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mimisempai · 10 months

Text

I want it to be an "us"

Summary

As Metatron prepares to take him back to paradise, Aziraphale bids farewell to the quiet, precious life he had built for himself. But can he really leave when everything around him reminds him of the one he's about to leave behind?

Notes

I was destroyed in a thousand pieces by the end of season 2, but I've rebuilt myself with this fix-it story. Opening of a new series that will revolve around Crowley and Aziraphale and the people we've just gotten to know. See you on the other side.

On Ao3

Rating T - 2230 words

"You idiot. We could have been... us."

What?

Crowley.

He was walking away.

Aziraphale turned away when suddenly two hands grabbed the lapels of his jacket and Crowley's lips pressed against his.

Aziraphale no longer knew anything.

Or what was happening.

Or where he was.

He wanted to pull his hands down, but at the same time, he didn't.

Suddenly, Crowley's lips parted from his and the demon stepped back. As Aziraphale tried to catch his breath, Crowley stared at him blankly.

What was he going to say?

What had he said the last time?

Oh, yes.

"I... I forgive you."

Crowley sighed and started to turn around before heading for the door, whispering as he opened it, "Don't bother."

Throat tight and gasping for breath, Aziraphale wanted to call out to the demon, but couldn't get a word out. He raised his trembling hand to his lip in shock at what had just happened.

He dropped his hand and tried to control himself.

He took several deep breaths when suddenly the sound of the door opening made him turn his head to see Metatron enter. He turned to hide his face.

Metatron asked, "How did he take it?"

Aziraphale turned and replied, "Um, not well," and giggled to set the tone. But there was nothing joyful about that little laugh.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Muriel watching them through the window as Metatron walked toward him, adding, "Ah, well, always wanted to go his own way. Always asking damn stupid questions, too."

As Metatron spoke about Crowley, Aziraphale's eyes couldn't help but drift back to the chair where he and Crowley had sat across from Muriel a few days ago.

Metatron was close to him now and continued, "So, ready to start?"

What? Already?

Aziraphale, his throat tightening even more, looked around and began to stammer, "I... But, um... my bookshop."

Metatron replied, "Yes, well, for now I've entrusted it to Muriel, so it should be in good hands."

Muriel.

He watched as they waved their hand through the window.

But Muriel knew nothing about books.

Aziraphale replied weakly, "But..."

Metatron interrupted and asked, "Anything you need to take with you?"

Aziraphale looked around once more, and as he turned his head, his gaze fell on a particular spot on his beige jacket, just below his shoulder.

"Look at the state of this coat. I've kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years now."

Crowley turned and looked at the stain as Aziraphale continued to grumble, "I'll never get this stain out."

Stopping in front of him, Crowley said, "You could miracle it away. Hmm..."

Aziraphale said in an unconvinced voice, "Yes, but...well, I would always know the stain was there." He turned his shoulder to Crowley and continued, "Underneath, I mean."

Crowley approached him quietly, leaned slightly to the side, and blew gently on the blue stain, which disappeared at the same time as the red stain on the demon's chest.

Aziraphale, touched, smiled and replied softly, "Oh, thank you," meeting the demon's gaze, which returned the smile.

As Metatron waited for his answer, Aziraphale's gaze drifted to his bookshelves. His precious books.

Aziraphale stood amidst the rubble of the church, with the sound of people screaming and sirens in the distance.

He took off his hat and held it to his chest before saying, "That was very kind of you."

The demon replied in a dry voice as he put his glasses back on, "Shut up.

Aziraphale insisted, "Well, it was. No paperwork, for a start." then suddenly gasped before exclaiming, "Oh, the books. Oh, I forgot all the books! Oh, they'll all be blown to..."

He didn't immediately notice Crowley, who bent down and snatched a bag from the hand of one of the Nazis emerging from the rubble.

The demon handed him what he recognized as his book bag and said gently, "Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?" before continuing forward under Aziraphale's amazed gaze.

Aziraphale's gaze continued to wander, coming to rest on the bottle of scotch and the two glasses on the small table at the back of the shop.

The waiter poured champagne into Aziraphale's glass in the elegant manner inherent to the Ritz, then thanked him as the waiter poured for Crowley and, taking his glass, the angel said gently, looking at the demon, "I like to think none of this would have worked out if you weren't, at heart, just a little bit a good person."

Crowley picked up his glass and continued, returning his gaze, "And if you weren't, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing."

Aziraphale smiled shyly, looked down as the demon clinked his glass against his own, and said softly, "Cheers. To the world."

Aziraphale clinked his glass against Crowley's and replied, "To the world."

The angel and the demon exchanged a lingering look and smiled before taking sips from their glasses as the pianist beside them played softly A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square.

That certain night

The night we met

There was magic abroad in the air

There were angels dining at the Ritz

And a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

"Well?"

Metatron's voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

Aziraphale shook his head.

"I heard it."

Metatron raised an eyebrow, "Heard what?"

Aziraphale's eyes slid to the window, through which he saw Nina crossing the street with a coffee, probably on her way to Maggie's shop.

Then he saw him.

Crowley, leaning against the Bentley.

Aziraphale, heart pounding, replied, "The nightingale in Berkeley Square."

The angel saw Metatron for the first time wearing a confused look on his face as he asked, "What?"

This being would never understand music, the soothing smell of books, the softness of a sweet crepe on the palate, so Aziraphale did not answer him, but simply said, "I have decided to decline your offer. Crowley -if he is willing to forgive me- and I are on our own now. Here. With humanity. With all those beings you consider inferior."

Metatron's face hardened.

He said coldly, "Very well, let's see if you and Crowley will be able to protect mankind from what's about to happen."

But Aziraphale no longer listened to him and made his way to the front door of the store. In his haste to cross the street, he was nearly hit by a cyclist coming from the left, forcing him to step back.

"Angel! Watch out!"

Crowley.

His voice.

Always watching over him.

Even after the way Aziraphale had just hurt him.

So he motioned for him to join him.

He saw Crowley hesitate, so he just gave him a little smile, his throat tightening and his heart pounding.

Crowley nodded and walked toward him.

Aziraphale opened the door and they entered the shop. After a few seconds, Aziraphale took a few steps and hummed, "You were right, you were right..."

He hadn't seen Crowley come forward.

The demon raised his hand and said in a hoarse voice, "No, angel, not this time. It's going to take more than a little dance."

The distance between them had narrowed. Aziraphale was suddenly aware of Crowley's physical presence before him. The kiss came back to him, but he pushed it out of his mind.

Not now.

Not yet.

He took a step toward the demon.

Stopped.

Raised his hand and let it fall.

Reached out again until they were almost touching.

Aziraphale gently raised his hand again and moved it to the demon's face, which didn't move. He grabbed the glasses and gently removed them. He was so close that it was impossible not to see the unshed tears that made the yellow eyes glisten.

Aziraphale murmured, "Oh... Crowley... I am so, so sorry. It... It... it was just now, as I was leaving, that I realized. When Metatron asked me if I wanted to take anything. I looked around, and... all I saw was you. And... I think I finally understood. Or... or starting to understand... that I... that I... damn it! Why is it so hard!"

Aziraphale sighed in frustration. Why couldn't he say what was in his heart, now that he knew? He had to. For Crowley. For himself.

He tried to go on, "Forgive me. All these years... not seeing what you wanted me to see. But I did. Just now, and I... I..."

He gasped, for Crowley had just dropped his head on his shoulder. Aziraphale froze again, not knowing what to do.

Crowley murmured against him, "It's all right, Angel, I understand."

But Aziraphale shook his head, he couldn't let Crowley take all the responsibility again. All of it. Otherwise they would do it all over again.

And Aziraphale didn't want that.

"No, Crowley. I have something I want you to hear. I may not be able to say it well. I... It may take me a long time, but I want you to hear it.

Crowley murmured, "Okay... "

Aziraphale felt the tears well up again, and this time he didn't try to hold them back, wiping his eyes, once, twice.

Suddenly he felt hands on his shoulders and Crowley said softly, "Angel, it's okay. I'm listening. I'm really listening."

"Ear... earlier, when you told me how you felt, when I rejected you like that, it was terrible and... and I knew it wasn't right and... but... but it was just that I was afraid, as always, afraid to move. And also that I was protecting myself, but I didn't have to..."

Aziraphale felt like his words had no shape or form, but he wanted so badly to convey things properly to Crowley that the words jostled each other on his lips. They were not well-chosen words, not even a nice confession.

"Crowley, I... I want there to be an us, too. I do. Us. I want you to be the most important person to me. I want to be the most important person to you. Call you for no reason. Eat crepes with you looking at me and me eating a lot, like always. I want to do all the things that I don't know yet that people do when they're together and I want it to be the most natural thing in the world. I... I..." Tears choked him and he could no longer speak, " Us... Us..."

Suddenly, he found himself pressed against Crowley's chest, and the demon whispered into his hair, "I get it, Angel. I get it."

Aziraphale had his hands in the air and whispered against Crowley's chest, "I want..."

"Yes?"

"I want to hug you back, may I?"

Crowley murmured, "Go ahead."

Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley's back and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. And Crowley squeezed him back and whispered, "Yeah, Angel... yeah..."

Aziraphale squeezed harder.

Crowley whispered into his hair, "It's endless, isn't it?"

Aziraphale nodded against Crowley's chest.

The demon whispered into his hair, "Let's become us. Us."

Aziraphale, unable to speak, nodded again, and they remained entwined in the middle of the bookshop for long minutes.

When they finally let go, they couldn't take their eyes off each other. Aziraphale said softly, "I... about... you know... what... happened earlier, I... I don't think I'm ready to finally... you know?"

Crowley smiled softly and placed his finger on the Angel's lips, "It's okay, Angel, as always. At your own pace."

Of course, as always.

Aziraphale hoped that one day he would be able to walk at Crowley's pace. Not yet. Not now. But one day he would.

He nodded and asked, his voice still hoarse with emotion, "What do we do now?"

Crowley leaned forward and brought his lips to the Angel's forehead before asking, "Is that okay?"

"Go... go ahead."

Crowley pressed his lips gently to the angel's forehead. Not for long. But long enough for Aziraphale to feel the loss the moment he stepped back.

Crowley said softly, "I'm sure you've got a nice bottle of champagne somewhere. And since I'm not sure I can go to the Ritz in this state, let's celebrate here. He took the angel's hand, and Aziraphale tightened his fingers on Crowley's, hesitantly at first, then more firmly, as he led him to the table where they usually shared a drink. He made the angel sit down and, after planting another quick kiss on his forehead, went to rummage through the bottle stash. Aziraphale couldn't help but bring his fingers to the spot where Crowley had pressed his lips and, blushing slightly, withdrew them sharply when the demon returned.

Crowley conjured up two flutes and filled them with the sparkling golden liquid before sitting down beside Aziraphale. He took his glass and clinked it against Aziraphale's, murmuring, "Cheers. To us."

Us.

Aziraphale, smiling softly, replied, "To us."

The angel's eyes came to rest on the gramophone. He smiled, raised his hand slightly, and suddenly the warm voice of Tori Amos filled the room.

Crowley gasped slightly as Aziraphale asked, "Do you hear it?"

Crowley nodded, "Yes, I do, Angel."

The Angel's hand slid across the table and came to rest on the Demon's as he said in a clear voice, "I hear it too, Crowley."

I may be right, I may be wrong

But I'm perfectly willing to swear

That when you turned and smiled at me

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : here

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #GoodOmensSeason2Spoilers #GOS2Spoilers #GoodOmens2Spoilers

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chickenfics · 2 years

Text

Scars

Relationship: Bucky Barnes x Fem!reader - Western AU

Summary: Running from a past that haunts you and a future that is unsure, the last thing you wanted was to take up with a stranger. Strangers, you'd learned, are almost always more trouble than they're worth. But when dangers from the life you're trying to leave behind get too close for comfort, drastic times call for drastic measures, and the stranger you'd once feared becomes the only person you can trust -- and perhaps the only person you'd call your friend. Now you both just have to make it out alive...

Word Count: 8.1k

Content warning: knives, violence, death, wound care/blood, reader wearing a piece of Bucky's clothing

A/N: A cantle is the raised, curved part at the back of a western saddle, for those that don't know

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for future chapters!

Also on Ao3

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Chapter 6

You woke up covered in dew, your clothes heavy with smoke from the fire. So much for feeling clean. The sun had yet to peek over the trees and soft tendrils of fog wove through the forest, surrounding your campsite in an otherworldly hush. Rolling onto your side, you stretched out stiff legs and shoved the blanket aside. Bucky was already awake. He was sitting up, one arm propped on his knee, and staring into the dead fire. When he noticed that you were awake, he stiffened a bit and shifted awkwardly.

“Morning,” you said, groaning as you sat up, your muscles stretching.

“Mornin’,” he replied. Then, pointing at the fire, “I wasn't watching you, or anything, I just, uh…”

“I didn’t think you were,” you softly replied. He glanced down at his boots and nodded before reaching up to rub the back of his neck.

“We should get moving. There's a town," he pointed vaguely, "Not far that we can resupply. It’s gonna be a while before we get another chance.”

You nodded. It felt like you were really on your way -- like you were getting close, the two of you, to finally escaping. And, for the first time in a long time, you weren’t so scared. You didn’t feel like you had to jump at every sound the forest made or scan the horizon for danger. Dark corners didn’t seem as much like hiding places for nightmares anymore. Part of that was because of Bucky, sure -- but part of it was also because, for the first time in a long time, you had hope.

You shouldn’t have.

You shouldn’t have ever stopped believing that you could actually get away. Your past would never leave you alone -- not until it was six feet under, and even then, you suspected it would haunt you. You shouldn’t have let your guard down. In your defense, it had been so long since you’d been able to relax those muscles that kept you perched, waiting for danger. But just when you’d begun to wonder if, just for a little while, you could, you were reminded once again of why you absolutely could not.

It was one of those things that you should have seen coming.

He’d just stepped away for a moment; gone off to take care of something while you covered your tracks, kicking leaves and dirt over the ash from the fire. He’d just stepped away for a moment, and you’d just started getting used to the feeling of safety -- it was the perfect condition for that feeling to be shattered.

Something hard and heavy crashed into your back and sent you sprawling forward. The breath was ripped from your lungs as, gasping, you were jerked around and thrown onto your back, a weight pressing immediately onto your chest, pinning you down. Your vision went blank long enough for your revolver to be wrenched away and thrown aside with a clatter. You reached out for it, fingers searching across the empty dirt, scraping and clawing until a foot pinned it down, your bones grating painfully under the boot.

Then, in a rush of color and light, you could see again. Your eyes focused. Bernie was perched on your chest, one knee up by her shoulder in a menacing crouch, and she looked down at you with malice that she was doing a poor job of concealing behind indifference. She stared at you unblinking and then, in a swift, almost birdlike motion, leaned down past her knee so she was inches from your face. Her eyes, bright hazel -- almost yellow -- were nothing but danger this close. You felt something high in your chest tumble to the pits of your stomach.

“You’re lucky Mickey wants to play, otherwise I’d gut you and hang your hide in the branches for the crows.”

You flinched as she slipped a knife out of her boot, tilting it on calloused fingers before flipping it around to hold the handle. You kicked your legs, but she shoved her foot back harshly, pinning them to the ground with her calf.

“Bucky!” you yelled.

No sooner had the name left your lips before Bernie was stabbing down at you. You rolled sideways, managing to throw her off-balance enough that she hadn’t noticed your free hand coming up. Grabbing her wrist, you stopped the knife midair, evenly matched as Bernie struggled to plunge it down. Then, sucking a breath through your teeth, you began to push her backwards.

She let out a low growl, kicking her heel into your side as she struggled. She’d just brought her other hand to join the handle of the knife when you managed to get a leg up and kick her square between hers. She yelped, teetering sideways and, with a shove, you pushed her off of you, freeing your arm from beneath her boot. You wasted no time scrambled backwards, knowing that she would soon regain her composure. Sure enough, it was only a moment before she lunged after you, the fire in her eyes sparking as her body crashed into yours.

Then several things happened at once.

First, you heard a shot ring out just as you felt the ground beneath your palms disappear. Second, you watch as Bernie stumbled sideways, a splat of blood blooming across her chest. She teetered over the edge of the gulley just as the front of your shirt caught onto something, catching you in mid-air. It took you a moment to realize that Bucky was holding a fistful of the fabric. You heard the sounds of something crashing through the woods.

Bucky looked up from where he’d been scanning you worriedly, and then sound exploded in your ears as he began shooting into the trees. With his other hand, he hauled you to your feet, arm sliding around your back to shove you in the direction of solid ground. You stumbled forward, falling -- taking the opportunity to retrieve your gun before scrambling back onto your feet.

“The horses!” Bucky yelled. You ran to them, loosening their ties and grabbing Horse’s reins, thanking whatever powers might be out there that they were already tacked and ready to go.

At the sharp scream of metal, you whipped around. Bucky was deflecting bullets with his arm, brow drawn low in an intense concentration. He ducked behind a tree, shot a few more rounds into the woods, then gestured to you. Slamming your foot in the stirrup, you swung up onto Horse and grabbed Alpine’s reins, jerking her sideways as you kicked Horse into motion, hoping Bucky was enough cover that neither of them would get shot.

He was. The assailant gunfire stopped as he fired out into the woods. Stepping back as you approached, Bucky turned around to reach out for Alpine’s reins. You’d just reached him, spinning Horse on his haunches to make room for the other horse when they took their chance. A single shot rang out and Bucky stumbled forward.

“Buck!” you cried, a warning that he had better be okay. At the close proximity of the shot, Horse reared up. You got your head about you and managed to spin him in a tight circle, directing him away from Bucky so he wouldn’t get trampled. In all the activity, you had dropped Alpine’s reins.

You could hear two people -- Red and Mickey, you were certain -- crashing through the forest towards you. Alpine screamed shrilly, kicking out with her back legs before taking off. Bucky’s head shot up from where he’d been trying to locate the two men who were quickly advancing. He caught your eye, and at the very same moment you both came to an understanding. Wheeling Horse around, you drove him close to Bucky. The moment you passed him he reached up, shoving his gun in his holster to grab onto the horn of your saddle. Horse lurched sideways with the added weight as Bucky pulled himself up, throwing a leg over the saddle. It seemed you were parallel with the ground for a split second before you felt Bucky land behind you. With one hand still on the horn, he grabbed onto the cantle, and even though he didn’t say anything, you could feel what he was thinking.

Let’s get the hell out of here.

Horse jumped forward as you jammed your heels into his sides, leaning down his neck to give him a loose rein and to make room for Bucky -- who, in turn, leaned over you. You didn’t think about how he would have shielded you from any potential gunfire until after it was all over, but in the end it hadn’t mattered; there were no more shots, no further pursuit from Mickey and Red. As you broke out of the woods and into the desert, you wondered if they’d found Bernie’s body at the bottom of the gulley yet. You wondered if it would buy you some time; if that was the only reason they wouldn’t come looking where you had no place to hide -- the only reason you’d be able to outrun them.

Because there really wasn’t anywhere to hide, if they pursued. The desert stretched out for miles, shooting by in a blur of sand and sky and the loud, heavy breathing and thundering hooves of Horse as he carried you away from the danger. He ran for what felt like a century, but they never came. He would have kept on running until he dropped dead if it hadn’t been for Bucky, who patted your shoulder, and then, when you didn’t respond, called over the sound of the rushing air and pounding hooves and your own frantic breathing that you needed to rein him back.

You did -- gradually, a slow stop, so neither of you were at risk of falling off. When Horse finally went from a walk to a standstill, flanks heaving and nostrils flared, you, for what felt like the first time since you’d laid eyes on Bernie, took a breath. It was like the opening of the floodgates. Seeming to understand, Bucky disappeared from behind you. You were quick to follow. You dismounted -- almost stumbling, not taking the hand the Bucky offered -- and began to pace. It was only after Horse started to get agitated that you got yourself under control enough to grab his reins, jerking him still. You were in no state to reassure him, and he could tell something was amiss -- if the gunshots and quick escape hadn’t already betrayed that. After a few more moments, as your brain slowly started to function again, you realized--

“Dammit. Alpine…”

Bucky, a hand on his hip, glanced up from where he’d been staring at his boots. Then you realized that--

“Fuck. Your shoulder,” you stepped close enough to grab him. You did grab him, and by his metal arm, too -- but before you could even realize your mistake, it became clear that he didn’t actually mind. Instead, he simply tilted his head towards your hand and, with effort, took a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

“The hell you are. Unless you’ve got metal someplace else I don’t know about. Let me see.”

“We need to keep moving.”

“Bucky--”

“No. That was too close. We need to keep moving.”

“You just got shot because of me. Because of me,” you insisted, giving his uninjured shoulder a shove to try and get your point across. You knew that it wasn’t fair, what you’d said. You also knew that Bucky was right -- this wasn’t the place to stop and think. But the problem was, you were thinking, and your emotions were too far gone, too far fueled by the fear rising in your chest for you to get control.

It seemed, though, that Bucky would get control for you.

“Hey,” he insisted, reaching over to grab your wrist, prying your hand from his shoulder. “I knew what I was gettin’ into back in that saloon. Nobody makes me do things I don’t want to. Not anymore. But if we don’t get moving right now, we’re both going to wind up with bullets in our skulls. Or worse.” He, too, knew that it wasn’t fair, what he’d said. But he knew that you were scared, and he also knew that he wanted you to live long enough to do something about it.

“We need to move,” he said again, firm, almost demanding.

And it was enough. Something that would have pushed you away mere weeks ago -- something that would have terrified you or made you resentful or bitter -- was the thing that pushed you back to him. Back to the current situation. It picked you up out of the leaves and the dirt where Bernie had gotten the chance to slit your throat and carve out your insides and it brought you back to the desert, where you’d gotten away. Where you were breathing.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, arm going slack in his grip. “I’m sorry, I--”

“Quit that,” he interrupted, letting go of you. After a moment, the smallest bit of humor returned to his eyes. “Now, you want the front or the back.”

You stared at him, then snorted. “Yeah, right,” you replied, a corner of your mouth lifting as you turned away. With a few quick hops, you swung yourself into the saddle. Horse was still agitated and threw a bit of a fit as Bucky pulled himself on behind you, sidestepping and throwing his head.

“Easy, goldie,” Bucky muttered, shifting closer.

“I’m sorry about Alpine,” you said as Horse broke into a trot. Bucky, to your mild concern, wasn’t holding onto anything. But he seemed to be doing just fine, even when he was quiet for a few minutes.

“‘S alright,” he said. There was a reluctance to it, like he had wanted to say more but wouldn’t let himself. You gave Horse a squeeze with your legs, urging him into a steady lope.

“Do,” you began, a little breathless. “Do you think they’re close behind?”

Again, he was silent for long enough that you wondered if he’d heard you at all.

“I don’t think so. I’d know if they were.” he paused. “They’re probably coming to terms with the state of their friend.”

“Shit,” you said. If they’d gotten mad enough to hunt you down because the Twins were in jail, you didn’t even want to imagine what they’d do to you now that Bernie was dead. But technically, you hadn’t killed Bernie -- Bucky had. You wondered if they knew that. You wondered, then, if it even mattered. Not for you it didn’t, but for Bucky…

“Shit,” you repeated. “Bucky, if they saw you shoot her, they’re going to kill you.”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, not exactly unkind, but dismissive.

“No listen, I’m serious. With Mickey -- and… fuck, Red… the kindest thing they’ll do is kill you. It’s all the shit they do before that…” you swallowed. “It’s…”

“Hey, it’s okay. Alright?” Bucky said, leaning a bit closer to you so he could drop his voice below the wind and you’d still hear it. “Contrary to what you might believe, doll, I’m just as dangerous as they are.” It didn’t sound proud, that admission.

“No,” you insisted. “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“I’ve hurt people.”

“I’ve seen you hurt people, Bucky,” you replied, short-tempered. He didn’t understand. “Not once have I seen you enjoy it. They -- they enjoy it. Mickey laughed when he gave me my scar. You… you go someplace else when you hurt people. You’re not the same.”

He was quiet, then. You pulled Horse back to a walk, not wanting to wear him out, but you kept him moving at a steady pace. You agreed with Bucky; if they were still in active pursuit, you’d have already found out by now. Still, your heart was racing and every muscle in your body was tense. You could hardly breathe. Again and again, they kept coming for you. It would never end. Not unless they died or you did. Until then, you’d never be safe. You’d been kidding yourself, with this escape plan. It didn’t matter how far you ran, they’d always be just around the corner. You might as well give yourself over to them now -- beg for their mercy, tell them you’d do anything if they promised not to hurt you. As if they’d ever stop.

“Hey. Hey hey, woah,” Bucky murmured. You hadn’t realized your breathing had gone bad, hadn’t realized how badly you were shaking. “It’s okay--”

“It’s not okay. It’s not okay.” Your voice was pinched, and you could feel tears burning against your eyes. Since he couldn’t see you anyway, you let them run down your cheeks.

“Easy--”

“It’s not okay.”

“Shh,” Bucky slid a hand around your waist, fingers splaying out against your stomach. You took a deep, painful breath and tried not to sob.

You couldn’t give yourself over to them. It was too late for surrender. Knowing what they’d do…. you just couldn’t. There was no other choice but to run and keep running until--

“Hey, you need to focus, right here,” he said, gently patting your stomach. You looked down. It was his metal hand. He turned his palm towards you. After a moment, you took it. He didn’t squeeze, just held you softly, and suddenly you were thinking about how easily he could break your hand like this. Then you couldn’t help it, you found yourself thinking about what Mickey would do to you if he had something like this. Your breath caught in your throat and your shoulders trembled with the effort it took to not outright combust.

Bucky murmured something that you didn’t catch, and you felt his cheek press briefly into the side of your head.

“I hate this,” you said through grit teeth. “Fuck.”

“I know.”

“I hate them.”

“... I know,” he whispered, his breath warm against your neck.

After a moment of breathing -- after a moment of squeezing his hand as hard as you could -- you felt yourself come back.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, voice hoarse and exhausted. You were so exhausted. Bucky’s other hand came around to lay over your stomach.

Eventually you let go of his hand. He drew back, letting go of you, though you could still feel the reassuring presence of him at your back. He’d saved your life. Again. Soon, you were going to start owing him.

But you knew Bucky. It was strange, and it was dangerous, and it shouldn’t have even been possible, but you knew him; he’d never ask you for anything in return. He’d never make you repay him -- the thought probably hadn’t even crossed his mind. He was good. Despite what he thought of himself, despite what he tried to warn you against, Bucky was good.

“Hey,” he said after a moment. “I’ve, uh… got an idea.”

“Uh-oh,” you weakly joked, and you heard him exhale a little huff of laughter.

“No, it’s just… there’s a town nearby here. Originally we were just gonna stop to resupply, but… maybe there’s safety in numbers. At least for a night or two.”

“I don’t know… the things they’ll do to get to us… do you really want to take that where there are civilians?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but at least there’d be the law. That bastard’d have to get through them before he could get to us.”

“Micky wouldn’t hesitate to shoot a civilian, Buck. Or a lawman. I’ve seen him do it -- he wouldn’t even think twice.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment.

“Look, if you really don’t think it’s a good idea, we won’t do it, but…. I dunno. I just think that maybe we’ve tried running from them one way and it’s starting to prove ineffective. Maybe we need to change things up a bit. Just for a minute, that’s all. Then we can get moving again.”

You thought about it.

“Would they expect you to hunker down among civilization? Or would they just assume you’d keep running?”

That was a good point, as much as you hated to admit it. It was dangerous, Bucky’s plan. It could get innocent people hurt. But like he said, you’d been trying it one way -- maybe it was time to take a different approach.

“What do you propose?”

“We spend a night or two at an inn, resupply, rest. Let things blow over. We get lucky, Mickey and Red keep on goin’.”

“And if we don’t get lucky?”

You could hear Bucky thinking behind you.

“Then we’re no worse off than we started. We’ll get the hell out at the first sign of trouble...”

You squeezed Horse’s reins, picking at worn leather.

“Fine. But we leave the second things get hairy. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”

“Fair enough,” Bucky nodded.

The town was a good few hours away still, and since he knew where to go and you didn’t, you dismounted and let him take the reins. After adjusting your stirrups and giving Horse a quick pep talk, Bucky mounted and offered you a hand. You took it, and he all but pulled you up. Grabbing the back of the saddle, you got yourself situated.

With your back exposed now, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel nervous. Glancing behind you every so often, you tried not to let thoughts of Mickey and Red send you into another panic. It didn’t help when, now that you had a moment, you were able to finally consider the fact that Bernie was most likely dead.

You’d known the woman for a while -- ever since she and Red had taken up with the group. They’d been two of the firsts that Mickey recruited, though by that point they’d already had far more experience than either of you. You’d both been so young back then, and the thought of working with two experienced outlaws had been as promising as it was daunting. But Mickey was good at getting people to follow him. He was good at convincing people that what he wanted was what they wanted too.

Red and Bernie had been together for a long time. He loved her, in his own twisted way, and she was the only woman that you’d ever known to be safe from the worst of his cruelty. Maybe that was why he’d taken so much out on you -- because as much as he hurt her, he’d never hurt her the way he hurt you. And maybe that was why Bernie had always loathed your very existence. Now, with her dead, the thought of what Red would do had your stomach trying to crawl its way up your throat.

You grit your teeth and dug your fingernails into your legs. It was no use, panicking. It had never gotten anyone anything but killed. You should know that by now -- you should have learned to get over it, but you just couldn’t. Not with them so close. Not with all that had happened. Though now, Bucky was here. And they’d want him dead, too. You knew Mickey wouldn’t keep him around; Bucky would never conform to his twisted ideas -- and anyway, your brother was probably convinced that you and Bucky were fooling around. The fact that you even liked him would be incriminating enough. To Mickey, he’d see it as your little spurt of rebellion, and it would make him jealous. No, he’d kill Bucky eventually.

You, though… you still weren’t sure what their plan for you was. You hoped you’d never find out. In a way -- a very selfish way -- having Bucky around made it better. As much as you hated to think of what would happen when Mickey inevitably caught you, the thought of being alone no longer brought about the same feelings of safety as it once had. Instead, it made you feel like you were drowning. Bucky had proven to be a good partner, and you could no longer imagine your travels without him.

You just hoped you didn’t wind up getting him killed.

