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siriuslywicked · 1 day ago

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A Different Kind of Pain

neighbor!Jack Abbot x fem!reader

Description: After losing a gem of a next door neighbor, Jack worries what the new resident will be like. Instead of a young obnoxious college kid, he meets you. Instantly struck by your warm nature (and good looks but he won't admit to that), Jack finds himself drawn to you in a way he hasn't experienced in years.

Tags: reader is a chemistry grad student bc i say so, shameless self insert, fem!reader, trying to avoid too many specific descriptors on readers appearance but i am new to this, reader is shorter than jack, widower!Jack, Jack talks ab therapy, trying to do justice to the fact that Jack is an amputee, but again I am not an expert, just some fluff and feelings, eventual smut, and so mdni 18+

A/N: Thank you all for the encouragement on the first version of this! It has been really really amazing to know people enjoy my ideas and writing and absolutely wild that y'all want more. I really love this idea and have many many plans for these two. I hope to get part two written and out this week. I am thinking around 3-4 parts total, but we shall see. This is starts similar to this post, but I made some changes and expanded quite a bit. I hope you enjoy and please send me asks/dms if you have any suggestions/comments/feedback on anything! I am always open to improving and learning.

gif credit - @iluvseb | divider credit - @cursed-carmine

Part One - 3k

Jack has been living in the left half of a red brick duplex, unit 101A, long enough to see a handful of tenants come and go on the right side, 102A. There was a college kid whose prefrontal cortex was just underdeveloped enough for him to be nothing but a pain in Jack’s ass. Needless to say, not his favorite neighbor. Then there was a young couple who were perfectly lovely until they had to move somewhere with two bedrooms to accommodate an incoming little one (Jack had been sure to give them his number in case they ever needed a friend in the ED). Most recently an older woman, Mrs. McAlister, who had regularly brought Jack all manner of baked goods and leftovers, had moved out and into her daughter's house.

The unfortunate loss of Mrs. McAlister’s cooking meant that the right half of his duplex (and yes he thought of it as his by this point) was empty. Jack couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread creep in as he watched the last of Mrs. McAlister’s things be packed into a UHaul on Saturday afternoon. Would his new neighbor be another sweet elderly woman? Or would he get stuck with some obnoxious twenty something with no common courtesy?

Fortunately for Jack, he didn’t have to wait long to find out. Housing got snatched up fast in a city like Pittsburgh, especially housing that was halfway decent and affordable, so it was no surprise that 102A was empty for under 48 hours.

His first glimpse of the new tenant comes when Jack is arriving back home from a shift, just before 8 am on a Monday. He isn’t surprised to see a moving truck out front, nor is he surprised to see you directing the two movers on where to put furniture and boxes. He can tell you're young, in your twenties is his guess, which immediately sets his nerves on edge. Jack doesn’t think he can handle anymore house parties or loud hookups or trash left out. But you have a quiet, competent air about you that seems to indicate you aren't going to cause a ruckus. You appear to be alone, aside from the movers. He finds himself looking for evidence of a partner, husband, wife, without really meaning to. Forcing himself to not be overly nosy, Jack moves past the two men, now carrying part of a bed frame, and lets himself into 101.

After a shower and the last of Mrs. McAlister’s roast (bless that woman), Jack is dressed in grey sweats and a black t-shirt, ready for bed. Despite the sleep threatening to overcome him, he finds himself looking out his window to check in on the status of your move. Apparently you had gotten here early, because he can see you handing the movers a wad of cash and sending them on their way. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbed his prosthetic and is hurrying to get the damn thing back on so he can step back outside. He may as well catch you as you’re heading back inside, introduce himself, make sure he doesn’t need to be concerned about having another pain in his ass next door. It is the neighborly thing to do after all, he reasons.

Another moment finds him a couple steps outside his door, clearing his throat to catch your attention from where you’re examining the front facing window of 102.

“I’m Jack. Abbot. I’m in 101. Figured I should introduce myself, welcome you to the neighborhood and all.” He outstretches his hand, wondering if a handshake is still what people do these days.

Smiling, you shake his hand firmly and give him your name, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. It is at this moment Jack finally takes you in fully. He was right, he thinks, you must be in your mid twenties, no ring on your finger, and certainly not a pain in his ass. You stand a handful of inches shorter than him, just enough that you have to look up to make eye contact. The smile you are giving him is radiant in a way that makes his stomach feel tight. He can see you’re flushed from the exertion of carrying boxes and helping to move furniture, and your hair has begun to fall from where you had it back.

But even though you aren’t at your most put together, Jack is left feeling off balance, as he can only see you as the most raw and real kind of beautiful. The kind of beauty that comes with a bright smile, dewy skin, and pink chinks. The kind that has as much to do with physical appearance as it does a person’s character. The kind of beauty that reminds him of his late wife when they first met. Even though he is just meeting you, Jack likes to think his gut is usually right about people, and his gut is telling him that you are exactly the type of kind, caring, intelligent person that spells nothing but trouble for him.

“It’s very nice to meet you Jack! I hope the movers weren’t too much of a disturbance, it seems like a quiet little haven around here.”

“About as close to a haven as you can get in the city,” he agrees with a small smile. “And don’t mention it, you weren’t a disturbance at all.”

In the few minutes the two of you spend chatting he finds out you’re a fourth year graduate student, “A PhD in chemistry? You might just be a bigger masochist than me.” You somehow work nearly as many hours as he does, and he finds your work ethic dizzyingly attractive. You moved to the area in the hope of finding somewhere a little quieter, some place where you didn’t feel like people were packed in like sardines. You aren’t from PA, but you have a couple close friends in town and your family tries to visit often. You confirm his suspicions when you tell him you’re single and don’t have any kids or pets so there shouldn’t be any noise waking him up through the night.

“Actually, I’m an attending in the ED, usually on night shift. Sounds like you aren't home much during the day, but-”

“Don’t worry Jack, I’ll keep it down during the day too. You can always bang on the wall if I’m being to loud,”

He feels the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Thanks, sweetheart.” It slips before he can catch up to his mouth. Even though he knows he shouldn’t be giving you nicknames, and definitely not that kind, the pink that dusts your cheeks at the term of endearment is enough to make him want to call you nothing else.

“Uh- listen I’ve gotta get to bed, but let me give you my number in case you need anything. Neighbor or doctor wise,” he says, shooting you a wink.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you doctor.”

And god, he knows you mean it in a teasing way, but it does nothing to help the steadily growing attraction he feels towards you. He knows he is at least 15 years too old, and far too emotionally unavailable to even entertain the idea of being with you. He knows. But when you smile at him like he’s just offered to hang the moon and stars for you, he really doesn’t know what to do with himself.

It’s just his number, no harm in you having it, and certainly no reason it has to have any underlying intention behind it. That’s what he tells himself anyway.

He puts his number in your phone when you hand it to him, putting “Jack Abbot” as the name and “the guy in 101A and doctor at PTMC” in the notes for good measure. You thank him again, giving his hand a squeeze as he returns the phone. You say your goodbyes, and he retreats into his black out curtain and noise machine generated paradise. The last thing he sees before shutting his eyes is a text from an unknown number with your name, just so he can save your number too.

You are going to be a pain in his ass alright, a kind he didn’t even think to be worried about.

After your initial introduction, Jack assumes (worries) the two of you won't see much of each other. During your initial meeting, in an effort to reassure him you wouldn’t make too much noise during the day, you had inadvertently given him your schedule: 6:45 am leave for work, 7-5 ish suffer, 5:30 pm arrive home from work. With anyone else he would be glad to know that there would be no one next door to disturb his sleep, but instead he could only focus on the fact that he would rarely, if ever, run into you.

His assumption proved to be correct for the first two weeks of your time in 102A, only seeing you on occasion as he left for work. But, about halfway through week three, Jack wakes up earlier than normal. By the time 5:30 pm rolls around and he’s supposed to be on call for another 13.5 hours, he feels himself starting to get restless. It’s a nice day outside with a high of 75 and a low of 52, the sun has set enough to cast an orange glow on the city, but not enough that it’s going to be dark soon, and Jack has a rare burst of energy. His therapist has been telling him some sunshine goes a long way, and he didn’t spend all that money on the fucking sports prosethic to not use it.

By 5:42 pm Jack is in athletic shorts and a t-shirt, sports prosthetic on. He makes it about two steps out his front door, still adjusting the stupid prosthetic, when he senses he isn't alone. Straightening up, he realizes you’ve just come out of your front door as well. His gaze travels upwards from your feet as he makes his way to his full height. You’re dressed similar to himself in athletic shorts with a matching jacket, and he has to force himself to not linger on the exposed skin of your legs. When he does meet your eyes, he finds you smiling at him in a way that suggests you caught his little slip up, but are too polite to mention it.

“Hey Jack! Are you heading out for an evening run? Well- I guess it would technically be morning for you, sorry,” You laugh at yourself lightly, cheeks coloring only the slightest bit. Whether it’s from embarrassment at the slip up or something else he can’t be sure.

Either way, he gives you what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, I still consider this to be evening. I am a proud night lurker, there is no part of me that wants to be waking up before 3 pm.” A small fit of giggles overtakes you, and he feels his smile turn into something more genuine.

“But no, not much of a runner,” he gestures to his right leg where the prosthetic is on display. “I’m on call tonight and can’t do much besides hang out here, figured a walk might do me some good.”

To your credit, your expression only falters slightly when you take in his leg, quickly recovering to match his eye contact as you listen. You nod, humming warmly in agreement, still keeping your eyes locked on his. “I have to agree. I’m also not much of a runner but I try to walk after lab most days. I think it’s a great way to reset after a long day.”

“Sounds like you’re the evening walk expert then?”

“Something like that,” you joke back.

Jack knows that the conversation is winding down, it’s time for him to wish you a good walk and find a reason to hang back until you go on your way. Wait to see which direction you turn before beginning to walk in the opposite way. But Jack also knows that you’ve been looking at him with an attentiveness that, while he gives freely, is rarely if ever matched. If there were ever a sign of not wanting a conversation to end, he thinks the way you’re looking at him is surely it.

Fuck it.

“Well, I’m new to this whole walking for fun thing, maybe you could show me the best route to take?”

Your eyes brighten, “Of course! I mean, obviously I’m new to the area, but I think I’ve found a good path. It’s about 30 minutes, if that’s good with you?”

“Of course, lead the way,” he gestures forward with his hand, indicating for you to lead the way, leaning forward slightly as he does so. If you notice the way he stumbles forward slightly as his weight shifts on an unfamiliar right foot, you don’t say anything. But Jack swears he you’re biting the inside of your cheek to fight off a grin as you walk down the steps.

Fucking sports prosthetic.

The walk is… nice. Nicer than Jack expected. He can hear the birds chirping in the trees that are awkwardly implanted in the sidewalk. He can hear the sounds of the city too (sirens, honking, a plane overhead) but they’re less pronounced than normal. The two of you walk side by side as you lead him through parts of his neighborhood he’s never really taken the time to look at. You point out a café that apparently ‘makes a mean oat milk latte.’

“I hate to fulfill the old white guy stereotype, but I only drink my coffee black.” Self-deprecation as a form of self-defence, the oldest trick in the book.

“As horrifying as that information is,” you begin, closing your eyes and placing a hand on your chest, “I also can get behind a black coffee, so if you’re calling yourself old you’re gonna have to call me old too.” You smile at him and make eye contact for only a moment before breaking looking at the pavement a few feet ahead of you.

“Besides, you have got to be the sexiest ‘old guy’ I’ve ever seen so I’d be wearing that badge proudly if I were you.” You put your hands up in mock defensiveness and accentuate your point with air quotes.

He really isn’t sure what to do with himself besides laugh. Looking at you now, he could tell that even if you were uncertain, you were not the type of woman to let him get away with putting himself down. Nothing to do but admit defeat.

“I think I’ll be quite happy with that title.”

By the time the duplex is coming back into view Jack has learned that you’ve been walking everyday for years after a suggestion from a therapist. He’s learned that you “actually thought about going to medical school, but turns out biology and me don’t get along.” He’s also relearned more about chemistry than he ever hoped he would have to after asking the simple question “What does your lab research?”

He had told you his own therapist had suggested he ‘get his ass outside’ more often, and that maybe the shrink was right more often than he wanted to give the guy credit for. He also shared one of his gorrier work stories and had been impressed when you were hanging on to his every word rather than going green. More importantly, he had only let himself spend about 3 minutes total looking at the way the sunlight caught your hair, or the way it framed your face as it fell from the loose bun you had it in, or at your lips as you spoke rather than your face, or at the necklace laying against the soft place where your neck met your collar bones. Just 3 minutes, not bad at all, practically a record.

As you approach the front steps you hesitate, and he feels it too, he thinks. The uncertainty of where the two of you stand with one another. Jack knows where he stands, and he has a feeling he knows where you do too, he hadn’t been the only one with a staring problem. But even if Jack thinks he knows, he doesn’t really know.

“Thank you for sharing your route with me, I think I was right to call you the walk expert.” He shoots you a trademark Abbot smirk, trying to put a lid on whatever feelings may or may not have been simmering during the past 30 minutes.

“Anytime Jack, it was nice to have some company.” The smile you give him in return is softer, warmer than his own. For not the first time, and certainly not the last, he feels torn about how to approach you. He knows this feeling, he’s felt it before and it landed him in a world of heartbreak and pain. It was a place he’s worked hard to move on from, and thank god he can see now that while yes feelings, raw and vulnerable, can end in pain they are also what make life worth living.

He isn’t sure where the two of you stand, after all you’ve barely started to get to know each other. However, he is sure that he wants to at least give himself the chance to find out, no matter how scary or stupid a choice it might be.

“Well… maybe we could do this again sometime? I know my therapist would throw a fucking party if he got word of me not only being out in daylight but also socializing outside of work.”

“I’d love that,” you smile wider now, staring at your feet briefly and rocking back on your heels slightly before looking back up at him. “I’ll be here a little after 5:30 pretty much everyday, join me whenever you like. Okay?”

“Okay,” he feels his own expression melt into something so sickly sweet his cheeks hurt. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Jack.”

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #the pitt #smites writes #smites fics #a different kind of pain #jack abbot fluff #jack abbot x female reader #neighbor!jack

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winkofcharm · 2 days ago

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Spinning, Spinning, Spun - Chapter 1

Please help me, this is far longer than I expected it to be lmao.

Batfam x Reader {platonic} [Previous]

Barbara Gordon is simultaneously the first to notice, and the sort-of last to know.

It begins as most nights do for her, preparing for her shift as Oracle, waiting for you to send over the photos of the day. Scanning through the reports, planning out the routes each Bat would take, keeping an eye on any sort of forum, social media, police report, etc - that might drop a hint for what criminal activities may be planned for the night. It was a familiar pattern, one she had held to for years, even before she joined The Family.

She’d known for as long as she could remember that she wanted to be in law enforcement, and since she was strictly forbidden from joining the GCPD by her Dad, what better way than this?

First as Batgirl, fighting along Batman and Robin - being brought into the fold, into the family. She even remembers the first time she was brought into the batcave, and became aware of the men behind the masks; The Bruce Wayne, The Dick Grayson. She was going to work with the legends she modelled herself after. The ones who inspired her to take up a mask, to hit the streets of Gotham, and fulfil her dream. But it wasn’t just the two of them, was it? There was their butler, Alfred Pennyworth, former military, hyper-competent, and a master of what he did. And then…there was you.

Barely a toddler, not able to comprehend what was going on, even if you wanted to. You were a cute kid, for sure, but she didn’t really know much about kids, and wasn’t interested in learning either. She had more important things to do, and yeah, she felt kind of bad brushing you off whenever she stopped in during the day, but that’s what Bruce told her to do - and at the end of the day, he was your dad, and had the final say. If she ever was curious about who exactly was watching over this child while She, Bruce, Dick, and Alfred were all preoccupied, then it was only a fleeting thought before refocusing on the job at hand.

She watched you grow in glimpses and glances. Sighing a breath of relief when Bruce told her you were in on the secret, and letting another when he mentioned you wouldn’t be involved. By the time you were told, she was already Oracle, and balancing another vigilante would be stretching herself a little too thin. You learning the secret, also led to her seeing you less and less. And if she were completely honest with herself, it was a solace, a weight off her shoulders - one less person she needed to lie to.

It became so much easier once you started leaving The Manor, she didn’t need to worry about running into you, and the awkward greetings that would follow. Barbara could get right to work, without needing to censor any discussions or plans. Anytime you were home, you seemed to get the hint quickly and make yourself scarce. The contact was minimal, until Bruce came to her with a request.

You were getting popular on social media, and with that popularity came risk. Risk of people getting too curious, of not just your safety, but the others safety being compromised as well. So a plan was put into motion.

Every day, at 5pm Gotham time, you would send over any pre-planned posts and pictures, and Barbara would scrub them clean of meta-data. She would cross-reference any details regarding the rest of the family, making sure the timelines of events stayed consistent (though, she admits, you were pretty good at that already - and getting better at covering your own digital tracks. It seemed almost redundant to have her backtrack over everything, but who was Batman without redundancies?). Then, once satisfied, she’d send them back, and you would post at predetermined times.

For the last five or six years, this system worked. You were always punctual, provided the few times you were late due to scheduling conflicts with the regular time, but even then, you always let her know ahead of time. Until this time, that is.

5 pm, 18:00, 5 in the evening - came and went, and not a text, or dm, or email in sight. Maybe you were busy, maybe you were sleeping? You were in Hong Kong, possibly on your way elsewhere at the moment, and time zones could be tricky at best - but you never missed the 5pm cutoff.

And honestly, she may have been the first to discover your disappearance, if she hadn’t been immediately distracted by a new thread on the Gotham subreddit. An unconfirmed source, one she needed to follow up on asap, claiming a grumbling in the underground - a rumour, unsubstantiated, but all rumours regarding any of the rogues needed to be followed up on.

Thus, your lack of contact went unappreciated, and unheeded.

The second to notice, and the first to inquire, was one Stephanie Brown.

Steph - as she insisted to be called - was probably just as active in the realm of social media as you were, even if she wasn’t quite as popular. She never really got the invites to collaborate and create as much branded content as you did, but she didn’t really want that. She was okay with being “Gotham famous”, where people who were chronically online may recognize her out and about, but she wasn’t being hounded. Not like you were, and that was perfectly fine.

She didn’t want to be as famous as you, hell, from the few times you actually made conversation, you didn’t want to be as famous as you are. The first time Wayne Enterprises pushed for a collab between you and her, you had been so... so…something.

You had been sat beside her in a boardroom, the company PR team presenting why it would be so great for You, at the time the only known biological Wayne heir, and Steph, at the time girlfriend to their youngest ever CEO, to run a series of posts together online to promote brand engagement and blah-blah-blaaaaaaaaaah. Meanwhile, Bruce and Tim sat opposite her and you, nodding and agreeing with whatever business talk came out of the team's mouth.

She also remembers nodding along, even if she didn’t understand what they were saying. It wasn’t like either of you were going to turn down the proposal, especially since it was coming directly from Bruce. She “uhuhed” and “okay’d” at all the right times, and you…you just sat there.

You never even really looked at her, and Steph recalls how angry that made her. How you glanced over her once before looking away (before looking down) and never really looked back at her (never looked back up). She thought you to be stuck up and rude, some bratty kid living rich off their daddy’s money. It wasn’t until later, when you actually were working together for a supposedly “candid” photo opportunity, that she realized you were just quiet and a little awkward.

In person, you were a complete 180 from how you presented yourself online. Online, you were confident, bold, clever and witty. In person, you shrunk into yourself. Shoulders hunched, eyes looking anywhere but forward - until the camera started rolling and then, then you transformed. Shoulders back, eyes forward, smirk playing on your lips. You went from random nobody, to someone who couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than the child of Bruce Wayne.

It made her curious, and for Stephanie Brown, curiosity was dangerous.

She started by asking Tim about you, but he couldn’t give any more information than she already had, and even then, some of it seemed to just be about the online you - not the real one. When pushed, he got frustrated, and ended up starting a small argument.

“Does it matter? All you have to do with them is pose for some pictures - it’s not like they do anything else.”

And didn’t that set Stephanie off. You were a person, more than an online presence - so she and Tim didn’t speak for a week, until you had left town again, and the reason behind the argument semi-forgotten.

Then she made the mistake of asking Bruce - and fuck, wasn’t that one of the most terrifying conversations (could it even be called that?) of her life. She tried to play off her questioning as small talk -

“Man, they’re completely different in person y’know. I expected them to be just a rich kid, but -”

Bruce cut her off. He hadn’t even been looking at her at first, but the moment he realized she was talking about You, his head had whipped around at her. His eyes hardened, his face twisted into one she’d only seen before aimed at lowlife thugs. Stephanie could feel the fear creeping in, her palms starting to sweat. She had made eye contact for just a moment, before casting her eyes elsewhere. Why had he reacted like this? She just wanted to know more about his kid. She didn’t think that was wrong - how could it be?

“All you were to do was a job. They’re to be left alone outside of that.” She tried to defend herself, mostly out of surprise, but Bruce wasn’t having it. Anything she spoke was met with a cold and stern:

“Drop it.”

So she did. For a bit. The next time you were in town, and you were asked to work together again, she tried to bring it up again - and Bruce got even angrier. She ended up benched, and if she had to choose between you and Spoiler?

