#I actually do STEM for real too

[orcelito]

God I don't wanna go to therapy tomorrow. Sick of talking about my feelings in a clinical setting. I do enough psychoanalysis just by myself, and now I gotta sit through it with someone else??? Come on.

[touhoutivations]

dear miss himekaidou,

i unfortunately have not been employed. so, i’ve been working on a few journalist articles, mostly as practice for my skills in case i ever decide to go into the practice and im worried that the articles i’ve been making aren’t of high quality.

how do you manage? i know such insecurities might be common in a profession such as yours, so…. any advice?

yours, eientei’s favorite kon-consultant

"Trust me, to start off- a great journalist is one that already is thinking about the quality of their work and doesn't shut their brain off for ideas. So I think you're off to a good start! It's hard, because while it's a job- you aren't gonna like, be able to push for the great caste system revolution-  I mean hard-hitting journalism all of the time. Sometimes you're gonna get stuck with 'Pick your favourite wagashi and we'll tell you your personality!'" "Buuut, I think there's something to learn from each article you write- even if you scrap them, you need only look. For example, I- loathe as I am to say it- did do such pitiful writing as that article- but the person that requested it also offered a coupon for a senbei stand… 'Dorayaki lovers are hot headed and there's more to them that meets the eye- but they can get caught up in their own world, so they should try some senbei!' 'Senbei lovers go with the flow, but don't pursue their own wants, so they should buy some more senbei!' I'm kinda curious, if I ran that article a week later, would I get a different result? There's a buncha conclusions and thoughts you could ask about the journalism even in such a 'low-quality' article."  

"I've been talking with that outside world human, and everything down to 'memes' and 'tagging systems' can show different sides of a story and the intentions of an article. Liiiike, there was this one time this crazy village man, Yoshimoto- he started raving about 'how there was some chemical the yamawaro were putting to turn the frogs into youkai'- and some newbie that wanted a week off just handed him a typewriter for him to start his rantings. But then when I actually used my thoughtography to check that river…well, he wasn't wrong? Sorta. The frogs were having extra legs- but when I wanted to write about it, up top said 'It's already been covered'. But it hadn't been. Not properly." "So how could I word it? I mean, 'Yamawaro machinery production found to have linkage in extra limbage of amphibian population'- bo~ring! What about '3 ramblings of Yoshimoto- Number 3 is suprisingly true!' and I slap a couple memes on it? Would that draw eyes? Is Yoshimoto actually concerned, or was this coverage intentionally from a crazy old geezer to discredit a potential problem?"  

"These are like, the hard stuff that comes with our industry- especially if you don't get the freedom to go independent. But I know that by asking, you're off to a great start. You have to be asking questions, every time- how can I see this differently? How can I write this differently? How are -other- people writing stuff differently? What's language that's 'hip', what language is alienating? Seriously, can Aya stop using red circles and arrows in her articles like [Mii]Tube thumbnails?!"

"Not everything is gonna be a magnum opus, and not every wagashi listicle is gonna be the lynchpin into your socialist uprising theory deprogramming toolkit- and that's okay. As long as you put questioning and engagement- actual encouragement of media literacy- at the forefront of your own work and viewership, I think that's more work than a lot of other grifter sheeple are doing. There's more than meets a camera's eye, and as long as you keep collecting, I know you'll become someone that will paint a better landscape for Gensokyou- so get your brush, and crow all you want, mmkay?"

[yuribalisms]

Essentially what it is all boiling down to is I have fully realized I am bad at being a person, that will always be true, and I don’t know how to handle that

[infiniteseriesofhalfways]

I just realized I haven't read a single romance novel this year that didn't have a third act breakup

I am begging for different stakes please

[29121996]

.

[vanessagillings]

I’m posting the ever-so-rare photo of myself alongside one of my characters based on my childhood because today is World Autism Acceptance Day, and I wanted to show my little corner of the internet who this particular autistic person is:  

I was officially diagnosed in February, at age 38 (I’m now 39). A lot of people thought I couldn’t be autistic.  Some people who know me in real life still don’t.  And until around 10 years ago, I didn’t think I could be either, because I was nothing like the stereotype media portrays. I was told that autistics lacked empathy (untrue), and never played make-believe (also often untrue) and only enjoyed STEM.  I was — and am — an empathetic artist -- and make believe?  I can spend days sketching finely bedecked bears brewing tea or carefully choosing the right words to weave tapestries of fiction — though perhaps my hyper focus was a bit of a red flag.  Even so, how could autism describe me?  I was a good student.  I got straight A's. I didn’t act out in class.  I can make eye contact…if I must.  And lots of girls hate having their hair brushed with an unholy passion, right?  Clearly I swim in sarcasm like a fish, so autism couldn't be why I was so anxious all the time, could it?

If someone had told me when I was younger what autism ACTUALLY is — instead of the nonsense I’d seen on screens — I would have seen myself in it.  I didn’t hear that autistics have sensory issues until I was in my mid-twenties, which is when I first began to really research autism symptoms, and I had almost all of them:  sensitivity to light, smells, fabrics, temperatures, textures, and certain touches, all of which make me feel anxious, I fidget (stim), I never know what the hell to do with my hands or where to look, I talk too little or too much, I have special interests, I have entire animated movies memorized shot-by-shot and can remember the first time and place I saw every movie I've ever seen but I often forget what I'm trying to say mid-sentence, I echo movies and tv shows (my husband and I have a whole repertoire of shared echolalias, making up about 20% of our conversations), I was in speech therapy as a kid, I have issues with dysnomia and verbal fluency, I toe-walk, I can't multitask to save my life, I like things just-so, I’m deeply introverted but not shy, I need to recover from all social interaction — even social interaction I enjoy — and I find stupid, every day things like grocery shopping, driving and making appointments overwhelming and intensely stressful, sometimes to the point where I struggle to speak.  It turns out, I am definitely autistic. My results weren't borderline. Not even close. And while these aren’t all of my challenges, and not everyone with these symptoms is autistic, it’s definitely something to look into if you present with all of these things at once. 

So why did it take me so long to get diagnosed? The same bias that exists in media threads through the medical community as well, and because I'm a woman who can discuss the weather while smiling on cue, few people thought I was worth looking into. Even after I was fairly certain I was autistic, receiving an official diagnosis in the US is unnecessarily difficult and expensive, and in my case, completely uncovered by my insurance.  It cost me over $4000, and I could only afford it because my husband makes more money than I do as a freelance illustrator — a job I fell into largely because it didn’t require in-person work; like many autists, I have been chronically underemployed and underpaid, in part due to physical illness in my twenties, which is a topic for another day.  But it shouldn’t be like this.  It shouldn’t be so hard for adults to receive diagnoses and it shouldn’t be so hard for people to see themselves in this condition to begin with due to misinformation and stereotypes. Like many issues in America, these barriers are even higher for marginalized groups with multiple intersectionalities. 

It’s commonly said that if you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person.  This is why it’s called a spectrum, not because there’s a linear progression of severity (someone who appears to have low support needs like myself might need more than it seems, and vice versa), but because every autistic person has their own strengths and weaknesses, challenges and experiences, opinions and needs.  No two people on the spectrum present in the same way.  And that’s a good thing!  No way of being autistic is inherently any better than any other, and even if someone on the spectrum struggles with things I don’t — or can do things I can’t — doesn’t make them more or less deserving of respect and human dignity.

But speaking solely for myself, the more I learn about autism, the happier I am to be autistic.  I struggle to find words and exert fine motor control, but my deep passion and fixation has made me good at art and storytelling anyway.  I find more joy watching dogs and studying leaf shapes on my walks than most people do in an entire day.  More often than not, the barriers I’ve faced weren’t due to my autism directly, but due to society being overly rigid about what it considers a valid way of existing.  My hope in writing this today is that maybe one person will realize that autism isn’t what they thought — and that being different is not the same as being less than. My hope with my fiction is to give autistic children mirrors with which to see themselves, and everyone else windows through which to see us as we actually are.

If you’re interested in learning more about autism or think you might be autistic, too, I recommend the Autism Self Advocacy Network  autisticadvocacy.org and the following books:

What I Mean When I Say I’m Autistic by Annie Kotowicz

We're Not Broken by Eric Garcia

Knowing Why edited by Elizabeth Bartmess

Unmasking Autism by Devon Price, PhD

Loud Hands edited by Julia Bascom

Neurotribes by Steve Silberman

(trigger warning: the last two contain quite a lot of upsetting material involving institutionalized child abuse, but I think it’s important for people to know how often autistic children were — and are — abused simply for being neurodivergent).

Thanks for reading 💛

[dontbesoweirdkira]

howdyyy, what do u think of plat yan! dick grayson (or platonic yan father bruce wayne up to u) with a batsis who is very disinterested with him primarily bc when she was younger she idolised him a lot but now not so much. there are comics where grayson has cheated on his partners before so imagine batsis coming to realise as she aged and matured that her doting brother is a bit of a playboy…. a lot like a playboy actually—

You know, this is actually extremely realistic. There's nothing like the rose color glasses falling off and realizing just how messed up your family truly is.

I'd like to think that there was plenty of jokes and mentions about Dick being a playboy but Batsis would just be absolutely clueless. You probably just thought it was a reference to his charming appearance or the way he gets hit on at least once whenever he goes out. Not really that he was an notorious heart breaker.

Like i don't think the other batkids had serious talks about it in front of you because of your (then) age or maybe it was a request by Dick so he could keep on his perfect mask with you?

Ironically, he wouldn't want any man to treat his little sister (or any of them) the way he does to other women but he has a problem. I will say though, it makes absolute sense that Dick or even the others would have issues keeping relationships or even have sex addictions. I mean it's a real issue that many people are struggling with right now. But can you imagine your father constantly bringing home women and cheating your entire childhood? Like Bruce introduces some of these women to them, they get attached to this potential mother then it's ripped away to be discarded for the new catch. I think that definitely warped Dick's view of women and romance stems from that. *intense mommy issues* But also i mentioned before that it's hard for him to maintain relationships while taking on the fatherly role in the family. His obsession with making sure all of his siblings are cared for and protected(mixed with being nightwing), makes it all the more difficult. Maybe that leads him to just hooking up with and being sloppy in his relationships. Maybe its just a means of stress relief and that causes him to almost dehumanize/objectify the women he "romances".

I'm not saying this is justifiable, cheating is disgusting and his behaviors are something that needs to be corrected regardless of mommy issues but for headcanon sake we are entertaining the concept

I'm not sure how you'd exactly find out about it. Maybe one of the kids let it slip and didn't bother to do damage control because you're old enough now? Maybe you spoke to one of his exes that is still friendly with the batfam? Or maybe your brain started to develop and you realized he wasn't hanging out with that new super model as just friends all night...it was something more and his girlfriend definitely didn't know about it.

Regardless, I think when you finally found out about everything, your world crushed. I don't think you'd hate him but you just feel yucky about the whole thing. Now when you look at him something in your stomach just sinks. You might even wonder if you can trust him. I mean if he's got that much of a problem to be dishonest with his lovers, then why would it be so left field to suggest he lied to you too when he said he loves you or that you were his favorite? The transition from you idolizing him to being standoff-ish would be extremely noticeable to him. I mean it's hard to ignore when you were his mini me. Even as you got older you followed him around and never skipped an opportunity to be near.

He wouldn't think that it was because of the playboy thing, maybe just you needing some space as a teen. Everyone has gone through that phase before but when he notices your shift is only directed towards him, he's a little upset about it. He doesn't understand what he did wrong? One day you guys are eating ice cream together while having a sleepover in his room to you treating him like a disease.

Eventually your big brother corners you and makes you to confess whats bothering you. He apologizes if something he said rubbed you the wrong way but you couldn't keep treating him this way.

"uhm..i dunno, dick? I found out how you've been treating you partners and i think it's kinda gross. I guess i just don't really wanna be around someone who treats women like that right now..."

I think Dick's reaction would be complete shock....who tf told you?! He has no defense but he tries to muster up one before realizing this is just making him look worse when EVERYBODY knows how much of a whore he is lol. He'd back off of you and maybe even mutter an apology before walking away to go collect himself.

He's furious as well...whoever told you will be getting an earful because they just ruined something precious to him. (yeah they did. totally not his OWN actions) If it was one of his brothers, he will be throwing hands.

Dick does very much care about others perception of him, i've said this before. He knew he had a problem and his other siblings have spoken to him about it and it affected him but never enough to change. It's just a far deeper issue than wanting a quick fuck in the expense of his partners...But seeing his baby sister look at him with just so much disgust and disappointment was enough to cause him to spiral. He's not proud of his actions and knows he's hurt and discarded of many, many women for his own satisfaction. It's deplorable. I can imagine him taking maybe a few days to himself, he's just in his head while being overtaken by heavy guilt.

I'm not sure if Dick would actually change for you though? I think he is even debating it. Yeah he's a yandere for his batsis but is his obsession with you enough to kick the other one to the curb? That's up to you. A hopeful person would say, yes he would. Anything for his babybat! He's going to do whatever it takes to prove himself again, anything to make you proud. This habit isn't worth it if hes loosing you.

My opinion? No, he won't change after his guilt wears off. He'll just pretend like he's reborn. Dick would try for like a week and then go right back to doing his habits. He's a manipulative piece of work and yeah, lying to you is bad but he wants his cake and to eat it too. He's not willing to give up anything that gives him a euphoric boost. Shh...what you don't know, won't kill you.

[forest-from-the-trees]

dude i am so fucking distraught right now like legitimately having a breakdown over something that wasnt a problem at all and its so fucking frustrating

[chokamo]

glimpse of us

pairing : oscar piastri x fem!reader

summary : raising a baby is difficult as it is, but no one told you raising a carbon copy of your kin who likes your hobby just as much as you would be a blessing .

your daughter’s love for the ocean have stem from the various time you went to the beach when you were carrying her in the womb.

the mist of sea salt, the sound of waves and the stench of sand lingering between your clothing and crevices of your skin captivates you. the connection you had with the ocean, seems to passed down to her.

when you met your now husband, oscar, your love for the beach went to him as well. it became a weekly tradition for you to visit the shore during your earlier relationship, the calming atmosphere resonating throughout waves was enough to help soothe any stress both of you faced.

any time both of you feel down, going through a rough patch in your relationship or on the verge of a breakup, the beach was always there. so, it was no suprise when the both of you decided to purchase a home near to the beach.

when she was born, her curiosity about the world increased between the comfort of your home and the outside world. so, you made it a routine to bring her to the beach once a week. and before you know it, she eagerly began to show her interest towards the beach, and you were not complaining.

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, user, user, user and others.

yourusername our second time this week 😓

user LOL

user their love for the beach 🥹🥹🥹

user Y/NNNN OMGGG

user GORGEOUS Y/NNN

user your photo dumps always hittt

user my fav family ever

user baby piastri 🤍🤍🤍

user -> i love when she appears

user -> agree!!

user 🔥🔥🔥🔥

oscarpiastri i love both of you

you replied -> we love u 🥹🥹

user cuties

user makes me want to go to beach now 😓

user i love how they protect their daughter privacy.

user -> true! even her name is unknown

user -> good parents right there

user -> i just know she’s the safest baby out there

user the pink aesthetic is so arghhhh

user FINALLY!! was waiting for a y/n post

user thank you y/n for the oscar crumbs

user -> the only thirst we can appreciate

user -> his back 😳😳😳

user a post from a y/n will always atee

user never stop feeding us 🤌

oscarpiastri

liked by yourusername, user, user and others.

oscarpiastri second home @/yourusername

user oh y/n you are gorgeous

user LOVE THEM SMM

user piastri FAMILY 🤍

user his love for y/n is admirable 🥹

user -> so true!! he ALWAYS post her 😭😭

user OMG i didn’t even notice baby piastri there 😭

user -> ME TOO she’s a rare sighting on their post

user -> as they should 👏

user -> lets keep babies safe from weirdos ‼️

user their summer break are so >>>>>

user oh i love this

user body is tea

user y/n is so stunning

user i want her

user who taught him to photo dump like this?? 🤨

user -> he’s so good at it now!!

user -> all thanks to y/n

user -> THANK YOU Y/N we say in union

user 😫😫😫😫

yourusername ill give a 8/10 for this dump 😳

oscar replied -> 🙄🙄🙄🤍

user LMAOO

user living for their playful banter >>>>

user can’t wait to see more of them next time.

a/n : do people still like dad!f1?? i like em <33

check out my other post! masterlist

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, the events and characters depicted are not based on real life, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

[hoodedjelly]

my Jenny, Tuck, Brad, Shelden, and Vega older designs ^__^

i'm watching mlaatr, still not done, i think i got like 10 more eps (and if i'm being transparent i skipped around eps... i just wanted to see vega...). And i'm absolutely loving the show!!!! i love these characters a lot, didn't like Shelden at first i'm going to be honest, #1 Shelden hater for a bit there. but he chilled out in season two and i started to ship breldon with that too so now i just love him so much.

more about my personal headcanons:

Jenny: - I am under the belief that she is transgender. Jenny was made genderless, so her deciding to be a girl was strictly her choice and i believe that makes her trans. (She's also a lesbian) - she did grow a bit, im not gonna explain how idc really i just liked her being a taller lady :-) - she has A LOT of different cute outfits and hair styles, honestly too much to draw. she never transforms back into her base show outfit when crime fighting, she just fights in her cute summer dress she don't care. - her and vega are dating grrgrgrrrr - when vega is in rule she makes it so there is complete free access between earth and cluster prime for citizens in both places. - I say that cause i think when jenny is older she moves in with vega, technically living in cluster prime but visits earth like everyday. And brad/shelby/tucker/wakeman visit cluster prime - Jenny also hangs out with the nicktoons unite gang, but i deffo feel like its just that secondary friend group that you don't talk to with for months. when you talk again its the same goofiness as before - i think danny calls for her help when he needs it (also manny) Tuck: - he is still a little shit but we love him - adhd boy - questioning cis (he/him) - he got into robotics/stem and builds little silly things - with that, he gets help from Shelby - pretty much just a silly teen, he's on the internet a lot and has "cringe" interests - but idk he's having fun and being silly and finding himself (those interests is stuff like sonic and among us) Shelden(Shelby) - honestly kinda nervous about ppl thoughts on my Shelden, idk it makes so much sense in my brain - hits you with the transfem beam (she/they) Pansexual (she just wants anyone type of vibe) - I think when jenny is visiting vega often that leaves Shelby and Brad hanging out alone a lot. which they don't mind honestly, they are actually good friends! - but during that they just get closer and start catching feelings. Shelby eventually lets go of her feelings about jenny and realizes they were a real jerk and weirdo to her. brad helps them through that and eventually her realizing she's trans. blah blah they in love and kiss at some point. - Shelby is also a furry lmaooo her fursona is a cat.

