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redeyerhaenyra · 1 year ago

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Ain't no sunshine when she's gone

Summary: It's been a month since you've broken up with the moon knight system, and you start to notice someone.. watching you

Warnings: Stalking, breaking and entering, kidnapping, yandere themes, angst, no beta we die like harrow

Notes: So after all the positive responses on this post I just had to create in headcanon form- for those who want to listen to the song that inspired this fic, here :)

Breaking up with the moon boys was the hardest thing you'd ever had to do, but it did need to be done.

With the near constant dissappearing to do Khonshu's bidding, sometimes for weeks on end, with only a note or a text to tell you where they were and then radio silence, it was just too much for you. Your heart couldn't take waiting for them, worrying that they would never return, even if Khonshu was protecting them.

And so, you had begun the process of moving out during the time they were away on a mission.

Marc had come home to find your clothes, trinkets, anything that would indicate your presence gone.

You were there though.

Normally you'd be so happy to see him again, running up to him and kissing him with all your might.

Today, instead, you sadly smiled at him.

"Baby, what's up?" Marc had asked, gently holding your forearms after you had rejected his hug. He could tell you were upset.

"Baby?" "I'm leaving, Marc. I'm sorry."

He had stared at you, dumbfounded. You swallowed down your tears- "I can't do this anymore." You didn't have to explain, you knew what he meant.

You waited anxiously for his response, instead spying his eyes roll back into his head, and now you were faced with Steven and oh god, his eyes, they were already tearing up.

Coward, you thought of Marc, which was admittedly a little harsh but breaking up with them would be so much harder facing Steven's sorrowful gaze.

Steven looked terrified, moving to cup your face in his hands and you had to physically move back to stop him.

"D-darlin', please, what'cha talkin' about?" "I'm sorry steven-" "Please don't leave us love, please, 'can't do it without you please-"

"Stop it." You'd said firmly, Steven sobbed. You couldn't help but take his hands in yours, ever wanting to comfort him.

"Steven.. I will always love you," "Then why'd you have to leave!?" "Because I can't do this anymore!!"

You were both crying now. "I-i can't take waiting for you to never come home to me anymore, Steven, I can't do it."

Steven's gazed was fixed on the ground, his tears dripping onto the floorboards. You gave his hands one final squeeze, before pulling away.

"I will always love you, all of you, but my heart cannot take it anymore.. goodbye."

The strength with which it took to pull yourself away from Steven should have won you a medal, and you couldn't stop yourself from crying even more as you left him.

That was a month ago- with the help of a few friends you'd found yourself a decently priced flat for rent on the other side of London. Far enough away, you hoped.

It wasn't far enough. Jake had found out where you lived within days of you leaving. He knew it was wrong, but the part of him that didn't care grew and grew into something monstrous. At this stage the other boys weren't saying anything to disapprove of his actions, and so he continued to watch you.

He'd drive circles around your block to relearn your new routine, and you hadn't yet realised it was his cab you kept seeing.

The one person you actually hadn't said goodbye to was Jake- he hadn't fronted when you'd left, and you would always wonder if he was there, just choosing not to show himself. But if he wasn't? He'd have woken up to the discovery that you weren't together anymore and you'd always feel guilty for that.

But... you tried to move on with your life, as best you could.

It felt wrong to start dating again, but your friends had urged you to, even if it was a one night thing.

The guy you'd matched with on bumble was nice enough, smart, good looking- he wasn't them though. While he was polite and friendly during your dinner date, he wasn't your boys.

He'd walked you home, and you'd set up a second date. All things considered it was successful- but you just felt.. wrong about the whole thing. Like you were cheating, even though you weren't.

You'd guessed it wasn't all that successful, as he'd ghosted you a day or so after your date.

It was a week or so later that you'd seen the news report of his body having turned up in the Thames. God how awful! He hadn't ghosted you- the poor guy had been murdered.

Jake had really earned a bollocking off of Steven and Marc for that one, but he knew they were relieved you wouldn't be seeing that man again.

You'd decided to halt the dating game after that, for a while at least.

You were lonely though, there was no denying. Having no one to cuddle up to in bed sucked.

And so.. the logical conclusion was a pet, no?

Eventually, you found a young, ginger tomcat named "Franklin" in a nearby animal shelter and you just fell in love, you brought him home the same day.

He was great, not exactly filling the whole in your heart left by three men but you certainly adored him, and who wouldn't say no to curling up in bed with a cat every evening? Certainly not you.

One day, you'd left work for your lunch break only for the horrifying realisation to hit you: You'd forgot to feed Franklin that morning! You rushed home as fast you could- only to discover that, you had fed him, even when you were sure you hadn't.

And yet there he was, munching on his bowl of kibble.

Something squeaked under your foot- you looked down- oh, it was one of Franklin's toys. You threw it across the room for him to play with but- hang on... you didn't remember buying him that toy.

You shook your head free of thoughts that you were going mad- everyone forgets things, even buying specific cat toys. Or maybe one of your friends had left it when they'd been over- it didn't matter.

You moved to leave your flat and return to work- only to find your door lock jammed.

The locksmith you'd hurriedly called in was able to fix it in a jiffy, though advised that the jam was probably due to a break in, and that you should change your locks.

A chill ran down your spine- you checked and double checked, nothing of value had been stolen, but someone had been in your home! Is that who had fed Franklin? Who'd left him the toy?

You changed the locks, and threw out the strange toy.

Jake couldn't stop watching you. It was becoming more and more of a problem.

He was ignoring Khonshu and actively pushing Marc and Steven out when they tried to front, knowing they'd put and end to his antics.

But none of them could deny that they wanted, needed you back. Jake just considered himself the only one with the balls to get you back.

There was no warmth in his life now that you weren't there. Steven's flat no longer felt like home without your t-shirts in the laundry, or the brand of coffee you love but Marc hates in the cupboards.

He knew he ought to leave his little girl alone, but the fact remained you were his little girl. Jake would stop at nothing to have his bebita back.

Now it was two months since you'd broken up with the system. Life wasn't perfect, but you were chugging along.

You turned the lights on in your flat, yawning. Work was tough today, but it was Friday, and you had some left over popcorn in the cupboard. Film night~!

"Franklin? Baby? Mummy's home~!" You cooed, knowing that he always came bounding up and purring whenever you came home.

But.. he didn't. Your flat was silent. No distant meowing or the jingle of the bell on his collar. Nothing.

"Franklin?" You stepped further into your flat, worry seeping through you.

"Franklin..?!" Your tone became more and more erratic with the realisation that Franklin wasn't home- and then someone had covered your eyes with their hand, and pressed a strange scented cloth to your mouth. You kicked and screamed and struggled but it was no use- the chloroform had knocked you out in seconds.

Jake held you tenderly to his chest as you faded into unconsciousness. Steven had earlier expressed his distaste at this plan, but neither him or Marc said anything now, so close to having you again.

You woke the next day, nauseous and tired. The distant meowing you heard gave you comfort- it had all been a bad dream.

But when you opened your eyes, you were met with the horrifying scene of Steven's flat, not your own. So familiar, in any other situation you would have been glad to be here.

You shifted to sit up, eyes working their way down to notice your ankle tied to the bed with the restraint normally reserved for Steven.

You choked back a sob- a hum ripping your gaze to the other end of the room.

There lay Franklin, enjoying some pets from the man who's lap he laid on.

Jake Lockley stared back at you, you could tell it was him, you could always tell between them.

"Buenos dias, hermosa." His voice was rich like coffee, normally so comforting but now? It sent a shudder down your spine.

"You and I have some things to discuss, sí?"

#jake lockley moonknight #jake lockely x reader #jake lockley #jake lockely x you #jake lockely imagine #jake lockley angst #jake lockley headcanon #moon knight x reader #moon knight #moon knight angst

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jj-5656 · 2 years ago

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Mine First With; James Potter (ATJ)

A/N: Hello again! This took forever, I know. Writing has been taking me so much longer lately. What used to be single sit downs has become a three week mf process. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. This one was based of a request so feel free to keep flooding the inbox.

Summary: The one where you finally meet James’ best friends

TW: some suggestive humor, drinking

It’s a brisk walk from where the cab’s dropped you off to the pub. The summer air is inviting, and you can smell some bonfire miles away as the streetlights illuminate your path from the lot. The harrowing work week has come and gone, and James has finally convinced you to meet his long-loved group of friends for a drink.

