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lizzy-williams · 4 years

Text

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐭

🐺Warnings: Alpha/Omega dynamic, SMUTTTT, neediness, language, mature themes, dubcon?

🐺Masterlist

🐺Summary: Every Omega knows that going into heat is rough, especially when unclaimed. All eyes are on you. So when it hits you in the middle of a coffee shop with your friends, a particular alpha is very willing to help.

🐺Theme (All I Need by Radiohead)

🐺A/N: Lol we gonna get dirtttyyyy. By the way, you’re small in his, like body proportion wise, like 5′4 small so there’s that. I know people want the ‘independent strong hardheaded alpha female’, but in this one ur compliant, sorry if ya don’t like it. There will most likely be a part 2 :)

“Y’know, I dunno how you drink that stuff,” Anna-Lynn said from across the table, making [ y / n ] roll her eyes and look up.

“You’re just jealous cause your tastebuds are weak,” she retorted, taking a teasingly long sip of her dark black coffee.

It was nice having a day out like this. Especially when everyone seemed so busy with preparing for the spookiest holiday of the year. Paper bats and small pumpkins littered the store-fronts of London, the summer weather fading with the light chilly breezes autumn seemingly brought.

The calm warm light streamed through the window of the coffee shop the three young women were in, the dusk just hitting them. The tree leaves complimented the light as it covered the area in a soft blanket of pink and orange hues.

“So, um,” [ y / n ]’s other friend, Elizabeth, began to speak, clearing her throat and shooting a daring look at Anna-Lynn, “Have you thought about Ethan at all?”

Ah, yes, Ethan. He was Elizabeth’s younger cousin, just then turning 19, a simple beta with no claimed mate.

[ y / n ] shook her head, and to this, the two girls let out a defeated huff, “You need to chose someone,” Anna-Lynn’s voice was clipped as she huffed, but it had a hint of concern. Worry even.

And of course there was a stipulation to one of [ y / n ]’s favorite seasons. Because for her kind, not only was it autumn, but it was also mating season. A dangerous time for any omega unclaimed. If you were unclaimed when the time came around, you were easy pray, and other alphas and betas could smell you much much easier.

You would become a target. Even more so if you were in heat.

“I’m not worried about it.” [ y / n ] sighed, nonchalantly, taking a large gulp of her drink before setting it back down. But deep down she truly was.

“We just don’t want you to become like one of those other omegas... you know, getting claimed by someone on the street during their heat... someone they don’t love at all and being forced to have pups, it’s just barbaric.” Elizabeth glanced down at her dwindling hands.

“I understand that. But I’ve had no issues with this before. I’ll just... lock myself up in my room with a vibrator and some porn. That’s worked before,”

“Bullshit, you were a grump for like a month because you had built up aggression. Ethan’s a good guy. You should really consider it.”

Yes, Ethan was nice. But when it came to [ y / n ]... she just felt as if they weren’t meant for each other. And there was no way that she would consider having pups with him and-

Speak of the mother fucking devil-

It was as if she was hit with a million bricks at once, her body becoming hot, a powerful wave of uncomfortable warmth crashing through her body like a tidal wave, her mouth clamping shut tightly. Her breath hitched, her thighs tightening around nothing, her legs shaking as she felt herself feel as if she were going to throw up. The moisture between her thighs was uncomfortable as she felt her panties stick to her mound.

How could she be so careless? Now she was in heat in public and she knew that nearby alphas and betas had already caught onto the scent, most likely heading their way. She knew it was roughly the time she would go into heat. And it was hell on earth right now, knowing that now that the sun was just now taking it’s last breaths over the tall buildings, the night heightening her kind’s senses acutely.

Her friends caught on almost immediately, knowing the mannerisms of the heavy breathing and the quivering lips. Her eyes were wide as she bit down on her bottom lip harshly, trying her best to keep her whimpers and whines in the back of her throat.

Thoughts raced through the young woman’s mind. Thoughts of her being taken in the most delicious ways possible by any man that just so happened to look her way. And her friends could tell that there were already at least a few alphas coming in hot, the sudden howling through the now darkened air making the 2 other girls’ senses hyperactive.

What was ironic was that there was a conversation going on between two baristas behind the counter, “The dogs are at it again, they’ve been a lot noisier than usual.”

“We need to get her home, right now.” Anna-Lynn commanded, Elizabeth giving a chaste nod before flipping through her phone as a poor, squirming, [ y / n ] sat right across from them, panting in her intense discomfort.

She shut her eyes tightly, desperately trying to ignore the ache in her core. She wanted, no, needed to be filled up. To be claimed. But the thoughts only drove her down deeper, desperation seemingly seeping out of every pore.

As soon as she was called an Uber, it was an agonizing amount of time before it finally came to a stop, the driver flashing concerned looks at the poor squirming girl in her back seat. Throughout the whole ride, it took everything for [ y / n ] not to touch herself, and all she could do was shift her thighs together, and thankfully, (soon enough), the car came to a stop.

[ y / n ] let out a strangled ‘thank you’ to the driver before getting out, and after the woman drove off, she found herself stumbling into an alleyway. Her whole body was on fire and she needed release, any release.

Her back violently hit the brick wall of a darkened alleyway, her loud and labored breaths echoing through the seemingly empty face. She needed tension. At least a little bit.

As if her legs weren’t her own, [ y / n ] spread her legs only a small amount, just enough to slip her hand under her pants and softly drifting her fingertips over her clothed clit.

A smooth and controlled rubs soon turned into harsh and fast circles, her needful thoughts forcing her mind to tune out the howling that was getting closer and closer to her. It wasn’t until a low and terrifying growl resonated through the hollow space, making her stop in her tracks, yanking her hand out of its position, doing her best to stand up and steady herself.

But it was far too late, because by the time she finally started bolting towards the opening in the cold alleyway, her body was caught and thrown against the frigid brick, a pitiful yelp leaving her lips, unleashed tears forming in her eyes.

“You smell fucking delicious,” a dark voice spoke, no doubt an alpha, and [ y / n ] wouldn’t dare look up and meet his eyes.

“P-Please, I c-can’t-”

[ y / n ] didn’t even know why she was saying please, for there were so many reasons she could be saying it.

Please don’t.

Please help the pain.

Please touch me.

Please don’t touch me.

Please.

But the young woman’s thoughts were cut short by a violent tug to her hair, forcing her gaze on the person in from of her. He had bright red hair, freckles apparent, even in the dull light of the closed off space. He wore a jet black hoodie, and that was all that [ y / n ] bothered to take in.

“You’re a pretty one...” his words rattled through her mind, muffled by the sharp ringing in her heat from the sudden contact to the wall only moments earlier, “Glad I claimed you before anyone else could,” he paused to chuckle to himself, “Would hate to touch damaged goods.”

[ y / n ] whimpered and almost recoiled away, but she knew better. This alpha seemed ill-tempered, and she didn’t want to find out what would happen if she dared to disobey.

He gave a rough tug to her hair, standing her up, and immediately started to kiss her neck in hopes of warming her up a little bit more, not that she needed it, but nonetheless, his lips continued their assault on the young woman’s neck, whimpers and whines escaping her lips.

“Just one little thing, pretty girl, you’re unclaimed, I can smell it on you.” he spoke before leaving a long, sinful lick up her throat, “I’m going to bite this pretty little neck and make sure that nobody else is going to touch what’s mine.”

The girl’s body shivered violently. He was talking about a claim mark. If that happened, she could never escape him, it was a tracking device. Where ever she decided to go, he would know exactly where she was.

“Please, don’t, I-”

But a violent growl made her blood run cold and her words pause half-way up her throat. But it wasn’t from her captor. His head was already snapped towards the source of the sound, which was at the opening of the alleyway, the minimal light caused by the streetlight exposing a clothed figure with its hands in its pockets. They weren’t tall but they weren’t short, but their stature was confident.

Great. Another alpha.

“Drop her.” the voice spoke, straight to the point and commanding.

“Fuck off, she’s mine, I got to her first.” the ginger male snapped, his eyes now a vibrant scorching gold, shining in the darkness.

“Drop the fucking girl or I’ll rip you’re fucking head off.” this time it was a vicious growl, strong and unwavering that sent goosebumps down [ y / n ]’s spine.

“That a challenge, pint-size?” the ginger taunted, referring to the other alpha who only stood at a good 5′8, while he stood at a large 6′1, slamming the girl onto the ground making her yelp out in pain.

Finally, the young alpha stepped into some form of light, making his face visible, and the ginger’s expression of defense faded into a face of fear and regret, the eyes that once glowed yellow dying down to it’s original color.

“T-Tom, Jesus, man, excuse me, I didn’t-”

The alpha, apparently named Tom, harshly grabbed the ginger’s shirt, pulling him in and looking up at him with deadly eyes, “Leave.”

And just like that, he was gone, and hopefully never going to be seen again.

Tom’s expression turned soft when he saw the poor writhing omega in a mound on the hard concrete of the ground, small whimpers of discomfort making his chest clench.

“You live here?” he questioned, motioning to the building she was now leaned against.

All she could to was let out a whine of confirmation, nodding her head slowly as she clamped her thighs together as tightly as possible.

“Come on then, can’t have you out in the open, there’s already talk, let’s get you inside,” he said, kindness and understanding in his tone, holding out a hand to [ y / n ], who in turn took it almost immediately.

It took her a second to walk, her knees weak, not to mention it was hard not to notice Tom’s muscles, and his face. God, he was truly attractive.

She let her mind wonder as they began to walk, his arm firmly around her waist, trying to keep her steady. She wondered what it would look like when he came, filling her up to the brim, making her full, a thin blanket of sweat covering his body, his eyes glowing, hungry, and she let out a whimper at it.

“You’re staring.” Tom smirked as they stepped into the elevator of the complex.

“S-Sorry,” she muttered, trying to shake the embarrassingly dirty thoughts from her mind as she continued to try and focus on just getting to her apartment.

The sooner she got there, the sooner she had her vibrator, the sooner she had release. She was convinced, at least, that that would solve her problems, at least temporarily.

She led him to her apartment, still holding onto him for dear life as her core throbbed with need and want. When the door unlocked with a small click, she turned the doorknob, almost collapsing through the doorway.

“Do you need any help?”

This could have meant many things. But of course, [ y / n ] was oblivious in her response.

“N-No, I think I can manage to put myself to bed.”

Tom gave a small chuckle as he sat her down on the couch, sitting next to her as she slouched back, “No, I mean I can help with your problem... that is, if you want me to,”

[ y / n ]’s mind was clouded in a haze of neediness, so with no hesitation, she whimpered a small yes, before immediately unbuttoning her jeans and slipping them down a little bit to eagerly.

She knew this was happening to quick, almost irrationally quick, but the need in her pounding cunt was much more important to her at the moment than her petty morals and reason.

“Are you sure?” he looked at her with sincerity, watching as she shifted out of her pants and took his hand, placing it on her covered mound.

“Please, just touch me, Tom,”

Hearing his name on her lips was almost enough to make him lose his control and say ‘fuck it’, but he figured that if her were to do this, he might as well try to do this right.

“Don’t have to tell me twice, darling,” he muttered, easily finding her sensitive bud, even through the material of her panties.

She let out a soft and breathy moan, taking her hand of his own and moving it to his bicep, squeezing, as if it were anchoring her down to Earth, because she had never been touched like this, especially by someone else.

As if Tom had read her mind, he looked up at her, drinking in her reactions before speaking, “Are you a virgin?”

She nodded her head, his pace never faltering.

“I’ve been waiting- ugnh - for the right person... I trust you,” she managed to get out between moans.

“You barely know me,”

“But I want to. There’s - ah, fuck - something about you. I l-like you,” she admitted, the filter between her mouth and her brain nonexistent as she felt nothing but pleasure and a release from the uncomfortable pressure she was feeling only moments before.

“Fuck,” to Tom, it was nice to hear that somebody needed him, trusted him, especially with something like this, so sacred and meaningful. She was giving him the gift that could only be given once, and he was happy to receive.

After a few moments of him rubbing her in all the right ways, he hesitantly pulled his hand away from her, hating the noise of protest that she released.

“Come on, princess, let’s take this to you're bedroom, yeah?”

[ y / n ] was compliant to his suggestion, standing up best she could without Tom’s help, but soon leaning on him as she directed him to her bedroom door.

The door was busted open, and she was thrown onto the bed, and as soon as she hit the mattress, she stripped off everything else, leaving her completely nude, and her actions inspired Tom to do the same.

He quickly got on top of her, grinding the length of his cock against her soaking wet folds, making him growl.

“Fuck, darling, I’m not even inside you yet and you feel heavenly-” he hissed, the little omega nodding in response.

“Alpha, please, I need you inside me, I want you to fill me,” she desperately pleaded.

Tom let out a feral snarl at the use of the word ‘alpha’, surprised it had so much of an effect on him being used like this. It was so fucking hot. She had him wrapped so tightly around her pinky and didn’t even know it.

“Anything for you, darling,” he muttered, lining himself up and ever so slowly easing himself inside his new mate, a pained whimper escaping her, his cock seemingly splitting her in half.

Tom finally remembered that she was a virgin. And that made him even harder inside her. He waited for him, for her mate, while he was out fucking every omega that crossed him. But with her, she wasn’t just an omega. And he wanted to prove it to her.

He took his time, almost cockwarming, staying still inside of her as her body naturally adjusted to his size, feeling so close to each other, it was enough for the two of them to almost fall in love right then and there. Tom finally took in how perfect she was to him. Someone he knew he wanted to keep around in the long run. Someone he knew he wanted to protect, even when she didn’t need protection.

[ y / n ] scratched up his back, signaling that she was ready, and confident that he could move with little to no discomfort from her.

The alpha started to move his hips, her tight cunt making his eyes roll back in his skull as he dropped his head into the crook of her neck, leaving soft and reassuring kisses to her neck as she made the most delectable noises, making him addicted, almost like his own brand of opioid.

“So fucking tight, princess, you feel like fucking paradise,” he praised as he drank up the omega’s reactions as she experienced her first time with him.

She’s like this for me and only me.

Her face was scrunched adorably in pleasure, her eyes shut tight as she felt the moment, his skin under her finger tips, the burning that was set in her core easing as she finally had pleasurable relief. Like getting a refreshing drink on a particularly hot day.

Tom couldn’t help himself, and as if his body wasn’t his own, primal instinct took over as he began to make his strides harder and quicker, making the most pathetically cute noises release from her mouth.

“You like that, darling?” he panted licking and sucking her neck, making one of her tiny hands weaving itself though his chestnut curls, “Why did I bother asking, of course you do. You love it when your alpha fucks you.”

All she could do was nod her head as she felt a coil inside her tighten. Tom felt his cock inflate as he continued to drive into her, pounding her into the mattress as he growled praises into her neck, her moans and whimpers never stopping.

Soon the praise turned into a single word, falling out of his mouth like a prayer, even though what they were doing was the farthest thing from holy.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

The omega could take it anymore, whimpering out, “P-Please, I... want you to b-bite me. Please, I need you to claim me,” she begged, which made his assault on her cunt falter slightly, slowing down to a calm and intimate pace.

He knew what that meant. When an alpha bites an omega, she’s claimed. It means that nobody can touch her. Almost like an unbroken bond between two of their kind, and it meant a lot.

And though they had just met only a half an hour prior, he knew that she was special, and he knew that this was who he was meant to be with, and his heart swelled at the thought of getting to know her inside and out. A true connection.

“You want me to claim you, huh?” he paused his movements, [ y / n ] nodding frantically, wanting more than anything, “I’m not going to go easy on you. I want you to feel nothing but you inside me while I claim you, nothing but rapture as I claim you as mine.”

[ y / n ] nodded once again, to while Tom protested, “Words, darling,”

“Yes, alpha, I understand, I- OH FUCK-,” she yelled out. And she thought he was going hard before, but that was nothing compared to the pleasure she was now presented with, his cock properly railing into her as he left a long and sinful lick up her neck before taking a bite, his eyes glowing a bright fluorescent gold as she let out one of the most pornographic moans she had ever heard.

The copper taste in his mouth tasted like candy, and home, the sweet substance covering his lips as he finally pulled back, knowing that she was close.

And close she was. She was so close to release she could almost taste it, and god did it taste good. Without warning, the coil inside her snapped, making her vision cloud, her thoughts unable to collect themselves as her vision clouded, and she swore she blacked out for a second.

She was so overcome with pleasure, she didn’t notice that he had cum himself, the sensation of him pulling out and his cum spill out of her enough to get her riled up enough. But if what just happened didn’t vanquish the heat she was experiencing before, God only knew what would.

Tom stepped back, taking in the sight of his new mate, completely fucked out and covered with marks, his cum dripping out of her like a faucet. He wished for this image to be branded into his mind so he could see it every time he closed his eyes.

“Absolutely stunning.” he praised, his hands now running up and down her thighs.

[ y / n ] was finally Tom’s, inside and out, and Tom couldn’t be more proud.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, love, yeah?”

The morning was soft and filled with nothing but admiration to each other, the two staying in bed most of the morning until they finally went to the omega’s kitchen to make breakfast/lunch.

[ y / n ] was cooking the bacon and eggs when she suddenly felt arms wrap around her from behind, a chin resting on her shoulder.

“How’re you holding up?” he questioned, and it make [ y / n ] blush at how considerate she was about her state, his fingertips dragging lightly over the violent-looking bite mark on her neck.

“I’m absolutely perfect,” she smiled, “Feels nice to belong to someone.”

“You know what? I was thinking the exact same thing.”

And for once, the two of them were truly excited for the future.

#werewolf au #alpha #omega #alpha!tom #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader #peter parker #peter parker smut #peter parker x reader #marvel x reader

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spvce-cowboy · 4 years

Text

songbird

ch. 4 of i’ll be here in the morning (the mandalorian x fem!reader)

previous-ch. 3: “reunion”

next-ch. 5: “the hero’s shoulders”

rating: mature

11.3k words

warnings: PERIL!!!, violence, alcohol and drug use, jealous/protective mando

a/n: apologies in advance for the slight cliffhanger—this chapter got WAAAYY too long so I had to split in two. luckily means I’ll be able to get the next one out to you all asap ! <3

summary: you are forced to go undercover in order to help Mando capture his next quarry, the lionized Tyreus Cavill.

You’re most nervous about remembering the proper steps to a waltz. You know, instead of being worried about aiding one of the deadliest bounty hunters in the galaxy on his highest profile mission yet. Because that totally makes sense, right?

At the Estate, you and Febhana were taught dancing in order to entertain the Lord’s guests. Digging up any memories from that period of your life is enough to have the taste bile flood your mouth. You do your best to swallow it down, keeping a cool face for your sake and everyone else’s.

Honestly, you’d trade being afraid of the known over the unknown any day. The anxiety of remembering your time at the Estate was more familiar, something you could deal with, and have been for years now.

Thinking too hard about the severity of the current situation, about how you had absolutely no idea what you were doing, that was the kind of fear you avoid at all possible cost. So you settle for being nervous about a waltz, nothing more and nothing less.

Mando is seated beside the driver. He doesn’t turn back to address you and Febhana directly, instead tilting his head slightly in order to look at the two of you through the rearview mirror. Before the three of you left, he gave you a small listening device that you now have tucked against the edge of the undergarments you have on. The dress is too exposing to hide it anywhere else.

He debriefs you on the specifics of the mission the entire ride there, showing you multiple images of the quarry, plans of action, a blur of different scenarios and how you should react that you have already quickly forgotten in the haze of your building anxiety.

“The main rule is no secondary locations,” he concludes. “We can’t risk either of you being alone with him. It’s too unstable of a situation as is.”

You nod, staring at him through his partial reflection. From the back of your mind there’s a quiet glimmer of endearment, how you’ve never seen him this thorough about a hunt—Mando seems more like a wing-it-and-figure-it-out-from-there kind of guy. You’re not sure if you’re getting special treatment because he doesn’t like involving someone like you in his job or because this quarry is too valuable of a target to botch. The former doesn’t add to your anxiety, so you run with that.

You tear your eyes from the mirror when Febhana digs through her purse and plops a set of papers in your lap. You examine them closely, trying to bring the little details to memory as best you could.

“Is that even a real name?” You ask, face screwed up slightly, pointing where it’s listed on the fake ID.

Febhana cranes her neck over your shoulder, looking down at the papers with you. “Sophste Wilkbail? Sure, sounds like a poet or something. You can play that up.”

From the front seat, Mando gives a sardonic huff of air. It’s such a cruel sound you can practically visualize the scowl he’s put behind it. Febhana rolls her eyes.

“Listen, darling, believability is just about the last thing we need to worry about, right now,” Febhana settles back into her side of the speeder’s velveteen cabin. “Hiding who you are is more important. As soon as we get past the guards it’ll be easy. Just try your best to pretend like this is any other party.”

You neglect to tell her that you have not been to any parties besides the ones at the Estate. Instead, you nod, training your gaze out the front windshield.

The driver lights another cigarette as he pulls the speeder into a line of idling vehicles that border the streets outside the Tagge mansion. You can tell that you’ve arrived by the bright lights and banners flooding from the building’s open face, an intimidating amount of guards tucked away at every discernible outpost. You drum your fingers against your knee to the song you can faintly hear playing from the radio.

Febhana’s soft hand against your arm breaks you from your reverie. Her words are far more gentle now. “Are you ready?”

You nod. It’s a sharp, curt movement of your head. Steadfast. You’re kind of scared shitless, but determined. She smiles at you, widely, and it’s enough to have you smiling back.

“Let’s get this show on the road, then.”

The first thing you are certain of upon entering the Tagge’s mansion is the fact that this isn’t a home. It’s a cathedral. Possibly the biggest, most extravagant place you’ve ever been in.

The entranceway alone is enough to have you clinging to Febhana’s side a little tighter than you had initially intended to. It looks like… it looks like a marble maw, stretched open, fangs bared. You and Febhana follow the tongue-like carpet down the hall in small, measured steps. She takes to ducking her head in greeting to those she recognizes, you

It only takes a few moments for you to realize the awe you’re feeling is a strange combination of genuine wonder and pure intimidation. You think that’s the point. It doesn’t help with the uneasy feeling that’s situated itself in the cavity of your chest since getting into the car.

“They like to play pretend royalty here, don’t they?” Febhana mutters under her breath, giving a polite smile to a passing guard as she does. “Stars, you’d think they’d try to lay claim to Naboo itself with a place as decked out as this. Tasteless.”

You huff a laugh as she continues to lead you down the main hall. You try to look as dignified as possible, as if environments like this were an everyday occurrence. It’s difficult to do, but with the assurance of her at your side and Mando a few rigid steps behind you, the anxiety pressing from within your chest is somewhat quelled.

The main dancehall is filled with people. Everything—from the tall curtains to the paintings on the walls—is in cool tones of green and gold, interrupted by great expanses of marble. At the far end of the room are two twisting staircases leading to a platform where the band is playing. The ceiling has some kind of intricate mural you desperately want to examine, but when you try to crane your head back Febhana tugs at your arm slightly, reminding you to play it cool.

You square your shoulders as Mando sidesteps to remain pressed against the walls with the other guard droids, the movement a little too fluid for someone who is supposed to be a robot. You pray everyone is too drunk to notice. They are.

With Mando’s presence lost you sink a little further into your anxiousness as Febhana begins introducing you to a flurry of different people. She delicately places a drink in your hands from a passing server, murmuring a word of encouragement in your ear before moving to the next group. It all passes in a blur, but smiling and graciously dipping your head seems to get you through a lot of the interactions without having to actually pay attention.

