#all the sex & violence... flint being. flint.

[devotedlystrangewizard]

black sails is still so insane like yeah! here you go! fun pirate show! heres the utter torment that is being queer in this time period. heres several episodes setting up an m - f - m love triangle before they reveal it was far FAR more complicated than that. here are lesbians. everyone fucking sucks. have fun

[wheneverfeasible]

Bloody Hands, Broken Hearts: a Mafia AU

Chapter 1

chapter wc: 4.6k || rating: M (for now) || cw: blood, violence, reference to death of a minor original character, sex trafficking, past rape/non-con, homophobic language, derogatory language towards sex workers, sexualized use of “Daddy”, mean dom!Eddie, feminized!Steve || ao3

summary: No UD. Years after being sold through a sex trafficking ring to a member of the mafia, Steve’s former master is deposed by one of the most feared men in organized crime, Don Kas the Bloody-Handed. Except, much to Steve’s surprise and horror, he knows him by another name: Eddie Munson.

~

An annoyed tsk left pale lips as the man picked at the drying blood on his thick, silver rings with his thumb from where he was leaning back against the sturdy mahogany desk. His legs were crossed before him in his repose, one bloody hand pressed against the disordered papers on the desk, uncaring that they were being marked by the deep red splattered across his palm and knuckles, already drying a dark hue not unlike the color of the desk itself.

After a tense, silent moment of the man examining his rings and nail beds, dark eyes flashed up to take in his captive audience. Quite literally. Though they were unbound where they were made to kneel on the floor, the men holding guns on either side of them and on the other side of the door let them know that escape was futile.

Steve was fucked.

The thing was, everyone knew of Kas. Kas the Bloody-Handed. That’s what people called him, at least, and looking at the glint of his silver rings smeared with the umber of dried blood, Steve could acknowledge that it was a fitting name. However, that was not his real name, and it was with mounting horror that Steve realized that that was not the name Steve knew him by.

No, to Steve, the man before him was none other than the boy Steve’s former best friend had taken the most sick delight in tormenting: Eddie Munson.

Munson looked different now, but there was no denying that it was him. He had more tattoos nowadays, including one curling up his neck to brush against his jaw and both his forearms covered in them as seen with his fancy dress shirt’s sleeves rolled up, exposing the dark ink. He also had close-cut facial hair now that was a slightly lighter color than the still long and curly dark brown hair he now had tied back into a low and loose ponytail with a piece of cord. There was a coldness to his dark eyes now too, his once more wiry frame now a little more filled out with compact muscle.

In another lifetime, Steve might have been able to acknowledge that the man was attractive, might have had another reason than fear making his mouth go dry and needing to thickly swallow. However, as it was, Steve could only flinch and duck his head further when those flint hardened eyes passed over him.

He was luckily not at the front of the group kneeling on the rug before their former master’s desk, in front of their former master’s fireplace in their former master’s bookshelf lined study. There were a little more than a half-dozen of them, all trembling with fear at the knowledge that whatever horror they had been living through before, it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Munson, or Kas, was notorious, infamous even. He had been a nobody once, until suddenly he was a Somebody with a capital S. He swiftly moved up the ranks of his clan, earning respect borne of fear for his ruthlessness, until suddenly he was sitting on the metaphorical throne. He was not happy there, however, and all too soon he was making a name for himself amongst the other families too.

All too soon the other families began falling before him like dominos, one right after the other, bending the knee or—if they refused or otherwise displeased him—being eliminated entirely.

Which was what had occurred here to Steve’s former…employer. Not that Steve or the others got paid for what they did. Or had done to them. Steve couldn’t even say that behaving well and pleasing whoever they were sent to had them being treated better, since more often than not pain was part of their client’s pleasure.

As for their master—or Daddy, as they were instructed to call him—he was the worst of the worst. The way he showed his favor was through far more than just simple pain. Pain was something Steve could handle. It was the attention that was the terrifying part. Yet, Steve bore that attention willingly, for it kept it off of all the others.

“Tell me,” the voice of their new master softly intoned, his voice like thunder in the tense silence of the room, despite being little more than a murmur. Munson’s voice was a little raspier than Steve remembered it being, but then it had been years since Steve had last seen much less heard the other man. The man had dropped out of school during his own senior year, Steve’s junior, and no one knew what had become of him. Now Steve knew, at least.

Every ear was straining to hear what their new master would say next, though every eye was trained on the ground before their master’s feet. Steve was suddenly thankful his hair was a little longer than he personally liked, grown to be easier to grab and manipulate the head to which it was attached. It also allowed him now to obscure his face ever so slightly as he swiftly lowered his head and his gaze when Munson’s eyes scanned over them.

“Tell me,” Munson said again, and even with his eyes on the man’s blood splattered shoes, Steve could tell that Munson had a sardonic smile on his lips. “Which one of you was Porzio’s favorite?”

Steve barely withheld a flinch. Of course Munson would want to know that. Unlike his former owner, Munson wasn’t an idiot. He couldn’t be to get to where he was now. An idiot would only get themselves killed. Case in point: Carmine “the Uber Dead Asshole” Porzio, gone and soon to be forgotten in the year of our father…Christ, whatever year it was nowadays.

It was hard to keep track of time when you spent the majority of it on your knees or with your face shoved into a mattress.

But Munson wanted to know Porzio’s favorite. The one who he kept with him the majority of the time, the one used for his own personal pleasure, the pleasure of his most loyal lieutenants. The one who was treated like nothing more than decoration, as though their ears suddenly stopped working just because their mouth was filled.

It was a smart move, really. An excellent way to obtain secret gossip or information that might not be in the books. The favorite was a fount of information, but also a great liability. Sometimes it was better to cut the head off a snake before it could bite. Munson obviously knew what he was doing, which should be evident by now. The only problem?

Steve had been Porzio’s favorite.

He knew what he looked like nowadays. He hardly looked like the King Steve he had once been before everything, hardly looked like the rich and privileged jock Munson would have known him as. His own muscle mass was no longer what it had once been, the loss of weight only natural after everything he’d been through, and bruises littered his body where he’d either been punished or been used for pleasure. Sometimes those were interchangeable.

Not only that, but his clothing was far from what Munson would have last seen him in. No polos, no jeans, no letterman jacket. Instead, Steve wore what the others wore, his body hair waxed away in an attempt to add to his feminization. Aided, of course, by the short black skirt that exposed the majority of his thighs through the fishnets, and the red lace bustier top that only just covered nipples but left his midriff exposed. Matching red strappy heels laced up his calves, with a thick black collar completing the ensemble around his neck, a dainty little silver ‘V’ dangling from it like a license.

It was entirely possible that Munson wouldn’t recognize him. After all, they both might have made a name for themselves in school, but Munson hadn’t been there for the disaster of Steve’s senior year, and it wasn’t like they had ever directly interacted before. Tommy always did the majority of his bullying when Steve wasn’t around, knowing Steve didn’t approve of it, so it wasn’t like Munson and him had spent any great amount of time together.

It helped that the makeup he wore was smudged too, which would hopefully act as a camouflage. Perhaps, if he answered things in a way that pleased Munson, if Munson could look past the fact that he was a guy in this role he’d been forced into, perhaps he’d live to see another day.

His lip was already split and his cheek already bruised by Porzio’s earlier slap, so he wasn’t looking forward to having the rest of his face caved in by Kas the Bloody-Handed.

Swallowing back his nausea, Steve drew in a breath and began to lift his head to call attention to himself and away from the others, when another voice stopped him in his tracks.

“I am, sir,” Janice called out, standing from her kneeling position at the front of the huddle. Steve’s head jerked to look at her with wide eyes and an open mouth. Her fingers twitched at her side, swiping horizontal to the floor ever so slightly, though she didn’t look at him. Stay quiet, that action said. Stay safe.

Steve’s stomach clenched painfully, and all the affection he felt for his girls surged through his bloodstream. He had tried, hard as he could, to protect them from the worst of things. He couldn’t do much, but he had made certain Porzio was focused entirely on him and none of the others. They worked as well, but Porzio was the most sadistic, the most vile; he would happily take it all on to save his girls from that.

To think that now, in the face of one of the most feared men in organized crime, they would try to protect him…it was beyond anything he’d ever known. No one had ever sought to protect him before.

Munson’s brow ticked up, his gaze sliding like oil over Janice’s trembling body, but she held firm with her head up. His sardonic smile only grew. “Are you now?”

He appreciated her help, he did, but he couldn’t let Janice risk everything for him. Before he could stand, before he could come clean with the truth, a firm hand was pressing down on his shoulder as Mona stood up from behind him, forcing him to stay kneeling.

“I was also a favorite, sir,” Mona says, making Steve wonder what in the I-am-Spartacus hell was going on. Still, warmth and fondness for his girls spread through him quickly as he looked around and noticed every last one of them had bunched muscles indicating preparation for movement. For him.

Munson looked a whole lot less amused, however, his brow dropping into a deep furrow as his gaze settled on the new apparent favorite. Kas was well-known for not taking fondly to liars and cheats. If he suspected that they were trying to pull a fast one on him…

Just as Munson was opening his mouth to say something, looking far less than pleased, Steve hurriedly shot to his feet. “It’s me,” he said quickly, almost breathlessly, wanting to say it before someone else decided to shout out Spartacus in a misguided attempt to help him. He moved to take a step forward and away from the others when he froze in place by the sound of a gun being cocked and levelled behind him.

Another tense hush fell as Munson stared at him, his eyes dragging over Steve’s form with both brows raised this time, an almost startled air to his mean smile. He waited a few moments more before flicking his wrist, the sound of the gun and man holding it returning to standby mode. Two fingers were then crooked at Steve to indicate for him to finish stepping forward.

Steve glanced at Janice and Mona, giving their beseeching looks a small shake of his head, and then they were slowly and reluctantly returning to their kneeled positions. Taking a deep breath, Steve crossed the distance and moved to take his place in front of Munson, kneeling at his feet without hesitation. “It was me, sir,” he murmured, keeping his gaze down. “I was Master Porzio’s favorite.”

It took all of his willpower (and training) not to flinch when Munson’s chunky rings came into view, his calloused fingers touching Steve’s chin to lift his face to meet his gaze. Steve couldn’t suppress the tremble at finally meeting Munson’s eyes for the first time, terrified of seeing recognition there.

Instead, Munson’s eyes stayed hard and flat, though with a touch of curiosity. A small smirk curled his lips. “Well now. Who would have guessed Porzio was a fudge packer,” he lightly sneered. His gaze moved over to the kneeling women before back to Steve. “And this is why they lied to me, to protect the fairy amongst them?” He snorted. “Who knew there was honor amongst whores.”

Munson’s thumb slid lightly against the edge of Steve’s bottom lip, and well familiar with the gesture, Steve parted his lips obediently. Something dark but pleased flashed behind Munson’s eyes, and praying he was doing the right thing, Steve let the tip of his tongue flick ever so softly against the pad of Munson’s thumb.

Almost immediately after, Munson pressed the rest of his thumb into Steve’s mouth, pressing down on Steve’s tongue enough to make him briefly gag. “Suck,” he ordered harshly, and Steve obeyed.

The familiar taste of sweat and blood filled his mouth as Steve’s lips wrapped around Munson, but he paid it no mind as he worked at fellating the man’s thumb. He kept eye contact the entire time, his hands curled in his lap, as he worked his mouth over the digit. He swirled his tongue over the thumb like it was a cock head, bobbing his head ever so slightly. Munson’s dark eyes watched him the entire time.

Just as Steve was beginning to wonder if he should start faking some moans, Munson pulled his thumb from Steve’s mouth with a slick wet sound, leaving a small trail of spit over Steve’s lips. Munson lightly snorted, lifting his gaze to look at his men. With silent communication, the men nodded and motioned for the kneeling women to stand, ushering them out of the room.

Steve could feel the eyes on him, knew his girls were looking at him, but he knew better than to return the look. Instead, he kept his eyes firmly on Munson who now leaned back against the deck with his arms crossed watching Steve.

Once the thick doors clicked closed behind the others, leaving Steve and Munson alone, a wry grin curled over Munson’s lips. “I can see why you were the favorite, if you suck cock half as good as you suck thumb.” Munson shrugged, pushing off the desk with a small snort to walk around it, settling in the leather chair behind the massive thing. He reached forward and tapped the desk beside him.

Once more obeying wordlessly, Steve swiftly stood and moved around the desk, settling his ass just to the side of where Munson sat as had been indicated. A derisive laugh left Munson then, but he didn’t look like he was about to punish Steve for being what he was. Or who he was. Instead, he looked mildly contemplative as he rested his elbow on the armrest of his chair, propping his chin up with his fist.

“Tell me, sweetheart, you got a name?”

Relief coursed through Steve so quickly he lost his breath for a moment, as though lightning had struck him down. Munson didn’t know his name, meaning he didn’t recognize Steve. Even better, Steve hadn’t gone by Steve in a while. He needn’t worry about someone slipping up and revealing that information when none of them knew it either.

“I’m Vee,” he answered, fingers moving up to lightly graze against the charm hanging from his collar. “But you can call me anything you want…” Steve swallowed quickly, glancing down before peeking up demurely through his lashes, “Daddy,” he finished on a soft breath.

A grin spread across Munson’s lips, and though it wasn’t quite as manic as the ones he used to smile back in high school, a spark of something like genuine amusement flashed behind his eyes. He leaned forward then, sliding his hand over Steve’s fishnet covered thigh until his fingers brushed ever so slightly under the bottom hem of his tight skirt.

“I’ll keep that in mind, precious,” he smirked. “And maybe you can keep your status as favorite, if you’re a good little boy.” His eyes traveled once more over Steve’s body, his smirk growing. “Though I bet there’s nothing small about you, Vee.”

Steve swallowed, feeling oddly flushed at being on the receiving end of Munson’s gaze. Of Kas’s gaze. He had to remind himself that this was more than just his former schoolmate; this man was perhaps one of the most dangerous men alive. His vast network spread far and wide, spies hiding everywhere.

“I’ll be good for you, Daddy. Promise,” he said softly.

“Oh, I’m sure you will, precious. I don’t tolerate failure.”

What was expected of him now? Should he slide into Munson’s lap? Move underneath the desk? Bend over the top? Wouldn’t be the first time he was in any of those positions in this very room. Munson simply continued watching him, however, indicating nothing.

Just when Steve was ready to beg for an order, Munson sighed and removed his hand from Steve’s thigh, settling back further into the expensive rolling leather chair, pressing his fingertips together into a steeple before him.

“We will be remaining here for several days as we go over Porzio’s records,” Munson stated, startling Steve slightly. He was unused to being addressed about any affairs other than what happened in the bedroom. Or anywhere else his master wanted him. Having Munson tell him what was going to happen now was thus unprecedented.

“You and the other whores will have your room guarded at all times and you will require, let’s say, a chaperone of sorts to move around the manor, at least until I can trust you,” Munson said with another small smirk. “Once I am satisfied with my acquisition of the estate, we will be moving to my main residence. Should you and the others please me during this transition, we can negotiate a reward for behaving so well. Do you understand?”

Though Steve’s insides always pinched at being called a whore, seeing as how neither he nor the others ever chose that particular career path, he had enough practice now to ignore such things. It wasn’t like someone of Kas’s reputation would care overly much about their sob stories. No, Steve gave such things only a passing thought, his mind caught on the end of his new master’s sentence.

“A reward?” he couldn’t help but ask, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Luckily for him, Munson did not seem to be particularly annoyed at his wagging tongue.

“The exact circumstance of which will depend entirely on you,” Munson agreed. “Consider it a quid pro quo situation. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours. I can guarantee that this is a far better deal than you had with Porzio. However,” he cautioned, holding up a single finger. “Any failure to comply or please me will make whatever Porzio did to you seem like a shy lover’s kiss.”

Steve swallowed down a grimace. That he understood perfectly well.

“I will also have a doctor visit to ascertain your health,” Munson added with a small shrug, clasping his hands before himself. “I have no use for spoiled goods.”

“Master Por—”

A loud smack of hand meeting wood startled Steve greatly enough that a small noise left him as he jumped, leaning away with wide eyes. Munson stared hard at him, leaning in with a small growl of warning.

“Porzio is not your master now, Miss Vee,” the man sneered mockingly. “You will no longer refer to him as such. You may call him either ‘Porzio’ or ‘that pig’ and nothing else, do I make myself clear?”

Steve swallowed, hastily nodding his head. “Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry, Daddy,” he rushed to say, dropping his gaze and trying not to tremble too greatly. His—Porzio was never consistent. Whether he liked you timid or not could change at the drop of a hat, moving from one extreme to the other at a moment’s notice. He didn’t know if Munson would appreciate a fearful display, or become annoyed with it. Only time would tell.

“I-I merely wished to assure you that we receive regular checkups to ensure our optimum health,” he murmured quietly. “But we will gladly submit to any examination or procedure you wish of us.”

Munson sat back in the chair as he studied Steve with an unreadable expression now. He glanced down at his still bloodied hand and the rings there. He gave a small snort, moving to slowly and carefully pull the stained items off his fingers and settling them in a small pile on the messy desk.

“Clean those,” he ordered. “And then bring them to my room tonight.” He smirked then, his eyes sliding over Steve’s figure once more. “We have much to…discuss,” he murmured, his brows raising slightly. “And Vee,” he added when Steve nodded and moved to stand up, causing Steve to pause.

Munson’s smirk seemed colder then, causing Steve to shiver as though physically chilled. “While I appreciate your immediate acceptance in the change of leadership around here, know that how quickly you switched your loyalties has not been unnoticed. Should you ever attempt to switch them again…you will not find the outcome favorable. Do I make myself clear?”

Dread settled low in Steve’s belly as he stared at Munson with wide eyes. He was standing on the edge of a precipice he hadn’t known existed until too late. He should have realized things would not be as easy as he had hoped they would be, should not have grown complacent when Munson didn’t recognize him.

Licking his lips, Steve swallowed back the threatening rise of bile. He dropped his head, chewing lightly on his bottom lip before glancing at Munson through his lashes once more. “I had no genuine loyalty to…to that pig, Daddy,” he murmured. “He was not a respectable man. Unlike you, sir.”

Had it been Porzio, he would have attempted a coy smile. He had a feeling Munson would be able to see right through it, however, so he instead tried to look as earnest as possible without actively begging. He slowly slid off the desk, catching Munson’s eyes.

“We know who you are, Daddy. None of us would ever dare to oppose you. I know the loyalty of a whore means nothing, Don Kas, but I was the favorite. The other girls will follow my example, and I pledge my loyalty wholly unto you.”

Munson snorted, looking for all the world like Steve amused him. Like Steve was some insignificant insect with delusions of grandeur. The man rubbed at his facial hair with a wry smile that did not meet his eyes. “And what of your body, darling? What if I told you that your dear Mr. Porzio and I shared…similar predilections.”

Steve squared his shoulders, a more genuine smile on his own lips because he had already been expecting this, had known his career on his knees was far from over. One hand on the desk as he leaned over to grasp the waiting rings and the other on his hip, he offered a small shrug of a shoulder.

“My body already belonged to you the second Porzio thought to move against you,” he replied easily. “He was not my dear anything. Not when I was already yours, Master.”

Munson studied him for a moment, but something almost pleased curled at the corners of his lips. “I think I much prefer you calling me ‘Daddy,’” he replied, reaching out to grasp Steve’s chin again for the briefest moment. He withdrew almost immediately. “Go now. And wash your face of that makeup while you’re at it. Make yourself presentable for me tonight.”

It was as he expected. He could not be bitter or regretful when he’d known this was coming all along. It was, after all, much better than his own blood staining the rings he now held in his palm.

“Yes, Daddy. Should I prepare myself for you?” he asked easily as he straightened. He would play his own part well. He was used to this role he’d been thrust into ever since he put his trust in the wrong person. He had seen it enough with his own parents, making him wish that little high school Steve Harrington had known what he knew now:

Love is just a fairytale.

Standing from the chair, Munson let out a soft huff of laughter, amused by Steve’s words. “You really do have your lines down, don’t you?” he scoffed as though reading Steve’s mind. “No matter. We’ll see how well you play your part tonight,” he said in a tone that was almost teasing, his hand moving to settle over Steve’s lower back to guide him around the desk and towards the carved double doors.

He paused then with a hand on the doorknob, eyes almost black as he grinned a shark’s grin, and let his voice drop to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Trust me when I say that nothing you could do would prepare you for what I have planned tonight, sweetheart.”

Munson opened the door then, ushering Steve out with a slap to his ass, though the soldiers guarding the door didn’t react at all. However, Steve could not spare them even a passing thought as his blood turned to ice in his veins when Munson’s grin grew, uttering the words that sealed Steve’s doom.

“See you tonight, Harrington.”

As the door clicked closed, as his prison guard stepped forward to take him by the bicep to drag him away back to his gilded cage with the others, Steve felt that blade of ice pierce his chest with extreme certainty.

There was no escape for him. His fate had been sealed the day he had defied his parents, had fled town with the boy he had thought loved him, and he had only brought it all upon himself. Munson was going to kill him. Maybe not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but one day. Perhaps even one day soon.

Thrust into the room he shared with the others, he felt the door close and lock behind him, heard the worried voices and careful touches of his girls as they frantically tried to make certain he was all right, but it was like hearing them underwater, like he was wading upstream through a deadly current. He was shaking, he realized, fat tears sliding down his cheeks.

Only belatedly did he realize his hand was hurting where he had curled his fist around the chunky rings. With an almost detached curiosity he glanced down as he released his clenched fist and stared at the rings he may very well be cleaning in preparation for his own blood and skull and brains to stain their surface.

Absently, he reached out with his free hand to pluck a strand of hair caught in the snarled teeth of a silver monster. There was a clump of bloody scalp still attached to the end of the follicle.

Steve laughed.

~

Next chapter…

~

This scene comes from an idea that would not leave me alone until I wrote it down. I don’t know if I’ll ever continue it as it is quite different from my usual stuff, but I do have some ideas for possible continuation and further backstory for our two leading men

Yeah nvm I’m gonna continue this, it won’t leave my thoughts

~

Fun fact: I almost named the second OFC Monica but then I realized that with the first one being named Janice that I was unintentionally writing it as a Friends crossover and I had to change her name before I named the next one Phoebe or something 😂 oops my bad

Also, Porzio means “hog”, while Carmine means “vivid red” lol

~

Hostage hotties: @derythcorvinus @katyawriteswhump

[broken-clover]

SolAxl Week(ish)- Day 7

Okay I am learning a lesson about doing these week-type challenges. They are fun! But I feel bad for the organizers for having to put up with my shitty pace. Promise I never mean to, it just...sorta happens...

Free Day time! I like open-ended options, fun to stretch the creative legs. I decided to whip out something I haven't really used before, the pantheon/god AU. I sorta used it for another prompt fill a while back, and in general the au is sorta unfinished and half-baked, it's fun trying to assign domains to characters and forming a little ramshackle structure of deities. For what unfinished and undecided stuff I have, I am very attached to Axl being a death god, as a jovial reaper who does his best to make the passage comfortable, and Sol being the god of war (among other things), so their work often overlaps and they spend a lot of time around one another.