Brad: - bisexual cis man (he/him) - Still his old brad self if i'm being honest. - totally forgot to say i think all 3 of them go off to college together (even though jenny doesn't have to i feel like she would prob want to just for the experience, but tell me if you think differently i'm still unsure) - i really don't know what else to say sorry brad! he's literally just as silly as ever man. he's just also gay - i will say here i feel it takes a lot longer for shelby and brad to start dating then jenny and vega. they got that slow burn kinda shit going on, since a lot of that is shelby being confused about her feelings. and jenny and vega just hit it off right away if im being honest, very high school sweethearts. - (also i think shelby makes brad make a fursona to match hers, so brad got a dog fursona)

Vega: - Lesbian cis (she/her) - That ending of her just ruling cluster prime was just so crazy to me cause like, aint she like 16? - i think she has a lot of stressed nights and fearing she's not doing the right thing for her people, and jenny tries to help as much she can - that is why jenny visits so much, she wants to help her. - very much got those nights were she accidently falls asleep at her desk, jenny finding her and giving her a blanket and a kiss goodnight - it's not like she's unhappy, she is actually very very passionate about her work and wants to NOT be like her mom - and yeah she deffo goes to robo therapy for the stuff with her mom. - i think it's a conflict where vega is scared her mom is gonna come back and jenny has to reassure her that if she does they'll get rid of her for good.

imma be honest a lot of my hcs are pretty half-baked and random things, im sure im going to think of more stuff in the future but that will be in different posts.

[inkskinned]

no, but really, we need to talk about the casual objectification that has become the fallback discourse of the internet: if you're pretty and dressed nicely, you're a slut. and if you're even vaguely outside of their body standard, you're fucking disgusting.

too-frequently, people position sex workers as being "the problem". they sneer you're addicted to pornography, you don't know what a real woman looks like. but real women are in pornography. the real bodies on display are not the issue here: the issue is that other people feel extremely confident when commenting on someone's physique.

2000's super-thin is slowly worming its way back into the public ideal. recently i saw someone get told to "go for a run", despite the fact she was on the thinner side of average. not that it would ever be appropriate to say that: but it's kind of like sticker shock when you see it. people think that is fat? holy shit. do they just have no idea about things?

but what are you going to do about it? that's the problem, right. because chances are - you're a normal person. we can say normalize carrying fat on your body, but we are not the billion-dollar diet industry. we are not the billion-dollar fashion industry. we are just, like. people. who are trying to make content on the internet, without being treated shittily.

as someone who has been on both sides of things: you are treated better when you are thin and pretty. this is statistically correct. i am not saying that you cannot be bullied for being thin; i'm saying there are objective institutional biases against certain bodytypes. there are videos of men and women who lost weight all saying: i now know for a fact exactly how much worse you're treated. in the comments, some asshole inevitably says something akin to you deserved to be dehumanized when you were fat.

which means that ... the easiest thing to do is be pretty and thin. it is the path of least resistance, because of course it is, because any time you post a picture of yourself without a thigh gap, someone immediately comments something like you need to try a diet.

the other half is also dehumanizing though, huh, just in a different way. when i put on makeup and nice clothes, i am told i slept my way to the top as a professional. do you know how many women in STEM have told me they purposefully dress to "unimpress" because they already struggle to be taken seriously and if they're ever considered pretty - it for some reason takes away from their authority.

so they make it seem like it's your fault. you, existing in a body - it's your fault! if you didn't want shitty comments, don't have a body. they position us against each other like chess pieces; vying for male attention we don't even need.

and i can be an authority on this unless you think i'm fat and unattractive. when i am pretty and thin, i'm an activist. when i am just a normal person who makes a good point: i am immediately dismissed. nobody fucking believes you if you're not seen as attractive. you literally lose value. you cease to exist.

but the whole time, it feels like - is anyone actually grounded the fuck in reality? the line of "pretty and thin" keeps shifting. nobody seems to understand what "a normal weight" even looks like, because it's not something that exists - you cannot tell a person's health by looking at their body. even if you think you could tell that, even if you're sure a person is dangerously overweight - people are not your dolls. they do not need to be dressed up or displayed properly to soothe your aesthetics. you aren't concerned for them, you're stealing their agency. you don't get to say if they're "allowed" to take pictures and post them on the internet - you don't get to tell them how to exist.

people hide behind "the obesity epidemic" without any actual qualifications. they crow things about "normalizing unhealthiness".

but it's bullshit. i have visible abs. there is a pair of parallel lines on my body, even when i'm relaxed; where my obliques meet my abdominal wall. i am proud of this because it means i'm strong, because i overcame an eating disorder only to be ripped as fuck. it is genetic and physical luck that i even get any definition, i'm pleased as punch.

but it does mean that my abdominal wall sticks out a little bit. the other day i posted a video of myself dancing, and, for a moment, my shirt slipped. you could see a little bit of my stomach. i was cartwheeling to the floor. moments before this, i'd had my foot over my head.

a guy slid into my DMs. a row of vomiting emojis prefaced: you should really lose some weight before you think about dancing.

i stared at it for a long time. there was a time when i would have been triggered by this, where it would have encouraged me to starve myself. i would have ignored the fact i'm flexible, agile, good at jumping: i would have lost the weight for a stranger's passing comment. i would have found myself and my body fucking disgusting.

and for what? to please what? because why? so that he can exist in this world without an unchallenged eyeball? what would my self-hatred even accomplish? usually i write paragraphs. obviously. on this particular occasion, in this body i've been at war with for ages: i just felt exhausted.

it shouldn't be even worth saying. it shouldn't be hard to explain. all of this emotional turmoil when he cannot even comprehend the most basic truth: i am not an object on display for him.

[jolalibrary]

meet me in the city where we won't sleep

javier peña x f!reader | main masterlist

summary: home: a place where we feel most comfortable, loved, and protected — where we most feel at home. except javi, who has returned from colombia and feels his home is living miles away.

childhood besties!javi x f!reader

wordcount: 9k (i'm so sorry)

warnings: childhood best friend!javi. flirting. 18+ - although just a little smutty with fingers. brief mention of drunkenness years ago. emotions (ugh) and feelings (yuk) and idiots who just don't wanna confess things but really should. javi calls you flor and you call him a pineapple. alternating times.

an: originally started for april showers, it's taken me an age to get this done because i wanted it to be perfect. i really hope it is. the biggest thank you to @thetriumphantpanda who read all of this and gave me a gold star. it would have stayed in my drafts if not for you. thank you to @rhoorl for checking my spanish.

It would have been cliche to say he fell for you in a field of bluebonnets—your dress white, face glum, hands ripping up blooms from the soil that you clutched in your hand.

Lost, aimless, both in the blue of the petals and in your thoughts as you continued to yank stems up and bring bunches to your nose, unaware of him watching from the tree. His legs swung, and a smile slid into one cheek as the leaves rustled above in the warm breeze.

It took a while before you noticed him, practically half a field’s worth in your hands, hands wound around them as your dress swished at your ankles.

“What do you want, Piña?”

He supposed, for kids, that was an insult.

“What you doing in my field, Flor?”

Javi didn’t know your name then. Now he struggled to go a minute without thinking it.

Sitting still hadn’t seemed a possibility in the days since he’d been back.

And then, that’s all he’d done for the last eight hours before he was greeted by rain.

It’s relentless, an onslaught that blurs the world into a watery haze. The kind that soaks through every layer of clothing like a challenge; the type that drips from everything, making pools in the streets and turning them into dark mirrors, reflecting the grey and full clouds from above.

Not that Javi cares.

If anything, he likes it. Finds it cleansing, like the world is being washed clean, even if he knows how untrue that actually is as his eyes follow a bead rushes across the glass of the cab.

The driver has been mumbling about the weather for the entire journey—a thing he’s barely listened to since he’d recommended waiting for a break in the weather. It was likely they just didn’t wish to drop him where he’d described, rather hoping Javi would opt for someplace warmer, most likely smokier, so that he could call it a day too.

Javi doesn't do that now—smoking, that is.

Hasn’t done since he left that apartment that never felt like his, in a city that he’d spent years in that never felt like home. Threw them in the trashcan before his Pop had picked him up, craved and wanted all the way through dinner. He’d done it once, he’d do it again.

When the cab screeches to a halt, he pays, steps out (bag in hand) and spots the phone booth all in one fluid motion. It’s barely lit, front weathered by time and neglect. Smirk curling into his cheek as he remembers you telling him about it—that on cloudless days you can see it, likes to make stories about it as you enjoy a meal-for-one or crunches down cereal.

It hadn’t been a thing he’d thought much about.

Then, it was all he had thought about.

Standing there, making a story that could become real. A gesture, kind and deserving of someone who had put up with his shit since they were children. You’d always liked those big moments in the movies—his eyes glancing over at you, finding yours big, wide and shimmering with tears that wish to glide down your cheek.

Although, that had been well over a decade ago—the two of you had remained in touch, close, or as much as he could allow. Your visit to Colombia had still felt like the sunniest day, a bright spot in a sea of dark; a day that coloured his world in shades he hadn’t known existed, that dulled the moment he’d had to bid farewell at the airport.

It hadn’t been safe for you to do another, pleading in fact to not risk it. A thing, he suspects, is not a thing he’s been easily forgiven for.

He supposes it’s why he hasn’t told you he was coming. The flight had been booked, bag packed—fingers tapping, soul hoping you wouldn’t turn him away once he’d gotten here. To the phone box over the bridge from your place—the one obscured from view by the downpour that seemed never-ending.

Because, as soon as two weeks had racked up at him being home, he found himself itching to move, to be somewhere other than surrounded by fields and the watchful stare of his Pop. Parental worry a hard thing to hide from in a home washed in memories.

Sliding open the door, cramming himself into the booth, Javi had no concern about remembering your number. It was burned into him, etched into him with a blunt tool—almost studied, committed to memory while he ticked over godfathers and the weight of right and wrong.

He remembers when you’d changed it, when your voice informed him of the move, the chance—all excited tone, a pitch closer to a squeak than your voice: no more roommates, just me, myself and I.

He also remembers the ember inside of him pleased that Tom joined the underserving list, slid under Mia and Rich as you informed him you were single again.

Sliding quarters in, finger punching the numbers—he hopes you’re home. A niggling feeling threatens to unwind inside of him as the tone drills into his skull—attempts to drown out the rain rapping against the glass booth he’s standing in.

“Hello?”

“Flor?”

It kisses his ear, your snort. Light. Sweet. “Javier Piña, what do you want?”

You sound like you did in Colombia. Having half-expected the crackle meeting his ear to be down to the distance, rather than your shoddy home phone.

Pressing the receiver to his head, a smile there—desperate to flow out across his lips and exhausted face, he moves it back. “Tal vez te extrañé.”

“Mierda. I don’t believe you.”

Even amidst the noise of passing cars and the relentless drumming of raindrops, he catches the melody of your laughter—a symphony of joy that unravels a part of his soul. It releases it, unlocks it, beckons it to be free—metaphorically makes him release his shoulders, and take a breath. The part of him hidden away, floods back through him—no longer fearful of being taken, clawed or wormed from him as he handed other parts of himself to the job, the task, the goal.

Not you, though. Javi would never surrender you.

A pocket of sunshine he’d kept close to him like your chicken-scratch letters and your tipsy phone calls when he’d caught you coming in after a night with friends.

“Where are you, Piña?”

Wiping his mouth with his thumb, he pauses. Traces his index along the hair growing above his lip, glancing out through the rain-smeared glass, the one cracked in places. Not sure if any of the lights on the other side are hers, but lingering on each just in case.

“In a phone booth on a bridge…”

He hears you swallow, loud, almost difficult.

“…right across from your place.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Smirking, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. “Are you lying to me?”

Smirking, he stares out again. “No.”

Because he couldn’t, not if he tried. Not just because you see through it, but because it wounds him to do so. Picks at him, and makes him bleed in ways that don’t ruin him in scarlet.

“Give me five minutes.”

The call ends before he can get in a bye.

The receiver placed back, bag straps cutting into his palms again as he exits, the heavens lashing against him as he slowly walks. Taking his time. Nervousness bubbling like a broth inside of him with each step, coming up to the top curve of the bridge, trying to look up, spot you—

Then he does.

Running, coat billowing behind—flapping in the wind as it breaks out over your face: that smile. The one that lit fires inside of him, the one first doing so at the time his bedroom at home had its last lick of paint, it now peeling, cracked.

Dropping his bag, Javi isn’t sure whether to brace or not—taking three more steps forward before you collide with him. Arms around him, chest to chest, your wet cheek sliding past his as your soaked clothes marry to his.

It would be odd to say it felt like home hugging you, but it does. It feels right, safe—a piece completing him as he digs his chin into your head.

“You smell the same,” you muffle into his chest.

Javi smiles, knowing the bottle on his dresser is the one from his younger years. Sun-ruined and likely faded, yet managing to linger on his skin enough to cause recollection.

Pushing past lilies, excusing himself through swarms of bodies adorned in black fabric, Javi found you sitting cross-legged between two tall stands of flowers.

Your eyes were puffy—red, swollen—and your dress was as black as his suit; your fingers were balled around a single lily and a scrunched-up tissue, the skirt of your dress skated over your bent knees.

“What d-do you want, Piña?”

But it didn’t land with the tone he had come to know.

Instead, he extended a hand you thankfully took, pulling you up from the ground before he opened his arms—letting you move in, slot yourself between them as they enveloped you close.

Letting his best friend fall apart at the back of the church, your sobs vibrated against his bones and his chin rested on your head as he whispered he had you, over and over again.

A thing you repaid when his mother passed a few years later.

Talking had always been a skill—unless he had to discuss feelings.

It wasn’t that it was easy to lie, or that he found the idea of feeling difficult—if anything, it was as though he felt too much. Guilt. Affection. Righteousness. Protection. Each one a little harder to carry, to wear.

More so around you. The walls had to be tighter, or they’d crumble into ruin, the dust spilling all his secrets before he’d confess whatever wasn’t already written over his face. But, you don’t needle him—instead, you make him a plate from leftovers, tell him about some gossip your mom had informed you of, until you offer him your shower, your sofa and bid him goodnight.

“You’ll be here in the morning?”

“Not going anywhere.”

Lingering in the doorway to your bedroom, fingers playing the piano on the wood. “You’ve said that before.”

He knows he has.

It rises up in him like a storm, whipping around his organs, making his chest tighten as he lies down in comfort but stares up at the unfamiliar. He can hear the rain, how it pitters and patters—how it likely streams down the windows behind your curtains.

He should find it odd that he'd rather fall asleep here, than in his bed back where he grew up. A strange solace in the unknown here, a quiet surrender to the whispers he usually has to hear when the night comes.

But, they're not here.

At some stage, he must sleep, before he wakes to the scent of coffee and soft sunshine. His ears catch the sound of you calling in sick—a cough, a put-on voice, one all removed when you throw a throw cushion at him and ask him what he wants for breakfast.

That’s how he finds his knee kissing yours under the small table as your spoon scoops cereal before letting it drop back into the bowl. Just like when you were kids. Just like when you were all excitable, too in a rush to sit for a moment, stomach likely fluttering with agitation.

“You keep staring.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Flor.”

The thing is, you’re not wrong.

Each time he has a second, he lingers—gazes. Metaphorically pinching himself as he forgoes digging a nail into his skin under the cuff of his shirt, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. A thing he finds he’s doing now, after a night of laughing until you couldn’t keep your eyes open and a full day of exploring, you walk a little ahead before spinning on your heel to smile at him.

“I have to show you my favourite place—before you go.”

He hates that there’s an end date on this. Bought himself a few days of normal, before returning to something that feels anything but.

Scratching his jaw, brows raised and eyes wide. “You’ve replaced our spot?”

Rolling your eyes, you take his hand—fingers slotting, palm pressing against his. For a moment, a reflex, he thinks of pulling away. Thinking of what else sat as perfectly in his palm as you—a thing that took, but never gave. A thing that he held more than he had ever held a woman.

“My favourite place here.”

He expects a lot of things, maybe flowers, maybe a bar, but he finds himself inside a bookshop. One with floor-to-ceiling shelves, dark wood, the large window letting in light that barely reaches the back. He supposes it’s good they have a chandelier, one that sparkles, shines—like it’s as well maintained as the shelves.

“Books?”

“Books.”

Your finger prodding into him, facing him, body fully twisted. That smile there, the one which slides into one of your cheeks and makes his eyes flick from it to your eyes and then back.

It’s there when you turn on your heel down an aisle, it remaining when he follows—when he hovers close, so easily able to pin you, cage you in between his palms.

“Which do you recommend?”

Shooting him a look, you trail your finger over spines, over the shelf they sit on. “Didn't know you could read?”

“Funny.”

Grinning, you pull on one, handing it to him. His eyes take it in, the cover, the name, the author.

“I think you’ll like the characters,” you explain, eyes lighting up as you lean. “They're flawed but resilient.”

Chewing his cheek, he swallows. Listening, hearing you read the blurb after you lift the book in his hands so you can read it, word for word as he focuses on you. Noticing the way your eyes shine when talking about something you love, the way one of your hands begins to move as you describe the plot, and the characters. Realising, that he could listen to you talk about anything all day.

“You should read it,” you suggest, as he flips through the pages. Having never been much of a reader, time being a factor, his job has been the reason.

“Alright,” he nods, tucking the book under his arm. “I'll read it.”

Your smile brightens even more if that's possible.

“Chucho is gonna be so shocked when I tell him you bought a book.”

Frowning, he follows you, leading him down another aisle. “You talk to my pop?”

Shrugging, like it’s nothing. Like the words that are about to tumble out of your mouth don’t matter like they won’t stitch themselves to him and make him feel like pulling you to his chest.

“I check in—make sure he’s okay. Done it weekly since you left the first time.”

His face falls, descends slowly. He feels it—watches you take it in as yours slowly mirrors him. And, even if he’s been thinking it, it bubbling at the back of his throat, he finds himself unable to stuff it back down—to shove it between other regrets and unsaid words.

“I’ve really missed you.”

Each word lands, your eyes widening as your nose does a little twitch as they do, before you whisper, resting against the edge of a bookcase, “I’ve missed you too.”

Sat on the rock, the sound of a car door slamming disturbed the peace. Not needing to look, knowing that gait, that little kick of the ground as you stopped in front of him.

Hand shielding your eyes from the sun, flower tucked behind your ear.

“Hello, Flor.”

“Piña. Heard you were cursing Laredo.”

Smirking, you sat next to him, nudging him over. The two perched on a rock overlooking part of the city—as his head turned but his eyes stared at you from the corner of them.

“I give it a month and someone else will do something bad enough that people cross the street.”

Swallowing, he exhaled. “Thanks.”

“Did you love her?”

Turning his head, staring at you—eyes flicking from yours to a place on your face he shouldn’t look. “Not enough to marry her.”

“Then you did the right thing.”

A thing he only believed when your hand slid over his, hooking your little finger over his.

“It’s because you’re in love with me, isn’t it?”

Snorting, head shaking, your words washed back over him and he broke into a laugh. “Shut up, Flor.”

Nudging him, taking the flower from your hair and handing it to him. “It’s okay if you do, I know I’m a catch.”

He's embarrassed that it isn't until the second day that Javi finds the chance to really admire your place.

How it’s exactly what he imagined. So very you, all cosy, muted, with spots of colour. Plants and throw cushions, blankets and wicker baskets stuffed with things he suspects you have no recollection of.

What catches his eyes are the photographs, the memories frozen in time around your walls and on shelves. His eyes sweep over them, in a trance still from the scent of your perfume mixing with vanilla from a lit candle.

Each time he sweeps his sight over, he spots new things, remembering brief conversations, smirking to himself until his eyes land on a frame that makes his mouth part and his heart clench.

