#It's the first time I've been clean this long for close to half a year | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thelastofhyde · 11 months ago

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you cut your hair, and take some space. (1)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 1 of 3 ! (part 2)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation (please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, officer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, so much crying ( reader spends half her time crying over javi p which is honestly a mood ), violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 15k

hyde’s input. this was written over the course of four months and could easily be used in court to prove i am, in fact, unequivocally in love with one mr. javier peña. if you take the time to read it, just know i appreciate it so much. i really poured my heart and soul into this and, as someone who's been writing for years, it's been so long since i've written something so self-indulgent that's brought me nothing but joy to write. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

“i told you, corazón mia (my heart),” he can't meet your eyes. “made it clear from the start i wasn't looking for anything serious.” “i know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “but if it wasn't serious, why'd you treat me like it was?”

I cut my nose to save some face You cut your hair and take some space.

The mirror is not clean enough to see yourself.

Where there are usually your eyes, there’s a discoloured splotch of brown. A crack runs down the left of what should be your face. Someone’s taken it upon themselves to draw a cartoon penis just where your mouth is. But in your drunken haze and laser focus, you don’t care enough to notice. All you see is the spot where your nose is, a tiny ball of silver nestled just above your right nostril.

It’s something new to fidget with.

On the flip side, it stings like a bitch. Or, more appropriately, like the tequila shots that led you to this run-down tattoo parlour.

You wonder if, come the morning and mental clarity, you’ll regret it.

If you do, you’ll blame him.

Your night was going fine. Good, even. And, with a lack of good nights in the recent week, that was an accomplishment.

You’d dressed up, let loose, had fun. A friend on either arm and a drink close at hand, you’d giggled and gossiped your way through this impromptu girls’ night.

They’d ambushed you, in a way, forced their way through the barricade of tissues and take-out boxes into your apartment. A skimpy dress tossed at your head and four hands dragging you, limb by limb, into the shower.

Get some dinner, hit the town, get fucked up. That was the plan they set out for you.

You skipped dinner, dove head-first into the town.

You were careful all night to never speak of him.

One part fearful it would summon him, another part embarrassed to admit just who you’d gotten tangled up in. A third part, tucked away in a locked closet, ready to do it all over again.

And then it happened.

You didn’t say his name, no.

Not aloud.

You thought it, for just a second, hearing the person beside you at the bar order the same drink you’d watched him nurse time after time. It wasn’t him but, instead, a man far too short and a clean-cut kind of handsome to even begin to compare to the ex-agent.

But it was enough to make you want to leave.

Giving up your space, you’d made your way back to your girls and made up some little white lie, surprised neither of them called you out on it- what kind of bar doesn’t have white wine?

They left to find someplace with wine, you left to find some peace of mind.

The bar they dragged you into was familiar, the setting of many of your father’s stories. It only took you walking through the door, tugging down the dress-too-short, to hear your name called across the floor.

“Hey kiddo!” Your dad’s a tell-tale kind of drunk, his eyes giving away even the smallest sip of alcohol he has. He was just tipsy, scooting his way out of a tattered booth to wrap you up in his arms. It felt as nice as it did guilt-inducing, knowing you’d been avoiding his calls all week since The Incident. A punishment to yourself more than one aimed at him. “You here yourself? Could join us for the night, if you like. Ain’t that right, boys?”

It was only then that you’d realised two men were sat within the booth, collars undone and ties loosened after a week’s work.

There were usually three of them.

"We’re just waiting on Peña." Oh god, it made you feel sick. Heart in your throat, stomach at your feet. His name no longer feels real, not when spoken by anyone but you.

“And raising bets on his tardiness,” one of your father’s friends said. You recognised him from a few of the barbecues and Christmas parties your dad's thrown. He's nice, responsible. Married, to a woman his own age. “I’m saying he’s chasing some tail. God knows he could use some stress relief. Boy’s been wound up all week, nearly bit my head off for asking him about some files."

It’s a wonder none of the three men- one a retired lawyer, the other two members of the force- noticed the blood drain from your face.

“My guess is he’s pulled some muscle in his back and can’t get himself out of bed,” a nudge from your father’s elbow, delivered straight to your ribs. “Whatcha think, kiddo?”

You didn’t have an answer.

You didn’t get to give an answer.

“You need to quit speaking ‘bout me like you’re not a whole decade my senior, viejo (old man),” it came from behind you and threatened you to look. Like the foolish final-girl in a slasher, you ignored your basic instincts and glanced over your shoulder.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but you know what you were hoping for.

Tired eyes, chewed lips, unkept facial hair. A twitch of sadness drawn between his brows and the stains of cigarette ash on a worn-out suit.

Javier Peña was none of that.

The suit, grey. One that fit him all too well and had you wishing you could stain it with your drink.

The signature moustache, perfectly groomed, sitting perched above the bow of his pouty lips, rosy-red and fresh for picking.

His eyes have always given him away but, staring down at you in that moment, they read only as passive, unaffected.

It was like, nothing.

And, yes, that’s what you’d asked for- from now on, whenever you see me, can you at least pretend that none of this happened?

But he's smart enough to know you didn't mean it, right?

“Hey officers, sorry to interrupt but,” a hand curled around your arm. It tugged and you let yourself be inched away from heavy brown eyes and your father’s smile. “She’s ours for the night. We’re going clubbing!”

That was never part of the plan.

Neither was skipping dinner, though.

You caught the back of him as you were dragged away, some pleading from your father to take it easy and call me in the morning, and noticed it only then.

His hair, freshly cut.

“‘S getting too long,” a mumbled sort of thing, hidden in your neck, spoken against your pulse. A kiss placed upon it, and then another for extra measure. Fingers dragging through his hair, ridding him of the knots your very same hands had worked into them an hour of passionate touching ago. “Lo sé (I know).”

A pause of silence. The blissful moan birthed from nails on his scalp. And, then, “no. It’s nice, I like it.”

That puppy-dog stare, so particular to the cool-down moments between you, meets your own, chin propped upon your sternum. He’s sweet like this, honeyed skin and pleasant smiles.

“Yeah?” He asks, like he even needs to. “You like it, corazón (sweetheart)?” You opt for a hummed confirmation, finger tracing over the arch of his nose. “Guess I better keep it this way, then.”

Now he’s gone and chopped the overgrown curls off.

In a way, it feels like he’s cut you off with them.

We don’t speak cause it’s too tricky But if I’m tricky, why’d you kiss me?

The next time you see him, a wedding is taking place.

He sits on the groom’s side, you sit on the bride’s.

It feels unreasonable to be surprised by his presence. Why wouldn’t he be here, sitting four rows from the back, at his cousin’s brother-in-law’s wedding?

The bride is gorgeous, the groom is in tears. The priest drones on a little too long.

Somewhere between the exchanging of vows, and the ceremonial kissing, and the cheering of guests, your instincts get the better of you and you glance back at him.

He’s already staring right back, eyes ignited with something that weakens your knees and shakes your confidence. The newlyweds walk down the aisle, cut through your line of sight. He’s still staring at you when they’ve passed.

The reception takes place in the events room of some glammed-up hotel, the kind you can barely afford the one night you’re booked in for.

An open bar, a local band. The catering is tasteful, handpicked by the couple, and the table you feast at is so far away from his that you don’t get that chance to see if he chose the chicken or the beef.

You find a friend behind the bar, in the shape of a bottle and toothpick-impaled olives.

You dance till your feet hurt, slip away to your table, take off your heels. You’re back on the dance floor in time to catch the bouquet, too busy basking in the envy of the other women to notice his eyes burning a hole in the back of your head.

If it weren’t for the dent in your bank account made by the room you booked, you’d gladly dance away the whole night. But if a bed with a view costs double your rent, you’ll be damned if you don’t get to sleep in it.

So you stumble to the elevator.

Clutch your heels and flowers to your chest, struggle to remember your floor number. The fifth floor seems to ring a bell, but it might’ve been the eighth floor. Your room key! Maybe, you hope, that’ll have your floor number on it. You struggle with your purse’s zipper, trying your best to pry it open.

You succeed, but at what cost? Heels and bouquet tumble to the floor, thumping and clunking as they knock against it, flower petals falling loose.

You try to bend down, stretch your fingers out to grasp the clasps, seize the stems. A wave of exhaustion mixed with too much alcohol washes over you and you stand up straight again. Take a calming breath, do a little song and dance before reaching down again.

“Déjame. (Let me.)”

Scuffed shoes come into view as you’re halfway down, bent at the waist and holding your balance with one arm against a wall. You stand up straight, too fast, lose your balance and stumble forward.

He catches you.

For a moment, it feels like you’ve never left his arms.

“C’mon, let’s get you to your room.” You hate the way he ends his sentence, no term of endearment and no impure intentions.

He asks for your floor, you give him your key. He punches the number into the elevator and it shakes to life.

Neither one of you makes an attempt to part. There’s a chance he pulls you closer to him. You let yourself melt, regardless, muscles relaxing and sinking into his arms.

He’s still warm. He’s still steady. but his cologne’s different and it makes your eyes sting.

You’d warned him he was about to run out of his signature bottle, made a note to buy him another one for his birthday or Christmas, whichever came first.

“You look like you had fun,” he rasps out, eventually, as the elevator slips past the fifth floor.

“I did,” you tell a partial truth. You would have had more fun, if he’d stood at your side, ate at your table, danced in your arms. But you can’t say that, because he doesn’t want that.

“I’m glad.”

It turns out your floor is the ninth. He’s careful to guide you out the mobile-box, hand on your hip, pressing you to his side. Your heels dangling from one of his fingers and the bouquet gripped in his palm, smacking against his thigh every other step. A little down the hall and there you find it, your precious and expensive home for the night.

It’s easier to let him open the door, he tells you.

It’s easier to let him guide you to bed, you tell yourself.

Dropping the heels on the floor, he disappears out of your line of sight and you stare motionless at the ceiling above, buzzing in your brain and pain in your heart.

You’ve never shared a space like this with him, one that’s hollow and decayed. The shell of a creature that’s long abandoned it, grown too big for its home.

Your eyes sting all over again, this time enough to brim with unfallen tears.

A thud against the nightstand.

You roll onto your side and find he’s still here, a glass of water and some painkillers lay to rest at your bedside. The first tear gives way, running down your cheek and dropping to the crisp white sheets below. Even more fall as he raises a damp cloth to your face, wiping away smudged mascara and bringing your lips back to their natural colour.

The undressing is gentle and so unlike his usual impatience.

Fingertips drag down each inch of skin released as he unzips the back of your dress, tugging it down and folding it by your heels. The weight off your chest helps you breathe as he unhooks your bra. Left only in your underwear, the sheets ruffle as he drags them up your tired limbs and tucks them under your chin.

“Get in bed, please,” you plead like you have any right to ask that of him. “Javi.”

It’s the first time you’ve said his name since that night in May. His shoulders tense and release, his fingers smooth down his moustache. He looks like he’s going to fulfil your request, slip in behind you and wrap you up in his soft but steady embrace.

He looks like he wants to.

His back cracks as he bends down and presses a kiss.

Against your forehead, lips that linger.

Then, he stands up straight and walks out the door.

On the forehead, way up north Pressed the scar and found the source

Vermont, ‘98.

That’s where it all began.

Your dad, turning fifty.

Javi just hit forty.

It was someone in the station who had the wild idea they celebrate it together. The sheriff and the station’s rookie- really, a hardened, inching-out-of-a-fresh-retirement former DEA agent your father manipulated back into the force, some promise of a light workload and a hefty pension. With no need for money, you wonder why he ever accepted the offer.

Plans were set, money was put in a pot, and a wheel of fortune was spun. It landed on the northern state, a downpayment to rent a ski lodge placed within a matter of twenty-four hours.

Somewhere along the way, you’d been roped into joining this boys-only trip. Your dad argued you needed a break from studying. Your mother argued there needed to be a responsible adult to supervise your dad. and, well, a free holiday never hurt nobody, right?

Wrong.

The final evening, with a constant pounding of a hangover never-quite-nursed, a litter of bruises down your back from falling and a firmly closed chapter on any possible career as a ski prodigy you may have had, you trailed your way down to the only bar in the tiny ski town.

Textbooks on the table, glasses on your face.

A half-drank glass of cabernet, an empty plate.

Peaceful and quaint, until it wasn’t.

The cheer of a frat-boy out in the wild warrants the same response as hearing a lion’s roar in the dark of the Saharan night.

The kind you hear them before you see them, spilling through the door in their obnoxious jerseys and their face-painted cheeks. one wore the badge of honour, a giant Soon To Be shackled Married printed poorly onto the back of his jersey.

You put your head down, breathed more subtly.

The pride stormed their way over to the bar, pounding their fists onto the surface and gnashing their teeth, spit spilling down their mouth as they brutally tore into the bartender, demanding pints of beer and rounds of shots.

The key was to avoid eye contact, keep low and out of sight.

They dispersed through the area, sniffing out free booths and the occasional local to irritate out of their seats.

One of them found the jukebox and wasted his coin on blasting Pour Some Sugar On Me. The group of older women playing bingo scowled and made their way out of the joint, calling it for the night.

You got up to follow suit, hands slowly packing up your belongings and slinging your bag over your back.

Inching towards the exit, footsteps light as a feather.

“Woo! Look at you,” just as you were close to slipping out the door, a single member of the pack spotted you, prowling his way over. He already had his chest puffed out by the time you turned around. “Ain’t seen an ass like that since we left the city!”

Hardly charming. Tame, compared to other things frat boys have said to you.

“Why don’cha come join me and my buddies over there?” He nodded back at them, like they weren’t the obnoxious centres of everyone’s attention.

You were not scared of him, exactly. But you’ve seen where things can go. Heard about it, countless times, from your own father.

So you spoke with caution, gripping your bag a little tighter, “thanks, but I’ve got an early flight. Have a nice night-” He told you his name, like you cared. “Yeah, thanks, bye.”

And then you were stepping out into the quiet of the night.

Fresh air, cold enough to sting your lungs. You breathed it in like it was going out of fashion.

You barely got a moment to compose yourself before that grating voice was back in your ears.

“Oh don’t be a buzzkill!” He whined, you cringed. Took a step back, watched him move an inch. “It’s early, stay. Have a drink.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“To have fun?! C’mon, it’s too cold to be out here by yourself.”

“I have an early flight.”

“It’s just one drink, sweetheart. I ain’t asking you to sign your life away.”

A couple bumped past you both, weaved their way between you. His eyes trailed after them, your feet twisted around, carrying you away from him slowly, carefully. Best not to make yourself look like prey, not to this predator.

“Hey!” He called after you. Your steps sped up. “Where you going, sweetheart?”

It didn’t even matter that you were walking in the opposite direction of the ski lodge. You told yourself you would find your way back, once this lion was off your back.

“I ain’t done talkin’ to you!”

The lion pounced, sank his claws into your back and ripped through you.

Your hand flew out to break your fall, the contents of your bag spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Pain, the kind that stings. It nipped at your knees, and your hands, and your eyes. Pushed it down, pulled yourself up.

He froze, maybe surprised at his own actions, maybe waiting on the chance to pounce once more, this time with his fangs instead of his claws.

You wouldn’t give him the chance. Filled your bag, collected your senses and ran.

It was tricky on frozen ground, trying so hard to not look back.

He followed and you knew it, heard it. Roaring and growling, chasing you down streets you’d never walked.

You slipped, momentarily, slammed into a wall. A crossroads, go right or go left.

You don’t remember which direction you turned.

“Quit running, you bitch!”

He was still following, how was he still following?

Caving in, you glanced over your shoulder and saw the blurry figure of him running after you.

He was getting faster. Maybe you were getting slower.

You came to a screeching halt, body smacking into something solid. Eyes shut, mind alive. You feared the worst, hoped for the best, expected to open your eyes and find yourself trapped in a dead-end, nowhere to run from this predator.

Instead, you heard your name. Called softly, at first. Gentle, coaxing you to pay attention. The second time it was more urgent, worried and aggressive. You sank deeper into the wall, felt your feet shuffle on the gravel below.

“...Gotta let me know, nena,” the wall pulled you back from it, a firm grasp on your forearms. Your eyes opened and met his. “Fucking Christ, look at the state of you.”

You’d not known much about Javier Peña at the start of the trip.

Your dad had mentioned something about a family ranch. Your mom let it slip that he’d enjoyed the pumpkin pie she’d brought to the station’s Thanksgiving feast.

There’d been one time you’d caught the end of a conversation between him and your dad. Nothing concrete, just some shameful mutterings about Colombia and Los Pepes. You’d left once you heard your dad start to comfort the man, deciding your intruding on the moment had already gone too far.

You now knew he liked his whiskey, no ice. His coffee, no milk. His bread, no butter.

He didn’t like the mess of mixing things, and you had to wonder if it had always been this way. Or had he learned his lesson, the hard way? Mixed the wrong things, burnt his own blessings?

“You’re bleeding,” he announced it, fresh news for you.

A pleasant warmth thrummed through your veins as he took hold of your hand, inspecting it under his scrutiny.

His thumb swiped over your palm.

Your mouth winced, your arm pulled back.

He held you in place.

Something visceral shifted in him, enough to coax you to glance at him.

He was looking past you, eyes a deadly killer stalking their prey. You followed their line of sight and found the lion at the end of the street. Standing still, arms at his side, eyes a little wider than you remembered them. You’d not really been looking, in the first place.

The former agent twisted you behind him, an effortless shield. Took an urgent step toward the frat boy, and then another three.

You grasped at his sleeve and tugged him back, didn’t let him stray too far.

“I’m fine,” you lied. He didn’t believe you, furrowing his brow. “I’m just cold.”

He seemed to hesitate, softened by a tremble in your voice.

He glanced back to see the lion was retreating, staggering his way back to the pride of frat boys. A perfect opportunity for him to attack, from behind and unexpectedly.

“Leave it, he’s not-” The sting in your eye got the best of you and a tear tracked itself down your cheek. You wiped it away with your scraped hand, leaving behind a smear of gravel and blood. “It’s not worth it.”

You said it not for the agent’s sake, but the boy’s.

The agent puffed out a breath of frustration, then followed your plea. Turned back to you, licked his thumb and swiped off the dirt on your cheek. Pulled you in, against him once more, and pressed a deliberate kiss against your forehead.

It was instinctual, no thought placed behind his action.

He did it because that seemed to be in his nature: to nurture.

“C’mon, the lodge is this way,” he pointed in some direction.

You didn’t bother paying attention, more than willing to follow wherever he led.

“Put this on.” It was not posed as an option, not when the agent tugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders.

Somewhere along the path, you realised you’d lost your key to your cabin. Your dad carried the other.

Officer Peña offered to take you to him, drinking down in the ski lodge’s bar with the rest of the men.

You shook your head, told him your dad couldn’t see you in that state.

He took you back to his own cabin instead.

Cleaned up your hands, put on the fire, poured you a drink.

Then fucked you into his bed, till you clawed and sobbed around him.

If you don’t love me, Why’d you act it?

Late june brings nothing but gloom.

You get bored quick, no college to fill your days. Pick up extra shifts, hope to combat the empty feeling in your chest with the rush hour traffic that torpedoes it’s way through the cafe.

Friends invite you out, you rarely go. They tease you’re becoming a recluse, and that just makes you want to shut yourself in even more.

Tonight, you’re appeasing them.

Some line dance event, downtown in a bar that’s only gimmick seems to be a worn-down mechanical bull. It’s missing a horn and no one seems to know why.

Truth be told, you don’t want to go.

You want to stuff your face with take-out while you melt into your couch, watching reruns of the first season of Friends and drooling over Joey till you forget about another smooth-talking, raven haired man.

Here you are instead, fighting against the cheesy cowgirl hat till it sits on your head correctly.

In the mirror, it’s still lopsided.

The clock sits at eight forty-seven.

They’re 2 minutes late.

You give up, decide to pretend you want the hat this way. Slip on your jacket, do a sweep around your apartment: windows locked, flat iron off, fridge closed. Grabbing your purse, you unzip it and wrestle around in it’s contents, searching for your keys.

You pull on something and- it’s a pack a gum.

Dive back in, search again.

An empty tube of lipbalm.

Third time’s a charm, you think, and try once more. Something scratches your fingers, coaxes you to tug it out and inspect it.

A broken earring.

A familiar car honk’s outside, you stay frozen in place, staring at the broken hoop and counting one, two, three.

Bile burns the back of your throat.

He opens on the fifth knock.

Any other night, he practically rips the door off it’s hinges and tugs you in, before you can so much as raise your fist for a second knock.

Maybe he was busy, on the toilet or on the phone. You don’t think too much into it.

He steps aside, lets you in. Stands so far away, it’s hard to read his eyes.

The air’s uncomfortably quiet.

You think’s it’s all in your head, self-doubt at an all time high after a bad day.

“My earring snapped today,” there’s a growing pit in your stomach, just from staring at him. He looks so distant, not present. Mind a galaxy away. "Your favourite ones, too. You know, the little hoops with-”

“The hearts dangling from them.” He finishes, on your behalf, and it’s the first green flag you see. Green enough to lull yourself into a faux calm.

The silence returns.

You rock backwards on your heels, glance around the apartment. Try to find what has changed, because this no longer feels like the place you’ve grown so familiar with. And neither does the man observing you from a distance, hands glued to his sides.

He should be touching you by now, in any way he could: his foot bumping against yours under his dining table, his hand trailing patterns over your shoulders as you settle into his side on the couch, his tongue delving between your folds as you lay splayed out on his sheets.

You notice his bedroom door is shut.

It’s never been shut before.

“Is- Am I-” You don’t have to find the words, but the courage to speak them. “Do you have someone over?”

He blinks, slowly.

It’s hard to tell if it’s from guilt.

“Because if you do, that’s fine!” It’s not. “I understand,” You don’t.

He doesn’t answer.

You keep talking.

“Totally chill, I’ll comeback some other night. Or, you can just come by mine! Yeah, actually, that sounds better. Won’t risk interrupting again-”

“This needs to stop.”

You don’t have to question it.

You do, anyway.

“What?”

“Us. This-” He’s pointing between you both, a little haphazardly. It’s like he’s rushing to get the words out, get it over with. Get you out his apartment. “Thing we’re doing. It’s done.”

“I don’t underst-”

He cuts you off with your name. “Why’d you come here tonight?”

He’s stern.

Not in the way that makes you want to bend to his will and indulge in all his sins. But in a way that makes you feel dirty, wrong. A child scorned for touching fire and getting themselves burnt.

“I,” you’re beginning to wish there was someone else in his bed, so she could stroll out of his room in one of his stupidly soft shirts and interrupt this conversation. “Uh, I had a bad day.”

“Okay,” he nods. Smooths a hands over his chin, pops out his hip. “What’s that got anything to do with me?”

Everything, you want to tell him.

For every single thing that went wrong throughout your day, seeing Javi gave you something to look forward to.

“I just thought-”

“You thought, what?” His face twists up, just like your insides. He’s angry and you’re the one to blame. “This isn’t a- I’m not your boyfriend.”

I know, you mouth.

Because you do know. Repeat it to yourself all the time.

When he calls to make sure you got home safe.

When you sneak off to pee in the middle of the night and are welcomed back to bed with a forceful tug into his chest, a sleepy, gruffed out ‘where’d you go?’ whispered into your neck.

When he picks up on the things you say, remembers silly things like your favourite toilet paper brand and the exact milk to cereal ratio you enjoy.

Javier Peña is not your boyfriend.

So why does he act like it?

“Look, kid, you’re young, and I know-”

Kid.

That makes you angry.

He wasn’t calling you kid when he bent you over your parents’ bathroom counter.

“Don’t call me kid.”

“And I know,” he pushes through your protest, keeps up the distance. “This can be a lot at your age. Don’t blame you for getting caught up. But whatever you think you’re feeling for me, it’s not-”

“Is this about the p-” The word won’t come out of you, so your change the verbiage. “The hospital? Because I told you, Javi. We’ve been safe. Safer than a pair of purity-ring wearing teenagers-”

“No, this is about me needing to do the right-”

At this point, you’re just interrupting one another.

Fighting to get in the next word, frowning at what you do hear.

He tilts his head back and pinches the bridge of his nose, a groan leaving his cracked lips. You’d imagined him doing that tonight, but not like this.

Eventually, the back-and-forth stops.

Silence.

You take the lead.

“So, what? That’s it just... over?”

“I told you, corazón mía (my heart),” he can’t meet your eyes. “Made it clear from the start I wasn’t looking for anything serious.”

“I know,” you heave in a breath, hold back a sob. “But if it wasn’t serious, why’d you treat me like it was?”

It takes him a few minutes to answer. There’s a twitch, in his hand, reaching up only to drop back down at his side.

Usually, he wipes your tears before they get chance to fall.

The rug at your feet turns darker with each wet spot that drops.

“I got caught up,” his eyes seem so sad, so lost. Staring across the ocean of his living room, searching for a lighthouse to pull him safe to shore. But he won’t let you be that. “In the way you deserve to be treated, instead of some sleazy secret.”

He breathes out your name, the most painful melody you’ve ever heard.

“This has to end,” you’re unsure if it’s only you he’s attempting to convince. “Before someone gets hurt.”

Too late, you want to say.

You’re already being torn apart by his hands, and he’s standing ten feet away.

“Corazón, I’m so sor-”

The car honks, again.

You breathe in, and find it’s hard, snot piling up in your nose and tears splashing down your cheers.

Another honk.

You never make it to the line dance.