It’s not like you believed you wouldn't like them. From the loads of stories of your boyfriends retold fondly from his school years, they’re an amazing bunch. But that’s just the thing, James’ friends seem absolutely amazing. A beautiful blend of complimenting personalities to form one unbreakable bond.

Its undoubtedly intimidating. You’d never want to nose your way in on such a close-knit group. They’ve shared so much together, you’d hate to intrude. Besides, what if they didn’t enjoy your company? Whether you were too closed-off, too eccentric, too in-between. The thought has you stopping in your tracks, just short of the quaint pubs’ entrance. James halts too, having been pulled back your interlocked hands. The elation falls from his face as his eyes meet yours, lips pulling into a frown at your anxious demeanor.

“What is it, love?” His hands go to hold your face, side-stepping drunken patrons as they shuffle out of the door.

“What if they don’t like me?” If James’ eyes weren’t trained on your every movement, every breath, he’d probably miss the words slip past your lips. There’s not an ounce of self pity to them. It’s so soft, so gentle he practically feels his heart tear in two.

“Sweetheart,” it escapes as a chuckle, astonished at the notion. “I promise you, those chances are terribly slim. Impossible even.” He presses a kiss to your lips because he can’t help it, another to your jaw. Willing away the oncoming anxiety in a way only he can manage. “They’re going to love you.”

“You can’t know that.” You tug at sleeves of his leather jacket you’ve borrowed, feeling simultaneously under and over dressed with the white long-sleeved top underneath.

“I can, because I love you.” His hands fall to your hips to send a reassuring squeeze, readjusting your necklace so the clasp is to the back of your neck. “Stop fiddling with your outfit, you look great.” His hazel eyes narrow, “a little too good, I think. Avoid Sirius, he’ll start flirting.” You only roll your eyes, letting him pull you into an embrace with a slow, deep breath. Pushing at his broad shoulders and fighting a fit of giggles when he blows a raspberry into your neck.

“Okay, okay. Enough, James.”

“Im sorry, love. Can’t help it.” He mutters the confession into the shell of your ear, ignoring your squirms of protest. With a reluctant pull away, he raises his brows in expectation, satisfied smirk adorning his features now that he’s effectively warmed you up. “We ready?”

“Ready.” You take his outstretched hand with ease, letting him lead you in.

Light and laughter swarms your senses as soon as the door opens. The quiet of the night escapes you as it shuts behind your form. James greets a few familiar faces as he leads you through the crowded pub. It’s a town favorite, one he frequents with his friends. So much so that the owner saves a booth in the back for the lot of them.

They’re rowdy as you approach, in the midst of some drinking game you recognize from high school. A pile of spoons are lined up on the table whilst they all reach for playing cards to add to their pile. The pretty red head’s eyes widen when she collects her most recent card, diving across to reach for a utensil. The rest of them are instantaneous in their follow-up, all reaching for a spoon of their own with a chorus of shouts and profanities. A tall, sandy haired gentleman huffs a sigh, regrettably chugging what’s left in his cup, seeing as he’s the only one without a utensil in hand. Faded scars adorn his handsome features, and it’s then you recognize him as Remus. The kind soul with some chronic illness, though it does little to stiffen his sass.

James clears his throat, grabbing the group’s attention. “Having all the fun without us, are you?” They erupt in cheers, delighted with his presence. Immediately, their eyes avert to you, all kind and curious smiles. “Everyone, this is y/n. Love, this is...Everyone.” You offer a shy wave, immediately feeling silly with the action.

“But…She’s so pretty?” A long, raven-haired boy chimes in, and another fit of laughter elicits from the group. The red head stands, ushering you into the booth with a gentle manicured hand on your shoulder.

“Sit down, sit down. You’re as lovely as James described.” A blush adorns your cheeks, a glance to James for reassurance as you sit. “I’m Lilly, we’re so happy to finally meet you!”

“Considering Prongs has hid you from us for so long.” A beautiful girl with curly hair and caramel-colored skin teases beside Remus, squeezing your hand with hers. With another quick look to your boyfriend, he mouths ‘Mary’ without needing you to ask.

“Can you blame me? We’re here all of two seconds and you’re on her like hounds.” James’ hand squeezes your knee as he leans down, grabbing your attention. “What d’you want to drink?” It's a bit noisy, you have to focus your hearing on him amongst all the excitement.

“Surprise me.” Is all you can manage, nodding to Remus when he holds up cards in a silent ask if you’ll join the game.

“Anyone else?” A chorus of orders follows your boyfriend’s polite gesture, and he frowns. “Pitchers for the table it is, then. Be back in a sec.” With a kiss to your temple, your boyfriend backs away to leave you to the (albeit friendly) wolves. Sirius scrambles out of the booth, eager to unload all his questions on his best friend.

“Hold up, Prongs. I’ll help!” Immediately, the connection between the two is palpable. The lanky boy practically tackles your boyfriend into a hug. Patting his back in an obvious ‘job well done.’ You ignore their shared gaze as they await their orders. James is more than happy to blabber on about you to anyone that will let him, so he allows the array of questions from his best friend.

“They’re quite a pair.” You note fondly, watching as Black ruffles a blushing James’ hair at the bar.

“I’ll say.” Remus smiles too, expertly shuffling the stack of cards as he glances over at the two. “Biggest troublemakers in our year.” The girls nod along, setting up the game front them between sips of their drinks.

“You’re kidding?” This catches all their attention, pausing their movements as you cock your head in question.

“You mean James hasn’t mentioned his pranking phase?” You shake your head, feeling as though you’re about to gain some great blackmail.

“Not even the time he accidentally died his own hair pink for a week?”

“Shut up.” The three nod eagerly, and you decide you love them already.

“We’ll get into that later,” Mary frowns at the cards in hand, uncaring for a poker face. Brown eyes glistening with mischief as she surveys you. “Give us all details on James.”

You can only laugh. “Like what?” The four of you are quick as you converse, picking up cards and putting them down just as swiftly. Eager to collect four of a kind.

“Is he romantic?” Lilly starts, muttering a profanity at a card before disposing it.

“Does he plan all of the dates?” Mary adds, eyes averting to the pair still at the bar to ensure your privacy.

“Does he still lose his glasses six times a day?” His old roommate grumbles, no real irritation to it. Sirius approaches the table before James with enough time to hear the interviewing, sliding in the booth beside you after setting the pitcher of beer down with a smug grin.

“Is he as good in bed as he lets on?” You cough on your own saliva at his teasing, trying to gain composure as James approaches. Brows taught in concern as he surveys the lot of his friends trying to conceal their laughter. Sirius goes to pat your back soothingly, making contact only once before he’s hoisted from his seat by the collar and sent to the booth on the other side. James takes his place, shooting an incredulous glare to his best mate when you offer a meek smile after having calmed down.

“Alright, dove? You’re flushed.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb rubbing over your brow. You pull at his wrist to cease his doting, eyes shooting toward Remus when he snatches a spoon. You try, but your distraction has gotten the best of you. You stick a tongue out to the lot of them as they cheer, tilting you head back to chug your drink. James beams as they applaud on, astonished at your speed. An overwhelming sense of pride filling him at their impress.

When you’re finished, grimacing at the taste and laughing along, Potter can’t help but stare. You’re fitting right in, just as he’d suspected. Completely enamored with the notion, he presses a kiss to your shoulder, shifting closer so he can get in on the game.

Your pitchers are on their third refill when James pulls you into his lap, insisting it’ll grant more room to the pair of you and the two girls beside you. Usually, you’d refuse his public displays of affection, but it’s honestly more comfortable for the lot of you. Admittedly, his friends are even better than he’s described, and despite having just met them you feel completely at ease in their company. When you’ve changed card games and you’ve still lost, Potter wraps his arms around you so that you can see his own. “You can be on my team, then.” He has to lean close for you to hear, and you bite back a smile in lieu of a poker face. Eyeing the raven-haired boy from across the table with a smug grin.

“Thank you, Jamie. Always so generous.” This time, Sirius chokes. Trying not to spit out the contents of his pint all over the table at your suggestive tone. The rest of the booth besides your poor, clueless boyfriend crumples into fits of laughter. Unbeknownst to your previous conversation and your obvious innuendo.

“I love her, Prongs. She’s officially one of us.” Mary kisses the crown of your head whilst wiping tears from her eyes.

Potter is still utterly bewildered at your odd behaviors, but the elation of your acceptance is still distracting. Of course, he knew this would happen. He knows better than anyone how impossible it’d be not to love you.

