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averagejoesolomon · 5 months ago

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Hello again! Please enjoy the penultimate chapter in 1986! I am doing my darnedest to wrap this one up, so here's a Tuesday update for you. If you're new here, you can read all of Full Circle on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Thirteen

Hell ain’t fire and brimstone, and it ain’t a two-cushion loveseat. Hell, it turns out, is waking up the morning after taking a beating he doesn’t remember.

Matt’s no stranger to aches and pains. After all, he’s been brawling in the field for five years now. Went through Basic, and all the grueling training that followed. A few months before his fifteenth birthday, he got his first job at Wilson’s Hardware, where he spent summer after summer carrying bags of mulch, dirt, rocks, and concrete to customers’ cars. Matt’s body has been taking beatings since his pops first put him to work on the farm, so he knows where pain likes to burrow down deep and he knows how to move around it. The pain ain’t the problem.

Instead, he’s dealing with an intel issue—a shortage of information that tells him what to expect and when to expect it. Any other time he gets socked across the chin, Matt can expect a new bruise on his jaw the next morning and act accordingly. The same goes for busted ribs, twisted ankles, and sore knuckles. But without memories to work from, he doesn’t have any advanced warning, which means he doesn’t know what hurts until it’s too late to avoid a fresh pang. “God, almighty.”

He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, but after a hard day and with Rachel’s weight pinning him in place, his small aches have finally sprouted into full bloom. Tension vines through every muscle. Heat roots down to his bones. Somehow, his joints are stiff and loose at the exact same time, and regret soaks down to the mattress at his back.

He moves just to make sure he still can, unwrapping his arm from Rachel’s frame and reclaiming it as his own. He swears there’s a creak in his shoulder, or at least there should be with the way swollen muscle grinds across bone. The discomfort of it sends him shifting again, which triggers a new twinge in his abdomen. Another shift. Another pang. He carries on like this for too long, clinging to the last of his sleep, before finally surrendering.

Inch by inch, he pulls himself upright, which sends all sorts of new sensations up and down his nerves. Rachel was probably right when she said his ribs are probably broken. The pain radiates too widely to identify any individual break, so he clutches at his best guess with a hand that ain’t much better off. Another intel shortfall. He’s got to get eyes on this situation.

Just as he finds the side of the bed, Rachel’s sleepy grip tightens around his arm. Her eyes are still closed when she asks, drawling, “Where’re you going?”

He doesn’t tell her about the ribs. Kisses her hand, instead. “Bathroom.”

She might not even be awake when she replies, “You’ll be back?”

Matt’s told a lot of lies to a lot of people. It’s something of an occupational hazard. But he realizes he’ll never be able to lie to Rachel again—not about this. He just ain’t got the heart for it. This nonsense with the passports has only given her another reason to be nervous about him. Even in her sleep, she’s pleading for his presence, begging for his safe return. Only a fool turns away that kind of divine devotion and anyway, Matt’s got nothing worth lying for when the alternative is coming home to her. “Promise.”

She’s already slipped back to sleep by the time he stands, his entire body stretching in all the worst ways. Injuries light up along his insides like radar beacons, data points filling in all his blind spots. He catalogs them all, one by one. The rope burns on his wrist prove that he was restrained, while the stiffness in his shoulders suggests his hands were kept behind his back. His legs and lower back scream out that he was dragged some unknown distance. He spots a long, purple sprain stretching from foot, to ankle, to calf, and he seems to remember falling—getting shoved, maybe—down creaky wooden stairs.

Joe’s always said that Matt doesn’t scare easy enough, and maybe that’s true. Maybe Matt trusts too easy, hopes too easy, and always expects the world to work in his favor. He’ll own up to that, in every moment except this one. Right now, his body doesn’t look right to his own eyes, and it’s got him all sorts of spooked. Someone did a full, head-to-toe number on him, and he’s pretty sure it was someone Joe trusts. A shiver slides down his spine, dripping with dread.

He scans the floor for his sweats and throws them on, hoping to cover some of the damage and all the disorientation that comes with it. On his way out the bedroom door, he does his best to straighten a limp. It becomes pretty clear, pretty fast that he ain’t gonna be able to swing that, so he changes his goal to at least keep quiet while he walks. He’s in no state to answer any questions, which is extra unfortunate given his current presence in a cabin full of professional question-askers. His only hope is to slip past Townsend, dozing off in the sole armchair. To move with a soft step that doesn’t make it past the Baxters’ soundproof walls. To do what he’s always done, and hide in plain sight.

This seems to work, right up until the moment he flicks on the bathroom light. No matter how hard he might try, there’s no hiding from his own reflection.

Rachel’s stitches strike him first—four on his hairline, two across his cheekbone, and presumably three more below the patch on his temple. Each set comes with its own unique pattern of black and blue. These will be tricky to get past customs, to say nothing of all the other bruises that wrap around his nose, jaw, neck, and collar, a half-dozen hits fading into one continuous mark. He starts running the math in his head. His nose will take some time to heal up, but his jaw should go quick enough. His head will take about a week. There’s a bruise on his neck that looks out of place, until he realizes it’s newer than the rest and he does actually have a memory for that one, caught up in the feel of Rachel’s lips. That one should only take a day or two.

He drops the inspection to his torso, which appears to be in decent shape, all things considered. Aside from his usual scars, there ain’t much to see except for a long, menacing shadow that creeps out from his right side. When he raises his arm to get a better look, he has to do so slowly, stretching every individual muscle fiber as he goes. His teeth grit against the strain, doing no favors for the pain in his face, until the cold overhead light lands on the area in question. Swelling pools along his lower ribs, streaking upward along each bone. He seems to recall a steel-toed someone getting a few good whacks in while he was down. If he were a betting man, he’d put money on a fracture. It’s an ugly-looking thing, but nothing he ain’t dealt with before.

Matt’s lucky, he supposes, that he only got the shit beat out of him. It’s better than the alternatives. Better than when tools get involved—knives, pliers, lit cigars, hot irons. With a little help from Langley’s plastic surgeons, none of this is going to leave any real mark, even if it looks like Hell in the meantime. As bad as it seems, this is all perfectly tame for nine hours of empty memory.

Just as that thought occurs to him, another comes to mind, this one an echo of Townsend’s voice: Our dear Catherine has learned something about this organization that is keeping her alive.

“Morning.”

Matt doesn’t scare easy, but Abe Baxter nearly startles him straight out of his skin. “Chrissake, Abe,” he says, newly scabbed hand clutching at his beating heart. “Oughta know better than to sneak up on a fella like that.”

Abe hangs in the bathroom doorway, one shoulder pressed up against the jamb as he brings a mug of steaming tea to his lips. “And you,” he says, “ought to know better than to sneak off by yourself in Moscow, or aren’t you supposed to be a Soviet expert?”

Abe gets right to it, that’s for sure. Any other time, Matt might respect him for it. But as things are, it rides on his bruised and beaten nerves. “I wasn’t by myself,” he grumbles. “I brought Townsend along.”

“Mmm,” Abe grunts. “Lotta good that did you, didn’t it?”

“Right.” Matt’s arm doesn’t feel any better going down than it did coming up. “I suppose this doesn’t look too good.”

“Not any of my business what it looks like, mate,” Abe replies. “Rachel’s the boss, and Rachel said she’d handle you—do you feel you’ve been properly handled?”

When it comes to Rachel Cameron, Matt reckons he’s been well and truly handled, but in an effort to make sure it happens again someday, he bites back the joke that’s waiting on his tongue. She’s a classy kinda gal and some gentlemanly instinct tells him to keep quiet about the whole thing. Kissing, and telling, and the usual yadda yadda. He settles on, “She gave me a talking to,” which is still technically the truth.

Abe takes another sip from his mug. “Right,” he says, short, knowing, and Matt realizes that spy paranoia ain’t got nothing on covertly-sleeping-with-the-girl-of-his-dreams paranoia. “Then it’s handled. Rachel will write her reports, I’ll write mine, and the powers that be will make whatever decisions need to be made.”

Matt’s heard enough threats in his lifetime to know this ain’t one. Abe Baxter has been a kind and decent guy since the moment Matt first met him, which is why his words feel more like a warning. A reminder, maybe, that all of this could get out of hand if Matt doesn’t play his cards carefully over the next few days. “Of course,” he says. “You and Grace should do whatever you need to do.”

There are plenty of guys in this business that would ask for Abe’s discretion, and put him in a pretty tight spot by doing so. But Matt’s the one who made a mess of this mission, and he’s the one who should clean it up, even if it does mean more work down the line. In his head, he’s already creating a list of all the logistics he’ll need to work out once he’s Stateside, and he adds request MI6 redaction to the top of it.

And in addition to being decent, Abe also proves to be pretty smart, because he recognizes the moment for what it is without Matt having to spell it out. “We appreciate that,” he says sincerely. Then, with a widening smile, “And you don’t know it yet, but you’re going to appreciate that, too. Gracie was prepared to give you an earful if this conversation went the other way.”

Matt huffs out a gentle laugh. “Of course she was,” he says, and there’s a moment of camaraderie between the two men. An unspoken understanding that the women in their lives are running this show, and every show to come. “I’ll extend the sentiment to her myself, once she wakes up.”

Abe’s brow quirks. “Oh, she’s up, mate,” he says. “Has been for hours.”

Matt’s tired and sore. Disoriented and broken. He’s far from his best, but surely there’s no way he walked right past her without noticing. “I didn’t see—?”

“She’s out walking the perimeter,” Abe tells him, with a roundabout loop of his free hand. “We added a watch shift because—well, frankly Matt, we just weren’t sure if you talked. Or who you talked to.”

A perfectly reasonable concern, seeing as Matt’s not too sure himself. “She’s out there alone?” he says. “Someone should—”

Abe holds up a hand in the manner of a man who has already fought that particular battle and lost. “We were down a man,” he explains, “and at least one of us needed to get some sleep after a full day of search and rescue. It certainly wasn’t going to be Rachel. So we left her to tend to you, while Gracie and I switched off.”

“What about Townsend—?”

“Right now,” Abe says, “Rachel wouldn’t trust Townsend to tie her shoe.”

That’s a shame, but he knows Rachel well enough to understand her logic. From her perspective, this op was perfectly on track until the moment Townsend showed up at the Bolshoi, and there’s only been trouble since. With Matt down for the count, all of her wrath seems to have landed square on Townsend’s shoulders. “Yeah,” says Matt, all too familiar with Rachel’s particular form of righteous fury. “Listen, take it easy on the kid when you make it back to London, yeah? I egged him on. I’m the one who should be taking the heat.”

Curiosity sparks across Abe’s features as he makes note of something Matt doesn’t know, but he quickly douses it with a fresh sip of tea. “That won’t be our call,” he admits. “One thing to know about Townsend is that he’s talented—a little too talented for his own good. He’s gained something of a reputation for himself at Six for having a real one-track mind. This is hardly his first time breaking protocol for one of his fixations.”

Plenty of people back home might say the same about Matt. Without the full picture, Circle hunting looks a lot like breaking protocol. It looks like impulse, and hidden secrets, and a total disregard for establishment. It’s more proof that he and Townsend are after the same people, and Matt gets to wondering if Townsend has any friends in high places. “He’s real clever,” he defends. “Reminds me of myself at that age, if I were about ten times smarter than I was.”

Abe nods. “If he ever figures out how to work within the system, he’ll be one of the best we have,” he says. “But until then, he’s a Western agent on an unsanctioned mission in Moscow. That won’t be without consequence.”

“C’mon, Abe,” Matt counters. “You know he’s not a threat.”

“And yet my wife is alone in the forest, because Townsend helped land one of our agents in a river.” There’s no accusation in it. No malice. Just a statement of fact, paired with a one-shouldered shrug. “Between you and me, he could stand to have his ego checked, lest his next partner meet a worse fate. Perhaps this is the thing that finally does it.”

Abe may be decent, and he may be smart, but in this moment, he does not seem to be especially forgiving. Matt commits this observation to memory, just in case the two of them meet again, then makes a point to ask, “Have I said thank you yet? For giving up your honeymoon to cover my ass?”

“You have not.”

“Thank you. Honestly.”

Matt holds out his hand to shake, just like his pops taught him, but Abe just eyes it like it’s an animal on its last leg. It doesn’t take long to see why. With a renewed glance, Matt spots worn knuckles and wrists rubbed raw. Bruises shaped like fingerprints spotting his scratched and scraped up arms. “I’ll grant you this,” Abe says, with one more surveying scan. “If there were any suspicions about your switching sides before, that won’t be the case any longer.”

“No?” says Matt. “Suppose I’ll take that—what sold you?”

Abe takes one final sip of tea, raising his eyebrows over the rim. “In all the time I’ve been an agent,” he says, “I have never seen anyone take this level of beating from their own guys.”

Matt has. In fact, Matt’s seen agents take far worse than this, from people they trusted. But Matt’s seen a lot of things he shouldn’t have, so he doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t get a chance to, anyway, before Grace walks in the front door, shaking off the morning air.

In a cabin this size, every room is in the eyesight of another. The entryway looks directly onto the bathroom, so Grace doesn’t miss a glance. “Ah, good, you’re awake,” she says. Like Abe, she gives him a quick and efficient once-over. “And you look…”

The end of her sentence can be found easily in her expression, so Matt offers a translation. “Like I got myself thrown into the Moskva?”

“And dragged to a black site for questioning, yes,” she confirms. “Are you quite alright?”

“I’m okay.”

“You gave us a scare.”

“I’m really just fine.”

“Rachel couldn’t seem to decide between patching you up or killing you herself.” Her hands find their way to Abe’s waist, wrapping herself around him without thought. Abe answers with a steady hand atop hers. “Glad to see she’s spared you.”

It seems like Townsend isn’t the only recipient of Rachel’s wrath after all, Matt was just too far gone to feel it this time around. “For now,” he says. “Suppose we’ll see how long her mercy lasts.”

“Suppose we will,” Grace answers. “She wasn’t too rough with you, I hope?”

Again, the Baxters throw him another soft pitch straight over home plate. But again, Matt is a gentleman, and chooses not to swing at it. “We hashed things out,” he says instead.

Grace slips easily into the broad, brash smile Matt’s been trying to get since he first arrived. He ought to be happy to have finally squeezed it out of her, but it leaves him with the distinct feeling of a spy having finally been made. “I’ll bet you did.”

Abe smiles too, but lends a gentle, warning, “Darling…”

“I didn’t say anything,” Grace defends.

Matt intends to deny all the unsaid truth in the air like his life depends on it, but it turns out he doesn't have to. Abe’s already turning on his heel, still wrapped in his wife’s arms, and begins poking at her sides. “That’s quite enough of your meddling,” he teases.

Grace squeaks and giggles, her embrace breaking down further with each one of his touches. “Abraham,” she shrieks through a laugh, and the two dissolve into a fight that ain’t really a fight. In fact, it’s more of a dance, as they move together through the cabin’s center. The sight is sweet enough to fill all the empty space in Matt’s head with a memory he doesn’t have yet, but knows he wants someday, with Rachel at its squealing center.

“Are you quite finished?” A new voice joins the morning, groggy and grumpy as Townsend comes to. The Baxters don’t seem put off in the slightest, which only ups the level of annoyance in his tone. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Grace still giggles as she dodges her husband's advances with all the expertise of a highly trained agent. “Perhaps,” she offers, wrapping Abe’s jab in a defensive grip, “you wouldn’t be this tired, if you hadn’t been so busy sneaking around all week.”

This earns an unintelligible grumble from Townsend, who must decide to give up on his fight, because Matt hears him shuffle to his feet and work his way across the room. He’s still rubbing the sleep from his eye by the time he takes Abe’s place in the bathroom jamb. “Please tell me you’re fit to fly,” he says. “If I have to spend one more day with these two, I may shoot myself.”

Matt cuts Townsend a look—the kind his mama used to give when she didn’t think Matt was practicing enough patience. “There are worse people,” he reminds Townsend, “to share Moscow with.”

Matt doesn’t have to say the rest of what he’s thinking, because Townsend’s gaze falls straight to his feet, appropriately humbled by their shared close call. “Yes, well,” he says, with a few glances up toward Matt’s stitches. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry you went through all that. But we did learn something, didn’t we?”

As apologies go, it ain’t the strongest Matt’s ever heard. But he’s got the impression that, when it comes to Townsend, this is about as sincere as it’s gonna get, so he doesn’t press. “Did we?” he says instead. “Like what?”

“Well.” Townsend’s eyes light up, too enthralled by the facts of the situation to consider any sensitivity. Matt tries not to take it personally when he says, with just a touch too much glee, “To start with, they didn’t kill you.”

Until now, Matt’s thought of himself as lucky. Lucky Townsend saw him hit the water. Lucky to have a trained team searching the shoreline. Lucky to have made it back with minimal damage. But Townsend presents Matt’s return as a rigid data point, laid out in the simplest terms, and a new perspective hits Matt all at once. Nine hours is a long time to hold an agent, only to leave cuts and bruises behind. Hell, he’s seen Circle informants killed in minutes, seconds, breaths—yet here he stands, with just a couple of broken ribs and a headache. Not so much as a knife wound. Barely any bloodshed. He hears the words again: Our dear Catherine has learned something about this organization that is keeping her alive.

Just like that, Matt’s starting to wonder what information is keeping him alive. “Yeah,” he agrees, chest suddenly aching in a whole new way. “Why do you think that is?”

Townsend’s nose scrunches in something that’s not quite disappointment, not quite uncertainty. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

Somehow, they’ve stumbled into another dead end, except this time Matt’s the informant who’s been left in the dark. Another intel issue, this one not so easily solved by simply looking in the mirror. He shakes his head, straining to put the pieces together. “I don’t have much memory,” he admits. “Did you find anything in their safe house? Was anyone—?”

“They fled,” Townsend says simply. “Long before we got there, I’d guess. Covered every track, too. As far as I could tell, it was a blank slate. Besides you, the only thing I found was this.”

With a covert glance over his shoulder, Townsend reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a slim, vinyl booklet, stamped with the US seal. One more passport to join the pile Rachel has stashed away somewhere. Matt already knows what he’ll find inside, but he takes it and flips through the pages anyway, blood soaked into each corner. Sure enough, his own picture stares back at him, right next to the name his mama gave him.

It’s no accident that this is the only thing they left behind. Of course it ain’t. With the Circle, everything is planned and executed with the utmost intention. None of this—Matt’s beating, Catherine’s involvement, maybe even the lead that sent Rachel down this path—was an accident. This was a warning, through and through, for an agent who’s spent too many years poking his nose into Circle business.

We see you, a message written out in the cracks along his ribs.

The only reason Matt is still alive is because someone left him that way, on purpose, to deliver that exact message. He’s not sure if it’s meant for him, or Joe, or Langley—maybe all of the above. Matt doesn’t scare easy, but this has got his stomach turning. At least he’s already near the toilet this time.

He asks, “Did you show this to Rachel?”

And Townsend shakes his head. “She was too caught up in, well…” Matt doesn’t want to find the end of that sentence. Doesn’t want to imagine Rachel, walking in on his broken body, and all the ways she would have tried to fix him then and there. Thankfully, Townsend spares him the details. “Figured I’d leave that for you to decide.”

Townsend’s discretion comes like second nature, no doubt the result of chasing ghosts for months on end. It’s innate, automatic, as though there was never any other option. Matt gets the feeling that Townsend doesn’t keep secrets because it’s right or practical. He keeps them because he ain’t got anyone to share them with.

“I’ll handle it,” Matt promises. “In the meantime, can I ask one more favor of you?”

“You mean, other than rescuing you from an almighty terror organization?”

“Yes, other than that.”

“I don’t see why not, you’ve gotten this much out of me.”

Matt puts a hand on Townsend’s shoulder. “Good man,” he says. “I need you to write down everything you saw. No detail is too insignificant. I need… something to trigger my memory. Snap it all back into place.”

Townsend squirms under Matt’s touch like a worm under a rock, not quite shrugging off the gesture, but not quite comfortable with it either. He gives Matt a considering look. “On one condition,” he says, digging in his back pocket once more. This time, he produces a small white card with his own name typed across the front. “If you do remember something, you’ll call me.”

Matt takes mercy on Townsend and drops his hand, taking the card in its place. “Suppose that’s the least I can do.”

Townsend smiles. It’s a tight, terse thing that thins out his lips. “Suppose it is.”

There’s plenty more he could say to Townsend. Plenty of questions he could ask, warnings he could give, insight he could pass along. But he doesn’t get the chance before a fifth and final voice trills through the room. “Matthew?”

His name is a search on her lips, and he gets the feeling it always will be, when they’re not together. He doesn’t make her wait, doesn’t have the heart to, and pops his head into the hall, meeting her gaze. “Over here,” he says, stuffing the card and passport into his pocket. “I’m here.”

She’s back in her own clothes, which is a downright disaster, but Matt reckons it’s for the best, given their present company. Her dark eyes catch on him immediately, holding him in place, exactly where she wants him.

In the light of day, she seems to take him in anew, casting a swift scan over his body. Matt returns the favor, less concerned with physical injuries and searching for more subtle streaks of something deeper. Unease, or shame, or regret. She shows no sign of any of it. This is Rachel, the same as she's always been, but different in every way that matters.

The passport burns in his pocket, getting hotter and hotter by the second. The Circle is threatening Matt, and they may have used Rachel to do it. Right now, nothing else seems to matter. The tension of it build, build, builds in his echoing brain until he can't hold it back any longer. "We need to get the Hell out of Moscow," he says, at the exact same moment she says, "I think it's about time we got you the Hell out of Moscow."

#full circle

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bates--boy · 1 year ago

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Oh! Oh, so his plan is "shit", huh? Well, who gave a shit what the perpetually sad teen who desperately needed shots of Pediasure thinks about how to raise a child?

... Apparently Peter did, because nothing was stopping him from getting off that couch and walking out the door like he had wanted to when shit had hit the fan. He could go and continue to do what he knew was best for his child, instead of sitting here and letting his ears be filled with whole bunch of bullshit, his face probably flooding redder and redder by the minute. Except, there was the possibility that if he did walk out, there was no guarantee that Raivis wouldn't go blabbing to the whole wide world about his daughter. Probably not out of outward vindictiveness, but "c o n c e r n". (Yeah, fucking right.)

So, he sat there, hearing Raivis's plea for the child he knew nothing about, as well as the ways that Raivis used Peter's past to argue against him. (Yeah, so he's officially done with opening up to people.) And there was trying to ignore the churning of his stomach and the sour taste in his mouth forming because, dammit, Peter could not deny that for all the nonsense Raivis was feeding him and Peter hadn't want, there were some goddamn good points. He kept scowling at the coffee table and the dishware and food that littered it, waiting until Raivis was done with his tongue pressed into his cheek.

"Wow, Raivis," Peter said, feeling, of all things, a grin forming on his face. "That's quite a case you made there, but I also have a feeling that you don't know the lengths I can and will go to protect my kid."

Without looking at Raivis, Peter began to wring his hands and crack his knuckles. "I can forge her birth certificates and whatever else when the time comes." He was going to have to, anyway, so the documents would match their physical age and there wouldn't be any hiccups down the road; after that, he knew he would have to destroy the originals and whatever traces would connect her to Sealand. "And lies, secrecy, semantics, semantics, whatever. Fine, call what I'm doing 'lying', I don't give a rat's ass. I'll lie to her to keep her away from this shit." He'll gaslight, if he'd need to. Hell, he'll eternal sunshine his daughter if it came down to it.

...Okay, maybe he wouldn't do that, because that would take it too far, but he went on, "And I just have to get good at it, that's all. Which is a good thing that I'm a writer and she'd be a toddler. I can tell her... that we're test subjects for a longevity medicine or gene modification, and that's why we and her grandfathers stay young for so long while others don't." Again, meant to be a joke, and, again, something Peter stored in his head for later use.

The self-satisfied grin was gone as soon as it came, as Peter crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "And you say that I'm basing my decision to keep my daughter safe and happy on how I feel about my life? Well, no shit, I am; no shit, that I don't want her to experience what I've went through, on top of the mental disorder she's probably gotten from me and her ma. None of us popped into existence planning to go into war or getting involved in politics, and yet look where we ended up: going into war, some of y'all for hundreds of years, passed around from one sovereignty to the next.

"Unless you meant that Sadaf didn't have anything to worry about just because she's a capital of an abandoned war fort, which, yeah, I get it. Sealand's hardly a blip on the political radar, and no one thinks about the fort unless they're looking for gag gifts or an out-of-the-box topic to write their zany little listicles about. Sealand poses no threat, but that still hadn't stopped Arthur and his goddamn parliament from trying to destroy me, now didn't it? It didn't stop those Nazi-Lite weirdos from Germany and The Netherlands from tying me and my prince up while they staged a coup."

Both events were so long ago, but still felt so fresh in Peter's mind, because the bullshit felt like it didn't stop. "And despite all of that, and the fact that there's no longer anything to gain from ruling a busted up fort that's falling apart, my fucking idiot of a prince still plans on expanding Sealand!" Ah, shit, when did his leg start jiggling? When did he cross his arms so tightly that it felt like his ribs were going to pop? "All these renovations and additions to the fort, they won't do shit to give Sealand any political power, but you can bet your ass it would still draw some heat to us, 'cause if there's anything you can count on, it's Arthur being a power-hungry bully trying to get his kicks in any way he can." And, again, he was not going to put his daughter through that.

He inhaled sharply and dragged his hands down his face, hearing nothing in his head except Danger danger danger danger danger. She's in danger you're in danger you're both in danger. "She can grow to resent me all she wants in the slight chance that she finds all of this out," he said behind his hands, "but, sorry, I'm not going to reconsider shit."

"I have thought about it!" Peter shot back with more exasperation than he knew was necessary. "Like, I can tell her that she's still so small while everyone's getting bigger because she was born a preemie, and that's just what happens to them." Now, that was a joke. Or, it was meant to be a joke, but as Peter said it out loud, he considered it, and how long that lie would work for a gullible child until they outgrew the gullibility.

Peter took another sip, a swig this time, wishing that the damn tea would work to calm his nerves. Goddamn, did he wish he hadn't quit drinking; a long pull of whiskey would have been perfect now. "But seriously, you don't think I haven't thought about this?" Of course, he had; he broke his own heart every night imagining Sadaf watching her mother go gray, becoming too frail to take care of her daughter, crawling closer and closer to the grave as she became old enough to be Sadaf's grandmother. And her half-siblings; god, it was going to hurt to see his daughter, who'll probably be physically five or six, watch her sister and brother reach their thirties. But--

"I have. I really did, and it sucks. It's going to suck. But it's better than the alternative. She can't know about this existence or others like her--" except her family and, now, apparently, Raivis, "-- because you know how fucked up we all are? Almost none of us are stable! The ones even close to stable are my fathers and uncles, and they're going to give her more than enough of what she needs.

"And what she needs is to be happy." Finally, he looked back at Raivis. Once upon a time, Peter was terrified of mortality. Was terrified of becoming human, which seemed to come so easily for micronations, and all the issues that came with it, like becoming sick over and over and slowly fading away. Hutt River and Niko Republic, now wandering the earth as fragile and vulnerable, with no guarantee of waking up when he die. And he was still terrified. But there was an unshakeable resolve in his voice as he said, "Sadaf and I will become human soon. Sealand still has twenty, maybe thirty years tops before it finally falls apart, and that's if it doesn't dissolve before then. When she becomes human, I don't want Sadaf to spend the rest of her short life carrying the hell of being a geopolitical demigod like we have. "

The hell of dying of starvation and illnesses in his isolated little fort, only to wake up and do it all over again. To have his dreams crushed and his hard work ignored, his accomplishments mocked, and to be brushed aside unless they wanted a jester to perform for them or smile while they humiliated him. To be told that he would never be enough, he would never matter to Arthur, or anyone, in the way that Alfred or Matthew would, and still, still, he would have had to swallow his pride and beg Arthur for scraps to eat. He could be adopted by Berwald lifetimes over, and bask in the delight and warmth of Raivis' welcome and love, and he would still be that lonely, lost, feral little boy.