You curl in on yourself, instead, and fall asleep to the sound of Joey and Chandler’s bickering.

Love’s a verb And not a bandage

In retrospect, it’s hard to tell where the lines begin to blur.

A promise of casual, turned into something fragile.

Whenever you think about it, for too long, your mind carries you back to the same night. A few months after Vermont, you don’t recall the exact date.

All you remember is a pounding at your front door.

1 am. Too late to be causing ruckus.

You nearly trip over discarded shoes, curse earlier-you for assuming you would remember their existence. Undo the bolt, grab the key and then-

Pause.

This could be anyone, anything.

You check the peephole, find exactly who you were hoping for.

He’s on you like a moth to a flame, pressing you flush against him the instant he can fit through the crack in your doorway. Mouth on mouth, hands on waist. The door thuds as he closes it behind you both, you’re too distracted to notice.

You let him invade your senses.

Smell his aged leather and nicotine thrill. Feel his strong arms and bulging crotch. Hear his laboured breaths and muttered pleasantries. Taste his whiskey tongue and metallic lips-

You pull back. He follows.

It’s flattering, his inability to get enough of you, but you halt him nonetheless.

Cup his cheeks, pull down his face, and stare.

“My dad finally figure out who those panties in your glove-box belong to, Peña?” It’s meant to be a joke.

There’s nothing funny about his bleeding lip and split eyebrow.

He graces no response, dives back into you and submerses himself in your touch. Kisses you slow, with deliverance, his final mission to arrest all your sense of self till you turn yourself in to his embrace.

Only as you pass by those discarded shoes do you realise he’s inching you both deeper into the dark of your apartment.

This time, you do trip over them.

It’s okay though, Javi’s there to catch you.

He finds refuge in your neck, burrowing in deep, mouthing at the skin like a dog does a wound. Your arm shoots out to find a light-switch. A warm glow fills the apartment, bathing you both in an orange hue.

The gold of his skin shines brighter.

The red on his skin appears darker.

“What happened to you?” You don’t need to worry about him. And, yet, doing so comes naturally.

“S’not important,” it’s spoken against your skin, as if he intends to seep his gravelled tone into your pores and have it grow a new life for itself within you. A gentle scraping of his teeth sends a shiver down your spine. “I’ll tell you later.”

Later with Javi never seems to come.

‘If you’re not busy, I’ll make you dinner later.’

‘Keep it up and I’ll be fucking that attitude out of you later.’

‘I’ll get these back to you later.’

He’d never made you that dinner.

He’d dragged you into the station’s bathrooms and fucked the attitude out of you only seconds after.

You’d never gotten those panties back.

You decide to grant him no time for later. Shove him down into a seat at your dining table-for-two. Roll your eyes as he asks if you’re “gonna put on a show for me, corazón?”

The makeshift first-aid kit put together by your mother resides at the back of a cupboard, hidden by mugs and cups. It takes several minutes and a smashed glass to manoeuvre it out. You step over the pieces of glass and head straight back to the table, dumping out the contents.

You click your tongue, point your finger. He scoots the chair back from the table and you slip between the space. Press back against the surface, stand between his parted knees and do your best to not look down at the jeans that grant him no modesty.

Distractions are not welcomed, your patient needs tending to.

He’s insisting he’s okay, yet he’s hissing when you dab at the tears in his flesh with betadine. His hands find a place upon your hips and give a tight squeeze as you press butterfly stitches to his no-longer bleeding brow.

“I,” he starts up, an indefinite time of silence passing between you both. He shakes his head.“It’s stupid.”

“Javi,” you stroke your finger over his jaw, tilt his head back to meet your eyes. “The less you tell me, the more I’ll worry.”

It does the trick, unlocks his tongue.

“I was just wanting one drink, was gonna head home... Or to you, after. I had a shitty day at work and... You probably don’t care about that,” he has no idea you’ll hang onto those words for the weeks to come, wondering how to lighten his workload, ease his tension. “Heard some loud-mouth kid beside me at the bar, he was talking to this girl. She gets up to leave, he follows. I was just gonna go back to nursing my drink but-”

He hisses.

You’re pressing too hard on his fragile lip.

There’s no malice in his eyes as you pull your hand back, only soft and tender. He must sense your remorse for hurting him, chasing after your fingers and grazing a gentle kiss upon them.

A splotch of red stains your skin.

“Corazón,” he croons, shifts himself closer to you. His hands grip the backs of your exposed thighs, his chin presses into your lower stomach. A few movie-strand hairs cover the molten brown eyes that stare up at you. “You’re exhausted. Vamos, basta de preocuparte (C'mon, stop worrying), I’m fine. I just wanna crawl into your tiny bed so I can wake up to your bedhead and more back pains.”

It’s a tempting offer, and one you’ve given into far too many times acceptable for the casual agreement you both share.

A deep breath. Your hand lands on his cheek, his eyes flutter shut.

There’s bags under them. Heavy, dark. Bearing the exhaustion he hides behind charming winks and dashing smiles. Your thumb grazes over one and you ache to give him the rest he deserves, the rest his body craves.

“But, what?” You persist, pleading for him to continue his story.

Javi sighs, gives in.

He always gives in, to you, eventually.

“I just- I don’t know, it’s crazy, but I kept thinking of you,” his eyes reopen, sorrow buried deep in his soul and a worry-line etched into his brow. “In that bar. Alone, in Vermont, when you...”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

He doesn’t need to.

“So what did you do?” It’s best to keep him talking, drag his mind away from whatever dark thoughts those memories bring up.

“I followed them outside,” he admits with a tinge of shame. “Tried to be subtle about it. Lit a cigarette, took a few drags, scoped out the street. Neither of them were around,” you’ve long abandoned the first aid kit, transfixed by the tight grip he holds you in, his hands smoothing up and down the backs of your thighs in an attempt to soothe himself. “I thought I’d maybe read into it wrong. Maybe she was into him, and they’d got a cab back to her place. Or his.”

He’s rambling.

Stumbling through words he deems unimportant, rushing to push out the thoughts that clog up his brain pipes.

You listen closely, swallow up every morsel he offers.

“It was just as I turned to go back inside that I heard something,” his hands no longer dance over your skin. They sit stagnant, halfway up your thigh, fingers flexed and nails digging into flesh. He’s burying himself into any part of you he can, rooting himself in your solid figure. “Rustling, or something. Coming from the alley. And I just... I felt my stomach drop. Followed after it. Found them, him-”

He chokes.

On his words, on his breath, on his failure.

You run a hand through his curls, soothe the lines off his face.

Bend down, drag him up, press your lips to the arc of his nose.

“Didn’t think, I just dragged him off. Punched him, a few times. Felt his nose crack under my fist.” He’s still pushing through, his earlier unwillingness to talk now a streaming fountain you can’t switch off. “I must’ve tripped on some glass, lost my balance. Gave him the space to get a few hits in, and-”

“Did you arrest him?” You cut him off.

He nods.

“Did you help her?”

Another nod.

“Did you get her someplace safe?”

This time, a reply.

“An officer checked her in at the hospital, stayed till her friend arrived.”

“Then Javi,” you make a point of saying his name, remind him of who he is when he’s not on duty. Not parading around with a badge and a gun, and answering to Officer Peña. The shift in his stare tells you it helps. “You did enough.”

A weight slips off his shoulders and he slumps further into you, eyes squeezing shut.

“I didn’t,” frustration steals the show, coursing through his voice.

“What more could you have done?”

“I don’t know... I could’ve-” He groans, like something pains him, and purses his lips. “I should’ve helped her sooner. Followed them, the minute they left. Shouldn’t have let...” A whiff of whiskey reaches your nostrils. Javi pulls you in tighter, breathes in the mixture of sleep-sweat and lingering cologne on the shirt you wear- Pink, the top buttons undone, left behind by him. “Shouldn’t have let you go out alone.”

You whine out his name.

The air is miserable, dragging through your lungs and staining them.

The chair creeks at the loss of his weight, knees straightening him up to his full height. Instinctually, you lean back into the table, head tilting to meet his broken eyes.

He’s searching for comfort, in the only way he knows how.

Slap a bandage over a bullet-hole, place a kiss upon his gaping-heart.

“Not everything about that night was so bad,” you play into his game, splay a hand upon his shirt. Trace a finger over a stained blood spot. “If I hadn’t gone out, then maybe we wouldn’t be...”

The words catch in your throat.

Partially because you don’t know what you are anymore. Boundaries crossed, lines blurring. Hands that hold and eyes that linger. Too close to be nothing, too reckless to be something.

But mostly because he kisses you.

Desperate, hungry. Groaning into your willing mouth.

He’s a man on a mission, to consume your soul right out your willing body. Unravelling you where you stand, he takes pleasure in peeling his shirt off you.

Hot mouth to hot skin, the tip of his tongue meeting the peak of your breasts. Your hands pull at his hair and he grips at your waist.

The descent into madness is quick, bodies melting together in a dance that’s unique, improvised, and yet always in sync.

He tugs at your panties and you undo his belt. He hooks your thigh over his hip and you anchor yourself to his chest. He teases you with a pinch to your clit and you torture him as you cup his heavy balls.

When Javi fucks you, he fucks with purpose.

The table thuds and scrapes along the floor with each punctuated thrust he gives, driving his cock deeper and deeper into your welcoming cunt, the coarse hairs at its base gifting you the occasional thrill of friction on your aching clit.

He’s slurring out curses and pet-names, lavishing you with delightful proclaims of what a pretty girl you are when you 'shut up and take my cock'.

When he does manage a full sentence of logical wording, his forehead’s pressed to your shoulder, his cum coats your thighs and the sweat between your frantic bodies holds you both together.

“There’s not a universe where this doesn’t happen, corazón,” you feel him softening against your thigh, yet you still delight as he drags a finger coated in his own spend up your folds. “Want you too damn much to miss out on you.”

Curling up into your bed that feels too big these days, you grip at the pink shirt and wonder when that changed.

When did Javier Peña stop wanting you?

And I’m spiritual cleansing (but the truth) Is I’m good at pretending (oh and you)

By July, things change.

The stud in your nose is traded out for a silver ring.

The lonely nights in your apartment turn into stumbling back home from some nameless club in the early hours.

Boredom leads to hobbies.

At first, you try pottery.

Four plates broken and a crumbled mug later, you put on your dance shoes.

Slip. Almost break your arm. Wrestle with the doom placed on your budding dance career. Throw out the dancing shoes, bring home running shoes.

You hate it, running.

You sweat, you ache, you exhaust.

But when you’re gasping for a breath and your feet pound into concrete ground, you don’t think about it.

The heartache.

The headache.

The agent.

You drop a few pounds, tone up your muscles. Watch your body’s shape outgrow your wardrobe, investing in a new one while clinging onto the items you love too much to lose.

Like the dress that now rests just below your ass, instead of it’s usual place mid-thigh. Or the sweater that once hung loose, that now hugs new curves and creases. The jeans that were tight now sliding off your hips.

The pink shirt still lives on one of your hangers.

But you’re not thinking about it, or it’s previous owner.

Not right now.

Now, you’re balling your fists and counting your breaths. Music blasting through your headphones, sweat dancing on your forehead.

The sun is warm on your back, even as it makes way for night to begin. This is the best time to run, dusk, you’ve discovered.

No kids loitering on park grounds, no threat brought on by the dark, no slow-walking pedestrians crossing your path.

You run your self-made circuit with freedom, switching off all your senses and emptying your mind.

Today, however, it’s more challenging.

The thought of him creeps through, no matter the effort you put in to fight it. Your father’s the one to blame.

You have to come, kiddo.

The phone-call still echos through your thoughts.

Because it wouldn’t be the same without you there.

You’d wanted a better explanation than that.

Then, you tried some lame excuse of already having plans.

You had no plans.

Bring your friends then! The more the merrier!

You nearly groaned out loud at his enthusiasm, but held back. Your father’s light didn’t deserve to be dampened by your shadow.

C’mon, kiddo! I’ve not hosted the annual barbecue since you were still wearing your braces!

You bit your tongue. Fought against telling him that, back then, there were no pretty-eyed, heart-breaking agents for you to worry about.

The whole station’s gonna be there, you have to come!

He said it, like that would persuade you.

Keep asking about ya, the whole lot of them.

The more he spoke, the less you wanted to go.

Just last night Javi was asking how you’re doing!

You’d hung up.

Immediately.

Called back, 3 minutes later. Mumbled an apology and an excuse- I lost signal!- and ultimately agreed to going to the damn barbecue.

Now, you run from the phone call, from the impending doom it brings.

All this heartache and pain, it’s not good for the soul.

Of course, being dumped is a lot easier when the person isn’t your dad’s closest confidant.

It gets hard to breath. Each pound against concrete shakes the cassette player glued to your hip. There’s a sting of tears in your eyes.

Until you come to a screeching halt.

Double over.

Place your hands on your knees.

Dry heave.

You pay no mind to the figure sitting a few feet away on a bench.

Nor to the dog that’s chasing it’s ball back forth between it’s owner’s throws.

You let the sadness flood your soul, deflate you like some discarded party-balloon.

You’ll have to see him.

Spend time near him.

Watch him laugh, and smile, and share beers with your father.

It’s unfair, and you hate him for putting you through this.

For not quitting the force.

For being your dad’s friend.

For not wanting you the same you wanted him.

Want him.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. Try to stand up straight, get lost in the knots you’d tied into your laces. Sloppy and uneven.

You’re usually more careful.

You catch, in your peripheral, the figure on the bench move. Take it as your sign to compose yourself, get over yourself.

You pick your pace back up.

Manage only a handful-or-two steps.

Your feet fly out in front of you.

Land ass-first on the gravel below.

Beneath the sounds of Olivia Newton-John demanding you get physical, you hear a muffled sorry! yelled out. Spot as the dog rushes to grab it’s ball, halfway down the path thanks to your kick.

You groan and prepare to get back on your feet.

You’re met with a hand in your face, palm open and waiting for you to accept the open offer. You take it, no hesitation.

Big mistake.

The hand tugs you.

You glance up.

And meet the eyes of Javier Peña.

“Easy, tiger,” he coughs up a laugh, like you don’t wind him as you slam into him, full-body force, nerves on fire and all systems shutting down. “You trying to break my ribs?”

It’s no less than you deserves, you think.

And instantly regret it, heart turning blue at the thought of him hurt at your hand.

You take a few steps back, create a safe distance where you can’t smell the remnants of his last cigarette or count the eyelashes that line his eyes.

He asks you how you’ve been, and tries his best to smile.

It comes off as awkward. A crooked line across his lips.

You try to remember the last time he smiled at you and meant it.

You come up empty handed.

Maybe it was back in April. A hospital hallway, one hand clasping yours, the other peeling through the leafs of some medical pamphlet.

Or, was it after, on the drive home, back to his apartment, hand still holding yours while the other spun the wheel?

There’s a vague memory that toils in the depth of your mind.

Sharing an elevator, your heels in his hand, his lips on your forehead.

Wedding attire, a post-party glow.

It’s toyed with you since you woke up in that hotel room, driven half-mad by an image you can’t quite form of him tucking you into bed.

Had he smiled, then?

Had he even been there?

Or was he merely a product of martinis and negronnis-

His fingers grasp your chin, no warning, and tilt your face.

His eyes don’t greet your own. Instead, they’re focused on the centre of your face, inspecting you like a piece of evidence.

“Hmm,” he’s so close, you smell the mint of freshly bitten gum on his breath. Dart your eyes down, catch the glint of his badge poking out his pocket.

He’s still on duty, a tailored uniform contrasting the hair roused by stress. Maybe at his desk, in the office next to your father’s, hands running through his tresses to express frustrations, tensions.

Were they his own hands, or someone with longer, brightly painted nails? Your stomach turns at the thought, your loins warm at the memory of writhing in his desk chair, legs thrown over his shoulders whilst his own dug into the ground below, eager to please mouth and a happy to taste tongue working you to a orgasm muffled by your own hand.

He’d slapped your ass, kissed your cheek and sent you out his office door, wiping your own wetness off your cheek just in time to greet your father.

“You suit the ring,” his voice and a gentle breeze bring you back to the present. To the park. To the heavy feeling that hangs between you both. “I prefer it to that stud.”

“I- What?” Confussion.

You furrow your brow, wipe your sweaty palms over your thighs.

He just smiles, still crookedly, and brings his hand up to your nose.

Adjusts your piercing, swipes his thumb over your cheek.

It’s hard to breath, but you do it anyway.

Thank him, in a struggle to find your voice, with a whisper.

His eyes bore into your own, chase them as you look off to the side, watch the dog still chasing it’s ball and failing to catch it.

You wonder if it’s a cruel metaphor sent by the universe, a symbol of you and Javi.

And then you wonder if you’re the dog or the ball.

Or both.

“You never answered me,” his voice, honey, sweet on your ears. It melts away your other senses, turns you blind to anything other than him. “I want to hear how you’ve be-”

“Peña, if you don’t report your skinny ass to my office in 5 minutes and share a celebratory drink with me, I’m putting you on cleaning duties at our next poker night.”

A static-filled voice blares out his walkie-talkie.

Your father’s voice.

It’s enough to set things right, force your body to retreat from his.

He’s not your Javi anymore, desperate to hear about your day and kiss any aches away.

He’s Peña, your dad’s best friend, meant for nothing more than to be a passing figure in your life.

His eyes are heavy with emotion as he fishes out the device.

Maybe it’s sadness you see.

There’s definitely remorse.

Guilt, too.

“We... Your dad caught the guy that’s been breaking into college girls’ apartments.” He tells you, shares information that should help you sleep better at night. You’ve not done that since the last time he lay next to you. You watch him press down on the call button, hold the speaker up to his mouth. “Do that and I’ll shit in your shower, pendejo (asshole).”

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d commit an indecency within your parent’s bathroom.

But none of that matter, anymore.

You’re already walking away.

Wringing your hands and hoping the tension in your limbs falls out.

He calls out your name, loudly.

Attracts the nosy eyes of people around.

People who know fine well who your father is, who Javier is.

You turn in time to see him half-jog, half-pace his way over to you.

He reaches out for your hand.

And quickly gives up on the thought of holding it.

“I’ll, um,” his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, grinds his teeth in an attempt to say something. “I’ll see you at the barbecue, right?”

He knows the answer.

You still give him it, “yes.”

Smile, uncomfortably brightly, before you turn and walk away once more.

You feel his eyes on you.

And pray he takes no notice of the sob that shakes your shoulders.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think I’m alright

You’re laughing but it’s mostly fake.

A courtesy, a polite gesture. A signal that you’re still listening, despite tuning out her voice five minutes ago.

She’s a nice lady, someone who works alongside your father. Specialised in forensics, she balances the darkness of her job with the brightness of her wardrobe.

Today, she’s paired a lemon-yellow skirt with a vibrantly orange camisole. She looks like a walking cheese cube.

You’ve known her since you were a kid, even if you can’t remember. She claims you used to stand on her desk, make a big spectacle out of nearly matching your dad’s height.

You’d got to talking to her after she helped you wipe ketchup off your chin.

That was half an hour ago, and the discomfort of wanting to be anywhere but here is finally settling in.

It’s not her fault. You know.

She’s not the one who roped you into going to this barbecue.

Your dad is.

And right now he’s stood on the other side of his backyard, half-drunken beer bottle in one hand and Javier Peña’s shoulder clapped under the other.

Even from here, you can hear him bragging.

So then Peña’s on his ass.

Chases this guy, whilst he’s driving down the street!

Catches him at an intersection, physically rips him out the car.

All while the man in question shrugs, sheepish. Dismisses your father’s praising.

He’s exaggerating.

The guy was barely going 5 miles an hour!

He stepped out the vehicle at his own will.

Sweat lines his forehead, shirt-sleeves hug his biceps, joy wrinkles his eyes.

He’s happy, at ease. Enjoying himself, in a way he was always meant to.

Something about him fits so perfectly in this picture: laughing with your father, complimenting your mother, playing fetch with your dog.

If you step inside the frame, it cracks.

Shatters.

And maybe he knows that.

Knew it all along.

Broke things off before you could try find a frame large enough to fit you all in.

And, though it hurts, you see why things had to end between you and feel relieved it happened before it was too late.

The feeling lasts all but four seconds.

“Kiddo!”

Your father’s voice is obnoxiously loud. Several of the party-goers turn their heads, follow his line of sight. Spot you, frozen in place, glass full of watered down lemonade and a belly full of dread.

It takes a moment, but you wave.

“Come over ‘ere!”

Not the response you were hoping for.

Still, you do as he asks. Smile at your mother, shuffle your feet, make your way across the yard. Do everything in your power to not look at Javi.

Even if the weight of his stare threatens to crumble you.

“You having a good time?” Your dad’s got this smile, big and dopy and oh so caring, that you can’t bring yourself to ruin with the truth.

“I’m having a great time,” you barely manage out before he’s squeezing you into his side.

The condensation on his bottle of beer seeps through the shoulder of your top, his arm secured safely around you.

He must be tipsy already, a buzz in his veins making him more affectionate than normal.

“I can’t believe it,” he laments, speaking to no one in particular.

In your peripheral, you fail to ignore tight jeans and a loose-fitting shirt.

It’s hardly buttoned, the top three undone and leaving a golden plain on display.

Perhaps you’re going crazy but he seems thinner, skin drawn a little tighter against his ribcage.

It’s not a sight you want to see.

It fills you with dread.

Pulling you out of your own head, you father continues to drone on.

“My little girl’s spreading her wings soon, going on her first adult holiday to-”

“London.”

Javi’s voice, interrupting your father, finishing his sentence.

All eyes snap to him.

Your own, wide and panicked. Scared. Trying so hard to dismiss how intensely he’s staring back you.

Your mother’s, amused and curious. Flicking back and forth between his face and her husband’s.

Your father, confused and perplexed, “I- Yeah...” He speaks slow and the arm on your shoulder slips down. “How’d you know?”

“I’ve been, you know?” Two hands dance in front of you, somewhere in the dark, intwining and unwinding. It’s a nervous habit, of Javi’s. You welcome the contact of soothing touches. “To London.”

That peaks your interest.

Enough to shift positions. Rip your hand out his own, roll onto your side and rest a hand under your propped up head. Your other, inevitably, finds its way upon his warm chest, rests over his no-longer-racing heartbeat.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been a few times, actually. I’ve got some friends out there.”

With Javi, friends could mean anything.

A fellow agent, a government official, a moonlight lover.

For all you know, this friend could be the Queen of England.

So it’s best you don’t inquire on it.

“Where do you recommend I visit then, Mr. Bond?”

“Mr... Bond?”

The room is dark, but you still notice the furrow in his brow.

You can practically hear it, in his voice.

“You know, like James Bond.” That’s the thing about jokes, explaining them makes you realise how dumb they are. “‘Cause you were an agent and you like London, and he’s an agent in Lon-”

He cuts you off in the way you like best: his mouth against yours.

The kiss is brief, and leads no place further than the simple act of wanting to silence you.

And, though it goes unaddressed, because it’s been too long since he’d last done it.

Even if he’d done so less than an hour ago, naked bodies intertwined on ruffled bedsheets.

“That was the worst pun I’ve ever heard, corazón,” somehow, the words don’t bruise your ego.

Instead, they make you giggle and burrow your heated face into the crook of his neck.

His lips press against your hairline before speaking again.

“I’d need to write you a list of places to go, too many for me to pick one.”

“Maybe I need a tour guide,” a hand of his greets your back, strokes soothing motions back and forth. It’s lulling you to sleep, at last. “Y’know, show me all the places a real Londoner goes.”

“I could,” he pauses. Clears his throat. Pulls you a little tighter against him, till your limbs are tangled and it’s hard to tell where he stops and you start. “I could check my calendar. See how many holiday days I’ve got left. Could come with you, to London, if you want me there.”

It’s too late though.

You’re already snoring against his skin.

“How does he know?” Your mother shatters the silence, tone incredulous. “I mean, seriously, are you blind!?”

For a minute, it feels like she knows.

She knows why Javi knows.

You should be panicking.

Both of you should.

Should look away from one another, should wipe the guilt off your faces, should already be working on some excuse for when your mother exposes what once was between you.

But you aren’t. Neither of you are.

You’re just staring at each other, as if you’re working to commit each other’s face to memory.

“He knows because you won’t shut up about it!”

Your dad gives an unceremonious oh.

Your mom rolls her eyes.

Javi takes a sip of beer and looks off to the side, eyes breaking contact from your own at last.

“Ok but,” your father’s back to talking before you can fully work up the courage to leave. At least that’s the excuse you try give yourself, anything to distract from Javi. “I bet I’ve not told you what she’s decided to do on her travels!”

“You have,” your mother’s tone is pointed.

Javi laughs, sputters up a little beer back into the bottle. Tilts his head back, accepts his own backwash.

There’s a worn-out cigarette box squeezed tight inside the front pocket of his jeans.

You try ignore the fact he’d promised you he was working on quitting.

“Shh,” your father waves a hand in your mother’s face, dismisses her teasing with a playful wink.

Pulls her close, kisses her shoulder.

Gives both you and Javi a display of what a relationship is.

Open, celebrated, acknowledged.

Not secretive, dirty, scandalous.

Javi cuts the tension with a chuckle and a gentle shove to your father’s arm.

As his hand retreats back to his side, his knuckles brush your skin.

“She’s gonna get herself a christmas-tree decoration every holiday,” your father reveals. You’re frozen at the fact he even remembers you mentioning it. “What was it you said again, kiddo? So in the future, when you’re decorating the tree with your kids, you’ll think of the places you’ve been and tell them all about it?”

