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madschiavelique · 28 days ago

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A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 13 - Five of Swords

summary : your first day spent in Demacia doesn't bring out the best of you.

content warnings : angst. like pull out the tissues angst. no comfort. also some flirting shit? oh and tension. a good meal overall i hope

word count : 8,2k

author's note : okay so i'm trying to survive classes and i tried writing this baby during the week while on the metro. it's quite a pain in the heart but hey dw it'll get better i promise.

proofread the pretty boy @oneoftheextras

masterlist．．discord ．．playlist．．my ko-fi

The short journey to your place of residence prepared for the students had been deeply unbearable.

Demacians seemed to have a majority of water-related transport. You weren't really surprised, given that Demacia was known for its beaches and its inextricable links with the water that surrounded it for trade and tourism.

However, after that rather short night in a bed that wasn't very pleasant, you would have liked to have had a moment to settle down and enjoy a brief trip in a transport to observe the landscapes.

But walking was unavoidable. A horde of suitcase rollers were catching up on the white flagstones of the streets of the great city of Demacia.

It was almost impossible to imagine the city as anything other than sunny. Its great white walls seemed incorruptibly pure, the sun bathing the sides of the citadel in resplendent light, while its blue slate domes gleamed in the sunlight like fish scales.

You expected the city to have a cold atmosphere, an overly wise and tense staticity brought about by the strictness for which it was famous. But the markets were full of colour, crates full of exotic goods with colour combinations you only thought possible on paintings, rich fabrics and tourist attractions of all kinds bundling up in certain streets.

It was a city that combined the marine fluidity of its airs and waters with the formidable stability of its rocks and swords. It was almost impossible not to find a guard at every turn, to the point where it was almost more oppressive than reassuring. The sight of so many passers-by crossing the streets and their safety, however, softened the sensation.

And although you couldn't wait to take a shower and relax, the desire to wander the streets of this new place grew with every step you took. What a thrill it is to explore.

All this could have been superb, of course, if it hadn't been for a single factor that splashed mud all over this first immersion: Fiora.

Clinging to Viktor like a mussel to its rock, she had never stopped monopolising him and imposing her continuity. She pulled Viktor's suitcase like she was pulling a bin bag, pressing herself against him and laughing much more than necessary at every little interjection he made, often punctuating it with "What an interesting thing to say" or "Vikkie you're so funny!"

Vikkie, the nickname made your skin crawl with embarrassment. But what probably bothered you most was the fact that Viktor didn't do anything in particular to stop it. Was he just being polite? Or did he genuinely enjoy her company?

"Yes, she's always like that," Garen finally added with a sigh, his eyes visibly attentive to where yours were resting.

You sighed. "How long have you been handling her?"

He chuckled. "I think we're about to hit the second year in a row of a dreadfully thorny situation."

"Two years," you huffed, imagining what it would have been like if you and Viktor had carried on with that litter of stupid nemeses for so long.

"Yes ma'am," Garen nodded, himself seeming slightly surprised by this realisation.

"And has it always been like this?"

"It gets worse when new things arrive and she wants said new things," he informed. "She needs to have her hands on the new, shiny toy."

"Is she a princess?" you questioned.

"Akin," Garen's gaze rested tiredly on Fiora's figure, raising his eyebrows, "she is the heir to one of the biggest families of Demacia."

"Damn," you whispered. "And she bites, I take it?"

"She is a fierce duellist, best one around here," grimaced Garen. "I wouldn't advise making any waves or tormenting her, she has a tendency to start useless gossip behind your back."

You nodded, taking in the information Garen had so graciously given you. "Crowns have strange effects on the heads they adorn."

He nodded, obviously finding your words accurate.

It didn't take you long to arrive at a building of at least six storeys, seemingly the same length as the point separating Zaun from Piltover and as wide as the length of The Young Prince.

What had struck you so far was the geometry of the city. All the architecture of its streets was millimetre-perfect, everything mirroring each other almost impossibly perfectly like a surface on clear water. Arches of white stone criss-crossed in the air, no pillar was odd, and even the clothes of the residents were surgically symmetrical. It was almost disconcerting.

"The Hôtel Félixérie has graciously approved your accommodation as part of your stay," informed Madame Diane, turning to the group of students. "We'll leave you to drop off your belongings and take a moment to relax and get to know your room-mates a little better."

You'd imagined that the dormitories would be paired up again, and you'd probably expected the Piltover students to be with each other once more. However, Diane interrupted this train of thought.

"For fairly obvious reasons, the rooms will not be mixed. If your duos involve sex and gender differences, we will assign you to different rooms."

Their restrictions were totally acceptable, however, if the little gears in your brain weren't wrong, a terrible revelation took over.

You would have to share your room with Fiora.

You turned towards her, the latter already looking at you like a vermin to be eradicated, or the most useless thing this earth could have borne.

"Come forward, so we can allocate your rooms and take it into consideration."

So the group of students moved towards the teachers, your quartet staying back, Garen following to collect your room numbers. You reached Fiora, who was about your height, if perhaps a little shorter - which didn't stop her looking down on you for anything in the world.

So you watched her stature, her arm still firmly wrapped around Viktor.

You chuckled, observing the situation. "Are you going to sleep with him like he's your teddy bear? Or are you big enough to sleep without one."

Viktor turned to you, half surprised and half grateful. She arched an eyebrow at you, blowing out a laugh from her nose. "Scared of a child?"

"I'm not as spoiled of a kid as you," you replied.

"What is the ugly little thing saying?" she questioned.

"She's saying that you've got looks, and money," you remarked, "one of them is bound to run out."

She gave you a petty little smile. "Guess I'm rich in all cases. I still have twice more than you own."

"And twice more to lose," you pointed out, frowning, "and I don't lose."

She giggled, her upper lip rising in frustration. "So confident."

Your eyes looked her up and down, two thin slits under your eyebrows. "So ignorant."

"Viktor?" inquired Garen to cut short this obviously mindless discussion once he'd come back. "We're sharing the same room, do you need help with your belongings?"

The Zaunite's suitcase was still in Fiora's hand. She said nothing, ignoring you as she straightened her chin and let go of Viktor's arm as well as his luggage, exchanging a glance with Garen who seemed impassive to her attitude.

Viktor exchanged glances with you and then Garen. "No need," he confirmed politely.

"Alright," smiled Garen, turning to your little group, "we're all on the ground floor. Room 020 for Viktor and me, room 021 for you two,’ he explained as he handed you your keys, Fiora not even unlocking her arms from her chest to take the ones Garen was handing her.

"As if I was to share my room with someone like you," Fiora almost choked out.

"At least something we agree on," you breathed before pulling your suitcase towards the building.

You had only one thing on your mind: taking a shower and putting on clean clothes. Demacia had a warmer climate than Piltover, and although the sun wasn't high in the sky, the air was already hot, and your walk to the hotel didn't help the feeling.

The interior of the hotel was charming, managing to bring warmth to its ambience despite its cold bluish tones. It didn't take you long to find your room, shoving the key into the lock more hastily than you would have liked.

You pulled your suitcase onto a tiled floor with hexagonal stones alternating royal blue and creamy white, two thick beds next to each other already making you regret coming here just from the perspective of who would take the second one. You placed your suitcase on the side of the bed you'd settled on taking, removing your coat, which was already far too warm for your back and shoulders.

There was a knock at the door, and you turned to see Garen, his stature taking up almost all the light in the corridor in the silhouette of the door.

"Got the word from Madame Lolanthe," he began, "the Piltover students get a one hour break in their rooms before we come back to get you ready for the Academy visit."

"Okay," you nodded, getting rid of your scarf, "thank you for telling me."

"No problem," he smiled, leaning against the doorway, "You hold up to her well."

"Hold up to her?" you repeated, almost confused.

"That talk about the looks, and the money," he noted, "I know who's words I'll repeat whenever she gets on my nerves again."

You smiled. "One will buy you sympathy, the other will buy you the rest. Unfortunate that with her great wealth she can't buy me," you sighed, folding your scarf to lay it on the corner of your bed. "She doesn't seem to like it very much."

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's because she's never had someone come on her territory and impose themselves so easily."

You arched an eyebrow, a small sneer tugging at the corner of your lips. "I'm imposing?"

He chuckled. "To her? She won't ever admit it, but you're terrifying."

"And to you?" you questioned, "Am I any threat to the sublime of a Demacian student like you?"

He considered you for a moment. "That remains to be seen."

You smiled at him one more time, placing your suitcase on your bed to open it.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to engage in verbal fencing with you. So far at least you've given me no reason to do so," you explained as you took out your toiletries.

"I shall do everything in my power for it to remain as such," he confirmed, placing his hand on his chest solemnly and bowing his head slightly. "I'll leave you to your rest, see you in an hour."

"See you in an hour," you repeated simply as he disappeared from the doorway.

He reminded you of Jayce, but wiser, more chivalrous than naive, more observant than questioning.

So you finally grabbed some new clothes and headed for the second room in your bedroom, which was undoubtedly the bathroom. Were you all so stinky that the Demacians urged you to shower at all costs? It would have been funny, an unnecessary rivalry in a programme that encouraged the exact opposite.

The bathroom was an elegant composition of blue, white and pearly grey mosaics. Two wash basins carved from rough white stone stood next to each other in front of a large oval horizontal mirror. In the corner to your left was the toilet, and in the corner to your right was the ivory-white bathtub.

You were almost tempted to pick up your suitcase and put it in the bathroom with you while you showered, just to make sure that the bratty Fiora didn't come poking around in it or doing anything stupid.

After all, in your belongings was an object that could potentially get you into a lot of trouble here if it were found: your tarot deck.

Demacia's little worry in this instance was a deep-seated aversion to magic and all that surrounds it. Who wouldn't be when the history of its people was rooted in magical wars and the terror that ensued? Petricite, the material from which their protection came from the trees of their forests, was undoubtedly in abundance in the walls surrounding you. It was almost oppressive, as if the air were less breathable, more contained than ever in a box.

You stripped off your clothes and slipped under the water, which must also have been filtered specifically for petricite. It seemed almost dry, leaving an unpleasantly light sensation on your skin as you soaped yourself up almost furiously.

Your thoughts returned to your Tarot deck. You just hoped that the energies wouldn't affect it, and that you wouldn't be caught red-handed. You would have to be discreet about this activity, however naive, to avoid any lightning strikes.

You took your time to prepare yourself. You put on some simple clothes for the rest of the day, something comfortable enough to move around in and not suffer from the heat, and rearranged your suitcase, making sure you looked perfectly presentable.

You left your room after slipping your suitcase under your bed, knocking on the door of your comrade to whom you hadn't been able to speak since you set foot on Demacian soil.

"Come in," answered the familiar accent behind the door.

You turned the handle, opening the door to find Viktor sitting on one of the two beds. He seemed to be busy placing a particular mechanism on his bad leg, a strap running from his lower thigh to the sole of his shoe. He was bent over, arranging a sort of screw-on part on the side of his knee.

The system seemed to be complex, an orthopaedic support made of metal and leather for better stability, no doubt, in the same way that corsets were worn for scoliosis.

You'd never seen him wear it before.

"Is it in preparation for the walk we're about to go on?" you questioned.

He sighed heavily, rearranging a belt against his thigh and trying to smooth the creases in his trousers under the pressure. "Mademoiselle Laurent's brisk walk doesn't seem to have been very kind," he raised his amber gaze to yours, "I fear the upcoming days might be more difficult than what I expected."

You sighed, taking a step forward into the bedroom. "Yeah," you nodded, "not sure how I will handle the whole Fiora thing... At least Garen's nice so far."

His eyes moved from yours to his thigh again, tightening another bolt. "Mhm."

"You guys got cool rooms!" Jayce's voice made you turn towards him, coming from the other end of the corridor, poking his head through the doorways. "Ours is all..." he grimaced, his eyes crinkling as his upper lip lifted to the side, "green."

"Got something against the green of nature, Talis?" you remarked, arching an eyebrow.

"Absolutely not!" he snapped, raising his hands in the air to clear his throat. "It's just that ours is... ugly."

"Do you miss the gold of Piltover already?"

"A bit."

"Have the Kirammans changed you so much? Unless... has Mel got you used to luxury?"

"I-" he almost choked, but before he could pull himself together and resume his sentence, he frowned, mouth open. His eyes flicked to a point in the void before turning to Viktor, with whom he exchanged a glance. "Do you think what she thinks?"

Viktor breathed in, holding his breath for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and sighing in agreement. Jayce looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Am I... a high-class hooker?"

You grinned, putting your hand on his shoulder and patting it. "I think there are worse realisations in life than this."

"True, but... how do you know for sure."

"It's not a wildly complex diagnosis," Viktor remarked as he grabbed his cane and straightened up. "First the bottles of champagne with more than one zero."

"Then the petits fours," you pointed out.

"And the new shirts piling up in the dressing room..." Viktor continued.

"Fine!" stopped Jayce. ‘Fine, I see your point,’ he straightened up, trying to puff out his chest as he pretended to deconstruct the image you'd given him, sighing in vain as he watched you with plaintive eyes, "this is so bad isn't it?"

"It's the end of the world," you grinned.

Viktor shook his head, playing disappointment. "What happened to my work partner?"

"Hey!" squeaked Jayce.

Viktor turned to you. "Did you know he leaves the apartments three nights out of four to go see Mel?"

"What?" Your mouth opened in a terrible mock shock as you put your hand to your chest comically, "that's heartbreaking."

"I know," sighed Viktor dramatically, "I end up starring at the pile of his new shirts in the corner while I kill myself on work."

"Jayce," you huffed, "how could you?"

"Stop this! You two!" begged Jayce.

You finally smiled and gave up the act. "Relax, gold suits you anyway."

"You guys are the worst," grumbled Jayce as you and Viktor exchanged playful glances.

You headed out of the hotel, meeting up with Sky who instantly came over to you.

"That Fiora's already got you in her sights," she muttered.

You sighed, looking around as if to see if she was spying on you, but if she was, she wasn't within earshot. "I know, it's like I'm attracting them all like a magnet. Let's hope it doesn't last any longer than that, otherwise this trip may quickly be robbed of its holiday quality."

When the rest hour came to an end, Madame Diane finally showed up again an exact hour as the time she had left you. Their organisation was finely measured, timed and unforgivable.

Fiora couldn't help but regain her position as the cling-on next to Viktor.

"Pulled out your fanciest shoes for me?" she giggled as her eyes roamed Viktor's aid.

He sighed, "If I have to keep up with you, this is more than needed."

She gave you a dark look, though it was different from the one she'd previously thrown at you so far. There was a sort of flash of malice, an unpleasant aspect of that of a chess player with a sick and evil strategy.

You took no further notice as the walk to the Demacian Academy began.

You passed various buildings, Diane telling you a few little facts about the history of the streets and specific places. Jayce made comments here and there.

"How do they build such edifices?" he asked, amazed by the city's architecture and its intricacies.

"By piling stones on top of each other," you replied, Garen smiling beside you, your eyes witnessing Viktor's cheekbones rising at your remark from your view of his back.

You finally reached the Demacia Academy. Its campus formed a pile of wings of buildings of varying sizes and architecture.

"Each study environment," as Madame Diane pointed out as you walked through the Academy's gardens, "is separated into its own buildings. We are privileged and proud to be able to welcome all kinds of cultures and knowledge within our walls. Humanities, Engineering, Art, all forms of wisdom are welcomed without any hierarchy."

Your eyes roamed over the bluish domed roofs, wondering if from the inside these same tiles covered all the light or if their material was transparent like sunglasses.

"A single point joins the students who wish it," she raised her long index finger in the air, pointing to the sky as if the almighty sky bequeathed to her every truth about the globe.

Garen pressed his palm against your shoulder, your eyes resting on it as he whispered into your ear.

"See over there?" the index finger of his hand on your shoulder, seemingly engulfing you by its size, pointed in a direction you followed.

"Mhm?" you hummed, observing a flat area that wasn't concreted over and seemed to be covered in a long, black, loose carpet.

"That's the training area," his warm breath brushed against your ear, "me and Fiora meet there every morning."

"We want our students to stay healthy and to help each other," Diane recited aloud.

Garen huffed, continuing to murmur. "If you'd like to see her lose eventually, this is where the show's at."

"Lose?" you repeated in a whisper, your eyes drifting to Fiora next to Viktor, who just seemed to have turned his head away.

"Mhm," said Garen before straightening up and letting go of your shoulder, "I've heard that it's something you don't do."

You smiled, a little laughy breath escaping from your lungs.

"Thus, we have a training area dedicated to this," Diane continued, "our students can go there whenever they like, it's a free field. Now, if you don't mind, we're going to continue..."

But you could barely register another sentence at the moment, your eyebrows furrowing as you began to move forward with the rest of the group.

One thought remained in your mind, however. Something that had struck you suddenly, something that surprised you more than you would have thought: not a shiver had been born under Garen's breath on your skin.

It was strange, not a single hair standing on end, no heat rising to your cheeks. Nothing.

It was only when the memory of Viktor's breath hit the back of your neck that it began to heat up.

You tried to pull yourself together, to ignore this information, and to ignore the warm sensation in your stomach as your eyes found Viktor's combed brown locks.

It's probably nothing,’ you tried to convince yourself.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, exploring the library and some of the historic sites on campus. You had eaten in a charming restaurant near the hotel, while the Demacian students returned to their cafeterias and afternoon classes and Heimerdinger gave you a lesson on Demacia. He had preferred to postpone his lessons on Demacia to save them for the trip, for a better immersion and to truly submerge you in his lessons.

Fiora was glued to Viktor like a leech, as if when he let go of her arm he was going to fall face first onto the pavement. She kept sending you these petty little smiles, and you kept giving her a deeply neutral expression.

The night came earlier than expected, and you dreaded the idea of having to share this room, which was supposed to be so pure and perfect, with an oddball like her.

You were already strangely regretting the night you'd spent with Viktor. Admittedly, you hadn't always had the best of times when you were forced into close proximity, but that didn't detract from the fact that you had common ground and mutual respect.

Up until now, Fiora hadn't earned your respect.

And to your surprise, as the hours passed and you read in bed, she never came.

Many thoughts raced through your mind, tirelessly changing subjects and possibilities.

Was she with Viktor? you wondered.

No, Garen and Viktor went to bed together.

So where is the viper? Perhaps it's in its burrow, at home in who knows which grand Demacian mansion, in a bed with silk sheets and canopied curtains. Madame's sleep must not be damaged or altered in any way.

And that breath on your skin, that hadn't done anything to you? Why did it?

Sleep overtook you quickly though, overpowering your fiery spirit, Demacia's jet lag catching up with you faster than you thought possible.

When you awoke, it was early enough in the morning that the horizon was still a gradation of night leading towards the bright pearl of the sun. Your eyes found Fiora's bed empty and perfectly tucked in just as you had found it.

You took advantage of the fact that the city was still a little asleep to get out your tarot deck. You knocked on both sides, hoping to release whatever energy the petricite could have brought.

You performed your usual little ritual, and the card of the day turned out to be the five of swords. The little booklet provided you with the following information:

Cruelty. Think about your actions and words. False accusations. Cowardice. Inflated ego at the expense of others. Taking advantage of others.

This is a warning card that reminds you of the power of your words and actions. An argument has ended and there is a winner, a loser, and a mediator. Who do you identify with on this card? Which character represents you at this precise moment? If you don't recognise yourself in this card, who or what does it remind you of? What lessons can you learn from this image?

You were sighing, an argument? It was probably because of yesterday with Fiora, because of what you had to learn from it.

So you got ready for the day, looking forward to meeting Garen on that famous training area. You had discussed the time at which him and the pretentious one would meet, deciding to join them a little later to let them do their training but above all to go there with a small group of students who intended to visit more of the university with their Demacian duos.

