#and to now have so called colleagues claiming i’m barely working and just sitting around hurts so much when i know i already do my best and | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sanhaswife · 4 years ago

Note

HI BESTIE, can i request some fatgum fluff? maybe where he comforts us because we are insecure ?

OFC BESTIE, hope you like it :)

FATGUM FLUFF ❊

Pairing: FatGum x Reader

Genre: Fluff

~ Everything was great until she got into your head. Thanks to her, you started to doubt yourself and your relationship. You kept wondering if you’re enough to stand by Fatgum’s side; after all, he is a highly recognized hero. He could have any other girl in the world, so why is he still with you?~

Word Count: 2.8k

You and Fatgum have been dating for a few months now; it all began when you started working in the same agency. He claims it was love at first sight, leaving snacks for you here and there, always waiting anxiously to help you with anything. You thought it was cute; of course, it felt good to have someone around giving you all the attention you never thought you would ever get from someone else. Eventually, one day while you both were on patrol, you decided to bring up his actions.

“You know, I bet you do this with all the girls, right?” Fatgum’s face flushed with red; he stopped in his tracks nervously scratching the back of his head.

“W-what? Do what? No, I don’t really...you’re just really pretty, you know?” He stuttered. It was amusing to see such a big man acting nervous.

God, I want to kiss him so badly, you thought.

“So...you think I’m pretty?” You questioned as you watched him nod his head, a goofy smile on his face. Your cheeks were growing sore with how hard you’ve been smiling; Fatgum was attractive in both his regular and skinny form, and his personality was just so sweet it was unbelievable. He was definitely a way better man than any of the other guys you have met before, and it seemed like he really cared about you.

Grabbing his hand, you looked up at Fatgum, barely meeting his eyes because of the height difference, and squeezed his hand. “Do you like me?” His eyes widened, and he slapped his free hand across his face to hide his rosy cheeks. It made you laugh so hard seeing him stuttering like crazy. “A-a-and if I do? God, Y/N, you’re so pretty, and I always thought that I was never your type. So I never asked you out and just kinda hoped that you got the message with those stupids cookies and candies I left for you. Yes! Yes, I do like you..very much at that.”

PRESENT DAY:

Even though it’s been a few months, your relationship with Fatgum has been...AMAZING. Every day is just filled with so many good moments; it was still crazy to fathom that there was someone who loved you so so much. At the moment, you both shared a small apartment big enough for you two and a small dog you adopted a week ago together. A small Yorkie named Gummy was a present from Fatgum because his little surprises were endless.

“Gummy! Y/N! Could you please grab Gummy, her little dress? The white one with those flowers we bought yesterday, I think the press would love it.” That’s right, you both were going to attend a banquet for pro-heroes, and Fatgum insisted on bringing Gummy to show her off to his colleagues. Going to the small chest you kept in the living room, you pulled out the white dress and dressed Gummy for the occasion. “Honeybear?” Ah, you loved how he always called you sweet little nicknames. “What do you think?”

Fatgum was in his skinny form dressed in a classic black and white tuxedo, with his hair slicked back and a cheeky smile on his face; he looked so good you wanted to jump on him right there. “Sexy as always babe, come here.” With Gummy dressed, you stood up and walked over to Fatgum with your arms stretched out. Hugging him, you looked up and stood on your tippytoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, making him then grab your chin and plant a small peck on your lips. After kissing your nose, he looked down at his watch. “You ready? Let me grab you a coat.” Pulling away, he went into the room you shared and dug in the closet for a coat. “Come, Gummy.” You were already dressed in a long white gown with your hair straightened and your makeup perfect; you and Fatgum definitely looked like an elegant pair, making you feel confident. Even your Yorkie matched!

LATER:

Eventually, you both had arrived at the banquet, and there was a long red carpet leading to the entrance, both sides filled with reporters, fans, security guards, and cameramen. The day you and Fatgum started dating, he quickly announced his relationship to the public and happily shared photos of you two on his social media. The public’s reaction was supportive, and you both have already received so much love from people. Yet, here and there, there were definitely some people jealous enough to send you all kinds of hate because of your happy, healthy relationship. You never let it get to you though, after all, Fatgum’s love is like no other, and he constantly reassures you whenever you’re feeling down. Those hate comments and posts online would never affect your relationship, and Fatgum would never leave you for someone else like they said...right?

Maybe it was just the nervousness talking, but you couldn’t shake off the negative thoughts that were running around your head until Fatgum opened the car door and offered you his hand. With a smile, you grabbed his hand, and with Gummy wrapped in your other arm, he led you to the red carpet, where all kinds of noise greeted you. Fans were screaming for an autograph, reporters were shouting for a comment, and the security guards struggled to hold everyone back. It made you laugh watching the sea of people crash against the poor guards. You and Fatgum turned left and right, posing together for people to get in some photos before heading inside, where other heroes and their partners greeted you.

The banquet consisted of heroes gushing about Gummy and your relationship with Fatgum. But since the event was made up of mainly heroes, it was a bit difficult to hold conversations with people for long as everyone eventually moved on to talk to Fatgum or any other hero. So you sat back, relaxing at one of the tables, enjoying some of the food that was available; Fatgum was busy showing off Gummy to his colleagues, so you were doing some alone time. You were sitting there peacefully savoring your meal when a random girl walked up to you, glass full of wine in hand. “Hello, you’re Fatgum’s girlfriend, right? Nice to meet you.”

“Oh yes! Hello, I’m Y/N...can I help you?” The girl had an unsettling smile that sent shivers down your spine, yet you stayed polite and smiled back. She set down her glass oddly close to you and cocked her head to the side. “I just wanted to come and say hi, maybe even shake your hand?”

That’s odd. You thought, but whatever, nothing bad ever came out of a handshake, right? Just as you were about to bring your hand up, her hand shot out, knocking her glass over, resulting in the wine getting all over your dress. Jumping back in surprise, you looked down at your now ruined dress; the white was stained with red, and it was all over. The girl quickly apologized as she grabbed some napkins and started to try to wipe the wine off. "No, no, it's okay! You don't have to" All of a sudden, she grabbed your hands tightly and dug her nails into your hands. "Ow, what are you-"

"You're a slut." She whispered with a wicked smile on her face. Her comment left you baffled, a stranger...calling you a slut? She didn't let go of your hands, and your eyes were stuck glued onto her's. "You'll never be good enough, you know? All of us were waiting for the right moment to ask him out, yet there you were, wagging your tail at him like a damn dog. You're lucky he agreed to date you because honey..." She looked at your body up and down and, with one hand, reached up to tug at your hair, twirling it around her finger painfully. "These, other little heroes are stupid. You tell them you love them and praise them, and they'll give you everything you want. But, him? He's the one everyone wants. And you're not cut out to stand next to him."

Her eyes reminded you of a snake as they glowed, her hands snaking up to your cheeks where she slowly moved your head to the side towards Fatgum. It was as if time was going to slow; you were forced to watch as women of all kinds surrounded him. Some were gushing over your dog, but many were talking to Fatgum, most with their hands touching his shoulders or messing with his hair. A gross feeling of jealousy burned over you as you watched him, not pushing anyone off or shying away from their touches. The girl's whispers were not of any help at all.

"See? They're so much more prettier than you and fit his image better." It was like her voice was starting to echo in your head, and you began to feel dizzy. Your body refused to move as if it was under a spell, and you felt tears rushing to your eyes. She laughed in your ear before pulling away, your body suddenly feeling like a weight has been lifted. She crossed her arms and snickered before looking over at Fatgum. "You might want to go change your dress; if anyone sees you like that, just imagine what the press would say." Looking back over to you, she continued, "I can see it now... Fatgum's girlfriend makes a fool of herself at the pro-heroes banquet. And you know those reporters love a juicy story.

"Why are you doing this? I don't even know you." You cried; it was humiliating enough to be standing there with a ruined dress and gross emotions washed over you. You watched as the girl shrugged and turned her back on you. "You're ugly, you're fat, your hair is a gross color, the way you smile is disgusting... shall I go on?" Taking your silence as an answer, she looked back to wink at you before heading her way to Fatgum.

Feeling violated and humiliated, you grabbed your coat that was draped on a chair and rushed to the bathroom. Running down the hall, you found a bathroom nearby and checking every stall before locking the door to be alone. Putting your back against the door, you struggled to catch your breath before sliding down the door, your hands covering your mouth to try to muffle the sobs that escaped your lips.

So many thoughts were racing your mind, trying to process everything that strange woman had said. Am I not enough? Why didn't he push those girls away, knowing I'm sitting right there? Why? Why? Why?

You brought your knees to your chest and hugged yourself in an attempt to control your shaking body. You stayed that way for almost fifteen minutes before you slowly stood up and headed to the mirror. Your eyes were red from crying so hard; your mascara stained down your cheeks and your nose red. Your hair was messy from running, and the stain on your dress only seemed darker now. Sniffling, you quickly cleaned yourself up the best you could and wrapped yourself up in the coat you grabbed. Getting your phone from the coat's pocket, you left Fatgum a message telling him you were feeling sick and headed outside. You had to take another entrance in order to avoid the press and fans, waiting outside at the curb for a taxi.

At home, the second you closed the front door and made your way into your room to change, the sobs made their way back up your throat. While crying your eyes out once again, you quickly stripped off your dress and changed into pajamas. The crying didn't stop even while wiping the makeup off your face or brushing the knots out of your hair before going to bed. Shutting off your phone, you wrapped yourself up in the blankets and eventually cried yourself to sleep.

It was 2 AM when Fatgum finally arrived home. He had a sad expression on his face as he shut the front down and let Gummy down to let her roam around. In the middle of conversing with all kinds of people, he had checked his phone, shocked that you had gone home without telling him in person. Worried, he rushed outside for privacy and called spammed your phone with a hundred texts and a hundred calls, all of which you didn't answer.

"Y/N? Honeybear?" He slowly opened the door to the room you shared and sighed when he saw you sleeping in the bed, the quilt and sheets messy and wrapped around you. Stepping into the room, he slowly looked around and bent down to pick up your stained dress. He inspected the stain and folded it up with a pained expression before setting it down on the drawer near the bed. He was worried after calling and texting you; it took him forever to finally leave the banquet because more and more heroes wanted to strike up a conversation with him. Sadly, he changed out of this tuxedo and changed into the PJs. He said nothing as he cleaned up the room and then carefully took out some wipes before slowly making his way to you.

Leaning over, he carefully moved you to face him and winced seeing your red tear-stained face. "Y/N..." He whispered as he began to wipe away your tears. "Honeybear...what happened?"

You woke up to Fatgum kissing your cheeks; looking up at him, he smiled softly, but it only made you turn your back towards him, covering your face with the sheets. "I don't want to talk about it, Gum." You were exhausted from crying so much, and you didn't want Fatgum to see you in such a sorry state, but he only leaned over more to grab the sheets and gently pulled them off to reveal your face.

Cupping your cheeks, he turned you to face him again and he began to smother you in kisses all over your face. "Gum-" You wanted to be angry. At yourself, at him, and those girls. But his butterfly kisses were so sweet they made you melt into a laughing mess, which made him smile cheerfully. Giving you one last kiss on your lips, he looked down at you, unsure how to start. "What...what happened tonight, Y/N?"

You sighed, sitting up. You scooted over and made space for Fatgum to sit before sharing what happened at the banquet. Listening to you go on and fighting back your tears, he held back from going rabid. His hands were shaking from anger as he replayed your words over and over again in your head.

"It was a terrible feeling, s-she made me feel so disgusted with myself. Gum I-...before this, I never let my insecurities get the best of me, but she-" Your chest was heaving with sobs as you struggled to find the words to explain what you felt. You felt gross, broken down...ugly. But it stopped when Fatgum gently grabbed your hands with a sad smile, "And did you believe her?"

"I-...well..." You struggled to continue. What happened to the confidence you had? What happened to never listening to strangers? To haters? ...What happened to believing in the ones you love? You rested your head on his shoulders as you sighed. "I just...I don't know how to feel right now. Gum, it was like she was getting in my head."

He nodded, he wasn't even able to comprehend what you went through, but he wanted you to understand that you were enough. That you were perfect, all your flaws and insecurities? He loved them all. Your goofy smile in the morning, your scent, the way you jump at scary movies, the way you gush at baby clothes, and more. He loved it all. Never in a million years would he ever leave such a perfect person for someone else. And he told you that, holding your hands, rubbing them with his thumbs.

That night you and Fatgum talked a lot. About what happened, about how you felt, and about how much he loved you. He was gentle, trying to comfort you slowly as not to make you feel rushed or panicked. Every time you squeezed his hand, he went to work smothering you in cheeks before you could continue with your conversation.

Eventually, everything was out. Now, you both were sitting in comfortable silence, holding hands. You were grateful to have such a patient, gentle, loving man by your side who truly made you feel loved. Thank god I convinced him not to hunt that girl down though, that would be on the news right away. You thought with a small laugh, even though what that strange woman said hurt you deeply, thanks to her words, you and Fatgum were closer than ever before.

"Let's go shower?" Fatgum questioned with a little wink. His large hands moving away from yours to slowly rub your thighs, making you twitch in anticipation. Turning your body to wrap your arms to hang off his neck, you gave him a deep kiss and pulled away with a smile. "Just don't forget that we have work tomorrow."

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wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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spencers-renaissance · 3 years ago

Text

can't un-sing a song that's sung.

Summary: The worst thing about it is that Derek isn’t even surprised when he gets the call.

Tags: drug use, overdose, hurt/comfort, guilty derek & hotch, angst with a hopeful ending, bedside vigils, protective derek & hotch NO MCD

Pairing: Gen (Platonic Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid; Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid)

Word Count: 1.8k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

Major TWs, obviously. I'm just so angry that no-one did anything about Spencer's addiction in season two, so I decided to punish Derek and Hotch by having the (almost) worst-case scenario come to fruition. Fic inspired by this gifset & title from this poem (v short but v poignant) Fills the 'Overdose' square on my Bad Things Happen Bingo card.

The worst thing about it is that Derek isn’t even surprised when he gets the call.

His heart sinks, of course, and his stomach feels like it bottoms out. His chest tightens and he struggles to breathe for a minute and a half, his hands clamming up as his tongue freezes and he can’t find the words to respond to Hotch over the phone. But he isn’t surprised. And that, when it really and truly comes down to it, is exactly where his sins lie.

He races as quickly as he can to the hospital, not obeying the traffic laws by any stretch of the imagination as his hands grip so tightly at the steering wheel that his knuckles turn white and the pattern of the leather; the seams where it's sewn imprint themselves on his palm. His heart pounds rapidly and it’s all he can hear, blood thudding in his ears as the tight knot of anxiety sits heavy in his stomach.

He’s just pulling into the hospital car park when he realises that the last time he felt like this — God, the last time he felt like this was when he first realised Spencer was missing all those months ago. He heaves a dry sob as he abandons his car in a space he hopes is the right one, and slams his palm down hard on the steering wheel once.

He allows himself one more guilt-ridden, heartbroken sob before he forces himself to calm down, doing his best to ignore the tumultuous emotions raging inside him as he shuts the car door behind him and hurries towards the entrance.

It’s hard not to cry when he first locks eyes on Hotch. Seeing his calm, stoic supervisor in a state of utter disarray — red-rimmed eyes, messed up hair, ruffled clothes — somehow makes this all seem a bit too real. Maybe in the car ride over he’d still clung to a small, pathetic bit of hope that this is all a nightmare, that he’ll wake up in a minute and he’ll drive to work and Spencer will already be at his desk, beavering away.

In the harsh lights and bustling noise of the hospital corridor, he knows that’s not going to happen.

They don’t say anything as they stare at one another, both clearly struggling to bite back the raw emotion threatening to spill from their eyes, to unleash itself in a full blown meltdown. Eventually, Hotch sits back down and buries his face in his hands, and Derek joins him on the little two-seater bench.

He doesn’t claim to know much about hospitals or medical care in general, but he knows for damn sure that waiting on a bench outside the ICU is not good, and he’s doing everything in his power to not think about that too hard.

They’ve been sat in stony silence for countless minutes before Derek finally lifts his head, though he still can’t bring himself to look at Hotch again. “Have you called the others?”

Hotch swallows, and Derek can see the tear-tracks trailing down the side of his face out of the corner of his eye. He pretends not to notice them.