Well, she didn’t know you that well. And Spoiler, Spoiler was always going to be more important.

Even after she and Tim broke up, you played the part of her digital bestie - and she would catch glimpses of the real you, the you no one else had seen, whenever she could. At one point she realized she knew more about you then the ones purported to be your siblings, and it sent her into a spiral. At best, you were coworkers, and she knew more than the people who were supposed to know everything.

It helped that you posted several times a day, everyday. And sure, a lot of it was the fake influencer bullshit, but sometimes you’d sneak in the truth. Those were the posts she went out of her way to like and repost. She learned your favourite colour and favourite hot beverage in the same post, and made sure the next time you went out together for content, that it was prepared correctly, in a mug of your favourite colour.

The small smile that lit up your face was perhaps the first real smile she had seen you make. And if it made her heart flutter, well, she kept that secret close.

So it became a habit of hers. To scroll through your posts everyday, except today -

You hadn’t posted anything. Not a thing. Nothing on twitter, on instagram, on snapchat, on tiktok - nothing. She refreshed each one multiple times, just in case, and kept switching between platforms, just in case.

It set her on edge. Made her stand a little straighter - and then - the panic set in as she recalled -

You queued everything.

You queued your posts for up to a week out at a time - meaning while there was nothing made public today, you hadn’t posted anything for the last week.

So Stephanie did the only thing she could think to do, and went to the only person who might know more and be willing to share.

Alfred.

Thus Alfred became the third to notice, and the first to know.

He remembers when you came to the manor. How little you were, the power of your lungs as you cried out into the world. A cry that would, if he were honest, barely ever be answered.

Barely two weeks old, and already being forced to learn how cold the world is - he tried to apologize for it, but how could he? Nothing could replace what had been lost, nothing could replace what would never be given.

Your mother had died in childbirth, or shortly after. The timeline wasn’t quite clear, but she had enough time to list one Bruce Wayne as the father on your birth certificate. Something neither he or Bruce had expected - let alone the call that came from the hospital, requesting someone come pick you up, lest CPS get involved. Bruce eventually relented under that threat, wanting to avoid any sort of government digging, but only if a DNA test proved you to be his child.

The Hospital agreed, and two days later, the results came back positive. You were his, and he was all you had. They refused to allow Alfred to collect you, no matter how hard Bruce pushed - he had to be the one to pick you up. So Bruce brought Alfred with him, and the moment he laid his eyes on you, he was yours. You were, in Alfred’s opinion, the most valuable thing in the world.

Bruce, his ward, his son in every way but blood, to Alfred’s disappointment, did not agree. There was no time for an infant, not in his crusade. Despite trying his best to care for you and Bruce at the same time, Batman’s schedule made it impossible.

An infant needed around the clock care, and if he was in the Batcave watching over Bruce and Dick (who hadn’t even been told about you - didn’t even know you were there in the manor, having been put in the nursery wing at the far end, where your cries were only to be heard by a nanny no one had bothered to hire), then there was no way for him to watch over you - there was more than one morning you woke covered in your own mess.

Alfred at least got Bruce to agree to hire a Nanny after the second week. He refused to have the Nanny in the main house, however. And how was that supposed to work anyway? Another person, poking around Wayne Manor with all its secrets? Bruce would never stand it.

The solution broke Alfred’s heart, even if he agreed it was for the best.

A country house, unused since the days of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and a Nanny, paid an ungodly sum and handpicked by Alfred himself for her silence and skill. Off you went, nearly two hours away, out of the grasp of Gotham and its shadows. The Nanny they had hired was instructed to send reports every week - written and verbal. The written reports went to Bruce’s desk, with any requests for new furniture, clothing, toys and other expenses were signed off on and sent back. The verbal reports? Those were Alfreds.

He was kept up to date with every milestone, from learning to turn yourself over, to your first words and steps. The Nanny mentioned more than once she was worried about how quiet you were, how hesitant to ask for anything, from physical needs to emotional ones - and it hurt him to hear. You were a Wayne, the world would be at your fingertips, nothing should be out of reach - except, perhaps, your own family's affection.

He assured the poor woman that the quiet was normal, that Bruce himself had been a quiet baby before exploding into a vibrant child (until reverting back after the alley). He did insist, as you grew older, that you would be brought into the phone calls. How delightful it was to hear you, even if it was just a few scattered words.

Years passed like this, until suddenly you were at the cusp of puberty. And Bruce had no choice but to bring you back into the main house. The Nanny who had raised you, who you clung to for all your needs, was ready to retire. Alfred was the one to convince him to let you back, Dick was leaving, and he couldn’t imagine the Manor without some sort of childish light. Perhaps you could even get to know your father, grow close to him, and never be sent away again.

How futile a wish.

You never stood a chance.

Alfred went himself, to collect you. Your sparse belongings had been sent ahead, having arrived in the Manor two days before you had - and had been placed once again in the nursery (though the crib had been removed, and replaced with a large four poster bed - curtains in your current favourite colour, and ready to be replaced when you changed it).

You were polite and proper in your greetings, exactly as you were raised and taught to be. A firm handshake, your tiny hand in his - something you should have learned from your father, but was taught by a stranger. You remained silent the entire way home, looking out the window as the countryside changed. And Alfred couldn’t help but look back in the mirrors, and try his hardest to memorize everything about you.

He should have known better. He spoke to you, as you approached the grounds, how your father was waiting to meet you (and held back on speaking about Dick, if only to ease the blow on how your father would rather raise a child that wasn’t you). He had thought Bruce would do the right thing and be waiting to greet you, as he had been raised to do whenever family arrived, so when he finally pulled up to the front doors and Bruce wasn’t there, he felt ashamed. He apologized for your fathers faux pas, and you just brushed it off - claiming you understood how busy he was.

He would later find Bruce in the Batcave, with Jason Todd in tow. He would scold Bruce privately later, for doing all the things he had expected him to do with you, with Jason instead. A tour of the manor, showing you your room, introducing you to the history of your great family - all things Alfred had done instead.

It was Alfred who helped you adjust, who prepared you for your new role as a Wayne heir. It was Alfred who introduced you to Jason, upon escorting you to the library and catching him there as well. And it was Alfred who went and yelled at Bruce for allowing you to assume you were like the others, an orphan taken in by a wealthy patron.

It was an innocent question on Jason’s behalf, one he apologized for immediately after -

“Did Bruce take you in too?”

And you turned to Alfred, unsure how to answer - he could see the words of affirmation forming in your mouth, the questioning furrow of your brow, before he cut you off -

“Young Master is Master Bruce’s child by birth, sir.”

“Oh! Sorry! I’m really sorry, he just didn’t mention anything and I just assumed, and I’m rambling, I’m sorry.” The embarrassed blush that bled onto Jason’s cheeks was probably the only thing that saved him from a scolding for asking such a question, along with your own response:

“It’s okay, you didn’t know - “ and thus your introduction was awkward and stilted, but at least you might finally have someone else by your side.

He should have known better.

He told Bruce of your meeting Jason, of the conversation you’d had, and how for a moment (perhaps much longer) you had thought yourself another ward, hadn’t been assured that the Wayne family was, in fact, your family. And While Bruce never addressed your feeling of lack of belonging - he did stress that you and Jason were to be kept separate, as much as could possibly be done.

Alfred verbally agreed, and mentally decided to make sure you and Jason spent as much time together as possible without Bruce noticing. Which proceeded to blow up in his face when Jason, in the midst of a visit from Dick, inadvertently blew the whole secret sky high.

You never told him of what happened that night. Never looked at him again with trust in your eyes. Never reached out to Jason, or Dick, or even Tim when he arrived. You locked yourself further away, kept to your room outside of meals and school. And Alfred, if he ever heard you crying to yourself, pulled back; never acknowledged the damage done. How could he? In supporting the others, he had failed you.

You lived as a ghost, and when you started leaving the manor more and more, he hoped you would move on. That you would grow into a person all your own, without the shadow of your family. But you never completely broke away - how could you? When they started finally pulling you in, in a grotesque semblance of a relationship that was never really real. It made him sick to his stomach, seeing you on the cover of Teen Vogue , purporting an interview about how great your siblings were. Siblings you hadn’t spoken to in months, hadn’t seen in even longer.

Then Stephanie Brown took an interest, and Alfred, remembering how badly things had gone before when Jason had taken an interest, kept it to himself. Passed on what he could recall of your likes and dislikes, of your habits and rituals. So it wasn’t necessarily surprising when she called to ask about you. He paid no mind to Stephanie pushing for him to call you, gave the excuse of wondering when you’d next be in town, and that she’d tried to text you but had gotten no response. So he did. No answer, straight to voicemail - your phone was apparently turned off.

“Please leave a message after the beep - “

Generic, he was hoping you had changed it by now, but clearly, he’d have to remind you again. But before the beep could go off, his blood chilled.

A laugh.

Not a laugh, a cackle.

Familiar, and cruel - on your voicemail message, on your private phone, and one all too recognizable.

The Joker

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

taglist: @holybatflapexpert @electricgg @xoyumiqls @holderoflostmemories @sleeptimes @galaxypurplerose @sassam

(apologies if the tag didn't work, i'm new to this ;3; )

#batfam #neglected reader #batfam x reader #batfamily #reader insert #writing fanfiction #fanfiction #spinning spinning spun #batman #barbara gordon #stephanie brown #alfred pennyworth

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ruinix · 23 hours ago

Note

The think fast I'm a random girl tik tok with Will Smith or Quinn Hughes?

Hello, lovely. With Quinn, yes, yes. (Sorry, I don't write for Will 😞 he's my child). I doomscrolled for this and another challenge in my inbox. I tried, of course. I always do. I hope you’ll like this. My bad for taking so long! You asked this back in April. I hope you’re still there. We thank @mrshelenhoran for sending me the picture on the left (of the banner). It visually screams QUINN—the facial hair, the nose, the plump lower lip.

Outfits & Evasions

TW/CW: 18+, Fluff, lots of kisses, Tiktok Challenge: Think fast, I'm a random girl. Slight suggestive tones.

Count: 1907 words | Masterlist

You are blasting songs in your shared walk-in closet. Hearing you sing along in some verses perfectly eases Quinn while he prepares for your date.

He combs through his hair with his fingers. When his hair keeps poking out by his ears in an uncomfortable way, he puts the tiniest bit of hair wax to tame his waves, tucking them behind his ears. After doing his hair, he washes his hand, drying them soon after.

He stares at himself, examining his beard. He runs his hand over it, tilting his head from side to side, his fingers feeling its length along his jaw, his chin. He squints at his moustache which is the same length as his beard. It is more than a stubble now but still tamed in his opinion. He wonders if he should’ve shaved it earlier.

You did tell him that you liked his beard, but that was two days ago. What if you don’t like his beard for your date? What if you prefer him to be clean shaven? Or maybe a shorter beard? Maybe he should trim it. Will you hate him for his facial hair? Why the fuck is he getting antsy right now?

He should stop.

So he does.

Sighing, he exits the bathroom, still hearing you rummage through your things behind the slightly ajar door beyond music. He wants to peek in and ask about his beard, but he also doesn’t want to interrupt whatever you’re doing. He knows that you take your preparations seriously, especially for dates.

However, he is curious if he is matching you. He likes it when his outfit matches yours, or at least, compliments it. He holds himself back because he also wants to be surprised if you are, so he doesn’t peek. Besides, despite being so proud of his fit—a safe combination of white linen-shirt with sleeves rolled up and khaki colored dress pants—he is open to change when he finally sees you. He doesn’t want you to change because of his clothes. He can do it himself. It will take him less than a minute to put on a new outfit. It will be easy. Well, he hopes it will be.

After he put on his dress shoes, ignoring the call of his sneakers, he sits down on the couch, throwing a slight glance to where he hid a bouquet of flowers he got delivered an hour ago. He lets the minutes pass, patiently waiting for you.

He scrolls through the messages from his family and replying to them while ignoring the “important” mails from Canucks management. At some point, he is humming a tune of one of your songs as he goes to Instagram. He instantly goes to your profile, staring hard into your posts like it’s his first time seeing them. He undoes the second button of his shirt after his body heats at the simple sight of your beauty. What can he do? You’re marvelous. While he is a simple man who easily gets turned on by you.

He hears your footsteps, halting his horny thoughts. He looks up, his jaw dropping instantly. You’re wearing a cream-colored dress with light brown ribbons crisscrossing down your sides, cinching the waist before it comes down to a flowy skirt that ends just a couple inches from your knees. Your neckline is low enough to hint your cleavage, giving ample space for your well-coordinated necklaces—some he had gifted you throughout the length of your relationship. You wear a particular flower-shaped earring with tiny diamonds on their centers and a few bracelets. . You looked amazing, so comfortable and pretty.

The shoulder bag that is perfectly the same shade as his pants is brimming with keychain trinkets, loudly blinking against each other. Quinn bets those trinkets weigh heavier than your bag and its contents. He will, for sure, carry it by the end of the night and he won't mind that. He’ll be delighted to carry your stuff for you.

You are matching him. The colors of your outfits fit and compliment one another. It makes him feel giddy, a slight blush coloring the tops of his cheeks the more he looks at you. He wants to say that you’re beautiful, but his words keep getting stuck on his throat as he stares while you set up your phone against the window. He’s utterly mesmerized by the way your skirt moved with your steps. You look ethereal.

"Quinny. Come." You grin, beckoning him with your hand and especially with your sweet smile.

That smile distracts him. He doesn't notice that you have this devious look in your eyes. That your phone is already recording, red circle blinking as time increases. That you are giggling, not just because of him following you without protest, but also because you are clearly concocting something. Quinn usually can see when you are planning something, but not now.

All he can think about is that you are calling him, so he needs to come to you.

He’s so lost in your smile, in the sparkle in your eyes, in you.

"You look handsome," you praise him the moment his hand touches yours.

Now, Quinn is full-on blushing. Your compliments truly hit him down to his core. There was something about compliments when they came from you. They mean so much more, because he knows that you mean your words. You are pure like that. The light of his life.

"You're beautiful," he throws back, grabbing your waist, pulling you flush against him, sighing when you wrap your arms around his nape. It emphasizes how perfectly you fit against him, in his arms. “We match., my Love.”

“Yes,” you murmur.

Quinn gazes at your lips that shine with your tinted lip gloss. He’s getting too focused on them, his mouth watering. His need to kiss you grows by the second, so he does. Just a soft peck. Then another, his tongue darting out to lick your glossed lips, groaning at its taste mixed with you. Again, another, slipping his tongue past your pretty lips, meeting your tongue. Perfect. You taste perfect.

He cups the back of your head. He feels absolutely greedy as he kisses your lip gloss off your lips, as he keeps on deepening the kiss when you want to take pictures with him. He can’t help it. He needs to kiss you. All the time.

"Quinn," you murmur, smiling into the kiss.

You giggle when he groans a whimper, because you’re torturing him now. You pull away just enough to not allow him to slip his tongue into your lips again, to make him be at ease with small desperate kisses. He needs to kiss you as deep, so he tries to beg his way with those kisses, panting as you reciprocate some kisses but not all. His brows furrow together as confusion settles in his gut.

Your hand presses on his chest, pushing him away, so he backs off. Hesitantly. Tears almost burn their way out of his tear ducts. He finally notes the evil glint in your eyes. What the fuck is happening—

"Think fast, I’m a random girl,” you say in a raspy tone that almost draws him in.

No, it does draw him in. He almost kisses you again, your words not sinking into his hazed mind until they do. They sink in a snap. The hair at the back of his nape stands. Sharp shivers ran down his spine as you lean in, luring him in like a siren singing to lure weak-willed men who don’t know they are walking to their deaths.

He instantly recoils from you, instantly six feet away. Maybe even more. Especially when you try to chase after him.

“No,” he grits out.

The word almost doesn’t come out because he never likes saying no to you, but he has to right now, because you’re a…random girl? Honestly, he’s confused as fuck. He only wants to kiss you and you’re not you? This is fucked. He doesn’t like this. Is this a test? He doesn’t like this test.

“Come on, let’s kiss, Quinn.” You manage to grip his arm. Your nails graze his skin. “Just one kiss.”

Quinn nearly folds. How can he not? You are looking at him with such wide eyes. Your touch electrifies his whole body down to his soul. You’re telling him to kiss you, the one thing he wants to do right now. Your tongue licks your lip before you bite down on it. You blink up at him, your hand running up and down his arm. He’s so close to doing what you ask.

Instead, he grips your hand, firmly pushing it away, then he turns away. His heart pounds in his chest from the adrenaline, from the sting of the mere act of putting his back on you. His body tenses. His whole being is protesting. He hates this.

When you try to touch him, he moves away, refusing to look at you directly. He side-eyes you, but even then, he is only looking at your hands to avoid them. He can’t look at your face. He knows he’ll lose it. He tries to be mad at you for trying this test on him, but he can’t. He is only upset that he wants your hands to touch him again. The sound of your giggle is making him cave.

“So this is what you’ll do when you have a persistent girl on you?” You ask, stepping back, holding your hands behind you. “Saying no and not letting them touch you?”

Quinn finally looks at your face. He’s refusing to speak, his lips pursing together. He’s getting annoyed by the distance between you two more than he should be annoyed that you are laughing at him doing his best because this is literally unfair. You are never going to be a random girl. Not when you’re you. He will easily just walk away if there is an actual random girl trying to kiss him. Fuck, he might even just call security, wherever he is. He should say that, but he is really upset that you’re too fucking far.

He knows you can see him being upset, because your laughter dies down, your lips pouting. “It’s a TikTok challenge, you know.”

He grunts, his hands twitching from the need to pull you in his arms.

“Aww, come on, Quinny.” You spread your arms for him to which he squints at. “I’m no longer a random—”

He rushes to you, hugging you tightly.

“Kiss me,” he demands. He melts when you kiss him, appeasing him. Your proximity pushes his upset out of his system. “If you’re going to test me, don’t do it when I’m desperate for you. Is that clear?”

“Okay.” You shiver, nodding, gripping and crumpling his shirt.

Quinn doesn’t care about his fucking shirt. He only cares that he gets his point across. It’s clear that it is. So, he punishes you with a deeper kiss, holding you to him with a hand on your lower back and on your nape.

He doesn’t stop.

He kisses and tastes you for minutes, until he feels you rubbing your legs together, until he hears your tiny whines and moans.

It's his turn to tease you. Not with a challenge. Just with a promise of more.

He stops kissing you, grinning when you groan.

“Time for our date, my Love.”

#sorry for the wrong grammars #no BETA yet #quinn hughes #qh43 #qhughes #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes drabble #quinn hughes fluff #ruinix answers #ruinix drabbles #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #sweet #sweet quinn

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 1 day ago

Note

May i request tf 141 x beatboxer!reader please. Like reader can mimic perfect gun sounds nd stuff

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNdMw6cyo/

Callsign: Mimic

Pairing: Poly 141 x Beatboxer!Reader

Warnings: Slow burn, polyamory, tension, fluff, pining, team bonding, romantic confession, mentions of combat, canon-typical violence (brief), soft moments, reader has beatboxing/audio mimicry talents

Author's Note: Thank you for this request—it was so fun to write such a unique, sound-based reader! I love the idea of someone whose talents are completely unorthodox but earn the respect and love of such dangerous men. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: The team knew from day one that your voice could command a battlefield—but none of them expected to fall for the rhythm behind it. You're their heartbeat. Their chaos. Their Mimic.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The first time you mimicked gunfire on base, you almost got yourself shot.

It was an idle afternoon in the forward camp, and boredom had chewed through discipline like rust. You were crouched by a crate, half-tuned comms in your ear, mouth pulsing out crisp, rapid-fire percussion.

Rat-tat-tat. Ping. Helicopter blades. Boots on concrete. A click—then a flashbang whistle.

Suddenly: a body slammed into you.

"Contact!" Kyle shouted, rifle raised before you could blink.

"Gaz, hold fire!" John Price’s voice barked across the open space.

You were on your back, heart hammering, blinking up at a squad that looked like they'd just sprinted through hell.

Kyle hovered over you, eyes wild. "Mimic?! What the hell?"

You raised both hands, voice dry. "Sorry. Sound check."

Johnny stepped into view, eyes flicking from you to the space around you. "That was you? Thought a whole squad was breeching."

Simon Riley crouched next to you, expression unreadable under the mask. He said nothing, but his eyes flicked down to your lips—the source of the chaos.

"Impressive," he muttered. Then stood, offering a gloved hand.

You took it.

And from that day forward, they started listening. Closely.

——

They learned quickly that your mouth could do more than make music. You were dangerously precise. On missions, you could mimic a mag reload, distract enemies with phantom steps, or fake distant gunfire to trigger ambushes.

Kyle once laughed, shaking his head after you tricked an entire patrol into leaving their post.

"You’re like... audio warfare."

You grinned. "All part of the symphony."

But the mission wasn’t the only place you made noise.

Off-duty, you filled silence like it was second nature. You beatboxed while organizing gear, sang softly over static-filled radios, and drummed on your thighs when stuck on watch.

You made music from war.

And the boys? They started orbiting you like satellites.

Kyle was the first to admit he liked it. "Kinda miss it when you’re quiet, you know?" he’d say, elbow brushing yours during gear checks.

Johnny started requesting sounds like a kid asking for bedtime stories. "Do a heartbeat monitor. No wait—do Ghost’s boots! No wait, do Price when he’s mad."