“Agreed, let’s keep her.” Remus jests, tilting his glass to you with an amused smile.

“Here,” Lilly leans over her curly-haired friend with her phone outstretched to you. “Let’s exchange numbers. This way I won’t have to go through Prongs.”

Mary nods, narrowing her eyes at your boyfriend above you. “We should add her to the girls group chat too, if he’s being a prick she can let us know and we’ll tell him off.”

“I’m sitting right here, you know.” James shields his cards from Remus, who’s attempting to take the distraction as an opportunity to cheat.

When you’re finished typing your digits into the redheads phone, you lean forward to look at both girls with raised brows. “Bathroom?” They nod, motioning for your boyfriend to slide you both out of the booth so they can file out. You hesitate before following them, turning on your heel to face the boys again.

“Sirius is completely bluffing. And Remus has a good hand, but it’s not as good as yours. Don’t fold.” You press a kiss to his temple before taking Lilly’s hand to maneuver through the rowdy crowd, leaving the trio with jaws dropped. Sirius chucks his pile onto the table face up, arms crossed with childish pout. Remus folds too, too impressed to be angry.

“Mate, how on Earth did you manage that one?” James can’t face them, too focused on watching your frame disappear into the crowd.

“Absolutely no clue, honestly.”

********

You huff a sigh as you press send on the seventh email of the night, overwhelmed with the current workload as a company presentation approaches. James is in the living room watching tv, decompressing from his own work day. He gets a call, and there’s some back and forth before he’s knocking at the office door. Approaching with the phone to his ear and a sympathetic smile at your hunched form.

“Dove, lads want to know if you’ll make it out tonight.”

“I don't know.” You purse your lips, considering your options as you make a correction to your project.

“She's not sure, finishing up work,” a pause as he awaits response. “What do you mean I might as well not come?” You laugh at that, rubbing your temples to ease your stress. James comes up behind you to massage your shoulder with his free hand. Pressing a kiss to the crown of your head with furrowed brows. “That won't convince her, and especially not me. I buy all her drinks, Black.” There's more conversation on the other line, one you still can't make out despite your boyfriends proximity. “Oh. Well that might.” James presses the phone to his chest and spins your chair so you’re facing him. Crouching down to level with you. “Pads says he’ll sign up for karaoke if you come out.” More talking on the phone has him pressing it to his ear again, grimacing. “Says they won't tolerate my moping if you aren't there.”

“Is he serious?” James rolls his eyes, though it’s not directed at you. This time you can make out the ‘that's my name’ cheekily shouted on the other line. Potter tilts your chin to meet his eyes, full of heartwarming sincerity.

“Up to you, lovely. No pressure.”

You hate how well he reads you. Practically visualizing the balance scale in your head, anxiously weighing your options. To be fair, you’ve been at it for hours, and have the rest of the weekend to make any last minute changes to the work.

“Give me an hour to get ready.” There’s muffled cheers through the phone, and your boyfriend doesn’t even try to conceal his pleased expression as he presses chaste kiss to your lips.

***********

You’re busy in the kitchen next time round. Adding freshly chopped vegetables to the sizzling pan whilst James stirs. It’s awfully domestic, a fondness your heart still hasn’t grown accustomed to.

You’re planning for a movie night. It’s been a long day and an even longer week, so a night in seems fitting. Music sounds softly from the record player across the room, Potter admires the way you hum along to the tune without thinking. He catches your frame with his free arm amidst your path to the fridge in search of more ingredients, nipping at the juncture of skin between your neck and shoulder despite your squirms. You pretend to resent his constant longing for affection, half-heartedly pushing against his bicep with muffled laughter into the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re unbearable, Potter.”

“Hardly.” You shut him up by feeding him a cherry tomato, knowing full well he’ll only eat them unless they're incorporated into a meal. He practically gags, lunging toward you in search of revenge. Heavy arms wrap around your waist to hoist you onto the counter, his hazel eyes narrowed with feigned betrayal. Your phone goes off just then, Lilly’s contact photo beams brightly beside you.

“Saved by the bell. You’re lucky.” You wave off his empty threats, bringing the phone to your ear with a delighted, albeit confused, smile.

“Hello?”

“Have you even bothered glancing at the group chat? You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Your doting boyfriend, nosey as he is, nudges himself between your knees once more. Lowering the heat on the stove to slow it’s cooking.

“Marlene’s hosting a girls night! Sort of last minute, I know. But we’re all in dire need of a shit talk and a drink, yeah?”

James rears his head back from where it’s situated against yours to hear better, beaming bright with a succinct nod.

“That does sound nice-”

“Lovely! James won’t mind driving you I’m sure.” Your mouth opens to speak before he’s leaning in close again.

“Not at all, anyone else need a ride?”

“Prongs, you shouldn’t be eavesdropping. But no, thank you. We should be alright. See you around 8, y/n. Dress code is strictly pajamas, by the way.”

“Great, thanks Lill’s.” The call ends just in time for the red head to miss James clashing his lips into yours. Grin never leaving his face as his hands take your head in their hold. You pout despite him.

“What about our movie night? You’re not upset?”

“Not at all, lovely. I love that they love you, and I’m even happier that I was right.”

“And our raincheck?”

“Tomorrow. When you’re hungover and grumpy and I can smother you to my hearts content.” You adjust his glasses and his hair, feeling unworthy of his selfless nature. “I’m just wondering when my mates decided they fancy your company over mine.”

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

James is enthralled in the rom-com you’d begged him to watch during your marathon. The same one he guaranteed he wouldn’t watch unless you forced him, and promised he’d save for tomorrow. He’s nearing the end and still debating whether he should fess up or pretend to be watching it for the first time when you accompany him. His phone buzzes beside him, a click as he answers before even glancing at the contact.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Jamie.” Your smile is evident in your voice, light and airy. Potter’s brows shoot upward at the nickname, one rarely used unless you’re-

“I’m a little drunk.” It’s a whisper, some sacred secret he’s elated in receiving. Cheeks burning with the knowing grin adorning his features as he stands. Patting pockets and tossing round pillows in search for his keys.

“Things are wrapping up there, sweetheart?”

“I think so. Most of the girls are staying over. They're really nice, Jamie. I think they like me.” His grin grows impossibly bigger, heart thrumming with pure love as you hiccup between words.

“I’m sure they do, lovely. Very hard not to. Did you want to stay?” There's a pause, a shuffle on the other end. As if you’ve switched ears.

“I thought about it...” He cocks his head, awaiting your conclusion. “But I think..” Another pause.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“I miss you.” The three words elicit more emotion than winning the Quidditch cup. Without a doubt.

“Yeah?”

“Only a bit.” You’re shy, then. Distracted by an eruption of laughter and a shout of your name in the background.

“Only a bit? I’ll leave you girls to it, then.”

“James-”

“Only joking, Dove. Give me twenty minutes, yeah?”

“Drive safe, please.”

“Always. I’ll text you when I’m there.”

**********

“Potter!” Dorcas points a wobbly finger toward the man leaning against his car at the curb, eyes narrowed. “You’re stealing her from us?” You’re too busy giving a second round of farewell hugs to notice him just then.

“She was mine first, you know.”

“Nonsense.” Mary crosses her arms in mock defense. “We’ve turned her to the dark side.” It’s then you face his direction, unable to conceal how quickly your face lights up. Swiftly enclosing the space between you and nearly knocking him over with the force of your hug. He presses an array of kisses to the top of your head, and extra couple to your lips before he pulls you in again. Sticking his tongue out victoriously to the girls ahead.

“They’re so in love, it’s nauseating.” Dorcas is all smiles as she speaks her mind. Her and Marlene approaching Potter as he opens the door for you. Unnecessarily reaching over to clasp your seatbelt himself.

“You better take care of this one, Prongs.” Mary nudges the much taller brunette with complete sincerity. Doing her best to seem intimidating.

“Right.” Dorcas nods along, eyes trailing his form as he rounds toward the drivers side. “If you fuck it up and its between you and her, we’re choosing her.” James can’t help but laugh, arms raised in surrender as his eyes instinctively fall onto you.

“I wouldn’t blame you, honestly. I’d choose her too.” Its a chorus of gags at this, though Potter’s too enveloped in your abashed demeanor to care.

“Off my property, the two of you. You’re sickening.”