The days were to be split in two. In the morning, the Demacian students would be in class, while the Piltovian students would have their history lessons with Heimerdinger. The afternoons would be devoted to visiting Demacia, its monuments, museums and so on.

So you went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. There you met Viktor and Jayce, sharing their table. You helped yourself to the buffet in this luxury self-service restaurant before coming over to them.

"Good morning," greeted Viktor, sipping his coffee as his eyes were riveted on what appeared to be the local newspaper.

"Morning," you replied as you sat down at their table.

"You know," Jayce began with his mouth full, "I'm not usually a fan of switching foods but," he twitched his nose as he chewed energetically, "I gotta hand it to them, it's really good."

"You would eat flowers if they were edible," you remarked before bringing your own breakfast to your lips, nodding at the taste, though.

"Ah ha! See?" Jayce remarked at your expression.

You shrugged. "Not bad."

Actually, what you were chewing was delicious, but it wasn't hard to reach that level given your diet of mostly simple pasta and stir-fry in your flat.

"Come on," Jayce tried, turning to Viktor, "their coffee's good too."

The questioned man abandoned his reading of the newspaper, taking in hand a pastry covered in icing sugar. "I'll admit that it's not bad."

"Not bad?" you remarked, arching an eyebrow. "Better than mine?"

He chuckled. "Not possible."

You nodded. "Huh, I guess I'll just have to check for myself," you remarked, pressing your palm against the table as you prepared to get up and help yourself to the drink area.

"You can just drink from mine," suggested Viktor.

The pressure of your weight on your palm eased, turning your head towards him. "From yours?"

He watched you for a moment, then picked up his cup and placed it in front of you. "I don't know if I'll be able to finish it in one go," his back found the back of the seat, "so, we can share."

You considered the mug for a moment, observing the ring of foam that had dried and marked the inside of the cup, waiting to be drunk. It seemed sweet, like what Viktor used to drink.

You curled your fingers around its handle, the round, slightly flattened cup feeling pleasantly heavy in your hand. You brought it to your lips, blowing gently on its contents and noticing the previous mark of the sip Viktor had taken.

Your glance met his, moving from your mouth to your eyes, your lips resting where his had been moments before, before you took a sip without your gaze ever leaving each other's.

His jaw seemed to tense for a moment as your tongue passed over your lower lip to catch the last few drops of coffee before placing the cup back on the table.

You nodded, raising your eyebrows. "Not bad."

Viktor's amber eyes had a strange blackness in them, pierced by a dark glint you couldn't make out that brought more warmth to your cheeks and neck than the coffee.

"I told you!" Jayce exclaimed, bringing you back to reality almost brutally.

What was going on? Why was the air suddenly so thick and tense?

Your eyes lowered to your breakfast, taking a small bite as you returned to Viktor gently through your eyelashes. His gaze was still on you, his long, slender fingers wrapping around the waist of the cup and bringing it to his mouth.

His eyes lit up with a strange satisfaction as your lips parted and his came to rest where yours had been only seconds ago.

Your heart leapt in your chest as you engulfed your entire meal in one mouthful, preferring to find an excuse like this to the suffocation you were beginning to feel from the pounding of your heart against your ribs, which were suddenly too narrow to contain it.

Viktor looked at you, as surprised as he was amused by the suddenness of this behaviour.

"You look nervous," Jayce pointed out, "are you alright?"

You met his gaze, your eyes drifting over Viktor's for a moment as you swallowed your mouthful with difficulty. Quick, an excuse, or something.

"I'm going to try and train with the Demacian students," you explained.

Jayce's eyebrows rose, Viktor's frowned.

"You're about to try and train with them?" the taller one repeated, wiping the crumbs from his sweet tooth with the back of his hand, "the same students that have a training area and some of the best fighters in all Runeterra?"

You stuffed your mouth with another part of your breakfast, trying to take some strength for what would await. "Yes."

Breakfast continued simply until you finally decided to go to the Academy campus. The sun was higher in the sky, already warm as you made your way to the training ground.

A group of students were occupying various parts of the large area, a variety of wooden weapons clashing against each other in a waltz of energetic movements and grunts.

The small group of Piltovian students approached this area, some coming to meet up with their duet mates, others standing back to observe the scene.

You finally caught sight of Garen, busy at the moment against a mannequin, his stature seeming even more imposing that way. Dressed in a navy blue t-shirt with sweat stains on the collar and back, baggy black trousers and combat boots, he looked perfectly military.

When he met your eyes, he smiled at you, indicating with his fingers that you should come closer. You pointed your index finger at yourself, exchanging glances with Jayce and then Viktor.

"Don't look at me," the latter pointed out, "if I've got any place on this field it's as a training dummy."

You shrugged. "I'm sure you'd make an amazing fencer with your cane," you said before stepping forward when Garen came your way.

You reached him on the pitch, the feel of the ground softer and smoother than you would have thought. No doubt to reduce the damage of falls, which were bound to be numerous around here.

"Good morning," Garen greeted you when you reached him.

"Good morning," you pressed your lips into a thin line. "I think by coming here I've voluntarily signed my death warrant."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," he confirmed in a soft laugh, starting to move forward.

"Fiora isn't here?" you questioned, anxiously.

"She went ahead to get herself some water, she'll be back soon," he explained.

"Hope she takes her time," you sighed, "I'd like to... try training."

He turned to you in surprise. "Try training?"

"Mhm," you confirmed, "gotta get the full experience of this trip, I guess?"

He chuckled, nodding finally. "Alright, what would you like to try?"

"What's on the menu for bruises and sore muscles today?"

"Hmm," he glanced at the few remaining wooden weapons, "let us try with a staff."

Your eyes followed his gaze, settling on one of the weapon bearers. A row of quarterstaffs was there, waiting to be retrieved.

Fighting with wands, the joke was almost ridiculously simple if you thought back to the five of wands.

He picked one up, throwing it at you as you caught it in the air.

"Good reflexes," he remarked as he took one in turn, "it's going to be needed." He twirled the staff in his hand with ease, positioning himself in front of you. "Show me what you know."

You had distant memories of using a staff, of parrying, of attacking, even if you weren't an expert and wasn’t sure about your capacity on bringing them back to life.

You had to get it into your head that you weren't there to win, but to learn, to take in new information and rediscover what it meant to learn through interest rather than obligation.

You described a swing in the air, the wood hissing as Garen easily parried the blow, coming into your game. All he had to do was push a little harder against you so that the pressure made you tilt your balance and he took advantage of it to try a blow that you still managed to parry before stepping back and almost losing your balance.

"You're smaller than me, and probably faster," commented Garen, "use it to your advantage."

"How am I supposed to do that?" you questioned, tightening your grip around your staff in the hope that your muscle memory would do the job.

Garen repositioned himself, smiling slightly. "Surprise me."

You chuckled, tapping the tip of your stick on the ground twice before repositioning yourself, bending your knees and tensing your shoulders.

You trotted towards him a little, raising your staff in the air before deviating and giving a kick with your foot on his at the last moment to shift the balance. His grip was firmer on it than you thought, but the blow was enough to divert his attention to the gesture and you drove your stick into his foot, causing him to grunt as you tried to go around him to hit the back of his knees.

Realising your trick though, he changed his stance, pivoting towards you and swinging an arc through the air that you stepped back from in time, dodging his next blow by placing your palm on his staff to squeeze it and pull it towards you to bring him down.

But his weight of muscle won out over yours, so he used your initial idea to his advantage by pulling you towards him until your back was against his chest and he was holding his staff under your chin.

You felt his warm chest under the fabric of his T-shirt, his chest expanding and sinking against you as you felt the wood of his staff push your chin up until your eyes met his. He huffed, cracking a smile.

"You did good," he breathed, cracking a smile before the grip on your chin eased and he released you.

You took a step forward, turning to face him. "Just good?"

"Not satisfied with good?" he pointed out.

"No," you chuckled as you grabbed your staff with both hands, ready to attack again.

He smiled, changing position again. "Then do better, Piltie girl."

"Would you look at that?"

Your eyes rolled heavenward as you recognised this insufferable voice and turned to Fiora.

She was wearing a uniform similar to that of Garen. A dark plum turtleneck t-shirt with short sleeves, trousers less wide than Garen's, and perfectly polished boots.

She was equipped with her most mocking smile. "How did you end up here?"

You shrugged, letting one hand fall away from the staff before your arm dropped to your side. "I thought I'd come here for a holiday camp, but too bad the activities and organisers aren't great."

She giggled, her eyebrows arching as she turned to the remaining staff to pick one up. Some students stopped practising, observing the scene. Fiora undoubtedly had her own little reputation which she maintained proudly, and to see someone standing up to her must have been a novelty for many.

"Let's see what you're made of," she said, putting herself on guard against you.

You sighed. "I don't want to fight you," you remarked as you moved towards the receptacle to lay down your weapon.

But she prevented you from doing so by sending it flying further away from a single hit. You glared at her.

Her smile was evil, her eyebrows low over vicious eyes. "You're gonna have to pick it up if you want to put it back there."

"Fiora," Garen warned, "stop."

"It's fine," you assured him, watching Fiora's face change between satisfaction and impatience.

You knew she was trying to push you, to build up your frustration to get a reaction out of you. You didn't want to give her the pleasure.

You breathed a sigh, walking over to the staff on the ground before picking it up. But as you turned, you barely had time to reflexively place the staff in front of your face as a parry.

Fiora had just tried to attack you, and violently at that.

"Fight," she insisted as you took a step backwards. "Don't they teach you how to fight in Piltover?"

You huffed, trying to get round her as she circled after you like a predator around its prey. "Guess we swapped war for intellect," you pointed out, feeling more in the mood for a verbal joust than a physical one, "I can see how the lack of it is visibly affecting you."

Fiora frowned, pointing the end of her staff at you. "What did you just say?"

You smiled, getting caught up in the game. "Do I have to repeat it for you? Or break it down into digestible pieces for your little brain?"

She grunted before drawing rapid attacks in the air that you managed to parry and avoid until you crossed the wood and found yourselves close.

"You are so lacking in intelligence that neither education nor experience has helped you to fill this gap in your nature," you taught her.

She punched you in the stomach before hitting you in the thigh with her staff, forcing you to your knees. You felt the tip of her staff under your chin, firm and raw as she looked down at you.

"Look at who's kneeling before me," she sneered as she exchanged smiles with the surrounding students.

You didn't let her get to you though. "Simply tying my shoes, your majesty."

The nickname seemed to irritate her in a less visible way than the others, but you could still make out the little muscle near her eye tense up.

She offered a simple blow of her nose in laughter, leaving you on the ground as her stick dislodged itself from your chin.

She then turned to her audience, rounding on you. ‘What a fierce little thing she is, isn't she?’ she quizzed.

You turned towards her, straightening up as you frowned.

"By your words I believe you called me ignorant, so I did a bit of digging." She wore a smile that was about to cause some serious errors. "You will be surprised to learn that," she turned to you with a wicked smile, "she's an orphan."

Your lips parted as your chest began to tighten in anger, the other students around you all glaring at you like a freak show.

"No one ever wanted her," Fiora went on as if she were presenting a tragic two-bit story, "until she got taken in by pity."

You wanted to rip her tongue out. How could she know? How dare she put it out there for everyone to see?

She hovered around you, addressing her audience to paint a pitiful picture.

"Got a failure? Get another for half the price!" She sneered as she described dramatic gestures of demonstration, calming down on the theatrical though as she turned back to you, eyes half-closed with pretense and pointing at you with her staff. "So now," she resumed, tone condescending, "she tries to remove that tag off herself by being first everywhere!" She turned to the other pupils as if they were little children learning a lesson.

Your knuckles had turned white from squeezing your fists so tight, your breathing quickening as your anger built.

She turned to face you. "As if that was going to change her nature."

"That's enough!" Garen growled as he approached her.

"What's wrong? I am simply stating facts," Fiora pointed out falsely, innocently.

Their conversation faded from your mind, however, as your frustration rose inside you.

Who was it? Who was it that could have given her this information?

There were only three people who knew about this matter. Only three. Jayce, Sky...

And Viktor.

Viktor, who had spent his time in Fiora's company, who was always glued to his arm, who had had to give in to the fatigue and frustration of her questions by answering her about you while she was scheming against you.

There was only him.

Your body seemed to you like a suit of armour in a garden of white statues of purity, where the ruby-red roses of anger were allowed to overtake the metal covering your rage.

Clad in armour.

Ready.

"You said you wanted to fight?"

Your voice echoed through the air louder than you could have imagined, but loud enough that all heads turned towards you. Fiora smiled, having finally achieved her goal.

"You've changed your mind?"

"Yes." Your tone was firm, rigid.

"That is most delightful to hear," Fiora smiled, turning to her audience and raising her arms before regaining your gaze, "I'll even do you the honour of choosing your weapon."

"No weapons."

Your whole body tensed, your fingers twitching as your muscles seemed to prepare themselves for what was about to happen.

Fiora raised her eyebrows. "Fists? How barbaric.’

"Scared your fancy manicure can't handle it?"

It was asking everything in your power not to let your voice explode in the air, to remain calm and articulate.

All the same, Fiora seemed fascinated by your determination to continue to stand up to her, to refuse to give up, to abandon in the face of her.

"Careful Fiora," shouted one of the students, "I've heard she's a witch."

Had she finally infiltrated your room? Looked through your things while you were asleep? Or had she managed to hear about Selene and had already started to do her viper's work of spreading rumours? Either way, she was already on to you.

"Glad to know we're on the right territory to get rid of this kind of waste," smiled Fiora.

"You can't beat me," you put the staff back in its receptacle, moving away again to get ready, "only one person gets to have that honour."

Your eyes landed on Viktor, who was watching the scene with furrowed brows.

You readied your breath, stopping your heart from getting too big in your chest as your legs prepared to hold your balance.

"So eager," Fiora sighed with a stupid grin, stepping forward to place her staff, "I didn't know you would-"

But as soon as the staff was placed, your knuckles made hard contact with her cheek, sending her to the ground.

A wave of shocked murmurs took over the crowd as you stood, eyes lowered on Fiora as she leaned back to straighten herself on the floor, her perfectly smooth fringes slightly dishevelled revealing her wide eyes as she brought her palm to her cheek still warm from the blow.

"Get up," your voice was cold, trying to remain unwavering while your fist trembled. "You said you wanted a fight, so," your lips were full of rage, "fight."

Fiora snarled, springing to her feet and running at you with the breath of a bull seeing red. She tried to land a blow on your face to return the favour, but you dodged it and punched her in the stomach, her curling up as you grabbed her hair and she started screaming.

"You fucking bitch!" she cried.

She slapped you on the shoulder and you let go, throat rocky with wrath. "Yell at me again and I'll give you a proper reason to scream."

There was a dangerous growl in your voice, a grinding of a gear powering an old machine that was starting up again.

She came back at you, landing a blow on your leg in the hope of making you kneel again, but she was only marginally successful. She hit you in the jaw, causing you to back away slightly, before delivering a second blow to the cheekbone.

You didn't give her the honour of adding a third strike, offering her a violent punch in the throat that took her backwards as you took a slight leap and slammed your hand hard into her face, her grabbing your clothes and dragging you backwards as she fell.

Sitting on her abdomen, your two knees blocked her arms as you gained free reign over her guard.

You hit her once, twice, thrice, her cheek beginning to swell. Your blows increased in intensity, the tension in your fist not stopping you even if the bones in your hand broke.

"Stop this!"

Two thick arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you out with difficulty as you struggled in vain.

Garen pulled you away from the body of Fiora, who had turned to spit a cloud of bloody spray onto the floor. Your eyes never let go of her, as if you were obsessed with your real aim of seeing her admit defeat.

"You," you snapped at her, regaining some calmness though, "you're the one that started spreading gossip about me behind my back aren't you?"

Fiora turned to you, breathless. "What?" Her voice was hoarse from your blow.

"Don't make me repeat myself," you threatened, fully aware that you hadn't hit any of her eardrums and that she could understand you perfectly well.

She breathed heavily. "Why does it matter?"

You approached slightly, fists still clenched as you watched her on the floor, pathetic.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew your place."

Fiora shook off the hands of the students who had just tried to help her off ofto the floor, her furious eyes finding you as she struggled to get to her feet.

You realised the extent of the damage your fury, your uncontrollable anger, had done. Fiora's face was red, one of her eyelids bulging as blood poured from her nose, joining the red on her lips and gums.

You could have gone on, made things worse. Who knows how far you could have gone? What irreversible damage you could have caused? What life you could have taken in your own anger?

The realisation hit you like an anvil.

Your eyes roamed the crowd, the faces of the frightened students.

I... I did this? you thought.

I made them look at me with... fear?

Your eyes found Fiora still on the ground, grunting in pain and coughing.

Monster.

That's all you were. A being incapable of overcoming the violence that had nourished her, of abandoning the bosom of this bitter mother who had cuddled her so much and made her grow.

Your gaze wandered over the rest of the pupils, until it met his.

Viktor's face was shocked.

No, please...

His lips were parted and his eyes wide as you felt your hands impossibly sticky with the hot blood they had spilled.

Please, don't look at me like that... Your heart was trembling.

Not you.

You had to get out of here.

Hands clasped to your sides, you strode across the pitch, the few students even two metres away from you moving away as you passed.

I made them like this. Although this thought might have given some people a feeling of pride and power, you couldn't help but feel covered in a terrible shame.

You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you made your way to the nearest water source, away from any eyes.

You turned the crank on a fountain to turn it on, your breath quickening with anxiety.

I have to get this off me.

You ran your hands frantically under the water, rubbing the reddened skin of your knuckles and trying to get rid of the blood that was already starting to dry.

You returned to the handle as the water subsided, your hand coming into contact with the blood you'd left behind when you turned it the first time.

You make everything dirty. Everywhere you go there will be blood if you go on.

You swallowed a sob as you tried to clean the crank and your hands again.

But nothing would wash the feeling away. Nothing could extinguish the fire still burning in your fingertips. Nothing could make you forget the warm, slimy sensation of the pain you'd committed, of the violence at the edge of your skin.

It's what you're made of.

You sat against the wall, banging both wet fists against your skull as if that would stop those thoughts from ruling your mind.

And he'd seen you. He saw you like this. Your violence coming to life before his eyes, reflected in an indecipherable Iris.

You put your head between your knees, tried to take a deep breath before you got up, your legs weak and trembling as you made your way back to the hotel.

Stupid, stupid crown.

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heartlessvirgo · 8 days ago

Text

La Camisa Negra

Summary:

Still having no time for Javier's games, you can't help but think about him. But maybe he's thinking about you too?

Paring: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+MDNI, Swearing, Kissing, heavy petting, UNprotected sex, oral, creampie, drinking,

Word Count: 11K

Part 1 Masterlist

A/N: GUYs, I loved writing this and I hope you love reading it! Okay but Javier in this is so Juanes coded (iykyk) hehe... I got inspo for this from a Javi edit on tiktok and it was top tier, literal GOLD (@/ pascaledittzs). Anyways, requests are open.

Slamming your palm against the copier, you watch it shudder and whir as if the machine itself is mocking you. Another page spits out, this one just as black and unreadable as the last. You squint at it, hoping it’ll somehow make sense, but the jagged, ink-smeared lines mock your every attempt. You don’t even know what you’re doing wrong, and that drives you nuts. This should be easy—hell, you know how to fix a million other problems��but this damn machine? It's an unsolvable riddle.

