#if all it got me was PTSD three times over and every time I think I’m through it something else traumatising happens | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

2hightocare · 4 months

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INFATUATED!

“In a world of boys, he’s a gentleman.” — mini series ❦︎

Synopsis: The feeling of finding a person who makes your tummy do cartwheels everyday, no matter what the situation is.

Pairings: nonidol!jungkook x fem!reader

Warnings: super cute duper fluff, jk being the epitome of every girls dream man. Argument, oc crying, Jungkook wasting money on oc, banter, cussing, flirting. Js super cute cliché shit…

a/n: they’re my babies… they’re so ‘tear in my heart’ coded but after this I might be inactive. I have a paper due in three weeks 10 pages long so…. Plus in my free time I’m working on a series that I will drop the teaser and aesthetic maybe later or tmr🤍🤍🤍 enjoy!! Kithes.

Falling in love with Jungkook was so easy that it scared you. He did everything right, and whenever there was something wrong, he would do anything in his power to make it right. You thought it was too good to be true, and he would just disappear into angel dust if you blinked too fast.

“How do you feel?” Your boyfriend moves your hair out of your face, kissing your forehead in the process. “Warm.” You talk about the fever you have. The covers that were wrapped tightly around you are shredded from you. “Hey!” You pout, shaking from how cold you feel even though the air is off and it’s not cold. “You’re not going to get better, baby.” He pouts back at you, holding the covers tightly on his chest as you try to fight back for it.

“I'm freezing,” you whine, your eyelids fluttering shut as his palm touches your face.

“You’re burning, baby,” he lets you know while sighing.

You had gotten sick yesterday, which had started with a sore throat. You had thought when you would have woken up today it would’ve been gone; spoiler: it got worse.

Jungkook makes his way to his kitchen, opening up the gray cabinet in front of him. He pulls out the tray filled with medicine his mom gave him whenever he moved out around four years ago. He pops open the pill container, taking two small white round pills out before grabbing a water bottle and making his way to you, who’s curled up on his couch.

Jungkook feels like shit whenever he can’t do anything to make you feel better. It didn’t matter what it was; he would do anything in his power to make you feel better. Seeing you sick, your face red from how hot you are, your eyes closed, and curled up from how cold you felt had him thinking that if he could take away your sickness and be sick instead, Jungkook would choose that option in an instant.

He hands you the pills and the water bottle and watches you take them one by one. He remembers when you gawked at him when he took 4 pills at once and learned that you have a fear of the pill going down the wrong tube.

He also remembers that you prefer pills and injections instead of just medicine syrup. Which baffled him, to say the least; how could someone prefer an injection instead of just strawberry-flavored syrup? He laughed at you, which you just shrugged because it was the truth; you preferred to get poked by a needle than just drinking something.

“That’s actually crazy.” Jungkook throws his head backwards as a laugh rips out of his chest. “It’s nasty. I don’t care what flavor it is. I would literally throw it up.” You scrunch your nose, remembering the taste of the medicines your parents literally shoved down your throat so you could get better.

“Don’t get me started on how anything medicine strawberry flavored gives me PTSD till this day.” You shiver from the thought, which has your boyfriend laughing at you.

“I can’t breathe,” you say, your voice scratchy from your sore throat as you breathe from your mouth. “I should’ve enjoyed breathing when I could,” you joke, watching your boyfriend's eyes twinkle. They had a small glimmer to them, making you wonder how that could possibly happen and why you haven't seen it before with anyone else.

Jungkook had no clue how he ended up here… with a girl he met in a chemistry class that accidentally dropped sulfuric acid all over the floor alongside the beaker smashing into tiny pieces. He watched how your eyes widened as a small piece of your hair dropped beautifully in front of your face out of the low ponytail. You had tied it with a blue latex glove as a hair tie since you didn’t have one after no one in class had one to let you borrow.

That was two years ago; now here he was taking care of you as you struggled to breathe from your congested nose.

“Can I get my blanket back?” You pout at him, which he only shook his head with a chuckle.

….

“Get whatever you want,” Jungkook gave your ass a little tap as you entered the makeup store, your eyes widening from excitement. “Don’t say stuff like that,” you give him a look, which has him tilting your face up with his hand.

“Why, baby?” He chuckles, pecking your pouted lips.

“Because it makes me feel things, duh,” you whisper into his lips. He smiles into your mouth. His lip piercing sends cold shocks through your body that has you playfully shoving him away, remembering where you guys are.

“Get whatever you want, and then we can go to the bookstore,” Jungkook picks up the black and white striped little Sephora bag before pointing in front of you to walk.

You giggled as you started looking for the things that have been sitting in your phone cart for a while now. Jungkook follows behind you, stopping whenever you stop to look at the shelves for something before you drop the product in the basket in your boyfriend's hand.

“That’s really cute,” Jungkook mentions the lipstick tester you have in your hand. “You should get it,” he says, tilting his head at you, watching you open the lid being met with a reddish-dark color.

“Don’t you think it’s too dark?” You look up at your smiling boyfriend.

“What?” You giggle as you stare back at him. “You look beautiful,” he says casually, reaching for your beanie and pulling it down a bit more, fixing it. “You literally want me to die right now,” you joke. “Baby!” Jungkook laughs at the tone of voice you used.

“You can’t keep saying things like that without expecting me to literally melt away,” you lean your body onto him while he wraps his strong hands around your much smaller frame as you look up to him.

“I just say whatever is in my mind at the moment, princess,” he explains, giving your waist a small squeeze, making you squirm as the feeling made you ticklish. “Ah!” You laugh as his fingers dig into your rib cage, tickling you.

You push him away as he tries to continue to tickle your tummy. “Stop!” You laugh, trying to get away as far as you can from him.

Jungkook stops when he sees two girls around your guy's age pass beside you both with judging eyes. “Someone’s mad...” Jungkook whispers into your head as you just shake your head with a laugh.

“Let’s leave, I got everything,” you giggle, intertwining your fingers with him, making your way to the line.

When you guys finally get to the line, you are met with a pretty blonde girl, her dimples carved into her skin when she smiles up at you both. “Hi, is that all?” The girl said, you take notice of her name tag.

“Yes, that's all, thank you,” you smile back. “Find everything you wanted?” Genesis asks, as she starts scanning the products. “Yeah, thanks,” you say, playing with the strings of your hoodie as you see the price rise with each scan.

“Card or cash?” Genesis says, as she points to the credit card reader.

“Card,” Jungkook says before you could reply. He pulls out his black card from the back of the phone case, before scanning it through the white card reader without looking at the price. The machine makes a small sound, “here you go, have a wonderful day!” The girl says ripping the receipt before putting it into the white and black bag, handing it to you.

“Thank you, baby,” you say as you walk out the door of the store, Jungkook smiles at you before shrugging. “The least I could do, princess,” he gives your hand three small squeezes, which feels like he’s squeezing your heart as well. “It was expensive as fuck,” you pout at him. “How much?” He asks, “a thousand.” You cringe, scrunching your nose up at realizing the astonishing price. “That’s it?” Jungkook raises an eyebrow before reaching to the passenger side of his car.

“What! You’re crazy,” you say, giving him a slight swat. You watch as the side of his lips quirk up, making you mirror his actions.

“I love you,” you pout, as he leans into his car. “And I love you so much more,” he says, pulling you into him from your waist.

You tipped toe to reach for his lips, his lips mold with yours perfectly as you both were pieces of a puzzle. “How do you want the kiss?” He asks, giving your waist a squeeze. “What is this, a drive-thru? I get to ask what type of kiss I want,” you giggle, letting your forehead drop onto his chest which rumbles with a laugh.

“You get to ask whatever you want from me,” Jungkook rubs your back softly on top of your thick hoodie. “Oh shit,” your eyes widened as you saw the small print of your makeup on his black shirt when you raised your head upwards. “What?” He looks down to his shirt where you’re rubbing your fingers on the dirty print.

“I just ruined your shirt, baby, ahh!” You freak, which has Jungkook laughing while trying to reassure you that it’s fine and he’ll just wash it when he gets home.

As much as you guys had moments like this, you guys had your disagreements. They weren’t as bad where they ended in screaming matches or end up not talking for days, you guys usually make up the same day before going to bed. Jungkook loathed going to bed whenever you two fought; he felt compelled to make things right before even considering sleep.

“Why are you making me feel bad?” You say, your voice cracking, which echoes the fractures in Jungkook's heart. “I’m not, baby. It’s just... I can’t do anything about it,” Jungkook tries to reason with you.

“She was literally all over you, and you didn’t stop it,” you feel your eyes start to water before staring down at your converse.

“She’s my mom's best friend's daughter; I can’t just tell her to fuck off, y/n. I backed off. I can’t control what she does,” Jungkook raises his voice, a tear falling down your cheek as he addresses you by your first name, a departure from his usual endearments, which feels like a knife to your chest.

“Okay, then,” you nod, tears starting to cascade down, smudging your makeup in the process.

Jungkook's throat tightens; he feels like he can't breathe, feeling like shit. He watches you wipe your tears, small sniffles escaping your mouth. “I’m going to go,” you sniffle, turning your back to him and reaching for your bag.

“No, don't leave, let’s talk this out,” Jungkook implores, turning you around to face him. He reaches for your cheeks, wiping away the tears that continue to fall down your puffy cheeks. “You’re hurting me,” you say, with a sniffle.

“I know. I’m fucking sorry, baby,” he feels his heart racing, wanting to die for making you feel bad for caring about him.

“Why didn’t you push her away or say something? You made me look fucking stupid, Jungkook,” you cry, recalling the pang of feeling as Kailey flirted with him in front of his family, and he did nothing to stop it, leaving you feeling small and insignificant.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he kisses away your tears, trying to soothe the ache in your heart. “I promise I’ll shove her off whenever I see her, and if I have the chance to avoid her, I will,” he whispers into your cheek with each kiss he leaves on your face.

“Promise?” You whisper, finally meeting his worried eyes.

“Promise, baby,” he whispers back, holding eye contact with your red, puffy eyes.

“I hate making you cry; please forgive me,” Jungkook pulls you into him, hugging you tightly as if afraid you'll slip away. “I forgive you, just don’t do it ever again,” you sniffle into his chest, feeling the throb in your heart melt away.

“I love you,” he says, swaying you both in the middle of his living room.

“I love you,” you sniffle.

….

"But the Maze Runner is so good," you literally whine at your boyfriend, who is in the middle of changing his shirt.

"Yeah, but not as good as Spiderman," he says, poking his head out the shirt hole with a grin.

"Okay, true, but the Maze Runner is just as good; you need to read the book to understand," you mumble, trying to separate a piece of hair from your mouth as you curl another strand with your wand.

"You just have a huge crush on Dylan O’Brian, let’s be honest," your boyfriend chuckles, sending you a look through the mirror, to which you just roll your eyes back at him, acknowledging a) that he was right. b) he was literally right.

“Says the boy who had a crush on Fluttershy when we watched My Little Pony,” you say, giving him a 'don’t try me' look. His jaw falls before giving your hair a tiny soft pull.

"You said you wouldn’t bring it up," he laughs before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Well..." you just shrug.

“Fluttershy reminds me of you,” Jungkook stands behind you, his fingers playing with your freshly curled hair. “Until you act like a brat,” he tugs on your hair, making your head snap backwards, where he leaves a big fat smooch on your lips.

“Okay, princess, let’s go,” he says before unplugging the curling wand wire, grabbing your bag and coat, before holding your hand and leading you outside.

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wordstome · 7 months

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COD Men as Dream Daddy DILFs

Call of Duty single dads x gn!single parent reader

⤐Characters: 141 + König + Horangi + Keegan

⤐Premise: You just moved into a neighborhood with a high population of retired military personnel.

*glances at my 3-4 wips* let's talk about some dilfs, shall we? ...Don't look at me. I had a vision. (No relation to the actual characters from Dream Daddy, just a similar premise) Also a disclaimer: I'm writing these dads mostly in their late 30s to 40s, but don't think about their ages and the ages of their kids too much. This is all vibes. And sorry ahead of time if I gave one of the kids the same name as you 💀 Feel free to imagine the kid has a different name because the names really don't matter

p.s. I wanted to write more characters but I had to reel myself in. I could be persuaded to write a part 2 with Vaqueros, Nikolai, Valeria, Nikto, and other Ghosts tbh

Warning: this shit is LENGTHY. Strap yourself in.

Price: A post about DILFs and you expect me not to start with Captain John Price? Price is the lynchpin of this cul de sac. He's the one inviting everyone over to the barbecue, tries to get the dads to get along, and gives everyone advice. He has the quintessential dad energy. He 100% slaps his knees and says "well!" when he gets up. Price also has major girl dad energy. He's got three adorable little ladies, aged 3 (Clara), 9 (Brianna), and 11 (Alice). Yes, he did name his daughters in ABC order, I can see him doing that. Oh, he dotes on his girls, and they love their dad endlessly. He's the model father: recitals, sports, parent teacher conferences, you name it, he's there.

That's how the two of you meet: he comes up to you at one of the aforementioned events and gives you a firm handshake and apologizes profusely for not coming around to introduce himself earlier. It's not like him not to at least swing by, and he hopes you can forgive him the discourtesy. He hands you his number and says anything you need, just give him a call, or maybe swing by for a beer sometime. He gives you a wink that makes your knees weak, a wink that says he definitely noticed you checking out his muscled arms and broad shoulders. Maybe you will swing by for that beer sometime—and maybe get a little more than just a drink.

Ghost: I could see Simon having a one night stand kid. He certainly never saw himself starting a family after he lost his last one, but he was stressed and probably piss drunk as well. Years and years later, he's back from deployment and finds a social worker with a boy on his doorstep, and the rest is history. I love the idea of Simon with a moody 16 year old, but I actually see Simon and his son having the same dynamic as Mike and Abby Schmidt from the FNAF movie. Since Simon wasn't around for Caden's early childhood, they have a relationship that's undeniably father and son, but leaning towards casual and sibling-like. Simon's figuring his shit out, dealing with his PTSD and the various lasting health issues his time in special forces has left him with, and Caden's a quiet, sensitive 10 year old boy who thinks the world of his dad.

You meet Simon at the local bar. His Ghost days are long behind him, but the balaclava's a hard habit to kick. Besides, he doesn't need people staring at his scars. He's usually there with the 141, but today he's alone, and looks like he could use some company. You sit up at the bar close to him and order a drink, but you don't disturb him, and he visibly relaxes when he realizes you're not going to try to make small talk. It becomes a routine, the two of you: always sharing a quiet drink together at the bar, and then both of you wordlessly go home to your kids. You have a sort of silent conversation every time: Good to see you again. Yeah, you too. Neither of you actually speak a word to the other until Price introduces you to him at a gathering, and you finally hear his voice. "We've met before," he says, with a glint in his eye that suggests perhaps he'd like to be more than just a silent drinking buddy. That's fine with you: you're dying to see what's under the mask and dark hoodie.

Soap: JOCK ALERT. Johnny's basically Craig from Dream Daddy: total dreamboat who goes on runs around the neighborhood and gets all the appreciative looks from the local moms. He thrives on the attention in a way that definitely makes the 141 roll their eyes. He's got an older little girl named Elodie, and a lil baby boy Thomas that he takes everywhere with him. Obviously he's just being a responsible parent taking care of an infant, but secretly, Thomas is a great conversation starter with aforementioned local moms.

Conversely however, it's Johnny who makes the move on you first. Maybe in the grocery store, maybe at one of Price's get-togethers. Sidles up to you and introduces himself with a look in his eye that means trouble. Only the good kind of trouble, of course. If you reciprocate and he finds out you're single, you're not getting rid of him. But why would you want to, anyway? He's endlessly charming, attentive, and good with his hands. When he's fixing a leaky tap for you, of course—what did you think I meant?

Gaz: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is a fucking heartthrob. I'm saying it right here, right now. He's a walks in with flowers, makes you dinner kind of partner. Also househusband vibes, because, surprise: Kyle is still married. This isn't a Joseph (Dream Daddy) situation, though: he and his wife, Emily, have known each other for a long time, a very high school sweethearts situation. Over the years, though, they drifted apart with Kyle in the military, and Emily eventually realized she's not actually into men. They're still married for coparenting purposes: they've got an older teenage girl named Violet, and a younger boy named Elliott. (Yes, I'm naming him after Elliot Knight, sue me.)

Honestly, I think it would be HILARIOUS if you met Kyle on a dating app and realized he's your next-door neighbor. But however you guys meet, Kyle is an old-school courter kind of guy. He is taking you on dinner dates, listening to you rant about your day, and is on your doorstep in a heartbeat when you call him in a panic because your kid's running a 105 fever (41 in Celsius) and you need a ride to the emergency room. (Not that the other dads wouldn't do the same, but I'm trying to convey "most reliable man in the world" vibes here.)

König: Y'all...you don't know how much fucken time I've spent thinking about this man as a dad. He's in the same boat as Ghost where he never saw himself living long enough to start a family, but here he is with the most precious little girl you've ever laid eyes on. Ava's got her father's curly hair and big green eyes, and she has her dad wrapped around her pinky finger. For König, Ava is living proof that he's capable of being more than just a tool for violence.

You meet König through Ava, of course. Your kids are the closest of friends, and the two of them are constantly going over to each other's houses. You're obviously delighted that your kid is making new friends and fitting in so well, but you'd be lying if your heart didn't skip a beat whenever you open your door to see Ava's six foot ten dad standing there with soft eyes and a sheepish smile. I have to stop here, because I've already written an extra paragraph for this man that I've cut out and pasted for safekeeping in my notes app, and if encouraged I will write more. (Please encourage me.)

Horangi: I know we already had a sort of Robert (Dream Daddy) figure with Ghost, but I think Horangi is a dad whose kid is an adult, much like Robert and Val. I also think that out of all the dads, Horangi is likely the one who's still doing some level of military work. Either that, or he has a very demanding job that takes up a lot of his time. He's ashamed of the way he let his gambling affect his family in the past, and is making up for it by being responsible and keeping his finances in order.

You don't meet him until you've lived in the neighborhood for quite a while, but he pops up at a gathering, talking quietly with König in a corner. You'd thought you had met every neighbor in the cul de sac, so you're intrigued by the newcomer. Someone, probably Price, tells you what Hong-jin's deal is, and ever since that you just can't keep your eyes off of him. You can't quite work up the nerve to talk to him, so you occupy yourself talking with the other parents. Some time later, you're at the food table grazing on the snacks when you look up and make eye contact with him. There's something intense in his gaze that makes you freeze, like a deer in headlights. He's definitely checking you out, you think. Your chest erupts into nervous butterflies when he starts walking towards you.

Keegan: Keegan is an adoptive father! I love his dynamic with the Walker boys, so I can see him being the kind of guy who adopts an older teenager so they have a home and a family instead of aging out of the system. Jason and Cecelia are high school age siblings who would have been separated otherwise, and consider Keegan their dad in every way that's important.

I think you and Keegan are definitely rivals in some way. Maybe it's a PTO thing, maybe he gets a little too boisterous at your kids' sports game. Whatever it is, you can't stand the man, but your annoyance whenever he's around only seems to amuse him. You have no problem saying to his face exactly what you think about him, but unfortunately, Keegan can see right through you. And hey, Cecelia could use some experience as a babysitter, so you won't have to worry about spending the night over at his place, will you?

As always, I wanna hear peoples' thoughts and feedback! If you want to hear more about these dads, drop me an ask <3

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peachesofteal · 7 months

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Simple Math / Part Three

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 4.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, nurse!reader. Feelings of fear and anxiety. Flirting. Emotional hurt/comfort. Panic attack. PTSD. Comfort. "You'll be with him?"

“-nna let ‘im die out here-“

“-is too risky without adequate-“

Johnny is drowning in a sea of shattered voices, whispers of words that sound like they might be coming from Gaz, or Price, hushed prayers and promises, jargon he doesn’t understand washing over him from unfamiliar, clinical mouths.

It’s overwhelming. He can hardly get his eyes to open, and when he does, they stay half shut for what feels like hours, even though he knows, logically, it’s mere seconds.

He’s no longer strapped into a backboard, but a bed, and the ceiling is not metal and rivets, but white and canvas, voices competing with the constant sound of beeping.

“Soap.” Price leans into his line of sight, hat gone, exhausted. He’s holding a sat phone, the one they usually carry during missions in one hand, a file folder in another. He looks his age, Johnny thinks, for the first time in his career. Looks like he’s spent eons in combat, like he hasn’t had a full night’s rest in a decade. “John. You’re in the hospital on base.” At the use of his government name, Johnny tries to straighten on instinct. The soft, floating feelings he’s been having for the past who knows how long have faded, and his body is starting to feel like it’s been pumped with gasoline, and then lit on fire. From the inside. “Are you with me, Sergeant?” He tries to vocalize, tries to say yes, or nod, but can hardly get his neck to work, bones and ligaments and everything in him screaming in agony. “They want to take you in a flight for life, get you home to a top hospital. Simon's already agreed, but he- he wants to speak with you.” Price wrenches his fingers open and lifts the clunky satellite phone to his face. “I rang him, on the emergency line, at home. Just… you need to-“ he stops, chest heaving with a desperate breath, an indulgence of emotion that Johnny has never seen. His captain wants to tell him- you need to say goodbye, just in case. But he can’t find the words, and Johnny can’t make it fit in his head, the reality, the stark reminder that he could not be here, in a moment. Or an hour. A day. “Open your eyes, John. Stay awake.”

“Johnny.” The Manchester accent crackles through the receiver. Johnny can almost see him, cell pressed to his face, pacing in the living room. He wonders if he’s got the fireplace lit, if it’s chilly now that it's turning to winter, if there’s been frost on the windows of their little house. If Simon is wearing a pair of sweatpants, if he’s got the television on as he tries to make dinner. “Johnny. Sit rep.” The status check comes through harsh, but the truth is tucked away beneath the grit. Fear. Life altering, heart breaking fear drenches every syllable that spills from his partner.

Pain sizzles through his muscles, across his brain, but he swallows it, shoves it down into a dark hole for another minute.

“Pretty banged up.”

“They’re going to lift you to a hospital,” He thinks he knew that. “and you’re goin’ be alright. I’ll meet you there.”

“Ah love ye, Si.” It’s all he can say. All he can think about. The excruciating agony that is radiating through his body robs him of everything else.

“I love you too. Hang on.” Johnny grinds his jaw, blowing short breaths through his nose to try to control his pain response, and then holds his breath when soft babbles echo through the phone. “It’s Da, Pen. It’s Da. Can you say Da?”

“Da?” Penny mimics her dad, and Johnny wonders if they’re sitting on the couch, Penelope tucked up against Simon’s chest, wispy curls tickling just below his nose as she climbs all over him like a jungle gym.

“Ma wee lamb.” Johnny whispers. “Ah love ye, Pen.” There’s more babbling, half strung together words, more than appropriate for a fourteen-month-old, and Johnny’s temples shine with tears that drip from the corners of his eyes. There’s talking, around him, people bustling back and forth. A hand brushes against skin, sharp pinch squeezing along the inside of his arm.

“Can you say, I love you?” Simon encourages, but Johnny knows it’s a lost cause.

“When she’s old enough to understand, ye tell her Ah loved her, loved her so much. Ye an’ her, is all I ever wished fer.”

“Stop.” Simon breathes. “You’re going to be fine.”

There’s another poke in his arm, someone lighting a fire in his veins, and he loses the battle to his eyes once more.

Your neck grumbles in protest when you try to twist it, working out tight muscle and tendon, rolling it across your shoulders and down, back and forth, over and over again.

You should go home.

You know you should. It’s two hours past seven, you should already be home. Should already be in your flat, showering the workday off and crawling into bed. You could be having a tea, snuggled up in your sweatpants, moving playing on low in the background. Warm, safe. Nearly asleep.

Johnny twitches beside you. His fingers clench in the blankets and then relax, face smoothing out in his dreams. The mask is gone, replaced with the cannula that loops beneath his nose, and the monitor beeps in soothing, reassuring, stable tones. One chime right after another, relaying his vitals to where you sit in Simon’s chair, feet slung over the side, kindle in your lap.

You made a promise.

And even without that promise, for some reason, you couldn’t just leave Johnny here to wake up alone. The idea of him coming to and being confused, or scared, again, made your stomach twist uncomfortably. Even before you promised Simon to stay earlier, you already knew.

You wouldn’t be leaving.

“He’s had a seizure.” Simon’s eyes widen above the mask and then flatten into something harder, something almost distrusting. “Neuro’s done an exam and they’re of the opinion there will be no long-term deficits, but we’ll need to wait until he wakes to be sure. They’re still trying to figure out what caused it, but most likely it's a result from surgery.” He moves to shoulder by you, no doubt trying to beeline back to Johnny’s room, but you hold your hand up with a pause. “I can’t let you go back in there yet.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not awake.”

“I don’t-“

“Simon, this is the ICU. I don’t know who or what strings you pulled to even be allowed to sit with him in there twenty-four seven, but it’s not the norm. You won’t be allowed back in that room until we are sure he is stable.” You don’t tell him that you don’t want him to be there when Johnny wakes in case there are deficits, that you’re trying to save him from the pain, the heartbreak, of seeing things that patient’s loved ones are not meant to see.

He regards you silently, and you fidget under the scrutiny, waiting for him to speak, trying to ignore how your mouth is going dry. This isn’t the first he’s watched you like this, stared at you like he’s trying to pick you apart, and you swallow your grimace until the long moment passes, his voice low, gritty with stress. Exhaustion.

“I’m supposed to go home today for a bit. I… don’t want to leave ‘im.”

“You can still go. He’s sleeping for now, and when he wakes, they’ll have to do some more tests that you won’t be allowed in the room for anyway.” He looks down the hallway towards Johnny’s room, before his eyes find yours, heavy with grief, indecision.

“You’ll be with him?” He can’t hide the hopeful inflection at the end of his question, his need for a light in the dark of this situation.

“I-“ The thought didn’t occur to you, to not be there. You imagined you’d wait until Johnny was cleared by neuro and Simon was allowed back in the room, but the morning has dragged on, and he’s been sleeping peacefully. There’s been no desire to wake him unnecessarily. “Yes. I’ll stay with him. I promise.”

“He go home?” Johnny’s voice, scratchy from sleep and medication and everything else, startles you from a half doze, spine straightening into a rod before you’re leaping to your feet, leaning over his prone figure.

“You’re awake.” You find his good hand, slipping two fingers into his grip. “Can you squeeze my hand?” When he does, tightly, more strength in it than you were expected, you give him an honest, happy smile, and retreat to the end of the bed, flipping up his blanket to poke at the bottom of his feet. “Can you feel that?”

“Aye.”

“And this?”

“Aye.” He huffs at you, impatient. “Did he go home?” You sigh in response, hand on your hip.

“Yes.”

“Finally. Been tellin’ him he had to. The man’s back ‘s not made to sleep sittin’ up.”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t want to leave. I told him I’d sit with you.” You reach over to press the page button, looking intentionally away from where those bright blue eyes track you, sweet and soft and open, lips slightly parted. “How’s your pain? I’m not on the clock any longer, so I can’t page the neurologist, but they’ll have come and do a few tests.”

“Ye wanted to sit with me, pretty girl?” Your face gets hot, blood pooling beneath your skin, pit of your stomach liquifying into something honeyed and potent that flows through your veins until you swear you can feel the room getting warmer.

