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joel-millerr · 3 years

Text

The Change

Chaper Two of We Are One When Together (formerly A Mandalorian and a Smuggler)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 9.9 K

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence. there is a scene towards the end that isn't exactly torture, but it is pretty graphic so please read with caution!, a bit of angst, and grief (talking about loss).... if there’s anything I missed please let me know so I can update it

Summary: You and Mando on your way to Nevarro so he can collect the bounty on your head but something happens, forcing you to land on another planet, and you begin seeing him in another light

Hope you guys like it!!

Tagged: @1800-fight-me🧡 // @tillytheslytherin🧡

As the Mandalorian’s ship—Razor Crest, climbs higher and higher into the sky, the sun’s beginning to rise over the city. Taking one last look at the capital, you mentally add “getting snatched by a bounty hunter” to the list of things you hate about Kijimi.

Maker, the silence in the cockpit is deafening. The Mandalorian doesn’t acknowledge you at all, his helmet glued to the windshield of the ship. You think about saying something, anything to break the awkward tension that seems to be multiplying in the small area of the cockpit, but from the very short time you’ve been with him, you don’t get the impression that he likes to talk. So awkward silence it is.

Once in the atmosphere, the Mandalorian prepares to make the jump to hyperspace. The stars’ light twinkles off his chrome helmet, and you’re too busy staring at him to notice another ship zip across the windshield, and then within seconds, the radar’s alarm is blaring through the cockpit. The shrill sound is piercing your ears and your eyes wrench shut, as if to try to block the noise out.

Two green beams of light appear out of nowhere, skimming the ship’s hull, and as the enemy spacecraft comes back into your peripheral for just a few seconds, your jaw nearly drops to the floor when you recognize whose ship it is.

It’s your ship. Someone is inside your ship, shooting at you. “That’s my ship!” You shriek, jumping to your feet and quickly making your way to the window. The Mandalorian says nothing in response, just letting out a couple of grunts and huffs. Your ship continues to bombard you with green beams, but the hunter is sharp enough to evade each shot. The jolts cause you to lose balance, and because your hands are still bound, it becomes more difficult for you to keep yourself upright without falling over onto the control panel.

“Get back in your seat,” The Mandalorian says through his visor. His voice is calm but stern. If he was panicking at all, his voice doesn’t give you the slightest suspicion.

You open your mouth to protest, to beg him not to shoot your ship down, to plead with him, but you know it would be a battle you couldn’t possibly win. Fumbling back into the seat to his right, a shot narrowly misses one of the thrusters and hits just above the belly of the ship. It sends you flying out of the seat, and you land on the ground hard, your shoulder taking the brute of the hit.

You hear two more blasts explode against the ship. The Crest is taking a lot of damage right now, but the Mandalorian manages to stay quiet during the entire ordeal.

“Let her go, Mandalorian.” A distorted voice comes through the radio.

Time seems to stop. The sirens still blaring through the cockpit penetrate your ears less and less until they are just a bunch of muffled clamors. That voice can only be from one person. The only other person in this galaxy that knows how to hijack your ship, and actually be able to fly it.

Tye.

Without any warning, the Crest begins a steep incline, and just as you’re finally able to seat yourself back in the chair, pulling the seatbelt across your torso and clicking it into place, the Crest flips upside down. If it weren’t for you being strapped in, you’d be flailing around the cockpit. The ship does a full circle before straightening out right behind your ship. The Mandalorian begins firing, three shots immediately pierce the hull’s integrity. The dark nothingness of space is suddenly luminated by a giant inferno; your ship begins plummeting back down towards Kijimi. You want to scream, to rush over to the pilot’s seat and scream into the radio hoping Tye would respond, but your body feels weighed down, like your limbs refuse to work.

As you watch your ship plummet towards the city, life drains from your body. For a moment, everything is still and fast at the same time. You had come to terms with your fate, you aren’t an optimist—not anymore anyway, but when you saw your ship, a flame—no, a glint of hope started to build in your bones. Maybe the Maker was giving you another chance. You were dead wrong.

Once the blaring alarm quiets, the Mandalorian initiates the jump sequence. The whole thing is over within minutes.

The Crest doesn’t spend much time in hyperspace though, because now the hyperdrive alarm is blaring again and you’re both launched right out, the ship spiraling in open atmosphere. The Mandalorian swears under his breath and begins frantically pressing buttons in an attempt to get you back into hyperspace. Despite his efforts, he’s unable to make the jump.

“Dank farrik,” The vocoder comes out strained.

“One of the shots must have damaged the hyperdrive.” You find yourself saying.

“Yes.” Is all you get.

He changes course and begins descending towards a planet you’ve never seen before. From space, the planet looks mostly swamp green, nothing particularly breathtaking or enticing.

“What is that?” You’re not really expecting an answer, just asking out loud, and you’re surprised because he actually answers you this time.

“Sorgan.”

You’ve heard of Sorgan. Some of your crew had resided on the planet since there was a spice smuggling base located there. Given the fact that Sorgan was a relatively unobtrusive planet, it was smart idea to put a camp. It was mostly covered in thick, dense forest which enabled the camp to be hidden fairly easily. Landing on Sorgan was a blessing in disguise. You could possibly send a message to the base there and maybe, just maybe, get rescued. Almost immediately you could feel excitement tingle your nerves. Okay, maybe you hadn’t lost.

Entering Sorgan airspace, the Mandalorian searches for a forest glade. It doesn’t take long for him to spot a small clearing just at the edge of a foliage of massive pine. He descends slowly, making sure not to hit any trees on the way down. You can’t help but be impressed by his flying abilities. He pilots like it is second nature to him. Always maintaining his cool demeanor, even if he is being shot at. Despite the fact that you resent him for possibly murdering the only person left you considered family and stealing your freedom, that aviator part of you is enthralled by the Mandalorian.

Once firmly landed, he cuts the engine and steps out of his seat.

“Stay here,” His voice is as deep as ever, not bothering to meet your eyes as he walks through the door to the cockpit and begins to descend down the ladder.

You linger in your chair for a few minutes, twiddling your thumbs in your lap. You’re not sure how much time you might have to send a message to your fellow smugglers, but you also don’t want to waste any more time waiting on him to come back. Fumbling slightly with your seatbelt, you all but leap towards the pilot’s chair to get to the radio. You finger toggles over the button to record your message. Why are you hesitating?

Chewing on your lip, and letting a deep breath exhale through your nose, you fight the urge to retreat back in your seat. Just as you’re about to record, you hear footsteps on the ladder behind you.

“Fuck, fuck fuck fuckfuck,” you curse under your breath and you scramble to get back to your seat without the Mandalorian seeing you. You hear his boots hit the metal floor just as your butt hits the chair. The beskar helmet peaks through the doorway of the cockpit as if he’s just checking to see if you followed his orders.

“No, I haven’t moved,” you say to him, annoyingly.

“Come down.” He instructs, turning on his heel and already making his way down the rungs of the ladder.

“Why?”

The Mandalorian stops in his tracks, “Because I can’t keep an eye on you if you’re in the cockpit.”

You really don’t want to go down there. Not because you’re scared he’ll throw your ass in carbonite, but because if he gets you down there, you’ll have no reason to get back up here and send out a message to any smuggler who might want to help you.

“You can trust me.” It’s a desperate attempt. Usually you can use your charm to bend others to your will, but the Mandalorian is unlike anyone you’ve ever met. You already know it won’t work.

“No.”

Pressing your hands down on your knees, you push yourself to your feet. You eye the control panel one last time and actually consider locking yourself in the bridge just long enough to get a message out. While the idea becomes more and more tempting by the second, you need to be smart about this. If you plan on escaping or getting a message out, it has to be perfectly timed and planned. It didn’t take him long to catch you, and you need to be a lot smarter the next time around.

So you head down the ladder like he told you to. The ramp is down, and your feet irk to run down the ridge and escape into the lush forest in front of you. Every instinct inside of you is screaming to run, to take your chances and hope to lose him in the fog of the greenery, but you have no idea where you are on this planet. You have no idea if the camp is relatively close to you or not. If you ran now, you’d have no supplies, no sense of direction, never mind the fact that your hands are still bound.

First things first then; get him to release the shackles.

He’s currently inspecting the damage Tye inflicted on the Crest. The hull of the ship is smoking, and there’s a few new dents on the sides of the ship, but there isn’t any damage that a couple days’ worth of work wouldn’t be able to fix. Luckily for you, that gives you a couple days to think of the best way to take off.

Not entirely sure where to go, you stay by the ladder, standing like an awkward kid waiting to be told what to do.

The Crest is much bigger than you thought it was. Most of the space inside the ship is housing the carbonite chamber with the three other companions you’re convinced you’ll end up joining. Next to the chamber is what you assume is a locker full of armory. You make a mental note to raid that locker before your escape. To your left, there’s a narrow, small cubicle that could only be used for sleep. Even though the door is closed, you can tell that it’s already too cramped for the Mandalorian, and you wonder how he can fit in such a tiny space.

Honestly, you’re more concerned about whether or not he’s ever had anyone in there with him. Surely if the space is too small for him, then he couldn’t possibly have had any lovers in there with him, right? Heat begins to coil in your stomach and the thought of that makes you shift in your stance. You really shouldn’t be thinking of whether or not the Mandalorian’s fucked anybody in his poor excuse of a bed, but you can’t help yourself. It’s been a long time since you’ve had the pleasure of being with a man or even taken care of yourself and it doesn’t help that the Mandalorian exudes this ferocious confidence and control. Does that make you wonder if he’d still as controlling when he’s balls deep inside you? Would be still be quiet like he is now, or would he be a babbling mess?

“Hey.” The voice pulls you out of your thoughts and causes you to jump.

The Mandalorian is standing just arms distance away from you, and stars, he is an absolute sight. Built like a monument—tall, firm and fucking intimidating. In your everyday life, you always walked with your head held high, refusing to show any weakness, but right now? Your head is down, only peering up at him through hooded lids. Something about the Mandalorian scratches a primal instinct in you that you’ve only observed in animals. Predator, prey—you’re giving up control, and what’s worse is that you actually like it. When it came to lovers, you had always been the dominant one. Every run you’ve made since you can remember, you were the one calling the shots, ordering your comrades around, but in the very short time you’ve known the Mandalorian, you can tell he likes control, and order.

You should hate him. You shouldn’t feel this kind of attraction for him, but despite your efforts, it’s there. You areattracted to him—he basically owns you now; it definitely shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does.

“Sorry?” You manage to choke out. Your throat is bone dry and Maker, you swear if he was any closer, he’d be able to hear your heart fucking hammering in your chest. His gloved hand reaches out and grabs the binds on your wrists. It’s not even his fucking bare hand but it has you holding back a moan. You wrench your eyes shut hoping it will alleviate some of the tension building between your legs.

“I’m going to unbind you,” The voice behind the helmet begins to say. “But if you run, I will catch you again and I won’t hesitate to throw your ass in carbonite. Do you understand?” It comes our breathy, almost like being this close to you is affecting him the same way it’s affecting you.

You can’t find any words, now. All you can do is nod slowly because your mind is on fucking fire being this close to him and you want to rip off that helmet and crush your lips together but also you want to drop to your fucking knees and show him how much he’s affecting you.

The grip on your wrists relaxes and he’s taking the binds and tossing them to the floor of the ship. You continue to stand just a few feet from each other. The visor is too dark to make out his eyes, and you curse the Maker for it. You’ve heard stories about Mandalorians. How they never take off their helmets in front of others, how they swear to the Creed to live a life of anonymity. You couldn’t possibly imagine living that way. It sounds incredibly restricting, but you do respect it. Everyone has their own beliefs in this world, and you aren’t one to judge another for the path they’ve chosen. Look at yourself, you were a nobody mechanic and then you became a spice smuggler. The path you’ve chosen isn’t exactly noble, so who are you to judge how the Mandalorians choose to live their lives?

It takes you a couple of seconds to realize he’s no inches away from your face. He’s halfway down the ramp when he calls you.

“Let’s go.”

You stumble for a couple steps and then pick up a small jog to catch up with him. The walk is a little uncomfortable now due to the slickness between your thighs, but you push through it.

“Where are we going?” You ask once you’re by his side. You look up at him but when he answers you, he keeps his attention peeled to the landscape in front of him.

“The hyperdrive was damaged.” His strides are much larger than yours, and you need to trot to keep up the pace. “I saw a town not too far from here. Hopefully there’ll be someone there that can help.”

You spot the town—barely a town, it’s just a couple of huts and then a bigger one at the centre. You wonder how anyone would choose to live here. It’s too quiet, too uneventful. There are a couple merchants selling krill—you know Sorgan exports a lot of krill and is basically the only way farmers make a living here.

You enter the common house—maybe it’s an inn, you’re not entirely sure. It’s nothing like the cantinas on Kijimi or Tatooine or any of the other planets you’ve visited. It’s ridiculously quiet and charming. There aren’t any patrons playing sabacc and screaming at one another when one of them loses, or others getting incredibly intoxicated on spotchka and brawling on the floor of the bar. Just a couple of humble farmers, some making a pit spot, and other locals keeping to themselves. It’s refreshing and also unnerving. You’re used to the commotion of more lively planet cantinas, staying in the shadows and observing, making sure you’d be ready in case someone tried to pick a fight with you. There’s no need for that here. Not only does everyone in this place look completely harmless, but you’ve also got a fucking Mandalorian on your left, and you doubt anyone would be stupid enough to try to fight him.