Your heart drops.

Javi’s seems to do the same.

For a moment, you worry he’s stopped breathing.

Till his chest rises and falls, no thanks to your father’s stupid rambling about you, and the future, and kids.

“Uh, yeah,” the ground can’t swallow you sooner. You’re already planning your exit, from this conversation and, hopefully, this party as a whole. Your dad’ll understand. You just need to tell him something came up. Or came out. Tell him you’ve got food poison. Blame it on some dodgy take-out the night before. “Something like that.”

But I’m actually bloody Motherfucking batshit crazy

There are moments in one’s life where they must question their own sanity.

You’ve lived plenty of such moments.

But none quite like right now, half-crouched in the middle of a grocery store aisle, peeping into the next one through a gap between two cereal boxes on the shelf.

And all because you heard his voice.

“This is what you’re craving?” Through the crack, you see him wave about something in his hand. It’s hard to see what exactly he’s holding, though.

He’s facing a woman.

She’s pretty.

With dirty blonde hair, piercing blue eyes that not even the shelves and produce between you both can block the shine of.

And a well-rounded belly.

“No, Javi, this,” she doesn’t say his name the same way you do- did. There’s a jovial tone, but there’s no awe, no seduction. Maybe that’s just what your bias hears. “Is what the baby is craving.”

You’ve never seen her before.

Not on the mantel of photos that line Javier’s television. Not at any of the station thrown parties. Not in his wallet, tucked behind the picture of his mom.

She’s a total stranger, to you.

But that doesn’t mean she’s a stranger to him.

A very pregnant, non-stranger.

“We gotta get this kid some better taste.”

His hand rests on her bump.

She welcomes it, placing her own against it to hold him in place.

The image of the American dream, a beautiful woman and a handsome man. The promise of a child, soon, half her and half him.

The blood drains from your face. There’s a lump in your throat and a sting in your eyes.

You won’t let it fester.

Take deep breaths, pretend there’s no shake in your exhales.

It’s not enough to stop the vicious thoughts that sink their jagged ends into the soft tissues of your brain.

Was she the reason things between you and him ended?

Had he got her pregnant, decided to stand by her, and found love along the way?

Was he with her, all along, while he was with...

Surely, he couldn’t have.

But, then, why couldn’t he have?

You were never exclusive.

You were never anything.

“Did-” Somewhere, between the aisles, Javi speaks in amazement. The smile is practically dripping off his words. “Did it just kick?”

Your heart’s palpitating.

Your hands are sweating so badly, they threaten to drop the box of Cap'n Crunch in their grasp.

Jealousy turns to misplaced anger, irrational in every form but impossible to conform.

Because, how could he do this to you?

Make a mockery of you, turn you into the other woman?

Love you so deeply and leave you so easily?

Settle down with this woman and her baby, yet run from you at the first scare of a-

“He’s a real kicker, ain’t he?”

At first, you think it’s spoken to you.

But, no, it’s too distant. Too far.

A third person enters your view through the window in the shelf.

He’s handsome, in the typical sense.

Blonde haired, a nice smile.

There’s a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, half asleep and clinging to a worn-out giraffe doll.

“He?” It’s Javi who echoes.

“Don’t get him started,” the woman seems to beg, rolling her eyes.

The man nods, pride on his face, “I’m telling ya, Peña, it’s gonna be a boy. It needs to be a boy, ‘else I’m gonna be overrun by little girls.”

The woman must give him a pointed look, or a gentle nudge, for not two seconds later he’s following his words up with a tickle to the sleepy girl’s side and “little girls who I love very much.” Pause. He leans closer to Javier, hand covering one side of his mouth as if to block the woman and the child from hearing him. “I still want a son, though.”

“Olivia,” the pregnant woman strokes a hand over the little girl's head, coxing her to keep her eyes open. It’s hard to tell if there’s a drool mark on the man’s shoulder. “Why don’t you show uncle Javi your favourite toy?”

The bile in your throat burns more than ever before.

The misplaced anger bleeds into sadness, shame, embarrassment.

Here you are, going stir-crazy over a man who never wanted much of you in the first place, raising your heart-rate at the thought of him moving on from something that never even existed.

And there he is, fine as can be- in every sense of the word-, sharing laughs and exchanging smiles with old friends in the grocery store.

Friends his own age.

Worlds apart, yet nothing but a shelf between you.

Through the gap, you watch him lean down to the little girl’s eye-level. A twinkle in his eye, he happily tugs at the stuffed giraffe’s tail.

“Glad you liked it, Olive,” curse him, and his soft voice, and his gentle touch and his everything, for still forcing you to swoon over him, knees weak and ovaries treacherously screaming. “I had to go all the way to Africa to find him.”

The little girl perks right up at that.

Eyes widened, head off her father’s shoulder.

“Really?!” She’s amazed, and how could she not be? Javier Peña is beaming at her, ear to ear.

“Mhmm,” he nods, feeds into his own lie, ignoring the disapproving looks from the other man. “If you’re lucky, maybe I’ll go back next year and get you a zebra.”

“Quit lying to my kid, Peña.”

Javi, undeterred from keeping the little girl’s smile, rolls his eyes and pokes his tongue out at her father, huffing under his breath “Your dad’s a right grump, Olive.”

You begin to wonder how long Javi’s known this couple, how he knows this couple.

“Just wait till you’ve got your own kid and I’m feeding it lies.” The man punctuates his empty threat with a dull punch to Javi’s forearm. Javi barely flinches, unfazed. “Speaking of, when are you making me uncle Steve?”

In sync and apart, you and him both physically freeze.

Your breathing stops.

Javier stands up straight. Rolls his shoulders, scratches at the back of his neck, clears his throat and, “not any time soon.”

“Really? What about that girl you’ve been seeing, the-”

“That- We- It didn’t work out, we wanted,” you begin to see cracks in his facade. Fake laugh, solemn eyes. “Different things... I want, wanted to settle down but, yeah, no it was for her best that we-”

“Sorry, can I just,” your heart jumps in your chest, flying back so quickly from your peep-hole that you nearly knock over the person behind you. “Grab one of those?”

You nod, gain composure, watch the stranger pick up a box of cereal off the shelf.

They walk away and you’re left alone, again.

Your eyes flicker up to the shelf and-

He’s no longer standing on the other side.

You turn on your heel, ignoring your half-filled cart and book it out of the store before you fall apart.

Try as you might, you can’t shake off the weight of his stare as you pass by the check-out.

I kept it in, but it wrecked my organs So pour the gin and call Graham Norton

You wake up early.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re seizing the day.

Making the most out of your time upon foreign land.

The early bird gets the worm, and all that proverbial bullshit.

The truth lies in that you can not sleep.

Jetlag. Your body clock is at odds with the timezone.

Which lands you here: strolling upon the cobbled streets of Notting Hill.

A quarter past six.

Its barely light out, the sun still fighting to rise over the horizon and the streetlights still shadow your every step.

Colourful houses, cosy shops, a melodic thud each time your feet meet the ground.

It’s picturesque, straight out of a romantic comedy.

Yet, somehow, you’ve never felt more gloom.

In the silent bustle of a city awakening to a new day, you’re startled.

Trip over a cobble, nearly meet the floor, and just about save yourself from rolling your ankle.

Your ringtone is the culprit.

Loud, imposing. It scares a flock of birds off a wire and gains you a stare from a man stepping out his home.

Scrambling to get the clunky cellphone out your bag, you spare the screen a fleeting glance.

You question if it’s one of your friends, awakened back in your shared hotel room to find you’re not there, and press the green button.

“Corazón.”

It’s funny how one word can drain the blood from your face.

You swallow the lump in your throat, made of equal parts anger and sadness.

Anger that this is the first time you’ve heard Javier Peña’s voice in nearly two months.

Sadness that it sounds so broken down the line.

“I- Shit, I can’t tell if I’ve even dialled the right number...” He’s muttering in your ear, confused and at odds with himself, mouth a fountain his thoughts pour out of. “... Probably changed it or- Can she even receive calls all the way in-”

“I’m here,” it’s only a whisper.

It’s enough to shut him up.

Silence rings down the line, a static buzz that reminds you of the distance between you.

“You’re in London,” he states.

“I am,” you affirm.

He hums, sips something.

Ice clinks against glass, and you feel a little sick.

“How have-” His voice sounds strange. Muffled. Different. Maybe it’s the poor connection. “Was your flight okay?”

“Yeah,” you spare him the details.

The truth.

The boredom, the turbulence. The fact you’re dreading the flight home.

“I’m glad,” he sighs the words out, worry going with them. “Know you’re not the biggest fan of planes, kept thinking of you alone and afraid on it.”

“I wasn’t alone,” it’s defensive, and ironic.

You sure felt alone.

“That’s right, corazón, you weren’t,” something slips, rolls, smashes. Glass shatters and is met with cursing anger, an oh, shit! followed up by hollow laughter. “You’re never alone.”

“Are you...” The street’s a little brighter, a few cars have begun to back out of driveways and you’re still there, frozen in the middle of the street, phone pressed to your ear. “Drunk?”

“No, I’m javi.” If his laughter is anything to go by, he thinks himself the comic of the century. “Had a few drinks with your dad, sweetheart, that’s all.”

For a moment, it feels like you shouldn’t be here, in London.

You should be home, in Laredo, dragging a drunken Javi to bed.

Stripping him of his clothes, kissing his rosied cheeks, urging him to go to sleep. Leaving him a pair of painkillers and a glass of water for his breakfast before curling yourself into his soft arms.

You blink, and feel the familiar weight of a tear on your lashes.

“Why’d you call me, Javi?” It’s a desperate plea.

For answers, for clarity, for closure

“I wanted to hear your voice,” that’s too vague of an answer, too unfair of an answer. Your heart swells nonetheless. “Wanted to go to London, with you. I should be there.”

“It’s your fault,” that’s as cruel as you can bring yourself to be towards him.

Even then, it kills you to do so.

“’S half my fault. Joder (fuck),” you can picture him, leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. You wonder how much he’s drank, and if he spoke to any women. Maybe he took one home, fucked her nice and good before dialling your number. “Wanted to give you my answer, too.”

Someone bumps your shoulder on the street, walking past you.

You pay them no mind, vision blurred to the world around you.

“What answer?”

“Where you should visit, Mrs. Bond,” he says it, like it doesn’t send you into cardiac arrest.

You miss the nights like that one, tangled in your bed, smelling him on your sheets and feeling him against your skin.

He’d woken up first the next day, coaxed you out of bed with the promise of homemade pancakes and his head between your legs.

“There’s this little bar in Inslington, called the Distillery Club. The owner, he makes his own gin. You like gin, don’t you, corazón?” You nod, and it’s almost like he feels it. “It doesn’t look like much from the outside. Or the inside, either. But it’s some of the best gin I’ve ever had, in the greatest company.”

You try to picture him, sat amongst friends you’ve never met. Friends who don’t know your dad.

You try to picture yourself, next to him, scooting your bar stool closer to his.

The image doesn’t quite form.

“Want you to go there, get yourself a drink. Tell him Javier Peña sent you, and that you’ve not to pay.”

It’s like he’s given you a piece of his soul. A piece of his history, someplace he’s sought out refuge in his lowest moments.

Refuge he’s willing to share with you.

That tear finally gives way, dropping off your lash and rolling down your cheek.

You wipe it off with the sleeve of your sweater, before anyone can see.

“Promise me you’ll go, corazón.”

Your reply is instant, “I promise.”

“Ok, I’ll let you go,” it’s solemn, regretful, devoid of truth. You almost beg him not to, but that didn’t work last time. “Enjoy yourself, okay? Come home, safe.”

“Javi, I-” the line cuts off, disconnecting before you even finish. “Miss you.”

I’m gonna throw you down the river Your mum can watch it over dinner

“How you feeling, kiddo?”

You startle awake at your father’s voice, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Before you can give him an answer, you erupt into a fit of coughs.

“Not good,” he grimaces and slowly steps into your room. “Got it.”

Stepping off the plane, you’d managed only one night back in your own bed before the fever had taken over.

All it took was hearing your nasally voice over the phone for your mother to demand you come stay with them.

Just till you’re back on your feet, she’d said, like she ever needed an excuse to have you over.

She’s not quite adjusted to being an empty-nester.

Neither of them have, really.

“Actually,” your tone is matter-of-factly. “I almost smelt something earlier.”

“That’s great, kid!” And he means it, you know he does. Even if his shoulders slump at any sign of you feeling better and returning to your apartment. “Now we just gotta figure out if it’s your sinuses unclogging or your stench just growing more rancid.”

Try as you might to aim the pillow right at his head, he still manages to catch it inches from his face.

“Hey, I’m just saying! You’ve got the flu, you ain’t dying! Could be a little courteous to those who’ve gotta be around you and take a shower.”

“You’re literally in my room!”

“Which is literally in my house!”

Downstairs, your mother yells something unintelligible.

Likely, she’s telling you both to shut up and to quit behaving like children.

Making eye contact, you both can’t help the roll of laughter that comes out.

He steps a little closer, and that’s when you spot it.

Tupperware, clasped in his hand.

The contents are hard to decipher.

Luckily, your father spots you eyeing it.

“Your mom said ya wouldn’t be up for eating much but, if you’re hungry,” he pauses, at the foot of your bed. Tugs a little on the homemade-blanket you’ve had since you were in grade school. You wonder if he remembers making it with you. “One of the guys down at the station made you some stew.”

Your stomach growls, hungry and unfed.

The prospect of a hot, boiling bowl of brothy stew suddenly peaks your interest.

In fact, you can’t think of anything better.

“It’s a family recipe, he said it would cure ya right up.”

He’s popping the lid open, presenting the delicacy before your eyes.

Immediately, you spot chicken.

Some corn cob, a couple lumps of potato, flakes of chilli.

You wish you could smell it, ingest it through your nasal canal and get a taste of it before you even put it in your mouth.

Your father continues, practically talking to himself.

“What’d he say it was called again, ga-sue-lay day ah-vay?”

“Cazuela de ave.”

A change into warmer, drier clothes.

Your hair still sits wet upon your head, but it no longer drips puddles onto his floor.

Thirty minutes it took him to drive from where he’d spotted you, walking soaked upon the sidewalk.

It would’ve only taken him seventeen minutes if he’d dropped you at your apartment.

And that fact is partly what warms your insides.

You watch him, tie discarded and the top buttons of his shirt undone, strutting around his kitchen.

Objectively, you think, he’s gorgeous.

Yet the word somehow doesn’t seem like it’s enough to summarise him, when he’s making his way round to you, two ceramic bowls in his hands and a look of pride in his eyes.

He put his own bowl down first. Sloppy, uncaring, spilling a little of it’s contents over it’s edge.

And then yours. More careful, slowly, both hands guiding it down.

The scent alone is enough to have you salivating.

Warmth and care, all encased in a bowl of brothy goodness.

“It smells delicious,” you inhale deeply, for dramatic effect.

And to get more of that meaty, comfort-food goodness.

Javi sits on the opposite side of the dining table, and you try hard to stop your mind from wandering off to visions of you both sat like this, out in public, in a restaurant.

A real date.

Only, this isn’t even a fake date.

You guys don’t do that.

“It’s- It was my mom’s recipe.”

Frozen in place, you wonder if the shock spills over your face.

He’s never mentioned his mother.

Or much about his family, really.

There’s the occasional comment about projects he takes on at his dad’s ranch, and tid-bits of information you hear across a dinner table that's set by your mother and seated by your father.

But you’re no fool blind enough to not realise the obvious.

A worn-out polaroid in his wallet, his mother smiles brightly in permanent ink each time he opens it. It contrasts her impermanence in the real world, dead and gone long before you became so much as a ripple in the lake of Javier’s existence.

Across the table, he’s relaxed. At ease.

Open.

His eyes, his mind, his heart.

And so you try venturing inwards, test his waters with a dip of your toe.

“Was she a good cook?”

Lukewarm, they appear, when he favours you with a tiny smile, his eyes staring somewhere off in the distance.

“No,” and he laughs at his own admission.

Not just a scoffed out chuckle, or a gesture meant to feign joy.

A full, hearty laugh, that shakes his shoulders and splits his cheeks.

It’s disturbingly beautiful.

You wonder if there’s a life where it could be like this, always.

Javier laughing at his own jokes, you smiling at his visceral joy, plates of homemade food filling the space between you.

“No, she, uh,” he restarts, relaxing a little bit. He wipes under one of his eyes with the back of his palm, a rogue tear breaching his waterline. “She was awful. She burnt every slice of toast she made, and even served an unbaked cake at one of my birthday parties. This dish is actually one of the few she knew how to nail.”

You can picture it, a young Javi, party hat on his head and a cheesy grin topped by rosy cheeks, eating away at gooey batter mix sprinkled in icing.

It’s hard to imagine him complaining, or getting angry at her.

In spite of his reputation, and the career he’s undertaken, Javier Peña is a gentle soul, who nurtures and protects anyone he can.

A modern-day hero, a knight who’s exchanged his shinny armour for form fitting jeans and unbuttened shirts.

“Tell me more about her,” the words are out before you can reel them back in.

Because you like this feeling, and you like this Javi, reminiscing on his late-mother.

“She not only was awful at cooking, but she had the worst coordination too.” It’s like he’s been waiting to tell you this, with how easy he slips into doing so. “She was forever falling and tripping over herself. And her driving, god! Pops used to dig out his rosary each time she’d be out on the field, driving the tractor.”

There’s something intimate about him recalling details so many would see as flaws, whilst he sports the most earnest, heart-wrenching smile.

Like nothing about her was wrong, all of her perfect and angelic.

“She was brave, too. I’d like to think I’m just like her in that respect. She didn’t let anything stop her from doing things she set her heart on, and she never let her inabilities hinder her,” he’s getting a little emotional now, you can hear it in his voice, see it in the lump he swallows back. You stretch a hand across the table and watch as he leans on you for support, fingers interlocking with your own. “There was this one time when I was a kid, I was swimming in a river and got stuck in a current. She dived right in to save me... She didn’t even know how to swim!”

You don’t know what to say.

You opt for saying nothing, silence speaking more than a thousand words.

Give his hand a reassuring squeeze, feel him squeeze back harder.

Your stomach rumbles, but it doesn’t ruin the moment in the way you feared it would.

“Listen to me being a sap and starving my poor lady to death,” still, he tugs your hand closer and plants a kiss on your knuckles. You’re still trying to process the possessive adjective he’d used to address you. My. His. “Eat up.”

Both of you settle back in your seats.

You pick up your spoon, scoop up a piece of chicken out the steaming bowl and-

“Asi no, corazón (not like that, sweetheart),” he spews out, panicking to pry the cutlery out your hand. He ignores the questioning looks you give him. “You drink the soup first, eat the filling after. Like this.”

Leaning over the table, he scoops your bowl up in his careful hands and guides it up to your lips.

When your lips part and rest against the bowl’s edge, he tilts it and you feel it’s warmth invade your mouth.

And then your chest, branching out over your heart, your lungs, your stomach.

Horned-up bias you so often show towards Javier aside, it’s one of the best things you’ve ever tasted.

Like a hug on a gloomy, wet day, all wrapped up inside a ceramic bowl.

You hum, hands taking over his own to allow him back into his own seat, focusing his attention on drinking his own soup.

“Javi, this is...” You trail off, eyeing the small ring of liquid pooling at the bottom of the bowl. One more mouthful and you’ll get your taste of the stew’s fillings. “Amazing. Your mum would be proud.”

Instead of modesty, instead of 'thank yous', instead of bashfulness, Javier smiles, takes another sip from his bowl.

“She would have liked you.”

You stare across at him and find no jest in his eyes.

They’re as open as before.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. She always liked pretty girls smart enough to put me in my place.”

“Kiddo?”

You’re ripped out your own head by your father’s voice and his hand, waved repeatedly in front of your face.

“Hmm?”

“You okay there? I was talkin’ to you but you seemed lost in thought.” There’s a little excitement in you father’s voice as he presses his cold hand to your sweated forehead, the prospect of you still being ill, still needing taking care of, filling him with the relief of keeping you in your parents' home a little longer.

“I’m- Yeah, just tired, s’all.”

“Ok, let me know when you’ve finished your food,” he presses a kiss atop the crown of your head, and you hold back the pointless comment of not risking getting himself or your mother sick. “Need to get the tupperware clean ‘fore I give it back to Javi.”

Your stomach twists and longs for the meal before you, while your heart shatters into pieces you doubt will ever be repaired.

#javier peña smut #pedro pascal smut #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña oneshot

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hiwelcometothemonstersancturary · 7 months ago

Note

so, I read the whole "House Tour (not the house we wanted, but the house we have)", and I loved it so much, and I asked a question after reading it because of the ending, so what was everyone's reaction of toys eating pizza for the first time?

Your First Ever Pizza Night

Synopsis: Angel has to teach the toys how to eat pizza. It's confusing.

---

James' eyes were so wide you thought they would pop out of his head. You nervously smiled at him, feeling the eyes of the toys staring at you from inside the house. "Thank you for your work", you tell him, money in hand. "I, uhm, am sorry for how Catnap tried to scare you away".

"I-it's okay!", he shakes his head. "No big deal, don't worry, Angel".

You eye the group from behind. Catnap tilts his head, still not very trusting of the stranger. You figured that would be the tenth human he talks to in more than a decade. "Take care, okay?"

"You too", he takes the money, counts, and then sighs. You also sigh, giving him a pat in the back. "Man, you really scared everyone out there. I thought you had... You know".

"I've been clean for years. I wouldn't do that", you reassure him. "And now I have those guys to look out for".

Your friend chuckles. "Feeling the weight of parenting on your shoulders already?"

"Urgh, don't even let me start talking about it", you smile. "Okay, I'll head inside now. I don't think half of them know what pizza is".

You tell James your goodbyes, watching him leave. You feel guilty for having him deliver so many pizzas to you, but it is what it is, the kids (your kids) must be hungry. You prepare yourself mentally before entering the house, closing the front door:

"So! Who's hungry?"

Dogday adjusts himself in the sofa as most of the mini toys yell "me!", rushing towards you, including the mini huggy that was using him as an oversized pillow. You laugh as they swarm you, and you pick up Driver and Bunzo on your arms. The little green huggy stims her hands, while Bunzo climbs on your shoulders: "Show us what that pizza thing is! Show us!"

"Bunzo, you're going to fall if you keep like this", Long Legs warns him, stretching all the way from the other corner of the living room to shoosh the crowd away. One catbee blows a raspberry at her, annoyed. "Get away from them! They're going to fall if you guys keep on like this!", the same catbee from before repeats the gesture, but now a candy cat and a bron imitate her gesture. "Angel!"

"You heard her", your warn the little ones. "C'mon, guys".

They coo away, and you watch Catnap proudly looking after the mini critters, most of whom didn't swarm you. He really is their big brother, uh...?

"Okay, guys. Are you ready?"

Driver stims again as you enter the kitchen, piles of pizza boxes distributed in the counters. Delight is counting them, muttering numbers under her breath, and stops when she notices you: "We have 26 boxes for 80 of us! They may last up to a week if we are careful".

"... What?", you chuckle. "Delight, no. The Prototype gave me enough money to feed everyone for years to come, we don't need to ration our food. You can eat as much as you want to".

You grab the first box you find. Bunzo tries to climb your head to take a look, and you laugh. "Eat as much as we want to? I'm going to explode, then!"

You bring the box to the living room, knowing well the kids are waiting for you to take the first slice. You show the box to Dogday, currently incapable of leaving the sofa thanks to his surgery stitches still being fresh. He deserves to see the first slice, you figured.

"You seeing this, pup?"

"With my two eyes!", Dogday nods. Catnap has approached you, and, with a smile, you open the box: "Behold: Pizza!"

"OOOO!", Bunzo yells. Huggy, who was following you around like a shadow, claps his hands, surprised. Kissy is still holding Poppy, who copies Huggy's clapping.

"It's been so long since I saw a real pizza!", the doll smiles. "And it smells even better!"

"This one is pepperoni pizza. There's 8 slices in every box - you guys should all take one. Eat as much as you want to!"

You take a piece, offering it to Bunzo, who grabs from your hand and shoves it on his mouth. You try your best not to accidentally drop him or Driver thanks to your chukling as he tries to deal with the cheese hanging out from his mouth. "Is elishious! Wha is disss?"

"You're going to get food on Angel's hair", Long Legs politely lifts Bunzo up from your head, using her arm to hold him. "And that's called... Cheese".

"Elishious!", he jumps.

"Please try not to choke!", you offer the next slice to Dogday. The big puppy's eyes go wide, and he shakes his head.

"Give it to the others, Angel..."

"There's enough for everyone, dummy, now eat" you take another slice, giving it to Long Legs, who stared at Bunzo in horror as he was still trying to deal with the cheese. "Theeere you go".

The pink spider stares at her slice with a strange look. She eyes Bunzo, then Dogday, who was holding his own as if it were a delicate piece of ceramic, then opens her mouth, then closes it.

"You eat pizza like this, Long Legs", you grab a slice of your own, biting it and using your teeth and fingers to free yourself from the cheese. Still chewing, you add: "Use your hands to deal with the cheese, everyone, you guys don't want to put too much into your mouths or you'll end up choking on your own food!"

You offered the next slice to Kissy, who stared at it with sparkling eyes before taking her first bite. Huggy bites his in one go, and Driver takes the last one before Delight appears, giving you a new box, still of pepperoni.

"Thank you", you give her a nod. "C'mon, take a slice! You too, Driver".