Simon never requested anything—but you noticed the way he’d always find his way to you when you practiced alone, arms folded, silent as death but always there.

And Price? He watched you like a man trying not to be captivated. He’d lean against the wall as you performed for the squad, cigar unlit, lips tugged into the smallest smile.

"Bloody witchcraft," he’d murmur after every set.

You liked the way they looked at you. Like you were something special.

Because to them—you were.

——

The mission went sideways.

Intel was bad. Your team got split during an ambush inside a rusting train yard, visibility cut by fog and smoke grenades. Radios were jammed.

You were alone in a shipping container, heart in your throat, tracking the distant echo of boots and gunfire.

So you did the only thing you could.

You let your heartbeat set the tempo.

Then the guns.

Then the boots.

Then their boots. You knew their cadence.

Pop-pop-pop. Frag bounce. Radio ping. Soap’s laugh. Ghost’s reload. Price’s breath. Kyle’s footwork.

You stitched them together in perfect rhythm—like a flare in sound form.

And they heard it.

One by one, the boys peeled through the fog. First Kyle, barreling in with a grin like sunlight through smoke. Then Johnny, cursing and laughing all at once. Simon emerged next, silent but storm-eyed. And last was John Price, jaw tight with worry, who yanked you into his arms like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to need anyone.

"You little genius," he muttered. "You called us in with a fucking beat."

You laughed into his shoulder, breathless and shaking. "Couldn’t exactly send a text."

——

After that, something changed.

You’d sit down for breakfast and find Kyle had brewed your favorite tea without asking.

Johnny would lean on your shoulder mid-movie, head heavy and warm.

Simon left his sketchpad on your bunk once—inside was a penciled waveform. Your waveform. Your sound.

And Price... started ending meetings with a glance your way, a soft, "Mimic? Walk with me."

One night, you beatboxed a lullaby over base speakers, not knowing Price had had a nightmare. The next morning, he placed his dog tags in your hand and whispered, "Means I trust you."

Your heart thudded like a kick drum.

You trusted them, too.

——

It happened during downtime. The stars were sharp above the desert, and the squad sat around a small fire in camp chairs, sipping coffee laced with whiskey.

You were drumming your fingers against your knee when Kyle leaned in. "Can I ask something?"

"Sure."

"Are you… with any of us?"

The fire crackled. Johnny’s head perked up. Simon stilled. Price looked at you over the rim of his mug.

You blinked. "What?"

Kyle cleared his throat. "It’s just—we all… We care about you. Not just as squadmates. It’s more than that."

Johnny nodded. "It’s like, when you’re not around, something’s missing. I can’t stand it."

Simon spoke next, quiet and steady. "It’s not about sex. It’s… comfort. Warmth. A piece of peace."

And Price. John Price. He said it without a trace of doubt:

"You’re our rhythm. Our center. We’ve all fallen for you, love. Just wanted to know if you felt it too."

Your mouth went dry.

But then, the words tumbled out—unsteady, raw, real.

"I’ve been falling since the first time you all listened. Really listened. Like I wasn’t just noise."

You looked at each of them in turn—at Kyle’s hopeful smile, Johnny’s vulnerable grin, Simon’s steady gaze, John’s soft, battle-worn eyes.

"I want all of you," you said.

The silence was shattered by Johnny tackling you backward into the sand with a yell of pure joy.

"You’re ours, then," Kyle whispered against your hair.

Simon touched your hand like it was precious.

And Price… bent down and kissed your forehead like a vow.

Now, you fall asleep tangled in four different kinds of warmth.

Kyle always curls around your back, hand over your stomach.

Johnny throws a leg over yours, breathing soft.

Simon anchors you at your side, unmoving but always there.

And John? He rises early, but before he does, he brushes his lips to your temple and whispers:

"Sing us home, Mimic."

And so you do.

Every day.

Every mission.

Every beat of your heart belongs to them.

And theirs, to you.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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ricciardo133 · 2 days ago

Text

Montreal 2017

maxiel, vampires, blood, dry humping, and some dubious consent

"You smell good, Daniel."

Daniel looks over at his teammate in the bumpy backseat of the team van that carries them post-PR event back to their hotel. In the dying daylight, Max's shockingly blue eyes are brilliantly lit up in staccato beams of light as their car passes each streetlamp. His typically direct stare somehow feels even more locked on than usual, eyes glued to Daniel. It's too dim in the car to tell if he's even blinking.

"Thanks, bud. After hauling ass around town today, I think I smell pretty fucking fresh."

"You do not smell fresh. You smell like sweat."

"Got any normal compliments?"

"You look so alive."

"Okay," Daniel says as the car blessedly pulls up to the hotel's entrance. He hauls himself up and hunches over in the van, waiting for Max to move out of the way of their shared backseat. "Love ya, man, but let's get boogying so I can shower."

Daniel knows he shouldn't be so careless with his coworker's extremely obvious crush, but a little schmoozing does work when he wants something. Max flushes and scoots off the seat and out into the crisp night. Daniel pulls on his backpack and scampers out after him. Two Red Bull managers await by the door, handing off two key cards with the same suite number written on their paper pouches.

"Gotta be a mistake, right?" Daniel asks helplessly. An apologetic headshake as he and Max are informed the hotel is overbooked and it's more convenient for the team to not add another hotel stop to their tight schedule for logistics ahead of media day. Their team helps get their suitcases upstairs, and they leave Max and Daniel in the single room with two king beds.

"Dibs on the bigger one," Daniel jests as he flops back onto the plush mattress. He figures he might as well make this as light and easy-breezy as possible. They've managed to not share a room ever since becoming teammates in 2016. He actually thought Max would look more excited at the surprise slumber party, but the young man stands unnervingly still in the cold room, staring at him.

"This isn't good. I need to...do things alone tonight," Max breathes tensely.

"You can shower first if ya need to jack off."

"No. Daniel, why would they...They're always so good about it when the timing...overlaps," he pauses and pulls out his cell phone. In a rush, he holds it to his hear and speaks quick, unintelligible Dutch to someone on the other end. The call apparently doesn't help. He pulls on his jacket in terse and quick moves. "Sorry if I wake you, when I get back."

"Don't tell me you're going clubbing without me," Daniel teases.

"Not for fun. Just going out."

"For how long? May call up a girl if you're gone for a while. No better way to get out the pre-race week jitters with a little sucking and fucking, eh, Maxy?"

Max stares at him. Rather, Daniel feels he's staring just below his line of sight, as if those blue eyes were piercing his nipples. He glances down like he may have something on his shirt but by the time he looks up, the younger man is out the door. It closes with a sharp thud.

Wired and surprisingly off-kilter, Daniel disrobes and showers. He stands under the hot spray and feels a confused rush. He would've thought he'd have to bat Max off him given the sleeping arrangement. They've never touched beyond sportsman-like claps on the back and too-firm handshakes, but it feels obvious, to Daniel, that he could ask for way more if he wanted. The way he catches Max staring, the disproportionately hardy laughs at Daniel's shit jokes, the easy-to-conjure blush with the smallest compliment, it was clear. Daniel's been on the receiving end of puppy love many times. Usually it has been fans or girls from back home, but he knows what it's like to be admired, to be wanted.

Or so he thought. Max practically sprinted out of the shared suite, seemingly with no intention of spending a second longer than he had to around him. Which was...fine, Daniel assures himself. He still feels a twinge of something like disappointment. A lad's night in could've been fun, rare sightings of seeing Max stripped of team gear. Daniel wonders if Max sleeps in boxers or briefs as he pulls on his own loose sweatpants, brushes his teeth, and nearly puts in his night guard before the door slams open again.

"Daniel," Max says through heaving breaths. Daniel goes to open the bathroom door and finds it pushed shut again. "Don't come out."

"I'm straight, Max," Daniel attempts to joke. He tries to open the door again and feels it impossible to move. "Christ, Verstappen. What gives?"

"I'm not...you can't see me. I fucked up."

"Got an impulse tattoo? Bad haircut? Ill-placed hickey? Trust me, Max. I've done it all. You can't surprise me."

"They won't go back in. I did it too sloppy, people were coming...so just...stay there, please. I'll fix this."

Daniel raises in hands in surrender as if Max could see him through the flimsy door. "Not making a lick of sense, but okay. Put whatever it is away, then." Daniel wants to make a jab at anal beads to get a laugh out of him, but Max sounds scared. It makes Daniel ache. He hears his teammate bump around the hotel room, a bag unzip, rustle of plastic, a soft swear. Daniel holds his breath and then hears a sharp gasp of what sounds like pain.

"Max," he says, pushing the door open reflexively. Max, kneeling over a bright red bloodstain in the carpet, looks up at him. Daniel sees two sharp fangs over Max's full, parted lips.

Daniel freezes. They both stare in wordless shock. Max doesn't blink. He doesn't seem to breathe. He's turned into a statue of a young racer with impossible fangs like a-

"Vampire," Daniel says quietly. "Are they...are those real, Max? The blood."

Max is up at him, holding his shoulders in a flash. Daniel didn't even see him get up and move, it was so impossibly quick.

"Don't tell anyone."

"Yeah, bud. I really was going to go into the media pen tomorrow saying I saw you sucking off a blood bag before bed. Christ, Max." Daniel looks back at the busted plastic IV pouch on the floor. "Please tell me they're fake and that's cranberry juice and you have some weird vampire kink so I can make sense of this."

"They're real. It's blood. I'm sorry."

Daniel looks straight into Max's too-blue eyes. He's tearing up. Max looks off as a tear slips down his sharp cheekbones, and Daniel feels wracked with a horrible guilt.

"Aw, hey. Max, man. Don't...I'm sorry." He pats Max's shoulders. "We all have uh...baggage, y'know? Or, sorry. Not baggage. Maybe being a vampire is fun? Or just like being allergic to peanuts? Because, let me tell you, that also sucks. Uh. Not literally sucks, like...is that what you do? Do you suck? I mean. Oh, I'm fucking this up, I'm-"

Max's hands are quickly on Daniel's back, holding him flush to his chest. Daniel freezes as Max starts to breathe in deeply at the crook of his neck.

"I normally feed once a week, alone," Max says softly into his skin. Daniel sucks in a breath, feeling his skin heat with a blooming desire. "But you're here. I couldn't feed in here with you. So I...I tried...with a guy at a club who wanted it, but..." Max pauses to lick along Daniel's neck. Daniel, instantly, is hard. He swallows, making Max keen. "Fuck, I was careless, too quick. People nearly saw me, so I ran and I couldn't finish right. They can't go back in until I get enough...blood."

"You nearly sucked a guy off at a club?"

"Not through oral, Daniel. Through here." Max kisses on Daniel's fluttering neck. He feels a mix of fear and frenzy, like he's melting into Max's arms despite his best efforts to keep it together. "That's how we feed, we...entice. It's fucked up. I'm fucked up."

And he leaves his arms. Daniel shivers in his spot, falling to sit on the bed as Max paces around in front of the hotel window. The skyline glitters behind him, a modern backdrop for an impossible man.

"Vampires aren't real," Daniel says, hands over his neck, feeling the pulse and heat and wetness left from Max's tongue. He shouldn't want more but every ounce of normalcy is out the same window. He wants more. He wants Max. Desperately, despite himself. "You said you entice?"

"Vampires can compel. We can feel who's open to it, and then we," Max pauses, making frustrated circles with his hands in the air.

"You kill them?"

"No, fuck. No, we don't kill people. Not unless you don't stop."

"Then...you turn them into vampires?"

"Also no, they'd have to drink from me, too. Not happening."

"Oh, well, that's not too bad then? Just a little blood?" Max stares at Daniel, blank and stone-like again. "Like, Max. If that's all it is, that's not a big deal. I thought you were going on a light killing spree, but you can have some blood. If you need it."

Max remains motionless.

"Unless my blood is shitty."

"Your blood smells amazing, Daniel."

"Then, uh, go to town, Max." Daniel wants to get up but he realizes his grey sweatpants would immediately reveal his surprise boner. He squirms. "Ignore the moans, though. They're super manly and super normal, but when you touched me it felt really good."

"That's part of it. You may come."

"Max," Daniel says in shock. He's used to dishing ribald remarks, hardly taking it as Max walks over with that inhuman speed and sits on his lap. "Max."

"If you don't want this, I can go."

"And risk you getting spotted in vamp mode and making me spend longer talking to the press tomorrow about my monster teammate? No dice. Just do it." Daniel doesn't even have to try to make Max swoon. Quite the opposite. His own need feels overcharged, electric, unwieldy. He needs a wordless, formless craving for more. He looks up to the younger man and means it when he says, "please."

"Oh, Daniel."

Max sinks his teeth into Daniel's neck.

Daniel's done plenty of drugs in his younger years, absconding with illicit substances in Perth summers and free-wheeling Monaco ragers in the off-season. Those were nothing. Pale and lifeless against the rush he feels now in Max's grip. He had expected getting his neck bit would be painful. It's not.

He keens, hips bucking up into Max's. Max's large hands grip into Daniel's bare back as Daniel squirms and groans despite his best intentions to hold steady. He's always the giver. Always on top. Always making girls do this under him, not like this. Not with a guy. Not with Max.

He's pliant as Max hoists him up and back onto the bed, flipping so Daniel's poised on top. Max keeps one hand on the back of Daniel's head, fingers lacing through rings of curls. The other grips on his waist, encouraging him as Daniel ruts into his thigh.

"Max," Daniel breaths as he feels a dulled sensation of sucking and the much wilder rush of his length against Max's firm leg below him. "Max."

He groans as Max sucks harder. Daniel feels his cheeks burn and a sweat breakout between his shoulder blades and drip off his forehead. His hands cling to Max's back as he works his hips down, pleasure hitting him in hard, wonderful waves as Max's presence sucks up all thought, all feeling until Daniel is snapping his hips into Max with a blissed out, thoughtless heat. It's hot and building and too fast and not enough. Daniel strains and breaks in a trembling cry as the end finally hits and he comes hard in his pants, tears pouring and the distinct feeling of wetness leaking from his neck. Max licks the tracks of blood away and then sucks with finality over the painless wound.

Daniel can't see it. He can't see anything but stars and Max's chest as he falls into him. Max's breath is tinted with gasps, his voice ragged as he speaks.

"Are you okay? Daniel?"

"Yeah, yeah. Very okay."

"We need to get you water. I think I took too much. Daniel."

He's asleep before he hears anymore than that.

Daniel wakes up to the smell of eggs. He pops up on his elbows and looks around. Max sits on the edge of the bed, untouched room service breakfast sits further on the hotel desk. The Dutchman turns over his shoulder and sighs when he sees him.

"I, um, ordered food."

So delightfully awkward. Daniel smiles, relieved. It's still Max.

"Only fair since I was the room service last night."

"Daniel. I'm-,"

"If you say 'sorry' I'm tossing that omlette at you." Daniel gets up. Max hands him a much appreciated glass of water.

"I know I took too much," Max says as he drinks the entire cup. "Of your...blood."

"So taking a normal amount wouldn't make me come like a fucking horny virgin or is that par for the course?"

"That part is normal."

Daniel laughs. "Excellent. I usually last way longer, too, just for the record. Don't go telling other hot creatures of the night I'm some two-suck chump, if vamps compare notes."

"No. I'd never tell."

"And your secret's safe with me, too."

Daniel didn't realize Max's shoulders were held tense until he drops them with a shuddering sigh.

"Thank you."

"And just ask next time."

"Ask? To use you again?"

The thought of Max doing that with some random guy in a random club makes Daniel irrationally pissed. "Yeah. I can, uh, help. As teammates. It's probably easier for you, right? So you can do it again, if you want."

He was certain, based on that wide-eyed quintessential stare and now much deeper flush that Max did want it. He maybe always had wanted it. Daniel just didn't understand why he wanted it, too. A question for later as he wonders if Max is blushing with his own blood.

"I'd like that a lot, Daniel."

"And if you can turn into a bat, you gotta let me watch."

Max laughs. Daniel feels relieved, as he always does when he can pop Max's nerves into a relieving rush of giggles. "No, no. No bats. I can fly without being a bat."

"Now you're just bragging. Next you can tell me you can read minds."

"No, you are too obvious, I don't need to read minds."

"Me the obvious one?"

"You are very easy to understand, Daniel."

"Like how?"

"You like to stare at me, especially when I stare at you."

Daniel, now flushed himself, chucks a pillow at Max's head. The young man laughs as Daniel glances at his teammate's now evenly straight teeth, picturing the fangs from last night, thinking of all that came after.

"Just staring since I'm trying to see if you ever actually blink, you weirdo."

"I don't have to blink. I have to remind myself to do it."

"Okay, then remind yourself to also not compliment someone's sweat smell. Or stare at their jugular. How's this, I'll teach you how to be more human in exchange for super lowkey orgasms between bros, kapeesh?"

Max laughs again, earnest and fangless for now. "It's a deal, Daniel."

It's something. It's weird, but it's them. Daniel and Max shake on it, and Daniel feels the urge to pull him in and hold him tight despite himself. Later, he thinks. After media day, if Max needs it. Daniel silently hopes he will, that he'll need him over and over like that again and again for as long as they are teammates. As long as they are together.

#maxiel #ripping this off the typewriter as soon as I finish it since I just need to get out of the writer's block!!#hope everyone is well <3

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pleasantlycrazyworld · 2 days ago

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A/N:This was requested but I cannot find it anywhere!!! I'm sorry I couldn't tag you :( The request was for a mute reader who wasn't a hero working at the tower. Bob becomes a translator for them!

I do have a few follow-up ideas for this let me know if you're interested in one or both! 1. Bob gets jealous of someone at the tower bc they learned ASL and are taking up more of your time. 2. Soft mutual pining with no jealousy (obviously both could be combined lol)

Summary: Working with the Thunderbolts* is a challenge, especially when you don't speak. Thankfully Bob is there to communicate for you.

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Most of the team barely noticed you when you started at the Tower. You weren’t flashy — no special powers or combat gear. You worked in communications, more in the ground support area of things. It was quiet and precise, the kind of work that kept the mission flowing much smoother.

The only thing that would be labeled as special for you was that you didn't speak.

Which meant in a room full of people who were always busy solving problems you were often overlooked… except by Bob.

Bob usually blended into the background himself. He had a talent for disappearing into a room full of larger personalities. It was Bob who smiled the first time you signed “Nice to meet you.” You didn’t expect him to answer, most people just blinked at you awkwardly and waited for you to get your phone out. But Bob, he softly smiled back, and signed, slowly, clumsy but clearly: “Nice to meet you too.”

You stared back at him in disbelief.

He scratched the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish.

“I uh… picked up ASL a while ago. Long story. You’re the first one here who I can use it with.”

From that day on, everything changed.

You didn’t need to rely on text or nods. You could talk-- actually talk and be understood while Bob happily listened. He was patient and kind. He never made you feel like you were less than or an inconvenience. Whenever meetings got chaotic or everyone at the debriefs skipped you over, Bob would awkwardly clear his throat and voice your thoughts aloud. “She says we need to reroute the signal. It’s already compromised.”

No one else understood what you were telling them, but they started paying attention when Bob spoke. And that made him…proud? It gave him something nothing else did, it gave purpose to his life. He wasn’t just in the background anymore. He was your connection to the team. Your translator. Your voice. He was needed. He was important, he was…valued. He never knew that he was missing out on this feeling but he knew he never wanted to miss it again.

He’d walk into the control room just to see if you needed help. He started to pause during drills to check if you were okay. And you started saving little notes for him on post-its. Inside jokes and little drawings. Doodles of him and a speech bubble: “Best Translator Ever.”

He kept that one on his mirror.

One night, after a long hectic day, you both lingered by the Tower windows, watching the rain streak down the glass. The others had cleared out long ago but the two of you stayed in the peace that always seemed to find you when the two of you were together.

You signed slowly: “Thank you for seeing me.” Bob looked at you, and stayed quiet for a long moment. Then he smiled, it was a soft smile, a little sad, but very warm. “You’re the only one who’s ever made me feel like I wasn’t invisible.”

You reached out and brushed your fingers against his arm, a small gesture that made him suck in a breath, a gesture that said: Me too. And in that silence between signs, Bob realized something: You didn’t need words to say everything that mattered.

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If you like my work please let me know! Reblogging, commenting and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Request are open <3

I have started a taglist for Bob lmk if you'd like to be added <3

@itsjustisa

#bob reynolds fluff #bob reynolds comfort #bob reynolds oneshot #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds #robert reynolds imagine #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #bob reynolds imagines #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x y/n #thunderbolts x y/n #thunderbolts *#thunderbolts imagine #thunderbolts x reader #thunderbolts fluff #thunderbolts

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lucy-literates · 2 days ago

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You got shy Lewis on point 🤭

Okay here is another one :)

Teammates to lovers, since I think this would be a great balance in a team, if there were male and female drivers together :)

Greetings :)

A/N: oooo this is cute, hope you enjoy it. Inbox is open

Equal Parts Fire and Fuel

When Mercedes announced you as Lewis Hamilton’s new teammate, the world didn’t blink—it exploded. Headlines screamed about the team’s "bold move," about the "first full-time female driver in a top seat," but no one seemed to care that you weren’t there to make history.

You were there to win.

And Lewis—God, Lewis—he met you with an outstretched hand and a dimpled smile, like it wasn’t weird at all. Like it was the most normal thing in the world to be told you’d be sharing garage space with the man who defined a generation of Formula 1.