“How’s your pain?” you repeat your question, words dumb on your tongue.

“A five.” You raise an eyebrow. “Alright, a seven. And a half.” The days nurse knocks with perfect timing, all hustle and bustle, bright and cheery, and asks Johnny the same questions, keeping up a perfect stream of small talk between you and Johnny until Neuro is standing at the foot of his bed, and you’re excusing yourself.

“Okay, I’m-“

“Dinnae leave.” He protests, voice quiet. Your stomach lurches at the vulnerability there, and you’re quick to reassure him.

“I’m just going to get a tea.” You promise, even though you know he’ll probably be half loopy by the time you’re back, and the dayshift nurse gives you a nod, acknowledgement of his state, an understanding that she’ll be here with him.

Not an hour later, your pocket chimes with a text from the dayshifter as you half sip your tea, letting you know that Johnny’s exam is done, and as you pass her in the hallway, she gives you verbal confirmation of what you were hoping for: his brain function is normal. He’ll have to go for CT later, but she’s just given him another dosage for pain management. You yawn in the middle of her pass-on, and she tells you that she'll keep an eye on him. You can go.

She's not wrong.

You need to go to bed.

You know your presence at your patient's bedside won't be viewed as unprofessional, since others have done it in far less severe situations, but the pendulum your emotions swing on every time you step foot in that room leaves you with a sinking feeling that's starting to crawl across your skin.

You wanted this. You wanted to stay with him.

Simon asked you stay with him.

Yeah, but for how long? He cannot expect you to spend all day here. You have to go to bed. Are you just going to leave him all alone? Are you going to wait for Simon to come back?

The dread spiral is easily answered when you slide open the glass door and lay eyes on the very handsome man from the other night, the younger one from the chair vigil, now sitting beside Johnny, the two of them softly chuckling.

When Johnny spots you, he manages to fire off your name as a half-effort introduction, more than expected considering his slowly slipping state of consciousness.

“I’m Kyle. Soap an’ I work together.” Soap? Who is Soap?

“She doesnae know me b’ Soap, only calls me Johnny.” He explains your confused look, to which Kyle raises an eyebrow.

“Wow. Letting your nurse call you Johnny, eh? Simon better-“

“Ach, stop.” He rolls his eyes, but sleep tugs his lids downward.

“It’s nice to meet you.” You give Johnny and his monitor a once over, catching yourself on his sweet, sleepy gaze, flushed face and lazy smile, before directing your attention back to Kyle. “I told Simon, I’d sit with him for a bit before he got back, but…”

“I’m here in his place.” Kyle explains, motioning to the chair, and you breathe a small sigh of relief. You will get to go home and get some sleep, after all.

There’s a woman with a confused look on her face just outside the elevator. She looks exhausted, skin raw under her eyes, clutching a baby who’s maybe a year, or a bit older, in her arms, glancing up and down the hall before she spots you.

Fuck. You’re still wearing your scrubs.

“Hi.” You smile, and she visibly relaxes, obviously relieved. The baby tucks her face into the woman’s chest like she’s shy, coyly looking at you from corner of her eye. “You look lost.”

“I’m looking for the nurse’s station. My husband was supposed to meet me here but he’s running late and I-“

“It’s all the way down, take the first left, and it will be at the end of that hallway.”

“Oh my god, thank you so much.” She glances at your ID, punctuating her gratitude with your name, and you give her another smile, leaning to extend towards the baby as well.

“So cute.” You tell her, pressing the elevator button with a ding.

“Cute. But she’s a little terror, especially when she’s missing her Da.” She grumbles, and then waves, setting off against the white tile as you laugh to yourself. Pretty much sums kids up. Cute little terrors.

A week passes easily, beds and rooms changing over, room two sixty-eight remaining a constant. Johnny takes his battles on the chin, burn debridement on his side, casting for his wrist, removal of his chest tube, a third surgery.

“He’s a fighter.” Simon tells you one night in the dark after he’s slipped off to sleep. “Always has been. He's strong. Spirited.”

“I can see.” You agree, holding out the extra blanket you’ve pulled from a cabinet. When Simon takes it, his eyes meet yours, something soft shining in them, and you give him a smile in return.

“Thank you.” He murmurs. “For everything.”

A few days later, you’re surprised, and secretly pleased, to find Simon in the café.

He’s standing in front of the counter, paying for what you think might a baked good of some kind, sweet lady behind the register eyeing him up suspiciously as he deposits the note into her hand, and you stay on the outside of the doors, lingering in the hallway, watching.

At least he’s eating something. He’s still wearing the mask, and although it’s not uncommon, especially in a hospital setting, it does give you pause. Does he wear it all the time? Is it just because this is a hospital? He observes the room, steadily taking in all of the people meandering about, some eating, some standing, making their selections, engaging in conversation, and you notice how his hand slides to the back of his neck, distractedly rubbing the hair at his nape before he makes his escape, long legs eating up the distance between him and the door, him and… you.

“Hi.” You squeak when he steps into the hall, turning the corner to find you standing there like a deer in headlights, your water bottle clutched in one hand, phone in the other. His head tilts, eyes narrowed, and you manage to give him a half smile. “Getting something to eat?”

“It’s for Johnny.” He notes. “I ah, had something to eat earlier. When I was home.” Oh, good. Being in the hospital twenty-four seven isn’t healthy for anyone. Not even patients.

“Cool.” Cool? What is this, a pub? You swallow your embarrassing, awkward acknowledgement, breezing past the word like it didn’t happen. “Well, I’m about to badge in, so I’ll see you in a bit?” He nods, eyes still trained on your face, and you beat back the heat that’s spreading through your body like a fever when they drift down to your shoulders, and then to your badge.

“Cute sticker.” He points to where it’s clipped to your top, shiny bunny sticker from a patient’s child still there, holographic print sparkling in the dusk.

“Oh, thanks. Another patient of mine has a little kid. I was hanging out with him for a bit yesterday.”

“Suits you.” His gaze dips downward, glancing over the curve of your hip, plush from the swell of your ass, taut pull of your scrubs all of the sudden feeling too tight, too stretched across your waist, and you scramble to make sense of his comment.

“A bunny?” Your brows raise in disbelief, confusion, but he only nods, head tilted slightly, posture broad. Your brain turns over, frantically trying to think of a response, something clever, but he continues to talk, clearing his throat with a question.

“What do you call a line of rabbits hopping backwards?” Huh?

“What?”

“A receding hare-line.” Wait. What? Is he… joking with you? Your mouth drops into a little o of part surprise, part confusion, before you squint at him in disbelief.

“Oh… my god. That’s…”

“’s not that bad.” His eyes crinkle at the corners, giving you the impression that he might be smiling beneath the mask, making you wonder if you’re hallucinating.

“It’s pretty bad.” You croak, nervous laughter bubbling up in the back of your throat. “Well, I… uh-“ His phone dings, pulling his focus to the screen, and he swipes out something quickly with his thumb.

“I’ll see you up there.” He jerks his head towards the elevator, and you mumble out a mild, flabbergasted reply.

“Alright... yeah.”

Your first break comes up fast. Your morning, everyone’s evening, is busy, with a code, a tricky vent, and a needy, elderly man in two fifty-two. It goes from busy to worse, an argument with the pharmacy heating your blood, spurring anger through your veins and you have to physically bite your tongue to keep from berating the poor tech at the window. Useless. You seethe in your mind all the way back up to your floor, frustration driving you to seek solace, eager to escape the eyes of the hospital, running away from the possibility of being noticed.

But supply closet 2b is occupied, a frazzled resident huffing into a pillow in the back, hyperventilating with tear-stained cheeks.

Without even fully realizing, you find yourself inside two sixty-eight, Simon’s sharp eyes falling upon you with scrutiny. He looks at Johnny’s monitor like something might be amiss, relaxed posture straightening into something tense, structured. There’s a card game in progress on the swivel tray table over Johnny’s lap, the glaring reality of your interruption, and you blanche.

You’re immediately incredibly embarrassed. What are you even doing in here?

“Miss me already?” Johnny coos, beaming, and your throat feels dry. He’s feeling the best he has since he got here, albeit not great, still in awful pain, still staring down the barrel of more surgeries, but the pain medication from earlier is working its way through his system, and you’re happy to see it’s taking the edge off it all for him, allowing him comfort and conversation with his partner.

“My um… usual break spot is occupied?” You don’t know why you phrase it as a question, it just comes naturally. Like you’re seeking permission. Agreement.

“Ye want to sit with us? While ye eat?” Johnny asks, somewhat pointing to your yogurt cup, and you shrug, but Simon motions to the extra chair, the one that now sits on the other side of the bed, across from him. Guess facilities finally brought down that recliner you requested.

“Would… would that be alright?”

Johnny looks to Simon, and Simon nods. Slowly.

Your yogurt goes down easy, light chit chat bouncing around the room, Johnny nodding in and out with drawn out answers to your questions, until a noise startles you from the chair, pushing you onto your feet to peer out the door.

It’s a man, yelling, screaming, from a room down the hall, not from sadness or despair, but rage, and your mind goes haywire when security is paged over the PA system.

Deep breath.

This happens sometimes. Patients, or loved ones, become disruptive. Secrets and lies all come out in the wash in a hospital. Custody agreements, battles, DNRs, last wills and testaments, any of these things are a perfect tinder box. One match, and it all goes up.

A siren blares.

“Code black, code black.” echoes through the hospital, each room on every floor, down every hall.

Johnny startles from his near sleep stupor, eyes alert, the outline of his muscles solid beneath his gown.

Security risk. Lockdown.

You straighten your spine.

Deep breath.

This is your job.

Part of your job is being able to handle things like this. Protect, take care of your patients, and their families. Keep them safe.

The man shouts again, sharp tone of anger snapping through the air and across your frame, forcing your muscles tense.

You slide the door lock into place, pulling the curtain to only allow a small line of sight.

“What’s going on?” Simon stands, turning towards the door, and Johnny pats his hand, like he’s trying to soothe him.

“Oh, uh. It’s… just a lockdown. I don’t know.” You’re vaguely aware of the numb feeling that’s spreading from your chest down into your hand, and the sound of the irate man gets closer. Fuck.

“Ye okay?” Johnny’s voice is gentle, and when you glance over your shoulder to reassure them, you realize they’re both watching you, Simon’s eyes locked onto your now trembling fist, as Johnny regards you softly, with kindness.

“Um. Yeah.” You suck in a quick breath, forcing yourself to steady, gritting your teeth against the frozen, involuntary fear that’s trying to overpower you. You think Simon might be frowning beneath the mask, confusion shading his question.

“Why are you standing at the door?”

“It’s standard operating procedure. If there’s an issue, or a disturbance. If you’re in a patient’s room, if I- I’m in a patient’s room, I’m supposed to act like a… barrier. Just in case.” You keep your eyes fixed out the glass, watching for any sights, listening for any sounds. The door is locked, and glass is thick, and security would be here if anything were to happen, they’re already down the hall, everything is fine. Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep-

“Go sit with Johnny.” Simon's standing just behind you, voice pitched low, sweetened into one of those softer hums, the kind of tone he usually uses with Johnny. Not with you. He’s so close, you can almost feel the heat radiating from his body, and you shake your head with a refusal.

“I have to stay-“ He cuts you off, not even letting you choke out the rest of your quivering protest.

“No. Go sit with Johnny.” He pauses, stepping around to angle his body in front of yours, looking down at you over his shoulder, and you think, for a moment, you see a glimmer of the tenderness there that’s reserved for Johnny. “Please.”

“My wrist hurts.” Johnny calls hopefully to you, mischievous smile and eyes sweet, his good hand outstretched with an open palm. “Need ye to rub it.” Simon nods, serious look quashing any rebuttals you might have, protocol and procedure slipping far from your mind as you let yourself drift to Johnny’s side, settling back into your seat previously abandoned. Johnny offers you his wrist, smile fading when he looks closer at your curled fingers. “Ye’re shaking, pretty girl.”

“Low blood sugar.” You lie. The man in the hallway shouts again, closer, loud and awful, roiling with rage, and you inadvertently tense, jolting minutely in the chair.

“Hey now.” Johnny reaches for you, gentle touch against your skin, warm fingers holding onto yours. You look down to where he tries to give you comfort, where he tries to soothe you, instead of the other way around, as it has been, as it should be, and you get lost in it, the idea of comfort, the feeling of care. It makes your heart stumble in your chest, almost like you can’t breathe, staring off into space, trying to pretend like there isn’t a man screaming down the hall, like you’re not the person you are, buried beneath the insurmountable weight of scars, memories of pain and fear etched into the very tissue of your brain, the backs of your eyelids, every strand of hair.

Ingrained inside of you, forever.

Someone says your name, and you blink back to the face of your patient, who looks to Simon, his expression unreadable until it shifts into tender warmth, re-focused on you. “What is it?”

“I-“ You picture yourself, letting your lips go loose, entrusting your secrets and worst fears to these strangers, these men who you don't even know, who don't know you. “I’m exhausted.” You offer, and shadow flickers across Johnny’s eyes. It’s not a lie, not technically. You’re always exhausted.

“Ye-“

“Code black lifted. Code black lifted. Lockdown complete. Resume normal operation.” The PA system drones, tension between your shoulders draining, and you jump to your feet, palms and fingers smoothing over your scrub top.

“Well, I’ve got to check in at the nurses’ station now. Protocol.” You explain, nearly tripping over yourself on the way to the door. Your heart is still raging inside your chest, beating faster than it should, and you steady your breathing with a mental count. One... two... three... one... “I’ll check in on you later.” You promise over your shoulder, slipping by Simon to disappear down the hallway.

#peaches writes #simple math #ghost x soap x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost x reader x soap #john soap mactavish #simon riley #ghoap #soap x ghost #simon riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #simon ghost riley

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tiredmamaissy · 1 year

Text

Ralak te Sepwan ieyk’itan: Chapter Three

An Illustrated Collaboration with @zestys-stuff

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's creator @zestys-stuff.

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (24) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (19)

Warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, ptsd/ flashbacks, profanity, age gap, sexual tension, size difference/kink, praise kink, jealousy, scenting, fingering, recollection of non-con trauma (for the plot), alcohol consumption/drunk character, let me know if i forgot anything?

Word Count: 6.3k

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Sorry this one took a while, been a hell of a week. It's got a lot of angst, so prep yourselves guysss. Ends with smut, ofc. I hope you guys enjoy 🤍

Synopsis: Your family seeks uturu with the Metkayina in the village of Awa’atlu. You have a difficult time adjusting, and are assigned your own special teacher, Ralak.

<- Previous Next ->

“Y/n. For the love of Christ, you better tell me that the storm held ya up last night.” Jakes voice rings in your ear, waking you up.

Oh shit.

You look to your left to see the first rays of sunlight shining on Ralak’s sleeping, naked body, chest heaving slowly from his unfaltering breaths. Perched on his side, his face sits in his palm, as if he’s fallen asleep partially sitting up. Two fingers still nestled inside you, his facial muscles are slightly tensed, like he’s ready wake up any minute and tend to your every need, just like he’s been doing all night long.

“Get your ass home. Now.” Jakes irate voice brings you back to reality.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

What were you going to tell Jake? That the storm did keep you up? He’d never believe that. Not for a second. Either way, if you didn’t go now, this man would skin the love of your life. Unmated, in his bed, all before your second iknimaya? He’d try, at least.

“Sst-ah.” you let out a shaky breath, grimacing as you pull his fingers out of you. They’re covered in your cum, so much so that a thick string of slick connects you to his fingers when you pull your pelvis away. You scramble to your feet, wiping yourself up with the already damp cloth next to his bed.

I’ll be back, my love. You think, looking over at him one last time before rushing out of his marui.

On your way to the cave, you try to assess your state. It’s hard to tell, given the fact that your heart is pounding at a speed only an ikran could attain. Anxiety streams through your veins, but otherwise, you feel fairly normal. Maybe a little bit like you did after your first iknimaya, when you passed your dream hunt and had one too many glow worms. But nothing unmanageable.

Guess it’s over.

Finally arriving at the cave, frantic eyes search the body of water for your loincloth. It’s floating at the far end of the lake, so you dive in. As you’re swimming, you catch a whiff of your own scent, mixed with Ralak’s. You bring your arm to your nose and take a deep breath. “Fuck.” you curse under your breath, submerging your entire body in the water, trying to bathe his scent off you.

You knew you scented each other, but you didn’t know that it would linger this long. You scrub your body, paying extra attention to your chest and neck. Time is going faster than you can move. But it’s like the more you scrub, the more you rub it into your skin – into your essence.

“Forget this.” you huff, grabbing your loincloth and swimming back to sand. You wring it out, slip inside and tie the knot hastily. One last look back on his marui pod, and you’re gone like the wind – quick and silent.

The trek back home is nerve-wracking, you feel so uneasy that you could feel something in your throat. A lump. You swallow repeatedly, trying to get rid of it, but it grows a little bigger for every step you take. By the time you’re at your marui door, you feel like you can’t breathe.

Neteyam smells you first, wreaking of a male na’vi, nose scrunching at the odour. He huffs a harsh breath through his nostrils, attempting to rid the lingering scent from of his lungs. He examines your condition – clammy skin with little colour left in it. Eyes trailing up to your face, he could see the fear written all over it, along with something else. Something like –

“Jesus, what the hell were you thinking?!” Jake hisses through clenched teeth.

“D-dad. I-I can explain.” you stutter, throat so tight you can barely speak.

Jake pulls his head back, eyelids blinking furiously. It’s as if the scent quite literally hit him, square in the jaw. With his suspicions confirmed, his lips stretch into a thin line, his go to expression of disapproval. The type that makes your ears lay flat against your skull, and bottom lip jut out.

“I can smell him on you.” Jake brushes past you. “Stay with your brother.”

“Dad, please.” your voice is strained, fighting against the lump in your throat. “Where are you going?”

He stops dead in his tracks, back still turned to you, a hand flying up to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. “To Tonowari, kid. Tsireya will teach you from now on.” He heaves a heavy sigh and walks away.

The anxiety quickly morphs into anger, bubbling in your veins and sizzling your skin. Your short fuse blows. How could he take this away from you? You weren’t a ‘kid’ anymore. You had passed your iknimaya back home, and you’re on the brink of passing it here, too. Despite that, he always treats you like this, like the late bloomer you are. He didn’t even care to know what really happened.

“Not a fucking kid!” you shout after him, only for him to shake his head and continue walking.

“Sis.” Neteyam mutters, gently guiding you into the marui pod by your arm.

You shrug him off, storming past him to dive into your bed, burying your face into your pillow – damp from last night’s tears. It only becomes wetter as your fresh tears stream down your face. You couldn’t help it, you cried whenever you felt overwhelmed with anything. Sadness. Happiness. Anger. Frustration.

The sound of your privacy curtain being drawn back snaps your head up from your pillow. It’s Neteyam, standing over you with a face of concern, a bowl of steamed fish in one hand and a cup of water in the other. He sighs quietly, crouching down to come eye to eye with you. “You were in heat, weren’t you?” He states, already knowing the answer. “You should eat and drink something.” He places the bowl and cup on the floor next to you.

You sit up, supporting your torso with your arms behind your back. Neteyam. The older, caring bother, always looking out for everyone but himself. Of course, he would be the one to care enough to find out what you’ve been through the past day. “Yup. Late bloomer finally got her heat.” you speak of yourself harshly, taking the cup of water and chugging it.

“You smell gross.” he chuckles breathily, nudging the bowl of fish closer to you.

“Thanks, big brother. Appreciate it.” you giggle between cries, nudging it back to him. “Not hungry.”

His arms rest on his knees, braids swaying in his face as he looks behind him before dropping his head. “Agh.” he lifts his head, staring at you for a few seconds, as if he were contemplating something. “You should not have done that. Not before your iknimaya.”

“I didn’t! Nothing... like that happened, Tey. Ralak isn’t like that.” your head hangs low as you utter the words. “He’s... a gentle giant.”

Neteyam scoffs, straightening his spine. “Gentle giant? He looks like he eats na’vi for breakfast.”

“Hey –” you sniffle, glaring up at him, “I like him, Tey. A lot. He’s good for me.”

Neteyam’s features soften. As if hearing your words plucked a string of sympathy in his heart. As much as he wants to help you, he can’t. Not with a direct order from his father. He shakes his head, eyes closed, and brows furrowed.

That’s his way of saying, ‘Sorry. Can’t’.

You sigh, bringing your knees to your chest to hide your face. You can smell Ralak’s scent now that your nose is near your thighs. It fills your lungs with every breath you take. His pheromones. His aphrodisiac. His arousal. He left it all on you, rubbed into your skin so deep it seems to have altered your own scent.

Is this what scenting does?

Soon you’re breathing heavily, trying to savour what left you have of him – of last night. It makes you heavy in the head, like all the strength has left your body. You feel your face warm up, the heat spreading to the tips of your ears. You’re tired. Defeated.

“Neteyam! Neteyam!” Lo’ak’s faint voice sounds frantic.

You hear Neteyam shuffling to his feet to go and check what his brother is on about. “Stay here, got it?”

“Mhm.” you hum, too tired to even lift your head.

The sound of Lo’ak yanking back your privacy curtain makes you jump out of your skin, nearly knocking over the bowl of steamed fish. You stare up at him wide eyed, to see him motioning over to the door of your marui. Your brows kiss in confusion, unsure of what’s going on.

“Heard you were in... hea-a situation. Just gonna borrow big bro for a second, cool?” he raises his brows, nudging his head towards the door in an emphasized manner.

A smile pulls at your lips once you realize what he’s doing for you. You wipe your puffy eyes with the back of your hand and shuffle to your feet. “I owe you, Lo’.”

Ralak’s POV

Ralak rouses to an empty bed. He sits up quickly, scanning his marui for any sign of you. Nothing. The only thing that remains is your potent scent flooding the room. The only proof that you were ever here. “Oh, y/n.” he groans, head slumping into his hands.

You were gone. Gone like you were never here to begin with. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he tried not to assume the worst. But what if – what if it was the worst? To be used and discarded like an object. All over again. Surely, there’s no way that you would do this to him, not after opening-up to you like that. Not after last night. Not after the words you uttered to one another before going to sleep –

‘I love you’.

But why does it feel the same? The same as that day. The day he was in a marui pod like this one, young, bare skinned and short haired, kneeling before his own karyu. His chest tightens, the walls of his throat closing in on one another. He can feel it creeping up his spine. The flashbacks. The tremors. The nausea. Rushing to his feet, he makes his way over to the shelf well-stocked with bottles of ‘fermented fruit’ – pxir [beer; alcohol].

A poison to many, but an antidote to him.

Dust had settled on the bottles since the last day he reached for them. The day you became his tanhì. That’s why he had never brought you up here, he never wanted you to see the truth. The way he copes with his emotions – bottling them up and then chugging it down when they became just too much.

The bottle opens with a pop, strong, bitter scent wafting up his nose, replacing the scent of you in his lungs. He takes a quick swig, baring his teeth from the sting of it trickling down his throat. “Ahh.” He sighs a breath of relief, feeling the alcohol already taking effect, loosening his chest, and clearing his throat.

Yet he can still feel the shiver of his spine, and the churn of his stomach.

“Shit.” he curses, taking another swig. Cursing himself for trusting another after he made the vow to never trust again. Another swig. For facing the part of him that he’s denied since he came into adulthood. Another swig. For letting someone in. Another swig. For allowing himself to love you.

Alas, a clear mind and body – rid of the memories of his past.

He readies himself for his bath, something he often did to relax. Just like he did last time you left him.

----

Time is of the essence. With no idea of when Jake will be back, you move quickly. You weave through the webbing of the mangrove roots, ducking and dodging those that jut out. You take a short cut, bouncing over the netting of a cluster of marui pods on the way to Ralak’s.

Eyes guardedly stuck to your feet, you bump into Ka’ani, the man who replaced Ralak’s role as fisherman – faceplanting into his bare chest. Arms instinctively wrapping around you, he holds you close until you regain your balance. Admittedly, he’s a little too close for comfort, his face nestled in the crown of your head. You hear quick, nasally breaths, muffled by your hair.

Is he... sniffing me right now?

You shove him off you, probably a little too rough to be considered friendly, and take a few steps back. “Sorry, Ka’ani.” you mutter, gingerly walking around him.

“No problem, at all.” he smirks, raising his hands and making space for you to leave.

With a quick shake of your head, you continue making your way to Ralak. The closer you get, the more a giddy smile spreads across your face. Though you were the bearer of bad news, you can’t ignore the flutters in your stomach. The same flutters you had when you first laid eyes on him – the day Eywa herself told you he’s the one.

Your mate.

Your legs move faster, as fast as they can go, until the sand slackens your steps. Silky, fine sand – always the first thing to let you know that you’ve arrived. You can’t help the excitement bubbling from your tummy and up your throat. “Ralak!” you blurt out, eager to find your love.

A tall figure in the distance catches your eye, it looks as if he were going into the cave. You wave your hands above your head, shouting his name as you lope towards him. “Ralak!”

The figure stops, turning around to acknowledge your calls. He stands still for a minute, before walking towards you with a stagger in his step. Tail perking up instantaneously, your hand flies to your bare hip, searching for your medicine pouch. You’re running on the tips of your toes again, concern and worry replacing the flutters low in your belly.

“Wha-t is it?” you shout, voice wavering as you close the distance between your bodies.

You crash into him with a smack, making the typically sturdy giant wobble. Now your ears art alert, perturbed by his odd behaviour. Gently pushing you away, his large hands grip your upper arms, fingertips touching once another. Blue, hazed orbs peer down at you, extra glossy and lidded.

“Are you sick? Wounded?” you question, resisting his gentle pushes to search his body.

Nostrils flickering above his pursed lips, he leans into your neck. He pulls back with a huff, blowing hot air through his nose, onto your face. Your eyelashes flutter, face of concern quickly morphing into one of confusion.

Everyone is sniffing me today.

Head snapping to the left, his eyes search the webs of the mangrove roots off in the distance. A guttural growl rumbles deep in Ralak’s chest, thinned lips curling over his canines, flashing them before your eyes. You watch in awe as his brows lower, knotting together to turn his eyes beady. Ears flat against his skull, the scent of another na’vi scrunches his nose.

That’s a new look.

“Ralak.” your voice is breathy and small – laced with fright.

His growl grows louder, coming from the pit of his stomach, deep and powerful. Lengthy fingers tightening around your arms, he spins you around and tucks you behind him in one swift move. His name slips off your tongue once more, quick, and unsure. He has one hand perched on the dip of your waist, holding you close behind this towering frame.

“Come out.” he growls gruffly, straightening his spine to present at his full height.

The two words double-knot your stomach, sending you wiggling into the sink of his back, face peeking through the crack of his arm and side. Your eyes flicker from side to side, looking for whatever – whoever he’s talking to. Meanwhile, your fingers grip the band on his loincloth, the only thing available on his body to hold.

Silence.

“Or I make you.” He rasps the warning through his four, pointed fangs.

Perhaps if Ralak wasn’t here the knots in your belly would have tightened by now, to the point where you would feel queasy. But the hiss fizzling from the back of his throat puts your nerves at ease – your body sensing its safety in his presence.

Out comes a brawny, wide na’vi, from behind the large, thick roots of the mangroves. His hands are splayed out, representing something of caution. No – surrender. He approaches Ralak slowly. Warily.