Content warnings for discussions of death and one (1) sex mention

-

Historically, during the American Civil War, particularly during the 1861 Battle of Bull Run, onlookers set up picnics overlooking the battlefield. At first, civilians had assumed the ‘war’ would be a short one, a casual affair, easily dealt with. They thought so little of it that they chose to treat it as a spectacle, an amusement. Families brought their baskets and blankets to watch death unfold in front of their eyes.

Now, over 200 years ago, a duo was re-enacting that twisted tradition. A pair of men sat on the grass as they overlooked a field. Below, little had changed in the decades passed. Two factions throwing themselves at one another, swords and guns ablaze, frothing at the mouth to draw blood. In their frantic violence, bodies, dirt, and munitions were thrown every which way, even up the hillside. A few bits of debris came close to the onlookers, but neither paid it much mind. They didn’t even bother moving their feet. It was easier not to care when they had no fear of dying.

“They’re still on it down there?” Asked one to the other. Of the two, he would most easily pass for a normal man. His attire was simple, casual, the sort you’d see on some random pedestrian you passed along the sidewalk. His eyes shimmered like galaxies, and a handheld sickle dangled from a chain on his belt, but unless someone was looking for them, those oddities went unnoticed by most.

“Of course. Practically what humans do best.” His companion, in contrast, was more readily odd. As he opened his mouth to speak, smoke poured freely from a glowing throat. His taloned feet made him stand taller than any mortal man, instilling unease even in some of his fellow deathless. His stature and presence commanded attention. His slitted eyes commanded submission.

Despite it, the being at his side regarded him with the offbeat calm of an old drinking companion. “Does it make you happy?” He asked, folding his arms behind his head.

“What makes you ask?”

“I mean, this is your domain, after all.” He shrugged.

The smoke-spitting oddity shook his head, an air of solemnity in his stance. “Doesn’t mean I gotta like it. More deaths mean more work for all of us. You should know by now how much I hate workin’ hard.”

“Mmm. Maybe not all of us. Milly’s been starved for work lately, y’know. Not much merciful death to be had ‘round here. And sure as hell no beauty or solace, neither.” The other replied.

As they conversed, neither faction noticed the two’s presence. Even if they weren’t embroiled in life-or-death conflict, the strangers’ existence would go entirely unacknowledged.

“Maybe we can whip up one of those virgin orgies? I know she ain’t as freaky as she used to be back in the day, but…”

“Tch.” The dragon-man scoffed, sparks flying from his lips like struck flint. “She’ll be pissed if you say that. ‘N then if we did, we’d gotta be sure Johnny won’t show up and screw everything up again."

“Or screw everything again.”

“Yeah. Exactly. He doesn’t need any damn encouragement.”

A mortal shell was lobbed across the field, exploding in a burning ball. Several bodies, some alive and others already gone, flew back under the force. It served as a brief punctuation for the fight, as both parties quickly fell back into gunfire.

”You glad about it? You’re always talkin’ about those reunion ragers.”

“Mmm.” The cosmos in the man’s eyes were dull. “Y’think I don’t know how much humans hate it? I’ve seen it firsthand for millennia. I just try ‘n make it as fun as I can. ‘m not content to be miserable. It’s good when I lose. They all come to me eventually, I’m fine with them takin’ their time.”

“...I doubt they’re going to ‘take their time’ down there.”

He sighed. “Nah. Always in a rush to die, humans. Never made any sense to me. Might sound strange comin’ from me of all people, but…”

“Eh. God of War thinks most wars are idiotic, you can do the same about your own job. We do a lotta work for those flimsy little flesh bags, don’t mean we gotta forget who’s the omnipotent ones here.”

“Fair enough, chief! Fair enough.” Smiling death stretched his arms to the sky. He clicked his tongue, the way a spirit he’d reaped four centuries ago taught him. “Prolly should get to work soon. Gonna sit and watch?”

“I’ll come.”

“Huh? Y’ sure?”

“Beats sitting and waiting.” The joints of his talons cracked as they bent. “Besides. War and death walk hand-in-hand, I heard someone say.”

His companion snickered. “I’ve heard someone say something like ‘they sleep in the same bed.’ Depends on the night though, eh?”

“Don’t push it.” His fellow god elbowed him in the ribs.

He took the weapon from his belt and twirled it. “Hopefully they come easy. Try not to scare ‘em too much, okay, chief?”

“Fine, as long as you can get them all before dinner.”

“Deal. Say, what’s Jam making tonight, anyway?”

“Oh, everything, same as always. Some of Dizzy’s temples out west left some good offerings for the harvest she gave them. Those’ll probably get served, too.”

The light came back to his glittering eyes. “Mortals might do some dumb stuff, but they know how to make damn good food.”

[dhr-ao3]

Fixing What's Broken

Fixing What's Broken https://ift.tt/Y36sLKq by RoseGlasses123 Hermione's dad had lost too much money bidding on quidditch, his daughter being a witch allowed him access to all the games and tournaments. He owed money to the wrong dark wizards and let Hermione pay for it. Taken on her birthday two years after graduating from Hogwarts, Hermione is now a sex slave at a club deep in the dark wizard underground with no way out. She endured horrific tortures and assaults for months, and concluded she would end up dying at the hands of one of her 'clients'. That was until Draco Malfoy shows up one night and she takes a chance on him she never would have years ago. That chances ends with her getting to leave the sex club and land in Draco's house in Muggle London. After two years of being off everyone radar, Draco seems to want nothing more than to stay away from the wizarding world and make her stay with him until she is recovered. However, she is not the only one that seems to need assistance in recovery. **Triggers*** Rape, Assault, Unwilling Sex Salve, Physical Abuse, Nightmare Trauma Words: 5579, Chapters: 2/2, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Categories: F/M Characters: Draco Malfoy, Crookshanks (Harry Potter), Astoria Greengrass, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Ginny Weasley, George Weasley, Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood, Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini, Astoria Greengrass/Theodore Nott, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley Additional Tags: Hermione overcoming Trama, Possessive Draco, Draco discovers popcorn, draco living as muggle, draco and hermione are roommates, Fluffy Draco at home, touch her and die draco, Kidnapped Hermione Granger, POV Hermione Granger, Astoria becomes best friend, Pansy is a bitch, Crookshanks is a Little Shit (Harry Potter), Slow Burn, Hermione Granger is Not Okay, Hermione Granger sex slave, Protective George Weasley, Ron Weasley Bashing, Ron weasley stalker, Slytherin found family, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, graphic nightmares, Rape/Non-con Elements, Marcus Flint Being an Asshole, Marcus Flint Bashing, Graphic Assault Nightmares via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/aoYwVgR August 14, 2024 at 07:25AM

[iztopher]

if you're still doing the writing wrapped: 4, 6, 10, 16, 27!!

yess!!

4. Favorite paragraph you wrote this year?

Graduation was heartening. The tattooing process, while painful, hurt less than her freshly-healed lightning strike from Nanghaithya. She looked at herself in the mirror: sword inked along her sternum, sheet music curling around her calves, and reminded herself they meant she had proven herself a hero. She found she had some faith in Rhen Darzon, Sword Singer, to save the world.

from with rhyme and reason!

6. Favorite sentence you wrote this year?

It was the blade Rhen wielded - she couldn't herself think of the Sword of Shadows as her sword, not when she would be returning it so soon and hopefully never have to hold it again - that sliced down Ahriman's chest and sucked in his horrible, shrieking soul.

also from with rhyme and reason! I like this sentence a lot because it turns out I enjoy writing violence LMAO

10. How did you help other writers this year? (i.e. leaving comments, reviews, borrowing books, beta reading, etc)

I beta'ed for a handful of people this year, which was really fun, and I tried to make a point to get back into the swing of leaving comments. still have some to leave, though...

16. Who was your favorite character to write?

it's always a 50/50 shot for me. this year, Galahad wins.

27. Which books, movies, etc, helped instruct your storytelling this year?

saying "I'm not sure" is such a copout answer but truly I am not sure. I enjoyed a LOT of new media this year but most of it is very different from the stories I've been telling, so while I'm sure it subconsciously influenced me all the same it was kind of all just soup to me and I can't separate it out.

I played Zero Escape ages ago, but I think the most interesting is that ZE definitely inspired part of with rhyme and reason. The idea of different timelines was very present in my mind writing that fic, and my thoughts on that in media are very heavily influenced by ZE. also watched russian doll this year so that was probably also knocking around in there

I started Black Sails last year, and I do think watching it & finishing it this year was a big part of my interest in writing more characters making decisions I actively disagree with. I watched this part last year, but as specific as it is I rewatched the one incredibly :( Flint & Miranda sex scene before writing YTSLTLM lmao. there was an emotional discomfort there that really spoke to me I guess

overall the type of media I like engaging with is leaning darker/unsettling/weird and unexplained - horror, drama, stuff about death, time loops & other time shenanigans, mysteries - but the type of writing I like MAKING is staying solidly in goofy high fantasy land and Aveyond fanfiction, so I'm not 100% sure how those are gonna end up being reconciled. I want to make a point in 2023 to keep engaging w/ stuff that's more of My Vibe as a creator, which to be fair I did this year, but mostly by replaying Aveyond and rewatching Galavant LOL and not by experiencing anything new.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; Sexual situations; allusions to r*pe; mental health struggles

A/N: I edited the chapter to remove the original content. My brain can't handle the drama that came with writing something so dark.

You were toying with your newly acquired crossbow when you heard him groan. Your new plaything. You had claimed him. He and his weapon were yours, and sharing was not an option with this one. You’d hate to see those horny bastards tear him to pieces just to get their rocks off. You’d seen that too many times before. 

It was the first time you’d actually laid a claim on a person. Sure, the boys would share but only because they wanted you to scissor with some chick or had a penchant for watching you peg some poor soul with new found sex toys. It hadn’t been all bad, but none of it had been yours. None of it wanted. Unbeknownst to your fellow group members, you were in it for survival. Regardless, Joe decreed that unless you specifically asked for someone else’s assistance, you and your boy toy would be left alone, the threat of being taught left unsaid. 

Your hands stilled on the stock, narrowed eyes watching the man across from you curiously. No one else would have heard the noise. While Joe made sure you were close enough to be able to see your fire burning, to be able to hear you call for them, he allowed you to be far enough away to maintain privacy. Most nights, you slept among the group. The old man had taken you under his wing all those months ago. The boys knew better than to touch you. You were the one thing that was always off limits. 

But as long as you had—what was his name? Daryl. As long as you had Daryl, they would grant you time alone to do with the man as you wished. 

And oh, did you have a lot of wishes. 

His head rolled back and forth against the tree in slow and jerky movements. He wasn’t quite yet in the waking world. Maybe he just needed a little—motivation. 

You placed the crossbow beside your leg, far away from the man—just in case. Taking out your zippo, you flicked the lid and struck the flint, igniting the flame in one swift movement. The paper of your cigarette sizzled as it caught and you flicked your wrist downward to close the lighter and place it back in your pocket. 

“Ugh.” You had nearly finished your smoke and he had stopped moving. It was taking entirely too long. 

You pushed to your feet, quietly advancing. With a long draw filling your lungs, you crouched next to him and turned your head to exhale the smoke in a dense billowing cloud while flicking your cigarette into the fire. 

You leaned in close—but not too close. You weren’t stupid enough to think he wouldn’t slam his forehead into your nose the first chance he got. 

A wicked smile that showed all your teeth made you look damn near psychotic. Maybe you were. The apocalypse alone provided enough justification. 

“Oh god—they’re gonna kill me!” You whisper-yelled, grabbing his rather impressive bicep to jostle him. “Please wake up! You gotta help me! Please!” The moment he jerked awake, you tilted your head. Watching bleary yet wild eyes search for the damsel in distress was beyond entertaining, but nothing would thrill you more than when you saw recognition seep into his crystal clear blue orbs. “Have a nice nap?”

He remained silent, jaw tight and nostrils flaring. Oh, he was mad. His arm muscles tensed, only gathering a single sliver of your attention. He was testing his bonds, the ropes around his wrists. There wasn’t much he could do to test the one around his neck that secured him to the tree trunk besides strangle himself. 

“I know how to tie a mean knot, pretty boy.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “You aren’t going anywhere unless I say so.” You pushed on your knees to stand straight only to crouch over his thighs. His head barely made it a half inch from the tree before your palm slammed into his forehead and your handgun pressed into his chin. The hiss he offered was delectable. “Ah ah ah.” You tutted, shaking your head. “You’re a guest. Wouldn’t be to your benefit to break the host’s nose, now would it?”

He was trembling and you would bet your quickly dampening panties that it wasn’t out of fear. You released his forehead but kept your gun pressed uncomfortably hard into his chin. Dropping your knees forward, you straddled him, his bound hands trapped between his crotch and the apex of your thighs. 

Tilting your head one way and then the other, you smiled, your tongue darting out to wet your lips while you let the fingers of your free hand dance along his jaw. “You’re pretty, Daryl.” He recoiled as much as he could, his lip curled. “Come on, baby. Let me hear that voice.”

His lips parted, maybe to speak, but then closed again. Oh, he was a stubborn one. You would need to work hard to break him down, but it was the end of the world. You had nothing but time. 

“Maybe I’ll let you eat when you decide to be a gentleman and talk to me. Even take a piss.” You shrugged, patting his cheek harder than necessary while pushing to your feet. Walking back toward the fire with an intentional sway in your hips, you sat back down on your blanket and drew your knees to your chest. 

Rape wasn’t your thing. With the men you kept as company, it was something you saw often, took part in only because it was what the group did. If you didn’t participate, were you really one of the gang? Being a Claimer had kept you safe. The end of the world brought out the worst in people, yourself included. Sure, you’d tease, but you’d only fuck Daryl if he broke and begged you for it. 

Right?

You felt the switch flip in your brain, shining a light down into a closed off room in your mind where a woman stood, bound and gagged. You knew who she was and why she was silently pleading to be set free. You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. 

This isn’t who you are. 

“Shut up.” You mumbled, pressing your forehead into your knees, tangling your fingers in your hair. 

You’re not him.

“I said shut up!” Your palms slammed down into the leaves, back straightening and eyes clenched shut. Your chest was heaving, a single stray tear dripping from your jaw. When you opened your eyes, the voice was silent. “Christ.” You sniffed and ran your fingers through your hair, glancing at Daryl once and then again. He was watching you with intense curiosity, those piercing eyes narrowed. “The fuck’re you looking at?” You barked. When he didn’t look away, didn’t speak, you grabbed a handful of leaves and dirt and threw it at him. 

Satisfied when he turned his head to avoid the mess hitting his face, you looked back to the fire. He was likely staring again. You could almost feel his gaze, but if you didn’t look, it wasn’t real anyway. Right?

“Go to sleep.” You said—a quiet demand. Grabbing your flashlight, you checked the perimeter lines and then placed it back inside your bag. Your sleeping bag felt more uncomfortable than usual, a soft prison in which you willingly wrapped yourself. Heaving a sigh, you forced your eyes closed and let sleep take you. 

Daryl was still watching. 

Morning came all too soon. Your nightmares had once again made sleep an elusive creature, your mind startling you awake after what felt like only minutes at a time. Dragging yourself out of the bag, you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and shuffled over to Daryl, kicking the bottom of his boot none too gently. “Wake up.” His eyes peeled open, so clear that you wondered if he was even really sleeping. “One warning.” You muttered tiredly. “Don’t try to run.”

Your feet dragged and carried you around the tree, the knot difficult but not impossible for you to untie. The rope fell, and you pulled your gun from your waistband, unsurprised when he leapt to his feet and bolted. With little effort in aiming, you fired, the bullet hitting him in the left calf and sending him skidding across the ground.

“Told you not to run.” You heaved a sigh and lowered the weapon to your side, trudging over to where he lay, grunting and hissing. “Now I get to pluck out a bullet and patch you up.”  

When your hand wrapped around his bicep, he jerked away, using his fists—still bound—to push himself himself up, drawing his good leg up to balance on his knee. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

“He speaks! And it was so worth the wait.” You reached for him again only to be shrugged off. “Oh, stop!” You rolled your eyes.

“Need some help over there, sweetheart?” Joe called, barely visible in the distance. 

“Nah, we’re good! He’s just being a naughty boy!”

“Teach ‘im right, now but not all the way!” 

Waving a hand, you turned your attention back to Daryl. “Listen, if you give me a hard time, then I’m just gonna need some help. I’m sure the boys would be more than happy to give me a hand.” When he sneered at you, you gave his ass a pointed glance and raised an eyebrow. “I can’t promise they won’t each want a turn afterwards.” You shrugged with a feigned smile of nonchalance. “Who would I be to say no?” He continued to glare but the moment his resolve crumbled was obvious. 

It was difficult to get a man as heavy as him to his feet with an injured leg, but it helped you to appreciate how good he felt beneath your touch, lean muscles flexing as he attempted to pull away and make it on his own. “I just shot you and you’re not at least going to yell at me?” Pouting extravagantly, you refused to release your hold.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to say.” 

You relinquished your grip and let him hobble along. “Anyone ever told you that your voice is a panty-dropper?” Daryl curled his lip but refused to look at you. “That’s called a compliment, Daryl. The polite thing to do would be to say thank you.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.” That had his head snapping toward you, eyes wide. You just smirked and carried on. “Sit down there. I’m gonna take care of the mess you forced me to make.” Crouching over your bag, you watched him in your peripheral. He used his right leg for balance and bent it at the knee, sinking down with that single limb holding all his weight while attempting to not fall on his ass. He made it most of the way before he simply plopped down against the tree trunk. 

By the time you crawled over, there was a sizeable dark circle of blood-soaked leaves below his leg. He didn’t seem to be showing any symptoms of severe blood loss so you continued to take your time. He didn’t resist when you grabbed his knee to tilt his leg but his eyes tracked your hand while it went to the knife on your thigh. 

“Hands above your head, gorgeous.” When he didn’t move, you hung your head and sighed. Before he could blink, you had your gun to his temple and blade at his throat. “Maybe shooting you wasn’t enough. Maybe I need to do some real damage to get it through your thick skull that I am not fucking around.” Daryl grunted when you pressed the knife’s edge inward just enough to break the skin. “Hands. Above. Your. Head.”

If looks could kill, you’d have definitely been a walker. 

“I’m a surgeon with a gun, but I’m not half bad with a knife either. Don’t test me.” You threatened lowly. Your lips parted into a gleeful smile when you had to move back for him to follow through with your demand. “Good boy. Now, keep ‘em there.”

Your knife, always expertly sharpened, sliced through his jeans like butter. You only cut a small section, enough to give you access to the wound without fucking up his pants entirely. No warning was given before you splashed the whiskey over the bullet hole, watching with a twisted sense of satisfaction as he arched and hissed.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did that hurt?” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable not unlike the whiskey now dripping from your sterilized hands. “You’re gonna love this next part.” Daryl’s brow drew inward, his eyes finding and following your hand, too late to stop you from digging your finger straight into the wound. He pressed his head back against the tree with a shout. 

“Ssh.” You soothed so quietly that it almost sounded genuine. “Don’t want the dead to hear.” His breaths became ragged, skin growing pale the more you rooted around inside the injury. After what seemed like an eternity, your nail grazed over the metal. “Ah ha. There you are.” His leg was a mess by the time you pulled your finger, thumb, and bullet from the stretched disaster. You were staring at the projectile with something akin to admiration while Daryl fought to catch his breath.  

“Try to run again, the next one goes in your ass.” Head hanging, he glared at you from beneath his fringe of sweat damp hair. “I’d just love to dig that one out.”

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” He panted. 

“How much time ya got?” You shrugged, continuing the process of stitching and dressing the injury. He merely grunted. “You must be hungry.”

“Got other problems.” He grumbled immediately, his face flushing. 

You moved away from his feet, smart enough to know that one kick would incapacitate you long enough for him to get away. Not something you were willing to risk. “I could use a bathroom break too. Come on.” Gun in hand, you sheathed your knife and climbed to your feet. You reached for the rope around his wrists, but he growled and pulled away, finding a method of levering to his feet without your assistance. 

You led him away from camp—his limp profound—and waved a languid hand. “Go on then.” His brows shot up before drawing inward into a scowl. 

“Think m’gonna do it with ya gawkin’ at me?” He snapped.

“Can’t help it.” You shrugged. “You’re so shiny, easy on the eyes.”

“Pfft.” Standing by the nearest tree, he looked at you, raising an eyebrow expectantly. 

You huffed. “Fine.” You started unbuckling your belt, opening your jeans to yank them down, grinning when Daryl nearly fell over to turn away. 

“Th’fuck you doin’!?” You couldn’t see his face but the tips of his ears burned red. 

“I’m gonna take a piss too.” You peered at him, confused. Maybe you had forgotten something from the old world, but you always urinated with the other Claimers. Only one explanation made sense. “You never seen a pussy before?”

Daryl scoffed, but you noticed he didn’t answer. “Whatever.” 

You chuckled and squatted, watching him while you drip-dried. “Go on the other side,” you grinned when he angled his head to indicate he was listening without looking, “but remember there’s a bullet for your ass if you try to run.” 

After a moment, he sighed and limped around to the opposite side of the tree, granting you a wide berth. Listening closely, you stood, hearing his zipper at the same time you jerked yours upward. Biting your lip, you almost silently trekked around the tree, waiting until you were certain he was tucking himself away before springing around with a quick boo! 

“S’wrong with you?!”

“Everything, Daryl.” You laughed, observing him hungrily as he struggled back to camp. He dropped himself down by the tree, anger radiating from him in waves so powerful that you could feel it even with the distance that stood between you. 

And you couldn’t have been more aroused. 

With a whine and childish kick of your feet, you dragged yourself back to your sleeping back and plopped down gracelessly. You wanted to have fun with Daryl, but not that kinda fun. Maybe he'd actually want it eventually and you could oblige, but for now, you'd just continue to fuck with him in other ways.

"I think I'll call you Sir Hops Along." You smiled sweetly, tossing him a small bag of jerky before opening the other you had for yourself. He muttered something too low for you to hear, but snatched up the bag. Oh, he was going to be so much fun.

[lawyeronabike]

Book Talk #3: A Clockwork Orange, Free Will, and Motives of Christian Ethos

Does motive matter in ethics? If you do the "right" thing for the wrong reason, is it still right? If you do the "wrong" thing for the "right" reasons, is it still "wrong"? Put your thinking cap on your gulliver, my droogies. Today, we're examining Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange as a case study in ethics, as well highlighting a major flaw in Christianity (a noble pastime if there ever was one).

Part I: The Plot of A Clockwork Orange

I'll include only what's needed for the analysis here. It's still a book worth reading.

The book can roughly be into three parts. The first third is Alex committing horrible, violent crimes so we understand who he is and why he gets treated the way he does later in the book. After a rape and burglary goes bad, the woman he raped dies, and he is incarcerated for murder.