“Ready to shake things up?” he asked, and you couldn’t help the way your stomach turned. Not from nerves. From curiosity.

You were expecting tension. Competition. Distance, maybe. But instead, Lewis offered respect. Quiet, steady respect. You noticed it in the way he listened when you spoke during debriefs, or how he always waited for you to get in the car first, how he never once made you feel like a headline.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t competitive—on the contrary. You pushed each other. Hard. If Lewis topped FP1, you came back swinging in FP2. You studied his race craft with brutal intensity, and he knew it—knew when you started copying his lines through corners, trimming down your braking zones. He’d glance at you in meetings and smirk like he knew your every move.

After Bahrain, he beat you by two-tenths in quali and said, “You’re gonna have to try harder than that,” and you rolled your eyes and told him he should enjoy it while it lasted. It wasn’t nasty, but it wasn’t soft either. You were fire to his flow, and the whole team seemed to love it.

Toto joked once during a post-race interview, “They argue like siblings but drive like soulmates.”

The press took that quote and ran with it.

Still, you got used to being seen with him. There were the airport photos, the playful shoves during media days, the way he always passed you a coffee before qualifying like it was routine. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

But sometimes, late at night in the simulator room, you’d find yourselves sitting shoulder to shoulder in silence, pouring over telemetry. And sometimes he’d reach across and point something out on your screen, his hand brushing yours just long enough to leave your skin buzzing.

Once, after a grueling debrief, you stayed behind to run more laps, and Lewis came back in hours later, still in his fireproofs, and dropped a protein bar beside you. Didn’t say a word. Just sat, his presence grounding, steady.

“You’re one of the best teammates I’ve ever had,” he said quietly, not looking at you.

You turned, caught off guard. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

It became easy after that. Too easy. Press days, team events, back-to-back races. The more time you spent together, the more the lines began to blur. He’d rest his chin on your shoulder while reading over your notes. You’d fall asleep on his during flights. The teasing didn’t stop, but the softness underneath it grew like a secret blooming between you.

You won your first race in Canada.

It was chaos—changing conditions, bad calls from others, a perfectly timed switch to slicks. You crossed the finish line with tears in your eyes and hands trembling on the wheel. You didn’t even hear the radio. Didn’t register anything until you leapt down from the top step and found yourself wrapped in Lewis’s arms.

He held you like he meant it. Tight. Chest to chest. Helmet to helmet.

“You fucking did it,” he murmured, voice thick. “I told you. I told you you could.”

And something in you shifted. Not because of the win. Because of him.

You thought you understood what this was. Friendly competition. Professional admiration. But it felt different after that. The looks lingered longer. The touches got braver. One night in the motorhome, you were icing your shoulder and he sat beside you, wordlessly taking the pack from your hand and gently pressing it in place. His fingers stayed a second too long.

“You don’t have to keep proving yourself,” he said quietly.

“I’m not proving it to them.”

He looked at you then. Slow. Careful. “Then who?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

And when your head found his shoulder a moment later, he didn’t move. He just let it happen.

Then Suzuka happened.

The race was a mess from the start. Wet conditions, a dodgy launch, and you found yourself fighting him into Turn 1. You both knew better. You both went for it anyway. The contact wasn’t huge, but it was enough.

Your car hit the wall. His was too damaged to continue.

You were okay. Just bruised. But as you sat in the medical unit, fingers flexing against the bandage on your wrist, he walked in—helmet still in hand, jaw clenched.

He didn’t speak. Just knelt down in front of you, hands on your knees.

“Don’t scare me like that again.”

You blinked. “It was a racing incident—”

“I don’t care,” he said, voice rough. “I saw you hit the barrier and—” He swallowed. “I didn’t know how much it would matter until it did.”

Something cracked open in your chest.

“Then don’t let me go,” you whispered.

And he didn’t.

Brazil was the final thread snapping.

The season was done. Neither of you were fighting for the title anymore. The pressure had lifted just enough. After a double podium, the team threw a party, and you showed up in a silver dress that turned every head—including his.

You found him on the balcony, away from the crowd. He looked out over the city like it could answer all the questions spinning in his head.

“I’ve been trying to be professional,” he said without turning. “But I can’t pretend I don’t feel this.”

You stepped beside him. Close, but not touching. “Then don’t.”

He looked at you then, eyes warm, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen. “You sure?”

Instead of answering, you kissed him.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was something deeper—something long-earned. Like coming home after a season-long storm.

Nothing changed after that, not really. You were still ruthless competitors. Still argued about corner entry speeds and brake balance. Still fought for every tenth. But now, there was something underneath it all. A knowing. A softness that lived between stolen kisses and quiet good mornings whispered in the garage.

You didn’t flaunt it. But you didn’t hide.

After winning again in Qatar, Lewis wrapped you up in a hug so tight your feet lifted from the ground. “I’ve never been so happy to come second,” he laughed into your hair.

The final race of the year came and went. You took first. He took second. Mercedes claimed the Constructors’.

And that night, back in the quiet warmth of the motorhome, with his arms around your waist and his lips at your temple, he whispered—

“We make a damn good team.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

“The best.”

And in that moment, you weren’t just making history anymore.

You were building a future.

Together.

#f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton

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nipuni · 2 days ago

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We are all caught up with Doctor Who!!! We were five episodes behind with all the travelling and family visiting but we did a DW marathon and MAN WHAT WAS THAT!!! We were not expecting that finale at all LMAO going to share our thoughts about it under the cut for spoilers at the end of the post!

In other news my family flew back to Argentina a couple of days ago so we are back to normal schedule, meaning I have a lot of art to post and a lot of games to play, and by that I mean mostly Clair Obscur!! Been dying to start it, I've heard so many great things about it and I feel I'm going to love it so I'm excited!!

Now DW thoughts!

My favorite episodes this season were "The Well" and "The Story & the Engine" Even though I don't think The Well needed to be a Midnight sequel and could have stood on it's own I'm not too bothered and I'm a big fan of cosmic horror and sci-fi episodes so I'm biased. And the Story and the Engine, absolutely gorgeous visuals and themes, the characters too just consistent and great all around. Joy the the world was also fun, I love the concept of the Time Hotel. I miss the monster of the week self contained episodes I think we need more of those!!! As for the other episodes I think some were fun to watch and aesthetically so impressive but I kept getting distracted by the convoluted and questionable politics, what in the Kerblam was going on with the messaging lmao!! what's with the protester turns terrorist villain theme? the conservative podcaster arc? the Eurovision power of song fixes racism and genocide? I'm trying so hard not to read much into it because it's infuriating I'm going to bite someone. I also don't like the portrayal of UNIT in these seasons, or UNIT in general tbh but that aside, what are we doinggggg 😭

Now for the final episodes I have so many thoughts. The Belinda character assassination was so rough and unnecessary, every Ruby appearance and role in this season could have been Belinda's I really don't know why we needed to bring Ruby back so soon if at all? The ending felt and was confirmed by RTD to be very last minute and you can tell the exact point at which they knew that Ncuti had to leave and pivoted the narrative but I still feel it could have been done so much better. Did we really need to give Belinda a motherhood plot one episode after we established this as a nightmare scenario in a 1984-esque world, and put her in a box for the entire episode hello? Now this is very personal and not an objective critique of the plot but I really dislike stories about babies to an irrational degree so I was not very happy about that whole debacle in the end and so much of 15th's run having something to do with babies and family aaaaaa But!! I also have a feeling that there is something bigger going on with this recurring theme that has yet to be resolved, and it probably leads to Susan so I'll wait it out.

That reveal in the end!! 15th deserved a 3rd season, the seasons are already so short now there is not enough time for full character arcs please!! I understand that Ncuti had to leave for work reasons apparently? but this felt so sudden and jarring!! and listen I don't think Billie is going to be the 16th doctor, she was not introduced as such in the credits and her posts about it on social media are also very vague so I'm pretty sure she's some version of Rose / Bad Wolf and she is going to be only in the specials acting as a sort of in between like the 14th doctor for another arc of closure (I also feel David and Billie are Russel's panic button when something goes awry in production and they need someone to step in to fill in the gaps lmao )

ALSO!! I think reality is still altered for a reason that we will eventually find out once we deal with the whole Pantheon. Maybe I'm being too hopeful lmao but I think those little changes left like the color Teal, the border between Sweden and Norway (Bad Wolf bay?), Mavity, the Poppy focus and flower motif, Ruby's memory and overall mystery, Susan's messages and the focus on family and The Doctor's lineage. I don't know it all feels like it's wanting to go somewhere and I'm hoping it does and Russel can land it better this time along with The Boss and the remaining Rani (speaking of her, why didn't Omega eat the other half instead!!! I wanted to see more of Archie Panjabi come on!!! she was so good) and uuhh Rogue in superhell or whatever. But also I tend to read too much into things and trust the writing promises and then get disappointed so we will see uughh 😭🤞

That being said!! BILLIE BILLIE BILLIE BILLEIIEIFJIEIGHAIOFH MY GIRL MY GIRL AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HELLOOOOO ❤️❤️❤️ I'm playing with 14th and whoever Billie is now like dolls in my mind, I can't wait to see where this goes. I'm here for it!!! I'd be fine with her being 16th too honestly!! I don't care!!! nostalgia bait fan service perhaps but I'm the fan being serviced baby let's goooo

#nips blogs #personal #doctor who

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discodinosaur · 21 hours ago

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➳ Talk So Sweet (Doin' Bad Things)

↳ the last of us | explicit | manny alvarez/reader | 10.1k | complete

Summary: It was common knowledge that you and Manny did not get on. But, after a run goes awry, you're the one patching him, and if disliked you that much, how come he's told his dad all about you?

--Or-- A slow descent into falling in love with the person you hate the most.

A lot of people knew that you and Manny did not gel well. It didn’t take a lot to work out between the icy glares, the cold shoulders and, sometimes, going as far as pretending the other didn’t exist.

Which ideally wasn’t the best for the rest of your little group. You hadn’t been part of the Firefly’s when they fell but you had known of Marlene, whisperings about her initiative and what would happen if she set foot in Seattle or even came across the WLF. Yet when the ex-Firefly’s arrived, you had taken them under your wing and in return, you became one with their group, though you figured that sharing a room with Leah had something to do with it.

Which brings you to now, sat in the corner of the mess hall with a greasy rag, absently wiping it over your pistol while Nora and Manny are at each other’s throats for what must be the third time this week.

“—You’re not going to tell Isaac shit,” Nora spits at him, spoon clenched tightly in her fist as she glares daggers at Manny.

Manny leans over the table, leering at her, “Sure, that his senior medic is shirking her duties to what? Bunk off with the armourer?”

Ohh, of course. It would be you that Manny has a problem with. If this was Abby or Mel, you can guarantee he wouldn’t have an issue with it. But you? That man has had it out for you the moment you spoke to him. Besides, you’d had this job cleared for days, a simple supply run and one that would be beneficial to the med-bay too. It’s just Manny being typical Manny that he needs Nora’s help now of all times.

“But it’s fine when you do it to get a piece of skirt, right? Besides, I’m not shirking off any duties.” Nora swings back easily, leaning back on the bench. “Never thought you of all people would be one to tattle to Isaac. Like even has time for you if it’s not Scar related.”

Manny’s jaw ticks and you can feel the anger rolling off him in waves, most of it directed straight at you.

“Nora, it’s fine. I can ask Owen to come with me,” you try, attempting to placate both of them, but Nora holds up a hand to stop you.

“No, no. You did get it cleared, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she turns back to Manny with a sickly sweet smile, “so take Mel with you.”

Manny jumps up from the table, jolting it so the cutlery rattles and he swears in Spanish. You glance up as he shoves his hands in his pockets and storms out of the mess hall.

“He really has it out for you, huh?” Nora asks with a shake of her head.

“Yup, something like that. I’ll meet you down the armoury in ten.”

You wait for Nora down in the armoury, leaning against the wall with the guns already signed out, while Olive, another armourer who trained under you, talks your ear off about the guy she’s seeing. Eric, you think his name is.

And then in comes Manny, closely followed by a hesitant looking Mel. She gives you a half smile as Manny struts over towards Olive. He doesn’t even glance in your direction, not when Olive asks you about Manny’s usual, nor when you slip back behind the desk to collect his shotgun and extra ammo. He clenches his jaw, white-knuckling the shotgun and nods his head to Olive in thanks.

Mel, ever the peacekeeper, apologises when Manny’s out of earshot, taking her pistol and rifle with a grateful thanks to you both and hurries after him with Bear in tow, barking excitedly at her heels.

“You should’ve given him an empty box of ammo,” Olive says quietly to you, eyes on the two of them heading towards a truck.

You snort, “Because that would go down so well when he gets back.”

“He can be so awful sometimes.”

“Dude probably just needs to get laid,” you shrug and then spot Nora making her way towards you and bid Olive a hasty goodbye.

It was late. Later than you usually stayed down in the armoury. But with Danny, Owen and Manny coming back later than predicted from their run, all three looking pissed, you silently took their weapons from them, cleaning them down and letting the three of them cool off in their own way. Owen had tried to help; lingering back and making small talk but you had taken the box of ammo from his hands and sent him on his way towards Abby knowing she’d appreciate his presence more.

You swung the keys to armoury on the keyring around your finger, waiting for whoever was in the shooting range to finish up and leave. But the minutes ticked by, the shots still fired and your eyes were heavy with tiredness.

Six more shots sounded and you gripped the keys tight in your hand, quietly going inside and let out a sigh at the sight of Manny in the end stall. Ear protection forgone and muttering to himself in Spanish as he reloads the pistol. You winced as he emptied it one by one into the target without hesitation.

“Manny.”

He either ignores you or doesn’t hear you as the gun clicks empty and he mutters again, throwing in another twelve rounds into the pistol and firing them off one by one, you count them as you hear the cartridges clink to the floor.

“¡Déjame en paz!”

You lean against the door, exasperated as he fumbles and picks up the ammo shells on the floor.

“Manny. I need to lock up,” you tell him firmly. The last thing you want is to get into an argument with him now. Both of you obviously exhausted, words would sting a little more and no holds would be barred for the slew of curses that could leave you.

“Need me to fucking translate for you?”

The frustration rolls off the two of you in waves and you chew on your lip, strutting over and collecting up the pistol and the handful of unused ammo. As you pull back, Manny’s hand wraps around your wrist and your eyes find the smear of dried blood on his knuckles, over his sleeves and up onto his neck. Your lips parting in surprise when you see the slice over his cheek, the split in his lip and the purple undertones of a bruise blossoming on his jaw.

“The fuck happened to you?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Nothing,” he snaps, turning away from you.

“Bullshit, Manny, look at your face! You should’ve gone to the med—”

“No. I don’t need to go to the med-bay. It’s just a small cut, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

He hasn’t let go of your wrist and the longer you stare at him, the more he starts to wilt under your hard gaze. He turns back to you, meeting your eyes and his grip loosens around your wrist. He lets out another sigh, and runs his other hands through his already rumpled hair. “I’m not going to the med-bay because Mel and Nora will just ask questions. I’ve had worse, now stop fussing over me.”

You wretch your wrist out of his grasp. “Suit yourself. But you’re in my shooting range.”

His throat bobs, jaw ticking as he glares at you with unspoken curses. But Manny turns away without so much as a jab, clearing up the mess of ammo spilling onto the bench. He’s silent, and when he speaks you almost miss it.

“Scars.”

You stop, turning on your heel, keys clenched tightly in your fist. “What about ‘em?”

Manny continues to hastily put away the ammo, fingers scurrying over the stray bullets, jaw set as he stares at the box. “They jumped us just past the park. We didn’t see them until they had the upper and then you can put together what happened after.”

“The park? Isn’t that supposed to be–”

“Exactly,” he nods, eyes flicking to you, dark under the fluorescent lighting. “Which is another reason I can’t go to the med bay. It was Isaac’s idea. If anyone else finds out they’ll be an uproar.”

“Of course it was Isaac,” you mutter under your breath and you clip the keyring onto your belt loop, stepping forwards towards him. “I have a med-kit down here that Nora restocked the other day. I’m not a doctor but I know how to treat a cut.”

Manny seems torn, an internal back and forth going on in his head and in the end he shakes his head with a swear in Spanish. “Fine. But make it quick.”

“Wouldn’t want to drag this out, Alvarez,” you sigh and fetch the small first aid kit. Your hand reaches out tentatively, cupping his cheek to turn his head towards you to get a better look at the cut. With an alcohol soaked cloth, you dab at it and Manny hisses at the initial sting.

“Did you kill them?”

“Course. I’m not Isaac’s top Scar killer for nothing.”

You thin your lips and say nothing as you clean up the mess of dried blood on his skin, feeling his quickening pulse as you wipe his neck, thinking nothing more than it being the adrenaline. You take a half step back and assess him quickly for any other injuries, turning him by his shoulders and noticing the wince as he turns to his left. His jacket, half open, does nothing to hide the creeping stain of blood that’s blossoming on his grey shirt.

“What happened there?”

He looks down, following where you’re looking and has the decency to shrug.

“Knife wound maybe?”

You roll your eyes at his unhelpful replies and pull his shirt where the wound is, scrunching it up just below his ribs. If he would just let you help him without being a pain in the ass then this would go over a lot smoother.

“I have some gauze…”

He says nothing but holds his shirt up as you gather the gauze and medical tape, your hands skating over his warm body as you take your time to make sure he’s not in any pain.

“If that doesn’t heal overnight, go to Mel or Nora, you might need stitches.”

“It’s not a stab would,” he says, smoothing over the gauze. “You’re just stubborn.”

“I’m stubborn?” you ask, clicking the kit shut and wiping your hands on your cargos.

“Si.”

You almost smile at him but you remember where you are and who you’re with and the urge to get out overwhelms you so you pick up his discarded gun and med-kit then hurry out of the shooting range.

“Turn the light off when you’re done.”

After that night in the shooting range, Manny starts to avoid you. To begin with, you hadn’t even noticed it, not with how the two of you skirt around each other, always trying to dodge the other if you can and with Manny spending a lot of mealtimes with his dad, and you down in the workshop, it didn’t even cross your mind.

It was Owen that noticed it first, the second week in while you were sat in the usual corner of the mess hall, Mel on his left and Leah sandwiched between you.

“You ever see much of Manny nowadays? He’s not joined us as much since we came back from that run the other week.”

Your head snapped up and you followed Owen’s gaze to the other side of the hall where Manny was sat with his dad, turned towards and gesturing with his hands as he spoke. You kept your mouth shut, let the other three speculate as you turned it over in your head.

But the more you dwell on it, the more it ate you up. You had been with him last that day, patching him up and he had retaliated with what? Avoiding you? Did he really dislike you that much that he would start ignoring his friends?

So what you do instead is grab one of the breakfast burritos in the early morning, when barely anyone is around and head to the gym, seeking out Abby. Because if anyone understands him, it’s her.

To your surprise, she’s not there and you chew your lip as you remember the few spots she has tucked away that she goes to that’s not her room. Finally, you check the library, and on first glance it looks empty. If it weren’t for the collection of ottomans pushed together, you would call it a morning and leave it.

But you know Abby better than that and beeline for ottoman’s where sure enough she’s sat hunched over, reading one of the old battered books on the shelf.

“Morning,” you greet her quietly, waving the burrito in her direction. “I thought I’d find you in the gym this morning.”

She shrugs with one shoulder and marks her page, dog earring the corner and takes the burrito. “Eh, I could do with a rest and Manny asked for the room last night. These ottomans do nothing for your neck.”

You try not to think about Manny asking for the room to be alone with someone else. You really do, but lately your mind is on him a lot more than usual – probably just something to do with that he’s been avoiding you.

“Does he seem like he’s avoiding you?”

Abby chews thoughtfully and then shakes her head. “No, he seems the same to me. But Owen did mention it too the other day. He has asked for the room a lot more than usual though.”

“It was Owen that made me notice it,” you admit, and sit cross legged on the ottoman next to her. “I saw him when he came back from that run with Owen. He spent some time in the shooting range, taking it out on one of the targets.”

The corner’s of Abby’s lips turn up into a small smile, “Yeah, he did mention that. We haven’t talked a whole lot about it if I’m honest. Owen hasn’t even let up about what the hell happened out there.”

You don’t bother to let on about patching him up. Both of you keeping it to yourselves but she does ease your mind and you manage not to think about him. You move on to other things, asking her about her workouts are going, being careful to pry too much into the details.

You leave Abby, heading back down to the mess hall to grab something for yourself before a long day down in the armoury. The amount of people going out on runs today was insane compared to usual, you figure that Isaac must be planning something soon with the amount of intel he’s gathering.

Just as you find a table for yourself, your eye catches on the shaky wave of José and your expression softens. Manny might be intolerable, but his dad is a sweetheart and always makes an effort with you. You slip into the chair next to him and you can’t help but worry your lip at how bad his hands seem today.

“How have you been? I haven’t seen much of you recently, I think you’ve been hiding from me,” he asks you, a warm smile on his face and you can’t help but smile back at him.

“Not hiding from you,” you say softly, “just… busy, you know? You seem well, though, how are you hands?”

“Oh, you know, some days are better than others. I’ve been meaning to thank you, by the way. For patching Manny up the other week.”

You splutter around your bite of food and blink at José, “huh?” you say, rather stupidly. Manny told his dad about you, but not Abby.