The mini wuggy jumps from your shoulder, and Delight gives a slice to her first before taking one herself. She blinks many time. "Ooh... This is very... Interesting...?"

She gives it another bite.

"Lots of different tastes... And it's so warm and soft!"

You sigh, noticing Dogday had given his slice to a catbee. "Pizzas aren't exactly soft, but I guess they look like it, considering what you guys had to eat..."

You offer a slice to Catnap.

The feline lowers his head. "Savior, please feed the others first...", he asks. "They're hungrier than me".

"You and Dogday have a lot to learn, uh?", you shake your head. "Okay, kiddos, you heard your boss. There!", you put the box in the ground, watching as the critters stare at you, hesitant. "One slice for each, don't fight each other for more, we have a lot of boxes. Speaking of which, can someone grab the other box... Oh!"

Delight chuckles, one box in each hand. She's polite in the way she gives it to everyone, despite all her isolation. Huggy, on the other hand, is less careful thanks to his lack of proper coordination, but he manages to feed all the mini huggies with some help from Kissy.

Dogday only eats after he's sure every single other toy is doing so. By that point, you're sitting on the sofa, Poppy using a plate, knife and fork to each her own slice of pizza. Catnap merely stares.

"Oh... Ooooh!", the orange dog mutters. His tail is wagging. "A-Angel, this is incredible!"

"Nah, it's just pizza. You're going to have fancier food as soon as I get more groceries".

"Fancier food? Are... Are you sure?"

"The doctors are going to kill me if I don't give you all the nutritients", Dogday stares. "Not literally! It's just a joke!"

"Ah", he sighs, forcing himself to laugh. "Even fancier food, uh...?"

"More!", Bunzo yells, jumping up and down. "I ate two slices already, but I crave more! I think I'll explode!"

"Please don't explode", you mutter. "It hurts".

The bunny mischievously laughs, running towards the kitchen. You eye Catnap, who eyes you back with a head tilt.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I... Ate yesterday, savior".

You hear a growl coming from his stomach. "Your 'savior' wants you to eat. Go on, you gotta get those calories. No one should starve".

For the first time since the confrontation agains the Prototype, Catnap lowers his ears and fidgets, nervously looking away from you. Around him, the small critters all eat their own slices, some trying to comfort him with a headbonk or by cuddling next to him.

"Catnap", Dogday calls. "You need to set up a good example for... Them", he points to the critters. "They aren't going to eat more if they see you aren't doing so".

"You know well how our rules work, Dogday. They eat first. Me, second".

"And now you are outside PlayCo. and playing by my own rules, kitty", you bite another slice of pizza, before offering the box to Catnap. "Go on, even Dogday and Long Legs are doing so".

"..."

Catnap's stomach once again growls. Using his hand, he takes a single slice out of the remaining three, eating it in one bite. You patiently wait for his reaction.

His eyes become brighter. His tail curls and moves left and right, and his ears go up as well. He stares at you, asking for permission, and you nod. He eats his second one almost immediately, now using both of his hands so he can take more bites and savor the taste more.

You chuckle, grabbing another box next to you and opening it for him and Dogday to share. The two bigger critters have the same sparkle in their eyes, and both go to their next slice almost at the same time.

This... Feels nice. All of this "family" stuff. Seeing them light up and talk about how this ordinary pizza is the best thing in the entire world, how they are eating so much when only at their second slice. It feels nice. They really are acting like normal kids would.

Maybe we can indeed become the parent they need...?

#poppy playtime #poppy worldwide #save everyone au #ask tag #catnap #dogday #mommy long legs #the angel #miss delight #huggy wuggy #kissy missy #ppt poppy #poppy #garca writing

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spicerackofblorbos · 9 months ago

Text

Chapter 1: November

☾ Pairings ➼ Levi Ackerman x fem!mute!Reader (she/her pronouns), set in a modern semi-fictional world

☾ Summary ➼ Due to childhood trauma, you find yourself an adult without the ability to speak. After years of working on it, you have found ways to live without a voice. Now here in your late 20s, you are 5 months in getting used to a new town. On a fateful day in late November, you and your adopted sister visit a local bookstore-café, unaware of the friendships about to blossom. Throughout the months, one friendship in particular develops into something more.

☾ Content/Warnings ➼ fluff, slowburn, oblivious feelings, angst, mention of minor character deaths, trauma, illness, adoption, mentions of fire, disabilities, alcohol use, very light nsfw mentions, eventual smut (these update with every chapter)

☾ Author's note ➼ Hey guys! This is my first time writing fanfiction in a loooooong time, like the last time I wrote was probably in 2011. So with that said please be kind with any feedback or comments. I hope you enjoy! (also I made Hange's pronouns she/her/them/they)

Edit (11/27/2023): Hey guys, welcome to my little world of Unspoken Words. I have quite literally used this story as a way to better myself as a writer. As you read on, you may find that I've progressed (ofc I have a long way to go) but because of that, my first few chapters might be rough. With your patience, you may find a liking to this story as I know I've loved writing every word of it.

☾ word count ➼ ~7.1k

20-something years ago

You’re not sure how, but you find yourself sitting in the back of a big, white van. Red and blue lights danced in your eyes, and it felt like a thousand people surrounded you. Something plastic is placed on your face then you are instructed to breathe in deeply. You thought it was funny to be told to breathe, like you don’t just do it naturally, but you follow instructions regardless. It’s hard though, every part of your body hurts, chest included. Every breath you take feels like your insides are on fire.

‘Fire’, you think.

Everything is on fire.

Present Day

Levi stood blank faced as he meticulously cleaned the blender station for what felt like the 100th time today. The late afternoon rush had just tapered down so he took advantage of the next to empty café to clean as much as he could before closing for the evening.

“It’s 20 degrees outside, how are people still wanting frozen drinks.” he murmurs to himself, placing the blender back in its spot. Levi turns to the front counter and slings the towel he was using to dry things onto his shoulder.

His best friend, roommate, and business partner could be seen restocking some books on tall shelves, a gentle smile lighting up his boyish features. It’s been about a year and a half since they started this business venture together and they had no idea at the time how successful their bookstore-café combo would be in this small town.

Erwin’s thirst for knowledge kept their shelves as variable as ever while Levi’s love for perfecting the art of tea kept the drinks flowing. The problem, however, was Levi’s lack of people skills. He was seldom seen at the register, nor would you ever see him smile or talk to the customers. He often would leave you with a grunt and a swift turn after handing off the drinks.

No, for that, they had hired a couple of local highschoolers to do the facing work.

“Mr. Smith, Levi?” a soft voice rang out to the left of him. Levi shifted his attention to a taller girl with shoulder length raven hair standing next to him. Being as Mikasa is his cousin, they found early on how weird it was to be called ‘Mr. Ackerman’ as they shared the same surname. It was this connection too that got them to where they are today.

“Would it be okay if Eren and I take off a little early tonight? We have some big tests coming up and we’d like to take some extra time to study.” Mikasa shifted her dark eyes to the darkening windows as the sun set just over the horizon. Pinks and oranges flooded the partially clouded skies.

”Tch.” Levi could not help but roll his eyes. He raised a brow at her and leaned back against the counter behind him for support. “Sure, I guess,” he continues. “But do you really need it or is it for that blockhead?”

As if summoned by his words, Eren comes up from behind Mikasa and wraps a red scarf around his girlfriend’s neck, both of their jackets hanging off one of his arms. Eren is a good kid, always on time and followed directions, but the amount of sass he held in his body was something else. Levi and Erwin did not mind though, as he added a certain energy in the café that the customers seemed to enjoy. The two men wouldn’t say it out loud, but they really appreciated having them both on the team.

“Hey, I heard that. And yes, I need to study desperately. Econ is so hard and for what?!” Eren’s teal eyes widened for emphasis. To add to it he even put on a fake pout.

“I-”

“Just take the trash with you on the way out and you’re good to go.” Erwin piped up from behind a bookshelf.

Mikasa nodded in acknowledgement towards the voice, a silent thank you. Like Levi, she was not one for many words. He once thought it was an Ackerman thing but then he thought back to his annoying uncle and changed his mind quickly.

With that, she and Eren both untangled the aprons from their bodies, grabbed their belongings, and picked up the trash bags that were already taken out of the cans. They opted to leave through the back since the dumpsters were located that way. Again, Levi wouldn’t say it to anyone out loud, but he really did like those kids.

Erwin could be heard stacking more books into the shelves which left Levi to polish the counters again. It was the last hour before they closed so it stayed quiet for the most part, only interrupted by the sounds of scuffling shoes and books being placed on hard surfaces. Light jazz filled the rest of the silence. Then the bell signifying new customers rang from the front.

“Levi, can you grab that?”

The raven-haired man just huffed in response then stepped over to the register. His eyes fell on two figures right in front of him. A frazzled brunette and... you.

Due to the season, you are bundled up in a thick parka and knitted beanie. A big scarf wraps around your neck and face so that all Levi could see is your flushed cheeks and thick lashed eyes. Truthfully, you reminded him of a marshmallow.

“What’ll it be?” he asks, deadpan. The brunette is the one to respond, the voice loud enough to make him wince.

“Hmmm... well one English breakfast tea latte with lots of room for sugar aaaaand I’ll take a peppermint hot chocolate. Oh, and extra whip! We’ll drink it here.” She fished out a card with a dramatic thwip and handed it to Levi’s outstretched hand. Their café is one of those where if you were to stay, they offered washable cup ware as to keep the prices down on disposable cups. Not to mention the lessened ‘environmental impact’ as Erwin would say.

Levi glances at you before turning to make both orders. You give a small wave and smile a little, but he was already working quickly on the drinks.

He went into autopilot as he steeped the tea and steamed the milk. He really appreciated customers that ordered anything outside of coffee, especially when it came to tea. It’s not that he hated coffee, though it’s not like he liked it either, but it just wasn’t his thing. Coffee offered a different kind of bitterness that he wasn’t very fond of. With extra whipped cream in one and extra space in the other, he whirled around to place the drinks on the counter.

The one with glasses is the one that picks them up and they promptly walk in the direction of where you currently sit, one of the tables in the back corner by the window. You were stripped of your big parka and scarf, though the beanie stayed. Your eyes were wandering around the café in wonder, and Levi was pretty sure this had to be your first time here. But truthfully, he wouldn’t know, he didn’t make it his business to know his customers. That was Erwin’s and the kids’ job.

“The shelves are full and I’m exhausted.” Erwin came around the counter with a couple of empty boxes in his arms, heading straight for the back to the dumpster. Levi stepped back and leaned against the counter once again, his own black tea that had steeped while making yours cradled in his fingertips. He kept looking at his only customers while he sipped the black liquid. The teacup almost slipped out of his grip as he saw you dumping a large amount of sugar into your cup.

There you sit, extremely focused on the cup in front of you and lips pressed together tightly, almost as if you were afraid you’d put in too much. The sight would have been funny if you hadn’t just ruined your entire tea, he thinks to himself. You smile to yourself in satisfaction and put the sugar jar back where it came from. While you stir the sweetener in gently, the brunette in front of you talks animatedly. Hands were flying everywhere, and Levi could practically feel the energy radiating from the corner of the room. You were doing the same, silently laughing.

Suddenly the front door flew open, the bell ringing loudly with it. Levi grits his teeth, steeling himself for yet another customer interaction. But his shoulders dropped in relief at the sight of only Carly, Erwin’s girlfriend. She saunters up to the counter with a big smile aimed towards Levi and without even asking she slid behind the bar. Erwin had already made it from the back and was in the process of putting away the leftover ingredients from the day. Carly wraps her arms around her boyfriend and plants a big kiss on his face, to which Levi quickly looks away. It wasn’t weird for her to come in right as they were about to close.

What was weird, he thought, was the shock that flooded your face as you eyed the very public display of affection. Levi knit his brows in confusion as the brunette pivoted in her seat to see what you were staring at. Their face fell, any evidence of a good time completely erased.

“Carly?”

The person in question whipped around so fast at the voice and the panic that exuded from her was palpable. She quickly unwrapped herself from Erwin’s embrace.

“Hange.”

If it wasn’t for the jazz in the background, the lengthy silence that followed would have been deathly.

Carly clears her throat and laughs awkwardly.

“Uh, why are you here?”

The person named Hange just lifts their hot chocolate cup awkwardly, not really saying anything. Their eyes shift between Carly and Erwin, clearly understanding what had happened.

“I-I’m sorry, you guys know each other?” Erwin sounds cautious, like he already knew the answer. Of course, he would, he isn’t dumb. His piercing blue eyes survey the situation, going back and forth between the two.

“Well, uh. I-” Carly stutters, clearly at a loss of what to say in the predicament she found herself in.

“She’s my girlfriend.” Hange claims calmly.

This admission makes Erwin sigh heavily, confirming what he had pieced together. Levi stared at him in bewilderment as the man just chuckled quietly.

“Well. I suppose that’s it then.” And with that he turns on his heel and stalks off to the back room.

“Wait, Erwin I can explain!” She follows right on his heels and disappears into the back room as well. A minute later you can hear hysterical crying and calm retorts reverberating from the back. If Levi could shrink into the cabinets to get out of this situation, he would. Instead, he focuses on the other party who were having a very quiet and rushed discussion. Well, a one-sided discussion, as he only heard one voice.

Levi, realizing it was almost time to close anyways, rushes to close the distance between him and the front door. He really did not want to have to deal with other customers while the drama unfurled. So, he flips the door sign to ‘Closed’ and unplugs the ‘Open’ neon sign hanging in the window. A couple walks by about to open the door, probably out for a café date from the looks of it. But they were only met with a dead stare from the sharpest eyes they’d ever seen. With that, they briskly turned around and left down the sidewalk.

Levi spins around and from here he gets a better look at the two trapped customers. You were moving your hands all over the place like you were earlier. But with an even closer look he realizes you weren’t just talking animatedly with your hands; you were talking with them. You were signing.

You reacted to your partner’s conversation just fine, so it was clear you had some sort of hearing. Your scarf now hung loose around your shoulders, and it looked like you had tears brimming in your eyes. Levi swiftly walks back to the counter; this is obviously not a conversation he needed to be a part of.

“Hey, don’t worry about me. It’s only been a couple of months. Really, it’s better to find out now than 3 years from now.” They laughed without humor. You know when Hange was saving face for your sake, she was never as sly as she thought she was.

‘You don’t need to be strong right now.’ You sign then reach your hand out to touch her cheek softly. Physical touch had become your second language early on, if only to emphasize. Fortunately, Hange was okay with that and often embraced it with open arms.

“I know, my little strawberry. I just need some time to process everything.” They pat you on the head lightly with a small grin. You swat their hands, blushing at the nickname you were so graciously given so many years ago. But you nod back, knowing they would not change their mind.

The tall blonde glides through the back door, alone. His face was grim as he tugged loose the tie around his neck.

“Hange, was it?” He started walking towards you and your very startled sister.

“U-uh yeah. That’s my name! Listen I had no idea, I’m so sorry. I would have said something obviously but-”, they take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. What’s your name again?”

“Erwin Smith. There is nothing to apologize for as I can only assume there’s only one blame to be given. I hate that we must meet under such a circumstance, but it is truly nice to meet you.” He raises a hand waiting for a handshake.

Hange takes it after a second of processing, shaking the hand vigorously with both hands.

“Well, unfortunately it is what it is. I’m sure Carly and I will be speaking soon. I’m assuming she’s not just hiding back there.” They flick their gaze to the back door he had just come through.

“Ah well, yes. Long gone... how long were you two...?”

“Only like, 3 months or so. You?”

He flinched at that and murmured, “3 Years.”

Thinking back to her comment not 10 minutes ago, Hange bit their cheek.

“Oh man I’m so sorry.”

“No, please. It’s alright. None of this is yours or my fault. We couldn’t have known, but now we do.” Erwin chuckled to himself. You wonder if he’s trying to save face the way your sister did. His gaze now shifts to you. He is a very handsome man. To your extreme surprise, he starts signing to you.

‘I'm sorry, who might you be? I noticed you signing earlier. I know a little from the books I have read.’ His crystal blue eyes sparkle at you as he signs. You can’t help but break out into a huge grin. You sign your name back and compliment him on his raw signing form.

‘I am of hearing, though. So please feel free to talk, and I will sign back.’ You clarify to Erwin, the smile not falling from your face.

“That sounds like a plan. Levi, stop hiding behind the counter and come say hi.” Erwin calls out, not bothering to look over his shoulder. You hear a grunt in response and not 10 seconds later, the barista stands cross armed next Erwin. He nods a hello to each of you.

You knew he was shorter than you, at least a couple inches, based off the interaction at the counter earlier. But seeing him side by side with his friend was almost comical. But as short stature as he was, it did not keep him from holding himself with such authority. It made you nervous.

‘Thank you for the tea, it was very good.’ You sign, your sister translating in real time for you.

“Tch, are you sure? I saw you dump enough sugar in it to make it syrup.” Levi retorts dryly.

That makes you smile sheepishly. His fixated stare unnerved you a little, but you stare back regardless. Now that he was closer, a glass case no longer between the both of you, your eyes traveled along his face in close inspection.

He’s beautiful, you think to yourself. His features are sharp and angled. Steely gray eyes pronounced a permanent exhausted look. It was a shade of gray you’ve never seen before, and they were mesmerizing. As if he could feel you staring holes in his face, he flicks his eyes to the side, clearly uncomfortable. But you can’t help it, because really the most intriguing thing about him was not his metallic eyes. It was the scars that marred his porcelain skin.

A couple of scars ran down the right side of his face. The prominent of the two trailed from the top right of his forehead all the way down to his chin, cutting into his right eye and both lips. You’re pretty sure his eye was quite damaged due to the slight muted discoloration of the eye color.

He’s beautiful, you repeat to yourself. You glance over to Hange, and they just look over at you with a knowing look. You know she was just begging to ask Levi too, but she just shakes her head. So, you fold your hands together and pinch your lips together.

“Well!” Hange yells out, breaking the silence. “This human really needs a drink. Let’s all go! Erwin, I demand you let me treat you to a couple drinks!” She wraps an arm around your shoulders and laughs.

“A drink sounds fantastic; I will gladly take you up on that offer. Let me just close up rea-” He’s cut off by Levi raising both of his hands up in protest. You notice the two missing fingers on his right hand. The pointer and middle were gone. Whatever this man went through, you just had to know. But you toss those questions onto an ever-growing pile and bite your cheek.

“Erwin, I can close up. You go ahead.” Your sister just smiles widely and practically jumped up and down. The blonde man just clapped his hand Levi’s shoulder and smiled at him.

“Thank you. You’ll join us after? The usual place?” Levi just shrugs his shoulders in response.

Part of you hoped he would. You couldn’t place a singular reason why though.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of you found yourselves in a well-lit and very crowded bar. Somehow Erwin had snagged a table near the back wall. Heavy rock blares loudly from a live band maybe 20 feet away. Overwhelming was an understatement, but you grit your teeth and sit down on one of the stools.

“Whatcha want, my darlings?!” Hange yells over the music, slapping both hands down on the table and staring at the both of you.

“Whiskey neat, whatever they offer is fine.”

You sign the words ‘apple’ and ‘juice’ followed by a ‘thank you’. You’ve never been one for a drink. While it was tolerable to be around, you’d rather not have to taste it if you could help it.

Looking around, you see all manners of people surrounding you. Something about it makes your stomach turn but you shift in your seat to quell it down. You’re sure it’s only so crowded because of the prospect of a Friday night and the promise of no plans the following day. The town of Jinae was not anything special, but it was quaint. You and your sister found out quickly it was a place where everyone knew mostly everyone. After only settling down here from your hometown 5 months ago, you were still learning of all the local spots.

From the looks of it, this bar was one of those. “The Scouts” was an inviting place, decorated with dark greens and wood tones. The walls were littered with many frames of a lot of different people. You imagine it might have been local residents in various locations of the town. All of the wood was worn down, so it was clear this place has been in business for a while. A neon sign hangs above the stage where the live band played, something that resembled blue and white wings. It makes you wonder what the significance is.

Your thoughts are disturbed as a glass is placed in front of you. Realizing the dryness in your throat, you pick up the glass and take a big swig of the amber liquid. You’re met with a burning sensation, and you gag. This alerts Hange of the unfortunate mistake.

“Ah I’m sorry my little strawberry!! They do look quite similar though, don’t they?” They switch the glasses quickly and laugh. You notice the very noticeable cup size differences between the two and you stare at her quizzically. “I may have taken a shot while at the bar, sorry.” she adds on. It makes you shake your head, but you grab her hand reassuringly and chuckle.

‘I’m sorry.’ You sign at Erwin, and he just smiles back.

“Not a problem. But I have to ask, how was it?” A bushy eyebrow raises at you in amusement.

You just stick your tongue out and make a gagging gesture at him. You laugh though, not really upset.

Two apple juices in, the live band ends. Hange and Erwin are very deep in conversation, which you suspect might be about Carly. You can’t really hear what’s being said though. With the absence of music, chatter quickly fills the air. Honestly it was really starting to get to you. So, after tapping on the pair’s shoulders and signing where you were going, you find yourself leaning over the guard rail just outside the bar’s door.

The sun was already far gone. A crescent moon sits high in the sky and a smatter of stars surrounds it. The cold air felt very welcome on your very flushed face. You exhale a big sigh, which garners a puff of steam. It makes you laugh so you do it again. Then you start to wonder how long you might be able to last out here before getting frostbite when suddenly a body starts leaning against the rail next to you.

With a start, you whip your head to face the newcomer. Instantly you relax at the sight of Erwin’s friend. He was adorned in a big peacoat and his casual slacks. A tan turtleneck sweater peaks out from the jacket’s collar. His face was flushed as well, no doubt from the cold.

Levi.

He wasn’t paying you any mind though, instead his gaze laid upon the sky above, at the stars. You wave at him anyways and offer a small smile. He glances at you with a side eye and returns a curt nod.

Not one for words.

So, you both stand there in silence, staring up at the twinkling lights above. It wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest. Something about his presence radiated a sort of calm, and you were happy to bask in it.

After a few minutes, he shifts his weight in your direction, so you face him. He’s staring up at you and it makes you swallow hard. His eyes glowed silver from the moonlight. Truly you have never been this fascinated with a person until now.

“You like the stars.” It wasn’t a question, more like a statement.

You nod in agreement, smiling to emphasize your love for them. He purses his lips at that. It seemed as if he wanted to say something else to that, but nothing came out. It just makes you frown a bit. You just have more questions that keep piling up. Everything about him just emanated mystery and it made you want to know all about him.

‘Are you okay?’ You sign to him, exaggerating your frown to show your concern. You’re only met with a look of confusion. You forget that he does not know much if any sign. And you kick yourself for leaving your communication tools at home. To be fair though, this is not where you expected to be tonight.

You then get an idea to use your phone to type to him but before you even reach into your pocket, you’re interrupted by a sudden blast of warm air as a couple stumbles out of the bar, both in a giggling fit as they cling to each other. They take off down the road, laughing even harder. The brief warm air makes you shiver, reminding you of the cold outside.

As if thinking the same thing, Levi catches the door before it closes and holds it open for the both of you. You’re suddenly well aware of the very loud singing happening from within and your eyes widen at the familiarity of one of the voices. You and Levi make your way to the voices and are greeted with the sight of Erwin and Hange duetting a Backstreet Boys song.

What a sight it was. The tall brunette, face flushed and glasses askew, had their arm around Erwin. He his blonde hair was quite tousled, and he looked like he was having the time of his life. They both swayed together as they belted out the lyrics. As if their smiles were contagious, you felt yourself grin. It was kind of cute. So, you pull out your phone and snap a quick picture, sure to show Hange in the morning. It was a good thing too, because the song ends right as you put your phone away in your bag. Levi clicks his tongue and huffs. You glance over at the noise and notice a small upturn to the corner of his scarred mouth. Noticing your gaze, his face vacates itself from any emotion as he stares back ahead.

“Oi! Eyebrows!” He calls out to his friend. Levi starts making his way to the stage, walking with a slight limp. Yet another question to add onto the pile. “I’m gone for 45 minutes and you’re already singing.”

“I’m fine! Just a couple drinks in.”

You all make your way to the table you had laid claim to earlier. You survey the table and count at least 6 more glasses, not counting your two. It was hard to see who drank what.

‘Are you okay?’ You sign to your sister, concern etched on your face. They just nod lazily and give a thumbs up with both hands. Levi is regarding you with a look of understanding, and it seems he realized that you had asked him outside. Music starts playing over the speakers again, and people start making their way to the dance floor. Hange squeals and downs the rest of her drink quickly.

“Erwin let’s go!” She grabs his arm, not waiting for a response. He gives a mock salute to the two of you and follows without question. Levi just clicks his tongue again and heads to the bar to get himself something. So, you plop yourself down on the stool and stare out into the room. Out of nervous habit you start fidgeting with the napkins in front of you. A moment later, Levi’s hobbling over with a tray of drinks.

“I got the idiots some water, they look like they need it.” He places the glasses down with a thud, including one of his own housing some sort of caramel liquid. Then he’s sliding something over to you and you’re about to protest that you don’t drink but you realize it’s not a glass. It’s a notepad and pen.

“If you need something, this might come in handy.” is all he says.

You’re quick to show your appreciation with a bright smile. You also note to yourself that you could have very well have used your phone to communicate but you were not one to disregard someone’s thoughtfulness. It makes something bloom in your chest, warm and comforting.