You quickly realize she is strategically maneuvering her way towards the stage—or, rather, those who are gathered beneath it. There are a collection of small tables lining the perimeter where people are seated if they are not dancing. Below the stage are three larger tables that overlook the entirety of the ballroom. It’s too crowded from where you’re standing to see any of the occupants.

What you really notice, right after taking in what you can of your surroundings, is that there will be no feasible way for you to pull this off. Not here in the Tagge house at least. Every entrance into the private portions of the house are heavily guarded, cameras everywhere. You do your best to swallow the mounting sense of dread, keeping a smile on your face while Febhana continues to lead you through so many introductions all the names and faces blur together.

You tug at Febhana’s arm slightly between introductions to signal your need to speak with her. She eventually pulls you into the cubby of a towering window after disentangling the two of you from another meaningless conversation.

“Febhana,” you lower your voice and maintain small smile on your face to keep prying eyes and ears disinterested. Better safe than sorry. “There’s no way this is going to work. Not here. I’ve counted at least five guards around every possible entrance.”

“I know, I saw,” Febhana takes a deep breath, eyes wandering out the window. “Let’s just… tough it out. See what happens. I don’t really want to get on the Guild’s bad side, or your friend’s for that matter.”

You wince slightly as the idea that this plan could affect her in any way but nod, trying to swallow your guilt in not fully thinking through how much you were asking of her to help you and Mando out like this. You step out of the little alcove and move your way back to the perimeter of the floor.

From this vantage point, you can see one of Febhana friends wander up to the main tables and hug a seated boy in greeting. The contact leans down and says something in the boy’s ear before turning back to glance at where you are standing.

You’re close enough, now, to realize the table the contact just approached is where the Tagge siblings are sitting. The playboys surrounding them have such a loud presence you’re surprised you didn’t notice them earlier.

They’re all practically kids, at least a year or two younger than you, but they act in that way where they knew they were untouchable. They have lived and breathed an entire lifetime of knowing that they are people who could get away with absolutely anything—and have, more than once. It radiates off of every movement they make, from the way they throw their heads back in obnoxious laughter, to the cruel tilt of their mouths as they speak. Everything about them set off some deep-seeded instinct in you to stay away.

Scanning their faces, you recognize the quarry almost instantly.

The photos Mando showed you didn’t do him justice. Tyreus Cavill is wearing a crisp black suit and has skin so pale it’s nearly opalescent. His hair is slicked back close to his scalp, the severe nature of his bone structure combined with some of the darkest eyes you’ve ever seen gives him the appearance of a leering jackal.

Cavill stares up at the ceiling, tracing the rim of his wineglass with long fingers as the person seated beside him speaks. He looks bored--they all do, a kind of lax slant to their gathered bodies that stands in stark contrast to the tight, aloof postures of most everyone else around them.

You tear your eyes from Cavill as the boy that Febhana’s contact is talking to begins to stand. You look at the new boy evenly from where you’re standing, holding his gaze as confidently as you can, before turning back to where Febhana is standing behind you.

Febhana flashes you a sly look. You can practically see the gears turning in her head as she flicks her eyes in the direction of the Tagge brothers and Cavill. You quickly put two and two together.

Whoever it was that’s approaching you right now is your invite to the table. Possibly the only one you’d be getting all night.

“I’ve got eyes on him,” you murmur to yourself, hoping Mando’s device can pick it up. You glance to where he is positioned against the wall and see him dip his head slightly in response. Feeling a little more confident, you pull your shoulders back and pretend to make conversation with Febhana.

The boy enters your periphery shortly thereafter, standing at your side as he greets Febhana first.

“Febhana,” the boy tucks his head in greeting to her, then turns his gaze to you. His hair is a thick mop of curls, nose slightly twisted in a way that suggests he isn’t too good at fighting. The crooked smile he gives you is warm enough to push off your initial feeling of disquiet concerning his friends. “And who is this?”

“Lucius, this is my old friend, Sopheste Wilkbail,” Febhana introduces you by your fake name, then motions to the boy. “Sopheste, this is Lucius Laycam, his father owns the racetrack we went to earlier.”

“Dreadful business,” Lucius’s eyes glint, keeping his head tucked slightly in that way men do when they want you to feel like you’re the only person in the room. You don’t like the fact that he knows to say something like that, it demonstrates an ability to read you too easily.

Lucius takes your hand delicately, leaning down to kiss the ridges of your knuckles. He straightens to say his next words directly into your ear, getting unnecessarily close to do so.

“I’d like to treat you to a dance, if you don’t mind,” his voice rumbles. Your eyes flick to the table from over his shoulder. You make brief eye contact with Cavill, who has leveled his head to take a swig straight from the decanter at the center of the table, entirely disregarding the glass already in his hand. Cavill actually looks at you this time, and holds it, albeit briefly. Lucius finishes his proposal as you train your gaze back to the floor, “And then another drink.”

You give him your best smile and nod. It’s just a small dip of your head, but he eagerly pulls you away from Febhana and towards the center of the dance-floor.

Luckily for you, Lucius isn’t a flashy dancer. He’s amicable in a way you weren’t expecting, considering the company he keeps. He reminds you a lot of the village boy you were having a bit of a fling with before you left Am’ile’s planet: slightly empty-headed, but cute, and very enthusiastic about whatever task he’s put to. There’s a certain goofiness to him that pushes away any residual anxiety with the fits of laughter you tumble into as a direct result of his antics.

It’s kind of… exciting. You don’t want to admit it fully, but there’s something thrilling about someone taking so much interest in you. You’ve been so touch-starved that just the feeling of his hand partially cupping your exposed back in enough to send butterflies straight to your stomach. A different kind of anxious butterflies. Good butterflies.

Maker, it’s only been a few months since you left Am’ile’s and you’ve already been reduced to a giddy schoolgirl at the very brush of someone’s hand against your bare skin. You don’t know how Mando does it, you really don’t.

Lucius pulls the two of you to a halt when the band dies down, the singer murmuring something unintelligible into the mic.

“It was a pleasure, Miss Wilkbail,” he steps back, kissing your hand again and bowing. By this point you’ve figured out that his exaggerated, gentlemanly manner is just another shtick of his. You press your lips together to poorly conceal a giggle, giving him your own mock curtsey in turn.

“And you, Mr. Laycam.”

“Now if you’d like to join me, I’m on a mission to get absolutely plastered before these blowhards,” he motions to the others on the dancefloor with a twirl of his finger, “find a way to make this night even more suffocating than it already is.”

“Sounds just about perfect,” you say as you take the arm he offers you. He pulls you toward the table and you try to keep up with his long strides, bunching some of the skirt of your dress in your hand and lifting the fabric to prevent tripping.

Lucius pulls out a seat for you, introducing you to the playboys seated beside him. You’re directly across from Cavill, who is still nursing the table’s decanter, completely disengaged from the conversation occurring between the two friends that are seated on either side of him.

“Are you new to Canto?” The playboy who asks is a Tagge twin, one of the three brothers who are currently seated at the table with you. You can tell by the signature white-blonde hair.

“A friend of mine wanted me to stay with her for a while,” you say, graciously taking the champagne glass that Lucius plucks off a passing server’s tray to offer you.

“Febhana, you sister’s friend,” Lucius clarifies for the Tagge boy.

“The visiting court singer Heresta was telling me about, before?” The Tagge brother directs the question to Lucius, when his friend nods he raises both eyebrows and shoots you a grin.

“I’m still in training,” you clarify with a nervous laugh, finding it easier to talk if your eyes are trained on the glass in your hand. “But yes, that’d be me. The court singer.”

“What did you say?”

Cavill’s voice quiets the conversations of the other playboys almost immediately. The other Tagge brothers glance over but quickly resume a normal volume. The hierarchy of the table becomes very clear, after that.

“I’m training to be a court singer,” you repeat yourself, sliding your head towards the quarry with your best stab at a cool, practiced gaze of utter ambivalence. Cavill’s eyes remain trained on you, utterly serpentine.

Ah. You press your lips together and look down at your hands folded neatly in your lap, initial resolve broken.

“A court singer?” His voice is a low purr. You raise your gaze again. It seems as though once he takes interest in something, most of his buddies do too. A few of them glance away from their conversations to give you a scathing examination. It takes everything within you to not crawl out of your own skin. So much for the ease you felt back on the dancefloor. “Will you sing for us?”

Your cheeks fill with a heat that quickly travels to your chest. Didn’t expect that. Maybe you should have.

“I... Not here. The singer the Tagges have hired is so lovely, I’m afraid they far outshine me,” your eyes flick back up to his at your last word, you do your best to mask your burning revulsion as shyness.

“That wasn’t a request.” Cavill’s response is so blunt and immediate you actually flinch a little.

“C’mon Tyreus,” Lucius’s voice is quick to intervene. “Leave her alone, she just got here.”

Cavill blinks slowly, as if his eyelids are too taxing of a weight for him to bear. He hums, leaning back in his seat slightly and stretching his arms out to rest on the backs of the chairs on either side of him.

When it becomes clear he has nothing else to say, the other conversations at the table continue as a normal. As if there were no previous interruption. You gradually return to the sense of ease you’d begun to develop earlier, the feeling is seemingly dependent on Cavill’s lack of attention.

Eventually, one of the playboys taps Lucius on the shoulder in passing, quickly murmuring something in his ear before leaving the table to chase down one of the serves for another decanter. Lucius nods, then turns back to you.

“Tyreus wants to extend an invitation to a club we’re going to in an hour or so, if you’d like to join us,” his fingers graze over the peak of your exposed shoulder from where his arm is resting against the back of your seat. For some reason it does not feel as nice as his touch had previously. It’s more intentional, all his playfulness gone. You think that’s why. “Way better than this shit, not so fuckin’ rigid. More private.”

The emphasis he places on those last words is so overt you have to resist an eye-roll. You nod, trying to keep your expression light and ditzy while straightening slightly in your chair. “Tell him it would be an honor.”

Lucius smiles, the fingers that were tracing the line of your opposite shoulder coming up to brush against the shell of your ear. You blink at the touch, vaguely aware of his face inching closer to yours.

You stand without warning, mumbling something about having to use the bathroom before quickly maneuvering your way around the tables and through the arching marble columns that line the ballroom. You walk as briskly as you can into one of the adjoining hallways, following it down and into the women’s bathroom.

Taking a shuttering breath, you place your hands on your hips and close your eyes. Your brain runs at a mile a minute, trying to figure out how to adapt the plan as Mando communicated it to you, considering the fact that Cavill’s posse was leaving within the hour.

You reach your conclusion quickly. You’re the one with the invite, with the way into the inner circle. No time to try and bring Febhana along with you. Honeypot it is.

The bathroom door slamming open breaks you from your thoughts. You gasp, hand pressed to your chest as you whip around. There’s a second of blind panic at the decorated droid stiffly stands at the door’s threshold, both fists clenched at its side, before you remember Mando’s disguise.

You open your mouth indignantly to scold him for bursting in like that but he holds a finger up to shush you, entering the bathroom in one long stride, checking under the stalls for people then briskly locking the main door behind him.

He’s furious. It’s the most blatant display from him you think you’ve ever seen.

“I—” Mando grits out. “Your singing. He doesn’t deserve to get that. None of them do. They’re just using it to get to you.”

You blink twice, completely baffled that that’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

He makes another frustrated sound, obviously recognizing your shock, and tries to clarify. “They were… clearly making you uncomfortable but they just kept pushing you—you shouldn’t have to just sit there and take that—"

“Yeah, Mando, that’s kind of how flirting works when you’re dealing with a bunch of entitled assholes,” you snap, finally finding your words. Out of any other possible thing he could be angry about and this was it? “I’ll have to play into what they want to get closer to Cavill. Lucius seems sweet, a little overbearing but sweet. It’ll be fine.”

You’re already hovering the fine line between tipsy and just plain tired. All you want is to get home at this point—your feet hurt, the dress is uncomfortable, and, by your book, making conversation with these silver-spoon pricks could be comparable to pulling teeth. You love Febhana, and you could see the fun in a night like this, but you’re also trying to help Mando do his damn job and if he doesn’t start cooperating—

“He doesn’t. Lay. A finger. On you.” There’s an anger in his voice you’ve never encountered before, not while directed at you, at least. It stops any other thoughts from entering your head. He takes a deep, quivering breath to calm himself. It doesn’t work. “If you’re… if you don’t want it. He will not even look at you. The second—I don’t care if it makes a scene I’ll—"

“Mando.” You lay a hand on his chest. He instantly freezes. “I know that. Thank you. I’m a big girl, I can hold my own. It’s okay.” Trying to lighten the mood, you lift your chin up a bit, smiling at him as brightly as you can manage. “Can we please just talk about how we’re gonna pull this off?”

He gives you a tight nod.

“I… I know that you’ve been doing this for a lot longer than I have, which is the understatement of the millennia, but just… hear me out here. Lucius just invited me to go with them to a club—like, right now.” You feel like if you stop talking he won’t listen to what you have to say, so you keep plowing forward. “I know you made a point about no secondary locations. But, if we have the time I think the best plan of action would be for me to split off, go with them to the club and draw him out to you in some way. The security here is so tight, there’s no way I think we could pull this off without it blowing back on Febhana. She’s important to me and I would appreciate if we could get her out of this scot-free.”

You take a breath, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction thus far. When he doesn’t interject, you continue, keeping your hand on his chest as you speak—for some reason you feel like he listens to you better when you do. “Lucius mentioned that things are way more lax there, so I’m thinking that’ll translate to security measures too. I’m sure Febhana is familiar enough wherever they’re going. She can give you enough intel to be able to get an idea of the place on your way over. Then we can go home.”

“I agree.” His reluctance is palpable, but his next words are far more level-headed than you expected. “You’re right, we shouldn’t jeopardize Febhana. Try to get one of them to tell you a specific location and I can meet you there. I just—” he flexes his hands. “I need to get off this planet.”

“I know,” you sigh, giving his chest a reassuring pat before turning away to go back to the line of mirrors stationed above the sinks, checking your makeup. “Me too.”

You turn on the faucet and lean down to drink straight from the tap. You’re stone sober at this point and the icy water is potentially the best thing you’ve ever tasted. The headache pushing at the back of your eyes has increased to a dull throb.

Mando’s voice from behind you. “Ladylike.”

You turn off the sink and straighten, rolling your eyes. “Oh bite me,” the sharpness of your voice is negated by the laugh you have to push through to get the words out. Relieved that the charged air between the two of you has dissipated, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Let’s get this over with, I’m exhausted.”

Mando escorts you back down the dimly lit hall, the low hum of the party forms a gradual crescendo the closer you get to the intricate archway where the hallway breaches the ballroom. He pulls you to a stop with a hand on your forearm before you are able to enter.

Despite the heels you’re wearing, he still has to lean down to speak to you.

“Be careful,” he murmurs. Unexpectedly, he swipes his thumb across your elbow before turning heel and rejoining the other droids against the wall.

It’s such an unnecessary motion you can’t help but freeze, unsure how to process that small display of… well, if you didn’t know any better you’d describe it as intimacy. And not the unique sort of platonic camaraderie you’ve started getting used with him. It feels too much like a stolen gesture for that. Something he’s only done out of a pure disregard for his usual utilitarian ethos.

You swallow and square your shoulders, putting on the best smile you can before heading back to the Tagge table.

Biting your lip as you sink down onto the seat beside Lucius, you drag the knuckles of a relaxed hand down the length of his arm.

“Could I say goodbye to Febhana before we go?” You say as innocently as possible, still figuring out a way to organically ask where the fuck they were going to be taking you without acting too suspicious.

Lucius’s eyes flick over the table, only a few of the seats have emptied. Cavill is gone already.

“Yeah, that should be fine. Just find me when you’re done.”

You stand back up, stretching your neck to find your friend among the crowd. Quickly spotting Febhana, you navigate your way back through the crowd. Just as she has predicted, the uptight façade of the event is quickly dissolving as glasses empty and bodies inch closer together. The crowd you are now navigating through seems completely different from the one you’d encountered upon first entering the dancehall. The heady breath of the gathered crowd leaves a different crackle of energy over the room—considering Cavill’s circle wants to leave this for something “more exciting” is foreboding. Wherever you end up, you’ll deal.

Reaching Febhana’s side, you gently touch her arm to get her attention. She turns, smiling as she sees you.

“There you are! I thought I’d lost you,” she aligns her inner forearms with the length of yours, gripping you lightly in greeting. Touch was once meant survival for the two of you. Back on the Estate, sometimes the only communication you would be able to engage in for days on end, the smallest of reassurances are sometimes the most solid. Old habits die hard. You reciprocate the motion, grasping the inner portion of her elbows.

You duck your head in the direction of the person she was speaking to in a small apology for interrupting. Leaning in to quietly inform her of the change of plans, you tell her that Mando is going to try to meet you at the club. Febhana keeps a straight face as you do, but there’s a glint of worry in her gaze.

“Alright,” she says cheerfully. “I’ll tell the driver to wait outside. He can pick you up and take you back to the apartment when you’re ready to call it a night. I’ve prepared the guest room for you, the service droid can lead you there.”

“Febhana—” your brow furrows as you pull back, unwilling to take advantage of her kindness more than you already have, let alone her only way home. She interrupts you before you can insist.

“I’m going for drinks with friends after this, I’ll ride with them. Please, darling,” she kisses your cheek. “Good luck, and be safe,” she says softly as she pulls back, still gripping you by both elbows. You squeeze her forearms, giving a curt nod.

“I’ve learned from the best,” you manage a confident smile and disentangle her arms from yours. You tell her you’ll update her over the comlink and turn to rejoin Lucius, who was in the midst of his own farewells.

Febhana leaves as you wait for Lucius to finish his conversation. Mando has long since disappeared from his place at the wall. Taking a deep breath, you keep your shoulders back and your head high. You were completely alone.

There are five neat lines of spice on the mirrored platter. The Tagge twin is the one to offer it to you, pushing the surface in your direction before sinking back into the velveteen material of the curved couch.

You are in a private room at the club, one of a series of pod-like structures suspended over the dance-floor. The private pod opens into an expansive piece of curved glass that fills out the rest of its intended, ovular, form. If it weren’t for all the plush carpeting, the liquor and smoke and sultry lighting, it would make a decent observation deck. The room makes you feel like the surrounding world is a fish tank, all those people below you just interesting little creatures to look down at and inspect.

There’s something about the very nature of the space that drips luxury—but it’s a kind far removed from the crisp marble lines of the Tagge mansion. This is all seduction. All contours. All darkness and deep tones of amber, starkly contrasting against the pulsing blue lights of the dance-floor below.

The table before you is cluttered with empty glasses, bottles, as well as a few personal items owned by the boys who had already left to chase down the bodies below: a tuxedo tie here, a watch probably worth more than the Crest itself there—you know, the usual things you abandon in search of a warm mouth.

Lucius and Cavill are sharing a cigarette, the burning cherry one of the brightest sources of light in the room. Everything else is illuminated by low shades of red and orange from the warbling fixtures woven against the solid portion of the wall, which then part to trace the curved edges of the observation window.

The music is subdued at this height, yet the grinding pulse of a guitar still sends vibrations through the floor. Through you. The boys’ cigarette traces patterns between them as they exchange it, back and forth, saying very little in between.

Taking a deep breath, you glance down at the platter on the table. You press your lips together, glancing up at Lucius, then Cavill, who has gradually started to pay more attention to you the further into the night you descend.

Pretending to take another sip of your drink, you push the platter towards Lucius. Trying not to draw too much attention to your refusal, you move a little closer to his body as a potential distraction. Either it works or they didn’t care to begin with. Lucius curves into himself, pressing a finger against his nostril to inhale a line. Cavill does two.

Genuinely, there’s no way they could find any kind of appeal to this. You just can’t fathom it—they barely talk to one another, this group. And when they do they seem just as bored in the act as everyone else is. You’d take a night spent with Mando and the kid over this any day.

The Tagge boy jolts back awake, blearily rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The motion is so sudden it startles you, jumping slightly as he pushes away from the table.

“M’gonna go downstairs,” Tagge’s legs wobble like a newborn calf’s might. “Getta girl.” His departure is unceremonious, just like the others had been. You have a feeling the only thing keeping Lucius at this table is you, and the only thing keeping you at this table is Cavill. Fuck doesn’t really cut it.

As the two of them work on what remains on the platter, you carefully shift out of the circular booth, pacing over to the glass wall to look down at the crowd of writhing bodies.

“Have y’ever been to this place before?” Lucius asks after a moment. He stretches over the top of the couch to look down at the crowd with you. As he does, because you think the universe genuinely hates you, you notice Mando’s disguised silhouette—he’s barely concealed by the darkness of the dance-floor’s periphery. You look away as to not draw too much attention to that one spot.

“No. Never. I’ve been cooped up at the conservatory for most of my life,” you say as angle your body towards the couch, crossing your arms and leaning against the wall with one shoulder. Like this, you’re able to keep Mando in the very edges of your periphery.

What you just said was true for your mother, you knew that. Honestly, you’ve gotten through most of the night by just adopting what you remember about her. It was far too natural of a mask to adopt—maybe that should have creeped you out, but the ease of being able to do so is comforting considering the scope of the mission before you.

You take a breath to clear your mind, needing to get ahead of the conversation before either of them can corner you in a story you’re not able to fabricate. You need to give Mando a clue about where the hell you are.

“How far up do you think we are?” You ask, cocking your head slightly, praying that Mando’s comlink can hear your above what you’re sure is a raucous crowd. It works, you see his head jerk up to finally notice the private rooms above him. Thank the Maker.

“I dunno,” Lucius turns his head to look where you’re looking. “You afraid of heights or something?”

You give a nonchalant laugh, shaking your head slightly. By the time you look back up to scan the crowd one more time you’ve lost track of Mando. Either he’s disappeared in the mass of bodies or he’d gone completely. You have absolutely no clue, and you don’t want to draw attention by continuing to search for him.

Leveling your gaze back to the two boys, you look them over in a way you hope will draw either’s attention. Both are belligerently intoxicated, the glasses before them long since emptied, the smell of spice thick. It gives Cavill the air of a cat luxuriously stretched in the sun, as if it were just some kind of a natural, comfortable state for him.

As if he can read your thoughts, he speaks.

“Why wouldn’t you sing for us, earlier,” Cavill’s voice alone is enough to make your skin crawl. He ashes the cigarette he was smoking. There’s a loud sound of inhaling from Lucius, whose shadowy form is hunched over the table as he finishes what is left on the platter before him.

“Could you quit it,” Lucius mumbles as he rubs either side of his nose, head thrown back as he sniffs indignantly. “She obviously doesn’t want to.”

“If you were shy earlier, it’s just the three of us now. Completely different,” Cavill says, reaching over to wipe his fingers over the platter’s surface. He rubs his gums with the residue. You expect Lucius to defend you and divert the conversation like he’d done earlier. He doesn’t. Cavill sucks his teeth, leaning back once again. “Sing. I want to hear you.”

“It just feels strange is all,” you bite your lip, voice admittedly a bit brisk in how absent-mindedly it disregards what Cavill is asking. Your turn your gaze back out over the club, mainly to get Cavill’s off you.

You’re worried about Mando, about how long it’s taken him to give you some kind of sign that he’s ready. Maybe he’s waiting until you’re completely alone with Cavill? He pushed that in the car, how this whole thing has to be done as quietly as possible. The problem is that you’ve got absolutely no idea how to get Lucius out of the picture.

“Before there were too many people and now there are too little? What do you want?” Cavill’s words float in the air behind you as you pace to the bar cart, determined to busy your hands by remaking the drink you hadn’t touched since entering the room. “Isn’t that what you’re training for?”

