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bunnys-beetlejuice-blog · 3 years

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been a while since i posted a fic update! anyone wanna read some cowboy au nonsense? sure you do! well here it is

The blinding, unforgiving midday heat is enough to raise blisters on the skin. Looking out over a crowd of folks booing him, calling for his demise, probably should have had some kind of emotional impact. On the occasion of one’s death, after all, one does expect tears. Flowers, laid out in lace, dark veils and coal black clothes, a few muffled sobs from those further back in the funerary procession, unable to contain themselves. Instead he’s met with the dusty faces of former neighbors and strangers alike, all eagerly waiting to hear the exact tone and pitch that his neck will make when it snaps.

Bored, he turns his attention from the crowd, and watches a lizard scurry across the wooden planks of the gallows, as a man to his right fits a rough bit of rope around his neck. It scratches, but he doesn’t react, not feeling frightened or even especially interested. A similar rough twine is binding his hands together behind his back, keeping him from having any viable way to save himself. The crowd is calling for blood now. Hangings generally are not gorey affairs, but he did once see a drop too sudden and a rope so long that the fella wasn’t just hung, he was decapitated. Beetlejuice glances back down at the crowd, tries to imagine what direction his head would roll if that happened here, and smirks, because it seems to him the last thing he’d see would be the view from inside the skirts of some of the women standing front and center. Not the worst last sight a man could have. “You think you could hurry this along?” he asks the man fitting the noose around his neck. “Sun’s beatin’ down somethin’ fierce an’ I ain’t got my hat.” His personal possessions are back at the sheriff’s office- hat, bandana, silver plated, pearl handled pistol, and his custom belt buckle, just about the nicest, and maybe only, thing he ever paid for. God damn corrupt lawman’s probably gonna pawn his stuff as soon as he’s swinging. Maybe before. Maybe his last worldly possessions are already gone. S’not like he’ll need them, where he’s goin.

A face he recognizes is led up from the crowd, an ancient wizened body tanned for years by the all too eager sunlight and scorching sands. It’s the local preacher, who he remembers from his formative years. The old man used to give him bread and plain, unseasoned chicken in return for listening to him talk about god, and if he hadn’t been nearly starved to death half the time, he might have spat in the old man’s face. Shouldn't charity be done for the sake of charity, not proselytizing? He’d said so once, and that was the last meal the old miser had given him. Jackass.

“Beetlejuice,” the preacher begins. His name is said with disdain and a curled upper lip. It’s one of the reasons he chose it, honestly. “You still have time to repent, young man. I remember you, as a child, bright eyed, curious about the kingdom of heaven.” Well now, that’s the very definition of taking artist liberty. “Now, here, you have one more chance to repent, to accept god’s mercy, and avoid the lake of fire.” The crowd is watching, waiting to see if he will confess his remorse. Beetlejuice hums, rocks on the balls of his feet, and then sighs. “.. C’mere,” He mumbles, jerking his head to indicate the old man should step closer. The holy man does. “I got a lot to confess to, preacher man, an’ not much time.” His voice is soft. The ailing man can’t hear him, steps closer, if only a little. “So much to confess to, in fact, I oughta just… Skip th’ whole thing an’ go straight to hell!” And Beetlejuice reels back, and then slams his forehead into the old man’s face. The sickeningly satisfying crunch of cartilage tells him he’s broken the preacher’s nose, as the elderly man falls back, crying out in pain, blood gushing from his new wound. The crowd roars, furious, and he grins, and laughs. “Ain’t no good extendin’ your pious pity to me!” he calls, gleeful, as he’s pelted with whatever the people watching can get their hands on, and the old man is helped, taken away, led off of the platform. “Enough, enough, we will have order!” a lawman cries, coming up the gallow steps, to stand in front of the outlaw. It’s enough to get the crowd to settle, or at least stop throwing things. There’s still a bad energy in the air, which Beetlejuice can taste on the tip of his tongue. His smile is rictus, he’s delighted to be the cause of it all.

“This man has been tried and found guilty,” the lawman continues. The trial had been very short, and his incarceration shorter. He understands he’s being made an example of to other outlaws, bandits, and trouble makers. They intentionally didn’t give him any time to plan anything, or for any coconspirators to come and assist him. Joke’s on them. They could have taken all the time in the world. Ain’t nobody alive who cares for this outlaw. Not a soul who would dare to come and stage a rescue. He’s utterly alone. “He’s allowed his last words. Clearly,” the lawman turns, eyes Beetlejuice, who smiles flirtatiously. The other man’s expression shifts from annoyance to disgust. “He’s disavowed the advice of Pastor Neighbors.” “M’not so sure you’re usin’ that word right, friend,” Beetlejuice snorts, but he’s ignored. “Any last words?” the hangman to his right asks, his hand itching to grip the lever that will drop the floor and finally, finally, release the outlaw from the confines of mortal life.

Beetlejuice grins.

“If any of you have a message for th’ devil, give it to me!” he shouts, with a cackle, and he watches in rapt and morbid delight at the way the faces in the crowd twist. “I’ll carry it down to hell for you!” The crowd is furious enough it almost seems to him they’re going to storm the platform, and maybe beat him to death. The wave of gasps from the women folk is particularly amusing.

“Enough of this!” He hears the voice of the lawman, disgusted, and the hangman must agree, because the last thing he hears is the lever being thrown, and the floor gives out under him, and he’s falling, falling, falling.

His ass hits a chair.

There’s a moment of blinded confusion, because he's gone from the unbearable dusty sun of midday California, to a cool, dark, musty smelling interior. His eyes need a moment to adjust to the change. He’s sitting in a room he doesn’t recognize. The chair under him is plush, but just thin seated enough to be a tad uncomfortable. He squirms in it, confused, and finds his hands are still tied behind his back. He turns his head. Seated across from him is a young woman.. Well, little girl might be more accurate, she’s maybe fourteen. There’s a wicked looking hoofprint emblazoned on her right temple. The blood that’s leaking from the wound has gone a sickly old color. They stare at each other. “Did that hurt?” she asks, first, and he squints, because he’d been about to ask the same question. Her hand has gone to her throat, as she looks at him, and he looks down, pressing his fat face into his fat neck to create an unflattering double chin as he does so. He can feel the rope around his neck. He follows the line of it with his eyes, and turns to look up. The rope travels up from him, into the ceiling. It’s still taught, like he’s suspended by it, but his ass is touching chair, his boots are on the ground, and he doesn’t feel choked by it’s presence. He tuts. “Didn’t feel a thing. That hurt?” he tries to gesture to her wound, but again, he’s reminded his hands are bound behind him. She stands. “Hurt a bit, but then I got so dizzy I didn’t hardly feel it, after,” she tells him, and then, like the good little frontierswoman she is, she produces a knife from inside some pocket in the volume of her skirts, and gratefully, he leans forward. She rests a knee on one of the chairs, to get a better angle, as she uses her bowie to cut through the rope at his wrists. “Awful kind of you, half pint,” he tells her, and she smiles. “Ain’t nothin.” She settles into the chair next to him, which is a little surprising, but he doesn’t mind, over all. “You’re an outlaw, then?” she asks. He grunts, and then turns to face her, with a grin. “You probably heard of me. They called me Th’ Ghost, on occasion, cause I could slip away without bein’ caught-” he watches her eyes travel up the line of his noose, and then settle back on his face, a little less impressed than she ought to be. He responds by pinching her nose, and she swats at his hand, and laughs. “I do think I heard of you,” she concedes. “I’m Presley.” “Presley, alright. You got a clue where we are, kiddo?” “I just was told to wait.” “Told by who?”

Across the room, a window he hadn’t registered as being there slides open. This place vaguely resembles a bank, he realizes, and so that means that’s the teller’s window. A woman with a tired expression on a pretty face peers out at him. “Hey, dead beat,” she calls, her accent thick around the words. “Juno wants to see you.” He motions to himself, questioningly. She raises an eyebrow in silent confirmation. “Should I care?” he asks, and her upper lip curls in the most beautiful version of a sneer he’s ever seen. “You’re real funny. Get in there before she loses her temper.” And she reaches up, and slams the window shut.

He looks to Presley, and they both share a little shrug, before he stands, and takes a step. The rope going through the ceiling moves with him, not along any visible track, that he can see, but seeming rather more like a toy balloon on a string, bobbing along as though after a child winding their way through the crowd of a state fair. There’s a door by the teller’s window, and he makes for it, only for the window to slide open again, and that beautiful face to reappear. She looks him over, not seeming particularly impressed, but also not outright cruel. “Where’s your handbook?” she asks. Beetlejuice tilts his head. It lolls a little comically to one side, presumably because his neck is broken. She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. “You can’t be serious. You didn’t bring your handbook?” “Listen, lady, even if I had whatever book you’re talkin about, I couldn’t read it,” he counters, and she pauses, at that. “Illiterate. Of course. What’s even the point of the handbook when so many folks can’t read it?” she mutters to herself, and then she waives him at the door, the conversation apparently over. Alright.

The door, predictably, leads to a hallway, a bit unlike anything he’s ever seen before, in terms of sheer length of the thing. It twists around like a snake, and the number of doors along the hall leads him to believe wherever he is, it’s massive. The hallway is empty, save for a man at the far end, mopping, and there doesn’t seem to be anything around for him to tuck into his pockets. Too bad, he mopes, as he carries himself down the hall, boots clacking in a way he finds tactile and pleasant. He passes the custodian, who stares at the floor behind him and sighs, and Beetlejuice looks back to see a mess of dusty footprints he’s left on a previously slightly damp but otherwise pristine floor. With a snort, he spits into the bucket of mop water, and the other man jumps back, disgusted, as Beetlejuice cackles, and continues his leisurely walk down the hall.

At a certain point he realizes he’s got no idea where he’s going, but it doesn’t especially matter. Wherever he is now, whatever version of the afterlife this is, because clearly, that’s what this is, it doesn’t seem to be fire and brimstone and all that bullshit, so he takes it easy, opening doors at random and peeking through. The things he sees don’t always make sense to him, feel like they’re out of place from the world as he knows it. He opens one door, and suddenly he’s staring at what must be a city, but the buildings are so tall they’re touching the sky, going up past the clouds, up into the heaven he doesn’t believe can really be up there. The people are dressed strangely, men and women wandering around in little more than underclothes, which he likes, instantly, and the streets are black with painted yellow lines, instead of dust and earth. Some kind of metal.. Something, a trolley without a track, moves on it’s own down the street, and he catches a glimpse of faces inside. He gets lost in the contents of this door, staring for a long time, entranced, and then it’s slammed suddenly. He turns, catches sight of the custodian with his hand on the door, and growls, an animalistic sound he didn’t know he could do. And then he stops, and turns to look, because the custodian is still a ways behind him, mopping with spit water. It’s the same man. “You don’t need to go poking your snout into places it doesn’t belong,” the man says, simply, and then in a blink, both versions of him are gone from the hallway. Maybe that’s just an… afterlife thing.

He reaches, after what feels like a boring and dragging eternity of twenty whole minutes, a set of saloon doors, the swinging kind. There’s a void of blackness behind them, but the draw he feels is unmistakable, and he pushes them open, and walks through. Instead of a room black as ink, he finds himself… standing on the wooden porch of a bar he remembers frequenting fairly often, in his younger days. At least, he has clear memories of walking into the bar. How and when and why he ended up outside of it, well… whiskey has a hell of an effect on a man’s memory. It’s a fairly chilly desert night. The chirping of crickets and the long ways away lonely baying of a dog is a sort of familiar comfort, but god damn it, he’s just left this world. He wasn’t intending on coming back to it, ever. The dusty streets are dim, illuminated only by the moon, the stars, and the few lamps still burning in windows. The town is quiet.

On the dirt road in front of him is a woman, staring at him. She’s small, older, nicely dressed, with hair shorter than he’s ever seen on a lady, and a mouth sort of like a toad, long and downturned. There’s an unlit cigarette between her fingers. She’s watching him, curious and apathetic all at once. He returns the look. “Juno, then?” he grunts, stepping off the porch. No dust lifts when his boots hit the unpaved road, which he notes. Maybe he’s not really here. Maybe he’s a ghost. Fitting.

“Lawrence “Beetlejuice” Shoggoth,” she says, as he comes to stand in front of her. “Took you long enough. You realize I’ve been waiting here for days. You get lost, or something?” Her tone is sharp, like a schoolmarm with too much on her hands and not enough energy for it all. He feels a little sheepish, if only because no, he hadn’t realized that. “Gimme a break,” he says, instead of an apology. “I just died.” “Like that makes you special,” she huffs, and then, waving her unlit cigarette in his face, machine rolled, not hand, he notes, she asks, “Have you got a match?” He produces one from one of the many pockets of his moss green duster, strikes it on his thumb, and holds it up for her. She has the decency to look grateful, as she leans in, cigarette to her lips, and lights it from that little flame. “So,” she exhales smoke, and it curls from the corner of her lips, and out a previously unspotted slash to her throat. No wondering how she died, then. Speaking of, he glances up, to see that his noose is no longer floating above his head, and turning, he catches sight of it dragging on the ground behind him, long and snake-like in the way it’s twisted and coiled. Juno snaps her long red nails in his face, brings his attention back to her. “You weren’t supposed to die, you know. You’ve mucked things up for me.” “Whut?” he grunts, a bit thrown. She rubs her temples. “You were supposed to go in your seventies. Catch tuberculosis and wither away in obscurity. How old are you?” “Thirty four, or abouts,” he croaks, and she takes another drag. “You let yourself be caught,” she accuses. Well.. yeah. But how the hell does she know that? “I got pinned down in a shootout. Lucky they didn’t blow my head off, right then.” “You’ve gotten out of worse.” She looks almost.. Disappointed. “And then you put down your weapons, instead of fighting it out.” “I was surrounded.” “You were sloppy.” “What’s it to you, anyway?” he growls, again low and animalistic, which Juno ignores, as she walks circles around him, studying him. “You let yourself be caught, and you let yourself be hung. You didn’t even try to get away. You might not have killed yourself, but you let them kill you, for you,” she says. “And it’s giving me a hell of a time, both because it’s changed you, and because I have to put you somewhere, Beetlejuice, and now no one knows where you should go.” “So what does that mean?” “It means, my little statistical outlier, that you’re going to be staying up here, probably a lot broader a time than it would have taken you to just live your life and die at seventy,” she sighs, rubbing at her forehead. “Which is a shame. Because.. I was looking forward to.. To you. And now we both have to wait longer,” and here, she finishes her circle of him, to stand face to face with him again, and she flicks his ear, the way he always imagined an frustrated mother might. “Because you gave up. You weren’t supposed to give up.” “Wasn't much worth livin’ for,” he says, and it’s got more emotion behind it than he meant to give it. Juno’s hand goes to her throat, and she looks pained. “I guess that’s an inherited trait,” her voice is soft, and he squints at her, confused. Instead of giving him any context for that, she points down the dusty main road. Shining under the moonlight, he can see, vaguely, a dark shape suspended in air, near the gallows. “Go put your suit back on,” she says dryly. “And try not to cause enough trouble that I have to come up here and get after you, understood?” “What part of outlaw ain’t you gettin?” he snorts, and she responds by giving him an affectionate pat to his scruffy cheek, before she takes another drag, and vanishes inside the swirling smoke. He’s left standing on his own.

His “suit” is still hanging, he notes, looking up at himself. He’s strung up on a tall pole by the platform, leaving it free for more use, if need be, with his body on display as a gruesome reminder for potential criminals that this is a hanging town, and they’ve even hung their most despised son. His neck is bent at an ugly angle, a little bulge at the side betraying how exactly his bones had shattered, and his skin has gone a bad color, gray and foul looking. But aside from that, he’s not rotted the way he would think he ought to be. Juno’d said she’d been waiting for days, presumably meaning it has been days since his death, but his body is looking remarkably unbuzzard pecked and unrotted. He shimmies up the pole he’s hung from, his ghostly noose trailing behind him, and the moment he touches his own boot, the world spins, going upside down and inside out in a way that’s too painful to try and perceive.

“Gahh-” says Beetlejuice, because he’s back in his body, which is still being hung by that god damn noose, and he realizes, annoyed, that he has no way of cutting himself down. He kicks, pointlessly, one hand going to the rope at his neck, to clutch it and try to keep it from choking himself again, and the other grabbing at the rope further up, gripping it to pull himself up, give himself some slack, instead of hanging taught. It’s not the most coordinated he’s ever been. At least there’s no one around to watch him struggle.

“Holy shit, the body’s movin!” he hears someone holler. Oh, come on.

Read the rest, right over HERE

#beetlejuice au #beetlejuice fic #beetlelands fic #my writing #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice the musical #this is so self indulgent #i love westerns so this is all i can focus on rn

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the-modernmary · 4 years

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my best habit || aaron hotchner x reader (prologue)

Summary: When Aaron Hotchner ended your affair with him, saying that a serial killer was going after him and his family, you were content with the idea that you'd probably never see him again. Two years have come and gone since then, but when you get dragged into an FBI investigation as a key witness, you and Hotch are forced to come face to face with all the things left unsaid.

Warnings: Age gap (15-ish years), smut, degradation, unprotected sex. This story is 18+ older. This is not a story for minors.

A/N: Hello, hello!! I figured that since I've made a writing tumblr, I should post my story on here!! This is a multichapter story, so I am very excited to go on this journey with y'all!! I already have multiple chapters written and published, so these should be coming out VERY quickly. If you don't want to wait to catch up, you can read everything I have on ao3! This chapter starts as a flashback, and then the next chapter and the rest from here on out will be actual plot!

masterlist || read on ao3

“If you were waitin’ on the sunshine, blue sky

Cheap high, lullaby

Then my best habit’s letting you down”

- The Maine, “My Best Habit”

Two years earlier

Your eyes scanned the University Ballroom, your champagne glass practically ignored in your hand. You hated all these alumni networking galas and avoided going to them as much as possible. Old, sleazy lawyers with much younger women on their arm reliving their best cases with each other and expecting all the new law students to laugh when they were able to get their defendant acquitted because of some dumb technicality. It made you sick.

It didn’t help that you were already going in with a bad attitude. Your ex-boyfriend had dropped by your apartment that morning to pick up the rest of his stuff, and he decided that the best person to help him with that was the girl he had been cheating on you with. You caught them together three weeks ago, and you had been so stressed from midterms that you hadn’t even had the chance to go out, get drunk, and have wildly irresponsible rebound sex.

But you had to suck it up for the night, at least until you were able to get the answer you came for. After that, you could go back to your apartment, replace your too tight and too short dress with some nice pajamas, and watch trashy reality TV until you passed out on your couch.

You scanned the room a few more times until you caught sight of a tall man in a dark suit leaning against the bar. Bingo. You set your champagne flute down and ran over to him as fast as your heels could take you. Once you were just a few steps away, you quickly composed yourself and walked straight into his line of sight.

SSA Aaron Hotchner rarely came to alumni events here at George Washington Law School, citing that he wasn’t even a prosecutor anymore and had much more important work to do back at the BAU, but he was going as favor to his old law school buddy. Plus, it was either coming to this or going out to the bar with the team, and seeing as he had just signed the divorce papers with Haley, he wanted to be somewhere he wasn’t going to be profiled all night. The free champagne was also a bonus.

When you saw that his name was on the RSVP list, you knew that you had to go.

“Agent Hotchner?” you asked, giving him your best straight A student smile.

He refused to look up right away, not giving you the chance to charm him. “I’m not currently on duty. If there is a case you would like the BAU to look over, that’s handled by our media liaison,” he said absently, taking another sip of champagne.

You frowned but kept your hand out for him to shake. “That’s not what I’m here for, I-” You took a breath to compose yourself. “My name is Y/N Y/L/N. I’m a first year here- getting a joint JD and masters in forensic psychology. My goal is to become a prosecutor,” you pressed, and you were rewarded when he perked up in interest. He slid his drink on the table.

“Most law firms don’t usually want a prosecutor who’s going to empathize with the person you’re prosecuting,” he mused, and shook your hand, his grip just tight enough to pass as faux politeness.

You shook your head and clasped your hands behind your back, trying to ignore how warm his hands were. “I think the best prosecutors empathize with the defendants,” you admitted. “Isn’t that how you succeeded as both a prosecutor and as a federal agent? That’s actually why I came to you, I wanted to ask you a question... about my thesis,” you added quickly, figuring that the best way to get him to talk to you.

Aaron’s posture changed from half asleep to maybe listening, and your face went red. Sure, you only came to the event to talk to him, but you never thought that you’d actually get Aaron Hotchner to pay attention to you. “I didn’t empathize with the people I was putting in jail,” he told you, his voice ice cold. “That didn’t come until I worked in the BAU, and even now, I wouldn’t call it empathy. Just understanding of how they became the type of person they are.” He leaned sideways on the bar counter and you felt yourself shrink under his gaze. You shifted slightly and felt the hem of your dress move up your thighs ever so slightly. Aaron noticed too, if the lick of his lips was anything to go by.

You took his silence as your signal to ask your question. “You offered Jessica Michaelson a lesser sentence that had her released in just three years despite the fact that she murdered her brother in cold blood in his sleep. You had the evidence, why didn’t you push for premeditation?” you asked, and his eyebrow quirked upwards. “In the case The People vs. Michaelson,” you added unnecessarily, trying to break the silence.

“I know the case you’re referring to. I was the lead on it,” he reminded you, his voice edging on dangerous. “You know, most people aren’t interested in my days as a lawyer.”

You shrugged, hoping to appear more confident than you felt. “I’m not most people,” you agreed, biting down on your lower lip. His gaze was so intense, and it was affecting you in ways you couldn’t have imagined. It was turning you on, you realized with a start. It had been a while since you had last had sex, and it was driving you only slightly crazy. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Aaron grabbed a champagne flute from a server walking by, and shoved it in your direction. You grabbed it cautiously. “Did you read the police report on the case?” he asked, and you nodded wordlessly, taking a sip of the champagne. The alcohol was making you bolder, and you stepped towards him. “Then you’ll know that there was very little physical evidence tying her to the muder. We chose to offer the charge that would have stuck instead of risking her being found not guilty.”

You gritted your teeth together in an effort to calm yourself down. “She murdered four people within the six months after she was released from prison,” you reminded him.

That seemed to have struck a chord with Aaron, and his steely persona seemed to fade ever so slightly. He sighed exasperatedly; you were obviously getting on his nerves. “The prints and DNA that were collected and put into VICAP when she was in prison are what got her caught in the end, and that was the evidence needed to lock her away for life. We wouldn’t have gotten those prints without her original charge. It all worked out.”

You groaned and threw your hands in the air. “You couldn’t have predicted that, though,” you argued. “And people have been found guilty with way less evidence than you had in the original case. I think you just felt bad for her, considering her brother was a real piece of shit.” You were being difficult now, you knew that. But there was something about Aaron Hotcher that was pulling you in, and you wanted to see how far you could push him.

Aaron gave you a predatory grin and he stepped towards you ever so slightly, finishing his drink. He must have had multiple drinks too, judging by the soft flush on his face. “Oh, you do?” He seemed amused now. He slowly raked his eyes from your face, down your neck, and down the rest of your body, and you forgot how to breath. You knew that it was inappropriate and that he was a highly respected FBI agent, even if he was kind of an asshole at the moment. You also knew that the two of you were crossing lines that neither of you should have even been close to, but you shivered under the weight of his gaze all the same.

You shifted back and forth, your brain trying to process what was happening. “Yeah, I do. And I know that you transferred to the FBI after Michaelson was arrested again, which makes me think that this case was your breaking point,” you ranted, your hands becoming more and more animated.