Unlike your choice to sit in the back of the common house, the Mandalorian chooses a table smack in the middle of the room. That’s the difference between a Mandalorian and a smuggler. You would rather choose a quiet place to sit, not drawing any attention to yourself. He—on the other hand, doesn’t put that much thought into where they should sit. Smugglers are always being hunted. Mandalorians? No one wants to fight them.

Once seated, you tense immediately. There are voices behind you, and not being able to keep track of what they’re saying, or if they move really distresses you. Granted, you doubt anyone here has a mean bone in their body, but you stay on edge regardless.

One of the women behind the counter takes notice of your arrival. Patting her hands clean on her apron, she walks over to you.

“Can I interest you in anything, travelers?” She asks, all smiles.

Her immediate kindness puts you at ease—slightly.

Before you can ask for some spotchka, the Mandalorian’s vocoder cuts through the helmet.

“Is there anyone here that can repair a ship?”

Her brows pull together tightly, pressing a finger to her chin. “Hmm… I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Sorgan is a farming planet, and we don’t get many visitors around here.”

He sighs, and you peek down from the woman standing over you to see his fist ball up on the table. “Fine.” It comes out strained, like it’s taking all his strength not to blow up and scream.

“Would you like anything else?” She asks again. “Maybe something for you, ma’am?” Shifting her body to face you, you open your mouth to answer, but the Mandalorian speaks first. “No, thank you.”

You whip your head to face him. You may be a quarry, but you still have some rights.

“Actually,” You point out, still looking at the helmet that burns right into you. “I’d like a bottle of your finest spotchka, please.”

He tilts his head just enough for you to notice, fist still balled up on the table. The lady seems to take notice of the tension, but she says nothing further. She simply nods and retreats to the bar. Returning swiftly with a bottle in one hand—two cups in the other, she places them between you two. You reach into the side thigh pocket of your pants and pull out a handful of credits and place them in her hand. She nods in gratitude. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

“Thank you.” The hunter grits through his teeth.

Immediately you pour yourself a glass and throw it back, a couple droplets leaking from the corners of your mouth. Using the back of your hand, you wipe your mouth clean. You know you’ll probably regret the little stunt you just pulled, but it’s been a long fucking day and you just want to relax for a bit.

Okay, so maybe you’re not entirely relaxed because there’s a Mandalorian just a few feet away from that seems to be getting more and more cross the longer you stay in the common house, but you also want to see how far you can press him before he snaps. Besides, he shot down your ship. You deserve this.

Three more glasses of spotchka later, and you’re feeling warm inside. The kind of warm that lowers your defenses and makes you giggle at everything. The kind of warmth that releases the tension that’s nestled in the deepest corners of your body, and makes your vision a little fuzzy. It’s probably early evening now, because the common house is getting livelier. They must be coming in for a meal.

“Get up,” The Mandalorian orders, rising to his feet.

“So soon?” You pout. You’re definitely feeling the effects of the spotchka.

“We’ve wasted enough time here. Now get up, we’re leaving.”

Normally, you’d fight till your last breath, but with the alcohol swimming in your blood, your inhibitions are lowered, and you’re way too relaxed to actually get your brain to fight back. Besides, there’s barely any spotchka left and you don’t have any more credits to spend.

Getting to your feet is a little bit of a struggle. Once standing up, the room starts spinning. Not enough to completely knock you off balance, but enough to make it difficult to stand without swaying. Turning on his heel, the Mandalorian heads for the door, cape mimicking his movements. Your legs aren’t moving as fast as you’d like them too, and the spotchka is really getting to your head, now. You drank a lot more than you should have.

Luckily you’re able to catch up to him, somewhat out of breath though. He doesn’t say anything to you—no surprise there. As you stumble through the forest, there’s a gentle breeze in the air. Tree branches creak as the wind passes through, and stray hairs from your ponytail brush across your flushed cheeks. You’re too preoccupied with enjoying the clean, fresh air to notice he’s now a couple feet ahead of you. The cape attached to his armour flows in the gentle breeze. Stars, you’re completely captivated by him. By the way he carries himself, like there’s not a shred of self-doubt behind that armor, and you want to know everything about him. Now that you’re pretty drunk, the thoughts you pushed away can roam freely in your mind. When was the last time he took off that helmet? Why did he—a Mandalorian, decide to be a bounty hunter? How many quarries has he captured in his life? How old is he? Are Mandalorians allowed to have sex with non-Mandalorians? Your mind is coming up with an endless number of questions, but you never find the strength to ask.

“You know, you could have asked me to help with the ship,” The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. The Mandalorian stops in his tracks and waits for you to catch up to him. Once you’re at his side, he turns his head to look in your direction.

“What?” Deep, rough, and somewhat irritable.

Your shoulders shoot up and down twice, body swaying with the breeze. “I’m a mechanic.”

“Yeah.” He says, brushing off yours words and resuming his tread.

“No, seriously.” Chasing after him, you want to reach out and grab hold of his arm, but you catch yourself before you do.

“Just how much spotchka did you drink?” He taunts, voice condensing like he’s scolding a child.

“I… don’t know.” Holy maker, did you drink an entire bottle to yourself?

The Mandalorian actually scoffs at you. If you could see his face, you’re certain he’d be rolling his eyes at you.

“Okay, well I used to be.” You clarify, still struggling to keep up with his gigantic strides. Kriff how fast does he walk? “Can you just stop walking for a second, please?”

“No.”

You let out a loud, childish groan. At this point you basically have to run to keep up with the hunk of metal heading back to his ship.

“I used to repair ships with my father on Tatooine.” Your tone is breathy, your lungs trying to get as much fresh air as possible.

This makes him pause. Turning around, the ‘T’ of his visor looking directly at you. Stopping at arm’s-length away from him, you bend forward, hands resting on your knees. He gives you time to regulate your breathing.

“I can fix the hyperdrive. I’ve been doing it since I can remember.” You try to assure him. You don’t even know why you’re offering your help. The longer it takes to fix, the longer your freedom lasts, but the alcohol has made you soft, more accommodating. Seeming to come out of nowhere, your vision becomes extremely blurry. You swear there’s now two Mandalorians in front of you. Blinking profusely, your eyesight doesn’t clear. You feel like you’re floating while simultaneously being pulled to the ground. Fighting to keep your eyes open, you feel your limbs cave in, and everything gets dark.

The sound of crackling fire wakes you up. It must be late, because the fire is the only source of light. How did you get here? The last thing you remember was walking through thick forest with the Mandalorian and now you’re laying by a fire, back near the Crest. You can’t remember the last time you actually passed out from drinking so much. The spotchka here has to be stronger than any other time you’ve had it. You can handle your drink, and this is downright embarrassing.

Wait, did he actually carry you back to the ship? Despite the little stunt you pulled back at the common house? He could have easily thrown you into carbonite once you both got back to the ship and you wouldn’t have even known it, but for some reason, he chose not to. You want to ask him—to show your appreciation, but you hesitate. Maybe just letting it slide is the right course of action.

Propping yourself on your elbows, you see the Mandalorian sitting on an old, mossy stump. There’s something between his legs, but you can’t make out its features through the fire. Pushing yourself to your feet, you notice another stump just to your right. He must have put it there for you to sit once you woke up. You have a pounding headache, but the fire’s warmth helps a little.

You can now make out a few more details about the creature sat between the Mandalorian’s feet. It looks like a child, but you can’t be sure. Your eyes must be deceiving you because it appears to be green, the type of green you’ve only ever seen on the plains of Naboo.

Stars, its ears. They’re massive, just like its eyes. Your mouth curls into a smile. It’s adorable. You’ve never been partial to kids. There was never something inside of you that longed for a child, or to take care of one, but this little thing at the Mandalorian’s feet is making you rethink anything negative you’ve ever said about babies.

“What…is that?” You ask as you sit down on the stump he placed for you.

From the embers of the fire, you see the little thing’s eyes find you and it coos. Kriff, he’s so fucking cute.

“He’s a foundling.” Oh, so it’s a ‘he’.

You wait for him to explain, but the Mandalorian isn’t one to talk or elaborate unless directly addressed or absolutely necessary. Continuing to examine the child from a distance, it—no, he, is also looking at you, almost like he’s studying you as well.

“How did he come into your care?”

“He was a quarry,” His voice is quiet, the modulator distorting his tone to make it raspier than usual.

“You haven’t delivered him yet?”

Your eyes shift between the man in armor across the fire from you, and the small green alien-looking child between his legs. The Child’s head tilts from side to side as he watches you, the reflection of the flames glistening in his big black eyes.

“I did.” He deadpans and leaves you to fill in the rest of the blanks.

You want to bore him to death with questions. Why did he go back for him? Does this mean he’s its father? How does he plan to raise a child being a bounty hunter? Does that mean this kid will also become a Mandalorian?

None of these questions actually come out of your mouth, though. Given the circumstances, you don’t think the Mandalorian even has a clue what he’ll do, and it’s not really your place to bombard him with your curiosity.

So, maybe this Mandalorian was different from the stories you’ve heard—not that you’ve heard much honestly other than them being amazing killers, but if he went back for the Child, then maybe there was a soft, kind heart under all that beskar.

“I can do it.” Your voice is just loud enough for him to hear you. You continue to stare into the flames, waiting to see if he’ll respond. He doesn’t, but that’s fine with you.

You’re not entirely sure when you even fell asleep but when your eyes flutter open, you’re lying on the ground, back against the uneven terrain. Using the ground to push you up to your feet, you shake the dirt off your pants and begin stretching your back by twisting your torso until you hear a satisfying crack. Your mother used to scold you for cracking your back. “You’re going to hurt yourself one day,” she used to say. When you were a kid, you’d roll your eyes at her and then she’d give you a gentle but still stern slap across the arm, the kind of slap only a mother could get away with doing. You were never really one to listen to authority, so it’s a habit you never grew out of.

It’s a beautiful day. The sun is beaming down on your skin, not a single cloud in sight. Sorgan is quite breathtaking, really. On most planets, no matter where you are, you can hear the commotion of city centres or see ships coming in and out of the atmosphere. Not on Sorgan, though. The only sounds you’re able to make out are tress swaying in the breeze, and the occasional bellow of the beasts in the forest.

The sound of the Child startles you. He’s at your feet, little arms extending out to grasp the material of your trousers. When did he get here? You crouch down and wave your index finger at him, little coos emitting from the green baby. His three-fingered hand wraps around your finger. This warm calmness comes over you, putting you at ease. Untensing all your muscles, your aches disappear, and the only thing that exists is you and the Child. You close your eyes, completely giving into the stillness. Maker, you swear you can hear the Child say something. Your eyes are still closed, and you don’t actually hear him say anything, but he is. You hear it in your mind—It’s faint and muffled, and you have to focus all your energy into narrowing down what he’s saying, and then it becomes as clear as day.

Grogu.

“Good. You’re up.”

The Mandalorian’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. He’s headed straight for you, just as stoic as ever; the sun’s light ricocheting off the beskar. The Child’s grip slackens, and you straighten out to meet the Mandalorian’s gaze. Your breath hitches as he continues to make his way towards you. Something as simple as a walk shouldn’t make you feel the way it does, but you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. Shifting in your stance, you can’t help but notice the heat building in your lower abdomen. Stars, get a grip. He’s the enemy, you shouldn’t allow yourself to feel this.

Leaning over, he picks up the Child and holds him with one arm. Almost immediately, you observe the way the Child wraps his tiny hand around one of the Mandalorian’s gloved fingers. There’s no stopping the stupid, shit-eating grin that appears on your face.

“The hyperdrive.”

“Right.” You respond, the smile falls from your face and you stand there awkwardly for a few seconds. The Mandalorian turns his back to you and makes way for the Crest. You follow him like a lost puppy, keeping a couple feet distance between you and him.

Once inside, he sets the Child down on one of the cargo crates near the ladder leading up the cockpit. You head up the ladder first, and he quickly follows suit. To your left is a small cubby hole in the wall that accesses all the wiring to the hyperdrive. It’ll be a nightmare to crawl in and out of, but you offered your services to him, so you can’t turn back now.

“I’ll get straight to work, then.” Turning away from him, you crouch down to your knees to examine the damage. There are various wires that are disconnected and thrown around, smoke emitting from one of the panels hidden inside the wall, and looks just about as worse as it can get. You’ve never seen anything this bad, before. How the Kriff was he able to fly this ship in such a horrible state? You start by grabbing a blue and red wire that hang loosely off the wall. A bit of copper and aluminum cords are splitting at the end of the cable which makes you think they might have touched each other causing some kind short circuit. Shrugging off the idea, you start to work.

After working on the hyperdrive for a couple hours, you decide to take a break. Climbing down the ladder near the cockpit, there’s no sign of the Mandalorian or the Child. All of a sudden, you’re aware of how sticky your body feels. Dirty, grimy, and uncomfortable. Now would be the perfect time for a shower. You turn your head to the fresher behind you and consider taking one, but you don’t want to intrude. You’re still a quarry and you assume the Mandalorian wouldn’t appreciate you taking a shower in his refresher. On your walk to the common house yesterday, you had spotted a lake not too far away. Maybe you could take one there. Then again, if you were to venture off, he might think you’ve run off. Your eyes shift between the fresher and the outside.