<3masterlist<3

#imagines #fanfic #aaron taylor johnson #james potter #james potter x reader #marauders era #james potter imagine #marauders x reader #hogwarts #marauders #james potter fanfiction #james potter x you #marauders x y/n

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candychim · 8 months ago

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You Belong with Me

Synopsis: When a cynical good-for-nothing, Jimin, sees the girl he was in love with a year after he'd quit gardening for "Bright Horizons", the luxurious development she resides in, all his feelings come rushing back, along with the harrowing memories of what had happened in that gated community last summer; all the while he meets a mysterious man who claims he sees the potential for show-business within him.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Romance + Drama + Angst + Smut + Fluff

Word Count: 3.6k

|| Episode 01 of ? ||

Tonight he saw you. Yoongi and he were pushing out of the cinema in a current of people when he saw you in a blue coat, mincing through the crowd. That stupid hot tremor mantled his cheeks, his chest and stomach; always new and horrifying no matter how many times he felt it. He called your name so quickly his voice ended a squeak, and the pedestrians around him became dense as statues as he charged through them until finally a pinch of your coat was in his fingers and you turned to look at him, the shimmer around your eyes sparkling under the pale streetlamp. He was bilious with panic. Beneath your skirted coat, your legs were naked and bristled with goose bumps, and he barely recognized you with your face made up.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said. “Y/N. Call me, write to me.”

You smiled at him, a bit like you from last summer, nodded stiffly, and you were gone with a bang of the yellow cab door. He stood on the curb for what felt a long time, hands sweating in his pockets and the oppressive, sweltering desire gutting him as he thought of your slight eyelashes and voice and lissome fingers on his shoulder, until that prick Yoongi came and slapped him on the head, telling him to get a move on and not to be so fucking pathetic, and Jimin slapped him too, and the prick laughed in his creepy, gravelly voice and fished a cigarette out of his pocket and shoved it into Jimin’s hand and told him to come on, that he’ll buy him a drink, and to wipe off that pussy ass face and stop being a fucking idiot.

He took him downtown, to Jack Rabbit, a sorry little alleyway pub made of wood panels and suffering from cramped space and fusty cigarette air, and they sat at the bar across the bearded codger that tended it on uncomfortable oak stools; Jimin couldn’t understand why he insisted on coming there, because, honestly, the draft beer was too bitter and flat and the ancient pop music from the jukebox prickled his ears and the codger always spewed some pseudo-philosophical bullshit and bored him to death with his dull life spent in poverty and gloom—and, really, it was a bit humiliating to frequent such a dump. It was a mystery how it stayed running with barely any guests. Still, Yoongi dragged him there routinely and downed the beer as if he enjoyed it and entertained that annoying old man with sagging jowls and a pig gut. If the prick weren’t the one paying, Jimin would have fucked right off out of there.

They drank for hours, until both of them were red in the face and slumped over the bar; the hung glasses and shelved alcohol bottles spun violently, Jimin’s foot kept slipping off the footrest, and Yoongi shook him until he was nauseas. You’re a moron, he kept telling him. A fuckin’ dunce. Face it: she’s never going to be with a good-for-nothing like you. You think she’s gonna pick you over all the rich motherfuckers chasing her? Don’t be a damn idiot, Chimmy, save yourself the fucking time.

But Jimin knew all this and still he didn’t believe it. The problem was not that he mowed your lawn the previous summer or that he went to a shithole like Jack Rabbit because he had no money to buy himself a beer. The problem was he, that fuck-face, that disgusting richling and his sick obsession with you.

It was all Kim Taehyung’s fault, that’s what he wanted to tell Yoongi. Jimin’s only sin was not killing the fucker. Richling was crazy about you, and Jimin saw firsthand how for weeks the bastard spoke about nothing but screwing you, making you his, whatever it took; I’ll fuck her like this, he’d drawl, the same shit over and over again, eyes bloodshot from the alcohol, I’ll fuck her like this then I’ll flip her on her knees and I’ll bang her like this, and he would wipe the whiskey off his mouth with the flat of his hand and laugh like a psychopath. Then he would clamber to his feet at the edge of the pier and pull out his cock and piss in the river as he blabbered on about how he was going to ram into you, teach you a lesson, and then he would shove it back into his swimming trunks, sit back down, and roll a blunt with those same filthy hands that touched his penis, all the while Jimin laughed faintly and made the most of Taehyung turning his back on him to swig from the bottle and take another cigarette, puffing smoke at the relentless mosquitos that wouldn’t stop latching onto his arm.

It was all that bastard’s idea of a joke, just banter, drunk talk, or at least that’s what Jimin thought in the beginning during their first carousals down by the river, in the shadiest part of the small wooden platform, where the gnarled branches of the fig tree kept them hidden from the eyes of the watchmen and other residents of the complex, and most crucially Taehyung’s grandparents that would, in his own words, suffer a stroke if they saw their “little boy” drinking alcohol and smoking pot and who knows what other crap, and that with none other than a member of “the help.” A gardener, no less.

That would be an absolute scandal, a breach of trust that would undoubtedly send Jimin across the river never to come back to Bright Horizons again, which in all truth wouldn’t really bother him, to stop slaving away for the bourgeois, except this was his first real job, his first signed contract and a steady paycheck, and even if it weren’t for the money, he would agonize endlessly over having lost the opportunity to see you, a privilege he wouldn’t have outside of that picket fence community, and for that he would withstand all Taehyung’s yapping and twisted fantasies, no matter how sick he was of his obsession with you, whom the bastard had fallen for the same day Jimin had, that afternoon in late June when your family drove to the Horizons to pick up the keys to your new home, you sprawled barefoot over the backseat of your grand white jeep with a book in hand.

Jimin remembered that day well; he had gawped at the Patek Philippe glimmering gold on your father’s wrist, lolled outside the window as the man gestured around explaining who you were and what you were doing there, a firm, grave glare fixing Jimin over the rim of his horn-wire spectacles, and your mother sat gracious beside him with a wary mascaraed eye, your run-of-the-mill lady, identical to all the other women living in the Horizon’s white villas, with her lips painted red and a hand fan in her lacquered fingers.

For a moment, you had looked up from the book, a finger pressing into the page, eyes naked and lustrous and in that moment staring into his with an air of bright, girlish interest; and even when he had opened the gate and the jeep drove in with a powerful whir, he saw you peek through the rear glass, mouth twisting into a demure smile once you had caught his eye.

Later, when he had first sat with the richling by the river, Jimin listened to an excruciating torrent of bullshit about how you had come out to the veranda barefoot that day, in your whorish white dress, and sat with your book and an apple, crossing your legs and biting into the fruit as if you had meant to taunt him who was watching you from the window, and whom you had smiled at too once he strutted into your front lawn with a plate of his granny’s lemon pie.

“I knew I would fuck her the moment I saw her,” Taehyung had told him, speaking of this as if it were some grand catharsis, only to then cluck with laughter like a damn hen and say, “But the slut is harder than I thought.”

That was the pioneer of all the times Jimin fantasized of wrapping his fingers around the bastard’s thick, tan neck until it blued and the fucker finally croaked; the first time his hands tingled at the thought of punching him. He wanted to push his head into the river, yank his arm out of the socket, beat him bloody for the whole Horizons to see and make him eat dog shit and garbage off his own lawn. And that’s what he should have done before leaving, instead of fearing what the rich boy might do to him; then he wouldn’t have had this terrible lingering fury that made him break out a sweat every time he thought of his idiotic face.

Around midnight, when Jimin was already so pie-eyed he could scarcely follow Yoongi’s monologue, a small group of men, all with gelled hair and their shirts crisp with starch, ludicrously wandered into Jack Rabbit, buzzing with talk and decorous har-de-har, their eyes meandering over the joint and its only two patrons with an air of cool, curious solicitude. The one who had opened the door, a tall, long-faced fellow with a rounded jaw, grinned widely, black coat billowing behind him as he approached the bar.

While he sat beside Jimin, a cologne of birch tar and lavender whipping him over the face, he wished the codger a good evening, his three cohorts sidling after him while giving each other the eye.

“Hello to you too,” said the codger and plucked the cigarette from his mouth, smile so big Jimin could hardly believe his cracked lips could stretch that far. He leaned over the bar. “Been a while since I saw you here, son.”

The man spoke again, and this time Jimin was perplexed at how deep and scratchy his voice was, and still less irritating than Yoongi’s. “I was busy with work,” he had said, or something along those lines; Yoongi clicked his scrawny fingers and distracted him from eavesdropping.