Your many years of not having a phone of course meant writing – a lot. Your handwriting evolved plenty with time so that meant it was extremely neat. It had to have been so that the reader would be able to read it without an issue.

First you write your name, as you realize no one had really said it out loud while at the teashop. Following that you add ‘I think your shop is wonderful, and I really did enjoy the tea you made.’ You also want to jot down the questions from earlier that were still swimming in your mind, but you hold yourself back. You tell yourself maybe later, granted if there would even be a later.

When angling the paper so he could see it, his eyes flit across the words quickly and you’re given a grunt in acknowledgement. Pulling back the notepad, you bite the inside of your cheek. While it wasn’t awkward being next to him, he sure made it hard to talk to. His cold demeanor gave you the feeling he wasn’t the type to talk about himself, especially with someone he just met. So, asking questions about him or his life was out the window. Likewise, he did not really seem interested in hearing your life story, not like you were planning to spill it anyways for fear of being met with disdain. You had plenty of experiences with that growing up.

Tapping the pen against your chin, your eyes drift around the bar room. There a multitude of people lingering about, shouting over each other to be heard. A couple sits in a corner, whispering who knows what to each other. Both of their cheeks are flushed and eyes heavy with lust. A handful of people are on the dance floor grinding away, your sister and new friend sticking out like a sore thumb as they dance with reckless abandon. All of this gave you an idea, remembering something you’ve read before many moons ago. You start scrawling on the paper again.

‘Are you a gambling man, Levi?’

You shift the pad back over to him and he glances down again after taking another sip of his spirit. He was holding his glass in a way you’d never seen before and honestly it was a little weird.

“Tch, hardly. Why do you ask?” He looks hard at you as you scratch something else down.

‘I propose a game to pass the time. Let’s make some bets about the random people in this room.’

He looks at you incredulously. You stand your ground, not averting your gaze even a little. When you don’t back down, he just scoffs and shakes his head at you.

“I literally could not care less about these people,” he clicks his tongue. “But I suppose there’s not much else to do so I’ll bite.” Knocking back the rest of his drink, he moves around you to lean back against the wall so that he is facing the rest of the crowd. You shift so that you are doing the same. You don’t overlook the proximity to the shorter man, nor the fact that your arms are almost touching. You start to scribble once more.

‘Winner gets to ask the loser one question.’ As his eyes fall on your words, he seems a little taken aback. Levi seems to think for a moment, like he’s weighing his pros and cons.

“One non-personal question.” He amends. You both nod in agreement. So, your eyes travel around the room, looking for your first target. It falls on a group not so far away.

‘I bet that gaggle of young girls over there are here for a bridal party.’

You point in the direction of the said group. Currently they were taking tequila shots, lime and all. All of them sparkled and were dressed up to the nines, save for the silly little hats adorning their heads. And they were having so much fun.

“No way,” Levi scoffs, “That has to be a 21st birthday. They all look like babies.”

Suddenly someone comes through a parting in the crowd with a tray of assorted colorful drinks garnished with cute little accessories. They all yell in excitement at the sight. One of the girls raises her glass and starts shouting.

“To Estelle! May your married life be full of infinite love, happiness, and orgasms!” They all cheer and take big gulps of their drinks, followed by more giggling.

Levi glances art you, his gray eyes dull in the dim bar light. An eyebrow lifts at you as well.

“How did you know?”

You do a sweeping gesture starting from one shoulder down to the opposite hip. He looks back over to the women and conveniently the soon-to-be-bride had faced your direction. She was indeed wearing a white sash sporting the word ‘BRIDE’ in bright pink letters. He huffs as he rolls his eyes, and you smirk at him in return. You press the pad over to him, already equipped with your question.

Levi scoffs at your question. As promised, it wasn’t very personal. You figured ice breaker like questions were a good start. But his pause made you question if this was a good idea, you didn’t want to run him off or make him uncomfortable. Then he clicks his tongue, and his face softens ever so slightly.

“My favorite hobby, huh? It would have to be cleaning.” He simply states.

Cleaning?

‘Like mopping, dusting, all that jazz?’

“Yeah, it brings me peace. I like the control. Plus, I can't stand filthy things, people, or places. It’s repugnant.” He scrunches his nose at the last statement. A laugh bubbles up and you can’t help but let it loose. You’re shot with a glare and a sharp tone.

“Funny?”

You shake your head no and smile lightly while your hands move adeptly on the pad.

‘Not funny, just amusing because it’s not something I would have expected. It’s different. If it makes you happy then it is an admirable hobby.’

Levi’s looking away from you now. If it wasn’t so dim, you would have seen there was a light dusting of pink color his cheeks and ears. He clears his throat and scans the room for his victim. His eyes land on the couple in the back corner whispering to each other. He notices their not-so-subtle hand movements as they felt each other up. Nodding in their direction, he looks back over to you, leaning close so you can hear.

“I bet that couple will get up in the next 3 minutes and excuse themselves to somewhere private.” Your eyes travel in that direction, only to look away hastily at such an intimate scene. You’re not able to think of a counter-bet because honestly, you’re thinking the same thing. Your eyes settle back to his face, but he’s already looking back at the couple. If he noticed you staring, he didn’t say. Suddenly his face is filled with a satisfied look, only to be replaced quickly with a look of horror. You follow his gaze again, afraid of what you might see.

Fortunately, it’s nothing risqué, as you catch the tail end of the couple slipping into one of the public, unmarked restrooms. But the thought of their future actions was enough to gross you out. Looking back at Levi, you scrunch your face up in disgust. He nods in understanding.

“This is why we don’t use public restrooms, especially in a bar.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with his good hand. “When I said somewhere private, I meant like a residence or something. Filthy animals, unbelievable. They better scrub that bathroom down. Maybe I should tell the bartender when they’re done. Maybe I should help clean.”

His retorts crack you up, your shoulders bouncing from silent laughter. He just stares at you impassively as he runs his fingers through his hair to get it out of his face.

“Well, it’s not like we should ruin their fun. Anyways I suppose I won. Let’s see... what’s your favorite color?”

You part your lips, dumbfounded. This was never an easy question, as you found joy in a lot of different colors. You bite your lip and start writing, but after a couple minutes Levi rips the pad from your hands out of impatience.

salmon

turquoise?

canary yellow!

orange

dark forest gre-

He just looks at you in alarm.

“Just pick one.” he scolds.

You snatch the pad back and scribble down, ‘It’s not that simple!’

“It is to me. White, easy.” You just stare right back at him, not believing what you just heard. Out of all the many shades and hues out there, this man decides the color white.

‘Why?’

“It’s clean.” is the only response you get.

It makes sense, you think. But seriously, this man was so weird. But like you said earlier, it was different and that made it refreshing to you. You start searching for your next bet.

As if in a scene from a movie you’ve seen a dozen times came to life, your eyes snap to a lone woman sitting at the bar, nursing a drink and playing on her phone. A couple seats down, you spot a few men chatting. One of the men is staring hard at the very oblivious woman. You nudge Levi with your elbow, not unnoticing the slight flinch from your touch. You point to the scene, and he is quick to understand.

“I bet when he walks over to her, she’ll get up and leave.” He says confidently.

Trusting your instincts, you scrawl back quickly as you notice the man started making his way towards the woman. Sticking your tongue out at him, you angle the pad to him so he could see.

‘Absolutely not. She’ll tell him off right away.’

To both yours and his surprise, not one moment later she throws the rest of her drink contents onto the man’s head. She gathers her belongings, throws a wad of bills on to the bar, then stomps out of the establishment. The rejected man staggers back to his friends, and they applaud him for his supposed gall. This event left you both stunned. There’s a moment of pause where you and Levi just stare at each other before all hell breaks loose as he starts talking and you start scribbling furiously.

“She walked away, I win.”

‘She threw that drink on him, that’s practically telling him off. And that happened before any walking off.’

“That hardly counts, no words were used.” He scoffs and folds his arms across his chest as he stares hard at you. You weren’t sure if the indignation was real or not, but it was evident in his face.

‘Words are not always needed to convey intent.’ You shoot back at him, shifting your weight to tap your foot defiantly. You would know this of course.

This makes Levi pause. He opens his mouth to say something but then Erwin and Hange came crashing into the little bubble you two had made. Suddenly the sounds of clinking glasses and mindless chatter came rushing in and you took a step back.

“Um, I think Hange might have had a little too much tonight.” Erwin says, to which your attention is drawn to a very drunk Hange. They were a blubbering, sobbing mess. Whining about things that ranged from Carly to her work stress and everything in between. Your sister rarely got this drunk, but you imagine the events from earlier might have been her breaking point. This was a sign to get her home.

You hastily round the table to wrap her arm around you and prop her up. Then after whipping a $20 out of your purse and throwing it on the table in front of the boys, you give them a grateful smile and sign to Erwin.

‘Thank you both for tonight. She and I had a lot of fun. But I need to get her home before she gets worse.’ As if on cue, they let out a loud wail and start sobbing into your shoulder. You shift your body to hold them closer so that you don’t drop them. Erwin grabs your $20 and shoves it back in your purse before zipping it up. He had left you no time to protest as he places a large hand on your shoulder and stares intensely at you.

“Please, let me take care of this. Tell them this was an exceptional time. And to please stop by the café again, we owe each a good, sober talk.” His bright blue eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled at you warmly. “It was a pleasure meeting you too. I hope you join Hange on the café visits as well. I think Levi has warmed up to you just nicely.” He wiggles an eyebrow at his friend. Levi just shoves him back and rolls his eyes.

“Tch, fuck off. She’s alright, I guess.” He’s staring at you now, not as cold as before. “You owe me an answer next time we meet.”

You purse your lips at him and shake your head in disagreement.

‘I totally won that, don’t even think otherwise.’ You jot down lazily on the notepad still on the table. It wasn’t as neat, but you were propping up a whole human, you couldn’t help it.

“Are you sure you’re safe to get home okay? We can he-” You cut Erwin off with a wave of the hand. Their spot of choice was actually very lucky, as you only live a few minutes away. And to be honest, you needed the cold air. So, you sign a quick goodbye to your new friends and make your way out.

Walking down the snowy sidewalk, you pat Hange’s head as she grumbles about random things. She opted to walk herself, but you kept your hand in theirs to lead them in the right direction. She only stumbled a few times but overall, you were able to keep a steady pace. You note that before you left, her glass of water had been untouched, so you make a mental reminder to hydrate her before throwing her in bed.

‘Alcohol was not kind to those in their 30s’ you heard their voice say in the back of your mind.

As your steps left crunching noises in their wake, you peer up at the moon and glittering stars. A certain raven-haired and silver-eyed man etched in your brain. You wonder how soon it will be before seeing him again.

‘Levi’ you sign to yourself with a free hand. A smile cemented to your face the whole way home.

☾ Next Chapter: December

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lilghostiequinni · 5 months ago

Text

After All...

Main Masterlist Lando Masterlist

Pairing: Verstappen!female oc x Lando Norris

Warnings: None really, Fluffy(to me)

Part Summary: The world doesn't know of his girlfriend. The grid doesn't know either, well not entirely. The grid knows of his girlfriend and suspects, but doesn't know the truth, only Oscar knows, Max too. But things get a little complicated when it's found out who she is. But all is known when it's accidentally known because of a maiden win.

Part One of the Wasn't Always series; prev. part & next part

Requested: NO / yes

Kaarina sat in the McLaren garage watching the Miami Grand Prix. She had just assumed a guest, Oscar, was his best friend, which she was, but she was also the girlfriend of his teammate, Lando Norris.

She watched the race as it was a nail-biter; she watched as the safety car was pulled out onto the track to clean the track.

She watched as her boyfriend pulled ahead of her half-brother and stayed in first for the rest of the race; she was on the edge of her seat as her boyfriend led the race.

She fought so hard to not run out to meet him at the end of the race and give him the biggest kiss she could.

But what she did do was run out with the rest of McLaren, but she stood to the side as she watched Lando run to McLaren and jump into the crowd.

Lando sees her, and when he looks at her, she is already looking at him; she shakes her head and mouths, "Later," Lando nods at her and goes back to his team celebrations and does the typical stuff for after a race.

The next time Rina sees her boyfriend is on the podium, where she smiles more than she ever has.

Lando has to do media before she can see him again.

Lando stands in the Media Center to do interviews.

"Lando, is there anyone you would wish to celebrate this win with?" An interviewer asks the newest winner.

Lando gets this look on his face that isn't quite able to be deciphered, "Um... I mean, yeah, my parents mostly."

His answer may calm people down for the moment, but it's the fans who catch his look and try to decipher the look, and many try to connect the dots, many drawing the conclusion that him having a girlfriend.

Many don't know the truth, but that doesn't mean that the fans don't stop with the theories and rumors.

Lando finishes his duties and goes to McLaren; he sees Kaarina waiting in his driver's room, just sitting, doing something on her phone.

Kaarina looks up at the noise of the door opening and looks up to see her boyfriend. She smiles at him, that warm smile he's fallen in love with and continues to fall in love with every single day.

"You need to learn to keep your dirty thoughts to yourself. Even through your expressions, conclusions have already been thought of on many platforms," Kaarina says, standing up and going to him, hugging him even if he's covered in sweat and champagne.

"I love you, have for years," Lando says, hugging her close, kissing her head as he does.

"I love you, my race-winner," Rina leans her head back and kisses him on the cheek.

Lando smiles and pulls her in, further kissing her, with a smile and she pulls away, "You need to shower; my brother's already asked to go out tonight, and I've already agreed, knowing you would not want to but also want to, so I made the decision."

Lando nods and smirks at her, "You know, I've covered you in champagne too. Only fair for you to join me."

"No, I'm not, not here. It will be too long," Rina smiles, knowing that she's won the agreement as she steps away from Lando and out of his arms.

Lando groans as she steps away from him.

Lando stands dancing in a club with Max not far away and Kaarina dancing with him.

There are, of course, some fans in the club who are able to get sneaky photos of Lando and Kaarina by extension, but it's assumed she's a friend because they have both said so.

Later, Max drags them to a different club that is a little more exclusive and a place where they can let loose.

But it isn't fans they should watch out for, but themselves.

The two wake up the next morning to chaos on social media because of a story they posted and Max too, but they can only blame themselves and the horrendous amount of alcohol they consumed.

So, they just let it fester for a few hours while they enjoyed the last moments of peace together before the world really knew.

When those precious hours were up, they made a post confirming their relationship on his account, or at least that's what the world thought, as they couldn't see her account as it was private.

The world knew of their relationship almost six years later.

A/N: Yes, I am still dying, but painkillers are my friend. I do have some things planned, and I'm hoping to do them all. Also, this was just the world finding out, it's meant to be a little short.

Tags: @poppyflower-22 @samantha-chicago @barcelonaloverf1life @tallrock35 @hellothere9597

If you want to be removed from a tag list, let me know so I don't keep tagging you. If you are striked through, I don't know if you want to be tagged, but just let me know if you want me to continue or stop

#ln4 #lando norris #f1 #formula 1 #mclaren #lando norris x reader #lando imagine #lando norris fanfic #lando norris fluff #lando norris imagine #lando norris x oc #lando norris x you #lando x reader #miami 24 #miami gp 2024 #f1 fic #f1 2024

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royalsunshinehotel · 8 months ago

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hi hi hi hi!!!! love your work! love your fics!!!!!! amazing and wonderful and lovely and wow💗💗 is it too much to request a gawain imagine??? he's had a long day and is annoyed at everything but he comes home to his wife and melts into her because she makes everything better. slow, loving smut in the end?? love your copperfield smut too⭐️ david and gawain are dreamy asfffffff

Crawl Home (David Copperfield x wife!reader, 18+)

thirty six days until monkey man!!

A/N: The first half of this fic is based on lore I've heard about Charles Dickens being regarded as "the man who invented Christmas." Could be filthier, but I digress.

It was the dead of winter, about to be Christmas in London, and it was supposed to be a good, cheerful time of year, but a calm holiday never seemed to be what laid in store for David Copperfield. It was bordering on ridiculous. The whole day, something hot, sharp, and painful had been stabbing him behind the eyes, and he couldn't get it to stop.

He'd been out of the house since the sun rose that morning, doing everything he could to get it together for the holiday. The two of you were actually going to leave the city, back to his Aunt's home, but the energy in the air told him that the trip was all but doomed.

You heard him coming back, stuck in his head, chatting to himself, more annoyed than he usually would have been.

He struggled with the key, and you don't even look up from your book. Usually when he's this heated, it's best to let him wear himself out.

"I just don't understand the need for everyone to go to the shops at once!!" He blew through the front door, slamming it behind him, stomping his boots clean of snow.

"Really? why would they do that?" You asked, knowing your words really weren't of consequence at that moment.

"It's like there was an announcement that everyone steps out at 11am, I could barely get out the front door of the publishers! Ridiculous! Any shopping? Why do we have to get people gifts!"

"David, it's Christmas, give the people a break." You tried, closing your book and putting it to the side.

"They would do the same! People don't want to show a shred of mercy for the less fortunate!" His hands were tight at his sides, his feelings simmering, almost at a boil.

"What do you mean?" You questioned, your husband ran a hand over his face, his curly hair fluffing up as he pulled off his hat.

"I nearly brought home two children that were 'available to work' on the corner near Darby St. Some rich toff was chatting to the Dad, god knows where they'll end up!" David and his big heart.

A familiar ache pulsed through you, "I'm so sorry lovey."

He just roamed the streets of London, seeing and feeling everything!

"I scared their father, I'm sure I can find them tomorrow though." You knew your husband. Tenacious was a word for it, but you should really start preparing to have two more on your Christmas vacation. Later, you thought.

"I worry for you, and your big heart."

"You won't be saying so when we've got two children to feed for Christmas." When, he said, he was thinking about it too.

"Hm, since we're adopting street urchins now, I should take advantage of our privacy." It was an inappropriate thing to say, but you knew if you didn't fuck him into a more temperate mood, there's no way the children would agree to come with him, even if he did find them again. He would, you knew he would but still.

"You are sitting in my lap." You had your chest in his face as well, however you gave him another moment to notice that.

"Back down to earth, are we?" You teased lightly, David's hands cold against your skin.

"...Have you been in your nightgown this whole conversation...?" You shivered as he pushed the gown off one shoulder.

"Yes. I think, since it's the holiday, you might take time off." Your words seemed muffled, heat pooling in your belly as David put his mouth to work on your breast, cold hands kneading the flesh casually, because he'd been doing it for years.

"You've been working so hard on your serials, I miss you." You all but moaned as David's freezing fingers teased your hardened peaks,

"How much?" He flashed a smile up at you, as you adjusted your legs.

"You should feel!" You prompted, and a cold hand wandered down to your dampening heat. You moaned loudly at the contrast of temperature, pitiful and absolutely perfect.

David whined, in the way you like.

Now normally, the two of you would tease more, enjoy each other with hands and mouths. Its a favorite past time for you like to hold his member in your hands and watch it twitch and grow...another day perhaps.

For now, you're not rushing, but you're not going to wait. You warm your hand a moment before pulling David free of his trousers. He sat perfectly still, like a good boy. He deserved a treat after the day he had.

Helping you, he took a large hand and bunched your nightdress to your hips, and he supported you, other hand on your ass as you mounted him.

He was simply so lucky to have you.

With a wet, filthy sound, you took your husband in deep. It was supposed to be a treat for him, and here you were, barely a thought in your pretty little head.

It was his fault, his cock was too lovely!

He paused, to let you catch your breath, but with a squeeze to your rear, you begin to move, to ride.

"You always feel so good inside me," your breathy little whine prompted a nip to your collarbone. The soft velvet of the chair only heightened how your hair stood on end.

You'd wanted to take control, you'd wanted to come after him like an avenging fertility goddess, taking what you want.

And yet, like most things, you were doing it together.

"I'll always crawl home to you." He murmured, trying everything he could to stay calm. Not too calm, but calm enough.

"You'd better keep your big heart wide, I know sometimes it hurts." You crooned into his ear as he tightened his grip on you, just as greedy as he needed to be.

"It's all worth it for this comfort I receive from you, dear wife." He groaned, humming against your skin. You smirked, bringing your hot breath up to his ears.

Cold. Not for long!

You tugged his earlobes between your teeth, pulling ever so gently, as David melted under you.

A few more rolls of your hips, and you clench down around him, muscles keeping him hostage in you as you milk him for all he's worth. You get to keep him safe, when he's inside you like this.

"What was that, worrying about gifts for the family?" You grabbed his chin, pointing his face towards you.

He smirked, before giving you a sweet, chaste peck, "Once again dearest, you are all that I need."

#david copperfield #david copperfield imagine #dev patel #dev patel imagine #david copperfield smut #dev patel smut #i am manifesting a monkey man popcorn bucket at amc don't mind me #david is chatty nobody move

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marzipanandminutiae · 1 month ago

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You probably meant artificial tans, but tanning is not the opposite of leaving your natural skin tone be

I don't particularly sunbathe, but I do live in a Mediterranean country. Even with SPF 50+ I start tanning in late april and lose my tan in approximately october. Unless I should not go out or near a window for half of the year, I cannot just leave my "natural" skintone be

Your winter skin tone is your only natural skin tone, IMO. And people should take steps to prevent it from changing- sunscreen with 2-hour reapplications (the intended use), parasols, hats, sun-protective clothing, etc. Even though they often went too far and did it for the wrong reasons- racism, colorism, classism, etc -our ancestors were unfortunately right about needing to take sun protection more seriously. Sometimes it's not just leaving it be, no- sometimes you have to proactively work to protect it. like brushing your teeth is not just leaving them be, but it's still your teeth's natural, healthy state

Like I said, tanning is literally skin damage. It's your skin producing more melanin to try and protect itself from the sun- which means the sun is causing DNA injury. (source) If it happens every year that doesn't make it any less harmful. I have very light-skinned friends in Australia who are able to avoid tanning, so it's clearly not impossible.

also dark-skinned people still need sun protection- melanoma is less likely to be caught early on dark skin, partially due to racist teaching practices among dermatologists, so PoC often have worse outcomes and higher mortality rates from it

My mother just had to have basal cell carcinoma removed from her upper lip. There was a huge hole in her face- the surgery to remove it, Mohs, involves cutting off pieces of tissue, testing them, and repeating until the test comes out clean. It takes hours and you're only under local anesthesia. You're awake the whole time and sometimes the doctor shows you what it looks like before they close the wound. Luckily she was able to get reconstructive surgery, but she's now insecure because her lip looks different- not bad, and she realizes that, but it's not the version of herself she was used to for 70 years. She now hates looking in mirrors. And this is the best-case scenario because she's. You know. Not Dead.

She hasn't tanned on purpose since she was in her early 20s (occasionally laid out by her parents' pool). She used sunscreen when I was growing up. But she didn't reapply after putting it on once, or employ any other form of sun protection. This isn't even her first brush with skin cancer; just the first on her face that required reconstruction.

No method is foolproof; I have freckles on parts of my body that never see the sun, and though they look benign, things can still happen. And of course you should go outside and enjoy the outdoors as much as you like, with appropriate precautions; I'm not trying to stress anyone out. you don't have to wear those full-face UV masks or anything

But. I don't know. I take this very seriously because I do NOT want to go through what my mother- and her mother before her, actually -went through. It seems like all the evidence shows that any amount of skin darkening from your winter shade, caused by UV light, is dangerous. The precautions seem so easy and minor to me compared to the risk that I just don't understand why anyone wouldn't take them- besides maybe sensory issues, and there are ways around even that

(personally I wear SPF 50 on all exposed skin and reapply every two hours or when I'm about to go back outside for longer than like 10 minutes, if I've been indoors all day. I also use a parasol when the sunlight is strong, plus sunglasses, a long skirt, and long sleeves in a natural-fiber fabric up to like 85 degrees Fahrenheit. then again, I also just don't LIKE being outside in the sun very much- I love going for long walks and being outdoors if it's overcast and/or cold, but warm sunny days are not my thing. and my clothing style is Victorian GothicTM, so it's easy to adapt for sun protection. YMMV)

(and no, I am not Vitamin D deficient that I'm aware of)

#ask #anon #sun protection #skincare #this is not a vanity thing; it's a health thing #you do NOT want skin cancer trust me #your winter skin tone is your natural and healthiest skin tone #medical #surgery

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xlunacloudiax · 7 months ago

Text

Heart of two friends.

Description: Juan invites Y/n to his apartment to help her overcome artistblock. A special bond forming between the two friends finally blossoms into something more as they realise their feelings for each other.