You thought about what he’d said. About how he’d hurt people. There was a part of you that understood how much you didn’t know about this man; how many secrets he could be keeping, how many past sins could resurface to hurt you. But there was one thing you did know, and it was more important than any of that. You knew how he treated you -- how he made you feel -- and because of it, you couldn’t be wary of his past. You just couldn’t. The logic wasn’t there, and you weren’t exactly concerned about that. You no longer considered if you even should be.

Despite all odds, Bucky had become your partner, and you his. You don’t know what gods had been smiling down on you that day he’d helped you in the saloon, but you were willing to count yourself lucky even when luck had never been on your side. You were just thankful for the bit of it that had led to him.

The sun sank low in the sky, lighting the horizon with pinks and oranges, and then purples and blues. Horse walked on. You missed Alpine and couldn’t imagine what Bucky was feeling. As the sun finally disappeared beneath the sand of the plains, you shivered. You’d left your coat back at camp. You’d also lost all of the supplies that had been in Bucky’s saddlebags, which was unfortunate. Thankfully, you knew that he kept his money sewn into his clothes, so at least you hadn’t lost anything that couldn't be easily replaced.

“Here,” Bucky grunted, shrugging off his poncho when your teeth began to chatter. He passed it back to you.

You’d been trying to contain your shivers. Cold nights weren’t anything unfamiliar, and you’d survived enough of them to know that the shivering would eventually go away. But it seemed that you hadn’t done a good enough job. Probably had something to do with the fact that your chest was close enough to Bucky’s back that he could feel every move you made.

“Sorry. Thanks,” you replied, and Bucky turned back just enough to give you a lightly chastising look.

“Thanks,” you said again, balancing as you pulled the poncho over your head. It was heavy and coarse, and fit you like someone had thrown a rug over your shoulders, but it did its job. You felt your shivers gradually subside as the lingering heat from Bucky’s body warmed you up.

“I don’t want you to get cold,” you said, voice sounding soft and small amid the largeness of the desert painted by the growing night.

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind the cold.”

“Mm,” you hummed, feeling your head growing heavy. Between the fight with Bernie and all the fear you’d felt over the last several hours, you were exhausted. More exhausted than you’d felt in a long time. You let yourself feel it -- an uncommon luxury, thanks to Bucky taking the lead. The vague realization that you might be sleeping in a bed tonight filled you with childlike excitement, and in your drained state, it managed to chase away the anxiety that had been gripping you all day.

You didn’t even realize you were falling asleep until your head bumped into Bucky’s shoulder.

“Shit, sorry,” you muttered, leaning back and wiping a hand down your face.

“‘S alright, doll,” he said with a teasing smirk. You flicked him on the shoulder, and he laughed lowly, and then you turned to look out at the first stars blinking into the sky.

The next time your head fell against his back, you were too exhausted to correct yourself. Under the gentle rocking of Horse’s stride, feeling the steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, the world faded to black.

The next thing you knew, Bucky was calling your name, a hand shaking your arm. You sat up, blinking as you tried to remember where you were.

“Come on, now. Let’s get you into a real bed.”

You muttered something incoherent, then rubbed your eyes. When you opened them, you finally settled on Bucky’s face -- amused but tired, you realized with some guilt. You wanted to apologize. Instead you just nodded, then tried to force some consciousness back into yourself.

When you were no longer at risk of falling right over, Bucky helped you down out of the saddle. His hand didn’t leave your arm until he was sure you had your feet under you, and then he stood up and swung himself onto the ground. Horse looked just as exhausted as the both of you. You reached over to rub his neck, taking the reins from Bucky when he offered them.

“Come on. We’ll find the stable, then an inn. Then some food.”

“And some beds,” you added. Bucky’s smirk was quick, but you caught it even in the darkness.

“And some beds,” he confirmed.

You followed him into town through the dusty, barren roads. Lights shone from porches and through windows in warm yellow pools, the flames of oil lamps flickering like beacons in the darkness. Somehow, and despite everything that had happened, you felt yourself relaxing. If Mickey and Red managed to find you, even in this moment, they wouldn’t be able to do anything without someone hearing. Maybe Bucky had been right…

You spotted the stable, and Bucky watched cautiously from the road as you talked to the owner and came to an agreement. You paid his fee, then led Horse into the stable. Bucky readjusted, straightening up a little so he was able to see you while also remaining aware of your surroundings. Inside, you set your tack aside and gave Horse a good curry, scraping of the sweat-caked hair and dirt. The owner brought him hay and water, and you said a quick goodbye, giving him a kiss on the muzzle for the good work he’d done today. Then, slinging a bag with the essential supplies over your shoulder, you went out to meet Bucky.

He straightened up as soon as he saw you.

“All good?”

“All good,” you confirmed. “I’m ready to drop.”

“You can say that again,” he muttered, eyes still scanning the road, brow furrowed. He wouldn’t relax until you were both settled somewhere inside. Maybe not even then, but you were hoping he’d be able to get some sleep. You hoped you both could.

“I talked to our friend here,” he said, jerking a head at the man who had just left the stable, headed back to his house. “There’s a place for lodging just a few buildings down. Didn’t seem sure that we’d be able to get a room, though. Apparently, there’s some meeting going on in town, so things have been busy.”

“Well,” you sighed. “Let’s just hope for the best I guess.”

Bucky grunted, then fell back to walk by your side.

As promised, the inn was only two doors away -- a small building of red-painted wood with an oil lamp hanging from the porch, casting weak light onto the wooden steps below. Bucky checked his weapon, made sure the sleeve of his left arm was rolled all the way down, then climbed the steps and opened the door.

The room was lit just as dimly as the porch. A few chairs sat off to the left in a dark corner, and you could just make out what looked to be a dining room at the back of the house. A little bell rang upon your entry, clattering as the door swung shut.

“Hello?” Bucky called, sounding more friendly than you’d heard in a while. Usually he leaned more toward the gruff side when it came to interacting with strangers. When a short middle-aged woman came out from around the corner, though, you understood why.

“Ma’am,” he tipped his hat, and you gave the lady and nod.

“Hello there. How can I help you folks?”

“We were hoping you might have a room for us to rent. Apologies, I know it’s late--”

“Nonsense,” she said with a friendly wave. “We have plenty of last-minute guests. It’s the way of the trade, ain’t it,” she grinned -- too friendly. You didn’t like it.

Bucky took a step forward, blocking you with his body. You couldn’t tell if it was intentional or merely coincidental, but you appreciated it all the same. At least now you didn’t have to try and look pleasant; you had no doubts that Bucky could handle the talking.

“Much appreciated, ma’am.”

“Of course, dear,” she said with another sugary, wrinkled smile. “Actually, you’re just in luck. We’ve got one room left. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a meetin’ here this week. Busy as bees, we’ve been…”

She discussed price with Bucky and he handed over the payment, asking about bathhouse amenities. That would cost them extra and couldn’t be seen to tonight, she replied. But if he found her again tomorrow after breakfast…

“Thanks again,” Bucky nodded with what you recognized as a disingenuous smile. The innkeeper pointed you toward their room and wished you a good night.

The rooms were all on the second floor, up a set of rickety wooden steps. At least if anyone came running up them, everyone in the house would know. Bucky went first, body tilted sideways as he took everything in. You too were looking around, mentally noting the nearest exit, the quickest way to escape, potential dangers within the house. You were in the room at the very end of the hall. You didn’t like being so far away from the door, but you did like being further away from the rest of the guests. You supposed in the end, if anything did happen, it wouldn’t matter much.

Yours and Bucky’s room was small -- modestly furnished, but comfortable and homely. There was a washbasin on the dresser, and lacy curtains hung in the window -- which would provide a quick escape if you really needed one -- and the bed had a thick patterned blanket on it. The door didn’t lock, so Bucky propped a chair underneath the handle. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

With a sigh, you sunk down onto the mattress, relieved by the feeling of something so soft. You got to sleep on this tonight.

“Oh shit,” you said, suddenly realizing, as you looked down at the bed, that there was in fact only one.

Bucky turned away from the door and seemed to realize the same thing you just had.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“I smell that bad, huh?” you smirked. Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Yep. You smell awful. I wasn’t going to say anything, but…”

You snorted, head spinning with how tired you were. And how good you felt. How was that possible, after today?

“Hey, I’m wearing your clothes,” you insisted. Actually, you were a bit hot now, with Bucky’s poncho on. You smiled at the thought of not being cold tonight as you dragged the heavy fabric over your head. That was when you saw the bullet hole snagged through the fabric, and the streaks of blood soaked into the wool.

Shit. That’s right.

Grunting, you got up and set the poncho aside.

“Sit down,” you said, tilting your head towards the bed.

“What?” Bucky asked with a weak half-smile. You looked up from the washbasin and rang one of the rags out.

“Your shoulder. Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Oh,” he glanced down at the bloodied tear in his shirt. “Uh, yeah.”

“Well, don’t get too excited,” you muttered, deciding to just bring the whole basin with you. “Here, take your shirt off.”

“Now who’s getting excited?”

You rolled your eyes and turned away to light a candle so you could see better. When you turned back around, Bucky was stiffly pulling his shirt over his head. His right shoulder was stained red with dry blood. The wound itself was still fresh, but at least it wasn’t bleeding any more. You stepped around him and laid a hand on his shoulder, leaning to get a look at his back.

“Went straight through. How do you feel? Can you move it alright?”

In answer, Bucky stretched his arm up and rolled his shoulder, head tilted like a dog that was hearing something curious.

“Yup,” he said after a moment. “All good.”

You hummed, thankful that it wasn’t serious -- and that you wouldn’t have to be digging a bullet out of him. Then you knelt down between his legs.

“What’re you doing?” he asked with that same nervousness as when you’d told him to get on the bed.

“Cleanin’ you up,” you replied. It would have been better for him to get a proper bath, but seeing as that wasn’t an option until morning, this would have to do. “You can’t go to sleep covered in blood.”

You straightened up and reached out with the wet rag, but before you had a chance to do anything further, Bucky grabbed your wrist.

“I can clean myself,” he said, voice low in his throat, lying somewhere between a threat and a shy plea. You froze, your hand balling the fabric into a fist, and stared into Bucky’s ocean-blue eyes.

“I know,” you replied, a whisper. “You don’t have to, though.”

Bucky looked back at you, his face seeming so different with the candlelight casting shadows and flickers of gold across his cheek. There was so much that you didn’t know about him -- so much mystery that you would have given anything to sit in the darkness and gently unwind.

After a moment, Bucky let go of your wrist. After another, he let out a stilted sigh, and then he nodded. You hesitated, giving him enough time to change his mind. When he didn’t, you tore your eyes away from his and focused on his shoulder.

“I think it needs stitches,” you said, wiping a bit of blood away. It left a streak across his skin.

“I’ve got some stuff in my… shit. My bags.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got some.”

In silence, with nothing but the soft hum of the crickets outside, you cleaned the front of his shoulder. He barely reacted, but you could feel his eyes on you, following every move you made. The water in the basin turned pink as you rinsed out cloth after cloth until finally the majority of the blood was gone.

“Turn this way?” you gestured, and he shifted so you could do the same to his back. From over his shoulder, you watched as his ribs expanded with breath. He was quiet, though that wasn’t exactly uncommon.

His hair had gotten bloody. You found yourself wishing you had the means to clean it better, but for now, you got whatever you could out with the cloth. Then you wet your hands and ran your fingers through the knotted strands. It was only then that Bucky reacted. He shivered.

“I’m sorry.”

“No -- it’s… nothing.”

“Okay,” you whispered, watching the back of his head. “I’m done here.” Getting up, you let your hand linger on his shoulder for a moment before moving off the bed. Across the room, you rifled through your bags until you found a needle and materials for stitching.

“You know,” Bucky started as you turned back around. “I’m really missing my emergency stash right about… now…” you held out a bottle of clear brown liquid. Bucky stared at it, then glanced up at you in disbelief.

“I owe you one,” you shrugged.

He accepted the bottle, taking a quick swig before passing it back to you. You were tempted to drink some yourself but decided that it could wait.

“Alright,” you took a deep breath, standing between Bucky’s legs with the bottle hovering over his shoulder. “You ready?”

“Go ahead, doll,” he said, eyes searching your face. “I won’t bite.”

You shook your head. Then you poured the alcohol onto his wound. He tensed, but that was the extent of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, wiping away some of the liquid that had started running down his chest. You caught sight of his left shoulder in your peripheral and it made you realize that, in all reality, this was likely nothing for Bucky. The thought made you frown.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Fine,” you replied, straightening back up, trying to keep your face as passive as you could. This next part was going to be even worse. You felt as if you had to prepare yourself more than Bucky did.

It wasn’t that you were squeamish. You’d seen much worse than a bullet wound by the time you were twelve years old. It was just… the thought that you were causing him pain -- that was the part you didn’t like. That was what made it so difficult. But you didn’t have much of a choice. He couldn’t sew up his own shoulder.

“Tell me if you need a break,” you said as you readied the needle. Bucky grunted in reply.

It only took a few stitches, and you worked swiftly and neatly. You tied off the thread, then leaned forward and bit the end of it off with your teeth.

“Get those bandages while I do the back, will you?” you said as Bucky turned around. You sat down behind him on the bed.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah, uh… I used to stitch up my brother.” You held your breath as you pulled the wound closed, wondering what Bucky was thinking at the mention of Mickey. “And the others. Myself, too.”

You saw his jaw clench.

“It’s okay though. Comes in handy.” You tied off the final stitch and leaned forward, snapping the string with your teeth. Smoothing your hand down his back, you surveyed the state of his wound. “Not bad.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he softly replied. He passed the bandage back to you.

You unwound the cloth. Then, reaching around him, you began to wrap his shoulder, pulling it tight enough to protect the wound. Your cheek brushed his back as you reached forward, and it felt oddly like a hug.

“Thank you,” Bucky spoke up almost reluctantly. You could tell he wasn’t used to accepting help -- something that you could understand all too well.

“You’re welcome,” you replied, tying the bandage in place. “Good as new.”

He gave a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He was tired. You were, too.

Getting up from the bed, you collected the bloodied rags and tossed them onto the dresser, returning the basin with them and putting your supplies back in your bag. Bucky had set his blood-stained shirt aside and was grabbing a pillow from the bed.

“Wait, you don’t have to do that,” you stopped him, suddenly aware of a decision you’d subconsciously made. “Really. I don’t mind if we share.”

Bucky turned to look at you.

“Are you sure? The floor is fine--”

“I’m sure. You deserve to sleep in a bed as much as I do. More, actually, considering you’ve just been shot.”

At that, he laughed dryly. He quickly sobered back up, though.

“I don’t want to overstep.”

“You won’t be. If I didn’t want you to, I would have accepted your offer to sleep on the floor.” You could understand why he was hesitant, but you wanted him to believe you.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, and though he still seemed reluctant, he placed the pillow back onto the bed. “Just… you have to promise to wake me up if I do anything.”

“What do you mean, ‘do anything?” you asked. He grimaced like he wished he hadn’t said anything.

“My nightmares. They, uh… I mean, you know how it is. They can get intense sometimes. And it’s a… pretty small bed,” he gestured.

“Okay,” you nodded, deciding that it was better to put his worries to rest than try to get him to explain exactly what he meant. “Yeah. First sign of trouble,” you smiled, an attempt at putting you both at ease, and one which failed.

“Right. Okay,” he nodded. You’d never heard him sound so… nervous. Not until now.

You were probably about to make that a lot worse, too, because there was no way you were sleeping in your dust-covered clothing. It shouldn’t be weird. It wasn’t, you told yourself as you began to unbutton your shirt. Bucky stared blankly at you for a moment, then seemed to realize what you were doing and turned around.

“Do… you mind?” you hesitantly clarified. “They’re just dirty, and I’m pretty sure I got some of your blood on them and--”

“No. No, it’s fine,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “‘S fine.”

“Okay.”

You were too relieved to be shedding several layers of dirt to even think about being embarrassed as you stripped down to your undergarments. Tossing your clothes aside, hoping to find somewhere to be able to wash them tomorrow, you dragged a hand down your face. God, what you would have done for a bath. When you turned back around, Bucky was kicking his boots off and undoing his trousers.

He looked just as eager to be rid of all the dirt as you were. He shook out his pants, and they kicked up a big cloud of dust. You laughed -- then coughed, and Bucky looked up with a smirk.

“We need a bath.”

“Amen to that,” you muttered, making your way around the bed. You were fairly sure you’d have been able to scrape enough dirt off your skin to plant a flower. But for now, your need for sleep -- and the very comfortable, very warm-looking luxury of a bed in front of you -- trumped any desire to wash off. You were looking forward to passing out the moment your head hit the pillow.

Bucky had been right, though. It was a small bed. You realized the extent of that when he pulled back the quilt and sat down. It didn’t help that Bucky was so large. He took up a lot of space even when he wasn’t trying to -- like right now, when he was practically hanging off the edge of the mattress. There was no way around it -- you’d both be getting closer than you ever had in your travels. But you’d spent most of the day on the same horse, so really, was it that different?

Swinging your legs onto the bed, you took the corner of quilt that Bucky offered and threw it over your legs, sighing as you sunk back into a pillow.

“Lord above,” you muttered, and Bucky grunted in acknowledgment. “I can’t believe people sleep like this every night. I mean, can you imagine?”

“Mm,” he hummed, raising an eyebrow. Your bare shoulder was against his, still clammy from where you’d cleaned away all the blood. You reached up to loosen the scarf around your neck.

“Oh, the candle,” you realized after a moment of wondering why it was so bright. Bucky grunted again, then got up with a wince and reached over to the bedside table to blow it out. The room fell into a familiar darkness. You stared up at the ceiling as Bucky settled back down next to you.

“I do miss the stars, though…” you whispered. You heard the sound of fabric as Bucky turned his head to look at you -- or, in your general direction. It was strange, being this close. Everything being this quiet. It was unfamiliar.

“Get some sleep,” he replied under his breath, and you nodded even though you knew he couldn’t see it.

As exhausted as you both were, several minutes passed by before you were finally able to relax. The house was so quiet, and every noise, every creak in the wood made you tense, hold your breath, wait for someone to come barging through the door or breaking through the window. The only times you felt yourself relax was when Bucky shifted on the other side of the bed, and you remembered that you weren’t alone. That nothing had really changed except the fact that you weren’t out in the cold sleeping in the dirt.

So you tried to focus on the sounds of the crickets outside and Bucky’s breathing, and eventually, you managed to sleep.

________________________________________________________________

Taglist: @desert-fern

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes western au #bucky fanfic #western au #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link

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mochareviews · 7 months

Text

Wall-E (by: Group 5 H11C)

Members: Angela Arambulo, Kimberly Hernandez, Alphonse Omega, Maxelle Pontaniel, Daven SIlva, Nicole Tawingan

Introduction

"Wall-E" is a 2008 animated science fiction film produced by Pixar Animation Studios and released by Walt Disney Pictures. Directed by Andrew Stanton, the movie is set in a distant future where Earth has become an abandoned wasteland due to pollution and overconsumption. The story revolves around Wall-E, a small waste-collecting robot left behind to clean up the mess. Wall-E's life takes a dramatic turn when he discovers a sprout of plant life and encounters EVE, an advanced robot probe sent to Earth. The film explores themes of environmentalism, human responsibility, and the power of love, all wrapped in a heartwarming and visually stunning animation. "Wall-E" received critical acclaim and is known for its thoughtful storytelling and minimal dialogue, making it a unique and enduring piece of animation

Facts about the Movie

WALL-E’s voice was created by running Ben Burtt’s voice through a computer, which he custom modified while EVE is voiced by Pixar employee Elissa Knight.

The name EVE is actually named after the biblical character, because WALL-E's loneliness reminded the producers of Adam before God created his wife. EVE also has a resemblance of the white dove of peace. So the story was retooled to have her save humanity by discovering a sliver of vegetation, just like the dove with the olive branch!

The giant-sized Waste Allocation Load Lifters in the Axiom's waste area are named "WALL·A". Where the "E" in "WALL·E" refers to "earth class", the "A" here refers to "AXIOM".

The last piece of debris that clears away from WALL·E as he leaves Earth's atmosphere is the Russian satellite Sputnik I, which in 1957 was the first man-made object to be placed in Earth orbit.

Wall-E has limited dialogue throughout the film. It only has 17 lines of dialogue and 862 words in the entire movie.

Summary/ Highlights with Visuals

The story is set in the distant future, where Earth has become a barren wasteland covered in trash due to overconsumption and pollution by humanity. The entirety of the human population has left the planet aboard a massive starship called the Axiom, leaving behind a small waste-collecting robot named Wall-E. Wall-E spends his days compacting trash and collecting interesting items he finds within the rubble.

Then a sleek, advanced robot named EVE arrives on Earth in search of plant life, which is believed to be the key to humanity's return to Earth. Wall-E and EVE form a connection, and together, they embark on a journey to bring a plant to the Axiom.

As the story progresses, Wall-E learns about the themes of environmental sustainability, the consequences of overconsumption, and the importance of taking responsibility for the planet. The film combines heartwarming moments, humor, and stunning visuals to deliver a thought-provoking and emotional message about the future of humanity and the Earth.

Photo Essay about identifying scientific advancements and explaining its application (Angela)

Wall-E (Waste Allocation Load Lifter: Earth Class)

Wall-E is a robot that’s created to be as an environmental-friendly garbage processing machine. Wall-E has so many features such as; Construction, Regeneration Unit, Control System, and Trash Disposal.

Eve

Eve is more of an advanced robot as Wall-E as they have all the important features of a probe droid. The features they have are an ergonomic suitable shape, scanner, an engine that enables rapid airborne movement and modular fingers. They are also armed with a plasma cannon in its right arm that’s possibly used for defense and utility.

Axiom

The Axiom is a Starliner spacecraft that’s one of the countless built by the BNL (Buy n Large Corporation) that’s used to evacuate humanity to move from Earth to Space. This ship is designed as a massive luxury cruise ship that’s filled with androids and kept everyone aboard fed and entertained as cruised from the space.

M-O (Microbe-Obliterator)

M-O is created to clean items that has been contaminated. They’re usually in charge of keeping things exempt from “foreign contaminant” and is capable of completing the tasks given.

GO-4

The GO-4 is made for overseeing security operations aboard spacecraft and also handling miscellaneous tasks.

Auto

An Autopilot for the Axiom that’s programmed to not abandon it’s commands given and follow them without disobeying those.

Analytical Essay about the effect of scientific advancements to socio-cultural evolution

Wall-E is a great representation of a fictional dystopia because it demonstrates the big impact that too much reliance on technology can have. The plot attempts to show how humans might become so reliant on devices that they give technology all the power it requires to subjugate mankind.

There are several excellent things that advanced technology has the potential to do in order to help humanity grow and make life easier. AI/machines, for example, do all of the labor for humans, as portrayed in the film. However, humanity has become more reliant on technological innovations, and as a result, people have grown increasingly helpless overtime. There were simply too many technical advancements for the human species, so many so that they were improperly utilized and ultimately led to their downfall.

Criticism Essay about the use of literary techniques in the movie and its effect in presenting the scientific and societal aspects of the story

‘Wall-E’ is considered as a cautionary tale about the Earth, highlighting how the rampant consumerism and neglect have turned the Earth into a garbage-strewn wasteland. The film highlights the problem of human consumerism, which is based on an unsustainable relation between the economics of production, consumption, and waste management. The film eliminates the presence of humans to allow for the independent dissemination of the subject. Humanity is depicted as having been evacuated by the megacorporation, and a depiction of a classic breakdown in recycling is progressed through the remaining of one trash compactor left by Buy n Large. The film progresses the idea that the Earth is overrun with garbage and humans are space castaways who have emaciated into a tubby, perpetually stationary blobs that are deemed to have lost their vicarious consumer appetites. Wall-E’s routine is compacting trash and collecting interesting objects, which is a common recycling practice aimed at resuscitating the breakdown in the consumer-production relationship.

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bokutoslittlebird · 3 years

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Awakened

Alpha!Osamu x reader x Alpha!Atsumu

Author’s note : Fantasy AU based on two pieces of fan art of the twins as fox yōkai, but I hope it’s to your liking! ; their names are never directly said to reader-chan, so their names are what they call each other.

Warnings: bullying (brief, not from the twins), naive and innocent reader, knotting, double penetration, backshot, face fucking/blowjob, dubcon/noncon, blood, biting and licking, cunnilingus, creampie

There’s a legend that runs deep in the roots of your village, one that’s told to many and encourages children to stay away from the forest. It was proven effective — no child dared to enter the forest, holding onto that fear into their adult years. The legend revolves around two mischievous fox spirits that would always be in competition. They always had someone who would win, but then a terribly evil spirit came upon the clearing they played in, forcing the two spirits to push differences aside and fight off the evil spirit that entered the territory. It was a combined effort, the two spirits realizing they worked better when they worked together. It taught children that sometimes it was better to ask for help; however, it also taught children that they couldn’t go into the forest. The spirits resides in the forest, protecting the village from evil spirits as a combined task and if anyone dared trespass in their forest, then destruction would come to the village.

It was a legend some teenagers dared to challenge, entering the forest and coming out, saying “nothing bad happened to them!” but then their luck would turn sour sometimes. It always put things in perspective, seeing them suddenly fall into a mud puddle after entering the forest, or having their pants suddenly fall. It made people laugh, but it really made you feel like the forest was alive and watching. You never dared to go near the forest. At least, not until your pride was at stake.

“Go get a stupid stick, [Y/N]!” Jocelyn sneered, her eyes narrowed. Her arms were crossed and she was tired to repeating herself. You were dared to go into the forest, get a stick to bring back for proof, and you would no longer be a coward. It was simple in words, but not so simple in action. You feared the bad things that happened after people entered the forest, but you were considered a coward for those beliefs. “You’re just a big, dumb baby!”

“No I’m not!” You shouted back, puffing your cheeks. You let out a heavy breath and turned to the brown and green image of the forest. They wouldn’t be able to see you enter the forest, but they just needed a stick as proof. Sucking up the courage to go, your legs moved towards the foliage. You could hear the other girls’ jeers as your pace slowed, the forest closer than you had ever dared to let it. The forest itself looked peaceful, but the legend of the spirits scared you, halting your footsteps. Instead of going in, you were going to pick up a stick on the outskirts, but there was no stick. Nothing but grass lay before you, the shadows of the trees outlining what was the forest and what was not. There was a stick you could see, the light seeping through the leaves illuminating it as if you were on a quest to get — well, you kind of were.

Sucking up any inhibitions you had, you entered the forest. Picking up the stick, you noticed a lack of any other stick lying in the fallen leaves. Clutching the stick to your chest, you turn to go when you find a small piece of cloth, hidden in the leaves. You pick it up, looking at the designs and feeling how soft and silky it was. It was a robe that your ancestors adorned, but the fabric told you it was either brand new or kept in pristine condition. With it in your hands, you found yourself turning to flee once again. The howling of the wind sent your legs running out of the forest and up the hill, as fast as you could. If you had listened closer, you would have heard the howl of a beast as you fled.

Deeper into the forest, a pair of eyes watched as you obtained the stick and plucked the ceremonial robe from the earth he presented to you. When you chose it and fled, he smiled. His eyes turned from your retreating figure and moved to leap from the tree he perched himself on. As his body was that of a grey fox, he was much better at hiding than if he was in his more human form. Transitioning between into his human form, he smiles once more, a finger on his chin.

“What to offer her next, I wonder?” He ponders aloud, with only the wind around to hear him and carry his voice.

Your lungs are burning as you arrive back at the little picnic you were attending, the girls giggling as you finally come back. “Did ya see a ghost or somethin’?” Akira asks. You’re heaving as you present the stick, perfectly in tact and big enough to feed a fire. Everyone’s cheers are perceived as mocking to you, as you move on. The picnic is no longer something you want to attend, instead preferring to take a bath and sleep. With your worries placed on the forest and the spirits within, you find yourself wondering if you’ll be able to sleep or shall an entity come and judge you for trespassing.

The next day, you find your gaze drawn to the forest, as if it calls you down. Ignoring the calls are hard, you legs involuntarily moving as you think. On the edge of the forest, you see inside to find a small temari ball. It looks as if a young child once played with it, as you get closer to the object. Looking around the forest, you expect to see a child lost or crying, but you find nothing. With the lack of an owner, you decide to leave the ball. Turning to leave, you reprimand yourself for entering the forest again.

The sound of leaves rustling has you swiveling around, almost falling over when you realize the temari is following you. Moving back, it continues to follow you. A quick glance around proves that no one else is around, so you pick up the temari. As you did yesterday, you flew out of the forest and hope you didn’t take a malevolent being’s toy.

Another pair of eyes watch as you flee, his temari offering close to your chest. A wickedly mischievous grin spreads upon his lips, his form emerging from the shadows where he was hidden. With sharp canines peeking from his smile, warm brown eyes look to the path you had just taken. “I’m glad she likes her present. I can’t wait for what tomorrow will bring,” he chuckles, moving further into the forest. With each step he takes, a thick fog permeates the forest floor, providing a barrier past the stream.

You don’t know what it is. The growing urge to enter the forest gets stronger as the day continues on, the urge barely quenched upon nightfall. Even in your bed chambers, you find yourself looking through your open window, into the forest. Mist seeps from the greenery, an ominous feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. A howl from the forest startles you, eyes finding the gaze reflecting back at you. As you hold the gaze, feeling yourself rooted in place, another set of eyes joins. You shut the window, deciding to never go back to the forest.

When morning comes, the feeling of needing to go to the forest is even stronger. Feeling ill from the image of last night, you decide to stay home for the day. When a knock comes to your door, you assume it to be the milk delivery. Upon opening the door, your eyes widen at the two boys on your doorstep.

“Can you go get my ball?” The first one says, a bright smile on his face. The one currently sniffling nods in agreement. They look like twins, not that you’d recognize them.

“I didn’t mean to kick it so hard, please don’t tell my dad!” He cries out, holding onto his brother. You smile warmly at him, getting to eye level. Running your hand through his hair, his sniffles lessen.