“No,” he says, voice unsettlingly shaky. “Only you.”

He decides now is not the time to dwell on that. “Is he— is he going to lose his job?”

The only reason none of them had done anything sooner was because they knew how important this job is to Spencer. And Derek hates with a burning, roaring passion that their hesitation; their cowardly delay, might have cost him his life instead. Just the thought brings another choked sob from his lips, and this time the tears come with it. Before he knows it, his shoulders are shaking violently and all the emotions Derek is struggling to name finally come pouring out, right into Hotch’s lap.

He feels an arm wrap around him and he’s too broken not to lean into it, seeking comfort from the one person in the entire world who can offer it right now. Falling apart in his superior’s arms is not how he saw his Thursday evening going, but he’s too exhausted to care.

By the time he finally pulls away, Hotch is crying too, and they sit a little closer on the bench.

“Spencer won’t lose his job,” he says determinedly, looking Derek in the eyes. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Derek knows that they will have to lie. Papers will be forged and Hotch will be backed into an impossible corner, and he knows that they could lose their jobs if they are ever found out. He doesn’t fucking care. They’ve already failed Spencer in a disgusting, immeasurable, utterly unforgivable way, and he’ll be damned if they ever do that again.

“Good,” he says, and that’s the end of that.

Derek doesn’t understand most of what the doctor tells them, but he doesn’t really care that much for the technicalities anyway. All he cares about is that Spencer had overdosed in the parking garage of his building and was found by a neighbour he doesn’t even know that well. He cares that a damn near stranger was there for Spencer when he wasn’t, and he cares that Hotch was called as his emergency contact, and as such, Derek can finally step up. He can walk into his room and hold his hand and tell him that he’s here now, and he’s not leaving again.

He cares that Spencer is going to be okay.

He’s still asleep when they’re finally allowed to take their seats by his bedside, and Derek tries very hard not to cry at the sight of him, but it isn’t easy. There’s still a bluish tint to his fingernails, and he looks pale and clammy under the oxygen mask. Medicine drips slowly into the line connected to the cannula in the crook of his elbow, and the heart rate echoing out from the monitors is still alarmingly quick.

The evidence of Derek’s failings is staring him right in the face, and it’s hard not to turn away, but he refuses to let himself. He has a lot to make up to Spencer, but he can damn well start by sitting with him here in his darkest hour.

“We all knew.”

Derek looks up from Spencer’s hand to meet Hotch’s eyes. “Yeah.”

“We all knew, and we didn’t do anything about it.” The guilt in Hotch’s voice is momentous enough to rival Derek’s own, and it hurts to hear. Derek failed Spencer as a colleague and a friend-maybe-something-more, but Hotch failed him as a father figure.

He feels tears well up in his eyes again and he does his best to swallow them back down. “Emily did.”

A violent sob tears itself out of Hotch’s lungs, and it’s so loud that Derek almost flinches. “And isn’t that just so much worse? She barely knows him! I met him at lunch with Gideon when he was nineteen, I’ve known him for seven years! Before all of this went down, he almost called me ‘dad’. And I sat back and watched him suffer with both the PTSD of being kidnapped and the fucking heroin addiction he developed because of that bastard, and I did nothing!”

Derek’s at a loss as he watches Hotch break down in front of him, his voice breaking as he shouts, tears streaming down his face as he dissolves into sobs.

“He’s never gonna forgive me. Nor should he. I can’t stand myself right now.”

A little uncertain of the right thing to do, Derek stands up and crosses to the other side of the bed and wraps his arms around Hotch like he did for him only hours earlier. “We all fucked up,” he agrees, “but we’ll get through this. We might never forgive ourselves, but we can always do better. We can do right by Spencer as he recovers, we can help him get clean, help him keep his job, remind him of how loved he is. We can’t abandon that duty just because we failed at doing it before.”

Hotch sits back up and wipes at his eyes furiously, casting his eyes on Spencer. He reaches a hand out and brushes it through his short but untamed curls tenderly, his thumb caressing his eyebrow and forehead gently.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I won’t fail him again.”

Both Derek and Hotch spring into action as soon as Spencer stirs, waking up slowly through the layers of sleep until he’s staring at both of them with a look of terrified uncomprehension in his eyes.

“Hey,” Hotch says softly, hand moving to cup the side of his face. “You’re alright, you’re safe. You’re in the hospital with me and Derek, and everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”

Spencer slowly looks around the room as the realisation of what’s going on slowly dawns on him, and soon the anxiety is replaced with abject horror and to Derek’s dismay, he immediately starts to cry.

“Hey, hey, pretty boy,” he murmurs as soothingly as he can, following Hotch’s suit and tangling his fingers in Spencer’s hair. “Don’t worry about anything right now, okay? Hotch and I are gonna fix everything right up, and we’re gonna help you. We’re gonna help you like we should’ve helped you before.”

He hates that he loses his composure slightly at the end, but Spencer relaxes slightly so he takes it as a win.

“You can go back to sleep now, Spencer,” Hotch says gently, spotting the signs of exhaustion easily. “We’re gonna stay right here with you, okay? We’ll be here when you wake up.”

When he does finally awaken again, he explains through tears and strangled breaths that he didn’t mean to, that he wasn’t trying to die, he was just so tired and in so much pain that he hadn’t calculated the dosage right.

Hotch and Derek calmly explain that they’re not judging him, and that they’re going to help him through the hospital’s rehab program. Spencer refuses their apologies but they repeat them anyway, trying not to show just how much they hate themselves as they do.

They rope Penelope in, and she helps them make sure Spencer keeps his job, but otherwise their team is entirely oblivious to their chaotic and regret-filled Saturday night spent in George Washington University Hospital.

Most of all, though, Derek does absolutely everything in his power to make sure Spencer is happy, no matter how torn-up and scarred he might feel when he goes home to his own apartment. It isn’t much compared to his property business and his coveted role at the FBI’s behavioural analysis unit, but to Derek it’s his most important and worthy mission in life.

And if that spirals into something more, well. Maybe that’s just one good thing to come out of that small, stuffy, heartbreak-riddled ICU room.

taglist: @suburban--gothic @strippersenseii @takeyourleap-of-faith @negativefouriq @makaylajadewrites @iamrenstark @hotchseyebrows @temily @enbyspencer @reidology @spencerspecifics @bau-gremlin @tobias-hankel @garcias-bitch @oliverbrnch @physics-magic @sbeno22 @im-autistic @anxious-enby @kuolonsyoja @reidreids (add yourself to my taglist via this form!!)

#my writing #spencer reid #derek morgan #hurt spencer reid #spencer reid whump #tw drugs #tw substances #tw dilaudid arc #tw drug use #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal midns gen fic #derek morgan & spencer reid #aaron hotchner & spencer reid

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fantasia-monogram · 3 years ago

Text

As the clock strikes midnight, part 1

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / epilogue

♥️ Taeyang x reader (nonbinary, female anatomy) x Jaeyoon; mentions of other SF9 members

♥️ Suggestive (~2k words); smoking, mentions of alcohol, (lightly) implied BDSM. Mutual pining. Next part is going to be NSFW (and reveal more about the characters’ history).

♥️ You’re a beast at work, having to be tough to climb up the corporate ladder, but what you never thought of is that your attitude might be intimidating to your long time crush. Luckily, your much more laid back friend is here to help... both of you.

♥️ Disclaimer: this is just for fun! I’m not claiming that’s how they are in real life, it’s just my imagination doing whatever it wants. Read at your own discretion.

“Ah, the exciting world of corporate banking.”

You were too tired to check the time, but one look over the room gave you a clear idea of what kind of stage the party has reached: vast office space, with all the desks pushed against the wall and a long table situated in the middle, was littered with barely-sober people, most of them in groups of two or three. The goal was to let coworkers of various titles and positions mingle in a casual manner, as the fairly young company’s hierarchy and employer count was expanding proportionately to its growth - friendly office culture was a staple in this place. Truth was, after a couple drinks (or, in case of some tougher individuals, whole bottles of soju), everyone would group into their regular lunch break cliques, usually within the same department.

Long gone were the days when the business was much smaller, and it was easier for people from different departments to form close bonds.

Luckily, you remembered them very well, and that’s why, as the party was dying down, you shared a (small and not very comfortable) couch with your two best colleagues: Lee Jaeyoon and Yoo Taeyang.

“Look at him. What a fighter,” Jaeyoon said with a hushed voice, pointing his almost full glass of whisky towards another corner of the spacious room. There, behind one of the squished-together desks, Quality Department leader Kim Inseong was still angrily babbling about work-related statistics to the nearly-wasted Training Supervisor, Baek Juho. The latter, with his forehead propped on his hand, kept waving at his superior to stop, as coherent words would not come out of his mouth at this point no matter how hard he tried. Inseong, incredibly professional yet warm and welcoming when sober, would do a total 180° after a single bottle of soju and turn into a snarky bastard ranting at everything going on in the company.

“Supervisor Baek is holding on strong, though,” Taeyang added in a matter-of-fact tone before taking a sip from his glass.

You couldn’t help but cover your mouth and snort with amusement.

The three of you were an unusual group.

You all joined the company on the same day, and underwent basic training for a couple weeks. Even though Jaeyoon was close to your age, the gap between you and Taeyang was much bigger. Add their impressive height and you had to admit, it was awkward to sit between these two guys every single day. Soon enough though, your small talk during short breaks would turn more and more enjoyable, and when the last week rolled in, as the oldest one, you mustered up the courage to invite them to a nearby coffee shop. Formally, you just wanted to celebrate the end of your training stage, but honestly… You grew fond of them, so there was no harm in getting to know them better away from the workplace.

Who knew the three of you would find common ground during that fateful meeting?

“Hey… Y/n… You there?” Jaeyoon’s voice snapped you out of a trip down the memory lane.

“Yeah. What were you saying?” you asked, a bit embarrassed.

“You don’t seem to be having fun at all. I haven’t seen you around the bar even once,” Jaeyoon ranted, haphazardly shaking his glass.

“You know I don’t drink.”, you stated calmly.

“Aish… It’s a party! No need to be so strict. Am I right?”

For some reason, Jaeyoon looked towards Taeyang with a wicked grin, and you followed. The youngest one, sitting by your right side, cleared his throat theatrically.

“I’ll go get myself another one.” he mumbled, already leaving the couch.

“Don’t overdo it!” Jaeyoon yelled, then turned back to you. “You could really use some percents, though. Just saying.”

“I have an image to maintain,” you said quietly, crossing your arms against your chest.

“You dressed like it’s every other day at work, too,” your friend pointed out, “It’s just a different colour.”

You looked at him resentfully. That’s true, tailored suits were your usual look, not just because you simply didn’t like dresses or skirts. It was the easiest way to elongate your silhouette, and you were already lacking in height compared to all the higher-ups attending company meetings with you.

A powerful look was expected from the Compliance Supervisor who rose to that position in a record-breaking time and was nowhere near done career-wise.

Besides, you had to admit, your neat suits in a whole variety of colors boosted your confidence every single day. You had all of them adjusted, so they would accentuate your figure in all the right places. Oh, all the times you and Jaeyoon would shamelessly ask poor Taeyang who’s got the best ass out of you two (“Okay, forget it. Taeyangie does,” Jaeyoon would end the competition each time, making Taeyang cringe).

"You're just jealous because I look better in red than you do," you barked, although lacking any real bite.

"Listen, what I'm trying to say is…" Jaeyoon leaned dangerously close to your ear. "...I don't mind your uniforms, but someone over there is on the brink of losing his mind right now."

You backed off, wide-eyed. Your friend discreetly threw a glance towards Taeyang, who just came back with his glass refilled.

Still dumbfounded, you kept looking back and forth at each of your friends, not realizing how silly it must have looked.

"Did I miss anything?" Taeyang asked, clearly feeling something went down during his absence.

"Yeah, I just said that maybe we should leave this remnant of a party and move somewhere else," Jaeyoon replied, looking over your shoulder at the youngest.

You furrowed your eyebrows, but ultimately decided his idea wasn't that bad after all.

"I don't know… Wouldn't it be rude to leave so early?" Taeyang mused.

"Seokwoo left, like, at 9," Jaeyoon pointed out. "Way before anybody had a chance to get drunk."

"Ah, our lovely Escalation Specialist," you sighed, talking about Kim Seokwoo, your right hand man at the Compliance Department. "You could say the party escalated too much for him."

"At nine!", the older of your friends laughed.

“What time is it anyway?” you asked. It didn’t matter that you could just check it yourself. You were used to people doing things like this for you around this place.

Jaeyoon, who knew it very well, fished his phone out of his shirt pocket.

“Uh… Fifteen to twelve,” he announced.

Taeyang tapped your shoulder.

"Happy early birthday," he threw casually.

Pleasant warmth rose to your cheeks. You were just starting to smile, your eyes crinkling already, when Jaeyoon jumped in his seat, startling both of you.

"Wait, what?!" he yelled, making a few heads turn for a second or two.

"What kind of a friend are you, really?" Taeyang snorted dryly, "It's y/n's birthday tomorrow."

Jaeyoon let out a sound that could best be described as a happy roar and pounced forward in an attempt to give you a bear hug. You dodged it by moving backwards, thus colliding into Taeyang's side.

You briefly glanced at each other, awkwardly nodding as an apology, before he uttered a quick it's fine and slid further into the couch.

"Hey, that hug was supposed to be a present!" Jaeyoon whined, recovering his dignity after the failure.

"Thanks, but no, thanks." you retorted, staying at a safe distance.

"Okay, but now we really have to go somewhere else. This calls for a celebration!" Your overly enthusiastic companion wasn't giving up that easily.

You turned to your other friend.

"Taeyang?"

"That's enough social interaction for today," the boy in question replied, "One more crowded place and I'll pass out on the spot."

He was known for his introverted tendencies; even at work, he occupied a desk that was a bit further from everyone else, guaranteeing him all the peace he needed, and had only one coworker he was somewhat close to apart from you two.

"What about we go to my place instead? I've got no alcohol, but there are plenty of leftovers for a late dinner if you're hungry," you offered instead.

"Sounds like a plan!" Jaeyoon clasped his hands. "I'll pay for the cab."

Taeyang bottomed out his glass.

"Wanna go for a smoke while we wait?"

As soon as you put a cigarette in your mouth, Taeyang was there to light it. You could swear his eyes lingered on your lips, but maybe it was so late that your eyes started pulling tricks on you.

A good five minutes passed of the three of you smoking in silence, enjoying the cool summer breeze and the sight of a nearly full moon above you. Taeyang was the first to finish, with you following. Jaeyoon was the last to end his cigarette, throwing it into the trash can nearby in a somewhat angry manner.

"Taeyang, I can't possibly imagine a better time to tell them than now."

Both you and Taeyang turned your heads towards Jaeyoon.

"Tell what?" you posed a question, confused.

The guys exchanged looks. After that, Taeyang averted his eyes, while Jaeyoon locked his with yours.

"I think he should be the one to explain." Jaeyoon stated firmly.

"It's fine," Taeyang's voice was unexpectedly weak, "I'm fine with you telling them."

You felt your heartbeat quicken all of sudden.

"He's head over heels for you."

And then, it was as if your heart just stopped. No, that couldn't be. Your pretty, soft spoken dongsaeng you always had your eyes on? In love with you?

"No way." you muttered, turning to face Taeyang. He still couldn't bear to look at you. "Is that true?"

Internally, you were screaming for him to say yes.

Poor guy seemed like he was about to get a panic attack, breathing in and out loudly, hands balled into fists. You could see him biting his lips.

"Come on." Jaeyoon ushered, "I did the hard part for you. Now it's your turn."

Taeyang slowly raised his gaze. His doll-like eyes were glazed over with tears - a sight so stunning it almost made you gasp.

"It's true. It's been going on for more than two years now." His voice was quiet, but steady.

You kept staring at his gorgeous, flushed face, unable to say a word. It was a clue for him to continue.

"I knew I had a chance. I'm not stupid. I noticed you treated me differently than Jaeyoon or any other friend at work. But I also knew your no relationships at the workplace policy and your attitude towards age gaps, and decided to keep it to myself."

Your heart was about to burst.

"I'm just as demanding in love as I am at work," you explained, "I'd ruin you."