“Are you even listening?” he said, and Jimin could barely make out what was his voice and what the screech of the stools.

“No,” he told him, unsure if he had heard right, too shit-faced on those rums Yoongi had made him chug to think about it too much.

“Asshole.” He grabbed his bottle by the neck; draft beer had become too warm for him, he claimed.

The group had settled at the bar but everyone aside from the cheery man squirmed on the rock-hard oak, warily taking off their shawls and coats, the stubby one seated at the end trying to hook his own on the rack. One of them, the man who seemed youngest, was typing something on his phone while glancing at the codger at intervals.

“What are the gentlemen drinking tonight?”

The man took off his coat and elbowed Jimin in the ribs; the large tag inside read “Max Mara,” beneath it a bold, flashy text: Made in Italy. “Give me a Tom Collins,” he said, and shoved his coat into the man beside so abruptly the phone nearly fell out of his hand.

Jimin scoffed. “You make cocktails, old man?”

“For you, I don’t,” he said, and Yoongi laughed with his mouth still on the bottle. The man chuckled politely too, fingers laced and propped on his elbows. His sleeves were neatly rolled up, leather wristwatch taunting Jimin with its shine. The fool held himself so high and mighty all the while he sat in the same dunghill Jimin did.

Then, and for the rest of the time spent in that hovel, Jimin watched the man out the corner of his eye, contempt sprouting furiously at his lifeless, impersonal laughter, spiraling when he opened a fat cigar case and lit one of those dark, wiener-like abominations. Pungent whirls of tobacco drifted through the small space, thick and inescapable, crashing into Jimin’s cigarette smoke. The man nudged the pack toward the codger, who begrudgingly took one and smelled it, grumbling about its staleness while he hungrily drew on it.

Jimin didn’t have to speak to him to know the type. Entitled, obtrusive, rich. The kind who were born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Former presidents of the Student Council in college, which they breezed through in a whirl of toga parties and drinking contests, always secure and unafraid because a chair at daddy’s marketing firm was being kept warm for them. Those were the sort who grew up to be glitzy businessmen oblivious to their extravagance—the cigars, tailored suits, those bland, overpriced Max Mara coats. They were all Kim Taehyung in a few years, once he buys a few blazers and decides he wants to play grown-ups.

Those pricks seemed to haunt him, follow him even to a dump like the Rabbit. What did they want of him? Why did they swat at him like flies to shit?

“That’s the problem with rich bastards,” he was telling Yoongi later, as they walked through narrow Ahyeon-dong streets with their last cigarettes in mouth, steep alleys with webbed cables, too narrow for cars. “They’re all the same. Thinking they can just walk in anywhere and be treated like kings. Fucking pricks.” He was slurring frenziedly, tongue immobile and heavy in his mouth.

An icy breeze blew past, and all the blood surged into his cheeks, pumping, until he was so hot under the collar he thought he might go insane.

Cloud of smoke Yoongi had blown out hopped over his head and disappeared. “Stop your whining,” he said. “The world isn’t gonna stop spinning just because it hurts your feelings, Chimmy boy.”

Jimin could barely walk without vertigo and as they stumbled up the slope, then climbed the chipped rock stairs hanging onto the railing brown with rust, up till their street, he couldn’t strangle the words coming out his mouth to a halt; curses, profanities, calling Yoongi a pansy and a coward, sending him to hell, drooling like a cur, blustering with such famine and delirium until in the end he revolted himself, yet Yoongi’s apathy to the whole ordeal annoyingly persisted.

Before he went into the house, he gave Jimin a friendly slap on the cheek and told him to go to sleep, and to that Jimin stood in front of his house shouting until the man stuck out his middle finger and he was left on alone on the street and could go nowhere but his own home where, once he had closed the door, the silence was deep and thunderous.

The few hours until dawn were a painful slog. It was surreal: he wanted to fall asleep or at least do something, anything to keep the blare of quietude from piercing his ears, but instead he stared at the wall, turned over his bed like a worm, tiptoed from his room to the kitchen with his head full of nothing. He couldn’t tell what he thought about even if someone asked. Fatigue was weighing on him and the first hints of sun trespassed into the house in slits, cut up by the metal bars on the window, the sorry semi-basement rectangle. Outside of it swayed the rose shrub madam from upstairs planted; the tall brick gate it leaned on hid the street.

Jimin took a roll-up from the coffee table over his mother’s sleeping body, and it was a bad one, stale tobacco the color of hay jutting out the tip, and he sat on his bed listless, the only thing that could sedate him the thought of you. If he concentrated hard enough he could almost believe you were beside him, finger pressed into a book, window light catching onto the slight curly hairs that turreted into your scalp.

He fantasized about your skin, your big, honest eyes looking over him, the smile you gave him tonight, all those times last summer when you sat by the pool as he cleaned it, pushing a glass of lemonade into his hands, telling him it must be so hot and so hard and to come sit with you under the shade of the garden parasol for a moment. Then, as these thoughts usually went, those hands of yours, soft with all the creams smelling of pink peonies and peach, were gliding down his arm and you were thanking him for all his hard work, but he couldn’t hear you anymore because you hung on his elbow and the soft flesh of your breasts spilled over the neckline and touched his skin. He could die in that moment, if he wanted to. And although this image in particular usually led him to a cozy fairytale land, wherein he would be so muzzy and warm fighting sleep seemed tiresome—the joy of speaking with you in tongues and hands too grand to leave—tonight even those thoughts went awry.

The longer you were on his mind, the colder your smile from tonight felt, more distant, until it seemed so cruel he was certain his memory must have warped it.

What had that smile meant? Why had you said nothing to him? Would he, if he were someone like Kim Taehyung or the peacock from the bar, live to see you shun him so frigidly?

Sometime when the sun broke wholly over the sky and the rushed footsteps of the landlord’s children going to school trundled past his window, Jimin dozed off into a heavy, dreamless slumber, the stuffed ashtray beside his shoulder spilling when he rolled to the side.

The stench of cigarettes was unbearable when he awoke that noon, mother’s hands joggling him until he felt queasy. Look at what you’ve done, she was yelling, get up, get up right now, you idiot, but Jimin’s eyes felt so sunken and heavy it was a labor to open them, and he kept swatting her hands away, saying he will, saying just another moment, until she struck him so fatally on the back he jolted right up. She snatched the linen smeared with ash, singing a tired monologue of how he never listened, how she’d told him so many times not to smoke in the house, until it soared to the most common conclusion in their household: he was the same as his father. It all made his head ache and a faint taste of rum was on his tongue. Today, he felt so miserable he couldn’t find it in him to talk back to her.

At the side of the house, in the claustrophobic, dark cubicle of a bathroom, smelling of toothpaste and cleaning supplies, Jimin bent over the washbowl in unthinking ritual, scrubbing the filth off his face with soap, but no matter how many times he kneaded the bubbly foam into his cheek or spat out the gum-bloodied paste, he could not rid himself of the crud and grime anchored in his skin, as if he wore the raveled coat of a street mongrel.

Begrudgingly, he let the bathtub fill, and in the meantime sat on the fractured toilet seat that swayed to the side whenever he moved, lighting a cigarette he had swiped off the table. Now that his body had sobered, it seemed his mind followed, and in the place of last night’s ire and hurt came the routine gloom. He felt so full with nothing he thought he might implode. Everything he did last night, everything he said, even his every thought now seemed so juvenile and worthless, seemed so humiliating shame could have swallowed him whole. Why had he let any hope of you linger when all it ever did was fatigue him? He looked at the purling bathtub, the yellow rust inside it and the enamel steel chipping at the sides, and was sick with laughter. Even in a world where you wanted him, what came after that, bringing you to his house? Letting you bathe in there? See where he slept? He would rather bite his tongue off than ask that of you.

Never mind how better he wanted to make himself think he was than those banal fools swatting you, it was, in the end, a fact: he was twenty, jobless, and living with his mom in a half-basement. Of course you would shun him. Yoongi was right: he couldn’t compete with all the rich motherfuckers chasing you.

Still it was a pleasure to fantasize. As Jimin poured some little wash gel in the tub and soaked himself in the scent of camellia, the bad habit persisted, pictures of your sundress and hair tousling in the wind and all those times you touched him, where you for a moment became a creature of flesh and blood and not a figment of his imagination stalking barefoot across the lawn, sprawled furiously before his eyes, every one of them another punch in the gut.