“I won’t tell anyone, you’re fine. I’ll be right back,” you smile at him, wiping his tears. You shut the door, telling them to stay put as you go searching for the ball. As you look around, you become confused. Where is the ball? Moving further along your backyard, you hear a hushed whisper from the forest, wide eyes turning to sound. With an apology already on your lips, you turn to enter your house when you find yourself unable to move. As if an invisible barrier prevents you from progressing towards your house — which seems proven true as you inch towards the forest and suddenly cannot go back to where you were. With the unsettling pit in your stomach, you enter the forest once more.

Entering, you find the mist from before still evident, yet it parts for you. Curiosity sets in as you are further urged into the forest, stopping as you hear water trickling. A stream lays in front of you, waters more calm than your heart beat. You inhale, deciding to risk it as you wade through the stream. The water seeps into your shoes, the bottom of your dress becoming saturated. Progressing further into the mist, now a heavy fog, you find a large temple inside. It’s stable and perfectly standing, as if it isn’t centuries old. The two erected statues tell you the temple belongs to the spirits of the legend, finding a chill run through your blood as you realize your situation. Before you step foot onto the stairs, you turn to leave but are halted.

“Where do you think yer goin’?” A rough voice speaks. You whip around to see a tall, but handsome man. The hair is a dark grey color, eyes to match. What stuns you is the pair of grey fox ears, a tail that matches in color swishing behind him. His clothes remind you of the robe you found amongst the leaves.

“I-I’m terribly sorry, really!” You begin to plea, pulling on your wrist. “I-I didn’t mean to- to trespass!”

“What’d’ya mean? This is your home, y’know?” He seems genuinely confused, another stun to your body as his words settle. Home? This temple? Before you can refute him, another voice joins in.

“Ah, ‘Samu, I told ya humans are different. They don’t know the offering ritual, but I made sure to get our offerings. Our silly little human forgot about them,” he chuckles, looking at you. With the robe you found on one arm, the temari in his hand. “This was my offering, you know,” he gestures to the ball. “A precious item to me, it is. I’m glad you took care of it and cleaned it up. What a perfect little wife you’ll make,” his grin makes his words more sinister than they originally were. Fear spikes through your veins, your limbs suddenly shaking as you feel your legs give out. The one dubbed ‘Samu catches you, holding you bridal style as you find yourself hesitant to hold onto his robes.

“‘Tsumu, y’know I’m not watching humans like you do. That’s weird,” he cringes, nose scrunching up in disgust. ‘Tsumu seemed to get ticked off at that, growling. Only then did you notice how animal-like the both of them were, sporting fox ears and a tail to match. While ‘Samu had dark grey, ‘Tsumu spotted a saturated yellow hair color and slightly lighter ears and tail. So caught up in the view, you didn’t notice that the brothers has started walking, heading towards the temple.

“W-Wait, I can’t go with you! I’m— I’m not who you’re looking for!” Sputtering out the first things to pop into your mind, the two don’t stop.

“Of course yer who we’re looking for! You’re meant for us, meant to know your place with us. After all, why else would enter our domain, smelling so delicious as you do?”

“Smell— what?”

“‘Tsumu, stop bein’ cryptic. He’s saying you entered the forest during your heat cycle,”

“Well, ovulation in humans. Apparently, they’re not like us special spirits,”

“You’re ready for us, we can smell it. You’ll be the perfect mate for us to breed,” although ‘Samu seemed uninterested, you could feel how his chest seemed to heave as he inhaled deeply. The growling accompanying his final word sent slick between your folds as you held onto him close, afraid of falling.

Arriving at the top of the temple, you saw a cot that has been lain out, the soft cushioning big enough for the three of you. The sight of it had your brain going into overdrive, panicking as you attempted to leave ‘Samu’s arms. He complied, but his hands stayed firmly on your hips. “Time to get dressed,”

Before you could ask for an explanation, your clothes were practically torn off of you. Blood spilled onto your ripped dress, your side burning from where the claws caught you. The shreds fell to the temple floor, your hands flying to cover the exposed skin. While one hand covered the area between your legs, your arm held your breasts close to your chest. ‘Samu clicked his tongue, easily removing your hands from your body while ‘Tsumu slid on the robe, his claws lightly grazing your skin. He didn’t hide the fact he was admiring the view, either, his dark eyes gazing over each inch of skin you presented to him. Once the robe was on, you were released from ‘Samu’s hold, left to cover yourself up with the fabric. You’d deny it aloud, but the robe fit you perfectly.

“You’re gorgeous,” ‘Tsumu growled, shedding his own robe. Your hands came in front of you, hoping to somehow deter him when ‘Samu brought you backwards, to the cot presented. ‘Tsumu wasn’t far behind, dropping to his knees while you lay against the cot. It was softer than expected, more plush than it looks. ‘Samu had stripped of his own clothes, his robe hanging loosely on him by the ribbon around his waist. ‘Tsumu was different, his robe open and letting you see every inch of skin, but his arms still through the sleeves as if he was cold.

“I don’t—“ you began, your words interrupted by ‘Samu’s lips on yours, his tongue brushing against your closed lips as he deepened the kiss. ‘Tsumu’s touches had begun to litter your thighs, spreading your legs as he inhaled deeply. A finger touching your entrance had you jumping, only to be held firmly down by ‘Samu’s hands.

“You’re so wet, it’s hard to hold back,” ‘Tsumu growls out, his tongue lapping at your folds. You squirm and make a noise of displeasure, but ‘Samu is there to keep your focus on his lips and kisses. The more he kisses you, the hotter your body gets and the more you feel your resistance melt away. ‘Tsumu has his face between your thighs, licking and sucking on your clit, claws digging into the skin. It has you clenching around nothing, the hot pleasure from his tongue and burning sensation on your thighs. It isn’t until he removes himself from between your legs do you feel relaxed and at ease, as if your body is jelly. Your resistance is no more, a small whine coming from you when ‘Samu and ‘Tsumu remove themselves to admire their handiwork.

It’s a sudden change, the relaxing touches and breathless kisses are gone, replaced by the feverish touches of both men as they paw and scratch at your skin, ‘Samu’s teeth sinking into hot skin and lapping at the blood while ‘Tsumu presses less destructive kisses to your neck. With the air much too hot for your liking, a breathless moan leaves your lips when ‘Tsumu pulls your head back by your hair, spitting into your mouth and then kissing you. With his tongue tracing your teeth and his growls being swallowed up by your mouth, you’re oblivious to ‘Samu. With his cock in one hand, he kneads your thigh with his other hand as he rubs along your folds.

“‘Tsumu, move off,” ‘Samu growls, pushing the fox spirit off of you, his large frame colliding with the wooden planks of the temple. You find yourself on your hands and knees, ass in the air while the robe is promptly stripped off of you, lain underneath you. ‘Samu licks his lips, lining himself up with you entrance while ‘Tsumu gets his balance back. The first press in has you screaming, but it isn’t just because he’s big. His thickness is something you never expected, but with his calloused hands on your hips, bringing you back into his hips with no regards to adjusting you. A guttural groan comes from ‘Samu, head thrown back as he basks in the pleasure of being buried in your cunt. ‘Tsumu is now back to you, his hard cock in front of your face.

With another rough thrust, one that has you practically bouncing off ‘Samu’s cock, ‘Tsumu has you wrapping your lips around his. You can’t take it all in, that’d be impossible. With a pair of hands on your hips, you’re brought to ‘Samu while the pair of hands tangled in your hair pulls you towards ‘Tsumu. Lips pressed firmly against ‘Tsumu’s cock as your tongue runs under the length, running over the bulging veins and ridges you find. Your eyes are screwed shut, unable to stay open while ‘Samu splits you on his cock, somehow forcing himself deeper and deeper inside of you. It isn’t until you’re finally bouncing flush against him do you feel something strange on his cock. It’s only then do you open your eyes, looking at ‘Tsumu’s cock that has a large bulb at the base of it, growing in size the more you suck on him. Hollowing out you cheeks has ‘Tsumu groaning, claws digging into your scalp as he forces himself down your throat. He doesn’t force the bulb in your throat, thankfully, but he does coat your throat in his cum.

“Your mouth is fucking hot, little human. It’s like you were made to take us,” he breathes out, panting. You’re coughing, feeling Samu’s thrusts speed up as he brings you close to him, but he pulls out at the last moment to spill all over your back.

“With our scent on you, you’ll be stuck by our side until you pass,” ‘Samu is in a similar situation, chest heaving as you’re flipped over. You’re then placed on ‘Tsumu’s lap, his cock rubbing between your folds as he grinds into you. “But we’ll take you together first,”

“So no hard feelings, right ‘Samu?”

“Right, ‘Tsumu,” the agree, Tsumu’s cock rubbing into you and then prodding at your drooling cunt. He slips the tip in, the feeling similar to ‘Samu’s thick cock. Speaking of ‘Samu, he’s quick to stick his own tip back in, stretching you out farther then you expected. A silent scream comes from you as tears spill down your cheeks, both of them thrusting into you as your cunt burns.

Split open on their cocks, you’re helpless. Nails digging into ‘Samu’s shoulders as his hands once more find themselves on your hips. ‘Tsumu’s hands are keeping your legs spread, the view of you sucking in both their cocks on display as they thrusts in tandem. When one pulls out, the other thrusts in and vice versa. The rhythm they set is one that works, their lips finding opposite sides on your neck to kiss and lick, teeth grazing the skin. You feel a buildup of your own orgasm as they plow into you, your walls squeezing them as they pick up the pace. Their rhythm gets sloppy, short growls from each as their bulbs start to grow again.

When ‘Tsumu sinks his teeth into you, your scream is one of pleasure as you reach your high, coating both of their cocks a milky white cream, the liquid falling to their base and dripping down. ‘Samu sinks his teeth into your skin on the opposite side as they both push into your tight cunt, a scream and shiver running through you as the do, their bulbs inflating inside to stretch you even more.

You’re completely stuck, their cocks inside you as they lap at your wounds. It’s only when you squirm do they start talking. “You’ll get used to it,”

“After all we have a week,”

“You’ll be able to take our knots with no problem,”

“All your holes will be used to taking us,”

Their words don’t ease you concern, but the fact that once they leave your warm cunt, they’re still hard and readying you for round two. The heat encompassing your body refuses to leave, their skin as sweaty and hot as yours. With their relentless stamina and obsession with pumping all their seed into you, you’re positive you’ll get pregnant.

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be-gay-do-heists · 3 years

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hello yall :) the holy month of elul started last night, which is typically a time for contemplation, so since it is impossible for me to stop thinking about leverage, i decided to write an essay. hope anyone interested in reading it enjoys, and that it makes at least a little sense!! spoilers for leverage redemption

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Leverage, Judaism, and “Doing the Work”: An Essay for Elul

When it comes to Elul and the approaching High Holidays, Leverage might seem like an odd topic to meditate on.

The TNT crime drama that ran from 2008-2012, and which released a new season this summer following its renewal, centers on a group of found-family thieves who help the victims of corporations and oligarchs (sometimes based on real-world examples), using wacky heists and cons to bring down the rich and powerful. In one episode, the team’s clients want to reclaim their father’s prized Glimt piece that had been stolen in the Shoah and never returned, but aside from this and the throwaway lines and jokes standard for most mainstream television, there’s not a ton textually Jewish about Leverage. However, despite this, I have found that the show has strong resonance among Jewish fans, and lots of potential for analysis along Jewish themes. This tends to focus on one character in particular: the group’s brilliant, pop culture-savvy, and personable hacker, Alec Hardison, played by the phenomenally talented Aldis Hodge.

I can’t remember when or where I first encountered a reading of Hardison as Jewish, but not only is this a somewhat popular interpretation, it doesn’t feel like that much of a leap. In the show itself, Hardison has a couple of the aforementioned throwaway lines that potentially point to him being Jewish, even if they’re only in service of that moment’s grift. It’s hard to point to what exactly makes reading Hardison as Jewish feel so natural. My first guess is the easy way Hardison fits into the traditional paradigms of Jewish masculinity explored by scholars such as Daniel Boyarin (2). Most of the time, the hacker is not portrayed as athletic or physical; he is usually the foil to the team’s more physically-adept characters like fighter Eliot, or thief Parker. Indeed, Hardison’s strength is mental, expressed not only through his computer wizardry but his passions for science, technology, music, popular media, as well as his studious research into whatever scenario the group might come up against. In spite of his self-identification as a “geek,” Hardison is nevertheless confident, emotionally sensitive, and secure in his masculinity. I would argue he is representative of the traditional Jewish masculine ideal, originating in the rabbinic period and solidified in medieval Europe, of the dedicated and thoughtful scholar (3). Another reason for popular readings of Hardison as Jewish may be the desire for more representation of Jews of color. Although mainstream American Jewish institutions are beginning to recognize the incredible diversity of Jews in the United States (4), and popular figures such as Tiffany Haddish are amplifying the experiences of non-white Jews, it is still difficult to find Jews of color represented in popular media. For those eager to see this kind of representation, then, interpreting Hardison, a black man who places himself tangential to Jewishness, in this way is a tempting avenue.

Regardless, all of the above remains fan interpretation, and there was little in the text of the show that seriously tied Judaism into Hardison’s identity. At least, until we got this beautiful speech from Hardison in the very first episode of the renewed show, directed at the character of Harry Wilson, a former corporate lawyer looking to atone for the injustice he was partner to throughout his career:

“In the Jewish faith, repentance, redemption, is a process. You can’t make restitution and then promise to change. You have to change first. Do the work, Harry. Then and only then can you begin to ask for forgiveness. [...] So this… this isn’t the win. It’s the start, Harry.”

I was floored to hear this speech, and thrilled that it explained the reboot’s title, Leverage: Redemption. Although not mentioned by its Hebrew name, teshuvah forms the whole basis for the new season. Teshuvah is the concept of repentance or atonement for the sins one has committed. Stemming from the root shuv/shuva, it carries the literal sense of “return.” In a spiritual context, this usually means a return to G-d, of finding one’s way back to holiness and by extension good favor in the eyes of the Divine. But equally important is restoring one’s relationships with fellow humans by repairing any hurt one has caused over the past year. This is of special significance in the holy month of Elul, leading into Rosh haShanah, the Yamim Noraim, and Yom Kippur, but one can undertake a journey of redemption at any point in time. That teshuvah is a journey is a vital message for Harry to hear; one job, one reparative act isn’t enough to overturn years of being on the wrong side of justice, to his chagrin. As the season progresses, we get to watch his path of teshuvah unfold, with all its frustrations and consequences. Harry grows into his role as a fixer, not only someone who can find jobs and marks for the team, but fixes what he has broken or harmed.

So why was Hardison the one to make this speech?

I do maintain that it does provide a stronger textual basis for reading Hardison as Jewish by implication (though the brief on-screen explanation for why he knows about teshuvah, that his foster-parent Nana raised a multi-faith household, is important in its own merit, and meshes well with his character traits of empathy and understanding for diverse experiences). However, beyond this, Hardison isn’t exactly an archetypical model for teshuvah. In the original series, he was the youngest character of the main ensemble, a hacking prodigy in the start of his adult career, with few mistakes or slights against others under his belt. In one flashback we see that his possibly first crime was stealing from the Bank of Iceland to pay off his Nana’s medical bills, and that his other early hacking exploits were in the service of fulfilling personal desires, with only those who could afford to pay the bill as targets. Indeed, in the middle of his speech, Hardison points to Eliot, the character with the most violent and gritty past who views his work with the Leverage team as atonement, for a prime example of ongoing teshuvah. So while no one is perfect and everyone has a reason for doing teshuvah, this question of why Hardison is the one to give this series-defining speech inspired me to look at his character choices and behavior, and see how they resonate with a different but interrelated Jewish principle, that of tikkun olam.

Tikkun olam is literally translated as “repairing the world,” and can take many different forms, such as protecting the rights of vulnerable people in society, or giving tzedakah (5). In modern times, tikkun olam is often the rallying cry for Jewish social activists, particularly among environmentalists for whom literally restoring the health of the natural world is the key goal. Teshuvah and tikkun olam are intertwined (the former is the latter performed at an interpersonal level) and both hold a sense of fixing or repairing, but tikkun olam really revolves around a person feeling called to address an injustice that they may have not had a personal hand in creating. Hardison’s sense of a universal scale of justice which he has the power to help right on a global level and his newfound drive to do humanitarian work, picked up sometime after the end of the original series, make tikkun olam a central value for his character. This is why we get this nice bit of dialogue from Eliot to Hardison in the second episode of the reboot, when the latter’s outside efforts to organize international aid start distracting him from his work with the team: “Is [humanitarian work] a side gig? In our line of work, you’re one of the best. But in that line of work… you’re the only one, man.” The character who most exemplifies teshuvah reminds Hardison of his amazing ability to effect change for the better on a huge stage, to do some effective tikkun olam. It’s this acknowledgement of where Hardison can do the most good that prompts the character’s absence for the remainder of the episodes released thus far, turning his side gig into his main gig.

With this in mind, it will be interesting to see where Hardison’s arc for this season goes. Separated from the rest of the team, the hacker still has remarkable power to change the world, because it is, after all, the “age of the geek.” However, he is still one person. For all that both teshuvah and tikkun olam are individual responsibilities and require individual decision-making and effort, the latter especially relies on collective work to actually make things happen. Hardison leaving is better than trying to do humanitarian work and Leverage at the same time, but there’s only so long he can be the “only one” in the field before burning out. I’m reminded of one of the most famous (for good reason) maxims in Judaism:

It is not your duty to finish the work, but neither are you free to neglect it. (6)

Elul is traditionally a time for introspection and heeding the calls to repentance. After a year where it’s never been easier to feel powerless and drained by everything going on around us, I think it’s worth taking the time to examine what kind of work we are capable of in our own lives. Maybe it’s fixing the very recent and tangible hurts we’ve left behind, like Harry. Maybe it’s the little changes for the better that we make every day, motivated by our sense of responsibility, like Eliot. And maybe it’s the grueling challenge of major social change, like Hardison. And if any of this work gets too much, who can we fall back on for support and healing? Determining what needs repair, working on our own scale and where our efforts are most helpful, and thereby contributing to justice in realistic ways means that we can start the new year fresh, having contemplated in holiday fashion how we can be better agents in the world.

Shana tovah u’metukah and ketivah tovah to all (7), and may the work we do in the coming year be for good!

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(1) Disclaimer: everybody’s fandom experiences are different, and this is just what I’ve picked up on in my short time watching and enjoying this show with others.

(2) See, for example, the introduction and first chapter of Boyarin’s book Unheroic Conduct: The Rise of Heterosexuality and the Invention of the Jewish Man (I especially recommend at least this portion if you are interested in queer theory and Judaic studies). There he explores the development of Jewish masculinity in direct opposition to Christian masculine standards.

(3) I might even go so far as to place Hardison well within the Jewish masculine ideal of Edelkayt, gentle and studious nobility (although I would hesitate to call him timid, another trait associated with Edelkayt). Boyarin explains that this scholarly, non-athletic model of man did not carry negative associations in the historical Jewish mindset, but was rather the height of attractiveness (Boyarin, 2, 51).

(4) Jews of color make up 20% of American Jews, according to statistics from Be’chol Lashon, and this number is projected to increase as American demographics continue to change: https://globaljews.org/about/mission/.

(5) Tzedakah is commonly known as righteous charity. According to traditional authority Maimonides, it should be given anonymously and without embarrassment to the person in need, generous, and designed to help the recipient become self-sufficient.

(6) Rabbi Tarfon, Pirkei Avot, 2:16

(7) “A good and sweet year” and “a good inscription [in the Book of Life]”

#leverage #miko speaks #jewish stuff #jumblr #leverage redemption #spoilers #lr spoilers #leverage redemption spoilers #written for a non leverage audience because i want my rabbi to read it alskdjflaksdjf #elul

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smutty-ki113r · 3 years

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🎠Laughing Jack🎠|| Carousel

Fluff one-shot x gn!reader— only warning is angst (2.6k)

Inspired by: Melanie Martinez

After months of endless nagging you finally convinced Laughing Jack to let you visit his amusement park. He had claimed it was too scary and you would get creeped out but you weren’t one to take no for an answer.

Giving you a piece of candy so the trans-dementional trip wouldn’t be too hard on you. Tasting the sour lemon taffy he gave you and making a tense face as the flavor pulled at your taste buds and stuck to your teeth.

Your head getting dizzy as your surroundings warped and his room became red and white vertical stripes. Blinking a couple times as he leaned into your face, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” You told him, almost falling back at how close he was. As soon as your perception adjusted you looked for the exit to the tent you were inside. “Onward!” You said excited, marching comedically to the entrance flap.

“This isn’t exactly the safest place”, he called from behind, catching up with ease because his legs were so long. “You need to stay close to me at all times” you smiled at him, it’s not like you were complaining, “got that?”

Giving him a keen nod you stepped out of the grand tent. Squinting at the sky, which was tainted a dusty gray, swirly clouds amber of scattered around in the background. The carnival was beautifully revolting, with littered attractions as far as the eye could see.

The place looked somewhat abandoned, if you get past the faint cries of children, from their souls stored in toys. Rides that once colored a vibrant red had paint chipped, specks of dull metal flaked over the bars.

Game stands broken down and leaning unsteadily, disturbing toys with eyes and limbs missing hanging from the top. It looked like it might fall down at any minute, but you couldn’t help but notice the newer looking boxes of supplies lying around next to the stands.

Fairy lights hung from the tilted signs, decorating the food court. A fresh trail had been made between the rides.

It warmed your heart that he had made subtle efforts to fix the place up, he certainly didn’t think you would notice.

Looking back at his nervous smile, Jack was terrified you would hate the place. You thought all but the opposite, giving him a big grin. Your expression relaxed him, assuring him that you wouldn’t think he was a freak and leave. His whole demeanor shifting, making him more comfortable and even enthusiastic.

Straightening out and giving you jazz hands, “what are you waiting for?” putting one hand on his hip to motion you to the park with the other “lets go have fun!”

Following behind you with a giggle as you approached the carnival games. The ring toss looking somewhat appealing in between the other activities, so you told him you wanted to play.

“Basically you get 5 rings, if you get at least 3 in the pins you win a prize” he explained.

“Alright alright lemme try” you waved him off, snatching the rings and giving one a toss. It missed, you brushed it off. The second one made it in and Jack gave a little cheer, it still wasn’t enough.

Hyperfocusing on the pin in the middle make a soft throw upward, the edge hitting the top of the pin and falling to the side. You gave a groan, calculating your last two throws.

Your forth throw made the pin to the side, and you only had one more try left. Aiming for another pin at the side to release, the ring clanging against it and falling to the floor.

You went to look at Jack with a frown but he wore a happy expression, “you won!” He exclaimed. Confused you turned back, finding the ring you had just tossed around the last pin. You were completely certain you had missed it, racking your mind for an explanation as jack handed you a small purple bunny that was missing an arm.

Realizing that Jack had manipulating the game so you could win, throwing him a knowing glance. He just happened to be looking away, whistling guiltily.

Squeezing the bunny you moved onto the next game, it was ballon dart toss. The stand had pale red and black balloons scattered across a board. Excitement was written all over his face, you cocked an eyebrow in question.

“It’s a two person game!” He said, “whoever pops more balloons wins!”

He handed you four darts and kept four for himself, “you can go first” he motioned with a grin. Pacing the dart in two fingers a couple times before throwing at a balloon. Giving a groan when you missed and waiting for him to go.

Being as skilled as he was he managed to land one in a bullseye. “Oh it’s on” you dared, getting one point yourself. LJ got the second one too, staring at you intensely as you evened out the score.

Giving him a small smile as the dart broke the surface of the balloon with a sharp noise “pop goes the weasel right?” You laughed, referring to his famous song.

He looked at you almost in shock, taken aback by your joke. Shaking himself into reality he broke out in a light blush, a part of him touched, as if you were accepting him for who he was.

Too distracted by your eyes on him to play the game with concentration. Missing the third one with a growl he waited for you to take your turn, which you lost. It was the last point and Jack was a shoe in, so obviously he took the victory.

You were happy for him, passing along a “good job!” as he retrieved the big brown teddy bear that was half his size, and all of yours. It was missing an eye, thin stands of makeshift fur pulled out and a silky red bow around it’s neck.

“Here” he said, dangling it in front of you.

“For me?” You asked, “but you won”, trying to look up at him but the bear blocked most of your view, only letting you see above his nose.

“Just take it” he practically pushed it into you, making you blow out an oof.

Holding it to the side at the torso with one hand you broke out in a grin “thank you for the plushie” you said, hugging him from the side and squeezing his torso “but I want you to be my teddy” you laughed. He looked incredibly flustered, frozen as you broke away.

“You’re big and tall” you tippy toed up to give his shoulder pad feathers a ruffle “and fluffy”

The man looked like he was about to faint so you decided to knock it off, laughing and telling him you wanted to go on the carousel next. Quickly, LJ happily led you too it, skipping in front of you (mostly to hide his blush).

Standing at the controls to cue a round, watching you walk around to find a pretty horse. Given, all of them had dark spots and chipped paint, but they worked all the same. Leaving the bear on another horse and climbing onto a white one that had a yellow saddle, intricate lacy designs patterned on the sides. Royal blue reigns across it’s chest and a lion on a crest.

It was beautiful, and you traced your fingers on the drawing. It must have been stunning, but the weathering of time and agony had gotten to it. A painful reminder of what was, a mere reflection of the chipping away of a joyful being.

Prying away from your thoughts as you felt the vibrations of Jack stepping onto the walkway- with one of his big smiles. Even after everything, he still wore a smile. It made you want to tear up, he really needed all the love he could get.

He was too tall to get on a horse, so he just stood by you. His big hand gracing the golden pole and holding on, watching as you peeked up at him. Even though his eyes were constantly bright he displayed something…deeper. It was a sort of shine, a sparkle if you will, luminosity glazed over in such a way that one can only get lost in its vastness.

The looped music in the background was secondary as you rose up and down with the horse, giving Jack a little smile and thanking him for bringing you here. “I’m having a lot of fun with you” you noted.

“Well of course you are! It’s a carnival” he said with joy.

“No I mean with you” you clarified “you’re pretty great Jack”. This time he didn’t avoid your gaze, his mouth open slightly, not knowing how to react to the sincerity of the compliment.

The ride slowly came to a stop, and you were feeling slightly tingly. Maybe it was the air, or the loss of focus. “How about a roller coaster?” You dared, to which he gave a tense face.

“Those are pretty broken, you’ll probably die riding one and that’s not what we want” he said, stepping off the carousel. “How about some cotton candy instead?”

You nodded your head vigorously, following him in the pursuit for the fairy floss, the bear falling behind forgotten. Passing by more unused rides that had long past rusted and a house of mirrors to get to the food court.

Jack humming happily as he dipped a paper cone into the bowl of revolving fibers of sugar. Whipping up a swirly pink and blue cotton candy and handing it to you with a proud smile.

He went to make another treat until you spoke, “I’m not that hungry so we can share” you proposed. “If you want”

“Are you sure?” He asked, concerned that you didn’t have much appetite. “Do you want some candy or maybe a funnel cake?”

You shook him off, taking a bite out of the cloud-like dessert. It was absolutely delicious, honeyed and saccharine on your tongue in a blend of flavor you had never tasted had before.

Soft as it disintegrated onto your mouth, leaving behind a remanence of something too sweet. Bringing it up to Jack, who was so tall you had to extend your arm fully to get it to his mouth.

He simply laughed at your struggle, taking a bite before giving you a thin smile and taking it from your hand. Sitting down at a bench so that you could both share comfortably.

By the time the candy had finished you noticed little bits of the silky texture stuck on his nose. Painfully stifling a laugh you turned away.

“What’s so funny?” He asked with a genuine smile.

When you didn’t answer his tone changed, “what’s so funny huh?” he sounded a bit angered.

Hiccuping through your laughter you faced him, leaning in real close to his face, enough so that you could feel the heat emanating from it; taking a bite of the pink woven candy on his nose and holding it in your teeth.

His face went red at the sight, embarrassed that he had cotton candy on his nose. Well, that and for a moment he thought you were going to kiss him.

Noticing your hands were all sticky you asked him if there was a sink somewhere. After both of you washed your hands you sat back down at the bench.

The sky was going dark, the poofs of dusty cloud fading in with the night but still managing to remain visible. You heard a whirr as Jack turned on all the rides at the carnival, lighting the whole thing up.

You sat in awe, a mere spectator in the empty yet live amusement park. Admiring the music that added to the ambiance, watching Jack approach you.

“Wanna take a walk?” He asked, but there was something…off. LJ seemed nervous as you got up and walked next to him.

He had been thinking about it for a while now, probably even before he brought you to the carnival. Even though he had washed the gooey candy from his hands they were still sticky, but it was from sweat. Giving you side glances as you paced the trail with him.

Debating to himself whether or not he should do it, if you would hate him for it. Telling himself that he would regret it if he didn’t, but thinking about the potential negative reactions you could give.

Passing the carousel once again as you noticed the usually loud and happy clown was silent, lost in thought as he stared into the distance, his lips forming a tensing line.

Wondering if he was ok, but brining up the topic might make him uneasy. Perhaps you being there at his haunted amusement park was ticking him off, or if you taking that cotton floss off his nose was too much, or if you were pushing your luck, or worse what if you triggered hi-

All thoughts faded from your mind the moment you felt a slow, shaky hand grasp onto yours. You had to look to where he held you because he was so gentile you thought it was the wind. Holding onto you softly enough that it felt like a feather, somehow still creating a little pocket of warmth between you.

A glowing thump of heat pulsing inside your chest, happiness digging into your cells and giving you the confidence to squeeze his hand.

He let out a sharp inhale at the feel, still avoiding your gaze as he relaxed into your touch. Not daring to move his hand too much or he might risk ruining the moment, afraid of hurting you with his claws.

Approaching the Ferris wheel he finally spoke, “this is probably the one ride that won’t break”, not a peep about holding you. “Do you want to go on?”

You finally caught his gaze, absolutely melting at the smile in his eyes. Responding with a ‘yes’ and letting him open the door for you. Sustaining his grip with you as he helped you on, not letting go even after you sat.

The cart wasn’t exactly small, but with a guy the size of Jack it was pretty compacted. It’s not like you minded, the lack of space gave you an excuse to bunch up alongside him. The feathers from his pads tickling your face as you rested on him.

Watching the view as the cart took you higher and higher, it was perfect. The evening set in the rich obscurity of the night, lights of the festival blinking as if they had a life of their own. The bulbs on the stands making z’s as they illuminated the red and white drapes of the far off tents.