This was the cherry on top of your already chaotic day. Meetings stacked one on top of the other, each more draining than the last, and paperwork—always the paperwork. You’ve got your own pile and Camilla’s to sort out since you volunteered like an idiot while she’s off vacationing somewhere. Now you’re just trying to catch up, pressing random buttons like you're hoping for a miracle, praying that maybe, just maybe, something will click.

It doesn’t. It never does.

“Dios, what a fucking nightmare,” you mutter under your breath, feeling the words bubble up from a place of pure exasperation. The copier grinds to a halt as you yank out the page, trying to straighten the creases. You shove it back into the tray, adjusting the paper once more, hoping—no, praying—that this time it will just work.

It’s stupid. You're smart, and you know this is all trivial, but still, here you are. So why does it feel like you’re failing at something so simple? Like you're watching your competence slip through your fingers, one black-and-white page at a time. And all you want to do is scream.

The click of footsteps approaching cuts through your irritation, and you don’t even need to turn to know it’s him. The unmistakable presence of Javier Peña fills the space behind you—calm, steady like he owns the damn air in the room. You brace yourself, but you don’t turn around. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging he's there yet.

A beat, then his voice, smooth and taunting. “Come here often?”

It’s playful. Cocky, even, but today? You’re just too damn tired for his brand of charm. You don’t even spare him a glance as you slam your hand against the copier again. It hums back to life with a mechanical growl.

“Yes, Peña, this is the copy room,” you reply flatly, not entertaining his game today.

There’s a silence, and you can feel his amusement. You roll your eyes, almost feeling his smirk widening behind you. He doesn’t get it. You’re not in the mood. There was just too much to do, and adding that would crumble everything.

He strolls in, his steps slow but purposeful, the sound of his polished shoes a steady rhythm against the linoleum floor. You catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye—his shoulders relaxed, hands casually emerging from the pockets of his grey slacks. He always seems to move with that certainty, like everything around him is just part of his own personal stage.

“Have you tried not verbally and physically abusing it?” he asks, his voice low, the teasing edge unmistakable. He leans in over your shoulder, his breath brushing the nape of your neck, sending a light shiver up your spine you’d never admit to. His presence wraps around you like smoke—unavoidable, heavy with that clean, musky scent of his aftershave, a combination of woodsy spice and cigarettes, something undeniably him. You inhale sharply, against your better judgment, and the scent fills your lungs, settling in your chest.

Your brows raise. "Oh, I’m sorry—should I try sweet-talking it instead? Maybe buy it dinner first?" You push the buttons randomly now, feeling the weight of his gaze on the back of your neck like a hot, invisible touch.

"You’re right; maybe I should start asking it out to dinner. See how far that gets me." He chuckles dryly, not backing down.

You huff in frustration, turning your head just enough to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. He’s standing too close, too familiar, and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

“All you have to do is ask for my help, but if you're offering, I’m sure I could be persuaded to dinner too." his lips curl into that infuriating grin, the kind that always seems to know exactly how to get under your skin. Especially now, since you were dancing around the fact that you had slept with him. You had fallen for whatever lust-driven curse he had put you under. And you felt guilt deep inside you. You were disappointed in yourself for that as if you had lost some battle within yourself.

You don’t look at him; you focus back on the machine. “I don’t need your help, and I would never ask you to dinner,” you reply, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension between you into tiny pieces and tossing it away.

You can feel him hovering just a little too close again, his presence almost suffocating, and it makes your jaw clench. He’s doing it again—making this more than it should be, and it made your blood simmer under your skin. You’d been avoiding him, but no matter how hard you tried, it seemed like he was a hall away.

“Okay, I’ll see you in there for the meeting then?” He takes a step back, but the cockiness in his voice doesn’t falter. Your eyes involuntarily flit toward him as he moves. You catch a glimpse of his lopsided smile, his shoulders relaxed, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all week. Like he's completely unfazed by your cold shoulder.

“Or… maybe not?” he jokes, his voice dropping to a teasing octave like he's still trying to pull you into his little game.

Infuriating. You turn to face Javier with narrowed eyes, attempting to block out the way his soft eyes send a coursing warmth through you. He was…a knife in your side or something like that. Permanently embedding himself in deeper and deeper. You swallow at the thought, a sheen of sweat forming at the memory of him buried inside you. So deep, nestled in your velvety walls, his tongue, the bite on your shoulder you wear like a hot brand.

Jesus.

“I’ll figure this out; thank you, agent Peña,” you say, keeping your voice steady, determined to push past it. He laughs softly, the sound low and rich, and you almost wish you didn’t find it so... disarming. Like he could see the flicker of the memory brush past you, like he knew exactly what was going on in your mind. And that made you want to slap the smile from his face.

With a casual shrug, he steps back fully, his fingers brushing the doorframe as he turns. “Alright, princesa, I’ll let you handle your... business. But, hey—don’t say I didn’t offer.”

You watch him leave, probably on the prowl for his next victim. Your breath catches as he disappears out of sight. His annoying face playing in a loop in the back of your mind, lingering, haunting you.

Behind you, the copier hums to life, and when you turn, it finally prints correctly. Still, you wonder, how the hell did he manage to turn everything into a challenge? And why did you always want to take him on?

Javier hadn’t stopped working today. After the meeting, he planted himself at his desk, caught in a relentless loop of paperwork and classified reports, the kind where half the damn page was blacked out. The office hummed around him—phones ringing, agents bullshitting, the scrape of chairs against the floor—but it all faded into background noise, except for one thing.

The stare.

He could feel it. Unwavering. Pressing.

Javier releases a long exhale, flicking ash from his cigarette into the tray, barely sparing a glance up. “Y’know, when I let you move your desk closer, I didn’t expect you to fall in love with me so quickly.” His voice is low, tired, laced with smoke.

Silence. Nothing but the faint scratch of a pen against paper.

That gets his attention. He lifts his gaze to find Murphy still watching him, head cocked slightly, brow raised in that infuriating way that meant he was enjoying whatever the hell this was. Like he knew something Javier didn’t, and that agitated him.

“Funny,” Murphy finally says, the corners of his mouth twitching like maybe he doesn’t actually think it’s funny.

Javier huffs, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. The smoke curls around him as he leans back in his chair, feigning indifference. But the silence stretches too long. Long enough for him to notice that Murphy isn’t just watching him—he’s studying him.

Javier exhales, slow. "Que?"

Murphy shrugs, looking around the office, still too damn amused for Javier’s liking. "Nothing. Just—haven’t seen you work this hard in a while."

Javier’s fingers pause on the edge of the file. He doesn’t look up. "Yeah, well. Some of us have jobs to do, criminals to catch."

Murphy snorts. "Right. The job." A pause. "Just funny, though. You haven’t asked who’s going for drinks tonight."

Javier finally glances up, slow, brown eyes shadowing. "Why the fuck would I care who’s going?"

Murphy leans back, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s settling in for the long game. "No reason." His smirk deepens. "Just thought you might like to know—she’ll be there."

A beat. A fraction too long. And Javier’s eyes flicker away, one might say nervously.

Javier keeps his expression unreadable, flipping another uselessly redacted page. "Good for her."

Murphy grins, shaking his head like he already knows, running his fingers through his blonde hair. "Sure, Peña. Keep the cool guy act; ladies love that. Until you get old.” He murmurs in the last part before standing.

“Where are you going?” Javier asks, mouth parting for his cigarette.

“Stretch my legs,” he says over his shoulder, but before he walks too far, he pivots. “Peña, if she ever gives you another chance, don’t be a dick and stand her up again.” With that, Murphy walks in the direction of your office.

—

A burst of laughter erupts from your painted lips, the sound more carefree than you’ve felt in days.

The bitter shot of tequila still dances on your lips as you swipe your tongue. A warmth blooms in your stomach, cutting through the haze of the workweek that refuses to entirely leave you.

The reddish hues of the neon lights in the bar flicker softly, casting a pinkish shadow on your skin. Isabel had invited you—nicely, of course—and while you had no intention of staying, the distraction was welcome.

You take a quick scan of the room, half focused on the chatter around you and half on not giggling to yourself in your drunk haze. The energy of the place buzzes in your veins, making you feel more alive than you have in a while. The tension in your neck seemed to melt and fade away with each drink.

But for you, it was just temporary. The tension was waiting for you on the other side, but you couldn’t think about that. Not about the promotion you were so close to you could almost taste it. No, tonight was sweet, like the agave in your drink, making your lips sticky.

“Another round?” Isabel asks, raising an eyebrow as she leans over the bar. You nod absently, your eyes drifting towards the back of the bar. Where it was less lit, and two men played darts. Squinting, you catch a glimpse of the familiar shapes of the two agents. And you knew that ass anywhere, a lean waist as your eyes travel up, and the black light-weight button-up straining over his shoulders.

“There you go,” the bartender places your drinks on the bar top, snapping your gaze from Javier’s backside.

With the straw between your teeth, you take a long sip, the alcohol wavering any sense of well…sense you have. The sense that tells you to walk away from his gravitational pull, to not meet his stare, and to not beg him to fuck you again. No, that would never happen again. You would not be another notch in his tight little belt.

But, the alcohol dulls that little voice in your mind, and you happen to wander over to that side of the bar. Drink still in hand, Isabel is hot on your heels.

“Ladies,” Murphy says courteously, avoiding the flash of cleavage Isabel flaunts. You couldn’t blame her; she was blessed in all aspects.

“What’s the score?” you ask, offering a smile to Murphy.

“Moppin’ the floor,” Javier replies for Steve, pulling his darts from the board with a smirk. The warm, deep hues of his brown eyes drifted along your body, like he was imagining you, how you were once naked against him. Or maybe that was just your drunk mind wandering.

“¿Ustedes quieren intentar? Mi amor, don’t be shy, shoot for me.” Javier leans down to utter softly in your ear over the music. His eyes flit to Isabel, but they quickly return to you. You watch him, waiting for him to drink her in, to rake down her body. To make her his next target if she hadn’t already been consumed by him. But he doesn’t.

You sink your teeth into your lip, brushing his warm, outstretched palm for the darts. Twisting the metal in your pinched fingertips, you squint one eye. You feel his presence behind you, just there, like one step back, and your ass would grind against him. But with three sets of eyes on you, you fend off the temptation to indulge in the thought.

The first two darts sail wide, both thudding harmlessly into the wall beyond the dartboard. The men laugh, of course—the rumble from Javier just behind you.

Javier’s voice rings out from behind you, low and gravelly, “Come on, you’re killing me, Cariño.”

You take the third dart, your focus sharpening for a split second. Then, just as you draw your arm back, you feel it—the faintest touch, just below your ribs. Javier's fingers skim over the fabric of your blouse, a deliberate graze that almost feels like it’s meant to get your attention, to rattle you. Or maybe to remind you. Shaking your head, you close one eye; you could play his game just as effortlessly.

Isabel’s voice cuts through your thoughts, her excitement echoing in your ear, “You got this!”

For a moment, time falters. The dart trembles in your swaying hand. You could make it. You could aim and hit the bullseye, make Javier grin that damn smug grin. But instead, you let your hand drop, just for a split second, and the dart veers wide.

“Oops,” you say sweetly, dropping your hand. You pout innocently when you turn to face the two men, shrugging. “I guess Murphy wins,” you add, cocking your head to the side.

“What is that, two times in a row now?” Murphy chuckles with a knowing smile, smacking Javier’s slumped arm.

“Hope you didn’t have money on that,” You look up at him, savoring the look of loss on his face. It made you feel so good, so powerful. That wretched pout and how he tries to smother it with his whiskey. He deserved the weight he had on his chest, and you were satisfied that it was you who caused it. God, you were sadistic.

“You just made me a hundred bucks richer,” Murphy smiles, bumping your shoulder with his.

You smirk, hooded eyes watching Javier wedge the missed darts from the wall. You liked this game, not the darts, but the way you made his life harder without even realizing it. You could do it in your sleep, and that sated something deep within your chest. Something that dripped and sank, hot in the pit of your core, and if you weren’t careful, it would trickle down your bare thighs.

You finish your drink and, without another thought, walk back to the bar with Isabel.

You weren’t completely unaware, contrary to what Javier had so confidently assumed that day at the market. No, you noticed things now. You paid more attention to details—like the polished black Chevy Camaro parked across the street from your apartment, which had been there for the last few days, its presence nearly invisible but too consistent to ignore. You noticed the second time you’d seen it when you were drawing your curtains closed.

It didn’t scream for attention—not the way some flashy, out-of-place car might—but it was the subtle way it would return that caught your eye. At first, you thought it was just another coincidence. People parked on this street all the time. But then there was the haze of smoke drifting out the window—a thin veil of it that curled into the cool night air.

Someone had been sitting there. Watching.

The car hadn’t been there when you left for your morning run. Or when you came back from the store, arms full of groceries, eyes scanning the street out of habit. By midday, the suspicion had eased, slipping into the background like white noise. You went about your routine and let yourself believe it was nothing.

But now—

Now, as the sun dipped below the skyline, stretching long shadows across the pavement, it was back. Same spot. The same low hum of an idling engine before ultimately being shut off.

As the sky deepens into a navy dusk, you lean closer to the mirror, smoothing the last touch of lipstick into place. A date. Your first since moving to Colombia. It wasn’t a big deal—not really—but still, there was something almost unfamiliar about the act of getting ready, about the anticipation curling in your stomach.

You’d met him at the bar. He had been polite and charming in a way that felt easy, with no ulterior motives lurking beneath his words. When he’d asked for your number, you gave it to him without thinking much about it. And when he called—actually called, not just some half-hearted approach at the copier—he wanted to take you somewhere nice. Dinner, conversation, drinks, simple enough.

You reach for your earrings, slipping the small gold hoops into place before running your fingers through your hair. Even though he had called to tell you he would pick you up at your apartment, you still worried. The last time you put this much thought into getting ready, you had been stood up. And you know, that leaves a lingering trace.

At the base of your stairs, you pause, adjusting the delicate strap of your heel. The street is quiet, void of passing cars like it usually is. But then—movement. A flicker of amber in the dark.

Your pulse kicks up, a slow, creeping awareness settling along your spine. The black car was back, and someone was currently watching. You squint, attempting to focus on the silhouette of what you assume is a man.

You swallow, trying to make out more— a relaxed slouch, one hand out as he smokes. Familiarity in the way he flicks the ash from his cigarette.

Recognition slams into you. Of fucking course.

A bitter laugh slips from your lips, the kind you can't hold back, and you tilt your head toward the sky, desperately searching for some shred of patience. But there’s nothing there. Only the sharp, relentless sting of annoyance.

The unease from earlier drains from your body, replaced by a heat that crawls up your neck and settles in your chest. The audacity. The sheer nerve of Javier, showing up at your home—of all places. But what else did you expect?

You clench your jaw, hands fisting at your sides, and with a steady, deliberate pace, you make your way across the street. Your heels clack sharply against the pavement with each step, the sound like a countdown echoing in your head. Your pulse quickens and you feel the rush of heat flooding your ears, the anger building with every stride.

Leaning down, you slam your hand against the car door. Javier doesn’t flinch; he just twists the cigarette that perches between his fingers, letting it fall to the street.

“First you stalk me, now you litter on my street?” you fume, searching for any cars passing by for your date. Who was going to be here any minute? You didn’t want him to catch you chewing Javier out, ripping him a new one right here in the street. “What are you doing here?” it comes from your chest.

Lazily rolling his head to the side, he looks anything but guilty. In fact, he seems pleased, and he is smug as he stretches a bit in his seat. His eyes trail along your body, getting his fill of whatever gratified him. It’s too dark to read his eyes, but you watch as they linger a bit too long on your painted lips.

“Just out for a drive,” he replies, shoulders lifting slightly.

“A drive? Your car isn’t even on.” You look inside his car, so close you can smell the leather of the seats. How it smells like him, and it’s clean, just as you expected.

“Well, you know me... always looking for an excuse to hang around.” He grins, his gaze flickering around your street like he owns the whole damn block. His hand casually drapes over the steering wheel.

“You cannot hang around here, Peña.” You lean in a little closer to the car window, and while you’re trying to focus on his words, you can’t ignore how your dress sits just a little too provocatively for comfort. The realization makes your heart skip a beat, but you shove the thought aside.

“Why? Got plans? And I thought we were done with the whole formal thing.” He frowns, tilting his head, an almost innocent look creeping over his face—but you know better. His voice is laced with something darker, some challenge hidden beneath the surface.

“This isn’t about me right now; why are you out here?” You glance around, heart racing as you hope your date won’t appear like some magic trick just when you need him least. Javier notices your distraction, his lips curling ever so slightly.

"Why, you worried I’ll ruin your date?" His smirk grows, eyes glinting with that trademark cocky charm. "Maybe I just like the view... you sure you want me to leave?"

You ignore him, mouth agape, with all the things, all the anger you could unleash.

“You’re stalking me; yes, I want you to leave.”

He raises an eyebrow, giving you a look. “Not stalking. I like to think of it as... preemptive protection. You never know who might be watching, right?”

“Yes, you’re the only one watching. Have you been watching me through my window?” A shiver runs through you, the thought of him watching you through your sheer curtains making you burn. With anger, with annoyance, with need. For what? You didn’t want to find out, especially right before your date.

The visible blush on your skin intrigues Javier, making him shift in his seat, leaning forward to get closer. “Why? You like that?” He licks his lips, nose nearly brushing yours.

Seeing the headlights of a car rolling up in your peripheral, you shoot up.

“No, and you better be gone by the time I get back. I mean it, Javier.” You say sternly, fixing your purse on your shoulder. Something flickers across his face, frustration and annoyance as he watches you walk away. Your hips sway, your dress hugging your curves almost too perfectly.

Javier can feel the sharp blade of agony twist inside him as he watches you smile at your date—who doesn’t even bother to get out and open your door for you. He shakes his head, hoping you don’t fool yourself into thinking that man could actually satisfy you. Not like he could. The thought curls around in his mind like the smoke of his millionth cigarette tonight.

As he sits in your wake, he ponders the thought of leaving, weighing it like a dangerous game. Yet, he’s drawn to stay. The vexation in your voice veils a deeper meaning. You wanted him to stay.

So, he’s drawn to stay when every instinct in him tells him to go—to pull away. To find some whore to fuck in the darkness of the night. And it’s not like he didn’t try. Javier had tried to hold on to whatever piece of pride he had left—like taking a random woman home—yet all he could do was imagine your body as she took him in her mouth, right there in his car. It was embarrassing how quick he came with your pretty face flickering behind his eyes.

This one-sided push and pull was going to be the death of Javier Peña, no matter how much he denied it. And yet, here he was—again—in front of your apartment. Feigning indifference, as if he were simply staking out, making sure no one came to your door.

Lighting another cigarette, Javier stayed where he was, ignoring every sign that told him to leave.

—

You force a sweet smile as your date rambles on, his voice a dull hum in the background.

“You know,” he starts, clearly pleased with himself, “the stock market’s been all over the place lately. I’ve been telling my clients to diversify, but you really gotta be patient with the long-term investments. They say the next big boom is in tech, but you never know. You just gotta trust the process, you know?” He pauses, clearly expecting a response. You just nod.

He talks about his job—endlessly—utterly oblivious to the piece of cilantro wedged between his teeth. You don’t have the heart to tell him, so instead, you focus on his eyes, pretending to listen intently. Every time you open your mouth to speak, he dives back into the same tired stories, and you fall silent again, interjecting only when absolutely necessary, just enough to keep the illusion intact.

“Honestly, I think women just don’t understand how hard it is to keep up with the market. Like, it’s all about numbers, right?” Oh, the cilantro has moved to his front tooth. “I’ve always heard that a woman’s intuition doesn’t really work when it comes to finances. It's more of a man’s game.” You sigh, finishing your wine.