The next third documents Alex's time in prison, including his volunteering and selection for a clinical trial called "the Ludovico Technique." It a fictional form of aversion therapy that involves Alex watching violent and pornographic films while being injected with drugs to make him nauseous. The technique is a "success." When he leaves the program he becomes violently ill when he gets horny or tries to engage in violence. Admittedly, he was previously a rapist, but this procedure closes off even the possibility of consensual sex. Alex is now also incapable of being violent, this includes an inability to use violence in self defense. Because of the background music that was used in the films, he can't even listen to classical music any more, which used to one of his greatest joys.

(To make sure he watches the film, his eyelids are pried open, with scientists administrating eye drops. It's the definition of a captive audience.)

The last third follows his journey back in the free world. Mostly, it involves him being down on his luck. People are cruel to him, and many of the people he brutalized before going to prison, now seeing his defenseless state, exact revenge on him, beating him senselessly. Many readers feel sympathy for Alex at this point. He's no longer the monster he once was. He literally cannot be. One of the last scenes of the book is him being locked in a room, subjected to the blasting of classical music. To save himself the agony of his conditioning, he autodefenestrates (jumps out the window) in an attempt to kill himself.

The music was still pouring in all brass and drums and the violins miles up through the wall. The window in the room where I had laid down was open. I ittied to it and viddied a fair drop to the autos and buses and walking chellovecks below. I creeched out to the world: ‘Goodbye, goodbye, may Bog forgive you for a ruined life.’ Then I got on to the sill, the music blasting away to my left, and I shut my glazzies and felt the cold wind on my litso, then I jumped.

-A Clockwork Orange: Part 3, Chapter 5

Yes yes. I know left out many important plot points and symbolic details. The entire book is worth reading, and it's not that long either.

Part II: What A Clockwork Orange is Interpreted to Mean

Now that we have essential plot elements laid out, we can ask. Is Alex is now good? Most interpretations of the book at this point conclude that Alex is neither good nor evil. Take for example, an analysis by Thomas C. Foster, a professor emeritus of English at the University of Michigan-Flint. In his 2003 book, How to Read Literature Like a Professor, he states

When his capacity to choose is taken away, evil is replaced not with goodness but with a hollow simulacrum of goodness. Because he still wants to choose evil, he is in no way reformed. In acquiring the desired behavior through the “Ludovico Technique,” . . . society has not only failed to correct Alex but has committed a far worse crime against him by taking away his free will, which for Burgess is the hallmark of the human being.

Morality requires choice. We don't condemn hurricanes for their evil nature. Hurricanes are amoral, as hurricanes have no agency. People are understandably uncomfortable about thinking of human beings as being without free will. It would seem to undermine a core assumption on which society is built. And yet...

Part III: What Burgess Doesn't Get - The Problem of Free Will

For starters, it probably doesn't exist.

Perhaps the believers and the nonbelievers can be one day united in their skepticism of free will. For nonbelievers, there are deterministic arguments. But don't think that let's believers off of the hook.

Many Christians believe in an omniscient god. This appears to be directly incompatible with free will. I figured this out when I was about twelve or thirteen. If god knows I will choose A, then do I have free will to choose B? Not if god is omniscient.

(If "god's plan" is a real thing, then you can kiss free will goodbye)

Part IV: "Good" Things for "Bad" Reasons

So let's take a step back from that for a second and assume, for the sake of argument, that free will exists. Who actually has it in a meaningful sense. Believers? Or nonbelievers?

Many Christians believe that actions on this earth determine your eternal place in heaven or hell, and that your placement there depends on doing various "good works."

(I know it's a theological debate between protestants, who believe in Sola Fide, or faith alone as a ticket to heaven, and Catholics, who believe it requires faith and good works.)

As a further side note, the requirement of faith itself has troubling implications. You don't control your faith. If I asked you to change your religious beliefs, right now, you couldn't' do it. In many respects, your beliefs can better be described as something that happens to you, rather than something you choose.

So assuming there is, in fact, free will, and ignoring the troubling implications of a faith requirement, let's talk about the good works component. Let's say you have a believing Catholic who wants to go to heaven. They are as convinced of heaven and hell and the truth of the bible as they are of gravity. They volunteer to feed the homeless. Did they do so in any meaningful way?

Let's put this another way. Imagine I approach you with a shovel in my hand. I credibly threaten to beat you senseless unless you feed the homeless. You comply. Did you do good by feeding the homeless? Is it even possible to know? If you help other people for a a selfish reason, how should that be morally judged?

These two situations are not so different. If you truly believe in the fire and brimstone, there are only two key differences separating the above scenarios. One is the depth of punishment and reward. Christian hell is a far greater punishment than being beaten with a shovel. The other is immanency. Being sent to hell won't happen immediately, but the catholic still believes it will happen. It seems to me that the punishment being delayed does not actually change the moral calculus. Whether punishment and reward are served immediately or in fifty years, the people in the above scenarios are still acting pro-socaily for selfish reasons. In this way, such a person, like Alex, has become a Clockwork Orange. Organic on the outside, mechanical on the inside, and stripped of any meaningful choice.

The book itself seems to recognize the tension between being a christian and being a person with free will.

‘Choice,’ rumbled a rich deep goloss. I viddied it belonged to the prison charlie. ‘He has no real choice, has he? Self-interest, fear of physical pain, drove him to that grotesque act of self-abasement. Its insincerity was clearly to be seen. He ceases to be a wrongdoer. He ceases also to be a creature capable of moral choice.’

‘He will be your true Christian,’ Dr Brodsky was creeching out, ‘ready to turn the other cheek, ready to be crucified rather than crucify, sick to the very heart at the thought even of killing a fly.’ And that was right, brothers, because when he said that I thought of killing a fly and felt just that tiny bit sick, but I pushed the sickness and pain back by thinking of the fly being fed with bits of sugar and looked after like a bleeding pet and all that cal.

-A Clockwork Orange, Part 2, Chapter 7

Ironically, this means that atheists, who will be more likely than Christians to deny the existence of free will, are more likely to actually have it in any meaningful way. Should free will exist, the only people who are able to make meaningful choices are those who believe that life is unhindered by any cosmic balancing scales, or those that are willing tot defy god.

Part V: "Bad" things for "Good Reasons"

The bible is a mess of a book, and much of it justifies and supports slavery. Many people in the American antebellum south believed slavery was a righteous thing, permitted by god. Liberating slaves would be wrong, as it would be stealing. It is in this moral conundrum Mark Twain places his titular character in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Huck, believing it is dictated by his religion, writes a letter revealing the location of Jim, a runaway slave. But he hasn't sent it yet, he first reflects.

I saved him by telling the men we had small-pox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he’s got now; and then I happened to look around and see that paper.

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a-trembling, because I’d got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell” — and tore it up.

It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head, and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line, being brung up to it, and the other warn’t. And for a starter I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog.

-The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chapter 31

Huck is willing to suffer eternal damnation, in a very literal sense, to help his friend. He believes he is doing the "wrong" thing, and is willing to do it anyway. What if Huck didn't believe it was wrong to protect Jim? Does that change the morality of his choice? Is Huck's good deed greater because he's willing to suffer enormous consequences for it? Is it less of a good deed because he believes he's doing the wrong thing?

(When in doubt, rely on the power of friendship)

Few people today would believe that freeing slaves is a wrong act, regardless of what the bible says. So to drive the message home, let's take a more controversial example.

Inhabit, once again, the world of religion, the dogma of heaven and hell. If you could kill somebody, and know they would go straight to heaven, should you do it? Let's say you already knew you were going to hell. What would you have to lose, spiritually speaking?

The Mormons make a particularly interesting example for this. They are a denomination that rejects the doctrine of original sin, meaning children are sinless when they enter the world. They also believe that children can't sin until the "age of accountability," which modern practice sets at eight years old.

For all men must repent and be baptized, and not only men, but women, and children who have arrived at the years of accountability.

-Doctrine and Covenants, Section 18 verse 42

And I also beheld that all children who die before they arrive at the years of accountability are saved in the celestial kingdom of heaven.

-Doctrine and Covenants, section 137 verse 10

One can imagine a mormon zealot serially killing as many children as possible under eight years old in order to secure them a place in heaven. After all, it's all downhill after eight. They may very well fall prey to temptation. From this perspective, it's best to give them a speedy trip to the afterlife. If you truly believed the same mormon doctrine as them, could you condemn them?

Part VI: Recap

Let's examine our characters again, and ask if any of them are truly good.

Alex: Does the "right" thing, given literally no choice in the matter

Catholic Zealot: Does the "right" thing, but is given no meaningful choice in the matter. They believe that failure to do do the "right" thing will be met with eternal torment, so their actions are selfishly motivated.

Huckleberry Finn: Does what he believes is the "wrong" thing, but for selfless reasons, and is willing to go to hell.

Mormon Zealot: Does the wrong thing, for selfless reasons. Willing to endure hell so others can make it to heaven.

Obviously, killing kids to send them to heaven should get you sent to an insane asylum. I feel I've waded in the waters of delusion land long enough that it may be helpful at this point to remind the reader that there is no god. There is no heaven. And the is no hell. And yet...

If you take the Clockwork Orange perspective, that being good requires moral choice, you need one of two things. You need to believe there is no god with any moral care what happens here, or you need to be willing to defy god. To cower at god's might, to do what god says to save your own skin, can not be considered moral. It is, at best, as our friend Thomas Foster puts it, merely a "simulacrum of goodness."

Part VII: Sacrifice-Off

I'm not the first to note that even according to the bible, Jesus's sacrifice doesn't seem so special. Crucifixion definitely seems painful (if you ever see me up on a cross, please mercy kill me), but Jesus was not alone. Crucifixion was not an uncommon method of execution in Roman times. Allegedly, Jesus rose from the grave after thee days, making it so he didn't even give up his life. Afterward, he went to heaven. In the grand scheme of things, even the most immense torture for a finite period pales in comparison to infinite reward.

Now let's take our Mormon zealot. They believe with 100% certainty that they are going to hell. They are willing to take infinite punishment to defy god's will and save as many souls as possible.

Jesus never believed he was going to hell. He didn't even believe he was going to stay dead. Who, in this case, is willing to sacrifice more? If mormon theology was true, could you condemn the zealot? Who would be more deserving of the title "Messiah?"

Part VIII: Conclusion

There's even more symbolism to talk about in A Clockwork Orange, and even a case to be made for Alex as a warped Christ figure (which Foster makes in his book). It will have to wait for another time.

A Clockwork Orange, in it's most mainstream interpretations, is about the value of free will. A reader is supposed to be horrified by the crimes Alex commits and subsequently even more horrified at the loss of his free will. I'd like to remind the christians that if free will is real and it is so important, you are not meaningfully using it. They've castrated themselves, letting their own judgment atrophy, all to adopt the appearance of good. At some point, you will have to use your own brain to figure out what what is right and wrong. As we've learned today, religion cannot teach ethics. It can only teach compliance.

Now I'm not in the business of playing hide the ball. I'll tell you what I think. There is no objective morality. Subjectively, I measure morality by utilitarian standards. Theoretically, the reason you do something doesn't change its moral impact on the world. But that's just my opinion.

[fornassau]

It was incredible.. the ship, the story, all of it. Flint followed him around like a puppy as he took in all the sights, sounds, and details. This ship matched its captain, and then that thought made him think of his own ship. “ She matches you. “ His brows then furrowed in thought. “ If that means my ship matches me I guess I’m old and rugged, but reliable.” He smirked.

Continuing to follow and listen to his tale of being trapped on an island dubbed Neverland, James only became more interested. No wonder he was voted in captain so young. He was dangerously clever and daring. He was clearly educated which said more than pretty much any of the pickings of men around here. But when he spoke of his brother, he frowned. So that was who he had lost.

James had followed suit, fetching his own tankard of ale but he didn’t sit just yet. “ I’m sorry he was taken from you. “ Because lost wasn’t the proper word. He was robbed of life by a greedy bastard of a king. Killian had shared his story. Perhaps it was finally time for him to share his. He stared off into nothing, becoming lost again.

“ The men in the navy hated me because I wasn’t from wealth or grandeur. I was educated by my father’s books, worked hard and enlisted into the Royal Navy with hopes I’d gain some form of better life. I proved my worth, received an officer’s commission.. which many of them did not like. “ He scoffed, taking a drink, licking his lips. Damn this stuff was good.

“ Then I was sent to try to protect and sway a lord, who wanted nothing more than to help the men that the king threw away after the war. He didn’t want to solve the piracy problem with violence. No. He was a revolutionary. He wanted a pardon, a new life for all of them, a new life for Nassau. As you can imagine, this prospect of peace didn’t go over well with anyone, especially his ridiculous pompous ass of a father. “ He scowled in thought of that bastard Hamilton. “I fell in love with that man. But they found out. They always find out. “ He shook his head sadly, casting his eyes down, still standing.

“ He was a shame on Whitehall with his revolutionary ideas and fragrant desire for the same sex despite being married. Especially a navy man that came from poor beginnings. They killed him. His father in his wisdom took Thomas to an asylum to be tortured and “cured”. “ Oh the sarcasm in his voice just then. “ I was stripped of my commission. “ He hadn’t looked at him once since he’d been revealing his wretched tale. Nothing brave like surviving a doomed island here. Only sorrow. “ His wife and I were banished from England. “ A heavy sigh, a stare at his tankard, a shrug. “ So here I am. “

His ship? Well that was isolating enough and away from prying eyes. Plus he honestly did want to see her as much as Killian talked about it. He just hoped he wasn’t making a big mistake. He was going out on a limb, trying to trust. Considering everything that’s happened to the pirate, this was no easy feat.

He’d followed and got into the dinghy, eyes eagerly awaiting the view of the Jolly Roger and he wasn’t disappointed. She was as elegant as he was, every notch and twist handcrafted and practically glistening even in the night as they grew close. He let his eyes wander, take her in and all of her glory. The damn thing didn’t look like it had seen a day of combat, like it was brand new, freshly carved.

To say he loved this ship would be an understatement. As eager as he was for privacy with Killian, he was quite taken by her at the moment. He was a navy man after all; sailor now pirate by trade. “ Uhh.. yeah? “ He said that as if he knew what the other was thinking, chuckling into his hand as he stroked his beard. “ Of course I want a tour. She’s fucking beautiful, Killian.. “ Flint ran his fingers over the wood lining the side of the deck. “ Is this cherry? Doesn’t look like she’s seen a single day at sea.. “ Oh it was obvious. Hook had verily impressed him.

[good4olivia]

moon song

pairing: aemond targaryen x niece!reader summary: three weeks after your wedding to aemond, you were starting to feel the weight of the situation. warnings: slighty yan!aemond, one mention of the r word, canon typical violence? playlist: i made an aemond playlist on spotify!! if you wanna check it out <;3 a/n: okay so lowkey this is a part 2 to about you but you don't have to read that one to understand it. um also i am in a different country to my mother right now as well and i miss her very much so that's why that theme is so strong in this fic aha i'm gonna cry in the bathroom peace out homies!

“Shh, sweetheart. It’s okay, it’s okay.” Aemond soothed you, rubbing your back as you cried into his chest. You had been in Kings Landing now as his lady wife for three weeks, your mother was of course back on Dragonstone and you missed her very much, so much that the pain felt like claws that grasped your heart. 

Aemond would not allow to you return home to see your mother, despite your pleas. I can’t let you leave. We’re at war, my love. You wanted to scream and scream, you didn’t care, you didn’t care. All you wanted was your mother. Of course, Aemond had seen that your dragon was caged in the dragon pit, the keepers under strict guidelines to not let you see your beloved dragon. The strict guidelines in question being, a blade to their throat at the hand of your husband. 

You didn’t cry every night over missing your mother, though the pain did not subside. Somedays it felt like a numbness, others it felt like the tears would never stop. She was only an ocean way but it felt like planets. 

“My love, look at me.” Aemond lifted your head up from his chest. “I know you miss her, I know.” 

“I’m sorry, my husband.” You mumbled through the tears. He pulled your hair from your face to behind your ears. 

“I wish things could be different, if your mother had only bent the knee-“ Aemond cut himself off after seeing the intense glare in your eyes. You and he had had this fight many times, he knew it was not worth getting into again especially now. 

You shoved down the urge to yell that your mother was the rightful heir to the iron throne to plead with Aemond, “Please, my love. If-If your brother ever captures Rhaenrya please, please counsel his mercy. Promise me.” 

Aemond’s heart broke at the sight of your eyes, so desperate to save your traitor mother’s life. “If the situation arrives, I will counsel mercy.” He promised. He hadn’t made up his mind yet if it was a lie or not. Aemond hated his sister but his love for you was proving to grow stronger by the day. He was not sure if he could ever handle the hatred you would have for him if he didn’t do everything he could to stop the execution of your beloved mother. 

You rewarded him by snuggling back in his chest, kissing up his neck. Aemond’s breath shallowed. His desire for you was never a hundred percent gone, it was a small fire that only needed a small flint to became a raging storm again. 

“Beautiful wife, if you do not wish to be with me tonight in that way, I would advise you stop.” He managed to get out, right before an innovatory groan found his way out of his throat when you walked your hand down his bare torso. 

“I wish to be with you in every way tonight, husband.” You whispered in his ear. If Aemond wasn’t gone before, he was now. 

— 

You knew Aemond to never be so at peace then after sex, your hand down in his hair, placing soft kisses on his chest. “I love you, my prince.” 

Aemond sighed, “Do you mean it, my beautiful? In truth..?” 

You looked him in his eye, “You were so kind to me on our wedding night, and you take care of me, you are such a loving husband to me. How could I not love you?” 

“I have loved you for so many years, I would do anything for you.” 

“Anything?” 

“Sweetheart, please. Anything but that.” 

“You didn’t know what I was going to say.” 

“What were you going to say then?” 

“I want to see Maris, please. It’s not fair to keep a woman from her dragon.” You twirled his hair in your fingers. 

Aemond relished in the feeling of your hands in his hair, “We can go flying together.” 

You wanted him to let you see Maris on your own so you could fly away to your mother on Dragonstone but alas, you knew better - your husband was no fool. “Thank you, my love. That would be amazing.” 

Aemond smiled, holding your hand in his, bringing it to his lips to kiss. “We can go in the morrow, my beautiful. I’ll look forward to riding side by side with you.” You did not miss the clear warning in his tone. 

“May I ask you a question, lord husband?” You didn’t look him in the eye, moving your head back to his chest. 

He resumed rubbing your back soothing, “Anything, my lady wife.” 

“You are so adamant on me staying in Kings Landing… Is it because your new king brother sees me as a political hostage against Rhaenrya or… because you do not wish for me to leave you?” It was a loaded question but it had been plaguing your mind ever since the wedding. 

Aemond took a few moments before answering you, trying to gather his thoughts. “Aegon has made it clear to me that having you in the Red Keep is an advantage for us but I swear to you, my love, I will not let him harm you. I would kill him myself if he ever laid a hand on you.” He lifted your head up, so you could see the look in his eye when he spoke these words to you. “I hope this erases any doubts you might have, my beautiful?” 

You didn’t say anything, so he went on - “I know that I do not deserve a beautiful women like yourself but I am too selfish to care.” He leaned into your ear to whisper, “Even if your mother wasn’t a traitor to the realm and we weren’t at war, I would never let you leave Kings Landing without me.” 

He leaned back so he was facing you, “Are we clear about this now?” 

“Yes, my love.” You said to him, running your thumb down his scar. Aemond would always take off his eye patch with you now. 

“I want to see all your, husband. Please.” You said under him, the first night of your marriage to him. 

“Princess please, it will only frighten you and sully the mood.” 

“Aemond, I believe you to be the most handsome man in all of Westros. I will always believe this to be true, with or without the cover.” 

He nodded but still flinched slightly when you removed it. He looked away from you, couldn’t fathom the look on your face when you see the monster he truly is.

“You are so beautiful, my husband.” 

When he finally looked into your eyes, he found only love and adoration. Something he had been looking for all of his life but not sure he would ever find. But now you were here, in front of him real as his heartbeat. Now that he knew what that feeling felt like, Aemond was sure he wouldn’t stand a day without it. He knew he was never going to let you go. 

“Go to sleep, beautiful. You need your rest.” Aemond told you, kissing your forehead. 

“Will you hold me still?” 

“Always, my wife.” 

— 

Prone to it herself, the dowager Queen Alicent noticed her daughter in law picking at her nails, her eyes cast down to the floor. It was a family dinner, to commentate another Green Victory which of course meant, a loss for the blacks. She sympathised with her of course but Alicent wished she would do a better job at acting like she was happy at her husband’s victory. 

Aegon was being obnoxious, drinking and shouting about how he was going to feed his whore half sister to his dragon. You stood up at that, the screech of your chair sliding across the floor making everyone turn to you. 

“If its is alright with his grace, I would like to retire for the evening. I’m feeling quite tired.” You said, trying to keep your voice neutral as possible. 

“Yes of course, dear. Get some rest.” Alicent quickly said, before her son could answer. 

“It is not alright with his grace. This is a celebratory dinner, so stay and celebrate.” Aegon pressed, glaring you down as you were stopped in your tracks. 

Aemond sensing the rising tension, quickly stood up and was at his wife’s side. “Brother, let it go. My wife and I-“ 

“Your wife has traitor blood, your wife is a fucking bastard.” 

“Watch your tongue!” Aemond shouted. 

“Please, I just want to head to bed.” You spoke softly, reaching for Aemond’s hand. He quickly held it in his and squeezed it. 

“Look me in the eye and tell me that your mother is a traitor to the crown and that I am the rightful king and then fine, you and your husband can leave the celebration.” Aegon smirked. 

You felt a tear wet your cheek. You wanted nothing more than then ground to swallow you hole, everyone was looking at you, expecting you to do what the king said. 

“Mother, I do not want to leave you.” You were seeing her off at the Dragonpit. Rhaenrya was to leave straight after your wedding, despite her father’s pleas to stay. 

“My beautiful daughter, we will be together soon but as a new wife, your duty is to stay with your husband.” She told you. You hugged her tightly, not wanting to let go. Eventually you broke away, she cupped your face in her hand one more time before climbing on her dragon. “I love you, [name.]” 

You felt your heart beating in your chest as everyone awaited you say your mother was a traitor. Your breath was shallow and you palms were sweating up, you couldn’t find enough breath to fill your lungs. 

You couldn’t speak, so you ran. You ran out of the hall, “Seize her!” Aegon yelled to the guards posted at the doors. 

Before those guards could lay a finger on you, Aemond had cut their throats. Everyone gasped. You thought your husband would let you go but he instead took hold of you in his own arms. “Tell the king what he wants to hear or you won’t see out of our chambers for weeks.” He told you in your ear. His grip was going to leave bruises and in the knife in his hand was only a press away from drawing blood. 

You whipped your head to look him in the eye, to make sure he was serious. Aemond didn’t want to hurt you but if he let you disobey the king’s order in front of his entire family, what does that say about him as a husband? 