“Sorry, brother. I did not know she was yours.” Ka’ani says impishly.

Jaw snapping open, his hiss comes out full force. It’s loud and thick, almost grating. Much like a roar. Though you knew it wasn’t for you, it shook you up, tugging at the string in your grip as your body jolts forward into his.

“She belongs to no one.” His top lip twitches as he spits the vile words, stinging your heart in the process. Am I not his? What about last night? You think, tightening your grip on the band of his loincloth.

“It looks as if she belongs to you, Tak.” Ka’ani leans to the left, chin jutting out as he tries to catch a glimpse of you. “Look at her, holding on to your –”

“Lewng! [shame]. Tracking her scent.” Ralak hisses, turning his body to hide you from his predatory eyes. “Leave.”

“Ah. Come on now, brot-” He spreads his arms wide, walking around Ralak towards you.

Ralak takes a step forward on his last word, nearly coming chest to chest with the shorter na’vi. A moment of silence passes between the two, as Ralak stares him down with vengeance in his eyes. A hand flies up to his hip, gripping the knife sheathed in its casing. “Now.”

Ka’ani straightens his back, eyes flickering between Ralak and yours that peek from behind him. His hands retract, hovering either side of his head as he retreats. Ralak maintains his position, with a hand keeping you tucked away whilst the other rests on his hip. Once Ka’ani’s figure is no longer visible, Ralak sighs, and turns his heel to make his way back to his much-needed bath.

“Thanks...” you huff, walking close behind him.

“You women and your heats.” he mutters as he walks faster, ripping his loincloth out of your grip.

“Ex-cuse me?” your words bounce as you try to keep up with him. “You have no –”

“Do you understand what would have happened had I not been here? Do not be so reckless.” He tsks, as his feet come to a halt, balling his hands into fists.

“Reckless? All I did was walk here!” you shout, almost bumping into him again.

“Because you left to begin with.” he whispers through clenched teeth.

“What?” the question is breathy, hands perching on your knees to rest.

He turns around quickly, prompting you to stand at full height. Breathing heavily, he presses his warm body against yours, chin tucked into his chest to peer down at you. Instinctively, you perch on the tips of your toes, eyes lidded in anticipation of a kiss. Instead, he brings your wrists up to his nose, heated lips pressing against your supple skin.

“He scented you.” he mumbles quickly, lips pulling into a thin line before letting go and backing away.

“Why? How? I only bumped into him.” you walk towards him, watching him turn his heel again. “Hey –” you reach out for his arm to pull him back around.

First you leave him this morning, then come back scented by another na’vi. He shrugs you off, hands now fiddling with the knot above the base of his tail as he nears the entrance of the cave. The knot of his loincloth comes undone, heavy, sheathed hunting knife silently making impact with the sand.

“Because he wants everything that’s mine.”

So, I am his. You think, one corner of your mouth curling upwards into a smirk.

“Oh, Ralak.” You stand at the cave’s opening, waiting in silence for a response.

He continues to keep his back turned to you, dips of his clenched glutes on full display. Despite last night, seeing him naked still makes you shy, cheeks turning red and hot from the blood that rushes to them. You watch him hastily put his hair in a sloppy bun as he submerges himself in the water.

“I need to speak with you about this morning” you mumble, eyes locked onto the ripple of his back muscles.

“No need. I understand.” he answers lowly, shimmying over to the bottle of fermented fruit propped on a rock in the cave.

“Understand what? It’s about –”

“You made a mistake. It was your heat. It is fine.” he mutters quickly, taking a swig at the last word.

A mistake? My heat?

The realization hits you, hard. You’d been so out of it, so delirious from your heat you hadn’t given a second thought about his confession. His trauma that he confided in you, in this very cave. It’s like stones in your heart – no, boulders. Weighing it down so heavily that it feels like there’s a pulse in your stomach.

How could you be so cruel? So thoughtless? So insensitive? To not even wake him and utter the words to his face. To allow him to wake up to an empty bed after letting down his walls and being so vulnerable to you. To be so caught up in your own head you couldn’t even bat an eye at the man who helped you through your first heat.

“Oh. Oh, Lak. No. No, it’s nothing like that.” you sputter out a trembling voice, sliding into the water to rush over to him. You rest your hand on his upper back, taking in the warmth of his skin. He feels feverish – hot to the touch.

What is he drinking?

You rub his back gently, bioluminescent freckles dancing from your caresses. Yet, he’s rigid. Cold. Distant. He’s not the Ralak you know, swaying side to side as he brings the lip of the bottle to his mouth.

“Stop, my love.” you coo, sliding your hand up his raised arm as you walk around him. Pulling the bottle away from his lips, you cautiously place the pxir on a nearby ledge. “Ralak.” you whisper, staring up at him with worried eyes.

The sound of his name falling from your lips tilts his head back ever so slightly, like it pained him to even look at you. Curly, loose stands of hair frame his face, accentuating his angular features. He attempts to fix his mask of indifference to his face, but you can see through it. You see the anguish glossed over his lidded, inebriated eyes.

Ocean blue eyes.

tw: flashback

His mind is elsewhere, dissociating back to the day of the incident. The night of his iknimaya celebration, where his own karyu cornered him in his family marui, engulfing him with her pheromones. Manipulating him with her heat to take care of her. To touch her.

He can hear the waves crashing into the shore, the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof of the marui, the roll of the thunder – her whispers in his ear, ‘I’ve been waiting too long for this. You are officially a man now. Make your karyu feel better, right here...’.

The smell of her pheromones is suffocating, more potent than any fermented fruit he’s ever had. It frightened him, feeling like he had no self-control. No way to stop his movements, no matter how much he screamed at his body to move, run – anything.

It is what made him vow to never lose control of himself. His composure.

He can feel the heaviness of his body. The lethargy. The way his lungs refused to fill, no matter how hard he tried to breathe. When he woke, he was alone, sitting in the corner in a pool of his own sweat, curled in on himself. His karyu left, to never return. Leaving nothing but the lingering smell of her heated scent behind.

tw: end of flashback

“My karyu” you hum softly, placing his hand on your chest.

When you first called him that, he almost grimaced. But as time passed, you made the word bearable. You gave it a new meaning, a new feeling. Eventually filling him with eagerness to hear it fall from your flushed lips. In tones of excitement, frustration... pleasure.

You hold his thumb, and give it a squeeze, trying to bring him back from wherever he is. Your heart weighed even heavier, seeing him drift away and detach when he’s right in front of you. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. Feel me. Feel my heartbeat. Focus on it and come back to me.”

The words echo in his skull, reverberating between the thick bone. He can hear you, feel you. With each thump of your heart, the heaviness of his body lifts, the scent of her fades, the pitter-patter of the storm subdues until nothing, but that thump can be heard. His eyes finally flicker down to yours, ears and brows twitching at the pulse of your heart.

Only a bottle could do that for him. Bring him back. Yet, you did it with the mere sound of your heart.

“I’m sorry, Lak. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I was so thoughtless. I’m sorry... that happened to you.” the words are shaky, flowing over your quivering bottom lip. “I would never. Ever. Ever. Ever –” you blubber, shaking your head, “Ever, do that to you. I-I had to leave because of my father. He’s punishing me. Forbidding me from seeing you. Having Tsireya teach me instead. I should have woken you.”

Another arm snakes around his waist, bringing him in closer to you. You slump your head into his chest, letting the tears flow and stain his skin. “I don’t regret a thing. I meant everything I said. I-I see you, Ralak” you sputter, breath hitching from the crying.

“Tanhì” he croaks, kissing the crown of your head as he wraps his arms around you to hold you closer.

“I love you” The three words are said in unison as you cling onto one another.

Alcohol still coursing through his veins, Ralak’s heavy body slumps into you, slowly shifting you both against the cave wall. He presses your back against the rocky surface, unwrapping his arms from your waist to support his body weight with a hand on the wall. He leans in, brushing his cheek against yours.

“I will miss you.” he whispers huskily next to the shell of your ear.

“I’ll miss you, too.” you whisper back, head pulling back to meet his gaze.

Your eyes lock for a moment, an undeniable tension now budding in the air and making your breaths quicken. He inches even closer, lips brushing against yours as you exchange the same hot breath until you’re light in the head.

He kisses you roughly – sloppily.

Tongue slipping into your mouth, you get a taste of what he’s been drinking all day. It’s a little sweet, with undertones of various fruits native to the reef people. But once the sweetness wears off, the bitter aftertaste makes your brows gather. He pulls away, revealing heavy-lidded eyes with thin blue rings for irises, flickering side to side as they stare into yours.

Chests heaving in synchrony, you both struggle to catch your breath. Hands cupping each other’s face, your lips crash into one another again, body language hungry and desperate for each other’s touch. Ralak shoves his knee between your legs, providing you with the friction your body has been begging for. Your body moves on its own, humping at his thigh as best you can in the water.

“I-I want... you.” The desperate words part your bruised, flushed lips, hand sliding up his back to caress his kuru [queue].

He shakes his head, brows gathering tightly. “Not now. Not here. We do it the right way.”

“Then...” you pant, voice laced with desperation as your hands make their way to his hips, dainty fingers wrapping around his hardened girth, “...give me something else.”

Breath turning raggedy, he struggles to maintain his composure. The influence of the alcohol surging through his body proves it to be an even more difficult task. He takes a deep breath, withdrawing his knee from your legs to spin you around in one quick motion. Ralak tries his best to be gentle with you, shoving you into the wall to press his aching cock against you.

A soft moan parts your lips; thin, fuzzy tail wrapping around his thigh in attempts to bring you closer. Eywa, did that push him closer to the edge. Your tail had been one of his favourite things about you from the day you first locked eyes, so slender and delicate. Nothing like his. It not only fascinated him. It aroused him.

It makes him push into you even harder, tip of his cock throbbing against your lower back. He craves to be even closer to you – to be inside you. To rut into you until your voice becomes so hoarse from screaming his name. Over and over. Again, and again. Fingers hurriedly fiddling with the knot of your loincloth, he pants a few greedy, rough kisses along your upper back.

“Oh! Ralak, I-I think –” you moan lowly, his touches throwing you into a daze.

“What?” he huffs, fingers coming to a halt in fear that he’s being too rough with you.

“I think I’m still in heat.” you lie, or maybe it wasn’t a lie. You feel so woozy in the head that you’re not even sure what’s going on anymore. All that sits at the forefront of your mind is him claiming you as his.

“Is that so?” he lets out a breath of relief, a chuckle if you will.

“Yes. Can you help me?” you pant, trembling voice feigned with innocence.

“Ah. Let me check, little one.” He buries his face into the nape of your neck, pulling back with a loud sigh through his nose. A growl rumbles in his chest and up his throat. “I can still smell him.” The scent of another so deep into your skin makes him want to mark you. To sink his lengthy canines into your neck for the smell to seep out, only to be replaced by his.

“Then fix it.” you breathe, head dipping forward to open yourself up to him.

“Oh?” he smiles open mouthed, brushing his pointed fangs against your silken skin, making your back arch on instinct. Submitting to him and his touch. Open mouth lingering over your neck, his jaw closes to graze his teeth against you. He sucks lightly on your skin, puckered lips pulling off with a pop.

Of course, he’d make you wait for that too. He was only ‘helping’ you, right now.

He kicks your feet apart, spreading your legs for him to settle in closer behind you. A string of your slick connects your thighs together, breaking apart when he rubs his cock against your bare cunt. He begins rubbing his face into the back of your neck, scenting you as his.

“Mine. Yes?” he growls, thrusting himself against your slippery slit.

“Yes.” You spread your legs further apart, standing on the tips of your toes to provide him with better access. “Please.” You let out a pathetic mewl.

He grunts in frustration. He wants nothing more than to thrust himself inside you, stretching your pussy out with his huge cock. And with those little, sweet pleas, it’s almost too hard to resist. But he does. He pulls away, gaze snapping down to the rope of wetness connecting your most intimate parts together.

Cocking a brow, his hand comes between your sticky pelvises, fingers coiling around the string of slick before they glide over your pussy and spread your folds. Your wetness drips down his digits, pooling in the palm of his hand. “So wet. Maybe you are in heat.” he mumbles, pressing his lips against your back, peppering kisses down the curve of your shoulder.

Ralak fondles with your puffy clit, rubbing tight circles into it with his slickened fingertips. Your hips squirm around from the white-hot pleasure tightening your core. It’s just not enough. Perhaps it’s just residual heat, but you feel so, so empty. A yearning deep in your womb, to be filled and stretched. Your hips buck forward, slipping his fingertips to prod at your entrance, before pushing back on him to try and sink them inside you.

Needy body language riling up the giant behind you, his harsh kisses move their way up to your ear. “Say it, tanhì.” he groans lowly, positioning his finger at your tight hole.

“I n-need you inside of me!” you cry desperately, shoving yourself back into him.

“You listen so well, paysyul.” he exhales a hot breath into the shell of your ear, sinking his thick finger inside you, twisting his wrist so that he can curl it right into your sweet spot.

“Oh, shit.” you moan breathily, cheek pressed firmly against the rocky wall.

“That is why you learn so quickly.” He fingers you roughly, expertly working out a squelch with each curl of his digit.

The feeling is like heat, shooting down your spine and pooling in your pelvis. It makes your hips spasm, chasing the fiery sensation in hopes to put it out. His finger brings relieve, satiating the itch as your sweet spot swells from pure bliss. He knows exactly where to touch, and how to touch.

Yet, it still isn’t enough.

“More! ‘ts not enough!” you cry, writhing underneath him.

He finds your little cries amusing, letting a chuckle evade his lips. How could something so small act so mighty? He slides another digit in, feeling your tight pussy walls stretch to accommodate him. He hears the little whimper bubbling up your throat, letting him know you need a moment to adjust.

“Taking my fingers so well, hm?” he praises you with a shaky voice, planting a gentle kiss behind your ear.

“Mmmn! Please!” Another plea falls from your lips, a plea for him to move – to make you cum. He sets a relentless pace, stimulating the sensitive spot in your gummy, hot walls, working lengthy moans and mewls from you.

With the way he’s fingerfucking you, it feels as if your nerves are on fire. The coil tightly wound in your core ready to snap any second now. Your brows pinch together in fervour, mouth falling open to allow heavy, hot breaths to escape.

“Close! So close! Gonna! Gonna –” Your words catch in your throat, leaving you breathless and tense around his fingers.

“Make yourself cum.” he orders gruffly, stopping all movement once he feels you tighten around his digits.

You gasp, hips moving on their own to chase the orgasm he just took away from you. “No, no. You know I can’t. Please.” you sputter, pushing against the wall to ride his fingers.

“You can. And you will.” he growls, bending his fingers as encouragement.

You quickly accept your fate, holding on tightly to whatever pleasurable feeling remains and running with it. You push back on him, squirming around as you try to make yourself cum. Closing your eyes, you tune into your body, feeling what feels good and where. But the position that you’re in makes it even harder to do it yourself.

“Just fuck me!” you cry desperately, frustration so pent up you couldn’t help the outburst.

“Language.” he hisses, shoving his fingers so deep inside you that your slick coats his knuckles.

“Fuck! Please.” you beg, reaching behind you to grab his wrist.

“No.” he smirks, looking down at how your cunt sucks in his digits, listening to your pleading and begging.

He just wants to hear a little more. To hear how badly you want him. He loves the way you squirm around, sputtering nonsense from being so fucked out by just his fingers. He loves the little noises your pussy makes for him and can’t wait to hear how they’ll sound once his cock is stuffed inside you.

“Ralak. Please. Please make me cum!” you cry, using his wrist as leverage to fuck back into him.

He slides his hand down your stomach, fingers playing with your swollen, neglected clit. He’s pumping his digits in and out of your dripping cunt, feeling your slick dribble down his hand. It doesn’t take long for you to near your climax, pussy walls clamping down around his fingers.

“Let go. Cum for me.” he groans, swollen tip of his cock oozing beads of precum onto your lower back.

“Oh, fuckfuckfuck!” you let out a hoarse cry, entire body shuddering underneath him “Cumming! Cumming!”

“That’s my girl.” he hums proudly, scissoring his fingers open to stretch you out.

You let out a high-pitched whimper, hint of pain making your eyes water. Then a wave of ecstasy ripples through you, leaving your legs trembling beneath you. He snakes his arm around your waist, holding you up while you ride out of your high, sprinkling your shoulder with kisses.

Once you come down from your high, you lean back into him, resting your head against his chest. Huffing and puffing, you try to catch your breath as you turn around to cup his swollen balls. “My turn to make you feel good.”

To your surprise, he rests a hand on your arm, pulling it away from him. He looks down at you through blown pupils, arousal plastered all over his face. Beads of sweat trickle down his temples, wet strands of curled hair stuck to his cheeks, he sighs the words. “Not today, tanhi. I must get you back, now.”

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theidiotwhowritesthings · 1 year

Text

AFS: Deleted Scene

Din Djarin x Female!Reader

Warnings: Nightmares from PTSD, accidental injury, blood, angst and comfort

Word Count: 2,873

Summary: A night on the town is interrupted by a night terror. [aka someone told me I should write a scene where Grogu has a nightmare and cries out for the reader and I went WAY overboard lol.]

#9.5: MA'S GOT YOU

The house was quiet and as Din sat on his couch, holopad in hand and helmet off, he realized this had been his existence prior to your arrival. Grogu was down for bed and Din was alone. It’s not that he minded time alone. He craved it, really. There was only so much social interaction he could manage before he needed time to himself. It wasn’t a fault to the friends he kept, it was simply how he was built. Which is why it spoke volumes that Din wished you were here.

It was your presence he missed. It’s not like he needed you around him at all times of the day. Din was positive you needed your space away from him and others as well, but he just liked the energy you seemed to carry with you. Din wanted to be alone⏤ together. Both doing separate things, enjoying your own time, but in the same vicinity. He just wanted to know you were near and he still hadn’t decided if that was pathetically clingy of him or not. Din never felt like that before with a grown person so it was hard to find a comparison.

Tonight was his night off of call and you were out with Nima. Din was happy that you agreed to spend time with your not cousin because he didn’t want you to think you couldn’t have a life separate from him. The thought that you might eventually resent him and feel trapped was terrifying. No, he wanted you to live your life as you normally would.

On your way out, you had told him not to wait up for you, but Din was currently perched on his couch in his pajamas doing exactly that. He’d never admit it to you. When you did find your way home he would feign surprise and act like he had been too caught up in reading to realize the time. Din just wanted to make sure you got home safe. It’s not that he didn’t trust you⏤ you were a grown and responsible woman. It’s the rest of the world, Din didn’t trust. Old habits, die hard, he supposed.

His eyes scanned a few more lines of the story he had chosen only to stop when a very quiet, whimper drifted through the air. Din had left his bedroom door open while Grogu slept. He set the holopad aside and padded across the living room toward the hall's entrance. Another familiar whimper followed by a pained cry and Din was sprinting. When he got to his room, Grogu was thrashing in his hammock and every item in the room, save for the large pieces of furniture, were hovering in the air. A side effect Din hadn’t seen since Grogu’s last nightmare ages ago.

“Ad’ika! Gar cuyir morut'yc!” Din cried, but if Grogu heard him it did nothing to ease the child’s mind. He crossed the room, but the moment his hand reached out to grasp the boy a wall of energy body slammed him back. Din fell over the corner of his bed and landed roughly on his back with a grunt. He recovered quickly, rolling to his feet, and tried again. Three times. Din got blown back three more times. One of which he felt the back of his head crack against his bed frame, momentarily making his world spin, before he got through to Grogu. His hands wrapped around the crying boy, pulling him from the hammock into his chest, and cocooned him between his arms while murmuring reassurances.

There is nothing to fear.

You are safe.

I am here.

Eventually, in a sharp hiccup, Grogu’s cries stopped and his eyes snapped wide open. All the objects in the air clattered to the ground leaving the room looking as if a storm had blown through. Din cradled the back of his son’s head as he swayed in a slight rocking motion.

“Buir, safe?” Grogu whimpered as he reached his hand up.

Din leaned closer so Grogu could find the comfort he needed in touching his cheeks and jaw. He nodded. “I’m safe. You’re safe.”

“Ma, safe?” Grogu whimpered again and tried to crawl out of Din’s arms to look around the room. “Ma!” He yelled and when he wasn’t immediately answered the boy began to cry again. “Ma!”

“She’s safe, Grogu.” Din rubbed his back. “I swear, she’s safe. You had a nightmare. Ma is okay.”

This did not appease the boy who began to howl and scream in a panic. Din tried to explain that you weren’t here right now, but you’d be back. You were just spending time with Nima. However, Grogu who was still trapped in a post-nightmare daze was not having it. He wanted⏤ No, needed to see you. Make sure you were safe with his own eyes. Din could understand the sentiment, but it didn’t make the situation any easier.

After a minute more of his son suffering, Din caved and grabbed his communicator. Maybe if Grogu could just hear your voice. He dialed your frequency number and when you picked up neither of you could even usher out a greeting with Grogu’s cries.

“Grogu??” You asked, your own voice panicked, “Mando⏤”

“He had a nightmare and he’s asking about you. I’m so sorry. I⏤”

“I’m on my way.” You blurted with no further preamble.

The communicator line went dead and Din went back to fruitlessly trying to calm Grogu down. He drifted out to the living room to find his helmet so you’d be able to come in without concern. Din winced as it locked in place and the pressure at the back of his head reminded him that he had taken quite the hit earlier. Din wasn’t quite sure how you pulled it off, but five minutes after the call you were bursting through the front door.

“Grogu?”

“Ma!” Grogu was a blubbering mess when you stepped into view, and he nearly leapt from Din’s arms to yours. In the same way Din had cradled Grogu to his chest earlier, you held him close to you. Grogu was hiccuping as his hands roamed your features. “Ma, safe?”

“Yes, baby boy.” You smiled down at him. “I’m safe. I promise. Everything is okay.”

Grogu shifted to bury his face in your neck and you rubbed his back. Din felt his entire body slump with relief. The last time Grogu had a nightmare was back when they had first moved into this house. Since living here, they had slowed until they eventually came to a stop. Din wondered what brought this on. He watched you, hypnotized, as you hummed under your breath and swayed until Grogu’s whimpered breaths turned even. Din could garner a guess. He’d be a liar if he said the thought of losing you hadn’t slipped into his own night terrors. You were new in their lives, your importance increasing by the day, and there was no love without fear. It was the price to pay for a connection.

“We can try to set him down now that he’s calm.” Din whispered. If he could get Grogu settled again then maybe you could get back to your night out. He hated that he interrupted it.

You gave him a small nod, and Din turned to lead the way back to the bedroom. However, as soon as he turned he heard you gasp loudly, “Fuck, Mando!” He whirled back around⏤ panicked. Was Grogu alright? He hadn’t heard you cuss like that in such a sharp and worried tone. Din rushed forward and settled a hand on Grogu’s back and the other on your elbow. You shook your head and shoved him back a step before spinning him around. “You’re bleeding!”

Din breathed out a sigh of relief. You were fine. Grogu was fine. It was just his head trauma that startled you. He chuckled. “It’s fine. Hurts some but⏤”

“The back of your shirt is covered in blood, you psycho! Don’t tell me it’s fine!” Din reached back and touched his shirt. It had felt damp, but he assumed it was wet with his sweat. When he pulled his hand back his fingers shone with red. Oops. “Go. As soon as I get Grogu down, I can⏤”

“No.” Din said quickly. Your eyes narrowed at him, and he quickly held a hand up in argument. “I’ll dress it. It’s not bad. I don’t even have a headache.” That was a lie. He could definitely feel the beginnings of a possible concussion, but he wasn’t about to admit that to you. “Head wounds just bleed a lot. Take care of Grogu. Please.”

You didn’t immediately reply. He watched you chew on your lower lip in thought, and it wasn’t until Grogu softly whimpered that you gave in. You sighed, giving him a hardened look, before nodding once. This time Din motioned you to walk first so you wouldn’t have to stare at his bloody shirt. He let his hand linger on your back as the three of you made your way towards the bedrooms. Din followed you in, mostly to grab a spare shirt, and he paused on his way out just so he could watch you rock Grogu while whispering words of comfort to the boy. It wasn’t until you glanced his way with a light glare that he realized he was transfixed.

“Please go patch up your broken head.” You hissed.

Din chuckled and slipped away.

It had been a struggle to change out of your day clothes into something more comfortable because Grogu refused to let you set him down to do so. You had dressed up to go out with Nima, and more than anything you just wanted to be in comfy clothes. Somehow you managed it, and you drifted back to Mando’s room. You didn’t know what startled you more: getting a call from Mando and hearing Grogu’s hysteric cries or watching the man turn his back to you and seeing his white shirt stained with blood. Both had been jarring and it hadn’t been where you thought your night on the town would end. Still, you didn’t quite mind. Nima had you meeting new people tonight and it had been kind of exhausting.

You tried to set the sleeping boy back into his hammock, but the second you pulled him from your chest he whined until you hugged him again. You turned your head and pressed a soft kiss to the top of his with a small smile, “You’re okay, baby. Ma’s got you.”

You wondered what kind of Maker awful nightmare the boy could have had that scared him so badly. Mando had mentioned the kid had nightmares in the past, but this was the first time you had been witness to one. As you bounced him lightly, keeping yourself moving while patting his back, you glanced around the room in surprise. It was a disaster. Mando was shockingly neat and organized, and you had never seen his room in such disarray. Even his armor was scattered about instead of carefully placed where he usually kept it.

“What happened here?” You thought aloud. You wondered if it had anything to do with the injury Mando sustained. As if willed by your thought alone, Mando breezed into the room. He had changed shirts and the new one he wore had long sleeves. For a second, you mourned the loss of being able to see his arms then reminded yourself you should not be drooling over the sight of him. “Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Mando walked closer so he could stand in front of you. You raised an eyebrow. “That it?”

Mando chuckled. “I fell. Hit my head, and there was a little gash. Sprayed it with bacta and it’s fine.”

“It doesn’t need stitches?” You pressed. He shook his head. “Are you sure, though?”

“I’m positive. How’s he?”

“Won’t let me set him down.” You replied. “What even… What happened, Mando?”

Apparently this was just as his other night terrors had been. When they came, it was always hard to wake Grogu from them and the Force seemed to bubble around him in self defense. That was why his room looked like a bomb had gone off and how he ended up with a gash at the back of his head.

“Poor baby.” You sighed.

Mando tilted his head at you. “Are you referring to me or the kid?”

“The kid.” You laughed. “I’d give you a ‘poor baby’ too, but apparently you’re fine.” Mando let out that breathy, chuckle that always seemed to send a thrill up your spine. “Is he gonna be okay, you think?”

Mando reached out and rubbed the back of Grogu’s head. “Yeah. He’s tough. Resilient. I just hate that he went through so much in his life.” There was a beat of silence where the two of you just listened to Grogu’s quiet snores. “Hey.” Mando’s voice sounded startled. “What are you wearing?”

“Pajamas?” You glanced down at yourself.

“Where did your… Aren’t you going to go back out?”

“Probably not.”

Mando sighed, his shoulders drooping, “Cyar’ika, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

“You didn’t ruin my night.” You scoffed with a chuckle. “Grogu needed me.” You rolled your eyes. “Besides, I think Nima was trying to find me a date and I wasn’t really too interested in that.”

Mando crossed his arms and bobbed his head. “You, uh, you aren’t? Interested in… in dating?”