José smiles at you and pats your hand. “He told me about the run in he had and said that you were the one to find him down in the shooting range.”

“Oh… yeah I did but–”

“I know he’s not the best with words and can be a stubborn mule sometimes. But thank you, I appreciate you looking out for him.”

“It was nothing, mister Alvarez,” you say sincerely. “He just looked in a bad way and it was getting late. If I’m honest I just wanted to lock up.”

He smiles warmly at you again and grasps the top of your hand. “I know my son, and for what it’s worth I’m sorry he can be such a brat around you.”

You thin your mouth into what you hope passes for a smile, unsure of what to say because Manny can be so much more than a brat to you.

“Dad, have you—”

Manny cuts himself off as soon as he sees you and easily ignores you as he passes to sit on the other side of his dad. José gives you a good-natured eye-roll and turns to his son, saying something in quiet Spanish. Manny glances at you, replies back to his dad and turns his body to him. You feel like you’re intruding as Manny takes José’s hands in his own, turning them over and gently massaging his palms.

“I should go,” you say quietly to José and scrunch the foil from your burrito into a ball.

“Don’t be a stranger. You should come sit with me more often.”

You look between him and Manny, who’s not paying you any attention and nod slowly, “Promise, sir.”

And you meant it. But the whole way down to the armoury, José’s words about that night in the shooting range bounce around in your mind.

Being out in the field was a nice reprieve from being in the armoury. It gave the time to work on your aim and what modifications were working and which one weren’t. Today just happened to be the day that Manny, of all the people, was assigned partner on the run. You had tried to swap with Leah, even Abby but both of them were on higher priority jobs than you.

Just your luck.

When you got a glance at him in the mess hall that morning. He didn’t look particularly thrilled at the idea either and when he caught your eye, he bowed his head to talk with his dad. You had loaded your pistol forcefully and shoved it into your holster, not even giving Manny a second glance while he collected his own weapons later. You signed out a truck and started the ignition, letting it idle while you waited.

“You’ll waste the gas if you keep doing that,” Manny snipes, climbing in beside you and shutting his door with more force than strictly necessary.

You ignore him, rolling your eyes and the wheels spin as you overdo it on the pull away. Good, let him know he’s already pissed you off. You stop briefly at the gates and then put your foot to the floor on the Seattle roads. Neither of you say a word to each other on the way to the old garment factory, both of you too stubborn to acknowledge the other. Manny is stiff as a board when you glance over, head turned to stare out the window.

Getting in was easy. Both of you agreeing, without so many words, that stealth was the better option here. It had only just been scouted out earlier in the week – supplies that you could use but also a number of infected roaming the narrow hallways. This had to be a silent in and out job.

You took down two runners right away, approaching them from behind and forcing your knife into their throat, cutting at the muscle and sinew, letting them fall with a thud to the floor as Manny took out another. His method wasn’t as practised as yours, getting its attention and then jumping it. Even in stealth, he’s attracted to the violence and threat of getting caught.

Both of you keep your steps light and your flashlights pointing down as you make your way through the hallways, avoiding the factory floor as much as possible. Manny covers you as you pick the lock, crouching down, ear straining to hear the telltale click.

It’s when you open the door that everything seems to go wrong. The door swings open, knocking into an old, beat up filing cabinet that echoes around the room. Both you and Manny freeze. The second thing you notice is the ear-splitting screech of a clicker that looms out of the darkness.

Manny grabs your arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you out of your stunned silence. “Run, fucking run!” he calls to you and you become aware of your feet, dragging them to a sprint down a different corridor.

You turn, unloading a clip from your rifle into the nearest oncoming onslaught of infected. Runners fall like dominoes, and a clicker halts, head drooping as you shoot the fungus clean off, giving you both a few seconds to make distance.

The rifle clicks, out of ammo and you turn, sprinting with all you have down the rest of the corridor towards the bolted door. Manny is just two steps ahead, and rams his shoulder against the lock, forcing it open and grunting as he squeezes through the small gap. You see his hands on the door, fingers tense as he tries to hold it open but it’s too heavy and it shuts on you, slamming into place.

You reach for your handgun, popping two bullets into the stalker that’s crept up on you and you watch as it convulses on the floor before throwing yourself against the door, hand pushing on the handle. But it doesn’t budge.

“No, no,” you mutter, shouldering it again and clinging onto the handle. “Manny? Manny!”

“The mechanism is busted,” his voice sounds from the other side, just as panic stricken. “I’m trying.”

“Manny, open the door. Open the fucking door right now!”

Fear seizes you. Your hands trembling as you check the clip in your hand gun and you let out a whimper as you count the measly seven bullets you have left. That’s hardly enough to take out the whole corridor. Maybe this is how it ends for you, at the hands of infected all because a fucking door won’t open.

“Fuck… fuck!” you mutter, blood rushing in your ears and tears spilling down your cheeks. This is not how it was supposed to go. Not here, not a run with Manny of all people. You flatten yourself against the door and grip your gun with both hands, though it does nothing to stop the sway of the pistol. You count each bullet, chest heaving as you face death head on.

One. A runner hit in the shoulder, dropping to the floor and using its hands to crawl towards you, gurgling and thrashing on the floor.

Two. The runner goes silent, one final yelp and it stills. The door up head bursts open with the noise only a shambler could make, lolloping to one side from the weight of the pustules.

Three and four – both miss. The bloodcurdling, throaty hisses from a clicker and whines from stalkers join the shambler as they barrel down the corridor straight for you.

Five. Hits one of the stalkers and it lets out a scream, crawling up into the vents out of your sight.

Six. Another miss and tears blur your vision, your heart hammering in your chest. There’s nothing that can help you now.

Seven. You close your eyes, not seeing where the bullet lands and slide down the door, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your back gives out, and you fall backwards into nothing. There’s the sound of a slam somewhere in the room and then something is grabbing you under your arms. You thrash, trying to fight it.

“No!” you sob, pushing yourself against the wall.

“It’s me, it’s Manny.”

You breath catches in your throat and you use your sleeve to wipe at your eyes, blinking through the tears. His eyes are wide, cheeks drained of any colour as he raises his hands, palms up.

“Manny?”

“It’s me. I’ve got you. I need you to breathe.”

You keep your eyes on his hands as he slowly and carefully brings them down to hold your shoulders. He gives you a pointed look and you follow his lead, a deep breath in and then out. He repeats this until you’ve got it under control.

Feud, rivalry, some unspoken third thing between you be damned. You breathing catches in your throat and he steps into your space, one arm wrapping around you, placing his palm on the small of your back and you let your head fall into the crook his neck.

He’s murmuring in Spanish, other hand cupping the nape of your neck and his body swaying gently. You fit against him like he’s been waiting for this moment.

You want to be embarrassed, and maybe sometime in the future you’ll start to avoid him. But if he had been seconds later, you would’ve died. Right now, all you want is to be held. And Manny does, without any complaint or any offhand comment. He wraps you in his arms and lets you cry.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs in English. “You’re safe. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Infected throw themselves against the sealed door, muffled screeches and bang echoing around the room but all you can feel right now is Manny. His solid frame, his voice soft as he repeats over and over how sorry he is. You inhale deeply, getting gunpowder and citrus from his jacket and open your eyes and stepping back from him.

His hands cover yours, his eyes searching your face as you take a few deep, controlled breaths on your own. You’re alive. You weren’t savagely ripped apart and you’ve had much worse than this. You pull one of your hands free from his to wipe over your face.

“Why are you sorry?” you ask him eventually, your voice croaky and rough from all the tears.

“Because if I had wasted another minute trying to open that fucking door you wouldn’t be standing right in front of me.”

“But I’m here,” you tell him and squeeze his hand. “I’m right here.”

The door bangs again, louder this time and you pull on Manny’s hand. “We need to get to the supply cupboard,” you say, as if the past five minutes didn’t happen.

He looks at you wildly and shakes his head. “Are you insane? Fuck the supply cupboard!”

“We came here for a supply run.”

Manny’s not listening to you, he pushes aside one of the cabinets covering the exit and peers down the short hallway. “We’re getting out of here.”

“Manny–”

“No.”

He grabs your hand again, leading the way down the hallway. You have no idea where you even are, it’s too easy to get turned around in a place like this.

“We’ll go out one of the fire exits, should be easier to find the truck,” he says, walking slightly ahead of you. You nod numbly and follow him. You mind is buzzing with what just happened, between the infected almost getting to you to Manny holding you like you were something precious.

The sunlight attacks your eyes as soon as you step outside and you use your hand to shield your eyes while Manny barricades the door. You sweep the overgrown parking lot and don’t notice anything out of the ordinary then Manny taps your shoulder, pointing down the side of the building. You nod, and the two of you scurry through the weeds and fallen debris until you see the truck and your heart eases at the sight of it.

“Keys?” you hear him ask and you fumble the ring on your belt loop, unclipping it and handing it to him, silently getting into the passenger side.

Just like the drive there, neither of you say a word to each other, except the roles seem to have been reversed, and now it’s your turn to stare out the window. You know that you should be keeping an eye out but there’s still a tremor to your hands that you can’t quite shake and you want nothing more than to be back at the stadium, curled up in your bed. You just hope that luck is on your side and Leah doesn’t ask questions or, even better, she’s staying with Jordan for the night.

Fortunately for you, she’s not there when you get back. You’d dropped off your weapons, feigning a smile and a humourless laugh as Steve tries to joke with you, making a quick getaway with the excuse of needing a shower. But the walk up to your room, the seemingly endless flights of stairs to your level feels never-ending. You’ve never been so glad for the silence that greets you when your door swings open.

In a daze, you drop your pack off in the small kitchenette and grab your wash bag. You don’t remember the walk to the showers, or the hot water pelting down on your back. Getting back to your room is a blur, but when you crawl under the comforter and your head hits the pillow, you’re out like a light.

The knocking does not stop, and it worms it’s way into your dream – an incessant rap against wood that sounds like a timer, counting down the amount of ammo you had left in your pistol as the memory plays over and over in your unconsciousness. You wake with a start, sitting up and squeezing your eyes shut, hoping that whoever is on the other side of the door just gets the hint already.

When they don’t stop, you groan and swing your legs over the side of the bed and pad barefoot over the worn carpet. You grab the key, forcing it into the lock and the door swings open.

Abby, maybe, you expected. Nora, even Mel. But you certainly did not expect Manny to be on the other side of the door. Especially not holding a foil-wrapped dish and with his hair sticking up in disarray as though he’s ran his hand through it one too many times.

“Manny?” you ask, blinking at him to make sure that you’re definitely not seeing things.

“I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” he shrugs, looking way out of his depth and avoiding your eyes. “Least I could do is bring you some after today.”

“Oh, um, sure,” you say, opening the door wider to let him in. “Come in, I guess.”

Manny hesitates only for a second and then sidesteps past you without another word. He fills the tiny room with his presence alone. You know that it’s not the first time he’s been in here – not when you share with one of your friend group, but he’s not even glancing in the direction of her things. Instead he’s staring at the wall behind you, reading over the posters and prints tacked up haphazardly on the wall.

You take a seat on your bed, legs hanging off the side as your back hits the wall and Manny steps forward, looming over you, holding out the dish.

“It’s chilli. Muy picante.”

Your lips twitch as you take it – steam rising as soon as you lift the foil life and your stomach groans, you don’t remember if you even ate breakfast, today has been nothing but a rush then a blur for you.

You notice that Manny moves around the small kitchenette in a familiar way, it’s just a little jarring to see in your room. But you give the faintest of smiles in thanks when he hands you the spoon. What surprises you even more is that he unlaces his boots and sits the other side of your bed, being sure to keep some distance between you.

You take your first bite of chilli, thinking that the silence between you would be uncomfortable and awkward. But it’s not, though it might have something to do with Manny not speaking, it’s easy. It’s different than being around Owen or Jordan, even Nick.

He lets you eat in silence but something gnaws at you and you feel the need to break the quiet.

“I don’t… these things don’t usually affect me so bad. I’ve killed infected before and been in worse situations,” you tell him, your spoon clinking against the dish.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle yourself.”

“I know. I just, I feel like I overreacted.”

“Overreacted? You were seconds away from being ripped apart from infected. The door wasn’t supposed to get jammed, I don’t know what happened but I wouldn’t live with myself if you died on a run like that because of me.”

“Is that why you brought me food? Because you felt bad?” you bite out, pushing the dish onto your nightstand, suddenly no longer feeling hungry.

“No… no. It’s– it doesn’t matter. ” he snaps abruptly, running a hand through his hair and you let out a long breath through your nose.

“How’s your dad getting on?” you ask instead, figuring that the best thing to do right now is change the subject. It works, taking Manny by surprise that his frown wilts away, replaced by a softer expression only reserved for Jose.

“Bien, though his hands are still seizing up a lot,” he pauses for a moment and then adds, “he asked about you earlier.”

You give him a quizzical look, tilting your head and narrowing your eyes. Manny shrugs, not quite meeting your gaze. “He knew we were out on a run today. Guess he just wondered how we got on when he didn’t see you in the mess hall.”

Though his words sound honest enough, you can tell that Manny’s hiding something from you. So you wait him out and he shifts, crossing and uncrossing his ankles before he finally caves. “I told him –just him – that it didn’t go well.”

“Why? You barely say two words to me any other time so why are you now going to your dad about me?”

“Papá, he cares about you.”

“Right, right. But you? You can’t fucking stand me.”

Manny stiffens, even with the distance between you you can feel how he tenses up. Given the circumstance, you probably should back down, put it one side and curl back up in your comforter. Except, no. You’ve not wronged him, yet he continues to treat you like some nobody.

“Why is that?” you ask, “What have I ever done to you to make you dislike me so much when the others are so fucking friendly towards me and treat me like an actual human being.”

He clears his throat, and for a second you think he’s going to answer. But the silence just lingers, heavy in the air. You shake your head and get up, taking the dish towards the small kitchenette that Manny had to fit so well into. You run the tap, too many thoughts running through your head and a too heavy silence over the room.

Then he’s behind you, reaching past you to turn the tap off, so close that he’s almost pressing against your back.

“I don’t hate you.”

He says it too quietly and he sounds too honest for you to doubt him. You turn in the little gap between you and lean back against the sink.

“Then why—”

“Mierda,” he curses, voice strained and brows pinched together. “Because you’re so fucking radiant. You’re lighting up every damn room you’re in and I don’t want to snuff out that light with my past. And today? Fuck, today I could’ve lost you and it would have been my fault.”

“Your past? Manny, you think my past isn’t as fucked up? But I’ll be damned if it stops me from living.”

You meet his stare, eyes black in the low lighting of your room and so close to you. Just looking at you, his eyes flicking over each inch of your face, your neck and your shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring you. Up close for the first time.”

You don’t know which one of you moves first, but your hands curl into his jacket and his lips are so fucking soft and they’re on yours and you want to drown in this feeling. His hands cup your jaw, tongue running over the seam of your lips desperately seeking more and more of you.

You let him in. Opening your mouth and hands moving up to twist in the curls at the nape of his neck that has him panting into your mouth. This shouldn’t feel as good as it does, but there’s a small nagging part of you that feels like you’re making up for wasted time.

You pull back, catching the sight of his wet lips and drooping eyes. He leans in, chasing you for another taste and you move your head to the side, his lips catching your cheek.

“Manny,” you murmur, breath fanning into his ear.

“Si, el sol?”

“You couldn’t have done this earlier?”

He chuckles, hands sliding under your shirt to grip your hips and you tilt back to look at him.

“Maybe. But my dad taught me that good things are worth waiting for.”

You pull him in for another kiss and this don’t time, you don’t pull away.

That’s how it goes with you and Manny. Like you two could play this game forever, the dancing back and forth, the hate with no heat behind it – it makes sense to you, unravelling since the first kiss you shared. It was always inevitable.

You share stolen moments – when Leah stays out overnight with Jordan, when Abby’s too focused in the gym, straining and overworking herself. Other times are when Manny sneaks into the armoury, pocket full of tin foil wrapped food, perched on the edge of your workbench while you finish up.

Somehow, god only knows how, you manage to keep it quiet. None of your friends seem to catch on. Mainly because Manny still goes out of his way to not be around you or you around him.

But as the days turn into weeks, you feel like Manny starts to know you, really know you. Little things that you didn’t even know about yourself and letting him in to see the deepest parts of you. He eventually tells you about the real reason José kept asking about you, that he could see right through his son, seeing it for what it was.

Manny, in a surprising turn of events, opened up to you. Outside of his bravado and arrogance, he could be incredibly sweet, spending every night he could with you, if not in your room, he would spend hours down in the armoury with you or up on the roof, out of sight from the patrolling watchmen.

“Abby’s asking questions.”

You adjust the focus on your binoculars and follow the movements of the Scar you’ve been tracking for the last couple of minutes. You’re laying on your front under the canopy of some ferns, damp dirt clinging to your clothes as you and Manny are on lookout. He lays next you, one hand on the small of your back, the other scribbling over a map in red marker.

“I’m surprised it took her this long,’ you reply, lowering the binoculars. “We’ve been together for what? Just over a month now?”

Saying it out loud still sends butterflies straight to your gut. Together. You and Manny weren’t just fucking around, he wanted to actually be with you. Though you two of you kept it under wraps, Manny couldn’t keep something like this from his dad. Who knew that José already had an inkling about how Manny really felt about you.

“You might not be keeping track, but my dad sure is,” he says with a huff of laughter right by your ear. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing, if Abby knew.”

Your mouth drops open in surprise and you turn your head to look at him, “Won’t she tell Owen?”

Manny shakes his head, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Honestly, she has so much on her mind right now I don’t think she’d even bat an eye to it.”

The radio clipped to Manny’s vest crackles and he yanks it off and you take the moment to look at him – damp from ever-rainy Seattle, unruly curls sticking to his forehead and the wiry beard that’s starting to get just a little too long. He catches you looking and smirks as answers the radio.

“Alright,” he says and tosses the radio into the grass. “We’ll watch them, take note of their paths and then I’ll write up the report once we’re done.”

“Ain’t you a gentleman.”

“Only the best for my girl.”

His girl. That gets a smile out of you and you raise the binoculars back to your eyes to hide your expression, biting down on your lip.

“You hiding from me, baby?” he asks, and you can just hear the smug smirk in his tone.

When you say nothing, feeling the heat creep higher into your cheeks, Manny plucks the binoculars from you, and takes your chin to turn your head towards him, pressing his lips to yours. You chase his lips with your own and Manny moves to roll you onto your back hidden with the greenery, letting out a soft gasp as your back hits the dirt.

“Manny!” you exclaim in a hushed tone, grinning at him.

“Shh, cariño, you want them to hear us?” he whispers against your lips, trailing a hot path of open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He props himself up on his forearm, hovering over you and the other hand caresses over your shoulder, to your jacket zipper.

Another gasp leaves you as you feel his warm palm on your stomach, pushing your shirt up and lowering his head to run his tongue on your heated skin.

“Here?” you whisper to him, pushing a piece of damp curl of hair from his face. “You’re doing this here?”

“Why not? Not like anything interesting is going on over there,” he replies, deft fingers already working at the button of your pants. “Besides, my girl looks cute when she’s all flustered.”

You tug on his hair, urgently wanting to feel his lips on yours again. He grins and pulls back with heat in eyes and then delicately kisses, you slow and languid, the complete opposite of what you were aiming for. It keeps you distracted enough to not notice his wandering hand, and you sigh when his fingers dip below the waistband of your underwear, trailing along your wet seam.

“Your hands, Manny,” you groan, “God, I’m obsessed with what your hands can do.”

“Just my hands, huh?” he teases you, dragging his middle finger down through your folds, gathering your arousal. He keeps his movements slow, deliberate, watching your every move. “And there was me thinking you liked me.”

He drags his finger, torturously slow, up to your clit and rubs cruel, teasing circles that leave you breathless. His smile widens, and leans down to whisper in your ear. “You do like more than just my fingers, right cariño?”

You nod, squirming beneath him as he moves his fingers in a tantalising pattern. “Say it,” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you gasp, “Course I fucking do.”

Manny smirks, seemingly satisfied with your answer. He pulls his finger back, over your wetness and then slowly pushes the digit inside of you, feeling how your tightness envelopes him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, stroking your walls and pulling all the way out and back in, stretching you open.

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, opening your legs wider and arching your back as he curls his finger in just the right way that has you wanting more.

“God, I wish I could taste you,” he murmurs, pressing you hard against the grass and attaching his lips to your neck. He pulls his finger out, dragging it through your wet folds, teasing and playing with you. Then a second digit joins and your eyes flutter, mouth hanging open as he fucks you open with his fingers.

“Manny,” you moan as your eyes flutter at the sensation. He knows just how to touch you, what makes you shiver and cry out his name. You curl your fingers into the front of his jacket, the other hand cupping his hard length through his pants and he lets out a raspy groan, hips rocking into your palm.

“This is about you, baby,” he tells you, though his voice is rough and breathy. “Let me do this for you.”

You realise very quickly that you’re helpless in his hands. His teeth nipping at your neck, sure to leave marks, his eye on you. Every step of the way he keeps fixated on you. His fingers move rhythmically, finding a brutal pace that has you crying out for more.

It’s his thumb that does you in. Pulling his hand back slightly to get the angle, thumb moving in tight circles on your clit, all the while praising you in whispered Spanish.