Aaron chuckled, but there was very little amusement behind it. “Are you sure you want to be a lawyer?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. “Because you’re starting to talk like a profiler.”

You arched an eyebrow at him. “No thanks,” you said firmly, and he just shrugged before making a move to walk past you. You sidestepped in front of him, effectively blocking him from going anywhere. But it was obvious that he was done talking about this.

In your mind, you had two options now. You could keep pushing him about a case that he obviously didn’t want to talk to you about, or you could switch gears in your brain and have him help you solve your... other problem. Aaron was attractive, and you were getting tired of guys your age. You noticed the distinct lack of a wedding ring on his finger, but there was still a tan to show that it had been there. So either he was recently separated or just trying to cheat on his wife. You wanted to not care whichever it was, but a pang in your heart told you to be considerate. Besides, you did not want to get involved with another cheater.

“Must be hard to be at these events without your wife here to scare off all the lonely female law students,” you mused cautiously. You didn’t want to come on too strong, but the alcohol in your system was slowly clouding your ability to be subtle.

Aaron cleared his throat, obviously taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. “I’m not married,” he said, too quickly and too defensively. So he’s separated, you thought, and you stepped closer to him.

His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to figure out your endgame. “Well, I would love to discuss your work as a prosecutor more when there are less… distractions around,” you whispered, your words breathy. “Tell me Agent Hotchner, do I make you nervous?” You sounded a lot more confident than you felt.

Aaron just smirked and grabbed your free hand, covering it in both of his, and the action was surprisingly soft, even if it was way too late for him to try acting suave. His eyes, on the other hand, told a whole other story. His pupils were so dilated that his eyes were practically black. “I face the worst people in society on a daily basis. Desperate law students don’t make me nervous. In fact…” He stepped towards you, looking around to make sure nobody else was looking. Aaron leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear with every word. “I think that I make you nervous. And more than nervous, I make you very excited.”

Your breath hitched as he pulled back, a smug smile gracing his lips. You yanked your hand back to preserve what little dignity you had left, but it was too late. “Now, if you would like to discuss my prosecuting career more in depth, then you can set up a formal meeting with me at the BAU,” he continued, obviously proud of himself and the effect he was having on you. He pulled out a business card and upon further instruction, you realized that it wasn’t even his. Jennifer Jareu the name read. “Our media liaison will be able to help you organize that. Now if you don’t mind, I am going to retire for the night.”

Aaron finished the rest of his drink and brushed past you while you were still trying to get your thoughts under control. “Oh, and you’ll make a wonderful lawyer someday, I’m sure of it,” he called over his shoulder, and that snapped you back into action.

You followed, running around him and cutting him off. “And if I don’t want to discuss your prosecuting career?” you asked, batting your eyelashes at him. “What if I was interested in a… less formal meeting?”

That was all the permission he needed. Aaron grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the ballroom, the two of you moving so fast that nobody in the room even had a chance to put two and two together. There was an empty hallway just next to the entrance of the room and Aaron pulled you in that direction, pressing you against the wall and kissing you fiercely the second the two of you were alone.

There was nothing gentle about the kiss, but in a strange role reversal, he let you take the lead. It’s certainly not what you expected from Aaron Hotchner who, until now, had been controlling every aspect of your meeting. You realized then that this was his way of making sure you were okay with what was happening- giving you a chance to back out and change your mind. You just answered by tangling your hands in his hair, pulling so that he was at just the right angle to kiss you.

Aaron dug his fingers into your hips, hard enough to make you gasp out. You were definitely going to have bruises the next day, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. He shoved his leg in between yours and tugged on your lip with his teeth, which made you whimper involuntarily. He smirked against your lips, obviously proud of the noises he was drawing from you. You pulled on his hair harder as a sign of irritation, but that seemed to only make him more amused as he pulled away to laugh into your neck.

“Are we just going to make out against a wall like we’re back in high school, or are you going to actually do something worth my time?” you breathe, fighting to keep your voice even and light. It only halfway worked as he dragged his tongue up your neck to your pulse point. And then he bit down, hard.

It took everything in your power to stay quiet, especially as he softly kissed the newly forming bruise. His attack on your neck was relentless as he pulled your hips and back forth against his thigh. You whimpered as you desperately tried to get any friction from the simple movement. Your skirt was now dangerously close to being pushed so far up your legs that you would be completely exposed.

You pulled away first- you had to or your legs were going to completely give out from under you. You desperately tried to get your breathing under control and, to your annoyance, he looked perfectly composed. The only thing giving him away was his slightly swollen lips.

His fingers trailed up your thigh, getting so close to where you want him. “What would you like me to do then?” he asked easily, his voice almost sounding bored. You were speechless, like your brain had just short circuited. There were a lot of things you wanted him to do, but the words were lost on the tip of your tongue. “If you want something, you have to ask for it.” That was a demand, and he punctuated it by pressing his thigh further into you. You were sure he was going to have a wet spot on his slacks. He took the hand not in between your legs and grabbed your jaw forcefully, his thumb resting on your bottom lip. “Use your words, little girl.”

You realize that the two of you were standing on the edge of a cliff, and you had the power to decide whether or not to jump over. It gave you a strange sense of power. Logically, you knew it was a bad idea. He was too old for you, obviously going through some sort of relationship trauma, and wasn’t somebody you could talk to your friends and family about. But the less rational side wanted him so badly it hurt. You wanted him more than you’ve wanted anything or anyone in a long time.

You noticed your strawberry colored lipstick was smudged ever so slightly on the corner of his mouth, and that’s all it took for you to jump off the side of the cliff. “I want you to drag me into the empty classroom just down the hall and fuck me senseless. I want you to use me,” you moan before taking his thumb into your mouth and sucking.

The look on his face is something you’ll never forget. There was a mix of shock and arousal, but also something primitive; His eyes darkened when you told him to use you, and there was a fluttering in your stomach. You couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or dread. Maybe even both.

He removed his hands from your mouth and legs, only to place his hand on the small of your back. He began walking towards the classroom you had pointed out, much too slow for your liking, but he knew exactly what he was doing. “You’re going to regret asking me to use you,” he practically growls in your ear, each word increasing your arousal. “Are you one of those lonely female law students you warned me about? So desperate and needy for a real man to bend you over a table and fuck you until you can’t walk straight? Ready and willing to whore yourself out for the first man who gives you a second glance?”

Your breath hitched as you stuttered out your answer. “Y-yes, Agent Hotchner,” you whispered as he opened the classroom door and guided you in.

As soon as the door was shut and locked, he was back on your lips again, lifting you so that you were sitting on one of the desks with your legs wrapped around his waist. “Call me Aaron,” he mumbled in between kisses, and you were all too happy to oblige.

You were a moaning mess at this point as his hands pushed your dress up to your waist. His hands and lips were somehow everywhere at once and you were so hot and all you could think about was getting your damn dress off, but Aaron seemed to have other plans.

He ran his fingers up your lace covered slit and he just chuckled into your lips. “You’re so wet for me, already,” he groaned and you let out an embarrassingly loud moan. “And I’ve barely touched you. Do my words really have that much effect on you? Do you like it when I call you a whore?”

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties and quickly pulled them down. You could feel his bulge pressing against you and all you could think about was how badly you wanted it. How badly you wanted him. Your hands moved down his chest to make quick work of his belt, and his pants followed after.

“Please, please Aaron,” you begged, desperately trying to create some friction against him. His fingers tangled in your hair and he pulled your head back so that you were looking at him.

“You’re so pretty when you beg.” His fingers slowly ran up your slit, not enough to give you any pleasure. He was teasing you and enjoying every second of it. “And I wish I could take my time with you. The things I want to do to you…” Two of his fingers entered you and you cried out loudly. “But somebody could walk in on us at any second. I’m sure they can all hear you moaning like a dirty whore, all for me. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? So desperate for my attention and approval.”

His words turned you on more than you would have liked to admit. “Yes, Aaron yes. Please-” you were cut off by Aaron curling his fingers, hitting that spot that made you want to scream out in pleasure. But all too soon, they were gone.

He inspected his fingers, which were now covered in your juices, before bringing them to your mouth. “Suck,” he ordered, and you eagerly complied, wrapping your lips around his fingers and moaning at the taste of yourself. “I’ll just have to fuck you quickly here, and then you’ll be begging for more next time,” he groaned and finally- finally- entered you.

He didn’t give you time to adjust to him, thrusting roughly into you. He removed his fingers from your mouth and brought his hand to your neck. He didn’t put any pressure, but he wanted you to know that he could and would if you decided to get mouthy with him.

Your hands gripped the edge of the desk you were sitting on, your knuckles turning white. Your eyes started to close in pleasure as his hips slammed into yours, but they shot open as he tightened his grip on your throat. “Look at me. I want to see you when you cum,” he ordered, and you nodded the best you could.

“Yes sir!” you cried out, unsure of what else to say.

Seemingly satisfied with your answer, Aaron released your throat and moved his hand down so that he was stimulating your clit. You could feel the coil in your stomach tighten as your legs started to twitch. Aaron took this as motivation to slam into you even harder, relishing each time you gasped out his name.

His pace was unforgiving, leaving you gasping for air. Keeping your eyes open was a challenge, but you were able to do it with his soft mutters of praise. “Even brats like you can be good girls,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic. “You just need somebody to fuck it into you.”

You were unable to respond coherently, so you just settled on begging even more, although you weren’t sure what you were begging for exactly. Aaron seemed to know, and he sped up his fingers against your clit. You wanted to scream out for him, but your voice wasn’t working. “What did I say before?” he asks roughly. “If you want something, ask for it.”

“Please… please can I cum?” you cried out, feeling yourself getting close to the edge. “Please let me cum around your cock!”

He nodded in approval and you had to muffle yourself in his neck to keep quiet. He fucked you through your orgasm, the overstimulation almost too much, but it wasn’t long before he was moaning your name, and you felt him fill you.

The two of you stayed like that for a few moments, both breathing heavily as the situation started to sink in. You just let a guy almost 15 years older than you that you just met fuck you in an empty classroom, and you really enjoyed it. Aaron, on the other hand, looked like he was going through a full crisis.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the feeling. He pulled up his pants quickly. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, looking around the empty classroom. “I don’t have anything good to clean you up with.” A box of kleenex caught his eye and he grabbed a few tissues. It was better than nothing.

You chuckled nervously and waved it off. “It’s fine,” you promised, your voice coming out shakier than you expected, but he ignored you. He wiped the mess dripping down your thighs. You were cold. He must have noticed, because he took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Aaron asked softly, and it was a full 180 from the way he had just been talking to you.

“I’m great,” you admitted honestly. “Seriously, that was… great.”

Aaron smiled at you- the first real smile he had given you all night. “It wasn’t too much?” he confirmed, and you suddenly remembered what he had said to you earlier. ...then you’ll be begging for more next time. Was he planning on a next time? You wouldn’t have minded it.

You shook your head and slowly slid off the table. You took one of the tissues and wiped up the mess that was left on the table. “Not at all. In fact, I could take more. Next time.” Your voice was light and airy. Aaron watched as you picked your underwear off the floor. There was no way you were putting those back on, not when you had no idea when the floor was last cleaned.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he teased, eyeing you carefully.

“Well I can’t keep it if I only have your media liaison’s number,” you reminded him, your eyebrow raised. Aaron chuckled and pulled out another business card, except this time it was his. You plucked the card out of his hands and inspected it carefully. “I’ll call you sometime. You can do all those other things we didn’t have time to do.” You were on your tiptoes now, whispering in his ear. “You know… my mouth can do a lot more than just ask for things.” As you spoke, you slipped your panties into his back pocket. You just laughed as you heard a soft gasp escape his lips.

You made your way towards the door, your legs wobbling dangerously underneath you. You were sure that you looked like a mess, but you didn’t care. All that mattered to you was Aaron Hotchner’s eyes glued to your ass. “Get home safe,” he told you and you let yourself smile. Maybe it was a bad idea to start sleeping with a recent divorcee, but the sex was great and you both knew where you stood with the other person. No feelings, just fucking out your frustrations and stress.

Oh yeah, coming to this event was definitely a good call on your part.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner smut #my best habit #my writing

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madhyanas · 4 years

Text

a place at the table

Pairing: Din Djarin x gender-neutral!Reader

Rating: T/PG-13 [mild]

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Spoilers for s2ep3, Chapter 11! Reader uses they/them pronouns. References to drowning, not explicit. Descriptions of freezing/extreme cold. One reference to Chapter 9 (s2ep1). Din being as self-sacrificing as always. Din’s particular brand of Mandalorian family values. Pining, yearning, affection - just think soft.

A/N: well then. first time posting for din! this has been cooking since ep3 came out, i’m just slow. it’s soft!! and worried!! and din severely procrastinating his own identity crisis!! they’re really fuckin married, guys. lovely stuff. also, if you can’t tell, i adore frog lady. and bo-katan. mwah.

BIG thank you to @justrunamok, @pettyprocrastination and @generaldamneron for beta-reading <33

gif credit: @captrex - from the post here. thanks!

masterlist

You thought you knew cold.

Days and nights in the Crest have acquainted you with it. A hollow metal hull in the depths of the galaxy, surrounded on all sides by a vast expanse of nothing. Keeping the heater on burns fuel that you can’t afford, not with three mouths to feed. Space is cold, as cold as it could get.

And then you nearly drowned.

The briny depths of Trask are frigid, you’ve come to realise. Logically, you know it’s nowhere near the freezing vacuum of space. That’s real cold; true, absolute zero. But the thing about water is that it gets everywhere. The searing, ferocious chill of it had slammed all mental processes to a halt, petrifying your rationality before all else. It drenched your clothes, your hair. Snaked into your nose and seeped into your lungs. Rushed you as a swarm; no other sensation was relevant.

At the time — scrabbling at a grate hanging overhead, right there but always just out of reach — it’s what you imagined carbonite to feel like. Conscious but consumed.

Space is cold from a distance. Water freezes from the inside, cracked and jagged and burning.

So you should be grateful for your saviours. Mandalorians, unlike any you’ve ever seen before.

Which is to say, unlike Din.

There’s a lot to think about. So many things have happened in the span of a day that you can barely keep track. And beyond all else, you want to ask how Din’s coping—

“Trask is a black market port. They’re staging weapons that have been bought and sold with the plunders of our planet. We’re seizing those weapons and using them to retake our homeworld.”

—but there are more important things to deal with at the moment.

“Once we’ve done that, we’ll seat a new Mandalore on the throne,” the red-headed woman explains.

Bo-Katan. She speaks regally, like she’s been on that very throne before. More importantly — like she’d earned it. In truth, she scares you. All three of them do, these new Mandalorians who show their faces — they scare you in the way Din did back when he was just a gruff, faceless employer. A tinge of instinct; a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the cold.

What she’s saying is important, you know that, and you can’t place the onus on Din to handle it after the day he’s had. But you can’t bring yourself to focus either. You’re barely holding it together as it is, taking mild, balmy comfort in his and the baby’s presence on either side.

The three of you, together. Right now, at this table, that’s the only thing keeping you from splintering right down the middle.

Even with a steaming bowl of broth in your hands, your fingers ache with the chill. It hurts, regaining body heat. Hurts as feeling returns to your toes. Hurts to clench your jaw, to stop it from chattering. Hurts the delicate skin of your face, thousands of icy needles jabbing into the nerves. There’s a pounding between your ears and behind your eyes. You’re tired, and you suspect Din is, too.

You really do want to ask how he’s dealing with…this. The Way has been part of his life — and part of yours, in as much of a lifetime as you’ve known him — for many, many years. An oak tree, offering security and strength to the garden. How must he feel, stoic at your side, to see these three fell theirs so easily?

An identity crisis is the last thing Din needs.

What he needs is a break. You need him to want a break.

A coo at your elbow catches your attention. The baby — safe and warm, thank the Maker — seems fascinated with the water dripping from your hair, patting his hands into the small puddles forming on his high chair and giggling at the splashes. It’s as if he was never swallowed whole in the first place; that’s another thing you’re going to recall decidedly later. Nonetheless, he bounces back fast, your child.

You smile, hearing your teeth click, and pet the sensitive spot between his ears. He blinks at you sweetly.

Someone clears their throat.

You look up, startled, to find three pairs of eyes on you. Expecting. None of them saying… anything.

The other woman, the one with braids on her forehead, slurps her slithering noodles without blinking. Unnerving, to say the least.

“Sorry,” you blurt, more on reflex than anything else. “Did I… miss something?” The uncertainty in your voice doesn’t escape anyone’s notice.

Beneath the table, a broad thighs shifts to press against yours. Comforting. You glance at its owner.

“It’s… Mandalorian business.” Bo-Katan tilts her head. Her gaze flits between you and Din, polite and clear. “I’m sure you understand.”

You blink, bemused. “Oh?”

And then you realise.

She’s asking you to leave.

“Oh!” Your brows shoot up. One of her partners smiles ruefully in your periphery, and you are struck with the distinct feeling of being other. “Of course.”

That’s… well. It’s justified, is what it is. She’s right. You aren’t Mandalorian.

You stand quickly, and the chair grates against the floor unpleasantly. You manage not to cringe, somehow.

There’s a free table on the other side of the cantina, you think you saw it as you entered. Should you take the baby? No, Din’s never liked being away from him, even if you’re there. But they’re armed, all three of them, and you don’t know them, even if they did save your life, saved the baby’s, saved Din’s—

There’s a hand at your elbow.

“They stay.”

Din’s voice is unyielding. He hasn’t moved at all besides his grip on your arm, keeping his visor trained on Bo-Katan, who raises a brow.

No one says anything for a long, tense beat. Until—

“They’re not Mandalorian,” Bo-Katan says bluntly. It’s something you don’t have the nerve to state aloud. Something Din is apparently ignoring, however much you’d never believe it.

He stays silent.

“It’s okay,” your murmur, and the silver helmet you know turns to you fractionally. Barely anything, and you know you’re heard. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s still staring Bo-Katan down. “I don’t mind.”

There are three sharp, foreign gazes on you, and your newly-rejuvenated toes curl in your boots. After so many days bundled up in the Crest, you’d forgotten what it felt like to be watched and unwanted. The company inside had never made you feel that way.

“They stay,” he insists, making you jolt. “As is their right.”

Bo-Katan’s half-smile is faintly amused. “And which right is that?” she asks, like she already knows the answer. It seems like they all do, daring Din to state this mysterious ‘right’ that you’re in the dark about.

“It is their right as a member of my clan.”

The gloved fingers on your elbow tighten, leather creaking ever so slightly but just enough to remind you to breathe.

You blink at the silver helm dumbly, forgetting your onlookers for the time being.

He’s— He means that. Din doesn’t say what he doesn’t mean. Every word is measured, deliberate. He chooses his words like he chooses his weapons; they’re specific, well-cared for. Only to be used when necessary. Which suggests that—

Well. Maybe you should sit down.

As you do so, the woman opposite Din releases a slow, steady breath — Maker, you’d almost forgotten she was here — and squares her shoulders.

“Very well,” she says coolly. Her eyes flit to you, appraising, searching, before returning to Din. “As I was saying…”

And then you tune out again, ever so slightly. The information is going in, but you’re not truly registering its significance. Stupid, really, considering Din’s quite literally just fought for your place at the table. But you do.

You stare at the chipped, stained wood as if it holds the answers to questions you don’t know how to phrase. The baby babbles something incoherent, trying to get your attention, so unjustly denied to him, and you offer a finger for him to hold.

Clan. As in, part of. It’s new.

It feels like a small, three-fingered hand, gravelly warmth next to your thigh, and a hand pulling you back to the table.

———

Tracking down the Frog Woman and her husband isn’t too tedious. Trask’s daylight hours are long, for a moon, so even after Din’s aside with Bo-Katan and her people, it’s barely dark as you make your way to the inn.

“It won’t be long,” Din had assured you. “I go with them, assist with their mission, and come back within a day. Routine transport raid.”

Them. Their. It didn’t bode well that his so-called brethren are this… dissimilar.

“Last time you helped someone out, you got swallowed by a desert dragon.”

“That wasn’t last time.”

“Still counts.”

Childish, perhaps. Petulant. But correct.

The problem was, so was he. There was no choice.

Now, Din leads your party of three briskly down the street.

Since his father had manually adjusted the drift range on the crib beforehand, the child has no issue being carted along express-style, making curious noises at the various fishing apparatus he sees scattered around the port.

You don’t have such luxuries as the little womp rat, so you’re left to frantically try and match your Mandalorian’s pace. The lingering shivers wracking your frame are shoved aside for the wheezing burn beginning to creep up your sides.

“Hey, uh, Mando?” you ask, somewhat out of breath. “You think you could slow down? You’re going a little fast—”

Your shoulder clips a passing Quarren roughly, spinning you round with the force of the collision. The point of impact throbs unpleasantly, painful but superficial. Stunned, you can only blink as the tentacled man snaps something unintelligible in your face. An apology sits ready on your tongue and you open your mouth to speak, before a solid wall appears between you.

A breathing, unyielding wall of leather and beskar, glowering at the Quarren silently as you’re turned away, closer into the gentle bend of his hold. Quietly surrounding, protecting. Something else you’re not used to, from when it was just the three of you in the ship. But this feels… good. It feels like it’s yours.

The other man balks, and leaves with a grumble under his breath.

Din glances around above your head, ever aware, ever cautious. “Stay close,” he murmurs and—

You could probably pinpoint the exact moment your body temperature spikes, as a large, gloved hand comes to rest on your lower back. “Oh. Okay.”

The rest of the walk passes you by.

“I wasn’t trying to rush you,” he says tersely, having slowed his pace considerably. There’s an apology in there somewhere; you can hear it. “But you’re soaked, and you’re cold. You need to get warmed up.”

You smile. It’s really not the time, but— “Are you offering?”

A huff from the modulator, and he shakes his head silently. Less rejection, rather than fond exasperation.

“You must be cold, too.” The realisation dawns on you in an instant. Oh, Maker. He’s been freezing for just as long as you, now. If not more, since he hasn’t eaten anything warm.

The next shake of the helmet is more insistent, purposeful. “No. I wear more layers than you do.”

“You dived into the ocean, Din.” His name is hushed, spoken after a quick look to confirm that no one can hear you.

“So did you.”

“I was pushed, that’s not the same thing.”

Din doesn’t respond, and your smile dims. He seems to hesitate for a moment, before pressing a button on his vambrace, and the baby’s crib floats a little closer.

Oh.

He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk. You regret bringing it up.

But his hand doesn’t stray from your back.

——

The building is small, cozy. Barely a couple of stories tall. And, to your delight, it’s warm.

“Thank you for having us,” you tell the Frog Woman gratefully. One of their towels is wrapped around your shoulders; a placeholder until you can find a clean, dry change of clothes. You feel better already. “We’re sorry to impose like this.”

She croaks something vaguely welcoming and you smile, keeping a shrewd, wary eye on the baby — now staring at the egg canister with wondrous intent, reaching his stubby little hands out from his place clutched to your chest. Now there’s something to keep you occupied for the evening.

A hand on your shoulder, warm and light, and you turn around. Din tilts his head towards the door. “I’ll be going,” he says, barely a whisper past the lip of the helmet.

“What? Uh, Mando, hold on!” Halfway out of the chair already, you stare at him incredulously, before turning back to the expecting parents. “Just— Just a second, please. Could you take the baby?”

However disinclined she may be to your carnivorous terror, the Frog Woman takes him into her hands gently. She’s sweet, kind. You hope she understands the depths of your appreciation.