Jack held your hand with such care and caress, you gave him a reassuring press to let him know it was ok. He was so enveloped with the passionate act that he squeezed as well. Letting you feel all the dips and curves of his hand. Clutching onto you, as if you might disappear too.

Facing him to cup his cheek with your free hand, caressing him and tucking a stand of hair behind his ear. Trailing your thumb across his skin and feeling him lean into your touch, swearing that between the lines on the pad of your finger there was a tear that you had wiped away.

Getting lost in the breaths you shared as you inched closer to his lips, giving him a second of warmth longer to prove that you weren’t going anywhere.

#creepypasta #laughing jack fluff #laughing Jack #laughing jack x you #laughing jack x reader #laughing jack rants #lj #I love lj #creepypasta fluff #creepypasta headcanon #creepypasta hcs #creepypasta lj #creepypasta laughing jack #creepy #🎴#♣️

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triptuckers · 3 years

Text

Ravkan revolvers - Jesper Fahey

Request: yes “could you do a jesper fahey x reader where when the reader is mad they start yelling in their native tongue and jesper gets all scared and it’s just all fluff!! thanks💞💞” Pairing: Jesper Fahey x reader Summary: Jesper breaks your revolver, which results into you yelling at him Warnings: none Word count: 1K A/N: there’s one video of kit on his insta showing off his revolver skills and every time I watch it I'm so fucking impressed I love him so much. thanks for requesting this, enjoy reading!

You should have known something was wrong. Inej and Jesper would normally make quick work of an easy job like the one they had to do today. But when they don’t get back as quickly as you thought they would, you weren’t instantly storming into Kaz’ office demanding an explanation.

Sometimes, jobs just took longer than expected. It didn’t mean anything went wrong. Maybe they had to take a detour on their way back to the Slat to avoid being followed. Maybe they had to wait til they were clear to leave their hiding spot. There was no reason to assume something bad had happened.

Still, you’re worried. You always are. Every time Jesper is out on a job or you’re not partnered up with him, you’re afraid he gets a little too excited when the shooting starts. But he always made his way back to you, no matter what.

When you can’t take the buzzing energy and the laughter of everyone around you, you decide to go up to your own room while you wait for Jesper and Inej to return.

But now that you’re alone in your room, you long for the lively vibe downstairs. Up in your room, there’s nothing to distract you from your thoughts. You’re debating wether or not you should go downstairs again, when a knock on your door catches your attention.

‘Yes?’ you say, trying not to let the anxiety be heard in your voice.

The door opens and Jesper’s familiar face pokes around the door before entering your room. You let out a relieved sigh. You briefly close your eyes and run your hands over your face.

When you open them again, you notice Jesper is holding one of his hands behind his back and has a very guiltily look on his face. Immediately, you get even more worried.

‘What happened?’ you ask, taking two big steps to get in front of him. ‘Did you get hurt? Are you alright?’

‘What? No I didn’t get hurt.’ says Jesper.

‘Inej?’ you say, moving to walk past him but Jesper stops you.

‘Inej is fine, the job went well.’ he says.

‘Then why do you have that look on your face?’ you say, pointing at him.

‘Okay, now, don’t get mad.’ says Jesper cautiously. He then slowly moves his hand from behind his back and holds it out to you.

Your revolver is in it. In two pieces.

‘Jesper!’ you exclaim. ‘Saints, what did you do? I gave you that and you promised me you’d give it back! You screw up one of your own precious revolvers, so I let you borrow mine and you break it? How the hell do you even manage to break it in two?’

‘It was an accident.’ says Jesper.

‘Jes!’ you groan as you take the two pieces of what used to be a perfectly good and functional revolver from his hand. ‘That was one of the last things I had from my home!’

You don’t like yelling at him. Hell, you’d prevent it at all costs if you could. But the bottled up worry is coming out all at once. And before you know it, your voice is loud and about halfway through your ranting, you switched to a Ravkan dialect.

Meanwhile, Jesper’s eyes have widened and he’s taken a few steps back, away from you.

When you’re finally done, you sigh and close your eyes. You’ve put your hand on your hips and Jesper carefully approaches you.

‘Okay, I understand that you’re mad, given all the yelling and stuff. But I couldn’t understand the words you were saying, so I kind of zoned out.’ he says. ‘You look really hot when you’re mad though.’

You softly shake your head and resist the urge to smile at his words. Jesper always had that effect on you. No matter how tired or mad or stressed you are, Jesper always makes you smile.

‘I was yelling at you that this is one of the few things I have left from my home in Ravka.’ you say, holding up the two pieces of your revolver. ‘I was really fond of it.’ you murmur as you look at the pieces in your hands.

‘Maybe we can find a Fabrikator who can fix it?’ offers Jesper. ‘I bet Nina knows one here in Ketterdam, she knows where most of the Grisha live in the city.’

‘Yeah, maybe they can fix it.’ you say. You look up at him. ‘I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I’m sorry for yelling at you, I was just worried when you took longer than usual to get back to me.’

‘To be honest, I was trying to come up with a plan on how to tell you I broke your favorite revolver.’ says Jesper. ‘Reminded me why Kaz is the one who always does the planning.’

You roll your eyes but there’s a smile on your lips. ‘I’m glad the revolver is in two pieces instead of you.’ you say and you stand on your toes to kiss his cheek.

‘If they can’t fix this one, maybe I can get you a Zemeni-made revolver, to match mine.’ says Jesper.

‘Let’s see if they can fix mine first.’ you say. ‘But if they can’t, I’d love a Zemeni-made one. I don’t have to steal yours if I want to practice with revolvers other than my own.’

‘You practice with my revolvers?’ says Jesper, placing a hand on his chest and scrunching his face in a fake pained expression.

‘Only because I know you don’t mind when it’s me.’ you say.

‘I never said that.’ says Jesper, holding up his hands in defence. ‘Those revolvers are the best part of my life.’

‘Hmm really?’ you say with a smirk. ‘Thought I was the best part of your life.’

‘Love, you are my life.’ he says. ‘Honestly, I’d be lost if it weren’t for you. The revolvers are just an added extra to make life more enjoyable.’

You smile and stand on your toes to kiss him again. On the lips, this time.

‘You know, I was going to ask you if you wanted to go downstairs to get something to eat.’ murmurs Jesper against your lips. ‘But I think I'll prefer to stay up here.’

‘Let’s stay up here.’ you say, pulling him in for another kiss. Jesper stumbles back to shut the door and you let the parts of your revolver fall to the floor, so you can tangle your fingers in Jesper’s hair.

A/N: If you want to request something, make sure to read my house rules Here’s the list of characters I write for. Everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. Please don’t repost my work, as I spend much time and effort on it!! Thank you for reading! Much love, Marit

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yesimwriting · 3 years

Text

Searing Starlight (chapter 3)

A/n I CANNOT believe how many people have supported this story,, I’m so excited to continue it with you guys :))

Just a reminder that while this is based off the show i hope to blend in some book aspects/vibes and this is just a fanfic and it won’t be completely accurate/follow the show 100% and any changes I make/parts I chose not to focus on are for the sake of the story I’m trying to tell

I can’t tell if I wish Kaz had let me go with Inej or not. She’s faster than I am, and considering that I have no real reason to be loyal to them, I’m a flight risk. That means I’m stuck here with only the Kaz Brekker and Jesper, who I tricked. I hadn’t exactly befriended Inej entirely in the few minutes I was alone with her, but she seemed more trustworthy than them. More susceptible to reason. And when she heard where I was from, who was responsible for raising me, something in the way she watched me changed. It was the oddest combination--a look of both tired sympathy and cautious admiration.

“What I don’t understand…” Jesper breaks the silence. “Is why you all go back there. He lets you leave, he gives you money--there’s no reason to return.”

I try not to let the question anger me. I shift awkwardly, scratching at my palm. “We tried leaving.” My stomach knots. “Once.” How do I make them understand? “He caught us because we young and stupid, and then he…” I exhale slowly. They’re just words. They don’t change anything. Whether I speak them or not, the events of my history aren’t different. “He picked the youngest, a girl only six months younger than me, and he slit her throat from ear to ear and took a finger of anyone that flinched as her blood splattered onto them. He said her blood was our penance and to live with knowing what we did to her would be our punishment.”

I don’t tell them that I was twelve. I don’t tell them Anya lied about my birthday on the records. I don’t tell them I’m missing the very tip of my pinky--a small punishment for the twitch of my lip. “When Kenya is truly angry, he never hurts you--he hurts those around you.” No one responds to that. They’re making me seem like such a bummer. “It’s not awful all the time...he borders on agreeable when you listen to him.”

Most days we have peace, left to our own devices as long as we accomplish certain goals. Their silence does little to unnerve me. After speaking so freely of such a nightmare, the desire to be rid of the taste of those words from my mouth is almost overwhelming, but I hold to the silence.

“Why has he never sold you to the grisha that are so desperate for you?”

Of course Kaz Brekker would ask a question like that. “He isn’t the business of money, he’s in the business of creating gods. He indentures people he thinks could one day become saints or something else entirely. He wants to be owed by the heavens.”

I watch Kaz carefully, a part of me curious about how someone like him could react to a goal like that. I can see him understanding the ambition of it all, but I can’t imagine himself a person of faith. Perhaps he’ll think it a clever trick. Perhaps he’ll even agree with Kenya.

He nods once; something I get nothing from.

Whatever. He can be coy and distant this entire time. They all can. I’ll be out of here soon enough, and I’ll find Anya. And if I can stop something bad from happening to Alina then that’s a bonus I’m willing to take risks for.

“That man is awful.”

Inej’s voice comes from right behind me. I snap my head around. “You’re in here.”

She nods once, oblivious to how shocking her sudden appearance is. She hands me a knapsack casually, staring at Kaz. “What’s the plan? We have six hours.”

I look around the room, only seeing one closed window and one closed door. “There’s one door in this room.”

“We take the Inferni to the ship.” He doesn’t even bother looking in my direction.

Okay, they can be mean to be all they want but they can’t ignore me. I don’t think I’ve ever been ignored in my entire life. Gods in the making get attention. It may be the cruel attention of fate, but it’s something.

“Did she come in through the window?”

Again, I am ignored.

“And then what, boss?” Jesper casually crosses the room, sitting down next to me on the small couch. It’s like I’m not even here. “We’d need to break into the Little Palace to get Alina.”

What? “You guys are going to--” No. No. I am not kidnapping Alina. And there’s no way she’d be in the Little Palace. “First off--if you want to kidnap Alina Starkov for whatever insane ploy you’re all playing at, you’d never find her at Little Palace. She’s not a Grisha and second--” I cut myself off, standing from my seat. “Why am I even telling you this? I shouldn’t be helping you kidnap her.”

Kaz’s eyes dart to me boredly. At least it’s some kind of acknowledgement of my existence. “I thought you two weren’t close.”

I seriously consider scorching him. Just a little. Not even enough to scar him, just enough to get him to shut up. “She’s still a person who has a right to her body and what happens to it.”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but if we pull this off we get one million kruge.”

What does he think I’m going to say? ‘Okay, well as long as you’re doing it for a good reason.’ Is that the response he expects. “Okay, well that makes it fair.”

His eyes narrow skeptically, but Jesper is the one to ask, “Really?”

“No,” I scoff, slumping back into my seat, “I was being sarcastic.”

I drop my head back, neck craning over the back of the small couch. It isn’t exactly comfortable, but at least it makes it easier to ignore them. I’ve kept worse company for less. There’s an odd silence for a long second. I look forward without moving, I see Kaz vaguely gesture in Inej’s direction.

“Y/n,” Inej’s voice is refreshingly measured, “I think after the kinds of things we’ve gone through we understand that there’s some relativity in morality.”

I shift my head to the right so I can look at her. “...Yes, but you’re just forcing another girl into a similar situation.” Why is Alina even worth so much? “And why would anyone pay so much for Alina?”

Inej hesitates, glancing at Kaz and then back at me. “She’s a Sun Summoner.”

On instinct, I straighten entirely, my body rigid. They’re insane. “You all are cracked if you think Alina’s a Sun Summoner.” No. No. It couldn’t be her. “Bless your hearts, seriously, she’s--she was trained to be a map maker--she’s not…” None of them relax, none of them shift in any way. What good would lying about this bring them? They have no reason to lie about this. “Saints, I should have had more to drink while downstairs.”

So what if she’s a Sun Summoner? She didn’t ask to be one. She doesn’t deserve this. I cross my arms. “It doesn’t make this okay.”

“And would it make it okay if you were getting a cut of the profit?” What?

Kaz is looking at me in that tactful way. It takes all of my focus to not let myself become unnerved. “What?”

“If I offered you a cut, would you be able to push aside more protests in order to make working with you easier?”

Could I do it? Could I betray Alina? I drop my gaze away from his, opting to focus on the forgotten lantern on the coffee table in front of me. It flickers to life with no conscious prompting on my part. The flame is low and blue. Still though, Kaz notices it. What doesn’t he notice?

“I can help you do what I agreed to.” I swallow around a lump in my throat, “But I cannot help you kidnap Alina.”

The corner of his mouth tugs downwards. “We’re just going to get her to work with us.”

“Work with you?”

“We never said anything about taking her, and if Alina is really your friend you should know that the entire world is after her. Better us who can get her out of an unwanted situation quickly than the brutal General Kirigan who will hold her hostage until she does what he wants.”

...I guess he has a point. “Oh.” I’m not naive enough to think that their methods will revolve around making Alina comfortable, but perhaps it’s not as dark as I assumed. “Maybe I was a little quick to assume…” I trail off awkwardly, looking at Inej for some type of reassurance. She avoids my gaze.

I scratch the back of my arm, feeling like a spiraling child. I pick up my knapsack and place it on my lap, fiddling with the strap.

“Come on,” Kaz stands, adjusting his grip on his cane, “We only have until sunrise.”

As I stand, I pull down the skirt of my dress, suddenly aware of how inappropriate my clothing is for this late in the night. “Can--can I change first?”

It’s a sheepish question, leaving me feeling like a child.

“Five minutes,” Kaz offers, stepping out of the room with the rest of them.

Inej leaves last, feet more silent than a cat. She offers me the tiniest hint of a smile. Despite my reservations, I beam at her. Something about me finds her politeness endearing despite it all. I think she closes the door loudly on purpose, to assure me of privacy.

Normally changing in a building so full of drunk men would leave me nervous, but knowing Inej is outside leaves me feeling safe. I may not trust her with my life but something about her being tells me she values personal autonomy enough to protect it.

I sift through the belongings Inej brought me. Clean underwear I try not think of her searching for, a thin white dress, comfortable pants, shorts, a few casual shirts, my red hood, and a nightgown. When I get to the bottom of the bag, and I see the personal belongings Inej smuggled back for me, I’m moved so powerfully my hand flies to my mouth on instinct. She had brought the folded up piece of paper with the only information I’ve been able to find about Kamil, the book I left on my nightstand, the small candle holder Alina had given me the day before I was taken away, the blade Mal had given me the day I left, the deck of playing cards Anya had first taught me to play with, and my mother’s necklace. The silver north star on a long chain.

Before I can become too emotional, I take off the Crow’s Club T-shirt Inej had given me when I looked cold. I change into black pants, tucking the small blade Mal had given me into the pocket. The shirt I put on is pale blue, breaking the dark theme of everything around me. I fasten my red hood over my shoulders, basking in the familiar fabric. Lastly, I pull the north star necklace over my head, watching the blue orb with a black dot at its center blink at me in the light. I always found the stone at the pendant’s center odd. I'm quick to walk towards the door, nervous about what wasting their time could mean.

“Let’s do this,” I sigh, pushing open the door.

They all pause. Or maybe they were never moving. I try to imagine them interacting normally, but it’s hard to picture them as anything but intense and unflinching. There’s something odd about them, though, Jesper practically sulking and Kaz dropping his head despite Inej’s harsh stare.

“What kind of stone is in your necklace?”

I swear to the Saints that if Kaz Brekker tries to steal it I’ll melt those leather gloves into his hands. “Try to take it and--”

“That’s what I get for trying to make ‘polite conversation.’” He throws a look at Inej as he speaks the last two words.

Wait--did Inej tell him to try to make polite conversation? Wait--more importantly, did he just kind of, almost say something that borders on casual?

Wrinkling my nose, I let out a slight sigh. “Sorry.”

His eyebrows draw together quizzically. “Did you just apologize for assuming I’d steal from you?”

Great. Now I’m fully embarrassed. “Can we just go?”

“Not before meeting me, I hope.” The stranger’s voice means nothing to me, but the others tense at it immediately. What? The man continues to walk forward, his steps too casual and confident for me to trust. The stranger is quick to respond to the question on my face, “Pekka Rollins.”

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slightlymore · 4 years

Text

red

part of the ‘soulmates collection’

(slytherin) doyoung x (ravenclaw) fem reader

others: (gryffindor) haechan | renjun mentioned like once

warnings: oral f and m, penetration, unprotected, marking m receiving, body possessiveness in a magical way (? i made this up lol I hope its not that weird. like the plot point is a little cringy but I found it hilarious as I wrote it so I hope you don’t get mad at me when you discover what’s it about lol); a lot of bickering and insults; swearing

words: 9.5k (lol)

requested by anon that wanted academic fights turn into mad sex aha I got inspired by that to make a longer fic with more depth to it (if it's alright) hope you like it! this is one of my favourite pieces I’ve written so far!!!! 👀👅👀

_____

As the rays of the sun hit the announcement board, your eyes darted on the pages filled with small characters.

A little crowd of people started to chatter behind you, trying to see the ranking sheet as well, but no one dared to come close enough to push into you - the Ravenclaw Prefect.

“Renjun? Whose dick did you suck to get 6th?” a voice giggled before a loud smack transformed the airy laugh in a dramatic “ouch”. “Lee Haechan, I swear I’ll-” but you didn’t get to hear the rest as your vision got suddenly blurry with rage and your ears started to whistle when your shoulder got bumped forcing you to make a few ungraceful steps to the side.

“What’s that face for, YLN?”

You tightened your fists.

You could have recognized that annoying voice in a thousand others: Kim Doyoung, the Slytherin Prefect and the person you hated most in the whole universe.

“Ah, right,” he hit his fist on one palm turning his head with fakely widened eyes. “You’re second place. Again.”

You hated Kim Doyoung and everything that had to do with him.

His voice? Hideous.

The fragrance of the fabric softener on his clothes? Repugnant.

His favourite dishes at the cafeteria? Revolting.

His favourite authors? Idiots.

Everything reminded you of him and one time you had a literal meltdown in a supplies shop as every notebook and pen has been seen in his backpack at a certain point.

“I see that manners are still very difficult for you to master, Kim,” you spit out his last name.

Doyoung laughed. “I apologize profusely for not following useless societal rules such as manners the way your finite mind intends.”

An echo of little “ohh” surrounded you but abruptly stopped as you threw a venomous glance at the little crowd behind you.

“Is this what you’ve been doing to get in the first place? Not following the rules?” you cocked an eyebrow at Doyoung.

The tongue inside his cheek moved around for a few seconds before he crossed his arms on his chest and got closer until his feet clashed with yours.

You didn’t step back.

“Is this an accusation?”

You pursed your lips as if thinking and Doyoung let you put on the little theatre act before he could hear your “Maybe?”

A single dry and unamused scoff came out of his lips as his eyes stared you down from head to toes.

“So you’re resorting to - this?” he gestured vaguely. “You’re that bitter that you couldn’t keep your first place for two whole semesters now?”

“Oh? It hurt so badly the first time that you kept track of it, baby boy?” you cooed.

The new nickname threw him off for a split second and although he was quick to come back to his usual expression you noticed it and you smiled triumphantly.

The crowd was collectively holding its breath.

He opened his mouth to say probably something stupid as usual when the voice of the professor interrupted you and the spell got shattered.

“Come inside little roosters. Preserve that energy for the class debate.”

Previously silent to not miss a single exchange you had with Doyoung. everyone suddenly started to chat while making their way inside the classroom.

You both still didn’t move a single muscle, your eyes still trained on each other like predators. “I said-,” the professor clicked his fingers between your faces, “-come inside.”

_____

“I can’t fucking believe this.”

Your university was overall a good place with good and proficient rules. You followed them all and you enjoyed it. But there were also a few rules you suddenly realized you hated. Like the “your seat in the study room will be your seat for the rest of the semester and whoever seats in somebody else's seat during the year, said somebody can slash their shins”.

You would have loved to see Doyoung sitting at your place. His long legs could use some kicking. But unfortunately, something even worse happened.

He was sitting right in front of you.

“Why are you here?” you added, throwing your bag on the desk in front of him and making a few of his papers fly on the floor.

Doyoung sighed seeing his stuff gently falling around and raised his eyes with the most venomous smile he could pull off.

“The Gryffindor gentleman over there-” he indicated towards his previous’ semester desk, “took my seat so I had to find another one.”

You followed his pointed finger and spotted Lee Haechan in the midst of popping a chewing gum bubble.

He winked.

You rolled your eyes.

He made an obscene gesture revolving a tongue in the cheek and hand motions.

You returned the favour with your middle finger.

“And you had to sit here of all places. You let a Gryffindor snatch your place.”

Doyoung licked his lower lip before taking it inside his mouth for a moment.

“Miss ‘manners’ and miss ‘following the rules’ is mad that I, mister ‘fuck useless rules’ and fuck ‘useless manners’ didn’t smack a boy in the head to get a desk?”

You breathed in slowly and exhaled before you could scream at him.

“I don’t want to see you every day in front of me.”

Doyoung pinched the base of his nose before speaking.

“Listen, I also don��t want to see your face this close every day for a whole semester but it is what it is. All the other seats are taken. Stop whining or go and suck Lee’s dick to get his desk instead.”

You scoffed incredulously and plopped down with force, ignoring the boy’s sighs as the movement made some other papers fall.

"You're insufferable,” he whispered.

"I am insufferable?" you stopped taking the books from your bag then suddenly dropped the heaviest one, making the whole desk tremble.

Doyoung looked at you then smirked. "You're in a worse mood than usual. Is it because you couldn't reach the top?"

He leaned in as if about to share a secret. "Are you frustrated that I'm always in your mind 24/7?"

His dark eyes looked like two abysses and suddenly you felt like falling into them. Then he blinked once, slowly, and you blinked too, the sudden silence chatter of the study room bringing you to the surface.

Fuck Slytherins and their weird-ass magnetic eyes. You wanted to smack him in the fucking face.

"So I see you keep wanting to be ridiculous as always," you replied but you both realized how soft your tone got.

You cleared your throat - don’t talk to me anymore! it said - and you opened your books, eyes unable to look at Doyoung's face.

He got the hint and leaned back into his seat amused, playing with his pencil. It rolled on his fingers, then on his knuckles and when he placed it on the desk with sudden force you jolted.

"If you want to surpass me, stop staring at my hands and get on studying."

Doyoung had to slide away with his chair for you to not reach his throat and choke him.

_____

"So do you want to choke him with his tie or do you want him to choke you with his tie?" "I want to choke you." Haechan smirked. "I'm not sure I'm into that stuff but we can try it out." "I can't believe you did this to me." "Ah come on. Everyone is having fun. He's having fun. You're the only one taking it too seriously." "I am not taking it seriously. I'm just annoyed every time I see his face. 'The best option is to reinvent yourself'" you mocked Doyoung's voice during philosophy class. "You can reinvent the world first. What kind of selfish nonsense is that?" "Slytherin nonsense. But still, he had good points to his discourse- ahi." "Go and be his friend then." "I would, but I'm stuck here with you because--ahi."

"You're always getting hit, Lee," that voice interrupted your discourse.

You rolled your eyes and breathed out so heavily that for a split moment you thought someone transformed you into a horse.

"Hit on, by girls." "I will hit you too if you don't leave my desk," Doyoung smiled peacefully. "Well," Haechan got up slowly, "I wouldn't mind that either."

Doyoung bit his lower lip amused and to your absolute shock he winked at your friend. Haechan laughed and left you two alone.

"What was that?"

Doyoung sat down ready to get to work. "Huh?"

"Were you friendly just now?"

Doyoung blinked at you as if processing the question. "Yeah? I am friendly usually."

"Why are you not friendly with me?"

Doyoung's expression suddenly trembled on his face like a mask. He looked up surprised and for a split moment, he appeared weirdly younger, with his open lips and wide eyes. You stared at each other for a few seconds and it was the first time you didn't feel like opening up his guts.

But then he smiled and it all got back to you. "Because I hate you,” he explained.

_____

The ball was okay. A normal ball just like all of the other boring balls you were forced to attend each start of the semester. No alcohol, at least not offered from the university but definitely offered by the older students. All said students dressed well, but following the decency rules which led to boring outfits.

Your red dress was the boldest thing around and Ravenclaw cheered upon your entry in the Grand Hall.

A cool Prefect? Yeah, you had to be one if you wanted to beat Kim Doyoung.

At the moment everyone liked him more since he let his people smuggle liquor into the university but you weren’t about to fall to such low standards to win.

But food? Hell yeah.

It was not illegal and everyone wanted to have pizza instead of finger food made of hell knows what.

“Y/N, if you continue like this, I’ll probably fall in love with you,” a random dude smiled, helping himself. You smiled back at him, glad that cute guys wanted to talk to you.

“Well-,” you started, ready to bat your eyelashes, but the guy suddenly jolted, the piece of pizza he was holding literally flying from his hands and landing on his face instead.

You yelped, bringing your hands to your mouth in shock, staring at the way it slowly slid from his nose down on his impeccable white shirt.

“Shit,” he threw the pizza away on the bin at his right and made his way through the crowd with spicy tomato sauce in his eyes.

“You got all kinds of pizzas and not my favourite topping,” Doyoung suddenly materialized near you with a dramatic sigh, scaring the shit out of you. “You!” you turned your head to him and pointed your finger at his face. Doyoung stared at your fingertip then at your eyes. “You did that to the guy just now!”

The boy blinked at you as if you were crazy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shook his head but when he took a piece of pizza and started to munch on it, one hand waving at you and walking towards his friends, you noticed the way he smiled.

_____

A few hours later, people were scattered around the campus, most of them in bed “sleeping”, some of them actually already sleeping since it was almost morning.

The prefects were still in the hall, wrists twisting and eyes annoyed at the chore of having to clean up after the ball.

“It’s going to take you only half an hour, my children,” the headmistress chuckled brightly. “You’re prefects for a reason. Other children don’t have your advanced magical power and would end up cleaning for a whole day. Responsibilities. Am I right?”

“She could clean in 5 minutes yet here we are,” the Gryffindor prefect mumbled after she left, leaving behind an obnoxious perfume cloud.

If the ball would have at least been fun, it would be different now, cleaning while at least being a little euphoric.

But not only was it the most boring and uneventful party ever, you also had to do Kim Doyoung’s part since he was as slow as a snail.

“Get your shit together. We can clean much faster if you get your ass up,” you stared him down with hands on your hips.

Doyoung looked up at you from the chair he was sprawled on, one hand to sustain his head, the other twisting while his finger lazily transported a flying bottle of beer across the room.

“I am working.”

You scoffed. “You’re the best at object moving. If you wanted, you could also finish everything in 5 minutes.”

The boy tilted his head to the side, suddenly focused and amused. “Are my ears failing me, or did you just compliment me?”

“If you need my praise to do your job, then yes, Kim, you’re very good at this type of magic.”

Doyoung chuckled happily and got up. With a smack of his lips, he rolled his wrists and all the trash disappeared from the floors and tables appearing into the trash cans instead. The Hufflepuff prefect whistled, impressed, and the Gryffindor sighed upon realizing he had worked his ass off for nothing.

You put your tongue in your cheek annoyed but also secretly happy he actually did it. “Floors.”

Doyoung took out his tongue in the most annoying habit he had. Your eyes involuntarily darted towards it and he smiled.

“You’re such a snake when you do that.” “Okay, crow. Deal with your floors yourself then,” he passed you and walked towards the exit.

The other prefects already left, too tired to deal with your bickering and probably relieved that someone else could clean up much faster.

You stared at his back, annoyed, then twisted your wrist to pull his body back towards you. His black jacket moved as if a gentle breeze blew across him and Doyoung stopped.

“Wait, sorry-” he laughed and turned around, his voice echoing in the gigantic empty room ringing inside your skull. “-were you perhaps trying to do-” he twisted his wrist and you yelped, feet dragging across the pavement as if your body was being pulled by an invisible force until you clashed on his chest, “-this?” he finished.

Your hands were up on his shirt and for a few moments your brain couldn’t think anything besides, first, how good he smelled, and second, it was the first time for you to actually touch each other.

“If you’re so good at this, then clean the floors as well, so we can finally go.”

He stared you down.

“Ask nicely.”

You scoffed incredulously. “I’d rather clean it with my own hands than do that.”

He smiled. "You want to kiss me so badly, Y/N."

“I-- what? Are you drunk?”

“Why are you so flustered?”

“I am--not-” you grabbed the hand he raised to cup your face, “flustered! I am appalled.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Breathing has never been a difficulty for you and you’ve always laughed at main characters in books talking so extensively about air, but at that moment, your hand still holding Doyoung’s one, your chests pressing against each other and his eyes, fuck, you actually started to slightly pant. What was wrong with him?

“If you stopped using your snake powers-” “This is no power. It’s just you being attracted to me,” he finally cupped your face and this time you didn’t move away. “Check on it. You can pull away.”

He was right. But if that wasn’t some slytherin doing then you were probably going crazy because you saw your hands move almost on their own on Doyoung’s shoulders.

Then you actually leaned in and he met you halfway.

Your limbs were trembling when he brushed his lips on yours and to your surprise, they were warm and soft.

Then he pulled you even closer and you whined for no reason besides your brain yelling ‘this is so nice!!!! we love dopamine!!!’ at you.

And you sought for some more.

When you licked his lower lips, Doyoung’s hands had a tremor on your waist but he was quick to adjust to your sudden burst of passion with the same energy.

Of all the things that you anticipated that night, making out with Kim Doyoung was definitely not one of them. Then why you felt relieved as if finally doing somethig you’ve ached to do for so long?

Did he want to kiss you?

He was currently kissing you at that moment?

Absurd.

Yet there you were, panting and desperate for each other, unable to stop drinking each other’s breaths.