And though that despair came back to crush his soul, and though he was to the brink of tears, there was a hardness beyond the exhaustion Peter's eyes. "I don't know what I'll tell her when the time comes, but I know this: she's not going to know about this life. She's not going to know about her shitty bio family just like they don't need to know about her. She's going to have the happy childhood that I haven't had, and she's not going to grow up damaged like I have."

He drained the rest of his tea and set the cup on the table. "Besides, it's only going to be for the next twenty years; I think I can manage to keep up the ruse for that short time. After that, she can have all the normal connections she can make."

#ic #cryingyetcourageous #yeaaaah it was a bit much lol #he's been holding on to a lot over the years

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randomcollection-o-stuff · 2 years ago

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Little did my marine policy professor know that she will be sent in an assignment detailing my anger towards monopolies and oligopolies and how they pollute and have extremely unethical practices towards the environment and their workers today. ::)

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qin-ling · 2 years ago

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hi - for the icemav prompt fic i was hoping to request either number 19 or number 63 !! (i cant remember my tumblr login lmao - im princ3sskenny on ao3)

hello!! i went with 19--i hope you like it! this one was real fun. :^)

19. “if we're caught kissing we're most likely dead but let's risk it”

This is new, Maverick thinks, when Ice approaches him after the post-mission debriefing with a face etched from stone and his eyes pale and cold.

For all his namesake, the Iceman is not actually made of ice. Maverick’s always been aware of this, even when Ice would give him bland, cool looks back in TOPGUN like Maverick was no better than a swatch of gum beneath his shoe. No—Ice has always blazed under there, especially nose-to-nose with Maverick, all competitive fire and colossal ego tempered only by the iron fist he has around his composure.

It’s a skill thing, that callsign of his. It’s Ice’s irreproachability in the air, his marble-wrought patience and crystal-cold perfectionism. Hard edges, sharp lines, every piece of the puzzle slotted together with laser-cut precision.

But it’s a whole different ball game, on the ground. On the ground, Ice bends when Maverick least expects it; yields when Maverick most needs it. Those razor-sharp lines become pliant and hazy. Despite everything, Maverick doesn’t think Ice has ever truly been angry with him. Has never really seen him angry, at all.

Until now, anyway.

Ice approaches, and Ice doesn’t stop approaching, shoving right up into Maverick’s face and bullying him against the bulkhead with his height alone. “What the hell was that?”

“The hell was what?” says Maverick, glancing around. The passageway is claustrophobically tight, overflowing with exposed ductwork and pipes. They’re the only ones here right now, but from experience he knows it won’t be for long.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Ice snarls. “What were you thinking? That stunt you pulled—”

“It was a calculated risk,” says Maverick.

Ice’s eyes flash under the overhead light, the color of an overcast winter sky. “Calculated risk, my ass. It was stupid as shit and you know it.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” says Maverick. “If I hadn’t done that—”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“Well too fucking bad!” Maverick’s jaw snaps shut. His voice rings in the meager space, acrid and caught. He hisses between his teeth. Lowers the register. “You can’t stop me from making decisions like that, Ice. You won’t ever stop me.”

Ice’s upper lip curls. “You really think you’re invincible.”

“I told you, it was a calculated risk,” says Maverick. He raises his chin. “Besides, it worked. Got you out of radar lock, and we’re both back on deck. We’re both safe.”

Ice stares at him. Fury strings his entire body taut. His shoulders are rigid as a board, his handsome face an effigy carved into a mountain.

“You put your RIO in danger,” he says.

“Merlin was on board,” Maverick fires back. “Besides, we all know the risks.”

“That’s right,” says Ice, deathly cold. “We do.”

“For God’s sake, Kazansky.” Frustration pounds in Maverick’s temples. He jabs a finger directly into Ice’s name tape, just above his heart. “What the hell’s your problem? Like it or not, I saved your ass. Just fucking accept it.”

Ice knocks his hand away. The USNA ring stings Maverick’s knuckles. “I won’t,” he bites out. “Not like this. Never like this. I would’ve been fine. Slider would’ve been fine. We could’ve handled it. As far as I’m concerned, you fucking panicked.”

“So what if I did?” Maverick snaps. “So what? What did you expect? I’m not you; I’m not called Iceman. I saw you in trouble and I did something about it. Fuck me for giving a shit, am I right?”

“And you think I don’t?” says Ice, knife-sharp, brittle as glass. “You think I can watch you risk your neck—for me, because of me—and just—what, exactly? Shrug it off? Move on with my day?” He laughs bitterly. “Is that what you really think of me?”

Regret slams into Maverick like a freight train, abrupt and staggering. “No,” he says. The air turns viscous in his lungs. “No, Ice.”

Ice grabs him, his fingers clamping hard around his biceps, trapping Maverick where he stands. His hands are shaking. Not from fury, Maverick realizes now, but from fear. “You’re not alone anymore, Maverick,” he says. His voice cracks halfway. “You’re not the only one with skin in the game. Never do that to me again.”

“Ice,” Maverick says again. He sags against the pipe at his back. Remembers, distantly, Ice’s voice over the comms, fuzzy with static but the alarm unmistakable, Slider shouting in the background. Remembers how his head went light with terror, with blinding panic—the icy fingers that slithered down his spine, slipped ruthlessly between his ribs at the very thought—the very possibility—

And then he thinks of Ice, watching Maverick swoop in like a fucking hero. Swoop in like Maverick had a fucking death wish, like Maverick was ready to leave the whole world behind. Leave Ice behind.

“Fine,” he says. He gathers himself. Exhales unsteadily, throat tight. “Fine. But only if you promise me the same.”

Because Maverick can’t lose Ice, either. He can’t. Not after—not when—

Ice is too close; close enough that Maverick can see the blue flecks in his eyes, the way his gaze flicks over Maverick’s face like he’s searching for something. The distant hiss and boom of a catapult above them rattles the overhead. Voices resound from an adjacent passageway, commingling with the clang of boots on metal floor grates.

This is dangerous. They shouldn’t be doing this, not here. Ice knows this better than anyone—is so scrupulous about it that it actually pisses Maverick off, sometimes, even though he knows, even though he understands.

“Okay,” Ice says at last. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Then another. This time, his shoulders relax. “Okay, Mav.”

But he doesn’t pull away. His fingers dig bruises into Maverick’s arms.

“You should let go,” says Maverick quietly.

Ice’s grip only tightens further. He raises his head, sweeps a look around. Then he leans in.

Maverick’s eyelids flutter as their lips meet. It’s too chaste, too quick. Not enough. Not ever fucking enough. He surges up on his toes, fists his own hands into the front of Ice’s flight suit. Manages to deepen the kiss for only a moment before Ice breaks it off.

Their breaths intermingle. Ice cups his neck, his hand warm and protective. There’s still a hint of strain around his eyes, a touch of tension rippling through his forearm—but his hold is gentle. Maverick aches, fiercely. When Ice finally releases him, finally steps back, he swallows through the bitter pang of loss.

Not a moment too soon; a pair of boots hammer down a nearby ladder. Ice immediately straightens, face closing shut, his bearing collected and aloof once more. They look at each other.

“I’ll see you topside,” says Ice.

“Wait.” Maverick darts forward. He presses one more kiss to Ice’s mouth, brief and daring, his heart thudding in his chest. “Okay,” he says. “We’re good.”

Ice’s expression softens by the barest degree. He nods. Maverick allows himself to watch his retreat for only a second, then turns heel and exchanges greetings with the lieutenant who’s just rounded the corner.

Only a few more weeks. Maverick can hold on a little longer.

#icemav #top gun #top gun 1986 #prompt fill #i might take a pause soon to work on a new fic #more to follow <3 #qin writing

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marvel-trash-bin · 4 years ago

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Taking Risks.

(Not my Gif.)

Summary: Zemo gives you what he thinks you deserve. *Some TFATWS Ep. 3 Spoilers.*

Pairing: Zemo x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Smut for days baby. Dirty Talking, Possession, marking, Soft!Dom Zemo. 18+ Only.

Word Count: 4.2K

Tags: @greeneyedblondie44

A/N: Look we all know we're walking dangerous territory, simping for a war criminal. But Sugar Daddy Zemo got me feeling some type of way and also, Daniel Brüle is hot asf. Also, I don't actually know german so pls if it's off just blame google translate, I just have an insatiable language kink and I needed the pet names more than air itself. I thought about making this a chaptered fic, but I barely had the time to write this, never mind chapters of it before he likely fucks over Sam and Bucky next episode. Anyways, enjoy!

Here’s the thing.

You knew he was dangerous. You knew his past, the EKO Scorpion kill squad and everything with the Avengers, manipulating them and breaking them up from the inside. He was smart, unpredictable. You knew there was a very real potential that you could be hurt - or worse - if you went down the road.

And maybe, in a past life that would’ve been enough to stop you. But you weren’t who you used to be. You liked playing with fire now, inviting danger and chaos rather than straying from it. You had lived in - hid in, was more accurate - Madripoor for a handful of years now. You laid low, kept yourself under the radar of the Power Broker and those who worked for him. This way, no one bothered you and you could live fragments of a normal life, Trading and bartering to make a living. But living this way, like forgotten trash on a sidewalk, got old.

Maybe that’s why when you caught his attention, you didn’t shy away from it.

It had happened so fast. You were dancing, just intoxicated enough that the rubbing of strangers' bodies against yours was not just welcomed, but encouraged. So encouraged that when a new body, tall and firm behind you, took the place of another, you didn’t hesitate to back up into the warmth. His hands gripped your hips tightly, not stopping or guiding you, just resting. Turning your head slightly to see what your new dance partner looked like, you startled a little seeing the Baron.

Helmut chuckled, a low sound you felt rather than heard, and ducked his head down to speak into your ear, “You know who I am.”

You let your body relax back into his, feeling reckless enough to bless the menacing man with your flirtations, your head falling back onto his, “I’ve heard a thing or two.”

“And yet you trust me to hold you like this,” his hands flex on your hips, just hard enough to show the strength they hold, “Like a lover.”

You grab one of his hands, leading it down to your upper thigh where your knife holster sits, never once letting his hand leave your body.

“If I didn’t want you touching me, you’d know it, Baron.”

The gust of breath you felt against the side of your neck and the large hand gripping your thigh had shivers rolling pleasantly down your spine.

“You are far too beautiful to reside in these undergrounds,” he spun you around in his grasp, allowing you to get a good look at his face, “A woman like yourself should be treated with the most expensive riches, the finest wines. She should drain a man of his earnings.”

You laughed, not expecting the words that came from his mouth nor how handsome he was, even this close, “Point me to the man who’s willing.”

He smirked at you, but there was a smugness to it. A glimmer in his eye that suggested he had the riches and the desire to give you anything you wanted. You felt like you were drowning in his gaze, lost as you were under the heat of it. He looked somewhere behind you, pulling his eyes from you to nod once at whatever, or whoever, had stolen his attention from you. When they returned to you, the heat and desire were replaced with determination.

“It is with great regret that I must leave you, for now,” He captured your hand, bringing it up to his lips, the softness of them brushing lightly against your knuckles, “I can get you out of Madripoor, give you a life you deserve. If you meet me tomorrow morning, the airstrip.”

The world felt like it froze around you. The rational part of your brain was screaming at you. You couldn’t trust him. You Shouldn’t trust him. But as you stared into his eyes you saw nothing but honesty.

“And if I don’t?” You ask, just to buy yourself some time.

His hand travels up your arm, taking your chin between his thumb and pointer finger securely, “I will not pressure you. I’d leave you be, but the ghost of you would haunt me, schatzi.”

And with that, he was gone. Leaving you with nothing more than your thoughts, mentally preparing how quickly you could pack your things and leaving Madripoor behind. After all, you’ve always loved taking risks.

The next few weeks were a blur. Zemo was laying low, but his form of laying low was still luxury to you. It was private jets and upscale accommodations, not to mention that he was a man of his word. He spoiled you. Within three days of being in his presence, you had acquired a whole new wardrobe. Your suitcases - also new - were filled to the brim with the fanciest and latest fashion. You had rare jewels on nearly every piece of jewelry you owned. Maybe spoiled was an understatement. You’ve only dreamed of owning riches like these.

He had picked something particular for you to wear tonight, both of you making an appearance at some sort of party with some higher-ups. It was all laid out on the king-sized bed, a little black dress of sorts. It was short and sheer in its long sleeves, the sparkles in the fabric ensured that you would shimmer under any lighting. With a simple clutch, matching jewelry and a cropped, white fur jacket to keep you warm until you got to your destination. You looked good. You felt good.

He looked just as good. Sporting an outfit similar to the one you had met him in, instead choosing a dark red turtleneck to create a stunning relation between both your outfits. Nothing had happened between the two of you yet. Aside from lingering glances and innocent touches, he had been a gentleman. The chemistry was there, for sure. You were able to joke and talk with the man, matching his wit and charm every step of the way. And he loved it.

“Best behaviour tonight, schatzi.” He had said, low in your ear as you walked towards the venue.

You had smiled back at him, the perfect picture of innocence, “Always, Baron.”

And at the time, you had fully meant it. But you found yourself craving him. He looked too good, it honestly wasn’t fair. The way that ridiculous fur jacket draped over his shoulders, fostering a powerful ambience. And you knew he was faring no better himself if by the way his eyes were glued to your curves was anything to go by.

So, you decided, maybe you shouldn’t be on your best behaviour tonight. It’s not like you were making a scene or anything that would call too much attention. You were simply letting the alcohol take over your body. Whether that meant a hand on his thigh as you listened to the conversations around you, your fingers playing with the short hairs at the back of his neck or dancing a little too scandalously when you knew he was watching. You felt confident. And when you felt confident, you felt dangerous.

By the end of the night, you were teasing yourself just as much as you were him. You were pushing your luck, hands trailing a little too close to the bulge in his slacks, enjoying the way his facial features changed briefly in shock before settling back into that infuriating unmovable stoic impression. The last straw was you bending in front of him, having ‘dropped’ something from your purse. You only had to bend so much before the dress, as short as it was, had ridden up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your panties.

In an instant, he had you standing upright, thanking whoever he had been talking to for a wonderful night, tugging your dress back down to a respectable length and steering you towards the door by the back of your neck.

“That was not best behaviour,” he growled into your ear.

You giggled, despite the tight grip on your neck, “I was just having fun.”

He had done nothing but stare at you, eyes hard with a warning that had you rethinking your actions. You had forgotten, for a moment, that this man was not just someone to give you all the pretty trinkets you wore. He was a mastermind, a criminal mastermind at that. A man most deemed dangerous enough to be locked away.

“You have been bad tonight, kleine Schlampe.” He said once he had gotten you back to his car, away from the prying eyes and ears of the party guests, “You will spend the trip back thinking of ways to make it up to me.”

The words sent heat through your core, and you did exactly as he said.

By the time he had gotten you up to your accommodations, you had thought of thousands of different scenarios that could earn you forgiveness for your recklessness. You were uncertain if his words earlier had implied sexual favours, or if a simple, genuine apology was all he was looking for. However, once he had turned to you, the room door closing behind him and his eyebrows raised expectantly, you fell to your knees in front of him like it was second nature.

He chuckles darkly at you as he peels his gloves off, tossing them gently onto a side table nearby before letting one hand brush away the hair that had fallen in your face.

“Seems you are meine kleine schlampe indeed,” You had no idea what it meant, but fuck it sounded good coming from him. His eyes were hard and dark as he stared down at you, “If this is the path you’ve chosen to apologize, so be it. But not here, you are meine schlampe not a common whore. Get up. Go to the bedroom.”

You did as he said, quickly pulling yourself up to a standing position and walking to the designated room. The bed, so far, had only been used by you. He hadn’t wanted to push or pressure you into sharing a space with him. He understood that just because you decided to join him, didn’t mean you wanted to be with him. But tonight, you had decided, you wanted to give him your everything. You wanted to show him how grateful you were for all the gifts he’d given you so far. And if you couldn’t give him luxuries, you would give him your desire.

“So,” he began, nodding in approval at the way you resume your position on the floor in front of him, “Let’s begin with the basics.” As he talked, he rolled up his sleeves, doing so with precision, “Tell me, what exactly are you apologizing for?”

He commands every drop of your attention. There’s an aura to him that you had only previously caught a glimpse of. His eyes dark and locked onto yours, never once wavering. Waiting. Calculating.

“For teasing you.”

“And?”

You take a breath, shame flooding your core at the answer that sits on your tongue.

“For embarrassing you.”

There’s a pause. He cocks his head, gaze softening just a tad. He's quiet for several moments, analyzing your words. Your heart starts to beat a little faster at the extended silence, thinking you’ve done something wrong and you can’t keep up the eye contact. You duck your head, averting your gaze to his feet.

“Look at me, schatzi.” His voice is soft, but still with enough edge to make you listen.

Only once your eyes meet his again does he continue.

“That’s very sweet of you, to be concerned about my image. But make no mistake,” He steps closer to you, letting one hand cup your jaw, tilting it upwards. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, “You could never embarrass me,”

You dip your head, nipping softly at his thumb. He smiles softly at you, something glimmering in his eye, “I simply just don’t like to share what’s mine.”

Your breath leaves your body at his words and suddenly the need for him to claim you had you nearly vibrating in your skin. You watch, every muscle in your body clenched tightly, as he walks slowly over to the armchair in the corner, never once taking his eyes off you. He sits, legs parted, one arm draped off the side, the other rested so he could prop his head up.

“Proceed.”

Instantly, you make your way over to him. Once in front of him, you stand up on your knees, placing your hands on his knees and slowly sliding them up his thighs. They continue its upward motion, skimming lighting over the hardness in his pants and reaching to start on his belt. You make quick work of his belt and buttons, eagerly working his pants and briefs down. He chuckles above you.

“Mein Schatz, so eager to apologize.” He purrs, almost mockingly, hand coming down to brush the fallen hair away from your face.

Once you had him free, you took a second to admire him. Your legs clenched at the size of him. Not terribly big, but big enough to anticipate the stretch, the fullness. Your eyes flicked back up, looking up at his through your lashes, leaning in but stopping just before you could actually get your mouth on him. The hand that was previously fixing your hair was now clenched in it, messing it up again and forcing your head back suddenly to look at him properly.

“It would not be wise to tease me more than you have,” he warned.

A smirk spread across your features and you quickly realized how much you liked him like this.

Powerful.

Strict.

However, you knew you were on thin ice already. With that in mind, as soon as his grip loosened you licked a wide stripe up his length, swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him fully into your mouth. The tension his body held melted the second your tongue touched him. His mouth dropping on a soft groan. His hand stroked your hair as you sucked, encouraging the bobs of your head, not forcing but guiding. You keep your eyes trained on his face, not wanting to miss a second of experiencing him like this.

He glows in the low lamplight of the room, the shadows playing across his features delicately. You like him like this too. Reduced to a heap of gasps and moans beneath the heat of your mouth. As you suck, your hands wander, up under the fabric of his shirt, nails dragging down his sides. He hisses at the pain, but doesn’t tell you to stop.

After a few minutes of your slow torture, he decides he’s had enough. His hand tightens in your hair, his movements becoming less gentle and more demanding.

“That’s a good girl, take it all for me.”

You do as he asks, taking a breath before taking him as deep as you can. He groans at the feeling, hips shifting a few times to test you before beginning to thrust in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, but his eyes are on you and his thumb is tracing your bottom lip that’s stretched wide around his cock and you think for a second that you could spend eternity like this.

It’s not much longer before he pulls you off his cock, hand wrapping around his base tightly, “Apologies, schatzi. I am out of practice, and I fear I'm not quite finished with you yet.”

You laugh softly, voice rough due to your previous activity, “That’s okay, I don’t mind.” You insist, more than happy to let him finish like this. Whatever he wants.

He stops you before you can dip down again, standing up and taking you with him. For the first time, his lips are on yours. He overwhelms all your senses. His breath loud in your ears, his hands on your waist, his scent. His tongue slides against yours as he walks you forward, shedding his lower clothing as he goes. He only parts to give you an order.

“Turn around.”

As you do, he finishes undressing and it kills you that can’t see him. Just as quickly as the thought crosses your mind, it’s gone as you feel his hands at the top of your dress. He slides the zipper down, letting the fabric fall off your shoulders. You take the liberty of helping the sleeves the rest of the way down, the fabric falling down around your heels once you’ve done so. He hums behind you.

“Such beauty,” he whispers against your shoulder. His hands begin to wander, around your waist, up underneath the fabric of your bra, down to your thighs and ass. He chuckles, dragging your panties down enough that they too fall, forgotten at your feet, “I can hardly stay mad at you, liebling.”

Your head falls back onto his shoulders as he works your bra off next. You shiver, feeling bare and exposed before him. You want him more than you can express and you let your whole body fall back into his embrace, whimpering at the feeling of him, hard against the swell of your ass.

“Helmut,” you moan, one of your hands finding purchase in his hair as the other rests on one of his forearms.

“Tell me you’re mine, Schatzi. And I’ll give you anything you want.”

“I’m yours,” you say without hesitation, breathless as his hand dips between your legs, finding your clit. He hums, pleased at the arousal he finds there, “I’m yours. Only yours.”

He growls pulling his hand away from, “Lay back on the bed. I’ll be right back.”

You do as he says, positioning yourself in the middle of the bed. While you wait, you let your mind wander, listening to his rummaging somewhere in another room while your mind runs through everything you want him to do to you. At some point, your eyes must close because when you feel the bed dip, they open to see him crawling between your legs.

He’s done messing around, wasting no time before his face is buried between your thighs, hands maneuvering your legs so that they’re thrown over his shoulders, your heels crossing sweetly behind his head, no doubt scratching at his shoulders. Your breath leaves your body at the feeling of his tongue, warm and wet and fan-fucking-tastic. He alternates between dipping it in and out of your heat and flicking it against your clit. Your hand finds his hair, gripping it between your fingers and guiding his movements ever so slightly. His eyes don’t leave yours, spare for the few times he closes them to moan against you.

One of his hands move, leaving its place at your hip to sink two fingers into you. Your head falls back on a moan, back arching up when he crooks his fingers and finds your g-spot.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand gripping the pillow behind your head as you feel your orgasm rush towards you, “Fuck- Wait, I-”

You can’t even feel embarrassed about how easily your body has reacted to him. Before you can warn him much more, you're falling over the edge. Your thighs tensing around his head, back arching in pleasure as you ride out your high. In this moment you belong completely to him, unable to think of anything else.

“So sweet for me, liebling.” He comments, hands rubbing up and down your calves as you come down, taking a moment to unfasten your heels, letting the shoes drop to the floor before leaning back in. His lips brush against your inner thigh.

Then a bite.

“Such pretty sounds you make for me.”

And then he’s sucking harshly at the skin there, watching the shudder that rips through your sensitive body at the sensation. He doesn’t pull away until the mark is dark and flush against your skin. He continues this on the other thigh, on your ribs, your breasts and finally your neck, marking you thoroughly.

“Mine.” He growls, hot against your ear, “Mein schatz, will you let me have you?” he asks, and it’s literally all you can think about so you don’t even bother hiding the truth, the confession tumbling from your lips breathlessly.

“I’d let you do anything to me.”

He groans, capturing your lips in a deep kiss as he does so. He pulls away to grab the condom that he had put next to him on the bed and leaning back on his haunches to roll it on. You’re so impatient, nails digging into his thighs and arms, whining as you watch his hands work.

“So needy,” He comments, swallowing your moan as he finally, finally, sinks into you.

The stretch as he enters you has your head rolling back on a moan, your legs wrapping around his waist the bring him the rest of the way in. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, growling against the skin there.

“Fuck,” he groans through gritted teeth, his resolve quickly slipping at the feeling of you around his cock. And to his credit, he really tries to wait, to be good. But not seconds later he’s adjusting his grip on your hips and he’s thrusting into you with a force that makes the whole bed shake.

It’s barely been 30 seconds, but the build-up that had occurred throughout the entirety of the night had you right back on the edge, your nails clawing at his shoulders, his back, his thighs. Any purchase you could get on him, you were begging for more. You’d take anything he gave you without so much as batting an eyelash. His grip on your hips is tight and bruising, but the pain twists into a delicious pleasure that only spurs you on.

You must be speaking, babbling something back to him about how good it feels, how much you love being fucked by him because he’s laughing through a moan against your neck. He pauses for just a second, straightening up and throwing one of your legs over his shoulder before continuing to fuck you.

“That’s it Kätzchen.” He purrs, eyes moving down your body to where he enters your body, “Taking my cock so well.”

You mewl at the praise, your body arching in response to his words. Your second orgasm takes you both by surprise, having hit you like a fucking freight train when he thrusts particularly deep, hitting one of your sweet spots. You scramble for purchase on him, mouth dropped open in a near-pornographic moan that you’ll surely be embarrassed about later. But for now, all you know is pleasure.

His hips falter, stuttering as your walls tighten around him. His head falls back on a low moan, fucking you hard and slow through your release.

“Such a sweet cunt,” he gasps, “Mein Gott..”

And then he’s tangling your hands together, holding it high above your head as he pushes your thighs back, flush against your chest. He’s the one babbling now, words from God only knows what language, whispered against your skin as he chases his own release. He gives one last hard thrust and he’s done, his teeth dragging against the skin on your shoulder, moaning against you as he rides out his orgasm.

As you both come down, you stroke the back of his neck, playing with the hairs there, trying to catch your breath. After a few moments, he pulls away just enough to kiss you. There’s a lingering heat and it’s a little messy due to your shared exhaustion but it’s good.

Once you’ve both caught your breath, he removes himself from your body, taking the necessary time to deal with the condom. You watch him lazily, unable to do much other than that. You’re so tired. But there’s that ache between your legs that you love so much and you think briefly that you could go another round, if he wanted to.

He must see something in your eyes when he returns because he laughs softly, “I feel I may have my hands full with you, schatzi.” he says as he crawls back into the bed with you, covering the both of you with a blanket, the cold now biting at your skin. You know you have to get up soon enough to sort yourself out before bed, but for a moment you stay with him.

His fingers brush over your face softly, following the slope of your nose and the angle of your cheeks. There’s no real purpose to his movements, just... touching. As if convincing himself that you’re real.

“You are special, schatzi.” he says softly, “I don’t know what your plans are, but I can only hope that you choose to continue to bless me with your presence.”

This man is such an enigma to you. He carries such confidence in every aspect of his life and yet he still doubts your loyalties. There’s anxiety and pain hidden within him, you can see it in his eyes as he continues to look at you. You wonder, how much of his past weighs on his shoulders. How long before he deems himself worthy of your affection? You lean in to kiss him softly, your lips dragging slowly against him. When you pull away you keep him close, brushing your noses together.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

#helmut zemo #zemo #baron zemo #helmut zemo x reader #zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #sugar daddy zemo #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #marvel #mcu #fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #smut

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spvce-cowboy · 4 years ago

Text

gentle things

ch. 2 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

previous- ch.1: “a strange beauty”

next- ch.3: “reunion”

rating: mature

8.5k words

warnings: mutual pining, masturbation (f), alcohol, descriptions of gore

summary: after a few months on the Crest, you find yourself growing closer to your new companions.

a/n: the gay agenda is finding a way to slip a dolly parton song into a star wars fanfic, i rest my case.

Most mornings you wake to the child’s soft cooing. Occasionally, the sound is met with a low, modulated voice, that murmurs incoherent phrases in response. It somehow puts your heart to rest before you even remember where you are.

It’s strange, you’ve been a resident of the Crest for a handful of months now and it sometimes still takes you a few moments each morning to reorient yourself. You blame it on the strange limbo of hyperspace—it always throws you off for at least a day or two, and you swear your dreams are more vivid after. Sometimes you wake up panting for no reason at all.