“Are you interested?” You asked in return, but panicked as the words left you. “Not in⏤ Not in me. I meant, like, interested in dating in general. With anyone.” Unable to stop the flow of words, you kept going. “I just… If you needed me to babysit so you could go on a date. Not that⏤ Not that it would even be considered babysitting because I’m the nanny. Yeah.”

Mando shook his head, that same breathy laugh making your face warm, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You turned to see if you could get Grogu into his hammock partly because your arms were tired but also because it gave you an excuse to hide your burning face. Same as before, the second he was separated from you he began to fuss.

“Here.” Mando motioned toward you with his hands. “Let me see if I can take him.”

Grogu seemed to recognize his father’s hands and shifted to Mando, but he had only settled for a second before realizing he had been moved away from you. Grogu sat up and spun to look for you. When his eyes landed on you, he cried out a mumbled ‘Ma’ and you let out a soft laugh before opening your arms to him again. He fell into your chest and Mando sighed.

“Maybe he’ll…” You cleared your throat. “Can I sit on your bed, or…?”

“Lay down.” He corrected you with a shake of his head. “Get comfortable.”

You hesitantly drifted over to his bed and crawled into the same spot you slept in the last time you fell asleep beside him. Last time, you had been groggy and tired and had fallen into sleep without thought, but you felt wide awake now. You shifted so you could lay Grogu down on his belly, but when he began to fuss you draped your arm over him to let you know you were still here. That seemed to settle him.

Mando nodded toward the door. “You should stay here. I can take your bed or the, uh, the couch.”

You furrowed your brow. “No.” He stiffened and you blamed the few drinks you had for your lack of self control when it came to speaking. “I just mean, you can stay here. It’s your bed. The bed is big enough, right? That’s what you told me last time.”

“I suppose I did.” Mando chuckled.

He carefully sat down on the other side of the bed and drew up the blankets so it covered the three of you. Mando laid on his side, holding his head up in his hand, while his other settled on Grogu’s back right below yours.

“Shoot.” You whispered. “Your helmet? It’d be better for you to sleep with it off considering you’re injured.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“When Grogu is sleeping more soundly I can leave⏤”

“I said,” Mando emphasized his words, “Don’t worry about it, cyar’ika.”

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

“That’s funny coming from you of all people.”

Your lips curled up in a smile and the silence that settled around the two of you was warm and comfortable. Before you knew it, sleep crept up on you.

Din felt settled.

Grogu was safe. You were safe. He was safe. More than just safe, he had the two of you within arm’s reach which he realized was exactly where Din always wanted both of you to be. Cautiously, nervous to wake you up on accident, Din lifted his hand from where it was on Grogu’s back and set it on top of yours. A little sigh slipped from your lips and mingled with the sounds of Grogu’s soft snores. Din smiled to himself.

Everyone was home and safe.

mando'a translations:

Ad’ika: little one

Gar cuyir morut'y: You're safe

Cyar'ika: Sweetheart, Darling

taglist:

@aheadfullofsteverogers @yyiikes @kneelforloki @c-ms1ut @sgt-morgan @luthienaliceisilra @fawn-kitten @missbabyjay @coldlamaspersonspy @dilfsaremyfavourite @jamesbuckybarnes @yorkeylover @teawrites01 @emily-roberts @djarinxore @impala1967666 @shelbyteller @faithrenner @dindjarindude @dankfarrick29 @rh1nestonecowg1rl @garbo-lesbo @anythingforattention @tearfulsolace @onceinamando @catharinaroxastova @uwu-i-purple-you @modiddys-blog @stagerightlauren @mini-bees @xxinvisblexx @adoringanakin @sagegreensensei @spidey-3 @sydney-1209 @thepascalofus @hrtsforpascal @banana-lol @daybleedsintonightfall11 @lil-dragon-draws @guccistardust @ideajpeg @harriedandharassed @leithatnight @elfamosotoga @damnzelsoul @the-anchored-sailor-girl @morks-watermelon @katelynmarieyt @taylorann2013 @chonkercatto @dheet @liadamerondjarin @fallinallinmendes @missdicaprio @jennaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @alphaash99

#the mandalorian #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando x reader #mando x you #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian x you #mandalorian x reader #grogu #poor baby boy has a nightmare #angst/comfort

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fire-fira · 4 months

Note

I am not sure how much you are into analysis but I want to ask. Do you think raph isn’t as good of a fighter compared to his brothers? because I have a feeling either he’s holding back when sparring with them over fear of harming them or he’s not as good as them.

Anon, you just made my day because this gives me an excuse to nerd out at length. (Though apologies that it took me so long to get this fully written out and posted.)

Disclaimer before I launch into it in full: to fairly compare Raph to his brothers I'm going to do a brief run-down of the three of them before breaking into the full details on him. A lot of this is built on extrapolation from details in various canons and at times might edge toward headcanon territory, though I'll be trying to stick with what's actually present.

With that out of the way--

Comparing Raph to His Brothers

So to start with, I can only fairly do this deep-dive by briefly touching on each of his brothers before getting to Raph himself. I'll say upfront that I think it's less a question of which one is the "best fighter" and more that they're each different types of fighters, each with their own strengths and weaknesses and which might land any of them in the position of "the best" depending on the circumstances.

Leo

Strengths: This is an extrapolation based on various iterations (2003, 2007, 2012, 2014/2016, ROTTMNT, 2023, Batman vs. TMNT, and a little bit of the IDW comics), but Leo strikes me as a tactician-- as the guy who can extrapolate to fifteen different possibilities for the outcome of a fight and fifteen steps ahead of everyone else on each of those possibilities. At his best he knows how to play to his brothers' strengths, put them where needed, and let them go to do their own thing. He's also persistent and willing to put himself through his paces over and over again until he 'perfects' what he wants to learn how to do. As a "traditional" (romanticized) example of a warrior, he is the golden boy of the family. Rise Leo might be a little less likely to get every step 'just so,' but most iterations of him aim to be as flawless as possible in terms of his combat skills. In his ideal world, he will never have a misplaced swing of a sword or inflict any damage he doesn't intend to. That depth of knowledge and highly-trained skill can be damned terrifying for his enemies if it's taken to its fullest extreme.

Weaknesses: His perfectionism and desire to get things 'just right' is a double-edged sword. In the 2003 series it got wrapped up in his PTSD and the need to never make a critical mistake again (which... didn't work out well for him-- hi, shades of Raph at his worst); in the 2007 movie it led him to think his efforts to learn how to be a better leader weren't "good enough" and kept him away from home for two years; in the 2012 series it led him to ignore critical injuries and try to bully himself into being 'better' (when realistically what he did during the farmhouse arc probably would have permanently destroyed one of his knees); in the 2014/2016 movies it led him to temporarily damage his relationship with his brothers by spilling over the worst of his internal perfectionistic vitriol onto them; and in Rise it at times has turned him into a showoff who'll act without letting the others in on his plan (which can backfire horrendously in a worst-case scenario) because if he does it without telling others what he's going to do, then he gets bragging rights if it works out like he planned. Underlying all this is what could turn into an unmanageable case of anxiety depending on the version of Leo and how personally stable he is, as well as how susceptible he is to ruminating over where he feels he went wrong. To say nothing of how many versions of Leo have a GIANT self-sacrificing streak when it comes to their families. Under the right circumstances-- and if someone really intended to make it hurt-- they could easily play all that against Leo and get him to freeze due to overthinking. (Though getting him to that level would take an extreme case and some severe emotional damage to weaponize his guilt.)

Speed: OKAY. Here's where things get a little more cut-and-dried in my opinion-- if a fight is down to just speed anyway. Leo might be pretty neck-in-neck with Raph in terms of speed, maybe just a touch faster due to (generally) being more lean-built than Raph. Leo's not a tank; yes he can fight in close quarters or mid-range and hold his own, but if he can then he tends to be 'slippery' about it. He's not going to batter away at an enemy if he can spin out of range before darting back in and dodging whatever hits he can. If it's just a matter of speed without any other factors involved, then there's a good chance Leo will win in a fight against Raph. If it's a question of strength and endurance though... Well, I'll expand further on that when I get to Raph.

Adaptability: This is something that is absolutely dependent on which version of Leo we're talking about and how hung up that version is on his plans without taking the general chaos of life into account. 2012 and 2014/2016 Leo both are guilty of getting so hung up on the idea that their approach to a combat situation is the right way that they fail to plan for the fact that their brothers' ways of doing things isn't their way of doing things. Which blows up in their faces spectacularly sometimes. IF it's a version of Leo who's more likely to fail to take into account his brothers' differing styles, then Raph might easily play that against him and deliberately do things Leo would find unpredictable (though probably not as much as Mikey, lbr). For versions of him that are better about knowing that his own approach isn't the only/'best' approach, then Leo would be better able to roll with whatever Raph throws his way, within reason.

Combat Style/Approach: Mid-to-close-range, tactician, and definitely NOT a grappler. Yes, his skills and training have him moving with muscle memory when he needs to, but even so, there's a split-second awareness of what his opponent(s) could do and instinctively reacting based on what he's met with. A lot of that means he has to be free to move and avoid getting held in place, or things might go bad quickly.

Donnie

Strengths: No matter which iteration of Donnie you're talking about, you're generally talking about an engineer who's able and willing to casually heft up and carry around a car engine with his bare hands. And considering (with a quick google search) it looks like the average car engine weighs anywhere between 300 to 700 pounds, that alone is proof enough that no one in their right mind would ever want to be punched by Donnie. And considering there are instances where he's able to temporarily support the weight of himself and his brothers (a couple of scenes in the 2003 series are what immediately come to my mind, but that's just my favorite iteration showing itself) it's proof that he has that strength not just in his arms. To give you an idea of just how much weight that implies he can lift, here's a size and weight comparison of some of the largest turtle species currently living.*

Notice anything? Like how... Oh... I dunno... a 4-foot-long Loggerhead sea turtle can weigh up to 400 pounds? Or a 3-foot-long Leatherback sea turtle can weigh 550 pounds on the light end? (Note: this is not meant to be snarky or condescending, just a simple statement of fact that all signs point to these boys are fucking HEAVY.) And that huge amount of weight relative to their body size seems to be pretty consistent among turtle species from what I've seen with my digging around. Which logically implies that the same holds true for these boys, and if we play fast-and-loose with the idea that we can roughly translate length to height... well... For general weight of the boys, I tend to assume at least 200 pounds, at least for those under and up to about 5-foot-tall. For the 2014/2016 set I might even suggest somewhere between 400-500 pounds-- but roughly comparing weight to size with that table of large turtle species, I'm probably severely underestimating their weight all across the board. Being generous, hypothetically saying all four of the 2003 turtles are about 240, that then means there are moments in the 2003 series where Donnie is temporarily lifting around 960 pounds, including himself. AND THAT MIGHT BE A SEVERE UNDERESTIMATION. Terrifying, right? So yes, Donnie is unquestionably strong as hell and maintains that strength by working on his various projects, and a full-force hit from him would land someone in a hospital-- if they're lucky. The other main thing working for him is that he's a tech genius. No, he's typically not as rigid or disciplined in his training as Leo is, but if he has access to tech and distance then he has a whole host of weapons and traps he can bring to the party (something which Rise Donnie excels at in spades). Raph's a much more physical direct-confrontation fighter, but Donnie has the capacity to turn entire environments against his enemies, depending on the means he has at his disposal.

Weaknesses: For better or worse, Donnie's primary personal strength-- the one he leans on above all else-- is his intellect and being able to puzzle things out. And again, he's an engineer: yes he can lift and move that terrifying amount of weight, but he's usually not doing it at speed. (Because let's be real, moving heavy and potentially very breakable machinery is not something you want to do quickly when you want to be able to use or repurpose said machinery.) He's not a slouch when it comes to his ninjutsu training, but there's a reason why the concept of Donnie pulling the 'I'm too busy to train right now' is a widespread fandom concept. It doesn't necessarily mean that he's not 'as good of a ninja', but more that he's not a 'traditional' ninja and has had to adapt things to his preferred methods. Yes he has a lot of physical strength, but he prefers to keep a distance from his opponent(s) if possible. Doing so, having that distance, gives him more time to plan and respond-- because unlike Leo, a lot of iterations of Donnie don't have that ingrained ability to read the possible actions their opponent(s) might take and respond on a dime (or at least not to the same level). Raph's tendency to brute force things-- something which Donnie technically could do but clearly does not like to-- might be somewhat unpredictable for him, especially because that puts Raph in close and doesn't give Donnie as much time to respond as he would like. All that said, Donnie could technically win a fight against Raph without his tech if he pretty much said to hell with fighting and decided to do an imitation of an octopus. At the very least he could probably hold him in one place if he was quick enough and managed to get Raph's arms pinned. And somehow kept him from walking. (It wouldn't be a dignified win, but it might still technically be a win.)

Speed: I'm gonna be honest, I do not think speed is on Donnie's side in comparison to his brothers. If he really makes an effort (rather than just going his own route and pursuing his interests) he'd probably be able to keep up with the others going at full tilt for a little while, but he'd probably tire out first. A lot of the work he does due to his areas of expertise is fairly sedentary, and frequently he needs to move with slow and deliberate precision. There's a lot of fine muscle control involved in that kind of work (especially if it involves maneuvering something heavy), but being able to consistently do that doesn't automatically translate to being able to do something similar at high speed. But that's okay, because if he has the distance and varied means of attack he needs, then he doesn't have to worry about keeping up with his brothers for an extended period of time-- it just has to be long enough.

Adaptability: If it involves tech or computer systems, Donnie's ability to adapt to a situation is unparalleled. Give him unrestrained access to an unfamiliar and shiny (and incredibly pervasive) system and he'll be able to make it seem like a tech apocalypse is targeting one specific person if he wants to. If it's a head-to-head physical fight though, it really depends on how desperate he is or how much breathing room he has (or both). If he's frazzled and panicky then there's the possibility he'll miss several opportunities or potential tools and, in a worst-case scenario, he might freeze. (An extreme example of this is how Rise Donnie gave up fighting the crab men when his tech failed, after all his brothers had already failed in that fight.) If he has time and space to think then he's practically unstoppable, but if he doesn't have that breathing room then chances are things won't end well for him.

Combat Style/Approach: Distance fighter, brain-over-brawn, could be a grappler if necessary but uncomfortable enough with it that it might work against him, might as well dub him a 'trap master' for the little surprises he might leave in his wake if he's feeling spiteful. He's a schemer, but not a chess master.

Mikey

Strengths: If there's one thing that can be said for Mikey it's the fact that most versions of him are innately gifted at picking up kinesthetic knowledge, to say nothing of the fact that he tends to be the most spiritually gifted of the brothers. In fact in several series (2003 and 2012 off the top of my head, though I'm certain it may have popped up in others) it's briefly mentioned that if Mikey really buttoned down and was completely serious about his ninja skills he would outclass Leo-- which means that he can naturally slide into the level of skill Leo has worked for years to achieve without even really thinking about it. If he wants to. And most of the time he doesn't want to. (Too much responsibility being that serious, so who can blame him?) However, his not constantly going at the equivalent of Level 99 in a videogame in fights isn't necessarily a detriment to him, because he has other ways to stay true to himself while giving himself an edge. Like being annoying on purpose. And knowing how to aggravate the hell out of his opponents until he tricks them into getting sloppy. Until he tricks them into giving him easy openings they should REALLY know better than to give him-- and would if he hadn't deliberately torn their nerves to shreds. If it's not obvious, I'm saying versions of Mikey like to play mind-games, and if they really want to they can be vicious about it and make it HURT. (Though again, most versions of Mikey are more invested in goofing off and playing around than being outright vicious or serious.) The point is, if he finds a mental opening that sticks, then how invested he is in winning the fight will dictate how serious he is about exploiting that weakness. To say nothing about how creative he can get when he really wants to be.

Weaknesses: The downfall of a lot of Mikeys is how distractable a lot of them can be. (I won't say this is a universal fact because I'm a big fan of there being variation among different realities, but a lot of Mikeys definitely being ADHD doesn't help. How well said version is able to compensate probably also varies.) So depending on the circumstances and the environment, Raph might be able to play that distractibility against him. (Buuuut that would require Raph to play mind-games, and most Raphs aren't the 'mind-game' type.) Plus, for better or worse, it takes a LOT to get most versions of Mikey to the point where he's ready to say 'Fuck everything' and throw everything he can into ending a fight right that second.

Speed: Mikey is, in my honest opinion (and based off most of the series and movies I've seen), the fastest of the brothers-- bar none. Which means if he tore off at full speed with the intention of skipping a fight entirely and just making Raph chase him, Raph probably would never catch him. Until after he wears down anyway. But if he zipped off and found a good enough hiding spot, then he could probably avoid Raph for a while. In a fight, because of his speed, there's a good chance that Mikey might be able to get in more hits than Raph, but that comes with the risk of getting in close to Raph-- and that can easily work against him in very short order.

Adaptability: Mikey's adaptability is through the roof. Most versions of Mikey, you can throw damn near anything their way and they'll roll with it in such a way that they land on their feet while their brothers are still scrambling for stable footing. There's also the fact that he's a very lateral thinker and able to apply concepts from seemingly unrelated sources to scenarios many others wouldn't even think to combine-- and he does so to his advantage. So yeeeeeeaaaaahhhhh, given enough room and space to work with (and not panicking), then there's a good chance Mikey's going to catch Raph off guard with something he'd never expect.

Combat Style/Approach: Close range, flighty, dart in-range to hit and then dart back out of range, mind-games and making his opponents angry to the point of getting sloppy seems to be his preferred tactic. He could be the most terrifying to go up against in a fight if he went absolutely stone serious, but 99.9999% of the time he does not want to and would much rather slip in some fun where he can. (If you don't believe me on that last point, consider that in the 2003 series I'm reasonably sure he has the highest body count of all the brothers, in the 2012 series he killed a kraang and wore the dude's skin on his head multiple times, and in Rise ALL of Dr. Delicate Touch and the frothing maniacal rage he has when angry. 'Nuff said.)

Raph

And here we come to the turtle in question himself, Raph. Hamato Raphael, Raphael Splinterson, Raphie-boy, take your pick.

Strengths: Raph is a TANK. Barring '87, this boy in most iterations pretty much makes it his mission in life to be the strongest of him and his brothers. He's also stubborn as hell and WILL NOT give in if he thinks it's important to stand his ground. Which means he can and will hold his ground and dig in long past when his brothers each have to retreat or fold; he can take the hits they can't and come out the other side still kicking. And what's more, if he feels the need to and is able to get up and be mobile, then he WILL hunt you down for as long as it takes and damned near nothing will stop him-- he is that. damned. STUBBORN. Let's be real, that combination is terrifying. Of course, naturally, this brings up questions of just how physically strong he is. I pointed out up in Donnie's section that Donnie is ridiculously strong, but just how strong is Raph? To answer that question, the infamous scene from 2007:

Just how much psi does it take to snap a katana? WELL, it turns out that finding out that information is really difficult (at least when I was nosing around and trying to find out). When I was doing my initial searching I found a video on facebook examining an anime scene (at the time-- back in September-- it was literally the only thing that remotely came close to answering my question that popped up) that claimed it would take at least 20,000 psi. Being that the person who posted that video didn't include any sources for reference, I'd take it with a grain of salt (especially since despite my best efforts I'm having a hard time finding that video again), but still. If-- for the sake of argument-- we assume that the 20,000 psi measurement is accurate for what it would take to snap a katana, that would mean that our boy Raph is capable of exerting that much force with each hand. And not just a brief spike of getting there either. No, for him to be capable of the force in that 2007 scene (again, assuming the number is accurate) then he has to maintain that force for longer than a second or two.

I don't know about you, but that makes this scene just that much more dangerous and intense in my eyes. It's not just that Raph could have killed Leo by stabbing him; it's also the implication that he could have easily torn Leo apart with his bare hands if he wanted to. So yeeeeeaaaahhhh, if Raph is able to get his hands on any of his brothers and is able to hold on, they're probably toast.

Weaknesses: Whoo boy. In most iterations, point blank, his biggest weakness is his temper. If he gets set off too thoroughly or if someone knows how to play it against him, his temper can make him get sloppy and lead to his defeat-- regardless of how ridiculously strong he is. It also means that, unless it's a version of him who has worked his ass off to keep himself in check, there's a good possibility that he might wind up doing things he'll regret when he's angry (and if someone really wants to twist the knife they can play that guilt and self-blame against him). If you go by 2003 and 2012 there's also his bug-phobia which can be played against him. (Even though 2003 Raph covers it with 'KILL IT WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE'.) If you go by Rise, then you DO NOT. EVER. WANT THAT BOY TO BE ALONE. And on a much more brutal note, going back to his stubbornness which is also one of his strengths

...there's a good chance that this boy might try to push himself past the breaking point if he feels it's necessary.

Speed: I've said before that I think Raph is pretty neck-in-neck with Leo when it comes to how fast he is, Mikey has them both beat in the speed department hands down, and Donnie is most likely to be the slowest moving of the four of them. If Leo has to deal with heavy weights while trying to move at speed however, Raph will have him outclassed due to having more practice in that department. For Raph to have a hope of keeping up with Mikey going full tilt in running away, Mikey would have to be carrying enough to weigh him down considerably. And while Donnie might stand a chance in trying to grapple with Raph, Raph having more experience in moving heavy weights at speed would probably mean Donnie would be better off trying to glom onto Raph like an octopus rather than outright grappling. So Raph's not the fastest, but he's not a slouch either.

Adaptability: As much as I love my boy, Raph is a tank, he's bruiser, he's a bulldozer who freely makes use of sharp and pointy things he can use to stab people with. Adaptability-- barring variation between sneaking in and out versus barreling in as loudly as possible to cause mayhem and destruction as a distraction-- is generally not in his wheelhouse. Given time and learning how to play mind games (and I don't doubt that an adult Raph could pick up and use the skill when he needs to) he'd probably become more flexible, but with where he's portrayed to be at in most iterations he hasn't gotten there yet.

Combat style/approach: Close-range, grappler, brawler, TANK. He WILL hold the line, he WILL dig in and hold his ground, he WILL be the wall and PROTECT with everything he has if he has to. He's also not above being outright brutally destructive when he feels it's warranted. And that "when he feels it's warranted" is key.

Details that affect the outcome:

Raph has a protective streak 500 miles wide. A lot of iterations try to be the wall for his family, the last line of defense when needed. He would sooner see himself hurt than anyone he cares about.

And it's not just his brothers, father, April, Casey, anyone-he-considers-family that he's protective of either.

Seriously, if someone pushes the protective button on this boy and his sense of right and wrong kicks in, he WILL get involved.

Raph cares and feels deeply; to him, family is everything.

You

have

NO IDEA

how much

this boy

LOVES

HIS FAMILY

or how much he'd tear himself up if he ever seriously hurt any of them. So the chances of him ever actually going all-out against any of his brothers is slim. (And the few instances in various iterations where he's come close it's seriously screwed him up emotionally every time. Like 2003 and the pipe incident, 2007 and the after effects of his fight with Leo, the implied guilt Rise had after he snapped back to his senses after reuniting with his brothers after he'd been alone, etc.) He might fight with his brothers, he might disagree with them from time to time, but overall he comes off as someone who firmly believes you don't ever deliberately hurt someone you should care about if you can help it. Which is backed up by instances of him panicking in various iterations where his decisions might result in his family's deaths, as well as the fact that he only really turns on any of them (think SAINW) if they cross the line of not being there for each other like he feels they should be. Some iterations might threaten to run off a lot, but he never will without a damned good reason because he loves his family too much to ever want to do that to them.

Final Assessments

Raph vs Leo: If it's in close and is just down to strength-- Raph wins. If Leo has the time he needs to scheme and play Raph the way he needs to-- Leo wins.

Raph vs Donnie: If it's in close-- Raph wins unless Donnie pulls off an imitation of an octopus and gets all of Raph's limbs pinned and holds on for dear life. If Donnie has the distance, time to scheme, and the means to set traps to his heart's content-- plus tranqs, no one wins against tranqs-- Donnie wins.

Raph vs Mikey: If Raph can get his hands on Mikey and keep him in one place-- Raph wins. If Mikey plays Raph like a fiddle with his mind games and stays out of reach-- Mikey wins.

Raph vs the three of them together: Well shit, that'd be a losing proposition under the best circumstances unless the goal was to try to out-stubborn them at something. 10/10 if he had to, Raph would keep dragging himself along even if all three of his brothers were hanging on to him to try to keep him from reaching his goal. (And if Raph hasn't exploited that fact during some wild-as-shit game of theirs, then Casey Jones is the queen of England.)

Raph vs his guilt if he actually seriously hurt them: Instantaneous loss that Raph would probably have a hard time ever forgiving himself for.

So do I think Raph is as good a fighter as his brothers? Yes.

Do I think he's holding back so he doesn't hurt them? Also yes.

Do I think anyone he went up against if he didn't hold back would be thoroughly screwed? Emphatically YES.

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

*The site I got the turtle size table in Donnie's section is [here], if anyone wants further details on sea turtles.

#Raphael #Leonardo #Donatello #Michelangelo #TMNT #TMNT 2003 #TMNT 2007 #TMNT 2012 #TMNT 2014/2016 #TMNT & Batman #TMNT IDW #meta #this is SO DAMN LONG

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idk-bruh-20 · 2 years

Text

Tony, the futurist

Buckle in folks, I've had some thoughts and I'm about to make it ✨everyone's✨ problem.

Been thinking about Tony Stark, the futurist who saw the end of the world.

Tony, who in IM1 escapes kidnapping and torture and says, "I shouldn't be alive. Unless if was for a reason."

who, in The Avengers, has this exchange with Bruce Banner:

Tony: You know, I've got a cluster of shrapnel, trying every second to crawl its way into my heart. This stops it. This little circle of light. It's part of me now, not just armor. It's a… terrible privilege. Bruce: But you can control it. Tony: Because I learned how. Bruce: It's different. Tony: Hey, I've read all about your accident. That much gamma exposure should've killed you. Bruce: So you're saying that the Hulk… the other guy… saved my life? That's nice. It's a nice sentiment. Saved it for what? Tony: I guess we'll find out. Bruce: You might not like that. Tony: You just might.

Right after this, Cap tells Tony, "You're not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you."

And then Tony flies a nuke into a wormhole, tries to call his girlfriend because he thinks these are his last moments, did not go in there expecting to survive.

Although he survives, he witnesses an alien army so terrifying, so unbeatable, it gives him crippling PTSD nightmares and panic attacks, knowing they are not prepared to defend the earth.

I'm thinking about Tony who, in AOU, gets manipulated by Wanda into witnessing his worst nightmare.

Which, by the way, involves losing all of his newfound friends.

Later, he has this exchange with Nick Fury:

Tony: And I'm the man who killed the Avengers. I saw it. I didn't tell the team, how could I? I saw them all dead, Nick. I felt it. The whole world, too. It's because of me. I wasn't ready. I didn't do all I could. Fury: The Maximoff girl, she's working you, Stark. Playing on your fear. Tony: I wasn't tricked, I was shown. It wasn't a nightmare, it was my legacy. The end of the path I started us on. Fury: You've come up with some pretty impressive inventions, Tony. War isn't one of them. Tony: I watched my friends die. You'd think that'd be as bad as it gets, right? Nope. Wasn't the worst part. Fury: The worst part is that you didn't.

