#dispatch fanfics

the one who, just last night, had you pinned against your apartment door, his mouth hot on your neck, whispering things that were decidedly not safe for work.

you’re not dating. it’s an arrangement, mutually beneficial for the both of you.

the meeting drones on, but the atmosphere’s lighter. people are actually engaging for once. halfway through, flambae leans back in his chair, smirk already tugging at his mouth. “so, robert,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement.

“not to get all touchy feely or anything, but you’ve been in an awfully good mood lately. new skincare routine? secret hobby? or…” his grin widens, eyes flicking toward you before landing back on robert,

“someone keeping you well rested?” he taps the donut box with a finger. “these are a nice touch, by the way.”

a few people chuckle in agreement. robert, who is now standing at the head of the table, doesn’t stiffen or scowl like you might have expected. a faint flush creeps up his neck, but he manages a tight smile.

“if we can return our focus to what's actually important,” he deflects, smoothly steering the conversation back to safer waters.

but his eyes, for just a fraction of a second, flicker to you.

you bring your coffee to your lips, hiding the proud smirk that threatens to split your face. you take a slow, deliberate sip, your eyes locked with his over the rim of the cup. you don’t blink. you just let the smug satisfaction shine through, a silent message just for him.

your look screams, “i did this.” we did this. this is all because of me.

he holds your eyes for a moment too long, his professional face firmly in place, but you see the crack in the facade. you see the way his jaw tightens, just a little, in the way he slightly bites his bottom lip.

he looks away first, turning to the screen, but the tips of his ears are still pink.

the meeting continues, but for you, there’s now a strong tension pulling at you two. every time he speaks, you remember how his voice had dropped to a murmur as his lips brushed your neck.

every time he gestures with his hands, you recall the feel of those same fingers feeling on your skin. 

you can tell he's really trying to keep it together. you're at work for crying out loud. still, you can’t pretend it’s not a little entertaining, knowing that he’s probably replaying the way you bit his shoulder to keep quiet last night.

finally, he dismisses everyone with a “that’s all.” chairs scrape back, and the room stirs with the low shuffle and chatter of everyone leaving.

you take your time, gathering your stuff and the now empty coffee cup, letting the crowd thin. robert is pretending to be engrossed in shutting down the projector, his back to the room.

this is your moment.

you walk towards the door, but instead of leaving, you hover just outside in the hallway, out of sight from the glass of the doors. as he emerges, phone in hand, you reach out, your fingers curling gently but firmly around his wrist. he freezes, his head snapping towards you.

“a word, sir?” an innocent purr that doesn’t match the intent in your eyes.

his gaze darts down the hall, confirming it’s empty. “this isn’t-” he starts, his tone all business, but you’re already pulling him into the small, dim supply closet two doors down. it’s a tight fit, filled with the smell of old paper and toner.

the door clicks shut, plunging you into near darkness, a single sliver of light from under the door cutting across his face. his professional stance is gone, replaced by a startled anticipation.

“what are you doing?” he whispers, but not really in protest.

you don’t bother answering. instead, you push him back until he hits the shelf of printer paper, your hands sliding up his neck to catch his face and you kiss him.

nothing soft, it’s possessive, something of the kiss version of that smug little smile you wore all throughout the meeting. 

a wordless reminder to him that this was exactly why he was in such a good mood.

it takes him a second to register your touch, but with a low groan he breaks. his hands wrap around you, one hand tangling in your hair, the other splaying against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

he kisses you back with the same desperation. his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting of coffee and the faint sugar from the donuts.

this is the robert you know. not your boss, not your dispatcher, but the one who comes undone beneath you. you can feel the frantic beat of his heart as his chest pressed against yours.

when you finally break apart, you’re both breathing heavily, the sound loud in the confined space.

you rest your forehead against his, your smug smile returning, now pressed against his lips. “so,” you whisper, “the donuts were a nice touch.”

he huffs a quiet, breathless laugh, his thumb stroking your cheek. “shut up,” he murmurs, but there’s no heat in it, pressing another kiss to your mouth.

“we can’t stay in here,” he gets out after another moment, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual command, though it’s thoroughly undermined by the fact that he’s still holding you tightly against him.

“i know,” you agree, not moving an inch.

he steals one last, quick kiss. “ugh fine! my office. five minutes.”

he disentangles himself, smooths down his tie, and slips out the door, leaving you alone in the dark. you lean back against the shelves, a slow grin spreading across your face. you can still taste him on your lips.

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“long day?” you murmur, brushing a hand through her hair.

she hums in something between a sigh and a laugh. “you have no idea.”

“i can tell,” you murmur, your thumb tracing circles against her shoulder. beneath your touch, she’s solid, muscles tense, shoulders sore. she smells faintly of smoke and outside, probably from whatever fieldwork she’s been on, it was mixed with that subtle hint of her shampoo.

for a while, neither of you talk. the tv flickers in front of you both. the volume low, showing some old sitcom rerun you’d forgotten was even playing. her breathing slows against you, and yours matches it without thinking. when your fingers start to work lightly at her shoulders, she moans softly, half protesting, half melting.

“mm… that feels so fucking good,” she mumbles.

“not hurting you, am i?,” you question, slightly stopping and she pushes herself closer to you.

“no, don't stop, i was enjoying that!” she mutters, voice fading as she relaxes further as you continue.

you bend a little, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. her hair tickles your lips, and you linger there longer than you probably should, but she doesn’t move. she just exhales.

“it’ll get easier,” you whisper, unsure if you mean the bruises or the exhaustion.

she hums again, as if she’s saying i know. her fingers twist lazily into the hem of your shirt, needing a hold on you.

the minutes stretch, but they don’t drag. you keep your hands moving, slow, now absentmindedly tracing patterns across her back. from between her shoulder blades, down the dip of her spine, to the gentle curve of her waist where her shirt has bunched up a little.

your fingers follow the rhythm, pressing lightly in some places, easing out tension she’s too tired to fight.

she makes these small sounds when you find a sore spot, tiny groans, half asleep sighs that vibrate against your chest. you could almost map her day from them.

the bruise on her shoulder from a rough landing, the tightness at her neck from straining for too long, the knots in her lower back from carrying too much. you don’t need to ask. you just listen with your hands.

the rooms dimmer now, quieter. you can feel her melt further into you

you think about saying something to her. something small, maybe even brave. you did great today or i like this, us, like this. but when you go to tilt your head to check on her, the words fall flat before they can form.

she’s asleep.

her face is slack now, free of the tension she carries when she’s awake. her mouth parted slightly, a lock of hair had fallen over her cheek. you can feel the faintest tickle of her breath against your chest. 

you smile without meaning to. carefully shifting just enough to pull the blanket from the back of the cushions over the two of you. she stirs a little, nestling her face closer, her fingers brushing your side.

you rest your head back and exhale, letting yourself sink into the couch, into her. the voices of the tv fade in and out, you don’t move again. you just stay there, holding her while she dreams, slowly letting yourself do the same.

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