Him and you; you and him. Sunglasses far too big for your face, staring up at him as he beams at the camera. The backdrop of his ranch, his home, the one he so often left behind like it hadn’t mattered.

Done it weekly since you left the first time.

The words roll around his head now. All metal and round, bouncing against other thoughts, trying to dig his heels into the present and not wonder about what kind of calls you make—whether they’d be about him, whether you’d confess things you’d never admit to him.

Your clanging around is what pulls him to the present. The bangs of cupboards and pans clattering as he stares at it—as he notices how different his build is, how many years have passed. The occasional cursing from you is a rather nice anchor that keeps him in the present.

“Flor?” He waits until he hears you hum. “Order in again, I’ll pay.”

It’s here within the hour.

A favourite, you had told him. A quick apology that you’ll be messier than last night, that you’re dying of hunger. He reminds you he doesn’t care. Not as you slide the triangle slice out, the tip kissing your chin before it’s absorbed by your mouth, sauce lingering on your lips—dust from the crust resting on your nose.

He’s not sure what’s better, the taste of the pizza or the sight of watching you. Having the chance to watch you.

“So I have to ask.”

Grumbling, he pulls at the topping on his slice. “Here we fucking go.”

“Did you like the tie I sent you?”

Half-scowling, swallowing the mouthful of pizza—recalling the box on his desk, atop files and paperwork with a note attached: One down, three to go. Written in that same handwriting he could spot in a lineup—the one he had wished there and then would be etched into him, a mark left, a thing he could brush his thumb over when his heart ached and he felt lost.

“I was disappointed not to see you photographed in it.”

“You knew damn well I wasn’t going to wear a fucking pineapple tie to a press conference.”

Pouting, you smirk. Picking at another slice, staring up at him from the floor, all cross-legged. “Thought you might have for me.”

It’s there, ebbing—words that feel far more intimate than they should—crystallising, burning upon his tongue.

I’d do anything for you.

It’s there, unwritten, pulsating and breathing in the space between you and him, existing, never diminished. Memories where it’s been all but similar rising like lava, singeing him, threatening to burn away the walls he throws up for the sake of friendship.

Because he knows what people think. Saw it hung in his pop’s eyes at his Tia’s wedding when you came as a guest, an uninvited plus one that was welcomed like you were already part of the family. Heard it, in the wind between the grass before he’d left the first time, a farewell outdoor thing, your parents crestfallen, as though they’d assumed—like he imagined a lot of them—the two of you would have figured it out by now.

Watching you stand, hand outstretched for his plate, you take it with a smile. A shout of two options for drinks, an unsurprising one chosen by him—it bubbling in the glass when you hand it to him, settling in beside him.

“Not sure I told you, but you have a nice couch.”

“Most expensive thing in this place—probably better than my own bed,” you smirk, sipping your drink. Head rolling towards him, brows raised, eyes that bit wider. “So, are you okay?”

You’re the only one who could ask and get a reply, he supposes. Those same words were said to him a handful of times, down the phone from Murphy, over the table from Pop, even on aisles of the supermarket when he’d been staring between brands he hadn’t heard of.

“I gave you a day to tell me, and since you won’t, I’m gonna ask. Are you okay, Javier Peña?” you continue, body shifting, thigh pressing against his—heat radiating from between yours to his. “Because you’re methodical. You’re not… get on a plane and fly to a different city just because.”

“You not happy I’m here?”

Grinning, all teeth—it reaching and hanging in your eyes. “Los más felices. But, are you?”

Yes. It’s all he thinks.

Chewing his tongue, his eyes drop to his soda because he’s unsure how to say that. Not as he watches the bubbles float up and burst—the song that had been playing coming to a stop, allowing the rain to play an interval against your windows.

It doesn’t make sense, in some ways: how he’s kept you—been able to keep you close. Somehow not ruined you, twisted this thing between the two of you, made it rot, sullied it with disappointment and selfishness.

“I am now,” he replies.

Good, you breathe. Letting it sit, simmer. Paper over any cracks as your eyes sparkle and remain fixed on him, tracing him as though not completely sure he’s real.

That is, until you grab the remote, excitedly telling him about the night of television they have ahead of them. A blanket, at some stage, finds itself over him, you nestling into his side—like when they were teens before the world became a problem and narcos were all he hunted.

For a while, you catch him up, explain plots and characters. Then, you fall silent, brows crinkled in concentration. His eyes slide to the side to watch, to spot the little things you do as she settles in closer, brings your legs up, and rests almost all of yourself against him.

Between one show and another, he feels the rhythm of your breathing change, your body relaxing further against him. He glances down and finds your eyes closed, features soft and serene in sleep. Realisation dawns on him—you’ve fallen asleep. His heart does a slow tumble in his chest, a wave of warmth spreading through him. All of a sudden aware of the gentle weight of you against his side, the way your hand is loosely holding onto him. He watches, just for a moment, taking in the sight of you, so peaceful and trusting in your sleep. This moment is so intimate, so precious, he wants to freeze it in time.

What else is a guy like you gonna do…

This, he thinks. Looking at you, asleep, peaceful—curled into his side, fingers around his forearm.

Smiling, he takes the remote from your fingers, turning the volume down as he gets more comfortable—pressing a soft kiss to your hairline.

He carried a single red rose down the side of your house—nudging open the window the rest of the way, climbing in like he had done years ago.

He didn’t need eyes, didn’t fancy having to explain to his parents how he could do that to that nice girl and her family. Javi had faced enough judgement, enough stares.

The only eyes he wanted were staring at him, remaining so as he stepped close and handed you the flower with the thorns picked free. “Come with me.”

Sighing, eyes averting, you swallowed loudly in the thick quietness. “You don’t want that. Your best friend following you.”

Eyes flicking up to meet his, you took another deep breath. Fingers flexed at your side, weight shifting from one foot to the other before you exhaled—louder than before.

“I don’t want to follow you, best friend.”

Then don’t be just that, he thought, thumb swiping over the tips of his fingers as he hovered, waited. Then he took a step closer, and another. The gap closed, becoming shorter and shorter—

“What are you doing, Piña?”

“Kissing you.”

Lips pursing, trying not to smirk, you took the rose and put it on your dresser. “Don’t feel your lips on mine, Javier.”

And then he kissed you, his fingers clutching at your jaw—body pressed against yours, tasting your whine, your moan.

He felt your fingers clutch at his shirt as he told you to be quiet.

Laid you on your bed of flowers, knees digging into stitched roses and sunflowers, as you arched off the bed when his fingers slid between your thighs—like he wished he’d done a handful of times before now.

He’s not sure of the time when he wakes, but it’s dark.

A contentedness in his bones that doesn’t fade as he begins to blink, as he takes in his surroundings and remembers where he is. Feeling you, warm, pressed as close against him as humanly possible. Able to see the outline of you, before his eyes manage to paint the rest, how his knee has slotted between your legs—bodies a mess of limbs that takes him back to years ago.

Javi notices how the television is switched off as you try to move, to wiggle and escape. His shirt discarded, the cool air misting over him, pebbling his skin as he slides his arm around you, pinning you tighter to him.

Brain all addled with dreams and sleep, as his awakening state tries to remind him what he’s doing.

What door he’s trying to open all over again.

“Javi…”

Not Piña, Peña or Javier. Javi, all soft and whispery, like honey dripping into his ear as he turns his head to find your stare in the dark. Somehow finding it shimmering, fixed, more than awake.

Then you whisper his name again, and it’s heavenly, a piece of it anyway. A sound he realises he’s missed more than he cares to find words to describe as he hears you push out a breath—fingers finding his arm, stroking, sliding their warmth up and down the muscle of his arm as he swallows.

It’s slow, hand cupping your cheek as he shifts his body, and finds yours moves with him. The beginning of a partner dance, one it feels you’ve both practised in small spaces but never actually have as he slides his lips over yours. Moulds them to yours. Tasting faint mint on your tongue when you deepen it—when you pay attention, listen, taking each cue you give him from the movement of your mouth to the way your hands grasp at him to come closer.

A whimper tries to break through, to escape through messy kisses and tangled bodies, but it vibrates through him. Makes him shudder with how much he wants you, moving your knee, hooking it over his hip as he slots his waist between your thighs and you gasp at the feel of him flush against you.

Practically whine.

Nose brushing your cheek, palm flat, fingers spreading out over your hip as he feels you roll your body into him, he smiles—breathy, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “Forgot how soft you are.”

You hum, head-turning, mouth latching itself back to his.

“Forgot how good of a kisser you are.”

Snorting, he lightly bites your lower lip. “Best remind you then.”

“Best do,” you whisper, pulling him by his hair back to your mouth.

You write a poem against his lips, signing it with your tongue against his as his fingers snake under the band of your sleep shorts, tasting your moan, your hiss and whimper when he touches you like he’s wanted to since he landed back in the States.

When two fingers slide slowly inside of you, curling, the sound of his name is like a fucking sin he wants to be draped in, wrapped in, even dressed in. Him seeking, searching, finding that spot that has your legs opening for him, nails scraping against his scalp.

“More, Javi. Please—”

“You’re so tight, Flor,” he croons, burying the words in your neck, the tip of his tongue swiping over your collarbone as you grab a handful of his hair. “Feel so good around my fingers.”

Your hips writhe, roll them against his hand, gasping. Making a mess, dripping, practically gushing over his hand, as he fights pulling his hand free and getting a taste.

“Be better—dios mio—around your cock—”

Smirking, teeth nipping at your neck, “I remember.”

Head lifting, thankful the night sky is clear, that the moon is draping you in a slither of milky light so he’s able to see your eyes flutter shut. Able to witness what his fingers do to you, the effects of their teasing and the languid movements as he finds that angle, the one which makes you grind against his palm, and has your chest heaving.

He moans your name against your tongue, drinking down a blend of pleases falling from your swollen lips as he plunges deeper, walls squeezing him.

There he thinks, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder, as you dig your nails further into his scalp, tensing, bearing down on him to the point he hopes you’ll leave a mark, leave a cut, a signature of this moment he can run his fingers over.

“Kiss me,” you gasp, all wrapped in desperation as you pull at his shoulder.

His mouth only just pressing to yours when your cry buries against his tongue, when you flutter and arch as he continues to work you through it. His name breaks through messy kisses, it escaping effortlessly like it doesn’t wish to be buried anymore.

You don’t let him pull away, hooking one leg around him. Watching, not able to take your eyes from him as he retracts his hand—as he licks your pleasure from his fingers and you stare with a twinkle in your eye.

“You best fuck me now.”

Smirking, a low laugh escaping. “Yeah? Want me that bad, Flor?”

Lifting onto your elbows, he waits for a taunt, a tease—something that’ll bring him down a peg or two. What he finds, instead, is your fingers slowly crawling up his bare chest, around his neck, your chin tilted up.

“I need you, Javi. Need you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?”

“And then I wanna get on top,” you whisper, dragging each syllable out, “and fuck you until the sun comes up.”

“Murphy is a nice guy.”

Eyes narrowing, he shot you a glare—watching as you shimmied your jacket from your shoulders. Bare arms, bare legs—except for the thin tank and shorts adorning your body—that had him thinking un-best friend things.

“You jealous, Piña?”

“Of a married guy? Fuck no.”

Grinning, you moved closer—boxing him in. Staring into his eyes, in a way that made him feel like he was being seen, read, and admired all at once. “Is that because you left a bite mark on my hip?”

Tracing his fingers along your neck, he felt himself smile. That flutter in his chest again, the one which had appeared one day when the two of you were teens and hadn’t gone away since.

“Ask me to stay,” you whispered, hands on either side of him—all boxed in. “Ask me, Javi.”

Running his tongue over the front of his teeth, he raised a hand, knuckles brushing over your cheek. Wanting nothing more. A week gone too quickly. Already feeling the pressure slip back over his muscles, seeping into his bones. But he knew. He pictured it, the things he had nightmares over—even when you were far away, never mind when you were asleep in the room next to his.

“Too dangerous.”

“That it? I can learn—”

“No.”

“No?”

He stared. Thought of the things he had done. The people he had already let down. The things he had let happen to people who deserved far better. It layering, and layering, and layering and—

Nodding, disappointment spread, before it was washed over in acceptance. “What’re we eating?”

When he wakes, he expects to find you dressed in corporate and apologising in a voice that’s accompanied by a pout at the foot of your bed. The place the two of you found yourself on at 4 am.

Instead, you fake another performance. Earn an Oscar over the phone before switching to the excitable one you present to him when you sit at the foot of the bed.

There’s something there. It hangs in your eyes. A secret, a thing shifted and dislodged now your mask has slipped from the few hours of sleep and the ruining of your sheets.

But he doesn’t ask, because if he does, he fears he’d tell you things in return. Alter the way you see him. Change it, taint it. Practically ruin the man you think he went to be and the one he's returned as.

It'll hurt him if you look at him with disgust. You’ve burnt him after all, left him winded, air knocked from his lungs each time he’s laughed. All but imprinted into his mind, a thing never filed but rather pinned up and forever there, like artwork on a fridge.

“Wanna get a coffee?”

Hands pulling on a pair of jeans, buttoning them as he sees the peaks of your nipples through your white tee. And he knows your face is bare and you're dressed in clothes you just pulled out without thought—yet, you are, as always, the prettiest damn thing he’s ever seen.

A thing he thinks when he showers.

When he smiles as he scrubs the shampoo into his hair, feels the soreness at parts from where your nails had dug in. He doesn't stop beaming when he smears his palm across the glass, takes in his appearance as you open the door, a towel hung low on his hips, eyes dropping down.

“Now who's staring, hermosa.”

“Don’t be a work of art to be admired then.”

He dresses in record time, your hand swinging beside his, so within reach, so easy to grab. But he doesn’t.

None of last night mentioned, even if he knows he’s left bruises on your inner thighs from keeping them apart; even if you've left scratch marks on his shoulders from when you sunk down on him, head thrown back, jaw elongated as he rolled your nipples between his fingers.

Javi doesn't even mention it when he hears you gasp at the taste of your coffee, a noise similar to when he'd licked a stripe up your pussy, when he tasted both you and him.

It was just like in Colombia.

A thing buried, hidden underneath other topics the two of you don’t discuss. Dead parents and a town you both ran from. A thing he almost wants to change, correct, but then you stop outside a flower shop.

The sign battered, peeling. Hidden between two nicer shops, yet the scent made his nose twitch.

“You should buy me flowers.”

“Should I?”

Smirking, teeth biting your lip. “Por lo de anoche.”

Head shaking, he finds himself following anyway. Unable to stop his eyes from falling to the back pocket you shove your phone in, hand reaching, palm pressing to the globe of your ass as he hears the muffled sound of a giggle—

“Piña.”

“Flor,” he whispers, practically breathes it against your neck.

The bubble expands, knowing at some point it’ll pop. Too happy, he thinks. Too settled for a man who has a solo flight back. It’s why he drops his hand, lets you move further in, watching as you scan over already-made bouquets for one he knows you won’t find.

Because they don’t know you. Not like him. There’s not years between you and this shop—this place.

His fingers lightly roll over a stem, staring at the flower, before he has pulled it free from the bucket, and then another, and then another. Not at all a florist—or someone artistic enough to make a bunch—but a person who at least knows you. Knows that in each of the pre-made bundles there’s a flower you dislike, one that’ll remind you of something, someone.

“Here.”

You blink, eyes widening as they move from the bunch in his hand to his face. “Javi…”

“There your—”

“Favourites,” you finish, eye narrowing, lips still parted. “You remembered all my favourites?”

Shrugging, aware of how close he is to real—to something that could shatter, break. A thing he’ll do, just give it time. Feeling it wrap its tendrils around his chest, around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until your hand slips in his. Palm to palm, fingers finding their way between his slowly, cautiously, your eyes not leaving his face as you do.

“Didn’t know my pussy was good enough for flowers, Piña,” you comment, voice low, a smirk there.

“You deserve more than flowers.”

“I’m that good?”

Shaking his head, hand still in yours, he presses a kiss to your forehead, swallowing. “Siempre has sido.”

“Hello?”

He heard the hiccup, the slur of his name as he smirked against the phone—finger and thumb massaging his forehead as he heard you hiccup again. “Flor?”

“Piña, did you know that I miss you?”

Adjusting the tie around his neck, staring down at the pineapples—the box open, atop a bunch of files, in the office he should have been thankful for. “You sound like you’ve had a good night.”

You howled, the laugh all high-pitched. “Maybe I have—maybe I haven’t. What I do know is that I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“No. I love you.”

Smirking, thumb tracing an outline of one of the pineapples. “You’re drunk.”

“Still love you.”

Swallowing, he let out a heavy exhale.

“You doing okay, mi Piña?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer, how to respond. Head tilting back in his office chair, the ice melted in his whiskey and the hour so late he wondered why you were still up as you extended his nickname out into as many syllables as you could.

“I am now—okay, I mean.”

It needs to be left alone.

He knows it. Reminds himself of it when it rears its head at every second he doesn't. Because, it doesn't need to be needled, or picked at until it bled.

But, Javi picks at it all the same when you avoid his question again.

His hand slides over his face, index finger tracing a line down his nose as he waits until your laugh fades. Your fork twists the spaghetti round and round, and when it falls, it simply lands on the table between the two of you—the air tinged with the scent of dinner and the flowers from the shop.

“When were you going to tell me you hate your job?”

Your smile shrinks, like the sunlight being muted by the night. Spine straightening, chin lifting. The walls coming down both literally and figuratively, seeing you prepare for war when he’s army-less and unafraid.

“Si significo algo para ti, no lo hagas.”

He snorts, resting on his arm, letting the sheets fall to his waist. Because of course, he cares, and of course, he wants to do this. Balling up the hand beside his hip, seeing the murkiness in your eyes, the joy snuffed out and hidden, as though the hatchets were coming down to protect against his storm.

Javi says your name, softly, honeyed—delicately drip-feeding the air each letter until it’s out there existing.

One by one, it happens. Your eyes avert, chin dipping down; your tongue drags across the front of your teeth and then your arms fold. “I hate my job. Happy? I wanted it so bad—and now I have it, I hate it. I hate going in, I hate doing it. I can’t tell anyone that because it’s all I wanted.”

“It’s okay.”

Snorting, fake smile sketching across your face as your eyes harden to the point they’re brittle. “It isn’t. I left. I turned my back and got as far out of there as I could, and now I’m stuck.”

It breaks him a little.

Seeing it then, the many shards inside of you that you’re trying to keep whole. The pieces that are so worn and tired from doing their best to fit, but struggling to do so.

It’s why he protests that you’re not. He tries to rationalise and says the same words he knows you’d say to him if he called—if he had told you the truth about everything when he was over there. He tries to add kindness to his words as you continue to stare at him like you wish your bed would swallow him whole.

“—You’re saying this like I didn’t say the same thing to you, and you went and did another five years.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?” you spit, standing now, finger pointing and nose flared. “Because your job means more?—���

“No, because I’m a fucking idiot, Flor. You’re not.”

You mutter under your breath, curse him—a blend of poisonous Spanglish that has the heel of his palm pressing against his forehead.

Because it’s like last time.

The words surge up inside of him—except you’re both older now, both carrying more pain and hurt from a world that continues to pile on when bones are already struggling. Walls threw up, keeping him out in all the same ways—except now his mess is also between your thighs, and you aren’t half as good at hiding how his words hurt you.