A polite nod from Din to the couple. “I’ll be back for them soon.”

He follows you into the narrow corridor. The door slides shut behind you both.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

You stare at him for a moment, tugging the edge of the towel at your shoulders. Your mouth opens and closes, faltering around words that don’t have the courage to form.

“I…” You deflate. “I just— I wanted to ask you that. Before you left.” It’s a foolish question. What’s wrong, like his entire way of life hasn’t been upended in a heartbeat by a careless show of face. Like the Way hasn’t just crumbled at his feet like wet sand, trodden on by three strange pairs of boots, scorched by familiar jetpack fuel.

He doesn’t say anything. No tilt of the helmet, no sinking shoulders. Nothing. Just keeps looking at you, visor tilted down to your face.

There’s a reasonable distance between you. Not professional by any stretch of the imagination, but enough for him to be comfortable in semi-public. The corridor is empty, and you can’t hear any footsteps.

Except Din’s, when he steps forward.

You feel your features soften in time with the pounding of your heart. “Din, love, please—”

He pulls you into his chest, plucking the wind from your lungs in a surprised, candied puff into the worn fabric of his cowl. His arms snake around you, securing you to his sturdy frame, and by reflex, yours mirror the movement on him. The helm’s hard, flat surface presses against the side of your head tightly; an anchor tugging on the seabed.

You feel him inhale, a ragged, rattling thing that has your stomach sinking. You only hear that sound when he’s injured, stumbling back to you with a bounty and a nasty, jagged stab wound or two. Only when he’s injured but oh, isn’t he?

It’s hard to tell how long you remain like that. Wrapped around and in between each other. Feeling each other breathe in and out, like the push and pull of the tides. It’s worth it, for the fading of tension in Din’s shoulders. Not removal. But an ebb for the flow. You’ll take it.

“There is a lot,” he rasps, modulated into your hairline. “You know that. And I can’t focus on what needs to be done if I think about it.” You feel him sigh, draping into your arms even further. “I can’t afford that.”

You try to keep your voice calm, soothing. To avoid the hot press of tears threatening to clog your throat. “Okay. That’s, that’s— Okay.”

You sound like a fool, parroting your own words. But he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Okay,” Din agrees. There is something shaky in his voice, and you would give anything to wrench it from his chest and throw it into that Maker-forsaken ocean. Let it drown for all you care.

For now, though, this is enough.

You move to step back, just a palm’s breadth away, and his arms unlock to let you do so immediately. His gloved hands slide down to nestle in the dip of your waist.

You look at Din consideringly, wondering if you could push for later. Later, to discuss the revelations he’s been bombarded with. Later, to talk about what you’re doing to do. Later, to finally get him to rest his weary bones.

Urgent, but. You decide to let him be. For now.

There’s something else you’ve been meaning to ask about anyway.

“So.” You smile wanly, treasuring the jewelled glint of beskar through the thinnest film of tears. “As a member of your clan, huh?”

Din sighs. Bracing, grounding. Returning to the present, where you’re just here to see him off. Where you have a baby waiting inside to keep from snacking on your hosts, and he has a hijacking to initiate. His fingers press tighter into your skin.

He appreciates the subject change.

“You already know my name,” he says quietly. Shrugs. “I’d say you know more about me than anyone else.”

You take a second to mull that over. Enjoy the taste of it in your mouth, the weight of it in your heart. He is such a precious thing to know.

Without thinking, the word leaves your lips in a bright gust of affection. “Same.” The helm tilts. “You know more about me than anyone else, too.”

He nods, a small, barely-there movement. More to himself than to you, you suspect.

“Good.”

Elastically, achingly slow, Din leans his head down. You lift yours up. When your warmed forehead meets beskar, a kiss from which you feel deprived, yet glutted, you’re inclined to agree.

“Stay safe,” you whisper. Your heart fogs and clouds on the metal, right above where his lips would be.

His thumb strokes across your waist. And you know he will.

——

#din djarin #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #star wars fic #reader-insert #gn!reader #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian season 2 #the mandalorian chapter 11 #gender neutral #gender neutral reader #the heiress #my writing #sw #bit nervous about this one #we'll see how it goes huh

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marwritesgood · 4 years

Text

Rewrite | M. Martinez

Pairing: Mario x Diaz!Reader

Timeframe: Season 3

Summary: As life with their newborn becomes increasingly difficult, Mario and Y/n stop seeing each other eye-to-eye (and other stuff happens).

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A/N: (This is one of the longest things I’ve ever written (I actually had to cut it down and group some paragraphs together bc it exceeded the limit), but I couldn’t help myself. I really enjoyed exploring the dynamics between the characters and all the themes that came with it. To keep it from dragging on, I condensed the canon timeline and changed some details around - hopefully it’s easy to keep up with x

It had been a month since the birth of my and Mario’s son, Manuel. What I had expected to be the beginning of the happiest chapter of my life turned out to be quite the opposite. And it had nothing to do with the people around me or my son.

Mario’s family were so supportive of us. Abuelita insisted we stay with her until we had the funds to get a place of our own. Both her and Geny were constantly offering to babysit Manuel, which I took up almost all the time, much to Mario’s dismay. Even Oscar tried to pull money together every other week to help us out. I should have been nailing this whole motherhood thing in theory because I had so much support from everyone I loved. In reality, however, I was struggling to get by.

“And you’re sure you fed him before you left for work?” I was on the phone with Mario as I pulled up at Oscar’s house. When it came to getting out and taking the buckles off Manuel’s car seat, I pressed my phone against my ear, using my shoulder. “The one I put on the counter, right?”

“Yes,” Mario replied, his aggravation vividly clear in his tone. I had to stop for a moment to try and keep myself from crying. I had been doing a lot of that lately at the worst times, and I couldn’t understand why. When I didn’t respond, Mario sighed loudly. “Look, babe, you can’t keep calling me when I’m at work... I’m new to the job, and I’m already on my boss’ bad side.”

I inhaled sharply. He was right.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, trying to control the way my voice sounded so Mario wouldn’t be any more concerned about me than he already was.

“... I’ll see you when I finish, okay?”

After a short moment, he hung up, and I put my phone in my back pocket, thinking back to the times where he would never end a call without telling me he loved me. I didn’t know if it was because he genuinely didn’t catch on, or he was too eager to leave the conversation, but I needed that reminder now more than ever.

I slung my bag over my shoulder before picking up Manuel’s car seat, where he was fast asleep. After closing and locking the car I was borrowing off of Abuelita, I headed inside Oscar’s house. I hated the days where I was left alone with my son. The days where no one was around to take him off my hands. So on days like these, I would go to Oscar’s house and spend the day there, just so I wouldn’t be left alone with Manuel.

“He sleeping?” Oscar asked after he heard me come in. His back was turned against me, and he was facing the counter where he was making two cups of coffee for both of us.

“Yeah,” I answered, exasperated from carrying my son and my belongings inside. After putting Manuel, who slept quietly in his seat, down on the couch, I joined Oscar, who smiled at the sight of my son sleeping soundly.

“How you been?” Oscar asked, nodding at me as he pushed a mug of coffee in my direction. I hummed as I lifted it up and took a sip. I couldn’t drink coffee as often as I liked since I was breastfeeding, but I saved the few times I did when I went to Oscar’s. He made it the best.

“Good,” I answered, without even pausing to think. Oscar shifted his attention to me and watched as I fiddled with the handle on my mug. I knew he wanted to pry. He wanted to ask me more and more questions until I finally gave him a truthful answer, but I wasn’t ready for that. Fortunately for me, before he could say anything else, Cesar came bursting through the front door, throwing his bag on the ground before approaching Oscar. I held the handle of my mug tightly as I watched him speak.

“There’s a dude posted up outside.”

Oscar got up instantly and walked outside, his gun in his hand, ready to be fired. Cesar followed him, trying to stand next to him as he approached the guy across the street, only to be pushed behind by Oscar. I took the opportunity to peek through the sheets of tin foil Oscar had covering the windows. After squinting my eyes to try and make out the man standing on the other side of the street, a duffle bag by his feet with an oddly familiar stance, I began to piece together who it was.

My father.

Before my brothers could make their way back inside, I took Manuel into my old room, which Oscar left untouched since I had moved out after giving birth. I could faintly make out the sound of their conversation in the living room area, so I took my time putting Manuel and my bag down. When I finally made my way back to where my family were seated, I could see the tension between all of them. My dad and Cesar looked up at me when I walked in, but Oscar remained glaring at Ray.

“Cesar, you need to get to school,” Oscar said flatly.

My little brother lifted his hands in annoyance and immediately looked at me. Often, when Oscar told him to do something he didn’t want to, he would turn to me in hopes that I would say the opposite. It was always that way, never vice versa. But, when it came to either one of our parents, I had to have Oscar’s back.

“Go,” I told him, and he reluctantly picked his bag off the floor. I took his spot on the couch and joined Oscar in, glaring at my dad. He looked no different from the last time he bothered to come around.

“You still in school?”

“I finished over a year ago,” I droned, wanting more than anything to take my son and leave, but I knew I couldn’t leave him alone with Oscar. Not to mention if I did leave, I would have no place to go but back to Abuelita’s place where I would be left alone with Manuel.

“College?”

“Are you kidding me?” I laughed dryly. Oscar shook his head.

My father inhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the corridor that leads to the bedrooms. I felt my heart begin to pound, fearing for where this conversation was heading.

“The baby you took to your room,” he began, confirming what I had already expected. I hadn’t done as good of a job at hiding Manuel as I thought. “... yours?”

I could see Oscar getting angrier and more aggravated by how he clenched his fists and his jaw. He was always protective of Cesar and me when it came to our dad, but it appeared to be tenfold with Manuel. I glanced over at my brother, but he was too busy glaring at Ray to notice. Sighing, I turned back to him and nodded. There was no point in hiding Manuel’s existence from him. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t still try and protect him.

“... The father?”

Ray hesitated before asking. I could tell that, while he was obviously curious to know, he was also cautious that he was digging too deep so suddenly. Oscar huffed, rubbing his hand over his facial hair, clearly annoyed. I felt indifferent.

“Mario Martinez.”

“Martinez?” He raised his eyebrows before pulling his blunt back towards his mouth. After exhaling slowly, releasing a cloud of smoke, he nodded, seemingly impressed. “... Good family.”

“I didn’t ask for your approval,” I scoffed before standing up and turning my back to him. I looked down at Oscar and signalled him to follow me into my old room to have a conversation outside of our father’s earshot.

Once he had followed me inside, I closed the door to ensure privacy before turning back to my son, who was thankfully still fast asleep. I began packing his things up as I spoke to Oscar.

“What are we gonna do?”

After gathering Manuel’s things, I brought the handlebar of his car seat up so I could be ready to take him to the car, through the backdoor, as soon as Oscar and I were finished discussing our next course of action.

“I don’t know,” Oscar sighed as he shoved his hands in his pockets. I sat on my old bed and looked up at him silently. After a moment, he looked back at me. “Cesar wants to... take him out for lunch tomorrow.”

The way Oscar explained, I could tell how immensely uncomfortable he was with the thought of it and with how eager Cesar was to reconcile his relationship with.

“Want me to go with them?” I asked.

He nodded.

I sighed but nodded back. As much as I wanted to avoid having a conversation with my father, let alone sit and have a meal with him, I couldn’t leave Cesar to meet him for lunch on his own. I couldn’t let him get too close and too vulnerable with Ray.

Oscar and I knew better than anyone how that would eventually end.

***

After leaving Oscar’s place, I noticed that Mario’s car was parked outside the building when I got home. Manuel had fallen asleep during the car trip, so I carried him in his car seat inside.

After I took him to his nursery and placed him in his cot, I went back into the kitchen area where Mario was grumbling as he did the dishes. It was getting late, so I assumed he was just tired.

I walked over and stood beside him so I could give him a hand, but he turned to me with furrowed brows before I could do so. My heart began to pound because I knew I had done something to upset him.

“You said you would do the dishes today,” he stated sharply. I sighed before dropping my head down. “It’s so late. Where the hell have you been?”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled before reaching past him so I could finish washing the rest of the dishes. I hoped that would be enough to defuse the tension, but Mario simply took a step to the side and continued to glare at me as he waited for an explanation. “- I was at Oscar’s, and I lost track of time. My-”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, the volume of his voice rising abruptly.

Whenever Mario and I fought, he was never the type to yell, no matter how angry he got. I always worried that I would end up pushing him over that edge one day, and it seemed like today was that day.

“Mario,” I whispered, slightly startled by how angry he was getting. There was obviously more to it than just me forgetting to do the dishes.

“I work so hard to support you and Manuel,” he began, his voice growing louder from what appeared to be frustration. “I asked you to do one thing.”

“I know, but-”

I was planning on leaving Oscar’s place early to make it back in time to get all the housework done. When my dad arrived out of the blue, it put a wrench in my plans. Mario cut me off before I could explain that to him.

“And what’s up with you calling me at work all the time?” His expression was saturated with anger. I wondered how long he had bottled up this resentment. “I thought you would be used to taking care of Manuel on your own by now.”

“I’m trying,” I cried in reply. I really was.

“Try harder,” he said in an icy tone, his expression becoming emotionless all of a sudden. I held my breath, trying to suppress my tears. “You shouldn’t be taking Manuel out so late... you need to start being a better mother.”

He turned around and walked into our shared room. Once I was sure he was out of earshot, I turned my attention back to the dishes I was cleaning, trying to keep myself distracted.

When I felt my tears beginning to pour out of my eyes, I knew it wasn’t working.

All of the insecurities I felt about being a new mother were beginning to surface. I wanted desperately to be everything Mario and Manuel needed me to be, but I just felt like I could never be able to do that. And it was killing me inside.

***

The following morning, I woke up extra early. I tried to get as much housework done as possible to give Manuel his second bottle for the day. Normally Mario would because I would be too exhausted too, and because it normally fell around the time, he was set to leave for work.

Since the night before, we hadn’t spoken to each other, so I thought doing that would be a step in the right direction for us. Apparently not.

“What are you doing?” Mario asked, startling me as I tested the temperature of Manuel’s milk on my wrist.

“I was gonna feed Manuel,” I explained.

“But I feed him his second bottle,” Mario said, anger and annoyance both prevalent in his tone and his expression.

“I know,” I replied calmly. This was appearing to have the opposite effect to what I hoped it would; Mario was seemingly getting angrier with me. “I just thought you might want a break from having to feed him this morning.”

“Looking after my son isn’t a burden, Y/n,” he retorted, his voice getting louder with each word he spoke. My eyes grew wide. I didn’t know whether to be startled or offended.

Was he insinuating that I made looking after Manuel seem like a burden?

“I never said that,” I responded.

Just as I finished speaking, the sound of Manuel’s cries sounded throughout the room. Mario turned back to me, holding his hand out so he could take the bottle and feed our son. Not wanting to argue with him, I reluctantly handed it over.

He left for work without saying goodbye to me, even though I stood in the kitchen and watched him go. Normally he would kiss me goodbye before leaving to go anywhere. I knew this was a testament to how angry he was.

Once it was nearing lunchtime, I took Manuel and dropped him off with Geny. When Abuelita saw me crying by the kitchen sink the night before, she sat me on her couch and consoled me. After I explained to her what happened with my dad, she called Geny. At first, she wanted to confront her son about how he spoke to me, but I talked her out of it. After that, she offered to watch Manuel for the afternoon while I went to lunch with Cesar and my dad.

Once I dropped Manuel off to her, I headed to Dwayne’s restaurant, where Cesar and our dad were seated at a booth. As I approached them, Ray sat up uncomfortably.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said as I took a seat next to Cesar, who immediately passed me his plate of fries. I turned to him and smiled, only to be met with a concerned expression.

“You okay?” He asked, knitting his eyebrows out of worry. I had forgotten I spent the night crying and that my eyes were slightly puffy.

“Yeah, I just didn’t get much sleep,” I answered a beat too quickly for Cesar to be convinced. Nonetheless, I knew he would look past it so he could continue catching up with our father.

“I was just telling Cesar how good it is he has a job,” my dad said, as he took a bite of the food Cesar undoubtedly got him with his employment perk.

“Yeah, Dwayne’s always been good to me,” Cesar explained, smiling nervously as he fiddled with his fingers. It was endearing and concerning the way he was so anxious he was acting like an overexcited child. “Even when things got hard.”

I placed my hand on him should and gripped it tightly. Cesar was one of the more emotional ones of the Diaz men, but that didn’t mean he was always upfront with how he felt.

“I heard about your mom,” our dad said, looking up at the two of us nervously. I stared blankly at him, trying my best not to glare, but I promised Cesar I wouldn’t be hostile at our lunch. “I should have reached out... I’m sorry.”

I looked over at Cesar, and I could tell he was trying his best to maintain his smile. I was the only person he had ever spoken to about our mom, but those conversations were infrequent and always emotional.

“You should try the char burger,” I said to our dad before sliding out of the booth, so Cesar could step out. “You’ll like it... Cesar, why don’t you go order one for him.”

He nodded before leaving so he could head towards the counter. I slid back into the booth and glared at my father.

“What’s your deal?” I asked angrily, annoyed that he would bring up such a painful memory for Cesar, let alone myself. “It’s not enough to traumatise us; you have to come back just to pour salt in our wounds?”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here, huh?” At that point, I was just as curious as I was angry. He had been in and out of prison for over a decade, yet the last time he bothered to stop by, Cesar wasn’t even old enough to form memories.

“I... I wanna patch things up,” he said.

It really took him over two decades to grow a conscience and make an effort in his children’s lives.

“Look,” I whispered before glancing up at Cesar, who was in the process of getting the char burger. I sighed. “Just... tread lightly for now, okay? Cesar wants to catch up with you, not relive his childhood trauma.”

Ray inhaled deeply before nodding. I felt protective over Cesar, but when it came to our parents, this was only heightened. I was not going to let my dad hurt him. Not on my watch. Once Cesar was approaching the table, I slid out so he could sit in his initial spot.

“Where’s Manuel, Y/n?” Cesar asked.

My breath hitched as it dawned on me that I forgot to ask Cesar not to bring him up in front of our dad. Once he mentioned him, however, I knew there was no going back.

“He’s with Geny,” I answered before taking a bite of my plate of fried. Ray watched me intently before speaking up again- exactly what I feared he would do.

“Is there any chance I could meet him?”

I had to physically and figuratively bite my tongue. As much as I wanted to respond snidely, I knew that would only damage my relationship with Cesar- who made me promise that I wouldn’t be hostile at that lunch.

“I’ll think about it,” I replied. Cesar’s expression didn’t seem to change, so I knew I had answered in a way that both kept the peace and ensured I could continue to control how much of a role my dad would have in my son’s life- which, if it were up to me, would be minuscule.

Just as the conversation headed towards a different, much safer direction, my phone began to vibrate.

After I excused myself from the table, I went outside the building and answered the call.

It was Mario.

“Why does my mom have Manuel?” His tone was accusatory and angry. That seemed to be the case for all of our conversations.

“I’m at lunch-“

“You left Manuel so you could go for lunch?!”

“It was important, Mario.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He was speaking so loudly, I had to hold my phone at a distance away from my ear. “What kind of a mother are you? What could be more important than our son?”

My breath hitched, but I tried to recover quickly. Nothing was more important to me than Manuel, but I needed Mario to know that I wasn’t avoiding my responsibilities as a mother for something trivial.

“I’m at lunch with my dad,” I explained, trying to speak as quickly as possible so he wouldn’t have the chance to interrupt.

“... You’re dad’s back in town?” I was relieved that he was calming down, finally understanding why I was too preoccupied to have Manuel with me at all times.

“Yes,” I answered, trying to keep my tone neutral despite how much I was on the verge of tears. “- but don’t worry. I’ll pick up Manuel... I know I need to start being a better mother.”

I made it a point to use Mario's exact phrasing when he scolded me the night before. Just as he began spluttering a response, I hung up the phone.

***

It had been a week since I met Cesar and Ray for lunch. I hadn’t heard from either of them nor Oscar until I was on my way to picking up Cesar. Normally he preferred to make his own way home, but he had plans to meet with Ruby and wanted me to give him a ride. Just as I pulled up in front of Dwayne’s barbecue joint, my phone began to ring. As soon as I answered it, the sound of my older brother’s voice sounded throughout my car. Needless to say, he was angry about something.

“Did you know he got him a job?”

There it was.

“Huh?” I answered, completely taken back by what he had said. I suspected he was talking about Ray, but for Cesar’s sake, I hoped he wasn’t. “- what are you talking about, Oscar?”

“Cesar got the viejo a fucking job,” he yelled, his voice growing louder and angrier with every word he spoke. “- what happened to keeping an eye on him?

“I-i had to leave early,” I sighed. “Cesar must’ve talked to Dwayne after I left.”

“Well, great fucking job, y/n,” Oscar retorted. I could feel the pace of my heartbeat quickening the louder and madder he got. I felt overwhelmed. “You were supposed to make sure Cesar didn’t get too close to him; now they’re workmates.

“Look, I know you’re mad, but could you stop yelling at me?!” My voice shook as I spoke, and I felt my eyes water and hands shake. I didn’t know what was coming over me, but I had no control over it. “- I have enough people telling me I’ve fucked up. I don’t need that shit from you.”

There was silence for a prolonged moment, and I groaned quietly. I didn’t mean to overshare, but it was too late to take it back. I didn’t want Oscar to worry about me more so than he already did.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled quickly. “... you alright?”

“I’m good,” I replied, even though he and I both knew I was far from it. Nonetheless, I wanted to end our conversation as swiftly as possible. The longer I stayed on the line, the more I feared he would pry into what was going on with me. “- Don’t worry... Look, I know it’s messy, but there’s nothing we can do without hurting Cesar. We just gotta wait it out and see how it goes.”

After agreeing to do so, Oscar hung up, and I finally made my way inside. My dad was wearing an apron and stood by the front counter. It eerily reminded me of the times he would cook for my brothers and me when we were kids, that is, in between the times he abandoned us and showed up when he needed a place to crash. When the doorbell rang as I walked in, he looked over to me and smiled. I almost didn’t want to glare at him.

“Hola mija,” he greeted as he approached me. I hated to admit it, but I could see how hard he was trying to be an accomodating host. “Can I get you a menu?

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “- no, I’m just here to pick up Cesar. He said he needed me to give him a ride somewhere.

“He’s in the back,” Ray replied, nodding towards the entrance to the storeroom. “I think he’ll be out soon.”

“So,” I began, trying to fill the awkward silence. Though I still had 19 years worth of resentment towards him, I wanted to be civil. “You’re working here now, huh?”

It felt strange talking to my father like this. The last time he was around, I was around Cesar’s age. Now, we were making small talk like the two adults we were. It felt uncomfortable because part of me still felt like the girl I was when he left, the girls who had been hurting for almost 10 years because of what he did.

“Yeah, it’s nice... Dwayne’s a good boss.”

“Yeah,” I smiled in agreement. Mr Turner was one of the kindest people I knew. Whenever I came into his restaurant after school, he always made sure I left with an empty stomach even if I didn’t have any money. Now, he was doing the same for my little brother. “He’s always been good to Cesar.”

Just as I turned to call Cesar to come out from the storeroom, my dad spoke up, causing me to turn my heel back and face him. He seemed hesitant, which was a strange sight. I remembered him being certain of everything he did.

“Hey, um,” his nervousness was heavily prevalent in his voice. I tried to prepare myself for what he was about to say, knowing it would have a significant impact. “- I know you said we could talk about it later... but I really wanna meet my grandson.”