Maybe Mando has been stopped? Your eyes flick to the circular doors partitioning the enclosed room from the catwalk hallway. You remember loudly greeting the guards that were there when the posse first entered the room, giving him the best heads up you could organically muster. Could he take both of them out on his own? Quietly?

“Um, yeah I suppose. It’s just different, there. In conservatory.” Dropping ice into your glass, you hear Cavill scoff. Lucius mumbles something. You bend slightly to get some of the bitters from the cart’s lower shelf.

And an explosion of glass shatters right where your head just was.

You whip around in shock, only to see Cavill already standing, swaying a bit on his feet, dress-shirt partially unbuttoned and messily untucked. It’s almost like some kind of switch went off, transforming him into something utterly unrecognizable.

He’s a fucking mess. Eyes nearly black. The empty decanter from the Tagge mansion in his hand.

“In conservatory,” he mocks, his lips pulled upwards in a vicious snarl. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Before you can react, the decanter is being flung at you—it misses, again. Shattering on the ground in front of you this time. You press yourself as far as you can against the bar cart, eyes wide. Cavill spits, then wipes his mouth with his hand, looking at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Kneel.”

Horrified, your gaze flicks from Lucius back to the tantrum-throwing, wolf-eyed aristocrat standing in front of you.

“What?” You ask incredulously, browns knitted together in complete confusion.

“I said kneel,” Cavill jabs his finger to the ground. “Pick that shit up.”

Lucius does a poor job of concealing a pained grimace. Or maybe you’ve grown far too good at reading the tiniest expressions from your masked companion that you’ve become hyper-aware of these kind of things. He gives a small: “Maker, Tyreus.” If it were supposed to be a warning it was a shitty one.

Survival instincts set in immediately. You turn your eyes to the floor and make your breathing as small and quiet as possible. Obediently, you comply. Kneeling on the ground and reaching out a shaking hand to begin plucking the shards from the carpet.

Cavill stalks behind you in an instant, one hand sealing around the back of your neck and pushing your head down to immobilize you. Simultaneously, his other hand wraps around your wrist, twisting your arm back and making your body to fold in on itself, pressing you into the ground.

You can’t help but cry out, the sharp motion forcing you to quickly catch yourself with your free hand. Your palm lands directly in the broken glass. You’d give anything to erase the wet sound it makes from your head forever.

It takes you less than a second to realize he’s trying to force your face into the carpet. Into it. Fuck.

“D’you want to tell me, huh?” He’s folds in half to speak directly in your ear, his spit hitting your cheek. He twists your arm further, grinding the hand supporting the rest of your body deeper into the glass. You grit your teeth to prevent another pained sound from escaping. “Wanna tell me who the fuck you think you are? Too good for me, whore? Too good for all this?”

The doors burst open. Cavill lets go of you in shock, it gives you time to crawl away from him as Mando levels his blaster at the boy. You scrape one of your knees in the process, you don’t notice it over the adrenalin pulsing through you.

Lucius swears loudly, standing.

“Don’t move.” Mando’s words are more of a growl than anything else.

In the pause this creates, you’re able to kick out your leg and take Cavill out from the back of the knees. It’s not graceful or pretty but it works. Cavill falls to the ground and you quickly clamber on top of him, forcing his hands behind his back, keeping him down with a bloodied knee to the spine.

Mando throws you the cuffs, training his blaster back on Lucius as you work on securing the binds around his quarry’s wrists.

“The spice,” Mando barks out the order. Lucius, eyes wide with terror, looks from the bounty hunter, to you, back to the bounty hunter.

“W-What?”

Mando shoots Lucius in the leg. The boy screams a curse, folding into himself in pain. The air smells like burnt flesh and coins. You swallow, looking back down and busying yourself with keeping Cavill still as he struggles against the floor.

“The. Spice.” He repeats. Choking on his sobs, Lucius reaches a shaking hand into his suit jacket’s pocket, throwing the little bag on the floor. Mando stalks over to him, Lucius cowers.

“Listen, man I—I’ll give you anything you want, ok? My father—”

Mando pistol whips him, the force behind it is enough to also slam Lucius’s head into the table as a result, knocking him unconscious. The bounty hunter turns, snatching up the spice on the ground and crossing over to you, kneeling beside Cavill, whose face is pressed into the ground.

“Mother fucker,” Cavill snarls, the first coherent set of words he’s said since Mando entered. Without reacting, Mando pinches Cavill’s nose shut. You’re confused for a moment, then Cavill opens his lips to either breathe or continue his litany of abuses and Mando takes that opportunity to empty the rest of the spice directly into the quarry’s mouth.

Cavill’s eyes widen, then almost immediately roll back into his skull. He jerks once, then lays still.

It all happens so fast you barely process Mando’s gentle order for you to stand. You do eventually, your legs a bit shaky as you cross back over to the bar cart, holding your palm up to the light in order to puck the largest pieces of glass out before wrapping your wound with a decorative napkin.

When you turn, Mando is pacing the room’s glass perimeter, looking down at the dance-floor to see if anyone noticed the commotion over the pounding music. His takes two brisk strides to cross the room, back to you.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his voice curt and professional. You duck your head in a nod, still pressing the napkins to your bleeding hand. Mando then turns to deal with Lucius’s body, stuffing his mouth with one of the tux ties on the table, binding his wrists. Buying the two of you time, you guess.

You look down at Cavill’s crumpled body. Unconscious, like this, you realize he couldn’t be more than twenty years old. Maybe even nineteen. “They’re all just kids, aren’t they?”

Mando’s sighs, crossing the room again to lean out the open doors to gauge the best way of getting back to the driver. “Pel kar’ta.” Whatever he just called you, it sounds like an accusation “That doesn’t excuse it.”

“No,” you murmur to yourself, gaze still fixed to the boy on the floor. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

The napkins you use on your injured hand manages to somewhat stop the bleeding. You wait in the backseat as Mando and the driver stuff Cavill’s body into the trunk. You manage to pluck the last of the shards out of the meat of your palm once Mando silently slides into the seat beside you.

The driver leans over to the seemingly empty passenger seat, plucking a bundle of swaddled fabric and passing it back to Mando. It’s the child, sleeping deeply.

“Febhana said she had a feeling you’d want to get off planet as fast as possible. She sends her well wishes,” the driver grits out. He pulls the speeder off the roof of the club, quickly maneuvering the vehicle into Canto Bight’s weaving back alleys.

You take a deep breath, leaning your head against the window.

“I’m sorry,” you manage after a few minutes of driving, the words so soft they break slightly as they leave your mouth. “I… I didn’t think it could get that messy. I should have stuck to the plan.”

He says your name softly, it crackles over the speakers of the modulator. You take too much comfort in how he says it, the way it fills the space between the two of you. “Jobs like this are never clean.”

“You said this needed to go quietly,” you turn your head to look at him directly. “That wasn’t quiet.”

“I should have interfered earlier, that was my fault,” his response is immediate. “You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes and resting your head against the window. “I am not trying to make this about me. I just—I know it was a leap of faith involving me in this. I screwed it up, I want to apologize.”

“I didn’t think you were. I was making a clarification. You shouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

The kid makes a small sound in his sleep, you know he’s stretching and nuzzling into the crook of Mando’s arms without having to look over.

“Okay. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

He says your name again. You shake your head.

“Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen like that, if that’s okay?” You keep your gaze trained out the window, watching the city as it passes a good distraction from the pain pulsing from your hand up your wrist. “I’ll be fine once we get home.”

From your periphery, you see Mando nod.

Arriving at the hangar, you scoop the child in one arm and open the speeder door with a slight wince. You thank the driver and make a beeline for the Crest, busying yourself with tucking the little one in his cradle while Mando deals with the body.

By the time you shed the dress Febhana leant you—now ruined, thanks to that asshole—and quickly shower, you’re starting to catch a second wind of energy. You’re wide awake by the time you pull on a sleep shirt and a soft pair of shorts, catching yourself on the wall as the Crest rumbles into hyperspace.

Settling at your med station, you examine your injured hand under a small portable light, making sure you didn’t miss any pieces of glass due to the dim lighting of the landspeeder’s interior. You hear Mando step behind you.

“Let me see it,” he says. You straighten, looking up at him. Mando is holding a hand out, for yours. He’s back in the clothes he sometimes wears during your long stretches of travel, no armor save for the helmet on his head. His gloves are removed.

The first time he’d done this it had nearly knocked the wind out of you, stopping your words mid-sentence as you entered the cockpit to feed the kid breakfast. He was reclined in the pilot’s seat, the sturdy fingers grasping a rag to oil the pauldron he held in his other hand. You only caught the brief glimmer of a thick beskar ring on his thumb before averting your eyes, stuttering an apology.

At this point, you’ve seen enough of his hands to have memorized every scar and callous. You know it all, from the broken mountains of his knuckles to the small tattoo below the web of his thumb, so weathered by age you still cannot make sense of what it’s supposed to be.

This is different, though. He’s asking to touch you, skin on skin. That’s what makes you pause, looking at him blankly. Mando tries again.

“It’s my fault you got hurt—please, let me take care of you this once.”

There’s something in his voice that sounds incredibly pained, it’s enough to break you from your thoughts. You hesitate, then shift to face him on the crate you’d pulled over to sit on.

You offer him your hand, palm up, in wordless agreement.

He starts his work there, diligently giving it one last look over for glass before slathering it in bacta and firmly wrapping it with gauze. His hands feel just as you thought they would, rough but warm, hesitant at first but firmer once he gains the confidence to really touch you.

Mando then begins to examine your shoulder, delicately asking you to lift your arm, shift it in different directions and tell him when it hurts. You comply, easily succumbing to his little, light touches.

Maker, if Lucius had managed to give you butterflies on the dance-floor this… this couldn’t even be qualified at anything close to that feeling. The flight of birds, more like. A whole flock. A force only rivaled by the quick beat of your pulse.

“I got you something.” If you didn’t know any better you’d think his voice has a certain tinge of shyness to it. “A few days ago. I kept forgetting to give it to you.”

“Do tell,” you manage a casual yawn, then wince when his fingers dig into your scapula. “Ow.”

“Sorry,” he removes his hands from you, turning and walking to the other side of the hull. He rifles through a crate and emerges with what looks like a little box, offering it to you. You balance it in your bandaged hand, recognizing the object the second you see the speakers affixed to either end of it.

A wide grin breaks out over your face as you look up at him. “Is this a radio?”

He nods, plucking the tube of muscle warming agent from the med-kit and spreading it against your shoulder. His gloves are still off, the rough feeling of his hands against you enough to steal all words from your parted lips.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Mando—this is so nice I—”

“It’s nothing,” he says it frankly. You gladly don’t continue your sentence, turning the object over in your hand. “The woman told me it should work just about anywhere. If it loses signal it’ll just play some kind of recorded catalogue.”

You nod, bracing your forearms against your thighs and fiddling with the radio’s controls as he continues to talk, his thumbs working against every part of the joint they can. The feeling is far too easy to give into, you allow yourself to close your eyes as he continues, placing the radio beside you and leaning back to rest your elbows on the table to your back.

“I thought it was the least I could offer you. You seem so happy whenever there’s music,” Mando says as he kneels in front of you, wiping off your injured knee, rubbing away the scabs that were already forming with a disinfectant-soaked towel. He disregards the hiss you give and begins applying the bacta to the scored surface. “Especially tonight, when you were dancing. I didn’t realize you could.”

You laugh, smiling to yourself. “I was most nervous about that, as ridiculous as it sounds.” You muffle a relieved groan at the numb warmth that begins to spread as soon as the bacta sets in. You turn over what you want to ask for a long time before you muster the courage to say it. Why not? “I could teach you.”

A pause. “What?”

“I could teach you to dance, if you want me to,” you open your eyes to look down at the man kneeling before you. His fingers are frozen against the bandage he was in the process of tying off—incorrectly, you might add, but you can fix it later. You can’t help but smile at him. “Put this radio to use.”

He pauses for a moment longer, then shakes his head and goes back to adjusting your bandages. “Don’t mess with me like that, I’ll take back the compliment.”

“Hey! C’mon,” you bite your lip, stretching out your uninjured leg to faux-kick his side. He grabs your foot before it can make contact, gently guiding it back to the floor. “I’m being serious. Gotta blow off some steam before I can sleep.” Heat shoots up to your face, the words leaving your mouth before you can think them through. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Alright.” Mando stands, crossing his arms over his chest to regard you.

You genuinely don’t believe it. Your smile widens. “Are you serious?”

His head cocks to the side. “If you make a big deal out of it I’ll purposefully step on your toes.”

It’s hard to contain your glee. You push yourself up to your feet, Mando’s arms shooting out in a protective gesture to catch you when you wobble slightly.

“Relax, I’m fine,” you gently push his hands away, walking over to the other side of the hull to place the radio on top of a stack of crates. Fiddling with it for a moment, you find a station playing something slow.

Turning back around, you see that Mando has turned off the med-station’s light, the brightest source of illumination now coming from the radio’s tiny interface behind you. The rest of the hull’s sconces are in night mode, the dull orange glow just enough to see what’s in front of you.

“Okay,” you begin, standing in the middle of the room and motioning Mando towards you. He complies. You hold out both hands. When he doesn’t get it, you press your lips together to suppress a smile, taking them for yourself where they rest limply at his sides. “So, you’d start by approaching your lady and holding her hand up, like this.” You bend your right elbow, your loosely interlocked hand forcing his left arm to do the same.

Mando nods, head bowed to you in observation, a diligent student.

“Then,” you continue, guiding his right hand to the curve of your waist. “You’d place your other hand here, or mid-back, whatever feels most appropriate for the situation.” He doesn’t move his hand. It sends a bit of a thrill through you. You place your left hand on his bicep, looking up at him and grinning. “See? You’re a natural.”

The both of you laugh at that one. His comes out as nothing more than a hoarse release of air from the modulator, but it’s enough to have you absolutely elated.

You start to sway slightly, to the rhythm of the song now playing from the radio’s speakers. Mando picks up the hint, taking up the role of leader while you gladly follow. He’s actually okay—granted, the two of you are just swaying in place, but still.

“I meant that, you know.”

“Hm?” You ask, partially distracted in trying to figure out what move to teach him next. The waltz you and Lucius did would be far too complicated, maybe there would be some kind of way to simplify it…

“What I said earlier. You looked beautiful, tonight,” Mando says, chin still tucked to look down at you. You blink, only actually processing what he’d just said a few seconds after he said it. You purposefully keep your eyes trained to his chest in order to keep your thoughts straight. “I um… I didn’t know how to tell you. Earlier. In the car. But I wanted to.”

“Hate to inform you, but the dress is in tatters and I am way too lazy to put all that makeup on again,” you chuckle, using the side of your foot to nudge him into a bit of a wider stance. He has the resting state of a soldier at attention—fitting, you guess, for a Mandalorian. It’s something so natural about to him that you’ve only really noticed the rigidity of it now.

“No, no I’m not… That’s not what I meant. You look that way always just—tonight, especially.”

“Well, Mando, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you sound a little bashful right now,” you joke, trying to move on as quickly as possible to cover up the fact that you had no idea how to take a compliment. You turn your head a little too quickly to look back down at his feet, ready to instruct him on the next steps, and your forehead collides with him helmet.

It fucking hurts.

You wince, cursing slightly under your breath and screwing up your face, trying to laugh off the heat burning in your cheeks and across your chest. “Ow.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Mando mutters, releasing your hands and cupping either sides of your jaw with his hands. His thumbs press along the underside of your chin, tilting your face up towards him as he inspects it for damage. “Are you okay?”

You close your eyes and nod, swallowing. “Yeah, just surprised me is all—never had to teach a tin can how to dance before, forgot I had to be conscious about the...” one of his thumbs traces a curved line against your chin before he removes his hands from your face. The motion is quick and then gone immediately, just as he had done in the hallways of the Tagge mansion. It has a far more vivid consequence of completely scrambling your thoughts, this time around. “Helmet,” you manage.

After a moment, Mando tilts his head.

“Close your eyes,” his voice is husky, from the modulator or something else you don’t know.

You comply without question, pulse increasing as you feel Mando step away and rummage through something. He returns, standing behind you this time. Fabric is wrapped around your eyes—once, then twice. You reach a hand up to touch it, recognize the slightly rough texture of gauze almost immediately.

There’s some kind of a hissing sound, then the clank of metal being placed on something solid. Then he’s back in front of you.

“Think you can teach me like this?” And it’s his voice. His voice. Rough but warm and unobstructed. Just as his hands had been. It takes the wind right out of your lungs.

“Mando,” if you could think of anything else to say, you’d cringe at how breathless you sound. What are you, a locked-away damsel in distress?

“When I was younger I was… a bit more lax. Running with the wrong people. I relied on… technicalities, in our code, a little too heavily back then.” You never want to stop hearing his voice. There’s something about the modulator that doesn’t do the light lilt to his words justice, the low but crisp resonance of his voice. “But I’ve… this is new. But okay. Within the rules.”

“Are you—” clearing your throat, you try again. More firm this time. “Are you sure?”

“Just don’t touch my face with your hands,” his voice remains clipped, slightly cautious, but resolved. Typical. “If you—I can put the helm back on, if this makes you uncomfortable.”

“No!” You interject, placing both hands on his chest in reassurance. “No, I… no. I feel honored and happy, really happy, that you’d trust me like this. It means a lot.”

You hear him hum low in his throat, a sound you know he makes sometimes when he nods. He takes your hand, again, the other going back to your waist. “Okay, start over.”

“So,” you begin again, trying your best to run your mouth enough to distract from how… serious this feels. You know it most likely isn’t a huge deal, if he’s willing to do this after one accidental collision—but, well. Still. “When you’re ready, you’ll step forward and I’ll step back. And… uh…” you bite your lip as his hand drifts lower, just an inch, to rest at the small of your back. You look up at him through the blindfold out of habit. “You lead, I follow, simple as that.”

“Simple as that?” His words have a rare, palpable heat to them. You can never be certain, of course, but you’re convinced there’s a small smile behind his question. It’s easier to tell, now.

“Yeah,” your chest feels tight with an emotion so close yet so different from the joy you’re used to feeling. Your smile is uncontainable, if barely visible in the hull’s dim light. “It really is.”

He’s a fast learner, easily taking you in slow, looping circles around the room for the next few songs. The silence between the two of you is comforting.

The longer the radio plays, the deeper you sink into one another, your entwined movements eventually spiraling back to the center of the space, settling into an easy, sedentary sway there. You only really notice this as Mando’s hand drifts from your lower back to wrap around the curve of your opposite hip, the length of his sturdy forearm braced against your body. After a beat, you let go of the hand you’re holding onto and wrap both arms loosely around his neck, leaning into him fully.

The two of you don’t acknowledge it, playing it off as an incidental thing, this gradual enclosure of your bodies. The equally quick thrum of your hearts betrays the known secret behind the little game you are playing.

“What did that phrase you use mean, when we talked earlier?” You press the side of your face to Mando’s chest. He props his chin against the crown of your head in welcome response.

The hand previously holding yours moves up your spine in order to gently cradle the back of your neck, gently holding you in place. His thumb traces repetative arcs against the sensitive line between the corner of your jaw and your earlobe. It feels like a salve in its own right, erasing the feeling of Cavill’s skin pressed against your own.

“What did what mean?” Mando asks innocently enough, as his hand continues its serene movement. It’s the most he’s ever touched you, and you suppose he keeps his tone completely casual to make up for the fact. As if the two of you were conversing from other sides of the room, not entangled in each other. You’re more than willing to play into the charade if it means you can have this, the ability to close your eyes and take in the rumble of his voice against your ear.

“Pel… pel kar-ta?” You wince at your gross mispronunciation. “What you called me back there, at the club.”

“Oh—” he seems surprised, like he didn’t even remember saying it. “That’s—that’s Mando’a. It means… well it’s the closest expression to kindness we have.” He keeps rubbing the corner of your jaw with his thumb, keeping rhythm with your movements. If it could even be considered that, at this point. “A more direct translation would be ‘soft hearted.’ Someone who is unapologetically forgiving towards others, even to those don’t deserve it. An ability to love that clouds greater judgment.”

“I have the feeling it’s not the most complimentary nickname for Mandalorians.”

“No, no it isn’t,” the breath of his laugh ruffles your hair. You can’t help but hide your smile in the warm fabric of his shirt, laughing with him. Mando shifts slightly, curving over you, your cheek against his, rough with a well-developed five o’clock shadow. “But, um. I mean it as a compliment, for you. As stupid as you can get.”

If someone punched you in the gut it wouldn’t have left you this breathless. You try to disguise the euphoric feeling it gives you in humor. You’re worried that if you give too much away he’ll stop touching you. Stop holding you like this. Like you were the one gentle thing he’d succumb to.

“Well, it seems hardly fair that you get to call me a nickname and I get nothing at all,” you huff in playful offense, barely able to keep the smile off your face. “Totally unfair.”

“Give me your best, then.” He’s still smiling, you don’t know how you can tell but you just can. It’s infectious.

“What about… hmm… I dunno—tin can?”

“That one’s taken.”

“Oh, have some lady in waiting I should know about?”

“That’s probably the exact opposite way I’d describe him.”

You laugh. “Bucket head?”

“Not very original.”

“Well,” you give an airy hmph. “I’m stumped. You win. Mando it remains.”

Continuing your sway as the music maintains its soft tumble from the radio’s speakers, the two of you go so long without speaking you think the conversation has ended--until:

“Din.” He says the word so softly it wouldn’t have been picked up if he were still speaking through the vocoder.

Your brow furrows. “Sorry, what?”

“Din. Din Djarin. My name. When it’s… when it’s just us, you can use it. If you’d like.”

You cup your hand around the other side of his neck and pull back slightly. His hand automatically lifts to press against your cheek, a refusal to allow you to move any further despite the fact that you’re wearing the blindfold. Pure habit, you think.

You blink against the fabric stretched over your eyes, trying to quell your burning desire to do something absolutely disastrous.

So you say his name instead.

tag list: @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11 @walkingthegrounds @roseallisonparker @kaitlyn2907 @dinsbeskar @mandoandyodito @kyjoraven @ineffableloveforyou

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#the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x y/n #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din and grogu #mandalorian and grogu #grogu #reader insert #i'll be here in the morning #i'll be here in the morning ch4 #fanfic #star wars fanfiction

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obae-me · 4 years

Text

MC With PTSD

Word Count: 5068

Author’s Note: Thank you to the anon who requested this, due to a weird glitch your request got deleted, but I didn’t forget about it! I did my best to do some research since I’m not an expert on PTSD, so I apologize if this is not accurate.

Warning: Possible Trigger Warnings, Read Safely

Lucifer

He didn’t notice the symptoms at first. Don’t get him wrong, he’s highly observant. It’s just, for one, he’s not an expert in human behavior, and two, MC was doing a damn good job keeping themselves under control. If there were any abnormalities in their behavior, he first chalked it up to them getting adjusted to their new environment.

That was, until the little signs didn’t go away with passing days, and they even became more severe. He would be lying if it said it didn’t make him anxious.

He was at RAD with MC during lunch, taking the break to not only get to know them better, but help them study should they need it. They had been perfectly fine then, maybe still not fully looking into his eyes while he talked, but open and content. They then went up to go to the restroom. When they came back, they were almost a different person. Their jaw was clenched, eyes glassy, the skin on their hand red from them scratching.

“MC...is something wrong?”

“No.”

They spit the word out at him, coming out before he had even fully finished his question. He knew they were upset, but he loathed their tone. What had he done to deserve their venom? He straightened up in his seat, eyes lowered in a squint.

“MC-”

“What?”