Jaeyoon circled you. As soon as he stopped, he put his left hand on Taeyang's shoulder, while his right on yours.

"Tell them," he encouraged the younger guy again.

As if on command, there was fire burning in Taeyang's gaze. You felt it consume you as a whole.

"I'm not fragile," the boy declared, “I want to be ruined.”

You thought you were dreaming, but a squeeze of Jaeyoon’s hand on your shoulder anchored you back to reality, this reality being your crush at first sight confessing to you.

“Your confidence… How strict and relentless you are…” Taeyang went on, his voice breaking, “The tone of your voice… And your suits. Oh, your suits. It all turns me on so much.”

“What a guy,” Jaeyoon chuckled, shaking his head.

Both you and Taeyang decided to ignore him for now.

“I repeat,” Taeyang insisted, “I want to be ruined.”

Despite Jaeyoon’s continuous hold on both of you, you reached towards Taeyang’s face to caress his smooth cheeks with the back of your fingers. That was all he needed to surge forward and plant a brief, fluttering kiss on your lips that still managed to leave you with your head spinning, needing more.

“Happy birthday, y/n,” Taeyang whispered, holding his forehead against yours.

It was only then when you realized you were both breathing heavily, even though nothing had happened yet.

The moment was interrupted by the ringtone of Jaeyoon’s phone. At last, the guy ceased his hold on you to check the device.

“Okay, lovebirds, the cab is here. It’s gonna be a fun night.”

You glanced at Jaeyoon, then locked your eyes with Taeyang’s again. He reciprocated your devious smile.

(to be continued)

#sf9 scenarios #sf9 smut #sf9 imagines #yoo taeyang imagine #yoo taeyang scenario #Another long piece of writing...#Please bear with me #As the clock strikes midnight

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sisterspooky1013 · 3 years ago

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Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 3

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Winter soldiers on, the cold and occasional snow giving way to the promise of spring. Her birthday comes and goes, celebrated at her mother’s with her family as it had been before there was someone else to lay claim to her time on special days. The vacant spaces in her apartment that had been occupied by Ethan’s books and clothes, his toiletries, and VHS collection, begin to be filled by evidence of her new, single life. Her solitary toothbrush in the cup by the sink starts to look normal, the indent on her finger where his ring lived begins to fade, and the silence she arrives home to at the end of her workday becomes mundane instead of painful. Though this change was initiated and welcomed by her, change is always hard. She goes through the motions of being okay until one day in early April, she realizes that she is. The budding crocuses bring with them the optimism of a new life, another chance. A third chance, as it were, to get it right. Now she only has to figure out what right is.

Though they’ve always been close, she and Missy become even closer, taking up the space in each other’s lives that would otherwise be consumed by boyfriends or lovers. They are each other’s better half, sharing the minutiae of their workdays and staying available for unexpected illness or the need to move heavy furniture. While every human needs other humans to thrive, the Scully sisters fill that need with each other, shunning the idea of casual dating simply for the sake of companionship. There is no companion more perfect than the one who has known you since before you could understand the need for such a partner in life, and who is by your side not out of obligation, but because their soul is stitched so firmly to your own. They have always pledged their dedication to each other through thick and thin, and the new year of 1997 proves that to be a sincere promise on both their parts.

As such, they sit at their favorite local coffee shop on Sunday afternoon when Missy finally dares to ask her sister the question she’s avoided for the past four months. Not because she was afraid of her reaction, but because she knew Dana wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Have you heard from Mulder at all?” she asks so casually that Dana flicks her eyes up and stares in disbelief, not sure that she heard her right.

“What?” Dana asks, her heart having lept for one single beat at the mention of his name.

“Mulder. Have you had any contact with him, or seen him?” Missy is misleadingly casual, acting as though this is not a question she’s been waiting months to ask.

“No,” Dana says flatly, her eyes dropping down to her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t expect to.”

“Does he know that you and Ethan split?” Missy asks next, her feet folded underneath her in the oversized armchair.

“I don’t see how he would,” Dana posits.

“Have you considered reaching out to him?” Missy tries, watching her sister for signs that she is going to shut the conversation down.

Dana shakes her head glumly. “After what I put him through, I’m sure I’m the last person he wants to hear from. That was nearly nine months ago, he’s probably long since moved on.”

“Have you? Moved on?”

Dana pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know how to answer that. What does it mean, to move on?”

“Do you still think about him?” No assertions, just gentle questions, leading her sister to the conclusion she knows she needs to come to.

Dana nods softly. “All the time. Every day.”

“Then I think your answer would be no. You should contact him, Dana. It feels like unfinished business.” Missy has a thing about unfinished business. She believes it prevents you from achieving your full potential in life.

“Missy...what would I even say? ‘Sorry I broke your heart, good news is it didn’t even work out so it was all for nothing’? I don’t want to cause him more pain than I already have.” Her tone is resigned and defeated. Another regret she will come to live with, pinned to her lapel with a collection of other mistakes that she can never quite atone for.

Missy shrugs. “You know what I think. The rest is up to you.”

Missy is right. The trouble is, she doesn't trust herself to make these decisions anymore. She’s proven to herself that she doesn’t know how to make the right one.

———

“Excuse me,” a rough, nasally voice calls from behind her. She turns to see a red nosed young man in the doorway of the pathologist’s office, slumped against the doorframe with watery eyes. “I’m here to pick up an autopsy report, for, um...I think it’s Richards or something.”

Scully has worked with this courier before, and compared to his typical demeanor it’s easy to tell that he’s unwell.

“Are you alright?” she asks as she uses her feet to push her rolling chair over to the file cabinet, retrieving the report in question.

“Uh, not really, no. But if I call out sick one more time I’m gonna get canned.” He leans his head against the cool metal of the doorframe. She suspects he’s feverish.

“You don’t look well enough to work. Where is this headed?” she asks, still holding the file in her hand.

The young man blows out a stream of air and she holds her breath for a moment, not wanting to inhale whatever he’s infected with. He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. “Hoover Building, Behavioral Science Unit. Agent Kissop.” He stuffs the paper back in his pocket and looks around, taking refuge in the extra chair near the end of her desk.

She feels a little flutter in her belly; what are the odds?

“I’ll tell you what,” she begins, “I was just about to head out for the day and I live in Georgetown, so I’m going that way anyway. Can I drop this off for you? You don’t look well enough to drive and I’d hate to see you on the news in the morning if you cause an accident.”

He sighs deeply, the biggest display of excitement he can muster. “Are you sure? I’d really appreciate it,” he says, his eyelids barely maintaining half-mast.

“No problem at all,” she replies, gathering her coat and purse. “You get home and take some Tylenol, okay? And get some rest.”

He nods weakly and she leaves him there, climbing into her car with the file and a pounding heart. She can’t help but feel like this is a sign. She’s been thinking about signs a lot lately, and she’s recently resolved to start paying attention to them.

———

Mulder stands beside the copy machine, doing his Wednesday afternoon ritual of fighting with the toner cartridge and cursing profusely. From around the corner, he can hear AD Kirkbride drumming up his own song of profanity, which is more of a daily ritual than a weekly one.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kirkbride is shouting. “Now that dipshit is conning goddamn doctors into doing his pathetic job?”

Another much softer voice answers him, but Mulder can’t quite make out the words. He moves closer to the open door, bored enough to bother eavesdropping and seeing which of his colleagues is going to get their ass handed to them today.

“Yeah, I’m sure he is sick, that fucking lowlife. He’s sick every fucking week, it’s always something with him!”

“Sir, I don’t know what the history is between you and the courier,” answers the other voice, and it’s familiar in a way that makes him stop in his tracks, his stomach clutching in a mix of nervousness and excitement. “Can you direct me to Agent Kissop, please? Then I’ll be on my way and you can work it out with the courier service.”

It’s Scully. It’s her, he’s sure. He’s been dreaming of that voice for months, the soft sibilant S’s and the way her plush lips rest against her adorable overbite. Without thinking, he enters Kirkbride’s office and sees her standing in front of his desk with a file in her hand and an exasperated look on her face.

“Scully?” he asks, and she turns to him. Her hair is a bit longer, now just past her shoulders, and she’s wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She’s as beautiful as ever, maybe even more than he remembered. She doesn’t look all that surprised to see him. If anything, she looks relieved. Emotion boils up in his chest immediately and he feels his throat constrict.

“You know her?” Kirkbride asks, gesturing to Scully, and Mulder nods. “Great, then show her where Kissop sits so I can call the fucking courier service and tell them to fire that lazy asshat before I strangle him.”

Scully walks towards him and he turns wordlessly to show her out of Kirkbride’s office and down the hall to where Kissop sits. His heart is beating slowly but firmly, his pulse resounding in his ears. What is she doing here? Did she come here to see him? And if so, why? When they arrive at Kissop’s desk, Scully hands her the file and they exchange words that Mulder doesn’t bother to listen to. Then Scully looks at him hesitantly and slowly turns to walk away, towards the exit. He feels suspended, unsure if he can believe his own eyes that she is really here, and entirely conflicted over what to do about it if she is. He’s spent nine months trying to forget her, but she’s as real and alive as ever, standing before him. His self-protective instinct says to let her go, but his heart says to run after her.

“Quit standing here like a dumbass and go talk to her,” Kissop orders him, clearly picking up on some tension though she doesn’t have the faintest idea what’s causing it.

Shaken from his daze, Mulder follows Scully into the hallway.

“Scully,” he calls out, and she stops walking but doesn’t turn around. When he catches up to her, he touches her shoulder and she turns to face him with wet eyes.

They stand there for a moment, looking at one another, an expectant feeling hanging over them. He wants to touch her, to feel the press of her body against his again, but he doesn’t dare. That would seem like a relapse, of sorts.

“Would you have coffee with me?” she finally speaks, her voice small and unsure. It’s an invitation she is not at all confident he will accept.

“Okay,” he answers, and they walk out of the building side by side, silently.

They seem to understand without saying so that Mulder will lead them to where they ought to go, which is a little cafe called Burial Grounds just a block from the front doors of the Hoover Building. They stand in line stoically, tension crackling between them like static as they order something that will occupy their hands and give them a safe place to avert their eyes while they talk. They sit at a small table near the door and wait, glimpsing at each other’s faces and then away, summoning courage. Because this was at Scully’s invitation, it seems like she should have the floor.

“Ethan and I aren’t together anymore,” she finally blurts out, and his first instinct is to look at her hand, which is indeed bare of any jewelry. Next he looks at her face, considering her expression and whether she takes this to be good news or bad. She looks pained, but not about what she’s just said. She’s had this look on her face since he first spotted her in Kirkbride’s office. He’s unsure if he should be offering congratulations or condolences, and irritated that he’s being put in the position to figure it out, so he says nothing.

“I’m sure that I’m just about the last person you want to see,” she continues, her ocean irises tracing the logo printed on her cup. It wasn’t a question, but if it were he’d tell her that she’s the only person he wants to see, the only one he ever thinks about. The reason he can’t sleep and, when he does, the only thing he dreams about. “If it’s okay, there are some things I’d like to say to you. I understand if you don’t want to hear them.”

She flicks her eyes up to meet his for a moment and he nods softly, keeping his expression neutral. She returns her gaze to the skull and crossbones bearing the name of the coffee shop.

“I have always believed that life is about making the right choices. That we are presented with an ongoing series of options, opportunities and situations, and that we are tasked with determining the right choice that will put us on the path towards the best possible life. But as of late,” she pauses to take a sip of her coffee, stealing a glance at him before she continues, “I’ve come to believe that there is actually only one choice. One path we’re supposed to be on, and there are signs along the way to pay attention to. The choices might not always make sense at the time, but in the grand scheme of things, they are the ones you need to make in order to have the best possible life. Or the right life, the one you’re supposed to have.”

She pauses and slides her hand across the table, covering his with her own. The soft warmth of her skin electrifies him a little, sending a flush to his belly. She brings her eyes up to meet his, her brows knit with emotion as her chin gently puckers. She’s so beautiful it physically hurts.

“I ignored the signs,” she says tightly. “I made the wrong choice, Mulder. I thought I was doing the right thing, the best thing, but I was wrong. I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

He feels his chest tighten, a telltale precursor to tears, and he looks away from her. Why is she doing this? To make herself feel better? She pulls her hand back and sniffs, then stands and slings her purse over her shoulder.

“Thank you for having coffee with me,” she says, and then he watches her leave. He sits there, staring at the pink lipstick that stains the rim of her cup, wishing she’d given him some more time to absorb it all. Wishing she’d never made the wrong choice.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #gillovny #msr #sculder #x files #x files fanfic #alternate universe

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dameronology · 4 years ago

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welcome to the jungle {frankie morales}

summary: after taking a job with the delta guys, you cross paths with frankie morales. even though you’re at each other’s throats at first, it proves to be the start of something beautiful. (for @what-the--curtains - i hope you enjoy!!) - 7k words

warnings: swearing, mentions of ptsd

this is kinda ambiguous in terms of the timeline of the film but i sort of hint to the first half being before the events of t.f and the second half being after -- with that said, you can take it as you would like :D

- jazz

Your brother had dog sat for a few days.

In exchange, you were flying out to Colombia in the middle of your work week.

You believed in favours, but these two did not feel like they were equal.

Still, you were a person of your word - and getting to fly to South America was exciting. The job itself was exciting, if not a little...eyebrow raising. His friend, an ex-Delta soldier, needed somebody to ID a body. That part didn’t bother you - you were a forensic archaeologist after all and it was quite literally your job description. The suspicious bit was the circumstances under which you were doing it; Santiago Garcia hadn’t been entirely clear on the phone, but he’d said something about witnesses and getting the government off of our backs. You’d met Santiago a few times and you knew what kind of work he did - military stuff. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that it was probably an under-the-radar kind of affair. But, you’d never been one to back down from a challenge.

So, here you were on a warm Colombian Tuesday afternoon, suitcase trailing behind you as you trekked towards a dusty old air base. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on your back in a way that had initially been comforting, but was now just plain annoying. You didn’t know how long you were going to be here, but packing three jackets now felt like a stupid idea. The one one you’d worn on the plane over had been long discarded and tied around your waist, which only added to the struggle of dragging your case up the steep, sandy hill. In the distance, you could see an ATC tower glinting under the sun - the streams of light bounced right back off of it, causing you to shield your eyes with your forearm. The taxi you’d gotten from the international airport - not like this sandy little place - had only taken you so far. At least, of all things, the boots you’d opted to wear were built for this kind of thing.

A few hundred meters up the road, you finally saw another sign of human life. A 4x4 was parked outside the abandoned terminal entrance, three men leaning against the side of it. You spotted Santiago standing a few metres away on his phone, thumbs tapping away. He didn’t look any different to the last time you saw him; dark and curly hair, a semi-friendly smile and stubble littering his chin. You hadn’t seen him since your brother’s birthday party a few months ago.

‘Hey!’ The former soldier offered you a grin when he saw you, holding his arms open. ‘Long time, no see!’

‘Hey, Santi!’ You replied, giving him a pat on the back as he pulled you into a hug. ‘And yeah, it’s been a while. Then again, when was the last time you were in the country for more than five minutes?’

‘I’m in high demand.’ He shot back.

Pulling back from the embrace, Santi pointed to his colleagues. There was Will and Benny, two blonde boys, both in military gear. It didn’t take much to figure out that they were brothers; same smirk, same stance, same eyes. Even if Santi hadn’t pointed it out, you would have figured as much. You were naturally deductive - came with the job. After the brothers, there was Frankie. He had dark eyes and hair, the latter of which was covered by his hat. Unlike the other three, he was wearing more casual clothes, just with a tac vest over the top. You kind of got the vibe that he didn’t want to be there - that was...comforting.

‘What’s all this?’ Frankie asked, gesturing to the heavy metal suitcase behind you.

‘Just...stuff. Tools.’ You replied. ‘Things I need to do my job, I guess.’

‘How heavy is it?’

‘Light enough that I was able to get them onto a commercial flight?’ You offered.

‘The plane is already at max weight.’ He replied, brown eyes flickering up to meet yours.

‘God, give ‘em a break, Fish!’ Santi slapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Remember last time you said it would be fine-’

‘- hey.’ He cut him off with a harsh look. ‘We don’t talk about that.’

‘So I can bring them?’ You raised your eyebrows. ‘Because I can’t do whatever it is you need to do unless I have them.’