“You can clean up in the fresher.” Despite his tone always been low and rough, it still startles you. You whip your neck to see the Mandalorian leaning against the wall of the ship. You swear he wasn’t there a second ago so to see him just a few metres away from you not only puzzles you, but sends immediate shockwaves to your cunt. You feel like you’re being stalked, and it shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. The Mandalorian is built like a goddamn Star Destroyer; one look at him and you’re instantly intimidated, almost scared. You’ve never met anyone who can be so big yet so quiet, so frightening yet also so caring. It’s actually quite impressive. From his demeanor, no one would be able to guess he’s got a fucking kid back in his ship.

At first you want to protest, not wanting to push any boundaries or make either of you feel uncomfortable, but you know he’ll end up winning any argument you try to make for yourself, so instead you give him a quick nod before turning on your heel to the refresher. You don’t turn back to see if the Mandalorian is still looking at you, but your cheeks feel red hot anyway.

The fresher is pretty small considering the size of the ship, but if he somehow manages to fit in here, you have no problem. The water is warm, and cascades over your skin, instantly relaxing you. It feels amazing until it suddenly doesn’t. Your arm is burning, it’s on fucking fire and then it hits you. Looking down at your arm, you see scorched skin and are reminded of your injury from… well you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since he captured you back on Kijimi. It’s maybe been two or three days since. In the same moment, you realize you never got to put any bacta spray on it to stop any kind of infection. The skin surrounding the wound is turning a deep green-purple shade. Not a good sign.

“Kriff…” You whisper. You were supposed to put some bacta on it once you got back to your ship but obviously, things went differently than you expected. You take the bar of soap sitting on one of the ledges inside the fresher and begin washing away the dirt and sweat from the last couple of days, being extra careful when cleaning the area around your injury. Realistically, you could stay here for hours, letting the warm water drip down your figure, completely soothing your sore muscles and calming your mind, but you don’t want to take up more water than necessary.

When you come out of the fresher, there’s a pile of clean clothes resting on the rungs of the ladder. Tilting your head at the garments in front of you, you take them in your hands and smile to yourself. He must have gone out while you were working on the ship and somehow was able to find you some clean clothes. You change quickly, out in the open, hoping he won’t walk in and see you—okay maybe you do kind of hope he’ll see you. Once you’re fully clothes, you’re pleasantly surprised to notice they fit you perfectly. The cargo pants hug your frame like a glove, and you can’t help but notice they make your ass look great. Your tunic snatches your waist and is low cut enough for just the smallest amount of cleavage to pop through.

Taking the ladder two steps at a time, you reach the top in record time. You can see the smooth convex of beskar in the pilot’s chair, so instead of immediately resuming your work, you poke your head into the doorway of the cockpit. The Child’s pram rests on the seat to your left. It’s closed which means he’s probably asleep in there.

“Thank you for the clothes…” You’re not sure what to call him, since neither of us have actually properly introduced yourselves. However, you’re sure he knows your name given there’s a bounty on your head.

He doesn’t turn to face you, just continues whatever he’s doing. “Mando,” He clarifies, somehow answering the question you were thinking. “And you’re welcome.”

You linger for a couple seconds, not entirely sure why. He’s not much of a talker, but you still want to hear his voice. Before you can conjure up with something to say, he breaks the silence.

“When will you be done?” There isn’t any annoyance in his tone, which is usually accompanied by that question. You heard it all the time when you worked back at the hangar. “Hey lady, when are you going to be done?”, “What the Kriff is taking so long?”. You’ve grown to let those condescending questions roll off your back, but the Mandalorian’s tone is surprisingly gentle. Maker, are you falling for the Mandalorian?

“Well,” You begin, taking a few steps into the cockpit. Your hand comes up and latches onto your forearm, squeezing it. “I noticed that the hyperdrive was only functioning at 50% capacity before it broke down completely, and I was going to ask if you wanted it back at 100% before we takeoff because that’ll take—”

“Just fix it enough for us to get back to Nevarro.” He interjects, the baritone coming out dry.

It catches you off-guard, but you’re quickly reminded once again that you aren’t just somebody fixing the ship. You are a prisoner, and he doesn’t actually owe you any more kindness. He was kind enough to let you live, let you clean yourself in his refresher, and give you clean clothes. You’re chewing on the flesh inside your cheek, wondering if there’s something else you should say, but nothing worth saying comes to mind. He must notice your presence still there, because he swivels the pilot’s chair to face you. You swallow the giant lump in your throat and shift in your stance.

“You’re hurt.”

You glance over to your arm and then back to the visor. “It’s nothing.”

Pressing down on his knees to stand, the Mandalorian stalks towards you. Nerves and arousal are pooling in your stomach, now. Your chest is heaving as he gets closer. Stopping just at arm’s length, a gloved hand reaches out and clasps just underneath your injured bicep. The touch makes you pull back, not because it hurts but because it feels too fucking amazing. You’re seeing stars and he’s barely even touched you. Mouth agape, your breathing is so fucking uneven.

“That’ll need more than just cauterizing in order for it to properly heal,” His hand now moves down, ever so gently caressing your elbow. Your head dips down, unable to look at him directly. It’s pathetic really. You’re usually a fairly strong-willed person, who doesn’t bend at the will of anybody. You stand tall, even despite your size. Others in the smuggling game have a huge respect for you and see you as a leader, but now you’re cowering under the Mandalorian. You’d obey every one of his commands if he ordered it. All the power you hold, your bad habit of resisting authority would vanish in an instant if he pushed you.

“There’s bacta spray in the medical kit near the armory. You should take care of that before it infects.”

Your brain is racing, and the ability to form words had completed disappeared. All you can offer is a barely noticeable nod. You want to stay in this moment for as long as you can. Just the two of you standing inches apart, the tension growing thicker and thicker in the small area of the cockpit. You wonder if he feels it, too. If he wishes for this intimate moment to last forever. Swallowing your nerves, your eyes shit from the floor up to the visor. Trying to gauge for some kind of reaction but even if he is affected by this, his body gives no sign of it. Must be all in your head, then.

The Mandalorian’s finally the one to break up your little moment. He lets go of your elbow and you fight back the moan that threatens to escape your lips. You want him to touch you again, anywhere and fucking everywhere. He sits back in the chair and rotates it towards the control panel, so his back is facing you again. You probably linger a little longer than you should before finally retreating back down the ladder to get the bacta spray.

Once the spray mists over the gash, you instantly feel relief. The strain you didn’t realize was still in your body dissipates and you let out a deep breath through your lips. Thank the Maker for bacta spray.

The next few days go by relatively fast. Despite the awkward/sexual tension that clearly exists between you and Mando, you’re able to endure it. The encounters don’t last that long anyway. Usually, he’ll ask you about the progress on the hyperdrive. The conversations don’t last particularly long, but it’s enough to work you up into a sweaty mess.

And if you’re being honest, you probably could have fixed the hyperdrive in two days. You’re a damn natural when it comes to repairs, and you’ve fixed hundreds of hyperdrives in worse shape believe it or not. But you’re were taking your sweet ass time, giving yourself more time to be with Mando. It’s silly and childish, but you truly enjoyed his company, even though the conversations are mostly one sided.

Unfortunately though, the job had to get done. Once Mando noticed the hyperdrive had been fixed to 65% capacity, he was satisfied enough with your work. He decided you’d spend one last night on Sorgan and then leave at first light.

You’re all sitting by the fire. The Child propped up on a stump between the two of you. The night is calm, not a single breeze passing through the trees. A clear sky showered in stars. Forgetting the fact that this is essentially your last night of “freedom”, you’re really loving this.

“Twenty thousand.”

You’re in the middle of sipping bone broth you bought off a merchant in town—with Mando’s credits, when his voice catches your attention. “Hmm?” You mumble, using the back of your hand to wipe the little dripples of soup that trinkle down your chin.

“You asked me how much your bounty was,” His helmet stares into the fire a few feet away from him. The orange hues reflecting off the beskar.

Your lips form a thin line. You didn’t know the New Republic had that kind of money to spend. Twenty thousand is a pretty generous bounty.

“Wow, that’s pretty high.” That’s actually really high. It’s hard to make an honest living, and the New Republic throwing around thousands of credits like that makes you uneasy. Instead of using that as an incentive for other to hunt criminals, it should be distributed to those less fortunate. The thought makes you chuckle to yourself. A smuggler explaining how a government should be run. How noble of you.

“I wasn’t born into this, you know…” Your voice trails off, unsure if Mando wants to hear you or not. The helmet turns in your direction, giving you permission to continue. The Child looks up at you and coos. Your eyes avert their gaze to stare into the flames.

Clearing your throat, you begin. “I was raised on Tatooine. My parents were lucky enough to own a hangar, so my dad worked there, and my mom was a seamstress. Just a couple of ordinary people.” You weren’t particularly less fortunate than anyone else in your town. Your belly was always full, and you always had clean clothes on your back. Most of the residents in your village weren’t as privileged but your parents were generous, offering what little excess they had was given those who couldn’t afford food or clean garments.

Early on, they taught you never to flaunt what you had, always be humble when speaking to others, and to always be respectful. You loved your parents more than you could say, and ever since they died, you shut off a part of yourself. Heartbroken and alone, losing yourself in work seemed like the only way to cope with the loss. The more sorrow you felt, the more work you forced on yourself. If it weren’t for Tye, you’re not sure if you would have been able to get through it.

And ever since then, you vowed never to let yourself experience any kind of love again. The risk was just too high. Not knowing if one day your loved one would come home or not, investing so much of your soul into someone, relying on them only to have it snatched away from you without warning; it just seemed foolish. When they died, you cried every morning and every night for months, until one night you vowed never to cry again.

And you haven’t since.

People called you heartless, scum, cruel, but their words never managed to pierce the iron exterior you mentally built for yourself when your parents died. No one would be allowed to access that sensitive, caring part of you. Not even Tye. You loved him like a brother, but once that loss had punched through you, you could never look at him the same. There was a distance, now. Whether he knew it or not, he never confronted you about it. He gave you space, and when you were ready to let him back into your life, albeit not really back in, he never pressured you or expected your relationship to go back to how it was.

“So when they passed, I just felt like I was lost. I needed to escape.”

“And smuggling was your only option?” There’s a hint of mockery in his tone.

“Yeah, I’m a smuggler and you’re a bounty hunter. We all make choices in life. I’ve made my peace with that.” Your tone comes out a little more defensive than it should, and you think about apologizing, but fuck it. You have nothing to lose anymore. Even if you thought he might not turn you in, the possibility of getting twenty thousand credits is too much of an opportunity to pass up on.

Neither of you speak for the rest of the night.

You’re awakened by Mando nudging your feet with his. You snap out of deep sleep, rubbing your palms against your eyes. Sitting up, you moan softly and begin trying to adjust your vision to the Sorgan darkness. The only light that the night offers is the moonlight reflecting off Mando’s armor. The helmet’s looking directly at you, and a finger comes up to where his mouth would be, signaling to be quiet. Still half-asleep, you nod.

Ever so slowly, you rise to your feet and quickly brush the dirt off your pants.

“Get to the ship,” He orders, voice low and gruff.

“What’s going on?” You whisper, still standing in place.

“Hunters.” He says. “Get to the ship.” Mando orders again, his tone becoming much more assertive. You want to fight. You’ve never run from a fight before, and you’re not about to start now.

“I can help.”

Before having the chance to respond, red blasts come flying through the trees in the distance. Mando grabs you by the waist and shoves you behind him, shielding you with his body. “Get to the fucking ship!” He yells.

You want to argue with him, really you do. Realistically, you know he could probably take care of this himself, but that doesn’t mean you want to cower away and hide in the ship while he takes care of business. Then panic swarms you.

The Child.

Your head whips back and forth, and the relief that comes over you when you catch sight of his pram just your left, the gloomy night shielding him from sight, instantly calms your nerves.

The shooting stops all at once, becoming eerily quiet. Mando pivots, trying to keep eyes all around him. Your body mimics his movements, even though you’re completely defenseless. Twigs snapping, bushes rustling—not from the breeze, but from intruders trampling over them, coming closer. One, two, three, four hunters come into view, flanking you from all angles.

Okay, so this worse than you thought.

“Ah, Mando!” One of them calls out, blaster pointed directly at Mando’s chest.

“We don’t want any trouble, Mando,” Another pursuer taunts. “We just want the girl.”

Fuck.

They begin drawing in closer. You don’t want to underestimate Mando’s ability to fight, but with four hunters closing in, and having only one blaster, you’re not seeing how he can win this. You’re conjuring a plan inside your head and praying that he’ll catch on. If someone’s going to get credit for your capture, it sure as hell isn’t going to be this gang of thugs.

“Fine.” You throw up your hands in defeat, stepping aside from the shield that is Mando. You face the man directly in front of you, assuming he’s the one who’s leading the charge.

“What are you doing?” Mando’s voice is fucking low, somewhere between a whisper and a growl.

“Trust me.” Your tone gentle, eyes pleading with him.

You begin taking slow footsteps towards the blaster pointed now at you. “I can assure you, I’m more valuable alive, so why don’t we put our blasters down before someone gets hurts?” Arms still up, hesitating to take any more steps forward.