You’re adjusting pretty well. A bit strange having a roommate/boss who doesn’t acknowledge your presence beyond the occasional but respectful nod. But it’s way better than you could have possibly imagined when you first started turning the idea over in your head. Granted, that was when you were about elbow-deep in his chest cavity, trying to fish out pieces of the shoddily constructed weapon that broke off inside him. You needed the first way out that presented itself to you, something you and Am’ile both agreed with, and well, when opportunity strikes or whatever.

Your first evening on the Crest, you asked the Mandalorian where you should sleep and he just shrugged, handing you a single, scratchy blanket with a “this is all I have.” Later, when you pass his bunk as he’s taking a nap, he’s curled in on himself on a bare cot and you realize that threadbare piece of fabric was literally all he had. You don’t bring it up, but something in your chest softens towards him after that. There’s a new quilt folded neatly on his bunk by the time he returns from his first mission.

Your second day onboard, you found a metal table in a junk heap and pushed it against one of the walls in the engineering bay. You spent the better part of an afternoon figuring out how to weld it to the floor. The medical supplies went on top, then you pushed your pillow and your rolled-up mattress underneath. Sure, there was technically a second cot in the Crew’s quarters, but you wanted to give the Mandalorian his privacy whenever possible. Besides, as long as there wasn’t too much turbulence, your set-up was pretty great.

After a few missions, you’ve visited enough markets to buy an ample supply of blankets, sweaters, and pillows to keep you comfortable on the floor of the ship. It’s freezing most nights, especially in hyperspace, and cocooning yourself in as many warm things as you could manage helps stave off both the chill as well as the occasional home sickness. The collection you’ve amassed thus far is in a various mis-match of pale jewel tones that remind you of Am’ile’s house. You didn’t realize that until you’d piled them all together on your bed and you couldn’t help but laugh at yourself a bit.

The child loves your soft things, happily snuggling up with you for naps while waiting for the Mandalorian’s return—though you suspect he’s just grateful for the new company. A consistent presence while dad’s away. You’re happy to give that to him.

The new routine is comfortable, the company is nice, the work is relatively easy. And, stars, the things you get to see. It’s honestly more than you could have ever asked for.

When your eyes blink open it’s already around eight in the morning. You’ve landed on Nevarro where the Mandalorian has already been gone for a day, attending some kind of “extended business meeting,” as he put it. Yawning, you eventually roll out of bed and stumble into the fresher, blearily rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with the spray’s cold water. Stepping out, you wrap your towel around yourself. In the tiny metal mirror suspended over the sink you pat on some lotion onto your face, eyes still heavy.

Reaching for your toothbrush, your knuckle grazes one of the Mandalorian’s facial razors. You wince, flicking your hand before examining it. A tiny nick. Sucking on it for a second to stop the blood flow, you glance at the Mandalorian’s side of the cabinet.

It’s strange to see the most banal traces evidence of what he is, who he is, behind the all that beskar. Like the facial razors—to think he’s in here, maskless, shaving his face, while you’re playing with his kid or whatever just a few steps away. To think he takes a shower every day—er, well, you’re not sure about that one, but at least when he’s on the Crest—stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist in order goes about his little tasks.

You swallow, removing your hand from your mouth and grabbing your toothbrush before your mind can wander anywhere else. You brush your teeth particularly well that morning.

The day is pretty typical from there. After feeding both yourself and the child breakfast, you settle on the floor of the hull with the small metal ball he’s obsessed with. You place him a few feet in front of you, he sways slightly on both feet before plopping down to mirror you, hands stretched forward in an demand to be put in your lap.

“Let’s do some of the exercises, yeah?” You know you’re essentially just talking to yourself as you hold the ball in the air, but you might as well make the effort anyway. Am’ile was no stranger to kids like him, or at least that’s how she put it—something about her people and some other group, the specifics completely slipped your mind. She didn’t really elaborate and you knew not to press.

Even though you don’t know much, you do try to mimic Am’ile’s drills-disguised-as-play at least a few times a day. He only seemed to do what you asked during those sessions when you weren’t looking, distracted by cleaning or studying whatever book you’d picked up hours later. You would always find the little ball in strange places, definitely not where you’d last placed it, and certainly out of the child’s reach.

At least it was good to know he was partially pretending to not listen to you. You could work with partially.

The kid has been fussy since waking, refusing to focus on any of the things you were trying to prompt him to do. Yesterday, you spent a bit too much time at the markets with him—growing sick of protein bars, you initially set out trying to find something closer to tasting like home. Really, you just liked getting out of the Crest so you could see all those people.

You’ve amassed a collection of language dictionaries, trying to do some fast learning and even faster practicing to get your way around. Sometimes the vendors are kind and help you stutter your way through disjointed sentences in their native tongue, others just huff and immediately switch to Basic as soon as you start talking. You don’t mind either way.

The marketplace as a whole is new and exciting, the clatter and clamor of movement, laughing and snarling, voices raised in argument and lowered in the smallest exchange of intimacy. So far removed from the quiet slopes of Am’ile’s home and—

You don’t let the rest of that thought happen, quickly scooping the kid up and wrapping him to your chest with a long swath of fabric.

“I’m goin’ a little crazy in here too, little guy,” you mumble, pulling your satchel over your shoulder. “Your dad should be back in a while—let’s try to find a contact for supplies until then, yeah? Shouldn’t be too hard.” A total lie, it was way more difficult to find what you are looking for than you initially thought. You were particularly looking for a cauterizing instrument that was a bit more sturdy than the glorified cigar lighter the Mandalorian was currently using. Besides basic med-kit stock, it was nearly impossible to find anything more advance under the radar.

Yesterday was half-heartedly spent searching the markets in search of someone who might be tapped into Republic supply runs, which rendered you, predictably, empty-handed. Now you were on to your second best option, asking around the closest cantina where you could find the instruments you were looking for for without raising too much attention.

Okay, so maybe the Mandalorian specifically told you to keep out of the bars when you’re traveling without him. But you managed just fine on your own yesterday in an arguably more crowded environment. You’ve also dealt with… far worse than that hunk of metal could ever possibly imagine. You’re more than capable on your own. Still, you make sure to strap a dagger and a blaster to your belt before heading out.

You make quick work hurrying to the cantina, making sure to cover your head with the hood of your tunic and conceal the little one as much as possible. Basic survival instincts usually warrant drawing as little attention to yourself as possible, being a young human woman traveling alongside a small green wizard creature is pretty much the opposite of that.

He, predictably, doesn’t take very well to the concealed swaddle you’ve confined him to, and the two of you are in a constant back-and-forth of you attempting to wrap him up and him making quick work of wriggling out of any cover tactic you try. If it weren’t for those damn ears your life would be so much easier.

The bar has the quiet hum of activity, occasionally interspersed with a loud chatter of conversations rising to some kind of boiling point. You maneuver yourself to the counter and try to get the attention of the bartender, holding the kid to your chest until he squirms his way upwards and settles with his chin on your shoulder, one of his ears slipping out of the head covering you’d fashioned and thwapping you in the neck. You’ll deal with that in a second.

You’ve only just caught the bartender’s attention when the doors slam open. The clamor of the cantina quiets momentarily, and you see everyone shift slightly to eye whoever just entered. The two new patrons seem to be in the middle of an argument, voices low in secrecy but tense with frustration.

“I’d know that green mug anywhere.” With that you finally turn, heart dropping with anxiety. It’s the Mandalorian and a companion, a human man. The man’s voice, a deep bellow, is warm and inviting in a way that shouldn’t make you freeze completely as he addresses the kid. He then looks you up and down, pausing as the Mandalorian continues stomping forwards. You freeze anyway. “Ah—this is that girl you mentioned? Your caretaker?”

“She’s a medic,” the Mandalorian sharply corrects the man without moving to look at you. He quickly returns back to whatever conversation was initially at hand as the man continues his brisk stride towards a table at the back. There are three people already seated there, but by the time the Mandalorian arrives they have all left in a scuffling hurry. Neither of the men acknowledge it, just immediately slide into opposing sides of the booth. “Karga, this is ridiculous--I’m not a Republic spy, why would there be this many hoops on a bounty you’re just handing out?”

“I’m not just ‘handing it out,’ Mando, I’m giving it to you because I know you’re the most capable,” the man, Karga, addresses the Mandalorian then directs his attention towards you. “Come here, girl. Let me get a good look at you, I’m curious.” Turning to the bartender, he barks out an order for spotchka. You walk towards the table. There’s too much attention on the three of you to resist, you wouldn’t want to make things more complicated for the Mandalorian anyway. The bounty hunter’s voice almost immediately overrides his, low but gritty with anger as you slide into the booth beside him.

“I can’t—Karga you know I’ve never done something like this. This high-profile. Going deep-cover for a job isn’t something I can do.”

You feel Karga’s eyes on you, it’s brief but piercing. You busy yourself by looking up at the woman who serves you a small glass of the bright blue liquid, quietly thanking her.

“It’s all the fobs or nothing. The signal will be broadcast in a few hours’ time—they won’t expect something like this to be conducted semi-publicly. Keep monitoring the broadcast, but save that fob for last,” Karga places three fobs in the center of the table, then slides a forth a few inches removed from the rest. He can tell the Mandalorian isn’t convinced—stars, even you can tell he isn’t convinced. Karga heaves a sigh and makes a stab at reassurance. “You can figure it out. You’re the only one I can trust to get this done. The most capable.”

The Mandalorian’s hand slams down on the table, you jump, quickly looking between the intense but even staring contest going on between Karga and the infuriated bounty hunter. Slowly, and with more than a bit of melodrama, the Mandalorian drags the fobs under his hand towards him, slipping it into his pocket without breaking eyes from Karga’s.

He turns heel so quickly his cape whips behind him. You scurry after him as fast as you can manage.

You can still feel the frustration steaming off of the Mandalorian the whole walk back to the Crest. You keep quiet, trailing behind him by a few steps—you desperately want to ask what was wrong. Your mouth stays firmly shut.

Boarding the Crest, the Mandalorian immediately scales the ladder into the cockpit. After a few minutes you feel the Crest shutter into the air, quickly shooting into the empty sky and then hyperspace. You sigh and grab a book, turning the kettle on to make some caf and settling in your bed to an eye on the kid as he toddles around the expanse of the hull.

Hours later, when the child has exhausted all possible forms of entertainment, usually consisting of live wires and exposed paneling that you tug him away from, he begins to get fussy in a way that means he’s tired but refuses to sleep. It starts with the occasional whimper that quickly crescendos into a full-blown fit. You know all the warning signs at this point.

The little terror had a bit of a habit of doing this—once the Mandalorian and you are in the ship he refuses to fall asleep unless you two are in the same room. A part of you knows this is a symptom of separation anxiety—which you in no way can blame him for, given the circumstances of their bond—but the cockpit is just about the last place you want to be.

It’s not that you’re scared of the Mandalorian, or anything. It would just be… incredibly awkward with the mood he’s in right now to attempt to lull his kid to sleep in his presence.

“Listen, buddy, your dad is super grumpy right now so—" The child just starts crying even louder, little fists balled up to pound futilely against your chest, trying to push you away. “Okay okay okay! I get it. I get it.” You sigh, biting your lip and looking down at the kid, then up at the ladder. The kid starts screaming. “Yeah, yeah. Alright.” You begin the climb up.

“Hey, sorry he’s being a little sensitive again,” you say as your head pops up onto the pilot’s deck, miraculously managing to pull yourself into the room with one arm holding the squirming kid against you. The floor seals shut behind you once you haul yourself over the edge.

The Mandalorian just grunts in response and continues flipping through radio channels, seemingly growing more frustrated with himself the longer it takes for him to find the frequency Karga directed him to. He’s in the pilot’s chair, back turned to you, shoulders hunched in concentration.

You settle into the copilot’s seat, resting the kid on his back on top of your legs. He settles almost instantly, big eyes no longer filled with tears.

Rolling your eyes with a small smile, you tickle him lightly until he starts giggling, then scoop him back up into your arms, allowing yourself to slide back in the chair a bit. You stare out into the bright darkness of space, blinking back at the stars as the child coos gently in your lap.

“A coded civilian station, is he fucking crazy?” The Mandalorian mumbles to himself in his continued litany of abuses he’s slung Karga and the greater universe’s way since returning to the Crest.

The longer you’ve been here the more he’s started to do things like that, just talking into the air without the expectation of a response. You begin to think that that’s just the way he acts when it was just him and the kid. Though you’ve noticed that he has been cursing way more than he did when you first met. That might be a little bit your fault. Oops.

You look down at the child and rub one of his ears, leaning down to press a kiss at the crown of his head. His little three-fingered hand catches your hair and pulls. Wincing, you resist the urge to jerk your head back. Instead, you extend the pad of your index finger and lightly wiggle it against his button nose. He sneezes and lets go almost immediately.

You let out a triumphant “ha!” then shake your head slightly and twist your face in a playful scowl. The kid resumes his giggling, batting at your hands when you try to tickle his tummy.

Glancing over at the angry hunk of beskar seated beside you, you notice he’s paused with his hand hovering over the radio’s controls, his head turned slightly towards his right shoulder to silently regard you and the child.

You quickly divert your gaze back down to the kid, resuming rubbing his ears as his eyes slowly, devastatingly slowly, ease shut. Only to snap open again with a playful babble, hands reaching up again for the free entertainment of the hair still attached to your head. Shit. You sigh. The Mandalorian goes back to flipping through the channels.

More static and garbled languages you’ve never encountered before. You try to ignore the pounding of your heart—that was probably the longest you’d ever seen him grant you any kind of attention—and keep trying to lull the child to sleep. As quietly as possible you try to stand, scooting around the copilot’s seat to gently bounce the kid in the limited space to the back of the cockpit. He’s quieted significantly, just enough that you could probably get him to sleep on your own, as long as you don’t jostle him too much on the descent back into the hull. You’re about to head down the ladder when—

The Mandalorian pauses momentarily on a channel that’s playing music. The opening swell of the first verse is unmistakable. Your chest fills with a certain warm feeling, pounding with memories you had long since tucked away.

“Wait,” you say it without thinking. Without even processing that the words left your mouth. “Wait, could you go back? That… that song…”

Wordlessly, he clicks back to the previous station. The cabin is filled with the music, a warm and bright voiced female vocalist smoothly intertwined with her male partner. The melody is plucky, something you could dance to—and have, more than once—and it’s overly saccharine in its pure, absolute joy in itself. But you suppose the cheesiness is part of the charm. You relish in it regardless.

You do something to me that I can’t explain. There is a memory that surfaces just as quickly as it disappears. You couldn’t have been more than four. Your father, spinning you around by your pudgy forearm. It’s his laugh you remember most of all, something boisterous and full-bodied. You are dancing around the kitchen of a home you can’t remember, the floor dappled with light from the pieces of stained glass your mother had dangling from the windows. Hold me closer and I feel no pain. You smile to yourself, bowing your head down at the little one, quietly murmuring what lyrics you remember, rocking your hips in a gentle little dance. It works, the kid is fast asleep by the last chord.

The song ends, the disc jockey begins speaking in yet another language you don’t recognize. The Mandalorian quickly turns the volume down, lest it wake the child. He has reflexes fast enough to startle you, luckily your jolt does nothing to bother the baby in your arms. You gently place him in the pram, hovering beside the pilot’s seat. You slide the shield doors shut to keep out the noise and step back.

“Thank you, Mandalorian,” you say it softly, but you can see his helm bob slightly in a nod of acknowledgement. You take a deep breath and begin to head towards the ladder as he resumes flicking through the stations.

“Hey,” the Mandalorian says your name. You pause for a moment, then turn. He clears his throat—the sound comes out as a rough crackle over the modulator. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he sounds a bit nervous. “You can uh… you can just call me Mando, you know. The full thing is a bit of a mouthful.��

You blink once, then nod. Turning heel you, mercifully, scale back down the ladder with as much grace as could be mustered, despite your shaking hands.

That night, when you touch yourself, you shove the blanket he gave you against your nose and mouth. To keep quiet, you tell yourself. It smells like his soap.

Days after the radio incident, you can’t help but occasionally find that you’re singing the song to yourself as you go about your chores. It just seems to pop in your head as soon as you open your eyes, and it’s just stuck there, but you’re not very mad about that.

Mando has landed on some bitterly cold planet that was made up of little more than ash and a thick red fog. He had left late last night/early this morning to start his hunt, telling you in a little scribbled note to expect him back in two days’ time. He has really bad handwriting, it’s strangely amusing.

You decide to deep clean the hull: washing the floors, doing laundry, organizing what meager new supplies you were able to gather from Nevarro. As you did, you sang to yourself. Out loud. Just for the pleasure of it.

Your mother taught you kulning, as was tradition for the young girls on your home planet. Your father taught you the low-bellied croon of the casino singers. When things were still good, you would sing for your parents friends at the parties they would throw and your father would play the piano. You wish you had more memories like that. It’s hard to recall anything through the foggy barriers of the past fifteen years, it makes something in your chest ache to even try.

Am’ile’s radio was for emergencies only, not wanting to draw unwanted attention with the signal. It has been ages since you’ve had access to one, ages since you’ve heard music that didn’t come from your own mouth. That was why you’d started the nightly calls at Am’ile’s because before that grassy little planet… well, speaking was barely an option. You’d seen too many girls hurt for things far less than murmuring a tune.

To sing in the way your mother taught you, with the whole of your body. To make yourself so boldly known. It was all you had ever wanted.

You start putting together dinner for you and the kid as the day winds down. Mando had a barely functioning hotplate that you were able to make the best of, having bought some fresh produce at the far more hospitable planet the three of you were stationed at the previous day.

The stew cooks while you finish up the rest of your work, slicing bread and setting up a little dining area for your and the kid because, frankly, why not go all-out? It’s good to treat yourself to the small, gentle things. Even when on an unforgiving rock hurtling through space. Especially then.

You hop in the fresher while you wait for the meat to get to the proper temperature, twisting your body to keep your hair out of the water’s blast. In the enclosed space, you feel a less self-conscious and allow yourself sing a little louder than the under-the-breath, partial-hum you’d managed throughout the rest of the day.

You don’t hear the hull opening between that and the fresher’s spray.

When you turn the water off, you recognize the sound of the last few mechanisms of the hull door stealing itself back in place. Anxiety settles in quickly as you dry off. God, please let it just be Mando please. There’s the sound of something heavy being thrown against a wall. You wince.

A low voice. “Pretty little bird you’ve got singing in here, just for me?” Then a wet crack. “Mother fuck—"

Your heart lurches in your chest as you quickly pull your clothes on, cracking open the fresher door to peer out into the hull. Mando is standing over the body of a target, now crumpled to the ground, holding a bleeding headwound with two long, thin hands. He nudges the bounty with the butt of the weapon he had presumably just used against the man’s skull. The man gives a choked moan, completely incapacitated.

“Do you…” your voice sounds far too small. You blink, inhaling and starting over. “Do you need to bring him in alive or do you need my—"

“The carbonite will stop the bleeding,” Mando’s voice is gruff. You nod, even though his back is turned to you, watching from the safety of the doorway as he leans down and lugs the whining body into the chamber. Once the bounty is sealed away, you step back out into the open.

Mando pushes past you almost without recognition, limping heavily.

“Hey—hey!” You trail behind him, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinches. “Could you at least let me do my job?”

He regards you for an extended beat, then readily sits. It’s more of a controlled collapse.

“Is it your leg?” You ask, kneeling beside him and helping him peel off what armor you can. He shakes his head.

“It’s just more of a bruise I—my side, my hip. Onto the top of my leg.”

You nod slowly. “Okay, can you get to the fresher yourself or do you think you’ll need help? You have to rinse off before I treat you.” There’s an almost clay-like layer of red dust on his clothes and armor. It would be impossible to treat him properly without getting most of it off.

He wordlessly extends a gloved hand for you to help him up, you oblige—albeit struggling a bit with his weight. Once standing, you hover beside him on his limping walk to the fresher until he gives you a short: “I’ve got it.” You back off, returning to tend to your dinner while you wait.

When he emerges again he’s only wearing a sleep shirt, his mask, and a towel, the fabric held at the hip by his clenched fist to expose an already bruising thigh. He sits on a crate with an audible wince, easing himself back to lean against the wall slightly.

Your throat constricts as you move to his exposed side, but you try to breathe evenly enough to maintain an air of professionalism. Which gets increasingly difficult when he, with another sound of sharp pain, pulls up his shirt to reveal a series of small, shallow punctures traveling up his flank and over his hip that slightly weep with a mixture of blood and the cold water on his skin. He holds the shirt, just below his pectorals with his opposing hand, allowing the towel to drape over his lap while still revealing the side you need to work on. You can see the faint cut of his abdominal muscles, tracing south alongside a thin trail of dark hair leading--

“Shotgun pellets,” his voice stops your thoughts before they can get any worse. You’re partially thankful. Glancing up, you furrow your brow in confusion. He clarifies, “they’re a uh… a projectile type weapon. He was fighting dirty and desperate.” You nod, looking back down. The worst of the spray was able to score the skin right above his hip, but most of it had just bounced off his quad, leaving a series of raised, purpling welts. It was superficial at worst, but still not the best to look at. He seemed to read your mind. “Beskar was able to deflect them for the most part. I’ll be fine, just cauterize the worst of it.”

“The more you use the cauterizer the more of a chance you have of the scar tissue getting infected, you know. That’s some business you want no part of,” you say, digging through your kit for a pain ointment and the bacta you were able to refill on Nevarro. The more you looked at it, the more foolish of a blow for him to have taken it becomes. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re doing this on purpose,” you’re muttering it to yourself before you can fulling think through the implications. When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him. “That was a joke.”

“You need to work on your material, then.”

You laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you get to work. It’s easier to feel more confident around him the longer you’ve acclimated on the Crest. You have a bad habit of using snark as a defense mechanism. The more you work with Mando, the less you’re able to keep that up. It feels nice, you can relax slightly when you’re given the reassurance of him reciprocating the conversation.

You finish pressing the last of the bandages against his side. “The pain stuff I used should start sinking in soon, it might burn for a bit beforehand but it’ll get better after a few minutes.” He nods, pulling the towel tightly around his waist before standing and limping back into his quarters. He returns, fully dressed, putting a little more pressure on his leg than he did before he left. You quickly, desperately, find a way to conceal your staring.

“Hey—I have a surprise for you,” you turn to the kitchenette, busying yourself by testing the stock with a messy sip. It’s not… the best thing you’ve ever made in your whole life, but it’s the closest thing to the meals you made with Am’ile that you’ve had since you left your old home. It smells lovely, enough to have filled the hull with the smell of the herbs you used. “I thought it was just gonna be me and the womp rat so I made dinner, if you wanna eat with us that is.” You pull out the bottle of wine you bought from one of the storage drawers, a slight heat rising to your cheeks. You hold it up triumphantly anyway. “I really just needed an excuse to buy this for myself. But I totally understand if you’d rather eat upstairs by yourself.”

“Thank you,” he says hesitantly. “I’ll… I’ll stay while you eat. I can take mine to the cockpit once you’ve finished.”

“Would you want to have a glass with me, at least?” You hold the wine bottle by the neck at your side. He’s grumpy. Part of you wants to find some way to fix that, knowing it would be hard for you to let yourself enjoy the rest of the night with him fuming over something just upstairs. “I’ll cover my eyes. It’ll be like when I brought you your meals, while you were fixing the ship. No peaking. I promise.”

He takes a moment, before nodding slowly, for some reason you’re kind of surprised he agrees. Maybe that’s why your smile is so big. Maybe it was the fact you’d already cracked the bottle open for a few sips before taking your shower, the warmth of it at the bottom of your stomach making it much easier to playfully prod at the bounty hunter. Probably a mix of both.

You kneel beside your bed to gather another pillow, placing it across the makeshift table you’ve fashioned out of two crate and one of your blankets. You turn to bring the rest of the food to the table, three wooden bowls and a plate for the kid. You’re in the middle of separating the meat from the broth for him when you glance up at Mando, who is still standing exactly where you last saw him. He points to the tuft of fabric you had placed on the floor for him.

“What’s that for?”

You’re not sure if he’s serious or not. “Um, comfort?”

He doesn’t say anything, just cocks his helmet slightly to the left.

“Alright, old man,” you roll your eyes, refilling your cup . “Suit yourself.”

Mando pauses for a second longer before easing himself onto the pillow. He says your name softly, almost to himself. “This looks… really great. Thank you.”

“Well I wouldn’t take it to heart too much, chrome bucket. I was planning on hoarding all this for me and the kid. You just came back at quite the opportune moment,” you grin cheekily up at him before tearing your piece of bread and dipping it into the broth.

He reaches across the makeshift table and picks up his cup. You’ve repurposed the tops of two of his thermoses to make them. He examines it in his hand for a moment before speaking.

“Were you singing that song that was on the radio, yesterday? When I came in?”

“Yeah,” you laugh, shaking your head to yourself as you reach over the table and grab the cup in his hand to fill it with the wine. “I haven’t heard it in ages, you know? Any music at all, honestly, but especially that song. It was one of my dad’s favorites,” you detract before either of you could linger on that last statement. “It’s been in my head all day. I was meaning to ask you, when it comes to the radio—it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me to listen while you’re on the job, yeah? Tracing signals and all that?”

Mando mulls it over for a second, accepting his cup from you and staring down at it. “I’m not sure. Better safe than sorry, but I could ask around about getting a uh… one of those new portable ones.” You don’t want to tell him that those newfangled portable radios have been a thing since you were in the cradle—something about his technological obliviousness was oddly endearing. “I’ll ask around and see if there’s some kind of blocking signal we could install. If you’d like one, that is. I’d like to take a sip, now, if that’s okay?”

You nod, immediately putting your hands over your face. You know you could just squeeze your eyes shut like oh, maybe a normal person might? But to be honest, it was a little funny to do. To act this silly in front of one of the most effective killing machines in the galaxy, who you have somehow convinced to attend a quaint family dinner. Might as well mess around a bit with it, yeah?

You hear the hiss of the mask resealing but you don’t remove your hands from your eyes. “It’s good wine,” he remarks. “You can look now.”

Removing your palms from your face, you blink your vision back to clarity, reaching for your cup again. Your mouth is already growing warm in the way that let you know that when Mando meant good he also meant strong. You have to agree.

“The people on Am’ile’s planet would make this crazy strong liquor out of these peaches that only grew in the valley where we lived. The village that was closest to us got super wealthy off of the stuff--honestly I can’t stomach anything too sweet anymore after it, spent an equal amount of time coming up as it did going down, if you get what I’m saying.” You screw up your face at even the thought of the syrup-like drink. “The orchards were super beautiful, though. The tallest foliage in the valley and they were maybe only a few heads taller than you. All types of critters living in the roots—that little one loved it.” You gesture to the child, who was grabbing as much of the dish’s meat as he could in his stubby three-fingered hands. The rest of his plate remained untouched. “Am’ile and I used to take walks through it all the time, especially when I first got there. It was too dangerous to go into the forests by yourself so I would spend ages in the orchards if she wasn’t putting me to work, just for a change of scenery.” Your mouth kind of just keeps running. It just feels so… nice, to talk to someone without having to try and stutter your way through a new language. That and the liquid courage in your cup made you unapologetically chatty. “She had so many little trinkets and things from her travels as a Republic medic, but only like ten books tops, all on medicine. I literally have the things memorized at this point, they were the only things to read.”

“You could go back at some point, if you want. When there’s a lull in jobs I could probably drop you and the kid off, spend a few weeks with her while I keep hunting,” Mando casually picks up his glass again, and you automatically cover your eyes with your hands. You’re still smiling, just with a little weight behind it.

“No, no that’s okay. Am’ile would get in too much trouble with the locals, for good reason. It isn’t safe for them and—to be honest, Mando, I don’t think the kid could take being separated from you for that long,” you pause for a moment. “But that’s incredibly kind of you to offer, thank you. I mean that.”

His mask hisses back in place. You ease the index and middle finger of your right hand to peer at him playfully before lowering your hands again. It’s a gentle spar between the two of you, an easy rhythm to settle into.