Tony's worst fear is to survive in a world he's failed to save. He has to "do all [he] could" or else the future he's terrified of will happen and it will be his fault.

(Not to put too fine a point on it, but there's a reason why Tony and Peter are so compatible as mentor and mentee.)

Tony's seen what's coming, and he's willing to do whatever it takes.

Here's the thing, though:

Tony doesn't actually want to die.

In AOU, when they're arguing about why he created Ultron, Tony says this to Cap:

"Isn't that the mission? Isn't that the 'why we fight'? So we get to go home?"

He tells Bruce that the reason they should create Ultron is to have "peace in our time."

He tells Pepper that his constant tinkering, his inability to ever, ever rest is because he needs to keep her safe from the oncoming threat.

Tony has a life he wants to protect, people he wants to keep safe. And, unlike the other Avengers, he knows exactly how impossible this will be to achieve.

Tony is the only Avenger who understands how severely outmatched they are. Maybe Thor understands the threat, but he has no ability to imagine losing.

Tony tries to get them to understand:

Tony: Recall that? A hostile alien army came charging through a hole in space. We're standing three hundred feet below it. We're the Avengers. We can bust arms dealers all the live long day, but, that up there? That's… that's the end game. How were you guys planning on beating that? Steve: Together. Tony: We'll lose. Steve: Then we'll do that together, too.

Well, they do lose. And they don't do it together.

And it turns out Tony was right about everything.

He was right that he would survive to face his world that he'd failed to save.

He was right that the Avengers would not be enough.

He was right that Bruce's powers would be worthwhile someday.

And, apparently,

some people think he was right that he was only alive for this reason.

Because, obviously, the only "reason" for someone like Tony Stark to be alive is to eventually sacrifice himself, right?

A character so traumatized can only find peace in death.

Right?

No.

Stop that.

Tony Stark may have been willing to risk his life for his family, but that doesn't mean he wanted that to be his end.

Remember when this happened?

Bruce: Saved it for what? Tony: I guess we'll find out. Bruce: You might not like that. Tony: You just might.

Bruce gets to live long enough to like his ending.

Remember when this happened?

All Tony ever wanted to do was make the world a better place.

And, what about this?

You're telling me that Yinsen didn't value family above all else?

That he thought Tony should die and leave them behind?

No.

Tony Stark is a futurist.

He is the Cassandra of the MCU. He warns the others constantly of the oncoming threat that only he, apparently, can see. (Even Thanos calls him "cursed with knowledge.")

No one believes him. Alone, he tries to prepare for the threat that he has witnessed. He sits with his nightmares and tries to find a way around them, constantly.

He builds a life worth living, finds people worth protecting, just like Yinsen told him to.

To protect the future, he does all he possibly can.

Tony deserved to be part of the future too.

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riality-check · 1 year

Text

more daisy jones-adjacent things. this time, they're finally starting to hate each other a little less.

parts 1, 2, and 3, for your reading pleasure. less drugs this time around, but way more talk about steve's ptsd. part 5. part 6. part 7.

ao3

Steve has never co-written anything before. All of his songs are his, from start to finish. Every note, every chord, every syllable is his invention, and he takes them all very seriously.

That's not to say that he doesn't accept help. He wouldn't be himself if he wasn't constantly bouncing ideas off of Robin and Dustin and Lucas, and he always has other people look it over and offer suggestions.

But the initial creation? That's all him. Steve likes that kind of control.

Writing with a band is very different. Eddie declares it, the song Steve pissed him off enough into writing, done after they've got lyrics and a lead guitar part.

"They'll write the rest," he says, like it's that simple.

Steve can't imagine letting go that much. In all honesty, he's scared shitless. He's never been good at being nice. Charming, yes. Nice, no. And he doesn't know how he'll be nice if the drum, bass, and rhythm guitar parts suck.

It's his song. Well, his and Eddie's, which is weird to think about, but still.

Steve has never co-written anything before.

And, to make matters worse, he fell asleep last night.

He knew it was coming. He's never made it past seventy-two hours, no matter how hard he tries or how high he gets. He knew it was coming, and he prepped as best as he could.

That didn't stop him from sleeping in three hour bursts, at max. Torn between the nightmares and the exhaustion and the crash, he freaked out, passed out, and repeated the cycle until he had to get up and go to the studio.

At least this time, last night, he was back in the Byers house. Scary as shit, with the initial confusion never fading, but it's the best of the nightmares he gets. Between the dogs and the torture, Steve's brain has plenty of worse things to torment him with.

Maybe he should be grateful, but he's never been good at dealing with what he's given.

This morning, he doesn't need to take anything. He's tired, but not that tired, and he's trying to give himself breaks when he can.

He doesn't want to die. He just wants to stay awake.

He has a coffee, though. That's mostly for the taste. His tolerance is shot to hell, so it's not like caffeine makes a real difference.

Steve walks into the studio, coffee in hand, and sees the band setting up and tuning their instruments. Jeff gives him a little wave, Gareth nods absently as he tightens his snare, and Archie positively beams.

"Steve, you're a saint," he says, a little mischief in his eyes. "Different chords, finally. I could kiss you."

Steve laughs and promptly cuts himself off when he sees Eddie staring at him.

"Do I have something on my face?" he asks once the silence has stretched on for too long.

"Why are you here?" Eddie asks bluntly.

Steve, notably, doesn't flinch back. He doesn't snap. He doesn't do anything that he would regret later.

He just says, steadily, "I can go if you don't want me."

He stands there, and he swallows back his hurt. He thought Eddie was finally warming up to him. He took Eddie's fighting words as an improvement from being ignored. And, as usual, Steve thought wrong.

"Hang on a sec," Jeff says. He sets his guitar down and stands between Steve and Eddie. "I said I wanted Steve on backing vocals for this."

"Is Steve not on backing vocals?" Gareth asks from the other side of the room.

"Far as I know, he is," Archie says with a pointed look at Eddie.

Eddie turns to look at Jeff instead. Steve watches their intense staring match and thinks about just walking out.

Before he can take the first step, Eddie says, "Fine."

"Fine what?" Steve can't help but ask.

"Stay."

Steve nods, but he turns to Jeff. "Are you sure? It's fine if-"

"I'm sure," Jeff says. "I think you wrote this song more for your register than mine."

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry-"

"Don't be," Jeff says. "I changed everything I can't hit, but I just want a little more support, you know?"

Steve looks around the little studio space, around at all the cables and amps and mics and instruments, and he counts. Then counts again.

"There's only four mics," he says.

Jeff picks his guitar back up and gives it a little strum. "Share with Eddie."

"What?" Eddie says, looking like he would rather walk out than do that.

"Nothing against you, Steve," Jeff explains, ignoring Eddie. "I'm just a big personal space guy. Can't focus otherwise."

Steve looks over at Eddie, still sitting, still scowling.

"Fine," he says, because he'll be professional, even if Eddie won't.

"You guys are fucking killing me," Chrissy says, and Argyle, the audio engineer next to her, nods in agreement. "Can we get this show on the road?"

Gareth gives them a little salute, one that Chrissy rolls her eyes at. "We all ready?"

"As we'll ever be," the rest of the band choruses.

Steve shrugs. "Yeah."

"You warm up?" Eddie asks, walking toward his mic.

Steve follows. "Never do."

Eddie rolls his eyes, but then Chrissy gives them the all-clear, Gareth counts them off, and they start.

And something switches.

Steve knew this would be higher energy. Different genre, different sound, whatever. But there's something fucking electric about playing with a band instead of being by himself in an iso booth, drilling vocals until he has a take he's happy with.

Recording with a band brings a different sort of energy. It creates a feedback loop, getting them higher, playing faster, sounding better.

Steve tells himself to back off. He's not the star of this show. He's been invited, and a quarter of the people in this room don't want him here.

But filling in the gaps has always come easy to him, and he gives the backing vocals his all.

And somewhere between the guitar solo and the end of the song, Eddie smiles at him for the first time.

It's quick, but it's blinding. Steve didn't think Eddie could smile until he does. It's quick as a flash and wide and feral and a little mean, but it's there, and it's directed at him.

But just like that, the first take is over. It was messy and imperfect, and as soon as it ends, Eddie is back to scowling at him.

But it's not as harsh. And that's how Steve knows that he wasn't imagining that little bit of something.

"Holy shit," Archie says, as soon as they're done. "This is gonna be a good song."

"It's gonna be a great song," Jeff says.

"I want more from Steve," Gareth adds, and the rest of the guys agree.

Even Eddie, however begrudgingly.

"Alright, boys," Chrissy says. "You've got the fun out of your systems. Let's focus and make some music."

Steve looks over at Eddie, who nods, however slightly. And he thinks, because he has never been able to kill hope a day in his life, that they could make a good team if Eddie could stop hating his guts.

#ria writes #dja au #eddie munson #steve harrington #chrissy cunningham #corroded coffin #steddie #steddie ficlet #stranger things #stranger things ficlet #st #st ficlet #rockstar eddie munson #tw drugs #tw substance abuse #tw ptsd

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

LANDLESS GULL (I)

|| COV MASTERLIST || PREVIOUS: PROLOGUE || NEXT: CHAPTER II ||

PAIRING: Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Three years later, you find yourself in a similar situation. But will new revelations put more of the past event into perspective? Or will your anger overcloud your judgment?

WORDCOUNT: 9.7k

WARNINGS: Implied stalking, angst, illegal activities, self destructive tendencies, insinuations of PTSD, sleeplessness, violence, abductions, talks of death, drugs etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The routine was the only thing that saved you, and it had never once wavered. Not in two out of the three years since the death of your father.

Wake up at five, sit in silence until six, and leave the house by seven.

Though you were in your last year of college, the wallet in the pocket of your sweatpants was still bare of the plastic of a standard driver’s license, so, you take the same long route you did every morning; feet hitting the concrete. The black iron under your grip leaves you shivering as you lock the front gate to your family’s estate, the end of the long walkway a grand, overgrown, sight as you take one last glance.

Hucking your backpack higher over your shoulder the elusive black form of the resident stray cat darts from one of the overgrown and thick bushes to another; the steadily browning leaves a barrier of dying flora.

“Don’t kill the finches, yeah?” You huff quietly, eyes dull and heavy with fatigue as the morning air chills your skin. Even if it was getting colder as the seasons changed, your mind never once went to the prospect of calling a cab.

The thought of someone you didn’t know driving you somewhere…you frown as you think it over, shoes stamping on top of weeds sprouting from the broken sidewalk as the utter stillness of the morning grows long. No. No, It was easier to walk or take the bus. A train, maybe.

But walking lets you think; makes you tired.

So, by eight AM you were always at the Café an hour's journey away, cheeks chilled and body quivering like your bones were made of ice. The winter was worse, so you didn’t have it in you to even consider complaining.

Hector smiles at you when you walk through the old front door, dodging the umbrella holder slightly in the way as your nose sniffles. You pointedly stare at his large mustache instead of into his eyes, sighing lightly.

“Ah, there she is!” He exclaims. The excitable Café owner had told you that his family had come up to Chicago from New Jersey only a decade ago, which would explain the still prominent accent. “Just in time, eh? C’mon then, I got a nice hot one ready just for you like always, Sweetheart.”

“Trying to make me wife number three, Hec?” You slyly remark, walking over the hardwood floors and itching at the skin under your eye. Lids flicking open and closed as a call to sleep seeps into your brain, you take comfort in the familiar atmosphere.

It was dimly lit, the business, relying more on natural light than anything. The scent of coffee and baked goods stuck to your nose, waking you up as you pull the thick cotton canvas of your jacket closer and look around as you shuffle to the counter. Shelves lined with bags and small homemade treats make a quick smile grow.

How does he find the time to bake all of that?

Hector laughs, but you pay little mind. In your coat pocket, your fingers play with a coin, thumbing the engraved face slightly. A slow glaze of memory spreads its fingers over your eyes when you spy a family picture on the counter—the mustached man with his two daughters.

“Hell, if all it takes is fresh coffee cake and two espressos, my odds are lookin’ pretty good if I can say so myself.”

You snap back to the present with a stiff neck, blinking quickly. Clearing your throat, you roll your orbs and remove your hands from your pockets, rubbing them together and creating friction when the lack of heat starts to burn.

“No offense, but I think I’ll stick to my oppressively single ways, Big Guy. You have better luck with the lady down at the bank anyways. What’s her name,” you stare at Hector’s large nose, raising a brow as he moves his body to the side and grabs his utensils. “Cassidy? Crissy? It’s something with a ‘C’.”

The man’s filling up your drinks and pulling a piece of fluffy cake from the display case, rushing about as if he’d never known peace in his relatively normal life.

Hector was in his mid-forties. Balding. Large and stocky—not exactly someone you’d envision running a business like this all on his own and actually enjoying it. His pasty complexion reminded you of a carton of milk left in the sun, but he got on well enough with the locals to a point where everyone on this street knew him personally. Above all, Hector was a people person. Speaking to him was easy, and the constant burning anger in your chest loosened when he was around. Let you breathe.

All things considered, you quite liked the man.

“Clarissa,” Hector enunciates, putting everything on the counter as you pull out your wallet from your back pocket. “And, yeah, she’s the security guard down there. Beautiful damn woman, Kid.”

Your lips quirk as you take the items in crowded hands carefully, slapping two tens and a few crumpled fives to the counter. As you’re turning and walking to your seat, you call over your shoulder.

“Like a woman who can beat you up, then?”

“God, do I.” You share a chuckle together, and, knowing your routine, Hector begins to whistle under his breath and wipe the front counter clean of crumbs.

Always taking the corner seat next to the large front window, you slip into the wall booth and put everything on the table grunting before shucking off your backpack. Besides you, most of the morning customers just came and went as they pleased, picking up what they needed and leaving—realistically you should as well.

Majoring in history and minoring in business left you deep in work and covered to the neck with projects; already sleepless nights didn’t help when the large classrooms of the University of Chicago got too loud to stand, the raised speaking of students like screaming in your ears. You always skipped morning classes, particularly the large ones for your own sanity. Attendance was tanked, but because the work was all posted online your grade hadn’t suffered.

You'd gotten it up since the first year, at least. That was all that mattered.

Taking a sip of your first cup of espresso, you let the caffeinated liquid hit the emptiness of your stomach and sigh. You place it down on the woodgrain, closing your eyes for a minute and tilting your head down. Around the beverage, your hands twitch at the warm material, feeling your own blood pump in your veins and the loose shirt under your jacket sag as warm air comes to create a dichotomy of senses. Hector always kept the Café warm, but it was never enough for you.

Everything always felt cold.

Blinking back to the present, the Tv situated atop the small bookshelf in the corner spews the early run of the news as you gather your laptop from your bag and set it down; eager to get to work.

“...As we experience the anniversary of the death of—” You blink, fingers pausing over the keys as half of your password is typed out. Staring at the blinking black bar, you hear a violent inhalation of air from the front desk.

“Oh, fuck, Dear, I’m sorry. I forgot that it was today. Here let me–”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head harshly and tiling your gaze in Hector’s direction. You stare hard at his dirty apron. “No, it’s okay. Leave it on.”

Your voice is stiff, digging into that well in your stomach of barred teeth and barbed wire. Blood instead of water and a bucket made of bone that dips into crimson liquid.

“But…” He trails, and your hands hover above the laptop. You notice a tremor before picking up your drink once more, downing a good portion of the scalding liquid with a gulp. You clear your throat against the burn and lower it.

“If I had an issue with it, Hec, I’d tell you. Trust me, I already know what the date is. Lived it for three years to the day.”

The man grumbles, itching at his round chin. Not too keen. He picks up the remote near the cash register and lowers the volume all the while he sends your hunched form glances with creased brown eyes.

“We remember the countless donations to those less fortunate than himself, the man always seen with a smile on his face greeting visitors, and the tragic end he met as a result of a robbery gone wrong.” Your jaw clenches, hands curling in as you glare at the blinking black bar with hidden hatred. A cruel smirk slashes your lips. Robbery gone wrong, now that was funny. You never knew how anyone believed that. “...Admissions to the Museum of Natural History are at half-price all week.”

The news anchor moves on and your fingers spread to rest atop the smooth keys, lungs tight.

They had been talking about your father, of course. The fabricated story was like a knife to the chest every time someone brought it up. Acquaintances at school, professors. Taking a peek outside, you see groups of random people walk past wondering for an instant if they’d come in and recognize you.

Your dad was incredibly well-known when he was alive.

A robbery, your sneer grows as you log into your laptop, face falling to a blank slate as you clink on a plethora of named files. Pathetic. Of course, the CIA would spew something like that.

“What’s going on? Please, Dad, what’s happening?” The world is swirling with technicolored lights. Amber eyes. A hand on the top of your head.

The words pop up as a document loads, bolded and black. You shake off nausea and take down more caffeine, finishing off the first cup with muted disgust. Pushing it farther down the table, you move the second closer.

OPERATION: KINGFISHER

OVERSIGHT: STATION CHIEF KATE LASWELL, TS/SCI

OPERATIVES: CLASSIFIED

STATUS: ACTIVE

MISSION REPORT: MONDAY, 0823, CHICAGO, USA: THREE YEARS PRIOR:

All the rest was blacked out in long streaks of dark highlighter, the image fuzzy. A sharp needle inserts itself into your nerves, every slam of your heart like a gunshot as your sides pinch with disappointment.

No. Your jaw clenches.

How long had you been trying to get access to all of the government documents that were relevant to your case after you figured out the CIA was behind your father's and your abduction? A full year at this point? So many sleepless nights and under-the-table deals. And the information that mattered the most was still a level above the fabricated station you had given yourself to slip past lines upon lines of code like a snake in the grass.

You want information on Private Samson Row. The name you had figured out belonged to the person who had pulled the trigger on your father. You’d sleuthed out the others’ names as well through a straight week of only coffee and red-eyes. But you'd done it.

Captain John Price, Lieutenant Ghost, Sergeant John ‘Soap’ MacTavish, and Sergeant Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick.

Private Samson Row.

What had given them away to be a government body was the one-word phrase that Price had barked after the shot was only an echo.

“What in the fucking hell are you thinking, Private?!” The leader's voice yowls and grunts as you slowly open your eyelids, lashes fluttering over your cheeks. “We needed him alive, you Muppet!”

From then it was history.

Blatant irritation stems in your veins at the brick wall that now presents itself mere black lines away from a reason as to why this all had happened, fingers flinging across the pad to fly through the fifty-two-page file. Not a single word was visible.

“Son of a…” You strangle the curse under your breath and go to dig your fingernails into the back of your neck until crescents form. Blazing white pain and a shifting of sinuses.

If it wasn’t obvious, the laptop with you now was rarely used for schoolwork. In fact, you never even planned on going to campus today—no one expected you to, so it was better to feign brokenness instead of icy fury.

“Kate Laswell,” scoffing humorlessly, you shake your head at the only portions of the document filled in, “I keep seeing your name on everything. Christ, with the intel that I’ve read up on involving you, I’m surprised your personal file wasn’t more difficult to crack open. Only took me four days. ” You mutter to no one and nothing numbly.

But it seems an answer is given.

The bell atop the front door swings, a small tinkering of tarnished silver metal and a creak of rusted hinges. Feet that stamp lightly, but press firmly. Bleeding contained purpose.

Your body stills; lungs going immobile.

When you were young, you could memorize the sounds of the staff going down the stairs at the mansion. Tell who was who just by the pace and the weight on the creaking wood; it was a game that you were sure you could still play even years later in that practically abandoned estate. The slightest sound made you snap to attention when you were alone.

Just as this one did. But that wasn’t because of paranoia.

“Ah! Hello, Sir, welcome!” Hector calls, motioning with a hand as the air goes tense. “What can I get you today? We’ve got a little Coffee Cake left if you want, I gotta say, man, it’s my best batch yet.”

It was because you knew him. Those feet.

This can’t be right.

A throat clears. “Sorry, Sir. Not today.”

That voice. Your eyes shutter wider, eyelashes frozen at the screen of your laptop.

British. Smooth. It was a voice that played in your subconscious at a constant—never leaving. A flash of amber eyes. Blood slashed your vision, coating the world in a sheen of red; gore dripping down your face faster than water. A funeral shroud of pure hatred.

Gaz. Kyle Garrick.

With a quivering hand, your finger slowly clicks the Escape key like it was an intimate partner, watching the document disappear on quick feet and with ruffled clothes into the scene of your wallpaper. Staring blankly at the multiple incriminating folders that meet you, your ears twitch to the sound of a slow inhalation; tapping digits over a pant pocket.

You don’t dare look up.

A tall shadow begins approaching, and you briefly seize. Humming emanates in the back of your head like a kind of drunken sloshing of senses.

Run.

Your heart mirrors the steps that Gaz takes. Against the nature of the cortisol and rampaging adrenaline in your blood, a flicker of your lips betrays a chilled amusement. A part of you had always known this would happen. It’s strange to say, but even as your legs start shaking, your expression is measured; held-back brows, loose lips, and a fluidness to your shifting eyes.

But your mind…

What’s he doing here? You panic. Why…why is he here? They couldn’t have possibly known I was reading up on them, could they? No, no, I’ve been careful.

You can’t move. Your mind can’t function. Every nerve is sparking with a need to sprint and flee. But yet again, your body leaves you frozen.

One of the double chairs in front of your table is pulled out, and a figure dressed in a white shirt covered by the second layer of a fitted blue athletic top calls your gaze. The build of an intensive workout schedule is shown unabashedly, sleeves pulled up to dark elbows that shift the tense forearm muscles. Brown and tan Army pants cause your eyebrow to raise incredulously before the limbs disappear under the barrier.

The frozen shackles on your limbs break and your lips move before you can shut yourself up. Maybe it was the familiar atmosphere, or maybe it was the therapist’s words from that month-long fiasco of court-mandated therapy way back in the beginning.

The coin in your pocket burns, and you long to clench it in your fist until you’re dripping blood like a stuck pig.

“Not exactly trying to hide it, are you?” You look back down at your laptop, opening the search browser and pretending to look up something unimportant. “I’ll admit it, Gaz, I like this instead of having a gun shoved halfway into my vertebrae. Not too fond of it, you understand?”

Silence holds out. A head turns away for a moment as his body shifts in uncomfortableness.

“I’ll be needing you to come with me, Ma’am.” The accent punches you in the throat, the stern order that coasts along like a fish in water.

What gave him the right?

How does one stay calm when your head is like a pot of boiling water? The bubbles roll in great waves of anger and fear as you try and stay outwardly calm with struggling success. You doubted you were able to look anything besides purely rage-filled, but didn’t dare check by looking into the man’s eyes—or even his face for that matter.

You glared over the screen and dug daggers into his bobbing Adam’s Apple, settling on your answer. Sarcasm.

“And I’ll need you to understand that I’d rather choke on this coffee cake.” Your finger points slightly to the untouched plate with a tremor in its bones. “I don’t want another barrel pointed at my forehead, no offense.”

Gaz’s jaw shifts, clenching before loosening, and in his sensitive ear, the radio sizzles to life with a spark.

“Kyle, I’ve got eyes. Talk to me.” The Brit looks outside through the glass, immediately finding the large figure leaning against the wall of a library across the street.

Gaz’s Captain has his arms crossed, beanie-covered head tilted to seem like he’s watching cars that pass by; a gruff-looking man simply people-watching. Everyone misses the bulge of a pistol stuffed into the small of his back—under a brown leather jacket and a black sweater. Price itches at his brown beard with a frown.

“In position, Sir. Speaking with her now.” The man at the front desk of the Café watches him closely, pretending to clean a spot on the back counter that seems to never go away despite the multiple passes. He wouldn’t be a problem if it came down to that.

“Copy. Keep on schedule.” The Sergeant wasn’t sure why he was here—why out of all the others in his Task Force, Price had decided he needed to be the one to engage with you.

“Roger that.”

This was the last thing he wanted to do.

He didn’t know how to convince you to come with him without replaying the scene from three years ago; it was imperative that he didn’t do that. Though it had been necessary…his thighs shifted over the rickety chair. It wasn’t supposed to end like that. Everyone was paying for it.

Gaz’s brown eyes glance to the table, one hand going to fix the position of his favorite ball cap over his head and press it down.

He felt naked without his gear.

Figures I’d be the only one bloody stripped down to nothing.

“Ma’am,” the Brit starts slowly, watching your ears twitch as you burrow deeper into your large jacket. A flicker of hesitation seeps into his heart. With a frown on his tense lips, he could still see your shoulders bunched up; breathing labored. You were terrified—rightly so. “It would be best to listen to me, yeah? No one’s going to hurt you. This is for your own safety but I need you to come quietly.”

Kyle had put all of his cards to the shock value; the hope that your fear of him would prompt you to come along in a shell-shocked reaction and a hesitance of an imaginary weapon. It worked in a few other missions, he’d even done it a few other times in the army, though it was always a hit or miss.

But staring hard at your thin lips, he noticed anger as well and was forced to face reality. This was never going to work.

Your internal timer ends, and all the primal instincts trapped in your mind let loose a vile scream. The memories are too great; too violent. Even this man’s voice is a brand in your soft tissue.

“Listen to who? An accomplice to murder? And ‘not hurt me’.” You snort, reaching up to grab the top of your laptop and close it with a slam. Hector pauses his fake cleaning as you stare at Gaz’s nose and the barely-there stubble that lives over his upper lip and cheeks. “You’ve done a pretty horrible job of that…The only way you’re getting me to go with you is in a body bag.” Your brow raises. “I’m sure you’re familiar with them, hm? I’d kind of hoped you’d already be in one by now if I’m being honest.”

“Listen,” Kyle prided himself on being patient, but the clock was ticking. Laswell needed you at the designated location and that was where he intended to take you in one piece. The injection needle in his back pocket was looking more and more promising if this continued to be difficult, a mixed concoction that only the CIA could put together to knock a person out for a long while. But why did he feel so hesitant to use it? He’d also been the only one to suggest someone try and speak to you first before forcing you to go along with them.

I guess this is what happens when I try and put in my two damn cents. Stick to procedure next time.

“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in—”

“The position I’m in is entirely you and your little friends’ fault.” You growl, voice breaking and eyes turning to look outside. Snapping when you see his lips part, “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Kyle’s mouth closes with a clench of teeth.

Trapped like an animal you have half a sense to gnaw your own leg off. There was a hunch in your mind as to what was happening—the files you’ve read that weren’t blackout out gave in-depth mission details; play-by-plays. These people worked in teams. Always.

Your eyes dart with frantic knowledge as Gaz sits tense, a subdued annoyance flaring as his hands tap the table and thinks deeply.

You find Captain Price easily and the agony grows. The stocky man shifts in the morning light, the familiar body leading to a slashed remembrance of folded arms and black balaclavas. His stare was like a burning piece of wood shoved directly into your eye sockets.

Alleyway in the back, your feet shuffle, tense. You had to get out of this. Take the corner and run to the busier intersections. Try to keep calm. Breathe.

Easier said than done. Kyle was the same man who had put a gun to your head with the intention of pulling the trigger—your life was nothing more than a bargaining chip. Would he do the same again?

Yes. No one was saying he didn’t have a weapon on him now; the only difference was this time you didn’t know why he was here in the first place. The easiest answer was the documents, but was it that simple? Why send the same people after you?