“You think we’re stupid enough to listen to you?” One of them shouts behind you. You flinch on impulse. Your chest is heaving, but you need to a grip if you plan to walk away from this alive.

You can slightly make out the hunter’s features. He looks somewhat familiar, like when you see a stranger in a dream, but you can’t pinpoint where you’ve seen him before. You’ve encountered plenty of hunters before, maybe they’re just all starting to look the same to you. Only Mando stands out, now.

The moon’s mellow and radiant reflection is starting to make out the hunter’s features. He doesn’t look entirely human, but you don’t manage to get close enough to actually see what he is.

“Hi, sweetheart.” The hunter sneers, his mouth curling into a malicious grin.

Stopping dead in your tracks, you remember who this is—but how? You shot him in the chest. You saw him fall. Sure, you didn’t actually check to see if he was dead but how could anyone survive being blasted directly in the chest? You must be remembering wrong. No, he shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here.

“Surprised to see me?”

You refuse to show your disbelief, keeping your jaw tense. “No, it’s just more target practice.” You spit.

Eerie laughter erupts from deep inside the man opposite you. Never slacking on the grip on his blaster, he shifts the barrel from your chest to directly between your eyes. Okay…what the fuck do you do now?

Mando and the kid are still a few feet behind you. You’re running out of ideas, fast. If you went to attack your pursuer, he’d definitely shoot you before you got close enough to him, and the three behind you would shoot Mando down before he even had time to react. You need to play this out smart, maybe you could—

Before being able to finish your thought, you hear whistling, and bodies hit the ground. Instinctively, you want to look over your shoulder to see what happened, but there’s still a blaster pointed at your face, and you’d be dead if you wasted even a second to turn around. Charging at him, you narrowly miss three blasts as they come flying by your cheek, shoulder, and neck. Once you feel close enough, you lunge at him, knocking you both to the ground. Your body lands on top of his, the blaster rolling a few feet away from your conjoined bodies. Grabbing hold of the lapel on his jacket, you wind up your fist and connect it with his jaw. He cries at the pain, retaliating by slamming his knee into your abdomen. The air is completely knocked out of your lungs, but you stifle the wail that threatens to spill you. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

You reach out aimlessly for the gun, and the joy you get when you feel the gun in your hand is unmatched. Scrambling to your feet, and clutching the gun in your hand, you point it at him. Mando wastes no time rushing to your side, blaster also on him.

“Don’t.” You tell him. No, you want this kill to be yours.

For a moment, you think he’ll ignore you and shoot him anyway. The man on the ground, now resting on his elbows spits, droplets of blood landing on the ground, a small trail dribbling down his chin. It shouldn’t bring you this much satisfaction, to see him bleed and completely at your mercy, but reason has escaped you. You want to hurt him; you want him to feel as much pain as any person can take. He threatened you, Mando, and the kid. He’ll pay for it, you promise.

“Go ahead, kill me.” The man swears. “But know that we’re only the beginning. You think you’re the only one who got a tracking fob, Mando?” A smile curls up on the corners of his lips. Your body is hot—it’s actually scorching. This surpasses any emotion you’ve ever felt before. The scalding need for blood and pain engulfs you. You’re not even sure why you feel so angry, but you are.

“Hunter scum,” You spit, kicking him hard in the stomach. More red fluid punches out of his mouth, causing him to cough aggressively.

“Hey,” Mando’s free arm grasps on to your bicep. “Stop.”

Your head’s shaking violently. No, he needs to suffer. “No, I’m gonna savour this.” You swing your leg back to kick him again, but Mando’s voice rips through the vocoder. “Stop!” It comes out aggressive, like he’s giving you an order.

Your jaw is tight, every fiber in your body is telling you to shove Mando out of the way so you can wreck this hunter scum that lies at your feet.

“You g-gonna let him order you around like that, sweetheart?” His last word cuts through you like a vibroblade to the chest. Your free hand balls up into a fist, white knuckling so hard, you’re sure you’re breaking skin with your nails. The man on the ground laughs, he’s fucking laughing at you and that’s the final straw, the thing you needed to push you over the edge. Unclenching your fist, your hand shoots up and flexes around what you imagine is his neck. He coughs, and starts gasping for air. Shaky hands shoot up to his own throat, as if he thinks that’ll somehow relieve the pressure you’re creating. It feels good, seeing him fucking struggle for breath, watching the light behind his eyes becoming dimmer and dimmer. It’s happening all too fast, and you want to take your time.

“Fuck this,” Mando shouts, his blaster coming up and shooting the man in the heart. Your grip slackens, and you drop to your knees. Struggling for breath, one hand on your chest and the other on your knee, you feel like you’re going to pass out. Mando’s drops to your side, a big, gloved hand resting on your back. Your body shudders at the touch and you pull away from him. Determined to put some space between you two, you straighten out, and take a couple steps back.

“What the hell happened there?” He tries not to startle you; his voice comes out a rough whisper.

Feeling your breathing evening out, your palms come out, trembling. You stare down at them, then to the corpse lying near Mando’s feet, desperately trying to understand why you couldn’t stop, why you couldn’t control your anger. The words aren’t forming, you can’t bring yourself to understand how it happened.

“I-I don’t know.” How could this happen? How could you let this happen?

A distorted sigh comes through the helmet. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“I didn’t,” Your voice comes out as gentle as you can, given the circumstances. “I’ve just always had it.”

Mando takes a step closer to you and halts; he’s asking for permission to get closer. You give him a barely noticeable nod and within seconds he’s towering over you. His hands twitch at his sides, and you wonder if he’s going to touch you, but he doesn’t, and you start to believe that maybe a jail cell is exactly where you should be.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #Din Djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #star wars #the mandalorian x you #Din Djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #angst #tw: graphic depictions of violence #tw: grief #reader insert #the mandalorian fanfiction #we are one when together #fics

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matthewtkachuk · 4 years

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feel something pt 7 - jj maybank

On the outside, you’re a kook princess with a seemingly perfect life and a perfect family. The expectations are suffocating you, to the point where the only thing you feel is numb. You’re chasing different coping mechanisms in order to feel something. Until a chance encounter with a certain blond pogue you know you’re supposed to hate gives rise to a different kind of feeling.

Warnings: angst, toxic behaviour, poor coping mechanisms, drug usage, mentions of sex, mentions of suicidal ideations (brief), Rafe being a grade a asshole, shitty parents, abuse

Pairings: JJ x reader (eventually), Rafe x reader (slight)

Words: 3.1k

A/N: dealing with the aftermath of our runaway reader. They say you don’t kiss and tell, but some people just can’t help it. Special s/o to my babe @ohfreyfrey for her help with the end 😇 I heard yall like cliffhangers…

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The next day, the potential consequences of your actions set in even further. This isn’t some Romeo and Juliet fairytale, you’re y/n y/l/n, your life was never going to be a fairytale. Plus, that play ended with them dying and you weren’t really into that. Taking a page out of Sarah’s playbook, you start ignoring the larger group, only speaking to Sarah and occasionally Kie. You know you’re avoiding your problems and your feelings for the blond pogue, but the alternative is terrifying.

You’re imagining allowing yourself to completely fall for him and the thought is paralyzing. It’s like handing JJ a loaded gun, showing him exactly where to shoot to kill, and then trusting him not to. You haven’t trusted anyone in a long time. Not since your parents first put their hands on you in anger, not since Jacob Kane touched you inappropriately at a party without your consent, not since Sarah Cameron dropped you without warning. It really scares you, the thought that you were willing to risk that again.

Your parents also scared you. Even if you could get the courage to fall into the unknown without JJ, you couldn’t be open with your relationship. It could never get back to either of your parents, or there would be hell to pay. You were expected to marry rich and marry well. But the thought of spending the rest of your life with a Rafe Cameron or Topper Thornton or Kelce Smith or Jacob Kane made you physically ill. Your parents tolerated your behaviour thus far (if you could consider daily screaming matches and bruises and marks tolerating), but you knew lowering yourself to date a pogue would be the last straw. You didn’t know what they would do, but you knew it wouldn’t be anything good.

It’s two days before the texts start rolling in.

maybank: hey

maybank: just wanted to see if you were ok

maybank: did i do something wrong?

maybank: please talk to me

maybank: i can’t stop thinking about that kiss

maybank: y/n

You don’t know who gave JJ your number but you’re sure it was probably Sarah, who didn’t know when to let things be. You know the smartest thing to do would be to block him, but every time you go to click the button, you hesitate with your thumb poised over your phone and you can never do it. A part of you, one that’s honestly pretty big likes that he’s thinking of you too. It wonders if he feels the same way you do. You’re not stupid, you can acknowledge that he at least likes you a little, if that kiss was any indication. You had felt alive under his touch, with your lips pressed together. That night you had gotten drunk and stoned in your locked bedroom, trying to chase that high but you were right. Nothing would ever come close.

You’re sitting on your bed, staring at the text messages that you have memorized from the number of times you’ve read them when your door is thrown open. You look up in shock, you had definitely locked that to avoid your parents. Chick is grinning at you brightly, holding up a bobby pin to show she had picked the lock. You don’t really acknowledge her presence, only scooting over on your bed to give her room to sit with you. “Sarah’s really worried about you, you know,” she states, and you just shrug. The two of you sit in an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two, before she snatches your phone out of your grasp. You gasp and attempt to pull it from her hands, but she’s a lot smaller and a lot quicker, jumping off your bed and running towards your en suite, ready to jump in and lock the door if necessary. Understanding your odds, you resign yourself to the fate of your little sister reading your text messages and finally figuring out what’s wrong with you.

She looks up at you and gasps your full name, middle name and all, “JJ Maybank??” she screeches. You shush her quickly, not wanting to open that can of worms with your parents just yet. It’s probably a waste of time, if they’re even home they’re likely nowhere near the bedrooms, but still you want to be cautious. “JJ Maybank is the reason you’ve holed yourself up in your room and avoided everyone for four days?”

“Chick,” is your only response, tilting your head as you look at her, eyes silently begging her to stop.

“What’s the big deal, y/n? So what, you kissed a pogue, haven’t you kissed like a hundred boys?” she asks.

“Don’t slut shame me,” you tell her grumpily, “and I haven’t kissed like a hundred people. It’s just…” you trail off, unable to find the words. Or maybe you can find them, you just don’t feel like sharing with your baby sister that you’ve fallen ass over feet over JJ Maybank.

“Oh my god,” Chick says, as something like realization sparks in her eyes, and she stands up even straighter than before and exclaims, “you’re in love with him!”

“What?!” You look at her in disbelief, that was quite a jump from a kiss to love. Your tongue trips over itself as you quickly protest, “Absolutely not Chicklet, that’s actually insane!”

“Is it?” She asks, hands on her hips looking much older than her thirteen years.

“You can’t be in love with someone you’ve only known a few weeks,” you tell her drily, unimpressed with the conversation. Sure, you’ll admit that you’ve got feelings for the pogue, but love? Chick is crazy, love is crazy. That’s not what’s going on here.

“I mean, technically you’ve known him for years.” She rebuts your point.

You sigh deeply, “Okay fine, then you can’t fall in love with someone you’ve only been interested in for a few weeks.”

“So you admit you’ve been interested in him for a few weeks!” She shouts triumphantly, “Wait until I tell Sarah.”

“Chick,” you warn her, “don’t you dare.”

“Your friends are worried about you y/n! I’m not going to lie to them!” She tells you.

“Sarah and Kie will be fine, if you tell them they’ll just go even crazier than they are,” you tell her.

“They’re not the only ones worried, Sarah said they’re all worried. Especially JJ.” She explains, causing your heart to constrict at the mention of JJ worrying over you.

Brushing over the feeling in your chest, you can’t help but ask, “Even John B?” Chicks face falls a little at that, confirming your suspicion that John B still doesn’t think very highly of you. “Right, well tell Sarah and whoever else cares that I’m fine alright.”

“y/n” she says slowly, and the pity in her tone causes your heart to ache. Huffing dramatically, you slide down and under the covers, throwing your comforter over your head.

“I’m fine Chick,” you tell her, voice muffled. You regulate your breathing as you hear her steps near your bed, before she drops what you assume is your phone on your nightstand and then leaves the room, door clicking softly shut behind her.

While you’re talking with your sister, JJ is on the other side of the island in a house that is a lot smaller and less taken care of but has experienced a lot more love, having a similar conversation with the best friend he considers more of a brother.

“What is your problem? You’ve been moping around for two days like someone ran over your dog or something,” John B confronts JJ who hasn’t moved from his spot in the spare bedroom except to eat and use the washroom. JJ can’t really explain, doesn’t want to really explain. He doesn’t need to hear it from John B again about how you are the worst of the worst kook princesses and just messing with him. JJ knows it isn’t true, not that the two of you have ever spoken about it, but from that moment at Midsummers to now, he’s felt something starting between the two of you. Despite initial misgivings, he was wrong about you. Like, really wrong.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” JJ grumbles. Truthfully, he can’t get you out of his head. He had asked Sarah for your number and then proceed to not only text you, but text you five times while being left on read each time. JJ didn’t text girls, he hit it and quit it and dodged texts like it was his third day job. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he was worried about you. Having been on the receiving end of a parent’s fist on more than one occasion, he wasn’t sure if you were even okay.