“Your med-station,” he nods towards your table/bed set up, looking particularly messy in comparison to the hull you’d spent the day cleaning. “It’s…”

Your heart drops, ready for the scolding. “Ah—uh, I’m sorry.” You look down at your plate—even if he couldn’t see the heat rising to your face, you try to hide your embarrassment by stabbing at another bite of food. You glance up at him sheepishly. “It’s the only place on the Crest that’s tucked away enough, I didn’t want to get underfoot.”

“No, no.” He shakes his head. You swallow. “I like it. A good idea. It’s like a reminder whenever I leave, not to do anything too stupid.”

“Oh, well,” you’re not sure why that catches you off guard so much. You honestly had no idea he even processed your presence since you’d first moved in besides the occasional medical assistance you provided. “I’ll make sure to put the more intimidating syringes front-and-center the next time I organize it.”

And he laughs.

Well—so, okay. It’s not a full laugh, more like a few low releases of air, but there’s a clear smile behind it that you can definitely hear. It’s enough to have you slightly grinning to yourself the rest of the meal.

By the time you’re finished, you’re a bit hazy off the wine and incredibly sleepy. You lean back slightly and yawn, looking at where Mando has settled the kid on his lap. “Sometimes I wish I could just snap my fingers and he’d just go to sleep. There’s too much energy in that little guy.”

“I can take him for the night,” Mando is currently engaged in a gentle dance of keeping the little one’s hands away from the food you’ve portioned for the bounty hunter. It’s more amusing than it should be. “If you could just help me take this upstairs I’d be more than happy to.”

You nod, clamoring to your feet and grabbing his bowl as he climbs up into the cockpit with the kid. You follow and place his dinner on a clear spot on the console.

“Where are we going next?” You ask, glancing over the control panel as if you had any idea what all those flashing lights and strange looking scanners meant. You should really pick up a flight manual at some point, just for the basics.

“The last fob,” Mando sighs. “Canto Bight. This—this is going to take a while, just warning you now. I still have no idea how I’m going to pull this off.”

You nod, yawning. You’re still a bit tipsy. “Okay, well, I think I’m gonna go to bed. Good luck brainstorming.” The food sits warm and heavy in your stomach. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this full. It’s nice.

He gives a small nod acknowledging what you said, then goes back to grumbling down at the control panel, pushing buttons and examining scanners. You lean down to kiss the kid goodnight from where he’s babbling in the co-pilot’s seat, then climb down the ladder and change into your night clothes, setting the lights in the hull to night-mode as the Crest rumbles into the sky. Climbing into bed, you wrap your biggest blanket around yourself, the chill of hyperspace already settling in the air.

You have a dream. A bad one. One you’ve never had before and don’t know if you’d survive again if you did. It starts with you already crying. It’s one of those full-body, hiccuping sobs that usually rouses you from your sleep before things gets too bad.

Mando is gone, so far gone not even the comlink your finger is hovering over would be an option. You know this because the dream starts with him calling you. When you answer, there is only the sound of a hard, driving rain.

You’re holding the child against your chest and he’s screaming into your ear but you know if you actually lift him away to look at him he’ll disappear into the rain, too, so you drop the communicator and turn and there’s blood all over the floor and you have to clean it, you do. You have to so maybe he’ll come back and so you’re here, mopping up the blood on the hull’s floor as the child wails the loudest you’ve ever heard him cry and you try to choke out reassurances through your own crying because.

Because the gore is on your hands and your elbows and on you and on the floor once its gone it’ll be okay it’s so dark but it’ll be okay and streaking across the front of you and your face where you’ve tried to wipe it away please go away because it looks just like when.

Looks just like when.

You wake up in the middle of screaming, gasping for breath, one hand pressed against the top of the table above you and the other curled into the mattress. It’s the first time that’s happened, waking up like that at least. The dreams are different each time and occur at different frequencies, but they always crescendo at the same point. Usually you just wake up, eyes slowly sliding open and fixing to whatever is directly in front of you as your vision slightly blurs. How banal it usually is, how banal it feels, adds to the cruelty. You’re mostly still able to go to sleep after, at least there was that.

Not this, though. This is that hand-scratching-at-your-own-throat kind of terror, the kind you’ve usually only seen in the holo-dramas. You haven’t had a nightmare like that for so long, so maybe the surprise of it is what made it so much worse—that it wasn’t just you. Maker, you can still hear the child’s squalling in your ears. That sound of raw, primal terror that—

You feel your stomach lurch. You scramble to the fresher, emptying the contents of your stomach into the toilet.

Half anxiety, half afraid to close your own eyes, the dull thrum of raw energy does little to calm itself once you manage to shove the door of the fresher close. You let the metal rim of the toilet cool your face as you sniff, scooting back to lean your back against the wall, pulling the sleeve of the sleepshirt you’re wearing up your palm to wipe your eyes.

A low voice says your name urgently. You look up, dazed for a moment, before the door is cracked open by four broad-knuckled fingers. Your hand flies out, catching the handle before Mando is able to pull it the rest of the way open. He barely has time to get his hand out of the way before you slam it shut again.

“I--sorry,” you croak. “Please um… please don’t come in here.”

“Are you okay?” His voice is rough with sleep. You cup your hands over your knees and lean your forehead down to rest against them. When you don’t answer, he speaks again. “Was it, was it about before? Before Am’ile?”

“I—I haven’t, for so—I haven’t… Before… It was…”

“I know. She told me, it’s alright, I wouldn’t have asked I just… I thought it was something you didn’t want to talk about but I--”

“I’m not a charity case,” it sounds snappier than you intended it to and has absolutely nothing to do with anything he’d just said. At this point you’re just talking to yourself, it seems like he knows that. “That’s not why Am’ile pawned me off on you. I’m okay, I didn’t need her supervision anymore. I’m, I’m okay. It’s taken a long time but I am now so I don’t know why--”

“No,” and he says your name forcefully, cutting you off before you can continue. He repeats himself, this time softly, before: “It’s alright.” Does his voice sound… warmer? Even through a layer of reinforced steel? “I want you to feel safe, here. Comfortable. I don’t care, it’s okay. I just thought you were hurt.” He clears his throat. “I have them too, the dreams. So you, you don’t have to worry about hiding it. Them.” You don’t know what to say, so you say nothing at all. Closing your eyes, you lean the side of your face into the door separating the two of you. It’s so silent on the other side you think he’s left, so when he speaks again it’s all the more surprising. “And she didn’t pawn you off. I need you. Here.”

Something in your chest does a complete backflip. Your stomach is fluttering so ferociously you have to clear your throat before continuing. “Okay. Yeah, um. Thank you,” you wince. “I’m gonna freshen up and then get the little one out of your hair—er, beskar.” Idiot idiot idiot.

“It’s alright, you didn’t wake him. If you want I can… I can sit with you, until you fall asleep.”

“Okay.” You say it softly. “That would be really nice, actually. Thank you.”

You quickly brush your teeth, then open the door the door slowly. Stepping into the hull and closing it behind you, you pad back to your mattress. He follows a few feet behind you quietly—it’s moments like these you’re grateful for his reserved nature. You don’t have the energy to try and brush things off by filling the silence with mindless chatter.

Kneeling beside your mattress, you wordlessly offering him an armful of your pillows. In the low light of the Crest’s night mode, the beskar helmet looks nearly featureless, save for the gleam of light that arcs up its surface as he looks down at what you’ve offered him.

“Could you—” your voice breaks. Heat rises to your face as you clear your throat again. “Is it okay if the kid um… slept with me? It was… some of it was about—”

“Yeah, of course,” Mando takes one of the pillows from the top of what you’ve offered him, tossing it at the ground of the opposing wall and then slipping out of sight as he goes into his bunk. He returns with a the child, standing above you as you crawl into bed, wrapping you blanket around yourself, setting up the pillows as you normally do for the naps you take together, preventing any accidental rolling-over. Mando crouches to place the kid beside you, then stands and settles where he’d dropped the pillow previously. You take a moment to look down at the child, running a thumb over the edge of his ear, before kissing his soft forehead where you normally do. He wrinkles his nose in his sleep, making a soft sound and twitching his ears before wiggling slightly to resettle. You rest your head back on your pillow. The specifics of the dream are already starting to drift away. It’s a small mercy, but it’s enough.

“Hey, Mando?” You lift your head, the low light reducing the man to a dark, featureless outline.

“Hm?”

“Would you mind if… um… would you mind if I just touched your hand? Just so uh… if I wake up I can know you’re there?” As the words spill out of your mouth, an unbearable heat rises to your face.

There’s the sound of him shifting, getting to his feet with a grunt. Then he’s right there, sitting with his back to the wall, just a few inches from the top of your head. Tentatively, you reach out your hand, resting your index and middle fingers against his palm. And it’s his palm, His palm, warm but rough with callouses, resting on the floor beside his extended leg just for you to be able to close your eyes, even for a little bit.

It takes a while but it works. Right as you drift back to sleep you think you feel his hand gently wrap around the fingers you’ve offered him. You really think you do.

a/n: thank you all for the engagement thus far !! it really means so much to me.

that said i am .,..... beyond excited about the next chapter for two reasons of equal importance: fancy parties and Very Jealous Mando. my favorite things 😌

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din and grogu #mando and grogu #grogu #reader insert #i'll be here in the morning #i'll be here in the morning ch.2 #fanfic #star wars fanfiction

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itsthestutterforme · 4 years ago

Text

Friendzoned (Supernatural)

Characters: Dean x demon!reader, Crowley x reader, Sam x reader

Summary: Y/N admits her feelings for Dean and Dean lies about not feeling the same way as a way to save her friendship. She goes off the deep end and convinces a demon to possess her so she can escape her harsh reality.

I've had enough of this. Enough of hiding away my emotions from Dean. He can already tell that something is up. Dean and I met on a vampire hunt in Ohio and we've been friends ever since. He mentioned that I was the youngest hunter he's met and that I shouldn't be hunting alone. I told him to shove it and that was the deal breaker.

He's been there for me when my depressive episodes would spike and I was there for him through Lilith, Abaddon, Megatron and the Leviathans. I used to think that our friendship was just that, friendship. But one night when me, Sam and Dean went to a hunter barbeque, a light bulb went off.

I was talking amongst some old friends when my eyes went looking for Dean. I saw him laughing hard about something. The type of laugh where his face turns red as a tomato and his eyes were screwed shut. Butterflies built up in my stomach and a soft smile tugged at my lips.

"Ooo, I see you eyein' up Dean Winchester." One of my friends teases whilst nudging me with her elbow. "Believe me girl, everyone has at one point. He's fine as hell." I silently curse myself when my cheeks redden with embarrassment. "Girl, stop, you're making her blush," my other friend teases.

"Can you guys just stop? I don't have feelings for him, okay. We're just friends," "Oh yeah? Then why is he looking at you right now?" I look over my shoulder to lock eyes with Dean as he takes a swig of his beer.

He sends me a wink and I roll my eyes. "Just friends my ass," "Stop it," you beg, wanting then to change the subject.

"Girl! They're coming over here!" Sure enough, Dean and Sam walk over to us. "Ready to head out?" Dean asks. "You sure? You seem to be having fun with your pals," "Ah, I'm missing my bed right about now." Dean says as he wraps an arm around my neck. He tightens his grip and pulls my head down as rubs the top of my head with his knuckles.

"Ouch, Dean! Let me go," I exclaim as I hold onto his large forearm. I apply slight pressure to his ribs and he grunts, momentarily letting go of my neck. I push him and jump up to slap the back of his neck. Instead, he grabs me and throws me over his shoulder.

"Dean, put me down!" "See you around ladies," Dean states before advancing towards the Impala. What was that about? When did he become so touchy?

Later that night after a long bath and an even longer time thinking about it, I decided to go for it. I walked up to his room and knocked on the door. "It's open," he calls, and suddenly my nerves started to take over. "D-dean, I need to talk to you about something,"

"You okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine.. physically." "If this is about you not fully believing that I'm okay after the Mark, I told y-" "I love you, Dean." "I love you too, Y/N," "Not like that," Dean's face falls and my hands ball up at my sides.

"Y/N, I don't. We can't," "Why not?" "Because after everything that happened, we were there for each. We were able to do that because there was no romance involved. Just commitment to each other."

Words were trapped in my throat and you look away from him. "You're right, I'm sorry." I say softly. He stands from the bed and slowly made his way towards me. "Y/N, you're more than just family to me. You're so beautiful and pure. And I don't want to taint you," he says, trying to touch my face.

I push his hand away and say, "What is this talk of pure? I'm not a virgin, Dean." "That's not what I meant. I.. You're like my daughter, Y/N. There are things that me and Sam went through to keep you safe. To make sure that you don't never feel what we felt." "Daughter?" I say in disbelief.

I take some steps backwards and Dean tried to reach for me. Daggers stab my chest and tear prick my eyes. "I need some air," I rush out of his room and ran into mine. I close the door and lock in case Dean tried to follow me.

I collapse on my bed and rest my back against the headboard. My elbows come into contact with knees as I hold my face in my hands. Why didn't I keep my mouth shut? Did I ruin things between us? I think as I gently cry into my hands.

Third Person POV

Things have been quiet and tense between you and Dean. Dean had enough of it. You guys just got back from a hunt and the first place you went was your room. Dean followed you and bursted into your room without warning. Your heart nearly launched outside of your chest. "What the hell, Dean?!"

"We need to- where are you going?" He asks when he sees a duffel bag on the bed. "Home, my Mom wanted me to visit. And I need a change in scenery," you lie. You just wanted to leave the bunker and find something or someone that makes you feel like someone. Hunters very existence is to be invisible, go into towns undetected. They have to be nobodies to thrive as a hunter.

And you're tired of being a nobody. You want to be a somebody. "You can't leave when we are on bad terms," "That's what I'm doing," Dean puts his hand over yours to stop you from packing. "Y/N, look at me." You slowly comply and he adds, "I care for you deeply, and I'll do anything to bring things back to the way they were."

"I just need time," you say. Dean takes a moment to look into your eyes in search for a lie. And he found one. He knew you like the back of his hand, of course he knew when you were lying. "You're lying. Just tell me what you want, Y/N. And I'll do it." "You want to know what I want? I want out! I want to make something of myself," you snap.

You pull away from him and he stands up straight. "That's not what you want," "How the hell are you going to tell me what I do or don't want?" "Because I know you better than you know yourself. You just want to belong," "Fine, you're right. But I don't belong here." "You don't mean that." He crosses his arms and narrow his eyes at me.

"And what if I do," you say, mimicking his actions. "You're not leaving," he says before advancing towards the door. He closes it and you heard multiple locks clicking. You never understood why the doors locked on the outside. "Wh-- are you serious?" You bang on the door and yell, "Let me out of here!"

"I would cancel your plans with your mother if I were you," "God, you are such an asshole, Dean!" You collapse to the floor and lean your back on the cold, rusted door. You wanted out of here, which means that you had two options. Both you would regret, but what the hell. You only live once right?

You find yourself talking to Crowley until he appeared. He looked around the room with his hands stuffed into the pocket of his black trench coat. "Well this is unexpected," he says amusingly. "I was about to say the same thing," "Any particular reason why you called? Or are you just lonely?"

"If you even think about it, I will kill you," you threatened, brushing off your hands as you stand up from the ground. "You a most definitely a Winchester," he says with a chuckle. You roll your eyes and say, "I need to ask you a favor,"

"Let me guess, get you out of here? If I may ask, how did you get grounded anyway?" "None of your business and that's not what I was going to ask." "Well spill it out then. I don't have all day," "I want you to find a demon to possess me," you say all in one blurb.

"Damn, you're full of surprises, aren't you?" "Are you going to do it or not?" "That depends if you're completely aware of what you're asking." You lift your shirt where your devil's seal resided. Taking out your pocket knife, you cut through and broke the seal.

"I guess you are." He snaps his fingers and black smoke comes from the vent and aim straight towards you. "Good luck, darling," Crowley says before leaving. You fall to the ground and fell unconscious momentarily.

The demon was in charge and looked around the room. They stood from the ground and looked in the mirror. "Finally, a hottie." The demon finished packing their belongings and blinked into the garage to hijack a car.

"Is that the garage?" Sam asks while he was in the middle of arguing with Dean. "Y/N," Dean says before sprinting towards the room. Sam ran into the garage but Y/N was already long gone. Dean's eyebrows furrow when he sees the door was still locked and shut. It wasn't until he smelled sulfur that he knew what it was.

"Sam, she's possessed," Dean says. "What? How? She has the devil's seal, right?" "She must of broken it. I can't believe she would do this," "I can't believe you locked her in the room like some kid," Sam snaps.

"So you're saying that this is my fault?" "I'm saying that you could've handled it better." "I don't have time for this, I have to find her." "Where would you even start?" They both look at each other for a few seconds before saying in unison, "Crowley,"

Weeks went by and you were in the wind. But truth be told, you were having the time of your life. Crowley made sure to give you the soul of an gay, extroverted fuck boy. The exact opposite of who you were. The demon has been bouncing between bars and clubs, bring home new guys every other night.

They made sure to stay under the radar so the Winchester couldn't track them. But one night, they decided to twerk on the bar with a bottle of Hennessy in their hand. Sam found it through an algorithm he created and showed it to Dean.

"What the hell is sh- is she twerking?" Dean says both in disbelief and disappointment. "It seems like she's-" "Like she's what, Sam?" Dean snap, unable to pull his eyes away from the computer screen. "She's having fun."

"Come on, that's just the demon possessing her," he says, his eyes still glue to the computer. Sam closes the computer and Dean's eyes were starting to glaze over. "What if she doesn't want to be found?" Dean says softly.

"She'll miss home, eventually. She just needs time." "How much time, Sam! She's being selfish! She's acting like our relationship is one sided. I love her just as much as she loves me." "As friends, Dean. She needs to accept the fact that you see her as a daughter,"

"I don't actually see her as a daughter. I don't even know why I said that." Dean sits down and placed a hand over his face. "You have to tell her how you really feel, dude. Time's running out." "Listen, she's in Detroit. That's almost a half day's drive. If we leave now, we can get there at 8 in the morning." Sam adds.

In ten minutes, the made their go bags and took the Impala out of the garage. When they get there, Dean got straight to business after he downed three coffees. Time is of the essence when it comes to this demon. They never stay in the same town for longer than two days.

Sam and Dean ask around for Y/N and a man overhears her name. He knows the name because she slept with him last night after they met each other at a club. "Hey, is she in trouble or anything?" He asks.

"No, she's not. She's our family and we just want to make sure she's okay," Sam states. "The last I saw her, she was in Victory Hotel. You guys are some lucky bucks," "And why is that?" Dean asks.

He knows where this was going, but didn't care. He was looking for something to punch anyway. "She does this little twisting trick when she's on top that I--" Dean's fist collides with the man's face. He catches him before he hits the ground to slam his face against the bar counter.

"So she is your girlfriend," the bar tender says to Dean. Dean storms out of the bar and everyone looks to Sam in deafening silence. A nervous smile tugs at his lips and he awkwardly walks out of the bar.

Dean waits for Sam before driving to Victory Hotel. Without another thought, Dean walks in and slams $200 on the counter where the clerk resided. "Y/N, what room is she in?" Dean asks. "R-room 30," the clerk stumbled.

"Dean, wait," Sam calls out as he follows Dean up the stairs to Room 30. "You have to calm down," Dean ignores him and kicks the door in. The demon yelps out in shock before a playful smirk fell on their lips. "Hey there, Deany boy. I'm assuming you're here for you little lady back." They ask.

"Put her on," Dean commands. "What if I don't, huh? What exactly would you do to me? To her. Absolutely nothing," they taunt. "Why did she do it?" Dean asks, getting closer. "She said that she wanted to feel like someone instead of a nobody lurking in the shadows. And I don't blame her, you called her your daughter. Ouch."

"I would want to leave you too," "She really wanted to leave?" "You know what? How about you talk to her," the demon says. Y/N came to the surface and you nearly lost balance. "Y/N?" Sam asked. You looked over to him first before cowering under Dean's angry gaze.

"You had us worried sick about you, Y/N. What the hell were you thinking!" "For once, I was thinking about me and my life, Dean! Is that so hard for you to comprehend!" "You hate being called a child, yet here you are, acting like one!"

"Screw you!" "You mean like you did the grocery list of guys." Your hand comes up and slaps him. Your hand print instantly made a mark on his cheek. "My sex life is none of business," "You me to kiss you? You want me to be with you, fine."

Dean rushes over to you. "No, it has to be your choice. Not an ultimatum. And you made it clear that you didn't--". Dean's hand finds your stomach and pushes you into the nearest wall.

Before you could object, he slams his lips on yours. Your body instantly tenses and every time you try to pull away, he follows your lips. "I'll just be outside then," Sam says. Your legs became jello and you no longer felt the need to fight him.

He steps closer to you until your body melted into his. He softly pecks your lips every time you try to speak. When he finally pulls away, you are completely speechless and tired. "I lied about before," he whispers.

You look into his eyes and a small part of you believed him, but not enough of you did. "Let's go," You say to the demon. "No," Dean says but the demon already took over. "Whew, you really know how to make a girl wet. I'll have to take care of that later. Those lips certainly works wonders and you almost won her over.. almost."

Dean tries to tackle the demon but with the flick of wrist, they send Dean crashing into the wall. "Dean!" Sam says as he rushes into the room. "Oh, and Y/N says to stop looking for her. Tootles!" They said before blinking elsewhere. "Damn it!" Dean yells before flipping the table. "Get Crowley on the phone, now!"

With Crowley and Cas' help, they summoned Y/N within minutes. They trapped her in a devil's trap and the demon crossed their arms. "You really don't know how to take a.. hint." The demon says when they see Crowley standing in the corner. "My apologies, my liege," the demon says.

Crowley walks up to them and says, "Get out." "I didn't hurt her, like you made me promise, my liege," "Either you get out or I kill you. Your choice," Dean says, taking out his inscribed knife. "Oh please, you would rather stab yourself than stab her,"

Crowley snapped his fingers and the demon left Y/N's body. "I'll deal with you later," Crowley says to the demon as it goes back to Hell. You collapse to the ground and slowly lift your head to see everyone. Embarrassment warms your cheeks and your gaze falls to the ground.

"Guys, we should give them some privacy," Sam says. Dean kneels down next to you but you refuse to meet his gaze. "Y/N, you gotta talk to me, please." "I don't even know what to say, Dean."

"Let's start at the night after the barbeque," "Let's not, Dean. I don't want to relive that pain," "What about my pain, huh? What about my suffering?"

"Y/N, I'm sorry for hurting you and I'm sorry for lying to you." You stand up from the ground and look down at Dean. He stands up and brushes the dirt from his hands. "But I understand if you want to leave," he adds.

You turn to walk towards the door but stop yourself when your hand touches the cold door knob. You turn back around and run into Dean's arms. You squeeze him as hard you could and he tightened his grip on you.

"I'm so sorry for everything, Dean," you whimper and he says, "There's nothing to be sorry about. You found a way to cope and I should have judge you on that."

"Dean, about that kiss," you say and Dean pulls away from you slightly. He looks down at you but didn't move his hands. It was like he was waiting for the signal to kiss you.

"You were right, about leaving things as friends. You are more committed that way. As ass backwards as that sounds, it finally makes sense now."

"But kiss me like that again, and that won't be the case anymore." You joke but Dean still looked quite serious. "Dean?" He grabbed the back of your neck and captures your lips in a burningly slow kiss.

He brings you closer by the hips and slides his tongue against yours. You moan softly and try to pull away before you coupf make anymore noise. But of course, he follows your lips and bite down on your bottom lip.

You finally managed to pull away from him and put your fingers against his lips so he wouldn't kiss you again. "My God," you say softly. "We'll continue this later, but I'm hungry and I have to kiss and make up with the rest of the team," you add, earning an eyebrow raise from Dean. "Not actually kiss, Dean. It's an expression,"

"I know, and I never liked it," he says, squeezing your hips. Now you start to wonder what exactly you got yourself into?

#demon!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #sam and dean #sam x reader #crowley x reader

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pillar--of--salt · 4 years ago

Note

For the prompt list - 11? Any ship tbh

11. “Are you- are you flirting with me?”

///

“Hello. Henry McCord, DIA. I have an appointment to see Secretary Adams in—” he checked his watch— “five minutes.”

Blake glanced up at him. “Oh, yes. Dr. McCord. I’m Blake Moran, the Secretary’s personal assistant. We spoke on the phone.” He stuck out his hand, and Henry shook it firmly.

“Nice to meet you. Good to put a face to the name.”

“Likewise. She’s on a video call right now, but she should be finishing up in the next ten minutes or so. You can go on through those doors and have a seat. I’ll come get you when she’s done.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Can I get you anything while you wait? Water, coffee, tea?”

“I’m fine, thanks”

“I’ll let you know when the Secretary is ready for you.”

///

Henry approached Blake’s desk with slight apprehension.

This was his third meeting on the seventh floor in a month—practically unheard of for anyone. But the Secretary insisted, and so Blake rearranged her schedule every time to get him in like she wanted. He wondered what it was, exactly, that had DIA requiring so much of her face-to-face time, but it was Blake’s rule not to ask more questions than was necessary.

He glanced up, fingers flying over his keyboard as he cranked out an email, and tipped his head in Henry’s direction. “Nice to see you again, Dr. McCord. Take care.”

Henry lingered. It took Blake another three seconds to realize Henry was still standing there. When he realized, he slowed his fingers, and then stopped typing altogether. “Is there... something I can help you with?”

“Look, Blake,” Henry said, in a tone that Blake recognized full-well meant he was about to be needled for something he likely couldn’t give, “I know you’re the Secretary’s gatekeeper, so to speak...”

“Yes?”

“...And I know that no one can get to her without going through you, so... just give it to me straight. What do I have to do to get on her schedule again later this week?”

Both of Blake’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Again?”

“I’d really like another appointment with the Secretary.”

“Well, that simply isn’t done. And you— you’ve had three meetings with her already this month, the last two of which were, by the way, last minute additions—”

“I know, and I appreciate that, but—”

“—and I don’t think you understand just how impossible it is for me to have made that happen.”

“Surely you—”

“Surely you can appreciate that the Secretary is a very busy woman,” Blake said firmly. “I cannot simply fit you in on a whim. And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“I’ll take any window of spare time she has,” he said, but Blake was already shaking his head.

“Quite frankly sir, you’ll find more windows in the bowels of this building than in the Secretary’s current schedule.”

“Okay. All right.” Henry thought for a long moment, regrouping as he searched for a different strategy. Blake continued on with his email. Finally, Henry asked, “Well then how... how can I sweeten the deal for you, Blake? What can I do to make this work for you, too?”

“...I beg your pardon?”

“There must be something I can do for you.”

Blake stared. “Dr. McCord, are you— are you flirting with me?”

Henry’s eyes widened. “Wha- no! No, I was saying— I just meant— How could you think—”

“Relax, I’m just messing with you.” He broke into a grin.

“Christ, Blake.”

“But you should know for future reference that I don’t respond to bribery in any form,” he said seriously. “Another whiff of something like it and I’ll kick you so far off the Secretary’s radar that—”

“I get it, I get it,” Henry said, holding up his hands up. “I didn’t mean it like that, anyway. I just figured... I don’t know. Sorry. I was trying to be nice.”

“Yes well, stop that.”

“How do I get on your good side?”

“Be nice to the Secretary. That’ll get you on my good side.” Blake sighed, then decided that just this once—just this once!—he would give in. Because he liked Henry McCord.

And because he was beginning to see the real reason DIA was showing so much sudden interest in working with the State Department. It wasn’t all DIA. And it wasn’t all about the State Department.

Blake scrolled through the schedule, trying to find an opening where there was none to be had. Someone would have to be moved, and Blake needed to decide who would be the least pissed off about it.

After a moment he said, “How about lunch on Friday? I can give you half an hour at one-thirty.”

“That would be great. Thanks, Blake.” Suddenly, Henry looked a little nervous, a little giddy.