“Come home with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Folding your arms, your head shaking. “I can stick it out—work my way up, it’ll get better—”

“You know it won’t. Know how well that went for me.”

Then you scoff. It blended with razors and sharpened to injure. “No, I don’t. Because you don’t talk about what happened.”

“You read about it.”

“But that’s not your story, Javi. That’s theirs.”

For a moment, he sees it. How hollow you look, how weak, sad and broken. So he repeats it, the request, the offer. Come home with me. But the door shuts, locks, a bolt thrown over.

And everything, all of it, splinters; it doing so before your mouth even opens and he sees what his request has done.

“I’m not coming home just because you’ve decided you want to play happy fucking families, Peña. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’ve decided to run away, and it doesn’t begin turning again because you’ve come home and decided what you want.”

“That isn’t—”

“You left. You left me.”

“—Flor—”

“—and I asked you to let me stay—when I knew you were hurting. I asked and you said no—”

He whispers your name, broken—like it shatters the moment it greets the air.

“—I wasn’t good enough then. So why am I now?”

Shaking his head, legs flung from under your sheets, he stands—aware he’s half-naked, aware this isn’t the time as you step back.

You shake your head, tears dangling, resistant to fall. “I bet you’re not even staying.”

“I am—”

Head tilting, a crystal tear falling down your cheek, you scoff. Loud. Brutal. “Have you even unpacked? Or did you just get on a plane here?”

Swallowing, Javi rolls his jaw. Fingers flexing at his side, staring, urging himself to find words as his tongue thickens in his mouth. Because he’s staying, he’s staying, he’s staying—

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Flor—”

“Save it.”

The door of your bedroom slamming behind you is the final sound that echoes out between you both.

It was different.

Hearing you cry down the phone—than when the two of you were younger.

When your first love broke your heart and he lay beside you on sheets covered in stitched flowers. Your head turned to him, the bedroom door open, as you teased your lip between your teeth. The tears had dried, but the rest had still been there, written in markers across your face as you sighed, staring, waiting for him to answer. “What do you want, Piña?” you’d asked, and he’d swallowed that he wanted to punch them.

Now, though, there were miles between the two of you. Distance far more than there had ever been—cities, a whole country.

“I’ll be home soon—can visit you.”

He heard you laugh, it hanging, echoing. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I mean it.”

“You mean a lot of things, Javi.”

“Flor—”

“I wish you'd never kissed me.”

It's a whisper, the way he said your name. It cracked, snapping as it left his tongue.

“I should go shower, early morning and all that.”

He asked you to stay and he heard you sigh.

“What do you want, Piña?”

Swallowing, Javi tapped his fist on the desk—tiredness having crept over him, the last ditch at doing right in Colombia suspended over him. Tell me I’m doing good, that it's worth losing you, Flor. “Have a good day, Flor.”

It’s weeks.

Eight weeks and four days to be exact.

At some point, it becomes less of a want to get in touch and more of a need not to. Your number is always there on his fingers, but his digits never dialling it when his Pop nips out to go to the store, and he’s left alone with his thoughts and memories in a house stuffed full of them.

Javi doesn’t expect anything else.

Having woke that next morning to find a note attached to the book he had bought: Had to go to work. Have a safe flight. Speak soon—a thing he both hoped and prayed for, even as he nursed a drink on the short flight and chain-smoked at the airport before he did the drive home.

Home.

A thing it felt even less of when he arrived this final time. Pulling his truck into its place, dust swirled and kicked up around him. Staring at the house that hasn’t changed much, just the paint thinning, the sun-dyeing it.

Each day that ticks by, he thinks of you. Each week that’s collected, he fights with himself when he’s sat alone at the dining table about flying back out and apologising.

Because he knows what he did.

Did the same thing back then—assumed and foolishly acted as though your wants never mattered. But they do matter. A thing he rehearses in his head when he’s feeding the animals; a thing he runs over when he’s repairing a door here or a fence there.

One week adds up, then another, and another.

If his Pop thinks things, he doesn’t share them. Just shakes his head occasionally, not asking what is wrong, likely knowing. Suspecting he wears it like the rest of his shame, brightly coloured and decorated in bright lights.

A fool’s outfit, he thinks. A thing he is, a thing he knows. It carved into him at this point. Scratched into the skin and muscle, yet everyone else sees the word hero.

It’s eight weeks and four days when the door of the party opens, the sun streaming in—illuminating the back of a person in a dress adorned with flowers. It takes a second, the condensation on his beer dripping down his wrist as he stares, trying to place the shape and the style of the hair. Not wanting to imagine, not wanting to jump ahead of himself until he hears your mom say your name, all excitable—practically a shriek.

He’s not prepared.

Yet, it’s out of habit he moves.

Like the two of you are magnets, that realised they were supposed to be a pair. The music doesn’t quiet, and the room doesn’t hold its breath, but Javi does—and he suspects you do too.

Just as time comes to a slow stop—the hand in his watch takes an age to flick to the next second as his heart hammers into his ribs. Staring, fingers itching to reach out and ensure you’re not something he’s fabricated, not a mirage from wanting so badly and convincing himself he’d never have it.

“Hi.”

“Hello, Piña.”

It weighs heavy then—clots on his tongue. Almost shapes itself into bile and rests horridly against his tongue as he follows you around, hand close to reaching out to place on your lower back, but stops when he remembers where he is.

Home.

A thing it all of a sudden feels like when you turn your head, lift your chin and stare at him—eyes full of forgiveness, and understanding. “We should talk, right?”

Right, he thinks. Trying to stop the twist in his chest from tightening, trying to stop the dread from filling him and drowning from within. Conversations never go well. A thing he thinks over, and over as his hand strokes over his face, following, one foot after the other, until the warm sun kisses his skin and he finds himself leaning against the side of the building.

“I didn’t come for you.”

He says nothing, not sure if there are any to say.

“I quit. Moved back a week and a bit ago—” your hand comes up to halt him, half-pleading with a tilt and a raise of your eyes. “—and I needed to find things for me, first.”

Folding his arms, he stretches his legs, lets himself elongate, and tries to fill his lungs with air.

“Because I’d have resented you for being right.” Your chin dips, eyes following. “A thing I would do, because you, Javier Peña, know me. And sometimes I really hate that.”

Exhaling, he finds you do the same. Head tilting, lips rolling as you take him in, trace him with your eyes as though you can't quite believe he's real.

“Did you know that every person I’ve been with, it gets to a point where I think ‘Fuck, Javi wouldn’t do this to me’?” Meeting his gaze, you exhale. “And then, no matter how much I felt for them, it goes.”

“Flor…”

Swallowing, you offer the smallest smile. “It’s never gone for you, though. Not when you left. Not when you came back, and left again. Not eight weeks ago when I should have asked you to stay.”

Tongue sticking, flat against the roof his mouth, he grabs your hand—holds it. Runs his thumb over the knuckles as you avert your eyes.

“I live in Laredo now, further north. Did you know I’m so good at what I do, people seek me out?” you say, beaming, letting him pull you closer. “Think they’d have cloned me you if I’d asked for it.”

Dragging his knuckles down your cheek, he’s unable to stop the way it flares up in him—that joy, that ember of happiness—when you smile.

“Because I don’t think I find the idea of being yours that terrible—”

“That so?”

Shaking your head, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt, he watches your smile falter—just for a moment. “Don’t do this, if you’re going to up and leave again, Javi. Because I’d have died happily not telling you what I feel for you.”

“Not doing it again to you.”

“Okay. Then,” you sigh, sliding your arms around his neck, his hands finding a home on your waist. “Well, I guess I should tell you that I really like your moustache.”

“Just really like?” he teases, swaying you as you purse your lips together.

“Fine. I love it.”

Smiling, walking you back until your back meets the wooden railings. “I love that you love it.”

Rolling your eyes, forehead meeting his chest, he feels the laugh roll through you. Rumbling.

“You owe me flowers.”

Snorting, he rests his chin on your head. “I’ll buy you a field, Flor.”

“That’s a good start.”

Thought so, he thinks. Wrapping his arms around you, keeping your head against him, rocking you, like he's wished to do so many times before now.

Home now feeling right.

[tobiasdrake]

Fun Fact: Even in space, ACAB.

Let's talk about Jaco: The Galactic Patrolman, a somewhat more obscure manga compared to Dragon Ball that Akira Toriyama wrote in its setting.

For the most part, this is a short and fairly simple story. It's primarily a character drama, with the developing relationship between Jaco and the scientist Omori as its central focus.

The manga is surprisingly vague about its connections to Dragon Ball for nearly all of its length, until its final chapter. Jaco is here on Earth to thwart some vague threat sent to the planet from a world of hostile aliens. It's only at the end of the manga that we learn he's talking about Goku.

Galactic Patrol detected an Attack Ball leaving Planet Vegeta and making its way to Earth, so they sent Jaco to... assess the situation and then make a decision about whether or not to do anything.

In his defense, the Saiyans are the most powerful race in the universe. I can understand why he doesn't want to fuck with a full-grown Saiyan warrior. Nobody wants to fuck with a full-grown Saiyan warrior. The most that the finest police force in the universe can do against Saiyans is to try and nip them in the bud when they're babies.

It's interesting that Galactic Patrol doesn't have Scouter technology. I wonder if that proprietary? Frieza might have a patent.

But at the same time, I don't want to be too sympathetic to Jaco because. Well. He sucks.

Galactic Patrol sucks. That's kind of the bit. Jaco is a self-absorbed little shit, utterly devoid of empathy or compassion for the people he polices. He's stranded on Earth right now because he wasn't watching the road while driving.

Jaco's a prick, but what little we learn about Galactic Patrol as a whole doesn't make them sound much better.

This one time Jaco accidentally pressed the Extinction Bomb when he wasn't supposed to and wiped out a planet. Hoo boy, was his boss mad! Gave him a real talking to before giving him another Extinction Bomb and putting him back on patrol.

Universe isn't going to police itself, y'know. Someone's gotta be out there very occasionally trying to stop those real estate genocides.

For his part, Jaco's in it for the aesthetic. He likes the image of being a cop, and he spends his time practicing looking cool for when he presumably dispenses justice upon the criminal element.

But his interactions with the common people are filled with condescension and menace.

Like I said, this is the bit. Jaco is a self-important thug with a badge, with the initial conflict stemming as much from trying to keep him from doing something awful to the community under his jurisdiction as from trying to solve his problem.

Ostensibly here to protect Earth from the impending arrival of a Saiyan threat, he is as much a threat to this community as the invader he's here to assess. Without Omori there to guide him, he'd be killing people left and right.

He fits in pretty well with the cast of Dragon Ball, many of whom at least begin their tenure with a degree of amorality to them. Omori himself is a bitter misanthrope ironically thrust into the position of having to convince Jaco not to kill people.

And then there's the manga's biggest Dragon Ball connection: The introduction of Tights.

Any reader who's been picking up on the Dragon Ball-ness of this universe will know immediately where Tights came from. Her name pun gives the game away. Just like how the final chapter clarifies Jaco's target as the young Goku, we get to see the familiar faces of Tights's family as well.

Bulma basically solves the entire plot singlehandedly.

Even as a little kid, the universe's greatest heretic remains unparalleled in the field of game-breaking super-intelligence. Bulma OP do not nerf.

Again, this speaks to how little of the manga is actually about the plot. If this were a story-driven manga, having a character from another manga show up in the final issue and solve the plot in the span of two pages would be pretty disappointing. But since the plot is just an excuse to make these characters interact with one another, it doesn't really matter.

We aren't here for the story; We're here for the relationship between Jaco, Omori, and Tights. With that in mind, Baby Bulma waddling up and going "I fixed the spaceship; Are you stupid or something?" is hysterical.

For her part, Tights lives up to her family legacy of being super-brilliant.

She graduated from college at 16. She's a genius like the rest of the family. What she's not is interested in science and technology. Possibly as a justification for why we've never heard of her before, Tights goes against the mold for her family.

She honestly seems like something of a free spirit. She lives in East City when we meet her, famously the city that Nappa wiped off the map, while Capsule Corp and Bulma's family are out in West City. Rather than a scientist, she works as a body double for a famous pop idol.

As a publicity stunt, they're going to launch an idol into space. Tights's job is to impersonate the idol so she can die in the inevitable disaster instead. She is bizarrely chill with being paid a huge sum of money to get stupidly killed. Much like Bulma, Tights has a terrible sense of self-preservation and is willing to take on incredible risk for the sake of achieving a personal goal.

Tights is the best character in the manga. An aspiring sci-fi novelist who agreed to probably die in space for the sake of the experience. This family gives zero fucks.

And then there's Omori himself.

Despite its title, Omori is basically the main character of this manga. He's the one whose life situation is most heavily scrutinized. This is his status quo that Jaco and Tights enter. Similarly, Omori is the character who undergoes personal transformation as his experiences with Jaco and Tights help him find hope in connections with other people again.

The three characters click really well together. So well, in fact, that Dragon Ball would end up recycling the setup of Super Alien/Crotchety Old Man/Spunky Young Woman for one of the best dynamics they ever wrote.

This is not a copy/paste; Cheelai, Leemo, and Broly are all distinctly separate characters. but you can still feel the barebones aesthetic of Tights, Omori, and Jaco in their dynamic.

So. Yeah. Overall, for what it is, it's a cute little short story about a group of characters just living lives in the world of Dragon Ball. It's the kind of thing that the franchise needs more of, and still does to this day: An opportunity to flesh out the universe a little but also just to let us live in it through the eyes of someone else.

[fettuccin-e]

Right Here, Right Now

Kinktober Day 2: Public

Tags: Miguel O'Hara x Reader, afab!fem!reader, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl omg please), public sex, fingering, its just desperate sex with Mig in an alleyway lol (w/c: 1.3K)

A/N: I have actually had this as a WIP for a long, long time but I modified it to fit this prompt! Glad to finally get some use out of it. Miguel can and will always have me in a chokehold I love him so so much. (I am following prompts from this list by flightlessangelwings!)

You’ve both been apart for too long, far too fucking long. Always away on missions without each other, falling asleep without each other and leaving again with only a quick kiss goodbye, nothing more.

It’s got Miguel a little stir crazy, desperate, and you’re just the same way. So, on the odd mission where you’re actually together, you don’t protest when he crowds you against a brick wall in some dark, dank alleyway, and kisses the god damn life out of you. It’s intoxicating, mind-melting, and fuck, it’s not enough for either of you. 

Miguel growls against your mouth, reaching a clawed hand to the seam of your suit, and rips it, exposing the wetness of your aching pussy to the cool night air. He cups you without any finesse, just pure need, and you gasp wetly into his kiss.

“Miguel,” you whine, but you can’t stop your hips from humping forward into his hand, “we can’t— we can’t, baby, they’re going to start looking for us, oh fuck, they’re gonna see—“

“Shh,” he coos, “just real quick, real quick, sweetheart.” His chest heaves, so broad and thick and clouding your vision as he rubs quick circles into your achy clit with a calloused finger.

“Just- just let me feel you, just for a second, please, baby, mi amor, por favor, tan perfecta, te necesito,” he mumbles, lost in it, and you find yourself nodding along with his words.

He whines at your permission, and you barely manage to utter a “just for a second, just a second, Miguel,” before his suit dissipates around the bulge of this thick cock, and he’s sinking into you, pressing so fucking deep he forces the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering forward as he stretches your pussy around him. “There’s my perfect girl, my beautiful girl, fuck, fuck, missed this pussy so bad, baby.”

It’s hard to breathe like this, Miguel pressing you into the brick wall, curling around you until all you know is him. All you know is the way his scent invades your lungs, the way his fangs graze your throat just barely. The way he pulls his hips back, just a little bit, before shoving forward again, bullying his thick cock so fucking deep inside your little cunt. You can’t get out the words, the sensations all too much for you to bear. There hasn’t been any prep, anything to lead up to you taking Miguel like you usually do. 

No, there's only the adrenaline coursing through your bodies, the desperation stemming from being apart for far too long, and the ache of him settling deep, deep inside you. It’s where you both belong.

So you stutter out aborted little whines of “Mig- Miguel,” and “so-so big,” between overwhelmed sobs into his strong body as he holds you, impaling you on him again and again. He’s mumbling, incessant and slurred as he fucks you into the brick, something about how hot you are, how wet and tight and about how he can’t wait to get you home, how he’s going to fuck you for days. It’s all so hard to understand, you’re not even sure that Miguel knows what he’s saying, if he even wants you to hear all of the deep, dark thoughts spilling from his overwhelmed mouth.

Your body burns, the coarse hair at the base of his cock rubbing at your clit so perfect, so right. It’s all slick and wet and you’re sure that you’re dripping down his fat cock as it slides in and out of you, dripping down his balls. You can at least thank God that his suit isn’t made out of actual fabric; that he won’t have to return to HQ with your wetness staining his front. Not that he’d really mind.

It’s intoxicating, the way he fills you, surrounds you. So much so that you don’t realize how much time has passed until you hear Jessica’s voice from both of your watches, cutting through your whines and Miguel’s growls and the lewd sounds of your bodies meeting. “O’Hara, what’s your position?”

“Fuck,” he snarls, driving into you just a little faster, a little harder, “fuck, not yet, not yet.” He doesn’t respond to Jess, leaning down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss that mostly contains teeth and spit.

“Mig-Miguel, they’re going to be looking, c’mon, baby, we’ve got to g-” you hiccup into his mouth, but your hips move of their own accord, meeting him thrust for thrust as he drives desperately into you.

“Not. Yet.” He growls, punctuating his words with his hips. “Just a little longer, little- little longer, jus’ let me-” he fucks himself into you, so furious and devastating that tears finally manage to spill from your eyes.

“Spiderman 2099, what is your position?” Jessica asks again, and you can hear Pavitr ask you the same thing from your watch, both oblivious to the fact that their leader, your leader, is fucking you into the wall in some dirty back alley in a universe that neither of you know, that neither of you care to know. All you know is Miguel’s body against yours, exchanging desperate breaths as he thrusts deep into your sticky pussy, curling your hands into his hair as he digs his fingers into your waist, his claws nearly tearing the fabric of your suit.

“Miguel,” you moan, “we have to go, please we have to go, they’re looking for us, they’re gonna see-”

“No,” Miguel whines, and you want to fall to your knees with how absolutely devastated he sounds, “can’t- you can’t go, ‘s too soon, baby, let me have you, let me have you,” he’s slurring around his fangs, his eyes burning red at the edges as his eyes meet yours. He grabs at the watch on your wrist, cutting it off with a deft claw, and you choke on your spit as he crushes it easily in his palm. 

“Miguel-” you start, but he cups a thick hand over your mouth, and you can only watch as he raises his watch to his face and says, far more collected than he’s been this entire night, “Anomaly neutralized, returning to HQ. Meet tomorrow for a debrief.”

“Not tonight?” Pav chirps, and Miguel ruts into you hard, his gaze burning into yours.

“Tomorrow.” He growls, before he shuts his watch off completely, tucking his face into the crook of your neck again, sucking dark marks into your skin. His hands find your hips once again, pulling you onto his cock over and over and over as tears slide down your cheeks, choked little moans ripping out of your throat.