He thinks of how you pressed against him, the way your chapped lips felt against his, the soft feel of your hands on his jaw. He thinks of the satisfaction of finally having you in his arms, the slight lilt of hope in his chest that maybe he wasn’t alone in how he felt about you. But then he thinks of the way you froze, saw the panic in your eyes, and felt the ache in his chest as you ran from him.

“Something obviously happened between you and the princess.” John B astutely observes.

“Don’t call her that,” JJ snaps, frustrated. It’s not really John B’s fault, but the mention of the word ‘princess’ just reminds him of when you told him to call you by your name. Reminds him of that afternoon together, when you had firmly cemented your place at the forefront of his mind. When his initial attraction (and yes he was very attracted to you) had blossomed into admiration of your confidence on the waves and your kindness when dealing with Chick. When he had poked at you and entered your personal space and flustered you to the point you threatened to send him through the windshield.

John B throws his hands up. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with Rafe’s property,” John B tries again. JJ glares at him, body tensing up with unbridled rage thinking of the possessive way Rafe looks at you.

“She’s not-“ He has to pause to unclench his jaw and his fists, swallowing before continuing “she’s not his property John B.”

“She might as well be, the way she hangs off of him. Or are you blind?” His best friend replies.

JJ shakes his head in frustration, pulls his snapback off his head and wrings it in his grasp, “You don’t know what you’re talking about John B.”

John B gives his best friend his best incredulous look, eyes widening comically and head tilting as his hands move away from his brain to mime an explosion, complete with side effects. “Have you actually gone insane? Like, are you feeling okay dude?” John B reaches for his best friends forehead, to pretend to take his temperature, but JJ slaps his hand away.

“Fuck off,” JJ mutters when he tries to do it again, and that’s when John B realizes things are serious.

“C’mon man, what’s going on?”

“I really like her man,” JJ sighs heavily, “like really like her. I don’t know what’s going on, I don’t like girls. I mean, I do, but not like this man. I can’t stop thinking about her. I worry about her and I wonder if she’s okay. She drives me crazy, but like, in a good way. And then I kissed her, and I think I fucked it up.”

“For the record, I think this is a bad idea and I reserve the right to tell you I told you so when shit blows up,” John B warns, JJ rolls his eyes but nods, indicating for him to continue. “But, I have to ask. Did you tell her any of this or did you just mack on her and hope her wealthy parents bought her the ability to read minds.”

JJ’s silence is telling. He pulls out his phone, unable to stop the small pang of disappointment that you haven’t yet responded to any of his text messages. He can’t help but send another text, texting etiquette or whatever be damned, he’ll text you as many times as it takes for you to reply.

maybank: i just want to make sure you’re okay

seen 2:34 pm

JJ tries to not let the disappointment take root in his chest, recognizing that you need time to deal with what happened, acknowledging the many times he has gone ghost on his own friends, but the insidious feeling takes hold of him anyway. Walking away from John B, he reflects on his best friend’s advice and realizes there’s a lot he needs to tell you.

“C’mon y/n/n, you have to get out of this room,” Sarah tells you. You’ve let her into your house, realizing that you can’t just shut her out completely without her resorting to desperate measures (like enlisting your little sister in her quest for knowledge). It may have been a mistake because she’s spent the last few minutes trying to convince you to go out to a kegger.

“I don’t want to go,” you tell her, despite the fact that your base state of being has been stuck on ‘I could really use a drink’ since that kiss.

“Because you don’t want to see JJ? Because you kissed him?” She asks, sympathetically. You gasp, Sarah has been over for twenty five minutes, and you had assumed her silence on the matter meant Chick hadn’t snitched.

“I can’t believe Chick told you, you can’t trust anyone, not even your own blood,” you said dramatically.

“Chick didn’t tell me, John B did.” Sarah replies, and you’re confused at first, and then you groan.

“Oh my god, I bet he had a lot to say,” you tell her, and she winces a little. You nod to yourself, “Great, that’s great. Is JJ just telling everyone now? Does everyone know?” You can’t help the annoyed look that crosses your face, despite knowing the annoyance is just a deflection.

“Well, I’m sure JJ told Pope, and I may have let it slip to Kie.” You groan audibly, burying your head in your hands. “Listen, y/n, I was sworn to secrecy,” you roll your eyes, knowing Sarah can’t keep a secret to save her life, evidenced by the first half of her statement, “but, JJ told John B that he really likes you.”

You groan louder, “that’s worse!” but your words are muffled by your arms.

“You wanna repeat that in English that the rest of us can understand?” Sarah responds sassily, and you just groan again. She gives you a minute to mull it over before she’s grabbing you by your upper arms and shaking you.

“Hey, get off of me you psycho,” you twist in her grasp, swatting at her hands.

“Tell me what you’re thinking!” she exclaims, still wrestling with you

“I really like him!” You admit. She pauses, grip slackening long enough for you to slide out from underneath her.

“Okay, I’m failing to see the problem here,” she replies sassily, hand moving to her hip.

“Sarah, my parents! Their expectations, The Lecture, it can never happen.”

She nods in understanding, considerably more somber than before, before replying, “fuck them.”

“Sarah, come on you know it’s not that easy,” you protest, but she shakes her head and repeats herself.

“Fuck. Them.”

“Yeah, and then what? I don’t get my trust fund until I turn eighteen next year, and you can bet they’ll take it away from me if I stray away from the perfect daughter before then. And what about Chick? You don’t think that they’ll take it out on Chick if I just up and leave?” It’s not like you hadn’t thought about it, throwing it all away and starting fresh somewhere new. But you didn’t think they would let you go that easily, and you could never leave Chick behind.

“Then we’ll get my dad and Rose to do something,” Sarah continues to protest, but you shake your head.

“Sarah, stop. It’s never going to work, your dad and Rose aren’t going to go against my father.” She sighed in defeat, realizing that you weren’t going to budge. At least not yet.

“Will you please just come to the kegger? Me and Kie can run interference for you.” She pleads, Cameron pout on full display and you roll your eyes before muttering fine. Her excitement makes you smile a little, for the first time in a few days.

You don’t know why you agreed to come. There’s an anxious feeling in your chest as you take in all the moving bodies with red solo cups in their hands. You’re not sure if you’re looking to spot JJ or hoping you don’t spot him at all. Maybe it’s both, you think as you take a small sip of whatever swill is in your own red cup. You don’t know whether you would kiss him again, run away, or maybe both like the last time.

Lost in your thoughts of the blond, Rafe’s hand is on your waist before you even comprehend that he’s appeared at the party. “Heard you’re officially with Maybank now,” his grip is tight, but you’re able to peel his hand from your body.

“I’m not officially with anyone!” You let your many frustrations out on Rafe, without even a hint of guilt. “God Rafe, when are you going to leave me alone? I don’t owe you shit.” You see hurt flash in his eyes, but you frankly don’t care anymore. He is persistent to a fault, and you want to get it through his thick skull for once.

There’s a small crowd around you, mouths gaping, more than one person is on their phone, likely frantically texting everyone your business. You roll your eyes and push past them, dropping your cup on the first surface you find on your way back to your car. You don’t stop to tell Sarah you’re leaving, but you figure she’ll get the memo when she hears about your run in with Rafe, if she hasn’t heard about it already. You’re upset and frustrated, and so supremely grateful that neither your parents nor Chick are home as you stomp up the stairs and throw yourself on your bed. You didn’t need to add Rafe’s gross possessiveness to the inner turmoil running through your head.

It’s a solid twenty minutes of you just staring up at the ceiling before your phone buzzes with a text message. Figuring it’s probably Sarah and you owe her at least a brief explanation, you unlock the phone. But it’s not a message from Sarah. At the bottom of a string of unreplied to messages is a new text:

maybank: i’m outside, we need to talk

Feel something tag list (ily guys sm): @thoughtsofthestars @dreamsndior @duskangxl @agirlwholovescoffee @previouslyforgotten @http-cherries @softtfordrew @gigi-june @httpstarkey @meaganjm @oopsiedoopsie23 @margaritatimebaybee @iamaunicorn4704 @5am-cigarette @kahnacademyforfun @rudths @llvinlavidaloca @arianabrashierstuff @realistic-breadstick @tattered-masterpiece

Everything tag list (yall are rockstars!!): @velyssaraptor @danicarosaline @copper-boom @x-lulu @prejudic3 @ohfreyfrey @downbytheouterbanks / @gforgenevieve @ilovejjmaybank

if you want to be added to either tag list, just shoot me an ask/message/comment love you guys!! shoot me an ask if u wanna talk about this part or literally anything i love you guys thank u for the support

#jj obx #jj x you #jj x reader #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank x you #jj maybank x y/n #jj x y/n #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank angst #diverdcwn writes #feel something

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readyplayerhobi · 4 years

Text

Flower | 12

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Fluff

; Word Count: 3.4k

; Synopsis: You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: This one is from our lovely Hobi’s POV! He decided he wanted to take charge for a moment so...I hope you enjoy! :D please comment and send asks so we can taaalk :D

; Flower Masterpost

“FOR GODS SAKE GERALT CAN YOU JUST BLO- fuck, shit, cock sucker...ah fuck it all!” You hissed in anger, clenching the Playstation 4 controller in your hands tighter and shaking it wildly as your character, Geralt, died. It turned out that Hoseok had Witcher 3 and after binge-watching all of the Netflix Witcher show, you’d begged him to bring it over so you could play it.

Today he’d finally brought it, the small case catching his eye as he was grabbing his backpack and he’d quickly stuffed it inside. He’d promised to bring it two times already and two times he’d forgotten. Not today though, today he’d been good and remembered it.

That had been four hours ago, and you’d been gripped by the game since. In fact, you’d barely even stopped to take a drink, eyes focused intently on the screen as you fought, magicked and cursed your way free of fights in the virtual world. Needless to say, you were very enthralled by the game which in turn meant you had gotten progressively louder as you’d died from stupid things.

Not that you were dying because of anything you’d been doing of course. No, it was just your character was doing silly things like not blocking or swinging when you told him to. That was it. Hoseok had been assured by you many times at the start when he’d got a little concerned about how into the game you were getting.

That had been at the start though, and you were now so into the game, so unaware of your surroundings, that it was almost like Hoseok wasn’t actually here in the room with you. Your eyes remained glued to the screen the whole time. Which meant that you didn’t see the way he’d been pouting a little, starved of your attention as he played around on his phone aimlessly in an effort to entertain himself.

Hoseok loved watching people play games, he really did, but he was bored today. He wanted your attention; a novel concept to him as he’d never dated anyone who was more into video games than he was. Being on the other side of someone who avidly loved gaming was unusual and though he didn’t hate it...he just a bit like a child.

There was only so much playing with Kasumi he could do. And sure, he could read the book he’d found in your bookcase a few days ago or even play on your Switch while you entertain yourself, but he didn’t want that. He wanted to do something with you. He wanted to talk to you, listen to you talk and laugh with you.

He was being a brat basically, being a child about it. But despite that, he was also fully amused by your reaction to the game. This was the first time he’d ever seen you play a video game like this and the fact you became so fully immersed in it was exceptionally entertaining.

Why he was surprised about that, he didn’t really know. You most definitely had the personality of someone who would commit themselves to something 100% when they found a thing that was truly interesting to them. Just looking at the abundance of Pokémon around your apartment told him that.

But still...he wasn’t sure why he had such a strong desire for your attention. He was never normally like this with relationships, though admittedly he hadn’t had a relationship extend past three months in a while now. Not for lack of trying of course, but he’d just never quite found someone to click with.

And at the risk of sounding like an old man, at the age of 28, he wasn’t really interested in investing his time and effort into someone who he could already tell he didn’t particularly care for. Hoseok felt like there were three types of people by his age; those who had found love and were happy and content in it, those who weren’t interested in dating and were focusing on themselves and those who were in a relationship purely for the sake of it.

The first group had already started marrying and having babies, Namjoon and Jimin for example, while the second group showed no interest in any of that. Which was perfectly fine obviously. Taehyung and Yoongi were prime examples of people who had no interest and didn’t seem to show any indication of wanting to show interest.

But Hoseok didn’t want to be in the third group, dating just for the sake of dating. He’d done that for years now, had one-night-stands throughout his college years, and maybe even a few he definitely regretted in the end stages of high school. So he wanted what some of his friends had found.

And he’d found that with you, which had been beyond surprising to him. You were most definitely not who he would have picked as his first choice to date, which sounded bad but he was just being honest. He hadn’t thought that he liked girls who liked cute things, nor had he thought he’d had the temperament and patience to put up with your anxieties and stresses.

He had though, finding within himself a deep need to make you happy and experiencing enjoyment at how slow things were progressing. His friends found it wild that everything was moving at a glacial pace and that Jung Hoseok of all people was going along with it and not complaining. But he liked it, he liked discovering your little quirks and traits slowly.

It was like unwrapping a present, with each new thing he learnt about you being his present. And he loved it so much. Which meant that he enjoyed learning this new thing about you, or rather how intense you got in video games you liked.

But still...he wanted your attention.

He was like a child; a whiny and petulant toddler. He knew this, but he couldn’t stop. Almost didn’t want to.

Which is why he was slowly inching his way over to you on the couch, hoping that his slow movements would catch your attention. It was only when he was almost on top of you that he realised it wasn’t working, causing him to sigh deeply and flop back against the couch in what could politely be called a mantrum.