Aemond raised his eyebrow in question, daring you to defy him but you couldn’t. You faced the room, swallowed every once of pride you had, “Rhaenrya is a traitor to the crown and his grace, Aegon is the rightful heir.” The words felt like a acid flowing out of your mouth, the satisfied look on Aegon’s face made you want to throw up your dinner. 

“Very well, you may leave.” Aegon dismissed you. 

You shook your hand out of Aemond’s grip, walking out of the hall as if it was burning. Oh how you would love to let Maris burn Aegon straight to hell. You had never hated yourself more than you had in this moment, how could you call yourself a Varleryon, how could you say you had the blood of the dragon when you could not even stick up for your own family? 

Aemond was quickly on your tail, “[Name] Slow down.” You didn’t slow down, “My love, please wait.” You did not wait, “Stop, I”m serious.” You did not stop. You diid not stop until you reached the door to the courtyard that would lead you to the Dragonpit. 

The door was jammed, the seconds it took you to get it open gave Aemond all the time he needed to reach you. “[Name] I know what you’re doing, you can’t go there.” 

“Husband, I just want to see Maris. I miss him.” You pleaded, “I would appreciate the company of my beloved dragon after the humiliation I just suffered.” 

“That humiliation wouldn’t have occurred if you could just keep your feelings to yourself, wife.” Aemond spat. 

You felt the rage bubble up inside you, “I would love to see you sit there and stay still whilst my step-father talks of having his men rape and murder your mother.” 

Aemond’s jaw clenched and he took few deep breaths.  He managed his temper and instead took your hands in his, “My brother was out of line, sure but it is up to us to not add to his fire but to smother it.” 

You did not care for talks of Aegon, “Are you going to let me see Maris?” 

“We’ll go for a ride together. It is a beautiful night for it.” You nodded, time alone with Maris is what you craved but you would settle for anything. 

The walk down to the Dragonpit was filled with an uneasy silence, you felt the nerves building up in your stomach until you finally said something. “Aemond, I’m sorry.” You didn’t really think you had anything to apologise for but anything was better than silence. 

Apparently your faux apology worked on Aemond, “Oh my love. I know. I know that this is so difficult for you. I am sorry too, everything I do, everything I did is to protect you. You would rather my hands on your throat than some guards, yes?” 

Ideally, your throat would be left alone but you knew what to say to make him happy, “Thank you for always protecting me, my love. It is… comforting to know you always have my best interest at heart.” 

He entangled your hands in his, “You are the most important thing to me. I won’t let anyone take you from me.” Even you. He pulled you in for a kiss outside the dragon pit. 

When you saw Maris in her cage you ran to her, “Oh my sweet thing.” You ran your hand down her back, he visibly relaxed at your touch. “Let’s get you out of these chains, hmm my Maris?” 

Vhagar was obviously too big for the dragon pit, so Aemond only watched you climb onto Maris back. “I will go mount Vhagar on the beach, meet me there.” He said to you, you gave him a thumbs up as Maris readied himself to take flight. 

Of course the thoughts crossed your mind, you had maybe five minutes unsupervised from your husband. If you took flight over Flea Bottom, you would get a somewhat of a head start before Aemond realised you had taken off. 

“I love you, my sweet daughter. I will miss you in the halls of Dragonstone more than anything.” 

“And when I take Dragonstone from my whore sister, I will feed her to my dragon and make her idiot sons watch.” 

“You though you could leave? I was kind to you, I showed you my love and let you ride your dragon and what do you do? Try and leave me? How did you think you could get away with this?” 

Your fear of what would you knew Aemond would say when he found out you tried to escape Kings Landing is what kept you from doing it. Coward, I’m a fucking coward. 

You met Aemond in the sky, his eye patch was off and he looked so stunning in the moonlight. You could see in his face he thought the same of you as well. 

Toon soon, you were reading Maris to slow down and return to Kings Landing. You landed where Aemond was already waiting for you on the beach. He ran over too you and Maris, helping you down. You wanted to resist the help, you knew how to get off your dragon but you bit your tongue. He was only trying to be a good husband and to be a good wife, you had to let him. 

You were breathless when you landed off Maris and he instantly took flight again. You watched as he flew away, disappearing into the night sky. “He doesn’t want to go back to the dragon pit.” You realised. 

Aemond’s hand found the small of your back and pulled you closer into him. “Maris loves you sweetheart. He’s just leaving the city, not you.” 

At least one of us will get to go home. You thought. Yes, you felt sadness that Maris was gone but it brought you comfort knowing that he won’t be trapped in those chains. 

“Are you ready to go back darling?” Aemond asked you. 

“Yeah, let’s go back to our to our chambers.” You walked back to the Red Keep hand in the hand with your husband. 

[shippingdragons]

Know no shame: queerness in the golden age of TV and piracy

Both Our Flag Means Death and Black Sails go all in on queer pirates — eventually

By Samantha Greer Jun 2, 2022

Our Flag Means Death has become a bit of a sensation, to put it mildly. The show skyrocketed in popularity for weeks after its debut, both in terms of streaming metrics and the outpouring of fan art. That’s in no small part thanks to its centering a romance between two men, Stede Bonnet and Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, which captured the hearts of many, especially among queer viewers starved of on-screen representation. Even as queer representation has improved over the decades, with several ongoing shows featuring queer characters and subplots, it’s still rare for a series to focus squarely on queer romance, especially in genre shows.

Perhaps some of the infatuation stems from how Our Flag Means Death marketed its romance story — namely, it didn’t. Those initial trailers, teasers, and handful of episodes focused on the comedy hijinks of Stede Bonnet and his inept band of pirates. Not so much as a longing glance between Stede and Ed. For an audience more often used to queerbaiting or sometimes no inclusion at all, the shock that this show really was going to commit to that romance seems to have come with much elation, not to mention a viewership which tripled somewhere between its debut and its finale. Even creator David Jenkins has commented on the matter; speaking to The Verge, he said, “I think I didn’t realize — because I see myself represented on camera, and I see myself falling in love in stories — I didn’t realize how deep the queer baiting thing goes. Being made to feel stupid by stories, I guess. […] [L]ooking at how people were kind of afraid to let themselves believe that we were doing that was a surprise to me, and it’s heartbreaking.”

Oddly enough, though, this isn’t the first time a queer pirate show has buried the lede. Though the shows don’t share channels, decades, or even sensibilities, the way they slowly revealed the queerness of their protagonists reveals how both of these shows reflect the different climates in which they were released.

Image: Starz

Black Sails, which premiered back in 2014, is a series that acts as both a prequel to the classic pirate novel Treasure Island and a mishmash of real history. Long John Silver brushes shoulders with real pirates like Charles Vane and Anne Bonny. In spite of any misgivings you might have about its gritty Treasure Island take, it’s a genuinely thoughtful exploration of history and fiction. To be sure, it has its fair share of bloody violence and sex; it was seen as Game of Thrones on the high seas among critics. What it absolutely does not do upfront is let the audience know that one of its central characters (arguably the story’s primary protagonist), Captain Flint, is in fact a gay man, and that his oppression and persecution under British society is the root of his entire violent quest.

In Black Sails this twist serves a purpose, held back until halfway through the second season. Flint, initially an enigma to audiences and his crew alike, is a larger-than-life character — an inscrutable, cunning, and ruthless pirate, much like the character first referenced in Treasure Island. He is allowed to embody a hypermasculinity, the archetypal bloodthirsty captain who will do anything for gold. The reveal that he’s gay and that his mission is to rebel against the British Empire, to create a nation free of its rule, complicates everything he has done and will do, turning him from a mercenary into a revolutionary.

The fact that Black Sails and Our Flag both smuggled queerness into their narratives is made all the more interesting when considering the real-life parallels of the characters. Both shows play with our conceptions of history and well-known figures. Stede Bonnet and Blackbeard really did hang out, and the show simply makes a leap as to why that could be; Jenkins has explicitly said he’s interested in treating recorded history as merely a jumping-off point. After all, it’s unclear how much he’s even reading into their relationship. To this day, there’s a lot of debate about how much queerness has been exorcised from records and accounts, either by omission or by individuals’ own necessary discretion.

Retelling well-known histories as queer tales is more about putting back into our past what has been erased from it. As Black Sails co-creator Jon Steinberg said to Den of Geek regarding the show’s historical figures, “There’s some freedom in the moment you realize that the historic record is severely compromised in terms of what these peoples’ lives were like. They had a motive to lie, and so did the people in London. [...] It gives us the room to try to tell a story that will hopefully feel real. It probably won’t necessarily match up to the textbook to what happened, but I think we would probably argue that the textbook is already a narrative that somebody with an agenda put together a long, long time ago.”

Image: Starz

Photo: Aaron Epstein/HBO Max

Not that it’s hard to read queerness into existing histories, even if the terminology and conception of the ideas differed at the time. Romanticized pirates have always been portrayed as camp, an image perhaps spurred on by historical figures like Jack Rackham, nicknamed Calico Jack on account of his colorful outfits (who also makes an appearance in OFMD). Mary Read spent a portion of their life under the name Mark Read, and whether it was simply a disguise or fluid gender expression or if they were even trans, it lends itself to storylines like that of Jim on Our Flag Means Death. Accounts of Blackbeard spending all of his time with Stede Bonnet can so easily be understood through a queer lens that it’s shocking no story put such a twist on these figures before Our Flag Means Death.

But the answer to why no one had might be captured somewhat in the response to Black Sails’ own voyage into queer storytelling.

To be fair, Black Sails does have queer characters from the outset — two women, Eleanor and Max — but the first season generally presents them under a leering male gaze, seemingly intended to titillate general audiences. The show’s interest in the revolutionary qualities of queerness didn’t take center stage until its second season. While it spawned a fervent following among some queer fans, it equally drew the ire of homophobes who felt betrayed by the reveal that half of the cast was queer. Reddit is littered with rants against the show’s “gay agenda” by lads who thought they were getting a show “just about pirates,” all part of an outcry that even got Flint’s actor, Toby Stephens, to comment. “Before the revelation I had this huge following from guys, but as soon as that happened it was like they had been betrayed. It was the sense of utter betrayal and I wasn’t surprised because I knew it was going to be a massive thing.” The degree of discomfort among men, that simply by being gay Flint no longer adhered to their rigid standard of a male icon, is hardly something that’s gone away.

In the present, though, the TV landscape has changed considerably since Black Sails aired. Streaming services have come to rule the roost and fracture the monoculture, and the pandemic has only further shaped that. Black Sails had to compete against The Wire, The Sopranos, and Game of Thrones to earn its place at the table. For Our Flag Means Death, which is much more a comedy than a drama (and not at all an epic genre TV series, though there are still plenty of old-fashioned stabbings), things are a little different.

Photo: Aaron Epstein/HBO Max

While the special effects (the revolutionary StageCraft developed for The Mandalorian) that allow Our Flag Means Death to seem like it’s taking place at sea would have been reserved for much higher-budget shows only a few years ago, they’re a flourish for a series that largely takes place on small sets. It could’ve been a tiny budget sitcom a decade ago. That smaller scale may be what allowed it to take risks that, sadly, still feel daring in 2022. It’s not just a romance between Stede and Edward but an entire cast full of queer characters — a queerness that in its own context largely feels unremarkable, with the crew quietly tolerant and respectful of each other throughout the series.

In the last few years things have moved along, but even still, both shows had to operate under the very conditions of which they’re critical. As America and the U.K. both ramp up in homophobia and transphobia, with legislation seeking to target those vulnerable groups, the stories of Black Sails and Our Flag Means Death don’t feel like purely historical stories. They’re tales of the here and now. Pirates are a way to recontextualize those who society “others,” who are made outcasts and fringe by the mainstream. The shows invite us to ask why someone would choose to live on the edge, to unpack their histories and motives until their popular image is vanquished. To take the most well-known of pirates and to reframe them as traumatized queer outcasts is not intended as a historical rewrite but as a rebuttal of the very idea of a history written by the conquerors.

The British Empire present in both stories is depicted as an entity that is, at its worst, all-consuming barbarism and, at its best, all-consuming barbarism propped up by a veneer of civility. It’s an entity that not only destroys but warps reality around itself, reshaping history in its likeness.

In our present, queer people are once again being miscast as villains and boogeymen. In a way, Black Sails and Our Flag Means Death always dance on the edge of tragedy. Either they meet the same ends as their historical counterparts or we see the bittersweet truth of stories that are written out of history, their actions twisted into something evil. By giving that other perspective, by suggesting another account, these shows are a rallying cry for queer folk looking for their place in a world that doesn’t want them to exist at all — and a reminder to everyone who stands against us which side of history they’re on.

Article source: Polygon

[noknowshame]

Hi, you may have noticed me spam liking your posts lol. I have a genuine question as someone who watched ofmd then black sails (and basically has no knowledge of historical or fictional pirates): what IS the lens that first time black sails watchers should have? Because of early season one, i cynically started seeing it as a misogyny fuelled Action drama. and yea i liked the other seasons better but that view of it kind of stayed for me. So i think i subconsciously interpreted a lot of the story choices as being made in bad faith. And i can't really get all the talk about the themes in the story, i didn't notice a lot of them. Do you have any advice on how to flip that switch like a different way to read the story lol i really want to Get this show.

Hi anon!

"What is the lens that first time Black Sails watchers should have" is a great question – and a complex one to answer. I know for a fact that you are not the only person who didn't vibe with it the first time (several of the persons in question now being some of its biggest fans). I have several pieces of advice for "getting it" (buckle in).

1: As you note, season one is quite different from the rest. It is a "product of its time" so to speak, that time being the height of Game of Thrones' popularity. That is the audience it was trying to draw in, and you can tell (I like to call this "straightbaiting"). Its criticisms are definitely warranted, but I would encourage you when (if) you rewatch to pay attention to how the expectations you draw from season one play into later seasons. Season one is all about theatre – the theatre of piracy. Sex. Violence. Action. But that's what it is, theatre. Notice how later seasons subvert expectations and drop the facade of the first few episodes.

2: As for the misogyny you mention. Yes, I agree that the first season makes some choices with its female characters that I would not. However, I caution against keeping such a skeptical attitude as the show goes on, because Black Sails contains and develops more female main characters than many of its contemporaries (and largely queer female characters as well!). None of them are there for set dressing or fan service. They are active agents integral to the plot. The role that women should/shouldn't play is one of the themes of "theatre" that continues through the show, like Eleanor playing the role of Mrs. Rogers (a choice that comes with great sacrifice).

3: If you follow my blog, there is absolutely no way you haven't come across the concept of "The Narrative". Black Sails is a story and knows it. Its basis on both history and fiction (and everything in between) imbues it with a ton of complexity, especially when it comes to inevitability (Treasure Island has to happen, the pirates can't win the war, etc.) Some of the themes you are having trouble seeing might become clearer when you don't suspend your disbelief all the way. See it as a story. And if you want to make it more fun, see how the characters themselves see it as a story. Jack want a legacy above all else. Flint sees himself almost as a Homeric figure. Silver (unfortunately ironically) fears above all else being locked into the role of a single character. Etc etc. It's all very self-referential and that's why I love it.

4: Overall, Black Sails requires a lot of deliberate critical thinking. It's not meant for you to take things at face value. You aren't supposed to agree with everything that Flint or Eleanor or whoever does. You're not supposed to believe everything they say, or assume that they themselves understand the motivations behind their actions. It's not straightforward, and that's what makes it great: you can come away with so many different nuanced takeaways and interpretations. Ultimately, there isn't really one "right" lens to view it through at all.

Anyway, I hope something in all of this helps! Thank you for asking, I'm always happy to provide my opinions!

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

Know no shame: queerness in the golden age of TV and piracy

Both Our Flag Means Death and Black Sails go all in on queer pirates — eventually

[Editor note: This post contains light spoilers for Black Sails and Our Flag Means Death]

Our Flag Means Death has become a bit of a sensation, to put it mildly. The show skyrocketed in popularity for weeks after its debut, both in terms of streaming metrics and the outpouring of fan art.

That’s in no small part thanks to its centering a romance between two men, Stede Bonnet and Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, which captured the hearts of many, especially among queer viewers starved of on-screen representation. Even as queer representation has improved over the decades, with several ongoing shows featuring queer characters and subplots, it’s still rare for a series to focus squarely on queer romance, especially in genre shows.

Perhaps some of the infatuation stems from how Our Flag Means Death marketed its romance story — namely, it didn’t. Those initial trailers, teasers, and handful of episodes focused on the comedy hijinks of Stede Bonnet and his inept band of pirates. Not so much as a longing glance between Stede and Ed. For an audience more often used to queerbaiting or sometimes no inclusion at all, the shock that this show really was going to commit to that romance seems to have come with much elation, not to mention a viewership which tripled somewhere between its debut and its finale. Even creator David Jenkins has commented on the matter; speaking to The Verge, he said, “I think I didn’t realize — because I see myself represented on camera, and I see myself falling in love in stories — I didn’t realize how deep the queer baiting thing goes. Being made to feel stupid by stories, I guess. […] [L]ooking at how people were kind of afraid to let themselves believe that we were doing that was a surprise to me, and it’s heartbreaking.”

Oddly enough, though, this isn’t the first time a queer pirate show has buried the lede. Though the shows don’t share channels, decades, or even sensibilities, the way they slowly revealed the queerness of their protagonists reveals how both of these shows reflect the different climates in which they were released.

Black Sails, which premiered back in 2014, is a series that acts as both a prequel to the classic pirate novel Treasure Island and a mishmash of real history. Long John Silver brushes shoulders with real pirates like Charles Vane and Anne Bonny. In spite of any misgivings you might have about its gritty Treasure Island take, it’s a genuinely thoughtful exploration of history and fiction. To be sure, it has its fair share of bloody violence and sex; it was seen as Game of Thrones on the high seas among critics.

What it absolutely does not do upfront is let the audience know that one of its central characters (arguably the story’s primary protagonist), Captain Flint, is in fact a gay man, and that his oppression and persecution under British society is the root of his entire violent quest.

In Black Sails this twist serves a purpose, held back until halfway through the second season. Flint, initially an enigma to audiences and his crew alike, is a larger-than-life character — an inscrutable, cunning, and ruthless pirate, much like the character first referenced in Treasure Island. He is allowed to embody a hypermasculinity, the archetypal bloodthirsty captain who will do anything for gold. The reveal that he’s gay and that his mission is to rebel against the British Empire, to create a nation free of its rule, complicates everything he has done and will do, turning him from a mercenary into a revolutionary.

The fact that Black Sails and Our Flag both smuggled queerness into their narratives is made all the more interesting when considering the real-life parallels of the characters. Both shows play with our conceptions of history and well-known figures. Stede Bonnet and Blackbeard really did hang out, and the show simply makes a leap as to why that could be; Jenkins has explicitly said he’s interested in treating recorded history as merely a jumping-off point. After all, it’s unclear how much he’s even reading into their relationship. To this day, there’s a lot of debate about how much queerness has been exorcised from records and accounts, either by omission or by individuals’ own necessary discretion.

Retelling well-known histories as queer tales is more about putting back into our past what has been erased from it. As Black Sails co-creator Jon Steinberg said to Den of Geek regarding the show’s historical figures, “There’s some freedom in the moment you realize that the historic record is severely compromised in terms of what these peoples’ lives were like. They had a motive to lie, and so did the people in London. […] It gives us the room to try to tell a story that will hopefully feel real. It probably won’t necessarily match up to the textbook to what happened, but I think we would probably argue that the textbook is already a narrative that somebody with an agenda put together a long, long time ago.”

Not that it’s hard to read queerness into existing histories, even if the terminology and conception of the ideas differed at the time. Romanticized pirates have always been portrayed as camp, an image perhaps spurred on by historical figures like Jack Rackham, nicknamed Calico Jack on account of his colorful outfits (who also makes an appearance in OFMD). Mary Read spent a portion of their life under the name Mark Read, and whether it was simply a disguise or fluid gender expression or if they were even trans, it lends itself to storylines like that of Jim on Our Flag Means Death. Accounts of Blackbeard spending all of his time with Stede Bonnet can so easily be understood through a queer lens that it’s shocking no story put such a twist on these figures before Our Flag Means Death.

But the answer to why no one had might be captured somewhat in the response to Black Sails’ own voyage into queer storytelling.

To be fair, Black Sails does have queer characters from the outset — two women, Eleanor and Max — but the first season generally presents them under a leering male gaze, seemingly intended to titillate general audiences. The show’s interest in the revolutionary qualities of queerness didn’t take center stage until its second season. While it spawned a fervent following among some queer fans, it equally drew the ire of homophobes who felt betrayed by the reveal that half of the cast was queer. Reddit is littered with rants against the show’s “gay agenda” by lads who thought they were getting a show “just about pirates,” all part of an outcry that even got Flint’s actor, Toby Stephens, to comment. “Before the revelation I had this huge following from guys, but as soon as that happened it was like they had been betrayed. It was the sense of utter betrayal and I wasn’t surprised because I knew it was going to be a massive thing.” The degree of discomfort among men, that simply by being gay Flint no longer adhered to their rigid standard of a male icon, is hardly something that’s gone away.

In the present, though, the TV landscape has changed considerably since Black Sails aired. Streaming services have come to rule the roost and fracture the monoculture, and the pandemic has only further shaped that. Black Sails had to compete against The Wire, The Sopranos, and Game of Thrones to earn its place at the table. For Our Flag Means Death, which is much more a comedy than a drama (and not at all an epic genre TV series, though there are still plenty of old-fashioned stabbings), things are a little different.

While the special effects (the revolutionary StageCraft developed for The Mandalorian) that allow Our Flag Means Death to seem like it’s taking place at sea would have been reserved for much higher-budget shows only a few years ago, they’re a flourish for a series that largely takes place on small sets. It could’ve been a tiny budget sitcom a decade ago. That smaller scale may be what allowed it to take risks that, sadly, still feel daring in 2022. It’s not just a romance between Stede and Edward but an entire cast full of queer characters — a queerness that in its own context largely feels unremarkable, with the crew quietly tolerant and respectful of each other throughout the series.

In the last few years things have moved along, but even still, both shows had to operate under the very conditions of which they’re critical. As America and the U.K. both ramp up in homophobia and transphobia, with legislation seeking to target those vulnerable groups, the stories of Black Sails and Our Flag Means Death don’t feel like purely historical stories. They’re tales of the here and now. Pirates are a way to recontextualize those who society “others,” who are made outcasts and fringe by the mainstream. The shows invite us to ask why someone would choose to live on the edge, to unpack their histories and motives until their popular image is vanquished. To take the most well-known of pirates and to reframe them as traumatized queer outcasts is not intended as a historical rewrite but as a rebuttal of the very idea of a history written by the conquerors.

The British Empire present in both stories is depicted as an entity that is, at its worst, all-consuming barbarism and, at its best, all-consuming barbarism propped up by a veneer of civility. It’s an entity that not only destroys but warps reality around itself, reshaping history in its likeness.