I inhaled sharply. Of all the things he could have said, I was not expecting him to bring up Manuel. Considering his track record, I assumed he would be gone before my son crossed his mind again. He seemed to prove me wrong.

“- I know, you have every right to say no,” he added, in a tone I could only assume, and hope was sincere. “- I was a horrible father to you... but I’m hoping I can be a good abuelo... if you give me a chance.”

“I don’t know...” I sighed. I still felt uncertain about my dad and his agenda. I felt uncertain that he changed enough to be sincere, let alone enough to have a place in my son’s life.

Although he was Manuel’s grandfather, and nothing I could do would ever change that, I had control over who came and left my son’s life. I would not let him in without confirmation that he was better, that he had changed.

“I understand,” he answered.

The two of us stood in awkward silence for a minute or so before Cesar entered the dining area, his backpack clutched in his hand. He seemed concerned by the way my father and I were standing, the tension between us physically apparent just as it was figuratively.

“Hey, you ready to go?” I smiled as I turned to face my little brother. I didn’t want him to worry any more than he already did.

Cesar nodded, drawing his attention away from the tension between our father and I. Just as we were about to turn and leave, Ray pulled out a brown to-go bag from behind the counter.

“Here, mijo, I got you something,” he said as he handed the bag to Cesar, who was taken aback but smiled nonetheless. “I noticed you didn’t have anything to eat when you were on your break.”

I glanced back at Cesar, who seemed grateful. Often when he had a lot on his mind or a lot on his plate, it was easy for him to forget to do important things like getting something to eat. Moreover, when Cesar did realise what he had forgotten, he would often try to hide it. It took a bit of paying attention before Oscar, and I picked up on it. I was impressed that my dad managed to do so in just a day.

“Do you need a ride?” I asked my dad, who shook his head and smiled.

“No, I’ll be okay. I still have a few more hours to go.”

“... Are you working tomorrow?”

“No,” he answered. I could tell he was worried about where my subtle interrogation was headed.

“Okay,” I smiled, knowing what I would say would make him happy. “Come by my place tomorrow morning... You can meet your grandson then.”

He grinned as he inhaled deeply. I smiled weakly before placing my hand on Cesar’s shoulder and walking out of the restaurant, hoping with all my heart that I wasn’t making a mistake.

***

My dad arrived at my doorstep the next morning, almost half an hour before the time we agreed upon. He tried to hide it when I greeted him, but I knew how happy he was that he was finally getting the chance to meet his grandson.

“Where’s Mario?” Ray asked nonchalantly as I led him to Manuel’s nursery.

“He’s working,” I answered shortly, not allowing my dad the chance to pry. “Just watch your step when you come in. There’s lots of toys lying around.”

I smiled wearily at my son as I carefully picked him up from his bed. I was getting more confident in holding him, but I still felt scared every time I did. As I cradled him in my arms, I looked over to my dad, who had carefully navigated his way through the array of baby toys on the ground.

“Here,” I said softly, as I slowly moved towards him, carefully transferring my son from my arms and into his. Watching him cradle his grandson so carefully and with so much concern made me smile. “His name’s Manuel.”

“Manuel,” he repeated, smiling as my son continued to sleep soundly in his arms. I couldn’t help but smile. This was a side of my dad I forgot existed. He shook his head as he continued to grin down at Manuel. “... que lindo.”

I turned away and began folding Manuel’s freshly washed clothes away. As I pulled open one of the drawers, I looked down and saw my dad’s duffel bag in the corner of my eye; fully packed and discarded by the door. That’s when I began to piece together why he wanted to meet my son so soon. I pushed the drawer shut slowly before turning to back to my dad, who was still oblivious to what I had figured out.

“You’re leaving?” I asked, glancing pointedly at the bag he left by the door.

He slowly turned around, carefully placing Manuel back in his cot, before turning back to me. When he didn’t say anything- only nodded guiltily as he shoved his hand in his back pocket, I wanted to scream.

“Why?” I questioned, trying to understand why he was choosing to leave again, especially after reconciling with Cesar and finding out he has a grandson. Did those things mean nothing to him? Did we mean nothing to him?

He glanced back at Manuel before leading me into the living room, knowing that I wasn’t gonna be quiet. I closed the door behind me and began scolding my dad.

“Can’t ever think about anyone but yourself,” I shouted in frustration. I had really hoped he changed. “This is gonna break Cesar, but you don’t give a shit about that, do you?”

“Mija-”

“-And what about trying to patch things up, huh?” I wasn’t going to let him speak. Not until I got what I needed to say off my chest. I didn’t get to do that the last time he walked out, and I had regretted it ever since. “How do you think they’re gonna react when you tell them?”

When my dad stood silent, eyes falling to the ground, I stumbled back.

“What, you’re dumping that on me too?”

Silent filled the air for a prolonged moment. I glared at my father, bewildered by what he was doing and how little regard his plan had for me and how I would be affected. He looked like he was about to speak.

“I’ll call Cesar when I get to Bakersfield,” he said as if that solved the issue. “Oscar... he’ll come around, but... he’s gotta let go of that rage-”

“- Stop,” I hissed, holding my hand up and shaking my head angrily. I began to regret ever inviting him inside. “You don’t get to do that... You don’t get to come here and try and tell us what’s wrong with us- You’re what’s wrong with us.”

“Mija-”

“And would you stop calling me that,” I snapped, raising my voice louder, although Manuel was sleeping in the room. “I stopped being anyone’s hija the day I had to start being a mother to a kid that wasn’t even mine.”

I glared at my father, who stood silent. My eyebrows knitted together as I continued to shout at him.

“And now... I finally get the chance to raise my own, but I’m too scared to be left alone with him in case I end up exactly like you. A deadbeat.”

My father looked taken aback by my outburst but remained silent, nodding his head only slightly, showing he acknowledged the truth in what I was saying, or rather screaming, at him. I breathed heavily, tears brimming in my eyes as I felt my throat begin to close up.

“Everything bad that’s happened to me is because of you,” I cried, my voice beginning to crack. Before I could continue speaking, I inhaled sharply, my breath beginning to stutter. “I can’t even look at my son without thinking of all the ways I could end up failing him as you did to me.”

His eyebrows rose before furrowing in sympathy. Before I could even think of stopping him, he pulled me into his arms and hugged me tightly. I couldn’t help but sob quietly. I had craved a hug from my dad for most of my childhood.

I wish he hadn’t waited so long to give me one.

***

Fortunately, not long after Ray left, Abuelita arrived home. After explaining to her what had happened, she happily agreed to stay with Manuel so I could go and break the news to my brothers. So I got my things together in haste and drove as quickly as I could to Oscar’s house.

After knocking on the front door and being let in by Oscar himself, I sat at the table and waited. My brother had our traditional mugs of coffee at hand and sat opposite me. He immediately noticed my puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

“What happened?” He asked softly, watching me intently as I fought back the tears while trying to piece together an explanation. He leaned forward and clutched the handle of his mug. “You and Mario fight again?”

I shook my head quickly. Staring down at my mug, I sighed deeply. The longer I waited to tell him, the harder it would eventually be. There was no point in beating around the bush.

“Ray left,” I stated. Oscar inhaled sharply, clicking his jaw as he turned his head away from me. I couldn’t bear to look up at him, so I sat in silence. Whatever he wanted to get off his chest, I would let him.

“Cesar’s gonna be crushed,” he sighed. He and I both knew that more than anyone. Even though he knew that our parents basically left us with no choice but to sacrifice our youth and dreams to support Cesar, he still yearned to have a relationship with them. If only he knew how painful it was.

“Hey,” I whispered, causing Oscar to finally look me in the eye.

I could see his eyes glistening. Though his first concern was how Cesar would be affected, I could tell that he was just as impacted. We both let our guards down when Ray accepted the job at Dwayne’s business. We both secretly hoped he would stay this time.

“I’ll tell him,” I insisted. Oscar sat up, ready to disagree, but I spoke before he could say anything. “- he made you break the news to us the last time he left. I’m not gonna let you go through that again.”

My voice began to crack. Oscar furrowed his eyebrows in concern, but I had already made my mind up.

“He’s gonna take it out on you,” Oscar said, in an attempt to get me to leave the burden with him, but I refused. I shook my head.

“Let him,” I replied shortly.

Cesar was a wild card when it came to things like this. When Oscar delivered the bad news, Cesar would respond by either breaking down or shoving our brother. Sometimes he would even punch the nearest wall. When it was me, however, Cesar typically responded by saying awful things. Things he didn’t mean. Often he would accompany such words with a shove or two.

I knew that this was a big one, though.

So I tried to prepare myself for anything. Maybe Cesar was gonna say something awful to me in retaliation. Maybe he was just gonna break down in tears. Maybe he was gonna react in an unprecedented way. Regardless, I was willing to take whatever. For Oscar and I, this was yet another time one of our parents let us down. For Cesar, this was the first time he got to develop a relationship with either one of them, and so the first time, he was gonna be disappointed so severely.

About an hour later, after Oscar and I finished our coffee and sat silently on the couch, Cesar came home from school. Noticing how quiet we were, he immediately figured out that something wasn’t right.

“What’s going on?” Cesar asked hesitantly, noting how Oscar and I were staring at him as he walked in with such intent and concern. He glanced down the hall before looking back at the two of us. “Where’s Ray?”

I had done so much crying; I was convinced that I had no more tears left. Yet, when Cesar spoke, I felt my eyes being glazed over again. I looked over at Oscar, who offered a nod of encouragement.

“Cesar, c’mere... Ray left,” I explained painfully, not having enough courage to look at my little brother as I spoke.

“What?” Cesar was already beginning to shout, and I didn’t blame him. I inhaled sharply while looking up at the ceiling, trying to pull myself together so I could be there for him in whatever way he needed me to be. “He wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

“He did.”

Cesar sighed, his eyebrows knitting as he processed the bad news. His eyes quickly darkened, and he immediately turned to Oscar.

“What did you do?”

“He didn’t do anything,” I said before Oscar could chime in. I held my hand out and gently pushed Cesar back after he stepped towards our brother. “I was the last one he talked to, okay? I only just told Oscar before you got home.”

“Well, what did you say, then?”

“Cesar,” I sighed. I had little to no energy left, let alone enough to argue with my little brother. “He was never sticking around... He showed up with his duffel bag already packed.”

“What, you didn’t try to talk him out of it? You just let him go?”

“I’m not responsible for what he decides, Cesar.” My frustration grew exceedingly as I spoke. “He’s a grown man. I shouldn’t have to talk him out of abandoning his children... again.”

Cesar turned away, confirming to me that he knew I was right. I sighed, thinking the worst of our argument was over, but that’s when Cesar spoke again.

“I bet this makes you happy,” he muttered. “You and Oscar couldn’t wait to get rid of him.”

“Happy?... You think I’m happy?” I repeated, furrowing my brows as I stared down at my little brother. Of all the stupid things he’d said to me in his lifetime, this was an all-time low. “Are you fucking kidding me? Cesar, I’m your sister... but for most of your life, I’ve been your mom... If you’re gonna yell at someone, get on the next bus to Bakersfield and go yell at him. He’s the one who left. He’s the one who ruined our lives.”

“Ray didn’t ruin my life,” Cesar muttered quietly, shaking his head and laughing dryly, before looking up at me with a scowl. “You did.”

Oscar stood up and placed himself in between Cesar and me. He held his arms up in an attempt to get Cesar to back down but to no avail.

“Cesar, that’s enough,” he warned, facing our little brother, who shoved back every time Oscar tried to push him away. Cesar was adamant about getting the last word, but Oscar continued to try and keep him back. “Ces- Cesar, that’s enough.”

“No, you know what?”

Cesar fought free from Oscar’s grip and immediately finished what he started.

“Everything bad that’s happened to me is because of you,” Cesar spat, glaring at me with such passionate anger, I almost didn’t recognise my little brother. “Manuel’s gonna need all the luck he can get with a mother like you.”

My mouth slowly fell agape, and my breath hitched. I could hear Cesar breathe heavily from all the yelling. He glared at me, almost as if he knew how much he was hurting me, but he didn’t seem to care. He stormed out of the house before Oscar could begin scolding him for taking it too far. So instead, he watched my reaction intently, ready to console me if I needed to break down after what Cesar had just said.

“Y/n, he didn’t mean that,” Oscar reasoned, taking note of the way my eyes glistened and how hard I was biting my bottom lip, something I only ever did to keep myself from crying.

I nodded, even though I was finding it increasingly difficult to believe. Everything I had suspected of myself. All of the fears I had about being an actual mother for the first time. Cesar’s words were making me confirm it.

I grabbed my bag off the floor and began heading for the door, despite Oscar’s attempts at calling out to me. I had to leave. I couldn’t face either one of my brothers. And, at that point, I couldn’t even face my son. I began driving around the block before finding an empty parking lot to stop at. There, I sat in silence for a few hours, trying to process everything that had happened since the morning.

***

I had been sitting in the parking lot for a few tens of minutes. Most of that time, I spent sobbing. It felt like all of the responsibilities I had spent the past few weeks and months, and years of my life carrying toppled over and crushed me in the process.

The part that hurt the most was how much I tried to do my best. I tried to be the best mother to Manuel. I tried to be the best sister to Cesar. I tried to be the best partner to Mario. Yet, it seemed like no matter how hard I tried, I still wasn’t enough.

In the midst of my emotional breakdown, a loud tap sounded throughout my car. I looked and gasped when I saw Mario standing outside my door with a worried expression. In all honesty, it never crossed my mind that someone would care enough to come and find me.

After I unlocked the doors, he sat in the passenger’s seat. He watched me intently as I wiped my tears away and tried to compose myself.

“Oscar and Abuelita told me what happened,” he whispered before slowly reaching out his hand and taking hold of mine. We had somewhat reconciled the last time we fought, but there was still tension between us. I was grateful he was taking the first step towards fixing it- goodness knows I was not in a position to be able to. “... Please talk to me.”

At first, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him. I felt an array of shame and embarrassment. Mario noticed this and responded by gently placing his hands on the sides of my face. He knew I loved it when he did that. I eventually looked up at him, and he just smiled as he waited patiently for me to speak.

“I-I,” I bowed my head for a moment to try and muster the energy to finish my sentence. Mario placed his hand on mine and gently squeezed it reassuringly. “I thought he was gonna stay this time... He kept asking to meet Manuel, and he got a job, and I... I thought it would be different this time.”

Mario nodded but remained silent. Before we began dating, we were childhood friends. He was there all the times my dad left before. He knew how much this was hurting me.

“And I’m so scared,” I cried, trying not to choke on my words. “I’m so scared I’m gonna fuck up my kids’ lives the way he has mine and my brothers’... I don’t wanna break Manuel.”

“Hey,” Mario whispered, taking hold of the side of my face and looking up at me with concern-filled eyes. “You’re not gonna break, Manuel... He and I are so lucky to have you.”

I sniffled as I turned away. I didn’t believe him, and Mario could tell. He sighed. I thought then that he would give up on trying to console me and leave, but instead, he continued to look at me, even as I turned away.

“Is that why you call me all the time?” He asked. I didn’t turn back to him, but I could tell from his tone that he was not agitated anymore. He was genuinely concerned. “- ‘cause you feel scared when you’re alone with Manuel?”

I dropped my head and remained silent, which Mario accurately interpreted as a yes. After a moment of silence, he reached for my hand again. This time, I turned to face him.

“I’m so sorry... for everything I said to you,” he whispered, tears brimming in his eyes. It had been a while since I had seen him so vulnerable, which was strange considering how emotional Mario was. “Ever since I started my job, I’ve just been really stressed... I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. That will never happen again.”

“I shouldn’t have annoyed you so much,” I muttered. I couldn’t help but feel guilty that Mario was apologising to me when he was obviously under a lot of pressure. “You work so hard for us, I shouldn’t be making things worse-”

“Baby, you don’t,” he responded. I began to smile through my tears because he was using a term of endearment for the first time in a while rather than just simply calling me by my name. “You don’t... I’m sorry I made you feel like you do... How about, from now on, you text me when you have a question about Manuel, or when you start to feel overwhelmed, or even when you just want to talk. I can’t promise I’ll always be able to talk, but I’ll respond to you as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” I whispered, smiling at him as I nodded. I felt so relieved that he understood what I was going through. Mario leaned close to me and kissed my temple softly before looking me in the eye, his hands finding their way back to the sides of my face. He could tell something was still on my mind.

“You’re nothing like him, Y/n,” he murmured. “He leaves when things get tough... you’ve always stayed... I mean, you’ve taken care of Cesar since he was born... Now you’re taking care of Manuel... and of me.”

I chuckled beneath my breath. When Manuel was first born, Mario joked about how well I took care of them two. I would have had it any other way.

“There’s no one else I’d rather being doing this with,” he said before kissing me softly. I smiled against his lips, and my eyes remained close for a moment even after he pulled away. “Manuel and I are so lucky to have you, Y/n... I love you so much.”

“I’m lucky to have you,” I murmured as I brought my hand up to his jaw, drawing circles on the side of his cheek with my thumb. He smiled, leaning forward and pressing his nose against mine. “I love you.”

It was as if he came at the right time. Just when things began to topple over me, Mario was right there, ready to bear my burdens with me. For the first time in a long time, I felt a wave of peace and calmness wash over me. I knew I had a lot of work to do. I knew Cesar, and I were still on bad terms. But I also knew that so long as I had Mario with me, I would be okay. I would survive whatever other obstacles life threw my way, and it would all be worth it for my son.

He and Mario were more than enough for me.

#mario martinez imagine #mario martinez x reader #mario martinez imagines #on my block imagines #on my block #Oscar Diaz #cesar diaz #ray diaz #mario x reader #Mario Martinez #on my block masterlist #on my block fanfiction

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redstainedsocks · 4 years

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Human Again

For @amonthofwhump’s March Madness for the whump trope: choking

Here’s my whumpee Zach having a very bad wake up call. I know the previous four Zach pieces have been post-escape but, and hear me out here, he was just in need of some whumping. So have some out of context, out of order, pain. (Read more high up the piece for vaguely referenced thoughts of noncon)

Warnings: Forced nudity, implied torture, implied past noncon, choking, noncon kissing, shotgunning cigarette smoke, smoking, cigarette burns, manhandling, antagonistic language, blindfolds, captive whumpee, nausea mention, food mention, prisoner denied food

Zach woke up naked. He woke up stiff and sore, and though he knew he was on the thin mattress that was granted as his bed—he could smell the musty stink of it—he had no idea how or when he got there.

The two things combined were enough to turn his stomach, and bile crawled up his throat. There were fuzzy memories, blurred indistinct ones of beatings and being bent over a table… but was that the last thing that had happened? Or was there more? Was that even yesterday, or two days ago? It all mixed up together, and he couldn’t work out what had happened when, or which thing it was that had made him lose consciousness. Was it drugs again? An electric shock? Or just the accumulation of pain and fatigue and he’d passed out naturally?

He only knew he must have been out a while to have been brought back to his cell. Not knowing if anything more had happened while he was unawares he shivered and curled up, wishing for a blanket to cover himself with. As he moved he felt the protest in his bruised ribs and moaned as he clutched his side.

“Ah, he lives,” came a smarmy, grunt of a voice.

Great, Mack, of all people, was here.

Zach opened his eyes to better defend himself against whatever Mack had in mind and found something still blocked his sight. He groped for his face, arm numb from his own dead weight crushing it.

“Leave that,” Mack said. “Don’t you fucking dare touch it, that’s your first rule of the day.”

Zach swallowed, groaned again and pushed himself to sit up, hyper aware of every inch of skin on display. He smelled Mack’s cigarettes before he heard the man move, felt the stale smoke waft over his face and another roil of nausea that it brought with it. He lifted a hand to rub his nose and coughed onto the back of his hand to try and rid the smell and the almost-taste of it from his body.

Mack’s hand—probably, unless someone else was here too—caught his wrist and squeezed painfully. “You deaf today or some shit, I said don’t touch your fucking face.” Mack twisted his hand until the skin pinched beneath his grip, and the joint protested. Zach hissed in pain and lurched into action to try and grapple his hand free, digging nails into the back of Mack’s hand.

Mack held on for a few more long moments before he shoved Zach, freeing his wrist, and he scooted further away from where he thought Mack was crouching.

“Actually you said not to touch the blindfold,” he replied tersely. “Try thinking before you speak it might help you get your point across.”

Mack grabbed the back of his neck, fingers curling into the ends of his hair and yanked his head back. Zach hadn’t known to brace for it and the jerk sent a wave of pain that ricocheted down his neck and jarred something in his aching hip. “Far too mouthy you little shit. If it were up to me I’d sew that mouth of yours shut.”

“But then how would we have these little chats I know you love so much?”

Another puff of smoke rolled over his face and he wrinkled his nose, stomach churning. He needed food, water... he needed proper rest, not just to pass out after some torment or other and wake up bruised and sore. Resigned to not getting enough of any of those things he focused on the slight sense of satisfaction of irritating Mack instead.

He heard the hiss of the cigarette being dragged on and hoped it was nearly gone. It was fruitless hoping when fingers gripped his jaw until his lips puckered, the heat of the cigarette sizzling far too close to his skin, held in the fingers that gripped him. Then Mack’s lips were on his and he sucked in a breath of surprise only to inhale a mouthful of smoke.

He sucked it down, drawing it into his lungs in surprise, hoping and hoping for clean air to come on the back of it. Mack’s lips were a seal over his own that breathed the filthy, cloying stuff from his own mouth—expelled it forcefully right to the back of Zach’s throat.

Zach’s lungs grew tight and full and he needed to exhale but Mack’s mouth was still smacked over his own and his tongue was in Zach’s mouth too, invading and claiming and bitterly acrid. Zach grew dizzy, swayed forward as his lungs tried to force the shotgunned smoke back out, he coughed and wheezed and batted at Mack weakly. Over the sound of his own hacking coughs he heard Mack’s laughter. Why was it always funny to these pricks? Why did they have to delight in making him suffer or making him ill?

The weight of it all was enough to drive him flat back onto the mattress, gasping for breath, aware he wasn’t going to catch a break here. Not even given a moment to try and process and remember the previous day’s horrors before the current day’s began.

“Your mouth has other uses too, I guess. Wouldn’t want to miss out on those,” Mack’s shoe nudged him.

He was about to respond when Mack’s heavy weight descended on top of him, driving more air from his lungs. The hand was back and it caressed his jaw as he grew tight as a bow string, muscles locked like he could fight this, change whatever was about to happen by being ready. Mack’s calloused hand slipped lower and closed around his throat... and squeezed.

It trapped the air in his lungs, stopped the coughing in its tracks and he arched up, kicking his legs looking for the pressure to lessen. Mack held him on the knife edge of breathlessness until he went limp, allowed him a precious few wheezing breaths and then closed his hand again while he blew another round of smoke into Zach’s gasping mouth.

Zach squirmed as his chest failed to expand and his lungs didn’t fill, the black behind the blindfold going haywire with flashes of light and colour and then fading to grey. There wasn’t room for breathing or thinking, he was only animal—desperate, hungry and directionless with the fear that came hot on the heels of being pinned down and choked out.

He clawed and kicked, begged with soundless words as he tried to make the shapes and couldn’t find enough air to give them voice.

Mack pressed tighter one more time and then released. Just as Zach thought it was over a burning, blinding pain sparked to life on his shoulder. He writhed, still sputtering inhaled smoke while a scream—half surprise as well as pain—was forced out of his throat. He smelled his singed flesh as well as the ashes of a cigarette on his shoulder. With a heavy hand he blindly flicked the hot ash from his skin, feeling it smear on his fingers with intense heat. He knew the scent would linger on his hands for a while, like some sick sort of reminder of the mornings activities.