“Do you want me to order food? Or make food? I can make it...can’t guarantee it tastes great but I can make it.” Hoseok asked, his voice light as he questions you. And it’s like he never spoke with the quiet ‘hmm’ you give back to him.

His bottom lip pushes out once more as he opens up his takeout app, inputting your address and ordering pizza for you both. There was no need to ask what you wanted, he knew what you liked by now.

A sudden outburst of unintelligible noises from you causes him to look up with an amused quirk of his brow, watching as your face scrunched in annoyance as you shake your controller at the screen again, teeth gritted together. And suddenly, he’s not bothered that you’re not paying attention to him anymore. Not when you look that cute.

Slowly, he’s not entirely sure why he’s doing it quietly as well when you’re paying zero attention to him, he opens the camera on his phone and angles it towards you with a smile. He takes a few careful seconds to get the best angle before pressing the button, the shutter noise unnoticed by him as he checks on the photo.

Tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth slightly, he hums to himself as he opens up the photo editing app he has on his phone and begins to edit it. Shifting the exposure, contrast and more, he turns what could’ve been a boring photo into something befitting you.

“Did you just take a photo of me?” You ask suddenly, causing him to look up with wide eyes. For a moment, he’s too startled to speak before he gives a playful scowl, poking your side with a finger.

“Oh, so now you listen to me? Huh?” He teases, sticking his tongue out at you. Your eyes drop to it slightly before skittering away quickly, causing him to smile internally. Hoseok was not as immune to your glances and movements as you thought he was. He just chose not to do anything about them because he didn’t want to push you.

“I was listening...you just weren’t saying anything interesting…” The words trail off halfway through you saying them, as if you realise how offensive they could come off. Immediately your eyes widen, mouth opening in what he’s positive is an apology. He’d normally let you, knowing it would soothe your anxieties to know that you’d said sorry to him but he doesn’t care today. It didn’t bother him.

“I’m not gonna argue with you. But yeah, I took a picture. You looked cute, all focused. I never realised you become dead to the world basically when playing a game. I’ve been lonely.” Hoseok makes his eyes go big, an earnest look being matched with slightly pouting lips to give you a face of pure innocence.

It doesn’t work evidently, given the way you roll your eyes at him. But it gets a smile out of you so he considers that a win.

“Hoseok...I don’t really like my photo being taken…” You whine quietly, fingers playing with the controller nervously. Over the last four months, Hoseok had learnt to analyse your body's movements carefully. They spoke your inner thoughts more than your mouth did and he could tell that you were feeling anxious.

“Hey, hey...come here. Look at it...see I edited it! You’re gorgeous!” He turns his phone to let you see, smiling brightly at you as your eyes glance over it. Lower lip being chewed slowly, your shoulders deflate as you push it back.

“No I’m not, I look fat and ugly. I don’t have a good side.” Silence falls after that statement, Hoseok’s mind frozen in sheer disbelief at your words. He wants to sigh heavily, shout at you that you’re wrong. Every part of him wants to shake you and make you see that you’re beautiful, flaws and all.

But he doesn't because he knows you wouldn’t like it. So instead he purses his lips, smacking them and making a noise as he tries to figure out a way to tell you that actually, you’re an idiot. He doesn’t want to hurt you though, so he knows that he has to tread a fine line.

Shuffling close, he presses himself to your side and holds up the phone to you, showing the photo once more. “I want to argue you with so bad right now, but all I’ll say is...you’re wrong. I think you’re pretty, cute even. Look at that scowl, it’s adorable. And look, you’ve seen the double chin I get when I’m laid down.”

“Oh please, as if that makes you look bad. You know you’re gorgeous, look at you.” You gesture at all of him, and he sighs, wrapping his arms around you tightly and kissing you all over your face until you’re no longer whining but giggling loudly. He doesn’t stop though, making the most over exaggerated noises as he does so.

“Oh no, oh no, the travesty of having to kiss this beautiful face. Oh please, I can’t handle it. It’s such a trial for me, to have to do this. Why couldn’t they give me someone less pretty? But it’s only fair that someone with my looks gets to kiss someone like you.” He gets the words out loudly between kisses, half laughing as he does it and fully enjoying the way that you practically shriek with laughter beneath him, body shaking.

Stopping, he just watches you for a moment with a soft smile, enjoying the brightness in your eyes that has replaced the fear and self-loathing. He really wishes that he could show you how he sees you compared to how you see yourself, but he supposes he’ll just settle for showering you with affection.

“Look...seriously...I like this.” He says quietly, resting his head on your shoulder as he shows you the photo once more. You don’t say anything this time, just look at the screen quietly with your head resting against his own. “Do you want me to delete it though? I will if you want.”

“No...if you like it...I just...I don’t have pictures taken often of me. I don’t really like it because I never really think I look good. It takes at least fifteen tries to get one I find acceptable for Instagram.” Chewing his lip, he sighs as he wavers on what to do. He doesn’t want to do something that will make you unhappy, but at the same time...he loves photography. And he wants to photograph you so badly.

Proper photographs too, with his DSLR that he’ll edit with Photoshop on his laptop. He just knows that he can take photos that even you will love and he truly thinks they’ll be some of his best work yet. There’s no way he can go wrong when he has such a beautiful muse here.

“Seriously Hoseok, it’s okay. You can keep it. You have nice editing skills.” Smiling, he clicks through the menu options on his phone before he’s moving the photo slightly, setting it at the right size and centralizing it before saving it as his home screen. It’s only then that you realise what he’s done, eyes widening.

“Did you just make that your home screen?” You ask incredulously and he snorts, nodding with a grin as he shows you with pride. Carefully, he moves his app icons around until you’re no longer covered by them, letting him see you perfectly every time he unlocks his phone. He loves it.

“Yes I did, and it’s perfect. I’ve been wanting a photo of you for a while,” Glancing over at you, he smirks ever so slightly. “I know you’ve got a picture of me as your home screen. The one of me at Namjoon’s barbeque last year where I’m looking away. Jungkook took it and I had it for my Facebook profile for a while.”

The squirm you do let’s him know that you’re probably dying inside but he’s far too amused and pleased with himself over this. Honestly his chest had probably swollen three sizes in pride and ego when he’d glimpsed it the other day. There was something oddly satisfying at knowing you had him on your phone.

And now he had you.

Eyes widening suddenly, he shifts upwards to give you with a shocked look. “I just realised...we’ve never taken a selfie together! If you’re okay with that.”

“I don’t really take them often...you’ve seen my Instagram.” Snorting, he rolls his eyes and moves until he’s sitting up against you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and hugging you to him. You don’t push him away though, nor do you tell him not to take one.

“That’s a fucking travesty. You should bless the world with your face more. And you spend all that time doing that makeup!” Now it’s your turn to roll your own eyes, pushing at him lightly.

“I do that because I like it, not because I want to show off.” He opens up the camera app once more, shifting the camera to be front facing and watching as his screen fills up with your faces.

“Well you should show off. You’re really talented with it and I’m sure there’s loads of people that would like to see more of it. There’s like...a whole section of Instagram dedicated to it. I know, cos I looked after I saw your pictures. You could be like...the next NikkieTutorials or Tati Westbrook!” It’s only because of the camera facing you both that he sees your incredulous expression, brows furrowing in surprise before they morph into amusement.

“Have you been watching beauty YouTubers?” Glancing at you, he shrugs uncaringly.

“You like them, so I figured I’d see what they’re about. Not really my thing but at least I half understand what you’re talking about when you bang on about primers and toners and all that shit. Besides, I have discovered that they apparently live scandalous lives and I’m oddly entertained by all the drama even though I have no idea who they are.” Hoseok says absentmindedly, mind drifting back to all those drama videos he’d accidentally ended up watching when he fell down the YouTube rabbit hole one night.

You let out a peal of laughter, the sound bright and happy and it makes his stomach twist slightly to hear it. He likes your laughter.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you actually watched that. So does this mean we can watch drama channels when you’re here?” Letting out a deep and bone weary sigh, he nods slowly before leaning over to kiss your cheek.

As he does so, he quickly angles the phone and snaps a photo of you both. You don’t realise what he’s done at first until he brings the screen for you to look at, grinning down at the image of you both that has been immortalised in high quality pixels.

You’re laughing still, mouth stretched into a wide smile of joy while your eyes are closed, the skin around them creased ever so slightly from happiness. His side profile is clearly evident, the gentle lighting of your room surprisingly good for this picture and his lips are pressed firmly to the soft skin of your cheek, lip ring shifted into view from the movement.

There’s no makeup on your face and you’re wearing an oversized white shirt with Kirby on it while he’s in his usual band shirt. The difference between you both is startling, but it makes his heart flutter a little oddly as he looks at it with a gentle smile.

Looking over at you, he realises that you haven’t said anything about it and he worries that you’re unhappy with the photo. Instantly, he stresses that maybe he’d done a bad thing and he’s about to apologise to you, chastened by his excitement.

But then you give him a shy smile, leaning into him and burrowing your head into the space between his neck and shoulder. “I...I actually like that. It looks...nice. Though you should probably edit it, edit my flaws and all that.”

Giving you a deadpan expression, he just pushes at your shoulder before rolling his eyes. “I’m going to forget I heard that. So...anyway.”

Despite what he said though, he does edit it and shows you what he uses and what he thinks the best edit would be. He lets you play around with the editing too, smiling as you make the photo look horrific by maxing out different sliders before letting him edit it exactly how he wants.

And then once he’s done, he goes onto Facebook and uploads it as his new profile picture.

The stunned silence from you has him looking over cautiously, taking in your shocked face which soon quickly morphs into shyness. It makes his chest hurt a little to see how you react to something as simple as him changing his profile picture to a picture of you both.

He doesn’t say anything though, recognising this as a moment that you’d need to work through it yourself. So instead, he presses his lips to your cheek once more before using his fingers to tilt your face towards his, capturing your lips with his. The movement is bordering on natural now, four months into your relationship.

“So...I ordered pizza which should be arriving soon. Think you might want to take a break?” Hoseok asks, nodding towards the screen where Geralt has been stood quietly for the last ten minutes as he’d distracted you successfully. Pursing your lips, you consider for a moment before shaking your head with a grin, picking up your controller once more.

And that’s when he realises that you had been paying attention to him the whole time. You’d just been refusing to give in to his whining. He almost says something before shaking his head with an exasperated smile, getting up when your doorbell goes off.

Well played, he thought to himself as he took the pizza boxes before standing for a few moments and watching as you became involved once more, well played indeed.

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litwitlady · 4 years

Text

December 2009

Alex climbs off the bus and sets foot on Roswell blacktop for the first time in over a year. There’s no one at the station waiting for him. He knew there wouldn’t be. So, he slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and starts walking.

As the sun beats across his neck and shoulders, he thinks back to the last time he was here – home. He’d crawled back to Michael. A half-broken thing.

‘Was it bad?’ Michael asks. He knows the answer already.

Alex just shrugs and hugs his knees into his chest. ‘It’s over now.’

A plane flies overhead and Alex shudders. It never used to be like that before. But war has reshaped everything.

Cars zip past him. Exhaust fumes soaking into his fatigues. Occasionally, there’s a honk, a wave, a thank you for your service. He imagines shooting their tires out.

Alex doesn’t know what to do with all this anger. But it lives inside him now, coiled up and waiting to be fed.

‘I missed you.’ He whispers the words into Alex’s hair.

Alex shifts against him. Looking up. ‘Is your hand better?’

His jaw clenches as the memory plays on loop. He’s determined to keep his head down while on leave. To go unnoticed. To disappear. Especially where Michael Guerin is concerned. And his father.

Alex crosses the road and weaves through the park. Kids are laughing. Mothers are shouting. Bees buzz past him.

It all feels so surreal.

He thinks of the little boy in Baghdad. With the shiny, chocolate eyes. The one who will never laugh again. The one whose mother will never stop wailing.

Back on the sidewalk, he heads east towards the cleanest motel in town. No one will know him there. He hardly recognizes himself when he looks in the mirror.

Alex’s eyes dart over his shoulder at a familiar sound. His heart sinks into his stomach and he takes a sharp right turn, pulling his hat down low over his eyes. But it’s too late. The Chevy is already parking.

He speeds up. Thinks about ducking inside the library, hiding in the stacks. But Michael must sense his desperation, his desire for escape – the telltale tug of his telekinesis already pulling at his duffel bag.

They lie together for a long time. Holding on for dear life. Michael is just about asleep when Alex climbs on top of him. ‘Show me how much you missed me.’ His hands are clasped in Michael’s dirty t-shirt. ‘Please.’

Michael is jogging up behind him now. ‘I was going to pick you up. At the bus station.’

Alex’s throat is dry. He tongues at the roof of his mouth trying to wet his words. ‘What?’

‘I just…I wanted to be there. Give you a ride.’

Alex hates the hope in Michael’s eyes. ‘The motel’s not far.’ He stumbles in his haste to turn around and flee. Michael’s hand catches him.

‘That place is a dump, Alex.’ The sound of his name on Michael’s lips sends him reeling, the midday sun still so fucking hot. He’s starting to sweat excessively, his undershirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. And if he doesn’t get rid of Michael soon, he’s going to keep repeating the same mistakes.

At that one simple touch, something in Alex comes undone. He collapses against Michael’s chest, body racked with sobs. Michael holds him until he falls asleep, until the sun comes up, until he has to leave again.