It always was very hard for him to think of you without romanticizing you, but today all the love and worship in these dreams and memories, which had mushed together in a confused, giddy dollop, seemed cruel and masochistic to indulge in, and still he sought them and the pain they brought.

He must have enjoyed suffering if he longed for it that much.

Jimin sank his head in the water until it swallowed everything beneath his eyes, and at once, absurdly, felt entirely peaceful.

Until the water cooled and his mother began yelling for him to get out, Jimin kept punishing himself by thinking of you and holding his breath under water, and by the time he had dried himself, he was serene, almost rechristened. Nothing had changed, and he barely felt any better, but now he had accepted you were only ever meant to be in his head.

Author's Note: Hello, lovelies!! Thanks for reading all the way through to the end, I can't explain how grateful I am you took the time to consume my story! You are wonderful!

Aside from expressing my gratitude, I wanted to throw out some fun facts about this particular story for anyone who's interested. This entire written chapter had been sitting in my drafts for almost two years now, and it wasn't until a few weeks ago that I went trash-diving through my laptop and found this. At the time I'd first written this, I was very discouraged because I felt this was not good enough, and it took me many morning commutes to work to finally talk myself into posting this.

What I really wanted to gain from sharing this fic here on Tumblr, though, was an honest opinion of someone outside of my head. Is this actually any good? Is this oh-my-god-throw-it-in-the-trash bad? Is there any aspect of this I could improve? That is what I wanted to ask you. So, if there is anything at all you wish to say to me about my writing (even if that's: Uhm, you misspelled this word here, dumbass...) you are very welcome to do so!

If you're too shy or simply think this was so bad you want to forget it as soon as you scroll past this post, that's okay too! Thank you for reading and I hope you have a very nice day ahead of you.

XO, Candy -`♡´-

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anonymousewrites · 10 months ago

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Burden of Truth (Book 1) Chapter Six

Father Figure! Marc Spector x Teen! Reader

Father Figure! Steven Grant x Teen! Reader

Mother Figure! Layla El-Faouly x Teen! Reader

Chapter Five: Against the Jackal

Summary: (Y/N) and Marc arrive in Cairo and begin their search for Harrow.

(Y/N) was exhausted from traveling, but they had finally arrived in Cairo. They knew that as soon as possible they’d need to start investigating where Ammit’s tomb may be, but they just wanted to fall asleep for a hundred years. Having never been in such a physical fight, (Y/N) really needed to rest, but on the plane ride over, they had forced themself to stay awake in case any of Harrow’s people appeared to attack them.

“(Y/N)?”

The teen turned from where they were waiting on a cab to see Marc. “Oh. Hi.”

“Are you going to a hotel on your own?” asked Marc.

“Yes,” said (Y/N).

Marc furrowed his brow and made a quick decision. “Follow me.”

“…Are you sure?” asked (Y/N).

“Come on, kid,” said Marc.

(Y/N) hesitated. Marc was intimidating, and after they’d seen what he’d done to those archaeologists, (Y/N) wasn’t sure how close to him they should get. But at the same time, he’d protected them from the jackal. He’d wanted them to be left out of Harrow’s danger.

(Y/N) gave a short nod. They’d take a leap and trust him. A little.

“This is where I’m staying,” said Marc. “I’ve been here before. We’ll be safe enough.”

“It’s nice,” said (Y/N).

Marc gave a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“It is. I stay at the cheapest places possible,” said (Y/N).

“That’s not safe,” said Marc.

“I’m alive,” said (Y/N).

Marc frowned. “That’s a terrible measure.”

“It is?”

Marc sighed. He had thought his position as an Avatar had caused him issues, and now this kid came along just as lost. “Yeah, kid. It is.” He picked up the phone. “I’m ordering food. What do you want?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Seriously, kid, just tell me,” said Marc.

“I was being serious,” said (Y/N) quietly.

“No one’s ever serious about that. They just lie to not seem pushy.” And if Marc knew one thing, that kid looked like someone to keep their problems to themself because gods weren’t exactly the most sympathetic.

“I’m not lying.”

Marc sighed. “Kid, I’m really too tired for this.”

“I can’t lie!” said (Y/N) quickly, pushing out the words.

They looked down and shifted awkwardly. They hadn’t told anyone that after their parents died. Only Ma’at knew, and it had brought Ma’at to them.

You…what?” said Marc.

“I can’t lie,” repeated (Y/N). “I just can’t.”

“Does Ma’at not allow you to?” It is definitely the sort of thing one of these shit gods would have their Avatar do.

“No, I never could, even before Ma’at,” said (Y/N). “I can’t tell a lie.”

“That’s…unhelpful as a thief,” said Marc, brow creasing. It was yet another example of Ma’at putting a child—already an issue—into further danger because they wouldn’t be able to get themself out of trouble.

“It’s not all bad,” said (Y/N), shrugging and rubbing their arm. “I can tell when someone’s lying or telling the truth. That’s helpful.”

Marc sighed and backed off. He wasn’t going to press (Y/N), not when they were so clearly uncomfortable. He knew all-too-well how damaging the stress adults could inflict on kids.

“Alright. So you don’t care what we eat?” said Marc, going to a safer subject.

(Y/N) shook their head. “I’ll eat anything. I just want to eat and sleep.”

“We can agree on that,” said Marc. He wasn’t sure how to approach working with or even dealing with the teen, but he knew they both needed rest before they stopped Harrow.

Whatever it took.

(Y/N) and Marc ran across the roofs of Cairo, anxious to reach the one follower of Harrow that was ready to give up where he was. Unfortunately, the moment they pulled themselves onto the roof, two other men were stabbing him, and a third was keeping watch.

“Oh, shit. You killed him?” said Marc. “We needed to talk to that guy. About a dig site. Guess we’re gonna have to talk with you instead.”

“You’re two late,” said one man. “You’re never gonna find Harrow.”

“Really? Kid, what do you think the truth of that statement is?” asked Marc.

(Y/N) shrugged. “It’s opinion, but I think we’ll find him.”

The man took out his knife and flipped it around, showing off his skills.

Marc watched him and moved between him and (Y/N). “Oh. What, are we dancin’? We fightin’? What are we gonna do?”

The first man leapt to the side, and the second attacked Marc. He blocked them and threw them into the wall while kicking another back. The third, a teenager, ran up to attack (Y/N), and they jumped back, dodging his knife attacks. Marc grabbed him and forced him to his knees. He raised his fist to punch the younger boy, but when he flinched, Marc relaxed and just struck him with his palm.

(Y/N) blinked as they saw it. Something about it made them feel…safer around Marc. They’d seen what he was capable of, and to know that he knew when to held back meant (Y/N) could feel alright near him. (Which was strange in itself since (Y/N) never had an adult to trust after their parents)

Another man came at them with his knife, and (Y/N) dodged, scrambling onto another section of the roof. The man slashed at them, but (Y/N) kicked him back into Marc’s waiting arms to disarm him.

The teenage boy grabbed the knife as it fell to the ground and spat at Marc in Arabic, “in your face, foreigners!”

He threw the knife at Marc’s face, and it barely missed. By this point, the first man had gotten back up, too, and it was three versus two again. The first licked his knife dramatically. Marc punched him before he could try anything. As he slumped backwards, the second man grabbed Marc and pulled him away. (Y/N) leapt onto his back and struck his head over-and-over until he let go and fell to the ground. (Y/N) stood between the teenage boy and Marc, panting but refusing to give up. Marc had helped them, and they weren’t going to let that go unrepaid.

The teenager attacked (Y/N), and they blocked, hissing as the blade cut through the outside of their forearm. Still, they didn’t let up and kicked the boy back. Marc quickly got up and tripped him, effectively taking him down without causing much harm.

The second man stabbed at (Y/N), and they rolled to the side to dodge, but he advanced again. Marc grabbed him and fought him back, pinning him to a wall and pushing his knife against his throat.

“Marc. Stop it,” said Steven softly, afraid, from the reflection of the knife.

Marc paused, and (Y/N) watched, glancing between him, the teenager, and the man he had trapped.

“Marc?” asked (Y/N).

Marc slammed the man’s head against the wall. “Where’s Harrow?” he hissed. He slammed his head against the stone again to make a bone.

(Y/N) frowned and took a step back. Not Marc? The accent was all wrong, but (Y/N) wasn’t sure what to do. This felt stranger than Steven and Marc.

“I-I don’t—” the man coughed, his airway constricted. “I-I won’t—”

Not(?) Marc smashed his head against the stone and let him slump to the ground. “Inútil.”