In our present, queer people are once again being miscast as villains and boogeymen. In a way, Black Sails and Our Flag Means Death always dance on the edge of tragedy. Either they meet the same ends as their historical counterparts or we see the bittersweet truth of stories that are written out of history, their actions twisted into something evil. By giving that other perspective, by suggesting another account, these shows are a rallying cry for queer folk looking for their place in a world that doesn’t want them to exist at all — and a reminder to everyone who stands against us which side of history they’re on.

Source: Polygon

[furious-rogue-stuff]

Heat Chapter: 8 - Insecurities - Part 2

Part 2...oof. This was a doozy to write! But if ya’ll are still reading, we know this series is D.R.A.M.A.~! 

If you’d like to be added to the tag list, please let me know~!

Pairing: Javier Peña x OFC | Javi x Querida

Disclaimer: Written in 2nd person narrative, you can safely assume our heroine and love/lust interest is a Latina, written by a Latina. Here's my philosophy on my writing, for further context.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 🔞

Word Count: 17,000+

Summary: Unspoken expectations aside, when you hit ground zero of your most pernicious insecurities, can Javi stay in your grace while battling the horrors that threaten to splinter him apart?

Warnings: Javier Peña being devilishly sexy, graphic depictions of sex, adult situations, gratuitous smut, jealousy, angst, and a little toxic behavior, some hurt/comfort, vulnerable emotional states, mentions of trauma, PTSD, and violence. Detailed descriptions of salacious unprotected sex 🤭 Slight Dom/Sub play, Soft!Javi, and PowerBottomQueen!Reader is back. In the vein of Narcos being a bilingual show, and Javier Peña being fluent, I felt it was apropos to include Spanglish and Spanish throughout.

Chapter 1: Nicknames | Chapter 2: Tempest | Chapter 3: Solterita | Chapter 4: Cagey | Chapter 5: Want - Part 1| Chapter 6: Want - Part 2 | Chapter 7: Insecurities - Part 1 |  Read at AO3

Taglist: @redsilentwolf28​ @just-here-for-the-moment​ @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan​ @mandosmistress​ @sarahjkl82-blog​ @omgreally​ @knittingqueen13​ @mamacitapascal​ @chronic-nosebleed​ @hnt-escape​ @eri16​ @gracie7209​ @casssiopeia​

Chapter 8: Insecurities - Part 2

Hindsight is 20/20, as the saying goes, and you find yourself feeling enlightened after your little tiff in the car. After all, while you both weren't shy, you clearly had trouble being frank and open about your feelings – about the things that bother you or stick with you until they snowball into insecurities you can't see around. Well, you were reluctant to disclose your feelings, anyway. Always have been, and no matter how much you love Javi, that's not going to change, so you hope he sticks with you and understands where you stand now after you practically browbeat him with it.

You think about it during the idle, stray lulls of your day. How you'd completely forgotten about how surly and celoso Javier had been, and you realize you've lightly fibbed, recalling Luke had sort of asked you out – in a somewhat roundabout way. Frowning, you think about whether you should amend it to Javier.

The furious way he'd snapped in the car is imprinted in your mind's eye, but not for the reason it should be. You daydream about it, how his dark eyes flashed with lightning, how his usually cool and cocky veneer had flinted away with the vehemence of his jealousy, jaw on edge as he reigned his anger back and scowled. His shoulders had been so broad from his chest puffing out with wound up impulse, and the way the tendon in his neck had defined as he'd sworn gruffly only added to the primordial allure of seeing him irate.

It was an unholy turn on. You'd gotten so exhilarated at how the energy charged off of him, feeding your own fury and the intoxicating attraction towards him being all alpha macho stud. You should be embarrassed at yourself, but you can't muster it. Javier Peña just does things to you, and not all of them have any commonsense explanation or logic, but you don't give a damn. However, you're not a reckless person, so the idea of encouraging his flaring temper is one you have to quell immediately. After all, it's like you told him: You have to be cordial and friendly. It's the nature of inter-departmental relations, and you don't have the luxury of being a flippant smartass like your lover does.

With a grunt, you shake your head and go back to concentrating on your work.

Javier is doing some ruminating of his own while Steve's on the phone with his wife. Sometimes, he envied his partner. Not at all for being married…but for having someone he could freely be devoted to without concern of it being used against him. He wishes he could waste glorious time flirting with you on the phone while Steve had to sit there and roll his eyes, or hell – that he could bring you over to his partner's place for a couple's dinner. Would you ever relent and be open to it? What would it take for you to let your guard completely down and take it public?

He'd told you his intentions, but part of him knew you took it with a grain of salt. After all, you'd basically just bellowed your reason for resisting defining things in the car this morning, and for the life of him, he wasn't sure whether he'd have to fucking go to the middle of the lobby downstairs and declare he would never flirt with another woman ever again in order for you to believe him. If it'd help, hell, he'd do it. He didn't give a shit what people thought of him anyway, but he can picture your hypothetically horrified, furious reaction, and while it shouldn't turn him on so much, he's objective enough to know you would not abide any kind of brash flaunting of your relationship. Especially once it got around to everyone, including the lunk-headed jackasses in Mil Group—

"—Javi, Connie's asking if you wanna come to dinner at our place tonight," Steve's grumble pulls Javier back from his brooding.

"Nah, no thanks. Already have plans," he answers smoothly, adding quickly and loud enough for the receiver to pick it up, "Thanks anyway, Connie."

"Hmph," Steve grunts and goes back to listening to his wife. "Hm? Yeah, I'm sure it's the mystery woman he's seeing—"

Javier blows a raspberry and sarcastically shakes his head. "Don't get your wife mixed up in your ridiculous conspiracies, man," he deadpans and reaches for his cigarettes. "Mystery woman? I don't have that kind of time."

"Uh-huh," Steve laconically drawls and quirks a derisive brow.

Javier lights his cigarette and scoffs, going back to his dossier building.

At the end of the day, you're already regretting agreeing to the non-happy-hour-thing, especially when Ellis tells you finally where you're going.

"What?! C'mon, what the hell—"

"It was Lou's idea! He has a buddy who runs the range, so he's letting us crack a couple of beers and shoot some paper targets," Ellis answers and literally steers you by your shoulders to the passenger seat of his car. "C'mon, Annie Oakley—"

"Ugh…did you tell them?" you grumble after you've climbed into the passenger seat and Ellis has hopped into the driver's side.

"Nope! Lou was joshing the fellas on having shitty target practice hours, so he figured it'd be fun to have us all get some shootin' out and make it a bonding thing. After all, with all the kidnapping craziness, you might need to start carrying a piece, for protection—" Ellis remarks as he drives you both out of the compound and down to the CNP Academy in the city.

"I'm not a wealthy to-do Colombian socialite, goofball," you snicker and sigh, resigned. "I'm not staying late, so if you do, I'll take a cab—"

"Hell no. I'll leave with you. Anita doesn't want me out late these days anyway," he chortles and frowns, and you can't help laugh. "Yeah…I'm whipped. You should find yourself a fella to whip too, girlie."

"Oh sure, I'm right on top of that, Rose," you deride, using his surname to punctuate your sardonic tone and smirking.

Once you've both met up with the others, you stroll into the indoor shooting range where Lou is smoking a cigar with the head CIA asset at a makeshift table they've set up. "Well now, nice to see you, little lady!" the colonel greets boisterously, and you grin and shake his hand, giving it the practiced, confident squeeze your father had taught you. "You know, I'm glad you came. It's always valuable to have a civilian asset who can shoot in a pinch, if needed," he jokes and banters lightly with you and the others while Luke and Nador set up the targets at the booths lined across from the table you're all at.

Before long, you're donning a pair of requisition-grade earmuffs while you watch Ellis take pointers from Samson before he raises his glock pistol and aims. When he fires, the bullet clips the middle edge of the paper target, to your buddy's chagrin. "Oh, that's a shit shot…"

"That's cuz you blinked at the last minute," Luke jokes and pats his shoulder as he glances over at you and gestures for you to come up to the stall and give it a try.

Ruefully, you do, feeling all the men watch you lope over on your spool heels to the stall next to Ellis and wait for Samson to come around with another pistol. When he hands it to you, you let him show you where the safety is, how to switch it off, then, he unloads the clip to show you it's fully loaded, and snaps it back in before placing the gun with the barrel facing the range beyond.

After he's set the paper target and hit the button to propel it out into the firing range, you position yourself in front of the stall and pick up the gun. Ellis leans over the stall to watch you, so you roll your eyes and admonishingly gesture with a tilt of your head for him to get back. Once he does, you focus. When you point the gun in a steady double grip to aim at the target, you concentrate on zeroing in on a specific mark on the target when you suddenly feel Luke put his fingertips at the back of your shoulder and the edge of his hand graze along the underside of your arm as he adjusts your aim.

You inhale a covertly tense breath and glance sidelong at him, training your features into a stoic regard as his hazel eyes connect with yours. "Widen your stance a bit more," he instructs, and the gravel of his tone is warm and encouraging, as he adds, "Not sure how easy it is to do in heels—"

With an exacting shrug of your shoulder blades, you flick your hair over your shoulders and punt his hand at your arm with the side of your elbow as you seamlessly lift your grip and fire a series of shots at the target. The barrel smokes from the rapid-fire trigger pulls and you glare ahead at the paper outline of a man, and when everyone balks and stares over at the target, they see you shot into the circle of what would be a sternum on a suspect, and that the last bullet went into the spot between the eyes, had it been a real person.

"Holy shit," you hear one of the guys gape, impressed.

With the flick of your wrist, you engage the safety, eject the magazine, and for good measure, cock the barrel to eject the last bullet that was chambered before you place the pistol down on the stall's counter and turn to raise a scathing brow at Luke.

"Excuse me," you crisply muse and breeze by him towards the table you left your purse at.

"Goddamn," Lou cheers before he whistles and claps at you. "Do all the women in the C.O. office know how to shoot like that?! Cuz if they do, I'm recruitin'. The rest of you can go listen to wiretaps!"

You smile, but shoot Ellis a glance over your shoulder that orders, 'I want to leave. Now.'

After some good-natured ribbing and easy praise, you say your goodbyes and don't give Luke a second look. Ellis, for his part, plays perfect buffer and you're both able to head to his car with minimal tension. Once he's driven a ways away, though, he can't bear the pregnant silence, so he blurts, "You looked real mad, kid."

"I was," you state curtly.

"I don't think he meant anything by it," Ellis pouts, and you cross your arms, annoyed. "I'm sure he'll apologize for being so presumptuous—"

"I don't care. Clearly I've encouraged him to think he could be so forward, so I've corrected that," you snap and press your lips together. "I'm sorry for cutting it short—"

"Nah. It's getting late. We should head home with all the shit that's going on anyways," he replies affably, easing your tension.

As soon as you're up the steps and through the apartment door, you toss your things onto the side table and stomp into the bathroom to take a shower, simmering with insolent annoyance. By the time 10pm rolls around, you're feeling less angry, especially once you dug around in your drawers for a very risqué garment you just remembered buying on a lark the last time Anita and you went to the mall. You consider saving it for tomorrow night, but decide it's the perfect ensemble for how you're feeling tonight.

When Javier knocks at your door a few minutes later, he's glancing around while he waits for you to answer. He remembers how he'd had to stand at the backstairs and wait for that asshole Samson to leave your door before he could stalk over and surprise you. That hot jealous sting sticks in his craw, but he shoves it away when he hears you undo the lock and open the door.

Javier turns and practically misses leaning his hand into the doorframe — his usual smug pose, and just ends up doing a wide-eyed double take before openly leering at you.

"Well?" you muse and raise a sultry brow. "Are you gonna come in?"

He cups his hand over his mouth and finally jolts at the realization that you're really standing there in a red-lace teddy and nothing else at your door, hair and lips full and luscious as you stare provocatively at him, so he swivels his startled stare around to make sure no one can see you before he rushes in and slams the door shut.

"Jesus fucking Christ, querida—" Javier begins to exclaim when he stops himself after you've given him a smoldering look and traced your tongue between your lips as you push him up against the door and snake your hands beyond his jacket to the back of his pants.

Without ceremony, you yank his service weapon and badge free to store them onto the side table against the wall before you reach your arms around him again and find the item you're looking for.

"Do you know what I've been thinking about all day?" you purr as you yank his handcuffs free from the leather clasp that fastens them into the back of his belt. When Javier just stares incandescently down at you, you brush up against him and whisper against his chin, "You, in handcuffs, for being a fucking atrevido with me this morning."

Javier has never been more turned on in his life. He went from relaxed to instantly hard in an instant, and his brain is trying to rationalize what's happening while his cock is just intently straining at your every move. It's only when you raise a challenging brow at him and press your breasts into his midriff that he snaps out of the enthralled haze to answer thickly, "I-I don't know if the punishment f-fits the crime—"

"Really? Being a puto mujeriego and yelling at me doesn't call for me to put these on and doing whatever the hell I want to you?" you pose in an alluring murmur, eyes gleaming up at him as you rattle the handcuffs while he shivers and groans appealingly. With an exacting smirk, you get on your tippy toes and ghost your lips against his parted ones and purr, "I think it does."

Javi's Adam's apple bobs when he swallows and wars with the dark, deviant urge that's twisting gleefully in his gut – pulse racing as he lets you pull him by the front of his belt away from the door to instead be lead down to your bedroom. He's so aroused by this that he doesn't trust his voice not to crack if he gripes any defying remark. And really, he doesn't want to defy you right now. He is lit up with desire and intrigue, simmering with excitement as you pull him to the foot of the bed and keep your hand gripped around the buckle of his belt.

"Take your clothes off," you order, tilting your head up at an angle so you can brush your nose along his chest. "Now."

Javier exhales a charged breath and is shrugging his jacket off in an instant before he can muster the outrage or umbrage at being ordered to do anything. Once his fingers hastily work the buttons of his shirt open, you let your hand at his belt drop to graze his tented crotch before taking a step back and leaning your weight onto a hip, seating your free hand there imperiously while you idly toy the handcuffs in your other hand. Javi's stripping stutters in speed from how distracted he gets by how insanely sexy you look, so you have to hum at him to keep going.

You graze your teeth along your bottom lip as you watch more and more golden skin emerge, and it takes all your vindictively devious control to not falter and just pounce on him when he tosses the last barrier away to stand in his naked glory before you. His cock is thick with arousal and straining to be touched, throbbing and looking utterly delectable. Javi's eyes are dark with lust, filled with fog while his broad, muscled body is coiled in erotic anticipation.

"Get on the bed."

Javi licks his lips and broadens his shoulders in a telltale show of defiance. "Rules first," he croaks hoarsely, and takes a cleansing breath, gathering his confidence. "You cannot leave me handcuffed," he rumbles in a graveled husk.

You raise a brow and let the handcuffs hang around the curve of your hooked fingers. "Do you let anyone set the terms of their punishment, agente?" you muse and feign like he's quite gullible to think he can negotiate as you prance closer and trail your fingertips along his arm as you circle him. "Let them tell you how things are gonna go?" you purr and drag your nails lightly down his back, causing him to gasp and his muscles to flex. "If that's so, then I'm not really interested—" you begin when Javier whirls and gruffly huffs down at you, eyes burning with daring. He's right on the edge of losing control and just ravishing you with surly dominance, so you lean into him and murmur, "Haz lo que te pido, amado."

The power of saying, 'Do as I ask you, beloved,' is beyond anything you could've imagined, but are delighted by when he shudders and goes to lie on your bed, aroused and breathing fast as he's titillated with anticipation and illicit longing.

He's never trusted anyone enough to let them handcuff him, but he finds that he trusts you implicitly, which feels so forbidden. You crawl over him and take your time kissing up his body, trailing the tip of your tongue along sinew and muscle while he groans in approval and keeps his hands on the pillow above his head. When he feels the cold metal of the handcuff start to bracelet his wrist, he exhales and realizes he'd closed his eyes in anxious excitement, so he opens them now to watch you.

He sees your loving look, how you're focused on putting the handcuffs on, mindful to keep them loose so as to not cut off his circulation. The clicking of the metal settling into a fixed grip and the chain linking the cuffs clanking has Javier trembling, and you can feel it, so you straddle him and affectionately curl your warm, lacy body against his overheated skin. You kiss him, finally, and are so tender, taking your time with the worship of his mouth as you slip your fingers into his hair and soothingly caress his scalp while you twirl your tongue against his.

Parting from the hungry kiss, you trail your mouth along his jaw and undulate your body over his, rubbing his pulsing cock against the swell of your ass as you suckle on that soft, sweet spot on his neck and earn a hoarse groan from Javier. Then, you suddenly rear up and grip your palms around the base of his forearms and press down, forcing his handcuffed hands into the plush pillow more and giving you purchase enough to press your cleavage against his face.

Javier moans and buries his face into your breasts, breathing in your scent and getting harder after you hum and murmur, "Do you know how turned on and hot you got me?"

"Mmph, t-tell me," he exhales gruffly after you ease back and stare seductively down at him.

"Enough to consider marching into your office and banishing your poor partner so I can have my fucking way with you," you charge, tightening your grip on his forearms when his arms jerk and he writhes under you. You can see he's picturing it, and from how his cock twitches against your ass, you know he's thought something similarly filthy. "Dime una cosa," you purr and finally undulate your hips so you can nestle Javi to grind flush against your wet, soft pussy. "¿Eres mío?"

Javier moans at the combination of your asking if he's yours and the sensation of you sinking onto his cock. His hands clench into fists from the sinful desperation of wanting to grab you and being unable to, so he groans and arches in frustration under you and hitches, "Y-Yes. Yes."

Pleased, you do a slow gyration of your pelvis and literally squeeze Javi's cock in your silken, rippling vise by clenching your floor muscles and rutting down on him. His eyes roll back into his head and he makes the neediest sound you've ever heard him make – hands on his forearms feeling how his tendons flex convulsively under the impulsive twitches of his hands trying to yank apart. His reaction has your clit throbbing and your core contracting hard around him, which earns a wordless exaltation from him. Your nipples are studding into the lace of your practically see-through teddy as you lean down and lick his lips.

"Tell me how bad you want me to ride your cock, Javier," you insist in a drawl against his mouth, breathing in his panting gasps as you clutch your walls around him.

"B-Bad—so bad, please, q-querida—" he stutters in a roughened baritone that rakes delight across your senses.

You answer by snatching your hands up to clasp his and yank so his arms have to bend at the elbow, and you lift from his lap only enough for his cock to heavily drag so close to slipping out of your heavenly heat before you slam yourself back onto it and cry out when you hit something exquisite inside yourself. Javi rumbles and bucks up to meet your hips as you repeat the brusque pivoting of your hips to drive yourself hard onto his pulsing cock. His fingers lace with yours as your pace only picks up, lips parted as you whimper from the sinfully divine effort of riding Javier at your own indulgence – albeit with rapturous undulations that have you able to control the vigor and intensity of the sensations with the sinewy and deftness of your supple muscles.

Your thighs flex from the effort of lifting and clenching lusciously around Javier, abs tense and lithe from your clutching and contracting of your core. Javi is writhing and desperate to meet your pace, but can't leverage more than bucking his hips up into you from how you have his hands and arms propped over his head, pulling his shoulders taut and leaving him at your mercy. Not that he's looking to end this ravenous game, especially when you surprise him by holding his hands down by pinning them with your palm pressing the chain linking the cuffs into the pillow while you reach your other hand behind yourself and cup his balls. The light, teasing pressure of your fingers around his aching spheres coupled with your molten sheath gripping wantonly around his cock has Javi braying a choked moan and tossing his head back as he stammers your name and has to bite his lip from babbling more filthy, unintelligent praise.

When you fist the chain and hunch into him as you finally buckle under the mounting pleasure sizzling through your muscles, you have to stifle a cry as you climax, not wanting to miss his reaction. Javier rewards you by shivering and straining inside you before you feel his cock swell and throb. His expression flushes and his moan is tight and wrecked when he comes, chest going broad and body reflexively tensing as his hips stutter under you to fuck over into bliss while you sink down to bury him as deep as he can go so he can fill your shuddering core.

The force of it has you alight and complete, and you can't help make a fierce little sound of content glee as you feel him pump you full of cum. With how tight your muscles are flexed, you can feel your womb quiver at the warm onslaught, and the way Javier looks up at you when you bow and moan your delight? It's an enthralling prize you'll covet forever.

His brows are arched ecstatically, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead while his usually etched features are supine with sated lust, eyes soft and dark with glossy bliss and mouth slack from his panting breathing. He looks gorgeous, and you only hope he likes what he sees too.

Javier is staring through hazed, pining eyes at you, completely fucked out and drunk on the high of having you dominate a mind-blowing orgasm out of him. He whines when he goes to reach and caress his hands through your hair and remembers he's cuffed. Your hand around the chain eases away so you can cuddle into him, and Javi mumbles appealing sounds. You sigh and kiss him at the spot under his jaw, nuzzling him and getting lost in his scent and warm skin.

"Tan bello," you find yourself sighing as you lean up to caress his cheek and stare alluringly into his molten gaze. When Javi smiles, that boyish dimple is on full display – teasing you – and you can't help mutter, "I think I could enjoy keeping you like this indefinitely—"

"Not in these fuckin' handcuffs, bravita," he grumbles, but his smile doesn't wane, especially when you huff and sit up so you can caress your palms possessively across his pecs. "C'mon," he lifts his cuffed wrists and shakes them, obvious gesture for you to free him.

You sigh dramatically and lightly drag your nails down his chest, earning a delighted hiss from him. "I don't know," you lilt. "They really suit you, guapito," you tease and watch him flush when you caress your thumbs over his nipples and cause them to harden. "And you seemed to really like being in them—"

"Keep it up, and I'll put you in 'em," he growls ruggedly and showily raises his arms to outstretch his wrists at you.

You pout, and surprise him by grabbing the chain linking the cuffs and tugging so he has to sit up, and you loop under them so you can be flush against his chest as you kiss him. Javier idly cups the back of your head as best he can and deepens the kiss before he suddenly pulls back when he feels you adjust in his lap. He hisses at the sensation of your heat receding from around him and being replaced with the comingled warmth of your desires spending out of your tight sheath. With the distraction of his riveted attention being on the sinful sight, you shrug seamlessly back, slipping out of the loop of his arms, and on shaky knees, pivot to straddle his lap facing the foot of the bed. You glance over your shoulder at him as you hike up the teddy and show him your dewed and dripping cunt from behind before bowing and presenting yourself to him.

Javier is floored with savage delight and suppresses a shiver when you hum appealingly and murmur, "Fuck me as hard as you can, and I'll let you out of those cuffs."

He's never been up for a challenge more in his life.