They hissed, much too jumpy and irritable. He was doing his best to stay level-headed, but it was driving him up a wall. He had done nothing to warrant how they were speaking to him. No one spoke to him like that. But before he could even attempt to lecture them, MC stood up, pushed their seat over, and with their hair balled up in their hands, they ran off. He called out their name, but was too stunned to follow them. He was left dizzy with such a powerful whirlwind of emotions in such a short amount of time.

He gave them time to cool off, packing up their things, trying to ignore the worry starting to build up in his chest. He sighed. He was certain now that, even among humans, this was abnormal behavior. He scolded himself, he should’ve done something about it sooner. He put off his concern for the time being and continued his busy day at RAD, hoping work would distract these feelings of his.

Hours passed, the school day came to a close, and Lucifer still had MC’s bag. He waited by the front door, D.D.D in hand, doing his best not to crush the device in his hands when MC wasn’t returning his multiple texts and calls. He kept tapping his foot against the ground. All of his other brothers confirmed that they hadn’t seen MC since before they went out with him to lunch.

The time for worrying was now.

He would check every office, every room, every corner of RAD if he had to. It took him hours of scouring the school building to find them. They had been in a dark dusty classroom that had been temporarily abandoned to be redecorated. They were under the teacher’s desk, knees into their chest, D.D.D thrown across the room near some flipped over desks. His notifications were all noted on the front screen. When MC heard his sharp footsteps, they tried sneaking further away into the darkness, covering their ears with their hands with a whimper. The closer Lucifer got, the more he could see them shaking.

He got to his knees, calling out their name in a soft voice, hand extended to help them up should they want it. Upon hearing his voice, their head snapped up at him, looking panicked as it took them much too long to recognize who he was.

“L-Lucifer?” Their voice sounded weak. They reached out to take his hand, and once they did, Lucifer gently held them close to his chest. He didn’t know why, he wasn’t one much for physical affection, but, the way they looked, like they weren’t aware of their surroundings...maybe this would help ground them back to place.

In the safety of their home, the warm fire in the study giving off a peaceful glow, MC told him about it. Not everything, they weren’t ready for that yet. The teacup in their hands was still discovering it hard to stay steady. They told him enough, brushing over the traumatic event they experienced in the past, and then the thing in the hallway they saw that triggered them. They even told him how their many sudden and panic-inducing phone notifications made them feel, but then apologized for it.

They...apologized, why? Why indeed when it should’ve been him to say ‘I’m sorry’. The only reason why he hadn’t said it yet was because he was doing his best to stay calm, working hard to not destroy anyone that would dare make them feel like that, not realizing the pen in his hand had already snapped in two.

He got up, putting his coat around their shoulders, sitting down beside them. He was thankful they told him, even though he would’ve loved to be aware of this so much sooner for both of their sake’s. He put a supportive hand on the top of their head, fingers entangled in their hair, and told them to come to him immediately should they ever be triggered or panicked again. It didn’t matter when, where, why, he wanted them to come to him.

He would work on not spamming their phone, and it was his own personal project to ensure that the scum in both the human and demon world were eradicated. He’d use whatever power he had to help them and make them safe. He knows what to look out for now, and it pleases him when MC comes to him for help so he can put his coat around them and bring them in his arms. He hates seeing him like this, but having him be their source of comfort, their safe space, boosts his pride greatly.

Mammon

Of course he didn’t know. How was he supposed to figure it out, on his own? He was just supposed to come to that conclusion based on their actions when he didn’t even know how humans acted in the first place?

This is what he kept telling himself, at least, when he made MC spiral into a panic attack.

He didn’t mean to, seriously, he didn’t. He didn’t know, he didn’t know. He had them in his arms, rocking them back and forth, almost resorting to praying to his own father for them to stop. He didn’t know.

He had been angry. Not quite Satan level angry, but close. He was tired, irritated, and his brother's relentless teasing had crossed the line for the day. His siblings knew when to stop, when they had taken things too far, and left him alone for the time being, but MC was unaware that giving him space was the best choice. They wanted to comfort him, to make him feel better, to bring him back to his usual carefree self. They cared for him.

They approached him from behind in the hallway of the House of Lamentation. It was dark, but they could make out the silhouette of his wings against dim moonlight. He was already in his demon form, having probably been in it all day. An aura of emotions surrounded him, and already MC could feel it. They felt prickling on their skin, their hands already turning clammy. MC reached out to him, calling his name.

Mammon twirled around quickly, his wings puffing up from his hips. He didn’t mean to touch them, but his wings had reacted so suddenly, it knocked their hand back and made them lose balance. They lost their footing and fell back to the floor with a squeak. They looked up at him to only see his eyes glowing, his fists tightened into balls.

“What do you want? Eh? To be like everyone else? Tell me that I’m scummy? Joke about me?”

He took a step toward them in the dim light.

“Tease me?”

He was unaware of their expression still.

“Why don’t you say so-“ He finally stopped, his wings lowering. They had their arms up over their face, their entire body trembling. The noise of buzzing in his ears died down enough to hear that they were only taking gasping breaths like they couldn’t breathe. They started rocking themselves back and forth on the floor, their fingers digging into their own skin. In between breaths they were muttering quietly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

He fell to his knees, hesitating about even touching MC after what he’d done to them. Then he wrapped them in a tight hug, not entirely sure what to do. He had to bite his own lip to keep from panicking himself. He buried his head in their shoulder.

“Hey...hey huma-MC-don't be sorry. I’m sorry, please breathe.”

Levi stepped out of his room to get angry at the commotion, but one look at the situation and the death glare from Mammon made him lower his head and leave them alone. When MC finally calmed down, they were exhausted and embarrassed, too numb for any more crying. He took the both of them back to his room to relax and talk things out so both of them could understand each other’s feelings better.

MC told him about it, how because of one event in their life, they were prone to panic attacks and meltdowns. They curled up on his couch and told them how pathetic they were. He had to cling to them, bury his nose in their hair and told them not to worry. If anyone was pathetic and scummy, he was.

He’ll cling to their side much more often. He’ll come to MC whenever he feels like that again so he won’t lash out at them. If any other brother gets riled up and attempts to cross the line, Mammon will be there to stop them. He’d rather have his siblings take out their anger on him than MC.

Levi

He’s typically quite calm in public, most likely due to his social anxiety. He’s quiet, skittish, and shy. He only ever opens up and comes out of his shell when he’s home. Since he also stays in his room alone most of the time, neither him nor MC were aware of how the others acted under stressful situations.

He should’ve noticed the signs since sometimes he exhibited similar symptoms. Avoiding interactions when possible, the anxiety, the isolation. He just couldn’t get out of his own head enough to realize what that meant. He was too focused on his own problems, on comparing himself to others.

It took multiple match losses, cocky rivals, and stupid teammates before he got his reality check. He wanted to get to hang out more with MC. He’d ignore the fact that Lucifer and some of his other brothers had highly encouraged (or threatened) him to spend some time with the human. He thought of it himself. It was most assuredly his plan. So he allowed them to trespass into his room to play some games with him. Maybe something light. Like maybe some high ranked battle-heavy online matches. Something simple.

Whether they were good at gaming or not, the concept and controls were brand new to them, and so they kept dying. Repeatedly. They found out the hard way that demons are even worse sports when it came to losing than humans were. Once Levi had been ridiculed enough and lost some precious ranks along the way, he snapped. MC could feel him start to lose it, and they took it upon themselves to apologize.

“Levi, I’m sorry, I’ll stop playing. I’m no good. I’ll leave, I’ll-“

The room turned colder as he turned demon. The controller in his hands snapped, and then quickly splintered, circuitry and plastic shards falling into his lap. Even if it wasn’t a huge display, even if he wasn’t directing anything towards them, just the sound of something breaking and the look on Levi’s face was enough to send MC into full blown distress.

MC jumped in their seat, letting out a loud scream, covering their ears with their hands at the sound of destruction. Their reaction caused Levi to almost do the same thing, the last thing he expected was to hear MC shriek. He shook his anger and envy out of his head.

“It’s okay, I have plenty of extra controllers!” He did his best to assure them that he was okay, still unable to realize that while he might be fine, MC was not. He went to put a hand on their shoulder. They flinched from his touch, scrambling backwards with their hands towards his door. Once they made it to their feet, they ran away from him. He got up as quick as he could, following them out his door. All sorts of thoughts were running through his head, most of them self destructive ones, but amidst them all, the thought first and foremost was ‘make sure MC is okay.’

Their wobbly and unstable legs had caused them to fall to the floor again, trying to get back up using the wall as support. Once they saw Levi was approaching, they dropped to their hands and knees, unable to say words through their tears and air-deprived lungs.

There were now two sobbing messes on the floor. As if he didn’t hate himself already, now seeing how he made MC feel made the self loathing worse than losing any rank. He apologized profusely, and out of the two of them, MC was actually the first to stop crying.

With Levi and MC wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, on a cold hard floor in the middle of a hallway, MC told him what had happened to them. They discussed who was involved, and how they never were the same since. It was the first time Levi ever dared put himself above someone, above the trash that dared call themselves human. The maggots that ever thought about harming MC. His friend. His best friend.

Toxic gamer who? Levi doesn’t know them. Gaming sessions are much calmer now, and he’ll always make sure he knows trigger warnings on shows or games so he can filter those ones out of the stuff he shares with MC. He’ll do his best to make sure they enjoy themselves and that they’re kind to themselves.

Satan

He had read several books on mental illness, partly because It fascinated him, another part because he liked using his knowledge to figure out how messed up his siblings were. It was a fun dinner discussion. Help them please So he was aware of the symptoms MC possessed. The way they acted, how they spoke to people, how they would avoid specific things. He was still far away from being a psychologist, though, so even he wasn’t sure how severe it was. He did tend to notice that MC shied away from him anytime he got close to raising his voice or losing his temper. So, for that reason, despite being the demon of wrath, anytime MC was around, he’d be better than anyone else at controlling his emotions.

He was unprepared for an actual hands on experience. No matter how many times he had read about it, no matter how descriptive and in depth the words were, real life was vastly different from books. He’d admit it was his fault, he was rarely wrong, but when he was wrong, he wasn’t as prideful as his older brother to apologize.

It had been a day of many firsts. The first day he invited MC to come watch this old documentary with him. The first time he had such an overwhelming emotion other than anger. The first time someone had screamed in terror when he hadn't specifically been the reason why. And it was the first time he had heard MC scream.

It was a simple documentary about history, and he had ensured it was human history not Devildom history. He thought it was easier to swallow and simpler to relate to. While that might’ve been the case, even he was shocked to find that just the simple history of a single statue would have so much death and abuse. He’d have to thoroughly check these from now on. He had no idea the sound of a gunshot through a television screen would do so much damage.

MC shrieked, and I mean banshee style. All the hairs on Satan’s body stood up on ends. Their body convulsed so badly, they smacked their head on the back of the couch, a little bit of blood already clotting. They had their hair balled up in their hands, some loose strands torn free, dangling from their fingers.

“No, no, no!”

They wailed loudly causing Satan, who was usually calm, to panic. He was used to being angry towards people, not comforting them. The first thing he did was cover them with his body, fighting through their flailing and smacking as they continued to howl in distress. He made sure they couldn’t do any more harm to themselves, using his body as a shield. Their episode was a mixture of fear and anger, doing their best to throw Satan off their body. He refused to let them go, his legs wrapped around theirs, and using his arms to best keep their limbs and head from smacking off the surface of more furniture. At one point, MC’s forehead smacked against his temple making a more than concerning sound. He pressed his own head between their neck, his shoulder wedged on the other side to try to keep their head steady.

“MC, MC! Breathe! Breathe…”

He knew how to ground them, how to use their senses to bring them back to him. He made sure they breathed in for four counts, and then out for four. He watched as the thrashing stopped, the screams turned to squeaks as their throat started to give way. He continued to hold onto them, even after their attack had stopped, head buried into their shoulder till he was sure they were okay. He was also busy hiding his glassy eyes in their body, his ears still ringing.

When all was said and done, he asked MC if it was possible to give him a written list of all their triggers. All books, all movies, all forms of entertainment would be going through him first to make sure they were safe for MC. He would be checking their school work, the school’s lesson plans, and it was one of the few times he actively worked with Lucifer on this. Both of them spending hours pouring over the curriculum.

He was going to figure out for himself what had happened to MC, since he didn’t want to bother them or make them upset again. The only one who should be worried was anyone who had thought they had the right to make MC experience something like that. He was going to ensure they went through it ten times worse.

Asmo

He’s an expert in body language, so he knew something was up, he just had no idea what. He noticed how slumped their posture would get around other people, how they used their arms to hug themselves. He could see the way they nervously picked at their skin or hair when someone mentioned stressful exams. He saw how they refused to look in the mirror. It bothered him. He assumed they were uncomfortable in their own body, and he had just the solution. To make sure they loved their body as much as he did.

While he had good intentions, the demonic side of him just took it to a different level. He had invited them to his bedroom, everything nice and cozy, perfect enough for royalty. He made sure he looked great--but he always did--and he wanted MC to feel the same. Surely, the dopamine hit from what he had planned tonight would make them feel better, and make them love their own body all the same.

So he set the mood, maybe flattered them a bit too much, to be fair. He was so overwhelmed with lust, he didn’t notice how uncomfortable they were. He let them sit on his bed, telling him how soft it was and quiet to boot. Then he made a mistake, taking their laughter and compliments too far as he moved in too close to them and reached for their shirt. Their pupils turned into pinpricks, and as their immediate instinct, they brought their legs up to kick him. Before their knee reached his face, he grabbed it, probably too tightly. They shouted, and before he could say anything, they slapped him. It didn’t sting nearly as much as it would’ve on another human, but it did its job. He was stunned, left alone in his room to gawk at his empty bed as MC ran away, pale as a ghost.

Luckily, it didn’t break skin or leave him scarred, just a bit red, so he would survive. He was surprisingly more worried about MC other than his complexion. He followed after them, discovering them in the bathroom, the door still left wide open in a haste. They were vomiting, tears in their eyes, throat scratched up to hell and back, legs shaking. He had been to many parties before, so he knew what to do. He naturally came over, making sure the hair was out of their face, that they had water, that they especially knew how sorry he was. They flinched under his touch at first, their skin burning and tingling with anxiety. Then they let him pet their head as they got it out.

“I’m so sorry, dear, I crossed a line.”

The effort of expulsion had left MC exhausted, and they moved away from him, head low with shame. They attempted to make their way to bed, to put this all behind both of them. He refused to let them go, not until they had brushed their teeth and had something to drink to make sure they stayed healthy. It was the least he could do. He monitored them as they did so, nervously playing with his own hair to keep him distracted. He did this to them, he did. He should’ve been lust, making people fall for him, making people feel good, not terrified. He felt wrong.

“MC...I’m so sorry...can you tell me?”

If they weren’t already weak and dissociated from the situation, they might never have explained to him what happened, what someone had done. They left out explicit details, but he had heard enough. Lust wasn’t like that, was it? He wasn’t like that, was he? He’d change, he’d be better, he promised. He asked MC if it was okay if he gave them a hug. He almost cried when they said yes. He wrapped them up in the sweetest, safest hug a demon could give.

He doesn’t lay a single finger on MC without asking them first. He makes sure all the brothers do the same. Somehow, even when he’s not around, he’ll know if someone even bumped into them at RAD. Consent for everything and everyone, and if someone dares think otherwise, Asmo is not afraid to get his hands dirty. He moisturizes.

Beel

He’s not dumb by any means, but he’s just not the best at human behavior. He’ll associate MC with aspects of his brothers and just think that it’s normal. He loves his brothers, and he loves MC too, so the signs that should’ve been concerning didn’t click. The way MC liked to keep to themselves was just like Levi and Satan. The way they worked themselves too hard and seemingly didn’t have an enjoyment for more entertaining things, just like Lucifer. He’s almost too accepting, taking things that should’ve been problems into quirks, thinking that it just was the way MC was.

Then they exhibited the only symptom that concerned him. They stopped eating. They would have a bite, maybe two, and then pass it off to him. Of course he would eat it, they were putting his sin right in front of him and begging Beel to take it. Surely, humans needed to eat more. Surely they were hungry. After all, he was eating ten times more than them and he was still starving. It made the food in his mouth taste rotten.

He invited them to the gym. They could watch him workout, they would spend time together, and then afterwards he would take them to his favorite restaurants. That would make sure they ate. No one could say no to the kind of food the Ristorante Six figuratively and literally brought to the table. He thought somehow that would cure things. Food was his solution to everything. It made him happy and healthy and he wanted MC to feel the same.

He was thinking about his plan deep in his mind. He could see the both of them enjoying the best meal they would eat in their lives. He missed the sight of MC getting pale, swaying, wilting under the heat of the gym. He watched as they collapsed, and at that point no amount of food could’ve bribed him away from the problem any longer.

He got them home, in bed, trying not to tear himself up inside for not making an action sooner. Why did he not make sure they ate immediately? Why did he have to give in to his sin so easily? Why were they even doing this to themselves in the first place?

When they woke up, the first thing Beel was going to make sure they did was get something--anything--in their body. MC didn’t want that. They had spent days making sure they weren’t eating, they didn’t want it to be ruined. They didn’t want to, they couldn’t, so why was Beel forcing them? They grabbed his clothes and begged, pleaded with him not to make them eat. They were crying now, sending Beel’s mind spiraling. He knew they needed to eat, they needed nourishment, but he didn’t want to say no to them, force them to do something they didn’t want to. He was so torn, confused, why were they upset over something that would help them? All he could do is hold them as they cried, worried about the fact that they barely had the strength left to do so.

He left them momentarily to rest as he headed away to go ask Satan for more information. Turns out humans, in some cases, like to do things that hurt them. Being a demon, a creature that strives and exists for things that fulfill them and help them thrive, this turned his world upside down. First things first, he made sure they ate, whether they liked it or not. He had to do his best to ignore more crying and fighting. He wasn’t happy until something was in their stomach, smiling a bit as color finally returned to their face.

Now he’s aware of everything they do, taking notes of things they like, and relaying it all back to Satan to make sure it was safe. He has a real hard time making them upset, but he needs them to be okay, to be whole and happy. He can’t take food from them anymore. In fact, much to the surprise of the household, he refuses to eat unless MC does so. He won’t hesitate anymore.

Belphie

He knows too much about humans unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately in this case. After the human race’s endearing glow had faded, Belphie became too familiar with the darker and more upsetting parts that came with them. Mental illness being one of them. He remembers Lilith endlessly going on about how sad it was, how she wanted nothing more than to take their pain away. So, yes, he was probably the most aware out of all the brothers concerning MC’s condition.

He saw the same numb nonchalant look in their eyes as he had. The way they slept too much but went to bed much too late, if they even went to bed at all. They both sported the same dark circles under their eyes. MC had too much apathy and not enough energy to follow through with the few things they did care about. Yeah, it sounded just like him, but he was a demon, it almost came with the job. For humans, not only was it worrisome but he knew how dangerous it could be.

Did he do anything about it? No. He was sleeping too much and doing his best to avoid MC anyway. Why should they want help from someone like him in the first place? After what he did? Helping them was the furthest thing from his mind. He didn’t want to end up hurting them further. Someone else would take care of it.

That’s what he thought, at least, until Beel invited MC for a sleepover in their room. Beel thought it would be fun for the three of them to hang out more, and Belphie didn’t have the heart nor the energy to say no to his twin. Things had gone fine at first, great even. They shared snacks, Beel going as far as making sure everyone got plenty to eat. They all watched a snooze-inducing amount of movies, Belphie spending most of the time switching between Beel’s and MC’s lap to sleep in. And at the end of it all, even the insomniac MC had gone to bed at a decent time. It was a night of fun with of them in a peaceful rest. Maybe Belphie didn’t have anything to worry about after all.

Until MC started screaming. The noise woke him and his brother up faster than anything ever had. MC had the blanket they were sleeping with tangled tightly around different parts of their body.They were covered in a terrible cold sweat, stuck in their nightmare as they did their best to wake up. They kept screaming someone’s name over and over again along with running ‘sorry’s and ‘no’s.

They ended up accidentally scratching their own face with their fingers in the panicked flailing, the pain still not waking them up from the terror. It took both Belphie and Beel to get them awake, and even then, they still weren’t out of the haze for a good while. Belphie’s chest throbbed in pain when he called out their name and they didn’t respond. When they looked into his face, there was no emotion attached to it. It was like they were somewhere else entirely. It was another few minutes before the look of recollection came back into their eyes, and then just after, those same eyes were filled with tears. While Beel did most of the immediate comforting, Belphie realized that this was the reason why they were tired all the time. It was hard to want to sleep and get good rest when nothing but torment awaited you in the night. He understood all to well, and he was sloth, he knew sleep, he could’ve helped them the most in his own element.

He felt it wasn’t his place, but while Beel had MC tightly in his arms, he came in from behind and rested his head against their back, his fingers digging gently into their pajamas. He buried his face into them, feeling every emotional shudder. MC cried so hard, they ended up falling asleep again, too exhausted to keep themselves conscious any longer. Beel picked them up, preparing to put them in his bed, but Belphie stopped him. He made sure MC was curled up by him, claiming it was only due to his much comfier and agreeable bed. Truth was, he was unable to rest soundly now without making sure MC was sleeping deeply, taking slow and even breaths.

He puts a little more effort into taking care of MC after that. He’s the demon of sloth, so he knows ways to deter night terrors and insomnia. If MC refuses to sleep, whoops he already gave them a bit of sleeping potion for tonight. They're going to have to deal with a demon dragging them into bed, clinging onto them so tightly they can’t move. He’s still learning how to do things a bit less demanding and over the top, but MC has been sleeping better lately.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me imagines #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beel #obey me belphie

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actually-reid · 3 years

Text

filling in the blanks as we go - chapter six

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer is absent and you try to sort out your feelings over your argument

We're all back in the bullpen by 9am. Luckily for us, there's no case yet so I'm sitting at my desk typing up reports and statements until we get assigned something else. I'm sat up straight, my complete attention trained on the screen in front of me in a desperate attempt to ignore the looks I can feel I'm getting.

I had made sure to put extra effort into my appearance today, wanting to look as unbothered as possible. My hair is in one of my favourite styles I usually don't leave time for in the morning and my clothes and makeup are impeccable. Unfortunately for me, this doesn't seem enough of a front as I feel JJ and Emily look at me from the coffee machine whilst they chat and my desk neighbour stealing glances at me whenever he gets a chance.

The best way to dissuade Reid of my feelings would be to show no real care over the altercation; if his accusation was false, why would I worry? I waltzed in with my coffee in hand and a smile before settling and getting to work quietly.

Until now.

"Y/N?"

My head turns to face him automatically which is probably best despite how much effort I was putting into tuning the rest of the room out. My mask shows a face of interest with raised eyebrows and my eyes land on his cautious expression. I can see him looking for a line between us that he just can't find, unsure whether to mirror ignorance or hit it head on. We're both reading into each other a bit too much.

"Do, uh, do you have the plans of the unsub’s house? From the file?"

It's the worst excuse I've heard in a while, especially coming from him. I know for a fact that he has a plan of the house in his head that he's probably made down with rough dimensions of each room from memory but I dig out the plans from my case file anyway and hand it to him with a cheap smile before getting back to work. I swivel back to my monitor but I can see in my peripherals that he's still facing me, still looking at me like he wants to say something but can't quite build up the nerve. I'm thankful that I make eye contact with Morgan on the walkway as he comes out of his office.

"Hey princess, how you holding up?" He says as he shuffles down the stairs and heads towards us. I roll my eyes with a grin at the nickname before fixing my glare to the computer again.

"I'm fine, Derek." I don't look up at him. I don't look at Reid either though, which is harder because my ingrained response to that nickname is to look at Reid and shake my head. Pretty Boy and Princess usually suffered together.