Not that simple, but it is illegal. The thought of going back to a small room; a rope around your wrists…your hands go to itch at the healed skin, still sensitive despite the years. The Sergeant clocks it with a pulling frown and tight brows.

“Ma’am,” Gaz’s voice snaps your vision back to the table, and you go to take a drink of the remaining cup of espresso to calm your nerves. You send a glance at the heavy backpack beside you and blink. “I didn’t have to come and speak to you, alright? I’m doing this to try to find some standing. This isn’t a ploy, but you have to follow me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Bloody…no.” Kyle grunts, itching at his neck as his earpiece goes off. He looks sideways.

“Kyle, this isn’t working. Stick ‘er.”

“I can get her to come along,” he mutters harshly, not noticing one of your hands going to place the drink down while the other sneaks to the strap of your bag. “There’s no need to—!”

The force hits him right in the neck, and his head snaps back with a heavy jerk. His chair falls backward from the weight, sending him sprawling in a tangle of limbs and rushing feet over the floor. A heavy crash emanates throughout the building and the wind is knocked from his lungs as brown eyes bug out of the sockets.

“Hector! Call the police!” The front door is slammed open with a violent noise of shaking glass and a bell. Shrieking hinges.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Kyle shouts, shoving the backpack off of him and ignoring the sharp pang in the back of his skull. He recovers quickly. Hot irritation spikes as Price barks into the earpiece; the Sergeant scrambles after you with fast force.

“After her!”

Your feet slam to the concrete as the laptop stays tucked into the crook of your elbow, chest conforming to the press of it as you puff out quick breaths. Inside your ribs, the blood rushes out to your head, creating a pound like a drum.

Shoving aside others on the sidewalk, shouting sounds out from behind you before the dark shadow of an alleyway meets your snapping vision like a blessing from above. Pushing past an older man, you take a sudden turn into the darkness, the morning chill momentarily getting pushed back by the fire under your skin. Wind rushes past your ears.

Faster, you tell yourself, feet flying over stray garbage bags and puddles, don’t let them catch you. They can’t catch you.

Easier said than done. They were trained soldiers. SAS in league with the CIA.

Panting, you clutch your laptop tighter and feel cold sweat drip down your spine before a yell echoes from the entrance behind you.

“Hey!” It was Kyle’s voice, stern, but the sound of another set of feet told you who else was in pursuit. If you were being honest, the Captain scared you far more than the Sergeant did.

Your eyes go unfocused as reality sets in.

“They came back for me,” muttering, you see the brief alleyway end up ahead. “They tracked me down again to finish the job.”

“Bravo 7-1 she’s comin’ to you!” You don’t register the grunted words until you’re already taking the corner on the opposite side of the street, about to disappear into the expanse of a crowded downtown rush.

The wall of muscle sends you sprawling out on your back, the laptop flying from your hands in a wide display of just how fast you’d been running as discomfort ripples up your spine as the ground meets you. The pain that blossoms in your nose is sharp and immediate; a groan exiting into the air as you close your eyes tight to push back the shock and the momentum that had just been immediately halted. Nonsensical words exit you in slurring huffs.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” A Scottish accent hits your pulsing ears, as your shaking hand covers your eyes, teeth bared as a dull ache stems from the back of your head. Rocks poke into your back. “You alright down there? Didnea expect that.”

A hand snaps to the collar of your shirt, hauling you up easily as your bearing has yet to come back to you. The word spins.

“Ow,” your lips release a whine, face turned down as you blink away black dots. Large feet covered by brown combat boots become clear as the running slam of the other two gets closer.

Starling, you snap your head forward and attempt to rush off with barely functioning feet.

“Ah, ah!” The Scot laughs, and a locked fist stays rooted into the textile of your clothes. “Can’t have that, now.”

You look up at a strong man with pale skin—brunette stubble over a sculpted jaw and a scar over the chin. Long lips that curl into a smirk to show off white teeth. If you had to guess, this was John MacTavish. Soap—otherwise called Johnny.

You’ve seen the photos in the files, but you have no rush to look into his bright cerulean gaze anytime soon, but you see wisps of his mohawk sitting on his forehead.

“Get your hands off of me.” You growl, feet straining to stay steady. Your lids blink quickly to gain control as, like a newborn foal, it’s like your body doesn’t know how to control itself. “Bastard.”

Jesus, my head’s yelling at me to sit down. The hell is this guy made out of? Stone?

The Scot only chuckles as Gaz and Price catch up.

“No can do, Little Lady.”

Kyle lets out a deep sigh as he stops, having seen the entire scene play out when you ran head-on into the older man and tries to tell himself to feel bad—he did slightly, but the mirrored pain in the back of his own skull found some sort of redemption.

Girl’s got an arm on her. He rubs at the back of his head.

“I think that makes us even. Wouldn’t you say, Ma’am?” The Sergeant huffs light-heartedly, staring at you without so much as breaking a sweat from the short pursuit. The Captain shakes his head, going to pick up the laptop on the ground as your teeth clench.

“Call Ghost. Get him over here for the Exfil.” Civilians watch, but like they usually do, no one steps in to say anything or to spare more than a glance. “ASAP.”

“Shut up.” You scowl at Gaz’s chest, replying to his comment. Jerking yourself out of Soap’s hold, he lets you stand fully by yourself before he presses large fingers into his earpiece to mutter something out. The Scot still eyes you closely. There was no use trying to run anymore. “It was the least you deserved. Or are we forgetting how we met in the first place—should have dumped coffee over your head too.”

“Now that’s overkill, isn’t it, Love?” He can’t help but snap. Perhaps it was the dull thumping in his skull, or perhaps it was just you. “Manners never a prospect in your home?”

No one tested his patience quite like this and he’s only just re-met you. Your anger was justified, the Sergeant knew deep down, but he’d never expected this. In the brief time, you had insulted him, thrown a bookbag at his head, and then insulted him some more. Maybe the Captain had been right when he suggested all those weeks ago that it would be better to just knock you out right off the bat.

Still could…Kyle twitches his nose, huffing to himself and shaking his head.

You bare your teeth. “Shove that overkill and that stupid nickname up your—”

“Enough. Both of you.” The Captain interjects, growling out as a black van pulls alongside the road. Walking to it, Price shakes his head, fingers pressing into his nose bridge as he enters the passenger seat. “Fuckin’ hell.”

You fall silent and fight back the burning heat in your cheeks as the lack of ability to escape becomes evident to you. What else could you do? Scream? No—they’d just shove you in the car and put a gun to your spine again.

Every option led to you getting into that car. That…that compacted black car with tinted windows and filled with the men you hate the most.

Will Private Row be in there? A pang of horror enters you. Will he…?

Your father’s blood is forever stuck into the fabric of your flesh like a tapestry. Lining the stitching of your pores and the embroidery of your genes.

“Go on, then,” Soap prompts, a hand pressing into your shoulder blades like you were an unruly calf. Your eyes narrow, lips pinching down into a tight frown.

Today was supposed to be easy. Simple. No college, no questions, and certainly no abductions. Your dad was always on your mind—what happened? Why did the Private shoot him when in every report you had read interrogations of that kind took hours upon hours to finish?

If I keep my cool, you reason, feeling all of the eyes on you as you grab the car handle and pull it open with a pop, maybe I can get answers as well. Straight from the source.

Your eyes search the interior and a great weight is lifted. No one else besides the driver and the Captain, who are separated by a wall and a small window in the front, is present. No Private Row.

Thank God.

What would you have done then?

These last three years were a learning period, and when you hop into the vehicle and shuffle to the far right, your hand delves into your jacket pockets; the one connecting with the coin, its metal cold to the touch. Your finger skims it, pressing into the groves until an indent forms in your flesh. But there was one thing you learned in the time you spent destroying yourself to get even a sliver of information on your abductors. They were always playing games.

Games of intellect, of mental fortitude and knowledge. It was a chess piece being moved and hoping yours was in the line of fire so the king could be checked. Your unease is still present, the quivering fingers and the snapping gaze but if you can keep your head on, then maybe—

The car door on your side opens.

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Can’t have you by the door,” Gaz mutters, and your lips release a stifled scoff. But you do as you’re told, watching from the corner of your eyes as the tall body scoots inside, easily situating itself in between you and the door they were apparently afraid you’d throw yourself out of.

They’re going to lock it anyways—what's the point? You could call them paranoid, but that would just be hypocritical. When the last sliver of outside light is cut off as the door closes, you flinch at the loud noise and take a steadying deep breath. Soap sits on your opposite.

You’re completely stuck in the middle.

Kyle watches as Ghost sends a glance back. The Sergeant nods stiffly and the car peels out. Johnny leans back, arms crossed, and watches the world as it passes by while those brown orbs stay locked on you. The subtle shaking of your shoulders; the way your eyes bug and the pupils stay small.

Sweat stays on your eyebrow ridge, and Gaz thinks about how close you’ll become to a snowball if you pull in even farther. The man clears his throat in dismissal and a small sliver of regret. After all, you are a mostly innocent party in this.

He’s about to open his mouth and ask if your head is okay when a deep chuckle sounds off from the front of the car.

“Well, you’ve been busy. Laswell was right.” Your ears perk, mind forcing back thoughts of the walls closing in around you as Price’s gravel voice sounds out. The car smells like gunpowder and leather. “How’d you manage this, then?” You blink at the interior window and say nothing.

You’d seen the bear of a man take the computer; had no doubt he could find a way into it, though you had never thought it would happen that fast.

Your lips thinned.

Kyle and Soap exchange glances, curiosity sparking as Ghost drives them to where Laswell told them to meet with the package.

“That’s none of your business.” The comment exits you in a string of whispers, defensiveness sparking.

“Well, it’s my business when my name’s on it, eh? How long did this take to pile together?” Your mouth stays shut as the Captain’s visage looks back at you from the rearview mirror with narrowed lids.

“Sir?” Gaz asks, confused.

“She’s got files on us—on all of us. Kate too. More than she thought.” The Sergeant looks down at you in surprise, eyes going slightly wider.

“What in the hell does that mean?” Soap questions, hands gesturing out from his cross-body hold as you sink even deeper into yourself. Bitter tears bite at the back of your vision.

“It means someone’s been digging where they weren’t supposed to.” It’s the first time that Ghost has spoken, but it was all that was needed. Your body shivers at the Manchester accent; the numb brutality of it.

But you say nothing, and the ride is silent besides the way all of the hard stares nearly spoke words out loud.

Everything just felt like a blur of sound and color. Separate; removed. If you tried hard enough, you were back in the Café with Hector—eating that coffee cake you never even got a bite out of and chugging down espresso that you were already craving again.

Your finger digs deeper into the coin in your pocket.

The cops would show up. There was no doubt that the past New Jersey resident hadn’t called them when you told him to. But there was also no doubt that the CIA would step in and take jurisdiction. It was what they did when your father was murdered—they’d spun a story as you sat in a room that belonged to a detective and sobbed in an inconsolable state. Reporters and news crews outside.

Nothing we can do, you were told, it was a robbery. Out of our hands, but we’ll try our best to find the culprit.

You already knew the culprit. The man in the corner. His name was Samson Row and he had been nervous. He had a trigger finger.

Your eyes harden as they glare at the floor and your jumping feet. For your father, you would get as much information as you could, and then leak it if you had to—if these people let you live. But before that, you wanted to know why. Why had he died? You’d do nothing until that was answered.

Swallowing down saliva, you speak as the car turns off the main road, heading farther and farther away from the parts of town you knew. Your lungs go stiff.

“So where’s Row?” The air shifts as your hoarse voice coldly utters, “What? Is he not part of your little group now? Figured he’d be here to finish off the rest of it, he only did half a job last time.”

Kyle looks to the side, an elbow resting on the window sill. Soap clears his throat awkwardly as his great body shifts.

“Hm,” Price grunts out. But if you were looking for an answer, no one gives you one.

Hatred flairs. What gave these men the right to think they could just push you aside like that? They put a gun to your head! Killed your father!

The rabid sense of justice and entitlement grow until your jaw is clenching, unease mixing with agony. You deserve answers even if it kills you.

Your mouth opens, and your instinctually watering eyes stay stuck to the floor.

“I–”

“Laswell’ll explain,” Gaz’s quiet voice leaves you tense, muscles wound up as if you had forgotten he was there. A barrel flashes over your sight and you want to shift away but know you can’t.

Kate Laswell. So that’s who you’re going to meet.

“...Good,” you lick your lips.

About time.

It’s only ten minutes later that you’re let out of the vehicle, an underground parking garage and its dim lighting making your pupils widen to accommodate the darkness. Gaz gets out first, keeping the door open for you by the frame and you pause before following after, keeping a wary eye on him.

“Head alright?” You frown and stare at the Brit’s nose.

“Hope yours hurts even more.”

“This way.” You follow after the Captain’s voice, leaving the Sergeant behind to gape, blink, and slowly shut the car door. Ghost slips past with a hidden amusement and the group continues on.

This is going to be one hell of a mission.

To you, it was clear that this was a military base.

The entrance needed a keycard, and the vehicles stored underground were armored besides the one that you’d been brought in. The hallways were lined with tile and the staff that walked past were all dressed in clothes ranging from fatigues to full-on issued uniforms. People would try to meet your eyes, but you always looked away before they were able.

“In here.” Price utters, sliding an identification card through a reader before a faint clicking emanates out. The brunette tilts his head firmly as he opens the door.

You blink, but unlike the strange and heated interactions with Gaz, you hesitate to get on the Captain’s bad side. The chilled eyes digging into you as you state at his scarred hands… Your body shivers and you slip past the men into a brightly lit room.

Even without a weapon pointed at you, their eyes still felt like knives. Their words like bullets. Everything reminds you of three years ago, and try as you might, all you want to do is go to bed and forget about this.

Still the adrenaline hadn’t crashed, and when it did you knew you were going to be out of school for a week. Shaking. Sobbing. Rolling on the floor refusing to eat because what if they were right outside the door of your bedroom?

As you expected, the door closes behind you with a lock being set in place. But what you didn’t expect was to not be alone in this medium-sized room holding only a table and…

Your gaze widens on the figure in one of two chairs. Slim, yet fit, her pale skin sits under a simple white blouse and a lanyard over her neck. Hands intertwined and sitting over a stack of physical files in manila folders as a wedding band glints.

Dirty-blonde hair forms strands of bangs with the rest held back like a hostage near the top of her back, wrinkles in her forehead and around her lips. Without thinking clearly, your eyes make contact with hers, and you’re left violently flinching away, blinking rapidly and tilting your head down to force away amber and gold. Your heart seizes, but you recognize that shade of blue you’d just seen.

Gunmetal. So, this was Kate Laswell in the flesh.

A soft sigh meets the air.

“Please, sit.”

Biting your lip wearily, you start forward, hand connecting with the extra seat before you slowly pull it out. Your fingers tap the material before you hesitantly lower yourself into it, eyes going to any possible exit beyond the door behind you.

There was none.

“I’d like to apologize for the stress, but you can imagine that we wanted to cause the least amount of panic possible. To both you and the public.” Your vision sits on her lanyard, watching the picture jump as she moves to sit farther upright. “Kyle was the one to suggest speaking to you first, though I didn’t think it would work.”

You slouch.

“It didn’t.”

Kate blinks at your frame, studying the ragged look and evident sleeplessness. She would almost call it sickly. A frown grows over her serious face.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Where’s Row?” To hell with subtlety, you decided.

“It’s not as simple as that.” The woman doesn’t miss a beat, shaking her head back and forth slowly. “I’ll need you to listen to what I’m about to tell you.”

“...And why should I do that?” Your brow raises, voice gaining ice. “You’re responsible for my father’s death. You know that? You had oversight for that Operation.” Laswell stares at you, you can feel it. “Hell, you had oversight for a lot of Operations. What was the number… forty-five and counting? But that’s really just a blanket number, isn’t it?”

You can’t help the comments, they fall from you quicker than blood, and the back of your head burns something awful. Lights dance.

“John told me you had government documents on your laptop. A number on all of the members of One-Four-One.” Kate sighs quickly, motioning to you with a hand. “I have to admit, I did expect something like that to happen—so I made sure to let them know that you most likely already knew they were SAS.” A pause. Your hand goes to itch at your nose, peeling back skin as a way to ground yourself. But you’d be lying by saying you weren’t intrigued and a bit in awe. You’d underestimated how much Laswell actually knew about you. Who was to say they hadn’t been keeping an eye on you this whole time? Who are you kidding, of course they did. You curse yourself internally. “But unfortunately, that’s not why we’re here.”

Your fidgeting halts; eyes narrow. The Agent moves back, taking up a file and spreading it open, you watch with rapt attention.

If not the stolen documents, then what?

“Do,” pictures meet light, and your interest peeks, “these individuals seem familiar?”

One was of a man in a nice suit, expensive looking with a well-trimmed beard of blonde hair and a bald head. Tattoos are inked into visibly pale skin. The photo was taken as he was getting out of a large vehicle, armed guards holding a door open though it looked like he himself wasn’t in need of the entourage.

He was built like a boar on steroids.

Your hand grabs the page and brings it closer, face pulling close in concentration as your hands go clammy. You had no recollection of this stranger.

So what is this about?

The next was of a woman with a darker skin tone, perhaps from South Asia, though you couldn’t be certain. She was dressed nicely as well, in silk skirts and a long-sleeved shirt that wraps around her smaller body. The look is finished off with a thin garment over her shoulders.

She’s picking out spices at an outdoor market, the image partially covered by the lip of a jacket as if someone had been trying to be discreet.

But the guns of the armed guards are still seen as they flank the woman.

You look up, placing the photos down and shaking your head. Pulled in eyebrows causing your gaze to stop at Kate’s nose. “No, why?”

“Because they’ve put a price on your head.” Your body freezes and it takes a moment to register what she just told you.

Eyes wide and lips slightly parted; the ache in the back of your skull burns brighter as you find your breath has stopped. Sucking down a gasp, you bring a hand out of your pocket to scratch at your neck, mind running.

“What…what?” Laswell takes the pictures back, continuing nonchalantly as if your heart isn’t about to explode. You feel faint, and the lights buzz in your ears.

A price on my head?

“Crime syndicates with terrorist connections.” She begins, and you can’t help but listen. “Since your father’s death, they’ve been waiting for you to take up the mantle. Your families held tight bonds in the past—the museum your father was running was a cover to smuggle Yaromir Osipov’s weapons,” Kate points to the man, then to the woman, “and Mala Kham’s drugs. They were later sold at an undisclosed location and a portion of the profits was sent back to fund conflicts. Hired assassinations. Symbolic murders...”

The rest is left as an open statement.

“I…” You stutter, panic palpable. The air was getting thicker; harder to breathe. You can’t remember a time when your own clothes had felt so suffocating to wear.

It wasn’t a question to you as to why you’d restrained yourself from looking anything about your father up in the CIA databases. It was a fresh wound and an incredibly bloody one. The man that raised you wasn’t that man—the one that would smuggle drugs and weapons into Chicago and sell them off somewhere else.

The man you remembered was respectable and above all, kind. Indirectly causing the deaths of people? No, that wasn’t him. Your mind broke at even the barest insinuation. It… it refused to even consider it.

Kate Laswell watches blankly, humming under her breath and nodding to herself. As if she’d just confirmed something that she’d been on the fence about.

She continues.

“When three years passed and you never got into contact, your mother either, their product wasn’t getting sold at high rates anymore. Chicago is a vastly important playing field. The best way to get another house in power is to take out any remaining opposition and reinstate someone else.”

“My mother and I,” you murmur with a hysterical look that snaps into your eye. A sharp rigidness enters vertebrae, hands hastily slam the table in a grand display along with a crashing chair behind you as your feet push you upwards. “She’s in Ireland,” your mother was a traveling nurse, going abroad more often than not and away constantly. You hadn’t talked much after the first year of your father's passing. She left you to your grief and took hers with her. “D–do you have her in custody already or…or—She should be with someone! Is she still just—?”

“She’s in a secure location.” Kate interrupts, her hands raising. She’s calm; incredibly so, and you feel that serenity of her voice leaks into you, your shoulders lessen from their raised-hair stance. “And an Agent I trust is with her. She’ll be back in Chicago soon.”

“Jesus…” A hand spreads over your face, digits on the table clenching. While your mother and you didn't talk often, there was no part of you that wanted her dead. Not a single piece.

A sheen of embarrassment floods your blood at the scene you’d just made, but that doesn’t stop the confusion.

“But, wait,” your hand lowers, and you frown at the lanyard, “why would you care?” Kate places the photos back into the folder and closes it. “And why would you murder my father if you felt like this would happen?”

Where’s Samson Row?

“Our intention was never to have a casualty involved with our investigation.” Laswell sends you a glance with her emotionless eyes. “Nonetheless with a witness. It was an unfortunate accident.”

Your face blanks.

Unfortunate accident.

“Then why did your Private,” your mouth spits, hostility immediately pushing past formality, “shoot?”

No hesitation.

“We don’t know.” The laugh that rockets from you is cruel; violent and full of malice.

“What?!” You point at her, leaning forward over the table as your common sense vanishes. “You're the CIA and you can’t even control who you employ?! You murdered an innocent man!”

Kate looks at you with nothing, blinking slowly as you glare at her forehead. Did she not even care? The Agent says your name seriously.

“Your father was many things, but I can assure you, innocent was never one of them.”

“You expect me to just believe you?” You nod sarcastically multiple times, your loud voice no doubt flying under the opening of the door. “Just to, what? Accept that your Private shot him in the head right next to me for nothing? That’s hilarious if you think I’m that dumb.”

“What Samson Row did was against orders. No one here gave him the green light and thus I can’t say why he pulled the trigger. You’re going to have to accept that we don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”

Angry tears are splattering the table, a rampant betrayal. It was getting incredibly hard to not start swearing at this woman, but your father raised you better.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Laswell speaks lowly, “but I’m not lying to you. If your father kept all of this hidden…then there’s no thought as to if he cared about you,” a delicate silence as your jaw clenches, both hands clenched over the table as your head bows down, salty water bouncing off the flesh. “You should remember that.”

Your mouth opens, but you close it just as quickly. What could you say to that?

“You…don’t know…” Whispering can’t hide the enraged tremor of your tone. “Why?” The hopelessness.

Kate gives you a minute, and when your tears come to a slow stop, she opens her mouth.

“I’ll be providing you a protection detail until the cells overseas can be disposed of. You and your mother will be well taken care of in the safety of your own home.” She continues, “If you can do something for me in return in the meantime.”

A harsh laugh exits and bounces off the walls.

“Why am I not surprised?” Laswell ignores you.

“Your father had sensitive information that searches of his shipping lot and museum office didn’t offer any leads on. While you’re spending more time at your home, I want you to look for them. Anything that involves other dealers or a location to a hub.” You roll your eyes, smirk growing on bitter pieces of flesh.

“Why don’t you do it yourself?” You ask the Agent with a splay of your hand, foot tapping the ground in a rhythmic beat as you stare hard into the wall above her hair. Swiping at your cheeks until they’re raw. “I know you’re not above breaking into houses.”

“After the event three years ago, my superiors are,” a small noise in the back of her throat as she pushes herself up from the table, “less than pleased with how One-Four-One and I are handling this situation. It would look better on paper if you cooperated.”

“Is Samson dead?” Shoving your hands into your pockets, you lean back on your heels, tilting your head as you look at Kate’s collarbone. You can see her take a breath; lungs inflating like plastic sacks.

“Yes.” It’s like a punch to the gut—you have to stop yourself from staggering backward. Your next words are strained as your hands clench. But the woman just watches, intrigue laced in her studious eyes; half-narrowed with a dipped chin.

“How.”

“Do you have any other questions for me?” It was apparent that your inquiries would get you nowhere, at least the ones that mattered to you.

You nod stiffly, cutting your losses. You’d just look into it yourself. “Who’s going to be at my house?”

“Kyle.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

“And why him?” Your voice growls, and you have a sudden need to pace around the room as your ears twitch to Laswell’s sighing and the shifting of her papers.

“Sergeant Garrick is trained in VIP protection. I’m sure you’ve read all about that.” Slyness enters her tone.

Of course you had.

Every file on your laptop was a mix of both professional and personal documents—all unimaginably delicate information if it were to get out into the public. For the Task Force itself, as well as their families. It would mean even more death and slaughter.

A nail in a coffin. Blackmail.

“I know that.” You grunt, taking a hung skin by your fingernail in between your teeth and biting down until you rip out portions of your flesh with a dull burn. “That’s not what I’m asking you—he’s the man who put a gun to my head.”

The insinuation is bare to the world.

“And now he’ll be the one using it to point at others.” The Agent slips past you, and your nose picks up the scent of linen and cigarette smoke.

This is the point that you should stop talking. Cut off loose ends and think of a way out of this. But you’d gotten cruel; cold-hearted with little regard for others feelings. What you wanted was the upper hand. You needed it. Some semblance of control in a situation that was so far out of it that the concept itself should be in space. Control was how you’d survived. You recall a flash of a file with Kate Laswell’s name attached and you’re speaking before the connotation fully registers.

“I wonder if your wife knows what you do. How many families have you ruined?” The woman pauses behind you, a hand on the door. Her legs shift. “Do you tell her? Or do you keep her conscious clean as you spread the blood on your hands over to her?”

Scream at me, you plead, eyes small. Yell. Rage. Please, just do something predictable. Let me win something.

Kate looks over her shoulder at you, but your vision stays anchored ahead; back turned away from the door entirely. Eyes blinking; lungs jumping like frogs to find oxygen as if to suck down flies.

“I should thank you.” The words echo. “You’re giving my department leeway to move on Osipov and Kham now that a US citizen is in direct crossfire…” The woman turns back to the door. “I’ll be expecting Garrick to send updates every two days. Try not to kill him.” She walks out the door on steady feet and it stays unlocked behind her when the metal eventually closes with the semblance of a period in a sentence. The almost inhuman silence left in its wake makes your ears ring with noise in the absence of all else.

Alone, mere seconds later, your hand quickly snaps to your mouth to muffle a wail, eyes kept firmly shut in grief as your knees shake. You only barely stop yourself from hitting the floor as the panic finally registers; halfway folded over the table.

A ways off in the hallway, none the wiser, Gaz leans against the wall—arms crossed and head resting behind him. It’s only at the sight of Laswell that the calm man perks to attention like an eager soldier.

Since he knew his charge already, Kyle had stayed behind while all the others of the Task Force had left with various degrees of goodbyes and well-wishes. Pats on his shoulders as he chuckled and made them swear to not have too much fun without him.

About to open his mouth and ask the fast-paced woman how it went, he’s interrupted by Kate’s blue eyes blazing as she glances at him.

“Good luck, Sergeant.” Her still voice is grim. “You’ll need it.” The female Agent walks on without another word, leaving the Brit wide-eyed and staring after.

“...Brilliant.” He fixes his cap and sighs before the sound of his cracking knuckles echoes through the hall. “Just bloody brilliant.”

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fortheloveofwonderland · 2 months

Text

Midnight | Chapter 18 | S.R

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Summary - whilst trying to clean up the mess you made, Luke makes a discovery. Spencer and Luke have it out before Spencer comes to a realisation about his mental state.

A/N - chapter starts just before the end of the last chapter as reader is storming away from Luke.