Blake shuffled the schedule (and made a mental note to call the Mexican ambassador’s office) before looking up again. “She likes that Thai place on 18th street,” he said neutrally. “Chicken pad thai and papaya salad with extra peanuts. And... if you get steamed dumplings, that’ll probably net you extra points.”

Henry nodded. “Got it. Thanks again.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk and began to walk away.

“And Henry?”

He turned back.

Blake schooled away a smile. “She likes peonies more than roses.”

Henry didn’t bother to hide his. “Good to know.” As he headed down to the elevator, there was a greater spring to his step. Blake rolled his eyes.

Nadine sidled up to his desk, watching Henry McCord go. “What was that about?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head and went back to his email. “Nothing important.”

If the Secretary ever accused him of meddling, he would deny it to his grave.

#ty for the prompt!#madam secretary #blake moran #henry mccord #elizabeth mccord #au #fanfic #drabbles

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years ago

Text

Puppy Love (A Light Fingers Moment In Between)

A/N: Sometimes I say words, and other people say words, and stuff happens. Part of me wants to say AU because it would be easier, but I love making things More Difficult on Purpose. Word Count: 2333 Rating: G(eneral Audience)

You tapped Diego on the shoulder, nodding your head in the direction of the faint clatter you’d heard.

The pair of you had popped in to stop a home invasion, but one of the perps had taken off with a priceless family heirloom, and you’d agreed to give chase. Unfortunately, he had a head start and you had lost him in the warren of a crowded parking garage.

Diego pressed a finger to his lips and nodded, gesturing with his free hand for you to circle around while he approached from the front to draw attention.

You met his eyes for a brief moment, lower lip worrying between your teeth. You gave his arm a brief squeeze before nodding and setting off. No matter how long you’d been doing this, you worried about him when his plans worked out like this, with him picking fights so you could have the element of surprise. As you moved, quick and quiet, something felt wrong about the situation. Hesitantly, you fingered the knife that Diego had insisted you started carrying on these jobs, not pulling it out yet, but reassuring yourself that it was there and easily accessible.

There was another scuffling sound and a soft whine, one that didn’t sound human. You picked up your pace now, running in the direction of the noises. There, huddled in the corner of the garage, caught and tugging on the corner of a dumpster, was a small, shivering dog.

“Hi there,” you said softly, sinking low and holding your hand out as you crept closer to the frightened creature.

You heard pounding footsteps behind you as Diego ran up, the sound making the dog yelp and try to cower more.

“Shh, shh,” you hummed, shifting to sit cross-legged in front of it, blocking it’s view of Diego, and giving you a more steady position to hold the little creature still while you unhooked it’s collar from the sharp, bent edge of the trash.

Once freed, you expected it to squirm in your arms or try to run, but instead, it stayed, pressed lightly against your leg, shivering. It was covered in so much mud you could hardly tell it was meant to be white and stank horribly (or maybe that was the bins), but you were pretty sure someone would be missing it.

“Think you can find our bad guy on your own?” you murmured as Diego peered over your shoulder. “I don’t want to abandon this little one to its own devices.”

He couldn’t help chuckling. “Yeah, I got it. Meet you back here?”

“I’m not waiting for you by the dumpsters. I’ll meet you by the entrance.”

After returning the expensive and hideous brooch to the family, and turning the would-be-burglars over to the cops, you and Diego made your way home, the little dog wrapped in a towel in your arms. The family hadn’t ever seen it around before, and the tag had the dog’s name, “Penny,” but no name or address of an owner.

“It’s alright Penny,” you told her as you walked. “We’ll get you cleaned up, take some nice pictures and put up flyers. I’m sure someone’s missing you and will be excited to have you home again soon.”

“Why don’t we just take it to the shelter?” Diego asked gruffly, trying to hide how cute he thought Penny was.

“Shelters are overcrowded and understaffed. They have a hard time caring for the dogs that need homes, let alone the ones that just got lost and get brought to them. Besides, I...want to make sure her family gets her back, and that’s easier to do if we make the handoff.”

Diego shook his head, slightly exasperated. “Fine. But if it takes more than a few days--”

“We’ll discuss that only if we have to.” You shifted the dog so that you would have a free hand and bopped Diego’s nose teasingly. “Don’t be a grump.”

He gaped at you. “For that, I’m not helping you wash it.”

“Of course you’re not, baby. You’re going out to buy kibble and a leash.” You smiled winningly at him.

Penny was with you for just over a week before you got a call during dinner one night. The man on the other end of the line said that he had seen your flyers and was sure that the dog you found belonged to his elderly mother. She had been worried sick when the dog slipped out, but hadn’t been able to follow it, and because of his work, he hadn’t been able to put out ‘missing’ posters. You told him you were glad he called and asked if he had evidence the dog was his or his mother’s. He told you he’d bring a picture of the two of them together, and arranged to meet you at Griddy’s Doughnuts the next morning.

During the time she was there, Penny settled in quite well with you and Diego, excited when either of you left and came back, quite happy to sit on your laps while you watched tv or read at night, curling up at the foot of the bed when you went to sleep. She and Diego in particular, for all his protests, seemed inseparable. For all his protests at first, he seemed to enjoy all of her antics, and slipped her food off his plate when she gave him big sad eyes and he thought you weren’t paying attention. When you told him that her owner had finally called, he hid a frown behind a cough.

“Diego,” you sighed, seeing his face fall anyway. “You knew we couldn’t keep her…”

You were just as sad as he was, if you were being honest. You had never really imagined yourself a dog person, the idea of having a pet so far off your radar as to be unfathomable. But Penny had slotted into your lives like a missing piece, and as glad as you were to return her, safe and happy, to her home and the people that loved her, you and Diego loved her too.

“I know,” he said softly. “Just. It’ll be weird once she’s gone.”

You bit your lip, considering the words that bubbled up your throat before letting them fall from your tongue, nearly as impulsive as your marriage proposal.

“Ya know...we could...get a dog of our own?” you shrugged, trying to play off the idea as a casual thought.

It was hard not to be overwhelmed by the smell and sound within the shelter’s kennel area, over two dozen dogs baying, barking, and bouncing on the chain-link fencing as the pair of you were led through to an open area where you could do some meet and greets.

Nervously you sat on the bench, fingers laced with Diego’s and running your thumb back and forth over his knuckles.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in to whisper in your ear. “Talk to me.”

You shrugged, biting your lip. “I dunno. This just feels big, suddenly. And what if we can’t find one that likes both of us, or what if we fuck it up. I’ve never...taken care of another living thing before. Not by myself.”

“You take care of me all the time,” he said, tugging you into a hug. “And you won’t be alone. We’re in this together remember?”

Your smile was watery but genuine as you returned the hug, burying your face against his neck.

“How did I ever do shit without you?” you murmured, backing away but not fully letting go.

He didn’t have a chance to respond with more than a squeeze of your joined hands as Martin returned with the first dog.

“I thought we’d start with some one-on-one interactions with a few dogs I think would be a good fit based on what you told me, and then we’ll see who clicks and you can have some time to play with the top two or three, pick from there.”

You nodded, holding your hand, palm out, toward the black lab tugging at the leash he held. He introduced her as Sheila, and while she seemed friendly, your heart wasn’t in it. The same feeling continued through several other perfectly nice dogs, and though you were both tempted by a roly-poly border collie puppy and by a sweet but very lazy bulldog, as soon as the handler had left the room with them, you’d looked at each other and known it wasn’t right.

“Can we...maybe, just walk through the kennels and see if something I don’t know...calls to us?” you asked hesitantly after about the eighth dog you felt no real connection with.

“Oh!” the man looked surprised you had even suggested it and took a long moment to process the request. “Sure, we can do that.”

Wrapping his arm around your shoulder, Diego pulled you against his side as the pair of you followed Martin back into the kennels.

“You know we don’t have to find a dog today, right?” he asked softly, sensing your continued nerves. “If nothing here works out, we’ll keep looking.”

“I know,” you sighed. “I just…got really excited, and now I feel like we failed or something.”

“Well, we haven’t yet.”

Suddenly, you stopped short, jerking Diego along with you, so quickly that your guide didn’t even notice. Staring up at you, his black fur almost lost in shadow but for his white bib, the boxer gave you the biggest, saddest eyes you had ever seen. Crouching down, you tentatively reached your hand outward, pressing it against the chainlink.

“Hi…” you cooed as he edged forward, crawling on his belly until he could sniff and then attempt to lick your fingers from the other side.

Diego mirrored your stance, kneeling in front of the kennel door, and by the time Martin realized you were no longer behind him and doubled back, the pair of you were enraptured and the dog was no longer cowering, instead bouncing and pawing at the fence to try and get to you, tongue lolling out of his mouth and slobbering on as much of you as he could reach.

“Oh,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “You met Duncan…trust me, you don’t want him.”

“What?” you asked, whipping your head around to look at the man. “Why not?”

“He was born here, runt of the litter so for a while no one wanted him. Now he’s almost two and he’s ended up back here from four homes already. Can’t figure out why, but he just doesn’t work out.”

“Well there must be something going on,” you argued. “Or else that wouldn’t be true right?”

Martin shrugged. “I guess. But it ain’t my place. I just know the poor bastard’s probably going to live his whole life in there.”

“No,” Diego said, turning to you and smiling when you gave him a brief nod. “Because we’ll take him.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea. And it seems cruel to give him false hope a fifth time.”

“It won’t be false. We won’t give up on him,” you insisted. “I understand wanting to protect him, and us, but please. Just...trust us.”

“You’re sure there’s not another dog you want instead?”

“No,” Diego said firmly. “We want Duncan.”

At the sound of his name from Diego’s mouth, his ears perked up and he sat down patiently, expectantly almost.

We know a thing or two about loving the unloved, you wanted to say, this was fate you wanted to argue. But how could you even begin?

“Let’s go take care of the paperwork and...see what my boss says.”

Later that night, as you rested your head against Diego’s chest on the couch, not really watching the movie on the tv, you found yourself anxiously drumming your fingers on his knee.

“Y/N,” he said knowingly, catching and stilling your hand, rubbing his thumb soothingly over your knuckles.

“Do you think they’ll approve us?” you asked, voicing the question on both your minds.

“I don’t know. We just have to wait,” he chuckled, shaking his head as you opened your mouth to interrupt, “patiently. And see what happens. Hope it’ll work out.”

You groaned. “Why do you have to be right all the time?”

“It’s a carefully honed talent.”

Diego’s keys jingled in the doorknob and you held your breath, praying that your companion would stay quiet.

“Just another minute boy,” you muttered.

As soon as you heard the door shut behind your husband, you let go of Duncan’s collar and he bounded over, his entire body wriggling along with his stubby tail. Diego swore, startled by the dog’s sudden appearance from around the corner, and you couldn’t help laughing as you followed, more sedately behind.

“Wha—” Diego said, kneeling to ruffle Duncan’s ears, leaning away as his lolling tongue tried to lick his newly accessible face.

“You didn’t steal him did you?” he asked, teasing smile lighting his features.

“I am hurt and offended that you would even suggest such a thing,” you said dramatically, a hand pressed to your chest for effect. “This was completely legitimate, and Duncan is now our dog. Or technically my dog, until you go sign your copy of the adoption contract tomorrow morning.”

“That’s...we have a dog…” he breathed, shock settling over him.

“Diego, are you crying?” you asked gently, concern overriding your amusement.

He was silent and you moved to his side, sitting down, next to your husband and dog and wrapping an arm around each of them.

“They’re happy tears right?” you asked, feeling some of your own building as it suddenly struck you that this right here was a family, a happy family, and all your own.

“The happiest,” he murmured, managing a quick kiss to your temple just before the moment was broken by Duncan licking a long stripe up his cheek and flopping over onto your laps for a belly rub, sending you both into a fit of laughter.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

End Note: Is a studio apartment an appropriate space for a boxer? Should inexperienced owners adopt a dog that the shelter thinks is a “problem” dog? Probably not, as a rule. But individual dogs have individual needs, they’re active-lifestyle adults, we’ll assume there’s a dog park nearby, and also it’s fiction and I think it’s cute, so...

#Duncan is a multi-layered name for the dog #full of cheeky references #I will be happy to elaborate on them if anyone actually cares to know. otherwise they're there to amuse me #also I couldn't resist them getting a boxer given Diego's day job/hobby #also cus boxers are adorable #Diego Hargreeves x Reader #Light Fingers #Diego Hargreeves x Elena Pryce

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shimmeringclouds · 4 years ago

Text

[ 1. ]

Dark. Everything was so dark.

Your eyes felt heavy as you tried to pry them open. You blinked the bleariness away, but it did nothing to remove the pitch black surrounding you.

Shifting around, you tried to bring your arms up to your face, only to discover that you couldn't move them. Furrowing your brows, your tugged your arms upwards, and it was then that you felt a harsh burn around your wrists. You twisted them, the rough material binding you rubbing away at your skin.

Was that... rope?

Slowly, your senses came back to you, all fatigue now gone from your system as panic began to take over.

You shuffled your legs next, only to find them bound to the legs of whatever chair you were sat on, ankles crossed over each other and a pressure on your thighs telling you that there was no way you could move.

As your breathing began to pick up pace, you tried to remember how you got into this situation in the first place, but there was nothing that could have lead to such a situation. You drew up blank after blank.

Struggling against the rope bindings once more, you felt the sensation of some material against your neck and shoulders. A bag had been placed over your head, obscuring your view.

Without the use of your hands, there wasn't any way you'd be able to get that thing off of your head. You wiggled your fingers experimentally, wincing at their stiffness. They went numb for a moment, but as the blood circulated back into them, you stretched them upwards towards the knitted rope just above your palms. Unfortunately, the rope was too high up you for to reach.

You desperately willed your fingers to reach higher, feeling the rope brush just above your fingertips, the strain on them causing your hand to cramp up. Your throat tightened, tears of frustration and fear filling the corners of you eyes.

What was happening? Why were you here? Were you going to die here? You didn't want to die. Not yet, not here, not like this.

But as your life flashed before your eyes, you had a sudden thought.

'Maybe it won't be so bad.. to die now.'

It's not like you had anyone waiting for you. It's not like you were going to do anything worthwhile with your life. So what was the point? Maybe you should just accept this. You were going to die here. So what? Who would care?

A loud bang of a door hitting a wall made you jolt violently. You whipped your head around in a dumb attempt to see what had made that sound, then froze at the sound of heavy footsteps heading towards you.

You held your breath when the steps stopped, right in front of you.

"She's awake, boss."

A man's voice. Deep and raspy. You didn't know who he was.

"Let's take a look at her then."

Another man. Slightly higher pitched, and a lot less intense. He sounded very calm. You didn't know who he was, either.

You flinched at the feeling of a hand near your neck. It pulled the bag off of you in one swift movement. Your hair fell over your face in a mess, and you took deep breaths of fresh air. You flinched again as a hand cupped your chin, slowly raising your face and brushing the hair away from your eyes.

The man had blonde hair and steely grey eyes. He was smiling at you. The way it looked on his face whilst he gazed at your face and body, the single light in the room shining down on him from above, made you sick. There was something about him that made your blood run cold, and he hadn't even done anything to you yet.

"Good job," he chuckled to the other man, who had moved to the corner of the room by the door. He was very tall, with a strong chest and arms bulging with muscle. His eyes were narrow and stern, boring into you. It made you shiver unpleasantly.

"You cold?" The blonde asked, not waiting for an answer as he stood up. "Sorry, sweetheart, but you're gonna have to stay in here for a little longer. If you cooperate well with us, though, I might just let you up into my office instead."

His grin was sleazy and dangerous. You hated it. Your lips began to tremble the more you looked at him. You couldn't speak, your throat was too dry.

The two of you stared at one another for a silent minute, waiting. But you did nothing, and neither did he.

Finally, he sighed, rolling his eyes as he looked away from you.

"Suit yourself." He made his way over to the door, stopping to speak to the tall man. "Just make sure she doesn't try to escape. Those idiots will be here soon."

He glanced back at you one more time, chuckling to himself.

"Who knows, maybe you could make a new friend, Jack. What's your name, again?"

They were both looking at you expectantly. They wanted you to speak? How could you do that? You found yourself petrified, unable to move. Your entire body was shaking.

"Hey."

A large hand grasped at your hair, tugging you upwards harshly. You screamed at the unexpected pain, whimpering as the tall man, Jack, held your face close to his.

"He asked you a question. Fucking answer it."

The blonde leaned against the door frame, almost bored. As if he had seen this a million times before. He showed you no remorse. For a moment you thought, if he were to watch you die, right here and right now, he probably wouldn't even bat an eyelid.

It was then that you realised.

You stuttered out your name, your voice watery as tears pricked your eyes. Jack released his hold on you, your head falling back down heavily. You let it hang low, your hair covering your face once again. He retreated away from you, standing outside the door with the blonde.

"My offer still stands. You either rot away in here, where you're probably going to get killed anyway, or you could come up with me." It was his turn now to take hold of your hair, albeit a lot gentler than before. He looked you in the eyes, stroking your cheek with his right hand.

"All you have to do is be obedient. Then your life will be easy. I'll give you all the money in the world in exchange for your body whenever I call. Sounds good, right?"

"..."

"Speak up, doll. Can't hear you."

"...N-No.."

You head was snapped to the right as a heavy blow connected with your cheek. You cried out in shock, eyes wide as the weight of the punch settled into your skin. The entire left side of your face throbbed uncomfortably, your teeth feeling weird and numb.

"Stupid bitch," he massaged his knuckles with his fingers. "You wanna die here, huh? Then go ahead. Be my guest," he spat, turning on his heel and leaving the room. Jack shut the door behind the man, turning to you. Shadows fell over his eyes as he closed in on you, cracking his knuckles loudly as he reeled his arm back.

You didn't move. Your whole body felt paralysed. The pain had swelled to your head now, your brain throbbing dully behind your eyes. The tears had fallen, but you didn't remember when. They streamed down your cheeks and onto the cold ground, pattering softly.

How had this happened? Why you?

You took it back. You took it all back.

'I don't want to die.'

——————☠︎——————

"This is his top secret hideout?" Osomatsu raised a brow, staring up at the abandoned office tower.

"It's surprisingly gone under the radar for a while now," Todomatsu replied, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he followed his brother's gaze. "He's still stupid to think that we wouldn't find it, though."

"That's because he wants us to find it." Choromatsu stood to Osomatsu's left, busy loading his bullets into his pistol, pulling the metal with ease. "Reznov knows what he's doing. So we need to be careful."

"Ichimatsu," Osomatsu pressed two fingers against his small earpiece, glancing to his side as he addressed his younger brother. "Have you got any visuals on him yet?"

"His office is right in my sights, but the bastard has yet to show up."

"Then he's probably with the hostage. Damn it, how did we let him slip away with that?" the eldest hissed through his teeth.

"Something's off about the place," Ichimatsu added. "I'll keep an eye out."

Choromatsu sighed heavily, tugging at the collar of his uniform. The suit was always so stuffy, and always got in his way. He hoped it wouldn't slow him down any further.

The distant sound of metal clanging to the ground caught the brother's attention. Not soon after, Karamatsu spoke through the earpiece.

"We've located the entrance. Heading in now."

"How many goons are there?"

"A lot more than we had initially thought, but it's nothing we can't handle."

"Osomatsu-niisan!" Jyushimatsu called suddenly. He hummed, a knowing grin forming on his lips.

"Do I get to kill 'em?"

Osomatsu laughed loudly, his two brothers grinning at the question.

"Go for it."

A series of muffled yells and thwacks filtered through the earpiece before it fell silent, leaving the duo to get to work. Choromatsu loosened the tie around his neck slightly before taking the first step forward, his pistol clutched tightly in his hands.

"Let's get this over with," his eyes narrowed up towards the building, the gloom and dread of something awful washing over him, but not once did it deter him from his path.

——————☠︎——————

A rough cough shook your body, blood dripping from your lip down to your ruined clothing. You heaved heavily as you hunched over in your seat, pain flooding your entire body with each pulse of your heart.

How long had it been? How many hits did you take? When will it end?

Someone's hand clasped itself around your neck, pushing your face upwards while you choked for air. Air left your lungs in meagre wheezes, shaky and uneven. You peered through your heavy eyes up at Jack, who only smirked at your obvious agony.

"This should be enough, don't you think?" he sneered, pushing your neck up higher. You gagged, flailing helplessly in his hold, your arms and legs writhing underneath the binds that had rubbed your skin raw. He held you there for a moment, the smirk stretching wider as he watched you struggle before suddenly releasing you, your head falling harshly as he left you to cough and hack for air.

Your ears were ringing, your mind distorted as you could no longer understand what was happening to you. Why was he hurting you? What did you do wrong? Your busted lips quivered as you pried them open, the dry skin sticking together slowly being pulled apart. You rasped weakly, the tight burn of your throat allowing fresh hot tears to run down your swollen cheek.

The man didn't listen to you. He couldn't hear your begs any longer.

A faint buzzing reverberated around the room. Jack paused, reaching for the back pocket of his jeans to pull out his phone, holding the sleek model up to his ear, not once moving his eyes off of you.

"What?" he grunted, not appreciating that his time was being wasted. However, he would quickly learn that it wasn't being wasted. Shouting could be heard through the speakers, frantic and desperate. Jack's brows furrowed, leaning into the phone.

"What the fuck are you talking about? What's—"

The line fell silent.

He stared at the phone's black screen. For the first time, Jack felt uneasy. Gritting his teeth, he was about to put his phone away before it began ringing again, a familiar name rolling across the top in large letters.

"Boss? What's going on?" He snapped his head towards the door, hearing a sudden series of pops going off just outside the room.

"I told you they were comin' didn't I?" the voice on the other end chuckled, sounding very at ease. "Everything is going according to plan, so relax."

"But, boss! Our men are dying out there—!"

"When has that ever been a problem to me before?"

A heavy tension fell onto the man's face as he became quiet. With a sigh, the voice spoke again.

"Listen. They finished rigging up the building. Just hurry up and get your ass outta there before it's blasted sky high. I won't be waiting any longer. Understand?"

"..Yes, boss."

"Good."

"What about the hostage?"

"What about her?" The voice cackled. "That bitch can die with them. What use is she to us?"

"But what if—"

"Do you seriously think she's gonna make it out alive?" Jack stilled at the cold tone, menacing and threatening. "This place is going to blow up. I know you're an idiot, Jack, but think for a fucking second. And what's she gonna do, anyway? Report us to the police? The fuck's that gonna do?"

He pursed his lips, raging embarrassment swirling inside of him.

"Fuck's sake.." the voice sighed faintly, the line going dead once more. Jack growled under his breath, flickering his eyes towards the door as the cracks of gunfire became significantly louder before turning back to you. You flinched under his stare, eyes squeezing shut as you braced yourself for another hit with a whimper.

Yet, the hit never came. A breeze swept by your left as he walked past you, focusing instead on the large rucksack that was placed against the wall behind you. He picked it up and hastily secured it around his shoulders, clicking a small clip along his chest to keep it in place. Patting the pistol in his belt just to make sure it was there, he set his eyes on the covered window in the corner of the room.

All you could hear was his heavy footsteps against the solid ground behind you and more gunfire, mixed with the occasional scream and shallow thud of something hitting the floor. Your body began to tremor violently with every bullet sent off. They were getting louder and louder, closer and closer. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. The taste of iron was still on your tongue. You briefly wondered how much more you would have to taste before this was all over.

The door was suddenly smashed open, scattering along the floor and bouncing off of the walls in shattered pieces, a few bits scraping the skin of your cheek. You screamed at the deafening sound, shoulders tensing up to your jaw.

A fistful of your hair was yanked backwards, a cold metal pushing against your temple. You choked out a sob, blinking through the tears as you were forced to look at the intruder.

"Take another step, and I'm blasting her fucking brains in!" Jack bellowed into your ear, your headache increasing tenfold. His breaths were heavy and hot against the side of your bloodied cheek, making you squirm uncomfortably.

The dust settled, and behind it stood five figures. They had very similar faces — you thought they were identical but with your thoroughly rattled brain, you weren't too sure. Each of them had guns seemingly aimed towards you, their dark eyes glaring holes into the man keeping you hostage.

"Where's Reznov?" The man in the middle spoke first, flexing his fingers tightly against his weapon.

"As if I'd tell you shit," Jack sneered.

"Then we'll find someone who will."

It all happened in the blink of an eye. There was a deafening crack, a high pitched scream cancelling out every other noise around you. You didn't know who screamed.

Then there was the blood, splattering across your face and hair, warm and sticky, and most definitely not yours.

Your mouth was open, but you didn't know what you were saying, or if you were even talking at all. Everything you could see was doubled, the same item phasing over the other again and again, fuzzy and disorientating.

"Nice shot, Ichimatsu," Karamatsu hummed, only to receive multiple curses.

"Holy shit, what did they do to her?" Todomatsu mumbled to himself as he began cutting at the ropes binding you down. He sounded like he was underwater, far away and echoed. You wanted to reach out and find that voice. But you couldn't move despite your bonds being removed. Your eyes felt so heavy, a dark veil slowly inching its way over your vision.

As soon as they were loosened, your body slumped forward, close to hitting the ground if not for the pair of strong arms catching you. Choromatsu grunted at the sudden weight, although he proceeded to easily scoop your battered form into his chest, hooking an arm under your knees and providing support for your lolling head.

"We'll have Ichimatsu treat her once we get back," Karamatsu winced slightly at the welts covering your arms.

"That bastard got away again..!" Osomatsu groaned, running a hand through his dishevelled hair, the strands falling out of their gelled style. "Now we have to look for him all over again!"

"Don't worry, it'll probably be easy, knowing that guy. We just have to do it fast," Todomatsu assured, already tapping away at his phone.

"Let's just get out of here first," Choromatsu gestured to your weak self with a nod of his head, turning to head out when Jyushimatsu stopped them.

"I can smell something weird.." they looked a him with raised brows. That was never usually a good sign. His eyes were cat-like, wide and blank as he sniffed at the air again.

"What... What is it?" Karamatsu asked cautiously. A few seconds of silence more before Jyushimatu's mouth widened into a large, strained smile, sweat now running down his skin.

"Bombs!"

"Fucking shit! Seriously?!" Osomatsu yelled as they all began sprinting down the corridors, jumping over the dead carcasses they had left in their rampage.

"Now it makes sense why he chose the highest floor to put her in — he's gonna blast us to bits!"

"How long do we have?" Choromatsu looked to his younger brother, hope faltering as he saw Jyushimatsu's smile widen, pinching his cheeks.

"Not long! Maybe.. just under two minutes!"

"We're not gonna make it down all these stairs!" Todomatsu screamed frantically.

"Yes, we will!" Osomatsu pressed his earpiece. "Ichimatsu! Get the car ready — we need to leave now!"

".. M'kay."

The brothers reached the fire exit stairwell, jumping down large chunks of steps with practised ease, pushing each other to go faster. Choromatsu held you tightly against him as he went, making sure his grip on you wouldn't allow you to slip and fall.

Bursting through the front entrance of the building, they began speeding across the empty lot as fast as they're numbing legs would carry them, cursing as Jyushimatsu got down to the sixty-second mark.

A black car had just rolled up to the gates, doors opening automatically as Ichimatsu leaned out the driver's window, watching as his brothers clambered into the car. Choromatsu got in last, laying your body across his and Karamatsu's lap as he slammed the door shut.

"Go, go! Quick!" Osomatsu wheezed, attempting to catch his breath. Ichimatsu immediately slammed his foot on the gas, the car wheels squealing before it ran down the empty streets, curving round the corners at dangerous angles.

Ichimatsu didn't slow down, barely flinching as the building exploded, shaking the ground as clouds of fire and debris filled the skies. The others peered through the back window, no longer able to see the tall building as it had crumbled to the earth.

"Holy fuck.." Osomatsu breathed, finally relaxing in his seat as best he could with his minor injuries and Ichimatsu's reckless driving. His brothers did the same, wiping the sweat from their brows. Karamatsu carefully readjusted your legs that were placed across his lap, grimacing once more at the sight of the large patches of purple and crimson blood across your skin.