Hours later, after an entire night of that, he drops you off in front of your apartment, obviously wanting to be invited in. You accept the kiss to your cheek with a smile that’s more out of habit than anything else. He promises to call—though, honestly, you’re already hoping he doesn’t.

It’s no surprise to see Javier’s car still parked exactly where you last saw it. In fact, after tonight, you almost feel relief. A part of you had hoped your date would go well, that maybe you could finally sleep with someone else. Someone else, so the last person you fucked wouldn’t be Javier. So you could erase the taste of him lingering in your mouth. But another part of you wanted to see Javier’s car, wanted the comfort of knowing that—despite everything—he was still there. That he had stubbornly ignored your request.

And that part was right.

Your date speeds off before you even reach the door, another reason you won’t be picking up his calls. A few glasses of wine down, and just when you thought you were going to sleep with him—before the cilantro—now you’re left with nothing but a wasted buzz.

But Javier? You’re betting he’s still watching. Maybe, just maybe, a fucked-up part of you wanted the date to go sour just so you could turn right around and get a taste of what was familiar. The thought makes you bristle—yet it’s undeniably there, lodged somewhere between the flicker of your annoyance and the heat in your chest.

In fact, you spent the entire date prying Javier from your mind, like some kind of compulsive itch you couldn’t scratch. The more you tried, the more you realized no one else would ever measure up. Not to the way he made you feel, not to the way his presence dug under your skin, pulling you closer even when you were desperate to keep your distance.

It was his touch, his taste, the way he made you want to lose control.

You take your time, letting your heels click against the pavement as you walk toward your door, making sure to swing your hips with each step. You pull your hair to one side, exposing the soft curve of your neck, and just as you do, your gaze flicks down toward Javier's car. You don’t need to look up to know that his eyes are on you, and the thought of him there—waiting, watching—has your pulse quickening.

You want him to see this. To feel it, to want you like you did in your wine-drunk state. You let your fingers brush against the door handle, pausing just long enough to make sure your movements are deliberate, drawing his attention. You’re baiting him now.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you. Your apartment is quiet, and the lamps offer a soft glow to the room. It wasn’t anything crazy, but you took pride in how everything tied together. Splashes of warm colors and soft fabrics. Tossing your purse onto the couch, you move toward the kitchen, your thoughts racing.

The sharp, electrifying knot in your chest vibrates as the anticipation lingers. You didn’t know if Javier would bite, but you want him to. You move to the kitchen, uncorking a red wine and pouring a generous glass. You swirl the liquid as you contemplate how long you’ll wait.

As you take a slow sip, you hear it—soft, barely audible at first. A rap against your door, tentative, almost as if he’s unsure whether to interrupt the stillness of your home.

Your heart stutters, a brief flutter of uncertainty creeping in. You hesitate, the glass halfway to your lips, wondering if you imagined it. But then it comes again—quicker this time, more insistent. Your fingers tighten around the stem of the glass, and without another thought, you set it down.

Still in your dress and heels, you swing the door open—Javier leans against the doorframe, chest rising and falling as he’d just sprinted up the stairs like he’d spent too long hesitating before finally giving in. His black cotton shirt clings to him, shifting with every thundering breath, and the way it stretches across his broad frame only adds to the raw, restless energy rolling off him.

He looks pained. Frustrated. But undeniably himself.

His hair is a tangled mess, like he’s been raking his fingers through it in thought, and his brows are pulled tight, casting a shadow over his dark eyes. There’s something in them—something unreadable, something dangerous—but all you can focus on is how damn good he looks standing there, undone in a way you’ve never seen before.

The familiar scent of him—smoke, musk, something distinctly Javier—wraps around you before he even speaks. And just like that, the space between you feels charged, like an invisible thread has tightened, pulling you toward the unknown.

“Bad date?” is all he says as he saunters in without a verbal invitation. What was the point? Your eyes had done all the talking.

You wanted to agree—to curse the date for even happening, to erase the memory of it, to crawl back to Javier and let him make it better. The words press against your tongue, but you bite them back. Instead, you roll your eyes, shut the door, and twist the lock with a deliberate click.

Behind you, he doesn’t move. Not right away. He lingers in the quiet, soaking in the air between you, before finally stepping further inside. The leather couch groans as he sinks into it, his legs spreading like he owns the place, like he belongs here.

Your fingers twitch at your side.

“Something to drink?” you ask, already walking to the kitchen and reaching into the fridge before he can answer. The cold air rushes over your skin, but it does nothing to cool the heat licking at your neck.

With the glass of wine in your hand, you watch him over the rim, your fingers tracing the edge absently. His beer sits untouched in front of him, but it’s the way he watches you—eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes—that makes the space between you feel smaller. The pulse between your thighs grows stronger, sharper, and undeniable, radiating outward with each sip, each glance. Your skin feels too tight, too aware of the heat rising in your chest.

"So?" he asks, his voice low, almost casual, but there's an edge to it, something you can’t quite place.

"So?" you mimic, a smirk tugging at your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Instead, your gaze locks with Javier's, daring him to say more, to do something, to break the silence that thickens the air around you both.

“So, how’d that amazing date go?” He tilts his head slightly, his smirk deepening. His eyes run over you with a knowing glint, like he’s already figured it all out. “You wouldn’t be back so soon if it went well, right, Cariño?”

“It was…interesting.” You chew your cheek, eyes flickering to the space between you and him as if searching for something to say. A retort, a jab, anything to cut through the silence and throw him off balance. But the words feel like they're just out of reach, slipping between your fingers like smoke.

As you set the glass down on the coffee table, a quiet resignation settles over you. The game you’ve been playing isn’t as easy as you thought.

Without thinking, without even trying to explain it to yourself, you shift, crawling across the couch with slow, deliberate movements. The moment you settle on Javier's lap, your ass resting against his thighs, the world narrows to just the two of you. His body relaxes beneath you, rough hands crawling up your smooth thighs.

“Yeah?” Javier asks, voice smug with a rasp like you’d proven him right. And that makes your open thighs quiver with anticipation. That he is here, nestled between them, rough denim grazing your clothed pussy. The fabric of your panties so thin he could practically feel how slick you were, the hotness seeping through his jeans.

You nod, lashes lowering as you glance down at him. Your voice is quieter now, barely above a murmur. “You already knew, so why ask?”

Javier exhales through his nose, something unreadable flickering in those dark eyes. “Just wanted to hear it out loud, cariño.” His voice is rough, gravel scraping against silk, each word drawn out like he’s savoring them.

“And? Are you satisfied with my answer?” you press, searching his handsome face. The wine in your blood made him look more flushed, cheeks in high color, like overripe plums.

"Not sure yet," His hands slide upward, heat bleeding through the fabric as he cups your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make you notice. The silk of your bunched-up dress is soft under his fingers.

"Might need to hear it again. Tell me what he did wrong." Then—blunt fingernails dig in, sharp enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you wonder if he’s holding you there or keeping himself from pulling you closer.

So you do it for him, grinding forward to press your pussy into his growing erection. You look at him innocently, your hands finding the searing skin of his neck, fingers splaying into his hair.

“You want to know?” You ask, and he tilts his head to one side, fingers guiding you across his erection again. The seam of his jeans drags against your clit, the rough pleasure parting your lips.

“Tell me, and I’ll make it better, mi amor.” With one hand, he brushes the hair from your shoulder, dark eyes under darker brows, watching you closely.

It’s unsettling the way you feel so exposed under his gaze as it wraps around you as if he’s savoring every slight twitch, every wet gasp from your lips. Like he’s memorizing, retaining you in his mind, and he takes his time. You can’t shake the feeling that he knows you in a way you’ve never been known, that every shift in your posture is being felt by him before it even happens.

"Made me feel stupid. Talked about stuff like I couldn’t keep up," you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as Javier's touch—so constant, so sure—guides you and rocks you against his cock. “Ordered for me without asking, a fuckin’ salad.” A broken laugh escapes you, the sound sharp and brittle, only for it to be quickly swallowed as Javier leans in. His breath brushes against your skin, hot and sudden, before his lips press against your throat.

The kiss sends a tremor through you.

"Pobre cabrón, pensó que te conocía." His lips brush your pulse, his words almost a whisper against your skin. “No sabe que te gusta esto, ¿verdad?" He doesn't know you like this, does he?

With a sharp suck, he marks your neck, coaxing an answer from you. “Didn’t listen to me all night, then asked to come inside.” You almost don’t tell him, but the way he exhales, a soft huff of disbelief, is enough to satisfy you—like he can't believe the nerve.

His hands pull you upward with a force that leaves your breath catching in your throat. The heat of his palms sears through the thin fabric of your dress, sending a ripple of electricity through your skin. There’s no hesitation in his touch—just pure, controlled intention. In one motion, he flips you over, sending you sprawling onto the couch beneath him. The cool leather of the cushions meets your back as you replace his seat on the sofa. Javier drops to his knees on the floor between your legs, his eyes flicking to the damp lace. The material sticks to your pussy, clinging to your lips, giving him the perfect view. His hands are still on you, fingers pressing into the softness of your thighs.

“Would you have let him in? Let him fuck you?” he asks, eyes darting up the valley of your body to your face. Your dress bunches at your waist, your white lace panties exposed to the cool air.

“Fuck no,” you reply quickly and observe as he weighs your answer. He seems content because he tilts his head and kisses the tender skin of your inner thighs.

"Good," he mumbles against your flesh, his teeth dragging just enough to make you shiver. The black silk is weightless, almost liquid against your skin, but still, it does nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of your nipples.

“Spread your legs—wider,” He urges, and you comply, spreading yourself further. You shudder when you feel his rough fingers peel your underwear to the side, his arched nose nudging against your lips, inhaling deeply.

“So good—” Javier interrupts himself by lapping his tongue against your center, dragging the slick up to your clit. He swipes the tip of his tongue, hand splaying across your stomach. “Always thinking ‘bout your pussy,” he tilts his head up, lips glistening with your slick. You gasp, the thrill of being on display to him so fully igniting something deep within you.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, each pulse a steady drumbeat of something dark and electric. He kneels before you, a man who has never known devotion yet looks as if he's offering a prayer. But there is no holiness in the way he stares up at you—only something raw, something that burns your body.

“Want you to come before I fuck you, can you do that for me?” Javier says gruffly. You feel his fingers glide through your folds, spreading you before sinking into his knuckle. You watch as his eyes droop shut, the vulgar sounds of him eating your pussy filling the living room.

“I-I don’t know if I can,” Your breath hitches as he devours you, each flick of his tongue sending shockwaves through your body. You liked being in control but didn’t like being told what to do. But with him on his knees, ravaging you like his last meal, you lose that fight in you.

“You can hermosa,” Your soft sighs and breathless gasps only encourage him further. His tongue rolls over your sensitive clit, dragging it into his mouth as he sucks softly.

A low, primal groan rumbles from Javier’s chest as you grip his fingers, feeling the rhythm of his fingers pushing deeper. The way he loses himself in you, every inch of him savoring the sensation, sends a rush of heat through your body. No man has ever made you feel this alive, this good—and the tight, unbearable tension pooling in your pelvis only builds.

Your heart pounds wildly; its rhythm is the only thing you can grasp as the world blurs around you. Each breath is a struggle, drawn deep into your lungs, as pleasure floods you like sunlight. You arch, drawn toward Javier as if the very act of surrender is as natural as breath. Your back lifts from the couch, delicate and almost weightless, as though you're being drawn into something timeless, something beyond yourself.

"Fuck, I’m gonna—” The words spill from your lips, breaking into a whimper as pleasure coils tight, snapping. Stars flicker behind your eyes, bursting like firecrackers with every curl of his fingers inside you.

Javier’s mouth remains relentless, lips and tongue a force that pulls you deeper. The sounds are wet, guttural—impossibly obscene, filling the air with a heat that mirrors the feeling inside you.

Your hands fist in his dark hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but it only makes him groan against you—like he wants you to use him, to come apart beneath his mouth.

Your thighs attempt to snap shut, trembling from the aftershocks, but Javier’s grip is iron. He presses them back down, keeping you spread for him. Your walls flutter around his thick fingers, milking them as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe, drinking you in.

“Javier,” you whine, pure, intoxicating sultry laced in your tone. You wanted him, needed him inside you. It felt like a line was drawn, and you felt like you were going to die if you didn’t get him. He comes up for air, lips swollen as he runs his tongue along them. His eyes glisten, making them seem lighter, but they are hooded nonetheless as he slips his fingers out.

His fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, and he drags them down your legs, flinging them someplace.

Javier makes you feel like a goddess—like something worshipped, something craved. And maybe that’s why you could never get enough of him. Why he lingered in your dreams, why a small, wicked part of you hoped your date would crumble into disappointment—so you could have this instead.

Him. Here.

Between your thighs, his body pressed against yours, his breath warm, ragged with need. His cock straining painfully against his jeans as his fingers work at his belt, desperate, shaking with restraint. There’s no time to move, no time to think—just urgency, the kind that consumes, that steals breath and reason. The sharp clink of his belt echoes in the quiet, a sound so simple yet electric.

Then, with a groan, he pushes off his knees, rising from the floor, his hands never leaving you. He gathers you effortlessly, pulling you with him, pressing you down onto his lap as he falls onto the couch.

“Condom?” His voice is low, hushed with an almost palpable urgency, eyes dashing up to meet yours as though he’s already losing patience. Before you can answer, he’s closing the space between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that feels like he’s trying to steal the very breath from your lungs.

His lips are heated, a sharp contrast to the cool air between you, and you taste it—the tang of your own arousal mingling with his tongue, so, so sweet.

“I’m on birth control,” you murmur, breathless, your words swallowed by the hunger of another kiss. It’s all you offer, a quiet surrender, hoping it’s enough to make him crave you even more.

The thought of him inside you—all of him—suddenly consumes you. You don’t care about anything else, not the risks or the consequences. You only know the pulse between your legs and the intense craving. You don’t understand what’s happening or why you need him this way, but it feels like an urgent need to let go.

Javier pulls away just enough to give you space, but the trace of concern in his eyes doesn’t escape you. It’s a brief moment, a fleeting hesitation. Still, you see it—his brow furrows, lips tight with something softer than his usual cocky grin.

“You sure?” he asks, his voice rough with uncertainty. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was playing the part of a gentleman—though you know damn well he’s anything but.

“Yes,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out before you can stop them, “I’m clean, it’s okay if you don’t—”

You’re cut off before the last syllable can escape, his mouth crashing into yours with a force that leaves no room for hesitation. His kiss is firm, demanding, swallowing your words.

“Say the word, cariño. You lead, I follow.” Javier says into your mouth.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he shifts beneath you, movements hurried. He pulls his jeans down just enough for his cock to spring free, the heated skin of it brushing against his stomach with a slap between you.

Javier can feel the tremble of his hands—faint but undeniable. At first, he wonders if it’s you or him. He feels something stirring in him, something foreign. It’s not fear, but something—something urgent, primal. Desperation, temptation, a potent mix of longing and restraint. It tugs at him, a force he hasn’t felt before.

He’s never been this reckless. Never this in the moment where he couldn’t think straight. Enough to where he would slip into your warm pussy and take you like that. Javier was always careful, contrary to popular belief. Wrapped it up tight, tested, and tested again. Always keeping a record of women as if they were transactions, just to be safe. He couldn’t remember all of them, but one thing was sure, he never fucked without a condom.

But you.

You, above him, looking down at him with those daring eyes. Grabbing the hem of your dress and pulling it over your head. His eyes drink you in, the curve of your supple breasts and the arch in your spine. Telling him to take you raw, with nothing left to hold his sanity in check.

It’s a gift you have given him. A dangerous, treacherous gift. He feels it settle deep in his sternum, making his heart race and his pulse throb with a hunger he’s not sure how to satisfy. He’s never wanted anyone like this—needed them, with a rawness that cuts deep.

You feel the fat head of his cock press against your soaked lips, the tight stretch creating a gasp from your chest. His fingers dig into your fleshy hips, guiding you but letting you do as you please.

“Such a tight pussy,” Javier says with a huff and rests back on the couch, your hands resting on his shoulders as you sink further down onto his length. His gaze drifts lower, eyes heavy with desire, flicking between your faces and the space between you. The subtle shift of your body as you sink deeper until you're flush against him, fully seated.

Javier couldn’t describe the feeling of you, only that he knew it like a second home now. Your walls engulf him, drenching the soft curls at the base of his cock. His brows pinch together as you rock, lifting yourself and sinking back down. You were warmer inside than he remembered, softer.

“Fuck... feels so damn good, Hermosa. Never... never felt it like this before.” Javier’s head falls back against the couch, his breath ragged, and his words slip out like a confession. His chest rises with every inhale, muscles taut beneath his black shirt that has been pulled to expose his stomach.

“Feels so full, Javi,” You exhale slowly, letting his name slip from your lips—his nickname—like a spark that lights the hunger in his eyes.

Javier’s mouth parts, jaw slack, as you fuck yourself. Using him for your own pleasure.

“So goddamn sexy, Hermosa.” He leans forward, capturing your perky tit into his mouth, sucking as you bounce. He could feel the friction of your walls on his sensitive cock that was no doubt already weeping with precum. His teeth sink down on your nipple, tugging on the nub before pulling away.

He tried to think of anything—anything—to keep himself from coming too soon. But the way you’re wrapped around him, so tight, it almost feels like a vice—swallowing him whole. His breath hitches, and he fights it, fighting the urge to lose control as the pressure builds, unbearable, delicious. Every inch of you clenching around him is a sweet, aching burn he’s not sure he can withstand.

“Can you hear yourself, cariño? How wet you are?” You whine when you feel the pad of his thumb swiping small circles, coaxing you further into the pressure that was building. “Wish you could see this, it's fucking beautiful.” You wish you could, how his perfect cock was splitting you in two.

“I’m so close, Javi,” you whisper, your voice low, strained.

“Already?” He tilts his head, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, his breath shallow. “I make you come this fast? Don’t think he could. I know he couldn’t.”

You lean in, your lips brushing his, tasting the sharp, familiar salt of his mouth. His mustache scratches your tongue, rough against the softness of your mouth—intimate, gritty, a reminder of how close you are, how much you’ve already given in.

“So beautiful on me, cariño,” The hand clamped tight on your hip refuses to loosen, a bruising grip that keeps you exactly where he wants you. The other weaves into your hair, fingers curling at your scalp as he tilts your head up—commanding, insistent. “Wanna see your face when you come. Mírame.” —Look at me. His voice is rough and thick with something that makes your stomach coil tight.

Your gaze locks onto his—warm honey drowning in dark, decadent chocolate. Intense. Unrelenting. Beautiful in a way that almost hurts. His fingers flex in your hair, holding you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him, every damn second of this.

You take what you want, grinding down until your thighs ache, until the burn spreads through your limbs like fire licking at dry earth. There’s something almost cruel in it—the way you use him, the way you make him suffer beneath you. It’s punishment wrapped in pleasure, a slow torment you draw out just to watch him come undone. His release lingers just out of reach, and you like it that way. You want him teetering on the edge, aching, needing—wanting.

Your mouth falls open, a sharp inhale catching in your throat as the pleasure builds, curling around your spine, pooling low in your belly. It’s too much, too good, the air between you feverish. Damp with breath and heat, and when your eyes meet Javier's, something shifts. There—in the way his fingers tighten at your hips, the way his gaze clings to yours, yearning. Something is there, though it must be the light. Your movements slow, forcing you to feel the way his body trembles beneath you. Attachment. That’s what it looks like.

But before you can make sense of it, before you can decide what it means, it vanishes. Snuffed out the second Javi's lips collide with yours, swallowing your breath, his moan vibrating through the heat of your mouth. Like he’d seen you see him for who he was, and that was someone vulnerable.

