you find two bacon and egg rolls and place them on the plates.
“You want yours warm?”
“Please.”
After a minute in the microwave, you both tuck into your breakfast with the speed you develop if you’re always waiting for the next emergency to pull you away. Looking at your clothes on the counter you realise Jack hasn’t brought anything.
“Jack, are you staying tonight?”
He looks at you puzzled, “That’s the plan.”
“You didn’t bring a bag.”
“It’s in the car. I wasn’t sure about my welcome.”
You nod and smirk, “You’re welcome to stay. You’ll have to shower after me though. The stall barely fits one at a time.”
He nods and after breakfast he brings in his backpack as you take a quick shower.
You wrap the towel around you and try to look at your bruise in the fogged mirror, which is pretty useless, so you towel-dry your hair avoiding the sensitive area. Stepping into the hallway you close the bathroom door to keep the warmth and steam in. Jack’s crutches lean on the wall beside his open, camouflaged backpack.
Jack himself is at the kitchen table again. He has cleared it, spread out medical supplies on the surface and positioned a chair across from him. He waves you over, “Come, let me check you and redress that cut.”
Obediently you plop into the offered seat and place your arm on the table. Jack cleans the wound and adds an antiseptic cream.
“Any nausea?”
“No.”
“Blurred vision?”
“No.”
“How’s your headache?”
“Noticing the Advil wore off.”
“Yeah, take some Ibuprofen. It works as an anti-inflammatory too.”
He hands you a pill and a bottle of water.
You swallow the pill down, while he redresses your arm. When he gets up, you inform him, “I’ll be upstairs. Bedroom is behind the left door.”
Jack nods and takes his things into the bathroom.
You go to sort out your bedroom. Your laundry bag for uniform shirts and pants goes into the wardrobe, half-read books move onto the nightstand and your go bag joins the laundry bag. Taking a look around you check if anything else needs to be cleared. You decide to push the bed two feet over to your side, since there’s not much space between the bed and the wall on the other side.
Pushing the bed back so it sits straight against the wall you hear the tapping of Jack’s crutches coming up the stairs.
He enters the bedroom and takes a seat on the bed. On your side of the bed. The one by the door.
“Jack? That’s my side.”
He turns to look at you, “At my place you slept on the side by the window.”
“Because I was in your home. And here the gun safe is on the side by the door.”
“Jesus. Fine. I’ll scoot over.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m off tomorrow. You on?”
“No, Sergeant ordered me to stay home,” you can’t help your annoyance slipping through.
Jack gives you a small smile, “Sleeping in it is.”
And after he scooted over, you both settle into sleep to the constant clicking of the old radiator and the birds chirping outside.
↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous → Next
This is the SFW adaptation of the original Between Always and Never series posted on my main blog. The original version contains explicit sexual content and additional intimate scenes. Storyline, character dynamics and overarching plot remain consistent between both versions.
All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.