“That’s right, beautiful, squeeze this cock, make a mess for me. Can’t wait to get you home, going to fuck you all fucking night, needed this sweet pussy so fucking bad, bebita, por favor, ah-” he groans into your skin, and his cock sinks into you so perfect, stretching you exactly how you’ve needed it for so long, and fuck, your orgasm nearly makes you black out. You thrash against the wall, crying out so loud that Miguel has no choice but to seal his mouth over yours in a sticky kiss, swallowing your noises. 

“Fuck, that’s right, make a mess for me, eres tan perfecta, mi amor, mi vida, fuck,” he fucks into you, once, two more times, before he’s following you over that peak, his hips twitching as he fills you up.

You both can only rock against each other for a minute, riding the aftershocks of bliss. How had you gone without this for so long? How could you have deprived yourself of heaven?

“Let’s go home, Miguel,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. He nods, switching his watch back on and opening a portal behind himself. He slips out of you, his suit reforming over himself. You, unfortunately don’t have the same luxury, the night air still cool against your used and achy core. 

“You’re making me a new suit, by the way,” you say, tilting your head up to smile at him. “And a new watch.”

He only chuckles, lifting you into his arms, turning to walk you both into your shared apartment in Nueva York, where you haven't been together in too damn long. “Anything you want.”

[inbabylontheywept]

Kevin vs. Quantum Mechanics

This is an autobiographical piece. Names have been changed for anonymity, but it's otherwise left be. ---

The class's first suspicion of Kevin was that he had, somehow, cheated his way up to this course. He just seemed perpetually confused, and strangely antagonistic of the professor. The weirdest example of this was when he asked what an ion was (in a third year EE class?), and was informed that it referred to any positively or negatively charged particle. It would have been strange enough to ask, but his reply of "Either? That doesn't sound right" sealed him in as a well known character in the class of 19 people.

The real tipping point in our perception of him during a lecture where the professor mentioned practical uses for a neutron beam, and Kevin asked if a beam could be made out of some other neutral material. When asked "Like what?", he replied "An atom with all of its electrons removed." When we pointed out that the protons would make that abomination extremely positively charged, he just replied with "So what if we removed those too?" and then was baffled when we informed him that would just be neutrons.

That's high school level chemistry. Not knowing it was so incredibly strange that I felt like something was off, so I asked him if he'd like to grab lunch. He accepted, we chatted, and I finally began to get a sense of his origin story.

See, Kevin wasn't a junior/senior electrical engineer like the rest of us. Kevin was, in fact, three notable things: A business major, a sophomore, and a hardcore Catholic. All three of those are essential to understanding his scenario.

What had begun all of this was actually a conflict with Kevin and his roommate. Kevin frequently had his fundamental belief in Absolute Good, Absolute Bad, and Absolute Anything pushed back on by his roommate, who was in STEM. Said roommate kept invoking quantum mechanics as his proof against Absolute Knowledge. Kevin was tired of having something that he didn't understand thrown at his convictions, so he decided to take a quantum course to settle things once and for all.

Despite not having any of the pre-reqs.

He'd actually tried to take quantum for physicists first, but the school's physics department wouldn't let him. It's actually pretty strictly regulated, because it is a mandatory class for physics majors. However, because quantum is not mandatory for electrical engineers, there aren't really any built in requirements for the class. It's just assumed that nobody would actually try to take it until their third year because doing so would the be the mental equivalent to slamming your nuts in the car door. Just, pure suffering for no good reason.

Apparently, the counselors had tried to talk him out of it, but if Kevin was one thing, it was stubborn. He'd actually had to sign some papers basically saying "I was warned that this is incredibly stupid, but I refused to listen" in order to take the class.

He was actually pretty nice, if currently unaware of how bad he'd just fucked up. I paid for the lunch, wished him the best, and reported back to the class discord. We'd all been curious about this guy's story, but now that I had the truth, I could share it with the world.

Feelings were mixed. Some people thought he was going to drop out any minute now. Others thought that he wouldn't, be also that convincing him to drop now, while he still could, was the only ethical thing. Others figured that a policy of non-interference was best: The counselors couldn't dissuade him, and if we tried to do the same, he'd probably just think it was STEM elitism trying to guard its little clubhouse. He'd figure out how hard things were, or he'd fail. Either way, it would help him learn more about the world.

We wound up taking the approach of non-interference. If nothing else, understanding his origins gave us more patience when he asked bizarre questions. He wasn't trying to waste our time, he was just trying to cram three years of pre-reqs into a one semester course. He did get a little bit combative sometimes, and we could tell that he was really wracking his brain to try and find some sort of contradiction or error that he could use to bring the whole thing down, but he never could.

First test came by, and he bombed it. Completely unprepared. He'd taken Calc I, but he didn't know how to do integrals yet (that was Calc II). Worse, he was far past the drop date. I imagine most people in his shoes would've stopped struggling. They'd realize they were fucked and just let themselves fail, at least salvaging their other classes grades in the process. Why waste resources on an unwinnable battle?

Kevin never asked questions like that. If he was stupid enough to try it, he was stupid enough to finish it. God bless him.

He invited me to lunch after the test and said that the class was more fascinating than he'd ever imagined, but he didn't know if he'd be able to pass it. He asked if I could help, and I said...maybe. I brought the request to the discord, and from the eight people there I got three volunteers who admired this dork's tenacity. He was in over his head, miles beneath the surface, but his fighting spirit was fucking glorious. If he was willing to go down swinging, we were willing to bust our asses trying to get him caught up.

Some of the stuff was just extra homework we gave to the guy. We told him he needed to learn integrals, stat. We sent him some copies of basic software that can be used to teach the basics of linear circuit equations, and he practiced that game like it was HALO. Just, hours sunk into it. Absolutely godlike.

He was still scrabbling for air at just the surface level of the class, but he'd gone from abysmal failure to lingering on the boundary between life and death. Other people in the class started to learn about Kevin's origin story, and our little circle of four volunteer tutors grew to six. Every day, he had someone trying to help him either catch up in some way, or finish that week's homework. He'd gone from being seen as a nuisance that wasted class time to the underdog mascot.

He was getting twelve hours of personal tutoring a week, on top of three hours of classes, on top of six hours of office hours, on top of the coursework. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that this kid was doing 40 hours a week just trying to pass this one single class.

Second test comes around and he gets a 60. He's ecstatic. We're ecstatic. Kid's too young to take out drinking so we just order a pizza and cheer like he just won gold at the Olympics.

After that second test, things hit another tipping point. With so much catch-up under his belt, he was able to focus a lot more on the actual material for the class. A borderline cinematic moment happened when I was trying to get ahead on the homework so that I could put more hours in on my senior project. Nobody else had finished it yet because it wasn't due for another week, so the specifics of the problem I was working on were still a mystery. I went to the professor's office hours and get some pointers, but he wasn't willing to give good hints when the HW wasn't due for another week or so. He said I still had time to think about it, which was true, but I wanted to be able to think about other things. Kevin had watched the whole conversation, waiting for his turn to ask the professor more simple questions, but when I left I got a text from him telling me to hop on zoom.

Kevin had finished it earlier, because Kevin started all of his homework the moment it was assigned. He needed to, in order to make sure that he could get it done on time. He'd finished it the day before, and was able to walk me through it.

From student, to teacher. I'm not exaggerating when I say that he probably saved me eight hours on that assignment. I could've kissed him.

A month or two later, we took the final. As soon as we were done, we six asked Kevin how he did. He was nervous, there was so much new material for him in this class that his retention hadn't been great. Us six were also a little stressed: We were going to pass the class, but the final was hard.

We waited for the results.

And waited. And waited.

Finally, the scores were posted as a table, curve included. From our class of 19 people, 4 withdrew within the deadline, 4 failed, 1 got a C, 8 got B's, and 2 got A's. We could see that the curve for a C was set at 59.2% overall.

We called Kevin. He was crying. End score, 59.2%. Teacher curved the C exactly to his score.

It was a week into winter break so we couldn't gather the forces around for a party like last time, but we were all losing our shit. Kevin was losing his shit. He couldn't believe how stupid he was to try this course, he couldn't believe that six people busted their ass just to make sure he didn't die, and he couldn't believe that the professor basically just passed him out of sheer effort alone.

He said it was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and while I doubt that, it was outrageously stupid. And yet, I've never been so invested in a fellow student before. I'm prouder of Kevin's C than I am of my own B. I was walking on sunshine for weeks after that. In theory, my senior project was building a functioning washing machine, but in practice, in my heart, it was helping Kevin pass Intro to Quantum for Electrical Engineers.

(And as an epilogue: No, he did not renounce Catholicism and become an atheist like his roommate had hoped. He did walk out changed. I think that being that wrong about something, and realizing it, was a pivotal moment for him. It's hard to be dogmatic once you realize that a lifetime of being wrong feels exactly like a lifetime of being right, right up until the last two seconds of it.)

[aleskie-hischier]

Summary: Tasked with eliminating the government spy Nico Hischier, you arrive in Paris prepared to do what you’ve always done: obey Father’s orders without question. Unexpectedly, you get closer to Nico and he shows you a glimpse of a life beyond the underworld. Torn between your present and the possibility of a future free from darkness, you make a choice that changes the course of your life.

Word Count: 15k Warnings: fluffy angst!! there's a swear word somewhere there and there's a scene that leads to something spicy but there isn't any actual smut!! also there are inaccurate descriptions of advanced technology and chemicals...don't come for me, i'm not a stem student and i don't actually know how that shit works

READ PART TWO HERE

You first meet him at a gala somewhere in Germany. It’s the birthday of some socialite, celebrated in the only way these people seem to know how—a garish display of lavish opulence. The mansion is dripping in gold, with polished marble floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, and an endless fountain of champagne that flows throughout the night. Around you, guests float about in grand clothes, laughter echoing through the hall. And, from the corner of your eye, in the dimly lit corners, you spot couples slipping away for moments of…private intimacy.

In a perfect world, you’d join the festivities—join in the dancing and drinking, maybe you’d even find someone who catches your eye, flirt for a while, let the champagne make you bold. But you aren’t here for any of that. No, your attendance tonight is strictly for work, and you’re eager to make a good impression. After all, ‘Father’ had chosen you personally for this assignment, this chance to prove yourself by approaching The Target.

The honor wasn’t lost on you. Out of all your ‘siblings,’ it was you he’d chosen—‘Father’s’ quiet, watchful shadow. You almost let a smile slip at the thought of them fuming, quietly seething that you had been singled out as his best. Still, you keep your gloating hidden deep inside. You keep your expression composed, calm, your mask perfectly in place. Just like what you were trained to do.

One by one, ‘Father’ takes you through the crowd, introducing you to guests scattered throughout the hall. There are socialites wrapped in silk and jewels, politicians with their fake and steely smiles; There are actors who prance around with perfectly practiced charm and singers who cast secretive glances at one another—everyone who matters, the pillars of high society, are all here.

You’re cordial, polite, doing exactly as you were trained: standing straight with your head high, giving a subtle smile, letting ‘Father’ do most of the talking while you speak only when directly addressed. 

This is why you’re his favorite. You’re a shadow, a seamless extension of his will, your own desires tucked away beneath the polished surface.

Your gaze occasionally sweeps the room, catching every flicker of movement, every momentary lapse in composure. You’re waiting, watching, until finally, you see him: The Target. Standing across the room, just beyond ‘Father’s’ line of sight, and yet right within yours.

The cold and calculating Agent Heart. Real name: Nico Hischier. One of the top operatives the Swiss government had ever produced—usually, anyway. He’d unknowingly made a crucial mistake at his last job, leaving just enough of a trace to reveal the man behind the code name. And now, he would die by your hands.

It was almost a pity to end the life of someone so...well, so pretty, with that sharp jawline and those doe-like brown eyes. But a job was a job, and Nico Hischier had been a thorn in your client’s side for far too long. His audacious infiltration schemes and the false information he’d planted across organizations had finally backfired, landing him in the crosshairs of nearly every intelligence agency in Europe. The bounty on his head was astronomical. And very soon, you’d be securing a piece of it.

You quietly excuse yourself from the current group of guests as ‘Father’ continues talking, stepping away with a smooth, practiced grace that goes unnoticed amidst the swirl of laughter and clinking glasses. Moving through the crowd, you feel the thrill of anticipation quicken your heartbeat—not nerves, but the pure, cold excitement that only missions like this can give.

You’d studied him meticulously, learning everything from his birthplace to his weapon of choice to the peculiarity of his movements. By all accounts, he’s one of the deadliest targets you’ve ever been assigned. But here, under the shimmering lights and surrounded by Europe’s elite, he almost seems ordinary. Unsuspecting. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Carefully, you make your way to him with a calculated grace, cutting through the crowd with subtle purpose until you find yourself near the champagne tower where he stands, engaged in polite conversation but always surveying the room. In these few seconds, your mind runs through the best approaches. This first contact would be critical—too bold, and he’d suspect something; too subtle, and you’d be ignored.

As you near him, you make a choice. You pass close enough to him for a brief, delicate brush of your arm against his, subtle enough to seem accidental yet deliberate enough to catch his attention. The spark of contact makes him look down at you, his gaze as sharp as you expected. You meet his eyes, letting a faint smile tug at your lips, mysterious and inviting.

You let the moment linger just a second longer than usual before drifting away, casting a fleeting glance over your shoulder as you head towards a nearby balcony. A silent invitation, daring him to follow.

It works. Just moments later, you sense his presence behind you, following you closely. And when you step onto the quiet balcony overlooking the gardens, he’s there, closing the doors softly behind him. For a brief moment, you both stand in silence, the sounds of laughter and music now muffled by the thick glass. The night air is cool, and he takes a step forward, his posture casual but his eyes sharp, assessing.

“Didn’t think I’d see someone like you out here,” he says smoothly, his voice low and slightly amused.

You arch a brow, leaning against the stone bannister, feigning a casualness you don’t entirely feel. “And what is ‘someone like me,’ exactly?” you ask, letting a slight challenge slip into your tone.

He chuckles softly, his gaze trailing over you with an interest that’s as analytical as it is intrigued. “Someone who seems a bit out of place among all the gold and glitter.” He pauses, a smile touching his lips. “Though I suppose that’s part of the charm.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a smile of your own. “Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He hums, studying you with a spark of intrigue. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

You smirk, crossing your arms loosely in front of you. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He chuckles, mirroring your smirk with one of his own. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”

You shrug lightly, keeping your gaze steady. “It’s not that important. We won’t be meeting after tonight, anyway,” you reply, your tone coy, almost daring.

He tilts his head, clearly amused, and leans in just a fraction closer. His hand rests on the bannister, his fingers nearly brushing against yours. “And what if I wanted to meet again?”

A playful smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “I think I could make that happen.”

He opens his mouth, about to respond with some new flirtation, but he’s cut off by a familiar voice. 

‘Father.’

“Ah,” he says, his tone measured, assessing, “My child, here you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

You turn, adopting a soft, slightly apologetic smile, and gesture toward Nico. “I found some lovely company tonight. I’m sorry for slipping away like that.”

‘Father’ shifts his gaze to Nico, then back to you, a look of subtle satisfaction passing over his features as he realizes you’ve made contact with the target. “I see.” He extends his hand to the spy. “Thank you for looking after my treasure.”

The air shifts as Nico straightens, his previously casual demeanor giving way to a guarded coolness. He accepts the handshake, meeting ‘Father’s’ gaze with a measured look. “It’s my pleasure,” he replies smoothly. “She’s been…lovely company.”

‘Father’ gives an approving smile that, even to you, seems convincing. “Well,” he says, glancing between the two of you, “I hate to cut this meeting short, but our chauffeur is here to take us back home.” His tone is warm, but there’s no mistaking the command in his words.

Nico’s eyes flick from you to ‘Father,’ assessing, before he nods. “Of course.” Turning back to you, he reaches for your gloved hand, lifting it with unexpected gentleness to his lips. “Thank you for your company tonight.”

You give him a warm smile, your heart skipping just slightly under the guise of composure. “It was no trouble at all.” Then, slipping your hand free, you take ‘Father’s’ arm, feeling Nico’s intense gaze burn into your back as you leave the balcony.

Once in the car, the silence is weighted, yet you can sense ‘Father’s’ satisfaction without needing to see his face. He finally speaks, his voice brimming with a rare touch of pride. 

“My Shadow,” he says, almost tenderly, “To have made contact with a target even I did not see is nothing short of impressive. I knew you were the right choice for this assignment.” He leans back, a hint of a smile ghosting across his face as he watches the city lights flicker past the window. 

A subtle warmth blooms in your chest, a swell of pride that you rarely allow yourself to feel. You’ve made ‘Father’ proud—exactly what you’ve been trained for, the purpose he’s molded you into. And tonight, you’ve once again proven yourself worthy of his trust.

You allow yourself a brief, quiet smile as you reply, “Thank you, Father.”

Suddenly, ‘Father’ turns to you, a faint glint of scrutiny in his eyes. “I must ask, however,” he says, his voice sharp and questioning, “Why did you allow him to kiss your hand goodbye? You don’t often permit targets to make contact with you.”

Caught off guard by his intensity, you pause, then offer a calm, practiced smile. “Oh,” you say, feeling the weight of his gaze, “I left him with a small gift, is all.”

‘Father’ raises a brow, his silence an unspoken command to elaborate.

With a slight, mischievous smile, you hold up your hands, drawing his attention to the delicate gloves still clinging to your skin. “I laced these with poison.”

For a second, ‘Father’ stares, his eyes widening as he processes your strategy, before he lets out a hearty, genuine laugh that seems to echo in the dim car. “Oh, my dear Shadow,” he says, mirth evident in every syllable, “This is why you are my greatest investment.”

He shakes his head, almost in awe, and pats your shoulder as if to say, well done. “Brilliantly done. Precise, discreet, and utterly poetic. I knew I was right to trust you with this.”

The pride in his tone washes over you, and you lower your eyes, feigning humility even as satisfaction hums beneath your skin. 

Right now, in this moment, you’re more than just his tool—you’re his masterpiece, a testament to his power, and his most prized creation. The night around you darkens as the car glides down empty streets, but you feel only the steady glow of triumph.

You don’t see Nico Hischier for another five years.

After that night, he vanished as if he’d never existed, leaving no trace, no sign, not even a whisper in the underworld. Informants scrambled and came up empty-handed, unable to find the faintest clue of his survival. For all intents and purposes, Nico Hischier was dead and Agent Heart was wiped from the face of the earth—yet his memory lingered, nagging at the edges of your mind. A shame, really. He’d been charming, a master of his craft, and more than easy on the eyes with a lovely accent to match. But business was business, and you’d pocketed a handsome payday from his supposed demise.

Life moved on. You took new assignments, completed them, and then went on a shopping spree with the bounty you collected from each person’s demise.

And then, just as you’d almost forgotten him, a report surfaced: Nico Hischier, codename: Heart, was sighted in Prague.

The message left you cold, gripping the paper so tightly your knuckles turned white. Somehow, he’d managed to reemerge five years after you’d assumed him dead. It could only mean one of two things: either he’d somehow already developed an immunity to your poison, or he’d anticipated your move that night and carried an antidote. Either way, he’d outplayed you.

When ‘Father’ found out, his reaction was…uncharacteristic. You almost expected him to explode in fury, yet he remained unsettlingly calm, though you could feel the chill radiating off him. “Lay low,” he commanded, his voice edged with a steely calm. “Do nothing reckless. We will let him think he is safe.”