‘Yeah, it’ll be fine.’ Santiago gave you a comforting smile. ‘Let’s head to the jet and we’ll talk about the job.’

Swinging your duffle bag back over your shoulder, you picked up your suitcase and began to follow the guys further up the hill. There wasn’t anybody else around -- just sand, sun and rusting old jets. There was one in particular that they seemed to be headed towards. It was only mildly less eroded than the damaged ones around you, but the engines were running and the cargo doors were open. Santiago took your bag from your hands as you approached it, tossing it in with the other luggage.

‘Do not throw that one, Garcia!’ You demanded, flinching slightly as he took your suitcase.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He shot back.

‘Sure thing.’ You rolled your eyes at him. ‘You brought a medkit right?’

‘No. Why?’

‘There’s one in my duffle bag.’ You replied. ‘Side pocket. Can you grab it?’

‘We don’t need one, we’ll be fine-’

‘- Santiago Garcia, do you want me to report back to my brother that you took his baby sibling on a jungle-wide expedition without the correct medical supplies?’ You challenged.

Santi swallowed, mind briefly flashing back to the time he’d almost been decked by said brother for letting you walk home alone. ‘Fine.’

Your triumphant smile only lasted a split second; as soon as your eyes fell on the plane, you realised you still had to get on it. Fuck.

The engines seemed to be working fine, but it was just...old. And eroding. And making a funny sound. You were by no means an engineer, but even just binging a few episodes of Air Crash Investigations made you feel qualified enough to know that this was not where it was at in terms of air safety. You could have taken it up with Frankie, but he didn’t seem entirely approachable.

You did trust Santi, however - though sometimes that seemed a little against your better judgement. Every crazy story that your brother had relayed back to you from their time in the military involved him making questionable decisions. Hopefully, opting to fly this hunk of metal wouldn’t be one of them. Here’s to hoping it was aerodynamic.

‘Are you getting in or…’ Frankie peered down at you from the stairs, eyebrows raised.

‘Yeah, sorry.’ You blinked in surprise. ‘This thing is safe, right?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘What is it to me?’ You snorted. ‘Just, y’know, that I’m about to fly a few hundred thousand feet in the air and if it falls out of the sky I’ll die.’

‘I know what I’m doing.’ Frankie shut the door behind you as you climbed aboard, twisting the handle shut. ‘I’ve been flying for years.’

‘I’m not saying it’s you.’ You brushed past him, shoulders bumping as you did. ‘Captain fucking Sully couldn’t fly this thing.’

‘The guy from Monster’s Inc?’

‘No, the guy who landed the plane on the Hudson? They made a movie about it, with Tom Hanks-’

‘- you should sit down now.’ Frankie turned away from you. ‘We’re about to take off.’

Your mouth fell open in slight disbelief. What an asshole.

Santi called your name, signalling for you to sit with him in the cockpit. The seats on the plane hardly looked comfortable, and your brain was mentally working out if it was safer to sit over the wing in a crash, or by the tail. You’d definitely seen it in a documentary once, but you couldn’t remember exactly what they said. Perhaps the best option was to just be less dramatic.

Taking a seat between Frankie and Santi, you pulled your seatbelt on and shuffled awkwardly. This was fine. Absolutely fine. Frankie was a trained pilot (and a dickhead, but that didn’t take away from his flying skills) and you were going to be fine. Fiiiiine. Maybe if you said it once more, you’d believe yourself. You were going to be fine. Yeah, there we go.

A few deep breaths and you were certain. Or, at least you’d convinced yourself to be certain.

‘So.’ Your eyes momentarily flicked over to where Frankie was adjusting some controls. ‘What exactly am I doing here?’

‘A few months ago, the boys and I were involved in the shoot-out.’ Santi began. ‘Pretty standard for the type of operation we were on.’

‘Right. Standard office work.’ You muttered. ‘Do go on.’

‘We thought everyone who had witnessed it had been recorded.’ He continued. ‘And everyone who we spoke to verified that it was a justified shootout. No dirty work, no ulterior motive. All valid, from a legal perspective.’

You thinned your eyes. ‘I don’t think I like where this is going.’

‘We ID’d all the bodies at the time.’ He said. ‘Including a Ricky Martinez. Except now, a guy claiming to also be Ricky Martinez has come forward, claiming that his version of events is a little different. Like, different enough to incriminate us.’

‘He’s lying, right? You guys were the good ones?’ You urged. Santiago’s silence was anything but comforting. ‘Right?’

‘Morals are all a matter of perspective.’ He replied. ‘Our labs ID’d Martinez’ body twice but we need a third party opinion before we can completely dispel the guy pretending to be him.’

‘Guess that’s where I come in?’ You asked, leaning further back into the seat as the jet began to move.

‘Exactamente.’ Santi nodded.

That didn’t sound too bad. Between excavating the grave, running tests and returning the body, it would take a few days tops. You could manage that.

The jet began to pick up speed, making its ascent towards the runway. Frankie did look like he knew what he was doing -- heck, the man looked bored, even. He barely even had to look at the dash controls as it moved forward, hands moving freely and easily to manoeuvre the plane down the runway.

‘What are you staring at?’ Frankie glanced over at you.

‘N-nothing.’ You replied. ‘Shouldn’t you be focusing on the road-’

‘- that’s a runway.’ He cut you off.

‘Whatever.’

You were thrown backwards in your chair from the momentum of the take off. The plane angled upwards as it went up in the air, tilting sideways as it balanced out. You felt your stomach drop as the ground disappeared from beneath you, the push of the engines pulling you up higher into the sky. There was a clunk, signalling that the landing gear had retracted.

Well, the plane had fulfilled its first purpose: taking off. That was a good sign.

‘So,’ Benny peered over at you. ‘What’s your callsign gonna be?’

‘My name, presumably.’ You quirked a brow at him.

‘We have Ironhead, Catfish and Pope.’ He continued. ‘But Will and I were talking, and we thought Barbie was gonna fit well.’

‘Oh, really?’ You sniffed. ‘And why might that be?’

‘Because you’re young, and pretty hot-’

‘- so your call sign is Benny, right?’ You cut him off. ‘Short for Benjamin? That’s really clever. Did you come up with it yourself?’

‘Maybe Eye Candy will be beter-’

Benny was cut off when you reached across, leaning over Santi to smack him in the chest with your balled up fist. All four of them jumped in surprise at your action - clearly, you weren’t somebody to be fucked with. You hadn’t worked your ass for years to get your degree to get discredited like that.

‘Make a comment like that again and I’ll drop kick your ass out of this plane.’ You jabbed your finger towards him.

Benny thinned his eyes at you. ‘Frankie wouldn’t let you do that. Right, Cat?’

‘You heard ‘em.’ Frankie’s eyes didn’t move from the clouds ahead.

To give credit where credit was due, Frankie was good at landing planes.

Specifically, he was good at landing planes in places where planes should not have been landed. Not that he’d had much of a choice when the engines gave in half way through the journey, a couple hundred miles over the thick Colombian jungle.

In short, you’d been right the entire time. The damn thing wasn’t safe. Of course, you weren’t going to say I told you so right then, since it felt like a little bit of a sensitive subject.

Now, the five of you were standing next to a pile of what-used-to-be-a-plane, defeat plastered over every one of your individual faces. You were lucky to all have made it out okay - just about. Santiago had taken a hit to the head, Benny had bitten his tongue pretty hard when you’d collided with the ground (fitting) and Frankie had split his head open. You and Will were the only ones who hadn’t sustained any injuries. He had proven to be much more tolerable than his brother.

‘Okay, we just gotta…’ you looked around, eyes taking in the debris around you. ‘We just gotta stay calm-’

‘- stay calm?’ Frankie cut you off. ‘You’re the reason the fucking thing went down! If you hadn’t taken all that extra weight-’

‘- do you ever shut up, Morales?’ You snapped. ‘And I’m no genius but I don’t think the engines catching fire was anything to do with me bringing an extra bag onto the plane!’

‘I’m the pilot.’ He reminded you. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Maybe it was the weight of your ego that made it go down.’ You chided.

‘Hey - Patrick, Spongebob!’ Will finally yelled. Both your heads snapped in his direction, eyes wide. ‘Can you keep it in your pants for two minutes so we can work out how to make it through the night?’

‘Right, sorry.’ You nodded.

You glanced around the crash site, brain calculating for a minute as you took in what little was left. The plan had landed on its belly and skidded for a few hundred metres; consequently, most of the luggage had come out on the way. That left you with the one remaining bag, the medkit you’d scared Santi into bringing and the strewn camping kit that had been ditched in the back of the fuselage.

Pulling your phone out your pocket, you sighed when you realised that you had no signal. What had you expected? Four bars in the middle of the jungle? Probably not realistic. You did, however, have a compass app. That was something. You thought for a moment, glancing between the app and the sun’s position in the sky. It was splintering through the trees, washing heat over you like a bucket of cold water. There was a small stream a few metres away, which was a source of water at least.

‘It’s just gone four, maybe five in the afternoon.’ You announced. ‘So we have about three hours till the sun starts to set. The water in the stream runs that way so if we follow it, we’ll find the source. People are more likely to set up civilization around a source of water.’

All four of them looked at you like kids who had lost their parents in Walmart. Were they really ex-military?

‘So, what?’ Benny frowned. ‘We...set up a new civilisation?’

‘Oh my days.’ You muttered under your breath. ‘I am spoon-feeding this to you! It means that there will be a town with people.’

‘That’s smart.’ Santi nodded.

‘But before we do that, we gotta sort this out. Will, d’you know how to check for concussion?’ You asked, to which he nodded. ‘Okay, you check Santi and I’ll clean up Frankie’s head. Then we gotta gather those camping supplies and head east. Best case scenario, we find a town before sundown. Worst case scenario, we camp out for the night.’

‘Who put you in charge?’ Frankie asked.

‘Me.’ You replied.

Taking the medkit from Santi’s hands, you quietly thanked him and led Frankie over to some rocks. He didn’t seem all that pleased when you forced him to sit on one - and he was even less pleased when you pulled his hat off. It revealed a tangle of dark curls, some of which you had to push back to get to the mark on his head. Some may have debated the importance of mentioning such a detail, but you couldn’t help but notice how soft his hair was.

You knelt down in front of him, pulling the supplies out of the little medical kit. There weren't many, but there was enough to give him something temporary till you got to a proper hospital. If you got a proper hospital.

‘It’s not too deep.’ You observed, running your thumb over the creases of his forehead. ‘Just a couple stitches at worst.’

‘Don’t you normally stitch up bodies?’ Frankie asked. His brown eyes were glued to the floor, following the outlines of the boot-prints that you’d left.

‘Yeah, it’s the same kinda principle though.’ You laughed slightly. ‘Despite your attitude, I’m not gonna give you Y-incision stitches.’

‘Thanks.’

‘At least not in a place people can see them.’

Frankie snorted, but it translated to a hiss of pain as you dabbed an alcohol wipe at his forehead. Despite everything, you had a slight admiration for him. He’d managed to land the plane safely as the situation allowed and despite a few minor injuries, things could have been much worse. You didn’t quite feel like vocalising that to him when you were still stranded in the middle of the jungle, but if you ever got out? You might get Santi to pass the message on.

‘D’ you think it’ll scar?’ Frankie quietly asked.

‘Maybe.’ You admitted. ‘Just take a deep breath.’

‘Where did you even learn to do this stuff?’ He asked, letting out another small grunt of discomfort. ‘The stitches and the compass shit.’

You shrugged. ‘I’ve been around the block a few times. You kinda learn to be prepared.’

‘Really? As a morgue worker?’

‘Not a morgue worker.’ You grumbled. ‘Then again, I am stabbing a needle through your skin so I suppose I’ll allow the discrepancy.’

‘What is it you do then?’

‘I’m a forensic archaeologist.’ You explained. ‘So it’s my job to retrospectively work out how people died, whether it be because their body was found a long time after they died or because they had to be exhumed from their original resting place.’

Gently pulling the needle back from Frankie’s forehead, you cut the thread and dabbed it again with an alcohol wipe. You brushed his hair back down and placed his hat back on his head, offering him a smile. For the first time since you’d met him, he returned the gesture.

You dusted off your knees and took a place on the rock beside Frankie, examining your handy work. Considering you’d been in a plane crash not quite an hour ago, it wasn’t too bad. At least if it did scar, it was in a place his hair covered up. And in your defense, scarring wasn’t usually something you had to worry about with your other...patients. They usually went back in the ground not long after you dealt with them.

‘You’ll wanna sit down for a minute.’ You replied. ‘D’you feel dizzy at all? Sick?’

‘I was just in a plane crash.’

‘Me too, funnily enough.’ You rolled your eyes at him. ‘I s’pose it’s the most interesting job I’ve worked in a while.’

‘Same here.’ Frankie said. ‘I normally work for a flight school, so this is...something else.’

‘It’ll make me grateful when I get back to the office.’ You agreed. ‘Because it has four walls, air conditioner and co-workers who don’t give me ridiculous nicknames.’

‘Right.’ He snorted. ‘Benny can be...Benny. He doesn’t mean to be an asshole.’

‘Benny wasn’t the asshole.’ You quipped, nudging him with your elbow.

At least Frankie had proven now that he could talk to you without being insufferable. You couldn’t work out if you’d warmed to him or if he’d warmed to you, but doing somebody’s stitches was unarguably one hell of an icebreaker. He was just a little closed off; quiet and reserved, you figured. You didn’t know what him and the Delta guys had been through, but Santi had mentioned a few things in passing that pointed to a heavy past. That was something you could relate to - your job was no walk in the park either

‘It’s not...personal.’ Frankie glanced off into the distance.

Will had managed to salvage the remaining bag from the jet, meaning that Santiago could use it as a seat. Benny was sitting with them, talking amongst themselves. You would have to move soon, in order to find a suitable place to camp before sundown, but taking a minute to recover from the last hour was also important. You’d barely stopped to sit down since the plane had gone down, and now you had, the shock had hit you. Your suspicions about safety had actually been correct. Not that it mattered now, but at least you had a plan to get everyone back to civilization as soon as possible.

‘So you being an ice cold bitch isn’t to do with me? That’s a relief.’ You joked. Frankie smiled in response; his first genuine one since you’d met.

‘The witness that you were going to ID was from the last job we all worked together.’ He explained ‘It went bad. Really bad.’

‘From what Santi said, it sure did sound like it.’ You replied.

‘I hadn’t seen anything as bad as we did then since I was stationed out in the war zones.’ He continued. ‘So being back here, and being with the guys, has just put me on edge. I’m sorry if I was an asshole.’

‘You don’t have to say sorry.’ You shook your head. ‘I mean...actually, yeah, you were an asshole but I get it.’

‘You do?’

‘Forensic archeology is no walk in the park either.’ You replied. ‘It’s my job to work out how people have died. Most of my work is on crime scenes or in war zones so I’ve seen some...dark stuff.’

‘It sticks with you.’ Frankie quietly murmured.

‘Yeah, it does.’ You said. ‘I know you might not think it on the surface, because it’s the usual sort of job that leaves stuff weighing on your shoulders-’

‘- doesn’t matter.’ He cut you off. ‘Trauma is trauma. Regardless of how you got it or where it came from, it’s valid.’

You gave him a small smile. Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

---

Later that night -- and after a few hours of walking -- you and the guys had settled down into a makeshift campsite. It was just at the edge of a clearing, not too far from what looked to be a small town glinting in the distance. You did offer to keep going, but between the injuries the group had sustained, it was easier to stop for the night. You had enough of a combined skillset to find some fruit growing to snack on and to start a fire.

Santiago, Will and Benny had long passed out. It wasn’t until after they had done so that you realised there was absolutely no room left in the tent. It was only built for two people, let alone five. Where that left you in terms of sleeping arrangements, you didn’t know, but the chances of even getting to rest felt low. Your brain was on full overdrive, tired eyes darting constantly around the distance. How safe was this place? You’d managed to convince yourself that the plane was secure, and that had gone down like...well, like the fucking plane.

You were sitting on a log, drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick. It was just something to keep your brain occupied as you fought off the tiredness. The jet-lag from your flight to Colombia had hit in full force and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into your bed -- the bed that wasn’t there.

‘So, are you keeping a look-out?’