Pressure, hot, tight, coiling pressure builds in your stomach, a feeling that you want to chase and chase as it gets hotter, burning through you and Manny catches on quickly to what’s about to happen as his fingers move faster, with more urgency and his thumb rubs deliciously on your clit – finally letting your bathe in that high as it hits you.

Manny works you through, his dark eyes sparkling in wonder as you come on his fingers, hips rolling to chase the feeling for as long as you can.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he grunts out as you pant and keen, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Look at you.”

He’s beaming down at you, and you smile, eyes half lidded and breaths coming in heavy. He leans down, softly kissing you while pulling his fingers out of you and buttoning up your pants.

“Alvarez,” the radio thrown in the grass crackles and Manny starts, reaching for it to turn down the crackling static. “Alvarez, this is Boyle, come in.”

“Yeah, I’m here, give me a fucking second,” he mutters, using his clean hand to find the radio. “What?”

“Scars sighted coming your way. Both of you, get out of there while you can. Regroup at the old FEDRA checkpoint.”

“Copy that.”

He tucks the radio back into his belt and gives you an apologetic kiss to your cheek, “Guess the afterglow was kinda ruined, huh?” he jokes, getting to his feet and wiping his hand on his pants, leaving a glistening trail over his thigh.

He helps you up as you stare at the patch, and you would kiss him again. If only it weren’t for the whistle of a Scar and the whizz of an arrow that barely misses your left arm.

Getting called up to the FOB was never high up on your to-do list, and lucky for you it was only a rare occurrence that Isaac personally asked for you. You could count the amount of times you’d walked through the door to the once high-rise apartment block, echoes of screams and the smell of rot invading your senses. At least this time you were given some warning, quickly scribbling out a note and passing by Manny’s room, slotting the piece of paper underneath.

Right now, up high in the room that Isaac had relented and given you for the few days, all of that was drowned out – window cracked open to air out the room and a thick layer of dust coating the counter-tops. The only high point was that you weren’t here for long. The FOB was intense, a certain hum in the air of impending doom, so when you got back to your room – three days in, feeling like you couldn’t breathe you almost missed the crumpled slip of paper under your door.

Wiping your hands on an old rag for what must be the hundredth time you picked it up, oil stained fingerprints instantly smearing the paper as you unfold it, turning it right way up.

Hideout at sundown.

Firstly, when the fuck did Manny get called up to the FOB? And Secondly, how haven’t you managed to spot him yet?

You read over the note again, following the loop of his messy handwriting and shove it deep into your pocket. You’ve never been to his hideout before, but he’d told you enough to work out the route to get there – if you weren’t spotted first.

Time ticked by, even slower than usual until the sun started to set. You slipped out of the apartment window, being careful to not let it close all the way and sneaking around to the back of the FOB building. The path was overgrown, but that only meant that you were going in the right direction. You hop, almost losing your balance as the stairs give out under you. Three doors in front of you, and your best guess is the one directly ahead.

Inside, the whole place is aglow with the setting sun and the if the manga on the counter is anything to go by, you’re definitely in the right place. The space he’s created for himself is untidy, just how you pictured it but not messy. Stacks of old comics and card games litter the battered coffee table, mismatched blankets strewn over the couch and empty bottles sit nestled by the door. It’s almost too much pre-outbreak to you, the casual-ness of it all.

“Manny?” you call out softly, running your hand along the old dresser on the side. “You here?”

“Right here, cariño,” he replies, coming out of what must be a bedroom, given that his hair is all mussed and clothes rumpled. He takes your hand, lips against your knuckles. “You find the place okay?”

“Yeah, you breathe, letting out a long exhale, your eyes on him as he kisses up your wrist. “What are you doing here, at the FOB?”

“Isaac called us up. Jordan, Abby and me. We’re being sent out on a recon scout tomorrow morning.”

“A recon scout?”

“He wants us to get into a scar camp, take what intel we can, and report back. He thinks they are plotting some big attack on us soon.”

“The guns,” you say softly, “he’s tasked me with upgrading them with silencers and better capacity in the clips.”

Manny nods, expression sombre and then he swoops in, finally pressing his lips to yours, hands settling on your hips to bring you flush against him. The kiss is consuming, his tongue mapping out your mouth, memorising you in wake of tomorrow.

“This way,” he murmurs, walking you backwards into the room he came from, hands easily flipping the hem of your shirt up, making you shiver as he caresses over your bare hips. “I missed you.”

“Such a sap,” you chide, kicking the door closed with your heel.

“Maybe. Maybe I just can’t get enough of you.”

You paw at his shirt, pulling it over his head and run your hands over his defined chest. His answer to this is to pull off your own shirt, unhooking your bra and throwing it carelessly to the side while he gets a good look at you. His mouth finds your breast, taking the hardened nipple into his mouth and lavishing it with attention.

You let out a string of soft, breathy noises, cupping the back of his head to keep him close and the other hand unbuckling his belt, pulling the coarse canvas away and letting it join the growing pile of clothes.

“Been thinking about you ever since you left me that note,” he murmurs, string of saliva between his lips and your nipple before paying attention to the other, the more sensitive of the two.

A gasp leaves you, head tilting back and you grasp the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping him in place as he lavishes attention on your nipple. His hand skates down your leg, gripping it and moving it to hook around his hip.

You can’t help but grind yourself against him and he pulls away from your breast to grin at you and then sink his teeth into the heated skin of your neck, hands grabbing whatever they can of you and holding you as close as possible.

He maneuvers you down onto the bed, pulling off your shirt as you lay back and while you unbutton your pants he pauses for a moment, lips slick and hair mussed just watching you.

“Fuck me, I’m so lucky,” he murmurs and he unbuckles his belt, shucking off his cargos, revealing the impressive bulge of him tented against his boxers, a dark spot of precum seeping into the fabric.

The sight of him sends a wave of desire through you and you reach out for him, scratching your nails over his hip and he leans down, claiming your lips with your own once more. You both get caught up in the kiss, both wanting this after days being apart and the impending question mark that hangs over tomorrow.

He moves you so you’re now on top of him, guiding your knees to either side of his hips and letting you rock down against him. The pull of his clothed cock against your heat is a delicious friction that you can’t seem to get enough of.

“That’s it,” he grunts, squeezing your hips and trailing his fingers down to the waistband of your panties. You quickly get with the picture, moving away from Manny to take them off, throwing them to join your pile of clothes.

“Like what you see?” you ask, fully naked in front of him.

“Very much so.”

Manny lifts his hips and you pull off his boxers, hard length springing free, precum smearing over his stomach. You bite your lip and climb back over him, taking his length in your hand.

“Mierda,” he sighs, lifting his hips to fuck your fist. You grin at him, gathering the precum at his tip and coating it over the rest of his cock. “You gonna ride me, baby?”

“Mhm, that’s the plan.” you whisper and Manny moans, rasping and low, in the back of his throat.

Manny breathes heavily through his nose, his hands can’t seem to stop touching you. Running over your thighs, your hips and your waist, thumbing circles on your skin that have you shivering with arousal.

You swing your leg over his hip, back in the same position you were originally in. Manny’s hand drops from your waist to touch himself, jaw slack and eyes stuck on you. He’s beautiful like this, so openly devoted to you and waiting for your next move.

He lines himself up with you, breathing hard and you duck your head down to kiss him sweetly as you ever so slowly sink down onto his cock. Normally, you’d want to drag this out and he’d get you to least two orgasms before fucking you.

But you’re pent up and oh so fucking wet and you can’t help yourself. It’s not like Manny seems to mind, guiding your hips down onto him, teeth biting into his bottom lip and his long eyelashes fluttering as you fully seat yourself onto his cock.

“Take me so well, baby-girl,” he mutters, because Manny does not know when to stop, running his mouth with praise and sweet nothings.

God, you feel so full when you take him like this. Heat creeping up your spine as you give an experimental rock of your hips.

“Fuck, Manny,” you moan, finding purchase with your hands on his shoulder. He starts to thrust up into you, changing the pace to something desperate.

“Again. Say my name again.”

“Manny.”

He leans up, cupping the back of your neck and kissing you fervently, tongue diving into your mouth, mapping out every inch of you, committing it to memory. It makes you roll your hips slower and he pulls back, dark eyes meeting yours.

“Tan hermosa,” he mumbles to himself. “Tan buena para mi.”

He pulls out, brows pinched in concentration and grabs your hips, throwing you down onto the bed, switching your position. He puts one of your ankles over his shoulder and fucks into you faster, hips snapping brutally against your own, filling the room with the lewd slap of skin on skin.

The new angle does something for you. Every thrust of his cock hitting you perfectly, making your eyes roll back and your whimpers become high and raspy in your throat.

“Oh my– fuck!” you cry out, feeling your orgasm approaching, the familiar pooling in your stomach. “Fuck, keep going.”

“Yeah, you’re close aren’t you?” he moans, lips against your ankle as he thrusts his hips harder, driving into you with a renewed intensity. “Yeah, you’re fucking close.”

You let yourself go, pleasure tingling through your veins as you spasm around his cock. A whine leaves your throat, eyes screwed up as he fucks you through it, unrelenting pace and lips on your leg, murmuring how good you are.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby, so fucking pretty when you come.”

He slows, dropping your ankle from his shoulder and he swiftly pulls out once more. You whimper at the loss, reaching out for him and he links your fingers with one hand while the other strokes himself rapidly, hand flying over his cock.

Manny throws his head back, hand faltering and you feel him climax, splattering onto your thighs and you let out a breath, watching him reverently.

“You’re so fucking good for me,” he murmurs, guiding you to lay next to him, eyes heavy and a dopey smile plastered on his face. He rests his head on your shoulder, lips soft against your skin.

You huff, leaning over him to grab an old shirt of his and as you move to wipe it over him, he takes it from you, hands on yours.

“Let me,” he says and wipes at your inner thighs, over your stomach and then himself. He tosses it into the corner of the room and presses a faint kiss to your forehead. “Did I tell you that I missed you?”

“You might’ve mentioned it,” you whisper, smiling at him and settling down, hand playing with his curls, his hand on your thigh and bringing the threadbare blanket up to cover you both.

You found when you first spent the night with him that Manny’s a cuddler in his sleep. It was cute, finding yourself wrapped around each other, both of you getting as close as you can even unconsciously. This morning was no different – limbs tangled together, an arm slung around your waist, legs entwined with your own and his head in the crook of your neck, soft breaths against your shoulder.

You move your hand over his back, fingertips dancing up over divots in his muscles and you lace your fingers in his hair, letting the curls free in the pale morning light. Sunlight streams in through the gap in the blinds, soft yellow rays catching on the dust and coating the bed in warm haze. You smile against his hair, closing your eyes at how content you feel.

Manny stirs, the watch on his wrist beeping incessantly. The sound too loud and too jarring in the fresh morning peace. He fumbles, hands moving away from you as he struggles to turn it off then he slumps back down onto you, warm hands wrapping back around your waist, pressing against you.

His lips are soft as they place absent kisses along your shoulder, over the dip in your collarbones and to the sensitive juncture of your neck.

“Morning, querida,” he murmurs, voice thick and raspy with sleep. A sound that you’re more than used too but doesn’t stop the swoop in your stomach.

“Hi,” you grin at him, tilting your head to meet his lips in a soft, lazy kiss. His eyes flutter and he grins into your mouth.

“God, I wish I didn’t have to go out on this recon run. Not now when I know what you sound like.”

You chuckle quietly, his thumb resting on your cheek as he looks at you reverently, like you held the sun for him.

“I can be here when you get back. I’m supposed to be heading back to the stadium later tonight.”

Manny groans and leans in, lips pressing to yours as his eyes close and sighs, breath fanning against your cheek.

“You’ll wait for me?”

“Always.”

#my fics #discodinosaur #fic: talk so sweet #manny x reader #manny alvarez x reader #manny alvarez x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us manny #the last of us fanfiction

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lieslab · 3 days ago

Text

Every single thing I touch becomes sick with sadness

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Jeongin X gn reader

Summary: After witnessing a traumatizing event, ptsd builds a brick wall between you and your boyfriend.

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 3.6k

Post-traumatic-stress-disorder, anxiety, and depression resources

Trigger warning: Robbery gone wrong, mentions of a knife, blood, shock, death, post-traumatic-stress-disorder, anxiety and depression.

_ _ _

In the murmurs and faint voices, you lost yourself. A hundred different paperbacks sat in front of you. Bright titles, bold, italics, and scribbled titles. From pen names to those that lived with their legal names on full display for the world to see, you let your fingers trace a multitude of spine covers.

A wall of windows soaked the front of your favorite bookstore in sunlight. A tote bag slung across your shoulder as you searched the sea of books. Hundreds of books, a million different adventures. One of them, maybe more, waited for you, so what would it be?

Horror and grotesque? Science-fiction and something new? Perhaps, another romance, despite having your own partner waiting for you back home. You wandered the shelves without a care in the world.

A worker up front greeted another customer. A price scanner beeped and plastic bags ruffled. You ignored it and rounded another corner. The moment you did, your eyes widened. No matter how many times you appeared at your favorite bookstore, you’d always cherish the wall of bookmarks.

Simple patterns and positive quotes, hand-crafted from smaller artists in the area. You appreciated the finer things in life. Your eyes scanned the pieces of laminated card stock and your tongue clicked as you debated on which to get.

A new floral section caught your attention. You bent down to view it better. Every week, they switched out stock and replaced them in a rotating cycle. Every time you appeared, you always found something you liked.

Your attention drifted back upright to the center of the shelf. A gentle hand cupped the cardstock. Right as you pinched a design that caught your eye, the sound of screaming caused you to jerk upright. Your heart skipped a beat and you glanced around your secluded section.

“Give me the fucking money in the register! Give it to me now! Hurry! MOVE!”

The young teenager working the register froze the moment she saw the ski mask covering most of the man’s face. A reflection of the sun caught the man’s blade and flashed off a distant shelf, but a loud bang snapped her out of it.

A ring-clad hand slammed hard on the countertop. She winced, pulled herself from the panic that suffocated her, and pressed a few buttons on the screen. Money shook in her hands as she raked up spare bills to hand it over to the stranger.

The man had his back to you. His frame hid beneath an oversized hoodie and a pair of baggy jeans. Every rational thought dissolved at the sight of the robbery. You couldn’t move your feet, let alone breathe. What if that turned into you?

Last you knew, you were the only other person in the store. The other customer left not too long ago. You were the only one that could step up and try to do something. Your phone sat in the back pocket of your pants. You could have called the cops, but you didn’t. Your phone remained untouched and your limbs turned to stone.

He ripped the bills out of the young girl’s hands. He flipped through them, silently counting, and when it wasn’t enough, he glared. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I-I’m sorry,” her hands went up, trying to sway his anger, and prove she didn’t mean any harm. “The store just opened a half hour ago. We’ve barely had any customers and-”

You didn’t know what happened. It all happened so fast, you couldn’t comprehend it. An arm jerked forward and stabbed. Warm blood sprouted straight from an artery. A quick jab to the neck and a yank back.

And in that moment, everything came back about the young girl. You visited the bookstore so much, you knew each other by name. She enjoyed talking to customers and getting to know the regular visitors, you were no different. Avery was seventeen and in her last year of high school. She was saving up and working at the bookstore throughout the week and a few hours on the weekends.

Nobody liked getting up early on Saturday mornings, but Avery didn’t mind. Avery with her brunette braids, bright hazel eyes, and a smile that still contained braces. Two weeks ago, she mentioned she was tired and embarrassed of them. She felt ashamed to be finishing high school, nearly an adult, and walking around with something that society deemed childish.

You reassured her you liked them, taking the time to compliment her smile as you bought another book. Avery had a habit of telling you about her oversized golden retriever. If there weren’t any other customers around, you lingered and talked to her longer.

She loved books and you swore she had her own built-in miniature library. Based on what you purchased, she often gave you recommendations and excitedly chatted about new books. Avery that gushed over the start of nursing school. Another few months of high school and then she’d finally be free to pursue something else she enjoyed.

She became someone you cared about. Someone that felt like a younger sister. You became protective of her. The last time a customer became snappy with Avery when her manager wasn’t around, you stepped up and told them off when she rapidly blinked back watery tears.

The memories muddled together after the doorbell rang. The ski-masked man rushed through the parking lot with a fist-full of money. You didn’t remember running and ducking down behind the counter, but you remembered screaming for help.

It never came. It didn’t come as you frantically dialed the emergency number with tears blurring your eyes. It wasn’t there as you pushed your hands against Avery’s neck, trying to get the blood to stop oozing out like a spout on a wine box.

The place you kept close to your heart so dearly turned into a nightmare. Your gasp mixed with her gargles. Salty tears mixed with iron blood. The words you uttered seeped into the empty walls.

“Just keep focusing on me. You’re going to be okay. Don’t close your eyes, I’ve got you.”

You knew it must have hurt, the feeling of your hands pressed up against the side of her neck. You didn’t know what else to do. Your tote bag fell off while trying to attend to her injuries. You blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears from your eyes.

You might have said something about her dog. Her only dog, the one with the golden coat that constantly shed. Brutus, she called him. Brutus, the gentle giant that could do no harm. A drool-soaked pink tongue tickled when it brushed against her skin. No matter how much she tried to teach him to stop jumping and licking, he refused. That was the type of dog he was.

She couldn’t get mad when he leaned against her legs. A fluffy tail wagging a hundred miles an hour, she couldn’t be upset. Not when he looked at her like that. Loose fur and drool be damned. Avery liked books and every time you saw her, bits of fur stained her shirt. She dubbed it annoying, you found it comforting. She carried pieces of her furry friend everywhere she went.

She died with unfilled dreams beneath your hands. She wouldn’t get to greet her dog when she came home. Her parents had been saving up a college fund that would soon be used to fuel her funeral expenses instead. The braces wouldn’t come off of her teeth.

The moment a paramedic pulled you off her body, you shrieked. Covered in sticky blood, bits of dog fur, and newfound trauma; you didn’t know the amount of havoc it’d bring to you. You didn’t know your book buying adventure would become a quick invite to someone’s funeral.

Flashing lights, static-filled radios, and paramedics who couldn’t pull answers from you right away; not an adventure, but rather a nightmare you’d never be able to wake up from.

~ ~ ~

When you jerked awake in the middle of the night, tears streamed down your cheeks. You breathed heavily, sucking in oxygen, trying to pull yourself away from the haunted memory. Beside you, Jeongin cautiously reached over and tried to wipe away your tears.

You flinched and jerked back, causing his heart to ache. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have approached you without asking.”

You shook your head and blinked rapidly. “It’s okay. I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t realize you were awake. It’s pretty dark here.”

“I can see you because of the way the moon hits the window. Your outline is viewable. You were thrashing around in your sleep and your nightmares usually um…” He trailed off, not wanting to say the words.

You didn’t respond and let your head dip forward. The entire incident occurred two months ago, but it felt like it happened just last night. You were haunted by the replay of that traumatic event. It always came back, no matter how hard you tried to push the memory away.

You sniffled, reaching up to wipe away your tears. He wanted to reach out and hold you, but he didn’t. Things between the two of you changed drastically. You shattered and he tried to pick up the pieces of you, but you weren’t you after everything occurred.

You became a stranger in your own body. The throttle of anxiety shifted forward and you couldn’t stop it. No matter what your therapist said, no matter the dosage of the anxiety pills you took, it didn’t help. Nothing did and you weren’t sure anything would help you ever again.

The morning it happened, Jeongin burst out of a mid-morning dance practice. You could barely function enough to speak to the hospital staff. Covered in so much blood, they thought you might be injured in the attack, but after changing you into a hospital gown and checking you out, they found nothing physically. Your mental state became an entirely different story.

You couldn’t remember giving his number to the staff, but he said you did. He appeared to find you pale and staring off into space. He didn’t know what to say and neither did you. He gently hugged you, hoping to provide you comfort. To this day, you still didn’t know if it had worked, or not.

Life turned bleak and, besides the constant burst of anxiety you experienced when out in about, you felt nothing. A distant numbness filled your body. Avery haunted your dreams, she begged you to save her, but you couldn’t change the past.

You tried. In the moments you found yourself alone, you silently pleaded for it. You should have tried to do something, tackle the man, run after him with a large book, or scream and call the cops. Even if it would have killed you, at least Avery would have been alive and on life’s track. She could have run away, but she didn’t.

Haunted by what-ifs, paralyzed by scenarios that remained unplayed, you couldn’t function anymore. Not in the way people wanted you to. You became an entirely different person afterwards. In the mirror, you couldn’t recognize yourself. Dull eyes, hollowed cheeks, and baggy clothes. Nothing fit you properly. You couldn’t bring yourself to eat much, it made you nauseous.

The therapist called it post-traumatic-stress-disorder. She said it’d get easier with time. She promised it’d get better, but trauma is never easy. You walked around numbly with invisible weights in your back pockets. Every day, another added onto the stack. That’s what it felt like.

“Baby?” Jeongin uttered.

“Hm?”

“Do you want me to hold you?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” He laid back down, burrowing beneath the covers. Gentle hands reached out for you and you shifted closer. Your eyes shut and you sucked in a deep breath.

Curled against his beating heart, you tried to forget how it felt when Avery’s stopped beneath your hands. When a final guttural wheeze turned into silence, a stillness flooded into the entire store, and suddenly, you felt eerily alone.

Even in Jeongin’s arms, when would you stop feeling so alone?