"If you say so." He leaves it at that, patting my shoulder as he walks past towards Garcia's office. By the time he's out of sight, Reid has resigned back to his paperwork and I let out a quiet sigh in relief before resuming my work.

Another cup of coffee later and with Prentiss sat at her desk on the other side of me, Reid's phone starts ringing. The Doctor doesn't usually get that many phone calls so I glance at him in curiosity. There's a tinge of reluctance in his speed to answer the phone, staring at the number or contact for a second too long before placing the device to his ear.

"Hello, this is Dr Reid."

I can tell that he recognises the voice on the other end from his manner and everything seems fine until his free hand lifts to rest on his cheek anxiously.

"Alright, I'm going to come visit, maybe I can help calm her down." He's up in a second, hurrying to Hotch's office whilst still on the phone. My eyes follow him as he goes and after he knocks and lets himself into Hotch's office I turn to Emily who has the same worried look on her face as I do. He's in and out as quick as a flash, everyone knowing that Hotch is always sympathetic towards family issues. No longer on the phone, he rushes back to his desk before he starts to shove things haphazardly into his satchel.

All thoughts of our disagreement have left my mind, his anxiety to get going enough to show how serious this must be. "Spence, what's happening?" My voice is soft and quiet but it's clearly something he doesn't expect and I can tell I've halted whatever train of thought he was following. He pauses his movements for a moment and I notice his breaths are heavy as he swallows hard. His tongue peeks out to wet his lips as he thinks before he says, "Walk me out?"

I nod with no hesitation and he closes his satchel before slinging it over his shoulder. We march towards the elevators and when the door closes it seems to cut all tension between us as I watch him sag against the wall. I wait for him to start.

"Mom had a major delusion that one of the other patients was a spy and she just assaulted him so badly he's going to the hospital. I don't think her new meds are mixing well. I'm going to go try and calm her if she isn't calm by the time I get there and then I'm going to have to persuade the study not to kick her out despite their no violence regulations."

"Spence, I'm so sorry."

I'm slow in my movement so he has time to pull away if he wants to, but my palm finds its way to his arm with no resistance. My thumb moves minutely in comfort for a second or two before I hear his bag thud on the floor and feel his arms around my waist. His chin rests gently on my shoulder and he's grasping me tightly but not enough that it's uncomfortable. Despite still not being used to touching him, my arms automatically loop around his neck. He's so warm and completely flush up against me, the smell of coffee and cinnamon nearly overwhelming. We stand there for a second and I pray that the lift keeps moving and no one calls for it. I feel him shake his head slightly into my shoulder and my hand drifts upwards into the hair at the nape of his neck.

If this had been anyone else, I would have wanted this to end as soon as possible but it's him and I can tell he's scared. There's a chance his mom won't recognise him or he won't be able to help and he'll be sidelined leaving him to watch whilst feeling completely useless. Not only that but if he can't convince the facility to let her stay he'll be tasked with finding somewhere else to look after her to good enough standards on extremely short notice. It's daunting and completely understandable. I may be mad at him but no one deserves this.

Eventually, the elevator arrives on the ground floor and I let my hands drop to my sides. He leans to pick up his bag and it's back on his shoulder as the door opens.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I ask him, because if he wanted me to, I know I would go without another thought, whether Hotch allowed it or not. He shakes his head though, stepping out to stand on the threshold between the doors.

"Let us know how it goes, okay?" I say, hoping he hears my desperate me under the us. "Send her our love."

He gives a curt nod to show he will before half turning to go. I even press the button for the sixth floor before I realise he's still stood in front of me.

"You should still be angry with me." He breathes, like he can’t believe I’m even talking to him despite everything that just happened.

"I am a bit." I say honestly. "Your mom is more important right now, we can sort that later."

"Last time you said that I ended up being an idiot."

"Yeah well, try not to be this time?" I say and I'm trying not to sound too exasperated. "Or maybe we'll wait until we aren't in public."

"I don't deserve you." he mutters before stepping forward and putting his hand on the back of my neck. For a second, my breath hitches and I'm so confused about what's happening until he pulls me forwards slightly and I feel warmth coming from his lips on my forehead. It's brief but after he pulls away the sensation lingers like a brand on my skin.

He seems unsure of the action after committing it, scratching at his neck and looking at the floor between us. I'm still recovering from thinking for a split second that he might kiss me, as if he would do that in the middle of Quantico. I feel my face heat slightly just at the thought.

"I'll keep you updated." He says, before he finally looks me in the eyes again. He gives me his signature tight smile and turns to head towards the door and leaves. My fingertips shoot to where his lips had touched me as the doors shut in front of me and I am surprised at the doors closing before I remember that I'd already pressed for the sixth floor.

The first thing I register is the return of some of the anger I felt this morning. How hypocritical was it to do something like that after the events of the early hours, especially if he still believed that I did like him. The only reason you would do something like that would be if you felt the same damn way, which he had clearly proved he didn't. Then comes the doubt because his behaviour really was also hypocritical and his words come rushing back. To notice my pupils dilated or my rushed breathing, he would have to be looking and the only reason you would look for those kind of things was if you wanted them there. He'd admitted to liking my touch and just proved it by the hug in the elevator.

It was so confusing.

I step out of the elevator automatically as the doors open and linger for a second as my mind can't really settle on the correct next step. Surely, everyone would want to know why Reid had left so quickly although I knew most of them would have figured out only his Mom would make him leave in such a rush. The other details he'd told me I wasn't sure if he would be comfortable with me sharing.

"There you are!" I hear and I watch as Garcia shuffles towards me at speed in a pair of kitten heels. "My office now!" she says, all but grabbing my arms and dragging me there.

When I'm finally in her office, she locks the door and plants me into the chair behind hers as she sits down before looking at me expectantly.

"What's going on Penny?" I ask her seriously and in response she crosses her arms.

"Did Boy Genius just kiss you goodbye?"

Of course it's my luck that none of my interactions with Reid seem to be private; first the jet, now this. I sigh and I wipe my face with my palm in what I know even for someone who isn't a profiler is an act of admittance.

"I just wanted to check he was okay and then you guys kind of just hung around the doorway of the elevator for ages and obviously there's no audio like I just wanted to see what kind of state he was in before he left on his own and then I saw him-"

"We didn't kiss Penny, he just kissed my forehead goodbye for some reason." I sigh, putting an end to her rambling.

"Oh honey, for some reason? You can't be that blind."

"Morgan told you everything?"

"I know that you might have a little soft spot for him which I don't blame at all - I think you guys would be great together and uhm yeah, Morgan told me what happened on the jet last night or I suppose this morning really."

I'm shaking my head. "You weren't there, Penny. I've never seen him so pent up and then to say that I liked him in front of everyone, I mean he knew everyone was listening and he didn't wait or anything he just said it because he was losing the argument and Hotch could transfer me with that-"

"Hey, hey - Hotch isn't going to transfer you. You're too good for that and you're part of our family, even if Hotch knew he would turn a blind eye if he could."

"Exactly, none of this even matters because of the stupid rules Pen. I just want everything to go back to normal. You can't tell anyone what you saw okay? Not even Derek."

She nods and coos at me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. I take this as her agreement and cover her hand with my own.

"You know you can talk to me about this honey bun?"

"I know, I know Garcia but I can't right now. I'm gonna go back to the bullpen."

I'm confused, angry and almost upset and yet as my eyes find the empty desk next to mine, longing becomes the most overwhelming emotion. He's been an idiot but isn't everyone from time to time? He's still my best friend and his mom is ill and I know what kind of emotional toll he must be carrying from his mother must have just got ten times heavier.

"His Mom?" Prentiss asks, her voice drawing my attention away from the row of books that lined his desk.

I nod and meet her eyes. I've known Prentiss long enough to know the look she's giving is her attempt to not profile me but still figure out what's wrong.

"He asked you to walk him out?" She prods cautiously.

"He just needed some comfort before he left. He was aware I was still pissed at him."

She takes a moment, either to digest the information or choose an appropriate response. "Good. He shouldn't have pulled that shit last night. How are you doing?"

"I'm okay."

"I wanted to tell you, you played it off well. I can't imagine how you must have felt."

I give Prentiss a grateful but sad smile and she squeezes my hand. I think about telling her everything, how betrayed I feel and how confused I am but Hotch emerges out of his office in a rush and it drags our attention away. Seeing that he's caught our eyes, he lifts a manilla case file before saying, "Five minutes.", and we know that we've got a case. Prentiss gives my hand another squeeze before letting go and we head to the round table in a comfortable silence.

As we sit and wait for the others to show, I try to kick myself back into work mode. I'd been concentrating on Reid so much the whole morning that I find it hard to stop and his empty chair doesn't help. The caffeine from my earlier coffee must be kicking in because I'm jittery and my leg starts jogging under the table as I think until I register Prentiss noticing it and I forcibly stop myself.

I can't seem to concentrate. The others seem to just appear in front of me and then the briefing starts. I take in all the important information but I let everyone else do most of the talking. It's a set of family annihilations and it's not as if all the crimes we deal with aren't abhorrent but destroyed families are always the worse for me, especially with young kids.

"Wheels up in 30." Hotch finishes with and everyone stands up to gather their things.

"What about Reid?" I ask before immediately wishing I didn't. I feel everyone glance at me simultaneously as if in warning. I had barely said a thing the whole meeting only then to ask about Reid. It didn't even take as good a profiler as Hotch to work out where my mind had been the whole briefing.

"He'll join us when he can." Hotch replies and I'm glad that he lets it slide. Knowing him, he can probably sense my own annoyance at my attention being distracted from the work. I give a quick nod before rushing out of the room, wanting to get out of there before I embarrassed myself even more.

I think I hear JJ calling for me from across the room but I ignore it. I grab my go bag from under my desk and head to the bathroom. I drop the bag by my feet and with both hands grab the edge of the sink in front of me and stare into the mirror.

Something must be wrong with me. I've never had a problem with concentrating when it comes to working because I know how important this is. One missed detail can halt the investigation for days which can lead to more victims when we don't catch the unsub in time. I can't let this happen. In the mirror I see my face which I now regret spending so much time on in the morning. I should have slept more, maybe it would have helped and now I can't splash my face with water to calm me down since I have makeup on.

I'm in the middle of pulling myself together when I hear the door swing open. I'm standing up straight rather than leaning on the sink and washing my hands as JJ walks in.

"Y/N?" Her voice is gentle and quiet much like the tone I had used with Reid earlier in the elevator. Do I really look that fragile? I think to myself.

"It's okay to be worried, you know. I'm worried too. We all know how much Diana means to him."

"I know. I just don't want to be something else he has to worry about, like what if the whole thing on the jet was just him trying to dissuade me or, or I don't know. He must have known his mother wasn't doing well but he hadn't told me because we've been barely speaking and then we were so busy with the case yesterday and-"

"Hold on there." She interrupts, probably not wanting me to fall down a rabbit hole when we have to meet with the others so soon. "What happened on the jet wasn't your fault, he was just...an ass. And he knows it, he was looking at you with such regret the whole morning. Did he say sorry when you walked him out?"

"No, he just needed a hug. His mom assaulted someone and we all know how hard he looked for a good study for her Alzheimers, now he's worried she'll get kicked out for it."

"Oh God. Well, I'm sure he'll find a way for them to keep her." she says and I know she's right but it doesn't seem to help that much. We stand there in silence, not quite meeting each other's eye.

"You like him a lot, don't you?" She asks and I realise that this checkup is for more than what's going on with Reid. "We all assumed it was just a little crush at O'Keefes you know."

I hum approvingly as an almost silent laugh. "I suppose that makes me feel a bit better. I was so embarrassed, knowing all you guys knew whilst he was just rambling off 'symptoms of attraction'."

"He's such a nerd! Not even a 'I saw the way you looked at me' just an immediate 'your pupils dilated by 50%'." We both giggle for a minute, knowing that as much as we make fun of him for it it's never maliciously. "Does that turn you off him at all?" JJ asks cheekily with narrowed eyes and a sly smile and I shove her playfully.

"Is it bad if I say no?" I reply and we laugh some more. Usually, I was much closer to Garcia or Prentiss about personal matters but JJ was definitely the second closest to Reid after me and she had been here for many years with him before I had reached the team. It crosses my mind that he had probably defaulted back to her when I had shut him out slightly.

I dry my hands on some paper towel before tossing it away into the bin. JJ hands me my go bag and we link arms, which we've never done before. I'm not sure if it's a breakthrough in our friendship or if she wants to march me to the jet to make sure I don't delay it any longer and I find I don't really mind either option. Morgan, Hotch and Prentiss are all waiting in an SUV outside the lobby and we hop in ready to start another case.

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kashimos-hajime · 5 years

Text

scorched | s.r. + b.b.

summary: “You utterly destroyed me, you know that? I loved you more than I needed to breathe and you just walked away. I lost everything and you walked away.”

WARNINGS: swearing, angst, violence, a post-endgame rant wrapped up as a fic pairing: steve x fem!reader, bucky x fem!reader word count: 7.3k

a/n: inspired by praying by kesha. written for @coffee-with-bucky and her 2k challenge! congrats lyn :) my prompt was “i failed you. i failed everyone.”and i’d be lying if i said i wasn’t inspired by @heli0s-writes and her series “as it was”. check her out! she’s one of my favourite writers on this site!

“She’s not at the compound,” Sam says, not at all surprised to see him and almost resentful, defensive. His phone is still in hand, screen alit from the text Steve sent him a few minutes ago. Everything he left behind is still here by the lake.

Almost everything.

It’s a ghost town.

“But she doesn’t want to see you anyway.”

“Sam—”

“Five hours for you was five, very long years for us,” he continues, but his tone softens when he catches sight of Steve’s face. Absolutely crushed, eyebrows weighed down, shoulders hunched forward, defeated. “She’s different, now. She’s not the woman you left.”

The mere mention of you makes Steve’s heart, already choked with dread, crack.

“And you shouldn’t go, man. It wouldn’t be good for her after all this time.”

Before, maybe Sam would’ve thought of Steve first, but there’s a distance, a yawning gap standing between them now. Sam was here for the bitter consequences of his departure—Steve wasn’t, and he knows they must’ve been shattering, terrifying, because by the way Sam is so cold about it, he doesn’t want to remember it.

“I made a mistake, Sam. I can’t let her go on thinking I don’t regret what I did.” He looks out at the lake where he passed the shield and mantle and responsibilities on to the man before him before he left, and the sun hits the lake so clearly that his breath nearly catches. You loved swimming, propelling circles around him in the blue-green pool at the compound, splashing it into his eyes. Laughing and laughing and laughing because you’re so limber on land but here you’re definitely a fish out of water.

Funny, funny, funny.

“She won’t care.”

“She has to.”

“Look, man. I’m trying to save you some pain.” Sam puts a hand out, hovering before his chest as if he stopped himself, as if he doesn’t even want to touch Steve, and the blond swallows the painful little knot in his throat. “It’s too late, and I know you want to think better late than never, but she’s changed. Things have changed.”

“That won’t stop me from trying,” Steve murmurs, walking around Sam to where a car is parked. His car. The damned car he drove to Tony’s funeral. He’s sure the keys are still in the cupholder beside your old coffee cup. He wonders who drove you home.

Sam? Bucky?

Who held a body with a heart that was tearing apart while he was chasing some fruitless daydream?

“Dude, the woman you knew is gone,” Sam calls, but Steve doesn’t listen. “You need to leave.”

“No, Sam. We made a promise to wait for each other.”

Okay, clause one: we wait for each other no matter what. Clause two: no matter what happens, we promise to work everything out. Clause three: this love is forever. Sign here.

I can’t believe you’re making me sign a fake contract for something we know won’t change, doll.

It’s a real contract because I wrote it, and it’s just for fun, anyway. I would never love anyone else besides you.

“That doesn’t matter. She’s fucking Barnes anyway.”

That stops him in his tracks. Blood freezing over in his body, he turns to look at Sam in his leather jacket and washed jeans, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes are impassive, severe, and dark with blunt honesty.

“Look, they’re happy. So can you just… leave? Go back to the forties. Settle down anywhere but here, because she is happy and so is he. Do you know how long it took for them to even think about trying to move past you?”

“Wait—” The word comes out ripped, hoarse, and he feels the blood drain from his legs as he takes a step back—

“You should just go.”

For a moment, Steve’s eyes, wide and impossibly guilty, shine with tears. At the thought of you with some other man—somehow the possibility never crossed his mind. In his mind, you are the girl who shelters underneath his arm when it thunders, who tucks her face into his chest when the movie is too scary, who peppers his faces with kisses and makes him lemonade after a good training session, who puts flower crowns on his head when they spend a weekend outside the city and makes apple pies so fulfilling he could cry, who would never love another man because you are so wholly, helplessly, in love with him.

And he left you anyway.

So he nods, because he deserves this.

He deserves this, and he leaves.

The wind is warm against his cheeks as he tries to think how he ended up here in Puerto Vallarta, although he does know. Sam dropped him off here with a mission that’ll hopefully lead to another, and you can build a new life for yourself, Steve. One without her in it. If you need something, you know you can call me.

An arms deal. He got a tipoff from one of his CIs that it’s happening tonight by the docks, because he needs his own resources now. There is no Ross, no Tony, no Natasha, no one on his side.

His body yearns for a fight, and he gets it when he hears a soft voice down the docks, speaking in British English, just barely over the lap of the ocean. Crouching behind a metal freight container, he tries to distinguish the voices. At least three bodies, all armed, and his target. One of the biggest arms dealers in Britain down here to make a deal.

Steve, darting out from his cover and to the fire escape by the warehouse, catches a glimpse of the silhouettes of the men waiting. Their shadows are long against the concrete of the dock. The metal clangs underneath his boots as he slowly climbs the steps.

“Where is this woman?” the first man asks roughly, impatience laced through his tone as Steve pulls himself onto the roof. Feet pattering over the metal roof of the warehouse, he keeps himself crouched as the warm, golden sunlight filters through the oily heat. He’s sweating through the kevlar suit he’s got strapped on, and droplets beads around his forehead as he adjusts the shield gauntlets along his wrists.

“She said seven, sir.”

“Tardiness,” the man tsks. “We should’ve known better than to deal with the likes of her. What did I say?”

“That you shouldn’t trust an American, sir.”

“Precisely.” Leaning over the roof, Steve spots the man in question speaking, his suit glowing from the lamplight he stands beneath and he grips the edge of the roof, frowning. The buyer and the seller in one foul swoop. A car door slams and he blinks, tearing his eyes away from his count of at least twelve men, three standing around crates and the other around the man complaining.

A woman steps out of the car, pocketing her phone as she walks towards the illuminated circle, and he frowns, narrowing his eyes. Her face is covered by hair that sways with her every step, but her figure is outlined by the fit of her pantsuit. Even through the clothes, he can see the curve of muscle, the purpose in her step.

A dangerous woman.

“Sorry for the hold up,” she calls out, her voice smooth, rich with confidence. Steve frowns as she stops just outside the circle of light, her silhouette illuminated by warm, rusty orange and cloaked in shadow. “You wouldn’t believe the legalities surrounding contraband in America,” she continues teasingly. “Let me see.”

The man jerks his head to one of his henchman by the crates who cracks it open revealing sleek black rifles, laser sights, silver canisters with a bar along the sides: EMPs, grenades of all kinds. “Is it to your satisfaction?”

“It is. I’m docked in bay four. My men will meet yours there,” she says and head honcho nods. It’s a sign for the three men to pick up one crate each and begin their slow trail up the docks. The crates are massive things, hard black metal that softly rattles with every sway and Steve’s ears prick as the woman steps closer, her heels sharp against concrete.

“I assume this concludes our business, ma’am. It has been a profitable few months. I hope you find your new treasures… helpful in your endeavors.”

“Oh, I’d love to keep communications open. You’ve been a wonderful seller, and as you know, I pay handsomely for quality goods.” Despite his previous irritation, the boss seems to straighten, smiling almost as the men around look at each other. Money. It all comes down to money.

“Of course. My London warehouse, as you know, is open to you should you find yourself across the sea.”

“Perfect. Pleasure doing business with you.” It is then that she steps into the light, and Steve’s eyes narrow at the glint of metal on her ears and in her hair as she reaches forward to shake the man’s hand.

And twist it behind his back, using him as a body shield between her and his henchmen. Her other hand goes to her head, pulling out the pin and digging it gently into the man’s throbbing vein at his neck. It sits comfortably in her palm, almost as if it is molded for her and Steve’s muscles tense, blood rushing to his fingertips.

“Shoot her, now.”

“Watch it, Fitz,” hisses the woman, voice low. She digs the tip of the pin deeper. In the washed lamplight, Steve can see the curve of the blade, the hoop her finger slots into. A throwing knife. “I want you out of this situation alive.”

The knife trails down his body to his thigh and she wraps her fingers tighter around the handle.

Schluck.

The man’s scream rings in Steve’s ears as she tosses the man aside, diving to a stack of wooden crates. Wood and stone splinters beneath the force of bullets following at her heels but she simply unclasps one of her earrings, presses a button and throws it over the crates.

There’s a moment of silence as the men stare at the device at their feet before there is an explosion of smoke. He watches as the woman vaults over the crates and sprints into the cloud and Steve leaps off the roof, pumping his arms to activate his shield gauntlets.

The first man he comes into contact with lets out a startled scream as Steve punches his lights out and his blood is singing. Smoke burns at his eyes and thickens in his lungs as he whirls around, spotting a shadow of a man and he runs toward him, sweeping out a leg to take him down before slamming his knuckles into his nose until he’s knocked out cold and there’s a painful grunt behind him, the resounding collapse of a body that has no intention of getting up again.

Bullets whiz past his face, slamming into concrete and flesh as something rushes past him and he grabs the charging man, swinging his whole body weight into his arms and bringing them both crashing into the ground. The smell of sweat leaks into his mouth as he shoves the curve of his shield into the henchman’s stomach. Once. Twice. Thrice.

The man is rolled over, eyes scrunched tight, when Steve gets off of him.

Eyes straining through the smoke, he watches as a shadow charges at two figures, latching onto the first man and striking the geezer behind him with a power kick to the chest with both legs. The second man stumbles back just as the shadow swings her legs back and brings the first man down to the ground.

Natasha.

That was something he’d seen Natasha practice a hundred times over.

The thought makes his blood run cold and he pauses for a moment, the smoke beginning to thin out as she rolls over the first man and takes down the second with two punches to the gut and a knee to the nose.

Natasha.

This can’t be real. No. Natasha is dead.

Unless they brought her back.

No, Sam would’ve told him, wouldn’t he?

He’s not sure anymore.

His throat cinches shut at the thought of the redhead, of the woman who’d been by his side for years, who encouraged him to fall in love with you. Maybe it’s Natasha’s ghost haunting him, taunting him with some lookalike spy, reminding him of his mistake, and he feels himself paralyzed. The memories, the smile of hers before they went back in time— He’d felt so exhausted at the responsibility of it all, the five years of his failure weighing down between his shoulders. It all rushes back to him: your wobbling lips, brave face on his brave girl, fingers digging into his suit, ordering him to come home safe, Natasha’s coy little smile.

See you in a minute.

Strong legs wrap around his abdomen and he lets out a grunt, yanked out of his dazed state as he wrenches the attacker off his back. The woman falls with smack but her fingers dig into his wrists. Her legs wrap around his arm, dragging him down with her.

Steve pitches forward, tumbling forward as she slams his hand into the concrete. His skull collides with the ground and he squeezes his eyes tight, pain blooming from the back of his head. A sharp knee digs into his other elbow and he sucks in a deep breath, eyes fluttering open to a blurry face.