You jumped at the sound of Frankie’s voice, twisting around to face him. ‘Something like that.’

‘I can take over if you want.’ He offered. ‘You should get some rest. You’ve saved our asses like three times today.’

‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t fit into that tent.’ You replied. ‘I can hear them snoring from here.’

‘Is it worse than the alternative of me keeping you company?’ He softly smiled, taking a seat beside you. ‘I’ll promise not to be an asshole anymore.’

‘We spoke about this.’ You reminded him. ‘I get it. It’s okay.’

‘I still feel bad.’ He sighed. ‘Especially after you stitched me up and led us through the jungle. We woulda eaten something poisonous and died if you hadn’t stopped Benny going near those mushrooms.’

You chuckled. ‘Don’t feel bad, okay? You’ve had bad experiences before and it’s natural to be anxious.’

‘I shouldn’t have taken it out on you-’

‘- Frankie!’ You cut him off with a groan. ‘I’m about to be an asshole if you don’t stop saying sorry.’

‘So we’re good?’

‘We’re good.’ You smiled. ‘Thanks for keeping me company.’

‘Santiago, in no uncertain terms, made it clear that he would come for our kneecaps if we left you alone in the dark.’ Frankie admitted. ‘I think he likes you.’

You chuckled, shaking your head. ‘I think you have the wrong idea. Santi is only so protective of me because he’s one of my brother’s best friends, and I guess by extension, that kind of makes him my brother too. They go right back to high school, and then they did the academy together.’

‘That’s a long time.’ Frankie nodded. ‘So you and Santi, that’s...nothing, right?’

‘Absolutely not.’ You snorted derivatively. ‘And if it was, my brother would probably end him.’

‘So,’ He took a stick from the floor, joining in with random doodles you were carving into the ground. ‘Be honest: if these stitches scar, d’you think I’ll look rugged and handsome?’

You peered over at him, eyes creasing as your smile grew wider. ‘Sure. Why not?’

‘Ouch.’ He dramatically grabbed his heart, shaking his head. ‘The correct answer was no Frankie, you already look rugged and handsome.’

‘Okay, it would make you look more rugged and handsome.’ You rolled your eyes. ‘Better?’

‘Better.’ He grinned triumphantly. ‘When was the last time you stitched up a living, breathing human?’

‘College, I think.’ You replied. ‘My roommate got into a fight and didn’t have insurance, so I did some makeshift stitches with a cheap sewing kit we found at a 24/7 corner shop.’

‘We’ve all done it.’ He laughed. ‘I’m glad the stitches you gave me were actual, professional ones...right?’

‘Obviously!’ You exclaimed. ‘You’ll probably want to get them redone when we get back to...y’know, civilisation.’

‘Naturally.’ He nodded. ‘I appreciate you stitching me up. The others would not have been able to do that if it had been just us.’

You shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, really.’

‘What if - and feel free to blatantly reject me for my earlier actions - I took you out for a drink when we got back? Y’know, if we ever get back to civilisation.’

‘Yeah, okay.’ You smiled.

Normally, Frankie wouldn’t have been that bold -- and you would have absolutely rejected someone who had made such a terrible first impression. But, said impression had changed. He’d been an asshole but you could see why; you could reason with it, even. God knew that you also had a tendency to become withdrawn and irritable when you were retracting back to the darker corners of your mind. Bad days on the job were hard to shake. They stuck with you for a long time.

The conversation continued, though you couldn’t recall exactly what it was about. Nothing and everything. Growing up and going to college - or for Frankie, the military. You compared stories of Santiago; Frankie’s were better, but yours were pretty good. He told you about how he’d got his piloting license back, and you in return offered a tale of the time that your brother had gotten a DUI.

Between the warmth of Frankie beside you and the crackling fire in front of you, it became harder and harder to fight off your exhaustion. You would have been tired enough if you were from this timezone, but your body clock was hours out of whack. With your eyelids getting heavier and the dark sky above you, it wasn’t long before you’d flopped into the pilot’s side with defeat.

‘’M sorry.’ You murmured.

‘It’s fine, you don’t have to apologise.’ Frankie replied. He moved his arm around your shoulders to support your weight from falling off the log - also to give a sign that he was more than okay with it.

You rested your chin on his shoulder, peering up at him. Now that his cold facade had slipped away, you could admire him a little bit more. Warm chocolate eyes, a strong jawline, and a face that just felt kind, even despite initial impressions. The warm glow of the fire illuminated his face with a soft hue, making the lighter tones of his eyes a little more visible.

You were both still lingering from the adrenaline of the plane crash, hearts pounding in your chests and brains wrestling with the idea that you’d both made it out with minor injuries. Was that what had made you bold? The sudden reminder of your mortality? Because you never would have kissed him if it had been a normal night.

He met you halfway, lips gently capturing yours in a soft kiss. They were a little chapped from the humidity of the jungle air, but intoxicating and enchanting all the same. He tasted very, very faintly of tobacco and a little bit of mint -- had the bastard had chewing gum this whole time? Not that it was relevant. Not that anything else in the world was relevant. Not when Frankie Morales was kissing you.

Neither of you said anything after; he simply pulled you into his chest, resting his head on top of yours. Between the mental exhaustion and emotional ping-pong game that you were partaking in, you wanted to sleep.

And sleep, you did; tangled together on the dirt of the jungle floor, not a worry in the world.

---

Time passed.

It passed quickly and slowly all at once.

Once you’d found a little town and got on a coach to Medellin, you did what you came to do: identified the body, cleared their names and closed the case. Your duties at your actual job called you back home and less than a day later, you were on a plane home.

After that, everything was a blur. You tried to keep in contact with everyone, but life was demanding as ever. Thanks to a promotion at work, you were being kept busy 24/7. Santiago finally retired from active duty and moved back to your hometown, near to his parents and to the guys. Even with the group chat he’d made - affectionately titled Plane Pals - it was hard to constantly keep up with everyone.

You and Frankie had texted for a while, but it sort of faded out. Whenever you were able to make it back home to see him and everyone else, he was busy. You’d both tried to make plans a few times but they’d never come to fruition. You still texted each other happy birthday every year, but that was it. Like that night in the jungle, he quickly became a thing of the past. A distant memory that sometimes felt like a dream.

It made a good dinner table story, especially for first dates. You told it on many actually, actually -- only one ever went well. So well, in fact, that you’d ended up in a four-year-relationship. A marine biologist called Simon; not boring, but not necessarily exciting either. He was nice...enough. Nice enough that you didn’t find a reason to leave.

Looking back, you probably had a million reasons to leave. He was an asshole, for one. The last time he’d treated you right had been your first anniversary - and for some reason, you’d stuck around to celebrate your second and third and fourth. Everyone around you was settling down, and you felt that pressure too.

Even Santiago fucking Garcia, the biggest flirt and bachelor you knew, was getting married. You’d RSVP’d a plus one - Simon, obviously - but the week before you were due to fly home for the wedding, things had finally reached a bitter end. You weren’t sad about him; more sad that you’d wasted four years of your life on the Walmart equivalent to Ned Flanders.

On the brightside, your brother’s respective relationship had also gone through a shitty demise, meaning you could move your seats at the reception next to one another. Like Santiago, he had also retired from the military and was living his best life - even though it had taken six months for him to start speaking to his friend again. He hadn’t taken well to the idea of Santiago taking you on a job that left you in the middle of the jungle.

‘People are gonna ask where Simon is, aren’t they?’ You muttered.

‘Cheer up.’ Your brother nudged you. ‘I know what’ll help - let’s make a bet.’

‘What?’ You groaned.

You were standing outside the church, waiting to be called inside. You’d waved at Benny and Will as they came in. The latter had kids of his own now, but Benny was focusing on his boxing career. He hadn’t called you Barbie again though, so that was something.

‘I bet you twenty bucks that Santiago is divorced by the end of the year.’ Your brother grinned.

‘No! That’s horrible.’ You slapped his arm.

‘Whatever. That’s $20 you’re missing out on.’

‘I hate that we’re related.’

‘Me too.’

‘Shut up!’

‘You said it first!’

The two of you were cut off by someone clearing their throats.

You almost did a double take when you saw Frankie Morales stood in front of you. He didn’t look that different to his six-year-old Whatsapp profile picture; he wasn’t wearing his hat, instead wearing his hair pushed back, and rather than his old tac vest, he had a suit and tie on. You had a sort of vision of him in your head from that night, but it didn’t do him justice. He was even better in person.

‘Catfish!’ Your brother jeered. ‘Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes!’

‘Says you!’ Frankie gave him a slap on the back. His eyes then fell to you, and his demeanour changed a little. ‘Hey.’

‘Frankie fucking Morales.’ You murmured. ‘How’re you?’

‘Thriving.’ He replied. ‘You?’

‘Also thriving.’ You smiled.

‘I was sorry to hear about the divorce, man.’ Your brother, as clueless as ever, didn’t sense the sudden onset of tension.

‘Divorce?’ You blinked in surprise. ‘Is that really something you should bring up-’

‘- you brought up your break up at dinner last week-’

‘- only because you brought up yours first-’

‘- guys!’ Frankie cut you off. ‘It’s fine, really. I appreciate you looking out for me but it was a while ago now. Besides, I’ve got Leya. She takes up all my time.’

‘Leya?’ your eyebrows shot up. ‘Is that your girl-’

You were interrupted by a bell ringing, signalling that it was time for the guests to enter the church. Did the universe hate you? What kind of fucking dreadful timing was that?

‘I’ll see you guys at the reception, right?’ Frankie asked.

‘Sure thing, dude.’ Your brother waved him off.

The pilot turned on his heel, giving you a smile as he headed for the church. He was the best man after all, and his presence probably was needed.

‘You asshole!’ You have his shoulder another whack. ‘I was talking to him!’

‘Jesus, calm down! And why do you hit so hard?’ He huffed. ‘What’s so important?’

‘Who’s Leya?’

‘I dunno! Do I look like Gossip Girl?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re mean.’ He grabbed you by the arm, dragging you towards the church entrance. ‘And mum made me promise to make sure you wouldn’t play Doodle Jump during the vows.’

‘That was one time!’ You snapped.

Thankfully, the actual ceremony passed quicker than you thought. Santiago’s new wife was beautiful -- you hadn’t met Yovanna before, but both her and Santi had greeted you with a bright smile as you entered the reception. It was in a large hotel room, decorated with strings of fairy lights and a large dance floor. A lot of thought had clearly got into it.

It made you a little sad to think about. How many weddings had you been to in the last five years? How many times had people looked at you and your former boyfriend and said you’ll be next. You weren’t even sad about him. If anything, you were mad that you’d let yourself think about marrying him. You could do better. You were going to do better.

‘Is that girl over there eying me up?’ Your brother’s voice pulled you back to reality. ‘I swear she’s been giving me heart eyes since they brought dessert out.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one in the cute dress! Brown hair, dark eyes-’

‘- that’s Santi’s cousin.’ You rolled your eyes.

‘And?’

‘Santi’s cousin who is a lesbian?’ You tried to suppress a laugh. ‘Who has been with her wife for 11 years and has three children?’

He groaned. ‘Why must you find such joy in my pain?’

‘It’s what siblings are for.’ You grinned. ‘I’m gonna get a drink. D’you want anything?’

He only let out another groan in response - you took that as a no, simply giving him a pat on the head as you stood up.

You’d tried to ask around with a few mutual friends if they knew who Leya was -- either they hadn’t seen Frankie in a while, or they pushed to know why you were asking. You couldn’t exactly play that one as suave. Nobody took a casual interest in the personal life of somebody they barely knew -- even though you did know Frankie. Quite well, actually. He’d practically recounted his entire life story to you that night. Told you things that not even Santi knew.

‘What can I get for you?’ The bartender asked.

‘Uhhh…’ you glanced up at the menu. ‘Is it an open bar?’

‘If I had enough money for every time someone asked me that tonight, I’d be able to pay for all the drinks.’ She shot back. ‘So, no.’

‘Jeez.’ You muttered. ‘How much for a double rum?’

‘Fifteen bucks.’

‘Fifteen?!’ You spluttered. ‘How much is tap water?’

‘Y’know, I still owe you a drink.’

Like earlier, Frankie had suddenly appeared unannounced. You couldn’t help but grin when you saw him leaning against the bar beside you, a goofy smile plastered across his face and his undone tie wrapped around his left hand. Your eyes flickered up to his forehead, examining it for a minute.

‘So the stitches didn’t scar?’ You asked.

He pulled back his hair, shaking his head. ‘Nope.’

‘You lucky duck.’ You quipped. ‘So. About that drink?’

‘This shit is insanely overpriced.’ Frankie said. ‘I can steal us a bottle of wine if you’re willing to hide and drink it?

You glanced over at your brother, who was now crying to one of Santiago’s great aunts, piling cake into his mouth.

‘Yeah. I’m down for that.’

Five minutes later, you and Frankie were out in the gardens of the hotel. It had been raining all day, but there was an undercover patio not too far from the main reception; the walls were made out of white wood, with red roses trailing up the side. The fairly lights tangled beside them illuminated the place in a gentle glow, blue evening sky providing a beautiful contrast. Even though the showers had stopped, you could still smell the rain in the fresh evening air.

‘Wine?’ Frankie led you to a seat by the edge of the patio. ‘I stole it from the head table so it's the expensive shit.’

He tore the cork off, handing you the bottle. Neither of you had brought glasses, but you didn’t mind drinking from the same bottle. You’d kissed already - what was the point in formalities?

‘I hate it to break it to you.’ You paused to wipe your mouth, recovering from the bitter taste. ‘But that’s champagne.’

‘Still alcohol, right?’ He took it from your hands, taking a swig. ‘And it’s free!’

‘You’re right.’ You chuckled. ‘So...I believe we have four years worth of catching up to do.’

‘D’you wanna go first?’ Frankie offered. ‘I heard you got a promotion.’

‘I did, yeah.’ You grinned. ‘It’s a thousand times more work but I get more control over what jobs I take, so that’s good.’

‘Anyone special in your life?’ He asked.

‘Cut the shit, Frankie.’ You groaned. ‘I know that Santi updates you on every second of my life as it happens.’

‘You got me there. He mentioned a...Steven?’

‘A Simon.’ You corrected. ‘But Dickhead or Asshole works just as well.’

‘Damn, I’m sorry.’ Frankie gave your leg a light squeeze. ‘What happened?’

‘He didn’t deserve me and I stayed with him too long.’ You shrugged. ‘I didn’t think I had a reason to leave.’

‘Not having a reason to leave isn’t a reason to stay.’ He murmured.

You didn’t know whether to bring up the D-Word. D-i-v-o-r-c-e. He hadn’t seemed that phase when your sibling had so eloquently and gently brought it up earlier, but you knew Frankie was good at putting on a front. It was why you’d clashed when you first met.

‘Am I allowed to ask?’ You quietly said.

‘It’s nothing bad.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean it is bad, terrible actually, but it was two years ago now. We only got married because she got pregnant and then left the minute our daughter was born.’

‘Leya.’ You didn’t mean to say the name out loud, but it made sense now. ‘Leya is your daughter.’

‘Yeah.’ Frankie warmly smiled. ‘I hate what happened but I’d do it all over again ten times if it meant having her in my life.’

He spent the next few minutes telling you about her. She was named Leya after a certain space princess, though Frankie had changed the spelling to make it less obvious (to which you had argued it was still quite obvious, but a cool name nonetheless). She was currently three years old, often got confused between Spanish and English words, and enjoyed Power Rangers. All in all, she sounded like a great kid. Above all, it was obvious how much she meant to Frankie. His whole face lit up when he spoke about her. Her mum was entirely out the picture, meaning he was doing the whole thing by himself.

‘She sounds amazing.’ You beamed, peering down at the picture on his phone. ‘She looks so much like you.’

‘Thank God.’ Frankie murmured. ‘I dunno if it being a dad has made me more introspective, but I think about that night a lot.’

‘Me too.’ You replied. ‘Not the thing about being a dad. The other part.’

He laughed. ‘I got that.’

‘What do you think about?’

‘You, mostly.’ He admitted. ‘The fact I was an asshole. The fact you basically saved us all. The fact I never got to take you out for that drink.’

You took a swig of champagne, poking his arm. ‘We’re doing it now!’

‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘I just...I know it was only one night but we might not have been around to tell the story if you hadn't been there.’

‘You were the one who landed the plane safely.’

‘Which wouldn’t have mattered if you didn’t do all the stuff after.’ He reminded you. ‘The thing I think about most, though, is that kiss.’

You froze slightly, head slowly turning to look at him. He was peering down at you now, brown eyes intently gazing at you, not unlike they had the first time you’d been in this position. Now, you weren’t both beyond exhausted, or stuck in the middle of the jungle. You were safe and sound, right here with one another.

‘It was a pretty good kiss.’ You edged slightly closer towards him.

‘A very good kiss.’

‘Maybe we should do it-’

Frankie cut you off, meeting your demand before you could even finish it. He was just as you remembered; chapped-but-soft lips with a hint of mint. No tobacco this time. He gently placed a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you further up towards him. It was like you were both reliving the memory of that night in a dream - something you’d done many times. Your memory of it had faded over time but this? This was vivid and giddy and entirely consuming all at once.

‘You know,’ Frankie pulled back for a moment, keeping his hand on the back of your neck and forehead pressed to yours. ‘I asked Santi about you a few years ago, pretty much the minute I realised I was ready to move on from...her.’

‘You did?’ You murmured.

‘That’s when he said you’d been seeing Simon for a few weeks.’ He admitted. ‘I was gutted. Kept wishing I’d got there first.’

‘I wish you had got to me first.’ You lightly chuckled. ‘It would have saved me a lot of pain.’

‘If I were to ask out now, what would you say?’

‘Fuck yes, obviously.’

‘Good.’ He pressed a brief peck to your lips. ‘I admire the enthusiasm.’

That night - well, actually it had probably been the night in Colombia, depending on who you asked - marked the start of a fresh start for you both. What had initially started out as an attempt to seek solace in one another during a difficult time had led you to something more: something whole, something fulfilling.

If someone had told you the first time you’d met Frankie Morales that the unfriendly pilot was going to become the best thing that ever happened to you, you probably would have slapped them. Or laughed, or cried, or all three. That night you met, you thought the emotions you were feeling were from the plane crash -- adrenaline and warmth and panic.

As it would turn out, it was simply the feeling of knowing -- knowing that Frankie Morales was it.

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales angst #triple frontier imagines #pedro pascal character headcanons

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refinedbuffoonery · 3 years ago

Text

Broken Like Me (1)

masterlist.

THIS FIC IS NOT INTENDED FOR READERS UNDER THE AGE OF 18. Please see the masterlist for content warnings.

Here it is, the long-awaited dark!MacRiley AU! First, I want to thank my lovely beta readers and my life-saving brainstorming/workshop buddy. You all know who you are. ❤

This fic adheres to canon through 5x05 and then goes off the fucking rails. Backstory and other important tidbits of information revealed in the latter half of season 5 may be used, but timeline-wise anything after 5x05 does not exist in this fic. Also, Jack is dead and is staying dead, so don’t get your hopes up for a happy ending.

I will do my best to update this regularly, but hanging out in and writing such dark headspaces is HARD. I will definitely be taking breaks to write fluffier fic, because a big chunk of this story is all hurt and no comfort.

Without further adieu, let’s get this party started. (It’s not a party. In fact, it’s like...the opposite of a party.)

*****

They say he was a good man.

A good soldier.

A good father.

A good friend.

They say they are sorry for her loss, sorry he was taken from this world too soon.

They say Jack would be proud of the legacy he left behind, would be proud to have gone out in a blaze of glory.

Riley is sick of it.

It’s like she’s a teenager, and Jack is leaving her all over again. Only this time it’s worse. This time there’s no coming back.

The guests at the wake gaze at the folded up American flag on the fireplace mantle with deep respect, but Riley only feels anger every time she glimpses the piece of fabric the government sent back in his place. A flag and a life insurance claim feel like a mockery of the kind of man Jack Dalton was.

Was. Past tense.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

*****

Mac has never been afraid of Riley before.

He’s seen her angry and upset, but the rage-filled woman he stopped from killing Anya Vitez with her bare hands back in Croatia is someone he does not know.

The frightening part is that Riley isn’t a hot-headed person. In work mode, she is cold and calculating, so for her to go after Vitez like that...something inside her snapped.

Three weeks have passed since then, and every time he looks at Riley, Mac remembers holding her back, fingers digging sharply into her waist until she stopped fighting him. He sees the fury radiating off Riley’s body like heat waves off asphalt—sees the way she clings to it, finds purpose in it, letting it consume her so there’s no room for guilt or grief. Mac knows the feeling all too well. And he also knows there will be a very loud thud when she finally comes crashing back down.

But he also knows that the woman is like a loaded gun, safety off and desperate to fire at something.

Which is why he worries when Matty calls them in for an op and Riley isn’t there. She’s at Vitez’s trial, Matty informs them, but that doesn’t make Mac feel any better. Whenever there’s downtime during the mission, and Mac’s mind is free to wander, he can't stop thinking about her. This new Riley is becoming obsessively vengeful, and if someone doesn’t reel her back in soon, she might do something she can’t come back from.

The thought plagues Mac every second there aren’t bullets whizzing toward his head.

After the op, Mac drives to Riley’s apartment. Upon arrival, his ears are assaulted by Riley’s upstairs neighbor blasting Macklemore’s greatest hits. Mac hears the lyrics clear as day, even though both his truck windows and the apartment windows are closed.

Riley really shouldn’t have moved out of Mac’s house, not if this is her best option. He still doesn’t understand why she did.

It doesn’t take long to notice the GTO is missing. Riley should be back from the trial by now, but Mac has a sneaking suspicion where she is.

The drive to Jack’s apartment seems to take forever. The brick building is in an older neighborhood, one of few affordable ones with trees planted along the sidewalks—a luxury in LA. Sure enough, the GTO is parked on the curb, not far from the fire escape that connects to Jack’s living room.

Looking up, Mac spies a familiar body perched on the stairs.

Riley sits on the fire escape, soaking in the last rays of sunlight. Her eyes are closed, head resting against the brick wall. Mac doesn’t say anything as he sits beside her on the narrow metal stairs, their hips and thighs just touching.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he hug her? Hold her hand? Leave her alone? Riley isn’t a super touchy person. Mac decides on the latter, picking at his fingernails while his gaze drifts west to study the sunset.

Several minutes pass before Riley says, “Hey.” Her voice is low and scratchy, like she’s been crying.

“Hey,” Mac repeats. “How long have you been here?”

Riley shifts beside him, sitting up. “I don’t know. A while.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve come here, is it?”

A sigh. “No, it’s not.” Mac figures as much. Aside from the constant clamor of the city, Jack’s apartment is relatively quiet. It’s not in the greatest neighborhood, but it’s safe enough for Riley to sit alone and think. Or not think. Whatever she feels like doing.

Riley rests her head on Mac’s shoulder, and a wave of protectiveness floods his system. It’s new, this need to watch her back more than the others’. It came on so gradually that Mac doesn’t know when it started or what triggered it, only that he feels it all the time now. Especially after Jack’s…

He avoids examining the feeling too closely.

Without warning, Riley says, “If you hadn’t held me back, I would’ve killed her.”

Knowing exactly who she was talking about, Mac glances down at Riley in surprise. He knows it’s true—thinks so himself—but hearing it come out of her mouth makes his stomach turn. The last, and only, time Riley killed someone...it took her months to piece herself back together afterward. And that death was in self-defense.

This one would’ve been murder. Intentional and vindictive.

Mac isn’t sure Riley could come back from that, at least not as herself. The woman who would emerge from that would be a total stranger inside his best friend’s body. Mac suppresses a shiver. “I know,” he says.

“Thank you for stopping me.” Riley’s voice is quiet. So, so quiet.

“You would’ve done the same for me.” Gingerly, Mac wraps his arm around Riley’s shoulders, ready to let go at the first sign of her discomfort. When she doesn’t react, he relaxes and holds her more surely.

The sky is painted in vibrant oranges and reds, fading into deep blue overhead. Subtle strokes of pink outline the scattered clouds hanging above the horizon. Out of all the sunsets Mac has seen, all over the world, nothing quite compares to the ones here at home. He wishes Jack was here to see it.

Mac spends far too long debating whether to bring it up before asking, “Why did you go to the trial?” Agents, especially secret ones, don’t go to trials, mostly to keep their identities safe. Publicly tying oneself to a case is never a good idea, for more reasons that Mac can begin to name.

“I swore I’d be there every step of the way. I meant it.” Mac tries not to bristle at the snarling, defensive edge to Riley’s tone. “Eventually, she’ll make a mistake, and I will be there when she does. And then I’m going to rip out her entire organization from the roots up.”

Fear wraps its ugly hand around Mac’s heart. Until every single person associated with Tiberius Kovac is behind bars, there will be a target on Riley’s back, and Riley will have put it there herself. Losing one person to Kovac is more than enough; Mac refuses to lose Riley too.

“How can I help you?”

Riley looks up, eyes wide like she’s expecting him to try to talk her out of it, not offer to help. “You don’t have to do that.”

“And miss out on all the fun?” Mac almost smiles as he quotes her. Almost.

She sits up. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m going to hack Interpol first, to see which of her colleagues might also be dirty. So unless you secretly picked up hacking…”

Mac huffs. “Sorry, I only hack hardware.” He expects some insane, crackhead plan, not something so…reasonable. Maybe Riley isn’t as off-the-rails as he thought.

But only maybe.

A seagull perches on the railing below them, honking and squawking for seemingly no reason at all. Gulls are just like that. It glares at Mac, pinning him to his spot with a beady yellow eye, challenging Mac to shoo it away.

Go find some tourists to harass, Mac wants to snark at it. Leave us alone.

The seagull cocks its head, as if to say, I know something you don’t.

Mac narrows his eyes. I bet you do.

He swears the seagull shrugs before taking off, flying low over the GTO before sailing over rooftops on its way back to the ocean. It passes a billboard advertising a new blockbuster spy thriller, the product of millions of dollars and Hollywood plot recycling. Mac saw the trailer. The movie is about a soldier who joined the CIA in a quest for retribution after his best friend came home in a box. Usually Mac likes watching spy movies—mostly to make fun of them—but this one hits a little too close to home.

It takes a monumental effort to tear his gaze away.

When his eyes finally meet Riley’s, Mac understands the silent ache in them—the ache that’s surely reflected in his own eyes. He and Riley are drowning, but at least they’re drowning together.

Mac frowns. That must be the dimmest “on the bright side” thought he’s ever had.

Riley doesn’t say anything more, so neither does Mac. They sit on the fire escape until long after the sun sets and the temperature drops, and the city's nightlife stretches its limbs as it wakes. Mac shivers, but Riley seems oddly unaffected by the cold. That or she’s too numb to notice.

He threads his still semi-warm fingers through her icy ones, letting their joined hands rest on his knee. It seems like his last tether to the Riley he knows and loves, one who’s slowly slipping away from him and being replaced by a woman who might very well bring the world to its knees as payback for all that it’s done to her.

Mac has no interest in ever meeting that woman. Mostly because he refuses to lose his Riley, but also because Mac knows he won’t be able to resist that other Riley. She will slash his restraint beyond repair, and Mac will follow her to the ends of the earth.

He will find a way to keep them both afloat. He has to.

Or else the Phoenix may very well be hunting him and Riley again, and this time, they’ll deserve it.

*****

Entering her apartment later that night, Riley realizes too late that it isn’t empty. Bozer is still there, and he’s making dinner. Locking the door behind her, she hears a rushed, “Got to go, Matty. She’s home.”

Bozer crashed on her couch the night they got the news and never left. I don't want you to be alone, Bozer keeps saying, despite her insistence she doesn’t need a babysitter. Other than that, they don’t speak to each other much. In fact, Riley wouldn't have noticed he said anything at all if not for the way he stares at her, standing at the stove and twirling a wooden spoon between his fingers.

"What?" she snaps.

Carefully, Bozer asks, "How was the trial?"

"Fine." Riley knows he cares, and that he’s hurting too, but nothing he says or does is going to help her. The sooner he figures that out the better. She drops her keys and jacket on a chair before heading for her bedroom.

“You hungry?” he calls after her.

Riley yanks off her boots, chucking them into the closet with too much force. “No.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Her fuse is running short these days, and she’s just about had it with his incessant smothering and questioning. Riley marches into the kitchen, rolling her shoulders back and bracing her hands on the counter. “Last I checked, I still have a mother, so if you’re just going to keep nagging me, then I think it’s time you get the fuck out of my apartment.”

Bozer’s eyes widen and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“Get out,” Riley snarls.

Still struggling to regain his ability to speak, Bozer stammers, “At least let me finish making you dinner first.”

“Fine.” Cracking her knuckles, Riley retreats to her bedroom once more. “I’m taking a shower. You better be gone when I come out.” She doesn’t wait for a response.

When Riley emerges, her dinner is cold, and Bozer is long gone.

She doesn’t eat.

*****

On the second day of Vitez’s trial, Riley sits in the back of the room long after the trial adjourns for the day, thinking. She didn’t recognize the witnesses who testified today, and as the prosecutor called each one forward, Riley wished she had her laptop so she could look them up. Now, as she stares over the rows of empty wooden seats to the section where the jury sat, Riley can only hope that the witnesses’ testimonies are enough.

Riley knows there’s more than enough evidence to convict Vitez—especially since she recorded the confession herself—but obsessing over the trial is easier than facing the reality waiting outside the courthouse doors.

Her mom invited her to visit his grave today, after the trial, but Riley declined. Facing that slab of granite will make it real, make it…permanent.

She knows what it says. Jack Dalton. Beloved. Gone too soon. Someone asked for her approval before it was made. It doesn’t say nearly enough to encapsulate all that he was, but at the time Riley couldn’t think about it—couldn’t look at it—long enough to suggest any changes. She still can’t.

Chewing her lip, Riley anxiously toys with her rings, spinning them and moving them from finger to finger.

At the wake, one of his old Delta buddies joked that the gravestone should read “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” but Riley didn’t laugh.

Riley hasn’t laughed since Matty broke the news. It’s like the part of her that knows how to feel joy died in that explosion too.

Instead, she wants to scream at the universe until her voice gives out, cursing it for taking her dad away too soon. Because that’s what he is. Her dad. Riley doesn’t even know when she started calling him that again, but if she has to guess, it was sometime between the first “I’m proud of you, honey” and him kicking her ass at skee-ball for the millionth time.

Tears leak from Riley’s eyes without her consent.

It feels like she failed him, in a way. By not being there. By not keeping him alive.

Now the best she can do is make sure his death means something.

Vitez will go to prison for the rest of her life, that Riley is sure of. But the rest of her organization is still out there, and Riley intends on putting every single member behind bars. No amount of justice will even begin to heal the Jack-shaped wound in her heart, but at least the world will be better for it. Safer.

But she’d rather live in a more dangerous world with him still in it than a safer one without. That way they could save the world together, like they always did.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Anger rumbles through her body, like a Texas thunderstorm in her veins. It’s the only emotion Riley feels anymore, ever since the sadness gave way to numbness.

A woman in a security uniform pokes her head in the room. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to lock up for the night.” When Riley doesn’t respond, the woman adds, “Are you okay?”

Are you okay? Riley hates that question more than all the others. How are you? Have you eaten today? What can I do to help?

She feels like she’s dying. She can’t eat. Nothing will help.

But that isn’t what people want to hear. Even Mac asked that last question, yesterday on the fire escape, although Riley didn’t automatically despise the question like she usually did. It’s different coming from him than anyone else; his offer was genuine, not coming from pity or obligation.

She isn’t surprised Mac recognized her need to do something. After all, he had been the same way after his dad was killed.

Coldly, Riley finally says,“I will be.” The woman doesn’t deserve her abrupt answer, but Riley can’t quite bring herself to care. She lets the anger the questions bring up fuel her, lets it hold her together.

The anger is all she has left.

Riley stands, her heels clicking on the floor as she exits the courthouse.

She’s coming for all the monsters who hurt him. She’s coming for the ones who rendered him nothing more than ashes on the wind, the ones who turned her life into a nightmare she can’t wake up from.

Because she doesn’t need to wake up to become theirs.

Want to be tagged in future chapters? Send me an ask.