Useless, translated (Y/N)’s mind.

Not(?) Marc tossed the man to the side and turned away. Without another word, he turned away and walked towards the exit of the roof. He passed (Y/N), paused, and grabbed their wrist, pulling them with him.

(Y/N) had a feeling they shouldn’t fight Not(?) Marc and let themself be pulled down and out onto the street where Not(?) Marc called a cab. He looked around surreptitiously before pushing (Y/N) in first. Then, he slipped in.

“Marc? What’s going on?” asked (Y/N) hesitantly, shifting away from the man beside them slightly.

“Airport,” he said to the cab driver.

“Marc?”

Not(?) Marc groaned, and his eyes rolled back before settling. He looked around in confusion.

“What…?” he trailed off as he saw they were in a cab. “Stop, please!” he said in Arabic to the driver.

“You’re speaking Arabic, eh?” said the driver. “Why are you acting like a foreigner?”

Marc looked at (Y/N). “Where were we going?”

“You said the airport,” said (Y/N) cautiously.

“I—no, I didn’t, I couldn’t…” He paused as he saw the teenage boy and man he’d fought exiting a nearby building. He opened the door of the cab and got out to speak to them. “Let me talk to you.”

The two stepped back nervously.

“Just let us go, man,” said the teenager.

“That wasn’t me!” cried Marc.

The teenager and the man made a run for it, and Marc took off after them.

“My money!” shouted the driver.

(Y/N) pulled out a couple bills, paid, and ran after Marc.

They ended up in a marketplace, and the four continued their game of cat-and-mouse through the people and stalls, heedless of any obstacles in their way. Finally, Marc got his hands on the man and threw him to the ground to slow him down. He grabbed his coat and pushed him against the wall.

He punched him in the stomach, and (Y/N) frowned as they saw it. They had seen terrible things in their life, but they were still getting used to it. They still disliked violence fundamentally, but they knew that when it came to Ammit, it was going to be unavoidable.

“Where’s Harrow?” questioned Marc. “Where’s Harrow? Tell me!”

“Marc,” said (Y/N), and Marc paused. “He’s not going to tell you. We already know that—Ah!”

The first man from the fight on the roof appeared and struck them in the back of the head. (Y/N) stumbled forward, and Marc was distracted long enough to get hit by the man he had pinned, and he fell backwards.

“Marc!”

Marc’s unconscious body suddenly awoke, eyes bright and awake. In an instant, he was upon the men, attacking with reckless abandon. It was far more intense than anything else (Y/N) had seen yet. This was once again not Marc. This was violent, and it scared (Y/N). They took a step back, and the moment Not Marc sunk the man’s knife into his own side, (Y/N) made their decision.

They couldn’t watch this violence.

(Y/N) turned and ran. They ran until they felt safe, until it was quiet, until they had found an alley to curl up in and control their breathing.

I can do this. I can do this. I can handle this, thought (Y/N), tapping their fingers rhythmically.

“What are you doing?”

(Y/N) looked up to find Ma’at standing over them. “I-I can’t do the killing. I can’t.”

“It is your job to see the ugliness of the world so that others may be protected,” said Ma’at.

(Y/N) flinched. “I know. I just-I couldn’t.”

“You will have to learn to handle this,” said Ma’at. “Ammit will not hesitate to kill, and neither will Harrow. You must be prepared.”

“I-I will be. I won’t run away again. I promise,” said (Y/N).

“Good.”

(Y/N) knew Ma’at was gone after she spoke, but the deity’s disappointment in her Avatar remained a burden on (Y/N)’s shoulders whether she was there or not.

Marc looked around in confusion as the man’s body he had stabbed fell to the ground. He had blood on him, and he stood on a cliff overlooking Cairo. It was just him and the men he was fighting. Well, not anymore. The two men were both dead, killing by their own weapon by…Marc?

He shook his head. “What…? Oh, god. Steven, what did you do?”

Steven glared out from the blade. “I swear, that wasn’t me!”

“Then who was it?” said Marc. His eyes widened. “And where’s the kid?” (Y/N) was nowhere to be seen, and an unexpected amount of fear flashed through him.

“I don’t know,” said Steven, shaking his head.

Before Marc could reply, the teenage boy from before moved, still alive. His leg was broken, though, and he could only drag himself back.

Marc swallowed. “Where’s the kid I was with?”

“Ask him about the tomb,” said Khonshu’s voice, and Marc straightened. “Take him to the ledge.”

“He’s just a kid,” said Marc.

“He’ll talk,” said Khonshu.

Marc obeyed and picked up the teenager, holding him up near the ledge, careful not to let him drop. Marc had never been one to harm kids, but all of a sudden, the boy’s face because (Y/N)’s for a sickening moment, and Marc held onto his scarf all the tighter.

“Where is Harrow?” he demanded, wanting this to be over with quickly.

The boy looked down and back at Marc. “Praise Ammit.”

“No, kid—”

The boy cut his scarf with his knife before Marc could do anything, and he plummeted to his death. Marc’s eyes widened in horror.

“Mm.” Khonshu barely reacted. “I thought he’d talk.”

Marc nearly snapped and asked whether or not (Y/N) would think that was a lie. He swallowed his anger, though, and directed it on Steven—and himself.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Steven?” he questioned.

“Me?” Steven’s reflection shone out of the side mirror of a car. “You’re the one going on a killing spree and scaring (Y/N)!”

“I didn’t do any of this,” snapped Marc.

“Me neither. Listen, if you’ve got a problem with the high body count, I suggest you stop listening to that bloody pigeon,” retorted Steven.

“Stay out of my way,” said Marc, turning away. He cleared his throat. “Well, if we can’t find Harrow’s digging crew, we’re gonna have to stop ‘em another way.” He looked around. “I need to find (Y/N) first, though.”

“Ma’at has an eye on them. You have no need to concern yourself,” said Khonshu dismissively.

“Oh, yeah, because the gods seem so kind and worried,” muttered Steven in the reflection, and Marc was inclined to agree.

He looked at Khonshu. “What about the other gods?” he asked. “Are they just going to stand by and allow somebody to unleash Ammit?”

“To signal for an audience with the gods is to risk their wrath,” said Khonshu.

“Why? What’s the worst that could happen?” asked Marc.

“Anger them enough, and they’ll imprison Ma’at and me in stone,” said Khonshu.

Marc tsked. “That doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“See how you fare against Harrow without the protection of my healing armor or Ma’at’s strength,” said Khonshu.

Marc threw up his hands. “Alright. So what? Do you have any good ideas? If not, I’m going to find (Y/N), Ma’at’s ‘concern’ be damned.” He turned away.

“I have a bad idea.” Khonshu disappeared.

“Khonshu?” Even for the bird, that was unusual. Marc looked around, and his eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

A dark shadow was crossing over the sun, blocking out its light in a sudden eclipse.

“Sending the gods a message they can’t ignore.”

(Y/N) felt the shadows rush over them before they saw the eclipse. They looked up in awe as the sun was blocked out.

“Ma’at?” they asked. “What’s going on?”

“Khonshu is risking the wrath of the gods,” said Ma’at. “There is to be a meeting of the Ennead.”

“Can’t they help with Ammit and Harrow?”

“They could. Or…” Ma’at’s eyes narrowed. “They could imprison Khonshu and I in stone.”

“Have you two done something wrong?”

“According to their nonsensical rules.”

(Y/N) frowned. Ma’at never avoided speaking matter-of-factly, so to avoid speaking truthfully and twisting her words meant something significant. Still, there wasn’t much (Y/N) could do, and as a doorway opened beside them, (Y/N) knew that they had bigger problems at hand.

(Y/N) stood, squared their shoulders, and stepped through the door.

It was time to face the gods.

Taglist:

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@slytherinroyalty16

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@alexpangender

@thewittyfanficreader

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neonovember · 2 years ago

Text

Maraschino Cherry

Mafia!au x Steve Rogers

CHAPTERS: 1 2 3 4 5

summary: your escape to Brooklyn was harboured by secrets and a harrowed past, left abused and betrayed, you accepted your destiny of being swallowed by the crowd. Until the King of New York showed up in front of you and wanted a piece of you for himself.

divider by @firefly-graphics !

Taglist 🏷️ (send an ask to be part of my taglist for this series!)