Even with the handcuffs, Javi is able to dominate you with aplomb in this position, and you both revel in it, enjoying being alphas that can share control. You are especially impressed when he pivots you onto your elbows and keeps you balanced to angle your pelvis up for him with just his handcuffed hands clasped at either side of your arched trapezius muscles, thumbs pressing in and anchoring you as he pounds your pulsing, silken pussy from behind. You whimper breathily and let Javier fuck you into hypersensitive bliss, feeling a shameless wreck as you climax and he presses his palms down into the middle of your lower back and ruts through your quaking sheath as every plunge forces his previous spend to leak out of you just to be replaced with hot cum he pumps into you after moaning your name and thrusting home before bottoming out in you.

You mewl rapaciously and crumble under your pleasure as Javier keeps undulating his hips and dragging his cock to rub flush against every inch of rippling heat inside you. Spent, Javi pulls your hips up and back to follow his own as he rears to sit and yanks you to do the same, but in his lap – with his cock still inside you. You're quaking and twitching in his arms after he looped his cuffed wrists over your head to bind you against his chest.

He listens to you catch your breath and gets lost in your sweet scent as he rests his head against yours.

After a fleeting eternity, you are yourself again and able to scrape your senses to retrieve his keys from his jacket pocket and release him from the handcuffs. You're about to put them aside on the nightstand when he snatches them from your grip and pulls you by your arm against him, making a big show as if he's contemplating clamping them on you before shrugging and tossing them away to land on your dresser with a clang. You snicker and internally exhale in relief, unsure you'd be able to withstand another romp while your hands were incapacitated.

Once you've both showered and are back on your refreshed sheets, lounging naked together, Javi languidly stretches out and lies on his side to admire you. "…Put it back on?" he husks tentatively.

You blow a raspberry. "That thing is a mess—"

"It's not. I like it, especially now," he rumbles, fingertips tracing your temple and following the contour of your cheekbone. "Please?"

You can't deny him when he asks like that. With faux annoyance, you retrieve the illicitly stained teddy and put it back on, wrinkling your nose at the damp spots before getting back into bed. He grunts in approval and pulls you to lie on top of him, letting his hands caress down your sides and knead your ass over the red lace.

"How was that thing?" he asks as he trails his nose against your jaw while you comb your fingers through his hair.

You give a dispassionate sneer. "I probably won't be bugged to go to another one of 'em for a while," is what you answer glibly before snickering at him grunting curiously as he starts to fondle your breast over the stretchy lace.

"Hm, care to elaborate?" he attempts, but is content with watching how your nipple studs against the lace from his teasing touch.

"Not really," you muse and finally slap his hand down. "So, tomorrow night. You picking me up here after work?" you change the subject smoothly and slink off of him so you and recline sidelong into the pillows and smile at him.

"Yeah. Around 8 work?" he remarks and lounges with his hands folded behind his head, sated and pleased when you cuddle close and nod in assent. "…You still up for the entire thing?" he poses in a soft tone, and you find yourself deciphering his meaning. "I promise to sneak you into my place where my nosy neighbors won't see—"

"Ah," you snicker and sit up to drape your arm around his broad chest and lean close to kiss his jaw. "Yes, I'm letting you dictate the terms, chavón," you purr and kiss his lips. "I'm looking forward to it."

He hums, appeased, and brushes a kiss to your cheek. "Good. It's a date," he drawls and smirks as he adjusts so he can loop an arm around you and hold you close.

You smile, all wistful as you reach over him to shut the light off and curl up against him.

The morning routine is blissful, and once you both kiss and part ways, you're content with counting down the hours until you can race home and get really dolled up. You have the dress you'll wear already in mind, and are debating what shoes to pair it with when lunch time rolls around and you go meet with Marisol and some of the other girls. When you come back to your desk, Ellis is nursing his 3rd cup of coffee of the day and shooting you coy glances. Rolling your eyes, you huff and swivel in your chair to face him.

"Out with it," you mutter, crossing your arms.

"Well, I'm trying to gauge whether you'll shoot the messenger," he quips, and when you raise a judgmental brow, he sighs. "I think Samson's gonna approach you today—"

"No."

"Wait, so he might come by at the end of the day—"

"No."

"—He's a nice guy and definitely doesn't want to end up on bad terms with you—"

"NO."

At the firmness of that, Ellis pouts. "You can only control you, kid, so I'm just forewarning you incase you feel compelled to verbally assassinate him. Best you don't and just tell him no hard feelings and remain civil."

You grumble and swivel back around, knowing he's right. "It's done after this though. No more matchmaking or cajoling. And he better not be talking about me—"

"The fellas were raggin' on him, but they have nothing disparaging to say about you. They think you're a badass, frankly," Ellis remarks and sips his coffee.

You stew on that, wondering if they're liable to talk about you to DEA, if Javi gets earfuls about you from them. He'd alluded to it, but never specified anything. While you wonder, Javier and Steve are walking into Mil Group for a surveillance briefing. The bullpen outside of Lou's office and adjacent to the conference room is relatively empty of personnel. Along the wall that would be used to pin up suspect boards was instead taken up with tacked paper targets, each riddled with varying bullet holes.

There's one with a blue ribbon attached to it, so when they go into the conference room, Steve can't help deride, "Your boys need gold star stickers for target practice?"

"Real funny," Lou deadpans and gestures with his coffee mug to the wall with the targets. "That's to motivate them to be less of a shit shot. After all, the best shot wasn't any one of 'em, so figured it'd be a good kick in the ass."

Javi chuckles and glances over at the target with the blue ribbon, seeing it has four bullet shots in the center and one in the middle of the head. "Who was the crack shot?" he drawls as he leans against the table and fans out his dossier.

"That ferocious little minx from C.O. Put all of 'em to shame with her shooting," the colonel muses and takes a long drink from his mug, watching as Javier's brows quirk and Steve grins with wily amusement. "I just might need to recruit her—"

"Maybe we will. Shit, if she's that good a shot," Steve jokes and swats Javi's arm in a sardonic show of camaraderie.

"Something tells me she wouldn't put up with either of you and your shit, boys," Lou jibes in a snarky drawl.

Javi spends most of the meeting picturing you in that red lace teddy, and in his fantasy he's put you in those 'fuck me' heels and has you aiming the barrel of a gun like some Bond girl, except you're his girl – his little solterita who seemingly everyone drools over. His pride in knowing he's the only one with the privileges bestowed to him by you has him hot and yearning the rest of the day.

You, on the other hand, are not looking forward to the end of the day now that Ellis has warned you about Samson wanting to make amends of some kind. You're tempted to just leave half hour early so you can beat rush hour and enjoy the ritual of getting ready for your date with Javi, but you also know this needs to happen. Truthfully, you feel like you have to do a bit of penance for having unintentionally fibbed to Javi, and maybe at least this way you'll cull any more advances, permanently.

That's the plan when you walk out of your department with Ellis and head off to your weekend. He's goofily fidgeting, as if he is the one that has to let Luke down gently, and by the time you both are exiting the lobby, you think he's going to volunteer to do it for you, but as soon as you're out the main doors and heading for the sprawling stairs down to the carport, Luke is waiting, and Ellis literally coughs uncomfortably and grimaces, "Do you want me to hang around? I'll be your alibi…but I'm not burying the body."

You jab a pressure point under his armpit and he winces. "Just go home, Rose," you snicker, needling him with his surname, to his chagrin. "I'll see you Monday."

Once Ellis gallops down the stairs and shoots Luke a hasty farewell, you march over and decide to get this over with. He looks tense, like he's been deliberating over this since last night, and you annoyance wanes a bit. "Hey…" he greets, tenor rumble halting. "I wanted to apologize—"

"Luke, it's fine," you cut in, brushing your hair behind your ear when a breeze tousles your tresses languidly from behind your shoulders. "I don't want to belabor anything. We're colleagues and I just want to keep things civil and professional, so if I've been untoward in my behavior, I'm sorry. You're a great guy, and I shouldn't have encouraged anything—"

"You didn't. That was me reading into things what I wanted," he states earnestly, adding with genuine affection, "Yes, I like you, but I'm a grown ass man. I am more than happy to keep things platonic. I just don't ever want to make you uncomfortable or cross your boundaries again."

Feeling like a complete jerk now, your shoulders sag and you adjust your purse strap as you sigh and muse, "I'm sorry I showed you up in front of the guys."

He laughs, a warm, gravelly sound as he puts his hands in his pockets and makes an 'aw, shucks' gesture with his shoulders. "You totally buried the lead! Where'd you learn to shoot like that?!" he asks, and you feel a bit better, glad to not have some brooding awkwardness between you two.

"My father," you answer, but don't elaborate. Instead, you remark, "We're going to get Mil Group's tech requisitions soon, so we'll have to come up with a schedule for you fellas to get trained up. In the meantime, do practice your shooting. I'd hate to hear Lou talk about recruiting newbies."

"Hah, you know he pinned up the targets? On Monday, you gotta come by and see," he chuckles.

You both chit chat a bit more, smoothening all terseness aside before you say your goodbyes and 'Have a nice weekend,' well wishes.

It's a short while later that you get home and go to rush to get ready for your date. You feel lighter after talking to Luke, and are free to look forward to having Javier Peña take you out to a night on the town – his side of town, on his terms. You'd be lying if you said you weren't a bit anxious at the prospect of being seen by possible coworkers out and about with the notorious-yet-debonair DEA agent, but you're more excited than anything.

By the time you look at the clock, you realize you have to rush to pick out your shoes before finishing with your makeup, which isn't your forte. Once you've put the lipstick down to reach for your favorite perfume and spritz lightly, Javier is knocking on your door.

He's just finished chewing one of his mints when you open the door. Whirling, he feels a sense of déjà vu – only instead of being dumbstruck by a lacy femme fatale standing in the threshold this time, he's floored to see you in a flirty-yet-classy off-the-shoulder blush-toned dress and strappy kitten heels. Your hair is half up in a delicate twist, fastened with rose-shaped hair clasp. The tresses that flow loose accentuate the soft lines of your sloping shoulders and neck, and when you adjust your purse strap onto your shoulder and look up at him, Javi has to struggle to not whisk you inside and worship you like the impulse beckons.

"You look gorgeous," he blurts, and you melt a little at the honeyed pitch of his tone.

Taking the chance to appraise him with an affectionate once over, you catalogue how ridiculously handsome he is in virtually everything he wears. It should be a crime. And now? Wearing a dark blue polo shirt and fitted black slacks, with a black leather belt and matching pair of loafers – with his hair combed with a brush? It's downright sinful. And his scent – it's mouthwatering, and all you want to do is press your face into his throat and do very filthy things to him.

"You combed your hair," you tease and pull him close by his belt buckle so you can lean up and kiss him on the lips. "Estás bien guapo, chulito," you purr and he grunts with dry affection at that. "Mmm, you smell good," you murmur and trail your nose along his jaw, which causes heat to coil in his gut and a tempted hum to warm up his chest.

"Keep it up, and I can't be held responsible for what I do," he grouses provocatively as he caresses a hand down the curve of your body to cheekily knead your ass. "You have everything?"

Smirking, you slink away and grab the overnight tote from the couch and hold it up, as if it's the Holy Grail, or at least from how Javier's brows are quirking in triumph, the irrevocable proof that you're all-in for his plans. He takes the tote so you can lock up and store your keys in your purse before taking his hand and letting him lead you down the steps and out to his jeep. It's a cool night, sky clear of clouds and the moon is full, so he's able to admire you from the corner of his eye and enjoy how lovely you look in the lowlight of the car as you joke and smile over at him while he drives.

"—How nosy are your neighbors? Like, look out the peephole at every sound of activity nosy?" you ask, raising your brows when he snorts at the thought.

"Steve and Connie are upstairs, so no worries there. You might hear him galloping around up there," he offers and shrugs. "The neighbor down the hall from me is some analyst that's always traveling," he pauses and deviously glances over at you as he purrs, "You don't have to do the walk of shame I do—"

"Oh please. Aside from giving las retiradas a nice treat to feast on from their garden patios, they are not going to blow up your spot like anyone on your block most definitely would," you snicker and grin when he grunts and squeezes your knee cheekily at that.

"…Well I guess it's a good thing you have suitors go to your place," he rumbles in a veiled tone, one you know is really him fishing to find out how many other men you've invited over.

If he'd asked at any other time, you probably would've been peeved, but considering you're trying to play on his terms, you figure it wouldn't hurt to divulge a bit. "Nope. You're the only one I've let come over," you muse pleasantly, and when he glances at you, seeming a bit surprised, you add, "How do you think I got so good at sneaking out without waking you?"

That makes him picture things he doesn't want to – namely you sneaking out of a man's bed with the stealth you employed with Javi after your first hookup, so he clears his throat and hums.

You purse your lips in amusement and lean over to plant a peck on his cheek. "No te pongas celoso," you tease.

"I can't help get jealous," he answers in a sulky tone, and you snicker. "But I suppose you have all night to make it up to me," he purrs and skates his palm from your knee to brush along your thigh.

You tingle at that, and smile, deciding you'll do just that.

He takes you to a very nice restaurant in the old town of the capital, and escorts you with your hand tucked into his forearm as you traverse the cobblestones. Your table is cozy and secluded, and the small votive candle at the center creates a soft glow that casts you both in a literal romantic light. You see his soulful eyes shine while you both talk over your meals and sip your drinks. The food is delicious, and so is your lover when he's licking his lips and smiling at you.

You affectionately nudge your foot along his ankle when the waiter comes by and suggests dessert, unspoken indication that you want him for dessert. Javier bites the inside of his lower lip and politely declines, and once the bill comes and he pays it, he's escorting you out and cupping his large, warm hand to your lower back as he nuzzles your temple and husks, "Such an atrevida."

"No idea what you're referring to," you playfully lilt and take his arm before giving him a flirty peck on the lips, batting your curled and full lashes at him. "Thanks for dinner."

"Hmph," he grunts wryly and encircles your waist as you fall into step and let him lead the way.

Before long, he's parking across from an avenue in a bustling nightlife hub of the city, and you're impressed by the hum and thrum of the music coming from the dance club he's escorting you to. It's a sprawling hall with a bar on one end, and bar-height tables flanking the large dance floor in front of the DJ booth in the corner and the live band's stage against the wall on the opposite end.

Easily finding a table, you set your purse on it and lean up to talk in his ear so you're not shouting over the music. "You better know how to dance merengue, chico," you tease and smile when he smirks and squeezes your waist.

"I'm more of a salsa guy, but I'll give it a try," he answers before gesturing to the bar. You nod and stay at the table while he goes to find an empty spot he can lean over and get a bartender to take his order.

You take the chance to people watch and bop to the music, noticing how most of the crowd is made up of groups, not really couples, but everyone seems merry. The lights above the dance floor strobe in warm and soft colored-lights while the cumbia song plays. It seems like there's a mix of people from across all social echelons, and everyone is out to have a good time, so you don't really notice anyone looking over at you. If anything, this ambiance is cool, feeling like a pleasant little bubble of music and good times, so you relax and let the beat settle into you.

Javier is back with your drinks, and once you both have downed enough of them, you are grabbing him and pulling him to dance, and he lets you but takes the lead, and you love it. His hand at your waist is warm, and how his fingertips press into you through your dress has you tingly and pliant. When the slower tempo song comes on, he pulls you close, and you rest your head on his shoulder as you both sway and get lost in the calm delight of being together in such a simple way.

He presses his nose to your hair and inhales, feeling soothed and warmed by your scent, hand trailing from yours to caress your back when you tip your face up and kiss his jaw. He nuzzles you before lowering to capture your lips, and the kiss is doting and chaste. It's like no one else is around, the moment is yours and you only share it with Javi.

When a merengue song finally comes on, you grin and pull him close, adjusting his hand placement and telling him, "It's all in the hips. Try and keep up, querido."

Javier scoffs, but soon realizes you're not kidding when everyone around you dances with a vigor he's not used to. He's relegated to letting you lead, which you can't help be wily and grin over while he tries to keep up. The only thing he's good at is spinning you and tugging you back against him before looping you back into step, but his footwork needs help and as soon as the song ends, he's winded, and you giggle as he leads you back to your table and frowns. "Jesus Christ," he grumbles and finishes his whiskey. "Is that a sped up version?" he asks and wipes the back of his palm across his brow.

"Oh honey, that is slow merengue compared to how we dance it back home," you drawl and caress your fingertips along his brow. "If you don't walk off the dance floor sweating buckets, then you didn't dance it right," you joke. "This is more traditional – the beat, anyway. There's a mambo callejero version of merengue that really gets the blood pumping," you remark before pressing flirtatiously close to him and purring, "I'll teach you."

Javi smirks, liking the sound of a 'street-style mambo,' when he knows mambo can get very sexy – almost borderline sexual, so he purrs, "We do plenty of horizontal mambo as it is."

You snicker and swat his chest. "Fresco," is your playful murmur as you let him encircle your waist so he can pull you close before kissing you. You loop your arms around his shoulders and deepen the kiss before he gropes his hands down to cup your ass. You gasp and break the kiss, "Javier—"

"Hmph, quit teasing me then," he grouses and gives you a quick peck before signaling he's going back to the bar.

You roll your eyes but are smirking, and when he strides off, you turn to take the chance to finish your drink before brushing your fingers through your hair and making sure there aren't any frazzled strands flaring wildly. While you're doing so and watching people dance, Javier is just finishing putting in his order when he glances across the bar and sees a familiar face.

A very familiar, smug and seductive face of a woman who's whispering over to her friends before using her chin to gesture in his direction, smiling and waving at him. Javier flints his stare away and internally swears, hoping she doesn't take it as an invitation to come over. He glances back at you and you're smiling as a woman from a group at a nearby table is complementing your hair clasp and asking where you got it.

Just as he starts to wonder if he should suggest checking out another dance hall, what he was dreading comes to fruition.

"Well, fancy seeing you here, Javi," she comes onto him in Spanish, charmed and flirty as she sidles up close and sips her martini.

"Vanessa," he greets flatly and glances at her, swiveling his gaze covertly to the end of the bar where her friends are, and he recognizes some of them as girls from the high-end brothel they picked up Barry Seal months before.

When he doesn't say anything else, she haughtily purrs, "What? Can't make time for an old friend?" Javier gives her a sidelong stare and avoids looking in your direction, but she pivots the cant of her hips so she can showily shoot a glance over to where you're table is and zeros in on you just as you're placing your empty glass down and leaning your elbow on the table to face the bar. She deliberately locks eyes with you, as she inquires goadingly, "And her? She's your escort? She looks bonita, I suppose—"

"Goodnight, Vanessa," Javier curtly grits out and glares warningly at her when he realizes she's looking at you. He glances back and sees you stoically watching, and the acrimonious anxiety wells in his chest.

Vanessa scoffs and makes a show of patting his forearm as she muses, "I'll see you around then, papito," then struts off back to the gaggle at the end of the bar.

He clenches his jaw, terse when he pays for the drinks and takes them back to the table. The whole time you were watching the exchange, your jealousy was on a slow burn, the rational, reasonable side of you trying not to jump to conclusions or let your façade falter, but the natural questions were rambling over in your mind: Who is she? Do they know each other? Is she trying to pick him up? However, you defy your simmering jealousy to instead focus in on his demeanor to clue you in. When he comes back and places the drinks down, you expect him to say something to justify what you just saw, and when he doesn't and instead cups your cheek and brushes a kiss to your lips, you tangle with ambivalence.

You don't want to let it feed your insecurities, so you snuff it and take the drink, sipping it before you lean close and say in his ear, "Next time, I'll get the drinks, because if I see another descarada put a hand on you, I'm liable to catch a case."

Javier is shocked at the blasé smoothness of your threat and feels a scalding sense of pride, which he knows is wrong, but when you give him a cool, pointed look before brushing your lips against his, he can't help grope you close and murmur, "You're lucky I got friends in CNP, so I might be able to pull strings—"

"Ah-hah, ni joder," you snap, and shove him back, imperious look becoming flinty as you drain your drink before gesturing with a tilt of your head to the dance floor.

He hears you loud and clear.

Taking your hand, he leads you back to the dance floor and does everything he can to make it clear that he is there with you. His hands are caressing all over you, his lips nuzzling kisses into your neck as you pull him close and sway to the soft-tempo song. You let him herd you close, pressing your pelvis flush against him so you're undulating sensually to the romantic and sultry lambada song that comes on, and you ride his thigh as you sway your hips to the beat and let him pivot you about before spinning you and tucking you back against him. You arch into him and lusciously lull your head against his shoulder as he encircles your waist and keeps you both swaying languidly to the beat until the song ends and you reluctantly pull away.

His hand guides you back to press against him so he can capture your lips in a hungry kiss that curls your toes and overheats you. The alcohol is starting to hit you, warming your bloodstream and making you loose and provocative, so when he leads you back to your table, you're giving him an alluring look as you excuse yourself to the ladies room, taking your purse and giving him a devious little squeeze to his ass before you go. He laughs and bites his lip, watching you saunter off and fantasizing about how he's going to peel that dress off of you the minute he gets you to his place.

While he drinks his whiskey and keeps thinking raunchy things, you're waiting in the queue for an available stall. A few minutes later and you're pleasantly waltzing over to the sink to wash your hands. No one lined up behind you, so you're alone in the bathroom until the door opens and the loud music invades the tiled space as a group of women come in laughing and chatting in Spanish.

"—You sure? He didn't look happy to see her—"

"Ah, but he's like that—"

"Exactly, you know how he is. Always plays hard to get, but when you're one-on-one, he's a bárbaro and insatiable."

"Well, sure, but Javi hasn't come by since – what, when was that last time, Vanessa?"

You glance up in the mirror at their reflection as they queue up at the stalls while the woman – Vanessa – struts over to the long counter and parks herself at a sink basin a few spots over. She preens in the mirror before purposely glancing your way as she adjusts her bodycon dress. Unbothered – since, after all, you're no virgin to vindictive behavior, you reach in your purse and fish out your lipstick, taking your time with reapplying it to your plush lips as the woman you saw talking to Javier at the bar makes a show of fluffing her hair. She's taller and thinner than you, and endowed – but whether that's natural or bought for, you don't care, because you're tempted to straighten her ass out and wreck that smug face of hers.

"When was Barry there? A couple of months ago? That's the last time, but several times before that," Vanessa muses and sighs. "He liked going to his place though—"

Goadingly, her friend chimes, "We know. Hell, a few of us have taken a turn on that big leather couch of his. Javi does like to bend you over and take you wherever though—"

Once you've pressed your lips together and evened out the color of your lipstick, you cap it and drop it into your purse, turning and having to walk by Vanessa to get to the door.

"Chiquita, be sure to enjoy your turn. Javi doesn't keep the same escort for long."

You pause, adjusting your purse strap on your shoulder and turning to confidently look at her like she's a puddle of dogshit before smiling. "Well, by the looks of the lot of you, I can see why he's moved on," you verbally napalm, getting a thrill at how her face pinches up with indignity. "Talk to me like that again, and they'll be scraping what's left of your lips off the mirror, puta pendeja."

Her friends stiffen but say nothing, and Vanessa can't hold your blazing gaze as you bore into her, silently daring her to say something else. When she doesn't, you strut off and exit the bathroom, and are boiling with rage as you slash a path through the dance floor and up to the table where Javi is finishing his whiskey. When he glances over, his smiling eyes widen at the contumely fierce look on your features.