‘I gotta go.’ He’s half-running now. The weight of the duffle bag keeping him off balance. He considers ditching it – there’s nothing inside that matters. Alex no longer owns anything that matters.

Michael keeps up with him easily. Arm around his bicep. Refusing to lose contact. ‘Wait, Alex. Please.’

And then tears burn his eyes, mingling with his sweat. ‘I’ll only be here two months. Two months and then I’m gone again. I’ve been stationed in Georgia.’

The distance between them expands. That connection between them starts to unravel. A sharp hurt presses at their chests. ‘Georgia’s not so far. There’s no oceans.’

Alex can’t believe Michael is smiling. It makes him angry. ‘You’ve never even left Roswell.’ Somewhere in the back of his mind or in his heart, Alex knows Michael wants him to ask. Come with me. Come with me. Come with me.

He’s never going to ask. Because that kind of love and the first time Alex is called back to war he’ll go AWOL. Dishonorable discharge. And he won’t be able to outrun his father’s wrath. Or worse, Jesse will go after Michael.

‘Goodbye, Michael.’ It’s what he should have said last year, when he’d shown up at the UFO Emporium. What he should have said when he enlisted, when he got back from basic, when he left for war.

‘No.’ Michael spins him around and pushes him against a tree. Staying him with a hand held firmly to his chest. ‘Come home with me. We have two whole months. We’ll figure something out.’

‘No.’ Alex shrugs Michael off and looks around nervously. ‘Stop touching me in public. I’m in uniform.’

They walk to the motel. Three blocks. Alex leading; Michael following. Neither saying a word. While Alex checks in Michael waits anxiously outside the office, refusing to let Alex out of his sight.

At his room, Alex unlocks his door and drops his bag on the floor. He feels Michael behind him, so close he can feel the heat radiating off his body. Hears the door slam shut. The lock clicking into place. And in one swift, practiced movement Michael has Alex tucked beneath him on the bed, their mouths pushing together as buttons are unbuttoned and zippers unzipped.

And so, it begins. They spend one night at the motel and sixty nights in Michael’s bed. Never mentioning Georgia again. And on that sixtieth night, Alex watches Michael sleep as the seconds tick by, sneaking out before the dawn.

#malex #malex fic #angst #the lost decade angst

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jemelle · 4 years

Text

So I’ve been having some Thoughts about tumblr culture and I thought I’d share them. A post like this would normally go on my main, but I want to make it clear that I am speaking to the Criminal Minds community when I say these things.

1. Hate

First, I’m not going to pretend I’m a saint. I have mean, petty thoughts about people all the time; I have mean, petty thoughts about people in the CM fandom. But you know what I never ever do? Send them to that person. The equivalent of anon hate in real life would be like texting people I don’t like insults from a hidden number at random hours. Doesn’t that sound terrifying, and also a lot like harassment?

It’s inevitable, both in person and online, that you won’t like every person you meet. You may dislike someone for completely irrational reasons, or even just get a bad vibe from them. That’s a fact of life, but I cannot stress enough that if that person has not actually done something that harms people, then there’s absolutely no reason to share those opinions, especially with the person themself.

But maybe it’s eating you inside, and you want to scream about how much you hate this person? First, I would suggest unfollowing them. As someone who used to hate-read gossip forums, I can tell you that you will feel so much better when you’re not constantly provoking yourself into negativity. Maybe you’ve unfollowed them but you still see them on your dash and it makes you seethe with rage? The block button is right there, and you’re free to use it for any reason.

Second, share it with an IRL. They probably won’t understand any of the context, but that’s a good thing in this situation. Alternatively, scream into your pillow or the void (https://screamintothevoid.com/) or literally any place other than the face of the person you hate. Besides being just plain mean, I’m also willing to bet that it doesn’t make you feel much better, since so many of you seem to be repeat customers.

I fundamentally believe that most of you are not bad people (and I’m not an optimist, so that’s saying something). I believe that what you’re doing is cruel, but I also think that most of you are capable of remorse.

So I want to remind you that when you send anon hate, those are words you can’t take back. Even if you feel sorry, even if you regret it, those words live on, and all the reassurance in the world from their friends can’t disperse those seeds of doubt. So next time you’ve typed out a malicious ask and are getting ready to hit Send, think about the lasting impact of your actions and disperse your anger in a different way.

tl;dr you can feel angry all you want, but sending anon hate only ends up hurting all parties involved

2. Friendship

This is a little tougher to talk about, because while anon hate is universally maligned, the concept of friendship can get strange on an online platform.

I see those posts that say “if we’re mutuals, I consider you a friend,” and you know what? I think they’re wrong. If we’ve never spoken, you are not my friend. You might become my friend, but you’re not right now, and I think that culture of overfamiliarity leads to a lot of problems.

Just because you send someone an ask or a message does not mean you are automatically friends. It does not entitle you to their time, attention or affection. I know a lot of people use “I love you” casually, but you shouldn’t expect that as a rule. People have a right to be guarded in their interactions, because (and I cannot stress this enough) you are not their friend as soon as you meet them.

Making friends is hard, and I understand that. It can feel like everyone else has an established friend group and you’re just hovering on the outside. I see the anon hate about “cliques” and while I will never tolerate anon hate (see point one), I do understand where that particular piece comes from.

But I think it’s also important to understand that “cliques” are, in reality, just a group of friends. They might enjoy sending each other cute messages or responding to each other’s posts, but they’re not trying to rub it in your face. They genuinely like their friends, and they should be able to express that. If that makes you feel bad about yourself, I might recommend the unfollowing strategy I outlined in point one. Even if you like their content, if their blog is actively making you feel terrible about yourself, it’s probably not a great use of your time

Additionally, I would suggest trying to find your own friends. Doesn’t that contradict your other paragraph? Didn’t you just tell me not to talk to people? Nope. What I said is: don’t start talking to people like you’re already friends. Talk to them like you would any other person you’ve just met. Maybe you’ll come off as a little awkward, but if you and that person really click, it won’t matter.

And you won’t click with everyone. That doesn’t happen in real-life; it doesn’t happen online. Sometimes, you’ll introduce yourself to someone and then the conversation will peter out. Or maybe you’ll just remain friendly acquaintances. (If you’ll indulge me in a little bit of optimism) That’s okay! There are so many awesome people to meet, and just because this person wasn’t the one doesn’t mean that they’re a bad person or that there’s something wrong with you. Move on and keep on trying; it’ll be worth it in the end :)

tl;dr you’re not entitled to anyone’s attention. it can suck sometimes to feel lonely, but the only way to solve that is to meet people. not everyone will be your new best friend, and that’s perfectly fine!

#celie talks #this is literally 1000 words i'm so sorry #i just started writing and couldnt stop #also im going to bed rn #so if this post starts drama i am not ignoring it #i am just sleeping

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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years

Text

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 6: Bi Bi Bi - Generations

1957

Henry asks him to detail his encounter, again. “I – I didn’t have my, uh… my pen.” He shakes it, awkwardly chuckling.

The other man – Paul – whistles a sad note at having to repeat his story but does so anyway. “Like I said, I was minding my business – taking a walk through the park…”

Nodding, Henry scribbles over the little notepad what he should have been writing from the start. If he hadn’t been distracted. By disheveled hair, five o’clock shadows, blue eyes and broad shoulders under a too-tight t-shirt. Paul describes his encounter with the shifter in full detail. Henry barely collects enough information for his investigation. When their meeting ends, Paul ushering him out the door, Henry almost cries in relief. Still, there’s a routine to this. Rules he, a Men of Letters, must follow.

“If you see anything else,” Henry says, handing Paul a business card, “you can reach me, here.”

Not really. Henry rarely spends time in the Bunker, unlike his fellow colleagues who skulk around like the very ghosts they study. They’d more than likely answer the phone. Why he told Paul that, he cannot explain. Neither the rush Henry felt when Paul grabbed the card, and for a few scant seconds, they both held it. Thumbs inches apart from one another. Until Henry let go, stepping past the threshold and breathing deep from clean air not tainted by aftershave and loose cigarettes. Confusion flies from his mind like the birds overhead in the sky. Cawing while he walked the short distance from Paul’s trailer towards his car.

That’s all he would need. A simple trek would send those queer thoughts heavenward, never to bother him again. Paul’s face stayed with him, though, when he entered the car. How his lips moved when asking simple questions, like if he wanted a drink. His fingers on the bottle while he poured, somehow maintaining eye contact with him. That damned business card.

Henry tightens his grip on the steering wheel, shuddering as it all replays in his mind, frame by frame through his mental projector.

Luckily, pinned on the rearview, was a picture of his beloved. Millie. Smiling like a ray of sunshine, parting those awful clouds. She gives him strength, and with one final push, shoves those thoughts far away. Paul’s strong fingers were replaced with her delicate ones, and the only lip he thinks about is her soft, pink ones. Her face is all he ever needs. With Millie, he can overpower any temptation.

“And that’s normal,” he mutters, starting the engine, “we all have temptations… as long as I never give in.”

On the roads, it’s hard. But that’s why, wherever he goes, he carries a piece of Millie with him. To make it easy.

1989

John wakes up with a sharp knife cleaving his head in twain, and a dull ache low near his stomach. Gurgling, he rubs a tired hand through his hair. Blocks intrusive sun rays with a calloused paw, mumbling all the while about extinguishing the sun.

“Yeah,” someone chuckles nearby, sheets rustling as he moves. A heavy arm wraps around him. “The sun’s a fuckin’ loser.”

Despite the monster-sized hangover he nurses, John sprung from the bed. “What the –“ He bites hard on his tongue, enough to draw blood, as he fully takes in the bed’s other occupant. Bronzed skin, chestnut hair fanning out behind him on the pillow. Bloodshot, blue eyes squinting up at him. Chest bare, the rest thankfully hidden under the blanket. But judging by his own state, and that of the room with clothes strung about, he saw enough. Blissfully forgotten, lost when he sobered.

“Hey,” the stranger drawls, sitting. Watching John with a furrowed brow. “What’s wrong?”

He twitches, telegraphing his next moves with blaring sirens. John barks a quick order, “No!” in time, startling the other back into bed.

“What?”

“No,” he continues, growling. Reaching for a pair of pants, one leg inside. “No, you… you stay there –“

“What?” he says again, angrier, “John, what the hell is going –“

“No!” he roars, whipping around. Jeans still unbuttoned, unzippered. “Do not address me, you –“ Like a gunshot, he hurls the insult and watches all the life drain from the other man. Paler than earlier, his lips thin. “I am going to get dressed,” John says, shoulders quaking with rage. At the stranger. At himself. At what happened last night. “And I will leave. You will wait exactly ten minutes. Not nine, not eleven – ten. After that you can do whatever the hell you want as long as we never see each other again. Because if we do I…” John advances, snagging his button down on the way. Strangles the fabric in his grip. “I promise you will not like it.”

Learning from his earlier missteps, the stranger wordlessly nods, drawing up the covers around his waist.

“Good.”

He throws the shirt on, hastily buttoning it. Tucks it into his now-fastened pants, and finds his stained jacket. Then, he grabs his shoes. Exiting barefoot, no care to waste time putting them on. More important that he create distance between him and his mistake.

It won’t be far. First, he notices his Baby. Parked haphazardly but in one piece. The relief that ballooned in his chest bursts as his gaze trails from that towards the overhead motel sign. A familiar one. The same he saw when driving in three weeks ago, checking in while he skulked about for hunts.

John looks behind him, at the room he left. Even in a stupor, he found a room on the other side. Far from his kids, his secret safe another day. He slams a boot against his head, ringing increasing from the blow. “Stupid, stupid…” he mutters, walking, “You promised… after the last time, you promised -!”

This happened before. More than the standard one time – because every boy practiced kissing with their best friend. At least, that’s what Marty told him in the eighth grade. Once isn’t a big deal. Repeat performances and… and other lewd acts, that crosses over into queer territory. Dangerous territory. For him as a man, and a father.

If only Mary… she stopped it, for a while. Woman or man, there wasn’t a person alive who stole his breath quite like her. Who made his heart skip a beat in a normal way. When she died, normality went with her.

He hoped at least some of it would stay. But with enough drink, anything is possible.

Standing outside his door, shifting on his feet, John promises to be better. Resist falling into old habits, into men’s arms. Otherwise, one day, he won’t be as lucky. And where would his boys be…

“Whatever,” he sighs, opening the door, “women’re better anyway.”

John expected, with how low the sun was, he’d find a quiet room. Two children fast asleep, and a table John can sit at and consider his life choices. The table’s there, and at least one child lay unmoving on the bed.

Dean, however, sits on the edge of his bed. Bowl of cereal on his lap, he barely flinched at John’s entrance. Mesmerized by the television screen.

Creeping forward, he curiously spies on the cartoon Dean watches. He recognizes the explosions and music, glad his son enjoyed a perfect boys’ show like G.I. Joe. Still, freaked by his morning, John sees the cartoon with new eyes. Were the men on the show always that jacked? Abnormally so? And men don’t hug, why are they? John only hugged his fellow soldiers for select reasons, and those nights ended in hushed whispers and regret.

He strides across the room and clicks the television off.

“Hey!” Dean cries, “I was watching –“

“You won’t ever watch that show again, you hear me?” he says, sternly wagging his finger. “Do you hear me?”

Dean whines, kicking his legs. “Why? What’s so bad about it?”