“I’d miss that scream too, oooh man, you’re like a little girl sometimes. Can’t handle a little ciggy?”

Zach grit his teeth while tears swelled hotly behind his eyes and he only hoped to keep them at bay. He felt sluggish, no idea if it was from whatever knocked him out, or the lack of breath in his body, or just the general exhaustion and constant suffering. He almost began to laugh, and caught it before it turned into a pitiful whine. Drawing more attention to himself for being strange wouldn’t help him now.

“Think fast,” Mack said and a thud of something heavy landed on his chest with a slosh and a thud. “Drink up. Boss wants you in the training rooms today.”

Grateful for the fresh bottle of water, and hating that he was, Zach fumbled to screw the cap loose. The water soothed his abused throat, settled his stomach a little. Made him feel, briefly, more human.

Mack pulled him off the mattress and to his feet and shoved a pair of loose trousers into his hands, holding him steady with a thumb pressed firmly on the spot Zach had just been burned. Zach steeled himself and ignored the sharp pain. He stepped one foot and then the other into the trouser legs, leaning on Mack for balance while he couldn’t see.

“Now you’ve got your modesty let’s fuckin’ get on with it, step to it Griffin, time to go see what else you’re good for today.”

With tired, heavy feet Zach followed where Mack steered him. Whatever dregs of human decency he was given were always taken away sooner or later. He wondered if today would be a day he remembered, or if it would fade and be lost to some indescribable pain like the day before. He shuddered, unsettled by the idea that maybe it was kinder if he forgot; if the memory was choked out of him into oblivion so he could sleep deeply and soundlessly. If all the days bled into one, would he really be living them? Or could he float through them like the moments he drifted, lacking in oxygen, somewhere between consciousness and sleep.

He hated that that seemed appealing and wrapped a tentative hand around the bruises forming on his throat and pressed down, just because he could, just to feel the pain because he chose to for once; just to remind himself he was still very much alive, awake, and human, and that was worth fighting for.

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bigkyloenergy · 4 years

Text

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕: 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃.

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead. 18+.

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back.

read on ao3.

Empty mugs piled the tables faster than you could keep up tonight, collecting them in your arms and being forced to inhale the putrid smell of ale that should’ve gotten familiar by now. You wrinkled your nose, hoping no leftovers would splash on your clothes as you journeyed to the kitchen. The first snowfall had hit, and it was heavy, the windows covered in blankets of fluffy white curtains. Men huddled near the fire, booking more days than normal, waiting for it to pass. While your impatience wore differently.

Subconsciously, your mind could conjure the exact days since you’d seen him.

But the last few days have been check in, check out — change sheets, check in again, check out early — is that person even still here?... and repeat, your body was a machine catered to serving.

Seemed like useless tasks now that you knew what it was like to awaken every nerve ending that you possessed. For what seemed like millionth time, you damned the Viper who had found routine passing in your workplace, leaving you with this cursed form, like leftover ash from a campfire.

You counted the keys gone when you slinked back behind the counter, wiping your forehead on the back of your sleeve, grateful when you found only a few missing. The last week they’d been emptied, along with your sanity.

“Pst, missy,” Ruek whispered from behind you, and you turned to see his fuzzy face peeking from behind the heavy kitchen door, “you got anymore orders?”

“No,” you gave him a tired smile, “just checked out ten guys in a row, who I swear were the same person.”

“Beards’ll do that to ya,” his kind eyes squinted as he emerged, and you leaned against your station, giving your feet a slight break, “they make us pretty. Here, close your eyes and open up. I’ve got a surprise.”

Hesitating, you gave him a look, tipping your chin as you tried to see what he was holding behind his back. He clicked his tongue, “Come on, your cheating nature is showing, close your damn eyes it’s not gonna kill ya.”

Finally, you sighed, doing as he said. You could use a bit of a distraction from work anyway, all you did was go home, plant your face into the pillow only to wake up to the same programming.

“Open,” he reminded, which only made you more annoyed. It was Ruek, so you inevitably gave in to avoid the argument. You felt something cold on your lip, reaching your tongue toward the ‘special’ treat, and biting into… chocolate? Quickly, juices poured into your mouth, which urged you to finally open your eyes.

The cook stood, grinning proudly, a dipped strawberry in his hand. “Eck, Ru, you should've warned me, you know how I am about stuff that sweet.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but what followed was not from him.

“I used to think this inn had good service,” Kylo’s voice strapped you to an invisible post, straightening your back, choking on the leftover flavors.

The Viper wasn’t looking at you, he was staring straight at Ruek, exigently demanding a response.

“My fault, thought Miss could use a little break.”

“Hm.”

You wanted him to look at you, your very soul was demanding it, to be drowned, the striking yellow in his eyes two suns that burned everything in their path, and you the phoenix who rose under them.

How long had he been here?

“Do you need a key?” You finally spoke, trying to sound nonchalant, licking the bits of chocolate off of your lips as you reached for one.

“No. I already have one.”

What? Betty wasn’t even here. You had been the only one checking anyone in and out for the last couple days. Your brows furrowed.

“There’s a spill near the gwent tables.” He added.

“Is that why you came over here?” You could feel Ruek looking at you, wondering why the hell you were questioning the man in the first place. Of course, The Viper didn’t answer, nor did he fully acknowledge your presence.

“I got it. If we have no more orders. No problem. Just — uh let Jerrid know if you need anything from the kitchen.” Ruek shuffled away while you were too busy playing stare off with Kylo’s mask.

“You let everyone’s fingers in your mouth, little müna?”

“What? No. He has me taste test stuff all the time,” gods, this man kept you oversharing at any crumb of attention he gave you, still severely irritated with overgrown mutant though you began to smirk, “is that why you came over here? Are you.. are you jealous?”

“You expect me to play cards next to someone’s secretions.”

“It is, isn’t it? You can play Mr. Keepaway all you want, you think you have this affect on me where you can use me to your will. But you wanna know what I know that you don’t?”

He didn’t respond, eye twitching, which only aided you, leaning over the counter that Kylo could very easily hop, and this was when he finally met your eyes. Though your traitor of a body screamed with validation, you only grinned.

“I know this isn’t one sided. What would you do if you knew I fucked him?” You didn’t, of course, but the thought of making The Viper jealous thrilled you to the core, “If I let him cum in my mouth without having to force my jaw open? If he was the one I was fallin—”

Your chin was grabbed, keeping you still over the counter, your feet almost hovering on the floor. Leather squished your cheeks, his gaze scooping your bravery from you in a single second.

“Careful.” The Witcher warned, studying your face, tipping it slightly in his grip, reviving the soreness in your jaw.

“Or what, Kylo?”

He paused, and for some reason you knew you weren’t going to lack a response this time. Dropping you, he left you to land against the bartop, and his broad shoulders turned toward the small crowd.

“Leave.” His voice was a crack of thunder, splitting the customers' relaxation in half.

Most scattered to their feet, afraid of why this King of the Abyss was evicting them, not wanting to take the chance. The men who were brave enough to stay were met with a glint of silver, only to follow, and you heard the silence from valleys away.

Your eyes darted to find Ruek, there was no living thing in that room except you and Kylo.

If he was even living.

“What the hell? What’re you doing? Are you trying to make me lose my job?” He caught your neck again, like it was a new skill he was practicing, then pulled his mask down over his chin.

The whole world stopped. Your breathing was arrested in your lungs, feeling a rush of awareness cut off your circulation and leave you dizzy with the sight of perfect, scarred lips, remembering how earnestly they had caressed your breasts atop of his horse. He was grimacing, wrinkles near his nose as he looked down at you. A lost warning.

He slammed you into the nearest table, not paying mind to any of the silverware that was under you nor the plates he had just shattered on the floor. Standing between your legs that hung off the end of the it, the fireplace triggered the iridescence of his armor, another engligment to why he wore his title so well.

You couldn’t stop studying his face, mapping every curve, and you were needy as you leaned up in an attempt to capture his mouth, find every ingredient of what made up this man that haunted you, possessed you.

Not a ghost, but a demon.

Just as your lips brushed against the tip of his, your tongue an anxious explorer, he pressed you back down into the oak.

“You are mine,” He spat, his lips curling around his teeth as he let the word marinate on his tongue.

“No,” you gasped, “f—fuck you, I’m not anyone’s, and you out of everyone has shown me that.”

“No? So your cunt isn’t soaked for me right now?” Your thighs pressed together, lips parting just at the words rolled off his venomous tongue, yet you shook your head in pure denial. “Liar. I can smell you. Can practically taste it.” The unoccupied hand ran along the outside of your thigh, under your skirts, til he pinched the fat between his fingers.

The way his mask hung at his chin was just as sensual as his voice, you didn’t even know how that was physically possible, then again this man broke the rules of reality every time you saw him. He pulled you down further, pressing his hips into yours, “Say it.”

“I won’t,” your voice broke with a whine as you felt the bulge in his pants, your legs wrapping around him without a second thought, he smacked your calf, forcing them to hang once more. You groaned, yearning to feel some sort of pressure at your pulsing clit, your body’s temperature spiking by the second.

“Hm. We’ll see.”

The Viper plucked the string that held your bodice together, pulling it until it completely unraveled, your blouse the only thing that hid your perking breasts. You looked down to his gloved hand, then back to him, hair skating over his shoulders, gods-made handles for your undoing. You let out a sigh as he thumbed your nipple through the material, keeping his palm wrapped around your throat. Your hips buckled, finding nothing, the beast keeping his hips perfectly spaced from yours so you couldn’t use him for any sort of pleasure. You felt your blood boiling, and not just from the intricate torture he was inflicting. No man had ever had this affect on you, but he was not any man.

A low growl came from deep in Kylo’s throat, and your eyes opened, not realizing you shut them in the first place. He was unblinking, watching your reaction as the stitch of his glove rolled around the bud.

“Please, Kylo,” you begged, shattering every restraint you had just from seeing him so immersed in you like this, still clothed yet utterly hopeless, knowing he was your only salvation.

“Say it.”

You whined, one of your fists hitting the table, not wanting to give into him. But you weren’t the only one suffering. Pulling your top down, he released your tits from their confines, and immediately consumed them. His mouth opened, hot and wet, leaving easy marks as he glided from one to the other, tightening his hand on your neck every time your chittering frame squirmed.

One of your hands found his hair, and you were surprised when he didn’t pull it from his head. You took the opportunity earnestly, digging your fingers through the raven locks, breaking through knots to find a good grip. He sucked on you like he was getting oxygen straight from your skin, popping a nipple from his mouth only to give the same attention to the other.

Your cunt was pulsing so badly it hurt, every flutter mocking the emptiness of it, so much that you had to swallow down noises at every flick of the Viper’s tongue.

Leather fingers danced back down your form, parting your thighs, not hesitating as they peeled your panties from your saturated pussy. The first time you had his cock, you fucked yourself into a rage trying to mimic the way it felt, three fingers wasn’t enough for the fantasy and you knew it. Being so close to that now left you ravenous, forgetting the challenge that was imposed in the first place.

He ran the tip of his finger down the line of your lips, collecting the juices at the end of it with a single scoop before he pushed it back inside of you. Barely spreading you as he toyed with your entrance, circling and stretching it open, already making wet noises in the emptied inn.

“Fuck! I — please fuck me, please. I’ll do anything. Please just — fuck Kylo, please.” The words could barely be made out through insistent whines, he stayed silent, his mouth and finger working diligently to send you over that edge, into the pool of his domination.

He reached his thumb up to press pressure on your clit, never moving it, while the finger hooked inside of you, and your whole body jerked forward. Kylo quickly put your back in your place, mentally and physically, forcing you to remember his promise.

“I’m yours! Okay! I’m yours, puhleaaase, just please…” You couldn’t even properly be convincing, though you meant it, even if you didn’t want to admit it outside of him fucking you sensless.

He yielded both of his hands, lifting his face from your chest and ridding you of the secure grip you had on his head. Honey yellow eyes surveyed you from your heavy lidded gaze, all the way down to your lifted skirts, then back up again.

“Hm. I suppose I need to be more convincing.” In one languid motion, he had your dress above your head, corset falling to the floor with it, leaving you completely bare on top of the main round table in the dead center of your job. Ruek could be watching from the back for all you knew.

Kylo leered above you, his chest filling, consuming your gaze as much as he did your mind. His teeth pinched the middle finger of his glove, pulling it off with his mouth.

Your stomach flipped.

He grabbed the amulet that hung at his neck, snapping it off and rolling it around in his hand, examining it the same way he did you. You could swear you saw his eyes glisten with… something, before his focus was back.

The Viper’s large fist started to glow, and soon so did the metal.

Anticipation tickled the back of your neck, your heartbeat similar to an approaching wardrum as it filled your eyes the more you watched, “what’re you doing?”

“Showing you.” He didn’t blink.

“Showing me what?”

“Who you belong to.”

The metal of the viper face was red hot, smoking nearly. He held it between two fingers, grabbing your thigh in one hand and tugging you as you began to crawl up the table. You obediently stilled.

“Don’t move or we’ll have to do it again.”

You sucked in a breath of air, senses filling with his scent — pine, mint, leather, the very earth. Just as you did he began to line his cock up with your entrance, rubbing against the folds. He hushed you as you squeaked, and began to lower the medallion down between the hills of your chest. He perfectly lined it up, not having to look twice before he dropped his hand down, and you cried out. The flesh boiled and singed, and the entire map of your skin feeling the aftermath.

The pain was quickly distracted by another as he split you open, a growl being spat between his teeth as his cock sunk all the way into you, giving no time to adjust to the overwhelming size of him. Your nails dug at the stained wood, scratching for some kind of stability as your skin bubbled, painting a gift made by the Viper himself, all while the tip of his dick began to wrack against your cervix.

Your eyes rolled back completely into your head, nimble fingers finding straps of his armor to hold onto, which only assisted him in beating his hips off of your cunt. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, your knee barely making it to curve, it only helped the Witcher angle you to his pillaging.

The smell of burnt flesh filled your nose, truly you almost forgot about the branding he had just centered on your torso, meeting euphoria with the way his cock worked inside of you. It sent you to another plane, both of his large hands gripping your hips as he forced your smaller frame to bounce off of him. Forks and other leftover dining ware pinched at your back, ridding them off the table the more he pounded you.

His eyes were blazing carnality, encapsulating the definition of primal.

“You are mine,” he spoke through each stroke of his hips, dropping the carved metal to hold your body still with the familiar hold on your neck, “every inch of you… you are a hole for me to fuck. And that is all you are.”

You whined, specks floating in your sight as you kept alert, eyes so heavy with pleasure it was damn near blinding you.

“The next time you let another man touch you,” a sharp smack of his hips, pain crawling up your spine, threatening to quite literally break you, “I will fuck you atop of his carcass.”

Another plunge of his cock and the table was splintering under you, until it snapped in two. Kylo didn’t care — in fact, it was as if it didn’t even happen, the perfect savage beat he was plowing you with was never broken.

He just used his own body as a kickstand for your lower half, the persistent assault keeping you where he wanted, finding no need in his hands other than to appreciate your body.

Kylo twisted your nipple, sliding across the spot he had just engraved, your lips parting in return. You heard another grunt from him, forcing your dazed focus on his face, which would forever be your most vivid memory, and you couldn’t even bring warning for the orgasm that he was inducing.

Just as it creeped up, his bare thumb was circling expertly over your swollen knot, breaking the dam. Your climax poured in, walls clenching and milking his cock in the process.

A gritty groan was dropped into your ear, and it only served as a catalyst to your silent screams, legs shaking while your cunt became much more sensitive. You tried to pull up, away from his relentless motions, he didn’t let you, just chased you along the broken table, filling you to the brim.

Lewd sounds began to echo with the crackles of the fire, and all you could focus on was him — he was watching his cock go in and out of you, holding your skirts above your waist to get a good view of his slickened dick, pushing him toward his own finale, using you every inch of the way.

You could barely tell from his face when he finished, you studied the Viper like it was your true passion, fossilizing his mannerisms, expressions, even his voice. You ate up every moment, the threat of them being memories a looming shadow of presence. The tiny twitch of his nose, deep wrinkle of his forehead, subtle signs he was coming apart for you.

He pulled out of your fluttering cunt, after leaving a lazy kiss on the scabbing mark of possession he’d left, being more gentle with that than any part of you.

Kylo pulled his mask back over his face before he was tucking his cock away. You were almost sad to see it go.

If he didn’t come back after this, maybe you’d be okay. You looked down at the piece of himself that he permanently placed on you, your finger running on the curve of its open mouth. It didn’t hurt, maybe due to the adrenaline pumping through your veins. By the time you looked back up, he was turned.

“What’re you—”

“Sh.”

Your lips pressed together, wanting to reach for your dress, yet something about him told you not to move a muscle.

The door pushed open, a panicked villager entering, tripping over themselves at every step.

“Help, a monster is attacking the town! It’s killing everyone, my family, please!”

#kylo ren fanfic #witcher fanfic #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #ben solo x reader #Witcher AU #witcher!kylo #hv.#dead dove elements #tw branding #tw noncon #tw violence

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haloshornsinkstains · 4 years

Text

Kinktober? (Semi)Public Sex [Kuroo]

Not sure I ever posted this here, sorry if I did. Brain mush right now. But I am trying to continue with the Kinktober stuff as and when I can, and hopefully I’ll get around to writing some headcanons and fun seasonal stuff soon too. Suggestions are always welcome. :)

CW: Female Reader, semi-public sex, some terrible chemistry puns, alcohol

“What is that cat doing?” Suga glanced up from his drink, following Daichi’s glare across the bar. Where you’d been dancing on your own earlier, the former Nekoma Captain was now pressed against your back, smirking. He turned back to Daichi and sighed. “I thought Kenma was supposed to be watching him!” Daichi growled. “I think Kenma is a bit busy right now.” Suga gestured to a far booth and familiar head of orange hair huddled against the gamer. “You worry too much Daichi, she can handle herself.” Daichi frowned and shook his head. “I’m not-” “I’ve been out drinking with her before, believe me, she can. If she didn’t want Kuroo there he wouldn’t be, and… I know you might disagree but he’s a decent guy really.” He leant his head against the others shoulder. “There’s always someone there to help her if she needs it. Half the guys in this room act like her older brothers, she’ll be fine . Now, as sexy as the protective big brother thing is, stop moping and enjoy your night off with me.” “I can’t believe you took her out drinking.” “She’s 23. Now shut up and kiss me you idiot.”

Across the bar, blissfully unaware of the conversation happening about you, you found yourself grinding back into a solid body. Glancing over your shoulder you raised a questioning eyebrow at the man, he merely smirked in response though he did step away a little until you grinned at him. “Aw c’mon, I haven’t even tried to scare you off yet.” You laughed. The man smiled and moved closer again, large hands coming to rest on your hips. “You’re planning to scare me off?” You shrugged. “Not yet, we’ll see.” “Can I at least get a name before you chase me away?” His deep voice was right in your ear and something about it sent a shiver up your spine, you ground your ass back against him in retaliation. You were going to tell him, really you were, but a guy sidled up to the pair of you and eyed the man you were dancing with. “Hey baby, I can show you a much better time than this-” You felt the man behind you tense, ready to interject, but you shook your head giving the stranger a smile that terrifyingly reminded Kuroo of Suga in full mom-mode back in the day. The stranger actually flinched. “I’m having a good time here thanks.” And how one person could sound so sweet and so terrifying at the same time Kuroo would never know, but the guy was gone and honestly he was beyond impressed. “That was… something.” He practically purred into your ear. You shrugged. “I had a good teacher. And I really am having a good time.” “Oho?” “Mhm. Haven’t even tried to scare you off with a terrible chat up line yet.” He chuckled behind you, “they can’t be that bad.” The song changed and you used it as an excuse to turn to face him, your arms resting around his neck as you studied his face properly. He really was handsome, the kind of good looking that even made his bedhead hairstyle look sexy. You could only blame the alcohol and his good looks for muddling your brain and making the next words to come out of your mouth seem like a great idea. “Are you Francium? Because you’re really attractive.” Ooops. Well, it was nice while it lasted. Kuroo blinked a few times, before his face split into a wide grin and a terrible hyena laugh burst from his lips. Once the laughing had subsided, and you were so thankful for the coloured lights hiding your blushing face, you realised he was still holding you. And still smiling. “That was amazing.” He chuckled. “Know any more?” Fuck. He was hot and liked awful science puns? Well that decided it. You grabbed his hand, tugging him away from the dancefloor and towards the back of the club.

You pushed him inside the bathroom stall, locking the door behind you and turning to him. “A bar toilet, really?" You shrugged. “There’s the grimy alley if you prefer? Or you can leave I guess, but well…” You gestured vaguely towards the obvious bulge in his jeans. “I got the feeling you might-” He was kissing you before you finished, strong hands lifting you almost effortlessly up onto the sink so he was pressed between your legs. “Fuck you’re hot.” You smiled. “I think that’s my line.” His lips were back on yours in an instant, one hand tangled in your hair while the other pushed your skirt up around your hips. You moaned into his mouth as his thumb rubbed across your underwear, pressing into the dampness that had already accumulated there. “Ah, fuck, we don’t have-” He groaned in response, pushing your underwear aside and pressing two fingers into your wet heat with ease. That pulled a low moan from his throat, as you gasped and bucked your hips against his hand. From the other side of the door you could hear the voices of the other people in the bar, friends and former teammates easy to pick out over the low hum of noise. You whine, fisting your hands in the front of his shirt. “You don’t have time to tease me. Please, I want you.” He huffs, but any real irritation is clouded by lust as he fishes a condom out of his pocket (you would question it, because really what? But you’re far too focused on releasing him from his jeans). You bite your lip hard to hold back the moan when you finally release his cock, long and thick and curved so perfectly you think you lose the ability to think straight just looking at it. You can practically feel his smirk, and glance up to see him biting back some sort of sarcastic remark. Just to spite him you snatch the condom wrapper from his hands, rolling it onto him yourself and slowly sliding your hand along his now covered erection. The groan that leaves him is pure sin and you can’t help but wrap your legs around his hips, urging him closer. He complies, eyes squeezed shut as he slides into you. You understand the feeling completely, biting down hard on your lip to stop you crying out from just how perfect he feels inside you, the slight burn of the stretch only adding to the sensation. “Move. God, please move.” You urge, rocking your hips against him. Move he does, your head thudding back against the mirror as he starts to thrust, breathing ragged already. He leans forward, bracing himself against the wall with his arms caging you in as he sets a punishing pace, his lips finding yours in an attempt to stifle his moans. “You feel so fucking perfect.” You whine at the praise, arching into him already embarrassingly close, but he doesn’t stop the words tumbling from his mouth. “I wish we had more time, I want to feel you come on my tongue. Want to treat you right. Fuck you feel so good.” It’s so perfect and so intense and you’re so close already. It feels like he is too, the way his body is trembling around you, brow furrowed and bottom lip caught between his teeth. Somewhere on the other side of the door you can hear someone hammering and shouting at you to hurry up and get out of there, if you weren’t so close to finishing you’d probably want to punch them. But Kuroo shifts slightly, thumb swiping over your clit in small circles and that is more than distracting enough, even as his movements become jerky and then still. He keeps going until you follow him into your own orgasm, his lips swallowing the loud moan that bubbles up in your throat. You stay like that for a few moments, lips moving against each other as you both come down from your respective highs. It’s over too soon, him pulling out of you, disposing of the used condom and gingerly tucking himself back into his pants. You sigh, leaning forwards and swiping his phone to enter your number. “In case you want to do that again as much as I do Kuroo-san.” You grin, hopping down from the sink on wobbly legs and returning to the party.