Choromatsu brought out his handkerchief from his breast pocket, gingerly dabbing it over the cuts on your face, frowning deeply as the cuts wouldn't stop running. Catching sight of your right wrist, he saw how it was raw and inflamed, your hand twisted in an unnatural way, as well as your shoulder that seemed to sag in its place.

He wrapped his handkerchief around your wrist, hoping it would provide some kind of support. You looked so frail, your features barely visible under the drying iron caking your face. An anger swelled inside of him that he never felt before, and he was left to clench his fists tightly whilst the car sped onward, unable to do anything.

#choromatsu matsuno #choromatsu #choromatsu x reader #osomatsu san #osomatsu #Karamatsu #ichimatsu #jyushimatsu #todomatsu #tw//abuse #tw//blood #yakuza au #mafia au #matsunoir #noir!matsu #osomatsu san hesokuri wars #xreader

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breanime · 5 years ago

Text

Romeo Must Die

Suggested by @ben-c-group-therapy: Okay for the Miguel story. It could be so cliché but throwing it out there anyway. What if reader had a ex that was now the leader of another powerful cartel, and he had come back to basically try winning the reader back but had plans to take her or do everything in his power to really win her over again. Miguel would be jealous of course, another cartel leader as an ex and him being in town again wanting to wine and dine the reader. Miguel would find out the man’s plans to take reader and be super protective of her.

*gif not mine*

The first thing you noticed when you got home was the bouquet of blood red roses on the table. You smiled, going over to them and sniffing them. Miguel was always doing romantic things like this, surprising you with flowers or jewelry.

“Oh, how beautiful,” Dita said, coming in behind you.

You turned to her, smiling. “Aren’t they?” You plucked a flower from the bouquet and held it under your nose. “Miguel is so…”

“So what?” Miguel asked, coming into the kitchen. He raised an eyebrow when he saw you. “What’s this?”

“The bouquet,” you answered. You paused, lowering the rose. “Didn’t you send this?”

“No,” he frowned, walking over to the bouquet and taking the card. His frown deepened, and his whole body tensed. When he looked up at you, his dark eyes were gleaming with rage. Dita made a noise and walked off, deciding that whatever was going on was between you and your husband. “Why is Carlos Rivera sending you flowers?”

You froze. Carlos was your last boyfriend before you married Miguel; in fact, you’d actually dumped him because you started having feelings for Miguel while you were with Carlos. He moved away shortly after that, and you hadn’t heard from him…

…until now.

“I don’t know,” you said, going over to him and reading the card in his hands, “I… oh…”

The card said: ‘You mean the world to me. I miss you. Yours, Carlos R.’

Miguel crumped the note in his hand. “When was the last time you spoke to him?” He asked, his voice dangerously calm.

“I don’t know… Years ago,” you answered, “Miguel, I swear,” you threw the rose you’d been holding onto the table as if it were on fire, “I thought they were from you, I didn’t know—”

“I know, mi amor,” he reached out and pulled you to him, pressing a firm kiss to the top of your head, “It’s fine.” He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I have a meeting to go to, but how about, when I get back, we have a nice dinner? Just the two of us?”

You smiled, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. “That sounds wonderful, my love.”

His smile softened, and you watched as he took the bouquet of roses and deposited it in the garbage.

That night, you put on a body-hugging black dress for dinner with Miguel. When he saw you, his eyes drank you in slowly, and you knew exactly what he was planning for the rest of the night. You sat down at the best table in the restaurant, ordered the most expensive wine, and laughed with your husband. You completely forgot about the flowers and just enjoyed Miguel’s company. But later, after you were carried to your bed by Miguel, you knew he hadn’t forgot. His touch was possessive, his hands gripping you tightly, his mouth sucking and biting, leaving bruises for anyone to see—you were his, and he painted your body with his kisses, marking you as the property of Miguel Galindo. You didn’t mind, of course, and you let him ravage you, hoping it would set him at ease.

It did.

You were in his arms, body slick with sweat and wonderfully sore from the force of your lovemaking, with your head on his chest.

“Feel better, my love?” You asked, running your fingers up and down his firm chest.

He chuckled, and you felt the rumbling beneath your head. “I do,” he answered, he reached down and took your hand in his, lifting it to him mouth and kissing your fingers. “But there’s something we need to discuss…”

“Okay…?”

“Carlos is back in town,” he told you, “He’s trying to build an empire out here…”

“Empire?” You sat up, looking down at Miguel. “Like… a cartel empire?”

“Mm hmm,” Miguel gently pushed you back down onto his chest, his hand resting on your back, “He’s so below my radar, I hadn’t even noticed, but when he sent those flowers this morning…” His grip on you tightened, and you leaned into it. “I want you to stay away from him, bien?”

You nodded. “Of course.”

“Good,” Miguel kissed the top of your head, “I love you.”

“Love you too, Miguel,” you said back, closing your eyes and letting yourself drift off to sleep.

The next day, you went out for lunch with a few of your girlfriends. They teased you about the scarf you were wearing around your neck, knowing you were trying to hide your hickeys, and you sipped on mimosas as you talked.

“Pardon me,” the waiter said, interrupting your laughter, “this is for you, ma’mm.” He placed a bottle of what used to be your favorite champagne on the table in front of you. “Enjoy.”

Your girls all oohed and aahed, opening the champagne and laughing wildly at the pop of the cork. You, however, felt your skin go cold. You looked around you, eyes flitting around the restaurant until they landed on him…

Carlos.

He was sitting alone at the bar wearing a hideous peach suit, and he raised his glass to you. You glanced around you—Miguel insisted on you taking bodyguards wherever you went, and you were glad for it. Especially because today…

…You had Nestor.

Standing up, you jerked your head towards Carlos, and Nestor’s eyes narrowed. “Be right back,” you told your friends, walking towards the bar. You didn’t have to look to know Nestor was behind you.

“Y/N,” Carlos said, grinning, as he stood up, arms out for a hug, “You look beautiful.”

“What’s your deal?” You asked, crossing your arms. “Are you stalking me now? Sending me unwanted flowers wasn’t enough, so you graduated to shitty champagne I haven’t drank since college?”

He dropped his arms, still smiling. “You’ve still got that fire,” he noticed, “I’m glad. Galindo hasn’t stolen that from you yet.”

“Let me save you some time,” you said, keeping your voice level, “I’m not interested, we don’t need you here, my husband is already annoyed by your presence, and I don’t want any gifts from you. In fact, I want you to crawl back into whatever hole you climbed out of and leave me alone. Comprende?”

Carlos’ smile didn’t waver. “You misunderstand,” he said, “the only reason I’m here is for you. The business perks are just…” He shrugged. “Perks. Sweetheart—”

“—don’t call me that,” you interrupted.

“—Y/N,” he amended, “I’m here for you. I never stopped loving you, not even after you ran off with Galindo—”

“I didn’t run off,” you said, “I met someone better—my soulmate—and I married him. And I’m telling you, nicely, to leave me alone before my husband tells you himself.” You stopped, looking over your shoulder as Nestor approached. “Nestor, could you please escort Mr. Rivera out?” You asked calmly. “My friends and I are having a nice lunch, and he’s disturbing us.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Galindo,” he said, his voice just above a growl. Carlos bristled, but he didn’t struggle. Apparently, he didn’t want to make a scene.

“Just know this,” he said over his shoulder as Nestor not-so-gently led him away, “I will do everything in my power to win you back—Galindo be damned!”

You sighed. You tried to be nice about it.

Later, Nestor drove you home. You leaned forward a bit and noticed his knuckles were bruised.

You smiled.

Miguel was waiting for you when you got home. He gave Nestor a curt nod, and the other man nodded back before walking off, leaving the two of you alone together. “Nestor told me what happened today,” he said, opening his arms for a hug.

You went to him immediately, wrapping your arms around his back. “I didn’t know he’d be there,” you said, “I swear…”

“I know you didn’t,” he said into your hair, “but this is a problem. I can’t have him out here trying to seduce you…” His voice dropped. “I won’t have him out here trying to seduce you. You told him once, nicely…”

“And Nestor told him again,” you grinned, “not-so-nicely…”

“Yes,” Miguel smiled down at you, “But here’s the thing, mi vida, he doesn’t get a third warning. The next time he so much as thinks of you; I will kill him.”

Your smile widened, your husband’s words going straight between your legs. “Miguel…”

“You’re mine,” he said, gripping your chin in his hand, “I should be the only man buying you flowers and ordering you drinks…”

“I didn’t drink the champagne,” you told him, draping your arms around his shoulders, “I don’t want any other man buying me things but you.”

“If you see him again,” Miguel said, his hands on your hips, “call me, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. I want to know.”

You tilted your head. You could see—and hear—the quiet rage in Miguel’s voice, but there was something else too… Something besides the anger and indignation. “What’s wrong?” You asked.

Miguel sighed. “Carlos Rivera said… he’d do anything to win you back,” he shook his head, “I just… I want to kill him so badly, my love…”

“He’s been warned,” you said, kissing his nose, “I don’t think he’ll push things any further…” You kissed his lips, and you felt Miguel relax in your embrace. “…And if he does… then you get to kill him. It’s a win-win.”

He laughed against your lips, and when you went to bed that night, you tried to ease his worries with your touch, gently kissing and caressing him as you rolled around in bed. He was much gentler this time, his lips brushing against your skin in a tender caress, his beard lovingly burning your flesh as he moved against you. You made sure to be vocal, telling Miguel how much you loved him and how he was everything to you, your lips on his as he moved inside of you. You held him close, and when you fell asleep that night, the only name on your lips was his.

Neither you nor Miguel brought up Carlos again for three weeks after that. Things went back to normal; there were no more flowers or bottles of champagne delivered. You didn’t even see Carlos around town. In fact, you heard the businesses Carlos had been trying to start (the legit businesses, the cover-ups) had all gone belly up. Miguel bought them out and added them to the Galindo empire. You didn’t ask, but you had a feeling Carlos didn’t just drop off of the face of the earth on his own…

“Miguel,” you started, coming up behind him and wrapping your arms around him. It was early, he was wearing his robe, and you were wearing yours. No one else was up—the only reason you two were awake was because you’d both needed a snack between sessions. “Can I ask you a question?”

“After that,” he grinned, turning in your arms with a smile, “You can ask me whatever you want.” He picked your hand up and kissed it. “I’m a slave to you, mi amor.”

You giggled. “Mm hmm… We’ll see,” you put a hand in his hair, “My love, when was the last time you put on your yellow raincoat?” He stiffened, and you laughed. “You said I could ask whatever I want…”

“You know I don’t like to talk about that when I’m at home…” He started.

“Was it the night after I went out with my friends? No,” you shook your head, smiling, “It couldn’t have been that night. You were… busy.”

Miguel chuckled, cupping your face in his hand. “Sweetheart…”

“It must have been that morning, when you left for work,” you went on, “Is that it?”

Miguel sighed. “Do you really want to know?”

You nodded. “I do.”

He took your hand and lead you to the table, his hand still in yours as you sat down. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“Did you kill him?” You asked, nothing but curiosity in your eyes.

Miguel nodded. “The next morning, when I went to work, I had Nestor pick him up,” he told you casually, “delivered him to my church pew.” His fingers flexed in yours. “We had a good talk.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Simple facts. I reminded him that you were my wife, and that you chose me over him years ago. I told him that wasn’t going to change just because he moved a few bricks and could afford outdated champagne now.” He shrugged. “I told him that you were mine.”

You felt your breath hitch. “And what did he say?”

“He disagreed,” Miguel said easily, “He wanted to argue that he knew you better than I do, and that he could treat you better.”

“And you killed him.”

He nodded. “I cut his balls off,” he said, as if it wasn’t a big deal, “and I cut his throat. He bled all over my shoes.” Miguel raised your hand to his mouth again, his dark eyes never leaving yours. “I sent his body back to Mexico in six boxes…”

“One for every year we’ve been married,” you said, awed.

Miguel smiled. “Yes.” He kissed your hand. “It didn’t matter to me when he tried to zero in on our business,” he said, “It didn’t matter that he didn’t come to me for permission to work in my territory,” he went on, “But when he said he was going to have you…” Miguel’s dark eyes flashed. “I couldn’t let him walk away. You’re mine,” he intoned, “and any man who wants to say otherwise dies bloody.”

You took a breath. “I love you, Miguel.”

He smiled, his features softening as he looked over at you. “I love you, mi amor.” He stood, your hand still in his. “Now come, let me show you just how much I love you.”

You giggling, following him upstairs. You loved him—the man, the cartel boss, the murderer—you adored every part of him.

And he, clearly, loved you too.

*******************************************************************************************

To be clear, my requests are NOT open, but I wanted to do a jealous/protective Miguel story, and I asked for possible storylines. And I got this! Thanks for reading!

Everything Taglist: @encounterthepast @jigsawlover10 @gollyderek @charlylama @realduckvader @teacuplotus @whovianayesha @lexxierave @loveintheroyalfamily @fanfictionrecommendations-com @maxslime-blog @songforhema @lucielandss @themadhatter92 @christinawxxx @anabella-baby @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @luminex3 @ashkuuuu @luckysstrikes @carlaangel86 @floralpeaceofmind @dylanobrusso @iaintnofurry @ymariejp @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @mrsjaxtellerfan @holamor @drinix @rhabakoli @stories-you-wont-hear @king4thesirens @leahnicole1219 @evanlys19 @binbons-is-theloml @aikeia @bitch-imma-head-out @witchygagirl @geeksareunique

Nick Amaro/Miguel Galindo Taglist: @glimmerglittergirl @cococruz-mayansmc

#miguel galindo x reader #miguel galindo #miguel galindo imagine #danny pino

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meowmerson · 4 years ago

Note

Waitwaitwait does this mean we gonna get head boy/head girl part two AND three?????? 🥺🥺🥺🥺

do u kno what happens when i try to only write smut i end up with 7000 words and still no smut i hate myself anyway heres part 2 to the head boy head girl thing and i still haven’t gotten to the smut part IM SORRY

I will post these all together once its complete so ppl can read them all together lmao

“So, Hermione,” Lavender started as if she was going to say something of value, but when Hermione raised her eyes from her schoolwork, Lavender said nothing at all. Instead she waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Hermione knew immediately what she was implying.

“Stop it.” Hermione snapped.

Thankfully, she stopped the hideous eyebrow-waggling, but she did not drop the subject. “I’m just saying, you and Tom have been spending a lot of time together, and you haven’t even—“

“Lavender, I swear to Merlin—“

“Haven’t even said anything about it!” Lavender bulldozed over Hermione’s interjection, and Ginny, who was painting her nails bright shades of Red and Gold for the upcoming Quidditch match, nodded solemnly along. “I mean come on, You can’t leave us hanging like this.”

“I’m not leaving you hanging.” Hermione said firmly, putting on what Ron often referred to as her Mum-voice, “There is nothing to hang on, because nothing is happening, Lavender.”

“Yes, Lavender,” Ginny interjected, arranging her face into a scowl and mimicking Hermione’s tone of voice, “Tom only sometimes sticks his hand up my skirt in Potions class—“

Hermione sputtered furiously, and Ron—who was nearby playing a game of chess with Harry—groaned.

“Riddle has never, not once, stuck his hand up my skirt anywhere, let alone in the middle of class!” Hermione protested, turning a furious glare on Lavender, “Stop making things up!”

“I saw it!” Lavender insisted.

“Can you lot talk about something other than Tom Bloody Riddle for once?” Ron griped.

“Tom and Hermione are dating?” Harry asked, clueless as ever, as Ginny roared laughing.

“Aw, shit,” Ginny said after she calmed down, staring balefully at her nails, “I fucked it up.”

“Give me,” Lavender said, sliding off the couch to sit by Ginny and grabbing her hand and the bottles of nail polish.

“I am not, nor will I ever be, dating Tom Riddle!” Hermione protested, feeling very much like a broken record at this point.

“Then why was his hand up your skirt?” Lavender asked.

“It was never up my skirt!” Hermione exclaimed.

“I know what I saw!” Lavender snapped.

“Aw, shit—“ Ginny said, pulling her hand away and holding up her index finger to show Lavender had accidentally swiped the red all the way down to her second knuckle, “Lavender what the hell?”

“Sorry,” Lavender shrugged, unbothered in the face of Ginny’s ire, and she added, “Just got so hot and bothered thinking of—“

Hermione knew what she was going to say, and had heard enough, so with a groan, she rose to her feet, packed up her parchment, and stomped out of the Gryffindor common room.

“So,” Harry spoke up as she was on her way out, “Are they dating or not?”

—

Tom Riddle had never, not once, stuck his hand up Hermione Granger’s skirt.

He did often have his hand on her arm when they walked together, as they sometimes did when he descended upon her like a vulture and she could think of no rational reason to tell him to fuck off. He did, at times, let his hand very briefly settle against the small of her back if he was saying goodbye, or saying hello, or brushing by her in the corridor. And perhaps, once, when he was sitting by her in potions class—as he had taken to sitting by her in every class they shared together, which was most of them—he may have very briefly, and very innocently, laid his hand on the bare skin of her thigh where her skirt had ridden up, just to get her attention as he pointed toward an ingredient on the far side of their table that he wanted her to pass to him. And maybe, maybe she had flinched a bit violently, and hurriedly fixed her skirt as she stood, and maybe she moved so quickly that he didn’t have time to retract his hand before she was already standing, stepping away from him, and maybe his fingers trailed down her thigh very, very slightly as he pulled his hand away, and maybe Hermione noticed the look of unrelenting glee on Lavender’s face as she gaped from across the room.

But he had not put his hand up her skirt. Lavender had a disgustingly over-reactive imagination. And Hermione certainly did not at any point think he was trying to put his hand up her skirt, absolutely not, that is not at all what went through her head when she first felt his fingers brush her inner thigh.

It wasn’t even her thigh really. Barely. It was closer to her knee, really, and she didn’t think of it often. She didn’t.

She thought, more often, of Malfoy. He had returned to his usual self, he muttered under his breath when she answered questions in class, called her a know-it-all, cornered her, Harry, and Ron in the corridor with his cronies when he was in the mood to start a fight. But he hadn’t called her a mudblood in the weeks following the incident, not once.

And she still couldn’t figure out why.

She knew how, that was easy to figure out. Obviously Tom Riddle had either threatened or tortured him into refusing to use that work against her, but she still wasn’t sure why. Similarly, she wasn’t sure why Tom Riddle insisted on being around her as often as possible.

He sat by her in class, sought her out in the library, he made conversation during rounds which they completed together every night. She entertained his peculiar behavior, but she didn’t try to piss him off anymore, not with the memory of Malfoy standing in front of the Great Hall, head bowed, contrite, directly following her disagreement with Tom the night before.

She just wanted to figure him out. Sometimes he would say something benign, something ordinary, something she had heard a thousand times before, like “you are an extraordinarily bright witch, Hermione,” and she would find herself so desperate to know what he meant by it, because it wasn’t like him to mean exactly what he said. She wanted to crack open his skull and peer into his mind, dig deep into is psyche and unearth all his little secrets, find out why he was the way he was, find out what he was doing, find out what he wanted.

She heard a knock on her door, and she looked up from her book. She felt her heart race for no logical reason, except for the fact that he had never once knocked on her door before.

“Yes?” She called, and glanced at the clock. It was too early for rounds. He didn’t answer, clearly preferring for her to open the door instead of speaking through it. She frowned, but stood and opened the door nonetheless.

“Hello, Hermione,” He smiled.

“It’s a bit early for rounds.” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes, I’m aware.” He said, still smiling, but it felt a bit more mocking now, “I was hoping you might join me for tea before our rounds today.”

A bit strange, but the request was not entirely out of nowhere. She had gotten used to his attempts to be in her company at all hours. Still, he had never actually invited her to do anything, had only ever sidled up to her in open spaces whenever the opportunity presented itself. “Is everything alright?” She asked.

“Of course,” He said, and gave her an innocent sort of expression, one that suggested he had no idea why she was asking that, “Just in want of your company.”

There was a small, double-sided smile on his face. Hermione wish it didn’t make her heart race.

“Fine,” She agreed, knowing she should say no, but unable to recall the reasons she should say no for.

They sat on the two armchairs by the fire, and for some reason Tom knew exactly how she took her tea (strong, milk, no sugar) and Hermione was mildly interested to see he took his tea black, no sugar. For reasons she refused to think about, she filed that little tidbit of information away, in case she needed it later.

“Has Slughorn invited you to his upcoming party?” He asked her.

“Obviously,” Hermione said, taking a sip of the tea he had prepared for her. Perfectly made, just like everything else he did.

“Perhaps you would like to go together?” He asked her.

It wasn’t surprising, or at all strange, for him to ask her. She knew he would. But she is still struck by the strangeness of the situation, of their situation, and so she hesitated. She wasn’t used to being on Tom’s radar. She had been battling against him for the place at the top of their year ever since she started at Hogwarts, but he had never really given her more than a glance outside of classes. She had expected that to change, at least a little bit, once they were forced together as head boy and head girl, but this was…

She knew it stemmed from their argument, from the first (and only) night she had seen him truly open, honest, and angry, but she couldn’t understand how point a lead to point b.

He could be covering his tracks, she thought suddenly. He could be luring her into a false sense of security, presenting himself to her and everyone around them as nothing more than a besotted classmate, so that when she one day meets her untimely demise, he is the farthest thing from a suspect.

A foolish plan, though, really, because she wasn’t a simpering idiot who would drop all her suspicions just because of…

But she hadn’t mentioned her suspicions on a long time, she realized. She held on to them, clutched them close to her chest, ready to brandish them the moment she finally could and say ‘look, look at him now, see him for what he truly is!’ But she hadn’t voiced her concerns to any of her friends for weeks, nearly a month now. If she were to die tonight, for example, it would seem to her friends that she had dropped her suspicions long ago. And Tom wasn’t foolish enough to leave any evidence if he decided to off her.

It struck her suddenly, that she hadn’t watched him while he was pouring her tea.

She glanced down at her cup, already a quarter empty, and then back at him. He quirked a brow, and it was then she realized she had never answered his question.

She cleared her throat, her heart suddenly racing in her chest, “Slughorn actually suggested that to me.” She said.

“He suggested it to me as well.” Tom said, smiling kindly, and Hermione looked at her cup of tea again.

She felt hot, but that could be because of the fire, or because of her fear, or because of the way Tom Riddle tilted his head and observed her under dark lashes. She willed herself to calm down, paid close attention to any symptoms of poison, but felt none.

Don’t be ridiculous, she suddenly chastised herself. The stupidest thing he could do would be poison her in their shared common room.

“Is that why you’re asking?” She asked, slightly breathless in her panic. She hadn’t quite calmed her heart down yet, and couldn’t distract herself from searching for symptoms of poisoning in her body.

“No,” He said, sounding genuinely surprised by her question, “I ask because I would like for us to go together.”

Hermione tapped her finger against the rim of her mug, “Well,” She started, and readied herself to lie through her teeth, “I’m afraid I already asked Ron if he would go with me.”

Tom got a very particular look on his face then, as he often did when she did something to go against what he wanted. He went very still, and his face went very blank, his eyes dropped to watch her finger tap against her mug over and over and over, and she watched his jaw twitch.

“Ronald Weasley.” He said darkly, and suddenly Hermione wondered if it was a mistake to say that. She thought of Draco Malfoy, shaking in an abandoned classroom, terrified out of his mind, and started turning over things to say to fix the dark look in Tom Riddle’s eyes as he said her friend’s name.

“I don’t appreciate Slughorn trying to set up his students as if it is any of his business,” She said, watching his expression closely, “And I had a feeling you might ask me.” Tom finally looked up, met her eyes again, a curious gleam in his eye. “I’m sure it isn’t a mystery to you as to why I might not want to accompany you anywhere.”

His jaw twitched. It might’ve been the wrong thing to say. “I had thought we might be passed this.” He said, “After all the time we have spent together.”

Hermione still didn’t take another sip of her tea, even though she had gone this long without any reaction, and she was passed the panic that said that Tom Riddle might be poisoning her, but she kept it in her hands regardless. “What is the point of this, Riddle?”

“The point of this was to ask you to Slughorn’s party,” Tom insisted, “Only for me to discover that you have, for some incomprehensible reason, decided to go with Ronald Weasley.”

“Ron is my friend.” Hermione said firmly. “Why are you so angry, Riddle?”

Tom blinked, then he turned and set his mug of tea on the table to the side. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched her very closely, “I’m not angry, Hermione.” He said calmly.

She was forgetting herself again. She tried to remember Malfoy, trembling, afraid, she tried to think of Ron, and the situation she was putting him in, but Tom Riddle was so confusing, and she couldn’t figure out just what the hell he was after, and it infuriated her. She put her tea on the table as well, and mimicked his posture. “Well, I am.” She said.

Tom tilted his head, just a little, like he often did when something fascinated him. After a moment of observing her, he said, “You have such a Gryffindor approach to things, Hermione. I do find it refreshing.”

He certainly had a way of knowing exactly what to say to piss her off. “Why are you following me everywhere?” She demanded, “Why are you always asking me questions? Why are you asking me to accompany you to party?”

“I seek you out because I enjoy your company.” He answered quickly, and though his response seemed candid it still felt like a farce, “I ask you questions because I find you fascinating. I am asking you to accompany me to Slughorn’s party for the same reasons.”

“I don’t trust anything that you say.” Hermione snapped, and Tom Riddle smiled wide. She hated when he smiled like that, it showed off his straight, white teeth and dimpled his cheek. She felt that smile deep in her gut.

“That’s why I like you.” He said.

Hermione grit her teeth, “You know what?” She said, “You can do rounds by yourself tonight. I suddenly feel exhausted.”

She stood without another word, stomped off to her room and shut the door. Tom didn’t stop her.

—

She did go to bed early, but her sleep was far from restful, and when she woke, it was due to images of Ron shaking with wide-eyes, terrified, writhing under Tom Riddle’s wand. She snapped up in bed, chest heaving as if she had just been drowning, gulping in lungfuls of air and clutching her wand tight in her fist.

She had to check on Ron.

She crept out of her room without even checking the time, but given the dark common room, it must be late, definitely late enough for Tom to have finished his rounds and returned to turn off the lights. Enough time for him to torture Ron into submission.

She hurried through the corridors, peering around corners like a paranoid idiot, until she made her way to the Gryffindor common room. She ascended the stairs to the boys dorm as quietly as she could, found the 7th year dorm room, and crept inside.

It was dark, and all the boys were asleep. Most had pulled their curtains shut, save for a few, but she had to peek through every curtain until she found Ron’s bed.

He was fast asleep, peaceful, and as far as she could tell, unharmed. She realized then that her hands were shaking, and she didn’t know what to do next.

So she crawled into his bed, sat at his feet, her wand held tight in her hand.

She couldn’t even use the excuse that she was overreacting, not exactly. She knew that Riddle was capable of causing great harm to people, Malfoy was a perfect example, and for all of her accusations, Tom had never once denied it. So he might want to harm Ron, he might do anything if he felt it would get what he wanted.

It would help if she could figure out what he was trying to do. If he was trying to earn her trust, to erase her suspicions, then harming Ron would make no sense. But if he was trying to control her, to manipulate and silence her, then of course he would hurt her friends.

He wouldn’t do it in the Gryffindor common room, this she knew. It didn’t make her feel better, and it didn’t convince her to leave.

Unfortunately, Ron chose that moment to wake up. It happened slowly, and Hermione still wasn’t quick enough to leave or hide. His eyes fluttered and he shifted in his sleep. His ankle kicked her side, and in his half-asleep state, he felt her out with his foot for a moment as if trying to figure out what was on his bed. She didn’t move, and didn’t say anything, just sat there and watched him wake up, knowing he was going to think she was crazy.

Blearily, once he realized he could not figure what was on his bed just by foot-sight, he opened his eyes and looked at her.

He flailed, his arms getting caught up in his duvet, and he screamed.

“Shh!” Hermione snapped, holding her hands out as if to forcibly make him remain still, but she didn’t actually touch him, “Shush, its just me!” She kept her voice low, as quiet as she could, and Ron stared at her as he cowered against his headboard, his face twisted into confusion and incredulity.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He hissed.