@tinkerbelle67 @patzammit @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @nomadstucky @nessie2183 @shamelessfangirl-3 @namelesssav @marvel-phoenix @euphoric-goddess @roseeatta @abschaffer2 @louderfortheback @stupendouslovegardener @wandamaximoff-simp @thedonswife13 @hpsimpspot @samsgirl93

notes: school has been kicking my ass lately, this is quite short, especially for me but part 7 will be out very very soon!

Your heart had dropped into your stomach the moment Rumlow had forced you into a realisation you were foolishly blinding yourself from.

And it had been there ever since.

You can’t remember locking up the diner, can’t even remember feeling the keys between your fingers as you stumbled down the shadowy streets of Brooklyn. The crumpled figures of people sleeping on the streets, the flash of yellow cabs and vendors on the corner, and the never-ending rumble of train tracks echoing under overpasses is fleeting now. Just flashes of colours and sounds you can’t really place.

Your fingers, your skin, the muscle and bone beneath are itching with a need, the relief of liquor pouring down your throat, the burn of its heat spreading through your belly. It’s a relief you know all too well, one you had almost lost yourself too years before, just as your mother had.

But that motivation to fight through the teeth needing desire of your addiction doesn’t seem quite as strong, nothing seemed to matter after Rumlow had told you about Steve, nothing at all. So who was going to stop you from diving into the bottomless pit of pathetic drunkenness? The sobriety chips you stacked over the years should’ve toppled over by now, they were bleak and washed out anyway. So dull under the fluorescent lights of your bathroom when you muffled your cries under the low pressure of your shower.

You are your mothers daughter, and the doors of the bar you enter almost sneer at you condescendingly

We knew you would be back, one way or another.

Drink drink drink until it seeps from your crevices and cracks. Until it pours from within like you're a shattered glass, oh how you had broken years before. How it feels now to fill up those cracks with your pleasure, it’s like a welcoming old friend. You reach out for its hand as you reach out for another glass.

The bartender looks at you in pity, but money is money and he looks the other way as you slide your busted wallet across the counter. It was your fathers one, that you can decipher even through your drunken haze.

You tilt your head forward, and the vibrant LED lights that line the walls of the bar you had thrown yourself in shine so bright, you bite back a giggle as you recall your foolishness. You had been so blind, hadn’t you? You weren’t the type to get lucky, to be protected, your entire life has told you so.

This arrangement between Steve was nothing but a farce, a lie he shoved in your face that he knew you would have no choice but to accept.

The crowd of patrons scattered around barstools and cozy booths cheer towards a large TV bolted to the wall, some sort of sport flashes across the screen, something with a ball and a lot of running.

You hadn’t noticed before but paper ribbons hang across the pine wood ceilings, pom-poms squished into the sides and other cheap decor covers the bar, distinct colours of a team in a sport that was probably showing on the TV you had turned away from.

You shudder into yourself as you look down at the translucent liquid swirling in your cup, the reflection staring back at you is one that’s fuzzy and undefined, with jagged edges and loose ends that a close to unravelling.

It was already the sports season, and you know this only because you had escaped your husband at the end of it, sleeping under bridges and bus stations where those distinct team colours fell from the sky like snow, ribbons and feathers scattered across the damp pavement you slammed your feet into running from his men.

The crowd of sports fans that littered the streets of New York helped mask your anonymity when you escaped, losing your capturers in the thousands of people rushing through Time Square. You suppose you ought to be thankful for them, so you lift your glass and shout a cheer.

You begin to stand onto your barstool, balancing yourself and your drink from spilling over, the bartender is tending to an order, his back turned from your rambunctious behaviour.

“Next round’s on me!” You shout into the crowd of bustling sport fans, there’s a beat of silence, a moment where you fear you’ve embarrassed yourself and they want nothing to do with you, someone who’s been tending to her own lonely drink the entire time she’s walked in. But then this is an erupt of cheer, the crowd going into a frenzy as a burly man lifts you up and throws you onto the crowd.

Your limbs are lifted by the hand of the crowd, surging over patrons and customers you don’t know but have spent the last 2 weeks of your earnings on.

Alcohol made you sweet, it also made you fucking stupid.

The barkeep looks towards you surging the crowd, before being dropped back onto your feet in a not-so-gentle dismount. He looks as if he’s about to say something, mouth opening before a dark figure you can’t see beckons him over, shaking his head before whispering in his ear.

You don’t see the silver card being slid across the bar counter, but you can feel those pair of cerulean eyes burning into you, trailing down your figure as you sway your hips to the music.

Steve.

You want to tease him a little before you would leave him for good, he wanted his own little wife for himself, didn't he? You didn't know why these men were so adamant about making you their wife, wasting effort and bullets for a white picket fence they knew they would never provide. Not in this world. You know its something more though, and the front of your mind screams at you from within, begging to remember.

You shake it off with a twirl of your hips.

You don’t back away when a tall figure dances against you, their back pressed against your body as they grind into you.

Dancing with a nameless stranger wasn’t something you could do, it wasn’t something you had done, your entire early 20’s was a missing piece of memory from your brain. It hurts to remember it in a fuzzy kind of way.

It had been so long since you felt this light, this effortless, you let loose as you feel the brandy to your bones.

Your mind is scattered in a thousand different places, kept sealed in treasure bottles thrown across the ocean, left falling onto the forest floor of your hometown 100 miles across the country.

You don’t notice the man grinding on you disappearing, his warmth ripped from you like he was thrown across the room.

Your trance is interrupted by a strong hand that grips your arm, pulling you gently away from the crowd, you don’t try to fight it, it’s strong the way a current is, and you let the wave carry you away.

Maybe it will wash away everything too, make it clean again in a way you try hard to remember.

You don’t know why, but there’s a familiar warmth that rises from those strong hands guiding your back, like a protective armour against all the bad in the world.

You turn, and catch Steve’s eyes boring into your own, eyes surveying your loopy state that seem to cause your features to sink in.

He's not wearing his usual tailored suit, in fact, it seemed he arrived here in a rush, his white shirt crumpled with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You don’t catch the specks of blood splattered on his collar, nor the shadow of fresh blood he’d done a poor job of wiping off his face.

He looks so different in this state, looks younger too, where his golden locs are ruffled and messed up from their usual impeccable place. Where the role he had to step into, the throne he upheld, didn’t weigh him down like a thousand bricks.

Steve hadn’t noticed it before, but the life forced onto you had aged you in a heartbreaking kind of you, your features just like his, still were young, but they lost that sense of youth, that naivety and innocence that used to soften your edges.

“Where are you taking me golden boy?” You slur in a shrill voice.

Steve grunts before pressing you further to exit the bar quicker, he really didn’t want you here.

“My apartment? Or is that another one of your lies hm?” You giggle the last part, but Steve’s ears perk up and catch it anyway, confusion fills him momentarily before he shakes his head, focusing on getting you out of here as quick as possible.

To Steve’s surprise, you don’t fight against his motion of leaving, and for some reason, it makes a pit form in his stomach, this wasn’t the girl he knew, and he feared what had caused such an abrupt change.

Stepping outside, the breeze of the cold air of the city cools you down as you tug on your jacket discreetly.

A suit jacket seemed to appear out of thin air in Steve’s hand, and he places it over your shoulders quickly, before easing you into the parked car waiting on the side of the road.

“Steve..?” You mumble, before tugging on his blonde roots gently, you per towards him in interest.

“ ‘m right here” Steve replies gently, but his eyes look anywhere but your own.

“You're much better like this hiccup not when you- you lie to mhmme..”

Steve grits his jaw, he has to restrain from running back into the bar and beating the bartender with the edge of the counter for continually serving you despite you increasing drunkenness.

Fucking greedy sons of bitches.

“I mean- I get it, I’m so goddamn stupid sometimes, why wouldn’t you just see me as a means to an end? I’ve always..always been discarded you..know?” You mumble incoherently, tugging on his shirt collar as he places you in the back seat.

“I need to get you safe alright? We can talk as much as you want after okay? Can you do that for me?” Steve replies, gently un gripping yours fingers from his shirt, but making no motion to let them go.

Steve looks at you in desperation, the same unrelenting addiction that found you in a bar is present on his face now. But unlike you, he doesn’t give in, squeezing his eyes shut and shutting the door quietly.

You sigh as you watch him slide into the drivers seat, readjusting his mirror to keep his eye line on you as the rev of en engine fills the empty desolated streets.

Resting your head on the car window, you sink into Steve’s suit jacket that you swim in and smells like tobacco and maraschino cherries.

It's never felt so familiar.

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