“No.” The word comes out choked and he blinks against the streetlight, eyebrows furrowing together and the weight vanishes off of him. “It can’t be.” Sitting up, he feels his head swim in a dull ache, world tilting as the woman takes a step away from him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

The words ring in his ears, cold, wretched, and he jerks his head up to see your face drained of blood, lips parted, eyes wide. Your shoulders are shaking, chest heaving for air and it rattles in your lungs. Steve can hear your heart pounding, your throat swallowing nothing but wet air.

“Y/N—” He soaks in your figure, the muscle, the confidence, the sharp lines where everything had been soft. You don’t even look too different—you just feel different. He used to sink into your arms thinking of golden sunlight and soft pillows. Now, when he looks at you, he thinks of serrated edges, ironwire bones. You’ve lost your heels in the fight, but you look taller than he’s ever seen you. “You’re… it’s you.”

“Steve.” For a moment, your voice is choked up and your expression softens as you scan his face, but then you tear your eyes away. Your hair is chopped shorter for practicality, just barely past your shoulders. It suits you. Suits the girl he loves, the girl he doesn’t know anymore. “Steve.”

“Are you hurt?” He reaches for you but you shrink back like he’s burned you. This isn’t who you are. You’ve never been a fighter, yet here you stand, pantsuit a bit scuffed but otherwise untouched, and his stomach twists into a Gordian knot. This is what Sam was warning him about. The snake in the garden come to life. “What are you doing here? You could’ve gotten hurt, doll—”

“Don’t call me that. You don’t have that right anymore,” you spit, voice pure poison. He pushes himself to his feet just as something makes you pause and your eyebrows knit together, raising your left wrist where a watch is strapped on. His head is spinning from his skull cracking against concrete and the new revelation that the girl he knows is a stranger again. He wobbles for a moment, arms out to the side as he tries to regain his bearings but you don’t so much as give him another second of your attention. “Docks are secure, Fury. Fitz is ready for pickup. I’ll send London co-ordinates when I get back to base.”

Steve glances at the bleeding man still panicking about the knife sticking out of his leg, and you go over to him, hauling him to his feet. The man shivers, whimpers when he puts weight on his injured leg but you give no hint that you care. As if on cue, a helicopter swerves through the air, rotors sending powerful gales of air down to the ground as it lowers itself to the ground and you look at Steve with a cold disinterest, hand a fist around Fitz’s collar.

“Believe it or not, I’m not just Captain America’s pretty little girlfriend anymore.”

“I just want to talk—”

“There’s nothing I want to say to you.” Turning around, you lug Fitz into the helicopter with a strength Steve doesn’t recognize and you climb onto the chopper with a grace he knows didn’t exist before he left you.

Don’t go. Please don’t go. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“I’m going back to the compound,” you say over the loud gusts of wind whipping at the ground. “You’ll find Bucky there, if that’s who you’re really here for because if I wasn’t enough for you then, then I certainly won’t be enough for you now.” Pulling back into the helicopter, you yank the door shut with a slam, and Steve watches as it rises, a steady ascension to a place where he can’t follow.

His stomach twists, his whole body wracked with a shaking agony as his heart pushes itself up your throat. Falling to his knees, he keens over and throws up, acid splashing between his hands. He vomits out his heart, every inch of warmth you’ve ever given him so freely, every smile he’s taken for granted, the taste of your smile after you’ve made those apple pies.

He’s left hollowed out, colder than death.

He wants to cry, but even his mind tells him you don’t deserve to cry for the woman you chased away, so he laughs. Laughs until they turn into tears, and even then they don’t feel real. His body is unwilling to yield to the possibility of defeat, and yet here he is.

It was a one in a million chance for us both to survive that Snap, Steve. And Thanos destroyed the stones. If we can’t find a way to bring them back… maybe the only thing we can do now is move on.

Some people move on. But not us... Not us

Take your ring and give it to the girl you really love because it isn’t me.

Steve’s shock. There was less of a protest, only your determination to stop your lip from trembling, the tears already falling from glassy eyes. Grief bit him in the stomach, but yearning tugged his heart toward the platform.

If all you could think about in the ten years we were together was Peggy, I don’t see why I should stop you.

Y/N, you know I love you.

Not enough.

The compound is different. Different plot of land, different inhabitants, different facilities. He pulls up in the lot where the Avengers sign is carved into the stone and he walks the grounds, grounds he used to know but this is different soil.

Another man’s grounds.

“Steve,” Sam says, cautious on the track. He’s wearing a tee-shirt and shorts, skin glistening with sweat and a water bottle in hand. He’s got a comm link in his ear and it glows blue for a moment before muting itself. There are a few recruits running a few laps and Steve eyes them wearily before approaching Sam. His beard was shaved two days ago, his hair chopped clean even though it makes him more noticeable now. He hopes no one says anything about the old Captain America pathetically dragging himself back to a place he tried to run from. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. told me you came in.”

“Yeah. I… I just wanted to see Bucky.” Your name bites at his tongue and it takes all his strength not to confess what happened down in Mexico before Sam glances behind him to a building he doesn’t recognize. It’s connected to the main facility by a long tunnel but there are doors to the track as well, and they open just as Steve fixes his gaze on it.

Two figures stumble out of the building, a piercing shriek splitting the air with glee as one of them runs away from the other. Even from the distance, Steve can see the metal glint of Bucky’s arm, your favourite swimsuit strapped to your body. Bucky’s holding onto something as he chases after you and you barrel through the grass, towel cloaking your shoulders.

“They’re happy, man,” Sam murmurs lowly as they get onto the track and you’re still running but you’re no match for a super soldier. Bucky scoops you up, tossing aside his water gun and wrapping you in a huge hug from behind. “Even if Barnes wants to see you, do you think she does?”

“I already saw her in Mexico,” he utters softly. You’re laughing so loudly it makes Steve’s chest explode with light. You thrash in Bucky’s arms and he pretends to nip at your skin, growl into your ear as you tug at the towel around your neck. You’re… you. Just as he left you. Nothing like Mexico. “Why is she in the field, now? She’s not a soldier.”

“That’s for her to explain, not me. I don’t get to try to describe the hell you put her through, Steve.” Bucky puts you down and your feet in those strappy tan sandals sink into the grass as you spin around. You plant a kiss gently on Bucky’s lips, using the corner of your towel to wipe away drips from his hair before stealing another kiss. Steve’s mouth tingles, burning uncomfortably and he looks away. That used to be him, leaving the pool, smelling like chlorine and sweat and then popsicles to cool down because nothing screamed summer like fruit popsicles and swimming.

“Steve?” A tentative voice calls and Steve’s eyes refocus to the source on reflex. You’re staring at him, eyes narrowed into knife points and you hold Bucky’s arm to your chest, your fingers entwined with his as his old friend walks towards him. “Steve— you’re back? What are you… what are you doing here?”

“Guess the past isn’t where I belong,” he says with a forced smile that digs into his cheeks and Bucky lets go of your hand to hug him but his lips are parted, his eyes wide. He doesn’t believe this is real and when Steve meets your eyes over Bucky’s shoulder, your gaze is burning. Bucky’s arms squeeze around Steve tighter, tight enough that even he can’t breathe. He’s shattered in his arms, Bucky is, and Steve can only hold him.

“Let’s go inside,” Sam says, ever the mediator. Steve looks at him but his eyes are on you, and Bucky’s pulling back and then his eyes are on you, too. All eyes on you and your worried lip between your teeth. You’re tanned, toned, and your hair is shining underneath the summer sun as Bucky steps away from Steve as well. As if the euphoria of having his best friend is gone—it is. He chose a daydream over his family. “You guys need to get dry.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, eyes darkening as they linger on Steve’s face. Soaking him in, thinking a thousand miles a minute, trying to sort through whatever storm lingers in his head. His eyebrows hood his gaze as he lowers his head and Steve can see him slip away as you take Bucky’s hand, cup his face, and turn him away.

“Popsicles, yeah? Gotta get the last ones before Wanda steals ‘em away,” you whisper and Bucky’s nose brushes against your head before they begin to walk away. Bucky’s shoulders are hunched over and you’ve got an arm around his waist, and there is something sacred in the way his head brushes against yours, the way his arm drapes around your shoulders. The way his fingers play with the fluffy towel around you, bringing the corner of it to your wet cheek. The way you step in tandem.

Something tender, something hallowed, something not his.

You’d been sharp and scorched in Mexico. In Bucky’s presence, you are nothing but dewy grass and a gentle fire, and he sees the tension ease in your shoulders despite a knot lingering in your back.

Once you’d been soft like cotton clouds like it was your nature, eager to stay away from the fight. You were just the receptionist at Stark Towers and Steve had fallen first, so eager to protect you because you were kind, gentle, funny and you didn’t care about who he was. Just that he was Steve and you were you.

I can’t let anything happen to you. You can’t protect yourself against these guys, Y/N. They’re… they’re monsters.

And he left you to them anyway, in a world still struggling to find itself repopulated and alive—

I failed you. I failed everyone.

The realization devastates him. No matter how hard he tried to fix the world, he destroyed his life anyway.

“Come on, man. If you wanna talk, we should do it in private,” Sam says. Steve follows him numbly into a building he doesn’t know anymore.

You’re sitting with your legs bent and angled in towards Bucky, playing with a butterfly knife that flows too easily between your nimble fingers. Sam sits on the leather seat and Steve leans back into the sofa as you bite softly into your red popsicle. Strawberry. Your favourite.

Bucky’s sucking down a blue one but his face is placid, eyes burning into the glass table between them as Sam sits down with a cup of coffee he had offered to make for Steve. The blade flips over your index finger, and then back around again. Your hair is stringy and wet, tied away from your face as you set down the knife and turn to Bucky, eyes searching. You brush his hair away from his face even though it’s cropped shorter now and smile even though he doesn’t focus on you.

He doesn’t miss Bucky’s hand around the curve of your thigh, holding you to him as if you’ll slip away otherwise. He fights the nasty remark pounding against his teeth—that’s his girl his best friend’s got his hand on—but he knows it isn’t his place anymore. Steve watches you lick sweet strawberry melt from your lips, trail your fingers along Bucky’s head delicately and pull his temple towards you for a quick peck.

It’s almost as if Bucky wakes up at your touch, and he turns to you. He searches too, scans your gaze and Steve feels like he’s intruding on a moment so he looks into his lap.

“So?” Sam prompts, tearing everyone out of whatever bubble they’ve encased themselves in and pulling them back into harsh reality. “Who wants to go first?”

There’s silence where Bucky puts down his popsicle stick on the bowl brought out, blue melt sliding down the wood slowly as you bite down on the last of your own treat.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is quiet, accepting already.

“I have so many things to say and I don’t even know how to say any of it, but I know to apologize,” the blond says after a moment of hesitation. His breath keeps catching in your throat and you lean forward to drop off your own stick by Bucky’s, almost a statement to his own words. “I’m sorry.”

“For?” Sam asks for clarity, but Steve entertains the notion that maybe even his friend wants to draw it out of him.

“I didn’t know what I had until I lost it.” Steve makes a point to meet three pairs of eyes except you refuse to look at him, instead staring into Bucky’s lap like he doesn’t even exist, like you don’t exist either. “I should’ve stayed. Should’ve thought it through and realized that... everything I had back then is everything I had here.”

“Is that all?” Bucky stares at him with something like pity, something like jealousy, and Steve knows it has all to do with the woman in his arms. Ten years of conflict to push lovers together compared to five years of overcoming heartache because of one man. Steve would be jealous—had been jealous of Steve of 2012. 2012 Steve had a whole decade of love waiting for him and he has none. “Are you here to stay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“If you think you can come here and have everything that was yours just given to you on a silver platter, then you’re wrong,” you speak up for the first time and it sucks all the warmth out of the room. Bucky turns to you, hand raising from your thigh to brush a wet strand of hair away from your cheek and you clench your jaw, lips pressed together. “We built our lives without you in it.”

“Y/N.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees but you seem to shrink away from him, eyes tortuously meeting his.

“You leaving me was the best thing that could’ve ever happened to me,” you whisper with a rage unbridled, unchained, just barely containing itself from exploding. “It made me realize how much stronger I am then you have ever given me credit for.”

“You weren’t that girl when I met you.” Soft girl with sunshine smiles and gauzy white dresses—lemonade pitchers, tulip gardens—you weren’t that girl, Steve’s mind protests but when you unwind from the couch, stretch every languid muscle in your body, he wonders if he ever saw you as anything more than someone he had to protect.

“I believed you when you said I couldn’t fight.” You stand, gazing openly at him and he swallows at the hopelessness residing in your gaze, still there after five years. “That I wasn’t enough like you to even try to help. All I ever was to you was some pretty little thing who was scared to fight back and maybe I was because you sheltered me for ten fucking years.” Your voice twists with pain, overflowing with a frustration of lost time and pure, pure sadness. “You leaving me made me stand on my own two feet again.”

Bucky reaches forward to take your hand when they all see it tremble but you simply roll it into a fist and step away.

“You put me through hell, Steve. I had to learn how to fight for myself because you weren’t there. Because you left me for some fucking daydream.” For a moment, he thinks you soften because your eyebrows fall and you close your eyes. The muscle in your jaw ticks, your nose twitches, and when you open your eyes again, they are glassy with tears. “You utterly destroyed me, you know that? I loved you more than I needed to breathe and you just walked away. I lost everything and you walked away.”

Tony. Natasha. Boss. Best friend. Colleague. Sister.

“How could you do that?” you whimper, blinking as tears scorch down your cheeks and you wipe them away angrily with the heel of your hand. “How could you just look at me, look at Sam, look at Bucky, and think that there is nothing worth staying for?” You throw out your hand helplessly, waiting for an answer that won’t come and Steve chews on the inside of his cheek, throat swelling shut.

“It felt like minutes,” Bucky says at last, and the darkness in the room, the stifled feeling in Steve’s chest eases only a tad because Bucky is not nearly as thunderous as you are. You twist to look at him, arms crossed over your chest and Sam reaches to touch your arm, fingers wrapped around your bicep. You spare him a glance before looking at Bucky. “We died, we came back five years later, and it only felt like minutes.”

“Bucky—”

“You chose to leave what felt like minutes after I died, after Sam died, and when Y/N told me what happened… Steve…” A shuddering convulses down his throat and Bucky looks down into his lap. You unfold your arms and immediately go to sink into the couch, wrapping an arm around Bucky. Your eyes pin him down, red-rimmed with unshed tears, accusing: you did this to an already broken man.

“I’m so sorry, Buck.” The apology sounds plastic in his mouth with how many times he’s said it, thought it. “I’m so sorry.” He says it again anyways, and he directs it at the two other bodies in the room. You gauge his expression, watch him like he’ll vanish in a flash of smoke.

“I was happy for you if leaving meant I never had to see you again. I know you deserve a happy ending, Steve. You deserve rest more than anyone I know,” he says, “but you need to know what you want before you decide to risk it all. You can’t come crawling back for second chances because there are none. You don’t come back and have everything stay the same. There’s a price every time you give something up.” He looks up, eyes like clear water. There’s nothing angry in his old friend’s gaze, just drained. “If you’re here to stay, you better be sure that this is what you want in the end.” And then Bucky is up, rubbing at his face like he’s tired rather than an inch from crying. Steve watches him go—they all do—silently, and then you look at Sam who gets up to follow.

There’s a moment when you meet eyes with Steve and he can feel the love you swaddled him in for ten years, through the Snap, through the Accords. No matter where he was, you were there.

Then that love disappears.

“I want you to hurt like you made me hurt,” you begin softly, hands folded in your lap, t-shirt hanging off your frame, stuffed into your shorts. “Like you still make me hurt. I want you to wake up crying, I want you to rub your face raw, I want you to stay awake all night just wondering why this has happened. I want nothing more than you begging on your knees for something you can’t stop no matter how hard you try because somehow you just aren’t enough.”

He closes his eyes, lets your words devour him whole.

“Bucky was there,” you continue quietly. “He was there for me in a way you never were. He drove me home after you left. Told me that the best was yet to come. That I just couldn’t see it yet, and I didn’t believe him. For the longest time, I didn’t believe a single word he said.”

“Until you did.”

“Until one day, I looked at him and told him I know. That I know, one day, things will change,” you agree and something melts in your voice when you speak of Bucky. Kindred souls, the same heartache lurking still in chests just beginning to warm from love again. “Maybe it hurt less that day so I decided that I have to accept that this was my life now or maybe I was just so sick of crying that I told myself that this isn’t who I’m going to be. I don’t know. I just woke up one day, and he asked if I wanted to go swimming. First summer after everyone came back, and I wanted to say no, but I just had to say yes because it was swimming, and it was Bucky, and he was barely holding it together but here he was… taping and gluing me like I was some abstract project.” You chuckle, a wet sound, before glancing down at your knees. There is something you’re not telling him, and he knows it’s something secret to you and Bucky alone, so he doesn’t push it. Doesn’t ask—his chest already feels like it’s cracked open. “Some of the pieces won’t ever fit again.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “did he train you?”

“Yeah.” Explains a Black Widow move. You sound proud, but not of yourself, of your own feats and talent, but of him. “He encouraged it. Said it was only right I knew how to fight.” Steve’s stomach turns and he looks down to swallow. Bile is burning in his throat. The threads of his heart are tearing.

“I know it’s all I’ve been saying, but I’m sorry. I… I just tried to protect you in every way I could.”

“I know.” Your words are soft against his battered ears, and he looks up at you sitting there, ramrod straight but a certain gentleness that reminds him of the past. “I know you loved me in the way you could.” Clutching, grasping, desperate not to lose another woman he loves. “When you saw Peggy, did you just decide that that was easier?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I just felt like I was missing something. Something…”

“... you couldn’t find here?”

“Just something.”

You ruminate on that, eyes fixed on the popsicle sticks and Steve rubs his hands together, head bowed. The silence is terse but not hostile, and you pick up the butterfly knife on the cushion. You don’t flick it open, just run your thumb over the edge and Steve thinks you might cut him stem to stern before you place it down on the glass table.

“I used to stay up all night wondering where I went wrong,” you say it frankly. It’s not meant to hurt him anymore. You seem tired of being angry, but it’s still there, just there underneath your skin. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t eat unless Bucky made me. I would’ve rather starved than live in a world where you didn’t love me, but he said if he had to go on, then so did I. He never asked for anything in return, and I was just so fucking angry at myself that I listened to him just to spite myself. I cried all the time. I didn’t move from my bed for months. Yet, one little part of me,” you murmur, gaze rising to meet his, “always just wanted you to be happy. I wanted so desperately for you to make the right choice because then maybe this would’ve been worth it for you.”

It’s big. Your words hang on imaginary strings around his head, whistling in the faint air conditioned wind, and he clenches his jaw, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Although you’re barely holding yourself together before him, you’re deathly beautiful.

“I’m so glad that you’re so loved,” Steve intones quietly. “I’m so thankful that Bucky loves you.” He doesn’t need eyes to feel it. It’s a quiet thing, unshaking yet fragile as flowers and light as dandelion wisps.

“I didn’t think he did.” You lean back into the couch, tuck your feet underneath yourself and cross your arms over your chest. “It took me a long time to accept that he does, and now he won’t believe that I do, too.”

The confession sinks its teeth into Steve’s throat and threatens to tear his flesh.

“I tell him and I can tell he doesn’t believe me sometimes. No matter how much I want him to, it’s the one thing he can’t believe because…”

You were my girl, Steve thinks.

“He doesn’t believe he’s worth staying for. Worth choosing. You did that to him, you know? Did that to me.”

“I know.”

You stare at him and he looks at you, curled up on the couch. Your face is drying, but that torn expression still sits on your face as you run a hand over your middle, fingers folding as you close your eyes and duck your head.

His eyes trace the gesture, eyebrows knitting together, and then he looks at you because he knows. Because it had been their dream once, and when the fight is over, baby. The world still needs you, Captain America.

He had said, half joking, When will they ever stop needing me?

When you grow old and grey, and another Captain America is ready to take your place.

“Bucky’s?” he asks, body numbing. You nod, raising your eyes to his. “Does he know?”

“No. I only found out a few days after Mexico.” Three weeks ago. “I want to make it past a few more weeks, just to make sure.” You tuck your knees to your chest, arms folded over your abdomen and Steve tries to imagine it swollen with life. No longer lean with muscle but bountiful with a miracle. Blue eyes, blonde hair— no. Not anymore. “Just wanted time.”

Time. It’s all he’s ever wanted, and now…

“I know.”

Now he has none at all.

Your eyes meet his, fluttering and haunted, and he simply meets your gaze. There’s a quiet understanding in that moment as you bring your hands up to hug yourself, and he swallows, leaning back into the couch. His hands rest on his thighs, and your back sinks into the back cushion of your loveseat as he thinks of what to say.

Perhaps there is nothing to say.

Instead, his right hand goes to his pocket where a ring is still pinched tightly in between the creases. The diamond is sharp against his flesh, and he tugs it out carefully before setting it on the glass table between them. You stare at the thing, watch it glint. It’s mocking you, but Steve doesn’t want it and he doesn’t know what else to do.

“It’s always been yours,” he says, pushing it to your side of the table. The diamond scrapes against glass but doesn’t leave a mark. “It’s never been anyone else’s but yours.” The ring clatters against the gass. You’d worn that damned thing for years on end. First it was the Accords, then Wakanda, then the Snap, and he should’ve married you when he had the chance—he should’ve done so much more than what he did.

“Do you love me?” you ask quietly, eyes unmoving from the winking gemstone. The golden band is glowing in the pale lights of the compound as he nods.

“Yes.”

You reach forward to grab it, extend a leg to shove it into the pocket of your shorts, and then you’re sitting there, feet on solid ground again. You gauge him, study him, eyebrows down, lips curved into a soft frown.

“Okay.”

You stand and pick up the knife before grabbing the bowl as well. You clear your throat and look over Steve’s head, at the walls with photographs and paintings and a dartboard by the doorway, and then you look at Steve again.

Your futile attempt at a smile makes Steve smile, just barely, before you walk past him and head for the open kitchen. You set the bowl down in the sink before heading for the hallway, and Steve can hear your step, your off-rhythm breathing.

“Do you love me?” he asks, turning to look at you, and a sigh whispers past his lips as you pause. Your hand is in your pocket as you turn around, playing with the knife or the ring, he doesn’t know.

“You can’t ask me that, Steve.” Your voice is steel, your eyes unforgiving, and that soft girl is swallowed up by the scorched woman, burned by his absence. You haven’t forgiven him. You never will. “Look, I’m going to go find Bucky. We have… we’re going berrypicking in the afternoon, so…”

“Yeah, no, go. Don’t let me keep you.”

“See you tomorrow, Rogers.”

There’s an utter sense of finality to it. A chapter closing permanently and you’re already on the next page.

“See you.”

The door slides shut and you’re gone.

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ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa · 4 years

Text

Bogotá Kiss

Prologue: There Was a Boy

Summary/Author’s Note: Javier Peña had finally gotten his life together. He was a newlywed, back in the states with his bride, and starting his new life free of Escobar and the world of the cartels. That is until he found his wife in bed with another man. On a path of self destruction, he goes back to Bogota, reclaims his job with the DEA, his partner Steve Murphy, and throws himself into his work, cheap whiskey, and the company of his...informants.

You are a singer in the hottest burlesque club in Columbia. Pulling yourself out of poverty and into a world where men throw money at your feet, buy you diamonds, and pay untold amounts for your services. You don’t mind that the club’s biggest source of income is smuggling diamonds from the necks, wrists, and ears of its prostitutes and into the pockets of their buyers, until a handsome DEA agent gets too close and figures out the scheme.