"I'm leaving."

Your ground out hiss is barely audible over the music, and Javier is so confused by the shift that he grabs your waist to stop you. "Baby—" He pauses when you smack his hand away and storm off, furious strides carrying you through the crowded hall and towards the entrance. Shocked, Javi glares about and catches sight of Vanessa and her friends coming out of the ladies room. The violent fury that wells in him is blinding. She obviously had been looking to stir trouble up, and had he known she'd been watching you both from the minute you walked in? Javier would've U-turned you the hell out of there and gone somewhere else. By the look she shoots him across the way, he immediately knows what they did, and before he's registered it, he's chasing after you, shimmying through the crowded hall to try and catch up to you.

Heat is suffocating your chest from the knot of emotions roiling there, and you can feel your adrenalin pumping your furious temper and throbbing at your temples as you make it out into the cool night air and stalk down the sidewalk towards the avenue, eyes darting about in search for a cab.

You hear your name shouted behind you, and you ignore it as you pick up pace and stride as quickly as you can in your kitten heels across the street towards the corner where you think you see a cab parked. Javier gains on you easily and is cutting you off before you've made it to the corner. "Goddammit, would you wait—?!" he's shouting as he grabs your arm and pulls you over to the side of the street where his jeep is parked.

Irate now, you wring your arm out of his grip and grapple with your fury. "No me toques," you hiss and realize you're making a scene, so you rein yourself in and state in a cold tone. "I'm going home—"

"No, you're not! You're gonna come with me and you're gonna talk to me," he buffets the back of his hand into his palm, a pointed gesture to emphasize 'talk' and stands his ground when you refuse to budge. "I'm not letting you get a fucking cab. If you wanna scream at me here in the middle of the street, have at it—"

You scoff in a snit and storm past him towards his jeep, and he turns and stalks to follow you, shoulders squared and arms flexing from how hard he's clenching his fists. Once you're in the passenger seat, you slam the car door and furiously seethe while he lights a cigarette and paces the driver's side for a few seconds before steeling himself and opening the door. Once he's sitting in the driver's seat, he is glaring ahead, trying to swallow his resentment, telling himself you have the right to be angry, but a selfish part of him doesn't want to fall on his sword tonight.

Puffing his chest out, he inhales a long drag before exhaling the smoke and lowering his window to flick the cigarette out. Once he's rolled it back up, he finally looks over at you, and you're staring out the window, head turned away from him and shoulders bunched up from how furiously crossed your arms are over your chest. Just when he deliberates about reaching over and squeezing your shoulder to coax you to look at him, you let out a charged breath.

"I can't do this."

Javi bristles – anger and hurt coiling in his chest and making him feel like he's going to splinter apart. "Querida—"

"I can't do this. I feel fucking insane – like a fucking fool, and no matter how badly I want it to not matter, it does, and I can't abide it," you rush out, unwavering tone cracking as you turn and stare into his eyes and see the hurt there. They're crinkled with upset at the corners – brows drawn while he suppresses the frown that wants to twist his lips. You ache, and you're shaking with the cacophony of emotions. "That puta malparida was obviously trying to get back at you, but it doesn't change the fact I can't go anywhere without running into some woman you've been with—"

"They don't matter!" Javier barks now, upset and simmering with fury. "Whatever the fuck she said – why does it matter?! You know what I've done – have thrown it in my face plenty of times, so why the fuck does it matter when I just want to be with you?" he rails, eyes flashing with lightning as he jabs, "Why do you perpetually have to punish me for shit I did before I fucking met you?!"

"Because you've continued to do it and then tell me it doesn't fucking matter!" you bellow, boiling over now as you gesticulate in the direction of the dance club. "That skank Vanessa said you saw her a couple months ago, which means you were fucking her while you and I were together—"

"I didn't fuck her the last time I saw her or at all in a while!" he snaps and leans close, seething, "I only fucked up once, and you're not going to let me live it down. If you don't trust me and you don't want to be with me, just fucking say so—"

"That's what I'm saying, Javier!" you shout, anger winding your shoulders back as you glare at him while you scathe, "You've been angling to lay some fucking claim to me so you can what – boast about it?! Meanwhile I have to walk around with the snickering and burlas – looking like a fucking fool—"

"I don't give a fuck what people say or think! Why the fuck do you care—?!" he begins to snap.

"Why don't you care?!" you exclaim and smack your hand down on the glove compartment. "Puñeta, why don't you have the same level of self-respect and pride you do for fucking around than for your goddamned reputation?! You think I should walk around having people talk shit about me being just the latest dumb slut you're messing around with—?!"

"First off, I'd fucking deck any motherfucker who'd talk about you like that," he cuts in, pissed off beyond belief now. "Second, if I spent as much time worrying about that kind of shit as you do, I wouldn't be able to do a goddamned thing. I'm here to get a job done, and how I have to get it done most times is not something I have the luxury of being a fucking choir boy about. I will not give a fuck about anyone else's judgment," he rumbles crisply and holds your gaze. "If I'm not good enough for you—"

"¡Carajo! Why the fuck do you say something so stupid and infuriating?!" you sneer and glower at him before scoffing in frustration and snapping, "Oh my god, I am so sick of fighting in this puto car with you! I'm done. Take me home—"

"No, we're going to my place, and if you wanna spend the whole night berating me—"

"If you think I'm going there now after I had to hear how every ramera in the city has been fucked by you on your big leather couch, you are out of your fucking mind and I will get the fuck out of this puto car right now and walk home—"

"Fuck! Fine!" he bellows and slams his hands into the steering wheel with enough force to roil a shudder through the paneling. Shoving the key into the ignition, he revs the engine and peels out onto the street, and you yelp, aghast.

"Jesus Christ, Javier!" you exclaim and gape at him. "Slow down and put your seatbelt on—"

"If you don't stop yelling at me, I'm going to lose my fucking cool—" he grounds out tightly and you scoff and jerk in your seat to yank at his seatbelt and lasso it around his torso haughtily before snapping it into the buckle. The look in your eyes diffuses some of his rage, so he grunts and tugs his arm around the belt while you huff and put your own seatbelt on.

You both go swiftly silent, tension crackling like the atmosphere in the middle of a turbulent storm. He drives and keeps his glare fixed ahead, simmering and winding up with frustration while you boil with fury and clench your jaw to keep from saying anything else and grip the handrail in the door's panel, white knuckling from how hard your hand is wrapped around it. You are trembling from how livid you are, and keep replaying how he's putting this on you and your insecurities when it should be commonsense reasonableness to not want to hear prostitutes talk about your boyfriend in a fucking club.

When he stops at a light, Javier finally glances over at you, and sees how you are mad – so mad that you are vibrating from keeping yourself restrained from lashing out. He snickers, and it comes out as a morose grunt more than anything.

"Just say it. Go ahead and say it all before you combust, malcriada," he deadpans, antagonizing and glib. Your body coils, eyes narrowing rancorously and plush lips pressing together with vehemence. You are not going to take the bait. So, when you turn to glare out the passenger window, Javier sets his jaw and flippantly croons, "Oh, that's right. You're done."

Your shoulders straighten, and the line of your spine defines through the fabric of your dress, and he can feel the drop in pressure from your temper about to hit critical mass. But the light turns green, so he starts to drive when police sirens and a fleet of cop cars careen down the main avenue and cut across him. You both jolt at him slamming the brakes and watch the cars go, bemused. Javier automatically stretched his arm out to bracket you from snapping forward, and your hand flew out to grab his thigh. Both were just instinctual – hardwired inside you both, and neither of you acknowledge it after you've caught your breaths. Once he's sure he has the right of way again, he drives the main route towards your side of town, and you both go silent again, the shock seeming to cool your tempers substantially.

After he's pulled up to the curb in front of your complex, he parks and turns the ignition off as you're snapping your seatbelt off. You go to open your door and just rush out, but he grabs your forearm in a firm grip and stops you.

With a cleansing exhale, he resolves to just say it, deciding he has nothing to lose.

"I love you."

You stiffen and absorb that, but your heart has no time to wrestle free of your anger before your mind has you blurting, "That's not enough."

You feel his fingers twitch, but can't bring yourself to look at him, so you pull your arm from his grip and exit the car, slamming the door behind you and striding away with as much dignity as you can while you feel your eyes begin to burn with the welling of tears.

Javier is stunned and watches you go, completely numb and realizing this was not a tiff. He dimly registers going on autopilot and driving back to his side of town. After he's driven into his parking space below his apartment building, he sits there and replays every single way he fucked up tonight. He should've taken you somewhere else the moment he saw Vanessa – should've been honest with himself about his chances at convincing you he was worthy of your grace.

He should've realized how much it hurts you to be confronted with his callousness.

Angry, Javi storms out of his jeep and slams the door, but before he stalks off, he notices your tote in the backseat. Swearing, he opens the door, reaches in and yanks it over, scowling when he realizes he's going to have to return it to you somehow.

He can't help be curious. Unzipping it, he opens the tote and rifles through to see what you'd packed.

Inside there are several changes of clothes – not just one ensemble, like he'd expected. Next, he finds a little pouch with some travel toiletries, a hairbrush, a scrunchie, and when his fingers brush silk, he pulls out the nighty with the slit at the thigh. Heavily, Javier leans his forehead against the back of the driver's headrest as he swears. Raising the delicate garment to his nose, it smells crisp and laundered, but he can decipher the delicate edge of your scent on it, and he closes his eyes. "Fuck me," he mutters to himself before begrudgingly returning the nighty to the tote and zipping it back up.

He stows it in the trunk, away from possible prying eyes, and heads up to his apartment. He's tempted to call you, but after what you'd said, he doesn't know what he could possibly tell you that would repair things. It was like you both had gone too far – had passed the point of no return, and realized it had you going in separate directions. Unbidden, his masochistic recall snaps him back to the last fight you had in the car, when he'd railed about you going on a lunch date with Samson. Something that he'd absorbed but hadn't catalogued closely blares in his mind now.

You'd told him you didn't want to define things because you never knew where you stand – that he has women everywhere and he could change on a dime. Compounded with another recollection of you telling him that you often wonder if he'll find someone else – someone who isn't as much work or require the amount of effort you do? Javi realizes how what happened tonight hit ground zero of your insecurities, and he feels absolutely furious with himself.

If he knew you'd rushed into your apartment and immediately tossed your things down so you could sit on the cold tiled floor and dissolve into fitful tears, Javier would've cursed himself and done any kind of penance for hurting you so.

But you're not mad at him now. You're furious with yourself for pushing him away – for sabotaging your feelings over the resolute, unwavering need to be in control and untouchable. You keep seeing how hurt he looked when you snapped at him in the car, and the maddening feeling of being so in love with him that you can't let yourself be weak makes you sick with roiling self-loathing. You've ruined things – all because you're so insecure about being seen as a fool – about being just another notch on his bedpost, when really, if you really admit it, you didn't care, because you loved him and wanted – deep down – to be on a pedestal as Javier Peña's one and only beloved. To go from his solterita to the woman he loved outright.

Your heart hurts, and you only muster the strength to pick yourself off the floor, shower, and lay in your bed in the dark when you think about how you can possibly fix the damage. He didn't deserve to be berated, or for you to take out all your insecurities on him.

But then, the reproachful voice tells you: It was only a matter of time before you became too much effort to put up with…

You decide you don't deserve him. All he's done is try to win your affections, to prove himself to you – that he was worthy of your love, and you told him it wasn't enough.

Grabbing the pillow and using it to muffle your shout of frustration, you smother your tears with it before succumbing to your racking sobs and crying yourself to sleep.

You're so depressed that you spend the weekend cooped up in your apartment, in the dark. You only admonish yourself and force yourself into productivity on Sunday when you can no longer ignore the ridiculous pile of laundry. By the end of the day, you've laundered and folded everything, and mechanically set out the ironing board to work on the linen that requires steaming and pressing.

When you fish out Javier's dress shirt from the basket, you feel a pang tug at your heart. You iron it, and grumble at yourself.

"…Such a bitch…yelling at him…fucking stupid…why are you even mad…he doesn't owe you anything…"

By the time Monday rolls around, you are lethargic with your moroseness, and debate whether you could get away with calling out, but then you remember the meetings you have, and can't justify saddling Ellis with all the work. You heave yourself through your morning routine and arrive earlier than usual, and as you hone your stoic façade for a day you're not at all prepared for, you make it up to your department and walk to your desk. Ellis hasn't gotten in yet, to your surprise, seeing as he's the morning person between the two of you.

It isn't the only surprise waiting for you.

When you approach your desk, you see your travel tote left on your desk chair, mostly tucked out of sight. Your heart wrenches in your chest and drops into your stomach. You wilt, and feel your gaze tremble, the prickle of tears burning at the corners of your eyes as you snatch it up and shove it under your desk before whirling around and peering backwards, as if you'll catch a glimpse of Javi absconding away.

Your face is burning with shame, and you find yourself stalking to the ladies room down the hall and going into a stall, where you sit and sob for a few minutes before you pull yourself together. Once you've collected your wits and feel that eerie calm that comes over you after you've cried your guts out, you grab some paper towels from the receptacle and dab at your eyes, huffing at the blotchy redness and trying to rein in your emotions.

After a few minutes, you return to your desk and find Ellis at his, looking flustered. "Hey, have a nice weekend?" you attempt and quickly sit at your desk so you can turn away and not have him notice your red-rimmed eyes.

"It was, then I had to spend an ungodly amount of time in traffic thanks to a detour," he grumbles and pivots his chair to offer you a wry huff. "Yours?"

You swallow the lump in your throat and manage a lazy shrug. "Just did laundry…" you lamely muse and fire up your laptop, wanting to focus your gaze on something else rather than the internal turmoil of replaying Javi's distraught look over and over.

"Did you hear about the latest kidnapping?"

"Hm? No, I didn't watch TV. Who this time?" you distractedly ask, typing away.

"Diana Turbay," he answers as he rifles through some documents, and you gasp and whirl around. "Seems they ambushed her and her news team on Friday night. Killed everyone – including her security, and snatched her up."

Your mind flashes to the police caravan that cut you and Javi off, and the color drains from your face. It shakes you up, and you are once again reminded of the real shit Javier has to deal with, and having you spazzing out on him is the last thing he would need to put up with – especially when he could easily spend his time with the gaggle of women who clearly would be at his every beck and call if given the chance.

You're positively miserable the rest of the day. It's a struggle to keep your aloof veneer up, and when you walk out of your last meeting, you are anxious to go home and just wallow in your sadness. Passing the hall outside of Mil Group, you remember Luke mentioning the paper targets, and decide that you'll have to bring a peace offering to the fellas at some point. As you head down to your department to grab your things, you pass someone who's running to the break room. After the siege, you get that ominous feeling, and follow. The room is filled with stragglers who haven't loped off for the day, and they're watching a news interview. It's Diana Turbay giving the terms of the negotiations for Escobar to work with the government, and you are dumbfounded by the boldness of it.

Ellis comes in and gapes. "What she saying?" he whispers to you.

"She's imploring Gaviria to negotiate with Escobar," you explain. "That he'll release a hostage as a show of good faith."

"Holy shit, the balls on that guy," he exclaims, shaking his head in disbelief.

You are on autopilot now, the horrors playing out on the news bulletin numbing you to your personal drama. By the time you get home, you dispassionately toss your tote to the dresser and strip out of your work clothes. You crawl into bed and feel like a shell, empty and unfeeling.

The phone never rings, and you are mad at yourself for wishing it would. You have no right to expect Javi to call you after how you behaved. Sitting up, you force yourself to march down the hallway and pick up the phone.

You're going to call Javier and apologize to him.

That, and nothing else. Just say you're sorry, and then…go to bed.

You dial his apartment's phone number. It rings for several chimes, but no answer comes. Frowning, you remember he'd said he was going to be on assignment in Medellín this week, and you swear and hang up, realizing you'll have to call his satellite phone. However, you stand there and deliberate. He's working, after all, and it would be so presumptuous and asinine of you to call him and bother him with your stupid trifles. With a dejected sigh, you turn and go to your room, crawling under the covers and curling into a ball.

Javier spends most of the week tagging along with Search Bloc on tactical traffic stops, only to come up empty. It's easy to mask his surly, broody mood as frustration with the job, so he's spared any of Steve's prodding and is instead replaced with a reluctant concern for his partner getting twisted up himself. The sicarios had ditched the SUV's and went to ground, so just when he was losing patience and becoming increasingly worried about Steve's level of unhinged zeal, they get the call that Gaviria was allowing their aerial surveillance to go back online – in an official capacity. Keeping his mind on work is the only thing that centers him – that quells his need to call you and hear your voice. And now, with the green light to go after Escobar and nail him before the government can make good on any agreements with the bastard, he's got the temerity to keep on target.

He didn't expect to end his afternoon chasing Sureshot across an entire fucking comuna, or that he'd lose him after a fucking kid pointed a gun at him. When he retraces his steps and reunites with Steve, they hobble over to the house the sicarios had fired on them from. Seeing the baby, sitting in the middle of that carnage, was a soul-crushing moment. It winded him, shaking him to sit and war with the fury and despair so at home within him, only now it's caused by an external antagonist instead of his own personal demons.

Once they're back in Bogotá, he drives Steve back to their apartment block, pulling up to the curb and parking while his partner collects himself to walk up to his wife and hand her the orphaned little girl they'd brought back with them. She was proof of their abject failure, but her big, innocent eyes and reaching hands endeared her instantly to Steve, so at the very least she provided a whole new motivation for them both.

"You coming up?" Steve asks in a monotone once he's out of the car, little girl tucked in his arms and duffle slung over a shoulder.

Javi can't muster the effort to answer, so instead he shakes his head, and mercifully, Steve nods, understanding some implicit confidence being shared nonverbally with him and wanders up to the entryway steps. Once he's keyed into the building, Javier drives off, with no route in mind, but the horrors of the day won't leave him, and before he realizes it, he's parking and wandering across a courtyard and up steps.

You start when the knocks echo down the hall and into your bedroom. You're dazed, having been asleep for a couple of hours, according to the readout of your alarm clock, so you cautiously pad down to the front door. When you open it a crack, you're shocked to see Javier, so you undo the chain lock and open the door fully.

"Javi—?" you murmur, but stop your forming question when you register how upset he looks, and you furrow your brows as you reach for him. "Hey—"

When you touch his cheek, he shudders and practically dissolves – expression shuttering in and eyes clenching shut, so you pull him in and close the door before he pulls you into a desperate hug. You're disarmed and stunned, senses jolting at the coiled, wound up grief vibrating through him. You let him embrace you, and you gently murmur, "Are you ok?" to him as you rub his back soothingly.

"Mi amor…I'm sorry," he grouses in a low, cracking tone, and you feel wrought with concern and empathic despair, not understanding why he's so upset, let alone why he's apologizing.

You pull back and cup his face, staring openly into his sad, dark eyes and seeing the haunted look etching in his expression. With no effort, you take him to your room and sit him down before crawling next to him on the bed and pulling him into your arms. His shirt smells of musk, smoke and sweat, the hints of his cologne and masculine essence tartly warring for dominance in his scent. You caress your hand down the nape of his neck, and he crumbles when you encircle his shoulders and whisper, "It's ok…you're with me now."

He chokes on a reedy sound and embraces you so tight, burying his face in your neck and breathing through his overwhelmed, visceral reaction to the traumatic anxiety that's hitting him now, and you anchor him – pushing the volatility away and grounding him to the relief of being with you.

You hold him, kissing his sideburn and murmuring, "You want to lay with me?"

Javier nods, not trusting his voice, so you gently go to work easing him backwards into bed after you take his agent paraphernalia off and set it aside on the dresser before removing his boots. You expect him to just lie back in his clothes, but when you turn back from setting his boots aside, he's yanking his orange button shirt off his head and tossing it aside, so you help him unfasten his belt and ease out of his jeans and socks.

Once he's in his underwear, he pulls you close and starts hiking your oversized band t-shirt up, so you let him take it off and nuzzle you as he encircles your waist and holds you close. He revels in your warm skin, brushing kisses into your clavicle while you bury your fingers in his hair and soothingly comb through the dense tufts.

He lets you nudge him back onto the bed, but when you go to lie next to him, he pulls you down to rest on top of him. You adjust your arms so you can frame them around his shoulders as you gaze down at him. In the penumbra of your room, you both can still easily make out each other's features – see the light coming from the moon filtering through the window slats catch in your eyes. Javier looks so distraught, and it creates a knot of sadness in your chest.

You lean down and brush your lips against his, loving and soft as you caress his cheek.

Javier melts, breath stuttering in his chest as he wraps his arms around you possessively and kisses you with longing. You're both half-naked, with only your underwear separating you from each other's warmth and desperate desires, so when you feel him caress his hand along your backside, you sigh into his mouth and pull back, pressing your forehead to his and murmuring, "Make love to me, Javi."

He burns with something primal, sadness snapping away to instead allow his expression to etch with want. Javi rolls you onto your back and yanks your panties off, and you sit up to tug his underwear down his hips while he rushes to shuck them off and press his weight down on you, groaning when you pull him close and kiss his neck as he settles between you thighs and starts touching you.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth as he glides his thick fingers through your dampening folds, earning a jolt and needy sound from you. You grab his bicep and rut against him when he recedes his fingers from your dewy petals to replace them with the head of his cock beginning to breach your tight, dimpled entrance while his thumb trails down the soft curls of your mound before he presses over the hood of your clitoris and grinds the pad over it. Your expression lights up with pleasure as you moan and arch up against him, and Javi is so sick with yearning that he just watches you react to him thrusting through your rippling sheath, savoring your cries and how your legs clamp around his waist.

"Javi," you moan, hands gripping his shoulders and beseeching him to lean down so you can kiss him, but he suddenly bows his head and exhales a shaky breath. You feel him begin to tremble, and you realize whatever horrors he faced today are not going quiet, so with little effort, you rear up and manhandle him onto his back so you can straddle him. The surprise flashes across his expression, so you capitalize on it and sink down to the hilt on him, and he grips your thighs, moaning when your silken heaven squeezes around him. "Stay with me, Javi," you murmur incandescently to him as you press your palms to his chest and undulate your hips while clenching your floor muscles, squeezing him lusciously.

He moans your name, expression blossoming into carnal want and nothing else as you make love to him, burying pleasure in his gut like a tether that you expertly strum and pluck at with every pulse of your cunt over his throbbing cock. Javi gets caught up and lost in the desire, hands clutching at your waist as he fucks up into you when you quicken the pace of your bucking rhythm, core already coiling with desperate yearning as you watch his molten eyes fixate on you when you start coming close to climax.

Your breasts are quaking with the force of your bucking hips as you whimper prettily and bite your lip from the effort of driving yourself to slam Javi as deep as he can go in you, seeing stars burst in the backs of your eyes when you hit that devastatingly exquisite pleasure point inside yourself and begin to come.