You nodded, as did the others. Defiance wasn’t an option—not against ‘Father.’ You were his creations, his most prized agents, trained to bend to his will, to serve as extensions of his power. But as reports trickled in of Nico’s movements—Italy, Spain, then Germany, and now, most recently, Paris—a restlessness began to simmer beneath the surface.

It was infuriating. This job should have been finished years ago, with your flawless record kept unblemished. Instead, Nico Hischier was hopping across Europe as if untouched, while your high-profile clients grew increasingly frantic, demanding answers. 

What was his plan? He hadn’t been stirring up trouble, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was biding his time, collecting information, plotting something. Five years of his survival meant five years for him to watch, learn, and scheme. Who knew what kind of leverage he might hold now?

The insult burned, a taunting reminder of your one unfinished task. This was personal now.

With a calculated calm, you start packing, your room a messy whirl of preparation. You move quickly, gathering clothes and essentials, disguises folded neatly alongside your dark ensembles. The commercial airport would be a nightmare for weapons and the more, shall we say, experimental items you’d usually pack, so you strip down to the essentials—your laptop, and hard drives and USBs loaded with data on ‘Father’s’ warehouses, contacts, and safehouses in Paris. You weren’t about to leave anything to chance this time. You were going to get the job done.

“What do we have here?” Hyacinth drawls as he strolls into your room, that infuriating smirk playing across his lips. “Shadow, breaking Father’s orders? Never thought I’d live to see the day! Maybe the world really is coming to an end.”

His laugh grates against your nerves, adding fuel to the fire of your frustration. You clench your fists, willing yourself not to snap.

“Shut up, Hyacinth,” you snap, your tone ice-cold.

He lifts a brow, feigning shock. “Touchy, touchy. What’s the matter? Can’t handle the thought of being like the rest of us disappointments?”

Your glare sharpens. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

“Oh, maybe not,” he shrugs with feigned nonchalance, though the glint in his eyes says otherwise. “All I know is that Father’s perfect little lap dog has her first big failure and can’t handle it. Didn’t even get a scolding for it, either. Let it go, Shadow. Shit happens.”

“Not to me!” The words are out before you can stop them, the heat in your voice betraying the tight hold you’ve tried to keep on your emotions. “Shit isn’t supposed to happen to me. He should have been dead five years ago. Something is clearly wrong here, and I’m not about to wait around to see what it is.”

Hyacinth leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Don’t you think by going after him, you’re just putting us all at risk? Maybe you’re the one digging our graves.”

You set your jaw. “I’m making sure it doesn’t come to that. Someone has to, and if that means going out there myself, so be it. I won’t let him compromise us.”

He snorts. “That superiority complex of yours is showing again. Newsflash, Shadow: you’re not any better than the rest of us. We can handle ourselves, you know.”

“Then do that.” You meet his gaze, refusing to waver. “I’m going to end this, for good this time.”

Hyacinth shakes his head, letting out a scoff as he gives you a mock salute before flipping you off on his way out. Once he’s gone, silence falls, leaving you alone with the simmering anger and resolve that’s been building inside you since that first sighting in Prague.

You turn back to your preparations, each item you pack a step closer to reclaiming your spotless record. If Nico Hischier thought he could walk back into your world without a consequence, he was in for a rude awakening. This time, you’d make sure he didn’t walk away—no matter what it took.

The first thing you do when you touch down in Paris is seek out a café where you can start tracking down the location of the warehouse without raising suspicion. You drag your suitcase through the bustling crowds, winding your way to a small café tucked in a quiet corner off a narrow street. It’s the kind of place tourists overlook but locals appreciate, which suits you just fine. Settling at a corner table, you pull out your laptop and hard drive, your eyes flicking discreetly around before focusing on the screen.

Phase one: gathering supplies and resources. It’s essential to be meticulous here, covering your tracks as you hack into the security systems guarding the warehouse. ‘Father’ couldn’t know, not until Nico was back under control, one way or another. Hyacinth was a wild card, as always. But you know your ‘brother’ well enough—he wouldn’t risk his neck tattling to ‘Father’ when it could mean he’d get burned for letting you slip through in the first place. No, the only way you’d get caught would be if you made a mistake. But you don’t make mistakes. Not often, at least.

Steeling yourself, you quickly hack into ‘Father’s’ network, bypassing the high-grade security systems with a practiced ease. You knew every firewall, every code embedded in his system—hell, you’d helped create a few. Within minutes, you’re inside, scanning inventory lists, security schedules, and surveillance layouts. The target warehouse isn’t far, just on the outskirts of the city, and you catch a hint of satisfaction at the minimal security—surely an oversight on ‘Father’s’ part. A clean entry and exit should be more than manageable if you stick to the plan. This was your element. It’s what they trained you for, why they called you Shadow: no one saw you coming, and no one would see you go.

Hours later, with a mental map of the warehouse in place, you check into your hotel—a high-end spot tucked away in the heart of the city. You present your fake ID and passport with the same confidence you’ve honed in every mission. The upscale surroundings are a deliberate choice. Tourists flood hotels like these, and with so many faces coming and going, no one would remember one more guest. Plus, you think, casting a glance around the pristine lobby, it’s a definite improvement over some of your previous hideouts.

Your room is a large suite with a view overlooking the Seine, but there’s no time to enjoy it. By nightfall, you’re ready. Dressed in sleek, dark clothing, a mask fitted snugly over your face, and your bag packed with the essentials, you slip silently into the shadows outside the hotel. Your path takes you through side streets and alleyways, every step calculated as you make your way toward the necessary location.

The warehouse looms ahead, tucked in an industrial sector where only the hum of distant traffic breaks the silence. You slip into the shadows along the building’s side, blending in as you’ve always done. You double-check your tools, each one a lifeline in your hand. There’s no room for error tonight. Not this time.

When you arrive, the warehouse looms ahead in the darkness. It’s surrounded by high fencing, security cameras rotating from their posts like watchful sentries. For most, this would be intimidating, but you’ve faced far worse. The thrill kicks in once more, sharpening your senses. You take a slow, steadying breath, then melt into the shadows, silent as smoke. This time, you’d finish the job you’d started years ago—no matter what it took.

The sunrise has always fascinated you. It’s a signal of beginnings, fresh starts—a promise of new opportunities. You find it poetic that it’s the first thing you see as you slip out of the warehouse, your mission complete and a cold, gleeful satisfaction filling you.

Breaking into the place had been more challenging than anticipated. The exterior’s casual security had lulled you into a false sense of ease, making you believe the rest would be a simple infiltration. But inside, the game shifted. Lasers crisscrossed the halls like webs, ready to alert ‘Father’ at the faintest touch. You’d navigated through them with a mix of agility and nerves of steel, carefully calculating each movement. Then, hacking into the security system to loop the cameras—well, that had demanded an even steadier hand.

Each door you encountered was a new puzzle, a metal barrier locked with outdated ciphers that even the finest digital decoders couldn’t solve alone. Finally, you resorted to an old cipher-decoder tucked away in your bag, the kind you’d almost forgotten about, to get you through. Each second felt stretched, every click and buzz echoing louder in the silent warehouse, but you refused to let it fluster you. You were trained for this—methodical, composed, and ruthless in your precision.

The challenges only fueled you. They reminded you of the spies you’d watched over the years, their sneaky maneuvers and meticulous planning. Spies and assassins weren’t all that different, you thought wryly. Both had to be intelligent, inventive, and constantly three steps ahead. You’d taken notes, refined your approach, and now, standing here at the brink of success, you see it paying off.

Once inside the warehouse’s main sector, you located everything you needed: small vials of acids and chemicals with potent effects, needles to inject them into precise targets, and, of course, your preferred daggers. You recognize the risk of bringing such conspicuous weapons; the daggers would leave a clear mark, something easily traced to you. But they were your final line of defense if all else failed. A contingency. You liked to be prepared for every possibility.

With your haul secured, you slipped out as silently as you’d come, setting everything back to how it was before you’d entered. 

Back at the hotel, a wave of exhaustion hit you, the adrenaline finally draining. You collapsed onto the plush bed, relishing the soft linens and the contrast of comfort after the tense operation. As your eyes drifted shut, the golden light of dawn filtered through the window. In the back of your mind, a voice whispers that this time, things will fall into place. The sun feels like a premonition—a promise of victory.

When you wake up, it’s just about time for lunch, and the day outside is sunny, practically inviting you out to explore. After a quick shower, you slip into a simple outfit, throwing on a light cardigan, and head down to the lobby. You tell yourself it’s to grab a bite to eat while you figure out how to locate Nico—if he was even still in Paris. A grimace crosses your face at the possibility he’s already vanished, but a quick spark of determination flickers. You’re prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it takes.

Lost in thought, you walk briskly toward the lobby’s exit, but you’re jarred back to the present by an unexpected bump into someone. Instinctively, you’re ready to apologize—until you look up and see him. Nico, in the flesh, his expression caught halfway between surprise and something else. He’s as handsome as you remember, wearing a casual pair of jeans, a sleek knit sweater, and a trench coat that perfectly frames his sharp build. Jackpot.

His eyes first widen when they see you, a flash of recognition, but they don’t show any signs of him connecting you with a failed assassination plot, so that was working in your favor. Then he gives an amused smile.

For a split second, his eyes widen, a flicker of recognition lighting up his face. But he doesn’t show a trace of suspicion; if anything, he looks amused. It’s almost funny how little he realizes who you truly are or that you were ever tasked with ending his life.

“When you said you’d make our meeting happen again,” he says smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t think you’d keep me waiting for five years.”

You recover quickly, letting an amused smile play on your lips. “Good things take time,” you reply, matching his tone with ease.

“Well then, I guess it’s about time we do this properly." His smirk deepens as he extends a hand, offering a more formal greeting. "I’m Nico.”

“Y/N,” you say, your smile widening as you take his hand, giving it a light but confident shake.

He studies you for a moment, his gaze both amused and appraising. “So, Y/N,” he says, the casualness in his tone belied by the spark of curiosity in his eyes, “What brings you to Paris?”

“Oh, just a bit of business,” you reply, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “But I don’t mind having a little fun on the side.”

“Funny,” he replies, the amusement in his eyes intensifying. His gaze lingers, assessing, as if you’re a puzzle he’s suddenly intent on solving. “I could say the same thing.” There’s a spark of intrigue in his eyes, a quiet challenge, like he’s not quite sure what he’s getting into but is curious enough to find out. “How about we continue where we left off and get lunch? My treat.” 

There’s a quiet thrill in how easily he’s letting his guard down. “I’d be glad to,” you say, your voice warm and laced with charm. You place your hand lightly in the one he’s offered as he leads you out of the hotel lobby, and a strange feeling of satisfaction blooms in your chest.

As you step out into the Parisian sunlight, you feel his gaze drift over you from time to time, like he’s trying to piece together the mystery that is you. In a way, it’s thrilling—the careful dance, the unspoken tension between you. For now, you’re both just two strangers, meeting by chance, sharing a meal in the city of lights. But beneath that veneer of normalcy, you know exactly who he is. And soon, he’ll find out exactly who you are, too.

The walk to the restaurant is mostly silent, save for the sounds of cabs and people on the street, though his hand remains firmly laced in yours, grounding you in a way that’s both strange and unexpectedly steady. You’re not sure if he’s doing it to ensure you don’t slip away—not that you would—or if it’s simply his way of staying connected, holding onto this chance encounter as long as possible.

He leads you to a cozy little bistro just a block away from the hotel. It’s the sort of place that’s swarming with locals, with warm wooden tables and waitstaff bustling through the crowd, balancing plates with practiced ease. You’re seated by a window, the afternoon light filtering through as the hum of Parisian life passes by outside. He lets go of your hand to pull out your chair, a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture, before taking a seat across from you. You’re handed menus, and after a quick glance, he orders a steak. You, in turn, order ratatouille—a choice that earns you a look of amused surprise.

“Ratatouille?” He raises an eyebrow, the grin on his face both intrigued and playful as the waiter collects your menus.

You can’t help but smirk back, rolling your eyes a bit as you explain. “I saw the movie last year and figured I should try the dish, see if it lives up to the hype.”

He laughs, the sound warm and relaxed, making him seem momentarily less like the man you’re here to kill. “So, you’re into those kinds of things? Movies?”

“Not really. Just curious.” You give a small shrug, keeping your tone light. “I figured that if I was gonna eat in Paris I might as well go for something classic.”

He nods, eyes never leaving yours, his gaze intense but inviting. “I suppose you just don’t strike me as the type to follow a…classical path, so to speak.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “And what exactly do you think my path looks like, then?”

“Something more mysterious.” His smirk returns, laced with a deeper curiosity, as though he’s trying to peer through whatever mask you’ve chosen to wear today. “You’ve got this air about you...like you’re here, but not entirely. A bit like a cat. Sneaky, quick,” he says, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that feels both measuring and teasing. “Elusive.”

You laugh, letting out a genuine sound. “A cat? That’s a first.”

It is a first. People in your world were more likely to call you names like “Golden Girl,” “Father’s Shadow,” or “Lap Dog” when your so-called ‘siblings’ wanted to get under your skin.

“Well, you are hard to pin down, aren’t you?” He leans back, still watching you, and the playful energy from before shifts. “People like us—those who can walk in and out of rooms unnoticed—we tend to be running from something, or toward it. Which one is it for you?”

The question catches you off guard, the subtle implication making you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. You lean in, matching his intensity. “Maybe both. Or maybe I just like the thrill of new places and new faces.”

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as though filing the answer away with real interest. You notice the warmth in his curiosity, and for a brief moment, it almost makes you feel guilty, like he genuinely wants to know the truth about you.

“Besides,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips, “I’m the one who’s hard to pin down? You’re the one who’s been quite hard to find these past few years.”

The words slip out before you realize how they might sound, and for a brief second, you see his expression flicker from amused to alarmed. Most people wouldn’t catch it, but you do, and you pivot quickly.

“I just…” You let out a breath, recalibrating. “I thought you’d stay in Germany longer. I tried looking for you after the gala.” It’s the truth, in a way—you had tried to track him down, though for different reasons entirely. “But you were gone. Just…vanished.” The words carry a hint of something unintended, something softer. You sound almost sad, like a lover abandoned or a child denied a favorite toy.

His expression shifts, easing into something more open, though there’s a guarded look in his eyes you can’t quite place. “Oh,” he says simply. “Had some business to take care of.” Then, his lips curve into a smirk, casual and inviting. “If I’d known you were looking for me, I would’ve found you first.”

You return his smile, allowing the flirtation to flow easily between you. “Well, lucky for you, you didn’t have to try too hard this time.”

“Lucky for me indeed.” His gaze sharpens with interest, as if he’s thinking of something more he’d like to say but chooses to leave it unspoken.

As the light shifts, bathing the restaurant in a soft glow, you realize just how naturally the conversation has fallen into place, how seamlessly you’ve slipped into the part you need to play. It’s dangerous, how easy it feels, how perfectly he responds to every cue. For a moment, you wonder if he’s doing the same—if he’s playing a role, hiding motives of his own behind that smooth smile. But the real danger, you know, is how much you welcome it—yearn for it—how a part of you longs for this illusion of normalcy.

You let yourself drift for a second, thinking about a quiet cottage somewhere in the mountains. You imagine waking up next to someone you love, sharing breakfast and laughter in the early morning light. You picture spending your days apart, coming home to one another at night, swapping stories about the small things, the safe things, the little moments of joy. In this little dream, you hold children of your own—kids who’d grow up safe, untouched by the world you’d grown up in.

You look across the table at Nico, studying his face, his easy demeanor. And for a brief, painful moment, you think that if things were different, if he truly was just a man sitting here with genuine interest, the two of you might have been a good match. But that world, that life, feels as distant as the sunlit street outside, just out of reach and fading as quickly as it appeared.

The food arrives, interrupting the charged silence, and you focus on your plate, cutting into the colorful layers of ratatouille. The flavors are rich and earthy, a surprising comfort, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the meal. The flavors are unexpectedly comforting, earthy and rich, a pleasure you can savor for once, without wondering if it’s laced with some new toxin or if a hidden blade will come flying at you as you take your next bite.

‘Father’ had a way of turning even meals into exercises in survival, leaving you perpetually on guard, reminding you, every time you sat down, that you belonged to him. The absurdity of it all isn’t lost on you—the idea of “family” twisted into something you’ve learned to navigate but never fully accept.

As you eat, Nico occasionally glances up, a hint of curiosity in his gaze, and you realize he’s studying you, reading you as if you’re some puzzle he’s intent on solving. His careful attention puts you on edge, yet you find yourself playing into it, letting him look, letting him think he has the upper hand. But under the surface, you’re calculating, assessing how best to keep him close. After all, you have a job to finish, and the more he thinks he’s reading you, the more you can quietly prepare.

“So,” you say, dabbing the corners of your mouth, casually probing, “How long have you been in Paris?”

“About two weeks now,” he replies, his voice a low hum.

That aligns with the information you received, so you press a bit further. “Work?” you ask, giving him a look of mild curiosity.

“Something like that.” His gaze drifts, thoughtful, as if his mind is somewhere else, somewhere you can’t follow. “Just needed to get away from everything for a while.”

You nod thoughtfully. You understood completely. The life you both lead and the secrecy, the horrors that come with it aren’t for the weak. There are times you’ve dreamed of disappearing yourself, slipping out from under ‘Father’s’ iron grip, but fear keeps you rooted. The thought of ‘Father’ discovering an unsanctioned trip would lead to more than just fury; it would likely spark consequences you can’t afford.

You glance at Nico, taking a sip of water to mask the tension creeping into your thoughts. This job has to go as planned—flawlessly. If it doesn’t, you know you’ll be dragged back to face ‘Father’s’ wrath, and Paris, Nico, all of it, would be nothing more than a dangerous, haunting memory.

“I get it,” you say finally, a hint of wistfulness creeping into your voice. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here.”

“Not even your dad?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head. “No one knows.” A pause, then you add, “Well, except my brother. But he won’t tell.”

“You have siblings?”

“Three older ones, one younger,” you say with a small smile. “They’re annoying, but they’re mine.” It isn’t exactly a lie. There may be rivalry and threats and a constant competition for ‘Father’s’ approval, but there’s also a silent bond, a certain understanding that only comes from surviving the same relentless environment together. In some twisted way, you protect each other.

He chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “I’ve got two older ones. A brother and a sister.”

“Yeah?” you ask, leaning forward with genuine interest, surprising even yourself. “What are they like?”

“They’re fun,” he says, his eyes softening as he talks, affectionate in the way most families are with each other. “We’re close—we talk all the time, take trips to the beach or the lake. We play sports together, laugh about stupid things. Just…normal stuff.”

You can’t help the pang that tugs at you, the unfamiliar ache of what you’ve missed. “What about your parents?”

A smile spreads across his face, warm and fond. “My mom makes the best food. Seriously. She’s always trying new things, always spoiling us.” He laughs. “And my dad, well, he’s your classic dad. Quiet, but caring. You should’ve seen him when I graduated university, got all choked up—I’ve never seen him so emotional before.” He pauses, a nostalgic look in his eyes. “They used to drive my brother and me to a whole different town just so we could play hockey—never missed a game or a school event.”