“I’m taking you to my room,” he whispered and the look in his eyes was something you’ve never seen before.

____

Suffocating.

You were suffocating as your breath was taken away from your lungs at Doyoung's every touch on your back.

First your neck with his cold knuckles, then your spine to reach the zip of your red dress. He opened it slowly imitating the pace of his soft lips on your jaw. And when the fabric fell to your feet you turned around, your arms quick to pull him into a messy kiss, while his hands fell on your hips, pushing you towards the silky bed.

You sat down and got quickly on your knees to be able to reach his face again.

Doyoung, standing near the edge of the bed, closed his eyes when you drifted your attention from his lips to his neck then chest, placing a kiss on the newly exposed skin every time you made a button pop open. His abdomen twitched every time and when you reached his navel you palmed his torso up, enjoying his shaky breath when the shirt fell off his shoulders.

A little chuckle coming from you made him look down at your sultry face, the hue of the red lights and lit candles dancing on your skin. Then he stared at his own body. Dozens of kisses adorned it in the colour of your lipstick.

"If I can't mark you, I can at least do this," you raised one eyebrow at him, hands gently dealing with his belt. "Who said you can't mark me?" "Hm?" you opened his pants zip and you could have sworn that Doyoung's eyes flickered. "You really want to go around all covered in hickeys?"

The boy smiled and cupped your face, his thumb slowly caressing your lower lip. "Do it where it can't be seen then."

So you let your tongue out on your amused lips and leaned down to reach the skin above the waistband of his underwear. Your tip wetted his skin making his take in a deep breath. "Is here alright?" you whispered against his warm body.

Doyoung's hand found his place on your nape and you took it as consensus, gingerly taking his skin inside your mouth and sucking on it. A red spot already started to form and you sucked again near it, and again, before suddenly placing a kiss on his clothed bulge instead.

Doyoung drank air through his teeth at the unexpected touch and his fingers got to your shoulders, pushing you into the bed before your legs could wrap around his waist.

His tongue inside your mouth was as delicious as the silk your body was rubbing against. It made its way down your neck then chest and when it reached your perked nipples your knees buckled and you grabbed that red silk with your fists. Little soft whimpers escaped your lips and they became louder as Doyoung's fingers got between your legs. They scratched the lace of your panties and you lifted your hips as he dragged them down. The boy, then, palmed your skin and placed open kisses on it from the ankle down and every touch closer made you lose a bit of your self-control.

You really were about to fuck Kim Doyoung.

What kind of sick and twisted situation was that?

Were you bewitched?

Did he do something to you?

But when his lips reached your dripping core, tongue quick to collect your juice, it didn't matter.

If this was the consequence of you getting bewitched, you wanted it to happen every day. And you told him. You hand gripped his hair and your back arched, profanities quickly spilling out of your chest. Doyoung cupped your ass, pressing his thumbs into your flesh and you let your thighs drape over his shoulders.

Why was he that good? It honestly offended you to find out that Kim Doyoung aced pussy eating too besides everything else.

And when he stopped to breathe, you saw his eyes and his juicy lips.

It was the sexiest view you’ve ever seen in your life so you yanked his head toward your face and he obliged with a panting smile.

Making out while his long fingers pumped inside of you was the highlight of your university career, and you cared about the curriculum a lot.

And when he curled them upwards, touching spots inside of you that made you lose vision, you were ready to beg him to do it to you as often as possible.

"Cumming- I'm--ah-"

Doyoung got back between your legs and added his tongue to the action again.

It was too much.

His books flew from his shelves as you reached the highest climax of your life.

He chuckled, peppering your shaking body in soft kisses. “I thought you weren’t good at object moving.” You breathed heavily a few more moments before finally finding your voice again. Doyoung reached your lips and you shivered upon feeling his hard cock resting between your legs. He stared at your expression as he lightly hit your oversensitive clit with its tip then rubbed himself between your folds with a sigh. “You’re the one good at moving, so please, move.” The boy bit your lower lip, stretching it out a little before sucking on it, one hand to cup your hip and the other grabbing the silk near your head. He got you so wet that he didn’t need much to easily slip inside of you. He cursed with heavy breath and you wondered if your nails were leaving marks on his back skin as he moved his hips.

You didn't have Doyoung only in your brain like usual, thinking about him day and night. You finally had him physically so deep inside that you thought you were about to lose your mind.

So this was it, the sweet overwhelming sensation of being in the present instead of chasing something in the future.

It was just like everyone described it to be, everything.

But it wasn't a moment in time or space as you’ve anticipated. It was a person and that person, you realized, was Doyoung.

If your mouth wasn’t busy spilling his name out of it inside his soft lips and if his hums didn’t make your whole being vibrate, you would have probably laughed at the destiny.

"You are, so fucking, hot-," you whispered breathlessly, eyes barely able to stay open to drink in his image. "So you admit it. You think I'm sexy," you could see his smirk even in the red darkness of his room. "I wouldn't let you ram into me like this if I thought otherwise." "Oh really? And yet I was here thinking you were doing charity since 'no girl would want to make my dick wet'." You chuckled before the sounds could get interrupted by your high moans instead, the frustration that phrase gave to Doyoung translating into his hips thrusting even harder. "I take that back." "Are you trying to say that you want me to slow down? You can’t take this?" "Oh, no, I love how you're fucking me as if you hate me." "But I don’t actually hate you”, you wished to hear at least for a split second but no word came out of the boy's lips, his hips slowing down instead as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.

It was as good as his fast thrusts, his strokes so fluid and deep it made you grunt every time he pressed into you. He was so good that it irritated you.

"You really like to do the opposite of what I want, huh?" "Yeah," his voice inside your ear made your skin get goosebumps. “I love your frustrated expression and mannerism.” "Ah, shit-" you dug your nails into his back as the bed started to creak. "A good girl like you swearing like this? Who taught you?" "It's your influence." "Am I turning you bad?" "Yeah. Every time you're around I want to do bad things and I have no idea what's going on." You didn't expect to be that honest but Doyoung's intimate presence was like a drug, making you feel so high that you were ready to get twisted by him in every way he wanted.

No. You desired it. You wanted Doyoung to play with you and for once you would not resist it at all. You would beg for more.

And when he actually took you there, in a place where your thoughts did not exist anymore, where only his touch grounded you, the hand that pushed you over the edge and the one bringing you back up, you did just that. You asked for more, shaking uncontrollably on his luscious bed and he did what you wanted. For once he granted every wish you had and even beyond that.

_____

Your desire to leave his room that night was not as strong as you anticipated.

Doyoung arms didn't want to let go and you didn't fight him at all.

Sighing, you got back to his chest and didn't comment on the way he tightened his hold on you. If this wasn’t the way people-that-hate-each-other-but-like-to-weirdly-fuck-for-some-reason behaved, it would be a concern for your conscious mind and not for your fucked up one.

His scent was inebriating and if you didn't know the way he could make you feel, you would have thought that it was the highest form of aphrodisiac.

And maybe it was actually making you feel high because under your lids you could have sworn that the room slowly changed colour.

You opened your sleepy eyes and stared at the wall behind Doyoung’s shoulder, blinking hard.

It was dark blue, almost black, with a myriad of little bright lights.

The candles went out and the room did get dark after Doyoung rolled over breathless, his cum dripping slowly on your thigh, but you were pretty sure there were no stars before.

And when you shifted to rest on your back you almost choked on your own spit.

You weren’t looking at the night sky.

No. You were inside the sky.

Purple, whites, yellows and pinks all melted together to form galaxies and cosmic dust.

No roof, no walls, no pavements, just the bed, Doyoung and you in the middle of everything.

Your fingers dug into the arm Doyoung had thrown across your chest and perhaps you made some type of sound because the boy opened his eyes to stare at your profile. “Do you like it?” he murmured. Your head snapped towards his face and his eyes reflected the infinite little lights as if he held two other universes inside of them. “How is this possible?” He smiled sheepishly. “Slytherin rooms. They change based on the owner’s mood.” You felt your mouth open on its own. “This is your doing?” Doyoung hummed and closed his eyes again, pulling you towards him to hold you like before. You let him place his chin on top of your head and breathed in his scent yet again.

“So the red room?” “I was horny.” You smiled. “And how do you feel now?” “A little less horny. If I’m not careful you’ll see a whole star engulf us soon.” “This is so unfair. We don’t have such cool rooms.” “Or maybe you do but being Ravenclaws you’re all thinking of boring, brown looking rooms.”

You rolled your eyes even if he couldn’t see you and gently, you placed a hand on his chest, close to your face and above his heart. You could feel the calm and peaceful beats in syntony with the night sky. To know that inside that boy’s mind could be such beauty made your heart not beat as calmly as his heart did.

You had no idea what you were doing, hugging so intimately with your sworn enemy, and maybe it was the romantic vibe that made you do it since there was no rational explanation to any of it, but you raised your face to meet his lips.

And you just kissed him. Slowly and softly, barely brushing them with yours.

Doyoung opened his eyes for a moment, as if surprised, but upon feeling you pressing yourself on his body he closed them again and pulled you on top of him.

The universe didn’t change, although, when you let your tongue inside his mouth, slowly, as if having all the time in the world at your feet, the stars flickered and got brighter.

“Are you trying to see a star up close? I can make it happen without you rubbing yourself on me,” he smiled on your lips. “What happens when you suddenly lose control?” Doyoung’s pupils trembled and the room started to shake. You knew it wasn’t real but you still jolted and looked around terrified. “Let’s find out.”

_____

"I, saw, you, leave, with, Kim, Doyoung, last night," Haechan chanted teasingly as he sat down with his breakfast tray.

You wanted to keep a poker face but your facial muscles weren't under your control so you smiled.

"Oh!! Look at her! Oh my God. So- wow. Okay. Okay," Haechan tried to compose himself. "Is he any good?" he leaned in lowering his voice.

You sighed and nodded. "So fucking good."

Haechan squealed and hit your shoulder before wrapping it with one arm and wobbling you around.

"Stop it!" you hissed amused. "Everything hurts." "EVERYTHING HURTS! So he's got a monster cock."

"Shut up!" you pressed your hand on his mouth scandalized as Doyoung made his way inside the cafeteria with his friends.

You breathed in slowly and just as slowly you exhaled, trying to relax. Haechan made an effort to appear calm as well. "Sup, Kim." You smiled.

The other boy looked your way as he walked behind your table. "Hey, Lee," then he turned to you. "Y/L/N."

And left.

Just like that.

He looked at you for one second and continued on his way to the Slytherin tables.

No smile.

No acknowledgement.

Cold just like before.

As if nothing had happened.

You stared at his back, feeling your limbs heavy like stone. Turning around slowly, you grabbed your fork and started to eat in silence. "Hey." Haechan lightly bumped your arm with his shoulder. "He's probably just feeling awkward." You munched slowly and took it as an excuse to keep quiet. "Hey, come on." "What?" Haechan sighed. "You can say that you're disappointed that he-" "I don't know what you're talking about."

_____

For the first time, instead of feeling rage inside your gut, you felt anxious.

Doyoung was in front of you, face almost hidden under his hair as he typed into his computer. He greeted you as he usually did before the, well, before you let him see the deepest parts of you, figuratively and physically. But after that single “hey” no other words came from his part.

It wouldn't have been that weird if only a few hours ago he didn't kiss your lips in heaven.

When you woke up that morning, the night sky wasn’t there anymore. At his place were clouds. White fluffy clouds in the middle of a pink sky.

It was breathtaking and you felt like flying.

And he did kiss you softly.

And now he acted as if you weren't even there.

Maybe Haechan was right. Maybe he was feeling awkward. It's not like he could suddenly act lovingly in front of the whole campus. You were still enemies after all. And maybe you were also right.

You've just fucked. It's not like you started to date. He had no obligations towards you.

Yet, when his fingers drew your spine and his sigh caressed your lips, it didn't seem just fucking to you.

Was Doyoung like that? Was that his personality? Was he doing that to all the girls he brought into his room? Making them cum multiple times and showing them his soft side? Was that a well-plotted plan? Was he trying to hurt you?

You were ready to let him do whatever he wanted to you the previous night, yet at that moment, under the bright sunlight of the study room, you felt sick. It was a weird feeling. It grabbed at your throat and travelled down to your heart making it difficult for you to breathe.

You trusted him with your feelings and you let him see your vulnerable side.

Did he laugh? Was he feeling triumphant now? Did he win a battle against you? He had you on his palm? Because, God, he did have you on his palm now and with only a twist of his wrist he could get you into his arms again.

And you would have let him.

You hated it. You fell so hard it hurt everywhere. You were dizzy and confused and you couldn't look at him anymore.

_____

It was easy to avoid Doyoung for the following days. It was almost too easy as if he was trying to avoid you too. So walking towards the library you jolted hearing his low voice inside one of the classrooms. You stopped in place and after a few seconds of thinking you peeped inside. Then you gulped and hid under the door window.

He was resting his hips on the professor's desk, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed on his chest. In front of him was standing one of the most beautiful girls you've ever seen.

She was talking with a peaceful tone and Doyoung suddenly laughed. You got up and quickly walked away.

_____

"How the fuck would I know?" the girl asked.

Doyoung rolled his eyes. "Your dad designed them. You must know more than me."

"Listen. We're the only house with mood rooms because we're the only people who can control their emotions. It's not my fault you're a terrible Slytherin and your room has been pitch black for the past days."

Doyoung sighed in irritation. "What the fuck does that even mean though?"

"Usually mourning."

The boy shook his head. "No one died."

"Then it can be a general pain. Or confusion," the girl explained.

Doyoung raised his gaze on her. "What would I be so confused about?"

She shrugged. "You're the only one that can know. Chill out maybe and stop thinking when you're inside of it. I'll ask my dad how to turn it off and I'll let you know. Now leave me alone, I'm busy," she said and left the classroom.

_____

"Hey," Doyoung said. "That's my pencil."

You looked down at your fingers and furrowed your eyebrows.

"No. This is mine."

The boy sighed. "I can sense it's mine."

"I legit bought it yesterday. And what are you? A psychic? 'I can sense it's mine'."

"I'm a Slytherin. We're snakes. Everything I lick is mine. And I can sense that's mine."

Your mouth opened slightly and you waited for him to laugh but Doyoung remained serious.

"That has to be a joke."

"Okay, keep it. It just makes me feel giddy when things I own are used by other people." "Because you're selfish." "It's a real sensation. I know when something I licked is being used by somebody else," and he raised his eyes on you. You stared back and the weight of his words made your throat close.

I hope it doesn't work with people too, you wanted to ask, but the noise on your left interrupted you.

"Can I talk to you?" the same girl from a few days ago suddenly made her appearance near your desk. Doyoung looked at her surprised. "Yeah." "Bring me to your room," she ordered.

_____

You shouldn't have been there.

It was useless and it would only make you further lose your mind.

But your feet descended the Slytherin corridor, nose following the trail of the girl's perfume until arriving at Doyoung’s door.

You remained still for a moment and after a few seconds of indecisiveness you suddenly turned around going back.

That was too creepy. You had absolutely no reason to be there. If Doyoung wanted to fuck that girl, so be it.

But then you stopped again.

Fuck.

Just, just a little glance. Just a tiny little glance. Just the colour. Just to be sure.

You didn't turn around to actually see anything. With your back towards the door, you twisted your wrist, doing the most illegal thing one can do inside the campus - transparency spell. A tiny portion of the wall disappeared at your silent command and you could see the red hue spilling outside of it on the dark pavement at your feet.

It was enough and you barely saw the stairs when you got out of the basement.

_____

"You weren't lying when you said it's pitch black. It even absorbs magic light."

Doyoung sighed.

The girl presumably turned around because Doyoung heard her voice more clearly when she spoke again.

"Okay, so this is what we're gonna do. Sit down somewhere and relax."

The boy let himself fall on the carpet with a grunt.

"Close your eyes."

He obliged even if he could have let them open too for all it mattered.

"Now, think of someone of your choice."

Doyoung's mind automatically drifted towards you and the room besides being dark, felt suddenly very cold as well.

"No, okay, Doyoung, change the person." "She's the only one I can think about." The girl sighed. "Well, at least we know the reason for all of this. God, it's so fucking cold, try to not think about anything for a second!"

"It's hard, okay?"

"Okay, fuck. Think about her but imagine something else. Think of a good memory you have with her."

Doyoung sighed irritated and furrowed his eyebrows even more. "I don't think this is going to work."

But when he let his mind imagine your panting expression underneath him, a slight red hue started to create from the floor going up to the walls.

The girl exulted. "Yes! Don't stop. Continue thinking about that!"

Doyoung opened up one eye as the girl exulted again and he could finally see the furniture in his room.

It was a dark red, not the bright red he actually had his room painted in when he held you into his arms, but enough for him to not get a headache 24/7.

"Well it's not like I can think about--that, every time I need to be in my room, can I?" he got up.

The girl knew what red meant and she chuckled.

"Don't you have any other good memory with her besides fucking?"

The room got bright red.

The girl laughed even harder.

"Ah, shut up." "Hey, I helped you out." "Barely," he plopped on the bed and put his face into his palms.

It could have been considered a gesture coming from embarrassment if the lights didn't start to get dim again.

"God, you're really all over the place, huh?" she sat near him. "What happened? Is she your ex?”

Doyoung sighed and directed his gaze upon an indistinct point in front of him. Maybe he was tired, or maybe it was the dark room and the fact that Doyoung didn’t even remember the girl’s name, making her a safe stranger, but he whispered.

"I made a mistake. I thought she was into me so-- fuck, I went down on her."

The girl made a surprised sound but waited for the most important part.

“Well, she’s not into me, but I am.”

"You're so stupid!"

"Yeah okay, thanks."

"We're Slytherins! It's not like we don't give head because we're prude, it's to prevent this! You horny dumbass." "I thought she liked me! I had no idea she'd- fuck someone else right after!" Doyoung grunted frustrated and fell back on the bed, the room getting to the pitch-black from before.

The girl let the silence calm him down a bit before talking.

"I am sorry. I had things used by others but I don't know what it feels like with people."

"It's not necessarily painful but- knowing the reason, it's just-"

"Yeah. You just have to let her go so the bond is receded. Like with things, you know?"

"It's easy to let go of a thing that's yours. How can I manage to let go of her?"

The girl sighed and remained in silence.

_____

You had no idea how you managed to remain seated in front of Doyoung that morning.

His complexion was paler than usual and his eyes were very tired. As if he didn't sleep enough last night. Or at all.

You had to breathe in and out slowly to ease the pain inside your stomach.

"You look terrible."

Doyoung's dark irises under his low lids made your skin crawl when he looked up at you.

"Is someone keeping you too active to get enough sleep?" you asked again, trying hard to get back to the tone you both were used to before.

The boy tightened his lips in a mockery smile. "Yeah. As discussed, I have no problem keeping my dick wet."

"Well-," you frowned with a raised chin, your lips forming a pout for a moment before you forced them to keep the poker face, "-I started to see someone lately too."

He looked unbothered. "As in dating or hallucinations?"

You ignored his comment.

“We’ve already been on three dates,” you lied.

“And you’re telling me this because-?”

You shrugged. “Conversation.”

“I hate small talk.”

“Is there something you don’t hate?”

“Silence. And smart people, which given your latest test results, you’re not.”

You had no idea what it was.

You and Doyoung had always called each other names, insulted each other’s intelligence and the sorts, yet at that moment, maybe because of your failing tests, the alignment of stars or the fact that you were actually in love with him, you burst into tears.

It took Doyoung a few good seconds to realize that you were wailing in front of him.

“Hey?”

He crouched on the desk to be able to see your face from underneath your arms. You hid it even more.

“Y/N,” he lowered his voice. It was as soft and delicate as when he whispered your name under the sky.

You suddenly took your stuff and ran away from the study room.

_____

Doyoung was slowly but surely losing his mind.

One day, two days, three days and you were still nowhere to be seen.

His room has been different shades of grey, which was better than black but now the walls had water running on them and the floor was constantly wet.

Altogether, not a good time.

“Holy shit, are you that depressed?”

Doyoung raised his eyes from the book he was reading before rolling them so far up that Haechan thought they wouldn’t come back anymore.

“What do you want?”

The Gryffindor took a step inside the room with hands behind his back and took a lazy stroll to where Doyoung’s dresser was crying. “Your flowers are all dead. Throw them away.” “They keep appearing every time,” Doyoung started to read again, the little line between his eyebrows showing how hard he tried to understand whatever the pages were trying to say but failing.

“I’m here because it’s boring to not have you yell at Y/N in the study room as always,” Haechan spoke again nonchalantly, fingers rubbing against each other, as to get rid of the imaginary dust they collected from Doyoung’s furniture. Given the situation, the room probably made up piles of mud as well.

"Who's the guy?" Doyoung suddenly asked.

Haechan furrowed his eyebrows. "What guy?"

"The one she's fucking."

The other blinked at him surprised.

"You mean, Kim Doyoung?"

The Slytherin's eyes widened and Haechan saw how he looked with flushed cheeks for the first time in his life.

"Aw, come on. Of course, I know everything."

"If you know everything, then tell me who the fuck this guy she's been fucking beside me is!" Doyoung got up from the bed.

"There's no other guy. What are you talking about?"

"Fuck, I felt it how he touched her and it drives me crazy!" Haechan opened his mouth to talk but jolted, eyes staring at Doyoung’s arm extended to hit the wall behind his head expecting to see a dent in the hard brick from how much force he put into that.

"Is it you?" “Uhm? What the fuck?” "Answer me." "Okay, first of all, take a step back."

Doyoung leaned in even more and Haechan gulped.

"Okay! Okay, gosh. No. There's no guy fucking her as far as I know."

"Where is she?" "I don't know." "What kind of friend are you if you don't know it?"

Haechan crossed his arms on his chest. "Am I seriously getting scolded on friendship values by Kim Doyoung right now? You that made her cry in the common room? You that made her rest her weapons in front of you just to see you treat her like scum? After using her? We don’t have mood rooms but we have things like hearts and mouths which we use to, you know, ask other people how they feel-" "I don't have enough patience and you know that."

Haechan breathed in and out before finally opening his lips again. "She's in the dorms. Obviously. Where the fuck would she be-"

Doyoung turned around on his heels like a tornado and walked towards the towers.

"She doesn't want to talk to you!" Haechan told the other boy's back but he wasn't sure he heard him.

_____

She doesn't want to talk to you.

Fuck it.

Doyoung knew he was self-centred and he knew that your absence had something to with him but for once he really wanted to be wrong.

Used you? You really thought Doyoung used you? When you used him and then got somebody else to touch you like that?

Fuck, if Doyoung were in his room at that moment it would probably resemble a killing storm.

"Hey, you can't be here," some random guy stopped him as Doyoung stepped into the Gryffindor common room. "How did you even enter-"

"Shut the fuck up."

Doyoung looked around, eyeing all of the different doors and chose left, venturing down the corridor, for once - and cringingly so - listening to his heart.

Haechan was right. You didn’t have real mood rooms but he could physically feel the energy of each and one of them with his heart.

He knew it was your door before even getting close to it, the feeling coming from it making his blood boil in his veins just like he would feel when you were around.

With a twist of his wrist, he tried to open it but it didn't work.

"Are you seriously trying to barge into a girl's room like that, Kim?" a scandalous voice said behind the door.

"How did you know it was me?" Doyoung placed one palm on the wood.

"Only you could force open a door without even knocking," you replied. "And the spell is made for you specifically, so I know."

The boy rested his forehead on the door and closed his eyes. "You were waiting for me."

The silence on the other side made him sigh. "Open up. Let me talk to you."

It got even quieter than before. "I wasn't waiting for you. You had no reasons to come," you finally whispered.

Doyoung twisted his wrist and the door in front of himself vanished from his eyes. Apparently, you didn't anticipate he'd be able to use the transparency spell since you didn't even preoccupy yourself to block it and he could tell you didn't even sense it, so concentrated on your thoughts. From your perspective the door was still there and, previously leaning against it with your back, you rolled on it now and unknowingly imitated Doyoung's position, foreheads almost touching if not for the layer of old wood.

"What do I have to say?" he asked, looking at your face. He saw how you bit your lower lip at the sound of his voice and the genuine sadness in your face made him even angrier at the whole situation. "You don't have to say anything," you finally replied.

Doyoung's jaw muscles tensed.

"Please, please, open this goddamn door."

The intensity of his voice made you raise your head and your senses got sharp again, feeling the energy he put into using his spell.

With the twist of your wrist, the door flew open and you finally saw Doyoung's face.

"You used transparency," you suddenly looked furious. “You know you can’t do that inside the university.” "Fuck, I was," he stepped in. "What if I was naked?" "Nothing I haven't seen before."

You rolled your eyes. "You make me so frustrated."

"I am making you frustrated? Then what about me, huh?"

"What would you even be frustrated about if you don't even care about me? You tease me and you insult me and then you make love to me like a desperate man and then you go back to being your selfish, deprecable self. What is this? Why do you keep playing with me? Is it fun? You find it amusing to see me like this?"

Your words completely floored him.

"I can ask you the same thing. I can feel it inside my chest when someone else touches you and it drives me fucking insane. I made a mistake and I gave in thinking you had some feelings for me and that I wasn't just a fuck toy you could use one night and throw away."

Your mouth fell open.

He could feel it? He could feel you? So you did belong to him?

"This is crazy. You hid something like this from me! Now you have access to what's going on with my body without my consent!"

"I had no idea I was in love with you, okay? It has never happened to me before. I don't want to know either when someone else eats you out! I just- you’re here hiding in your room and crying as if you have feelings for me or something when you let someone else-" he stopped.

You looked at his reddening neck and closed eyes.

His breath was shaky and you realized how you've never actually seen him angry or upset before.

"No one has done anything to me, Doyoung. Unlike you, who fucked that Slytherin girl after showing me the fucking heaven. Did you do that to her as well? Sweet talk? For what? Is this your hobby? Making girls fall in love with you?"

The boy shook his head in confusion."What are you talking about? There's no Slytherin girl."

"The one that had the urgency to see your room?"

He pinched the base of his nose with a grunt of realization. "She helped me to figure out why my room was pitch-black and why it's currently grey with wet fucking walls."

"Oh yeah? Because to me, it looked very much red."

"You've been spying on me?"

You huffed and sat down on the bed like a child when they're found guilty but they're too proud to admit it. "You used transparency just 5 minutes ago too,” you justified yourself as if you were equal now.

"And did you see me fuck that girl?"

"I didn't want to actually look inside like a creep! But you were pretty much horny. The corridor got all red."

"I was thinking about you! And now I’m also thinking about you and I’ve been thinking about you all of these days and months and probably all of these fucking years since I first met you.”

Your brain felt like mush.

"Then you knew? You treated me like that because you liked me? Only children tease the person they like."

"I didn’t know. I had no fucking idea before. And apparently, I am a fool for not having realized before and fuck, perhaps I’m a child as well then. I’m insecure. Because I wanted you to think about me too. And perhaps you don’t even remember but I’ve tried to be nice to you before and it didn’t work. But you started to give me attention when I made you mad. It was easy and playful and I saw how you often smiled when I turned my back to you and- fuck, I got hopeful. That you’d start to feel the same.”

“I do feel the same, for fuck’s sake! I am in love with you.”

Doyoung swallowed dryly. “Then why-”

“It was me.”

The boy furrowed his eyebrows.

“That morning after I left your room I took a shower, and-,” you looked around as if trying to find the courage to say what you had to say, “- I was thinking about you, so-”

Doyoung understood before you could finish the phrase and you saw his face fall.

“Wait, is it possible? Even if you do it?”

You scoffed incredulously. “You’re the Slytherin here. Until a few days ago I didn’t even know you had magical spit making you feel whatever I did to my own pussy!”

Doyoung closed his eyes and took in a deep breath as if he needed a moment.

“But I researched it when you told me about the pencil. It has to do with some weird-ass Slytherin shit where couples own each other’s bodies. Most people find it hot to know when the partner is-” you cleared your voice as it got suddenly tiny from talking about that shameful topic.

“So no, I did not let anyone touch me. If you were smart enough you would have noticed that it didn’t happen anymore after you treated me like shit.”

The boy looked as if his soul left his body.

The silence engulfed the whole room and you avoided each other’s eyes.

But then it got disrupted by his movements. With slow steps, he walked the space from the middle of the room to the feet of the bed where you were sat down.

With weak limbs, he let himself down on his knees in front of you and slowly he let his face fall into your lap.

Your breath fell short. With trembling hands, you caressed his nape, lightly as if afraid to touch him, then his hair, patting it gently.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been a fool this whole time. Like, I am so stupid.” His voice was muffled by your clothes and his arms wrapped your waist even more while saying it.

“You’re the smartest person I know. But you could’ve just asked instead of assuming.”

He shook his head. “Yeah. Hey Y/N, so I can feel inside my gut that you orgasmed hard just now. Who did it? I thought you liked me.”

He raised his head again, his hair messy on the forehead, eyes lit up by the sun coming from your big windows and violent red cheeks. He looked young and vulnerable and suddenly the whole situation seemed so ridiculous that you laughed.

“I am sorry,” you chuckled and cupped his face. “You’re right. It was a weird situation. We should work on communication. And you should work on not being so insecure.” “You also assumed I fucked a girl just because I was talking to her.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay. We both have to work on that, alright?”

He sighed relieved seeing you smile.

“I’m sorry. I should have told you about that whole thing before. But I swear, I had no idea my feelings for you were that deep.” “Does it not work with mere crushes?” He shook his head.

"Well, do you know what I want now? For you to obtain my forgiveness?" you asked. "Me to kiss you." You flicked his head. "You will never drop that attitude of yours, will you?" He smiled even more. "I love to see you like this."

“I want something else,” you explained. Doyoung turned his head to the side. “Me eating you out?”

“Oh my God! No!” you tried to get away from his hold but he pushed you back on the bed and crawled beside you. “But that pussy is mine-” “Shut up!! Don’t say that ever again! You still need to apologize some more for that. Now I can’t even masturbate.” “You don’t need to masturbate if you have me.” “I fucking hate you so much.” “I love you too. So what was the thing that you wanted?”

“It’s just-- it’s unfair. So I-- also want to know.” “You want to own my cock?” he chuckled in the crook of your neck. “Why do you really have to use such words?!”