#beth writes #dark!MacRiley #macriley #macgyver #angus macgyver #riley davis #mac x riley #macgyver fanfiction

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miscellaneous-bnha · 5 years ago

Text

Omegaverse Aizawa (SFW)

SFW Headcannons: You’re here

NSFW Fic: Here

—————————————————

Before Meeting his Omega

- 100% guaranteed, Aizawa is an Alpha, if not an Apex Alpha

- He radiates so much Alpha energy under that wall of tired you can almost get overwhelmed by the smell of the pheromones as a Beta

- At least, if he wasn’t controlling it, it would overwhelm any Omega or Beta

- He takes suppressants regularly so his rut doesn’t interfere with his job as a teacher and hero

- Is generally unaffected by most omegas, even those on the edge of going into heat

- He just never had the real need to claim an omega for his own, especially not when he had students and his job to worry about

- At least, that was until he met you

- His assigned Teacher Assistant

- Nezu felt that the teachers could use some extra help in the classroom, especially considering most kept their jobs as pro heroes in the evening

- At first, he didn’t think much of you; granted, he did appreciate you help, especially if the students had any particular questions about the assignment

- Having you around meant that he could rest a little easier

- Then, over time, he started to notice the smallest things you would do to make his overall life and job easier

- Of course, he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t secretly looking for it, but a part of him was pleased to know that you were trying to make his life easier in the most uninvasive ways possible

- It wasn’t until three months later that he realized you were such a potent Omega

- He forgot to renew his prescription for suppressants and had to go a couple of days without them

- Thankfully, the period of time it would take to get his new bottle would fall under the withdrawal period for them

- Basically, he didn’t need to worry about hitting his rut

- Except, when he walked into the classroom to set up for that day, the smell of you hit him so hard he thought it would force his rut right then and there

- It was at that moment that he knew

- He

- Fucked

- Up

- In the split second that he had to pause, his own scent hit your nose with the force of a speeding train

- You whipped your head around to him, a soft chirp of surprise leaving your throat

- “Oh! Aizawa! I didn’t hear you coming...”

- He noticed the subtle way you shuffled your feet nervously, and he tried not to feel disappointed

- It didn’t work

- He grumbled to himself, quietly nodding in greeting before plopping down in his chair

- The next two days went by like this; you walking on eggshells (though trying fairly hard not to make it obvious) and him being so silently grumpy about it he could barely rest

- Admittedly, after he started taking his suppressants again, you were a little less jumpy, but he noticed the way you were still a little more reserved than you had been before

- And, frankly, it pissed him off

-He ended up needing to come back for a stack of paper work he forgot one night; he’d been feeling especially exhausted between testing coming up shortly and having to follow a lead on a potentially dangerous villain at night

- When he opened his office, the last thing he had been expecting to see was his Omega Teacher Assistant nearly passed out on his desk

- You had been working on the stacks of essays he needed to grade, eyes barely able to stay open

- He knew you had been especially exhausted as of late, so to see you here now definitely shocked him

- It shocked him so much, in fact, he had even realized that he let his Alpha push forward to handle the situation

- “Omega, what are you doing here so late? How are you going to get home?”

- He walked to your side, placing a hand gently on your shoulder, causing a soft, questioning chirp to leave your throat

- He didn’t notice the low purr leaving his chest in response with the intention to keep you at ease

- Your bleary eyes turned to look up at him tiredly, causing his hackles to raise slightly when he noticed the dark bags under your eyes

- He whipped his head over to the nearest clock; it was currently 2 in the morning!

- He furrowed his brow and turned back to you

- “What are you doing here Omega?” His voice dropped lower than usual

- Not threateningly, but low enough that you could tell his Alpha was demanding an answer

- “Y.. you forgot to take the.. the essays so—“ you were cut off by your own yawn

- “So you stayed back to grade them on your own...” he finished for you. He frowned more when you nodded

- He wasn’t so shallow where his pride was hurt over the fact that you were taking over his task, no

- He was upset because either you never intended on making it home, or you were planning to walk home alone in the dark while you were so exhausted

- He knew you weren’t stupid, but right now, the thought of you doing either of those things had an uncomfortable itch running through him

- “Why didn’t you go home Omega? Why did you stay so late for this?”

- “.. You’ve been working so hard lately that... I wanted to take some of your work load like this but...” you sighed heavily

- “... My heat is coming a little earlier than I thought and it’s starting to affect me now, so I ended up having a hard time trying to stay awake since 4 this afternoon.”

- He was touched you could pick up on his exhaustion, but he didn’t like the way you stretched yourself out so thin just to help

- “I’m taking you home now, Omega.”

- He left no room for argument, so you nodded and complied

- “Okay Alpha..” you didn’t realize your blunder

- But boy did he

- A purr so loud it sounded like a growl ripped from his chest, flooding the room entirely

- He couldn’t disguize it even if he wanted to

- He flushed bright red as your eyes widened, looking up at him with shock

- “Alpha...?”

- He couldn’t help but drop his head onto your shoulder, hands on the arms of the chair

- Trapping you in place

- “... let’s get you home, ‘mega.”

- But he didn’t move

- He was still trying to rationalize your mistake as you being tired when he picked up on your softer purrs

- Your hands gripped at his sleeves and you nuzzled yourself into his neck

- So he did what his rational mind (read as: Alpha brain) told him to

- He scooped you up into his arms and started walking to the door, grabbing your bag on the way

- “I-I can walk—!”

- He nodded, but didn’t put you down

- “Aizawa—!”

- “Shota.”

- “...Shota.”

- He nodded. He hoped you weren’t the type to forget everything while you were tired

- Because he fully intended on making sure you stayed home tomorrow

- And he fully intended on making sure you knew he was planning on making you his

After Getting His Omega

- Thankfully - for him at least - you didn’t forget

- He thanked his lucky stars every night for that one

- Sure, you were pretty shy (“I-I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have called you Alpha!”), but he was quick to soothe you (“It’s alright. You were tired and going into heat. Though it worked out anyway.”)

- While he still took his suppressants, he learned you had to wear scent suppressors every day

- Mostly because suppressants didn’t work for you, and the ones that did were far too expensive and often made you feel unwell

- Which was just fine, really

- But it made him curious just how strong your scent would be without the suppressors

- All things considered

- But he wouldn’t force it. You would take them off when you wanted to

- But he definitely felt a lot better now that you weren’t being so cautious

- And while the two of you weren’t openly affectionate around the students

- Breaks usually consisted of the two of you working side by side, occasionally sharing a quick kiss

- Your purrs soothing him of his stress

- Just listening to you had him relaxing and feeling just a little more energized

- He tried his best to keep things from Mic and Midnight, but your scent that rubbed off on him from sitting so close gave him away pretty quickly to the two

- They tease him about it from time to time, but he hardly cares about it

- “Kitten, hand me the papers please.”

- A little part of you dies and goes to heaven every time he calls you that

- Another little part becomes a filthy sinner when you’re close to your heat, but we won’t talk about that yet

- Overall, his general health is a little better now that it’s not completely weird for you to provide for him

- As long as its not in front of the students or colleagues

- Mostly because that’s too much drama

- Banana slug is too tired for that drama

- But a lot of people do notice the way the bags under his eyes have cleared up some

- If you squint anyway

- “The scruff stays; it makes you look rugged”

- “You just like the way it feels when I nuzzle you sometimes”

- You do

- You’re pretty convinced that you could take off your scent suppressors at this point because his smell overpowers yours at this point

- But then both of your scents would overwhelm the room

- And that’s not good for anyone

- Not even you

- You still haven’t told him that smelling him without his suppressants that one time is what sent you into an early heat

- You completely intend on taking that to your grave

#aizawa x reader #alpha aizawa #abo #omegaverse #alpha aizawa x reader #sfw #bnha #bnha au #abo au #abo bnha #not from discord #fluff

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shashawip · 3 years ago

Text

Mia Asking Jason About His Feelings For Roy While Cooking

Summary:

Mia asking Jason about his feelings for Roy while cooking, and Jason didn’t deny it.

Notes:

English isn’t my native spoken language so there can be grammatical errors.

This snippet is from an originally planned fiction revolving around Roy, Jason and Mia with Mia being the witness of Royjay’s developing relationship. I may never find a chance to finish their story so I will just post moments that I enjoyed writing while picturing their world. Hope you enjoy.

Published on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33110860

——

It wasn’t Mia's turn to cook today, but not like she minded it and all. She’s in a good mood lately given how well the day job has turned out, and the camaraderie she’s developed with the colleagues at work.

To be frank, the two other housemates’ cooking skills just weren’t satisfying. Jason was alright, if he really paid attention and invested his time to cook. Same cannot be said for Roy, however, who was an entirely different story. The only edibles on his menu might just be that ham and cheese sandwich he seemed to be barely able to assemble.

Mia hummed in joy while she poured her lasagna sauce into a rectangular Le Creuset, which had already been layered with some pre-made lasagna sheets. She raised her eyes to look at Roy who’s sitting across the kitchen island, while still preserving her attention down at the stoneware.

“I never knew you’d be so interested in a wooden door before.” Mia chuckled.

Roy seemed to be dragged out of his lost thoughts and back to the world by her voice, quickly moving away his glaze, looking a little embarrassed. He’d been fixed to the stool he’s sitting on and stared at Jason’s bedroom door with his head rested in his elbow in the same position for quite a while, even the oven had been pre-heated.

Mia continued to work on layering sheets and pouring the mixture from the saucepan, the warm steam spreading the fresh smell of tomato, garlic, slightly caramelized pork and veal bolognese along with other goodness that’s been well combined into the open air kitchen. She kept her head down while going on, “Figured what’s getting into your head. Now that James and I are dating, Jason seems like about to start one himself, you’d be thinking of finding someone to hang out with too?”

Roy admitted almost immediately, let go of an unnoticeable sigh for Mia seemed to not be aware what’s really going on in his mind. “Didn’t you always mention that girl… the one on that team you and Dick were on back then, was it Danielle?” “Donna.” “Donna. Anyway. I don’t know, maybe you can try contacting her again?” Roy looked a little confused by her suggestion. “Donna… she’s a partner and a good friend that’s all. Also I haven’t caught up with the Titans for quite some time.” “But there is always a chance out there somewhere, right?”

By now Roy seemed to have lost interest in this topic, and just shook his head towards the room that Jason was in, and steered the conversation back to what’s happening in there. “You can’t know… that girl, she came here and was after Jason…” Mia knew what he’s going on and about, “If you ask me, well, from a female perspective, what she’s after from Jason could not have been any more obvious.”

Just a little less than half an hour ago, a silver white long haired girl walked in from the front door of their apartment without giving any heads up, she promptly glanced over the room, including Roy who was laying on his back in the couch at the time, and Mia who’s busy preparing their dinner behind the counter. She briefly studied the situation, confirmed with the cook which bedroom was Jason’s, then dashed and disappeared into that room with a not-so-gentle bang as she closed the door, leaving Roy and Mia completely dazzled and curious.

Roy exchanged looks with Mia as he got up. He thought that girl looked familiar before he remembered that he, or rather, him and Jason had met her on the plane from Gotham back to Star City. She was sitting across the aisle, had started to strike a conversation with Jason around halfway of the flight. Roy hadn’t paid them too much attention as he curled up comfortably in his window seat and napped almost the entire time. When their plane had arrived and the seatbelt signs turned green, and Jason stood up to reach their backpack from the overhead bin, Roy saw the girl had slipped a thin piece of paper into the back-pocket of his jeans.

Roy had never seen her again after they got back home, until just now. He bet that Jason had contacted her without him and Mia knowing, and for Christ’s sake, he’d exposed their secret headquarters - an apartment on Winnick St that the three of them would scramble each month to come up with the rent for - to a stranger that hadn’t gone through their little gang’s trust test.

Mia saw him shuffled around yet eyes glued to that door, so she ordered him to buy some more basil leaves from the store that apparently her topping sauce is now short of. Roy groaned before leaving the apartment, still managed to strike a last look at that door that the girl has vanished into.

Some time later, the girl has finally decided to stomp out of that room again, she glimpsed over Mia, without saying a word then bounced across the communal space before walking right out, seemingly assuming oneself to be one of, otherwise, the owner of the house.

When Jason emerged just a little later too, Mia then stared at the ceiling and started talking at loud to herself, “Gotta be impressed with all the soundproof works of these walls, you can’t even hear a thing that you’d expected from the other side.”

Jason said that he and Roslyn merely spoke while in there and nothing more had happened. He looked around and asked where Roy is. Mia told him that she requested him to go to the shop and get her some more basils. Jason pondered on that. Mia figured out he’s gauging whether he should go out too, “I thought he might want some air for himself seeing that both his housemates are romantically involved in a relationship.” Jason started to look confused.

Mia thought to herself, Mia Deardon, don’t you screw this one up. She made an effort to calm her tone of voice before speaking up again. “That girl and you, aren’t you a thing or about to be?” She probed in a slightly joking way.

“A thing?” Jason now looked even more puzzled, as if this image of presumed future has never come across his mind before, “I don’t recall anything remotely like that ever discussed in our conversation.”

Mia stopped what she’s doing and pointed a silicon spatula at him, which was still covered with warm tomato chunks, “Jason, when you let a girl walk into your room, you should be prepared to provide her the chance of a mutually respectful association that is what we called a relationship, instead of just fooling around and walk away like a jerk.” Though in this particular scenario, the female individual seemed to matched that perona more, Mia had no intention of pointing that out.

“I’ve not even had a clue how she found this place, I thought she’s just some upper manager of a business, not some sort of a detective.”

Mia squinted her eyes, clearly not buying, “You know, usually a girl found out a guy’s address through a text message or a phone call.”

“Trust me, Mia, I’ve never even asked for her number.” Jason wiped his forehead and started to feel the angst up his gut, but he tried hard to not let it unleash upon Mia. “Do we have enough ingredients for tonight?” He indicated the kitchen bench filled with mixing bowls and food scraps with a nod. Mia gave it a thought, then answered, “We might have just run out of paprika, can you give Roy a ring and ask him to get a jar from the shop?”

“I’ll head down myself, don’t think he can hear the call right now.” Jason turned around to leave. Just when the door’s about to be opened, Mia called his name.

“Jason, do you love Roy?”

His hand on the doorknob came to a sudden halt. He paused for a second, “Why’d you say that?”

Mia took a deep breath, giving her best to not give away the fact that she’s rehearsed over and over what’s coming next. Instead of answering the question, she continued, “I’m not saying the kind of brotherhood you’d shared with Dick or your other partners from the cop shop, what I meant was something like Ollie and Dinah, like between me and James.”

Jason looked to be caught off guard with what she’s just said, and Mia for one was happy with how this whole situation had been going, as he at least didn’t just abruptly deny the question nor went on interrogating why the hell she’d stir up some shit like that. She heaved a sigh of relief, carefully thanking herself for the sharp observation and analysis she’d secretly inducted on themselves.

Jason looked at her, without saying a word, seemed to be still waiting for her to go on. So she did. “Roy is the kind of person that, how should I put this, would rather let his feelings sink than swim if you don’t show anything to him first. Probably why he and Ollie never saw each other eye to eye when they came across.” Jason nodded in agreement. “If he thinks that the other person doesn’t share a mutual feeling, I bet you he’d take it to his grave than ever speaking up about it.” This actually has contradicted to Roy’s impression on him, as he always saw the guy as carefree and weren’t shy about showing his affections towards the others, but Jason wasn’t going to oppose otherwise and just let Mia kept on.

“He had a crush on a girl in that crime fighting group he was in before, always claimed that he wasn’t good enough for her, so the girl never found out his feeling for her in the end.” Mia fixed her eyes on him, her spatula had now dropped to the bench surface as she leaned against the edge with both of her arms, looking at him demurely, “He’s recently acting more and more like that again. I don’t know about you, but here’s what I thought, if that other person this time at least showed him some sort of hints, maybe he wouldn’t have too many regretful undone deeds to carry with him to his tomb after all.”

Jason lowered his head and thought on that for a moment, his hand already loosen from the doorknob and he just noticed how his palm had been sweating all this long. He turned around to face Mia behind the island, who’d clearly done speaking and was waiting patiently for a response. Jason found her gaze again as he meticulously raised his eyes, “And you think this person… is… me?”