Pairing - unsub! Spencer Reid / Fem! Reader

Category - dark angst | smut | very eventual happy ending

Warnings - use of “bitch” and “whore” (not towards reader), mentions of sexual assault, blackmail, swearing, murder, blood, PTSD, talk of split personas and alter egos. WC - 4.7k

Chapter 18 - Uncontainable

When you stormed away from Luke back towards the cabin, the raised voice coming from inside stopped you in your tracks as you reached the front porch. All your years of FBI training kicked in at that moment and you slowly and cautiously crept to the window.

The first thing you saw was a wave of bright red hair flashing before your eyes as the person it belonged to moved frantically back and forth. But it soon became clear she wasn’t moving of her own accord.

Spencer, who was only wearing a pair of underwear, shook her by her wrist somewhat violently, yelling in her face.

“Listen you little bitch, do you have any idea how many people are actually assaulted every day? How many don’t report it because they’re scared they won’t be believed? And you want to use their real pain for your own sick gain?”

You frowned at his words, trying to deduce what they were arguing about whilst also making sure you didn’t make a sound.

“You know you’re not helping yourself right? If you bruise me it’ll only make my story seem more believable.” Mary spat back at him and you saw Spencer quickly let her go. “And don’t think I haven’t seen the bruises on your lovely wife. I’m sure she would back up my story.”

Story? What story? Was she exploiting Spencer? Had Luke told her who you really were and now she was trying to blackmail him? He said something about unreported assaults, was she going to tell people he assaulted her?

“The only story she would back up is the one where you’re a desperate little whore who shamelessly wanted to fuck a man you perceived to married.” He barked at her.

“Well I guess we’ll see won’t we? Who’s going to believe the strange out of towner over the young, innocent girl.”

That was all you needed to hear. You could put an end to this, clear up this mess before it got out of hand.

You crept around the side of the cabin and let yourself in the back gate. You made sure to walk silently up the spiral staircase that led to the first floor patio and thank god you’d been too drunk to think about locking the bedroom doors last night.

You snuck inside and quickly found the SIG in Spencer’s nightstand. You’d done this so many times before, sneaking up on an unsub, it was like second nature. Breathe through your nose, steady, shallow breaths. Feet barely ghosting the floor. Do not make a sound. Keep the gun pointing straight ahead.

You silently made it down the stairs and you heard her voice again as you reached the kitchen door.

“I told you I want out of this town. I work three jobs and I am nowhere close to having enough. Finding out your little secret is the best thing that could have happened to me. So if you don’t give me what I want, I will disgrace the former FBI agent Spencer Reid and tell everyone that you raped me. Ten grand should do it.”

You could feel the anger rolling off of Spencer in waves before you even entered the room. He would see you the second you stepped inside and you had to hope he could control his facial expressions long enough so Mary wouldn’t see you coming.

“Let’s just talk about this, please?” He was begging her as you slowly pushed open the door. His eyes flicked over toward you and you couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“No, no more talking. You pay me now or I will go straight to the cops.”

You cocked the gun and if she heard it, it would have been too late. You aimed at the back of her head and pulled the trigger without hesitation. The sound of the gunshot rang out through the room as the bullet hit its target and continued careening out the front of her skull towards the wall.

She made a pathetic gasping sound as her body crumbled to the floor right at Spencer’s feet. The shock was written all across his face as he looked up at you, still holding the smoking gun in your hand.

You tucked it in your waistband and strolled closer to Spencer whose mouth was hanging open and wide eyes glared at you in a stupor.

“W-what did you…? Why did you?” He croaked out as you stepped closer, not a single hint of remorse in your eyes.

“Karma’s a bitch.” You shrugged simply. “And so was she.”

“Are you insane?” He yelled in exasperation. “We don’t kill close to home! How are we supposed to talk our way out of this?”

Her blood was splattered across his bare torso and arms, but he didn’t seem to notice, his frustration taking precedence.

“She was threatening you! What was I supposed to do? Let her tell the whole town you raper her? Or let you fork over all of our cash to keep her quiet?” You glared at him.

“Fuck, Y/N, this is bad.” He scratched his head, trying to formulate a plan. “We need to clean this up. We need to make sure every inch of this cabin is as clean as when we found it. We need to get her body in the trunk of the car, we need to dispose of it, and then we need to leave town.”

“Leave town? That will only make us look more guilty.” You scoffed.

“By the time they figure out she’s missing we will be so far away from here, they will never find us. And with any luck the freaking BAU won’t find us again either!” He spat.

You rolled your lip between your teeth and took a step back.

“You know that Luke was here.” You looked guilty.

“Yes, Y/N I do. Fuck, this is falling apart like a house of goddamn cards.”

“I’m…I'm sorry.” You swallowed thickly, your previous bravado fading around you. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, hey. It’s ok.” He stepped around Mary’s body closer to you, suddenly softening. “You were trying to help.”

He cupped your cheek in his hand and held you so gently you could cry. He looked at you as though you hung the moon, his love for you so painfully clear at that moment.

“I fucked up, Spence.” Your bottom lip quivered.

“And we’ll fix it. Together, ok? We’re in this together, sweetheart. I promise you we will figure this out.” He leant closer to you and pressed his lips to yours.

You believed him, you had no reason not to. If anyone was going to be able to set this right it was Spencer. When the two of you worked together, it was some kind of magic. With Spencer on your side this didn’t seem quite as daunting as it actually was.

***

Luke’s cell phone rang as he was letting himself back into the hire car. He grinded his teeth, not particularly wanting to talk to anyone right now.

His encounter with you had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew there was something bigger at play here, he knew Spencer had done something, he just had no idea how to prove it.

He slid into the driver's seat and pulled his phone from his pocket, brows furrowing instantly when he saw the name on the display. He gnawed his bottom lip and answered it, placing the device to his ear.

“Phil?” He ran his fingers over his stubble.

“Hey man,” Phil’s voice lacked its usual bounce and under normal circumstances Luke would have asked what was wrong but it was the least of his concerns right now.

“I’m sorry now really isn’t a good time.” Luke slotted the key in the ignition but didn’t start the engine.

“I really need to talk to you.”

“I’m up to my eyes in a case, I’ll call as soon I’m-”

“It’s about Duncan Green.” Phil cut him off.

Luke’s hand that was still on the key fell to his lap as his blood froze in his veins. It had been several years since he’d last heard that name but it didn’t make it any less sinister.

“I’m sorry, what?” Luke leant back against the chair, gaze somewhere out of the window but not focused on anything. He could feel every erratic beat of his heart.

“A body was found in a shallow grave in the Rio Grande National Forest in Colorado. We got a call after local cops got a match to his prints.” Phil’s tone was morose, not at all how Luke expected him to react to this.

“He’s dead?” Luke wanted to jump for joy but he put the party on hold. He could tell there was something Phil wasn’t saying.

“Had his throat cut. He’s been living in Albuquerque under the assumed name of Matthew Richards since his escape from prison.”

Luke closed his eyes, holding the phone in a vice like grip. Green had been murdered, his body found in Colorado. He took a deep breath and tried to keep his cool, at least for the time being.

“Is it a coincidence or do you think someone tracked him down?” Luke kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“I don’t believe in coincidences. The bureau still has sightings of him come in everyday but you know we can’t check out every lead, it would be impossible. But the Green case was accessed just a few weeks ago and again a week ago by the same government login details.” Phil’s voice sounded even more sullen.

“Who’s were they?” Luke held his breath, already having a pretty good idea of what he might say.

“L. Alvez.” Phil sighed as he spoke.

Luke opened his eyes, slamming his hand violently against the steering wheel and letting out an animalistic groan.

“Fuck.” He spat, slamming the wheel again. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“I can only assume it wasn’t you?”

“Of course it wasn’t me!” Luke spat, pinching the bridge of his nose firmly between his fingers.

There were only two people who he could think of that would have accessed that file. You knew him well enough to assume his login password, like it wouldn’t be hard for him to guess yours. And Spencer was a goddamn genius and it wouldn’t be at all difficult for him to figure it out.

He had a post it note on his desk at work, hidden under his keyboard with his password scrawled on it, even though he knew it was dumb to do so. Realistically anyone at the BAU could have found it and logged onto the database as him but you and Spencer were the only ones who had the motive to do so.

Green killed your sister, it wasn’t a far stretch to think you would have wanted him dead. And if Spencer was really in love with you, maybe he’d do just about anything for you, including finding the monster who ruined your life.

He took a few deep breaths to try and compose himself before he spoke again.

“How far is the National Forest from Crested Butte?” He grumbled, still pinching his nose.

“Uh, why?” Phil’s tone was riddled with confusion.

“Just look, please?”

“Fine, let me check.” Phil started tapping away at a keyboard for a moment or two before he spoke again. “About one hundred and sixty miles south, give or take.”

“Goddamnit.” Luke hit the steering wheel again.

“You gonna fill me in on what angle you’re working here, Alvez?”

“I…no not yet.” Luke shook his head. “I gotta go.”

“Alvez, tell me what you’re thinking.” Phil remained calm.

“I can’t. Not yet. I need to piece this together first.”

“I can help you.”

“No, you can’t. I’ll call you later.” Luke quickly pulled the phone away from his ear and hung up, smacking the wheel several more times. “God-fucking-damnit Y/N, what have you done?”

Suddenly he grabbed the keys back out of the ignition and was hurling himself onto the street and marching in the direction of your cabin.

***

Spencer closed every single one of the curtains on the house just to be sure. He wiped the residual blood off his torso, he’d shower properly later as he was bound to get dirty again, and threw on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, foregoing a shirt.

While he was busy doing that, you laid out garbage bags and wrapped Mary’s dead body in them, sealing every inch to ensure no more unnecessary blood leaked out. You dragged her dead weight through to the kitchen, on your way towards the back door when there was a sudden and rampant knocking at the door.

You froze in your tracks just as Spencer appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked at you, now covered in Mary’s blood after wrapping her up. He slowly padded downstairs, as quietly as possible in the hopes whoever was at the door would think you were out.

But then they knocked again.

“Y/N, I know you’re in there! Open the door!” Luke’s voice carried through to you both.

“Shit.” You hissed, ducking below the kitchen counter even though the curtains were drawn.

“He’s not gonna leave easily.” Spencer sighed, looking down at himself to ensure there was no visible blood. “You stay here, it’s about time Luke and I had it out anyway.”

“Spencer, there’s a blood pool in the middle of the room and a fucking bullet in the wall!” You reminded him, glaring at him from the floor where Mary’s trash bag covered body was laying next to you.

“Shit,” he groaned. “You’re right. If I open the door he might try and force his way in.”

“Y/N! Open this goddamn door!” Luke yelled louder this time.

“I’ll go round back, it might look suspicious but it’s better than the alternative.” He nodded to himself. “Stay here and don’t make a sound.”

“Spencer!” You whined, halting him in his tracks. “I’m scared.”

He rolled his lip between his teeth and moved closer to you, dropping to his knees next to you and cupping your face.

“I’m going to take care of it sweetheart. I promise you, everything is going to be ok.” He placed a chaste kiss on your forehead before standing back up and you watched him stroll out of the kitchen towards the back door.

You whimpered a little when Luke knocked again, heavier and angrier than before. You held your breath, moving to a sitting position on the kitchen floor and drawing your legs up to your chest and leaning back against the cupboard.

Spencer marched through the garden and out of the side gate, ready to face Luke for hopefully the final time.

“Y/N open the fucking door! I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me!” Luke slammed his palms against the door just as Spencer was rounding the house and stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.

“You’re gonna be here a long time then.” He folded his arms across his chest and he saw Luke tense at the sound of his voice.

Slowly, the older man turned to face him, hands going to his hips and squaring his shoulders.

“Where is she?” Luke spat.

“That's none of your concern.” Spencer kept his cool, he needed to keep his anger bottled up if he was going to get through his encounter.

“She’s my friend.” He folded his arms too.

“But she’s my wife.” Spencer smirked, unfolding his own arms and proffering his ring finger toward Luke.

“You and I both know that’s not real.” Luke scoffed.

“It’s a symbol, Alvez. She loves me and who knows, maybe one day we’ll make it real. So stop chasing her down like a pathetic love struck puppy. She doesn’t want you, man, deal with it.” Spencer shrugged, offering him a slightly sympathetic smile.

“You think that’s what this is about? You think I came all this way because I want to win her heart? We’re not in high school, Reid.” He rolled his eyes.

“I think you’re jealous and you’re concocting scenarios in your head as a way of making yourself feel better when the truth is, Y/N and I just wanted to get away from it all. From you all. Do us a favour and leave us alone, Alvez. We don’t need you chasing after us.” Spencer spat as Luke headed down the front steps towards him.

“So it’s just a coincidence that Duncan Green turned up dead in the same state you and Y/N decided to call home?”

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat. It felt like a trap, he needed to pick his words very carefully. He made sure to keep his expression unchanged, didn’t even so much as blink at Luke’s words but inside he was panicking.

Just take a breath. Calm down. Don’t rise to it.

“Who?” Spencer hid the recognition from his face, but Luke still saw through it.

“Don’t play dumb, Reid. It doesn’t suit you.” Luke rolled his eyes. “Duncan Green, the man who killed Y/N’s sister, who broke out of prison and who we were chasing at the FTF for years. He was found with his throat cut less than two hundred miles from here and my user was the last to look him up. All seems a little coincidental doesn’t it?”

“Right, yeah Y/N has told me about him. What are you implying, Alvez?” Spencer cocked his eyebrow. “You think, what? I killed him? Oh come on, do you really believe I’m capable of something like that?”

“The thing is, I’m not sure what you’re capable of. I thought I knew you both but I’m not so sure anymore.” Luke shook his head. “Some twenty two year old told me you were sleeping with her. Some diner guy told me Y/N said you were a bully. Hell, the guy at the used car lot thought she was scared of you! All that makes me think that maybe I never really knew you.”

Don’t let him break you, Reid, do not give him anything.

“Luke with all due respect, why are listening to these morons over me? You do know me, and you know I’m not capable of killing someone.”

Luke’s expression faltered and Spencer breathed a small sigh of relief, seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. He just had to stick the landing, don’t fumble it at the last hurdle.

“I really don’t know what to think, Spencer. Of course I don’t want to believe you’re capable of something like this but there are just so many things that don’t add up here. And I swear to god if you did kill Green and you’ve put Y/N in danger, I will make it my life’s work to put you back in prison for the rest of your life.” Luke spat, his expression one Spencer had seen him use many times in interrogations.

Spencer took a step back as a smirk twitched at his lips. He shrugged his shoulders at Luke.

“You’re not as intimidating as you think you are, Alvez. And I can promise you, if I had done something, you would never get me back inside a prison cell.” He took a few more steps back and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Now if you’d kindly get the hell out of here and leave us alone.”

Spencer turned on his heels and started back towards the side gate. He thought Luke might have more to say, he heard the other man grunting in frustration behind him, like he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

He threw open the gate and bolted it behind him, not slowing as he traversed the backyard and made his way inside the cabin, locking the back door behind him. He found you more or less where he left you, cowering on the kitchen floor next to the garbage bag stuffed with Mary’s corpse.

You looked up at him, bottom lip quivering as you hugged your legs to your chest. It was such a strange juxtaposition to see you so frightened when you hadn’t hesitated in pulling the trigger and killing Mary not so long ago.

Spencer slid down to the floor next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and you instinctively rested your head on him. He could hear your erratic breaths as you snuggled against him.

“Is he gone?” You whispered.

“Not yet. I’d kill him with my bare hands if I didn’t still respect him so damn much.” Spencer sighed.

“I would never forgive you if you killed Luke.” You raised your head and looked at him.

“I know, sweetheart. And I wouldn’t do that to you. But jeez he’s a pain in the ass.” He used his free hand to cup your face delicately and his fingertips brushed lightly over your cheek. “He knows about Green.”

Your face paled, colour completely draining from your skin as you stared at him in horror.

“He…what?” You swallowed.

“I didn’t get the full story but I guess they found his body. There is nothing that can tie us to him, Y/N. We were careful.” He tried to insist.

Apart from the fact I used Luke’s credentials to track him, he decided against saying out loud.

“What happens now, Spence?”

“We have to wait him out, he won’t stay out there forever. Once it’s dark we have to get rid of the body, clean up this house and we have to get the fuck out of this town before anyone realises she’s missing.”

“I like it here.” You sighed sadly.

He could have pointed out the fact that if it weren’t for you being so trigger happy then you wouldn’t have to leave. Not so long ago, he would have pointed that out. He would have gotten angry, blamed you for this, for Mary’s death, for Luke showing up here and for the BAU being on your asses. But something had changed in Spencer.

It was entirely plausible that his time in prison had caused a break in his psyche. The PTSD that he’d left untreated for so long had manifested itself in the form of a second persona, much more dark and evil than himself. When he found his anger rising, he switched into this alter ego without meaning to, maybe because Spencer had never been good at dealing with anger or emotions in general.

His alter allowed him to stand up for himself, to deal with that residual trauma and not bottle it all up like he’d been doing his entire life. You’d told him he was like Jekyll and Hyde and you were right.

But he was learning that the love he felt for you, that swarmed through every inch of his body was what could tether him. If he focused only on that love and not on the rage, he could keep the monster at bay. Best case scenario, he may never need to kill again, but really he’d just settle for not ever having to make you scared of him again.

He wanted to be the man you needed him to be. None of this hassle was worth it if he didn’t have you at his side at the end of the day. You were worth not giving over to his demons for, you were the only thing that mattered in his completely fucked up existence.

He knew if it came down to it he would take the wrap for everything, Green, Mary and Jason Durand included. He would not let you go down for any of this. He was going to the ends of the Earth to protect you no matter what. He loved you so much, it was the least he could do. He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“I know sweetheart, but I’ll find you a new Stars Hollow, I promise.” He kissed your forehead.

“Won’t they just come for us again? They’re going to keep coming for us, Spencer.” You chewed on your lip.

“We have to be extra careful this time. We have to figure out a plan, we can’t use the Nissan anymore, not now the team knows about it. And our aliases are blown. Fuck, I don’t know what we’re going to do.” He confessed, letting go of your face so he could pinch the bridge or his nose.

A smile tugged at your lips which caused Spencer to frown at you.

“Good job I’m always prepared. I was a fugitive hunter, Spencer, we don’t leave anything to chance.” You sat back and reached into the pocket of your jeans, pulling out four similar rectangular cards which you handed over to him. “I think through every eventuality. The BAU have no idea what they’re dealing with.”

Spencer looked on in awe at the four driving licences in his hand. Two bore your photograph and two his. There was one matching set of Arizona issued licences for Samuel and Violet Truman and another set of Florida licences for Jack and Lily Waters. He glanced up at you with a curious expression on his face.

“Samuel and Violet will buy themselves a little car to go on their American road trip. Meanwhile, Jack and Lily will be checking into motels along their way.” You smiled mischievously at him Spencer’s own smile grew. He had never loved you more than he did at that moment.

“Good god woman, you’re an evil genius.” He pulled you close and kissed you hard. “If we make it out of this, remind me to marry you for real one day.”

You giggled against his lips, both of you completely forgetting the imminent danger you could be in, ignoring the dead body by your side and Luke still skulking around outside.

“We’ll be ok right, Spence? If we leave this place, we’ll find somewhere new and they won’t find us. We’re gonna be ok, aren’t we?” You needed to hear him say it.

“We're going to be just fine, sweetheart. We’re going to take care of this mess and we’re not looking back, only forward. They can’t curb us like they want to. They don’t get us. It’s you and me.”

“You and me.” You repeated. “We’re uncontainable.”

Hey,

we're takin' our crown, we're takin' it now, yeah.

Hey, we never look back,

We're uncontainable!

Woo!

(Are you ready? Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls for the main event.

Ha-ha, they aren't ready for this one! Yeah, here we are!)

Comin' out the gate I'm swinging,

And if you're in my way you'll feel it.

I hear you think you're tough,

So put your hands up,

We never back down from a fight.

So lemme ask ya,

Can they stop us?

(No!)

Break us?

(No!)

Get your game face on,

We're against the ropes!

Tap out?

(No!)

Throw in the towel?

(Hell no!)

'Cause when the bell goes off the gloves do too.

Hey, we're takin' our crown, we're takin' it now, yeah.

Hey, we never look back,

We're uncontainable!

Hey, we're takin' our crown, we're takin' it now, yeah.

Hey, we never look back,

We're uncontainable!

Throwin' off the chains,

I'm runnin'.

You think you're at the top,

You're fallin.

Swing and miss you're through,

You're out of the loop,

We're gonna bury you alive.

So lemme ask ya,

Can they stop us?

(No!)

Break us?

(No!)

Get your game face on,

We're against the ropes!

Tap out?

(No!)

Throw in the towel?

(Hell no!)

'Cause when the bell goes off the gloves do too.

Hey, we're takin' our crown we're takin' it now, yeah.

Hey, we never look back?

We're uncontainable!

Hey, we're takin' our crown, we're takin' it now, yeah.

Hey, we never look back?

We're uncontainable!

Keep swingin', keep dreamin',

But you'll never knock me out.

I've fallen too often,

But you'll never keep me down.

You see it, you feel it,

Your mama can't save you now.

One day they'll say,

The throne was made for me.

Yeah,

Uncontainable.

(Is he?)

We're uncontainable.

Hey, we're takin' our crown we're takin' it now, yeah.

Hey, we never look back,

We're uncontainable!

Hey, we're takin' our crown, we're takin' it now, yeah.

Hey, we never look back,

We're uncontainable!

Stop us?

(No!)

Break us?

(No!)

Get your game face on,

We're against the ropes!

Tap out?

(No!)

Throw in the towel?

(Hell no!)

Never look back,

We're uncontainable.

@bubblebuttwade @jay-2s-world @daddy-dotcom

#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem! reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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notiddygxthgf · 7 months

Text

𝟎

★ pairings: suguru geto x satoru gojo, satosugu

★ synopsis: Suguru Geto struggles with letting people in after leaving a three-year-long abusive relationship. Enter Satoru Gojo, the boy who doesn't seem to take no for an answer.

★ c.w.: slow burn, mutual pining, explicit sexual content, dub con elements, implied/referenced rape/non-con, mahito is a real abusive asshole, past relationship(s), past abuse, recovery, hurt, comfort, vent fic, based on my shitty ex, my therapist told me it'd be a good idea idk, im a good writer I swear, brought to u by the bch who wrote best friend's brother!choso, sexual tension, new love, fluff, angst, smutt, graphic, psychological trauma, theres a happy ending in here I swear, angst with a happy ending, psychological trauma, PTSD, idiots in love, sexy smut I swear.

★ a/n: NGL I kinda hate how this turned out. but! it had to be done! I had to get it out of the way. the way I think this is gonna work is past flashbacks first, present time next. it's gonna prob alternative between the two for a while. comment your thoughts! let me hear u! feel free to slander mahito... he plays the shitty ex.

★ w.c.; 3.4k

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐔 𝐍 𝐅 𝐎 𝐑 𝐓 𝐔 𝐍 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄 𝐀 𝐈 𝐋 𝐌 𝐄 𝐍 𝐓

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

PROLOGUE

2019. MONTH UNKNOWN.

I WAS ONLY 12 YEARS OLD the first time I tried to kill myself. In retrospect, I can’t possibly imagine what could have been so important to little me that he firmly believed he would rather die than live without it. I wish I could say that I had a difficult life. That simply was not the case. I grew up with two loving parents and a kind brother, in a small town where every friend I’d ever had was within a mile of me at any given point in time. We weren’t rich, but we most certainly weren’t poor. I had everything a child could ask for and so much more.

Again, I wish that I could say I had a difficult life, but that simply was not the case.

It’s just that I’ve had these… thoughts for as long as I can remember. An unfortunate ailment, if you will. No matter what I did, there always seemed to be something missing. Something I felt I would spend my whole life searching for – or at least trying to supplement.

At 12 years old, I planned my first attempt.

It didn’t work.

So, now, faced with the unbearable burden of deciding what I was going to do for the rest of my life, I chose to pursue a childhood dream of mine. I wanted to go to school to become a doctor. I didn’t know what kind, per se, but I knew that I wanted to heal.

Maybe I thought, I don’t know… that if I healed enough people, I may have been rid of the ailment – healed, myself.

So I left my small town, enrolling in an academy 30 minutes away from the house. I got into their Healthcare program. Again, what more could a kid want?

Yet the void inside of me only grew larger, more ravenous. I lost touch with all of my small town friends – one by one. I had no one.

But I was pursuing my passion, right? Why wasn’t it enough?

It was in that godforsaken academy that I met him.

“Pick a card,” he asked me. His grey eyes were so sharp, even then. “Any card.”

I glanced down at the fanned-out deck in his pale hand, eyes crawling over the many different suits and shapes before eventually settling on an ace. I pulled the card out.

Ace of spades. I tried to memorize it. I also, coincidentally, tried my best to ignore the incessant thrum of my racing heartbeat against my veins, my arteries, my chest. He was sitting so close to me.

It was just the two of us in the hallway. Just me and him and the infinite space between us, the small gap between my right shoulder and his left.

I handed it back to him. “What are you doing?” I asked.

He slipped the card back into the deck without looking. He shuffled it once, twice, three times. Made a bridge with his hands and let the cards fall back into place. I watched with a remarkable sense of interest.

“Is this your card?” He tucked a stray blue hair behind his ear, producing a card.

I furrowed my brows, about to say something, when I noticed something off about the card. It was different. Where there once was a large blue spade, there now was a small, torn piece of lined paper taped to the surface. The gray lettering on the handwritten note read,

WILL U GO OUT W/ ME?

My eyes went as wide as saucers. My mouth lolled open, lips shaped around his cursed name, “Mahito, I…”

I thought of my parents. I thought of my religious father. What would he say? What would he say if he found out his 14-year-old son was a homosexual?

I thought of my parents, and I bit my lip, “I don’t know if I can… I don’t know. What if my dad finds out?”

Mahito tucked the deck of cards neatly into the pocket of his black cargo pants. His hoodie was rolled up to his elbows, revealing intricate stick-and-poke linework over his forearms. He shrugged, humming, “Who says he has to?”

The tardy bell rang. We were late for first period.

My mouth opened by itself again. At fourteen, I wasn’t so sure I was ready to lie to my father about something so serious. Not yet.

Seemingly sensing my hesitance, Mahito laid a hand on my stiff shoulder. “Hey,” he muttered softly. “Think about it. Give me your answer after school, yeah? We’ll meet here at 3:30.”

And then he slipped away with a quiet, ‘See ya’.

Without confirmation.

In his absence, I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat.

2019 February.

Mahito ran away from home two weeks into our relationship. Ran away without so much as a notice or a warning. Ran away and left me there to assume the worst. He didn’t live in the best area. Perhaps he was staying with a friend? If not, was he dead in a ditch somewhere?

There was no way to tell.

He could have at least told me, I had thought. Then again, would I have tried to stop him? Undoubtedly.

They issued a missing persons alert the day after he didn’t show up. I remember seeing the poster all over my social media, all over the streetlights and posts.

It didn’t seem real. Even as I held the missing poster in my trembling hand, I remember feeling numb. I remember feeling as if this were all some sort of cruel prank, that he would be back just in time for our after-school walk with a smile on his face.

But there he was, smiling up at me from the page in my hand.

MISSING PERSON: MAHITO

Height: 5’8

Weight: 150

Eye color: gray

Hair color: blue

Remarkable features: tattoos on arms

Last seen: February 14th.