~ ~ ~

“Are you doing it again?” Jeongin asked as he approached the recliner.

Silent tears slowly streamed down your face and you sniffled. “I-I can’t help it. She had an Instagram page and she took so many photos. Her dog probably still thinks she’s coming home. Even worse,” your voice went shrill, “he thinks she abandoned him.”

“Baby, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.” He reached forward, trying to tug the phone from your hands, but you jerked it out of reach.

“Look at this!” You clicked on her latest post and showed him. “One of her coworkers took it while she was working at the cash register. She posted it b-because she liked her job and I-I just-”

A sob broke out of your mouth as the device slipped from your hands. It hit the ground with a faint thud. Tears coated your cheeks and your entire body shook. Jeongin dropped to his knees and gently pulled you against his body.

You fell apart so easily now. Everything stung. It started to hurt to breathe. You didn’t blame the robber for killing Avery, you blamed yourself and you couldn’t stop it. It spiraled out of control and you found yourself sucked into a void.

So you clicked her obituary and read all the well-wishes from friends and family members. You lingered on her Instagram page, trying to remember the girl you once knew. You remembered her bright and vibrant personality, making the bookstore feel otherworldly. She would have been a good nurse.

She should have been a nurse.

A college graduate.

A high school graduate.

An adult.

She should have found her way out of her braces, with a straightened smile, and lived a life full of complaints and misery; due to the insufferable annoyance of living with a retainer.

It vanished in a matter of minutes. The thrust of a knife. The spewing of heart-pumped blood. Another teenager robbed of their adulthood for some cruel unknown reason.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

It tore you apart and ripped your heart to shreds. It pulverized your soul and spit it back out in the form of mismatched puzzle pieces that you couldn’t create a puzzle with. So you ached and your own heart slowly oozed out of you.

You couldn’t breathe when these things happened. Your lungs refused to fill up with fresh air. Your windpipe rejected normalcy. Your heart refused to beat regularly. It all felt wrong and so confusing. You didn’t know how long it’d last.

Fresh grief is a sharp knife that rarely dulls. No matter where you went, it remained embedded in your heart. No amount of praying, or pills took it away. The therapist said they’d find something that’d help you, but you started to give up hope.

Hope died with you when Avery died. You were an empty carcass and Jeongin tried to console you. Even now as you fell apart in his arms, he pushed your hair back. He kissed the top of your head and rubbed your back. A gentle rocking motion of your body, just as a parent that rocked the cradle of their sleeping baby.

Maybe it’s why you felt safe and secure enough to slowly drift off to sleep, tear-stained with swollen eyes, in his comforting arms.

~ ~ ~

“Jeongin?” You whispered his name as your eyes drifted shut on the couch. A few days later, you crawled into his lap, not wanting to be alone with your own thoughts.

“Yes, baby?”

Your chin rested on his shoulder and your arms sat along his torso. He held you close, inhaling your scent, and soaking up the sweetness of you. You pulled away from him, for quite a while, but he didn’t hound you about it. He knew you needed time to grieve and cope. He trusted you’d reach out, just like this, when you were ready.

“I don’t think I can love you properly when I’m scared of the entire world. I don’t want you to have to wait for someone who might never feel safe ever again.”

His arms stiffened around your body. “What do you mean? Help me understand.”

“I’m so scared,” you continued. “I’m terrified to step outside, worried that it’ll happen all over again. I don’t have the answers you want, Jeongin. I don’t know how to feel whole. There’s a wavering emptiness and no matter what I do, I still feel hollow.”

You pulled back, so you could see the face you fell in love with. The kind eyes and double dimples. A smile that caused ice glaciers to melt and kept the snowdrifts at bay. Strands of fluffy black hair fell over his forehead.

“You don’t have to be okay right now. You don’t have to be okay if you don’t feel okay, but I’m staying right here. I’m staying right here because, even if you don’t know how to manage right now, I still love you.”

You blinked rapidly. Hot tears filled your eyes and you tried to swallow the lump in your throat. “But if the person you fell in love with disappears? What if I never come back?”

He reached up, letting his thumbs brush away a few tears. “I don’t think you realize you’re still you. You went through something traumatic and it changed you. It was terrible and tragic, but you’re still with me. Pieces of you are still here, even if you don’t realize it.”

“You’re the same person that still makes me warm tea when you sense something is wrong with me. Even when you’re feeling miserable, you still find a way to do it. You’re the one that greets me when I come home from work.”

“Not like I used to,” you countered.

“You’re still in the living room. I don’t mind walking over to you and sitting down while you’re mourning. You’re still here and trying to show up. That’s enough for me.”

He gently cupped your cheeks. “You’re worrying about me too much, baby. You need to take this time to worry about yourself. I’m not going anywhere, not anytime soon. This didn’t happen to me, this isn’t about me, it’s about you.”

A lump expanded in your throat and you sucked in a deep breath. “I’m just…” You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to fight the overwhelming urge to fall apart again. “Figuring i-it out and I can’t bear watching anyone else get hurt. I-I don’t wanna-” Your head shook frantically.

“I understand. You’re going through something really difficult and you’re being so brave.” He smiled and your eyes reopened. “I know you might feel rough, but I’m really proud of you.”

“You’re not mad at me for waking you up when I have nightmares and start screaming?”

“No.”

“When I feel trapped and can’t get out of bed on certain days?”

“I’m not against holding you close if it makes you feel better. Naps are nice. We could even lay out here in the living room and watch TV.”

“Doesn’t it annoy you when you try to take me out grocery shopping, or on a date, and I freak out and we have to come back home?”

His head shook. He reached up, pushing a piece of hair away from your tears. “Not at all. You witnessed something brutal and you’re not going to be okay after that. Nobody can walk away from things like that. It takes a while to come back from it.”

“What if I can never shake the flashbacks?”

He paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. “I think it’ll get better with time, but if it doesn’t, I’ll still be here. I fell in love with you for a variety of reasons. This isn’t going to make me give up on loving you. I think you’re the only one that’s blaming yourself for what happened.”

“The cops have the guy, baby. We went to the funeral together. You remember what Avery’s parents said? They thanked you for trying to help.”

Your bottom lip quivered. “I-I still can’t believe the funeral home allowed them to bring her dog. When we went up to the casket-”

“He jumped up on you like he knew you, even though he’d never jumped up on anyone else. Animals are sensitive to certain things. I’m sure he somehow knew you tried. Brutus would lick away your tears if he were here right now.”

You weakly laughed and shook your head. “I don’t think they’d taste very good. I haven’t showered in like three days. I know I should, but I don’t have the energy.”

“Do you want me to help? Even if you wanna sit down and take a bath, I have hands. I can still wash your hair. I have a younger brother, remember? I know how to keep soap from your eyes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Come on!” He grabbed your hips and lifted you up with ease. You squealed and jerked your arms around his neck. He hummed happily as he walked you into the bathroom. “And maybe,” he went on, “maybe we should consider getting you a dog.”

“A dog?” You tipped your head and narrowed your eyes. “For what?”

He shrugged and grabbed the end of your shirt. “Only if you’re interested, but I think if you had someone here supporting you twenty-four-seven, maybe it’d help a little.”

“You really think so?”

“I don’t think it’d be a bad idea to have an emotional support pet. I think it’d be great for both of us. Plus, I’ve always wanted a dog.”

“Even a big giant golden retriever that has a heart of gold and drools everywhere?”

“I already deal with Seungmin and Felix, it can’t be much different than that.”

For the first time in weeks, you finally broke into a grin and laughed.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght @chrizrizz @ari-hwanggg @m-325 @justcallmewhatyoulike

Masterlist

Taglist and inbox rules

Ko-fi

#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #stray kids drabbles #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #yang jeongin #yang jeongin stray kids #yang jeongin skz #yang jeongin scenarios #yang jeongin fanfic #yang jeongin x reader #yang jeongin x you #yang jeongin x y/n #jeongin angst

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milk-is-stable · 1 day ago

Text

The Shoot From the Hip Hunger Games: Day 2

Masterpost (<-START HERE! the posts are best read in order)

Content Warning: descriptions of violence, blood/injury, suicide ideation, major character death

The sun rises on the second day of the Hunger Games, and the TV flickers to life as the Capitol anthem plays. A beautiful aerial shot of the arena fills the screen, before the camera zooms down beneath the trees to show the tributes beginning their day.

The first group the camera shows is the largest: Michael, Pinocchio, Peter, and Sally. The four are sitting around a campfire, roasting a freshly skinned rabbit.

“How did you know how to set that trap?” Pinocchio asks, and Sally shrugs.

“Well, I spent a lot of time alone after my sister got married,” she says. “So I occupied myself by reading through all the books in my father’s library. One of them was on wilderness survival, and I’ve always had a very keen memory.”

“That’s certainly a useful skill,” Michael says. “Are we going to stay allies for the time being, then?”

Peter nods, licking the grease from his fingers.

“I think so. I certainly feel better being in a large group of people.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Pinocchio says, looking off into the trees. “For now, at least.”

“Then we should decide whether our focus is on other individuals or on alliances. Not to mention make sure we have enough food.”

“We could split up jobs?” Peter suggests. “Have some people make sure we get food, have others go out scouting?”

No one objects to his idea, and after some discussion Michael and Pinocchio agree to go scouting for information on other tributes’ whereabouts while Sally and Peter look for food and clean water.

“Meet back here by midday to share what we’ve learned,” Michael says, then he and Pinocchio head off into the trees.

Sally waits until they’re gone, then takes a deep breath.

“Right then,” she says, getting to her feet.

“I appreciate the fire and the company, but I’ll be off now.”

“Hang on, what?” says Peter. “I thought we had a plan!”

“You three have a plan, I’m just not going to be part of it.”

“If you didn’t like the idea, then why didn’t you say so earlier?” Peter asks, and Sally sighs.

“The idea is fine, I just don’t want to be in this alliance, period.”

“But staying in a group is so much more dangerous than being alone…” says Peter, and Sally runs a hand through her hair.

"I'm not against the idea of working with another tribute on principle, I just...I don't want to work with either of them, alright?"

Peter tilts his head.

"Why not?"

"Well...I have a sort of...let's call it a gift, for reading people's intentions. And I don't like the feeling of either of those two. Michael is nice enough, but I think whatever it is he's been through has given him a hard edge. Not only that, but he hides it well, and that makes me nervous. I don’t know how long he’d be willing to play allies for."

"Pinocchio seems fine," Peter protests, but Sally shakes her head.

"Pinocchio isn't taking the loss of his sister well, and his grief makes him unpredictable. And unpredictability is the last thing I want to deal with in this place. So I'm leaving, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't follow me."

"What can you tell about my intentions, then?" Peter asks. "I don't want to hurt anyone, why can't we stay allies?"

Sally smiles sadly.

"I know you don't want to hurt me, but you've got a family you want to get back to, don't you? Can you honestly say you wouldn't do what you had to in the end, if it meant you got to see your mum again?"

He doesn't answer, and Sally nods.

"That's what I thought. Take care out there, Peter. I hope for both our sakes that we don't meet again.”

She turns and walks into the trees, and the shot fades away, before fading into a shot of Inga, Johnny, and Priscilla packing up their supplies for the day.

"Did you have any dreams last night, Johnny?" Inga asks, and the boy nods, picking at his fingernails nervously.

"I dreamed that you found a plant in the woods that we could use to help us if we got hurt, and you were sharing it with me and the boy from Seven."

"Any sign of your brother?" asks Priscilla. Johnny looks at her for a moment, then shakes his head.

"Well, I guess we'd better start looking for some medicinal herbs then," Inga says, slinging her pack over her shoulder. "Luckily, I'm very good at plants and things."

"And we can do some hunting at the same time," Priscilla says, holding up her bow and arrow. "That way we don't have to eat the jerky right away."

"As long as you're sure you can hit your target and not scare it off," Inga says, and Priscilla makes an indignant noise.

"I can too hit a target! I practiced in the training room and I'm a good shot, see?"

She knocks an arrow, pulls back the string, and fires. The arrow flies directly into a bush at the edge of the clearing.

Inga has just enough time to raise an unimpressed eyebrow before a baseball sized rock comes flying towards them from the direction of the bush. Priscilla gasps in pain as the stone strikes her square in the collarbone, knocking the wind out of her and sending her staggering back. Inga spins, drawing her knife, and Johnny ducks down, making himself a smaller target.

Marty bursts out into the clearing, a manic grin on his face and his hatchet in his hand. He runs straight towards Priscilla and swings the tool at her. She instinctively holds up her weapon to block his blow, then shrieks as the blade of the hatchet makes contact with her fingers where they're wrapped around the grip, slicing them clean off.

She drops her bow immediately, clutching her injured hand and sobbing in pain. Marty moves to swing the hatchet again, but Inga tackles him to the ground before he can strike.

Johnny hurries to Priscilla's side, helping her to her feet, but she looks up at him with tear-filled eyes.

"You have to run!" she cries.

"What about you?"

"You didn't see me in your dreams, did you?" she asks, and after a beat, Johnny shakes his head. "So you don’t have to think about me. Run!"

Priscilla turns and staggers off into the woods, and after a moment Johnny turns and runs in the opposite direction.

Meanwhile, Marty has managed to knock the knife out of Inga's hand and pin her to the ground. He reaches for his hatchet again, but before he can bring it down Inga knees him in the groin. As he lets out a moan of pain, Inga wriggles out from under him and runs into the woods herself. After a moment, Marty manages to get to his feet, his grip on the hatchet tightening.

"You'll pay for that, you bitch!" he shouts, and takes off after her as fast as he can.

The camera cuts to a close up of a berry bush, and a soft voice can be heard singing in the distance, gradually getting louder and louder, as though the singer is walking closer to the camera.

"Lady-bird, Lady-bird, fly away home, The field mouse is gone to her nest"

A hand appears in the shot, pulling some berries from the bush. The camera pulls back to reveal Benjamin gathering the berries into the pockets of his jacket.

"The daisies have shut up their sleepy red eyes, and the birds and the bees are at rest," he sings.

His eyes are distant and bloodshot, as though he spent the night crying.

"Lady-bird, Lady-bird, fly away home. Your house is on fire, Your children are gone. All except one, and her name is Ann, for she hid under the frying pan."

The camera cuts away and shows a view of Julian, who is wrestling with a pile of thin branches in an attempt to get them to stand upright. He tries to use a length of tall grass to lash them together, but he is unsuccessful and the branches clatter to the ground.

"Want a hand with that?" a voice asks, and Julian spins around, brandishing one of the sticks like a baseball bat.

"Whoa, it's okay." Chip holds up his hands in surrender. "I just want to talk."

"...what about?" Julian asks, and Chip takes a deep breath.

"My ally, she betrayed me. She took off in the middle of the night with my food, and I'm not too keen on trying to deal with the likes of Caesar or Robin without help. I wondered if you'd want to team up."

Julian hesitates, but then he nods, and Chip smiles.

"Here. I do have some string in this bag," he says, sliding a small backpack from his shoulders. "Let's see if we can get a lean-to built, then we'll go foraging."

The two begin gathering up the branches and arranging them into the vague shape of a shelter, and the camera zooms out.

It zips over the treetops in a blur of green before leaving the woods behind, coming to rest over the more sparse, rocky landscape of the northern part of the arena. There is movement visible down among the rocks, and the camera pushes in to show Janae and Robin in the throes of a confrontation near the edge of a ravine.

Janae brandishes his makeshift spear, but Robin is armed with a proper, Capitol-made steel mace, and when he swings the weapon it breaks the end off of Janae's filed down tree branch as easily as a child snapping a pencil. Janae's eyes dart around, looking for any chance of escape, but as his foe closes in there's nowhere for him to go. Robin swings the mace, and Janae instinctively leans back to try and avoid the attack. In doing so, he loses his footing, and with a shout of alarm he stumbles backward down the ravine. Robin runs closer, peering over the edge just in time to see Janae's body roll to a stop at the bottom of the valley and to hear a cannon shot echo through the arena. He lets out a sigh, then turns away from the scene, his mouth a grim line of determination.

The camera cuts to show Hugh, who is walking sluggishly through the forest. His eyes are sunken, and his chest rises and falls with short, quick breaths. He looks around as he walks, squinting at the trees suspiciously.

"You can't be here!" he calls loudly into the woods. "You're not here! You leave me alone!" He stops, turns a few times, then shakes his head and covers his ears. "You're not here!" he repeats in a loud voice. "You're gone! We beat you! Get out of my head! Leave me alone!"

As the shot pulls back into an aerial shot, his cries are still audible until the camera finally cuts.

The focus is now on Sally, who is walking through the forest alone. She has taken her jacket off and is using it as a makeshift bag, and it is full of foraged berries, roots, and leaves. The sound of a quiet sob stops her in her tracks, and her eyes dart around, taking in her surroundings.

"Hello?" she calls after a moment, and a sudden hitch of breath draws her attention to a large pine tree.

There, curled up in the makeshift nest that she slept in, is Alexa.

Her eyes are puffy and red, and most of her dark hair has fallen out of her bun and hangs in a stringy curtain around her face. She looks up as Sally approaches, and her face crumples.

"If you're going to kill me, just do it quickly," she says, looking away.

"Hey, take it easy," says Sally, her voice gentle. "I'm not going to kill you."

"No?" Alexa asks, and Sally shakes her head.

"No."

"Oh." Alexa wraps her arms around herself and looks away. "Well, you should."

Sally carefully sits down a few feet away, leaving plenty of space between herself and the little girl.

"Why is that?" she asks, and Alexa sniffles.

"Because it would be easy for you," she says. "Because I am small and weak and useless, and I cannot even last a day in these woods by myself. Because Janusz..." she hiccups, and her eyes fill with fresh tears. "Because Janusz is dead, and it's all my fault, and I don't deserve to be here anymore."

She buries her face in her knees, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and Sally lets out a sigh.

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs, edging closer to the little girl and placing a hand on her shoulder. "None of that is true. None of it at all."

"It IS true," Alexa insists. "If I- if I hadn't sent Janusz away, then maybe he...he wouldn't have gotten...I was just trying to protect him, but I did it wrong, just like I always do everything wrong..."

"Do you know how Janusz died?" Sally asks, and Alexa shakes her head.

"I, I guess not, but-"

"Then you can't say it was your fault," Sally says firmly. "You have no way of knowing for sure, and thinking about what might have happened will only make you miserable, trust me."

"I..." Alexa gulps. "I don't want to be here anymore. Not without him."

"I know," says Sally. "But do you know what else I know?"

"What?"

"I know that Janusz cared about you very much. And he wouldn't want you to give up now. He would want you to keep fighting, as hard as you can for as long as you can."

"Really?"

"Really."

"How do you know for sure?" asks Alexa, and Sally smiles.

"I have very good intuition. You could even call it a gift. Here. Are you hungry?" She holds out her makeshift bag of food, and after a moment Alexa takes a handful of berries.

"Everything's going to be alright, Alexa," Sally says, wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulder. "I promise."

The camera cuts abruptly from a close up of Alexa to a close up of Pinocchio as he and Michael walk through the woods.

"I'm not crazy, right? This was the spot?" Michael asks, and Pinocchio nods.

"This is the same grove of trees."

"And yet our supplies are missing, and so are two of our allies," says Michael, looking around suspiciously. "You don't think they betrayed us, do you?"

"I don't know," Pinocchio says, shrugging. "Neither one seemed very malevolent to me, though."

"I don't like this." Michael looks around. "It feels like we're walking right into some kind of tr–”

Before he can finish, a knife comes flying out of the trees and embeds itself into his side. Michael's surprised cry of pain is drowned out by the sound of Caesar yelling as he and Jasper charge towards the campsite. Pinocchio tries to draw his own knife, but he is too slow and before he fully has it ready, Caesar thrusts his trident into Pinocchio's stomach.

"Oh..." Pinocchio's eyes go wide and he falls backwards, hitting the ground with a dull *thud.*

"That's what you get for messing with us, you little freak," Caesar growls, yanking his trident free.

"Caesar! The other one's getting away!" Jasper calls, and Caesar turns to see Michael staggering off into the trees.

"After him!" he shouts, and the two allies take off in pursuit.

The camera stays on Pinocchio's face and he coughs, blood spurting from his lips as he looks up at the sky.

"I'll be with you soon, sorella mia," he says. "I'm sorry...Papa."

The light fades from his eyes, and as the camera zooms out to show his body lying in a pool of blood, a cannon shot echoes through the arena.

The broadcast will now break for commercial. Please tune in again soon to see what else will become of our tributes on the first day of the games!

Game Summary

Deaths:

Pinocchio was killed by Caesar and Jasper

Janae was killed by Scottish Robin

Kill Counts:

Pinocchio: 2 (Maria, Jimmy)

Inga: 1 (Jim L)

Caesar: 2 (Juliet, Pinocchio)

Chip: 1 (Clarissa)

Jasper: 1 (Pinocchio)

Robin: 1 (Janae)

Game Meta

Pinocchio, more like Pinocchi-noooo.....My heart is broken and my dreams are shattered, but the show must go on. The biggest change today was, for some reason, Michael got another picture of his family from a sponsor. Someone just really wants him to think of his maybe-divorced-maybe-back-together parents, I guess. So I had to come up with original things for him to do that incorporates some setup for things that will happen in the next Night and Days to come. I also decided to make Janae's cliff death a little more dramatic by giving it, at least indirectly, to Robin. (apologies if this one is a little sloppier than the previous days, I didn't have as much time to edit it as I'd have liked. thanks for reading!)