“Because,” he splutters, cheeks flushed, “because, you don’t want people to think you’re a fairy, do you?” His oldest frowns, clearly confused. Unused to the term. John, reticent, turns from him. “Besides, you’re too old for cartoons anyway. Men don’t watch cartoons.” At Dean’s silence, John heads for the bathroom. “Wake Sammy, tell him we’re leaving –“

“What?”

“Your things better be packed by the time I finish showering.” He shuts the door, blocking any response.

Hidden from his kids, John bleeds every ounce of tension from his body. Shoes drop, booming in the small space. Shuffling further, John braces himself against the sink. Stares at his reflection, hating every sinful inch. “Never again,” he whispers, “you’re stronger than your mistakes.”

2020

Dean watches his reflection mouth the words, easy without sound. But when he tries voicing those thoughts, his voice crackles and cuts out. Plug pulled before anything happens, too frightened by what might be.

“You can do this,” he mutters, splashing some water on his face. “You can do this.” He’s had how many years? Of figuring things out. Of lying. Of acceptance. It’s three words. There are scarier things than that, and Dean has taken them all down.

But this?

Sam knocks on the door, “Dean? You finished in there?”

“Give me a sec, Sam!” he calls, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. His brother drumming continuing behind him, testing his patience. “Seriously!”

“Come on… I want to shower!” Scoffing. Sam slams a heavy hand on the door. “Can you please come out already?”

Dean swings it open, Sam’s brows jumping in surprise. “Fine!” he shouts, flailing, “I’m bisexual. Are you happy?”

Sam scowls, looking unimpressed. “Is that all?”

“…Yeah?”

“Good,” Sam says, offering a tiny smile. Only momentarily, as in the next second it flattens into a frown. “Now, if you're done, can you please exit the bathroom so I can wash the witch gunk from my hair?”

“Sure, sure…” Dean stumbles out, Sam rushing in after. Chest lighter, as was his mood. He giggles from the absurdity of it all, raking shaking fingers through his hair. “I’m bisexual,” he repeats, “I’m bi – I’m bi!”

A hurricane of thoughts whip through is mind. Many of them a variation of what he’s already announced. In the eye of that storm, however, is a crystal-clear lake of blue. A comfort, that makes his heart swell and feel safe. The same color as a very, important person’s eyes.

Dean dials his number, holding the phone to his ear. He answers on the third ring, Dean speaking over him. “Hey, Cas! I – I have something to tell you. I’m –“

(Day 5 - Now That’s an Angel Blade)

#cracktober #profoundnet #supernatural #spn #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #destiel #deancas #henry winchester #john winchester #dean winchester #bi henry winchester #bi john winchester #bi dean winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #sam winchester #castiel

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cheezritsu · 4 years

Text

Atsumu Miya || Unravelling

[Uhn•rav•uhl] verb, informal. to take apart; undo; destroy

Warnings: implied sex, mentions of sex, quick depiction of self harming behaviors (not explicit.) Inspired by SZA’s Supermodel

It must be considered deviant and demonic how the constant the thud thud THUD! Rings out with an even pace in the hallway of Tokyo’s finest apartment complexes. If it weren’t for the fact that calling the police would no doubt result in a press field day none of the residents of Park Mansion Akasaka wanted, someone would have filed a noise complaint. It’s a shame they did not—perhaps there might be a certain clout that comes with exposing MSBY setter Miya Atsumu’s intimate life, but it would also have saved time, money, and tears in the long run.

But, the residents of the 9th floor could not see into the future. They were instead, attempting to mind their business and not be bothered by Miya trying to make back beats by fucking someone into a mattress.

That little comparison was Osamu’s first scathing critique, until he froze completely. The disgust melted into horror as he turned his head to his companion.

“Hey-,” he starts, but as he catches the expression, the words dry up.

Yes, it would have been nicer—no, merciful—if the residents of the 9th floor had called the police when this happened, if only to spare you from witnessing it yourself.

Your hands get so clammy, the plastic bag in your hand nearly slips out. You catch yourself before the beer bottles can shatter on the marble floor that costs more than your entire block. It’s an easy clean up, but it would probably be very sticky, and disastrous, you think. Almost as disastrous as—

It starts up again, rhythmic and constant like an orchestrated performance. You and Osamu are mere steps outside the apartment, and you can hear the manic, frayed screams coming from the walls. It sounds like they’re in pain; just the way Atsumu likes it.

“Y/N,” Osamu tries once again to get your attention. The pity in his voice is unmistakable, and you hate that of all the emotions the usually stoic twin shows you, this is the one he’s chosen. Pity. Sympathy.

“Guess that’s why he didn’t pick up the phone,” you remark casually, refusing to look Osamu in the eye. “I’ll just leave it by his door with a note.”

Osamu says your name, this time with a firm edge that demands attention. You don’t give it to him. You’re too busy trying not to actively throw the takeout and beer you bought out of your measly paycheck to help your friend (attachment, entanglement, dick appointment, are all better words than friend) feel better after a crushing defeat at the hands of the Saitama Spears. (Crushing, like his hands must be around her neck for the moans to sound so strangled.) No matter, you say to yourself, hands shaking as you send him a text. Something cute and sweet with a properly sickening amount of heart emojis, like any good (not quite) girlfriend would do. Whatever it takes.

Ignoring how the click of your heels mesh with the steady thrum of Atsumu’s two thousand yen headboard against his 100 million yen walls, you march back the exact way you came; down the white, sterile hallway and passed the doors that housed the rest of the 9th floor, who would, unknowingly, pay for the mistake of not asking the shameless Atsumu Miya to please, please keep his fucking at a tolerable volume. Fame and infamy come with perks, one supposes, but they also come with karma.

You’re not thinking of revenge, though. You’re wondering how you’ll make it to the elevator without completely coming apart at the seams. Something in you unravels, much like it might if Atsumu were playing you like the fool you were; perfectly manicured setter hands curling, scratching, plucking at all the right places. No, this unravelling is much slower, much more painful, as if the single thread that creates your existence is being snipped in half. When you push the call button for the elevator, you think the thread is severed completely, because you have to lean your head on the cold steel to steady yourself.

Osamu’s approaching footsteps really only register in the very depths of your mind. The heavy breathing doesn’t really sound like yours—how could it be anyways, when you were miles away from your body, floating in the ether like a ghost; forgotten, discarded, alone. Untethered.

You lift your head up only to bang it against the wall. The soft thud is reminiscent of the moment that just transpired, and you—subconsciously, like you were possessed—start bashing your forehead to the same piledriver waltz Atsumu had played.

“Y/N!” Pity. Bang! Worry. Bang! Sympathy. Bang! Could you crush your skull this way? The mystery woman’s screams tangle in your brain like an earworm, the salacious sounds on repeat. Bang!

When Osamu’s hand lands on your shoulders, it feels like he’s tethered your soul back into your body. You wrench yourself out of his grip.

“Don’t!-” you begin to scream, but you catch the look he gives you. His grey-brown eyes are wet with concern, darting between the growing red spot on your forehead to the watery snarl on your lips. You take a shuddering breath to keep the hysteria from bubbling into your tone. “Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”

Osamu doesn’t even raise an eyebrow in pretence. His mask of neutrality and sarcasm is completely gone, replaced with anger. “You were banging your head into the wall like a patient in a psych ward.”

“That’s unnecessarily stereotypical, Osamu. I thought you were better than that.”

Crossed arms. He’s seconds away from blowing his lid. “Yer not funny.”

You wonder what would happen if Osamu blanked on you in here. Would these good-for-nothing neighbors actually call the police then? What a headline: Miya twins apprehended in two separate noise complaints. Kita would probably stop sending Osamu rice out of embarrassment.

You don’t want to fight Osamu anyways. It’s not his fault that the bearer of his face is fucking another girl as you speak.

The elevator dings, and you step inside. It’s fortunately empty. Osamu stands right next to you, hovering like an overprotective parent. The chrome doors of the elevator slide shut and you’re face to face with your own reflection: hollow, sunken eyes the most expensive concealer can’t fix; posture hunched from years of slaving over work and school; nails short and busted from part time jobs that barely pay the bills. Nails that have been raked down the chiseled, marble back of a man who didn’t belong to you, and never did.

Her nails were probably nicer. Probably manicured. Maybe he paid for it. You can’t even see your nails anymore, because your head is in your hands, shielding your ugly cries from Osamu, who bears the face of the man who doesn’t love you.

“I should have just taken the fucking hint,” you sniffle, wiping the running eyeliner from the corner of your eye. “Shoulda left him alone.”

Osamu just hums. You wished it was anyone else but him. Osamu isn’t bad at a lot of things, but comfort was one of them. He just stares vacantly at the doors, a grimace replacing his usual thin lipped look, but other than that he appears unbothered.

And then, like he’s reading condolences off a list, he says: “I’m sorry.”

The words in their sincerity sound foreign on his tongue. With one big sniff you pull the thread keeping you together tightly, gathering yourself. “What’re you apologising for? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sorry my brother is a complete piece of shit.”

“Well, we both knew that, didn’t we.”

Osamu can’t place what he dislikes about that phrase, but the elevator interrupts his thought process. The doors open to reveal one of the security guards eying you two up and down. His eyes narrow for a moment on Osamu’s face, and then dip down to yours.

“There a problem here, Miya-san?”

On any other day he might have pulled a fast one on this guard, but you promptly walk out of the elevator, leaving Osamu to follow your lead wordlessly. The world outside the Park Mansion Akasaka is still turning, still bustling with people catching trains home from work, their patent leather shoes from office jobs clicking on the sidewalk to a rhythm you can’t match. The thud of the salarymen’s briefcases hitting their legs echo like the headboard off Atsumu’s walls. It’s everywhere, everywhere, and your insides churn sickeningly.

You stop, one hand leaning against the glass. Osamu catches up, hands halting just before they reach your back. “Stop running away from me, name,” he says softly, exasperated. “I’m trying to help.”

“How long.”

Osamu blinks. “What?”

You’re nearly doubled over with nausea, your free hand pressed flat against your chest to keep your lungs compressing. “How long has he been with her?”

“I don’t know.”

“I swear to god, if you’re lying to me-“

“(Name) I would never do that to you.”

The promise doesn’t reassure you. Osamu runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in right now. And I’m not going to say anything—“

“Like what?” You look at him over your shoulder, eyes squinted in malice. “Like I told you so?”

Your insolence is wearing out Osamu’s sliver of empathy. You’re unbearable like this, you know that, and Osamu is less tolerable than most. “Your words, not mine.”

“Your brother is cheating on me.”

“You’re not together.”

“There it is!” You let your head fall back in rumbling, humorless laughter. “I was waiting for that.”

“I don’t want to be a dick right now.”

“Too late, ‘Samu.” You haul yourself up, buttoning the front of your coat. “Go home, work on your winter menu. I’ll be fine.”

The statement is met with rightful skepticism, but when you start to walk away, Osamu doesn’t follow. You can’t decide whether or not this hurts, because the all encompassing pain finally registers to the rest of your body. You try to numb yourself, dissociating as every step towards home becomes a blur. Akasaka’s beautiful lights and towers fade into lesser Tokyo’s decrepit neighborhoods, with sketchy alleys and dimly lit streets. Your apartment complex is a shoebox to Atsumu’s tower residence, and it feels just as claustrophobic when you step into your crowded, tiny apartment.

It’s nicer than what your friends can afford, but that doesn’t make it any better. Your couch is also your bed, and your desk faces the window even though you can’t properly study this way. The kitchen is perpetually clean because you can’t cook anything in it. You’re sure the fridge is empty, but it’s fine, because you simply peel off your clothing and curl into a ball on your bed.

It’s not even late. You have work and assignments to do, but as you check the time on your phone, you’re immediately taken to your camera roll, where a picture from several days ago stares back at you mockingly.

It’s from his bathroom, the one that has a television screen by the bathtub, the one with hotel lighting that makes you look glowy and ethereal no matter what. You’re half dressed, in the middle of putting on your morning skincare when Atsumu comes up behind you, arms around your waist. Your face is obscured, but you remember how happy and loved you felt to have his lips pressed against your temple, the heat of his body in your side. How surrounded and safe and warm you felt.

But moments are as fleeting and fragile as glass. The illusion has been shattered, and you’re left in a cocoon of blankets nowhere near as satisfactory as his body heat, in a dark and dingy apartment you will probably stay in for the rest of your life.

Just as you’re about to set your alarm for the morning, a notification pops up. The sparkles around his name indicate that Atsumu has finally, finally texted you back.

✨T’sumu✨: sorry I missed you babe I was not in a good place

✨T’sumu✨: you got work tmrrw? You always know how to cheer me up

It’s as if your heart has been snatched out of your rib cage; your chest hollows and collapses as a sob hiccups in your throat. Something wet slides across your temple. It’s not Atsumu’s lips, not even close. You wipe the tears with the back of your hand, and throw your phone across the room.

It shatters.

#atsumu miya #miya atsumu #this makes him seem shitty and hes not #This was hoing to be a very long and spiralling fic where the reader slowly descends into hysteria over being cast aside #i wanted to illustrate how compleltly devastating and upending this is #and i love the word unravelling #haikyuu!!#hq!!#atsumu miya x reader #miya atsumu x reader #reader x miya atsumu #reader x atsumu miya

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