Your brows pinch together, a sharp inhale swallowed by his lips as he bites into yours, drawing out something wrecked, something involuntary. The orgasm takes you by surprise—sweeps through you like a fever, rippling from the inside out as your walls clench tight around his thick, uncut cock. It knocks the rhythm from your body and leaves you shuddering, unraveling in waves that roll through you, consuming you.

“Goddamn,” Javier breathes against your mouth, the heat of it searing, feeling the way you choke his length. He grits his teeth, hips jerking up, fucking you through it, refusing to let you drift from him even for a second. His fingers—blunt, desperate—dig into the flesh of your ass, dragging you down onto him like he’s determined to make sure you feel every pulse of him buried inside.

Breathless, panting against your ear, Javier’s voice is wrecked when he finally speaks. “Where do you want me to—” His words catch, thick with desperation, like he’s teetering on the edge of something that could ruin him.

“Inside,” you moan—cry—whimper—you’re not sure which, only that you need it, need him. Your voice is hoarse, drenched in the remnants of your pleasure, your walls still fluttering around him, pulling him deeper, as if your body already knows the answer he was too afraid to assume.

Javier had never come inside a woman before—but fuck, he didn’t care if you lied about the birth control. Didn’t care if this was reckless, if it was madness. All he knew was that you were something he wanted—not just in the chase, not just in conquest.

You burned with something untamed, a wildfire he had no intention of snuffing out. No, he wanted to feed it, to bend it to him, to shape it around his hands. He wanted to control you, break you open in ways only he could. And in this feverish, lust-drunk moment, he didn’t care if that was dangerous territory. If that made him want something…domestic. He was desperate—so fucking desperate.

Javier chokes on his breath, his hands gripping your hips with enough force to carve. The scrape of his nails against your skin sends a sharp thrill through you, and for a moment, the pain feels like possession. Another mark from him, another claim—like a fucking trophy in this twisted game you both play.

“Fuck… fuck...” His grumbled curses fall from his lips, his breath ragged, and his head drops forward, his sweat-slicked forehead pressing against your breasts like a desperate weight.

Inside you, he pulses so deep it’s almost painful. He gives you all he has, each desperate thrust pulling something from you. And for some reason, it’s that very surrender that makes it feel almost pathetic—like he’s losing himself in this more than you have.

"Can you feel it? Can you feel me come inside you?" His voice is murmured, breath brushing over the curve of your breast as his mouth devours your tender nipple. His lips are hot, sucking in soft laps, and there's no shame in his words. No restraint. He’s drunk on you, on the feel of you, on the way your body swallows him whole.

He doesn't care that it makes him sound weak, not with the way he can already feel his come seeping out of you, coating the base of him. You can feel it too, the wetness, the slickness, the proof of him spilling into you.

“Yes, I can,” you whisper back, your voice rasping. Javi's forehead lifts from your skin, his gaze tilting heavenward as his chest heaves. His nostrils flare, his eyes fluttering shut as if the act of breathing is too much. You lean in, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss, his mouth the delicate hue of ripe peaches.

The corners of his mouth twitch into a half-smile, something so boyish, so unlike the man you’ve come to know. A flicker of something you can’t quite place stirs in your chest—a feeling like a weight plummeting through your ribs. No, you remind yourself, eyes narrowing. You were never supposed to want him to feel anything more than the rush of adrenaline and raw chemistry that burned between you both. But now? The burn was turning cold, or maybe it was a flame that had turned blue.

You must be out of your damn mind thinking you could tame someone like him. Who the hell do you think you are? That’s precisely what you’ve been avoiding all along—attachment. The kind of thing that turns into a chain weighs you down and leaves you tethered to a man who never meant to stay.

You swipe your fingers through his damp hair, the sweat slicking against your skin. The words slip out before you can stop them, their clumsiness cutting through the tension in the air.

“We have to fuck other people, Javier.”

A joke, a lie, or maybe a desperate plea to sever the invisible thread already wrapping too tight around your chest. You know it’s reckless, a stupid overstep to assume—but if you’re feeling like this already, you can’t keep going. No. Not like this. Not with him.

Javier’s hands settle at your hips, gripping tight, pulling you in, his soft cock still buried inside you.

“Why would I want to share you?” His voice is low, almost a growl, as he murmurs. The question hangs in the air, but the soft tension in his words makes it impossible to tell if he’s teasing or serious.

You can feel the slickness between you, dripping down onto his thighs.

“Funny,” you say, your breath hitching as you squirm against him, trying to free yourself though his strength is overwhelming. Your thighs are slick now, his skin hot beneath you. “You’re gonna get bored of this,” you say, but even you can hear the playful doubt in your voice, your mouth tasting like lies.

He chuckles softly, a dark sound that vibrates through you. “I’m literally still inside you, Cariño,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the possessiveness in his tone. The words sink into you, making your pulse race even faster.

You can’t stop the blush that blooms across your skin, a rush of heat that creeps up your neck and paints your face. “Well…” you breathe, words faltering.

Javier’s gaze lingers, feeling more intimate than the sex, like his eyes are peeling away the layers you’ve carefully constructed, exposing the parts of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. He sees you, which is unfortunate for you, and the sharpness of his attention makes your pulse stutter. You’ve always been good at hiding your truths, but with him, you’re not sure you can.

“Is this fun for you?” His voice is rough around the edges as if he's searching for something from you. His brown eyes stay fixed with yours, but there’s a flicker of something beneath the surface. Hesitation? Fear? Or maybe it's just the steady flow of the after-sex—the chemical rush that always makes you say things.

You pull back slightly, shifting, and his soft cock slips out of you, resting on his stomach. But you don’t move from his lap. Not yet.

He watches you tentatively, the faintest curve of his lips pulling up at the corners. “Then that’s all that matters to me.” The words come so quickly, but they hit you like a sharp breath. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But something about this—about the way he says it so casually—feels like a game he plays with everyone else. How many times has he used that line before? You cock your head slightly, torn between wanting to trust him and feeling that bitter, familiar pull of doubt.

“Right,” you say skeptically.

You watch him closely, waiting, and the seconds stretch between you. And then, like he's reading your thoughts, he says, "I won’t get bored." His voice is so casual, but there's an edge to it now, an implication behind the words you can’t ignore. What was he getting at?

“I was joking, Javier,” you play it off, though his words bounce around in your head. He didn’t mean it, did he?

"I know." He huffs, almost annoyed by your amusement. "You can relax, though, if you're worried about me and other women, don't. Never been unprotected…" Javier didn’t know why he kept speaking; he only knew that every word felt wrong.

“I think you made that pretty clear,” you reply.

"Yeah, well, I don’t usually have to explain myself." His voice is rough, a little more tense now. There's a pause, clearly frustrated with his own words.

Javier knew he couldn’t be with another woman if he tried, and God knows he’s tried. He despises that he sounds like a broken record, the same song playing nonstop. Javier doesn't even understand it himself—this thing he’s offering you, this tangled, messy piece of him.

Your breath hitches as his gaze sharpens, and it feels like he's weighing you, searching for something beneath your hard exterior. And then, his voice is softer—hesitant, vulnerable, as if he's scrambling to offer more, to entice you.

“But if you wanted to do this more, we could be... singular… together?” He says it with dark brows furrowed, but his eyes soften, his tone catching somewhere between playful and... desperate?

“Singular? Like just us?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow and leaning back slightly. He looks confused, more than you, and you’re not sure what to think of it.

“I could, just to be safe, if that’s something?” You feel a tremor pass through him, the subtle twitch of his fingers on your bare thighs. He was lying through his teeth, and he knew it; there were no other women.

"Oh?" you say, lips curling into a teasing smirk despite the pit in your stomach.

But then, you hear yourself challenging him: “And what about me? What if I wanted to sleep with other men?” You’re testing him, pushing him to see how far he’ll bend before he snaps. Before he takes back everything he just said. You didn’t want other men; you wanted Javier.

Javier swallows hard, his gaze flicking to the side, momentarily losing its focus. For a beat, he seems genuinely torn—his brows furrowing, lips pressed together in a thin line like he's struggling to hold it together. He couldn’t read you, not entirely, but he sensed it—the quiet understanding that he’d somehow ruined it. His mind races as if fevered because this wasn’t him. He was never this undone, this lost in a moment.

“If that’s what you wanted.” The words come out quietly, almost too faint. You catch the hint of a pout forming like it physically pains him to say it.

A strange, gnawing feeling settles in your chest. What are you doing? Why are you pushing him away when all he’s offering is… everything?

He watches you closely, his lips curling into a small, almost self-deprecating smile. “And for the record, if you’re into dinners,” he adds, his voice low like he’s tasting every word, “I wouldn’t stand you up again. Not this time.”

You bite your lip and look away, trying to hold onto your control.

"I don’t know if you could handle being that loyal, Peña.” The words slip out, but underneath them, you know the truth. You want to give in. Every part of you is telling you to take what he’s offering. But all you could give was an elusive answer, too afraid to say yes, too enamored with him to say no. “But sure, if that’s your offer, I’ll think about it."

Your eyes narrow, and without warning, you climb off his lap, the cool air hitting your skin as you search for your dress. You slide it on, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you watch him tug his jeans back on, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

You shake your head, unable to suppress a dry laugh. Exclusive? The thought of you two being anything more than this, than this constant game, is almost laughable. He really did have a way of making you question everything, even the parts of you you thought were untouchable.

“So, are you going back to watching my house again?” you ask, voice light, trying to bury whatever it was that had just been said between you two.

He looks up, eyes locking with yours, and the cocky grin is back, but there's something deeper, something heavier. “Think I’d have a better view from inside…” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze trails over you with more intent now. “Your house, that is.”

You pause, and for a brief moment, you're not sure whether to laugh or turn away. But you don’t do either. Instead, you raise an eyebrow, almost daring Javier to keep pushing.

"Don’t hold your breath, Peña." You turn away, knowing this game is far from over. But for Javier, it had already ended—there was no more chase, no more play. He wasn’t hunting anymore; he was caught. And worse, he didn’t care. Javier would take whatever piece of you you were willing to give, whole or shattered.

Because after everything—the cartel, the blood, the ghosts that never left—Javier Peña could no longer face danger. Not when you were the most dangerous thing of all.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #papi pedro #pedro x reader #tumblr fyp #new writer #pedropascal #javier pena smut #javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena imagine #javier pena x you #javier pena narcos

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krisp-xyz · 2 years ago

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Was experimenting with halftone effects after watching this video and it almost has spiderverse vibes honestly. I actually learned some neat things about why printers use CMYK instead of just CMY so I thought I'd share !!

So in our optimal little computer space, Cyan (0,255,255), Magenta (255,0,255) and Yellow (255,255,0) all multiplied together gives us a perfect black (0,0,0) Awesome! The issue is that ink colors irl arent exactly perfect like this, and color is a bit more complicated irl compared to how computers represent it, so they aren't the greatest at combining into black if they aren't those perfect CMY values:

Left: CMY

Right: CMYK

(thats not even black, its a dark blue in the original image but dark colors just look so much richer)

An important step to make sure you arent doubling up on the black values though is to divide the image by it's own "value" (the max of all 3 color channels) that way the value is equal to 1 everywhere, and you're letting the black ink take care of the value on its own.

Left: CMY (normalized value)

Middle: K (black)

Right: Combined

Now obviously the grids of dots cant be aligned perfectly with each other because you'd just get a bunch of black dots in unwanted areas, but if the grids are misaligned, then some dots become more prominent than others which tints the whole image. This was an issue because older printing methods didn't have great accuracy and these grids were often misaligned.

The solution was to rotate these grids such that they can move around freely while getting rid of that tint effect if they aren't perfectly aligned :D

(I have no idea how they came up with these angles but that might be something to look into in the future who knows)

SPEAKING OF MISALIGNMENT

I wanted to implement that in my own filter to get some cool effects, and I discovered another reason CMYK is better than CMY for lots of stuff !!

With CMY, you're relying on the combination of 3 color channels to make the color black. This means if you have thin lines or just details in general, misalignment can make those details very fuzzy. Since CMYK uses a single color of ink to handle value, it reduces color fringing and improves clarity a lot even if you have the exact same misalignment as CMY!

Left: CMY

Right: You guessed it! CMYK

(yes these comparisons have the exact same color misalignment, the only difference is using a fourth ink color for black)

ANYWAY I just thought there was a lot of cool information in this tiny little day project, I also just think it looks really neat and wanted to share what I learned :3c

EDITING BECAUSE THERE'S ONE MORE THING I WANTED TO ADD

So, I talked about how to get K in addition to CMY instead of just CMY, but how exactly do you separate CMY from an image in the first place?

Well, CMY is a subtractive color space, meaning the "absence of color" is white, compared to RGB where it's black. This makes sense because ofc ink is printed on white paper. You can use dot product to get the "similarity" between two vectors, and this can be used to separate RGB actually! Using the dot product of a color and red (255,0,0) will give you just the red values of the image. This is cool though because if we get the dot product of our image and the color cyan (0,255,255), we can get the cyan values from our image too! If we first divide our colors by their value to separate the value from them, then separate CMY using those dot product values, and using K for our final black color value, our individual color passes end up looking like this:

While it's called a "subtractive" color space, I find it more intuitive to treat white as the absence of color here, and then multiply all these passes together. It makes it much easier to understand how the colors are combined imo. Notice how cyan is the opposite of red: (255,0,0) vs (0,255,255) and magenta and yellow are the opposites of green and blue respectively! This means you can actually kinda get away with separating the RGB values and just inverting some stuff to optimize this, but this example is much more intuitive and readable so I won't go too deep into that. THANKS FOR READING I know it's a very long post but I hope people find it interesting! I try my best to explain things in a clear and concise way :3

oh thank you I realized I should probably add an eyestrain tag

#halftone #shaders #long post #eyestrain

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polyamships · 5 months ago

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The Polyamships discord server (invite here) is happy to invite you to Polyartober. Inspired by Inktober, but for polyamory, Polyartober brings you 31 daily prompts (+ 10 alt prompts) for October to get you in the creative flow to make more art.

Polyartober rules

1) Make a drawing* of your polyam ship (it doesn’t have to be in ink. Stick figures welcome. Not all characters have to be in the drawing, but the subject of the drawing must be polyam in nature) 2) Post it** 3) Hashtag it with #polyartober and #polyartober24. You can also mention us @polyamships to make sure we see it. 4) Repeat

*So you want to write instead of draw? We created this event focused on artists, but if you feel inspired, please go ahead and create something else: writing, gifs, moodboards, meta, etc. The most important rule is to make it polyam and have fun!

**Please post your work mentioning the fandom and characters somewhere in the post so we can tag it appropriately. Use the character’s name as it appears in canon (this may mean Lastname Firstname for some fandoms) - if they only have a 1 word name please put the fandom in brackets after it e.g. Parker (Leverage).

Feel free to combine this event with any other events that allow it such as whumptober, lyrical titles bingo, ficathons, etc. for an extra challenge.

Please note that since we’ll be running this month-long event, there won’t be a PolyamShippingDay prompt on the 14th October. We’ll be back in November with our regular PSD posting :)

Now we're also on X/Twitter @ polyamships - our X/Twitter Polyartober2024 thread

AO3 COLLECTION (for both art and/or fics)

List of prompts in plain text under the cut.

Prompts

Lovers

Birthday

Dungeon

Bed

Date

Game

Wound

Morning

Comic

Kiss

Shadow

Breakfast

Portrait

Fire

Tentacles

Shower/bath

Shotgunning

Black and White

Extra

Flowers

Luck

Knife

Water

Rope

Autumn

Road trip

Golden

Drinks

Marks

Angst

Costumes

Alt prompts

You don’t like one of the prompts? Feel free to use one of our Multiamory March prompts which you can find here.

You’ve already done all the Multiamory March prompts? Wow, you’re amazing! Here you have 10 extra prompts to get you going:

Murder mystery

Survivor’s guilt

Buddy system

In sickness and in health

Lap dance

Falling asleep

Chosen soulmates

Sensory deprivation

Dancing together

Last night

#polyartober #polyartober24 #polyamshipping #OT3 #OT4 #polyshipping #polyships #poly shipping #poly ships #polyamships #polyam ships #polyamorous shipping #polyamorous ships #polyamory #polyamships prompts #modposts #prompts #polyartober prompts #fandom events

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1800titz · 1 year ago

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18+

potteryinstructor!Harry who has bulging arms covered in ink, and a fun little, red-tinted pearl earring dangling from one ear, and dried clay over his lengthy fingers all the way up to his forearms.

He owns the unit below his apartment, but instead of a restaurant or a bar the staircase from his front door leads down to a pottery shop. It’s tucked away in a busy plaza downtown and when he washes his hands in one of those big utility sinks in the back the muck rinses away to reveal red polish decorating his nails.

The first time Y/N meets him she’s just wandered into the store alone — it’s empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels to admire the variety of little statues adorning the shelving, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and some lopsided efforts that probably deserve one of those meme you trieded stickers. She’s just about to head out, but then a very, very — ludicrously, practically — handsome man steps out from some room in the back, bi’s and tri’s working with rigid muscle as he wipes his hands off into a navy little rag. His skin is tanned and clean but streaks of dry clay still coat his white graphic tee. The gray staining on white feels sort of like a sin, but something about his nonchalant nature in the way that he regards her gives her the impression that he doesn’t really give a fuck.

potteryinstructor!Harry who convinces Y/N to hop on the wheel for a lesson because he's bored, and she's pretty, and no one's come in for the last two hours, and he's just been messing with clay. Who tells her, “Take your bracelet off for me,” in this totally innocuous manner, solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry, but the way he tacks on the for me in combination with his sexy, sexy, sexy demeanor has this warmth blooming in Y/N’s chest.

potteryinstructor!Harry whose jade irises bounce from the lump of clay as he cups over her palms with his own warm grip and works it into a shapely cylinder to her own concentrated expression.

potteryinstructor!Harry who manspreads on the little stool across from her and explains the different stages of pottery making, who laughs softly when he stands up and turns away for a second and the cylinder Y/N’s cradled starts to wobble and collapse, who helps her by pressing his much larger hands back over her own and sculpting it back up into something more even.

potteryinstructor!Harry who makes charismatic small talk — who the fuck can manage to make small talk charismatic? — cheek propped in his hand behind the counter as he watches her shape the clay.

potteryinstructor!Harry who doesn’t disrupt Y/N’s work as she carves swirls into the clay after its torched despite the fact that the shop has been closed for half an hour.

potteryinstructor!Harry who does great work with his hands on a wheel and possibly even greater work with his fingertips roaming between her sticky thighs. Who sinks the digits into her and thumbs over her clit. Who licks a stripe from the outer border of her collarbone all the way to her ear, nipping back down over her jugular.

potteryinstructor!Harry who bends her in half and grapples over the back of her left hip with his right hand as he tucks his cock into her, whose red-lacquered fingertips scratch at her scalp when he bunches her hair, when he tugs on it as he twists her head to the side to share a sloppy, open mouthed kiss, licking into her mouth. Who switches positions and sits back in a chair and coaxes her until she’s leant back with her palms propped over the sturdy muscles of his thighs, who cradles over her throat with ring-covered digits and seemingly effortlessly ruts up into her, brows pinched and strawberry mouth parted in ecstasy.

potteryinstructor!Harry, potteryinstructor!Harry, potteryinstructor!Harry.

#harry styles #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry styles concept #harry styles smutty concept #harry styles blurb #harry styles blurbs #harry styles writing #harry styles dirty imagine #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #fic idea

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questforgalas · 2 months ago

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Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life

For @daredaredoodles!! Happy Ghoapmas!!! Here is some very oblivious and very yearny Ghost for you!! Oh, did I mention lots of fluff? :) I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!