**IMPORTANT: For those familiar with Moulin Rouge--The reader will NOT die at the end. Fuck that. Let Javi be happy god dammit.

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader (Moulin Rouge/French Kiss AU) Word Count: 1.6k (its just a prologue, the next chapter will be better) Warnings (for entire fic): NC-17/18+ - Language, sex, prostitution, mentions/implied R*pe (nothing will ever be described in detail or used as a plot device), typical canon violence for NARCOS, shooting, attempted murder, drug use, blackmail, hurt/comfort, lies and betrayal, happy ending

[MASTERLIST]

"It's not what it looks like."

People didn't actually say that line, did they? And worse yet, no one actually would possibly believe it. Right? The words fell from her lips and suddenly Javier Peña felt like he was watching a movie about someone else's life. A cliché of a film in which the idiot of a husband walked in on his wife bouncing on the dick of another man. He was that idiot, and as she scrambled off the lap of the stranger and called his name, he slammed the door behind him, not bothering to wait for an explanation. Queue the laugh track or cut to the scene of him walking in the rain to somber music.

Only this wasn't a movie. There would be no comedic relief, just a lot of heartache, wasted time and money. He had always had a bad habit of falling for the wrong girl. He would see himself mirrored in the eyes of the broken, the depressed, the ones who, much like him, just seemed unable to catch a break in life. But instead of getting a kindred spirit to share his world with, he usually just got a lot of baggage and a quick lay.

He packed a bag, not giving a shit about any of his worldly possessions, and found himself at the Dallas airport, sitting at the bar and waiting for his gate number to be called.

He raised two fingers, letting the bartender know he wanted a fucking double, as he held his cellphone to his ear and listened to it ring. The boxy phone didn't fit comfortably against his shoulder and he dropped it just as the other end picked up and Steve's voice came through.

"Murphy."

"Fuck. Shit." Javier fumbled the phone and held it back against his face.

"Javi?"

"Yeah, it's me." Javier sighed as he picked up his whiskey and tossed it back with a mild wince. "I'm on my way back."

"I heard." Steve paused. "Carolyn called. I told her I didn't know where you were."

"Thanks, 'appreciate it."

"I talked to Noonan. She said your job's still open. You can have it and the keys to your apartment."

They both paused for an extended period of time. Javier ordered another shot of whiskey and Steve breathed quietly on the other end of the phone. Neither one of them had to say out loud what they both already knew. Javier had fallen for the wrong girl, again. His heart was broken and he wanted to drown out the ache he was feeling in cheap booze, a carton of Marlboro, and expensive pussy.

"I'll pick you up from the airport. Safe trip, Jav."

"Thanks, Murph."

Javier pressed the button on the phone and rubbed his forehead with a heavy sigh. It was all smooth sailing from here. He was on his way back to normalcy, back to doing what he did best, hunting Narcos and not having any emotional ties to anything that mattered.

The car ride from the airport had been quiet for the most part but Javier could tell that Steve was just dying to ask. So, when they parked in front of the apartment and neither one of them moved, he dug his smokes out of his jacket pocket and rolled down the window. He flicked his silver lighter to life and inhaled deeply as Steve shut off the engine.

"Go ahead. Ask."

Steve sighed and looked at his friend. "What happened, man?"

"I let it go too far, like an idiot. And she couldn't even wait until the honeymoon was over before she tripped and landed on some other man's dick." He inhaled deeply and ran his thumb along his mustache.

"Shit. I'm sorry--"

"Don't," Javier cut him off and shook his head. "Okay? Don't."

"You file for divorce?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "Lawyer is drawing everything up now so we can sign it."

"I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm sorry, Javi. You seemed happy." Steve looked at him and Javier flicked his cigarette out of the window.

"Yeah, I know." He took another long drag of his cigarette before tossing the butt out onto the sidewalk. “Tell Connie I said ‘hi’, okay?”

With a mumbled thanks for the ride and a couple of quick 'see you tomorrows', he opened the car door and grabbed his suitcase out of the back seat and walked up the stairs and into the apartment building. He went through the motions of coming back to this place that he knew quite well, as he went downstairs and stuck his keys in the door without needing to turn on a light.

He tossed his keys on the side table and kicked the door shut gently as he dropped his shoulder bag and looked around. The only furniture that the place had was the old embassy supplied leather couch, scuffed up coffee table, and bar stools against the kitchen counter. Fuck. That settled what he would be doing tomorrow, getting all his furniture out of storage and having the embassy replace what he didn’t have.

Before tossing his leather jacket on the back of the couch, he got out another cigarette and let it bob between his lips as he mumbled to himself. He inhaled deeply and tossed his lighter next to his keys before making his way to the kitchen. When he opened the fridge, he didn’t know if he wanted to run upstairs and kiss her, or if he wanted to clutch his chest and cry.

The entire appliance was completely bare and wiped out, the light making the white shelves look entirely too bright, but sitting in the middle of the top shelf was a covered casserole of some kind and a bottle of whiskey. A note was taped to the tin foil that read:

“Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Please eat something while you drink this. -- love, Connie.”

At least Steve knew how to pick a woman, because that’s exactly what Connie was, one hell of a woman. Javier grabbed the bottle of liquor and mentally promised Connie that he would eat later. He wasn’t hungry. He really hadn’t been hungry for the last few days, and as he looked at the whiskey and cracked the seal on the lid, he didn’t mourn that the kitchen didn’t have any glasses. He was well beyond the need for a glass.

He took the bottle to the couch, kicked off his boots and plopped down heavily. The whiskey was a familiar burn down his throat and he felt it all the way to his belly. Warm, inviting, and just what he needed. Another drink was followed by a long drag of his cigarette before he kick backed and muttered, “Home, sweet, home,” to a cold, empty house.

The banging on the door permeated his skull in a way that he didn’t think was possible. But then again it had been a long time since he had been this hungover. He rolled over on the leather couch and shoved his face into the cushions and prayed that whoever wanted him would just go away. There was no one on this green earth that he wanted to speak to.

He must have fallen back asleep briefly because the next thing he knew, his partner had let himself into his apartment with his spare key and was nudging his leg that was hanging off the side of the couch.

“Javi,” Steve said as he plucked the empty liquor bottle from under his friend’s arm. “Javi!”

“Is too early,” Javier mumbled into the leather of the sofa.

“It’s 4 in the afternoon.” Steve said, setting the bottle on the coffee table. “I told Noonan you were taking the weekend to unpack--” Steve looked around the apartment and then back to the horizontal man. “Looks like you’re done.”

“Fuck you.”

Steve shook his head and put his hands on his hips. “Come on. You need a shower. I’d offer to buy you a drink but you smell like you’ve got that taken care of. So, how about a lap dance? There’s this new place on the other side of town--got your name written all over it.”

“Go away.”

Steve, rubbed his hand down his face and glared at the shell of the man that he had gotten to know over the last couple of years. The day Javier Peña turned down a lap dance, it would have been a cold day in hell and yet the evidence was right there in front of him. Someone needed to tell the devil to go check his thermostat.

“Mmkay.” Steve said sharply and took the empty bottle over to the sink and filled it about half way with tap water. When he dumped it on top of Javier’s head, the way the dark-haired man sputtered and sat straight up brought him more joy than it probably should have. “Good morning!”

“F-fucking hillbilly,” Javier cursed as he pulled the hem of his shirt up to wipe his face.

“Get your ass in the shower and I won’t tell Con that you didn’t eat her food she left you.” When his friend paused long enough to lower his shirt and glare at him, Steve continued. “I’m not fuckin’ around, Javi.”

The two men stood at odds of one another, but the blond refused to relent. Javier shoved his now soaking wet hair back from where it was plastered to his face and nodded. He stood with a groan and gave Steve his middle finger as he trudged to the bathroom at the end of the hall.

“Missed you, too, bud!” Steve cupped his hands around his mouth in a mock yell after the other man’s retreating form. It was going to be a long road to getting his partner back to his usual self, but the natural place to start was with some no-strings-attached pussy.

PERM TAG LIST:

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carry-on-my-wayward-butt · 4 years

Note

He did? Umm.. what happened exactly?

(referring to this post)

my 11th grade chemistry teacher had an associates degree in liberal arts.

you know how in virtually every class you’ve ever had since middle school, your teachers made a big stink about the syllabus? she didn’t have one. this was her first teaching job, which she got because of her length experience as a substitute, not by her licensing qualifications. we were, at first, excited to have her, because she was a “fun sub” and we were 17 years old and stupid as all shit. we were the “normal chem” class in a system where the only other options were “honors chem” which was filled with children who actually know how to study (or cheat) and have an air of proper student activity, and “AP Chem”, which is clear enough if you’ve been an american student in the last 15 years.

she followed the mcgraw hill chemistry book in order of chapters, despite the fact that our state standardized tests did several of the chapters out of order. ever notice how you’ll suddenly be looking at chapter 11 when just last week you were on chapter 5, then the next week you’re on chapter 8? standardized testing is the reason. anyways by asking my friends in other classes who had chemistry teachers of relative competence, i was able to discern which chapters i should focus on, and while she was distracted with literally watching youtube videos all period, I was turning around in my seat and walking across the classroom helping my friends and enemies with the packets. (she was a two-packets-a-week kinda teacher.)

yes i said enemies too. the people i hated, i hated because they were sons of bitches i wouldnt piss on to put out a fire. i hated them so dearly i used to pray to god that they would bump into me so i could throw myself into the concrete and split my forehead open and get them expelled due to the blood-clause of our “zero-tolerance policy”. two of the kids in my class had, only the previous year, attempted to set my hair on fire.

i hated the teacher more.

it gave me extreme pleasure to see her fume and clench her fists when a student would say “i need help” across the classroom and she would move to get up and they would say “oh not you miss, im waiting for vicky.” jesus christ the only time ive ever felt a comparable high was when i was at a halloween party in college where i was literally so zooted i couldn’t move.

it got worse over time, her getting more and more angry, my ego growing larger and larger. i was a huge bitch in high school, i really thought i was the smartest bitch in the room at any given moment. severe main character syndrome. imagine that kind of person actually being right for 45 minutes out of every day. can you even comprehend the kind of frustration that would create? in a room full of little sociopaths who dont give a shit about anything but getting this joke of a class over with so they can graduate? your first real teaching job and they look right past you, the teacher, to this annoying little shit whose grades are completely abysmal? how are they managing to learn anything from a child who can barely speak in front of more than 10 people? who turns cherry red in the face of literally every authority figure in the building except you? who can’t concentrate and stay still in one spot for more than five minutes? all of your other classes behave! they listen! they sit down and shut up and do the packets! so what fucking gives!!!

so you say “fine, since you all HATE ME so much i just won’t teach then!!!” on literally week fucking ten of teaching. and instead of prostrating themselves before you, begging you to like... point at transparencies and read directly from powerpoints i guess.

and they all collectively say “okay” and let the chipmunk child flutter between desks and help them memorize formulas and mnemonic devices and shit. surely her grades will suffer if she’s constantly dealing with other people and you’ll have justification that her horseshit is “distracting” and “a detriment to her studies”. she got bored gave up on that after two days after nothing changed.

then we did the midterm.

except at the end of the exam packet was something we never learned because again, she was going through the book chronologically. because i actually enjoyed the chem book (so much that i stole it when the year was up lmao), i knew the material.

it was about lewis dots/structures. i couldn’t tell you a damn thing about it today but in december 2010 i absolutely knew that shit. i didnt have too much of a problem with it in the exam, but the students who had gotten to that point were complaining and at first she pulled that “you should have been studying independently uwu” shit but the class was about to get loud during exam period so she shushed us and said that when we get to that point, just stop, and she’ll mark it correct during grading, no harm no foul just keep it quiet. one of the more confrontational students called horseshit and said theres no way we’re trusting that and there’s definitely no way anyone will keep an entire classroom cheating at the instruction of the teacher quiet.

i offered to teach it.

she scoffed, rolled eyes, said “sure fine but you can’t get your exam back” and i said “okay.” so when everyone was to the point in the exam, we piled them all on her desk and i used the whiteboard to briefly and quietly explain lewis dots, used the book examples and problems, and helped the other kids understand. there were a couple exam questions that were lifted straight from the book problems so i skipped those. while teaching i realized i had gotten a couple wrong which sucked :( it was an incredibly stupid experience overall, and no teacher worth the paper their certification is printed on would have allowed that to happen. and fucking yet.

anyways everyone but me got their exams back and finished it and many of us passed, only a few of them did particularly well.

discussing the chem exam with friends who also took the chem exam, many students found their anecdote about the lewis dots to be confounding, for you see, the exam we took was not, in fact, the midterm, but the god damned final.

she had us taking the fucking final because she didnt read the fucking folders which read “midterm” and “final exam” on them

she was reprimanded severely and we all had to take the exam on different days, in different classrooms, sitting very far apart. after that she hated me even more. like girl it was your fault lmao i am literally a teenager grow up lol. anyways you can imagine how much more fucking insufferable i became, knowing how miserable she was.

it all came to a head in february when some students were giggling quietly following a minor fuck up on her part regarding bellwork. they were making fun of her like “are you sure thats not tomorrows bellwork lol” and a friend next to me did the “hey i need help wait no miss not you sorry” thing and when i answered him, she solidly snapped. blah blah YOURE SOOOO DISTRACTING blah blah YOU THINK YOURE SOOOO SMART DONT YOU blah blah blah and she was like demanding i leave the room and shouting at the top of her lungs at me “ YOU POISON THE MINDS OF EVERY OTHER STUDENT HERE. YOU’RE POISONOUS VICTORIA, YOU’RE A VIRUS IN THIS CLASSROOM.”

i will never forget that line as long as i live. it was like crack to me. i moved to open the door to leave and the vp opened it first. he escorted me to the office and asked me what happened, then told me to keep my head down in class from now on, and that if i wanted to help my friends i should give them my number and help them out on our own time. i was like “bro thats really stupid” and he was like “thats all we can do right now but i promise we’re working on it”

i lasted the rest of the year giving smug smiles as we did packet after fucking packet for the rest of the year. they were all take-home work. i wasnt comfy giving my number to my enemies. the class camaraderie ended.

the final was altered. my class took a different final than the rest of the normal chem classes.

i started 12th grade and got a solid case of senioritis. i told that story to anyone who would listen. while it was happening, i obviously told my favorite teacher everything as it happened. when i mentioned it senior year he was like “oh yeah i forgot about her,

she was fired over the summer.”

#let me tell you bitch i SCREAMED......#anyways im not sorry this was long #its literally the only cool thing thats ever happened to or about me so shrugs #Anonymous

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autumnslance · 4 years

Photo

Febhyurary 24: Aetheryte

(More words & pictures below the cut; takes place just after the events of Heavensward 3.1 “As Goes Light, So Goes Darkness”. Now also on Ao3)

Thancred glowered up at the aetheryte. The morning light was obscured by a light snowfall, the blue glow of the device tinting the plaza. The knight handling the fees had a vague eye on him, but Aeryn was keeping the man mostly distracted with pleasant conversation and a thermos of Fortemps cocoa.

Thancred took a breath and carefully reached his hand toward the crystal, willing his aether to align with the beacon it provided. He sought the familiar static sensation, the satisfying snap of attunement.

Nothing.

He ground his teeth and told himself the sting in his eye was from the cold wind whipping up from the canyons surrounding the city. He took another deep breath before turning back to Aeryn and the knight, smiling broadly. “There we are. Now I do believe you said there was more you wished to show me?” He called to his colleague and prayed she hadn’t been paying close attention.

Aeryn curtseyed to the knight who returned a low bow. She passed Thancred the thermos. “Looks like you could use this,” she said, leading the way from the aetheryte plaza toward the Arc of the Humble.

“I could, actually,” Thancred replied. “It’s too early to be awake.”

“This was your idea,” she reminded him.

He shrugged and took a swig, the cocoa creamy and still pleasantly warm. He almost wished for liquor after his failed attempt at attunement--the reason he had wished to try so early, when most Ishgardians were still abed or at early morning Mass.

Fewer witnesses to his latest embarrassment.

“Are you all right?” Aeryn asked quietly.

“I’m cold,” he answered. “And thinking this was a terrible idea. Remind me not to start my days here again until after the first Mass is out, that’s at least approaching a reasonable hour.”

He tried to keep his tone light, but could feel her gaze on him. She had been staying on his left as they walked, keeping anyone else from suddenly coming up from that side, but when they stopped she would move into the line of his good eye. The one not suffering from aetheric overlay, causing double vision and headaches. He wasn’t certain how to approach fixing that issue, either.

It made the lack of aetheric response all the more galling, being able to see the hazy impressions flowing through the world. Not so well as a pair of their goggles for taking readings, but it was there. Within sight yet out of reach.

Even for something so simple as teleportation. Even a child could attune to the aethernet for gods’ sake. He had hoped, foolishly, now that he was back with the others perhaps something had changed, that it had been something about the Dravanian wilderness preventing his magics but--

“Thancred?” Aeryn was repeating his name; he rarely got so lost in his own head as to miss entire conversations. It just wasn’t safe to not pay attention--nor polite when in such fine company.

“Sorry, I must be more tired than I thought. It’s been an interesting few days, and we were thrown into the thick of things on arrival.”

She led him across yet another square named for yet another saint toward a steaming, clanking building. “I was saying, this is the Skysteel Manufactory, run by the Haillenartes,” she said as they paused by an aethernet shard. “The eldest son, really; he has a new kind of firearm he’s been handing out to the commoners.”

“Ah, so Hilda and her friends?” Thancred had wondered where her weapon had come from.

Aeryn nodded. “They make all sorts of other devices and tools, too; Cid and his team worked with them for a time as well.” She glanced his way. “Seems like something you’d be interested in.”

His shoulders tensed. “What makes you say that?” It sounded snappier than he meant it to; he hadn’t told any of the other Scions about his current problem--he knew and dreaded that he would have to eventually, if it didn’t somehow clear up--but if anyone was going to figure it out besides Y’shtola, it would be Aeryn…

But she simply shrugged. “You like to be prepared for eventualities,” Aeryn replied mildly. “Just seemed the kind of thing I thought you’d like.”

They watched one another for a long moment as he tried to read her expression and tone. Her grey eyes were the same flat slate of the city’s stones, tension lines obvious at their corners and at her mouth. Her tone was just a touch too even.

She knew something, but she wasn’t sure what she knew yet exactly. So she offered options hoping one of them might help.

Thancred smiled. “You’re right of course. Good of you to think of it as I’m not sure I’d know what to make of the place on my own.” He looked past her shoulder. “Is that a fireplace?”

She blinked at the sudden shift, then turned. “Oh, yes; one of many around the city.”

“Let’s take advantage of it, shall we?” He began to head that way, hoping she wouldn’t—

“You should attune to the shard,” she commented, he thought a bit pointedly.

“In a moment,” he lied. “Let’s warm up first; I know you must also be feeling this ungodly cold.”

“It’s not as bad as when the sky’s clear,” she mused, following him to the glowing hearth.

A minor noblewoman served a simple breakfast of warm buns and thin coffee to the chocobo handlers of the nearby stable. She happily passed servings on to Aeryn and Thancred. While the coffee wasn’t Momodi’s strong, spicy blend, it would do until the pair of Scions returned to Fortemps manor.

Thancred chewed on the coarse loaf and considered confiding his predicament to Aeryn. If anyone could understand, it would be her. Perhaps by now she had figured out how her own aether had realigned to allow her the use of magic after her childhood difficulties, or maybe...

No, he thought, watching her say hello to a poor hedge knight and his son, acquaintances of hers somehow. This was something he would simply have to figure out, before it became an issue. Whether by relearning how to use even the simplest spells or by finding other ways to make up for his lack, he couldn’t let the Scions down.

They still had to find Minfilia. He would not sit on the sidelines while others searched.

“About ready to head back?” Aeryn asked. “I was thinking of swinging up through the Jeweled Crozier, show you the market in the Pillars.”

“Would be nice to properly see it,” he replied, finishing his coffee. “So long as someone doesn’t get distracted by fancy dresses,” he teased.

Aeryn pouted. “No idea what you mean.” She broke into giggles, her cheeks red from more than the cold now. “I do have a specific stall I wish to check, but just the one, I promise.”

Thancred grinned. “Ah, your nefarious scheme becomes clear; I’m to carry your excess purchases for you.”

“Well if you’re offering, after dragging me out into the cold.”

“You volunteered, my friend, since few others get up so early as you. But if this is the price I must pay for your company…”

“I swear, it’s only the one.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he replied, tapping his chin in thought. “That time in Sapphire Lane…”

“I’m not ever living that down am I?”

“Not a chance. Shall we?”

Aeryn made an exaggerated sigh before breaking into giggles again. She led him from the hearth as he continued to tease, with the added benefit of distracting her just enough to neglect the aethernet shard as they instead took one of the winding stairs directly to the landing above toward the market. So long as he could keep her distracted he could make it through the morning, giving him time as he readjusted to civilization and the new situation the Scions found themselves in. All while not worrying them with his condition until he had something figured out.

At the very least, despite his time alone in the wilderness, he could still make a friend laugh with his teasing; that was in itself a start.

#Final Fantasy XIV #Febhyurary #Midlander #Heavensward #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #pre-relationship #shippy nonsense #Aeryn Striker #Lyn Edits #Lyn Writing #when you unexpectedly write a buncha words for a prompt

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years

Text

Away for a Moment

Here’s a smattering of feelings. It’s self indulgent af and sad. So yeah. No specific race or gender of reader.

Calum didn’t think missing you would hurt this much.

Find Part 2 Here

Enjoy my masterlist

You can support me on kofi

You weren't gone gone. Calum could pick up the phone, tap on your last message to him and pull up your number. He could call. He could lay in bed with the phone pressed up to his ear and wait for your voice to float in through the other line. It would be easy, so damn easy.

But he knows if he did you wouldn't be able to answer right away. It's barely evening. The sun has just started to caress the horizon through his windows. But you hadn't sent another message to let him know that you had gotten back to your apartment from training. Calum figures that maybe you spent a few extra hours out to get some work done and doesn't want to disturb you.

It's just not the same anymore without you. His bed isn't full like it used to be without you. His kitchen isn't full of music and dancing, and cooing at Duke like it used to be without you. And it's entirely selfish Calum knows the way his fingers ache to craddle your face and the way he wants to tell you to stay with him.

Staying with him would make him miss you less. Staying with him would ensure that the house never feels empty. But having you stay doesn't ensure your dreams. Staying with him means a very real possibility that all the opportunities that you had worked so hard to find would pass you by. Calum can't ask you to stay, but he wishes he had spent more time memorizing the way your shampoo smells fresh from a wash. He wishes he had recorded more of your breakfast concerts.

Still working hard or hardly working? Calum hits send on the text, sitting up on the bed. Everything in him wants you to come bursting back through that door. Everything in him wants to kiss your lips one more time and savor the taste of your fruity gum--a habit you picked up to replace the nervous nail biting.

Everything in him wants his goddamn phone to buzz. But it doesn't.

Calum pads into the music room and office. Duke's still on the couch and Calum's not sure when the old man wondered into the room or why Duke hadn't traveled away from the couch just yet. As he gets closer to the couch, Calum sees what Duke's curled up on--your sweatshirt from your alma mater. The one you couldn't find as you were unpacking boxes and sorting out your closet.

Calum reassured you that you had packed up most of your clothes and that it would turn up eventually. Attempting to move anywhere in a weekend always seemed better in theory, but when training got moved up--you had to get into high gear. Packed to the hilt in his SUV, Calum and you set out for a cross state trip. It was only a few states over. Only put you an hour ahead of him. He could pick you up or you could take the train or a plane for cheap back to LA.