I crumpled the piece of paper up, tossing it across my messy bedroom with a sigh. I hadn’t slept last night, and I wouldn’t have slept tonight either.

I sunk into myself, curled into a ball on my twin-sized mattress – the same one I’d had for as long as I could remember – and cried. I was utterly inconsolable. I cried until my voice was hoarse, until there were no more tears left to cry.

Until my phone buzzed.

I assumed it was another homework notification. I didn’t check. What did it matter? In my eyes, my world had stopped spinning. It had stopped the moment he ran away.

But it buzzed again, and again.

It was then that I realized I was getting a call. Begrudgingly, I picked my phone up off of the bed. I turned it over. The screen was lit up with the words ‘NO CALLER ID’.

I wanted to hang up. Desperately. Wanted to save myself a shred of peace and dignity and move on with my night – in hindsight, I probably should have just hung up when I had the chance. But, no, I felt something in my gut call out to me.

Against my better judgment, I answered, “Hello?”

The line crackled. “Suguru?”

Suguru.

My heart leapt up into my throat. With wide eyes, I answered again, “Who’s this?”

“Suguru, it’s me, Mahito,” He sighed with relief, like he hadn’t expected me to pick up. Truth be told, I hadn’t expected it either. “I’m sorry I couldn’t call you sooner, my love. I’m calling you from a phone booth right now.”

My love. The nickname sounded like honey coming from his lips, but I knew it was laced with venom. Still, as would seem to be the trend, I was weak for it.

My eyes began to water again, somehow. “Where are you?”

I knew better than to call him ‘baby’. Not when my father was sleeping in the room next to mine.

“I can’t tell you that right now,” He answered. Of course, he couldn’t. There always seemed to be something he was hiding from me. I didn’t see it that way back then. “Look, I don’t have much time to talk, I–”

“I’ve been worried sick about you, Mahi,” I spoke again. I felt numb. So numb. “Please, just–”

“I stole ten grand from my mom,” He cut me off. “I’m running away from home. The abuse, it’s just– I can’t. I can’t, anymore.”

His mother was a real piece of shit. I knew that. She never wanted Mahito, not as a single mother. So she tried multiple times to be rid of him – beating him senseless with hangers and wires and even going so far as to attempt to poison him on his birthday.

Still, ten grand was a lot of money.

Stolen.

“I’m on the run from the cops, I– I think they’re trying to find me,” He panted into the microphone. “You can’t tell anyone, okay? You gotta lie for me.”

I felt sick. Sick to my fucking stomach.

“I’m sorry, I…” I trailed off, holding back vomit. “Hold on.”

I ran to the bathroom and promptly emptied the contents of my stomach into the sink. I had just eaten mac and cheese an hour or so ago, and the vomit was tinted yellow. I could still see a few noodles here and there, only partially digested.

It made me want to hurl again.

“You okay?” he asked me.

“Am I– No, I’m not fucking okay, Mahito! First, you run away without–” I had to swallow bile a second time. I felt it burn as it slid back down my throat. “You could have fucking warned me , or something, and now you’re calling me at eleven at night to tell me you’re fleeing the fucking cops?”

He paused. “I know,” he said. “I know, I’m sorry. You know I love you.”

And immediately, like some sort of magic trick, I felt my exterior soften. I didn’t even care that we were only a few weeks into our relationship. He was my first. It was like he knew the effect he had on me.

“Suguru,” he said again. “I love you.”

His words were like honey. I took a spoonful.

“I love you, too,” I sighed into the receiver.

“You’ll keep quiet about this for me, right?”

I was weak for him, as always.

“Okay,” I said.

I found myself sitting at my desk in the middle of the day, struggling to concentrate on the lesson. The classmates at my table – more like a group of desks placed together – were talking about the missing boy.

My missing boy.

They were talking to me, actually, but I had long since tuned them out. It was all a blur for me – a blur of faces and voices and words I didn’t want to hear.

“He’s a freak,” The boy across from me, Choso Kamo, remarked. “If I were you, I’d break things off before it’s too late.”

Choso’s critical words sent a sharp pang right through my rotten heart.

“Exactly,” My friend, Shoko, chimed in. She was a pretty thing, about a few inches shorter than me with brown hair up to her chin. She always looked so tired . I wonder if she recognized that I felt the same. “He’s got some serious issues. Guys like that rarely make for healthy relationships.”

Choso leaned in, leaned over the desk to offer more of his thoughts, “You can’t just ignore the fact that more people are catchin’ on, either. What if your dad finds out? You know he thinks that… kind of stuff is wrong.”

Choso was Shoko’s friend. He wasn’t homophobic. A little misguided, but he had the spirit. Hell if he weren’t a raging heterosexual, I might have even gone for him instead. He had that look I liked – sleepy, downturned, dark eyes framed by messy bangs. He never wore colors. He was content to make a statement in black. Black eyeliner, black shirt, black doc martens, black hair done up into two messy pigtails.

It was his signature look.

Our classmates didn’t take too kindly to ‘emos’ like him, though. He was an outcast. Hell, we all were. That’s why we sat together, after all.

The harsh opinions of my classmates threatened to erode my self assurance. I knew people were talking – people always talked. I knew the hushed whispers of my name as I walked past people and cliques in the mornings on my way to class weren’t a hallucination.

I knew I had to stand by my boyfriend. I knew I had to stand by Mahito, but the weight of their disapproval put a strain on my shoulders. Does anyone want to hear that their friends don’t approve of their partner?

Admittedly, he wasn’t a very good partner. He had demonstrated that much in the first few weeks of our relationship. I knew he wasn’t good for me, but, fuck, I wanted to try. I wanted to make things work so badly that I ached for it. Everyone else knew he wasn’t good for me, too.

But, fuck, was I naive to wish I could prove them all wrong?

In my eyes, he was only misunderstood. The ghosting, the red flags, the alarming behavior… I could see past it all because I loved him. My first love. No one understood him the way I did. How could I blame them for their concerns?

It didn’t matter how many voices I had in my ear telling me it was wrong. Soon, he would come home to me, and I would feel his skin against my cheek as I hugged him hello. That’s all that mattered.

How could that be wrong?

“It’s not wrong. How could it be?” I kept my gaze trained on my desk. My vision was blurry, unfocused. My mind felt numb and detached. I muttered. “I love him. He loves me, too. He told me he did.”

He did.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Choso and Shoko exchange a dubious look.

They didn’t understand him the way I did.

“He told me he loved me,” I repeated the words like a mantra, like a reminder to myself that I was fighting for something.

That as long as I was loved by him, I would be okay.

He called again that night. Earlier, this time, at nine o’clock.

I was in the shower at that time, curled up on the floor, sobbing into my arms. The water streamed past my shoulders, my arms, my nose. I glanced over at the screen through blurry eyes.

NO CALLER ID.

I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath.

Then, I let the call ring.

Current Day.

[12:13 PM]

[Automated]: you have 3 new messages. Play back?

[USER] Selected:

[NO] ...

... [View Inbox]

...

[ Last 6 Years ].

[REPLAY>>] Message from 'Blocked Number'.

Transcription:

" Suguru, this is me, Mahito. I don’t know if you can hear me or not– I don’t know if anyone can hear you or not, so please use headphones, or something, I don’t know. I just wanted to call and make sure you’re okay. I’m gonna try and call you later. Right now you seem to not be answering your phone for some reason. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m not in a really good place, right now, I’m… surrounded by a lot of people. So, um.. I just wanted to say that I love you, and I’ll call you a little bit later, okay? Bye– kisses…….”

[End of Transcription]

[Automated]: Would you like to play the next message?

[ Yes. ]

“ Suguru, is this– this is me, Mahito. Um.. I just wanted to say that I’m okay. Nothing has happened to me yet. I’m perfectly safe. I’m in a laundromat somewhere. And, uh, I said I love you… I don’t know why you’re not answering my calls… You know that I always try to text you whenever I can– and try to… call you, but… I don’t know, maybe you’re too depressed, or some shit. Maybe you’re mad at me. I understand. I– what I did was wrong, I… What I did was idiotic, and what I did was stupid, and shitty… And I understand if you’re mad at me and you don’t wanna answer my calls. So, yeah, I gues… I’ll try to call you again tomorrow.

If you’re hearing this voicemail, but you probably won’t, um… I just want you to know that I love you. And I’m trying to do my best just… to see you again. You like pizza, don’t you? How about we do a pizza date sometime, yeah? Somewhere around next week, maybe. Huh? How about that? Sounds cool, right? Yeah, yeah it does. Um, anyway, I… gotta… I gotta go. I have to… do some things. Uh… uh… at least I love you.

And, I– I might not have brought much with me, but I have the little stuffie that you gave me. It’s in my book bag. Not gonna take it out because people are gonna know what my things look like. I’m always gonna keep these memories close to my heart. I don’t care what anybody says. Even if I go to prison, I’m taking this shit with me. Alright? Um, I guess that’s it. And… last thing? I love you.

Please, answer me. If you’re calling, that means you actually care, but if you don’t, then… it’s fine. Don’t recall this number. I’m not gonna respond. This is just some random guy’s phone. Okay? Um… I love you, and please stay safe. Please don’t worry, I’m still alive. I miss you. Okay, bye, I love you.”

[End of Voicemails Received on February 18th, 2019].

[Automated]: Would you like to replay the messages?

[ No. ]

[ Delete ] > [ All messages from {Blocked Number}]

[Automated]: Are you sure?

[Yes]

[Automated]: Deleting all messages from {Blocked Number}.

THE WIND BLEW IN HEAVY from below, sending a plethora of leaves flying out in all directions. As I knelt down to test the current with my fingers, my boots sank deeper into the muddy riverside.

I sat on the bench in front of the riverbed. Wiping my fingers dry on the fabric of my denim jeans, I took a moment to take in my surroundings. The park was mostly empty, save for a few teenagers

The water always looked pretty this time of year. For a few moments, you stood there drinking in the sight of it.

In the present, I sat alone in front of the serene lake, surrounded by the picturesque beauty of nature. Lush green trees lined the shore, their leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. The scent of damp earth and the distant call of birds created a peaceful atmosphere, contrasting with the turmoil in my mind.

I watched as groups of carefree teenagers ran around, their laughter and joy a stark contrast to the heavy weight I carried in my heart. A deep sigh escaped my lips as I averted my gaze towards the shimmering water.

I wished for the water to possess the power to cleanse me, to wash away the burdens that weighed on my soul.

The sound of the water rushing past was almost deafening, drowning out the laughter of the teenagers. It consumed my thoughts, leaving me with an overwhelming feeling of dread and isolation. I yearned for the water to offer solace, as if it held the key to absolution and a fresh start, but it remained an unsettling reminder of my own inner turmoil.

I had a vision every time I came here for some peace of mind. It was the same vision every single time. It plagued me every time I found myself in front of the water. It was an image of me, standing at the water's edge, and then, with a deep sense of despair, throwing myself into it, sinking into the abyss and drowning.

As I sat there, the scenery around me seemed to blur, and the vision of my drowning self played on a loop in my mind, a relentless nightmare that I couldn't escape. The lake, which should have been a source of tranquility, had become a symbol of my pain and a relentless reminder of my inner struggles.

It seemed to call to me. I could almost hear the wind carry my name.

Suguru.

The water always looked pretty this time of year. I sat there watching it for a moment too long, wondering what it would feel like to be enveloped by the cold current, to feel it wash me away.

And, again, the sound of the current grew louder. Deafening. Consuming me.

a/n: l comment and lmk what u think pookiesss

comments + reblogs are greatly appreciated!!

I obviously do not own jjk or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

taglist: @missphanosaur18 , @bontensbabygirl, @megumissunshine, @chocoyanchan, @littlelovebug98, @lucisimpongod, @xochyw, @jaegerstan222 , @electro-supremacy, @mellytheteddy, @clover0310 , @soraya-daydreams, @priussy, @insanehumantinker, @staygoldsquatchling02, @nonksity, @hinata7346, @chososwhoresblog, @mindurownbussines , @hearts4sid , @simplefools , @ynjimenez

wanna join the taglist?| mlol; chapter index

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bluejaysandblackbats · 4 months

Text

Catch and Release

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam

Summary: AU where Jason doesn't die in the explosion and he and Tim end up attending the same high school months later.

Chapters: 8/?

Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Tim Drake, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Sebastian Ives, Jack Drake, Janet Drake

Relationships: TBA

Additional Tag: Jason Todd Lives, Jason Todd-centric, POV Jason Todd, POV First Person, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake Has Issues, Tim Drake is Not Robin, Jason Todd is Not Robin (Anymore), Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Alfred Pennyworth Knows, Stalker Tim Drake, Jason Todd Has Chronic Pain, Jason Todd Has PTSD, Angst with a Happy Ending, Unlikely Friends, Injury Recovery, Emotional Baggage, Rage, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating

Chapter Eight: Pain in the Head

I hung out with Tim's friends and worked on character sheets. I spent three hours there before I told Tim I had to go. I had a great time. Don't get me wrong. But I was nauseous and didn't want to be sick at his house. Ives planned on sleeping over at Tim's place, so I didn't have to feel bad about leaving him home alone. I got a ride to the manor, and Bruce sat on the porch waiting for me as soon as I arrived. "Where have you been?" Bruce asked.

"I could ask you the same thing, Bruce... Can I go inside now?" I asked.

"You're pale," Bruce replied.

I wanted to lie down and nap, but I could tell Bruce didn't plan on letting things go. I didn't have the time or energy to explain myself, so I did what any reasonable teenager would do. I made myself throw up and burst into tears. "Jason," Bruce sighed before helping me to the family room. He couldn't accuse me of anything while I was sick. That and throwing up stopped the onset of a migraine.

"I'm so sorry, Bruce-."

"It's fine... When is the last time you took-. I swore I wouldn't ask you that," Bruce replied.

"I didn't think I needed them anymore... I thought I'd been feeling better lately," I replied. Bruce felt my forehead.

"I've been home for two days, and you-. Jason, I'm sorry for walking out on you. I wasn't trying to hurt you... I'm-. Our bond is different from the bond I have with anyone else. I'm holding on for dear life with you... And I know I'm losing you. I feel like you're slipping away when I look at you.

"I can't take the thought of knowing you suffered because I chose to leave you alone that day. Jason, you're so precious to me... And I'm terrified that if I let you talk about what happened, you'll say what I've been most afraid to hear," Bruce confessed. I wasn't in the mood for a serious conversation, but he was finally willing to speak about what happened to me.

"I don't hate you... And I don't blame you for what happened. I've been trying to tell you all this time," I paused, "I'm sure Dick told you I wanna die sometimes... But you don't realize what I have to experience every day."

Bruce exhaled through his nose. "Go ahead..."

"I wake up under debris almost every day... And then I lie about my nerve pain, which I know everyone can see. By the time I get to the mirror, I'm already so disheartened by the countless efforts I've made to appear normal that I barely notice my scars anymore. When I shower, my skin still hurts like the burns are fresh, and I want to cry, but if I do, I'd never get anything done. Then, I come down for breakfast... And sometimes the medications I'm on make me so sick I don't want to eat, but I know I'd be worse off if I didn't.

"Then I go to school, and you wouldn't believe what they say about me," I swallowed hard.

"Jason-."

"But I endure it because I know I have to... What I can't stomach is the isolation. Don't ice me out, Bruce," I begged. Bruce sighed.

"I don't know how-. I can't pretend that almost losing you didn't change the entire way I had to look at our life. You can't be Robin anymore, Jason, and I feel awful for having to take that away from you," Bruce whispered.

"You're saying our, but you mean mine. How can you expect me to step down from being Robin when you can't even walk away from being Batman?" I asked.

"Jason, it's been over a year, and you're still healing. I can't risk putting you out in the field again. Gotham needs Batman-."

"Bullshit," I snapped.

"Language-." "Oh! Go to hell! I told you about all my issues, thinking you would finally see me, and I realized you're no better than the rest of them!" I yelled. I couldn't help but get mad. I should've seen it coming. He'd never had the guts to say it, but I knew this was his way of shutting me out for good. It pissed me off. I threw my crutches and hobbled upstairs.

"Jason! Jason, you can't-!"

"Screw you!" I yelled as I went to my room. I slammed the door and packed my bag. I almost forgot I felt sick. He saw me as weak. That was the worst thing he could've ever opened his mouth to admit. He was no better than everyone that gaped and gawked at me. I was his walking tragedy, and I'd be damned if I let him treat me like a ghost.

I started packing with tears in my eyes. I wanted to get out of there before I said something vile. "Jason, don't be like this! Please come out and talk to me-."

"Bruce, I need to get the hell away from you before I say something I regret!" I hollered. "And I guarantee that if you follow me, I will never come home! Leave my crutches and get away from me!" I sat down and texted Tim. He was the only person I could trust at that moment. I asked him to come to get me, and he texted me immediately. I waited in my room until Tim texted me, and I left my bedroom. Bruce left my crutches in front of the door and retreated like always. I slung my duffel across my body like a messenger bag, hoping it wouldn't throw me off balance.

I swung the door open and left it like that. Tim took my bag and opened his mouth to ask if I was okay, but he kept quiet. It was for the best because I was in a particularly heinous mood. I fell asleep in the car and woke up in Tim's guest room. He was on the floor with Ives, eating pizza. My head throbbed, and I felt sicker than I did earlier. Ives glanced at me and got up to turn the lights down. "Sorry, were we too loud?" Ives questioned.

"No, I-. How long have I been out?" I asked.

"Thirty minutes... Maybe an hour," Tim answered, "Do you need an aspirin?"

I pressed my palms against my eyelids. "No thanks... Tim, do you-? Who carried me in?" I asked.

"We both did. Tim got you out of the car but wasn't strong enough to get you up the stairs. It was a team effort," Ives answered, "You're heavier than you look." I let out a soft chuckle despite the pounding in my head.

"Know how I asked you to move in with me?" I questioned. "Could it still work if it were the other way around?"

"You wanna live here?" Tim asked. I nodded. "Alright." I was shocked. I thought he'd say no, but he looked thrilled.

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callofdooty69 · 4 months

Text

thought of this idea and wanted to share╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

MAJOR CW !!: 🪦🕊️ do not eat, daddy issues, implied abuse (not between reader and ghost !!), fluff, angst, death, PTSD, panic attacks, anxiety, talk of alcohol, guilt, grief, profanity, usage of y/n, f!reader, attachment issues, abandonment issues, not proof read, super long post (PLEASE let me know if there are any warnings/tags i missed !!!)

in NO way shape or form am i trying to glamorize daddy issues/the topics in this. i am incredibly sorry if it’s taken that way because that is most certainly not my intention. if i’ve offended anyone by writing this than PLEASE let me know. i want to keep everyone safe, and don’t forget to take care of yourself. my anons and messages are always open if you need help or someone to talk to ♡

(this is inspired by daddy issues - the neighborhood if you couldn’t tell)

i know that you got daddy issues ☆♪

ghost x y/n

****

it’s not fair.

why, of all people, did this have to happen to you? you did nothing to deserve this. you always heard stories of abuse survivors that came from toxic households, but you never thought it would happen to you. you would never, under any circumstances, want or allow this to happen to anyone else. so why did no one help you? you relied on the people you loved and trusted, but they did nothing to stop it from happening.

living in an abusive environment was never supposed to become your life. coming from a happy family with a loving mother and father was your norm, and you wouldn’t have had it any other way. until it happened. until the event that sparked the rest of your life’s struggles occurred on a random thursday.

when you were fifteen, your mother passed away. you were the one that picked up the phone that night. you were the one that asked her to go to the stupid school fair and pick up your missing assignments because you were sick and couldn’t go to your classes. hell became your life the minute you heard the news. that a drunk driver ran into her.

she was dead on impact.

the guilt haunted you. sitting at the funeral, sobbing over her casket, you couldn’t help but think that this was your fault. it shouldn’t have been her.

you couldn’t even count on your fingers the amount of days you missed from school. you almost got held back if it weren’t for your previous grades and attendance record. you went weeks without showering, and when you did you just sat on the floor, letting the hot water pellets hit your back until it was red and almost bleeding. you could barely eat, let alone sleep. you couldn’t remember the last time you slept comfortably, nightmares consuming your brain every night.

your father coped through alcohol. he didn’t know any other way, going to the bar was the only time when he could escape reality, even for just one moment.

your birthday was two months before it happened. you wanted to start driving as soon as you could and got your permit right away. that definitely came in clutch when you had to pick up your dad at least three times a week, one of your family friends calling and saying he was wasted again. the abuse started shortly after, going from yelling to genuine physical pain.

you bolted from your house as soon as you turned eighteen, driving as far as you could to escape the home that brought you gallons of tears and misery. you got a job soon after leaving, starting as a fast food worker to waiting tables at local restaurants. at one point, you had to pick up four jobs to just pay for basic materials to sleep in your car.

after a few years, you were diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. you weren’t surprised, somehow relieved that you got it off your chest and just talked to someone. medication flowed through your veins shortly afterwards, easing the pain and guilt just enough to live.

you were doing well for yourself in your early twenties, renting a decent sized apartment and working as a bartender for a big restaurant in the city. even with the trauma from the alcohol addiction your father developed, you were strangely comfortable around it. anytime a conflict would arise, your coworkers would handle it, vaguely knowing your experience with violence and confrontation.

you lost contact with everyone from your old life; your deadbeat father, the “friends” that did nothing to support you, the councilors that couldn’t take the fucking hint. everyone.

then you met simon. he came in one night with his colleagues, celebrating for some kind of special occasion. a few of them came up and ordered drinks, but simon only sat down and stayed silent. it’s like he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. it was weird, but not in a bad way.

as he came to the restaurant more often, you two sparked up conversations when he sat down at the bar. starting with small talk here and there to discussing random bullshit for hours on end. he knew you had to do your job, so he let you serve the other customers of course. it was strange to him, how he could get so comfortable with someone so fast. but you seemed different. you were trustworthy and safe. a security blanket he didn’t have growing up.

you eventually got into a relationship with him, finally feeling happy. your nightmares and guilt still remained in your thoughts, images and flashbacks of what caused you internal and external wounds that you didn’t think could heal controlling your mind. you were hesitant in opening up to him, as was he. but you confided in one another, slowly opening up the gates you both spent years building. you went to him when you needed him, and he did the same to you. you learned everything about each other, learning your pasts and showing vulnerable scars you didn’t think you’d have anyone to share them with. he’s home. your each other’s safe haven.

****

after a long shift at work with no sleep, you went home to find simon not there. he was usually off of work by now and should have been back for at least an hour. you immediately thought of the worst case scenario, thinking he was in trouble or that something happened. you panicked, unsure of what to do, calling and texting him to no avail.

you paced around the apartment you two now shared, your breathing getting harder and more difficult and seeing fuzzy spots in your vision. you sat down on your floor, knees pulled into your chest and hands covering your ears, trying to drown out the hallucinations and flashbacks of trauma. nothing seemed to be working, you gave up on calling simon after the seventeenth dial of his number.

it felt like your skin was on fire, uncontrollably sobbing and hyperventilating. you didn’t know what you were going to do, all you knew was that you needed simon. you didn’t know what you would do without him in your life, he was all you had.

you were so caught up in the swirling emotions and thoughts going in and out of your head that you didn’t hear the door open, boots hitting the floor and keys jingling as they hit the marble counter. when simon turned the corner and walked into the dining room, he didn’t hear you or see you anywhere. he expected to walk in and see you eating dinner, binge watching a show like you always did. but you weren’t.

he called your name, looking for you. “y/n? are ya’ here, love?” that was when he heard faint crying coming from the living room. he rushed to the noise, only to find you breaking down on the floor. he ran towards you, sliding right in front of you and frantically looking around.

he knew in these moments it was difficult to see what you were comfortable with. from touching you and hugging to giving you space, he wasn’t sure what you needed in the moment. based off the fact that this was probably the worst panic attack he had ever seen you have, he knew you definitely didn’t need space.

he lightly touched your arm, pulling back when you jumped. simon reached for your hand guiding it away from your face for you to see him. that he was there. he was home, and safe. you looked up, terrified of what you might see. that your father was in front of you, or watching your young self pick up the phone. but when you saw simon, sitting across from you and worry on his face, you clung onto him like he was water and you were dying of thirst.

he held you tight, cradling your head and pulling you into his lap to make it more comfortable for the both of you. he swayed softly, rubbing circles on your back as you sobbed into his arms and softly whispering reassuring words in your ear.

when your breathing slowed and your sobs gradually wore down, he gently lifted your face from his chest and saw your bloodshot eyes and mascara running down your cheeks, the dried tears forming marks through you face and the wet spots on your shirt from where you were crying. it broke his heart to see you like this. to see his baby girl like this.

he moved the hand on the back of your head to rub your cheek, softly wiping away the makeup that stuck to your skin. he kissed you on your forehead, then your temple, and all down your face until he gently kissed your lips, reminding you that he was safe. that you were safe. that everything was going to be okay. with your face close, he whispered “what happened, love?”

you told him how worried you were. how you thought he was in danger, that you tried calling and messaging him but he wasn’t answering. “i’m so sorry baby girl, my phone died. i was just on my way to the store to pick up some chocolate for you. but i’m home. we’re safe, everythin’ is gonna be okay.”

you cried again, leaning your forehead against his and just feeling him. touching him in these moments was all you wanted, to have reassurance that he was there. that he was real. he always managed to pull you away from your dark thoughts, to be there for you and give you want you needed.

you explained the flashbacks you were having, the voices you heard, all while simon rubbed his hands on your back and made random shapes with his fingers up and down your spine. he listened to you silently, letting you speak without interruption. when you finished, he planted kisses on your face, gently kissing your lips. it was intimate, but not in a sexual way. it was vulnerable intimacy, calming intimacy.

you laid there for a moment, hugging one another and holding each other tightly but softly. simon’s back was hurting and his legs were starting to cramp up, but he didn’t care. as long as could take care of his baby girl and hold her until she felt safe, he was okay.

“ya’ wanna go to bed love? i’ll grab some tissues to wipe off your mascara n’ tickle you all night if ya’ want.” he smiled as you giggled and nodded your head. lifting you up and carrying you to the bedroom, he slowly sat you down on the bed. “i’ll be right back, okay?” you smiled at him and whispered a small “okay” as he want to grab the makeup wipes.

he sat there for what felt like hours, rubbing your face and telling you all the things he loves about you. your hair, your smile, your cute nose, your contagious laugh, everything. when he was done, he kissed you and leaned his forehead against yours. “how ya’ feelin’ now? better?” you nodded and mumbled a small “yes,” saying “you know what would make this even better?” he hummed as he kissed your temple. “cuddling with you.”

“well, that is somethin’ that can definitely be arranged,” he smirked and rolled you around as you laughed. facing you towards him, he rubbed his calloused hand on your soft cheek, staring into your eyes like they held the galaxy in them.

your eyes fluttered, half lidded and a small smile on your face. simon placed one last kiss on your forehead, whispering “goodnight, love. everythin’ is gonna be alright.”

with that, all of your troubles washed away. the only thing that mattered in that moment was him, holding you like you were his world. because you were, you were each other’s safe space. you taught one another how to love, how to be vulnerable, how to learn that you were cared about.

things were going to be okay, as long as you had simon with you.

****

how we feeling about this? ngl i cried a bit while writing it. should i make more angst and/or fluff content on here? let me know, and (as always) feel free to leave anons/comments╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

- 𝓀.𝒿

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