Javier watches with devoted awe as you ride his cock until your sheath floods over and coats his throbbing length with your essence before you shake with the effort of riding him through your orgasm to coax his, moaning, "I love you, Javi. P-Please, forgive me—!"

Javier tenses and chokes on his charged exhale, overwhelmed by your petition and feeling seared to the bone by how you're making him feel. He fucks up into you with blistering need now, groaning your name over and over before slamming up into you and climaxing with a hoarse, guttural sound of completion, and you gasp as you feel him shoot his load deep, rooting his cock into you with bruising force as he pants and tosses his head back to swear, "Oh fuck!" before he feels you clench hard, humming scintillatingly from the feral sensation.

Completely spent, you hunch over him and sigh raggedly. Javier encircles you and pulls you flush against him, breasts pressing into his pectorals while he nuzzles you and exhales.

"…You didn't have to," he husks gruffly between panted breaths, hand burying in the back of your hair when you drunkenly tilt your mouth to suckle kisses into his neck.

"Oh my god, Javier. Just…listen to what I said. Please," you press before softening when you adjust to glance at him and see how conflicted he looks. "I had no right to berate you like I did. I—I was taking out my insecurities on you. You didn't deserve it. I had no right—"

"You didn't have to say it."

Shocked, Javi sees emotion crack your usually resolute façade, and when your eyes tremble, he feels bowled over, utterly overwhelmed.

"It's the truth. I love you," you confide on a shaky whisper, and when he sees you bite back the urge to cry, he can't take it anymore. He wraps his arms around you and kisses you, humming when you kiss him back with longing.

After kissing you breathless, Javi rolls you onto your back and makes love to you like a man besotted and devoted to you, yearning to make you feel a modicum of the passion he does as he drives you into an exquisite orgasm by murmuring how much he loves you – how he never wants you to hurt – how he'll always want only you.

By the time you're both drifting off in spent, sated exhaustion, you're uncaring that he might've seen the tears roll down your cheeks before you could swipe them away. Feeling him relaxed and calm in your arms, breathing soft against your neck and heartbeat synchronizing with yours, it gives you a sense of peace – free of regret. You want to give him peace, want to tug whatever horrors plaguing him away and snuff them out for him. It's what you think about when you finally doze off—

Only to have the docile tranquility shattered hours later, in the shuttering darkness when Javier is twitching and jerking in his sleep, grumbling inarticulate things when you sit up drowsily and realize you must've ended up spooning him. He's clutching his pillow, features twitching as he breathes hard, becoming suddenly fitful when his arm jerks away from where it was tucked at his waist to reach for something before he violently rears back.

You realize this is a nightmare that's ensnared him when you try to nudge him gently and murmur soothingly, only to cause him to recoil and jerk away as if he's being confronted.

"N-No! No te quiero matar—No!" he first begins to chatter before he vehemently grits the rest and shouts the latter as he jolts awake and desperately jerks up, panting shallowly, muscles bunched up and eyes wild with fear when you come to his aid, hands firmly shaking his shoulders until his wide gaze focuses in on you and he shakily exhales.

You susurrate, "It's ok. Javi, you're ok. You're with me…"

His expression crumbles at that and he buries his face into your shoulder before a reedy sob catches in his chest and he grips his arms around you desperately. Helplessly, you pull him close and hold him as he chokes back sobs, feeling his frame quake, wracked from the sheer will he's exerting to not completely splinter apart. The knot forms in the back of your throat, and you desperately shower him with kisses while you tighten your embrace around him and bury your upset to tend to his.

"Come back to me, mi amor," you murmur into his hair and feel him dissolve, becoming a heavy weight in your arms while he buries his face in your neck and just concentrates on collecting himself. You feel him take deep calming breaths, and his hands clutch around you possessively when you tightly utter, "Eres mío. No te voy a dejar solo."

Javier is flooded over, overcome and vibrating with emotions. You let him come back to himself while you continue to soothingly hold him and brush kisses into his temple, the top of his head – everywhere your lips can press your love into him like a brand into his scalding skin. He doesn't know what to do, what to say when he pulls away and sits at the side of the bed, turning his back to you so he can pull himself together, dragging his forearm across his face in obvious terse mortification.

You're patient though, and you rest a hand on his shoulder, letting him know it's nothing you're going to shy away from. After a tense silence, he finally regains his complete composure and huffs at himself before glancing meekly over his shoulder.

"…I almost shot a kid today."

Your brows shift upwards, but your lips press together as you tuck your chin against your chest and your hand squeezes his shoulder. "Almost, meaning you didn't."

He blinks at you, disarmed, so you sidle closer and firmly grip his chin so he can't turn away from your earnest, resolute gaze.

"We do not have to talk about it if you don't want to. But I'm going to tell you this once: You are not going to get to beat yourself up in front of me. I will not abide it, Javier," you declare, eyes blazing as you see his dark-brewed depths tremble. "I love you, and I will not allow you to not love yourself – or think you don't deserve it. You do."

He can't hold your gaze, so he snakes his arm around you and tugs you close so he can bury his face in the crook of your neck.

It's then that he tells you what happened.

His head rests on your shoulder as he confides in a guarded baritone, divulging everything while you listen and caress your hands along his back. You are buzzing with dismay, but you swallow it down, knowing if that's how you feel, he must feel thousands of times worse. The more he tells you, the more you feel him relax in your arms, and when you say nothing after he's finished, he squeezes his arms around you.

"I shouldn't have come over—" he begins, and you hush him, adjusting to snuggle into his lap and forcefully push him onto his back.

"Nada de eso," you grumble and kiss his chest. "Just...let me make you feel good."

He doesn't say anything else, allowing you to kiss and suckle on his skin until his need is worked into a tizzy and he gathers you up and pivots to take you down into the pillows, rocking into you and moaning as his spend leaks from his ramrod cock thrusting brusquely into your aching sheath, causing you to shiver and whimper.

This coupling session is base – all about the urge, and you're content when he easily plucks a hearty orgasm from you before he barrels his into you soon after, anxiety quelled by the serotonin of reaching bliss together. Javier kisses you with gusto, enjoying how you keep chasing his lips whenever he pulls back. Once you're melted into a pliant bundle of sated desire, he cuddles you, and you fall asleep to the beat of his heart, head on his chest and arm pinning you to sidle against him.

When your alarm goes off the following morning, it's a disorienting, jarring sound after such a fitful night of rest, so you don't immediately realize something is off until after you've drowsily reached over to cease the ringing and roll over.

You reach to drape your arm around Javi's waist, and come up empty. Bemused, you shake your head clear of the exhausted fog and look around while you strain your hearing. It's when you look at your dresser and see his things are gone that you realize it:

Javier's left.

Shocked, you sit up in bed and stare about, as if not wanting to believe it, but sure enough, his clothes are gone from the floor and you don't hear any movement in the apartment. Drawing your knees up and tucking them against your chest, your muscles protest from the ache and strain, feeling sore and prickly now that your outrage begins to simmer in your chest.

You laid yourself bare to Javier in every conceivable way, divulged your love and devotion, and he…left.

The hurt wells in you fiercely, and you sit in your bed and become hollowed out by the withering pain. You don't know how long it takes, but you become numb and detached while the weight of the callous realization presses down on you.

How can you recover from being singed apart by the man you love? Was Javi rejecting you? Or…was the self-fulfilling prophecy just coming to fruition?

______________________

Read Chapter 9: Passion

Spanish-English Glossary:

Celoso = Jealous man

Querida/querido = Affectionate term, akin to expressing one's want and desire

Atrevido/Atrevida = Daring man/Daring woman

Puto mujeriego = Fucking womanizer

Haz lo que te pido, amado = Do as I ask of you, beloved

Dime una cosa = Tell me something

¿Eres mío? = Are you mine?

Tan bello = So beautiful

Bravita = Tough girl; feisty girl

Guapito = Handsome (said in an affectionate diminutive)

Chavón = a man that's pestering you

Solterita = Single gal; bachelorette

Estás bien guapo, chulito = You're looking real handsome, cutie

Las retiradas = the lady retirees

No te pongas celoso = Don't get jealous

Chico = Guy

Fresco = a guy who's being 'fresh', or naughty/pervy

Bonita = Pretty

Papito = Daddy (said in an affectionate diminutive)

Descarada = shameless woman

Ah-hah, ni joder = Uh-huh, [I'm] not even fucking around

Bárbaro = barbarian; wild man

Chiquita = Little girl

Puta pendeja = Dumbass slut/whore

No me toques = Don't touch me

Puta malparida = Slut bitch

Burlas = Taunts

Puñeta = Puerto Rican swear word, akin to saying "Shit" or "Fuck"

¡Carajo! = Goddammit/Hell

Ramera = Prostitute

Malcriada/malcriado = brat/spoiled

sicarios = hitmen

Mi amor = My love

No te quiero matar = I don't want to kill you

Eres mío. No te voy a dejar solo = You're mine. I'm not going to leave you alone

Nada de so = None of that

Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a comment and sharing your feedback. I would be eternally grateful.

[dhr-ao3]

Death Eater Toy

Death Eater Toy https://ift.tt/WeXHBMp by TanzaniteWrites Hermione is blackmailed and then ritual'd into being a sex slave for all 19 recently-released Death Eaters, who she was supposed to be the probation officer for. There are other slaves later as well. This story is a gift to @Amebb42, with thanks/apologies to @moonshine55glitter for their incredible story Slytherin Toy. Warning: this is intense, often dark, and unapologetically filthy. That said, there are moments of fluff too, and no-one is particularly traumatised, and it's really just a good old-fashioned fuckfest, featuring all your favourite kinks. It does actually have a plot, and it will have a happy ending! If there's a scene you'd like to see, let me know in the comments! With 19 men and at least two slaves, I can probably make most things work! No non-sexual bodily fluids, no permanent gore/body horror. Words: 20895, Chapters: 5/?, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi Characters: Hermione Granger, Thorfinn Rowle, Antonin Dolohov, Nott Sr. (Harry Potter), Marcus Flint, Gregory Goyle, Rodolphus Lestrange, Evan Rosier, Augustus Rookwood, Draco Malfoy, Corban Yaxley, Adrian Pucey, Pansy Parkinson's Father, Astoria and Daphne Greengrass's Father, Travers (Harry Potter), Selwyn (Harry Potter), Walden Macnair, Jugson (Harry Potter), Avery Jr. | Severus Snape's Schoolmate, Mulciber Jr. | Severus Snape's Schoolmate, Harry Potter, Theodore Nott, Luna Lovegood Relationships: Hermione Granger/Thorfinn Rowle, Hermione Granger/Nott Sr., Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Marcus Flint/Hermione Granger, Gregory Goyle/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Rodolphus Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Evan Rosier, Hermione Granger/Augustus Rookwood, Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Corban Yaxley, Hermione Granger/Adrian Pucey, Hermione Granger/Parkinson Sr./Greengrass Sr., Hermione Granger/Travers, Hermione Granger/Selwyn, Hermione Granger/Walden Macnair, Hermione Granger/Jugson, Avery Jr. | Severus Snape's Schoolmate/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Mulciber Jr. | Severus Snape's Schoolmate, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott, Rodolphus Lestrange/Draco Malfoy, Gregory Goyle/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: BDSM, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gangbang, noncon/dubcon, Caning, Shibari, Praise Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Multiple Orgasms, Anal Sex, Forced Orgasm, Death Eaters, Slytherin Toy, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Aftercare, Wizengamot (Harry Potter), sub!hermione, Sub!Draco, Sub!Luna, Dom!Thorfinn Rowle, Ritual Magic, Rape, Bondage, Orgy, Imperiused Sex (Harry Potter), Oral Sex, Blackmail, good girl hermione via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/FBNdo4A February 15, 2024 at 10:30PM

[writing-wh0re]

Pure Mindless Vandalism Chapter Two -

Chapter one.

Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader (Big Slytherin Energy)

Word Count: 1,308k

Warnings For Series: Smut 18+, Violence, Hints Of Abuse (Parental + Umbridge), Both Female and Male Receiving Oral, Fluff, Angst, Mild Jealousy. 

Warnings For Chapter: Smut 18+ (Male recieving oral), Fluff, Umbridge (her quill), Mentions of Blood.

Spells Used In Chapter: Colloportus - Locking spell 

Alohomora - Unlocking spell

Imperius Curse - Makes target obey every command. 

Key: y/n (your name) y/l/n (your last name) y/h (your house). 

Message me if you’d like to be tagged in the series!

“Darling.” My eyes flutter open, the feeling of Fred brushing hair out of my face, smiling at me as I stretch my legs out. 

“Morning.” I smile as Fred kisses my head. 

“The boys have stepped out for a bit, so I wanted to wake you so you could change in peace.” 

“So thoughtful.” I wink standing up, slipping out of Fred’s shirt as I throw on yesterday's uniform. 

“What time is the game?” 

“In thirty minutes, I’m biding my time so I don’t run into umbridge and have her take me out of the game.” 

“I think i’d hex her if she took that away from you.” Fred shakes his head at me smiling ear to ear, placing his finger under my chin to kiss me. 

“I like when you’re threatening.” Fred mumbles against my lips as I smile. 

“Is that so?” 

“Mmm.” I run my hands down Fred’s chest tugging on his pants as he sucks in a breath. 

“We have five minutes, right?” I question as Fred pulls his wand out pointing it at the door. 

“Colloportus.” 

“Clever.” I wink falling to my knees as we both fumble to get him out of his quidditch pants. I smile looking up at him as his dick springs free. I instantly swirl my tongue around the tip causing a moan to fall from his lips. I take more of him in my mouth, hollowing out my cheeks around his girth as he places a hand in my hair holding my hair out of the way to get a better view. 

“You’re so beautiful.” 

I moan at the praise as it vibrates around his dick, bobbing my head a little faster as I continue to suck on his length. 

“Just like that baby girl.” 

I wrap my hand around the middle of his dick, moving it up and down in circular motions as I continue to keep my mouth around the head. 

“Fuck.” Fred moans, throwing his head back as he cums in my mouth, allowing me to swallow his hot load. 

“Don’t unlock it, knock first.” I hear Lee say behind the door as a loud knock can be heard. Fred quickly zips his pants back up, adjusting himself as I stand up, wiping the side of my mouth as I throw my hair into a messy bun to try and not make it obvious.

“Alohomora.” I cast as the door unlocks, allowing for Lee and George to come into the room. 

“We’re needed on the field.” George states as Fred nods. George looks between Fred and I with a knowing smirk as he shakes his head. 

“You can sit next to me, if you’d like?” Lee offers oblivious as I nod. 

“Sounds great.” 

I follow behind the twins next to Lee as a few students in the common room look at me funny, which I can’t blame them for. I would find it odd if a Gryffindor was in my common room. 

We make it to the changing stairs, rushing our way down and through the halls. 

“Miss Y/L/N, stop right there.” I go wide eyed at Umbridge's voice as Fred stops. 

“Don’t be an idiot, move!” I yell grabbing his forearm as we start to run, George and Lee right behind us. 

I hear Umbridge mumble lowly as I turn back and see her cast a spell as we round the corner to start our run to the field. 

“Y/N stop!” Umbridge bellows as my body halts. 

“You’re kidding.” I sigh knowing Umbridge has cast the ‘imperius’ curse and was able to hit me. “Go, it's only detention, go.” I shoo Fred as he scoffs, hating that he can’t stay. “Win the game for me.” I wink as he smirks, turning and running to the field before Umbridge gets to me or him. 

“Isn’t using curses on students against the rules? Or does that not apply to you because you aren’t actually a teacher?” I tilt my head biting the inside of my cheek as Umbridge giggles. 

“You just don’t know when to stop talking do you, follow me.” 

“Like I have a choice.” I smile as my body follows behind Umbridge being trapped under the curse. 

“Don’t worry yourself, you’ll make it to the game to show sportsmanship for your house, I just need you to write a few lines for me.” Umbridge states as I roll my eyes ignoring her. 

------

Umbridge holds the door to her office open, instantly creeping me out with all the cats on the walls. 

“You’re crazy.” I mumble as Umbridge tilts her head.

“Sit.” The chair gets pulled out for me as I get thrown into it. 

“Now, using my quill, write these words.” My hand grabs the quill as I wait for what this pink cladded woman wants me to write. 

“One mustn’t sleep with a blood traitor.” 

“No.” I refuse as my hand disobeys and beings to write on the parchment in front of me. I bite my lip, tears pricking my eyes as the words cut into my skin. Hissing and wincing as the words continue to cover my hand, blood starting to drip as I look up at Umbridge. 

“You enjoy hurting teenagers? Gives you a little thrill? Maybe I should’ve explained sex to you.” 

“That's it! Three more lines!” Umbridge screams at me as I cry out in pain, the quill starting the next line. 

After finishing the lines, I notice my hand covered in blood, two lines cut into my skin and two up my forearm. The puffy pink bitch waves her wand, the imperius curse being lifted as I rush out of the cat room without another glance in her direction, tears streaming down my face, my breath getting caught in my throat. 

I go to the bathroom, running my hand and forearm under water as I bite my lip to keep my cires to a minimum the water cleaning but stinging the words. 

“Oh, poor little Y/N.” 

“Not in the mood Myrtle.” 

“You never are, always in a foul mood or sleeping with the Weasley boy.” 

“We always warn you Myrtle.” 

I pat my arm dry with toilet paper as I walk out of the bathroom using my robe to cover my forearm as I make my way to try and watch the rest of the quidditch game. 

-----

I hear the horns signalling the end to the game as Gryffindor cheers. I make my way down from the stands to wait by the locker room for Fred.

“Oi Y/N, where is your pretty little boyfriend huh?” Marcus Flint asks, looking me up and down. 

“Turn around Flint.” I hear Fred state anger filling his voice as Marcus freezes. 

“C’mon, she's honestly not worth the hassle.” Draco Malfoy huffs, shoving his team mate along as I narrow my eyes at them. 

“Baby.” Fred wraps his arms around me as I smile hugging him tight. 

“You won!” 

“Anything for you.” Fred winks. “How long were they giving you a hard time for?” 

“Not long.” I say looking up at Fred as he frowns, pouting slightly. 

“Y/N, why have you been crying?” 

“Nothing, honestly just please avoid going to detention.” I chuckle as Fred raises an eyebrow grabbing my hands to hold in his, rubbing this thumb over my skin as I wince. Causing him to look over the cut skin, pulling up my robe as he reads the words, anger washing over his features as I feel the tears fall down my face. 

“Freddie.” 

Fred pulls me to his chest, wrapping me in his arms as I cry into his chest. I sniffle as Fred pulls me back, holding my face in both of his hands to kiss me. 

“You’re safe now baby.” Fred coos, rubbing my hair as I nod. “I’ll make her pay for hurting you, I promise.” 

To Be Continued……

Taglist: 

@andreaareynoso

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@crazylokonugget 

@meph1stophelian

@bellaiscool 

@28cnn 

@lucymfer 

@rory-cakes 

@mbmsworld

@it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream

[jaynovz]

Black Sails 2.5 with Lauren @boatsfordays

maxannejack sex scene “this is great!”

Max puts her thumb in Jack’s mouth: “oh my gosh YESSSS” then about Anne’s face “it’s not just for you! everybody can have fun”

about Jack: “he couldn’t even put pants on, my dude. he has a flat small ass, I just want to say” (pffffft)

about Flint and fort “I can’t believe he’s doing this :(”

Silver has Billy chained up. Silver: before I know what you’re going to say to the men, I can’t let you say anything to the men

Lauren: at least he’s nice about it. he’s def not sinister. he’s a trickster but he’s not evil. he’s chaotic neutral. (AT LEAST HE’S NICE ABOUT IT LOL)

“I feel like Thomas needs to drop the Nassau thing”

“I’m still not on Flint’s side”

about James: “why are you so invested in this Nassau thing???”

about James and the Hamiltons: “they should all be together, the three of them! is that a thing?? can that be a thing??” (Me: eyes emoji but staying quiet)

“okay Vane’s still alive. he needs to rain hellfire on Flint. I hope this ends with Vane killing Flint. I think that’s how this needs to end unfortunately.” (OH MY GODDDD)

Richard Guthrie: you’re a smart girl Eleanor

Lauren: is she tho? I would have bailed out of this situation... a lot of different times

Alfred Hamilton shows up: “uh oh mr pleasant is here”

After Flint is discharged from the Navy: “oh noooo he’s about to make a big mistake”

about Flint: “he’s a vengeful bitch I can tell”

about charlotte and Jack: “he set it right on her drawing! how dare you!”

Featherstone and the articles: “this guy is sexist”

“ughhhh stupid mennnn”

“we need a ship full of lady pirates”

about Jack and Anne and the articles: “oh nooo he’s gonna make a poor choice isn’t he”

Billy @ Silver: why are you the one here defending him?

Lauren: “Gay reasons”

about Silver: “Well it’s true. He’s very charismatic with his very blue eyes”

“we like Randall, we stan Randall”

Silver releases Billy: “why is there so much sexual tension here. excuse me. is this a ship? can I ship this?” (Me: I mean yes it is lol)

“Jay are you upset that Silver doesn’t get more screentime?” (Me: uhhhh I mean I always want to see him but I think he gets a good amount.)

Thomas approaches James

Lauren: “now kiss” (me: -holding my hand over my mouth to keep it closed-)

Then... Lauren: “ARE THEY GONNA KISS OH MY GOSH -BIG GASP- THEY ARE OH SHIT I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING I DID NOT THINK THAT WAS ACTUALLY GOING TO HAPPEN”

“I’m kind of shook. I called it but like jokingly”

“man they were all three together like I wanted... but it went real sideways”

“I was wondering if there was going to be guy gay things in this show. it was only ladies up to this point”

Sees the inscription: “oh JAMESSSS. It was covered up before. THIS WHOLE THING IS FOR GAY REASONS??”

“THIS WHOLE SHOW IS GAY REASONS” (Indeed!)

Vane leaps in: “oh no oh nooooo. well I guess get em Vane!

Gen Lauren thoughts at this point:

About Flint: “Okay but I still don’t like him, that still does not... no. That’s cool, but it’s still murder y’know. All the reasons I said last time. Being gay is not an excuse Flint, you’re still a motherfucker. Sucks that you went through that dude, but you could have made other choices. I don’t feel like he’s honoring Thomas by doing this. I doubt Thomas would be pleased with this. He’s just having gay rage I guess... Is gay rage a thing?

He’s still a motherfucker, he gives into violence too much, he only cares about himself. He’s going about this the wrong way and leaving a trail of bodies”

About MaxAnneJack: “aw man poor Jack is in a tough situation and I hope Anne comes around and understands but like oof. that sucked. they’re my favorite storyline, I want things to work out for them.”

Bonus:

Lauren; did you ever think I'd make it this far into the show?

Me: I mean, I'd Hoped. I'm very happy 😁

--

Me: well even tho you hate Flint at least you can finally read my bdsm smut lmao

Lauren: yeah!!