About 6k words. Took me SO LONG to edit, and even longer to find courage to post. Please enjoy a slow but deep romance with Juan Ruiz. 🫶🏻

~~~

" So I was thinking... Maybe we could- " The door to Juan's apartment swings open and Y/n wanders in. Her thoughts are immediately replaced with surprise admiration. " Woah, nice place. I've already enough inspiration just by walking in here. "

Juan enters shortly after her and closes the door, silently locking it behind his back. He watches her soft hair lightly bounce across her back as she smiles contently at the room before her. Finally, he's got her alone with him. He's relieved he can spend some time with her after a busy week with Dr. Burke and the others, but he feels a pang of nervousness.

It's just them two. All alone. In his apartment.

" Yeah, it's okay I guess... Sorry I forgot to clean up the uh- " Juan apologizes. Perhaps he's just shy? He doesn't want to dissappointment Y/n in anyway.

" No it's fine, really. It's neater than my place in the mornings. " Y/n flashes a genuine smile that comforts Juan from his embarrassment. The bubbly nervous feeling in his stomach, which he only recently noticed, eases a bit. " Did you know that a person's emotions are first felt in gut before the brain registers it? " Y/n adds as if she could read his mind, it lightens the awkward mood a little.

Juan shakes his head and chuckles. He drops the keys into their usual spot and follows Y/n at a safe distance. " That's so random, but I didn't know that. "

For some odd reason he always feels calmer around her, so much that he worries little about the chupacabra's sudden appearances. The urge to transform seems almost completely surpressed and instead replaced by the frequent urge to be closer to Y/n.

The only present worry lurking in the back of his mind is Darcey. How will she react after hearing about Y/n's arrival at his apartment? Even if they're no longer dating for months now, she can sometimes be... obsessive with his personal life and friendships. He has to be careful around her. He doesn't want to make her feel any more insecure, but he still wishes she were less suspicious about him nowadays. Even after what happened between them, Juan still sees her as a friend.

" Hey, where's Darcey by the way? Isn't she here today? " Y/n's sudden questions break through his contemplation and he shakes his head. He was dreading those words.

" She's probably out with her friends. I don't know. " Juan chooses his words wisely. He doesn't want to think about Darcey right now. His mind flashes back to his last meeting with her, and the argument they had. He really wishes to forget about it. They've both decided to move on and it seems better that way. " We're not living together anymore. "

An awkward silence descends upon the room and Juan bites his lip, wondering whether he said too much or not enough. It's been half a year since he broke up with Darcey, but he never really talks about it. Y/n lightly pats his shoulder and the sudden touch sends electricity throughout his body. " Sorry. I didn't know she moved out. "

" No, no it's alright. That was more than a few months ago anyway. Things are better this way. "

" So it's just us then? " The words slip off Y/n's tongue and it makes Juan's heart skip a beat. His previous concerns are immediately erased. Odd, he shouldn't be feeling this way ... He hasn't known her for very long, yet it feels like it was meant to last a lifetime. His attraction towards Y/n is nothing new, but still seems ethereal. He's felt it resonate in his bones since the moment he approached her. An eager yearning to get to know her. Their fondness has grown throughout the past 2 months, and the feelings have become more familiar to handle with time. Yet they remain unbeknownst to Y/n.

Is it wrong to feel strongly towards a friend? It's not like this is a movie or anything.

" Yeah. Just us. " Juan releases a shaky breathe and shows her to his study. Y/n follows closely behind and he stops to allow her entry first.

Y/n walks around and observes the room. The surface of his desk was neatly scattered with sketches and portraits seated placidly on stands. A mirror and a large collection of expensive pencils and pens arranged in a holder next to a pile of drawings. A few shelves with books stood bythe side of the room. It had a comfortable lofty style showcasing all of Juan's sketch ideas, some finished and others work in progress. " Oh, this is lovely. It's like your inspiration domain. " Juan stands behind her in the doorway with a shy smile. " So is where you get all your great big ideas onto paper. Really nice. "

" Yes. " Juan agrees with a small hint of pride. " I'll be right back. " Dissapears into the main room for a brief moment. Y/n gazes thoughtfully and meticulously at each artwork, admiring the unique details that depict the artist's hard work, all the while thinking of how talented Juan is. He's worked hard to reach his success, and not many people recognise it enough. All the hours he's spent writing, planning, drawing, and all the hundreds of hours of practice. This room is a special place for him. A big black sketch book on the desk catches Y/n's attention. It lays closed, concealing whatever is inside it like a secret, taunting her. Something whispers in Y/n's mind to open it. _Surely this not invading his space, right?_ Her hand reaches out on its own, her curiousity too strong to resist.

She flips through a few pages, briefly examining the immaculate drawings of hands and eyes and different face shapes. Until she comes across a particular page that peaks her interest. A familiar face jumps out at her, the curves and tones so perfected it stands apart from the paper. Y/n stares at the drawing as it feels like it is staring back. Her heart squeezes in her chest and fills with an unfamiliar warmth once she recognises who it is.

It was a drawing of her.

Y/n feels tears prick the corners of her eyes as she considers ever line and little detail added to the small portrait. Nobody has ever cared to notice such detail about her before, let alone take the time to make an artwork of her. For the first time, as she gazes at the beautiful artwork made by Juan's hands, she realises just how deeply the emotions behind such an act could mean. And her heart is touched with an underlying hope.

Juan returns carrying a dining chair with ease, and places it down next to the desk chair. " Sorry, no autographs." He jokes and Y/n quickly turns the book cover with a small chuckle to swallow her sudden tears. She watches him intently, dark brunette curly strands of his hair fall infront of his eyes and spring up as he stands again with a sigh. " This is now your workstation. " He gently guides her to sit on the desk chair, curling his hands on her upper arms. The warm feeling of his touch lingers longer than it probably should, but it's quick to lift as soon as she sits down. The brief contat leaves a tingling spot on the skin underneath her sleeve.

Juan seats himself beside her on the dining chair.

" Oh- isn't this your chair? "

Juan smirks and leans forward closer to her face, his gaze meets hers, his shyness melting away. " The best way to learn from a teacher is to view the lesson through their eyes. " He shifts closer and extends his arm to grasp another large leather book on the desk, this time a navy blue cover. He opens it to reveal an album of portrait sketches in various perspectives, similar to the one Y/n had peaked into a few moments ago.

Juan carefully watches her face and smiles at her reaction to his work as they page through the book. Each unexpected compliment and question makes his heart flutter. " So, what's your technique? " Y/n finally asks and tears her eyes away from the portrait to gaze at him curiously. Juan feels warmth radiate inside him at her soft expression towards him, he almost doesn't hear her question clearly. " Can you show me? " It's like he has an apprentice. A very pretty apprentice.

" Alright. " He leans back to grab a specific pencil from his stationary shelf and sits closer to Y/n to demonstrate. She watches his movements attentively throughout the lesson, but barely asorbs the explanation. The sturdiness of his wrist as the pencil presses a line to a blank section of the page makes her knees feel weak for some reason. The veins lightly tracing his hands as he holds the slim object in a skilful manner. The strength shifting in his grip when he flicks his wrist in different directions. A few moments later, Juan pauses and swings the pencil towards Y/n's hand, resting it between her fingers the way he previously held it. " Is this comfortable for you? "

She focuses on the intense warmth of his hand gently placed on hers. Her mind almost short-circuits for a second. She nods. " Okay. " He whispers and slides closer, carefully stretching his arm around her shoulders and holding onto her hand with the other. She can feel his warm breath on the side of her face as he further explains the lesson, and the tickle of his curls against her forehead. Her heartrate beats like a drum as his firm hand steadily guides her smaller one across the page. His instructions are clear and concise. A faint musky scent enthralls her senses and her mind feels fuzzy. They are so close to each other now, faces merely inches apart. Y/n is barely able to keep focus, but she manages to capture the just of everything.

After completion, the intensifying warmth retreats along with Juan's hand. Y/n stares at her work feeling pleased.

" That went by like a breeze. "

Juan smirks playfully at her. " You're a faster learner that I thought. "

Y/n gasps decides to play along. " What's that supposed to mean? Your technique is easier than I thought. "

This time Juan gasps and places a hand over his heart. " I am offended. " He jokes and it earns a chuckle from Y/n. What a beautiful sound, he thinks to himself with a smile.

Juan abruptly stands up and heads for the main room. " You hungry? " He asks halfway to the kitchen. Y/n spins in the chair and watches him through the doorway.

" I guess so. What've you got? "

Juan, rummaging through the kitchen cupboard, pauses and looks up to face her. " Have you ever triednachos? "

Y/n in return snickers." Tried? I grew up with nachos. Though not the kind you're probably thinking of. "

" Oh? What kind then? " Juan frowns slightly in confusion but keeps his smile plastered on his lips. He wonders why he can't stop smiling around her? Juan picks up his desired ingredients alongside the chips on a tray. He places them on the kitchen island and quickly prepares the sauce. A moment later Y/n approaches and seats herself on a barstool in front of him. " Different chips? "

" Yes, a little unusual but very tasty. My mother's recipe. " She snatches a single chip from the preparation tray and crunches it. Juan props himself on his elbows and observes her thoughtfully as she explains the process of how her family used to make it.

" Interesting. I never thought you could use that. " Juan takes a chip, his gaze remaining attentive on her movements. She nods, bashfully, feeling his intense gaze. " But you know, the best part of the flavour is in the beans. " Suddenly an idea hits him, and he turns to fetch another topping. He returns with a little bowl of what appears to be sour cream, and places on the tray. The conversation continues. It is nice to finally have someone to talk to. Juan's normally used to being alone or being interrupted, but not with Y/n. " Did she add any spices? "

" Hm. Yes, and sometimes even nutritional yeast. But that tasted more like cheese. " Y/n replies with a glint of nostalgia in her eyes. " Actually, I remember the first time she she added sweet chilies. It was so good, it became one of our favourites. " She bites a chip covered in sour cream and is pleasantly surprised by the familiar spicy toppings. Juan, who's eyes have been carefully observing her facial expressions, gives a pleased smile upon noticing her delight.

" I thought you'd like this. You briefly mentioned it a few weeks ago. "

Y/n smiles appreciatively at the thought of his attentiveness. " You remembered that? "

" Of course. I pay attention to everything you say. " Juan takes a final chip before stepping around the counter. " That's how a spy works, isn't it? " Juan jokingly adds and takes the seat next to her.

" Oh, so you're a spy now? Ironic. I thought I was the only one. " Y/n decides to play along, speaking in a proud accent.

" Mmh, now that's a problem. Two spies spying on each other with a plate of nachos? "

Y/n chuckles at his statement. " And what's all the information you've collected so far? " Juan squints his eyes at her with a smirk, he leans forward until she can feel his warm breathe hit her face.

" Do you really want to know? "

She blinks innocently and smiles, daring to lean forward as well and resting her chin on her palm. The tension gradually building in the air between them. " I don't know. Is it confidential? " A deep hum resonates from Juan's chest and stands up again.

" Well, If I told you then ... there would be some consequences. " He opens the fridge and takes out two cans of some soft drink to show her. " Have you ever tried this? "

" No. You're giving me a lot of new things lately. " Including these feelings.

Juan passes the drink over the counter and their hands touch for a moment. It's like electricity flowing through the simple contact, a subtle but evident connection completing a circuit. There's a tug inside Juan's heart, like he wants to hold on to her. What is wrong with him, he wonders.

That's when he notices the thin, fresh, red lines draping across the tips of her delicate skin.

" Hey, what happened to your hand? " Juan asks concern in his voice. Y/n pauses and looks confused in response before realisation clicked in her mind.

" Oh. This? It's just cat scratches. " She giggles sweetly at the memory.

The internal tug in Juan's heart becomes nearly unbearable. His heartrate speeds up as temptation settles in for the simple desire. Maybe this will be okay? Unsure of the strange feelings developing inside of him, Juan takes ahold of Y/n's hand. His warm muscular fingers gently press along the peculiar lines. Y/n nearly flinches in surprise, her breath hitched in her throat as her heart skipped a beat. Her mind is overwhelms itself like a highway of thoughts as he continues to gently rub and trace the scars.

" I didn't know you had a cat? " He says in a soft tone, slightly deeper than before.

" Oh, well it's not exactly my cat... " Y/n begins to scramble her thoughts together. Juan listens attentively. " It's a stray. Her original owner was one of my neighbours, but the lady recently had an accident and has to live in a wheelchair for a while. I offered to take care of the cat until she recovers. She was very grateful for that... "

" Aw, that's sweet of you. "

Her eyes follow the movement of his fingers. Y/n notices the great difference in temperature between the both of them.

Of course, her mouth speaks before her mind. " You're so hot... "

" W- What? "

Heat instantly rises to Y/n's cheeks in realisation of her own words and she's overwhelmed by embarrassment. " Oh no- I mean, temperature-wise. " What is wrong with me? Y/n cringes at herself for the misunderstanding.

" Oh.. " Juan chuckles, understanding it was meant differently. His eyes flicker to hers and the obvious blush dusting her cheeks. What a pretty colour on her, I wonder what else will make her blush... Juan wonders why he is thinking this all of a sudden? But instead he continues to rub her hands, focusing on the fading cat scratches as a distraction. He can't deny it, he just wants to feel her skin for as long as possible.

Unfortunately their time spent together is cut short. " I have to go. It's getting late. Thank you for inviting me over. " Y/n's soft voice interrupts and Juan slowly feels a pang of panic arise as she retracts her hands and stands up.

" Wait! Before you go... " Juan calls after her fleeting form and he calms a bit when she stops and turns to him. She needs to stay longer. I can't let her go. Please not yet. I don't want that feeling to return... He clenches his fists and gathers whatever excuse be can think of to keep her there. His mouth gapes like a fish but words don't cooperate. So instead he settles for the next best idea.

Juan dissapears into the study for a moment, and returns with another magazine-sized book. He holds it out to Y/n. She takes it from his hands with slight interest. Juan switches on the hanging lights above the counter to assist her eyesight, ones that Y/n notes are quite stylish.

" What's this? " She asks curiously.

Y/n opens the book and reads the first page, only to notice it contains inked pictures. Her eyes widen in realisation and Juan smiles as he watches her excitement grow. " Oh my goodness... " Y/n flips to the next page. " This is one of your comics! But it's brand new? " Her fingers glide over the intricate black lines. She looks up at him with uncertainty.

" It's all yours. "

" Are you serious?! " Y/n's eyes light up and she hugs him. Juan feels an odd warmth grow inside him at her reaction and he encircles his arms around her. Her body fit right into his arms, almost perfectly like a puzzle. Like it was meant to be. Suddenly the air feels thicker again.

" I thought it'd be better if you had more examples to learn from, you know? "

" No ways... Thank you so much. " As she thanks him , he takes the time to relish in her scent.

That flips a switch.

A deep urge inside him silently begs not to let her go. Make her somehow stay in his arms. But he has no choice. He forces himself to detach from her dainty frame as she steps away. His chest aches inside as he attempts to ignore the desperate cries for her touch. It was almost so torturing that his hands began to shake under his balled fists.

" You're so talented, you know? I wish my stories could be visualised. But I don't have the time. "

There it is. Another compliment gracefully falls from her lips. Juan's chest overflows with the familiar warmth, one that often infiltrates his heart whenever Y/n is close by, he realises. It's a newly uncovered feeling that he hasn't even felt towards anyone before.

Perhaps she is a really special friend? He used to think, but now, he's not so sure anymore. Now, all he knows is that he needs to bring Y/n closer.

" Don't worry. I know you will some day. You just have to keep motivating yourself. Your story is good. It's you. That's what makes it so special... " Juan's eyes travel down from her glossy eyes, to her pouting pink lips, her revealing neck, and then to her arms. He has a strong urge to comfort her physically to, but he's afraid of making her uncomfortable, so instead he reassures her with his words. His opportunity to hug her has already passed. It's like a lump of stone sitting in the back of his throat, he struggles to gulp it down as his mind threatens to lose her if he doesn't do something more.

Y/n stares at him, feeling encouraged by his honest words. She smiles sweetly. " Thanks Juan. "

His eyes couldn't help but stare at her graceful figure, and the unique features of her face. Her beautiful hair that shines soft like silk in the lighting above. Her avoiding eyes hooded with naturally long lashes. They are the windows to her emotions, but can't express just how beautiful she is on the inside. He thought to himself. If only he could tell her... He could write an entire book about her and call it 'Y/n's heart of gold, Juan's heart of her'. He doesn't care how cheesy that might sound, that's how he feels around her.

Again he feels an inner tug, pulling him forward as a need to be closer to her. His increase in heartrate, beating like a drum against his ribcage. Is it the Chupacabra wanting to come out? He worries, but can't suppress the temptation to caress her cheek. It's like a different side of him is threatening to overtake. A build up of emotion about to spill like a cup filling with water till it reaches the brim.

That's it. He gave in.

As Y/n turns towards the door, Juan's arms reach out and prevent her from exiting. Her hand that lands on the doorknob is captured by a firm grip, and her fingers are laced with the man's strong ones. Juan's other hand raises itself to gently cup her cheek. She looks confusedly at him as a blush creeps onto her skin under the touch of his warmth. His face inches closer to her own, his dazed eyes boring into her with an intense gaze of longing. Y/n is left utterly speechless, except for the few words that managed to escape her lips.

" Juan? What are you doing? "

Juan remians silent, in thought. He stares endearingly at her. His eyes are almost glossy as he slides a strand of hair out of her face. Now he can see her beautiful eyes more clearly He doesn't understand why he is so enthralled by her, but maybe it was just her? Maybe it doesn't matter either. Words of apology linger on the tip of his tongue and after a while he doesn't hold some of them back. " I'm sorry, I can't... resist you... "

The eager longing inside of him overrides his senses and he pulls her towards him. His lips attack her soft ones and he unintentionally roughly shoves her against the dark wooden door. It was so sweet, so comforting, so right. His body moulds into hers as the satisfaction of his craving is met. His craving for her touch. Her comfort. Her understanding despite not yet knowing the truth about his alter ego.

How he stalked her that one night in his Chupacabra form just to be sure she arrived home safe. How he stopped that guy at the restaurant that tried to hurt her. How he was the one who defended her that night Dr. Burke's house was attacked. How he cared so much for her and admired her kindness and empathy for the people around her, despite not being able to express herself well. How he yearns for her to feel the same towards him. She was so pure in his eyes. Like an angel he thought he never deserved to meet. Oh, how he wishes he could tell her all this. How he truly feels about her.

The kiss doesn't stop. All the deepest unspoken emotions between the two flood into the each other like a dam wall bursting into a tumbling waterfall. It is passionate, other people would say, but in the hearts of the two it means much more than anyone can fathom.

In Y/n's mind, she knows this is dangerous. Being alone with a guy so dear and allowing him to kiss her? Logically, it was just a recipe of risks. She felt so uncertain, yet her heart felt so at home. But Juan wasn't just any guy, and this wasn't just a kiss. This is the one her heart has long yearned for to find, at last encased by his loving arms. Two fates destined to be entangled. The person she has prayed to meet since she was first able to grasp the meaning of love. The warmth of his lips traverse her her jawline, a sensation her body has long been seeking in her subconscious. She doesn't know why she isn't feeling threatened. Normally a slight touch attempted by a man would make her skin crawl in disgust or uncomfortability. Perhaps this is just the right man touching her, and her body knows it. Feel down, she knows this feels right somehow.

But her morals kick in and hesitation rises in the middle of the sweet sensation. She still needs to be careful not to let it go too far, no matter how good it feels.

She places her free hand that isn't holding the comic book firmly on Juan's chest, lightly pushing him away. Unfortunately he is just too strong for her and keeps in place. The longer she stands cornered by him the more temptation eases its way to give in.

No. She recollects her stance. I can't stay... It's too risky. What if he doesn't feel the same way?

Juan, sensing her hesitation stops and whispers words of reassurance as he leans into her neck. " Hey, are you okay...? I won't do anything you don't want me to. " For a moment she is comforted but her worry remains and battles with the intense feeling of bliss and the relaxation of her muscles in his hold. Her silence makes Juan retreat a little and scan her face for any sign of discomfort. Fearing that he's crossed a line. " I'm sorry... Please, just stay a little longer. We don't have to- " Y/n's voice is choked by uncertainty, but she shakes her head.

She can feel his warm breath lingering over her neck as he waits patiently for her answer, his lean muscular arms holding her dainty ones and she notices one of his thumbs rubbing along the top of her hand in a comforting manner. Their position against the door in such close proximity, the heat radiating off his body envelopes her like a blanket. Realising the strength he has over her in this moment is frightening, yet he remains gentle with her. Even asking consent to continue kissing her. " Will it be okay if I stay? " It's almost impossible to resist. Temptation is right at her doorstep and perhaps that isn't such a bad thing. Such a stupid thought to have in a situation where her body has but a single threatened cell aching to leave.

That is all it takes for Juan to hoist her up into his arms, her legs crossing over behind his back for support. She yelps at the sudden action until she realises where he's taking her. Her voice returns to her, almost shaky and out of breath from the continuous kisses. " Woah, I don't know if I'm ready for this- "

He tosses her onto his bed. Then he proceeds in removing his jacket. Y/n's heart skips a beat and she wonders where this would lead to.

Discarding the piece of clothing on the floor he climbs on top of her. Y/n stares wide eyed, unsure of what to expect. Slightly fearful but also excited. This experience is all too new for her. She just lays still and awaits whatever he plans to do. Her heart feels like it is dancing in her chest. Is he going to...?

Juan stares at her with dazed eyes, trapped in his arms beneath him. She looks as innocent as a deer in his eyes. Unfortunately, he's hunted such an animal before... but he'd never dream of doing such a thing to her. She is too precious. And he hopes the beast inside him agrees. He could see that Y/n trusts him. The last thing he wants to do is break that trust.

" You look so frightened. Have you never been kissed before? " Juan asks while caressing her fallen strands of hair out of her face to

" Not by you. "

He smiles again. He presses his lips onto hers again, this time softer and slower. He travels down to her neck and lightly sucks it between kisses. Her shoulders gradually relax, enjoying the tingly sensation.

Y/n reaches up to his curly hair and runs her fingers through the tousled strands. That seems to encourage Juan as he shifts his towering position over her into a tight but gentle embrace. Once again she is encircled by the comfort and safety of his strong arms respectfully in their place around her waist and back. Thumbs massaging at her sides and sending butterflies fluttering throughout her tummy. Juan quietly and breathlessly chants her name between kisses from her lips slowly traveling her neck, from the back of her ear down to her soft and sensitive shoulders. During this moment, this loving gesture, Y/n longs to know for certain how he truly feels.

After a while Juan lays himself next to her and keeps his arms draped over her smaller frame. Panting and breathless, the tension between them slowly dissapates but the thickness in the air tugging in his chest remains. His head nuzzles her neck affectionately, and he sighs at peace. Y/n gazes at him lovingly, with a mix of bewilderment and pensive. She never expected to experience love this way... And especially not from her dear friend Juan. That seemed no further than a dream to her.

She needs to clarify with him soon. She needs to know for sure.

" Juan "

Y/n whispers breathlessly.

" Is that all you're going to do? "

Juan chuckles at the unexpected question. The sound vibrates throughout her body. It feels so calming and yet contains so much strength. Her knees feel weak despite currently laying down. " What do you mean? Do you want me to do more? " He gives her a teasing glare.

Y/n's face flushes. She avoids the look on Juan's face as it just made her blush even more. Turning over to the other side, she gazes out the window to recollect her thoughts as her heart rate gradually relaxes. Juan watches her intently and holds her hand, lacing their fingers.

" I told you, I won't do anything you don't want me to, remember? " Juan searches her eyes and senses that same hesitation from earlier.

Y/n shifts under his embrace to face him, her gaze now serious from contemplation. " Juan. Tell me. Was this just a 'makeout'? "

Juan smiles at her straightforwardness. " I guess you can call it that, yeah? " He lightly caresses her forehead and presses a chaste kiss on the side.

" I mean, did it... mean anything more to you? " Y/n musters up the courage to ask, her stomach twists in anxiousness of his rejection.

Juan meets her gaze affectionately, searching her eyes again. Something is blooming between them it goes much deeper than the physical.

Juan's voice breaks the silence. " I'm still trying to figure things out between us but... it did, to me atleast. " Juan props himself up on one arm. The rest of the words hang in Juan's thoat and he all he can do is gape like a fish. He looks towards Y/n expectantly, scanning her soft features for the response they're both searching for. Her beautiful eyes bore into his and entrance him with their eager filled emotions. Needless anything to say, he understands what she means, and his hope that she feels it too has been fulfilled. The connection between them, is mutual.

Y/n forms a smile of pure bliss upon realisation and snuggles into his side. " If this is a dream please don't wake me up. "

Juan chuckles and she can feel it resonate throughout his chest like a deep rumble. She feels elated, as if they're lying together in the middle of a grassy field on a warm summer afternoon. The rise and fall of Juan's chest comforts her thoughts and she feels like an invisible weight has been lifted off her shoulders. He feels the same as he gently cradles her in his arms. The silence providing a peaceful atmosphere between them.

Y/n's thoughts remind her of the drawing she found earlier and her heart rate picks up pace again. Should I tell him? I might as well. She wonders where it will lead to but she doesn't waste time and gathers her words with much effort.

" I found your drawing. "

Juan leans back to gaze down at her in mild confusion. " Which one do you mean, love? "

Y/n's heart flutters at the nickname he gives her and looks up to meet his eyes boldly. " The one you made... of me. "

In an instant of realisation, Juan's cheeks heat up to a pinkish shade. He is at a loss for words. " H-How did you..? " His breathe hitches in his throat and causes him to stutter. Now he looks embarrassed and tears his gaze away from her with much shyness. Y/n reassures him by gently placing her hand on his face.

" It's beautiful. " She replies with such genuine sweetness in her voice, Juan's heart could melt right on the spot. Y/n can feel the heat radiating off him by now and he attempts to hide himself in her palm. But he quickly turns the tables by pressing sloppy kisses into her hand. A hearty laugh erupts from Y/n's lips.