Thank you @forsaire for hosting!!!!

Ao3 link

Summary: It was supposed to be a holiday season like all of the others - nights filled with reports, and a base haunted by a Ghost while everyone wandered home. Three knocks on Simon's door change those plans entirely.

Words: 5K

No CWs, just tooth-rotting fluff and Gaz so done with these two

It was supposed to be quiet tonight. An intimate date between Simon, the desk in his room, and the pile of reports that magically remain the same height regardless of how many hours are put towards them (a detail Captain Price never misses). Does Simon happen to write a little slower to aid that magical spell so that he has a proper excuse when Price inevitably comes knocking on his door and asks why he hasn’t filed for leave again this December? Possibly, but that little detail belongs between Simon and the twenty minutes during which he contemplates which words to use instead of “infiltrate” and “detonation”.

He should have known nothing ever goes according to plan. Three familiar knocks rapping against the door certainly proved that right.

Cut to Soap MacTavish standing on the other side, a smile curling his lips and azure eyes all the brighter against the navy jumper wrapping across his broad chest. Words were said, something about a night out which made sense since Soap wore dark jeans that seemed made specifically to torture Simon, and there was a glint in Soap’s eye not dissimilar to a child’s on Christmas morning.

Ah, so, Price was picking up the tab.

As Soap stands in the hall, punctuating his pitch to coach the lieutenant out of his room with perfectly placed smiles and a wink or two anyone else would find gratuitous but Simon found infuriatingly endearing, Simon swaps his hoodie for a black jumper, grabs his jacket, and has the door locked just as Soap says, “‘nd it’s not tha team without ma favorite lieutenant.”

The calendars say “December”, but the unseasonably warm air makes the jacket hanging over Simon’s arm feel like overkill, making him contemplate turning around and throwing it through the door, but instead he rolls up the sleeves of his jumper. In the corner of his eye, he sees Soap watch as the fabric folds back and reveals Simon’s forearms - corded with muscle, covered in scars, one completely inked over.

Simon wanted to tell himself that the way Soap ogled at the skin didn’t make his own feel a size too small. He wanted to tell himself the way Soap’s Adam's apple bobbed and the dusting of pink at the tip of his ears didn’t match his own. He wanted to tell himself he wouldn’t tuck this moment away safely in the gilded chest labeled “Moments He Can Pretend” that he stored in the safe recesses of his heart.

He wanted to tell himself all of that, but unfortunately, that would make Simon a liar.

Soap rambles on about some combination of some chemicals that Simon doesn’t understand a lick of - he’s just happy he remembers to nod at points that seem right for it - and they walk side by side through Hereford.

“What fresh hell is this,” Simon mutters, the revelry from the pub greeting their ears when they’re still a block away.

“Don’t fret, Lt.” Soap nudges him with his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just ol’ Gerry with tha music up because he finally accepted he cannae hear for shit.”

It was, in fact, not Gerry with the music up.

The Green Pony quite literally glows on the corner. Green garland lit with soft, white lights frames every window, and electric candles flicker at the streets. Two wreaths adorned with a red ribbon bow hang on the dark wood doors, and through the windows, matching garland and lights line the entirety of the bar. A large tree pulls it all together, lighting up the far corner much to the chagrin of some patrons looking for a secluded corner away from the crowd.

They shoulder their way through the entry and are immediately sucked into the chaos that is the Green Pony operating over capacity. Behind the bar, Gerry, the owner, a man who Simon is convinced was born in this pub, slings pints and jabs faster than any of the youngsters helping alongside him, and when he catches sight of the two men, he throws a lazy salute and points in the direction of their usual table. They break through the crowd, and the sight of Captain Price and Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick greets them at their usual booth.

“Well fuck me,” Gaz says as they approach. “Good to see ya Ghost, but you just lost me 20 quid.”

“Pay up,” Soap holds out his hand as he scoots in besides the other sergeant. Gaz grumbles something about “unfair advantages” as he fishes out his wallet, and hidden under a black medical mask, a smile pulls at the corner of Ghost’s lips. A terrible bet by Gaz, really. Might as well be the title of Simon’s memoir:

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Could Never Say No.

Gaz of all people should know this, and Simon’s pretty sure Soap does do.

Simon settles in next to Price who silently nods in a way of greeting, but Simon doesn’t miss the way his mouth curls up in a smile around the lip of his glass. “Never become predictable, Sergeant. Easier to kill that way,” Simon offers. Two pints sit unclaimed on the table. Simon grabs one while nudging the other towards Soap. “‘nd have some respect. I’m worth at least 40 quid.”

“Sound advice, sir.” Gaz tips his glass to Simon then takes a strong swig.

The rounds disappear and reappear over and over. The older patrons begin to make their way home, thinning the crowd some but not enough to avoid Simon’s shoulder - large enough to breach the end of the booth - becoming a human bumper now and again. Someone’s hijacked the jukebox, and Mariah Carey’s been serenading them about Christmas for the past twenty minutes. Price said his goodbyes a round ago, but not before assuring “Yes, sergeants, the tab will still be open,” and he threw that look to Simon that said “They’re your circus now”.

Now, Gaz sits at the table, chocolate eyes glassy under the lights, and a finger absentmindedly circles his pint. A dopey smile sits on his lips, and every few minutes he mumbles along to Mariah before she drowns in the din of the crowd. A word hasn’t been spoken between them since Price left - an understood respect by Gaz who knows Simon’s need for silence as much as Soap’s need to fill the air - and Simon wishes he could enjoy it. He wishes he could give Gaz that much. Instead, a dainty hand attached to a brunette he faintly recognizes from base is demanding all of his attention.

Moments ago, Soap delivered their newest round with a thunk, earning a curse or two from Gaz who saved his pint just in time, but instead of sliding into the space next to Simon - a space he occupied as soon as Price said his goodbyes - he grabbed his pint and beelined to the bar. There, a brunette waited. They were familiar, that Simon was sure of, and Soap kept flashing that smile that Simon was desperate to be turned on him.

And then the hand. The hand gripped Soap’s bicep, gave it a squeeze, and a laugh, airy and bright followed. The hand remained. That smile flashed brighter.

Simon hated that hand.

She was pretty enough. Glossy hair, high cheekbones, an ass Simon assumed would be appreciated by the right eyes. Eyes that weren’t azure blue and rivaled the bays of Islay. Any eyes except those.

The hand slides from Soap’s bicep and cups his elbow. Simon’s knuckles have gone white. He really hated that hand.

“Ghost, mate,” Simon hears from across the table. “Bruv, that glass is about to lose whatever battle ya’ve picked against it.” Simon tears his gaze away from that hand and sets it on Garrick who, bless him, doesn’t flinch. “Mind tellin’ me what that poor glass has done to you?”

“Don’t know what you’re on ‘bout,” Simon answers and sets his eyes back on that hand that’s smartly retreated back to its owner. Lucky her, she gets to keep it.

For now.

Soap’s pint is forgotten on the bartop, he says something to the brunette, and the cute crease that appears when the Scot is trying to puzzle out an equation is between his brows. Simon adores that crease. His hands itch to smooth it out and fight whatever has caused it.

He misses the questioning look on Gaz’s face and when he follows Simon’s gaze. He misses when the sergeant puts two and two together, but what he doesn’t miss is the sigh that’s pulled from Gaz’s chest and the thunk of the sergeant’s forehead against the thick, wooden table.

“Ya’ve got to be bloody kiddin’ me.” Stunned, Simon watches as Gaz thunks his head one, two, three more times, then snaps back up. His face is nothing but anguish. “Talk to him.”

“What?” Simon smartly replies.

“Talk. To. Him.” Gaz accompanies each word with a thump of his pint as if hammering them into the wood would hammer them into Simon’s confused brain.

“Talk to who?”

“Bloody ‘ell!” Simon thinks Gaz is being a bit overdramatic, what with throwing his hands in the air and acting as if Simon is the densest person in this pub. Problem is, Simon has no idea what he’s supposed to be grasping. The sergeant rubs a hand down his face, and once he’s collected himself, the stare he throws at Simon pins him to the booth. “Talk to Soap. I’m beggin’ you, Ghost. Talk to him, and save us all from havin’ to keep watching you two dance around each other like a bunch of school boys who don’t know what a crush is.”

The words make sense. Well, they make sense that they’re words, and they’re going in one ear. But not all of them are processing and some of them are going right out the other ear leaving a jumbled tangle of words like “Soap” and “you two” and “crush” that are rattling around in the empty space of Simon’s mind. Yes, it makes sense that Garrick just said something, but the implications are mad enough that he has half a mind to order him to a psych evaluation at once.

“Might’ve finally lost it, Garrick. Imaginin’ things now.” It’s really all he can muster past his lead laden tongue.

Crushing on Soap, well, that was as easy as breathing. But crushing is too trivial a word, wasn’t it? Crushing was what you did on the schoolyard when the brain hadn’t learned the words that threatened to burst from your heart. Crushing was soft glances across a room and sheepish smiles dripping with honeyed words. Crushing wasn’t a deep seeded trust that you’d make it home alive as long as that one person was beside you. Crushing wasn’t intimate knowledge of a body learned in the lowlight of safehouses while rough hands guided needles through skin. Crushing wasn’t hushed confessions in the dark as you accepted your mortality.

No, Simon did not have a crush on Soap MacTavish, because a crush was too simple. A tapestry of moments woven from a tarmac to now - the bar lights catching the hidden caramel strands of Soap’s mohawk - blanketed along Simon’s very being, and no longer could he ignore that his British heart had a Scottish flag planted firmly in place.

And because life loves to remind Simon that he is not a man destined for gentle touches and even gentler words, he watches as the brunette grasps Soap around the forearm and leads him out of the pub. “Told ya,” the words taste more bitter than he intended. “Imaginin’ things.”

Gaz tracks the pair through the crowd. “I’m the best interrogator on the team,” he says. Simon’s brow shoots up, and he’s about to question what the hell that has anything to do with this when Gaz holds up his hand and continues. “I’m the best interrogator on this team. I can read body language at a level that, often, I wish I couldn’t. The amount of people’s secrets that they don’t even know but I know is a burden I’m cursed to carry.” Pint abandoned and a finger getting closer and closer to Simon’s chest, Gaz continues. “I don’t know what the hell ‘appened in Las Almas…well I do, I read the report, but I mean between you two. I noticed it the moment we stepped into Ale’s safehouse, and it’s only gotten worse since. We, the 141, are a team. Price and I are teammates. You and I are teammates. Johnny an-”

“He doesn’t want anyone callin’ ‘im Johnny.” Amusement dances across Gaz’s eyes, and Simon knows he fell into his trap.

“Exactly. Anyone except?” Gaz takes Simon’s glare as confirmation. “All I’m sayin’ is, Soap and you? You’re more than teammates, Ghost. You’re the best in the world - as much as I ‘ate to admit it - not because of hours of training together or years of missions. It’s like you two are one soul, it’s absolutely mad to watch. And it’s not just on missions either. Ya both have a starin’ problem, that’s for sure. Though neither of you would know because it’s always when the other isn’t lookin’.”

“We - what?” Simon can’t fit Gaz’s words into his understanding of his relationship with Soap.

“The heart eyes? At each other?” Gaz flutters his lashes, and Christ, it actually gets a chuckle out of Ghost, as annoyed as he is. “Ya’d think for someone whose eyes are the only part of his body he shows, you’d be better at schooling them, but I swear I’ve seen those lines at the corners actually melt whenever Soap walks into the room.”

Oh, Gaz is proper teasing now, and Simon wants to smack the smirk right off of his face. He wants to tell him he’s delusional and that he can’t accept the image Gaz is spinning because it means taking the feelings he keeps packed away in that gilded chest in the safe corner of his heart and laying them all out there. Yet, the denial never comes, and instead, he feels his traitorous mouth curl up.

Is that…relief easing his chest?

Gaz’s face softens. “Remember the first thing ya told me when I joined the team?”

“Our job doesn’t guarantee tomorrow,” Simon says automatically. “Take the good moments while ya can. Don’t know ‘ow many ya’ll have.”

“Maybe time to start takin’ your own advice, huh?”

“Who’s advice we takin’?”

Gaz and Simon jump at the new voice, both reflexes fast enough to keep the pints from spilling over. Simon peers up, and his heart stutters. There stands Soap with cheeks rosy from the cold, and Simon has well and truly lost it because he desperately wants to loop his arm around Soap’s waist and tuck him into his side to keep him warm.

“Just Ghost’s words of wisdom,” Gaz supplies easily.

“Ah, only an eejit wouldn’t listen to the Ghost.” Soap stares down at the table, and he clears his throat before he continues. “Actually, Lt. I - I was hopin’ I could pull ye away?” He rubs the back of his neck, and the red on his cheeks spreads to the tips of his ears. “Unless ye don’t want to! Dinnae me - mean to interrupt, probably discussin’ something - never mind I…”

“Relax, Sergeant.” At the sound of Simon’s voice, Soap’s shoulders drop and his breaths come easier. He meets Simon’s gaze, and Simon has never seen this look in those storm blue eyes. Timid. Unsure. Bashful? “Was just finishin’ up. Garrick, ya good?”

Gaz waves him off. “Out of ‘ere. Your dark cloud is bringin’ down the festive mood.” He throws them a wink and stands from the table, smoothing out his jumper as he eyes six feet of muscles and a jawline that could break glass leaning on the bartop. Instead of walking around them, Gaz cuts right between Simon and Soap, and just before he steps away, he leans into Simon’s ear. “Talk to him.”

The hour hasn’t cooled the air so Simon and Soap opt to wander through Hereford instead of hailing a cab. Simon blames the beer and Gaz’s words buzzing in his ears, but he feels attuned to every one of Soap’s footfalls and every sway of his arms. The street is empty, plenty of room to stroll, yet the two of them walk with barely a hair between them. A tug Simon will always follow, and maybe Gaz hasn’t completely lost it, because Soap does too.

But because Simon can never make things easy for himself, he says “Where’s the brunette?”

Soap looks at him, face scrunched and that crease is between his brows. It would be so simple to reach out and gently smooth his thumb along it. “Wha’ brunette?” Soap asks because he can never make it easy for Simon, either.

“The brunette at the pub. Seemed…cozy.” If a sniper took him out, Simon wouldn’t complain.

“Cozy?” An incredulous laugh circles around the word. He’s really going to make Simon spell it out.

“Ya. Cozy. Thought, well, -” Simon picks at the nonexistent lint on his sweater. “Thought she was makin’ good company.”

Soap is silent, and it’s making Simon’s skin crawl. He focuses on his steps, one in front of the other. He creates a new mission right then: get back to base, say goodnight to Soap, and not emerge from his room until everyone has left for the holidays. He has rations hidden in his desk, he can make it until then.

“Oh, Simon,” Soap says softly between them.

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, but there’s a spring in Soap’s step, and whatever millimeter of space that had existed between them is eaten up entirely by the Scot. When they arrive on base, Simon prepares his goodbye, ready to go down his hall while Soap goes down his, but when he turns to depart, Soap grabs his wrist and guides Simon with him.

They arrive at Soap’s private room. The Scot jumbles his keys, nearly dropping them on the ground, and struggles to get them into the keyhole. Simon thinks to point out that the process would probably be easier if Soap just let go of his wrist, but call him weak because that touch is more intimate than any stitch Soap has put in his body.

Finally, the lock turns, Soap pushes open the door, swiftly kicks it closed, and the two of them stand in the soft glow of the lamp on the bedside table.

He’s been in Soap’s room plenty of times before, but this, this moment is different. A delicate thing Simon could almost hold in his hand, and he hopes that door never opens again. Hopes that they can stand here away from the responsibilities and the enemy bullets and bask in the warmth of this thing between them. This thing that Simon prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he’s no longer imagining and is ready to stop ignoring. Since the pub he’s felt exposed, as if every emotion he’s tried to hide away for the better part of a year is now written across his skin for a pair of azure eyes to read. As he spies the rapid rise and fall of Soap’s chest, he thinks he’s not the only one.

Words sit on his tongue, but just before they tumble from his lips, he pulls them back. He’s pictured this moment 1000 different times and 100 different ways. None of it practiced. He has to get this right. He takes a breath. He has to figure out a way to tell Soap that if he wants to take the plunge, Simon is on the ledge with him, but he also wants to leave the door open so that if he’s misread everything, nothing needs to change between the two of them. The jumper is beginning to cling to his back.

But it’s Soap who speaks first. “I got ye somethin.”

“Ya got me somethin’?” Simon repeats back.

“Aye. It’s - one second.” Soap steps around him and rifles through his jacket. When he straightens, a dark rectangle is in his hands. He holds it out to Simon who has lost all function of his arms and stares at the object.

“What is it?”

“A present.”

“A present?”

“Holy ‘ell, Simon. Yes! A present! Ye know what a present is, aye?”

Simon is only more confused by the answer. Soap shoves the rectangle into his chest, and Simon’s brain catches up fast enough to wrap his hands around the object that he now realizes is a thick, wooden box.

“For me?” Seems his brain hasn’t moved past two word sentences though.

Soap rolls his eyes and his hands plant his hips. “Yes, it’s for you. It’s what I was talkin’ to Heather about.”

“Heather?” Christ, Simon needs his brain to wake up.

“Aye, Heather. The lass at the pub. She helped me get this.”

“So, ya weren’t -” Simon feels his ears burn. “Ya weren’t…flirting?”

Soap’s eyes widen for half a second, and then he tries to hide a startled chuckle with a cough as he looks down. Simon’s pretty sure he hears “Fuckin bampot” mixed in there. When Soap looks back up, he seems shy, almost embarrassed, cheeks back to that pink that’s starting to drive Simon wild. “No, Lt. Heather gets handsy after some pints, but I wasn’t flirtin’ with her.” Azure blue locks him in place. “I had someone else in mind for that.”

Bloody hell. Simon’s first instinct is to retreat. Flirting wasn’t wholly a new thing between them. They’d lost comms privileges on more than a few missions with Price - Gaz never had the power to pull the plug though he always made his grievances known - but it was all coy, innocent, dangling off the edge of friendly banter. None of it was ever so brazen, so laid out in the open. But here was Soap, taking the first step, leaving a small part of himself bare, waiting to see what Simon would do with it.

“You didn’t have to,” Simon says, holding up the box.

“I wanted to.” It sounds so simple coming from those lips.

Simon’s jacket joins Soap’s, and he holds the box in both hands. What he mistook for black is actually a deep, rich mahogany polished by an expert hand. The box easily lays in his palms, and he’s acutely aware of Soap watching him as he lifts the lid. Simon’s breath catches.

The inside is lined by a black silk, and nestled in the middle lies the most beautiful knife he has ever seen. He can tell that the blade is of the best steel, a straight spine across the top meets a point sharp enough to tear through his toughest gloves. He runs his thumb along the edge to the heel and revels at the ease with which it knicks his skin.

Where the blade is all wicked grace, the handle is a work of art. Stunning black onyx catches the light as Simon delicately lifts it from the box. At first glance, it’s smooth, but when he rubs the stone with his thumb, he catches other carvings. He moves to the bedside table, and when he holds it under the lamplight, Simon nearly drops the knife.

Sapphire blue and rich hazel streak through the black stone, tangling together perfectly. Simon turns the handle. On one side is a blue bar of soap. It matches a doodle Simon has seen on scraps of paper left in briefing rooms and napkins in the mess and on the corners of his reports when a certain sergeant comes to visit. He flips it, and on the other side is a hazel ghost. Another doodle Simon has spied on the pages of a journal kept close to that same sergeant’s heart.