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vingtetunmars · 1 day ago

Text

Unlisted

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!Reader

Summary: Din Djarin accepts a bounty from Captain Teva to track down a mysterious fugitive hiding in the lower levels of Coruscant. Things took a left turn when his son took a liking to her.

Part 2 / Part 3

Tags: Enemies to Lovers-ish?, Grogu plays matchmaker, set after season 3, slow burn, pre-relationship, star wars content that may or may not be canon. I think both are equally emotionally unavailable. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Din Djarin have been plaguing my mind, and this turns out to be a longer fic than I anticipated, sooo...yeah.... If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 4.067

Masterlist

You kept your head down. Not just metaphorically, either — the hood stays up, shadowing your face like a curtain drawn on a stage you no longer wish to perform on.

Down here, in the belly of Coruscant, the sky was a myth. The higher levels sparkled with hover traffic and clean storefronts, but the lower levels — Level 1313 and below — were where light came in flickers. Neon buzzed overhead, casting pale blue veins down crumbling walls. You slipped through the crowd like a whisper, unnoticed, which was how you like it.

Your boots splashed through puddles that hadn’t seen sunlight in years. A vendor hollered about fried mynock skewers behind you; someone screamed further down the street — no one turned their head. It was just another day.

You reached the alley behind the scrapyard, the one that still had an access panel no one’s noticed. A sharp knock in a three-beat rhythm, and the door opens — you’ve greased enough palms to keep that privilege. Inside, your makeshift workspace waits: scraps of old droids, power cells half-drained, a busted protocol unit whose vocabulator you’ve been repurposing as a signal jammer.

It's not pretty, but it works. And that's what matters.

You slid off your outer cloak, revealing the belt of tools at your hip. Plasma cutter, sonic wrench, home-built pulse bomb. You always carry more tricks than anyone expects. That’s probably the only reason you’re not in a cell. Yet.

You were just about to reroute a power coupling when you felt it — not a sound, not a shadow, just presence. A change in the air behind you.

You turned, fast—

—and he was already there.

Silver beskar, unmoving. The T-shaped visor locked onto you. He hadn't made a sound, not a single footstep. You stumbled back a half-step.

"You're a hard one to find," the modulated voice said.

Your hand moved before your brain did. A flashbang slipped from your belt — you hurl it down, shielding your eyes as light erupts.

You didn't wait to see if it worked.

Your legs were burning, breath tight in your chest, but the alleys blur past in streaks of shadow and neon. You darted through steam vents, leapt a fallen droid chassis, and ducked into the narrow crawlspace between two shuttered stalls.

For a second, all you heard was your own heartbeat.

Then — the low, mechanical thud of boots on metal.

He was still coming.

You pivoted out the other end, slammed a panel shut behind you, and vaulted up onto a maintenance ladder. The climb was fast, practiced. You’ve done this route before — knew you’d need it someday.

Tonight was that day.

You reached the catwalk above, drew your sonic wrench, and twisted it until it whines with unstable energy. Footsteps hit the ladder behind you.

You didn’t hesitate. You turned and launched yourself off the catwalk — straight at him.

Mid-air, you jab the wrench forward. It connected with his pauldron and lets out a crackling burst that should’ve dropped anyone else.

But he wasn’t just anyone.

The impact staggered him, barely. He gripped your wrist mid-strike, wrenched your arm sideways, and you cried out — but you twisted with it, slammed your knee into his ribs, planted a boot against his chest, and shoved off hard.

You both hit the ground — you rolled, he lands heavy.

You sprung to your feet first, palm a smoke charge from your belt, and slammed it into the floor. White haze erupts.

You vanished into it.

You could hear him coughing behind his helmet — the charge is laced with an irritant, non-toxic but disorienting. It bought you seconds.

You moved fast, ducking under hanging cables, burst through a flickering doorway—

—and hit a solid wall of beskar.

He must’ve flanked you.

You striked first — a knife from your boot into your hand in a blink. You slashed low, aiming for the thigh joint.

He blocked it with his vambrace, grabbed your forearm, and swung you around. Your back crashed into a pillar. The knife clattered away.

You were gasping, arm pinned, struggling — and then you felt it. The snap of a cold metal cuff around your wrist.

You froze.

His grip tightens for half a second, then loosens — not out of mercy. Just efficiency.

“You done?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

But your glare could burn through beskar.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The walk back to the Razor Crest was silent, save for the shifting of your boots against the metal of the landing pad. You were still cuffed, and you’ve stopped struggling — but The Mandalorian doesn’t relax. Not yet.

He had enough runs to know that quiet didn’t mean safe.

You didn't say a word, just kept your hood low and your jaw set like you were chewing on the galaxy’s worst secret. He didn’t ask what it was. That wasn’t his job.

He got the puck from Captain Teva three rotations ago. No chain code, just a vague directive — female, human, operating out of the lower levels of Coruscant. Wanted alive. High payout.

“New Republic’s nervous,” Teva had said, crackling through the holocomm. “No official charges I can find. No open case file. Just… pressure from the top. Someone wants her quiet.”

The Mandalorian had asked the usual questions. What’d you do? Who are you?

Teva had shrugged. “I don’t know. Hell, they didn’t even give me a name.”

That was the part that stuck with him. No name, no record, no crime listed — but a full-system alert and credits on the table.

Which meant whoever you were, someone high up wanted you gone without questions.

He’d taken the job anyway. Credits were credits. And he had mouths to feed.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Razor Crest creaked as the ramp closes behind him. He tossed your gear onto a bench — gadgets, explosives, tools that look cobbled together out of junk and genius. Then he guided you toward the carbonite chamber.

You froze when you saw it. “Seriously?” you muttered, voice raw from running, but steady. “You’re freezing me?”

“It’s the safest way,” he said flatly.

“For who?” you snapped. “I won’t run.”

He hesitated. Not because he believed you — but because you looked him in the visor, and there was something behind your eyes that didn't match the bounty he was told to expect.

You look tired. Sharp, but worn down. And more than anything, angry. Not reckless — cornered.

“I’m not stupid,” you added, quieter now. “You’d catch me again. Just… don’t freeze me.”

The Mandalorian glanced toward the carbonite controls. It would be easier. Safer. Less complicated.

But he had already seen how resourceful you are. If you wanted to escape, you would’ve tried already. You could have blown yourself and half the alley apart with that last trick you never used.

“I’ll cuff you to the bunk,” he said.

You nodded once. No snark. No protest.

He almost preferred it when people are mouthy. It’s easier than silence like this — silence that carries weight.

He cuffed you to the narrow bed in the small bunk area and shuts the panel behind him. Then he climbed up to the cockpit and sets a course for Adelphi.

Grogu coos softly from his seat, eyes wide.

“I don’t know either, kid,” The Mandalorian mutters, sinking into the pilot’s chair. “Something’s off.”

He didn’t say it, but he knew: this is the kind of job that never stays simple.

The hum of the engines has settled into a steady rhythm — low, comforting, like a lullaby wrapped in metal. You sat cuffed to the bunk, legs stretched out, back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.

The Razor Crest was old, rugged. Not like the sleek, polished ships you used to know. It’s held together by care and stubbornness, and judging by the wear on the walls, it’s seen more battles than peace.

You breathed in slowly, finally letting your shoulders drop. You were not in a cell. Not frozen. That’s something.

Then you heard it — a soft patter, like tiny feet on metal.

You looked toward the corner, squinting.

A small green creature with wide eyes and bigger ears stands halfway down the ladder, blinking up at you like you’re the strange thing in the room.

“…What the kriff?”

He tilted his head.

You sat up straighter, unsure whether to laugh or be concerned. He toddles down the last few steps, round eyes locked on yours. No fear. Just curiosity. And maybe… sympathy?

“I didn’t know he brought pets,” you muttered, watching him wobbled closer. “Or... children?”

He stopped just out of your reach, still staring. Then, slowly, carefully, he lifted a hand and wiggled his fingers.

You raised an eyebrow. “That a hello, or a warning?”

He cooed.

You blinked, a short laugh escaping your throat before you could help it. “Alright, you’re cute. That’s illegal.”

Before he could get any closer, the sound of metal boots clanking on the ladder echoed down from above. You glanced toward it just in time to see silver beskar descend — slow, heavy, with purpose.

The Mandalorian stepped into view just as the kid reached your side. He stopped dead in his tracks.

“Grogu,” he said sharply, voice low with warning.

The little one startled but doesn’t move.

“I told you to stay in your seat.”

Grogu looked back at him with the most innocent eyes you’ve ever seen on a living thing. You watched the standoff, entirely entertained.

“Kid has taste,” you quipped. “And a better sense of company.”

The Mandalorian didn’t answer you — he walks over and scooped Grogu up gently but firmly, holding him under one arm like a wayward satchel.

“You shouldn’t be near her,” he muttered to the kid, glancing at you.

“Her is right here,” you said, raising both brows. “And I’m not gonna hurt him. Honestly, didn’t expect you to have a soft side.”

His helmet turned toward you.

“He’s not part of the job,” he said simply, climbing the ladder with Grogu in hand.

You smirked after them. “Didn’t say he was.”

The panel slid shut behind him, sealing you in again. You let your head fall back against the wall and smile to yourself.

So the bounty hunter has a kid.

This just got more interesting.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You weren’t sure how long you’ve been in hyperspace. Time feels like sludge in a durasteel box, but the constant thrum of the engines and the gentle sway of the ship made it bearable.

What makes it better was the small, green creature who kept sneaking down the ladder like he owns the place.

The first time after the initial scolding, he was sneakier. You heard the soft squeak of feet before you saw the ears poke around the corner. This time, you didn't say a word — just gave him a little nod and a smirk. An unspoken truce.

Then came the second visit. And the third.

By the fourth, you were sitting cross-legged on the bunk, cuffs clinking quietly as Grogu sat on the floor in front of you, trying to mimic the motion of one of your tools using only the Force and a very determined face.

You glance toward the closed panel overhead. “He’s gonna come down again and scoop you up like a misbehaving tooka, you know.”

Grogu just gurgles.

“Right,” you sighed. “Rebel spirit. Should’ve known.”

The panel opened. Speak of the devil.

The Mandalorian climbed down the ladder, visor landing on the pair of you instantly.

“Grogu.”

It was the same tone as before — firm, quiet, expectant. Grogu’s ears twitch like he’d been caught drawing on walls again.

“He’s not doing anything,” you said, raising your cuffed hands. “Just hanging out.”

“He shouldn’t be near you.”

“Why? You think I’m dangerous?”

He didn’t answer. He just crossed the room and gently scooped Grogu up again. Grogu let out a protesting whine, tiny arms reaching toward you as he's lifted away.

“Maker forbid someone wants to be my friend,” you muttered, mostly to yourself — but you didn't miss the way the Mandalorian paused at that.

The visits didn’t stop.

Over time, Grogu got bolder. He sat on your lap. Tugs at your sleeves. Tried to mimic your expressions. You started talking to him in low tones — nothing personal, just stories. Jokes. The occasional grumble about hyperspace.

You learned quickly that he likes to coo when amused and tilt his head to manipulate you into silence. He was an expert.

At one point, you held up your cuffs and shook them lightly. “These really ruin the vibe, don’t they?”

He looked up at you with wide eyes, then turned to the ladder.

“Don’t even think about it—” you started.

A few moments later, you heard the Mandalorian climbing down again. He stepped off the ladder, helmet tilting in that what now way.

Grogu was standing beside you, one hand lightly on the chain of your cuffs. He looked up at the Mandalorian and lets out a pleading whine, eyes huge, gesturing with tiny fingers like he was explaining something very serious.

You shrugged one shoulder, as much as the chain allows. “I told you. He just wants a friend.”

A long beat.

You couldn't see his face, but something shifts in the air — maybe in the set of his shoulders, maybe in the way his helmet lingered on Grogu.

Finally, he sighed — that kind of sigh that sounds heavier than it should.

Then he moved. Keys in a code. The cuffs popped open with a metallic click.

You stared at him, rubbing your wrists. “Didn’t think you’d actually—”

“Don’t make me regret it,” he muttered, already turning back toward the ladder.

Grogu gave a pleased coo and nestled back into your lap like he’d just won a game only he was playing.

You glanced at the little guy. “You’ve got him wrapped around your tiny fingers, don’t you?”

He just blinked up at you, innocent as ever.

You leaned back against the wall, cuff-free, your first real breath in hours escaping you.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

It was a rocky descent.

You were strapped into the jump seat in the hold, with Grogu curled beside you in his floating pod, blinking sleepily as the Razor Crest cuts through the atmosphere. The landing thrusters groan in protest — this planet wasn’t exactly known for friendly ports.

The Mandalorian appeared at the top of the ladder, helmet reflecting the blue-green light of the planet below.

“Stay on the ship.” he added.

Grogu lets out a soft coo, like he disagreed.

You shrugged. “Fine. I like it here. Cozy.”

He paused at the top of the ladder. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you felt his stare. Measuring.

Then—

“You’re coming with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“There’s a bounty. Quick grab. I don’t want to leave Grogu alone.”

You glanced down at the kid, who seems entirely unbothered and was now nibbling on a snack he absolutely did not ask permission to eat.

“And I’m your trusted babysitter now?”

“If you run, I shoot you,” he replied evenly.

You sighed and got to your feet. “That’s fair.”

You were walking slightly behind Mando, hood up, hands tucked in your coat. Grogu floated between you, his pod humming softly. The outpost reeks of oil and sun-baked metal. A couple of locals eye you warily, but the gleam of beskar kept them at a distance.

“Who’s the target?” you asked under your breath.

Mando taps a puck. “Rolk Tenek. Rodian. Wanted for arms smuggling and ditching New Republic probation.”

“Aw. A real gentleman.”

The bounty’s signal led to a rust-stained scrapyard on the edge of the city. You spotted movement near one of the larger hulks — a Rodian hauling crates into the back of a shuttle. No guards. Sloppy.

“I’ll circle around,” Mando said.

You nodded but hesitated. “Wait. He’s powering up the shuttle. You sneak in, and he’s gone the second you step out.”

“I’m not asking for advice.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Just don’t get mad when I save your ass.”

He vanished around the right side of the yard.

Predictably, all hell broke loose.

You hear a crash, followed by blaster fire. You dart behind a stack of old droid plating just as a second Rodian — a lookout — emerged from the scrap with a blaster raised.

He spotted Mando and fires.

You were already moving.

Your hand dipped into your coat and pulls out a small, disk-shaped gadget. You twisted the edge — click — and rolled it across the ground toward the attacker. It hummed once, then popped with a bright burst of light and a short-range EMP pulse.

The Rodian’s blaster fizzled.

By the time he looked down, you were on him. A kick to the knee, elbow to the gut, and he went down hard.

You looked up just in time to see Mando haul the main bounty — stunned and grumbling — out of the shuttle. He freezed when he saw you standing over the unconscious lookout.

You lifted both hands, mock-innocent. “Didn’t run.”

The bounty was in carbonite. You were back in the hold, wiping dirt from your sleeves. Grogu was curled beside you, clearly impressed.

Mando descends from the cockpit.

“You had a clean shot at the door,” he said.

“I know.”

“You could’ve taken the shuttle.”

“I know that too.”

A pause.

“Why didn’t you?”

You shrugged. “Because that idiot had a blaster pointed at your head. And because I didn’t feel like stealing a junk pile with bad shielding.”

Another beat of silence.

You glanced up at him. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

He didn’t say it. Of course he doesn’t. But after a moment, he crosses the hold and tosses something your way.

A ration pack.

You caught it one-handed, raising your brows.

“A meal and no chains? You’re really starting to spoil me, Mando.”

He said nothing as he walks back to the ladder — but you swear you hear the faintest huff of breath through the modulator. Maybe a laugh. Maybe not.

But it was a start.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The bounty was delivered. Fuel was loaded. Grogu was fed, and now he was curled up beside you on the floor of the Razor Crest’s hold, content and snoring softly.

You leaned against the wall, rolling a hydrospanner between your fingers. Mando sat across from you, still in full armor, arms resting on his knees, helmet tilted slightly downward like he’d been staring at you too long and didn’t want you to notice.

“Alright,” he said finally. “Who are you?”

You looked up. “That’s not a very nice way to start a conversation.”

He didn’t respond. Just waited.

You sighed, twirling the spanner. “If you ask me questions, can I ask you questions too?”

“No.”

You smirked. “Then I won’t answer yours.”

“Fine.”

Silence.

Then, after a long moment, he shifted. “This isn’t a game.”

“No,” you said, watching him carefully. “It’s not. But if you want something from me, you better be willing to give a little too.”

His visor stayed locked on you. And then— “One for one.”

You nodded, serious now. “Deal.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Why is the New Republic after you?”

“That’s two questions. You want motive or context?”

“Motive.”

You paused, glancing at Grogu’s sleeping form. “Because I found something I wasn’t supposed to. Something that makes them look very, very bad.”

His silence was all the answer you needed — he wasn’t surprised. Just curious.

“My turn,” you said. “What’s a Mandalorian doing babysitting a green gremlin?”

“He’s not a job.”

That was all he gave you.

You raised a brow. “So he’s what — your son?”

“…Something like that.”

That was more than you expected. You softened a little, eyeing the tiny creature curled up like a seed pod.

“Your turn,” you said.

“How’d you find it? The thing that got you hunted.”

You shrugged slowly. “It was a routine audit. I worked in records verification — nothing flashy. But someone filed a data-wipe request with all the wrong clearance codes. Sloppy.”

“You were a bureaucrat?”

“Please. I was a thinkerer in a sea of paper-pushers. But yeah, I had access to archives most people don’t. I followed the glitch and... found an encrypted list.”

“What kind of list?”

You hesitated. “A roster of old Imperial loyalists… still on New Republic payroll.”

That made him shift. Just slightly.

You leaned forward. “That’s when they came after me. Scrubbed my ID. Flagged my face. Marked me as hostile and told everyone I’d gone rogue. Leaked false charges — weapons theft, sabotage, conspiracy. All fabricated.”

He didn’t say anything.

“My turn again,” you said quietly. “Do you ever take that thing off?”

“No.”

“Not even to eat?”

He didn’t respond.

You stared at him a beat. “How do you brush your teeth?”

Still no answer.

You grinned. “I’m going to assume you just let Grogu do it for you.”

He leaned forward again. “What else did you do, besides ‘records verification’?”

You sighed. “Before the New Republic? I was a slicer. Not for the Empire — I wasn’t that dumb. But I made systems work for the people who needed it. Protected vulnerable data. Fixed supply routes. Rewired droids to stop attacking civvies.”

“So you were a criminal.”

“In the same way you are,” you said coolly.

Another beat of silence.

“…I know how to break things,” you added. “But I know how to fix them, too.”

He didn’t reply. But something in his posture had shifted — a touch more open, less stiff.

You looked at him. “My turn again.”

He didn’t stop you.

“How come you trust him?” You nodded at Grogu. “You don’t seem like the trusting type.”

There was a long silence.

And then — “He saved me. More than once.”

You looked at the sleeping child again. “Yeah. I can believe that.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. And neither did you.

Then, finally, he spoke again. “What’s your plan?”

“Plan?”

“If I let you go.”

You hesitated. “I… I don’t know. I was just trying to stay ahead of the bounty boards. Find someone who’d believe me. But nobody wants to admit the New Republic’s a mess. They just want to pretend it’s better than what came before.”

He was quiet.

You met his gaze — or the visor, at least. “You believe me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Fair enough.

But something had changed. You could feel it in the air between you. Not quite warmth. But no longer cold suspicion either.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

“Neither are you.”

Grogu snored loudly, and both of you looked down at him.

You smiled faintly. “He’s not gonna let you keep me cuffed forever, you know.”

“…We’ll see.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Mandalorian sat motionless in the pilot’s chair, gloved hands resting loosely on the controls. The stars outside streaked by in endless white-blue trails — peaceful, in a way. Deceptively peaceful.

He hadn’t slept.

He told himself he was keeping her around to learn the truth. To weigh what was lies and what was fear talking. That was what a bounty hunter should do — verify the puck. Decide what to believe, who to hand over.

But he’d already made a mistake. He hadn’t put her back in cuffs.

He’d told himself it was temporary. That he’d lock her back up once the next stop came.

And then Grogu had started bringing her things.

He glanced toward the nav screen, though the course hadn’t changed.

She had her reasons. Her story. A believable one, if not convenient. And part of him wanted to write her off as just another fugitive lying through her teeth.

But he knew the type she’d talked about. The ones still walking free in shiny New Republic uniforms. He’d seen it himself — the Empire’s rot hadn’t been cut out. It had just been repainted.

If her story was true… if that list really existed…

He exhaled slowly. This wasn’t what he signed up for. Teva had only said she was a wanted slicer with a long list of tech-based crimes. That she was dangerous. That she’d run. Not a word about internal leaks or conspiracy.

Grogu would be asleep beside her by now. Again.

He should’ve carbon-frozen her. Should’ve done it the moment she stepped aboard. But something had stopped him.

And now?

Now it felt like the line he was supposed to walk — hunter and target — had started to blur.

He leaned back in the chair, the weight of the beskar pressing heavy against his chest.

She was still a bounty.

But he didn’t want to turn her in.

Not yet.

And he hated that he didn’t know why.