She realized she had no rational answer. “I….well—“

“Why are you sitting on my bed in the dark watching me sleep?” Ron squeaked.

“I was not watching you sleep.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Oh right okay—what were you doing then?” Ron hadn’t calmed down, and didn’t seem like he would calm down any time soon, “Plotting my death?”

“No!” Hermione objected.

“Then what the bloody hell are you doing?” He asked hysterically.

Hermione hesitated, “I…uh…” Then she sighed irritably through her nose, “I know you won’t believe me, but Riddle—“

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ron interrupted, “You gave me a fucking heart attack in the middle of the night to tell me about Tom Bloody Riddle?”

“Ronald, listen—“

“You’re bloody mental!”

The curtain was thrown open, “Hey, what’s going on—“

Ron screamed again, and Harry jolted, staring between Ron and Hermione with confused eyes, his glasses askew.

“Weasley, will you shut the fuck up?” A voice snapped in the dark, Hermione was pretty sure that was Seamus.

Harry crawled in and pulled the curtain shut, and Hermione cast a quick Muffliato. “What’s going on in here?” Harry asked, still glancing between them as he straightened his glasses.

“Hermione has lost her fucking mind!” Ron threw his hands up.

“I have not!” Hermione snapped.

“Yeah, uh,” Harry tucked his legs up, wrapped his arms around his knees, “What are you doing here, Mione?”

Hermione considered lying, but she remembered the fear she felt drinking that cup of tea, the fear that she might die without her friends knowing her suspicions, so she was honest. “I just thought…Riddle freaked me out, I thought—“

“Bloody fucking hell,” Ron muttered.

“—I thought maybe he would do something to you, Ron.” She finished.

“We’re still on that?” Harry asked, sounding more confused than exasperated as opposed to Ron’s huff.

“Yes,” Hermione said firmly, “Yes, we are.”

“And this couldn’t wait until the morning?” Ron griped, “You know, after sleep?”

“Why would Tom want to do something to Ron?” Harry asked.

“Because I told him that Ron and I are going to Slughorn’s party.”

“You what?” Ron whined.

“We’re going.” Hermione said firmly, and give Ron his due, he didn’t argue on that point, just turned his eyes to the ceiling and silently resigned himself to his fate.

“Why would you tell him that?” Harry asked, looking increasingly confused.

“Because Riddle asked me, and I needed a reason to say no.” Hermione explained.

Harry, somehow, looked even more confused. “Ok, wait, so…you and Tom aren’t dating?”

“No, I am not dating Tom Sodding Riddle!” Hermione exclaimed.

“She’s lost it,” Ron whispered to Harry, clearly aware that Hermione could hear every word he was saying, “She’s lost her damn mind.”

“Fuck you, Ron.” Hermione snapped.

“Well,” Harry said brightly, “Since we’re all up, how about a trip to the kitchens?”

Hermione scowled.

“What do you say, Head Girl?” Ron asked, “Gonna deduct house points?”

“Let’s just go to the kitchens.” Hermione sighed.

They didn’t really understand, when she tried to explain it. And every time she said that she couldn’t understand what Tom was after, they exchanged this look like they thought she was being dense, and then refused to explain to her what they were thinking.

—

It wasn’t precisely that Tom and Hermione didn’t speak in the time between their conversation and Slughorn’s party, but they certainly didn’t talk any more than absolutely necessary. Tom didn’t spend quite as much time with her, but that was mostly due to the fact she spends nearly every waking moment with Ron, much to Ron’s annoyance.

“Mione,” Ron said once, standing in front of her from her seat on the grass nearby where Quidditch practice was taking place. She looked up from her book. “Wouldn’t you rather read that in the library?”

“Wouldn’t you rather mind your business?” She asked brightly.

He huffed, and leaned forward to speak quietly, “Hermione, I know you’re going through like a mental breakdown right now—“

“Ronald—“ Hermione started warningly.

“—But you’re really screwing with my game, you know?”

“Your quidditch game?” Hermione asked, confused.

“My lady game!” Ron exclaimed, then hurriedly quieted himself, “No girls will talk to me because they all think you’re into me now.”

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t see why that would deter anyone who really wanted to be with you, Ron.”

“It does when they’re all afraid of you.” He insisted.

“No one is afraid of me, Ron.” Hermione said, turning back to her book. Ron just huffed again and dropped the subject, returning to his game.

Tom and Hermione still did rounds together, but their conversations were all surface level. They talked about classes, they talked about books. They never mentioned Slughorn’s party, not once.

He also had ceased the unnecessary touching, although he continued to sit beside her in classes.

Hermione thought perhaps it was a change in tactic, and continued to follow Ron around no matter how many times he called her a paranoid guard dog.

—

Slughorn’s parties were always a bit stiff, and a bit awkward. Hermione had been invited to them every time they occurred since her third year, and there were never more than about 15 people, guests included, so it was near impossible to avoid anyone if they were there. She kept this in mind while standing by Ron at the side of the room, her eyes constantly searching for Riddle, who had yet to make his appearance.

“Would you stop fidgeting?” Hermione said quietly to Ron as he rolled his shoulders and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“I hate these stupid things.” Ron grumbled.

“Stop being such a baby,” Hermione said, turning to face him and eyeing the sad state of his dress robes. She sighed through her nose and moved to stand in front of him, tugging his robes into place so that he looked like less of a mess.

“Stop mothering me,” Ron said, pushing her hands away.

“I am not mothering you,” Hermione argued, “I don’t mother.”

She straightened his collar.

“Stop doing that!” Ron said, slapping her hand away. She punched him in the arm as revenge and he winced and stopped battling her as she straightened up his robes.

“What is this?” She asked, fingering a stain on his collar.

“I had a snack before I came.” Ron shrugged.

“You’re disgusting.” Hermione said, pulling her wand to clean that spot on his collar, “I can’t believe you are willing to be seen like this.”

“At least my hair doesn’t look like—“ Hermione glared up at him and Ron snapped his mouth shut with a clack, before opening it again to say, “—like a uh—beautiful fluffy cloud.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You can stop fussing now—“ Ron said, reaching up to bat her hands away again, and this time she caught his wrist.

“I’m not fussing,” She said firmly, and glanced briefly around the room, “I’m—“

She saw Tom Riddle in the far corner of the room, by the refreshments, and who should be on his arm but Pansy fucking Parkinson.

“Ow, Hermione, stop—“ Hermione jerked her attention back to Ron and realized she was digging her nails into his wrist. She hurriedly let go, and Ron rubbed at his now sore wrist, “No need to injure me just because your boyfriend—“

“Not my boyfriend.” She muttered under her breath.

“—found himself a new girl.”

She glanced back over to Pansy and Tom. Tom patted Pansy’s hand on his arm as she laughed at something that probably wasn’t funny, she had never heard Tom say anything funny in her entire life.

“Being a bit obvious, Mione.” Ron chided her.

“Obvious?” Hermione said, turning back to Ron, “Obvious how?”

Ron fixed her with a knowing look.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Hermione said.

Ron kept looking at her in exactly the same way, even waggled his eyebrows a bit as if he thought that might drive the point home.

“You look like an idiot.” She told him.

When everyone sat around the table, it was about as awkward as it usually was, with the added bonus of Parkinson glaring at Hermione every time she spoke. Tom Riddle watched her as well, but Hermione had never been able to pick apart this particular gaze so she didn’t trouble herself with trying now. Ron kept fidgeting in his chair, to the point where Hermione had to reach over and pinch his knee to remind him to sit still, and he made a very rude face every time Slughorn tried to speak to him, as if he would rather be beaten by the Whomping Willow than have to speak to anyone present.

Hermione was a bit distracted, to be honest. Every time Pansy laid a hand on Tom’s arm, or leaned over to whisper in his ear, she felt her fists curling.

Pansy and Hermione had never really got along, much in the same way her and Draco never got along. Pansy was Slytherin, pureblood, privileged, and a bitch. Ron used to joke that if Pansy wasn’t such a racist piece of shit, he thought her grade of bitchiness would go well with Hermione’s, and Hermione had responded to that with a smack on the head.

That was the only reason it grated on her so much to see her here. It had nothing to do with the fact she came with Tom Riddle.

“How long do these things usually last?” Ron asked quietly at her side, and Hermione almost jumped. She had nearly forgotten he was there.

“No much longer,” Hermione said, turning to look at him, “You look like you’re enjoying the food at least.”

“The only bearable thing about this.” Ron confirmed, but Hermione was focused on the sauce at the corner of his mouth.

“Wait,” She said, and reached out to wipe her thumb across the sauce.

“Mione—“

“Shush, I’m just—“

He reached out and grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks until she jerked away. “How’s it feel when someone randomly grabs your face, huh?”

“You had sauce on your mouth.” Hermione pointed out, “I was being helpful.”

“I already told you to stop mothering me—“

“I’m not mothering you, and it's still there, let me—“

She picked up a napkin and dipped it into her water, reaching up to wipe his mouth as Ron made a very childish face. Hermione laughed, because he was being ridiculous. Sometimes she really felt like he hadn’t aged since he was twelve.

“There,” Hermione said, setting her napkin down. “Now stop pouting.”

“Not pouting,” Ron said, “Just didn’t want to come to this fucking thing in the first place.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, and made the mistake of looking across the table.

Tom Riddle was watching her, face blank, jaw clenched. She met his eyes on accident, and then found she couldn’t look away. She observed the tense line of his shoulders, the very slight downward turn of his lips, and she wondered what had caused his sudden change in mood. He had been perfect a moment ago, smiling and charming and at ease, and now he glowered at her in a way only he could, the type of glowering that wasn’t glowering at all unless you knew what you were looking for.

It made her heart race, it made warmth spread from her chest up to her cheeks.

She suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable, and desperately wanted to leave.

“Excuse me,” She said quietly to Ron as she stood, “I need the loo.”

Ron, already distracted by dessert, waved her goodbye without a word.

Hermione hurried out of the room and into the corridor, felt her anger and her unease buzzing beneath her skin. She just needed a moment outside of the room, away from Tom Riddle and his disconcerting gaze, away from Ron who kept looking at her like she was over-reacting, like there was something she didn’t understand, away from Pansy Parkinson who drifted between glaring and staring smugly over at her from across the table, probably with her hand on Tom’s knee.

It was her stupid crush, her ridiculous little fixation, rearing it ugly head again, and she knew it. It was her least favorite part of herself, her obsession with Tom Riddle that never seemed to die no matter how many reasons he gave her to hate him. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew what it felt like to fancy someone, she just didn’t understand why her heart was so steadfastly focused on a man who, as far as she was convinced, tortured his fellow students in empty classrooms at any given opportunity.

She took a deep breath, let it out through her nose, slowly. She tried to calm down.

She felt a hand on her arm and somehow knew who it was before she even turned around.

She jerked away, turning to face Tom Riddle head-on, and for a single moment, neither of them said a thing.

“Pansy Parkinson.” Hermione commented, unsure why that was the only thing she could think to say, “Interesting choice.”

“She wasn’t my first choice,” Tom pointed out, “But you knew that.”

Hermione grit her teeth.

“You and Weasley are quite close.” Tom said, his tone was light, but his gaze was not.

“He’s my friend.” Hermione spat, “I trust you are unfamiliar with the experience.”

Tom quirked an eyebrow, “You’ve certainly been spending a lot of time with your friend.”

“It’s none of your business who I spend my time with.” Hermione snapped.

“Try as I might,” Tom said cuttingly, his voice so sharp she nearly flinched at the sound. She hadn’t heard him speak like this in a while, “I cannot seem to shake your suspicions, Hermione, I wonder why that is?”

“Because you are a liar.” Hermione said.

His jaw twitched, and he took a step closer, but they were already close enough, so that single stride brought him far, far closer than she felt comfortable allowing him. But she didn’t move away, and she didn’t push him back. “A liar?” He echoed, and he spoke so quietly, but she could hear him so clearly in the silent corridor. She was aware, suddenly, just how alone the two of them were, and that familiar feeling of panic began to well up in her throat.

“Did you think I would just forget?” Hermione asked, and willed her voice not to shake, “Did you really think that I would forget about Malfoy just because you follow me around, and compliment me, and flirt with me, like suddenly it doesn’t matter anymore?”

Tom’s brow twitched, and while he hadn’t quite reacted in the same way he had that night, all wild-eyed with a twisted sneer, she could still tell he was angry. “Malfoy again.” He said, in that same dark tone that he had said ‘Ronald Weasley’ the other night. She gritted her teeth, watched as Tom took a single step away from her lifted his hands in a sort of helpless gesture, and said simply, “I fixed him.”

Hermione stared, and stared, and stared for a moment more. She didn’t understand why every time they spoke, she always came away more confused. But before she had the chance to ask what he meant, Tom was already continuing.

“My methods are unimportant,” His brow quirked upwards, but not in a sarcastic way or a combative way, his expression was a beseeching one, like he wanted her to understand, “He upset you, so I fixed him.”

Hermione felt her heart lurch, and then race, “The first time,” She said, “The first time I found you—“

“Was nothing.” Tom finished for her, and then a bit more severely he said, “I may be a liar, Hermione, but I have not lied to you in a long time. Ask me.” Hermione watched him warily, and he said again, “Ask me.”

“What do you want from me?” She asked, and it wasn’t really what she meant to ask. She had a hundred questions, she wanted to know exactly what he did to Malfoy, she wanted to know how many people he had hurt, she wanted to know who else he was planning on hurting and intimidating, but Merlin, the way he looked at her made her desperate to know what he was thinking, what he was hoping for.

He smiled then, just a little, like he was pleased with the question she chose but also maybe a bit in awe of her. It was the wrong thing to ask, she knew it. It was a selfish and foolish thing to ask him. But it drove him closer, he closed the distance between them, watching her closely all the while, until he stood just in front of her, with only their breath between them.

His fingers found her wrist, barely touching, just hovering featherlight over the skin. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” He chided gently.

She might’ve had a come-back or a follow-up question, but the feeling of his fingers on her arm was distracting in a humiliating way. She felt something curl in her belly, and heat seemed to expand from her stomach clear into her fingers and toes in an instance, sudden and violent and overwhelming. It wasn’t fair that she felt like that form nothing more than the barely-there brush of his fingers against her wrist, just like she felt it when his hand found her arm, or her back, or her thigh.

“Why did you follow me?” She asked him, because she needed to know, because she still didn’t understand what he wanted from her, what his plan was, and even knowing he would just lie to her face she hoped she could read between the lines, finally get a small look at what goes on in his labyrinth of a mind.

“Because if I had to watch your friend,” He spat out that word as if it was a curse, “Shove more food in his gaping maw knowing that he has somehow managed to commandeer all of your attention, then you really would have something to guard him from.”

“And what would you rather I pay attention to?” She asked, and Tom’s fingers circled to the underside of her wrist, drawing down until they met her palm, holding her hand so gently she almost wondered if she was imagining his hold. His thumb brushed across the top of her hand.

She didn’t realize it, but she had been staring squarely at his mouth as he spoke, and had been for a while. When she noticed, she raised her eyes to meet his again, but he was staring at her lips as well.

She should stop this. She should snatch her hand away, she thought, but as she had that thought his fingers glided further down, until he had threaded his fingers between hers and pressed his palm against hers. She should push him away she thought, but he was already stepping closer, his free hand raised to curl his fingers under her chin, to tip her head back. She should tell him to get away from her, she should tell him to get out of her face, to never touch her again.

But his lips already met hers.

It was so soft, so gentle, so light, and still, she felt it like a slap. She felt so hot, and all her blood seemed to rush to her legs as if ready to run, it made her lightheaded, it made her unable to think clearly, so she let him kiss her, relished in the softness of his lips against hers. It felt new, it felt innocent, and his thumb dragged up the length of her index finger as their hands remained interlocked, his other hand shifted to cup her jaw, his thumb sweeping across her cheek.

She jerked away, and she didn’t think it was fair that she could feel so breathless when he had barely touched her. She stared into his eyes, glancing wildly between them, desperately trying to regain control of her actions, but all she could feel was the tingle of her lips, his hands on her skin, and all she could think was how disconcerting it felt now, to know what it was like to be kissed by him and find her lips suddenly bereft.

His eyes were so dark, and she was sure they weren’t usually this dark, weren’t usually this black, but his pupils had swallowed up whatever color there usually was. She wished she could read him better, wished she could understand the flexing of his jaw, the pucker in his brow.

“What…” What are you playing at? She was going to say. What are you doing? What is the point of this? But she didn’t have the chance to ask, because he closed the distance between them again, but this time it wasn’t a feather-light caress, it wasn’t gentle, it wasn’t kind. His lips met hers and it was hard, it was sudden and startling and rough. She let out a sound, muffled against his lips, purely out of the surprise of the onslaught of sensations that it caused, her whole body tensed up as if preparing to take a hit. His hand slipped from hers so that he could slide it around her waist, his fingers digging into her back to pull her closer, his other hand threading into her hair. Her hands floated helplessly at her sides for a moment, she was too engrossed in the sparks that went straight to her core with every stroke of his lips against hers, and it wasn’t a constant decision to meet ever press of his lips with her own.

It wasn’t until his lips parted and she felt his tongue against hers that her hands finally sprung to life, she clutched at his arms, felt the tense and release of his biceps as he wrapped his arm fully around her waist, and she couldn’t understand how every stroke of his lips sent such a violent spark of heat straight to her core, she couldn’t remember where they were, or what they had been doing, or why it had taken so long to explore this feeling.

His hands were constantly moving, like he needed to touch every part of her. They went from her hair, to her throat, her shoulders and her sides and her back until they firmly grasped her waist and pressed her firmly against the wall of the corridor. Every stroke of his hands she could feel straight to the marrow, every sensation echoing in her core. His teeth caught her lower lip, scraped against the sensitive skin and then soothed it with his tongue, his fingers kept a bruising grip on her waist. It was nothing like the first kiss, gentle and soft and controlled, and she got the feeling he might feel just as out of control as she did, judging by the way his fingers dug warningly into her waist when she tried to arch her back.

It was too much. It was too much and she thought of Malfoy, and Ron, and all the other nameless unknown faces that saw the wrong side of this mysterious boy.

She pushed Tom away, and she was struck by the look in his eyes, a bit crazed, a bit wild. His brow was twisted in confusion, maybe a bit of anger, his lips were parted and swollen and wet and the only other time she had seen him with an expression so clear and unguarded was when he was angry. But this was different.

His hands were still on her, so she pushed him away again, further this time. She was well aware of how breathless she was, gasping for air like a fool, and suddenly his face was shuttered again, his brow uncreased, his mouth a straight, stern line.

“Hermione,” He started, and Merlin it sounded like a warning, like a threat, and she shoved him once more just to shut him up, just so she didn’t have to hear him speak so quiet and low and heated.

She tried to leave, and he reached for her, wrapped his fingers around her wrist, but she jerked away. She glared at him as viciously as she could manage, and then she turned and fled, fled like a coward because she couldn’t trust herself to say anything, knew she would sound like a breathless fool if she tried.

She didn’t even stop at Slughorn’s party to collect Ron. She fled all the way to the Gryffindor tower and didn’t look back.

—

“And then she fucking ditched me to go make out with Tom Riddle in the corridor—“

“Ronald!” Hermione snapped as Lavender started screeching with delight, “I did not—“

“Don’t lie,” Ron thrust a finger in her face that she immediately slapped away, “I saw him when he came back, I know what it looks like when someone gets back from a good snog.”

“Can’t hide it anymore!” Lavender said in a sing-song voice, kicking her feet excitedly on the sofa in the Gryffindor common room.

“It is just like Hermione to snag the hottest boy in school and then run away.” Parvati grumbled.

“Remember Viktor?” Padma said.

Parvati sighed wistfully, “Do I ever.”

“I didn’t run away—“ Hermione tried to argue.

“Can’t believe you chose to hide in Gryffindor tower instead of getting dicked down by Tom Riddle.” Padma said.

“Tom Riddle,” Parvati repeated, and shook her head as if she was disappointed.

“So,” Harry finally interjected from where he was sat beside Ron, staring between them all, “Tom and Hermione are definitely dating now, right?”

Ginny finally exploded into the laughter she had been holding in throughout the whole conversation.

#meow writes #tomione #yes i coud post this in a better way and like not on tumblr but im stubborn #i promise to eventually put them all together.....#there will probably be another part before the smut i literaly hate myself so much #im gonna die bc of my dumbassery #Anonymous

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jemej3m · 5 years ago

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a comprehensive set of rules (p.2)

i have no control over my writing schedule. it has been completely consumed by this au. this is all of y’all’s fault.

heavy tw: blood and gore and bodies. also, bad people talking about raping allison and using homophobic slurs.

July:

“Andrew,” Renee called out, rapping her knuckles on the guest bedroom gently.

Andrew was currently living out of one, black suitcase: he’d spent half his time at different hotels and half his time at colleagues’ homes, though calling Allison a colleague was a bit of a stretch. Wymack had let him camp out in his girlfriend’s spare room, seeing as his place was apparently too small for the both of them. Dan and Matt had even let him crash on the couch between motel rooms.

Andrew was really fucking excited to get his place back. According to Neil, his father was pulling out all stops to get rid of him, or whoever was aiding him. As far as Andrew was concerned, Neil was in more danger, but the man refused to exonerate himself from the situation. The next best thing was ensuring that Andrew was untouchable.

“Andrew, can I come in?”

Andrew grunted, still bent over his files in the middle of the room. He’d pushed the bed to one side to make room and was suddenly shirtless, fan pulsating in the corner. He never did great in the heat.

“Oh,” Neil’s voice squeaked like an elementary schooler’s clarinet. “Uh - I can come back?”

Andrew squinted up at him. “The fuck are you doing here?” he got to his feet and made his way over, reaching up to tug on Neil’s hair. Definitely real. “Huh.”

Behind Neil, Renee snorted. Andrew glared at her: she put up her hands in surrender and paced off to do something else.

Andrew shuffled Neil into his room and shut the door, treading carefully around his work.

“This...” Neil looked over it, carefully avoiding the many photos and files and labelled evidence bags as he walked. He was silent as he moved, unnoticeable if he wasn’t always on Andrew’s radar.

He also looked much more presentable than the last time Andrew had seen him, which had been before Dimaccio was arrested. A button-down, much like he wore when they first went to dinner. The collar was irritatingly popped, and his trousers were properly pressed, the shoes delicately shined. He looked like a rich man’s son.

Andrew hated it. He also hated how good it looked.

“Sit on the bed,” Andrew instructed. “I don’t need you scuffing anything up.”

“This seems like a lot more than what’s necessary,” Neil said, avoiding looking at Andrew as he tugged on a shirt. “Also a lot more than we originally discussed.”

Andrew pointed at the profile of a smiling woman, and various other men. “Williams. Reacher. Jenkins. The three of them worked tirelessly on gang violence. They completely eradicated the Terrapin family from the game. Countless Bearcats and Catamounts have been locked up by them. But as soon as they turned to the Wesninski family, they were never found again. Three different detectives. Almost three consecutive years. They deserve justice too.”

Neil was, clearly, not expecting to have to put names and families to the bodies his father had diced and scattered. His expression had become shuttered as Andrew talked, fingers curling into tight fists, the fabric of his trousers ensnared between his whitened knuckles.

"You’re afraid.”

Neil looked at him, eyes blazing. “He is all I’m afraid of. I can’t just - turn that off.”

Andrew crouched down on the floor in front of him. “You’re allowed to be afraid. You have to promise me that you won’t run away because of it.”

Neil’s shoulders were curled inwards. “I don’t want to become him. I don’t -” he looked at the photos of the officers and the remnants of their bodies and the ruination caused by his father’s work. “I don’t want that. I don’t.”

“So leave it behind.”

Neil grit his teeth. “I can’t! Look at me. Look at me. You think this is my father? Parading me around at events, trying to find me a wife who can bear my child, tracking my every move? Of course it’s not. My father is someone else’s weapon, a well-enamoured thug at best. He’s a Baltimorean gangster. He’s not the one in control here.”

Andrew put his hand over Neil’s wrist and let him breathe for a moment.

“They know that he’s fucked,” Neil continued, eyes squeezed shut. “They know they’re going to lose him. So I’m being conditioned. I’m being shaped up to replace him. You know I’ve been in New York for the past two weeks?” He shoved his hair out of his eyes. Andrew opened his palm upwards, and Neil let himself tangle their fingers. “I want to escape my fate so badly, but my family has been indentured to them for - I don’t even know. Forever, it seems like.”

“Who, Neil?”

He let out an aggravated sigh. “Who else controls enough of the east coast to keep the fucking Butcher in check? It’s the bloody Moriyamas.” Andrew stiffened. “If you breathe that name outside this room, I’m dead. You’re dead. Everyone you ever loved will die. They’re so well protected that the crazy second son can go off and do whatever he likes, including training to be a police officer and almost killing the partner he’s given, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s hushed up within the week.”

He held tight onto Andrew’s hand. “The best I can hope for is a negotiation. A price that I can pay off in - a decade, maybe. Possibly two. Maybe securing a new family to pass the relationship to. I don’t know.”

“Then that’s what you do,” Andrew vowed. “We deal with the monster under the bed first. Then the basement that lets them out. Don’t run,” Andrew insisted, his hand having worked its way up Neil’s arm to grip the back of his neck. “Don’t hide. You can’t afford to, not now.”

Neil rested their foreheads together. “I’ll try.”

Andrew’s thumb brushed circles under Neil’s jaw. “That’s all I ask.”

Breaking news: Nathan Wesninski being brought to court for multiple homicides, including Baltimore police officers and Mary Hatford, his wife...initially being assessed for money laundering and tax evasion, Wesninski is now being persecuted for multiple acts of violence, mutilation and extortion. Police officers under Captain David Wymack have collated resources and new-found evidence and will attempt to put Wesninski behind bars permanently.

August:

Andrew’s heart was pounding. They’d tapped into comms just over an hour ago, received the corresponding telephone data and locations, and now they were paging the block.

It was eerily quiet, and too dark for a suburban area. The cul-de-sac had no streetlights and all the houses were either empty, with for sale! signs posted on their laws, or all the blinds were drawn closed. It was only nine in the evening.

Andrew took out his gun as they approached the house. Renee was at his shoulder.

The house in question was two-storey, seemingly empty, the garage locked shut. The gardens were immaculately kept, the painted finish on the house brand new. God knows what was happening within: Andrew hoped that whatever mess had been made within wasn’t irreparable.

Andrew’s radio cackled. “How do you want to go about this, Minyard?”

Andrew cracked his knuckles and fished out his lock picks from his back pocket as he radioed back. “Silent entry. I’m going to unlock the door, and only our squad heads in. Everyone else surround the premises if they notice and escape.”

“Alright, sarge,” Matt said, jokingly, a few feet behind Renee. Dan must have pinched him because he immediate said “Ow!”

Andrew and Renee crept up onto the front balcony: Andrew crouched down and worked for about two minutes till the lock had opened. Kevin had already phoned the security firm to let down the alarms, so Andrew and Renee stepped inside, unnoticed. Dan, Matt and Kevin dispersed, but Andrew always headed to the basement.

The light was on.

“...We should get back to Junior,” one voice said. “God knows he’s probably slipped free by now.”

“You kidding? We had him practically halfway into a coffin. Let’s just clean this up first.”

“Maybe pretty Alli’s woken up. If Junior wasn’t so fervently protective of her I’d’ve had her bent over by now.”

“Christ, Romero." But the man was laughing. “Maybe now’s your chance.”

Disgust crawled down his spine. He glanced at Renee, just as they approached the doorway: she had her eyes closed momentarily, lips moving with a prayer. The door was left ajar.

One, he mouthed.

“Didn’t think boss had the guts to get rid of little Junior.”

Two, she returned.

“Maybe he liked that bitch of a wife, after all. He could’ve had a kid with Lola and gotten rid of the pathetic faggot, but he stuck by Nathaniel anyway.”