Kuroo sighs, pocketing the phone again and making his way back over to his former teammates. Yaku narrows his eyes when he approached, frowning. “Kuroo. Please tell me you didn’t have sex with Sawamura-san’s little sister.” Kuroo blinks, suddenly realising you seemed to know his name when he never gave it out, that would also explain the glare he felt burning into his back while he was dancing with you. After a few seconds he grins, glancing over to see you whirling a drunk Nishinoya around the dance floor. “That sounds like my cue to leave.”

[from: Unknown Number] Are you a carbon isotope? Because I want to date you.

[from: you] Kuroo? Marry me.

[from: Unknown Number] The one and only. I think your brother would kill me. Rude not letting me know, fyi.

[from: you] Sorry! I was trying to not scare you away. Coffee tomorrow?

[from: Kuroo] It’s a date.

#my writing #kinktober #kuroo x reader #f!reader #kuroo tetsuro #haikyuu #semi-public sex #halo.writes #halo.afterdark

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cheri-translates · 4 years

Text

[CN] Gavin’s Gardening Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Gavin has been asked to take care of a greenhouse for a day, so he asks MC to help him out that weekend

It’s a rare occurrence for Gavin to ask for help, so she immediately agrees

During the weekend, they head to the greenhouse. MC wonders why Gavin would suddenly be tasked to take care of the greenhouse, but he remains oddly vague about it

Fortunately, the owner of the greenhouse left a manual for them to follow, and they locate the gardening tools in a cupboard:

Gavin: There’s only one apron here.

He grabs the apron and immediately puts it on me.

Before I can say anything, he has already made his way behind me, his large hands tying a knot using the two straps of the apron.

Gavin: Done.

His retracts his hand, stopping mid-air to gently lift the hair which is trapped under the apron strap.

The coolness of his fingers as they brush my neck is a little ticklish, and my body trembles slightly in response.

I suppress the seemingly itchy sensation in my heart, and quickly digress.

MC: Let’s begin!

They start by watering the plants. MC notes that gardening seems simple but requires a great deal of meticulousness and patience.

Gavin: Tell me what to do, and I’ll handle it.

MC: I’m here to help. How can you be the only one doing all the work?

Gavin: It’s more efficient this way.

Without a second thought, he takes the hose I am holding, and stuffs the manual into my hands. Knowing that it is futile to object, I can only follow him to a Sweetheart plant (also known as Hoya Kerrii), reading the contents of the manual line by line aloud.

MC: Sweetheart plant… water it if the soil is dry, but do not overwater it...

Gavin: …How can I tell if the soil is dry?

Gavin thinks for a moment before deciding to feel the exposed soil directly with his fingers.

Gavin: It seems… I can’t feel it.

His question stumps me as well, and I refer to the manual to find the answer.

Their mutual confusion reminds them of their cooking date, and they acknowledge that cooking and gardening are very similar in that there is a lot of trial and error involved before one can get the hang of it

When tending to the succulents, MC finds a few white dots on one of them, and she discovers that they are coccidias (i.e. a kind of parasite).

They get worried that if the coccidias aren’t dealt with soon, it would affect the entire area of succulents

MC heads to the cupboard to get the medicine and a spray bottle.

While getting the medicine bottle, I didn’t notice the residual liquid. A few undiluted medicinal droplets land on my arm, leaving several water marks. The resulting sharp pains on my skin stun me. Before I can react, Gavin snatches the spray bottle away, holding onto my wrist and leading me out the door.

Gavin: Let’s wash your hands.

MC: … Okay!

I am a little flustered while he pulls me to the sink outside the greenhouse. He unscrews the tap and puts my hand under the running water. The water is colder than expected, and I retract my hand immediately.

Gavin: Is the water too cold?

MC: It’s fine.

I am about to shoot him a smile, but Gavin rolls up his sleeves, extends his arms, and encases my hand in both of his. The ice-cold water is separated by Gavin’s hands, and I am frozen in place.

Gavin: Still cold?

Gavin’s position looks as though he is holding me in his arms. He looks down, squeezes some hand-washing liquid, and patiently cleans the medicine off of my hand.

His long eyelashes cast a small shadow, amber eyes deep in concentration. The pressure at the back of my hand increases. With the fine foam, his fingers rub my skin, creating a numbing sensation.

MC: Gavin, I can do it myself…

It feels like all the blood in my body has rushed to my face, and my heartbeat pounds incessantly.

Gavin: Don’t move, it’d be done soon.

Gavin’s voice and his warm breath land on the back of my neck.

He laces his fingers between mine and scrubs them, and then my knuckles, nails… the tiny electric shock-like currents travel from my nerves to my brain. The water quickly washes away the white foam, and Gavin relaxes his hold on my hands.

The warmth in my ears make me feel as though they have been set ablaze.

MC: I-I’m fine. Let’s dilute the medicine now.

We return to the greenhouse.

Gavin: There shouldn’t be a problem anymore.

MC: Good thing we realised in time!

I move the disinfected succulents to an area with sunlight, and watch as the beads of medicine on the leaves dance under the light. I can’t help but smile at the sight.

MC: I hope things will get better for them.

Gavin looks at the rescued succulents with a tender look in his eyes.

Gavin: They will. Plants cannot speak, so they can’t tell others that they’ve fallen ill. It’s a good thing you’re here.

His eyes and breath fall on my cheeks, and the atmosphere of the late afternoon softens.

As they continue tending to the plants, he notices that she’s sweating profusely and comes over.

Gavin: Are you tired?

As he speaks, he takes out a tissue and conscientiously wipes away the sweat on my face. All of a sudden, there is a gust of wind on my cheeks, making me feel instantly refreshed.

Gavin: Doesn’t this feel much better?

MC: Yup, I can carry on now!

MC spots a photograph of the greenhouse owner. He appears to be in his mid-thirties, wearing a cowboy hat, giving the impression of someone who is coarse and rough.

Curious, MC asks how Gavin met the greenhouse owner. Gavin reveals that they cross paths often when he buys succulents.

Gavin: But…

Gavin rubs the back of his neck abashedly.

Gavin: He seems to think I like rearing succulents. So he asked me to take care of the greenhouse while he’s away.

I let out a laugh, but try my best to suppress it.

MC: The reason why you buy succulents so often is because they keep wilting right?

Gavin coughs, his ears flushing a light red.

Gavin: …I don’t buy them that often.

I finally understand why Gavin was behaving so oddly before, and can’t help but laugh.

MC: So the owner has the impression that you’re a gardening master?

Gavin grows silent before muttering out a “yeah”.

Gavin: He has probably realized that I’m not one.

MC: Even so, he definitely realized that you’re a very trustworthy person. That’s why he would entrust his important greenhouse to you!

The corners of Gavin’s mouth lift, and he visibly relaxes.

Gavin takes her to see the bonsai plants made by the owner. Looking at the large collection of bonsai plants, MC can see that each one has been shaped with a lot of thought, as though each bonsai plant has its own story to tell

She can’t imagine that they were crafted by the owner, who has a very rough and rugged appearance

Gavin explains that people who are not good at expressing themselves through words can use flowers and plants to convey what is in their hearts

He picks up a leaf:

Gavin: Different people see this leaf differently. Some see it as gentle, some see it as hardy. Though to a majority of people, it is just a plain, mundane leaf.

At this moment, a slight silence envelops Gavin’s surroundings, and I have a strong urge to break through it.

MC: It doesn’t matter if a lot of people don’t understand it! Actually… it’s enough if just one person understands what they wish to convey through their plants. Then hold on to that person, and never let go!

Gavin is stunned for a moment, and he keeps the leaf in his palm. He leans down and gently presses his forehead to mine.

Gavin: I will hold on tightly.

His voice carries a tinge of laughter, and there is a smile in his eyes.

My accelerating heart rate makes me unconsciously shuffle backwards, but Gavin takes hold of my wrist, holding me in place in front of him.

With my wrist feeling warmer than usual and my face completely red, I try to change the topic.

MC: That’s not what I meant… I’m thinking of doing a show on “The Language of Plants”, to let more people know about their significance… What do you think?

Gavin: It’s a good idea.

MC: Right! For someone who likes plants and can understand the meaning behind them, I’m sure it will be heartwarming. I think you’re a very kind person, Gavin.

Gavin’s eyes widen at my words.

Gavin: …You’re the first person to describe me in such a way.

MC: I-it could be that people don’t dare to say it in front of you. For instance, you agreed to help the owner take care of the greenhouse… that is very kind of you.

Sensing a hint of disbelief from him, I frantically add:

MC: I’m telling you the truth!

Gavin: Okay, I know.

He smiles gently, as though convinced by my frantic and sincere words. I think back to our previous conversation which was left incomplete, and suddenly feel curious.

MC: Gavin, what does that leaf mean to you?

Gavin: New life. The leaf returns to the soil, and brings with it new beginnings.

He answers without giving it much thought. His answer shocks me, yet it is not completely unexpected. Because in Gavin’s heart, he hides a tenderness that is not easily detectable.

They continue working

Gavin: Thank you for today.

MC: Hold on, I’m the one who should be thanking you!

Gavin looks at me questioningly.

MC: You’re always the one helping me, so being able to help you is already more than enough. I didn’t really help much though. There were a lot of things I didn’t know…

Gavin: Just being by my side is good enough.

Gavin cuts me off, and he lifts his hand to my hair, rubbing it gently.

Gavin: No matter how difficult something is, I feel like I can overcome it as long as you’re by my side. So, you have already helped a lot.

They are finally done, and lock up the greenhouse, preparing to leave

Gavin: I’ve wanted to introduce you to the owner of the greenhouse for a while now.

MC: Why?

Gavin doesn’t answer immediately. He brushes the back of my hand with his fingertips, then wraps my hand with his palm, clasping it tightly with his fingers.

Gavin: The owner said that if I ever meet someone who can understand the hearts of people, I should introduce them to him.

Under the sunlight, he mouth angles into a smile. His eyes are focused, as though carving me into the depths of his pupils.

The wind surrounds me in a somewhat overbearing manner, rooting me in place.

Gavin: Since I’ve found you… I’ll never let you go.

🍃 MOMENTS: ONE 🍃

Gavin’s Post: Why do flowers of different colours have different flower languages?

MC: Eh, you actually started doing research on this?

Gavin: I’m a little curious.

Gavin’s Post: Why do flowers of different colours have different flower languages?

MC: Because different coloured flowers have different meanings too.

Gavin: I see. What colour of flowers to you like?

Gavin’s Post: Why do flowers of different colours have different flower languages?

MC: I’ve also always wanted to know why.

Gavin: I’ll tell you once I understand it.

🍃 MOMENTS: TWO 🍃

Gavin’s Post: Does anybody know how to make a leaf specimen which preserves its original colour?

MC: You’re preparing to make that leaf into a specimen?

Gavin: Yes, I brought it home.

Gavin’s Post: Does anybody know how to make a leaf specimen which preserves its original colour?

MC: I learnt it from my Nature Class teacher in primary school!

Gavin: Primary school taught this?

Gavin’s Post: Does anybody know how to make a leaf specimen which preserves its original colour?

MC: Why don’t I help you?

Gavin: All right, let me know when you’re free.

#mlqc #mlqc gavin #love and producer #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #Gavin deserves a lifetime supply of succulents and hugs

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just-my-fandom · 4 years

Text

Leap of Faith (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

DRABBLE/INCOMPLETE

Request; Reader loses her wife Natasha and suffers from major depression? So like, maybe, Sam and Bucky offer her to move in with them because her home was the avengers compound? Or not. Lmao

Warning(s); Character death, reader gets angry, curses, depression

Tags; @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @trikruismybitch

We’ve reached 1.7K followers! Super thankful!

Currently working on posting all of my drafts before starting any new stories. Starting from the bottom and working to the top!

______________________________________________

The air is silent. The tension is thick. You’re afraid you’re going to puke if you say anything.

“Do we know if she had any family?” Tony finally speaks up, feet from you on the deck and eyes on you, where you slowly rolled Natashas ring in your hand. When Clint came back without your wife, all he could do was hand you her ring without breaking down.

“Yeah,” Steve nods, brows pinched together tightly, “Us,”

“Did you really just ask that?” Your eyes flick up from your hands at Thor’s sharp question, watching him step up to Tony, “You’re acting like she’s dead. We have the stones, we can bring her back,”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Clint states, voice tight and gaze staring at the ground, “Shes gone, Thor,”

“I don’t know what it is with you Earthlings,” Thor snips, turning to the man with a Mohawk, “But you don’t understand all this space stuff. We can bring her back,”

“No, we can’t,” Clint snaps, arms crossed tightly over his chest, “At least that’s what the red floating asshole said at the cliff,”

Your sudden movement to stand up pulls the two men from glaring at each other to you, your figure brushing past Tony with clenched fists, “Y/N,” Bruce calls, “Y/N,”

“What?” You spin around, eyes narrowed and glossed over, ready to drop to your knees and let the earth swallow you whole, “What the hell can you say right now that will make this all better? Huh? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing!”

You release a shaky laugh, shaking your head, “I knew this was a bad idea. We should have left everything how it is. Yes, we can bring everyone back, but we lost Natasha to do so! I lost my wife, guys!” You scream, hiccuping, “I’m done,”

“What do you mean, done?” Tony asks, your eyes snapping to him, a tear falling free at your sharp movements,

“I’m done being a hero,” You state, slowly, eyes fluttering shut, “I’m done giving up my happiness so everyone else is satisfied, I don’t give a damn how selfish it sounds,”

“Do you not want revenge?” Bruce questions, brokenly, and you clench your jaw, glare tightening,

“I don’t care about revenge!” You remind, sniffling before standing straight, pressing the palms of your hands to your eyelids, “She promised me she’d come back,” You choke out, Steve standing up when your figure slouches, squatting down to release a broken sob, “She promised me everything would be okay. It’s not okay, it fucking hurts,”

Steve kneels down in front of you so your arms pulled back to throw themselves around his neck and shoulders, pulling yourself into his front to hide your wet face and break down in your old friends grip,

“It’s kinda exciting,” You stand next to Natasha in your suit, arms crossed but smile wide, “Time traveling,”

“Oh yeah?” Your wife murmurs, glancing at you, “How so?”

“I get to see you in your black suit again,” You wink, Natasha snorting and turning to face you,

“If you wanted to see me in my suit, you could’ve just asked. I still have it,”

“That’s too much work,” You sigh, playfully, and laugh when Natasha rolls her eyes, slipping her arms to your waist to pull you against her,

“See you in a minute?” You ask, softly, Natasha flicking her eyes between yours, smiling,

“See you in a minute,”

You cup her jaw and pull her face towards yours, pressing your lips onto hers firmly, not knowing it would be the last time you saw her,

“Okay lovebirds,” Rocket calls from on top of the staircase to the time machine, so you leaned back and looked at him, “It’s time to go,”

“I love you,” You pull away completely, Natasha taking your wrist to pull you back into her, her mouth latching back onto yours,

“I love you too,”

“You alright?”

You twist your body to face the figure of the voice. Sam and Bucky stand side by side, in once in a lifetime tuxes,

Sams arms are crossed, and Bucky scans your face for any signs of emotions. He finds nothing.

“Yeah,” You face back outward to the lake just outside the Stark household, Natashas ring laying cold over your chest on a chain, “Just thinking,”

“You’ve been doing too much of that, lately,” Sam steps you to stand beside you, Bucky following opposite of your side, “You can talk to us,”

“Where am I gonna go?” You throw your hands out, allowing them to drop freely at your sides in defeat, “My home was with Natasha, at the compound. Which was destroyed. There’s too many things going through my head that I don’t know how to handle,”

You suck in a deep breath, and step forward to turn and face the two men, “We lost Natasha and Tony. Two of the first and most important Avengers. Thor is going to space with a bunch of literal aliens and a talking raccoon. Steve is going back in time to be with Peggy, Clint actually got his family back, and I don’t know what the hell Bruce is going to do,”

“Hey,” Sam steps up again, hand coming to rest at your upper arm, “Take it easy. You can stay with us,” He turns to Bucky, “We’ve actually thought about getting a place together,”

“You two?” You raise an eyebrow, Bucky chuckling before nodding,

“I don’t hate him anymore, so why not?”

“Are you sure?” You wrap your arms around yourself, Sam nodding and smiling, gently,

“You’re stuck with us now, kid,”

#sam wilson imagine #sam wilson #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson one shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes one shot #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff one shot #natasha romanoff imagine

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angrylizardjacket · 5 years

Text

mouth full of white lies {Machine Gun Kelly} 4

4. i wanna know what’s your quietest feeling

Summary: So you’ve met his friends, and now his daughter, who’s the only other person who knows that this whole thing is a setup. But all she wants is to make sure that you’re not gonna break her dad’s heart; it shouldn’t be too hard to convince her that your intentions are good.

the brainstrust: @sataninsatin @silvertonguedserpent @juliarose21 @kellysimagines @estxxbritt @machine-gun-casie @harringtonstudios @misscharlottelee @narcvissa @hiworlditishumbleme @angelwarner28 @nevilles-insinuations @rumoured-whispers @mgkobsessed @edwardtriggerhandzz @suckerforbarnes @wastelcve @bakerkells @local-troubled-writer @freddiessmallnipples @oopsiedoopsie23 @mayaslifeinabox @mrs-machinegun-norris @hxbbit

----

Colson writes. A lot. You’d noticed it here and there being close to home, being close his studio, he’s buzzing with new ideas. There’s a ratty notebook that he keeps in the front pocket of his suitcase, held together by fibers and hope, that seems to be worth it’s weight in gold to him, full of lyrics and ideas that he’s been hoarding for as long as he’s been writing. About ten percent of the book has actually come to fruition, but that’s not what’s important about it, it’s that it’s positively brimming with potential as much as it is memories.

It’s been less than a year since his last album, and he’s made a few songs here and there, but now he writes, when inspiration strikes him, after work, or between takes. He’s in talks with Motley themselves, apparently, working on a part for one of their songs, rereleasing with the release of the film. For now, he writes, and he hums, and tests out lyrics under his breath.

“That sounds good,” it’s Sunday morning; he’s up earlier than you, which isn’t necessarily an unusual occurrence. He’s wearing sweatpants, hair curling a little at the ends where he’s letting it air dry, sitting up beside you on the bed. He’s got his notebook balanced on the one knee he’s got drawn up to him, while the other leg is kicked out in front of him, and he’s humming something while scrolling through his phone. He’s muttering something, lyrics you’re pretty sure, while something plays from his phone.

He seems a little surprised, like he’s coming out of a trance that the music had put him in, and smiles with an honest sincerity.

You yawn, and wiggle a little beneath the covers to properly face him, face half-smushed into the pillow. For a beat he looks at you like he wants to do something, like he wants to reach out and touch your cheek, trace his thumb across your lip -

Wishful thinking. Probably.

“Rook’s been working on some stuff; he sent this through last night,” and he tapped away at his phone for a moment, replaying the track on his phone. It’s an instrumental, beat-heavy and the bones for a solid bop. You nod along to it, and he starts rapping under his breath again.

“I think it could be something good,” he sounds quietly hopeful; he doesn’t sound like that often.

“Of course it’ll be good,” you say around a yawn, and this time he does reach out.

“Go back to sleep,” he pinches gently at your cheek, and a warm rush of affection floods through you. Without thinking, you turn to press a quick kiss to his palm, a moment of gentle familiarity, and turn away, to go back to sleep, without thinking to watch for his reaction. You hear a faint, almost disbelieving huff of laughter, before the music starts back up again.

It’s not long before you’re ingratiated with his friends, who’ve all taken you and Colson in stride. Mostly it’s drinking and smoking and making music and playing video games, so even your initial anxiety is quick to fade.

That first morning, Wednesday, cool but sunny, it’s easy; Rook’s the only one awake when you and Colson arrive. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, perched on a stool with a pen stuck in his mouth, and a laptop and drum pad machine sitting on the counter, and when you walk in, he gives you a long, evaluative stare, a joint in between his fingers, idle.

“Hey man, this is Ducky,” Colson doesn’t seem to notice how you’ve frozen awkwardly in the doorway, moving past you to start searching the cupboards for food; Rook nods to him, before looking back at him, “Ducky, this is my man Rook,” and at that, he holds out his hand for the joint, and Rook passes it over, before looking back at you. You give a little, uncomfortable wave.

“Ducky?” He asks, curious rather than hostile, and you let yourself breathe, stepping into the room.

“Or Duck,” you explain, heading to the counter where Colson’s now wrestling with a packet of Doritos, “or [Y/N].” And you put your bag down, taking the seat beside Rook as Colson passes the joint back to him to get a better handle on the bag.

“Tight,” Rook says after a moment, apparently finding something in you that he approves of, because he follows it up by turning the laptop towards you, asking if you were into music. Of course you tell him you are - who isn’t? - but you don’t have a lot of experience in the production side of things.

“I mean,” you concede briefly, “about two years ago there was a trend going around on YouTube where you make a diss track about yourself -” Colson’s entire face lit up.

“You wrote a diss track about yourself? Don’t you do like cutesy vlogs and shit?” He asks, and it’s not meant to sound as unkind as it’s worded, though you still roll your eyes.

“It pays to be on trend,” you shrug, still a little embarrassed at the memory, “but it was fun.”

Colson is looks actually impressed, while Rook is still chewing on the end of his pen, typing away frantically. After a beat, Colson turns to him -

“Her channel name is DuckDuckBooth -”

“I’ve already found the video,” Rook says with a smile, and you have to hide your face in your hands as they watch with equal parts fondness, and a little bit of second hand embarrassment.

Colson posts to his Instagram story a video of Rook jamming out to your self-diss track, before the camera swings around to see you flipping them both off with a fond smile. Your video is the only sound that can be heard for the full duration of the ten second video -

“Too scared of you’re face on the big, big screen, you think YouTube’s gonna be more stable / even though you use your bro for views every chance that you’re able. / With all of the time that you spend around sets, they all think you’re a professional stalker / and you spill you’re guts when you’re NDA free; you’ve made a career as Hollywood’s biggest talker. / [As if! Who asked for the Perez Hilton of the production crew?!]”

He tags both you and Rook, and captioned the video with a question: Should we remix Ducky’s self-diss track from 2016? With two options for fans to choose: Yes. or Definitely.

But Rook’s not who your worried about. None of Colson’s friends really worry you.

Casie arrives a week and a half after you’ve all moved locations, to see her dad, to meet you, and to sit in on production for about a week.

When you finally meet her, her cocked hip and crossed arms reminds you of Colson; she’s four and a bit feet of skepticism and an unmatched, effortlessly cool energy, and you realise too late that you’re kind of intimidated by an elementary schooler.

“I’ve seen your videos,” is the first thing she says to you, and you find yourself smiling, bewildered.

“Cas -” Colson’s voice holds a note of warning where he’s currently getting his tattoos covered. He’s standing with his arms out, looking straight ahead while Corey, the key makeup artist, and his team, airbrush and colour correct like their lives depend on it.

“I’m making sure she’s taking care of you,” Casie, unwavering in both her conviction and her loyalty, shifts her weight to her other foot. “The drum video was cute.” And you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment, judging by the cool tone of her voice, but she’s wearing a slight smile that you’ve seen on Colson far too many times to not recognize it. This feels like the first of many tests.

She’s adamant that she’s not someone to be bought, though the thought had barely crossed your mind. When she nods approvingly at your dismissal of the suggestion, you can’t help but frown.