He had already planned to visit you. He said it jokingly to you, but he had cleared his schedule for early October to come visit just for a weekend. He planned that for most of it, you'd be holed up studying or grading papers, but at least for a few hours in the small blimp in time the two of you could sight see and just get fucking lost for once without worry.

Calum snaps a picture of his old man curled up on your old sweatshirt and sends it. I found where that sweatshirt went. I think I'm going to have a hard time convincing him to let me ship it you.

Calum settles onto the rolling chair, staring at Duke and out the window beyond. How could he miss you so fast? It was only a week. Just a week ago he was rearranging sofas and building bookshelves and unfolding your clothes while you put them all on hangers. Just a week ago you were navigating him to the Wal-Mart, Target, Bed Bath & Beyond, Best Buy, Burger King, Chipotle, and Chilis laughing as you confused your right and left for the millionth time.

Just a week ago when you tapped on the wrong Wal-Mart because it was the first one that Maps showed you. Just a week ago the two of you were laughing, curled up under your new bedsheets. "You're gonna leave me for two years, and I can't believe it," he whispered. You had fallen asleep, the fan in the corner of your bedroom blowing a constant stream of cooler air onto the both of you.

And how could Calum say that he couldn’t believe you were leaving him when he left you all the fucking time? How much of a fucking hypocrite could he be to say that?

He tried to reason with himself. Even though Calum left, he always knew he’d be coming back to you. He knew you’d always be there. And now, his home is across state lines. His house doesn’t feel like his house anymore because he had built a home in you and now you’re not here anymore. This physical building doesn’t really mean jack shit to him anymore with you. And sure it was only two years; it was only two years in total that you’d be away from him. And sure the degree was practically paid for, and sure, Calum couldn’t keep you from chasing your dreams.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t miss you while you were out there soaring.

Was this how his mum felt when he left at sixteen? Did she have a strange bubbling mixture of sadness and pride? Because that’s surely what’s brewing in the pit of Calum’s stomach. That mixture is what makes his fingertips ache.

There’s still no new message from you. Calum drops his phone to the desk with a clatter, burying his face into the palms of his hands. “God, I should’ve moved with them,” he mutters into the open air.

The two of you had this conversation a thousand times over. You didn’t want him to move because what would the other guys to music wise while Calum was with you? And what about Duke? And would Calum sell his house or keep it while renting something else for those two years? Your life was a little easier to uproot, since you knew you’d be coming back. This is just a step into the world that you wanted and you didn’t know where it was going to take you from there, but Calum couldn’t be his life on pause.

It’s like bile in his throat. The way the tears are stinging his eyes and his throat starts to burn. The tears are silent. Just the upturn of his lips and the sting of hot and salty water down his cheeks. The amount of things that can change a week are unbelievable and Calum’s not sure how he’s going to make it another eleven months and three weeks.

His shoulders shake. The heels of his palms don’t do a damn thing to hold back the tears. You’re not gone. He can pick up his phone, tap onto the last message he sent you and pull up your number. He can call. He can sit in this office chair with the phone pressed to his ear and wait for your voice to float in through the other line.

Calum’s phone finally shakes, it buzzes for a long interval, stops, and then starts again. He’s quick to wipe his hands onto his sweatpants and flip over the device. He taps to answer the call and his phone chimes, the video of you bouncing down a sidewalk fills the screen. “Hey, Cal. Sorry, I hung back to chat with some other student teachers. I think I could shit a brick right now. But I hear a certain old man’s hogging my favorite sweatshirt.”

Calum sniffles, wiping underneath his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah, that would be Baby Grandpa snuggling up with it.” He’s relieved to see you, to hear the chirp in your voice when previously you cried into your dinner just a week before moving because of the nerves and anxiety.

Calum’s praying his voice isn’t too croaky, that it doesn’t give him away. But he knows it well. And when your pinched brows and concerned flooded eyes land onto the screen, Calum knows you know.

“Babe, you alright? Looks like you’ve been crying?”

“I’m-yeah, no, I’m okay. I’m happy to see you.” If he can change the subject he doesn’t have to explain why he keeps sniffling. He doesn’t have to explain why his eyes are no doubt red.

“Angel, please don’t do that. Tell me what’s wrong.” The white cord of your headphones bounce and he can hears your harsh exhales. And it only reminds him that you’re not here.

“I miss you.” It’s just one sentence; it’s only three words. But it makes his chest feel like it’s been punched in. It feels like someone’s pulling his spine out through his diaphragm.

You pause, taking in his red eyes and the wobble of his chin. And you know. You know he didn’t want to admit it, but there was no way to hold it in anymore. “I’m sorry, Calum. I miss you too. I miss Duke. I miss you grumbling that I’m too happy at seven in the morning.”

Calum exhales a little, a small bit of laughter following after it. “Breakfast sucks with you. And I know this is what you have to do for yourself. I can’t stress how proud I am of you for doing this. But fuck, I didn’t realize it’d be this hard.”

People pass you by. Calum can hear them, the muffled parts of their conversation coming through your mic. You are so far away and it’s killing him. Two years. Two years of the two of you building up a relationship in tiny corners and through handwritten letters and stolen kisses and in text messages. Two years and you had cracked the defenses Calum had and he didn’t want to let you go.

“I’m coming back, my love. There’s weekend trips and school breaks.”

You get it though. There was a year where Calum was just gone. He was bouncing between time zones and when he did come back home he was prepping for the next leg of a tour, the next leg of promotion, the next part of something. And it’s so hard to create a new routine initially. It’s hard to regulate who you are on your own.

“I feel like a hypocrite. Because I left. I don’t know. I feel untethered.”

You nod. “I understand that. It’s an adjustment, a huge one. It’s okay to feel a little unraveled.”

“And I don’t want to add onto your stress. I know it’s not easy.”

“I’m here for you. You know that. Who’s answered your calls at 2 am before?” Calum doesn’t respond. Can’t as another wave of emotion rocks his core and he rolls his lips over his teeth to swallow back down the emotion. “And who do you think is going to be there to answer your call again at 2 in the morning? Or 3? Or 6 in the morning? At noon? At 6:37 in the evening? It’s gonna be me no matter what.”

Calum reclines his head into the cushion of the seat. It’s always been you. You’ve always been there when he needed it. And even if you are miles away, you still responded. You still called back.

“Thanks,” Calum says. His chin still wobbles. He blinks back the rest of the tears. “So tell me about it. What did you do today? We can talk after you have some food.”

The world continues on about you. More people pass you by and you watch Calum. His eyes are still painted red. But his voice doesn’t break like before. It’s a bit of a breeze so you settle onto the bench for the bus even though you can hear it coming down the street. A strong breeze creates static in your mic for a moment before your voice comes in clearer.

“We went over one of the assignments in depth that we have to teach. Met some other student teachers. I talked to my faculty mentor about my course schedule and work schedule and they said that I probably should let myself go easy this first semester.”

“So you did drop a class?”

You nod at Calum’s question. The bus rolls to a stop in front of you, but you don’t look up from your phone. “I did. I was scared to because I really wanted to take that class. But I heard it’s also offered in the spring, so I enrolled for it then.”

“Is it with a different professor? Or the same one?”

“Different one.”

The conversation flows until your bus comes back around again and you know you have to take it this time. But you keep Calum on the line. And he’s just watching, with his elbows on the desk and his head supported by his palms, he watches you. And it’s nothing glamorous as the bus rattles and shakes. Your phone lays in your lap, cradled in your hands. Occasionally, you glance down to cross your eyes and stick out your tongue at him and he hums his laughter.

It’s the little things. Like watching the way your head reclines into the window or how you just know when to pull for your stop. And as you walk down blocks and stop to wave at a dog as the owner jogs past. And Calum knows he’s not there with you. He knows that you’re not walking up to his door, but maybe all he needs are the little things with you.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks as you step into your apartment.

“Literally it might be hotdogs because I’m mentally exhausted.”

“You need a veggie too.”

You laugh, keys hitting the counter. “I won’t forget a veggie. I’ll call you back in a bit, yeah? After I eat and get some homework done.”

“Okay. Can that be a daily thing? Just so I know you get back home safely.” It’s soft as he asks, unsure if it makes hims sound overbearing or not.

“Sure. Once I get my schedule set, I’ll let you know and we can do that. Make sure to send me more pics of Duke though, since know he owns my sweatshirt now.”

Calum stares down at the black screen. You’ve long hung up, no doubts scarfing down the hotdogs you mentioned. And while the ache has subsided, Calum still feels you in every inch of him. He feels the yearning. The sun’s slipped behind the horizon, the last feathers of light won’t last long. And before Calum’s thinking his fingers are slipping over the frets. He bent over the bass, thinking maybe, just maybe the notes will make sense of the feelings in his gut.

Your phone chimes, pushing rubrics and sticky notes to the side, you pick it up. A notification from instagram, from Calum. The video’s completely dark and it’s just him bent over the instrument as its throaty cries swell. Post you blues, it reads. The caption is tiny, almost missable if you’re not careful. But you see it. If you had any other choice, you wouldn’t have left. If it wasn’t your dream, you wouldn’t have left.

I love you. Even across miles and interstates and timezones, I love you.

Calum wants to tattoo the text message to his eyelids, so when he goes to sleep at night or when he closes his eyes to keep form crying, he can see that you’re not gone, just away from a moment.

______

@5-secondsofcolor bc my Sunshine asked me to tag her so she could read it after shleeps.

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood imagine #calum hood fic #calum hood x reader #calum hood x reader insert #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos imagine #5sos fic #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #5 seconds of summer imagine #h writes #calum 5sos #calum hood blurb #calum hood angst

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pappydaddy · 4 years

Text

Heather Part Two (j.m.)

A/N: Okay, so I have decided to start saying as little as possible in my A/Ns just to see if it brings in more interaction, if you guys want me to continue my ramblings, just shoot me a DM or something and I won’t stop them. This is a repost bc nobody saw this the first time?? Pls interact with this (preferably reblogging, but likes are good too!)

Anywho, this is the second part of Heather (my JJ imagine based on Heather by Conan Gray) and this is told from JJ’s perspective, I got this idea when I found this kinda parody/cover of the original song which will be linked below. I put some different scenes in this one too so it’s not just a retelling of my first part. Anyway, enjoy!!

Show/Movie: Outer Banks

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Reader

Warnings: Sad, angst, longing, negative thoughts about oneself (appearance, personality, etc), comparing to other people, jealousy, unspoken feelings

Might do a part three? I’ll probably do a part three.

Heather Cover by Zachary Tay

Part One | Part Two - You’re here!

masterlist | taglist | wips | navigation

- not my gif -

He didn’t technically see her when she arrived at the beach, but he still knew she was there before she wandered down the dunes. He couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder, trying to get a peek of her. There she was, her shoes swinging by her side, her hair blowing in the wind as she walked. She didn’t look towards the group of her friends, instead, she scanned the beach and JJ found himself missing her gorgeous eyes. He watched her, her eyes slowly drifting towards the fire JJ sat at. In a spilt second, their eyes connected and JJ wished he could stay in her gaze forever, but her eyes were ripped from his as she breezed past the group.

The girl under his arm laughed loudly, making him draw his eyes away from Y/N. He looked at the black-haired girl (Heather) donned in his sweater, clinging to him as she laughed at something John B had said. “What’s so funny,” JJ asked, trying to play off his absence. He didn’t really listen to John B’s recount. “Oh, must have had to heard it in the moment, I guess.” He mumbled, his eyes following Y/N as Jack, her co-worker from The Wreck ran towards her, a large smile on his face. He took in Y/N’s appearance, the sweater she wore was too big for her, it certainly wasn’t hers. It dawned on him like a lighting strike; it was Jack’s sweater. He felt a pang in his heart, remembering how she looked in his own sweater, the very sweater Heather wore right in that moment.

He remembered how good Y/N looked in his sweater and how often she wore it after he had given it to her. On Heather, it was just a piece of polyester fabric, but on Y/N, it was much more than just a sweater. The day she gave his sweater back to him was the day he concluded that she didn’t like him. He couldn’t imagine how he even thought she would like him, he’s not even good enough for his father and he could barely stand himself. How the hell would Y/N want him if he didn’t even want himself? He didn’t even understand how Heather liked him.

His eyes followed Jack as he ran off once again, obviously apologizing profusely to Y/N. Jack was everything JJ wasn’t: sweet, smart, hard-working, career driven, and loved. JJ wanted to hate Jack, but he couldn’t, he was too good of a person. He could see that Y/N and Jack would make a good couple, he could see why Y/N would have her gaze set on him. His dark hair, his tall stature, his boy-next-door smile - he was the complete package.

Setting his eyes on Y/N yet again, he saw her sit down on a piece of driftwood, staring out at the ocean as the waves lapped up towards her barefeet. He let himself imagine that the sweater she was wrapped up in was his. He often replayed the December night he gave his sweater to her in his head, imagining that he had actually done what he wanted - kissing her. He liked to live in that alternate story at night, laying in his bed. He sighed, glad he didn’t kiss her in the long-run, for he didn’t know who he liked more: Y/N or Heather. “JJ, you should tell Heather about that one time when John B was high off his ass when CPS came knocking on his door.” Kie laughed, capturing JJ’s attention from the girl sitting on the driftwood.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure.” JJ laughed, remembering that day as he launched into his story. Though his eyes weren’t on her, Y/N still plagued his mind, having been there that day as well, skipping school to smoke with JJ and John B. He laughed as he retold the story, poking fun at John B, but leaving Y/n out of the story, not wanting to pull her into his fling with Heather, knowing there will be drama if he did.

Though he was immersed in the story he was telling, he still noticed Y/N standing and walking along the beach, leaving the party before it even started. The bleeding colours in the sky made her skin glow with pink and orange, making her look like the figure of beauty. As she walked away, JJ could have cried. He didn’t understand how he, the boy who wanted nothing to do with the messiness of love, ended up in this situation.

____

The words Kie had told him earlier rattled in his brain like a single pill in a bottle. His mind played that moment back like a movie reel continuously playing. Once it ended, it restarted again. Like a painful torture device used to drive him to the brink of insanity.

“I don’t get why Y/N keeps avoiding us! We never see her anymore, not since Heather started hanging out with us,” JJ groaned, plunking himself down on the couch dramatically. He had asked Y/N earlier at school (after cornering her at her locker) if she wanted to have a movie night just like old times, but she had told him she was going to study for a big biology test she had. “Why does she even need to study anyway? She’s at the top of her biology class, only second to Pope, of course.” JJ threw in the last comment, pleasing his friend who sat beside him on the couch, a freshly popped bowl of popcorn in his lap.

“You guys do know why, right?” Kie asked, looking over her shoulder at them as she shifted through the DVD collection, the group deciding to go old school for the night. JJ shook his head while John B and Pope both nodded, making noises of understanding. JJ looked around, confusion clearly painted on his face.

“Y/N still likes JJ.” Pope commented, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth, chewing it as if what he had just said was common knowledge.

“What?” JJ asked, panicked, glad that Heather was hanging out with some of her other friends tonight instead of being with them. If she had been here, he would have never be given this piece of information.

“You didn’t know?” John B asked, bewildered that JJ hadn’t picked up on anything.

“Obviously not-” JJ cried, his eyes wide.

“It was obvious, we all thought you had known by at least December third when you gave her your sweater, we thought that was you making your move on her finally.” Kie explained, shrugging.

JJ still couldn’t believe that. If only he had seen how much she liked him, maybe he wouldn’t be praying for his eyes to catch her’s every time she walked by him. Maybe he wouldn’t want to cry every time they broke eye contact. Maybe he wouldn’t have assumed she likes Jack. He groaned, flopping around in the spare bed at John B’s, staring up at the dark ceiling as moonlight casted the window’s shadow onto the white surface.

If he had known how much Y/N liked him that night, he wouldn’t be questioning who he liked more still. Maybe he didn’t like Heather at all. Now that he knew that Y/N likes him, he started to realize that maybe he didn’t truly like Heather, instead, only liking the idea of the distraction from the one he really liked. Though he realized this, he couldn’t do anything about it anytime soon. He had plans to eat lunch tomorrow with Heather and the group, he couldn’t break up with Heather at The Wreck.

_____

Y/N was working today. That was the whole reason they were eating at The Wreck, to see her. John B and Pope missed her, Kie was able to see her during the shifts they shared or during shift changes, but the boys hadn’t seen her. JJ and Heather stood on the deck, leaning against the railing and JJ was giving the performance of his life. He couldn’t have Heather thinking that something was going on with him (he still had no idea who he liked more) so he was trying to act as normal as possible around her despite the fact that a war raged in his mind.

He tried to keep his eyes on Heather as she talked adamantly. JJ nodded along, not really listening. Heather was beautiful and kind, but JJ grew bored easily. They had nothing in common. He was a surfer, she was from the city filled with concrete buildings and shopping malls. She just didn’t understand the joy in the little things. When JJ wanted to stargaze, she’d rather gaze at a TV screen. When JJ wanted to just sit on the beach and listen to the waves, she wanted to take pictures. When JJ just wanted to sit on his surfboard and let the waves roll under him, she didn’t want to ruin her make-up.

Her hand squeezed his as she asked him about the stores he shopped at. He, not wanting to ignore her, joined her one-sided conversation and explained his mode of gaining clothes. She listened for the most part, but listening wasn’t really Heather’s strong suit. She loved to talk, not that JJ minded, but he would also like to have a conversation without being interrupted with a completely different story. He shot a glance in through the door, seeing Y/N at a table, talking with the costumers. She nodded, a shining smile on her face. JJ loved talking with Y/N. She’d listen, she’d talk. He’d listen, he’d talk. It was a perfectly balanced conversation with Y/N.

He looked back down at Heather when she had asked him yet another question, but JJ wasn’t listening. “I’m sorry, what?” He asked, blinking. Heather giggled, thinking JJ was just a spacey type person who stared off in the distance, zoning out easily.

“I asked about your shark tooth necklace, I’ve always wanted one.” She told him, the hand, that wasn’t in his, reaching up to fiddle with the shark tooth. JJ looked down at it, smiling fondly.

“My friend made it for me with the shark tooth I found, I’ve never taken it off since they gave it to me.” He left out that it was Y/N who made it for him while she was going through her necklace making phase in middle school. She had made it too big originally, but it was okay since JJ grew since then.

“Oh, well, maybe I could wear it sometime,” Heather asked flirtatiously. JJ gulped, not knowing what to say. He didn’t want to give it to her, but he didn’t want to start a fight before they ate a meal with his friends in public. Instead of answering, he pressed his lips to her’s in a lingering, long kiss. Heather smiled, giggling against his lips. Pulling away from the kiss, JJ glanced at the parking lot to see if John B and Pope were there yet, but his eyes came up with nothing. Heather shivered as a strong wind blew by them. “I’m a little cold.”

JJ looked down at her, seeing that she didn’t have his sweater on. It was different, when Y/N had his sweater, she always wore it, or at least brought it, just in case she got cold. Heather didn’t bring it anywhere unless JJ asked about it. Wordlessly, JJ unlaced their fingers, dropping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. “I wonder if Y/N is cold? She doesn’t have a sweater on, only a t-shirt.” He thought, watching the parking lot out of the corner of his eye. He sighed, trying to clear his mind.

“Yo! Let’s get some grub! I’m starving,”John B cheered, piling out of the van with Pope who cheered in agreement. JJ pulled away a bit too quick to play it off as normal while John B and Pope jogged up the stairs, their sneakers slapping the wooden deck. They walked right into the restaurant, leaving Heather and JJ to follow them. The bell above the door dinged, making Y/N and Jack look up from what they were doing. JJ looked up, seeing Jack leaning across Y/N, his shoulder touching her torso ever so lightly as he cleaned up spilt water. “Hi, Y/N! Where is your section?” John B asked.

“Sorry, John B, I’ll have to take your table so she can get cleaned up, next time.” Jack told him, getting another dry towel to try and help her dry her clothes so she wasn’t dripping everywhere. JJ could sense John B’s disappointment, and he had to admit he was a little bit disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to hear Y/N’s sweet voice that he missed so much.

“Thanks, Jack,” John B nodded his chin in Jack’s direction. “Maybe we’ll talk before we leave, Y/N.” Y/N looked back up from her shirt at the mention of her name, nodding. Their eyes connected as Kie and Heather jumped into a conversation. Every time their eyes connected, it was such a relief to JJ it truly was a sight for sore eyes. Much to his disappointment, their eye contact was gone as fast as it came when Jack interrupted.

“That should be good, Y/N,” She looked from JJ’s eyes to meet Jack’s. The sight of her eyes connecting with Jack’s made JJ want to cry, missing that tiny connection that seemed to be the extent of their friendship these days. “You should go get changed, I’ll take these to the table for you, table four, right?” The group started to move, but JJ wanted to stay there, see if their eye would meet again before she disappeared to change, but he had to go with them. He was just out of earshot when she replied to Jack who carried the tray of drinks towards table four effortlessly.

____

He knew he shouldn’t have done this at school. He was kicking himself as Heather weeped, her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, Heather,” He whispered, nervously looking at the crowd watching them. They were stood next to the side of the building, the crowd gathering in the parking lot. He had tried to do it privately, but he also wanted a clean cut. When he saw his sweater in Heather’s hand, he had known that today was the day. “It’s just not working out.” He tried to console her, his fist gripping the sweater he held now.

The group watching whispered, making JJ roll his eyes. Now he was going to be painted the villain, the heartless asshole who broke up with the girl in front of the whole school even though they just see her weeping and gasping, not the part where JJ was actually considerate for once. Normally, it was a harsh slap to his cheek and a few tears slipping past their eyes as they walked away, not full on sobs. Especially since they were only going out for three weeks - tops.

Heather looked up from her hands, letting her arms swing at her sides as she glared at JJ. Black streaks of makeup cascading down her cheeks. With a final, harsh glare at JJ, she ran off, the group of people parting to let her through. JJ watched her run, his shoulders deflating at his ruined chance of keeping the break-up private. His eyes landed on one of the pairs of people Heather parted in her haste to escape: Y/N and Jack. They stood side by side, Jack holding both their books in his hands, both their bookbag straps on his shoulders.

The group quickly dispersed, giving JJ a perfect view of them. He could see Jack say something to Y/N before she said something back, their eyes catching each other, once again making eye contact. JJ was so absorbed in her eyes that he didn’t notice the sympathetic smile she sent his way. It felt like forever as he stared into her eyes, her just staring back. He wanted her to stay, he wanted to stay, but he couldn’t just break-up with Heather and then turn around, rush towards Y/N, sweep her off her feet and profess his love for her - then he would be an asshole.

“Come on, Y/N, let’s go. We can’t be late for our shift.” JJ heard Jack tell her, forcing her to break away from JJ’s eyes. He felt tears prick his eyes at the loss of their moment. His eyes never left her, once again hoping for their eyes to connect again, even though he had to watch her eyes connect with Jack’s which caused his heart to throb painfully. Watching her turn and walk towards Jack’s pick-up truck was the sight that made him want to die, then the pain in his heart would stop - right? The picture of her sitting in his passanger seat didn’t sit right with JJ. The thump of Jack tossing their books and bags in the bed of his truck made JJ flinch, but he still never took his eyes off Y/N, not even when Jack slipped onto the bench seat beside her, starting his truck and slamming his door.

His pleas were answered when Y/N turned to gaze out the window, their eyes connecting once again in a fleeting moment before Jack slowly pulled out of the spot, exiting the nearly empty parking lot. JJ watched the truck as it drove down the road, waiting until it was out of his sight before he moved. He found out who he liked more. It was Y/N. It was always Y/N.

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