“You can do it. You just need to go down on me too.” “Even if I’m not a slytherin?” “If you’re in love with your slytherin partner, you don’t need to be one to be tied to them like that.” “Pants off then. Now.” _____

Haechan walked through Doyoung’s room with a chuckle, trying hard to avoid all the flowers that suddenly started to grow tall until reaching the ceiling.

With the corner of his eyes he also noticed the way all of them started to turn red and with a disgusted face, he moved faster, exiting it and closing the door behind him.

#doyoung #doyoung smut #doyoung fanfiction #doyoung scenarios #doyoung imagines #doyoung fluff #doyoung angs #doyoung au #nct #nct smut #nct fanfiction #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct angst #doyoung angst #nct fluff #nct fantasy au

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falling-pages · 3 years

Text

Far away from you: Tamaki x Reader

Ok ok ok, taking a break from the aesthetic board requests to drop a lil something for y'all (aka, me, because this is 100 percent self indulgent). Been thinking a lot about long-distance Tamaki lately. He's such a sweet boy 🥺

Synopsis: Tamaki has to return to Japan for the summer, leaving his SO behind in America.

Tamaki Suoh x gn!Reader (heavily implied female)

Genre: Fluff, a little bit of sad

Warnings: None

As extroverted and excitable as Tamaki was, there truly was nothing he loved more than cuddling with you in bed on a sleepy Sunday morning.

Your bed was warm, the sheets soft and clean, and they smelled like you. Well, everything smelled like you, when your face was buried in his neck and his face pressed into your hair. That was soft, too, and it smelled so sweet. Like fresh fruit and honey. A little tangled, slightly damp from last night’s shower.

He turned to look down at you resting peacefully. Still unaware of the world, the chirping birds having not disturbed your slumber. Those lips he adored were slightly open, a gentle breath sighing in and out, cool against the skin of his neck. Your eyes moved beneath their lids; you were dreaming, experiencing a life within a life.

He hoped you were dreaming of him.

Some trashy reality show played in the background, the evidence of your trying to get up, but you found his chest too inviting and his arms too safe to leave. So you fell back asleep with him, enjoying the sweet uninterrupted time. Heaven knows the next time you’d be able to cuddle like this.

The clock was ticking, and soon he had to be far, far away from you.

As much as Tamaki wanted to fall back asleep with you, he knew his time was limited. The clock on your nightstand flashed angry red numbers, the only thing of heat in your pristine pastel room. The digital face clicked on and on, mercilessly reminding him of your impending separation, counting down the seconds until he would have to get up and leave you in your bed. Sure, he could miss his flight, but it was inevitable; he was a Suoh, and he had duties--most of them back in Japan.

Going to school in America had been the best decision of his life--he met you--but it made going back home each summer that much harder.

He allowed his thoughts to turn to next year, when you both graduated. You could go to Japan with him then, and you'd never have to say goodbye again.

You had discussed going to Japan with him for every break, but you desperately missed your family, and he would never stand to see you homesick. So the two of you cried, talked, and cried some more as your love booked his single ticket online. You had cried such pretty tears for him the night before, as you spent one last night together cooking a meal, washing dishes, and getting ready for bed. He didn’t think he could stand it, but having you there in his arms for just the time being was worth every clench in his aching heart.

Half-hour. That was all that's left until he had to get up. Thirty minutes until he left you and the continent behind.

Of course you would video chat, though the time difference would be hard. And he requested that you write letters too, so he could have a physical piece of you other than a scrunchie and keychain. To have your handwriting, to smother himself in the paper doused in your perfume, to see the care you took into writing each careful word. To kiss the blurry ink stains and watermarks, evidence of your tears. Evidence of how much you cared for him. He was a romantic, like that.

You suddenly shifted, moaning lowly. Your fists curled tightly into his chest, holding him fast by the shirt. He chuckled as he kissed your head, then your scrunched-up nose. Even in your sleep trying to convince him to stay.

As the soft light streamed through your curtain, it crossed over your head to make a halo. He couldn’t look at you hard enough, although he had already memorized every detail, he wished he could wash his eyes and look at you anew. You were beautiful, so sweet, and his, his little angel. Did you have wings buried beneath his shirt you wore?

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up the picture of you with the alarm. He sighed as the clock ticked into place, reluctant to let go of you to shut it off. But with you laying on top of him, he could reach it, grabbing the phone and turning the alarm off. He didn’t want you to wake while he was still there. You two had cried enough the night before, and he knew for a fact that if you accompanied him to the airport and looked at him like that, he would not get on the plane. It was better for you both if you stayed asleep, so he could grieve and you could keep dreaming of him.

That way, you wouldn’t actually have to say goodbye.

He slowly eased you off him, wincing at the whine that left your lips at the lack of warmth. He tugged off the shirt you so desperately clung to and left it in your arms, smiling when you immediately cuddled it. You were such a cute thing, laying against the mattress and sleeping softly. His own special fleur, pressed into the pages of the most beautiful book, preserved for him to keep and read for the rest of time.

As he slowly gathered his things, treading lightly lest you wake. His hands shook with dread as he packed up his final things, stowing away a few of your trinkets--a hair tie, clips, a plushie--in his bag. He found your pink pastel sweatshirt, the one you wore when you first met. Tears bubbled at his lashline, and, in an honest trade for his two shirts, added it to the collection.

Finally, it was time. His legs felt like jelly as they carried him towards you, a hammer pummeling his aching heart. Mon Dieu, how he didn’t want to leave you. He would have given up his whole family fortune to never say goodbye to you again. But there was a world outside the two of you, even though you were the sun of which he revolved around.

He bent to place a chaste kiss on your lips. Even as his body longed for more, he restrained himself, focusing on the way your breath melted against his, how your body responded so sweetly with the whimper. Remembering the imprint of yours against his, how you tasted, how you felt. He rested his palm against the pink flush of your cheek. Then he kissed your forehead, bade you a wonderful summer, and walked out the door.

One last kiss for his little fleur.

He whispered a prayer as he descended the stairs: May you not be so heartbroken when you wake.

#actually crying #tamaki suoh #ouran high school host club #ohshc #tamaki suoh x reader #tamaki x reader

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divine-mistake · 3 years

Text

helios, his modern muse

Summary: You prefer the version of him that you can keep inside your tiny apartment, the Steve who looks beautiful in a blue button-up and slightly wrinkled khakis, what he’s wearing now. The Steve who has dried clay beneath his nails sometimes, the one who sculpts and molds objects of beauty from nothing, who makes art out of ugly things. Sometimes, you think it’s why he chose you out of everyone—his need to make art from something ugly.

Characters: Steve/Plus-sized (f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), language, female body imagery

Word Count: 2801

A/N: This is a tumblr request for someone who wanted a sculptor Steve and a plus-sized reader. Please enjoy!

main masterlist | AO3

If Steve is the sun, then you would give up everything to be his moon.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His eyes are fire when he looks at you and you wonder if you could touch the sky, the same blue of his eyes, would it feel as warm as the way his gaze does? “How was work?”

He’s sitting at your kitchen table, looking like a god among the stained wood and rickety chairs. A newspaper—so old-fashioned he is, you’ve tried to teach him he can read the news on his phone but he always insists it’s better from the paper—is spread across his lap, thumbing through the pages, a glass of water sitting within reach. Your tiny New York apartment, kitchen tiled green and ugly, looks so small when he resides there. Like his body takes up space and his aura, his being, the light he projects even when he’s just sitting there doing nothing at all, swallows up the atmosphere inside.

If Steve Rogers is the sun, then god, you only shine in the light he radiates.

“Exhausting,” you reply, throwing your keys into the catch-all bowl in the entryway and kicking off your heels. A bath, a blanket, and a bottle of wine are calling your name, but Steve does this incredible thing where the moment he sees you, he opens his arms up like the gates of Heaven and you have no choice but to slump into his embrace.

He does that now, too. With a shuffle of his paper, where he folds it and places it on the dining table, he stands up from the wobbling chair and takes a step toward you, opening his arms wide and smiling with that boyish grin that gets you every time. And like always, you’re stuck in his orbit and unable to resist him, throwing yourself into his hold and relaxing against him.

Your bodies press and mold like magnets forced together. Steve’s arms slip around the smallest part of your waist, squeezing you, his hands roaming over the generous curves and dips that make up your body. Your own arms twine around the back of his neck and you hang from him, letting him support your weight, and on another day if you were less tired and more aware, you’d feel embarrassed at this whole thing.

It’s just simple math, most of the time. If Steve is the sun and you’re still heavier than him, then what are you?

But Steve never makes you feel like that and you love that about him. He holds you like you’re weightless, like you’re this stretch of empty space he needs to cling to before it disappears. Steve drinks you in like you’re oxygen, nothing but gas, a method of sustaining him. And more than anything, he looks at you as if he isn’t the fucking sun, all twenty-seven-million-degrees of him, like he isn’t the star that everyone else revolves around, his warmth, his smile, his blinding light.

No, Steve looks at you like you’re his sun, and sometimes, like now, it steals every ounce of heat from your soul and leaves you frozen.

He must feel you stiffen in his embrace because he ducks down to kiss you then, pulling you impossibly closer, nudging under your jaw with his nose to make you tip upward to reach his lips. You respond like it’s second nature, your mouth moving with his in a dance you’ve choreographed over the last year, and when his tongue smooths over yours like velvet, it ignites a flame in the dredges of your stomach that turns you messy and frantic. Steve laughs against your lips as if he doesn’t know whether to give into your demands so easily, but you know, eventually, he will.

This time, he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours, and your eyes flutter shut as you breathe him in. He smells like earth, bergamot and clay, something fresh that you can’t name as you still the excitement in your heart. It’s a preferable smell to when he comes home from missions, tang and copper and smoke and death. You prefer the version of him that you can keep inside your tiny apartment, the Steve who looks beautiful in a blue button-up and slightly wrinkled khakis, what he’s wearing now. The Steve who has dried clay beneath his nails sometimes, the one who sculpts and molds objects of beauty from nothing, who makes art out of ugly things.

Sometimes, you think it’s why he chose you out of everyone—his need to make art from something ugly.

When your eyes open again, his are closed as he drinks in your effervescence, like he needs your presence to survive. Like you’ve been gone for so long he can’t stand it and needs to bask in your body once again. Behind him, and you’re not sure how you didn’t notice it before, his newest project is left drying, old newspapers he swears he only keeps around for art sitting beneath it to protect your rented floors.

It’s something new, you realize. Something Steve hasn’t attempted to sculpt before. When he first decided he wanted to move on from painting to clay sculptures, he started off small. Oven-baked clay he turned into plates and bowls and lop-sided cups. Things he could paint afterward, combining his talents, something that always brought this look of pride and satisfaction to his face, especially when you cooed over how beautiful his pieces were. He made little statues he gave to his friends, too, an angel’s wing for Sam and a white wolf for Bucky—which took him so long because he had to get it perfect and sweetheart, animals are so hard to make, but I gotta do it for Buck.

This though, this thing that’s sitting, drying, in your kitchen, is a body. And it’s silly, really, but it’s a woman’s body, with her breasts shaped perfectly and her stomach taut, her hips flared into a base. Her neck is slim and her shoulders are smooth, held confidently.

It’s a woman’s body and it isn’t you. It could never be you. You’re too wide, too inelegant, too round in the areas that are so so flat. Steve makes beautiful art out of ugly things. You remind yourself of this so you are painfully aware that Steve could never sculpt you. He would never sculpt you. His need isn’t to make art of you, but to make art out of you.

Steve never makes you feel like that. He never makes you feel ugly.

You’re plenty good at doing that yourself.

“Do you like it?” His voice interrupts your descent into self-pity. He must have realized you’d been staring at it.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, and it’s the truth, it really is beautiful, but it feels like a lie to say it outloud.

Steve scratches the back of his head and you miss the warmth of his hand on your waist. It feels like a rejection.

“Yeah,” he says, drawing his hands through his golden hair. “Natasha, uh, well, she wanted something like it. It’s not her,” he quickly assures you, eyes finding yours again. “She didn’t model or anything. It’s just a symbol of feminism, inner goddess, or something like that. Her words, anyway.”

He’s nervous. You don’t know why.

“She’ll love it,” you tell him, your hand smoothing down the wrinkles of his shirt over his chest. It seems to calm him, a happy sigh leaving his mouth. “It’s a powerful statement for her. I think she forgets that her body can hold beauty, not just power and strength.”

You lean up to press a kiss to his lips, a reassurance. Are you trying to reassure him or reassure yourself?

His hold around you tightens. “Sometimes I think you’re the opposite,” he says, his voice low, rumbling in his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“I wonder if you know how much power and strength you hold over me.” His nose follows the curve of your soft jawline. “It isn’t just your beauty that makes my heart beat like this.”

Steve unwraps your hand from where it caresses the fine, sun-sprite hairs that meet his neck, and he presses your palm against the warmth of his chest. Underneath it, you can feel his pulse, jumping like it's attuned to you.

“This is what you do to me,” he murmurs against your ear, making you shiver despite his heated breath. “You’re the greatest work of art I never made. The kind that belongs in a museum.”

You laugh, but it’s mean, and you never meant to be mean. The guilt sets in when Steve’s eyes, his gorgeous baby blue eyes, are awash in a steely hurt as he searches your face, looking for something that might not be there.

“I’m sorry,” you force yourself to say. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“You don’t believe me?”

If Steve is the sun, you’re just existing in his shadow, basking in all the good that he projects and never knowing what to give in return.

Instead of answering, you cup his face in your hands and run your thumbs over his cheekbones, sliding your fingers down his neck like trickling water, then smoothing out the stress, the stiffness, in his shoulders. He loves it when you do this—relaxes into your touch like a big cat, warm and pliant from the light of day.

But he doesn’t relax this time. Steve stares down at you, his gaze faraway, like he’s looking through you. Like he’s trying to figure out what you’re thinking.

You hope he never can.

The arm slung around your waist begins to guide you toward the bedroom, and you let him, because if there’s one thing in this life you trust with everything, it’s Steve. Not because he’s Captain America, not because he’s a superhero whose job description is to save the world, and not because he might love you the way you love him. You trust Steve because he’s Steve, he’s safe and secure and soft, and there’s never been a moment where he’s given you a reason to doubt him.

But those words—you’re the greatest work of art I never made—can’t be real.

Steve moves with you until you’re standing in front of the floor-length mirror hanging on your wall, the one he installed for you when he got tired of seeing it balancing precariously on the floor where you left it, and it steals your breath for a moment. To see him standing behind you, nearly a foot taller than you, his body wide and broad and warm and so goddamn beautiful, you think that if a year is all you’ll ever have with him, to touch him, to see him like this, then you’re the luckiest girl alive.

If Steve isn’t the sun, then he’s its God. Helios, you might call him in your dreams where he brightens the night until you feel alive, I love you and your sun.

“What do you see?” he asks you, his hands clutching your waist, holding you in place.

“The most beautiful thing in the galaxy,” you tell him. “The man I love more than anything.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your neck.

“Me too,” he says. “You’re like the goddamn sun, sweetheart.”

But it makes you frown, and he notices it in the mirror’s reflection. “You’re the sun,” you say, spinning around to face him, but Steve’s hands lock around your body and he stills you, and once again you’re staring at his eyes through the mirror.

“Do you ever see how beautiful you are?” he asks.

No. He hides his face in your neck and you’re forced to stare at yourself now instead of him.

“Do you know how much light you bring into my life? How cold I feel until you’re in my arms?”

No. You think about the statue, the body of a woman you wish you were the size of.

“Do you know how much I need you to exist?”

No. Steve’s arms wrap around your soft middle and you wonder what he would look like holding a woman who takes up less space, who lets his brilliance shine without weighing him down.

When he looks back up at you, in the mirror, your face is twisted into something ugly. Steve, you suppose, will want to make art out of it, to smooth away the pucker in your lips and the draw of your brows, the way your forehead wrinkles with contempt.

He releases you, stepping away, feet taking him toward his dresser. You are frozen in front of the mirror, eyes roaming over your body, highlighting every insecurity you’ve had since you were young, the ones you always said you’d grow out of.

If Steve isn’t the sun, then you can’t be the moon—you’re just an asteroid floating around in space, lost, dying, crumbling. People don’t look at you and assign a value like beauty to you.

You almost don’t notice when Steve is behind you again, his arms wrapping around you, something colorful in his hands. He places it against your body, cupping it in his arms like a treasure. A gasp leaves your mouth.

It’s a sculpture, like the one he made for Natasha, but it’s different. The breasts are heavy, hanging lower and a little uneven, still beautiful. The stomach isn’t flat but round and the way he’s carved it makes it look soft to touch, bouncy, despite the knowledge that it’s clay. The hips and shoulders are wider, more familiar, and he’s painted it in shades of blue that match his eyes, match the sky right as the sun is setting and night is moving in, when the moon is coming alive.

But what catches your eye more than anything are the golden stripes of shimmering paint that make up the stretch marks—dangerously similar to the ones that decorate your own body—and how they catch in the light.

It’s rapturously gorgeous.

“You made this?” Your voice is breathy when you ask, your hands trembling, reaching out to touch this beautiful statue, but you just can’t bring yourself to.

Steve hums in agreement. “It’s why Natasha wanted her own.”

“Who—” You swallow thickly. “Who did you make this for?”

If Steve is the sun, you would burn up in his atmosphere, just for a taste of his solar flare when he looks at you the way he is right now, loving and kind and still hungry, like he’ll never get enough of you.

He kisses the skin behind your ear, taking one of your hands in your own to press the sculpture into your grasp. Gently, he folds your fingers over it so you can feel the delicate curves of his art against your skin.

“Can’t you tell?” he asks, his lips drawing a line of fire from your neck to the top of your shoulder. “It’s you, sweetheart.”

No—how could you? This sculpture can’t be you. It’s too beautiful to be you. Even with all its flaws, all the things that should point out that make it less than perfect, it’s art. Steve is an artist. He makes art out of ugly things. He made art out of you, and it’s so fucking stunning, you wonder if maybe his hands could do that to you. Could his hands sculpt your body, your living body, into something better than it is now if you let him touch you enough? Are his hands warm enough with the light of the sun to melt all your imperfections away in the same method he uses to shape clay?

“You made me look so beautiful,” you say, a sob choking your words.

“No,” he says. “I could never make anything as beautiful as you.”

He sweeps you into his arms and kisses you sweetly, then, the sculpture he’s made of you the only thing keeping your bodies apart from one another. You cling to it like you’re afraid to lose it, like if your hands aren’t on it, maybe it will disappear and it’ll have been a dream, the fact that Steve’s made you into art. You’re glad you aren’t art, though. Because if you were art, put up in a museum where he says you belong, then Steve wouldn’t be allowed to touch you so generously, so warmly, so perfectly.

And you let him touch you, hoping to memorize the way he molds your wide hips, the dip of your waist, the curve of your shoulder, as if he is sculpting you all over again.

If Steve isn’t the sun, then he is your Helios, your god, your everything. And if he is your Helios, then perhaps you are the sun after all.

Taglist: @melancholic-metanoia

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers #plus size reader #steve rogers fanfiction #one shot #drabble #inbox me to request a fic!#thanks for supporting me!#divine masterlist

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gaiuswrites · 3 years

Text

King of Cups || Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Judgement

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | seven

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Things have changed, things have stayed the same.

Word count: 3.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: e m o (i can't stress this enough), illusions to mental health issues (?), emo, mature themes and language, EMO, family-trauma related angst, emo

Notes: I wanted to completely cut Din's perspective out of this chapter to emphasize the reader's pov. Hopefully it tracks? Big lovey-dovey shout out to @pedros-mustache for bonking me in the head with a proverbial pool noodle. ily friends. Be kind to yourself. Cheers x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

This is fine. You’re fine.

You’re okay with this.

You’re okay

You’re

You think, perhaps, the sting is made worse by the normalcy of it all.

You think, perhaps, that this stabbing—this splinter in your gut, prodding prodding prodding—would not be so sharp if it were different between you—if things were different; if it were clumsy and cumbersome and mauled. Ruined.

But it isn’t; it’s the same. You and Din and his boy, his adi’ka—it’s ordinary. Evergreen.

You suppose you should be grateful—grateful your dynamic hasn’t shifted, hasn’t sullied any. Grateful you still have your Mandalorian piloting you home. Grateful you have his foundling to keep you company, to keep you preoccupied.

But you feel false.

It’s as if you slipped into an alternate reality—one where you and Din touched each other, held each other; one where he buried his frustration to the hilt in your womb and you moaned his name like your tongue was formed for it—and then were snapped back to this one here—this nothing, this void—without anyone taking note of your absence. Because your routines—those domestic tableaus—remain unchanged. They are well-oiled and operate regardless— undeterred, succinct.

The days start the same.

You set aside a warm bowl of fruit and porridge, steam rising to greet him as it fans over his helm. Good morning.

Exiting the fresher, you find the dishes washed and dried—the towel folded neatly into a square beside them. Good morning.

You return the bowls to their shelf, nestling them right next to your unfulfilled expectations and embarrassing desires—butted against your silly, silly heart.

“Anything good?” he asks one night, passing through the galley as you thumb through the news on your holopad

You nearly choke on it—your throat closing up tight around the casual banality of the question. Because that’s what you two share now: you have things. You have quips and lines and normal and none of that disappeared after you’d made each other unravel not four paces away, pressed there against that wall—the wall that stands there even now, a tall and mocking reminder.

You wonder, if you sealed your ear to the bulkhead, could you still hear yourself? The symphonic reverb—your girlish pants, Din’s hoarse rasps— trapped there in the seams of the steel siding like the grooves of a record, to be played and played again.

“Never,” you say, like you’ve always said, and do your best to flash him a grin—the one you’ve worn before, the one, perhaps, you hope he likes. The one where you go dimpled and dove-like.

And then he makes for the cockpit and you are left

without.

The afternoons stretch familiar, too.

Din flies the ship and you watch the child—steering him clear of disasters and shenanigans the best you can. He tugs gentle at your hair; you nip at his little hand until he’s dissolved to giggles—the same the same the same, all of these acquainted patterns continuing to revolve on. Din lands and prepares for his hunt—banging around the belly of the ship, gathering weapons and ammunition and rations—and your eyes skitter along after him, following his hulking figure as he steps past where you and Munch are seated, heading towards the mouth of the Crest.

Din.

You’re half afraid of what it will sound like now— what it will feel like, bruised and jagged in your mouth. Like it doesn’t belong there, like it has no right laying claim to your tongue.

“Din,” you call hurriedly to the span of his broad back as he leaves the ship, your spine straightening out of the chair. You say it; you speak his name and to your surprise find it is none of those things—none of those ugly fears, none of those roughened gums. It’s worse.

Because scarier still, it comes out cotton soft; it comes out comfortable and true. It tastes like home maybe — like a version of home where people could come and go and laugh and not be frightened. Where they could hold little children in their arms and sleep and breathe and be and say I am here with you. Here we are. How special. I have chosen this. I have made this with you.

Din.

His shoulders tense and his feet stop short, just before the apex of the ramp. He turns to you, slow. Controlled.

“Good hunting.”

Din looks at you, the heavy umber of his eyes settling on your own, and he freezes—stock-still, his blood and muscles and bone thickened to paste, rendering him motionless. His dark gaze scans over you—the wisps of hair dancing around your face, the sag of your shirt lolling from your shoulder, his son in your lap. You bounce Munch on your knee and he gurgles out a quieted hum, glancing between his surrogate parent and you.

“Thank you,” Din replies, stilted, and you think you discern a subtle scrape of his modulator; you think you sense his lips part, pained and breathy, the cusp of another thought—of more, anything more— corralled by his sense of duty, hampered by the armor that plates him.

You untangle the boy’s claws from your hair and slip your fingers around his wrist, waving his green hand in a delicate to and fro.

Goodbye, it says. We’ll be right here when you get back.

He stays. For another glimmer of a millisecond he remains, sunlight pouring in through the opening of the Crest—shining off his beskar, off the gunmetal grey covering his body—focus trained on you both—before he pivots, cape whipping behind him as Din vanishes like he does without fail—away. Away.

To vapors.

Three days of this—three miserable days. Seventy-two suffocatingly mundane hours.

You figured this would be easy. You figured it could be as painless as you chose to make it. You were two consenting adults, after all—you both had needs, and you both met them—and you thought that this would be simple.

What you failed to take into consideration however, is that Din Djarin is anything but a simple man.

Because he is all these things, paradigms and paradoxes, coiled into one very tightly wound warrior—a warrior who can dismember a blaster just as effectively as he can sop up baby vomit from his foundling’s brown robes—one handed, no less. In flight. Din is all sharp edges and smooth silver, he’s cold and calculating and roguish and endearing and you can’t grapple with the dichotomy of him—with all these mismatched pieces at odds with themselves that somehow fit perfectly, inexplicably together.

You were naïve to assume you could go back—as if you could unremember the shape of his fingers as they filled you; as if you could make yourself forget how needy he bowed against you, how hot and thick his cock rested in your palm when he pitched his hips and released his desperation in white streaks along your skin.

And when your mind isn’t wholly consumed—smothered with the crushed velvet sin of that time-capsuled memory—it’s tortured in other ways, with crueler techniques. Pointed. Specified.

You watch him. You wish you could look away, but there isn't anywhere else to look. There isn’t a corner you can escape to, nor an inch of the Crest that isn’t him—isn’t an emblem of him, isn’t an extension of his personage.

You see him - day in, day out - interact with the child and Maker, it’s so precious and he’s so damn good. Two arms, cradling Munch snug to his chest—you know their strength now, you know their weight—and you observe as Din holds this boy with the same hands that unmade you—that molded you like clay and parted your wet heat. You see this man—so stoic, so reserved—dote on his child in a way that you never were, and bit by bit, it breaks you.

You caught them napping together once, compressed in that dingy of an alcove by the refresher. Your feet halted in their tracks at the sight and you held your breath—he’s a light sleeper, you didn’t dare wake them—Din’s helmet nodded to his chest and the kid, open-mouthed and adorable, nestled into the crook of his arm.

It made you want to sing. It made you want to cry.

You had to pry your boots from the floor and force yourself to move, to scram. You had to be anywhere else but there, ogling like a spectator at a zoo, nose smushed against the glass, watching the last of some great species simply be as nature intended—calm, drowsy, at peace.

You busied yourself then, scuttling preoccupied about the Crest but the image never evaporated, it never faded—it dogged you, tacking itself onto your psyche: the picture of him there, Din and his boy, holding on to one another like anchors while they slept, and you can't resist drawing the question.

Is that what it’s supposed to look like, to feel like—a father’s arms around your shoulders? Is that what safe looks like? Is that what family is?

You wouldn’t know. You cannot recollect the glow of it—the memory of such an embrace—on your own skin, and isn’t that what makes it all so achingly befitting, so inevitable. As if the Moirai—those weird sisters—spun this string of fate tailored to your being and plucked it like a harp, curating a melody for you and you alone.

Because you see Din give what you never got, and it makes you want. You want him. You curse yourself for it, but fuck you want him—every sordid part of you is tugged and pulled in his direction. You want him, magnetically, you want him you want him you wa—

And Din is fine. A Mandalorian pillar, undisturbed. He is bedrock. This is the Way.

And while he withstands the weathering, you crumble beneath it. It's eroding you. Like tides crashing monotonous against a beaten shore, you are in granules—and these morsels, ever-fine, they nick you - gritting - sanding you raw, abrading you rugged.

You thought you could ignore them at first. They were but lace whispers behind your ear—muted and tickling and just far off enough to deflect. But with each passing moment those feathered words grew loud—rude and vocal and you couldn’t keep them out. Round and round, they wriggled into your most tender swathes of skin. Skipless. Poison.

He regrets it.

He didn’t want it.

He didn’t enjoy it.

He didn’t want me He doesn’t want me I’m not wanted

These thoughts, insistent and pervasive, they are sewn into the bed of your mind one ugly seed at a time. You water them. You don’t mean to, you don’t wish to cultivate these errs but you know they will fester and grow with or without you. So you tend them—watchful, you garden—and they push up through the soil, sprouting weeds, choking the dirt. Marring it fallow.

But you’re okay with this. You’re fine—look at you, you’re fine.

///

The planet of Jelucan is bustling.

It’s got a pulse of its own, energetic and thrumming; there’s an electric current charging the cool air. It’s alive. This place is alive. Towers and buildings are chiseled into the cliff faces of the mountains framing the city, reaching tall towards the pale blue sky overhead. The capital—Valentia, you learned—is almost offensively busy— far busier than any of the backwater territories you and Din had explored in the recent months. There’s so much noise, it’s cacophonous— speeders dodging pedestrians milling about the throughway, engines whirring and backfiring, merchants arguing, hawking foods and goods from their windowed shops and brightly colored stalls, politicians and well to-dos seemingly gliding above it all as the common rabble of varying species and origins mingle and mix.

You suppose it reminds you of Coruscant. You suppose that makes you nervous.

Because you’ve been holed up in his ship and flitting through the Outer Rim, seeing the stars and the moons and planets and there’s just so much life—everywhere, everywhere— this galaxy is chalked full of it; it’s spilling over the sides with it all. And Maker, these months have felt like an adventure; they’ve felt like a fantasy, like an escape. You’ve eloped, caught in the whirlwind romance of it all—shirking your duties, your career, absconding from your shitty, shoebox of an apartment back home.

But Valentia is all too quick to ground you, all too eager to remind you of that blissfully forgotten reality; it taps on its wristwatch, gutting you with a look:

your time, my dear, is up.

The cobbled pavement underfoot is stony and industrial, each step landing too hard, too hollow—like everyone can hear your chipped heart pounding through your boots—exposing you, coloring you a liar.

This is fine. You’re fine. You’re okay with this.

You’ve been telling yourself that—bargaining, pleading—attempting to manifest into fruition; speaking it to yourself like a chant in hopes it’ll stick—in hopes you’ll fall for the ruse.

But it’s as if each dulled footfall shakes the rust from your neglected truth, revealing all too plainly that no. No, you’re not. You aren’t.

You and Din do not walk in tandem—his gait is longer, and he’s a stride in front of you—but there isn't so much space between your bodies that his presence doesn’t distract you completely, doesn’t eat you up and make you fizz. Your gaze could latch anywhere in this packed, teeming city, and you would still see him. Still feel him—on the nape of your neck, in the wet pink of your cunt. Throbbing reminders of the man that has knotted himself so seamlessly into your world.