“Do ye like it?” Soap shifts on his feet. He’s rubbing the back of his neck again, and Simon fights back a laugh.

The absurdity of it all, that Soap could be nervous right now.

No. Not Soap. Not anymore.

Johnny. His Johnny. He’s always been his, from the tarmac to now as Simon stares, gobsmacked, at this immortalization of them in stone. At this declaration of every intention and feeling and dream Simon’s been too afraid of. Johnny’s blue streaking through the darkness, dancing perfectly with Simon’s hazel. Ghost and Soap always side by side. He decides right then that he’s done tucking the feelings away in that gilded chest. He’s done with moments that live only in his fantasies. He’s done pretending he’s ok with it being just Ghost and Soap forever and that he hasn’t craved Simon and Johnny.

So yes, it is absolutely absurd that Johnny could be nervous right now.

“Heather’s da used tae be in tha service ‘nd makes these custom now. I ken you’re picky about the blades. Think I drove ‘er up the wall goin’ back ‘nd forth makin’ sure it was the best -” Johnny is rambling, and he’s looking everywhere except at Simon. If he was, he would have seen Simon reverently place the knife back in the box. He would’ve seen Simon rip the medical mask off of his face, and he would’ve seen Simon eat the space between them in two strides. If he was, he would’ve been ready when Simon cupped his face, and crashed their lips together.

Simon has no idea what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how to do soft and gentle. He doesn’t know how to exist in a space where there’s acknowledged interest that’s so much heavier than a tumble in a bed. He doesn’t know how Johnny MacTavish, full of joy and thunder and blazing glory, found his way into Simon’s endless darkness. But Johnny kisses him back and grips his jumper, and Simon’s heart is no longer his own.

“Hi,” Johnny says once they catch their breath, and Simon can feel the smile against his lips.

“Johnny,” Simon mumbles, and it sounds like a prayer. He pulls Johnny closer and feels the strong muscles of his arms circle around Simon’s waist. He cradles Johnny’s face, thumb softly rubbing against the stubble on his cheek, and he leans in again. This, Simon thinks, is his own personal version of heaven.

They’re pressed together now, chest to chest, and Simon is certain he’d be fine dying right here.

“How long?” Johnny asks, and he leans into the palm of Simon’s hand.

“Fishin’ for compliments, Sergeant? B’neath you.” There’s a swift slap on his shoulder. Simon nuzzles into the crook of Johnny’s neck to hide his smile.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid.” There’s no bite in the words. “How long?”

“Las Almas,” Simon admits against his skin. “The way you looked at the rig when the missile ‘it. I couldn’t look away from you. Still haven’t been able to.” He pulls back just enough to rest their foreheads together. “And when I saw Graves bullet ‘it…well, not even Price would’ve been able to keep me from huntin’ him down.”

“Hells bells, Simon. That was over a year ago!”

Simon ignores the outburst and kisses a rough, uneven scar barely hidden within the sergeant’s hairline. Johnny’s newest, only a couple weeks old “But then Makarov -” It takes a moment to fight past the lump in his throat. The arms around his waist tighten.

“In the hospital, I promised meself - “ Johnny turns his face into Simon’s neck, “that if I made it out, if I got one more shot, I was done runnin’ from ye.” He pulls back, freeing one hand and brings it up to cup Simon’s cheek. “While I lay in that bloody bed, all I could think was, ‘Ye didn’t get tae tell him. Ye didn’t get tae tell him, and now he’ll never know.’ So let me tell ye now.” Johnny cups beneath Simon’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I love ye, Simon Riley. In this life and the next, I will always love ye. God help any sorry soul that ever tries to take ye from me, because I will burn this world tae tha ground until I find ye. I don’t know how long this life is willin’ to give us, but I’ll take whatever it’s generous with as long as it’s with ye.”

And well, Simon isn’t quite sure what to do with that.

There’s a jumble of emotions rattling around in his heart threatening to spill into his gut if he thinks too hard about it. He’s aware that Johnny is staring at him, adoration and patience swimming in stormy blue, and his hand is softly carding through the curls at Simon’s nape. He remembers Johnny back on that tarmac - nearly two years ago now - brash and cocky and willing, and wonders what would have happened if he’d known how his fate was written, how his own heart was on the line. If he had known on that first mission what that annoying sergeant would come to mean to him, what would he have done? Would he have kept Johnny at arm’s length, protecting him from the jagged mess that is Simon’s darkness? Standing there, basking in the glow that is his Johnny, he doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think he could have.

Simon threads a hand in the back of Johnny’s mohawk - it’s beginning to flirt with deregulation - and snakes the other around his waist. “Take the good moments,” he mutters in the space between them.

“Aye,” Soap says, smile bright in the lowlight. “Take the good moments.”

So, they spend the evening trading lazy kisses and honeyed words. At some point, boots are forgotten and jumpers join a pile in the corner. They tumble into bed, legs tangled, and even as sleep takes them, not an inch of space is allowed. Johnny’s breaths fan across Simon’s chest, deep, content. Sleep is pulling at Simon’s lashes, but he fights it a little longer. In his last moment of consciousness, he grazes a finger along Johnny’s hairline, catching on the rough scar, and he thinks the memoir needs a title change:

Storm Blue Eyes and A Scottish Brogue: Reasons Simon Riley Came Back to Life.

And in the morning, there’s a folder waiting on Price’s desk. He sips his coffee, picks it up, and smiles at the familiar weight. When he flips it open, there’s simply a location: Glasgow.

“Merry Christmas, Simon,” Price says and watches a jeep pull out of the base.

Johnny is singing Mariah at the top of his lungs, and Simon doesn’t remember the last time he was this content. The mask is forgotten on the desk in his room, and a new knife is tucked by his side. They turn onto the highway, Glasgow waiting, and Soap lays his hand out between them.

Simon can feel it, the wispy end of a filament stretching between them. The past collisions and the future moments. He can see it, that future laying on the other side. That future full of lazy kisses and even lazier mornings. Of days together, never questioning if the other walks through the door. Of Christmases in Scotland and maybe a cabin one day, too. For now, they have to make due with stitches in safehouses and easy touches in helis. Stolen kisses in private rooms and hidden words between the commands.

For now, he reaches over and takes Johnny’s hand.

#my first ever exchange!!!!#this was so fun ahhh!#ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #2024 ghoap holiday exchange #tay writes

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korekyane · 28 days ago

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The Saint of Joy

-:-

I just have a lot of feelings about the Lyctors!!! This piece was inspired by Mercymorn's prickly vibes and pink hair, combined with a recent visit to a Renaissance painting gallery, which made me want to draw a close-up portrait using the idealized facial features from that time period. The pearl hairnet is a reference to her off-hand weapon being a net, btw :)

Created with Copic alcohol markers, Faber-Castell India ink pens and Gelly Roll white gel pen on vellum paper, 11.5 cm x 13 cm. Colour-corrected and touched up in Pixelmator Pro.

#the locked tomb #tlt #tlt fanart #the locked tomb fanart #harrow the ninth #fanart #htn #htn fanart #traditional illustration #traditional art #artists on tumblr #copic #copic markers #copic art #portrait #mercymorn #mercymorn the first

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caxde · 9 months ago

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disposible heroes | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

summary Eddie is assumed to be dead, you belived it, until music found his way into your live again, and a promise he's still alive is evident (7.2k)

warnings fem!reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, yearning etc, slowburn, idiots in love!!!, english is not my first language so I apologise if there’s some mistakes, not proof read!, canon-ish complaiant?

a/n: thank you to @sage-glowstick for all your help as I was writing this <33

“You know I’m here if you need me, right?” Robin’s voice felt as if it were coming from a thousand miles away, even if she was beside you, her fingers running through your hair, petting you softly.

“I know” Your voice came out croaky, heavy, raspy. Tears were still falling from your eyes, you felt them, the coldness of the salty water running down your reddened and hot cheek.

“Anything you need.” She repeated, wiping it away, her finger on the apple of your cheek a bit longer, trying to make you feel seen.

“It just doesn't feel real.” You whispered, not being able to actually say it fully out loud.

“I know.” She imitated your low tone, standing up from the bed as she looked out the window. “It’s a lovely day out, we could go for a walk.”

“In a bit, maybe.” You gave her a forced, half smile to her. She imitated it before nodding, standing up to finally leave the room, leaving the door ajar.

It was a good day out, sunny and without a cloud, the leaves on the tree outside your window moving slowly.

But he wasn’t there.

As far as you knew, his body still laid lifeless on the fractured darkened ground of the upside down.

And you hadn’t saved him.

Guilt consumed you.

It was worse, you had to lie to Wayne, you had to lie to the only person that knew him as much as you did, that cared for him as much as you did.

You buried an empty coffin a couple of weeks ago.

And all you had was an old shirt of his, and his guitar pick necklace you had once gifted him.

Your hands closed around it, one last tear falling down as you did so. I miss you, i’m sorry were the only thoughts running through your mind.

After a long time of just thinking, your eyes vacant and your thoughts going a bit too fast. As soon as Robin came to check on you once again, she knew where you were headed off to.

The mix he had made you was still in your car, playing his music as if he was next to you. If you concentrated enough, you could still hear him sing them, in his usual chaotic goofy voice and tone he always used to get you to laugh, though if he was being sirius or was in his own little world he actually had a beautiful voice, an angelical one if you were the one listening.

A weird combination of crying and laughter was now consuming you, as you finally parked your car in the same spot you had for the last few weeks.

It was a weird feeling, you became more yourself the closer you walked to his grave, the closer you came to seeing his name carved in stone, the fuller you felt, as if he was walking beside you.

The wind rustled in the leaves, as birds stopped singing, the sun still shining, your skin soaking it in, your puffy eyes squinting harder because of it.

It was a very scenic moment, you thought as you sat down in front of the carved stone.

“Hey Moon.” You whispered with a heavy heart. The stinging coming back to the back of your head as you looked at the faded graffiti you had cleaned yesterday. “I brought you a bit of music, I thought you might like it.” You fumbled through your bag, trying to find the little portable cassette player you had saved up for, that he had drawn in the back of with one of his markers. EM was here could still be seen in a faint white ink. “I finally got you the Metallica cassette you wanted.” You half smiled, trying not to break down again.

The first guitar notes from the song battery filled the air, you let your body hit the ground right as the bass started, your feet stomping at the melody.

“You’d love to play the guitar solo of this one.” You teased him, mumbling to the sky, your eyes closed, your body relaxing a bit more.

The little portable player was starting to make that funny noise it had been making for the last couple of days, that dirty interference that made you angry every time, interrupting your time, it only infuriated you more now that you were here, trying to be close to him once more. Your arm reached to it, your eyes yet unopened, spanking it a bit, hopeful that it would go away.

It didn’t.

It started going in and out of focus, as if something was tampering with it, or water had crawled in, making the switch to the next song sound as if it was coming from deep underwater, as if a wave had just engulfed the speaker.

“Fuck’s sake.” You complained through gritted teeth, grabbing it and holding it up, wiggling it a bit. As you did, the muffled sound went away, and the thing that should not be started playing.

You lowered the volume, and let the speaker sit next to your ear, letting it sing only for you.

It didn’t give you any trouble for a while, until it started acting up again. This time, the volume went up and down. At first you thought it was random, until you started paying attention. It seemed like a message, and grief invaded you enough to make you believe impossible things.

Your shaking hands grabbed it, pulling it a top of your lap, looking back at where his name was carved before whispering “Don’t fuck with me” as you played the backwards button. Letting the song start from the beginning once again. “I swear to god Eddie if you’re fucking with me I’ll kill you again.” You spat as you mumbled angrily at the air, hoping to be right.

To your astonished surprise, it seemed to work.

The volume went up, as if it was a code, as if he was screaming. If you were honest, you could feel him screaming and yelling the lyrics in that chaotic voice you learned to love and miss.

The very first word of the song spiked up messenger, it felt obvious enough, though it could just be a dumb coincidence. lurking beneath the sea made the volume go up, lowering immediately after it. You kept listening, writing it on the sketch pad you always carried in your bag.

Once the song ended, the previous blank paper had sparesed lyrics over it.

It read a confusing mess that you had to bring to Dustin as soon as possible. You recited it over and over again while you were speeding on the car.

The motor of your car was louder with every gear shift you made, the little orange arrow in your speedometer kept rising, but you payed it no mind. In a similar manner, you didn’t care if your car skidded anytime you made a left turn, the only thing in your mind where the little words you had heard louder than the others.

You didn’t care if your car blocked his driveway, or if the keys were still in the ignition. The bag on your left shoulder felt havier now that it was guarding the little instrument that felt magic. You hands where still shaking and you could stop fidgeting with his necklace, moving it one swipe left and two right as you made your way to Dustin’s front door, not sure what to say, not sure what to do. You were now anxiously looking down at your feet, and the way they moved through the cobblestone, the bumps that they left on your feet.

You gathered enough courage to bang on his door.

But he was taking a bit too long.

Bang

He still hadn’t come down stairs.

Bang Bang Bang Bang

“Jesus what?” He finally opened the door, the usual annoyed look on his face disappearing once he the way your lips were pressed together.

“Upstairs, now. Code red.”

“Can you read it again?” Dustin asked, a pen in his own hand.

“Messenger. Lurking beneath the sea. Forbidden site. Shadows. Underground. Fallen city, living death.” You looked at him, sharing a deep breath. “Then it repeats, Lurking beneath the sea, and ends with not dead”

Dustin stood up, pacing around his room while his hands fidgeted with the pen he had.

“And you’re sure it worked normally before you arrived at the grave?” He inquired, his words pausing between them as he usually did when he was trying to figure out something.

“Look I know it sounds stupid, but… I… It can’t be a coincidence.” He acknowledged just how hopeful and defeated you were, and he gifted you a smile.

“I wanna believe it too, I just, can I hear it now?” You nodded, while you took the little player out of the bag and played the song again. It sounded crystal clear, no interference, no change in volume. “And it changed volume once you were…”

“Yeah, I told you.”

“We should go there, I’ll ask the others to join us there.” He grabbed the talkie while he handed you the phone, letting you call into family video, the number already dialed up.

“Family Video this is Steve how may I help you today?” He sounded as bored as he always was, you could tell he was playing with the telephone chord.

“Steve, can you take your break now?” Your voice was quieter than usual, and that pulled him in, you heard how his elbows hit the table, and the receiver was caught between his cheek and his shoulder.

“Hey honey, everything okay?” His tone was sharper now, you felt the way he was measuring his words, he had become rather used to spreading kindness and handling you with care ever since you had come back, you had no time for that kind of nonsense right now.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m asking you to skip work in the middle of the day.” Your words were coming out sharper and colder than you intended for them to. Irony stinging like a dagger.

“A simple no would also work, y’know.” He answered, a bit hurt, but mostly worried. He knew the number was coming from Dustin’s house, and the only reason you had to go over his house was for one he didn’t dare to think about.

Mostly because the last time you had barged in with Dustin into Family Video he ended diving into cold water, and with a few scars to remember those days by.

“Can you take your break or not? We kinnda need both of you.” You were impatient now, you were speaking faster, snappier, quicker.

“What the hell is going on?” You could physically see him holding the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed while he loudly breathed out into the receiver.

“Steve! Please?” You were begging now, the frustration of wanting to let him know everything all at once, while trying to be careful to not say too much, the fear that someone might listen to you, the impotence of not being able to do enough, it was all enough to create tears that wouldn’t fall.

“Breathe out.” He reminded you. He didn’t know what was going on, or why you seemed to be so aggravated, but he could tell that it was important enough, a sense of urgency clear in your voice. He took a second, looking at Robin while his eyebrows raised she called the ‘the decision look’ and she knew better than to oppose it. “Is this a code red?” He finally asked, wanting and needing you to say no, his head falling deeper once he heard your muffled yes. “Where are we meeting?”

“Graveyard.” You answer quickly, the iron taste in the inside of your mouth becomes more prominent now that you are speaking again. “Pick Nance up.” You told him before hanging up.

You gave a quick glance over your shoulder to check on Dustin. His words were fast paced, he started the second one while the first was still finishing in his mouth, he had no time to lose, which in a weird way, was reassuring for you. Someone cared as deeply as you did, it made you feel not that alone, seen in a way.

You found your way downstairs, your feet feeling heavier and your chest tightening, a fast thought entered your mind, as it grew bigger so did the worry that accompanied it. What do we do if he is alive?

If Eddie really is alive, and he has been there, all by himself for the last weeks he must be pissed off. Not only that, as far as you remembered he was incredibly injured, so he could be right at death's door, a slip away from being actually gone. And if that was really the case, and he was bloodied, starving and a whisper away from death, you’d never forgive yourself if you didn’t at least just try, you had to try.

But then again, that panic was shared.

Dustin did not talk while you drove. He didn’t complain while you smoked one of his cigarettes that he had left on your glove compartment, he limited himself to stay still, biting his thumb as a response to the nervousness that was now deep inside his body.

You parked where you had a mere hour ago, and the birds sang until you found your way next to his gravestone. You looked at Dustin, needing reassurance, he just nodded. Weirdly enough, you were both in a lost for words.

You sat in silence, looking at his name with clear sandness in both of your faces, you hid a whimper, culpability making its way into your body.

“I feel insane.” You confessed as you buried your face into the palm of your hands. Needing just a second to process it all.

“You’re not the only one.” Dustin added, looking back as soon as he heard a familiar car pull into the secluded place you both were, he gave you a soft pad on your shoulder, his head nodding to it so you’d look.

Steve emerged from the burgundy car, closely followed by Robin, Nancy and Jonathan.

Robin’s eyebrows were raised in concern as she ran to where you were, she wasn’t a fiscal touch person, but lately she had been giving you hugs every chance she had, and this time it was no different. It felt familiar, a sense of reassurance you desperately needed.

“What’s going on?” She whispered into your ear, pulling away slowly, looking deep into your eyes. You waited for the other three to make their way up hill, Nancy’s knuckles were white with how much strength she was holding Jonathan’s hand.

“He’s alive.” Is all you could bring yourself to say, before breaking down.

You weren’t even sure why you were crying this time, maybe it just felt good to say it outloud, maybe it was just too much to manage, or maybe you just needed to relise your bottled up emotions. It didn’t matter.

Nancy’s eyes widened, as Jonathan looked at her, not really understanding why you’d say that. Meanwhile, Steve’s arms crossed in front of his chest, he was having a hard time following you.

“What are you talking about?” Steve’s voice was not only lower, his tone had never been as serious, not a trace or irony or sarcasm in them.

“Dustin?” You plead for help, you didn’t think you could manage to explain it all again. Your hands were busy fidgeting with the cassette player, tracing over the speaker, wishing that it would happen again.

“She uh… Well…” Dustin was having a hard time, the possibility that you might be right was a bit overpowering for him.

“I came over, and played him the new record.” You gestured to the empty cassette case with the white crosses on it, Robin picked it up and looked at it closely, smiling in that that’s sweet way that she does when she finds something charming. “And uh…”

“She says that the cassette player started going wild, the volume going up and down by itself, interference, water sound in it. But we played it again at my house and it sounds perfectly clear. And well… The words that were actually louder were like a call for help and if we look at this logically-” Steve cut the explanation that Dustin had started, a crease in the middle of his forehead.

“That’s insane. You’re seeing things where there are none.” He exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands.

“Steve…” Robin pleaded calmly, her eyes asking for him to consider the situation.

“It’s not!” You screamed. You needed them to understand, weirder things had happened to all of you in the last couple of years, this was nothing new. “Will was able to communicate with you!” You looked at Jonathan now, trying to make him understand, trying to win him to your side of the argument.