Three, they both nodded, kicking the door wide open with his foot and grasping his gun in both hands.

“Hands up,” he growled. “Drop whatever you’re holding.”

“Kneel,” Renee said, softly. “We will shoot you if you don’t comply.”

Neither of the men had guns. They dropped their knives to the ground and knelt down, furious. By them was a body, heavily dismembered. The hair was neither auburn nor blonde.

“Basement,” Andrew barked into his radio, training his gun on the one he recognised as Romero. His hands were limp, twitching by his sides. Andrew wanted to cut them from his body and watch him bleed.

The other three skidded into the room, guns ready.

“Go find them,” Renee murmured, under the cacophony of Dan and Kevin wrangling the perps to the ground, Matt kneeling by the body. “Andrew, go.”

He nodded stiffly, falling back. Up the stairs and to the left was the door to the garage, which he kicked down. Switching the lights on, he looked to the two persons still on the floor, tied up and beaten down.

“Andrew,” Neil gasped, covered in blood and cuffed at the wrists and ankles. Allison seemed alright, if a bit groggy, with a gag in her mouth and her hands tied behind her.

Andrew grabbed the hedge clippers from the wall of gardening tools and broke through the handcuffs, cutting Allison’s rope bindings and tugging off her gag.

“Perps restrained, fall in through the front,” Dan said through the radio. “Victim dead. Get a stretcher: Forensics team definitely not necessary.”

“We can’t be found here,” Allison hissed. “We can’t be brought in.”

“Jesus Christ,” Andrew muttered, fishing the keys to his cousin’s place out of his pocket. “Fine. If you can get him on his feet,” he jerked his head to Neil, who muttered I’m fine. “Go to Nicky’s place. I’ll meet you there later. Unless you need a hospital?”

“It’s all superficial,” Neil mumbled, wincing. Andrew felt concern curl and knot in his stomach. He looked to Allison.

“Maybe you should do a first-aid cert.”

“Maybe that’s not a half bad idea,” she grunted, hauling Neil to his feet.

“The back should be clear of cops now,” Andrew said, cutting through the padlock on the garage door. “Get out.”

“Good to see you too, Minyard,” Allison drawled, pulling Neil along. With a wink, they were both gone.

Andrew rubbed at his temples, giving himself only a minute of reprieve, before heading back into the fray.

Nicky’s house was cold and dark. The two of them had been on a spontaneous trip around Europe for the last few months, visiting Erik’s family. Nicky wasn’t stupid: when Andrew offered him this and that, he took it without question and knew there was a reason why.

“When I get back,” he insisted over the phone. “When I get back the three of us are visiting Aaron. Got it?”

“Fine,” Andrew had grunted, hanging up on his cousin without a goodbye.

Neil had parked himself on the couch, staring at the ceiling with square bandages across his cheeks. Bruises mottled his skin, and his hands and forearms were mummified in a similar fashion.

“I was going to try and contact you,” Neil said, not needing to see Andrew to know who’d entered the house. “I would’ve called you.”

Andrew sat on the end of the couch as Neil drew his feet up to give him room. “Right.”

The man struggled into a seated position. “I was.”

“Should’ve let them kill you,” Andrew muttered, glaring at the unused television. Neil snorted, swinging his legs off the couch and settling next to Andrew.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Just - shut up.”

For a while they sat in silence. Andrew lit up a cigarette and smoked it through to the filter. Neil seemed to lean a little closer, attracted to the scent.

“Hey,” he murmured, when Andrew threw the stub onto the coffee table.

Andrew turned and looked at him. His eyes were clear, purposeful. Andrew remembered their first date, their second. Cleavers and thugs and light, candle light and club lights, striping across Neil’s cheekbones like something from a painting.

Kissing him felt -

Normal. Right. Like coming home. Like finding - not the last piece of the puzzle, but the last edge, making a solid shape to be filled in, something clear and decisive. Andrew’s fingertips found his jaw and he felt Neil’s fingers curl in the collar of his vest. His police vest.

It was enough to draw him to a stop, pulling back just enough for him to breathe.

“You don’t swing,” Andrew accused, poorly hiding how winded he was.

Neil huffed, equally as breathless. “You don’t date.”

Andrew’s teeth ground together. “You don’t date cops.”

“And you don’t date mobsters,” Neil retorted. “What’s your point here?”

“Yes or no?” Andrew demanded, because he needed to know. He needed to know for sure. Without a doubt, with complete surety, with perfect clarity -

“Yes,” Neil answered. “Obviously.”

“‘Obviously’,” Andrew parroted with a scoff. “I hate you.”

When Neil’s lips curved up into a smile, Andrew kissed him quiet.

September:

“You know I’ve got a week off, after next week,” Andrew said, trailing his fingers over the threadbare t-shirt that Neil wore. He said ‘next week’ and not ‘Nathan’s trial’. They’d both come to an agreement that where they could avoid talking about it, they would.

It was out of Andrew’s hands, anyway. All the evidence was with the prosecutor, and it was their job to put him behind bars.

There was no way Nathan Wesninski was getting out, now. Not a single chance.

Which meant there was no reason to talk about it. Or about Neil’s future inheritance of his father’s position, or Andrew’s award of recognition for his work. Which felt rather cheap, really - he was just lucky that Neil had decided to give him a second chance.

Then again, policing was mostly luck, and a bit of charisma. Andrew was usually lacking in both, but right now, in the golden afternoon sunlight, with Neil in shorts and unkempt hair, he felt incredibly lucky.

Neil craned his head back to look at Andrew. His new scars were bright red, but healed over at this point. “Just Chicago?”

Andrew hummed assent, closing his eyes and pressing his nose to the crown of Neil’s head. Casual intimacy had always been - too much. Too soft, too nice, like it was covering up something sinister. Never had Andrew felt so relaxed, not even after sex, which usually resulted in Andrew grabbing his shirt, shoes, phone and wallet and leaving immediately.

And they hadn’t had sex yet. Andrew didn’t know if Neil would ever want to have sex. That was - unsurprisingly - not the most important thing on Andrew’s list of wants and needs.

Instead, here he was, lying on his back in Nicky’s guest bedroom. Neil was lying next to him, on his side, head cushioned on Andrew’s shoulder. And he did want this. He’d been tied up and exhausted for months: now it was all coming to its peak, the finish line right around the corner. And they were - okay. Ish. Maybe. Probably. Andrew wasn’t peeved about it.

“Don’t die whilst I’m gone,” Andrew muttered, fingers threading through his hair.

“I have to go to New York, anyway,” Neil said, sullen. “Might as well do it whilst you’re away.”

“How many times are they going to pull you up there?”

“Till they’re confident I won’t screw everything up in the change-over, I guess. Or maybe it’s about the wife thing.”

Something in Andrew’s chest twisted. He simply hummed.

Neil shifted, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Andrew properly. “You know I’m not going to go through with it, right?”

“And if they threaten you?” Andrew reminded him. “Your life isn’t exactly yours.”

“Fuck them,” Neil said as he leaned forward, forever antagonistic. Andrew sighed: Neil paused. “No?”

“Yes,” he muttered, pulling Neil down. One hand brushed along the slither of exposed skin that revealed itself as Neil’s shirt rose up: Andrew relished in the shiver that flitted across Neil’s skin. His scarred fingers - covered in circular burns from a dashboard lighter and various scratch ridges - felt familiar and known when Andrew guided them to the back of his head. Neil was careful, as always.

Andrew had intended on asking when the hell Neil had heard about Andrew’s past, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. He didn’t want to talk about it now, anyway.

Just as Neil let Andrew push his shoulder back, following him over to kiss him into the mattress, Allison’s nails tapped impatiently on the bedroom door. Andrew broke away, startled, just as Neil cursed, sitting up.

“Yes, Allison?” Neil demanded, clearing his throat. “What is it?”

“You sound odd,” Allison remarked, door handle turning.

“Uh - !” Neil scrambled off the bed, looking to Andrew with wild eyes. “I’m - naked! Don’t come in.”

“Right,” Allison drawled. “Should I just wait in my room for him to leave, then?”

“I hate you,” Neil complained. “What do you want?”

“Andrew’s phone was going off in the kitchen,” Allison said, slyly. “Sounds like the prosecuting lawyer wants some of your time, Andrew. Nice of you to glide by without saying hello.”

“I’m busy,” Andrew retorted.

Allison just laughed, strutting down the corridor with her heels tapping on the wooden floorboards. Neil crossed his arms, red-faced.

“C’mere,” Andrew said, still sitting on the bed.

“But Thea,” Neil tried.

“The law can wait,” Andrew insisted, extending his hand.

The look in Neil’s eyes sent sparks flying across Andrew’s skin.

“Took you long enough,” Thea Muldani said, a master of clipboards and abridged glares. She was a lawyer worth Andrew’s time, he knew that, but he also didn’t feel like putting up with Kevin’s heart-eyes or Renee’s unsubtle glances.

Jesus Christ, he thought, slamming his bag on the table hard enough to cause everyone to jolt. “I’m here, now.”

“Congratulations,” Thea remarked. “Don’t care. We have a problem.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes.

“Nathan Junior’s prints are all over a tonne of this evidence. If we don’t have him accounted for, defence is going to be all over it.”

“Are you serious?” Dan demanded. “Nathaniel would’ve been 15 when Mary was murdered.”

“Doesn’t matter. If the evidence has been tampered with, it could be rendered useless. It would be extremely helpful,” Thea said pointedly. “If people’s CI’s could come forward and testify. We have almost no witnesses, except for Andrew and Renee, who claimed that Jackson Plank and Romero Malcom were acting on orders from Nathan whilst murdering Janie Smalls, last month. Neither of them will confess to any sort of collaboration with Wesninski, and two unidentified blood sources were found in the garage.”

“That sounds like circumstantial bullshit,” Dan argued.

“And can we prove them wrong?” Thea shot back. “No. We can’t. For all we know, it’s been Nathaniel behind all of this instead. He’s certainly old enough now.”

Andrew stood out of his chair, grabbed his things and turned to leave.

The lawyer gave him an appraising look. “I haven’t dismissed this meeting, Minyard.”

“I don’t care,” Andrew said. “If you won’t do your job, then I suppose I’d better go and fucking do it for you.”

“It’s Thursday,” Thea reminded him. “Case starts on Monday.”

Andrew ignored her, making sure to slam the door on the way out.

Romero Malcom was a sullen man. His skin was papery thin, even only a few weeks into his prison stay. Andrew couldn’t say that he pitied him. He sat down with his cup of coffee, leaning back in his chair with his leg crossed at the ankle. Romero was locked to the interrogation table opposite, shoulders curled in, fingernails scratching against the table top.

Trying to get a rise. It wouldn’t work.

“Honestly, between you and your sister, you seemed like the more rational one,” Andrew said, eyebrow arched. He put his coffee down and opened up his file. “Did you think about how your lifestyle had an expiry often? Nathan had Dimaccio as his right-hand man, but kept Lola as his carefully concealed weapon. You and Plank seemed just like...more prized cannon-fodder.”

Romero’s eye twitched.

“You know, you said something that caught my interest,” Andrew leaned forward. “You said you’d’ve fucked Nathaniel Wesninski’s friend. What was her name?”

“Allison,” he said.

“Right. You said you’d intended to rape her.”

“No wonder you’re so hung up on it, Doe,” Romero sneered. So they’d all done their research. “Well I didn’t, did I? Not that she’s shown up. She knows Nathan’ll kill her. He’s pretty sure she’s the rat.”

“Do you think she is?” Andrew inquired. “Mind you: I know who the rat is, and you don’t.”

“I think she’s the rat.” Romero sneered. “Princess bitch won’t be loyal to nothing but herself.”

“Which was why he asked you to kill her. She’d betrayed you all.”

“We didn’t kill her.”

“No, but you were going to. He wanted you to kill all three of them.”

“It was probably Junior that called the cops on us,” Romero scoffed. Andrew’s jaw ticked. “Fucking brat. It was about time.”

“About time for what?”

“To get rid of him.” Romero rolled his eyes. “Not that Plank could manage that, either. Useless. But Nathan gave us the call. We were waiting for it, honestly. Killing off Junior meant there was more of an incentive to keep Nathan out of jail. Otherwise there’s no other options.”

Moriyamas, Andrew thought, but he had no interest in involving them. “So Nathan called the two of you, ordered you to get rid of Allison and Nathaniel.”

“He didn’t want them showing their faces and causing trouble.”

“So why Janie?”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Romero laughed. It sounded like rusted truck breaks. Andrew was very close to knocking the scalding coffee onto exposed skin.

“Nathan probably ain’t happy,” Andrew amended.

Romero barked out another laugh. “He’ll be livid at this point. He sent me an email on exactly what he wanted me to do to your tiny little body, Minyard. An email. Who the fuck sends emails anymore? Anyway, yeah. He’s pissed.”

Andrew stood up from the table, carefully putting his audio recorder into plain sight as he picked up his coffee. “Well, I’d say it was a pleasure, but it wasn’t.” Romero looked at the recorder, slightly sickly. “Have fun in here, Malcom. I’m sure your sister sends her regard from max.”

With that he spun on his heel, the sweet sounds of Romero’s panic putting a hop in his step all the way out of the centre.

“I’ve never...” Neil chewed his lip. “Get a blood sample? That’d put me into the system.”

“And help me identify your pieces as they come floating down the river, if your father’s bosses ever learn about this,” Andrew reminded him. “If I can prove that Romero and Jackson were ordered to kill you, there won’t be any ground to stand on. Neil. Remember what I said.”

The man looked at him from an extended moment of time, evaluating and revelautating.

“Alright,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”

October:

Andrew leant his head from side to side, letting his spine slot itself back into place. He hated everything about flying, so much so that even his cousin’s persistent chatter hadn’t been enough to distract him from his living nightmare.

“Well!” his cousin said, somehow still animated. He and Erik had spent their time in Chicago getting over jetlagged and playing with Aaron’s new puppy, whilst Andrew spent his time watching their antics and silently drinking coffee with Aaron, save for the occasional question here and there.

Heard you made a big bust, yeah. How’s the residency. A nightmare. Katelyn and I want a baby when it’s done, though. Interesting. You can be the Godfather. Save that for Neil. Neil? Like, the criminal guy? Don’t mention it. Andrew - I said, don’t mention it. Oh, fuck. You’re serious. Jesus Christ, okay.

“Shall we get a cab?” Nicky inquired.

“Neil can drop you home on the way to mine.”

Nicky narrowed his eyes. “Neil? Like, absolute hottie Neil? Allison’s friend? The one you never called back because you’re an idiot?”

“I hate you,” Andrew insisted.

“Oh my god!” Nicky squealed, tugging on Erik’s arm. “I didn’t know y’all were together. How long has it been? Andrew, you gotta tell me these things!”

“On second thoughts, you should take a cab,” Andrew grunted, lugging his luggage to where he knew Neil would already be standing, waiting for them to arrive.

Nicky’s laugh rang out like bells, just as Neil rose up his hand to wave the three of them over.

Yeah, Andrew thought, letting Nicky gush whilst Neil looked at him like that.

This isn’t half bad.

And that’s how they got together! andrew will continually tell himself that neil inherited the syndicate after they got together, even if there was only like a month or so between their first kiss and nathan getting locked up. neil will continually tell himself that andrew was only interested in him for the case. they’re both stupid liars who are in love.

#andreil #mobster/cop au #butcher!neil #cop!andrew #all for the game #aftg #getting together! finally #p.2 #first kisses #cute!#casual intimacy #also cute!#demisexual neil is my lifeblood #nathan gets fuckin merked #oh yeah neil and allison also get their asses save by andrew #jem writes

345 notes · View notes

fandomrewrites · 4 years ago

Text

Season 2; Episode 9: Party Guessed

Hello all! No Isaac in this chapter, sorry. But I still I hope you enjoy this chapter and as always constructive criticism is appreciated.

Season 2; Episode 9: Party Guessed

Pairings: Scott McCall x Twin Sister, Lydia Martin x Best Friend, Isaac Lahey x Reader

Warnings: Mention of stalking

Word Count: 2,562

Season 2 Masterlist

After the rave I drove Matt home in an awkward silence. Once the car pulled up to his house and slowed to a stop the brunette beside me reached for the door handle but paused. “About that really, incredibly bad idea I had-”

“You mean the kiss?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s the one.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“For real?”

I nod, “Definitely.”

“So, I know Nate and you are over. Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s true. But is there anyone else?”

“Nate and I are definitely over. Like so over I don’t even want t breathe the same air as him.” I pause, sucking in a breath.

“And anyone else?” He asks once more.

“Not.. really.”

“I hate not reallys. You never know what to do with a not really.”

I awkwardly smile at him, “Sorry. Would you understand if I said it was complicated?”

“Not really. But I’ll try.” He sends me a gentle smile and places his hand over mine. Then opens the door and steps out. I lock the door and sigh, taking a breath before I start driving away.

When I reach over to change the gear shift to drive I notice Matt’s forgotten bag left on the floor of the passenger side. I reach over to pick it up and bring it to him but his camera falls out. Reaching for the camera to put it back, my thumb accidently hits a button lighting up the screen.

I see Matt’s pictures from the lacrosse game and start smiling, these are really good. I click to the next picture and then the next. When I make it to the fourth picture my back straightens in alarm. The picture is of Scott, his eyes glowing, the next picture shows the same thing.

Clicking onto the next picture already thinking I was prepared for what I was about to see then being shocked when it was something completely different. Rather than it being a picture of my twin with glowing eyes, it was a picture of me on the bleachers during the lacrosse game.

The next picture, another picture of me, this one in the hallway during school. The next, a picture of me during lunch. My heart begins racing as I continue to hit the next picture, seeing more and more pictures of myself. Pictures of me at school and in my room.

Finally, knuckles pounding on the passenger window makes me jump and nearly drop the camera. I shakily look up and see Matt with a weird smile, that I can’t quite place. He mouths, “open the window” still smiling.

I hesitate for just a brief moment before doing what he said.

“Forgot my bag.”

“Yeah,” I breathe out. Reaching over and handing him his bag and camera.

“Some good pics in there, you think?”

I nod, trying to smile. “Yeah. You’re really talented. I saw the lacrosse ones.”

“There’s a good candid of you in there too.”

“Oh. Really?”

“You want to see some others? I mean this tiny screen doesn’t really do them justice. I could show you some on my computer.”

“That sounds great. But maybe another night.”

“Come up. Just for a few minutes.” He insists.

“I told my mom I would be home soon.”

“It’s the weekend. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“I know, but-”

“And it’s spring break. You don’t have anything to do tomorrow, do you?”

“Yeah, actually I do. Things with Lydia. I should really get going.”

“You sure?”

I nod once more, “I’m sure.” I insist, thankful that he can’t hear how fast my heart is beating.

Finally, Matt backs away from the car, pulling his bag over his shoulder. I quickly roll up the window and leave.

*_*_*_*_*_*

The next day Lydia and I went shopping for her birthday party later tonight. After our trip to Macy’s she insisted we got to Allison’s and include her in our usual party ritual, which I of course happily agreed to.

Once Mr. Argent let us in we made our way up the stairs and without knocking, Lydia swung Allison’s bedroom door open. “Clear your schedule. This could take a while.”

She brushes past the hunter with me following after closing the door. Lydia dumps the handfuls of bags onto the girls bed as Allison begins to talk. “How many outfits do you plan on wearing tonight?”

“It’s my birthday party. I’m thinking, a host dress, evening wear, then after hours casual.”

I shake my head and smile as Lydia starts laying out the outfits. “I noticed you didn’t send out any invites.” Allison hesitantly says.

“She never does. It’s the biggest party of the year.” I reply.

“Everyone knows.” Lydia adds.

“I’m just wondering if maybe this year things might be... different.” Allison says.

Lydia turns to her bewildered, “Why would anything be different?” She then turns to me for an explanation.

I sigh, “Things have been a little off lately.”

“Like Jackson.” Allison pipes up.

“What do you care about Jackson?” Lydia asks.

Avoiding the question, Allison asks one of her own, “Do you know if he’s coming?”

“Everyone’s coming.” Lydia confidently replies. She then models a dress in front of the mirror, “This one’s Material Girl. I love it. On me. Not you. This is for you.”

She then pulls out another item from one of the bags.

Though Allison doesn’t pay much attention to it as she continues, “No one’s seen him since last night and i heard his parents are getting really worried. So if you know where he is-”

Lydia interrupts, “This is definitely your color. Although, honestly, Allison you have to start spray tanning. You’re starting to look goth and I don’t even know if it’s called goth anymore. It’s just pale and pasty and not good.”

Before Allison or I can say anything a knock sounds at the door. Mrs. Argent steps in looking towards her daughter. Lydia turns to ask, “Mrs. Argent, what do you think of this one?”

Mrs. Argent briefly looks at the dress, “It’s lovely. Allison, can I grab you for a moment to talk? Just the two of us.”

“Can we do it later?” She asks as she gestures to all of the clothes spread out on her bed.

“To be honest, sooner is better.” She replies as she reaches a hand to her shoulder.

“Party starts at 10.” Lydia informs.

“You’ll be around before then?” Mrs. Argent questions.

“I think so.” Allison casually replies.

“You think so?”

“I don’t know.”

Mrs. Argent gives a nod as Allison’s attention moves back to Lydia. She turns and leaves the room as we continue looking at the clothes for tonight.

*_*_*_*_*_*

After a couple of hours Lydia and I left to get ready for the party at her house. I was wearing an all black outfit that consisted of a black see through short-sleeved top, a black top underneath, a faux leather black skirt with a zipper up the front, and strappy black heels.

Once we were both ready, we made our way downstairs and waited for the guests to arrive. Once the first couple of guests arrive, music starts blaring as Lydia stays inside to greet her guests.

Though it’s officially past 10, there are only a few guests at the party. I walk towards Scott and Stiles when I see them by the pool. But before I have the chance to say anything Allison walks up to us too. “Jackson’s not here.”

“No one’s here.” Stiles deadpans.

“Maybe it’s just early?” Scott questions, sounding unsure.

I shake my head as Stiles answers, “Or maybe no one’s coming because Lydia’s turned into the town whack job.”

Allison turns to Scott, “Should you even be here?”

Scott nods, “I’ll be okay.”

We turn our attention to Lydia who hands a drink to the last of her party guests. She glances around to see who else needs one but there is no one else.

“We have to do something to help. I’m going to message some people from school.” I say.

Pulling out my phone I hesitate when Scott speaks, “She’s completely ignored Stiles for the last ten years.”

“I prefer to see it as me not having been on her radar, you know?” Stiles pipes up.

“We don’t owe her a party.” Scott continues.

I roll my eyes, “That’s my best friend you’re talking about. But fine, if you don’t want to do it, I have practically everyone in the school’s number anyway.”

I turn to walk away, annoyed with my twin, “(Y/N) wait!”

I ignore him and continue walking back inside the house as I send out a mass text: Come to Lydia’s birthday party - Great music and great food - Invite everyone!

A few minutes later more and more people start to trickly in. I sigh in relief and make my way back outside with a cup in my hands. “(Y/N)!” I look to my right and see Scott coming up to me. “I’m sorry about earlier. I ended up texting the lacrosse team.”

I nodded and smiled, “I know that Lydia isn’t or at least wasn’t the nicest person. But she means a lot to me and I want her to have a great birthday.”

He nods, “She will. How was your date with Matt? I never got the chance to ask.”

Not wanting to get Scott worked up I hesitate, “It wasn’t a date. But it was fine.”

Scott raises his eyebrows, “You’re lying.”

I open my mouth to respond but no words come out. I close my mouth trying to think of something to say but stop when Stiles comes up to us, “So you going to apologize to Allison?”

I don’t hear the rest of the conversation because I slip away, making a mental note to avoid Scott for a while and to thank Stiles for the interruption.

*_*_*_*_*_*

I stand leaning against the house and taking sips of the punch Lydia made. Looking across the yard at all the party guests, I make eye contact with Matt. I quickly break eye contact and turn to try and blend in with the crowd.

Unfortunately I was not fast enough in my attempt to escape. Matt gently grabbed my hand just before I made it inside, halting my movements. “What do you need?” I question as I pull my hand out of his.

“Could we talk? We left things kind of awkward and I want the chance to explain.”

I bite my lip and eye him. Sighing, I finally answer, “Fine, follow me.” I bring him upstairs to a guest bedroom before turning to give him my attention, “You get two minutes.”

He moves to close the door but stops when he sees me give him a look. “Right, okay. I know I took some pictures of you that I should’ve told you about. But try to look at it another way. Is it really that bad? That I think you’re beautiful? That I think you should be the subject of a perfect photograph?”

“It would be flattering if it wasn’t so creepy. I mean, some of those pictures - I don’t even know how you took them.”

“With a telephoto lens. Come on. Photographers call them candids.”

“And police officers call it stalking.” I say matter-of-factly.

Matt raises his eyebrow, “So I’m a stalker now? Is that it? YOu think my bedroom is wall-papered with photos of you? You think I’m the kind of guy who’s going to say something like if I can’t have her, no one can? Well, get over yourself. There’s another pretty girl walking in the room every five minutes.”

I immediately cross my arms and narrow my eyes, “Great. Then all you need to do is wait another three. Good luck. And don’t talk to me again.”

“(Y/N), hold-on-” Matt tries to grab my arm as I pass him but I rip it out of his grip and glare at him, quickly making my way out of the room.

Rather then move downstairs to the party I moved down the hall to Lydia’s room.

I shut the door and move to sit on her bed holding my head in my hands. I sit in the quiet, blocking out the sounds of the people and the music from downstairs. After a few minutes the sounds fizzle away, but then I hear it.

I look up suddenly, my head spinning to the closed door. I hear a voice yelling. A voice that, though I haven’t heard it for years, is something I cannot erase from my mind.

I shakily stand up and slowly take step after step to the closed bedroom door. I listen as another voice starts yelling at the first. A man and a woman having an argument.

I blink back the tears threatening to spill as I listen intently at the door. Finally, I reach towards the handle and rip the door open. “I can’t believe you’re drinking again! Don’t you want to do better! We can’t be a family if you keep doing this!” The woman yells.

“Who cares about this family? The kids are worthless and I should have left you when I had the chance!” The man yells back, just as angry, possibly even angrier.

The man makes eye contact with me, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, “You hear that (Y/N)! You’re worthless. Worthless and pathetic. You should have never been born.” He spits out. He then raises the bottle to his lips, taking a swig of the alcohol inside and starts to stumble his way over to me.

The through gritted teeth the man speaks once more, “Maybe I should just end you’re worthless life now.” He raises a hand.

I flinch stumbling backwards and falling to the floor. Tears now freely flow down my face as I push myself against the wall and try to find the man, but he is nowhere in sight.

Not too long after that Stiles rushes up the stairs, “(Y/N)! Are you okay?”

“I... I don’t know.” I pause sucking in a breath and finally raising my hands to wipe my eyes, though the tears have already dried, “I think I was hallucinating.”

“Yeah, we all did. Have you seen Lydia?”

I shake my head as Stiles helps me up. We make our way back downstairs to find Scott, “I can’t find her. But I found (Y/N/N). And dude, everyone - anyone who drank that crap. They’re freaking out.”

“I can see that.” Scott replies.

People are jumping and pushing others into the pool. Shrieks can be heard from the party goers. “What the hell do we do?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t know but-” Scott is cut off by someone’s panicked voice.

“Stop! Don’t - Don’t-” We all turn to see Matt. He gets thrown into the pool and starts desperately thrashing around calling, “I can’t - I can’t swim!”

Jackson calmly reaches down, dragging Matt out of the pool as the music fades. Someone’s voice breaks the quiet, “Cops are here!” Suddenly everyone starts running as they try to leave the house.

As we get shoved to the side we step around the house trying to keep an eye out for Matt and Jackson. Scott gets separated from Stiles and I but when we finally meet back up Scott looks shocked, “Matt is the master.”

#teen wolf imagine #series rewrite #sister mccall imagine #lydia martin imagine #isaac lahey imagine

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