You shake your head, locks rustling— as if you could rock him loose from where he clings on to your mind— when you feel a spindled hand at the wing of your back. Startled, you spin towards the touch.

There’s a woman— she isn’t human, but judging by her general appearance she’s some species close to it. She’s old. Whittled. Her maroon eyes are clouded, her silvered hair swooped back into a low bun, wiry frizz haloing the crown of her head.

She’s petite, but it looks wrong— inorganic. Too knobby, she’s all elbows and boney angles where she shouldn’t be. It’s as if she’s shrinking, right there before you. Time, pressing her in— pressing her down.

She’s lived a life in the sun; she wears lines on her face, deep and haggard, and her skin is pulled taut around her skull like hide stretched over a tanning rack. She’s ancient, prehistoric.

She’ll probably outlive you all.

An alien language you don’t recognize comes spilling fast from her thin mouth. You can’t decipher the string of words rushing like river water, the current unstoppable, but you garner she’s insistent; there’s no misconstruing the earnest fervor in her voice. Something woolen is held tight in her grasp—a blanket, by the looks of it, intricate and pleated—and she’s handing it to you like her very existence depends on it.

“I’m sorry,” you begin, confusion evident on your brow, “I’m sorry I don’t—”

She continues speaking, urgent and desperate and pleading—gesticulating as she offers you the throw, the shiny golden thread needled into the patchwork winking in the afternoon sun. The child slung at your side chirps curiously, saucer-large eyes following the shimmer of the fabric.

“I’m sorry, it’s beautiful - really - but—”

You’re jobless and blowing through your savings at a blistering speed. You barely have two measly credits to rub together; getting supplies is tricky enough as is. Purchasing something as ornate and superfluous as a blanket was out of the question. Munch coos sadly, a twitter of his voice, and it ruptures your heart to say it, “I can’t afford something like this.”

The bell on the door to the adjacent shop grabs your attention, producing a Twi’lek as it opens. She’s younger, perhaps around your age, and her lilac lekku bob as she bounds over to you.

“Hi,” she breathes, lips pulling back to reveal a charming smile as she glances between you two. “Everything okay?”

Before you can get a word out the elder resumes chattering, incensed as she addresses the other store attendant—you think it might be Old Corellian, some archaic dialect you presumed died out eons ago, predating the Battle of Yavin by centuries.

Just how old is this woman?

There’s a hushed exchange between them—the Twi’lek’s attempt at the language proving stiff. Her cadence is clunky, nowhere near as smooth and lilted as the other woman’s, but they must come to some sort of a conclusion, because they face you—two sets of eyes, burrowing blinkless into yours. The girl takes a small half step towards you, speaking - blessedly - in Basic.

“The blanket. It’s for you. She wants you to have it,” she explains, “for the little one.”

A twitch notches your eyebrow, gaze flickering back to the older woman, something akin to a crinkled smile worn into the grooves of her wizened face. She nods, fervent and solemn—a seriousness set in the desperate way she bores into you, urging you to understand. To see.

More foreign utterances pass between them— the younger woman listening to her soft vowels and gritting consonants for a beat, before continuing to translate.

“She says, you have a beautiful family. It makes her—” the Twi’lek pauses, choosing her next words, “yearn for the past, to reclaim time.”

Family. A beautiful family. A beautiful—

You consider telling them.

You consider correcting her, informing these kind souls that you’re only temporary. A fleeting thing— like the seasons, autumn dying cold into winter— you’ll leave when the time comes. You consider telling them that that’s the arrangement you agreed to, and that you’ll be delivered back to Coruscant and deposited off at your doorstep with nothing but a cheap, portable cot and an unused blaster the bounty hunter had unfathomably given to you once upon a time. That they’ve mistaken you for someone else—someone important to Din and his foundling. Someone relevant. Someone permanent.

But, you don’t.

You don’t rectify their assumption. Your silence betrays you, confirming the lie, and you grant yourself to revel in it. Like slipping into silk sheets, you roll in the luxury of the imaginary sentiment— letting it swaddle you, comfort you, kiss your skin.

And just for a moment, maybe you allow yourself to believe that this is real: the three of you, a perfect band of misfits; entwined together, fated and star-crossed.

A family.

“She hopes you know that what you have is special. She says, she hopes you hold onto them—never let go. Never.”

Fuck.

Can they hear it? Can they hear the way parts of you fracture like slate and quake to the asphalt in shards? Can they see the shiver in your knees—how your nails dig into the rough tweed of the satchel hung long beside you?

You steal a trepid glance back at Din who has since stopped and stands idle in wait—there in the middle of the lane, a single stone splitting the sea of people passing through. He’s unreadable, his visor illegible. He appears statuesque, arms immobilized in plaster by his sides—inhuman under all that effacing steel as life moves in flurries, eddying around him.

The kid babbles, snapping your focus off the Mandalorian and returning it to the two women. They adorn their sincerity openly, as one would a badge, extending the blanket to you—you, a perfect stranger.

Shit. Tears prickle the wells of your eyes. There’s something lodged in your throat— a canary in a cage, batting violent against its bars. You attempt to swallow it down with an ugly gulp, but it provides no relief. This emotion you’ve leveed—your joy, your pain and embarrassment, your desire and need—it swells in you, threatening to slosh over. You blink it back, keeping it confined safely behind your lash line.

“I—thank you,” you manage, looking between them. Awed and humbled, you accept their offering, handling it with the care of something holy—something sacred—and drawing it to your chest. Immediately, Munch latches a claw into a drooping corner of the woven material, a happy hum sounding from his droll grin. “Thank you,” you murmur again, reverent and breathy, reversing away from them—refusing to drop their gaze until you must—before finally righting yourself and walking on.

You’re shaken. You’re shaking.

And it is on shaky feet that you meet Din some steps later, pausing once you arrive next to him. His helm shifts; you register the sweep of his eyes roving over you—the burn of them along your shoulders, sloping down to the blanket folded against your breasts, slipping lower to his adi’ka sitting in the satchel at your hip. He’s clutching at the new token, dipping the edge of it into his tiny mouth to teethe.

And then,

he lifts at the wrist, orange glove tips raising - reaching - towards you. Din takes the hem of the quilt between his fingers experimentally, massaging the feel of the fabric—his knuckles brushing the exposed skin of your arm, searing into your flesh like a hot iron, lingering there mesmerizingly.

It’s the first he's touched you. It’s the first he’s touched you since, since—

His hand drops, hinging back to his side.

“Ready?”

His modulated voice crackles indiscernible and your stomach leaps to your neck. Are you breathing? Kriff, you’re not sure. You have to check—deliberately drawing in a gust of chilled air, the rush burning your lungs as you suck it down. With a nod of your head, a placid smile glosses over the shudder of your features, dousing the singe of your nerves.

“Ready.”

///

You think about that old woman later that day, and the many days that follow, her visage marked with centuries and regret and history. Life, evident in the spider’s web of wrinkles engraving her. But there was love too, clearly wormed into the lines of her face. So much of it— almost too much for a galaxy this hard and war-torn. The things she’s possibly witnessed: the atrocities, the devastation, the loss.

The wisdom she has gained while all of those she’s ever known succumb to the inevitability of age, as her past decays around her. The knowledge she absorbs while she withers—while time does nothing but skip by. Blameless. Forever onward.

In your dreams that night, she appears in front of you like mist rising off a lake, astral and ephemeral— there, but not. Haunting you, inescapable wherever you fix your eye. The woman nods silently. She’s mouthing something to you, but the words never come.

You understand.

tags:

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @sammysdaisy @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey

#din djarin x reader #mando x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #mando x fem!reader #Din Djarin #Pedro Pascal #star wars fandom #the mandalorian fanfic #din djarin x you #mando x you #din djarin x ofc #mando x ofc #king of cups

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vanderlindemorgans · 3 years

Text

Mr. Perfectly Fine

Rating: Teen

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: Two weeks after breaking up with you, you're picking up the pieces of your heart that had been broken by your now ex-boyfriend Javier Peña. You want answers, a clear reason as to why things fell apart. The only problem is that Javier refuses to even acknowledge your existence

Warnings: A little bit of period-typical sexism, but not much, Javier being an asshole, mentions of prostitution, some low level typical Narcos themes

Authors Note: So this idea has been swimming around in my head ever since the song was released last week. I already had a Bad Breakup fic for Javi planned but I’ve decided to extend it into three parts! Also reader speaks in English bc I do not understand a word of Spanish other than that one line in Ultraviolence. None of this is beta read, so there’s bound to be a few mistakes - if I get anything really wrong then let me know.

Part 2 | MASTERLIST

The tension in the room was so thick that you could cut it with a knife. From the moment someone walked in they could feel it, the stifling air of awkwardness surrounding every single person in the room as they pretended to carry on with their work, averting their eyes to the spectacle presented in front of them, a war of agitation rife between two agents sitting across the room from each other as well as the unfortunate Steve Murphy who just happened to sit between you two. From your end it was simple silent fury, directed right across the room to where your partner, or rather, ex-partner, Javier Peña was seated at his own desk, casually leafing through mountains of paperwork and suspect photos as if you weren’t practically shooting daggers at him from across the way.

He wasn’t doing anything, and that was exactly the problem - you wanted him to do something, say something, anything, if only it would show that he even gave a damn about the situation at all. But he never did. Every morning when he walked into work carrying a black coffee in his hands, his top shirt buttons hanging loose as they always seemed to be and his hair mustled as if he hadn’t been sleeping properly, he said nothing. He walked past you as if you weren’t even there, ignoring your stares and crashing down at his desk, ready to continue the endless chase for Pablo Escobar. And it infuriated you. Oh lord, how it made you burn. With every refusal of acknowledgement he gave, you became even more tempted to march right over to him and strike him across his stupid handsome face. You never did, of course, and you never would. Physical confrontation just wasn’t your style. Nevertheless, the mere thought of such did bring you a small bit of joy to your broken little soul.

Things had been going like this for two weeks now. You hadn’t expected much on the first morning back in the office after what had happened between you. A part of you wanted him to come grovelling to you, insisting that he’d made a mistake and begging for you to take him back. That in itself was nothing more than a fantasy: Javier Peña was too proud to grovel. If anything, his behaviour shouldn’t have surprised you in the slightest. He was the one who broke up with you over a 27 second phone call, after all.

Despite taking that into consideration, you thought by now you would have heard something from him. He’d have to talk to you eventually since you two were working the same case. Apparently no, because it appeared that he went out of his way to deliver every piece of correspondence meant for you through to Murphy, letting him act as a sort of unwilling middle man between the two of you. You knew that Steve already felt awkward enough having to be in the same room with the two of you whilst this was all going on, so your sympathy for him deepened when he was thrust into the even more awkward position of messenger. Sometimes you swore he made up fake meetings with Messina to attend to or new leads to investigate just so he could get away from the suffocating air of hate around you and Javi. And really, who could blame him?

You felt your nose twitch in annoyance as you trained your eyes forward to him, periodically looking down at various files of intel to keep up the facade that you were indeed working, though you eyes were across the room for most of the time, searching for any sign of emotion on his face. Nothing, zilch, not a single trace, his expression only showcasing general indifference, as if nothing were wrong at all. You gripped your hand tightly around the edge of your pen, thinking of everything you wished you could say to him. How’s your heart after breaking mine, Javi? For your information, ever since you pulled that bullshit on the phone, I’ve been miserable as all fucking hell. Before all that happened, I wanted to try. I was even ready to try to forgive you after that stupid fight, but you just had to make that call. You know what? I’d actually hate you less if you just acted like you cared a little that we broke up. But noooo, you’re just Mr. Perfectly Fine, what with your ignoring me and your casual cruelty, your always showing up at just the right time, and your insincerity, and the way you think everything fucking revolves around you. Well, I’ll tell you something Javi - I’m done! Absolutely done with you and your shit. Jump off a cliff for all I care!

“I’ll be back later on, gonna go follow up on a few leads” your thoughts were cut off by Javier’s abrupt announcement, your eyes gracing themselves upwards to watch him hastily scoop his jacket off the back of his chair and skulk his way out of the office. Every bitter word you wanted to say to him burned on your tongue, though you only managed to settle on a simple yet seething glare while his eyes glazed over you, rushing himself out of the room as quickly as humanly possible. You noticed Murphy look over his shoulder like he was about to say something but it was too late - Javi was already long gone.

_______

Letting out a low groan of frustration, you slammed the door to your car shut and threw your head back against the seats headrest, the stress of the job and the emotional weight of the day combining to make you even more tired than you would usually be at the end of a long day. Javier hadn’t been back to the office since he left, leaving both you and Murphy to pick up all the work he’d left in his absence. If that wasn’t infuriating enough, the thought of him running around all of Bogotá just to avoid seeing you brought your anger to new unreachable heights. It was annoying - him not being around should have left your mind to be free to do some actual goddamn work but instead, just as before, every single moment he occupied your mind, living there permanently as if it were his right. How much more infuriating could that man get?

Thankfully, the drive home wasn’t any more of a nuisance than usual, since the apartment complex you shared with the others wasn’t that far from the embassy, so that was a small positive at the very least. Once you’d pulled up to the lot you were feeling a lot more level-headed than you did before, and were mainly looking forward to kicking back in pajamas and watching whatever was on TV with the leftover pizza from the night before. It wouldn’t do much to take your mind off everything with Javi, though, you knew that much. Still, a small bit of bliss was still bliss.

Your apartment was down the hall from Javier’s, which had made it easier for you two when you were together but now felt like another sore reminder of what had been. Sighing heavily to yourself, you kicked the door to your car shut and stuffed the keys into the pocket of your jeans. A minor annoyance, sure, nothing you couldn’t handle though. You wondered if he would even be back right now. He had to be, right? An idea started to creep into your head at that thought, taking root and festering until you had practically talked yourself into doing it already, descending up the stairs with a sense of purpose behind you. Maybe if you showed up on his doorstep you could force him to confront you, make him look you in the eye. Any sort of acknowledgement to what you two had would be nice at this point, and if you had to take action yourself to get him to do it, then so be it.

The closer you got to his door the more you felt you should turn back, a feeling of uneasiness beginning to form somewhere deep in your chest. This might be a bad idea. What if you two got into a fight again? As much as you wanted nothing more than to hurl some carefully crafted insults at Javi and his stupid gorgeous face, you weren’t exactly up for a full on battle that could result from it. Would it be better to simply go home and ignore your problems a little more?

Once you were only inches from the door was when you started to hear it. At first it sounded muffled, on account of the fact that there was a physical barrier between you and them, and you weren’t quite sure exactly what you heard at first but when you pressed yourself closer to the door you could hear it all clear as day - a woman moaning loudly on the other side, whimpering out Javi’s name and betraying exactly what was going on within the walls of the apartment. You felt your breath hitch in your chest, the world feeling like it was collapsing around you from the very second you realised why he had left early for the day. Unable to stop yourself, you tore yourself away from the apartment door and ran down the hall to your own place, tears falling at a rapid pace that refused to stop. You didn’t know if the woman in there was an informant, or a prostitute, or some random chick he’d picked up in a bar after ditching work for the day. In the end none of it mattered though. All that mattered is that it wasn’t you in there with him, like it used to be, like it should be, and that fact made you hurt all the more fiercely.

Fumbling with the keys to your apartment, you choked on a low sob working your way through the waterfall of tears in your eyes to try and wrestle the key into the lock. Through your haste, you accidentally let them fall loose from your palms and onto the ground, prompting a loud “fuck!” to ring out from your throat, loud enough for everyone in the neighboring apartments to hear. Not like you really cared about that, to be honest. With your hands shaking, you finally managed to throw the door to your apartment open, slamming it back closed with a thud and leaning back against it with your head in your hands, slowly descending to the ground to finally give in to the wave of sorrow threatening to claim you.

You’d known his reputation before you started seeing each other, that he slept with all his informants and chased every woman who crossed his path in Colombia. Actually, it had made you hesitant to get involved with him in the first place but once you two had bitten the bullet and finally admitted your damn feelings for each other, Javier had ceased with his wild ways, becoming solely dedicated to you and you alone. And sure, you two weren’t together anymore, there wasn’t anything stopping him from being with other women. It felt like a deeper twist of the knife though, what you’d heard from behind that door, and it practically confirmed the sickening feeling that had been building in you since the first day back in the office after your breakup, when Javi refused to even look you in the eye and acted as if you’d vanished off the face of the planet. He doesn’t care about me anymore.

Moving on had been that much easier for him. While it took everything in you to get up each day, he was doing absolutely ok. More than ok, if the sounds coming from his apartment were anything to go by. He was even already settling back into his old reputation. You should’ve known it was too good to be true - the manwhore of the DEA, Javier Peña actually wanting to settle down with one woman, actually caring about a girl beyond what she could be in bed. You remembered the raised eyebrows when you two had first gotten together: for most, it just seemed so out of nowhere. You’d ignored them all, remembering all the times you’d be tangled up with Javi on the couch, his head nestled into your neck while your heart raced a mile a minute, hearing every sweet nothing and praise he’d whisper to you. Stupid girl, you should’ve known.

_______

After such a huge revelation, you thought things might’ve changed. In what way they would, you didn’t really know. Maybe the change would be sudden, such as you finally working up enough of a resolve to actually go confront Javier on his shit. Or maybe you’d take a leaf out of his book and start trying to seem like nothing was wrong at all, maybe go out on a few dates with some other guys. One of the Search Bloc guys had been eyeing you up every time he came over with Carillo to talk strategy, maybe you could go out with him. Though you knew it wouldn’t help - unlike Javier, who was actually more than happy with where you two had left things, you weren’t, and acting like it was just to throw it in his face wasn’t really going to work if he didn’t care enough to look over at you in the first place. And even then, the idea of falling into bed with some random man that you didn’t care for all that much in the name of moving on didn’t seem right to you.

Nevertheless, you expected some form of change to happen the morning after when you came into work to see Javier sitting at his desk, on the phone to someone you couldn’t care less about. But nope. Nothing had changed. You sat down and stared across the room at him, just like you’d done every day for the past two weeks, and he ignored your stare to continue with writing something down on his notepad, just like usual.

Maybe the change would be gradual, you thought, staring back over at the man in the midst of your ire with one of your coldest glares. And sure enough, around midday Steve had come up to you asking to retrieve something from the evidence room for him. Apparently he needed to look over something but was too busy with his own work to go fetch it - you knew on some level that his excuse was bullshit as it had been a pretty slow day for all of you but sure, whatever, if it got you out of that room and away from Javi for at least a few blissful moments that was fine by you.

Reaching out for the door to the evidence room, you pushed it open and admitted yourself into the crowded space, twisting around to slam the door shut firmly behind you. Before you were rows of shelves containing every bit of evidence the DEA had accumulated against Escobar - there wasn’t as much as there probably should have been due to the fire that had broken out at the Palace of Justice years before yet the amount contained in that small room was still impressive in size. Moving between the shelves, you scanned the rows of boxes looking for the one Steve had asked for in particular, taking your time with it as there was a small sense of serenity to being in that room. For once it felt like you could breathe. You didn’t have to sit at a desk across from your ex, you didn’t have to go home to your apartment that was literally across the hall from his, you could be alone and not feel suffocated by his ever-present shadow over your life. Though, in some way you supposed, your own memories could still prove just as suffocating as Javier’s own godforsaken presence.

As if by thinking of him you’d magically summoned him, the man himself strode through the door to the evidence room, appearing to be in quite a hurry however once he noticed you were there he stopped, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second before returning to their usual stoic glare. You could barely contain your own disappointment at his sudden appearance, letting your face twist into a low scowl as you watched him walk down the aisle you were standing in, his eyes dashing from row to row searching for any place to look so they could avoid landing on you. Anger bubbled within you, a thousand different sarcastic or otherwise snarky remarks coming to mind that you could throw out at him, every one of them becoming increasingly more scathing the more you thought about it. Letting out a small sigh, you forced yourself to push all those delightful insults to the back of your mind, not wanting to become caught up in any more personal drama than you had to. Get the box and go. It’s that simple. There doesn’t need to be anymore to this.

A minute later your eyes landed on the fabled box you’d been searching for, shoved into a corner and so out of the way you almost missed it completely. You thought of asking Steve what was in the box that he needed so bad when out of nowhere you heard a familiar voice speak up from behind you.

“Listen, I...about what happened on the phone a few weeks ago-”.

So, it seems Mr. Perfectly Fine has finally decided to break his silence. In an instant you twisted yourself around to face him, quickly taking in his serious expression and stiff stature before your eyes met for the first time in two weeks.“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to speak to me now? That’s a first. I thought you were steadfast gonna ignore me for the rest of my life” you spat, not allowing him any form of politeness or decorum in your reply. Why should you? He’d ignored you for weeks. He deserved this.

You watched as Javier tensed at your words, clearly not expecting the bite back that you had given to him. There was some part of his expression that almost looked sheepish in a way, as if he wasn’t quite sure if he really wanted this conversation to happen at all. “I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just-” he started with you rolling your eyes and cutting in almost immediately. “Save it for someone who actually gives a shit. Shouldn’t be hard since you don’t seem to care all too much yourself” you snarled, an action which only made him even more tense.

“I do care, and I kind of always have fucking cared so if you could calm down a little and stop getting yourself worked up we can actually talk about what happened. Can you do that for me at the bare minimum?” he retorted, a harsh edge appearing in his tone that indicated he was already becoming frustrated with your attitude. You knew Javi’s emotions like the back of your hand - he wasn’t a patient man, and he had no time for snark or sarcasm, though only if it was directed at him. When it came to himself, he was more than happy to indulge in a small bit of pettiness. You didn’t much care at that moment though: as far as you were concerned, he lost the right to a civilised discussion when he broke up with you over the phone and then pretended you were invisible for weeks. It’s not like things can get any worse than they are now, right?

“Oh, sure, sure, we can totally talk. How about I start then?” you fired back, every word simmering with venom and dripping raw with sarcastic edge. Crossing your arms, you leaned back against the shelf to take him in, from the creases in his tie to his tired eyes staring straight into you. Wait, tired? You didn’t realise it until then but he had been looking pretty tired lately, almost like he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Then again, his sleep schedule had never been quite stellar, so that wasn’t totally out of the ordinary. And he was probably up all night with that woman I heard him with, you reminded yourself bitterly. “Look at you, so dignified in your well pressed suit, so smug and self-involved, so far above me in every way, so far above that you won’t even look me in the eye or acknowledge my presence. Tell me, Javier, has it really been that easy to forget about me?” you taunted. “Though I supposed when you’re seducing every whore in Colombia into your bed it would be easy, wouldn’t it?”.

Javier was caught off guard by your remark, not anticipating that you would go so far as to accuse him of returning to his old ways. “First of all, she was an informant, and I had to leave yesterday to go meet up with her. Things ran into overtime and that’s the reason I wasn’t back. I thought you of all people understood that gathering intel is a vital part to the fight against Escobar?” he replied, that last line at the end being delivered with only a little more underlying snip than the rest yet it was more than enough for you to feel around thirty percent more pissed at him.

You scoffed at his lies, your lip curling into a snarl at his attempt at patronising you. “Don’t patronise me. I’m well aware of the ins and outs of this job, in case you’ve forgotten I’ve been working with the DEA for eight years now, which is why I’m calling bullshit on your pathetic excuse for a lie. You do realise we live in the same building right? I know you were doing more than having a friendly discussion with her in there, in fact, I quite literally heard you two through the goddamn walls on my way back home. And before you try to spin some shit about how it was necessary for the case, you and I both know that fucking the informant isn’t a standard part of procedure. You don’t see Murphy bedding any of his sources of intel, do you?”.

“Murphy’s married, princesa” he deadpanned, throwing in that little nickname he had for you that two weeks ago would have made your heart flutter but at this time and in the context he used it only soured your mood further. “That’s besides the point. You’ve been acting like I never even mattered to you at all, and it’s honestly making me wonder if I ever did? Especially since I apparently didn’t deserve the dignity of a proper breakup and got a 27 second phone call instead. Tell me, when did you change your mind? I thought I was supposed to be the one you were waiting for all your life. Guess that was pretty easy to change, wasn’t it?” you snapped.

“Hermosa, can you just fucking listen for one minute?! God, you’re impossible sometimes” Javier shouted, that infamous temper of his rising towards the surface at a rapid rate. It was only a matter of time before he spat something out that he would no doubt regret. In your own haze of anger though, that fact didn’t register with you at all - you only saw red. If you had to scream back at him to finally pull some answers out of the man, then so fucking be it.

“No, how about you listen for once! I know we had that big fight but we could have just talked. The next day when you called me up I was ready to forgive you for being a complete ass. And what did I get instead? ‘I’m sorry, I think we should stop seeing each other’ and a dead dial tone after that. I can tell the only reason you’re apologising today is just so you don’t have to feel like the bad guy in all of this. So what’s the truth? Why were you so ready to throw away a whole relationship over one night of terse words?” you screamed, not caring that you two were at work and anyone could pass by outside and hear you two argue. With the way you both were shouting, you wouldn’t be surprised if the entire building could hear your screaming match with Javier. None of that mattered to you though. The only thing that mattered was the truth.

You weren’t the only one refusing to hold back in any of this: any lingering spark of politeness had vanished in Javi, his eyes turning dark with searing anger you had only seen in him a couple of times before. “You want to know why? You want to fucking know why? It’s because you’re a fucking pain to deal with. You may be a fantastic agent but god you can be so stupid sometimes. You’re too reckless, you throw yourself into danger too willingly with no consideration for anyone else. Did you ever stop to think what would happen to the people who cared about you if you died? Do you even give a shit about the people trying to protect you?” he confessed, fury burning with every word that came out of his mouth, his admittance making you flinch. It was just like he said during your last fight, the one that led to him dumping you in the first place.

Everything he said from that night came rushing back to you, remembering how furious he’d been at you for what had happened during your last raid together. You could see that underneath it all he was concerned for your safety, a gesture that was usually sweet but frustrated you that night as you felt something more akin to a porcelain doll than a capable agent in his eyes. Just because I’m your girlfriend, doesn’t mean you can treat me like I need to be protected. I can handle myself just fine. That was what you’d said to him that night, which should have been the end of it but somehow as the argument went on things got more and more heated that by the time he’d stormed out of your apartment neither of you could remember what had started it all.

What took you by surprise was that apparently he was still stewing about this, for some reason not wanting to believe in your capabilities as an agent and that alone made you more pissed at him. “I don’t need to be protected, Javier. I’m a woman, a DEA agent for crying out loud, not a flower! I’m more than capable of handling myself, I was literally trained for this! Nobody else here seems to have a problem with how I approach things so maybe the issue isn’t my method of attack but the fact that you’re a paranoid asshole?”.

He raised a single eyebrow back at you, looking somewhat skeptical of your claim but more so angry that somehow you two had managed to circle back around to the very thing that had started this whole mess.“Really? Because our last raid you were throwing yourself into the fray as if it were a suicide mission. It was a miracle you only ended up with a minor sprain to the wrist. Those men, the sicario’s, they don’t fucking hold back, one wrong mistake means the difference between life and death” he snapped.“And you know what? After constantly stressing over your safety every minute I was done. If you wanna end up with a bullet between your eyes, be my guest”.

The second those words slipped from his lips, he knew he’d fucked up. As the tears started to form in your eyes you could see him freeze up, his burning temper that had caused him to be so hateful before starting to slowly seep back, replaced with remorse and a hint of panic if you squinted. Although that didn’t matter much right now - his venomous words were rattling around in your brain, acting as a metaphorical hammer that took the final swing towards your damaged heart. Apparently what you heard through the walls the night before hadn’t been enough to break you completely, since there was still enough left of your heart for the rest of it to be shattered by his callous cruelty.

Forcefully swallowing down your cries, you wanted so badly to disappear from the room. You wanted to melt into the floor, to run away and go find one of Escobar’s men and gloat about all you’d done to try to stop him so you could feel the mercy of a fatal gunshot wound to the head. All the pain you had felt previously paled in comparison to the knife that cut you then, the tight feeling of your throat closing with every word you forced out. “So you were lying. You don’t care about me at all. You...you think I’m stupid. And reckless. And...not able to handle being here…”.

“Shit, princesa, that’s not what I meant, I-” Javier started, desperately scrambling to fix the mess he’d caused, however, you weren’t going to let him. He’d made his bed, now he had to lie in it. Any hope he might have had of making things right was now thrown straight out the window. No more chances. Not anymore.

“I think that’s exactly what you meant, Javi. Well, you got your wish I guess. I’ll get out of your life for good” your voice wobbled as you spoke, the next few minutes becoming a blur from when you’d pushed past him and ran out of the evidence room, hearing him call your name behind and not bothering to turn back to face him, running through the halls past different agents and members of the DEA, your hand shielding yourself in a pathetic attempt to save face. Somehow you’d managed to make it out to your car, throwing yourself into the driver's seat and jamming the keys into the ignition, your mind going in a million different directions. Your first thought was to go back home, though you knew that you’d have to hear Javi come back later, probably with yet another woman he picked up. You didn’t exactly have any friends in Colombia - with your line of work there hadn’t been exactly a lot of time to sit around and mingle with people, and truth be told you wanted to avoid people at all costs right then. Without any idea as to where you might be going, or what you were going to do, you pulled your car out of the parking lot and slammed on the gas to get you out of there, the world surrounding you not registering to you anymore and every sound becoming a rush against your ears that you paid no mind to.

One thing was for sure - you weren’t going to give Javier a single drop more of you. Your time, your mind, your energy, your tears, nothing. He’d already proved himself to be a lying sack of shit who didn’t care about you, so as it stood, you wouldn’t care about him either. Like the end of a tragic tale, everything had crashed and burned, and now that you thought about it more, maybe that was how things needed to be.

Goodbye, Mr Perfectly Fine. I’ve been Miss Misery for the last time.

Permanent tag list (if you wanna be added shoot me a message):

@greeneyedblondie44

#javier pena #javier pena x reader #narcos #narcos fanfic #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal x reader

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cherry-lipbalm · 3 years

Text

a son of a bitch in a camper van. spencer reid.

3.9k words.

masterlist

the gif’s a bit blurry yet he’s still endearing x

in which things happen just like that.