" What happened to your shyness all of a sudden? " She asks in between giggles. Juan laughs along with her, thinking what a beautiful sound it is to hear her laugh. He promises himself to make her smile that way every chance he gets.

" Shyness? I'm not shy! " He attempts to defend himself but his uncontainable smile gives it away. " It's just- really hard to talk to a pretty girl like you. "

Y/n pauses and looks up at him teasingly in response to his flirtatious compliment. " Oh, so you're like this with every pretty girl then? " Juan's smile fades a little and his heart clenches at the thought. He gazes at her earnestly with undoubtedly loving eyes.

" No. Only you. " He cups her face in his hand and presses their foreheads together.

Y/n's laughing eases and her heart fills with warmth. Her usually avoiding eyes now wonder up to his own without hesitation, capturing hers with his intensity.

It is the first time they've made such eye contact in a while. Where sparks seem to fly, now the glimmer they share is like a dancing flame.

Both their hearts skip a beat. To Y/n if feels like her entire body is frozen in place under his endearing gaze. To Juan it feels like someone has gifted him the most precious jewel in the world. Her beautiful eyes who's always actively ignoring every attempt of eye contact, has trusted him enough to rest upon his own with such adoration. It's like a romance in a comic book, except this time it's real. They can reach out and they can feel each other. They can know each other. And they can be with each other despite all odds. Never would Juan have thought he'd be so genuinely excited over making eye contact with someone before. He couldn't tear his gaze away even if the world were to end that very second. This is too special of a moment to break. To meet your lover's eyes and know exactly what they're thinking, as if peering through a glass window into a person's soul, and seeing that they reciprocate.

" Your pupils are dilating. "

" What? " Juan chuckles at Y/n's random statement. She tends to do that often. Lighten the mood. " Where did that come from? "

" Oh, I read something about it. A person's pupils dilate whenever they look at someone the love or hate. "

" Well in that case... " Juan leans down to her ear and lightly kisses the earlobe. " That probably answers both our questions again. No? " The last words he whispers in Spanish and Y/n can feel the tension between them slowly rebuilding. She steadily holds his gaze and her heart leaps upon hearing his next words that reflect her own.

" Te amo..."

I'm crying inside. If you made it through this... 🥹 Thank you.

(Btw, the picture above is from a sunset in my neighborhood after it rained a while ago.)

#juan ruiz x reader #juan ruiz #juan ruiz the imperfects #the imperfects fanfiction #x reader #the imperfects #the imperfects netflix #the imperfects x reader #romance

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wjhik · 1 year ago

Text

My First (Jude Bellingham) *Smut*

A/N: teethrotting

Y/N's POV:

I am so excited for tonight. Jude is coming over to my dorm to have a movie night together. He's getting food and snacks and I'm setting up the living room. I've cleaned my dorm room, which I share with my two roommates. Over the past 2 years, the girls and I have gotten quite close, so having a night with Jude without them teasing me is quite hard. They've promised me that they will stay in their rooms. I have been giddy all day. I gathered all of the blankets and fluffy pillows I could find and placed them on my couch. I've already set up the T.V. with Jude's netflix account that we share, because I cannot be bothered to buy my own.

Ding Dong!

Oooh he's here! He's here! He's here! I run to the front door and open the door. "Hey, baby!!" I say in a high pitched tone. I reach up and wrap my hands around Jude's neck and pull him into a hug. "I'm so excited!!" I say, pulling away from the hug. Jude is holding my waist with my hands around his neck. He kisses me lightly. "Let's go inside." He suggests. I grab his hand and drag him into my small dorm room. "Sit here. I'm going to go get the remote." I say, pushing him down on the couch. Lord knows I am not strong enough to push him down, so I know that he let me push him.

Knock Knock

Emery opens the door, half naked, her girlfriend kissing on her. "Mhh...What is it, Y/N?" She asks me with her eyes closed. "Hey- Oh my- Can I get the remote?" I say to her, realizing what is going on. These two are always at it. She scurries into her room and chucks the remote at me, slamming the door shut. I walk back into the living room where Jude is sitting, scrolling on his phone. I pull the blanket off the back on the couch and go to sit down. Jude opens his arms for me to curl up in them as I throw the blanket over us.

Why would Jude choose a horror movie? I'm so scared right now. All the lights are off. We're in pure darkness, apart from a few candles lit on the coffee table. The fact that it is a cold, stormy night is not helping. I'm holding on to Jude, tight as ever. I have the blanket pulled over my nose, ready to cover my eyes at a pindrop. "AAAHH!!" I scream at a jumpscare. I hide my face in Jude's chest. He giggles and puts his hand over my head, pulling me into him. "It's okay, baby. It's gone now." He says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Finally, an end to that devilish movie. "Thank god that movie is over." I say as the credits roll. It was quite a short movie, though. "Wanna catch up on some Breaking Bad?" He asks me, munching on some popcorn. "Sure." I'm not really interested, but I am pretty sleepy anyways. (I've never watched breaking bad dont judge me)

(Smut)

Jude's POV:

Y/N looks so beautiful right now. She's half asleep. She was so adorable when she was scared. I love how she hid in my chest to 'stay safe'. I feel so safe with her. I'm glad she feels the same way. I put my hand on her chin and lift her face up. I kiss her, softly. I can't help myself around her. As I kiss her harder and harder, I can feel myself get hard. Maybe tonight is the night. I've wanted her for so long, but every time I try to escalate things, she stops me. I put my hands right above her arse. I slowly lift her on top of me. Fuck, she's grinding against me. I thought I was hard before, but now.

Y/N's POV:

How did we get here? Just a second ago, Jude and I were cuddling and now I'm grinding against him. Jude lifts me up and lays me down on the couch. He's kissing my neck. I can feel a heat building in my legs. I grab Jude's face and kiss his lips again. He takes my shirt off. It's okay, Y/N. He's seen you like this before. Just enjoy it. You know he won't push you into something you don't want to do. I can feel my heart beating a mile a minute.

Jude sits up on his knees and takes off his shirt. He's kissing down my body now. I'm wearing a comfy bra, I didn't expect this to happen. But he looks like he doesn't care. "You're so beautiful, baby." He says to me, kissing the top of my breast. He runs his fingers over the clasp of it and asks, "Can I?" I simply nod at him. He looks deep into my eyes. He makes me feel so safe, but so nervous at the same time. He unclasps my bra and takes it off my body. My arms immediately cover my chest. "Hey. Let me see you, beautiful." He says to me. I pull my arms away from my chest and expose myself to him. He immediately sucks on my nipple. He slowly massages my other breast. I quietly whimper to myself, too shy to be loud. Jude's hand trails down to my shorts. He rubs over my sweet spot. My hips, in reaction, buck up towards his hand, but I push them back down.

Jude's slowly rubbing me through my shorts, and I'm moaning into his shoulder as he's kissing my neck. I can feel his hand go up and wait at the waistband of my underwear, underneath my shorts. He's looking at me for approval, and I kiss him, giving him the signal. He goes into my underwear and barely dips into my hole, collecting some of my wetness on his finger. He's rubbing my clit in circles, and I can't help but let out a moan. "Does that feel good, baby?" He asks me. He's moving so gently. I nod, aggressively, and give a quick 'Mhh'. He continues his slight movements on my clit as he whispers sweet nothings in my ears.

Jude's POV:

I know this isn't enough for her, but what if she doesn't want more? Should I ask? Fuck it. "You want more, love?" What if I'm pushing it. She simply nods at me. What if she doesn't mean it? "Need to hear you say it, baby." I tell her. She makes me crazy. I'm so hard, but what if that's not what she wants? "Baby, I want more, but I'm scared."

Y/N's POV:

I think it's time to tell him. "I'm a virgin." Oh, no. I blew it. Why would he want to be with someone who's never done anything? I look at him for his reaction. "I want to make you feel good, but we don't have to do anything you don't want to." He tells me, kissing me lightly. "Are you sure?" I ask him. He's not supposed to like this. "I want to be your first. I love you so much. Only if you want to." He says. "I want to, Jude. I really want to. I trust you." I look into his eyes before he kisses me. He takes off his pants and gets back on top of me.

We're interrupted by the door swinging open. A very intoxicated Alex and her annoyingly sober boyfriend stumble through the door. "Y/N!! Oh my god!! We had an amazing day!!" Alex says very loudly. She's slurring her words and her boyfriend guides her through the house. Alex looks at Jude and I's position on the couch. Jude has already covered us with a blanket, but it's obvious what we were doing. "Ooohhh!!! Emery!!" Emery comes out of her room to see me and Jude. "Please, go away..." I quietly say, hiding myself in Jude's shoulder. "C'mon, let's get you to bed. Leave them alone." Her boyfriend says. He guides her to her bedroom and tells her to leave us alone. Emery peaks out of her room and says a simple 'enjoyyy' with a smirk on her face, then shuts her door.

"I'm so sorry about that." I say, embarrassedly. "It's okay, baby. Let's go to your room."Jude simply puts his hand out for me to take after wrapping me in a blanket. I take his hand and he walks me to my room. He lays me down on the bed and kisses me. He quickly removes the remaining of our clothes. "Ready?" He asks me. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins. "Please, be gentle." I tell him. He kisses me. He spits on his hand and strokes his semi hard dick. He puts in at my entrance and very slowly pushes in. My eyes roll to the back of my head. "That okay?" Jude asks me. "Yeah. It hurts a lot, but it feels good." I tell him honestly. He continues pushing inside me. My hands are clawing at the sheets.

Jude's POV:

I know this'll feel good once she gets used to it. I grab her hands and lock my fingers in with her. I want to make her feel as safe as I can. I push all the way into her and wait. I know she'll need to get used to my size. Don't mean to toot my own horn, but toot toot. "Please, move." She tells me, a sense of desperation in her voice.

Y/N's POV:

Jude's fucking me so good. I knew sex was good, but I never thought it would be this good. His head is buried into my neck as he's fucking me. "Fuck, baby. You're so fucking tight." He moans. I can feel a knot building up in my stomach. "I think I'm gonna-" He interrupts me and says, "I know, baby. Go ahead." He starts going faster and faster. When I tell him I'm coming, he moves my hands above my head and fucks me through my orgasm. He pushed into me one last time, and finishes inside me. I wouldn't want my first time to be with anyone else.

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#football x reader #footballer x reader #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x reader

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beedreamscape · 2 years ago

Text

(Laerryn's cleaning her personal resting room for the first time in ages as a means of clearing her head. Post-divorce.)

On the corner of the room, a bundle of fabric sits around the corner away from view behind the side of a bookshelf. Upon closer inspection, she knows exactly what it is and why it's there. She picks it up, straightens it, holding it up by the shoulders --- a light purple and incredibly soft button-up shirt.

A soft smile comes to her lips as she recalls with precision the night when it ended up there. She had been the one to lure him into the room, to pull out his sweater, to unbutton his shirt and then toss it across the room away from view. She had him in this very room, on this intricate and expensive Gwessar-made rug, whose edge she now caresses with the toes of her boot, observing the colorful assortment of birds weaved into it.

She remembers him putting his sweater on inside out, she remembers the kiss he gave her before rushing out with his shoelaces still untied, late for an important meeting.

(She had convinced him to stay a while longer before, she always did, until the day she convinced him to leave.)

She shakes the dust off and stares at it for a moment, feeling the texture beneath her fingertips.

She then brings the fabric towards her face, jumping over any restraint she might've fancied herself in possession of, and inhales the familiar scent with a shiver --- the odd sweetness of his sweat and the fresh and woody Marquesian parfum she helped him buy while the city went over Sumer'Irel.

For the first time in a long while, she loses track of time, unaware of how long she stands there with his shirt pressed to her lips, holding the tears at a bay, feeling her muscles tense and tingle at the longing that shakes the meaty core of her soul. To have gotten this close to another person to know their smell, to tether it to all the wonderful moments they shared, how alien, how lovely, how tragic.

She pulls it away from her face against her desire, folds it as neatly as she can and looks for Dweomer in another chamber.

"Would you be so kind as to take this to Mr Seelie, D?"

It was rare for Laerryn to send her aeormaton in tasks outside of the labyrinth, even less something this mundane, but for some reason this felt too personal to entrust any stranger.

Dweomer's eyes flicker a different colour for half a second, the only means through which she could show emotion in her metallic face. Her original function was never to care for Laerryn, but she couldn't help the care and worry towards her that bloomed over the years.

"Of course, my lady."

It's curious how Dweomer's entrance into his office doesn't startle Loquatius even as she glides in without knocking. Despite the divorce, most members of the Herald's Tome took her presence with naturality and politeness, no doors were locked for Mrs Coramar-Seelie's the Architect's aeormaton.

"Good afternoon, Mr Seelie. I come in the Architect Arcane's behest to deliver this." Dweomer's movements are fluid and delicate as she places the shirt down on his desk in front of him.

Recognition comes instantly, he doesn't remember exactly when or where he had lost it, only that her hands were all over him the last time he had worn it then realizing he didn't know it had gone weeks later.

"Where did she find it?"

"My lady was cleaning up her secondary office, I supposed she came upon it while doing so."

"Oh," he breathes out with a weight of nostalgia in his voice, recalling the occasion he last had it on.

The somewhat awkward shape it has been folded into also strikes his memory, running his fingers along the collar. "Did you fold this?"

"No. She handed it to me as such, sir."

"Oh..." He can't help a smile. "Thank you kindly, Dweomer. Would you like a coin to munch on?"

She softly chuckles. "Thanks for your consideration, Mr Seelie, but I've been well sustained in the Labyrinth."

"Very well then. Have a good rest of your day."

"Equally, sir."

Dweomer bows her head and makes her way out. In the process of watching her go, Loquatius notices several eyes looking through the glass wall of his office from their desks, curious about what could the Architect Arcane's automaton be doing here. Loquatius could almost be mad, had he not picked them out to work for him especially for that trait, their unbridled inquisitiveness.

Nevertheless, he gestures his hands up in a quick and simple glyph and the glass slowly fades darker which on the outside creates a mirror, but from the inside he can still observe them.

Finally in privacy, Loquatius takes a moment to hold up the shirt and be flooded with the memories. These days he gave more preference to his shiftweave garments, but individual standard pieces like this were the ones he used to wear at home, in her presence, times when there was barely any reason to change or hide.

Feeling resignation finally kick in, he unravels the shirt to hand it to Aria, have it washed, ironed, properly folded and placed into his inventory; then he spots it.

It would've been faint had the contrast in color not been this striking, but a smudge of red lipstick, barely the resemblance of the shape of lips sits on the inside of the shirt near the collar, an unlikely place for her to leave a mark back then.

He runs a pale finger across the border of it and red comes off on his fingertip, fresh.

It's embarrassing, the flustered mess he becomes at that. He hides his face inside the shirt for good five minutes --- picking up the faintest whiff of Issylran violet that any other person would never detect but him.

He collects himself with a deep sigh, folds it as neatly as he can and sends for Aria.

"Please, place this with... with my things."

He looks away, trying to evade her studious stare --- the more they know him, the less effective the masks become.

She wants to ask about the aeormaton, about the shirt, about his bewildered demeanour, but for somebody trained in the art of questioning, she's quite adept in keeping her mouth shut and her curiosity restrained.

She nods. "As you wish."

#loquaerryn #laerryn x loquatius #loquatius seelie #laerryn coramar seelie #dweomer #writing #flash fic #lil idea I had that wouldn't fit my long fic #i made up a place since I didn't find anything on age of arcanum marquet #a demonstration of small fun .ways how to yearn for your ex-spouse

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thegreathuxton · 1 year ago

Text

Partner in Crime

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem! Reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

Inspired by "Partner in Crime" by Madilyn Mei.

Summary: You walk right up to the head of the empty grave and point at it.

"Get in," you say.

Warnings: MAJOR SPOILERS - Follows book 5 (I've read the books lol). Friends to lovers. Angsty teens, but they find a resolution at the end. Lucy and Lockwood are JUST FRIENDS. Underage drinking. Swearing. Barnes is a huge cockblock. Fluff to angst to fluff. Insinuated height difference (Lockwood is taller than reader).

A/N: NOT BETA RED WE DIE LIKE MEN!! RAHHHH... I went a little Cuckoo Crazy for this one, guys. I'm guesstimating it's between 6k and 9k words. Who knows!

The first time you met him, you were sitting on a bench in Scotland Yard. He was still quite young. Years younger than how you knew him now. He had a bloody nose and sat alone. You had a broken arm and sat alone as well, on a bench opposite of him, all the while filling out some paperwork with your one good hand. Your penmanship was undeniably horrendous, being it was coming from your non-dominant hand.

You felt him staring at you. A little too hard, you must admit. You got through half your case report before you got fed up. You were already agitated because filling out this paperwork was taking twice as long as it should have. You'd be done and gone if it weren't for that stupid, bloody poltergeist and your stupid broken arm.

"Can I help you?" You snapped.

He wasn't slow at giving you a faint smile. Even while holding a tissue to his cherry-red nose in quite an unattractive manner, his charm hit you in waves.

"Quite the opposite, actually," he said so softly. Your wall of anger cracked like an eggshell. "I was hoping I could help you out."

You looked down, partly because you didn't want him to see the blush of frustration blossoming on your cheeks and partly because if you stared at him any longer, your angry act might just crumble all together.

"I'm fine," you muttered.

"You don't look fine..."

The silence engulfed the hall. The ringing telephones were merely echoes, and the voices of people were quiet. It was three in the morning, after all. The only people who would be up at this hour would be the dead, and kids stupid enough, like you, to make the choice to become an agent.

You go back to your chicken scratch. It's a slow and miserable process. There really is no nice way to describe how you had a safe hurl towards you at lighting speed and pin your arm against the wall, snapping it in three places, when the pen you're using is bleeding all over the page and is very well-bound determined to empty itself all over the white paper.

You sat your pen down again out of frustration. You took a deep breath.

You suddenly felt someone draw close, and the clipboard you had been using was lifted out of your lap.

"I don't quite like asking for help, either, you know," he said, picking up the pen and crossing his legs. "But we all have to learn how to do so, eventually. I'll let you off this time."

He was smiling as he read over what you had written. He had shoved a tissue up his nostril to ease the bleeding for the time without having to use his hands. Quite frankly, he looked as stupid as he was exhausted. His hair was messed up. His clean dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows, and his tie was undone, hanging limply around his neck and shoulders.

He said your name, and you snapped to attention. He was still smiling and looking at the paper.

"Beautiful name," he murmured. "Too bad it's the only thing I can read on this piece of paper."

"It's not that bad!" You scoffed, taking offense.

"I beg your pardon?" He chortled, then held out the clipboard. He pointed to what looked like a sentence. It was more of just a blob where you had pressed down on the pen too hard. "What does that say?"

You were silent.

"Can't tell, can you?" He said, his eyebrows raised and the twinkle in his eye agitating you beyond belief. "Neither can I, and I'm sure Inspector Barnes won't be able to decipher this hodgepodge, either. So, let's start over."

He takes the paper you had spent thirty minutes on off the clipboard and crumples it in his hand. There's a fresh, new page beneath it. He then turns to you, grinning.

"Anthony Lockwood, professional scribe and interpreter at your service," he feigned a salute in an attempt to make you smile. Begrudgingly, you let him have that small win. He sat up straight and pretended to push up an imaginary pair of glasses on his nose. He spoke in a hoity-toity voice, like a stuck-up therapist. "What kind of visitor did you have this evening, ma'am?"

To be completely frank, it was hard to resist smiling. He was trying to cheer you up, and, admittedly, it was working.

"Poltergeist," you muttered, hunched over and looking at the floor. He scribbled on the paper.

"And is that what hurt your arm, or is the cast and sling merely a fashion statement?"

You shot him a look. He was still smiling, and he looked at you through long eyelashes. He looked like a dopey, single-tusked walrus with the way his tissue had been so stuffed up his nostril. You looked away again. If you looked at him any longer, your smile would break free. You then felt him gently touch the cast. His fingers merely grazed it. When you looked at him again, his eyes were still on yours, as if he knew you'd look again.

"How'd it happen?" He spoke oh so softly once more.

You sighed.

"It was a situation at the bank on Baker Street. A team had gone in and done away with one visitor and called DEPRAC to come help with the rest and disposal. I show up and go in by myself. The place didn't feel right to begin with, even with the visitor eliminated by a team of agents. I started scattering salt, and all of a sudden..." When you spoke, you used your good hand to help visualize. "A safe just launched out from the wall and pinned my arm there. I was lucky it was just that, but I'm going to be stuck in this cast for a while."

Anthony nodded along and rubbed his chin.

"Are you a sensitive?" He asked and started scribbling on the page again.

You nodded. "They employed me here at Scotland Yard to go on cases and provide extra security to our adult team."

He slowly set the pen down. "I bet working here is such a drag," he said rather slowly.

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, what's the adventure in working for Scotland Yard. You must have amazing skill for them to employ you. You could be an agent, I'm sure..." He casually started to tap the pen against the clipboard. "And, you know, I've been looking for a sensitive in my agency. I'd be happy to interview you."

You scoffed and smiled. "I'm good. Thanks for the offer."

"Oh, come on," he half-whined. "What do they have here that I haven't?

"Free room and board, all on top of good pay."

He was instantly stumped.

"Ah," he swallowed, looking away and slumping back against the bench. "I see."

He wrote a little more on the paper and then cleared his throat. He set the clipboard down but still held the pen intently. He looked at your cast then up at you.

"May I?"

You thought about it for a moment. Again, you decided to let him have this small win.

He helped you gently remove your arm from the sling and rested it on his lap while he signed your cast. He had the faintest smile on his face, and his eyes were so focused on writing as neatly as he could. When he was finished, he put the pen on the clipboard. You looked down to see what he had written. It was a phone number and his name. You wanted to scoff again but held it back. Inspector Barnes had just stepped out of his office and pointed at Lockwood before eyeing you.

"He troubling you?" The Inspector asked.

"Not at all," you muttered back, putting your cast back in the sling. "He helped me finish my paperwork."

Barnes hummed, and Anthony stood.

"Take that bloody tissue out of your nose, Lockwood," Barnes muttered. Lockwood was fast to cooperate. "Follow me."

Barnes disappeared into his office again. Anthony looked back at you. His gaze was soft and his smile softer.

"Stay out of trouble and away from haunted banks, won't you?" He beamed. "I'd quite like to meet again."

"Lockwood!" Barnes barked from his office and made you both jump before you could respond.

"You better go," you murmured. "He often gets quiet cranky when four o'clock hits."

You watched his chest rise and fall with a deep breath.

"Noted," he murmured back. He gazed at you for a heartbeat longer, then turned and disappeared into Barnes's office.

You and Lockwood became good friends over the following months. You would see him on many cases and occasionally went out to lunch or breakfast with him and his associate, George Karim. He would make excuses to come to Scotland Yard to see you if he wasn't on a case. If he was on a case, or if he was pulled to the building by Barnes, he would go out of his way to find you and see you while he was there. You came over to Portland Row, his agency, more often than not. Sometimes, you'd even spend the night because you'd stay after supper for a cup of tea and get to talking into the late hours of the night. He's told you many things. He's told you about his sister. He's told you about his parents. George had even noticed that you'd become more trusted by Lockwood than he was.

What locked and sealed your bond was when he showed you the family graveyard, where his parents and sister had been buried. It was something even George knew nothing about.

An incredibly close companionship started there. When Barnes noticed, he warned you about the trouble that came with Anthony Lockwood, but you didn't listen, and that is what became your downfall.

"He throws caution into the wind at every chance," Barnes scolded you after you turned up late one evening after spending the night at Portland Row. "You'll get yourself killed."

Again, you refused to listen to his harping.

It was one winter, a year after you'd first met Lockwood, the last year you'd laid eyes on him, when cases spiked all over London. The London Underground had suddenly been infested with clusters of visitors. Many agents had already died by the time you had been brought in. You were assigned as a monitor/supervisor. The rest of Scotland Yard's supervisors were all scared shitless to go anywhere near the Tube, so they sent you instead, since you still had Talent.

Three teams from three different agencies were brought in that night. Fittes, Rotwell, and last, but not least, A.J. Lockwood and Company. That last one made you giddy and nervous all at once.

The clock had struck ten, and all the teams were gathered around in the station in little pockets of groups. Lockwood had a friendly arm wrapped around your shoulder, regaling you and George on a story. George couldn't have been less interested. He rolled his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. You, on the other hand, were enthralled. It had been days since you'd last seen him, then. Just having him close to you was a great pleasure.

It was a quarter until eleven when you all decided to start moving deeper into the underground. One of the sensitives from Fittes claimed to have heard a scream echoing. You were too enraptured in Lockwood's words, so you hadn't really been alert enough to confirm what she had heard.

All three agencies, plus one (you), moved deeper into the tunnel. Each team took their own readings but continued to come up with nothing but rubbish. Lockwood stuck right by your side with one hand on his rapier and his other hovering just above your lower back.

"I missed you," he muttered into your ear. You grinned.

"You're just saying that, so I'll tell Barnes to up your pay," you joked.

"No, really," he said. His thumb ran a tender line down your spine, distracting you from the skittering noise that your ears had just picked up that came from down the tunnel. "You'd be surprised by just how hard it is to get you off my mind after I've seen you. I still wish you'd quit this lousy job and come be with me... Us, I mean." He corrected himself and cleared his throat when George looked his way.

"You know good and well that there's no room for me in that shoddy house," you chortle and mindlessly check your thermometer. You unconsciously register the slight temperature drop, the deeper you travel into the tunnel.

"There's plenty of room!" Scoffed Lockwood. "The attic is always available. Or, you know, you could always stay with me in mine." He wiggled his eyebrows at you. You elbowed him in response.

You all walked about half a mile into the tunnel when you heard something that the others didn't and stopped. Lockwood was the first to notice. You listened for a moment longer. Those who were also sensitive to sound started picking up what you were getting as well.