“Yeah but… He actually… It was his voice.” Jonathan mumbled, trying really hard to believe what you were saying, trying to see your side of the story, but the look of desperation on your face was too close to Joyce’s, and that gave him a bad feeling in his stomach.

“He’s alive.” You repeated, looking back at the way his name was carved into the gray stone, how long it took you to be able to accept it, and how it hopefully would be destroyed, as if it never had happened. “And he’s down there, alone, injured and with no strength, do you really think he’s going to start chatting?” With every word you said your tone became higher and higher.

“Look, there is no way he’s alive…” Steve’s voice sounded defeated as he crouched down, closer to your eye level as you were still sitting down at the floor. “We all saw him down there, bloodied and… I get that you want him back, but you shouldn’t make it our problem.” his cheeks were red, as the vein in his left temple became bigger with every breath he took.

“Your problem?” That made you lose it, it was one thing to not believe you, it was an entirely different thing to call you crazy and accuse you of being delusional. “You were the last one out, if he is alive, it’s your fault.” It had been like poison, hearing you say such things. You knew far too well that you were hurting him, his lips were pressed against each other, his left hand holding on thigh to his arm.

“Guys…” Robin tried to calm you both down, exchanging looks between the both of you, knowing full well this could blow everything up. Knowing that pain can be spread around faster than any disease.

But before she could say anything else, her ears perked up, as she heard the way the wind was rustling through the trees, she was a bit too sensitive to these kinds of things, over vigilant after everything she had seen.

“That’s way out of line…” Steve whispered, with clear guilt creeping in through his voice. “You know that if I could trade it… You know I don’t…” He was truly at a loss for words, not being sure what he could say, an extremely defeated expression rested on his face, his eyes avoiding eye contact with yours, looking at the ground, and the way the grass moved thanks to the wind.

“Guys!” Robin screamed at all of you now, as she picked out a rusting coming deep and low from the little player you were still holding.

Silence broke through all of you, as you looked down and started hearing the beginning of a song you hadn’t hit play for, the red light that usually shined bright when it was on was absent from it.

“Did you–?” Dustin started to ask, you shook your head, as a hopeful smile invaded your lips.

You went quiet, looking down at it, a guitar solo started, before you heard the tape playing backwards until the last phrase of the song was found, volume creeping louder and louder reaching out again could be heard from it, you let out a chuckle, a nervous giggle that went around the group as everyone had now experienced what had happened to you.

“What song is that?” Nancy asked directly at you, her face still in clear shock, mouthing the first words since she got here.

“Welcome home” You mutter, with glee in your eyes. “He is here.” You tell her, knowing that she fully believes you, by the way fear was creeping into her body.

“That could just be a coincidence…” Steve was still cautious, not wanting to fully give in. If he did, that meant that you were right, and that he left him for dead, and he couldn’t handle the guilt that came with it.

“Eddie!” Dustin started screaming, directly into the little player that you would not let go of, repeating his name with urgency. “Buddy, are you really there?”

“It’s changing again.” Robin pointed out, as her fingers traced a pattern on your leg, reassuring you that this was actually happening.

It was exactly as it had happened a few moments ago, when you were by yourself, as if water had creeped inside, mumbled and far away it sounded as the song changed to another one, before becoming crystal clear to your ears. The heavy thumping of the guitars starting again, quieting down before abruptly going up once the lyrics Twenty-one, only son, but he served us well could be heard.

You were tearing up now, and you weren’t even capable of hiding it any longer.

But panic came quick once you heard the next highlighted set of words.

Finished here, greeting death, he’s yours to take away

“What’s this one called?” Jonathan asked this time, his head whipping fastly from Nancy to you.

“Disposable Heroes.”

You wasted no time.

Dustin held on tight to his car seat every time your foot pressed the accelerator, everytime you swerved the car you could feel him holding his breath just for him to release it in a nervous manner.

They were all gathered around Steve's kitchen table, arguing over themselves.

You weren’t all there, the only thing going over your head was him, and the promise of actually being able to hear his voice once again.

Your foot kept on tapping the ground, a repetitive pattern that you weren’t able to stop, your hand still playing with his necklace. The chatter of them talking was overwhelming you, they were wasting time and that was infuriating. They were arguing, and you were frozen in the spot. They kept talking and you remained quiet.

Nancy sat down next to you, she still hadn’t said anything either.

Her hand traveled to yours, a top of your thigh. She squeezes your hand, you knew it was her way of telling you i’m here, i’m sorry.

“They’re wasting time.” You finally whispered, your voice hoarse, a trace of sadness in it.

“I don’t think I can go back.” She said at the same time, a trace of guilt in hers.

“You shouldn’t.” You reassured her, not only with your calm voice, but with the same squeeze she gave to your hand, now on her’s. You didn’t have to tell her that you planned on going alone, she had already noticed.

“You can’t.” She finally looked at you, deep into your eyes. You noticed the way her eye twitched before shaking his head. “We barely made it out of there, there’s no way you’ll make it by yourself, and having to carry Eddie or…”

“His body?” She snorted a laugh, trying hard not to giggle, thought the nervous laughter got you too. “This has to be one of the most insane days…” She nodded while you both laughed, catching your breath before she talked.

“I’m watching over you, I’ll stand at the gate. That I can do.” she stood there for a second longer, her lips pursed in that shy smile she usually gave people, the ones she actually cares about.

“Thanks Nance…” You let go of her hand, to give her a playful bump on her shoulder. She nodded as she saw you finally stand up.

Robin looked at you with curious eyes, as she saw you finally leaving the couch. She watched in a quiet manner as she saw you grab the car keys and put them in your pocket, and how you looked around as you put your hair up in a messy ponytail, bumps caused by shaky fingers. She only put her hand around Steve’s arm, her eyes still trained on you, once she saw you pocketing the vodka bottle and the old rag to light it up.

Steve looked at Robin first, following her eyesight until she saw you, trying to not look suspicious as the rag poked out of the pocket of your brown leather jacket.

You knew you were being caught as soon as you heard the sudden silence.

“Woah, woah, hey…Where do you think you’re going?” Steve pointed out, one hand on his waist as the other one gesticulated widely. Confusion and worry evident in the way he spoke, his voice coming up and down like a rollercoaster.

“What do you think?” The frustration was clear in the way you not only looked back at him, but in the way your words sting. “You’re wasting time…” You were now defeated, your hands now buried deep into your jacket pockets, fingers playing around with what you had in them, a way of distracting yourself.

“We’re not.” Dustin tried to make a point, though his furrowed brows read as sadness. “We need a plan, so we’re just trying to come up with one…”

“What plan? We go in, Nancy guards the door, we get him, we come back.” Your shoulders scrunch up as you simplified it all, their eyes switched from you to Nancy, who was still sat down at the sofa, a bit tenser than when you were beside her.

“Nance, you’re not coming?” Steve inquired, his whole body turning to face her from a distance.

“I… I can’t…” Her eyes crystalised as shock emanated from her body.

“She doesn’t have to, I’ll be with her, we’ll keep watch. Right?” Jonathan jumped in, reassuring Nancy, as Steve took a step back. “You’re not leaving my sight.” He whispered in her ear once he got by her side, their foreheads touching.

You smiled to yourself, a sweet moment between them. The world stopped for them, you could tell, and that’s exactly what you were craving right now, and worrying you might never get back.

“Fine, but we still don’t know how to get in.” Steve added, his arms flexing in front of his chest as he shook his head in defeat.

“Watergate.” You mutter.

“You’re insane.” Robin snapped as soon as she heard you, pausing in between words. “Even if we did manage to get down there and it was still open, how do you plan on coming back with him? What if there’s more rabies infected bats around? What if you get stuck there this time? We need to find another gate!” She was now talking in full speed, cascading words as her thoughts entered her mind.

“So we go to the woods!” You whine, frustration and impatience invade you once more.

“The woods?” Steve asked.

“She’s right.” Dustin added, his eyes finally leaving the ground shining as they did so. “Vecna killed Patrick and that created Watergate, so maybe there’s a gate near Fred’s death, like the one in the trailer…”

“What?” You questioned him as you saw him losing the train of thought. “We go to the woods and we get in and out, what’s wrong?”

“We killed Vecna, so the upside down should be collapsing since he isn’t alive and isn’t there to power it so…” He continued as he thought out loud.

“So what?” Steve asked as his voice went higher in tone.

“So it’s crumbling down.” Dustin pointed out as if it was overly obvious.

“So we have to go, now.” You said at the same time, heading to the door, no time to waste.

You heard their footsteps following you as you found your way to your car, you were finally getting somewhere.

You thought you would feel relieved once you saw you were right, what you weren’t expecting was your jaw to clench at the sight of the hidden gate.

It wasn’t big, it was small and weak.

The same thing that happened back in the graveyard started again. The wind picked up, hollowing through the trees replacing the chirping of the birds.

“Take care.” Nancy said with a trembling voice, while her hand was holding tightly with Jonathan’s.

Steve’s grip on his bat changed, firm and steady now, before twisting it a bit, readjusting it so he’d be more comfortable. Dustin’s hands fidgeted with the end of his jacket, patting his pockets checking once again that he wasn’t missing anything.

“If we’re not here in an hour, check in with El, she’s with the others guarding Max, but she should be able to…” Dustin recalled for the hundredth time, going over the plan he had been yelling about in the car drive over here.

“Yeah, one hour. Got it.” Jonathan nodded as he spoke, waving bye as you stepped in.

You just pressed your lips as you heard him.

If you only had an hour, you had to make it count. And it had to start now.

You had never just walked into the upside down. You had always fallen into it, so you didn’t have time to actually feel the veil breaking as your skin found its way in, the viscosity of the red hue, and the dryness that could be felt immediately after that. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of colour and light, as you became hypervigilant, looking up at the sky before the others found their way.

Nothing.

There was absolutely nothing there.

A cloudless sunless grey sky welcomed you, with no thunder or lightning.

If anything, that nothingness was just more unnerving.

Every step they made echoed through, and made you look around, hoping to find something that would make you keep your hopes up.

You agreed on walking to the graveyard, if there was nothing there, you’d find your way to the trailer park and go back.

“Something’s weird.” Steve pointed out, as he looked around.

“Not weird, decaying.” You added, nodding to a grey crumbled up vine. The hole in it seemed to get deeper and bigger by the second.

“Quiet.” Robin said, as she looked up. “There’s no bats, no thunder either.”

“You can still trip though.” You told her as you held her from stepping into a fallen tree branch.

You walked, you weren’t really sure for how long, yet she was right, it was oddly beautiful now. A stuck in time version of Hawkins where nothing seemed to change, where everything looked as if it was straight out of an antique photograph you had found hidden in a cupboard.

You could see the iron gate from the cemetery, the bars on it starting to fold down, as if they were wilting flowers of an old bouquet. You felt as you collectively held in your breath.

It wasn’t long after that that you started hearing someone yelling unintelligible things.

While you were slowly making your way in, Eddie lied there.

He was right where you thought he’d be -unaware that you were near him- an empty space between gravestones, his body falling into the floor, exhausted from getting there, starving and malnourished. He had been talking nonsense for a while, he started whispering it into the heavens, until now, his voice was loud, and even if he didn’t intend to, panic found its way in it.

“Just one more song? Please? I need to know you’re there. I’ll sing along again if you want!” He had been looking at the void in the sky for a long time, he wasn’t sure if it had been an hour or two, to be honest, it felt like he had been there for days. “C’mon baby, please? Just a bit more, a guitar solo, or just… your voice would be nice…” He started begging now, pleading with some force he didn’t quite believe in for something that would indicate you’re there, near. “For fuck sake! I know I’ll die here, at least you could play some music while I do so!” Themix of desperation and tiredness was now getting into him, he looked at his hands and realised how his rings looked bigger, then now danced and moved with more ease. “Or just… Maybe if you light one up?”

At the same time, you started hearing his screams, and you started picking up the pace, running through the maze of granite carved stones, with different names and dates.

Dustin was the first to start screaming his name, while you just focused on running near where the voice came from.

You’d know it was him even if you hadn’t heard him in thirty years.

Adrenaline came over your body, so you rushed until your legs stopped, all of a sudden once you saw him.

He was there, his hand on his stomach, where blackened stains in his shirt layed wrinkled.

He was there, his hair laid perfectly still in a careful knotted mess.

He was there, his chest raised up and down as he breathed.

He was there, and he was alive.

“Moon…?” The nickname you had for him fell from your lips, your tone shaking as you still couldn’t believe it.

He slowly stood up, a grin of discomfort from pain evident in his face. He looked at you, his eyes barely opening up. He was still sitting on the ground, you felt your lips curving upwards as relief invaded you, seeing him smiling at you in recognition.

“Eddie?!” Dustin screamed as he ran up to him, falling to his knees as he hugged him, his head hitting his chest, Eddie’s arms slowly wrapped around his body. “I thought I… We lost you…” His voice was muffled, still you could tell he had started crying.

“I thought I lost you too.” Eddie’s voice trembled as he looked directly at you. His eyes crystalised once he saw the first tear jump from your eyes.

You felt Robin’s hand on your shoulder, a thigh squeeze letting you know it was real. He was okay, and you were getting him back.

She nodded, letting you know it was okay if you wanted to interrupt.

You walked slowly to him, the back of your hand wiping away your tears. You let your body hit the floor, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him.

“Hi” You whispered as soon as you were a breath away from him.

“Hi” He gleamed back as soon as he got you close.

“You’re okay?” You asked, as your voice quivered, desperate to hear him again, talking directly to you.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He nodded as a trembling hand found the back of your neck.

Dustin smiled before stepping back, leaving you both alone for a moment, a much needed moment.

You gave in, melting into his arms. You were both crying quietly now, his hands stroking your hair politely, afraid that you were nothing but a mirage, while yours held on thigh to him, scared that you would cause him pain from needing that close.

“You scared me to death.” You half joked as you chuckled through the crying.

“I’m the one dying.” He added on to the joke, his lips finally kissing your temple, drinking your perfume in as he did so.

“Shut it.” You shake your head as you slowly pull back, your hand now cupping his cheek, as your thumb slowly graces the high points of his cheekbone. “I’m getting you home.”

You thought about kissing him, your lips touching his, melting completely under his touch. But once he leaned in to do so you saw how blood stained his shirt again, your eyes darted from his as you looked down, the red growing wider by the second.

Fear invaded your body again, a sense of urgency creeping over both of you.

“Yeah, we should really go” He grunted through gritted teeth.

It had been a blur.

Nancy grabbed your car keys from your hand, as you helped Eddie inside the car, sitting on the back with him. Cradling him as you talked to him, trying to keep him calm even if you were panicking deep inside.

Steve arrived at his house before you, opening the door wide open, Robin helping you bring Eddie in.

They were downstairs now, phoning Hopper, and El and finally Wayne.

Steve’s bedroom guest had a big window where sun creeped in, a soft breeze helping him cool off as cold sweat dripped from his forehead. You helped him lay on the soft mattress sitting next to him carefully.

You had enough supplies hidden under the bed, you knew you could stitch him up enough so he would stop hurting, you had enough experience patching people up.

“Can you take your shirt off?” You asked him with a slight raise of your eyebrows.

“You already want me naked?” He joked. He tended to do that when he got nervous. You tilted your head as you bent over so you could take the little box full of supplies out of underneath the bed. He chuckled once he saw the box in your hands. He started trying to take his jacket off, with a grunt in his face he shook his head. “I might need help.” He admitted, a grunt on the back of his throat.

“Thought so.” You muttered under your breath.

You scootched over to him, your trembling hands becoming steadier as they found the neck of his jacket, pulling it down slowly. At first, Eddie moved, tried to help. Once he felt your hands against his arms however, he stood still, his eyes not letting go of you, and the way your hands moved with such carefulness and tenderness.

The tips of your fingers were now in between his skin and his shirt, soaked in dirt and blood.

You looked at him before pulling it up, he nodded, his eyelids halved opened, a cautious smile in his lips. He sucked to his teeth as his skin separated from the stiff cloth, your fingers brushed his abdomen with care, avoiding to trace his skin as soon as you saw the grin of discomfort he had on his lips. His arms ached once they were up in the air, the shirt falling off of them slowly.

“It looks worse than I thought.” Eddie grunted as he finally looked down. You guided his torso against the cushions that were prepped up, his hand lingered to your arms, the tip of his fingers burrowing into your skin.

“I’ll clean it up, I’m sure it’s not that bad.” You tried to play it off, a kind smile curved your lips upwards, a little gesture he imitated.

“You must really like me” He started in a soft whisper. “You keep lying trying to make it all better.”

You laughed it off, a short chuckle coming out of him. You started soaking the cotton swab with alcohol, the odor of it filling the small gap between the both of you.

“You know I do.” He smiled in a soft manner, his teeth showing as he tilted his head. “Ready?”

“Yeah.”

You smiled kindly before starting to clean his wounds. They were as if someone ripped and crumpled a paper sheet. They weren’t deep, just repetitive bite and claw marks over the same spot. The big one was on his lower abdomen, another one near his collarbone, a gash on his neck. His arms were full of scratches and deep cuts you had to keep clean.

He didn’t complain. He just let you do whatever you thought you had to, deep down he knew that if he let you take care of him, you’d feel better. And if he was being honest with himself, he enjoyed you dotting and caring for him, you knew it was because he won’t trust anyone else but you.

“You know you could just wait for Hopper to come right? He’ll probably make me go to a hospital or something.” He whispered in an attempt to get you to look back at him, his eyes not leaving yours.

“I know, I just…”

“I’m okay.” He started, reassuring you, trying to get you to stop overcleaning the same spot on his chest. “Hey.” You kept overdoing it, a blank look on your face. “Darling, please…” He begged now, the way his lips said the nickname snapping you out of it.

“I thought you were dead.” You crumbled down, nervous tears threatening to jump out, your lips quivering as you started to talk. “I thought you were gone, Moon…”

“I’m not.” He reached out, his hand finally holding yours. “You really think it’s going to be that easy? You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I buried you… Well there was nothing in there but… I just.”

“I know, I heard you and Wayne talking.” He confessed, his eyes changing, now they were full of melancholy, and a hint of guilt. “I’m sorry by the way…”

“What the fuck are you on?” The words fell right out of your lips, tilting your head as your tone went higher.

“I just… I heard you crying. Begging and all that. I’m sorry I almost died and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything I wanted to, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I loved you before, I’m sorry I left I-” You interrupted him, as soon as you heard the big word. Your hand tightening around his.

“You do?”

“I do what?” He tried to brush it off, the confession had fallen out of his mouth without him thinking too much about it.

“Love me?” You were embarrassed by how hopeful you sound. His free hand travelled to your cheek, slowly stroking it as he looked deeply into your eyes, falling deeply into them.

You gave in, your head now resting in the palm of his hand, he slowly pulled you closer to him. Finally closing the distance between the both of you, slowly, then all at once. His lips met yours, a smile appearing on both of them. It was a careful kiss, a needy and soft kiss. It said more things than you both could ever tell eachother. His lips begged for yours to never leave him again, to let him stay by your side. Yours were yelling for him to be patient, and let you love him in a quiet and slow manner.

You pulled away slowly, your forehead touching his.

You both knew each other understood. Still, he whispered low enough for you to barely hear him, right before you were interrupted by the door opening. “Of course I do.”

“Happy you’re back kid.” Hopper’s voice interrupted the both of you, moving your heads so you could look at him. “I’m sorry but you’ll have to answer a couple of questions, then go to the hospital”

“Stay?” Eddie asked, a promise in his voice.

“Yes. For as long as you let me.”

He kissed the tip of your nose, before talking again.

“Forever then.”

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