You feel yourself drawn in, pulled by the mundane beauty of what he’s describing. The picture he paints is a world away from what you’ve known, yet there’s something so alluring, so...possible about it that it stirs something in you. A strange longing, a memory of a life that could never be, echoes faintly through your mind.

“What was that like?” you ask softly, not even sure he’ll answer, but he surprises you.

“Safe,” he says, looking right at you, as though he knows you need to hear it. “It felt safe. Like no matter what happened out there, there was always a place to come back to.”

The silence between you feels heavier now, carrying words unspoken, secrets untold. But for a fleeting moment, you let yourself imagine—just for a little while—what it might feel like to have that too.

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence, both of you focused on your plates as the weight of his words lingers in the air.

“So,” he says after a while, setting down his knife with a thoughtful expression. “How long do I get to enjoy your company here in Paris?”

You meet his gaze, a slow, amused smile forming. “Well, that all depends on you, doesn’t it? How long are you here for?”

He leans back, his expression light but his eyes intent. “I’ll be around for the next couple of weeks,” he says, fingers tapping idly on the table. “Exploring, finding the hidden corners of the city.” There’s a pause, and then his smile shifts, turning almost playful. “You should come with me. Two tourists, no plans. Let’s explore together.”

“A bit eager, aren’t we?” you say, tilting your head with a raised brow.

He grins, leaning forward just a little. “What can I say? Don’t wanna lose sight of you again.”

There’s something layered in his words, a glint in his eyes that suggests he may be speaking more truth than he lets on, but you can’t quite pin down what it means. He’s either a very convincing actor or just naturally this mysterious, and you can’t decide which one makes him more dangerous.

You take the final bite of your meal, letting his invitation sink in as you weigh your options. A simple "no" would be easy. Safe. But something inside you is intrigued, drawn to the thrill of the unknown he represents—a thrill so rare for you it’s almost intoxicating.

Finally, you set down your fork and look up at him with a slight smirk. “All right,” you say, voice casual but steady. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

His face brightens, the guardedness dropping ever so slightly. “Perfect,” he says, looking genuinely pleased. “Let’s see where the city leads us.”

The city, or rather Nico, leads you through winding streets and narrow alleys, his arm still linked with yours, his steps unhurried as though he has all the time in the world. There’s an ease to his movements, his glances at you are light and almost boyish, as if you’re both just a pair of tourists enjoying a quiet afternoon. Yet, beneath it all, there’s a tension that winds between you—a silent ache that pulls tighter with every look and every laugh.

You pause by tiny cafés and quaint kiosks, sampling pastries and sipping espresso from delicate cups. At one stop, he takes your picture in front of a flowering tree, snapping a few from different angles until he gets the best shot. At another, he buys you a small trinket from a street vendor—an inexpensive little charm shaped like the Eiffel Tower. You murmur a thank you, clutching it in your hand, the warmth of the gesture somehow surprising.

Yet, in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the thought of the vial of poison and the small dagger nestled in your purse, waiting for the moment you’re supposed to make your move. 

You imagine your life after he’s gone. 

The assignments will continue, the wealth will accumulate. And then every so often, you’ll look on your shelves and see these small ornaments and think of your time walking the hidden streets of Montparnasse. You’ll look at your phone and see these pictures from Paris and they’ll remind you of him snapping the photos as he bent into different angles until he got the best shot. You’ll see the cheap hair clip in your dresser, tucked away in the back amidst other jewelry and accessories you have, and think of how he noticed you wanted it and got it without needing to ask. 

Slowly, these mementos will gather dust, hidden in corners of your room, little souvenirs of the man who saw you. Nobody had ever seen just you.

It’s startling and strange, this feeling—this gentle awareness of being seen, of being considered. Until now, you were always someone else’s shadow, ‘Father’s’ instrument. You were trained to be invisible, an extension of his will and no more. But Nico isn’t like that. His gaze lingers, soft and genuine, as though he’s curious about what lies beneath the surface.

You shake off the thoughts and try to focus on the moment. There’s still time before you’re meant to make your move, time enough to let yourself enjoy the rest of the day. Just for now, you decide to let yourself exist in this quiet, stolen happiness.

Eventually, Nico leads you up a tower to a viewing deck where the city sprawls beneath you in an endless expanse of rooftops and streets. The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, a towering symbol of the city, so far away yet it feels within reach, as though you could stretch your hand out and touch it. The evening light casts long shadows, painting the Paris skyline in shades of amber and rose, the kind of beauty you’d only ever seen in your dreams.

"So," Nico murmurs as you approach the edge of the deck, his voice low, almost reverent. "What do you think?"

You glance at him, taking in the slight, an almost vulnerable expression that flickers over his face as he watches you, waiting for a response. The view, the quiet intimacy of the moment, all of it makes the silence heavier. And for a split second, you allow yourself to forget who you are, who he is—to forget the guilt that’s rising inside you. Right now, you’re just Y/N, a girl seeing Paris for the first time, with someone who—if things were different—might have become a part of your life in another way.

“It’s beautiful,” you reply softly, though your words feel too simple, too small for everything swirling inside you.

He studies you, his gaze lingering with a weight that makes your heart beat just a little faster. “I figured you’d appreciate it. It seemed…fitting.” 

“Fitting?” you echo, glancing sideways, a faint smile on your lips.

He shrugs, his hands slipping into his pockets as he steps closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “For a girl who seems to belong everywhere and nowhere all at once.” He smirks, and there’s that gleam again, that sense he’s peering through the walls you’ve so carefully constructed. “You don’t stay still, do you?”

“No,” you say softly, the words falling from your lips with ease. “I travel a lot for work.” You pause, the silence thickening before you add, “The family business.”

He nods, his gaze steady, as if processing your words with more attention than you expected.

“My Father can be…strict about leaving, about staying in one place for too long,” you continue, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Says it can be dangerous. It’s his way of showing he cares.” You say it, but even to your own ears, it sounds hollow, like you’re trying to convince yourself of something you’ve never quite believed.

His expression shifts, an intensity in his eyes that almost feels like he’s seeing right through you. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you should tell him everything. Lay it all out in the open, be honest for once in your life, and admit the truth: I’m here to kill you. It feels almost tempting, the release of that burden, especially after the small kindnesses he’s shown you. But as you look at him, something inside you twists. The idea of telling him what you really came for feels like a betrayal, one that goes deeper than the job at hand.

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a quiet challenge. “You seem to be running too.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something solemn, almost haunted. “Maybe I am,” he admits, surprising you with the vulnerability in his tone. “But Paris feels…different. Nice.” He hesitates, glancing down at the city below before meeting your gaze. “It’s good to feel grounded, even if it's just for a little while.”

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, and something within you softens, cracking the thin armor you keep in place. In another life, you might have wanted this—the city, the warmth of his hand, the glint in his eyes. A life where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder or running from the darkness that’s haunted you since childhood.

“So you’ll stay, then?” you ask, the question falling from your lips before you can second-guess it. 

Nico chuckles softly, but it’s a sound tinged with something sad, something fleeting. “Long enough, I hope,” he replies, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he’s already aware that time is running out for both of you.

You look back to the skyline, your gaze lingering on the Eiffel Tower glowing faintly in the dusk. You should be thinking about logistics, about his weaknesses, about how you’ll manage to complete this mission without the complications he’s bringing out in you. But instead, your attention is elsewhere, caught in the warmth of his proximity, in the fleeting tenderness of this moment. His hand brushes against yours, just the lightest graze of fingertips, and a strange pull stirs deep inside you.

The silence between you stretches out, heavy with the weight of things neither of you dares to speak. It’s fragile, this connection, and it feels like it could shatter with a single word, a single choice. But for now, neither of you makes it. Neither of you dares to break the fragile calm.

“In another life,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, as if mulling over the thought, “I think I would have played hockey.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. “Hockey?” You laugh softly, amused, but the intrigue lingers.

He glances at you, his expression wistful. “Yeah. My brother and I played growing up. It’s what he’s doing now—he plays professionally.” He turns back to the view, his gaze distant, as if lost in the memory. “I think I would’ve liked that too.”

You hum, your mind wandering to your own past—those moments you never allowed yourself to think about too deeply. “I don’t know what I would’ve been,” you admit.

His gaze sharpens, sensing the quiet weight behind your words. “No?” he asks, his voice soft but probing.

You shake your head, feeling the familiar tightness in your chest. “Father always told us not to dwell on impossibilities. Said it was a waste of time. So, I don’t.”

There’s a brief silence, a gap between you, as Nico processes your words. His eyes flicker to the horizon, but his attention never strays too far from you.

“Well,” he pressed, the question gentle yet insistent, “What did you enjoy as a kid? Surely there’s something—something you loved, even for just a moment?”

You close your eyes, the memories swarming, distant and fragmented. The orphanage, the cold walls of ‘Father’s’ estate, the endless missions, the calculated steps you were taught to take. They blur together in an unbroken chain, all leading you to the person you are now. But there’s little more than blood and monotonous days.

“I don’t know, actually.” Your voice is soft, almost a whisper, as the weight of the realization settles over you. “I just…did what I was told to do.” It sounds hollow, even to you. A life spent living by someone else’s rules, devoid of anything truly yours.

“You can always start now,” he says quietly, turning to face you fully, his eyes intent and unwavering. “I mean, you came here on a whim, didn’t you? Surely, that counts for something. It was a choice, even if a small one.”

You chuckle, the sound escaping softer than you intended, and meet his gaze. “It might be too late for me,” you murmur, feeling the weight of your words settle between you. Part of you wonders if he can see past your deflection, to the fear simmering beneath it.

He shakes his head, a flicker of resolve crossing his face. “My dad used to tell me that people change as often as the wind changes directions.” His eyes meet yours, piercing yet gentle, holding a challenge you didn’t expect—or maybe a plea. “It’s never too late,” he says, his voice dropping, the sincerity clear. “Not even for you.”

You don’t get a chance to kill him that day—or the days that follow. Somehow, time keeps stretching between you, days folding into nights and back into days. You still carry your bag, its hidden arsenal of a dagger, poison, and an anesthetic always on hand if the right moment arises. But each day, that moment slips further out of reach.

In the days after that first encounter, you and Nico drift through Paris, claiming the city as if it’s yours alone. Together, you cover every iconic landmark—standing in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower as its lights sparkle above, wandering the vast halls of the Louvre, where he teases you about different statues and their poses, and insists that he point out and then mimic every half-smiling portrait you come across. He surprises you with his knowledge of art, the Renaissance, and even Latin, which he learned in school and continued through university. When you reveal you also know the language, it becomes a game, a shared secret as you converse exclusively in Latin for hours, drawing amused looks from strangers and fits of laughter between you two.

He takes you to hidden corners of the city he’s uncovered on his own—the quiet Canal St. Martin, where you dangle your feet over the edge, watching swans glide past as you sip wine together. You learn a lot about him from your day here as he regales you with stories of his childhood: mischievous pranks with his brother, run-ins with strict teachers, and wild nights from his university days. You don’t have many anecdotes to share, but you do tell him carefully curated pieces of a past filled with botany and gardening, though you omit the lessons in toxicology and the purpose behind knowing which plants to avoid—or harvest.

One afternoon, you wander through the ancient arches of the Musée de Cluny, and he spins a story of a different era, playfully declaring you both a lord and lady sneaking away from the prying eyes of nobility, relishing the thrill of being together in secret. For a fleeting moment, you feel swept away by the fantasy, nearly forgetting the truth as you and him find solace in making playful and risqué conversation in hidden corners of the museum, your faces getting dangerously close to one another’s.

He brings you to unassuming cafés, bustling markets, and winding streets that all seem to have stories of their own—each location now carrying traces of you and Nico, building memories you never planned to make. You rate the coffee and croissants with mock seriousness, shop for souvenirs and trinkets neither of you need, and get hopelessly lost trying to find your next destination, only to laugh when you end up exactly where you started. 

And every day, the armaments in your bag grow heavier as you begin to wonder when, or even if, you’ll ever use them.

You find yourself unwinding in his presence, relaxing into the rhythm of the city beside him where even the smallest, most ordinary parts of Paris feel enchanted. His hand often brushes against yours as you walk, or he catches your gaze and holds it a beat too long, a subtle invitation hidden within each glance and touch.

Today, he brings you to the Wall of Love in Montmartre, where countless couples gather, drawn by the allure of seeing “I love you” written in over 250 languages. The blue tiles shimmer with red letters scattered across the wall, each phrase a declaration whispered across the world and etched here—a universal symbol of love and longing.

He pauses in front of the wall, his gaze soft as he reads a few of the phrases. As they often do these days, his fingers brush against yours, light and unhurried, as if savoring the contact. When he speaks, his voice is low, reverent, as though the moment demands a quiet respect.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, tracing one of the lines with his eyes. “So many ways to say the same thing. Even if people don’t understand each other, they understand…this.” He gestures to the wall, his hand grazing yours in a way that sends a shiver up your spine.

You look up, taking in the mosaic of languages and emotions woven together on the wall, words you may never fully understand yet somehow feel, even here, in the silence between you. You wonder if he’s trying to tell you something with his own actions, if he’s hinting at something deeper beneath his words. The moment feels suspended in time—a fragment of connection forever binding you to this place and each other.

For that brief, fragile moment, you’re just two people in Paris, a part of the world where love and connection persist against all odds. The weight of the dagger and vials in your bag fades, his presence anchoring you to the present. It’s enough—almost too much.

Yet, even as your heart flutters, there’s a part of you wound tight, like a coil ready to spring. You tell yourself it’s because you need to stay focused, that letting your guard down even slightly could cost you everything. But every time he meets your gaze, the edges of your resolve blur, replaced by something nameless and terrifyingly real.

“Have you ever felt that?” he asks, his tone almost tentative, as though he’s not used to letting anyone in. “A feeling you don’t even have to translate. It just…is.”

His question catches you off guard, slicing through whatever shield you’re still trying to keep intact. You look at him, unsure of what to say, and then, with a carefully neutral smile, you reply, “I wouldn’t know.”

He looks at you for a long moment, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. “Maybe it’s not too late to find out,” he says softly, as though he’s suggesting something that has the power to change everything.

And for a moment, you wonder what could happen if you could let yourself feel, let yourself know what it means to be more than just a weapon. What would your life look like then? 

The question lingers between you, silent and electric, and you feel it—your heart beating too fast, filled with a hope that you’d be able to stay in this moment just a little longer.

That night, he takes you to dinner at the hotel restaurant where you’re seated at a cozy, dimly lit corner. It’s the kind of place where the music is soft and the waitstaff almost invisible, giving you the sense that this moment belongs entirely to the two of you. You share a perfectly seared steak and a rich pasta dish, complemented by a bottle of red wine that he insists on pouring for you since there is apparently a ‘proper’ way to pour wine. The food is delicious, but the real highlight is the conversation—sharp, teasing banter that’s layered with the kind of teasing that’s come to define your time together.

“Superpowers are supposed to come with weaknesses,” he huffs, swirling his wine as he gives you a mock-serious look. “Yours, though? Too overpowered.”

You smirk, slicing off a piece of steak and savoring it slowly before answering. “Time control isn't as powerful as everyone makes it out to be,” you counter with a casual shrug. “I mean, have you seen the people who have these powers? Most of them are absolute idiots.”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re smart. Tactical. Absolutely stunning.” He leans in, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip. “You’re dangerous.”

His gaze holds you captive, his eyes twinkling with that strange mix of admiration and mystery that you’ve come to recognize. There’s a glimmer of something in his expression, something that suggests he sees you more clearly than you’d like—an unsettling thought, yet one you can’t seem to shake. You smile, hoping it masks the way his words make you feel, the faint warmth that they stir against your better judgment.

“If you only knew,” you reply lightly, reaching for your glass to steady yourself.

Before he can answer, his phone buzzes on the table, its screen lighting up with a notification. He glances down, and his expression shifts—serious, as though the world outside your bubble has come crashing in. He looks back at you, and there’s an almost apologetic look in his eyes.

“Work,” he says simply, pushing his chair back as he stands. “Give me a few minutes?”

You nod, watching as he steps away from the table, disappearing through a side door to take the call. As soon as he’s out of sight, the warmth and playfulness of the evening evaporates, leaving you in silence, alone with the untouched glasses and the low hum of the restaurant around you.

You glance down at his glass, still half-full, a perfect vessel for the vial of poison you carry in your bag. It’s as if the universe itself has laid this moment out for you, a seamless opportunity wrapped in the elegance of the night. The decision lies before you, chilling and familiar, and you reach into your bag, fingers brushing the cool glass of the vial.

Your heart races, your pulse pounding against the quiet that’s settled around you, and you feel the weight of the past few days hanging in the air. You tell yourself this is just another assignment, that you’re here to do a job—but you can’t shake the look in his eyes from moments before, the way he seemed to see you as something more than just a stranger passing through his life. 

The guilt seeps deeper, harder to shake than ever. And it’s not just guilt now; it’s something more—a gnawing certainty that you’ll regret this moment forever if you follow through. You’ll live with the memory of Paris, with his laughter and the streets you wandered together, haunted by the lingering, unanswerable what-if.

But you also know what needs to be done, and you steel yourself, feeling the familiar resolve settle in, as cold and unyielding as the vial in your hand. 

As you twist open the vial, preparing to pour the poison into his glass, your resolve falters. The weight in your hand suddenly feels unbearable. And then, almost involuntarily, you snap the vial shut and tuck it back into your purse, just as swiftly as you’d pulled it out.

Not tonight. You still have a little more time. There’s no need to ruin this evening; you’ll let yourself have this, one final night untouched by duty.

When he returns to the table, his expression is tinged with disappointment, and he slips back into his chair with a sigh. “Looks like we’ll have to cancel our trip to the gardens tomorrow morning,” he says, a faint apology in his voice. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

You nod, feeling an odd relief flood through you. “It must be important,” you say, the words coming out with a quiet, unexpected understanding.

He watches you for a moment, something warm in his gaze. “Yeah. But meet me in the lobby at 10 p.m.” He leans forward, that familiar spark lighting up his eyes. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

You smile, feeling the tension begin to loosen. “It’s a date, then.”

And in that moment, it feels like it really could be.

After dinner, with the warmth of the wine still buzzing in your veins, he offers you his arm for the short walk to the elevator. You’re both a little giddy, leaning into each other as you talk about small things—favorite flowers, favorite colors. Mundane details that you usually wouldn’t think twice about sharing, but now they feel oddly significant, like small secrets passed between you in the quiet of the evening.

Neither of you realize you’ve stepped off on the wrong floor—his floor—until you’re standing at the door to his room. You pause, staring at the unfamiliar numbers on the door, a surge of nerves rising in your chest. You could laugh it off, step back and blame it on the wine, let the moment slip away. But instead, you find yourself rooted in place, unwilling to pull back, unable to let go of him just yet.

When you look up, you find him already watching you, his gaze heavy, something unnamed flickering behind his eyes. The silence thickens, and the air between you crackles with a tension neither of you are willing to break. You’re close enough to see the way his eyes linger on you, as if he’s caught in a moment he doesn’t want to end.

Then, as if in silent agreement, he turns to face you fully, leaning down. And you, almost instinctively, rise onto your toes to meet him halfway. The kiss is tentative at first, soft and searching, but it quickly deepens, growing heated as his hands slide to your hips, pulling you against him. Your arms wind around his neck, and he holds you closer, the kiss turning into something heady and electric, filling you with a rush that’s terrifying in its familiarity.