“How many girls have tried to get on her good side by buying her stuff?” You ask Colson quietly, out of Casie’s earshot later that night. For a moment, he looks as close to guilty as you’ve ever seen him.

“Not a lot, like one or two maybe; not a lot of girls meet her,” he admitted, “but the ones that try and buy her gifts and shit, they always turned out to be the worst ones,” and perhaps the guilt intensifies a little more, “she’s a good kid; always saw that before I could.”

“She’s a good kid,” you repeated, softer this time, with a faint smile, and when Colson comes back to reality, he gives your shoulder a squeeze.

She’s on set a lot for the days that she’s staying with you all, and when she sees you at work, she appears to warm to you; you’re not sure when you forgot that she was just a child trying to protect her father, but you’re reminded when you see the starry-eyed look she’s giving the makeup artists.

“Hey Corey,” you ask, smiling a little, and the makeup artist who had been in the middle of his lunch looks up from his phone with wide, alert eyes, “could one of your people give Casie here a little bit of 80s glam?” You ask sweetly, and his expression tuns fond as he nods. Casie turns wide-eyed and a little abashed at request, and murmurs that she doesn’t want to be any trouble. Both Corey and yourself wave away her concerns, and Amy, one of the makeup assistants, is more than happy to give the young girl a bit of glitter and gloss to the excited young girl.

She’s got glitter on her eyelids, and blush and highlighter adorning her cheeks, and a shiny, clear lip gloss making her smile that little bit brighter by the time the makeup woman is done with her, and Casie is practically glowing.

“How in the hell,” Colson starts with a grin when she goes to him to show off, “did I end up with the most stylish kid in the world? Cas, you look like a model.” Pride is radiating off of him in waves, and he pulls out his phone, “babe, get a picture, she looks so fuckin’ cool,” he enthuses, and if your heart skips a beat as his casual use of a pet-name, you’re enough of a professional not to let it show. Casie is calling him embarrassing, but is still beaming, and with him in full costume and her all made up, the picture you take - he’s standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders, and she’s got her arms crossed, both of them looking serious and menacing at the camera - you think they might be the coolest people you’ve ever met. Certainly one of the most photogenic father/daughter duos you’ve ever come across.

“Do not make it your phone background,” Casie presses her embarrassed smile into his shoulder where they’re reviewing the photo back in his trailer.

“But I’m not allowed to post it, and I wanna admire it every day - look at you!” He’s pointedly zooming in on her stony expression in the photo.

“[Y/N], tell him he’s being ridiculous,” Casie implored you, and you threw your hands up in surrender.

“I’m not allowed to say what is and isn’t a ridiculous phone background,” you say automatically, which piques both of their interests, and you immediately regret saying anything.

“Babe,” Colson says, prompting you, and you feel yourself growing flustered, both because you’re going to have to admit that your background is a photo of you two, and that he’s called you that twice in about half an hour. Casie’s amused now, smiling, her arms crossed as she raises her eyebrows at you expectantly. Taking a deep breath, you unlock your phone.

“I’m just trying to be a good girlfriend,” you say, avoiding their gazes as you show them your home screen, and your background; the paparazzi photo of you and Colson beneath the boardwalk.

“Is that how you organise your apps?” Is what Casie has to say, which has Colson snorting with laughter, though when you finally look at him, you see him wearing a weirdly pleased little smile.

“Ducky, that’s weird and adorable -”

“It’s not weird!” You protest, snatching back your phone, flustered, but Casie just rolls her eyes, pulling out her own phone.

“Come here, both of you,” she instructs, sounding terribly put upon by the both of you. You both crowd around her, with only slight confusion. “Look convincing.” She holds up her phone, and you both frown a little.

“What?”

“Look convincing,” she insists again, gesturing between the two of you, and finally coming to understand her meaning, Colson gives her an endeared, almost proud look, and you in turn are looking fondly at him. Neither of you have noticed that she’s already taken the selfie. After a beat, she lowers the phone and starts looking at the few photos she’d taken, and both you and Colson seem a little surprised at her speed. “Dad, I’ll send it to you, you send it to her; you can have a photo of both of us looking cool, and a photo of your ‘girlfriend’,” she explains with implicit air quotes, “and [Y/N], you don’t have to have a creepy pap’s picture as your background.” She taps away for a moment before swiftly sending the best photo to Colson, “plus you’ll match.”

“You’re a little genius,” you tell her once Colson’s sent you the photo. Casie beams at you.

“I know.”

And the way you’re smiling in the photo is more than convincing.

[ID: A series of three tweets from @machinegunkelly:

1: Retweeted with the caption ‘🥰🥰’, originally posted by @duckduckbooth with no caption: Two pictures of Rosa Diaz from Brooklyn 99 holding a golden retriever puppy with an edited caption reading ‘I’ve only known CASIE BAKER for a day and a half but if anything happened to HER I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.’

2: Tweeted: when me n my girls (my daughter and @duckduckbooth) hang out i realize i’m somehow the least fashionable in the group. when did that happen wtf 😳😳

3. Tweeted: maybe you'll skip to the end and pass all the irrational decisions, patch up all the passion that was missin'. i think that's enough. i'm feelin' lovesick.

End ID.]

Maybe it’s that she likes you, maybe she’s just trying to keep an eye on you to make sure you’ve got her dad’s best intentions at heart, but Casie takes it upon herself to almost shadow you while on set, at least when she’s not with her dad.

“What’s your next video going to be?” She asks one afternoon when you’re both waiting for Colson in his trailer as he gets his makeup removed for the day. She’s watching a video on her phone and you’re reading emails on yours, and you look up, interested. After a moment, she pauses her video, looking up, looking back at you, “I like your ‘day in the life’ ones.”

“I didn’t realise you liked my videos,” you said with faint amusement, and she gives a small smile.

“I’ve been binging them,” she admits, and shuffles a little, sitting up further where she’s reclining on the uncomfortable little sofa, “your editing is really nice; I liked your Euro-Disney video, it was really pretty.”

“Thanks,” you find yourself a little humbled at her compliment, and find yourself musing that you’d like to get back to that style of video, “hey,” you find yourself coming up with an idea, something Colson had said during your first actual date, and with Casie herself now here, it was the perfect opportunity, “do you wanna be in a video?”

“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! I’ve been feeling rather nostalgic for some of my older content, and was inspired by none other than Miss Casie Baker, so what better day than this beautiful Friday afternoon, to take you all along with Casie, Kells, and I as we head to a boardwalk fair.”

It’s a short drive to the boardwalk, and once you’re there, it’s almost unbearably cheesy. Rides, candy, you and Colson in competition trying to win a prize for Casie at one of the cheap game booths.

You’re filming on and off the whole time, getting aesthetic shots, your heart growing warmer with each genuine smile you manage to catch on camera. You take endless candid photos of Colson and Casie, and even though you know you can’t be out too late because you and Colson are due on set at eight, you make the most of the time you have.

After an hour and a half, you stop at the food vendor, craving hot chips, and Colson orders, while Casie takes your hand, the two of you hanging back.

"Can we go on the Ferris Wheel?"

"Just a minute kiddo, food's almost ready," Colson tells her over his shoulder, but she tugs at your hand, making her meaning more clear.

"You can catch up, we can go around twice; I wanna talk to [Y/N]," she tells him plainly, and you give her a smile, already acquiescing to her suggestion. Colson makes a noise of gentle protest, but he sees her hand in yours, and the reassuring look you've leveled at him.

"Take care of my girl," he tells you with a faux seriousness, and Casie gives a small grin at that.

"I'll protect her with my life," you promise, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

"You better," he grinned, tone fond and a little teasing, before assuring that he'd meet you both up there, and you're left wondering what about you screamed 'let's have a serious conversation on a Ferris Wheel' because if it happens again, it goes from a coincidence to a pattern. Casie drops your hand and trots easily through the crowd to the Wheel that had cast the rest of the fair in shadow as the sun set behind it. The ride operator gives you a toothy smile as she secures the door behind the two of you, and Casie links her fingers, resting her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, evaluating you with an inscrutable look. She waits until the basket is about a quarter of the way around before saying anything; for your part, you’re silent, she’s the one who wanted to speak after all.

“Dad doesn’t do fake,” she says finally, sitting back, and lets you wonder in silence for a few moments, what that even means, “I know he did, I’m not blind or deaf, people… people talk to me. A lot. About things my dad’s done.” This piece of information has your expression souring - she’s just a kid - but she doesn’t seem bothered by it, she just seems… almost confused.

“I’m not going to -”

“I know.” She cuts you off before you can even voice what reassurance you could manage, “I’ve gathered that; you’re good. Better than probably any other girl who’s gotten with him for clout.”

“I’m not -” You try to protest and she does look a little apologetic, but after a moment, you stop yourself, and let her continue, trying to understand where she was coming from.

“I know why he likes you, I get it, you -” she averts her gaze for a moment, suddenly a little embarrassed, “you’re actually really cool,” she admits, and your heart softens, but you keep quiet, and let her build back up to her bravado, “but back when his manager had him with like, models and actresses and things, they were all - I mean sometimes they were nice, but they always thought they were better than him, or they just treated him like dirt when people weren’t around, so now, dad doesn’t do fake.” It’s said definitively. You’re at the top of the Ferris Wheel now, stopped for a few moments, and she looks out at the rest of the fair, and then down to the base of the ride, letting herself smile when she spots Colson at the bottom, giving him a wave.

Somehow, sitting in this basket in the sky, it feels like a mafia movie, like this little girl is implying she’ll break your kneecaps if you hurt her father. Or she’s implying something that your heart dare not read into, lest you get your hopes up.

“Dad doesn’t break his rules for just anyone,” Casie finally sits back up, and there’s a new, kinder quality about her voice, before it turns young, turns plaintive, and you’re reminded that she’s just a child looking out for her dad, her hero, “please don’t make him regret it. He’s a good person, I know what people say but he’s -”

“Casie, I care about him. A lot.” You tell her honestly, gently, and she blinks wide and surprised for a few moments, before her expression turns to almost weirdly pleased, maybe even a little smug.

“Good.” She says with conviction, before looking out at the horizon, “this would be a nice shot.”

“It’d be nicer with your dad,” you hear yourself saying, and Casie huffs out a laugh that sounds so much like her father, agreeing quietly. When your basket stops at the bottom of the wheel, Colson flashes his ride wristband to the kid operating it, and he slides into the seat beside you. Casie’s still smiling as she takes a chip from where he offered them.

“Nice chat?” He asks, and offers you the chips too.

“I like her,” Casie announces, and you grin to yourself, “dad, I love you, but you’d better treat Duck right; we’re friends now.” Which sets Colson off laughing, and you turn on your camera.

“You were meant to be on my side,” he laughs, and Casie shrugs.

“I am, I’m on both your sides.”

#mgk #mgk x reader #mgk imagine #machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #colson baker #colson baker imagine #colson baker x reader #the dirt #the dirt cast #the dirt cast imagine #the angry lizard writes

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kd-holloman · 4 years

Text

Good evening, everyone! I bring you mur. MURDER. That’s right, have a very R-rated short story for you all. I’ve never written anything quite like this before, but I’ve been listening to a lot of true crime podcasts and in the spirit of spooky-season I wanted to write something about the scariest creatures of all: humans. I will tag everyone that seemed interested in my original post about it at the end, but PLEASE read the warnings before you decide to read further.

Content Warning(s): Language, Violence, Blood, and graphic depictions of murder.

Stupid fucking April.

The day I married her, I’d promised to love her through richer and poorer, sickness and health. I vowed to provide for her, to keep a roof over her head, and food in her belly. And how did she repay me? By not ironing my fucking pants.

Her life wasn’t that hard. She had to take care of the house and make sure the kids didn’t kill themselves.

And she couldn’t even be bothered to iron my fucking slacks.

“Where are we going?” Jaime, or Jenny, or Jessica asked. She reeked of stale cigarettes and dollar store vanilla body spray. “We’re, like, out of town. I thought you said we were going to get fucked up.”

I clenched my fingers around the steering wheel so hard they ached. Jenna didn’t need more meth. She needed to stop asking questions. “Do you want this shit or not?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then, shut the hell up and stop asking questions.”

She scoffed and sat up a little straighter in her seat. Her bony arms held over her front to ward her off from the chill of the air conditioner. She watched as we passed below a giant sycamore, a gangly branch draped with Spanish moss stretched over the rutted goat-path that led to the cabin. “It’s kind of creepy out here. You’re not going to murder me out here, right?”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Yeah, it’s pretty creepy.”

I pulled the truck up in front of the leaning cabin. It had been in my family for generations. My grandfather had brought my father here when he was a boy. My dad used to tell me stories about how he and his old man would spend weekends during the summer catching catfish in the swamp and hunting squirrels that jumped from the boughs of the red maple trees.

By the time I was old enough to go to camp, the cabin’s roof had caved in and my dad hadn’t had the money to fix it. The inclimate weather had rotted the floorboards, and a family of raccoons had made themselves at home in the walls.

As nice as it would be to restore the shack to its former glory, I didn’t go to camp for the cabin, anyway. All of my business was done in the barn.

“What the fuck. Do you live here?” Jasmine asked as she squinted through the darkness.

I sighed. “Didn’t I tell you to shut the hell up?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

I turned on my flashlight to see the overgrown path that led back to the crooked barn. Getting struck by a cottonmouth would put a damper on my evening plans.

I pushed the barn door open, gestured for Jeanine to enter, and followed behind her.

There was no electric in the rickety old barn, but the propane lanterns I had did the job just fine. I needed just enough light to see. I could feel the pulse of anticipation thrumming through my body. I had to fight to keep my hands steady as I hung the last lantern on its rusty nail.

Jill stood in the middle of the barn, shivering in her stained tank top. “It’s cold.”

I couldn’t feel a chill in the air, but that didn’t mean much. I was starting to sweat beneath my thrift store threads. “I’ll light the woodstove.”

I lit the woodstove and let Jenny try to warm herself by it in favor of inspecting my workbench. It was just as I’d left it about a year ago. All of my tools were in their assigned spots. I hovered my fingers above them: pliers, saw, bolt cutters.

I picked up the hunting knife and ran my thumb along the blade. It had been dulled by use and time. The steel winked in the orange lamplight. It reminded me of the time my dad had given me my first pocket knife.

“Remember, son,” he said seriously as he held the folded pocket knife between his thumb and forefinger, “a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one.”

At the time, I hadn’t cared. I had only wanted to take my knife and whittle sticks down to sharp points. Now that I was older, I understood what he meant. A sharp knife left clean cuts. It did less damage to the tissues around the blade. Wounds caused by sharp knives were easier to heal than dull ones.

“Do you have the stuff or what?” Jeannine asked.

Again with the fucking questions. I held the knife down by my side. “Come here.”

She hesitated at the harshness of my tone.

It was too late for sensibility. She should have thought about before she’d gotten into my truck.

“Get your ass over here!”

One step.

April should have iron my fucking slacks.

Two steps.

If my slacks hadn’t been wrinkled Leslie Wilford wouldn’t have looked at me like that. Like I was a rat that had scurried from the gutter.

Three.

This dumb bitch, Julia, Josephine, Jane--what ever the fuck her name was--should have never gotten in my truck.

Four.

And I couldn’t stand the stink of her cloying vanilla perfume.

Fury had blood roaring in my ears. The hunting knife shook in my hand. When Juliet was close enough to reach, I grabbed her with my left arm to hold her steady and jammed the blade into her gut, below her sternum. It took a little more force than I anticipated. The first cut always took me by surprise.

Her expression went from cautious to stunned. Her eyes widened, her bony fingers wrapped around my wrist. She tried to pry my hand free, but years of sacrificing her meals for drugs had left her weak.

I pushed harder. The blade scraped against bone.

A sound pulled its way from her lungs, in a nearly-sensual moan.

I yanked the knife free.

Blood bloomed on the front of her tank top, dark and spreading. It looked like one of those tests psychiatrist gave their crazy patients. What does this look like to you?

It looked like release.

I stabbed her again.

Her body lurched with the force of the impact. She staggered back a step or two.

I yanked it free and thrust the knife back into her body. The handle was slick with blood, warm and wet against my palm.

Her knees gave out and I let her fall to the floor.

I knelt down over her, knees pinning her arms to the cool dirt below.

She opened her mouth, a trickle of crimson ran from the corner, staining her pale skin like ink. She tried to speak, couldn’t, closed her mouth, and then opened it again. She looked like a fish that had just been yanked from the stream. “Please,” she gurgled, “stop.” It was such a feeble sound. So frail. So tragic.

I reached up and pressed my thumb to her cheek. It left a bloody smear behind. I leaned down so I knew she could hear me when I murmured, “No.”

As I felt her blood sticking to my hands, a primal force overcame me. It had tasted blood and wouldn’t be sated until the life had fully drained from her eyes.

I stabbed her again, and again, and again. Blood splattered my face, hot and wet. I could taste the copper of it on my lips.

Well after she took her last breath, I pulled the knife free for a final time and dropped my aching arms to my sides. While I caught my breath I took a few moments to bask in my adrenaline-laced euphoric high.

Humans were bound to this lifeless rock, doomed to work nine-to-five jobs they hated until their very essence ran dry. Killing was the only thing that made me feel alive.

###

Dawn was just breaking by the time I pulled into my driveway, exhausted and sated. I got out of the truck, balancing a box of muffins and coffee while I tried to work up the energy to pretend like I hadn’t spent all night dismembering and spreading a corpse through the swamp.

“Good morning, Rob!”

“Good morning, Luanne,” I greeted.

“What are you out doing so early this morning?” She asked, her schnauzer sniffing around her plushy pink slippers.

Luanne was a sweet lady, but I really fucking hated it when people asked me too many questions. “Oh, I just wanted to get April and the kiddos something special for breakfast.” I held up the box of muffins as if it explained everything. “Would you like a muffin?”

“Aw, you’re so sweet.” She waved me a way with an arthritic hand, “I can’t. I don’t want to mess up my sugar too much. Have a nice day, Rob!”

“Take care.” I smiled until I watched her take her dog inside. Then, I went up the steps to my own front door. I mentally prepared myself to greet my family. I was going to have to be my best self for them and for the students at Van Buren Academy.

After all, their vice principal needed to look his best.

And I would.

As long as April remembered to iron my fucking slacks.

Tag List: @lordkingsmith, @howdy-writes, @lanawritesalittle, @pertinax--loculos, @kirsten-is-writing, @heytherelindsay, @lukawriting, @alicewestwater, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @baconkat02, @bottichelli

#short story #writerblr #tw violence #tw blood #tw murder #tw language

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allsassnoclass · 4 years

Text

i’ll be here in pieces when you finally pull the pin

They only ever do this on the road, and only when Alex initiates. When they first started, years and years ago, Jack would fight against that surrender of control tooth and nail, but it’s different now. If he’s being honest with himself, it was different back then, too, because Jack could’ve stopped at any time, could’ve said no and walked away, but he always came back for more. Alex said jump and Jack lept at the chance to ask how high, and nothing has changed. Alex will always be the most the addictive drug Jack has ever tried, and he has never once considered trying to quit him.

read on ao3

bella threw this idea out and it spoke to me, so here is a jalex fic based on Tie Me Down by Every Avenue

Jack loves life on the road.

He was never meant to settle down. They started this thing as teenagers, itching to explore and sprint to every corner of the world that they could, and Jack feels like he never quite outgrew that. Even with Rian working with his studio in Nashville and Alex buying a fucking farm of all things, Jack stays in LA and parties and waits until they can get back on the road so he can stop vibrating out of his skin. The impermanence suits him, but it’s not his favorite thing about being on tour. It should be the fans, or the music, or any number of things, but it’s not those either.

It’s Alex.

“Hey,” he says right before they’re set to go onstage, shadows of the wings hiding his face but not his posture. He’s leaning close, tilted towards Jack in a way that has less to do with the fact that they’re surrounded by people now and more to do with what he wants later. Jack recognizes the way his voice dips, how he’s standing, the smell of his cologne. It used to send shivers through him.

(It still does, but they’ve been doing this for long enough that he’s gotten good at hiding it.)

“I’m coming to your room after,” Alex says, as if Jack might have other plans and his life doesn’t revolve around Alex and the things he can do with his mouth, like singing or other actions that Jack is particularly interested in.

“Sure,” he shrugs. Alex tilts his head and smirks in a way that lets Jack know he’s not as casual as he’s trying to be, but Jack doesn’t have time to fix that before the lights onstage are dimming and they’re being ushered forward.

He makes the mistake of looking at Alex during the first song and fumbles his chords when he gets a wink in response. Alex laughs at him, cocky and sure-footed, and Jack can’t wait for the show to end while simultaneously knowing that he should enjoy the flirting while he can.

The issue with only doing this when Alex wants is that Jack is always left wanting more.

The show passes in a blur of stage lights and sweat and Alex’s vocals ringing through his in-ears. Jack doesn’t remember what he says during the talking breaks, only that it makes Alex’s eyes slide over to him, and Jack lets his gaze settle on his shoulders, keeping him grounded until he knows Alex will be able to hold him down in a different way and take him apart. By the time the show is over he’s shaking with a mix of post-show adrenaline and pre-Alex anticipation, just enough for Zack to ask if he’s okay.

“Yeah, of course,” Jack says, and when Alex lets his fingertips dance over Jack’s shoulder as he passes, Zack understands.

The band knows. It’s kind of mortifying, but in a way that adds to the entire experience. He’s sat through the cautious talks from Zack and Rian, but there isn’t anything either of them can say that he hasn’t already told himself.

He can stop at any time. There’s no need to constantly be putting himself through this push and pull, to be led on by his best friend time and time again only for him to leave right after he finishes, making Jack try to pick up the pieces of himself alone. Every time with Alex feels like an explosion, and Jack is well aware that he’s letting himself take all the damage, shrapnel sticking in his guts that he has to pry out with steady hands once he calms down enough. Still, he’s the one who agrees to it. He knows that Alex isn’t going to stay the night, knows that they’re not going to do breakfast in bed or tender kisses or any of that other stuff that couples do, because they aren’t one. That’s not what Alex wants, and Jack would rather have this than nothing.

Zack had once asked Jack why he still did this, after all these years of fucking Alex and never getting anything more out of it. Jack joked that he’s a masochist, but that’s only because that truth is a little easier to reveal than the simple fact that it’s Alex.

He makes it back to his hotel room in one piece and rinses off, even though he’s going to need to again afterwards. Alex likes to draw things out, to have him shaking and begging beneath him until it hurts and the only thing Jack can make himself focus on is the way Alex’s hair is plastered to his forehead, because looking into his eyes would be too much, even for him.

There’s a knock at his door before he’s finished towel-drying his hair, and Jack makes himself take a deep breath and walk to open it at a normal pace, rather than trip over his own feet in his haste to have Alex’s hands on him.

“Hey,” Alex says, wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt that used to be Jack’s, once upon a time. It doesn’t mean anything, because clothing always gets mixed up on the road, but it kick-starts that sting in his chest that nights with Alex like this always bring.

“Good show tonight,” Alex says, and Jack hums in agreement. Some tension releases when Alex rolls his eyes and presses forward, finally bringing their mouths together, because this is something Jack can handle. There’s a very distinct line between Alex-The-Best-Friend-Slash-Bandmate and Alex-Who-Fucks-Jack-Up, and small talk goes with the first Alex, not the second. That’s the one thing that Jack can’t let himself mix up, because tangling those two would have more repercussions than he or anyone around him could handle.