"Flashlights off," Lockwood ordered for you without you having to say anything at all.

You couldn't help but cringe when overhearing another agent mutter the words "kiss ass" beneath their breath. It wasn't the time to get snippy, though. Something was coming. You could hear it, but the fact that you couldn't see it unsettled you. The long and dark tunnel before you made your hastily grasp the handle of your rapier.

It was a very faint clicking and hissing sound at first. It wasn't until it got just the faintest hint louder that you realized what it was. The air itself seemed to start shaking, and the ground trembled beneath your feet.

"Everyone get to the side!" You screamed. Lockwood pulled you to him, then pressed the two of you flush against the wall of the tunnel, and all three teams divided unevenly on either side of the tracks. Not but a few seconds later, the air screamed past you and rattled everyone's equipment. The rush of a speeding train made everyone's ears pop, and the wail of the dead came with it. There was no visual. Just a foul smell and a sharp, piercing scream. It lasted for what seemed like an eternity, then abruptly stopped. The clicking and hissing and a faint whistle of a train died away.

"Ghost train," you grumbled. "Lovely."

Lockwood was the first to open his eyes. You were next. Your heart dropped.

One by one, visitors of all kinds started to morph out of thin air. Not a single one of them were recognizably human. The reimagined corpses were singed flesh in bone. You could actually smell the burning, and it made your eyes water.

"I read that there was a crash down here in 1980," said George suddenly, loud enough for everyone to hear as you all brought out your rapiers and salt bombs. "Fittes documents say that it's been taken care of... but I guess it wasn't taken care of well enough."

The Fittes agents had no time for witty retorts. More and more visitors started forming, and their sorrowful wailing was becoming too much to bear.

"Is it even possible for sources to reappear?" Lockwood mumbled.

"No clue. That, or Fittes didn't take care of it properly in the first place," you mumbled back. "I don't see anything that could be considered a source. There's no wreckage or bones or anything. Not even a stuffed animal. They probably just scattered salt and called it good..."

You looked down. The railroad tracks were rusted over and stained from ectoplasm burns. You had a feeling your theory was correct.

"There's too many," said one of the Rotwell agents.

"You all were assigned this job for a reason. You get it done, or you don't receive pay," you said. Later, you cursed yourself for this. You had spent too much time with Lockwood and started to pick up on his reckless habits. He still stood next to you as if personal space didn't matter.

You took a step forward, much to Lockwood's chagrin. The closest visitor, a tar-black skeleton with a dangling jaw and a few wisps of charred hair clinging to the dead scalp, raised its head and reared back. Orange fire engulfed it as it screamed and drew the rest of the visitors to attention. It charged, and you readied your rapier.

A salt bomb exploded behind you and sent your flying forward before you got the chance to swing. You missed the visitor by the meekest of scrapes. You scrambled to your feet. The sleeve of your coat steamed from the slightest touch of ectoplasm. A Rotwell agent was ghost locked, standing in the middle of the tracks. The visitor was still charging, now heading towards the agent on the tracks.

"Move!" Someone screamed, trying to get the agent's attention, but it was too late. Another Rotwell agent threw a bomb but sorely missed. The panic had turned the lot completely stupid. It exploded against the wall and blinded everyone in proximity, including you.

You covered your eyes for just a second. Your ears were ringing, and your vision was blurry when you looked again. There lied the Rotwell agent, flat on their back, jaw dropped and eyes a pure, milky white. Their body twitched and spasmed, then fell still.

Someone screamed. The rest of the visitors followed and started charging. You sat there and watched the body, feeling entirely numb, until someone grabbed your hand and pulled you free from the state of shock you were in. It was Lockwood, of course. He had his rapier drawn and protected you with his life, swinging at visitors with the passion and excellence you were so used to.

Fittes agents joined him in his fight and held their magnesium flares high, but the visitors were fast to reform, and there were too many to look for a mass source.

Out of bombs, flares, and steaming with ectoplasm, you all had retreated. The visitors still screamed in their agony. Lockwood, ever the gentleman, still held your hand and held it tight. He didn't let go until you were back at the station.

Everything passed like a blur. The Ghost-Touched Rotwell agent had been left on the tracks. The team would go and retrieve the body in the morning when it was safe.

DEPRAC was called and brought in. Inspector Barnes came to you first, and it wasn't a pretty sight. He went rumbling right past everyone else, straight to you. Lockwood had been consoling you before he'd seen Barnes, and the color left his already pale face. Barnes screamed at you for your reckless abandon. The fact that a Rotwell agent had been killed only made it that much worse.

Lockwood tried to interject, but Barnes quickly had him pushed away.

"You were supposed to supervise!"

"I was! It's just that--"

"There are no excuses. You had one job, and you blew it. Now we have another dead agent, and another mountain of paperwork to fill out before this section can be cleared!" Barnes didn't want excuses. When he looked at you, you crumpled. Your self-worth lowered with every searing second.

"She was doing her job, Inspector," Lockwood came back and cut in again. He tried to get close to you, but Barnes quickly cut him off.

"You," Barnes seethed. "If it hadn't been for you, she would have been fine."

"Don't blame this on him!" You interjected. "He didn't do anything!"

"He did plenty," barked Barnes. "He's been distracting you and knocking you off course for the past few months. And I speculate that he's been doing it on purpose, too." He switched and looked to Lockwood. Lockwood had a sudden stillness about him. He was stiff and quiet, neither denying nor agreeing with Barnes's statement. Barnes's eyes narrowed.

"You've been trying to get me to fire her, haven't you, you little shit?"

Barnes using such foul was virtually unheard of to you. You wanted to get Barnes to stop, but once he was going, there was no stopping him.

"Just so you could add her to your own grubby crew, huh? Is that what you want?"

"I have to say, it's been quite tempting," Lockwood said very quietly. He still did not move. "She's quite an agent, sir. And I believe she deserves to be with us, rather than waste her time in a place like Scotland Yard."

Barnes's eyes went wide with anger and shock. Without turning to look at you, he spoke to you.

"I'm transferring you to the Liverpool sector."

"What? You can't just--"

"Yes, I can," said Barnes. His word was final. "Until you can get whatever this little twat has done to you out of your head, you will be working with the DEPRAC stationed in Liverpool. End. Of. Discussion."

You stood there, frozen. It felt like your world just shattered into a million and one pieces. Lockwood was calling your name, but it all seemed like an echo. You felt warm hands on your cheeks. Your vision came back into focus. Lockwood had his forehead pressed against yours, getting your attention so abruptly.

"He doesn't mean it. He couldn't possibly," he muttered relentlessly. You said nothing because his words weren't registering in your mind, and the tears stung your eyes.

If there was anything you had learned about Barnes over the years you worked with him, it is that he never went back on his word.

"It's over, Anthony," you muttered and squeezed your eyes shut.

"What?" He whispered, brushing back your hair. You could feel his breath fanning your face. "No, no. You can't be serious. He's not serious at all. You are NOT leaving. That's not how this is going to go. That's not right."

"You can't decide how the world works," you said. You reached up and placed your hands over his, slowly getting him to lower them. "If that were true, all this wouldn't be happening in the first place."

You opened your eyes again and wanted to do nothing but start crying. His big, brown eyes searched yours so desperately. Every time you tried to lean back, he'd chase after you and keep you right up against him.

"Don't go," he whispered.

"I don't think I have a choice."

"I need you here," he wrapped his arms around your waist. "I need you to stay with me. Stay forever."

"Lockwood, I--"

"Please..." He buried his face into your shoulder and held you tighter. "I can't lose you. I need to be around you. I swear, I'll go crazy if I can't see you."

His hands shot up to hold your face in his hands again. His thumbs gently brushed over your cheeks, and his lips seemed impossibly close to yours. Too close. You had to break free. If he got any closer, you knew you'd quit your job just to stay with him. Stay there in London. God, the longer it repeated in your head, the more irresistible it seemed to be. He was driving you crazy.

"I have to go," you whispered.

"I won't let you."

"You have to."

"I don't, and you know it."

He kept getting closer, and he spoke more breathily. His lips barely touched yours. They ghosted, then finally pushed fully against yours. His lips were soft and sweet. His kiss wasn't demanding. It was full of something you've never felt before, on top of need and desperation. You had to yank yourself away because you could feel yourself slipping. You actually had to shove him because every time you tried to peel yourself away, he would follow and keep you with him.

He stumbled, and his hands fell to his sides. His cheeks were pink, and his eyes were wide and wild. His lips still moved like a fish out of water, gasping for air. His shoulders, heavy with the burden of running an agency and the guilt brought on by past, rose and fell with heavy breaths. You just stared at him, unable to define whether he was an image of beauty or longing.

You then turned away before he could speak again and call you back like a siren. You had to cover your ears. Even as you rushed out of the station, you could hear him calling your name.

Years had passed since then. You hadn't seen Lockwood since the morning he escorted you to the train station. Even then, that was filled with silence and his longing glances. Getting on the train was the hardest part. He would have followed you up the stairs if the conductor hadn't stopped him.

For months, you exchanged letters with him until he stopped replying. It made your heart ache. You waited weeks for a reply, but it never came. You gave up on waiting after a year. Barnes also checked in with you and constantly made sure you kept busy. You wanted to thank him for it. You managed to forget all about sometimes, thanks to the shit-ton of work he had provided you.

On your spare time, you would buy copies of The Times. More often than not, you'd find Lockwood somewhere inside. Pictures of him from yet another successful case. Then, there was suddenly the mention of another girl that had joined his team. A sensitive by the name of Lucy Carlyle. True, your jealousy festered and bubbled, but you didn't let it explode. Instead, you stopped buying copies of The Times and focused on your work.

Well, that all lasted until news of the death of Penelope Fittes and the collapse of the Fittes agency altogether came into light. And Lockwood was at the center of it all.

You'd never bought a train ticket so fast.

You swept off the last traces of dirt from your clothes and pocketed your gloves, since they were dirty as well.

On the train ride, you'd read all about Lockwood's excursions. You'd read how many times he's been shot and stabbed. It made you sick to your stomach, just how much this boy had gone out of his way to get himself killed.

And now here you were, just outside of Portland Row, about to face him for the first time in years. It was obvious from each tabloid you'd read that someone needed to put him in place. If Barnes, George, or this Lucy Carlyle girl wasn't going to do it, then you would.

The first knock on the door sends an electric bolt right down your spine. There was once a time, you remember, when knocking wasn't even necessary when you came to Portland Row.

A dark skinned girl in a navy pinafore dress answers the door. You're a little taken aback, but if that shows on your face, the girl doesn't express it.

"Do you have an appointment?" The girl asked curtly.

"I need to speak with Anthony Lockwood."

"Many people want to speak with him, but with the recent collapse of the Kingdom's biggest agencies, he is kept occupied. Please, make an appointment and come back then," she moves to close the door, but a hand that isn't yours stops it. A familiar face is at once at the door, and it puts you at ease.

George replaces the girl in the door. He gives you one look, then moves to clean his glasses on his shirt. Once he fixes them back on his face, he motions for you to come inside, and you enter Portland Row in a split second.

While the girl closes the door after you've come in, you are met with an unexpected and grappling hug from George Karim himself. It sends you into a shock. You give him an awkward hug back, so unsure of what all that was for.

"Thank you for coming back," George mutters. He fixes his glasses once he pulls away from you. "I'd given up all hope of your return months ago, and I'm sorry for being so straightforward, but..." His eyes flicker from side to side. "Now that you're here, I can't help but think that Lockwood might go back to normal."

"Back to normal?" You scoff quietly. "He was always reckless, but from what I've read, he's way past that. He's suicidal!"

"He's mopey and hung up, is what he is. And I've only known him for a few months at best," the girl suddenly mutters. Her arms were folded.

"That's Holly, by the way," mutters George. "She's... our assistant. And you haven't met Lucy yet. I think you might like her. She almost got Lockwood out of his spunk, but not quite."

He shuffles around on his feet for a moment.

"He's out with Lucy right now, by the way. Got called for another interview. I don't know when they'll be back..."

You take time to look around the home. It's changed so much. What catches your eye most is the door on the landing. It is wide open. The house no longer smells of burnt toast but of fresh paint and new carpet. Everything smells new. There was no death glow beaming down the stairs. There is nothing. Just an empty room where the paint continues to dry.

"Where's Jess?" You whisper, and George joins you in looking up the stairs at the swinging door.

"He's managed to move on from some things," mumbles George. He fixes his glasses. "Just some things, though."

George then turns and goes into the kitchen. You and Holly follow. George starts the kettle and takes a seat at the kitchen, as do you and Holly.

"How's Liverpool? Last time I heard from you, you said it was quite drab," asks George, trying to make some nice conversation.

"It still is," you chortle and poke at the new thinking cloth on the table. It made you sad. Out of all the things you thought would remain the same, you didn't think the thinking cloth would be an item to go. "It's not as bad as London is, most of the time..." Your thumb rubs over an ink blob that contains Lockwood's handwriting. You stared at the same handwriting on all the letters he sent you for months, and for many more, you wished you could see more of it.

You and George continue to speak quietly. You learned more about Holly as she started warming up to you, too. George fixed your tea, making it just the way you liked it. It touches you that he remembered.

You try not to focus on the time and instead hone in on the conversation at hand. Before you knew it, it started getting late. Really late.

You glance at the clock on the stove. It reads 7:45 PM. When you look, so does George and Holly. The room falls silent.

"You could... spend the night. I know Lockwood won't mind," says George.

Suddenly, you all shift. The front door unlocks and swings open. Three voices enter the house. You all stand. First George, then Holly, then you.

"I'm fine, I told you. Don't touch me! Let me go!"

You recognize that voice all too well.

"Lucy, do you think you can get him upstairs?"

"I don't think so. He's too heavy."

"Lemme go, you bloody idiots," Lockwood grumbles. There was rumbling, and things were knocked over. A glass breaks. "Ach, bloody hell... who the fuck put that there?"

"Aaaand there he goes," one of the voices you didn't recognize sighs. George steps into the hall, and so does Holly. It was too crowded to see much.

"What happened?" Mutters George.

"He got asked a question that was a little too sensitive. Took it too hard and got something to drink because of it. A little too much to drink," says a female voice. "I asked Quill to help me get him home. He kept smacking me away every time I tried to take away the bottle of whiskey away from him."

You step into the hall, finally. Heads raise.

"Who's she?"

The heads turn. You recognize Quill Kipps, an agent who also frequented the pages of The Times. You also recognize Lucy Carlyle. You look down. Long legs in dress pants are slipping and sliding on the tile floors, trying to stand. You look away, back up at the eyes staring at you with curiosity.

"Hi," you murmur and introduce yourself. "Pleasure to meet you all."

"Who the hell..." More things rattle. Your heart races as you watch him stand. He swipes his hair back, eyes closed, and a cocky, drunk smile on his face. His eyes open slowly, and they then focus on you and stop. His smile wavers.

"Here we go," mutters George.

Your eyes burn with tears, and you stand straight as he stumbles slowly forward. He shoves Kipps and George out of the way when they try to steady him. Nothing stops him from reaching you.

Lockwood's long arms wrap around your waist, and his nose buries into the crook of your neck. You feel him breathing you in and starting to melt against you. It's all silent. He starts to shake, and you hold him to you, afraid he might fall and actually hurt himself.

"I missed you so much, my sweet girl..." He whispers. His breath is hot and shaky against your skin. You feel hot wet tears streak along your skin as he nuzzles himself deeper.

You put your hands on his shoulders and try to push him away so you can see his face. He allows only that. His brown eyes search yours. His pupils are blown, and his pink lips are slightly agape. He goes to push his forehead against yours. His lips are so close to yours again. You can smell the whiskey on his breath.

"I waited for you for so long," he whispers and leans in.

Before he can get too close, your instincts kick in.

You smack him across the face so hard his body tilts to the side. The sound echos through the hall. He stumbles again and has to put his hand on the wall to catch himself. He raises his hand to touch his stinging cheek. It's bright red, and he immediately flinches as soon as his hand comes into the slightest contact with it.

George suddenly grabs Lucy's sleeve and starts dragging her away. Kipps and Holly follow as well, a little too quickly. You and Lockwood are then alone.

"That wasn't very nice..." mutters Lockwood, pouting like a petulant baby as he puts himself back together.

"I hoped it wasn't," you mutter, wiping the tears from your face. "Maybe it'll fucking sober you up so I can finally tell you what a piece of shit you are and have the chance you'll listen to me for once."

He actually chuckles and leans his back against the wall. He rubs his cheek and looks at you, as if he still can't believe you're here. He's smiling, and the tears are still present in his eyes. You stand there, unable to look at him and rocking on your heels. You keep rubbing away the tears, then fold your arms, trying to quiet your sniffling.

"The fuck is your problem, Anthony?" You hiss again.

"Don't believe I've got one, sweet girl," he chuckles again, tilting his head and taking his hand off his smarting cheek. "But we could make one. Me aaaand you. In my beeeed."

He slowly tilts himself forward and stands up straight. He glides across the hall in one long step. You're tempted to slap him again. Instead, you just shoulder-check him and head straight to the door. You shrug on your coat and open the front door.

"I've got something to show you," you say to him and point to the road outside. "So get your sorry ass out of the house, and you better sober up a little before I smack you again and make you."

Lockwood looks at you, his lips pursed. He wipes his mouth and blows a raspberry. He looks at the ground, rubbing his shoe on the new entrance rug.

"Whatever you want, sweet girl. You know I'd die for you."

"Aha, I think I know where you're taking me!" Lockwood beams and grunts as he pulls himself up over the ledge of the small graveyard. He drops down and dusts himself off. He still has that dorky, drunk smile on his face as he looks up at you, and he puts his hands in his pockets. You have to turn away and walk deeper into the tiny cemetery, shuffling through knee-high grass and over abandoned tombstones.

"You know, if you wanted me to cry out all the booze I drank, you could have just hugged me back when we were at the house," he chortles, but once he came upon his family's graves, he stops. There is a freshly dug grave sitting right next to his sister's. The shovel is sticking up from the mound of dirt beside it. His smile drops as soon as he sees this. You see it, and as soon as he sees you see it, it pops right back up like nothing has changed.

"What is all this? Certainly not the... homecoming gift I was hoping for..." He says, breath lost and choked up. He rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat.

You walk right up to the head of the empty grave and point at it.

"Get in," you say.

"Pardon?" He stutters.

"Get," you point again, "in."

"Why?"

"Well, you've obviously had a death wish since I've left. You made England's biggest agency collapse and nearly died doing that, too. You've been shot and stabbed I don't know how many times, and it's driving me insane that you keep doing this. You keep getting hurt, and it's not by ghosts. You're getting yourself into shit that I don't know about and I'm so afraid that, one day, I'll pick up a fucking paper and your obituary is going to be the first thing I see," you tried to keep yourself from yelling. "So you wanna die so fucking bad!? Then die then! Get in the grave and see what it's like! Show me what I came all the way from fucking Liverpool to see!"

He just stares at you, almost in disbelief.

"This is a nice joke," he laughs. He raises his hands and beams. "You got me! I'm sober! I'm good!"

"I'm not joking."

You storm back around the grave to face him.

"Get in the grave, Lockwood."

He scoffs and laughs. His eyes roll and he shoves his hands in his pockets again. His tongue clicks and he leans forward, getting face to face with you.

"No."

Oh. His smile makes you want to slap him twice as hard. You purse your lips, and your jaw ticks from side to side. Upon your silence, his smile keeps growing.

"This was nice, but now it's time to go back home and get something to eat--"

You grab him by his collar and shove him toward the foot of the grave. He spins, his arms flailing wildly to try to catch his balance. He gets his footing, just as his heels teeter right at the very edge. His arms still whirl around like windmills. His look of panic transforms into flushed embarrassment. He smiles again. God, that smile.

You pick up a rock and chuck it at him. Unfortunately, that's the one thing to send him over the edge.

Your eyes go wide as he yells out and comically falls backward into the grave. You heard him land with an 'oof' and loud thud.

You run up to the edge, get on your knees, and look down. You are worried at first, but slowly feel that worry ebb away.

He is lying on his back, legs up in the air. His navy blue socks, covered in a sailboat pattern, are now covered in dirt and dust. You huff and glare at him as his legs fell to the ground. Another cloud of dust plumes at his theatrics. He coughs a little bit, trying to catch his breath after the fall. You watch him take a deep breath and huff.

"Did it hurt?" You ask.

"When I fell from heaven? Not really, but I scraped my knee pretty bad crawling my way out of hell--"

You throw another rock, and it pings right off his chest. He yelps and croons. He curls himself into a little ball, as if that will shield him from being pelted further by rocks.

"Okay! Okay, I get it. No jokes. All serious," he let's out another deep breath but remains in his protective ball formation. "Yes. It hurt quite a bit."

"Good. And you deserved it too, since your the biggest twat I've met on this side of the world."

"You've met other twats like me?" He teases.

"Sure. Never as big as you, though."

You sit there in silence for some time. There are so many questions running through your brain, but your mouth runs dry, and you don't want to ask any of them. You force yourself, though. If you were going back to Liverpool the next morning, you'd be going back with long awaited answers.

"Why did you stop writing back to me?" You ask.

He sighs. He doesn't respond. You clump up a wad of dirt in your palms and throw it at him.

"Hey, will you cut that out!?" He barks, looking up at you. You throw another wad of dirt and hit him square in the face. It knocks him back onto his back. He's spluttering and snarling at the same time.

"Are you gonna answer my God damn questions? Or am I going to have to keep throwing dirt at you? I could do either, honestly. Seeing you look this pathetic makes me feel powerful."

"Oh? Does my misery turn you on?" He mutters, wiping dirt from his cheek.

"Shut up and answer me."

He sits up and tries to shrug off the rest of the dirt on him. He clicks his tongue and leans his back against the wall of the grave.

"Barnes found out I was contacting you," he says softly. "And told me to quit."

"And you listened?" You scoff.

"Not initially, no," he says in defense. "But I had to, eventually. One day, he just showed up at our doorstep and told me if I sent one more letter, I'd be fined."

"That sounds like bullshit," you say, folding your arms. You take a seat at the edge of the grave and let your legs dangle.

"I thought so too," he laughs, "until he hand delivered me a blue slip saying I owed one hundred pounds for an obstruction of privacy between a privately employed agent, and an employed agent of federal law. I still thought it sounded like absolute rubbish and sent another, but in came just another fine. Then, I was two hundred pounds in debt. I actually just got that paid off, by the way. There was a time when I tried to send another, but George nearly lost his marbles when I attempted it. Another hundred added to our debt was the last thing he wanted. That bloody bastard wrestled the envelope from my hands. He's actually much stronger than what he lets on."

You smile. The thought of George actually initiating physical contact with Lockwood amused you. You look up at the setting sun. The sky is a beautiful salmon and orange color. You sigh.

"So when you stopped talking to me, it wasn't intentional?"

"Of course it wasn't," chortles Lockwood. "You're my favorite person in the entire world. God would smite me before I'd ever purposely give up on talking to you. And I'd been planning on sneaking away to Liverpool for a holiday, but... well, I've had quite a few pairs of eyes on me for some time now. I didn't want to bring the danger to your front door."

"Anthony, your trouble in a man-shaped package. There's always some danger lurking in your corner," you laugh and he laughs too.

The silence is more comfortable now. Less tense, now that some weight has been released.

"I really did miss you," he then whispers. You almost strain to hear him. "I tried so hard to find someone to fill the gap you left, but I... it was impossible. There's no one like you out there in this world. No one as special. No one I could love as much as I do you."

Your heart stopped.

"You love me?" You whisper.

"I'm crazy about you. Of course I love you. Ever since I met you in Scotland Yard and I signed your cast," he smiles fondly at the memory. "I know that was probably at my least attractive point then, with a bloody tissue shoved so high up my nostril, it tickled my brain, but I just knew there was something about you. And when you first called, my heart was going so fast. You can ask George about it when we get home. He'll tell you all about how I nearly collapsed at the sound of your voice."

You laugh again, and it's like the sweetest song he's ever heard. He'll do anything for that sound. He'll do anything for you, alone.

"I saved all your letters," he says. "I have your picture by my bedside. I dream about having you by my side, every single night."

"Now you're just starting to sound cheesy," you scoff and smile. He keeps smiling right back up at you. That million giga-watt smile. He had your heart in a steadfast hold, and you knew it.

"Cheesy is my middle name," Lockwood hums. He picks himself off the ground and stands up. His hair is riddled with dirt, and his white shirt is stained brown in many spots. He watches curiously as you hop down into the grave. You teeter and struggle to land on your feet, but he's there to save you, like he always is.

His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you close to him, preventing your fall. His free hand cups your cheek and brushes away a small tendril of hair.

"So now you know my story," he beams. "I get to ask a question now. So, I missed you. That much is obvious. But... did you miss me back?"

You stood there, looking at his smile, feeling the way his thumb traced your spine just how you remember and ogling him. Not too long ago, you thought you'd never see him again. You're so glad that you were wrong then.

You lean up and kiss him. He's fast to kiss back. You don't push him away this time.

He lets you breathe once you both are satisfied and breathing hard. He looks right into your eyes.

"Grant a crazy man one wish?" He murmurs, eyes sparkling and rejuvenated. This was the return of the Anthony you knew. "Stay forever. Here. With me."

"Crazy man doesn't mean reckless or suicidal man, does it?" You giggle.

"I will fight to the very last inch of my life if it means I get to come home to you again," he whispers.

"Then you've got yourself a deal."

#anthony lockwood #anthony lockwood and you #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood/reader #anthony lockwood/you #george karim #lockwood and co #lockwood netflix #lucy carlyle #i love them

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