It’s as if you’ve been here before, in another life where things were simpler, where there were no secrets and no deadly consequences. And in that moment, you can’t help but let yourself sink into it, feeling everything you’ve ever felt in the safety of his embrace.

By the time you finally break apart, your back is pressed against the wall beside his door, his hands framing your face as he stays close, his breath warm against your skin. You’re both breathing heavily, the quiet hum of the hallway the only sound around you, as if the world itself has faded to give you this stolen moment. His eyes flicker over your face, studying every detail as if trying to memorize it, and you feel an ache settle in your chest at how vulnerable he seems in this dim light.

He leans in again, his lips ghosting over yours, hesitant, as if he’s asking for permission that neither of you should be giving. His hands shift, sliding to the small of your back, pulling you against him once more, and you’re keenly aware of every point of contact, of the warmth radiating between you that seems to make time stand still. It’s almost too much, and yet, it’s not enough at all.

You close your eyes, your resolve blurring like mist, as he presses a trail of soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, each one more deliberate than the last. A shiver runs through you, and you clutch his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to this fleeting reality.

“Nico,” you whisper, barely audible, as if saying his name out loud might break whatever spell you’re under. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes darkened with something unspoken, something that feels just as dangerous as the feelings swirling within you.

Without another word, he turns and, still holding you close, reaches for the keycard. The door clicks open, and in a quiet invitation, he leads you inside, his hand never leaving yours. Inside, the room is dimly lit by the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over everything, lending it a dreamlike quality. You step in, and he closes the door softly behind you, a final barrier between you and the outside world.

For a brief moment, you stand in the center of the room, facing each other, as if testing the reality of this moment. His hand remains on yours, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin, and you feel the weight of all the words you haven’t said, all the truths you’ve hidden. But right now, they feel so far away, overshadowed by the nearness of him, by the quiet intensity that draws you closer still.

You’re both silent, the tension between you simmering just below the surface, until he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. It’s a simple gesture, but it sends a rush through you, and before you can overthink it, you find yourself leaning forward, closing the space between you once more.

The kiss quickly spirals into a whirlwind of sensations, a chaotic blend of tongues and breathy moans that echo softly in the dim light enveloping the room. His hands, warm and confident, glide down your waist, finding their way to your ass, fingers curling around it with a firm squeeze that sends a shiver coursing through you. As his lips trail from your mouth to the curve of your neck, the intoxicating way he devours you leaves you gasping for more.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, drawing him closer as if the distance between your bodies could somehow separate the energy pulsing between you. In one swift motion, he throws you onto the bed, the soft mattress cradling you as it folds under your weight.

For a brief moment, he breaks the kiss, his deep-set gaze searching yours with a mix of urgency and desire. As he peels off his shirt, the dim light casts a glow over his chest, revealing scars—stories etched into his skin—that tell tales of battles fought and survived. You reach out, letting your fingers wander over the uneven terrain of his torso, tracing the outlines of those marks as though they hold a significance only you can understand.

He captures your hand in his, planting a soft, lingering kiss on the inside of your wrist, the touch conveying a tenderness that starkly contrasts the fervor of the moment. It’s a gentle reminder of the man you’ve come to know, the complexities beneath the surface that lie just beyond the heat of desire.

As he positions himself above you, his arms forming a protective barrier on either side, the intimacy of the moment grows palpable. Every part of you ignites under his watchful gaze.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes, his voice low and barely above a whisper.

Your heart races as you reach up, cupping his face with your palm, and you draw him down for a tender kiss, soft yet electric, filled with unspoken promises. “I want you,” you murmur against his lips, surrendering to the impulses that have plagued you since you’d reunited.

A spark ignites in his eyes, darkening with desire that mirrors your own. In that moment, the world outside fades away, and there’s only the two of you, lost in a dance of want and need and maybe something more, something unspoken. 

Tomorrow you’d blame all this on the wine and the Paris atmosphere, but tonight? Tonight, he’s all yours.

By the time you wake, the room is drenched in the light of a quiet morning, and he’s already gone. You’d expected it, but the emptiness of the vast hotel room lingers, a reminder of the intimacy that filled it just hours ago. Your body aches, the dull soreness a vivid reminder that what happened last night was no dream. You run your fingers over the faint marks he left on your skin, each one like a silent promise, a testament to your night together that bled into the early hours of the morning.

You turn and find a neatly folded bathrobe on the chair beside the bed, a bowl of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a note. You unfold it, catching your breath as you read:

Thank you for last night. You were amazing, the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

A quiet laugh escapes you, and you shake your head. Of course, he’d thank you for something you both wanted, as if last night had been some favor you’d done for him. Your eyes skim the note, the faintest warmth creeping up your cheeks as you read the next line.

Stay as long as you want. Just remember to meet me at the lobby at 10 p.m. I have a surprise for you.

His signature trails off at the end, barely legible, a scrawl that feels both intimate and endearing. You find yourself tracing the curves and edges of his handwriting, as if somehow it can hold you here, hold you to him, even as reality waits for you on the other side of this door. You clutch the note to your chest, swallowing hard against the feeling building inside—a quiet, sinking ache that whispers of the inevitable.

For just a moment, you let yourself fall into the delusion that this could somehow become part of your life beyond this moment, this city, this tangled web of secrets you’re both keeping. But deep down, you know better. Whatever this was, however fleeting or real, it was doomed from the start. 

The softness of his touch, the laughter that lingered through the night—all of it will eventually be filed away as just another memory, another ghost from another life.

You close your eyes, clutching the note just a little tighter, feeling the weight of all that’s left unsaid between you. He’d left marks on you, physical and otherwise, reminders that would remain long after you’d finally carried out your mission. You were meant to be unbreakable, and yet here you were, on the edge of something that threatened to pull you under completely.

And as the morning sunlight filters through the curtains, it hits you fully—you are utterly, royally, and completely fucked.

At 10 p.m. on the dot, you’re waiting in the lobby, the anticipation almost unbearable. 

And then you see him, standing by the entrance, his silhouette softened by the warm glow of the lights. When he sees you, his face lights up, his smile tender as he steps closer, reaching out a hand to caress your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin, and for a moment, the world narrows to the warmth of his touch.

"Hi," he murmurs, his gaze steady, warm. “How was your day?”

The gentleness in his voice and the easy way he looks at you tells you everything he can’t say outright—that he doesn’t regret a thing. There’s still a tension between you, but it’s softer now, more grounded, something that feels like it’s become part of the air you share.

“It was good,” you reply, lifting your hand to cover his, savoring the warmth that seeps from his skin to yours. “Thank you for the fruit.”

"Just wanted to make sure you were taken care of,” he laughs softly, the sound warm and familiar, “Come. I wanna show you something nice." His fingers slip between yours, his grip firm but unhurried as he pulls you towards the door.

You give him a playful smirk as you follow, feigning skepticism. “Something nicer than what we’ve seen already? You’re setting the bar awfully high.”

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. “It’s my favorite spot around here,” he says, a note of something deeper lingering in his tone. "I wanted you to see it, too."

The streets of Paris are quieter at this hour, the hum of the city softened as the evening deepens. Hand in hand, you walk through winding alleys and past dimly lit cafés, his fingers laced with yours grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. The conversation is light, snippets of dreams and half-whispered thoughts, but you both feel the weight of the silence between words, the unspoken sense that this night means more than either of you dare to admit.

Eventually, he leads you to an inconspicuous building, old stone framed by wrought-iron accents, the kind of place you’d pass by without a second thought. He releases your hand for a moment to unlock a side door, glancing back at you with a mischievous grin. 

“Are you bringing me somewhere I won’t be able to find my way out of?” you tease, the words playful but carrying the faintest edge, as if part of you is still wary, still on guard.

But he just laughs, a low, reassuring sound as he steps inside, gesturing for you to follow. “You’ll have to trust me on this one.”

He guides you up a narrow, winding staircase, the only sounds your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. With each floor, you feel a faint thrill building, your pulse quickening as the city outside draws farther and farther away, until finally, he opens a door and you step out onto the rooftop.

The view is breathtaking.

Paris stretches out before you, the city unfolding in all directions, a sea of lights glistening under the deep indigo sky. The Eiffel Tower shimmers in the distance, its glow a warm, steady pulse against the night. The Seine snakes through the city, its surface reflecting the light like a thread of silver weaving through shadows.

He comes up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and the silence that falls between you is comfortable, heavy with something unspoken. He doesn’t say anything, letting the view speak for itself, and you find yourself grateful for the quiet, for this moment that feels somehow suspended from everything else, a stolen piece of time that exists only for the two of you.

You glance at him, catching the way he’s watching the skyline with a reverence that tells you this city means something deeper to him, something that goes beyond words. When he finally turns to look at you, there’s an intensity in his gaze, a softness that makes you forget, for a split second, all the reasons you’re here.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, as if the quiet could somehow protect this fragile peace, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever spell holds you both here.

He nods, his gaze drifting out over the city before shifting back to you, his eyes unreadable. “It is,” he murmurs. Then he pauses, his gaze softening but sharpening all at once, layers of unspoken thought flickering there. “Some things are more beautiful when you see them for what they truly are.”

His words settle between you like a dare cloaked in careful phrasing, wrapped in a fragile honesty that you aren’t sure you’re ready to unfold. 

You don’t answer him. A part of you is afraid of what he’s implying—what he’s already begun to see. So instead, you simply stand next to him, your shoulders brushing, as you take in the Paris skyline. The world below is a vast glittering sea of lights and lives, yet everything you care about in this moment is standing right beside you.

The silence between you feels heavier now. The night air is cool, a breeze brushing past, yet the weight of his words clings to you, pressing in. This moment feels more fragile than anything else so far, as if it could fracture at the slightest touch. The weight of the armaments resting in your purse suddenly feels unbearably heavy, its presence inescapable.

“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence, his voice lower, rougher, edged with a tension that matches your own. He turns to you fully, his eyes piercing in a way that’s almost challenging yet laced with something like hurt. “When are you gonna kill me?”

You freeze, his words cutting through the delicate peace, a shocking confirmation that he’s known, maybe all along. You snap your head toward him, eyes wide with disbelief, the weight of what you carry crashing over you. 

His gaze is unrelenting, holding you to the spot, as if daring you to answer.

“You knew,” you say quietly, as if speaking louder might unravel you entirely.

"I've known since Germany," he admits. His gaze sharpens, but his voice is calm, almost careful. “You’re not going to deny it?”

You swallow, the weight of being caught pressing down on you, but nothing can dull the ache settling over your heart—the pain of knowing that somehow, you’ve brought him to this. Your hand drifts toward your purse, fingers grazing the cold metal of the dagger. You started this dance, and now you’re bound to finish it.

The familiar sound of the blade flicking open doesn’t startle him; he remains perfectly still, his expression calm, almost resigned, but there’s a flash of hurt beneath his steady gaze. He looks at you as if bracing himself for what you’ll do next, yet refusing to flinch, like he’s known this would come and decided to face it head-on.

“You should start moving,” you murmur, your voice barely steady as you raise the blade, the tip just inches from his chest. “I could kill you where you stand.”

His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, a mix of defiance and sorrow as he takes a step forward, so close now he could almost lean into the blade. “You could,” he says, voice steady. His hand reaches out, wrapping around your wrist, pulling it—and the blade—down to your side with a gentle but unyielding strength. “But I don’t think you will.”

Your grip on the dagger tightens, but his words unravel something in you. He studies you intently, his face inches from yours, his voice low. “You could have killed me at any time—probably should have. I gave you every opportunity to finish this. So why am I still breathing?”

The question slices through the silence between you, barbed with challenge but tinged with something else, something that sounds heartbreakingly like hope.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, unable to meet his eyes as the blade dangles uselessly from your grip. It’s close to the truth, but you know he’s not satisfied with it.

He steps closer, his hand still firm on your wrist. “I think you do, Y/N.” His voice softens when he says your name, like it’s something precious, something he’s been holding close all this time.

“I don’t,” you say, shaking your head, even as the words feel hollow. “I don’t.”

“You do. I know you do.” He leans in, lifting his other hand to cup your face, tilting it so you’re forced to look at him, his touch gentle against the raw tension hanging between you. “Tell me I wasn’t wrong about this. Please.” His eyes search yours, pleading, as if he’s hoping that whatever truth you have left to give will be enough to make sense of this chaos.

The weight of it all—the tension, the longing, the fear—crashes over you like a wave you can’t fight. The dagger slips from your hand, clattering uselessly to the ground as you sink to your knees, your shoulders trembling. “You aren’t wrong,” you murmur, unable to look up at him, unable to face the full force of what you’ve confessed.

Silence settles as he watches you, his expression softening, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel utterly exposed, stripped bare beneath the weight of his gaze. And, impossibly, he kneels down beside you, his hand brushing yours, wordlessly reassuring you that he’s still here.

“Then come with me,” he says quietly, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile trust that’s woven between you, “Run away with me and we can leave this all behind.”

You don’t miss the desperation in his voice, the way he’s so set on leaving the underworld, as if he already knows exactly how he’ll escape it.

Then it hits you like a wave crashing to the shore—he was always going to leave. One way or another, Paris was going to be his last stand, his final act before he vanished. For good.

“You were never going to stay, were you?” The words leave your mouth in a rush, sharp with the sting of your realization. Tears well up in your eyes as you lift them to meet his.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “These past few months have been my last mission for the government.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, cylindrical remote with a red button on top. “I infiltrated the warehouses from your father’s organization, taking what the government wanted me to and leaving behind…a present.” His gaze locks onto yours, filled with an intensity that cuts through the night. “Paris was my last stop.”

Your heart drops as the weight of his words sinks in. He’s going to destroy them all. Every warehouse from Prague to Italy to Paris, every asset, every last piece of ‘Father’s’ empire—all of it was going to blow to pieces at the push of a button. The very thing you’ve spent your entire life in service of, your family's empire, your future—all of it gone in the blink of an eye.

You should have been furious. Should have attacked him in that moment, fury and vengeance bubbling up inside you. Instead, something else surfaces. A soft laugh escapes you, one that’s equal parts incredulous and impressed. You smile at him, a genuine expression that seems to surprise even yourself.

“You outplayed me. All of us.” 

He doesn’t respond at first, just looks at you with a mixture of regret and admiration. The tension between you has shifted. He knows what he’s done, what he’s about to do, and yet—there’s something about the way he leans into your touch when you reach for his face that makes you hesitate. 

For a split second, you wonder if there’s still a chance for both of you. Or if everything you thought you knew was simply another game, one you didn’t even know you were losing.

“Ask me a question,” you say finally, your voice low and steady as your hand moves to gently tangle in his soft hair. “Anything. And I’ll answer it.”

He looks at you, a mix of amusement and confusion flickering across his face, before he nods, settling into the moment. “Is Y/N your real name?”

The question isn’t what you expected, but it’s also exactly what you needed. You smile, a tear slipping down your cheek that you quickly wipe away, a quiet laugh escaping your lips. He could have asked about anything—your work, sensitive details of ‘Father’s’ organization that only you were privy to, any of the secrets you’ve carried for years. Instead, he wanted to know about you.

It’s then that you realize the depth of what you’re willing to do for him. You make a choice. One that saves him. Even at the cost of yourself.

“It’s what they called me at the orphanage,” you tell him, your voice softening. You take his hand in yours, grounding yourself in the warmth of his touch. “The one I stayed in before father took me in. It’s who I was before I became father’s Shadow.”

He furrows his brows, looking at you with a quiet curiosity. “That’s what they call you, right? Shadow?”

You smile, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly. “I’m not as strong as Punch or as quick as Lightning,” you explain, your fingers tracing patterns on the back of his hand. “But I’m sneaky. Agile. Unassuming to most people. No one ever sees me coming until the last second.” You inhale deeply, the weight of your next words pressing heavily on your chest. “But they call me Shadow because I was the most obedient. I did everything he asked of me, never questioned him, even when I knew something wasn’t right. I followed father everywhere. I was…his shadow.”

A look of concern crosses his face, the sadness in your voice not lost on him. He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, and there’s a softness in his eyes that makes the sting of your past feel like it might just be bearable. But the moment is fleeting. You know what’s coming next.

“Thank you for believing I can change,” you whisper, your heart heavy with the unspoken truth. Even when you thought there was no way out, when you saw no escape, he believed in you. He wanted to believe in you, wanted to have you leave this all behind with him. And that belief stirs something deep inside you.

You pull away from him gently, reaching into your purse. The soft rustle of fabric sounds loud in the silence of the room as you retrieve the remaining arsenals—a vial of poison and a syringe of anesthetic.

You take both of his hands in yours, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. The taste of regret and longing lingers on your lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you say quietly, your voice breaking ever so slightly. A second kiss follows, this time slower, lingering just a moment too long. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes soften, his trust in you so complete that he doesn’t notice the quick movement of your hand as you grab the syringe with the anesthetic. You press it into his arm with practiced precision, the needle sinking into his skin. His gaze remains on you for a moment longer, confusion flickering across his features as the drug takes hold.

He loses his grip on the remote, it falling from his hand as he slumps back, the weight of the anesthetic bringing him near unconsciousness. You don’t hesitate. You pick up the remote and sit beside him, watching as he fights the sleep that crawls steadily toward him, his breath shallow and labored.

“Y/N,” he chokes out, his voice thick with the confusion and panic of fading consciousness. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” you smile, though the fear in your eyes is undeniable, “I’ll take care of myself. So, you go out and live on. Be happy, okay? For me?”

“Don’t do this,” he slurs, his words starting to lose coherence. “We can leave together.”

You shake your head, tears welling up again, blurring your vision as they escape down your cheeks. “It’s too late for me.” You gently caress his face, fingers lingering on his skin, tracing every curve of his jaw and the line of his cheek. You commit the image of him to memory, knowing it will be the last time you ever see him like this. It was a shame this wasn’t the last thing you were going to see when this was all over, but at least you could remember it. 

A small sob escapes you, but you continue, your voice barely a whisper. “Just so you know, I think I could have loved you more…liked you even more than I do now.” His hand reaches out to grab your wrist, trying to stop you, but you shake it off. The tenderness in his eyes breaks something inside you, but you don’t let it stop you. “I think…we could have had a very happy life together.”

“Y/N, don’t!” His voice is filled with desperation, but it’s too late. He tries to reach for the remote, but the drug has already taken hold of him, and he doesn’t have the strength to stop you. You stand quickly, turning your back to him as he weakly tries to move toward you.

Before he can reach you, you press the button. The room is filled with a sudden, deafening silence that only amplifies the heaviness in your chest. The sound of an explosion rips through the night air, just a ways off in the distance, a harsh reminder of the irreversible decision you’ve just made.

His eyes widen in realization. He’s awake long enough to understand what’s happened, the realization of your fate when you return back to ‘Father’ settling over him like a weight he can’t escape. His gaze flickers, searching your face as the truth sinks in.

Then, his eyelids flutter, the anesthetic pulling him under as the last traces of consciousness fade from his eyes. His body goes limp, his hand falling from his chest, and the last sound you hear from him is a quiet exhale before his eyes close.

You don’t know how exactly how long you sit there, staring at him, the weight of everything you’ve done crashing over you. But there’s no going back. You’ve made your choice.

You chose him.

READ PART TWO HERE