Mia grinned, “We both know that his current social life, or rather, his only life is devoted on bringing down that Merlin’s evil little scheme, which the whole operation comprises only two people, and he’s surprisingly one of them.” She could not have been clearer than that who the other person she’s referring to.

Jason couldn’t bring himself to let out of a word. There was too much to be said, too many questions bursting in his chest. When did Mia start to notice Roy’s altered behaviours as she described? How did she work out the confidence to ask him about it and not even worry that she might’ve been wrong? Did Roy ask her to feel him out, or was her perception of Roy’s feeling for him even legit?

“Jason, hello, someone in there?” His thought had been interrupted with her teases as he drown, “So let me ask again, Jason, do you love Roy? The kind of love like between Ollie and Dinah?”

The former Robin had let out a deep breath before cracking her a smile, “I’m gonna go get us some more paprika from the shop.” Then he opened the door and left the apartment.

None of the three housemates had ever demanded paprika when they had lasagna night, Jason knew better than that, and he secretly thanked Mia a thousand times as he sprinted downstairs.

——

End of snippet

End notes:

I draw Royjay fan arts from time to time, if you liked this story you’re welcome to also check them out on my Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/shashawip

#royjay #roy harper #jason todd #Mia dearden #dccomics #red hood and arsenal #red hood and the outlaws #arrowfam #team arrow #speedy #red hood #arsenal #green arrow #jayroy

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xxtraord1nary · 4 years ago

Text

His Kiss of Life

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x f!mc (Charlotte West)

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: My preferred genre is smut and I’m okay with that. THIS IS A REPOST!

Summary: A tedious work gala takes a sensual turn and becomes a hot night filled with passion and heated restroom affairs.

Warnings: Cursing, Spanking, Dirty Talk, Rough Sex.

Taglist: @katkart122 @missmiimiie @maurine07 @romewritingshop @custaroonie @lucas-rennells @omgfheishot @schnitzelbutterfingers @openheartfanfics

Charlotte and Ethan and the rest of their colleagues had to attend a mandatory work function and make “connections” for better funding for the hospital much to his dismay. He wasn’t particularly in the business of begging old stuffy socialites for money but Charlotte on the other hand was an absolute pro at it her charisma and beauty truly entranced the crowd that had formed around her as she retold a comical story of her youth involving her brothers and something about a spray paint can. Unfortunately on the other hand for Ethan he couldn’t focus on anything but the long slit going up her exposed toned mocha thighs and the open back of the form fitting midnight black dress she donned exquisitely. It was gorgeous on her and may have been seen as a little much from the scowls of some of the bitter women at the bar but it truly was elegantly sexy. The way it came down over her natural flared hips and flowed gracefully at her feet made her look as stunningly unreal. She was truly an ethereal and rare beauty and it was known by not just him but everyone in the large tastefully decorated ballroom.

Nursing his scotch by the bar he continued admiring the woman who haunted his dreams with her dark eyes and bright smile he watched on as the crowd dispersed and his lover secured more than enough pocket books to make up for everyone’s lackluster excuse for trying to do what she did. He could tell from his place a bit away leaning against the wet bar that now she was bored she always loved socializing till her “social battery” ran out as she called it and that was obviously the case right now. Ethan really tuned in at this point because she’d surely find a way to entertain herself and that had him on the edge of her seat; unpredictability was who she was after all.

As if she could feel his focused gaze burning into her more than generous backside she sensually turned and sent him an just as intense look with a slow smirk rising to her full crimson painted lips she made her way to the table where she’d left her belongings. As she picked up her phone and typed something presumably a message she couldn’t help but to hold eye contact between them not awkward at all but filled with unbridled lust. His phone dinged with a notification and he nearly jumped as it shaked him out of his stupor he almost didn’t break their gaze till another ding caused him to grab his phone annoyed at their “moment” being interrupted. That was until he saw the message was in fact from her.

Charlotte: Guess what I’m thinking right now. Okay, I’ll give you a hint. It involves my tongue and you naked.

Charlotte: I feel like something is missing from life. Namely you between my legs.

Ethan was a man of confidence and in his every move always oozed self assurance but now he was a blubbering mess of a man at a complete loss and his mouth had never been dryer. As shocked as he was, he had to admit this was such a Charlotte thing to do, and he meant it in the nicest way possible if that could be said but this woman was truly a freak. He couldn’t bring his fingers to type anything back, what the hell does one even say in response to this.

Charlotte gentle mohogany eyes held a tone of mischief and her misleading smirk was one of amuesement she always felt the best part of their relationship was tipping the scales and really keeping him on his toes. She almost felt bad at his flustered state but quickly shook it off it was too comical seeing such a composed man be left to no more than a heated mess of lust and wanting, teasing was truly her speciality. After all the chase was the best part. When she once more caught his eye she held a air of sensuality around her and decided that she needed to take things a step forward, she knew well he wouldn’t. With confident long strides she made her way to the bar “Red.” she told the bartender settling herself right in a seat next to a still stunned Ethan Ramsey. Sipping slowly from her glass he couldn’t help but be entranced by everything she did and followed every move of hers. Determined to take it a step further she caressed his hand left on the bar top with her long manicured to perfection ivory nails that contrasted beautifully with her smooth brown skin. The simple touch sent sweet shivers through his body and he longed for more once she withdrew and resumed her drinking.

“Rookie-” he started before she looped her nimble fingers through the belt loops of his slacks and pulled him with a purpose. “I know what you’re gonna say, and truthfully I don’t care.” she muttered into the crook of his neck where she left a chaste kiss and a small bite that made him wince which she soothed with her warm tounge. “God she was forward” he thought. And he’d be a damn bloody liar if he said he didn’t love it. Prior to meeting the temptress Ramsey was used to always being in charge in the bedroom no matter his partner, man or woman. He took control but Charlotte West was a wildcard and he’d soon learned he never truly knew what he was going to get and the spontaneity turned him on more than he could ever begin to describe.

“I’ll tell you how this is gonna go alright Doctor.” He groaned at the use of his title tumbling from her sweet full lips that he wanted so badly to have on him, every part of him. “You are not gonna give me that halfhearted lecture, you are going to keep me entertained. Okay?” She asked detaching her lips from his tender neck and staring him in his indigo blues. He could do no more than nod at a loss for words, or his brain simply couldn’t compute at the moment. “Meet me in the restroom in ten, your choice of course.” And with that she sashayed away with a small inconcealable smirk painted on her beautiful face as she knew he’d be there in five.

Left at a loss Ethan’s heart finally stopped its mission on trying to burst of his hard chest and his brain finally made sense of the situation and locating a clock on the wall he counted down the minutes. Back in the luxury restroom that could have been a swanky living room with a toilet and a sink. Not even three minutes late of her arrival she heard a two small raps of the hand against the large wood door. Swallowing her newfound nerves she carried herself to the door and opened it to reveal a stone faced Ramsey jaw muscles flexed in sexual frustration. “Look what we have here.” She pulled him inside by the lapels of his suit jacket and brought her silk like lips to whisper into his hear “I’m so glad you came, although I knew you would.” He couldn’t help the choked moan that struggled out of his throat as she ran her small hands up and down his toned abdomen and soon landed on his bulge that was almost bursting out of his black dress pants.

“Not more than me.” He rasped in a way that had her soaked and anxious to have him out of his pesky clothes. He finally got what he wanted most as he gripped her by the way back of her neck and wound his fingers in her mane of unruly coils nearly getting them stuck, but Charlotte couldn’t care less as he violently claimed her lips with his and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth with vigor. Her tounge made its way into his warm mouth causing him to moan aloud shamelessly as his hands made their way down to her backside and palmed with open hands all he could grab. In their heated passion she somehow had half the mind to push him backwards towards the fancy Italian leather couch settled against the wall.

His hands soon found their way under her dress palming her bare ass till he froze with realization, she wasn’t wearing anything under. He couldn’t believe it, almost as if she had planned this he chucked at her antics and she smiled knowingingly and a few giggles slip. “Dr. West you are surely one naughty girl.” He said whilst stroking her sensitive bud and spreading her wetness. This caused her moan aloud and in a sexy whisper,

“Punish me then.”

And that he did and by the seventh spank on her full backside she was a moaning mess wetter than before if possible she ground her hips into his generous hard on relentlessly poking her and much to her disdain he tossed her to the side of the couch but she soon perked up as she watched his impatiently snatch his belt his off and yank at his pants she happily took the place of his frantic hands and slowly worked his pants down along with his boxers. Sitting herself in a semi comfortable kneeling position she began to drag her nails down his thighs and ghosted her fulls lips right over the head of his throbbing member as she shamelessly admired her lover in all his naked glory. “What a view.” She thought to herself as she continued her perpetual teasing but Ethan didn’t mind he was drunk on a salacious high he never wanted to come down from.

“You know, I really like seeing you like this. All hot and bothered for me.” He moaned with satisfaction as she kneeled firmly gripped his pulsating member and stroked him slowly while placing chaste sweet kisses along the column of his neck he groaned when she sucked and bit as she went determined to mark what’s hers. As she should of course. Growing tired of the lack of not feeling more of her he shoved on the couch bringing a pleased grin to her face, she liked a rougher Ethan and he knew well as his cobalt blues to glint in mischief. He leered over her meager frame that in comparison to his was quite small. Winding his hand in her hair he pulled harshly and she soon found herself in his lap once again and it wasn’t long before her tight form fitting dress was stripped forcibly from her body “Take it off.” He rasped and she happily complied in the removal he once again claimed her lips roughly while tugging on her flaring hips. As much as she was enjoying the dominant and demanding Ethan she didn’t like the shift of control so quickly and looked for an upper hand.

But before she could even think of anything her thoughts were cut off with a strangled moan as he plunged himself deep inside her gripping onto her shoulders for leverage as he relentlessly pounded her into oblivion. She couldn’t even form words as he took her more than generous breast in his hands and kneeded one whilst suckling like a man starved on the other. Obscenities flew from Charlotte’s lips as she continued to be intoxicated by the ministrations of his blessed tongue and soon enough felt so hot she began to pleasure herself snaking a hand down to do so only to be stopped by a slap to the wrist. Her eye jerked open and sent him a fiery glare for not only stopping her but removing himself.

“You don’t get to do that, bad girls don’t get to pleasure themselves.” She was shocked to say the least but turned on all the same and couldn’t even begin to explain how good she felt at his words that almost made her moan all the while being scolded. “Well if I’m such a bad girl-” she cut herself off mid sentence and brought him in for a lip bruising kiss that left her shivering and him with numb lips from all the biting and sucking and finished with, “punish me then.” Before she could take a minute to gauge his reaction he began to leave welt raising slaps to her rear that left an excruciating stinging pain but just hurt so damn good she couldn’t help but to choke out a moan mixed with a sob.

After what made have been the twelfth slap, she didn’t know for sure the only thing she could focus on what the pleasureful sting she felt, she had no time to collect her bearings before he rammed himself mercilessly inside her with a low growl that made her want ride him into oblivion. He ran his free hand down her breast to her lower thigh and gripped all the brown skin and savored in the beauty that was her round and gracious behind and the beautiful glittery stretch that adored it perfectly. His other hand wound in her mane of unruly tendrils gripped for leverage as he lifted his hips to ruthlessly pounded into her so much so she felt, although the impossibility of it, that she’d leave this restroom with a rearranged cervix.

“God your perfect.” He groaned landing misplaced chaste kisses anywhere he could reach on her sweat glistening chest. “I bet.” She confidently responded with a smirk amidst her harsh pounding which only caused him to grin in response and pull harder on her crown of curls and if humanly possible enter her even rougher and harder. “That shut her right up.” he thought triumphantly. She hasn’t noticed it before but it was there a large vertical mirror with a perfect view of the ethans thrown back in ecstasy head and her body on full display. And there is truly nothing more erotic than watching yourself be brutally fucked by the man or your dreams and fantasies. Her chest shined with a sheen thin layer of sweat and she almost glowed from elation, thank god she went for a natural look involving only mascara and lipstick as she was a hot mess and could use a small touch up. But Ethan couldn’t care less he adores unruly sex hair that he couldn’t refrain from pulling and her mouth constantly wide open as the most alluring moans, groans and whimpers tumbled from his lover.

She watched on as she bounced on top of him and she’d be a damn liar if she said she wasn’t wetter than ever from the sight as she watched him and herself in such an intimate moment. Her nirvana was cut short by a sharp rap of knuckles against the large oak door separating the two passionate lovers from their dreary work function. Ethan’s calculated and punishing strokes never ceased much to Charlotte's dismay, he was shameless. He couldn’t possibly be turned on by the idea of being caught as he was the one that prided himself on his carefulness and keeping their relationship concealed. But maybe the older attending has been keeping some things to himself.

In particular a little fantasy exhibitonism. The idea of marking his territory with an audience was as enticing as ever as he watched the haughty stuck up socialites flirt shamelessly with his woman. Charlotte really should have known, he’d grown particularly fond of fucking her against his large floor to ceiling windows.

In response to the unsuspecting stranger Ethan hurriedly switched their positions into a kneeling one upon the couch with his front to her back and grabbed her arms from behind and again began to ruthlessly continue his assault. God he was amazing. Charlotte wasn’t a liar, she did have a little thing for older men. Not daddy issues or something but she just preferred experience and skill only a certain knowledgeable possessed. And that man was Ethan, this man scared her as he had successfully ruined her for any other man and weirdly she was okay with that.

“Hello, is anyone in there?” Came a smooth accented voice from the other side and although muffled Charlotte understood it perfectly. “Bryce!” She mentally cursed her horiness and the dilemma it got her in. Her attention snapped to Ethan as he too realized just who was at the door and he quieted her with an index finger to his lips but even then didn’t stop his stroking which slowed down to long and deep ones rather than hurried and brutal. After calling a few more times the sound of footsteps became few and far between indicating her good friend and ex-lover had left. Ethan, aware of the past relationship was glad at this and also a tad relieved he didn’t see a tinge of regret on his rookies face.

With a few more punishing strokes it was inevitable that they both climaxed and as they did her world went white and she gasped with pleasure while he could barely breathe as she gripped his neck for grounding and he quite liked the intoxicating feeling. Coming down from the high the gravity of the entire feverishly consuming ordeal at finally set upon them and unrestrained giggles flowed freely through her trembling body as she leaned forward and Ethan took the opportunity to just embrace her following their passion. “I can’t believe we had sex in a public restroom.” She sighed blissfully in his neck, chuckles from her warm breath tickling him every few seconds, she rubbed her hands down his abdomen feeling his toned pectorals all the way to his abs. “You surely are a wildcard, Dr. West.” he muttered, placing sweet kisses on the side of her beautiful face. How she could go from a complete sensual vixen to a adorable little teddy bear he would never know but was grateful all the same for his position. Here right now and just everyday with her in general.

“And you love it, Dr. Ramsey.” She knowingly grinned.

“That I do, rookie.” He sighed nuzzling her neck.

Eventually the two lovers knew they’d been gone far too long and they soon had to try and sneak back into the main hall and with that he got up and went to her purse where she always kept wet wipes and cleaned her up and with a strong calloused hand helped her to her feet and swayed her in the direction of her long abandoned gown and to the best of his ability helped her redress. Even in her tattered and wrinkled dress with wild coils adoring her head she still looked like the most flawless woman in the room.

God he was so whipped. And he truly didn’t mind.

She decided to go first and once bombarded with questions of her whereabouts for the past hour and a half by her roommates, or particularly a smirking Bryce and a worried sienna Ethan couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact that the scalpel jockey had probably a good idea at exactly what happened in that restroom. Ordering another scotch from the bar he absentmindedly stuck his free hand in his pocket and felt something unfamiliar he on instinct grabbed it out only to be stunned to silence once again by the woman so much so he almost choked on the burning liquid not so smoothly running down his throat.

He couldn’t believe it. Her racy black g-string was right in his hands and she had to have snuck it in his pocket when she handed him a fallen suit jacket. Once coming to term with what he was holding he quickly stuffed it in his pocket being reminded of the situation and setting. He looked up to meet her eyes across the large dining hall only to find her smirking devilishly and sending him a sultry wink.

A damn wink. She winked at him.

It was then they both realized, Ethan Ramsey was truly a damn goner.

Fin.

Thanks for reading.

#spotify #open heart #poc #ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey fic #f!mc #one shot #black woman #ethan x mc #choices

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