Local law enforcement, accompanied by the BAU, have been sitting in a besieging of this goddamn camper van for so long now that the majority of them were highly considering setting up a tent. If it hadn't been already, it sure as hell was scraping up to be a long night.

Spencer couldn't feel his feet, and he had given up on aiming his gun at the RV a long time ago. The sheriffs had been handing out fold-up chairs for those who were observing any potential activity and hadn't resorted to lounging in their cars.

Morgan had offered his to Spencer, who took it gratefully after he got up from falling on his ass when Derek pulled it out from under him. Spencer was only just about to jump on him when they spotted Hotch's glare from over his shoulder. This is a crime scene they could practically hear him say, so Spencer settled for a harsh shove on his colleague's arm and they left it at that.

And that was probably the most exciting thing to have happened over the course of this man-watch; and that was... three hours ago, now? Time, at this point, had become unsubstantial.

"Are we sure he's even still in there?" Morgan asked, gesturing to the derelict camper van a few yards away from them. He had retrieved another chair, and was sat behind the barricade of police cars, but nonetheless held tightly onto the gun resting in his lap.

"I think so," Spencer squinted over the red and blues, assessing the vehicle. If you could even call it that; the thing was basically crumbling to pieces. As much as he believed it, he couldn't comprehend how someone was actually in there, and for so long. It looked uninhabitable.

"The whole thing’s surrounded," a new voice interjected into the conversation, "he went in, and hasn't come out. Detectives say they can see him walking about now and then."

Morgan and Reid both turned in their chairs. If the dire situation surrounding them wasn't so obvious, one could have easily believed they were on a fishing trip of some sorts, except one should know that Morgan had already taken Spencer fishing once, and the result was... eventful, to say the least. A trip to the ER and five stitches later, Reid vowed to never do anything with Morgan ever again.

"Hey, sugar. How you holdin' up?" Morgan greeted, relaxing back into his not-so-relaxing chair.

Y/N sighed, a guttural groan emitting from the exudation of her breath. She looked up to the sky, and was thankful that at least they had a pretty night to look at, because this guy was not moving any time soon.

Reid and Morgan both assessed her as she stepped out from behind their set-up, coming out of the shadows almost menacingly, into the light of police sirens and the distant lamp beaming from inside the camper van.

"I'd be holding up a lot better if this bastard did something," she said. Her feet crunched the soil as she grabbed a spare chair and planted it next to Spencer. He tried to resist the urge to pull back her chair. Emphasis on the word tried.

When Y/N's bum didn't connect with the seat, the realisation hit her too late and all she could do was let out a yell while she headed straight for the ground.

"Oh, you dick!" She cried when she plummeted into the grass. Looking at her mud-ridden hands in disgust, she didn't hesitate to wipe it on Spencer's beloved dress shirt, making sure to taint his sweater vest too.

"Hey! Hey!" He retracted frantically, shoving himself into the side of his chair to get away from Y/N and her hands that could deposit any more Earth onto him. All the while, Morgan laughed his head off, almost facing the same fate as Y/N when his chair leaned back from his laughing fit.

"Children," Hotch called, reprimanding them over Y/N's grimaces and the boys' amusement, which quickly ended when they saw the Unit Chief striding over.

"Did you see that, Hotch? That's harassment in the workplace!"

"Can I please remind you that we are on a crime scene. We are the FBI, and no doubt are going to make a lasting impression on local law enforcement, is this really how you want to be remembered?"

The three fell into sullen expressions, bowing their heads ashamedly as to not make eye contact with him. But Morgan was still snickering subtly behind his hand, and Spencer was biting down on his lip to avoid a sudden burst of laughter that he knew would be more than inevitable while they were being scolded due to the pseudobulbar effect; he'd explain it to them when they were no longer being rebuked.

Eventually Hotch did walk away, leaving them with a castigating glare Y/N knew she wouldn't be able to shake. In response, she took the subsequent silence as an opportunity to slap Spencer on the arm, hard.

"Ow!" He hushed, immediately rubbing his bicep where he was sure a bruise would be forming. If he wasn't aching he would be impressed that she managed to inflict so much pain from so low down.

"Nice one, you got me in trouble with Hotch!" She hissed. Derek had resumed laughing.

"Sorry, teacher's pet," Spencer called her. Then, whispered here we go to himself at what he had just unavoidably instigated.

"Coming from you?" Morgan and Y/L/N said simultaneously, a snark tone to their words. He pursed his lips and looked to them blankly, rolling his eyes at their unified laughter.

They all eased a bit after that, despite the wake of Hotch's wrath. Spencer pulled Y/N up from the ground, and then began to aid her in wiping the soil from her trousers, prompting an awkward encounter when he realised his hand was right on her ass. She gave him a glare, and he raised his muddy hands in surrender while he sat back down, leaving her to do it herself.

When she was somewhat clean, she dragged her chair back and sat in it, pointing a warning finger in Spencer's face as she did so to let him know not to try anything sneaky.

When she relaxed, Y/N thought the scenery was quite nice; get rid of the police cars, black SUVs and the serial killer less than ten metres away from them and it could make for an ideal holiday destination. All they needed was a couple of beers and a bonfire.

Ah, fire. Warmth! Y/N was beginning to forget what it felt like. She wrapped herself further into the complimentary FBI jacket she'd been given upon her arrival to the team. It made for cool recognition, and got her into a lot of places, but, god, did it do fuck all for practical thermal purposes.

"You're cold?" Spencer queried when he noticed her enveloping her arms around herself.

"Freezing," she replied.

"You should go in the car. Emily put the heating on in there earlier, it'll be warm now."

"What? And leave all the fun for you guys? Over my dead body," she turned her head to shoot him a smirk. He inhaled deeply, faltering a smile in her direction and let a comfortable silence fall between them. Y/N even painted on a genuine grin for him, and let the blush she felt warm her up from the cold.

The next few minutes after this go very quickly, but from what Y/N can barely grasp, it goes like this: the camper van's door is thrown open, and out comes this beast of a man who, if he had them, would have had guns blazing. This is evident from his demeanour; the word beast did not originate from his physique, no, he is a fragile, small boy, but the way he is yelling and screaming is nothing of the juvenile sort. And so, he is doing his yelling and screaming and, frankly, taking no prisoners.

All he has on him is a revolver, but it's enough for every police officer and agent to swing into action. Spencer and Morgan's chairs both fall to the ground upon the abruptness of how they suddenly stand, guns drawn. Y/N is already one step ahead of them, and fails to shield herself from their unsub behind any car door like everyone else had the sense to; even if he were without weapons, they were facing the human embodiment of the word danger.

Spencer shouts at Y/N to defend herself, but she pretends she doesn't hear because this bastard made her wait four hours in the freezing cold, the least she could do was have an eye on him, so Spencer takes her cover.

Which turns out to be the fault in this story, because Spencer loves Y/N. And anyone with a pair of eyes can see it and, unfortunately for them, their unsub happened to have a pair of eyes.

He sees the way this pipe cleaner of a man is aiming his gun at him so determinedly, and how his gaze is switching between him and this girl in a frivolous FBI jacket. And he's already blissfully aware that there's no way he is getting out of here alive, but if he is going down then he's sure as hell taking someone with him. He only has one bullet and figures it's a 2 for 1 deal judging by the way pipe-cleaner man is so obviously in love with shitty-jacket girl. And then next thing anyone knows is Y/N is on the ground again but this time a bullet has buried itself in her chest.

Spencer takes the shot, and then a few more even though their unsub has fallen to the ground. And as much as he wants to rush over to Y/N he knows he doesn't have the emotional capacity to see what state she is in, but what he does have is rage, and a whole lot of it, so he just keeps on shooting. He's already dead but that doesn't matter. He keeps shooting until his barrel is empty and Hotch is pulling him away.

A detective approaches the unsub, even though his fate is more than assured, while a flurry of people surround Y/N, falling to her side, but she's only asking for one.

"Spencer," she utters. It hurts for her to talk or even breathe but she knows the pain will only continue so she pays the small price of adding to it in order to make sure Spencer is by her side for the remainder of it all.

Morgan grabs the boy, shakes him from his trance and then pushes him through the crowd so he can kneel beside Y/N. The squelching noise of his trousers drenching in her blood almost makes him vomit, but he swallows it down for Y/N's sake. He already covered her in mud, he knows better than to be sick on her too.

"Y/N," his voice trembles, but the way he turns to shout at the people around him is so full of strength and fury that people jump immediately into action. He yells for an ambulance, even though there's already one on scene and it's just behind them, but what else can he do?

"I'm fine," Y/N manages, "I'm fine."

She was not, indeed, fine.

She tries to scramble to her feet, but finds she can't even attempt sitting up without a pain searing throughout her whole body, ripping her nerves apart like resolute Velcro.

"It's alright," Spencer says, panicked as he tries to keep her from hurting herself. He brushes the blood-stained hair from her face but regrets it when he sees how it's contorted in pain. Thankfully, she soon relaxes, until he realises that's not a good thing at all.

"No, no, Y/N, stay with me alright? Can you do that? Listen to me!"

So he's yelling at the girl he loves, which is no use because she can't hear him and her eyes are already closed. He's so desperate that he pushes her eyelids open himself, but what lies underneath is unresponsive. He holds his hand tightly over what pulse she has left.

Y/N is dying in Spencer's arms. And she can't help but think that if she was to go, she wouldn't mind it to be here and now. But, with what lingering conscious remains, she realises it wouldn't be her who would have to face the repercussions of her death, it would be her friends. Her family. Spencer.

Spencer who had done nothing but love her ferociously ever since they had met; silently and from afar, but passionately nonetheless. She loved him too correspondingly and too much to kill him with the grief.

So she takes a breath.

But he doesn't even have a chance to say goodbye, never mind ask to go in the back of the ambulance with her when she is ripped from his grasp and placed onto the gurney. The ambulance doors slam close and he forgets what it feels like to move. Morgan's hand on his shoulder feels foreign, and when he does eventually move, it's a surge of chaos.

Their unsub isn't receiving any medical attention, because Reid sorted that out irrefutably, so there's really not that many people around and Morgan isn't even fully aware to stop him when Spencer steals his gun from his holster and marches to the corpse lying in the grass. Surrounded by the greenery, the son of a bitch looks almost peaceful so, when Spencer is unloading the bullets on him, he makes sure to add a few in his face for good measure.

This time, no one stops him.

———

"How is she?" JJ asks, who's only just arrived at the hospital in a hurry after receiving the call. She's pretty tenacious considering the situation, especially when you compare her to the ball of pink and panic standing next to her.

"Is she alright? Oh, God, please let her be alright," Garcia utters. She's straight in Derek's arms, who's been crying but to no one's acknowledgement because they all decided they need to be strong, for Y/N's sake. Still, it doesn't stop JJ shedding a few tears from moment to moment.

"She's in surgery," is all Hotch says, because it's all he knows. One minute he was scolding her to get off the ground and the next he was begging her to.

JJ takes a seat immediately next to Emily, and they unanimously clutch onto each other's hands. Opposite them, Morgan and Garcia do the same. It is here that JJ realises the person who should probably be in the company of his friends the most, isn't.

"Where's Spence?"

"Bathroom," Morgan tells her. "He's been in there a while. Won't talk to anyone."

So when Spencer does come out, almost on cue a few seconds later, everyone stands up attentively and tries to decide whether they will ignore his red eyes. They do, and Spencer sits down in a chair next to Morgan. He virtually collapses into his side.

Morgan is reminded of their fishing trip turned ER trip a few months prior. From the way Spencer is resting dependently on his shoulder, the days are identical, except this time Spencer's pain isn't physical and can't be fixed with five stitches.

Everyone looks at Spencer with evident pity, so he burrows himself further into Morgan's t-shirt. When Derek feels the wet indication of tears, he stands up with an arm wrapped around his shoulders and says "let's take a walk".

Spencer doesn't want to, but he's already reached the grieving stage and his body and mind are no longer connected. The only way in which they are associated is that Spencer's mind is mush and his limbs are moving so similarly sluggishly that Morgan is verging on dragging him along the hallways.

Just when Spencer is thinking that Morgan has really just brought him to aimlessly wander the corridors, his friend stops him and holds onto his shoulders. He notices how he has to look away for a moment because he never really managed to register just how bloodshot his eyes were.

"Listen here, pretty boy. You got a girl in there who is fighting for her life. She is, without a doubt, scared, okay? So you need to be strong for her and for yourself, alright? And when she pulls through, because she will, you've gotta take that strength, and you've gotta use it," Morgan said. He was prodding a finger to Spencer's chest to try and get his message across, but he had no idea what that message entailed.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you gotta get your girl, man," his shoulders dropped.

Spencer's face portrays a small smile like he always does when he's hopeless, and his mutterings are almost drowned out by the incessant beeping of hospital machinery, but Morgan catches them.

"What if I don't get a chance to?"

They're interrupted then, much to Morgan's gratitude, because he really didn't know how he was going to respond to that.

Hotch is at the end of the hallway, his chest rising quickly in a pant. Spencer fears the worst.

"She's out."

And suddenly, nothing else matters. Not to Spencer, at least. He shoots off down the hallway like a rock in a catapult; so quickly that Morgan doesn't even ascertain his disappearance until the news has sunk in and he's chasing after him too.

He keeps thinking that. Nothing else matters, nothing else matters. He repeats the mantra in his head while he meanders frantically through the halls; he lost sight of Hotch a while ago when he raced past him and now he's realised he doesn't even know where Y/N is. Nothing else matters he justifies when he bumps into a nurse during his frenzy and doesn't have the time nor consideration to apologise.

When he reaches a small empty square, with four hallways sprouting from it, he cradles his hands behind his head and tries to control his breathing; something he's forgotten how to do correctly. He steps forward, hoping his feet will just know where to go.

Somehow, they do.

He's only taken one step, but when he advances into the hallway to his right, he hears someone breathe his name; it's weak, and feeble, but he'd know her voice anywhere.

His mouth is already agape when he looks over. The door is wide open, just like his eyes with a mixture of hope and fear-stricken astonishment. Inside the room the team is crowded around the bed, looking down on the fragile agent.

Just like before, he forgets what it feels like to move. His feet are stuck in place and even though his mind is racing there is no telling his limbs to do... anything. So, for now, he just peers into the room. Y/N's eyes are begging him to enter but he can't bring himself to do it. If he walks in that means it's real. The heart monitor, the bandages, the dried blood coating her neck that the nurses missed in their clean up: it's all real.

"Reid, trust me. This is a hell of a better ending, okay? This is the one you want," Morgan clasps his hand down on Spencer's shoulder, hissing to him to try and spark some kind of unlikely reaction, but to no avail. Spencer didn't even realise Morgan and Hotch had caught up to him.

He enviously watches them enter the room with such ease. They kiss Y/N's cheek and hug her close. Morgan leans his hands on the end of the hospital bed and tries to talk to her, but she's only looking at Spencer with betrayal in her eyes.

Before Spencer can whisper a futile apology and rush out of the hospital, his brain almost goes into override, suddenly providing him with all the reasons he should do anything but that.

He sees Y/N's face, the way she smiled at him before. The way she's always smiled at him. He hears her laughter, feels her touch. He feels the warmth he experiences whenever she is near. And suddenly, again, nothing else matters.

Nothing but you.

Hotch instinctively lets a hand hover over his holster due to the precipitous manner Spencer barges into the room with. The sole of his shoes squeak against the floor in his hurry and Y/N would grimace if she had the space to because next thing she knows Spencer's lips are on hers and his hands are encasing her face in a way that doesn't make her feel claustrophobic like she always thought it would.

She can't help but think how embarrassing it is that her coworkers are watching this scene unfold —her boss too, and she knows he'll probably be obliged to give them some talk about appropriate behaviour between colleagues, but she doesn't care. Nothing else matters but Spencer.

He doesn't stop there, Spencer wants to kiss her more and Y/N is more than happy to allow it. Her fingers can only fondle the wrinkle of his shirt because it hurts to much to raise her arms, but Spencer is practically lying on top of her and she can get a good feel of his torso through the clothing. His warmth radiates onto her and she hums happily against his lips. When he begins to pull away, she grabs onto his tie and doesn't let him.

She thinks a few of the team have turned around, because it's eerily silent except for a few sniggers from —who she assumed— Morgan, and excited squeals from —who she knew was— Garcia.

When Spencer pulled away, successfully this time, he let out a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," he croaked.

"For what?"

"I should have covered you."

"Shut up. From what I've heard you covered me pretty well," she said, and Spencer knew she had been told about his vengeful face-shooting incident. He bowed his head, and smiled weakly when Y/N pulled him back up from his tie. It became less weak when she pecked his lips.

"I'm okay," she whispered to him, like they were the only ones in the room, "we're okay. He's gonna rot for it."

Spencer nodded, and what he couldn't say in words he made up for in affection: his kisses were short, but none lacked the passion that was necessary to tell her how he felt. She felt every one of his kisses throughout her body. Where her chest ached with the pain of being shot now burned with a feverish love for Spencer.

"I, uh, I am going to have to hold a seminar on fraternisation next week," Hotch leaned forward to interject, which worked a treat in eliciting the laughter needed to brighten the mood.

Those that had turned swirled back on their heels and beamed at the new couple. Spencer sat on the edge of Y/N's bed, his hands encased around hers and resting on his lap. They exchanged assuring glances momentarily within the soft conversations of the team.

When Y/N looked up to Spencer again she smiled, and he knew she was thinking the same thing as himself: these people matter, and you, you matter the most.

fin.

#spencer reid gifset #spencer reid #dr Spencer reid #dr reid #Spencer Walter reid #dr Spencer Walter reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds one shot #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #Spencer reid fanfic #Spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer reid x reader #Spencer reid imagines #Spencer reid imagine #Spencer reid one shot

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ddarker-dreams · 4 years

Text

Pandora’s Box. Yan Chrollo x Reader

Warnings: Medicine mention, descriptions of anxiety, and implied minor character death. Word count: 2.7k.

A simple plan is the best kind to have.

The less variables at play, the higher your rates of success are. You’ve anticipated some margin of error, a safety net of sorts, to be used if necessary. Everything within your realm of influence has been taken into account. Your friend in a car meeting you at a dead spot, a train ticket purchased with a prepaid visa card on a VPN, and a few precious pieces of jewelry to be pawned off at a later time. Scraping these assets together is a commendable feat, having to skulk around to make it this far.

Nothing feels out of the ordinary, you think. Your preparations are almost complete. All that’s left is to wait to ensure the beast in hiding cannot come for you.

Prayer doesn’t traditionally feel worth the effort -- any god that’d allow you to be subjugated to a hell such as this is no god worth pleading to -- but tonight is different. Tonight you pray to any deity that may spare you some pity, that this plan may succeed without a hitch. The time signals the beginning of the next phase, the most vital aspect.

Tonight’s soup had an additional ingredient, a generous helping of sleep inducing pills. To avoid suspicion, you partook in the meal as usual, hoping to cancel out the effects later by ingesting a gratuitous amount of energy drinks. It served the original purpose of fending off fatigue, but not without presenting a unique set of problems of its own. The caffeine has served to heighten your anxiety, upping what was already a nerve-wracking experience to a new level.

Your guts feeling like they’re rearranging themselves, your body not capable of forgoing fidgeting a single moment. No longer can you tell if it’s nausea, stomach pain, or hyperventilation. Maybe it’s everything at once. All you know is that you’ve never had your body working against you more than now. Every nerve is frayed, your senses on high alert to any shadow or noise.

Deep breaths no longer bring you reprieve. Each raggedy breath you manage to squeeze out is an accomplishment, overshadowed by the fear that he might hear you. How irrational a thought, that Chrollo would be capable of picking up on the differences in your breathing from afar. It doesn’t matter how illogical the worry may be. With Chrollo, you’ve learned that nothing is impossible. To expect the unexpected has been the mantra of your mind these past few months.

Just a bit longer... I need to know he’s asleep for sure. Or else it’s over.

Your foot taps against the ground in a frantic rhythm, ears ringing like funeral tolls. The last time you dared peak into your shared room with Chrollo, he was supposedly fast asleep, out like a light. What should’ve been a cause for victory brought nothing but a fresh wave of dread. A guessing game ensues. Trying to decipher his body language from earlier for hints only serves to make you feel worse. You’ve been so cautious, walking on sheets of thin ice at every move. Chrollo hadn’t acted out of the ordinary to your knowledge. Not that he has a way of acting ‘ordinary’ anyways, your limited understanding of his person having to suffice.

Should everything be going according to your design, your friend will be in position to pick you up. There’s no more stalling, the point of return ahead of you.

It’s time.

You do a final check over your mental checklist. Your backpack is stocked with the necessities: toiletries, a few changes of clothes, a filtered hydro flask, non perishable foods and your train ticket. To any onlooker it might look like you’re going hiking. Sporting worn sneakers, loose-fitting clothes, and having your hair pulled away from your face. This is really it. The culmination of sneaking around behind Chrollo’s back for months, unfolding before your very eyes. Everything is falling into place as it’s meant to.

You walk to the door.

Each step you take is quiet as can be. Every shuffle of clothes, or the slightest of creaks from the floorboards, causes you to wince and pause. This penthouse has served as your personal circle of hell for months on end, the walls absorbing your cries and screams. You despise this place with every fiber of your being. The antique décor, the ancient texts that lay strewn about, the scent of sandalwood that you find nauseating.

Ghosts of the past return to haunt you as you walk through different areas. Swirling around your head, they threaten to consume you, chipping away at your resolve. His hypnotic voice resonates in your mind like whispers of the serpent in the garden, tempting you. Weighing you down. Not even your own mind is a safe haven from his speech that disguises itself as flowery, when the reality is far more sinister. Chrollo’s words are constricting vines, lined with thorns, embedding themselves deeper into your flesh the harder you try to pry them out.

“Don’t you remember how difficult your life was before me?”

Another step.

“All those people who left you, who took advantage of you?”

Your hands shake around your small, homemade EMP. It’s made from spare parts you managed to find around the penthouse, clumsily assembled through trial and error. The pulse it emits is next to nothing. Copper coils threaten to fall loose at any second when you raise it to the security system by the door. Holding your breath, you press down on the trigger. The device lets out rapid clicking sounds, the security monitor flickering before going blank.

“I know you’ll come around.”

Finally, come the excessive locks on the door. The compressed air you said you needed for cleaning is next up. The can is cool against your trembling fingers, white specs decorating the locks as you spray them over. With some persistence, they come undone, one after the other. Unshackling you from the depths. You open the door that’s mocked you relentlessly for months, withholding your prized freedom.

“But even in the event that you don’t...”

The surrounding world is a blur of colors. Your eyes don’t focus on any object for too long, scanning your surroundings for potential threats. It feels as if your stomach is in your throat when the elevator starts its descent. He had you up on the fiftieth floor?

You fixate on the screen, numbers not flashing by fast enough for your liking.

40.

20.

“Well. There are always ways of overcoming inconveniences such as that.”

It’s an extravagant lobby. Far more luxurious than you could ever have hoped to afford, this building being one of the most exclusive in Yorknew. The person at the front desk calls out and you ignore it. You must look mighty suspicious, not that you care. The priority now is escape. Running out the revolving door, crisp autumn air greets you. You’ve never felt more grateful for the bustling streets of the city. Even at night the city remains awake, making it easier to blend in. No one out here spares you a second glance as you weave in and out of fast paced crowds.

23rd street. That’s where you’ll meet up with your friend, who will then transport you to the subway. Glancing up at the signposts, you realize you’ll be in for some walking. There’s no letting your guard down. Constantly looking over your shoulder, all you see are the faces of strangers. You’ve never felt so grateful to be a part of a crowd.

Finally, after walking for what feels like an eternity, you spot your beacon of hope. A clothing store’s bright neon sign, which your friend sits parked in front of. Since these stores are closed this time of day, the crowd that once surrounded you have thinned out, yet you try not to fixate on the lack of cover. Jay walking across the street doesn’t prove to be an issue. The pollution from the city hides the stars behind a layer of smog, streetlamps your lone source of light.

Heart hammering in your chest, you tap on the window of her car with urgency. “Amelia, it’s me. [First].”

You hear the doors unlock.

Taking it as a sign she heard you, you waste no time swinging into the passenger seat of the car. Amelia immediately turns the keys, car humming to life. Your chest heaves with exhaustion from the draining events. This is it. The second to last step before you reclaim your freedom. It’s almost like a dream, the light at the end of a long tunnel. Amelia’s appearance is just as you recalled it. Hazel eyes, tan skin, long black hair, and an average build. Your heart leaps at the sight of her.

“I’ve been so worried about you,” your friend confesses in a hushed whisper. “[First], what... what happened? You completely fell off the face of the Earth for months. Then you contact me out of nowhere? What’s going on?”

It isn’t easy meeting her eyes, so you don’t. “I... I don’t know if it’s safe to talk about it. The less you know, the better.”

She takes a moment to assess you before sighing. “Alright, I can tell this is serious. Just... I’m glad you’re alright.”

Amelia begins driving without another word. Silence hangs in the air, offering a time to reflect. Your plan, Chrollo, what you’ll do next... it whirls around your head like a vortex. A gut feeling refuses to leave you alone whenever you picture his face. A dreadful thought that this entire escapade was too easy. Is it just your paranoia? It could very well be. Hugging your backpack closer to you for comfort, you’re startled by Amelia suddenly speaking up.

“The subway station, huh,” she reminiscences aloud, eyes flickering from the road to you. “So you’re leaving Yorknew?”

There’s no way to continue dodging her questions. “... Yeah, I am.”

“Where are you going?”

It’s natural she’d have lots of questions. Had the situation been reversed, you’d have plenty of your own. For her wellbeing you don’t want to indulge more than necessary. Lying to someone who is helping you lives a sour taste in your mouth. It’s for her sake, you remind yourself. Having to involve Amelia in this at all was the last thing you wanted to do.

“I’m going to Zaban City. I have some extended family there.”

Amelia hums in confirmation to your story. “Your cousin, right?”

“Right.”

She stops pressing that particular subject, likely sensing your apprehension. You take advantage of the peaceful atmosphere and close your eyes. The sleeping pills from earlier are starting to grow more prominent. Losing consciousness is the last thing you need right now, but indulging in some much needed rest sounds too inviting.

“There was something else I was wondering about.” Amelia starts, earning your attention. Looks like sleep will have to wait for later. You yawn, stretching your weary limbs, and wait for her to continue. She smiles, dark eyelashes fluttering shut in deep thought.

“Oh, sweet [First],” she whispers your name in the gentlest of tones, and looks over at you. “Why are you so selfish?”

You blink, the words not settling in immediately. “What...?”

She continues without missing a beat. “You used to be so envious of me. Always pretending to play nice, because you were too passive to say how you really felt. How you hated me.”

“Amelia? What are you talking about? I... I never hated you, what--”

“Even now you can’t bring yourself to admit the truth,” she sighs. “Not that I’m surprised. You’ve always cared way too much about what people think. Why would now be any different?”

Her unexpected attack on your character has you shifting in your seat. Every word that leaves her lips is in her voice, yet feels so different than her normal character. Did something happen in the time Chrollo took you away? Anxiety rears its ugly head at the line of questioning. You take a sudden interest in your fingers, playing with them on your lap.

“I don’t understand where any of this is coming from.” You admit, eyebrows furrowing together. The shift in atmosphere is tangible. What was once a warm reunion under stressful times has corrupted into a frosty confrontation. These insecurities of hers that laid dormant in your heart... why is she bringing this up now? In your most vulnerable hour? Nothing is making sense. These ugly feelings of yours were only ever confided in one person.

“You knew it’d be a danger to my life to contact me. You knew that, and still you did it all the same. I wonder why that is. Could it be... that you wouldn’t care if I died? If I was tortured for aiding your escape?”

Your heart drops. This knowledge... how can she know any of this? Amelia used the word escape, clear as day. Is that a coincidence? You look over at the car door, seeing it’s locked. Something’s not right here, you deduce. I don’t know what it is exactly, but something is very wrong...!

She continues on. “I really do want to know what your justification for this is. Out of everyone you could’ve picked for help, you specifically chose me, knowing the danger it’d bring. Did you think I’d be spared in some sort of miracle?”

The spare moonlight streaming in illuminates Amelia’s face, highlighting how pale her skin looks. Veins that would normally not have been so prominent have a blue tint, her lips a similar shade. Your eyes drop to the unnaturally large scarf that surrounds her neck. It’s not that cold out yet, why is she wearing something so cumbersome? Reaching out with unsteady hands, you pull the fabric back. Your gut feels like it’s been punched at the sight, eyes widening in horror.

On the back of her neck is an antenna, with bat wings on the end.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit--

In a frenzy, you stretch forward, searching for the button to unlock the car door. The second you find it, it’s pressed, and you unbuckle your seatbelt. You hear her speaking up again. Your heart feels like it’s about to burst from your chest as you jump out the car, grateful it isn’t going too fast. Skin meeting asphalt, you hiss at the pain, rolling onto your side. None of that matters now. How did he do it? He has to be nearby, maybe you can still make it to the station in time. Your head hurts from the impact, legs wobbling like jelly.

It’s difficult to focus. You grit your teeth, utilizing the remnants of your strength to get to your knees. Why did the caffeine have to wear off so soon...? It was going so well. You finally had your chance, your time to take back your life. To go back to how things were. Struggling to get to your feet, you throw your backpack off, praying the lost weight will help you get up.

“You never answered my questions,” calls a deeper voice. You gulp back acidic bile as a hand is extended in front of you. “I was hoping you would.”

Your head hangs down. It’s over. For a transgression such as this, you imagine you’re in for quite the punishment. How funny a thing fate is. Similar to streams of rushing water, there are many twists and turns, leading you down paths you never wanted to go. Fingernails dig into the sensitive flesh of your palms, the pain anchoring your wandering mind to reality. All other parts of your body have lost feeling. Numbness is what you’ve come to know.

The devil incarnate bends over, taking your tearstained face into his fingers, and lifting it to meet his eyes. An abyss of grey stares back at you, devoid of humanity. Taking pleasure in besting you yet again. Disappointment is mixed within an interest to see what you’ll do next. There’s no smile on his face as you’ve come to expect. You see an empty shell of a man glowering down at you, from a place just out of reach.

“I can’t say I’m too pleased about this, [First]. We’ll need to have a long discussion, don’t you think?”

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