“Been thinking about this all day,” Alex says when he finally pulls back for air, and Jack groans. It’s unfair, it’s so totally unfair to suggest that he’s not the only one who wants this and Alex knows it, but that doesn’t stop either of them from playing this game every time.

The rest of Jack’s thoughts dissolve with a particularly filthy kiss and two thumbs pressing into the divots of his hips, and before he knows it they’re on the bed with clothes off.

Fuck, Jack can’t get enough of the sight of the hair on Alex’s chest or the moles on his back or the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Every sharp breath that he manages to coax out of him and low groan is better than all of the music in the world, and every bruise left on him makes him swear and moan and think why the fuck are we not doing this all the time.

He’s breathless and ready to explode before Alex even grabs the condom.

“Eager, are we?” Alex asks when Jack whines at the lack of contact caused by him reaching for the lube.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack says, as if Alex isn’t fully aware how much Jack is always gagging for him.

“God, you’re so beautiful like this,” Alex says. Jack doesn’t reply except to try to breathe. Words like that hurt in the best way, a reminder that everything he wants is close enough for his fingertips to brush, but far enough that he can never actually reach it. Jack already knows that he’s going to replay it in his head all night, pressing viciously on that bruise just to feel the ache that comes with it.

It doesn’t last as long as he wants, and it feels so good while his heart is shattering, because this means Alex is going to leave again and who knows when he’ll get this next. He’ll see Alex tomorrow, but it’ll be Alex-The-Best-Friend, and he won’t be privy to the face Alex makes when Jack does something just right that makes his toes curl or the way his eyes shine or his ragged breathing.

“Thanks,” Alex says when they’ve both recovered, like Jack did a small favor such as restringing his guitar, rather than give Alex a piece of himself.

“No problem,” he replies. “I’m here all week.”

Alex huffs an outline of a laugh. Jack doesn’t say I wasn’t joking or just stay the night or fuck, yes, hurt me again because it feels so good or I’m probably in love with you, you know?

Jack walks him to the door, under the pretense that he wants to lock it behind him and not because he wants to stay close for just a few moments longer. Alex pauses with his hand on the handle, then turns.

“Seriously, thank you,” he says. “I know this isn’t always easy for you.”

Jack snorts. Alex frowns, and Jack can see the sincerity there, the worry that comes around every so often that has Alex asking questions like should we stop? and saying things like Jack, I don’t want to actually hurt you. You’re my best friend and I love you.

“Having sex with you isn’t exactly a hardship,” Jack says. Alex keeps staring at him, and suddenly Jack can't take the weight of his gaze, looking down at the carpet instead. Being tied down like this is different, vulnerable in a way that he can’t face and can’t make surface-level innuendos about.

“We should stop.”

“I’d rather have you fuck me up than anyone else,” he says before he can think. It’s too honest in the quiet of the room, the fan from the hotel bathroom the only backing track for this conversation, but it’s out there now. He’d say anything to ensure that he gets to keep what little piece of being with Alex he has. When he makes himself look up, Alex’s frown is deeper, eyes searching his face. Jack doesn’t know what he’s going to find, and he’s terrified of what it could be.

Alex frowns for a second longer, then blinks the expression away. They spend a moment just standing there, breathing the same air, and Jack is about to step back and break it for his own good when Alex brings a hand up to cup his cheek. He’s leaning into it before he can stop himself, and then Alex’s lips are pressing against his again, except slow and sweet and tender in a way he’s never gotten to experience. Jack sinks into it, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted but it’s also painfully unfamiliar. He doesn’t know where to put his hands and he doesn’t know what the right amount of pressure is and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to go on existing when he knows it’s possible for Alex to kiss him like this but he won’t.

When Alex pulls away, Jack forces himself to open his eyes and keep his knees from buckling underneath him.

He wants to know if Alex is aware that he’s made things worse, or if he thinks he helped.

Alex’s thumb brushes over his cheek one more time, and then he pulls back, cutting off all contact between the two of them.

“Good night, Jack,” he says, voice soft. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, then clears his throat so he can speak without his voice cracking. “See you.”

Alex opens the door and steps out. Jack closes it behind him, then slides the lock in place. He stands there for a moment, imagining that Alex is on the other side standing there, too, just as reluctant to leave. It’s a fantasy he shouldn’t indulge in, but it’s one of his favorites.

He sighs and steps away. The shower has hot water and good soap. He makes his way to the bathroom and begins the process of washing away all traces of Alex from his skin, starting the first step of putting himself back together.

#my writing #jalex #atl fanfic #baby's first jalex! whoo!!!#it's angsty and it has a m rating on ao3 just fyi #thought I might as well cross post here

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somarsword · 4 years

Text

Sleep on the Floor - Part 1

ROGER TAYLOR X READER

Hiii! This is my first fanfic (that I’m posting) so please have mercy on me hahaha. Anyways, feedback is very much appreciated. Enjoy! :>

Big disclaimer, I am neither American nor British.

oh also photo credits to @hoopdiddydo_ taken from her post on twitter and pinterest.

Warnings: cursing? TRIGGER WARNING!!! Domestic abuse. Panic attack.

Word Count: 1.8k words

February 6, 1976 - New York

"Well, what do you say Y/n?" he asks, one knee still planted on the ground and holding out the small box containing the ring. This was not something you had ever expected to happen so soon.

The once lively and buzzing restaurant was now engulfed in silence, only the occasional whispers remained. All eyes were now trained on you, anticipating your response in silent excitement.

You watch the smile on his face falter slightly as he waits for your response, worry ebbing his features, reminding you that you have yet to respond.

Simon, a sweet guy, helps out at the homeless shelter during Saturdays, goes to church on Sundays, and someone you've been with for a little over 3 years now. Sure, you liked him, but this all seemed to happen too soon. Try as you may to properly assess your feelings all you could think of was, 𝐼'𝑑 ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒. So reluctantly you nod, forcing a smile onto your face, albeit one that doesn't reach your eyes.

Cheers and claps surround you as he slips the ring onto your finger but all the noise is drowned out by the deafening ringing in your ears. Your heart begins to beat rapidly against your chest as you suddenly feel an overwhelming feeling of dread wash over you. Leaving only one word to remain on your mind.

Soon enough, everyone resumes their meals, leaving you to listen to Simon's rambling, something you used to see as adorable but now just made you feel icky. "So I was thinking of it and maybe for the wedding we could-", but his words pass through one ear and out the other.

You stare at the plate set in front of you, absentmindedly pushing the food back and forth with the fork beginning to feel incredibly light headed. I can't do this. I need to think.

"I'll just use the restroom. Be right back" is all you say before rushing to the toilet. You push the door open quickly, not making it much further inside before your breathing completely picks up. Grasping the edge of the counter you choke out weak sobs as your throat constricts.

Just as you're sure you'll pass out, a man enters. His movements pause when he sees you, both surprise and confusion written on his face. He's quickly brought out of his daze, however, once he processes the state you're in.

In one swift motion, he's by your side, holding onto your other free hand in an attempt to comfort you.

"Can you try to match my breathing love? Think you can handle that?" He speaks slowly, watching you closely, making sure you understand him. You nod.

"Okay. Breathe in" he takes a deep breath in. You do your best to copy it.

"And out" he exhales.

••• -•- •• •--•

He repeats this for a couple minutes before your breathing returns to normal. You finally loosen your grip on his hands, pulling away.

"Uh thanks for the help. I really appreciate it." You finally say to the blonde man. He nods in response.

"What are you doing in the lady's comfort room though?" at your question the man gives a quick chuckle. With a questioning gaze, you look at him.

"Lady, this is the men's room" and sure enough, as you look around, you see the urinals lining the wall.

"Oh" is all you manage to say, your face flushing a deeper shade of red than you thought possible. Apparently, in your haste to escape, you managed to enter the wrong room.

Leaning back against the counter you stare down at your hands, your fingers grazing over the ring set on it. It gleams brightly, definitely not cheap.

Daring to break the silence you finally speak. "Sorry for keeping you here so long. Your date must be waiting" you say, dropping your hands to your sides.

You look up only to see the man's gaze on your ring as well, recognition in his eyes, as if finally realizing why you looked so familiar. He says nothing of the ring as he looks back at you.

"Oh, it's no worries love, I'm just here with my mates. I don't think those 3 wankers are worried anyway" He offers you a comforting smile, going to lean against the wall directly in front of you.

"The Ritz is a bit pricey for a night out with the boys, don't you think?" you ask, letting out a small laugh.

"I guess it is, huh?" He agrees, letting out a small chuckle of his own, shaking his head. "Kinda lucky it's paid for by the record label"

"Record label?" You ask, confusion laced in your tone and eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah. We're uhm-" he scratches the back of his head, realizing he's said something he wasn't supposed to, "Well we're touring at the moment so all our meals are paid for." You nod in acknowledgement, choosing not to pry into it much further.

Your gaze falls back to the ring on your finger, half expecting it to suddenly vanish and for you to wake up from this monstrosity of a night.

"Hey look, I know you're going through something, and you don't have to talk about it." the man speaks up again, "But if you ever feel like you need someone to talk to just feel free to call me"

Looking up, you finally see him holding out what seems to be a business card. You reach for it, nodding meekly.

"Thanks-" you start, before realizing you hadn't actually caught his name.

"Roger" he says.

"Right. Thanks Roger." You turn to your side a bit, stuffing his business card into your bra (a habit you had to stop doing when in front of people) right as the door opens. A man pauses by the entrance, and before you can look at him he starts speaking.

"What the hell is going on?" Simon growls, his voice an octave lower than usual. You snap your head up, immediately looking at him.

Everything happens so quickly that if you had blinked you would have missed it. He approaches both of you in quick strides before attaching his fist to the jaw of Roger. Your eyes shoot open in horror as Roger hunches over coughing, a bit of blood seeping out his mouth.

Before you could properly react or make an apology to him you're roughly dragged away by Simon, leaving a surprised Roger behind.

••• -•- •• •--•

Simon drives all the way home, silently seething as he grips the steering wheel to the point where his knuckles go white. You cower slightly at the sight. In all your time together you've never known him to be violent, well physically at least, so this was new.

All the way up to the driveway he says nothing, only gritting his teeth and breathing heavily as he replays the image he just saw. Once you were behind closed doors, however, it was a different story.

"WHAT WERE YOU DOING WITH THAT GUY IN THE TOILET?" He yells, causing you to flinch back at the sheer aggressiveness of his voice.

"Nothing. We weren't doi-" You begin but are cut of by his dark chuckle.

"Then what the 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 were you doing in the men's comfort room?" His voice is deeper and threatening. You say nothing opting instead to stare at the floor. His stance was frightening. 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑤𝑓𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑎𝑔𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚?

"Answer me" He growls, voice dripping with rage. When he receives no response from you he gets more fueled up, grabbing a glass cup that was left on the dining table before hurling it towards you. It hits your shoulder with an aggressive 𝐭𝐡𝐰𝐚𝐜𝐤 before falling and shattering on the ground.

He approaches you causing you to backup into the wall. Trying to make yourself disappear you slide down, covering your face in fear. He scoffs at your poor attempt to escape his wrath and pulls you up roughly by the hair, picking up a shard of glass as he does so.

"𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐈𝐓" you're too encapsulated by fear to register the giant gash he was painting into your stomach, slicing the dress that clung to your body in the process. After a few moments with still no response, he releases his grip on your hair, causing you to collapse on the ground, blood beginning to pool under you.

"Should've known you were a fucking slut. Clean yourself up" is all he says before walking out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Scrambling to gather your breath, you force yourself to sit up. Your hand flies down to the cuts on your belly, applying pressure on it in hopes of stopping it from bleeding any.

••• -•- •• •--•

You don't know how long you stay there on the floor, but it feels like hours. With as much strength as you can gather you trudge towards the kitchen, wetting a hand towel to clean up the cut.

The wind howls outside, causing the front door to rattle. The rattling suddenly snaps you back to the reality that Simon could be back any moment. With shaky hands you quickly press a cut up piece of cloth towards the wound, taping it down haphazardly. Once done, you rush towards the bedroom to pack.

You grab a duffel bag that was hung next to the door, zipping it open before crouching under the bed to retrieve the shoe box you've hidden under it. Drawing it out, you discard the lid and reach inside to pull out the small amount of money you had managed to save, along with the folder containing your birth certificate and other important documents. You stuff it all into the bag, changing your (now ripped up) dress and grabbing a few articles of clothing on the way out.

You make a beeline towards the front door, only stopping once your hand lay on the doorknob.

𝐴𝑚 𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑑𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠?

You glance behind you. Everything you thought you ever wanted to have stares right back at you. A house, a (supposedly) loving boyfriend turned fiancé, and a stable job. So why did it feel wrong when he proposed last night?

Shaking your head at your own thoughts, you rip the ring off your finger and toss it on the floor before storming out into the dark and empty streets.

••• -•- •• •--•

February 7, 1976 - New York

The sky is now a deep shade of blue, sun beginning to rise from a night's slumber. You've been walking for hours, figuring out what to do. With barely any money on you, you had nowhere to go, so unless you could manage to walk all the way to the next state, you were dead. You could barely afford to eat. Why had you ever agreed to share a bank account with him? How could you have been so stupid as to not have kept more for yourself? Without Simon's signature on the withdrawal slip they wouldn't give you even a penny of your hard work.

𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑓𝑢𝑐𝑘. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑟𝑜𝑦𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑤𝑒𝑑.

#roger taylor #roger taylor x you #roger taylor x reader #ben hardy #ben hardy!roger taylor #ben hardy!roger x reader #roger #queen #ben!roger #roger taylor fanfic

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yeojaa · 5 years

Text

SUGAR HIGH, chapter viii. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary. You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing. jeon jungkook. mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags. angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating. general (for now?)

word count. ~2000

chapter 8. Boy With Luv

You find yourself stepping out of your shell, stopping to smell the roses again. Has life always been this sweet?

“Who are you and what’ve you done with the Soomi I know?”

You know he’s only teasing but somehow, you’re blushing scarlet, apples of your cheeks turning as red as their namesake.

“‘You need to get out more,’” you answer verbatim, even adopting the low rasp of Yejin’s. You realize you sound more like Batman but run with it anyway, small hand shielding your mouth in some sort of makeshift voice changer. “‘You’re going to keep mopping around until you put yourself out there. And I don’t mean with the boys.’”

Hoseok is scandalized, his expression morphing into one that screams ‘how dare she!’ and ‘what the hell!’ in equal parts.

“Yah - you tell her to respect her elders!”

The way he says it makes you think Seokjin’s been parroting the same phrase around the apartment and it’s now drilled into the dancer’s brain.

“She’ll tell you off.” Spoken sagely and yet so very matter-of-fact. It didn’t matter that he was beloved by millions or her older - Yejin mocked him like he was her little brother. No one was spared.

Something about growing up in America, she’d say.

“Whatever,” he huffs before the sound is descending into a laugh, feet shifting until he’s knocking into your hip. “If it got you here, then I don’t mind.”

Here being a dance studio. A place he’d normally never catch you, unless dragged along by your over eager best friend or as a patient observer.

This time, you were here of your own accord. You’d even cracked a joke about inheriting Hoseok’s dance skills by osmosis, asking for a good luck sweatband.

(You’d tried not to cringe when he’d slipped it over your head, only marginally relieved when he insisted it was new.)

“You’ll have fun. I promise.” You don’t lock pinkies and you don’t press kisses to your thumbs, sealing it in forever, but you still believe him. He would never lead you astray, that much you knew. He’d maybe make you trip over your own two feet or blow a lung from exhaustion, but you’d be giggling the whole time.

You try to shake the nerves, will them away from the tips of your fingers. It’s hard when there’s a handful of people around you, all eagerly drawn by the chance to dance with Jung Hoseok.

Honestly, you probably owe him a flat of Sprite after this. And a jar of your dad’s kkakdugi.

"Okay, now that everyone is warmed up, let's get ready to begin." You've never heard him like this, authoritative yet gentle, his words a warm reassurance as he settles beside you. "We'll be going through the chorus of ON. We'll be jumping right in on count eight and land on one."

The way he moves should be illegal, the grace with how he runs through the motions a god-given gift. Even the simple act of bracing arms over one another - right above left - and jumping, feet spread wide, is done with a practiced ease you could never manage. The rotation of his arms is hypnotizing, a forelock of slate grey catching beneath the light as he readjusts in a single, fluid motion. You're not quite sure if his eyes are even open or if this is as easy as breathing.

He'd been guiding your group so easily that you'd nearly forgotten he was speaking. "Soomi-ya, you need to do it too," he chides sweetly, breaking the spell.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

"It's fine, just relax. Pretend it's just us."

So you do, doing your best to memorize the patterns he taps out and the direction of his arms. It's harder than you remember, but maybe that's your nerves. Still, you try, apologizing around laughter when you accidentally drag yourself in the opposite direction, swinging your arms into the crags of Hoseok's shoulders.

You let the warmth radiate through your body and when your lungs are on fire, you push harder (and remind yourself to do some more goddamn cardio).

You're dying. You have to be. There's no other explanation for the way you're laying on the floor, what used to be your legs but you're sure are now just jelly sprawled out beneath you. Your head is swimming and your chest is heaving but you feel oddly light, as if the air's filling you and lifting you above the immobile shape of your body.

"Stop being so dramatic." God, he sounds like he hasn't even broken a sweat. He doesn't even look bothered.

You gulp once, twice, and try to speak but it comes out like a half-whine, half-groan. "Can't. Dying."

"Do you need water?"

If you'd been paying attention, you might've noticed the change in tone, the distinctly different voice.

But instead, you're barely alive and reaching for the shadow of the water bottle. Hands scramble across the surface, all but yanking the offering from a loose grip. You manage a polite 'thank you!' before you're chugging the contents, all semblance of civility temporarily forgotten.

"Thank you, Wooram-ssi."

Your head snaps up. Who was Hoseok speaking to?

"No problem. I don't think a heart attack in class would go over well." You'd laugh if you weren't so mortified.

You gape up at him for a second longer before you're throwing yourself up, ignoring the way your right knee begs to give out and steadying yourself with the help of your friend's arm. You're certain you look like a complete mess - in fact, you can see it reflected back at you in the mirrors of the dance studio.

Baby hairs wild, ponytail no longer deserving of the name. Pink sits on your cheeks, seemingly permanently burnt there.

"I'm Kim Wooram." The stranger is offering a hand and a grin. You don't know him but you feel immediately at ease when he lays that smile on you. He has kind eyes and a soft face, the angle of his jaw and the slope of his nose working to harden the otherwise baby-faced contours. The piercings in his ear reflect the incandescent lights, gleaming as his head cocks to the side in curiosity. You wonder how old he is to have been speaking to Hoseok so casually.

It takes you a moment to respond but when you do, you're quite proud of how level your voice is. "Park Soomi."

Your hands meet and you swear you hear bells.

( 6:13pm ) paksom: sorry i missed your call!

( 6:13pm ) paksom: everything okay?

It hadn't been bells but the dinging of your phone, nestled into your bag and forgotten.

( 6:15pm ) jeon jungkook: come over?

( 6:15pm ) jeon jungkook: we're cooking tonight

( 6:16pm ) jeon jungkook: samgyupsal!!!!

You can practically hear his excitement through the little device, a sticker of his BT21 character popping across your screen.

"Hobiiii." The way you're singing his voice catches his attention and Hoseok's at your side in an instant, peering down at your phone expectantly. "We're cooking tonight! Let's go pick up some extra stuff on the way back."

You've definitely bought too much. Between the two of you, you're carrying five bags or rather, he's struggling with four and you're happily trailing behind with one. Not that you hadn't offered - you had, arguing in front of the store before you'd thrown your hands up in exasperation.

"Can you open the door?" He's sidestepping, allowing you access to the door handle. The keys in your hands jingle, little acrylic KAWS figure swinging from the small set. You turn the lock carefully before edging in, the welcome aromas of fat and spice wrapping you in a warm hug before you're consumed in real, physical heat, the smallest member somehow engulfing you.

"Hi, Jiminie." The greeting is lost in the collar of his sweater as he squeezes you. "You should help Hobi-oppa with the groceries."

All at once, you're able to breathe again, Jimin having released you in favour of taking two bags off his hyung's hands. So eager to help, you think. "What did you get?

Scratch that. Just hungry.

"A bunch of random stuff we thought everyone might like. I bought squid for osam-bulgogi, since you like seafood now, right?" He'd mentioned it in a V Live recently but he's still surprised, the biggest smile stretching his perfect lips. You can't help but return the expression of joy, proud in being able to bring such delight to one of your favourite people. "I also brought a bunch of banchan I made earlier this week. And soju and makgeolli!"

"And kkakdugi, but that's mine!" It's a booming proclamation as the three of you shuffle into the kitchen, goodies dropped unceremoniously on the kitchen counter and everyone's attention now caught.

"You didn't have to bring so much stuff!" Seokjin, flabbergasted as snacks spill out and a glossy green bottle nearly rolls off the edge of the island.

"Welcome back." Namjoon, from his seat, headphones around his neck as he taps away at his laptop.

"Yes, I did! A guest can't come empty-handed." Both of you know you're right but neither you nor Seokjin relent, huffing adorably at each other. He breaks first, turning his attention to the things he needs to immediately start preparing and instructing Jimin to put away anything else. Watching them, it truly is like being among family. It makes you feel fuzzy inside as you take a seat beside Bangtan's leader, dragging your attention from the now-bickering members - something about 'that's not the right place!' - to survey the apartment. "I saw you guys last week."

Namjoon doesn't even look up when he answers, "No, you saw us on Wednesday. It's now Saturday of the following week."

You almost snort, giving him a heavy dose of side-eye. "Joonie-oppa, are you my abeoji?"

It's clear he isn't expecting that when he nearly knocks his headphones off with the force in which he turns to you. "Yah! It's not me. Jungkook--"

And then there are hands on his shoulders, long fingers tensing and pressing perhaps a little too hard. The maknae has appeared out of nowhere, seemingly conjured by the sound of his name. His hair's still wet, water droplets darkening the grey of his tee shirt and dripping down the curve of his ear.

"Yes, hyung?"

"You can't just sneak up on people like that."

"I heard you say my name so I thought you were calling for me."

"No, I was telling--"

There's that subtle flex of fingers again. You're watching the two of them like some weird tennis game, attention bouncing from one face to the other's.

"You guys are being weird."

Even weirder is the way they're refusing to meet your eyes, instead boring holes into each other's like they're going to find gold buried somewhere.

When Namjoon finally relents, he goes back to his computer like nothing's happened and Jungkook's transferring his weight to you, arms locked comfortably around your shoulders. You can feel the moisture from his hair sliding down your cheek and you resist the urge to pull away once it's seeping into the cotton of your top.

"Hello to you, too." You muse, twisting your neck to meet his stare.

"How was dance class with Hobi-hyung?"

The chance to answer is torn from you as the man in question appears across the island, flicking the faucet on to wash his hands and assist with dinner. He's got a great big grin on his face, cheeks puffed out like the literal cat ate the canary.

"She did really well, though I think I'm going to be bruised from where she stepped on my foot." A tongue wagging at you. Had you thought he was going to give a compliment without wrapping it in mockery? "Wooram-ssi saved her from dying at the end."

He's wiping his hands before returning to his spot, taking up the easy task of chopping carrots. He seems so focused that you think he's done speaking, about to resume your conversation with your best friend.

"He asked for your number, by the way."

You're not sure whether it's you or Jungkook when you tense. What?

notes. hahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahaha. that's all I can say.

this was a super fun chapter to write so i hope you enjoyed it as much as i did.

#bts fluff #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #bestfriends.zip #sugarhigh.doc #jungkook.doc

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